At the Star Trek sound stage, Paramount is in charge.  Decker directs over at the Star 
Traks theater.  The set made out of cardboard boxes belongs to BorgSpace and Meneks.

			The Revolution Will Be Televised

	Trumpets and drums wove a dark variation of a familiar fanfare theme.  As the 
brass faded to ominous bass beats, a logo well-known to the galactic news-watching 
audience rippled into existence against a starry background.  "GNN - Special Police 
Action Report!" proclaimed the words which followed the logo's solidification.  After 
several dramatically tense seconds, the text dissolved and remnant percussion quieted, 
leaving behind empty space.
	The scene did not remain empty for long.  Stars, after all, did not garner high 
prime-time ratings except among a very narrow demographic.
	The view suddenly zoomed in, targeting four formerly indiscernible specks.  
Without the illumination of a nearby sun, all should have been invisible, or at least 
reduced to a pattern of hull lights.  However, via the voodoo of technology, the 
confrontation was as clear as if filmed under the best of studio controlled conditions.
	Two huge cubes and an even larger sphere roughly encircled a much smaller third 
cube.  The vessel in the middle was slowly spinning in the classic Borg defense, although 
it was unlikely that the action would adequately disperse damage should the 
confrontation escalate.  Oddly, destruction /was not/ happening, which would have the 
knowledgeable audience member confused because it was blatantly obvious from the hull 
lighting scheme that three Collective ships-of-the-line had trapped a single Green 
Exploratory-class cube.  In such a situation, the normal course of action was for the 
original Borg Mind to summarily remove from existence the lone Colored asset.
	Finally, a voice growing increasingly familiar to the watching news audience 
began to speak:   "This is Lena Juconi, GNN reporter, coming to you from beyond the 
front lines..."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 was corralled.  A pair of Battle-class cubes and an Assault-class 
sphere held firm targeting locks upon the much smaller Exploratory-class, lashing the 
sensor grid with reminders that imminent threat could become reality at any moment.  
The trio were a pittance of the force which could be set against Cube #347, many more 
vessels of similar tonnage attached to the nearby Unimatrix 004, but likely the Greater 
Consciousness had determined the three to be adequate to handle any problem which 
might develop.  As always, the Collective was correct in its assessment...at least in the 
militaristic sense.  It was for this reason that Cube #347's shields were down and power to 
/all/ weapons (or anything which could conceivably be modified to be a weapon by a 
certain hierarchy head whom maintained a vast 'MacGyver' file) was cut.  The cube was 
doing the equivalent of cowering while the Big Dogs growling overhead decided whether 
or not to tear apart their prey.
	Which was not to imply that the sub-collective was defenseless, just that there 
were other measures of persuasion which did not rely upon whom had the larger quantum 
torpedo.
	Needless to say, Weapons did not approve.
	"...to stop us from terminating this unit and salvaging what we desire from its 
wreckage?" chorused a Multivoice.
	{Gesture with your hands a bit and say "Such an action would not be effective.  
We can provide many vital karaoke-related services in addition to equipment."  Try to put 
a bit of, well, scorn in the reply.}
	"Such an action would not be effective.  We can provide many vital karaoke-
related services in addition to equipment," repeated a singular, synthetic voice, monotone 
a greater component to the words than scorn.  An arm was stiffly waved.
	Ominously answered the Multivoice, "We could absorb the relevant data from 
your unit's computers and drones."
	{Say "We will self-destroy all trade secrets first!  You would gain nothing for 
your expenditures.  Inefficient."}
	"We will self-destroy all trade secrets first!  You would gain nothing for your 
expenditures.  Inefficient."
	The Multivoice was silent for several long beats before finally replying, "We must 
consider our options."
	In the middle of Captain's nodal intersection,  8 of 8 fidgeted slightly.  The 
Chuckareen had undergone vast changes since her abduction and incorporation into the 
sub-collective to fill an empty Hierarchy of Eight spot.  The most obvious alteration was 
the replacement of her right arm with a prosthetic, in addition to the standard suite of 
body suit/armor, implants, hoses, blinking diodes, and so forth.  Unseen modifications 
included metabolic adjustment, a necessity as 8 of 8's base species otherwise functioned 
poorly in the normal warmth and humidity of a Borg cube.  If 8 of 8 had been 
immediately transferred to the Collective, she might have made a decent, if 
unspectacular, drone.  
