At high noon in the Star Trek corral one will find Paramount.  The midnight shift at Star 
Traks Industries is toiled by Decker.  The BorgSpace coffee cart is manned by Meneks at 
about half-past six.

			Teatime of the Living Dead

	"What do you mean the only ingredient needed was the hair?"  Captain's raised 
voice echoed and re-echoed within the confines of Analysis Shop #7 and out into the 
adjacent hallway.  "My whole hand was half torn off by that byrint creature, not to 
mention I then had to wait 25.4 hours for you to collect 'samples' from my chassis before 
I was allowed steam-clean the saliva, urine, and excrement off myself."
	Analysis Shop #7 was the scene of a mad scientist laboratory from a bad B-
movie.  Tables were covered by mysterious apparatus consisting of kilometers of hose 
winding between bubbling beakers of colored liquid.  Lit Bunsen burners, unnecessary 
when discrete hot plates were available, added a low volume hiss and the smell of 
incomplete combustion to the ambience.  Several plasma globes of the type able to be 
purchased from teachers' science catalogues were lined up against one wall, serving no 
apparent purpose unless it was to contribute an uncertain light.  The only items which had 
an obvious role in the construction of a vaccine to inoculate the Collective against an 
insidious quantum virus were located upon a single table:  neatly labeled bins containing 
collected ingredients, a beaker of clear liquid which may have been water, several 
pedestal-and-mortars, and a scale.
	Out of place in the center of the room, a glower both on his face and projecting 
within the intranets, was Captain.
	Doctor stood before the explosion, face carefully neutral of expression, ears 
perked alertly forward.  Behind him cowered Frank, the hologram broadcasting fear that 
his program was in imminent danger of being ripped apart into its component algorithms.  
As Captain finished his tirade, Doctor clicked his teeth once and calmly replied, "There 
were many ouchies to deal with when we returned, and such takes precedence for my 
functioning within the Whole.  Do I need to make a binding recommendation for you to 
see Assimilation?  It seems, just perhaps, your censure filters are a wee, tiny-winey bit 
unhinged."  Within the dataspaces, Captain's designation was tentatively added to the 
growing list of units in line to visit the assimilation hierarchy for filter rebuilds and 
general mental check-ups.
	Captain blinked, taken aback.  The consensus monitor and facilitator closed his 
eyes; and a sense of calmness radiated outward from the sub-collective's central node as 
patches were self-applied to eroding filters.  Eyes opened as emotional neutrality was re-
achieved.  "Hair.  The only required item from the byrint was hair."  The words were less 
question and more statement.
	"Correct," replied Doctor.  He performed a quarter turn to his left, dislodging 
Frank from the EMH's hiding place, and waved a hand at the empty air.  In response, a 
file appeared, formatted as an ingredient list upon a very large recipe card.  The third 
item, highlighted, read 'shed component (temporally-infused) from a quantum-cloaking 
beast'.  Ears twitched.  "In retrospect, 'shed' be the key.  What do beastie-weesties with 
furry coats always shed?  Hair!  That is why lint rollers were invented!"
	Frank tentatively cleared his throat and added, "Until the potential ingredients 
were directly in front of me in a controlled environment, I didn't know which was the 
required one."  Despite the inherent knowledge that he was no longer under immediate 
threat of forced dissolution, the hologram nonetheless made sure Doctor remained 
between himself and Captain.  The barrier was symbolic - any attack would originate 
from the dataspaces - but Frank's AI roots were as a Terran program, complete with 
inbuilt human foibles. 
	The consensus monitor and facilitator was silent.
	"Um," continued Frank, "I, er, we can start mixing the potion now.  
Unfortunately, the recipe isn't specific as to exact ingredient amounts, so experimentation 
is necessary.  When the partial concoction is correct, however, I will be able to tell."  The 
EMH hunched in upon himself, prepared for another outburst.
	None was forthcoming.
	Captain's continued silence and absolute immobility were not due to another 
breach of thinning filters, but rather diversion of primary attention.  The sensor hierarchy 
was reporting interception of an emergency beacon belonging to species #7601, and 
consensus cascades were forming the backbone of the deliberation concerning what 
course to pursue.  Finally Captain blinked, an outward sign that a decision had been 
reached and the drone was released from the Whole to focus on external inputs.  "Mixing 
the partial recipe.  Do so.  We are required elsewhere."  The stilted, chopped quality of 
enunciation, in addition to the atypical pluralities, indicated that only a slice of attention 
was present.
	Only after Captain had vanished within the grasp of a transporter beam did Frank 
feel he could emerge from behind his barricade.
	"The Big Dog is very, very, very busy," commented Doctor aloud.
	"Uhum," replied Frank noncommittally.  Very shortly he had returned to where he 
had been prior to the consensus monitor's interruption, contemplating the three 
ingredients and how they might be combined.  The byrint hair was especially intriguing.  
An unknown mechanism had allowed it to interact with the quantum sub-reality, bending 
probability and rendering the byrint, when conscious, invisible.  Detached from its host, 
the harvested hair resembled nothing more than tangled gray yarn forming a small mound 
within its bin.  Several small filaments were cut from the whole:  all ingredients were 
finite in amount, and one did not wish to make waste while experimenting.
	Doctor heaved a long sigh.  "I am required.  22 of 152 did a boo-boo while 
working on 238 of 480, and now there are fluids /everywhere/.  No biscuit for 22 of 152.  
I cannot remotely assay the damage.  Be a good boy, Frankie, and mixey-mixey 
everything."
	Part of Frank noted Doctor's leave-taking and was relieved that he was not to be 
dragged along to witness yet another butchery masquerading as Borg surgical technique, 
but the greatest portion of his matrix was focused upon the hairs he as delicately placed 
them upon the scale for weighing.  

			*	*	*	*	*

	A pinch of spores, scrapings from a gem, a few hairs, the logical mind insisted 
such added to a large beaker of distilled water would produce nothing.  Instead, a proto-
elixir of evil green muttered quiet nothings to itself as bubbles rose without benefit of 
applied heat.  The instigator of the liquid was not present to see his creation, called away 
for an unnecessary nap after the dozenth attempt had finally produced a solution deemed 
acceptable.
	It was unfortunate no one was in the room to view the liquid creation, for while 
the combination of materials was correct, the vessel in which it resided was less than 
adequate.  As an unfelt breeze originating from a plane of reality simultaneously too 
small to be observed by the most advanced microscope and too large to be seen by the 
mightiest of telescopes stirred the air, bubbles were fanned into froth.  Mere tempered 
glass was quite insufficient to contain a mixture whose disparate ingredients were linked 
by the salient fact that none were anchored wholly in their host universe....

			*	*	*	*	*

	The scene in Bulk Cargo Hold #2 was one of controlled chaos.  At the center of a 
throng of busy drones lay the corpse of a partially disassembled ship.  Once the vessel 
had been nearly 120 meters long, a not inconsiderate size, although a cleared section of 
deck within the Bulk Cargo Hold had been more than sufficient to house it.  However, 
like a swarm of army ants dismantling an unfortunate grasshopper prey, the ship was in 
the process of being reduced to its component parts and no longer completely resembled 
its original form.  In several more hours, nothing would remain except a few surplus 
bolts, the rest carted off into storage or added to replicator reclamation. 
	Delta was working to remove a section of hull plating near what remained of the 
aft end of the species #7601 ship, just forward of a large rift through which the interior 
could be seen.  An emergency beacon, calling for help, had caught the sub-collective's 
attention and led to the salvage opportunity.  Although the crew had abandoned the vessel 
and species #7601 technology was known, the ship itself represented raw materials of 
which the cube, unable to resupply at Collective depots, could not ignore.  The hole had 
been present upon the ship's capture; and an examination of the logs would be required to 
determine if it was cause or contribution to the broadcast distress.  After browbeating 
Weapons to not use the vessel as target practice, it had been tractored aboard and left to 
engineering hierarchy to dispose.  Currently Delta body A was levering a hull plate using 
a crowbar while body B applied heat with a plasma torch.
	A call of {Query} formed in Delta's mind, overlaying the otherwise omnipresent 
engineering datastreams relating to functions as diverse as the current salvage project to 
status of microfracture surveys of the secondary core cowlings.  Body B paused as body 
A continued pulling on the crowbar.  {What is it, 66 of 240?}
	66 of 240 added a visual component to his words.  It was a view of one of the 
cargo holds inside the ship, showing floor-to-ceiling racks holding what appeared to be 
technologically advanced coffins.  In fact, that was exactly what they were, species #7601 
building dedicated morgue ships to transport the newly dead in a state of suspended 
animation:  the dominant religion required all followers who died away from the mother-
planet to be transported home in order to receive properly blessed cremations followed by 
scattering ashes over sanctified regions of the planet's oceans.  {What should we do with 
these?}
	Delta snatched at the number of coffins counted in the holds - 520 - with most 
intact, although several dozen in the hold where the rent had penetrated were empty.  As 
body A finally managed to snap the hull plate from its mooring, body B began to cut 
rivets holding the adjacent square.  {Stack them in the Supply Closets near Replicator 
Reclamation Chamber #10.  We will separate the organics from salvageable technologies 
later, after the ship is dismantled.}  The task from added to the engineering to-do list and 
given a moderate-low priority.
	{Okie-dokie,} acknowledged 66 of 240 as the visual datastream was severed.
	Nearby, 288 of 310 yelped as a heavy piece of plating was dropped on a foot, then 
a second time as her work partner, shouldering a length of structural support, pivoted, 
slamming metal against cranium.  Both of Delta's bodies heaved a sigh as body A set 
down the crowbar before trekking over to sort out the developing mini-disaster.

