The big Paramount dog barks Star Trek.  The Decker mutt howls Star Traks.  The 
Meneks lapdog annoyingly yelps BorgSpace while biting ankles.

			Silence of the Dogs, Part II

In Part I:
No Cube #347!  What a gyp!  Instead of action in the form of the BorgSpace series' 
imperfect sub-collective, there was plot and set-up.  Second Federation Black Ops made 
an appearance, as did Peach Borg, and an organization called the Taurini mob.  
Admittedly, the fact that Luplup is now a mob boss was interesting, as was the 
introduction of Lup, a rogue self escaped from the Luplup whole.  However, intrigue is 
not enough!  Cube #347's presence is demanded!

			*	*	*	*	*

	Ali blinked as the scene reformed.  Gone was the dry air and well-lit confines of 
Detention's closed-level cellblock, replaced by heat, humidity, and, well, an ominous 
ambience.  There was a sense of openness and echoing sound that can only be conveyed 
by outdoor arenas or very large rooms.  That was the sum total of first impressions, for 
even as Ali's hindbrain was cataloguing the gross differences between 'there' and 'here', 
the thinking part of her was noticing in alarm that Lup was no longer safely caged behind 
forcefield, Plexiglas, and metal.
	Lup, however, did not seem willing to take advantage of her unexpected freedom.  
The vyst had crouched down upon her four walking legs until belly nearly brushed the 
floor; and from her mouth came an untranslatable hissing of much greater volume and 
ferocity than that ever evoked when confronted by a Peach liaison drone.  Eyes were 
open wide.  Unlike past performances - and, Ali knew, performances they were - timbre 
and posture revealed actual fear.
	"Not good," calmly commented Liaison's slightly reverberant voice from behind 
the xenopsychologist.
	Ali turned her head to see what, exactly, 'not good' entailed.
	The trio, plus several additional detainees of Detention's high security wing, were 
scattered within a twenty meter area that roughly aligned to their prior positions within 
the cellblock.  Where that twenty meter area was now located was unimportant, for Borg 
drones of a heavily armored nature formed a loose perimeter, arms aimed inwards.  Ali 
did not see any immediate clues as to identity of the controlling Mind, but a small voice 
inside her did not think any Color to be the culprit.  Eyes (and ocular implants) stared at 
the prisoners, seeing everything.
	One of the captives, a long-time Detention inmate by the name of Hue't, abruptly 
made a break for what seemed to be a weak spot in the perimeter.  Hue't's race were 
stupendous sprinters, able to accelerate to high speed in a matter of two or three strides.  
The weak spot, as represented by a drone half the height of its compatriots, did not flinch 
as three disruptors struck the escapee, negating his existence less than fifty centimeters in 
front of its nose.  Hue't would never again be considering scams to bring havoc to major 
financial institutions.  Arms which had shifted to terminate Hue't returned to their 
previous aim.
	Most of those arms, noted Ali in a detached manner, were pointed at Lup or 
Liaison.  Her position between the two was not entirely enviable.
	Lup continued her impression of a steam boiler about to explode.
	"What is going on?" hissed Ali towards Liaison as the silent drones did nothing 
except stand with motionless menace, a waiting game stretching for one minute, two 
minutes, and longer.  The remaining ex-detainees, quite intelligent, especially after 
witnessing the fate of Hue't, seemed to be emulating the Borg.
	Liaison's voice replied, "I...do not know.  We have left Detention, probably at 
hypertranswarp speeds:  my link with my Greater Consciousness has been severed due to 
distance."  Pause.  "Something happens.  Perhaps we are shortly to learn of our fate."
	Ali noted the switch of the Peach drone's tense from singular to a rather disturbing 
collective 'we' that included Ali within the grouping.  She also noticed that there was no 
mention of a 'why' or 'how' in the words, only a fatalistic inevitability as to what was to 
occur.
	Two of the ringing drones near Ali, Liaison, and Lup sidestepped, making a hole.  
Lup spun to face this new potential threat.  The sound of a transporter beam was audible, 
even through the vyst's unending hiss.  Into the space materialized a new drone, heavily 
cybernized on its left side.  It was less bulky, lacked an arm-mounted weapon, and was 
no taller than either of its neighbors, yet it radiated a sense of authority which made it 
larger, more important than any other drone present.  A single blue eye panned across the 
trio in front of it, the prisoners at the other end of the enclosure already dismissed from 
relevancy.
	"You may refer to this drone as 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain," intoned the blue-
eyed drone.  "And I bet you are wondering why we have brought you all here today."

	"You may refer to this drone as 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain.  And I bet you are 
all wondering why we have brought you all here today," said Captain to the three 
captives before him, using a deliberate mixture of singular and plural.  The remaining 
prisoners were unfortunate victims of a transporter grab completed under less-than-
optimal conditions.  It was these three who were the true prizes.
	The vyst was similar to all other vyst selves Captain had had the misfortune to 
encounter over the years, a variation upon a theme modified by purposeful self-evolution 
through genetic manipulation.  Four walking legs connected together by a complicated 
hip girdle gave the reptiloid form a quadruped stance, heavy tail counterbalancing torso, 
neck, and head.  Four arms were divided into the hands-major and hands-minor, the 
former heavily muscled and tipped with long talons, perfect for ripping, and the latter a 
dexterous hand.  The presence of assimilative elements grayed skin and scales, washing 
out what in the natural vyst was a boldly striped camouflage of black, brown, and dark 
green.  Eyes with too much intelligence looked out upon the world from under an 
obscenely bulged skull.  The queen Selves had grown larger over the centuries, this 
particular specimen a finger under one meter at the shoulders and able to lift her head to 
140 centimeters.  While none of the limbs had undergone total replacement, nonetheless 
the signs of surgery were observable, ranging from talons replaced with tritanium to 
targeting laser to suspicious subepidermal bulges hinting of internal implants.
	Standing equidistant between the twin threats of vyst and Colored drone was a 
human female.  At first glance she seemed out of place, a thirty-something woman with 
brownish-blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail.  She wore no jewelry, except a 
silver ring; and no makeup was in evidence.  Her plainness went as far as the unassuming 
uniform she wore, mostly black with a touch of blue about the cuffs and neck, no emblem 
of rank present.  It was the woman's eyes, however, which gave her away, a certain 
hardness which looked out upon the universe with more than a touch of wary skepticism.  
The eyes belonged to a person who was among the 'need to know' when a certain class of 
cliches were spoken.
	The final number of the trio was a Peach drone.  The base species was #7753, 
potentially difficult for a nonBorg to discern, but assimilation hierarchy had no problem 
virtually removing exterior prosthetics and armor to determine what lay beneath.  
Outwardly unremarkable, the drone looked like all other drones to the uninitiated eye, 
although sensors embedded in the bulk cargo hold and mounted on tactical units reported 
the Peach to have the expected espionage suite.  The exact nature of the implants, and if 
weaponry was among them, was impossible to conclusively resolve without actually 
dissecting the drone.  Such would probably be safest as he wasn't strictly required, unlike 
vyst and human, but Captain, the sub-collective, was uncharacteristically loath to discard 
the Peach.  Captain mentally shook his head as concerns were dismissed:  there were 
other matters to attend.
	The human, with lack of patience typical for the species, was the first to speak.  
She ignored Captain's rhetorical question.  "I am-"
	"We know who you are," interrupted Captain, raising his voice to be heard over 
the vyst's hissing.  At the other end of the secured area, assimilation hierarchy drones 
were arriving, pushing their way through the tactical cordon.  "You are Ali Trumenson, 
rank commander, Black Ops branch of Second Federation Starfleet.  You are a 
xenopsychologist specializing in non-humanoids and non-carbon-based lifeforms.  Your 
current primary assignment is the abomination designated Lup, a self severed from 
Luplup.  Your favorite drink is the hurricane, easy on the dark rum.  While you publicly 
enjoy listening to Bolian water pipe sonatas, your secret passion runs to rude Klingon 
drinking songs.  Shall I continue?  Our file on you is extensive."
	With each increasingly personal fact revealed, Ali's eyes widened.  "How do you 
know all that about me?" she sputtered.
	Captain shrugged slightly.  "It is available if you know where to look.  The 
rumor.news.net bulletin board is an excellent source of information...once all the garbage 
and conspiracy theories are removed."
	"Captain, whom I presume is the consensus monitor and facilitator for this rather 
unique sub-collective, is quite correct.  Say, did you find the one about-" began Liaison.
	"Shut up," snapped Ali.  She was just out of arm's reach, else an ill-advised punch 
to armored shoulder might have occurred, if the slight tightening of her right fist was any 
indication.  "I can hear you snickering."
	"Borg do not snicker."
	"Don't give me those cliches.  You are snickering, even if you are not doing so out 
loud."