	Unfortunately, assimilation imperfection was an insidious phenomenon; and after 
successfully surviving the psyche rebuild required to break the individual to the Will of 
the Whole, 8 of 8 had been subjected to the corrupting influence of Cube #347's sub-
collective.  She never had a chance.  Minor mental instabilities which would have been 
identified by the Greater Consciousness, leading to excision or additional 
reprogramming, were allowed to bloom among the imperfectly assimilated.  As long as 8 
of 8 did not skip beyond the bounds of 'Borg', as long as she did not show rogue 
tendencies, minor neuroses were permitted.
	{We wish to return to our alcove,} spoke 8 of 8 to Captain.  She had yet to shed 
the plural for the singular in her speech pattern, but then again, even among the 
imperfectly assimilated some never did.  {Why can not CatwalkCam be used?  Why must 
we be physically present in the visual feed?  Our alcove is air conditioned.  We find 
conditions outside our alcove oppressive.}
	Standing at the juncture of nodal intersection to alcove tier, out of pickup range of 
the camera, Captain narrowed his eye as he stared at the other drone.  8 of 8 had become 
increasingly self-confident over the last several months as it became apparent she was to 
survive her Borgification.  On the one hand, such mental fortitude was a necessity among 
the Hierarchy of Eight where one had to be In Charge of four thousand disparate quasi-
individuals.  Early in her assimilation, questions had been raised as to 8 of 8's intrinsic 
ability to cope, the Chuckareen species submissive and high-strung to the point that 
medical files catalogued a large number of stress-related disorders, some fatal.   On the 
other hand, too much assertiveness was intolerable, not by the Borg, not by a consensus 
monitor and facilitator.  A drone, even a member of the Hierarchy of Eight, even a 
Captain, had to be compliant to the Will of the Whole.
	{You will survive,} replied Captain.  {Air conditioning is irrelevant.  If you bring 
up the subject one more time, not only will engineering be instructed to remove the air 
conditioning unit you bodged into your alcove, you will be assigned to oversee and 
facilitate our hullside maintenance activities.  On site.  Vacuum and temperatures 
approaching absolute zero will provide a different aspect to your complaint.  Do you 
understand?}
	Obviously 8 of 8 felt the warning tingle of compliance pathways because she was 
appropriately contrite in her response.  {We understand.}
	{Good.  As far as why the visual arrangements, you know the reason:  Green does 
not typically use CatwalkCam, but a liaison.  We are attempting to spoof Green.  
Additionally, /you/ are unknown to the Collective, whereas I, or any other Hierarchy of 
Eight drone, are.  You were assimilated after this sub-collective's vinculum incident; and 
as such, the Collective does not have an updated crew roster.  Therefore, you are the most 
suitable designation to place in front of the camera as a puppet proxy.}
	8 of 8 began to turn to face Captain, mouth opening in preparation to speak her 
reply aloud.
	Snapped Captain, {Eyes front!  No talking!  Wait for the Collective to resume the 
conversation and us to contrive the appropriate response!}
	{We comply,} mechanically said 8 of 8 as her body froze.
	Captain sighed.  CatwalkCam or a more seasoned member of the Hierarchy of 
Eight playing liaison would have been more efficient.  Unfortunately, the current 
arrangement was necessary.  It was one thing for the Greater Consciousness to maintain a 
low awareness at a location swarming with the nonassimilated, like Supply Depot #761, 
which would account for a prime unit like Delta to remain undetected.  In the case of a 
major nexus that also functioned as the central depository of coveted used warp nacelles, 
it was a completely different scenario.  While minor designations would be ignored, those 
belonging to node status would be immediately identified.
	Captain absently raised his whole hand to prod at the new external implant 
attached to his neck.
	{Don't touch!} vehemently warned Doctor, who had an observatory subprogram 
tied into every drone with a history of poking things better left unpoked.
	"Don't touch!" exclaimed 8 of 8, utterly out of place.
	There was a long moment of silence.
	Uttered Second from the intranet background, {"You can't touch our bargains."}
	8 of 8 shifted her eyes - neither had been replaced with an ocular prosthetic - to 
glance at Captain.  Her species was physiologically unable to sweat, but the sudden 
anxiety radiating from her was a more than adequate substitute.  Captain waved a go-
ahead gesture while at the same time sending a measure of wordless calm.
	"Don't touch!  Er, you can't t-t-touch our bargains," stuttered 8 of 8.  The words 
must have been satisfactory, for the three Collective warships continued to not-fire.