			*	*	*	*	*

	With a sound reminiscent of foamboard ripping, a hole opened in the ceiling of 
Supply Closet #77.  However, no one was present to hear, and nor were eyes available to 
observe the slow drip-drip-drip of a viscous, green liquid.  Glass, metal, ceramics, 
although the escaped proto-elixir slowly lost strength with each meter of material 
dissolved, sufficient potency remained to eventually carve a hole completely through the 
cube, including dense-packed neutronium armor.  Therefore, it was unsurprising the 
simple plastic upon which the liquid fell was not a hindrance.
	Droplets fizzed, spat.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The light slowly dimmed until near darkness was achieved before abruptly flaring 
back to too-bright intensity.  Another tick of an unheard clock and the light began to 
randomly pulse in a series of headache-generating flickers.  
	*THUNK*
	A spanner was withdrawn.  The lightstrip shone steadily, fixed by the rough 
application of a heavy object.
	"That's better," said 3 of 42 aloud, words echoing along the hallway.  "The shorts 
propagating in this submatrix are affecting /everything/.  Now, if only this carbon dioxide 
fog would go away - 195 of 203 and his stupid chemistry experiments - it would be easier 
to see what we are doing.  Have you found the problem yet?"
	The target of the question, 15 of 19, was approximately fifteen meters in front of 
3 of 42, eyes narrowed as she panned the deck before her in a futile attempt to see where 
she was going.  Unfortunately, the carbon dioxide was waist deep; and the simple act of 
walking served to stir the vapors into a visual obstacle nearly impossible to see through.  
Then one foot plunged into an unseen hole, sending the rest of her sprawling.  "I think I 
have," replied 15 of 19 from somewhere beneath the fog.
	3 of 42 advanced along the hallway.  Once 15 of 19 was helped to her feet, the 
drone looked down, then up, stopping as a ragged, out-of-place hole was espied in the 
ceiling.  Frozen strands of what appeared to be metallic mucus ringed the rough edges.  
"Whatever is happening here, that hole is directly under the regeneration conduit in this 
hallway," said 3 of 42 as he consulted dataspace engineering schematics.
	"Yes," agreed 15 of 19.  Diagnostics had returned nominal personal damage; and 
nanites were already fixing the hairline fracture to her ankle.  "Why don't you start repair 
to the conduit?  The sooner the regeneration system reroutes are ended, the better.  Then 
you can move to the electrical subsystem shorts.  Meanwhile, I'll track the substance or 
creature so that it can be identified and neutralized."  Although the delegation of duties 
had been phrased politely and in the singular, the truth was a larger component of the 
engineering hierarchy was determining assignments.
	{Acceptable,} echoed through both 3 of 42's and 15 of 19's minds, the multivoice 
indeterminate as to exact origin.
	As 15 of 19 vanished in a transporter beam enroute to check levels 'lower' in the 
subsection, the lightstrip began to flicker again.  "Bugger," muttered 3 of 42 as he raised 
his spanner in preparation to once more apply the universe's oldest fix-it method.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The parasite awoke.  It had no name, none of its kind did; and neither did it have a 
recognizable intelligence, although it could call upon the cognitive ability of its host to 
present a semblance thereof.  Mostly the parasite was just stimuli and response, with the 
overwhelming instinct the same as parasites everywhere - reproduction.
	Like a master puppeteer, the parasite tentatively tested the connections with its 
host.  The fact that the host was clinically dead did not bother it; and, in fact, was 
preferred because live hosts tended to fight back, both mentally and via autoimmune 
reactions.  An arm twitched, a leg bent.  Satisfied that neural impulses were functional, 
the parasite opened its host's eyes and began to accept sensory input.
	In front of the host's nose was a semi-transparent pane of plastic.  Spider cracks 
radiated from a melted hole located at the hinged side.  Shuffling through memories the 
parasite had embedded within its host's brain, images were recalled, then subsequently 
linked with the host's linguistic neural ganglions.  A hospital, people screaming, 
wandering the streets, other infected hosts...the images were varied, ending with it being 
forced into the coffin in which it currently inhabited.
	Unacceptable.
	Able to draw upon the full muscle potential of its host, the parasite punched arms 
upward.  The already weakened plastic shattered.  No notice was taken of the hole, a 
continuation through the body of the coffin from the canopy, the instigator of which, 
while it had barely missed burning through the corpse's arm, had dissolved critical 
control mechanisms.  The parasite sat up, looked around.  Surrounding it were coffins; 
and it /knew/ without knowing how it had the knowledge that each contained a body 
which, in turn, hosted another of the parasite's kind.
	There was safety in numbers.
	The body groaned, air escaping lungs, as the parasite forced its host to climb out 
of the coffin.  There was a louder noise when the corpse, not exactly the paradigm of 
balance, tumbled to the ground.  Oh well...it wasn't as if the host was alive or could feel 
pain, not that the microscopic puppeteer would (or could) care if such had been the case.  
The parasite levered itself to its borrowed feet, then prodded neurons into a semblance of 
working order.  Knowledge of buttons and levers flooded the brain, the 'how' to release 
its comrades from their suspended animation prisons.
	The corpse shuffled forward to its first target.

			*	*	*	*	*

	15 of 19 materialized in subsection 8, submatrix 20, hallway 14, near Supply 
Closet #77.  Thus far the substance/animal/whatever dissolving through tritanium (and 
wires and conduits and ceramics) as if it were not there had been tracked through nine 
levels.  In each case there was a variety of damage causing the shorts that were 
propagating through numerous subsystems.  There were no serious issues, automatic 
damage control able to reroute problems with minimal loss to overall efficiency, but 
repair would take time.  On top of that, Delta was pushing 15 of 19 to conclusively 
identify what was causing of the damage, if only to know where (or to whom) to assign 
blame.
	Glancing upward, 15 of 19 allowed herself a small frown.  It seemed the 
substance or thing had once more deviated from a straight line path.  However, local 
damage assessments culled from the computer suggested the hole was nearby.  
Something brushed against 15 of 19's arm.  She ignored it.  Hole, hole, hole...where was 
the hole?
	A damage report originating from a minor plasma linkage suggested Supply 
Closet #77.  15 of 19 entered the tagged room, still staring upward, and was rewarded by 
the sight of the hole.  However, it was also quite apparent that the culprit had long left the 
scene.  Grumbling to herself, 15 of 19 followed the path the liquid or critter or whatever 
must have followed as it dripped from the ceiling, eyes sweeping downward to catch 
upon one of the high-tech coffins extracted from the salvaged species #7601 morgue ship.  
It took several seconds for 15 of 19 to realize what was wrong.
	The coffin's plastic canopy was shattered and the occupant not present.  That was 
a new development!
	As 15 of 19 edged forward in order to determine what was left of the corpse and 
why it had spontaneously dissolved, she noted three things.  The first was that the warped 
remains of the coffin's top suggested something inside had pushed itself /out/.  The next 
thing realized was that most of the surrounding coffins were open, their contents also 
vanished.  The third, and final, item was a smell of decomposing flesh accompanying the 
heavy breathing sounds normally associated with long-time asthmatic smokers.
	"Braaaaaaaaaaaains," hissed a voice.
	15 of 19 slowly pivoted her head sideways to her left, followed by the remainder 
of her body.  Regarding her was an extremely pale, gray-splotched humanoid, and not a 
Borg.  Limp arms and lax posture gave the impression of a body 'parked', or a puppet 
hung up and waiting for its master to pull strings into a semblance of life.  Skin was 
loose, almost at the point of sloughing from flesh; and there were horrible festering 
wounds visible - the source of the decomposition odor.  The mouth was agape, allowing 
breath to whistle quietly in and out of lungs.  However, it was the eyes which were the 
worst, simultaneously reflecting the dullness of death and the glint of an aware intellect.
	"Er..." said 15 of 19.
	Responded the dead man walking, "Braaaaaaaaaaains."
	"Um, I seem to have left brains in my other prosthetic arm.  Maybe if you'll wait 
for me to return...?"  15 of 19 paused as she felt something (or someone) jostle her right 
side.  {Er, um, Delta?} tried the surrounded drone.  While the sub-collective was always 
present, it wasn't as if the imperfect Whole was continually monitoring every activity of 
its component parts.
	"Braaaaaaaaaaains," said the corpse as it lunged forward with unnatural swiftness.

