Greetings, reader.  You have reached technical support, located on Litium IV.  The 
translator does not always work well.  However, troubleshooting says Star Trek should be 
the domain of Paramount, Star Traks was created by Decker, and Meneks writes 
BorgSpace.  If you want any actual help, to a Tier II tech you must go.

				Outsourcing

	A jumbled collection of vast geometrical shapes linked to each other by oversized 
cabling orbited a yellow dwarf star.  From a distance the form looked like the forgotten 
plaything of a colossal god, a tinker-toy set shaken from its package and then abandoned.  
In truth, there was an order amid the seeming chaos, but that order was only known to its 
builder - the Borg Collective.
	The structure was not a unimatrix, but a supply depot; and a rather small one at 
that.  Originally designed to serve as waypoints along a webwork of permanent transwarp 
tunnels, unimatrices were huge constructs able to hold the populace of several heavily 
industrialized planets.  With the advent of hypertranswarp, the need for unimatrices had 
not diminished, continuing to serve as hubs of Borg activity as it related to the never-
ending quest for Perfection.  However, it was not always necessary, nor desirable, to 
expend the resources to build the Borg equivalent of an unassailable fortress when an 
outpost, housing a mere five billions drones, was adequate.
	Supply Depot #761 occupied the leading Lagrange point of a once inhabited 
terrestrial planet.  Technically the planet remained inhabited, albeit by Borg drones 
instead of its original populace, the victim of mass assimilation less than a year prior.  
The planet's name replaced by a catalogue number, it was rapidly undergoing conversion 
to a form deemed most efficient by the Collective.  Similarly, the remainder of the system 
was also in the initial stages of extensive exploitation; and it had been decided by the 
Whole that the location upon the galactic stage was excellent for a small supply depot.
	 Unfortunately, more important matters, such as used warp nacelles, karaoke, 
musical revivals, and delving into the mysteries of sculpture, had intruded before Supply 
Depot #761 could be completed.  Important enough in the greater scheme of things to 
warrant finishing construction, yet not quite sufficiently critical to rank as a priority, the 
Collective had decided upon a novel course of action - outsourcing.
	It was grand experiment - the Collective did not believe in small, after all - with 
individuals and Colors contracted (and subcontracted) to complete Supply Depot #761.  
The outpost was quite functional as is, able to service all Borg vessels that docked for 
repairs and to receive and send materials as required by local Collective resources.  That 
fact was irrelevant.  On the other hand, blueprints were not.  'Type-A personality' did 
little justice in describing the Borg Collective mindset.  Plans called for additional 
interior work in three nodes, each structure of mind-boggling proportions to a non-Borg 
being.  The logic chain that had ultimately led to the concept of 'outsourcing' would have 
died in a Collective not experiencing the side-effects of quantum parasite infection, but 
that was a 'what-if' which had never come to pass.
	It took a special subset of individuals and Colors willing to risk themselves to 
labor for the Collective.  Money was the key:  the Borg Collective had a lot of it.  The 
Collective itself had no use for currency, for why would the Body pay a cell to do the job 
it was assigned?  However, precious metals, gems, and other materials which had no 
utility to a high-tech civilization of cyborgs bent on Perfection were ideal to serve as 
payment to contractors.  It was either that, or replicator reclamation.  A poor grasp of 
fiscal faculty which promoted a tendency by the Collective for gross overpayment 
considering services rendered was an additional attraction for those of a financially 
speculative nature.
	Those with a notion to produce shoddy results need not apply.  All work was 
closely inspected before the temporary employee was released; and the penalty for 
noncompliance to blueprints was very, very steep.
	Several transports were enroute to node #5, the designated non-Borg entry point.  
At twenty-five meters long, one vessel was noticeably larger than its comrades.  Despite 
its size, the ship was technically classified as a 'shuttle' or 'runabout'.  More specifically, 
the configuration was 'bus', of the sort which stuffs as many people as possible, with 
luggage that may or may not include livestock and personal vehicles (sometimes one and 
the same) within a confined space without regard to personal comfort.
	"Supply Depot #761, this is-"
	"Identity is irrelevant.  Continue following the beacon to your designated berth.  
You will be processed upon arrival," curtly replied the Borg Multivoice upon the audio-
only transmission channel.
	127 of 230 swiveled her upper body as much as possible considering body armor 
and the fact she was physically plugged into the shuttle's primary console.  Shoulders 
lifted in the most minute of shrugs.
	"Unimportant," said Delta in dismissal.  She was on a holiday.  Not a true holiday, 
of course, as the concept of 'time off' was irrelevant to all whom belonged to the clade of 
Borg.  However, instead of acting as the nexus for nearly a thousand drones, her current 
responsibility consisted of eleven.  The situation would not last, but Delta was 
determined to enjoy it to the limits allowed by her governors.  In less than six days she 
would either be returned to her full hierarchal head status or she would be terminated.  
Either way, the holiday would be over.
	Returning to the ambivalence projected by the Multivoice, the best descriptor of 
the emotion washing through the subunit was relief.  While the cover story concocted by 
the Cube #347 sub-collective was meticulous, Delta did not truly wish to test it against 
the wiles of the Borg Collective.  Simple presence of a dozen (thirteen if both of Delta's 
bodies were counted) drones technically of the Collective, but declared rogue, was 
dangerous enough without attempting a story which may or may not pass muster.  A 
moderately detailed scan would uncover hardware and interplexing beacon modulations 
that were Borg standard; and even now it was very difficult to ignore routine demands for 
integration from the primary depot vinculum.
	Unfortunately, the approach to Supply Depot #761 was necessary.
	The more-than-year since losing vinculum had not been kind to Cube #347; and 
the confrontation with Luplup had only added to the burden.  Although Borg cubes were 
largely self-sufficient, there were key items which could not be replicated, manufactured, 
or rebuilt using cube regeneration.  In the case of the cloak, Delta could care less if the 
thing was nonfunctional.  However, it would only be a matter of time before paucity of 
replacement supplies would begin to degrade critical systems like environmental support 
and propulsion.
	Hence the need for this very dangerous of shopping excursions.
	The Borg Collective's undertaking into outsourcing had been learnt via the 
advertisement of a sub-sub-sub-subcontractor searching for help.  An automated buoy 
floating in the middle of nowhere had caught Cube #347's attention, its high-power 
broadcast cutting into deep subspace.  How the buoy had come to be in its location was 
unknown, unless the contractor in question was looking to corner the 'lost spaceships 
undergoing epic voyages' market, but it had become the foundation of the sub-collective's 
desperate scheme.
	The appearance of Cube #347 at Supply Depot #761, even if broadcasting an 
intent to accept any and all labor assignments, was not advised.  Not all the paint in the 
universe could hide the cube's true identification from the Collective.  The outcome of 
such a straightforward action was predictable.  
	The formulated plan was simple.  Piloting the largest vessel feasible, a few drones 
would approach under the guise of contractors.  Over the course of several days, as many 
supplies as possible would be nicked.  Then, with shopping list complete or suspicions 
being cast upon the 'contractors', whichever came first, an emergency would be claimed 
that necessitated the drones return to their Color.  The vessel would leave and be met by 
Cube #347 at a suitable distance, ending with the cube running as if the entire Borg fleet 
was following behind.  Given the sub-collective's track record, that particular end to the 
scenario was highly probable.
	All of which led to the here-and-now.  Delta had been among those designations 
chosen by consensus cascade to be in the shopping expedition.  Her presence had less to 
do with hierarchal head status and engineering knowledge - many drones were capable of 
the former and ignorance of the latter was easily resolved by downloading the appropriate 
files - and more to do with the fact that her personal idiosyncrasies were few and, most 
importantly, she could be depended upon to complete the assignment.  The same could be 
said of the other drones assigned to the team.
	The shuttle-bus carefully maneuvered itself to the designated destination, 
deviating not a millimeter from the beacon-highlighted path.  Node #5 of Supply Depot 
#761 loomed, a metal cliff dwarfing any and all vessels in its shadow.  Nearby guards in 
the form of a pair of Battle-class cubes silently watched, a not-so-subtle reminder that 
speed limits and queues would be strictly enforced.  Finally the node swallowed the 
shuttle-bus, as it had those forward in the line.
	The inside of the node was as large as promised by the outside, and the view 
spread before the shuttle-bus' viewport was only a small slice of the entire volume.  Ships 
of an astounding variety were slotted with maximum efficiency within a parking lot that 
literally spanned several square kilometers.  It was not to these berths the shuttle-bus 
angled, but rather a temporary unloading zone.  Directions received early in the approach 
vector had been very specific in regards to initial processing of all new contractors
	The shuttle-bus precisely landed upon its mark, dwarfing the other transports.  At 
the primary access port Delta sucked in a breath.  {127 of 230, stay with the shuttle.  
Everyone else, let us go.}  A button was pushed.  The door slid open and a ramp 
automatically extended to the deck.  Delta was mildly surprised at the lack of tactical 
drones with disruptors set to 'extreme hurting'.
	The welcoming committee was much worse.
	With one foot tapping impatiently, despite the fact that the transport had just 
landed, waited a female species #9509 - Burical.  Like all her race, she was shorter than 
the humanoid norm, top of head maybe equal with Delta's chest, although upswept hair 
stiffened by capacious amounts of gel and spray more than made up any height 
difference.  Despite her less-than-imposing stature, it was what the female represented, 
not what she was, which sent shivers through the psyche of the drones filing down the 
ramp.  The Burical thrived on administrative minutiae, the entire race dedicated to all 
things forms and paperwork and red tape.  They even out-bureaucratized the long 
assimilated Bonoi, whose absorption had required the Greater Consciousness decades to 
purge all remnant echoes of governmental officialdom.
	"Who are you and why are you here?" barked the female as Delta, body A, set 
foot upon the deck.  A species #9509's social standing was indicated by his or her hair, 
the taller and more magnificent the coif, the more important the individual.  The most 
eminent persons required special neck braces and legions of assistants to display their 
hair, not to mention the ranks of hairdressers necessary for proper management.  