	Lup continued her hiss, as if she had an unending supply of air.  Captain decided 
he had had enough of that particular noise.  He abruptly shifted his attention to the vyst.  
To his left and right, tactical units altered their aim so Lup was the primary target.  "Vyst, 
you will be silent."
	Reptilian head twisted to scrutinize the increased level of threat.  The assessment 
ended with eyes on Captain.  "Yous plan to kills me anyway...that is whats I would do to 
this I.  No comply."  The words were woven into Lup's hiss, voder cutting through the 
static.
	"Unfortunately, termination is not a viable option, at least not at this time," 
muttered Captain distastefully.  He ignored the ripple of puzzlement which swiftly 
crossed, and was erased from, the Peach drone's face.  {7 of 212, scenario 2a is in effect.  
Remember, use the tranquilizer gun, not a disruptor.}
	The weapons drone who had been selected in the event of scenario 2a - 
probability had verged upon certainty the given what-if series would occur - materialized 
just outside the cordon, to Lup's left flank.  For a moment it seemed as if Weapons' 
background urgings would win, but after what an observer would only see as a beat of 
hesitation, the bulky rifle the unit held in her left hand was raised.  With stock set against 
shoulder and overlarge muzzle aimed, 7 of 212 sighted down the bore with the 
concentration of her former assassination profession.  The hard puff of compressed air 
went unheard except by the drones nearest the rifle.
	A feathered dart stuck into Lup's side, just forward of the light armoring which 
did not quite cover the complex hip girdle.
	{Perfect,} commented 7 of 212 with satisfaction as she loaded another 
tranquilizer into the gun from the attached magazine.
	Hissing abruptly halted as head swung sideways at deceptive speed.  Jaws 
snapped on the dart, ripping the offending item out of flesh.  However, before further 
defiance could occur, another dart impacted, this one on exposed neck.  A third sprouted 
at the juncture of tail to body; and a fourth burrowed into a minute opening on the vyst's 
torso just behind the armpit.  Lup turned her head to look at the source of the projectiles, 
then recentered herself upon Captain.  Only a single wobbling step forward was taken 
before eyes sagged shut.  Lup crashed muzzle-first to the deck plates.
	{Poor puppy,} commented Doctor in the background.  He immediately shut up as 
a large majority of the sub-collective focused upon the ex-vet, the ultimate reason /why/ 
Luplup had plagued Cube #347, with a special fixation upon its consensus monitor and 
facilitator, for over five hundred subjective years.  {Um...recall we are unsure how long 
the soporific formulation will last.  I suggest haste?}
	{Secure the vyst, then transport her to the prepared supply closet,} ordered 
Captain.  Six drones, those nearest 7 of 212, lowered their disruptor arms, a variety of 
ropes and bungee cords materializing into waiting hands.  As aim from the remaining 
units shifted to favor Ali and the Peach, those half dozen set to trussing the sleeping vyst 
such that no movement would be possible beyond a twitching tail-tip in the event of an 
unforeseen awakening.
	"Thank you," said the Peach with what Captain recognized as faux politeness, 
"that noise was grating against my aural receptors.  So, are we to be tranquilized and tied 
up next?"
	Captain stared at the drone.  The Peach was potentially the most dangerous thing 
in the bulk cargo hold, even greater than the vyst, which had been grabbed from the 
detention facility.  "State your designation and function."
	"I am disappointed your undoubtedly thorough research on rumor.news.net did 
not mention me, but I am also unsurprised.  This drone's designation is 8 of 12; and as I 
am currently assigned as a liaison to Starfleet Black Ops, and specifically the Lup 
Project, an acceptable subdesignation is Liaison."
	"Neither of you will be tranquillized or trussed, unless you do not comply with 
orders," said Captain.  "If resistance is offered, appropriate measures will be taken."  The 
exact nature of the 'measures' was left unsaid, a large menu of responses prepared by 
Weapons, from harsh language to actions which required the recipient to undergo major 
reconstructive surgery before anything resembling functionality was restored.  The hog-
tied Lup vanished in a transporter beam.  Tactical units closed in upon the duo.  "You 
will be walking to the prepared detention facility.  Given the unknowns associated with 8 
of 12's implanted hardware, we do not trust transporters."  Captain paused.  "Also, 
although our plans have now altered to include 8 of 12, we did not initially anticipate 
acquiring a Peach drone.  Modifications to the detention facility are being made now.  
You two will be kept together, it a less efficient use of sub-collective resources than if 
you were housed separately."
	Not to mention trying to find /three/ suitable supply closets adjacent each other 
would be a headache.  Two was difficult enough.  All potential candidates were either 
full of supplies, uncomfortably close to critical facilities such as an auxiliary core, or 
sported low-priority maintenance issues that would have to be addressed before 
conversion for use.
	"Will you comply?"
	"Do we have a choice?" asked Ali rhetorically.  The xenopsychologist had been 
relatively quiet until now.  Assimilation hierarchy suggested the human to be recovering 
from her traumatic change in circumstances.
	"There are always choices.  Some are better than others."
	The Peach drone snorted at the response as he otherwise impassively watched the 
advancing weapons units.  "All the alternate 'choices' currently open to me, as such I can 
calculate considering my single-node status, are abysmal.  A simple 'no' would have 
sufficed."
	Captain did not respond.  {Take them to their new quarters.  Attach a transceiver 
jammer to that Peach drone.  Ignore all questions and demands from the human; and 
watch Lup to make sure she does not cause too much damage to her supply closet after 
she rouses.  Second:  ensure Weapons and his hierarchy refrain from accidentally 
disrupting any of our guests, either on purpose or accidentally.  I will deal with all three 
after regeneration.}  The orders were less orders and more verbalization of the existing 
stream of sub-collective consciousness.  Captain locked a transporter on himself in 
preparation to return to his alcove.
	Ali stiffened as the first weapons drone prodded her shoulder with a disruptor arm 
in a wordless gesture to indicate which direction to exit the cargo hold.  "What is going to 
happen to them?" she asked, hand waving to where the other detainees had been herded 
into a tight knot.  Whereas the three Colored ex-drones had the staring unsight of 
descending catatonia, the remaining ten high-order -paths were voicing their complaints.
	A temporary suspension was sent to the transporter, followed by a query to 
Assimilation concerning the matter.  Captain had not been part of the relevant consensus 
cascade, except in a very peripheral way as sub-collective coordinator.  The answer was 
received.  "The unassimilated subjects will be processed and tested for suitability to be 
added to the Whole.  Given their implied sociological histories considering where they 
were detained in a criminal psychiatric facility, it is unlikely any will be acceptable.  
However, it will give assimilation hierarchy something to do.  The three Colored ex-
drones are to be euthanized and recycled."
	The human was clearly taken aback at the coldly clinical how-it-will-be response.  
"That's...that's...that's cruel, even for the likes of them!  Inhumane!"  Although 
rumors.news.net, and other sources, indicated Borg and Colors to be one of Ali's study 
interests, it was apparent she had never been directly exposed to the reality of any of the 
Collectives.
	"We are not human.  We are Borg," stated Captain.  The transporter was 
unpaused.  As he dematerialized, Captain heard the gruff command from one of the 
weapons drones demanding complete compliance, or else.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Yous will provide a unit to fix the squeak that happens when one of these selves 
walks over this part of floor," said the Luplup integrator, type III, her oddly deformed 
head held unnaturally steady as she focused upon the recipient of her orders.  Compared 
to other vysts selves, the integrators seemed misshapen, limbs undersized and elongated 
bodies bloated with internalized technologies meant to link self with self.  Integrators 
were also not especially intelligent, their normal duties consisting of sitting in one place 
to act as a living subspace booster/hub; and for this one to be sufficiently motivated to 
provide recognizable directives meant that it was being puppeted from afar by a higher 
order Luplup unit.
	Joseph Li, captain of the Taurini mob ship Pretty Lady, frowned.  He did not like 
having these vyst /things/ on his ship, but they - an integrator, a worker, and a tactical - 
had been installed when he had stopped at the rendezvous to pick up his cargo in the form 
of the Bajoran Valren Rei.  The unlucky mob representative had been the most recent 
messenger sent to Luplup for a demanded face-to-muzzle conversation with the vyst 
Queen.  Rei, standing beside the captain in the room which had been converted to meet 
vyst requirements, nudged Joseph with an elbow before the latter could open his mouth to 
say what he really wanted.  
	"My crew is both small and very busy for such a low-priority task.  Why can you 
not use that worker of yours to fix the squeak?" substituted Joseph.  The very deadly 
tactical unit, the reason for the covert nudge, relaxed slightly, although her eyes never 
ceased their penetrating stare, that of predator considering prey.
	"No," countered the integrator.  "This worker type is for body maintenance, is for 
fixing my selves.  Yous provide the proper unit to fix the floor."