			*	*	*	*	*

	A pane of glass glinted under tacky fluorescent lighting.  Behind the window 
stood a plastic humanoid draped in clothing heavy with metallic sequins.  Its limbs were 
held stiffly in an unnatural posture while a vacant gaze stared at the dusty fronds of an 
artificial fern.  Overhead, a banner proclaiming "SALE!!!!!!" listlessly swung, caught in 
the pitiful breeze originating from a too-small ventilation grill.  The shadows of shoppers 
browsing clothing racks could just be discerned in the store's background.  Quasi-
classical muzak with a vague holiday theme drifted through the air.
	A speaker exploded in a shower of sparks.  The storefront window shattered; and 
the plastic model burst into flames.  Screams rent the air.  Either a SuperSale had just 
been announced, else the mall was under attack.  Only the sudden appearance of pale, 
armored humanoids with much offensive-leaning technologies grafted to their bodies 
distinguished the difference.
	{The mall guards!  The mall guards are the priority!} shouted Weapons.  {Not the 
muzak!}  Disregarding his own instructions, Weapons raised his arm to aim at a grille 
which was spitting forth a static-laced instrumental.  Unfortunately, even with yet another 
speaker turned into scrap, the overall muzak ambience continued unabated.  {Guards!}
	The BorgCraft scenario was an orbital mall where the ultimate goal was to find 
and destroy the central controlling computer.  While some of the 'guards' were the 
standard mall-cop, primarily hired for decoration and to dispense directions to the nearest 
public restroom, the main opponent consisted of nasty automatons armed to the 
metaphorical teeth to control the occasional sale-spawned mall riot.  As the scenario had 
been set to Nightmare mode, the waist-high robots would be especially numerous and 
prone to working together in wolfpacks.
	Weapons leaned over the railing located on the second floor of the food court 
atrium.  Ignoring the not-so-rare phaser bursts which threatened bodily harm - no 
'protected' mode here! - the head of the tactical hierarchy scrutinized both the action 
below and the visual streams of squads elsewhere in the mall.  A ripple caught his 
attention as several mall-'bots emerged from a holographic wall adjacent the 
"Emperorville Fried Food Emporium" stall:  the physics models obviously needed 
adjustment.
	The necessary settings were altered...and rejected.
	{Diagnose the problem,} demanded Weapons to the computer.  The BorgCraft 
program had been heavily modified over the years from its original configuration, and the 
occasional glitch was not unexpected.  From his overwatch position, Weapons casually 
disintegrated a robot which had the audacity to aim in his direction.
	{No problem exists,} dully replied the computer.  {BorgCraft program is 
operating nominally.}
	{Yes, there is a problem,} countered Weapons as he tried changing several other 
settings.  Unfortunately it seemed as if /all/ the controls were frozen.  Even the rarely 
used abort command was unresponsive.  The scenario would have to be played to its 
conclusion.
	Repeated the computer, {No problem exists.  BorgCraft program is operating 
nominally.}
	Fuming, especially as he spotted another robot 'cheating' by ducking through a 
wall, Weapons turned his attention to another quarter.  {Delta!  Why is my BorgCraft 
program malfunctioning?  I demand that you fix it!}
	Delta's reply to the confrontation was immediate.  {Repair your BorgCraft game?  
Engineering doesn't alter software unless it is directly associated with hardware.  You are 
well aware of my hierarchy's boundaries!  And, besides, that game is /your/ bailiwick, not 
mine.}
	{Tactical simulator,} growled Weapons in response to BorgCraft being labeled a 
'game'.  {It is a tactical simulator.  And it is clearly the computer at fault, not BorgCraft:  
it claims there is no problem when clearly there is.  My hierarchy and I have no time to 
comb through code right now, not when there are perfectly functional debugging 
algorithms available.  Debuggers that are not working because the /computer/ is 
malfunctioning.  Clearly the problem is hardware; and, clearly, /you/ should be fixing it.}
	Delta was not swayed by the flawed chain of logic.  {If you paid attention to 
things other than tactical, you might realize that your "problem" is likely related to a rash 
of other similar /minor/ issues,} snapped back the maintenance hierarchy head.  
{Something is eating a hole through the decks in subsection 8, and the damage it leaves 
behind is propagating subsystem inefficiencies throughout the cube.  /Your/ particular 
complaint will be added to the priority list...at the bottom.}
	Although annoyed, Weapons decided to force the issue was not worth the cost.  
Instead, he returned full attention to the on-going BorgCraft scenario.  Fine, let the 
computer cheat by taking advantage of a faulty physics module.  In the end it would not 
matter because his tactical forces were superior.  And it was only Nightmare mode...now, 
Doom mode might present some difficulties.
	{Doom mode engaged,} informed the computer.  Mall lighting immediately 
dimmed by 75% and muzak volume increased by 40%.
	Weapons raised his disruptor arm in a cautionary gesture.  Perhaps new tactics in 
the form of ten additional 10-drone squads were required.

	{Answer me, 15 of 19:  status report.  This is not the time for one of your little 
hide-and-seek games.  Remember what Delta said?}  3 of 42 grumbled when there was 
no response.  He and 15 of 19 were often paired together, their racial type and tool suites 
complimenting each other.  Unfortunately, a past engineering incident had rattled 15 of 
19's brain, nothing so extreme as require surgery, but electrical jolts of a particular 
voltage and duration had the tendency to trigger undesirable behavior.
	3 of 42 checked transponder location of his partner once again.  She was still 
moving slowly along hallway 31 in subsection 8, submatrix 19, heading in the general 
direction of Bulk Cargo Hold #5 and well away from their assigned area.  Grasping the 
cattle prod in his whole hand, 3 of 42 transported himself to 15 of 19's location.  A few 
shocks would restore 15 of 19 to normal; and then both could return to their task with 
none the wiser.  Luckily Delta was currently in regeneration, else the engineering 
hierarchy head might already be alerted to their unauthorized excursion.
	The hallway in which 3 of 42 materialized was dark.  Most lightstrips were 
extinguished, with only a few providing a dim glow that illuminated nothing.  Shuffling 
and low moaning were vaguely registered by 3 of 42's aural system, but he catalogued the 
noises as unimportant.  Approximately six meters ahead of him was the dark shadow of 
15 of 19's back, red and yellow diodes embedded in her skull blinking.
	"15 of 19!" shouted 3 of 42.  Perhaps verbalization would catch his partner's 
attention as intranet pinging was not.  "Acknowledge me!  Comply!  What are you doing 
here?  And why are the lights turned down?"  The cattle prod was hefted in preparation 
for use.  "I've a little present for you...."
	The lights suddenly flared to full intensity.  3 of 42 automatically squinted against 
the unexpected brilliance, his optical filters requiring several seconds to compensate.  
What sort of fantasy world had 15 of 19 slipped into this time?  He had not even felt the 
command to the hallway lights!  Then again, he had not been monitoring those dataspace 
pathways.  Vision normalized, 3 of 42 saw that 15 of 19 had turned to face him; and he 
also belatedly realized that something seemed wrong.
	15 of 19's stance was...not right.  Her limbs were hanging loosely from her 
shoulders, as if the nerves had been severed.  The body in general was abnormally 
cockeyed, hips thrust one direction and shoulder girdle the other, indicating a balance 
issue.  Even worse, however, was 15 of 19's face.
	Although Borg facial expression was discouraged, drones One with the Collective 
occasionally reflected the inner emotional state of the Whole.  The units of Cube #347 
tended to be a bit more expressive than Borg norm, but even they were greatly restrained 
compared to the beings they used to be in pre-assimilated life.  15 of 19's face was 
perfectly blank, unnaturally so, even as dull eyes peered unblinking at 3 of 42.  As the 
ancient Terran idiom went, the lights were on, but no one was home.
	3 of 42 waved his cattle prod uncertainly.  "I think you were zapped by something 
a little stronger than a loose wire," he said.  "I'll contact drone maintenance."
	The shuffling noises that 3 of 42 had been ignoring were suddenly conspicuous by 
their absence.  A heavy weight fell onto the drone's back, upsetting his balance.  As he 
leaned forward in an attempt to compensate, he felt a /bite/ to the flesh of his upper neck, 
just above the collar segment of his body armor.  Another weight attached itself to his 
arm; and 3 of 42 careened against the wall, simultaneously hitting his head against 
unyielding metal with great force and zapping himself with the business end of the cattle 
prod.  Consciousness fled.
	3 of 42 did not see as hallway lights dimmed to their former near darkness.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Call them zombies.  It was as good a label as any, the parasites lacking the 
concept of language, except as it applied to survival when sentient hosts were infected, 
much less names.  In truth, many sapient species when confronted with the parasitic 
horror reached deep into their racial history for an easily grasped description, more often 
than not surfacing with the apt notion of walking dead.
	The parasite hungered, as did its comrades, for brains.  Not to eat, for it wasn't 
that sort of hunger, but rather a yearning for the necessary proteins and sugars required 
for successful reproduction.  Like many other microscopic parasites, this particular type 
grew not through the sexual production of offspring, but rather division into billions of 
copies.  A subset of those copies were then transferred into any animal host with a 
suitable neurological physiology to repeat the cycle.  'Suitable neurological physiology' 
translated into anything with a brain.
	It was towards a massed collection of lifesigns that the zombie shuffled.
	Several new hosts had recently joined the herd.  The fact that they had metal and 
plastic inclusions throughout their bodies and looked nothing like the other bodies meant 
nothing to their respective puppeteer parasites.  The bodies were also still alive, unlike 
those who had arisen from coffins, original minds subjugated into slumber.  Eventually 
lack of care by the parasite would push the bodies into death, not that the parasite cared.  
In fact, such was actually desirable since as long as the minds retained that sense of 'self', 
no matter how tranquilized, there was always the possibility of rejection.
	The locally-acquired zombies led the shuffling, careening, shambling pack.  Their 
parasite riders drew upon the knowledge contained within sleeping brains to navigate the 
hallways, to darken the too-bright lights.  With them lumbered the zombie who had first 
awoken from the coffins, not necessarily a leader - there was no such concept - but rather 
a parasite who came from a lineage which tended to take better care of host bodies, 
thence allowing better speeds, better reactions, and, ultimately, a better chance of passing 
itself along.
	The local hosts paused at an intersection, causing a pile-up as trailing zombies 
blundered into each other.  After a long minute, the leading bodies turned to trek down a 
new hallway, one which was oh-so-near the lifesign goal.  There was no need for the 
parasites to learn how to read, the skill unnecessary no matter how literate the ridden 
body may have been in living life.  Therefore, the herd ignored the sign floating mid-air 
just beyond the junction, registering the sparkling hologram as little more than an 
insubstantial annoyance.
	Long after the zombies passed, the words remained:  "Warning!  BorgCraft 
simulation in progress in Bulk Cargo Hold #5.  Enter at your own risk!"