Baldness was to be pitied.  The droopy tips and fly-aways at the periphery of the female's 
hair-do attested to a state of extreme business and over-work.
	Delta accessed the prepared back-story.  "We are-"
	The words were abruptly cut off by a curt, downward sweep of a PADD.  "On 
second thought, I do not care what Color you are nor where you relate in this stupid chain 
of outsourcing and specialty sub-sub-subcontractors," huffed the rumpled Burical.  "Just 
move that boat of a transport shuttle out of the way to your assigned berth, then...then go 
stand over there until someone can get to you.  I'm sure it'll all be straightened out and 
temporary alcoves allotted before you need to regenerate."  This was said in that 
particular tone of voice shared by bureaucrats multiverse-wide which conveys completion 
of the assigned job and whatever came next was Not My Problem.
	'Over there', as indicated by the waved PADD, consisted of an out-of-the-way 
crowd of Colored Borg and unassimilated beings.  The drones formed clumps based upon 
their respective Color; and the latter tended to avoid the former as much as possible, just 
in case.  Without anything to provide interest - watching shuttles land and take off was 
only so engrossing - both groups were likely experiencing an equal level of boredom, 
although only the unassimilated were overtly displaying their tedium.
	Delta, designated liaison for the team, turned to ask a question of the bureaucrat.  
However, she and her compatriots had already been dismissed, the species #9509 dock 
representative stalking off to confront the next shuttle.
	"The owner of shuttle with registration number N-E-1-1-3, designation 'Star 
Rumble', will move their vessel within the next minute," boomed the Collective 
Multivoice.  "Noncompliance will result in towing of the shuttle and assimilation of all 
beings registered to it."  Pause.  "The white zone is for loading and unloading of 
passengers only, with a ten minute parking time strictly enforced."
	"Give me a break!" sounded from the clot of unassimilated.  One individual 
separated itself from the crowd and hastily sprinted past the Cube #347 drones.  A mutter 
of "Worse than the parking Nazis at Roche stadium" was heard as they were passed.
	{Go park the ship,} said Delta to 127 of 230.

	The line shuffled forward, and Delta found herself face-to-face with another 
species #9509 representative.  This one was male and sported a slightly more complex 
hair-do - taller and with golden sparkles - but otherwise looked alike the female greeter.  
A discrete name tag on his vest informed all readers that his name was 'Stewarg'.  He 
wore a satchel over his left shoulder.
	Stewarg looked up from the PADD he was holding, perfunctorily glanced at both 
of Delta's bodies, then returned to whatever it was he was reading.  If the appearance of 
twin Borg concerned him, he did not show it.  "How many alcoves will you be needing?" 
Stewarg asked, without preamble.  "If it will be more than twenty, there is no guarantee 
they will be all in the same block."
	"We do not need alcoves.  Regeneration will occur upon our transport," answered 
Delta.  Body B spoke while body A panned the busy processing area, ever on the alert for 
the supply depot's owners.  Thus far, no Collective drones had been seen.  To prevent an 
overly long line, Stewarg, upon his initial appearance, had announced only a single 
representative of each contractor to be allowed in the queue.  Delta had dutifully taken 
her place.
	"Whatever," said Stewarg with a shrug.  "That just makes it easier for me."
	"We are-" began Delta in an effort to speed the interview.
	"Who you are is not my problem," interrupted Stewarg, eyes never leaving his 
PADD.  "I do not deal with financial matters and the like, only assignments.  You will be 
contacted later by a specialist to work out wages and payment method."
	Delta did not respond.  She could care less about irrelevant concepts such as 
money, but was beginning to wonder if all the effort the sub-collective had put into 
devising a plausible back-story was for naught.  The thought was one held in common by 
the entire team.
	Stewarg redirected attention from his PADD to both of Delta's bodies, appraising 
her with the intensity one usually reserves for determining the value of a used shuttle.  
"Engineering specialty," he pronounced.  It was a comment, not a question.
	"Yes," affirmed Delta.
	"How many in your group and what are their specialties?" continued the 
interrogator.  "And if any of them are tactical or mount weapons, they will not be allowed 
out of this processing facility, and your eventual payment will reflect this lack of work."
	{Good thing Weapons was overruled, eh?} rhetorically inquired 9 of 19.  Among 
the plans originally considered by the sub-collective had been one where most of the 
team had consisted of weapons hierarchy members.
	Delta responded in the affirmative even as she answered the Burical's question.  
"Twelve units are assigned to this subunit.  All are outfitted with engineering suites.  
However, one unit will remain with our transport."
	"Will all those drones who are part of your group raise one arm?"  A wrinkle 
marred Stewarg's forehead as he craned his head to look over the team.  "I count twelve 
of you here."  A puzzled note colored the bureaucrat's voice, replacing boredom.
	{Put your arms down,} ordered Delta.  She looked down at the man with both her 
bodies.  "There are eleven of us present.  These two bodies are one unit."
	"I see..." said Stewarg, even as it was obvious he did not.  He dismissed his 
ignorance with a shrug.  "Well, not my problem.  Budget will have to deal with any 
nonstandard circumstances."  The free hand was reached into the satchel, emerging with a 
PADD.  After pressing a few buttons, the device was offered to Delta.  "Here you go."
	Delta took the PADD.
	"Your duty station is Vessel Reprocessing Facility #3.  A map and assignment 
details are on the PADD.  Read everything carefully as your contract is also included.  
You are expected to begin immediately, although I expect such will not bother you, 
unlike your non-Color contractor brethren.  If you need further information or have 
questions, look for bureaucrat representatives like myself at your work location.  
Conversely, you can ask any Collective drones you encounter, of which there will be 
plenty on-site assuring quality control.  Next!"  Spiel delivered, Delta was dismissed, the 
busy Stewarg already moving to the next body in line.  
	Delta shuffled out of the way.  With body A looking over toward the rest of her 
team, most of whom were facing her direction, body B contemplated the PADD.  {Let's 
see what our assignment is,} she commented knuckles of the relevant body plunging 
towards the device.

	Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3 was a vast cavern of a workspace dedicated to 
dismantling ships captured by the Borg.  Storage cradles able to hold a wide range of 
vessel configurations, from runabouts to massive warships kilometers in length, were 
visible, although few were filled at present.  Empty claws like skeletal Venus flytraps of 
enormous proportions gaped, waiting to swallow a victim.  Of the dozen captured vessels, 
only one was in a state of partial dissection, suggesting lack of novel technologies or 
material among the current crop of detainees.
	One ship stood out, but only because the paint scheme captured the eye, a deep 
black where light seemed to die.  Without access to Cube #347 files, Delta and the rest of 
her team were clueless upon the species and configuration represented by the fifty meter 
long vessel.  Black was often a color used by governments testing super-secret 
technologies, but lack of Collective interest, in addition to the otherwise run-down 
appearance beneath the paint, suggested the theory that such was not the case here.  More 
likely, the paint had been an idiosyncrasy of a now-assimilated captain, similar to the 
concept of painting flames on a ground vehicle to provide the illusion of speed.
	Delta stared at several subwall components with her doubled point of view.  
Simultaneously, a circuitry diagram rotated within the combined mental space of her 
subunit team, critical junctures each considered in turn.  At the heart of both virtual and 
real mazes was a multiuse control node.  While the component could be constructed on 
Cube #347, several rare elements made the manufacturing very labor intensive.  Finally a 
decision was made.  With both bodies, Delta swiftly spliced a pair of key linkages, then 
cut several wires before plucking the fist-sized node from its setting.
	Nine sets of eyes surreptitiously watched for any reaction, focusing primarily 
upon the Collective drones who were stationed throughout the facility.  Nothing.  As with 
the dozen other minor thefts thus far accomplished, there was no outward response.  Of 
course, 'outward' was the key word, it possible the Collective to be intently watching all 
that Delta and her team were doing.  However, such was also very unlikely, the original 
Collective not one for subtlety when direct action was more efficient.
	Delta passed the control node to 9 of 19 for storage within a torso compartment.  
{Is the panel ready?}  An affirmative was received.  {Then let us weld it into place.}
	As with the majority of other contractors assigned to Vehicle Reprocessing 
Facility #3, Delta's group was emplacing panels to cover exposed wires, conduits, and 
other subwall components.  In the greater scheme of things, the action was not strictly 
necessary and could be viewed as cosmetic:  the reprocessing facility was perfectly 
functional already.  The work itself consisted primarily of welding, often tens of meters 
in the air above the deck on anti-gravity sleds since most of the lower walls were already 
complete.  Occasionally one of the two construction sleds had to be driven to a materials 
depot to pick up more supplies as stock on hand was depleted.
	Sparks rained upon armored bodies as plasma welders were put to use.  The job, 
and variations upon it, was one familiar to all engineering drones, many aspects of repair 
and maintenance requiring melting one piece of metal to another.
	Panel in place, another was hefted to continue the assembly line process.
	{Status report,} demanded Delta of 98 of 310 as droplets of liquid fire attempted 
to set aflame the hair she did not possess.  The next opportunity for theft was a relay 
cluster eight panels in the future.
	98 of 310 was tasked to scout the transporter system, smuggling to the shuttle-bus 
the few parts thus far acquired and thereby testing Collective response.  Thus far, the 
Greater Consciousness had been less than alert, to say the least.  Of course, with all the 
Colors and non-assimilated present, it was likely sensitivity to anomalous behavior had 
been greatly dulled.  To do otherwise was to risk slowing the overall construction rate by 
stopping every out-of-place individual to demand an explanation to what would 
ultimately be deemed a harmless, if idiosyncratic, action.
	Used of a dedicated transporter system was necessary to move between work 
sites.  The arrangement afforded exacting control as to whom went where, as well as 
tracking each use.  Under the (dull) watchful eyes of Collective drones, an individual 
manually input one of a limited number of destinations.  Use of nanotubules was 
prohibited, as emphasized by large signs in Borg script, complete with multiple 
exclamation mark equivalents.  Theoretically this choke point was the best place to scan 
for illicit technologies or the presence of rogue drones attempting to smuggle 
components.  However, in a variation upon a theme the Collective had found it hard to 
shed over the millennium, internal security tended to be fairly lax once outer defenses 
had been breached.