	"Surely you can-"
	Interrupted Rei, "Yes, Luplup.  Your request will be granted right away."  Before 
Joseph could object, the Bajoran had grabbed the captain's nearest elbow and hustled him 
from the room.  The door slid shut, blocking view of the three vysts.  Rei heaved a great 
sigh of relief.
	"What was that for?" protested Joseph as he turned to confront Rei.  While his 
ship could not be said to run with military precision by any long stretch of the 
imagination, he was still unused to anyone usurping his command.  He generally 
considered mobile cargo in the form of passengers, even important ones like mob 
representatives, to have less rights aboard his vessel than the galley food replicator.  After 
all, accidents could occur (and had) in the deep black between ports-of-call.
	Rei held up thumb and forefinger, a centimeter of air between them.  "The Lady 
was about that far from needing a new captain, assuming Luplup didn't just assimilate 
everyone on board...or tear them limb from limb.  I wish to make it home in one piece.  
Fix the squeak, Joseph.  Luplup is worse than a two-year old toddler when it comes to 
selfishness; and she does not care if she breaks her toys."
	Joseph eyed the rep.  The fact that Rei had successfully survived a trip, alone, to 
the vyst nest indicated that, maybe, the man knew what he was talking about.  "Those 
vyst things pollute my ship."
	"The liaison idea will work, or Luplup will lose interest and recall her selves.  
Deal with it.  Or would you rather tell your Taurini employers that you'd like to strike out 
on your own?  With your debt load, such might not be the best of ideas."
	Pretty Lady's captain narrowed his eyes at the mention of the albatross tying him 
to the mob.  One (okay, more than one) little mistake....  Joseph grunted, "Fine.  I'll find a 
crewmember and a can of WD-40 to fix the squeak."
	"Good," said Rei.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"This is not what I expected from the Borg Collective," commented Ali.  She 
might as well been talking to herself, despite the fact that there were at least three visible 
drones within earshot - Liaison and two nameless Borg units - and likely more listening 
via hidden sensors.  The little voice Ali always thought of as her inner shrink cruelly 
commented that as far as the Collective (and probably Peach) was concerned, she was 
little more than a tool to be ignored until needed.  That feeling of personal irrelevancy, as 
well as the /quiet/ - the thrum of machinery was ever-present, but there was a decided 
lack of organic noises such as coughs or whispers - was likely what drove her to ask the 
question, to try to remind her hosts (and herself) that she existed.  
	Ali deliberately quashed that particular line of pessimistic thought.  One of the 
pitfalls of being a psychologist was the occasional tendency towards self-analysis.
	With a sigh, Ali leaned back against the wall, trying to eke out as much comfort 
as possible from her cot.  The room in which she had been abandoned - check of internal 
chronometer - over six hours earlier was bare except for basic necessities.  Or at least 
what Borg considered to be the basic necessities of an unassimilated hostage.  Furniture 
consisted of cot, food replicator, and toilet.  While the poor excuse for a toilet did have an 
out-of-place bamboo screen around it, Ali was under no illusion that it actually afforded 
anything resembling privacy.  There were no blankets for the cot, no spare clothes, and 
while the replicator would provide water in flimsy plastic cups, such was insufficient for 
even the most basic of personal hygiene.  Even her request for a toothbrush had been 
ignored.
	Less than five meters away, against the wall opposite the cot, was an alcove; and 
in the alcove was Liaison.  The alcove looked as if it had been hastily installed, ragged 
slices through metal suggesting normal residence was elsewhere.  Extra bits had been 
bodged on and open panels showed where other things had been removed.  How this 
affected the overall working of the alcove, Ali had no clue, engineering and the 
mechanical arts not her forte.  Upon arrival to the room, a rodent-like Borg had roughly 
attached some sort of external implant that looked like a bloated spider to Liaison's neck, 
then directed him to the alcove.  The Peach drone had complied, offering not a single 
objection to either his handling or the order.  Since then, Ali's 'roommate' had been 
utterly motionless.
	The other living statues present were located near the room's single egress, one 
inside and one outside.  A shimmering blue forcefield warded the opening - there was no 
door - but Ali knew that the barrier was as air to the drones.  Approximately three hours 
into her incarceration, long after it had become apparent that all questions would be 
ignored, there had been a changing of the guard, the Borg outside swapping position with 
the one inside.  The 'why' was uncertain, with the result relieving the monotony for all of 
the five minutes it took for Ali to realize that no other actions were to occur.  For all 
practical purposes, the guards were as much furniture as cot or toilet, except most 
household furnishings outside the Andorian market did not sport disruptors.
	A screech shattered the unsilence.  The noise made Ali's teeth ache, as if someone 
had run fingernails along a chalkboard.  It was a familiar, if irregularly heard, sound, that 
of a vyst protesting most heinously to some sort of indignity.  Ali was unsure where, 
exactly, Lup was, but it was close; and it was equally obvious that the vyst had not been 
experiencing a boring six hour interlude of nothing.
	"Definitely not what I expected from the Borg Collective," muttered Ali to herself 
as she attempted to find something new for her eyes to look upon.  She had just settled on 
trying to decide if a color imperfection on a wall paneling most resembled a horse or a 
cow when Liaison opened his eyes.
	"Surely Black Ops knows of assimilation imperfection?" asked Liaison, speaking 
as if he were responding to a question just posed, not one five minutes prior.
	Ali blinked, then sat upright on cot to regard the drone.  "You are awake!"
	"This unit was never asleep," said Liaison.  "As I asked, surely Black Ops knows 
of assimilation imperfection?  Despite anything I may have implied at Detention, I am 
well aware of your early studies upon the Borg and Color psyches when you entered 
Starfleet's espionage branch.  I would think assimilation imperfection would be well 
known."
	Brow furled.  "Yes, I read about it."
	Liaison's whole eye shifted in the direction of the guards, although it was doubtful 
he could actually see anything due to the angle of the alcove and obscuring side.  "Then 
what if I told you this was Exploratory-class Cube #347, one of the Borg Collective's 
repositories of those units too discordant for the Whole, yet too useful to be discarded?"
	Ali glanced over at the Borg which was in the room.  While it had not shifted 
position, there was a more alert seeming to its eyes.  Outside the doorway, the guard's 
compatriot had moved and was now gazing through the forcefield, silently watching its 
charges.  "How would you know?  And would it make any difference?  I'm assuming that 
any 'imperfect' drones would be just as much a part of the larger Collective as a normal 
Borg."
	The hiss of retracting umbilicals and clank of disengaging clamps was Ali's 
answer.  Liaison stepped from his alcove and turned to gaze at the two guards.  In turn, 
the guards stared at the Peach drone, the inside unit raising its arm in unmistakable threat.  
"We know...or I should say Peach knew, and therefore I knew, before I was removed 
from the influence of my Greater Consciousness.  And yes, it does make a difference, 
especially as it is also known by certain entities, inclusive Peach, that the Borg Collective 
has declared the sub-collective of Cube #347 rogue, rejecting them from the Whole.  
They are acting alone; and an imperfect sub-collective acting alone raises some very 
interesting possibilities."  The next words were directed at the guards.  "I will speak to 
your primary consensus monitor and facilitator."
	"Your demands are as irrelevant as the human requesting a toothbrush or 
deodorant," spoke the guard.  "If room sensors indicate you to be trying anything funny 
with whatever it is you have grafted onto your chassis, you will be used for target 
practice.  It is unlikely a modified sensory drone has sufficient armoring to withstand 
many direct disruptor hits."
	Liaison inclined his head slightly.  "You are correct.  Still, I will speak to your 
primary consensus monitor and facilitator.  Unless there has been a shuffling in your 
command and control hierarchies in the last few hours, his designation is 4 of 8, correct?"
	"You are correct, but I did not come here at your summons.  We are ready to 
proceed, and Lup's handler is required," said a new voice.  The forcefield abruptly 
vanished, revealing the form of the blue-eyed drone whom had named himself 'Captain' 
in the cargo hold.  The interior tactical drone stepped aside, allowing Captain a wider 
field of view, although disruptor arm never wavered from its target.
	Ali scrambled to her feet from the cot.  The action put her uncomfortably close to 
Liaison, but she was confident the Peach would not take advantage of the situation to 
'accidentally' attempt the assimilation he had offered many times on Detention.  
Reasonably confident.  Even among the Colors, however, Peach was a cipher.  Still, 
better Liaison whom she was (somewhat) familiar with than the Borg captain.
	"You will come, Ali.  Comply," said Captain.
	Ali felt watched as the drone's single blue eye left Liaison to focus upon her.  
"And do what?  What having you been doing to Lup?  And why should I assist in any of 
it?"