			*	*	*	*	*

	{Entry to Bulk Cargo Hold #5 via door 4a,} murmured the computer to Weapons.  
The head of the weapons hierarchy smoothly swung his arm around and fired a disruptor 
at the mall-'bot he had been pursuing, ignoring the protest as another member of the 
tactical squad was narrowly missed in the process.  Only then did Weapons pause, 
positioning himself completely behind the barricade he and his squad manned so that an 
errant phaser from the hostile 'bot-pack holed up in the "Shoes-R-Us" store wouldn't not 
interrupt him.
	{Identify units,} demanded Weapons.  Standard procedure set the computer to 
watch all doors to the Bulk Cargo Hold when a simulation was in process, reporting all 
intrusions.  As the term 'safety protocol' was a not part of Weapons' vocabulary, entry by 
any except his hierarchy tended to be dangerous.  In truth, Weapons could care less about 
the health of any non-tactical drone foolish enough to enter an active holo-simulation.  
However, after one particularly nasty incident concerning several engineering and drone 
maintenance units, the entirety of command and control had engaged in a very long, very 
intense 'discussion' with Weapons concerning the matter.  Weapons had eventually 
acceded to the demand to add a few (unnecessary) protocols to ensure the relative safety 
of uninvited guests.
	The computer responded, {Two engineering drones detected.  Designations are 3 
of 42 and 15 of 19.}
	Weapons cocked his head as he mentally brought up a map of the Bulk Cargo 
Hold, overlaid with the simulation's floorplan gamespace.  Two red dots signified the 
new drones, well within an area of the mall earlier secured.  Unfortunately, given the 
faulty physics settings, cleared areas occasionally reverted to battlegrounds when robot 
packs ignored walls.  It was obvious that the engineering drones had arrived to fix the 
hardware problem plaguing the BorgCraft system, despite Delta's earlier assertion that 
such was a low priority.  So certain of the logic, Weapons did not bother to check the 
engineering to-do list.
	{81 of 212,} barked Weapons, {you are closest to the entries.  Go guard them.}
	81 of 212 acknowledged the order, leaving his picket duties.
	Remaining behind the barrier, Weapons followed 81 of 212's progression via the 
other drone's optic input.  Melted mannequins and dark stores gave way to service 
corridors as the drone made his way to door 4a.  Here and there were the remnants of the 
shopping crowd, those not 'killed' or 'assimilated' during the course of battle, hiding from 
the chaos on the mall thoroughfares.  Their numbers increased as 81 of 212 approached 
the egress, and he was forced to actually push bodies out of his path.  Weapons mentally 
tagged the area as requiring a half-squad for clean-up:  one could not have so many 
potential obstacles lurking should quick passage be required.
	Among the shadows near door 4a, 81 of 212 spotted two engineering drones.  
They were among the shoppers, not bothering to do anything constructive.  Stupid 
engineering units...cowards, using civilians as cover.  Weapons was unimpressed.
	"Come on," called 81 of 212, both verbally and via the intranets, "this way to 
computer access ports.  I will be your guard."
	Neither of the pair moved.
	Persisted 81 of 212, "I don't have all day.  My squad will soon be rotated to front-
line duties, and I do not want to miss it.  We have been stuck as peripheral sentries for the 
last several hours."
	Still no acknowledgement of 81 of 212's existence.
	{Go prod them in the correct direction,} ordered Weapons.  {We have better 
things to do than baby-sit wusses.}  A flurry of concentrated weapons fire from the mall-
'bots provided momentarily illumination even as it threatened to melt part of the barrier.  
Weapons added his own disruptor to the response.
	81 of 212 stomped towards the engineering units, then slowed to a stop.  It had 
just struck him that the shoppers were not moving out of his way.  The majority of 
BorgCraft simulations, including the current one, included life-like reactions from non-
assimilated sentients.  The shoppers should have been in a virtual (no pun intended) panic 
trying to escape from the three drones in their midst.  Such was not occurring.
	It was at this moment the engineering drones turned.  "Braaaaaaaaiiiiiins," the pair 
exhaled.
	{You aren't 3 of 42 or 15 of 19!} exclaimed 81 of 212, unsure how he knew even 
as their transponders and dataspace signatures insisted otherwise.  A too solid hand, 
without the subtle electromagnetic tingle of manipulated light, brushed against an arm.  
{And these aren't holograms!}
	Those were the last words Weapons caught from 81 of 212 before the latter 
became the foundation of a dog-pile.  Moments later, 81 of 212's transceiver link went 
non-reactive even as passive stasis for the drone insisted all was fine.
	Weapons' head blindly turned in the direction of door 4a even as himself and a 
subset of (unengaged) members of his hierarchy considered the implications.  As much as 
he disliked to involve others in what was obviously a tactical situation, the presence of 
unknown intruders demanded certain deep-programmed directives be followed.  
{Captain,} informed Weapons to the consensus monitor and facilitator, {we may 
have a problem in Bulk Cargo Hold #5....}