	{Nominal,} replied 98 of 310.  He had delivered his most recent burden to the 
shuttle-bus and was now making his way through the parking maze back to the nearest 
transporter access.  {However, I was assaulted by the neighbors aft of us again.}
	Delta reviewed the alleged 'assault'.  As before, it consisted of two pre-adolescent 
species #9720 children standing midway up the ramp to their ship.  Although they had yet 
to attain the tall, willowy nature of the adult, the renown racial reflexes were very much 
on display.  {They were shooting rubber bands at you, 98 of 310.}
	{One of them almost hit me!}
	{The rubber band never came within three meters of you.}
	{It almost hit me!} insisted 98 of 310 despite evidence to the contrary.
	Dismissing 98 of 310's concern, Delta turned to perusing her shopping list even as 
her bodies continued their actions on automatic pilot.  While the reprocessing facility 
would allow collection of some items, it was the wrong venue for others such as stores of 
certain isotopes.  The locations of those items and possibility of acquisition had to be 
determined; and if not a Borg source, then raiding comrade transports within the parking 
lot had to be evaluated.
	A maximum of five days was allotted for the expedition; and even that was 
pushing it.  As it was, the siren call of reintegration to the Whole sang a provocative 
background melody.  Admittedly, the signal was slightly out of tune due to normal 
security-driven shifts in fractal frequencies, and the presence of so many Colors with 
their various communication protocols added an additional blurring factor, but it 
remained present.  If a single member of the subunit submitted to the integration request, 
the plan would come to a screeching halt.
	{Company,} noted 6 of 19 from her position where she was scanning each panel 
for submicroscopic faults following its welding into place.  {One of the bureaucrats.}
	Delta moved body B to the edge of a construction sled to meet the incoming 
species #9509 individual just as the latter slowed her anti-gravity personal transport to a 
hover.
	"You are Work Detail #1791?" asked the Burical woman.  She was taller than the 
racial norm, but had a distinctly shorter hair style consisting of a series of spikes radiating 
out from her head.
	"Affirmative," replied Delta.  The job of welding continued unabated behind body 
B.
	The woman squinted down at the ever-present PADD.  "It shows here that you are 
scheduled for downtime."
	Only five more panels to the relay cluster....  "We will continue working."
	Eyes blinked and lifted from the PADD in alarm.  "Overtime?  You are not 
authorized for overtime.  Don't you dare try to take overtime, else it will look bad on my 
evaluation!"  One hand nervously lifted to pinch a hair spike.  "You will take downtime.  
Comply!  No one cares what you do during your downtime, but it won't be work.  
Entertainment facilities are limited, although some may be found among parked ships.  
However, you don't look the Color to partake of such activities."
	"We are-" started Delta.  As the several times before, she did not get very far.
	"I don't care whom you are," warbled the bureaucrat, "as long as you don't attempt 
overtime without an authorization, and I can't give you that."  The woman shuddered, 
then appeared to calm herself.  "I do need to inform you that there's been a small foul-up 
with financial services, so a payroll representative will get to you sometime during your 
next shift, the start time of which is on your PADD.  Er, you do still have your PADD, 
don't you?"
	"We do," said Delta.  So much for the relay cluster, which would be paneled over 
by another work detail after her team left.
	The woman glanced down at her PADD.  Her face paled.  "Then go off-shift, 
already!  You are three minutes late!  I thought you Borg types had a keen understanding 
of punctuality."
	Delta examined the work in progress via body A and several additional optical 
streams:  the current panel was only tacked in place, and not at all securely welded.  "But-
"
	"No buts!  Go!"  Standing in her seat, the woman proceeded to wave her arms in a 
shooing motion.
	"We comply," acknowledged Delta.  {You heard the order, time to desist.}
	As the two construction sleds were driven towards their parking spots, Delta was 
unsurprised to hear the sound of clanging metal (and bellowed curses) as the unfinished 
panel ripped from its setting and fell to the deck below.  As all records of the incident 
would show the subunit to be blameless, it was likely a certain bureaucrat would soon be 
visiting the official barber to have several millimeters of hair shorn.

	"It just registered, really," said 127 of 230 immediately upon Delta's entrance into 
the shuttle-bus.  "I wasn't building a three-dimensional model of the Yillingter 'Swoop' IV 
- one of which is coincidentally berthed four slots over; and I wasn't so immersed in the 
model that I was not paying attention to anything else."
	Delta stepped both bodies to the side of the doorway, allowing the rest of the 
subunit to file inside.  Except for the thirteen alcoves bolted to the walls, an auxiliary 
energy source, and the pilot niche, the inside of the transport had been stripped to allow 
for maximum storage room of pilfered items.  Those few objects thus far acquired made 
for a very small heap.  "What registered?  A message?"  Delta pulled the information 
from her hierarchy-mate.
	"Well, maybe I was a wee bit distracted...." admitted 127 of 230.  Understatement.
	Delta sent a body to the main console and linked herself into the ship computer.  
"The timestamp says this message was intercepted two hours ago!"
	"Er...um...."
	"Those mercenaries-to-be next door with their rubber band six-shooters could 
have invaded our vessel," accused 98 of 310, the last drone to enter the ship.  The door 
closed behind him.
	127 of 230 was silent.
	Communication between Cube #347 and the engineering subunit was limited.  
Ideally, no messages should be exchanged at all, each instance raising the possibility of 
interception by the Collective.  However, in the case of an emergency, a method had been 
dredged up from cube archives - burst bubble.
	The whimsical label of 'burst bubble' originated from long ago assimilated species 
#2011, whom had devised the technique.  The name made much more sense in the 
original language.  The concept of the burst bubble was akin to a person hooting like an 
owl into the dark, attempting to pass on a message while remaining anonymous to enemy 
listeners.  In this case, the sender mimicked an energetic natural phenomenon, tossing to 
the stellar winds an electromagnetic hash within which was embedded an encrypted 
message matrix.  The comm grid of the transport was attuned for a burst bubble; and the 
drones, of course, had the correct keys to decode any transmission.
	The primary problem with the burst bubble was that it could only be used a 
limited number of times before non-target parties become suspicious.  Just like the un-
owl hooting, one eventually realized that the bird was not.  Even if the broadcasting 
entity moved between transmissions, the elevated number of 'natural phenomenon' was 
fishy, even more so when sensors failed to report expected aftereffects such as young 
neutron stars or a new wormhole terminus.  Therefore, two, possibly three, times was the 
extent of burst bubble effectiveness.
	Response ability by the engineering subunit was even more limited.  A burst 
bubble was possible, an important message hidden within the 'accidental' production of 
an electromagnetic pulse by the shuttle-bus.  However, more than once would be 
coincidence the Collective could not ignore, especially if taken in conjunction with 
suspicious natural phenomenon.  At the very least, the fact that a ship full of engineering 
drones who could not maintain their own vessel was grounds for dismissal because it 
implied a lack of competency.
	At the unspoken command, all loitering drones moved towards their alcoves.  The 
lone exception was Delta, still linked to the computer.  Only after the last *hiss*clamp* 
of alcoves latching to bodies sounded did the head of the engineering hierarchy trigger 
the message.  Such was not to say that she was alone...far from it.  Into the shared 
mindspace of the subunit materialized the message.
	{There is good news and bad news,} began the voice of Captain without 
preamble.  The compressed datastream did not include video, both to decrease the size of 
the final message and because such was an unnecessary shortcoming of a small being.  
To say 'voice of Captain' was also a misnomer, the data component including more than a 
taste of the sub-collective Whole.  {The good news:  the ingredient we were chasing 
through Luplup's territory, and then lost, has been found.  The bad news:  the location is 
somewhere on Supply Depot #761.}
	Delta suppressed a groan.  However, there were several vocalizations from the 
alcoves as other drones did not bother to censure themselves.  All knew what was 
coming.
	{Naturally, the exact configuration of the component, other than the cryptic 
description "phasic metal (fluidic state)"; and as much as I'd like to send the EMH to 
reside in /your/ data systems, the program is too big and complex to hide in a burst 
bubble transmission.  However, the EMH is confident that if it sees a picture that either 
contains the item, or the item itself, it can narrow the search.}  The was a long pause.  
{Thus far, the items have been small.  With 98.5% probability, you will be able to carry it 
out with you when you leave at the scheduled time...assuming the item is accessible in 
the first place.}
	All pertinent information relayed, the message abruptly ceased.  Like greetings, 
goodbyes were also for small beings.
	As if this job wasn't dangerous enough....  "Well that was unhelpful," muttered 
Delta outloud, unconsciously speaking with both her bodies as she unlinked herself from 
the computer.  The sentiment was echoed among the eleven other units of the team.  
Delta trekked to her paired alcoves:  so much for a restful regeneration of no-thought.  
This vacation was turning into a working holiday.  {First we will review the maps thus 
far built, then we shall determine the most efficient manner to visually examine all 
accessible locations.  We shall split into the following partitions...}

	{Location Epsilon is another sorting facility, one which is being tiled in a truly 
ghastly slime green and gold motif.}
	{More report, less opinion, 98 of 310,} ordered Delta.  Most of the team, 
including herself, was once again high on their assigned wall in Vehicle Reprocessing 
Facility #3.  Whatever work detail had taken over the paneling during regeneration, it was 
obvious from the misalignment and flawed welds that they were incompetent.  That 
observation had already been reported; and instead of extending the paneling, Delta and 
company were inspecting and redoing the shoddy work.  The coveted relay was 
underneath one of the panels slated to be replaced.  {Efficiency is required if you are to 
assess each location during this shift.}
	98 of 310, having already established himself as a 'runner' for the subunit, was the 
most logical choice for the assessment.  He was systematically transporting to each of the 
allowed work sites, then canvassing them for anything of importance.  In addition to 
cataloguing potential items for theft, the evaluation provided a pictorial overview to be 
sent back to Cube #347.  As the return transmission could only occur once, it was vital 
that 98 of 310 be thorough.  Delta doubted close-ups of tiling would be helpful to the 
EMH to identify the potion ingredient.