	Captain muttered something under his breath, a something that distinctly used the 
words "humans" and "questions".  A snicker(?) sounded from the drone next to him.  The 
noise may have been a figment of Ali's imagination, but the guard did elicit a sharp look 
from the Borg captain.  A breath was inhaled, "Resistance is futile.  If you refuse, you 
will be bodily picked up and taken to where we need you.  We do not have time for these 
irrelevancies.  Your function to us is as Lup's handler, a role which cannot be fulfilled if 
you are assimilated, so that option is closed to us."  A sense of actual /frustration/ was in 
evidence.
	A smile crossed Ali's face as she added up the incongruities.  "And when this is 
all done?  What's my motivation?  While I harbor a fascination with Lup, she /is/ just an 
assignment, one I was fortunate to acquire.  I do not want to end up like those detainees 
you grabbed along with me."
	Eye narrowed.  Replied Captain, "Assuming we all survive - and your cooperation 
may very well determine if such occurs - you will be released.  We do not have time to 
deal with high-level military nanites, nor do we have time to deal with the most excellent 
drone you would undoubtedly become...a most excellent, normal drone who would then 
likely go insane if subjected to us."
	"The Peach Collective has determined her to be a most superb specimen.  Alas, 
she has thus far refused all offers to join, even when informed of the benefits," inserted 
Liaison.
	Ali was unsure how to respond to either Borg, and so remained quiet.  In the 
background, a vyst shriek echoed.
	Captain tilted his head slightly in the standard posture of internal communion.  
Head straightened.  "Time is wasting.  Ali, you will accompany me, either of your own 
violation or not.  It is all the same to me, although certain members of the weapons 
hierarchy would prefer the latter option."
	Choices were quickly considered, and Ali liked none of them.  Still, better to go 
with the appearance of free-will than to be carried like a sack of dirty laundry.  Her inner 
shrink had much to say upon that particular rationalization, but Ali ignored the words.  
She started forward, heading for the doorway.
	Liaison followed behind.
	"No," said Captain.  Ali halted in confusion, but she was not the focus of the 
drone's attention.  "You shall not come."
	"What if I was to say I was the handler assigned to the handler?" attempted 
Liaison.  The high pitched whine of capacitors charging could be heard originating from 
the tactical drone stationed inside the room.
	Captain shook his head in an abortive motion that did not feel as if it belonged to 
whatever base species his was.  Ali-the-xenopsychologist found the implications of cross-
species transfer of gestures through the communal Mind fascinating even as Ali-the-
prisoner waited in nervous anticipation.  "No.  Do not push.  I'm not really sure why we 
even kept you in the first place.  Besides, it is crowded enough where Lup is without 
adding yet another body.  Ali, come.  Comply."
	Liaison remained in place.  Ali complied.

	Captain led the human next door, to the adjacent supply closet.  Through the eyes 
of the weapons drone escort trailing behind, he could see that Ali was confused at the 
short length of the trip.  However, the sub-collective had determined it to be most 
effective to keep all its potential problems in one location.  The inner turmoil which 
roiled the intranets belied the outer facade presented to Cube #347's guests.
Within the local volume of space was one of the ingredients required to free the 
Collective from its quantum virus contagion, or so insisted the map grafted to EMH 
Frank's holomatrix.  Unlike the previous ingredients, this one was in motion, although it, 
or whatever carried it, showed no proclivity to leave for more easily accessible areas.  
With the other ingredients distant, or in locations with obvious difficulties, this target was 
the sub-collective's focus; and one major Borg fault was to become fixated on a goal to 
the point of absurdity, the ends justifying a means which included major material 
resource loss.
	Such was a description of the Cube #347 sub-collective's state of mind.
	When the questing Cube #347 had entered the local volume of space in pursuit of 
its goal, the territory claimed by Taurini mob, and by extension Luplup, had also been 
violated.  Luplup, born of Borg and perhaps even more single-minded than the Collective 
when it came to certain things, had discovered the intrusion.  An unexpected Battle-class 
cube, clearly controlled by the vyst, had been sicced upon the smaller Exploratory-class, 
along with a motley collection of lesser, non-Borg-derived ships.  The sane response 
would be to leave, to find another ingredient, to attempt anything else, but the goal 
beckoning oh-so-near kept the cube orbiting as a moth around a flame, presenting Luplup 
with opportunities to attack her most despised foe.  Thus far, Cube #347 had escaped the 
confrontations with only minor damage, but such could not continue indefinitely.
	With the vyst and her ships an obstacle to the ingredient goal, it was not 
unexpected for Borg tunnel-vision to dictate the only logical action was to destroy 
Luplup so that she could no longer hinder the sub-collective.  Subsequent research of an 
unorthodox sort, the only type open to Cube #347 as there was no Collective link, had 
devised a plan (3.2% chance of success, the highest of all schemes contemplated), 
eventually leading to this point-in-time with Captain standing before the door to Lup's 
room with Ali, waiting for the exterior guard to remember the lock's key-number code.
	68 of 300's finger hovered over the keyboard, uncertain.  {We double encrypted 
the passcode after the last entry into the cell,} he explained sheepishly, 'we' in this case 
the weapons hierarchy, {and then encrypted the encryption key with a randomly rotating 
fractal encryption.}  Unlike the forcefield ward utilized for the adjacent room, this door 
was constructed from hull-rated neutronium armor, adapted from Cube #347's limited 
stores.  Several vertical slits had been laboriously cut at eye level, mere suggestion of 
bars than actual bars, because certain conventions of 'jail cell' were impossible to purge 
from the collective database.  The door was the only way in or out, a device on the inside 
preventing transporter use.
	{This is not helping our image,} commented Captain, glad the human was 
unaware of the mad scramble happening among the weapons hierarchy.  Unfortunately, 
the password permutations possible, while not infinite, were very, very, very large.  {You 
did not use the Cracker Jack rings this time, did you?}
	{No,} inserted Weapons into the conversation.  {This encryption was too 
important.  Security was necessary, just in case.}
	Interrupted Second, sarcasm heavy in his mental tone, {Just in case of what?  The 
Peach drone somehow infiltrates our system for nefarious espionage purposes?  No, don't 
answer that.  The door passcode is one-two-three-four-five.}
	{How do you know that?} asked Weapons suspiciously.
	{Because 39 of 212, one of the weapons drones inside Lup's room, writes down 
the password each time it is changed.  If you look at the door through an interior camera 
to Supply Closet #34, anyone can see the numbers in grease pencil.}
	As Weapons focused attention on 39 of 212, a unit with a notoriously bad short-
term memory no matter the tinkering by drone maintenance to fix the problem, and began 
to berate her over the perceived security breach, the passcode was punched into the 
keyboard.  Door was swung open.
	{Do not close that door:  I do not wish to be locked in here when the password is 
changed again...and lost,} said Captain.  The weapons drone escort pushed Ali into the 
room when the human did not move fast enough.  Captain followed behind.
	Lup's supply closet was slightly larger than the one inhabited by Ali and the 
Peach drone, although it felt much smaller.  Although the only 'furniture' in the room was 
a specialty alcove built to conform to the vyst's body and keep the self in a functional 
condition, a dozen drones more than filled the area.  The addition of three more bodies 
made the confines closer.  Most of the drones were tactical, although two drone 
maintenance units (not Doctor!) were present, as well as a single representative from 
assimilation hierarchy.
	{The human is nervous,} noted 11 of 203, the assimilation drone, {although she is 
trying to hide it.}  A datastream was presented, one detailing a sudden increase in 
heartbeat and respiration levels, in addition to other signs of stress such as the light sheen 
of sweat and subtle changes in scent.
	{If no heart attack or stroke is imminent, she will deal with it,} commented 
Captain.  He stopped, whole hand reaching forward to halt Ali's reluctant forward 
progression.  The human, predictably, flinched.  A blank holowindow shimmered into 
existence next to Captain, set flush to the adjacent wall.
	"What is going on?" asked Ali.
	Captain ignored the question.  His awareness was split, a common affair for any 
member of the Hierarchy of Eight, multi-tasking a necessary ability.  In truth, the slice of 
himself required to move his body, to interact with the human was very small.  The great 
majority of himself was involved in the current complexities of coordination in driving 
the cube.  The state of the shields, a recent series of scores crossing the hull, a minor 
plasma leak, all attested to the fact that Cube #347 was currently in a running battle.  
Located deep in the cube's bulk, the detainees had never realized the danger.  In truth, the 
Exploratory-class cube could easily outrun its Battle-class pursuer, except the plan 
required Cube #347 remain on the knife edge between escape and falling victim to the 
mayhem following behind.  
	Cube #347 was the bait to its own trap.  Now it was time to make the bait 
irresistible.
	{Initiate.  Bring forth the vyst,} intoned Captain.  Bodies abruptly lurched into 
motion.  An angry screech echoed loudly in the supply closet.