	Screaming.  Shouting.  Words mostly unintelligible, except for those of a four-
letter nature.  Dim, flickering lighting hides all except the shadowy outline of bodies.  
Finally one face swims into view, the visage of a species #7601 female sheened with 
purple sweat.
	"This is secondary morgue technician Tilesh.  There was a slight problem with the 
warp core, forcing rerouting of power to life support at the expense of the Hold Three 
stasis coffins.  I know that the captain and head mortician received some sort of sealed 
instructions concerning this shipment of dead to deliver to the cremation priests, but I 
don't know if that has anything to do with what is happening now.  All I know is that 
once the coffins in Hold Three were completely defrosted, corpses started to come alive!  
Head mortician Ujil made it to the bridge in time to hit the emergency beacon, but the 
zombies creatures were right behind him and...and...and I don't know what became of 
him!"
	A nervous laugh.  "Zombies.  Sounds like a stupid superstition from pre-
Enlightenment, but I don't know what else to call the creatures."  Tilesh abruptly 
refocused her attention on something to her right.  "Ujil?  Is that you?"  A hand entered 
the scene, clamping onto shoulder.  "Ujil?"
	"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiins."
	With a scream, Tilesh was yanked out of view.
	The remainder of the log from the morgue ship, downloaded along with the rest of 
the data from the computer prior to disassembly, was useless.  Shortly after Tilesh's 
impromptu status update, the input location had undergone terminal failure due to an 
overzealously flailed crowbar ill-aimed at a dimly perceived head.  Several hours later, 
secondary hull sensors had registered vibrations consistent with grappling hooks, air lock 
use, and, finally, the thump of explosive decompression.
	One hundred forty-seven weapons drones, nearly four-fifths of those present in 
the BorgCraft simulation, stood in the main mall thoroughfare outside the corridors 
which led to Bulk Cargo Hold #5's door 4a.  Outwardly there was no fidgeting, none of 
the quiet whispers that one might associate with a large gathering, all eyes and optics 
focused on the humanoid shapes which were slowly shuffling into view.  For the 
moment, the simulation's robots were forgotten (except by those currently under attack at 
the far end of the mall).
	{How many,} demanded Weapons to Sensors, once again.
	{Sensors says that there are no lifesigns.  Not even a [blue squiggle].  Interior 
sensors do not resolve for Sensors like the hull sensors.  The only thing Sensors sees is 
three drone signatures near the door.}
	Weapons snorted.  As he panned the kill zone, he automatically painted targets on 
each mobile bipedal shape.  {We can all see where 3 of 42, 15 of 19, and 81 of 212 are 
located.  They are unimportant.  We need to know how many of these alien creatures are 
present.  Computer:  disengage power to Bulk Cargo Hold #5.}
	Answered the computer, {Unable to comply.}
	{Why?} demanded the head of the weapons hierarchy.
	{Because the glitches that are showing up all over the cube have affected the 
power grid as well,} replied Delta.  {As much as I would not mourn your game's 
holoemitters being shut down, to do so would require complete powering down of the 
subsection.  Until the cause of the glitches is found and key repairs made, models indicate 
an 87.9% chance of a major subsystem calamity somewhere within the cube if that 
subsection is depowered.  So don't even /try/ to pursue depowering, Weapons, because I 
have locked all the relevant commands.  You are the mighty tactical drone...deal with 
your tactical situation.}
	{We will,} asserted Weapons.
	*Shunk-shink!*  The loud sound of a shotgun being cocked echoed over the silent 
Borg crowd.  Eyes, both actual and dataspace, turned towards the instigator.
	{Zombies,} snarled 107 of 212.  {They look like zombie and act like zombies.  
The morgue ship logs even call them zombies.  The appropriate method to deal with 
zombies is easily found.}  A host of phrases in which 'dead' (often paired with 'living' or 
'walking') and 'zombie' flowed from 107 of 212's mind, each linked to one of the movies 
in his vast collection.  The shotgun was raised high in the air, {There is a whole sporting 
goods store of these on the second mall level, more than enough to take out any zombie 
swarm menace!  As there are no safety protocols, this holographic weapon is as good as 
the real thing!  Observe!}
	107 of 212 stepped forward to approach, alone, the line of shuffling zombies.  In 
addition to carrying an oversized shotgun suitable for Very Large Game, a bandoleer of 
rounds crossed his chest, and an odd pack full of sloshing liquid was upon his back.  One 
by one the zombies stopped their seemingly aimless milling, turning to regard the lone 
drone.
	"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiins," said one of the undead creatures, arms held before itself in 
a limp manner, as it started to slowly move forward towards perceived prey.  Although 
Borg are not exactly the most speedy of beings, compared to the zombies they were as 
cheetahs to the turtle.
	Stopping in the zombie's path, 107 of 212 confidently raised the shotgun and fired 
point-blank at the thing's head.  The backwash from the resultant noise could be felt as 
well as heard.  {There.  One zombie down.  No problem,} said 107 of 212 as he swiveled 
his head to regard his audience.
	"Braaaaaaaaaiiiiiiins," moaned a voice.  
	"What?" exclaimed 107 of 212 as he turned back to regard the zombie.  Except 
for having been forced backwards a step or two, the only visible result of the blast was a 
large, black streak crossing the skull.  {That...that isn't possible.}  The shotgun was raised 
and fired again.  The zombie stumbled once more, but otherwise remained unfazed.
	Other zombies were starting to advance upon 107 of 212.
	Although it was true that shattering the braincase was one of the most efficient 
methods to destroy the species of zombie confronting Cube #347 - the parasite could not 
direct its mount if the primary neurological control nexus was missing - a gander at the 
species #7601 dossier may have suggested the futility of using any caliber of projectile 
weapon able to be carried by the single individual.  The cranium sported an exceedingly 
dense bone structure, recalling a time in racial evolution when individuals, male and 
female, dueled each other by literally knocking heads together.  How such a brain-
stunning activity ever allowed for the rise of intelligence was unknown, but the legacy of 
such was thick skull with knobbed protuberances able to turn aside anything less than a 
fist-sized round traveling at supersonic velocities.  In summary, species #7601 made 
excellent assault drones against civilizations who had yet to progress beyond the 
projectile as a major offensive weapon; and in that same vein, a simple shotgun was 
useless.
	107 of 212 tossed away the shotgun as it became apparent its best use was as a 
length of smackin' metal.  {In the odd event that a bullet to the noggin is not effective, 
fire is always a zombie's worst nightmare.}  A hand reached around to pull at a nozzle 
attached to the sloshing backpack.  {The "Mercenary Emporium", right next to the food 
court, has a wide selection of flamethrowers for all occasions.}
	A line of fire arced out from 107 of 212 as he started to laugh maniacally in an 
unBorg manner, dispensing unholy justice to the advancing evil scourge.  Flames 
temporarily chased away the gloom of the dim Doom-level mall lighting.  Someone had 
obviously been watching way too many horror movies as of late.
	With zombies merrily on fire, 107 of 212 pivoted to regard his fellow tactical 
drones.  "And that," he said aloud, "is how one kicks zombie butt."
	"What if one of them has a fire extinguisher?" called a voice from the crowd.
	"Who ever heard of a zombie with a fire extinguisher?"  From behind 107 of 212 
came a loud, chemical hiss, as if that made by holographic carbon dioxide putting out 
too-real holographic flames.  He turned just in time to see that not one, but several 
unaffected zombies were wielding fire extinguishers taken from brackets inset the mall 
walls.  The slightly crisped zombies, now coated in a thin coating of white gas, did not 
appear to be overly impacted by their near barbeque.
	"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiins," called a zombie, now within arm-reach of 107 of 212.
	{Crap,} succinctly said 107 of 212 as he was surrounded by the lead elements of 
the zombie pack.
	Weapons stomped out from the Borg lines, taking position in front of the drones 
of his hierarchy and turned to face the assembled ranks.  In the background came the 
groans and yelps of 107 of 212 being overwhelmed; and in the dataspace inventive curses 
abruptly stopped as the zombies introduced the drone to their undead ranks.  All was 
ignored by Weapons, for he had more important things to say.
	"Projectiles and fire?  What are we, primitives?  While an organism may be able 
to resist /holographic/ shotguns and flamethrowers, no matter safety protocol status, 
disruptors are completely different."  Words said, Weapons pivoted, arm raising to take 
aim on the lead zombie.
	{Uber-Insanity mode engaged,} interrupted the computer into the minds of all 
drones present.
	Weapons froze.  {Computer:  confirm BorgCraft mode.}
	{Uber-Insanity.}
	{Disengage Uber-Insanity mode.}
	{Compliance.  Uber-Insanity mode disengaged for Uber-Insanity mode.}
	Arm was lowered and an unWeaponish step was taken backwards away from the 
slowly advancing zombie horde.  {No good.  Not good at all.}
	{Explain "Uber-Insanity" mode,} ordered Captain, who had been monitoring, 
along with much of the sub-collective, the developing dilemma from afar.  Anything 
which caused Weapons to voluntarily retreat, even by a step, was probably not a good 
thing.
	{BorgCraft only has three difficulty settings:  Normal, Nightmare, and Doom.  
This was not sufficiently challenging, so I have been leading the development of Uber-
Insanity.  The setting is incomplete and should not have been activated.}
	{Go on,} urged Captain.
	The zombies were beginning to advance at a greater shambling pace, as if sensing 
an opportunity.  Several individuals held fire extinguishers at the ready.  The tactical 
drones remained holding their ground, but uneasiness was flitting through the dataspaces 
as the number of opponents grew.  Continued Weapons, {For ground-based simulations 
there are slight weaponry restrictions that sort of disengage all chassis-mounted energy-
based weapons, like phasers or disruptors, in order to require projectile or hand-to-hand 
combat.  Additionally, exit restrictions lock doors; and transporters are inoperable so that 
reinforcements cannot be added nor individual units leave the battlefield.}  Pause.  
{Addendum:  transporters can be utilized, but only to remove disabled drones for 
maintenance.}
	Second interrupted before Captain could respond, his tone scathing, {Let me 
summarize.  You created a mode that purposefully hobbled you and your hierarchy.  It is 
now engaged.  And because it is engaged, your weapons are limited to projectiles which 
do not hurt these zombies, else closing to hand-combat range where they swarm you.  On 
top of that, no one can get in; and can leave only if severely damaged or terminated.  Did 
I leave anything out?}
	Weapons cocked his head slightly in thought.  {No.  However, overwhelming 
odds can always be overcome.}
	At that moment, several packs of mall-'bots charged through wall on the 
offensive.  While the Borg may no longer have access to energy-based weapons, the 
robot defenders were under no such handicap.  Two drones immediately fell, one due to a 
trip rope and the other from several phaser blasts to the back of the knee.  Several other 
units, while trying to mount a defense from the robots, managed to maneuver themselves 
into the zombie crowd.  They were quickly overcome by the overwhelming odds.
	{To rally point C,} commanded Weapons.  It was a good thing no unassimilated 
species were present to observe the total rout of Borg drones, waist-high robots snapping 
at their heels.