	{Finally, one of the bulk cargo transporters,} informed 98 of 310 as he rounded a 
tall stack of crates.  The sorting facility was where material from disassembled ships, as 
well as cargo holds of items acquired from assimilated worlds, was, well, sorted.  
Everything was catalogued into classes that ranged from 'novel technology' to 'replicator 
reclamation'.  All such facilities included several large transporter pads to facilitate the 
moving of delicate materials which could not be shifted by the normal transporter system.  
	The engineering team required access to off-limit portions of the node.  The 
transporter system dedicated to contractors was insufficient with its pre-programmed 
destinations.  However, there was the possibility that bulk cargo transporters would be 
unsecured.  The visual stream from 98 of 310 panned up and down, left and right as he 
scanned for guards.  {No watchers apparent.  I will examine the transporter control...wait, 
someone is present.}
	98 of 310 froze as only a drone could, hiding in plain sight.  By dint of evolution, 
most sapient species were attuned to movement, distant ancestors often prey for larger, 
faster animals.  By not moving, even ceasing respiration if necessary, a Borg drone 
essentially became furniture in the unconscious mind of the small being, non-threatening.  
It was an ambush tactic often used during mass assimilations.
	That 'someone' was actually two, both humans.  One, a man, was focused on the 
transporter control, a thin wire linking it to an over-large PADD upon which he was 
furiously punching buttons.  The other human was a female, and a nervous one at that.  
She stood watch beside her comrade, eyes darting back and forth so quickly it was 
unlikely she was actually seeing anything.  The fact that she had missed 98 of 310's 
arrival reinforced that theory.  Both were dressed in the nondescript gray jumpsuits 
favored by many non-Color contractors; and the cranial hair of both was shorn to stubble.  
98 of 310 upped his audio gain to resolve the whispered conversation between the pair.
	In Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3, Delta paused one of her bodies in order to 
better concentrate on 98 of 310's perceptions.  Would 98 of 310 be forced to assimilate 
the pair - /not/ an engineering forte - before they did something stupid that called 
attention to the location?  Might the pair give up, faced by the daunting task of breaking 
Borg security?  Was it possible that one of the crates which boxed in the transporter pad 
to hold something other than horrid green and gold tiles?
	{98 of 310!} rebuked Delta as the latter thought threaded itself into the mindspace 
of the subunit.
	{Sorry,} said 98 of 310.
	"Hurry up," hissed the woman.  "The longer we are here, the more likely we will 
be noticed."
	The man's fingers lightly ran over the PADD's buttons as he input another 
combination.  A frown was the result as he read the screen.  "Calm down.  As long as I 
don't trip any traps, we'll be fine.  This intrusion attempt is too 'small' for the Collective to 
care.  Think of what we'll gain if I can just get access."
	"I'm trying to...but I'm also thinking of what it'll be like to be a drone."
	It quickly became apparent that the pair had similar aspirations to Delta's team in 
that they wanted to examine off-limit areas of Supply Node #761 in search of Borg 
technology.  However, unlike Cube #347's desperate need for resupply, these two were 
common thieves, desiring to make extra money with easily resalable exotic tech.
	As the PADD beeped, the man crowed in delight, "Hah!  Got it!  Told you it 
could be done.  All that was needed....  Oh, crap."  Glee rapidly transformed to dismay.
	A dozen Borg drones had materialized into the crate cubby, all focused upon the 
suddenly trembling pair.  {I am one with the box...I am one with the box,} chanted 98 of 
310 to himself, an echo into the team's mindspace, a mantra against himself also being 
swept into the closing net.  Swiftly the humans were gathered into custody, an 
euphemism to mean they were trapped within the steel grasp of two assimilation units, 
hands hovering near their necks ready to deliver nanite payloads.
	One of the drones moved to stand square before the captive audience.  "Non-
authorized transporter pads are off-limits, as clearly outlined in the contract at section D, 
subsection 7, subbullet C.  Did you not assimilate the information?"  The words were 
clipped, brusque.  It was the typical display of a unit being used as a mouthpiece by the 
Whole.
	The subunit had /not/ fully read the contract, interest lost after the first several 
gigabytes.  Delta internally flipped to the referenced bullet.  Yes, the rule was clear...and 
sandwiched between a bullet related to inappropriate organic waste disposal methods and 
a list of prohibited textiles.
	The woman was mostly occluded by armored backs, but still 98 of 310 caught a 
weak smile.  "Er, we must have missed it.  The, um, problem with not being assimilated 
and, er, small and all that.  Sorry.  First offense?  Maybe we can work out a deal?"  It was 
obvious that the humans were hoping to emerge from their dilemma whole of body and 
mind.
	Those hopes were dashed by the spokesdrone's next pronouncement.
	"Irrelevant.  Section A, subsection 1, subbullet A clearly states the penalty for 
noncompliance to any rule.  Second chances, recourses, and appeal are not allowed.  
What one does is a reflection of all.  Therefore, all individuals associated with your work 
detail will be assimilated."
	"What?" exclaimed the man as the extent of the consequence registered.  "Wait!  
No!  They knew nothing and had nothing to do with...."  The rest of the protest was lost 
as awaiting fists plunged downward.
	Transporters whisked away the dozen drones, plus the new acquisitions.
	A decision was made by the team.  {Bulk cargo transporters are not an option,} 
said Delta, voicing the consensus.

	"How is the composition for that segment?  Yes?  No?  Maybe?  I think the fade 
transition adds an extra emphasis lost with a simple slide format," opinionated 227 of 240 
from the pilot niche.  As a once-upon-a-time layout editor for a fashion vidshow, she had 
been the logical choice to arrange the overviews - still and video - into a suitably logical 
sequence.  Unfortunately, she was also becoming a bit too irrelevantly artistic in her task.
	At the other end of the shuttle-bus, Delta contemplated the growing pile of 
pilfered treasure.  The work shift had concluded similar to yesterday, including lack of 
payroll specialist and bureaucrat frantic that no overtime be accumulated.  It had also 
ended without acquiring many of the items on the primary list of needs, although both 
secondary and tertiary lists were showing progress.  As it was becoming abundantly clear 
that movement outside the allowed areas, be it by transporter, hull walk, or other means, 
was infeasible, the growing consensus was that the contractor parking lot, and the ships 
therein, needed to be closely examined for opportunities.
	Delta was a 'doing' type of drone, not comfortable with 'what-if' scenarios.  Such 
was true for most units assigned to engineering, that hierarchy, especially on a Borg ship, 
normally reactionary.  Unfortunately, no command and control drones were present to 
take control of the decision tree matrices, so Delta had to fumble forward as best she 
could.
	"All done," brightly informed 227 of 240.  "I so wish we had access to decent 
music for a background soundtrack.  Something dark and dramatic would be perfect."
	Delta examined the final product, less concerned with content than size.  {This 
will barely fit into the burst bubble as is, without raising attention that an embedded 
message is present.}
	"I compressed the images as much as possible, as well as removed all duplicates 
and irrelevancies, but there is only so much I can do," sullenly replied 227 of 240, 
continuing to speak outloud.  Her eyes were glazed, attention riveted upon an internal 
sight of the montage.
	Delta sighed.  It would have to do.  Everything accessible had been eyeballed, 
although sometimes, such as in Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3, it had been a rather 
perfunctory overview from a distance (and halfway up a wall).  If the EMH could not 
resolve the ingredient, nor a general location, then that would mean it was outside the ken 
of the subunit.  In turn...Delta shuddered to even contemplate the alternatives, most of 
them likely involving Weapons pushing to risk the cube in some stupid frontal assault.  In 
this case, the imagination of herself and those of her team were more than sufficient to 
vividly visualize the repair docket, assuming the cube even survived.  A supply depot 
may not be a unimatrix, but there were still more than sufficient guarding forces to 
convert Cube #347 into a thin streak of debris.
	{Prepare for burst bubble,} ordered Delta.  At the very least, there were going to 
be many questions when the shuttle-bus had its little electromagnetic pulse inducing 
'accident'.

	{Regeneration incomplete,} chirped the voice of the transport's computer into 
Delta's head.  It was linked to the alcoves and a few general diagnostics; and, if possible, 
it was even more moronic than its Cube #347 cousin.
	"Oh, shut up," muttered Delta outloud with both her bodies as she stepped 
forward in synchronized unison.  Of course regeneration was incomplete:  she and the 
rest of her team had 'gone to bed' less than two hours ago.  On the other hand, all units 
present were rated for a minimum 120 hours without regeneration, so one or two cycles 
of less-than-optimal downtime would not lower efficiency.
	Dealing with the consequence of the burst bubble was the reason for the short 
regeneration.
	The electromagnetic pulse had not gone unnoticed.  Far from it.  If the flickering 
of far overhead light strips had not exposed the incident, the sudden blossoming of fires 
and general electrical mayhem from vessels parked near the shuttle-bus would have been 
more than ample evidence that something was not right.  Very shortly following the 
'accident', large drones with no necks and much weaponry embedded upon their chassis 
had arrived, trailed by a flock of bureaucrats.  Once the Collective had assayed the 
situation and determined that the busy engineering drones taking apart their transport to 
search for the cause of the pulse were no threat, the former had left, leaving the latter 
behind.
	Delta would have preferred to deal with the tacticals.
	"Describe the nature of the accident.  Include not only how it happened, but what 
steps you are taking to ensure such disruptions do not occur again.  The more details for 
the official report, the better," had chirped the species #9509 male.  There were many 
specializations and sub-specializations among the bureaucrats, much more so than the 
Borg or even certain insect colonies; and no individual was willing to step one iota 
outside their job description.  Therefore, it was unsurprising that the male with the name-
tag 'Tommat' and the hugely upswept hair shaped into a DNA double-helix had not been 
previously encountered.
	Delta's response of "Until we determine the first, no data can be provided on the 
second" had not gone over well, eliciting a dark frown.  "Maintenance on our vessel was 
excellent.  Therefore it was either an accident or deliberate sabotage."