	Previously hidden by the cordon of taller weapons drones, Lup was dragged 
forward.  Around her neck was a collar, a thick device of metal, closely related to any 
number of restraint devices developed to control potentially dangerous pets.  Bonds of a 
similar type circled all four ankles; and one pair of legs was additionally hobbled.  
Hands-major were bound tightly to chest, leaving only the delicate hands-minor free to 
ineffectively paw at the air.  Attached to the collar were two leashes, pink in color.
	Captain decided it was best, given the circumstances, to ignore the unBorg hue.
	"Lup," said Captain as he looked down at the vyst with distaste, an expression he 
did not bother to censor, "we will shortly be hailing Luplup, whom I am certain you are 
quite aware is following us.  You will talk to her.  You will ensure that she continues to 
follow us, no matter what."
	Ali opened her mouth as if to speak, but a prodding by her weapons drone escort 
halted any words before they were uttered.
	Lup raised her head as high as possible, muzzle tipped up to regard Captain, and 
only Captain.  Her response was defiant.  "Captain Bad-Mans, finally we sees each other 
face-to-face.  Yous have bound me, like I was a bad girl.  Why should I do as you tells 
me to?"
	"You will survive, for now.  You are not absolutely required, but your presence 
raises /our/ chance for survival several percentage points, sufficient to be worth the risk 
of gaining you and your handler.  However, we have contingencies."
	Lup's eyes glanced in Ali's direction before returning to Captain.  "That is reason 
enough, to lives.  More opportunities for mes if I bes alive than if I bes dead.  There is 
only one self of me, after all."
	Captain internally frowned at the sardonic tone, as well as the questions it raised.  
In so many little ways, this vyst self-designated Lup was not the Luplup Captain, the sub-
collective, was familiar with.  The implications would be considered later, when the 
danger of imminent destruction was a tiny bit less.  Those drones holding the leashes 
reached forward to unclip them.  "You will be told more later, but for now other things 
beckon."
	Personally, Captain disliked the plan, the need for Lup at all.  However, he had 
been overruled by the majority, a single protesting cog of no importance despite his 
position as primary consensus monitor and facilitator.
	Drones backed away from Lup, leaving an open spot around her and the nearby 
holowindow.  Such was not to say that vigilance was any less, the arms of all the weapon 
hierarchy units present pointed unwaveringly at the vyst.  When the plan had been 
devised, command and control had been firm in the requirement that all drones from 
Weapons' hierarchy assigned to Lup duty would (1) be able to hit what they aimed at, and 
(2) not fire unless there was true provocation.
	One of multiple hullside feeds was redirected to the display.  The sight of a 
Battle-class cube, surrounded by several non-Borg ships made small only due to 
proximity of their companion, consolidated.  The current chase was occurring under very 
high impulse; and as all watched, a torpedo was unleashed from the Battle-class, only to 
disintegrate upon Cube #347's shields.  Lup shifted her head to regard the visual.  
"Luplup," she hissed.
	"Okay, the 'what is going on' question I'll drop for now, because I will obviously 
not receive any answers.  However, I do want to know /why/ I am here.  What is my 
purpose?  You obviously have the guns-and-threats department covered quite 
adequately," challenged Ali, blatantly ignoring her escort's nonverbal warning.
	Captain swiveled his head to regard the human.  The datastream from 11 of 203 
continued to show Ali's extreme discomfort, yet the Black Ops xenopsychologist 
presented an outwardly calm visage.  The Peach liaison was correct:  this human was 
excellent drone material.  Maybe, when everything was done, if Cube #347 survived, the 
chance should be taken to assimilate her, but that was an uncertain future.
	"Your purpose for now is to watch, to observe.  We...need someone who has 
studied Luplup, and Lup.  A handler.  We need an interpreter to assist us to understand, 
for Borg, after all, cannot /know/ an enemy until it has been assimilated into self.  The 
vyst is an abomination, and will not be assimilated; and we need you whole, sane, to 
extend our understanding.  If you were assimilated, there is a near 100% likelihood your 
ability to interpolate, to /know/, to innovate - your language does not have the vocabulary 
for this concept - would be lost.  Without this understanding, our task to destroy /all/ of 
Luplup will fail.  Failure is death, both for ourselves and for you.  Do you understand?"
	"Not really," admitted Ali.
	Captain allowed an ironic half-smile to crease his features, "Then follow Lup's 
lead that personal survival is a sufficient reason for cooperation."  Face was returned to 
standard non-expression as awareness shifted to other, more important items.  The point 
of no return was passed, the sub-collective committed.  {Hail the Battle-class.}

			*	*	*	*	*

	Luplup blinked as she answered the hail from the Bad-Mans ship.  All her Selves 
faltered a beat, a noticeable hesitation.
	The first knowledge that the evil Captain Bad-Mans and his cube was near had 
come several months prior.  Luplup had sent a Self and several not-selves to introduce the 
Taurini to a man specializing in black-market antiquities, a business the mob desired to 
enter.  The ship with Captain had just left, not that Luplup had fielded sufficient 
resources in the area to give chase with any hope of winning.  Instead, she had bided her 
time and was eventually rewarded when her nemesis had actually entered /her/ territory, 
the place where /she/ was strong.
	The fact that Cube #347 could have retreated at any time, yet did not, had never 
registered.
	Luplup now harried the cube which contained the Captain Bad-Mans, whom she 
would rend.  Luplup knew Captain would never grovel, would never plead, but she had 
wanted the personal satisfaction of detailing to him the tortures he would undergo once 
his cube was captured.  She would first kill his sub-collective, tearing one by one each 
member of his not-self pack away, before finally, slowly, ripping pieces of his own mind, 
the pieces that made Captain, Captain.  Luplup had experimented with Gray when she 
had taken the Color; and she knew the technique would work.
	It was not Captain who answered the hail, nor even a view of infinite catwalks.  
Instead it was herSelf?
	At the shipyard node, secure in her well-fortified nest, the nexusQueen hissed 
confusion.  A hands-minor absently increased the tempo of stroking her stuffed cat toy.
	"I bes Lup," said the not-self Self, hands-minor thumping chest in emphasis.  
There were incongruities to the image, including a collar and bound hands-major, but 
their relevance paled when considering the overall atrocity.  "I am the Queen you threw 
away, the Queen who escaped.  I have joined with the Captain Bad-Mans, and together 
we will kills you, leaving only Me!"  The boast was emphasized with a staccato snap of 
jaws.
	The visual portion of the communication to the Bad-Mans cube featured several 
Selves, those upon the ex-Gray Battle-class who had been within convenient camera 
range at the time of hail acceptance.  Those Selves now went into a display of barking, of 
hissing, at the hubris of the not-self Self on the screen.  Several small technicians, type 
III, were trampled.  Luplup abruptly severed the communication, not bothering to 
respond.
	That queen (not capitalized) was dead, terminated along with the rest of failed 
batch 17b.  Luplup had seen the stolen shuttle explode, victim of several torpedoes.  It 
was a trick by the Captain Bad-Mans, a hologram, a fantasy of light.
	Luplup came to a decision:  Captain must be destroyed /now/.  If he and sufficient 
of his pack survived to allow slow termination, fine.  However, it was of greater 
importance to blow up the offensive cube, the offensive Captain.  Big explosions may not 
prudent in the region of space Luplup and her forces were entering, but that was 
irrelevant.
	Weapons of the pursuing Battle-class were made ready as Luplup leapt her 
smaller, faster non-cube ships to the attack.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The locals called it the Flame Nebula.
	The Flame Nebula was not actually a nebula, despite its gaseous nature.  None 
were quite sure what it was, exactly, although many dissertations had been written about 
it over the years by budding astrophysicists.  Some claimed it to be a remnant assemblage 
of exotic matter dating to the Big Bang; and others believed it to be the result of a healed 
crack in space-time, origin another metareality.  At least one graduate thesis had evoked 
snot and hankies and decongestant, /that/ particular student eventually absorbed into the 
Polka-Dot Color after a fierce recruitment campaign with Plaid.
	When viewed from afar, the Flame Nebula was a beautiful fairy cobweb of 
delicate reds and oranges encompassing 350 cubed light year volume in the rough shape 
of a cough drop.  'Afar' was the best viewing place, according to the captains who plied 
the local space lanes, because to enter the nebula was to risk never coming back out.  
There were no malignant intelligences within, nor odd gravimetric sheer or temporal 
anomalies.  To put it simply, the Flame Nebula acquired its name not due to its color, 
which did resemble a fantasy campfire, but rather its flammable nature.
	Vast sheets of lightning occasionally lit the nebula, starting a conflagration which 
would burn for months.  Unlucky vessels which attempted the Flame Nebula at that time 
were inevitably reduced to metallic vapor contaminated by a thin carbon residue.  Once 
the ur-fires extinguished, usually as mysteriously as they had first begun, no change in 
the nebula's composition was evident, the multiple elements proposed over the centuries 
to be fuel unconsumed.