	Weapons blindly reached for the table which was to his left, but questing fingers 
encountered nothing.  Frowning, the head of the weapons hierarchy shifted his gaze from 
looking for zombies on the food court below his second-floor overwatch location to the 
table in question.  It was bare.  Unacceptable!
	"Where are my projectiles?" yelled Weapons, verbally and in the intranets.
	{We are coming,} answered a drone voice, one of whom assigned to searching for 
suitable throwing fodder.  {Some of 'bots ambushed us just as we left the "Rock Place" 
and we had to use up all the ammunition we had gathered to drive them off.  However, 
the bakery next door had a nice collection of very stale buns.  We will be there in 2.7 
minutes.}
	"Too slow," muttered Weapons to himself.  The shambling form he had been 
watching became lost behind an obscuring barrier of mall greenery, the leaves glowing 
with that particular green of a plant fed one-part water and three-parts sugared and/or 
caffeinated drink.  The fact that the target had the blinking lights of a zombified Borg was 
not cause for hesitation.
	6 of 83, one of Weapons' strike-team leaders, came up to stand next to her 
hierarchy head.  The floor below was silently panned, incoming visuals from both drones 
merged into a seamless whole and combined with that from scouts at other lookout 
venues.  6 of 83 nudged Weapons with an elbow featuring a natural bone spike.  
"Another one is trying the escalator," she noted.
	At the far side of the food court, an escalator provided admission from the first 
floor to the second story walkways.  One of the species #7601 zombies was hesitantly 
approaching the access point, stopping to peer at the stairs as they flattened before 
vanishing under grooved metal.  Head turned upwards to stare at a pair of guard drones 
on the balcony above, then returned to the conundrum of the escalator.  Finally, with a 
short utterance of "braaaaaaaains," the zombie tried to go up the down escalator.
	It was unsuccessful.
	An unBorg snicker arose from 6 of 83.  It was not necessarily a reflection of 
eroding inhibition filters, but rather the remnant of a dark humor which had survived the 
assimilation process.  To put it simply, 6 of 83 enjoyed it when others became hurt due to 
their own stupidity.  "Not quite as spectacular as the one that fell off the side of the up 
escalator, or the one that managed to get its pant leg stuck in the grating, but still 
satisfying."
	The zombie stumbled around as it tried to regain its balance, the victim of a 
tumble that had ended with an audible crack of head upon one of the food court's 
mirrored pillars.  One of the second story drone guards aimed a rifle at the zombie.  
While the round was unlikely to do much damage, perhaps something vital could be hit 
on the limbs to limit the creature's mobility.
	Chased by zombies and mall-'bots, the earlier retreat had forced the weapons 
hierarchy members stuck in the BorgCraft scenario to regroup on the floor overlooking 
the food court.  While the robots had their own transportation between mall levels and 
had continued to be an annoyance, the zombies had been unable to master the challenge 
of the escalator.  As there were no normal stairs and the few elevators had been disabled 
early in the BorgCraft scenario, the zombies had been regulated to the first floor.
	The restrictions imposed by Uber-Insanity mode had led to a stalemate.  If the 
mall-'bots had not been an issue, then the weapons drones likely would have been able to 
whittle away at the more numerous zombies.  Unfortunately, the robots had continued 
unrelenting in their programmed mission to protect the mall; and of the two threats, they 
were the most immediate.  Maintaining the safety zone command post left few resources 
to deal with the zombies.  The assault parties which Weapons had dispatched to the lower 
levels inevitably came up against groups of zombies too large to be adequately tackled 
given their immunity to most projectiles.  Most importantly, Weapons had finally 
accepted that hand-to-hand combat was unfeasible, for while tactical drones were 
stronger and more coordinated than either species #7601 zombies or zombified Borg, all 
it took was one bite to defeat an attacker.  The zombification process was swift.
	There had to be a way to defeat the menace.  Everything had a weakness.
	Weapons was once again bugging those partitions charged with examining the 
morgue ship logs when the replacement ammunition arrived.  Piles of fist-sized bread 
loaves, all stale, were heaped in wheelbarrows.  When it became swiftly obvious that 
stacking bread on the table was not possible - the buns rolled away - a wheelbarrow was 
left to serve as the bread holder.  Both Weapons and 6 of 83 armed themselves, the latter 
returning to scan the ground for targets as the former slipped back into the dataspaces.
	Something important was being missed in the morgue ship logs...an obvious 
something....
	The rolling echo of one of the heavy caliber shotguns being fired roused Weapons 
from his interrupted contemplation.  Beside him, 6 of 83 was throwing a bun with the 
wicked precision capable only by a being with laser range finder, computer-assisted 
target acquisition, and perfect muscle control.  Weapons blinked, automatically focusing 
on the object of attention.  On the ground, between several plastic tables bolted to the 
floor, sprawled a zombie; and, more precisely, the same Borg zombie Weapons had been 
tracking earlier.  A transceiver identified the victim as 112 of 300.  Unlike the species 
#7601 specimens, zombified Borg tended to be more susceptible to high-speed 
projectiles.
	{Computer, status of 112 of 300?} queried Weapons.  A systems diagnostic was 
the response.  In addition to a large chunk of unarmored shoulder, neck, and face having 
been shredded by the shotgun load, the skull was fractured due to a precise impact from a 
past-date bread product.  A key threshold in unit damage had been passed, triggering the 
only egress allowed under Uber-Insanity mode.  {Transport unit 112 of 300 to 
Maintenance Bay #5.}  The shimmer of a green transporter beam removed the semi-
conscious body.
	"That was fun," said 6 of 83.
	Weapons grumbled as he received a report of imminent breach of defenses in grid 
4 by robot attackers.  Even the most optimistic calculations pointed to defeat.  
Consequentially, Weapons no longer found the BorgCraft scenario amusing, especially 
given the weaponry restrictions.  "6 of 83, take squads 3 and 7 to grid 4.2.  Mission is 
reinforcement."
	An acknowledgement was nonverbally provided as 6 of 83 gathered several more 
buns before pivoting on heel in compliance.
	Weapons glanced upwards - one never knew from what quarter attack would 
come, especially under Uber-Insanity - at the mall ceiling.  However, he did not focus on 
the dim light strips or dingy tiles, but rather the unseen sight of the giant cargo hold doors 
many hundreds of meters above.  The morgue ship logs tickled the back of his mind, 
along with several parallel datathreads.  Doors...sensor logs...the rattle of a section of ship 
undergoing explosive decompression...horror movie plots...engineering appraisal of 
vacuum damage to salvageable inorganic and organic components....
	{The barrier at grid 3.5 is under attack.}  It seemed the mall-'bot controlling 
computer was attempting assault of the Borg safety zone at multiple points.
	A plan suddenly materialized in Weapons' mind, the crystal clear melding of 
disparate data into a workable whole.  He was not the origin of the scheme, no individual 
drone could be singled out of the collaborative process, but rather the hub around which 
the tactical endeavor orbited.  Nor was the proposal novel - 'Borg' and 'novel' were 
largely incompatible - instead drawing upon other knowledge, other experiences, 
adapting it to fit the current circumstances.  107 of 212's movie collection was 
intrinsically involved. 
	However, before any plan could be put into motion, other priorities beckoned.  
	{Squad 5, with me.  We go to smash robots,} called Weapons as he turned his 
gaze away from the holographic mall ceiling and towards the besieged blockade.

	"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiins."
	"Shush.  Bad zombie."
	"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiins."
	"What did I tell you?"
	"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiins."
	Doctor leaned over his patient, index finger of one hand curled and held at the 
ready by the thumb.  As the inevitable "braaaaaaaiiiiiiiins" began to be declared once 
more, Doctor briskly *thonked* the zombified drone on the forehead between the eyes.  
There was a sudden, disbelieving blink, the utterance immediately cut.
	"Bad zombie."
	"Braaaaaaiiiiiiiins," tried the zombie again in defiance.
	*Thonk*  "Bad zombie."
	"Braaaaaaiiiiins?"
	*Thonk*  "Bad zombie."
	The mouth opened in preparation to speak the one work vocabulary, but narrowed 
eyes and cocked index finger wordlessly suggested that such a course of action was 
undesirable.  With an audible sigh, the zombie closed his mouth and lay quietly.
	"Good zombie."
	Six zombified Borg were trussed to workbenches in Maintenance Bay #5.  Five 
were units which had been sufficiently damaged in the BorgCraft scenario that the 
computer had allowed removal.  The injuries were easy enough to deal with, even the 
drone with the nearly torn off leg.  It was what Doctor was calling the 'zombie element' 
which was causing difficulties.
	On the surface, all the drones appeared (other than various cuts, bruises, and 
contusions) to be perfectly functional.  However, beyond the rather annoying lack-of-
vocabulary, there was something deeply wrong.  For instance, full body paralysis was a 
Collective standard operating procedure in the case of surgery to prevent random nerve 
discharges from, say, slamming the armored elbow of the operatee into the nose of the 
operator.  The code strings to disengage voluntary muscles below the neck of the five 
patients had been sent; and while there had been acknowledgement by the respective 
patient's automatic systems, it became quickly obvious that either it had not worked or a 
bypass was occurring.  Whatever the cause, the result had been active, if slower than 
usual, patients.  Unacceptable.  All five drones had been strapped to tables to minimize 
movement.  Unfortunately, jaws had been among the remaining mobile parts.
	Doctor turned away from 112 of 300, confident that there would be no more 
outbursts.  Sometimes the training process required a small dollop of punishment; and 
while Doctor would prefer to balance punishment with reward, thus far no amount of 
biscuits or squeaky toys had demonstrated any positive effect.  Eyes swept down the row 
of bound drones, accessing the current medical file of each in turn.  Ears twitched.  All 
were stable, or at least the Borg systems were, and, best of all, all were quiet at the 
moment.
	Drone maintenance units continued at their normal tasks as Doctor took a position 
where he was out of the way and at low risk of being run over.
	{I have preliminary results on the zombie drones,} reported Doctor to Captain and 
Weapons.  While these two hierarchy heads were the primary targets for conversation, 
such did not stop the ranks of eavesdroppers from listening, nor from accessing the data 
resulting from the battery of tests performed on the five units.
	Captain absorbed the data.  {Continue.}
	Doctor summarized, {Although the organism has not been isolated as of yet, 
genetic analysis of spinal fluid indicates the presence of foreign DNA.  A virus or other 
parasitic vector is the most probable postulation, one which is largely restricted to the 
brain.  How, exactly, the virus works and why the nanite immune system ignores it is 
unknown and will require additional investigation.  How it animates dead bodies is also 
somewhat of a poser.  However, the method of transmission is fairly obvious, as 
discovered when 120 of 133 was bitten by 65 of 83; and questioning weapons units in the 
BorgCraft game who have observed the results of zombies biting drones offers additional 
in-the-field confirmation.}
	Second, one of the multitudes of eavesdroppers, interrupted, {So...you are saying 
that a parasite that immune systems cannot see is capable of taking over an individual - 
alive /or/ dead - to create a zombie that has been aptly demonstrated is near impossible to 
kill.  And that the parasite is spread by biting.}  
	{Yes.  You hit the clown on the nose!}
	{Is there any good news?} sarcastically asked Second.
	{I think it will be possible to biopsy a wee slice of brain from the poor zombie-
drones for testing to learn how the parasite locks away the existing personality and takes 
over.  This is better than performing a full cranialectomy.  For most species, including the 
ones in the maintenance bay, it is impossible to recover a drone that has had the head 
sliced off and brain matter removed to a blender.}
	Captain blocked Second's scathing reply.  Said the consensus monitor and 
facilitator, {We wanted to know if any cure is available, or if all infected drones will have 
to be destroyed.}
	Doctor clicked his teeth together.  {Oh!  There are initial indications that the form 
of music known as "muzak" has a beneficial effect, as do liquid products containing 
tannin.}  What he did not relay was the exact set of circumstances which had led to the 
unlikely discovery.  Although he had not been directly involved, the incident was 
somewhat embarrassing - emotional relevance be damned - to the drone maintenance 
hierarchy as a whole.  Doctor was sure that given enough time and deodorant, 150 of 152 
would eventually smell, well, normal, although none were sure if the stain would ever 
come off.
	Weapons, quiet to this point, absorbed the implications.  {Useless,} was the 
succinct comment.  {Tell me when you have information of value.}  The head of the 
weapons hierarchy dismissed the drone maintenance datafeed, the equivalent of turning 
his back and plugging his ears.
	Captain mentally shook his head.  {Relay to us} - the 'us' was a plural 
encompassing the sub-collective as a whole - {when additional data is available.}
	{Okie-dokie!} chirped Doctor.  He returned attention fully to Maintenance Bay 
#5 just in time to see one of his hierarchy beam in, carrying a tea service.  The brightly 
polished silver pot steamed where it sat upon a delicate lace doily, surrounded by half a 
dozen porcelain cups.  A small plate was heaped with miniature shortbread biscuits 
dipped in dark chocolate.
	"So," said Doctor as he turned to regard 112 of 300, the nearest of the zombified 
drones, "what sort of muzak might you like with your tea:  'Mall Bluez' or 'Unseasonable 
Holiday Tunez'?"