	"What sort of engineering drones are you to not know how or why something 
occurred?" asked Tommat
	"We are-" had begun Delta in a futile attempt to once again relay the team's cover 
story.
	"Incompetent," Tommat had completed, interrupting Delta.  A disdainful sniff 
followed.  "It is obvious to me that you and your...comrades are substandard.  However, 
I'm not in charge here" - overtones of contempt were obvious even to a drone normally 
oblivious upon social niceties, a nonverbal insinuation that the situation was the other 
party's loss - "because I would say from your performance right now that you should be 
dismissed.  The Collective, however, seems to think that you are doing excellent work at 
your assigned location, one which is sufficient reason for this episode to be overlooked."  
A pause.  "There might even be a bonus."
	 Delta had not liked use of the word 'bonus'.  It sounded ominous.  Hints and 
whispers floating among the other contractors, primarily those not assimilated, suggested 
that 'reward' was sometimes an euphemism for something much darker.  While most 
bonuses were in fact extra credits deposited for a job well done, very occasionally the 
best contractors, both Colored drones and unassimilated individuals, simply disappeared 
one day...leaving their transport behind.  Protests from abroad might be raised, but in the 
end, procession was ten-tenths the law as far as the Collective was concerned.
	"We will find the problem and provide you with the details for your report," Delta 
had replied.  After several hours with an increasingly impatient bureaucrat, the 
appropriate lie (devised ahead of time by the Cube #347 sub-collective) had been relayed; 
and regeneration finally entered into for the few hours remaining before the next duty 
shift.
	As the remainder of the team stepped from their alcoves and began the 
housekeeping tasks necessary prior to the work shift, Delta noticed a flashing light 
forward within the piloting niche.  A few steps brought her to the console; and less than 
five seconds later nanotubules had linked her to the computer.  A message from Cube 
#347, intercepted during regeneration, was waiting.
	All bodies slowed to a halt, heads tilted, to absorb the transmission.
	{Sensors is reporting an increase in Collective patrols,} began Captain, {and there 
is an 89.5% probability that it is in response to the burst bubble.  Therefore, this will be 
the last message until you are retrieved.
	{There is both good news and bad news.  The good news is that the EMH is 
confident that the item constituting the ingredient has been identified, or at least its 
general location.}
	From the far end of the transport, an "oh-oh" sounded.  Delta did not bother to 
determine from whom it originated.  The general consensus within the shared mindspace 
of the subunit was that the phrasing used by Captain was suspicious and probably did not 
bode well.
	Continued the consensus monitor and facilitator, {There are two pieces of bad 
news.  The first is that there was a small...accident and that the doors to Bulk Cargo Hold 
#8 can no longer be closed.  However, 19 of 19, as acting Engineer, is confident that she 
can unstick them before you return.  Maybe.  All specifications will be available when 
and if you can be retrieved.  Second, concerning the ingredient, the EMH cannot be more 
specific as to what, exactly, it is.  Open the attachment for more details.}
	The verbal portion of the message concluded.  The remainder of the captured 
transmission consisted of a large block of data.  Opening the attachment produced a 
picture; and, specifically, a still shot captured from one of the videos sent to Cube #347.  
It was a familiar view, that as seen from part way up the wall in Vessel Reprocessing 
Facility #3.  At the center of the picture was the black freighter in its cradle, a large red 
circle drawn around it and several arrows pointing as a visual emphasis.
	{I think it may be a bit suspicious if I tried to smuggle that through the transporter 
system...} noted 98 of 310.  {Among other things, it won't exactly fit in my torso 
compartment.}
	So much for the 98.5% probability that the ingredient item was small enough to 
carry.

	"What is the meaning of this?" questioned the bureaucrat from her floater.  The 
spiky haired woman was returned to her duties of annoying actual working folk, although 
her already short hair was noticeable closer to her skull.  A badge, folded so only half of 
it could be read, provided the truncated name of 'Spe'.  "You will be docked pay."
	'This' was the fact that only five drones were present with Delta for their work 
shift.  The remainder had joined with 98 of 310 in liberating items for the Cube #347 
cause.  Several people would be learning the benefit of locking ship doors when they 
returned from their shift; and a greater number would be thinking seriously of upgrading 
their locks, the simple mechanisms no deterrent for an engineering drone.
	"There is nothing in our contract which states all units are required at any one 
time," protested Delta.  After the incident observed at the cargo transporter, the entire 
subunit had carefully read the hereto largely ignored document.  "All which matters is 
satisfactory completion of the assigned task.  We have installed as many panels today as 
our prior two shifts."  Behind body A, Delta and the rest of her abbreviated crew 
continued to place and weld as quickly as possible.  There had been no time to 
surreptitiously steal subwall components today.  "The other units of this detail were 
required at our transport to ensure no repeats of last cycle's accident."
	Spe sniffed.  The bureaucrat obviously did not believe Delta's explanation, but 
also could not poke holes into it.  "Well, that is something payroll will have to deal with."
	Delta made a big show of panning the busy deck below the construction sleds.  
"Where /is/ payroll?  We have been working three cycles without finalizing our contract."
	"Er," gulped a suddenly nervous Spe, "there has been a slight delay.  Nothing to 
worry about.  Um, there may be some slight labor negotiation occurring among certain 
departments, but the inconvenience to you is minor.  Nothing that you need to know the 
details about."
	An internal timer running backwards flashed zero.  Tools were immediately shut 
off, halting the rain of sparks and flecks of molten metal.  "Our shift is done.  At what 
time can payroll be expected?"  Delta pivoted body B; and she deliberately asked the 
question with both bodies.  The bureaucrat had something to hide.  What that mystery 
was, Delta frankly did not care.  However, if she needled the woman sufficiently, as if 
she were grilling Weapons for why all the holoprojectors in Bulk Cargo Hold #5 were 
malfunctioning (again), there was the high probability of agitation.
	Spe did not disappoint, fluster obvious.  "Soon!  Your shift is done!  Go!  I've 
many important things to do!"  The floater's controls were worked, sending the 
bureaucrat flying away before more questions could be asked.  Now there would be one 
less pair of eyes to observe the subunit's unscheduled detour.
	{Let's go,} said Delta as she stepped herself away from the un-safety-railed edge 
of the sled.  As 101 of 230 linked into the sled controls to begin decent, Delta cast her 
mind to review the pilfered items which now covered half the transport's deck space and 
mounded in waist high piles.
	{The two children have provided exemplary service,} said 9 of 19 as he 
catalogued the contents of a bucket.  The mix of isolinear chips and data crystals were not 
critical elements, able to be easily replicated by Cube #347.  However, among the 
ordinary more than a few treasures had been found, vital subcomponents to much more 
complicated systems.  Each bucket was like opening a wrapped present, the contents a 
surprise.  {The investment has paid for itself.}
	{You gave those juvenile mercenary wanna-bes upgraded rubber band guns, fully 
automatic and with the ability to replicate new ammunition!  And the rubber bands can be 
colored with one of five different indelible inks!} protested 98 of 310.  He was the 
primary target of the neighbor kids' attention, and now sported more than a few splashes 
of color where rubber bands had hit their target.  Like cats, dogs, and other domesticated 
pets, children possess an exquisite ability to know whom they can annoy without risk of 
consequences.
	9 of 19 scoffed, {The ink will come off.  You will just need a bit of sandblasting.}
	{But-}
	{Enough,} interrupted Delta.  The arguing lowered efficiency.  {The children are 
useful:  they will continue to serve.  98 of 310, there will be /no/ retaliation.  Deal with 
it.}
	{Compliance,} said 98 of 310 sullenly.
	The construction sleds bumped to the ground.  While they had been steered to a 
parking station - to do otherwise was to invite scrutiny from the Collective Mind - it was 
not their normal berthing.  Instead, the path to the transporter node now required passing 
near the target vessel indicated in the reply burst bubble.
	Seen up close, the black ship was even less impressive than the view halfway to 
the ceiling of the vehicle reprocessing facility.  A cylinder with six stubby fins arrayed 
around the equator equidistant from each other, any lingering notion of 'secret 
government technology test bed' died and was replaced by 'run-down freighter'.  Under 
the unusual paint was mismatched hull plates, numerous plasma cutter scars showing 
where larger pieces of metal had been crudely sliced in an effort to effect the semblance 
of repair.  A dark hypertranswarp ring nacelle, cracks within the matrix suggesting a 
desperate need for maintenance, circled the vessel forward the fins.  Perhaps the humid 
warmth of the air circulating around the ship was antithetical to the light-drinking paint, 
for there were chips here and there.  An oily black substance - Delta did not care to think 
where /that/ might have leaked from - made interesting splatter patterns on the deck 
underneath the freighter.
	Delta mental shook her head.  {The ingredient must be inside.}  Until a vessel 
was disassembled, it was rare for its contents, other than crew, to be removed.  The 
vagueness of the ingredient descriptor was highly unhelpful, other than it was probably 
liquid.  Maybe.
	The sound of a transporter prompted Delta to tear her paired gazes away from the 
ship.  One...two...four Collective drones materialized nearby.  All sported the limb 
modifications which indicated chassis-mounted weaponry.  The team shuffled to a halt as 
one of the units stepped forward, placing itself directly in their line of march.
	The whispers and echoes and snatches of internalized conversation which was the 
Collective Whole momentarily rose in volume, in seductiveness, before ebbing to its 
previous background level.
	Not good.
	"What is the meaning of this impediment?  This subunit has completed its work 
shift and returns to its transport for regeneration."  Delta sent both bodies forward to 
confront the tactical drone, careful to utilize the third person.  "Our Color is-"
	"We do not care whom you represent:  all aberrations will eventually return to us 
or be exterminated," interrupted the drone.  "This subunit had been marked for its 
efficiency, yet it now returns to the transporter node via an inefficient pathway.  Explain.  
Comply."
	The magic word echoed through the mental byways of not only Delta and the five 
team members immediately present, but also the remaining units in and near the 
transport.  98 of 310 was beset by a hail of red and green inked rubber bands as he 
staggered to a halt.  "We...we...we require additional exercise of these units," replied 
Delta as she snatched at the first suggestion floating in the communal mindspace, well 
aware of the weakness of the justification for the team to be where they should not be.  