	In between the times of flame, a ship could safely cross the Flame Nebula.  
Usually.  However, there were also several recorded instances of the ship itself sparking 
the inferno, the ultimate cause unknown and unknowable, all traces of the offender 
reduced to residue not even the most accomplished forensic examiner could unravel.  It 
was for that reason most vessels (those pursuing scientific inquiry aside) gave the Flame 
Nebula a wide berth, even when it was in its quiescent state of glowing beauty.
	The Borg vessel known as Cube #347, depository of the Collective's imperfectly 
assimilated and currently declared rogue, was charging with all impulse haste into the 
outskirts of the fickle Flame Nebula before abruptly leaping to low warp.  Behind Cube 
#347 chased a much larger Battle-class cube, once of Gray and now of Luplup, its 
accompanying fleet of ships converted to war platforms accelerating in front of their big 
brother.
	In the distant space lanes, private and government vessels alike slowed to watch 
the unfolding drama.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Ali silently watched Lup's performance, her assertions, her not-quite lies.  After 
the hail was cut, the vyst submitted to the leashes with their anomalous pink color, 
although not without a grumbling protest.  However, she was not immediately led away, 
not that there was anywhere to go in the crowded room.  Instead, the leashes were held by 
a pair of drones, too-blank expressions suggesting they were not fully in the here-and-
now.
	The holodisplay had enlarged to a size suitable for a large jhad-ball party, entire 
window filled with a wispy reddish-orange gas which softly glowed with its own light.  A 
single glance around the room made it obvious that none were paying attention to the 
display, tilted heads and glazed eyes indicating internal communion.  Despite the lack of 
reaction to Ali's impatient shuffle or Lup's half-hearted pawing at her collar, the 
xenopsychologist was not tempted to try anything as stupid as strolling out of the room 
through the blatantly open door.  Liaison, one of the few drones Ali had ever really 
interacted with, was also given to the occasional fugue, but could return to the present 
swiftly enough if there was cause.  Ali did not doubt such was true here as well; and 
between the drone-mounted disruptors and threat of assimilation, she knew it highly 
unlikely that any illicit action would end well for her.
	The display split into three windows.  The central pane retained the original view 
of what one presumed to be a nebula or other similar stellar phenomenon, although Ali 
was far from an expert in such things.  As far as she truly knew, a camera was focused on 
a close-up of luminescent novelty cotton candy.  The right-hand window centered upon 
an ill-perceived outline of an unknown something surrounded by a scattering of sparkling 
lights; and as Ali watched, the picture was subtly enhanced until it became apparent that a 
Borg cube was the central focal point.  The third window showed more glowing gas.
	Lup swung her head to stare at the cubeship.  "Luplup follows this self," quietly 
hissed the vyst, a comment muttered to herself.
	It was the unnatural quiet which broke Ali.  She moved to place herself in front of 
Captain.  He did not react, even when she waved a hand directly in front of his face.  
Finally Ali nerved herself to actually touch the drone, gingerly shaking his nonprosthetic 
arm.  "Hello?  Anyone home?  You told me to watch, but I don't even have subtitles to 
tell me what is going on."  And the silence is unsettling, added Ali, but only to herself 
and her inner shrink.
	Captain blinked once.  Whole eye, accompanied by the mechanical hum of its 
matching ocular implant, swiveled to gaze directly at Ali, who took a prudent step 
backwards.  A sigh - an actual sigh! - was heaved.  "Small beings are so..."  What, 
exactly, small beings were was never revealed.  Instead, a hand gestured at the triple 
holowindow display.  "We have been reminded that one of the purposes of this drone is 
to liaise with small beings like you, therefore I will do so.  Observe."
	The mixture of plurals and singular was odd, but to remark or inquire upon it was 
probably not the best tact to take at the moment.  Instead, Ali did as bid, repositioning 
herself such that she could see both Captain and the windows, yet not have Lup 
uncomfortably at her back.  The vyst had perked up at the drone's movement.
	"We are 1.1 light years into the phenomenon called the 'Flame Nebula'.  We-"
	"What just happened?" asked Ali, interrupting Captain's words.  The left window 
had suddenly sprouted a Borg cube!  It filled the entire display, which meant it was very 
big, very close, very magnified, or all of the above.
	"If you will cease your interruptions, perhaps we can enlighten you," said 
Captain.  Ali turned her head to regard the drone...was that a hint of impatience coloring 
his voice?  Xenopsychologist-Ali wished for anything, even a low-tech tape recorder, to 
document what was undoubtedly a unique glimpse into this purported imperfect sub-
collective's psyche.  "I will begin again.  We are 1.1 light years into the phenomenon 
called the 'Flame Nebula'.  We are being pursued by forces belonging to the abomination 
Luplup, a self of which you are familiar.  We...have reason to stay in this volume of 
space, that occupied by Luplup, but we cannot do so safely because of Luplup.  
Therefore, we must eliminate Luplup.
	"Our vessel does not have sufficient firepower to match a Battle-class, which is 
what chases us.  The smaller ships are unimportant.  Therefore other measures are 
required."
	The recitation became increasingly mechanical, as if Captain had set his body on 
autopilot as he attended to other, more important manners than a single human.  On the 
right screen, the presumed distant cube with its accompanying swarm was nearing; and 
the cube on the left display had begun to rotate.  Borg alphanumerics scrolled up the left 
edges of all panes.
A /shudder/ shook Ali, nearly causing her to lose her balance.  Lup, with four feet, 
fared better, although a cranky protest was lodged.  None of the drones appeared to have 
noticed the quake.
	"Cloak enabled," informed Captain.  "Countermeasures deployed.
	"The Flame Nebula is the product of a failed weapons test attempted 53,622 
Terran years ago during the early epoch of the Star Empire.  If an unshielded subspace 
engine such as an exterior-mounted warp nacelle or transwarp ring is used to initiate 
faster-than-light speeds within the volume of the weapon, instant-"
	"Boom!" shouted an unsolicited voice from one of the drones with arms pointed 
at Lup.  The owner of the voice visibly winced as Captain's gaze sharpened, focusing on 
the source.  Attention lingered for several long seconds before returning to Ali.  Narrative 
continued.
	"As 97 of 212 inelegantly expressed, instant boom."  Ali risked a glance back to 
the named 97 of 212 and was rewarded with a stoic non-expression, although, just 
maybe, the shoulders hunched under her perusal.  Once more Ali desired a recorder.  
Captain did not stop talking, ignoring his audience's momentary inattention.  "Not only 
did coloration make the weapon too visible, but it proved to be highly instable, prone to 
spontaneous detonation.  Therefore, it was abandoned.
	"We have lured Luplup's Battle-class cube resource into the Flame Nebula.  Bait 
has been set in the form of a shuttle outfit with a holographic generator and sensor 
scramblers:  the decoy 'looks' like us.  We have cloaked and are now preparing to retreat 
out of the nebula.  Luplup will be suspicious, but will investigate the bait to ensure it is 
not us.  After we exit the nebula, we will remotely initiate warp drive on the shuttle, 
detonating the Flame Nebula.  The Battle-class cube will not survive."
	The explanation concluded; and it was obvious that the resident sub-collective (or 
Captain) felt the obligation to relay what was happening was now discharged.
	An aspect of the explanation was bothering Ali.  As a xenopsychologist, stellar 
phenomenon were not exactly high on her list of interests, but still the name sounded 
familiar.  Flame Nebula...Flame Nebula...Flame Nebula...hadn't there been a nature 
special on unusual spatial anomalies several years back?  And hadn't the Flame Nebula 
been mentioned within the group of 'pretty, but we bigwig scientists don't have a clue 
when it comes to where it came from or how it operates'?  Several things suddenly 
clicked into place, prompting a Most Important question.
	"Captain, how do you know all this about the Flame Nebula?  Liaison says that 
you are severed from the Borg Collective; and the Collective wasn't around 50,000 years 
ago.  I also know that /no one/ knows how the Flame Nebula works."
	A blink of eye.  Head swiveled exorcist style to directly face Ali.  Instead of 
distant attention, focus was immediate...and multiple.  "We are Borg."  It was the stock 
answer.
	Ali persisted, "Yes, you are Borg.  But if the information isn't assimilated, then 
you cannot know it.  This is true of Borg or Color."
	"We are Borg?"
	"And being severed from your Greater Consciousness, wouldn't unknown data be 
even /harder/ to come by?  Impossible, I would believe.  I think you are making up 
everything you told me!"
	"Borg do not lie."  Conviction.
	"Then /where/ did you find your information on the Flame Nebula?"