	{Second,} called Captain towards his backup, {take over.  I need to go to drone 
maintenance and have the scrambler adjusted.  Again.  The connector prongs are just not 
holding the thing in place.}
	Second materialized next to Captain, allowing the latter to beam himself to the 
nearest drone maintenance workshop.  While neither his nor Second's presence was 
strictly necessary, 8 of 8 performed better if a coach was physically nearby.
	"This is the fourth time since the scrambler was attached that you have visited," 
was Captain's greeting from 120 of 153 as the sight of Maintenance Bay #2 solidified.
	Focusing on his welcoming committee, Captain tapped the half-fist-sized device 
which glommed to his neck like an oversized, metal tick.  "It is drone maintenance's fault 
that the scrambler specifically adapted for my physiology was swapped with 63 of 203.  
He is species #2535; and I am species #2553.  While the error does not matter in his case 
due to his relatively thin epidermis, my thicker skin, not to mention subdermal 
modifications, means that the scrambler keeps threatening to detach.  Drone maintenance 
routinely performs complex surgeries...surely keeping a single external implant in place 
should be easy."
	120 of 153 rolled her eyes, then pointed at a spot next to an empty workbench.  
"Go stand over there and I'll see what I can do."
	As Captain did as he was bade, 120 of 153 went to the main supply station which 
sat against one wall and began pulling open drawers in a hunt for appropriate 
paraphernalia.  Several chew toys and a dog biscuit had to be extracted before the 
contents of one of the cubbies could be sorted.  Before long, an assortment of wires, 
staples, and other materials suitable to attach one item to another were arrayed on the 
counter top.
	The next-to-the-last ingredient in the quantum elixir which would return the Borg 
Collective to full functionality was located at Unimatrix 004.  From the beginning, the 
sub-collective had known the trip to be inevitable; and, from the beginning, the sub-
collective had attempted to postpone the inevitable.  Even Luplup had been preferable to 
approaching the heavily protected unimatrix that was currently serving as the Collective's 
used warp nacelle storage depot.  Unfortunately, the final item on the recipe list made the 
current one - omega altered used warp nacelle plasma, crystalline condensate - appear as 
easy as stealing candy from a baby.  Of course, in this case the candy was fresh meat and 
the baby was a starved targ.
	The analogy for the final element did not bear thinking about.
	Before the crystalline condensate could be appropriated, however, the cube 
needed to approach Unimatrix 004 whilst staying in one piece.  To that end, the sub-
collective had devised a plan whereupon the cube presented itself as a Green traveling 
sales-cube specializing in all things karaoke.  Such a scheme should have been ludicrous, 
except for that karaoke obsession was one of the symptoms of the Collective's quantum 
infection.  Engineering had changed the exterior lighting filters to the appropriate hue; 
and certain ex-nefarious elements of the sub-collective had spliced programs into the 
comm and other relevant systems so that standard scans would declare the ship to be 
consistent with Green.  As it was highly unlikely that the Borg Collective would call to 
Green to confirm credentials or that a Green ship would arrive at the unimatrix, the 
greatest danger of the deception being uncovered came not from external threats, but 
rather the inside.
	The fractal frequency linkage which tied all drones into One was ever-shifting, 
new encryptions constantly replacing the old.  The security protocol was necessary to 
prevent outsider access to the Borg communication system.  As the denizens of Cube 
#347 were Borg drones, they could 'hear' the song of their Collective, but only as 
whispers leaking through a thick wall.  Additional resolution was impossible due to their 
severance from the Greater Consciousness and, thus, lack of knowledge of current 
security algorithms.  Overriding the routine give-and-take was the siren call of 
reintegration, a continually broadcast request understandable by all Collective drones.  If 
even one unit on Cube #347 surrendered to that call with the equivalent of "Here is this 
drone!", the sub-collective entire was screwed.
	The foray to Supply Depot #761 had been slightly different than the current 
circumstance.  There, one of the parameters in selecting the engineering drones had been 
fortitude to resist the reintegration request; and even then, when a suspicious Greater 
Consciousness had fully focused upon 196 of 230, Delta had been forced to shut her 
down to prevent a response.  As it was impossible to baby-sit every designation whom 
might answer reintegration - all drones, even Captain, were potentially susceptible - a 
different scheme had to be devised.  Thus, the scramblers.