Lying, especially spontaneous fabrication, was not a Borg strong suit in the best of times.
	On the other hand, discerning lies was also not a well developed Collective 
ability.  "The cradle areas are off-limits," replied the spokesdrone.  "There are many more 
appropriate locations if muscular activity is necessary for unit maintenance."
	"We understand and will comply."
	The drone stepped back, no longer directly blocking the path leading to the 
transporter node.  Although no expression was upon the faces of the four tacticals, the 
almost-subliminal whispers which wisped though the minds of the subunit were 
suggestive of appraisal, of consideration, of the most effective place in the Machine 
Entire for the highly efficient cogs represented by Delta and her team.
	{Forward,} prodded Delta.  The pace back to the transporter node was noticeably 
quicker than the usual drone speed.

	Today was the last day.  Ingredient or no ingredient, filled transport or no filled 
transport, Delta and her team were on the cusp of overstaying their welcome.
	If they had not done so already.
	Upon exiting the transport in preparation to begin the work shift, the first thing 
noticed by the multi-eyed entity which was the subunit was the presence of Collective 
drones.  Motionless statues standing here and there, the tactical and assimilation units 
were everywhere.  Contractors moving about the parking lot ignored the drones, although 
it was painfully apparent that those of the Colored persuasion were detouring where 
possible to avoid sentries.  There was an air of unvoiced expectation, that soon someone 
amongst the crowd was to be awarded a non-monetary 'bonus'.
	{Four hours,} said Delta, repeating the consensus of the twelve-some.  {If we 
have not determined an obvious way to steal the target ship, like finding a crate with the 
words "Shrink-o-matic" on it, we will leave.  A modification from excuse series A should 
be sufficient.  127 of 230 and 98 of 310, finish loading the last items, then prepare for a 
very hasty departure.}
	{Compliance,} replied the two named drones.  After a short pause, 98 of 310 
asked, {Can I-}
	{No.  You shall not touch the two children.  And don't try to twist that order by 
interpreting it literally, as would Weapons.  You know exactly what I mean.  We do not 
have the time to deal with the consequences their termination or injury or assimilation 
would create.}
	98 of 310's wordless thoughts were dark and full of images more befitting a 
weapons drone than engineering.  However, he was obedient to his hierarchy head, 
consoling himself by calculating the damage which could be inflicted by an overpowered 
rubber band gun upon unarmored flesh.
	Despite the ominous unblinking eyes and ocular implants which followed the ten 
drones (eleven bodies) across the parking lot, through the transporter mode, and finally to 
Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3, there were no incidents.  No assimilation squad arrived 
to take custody of the team, nor Multivoice pronounce doom.  If anything, it was quieter 
than usual, contractors moving to and from their assignments, heads down; and 
bureaucrats....
	Delta blinked, body B halting mid-step.  She looked around herself, two personal 
points of view scanning her surroundings.  {Where are the bureaucrats?}
	Now that attention had been redirected, the lack of species #9509 was painfully 
obvious.  The bureaucrats, normally ubiquitous in the presence, were nowhere to be seen.  
Scooters were abandoned; and PADDs were stacked in neat piles upon ranked tables.  No 
fanciful coifs moved about, their owners dispensing orders or asking pointed 
administrative questions with busy-body intensity.
	Then, in the distance, a rhythmic sound began to arise.
	"Not again," groaned nearby.  It was the leader of another work detail, 
unassimilated, traveling in the opposite direction towards the transporter node.  "Not 
bloody again."
	The bulk of the crowd shuffled to a stop.  Around the edges continued to flow a 
few individuals, propelling their way upon the power of muscle and expletives, but the 
majority were craning heads to peer in the direction of the chanting.  Delta's subunit was 
caught in the middle, although a space did remain around them, as it did around all 
Colored drones, the unassimilated majority unwilling to press too close.
	"What's up, boss?" asked a nameless voice, owner lost among the milling crowd.
	The leader of the work detail harrumphed, "Know anything about Burical?"  The 
answer was a negative.  "Well, when you transferred in couple of weeks ago, you just 
missed the prior high drama.  Bunch of bullsh** if you ask me.  Burical divide their 
calendar into fourteen months, with each month dedicated to a particular administrative 
caste.  Supposed to be some sort of religion, I guess.  Anyway, there's lots of 'rights' and 
such for that caste during the month, including an entitlement to labor argument.  Fellow 
who told me about this said he's been on their homeworld during planet-spanning strikes, 
and it can be quite a show.  Usually, however, they only dispute."
	"That's crazy!  What do they dispute about?"  Voice #2's tone suggested that 
'crazy' was a mild descriptor of a problem which should involve rubber rooms and vast 
quantities of electricity.
	"Gah...fellow told me it could be about anything:  money, benefits, breaks, 
working conditions, and so on."  Voice #1 paused, then lowered his volume to the level 
normally associated with conspiracies for all that he could have shouted and remained 
unheralded.  "I saw the potential for this happening a couple of days ago and made a few 
inquiries.  Seems this is the month when Financial Services is king.  Financial is making 
a big ado about insufficient breaks to maintain their hair-dos, as well as not being 
provided enough hairspray and gel perks."
	Silence as Voice #2 digested the insanity.  "Gel perks?  Um, Financial is, like, 
payroll and such, isn't it?"
	"Yes."  The tone was bitter, as only possible by one who is contemplating the 
phrase 'working for free'.
	The same conclusion had obviously been made by the owner of the second voice.  
"What will the Borg do about it?  They gotta do /something/.  It'll be 'inefficient' and all 
that."
	"Nothing.  The Borg'll do nothing, if it is at all like last month.  There will be lots 
of chanting and waving signs by Burical, maybe even some pushing, but it will only last a 
couple of hours.  It is all a ritualized display for the Upper Management.  Oh, I'm sure the 
Borg will keep many eyes on it, just in case, but we /are/ only talking about PADD 
pushers.  By the time we are on for our next shift, it'll all be over."
	A shiver propagated through the crowd as elements elsewhere reacted to 
something unseen by those in the immediate vicinity.
	"Um, are you sure?"
	"Why do you ask that?"
	"Because the shouting has become a lot closer, and I hear weapons fire."
	A loud explosion rocked the crowd; and individual components began to flow 
rather quickly back in the direction of the transporter nodes, no matter if they had just 
arrived for their work shift or not.
	"Well, ******* me," spat the detail leader before he was swept away, "I think it 
has turned into a full-blown strike!"
	Chaos was taking over, the crowd turning into a mob whose single thought was to 
escape.  Lurking Collective 'observers' were gone, presumably transported elsewhere to 
deal with an administrative staff gone berserk.  Colored drones were stationary knots 
among the river of unassimilated contractors, individual Minds trying to decide what 
course to take, but even they soon began to move in the direction of the majority.
	{It isn't a "Shrink-o-Matic", but this may be our only chance,} commented Delta, 
voicing the thought bouncing around the shared mindspace.  Improvisation was not a 
Borg emphasis, but an engineering unit tended to be a bit more flexible in that department 
than other hierarchies.  After all, sometimes the only thing standing between fixing a 
soon-to-be-catastrophically-leaking plasma conduit and becoming a wisp of vapor was a 
pack of chewing gum, a spool of wire, and several dust shammies.  Such was not a time 
to contemplate every 'what-if' scenario, nor search the engineering archives for a similar 
situation.  {127 of 230 and 98 of 310, finish your task and prepare to leave.  We may or 
may not be joining you.}
	In the parking lot, the two drones were in the middle of blatantly loading into the 
transport a small warp nacelle nicked from a child's micro-shuttle two rows over.  The 
young mercenaries-in-training were observing with great interest, for once not targeting 
the well-inked 98 of 310 with their Borg-adapted rubber band guns.  Then the neighbor 
vessel was powering up its engines and a parent was calling the children inside, ignoring 
the subsequent whining protest.  Elsewhere, the first transport was lifting:  contractors 
were in the process of abandoning the node, perhaps even the supply depot.
	One of the advantages of Borgdom was that no matter the press of the crowd, no 
one wanted to actually get too close.  Colors did not normally assimilate an individual 
without reason and asking politely beforehand...normally.  None wanted to test the 
normalcy of the situation; and none especially wanted to mistakenly bump into a 
supposed Color, only to find the bumpee was actually a member of the host Collective on 
the search for reinforcements.  Therefore, the beeline taken by Delta and her team 
towards the goal of the black ship was relatively easy despite the fact progress was 
largely against the flow of the crowd.
	The black freighter's ramp was down and the main hatch unlocked, as proved 
when it opened at Delta's approach.  After all, whom would steal anything /here/?  As 
Delta led her crew inside to ready the ship for lift-off, she stopped 196 of 230 with a 
mental thought.
	{Do I have to?} asked 196 of 230 as she eyeballed the thinning crowd and eared 
the distant chants.
	{You are the last in line,} replied Delta.  {Unlock the cradle.  Comply.}
	{Yah, yah.}
	The sequence of necessary events for success whirled through Delta's mind.  Like 
any good engineer, she was obsessed with following step-by-step directions.  Before the 
freighter could lift, cradle clamps had to be disengaged; and only after that could other 
looming obstacles such as docking tractors and forcefields be considered.  At least there 
were no exterior doors to the reprocessing facility to worry about, such things 
unnecessary when the Borg drones whom normally populated the node were unbothered 
by lack of an atmosphere should forcefield wards fail.  However, first things first, and 
that meant the cradle.
	While her team separated to attend to the necessities for escape, Delta stalked to 
the nearest computer access, jacking herself into the slumbering system.  A few swift 
prods to the computer rewarded her with both diagnostics and sensors.  Allowing the 
output of the former to wash through her automatic systems, Delta's primary 
consciousness used the latter to extend the awareness of the Whole, to see what was 
happening on the other side of the vehicle reprocessing facility.