	Weapons looked to his left.  Zombies.  He looked to his right.  Zombies.  The 
visual streams of all the drones accompanying him showed zombies.  There were no 
convenient holes to escape through the slowly advancing cordon.  There was only retreat.  
Weapons swiveled his head to consider the two stores which the group were backing 
towards, one of which could hold the means to survival, even success.  However, 
Weapons was not ready to make /that/ decision yet, not while there remained a greater 
than 1% chance of winning the engagement.
	After successfully defending the mall-'bot assault, even counterattacking to force 
withdrawal of the increasingly annoying things, a conclusion had been reached 
considering how to deal with the zombies.  Vacuum was the key.  Evidence from the 
morgue ship logs suggested the unknown rescuer, after retrieving the few remaining 
crew, had holed the morgue ship, thus fatally destroying any zombies.  The infected 
corpses still in storage had not been affected, waking when their coffins were later 
compromised.  Perhaps species #7601 had planned to eventually salvage the morgue ship, 
which is why it had been otherwise left intact when conversion into a fireball would have 
been more prudent.  Such would never be known.
	To put a bulk cargo hold in vacuum was a simple matter of opening the large hold 
doors.  Or should have been simple, anyway.  Unfortunately, the initial command for the 
computer to do so had been denied; and it quickly became apparent the Uber-Insanity 
provision locking egresses meant /all/ access points.  The inclusion of hold doors had not 
been deliberate, but rather because it was simpler for the weapons subunits working to 
modify the BorgCraft program to include everything instead of making exceptions.
	Delta had not been pleased.  An attempt by the engineering hierarchy to manually 
open the hold doors from the outside had proven futile, the on-going glitches affecting all 
hullside subsystems in the relevant grid.  Even Second had learned new words to add to 
his collection of vulgarities.  
	Finally, the inescapable conclusion had been made that one of several specific 
data pillars would have to be accessed from inside the bulk cargo hold; and the door 
manually instructed to open from there in order to work around the Uber-Insanity lock-
out.  A route to nearest data pillar had been charted.  Gathering together the remaining 
drones left in the tactical simulation to him, Weapons had led the trek to the oh-so-
dangerous first floor and the goal.
	Normally a group of 114 Borg drones represented an unstoppable force, 
especially armored and armed tactical units who also happened to be a wee bit on the 
hair-trigger side.  The key word was 'normally'.  The mall computer, ignoring the 
zombies as being out of its programmed ken, had immediately sent robots to take 
advantage of its opponent abandoning the safety zone.  If it had just been a matter of 
Borg versus zombies, the Borg could have easily outdistanced the zombies, but each 
attack by the robots, often taking advantage of the faulty physics module, slowed the 
drones such that the zombies could catch up.  Any Borg cut from the group by the robots 
or fallen from their weapons became easy pickings for the zombie swarm.  All it took 
was one bite for a comrade to be converted to a slack-jawed opponent.
	Weapons peered at the two stores once more...there /had/ to be another option.  
Nearby, the last speaker blasting muzak in the mall died amid a shower of sparks.  
Weapons' glare immediately turned to the culprit.
	{Oops,} said 6 of 83, {I guess I threw that bun a little bit too hard.}
	Despite Weapons' skepticism of Doctor's maintenance bay findings, muzak had 
been found to be a weapon, of sorts.  The zombies appeared to avoid the few intact mall 
speakers; and the head of the weapons hierarchy had quickly determined that volume 
control was one of the few responsive BorgCraft controls, assuming one wanted louder as 
'down' did not work.  Unfortunately, the respite created by maximizing muzak output had 
lasted a very short time, earmuffs soon appearing on zombies and speakers one-by-one 
going silent.  Likely the latter was the result of earmuffed zombies destroying the 
offending equipment, but incidents such as by 6 of 83 were to blame as well.
	{I spy a robot scout,} noted 24 of 212.  Such was usually a prelude to a larger 
mall-'bot assault.  Weapons had to make a decision now.
	Was it to be "Froo-Froo", selling tea, candles, and incense, or "Funs and Guns", a 
store dedicated to all things sports and weaponry?  Through the storefront windows of the 
latter, ranks of shiny baseball bat handles could be seen, as well as a banner proclaiming 
a new shipment of shotgun rounds designed for the largest of large game.  Lace and 
pastel colors dominated the other store.
	Decisions, decisions, decisions.
	Wincing as a final verdict was made, one of which he did not necessarily approve, 
but for which he was being overruled by both his hierarchy and other Cube #347 
members, Weapons pivoted and entered Froo-Froo.

	"Hurry up with that batch of Earl Gray," demanded Weapons as he brandished a 
lit incense stick as if it were a sword, "I am almost out of cedarwood.  All we have left is 
lavender and honeysuckle, neither of which works very well."
	Complained 95 of 300 from where he awkwardly knelt on the deck, "Do you 
know how hard it is to make tea while moving?  The little electric pot keeps unplugging 
itself from my torso socket, among other things.  I refuse to try to fill these spray bottles 
while in motion:  I've scalded myself too many times.  As it is, you are not allowing the 
proper steep time for the tea bags.  And speaking of tea bags, loose tea imparts a much 
better taste, as well as greater authenticity."
	"Taste is irrelevant," growled Weapons.  The incense stick was almost at its stub, 
the last wisps of scented smoke curling into the air.  "Cease accessing those tea-making 
manuals and just pour the hot water."
	"But there is a certain ceremony for tea!" protested 95 of 300.  "If it isn't done just 
right...."  The drone trailed to silence as he mentally wilted under a combination of 
Weapons' glare and the unvoiced threat that he would shortly be finding himself the 
primary downrange focus of the next target-shooting competition.  "I'll just pour the hot 
water."
	The last thirteen tactical drones, inclusive Weapons, were in a niche at their goal.  
The losses would have been greater, if not complete, had it not been for the booty 
gathered from Froo-Froo.  Both scented candles and incense seemed to produce an odor 
the zombies found objectionable, one for which there was no olfactory equivalent of 
earmuffs.  Even more devastating, however, was the tea.  Tea splashed on exposed 
zombie skin precipitated a nearly instantaneous reaction more akin to a chemical burn 
than scalding by hot water.  Spray bottles appropriated from a hair salon had increased 
effectiveness and range while decreasing waste, but there were still more zombies than 
tea products, especially as the ranks of the undead had grown at the expense of Weapons' 
group.
	"Light the barrier.  Pass out the armaments," ordered Weapons.
	In an arc around the niche, candles were lit, filling the corridor with both a 
flickering light and a delicious vanilla-cinnamon-cherry scent.  Incense sticks stuck into 
the wax of the thick candles were next, adding a bitter aroma heavy with lavender, 
honeysuckle, and other botanicals.  Spritzers set to full stream and filled with Earl Gray 
or Breakfast Sunrise - black teas were best - were passed out, several bottles to each 
drone, along with the remnant stale buns.  As last stands went, this one was more 
eccentric than most.
	Beyond the candle and incense blockade, zombies shuffled.  None were willing to 
press closer than two meters; and most were further given the deadly accuracy of the 
spray bottles.
	Satisfied at the current stalemate, Weapons was finally able to turn his attention to 
the data pillar.  The hologram facade automatically disengaged as the cover to the pillar 
was removed, exposing innards.  This station was one of several specialized for the bulk 
cargo hold, accessing such systems as internal tractor emitters and compartmentalization 
forcefields, as well as the exterior doors.  Where BorgCraft had locked-out less tangible 
options such as dataspace code, making (or breaking) the correct physical connections 
would bypass certain fail-safes and cause the hold doors to open.
	Weapons reached into the pillar in preparation to simply rip out all the wires.
	{Wait!} cried Delta as she recognized the intention.
	"Oh-oh," said 6 of 83 at the same time, among the last baker's dozen of surviving 
drones.
	Weapons blinked as he was assaulted on several fronts.  He straightened and 
turned towards 6 of 83 as the physically closer of the voices.  "What?"
	"Down the hallway.  We may shortly be having a problem.  A big problem."
	Squinting through the uncertain candle light, Weapons focused to where indicated 
by 6 of 83.  Four other drones were also looking in that direction, affording several 
slightly different points of view able to be melded into a whole.  What had caught 6 of 
83's attention was a fan; and, more specifically, one of the large fans used by emergency 
personnel to quickly clear smoke or fumes from a confined space.  Pushing the bulky fan 
along were two zombies, one each species #7601 and a Borg.  They would have been 
progressing quicker in their task, except milling undead kept tripping over the trailing 
extension cord, thereby causing the entire fan to violently jerk backwards several paces.  
The fan, once it was in position, would be more than sufficient to extinguish the candles 
and incense sticks, as well as ruin the effectiveness of the tea-filled spray bottles.
	"We will open the hold doors before that problem arrives," commented Weapons 
as he returned to facing the data pillar.  {6 of 83, try throwing bread at it when it gets 
close enough.  Maybe the blades can be bent.}  A hand was reached for the wires once 
more.
	Delta interrupted again, {Wait!}
	{What?} irritably demanded Weapons, hand stopped mid-motion.
	{You can't just rip things out.  You could cause great damage, and still not open 
the doors.}
	{We are willing to take that chance.}
	{Well, you can not.  Follow this wiring diagram.  If the yellow wires are crossed 
with the blue and purple striped ones, then connectors A, B, and G broken, that should 
allow you access to the modulator assembly at access point 5b.}  A complex schematic 
was inserted into Weapons' dataflow.  {Access point 5b then can be used as a conduit to 
these four wires labeled 54, 72, 47, and 9, the first and third of which should be cut and 
looped back upon themselves.}
	There were more instructions forthcoming, but Weapons refused to hear them.  
He savagely slashed through the bewildering wiring diagram.  {There is no time!}  He 
tried to force his hand forward, but could not, Delta bringing the force of engineering 
hierarchy to bear to block his motor connection.  As much as he disliked asking for help... 
{Captain!  Delta is asking the impossible.}
	Captain was not swayed.  {It is an engineering matter, Weapons, concerning the 
best way to open the hold doors.}
	{But there is no time!}  Weapons checked a visual stream from 6 of 83 and 
several other drones, seeing that the fan was being trundled into place.  Stale bread was 
having little effect.  {What Delta demands will require at least ten minutes.  We will} - 
Weapons forced out the words - {not survive ten minutes.}
	Delta said, {Then you all terminated or become undead or whatever.  Your 
BorgCraft game will still not let you out.  Once the glitches are sufficiently fixed, we will 
be able to manually open the hold doors from the hull, else devise some other method to 
evacuate the air.  Maybe Doctor can salvage you then.}  The word 'salvage' did not offer 
connotations of drone maintenance removing the parasite, but rather break-down for 
spare parts.
	{That is a valid point,} noted Captain.  Command and control was being swayed.
	Weapons tried to force his hand forward, but was denied.  {You will lose, 
however permanent or temporarily, over a quarter of the weapons hierarchy, including 
this hierarchy head.  If a tactical situation develops, this cube will be hampered, perhaps 
terminally so.}  Logic was not Weapons' strong point.  {And what if, in fixing the 
glitches, this BorgCraft scenario disengages or drops to a less extreme mode before the 
hold doors are opened?  The zombies could escape into the rest of the cube.  So what if I 
break something here?  The worse to happen is the hold doors do not open and we are 
zombified.  If I do nothing, or attempt what Delta says, that will be the outcome 
anyway.}
	The fan coughed as its blades began to spin.  Then it abruptly quieted as yet 
another stumbling undead pulled the extension cord out of an unseen outlet.  The 
zombified Borg of the attending pair appeared to give a heaving sigh, then proceeded to 
shamble away, following the cord back to its origin.  The species #7601 zombie 
continued to wait at the ready, hand next to the fan's 'on' switch.
	{Captain....} warned Weapons.
	{Delta, back off,} said Captain as command and control came to a decision.  
{This is a tactical situation, and the weight of engineering hierarchy's concerns have been 
noted and dismissed.}
	Delta was aghast.  {Captain!}
	{Back off.  Comply.}
	The pressure stopping Weapon's arm abruptly lessened.  Fingers stabbed forward, 
grasping a handful of wires and tearing them backwards.  The data pillar gave a sad-
sounding series of beeps, followed by the display screen abruptly darkening.
	Nothing.
	Weapons tried to pull out another tangle of wires, this time including several 
circuit boards and some isolinear crystals.
	Still nothing.
	The fan roared into life.  Candles immediately blew out; and spritzed tea flew 
back into the faces of those who sprayed it.
	"Crap," said Weapons outloud as he straightened, peering upwards towards the 
unseen cargo hold doors.
	Delta's presence was a smug and wordless 'I told you so'.
	Unholstering his spray bottle, Weapons joined the line of drones for the final 
show-down.  The zombies would pay dearly for these braaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiins.  
	An echoing *clank* followed by a *klu-cling* boomed from overhead.  
Simultaneously, a high-pitched whine signifying escaping air turned into a roaring torrent 
as Bulk Cargo Hold #5's atmosphere started to evacuate.  Not only were the cargo bay 
doors opening, but the forcefield which normally covered the vast opening was 
nonfunctional.  Lightweight material - real, not made of photons and shaped 
electromagnetic fields - began to swirl in chaotic tumbles.  Zombies blinked, eyes 
reflecting growing confusion.
	Weapons activated his magnetic traction.  It would be inconvenient to be sucked 
out into space along with the zombies, even if he could be retrieved later.  His nascent 
smile, little more than the slightest upturn of the corner of his mouth, vanished moments 
later as mall-'bots, unaffected by the opening of the cargo bay doors and not at all 
perturbed by incense and tea, emerged from walls.
	{6 of 83, did you save any stale bread ammunition?}