	The scrambler was a device used to isolate a drone from its Collective, blocking 
all outbound fractal frequency transmissions.  As Borg rarely took Colored prisoners, its 
use was infrequent, but on occasion necessary.  In this case, the polarity had been 
reversed, preventing the drone subject from perceiving all exterior transmissions.  A 
single fractal frequency slot had been left open to allow intradrone communication 
among Cube #347 units, a necessary weakness and one unlikely to be found and 
exploited by the Collective.
	Captain bared his neck as 120 of 153 approached with a tray of materials deemed 
to have potential to keep his scrambler from falling off.  As the other drone was not quite 
tall enough to reach her work area, she also scooted along a stool with one foot.  
Eventually patient and maintenance drone were in position to begin the minor operation.
	{Don't move, else I might nick something,} commented 120 of 153 as she used a 
pair of pliers to worm wire through Captain's neck and beneath the scrambler.
	Locking his body against inadvertent movement, Captain turned inward to the 
dataspaces.  The Collective had still not returned to negotiations, which could be good or 
bad depending on how the unknowable consensus cascade was progressing.  As the 
weapons hierarchy continued to behave itself, primary attention was redirected 
elsewhere.  {Delta:  status update.}
	In Bulk Cargo Hold #5, both of Delta labored at her assigned task.  Over the last 
week, the already largely empty cargo hold - use by Weapons for his BorgCraft training 
scenarios meant the hold was not a good place to store anything which had to remain in 
one piece - had been striped to its bare walls.  Everything had been relocated elsewhere 
within the cube, which was an utter pain in the case of several items.  In place of the 
normal bric-a-brac, a showroom had been constructed, a shrine to all things karaoke.  
Demo systems ranged from a microphone and two speakers to an elaborate studio able to 
accommodate an entire band including dancers and backup singers.  Kiosks linked to data 
files, which in turn were slaved to the holoprojectors to allow visualization of customized 
special orders.
	{Which primary task?} inquired Delta as body B fussed with the wiring of a 
stereo speaker.  Diagnostics had been unhelpful in locating the short creating 
unacceptable subharmonics.  {This stupid karaoke showroom or the PMS armor 
application?}
	Captain radiated confusion over the acronym, unused in his ken before now.  
However, he was unwilling to take the time to go spelunking through engineering files to 
learn what Delta would undoubtedly enlightening him about before long.  {Karaoke 
first.}
	"Test.  Test.  Test - one, two, three.  Test."  Pause.  "I am a rock star!  Look at me 
rock!  Rock!  Rock!"
	{Will someone remove that microphone from 87 of 230?  Again?  He /does not/ 
have anything resembling singing ability.  Even First Person Plural has a better grasp of 
the concept of music,} called Delta towards Demo Stage #4.
	To invoke the five-drone catastrophe which was First Person Plural, Cube #347's 
answer to audio torture, as superior to 87 of 230 was saying a lot.
	Delta answered Captain, {Disregarding last-minute repairs and tests, we are ready 
for customers in Bulk Cargo Hold #5.}  She did not bother to conceal her true thoughts as 
to the waste of time the karaoke showroom represented.  However, personal opinions 
were irrelevant, and Delta was an excellent drone when it came to matters of compliance.  
{Complete project files, including tasks which remain to completed, can be accessed at 
address block h62.8-b.}
	Captain figuratively glanced over the many gigabytes of detailed report before 
passing it to a command and control partition for integration into the /knowing/ of the 
sub-collective entire.  In Maintenance Bay #2, his body reported minor burns as 120 of 
153 performed a bit of spot welding.  The damage was insignificant, quickly repaired by 
nanites.  {And before the second update, enlighten us outside the engineering hierarchy 
upon "PMS".}
	Within the intranet, Second snickered (and then promptly warned 8 of 8 to not 
repeat the noise).
Ignoring his backup consensus monitor, Captain reiterated, {Delta, expand and 
explain.}
	{Time to complete PMS armor deployment is three cycles.  Assumption is-} 
began Delta.
	Captain cut into the nascent summary, {What does "PMS" stand for?}
	Like any good engineer, Delta /needed/ acronyms.  The more obscure, the better.  