	{Wow, I didn't know administrators could be so...vicious,} commented 227 of 
240 quietly.  Mostly the bureaucrats were fighting among themselves, coifed gladiators 
locked in a free-for-all battle where the prize was to convince Upper Management of the 
seriousness of their demands.  Heads were being bashed by picket signs; and amazing, 
and disturbing, things were being accomplished with PADDs and stylus.  Chants had 
turned ugly.  At the edges of the chaotic mob Borg drones were attempting to restore 
some semblance of order using any means - terminal and other - possible.  However, the 
disputing parties were not cooperating, factions momentarily disregarding their own 
issues to respond to the interlopers, much as a warring couple will turn against the police 
sent to restore peace.
	It was highly unlikely that the freighter's invasion had gone unobserved by the all-
seeing Borg Collective.  It was simply that it was of lesser importance at the moment than 
quelling the strike.  The reprieve would not last, especially when the freighter left its 
docking cradle:  the Collective took a very dim view of those whom tried to 'liberate' its 
rightfully stolen possessions.
	The sensor feed was regulated to a background process as a nearly subliminal 
rumble signaled engine initiation.  {Status,} requested Delta of 196 of 230.
	{Almost there.  Don't close the door without me!  I want to ride on the inside, not 
cling to the hull,} said 196 of 230.  The drone was just forward of the port bow, before 
the small console which allowed for local control of the cradle.  She was in the processes 
of disengaging the magnetic clamp system by the simple expedient of smashing the 
controls.  As 196 of 230's arm rose for another application of spiked elbow to exposed 
circuitry, a heavy pressure settled upon her shoulder.
	"This is an unauthorized area and you are performing non-contractual duties," 
stated a deep voice with more than a trace of reverberation.  "Identify your Color and 
work detail.  Comply."
	{Oh, crap,} said 196 of 230 as she was forcefully spun about.  Filling her visual 
feed were two drones of the tactical variety.  Simultaneous the demand, a pressure 
weighted 196 of 230's mind, a non-physical assault upon mental shields which was as 
dangerous, if not more so, as the heavily armed reality standing in front of her.  Faced 
with the growing compulsion, 196 of 230 surrendered.  "We are Borg.  Our identification 
are as units of the sub-collective of Cu-"
	{Command pathway priority 12 of 19 to engineering unit 196 of 230:  emergency 
shut-down,} spoke Delta.  The feed from 196 of 230 abruptly cut as higher order mental 
processes suspended.  However, the unfolding scene outside the freighter remained 
accessible, the broad armored backs of the two tacticals within the sights of 21 of 42 and 
13 of 240.
	The crowbar and the spanner are among the chief tools of an engineer, able to be 
employed in a wide variety of situations.  In this case, one of each was applied with great 
force and exquisite precision to the back of the heads of the two tacticals.  They fell 
boneless to the ground, unconscious:  not even Borg armor was proof against heavy 
lengths of solid metal.  While 21 of 42 grasped 196 of 230 by an arm and began to drag 
her back to the freighter, 13 of 240 completed the job of disengaging the cradle 
mechanism.
	Now the team was /really/ in trouble.  It was highly unlikely that the Greater 
Consciousness had been riding the tactical pair, attention directed to one of a thousand 
other priorities of which the riot was a minor overall concern.  Eventually, however, 
routine status query would reveal the off-lined nature of the two; and a conclusion would 
swiftly form that it had /not/ been the result of the labor dispute.  
	127 of 230 pinged Delta for her attention.  {We are lifting off.  We did try to relay 
excuse scenario A, but no one seems to be listening.  Sure you can drive that bucket of 
bolts?}  The shuttle-bus was joining the mass exodus, one more anonymous transport 
among the many whom did not want to be present when the cacky really hit the 
oscillating blades.
	Delta sent a brief acknowledgement, not bothering to respond to the question.  
{Are we ready to leave?} she asked her team instead as she absorbed the most recent 
diagnostic updates from the freighter's computer.  Positive replies swiftly returned, except 
for 196 of 230, who remained off-line.  With a flick of the mind, the outer hatch was 
closed and the ramp lifted.  {Here goes something.}
	Driving was not an action Delta habitually performed, leaving it to command and 
control or, when appropriate, weaponry hierarchy.  There were individual drones like 127 
of 230 whom had been shuttle jockeys in their former lives, although Delta was not 
among them.  On the other hand, it was actually the computer that did the driving, the 
function of the pilot to steer, press the accelerator, or engage the brakes...or at least that 
was the standard set-up.
	{A clutch?  This thing has a manual clutch?  What sort of /antique/ is this piece of 
junk?  What species builds a ship with a /clutch/?} complained Delta as the freighter 
lifted from the cradle in a not-so-smooth movement.  The inertial dampers, a less than 
adequately maintained system fitting with the freighter's overall theme, could not hide the 
abrupt jerk as the vessel lurched into motion.
	{196 of 230 just slid into my ankle,} complained 21 of 42.
	Retorted Delta, {Did you not secure her?}
	{I didn't know the ride was going to be this rough!}
	Another voice intruded, this one 101 of 230:  {I think I'm going to be sick.}  This, 
despite the fact that a drone was theoretically immune to nausea, not to mention lacking a 
functional digestive tract.
	The freighter lunged upward thirty meters, then sideways ten.  {Can any of /you/ 
drive a stick?  Yes?  No?  Then stop complaining.  And tie down 196 of 230 before she 
slides into something critical and breaks it.}  Fifteen meters of altitude was lost before 
Delta could adequately engage vertical control.  Her bodies rattled against each other.
	The ride suddenly smoothed, although not due to Delta's actions.
	As expected, a docking tractor had latched onto the vessel.  To fight was futile, 
tractors used to move captured warships over a kilometer long more than sufficient to 
hold a run-down, fifty meter freighter.  Still, one had to try....  Delta revved the joke of an 
impulse engine, then held both her breaths as an acrid smoke began to fill the ship's 
interior.
	The ship jumped forward; and brakes had to be applied lest the freighter slide 
nose-first into a rapidly approaching (and newly paneled) wall.  Almost stalling, the 
engine just hung on, saving itself and all onboard from an inglorious landing.  Through it 
all, ship diagnostics serenely insisted nothing was amiss, other than a malfunctioning 
microwave oven in the galley.
	{What happened?} queried 13 of 240.  It was obvious that the tractors were no 
longer locked onto the freighter.  As to the reason?
	Delta captured a sensor feed, focusing it upon the bureaucrat strike.  With that 
special quality only mobs and amoeba possess, the crowd had flung out a pseudopod, 
flailing until it had contacted something.  That something was a primary power control 
cluster, the angular geometric forms comprising the node now at the center of a seething 
mass of hair frozen into a variety of trendy styles.  A mushroom cloud was rising from 
the node, interior lit by hellish hairspray-fueled flames.  As with everything else Borg, 
the tractor system sported multiple redundancies; and it was only a matter of time before 
full control and power would be rerouted.  It was best to take advantage of the situation 
as it stood.  Therefore Delta pivoted the ship to face it towards the exit portal, grinding 
the clutch into 'first, sort of, maybe second' gear to put it into motion.
	The freighter jigged, fell, rose; and a thought formed in the communal mindspace.
	{Shields!  Working on it!}  In the travesty of Engineering, 21 of 42 and 6 of 19 
tore open panels and began to string wire.  The vessel had garnered the attention of the 
local submind, and an increasing number of tactical drones were abandoning the effort to 
placate the bureaucrats, shifting to take potshots at the freighter.  Even in its dilapidated 
condition, chassis-mounted disruptors were not a threat to Delta and her team.  An assault 
force beamed on to the ship was a completely different story, one which only a shield 
would impede.
	A loud clang rang throughout the vessel.  Delta queried the computer, which 
continued to insist everything to be perfect.  She was not quite sure what had occurred, 
but steering, already sluggish, was approaching that generally experienced only by riders 
of pregnant hippopotami.
	21 of 42 called, {Shields up.  196 of 230 isn't contributing at the moment, and as 
she has the best floating point Mandelbrot randomizer algorithm, the system has been 
routed through her cerebral cortex.  She may have a slight headache when she wakes up.}  
Understatement.  Frequency randomization was necessary to prevent the local 
transporters from simply matching shield harmonics and beaming through the barrier.  To 
run the entire load of such an operation run through the hardware of a single drone would 
surely impact the associated wetware.
	{196 of 230 was a good troubleshooter,} acknowledged Delta.  {Hopefully she 
will have the ability to do more than push a broom when and if we escape.  Otherwise I 
foresee our efficiency levels dropping, again.}
	In fits and starts the freighter approached the egress, a vast opening warded by a 
green-tinged forcefield.  It was flickering oddly, both to visuals and ship sensors, 
assuming the latter was processing data correctly.  Delta brought the freighter to a halt to 
more closely examine the forcefield, or at least that was her plan.  Instead, the clutch 
slipped, sending the vessel hurtling forward at whiplash speed.
	Once the deck stopped spinning, Delta picked up both herself and reconnected to 
the ship's computer.  They were outside.  {That was anticlimactic.}
	{196 of 230 knocked me over,} moaned 21 of 42.  {A bit of assistance here?  Her 
foot broke my nose.}
	{I thought you secured her!} accused Delta even as she extended the sensor grid 
to search for one particular ship signature.  A swarm of vessels was exiting the node.  
Many were immediately captured by the two flanking Battle-class cubes, tractors 
stabbing out - to break a contract was unacceptable, especially when further interior work 
remained to be completed.  Other ships were successfully evading the cubes, trekking at 
best possible speed to reach a location where FTL drives could be engaged.
	The freighter's engine abruptly stalled.
	Delta's stereo groan of frustration echoed throughout the cube.
	{You flooded it!}  The accusation was from 127 of 230, mental voice 'distant' 
even as she offered her criticism.