	Captain's gaze actually shifted down and away, finally focusing on the 
holowindows.  Sheepishness?  Embarrassment?  Papers begged to be written.  Ali 
wondered in distant, analytical fascination how many emotions were present in drones of 
the Borg Collective, but were usually suppressed; or if her observations were a 
phenomenon of this sub-collective alone.  "The data may have originated from the 
rumor.news.net GalacWeb bulletin board," Captain muttered.
	A synthetic chuckle came from the direction of Lup, the voder's sound abruptly 
cut as both leashes were yanked.
	"That is the largest and most infamous rumor mongering source in the galaxy," 
flatly said Ali.
	Silence.  The view in the displays remained largely unchanged, the sub-collective 
not making any obvious bid to escape despite the verbal conviction that such was part of 
the plan.  Finally Captain spoke, eyes focused tightly on the holowindows.  "Truth is 
present on rumor.news.net.  One must sift out all the misinformation and conspiracy 
theories.   This is how we learned about you."
	"So you mentioned in the big room.  However, learning about me and learning 
about a supposed weapon over 50,000 years old are different things."
	"The actual data on the Flame Nebula did not come from the bulletin board.  The 
original post was found in the archives.  It was pinned 131.6 years earlier and referenced 
a graduate thesis on the topic.  That thesis /was/ among the files we maintain."
	Ali ignored the omission of why an obscure thesis was kept in on-board storage.  
There was more to this story than was being admitted, and if she was to be kept hostage 
she wanted to know /exactly/ the extent of this sub-collective's instability.  Therefore, 
drawing on her training and years of dealing with alien minds, Ali leapt to the attack.  
"What institute did the thesis come from?  Who was the author?  Remember, Borg do not 
lie."
	Captain's face, that half which Ali could see and which was not obscured by 
implants, was beyond deadpan.  "This drone cannot reproduce the name of the author, 
who was a Bug.  The Bug was a student at the Golden Wyvern Academy on Ferenginar."
"So," crowed Ali as all the pieces dropped into place, "you have based a plan to 
rid yourself of Luplup off a single posting - and a /single/ post means that it was too 
weird even for the beings who are regular readers - on a rumor board that led to a /Bug-
authored/ research paper published from a Ferengi diploma-mill - what else are on 
Ferenginar? - where diplomas are a matter of latinum, not merit."
	"This plan will rid us of a single Battle-class cube that belongs to Luplup, not 
Luplup herself," corrected Captain stonily.  "The remainder of the plan, including that 
portion in which you and Lup are required, had a different origination.  This line of 
discussion is terminated.  We have issues to attend, and you are lowering our efficiency."  
The drone closed his eye.
	Even without years of experience, Black Ops and before, to utilize dealing with 
difficult and often dangerous subjects, Ali knew better than to push.  Then it hit 
her...what, exactly, had the Borg meant when he said 'remainder of the plan'? 

	Captain pushed Ali to a small corner of his mind and labeled her as an irrelevant 
distraction.  Her small being questions and small being concerns would have to wait.  
Other matters, such as survival, were much more important.
	{We need /any/ sort of supralight drive, Delta,} said Captain, not for the first 
time.
	All over the cube, engineering hierarchy was scrambling.  Delta herself was split, 
body A in the Primary Core and body B at nacelle coupling joint 3b-3c.  {We are looking 
for the fault,} replied Delta defensively.  In the mental dataspace background echoed the 
sound of an engine cranking, but refusing to turn over.  {You know that the cloak doesn't 
play well with other systems, even when everything is working.  With all the deferred 
maintenance that really requires dry-dock support, now is not the best of times.}
	Exterior the cube, sensors showed the decoy moving at high impulse deeper into 
the nebula.  Luplup's Battle-class cube had dropped from its warp hop, following behind 
the smaller ships of its miniature fleet who were already in close pursuit.  Ominously, the 
cube was lagging behind, as if the controlling Mind was not quite willing to commit, 
despite the final provocation provided by Lup's performance.
A tertiary consensus cascade analyzing the situation came to a conclusion and 
provided a recommendation.  {Weapons, alter decoy emissions:  simulate an engine 
problem.}
	{We should attack,} grumbled Weapons.  While his hierarchy had been assigned 
the task to drive the bait, the passive role was not entirely agreeable.  The fact that 
weapons had been locked in order to prevent an inadvertent energy signature in a 
supposedly empty cubical volume of space was also a source of discontent.  {We are 
cloaked and have the advantage of ambush.  We will prevail!}
	{No we won't,} countered Captain.
	From his alcove where he was lending mental resources to assist with engineering 
hierarchy coordination, Second added, {A 0.5% chance of success in destroying the 
Battle-class doesn't count, Weapons.  The scenario which included the added bonus of 
Cube #347 surviving in one piece was 0.07%.  Despite Captain's oh-so-exemplary 
liaising with the Black Ops operative where he filled her with the utmost confidence at 
our devious scheme, we really do not know what will happen if we use weapons in the 
Flame Nebula.  After all, 73.8% of your /own/ BorgCraft simulations ended with the 
entire phenomenon on /fire/.}
	{Alter the decoy emissions, Weapons,} ordered Captain a second time.  Without 
waiting for the muttered {Compliance}, attention was returned to Delta.  {Engines.  
Now.}
	{And I'll just pull out a magic wand and wave it to make everything better, will 
I?} countered Delta.  Even with the assistance of command and control, the strain of 
having over 85% of her hierarchy active was showing.  Body A kicked a loose panel out 
of the way, rewarding Delta with a foot bruised even through armoring.
	Suddenly, as misbehaving systems with no apparent fault are wont to do, warp 
drive initiated.  Perhaps a key isolinear chip had been replaced or a juncture receiving 
spanner-mediated concussion therapy had realigned; maybe an intermittent short had 
fixed itself; or, just possibly, a magic wand had been waved.  Whatever the cause, the 
result was the sudden blossoming of a static warp shell.
	Because Cube #347's nacelles were internalized, no portal to a lightning Hell was 
opened.  Either the Bug's thesis had been correct, or a different stimuli than an unshielded 
translight drive activated the Flame Nebula.
	High warp was engaged.  If Cube #347 had been a ground-bound wheeled 
vehicle, instead of a large cubical spaceship, the squeal of rubber against pavement would 
have accompanied the maneuver.
	It was not surprising both cloak and engines failed when Cube #347 was less than 
0.5 light year from the outer boundary of the Flame Nebula.  The latter simply caused an 
abrupt translation back to normal space, inertial dampers and superstructure protesting, 
but otherwise causing no lasting damage.  The former, however, created a spectacular 
display in Warp Core Annex #6 where the primary cloak integrator was located.
	{Cloak will be nonfunctional for a while,} reported Delta once the fire 
suppression systems had disengaged, allowing drone access into Warp Core Annex #6.  
With a visual stereo, Delta examined the melted mass which had once been the primary 
controlling node of the cloak, but now resembled one of 171 of 230's abstract sculptures.  
{Quite a while, actually.  Inventory shows we lack the specialty solid state electronics to 
repair it, and nor can it be replicated.}  Delta's signature suggested she was not entirely 
displeased at the prospect, the cloak second only to cube regeneration as a system she 
personally reviled.
	Within the Flame Nebula, Luplup's fleet had turned away from the decoy.  The 
small ships were returning with all haste to the Battle-class.  While the large cube could 
warp in to attack the now stationary and very visible Cube #347, leaving the smaller 
vessels to catch up, Luplup had more than once in the past demonstrated her propensity to 
bring overwhelming force to bear when merely adequate force would suffice.
	<<Detonate it.>>  The order originated not from Captain alone, but was the 
combined Voice of the sub-collective.
	Weapons gleefully pushed the metaphorical Big Red Button.
	Nothing happened.
	{Detonate it, Weapons,} spoke Captain.
	The button pushing became not so much frantic, but definitely more determined.  
{We are trying, but something is wrong.  It is all engineering's fault.}
	{Don't you dare bring my hierarchy into this,} protested Delta.  {/You/ were the 
one who won that decision under the claim that since the vessel was to be converted into 
a remotely piloted bomb, it was the bailiwick of tactical.  It was /your/ drones who 
rewired the shuttle to attach an explosive payload to the nacelles.}
	{You should have objected louder.  By not swaying consensus to overrule me, it 
is engineering's fault.}  As usual, Weapons' form of logic attempted to place the blame 
anywhere except where it belonged.  Within the nebula, the holographically projected 
decoy was beginning to undergo gyrations no actual cube could undergo due to bulk and 
inertia constraints.  Weapons was trying to shake the shuttle in an attempt to force warp 
drive to engage.
	{Children, children-} inserted Second into the building argument.  He was 
ignored.