			*	*	*	*	*

	The parasite was dying.  It did fear the concept of 'death', not as a sentient being 
might, for the parasite ultimately was reliant upon response to a given stimulus.  Only 
when it was entrenched in a higher-order brain could it take advantage of advanced 
reasoning, and only then to a limited degree and as it directly related to survival.  
Abstract concepts like death were unknown, unknowable.
	The host body was cooling, dangerously so.  The lack of air, light, gravity were 
unimportant, none of the above impacting the parasite except in how they affected the 
host.  The fact that the host was already dead simplified things, for there were no 
automatic glandular emissions nor other annoyances to deal with as the body fought a 
losing battle with life.  Heat, however, was a necessity; and in the empty blackness of 
interstellar space far from any star, a corpse did not retain warmth very well.
	The parasite forced its host body into a small ball, the better to retain residual 
heat.  Around it floated other zombies, their respective puppeteers performing the same 
instinctual actions.  There was no move to cooperate, for ultimately it was each parasite 
for itself.  Shortly after ejection to this cold nowhere, the bodies of the locally-acquired 
hosts had vanished, but all those who had come from the stasis coffins had remained.
	Stimulus-response.  The stimulus was cold.  The response was hibernation.  The 
parasite drew in upon itself, disengaged from the controlling neurons of its host, collected 
itself into a dense mass.  Secretions hardened the developing cyst.  Soon little was left for 
an outside viewer to see except frozen corpses bumping into each other, each with a core 
of slumbering life deep inside.
	The parasite, like all others of its clade, was ultimately a survivor.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Doctor was in Nanite Assembly Room #8, overseeing the de-zombification of 
drones infected with the parasite.  While the exact mechanism behind the possession of 
the parasite or why nanites continued to ignore it was unclear, what was known was that 
it could not tolerate tannins.  Therefore, vats #3 through #8 had had their normal contents 
of nutrients and nanites removed, replaced with several varieties of lukewarm or iced tea.  
The first experimental subjects were nearby, undergoing pre-immersion tea saturation, 
the liquid injected into veins and forced down gullet.  The last was a wee bit messy as 
patients tended to regurgitate their drinks within several minutes due to rejection by the 
Borg body, but Doctor was convinced that every little extra bit of tea absorption helped.  
Complete recovery from the zombie parasite was expected.
	At the top of a scaffolding, Assimilation peered into one of the vats.  He stuck his 
arm into the brown liquid, then withdrew it.  {This will take forever to clean before 
nanites can be reintroduced, not to mention the possibility of ring stains.  Above all, this 
color gray is absolutely incompatible with the Plain Gray #4 of the vat interiors,} he 
commented.
	Doctor clicked his teeth together, but otherwise ignored Assimilation.
	A ping focused Doctor's attention to the dataspaces.  {Doctor.}  The originator 
was Delta.
	{There will be no contamination of the regenerative systems,} replied Doctor, 
immediately reiterating to a key point in a discussion that had occurred more than a 
couple of times.  {These vats have been physically disconnected and there will be no 
reconnection until you and Assimilation pronounce it squeaky-clean.  Myself and 
members of drone maintenance will be scrubbing everything as sterile as a pack of 
unopened rockhound scalpels.}
	{That is not the purpose of this conversation,} replied Delta.  {We have traced the 
origin of the substance which caused all our subsystem glitches.}  A schematic of the 
cube was proffered, one in which a more-or-less straight line meandered its way between 
a point within subsection 8 to just below the hull on edge #8.  {An incredibly caustic 
substance was created in Analysis Shop #7; and it finally stopped when it encountered the 
ceramic-alloy interior sheath of nacelle segment 8b.  Does Analysis Shop #7 sound 
familiar?}
	Doctor's forehead wrinkled and his ears were lain against his skull.  {That is 
where Frankie and myself are formulating the elixir of life and goodness that will save 
the Collective from the quantum virus, thusly allowing us to reintegrate with the happy 
Whole.}
	{What precautions did you take before you started mixing up whatever it is that 
you mixed up?}  Delta was adamant in trying to determine the exact series of events 
which had almost transformed into a disaster well beyond subsystem glitches and 
zombies.  If the nacelle had breached, the resultant plasma release would have caused a 
likely terminal set of circumstances for the sub-collective entire.
	{Standard procedure.  Frankie-hankie used a non-reactive vessel - glass.  How 
was I/we to know it would escape?} said Doctor defensively, plurals spiking his words.
	Unfortunately, there was no way Delta could place the blame on Doctor (or his 
holographic pet EMH) for the problems, no matter how she contorted the problem to look 
at it from all angles.  There had been no intention to cause the havoc which had resulted 
from what had obviously been an accident.  {Well,} concluded Delta belatedly, {don't do 
it again.  Determine a safe way to contain the substance before you try to mix it again.  
The batch that escaped was beamed out into space once it was found corralled in a bubble 
within the nacelle sheath.}
	{Compliance,} returned Doctor.
	The sound of retching and the splash of projectile vomiting brought Doctor's 
attention back to Nanite Assembly Room #8.  He turned his head in time to see one of the 
experimental patients, face partially covered with a muzzle in order to keep biting to a 
minimum, fall off a worktable to the floor.  It seemed that someone had neglected to strap 
down the zombie-drone during her move from maintenance bay to vat-dunking 
preparation.  Several attending drone maintenance units, whom had just missed being 
covered by regurgitated tea, stood around emanating sheepishness.
	Doctor rolled his eyes, then started forward to enter the fray and fix what needed 
to be fixed.  "You may be deemed excellent, or at least adequate, maintenance units, but 
it is obvious all of you are less capable than first year veterinary technicians.  This is a 
job for a professional."