	Retorted Delta.  {Did not!  I'm amazed we made it this far without this 
malfunctioning piece of junk falling apart.}
	{You did!}
	{Did not.}
	{Yes, you did!}
	Inserted 6 of 19 into the melee, {It's flooded.}
	{There are ten engineering drones on this tub, including myself.  Between us, we 
should be able to /unflood/ the engine.}
	Suggestions followed, some useful and others not.  While the most expedient 
course of action was to wait for the relays to clear themselves before attempting to restart 
the engine, that was one ten minute block the team did not possess.  Already the Battle-
class duo were abandoning their position to advance on the freighter; and sensors 
indicated other Borg cubes and spheres present at Supply Depot #761 were similarly 
altering trajectories.
	A hail shivered the communication grid.  Delta gingerly answered it.
	Boomed the Collective Multivoice over ship speakers, "Unidentified units:  you 
have grossly broken the terms of your contract, including sixty-seven subclauses.  
Identify your Color and work detail number.  Comply."  Apparently volume control was 
yet another of those subsystems which did not work.
	Delta attempted to restart the engines and failed.  The freighter's current trajectory 
would intersect node #7 in seven hours.  However, that eventuality was unlikely to occur, 
Collective vessels tractoring the ship long before then.  Delta sucked in her breath to 
respond to the demand, even going so far to access the carefully constructed lie which 
had yet to be used.  Then, with a mental head shake, she discarded it.
	"This subunit belongs to no Color.  We are of the Collective.  We are Borg," 
answered Delta.  Her singular (duet) voice echoed loudly despite the fact that she had told 
the computer to shut off the speakers.  "We are of Exploratory-class Cube #347.  And we 
are /not/ rogue."
	There was an ominous pause as the Collective digested the defiant words.  One 
could almost feel the attention of trillions redirected as the Greater Consciousness 
reprioritized Itself, moving one previously irrelevant freighter and its crew to the top of 
the to-do list.  "You will be exterminated," pronounced the Multivoice before severing 
the transmission with an audible *pop*.
	Delta cranked the engine again.  For a moment it seemed as if it would catch, but 
that hope was swiftly dashed.  {So much for that.  And I was really hoping to be there 
when Weapons finally terminated himself.}
	{Weapons does have his uses,} spoke a familiar signature into all the minds of 
Delta's team.  {And nice speech, short and to the point.  I don't think the Greater 
Consciousness listened, unfortunately.}
	{Captain!}  The name was cried in unison by twelve relieved drones as their 
small mindspace expanded to four thousand points of view.
	Quipped Second, {That's 4 of 8's subdesignation.  Don't wear it out.}
	A large bulk eclipsed the freighter's sensor grid.  Delta automatically meshed 
herself with Cube #347's engineering diagnostics, wincing as she skimmed the reports - 
an emergency stop from hypertranswarp was not kind to systems, especially those as 
already abused as the cube's.  Eight tractor beams lanced out to grapple the freighter, but 
were unsuccessful, not from missing their mark but rather due to the ship's still-raised 
shields.
	{Just a moment,} called 21 of 42 hurriedly as cube weapons locked.  Several jury-
rigged wires were ripped from 196 of 230's head.  Shields collapsed.  {Try again?}
	This time the freighter was captured.
	Cried 127 of 230 and 98 of 310 together, {What about us?}
	{That may be a little bit more tricky,} calmly said Weapons as Cube #347 
pivoted.  The freighter swung around, stabilizing in a trailing position which had an 
unfortunately excellent view of the Collective mini-armada maneuvering around nodes in 
an attempt to gain a clear line of fire.  {We shall see what we can do.}
	Delta closed her eyes.  Too bad that action did not actually block the sight of what 
was to come.

	"Well?" asked Delta, both of her waving a hand at the fifty meter monstrosity 
which took center stage in Bulk Cargo Hold #2.  Two of the original six fins were gone 
and there were large scratches from stem to stern.  In Delta's opinion it improved the 
ship's appearance.  "What, exactly, did we risk ourselves for?"
	Frank, a very nervous EMH, hemmed and hawed.
	"If you dare tell me we stole the wrong ship...."
	Head frantically shook back and forth.  "No!  This is the right object.  I was just, 
um, er...."  The explanation trailed into inaudibility.  "The paint," whispered the 
hologram, "all which was needed was the paint, maybe a hull plate worth."
	Delta blinked.  She turned body A to peer closer at the freighter's side.  "Paint is 
not a mysterious 'phasic metal', and it certainly isn't liquid."
	" I don't understand, neither," protested Frank.  "All I know is that the paint is the 
component.  I don't know how I know, I just /know/."
	{Ugh...I just stepped in some sort of tar,} commented 81 of 310 from the other 
side of the vessel.  It was a general intranet broadcast to whomever was working in the 
bulk cargo hold.  {I have never seen such a ill-maintained bucket still able to fly.}
	Body B stooped, looking under the cradle which secured the freighter.  Black 
liquid, alike that noticed in the vehicle reprocessing facility on Supply Depot #761, 
splattered the deck.  Delta reached out with a finger, running it through one of the 
deposits as she simultaneously stared at the hull.  "Liquid."
	Frank knew better than to say anything.
	Delta squinted, then shifted to viewing the freighter not from her own points-of-
view, but rather that of cameras embedded in the ceiling of the bulk cargo hold.  81 of 
310 was correct, this was the worse maintained vessel ever to ply the deep space between 
stars, yet the cube had chased it through several sectors, never quite catching up.  It was a 
caricature, an exaggeration.
	A sham.
	{Assimilation, I require several of your hierarchy to closely examine the 
computer system of our new acquisition,} said Delta.  The attention of the sub-collective 
was now upon her and the unusual request.
	{What have we found?} queried Captain, the sub-collective initiating a 
conversation with itself.
	Delta rubbed the oily substance between finger and thumb thoughtfully.  {Perhaps 
new technology.  I do not know what 'phasic metal' is, but this ship is more than it 
seems.}
	The sound of transporter beams announced the arrival of four assimilation 
hierarchy drones.  They eagerly trotted up the main ramp and into the freighter, enthused 
to be employed in an actual task that did not involve grey paint or growing nanites.
	"Next?" asked Delta, body A pivoting to face Frank.
	The hologram ducked his head.  "Yes, I think I've figured it out.  I had to connect 
my matrix to the engineering files - very similar to drone maintenance in some respects, 
which is quite disturbing - in order to find-"
	"I don't have time for this," interrupted Delta impatiently.  "Did you or did you 
not determine how to contain the partially concocted vaccine?  My hierarchy has enough 
to deal with without repairing holes through all the decks."
	"Yes."
	"Elaborate."
	"I don't know all the particulars, but there appears to be some property to the 
nacelle sheath of a warp nacelle that..." began Frank.  He very quickly meandered off into 
the world of engineering technobabble.
	The key was the cerametallic alloy which lined the inner plasma sheath of a warp 
nacelle; and, more specifically, a used warp nacelle.  The odd quantum stresses which 
affected a warp nacelle were well known in the sense that they occurred, although no 
civilization yet encountered by the Borg had comprehensively examined them.  It was 
enough for most races to know that a certain exotic material when mixed in such a way 
continued to function as required to contain the hellish energies of a warp nacelle without 
exploding, vaporizing, or otherwise becoming compromised.  Now it seemed that a glass 
beaker, if lined by a putty containing pulverized alloy, would keep the cube from 
resembling Swiss cheese.
	Maybe.
	Frank was pretty sure, although he hadn't actually tested the theory yet.
	A loud bang echoed off the bulk cargo hold walls, followed several seconds later 
by a series of metallic thumps and, finally, the tinkle of broken glass.  "Go home," sighed 
Delta.
	"What?" questioned the hologram, only half-way through his elaboration.
	Repeated Delta.  "Go home.  Go back to Doctor.  Do whatever it is that you do.  
I'll deal with you later when I've finished my other priorities."
	Frank stood still for a long moment as he accessed certain datathreads, then 
abruptly vanished.  The expression upon his face just before disappearance had been a 
wince.
	Delta understood perfectly.
	It was only a matter of rounding the freighter's bow to bring into direct 
perspective the origination of the noises which had so rapidly shifted Delta's ever 
fluctuating priorities.  Cube #347 had been unable to lock onto the shuttle-bus with 
tractors, although all the contents were grabbed with a transporter less than a second 
before it had disintegrated under a barrage of torpedoes.  The fact that two of the six 
missiles had originated from Cube #347 was something Weapons was loath to discuss, 
claiming that the transport had 'looked enemy-ish'.  Regardless, drones and goods had 
been retrieved, then summarily dumped in the middle of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 as a large, 
unstructured pile.
	The final stage of Cube #347's escape had been more luck (or, as Borg did not 
believe in luck, a series of fortuitous consequences) than anything resembling skill.  The 
cube should have been captured or destroyed, but instead Captain had jumped it to 
hypertranswarp milliseconds prior to deployment of several subspace ripple charges by 
Supply Depot #761's defenders.  With FTL temporarily disrupted, the Collective's local 
resources had been unable to follow.
	By that point in the running battle, Delta had been oblivious concerning her 
personal survival, instead engrossed with tallying damage resulting from the insane 
rescue and reviewing 19 of 19's performance as temporary Engineer.  The former had 
been less than expected; and of the latter, while there were some questionable actions, the 
overall status of the cube had not degraded during Delta's absence.
	It was the pile of equipment, small warp nacelle pointing almost straight up from 
the middle of the chaos, which currently required Delta's attention.  A spill of synthetic 
crystals arced away from a kicked bucket; and sprawled atop of the crystals was 81 of 
310.  Several drones were in the process of trying to prod 81 of 310 to the edge of the 
spill with long metal spars, stepping on the loose crystals themselves akin to skating on 
ball bearings.  All paused as Delta's bodies halted, eyes panning the situation.  A rope 
materialized in the waiting hand of body A.
	Delta had not retrieved all the items on the shopping list, but of those which had 
been acquired, she highly desired to keep them whole.
	"200 of 310, you practice rope tricks," stated Delta as she tossed the coils at the 
named drone, hitting him in the face when he was not quick enough to drop the spar he 
was holding.  "Put your obsession to use for once and lasso 81 of 310.  All else, our task 
is to dismantle this pile efficiently and with minimal damage to ourselves or the 
components.  Let us do so."
	Delta's holiday was over.