	Captain would have put palm to face and shook his head, except for the Black 
Ops operative in the storage closet next to his body.  Instead he had to be satisfied by the 
dataspace manifestation of the quasi-emotion.  Censure filters were reinitiated, an event 
occurring with increasing frequency in the months since Collective rejection when it 
became apparent to even the dullest drone that the vinculum was not to be replaced any 
time soon.  {Cease, you two.  Now is not the time to decrease our efficiency quotient 
even lower than its already sub-standard condition.}  Luplup's cube was beginning to 
tractor to itself the first of her arriving fleet in preparation for pursuit.  {We need options.  
Initiate a multi-partition, parallel decision cascade based on the following inputs-}
	The sensor grid reported a small explosion.
	Weapons radiated satisfaction, his shuttle gyrations finally successful.  {Boom.}
	Or, rather, BOOM.
	Beginning at the nexus representing the ex-decoy, a ripple which shattered more 
than a few tenants of the Einstienian universe propagated with a speed much greater than 
that pitiful tortoise known as light.  Behind the induced instability built potentialities 
which could roughly be described as negative and positive, but in reality bore as little 
resemblance to such a crude concept as did the vanished language of the Star Empire to 
any existent tongue.  However, as any student of elementary physics knows, positives and 
negatives are attracted to each other, creating such diverse phenomenon as electricity and 
the love-hate relationship.  In this case, the outward manifestation of opposite 
potentialities striving to meet was the creation of vast sheets of lightning, albeit on a scale 
which dwarfed even the largest of gas-giant-spanning storms.
	The Flame Nebula literally caught on fire.
	"By the Directors..." breathed a voice.
	Captain shifted primary awareness to his body, the success of the plan decreasing 
the immediate needs of the sub-collective for his input as consensus monitor.  Eye was 
opened and power fed to optic implant.  The sight which greeted him was a triple 
holowindow display of the Flame Nebula exploding, a pale reflection of the datastream 
linked to the sensor grid, but impressive nonetheless.  Reds and oranges, shot through 
with bright bursts of blue, writhed, the display providing a glimpse into a classical view 
of Hell as depicted by a large number of religions.  The right-hand hologram continued to 
focus upon the enemy, the Battle-class cube's fate inevitable even as the last of its fleet 
was tractored.
	A sheet of lightning several light years in width tore through the volume of space 
which included Luplup's resources.  When the view cleared, nothing was left to show that 
the Battle-class had ever existed.
	Captain allowed himself a slight smile.
	"You are all insane!" exclaimed Ali.  "All of you!  And I don't need a degree in 
xenopsychology to make that diagnosis!"
	Captain wiped the expression from his face, then dismissed the holowindows.  
The slice of Hell was abruptly doused, although it continued unabated via the sensor 
stream.  With only the standard light strips now providing illumination, the supply closet 
seemed darker.  {Retire the vyst to her alcove,} said Captain as he turned to face Ali.  
The resultant profanity from Lup as her leashes were tugged was ignored.
	"Insane," murmured Ali again.
	"That opinion upon this sub-collective has been made more than once; and such is 
our label by the Borg Collective itself," replied Captain.  "You will now be returned to 
Supply Closet #35.  Additional instruction will be forthcoming."  A tactical drone 
responded to the wordless command, prodding the now silent operative in the direction of 
the door.
	Several minutes passed, Captain standing motionless as the sub-collective settled 
to relative normalcy.  There was much to oversee, from propulsion repair to 
eavesdropping on the conversation between Ali and Peach drone to convincing 279 of 
300 to not attempt a small scale recreation of the Flame Nebula in Bulk Cargo Hold #2.  
Finally Captain made the personal decision that he needed to return to his alcove so as to 
better mesh his mental resources which that of the sub-collective.  He turned towards the 
door just in time to see it swing shut.
	{Entry code to Supply Closet #34 encrypted,} announced Weapons into the 
portion of the dataspace dedicated to his hierarchy.
	A quick query of the local weapons drones showed that 39 of 212, with his faulty 
short-term memory and, more importantly, his grease pencil, was not present.

	Liaison waited.
	The alcove supplied for his use was inadequate, but that was expected.  It had 
been hastily modified, the most important alteration the crude, but effective, slashing of 
the vital components which automatically linked a drone into the local dataspace.  As if 
the transceiver jammer attached to his neck was insufficient.  Well, in truth, it was, not 
that he was to tell the local sub-collective.  The lack of direct access to the dataspaces 
would make things a wee bit more complicated.
	Therefore, as Liaison waited for Ali to return, he stood in the alcove and 
contemplated possible courses of actions.  And tried to ignore the subtle (and not so 
subtle) indications that the cube was embroiled in a battle.
	Peach had many metaphorical irons in the galactic fire.  The eventual goal was, of 
course, Perfection, but the route to attain it was at best described as convoluted to the 
non-Peach outsider.  Not all plans came to fruition.  One long-shot scheme had been 
initiated many years ago during a convention held by Colors and Starfleet, then 
subsequently regulated to minor status when it became apparent the outcome was not to 
be the Peach Greater Consciousness' favor.  Then, by a set of fortuitous consequences, 
the Color had intersected twice with the Cube #347 node, the most recent involving a unit 
of Liaison's own Group of 12, specialty high-level operatives, actually inserting sleeper 
code into the sub-collective's own consensus monitor.
	Then the Cube #347 node had dropped off the figurative and literal radar.  Once 
again Peach had dismissed the erratic element as irrelevant; and, once again, here it was 
taking central stage.
	Liaison /really/ wished he could connect to his Collective, to ask for more 
directions than those which had been provided in the brief interlude on Detention 
between kidnapping and leaving the influence of the facility's mini-vinculum.  However, 
a link would take time...not to mention dataspace access that the understandably paranoid 
sub-collective had denied him.
	It was a good thing 1 of 12's sleeper code had never been discovered and purged.  
Those few lines of quasi-virus were all which were standing between Liaison functional 
and Liaison recycled into replicator reclamation.
	The sound of a forcefield disengaging caught Liaison's attention.  He opened his 
eyes and stepped from the alcove just in time to see Ali prodded into the room.  Her 
drone escort took the place of the tactical drone currently standing internal guard, then 
froze into a position of waiting readiness.
	Liaison craved information, that desire the root of Peach.  Locked in this empty 
room, denied dataspace access, denied even a view of space outside the cube, Liaison 
was as close to Hell as his Color could conceive.  However, despite his eagerness, his 
hunger for data, he dared not display such to Ali.  When he had claimed to be a handler 
for the Black Ops handler, he had not been entirely untruthful.
	Liaison was rewarded by the small being propensity to tell someone, anyone, 
about a momentous occurrence.  As another human, or even a dog, was not available, 
Liaison would have to do.
	"This sub-collective is /insane/," moaned Ali as she sat down on her cot, ignoring 
the drone looming over her.  "Certifiably insane.  And it's going to be the death of me!  I 
think I would /prefer/ assimilation by Peach...but don't be getting any ideas."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Luplup was having a tantrum.
	Again.
	It seemed that Luplup was having a lot of temper tantrums as of late as things did 
not go her way.  On the vessels where Luplup had installed liaisons, crews made sure that 
certain doors were locked and tried to ignore the sound of breakage.  Upon the den-
world, many small, furry animals cowered in their burrows as angry barks echoed.  
Finally, within the ship-construction node, the Luplup nexusQueen herSelf vented her 
rage against a large pillow, one which bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain Borg 
Captain Bad-Mans.
	It was only when the pillow had been reduced to shredded fabric strips and 
mounds of feathers that Luplup calmed all of herSelf.
	The nexusQueen panted, held her breath, hiccupped, panted again, then sneezed 
as a bit of floating down invaded nostrils.  A worker handed over the stuffed cat, the toy 
no longer in immediate danger of destruction.
	Luplup came to a decision.
	The ship of Captain with his Bad-Mans pack was irrelevant.  Yes, irrelevant.  Oh, 
she would eventually kill Captain, rend him, but now was obviously not the time.  Luplup 
had too many other things to do, things that were necessary to make her strong and big; 
and, once again, Captain had shown her why it was bad to split herself.  She would hunt 
down Captain once she could bring the resources of /five/ Battle-class talons to bear, 
/five/ talons of a fleet of /fifty/.
	New information gathered from Taurini mob sources suggested that Captain and 
his pack were hunting for something.  Now that their harassers were gone, burnt in flame, 
the most logical thing for the Bad-Mans was to continue their search.  Borg, after all, 
were nothing if not logical.
	If Captain came within easy reach at a later date, Luplup may attack, but until 
then, her to-do list included both SecFed and Peach.
	It never occurred to Luplup that Cube #347's form of dubious logic would not 
prompt a return to hunting ingredients, but rather confrontation and extermination.

***********
Here ends "Silence of the Dogs, Part II".  Now that an entire nebula has been exploded 
for the enjoyment of the reading audience, what could the BorgSpace author use as an 
encore?  You will just have to return to Part III to find out.