With body B squinting over the speaker wiring, the engineering hierarchy head answered, 
{"Phasic Metal Substance" armor.  It does not have the characteristics of the original 
phasic metal, and as it takes too long to verbalize an accurate description, the shortened 
formula was necessary.}
	{In the intranet and dataspace, there is a negligible time savings between "PMS" 
and "Phasic Metal Substance."  Why...never mind.  I had aspirations to be an engineer 
too, once, before my career change.}  Something wet was leaking into the neckline of 
Captain's armor.  He could have switched to 120 of 153's visual feed, else a Maintenance 
Bay #2 camera, but it was probably for the best not to inquire.  He mentally shook his 
head.  {It is understood.  Continue, Delta.}
	{Estimation of complete PMS armor deployment is three cycles.  Adaptation of 
species #4404 paint technology has made original backpack sprayers obsolete.  
Obviously, hullside drone detachments cannot be used in the present situation to 
complete the task until the threat of combat has lessened.  Assumptions-}
	{What do you find so amusing?} overrode Captain, not to Delta, but at a chortling 
Second.
	Questioned Second, {PMS armor?  Does it have mood swings?  Cramps?}
	Clueless, both Delta and Captain performed the intranet equivalent of raised-
eyebrow staring.  Dismissing Second and his obscure references, of which hunting down 
required too much time better spent on other endeavors, the engineering hierarchy head 
returned to her verbal summary.  After successful slinging through the Keyhole by a 
Xenig, Cube #347 had used the nebula through which the anomaly passed as cover to 
swing around to approach Unimatrix 004 from a more Green-plausible vector.  On its 
way, the cube had detoured to a stillborn embryo of a star, nebular gasses stolen from the 
natal system by the greater gravities of nearby siblings.  The brown dwarf, radiating to 
the cosmos in infrared what little life it possessed, was a treasure trove of both exotic and 
mundane, the rocks and comets bound to the doomed system providing more than 
sufficient raw material for nanite vats to churn out the phasic metal armor.  Applying the 
armor to the hull had commenced, increasingly efficient techniques researched from cube 
files.  Currently, less than half a face remained to be covered.
	{If we successfully live through this ruse, drones teams can be deployed to the 
hull once we are at Unimatrix 004.  If inquiries are made to us, the actions can be labeled 
as hull maintenance.}  The switch from singular pronoun to plural by Delta indicated the 
collective musings of the Whole as it considered 'what-if' scenarios.
	{We understand,} intoned Captain.
	{Blurry,} moaned Sensors, breaking into the conversation between engineering 
and command and control.  {[Paint] affects sensors, makes the universe blurry for 
Sensors.}
	{It isn't the original phasic metal,} said Delta.  Tests had determined that the 
substance melted from the freighter stolen from Supply Depot #761 was transparent to 
sensor grid.  {Our reverse-engineered variation is not...perfect.  You have work-arounds.  
Perhaps blurring will affect other grids as well and assist us in avoiding too much notice 
by the Greater Consciousness.}  Thence remained the perpetual paranoia that a 
comprehensive scan would look beyond lights and other aspects of Green spoofing to 
reveal a cube not only known to the Collective, but to be possessed of a sub-collective 
declared rogue.  The only reason the Greater Consciousness was not more suspicious of 
the cube was that It Wasn't Done to so openly hide in plain sight.
	"Good to go," informed 120 of 153 brightly.  "There may be a bit of stiffness for a 
couple of hours as your systems adjust to the additional hardware.  Regeneration is 
suggested, as that will shorten the recovery period."
	Captain reached up his whole hand to feel the scrambler, only to lower it again as 
Doctor's {Don't touch!} echoed through his brain.  Instead, he had to be satisfied with the 
mirror 120 of 153 wordlessly provided him, as well as the other drone's visual feed.  
Several lengths of thin wire were now caging the scrambler, their ends disappearing into 
adjacent exposed flesh of his neck.
	"I may have hit a nerve or two," admitted 120 of 153.  "Nothing permanent."
	Captain tried to swivel his head, but found it frozen in position.  "I...see."  No 
matter.  Regeneration it was.  {Second, continue to oversee 8 of 8.  I'll be in my alcove.}
	It was at that point that the Collective finally finished considering its multitudes 
of options.  Fortunately, 'destroy the annoying Green cube' must have been one of the 
discarded decisions.  "Your unit will be escorted to Unimatrix 004.  Shields will remain 
down.  Weapons will remain disengaged.  The cube unit will be terminated if these, or 
any other directives, are not followed.  Additional instructions will be forthcoming once 
appropriate securement procedures have been completed at Unimatrix 004, node 31."
	Ordered Second, {Say, "We comply.  You will not be disappointed in our karaoke 
offerings."}
	8 of 8 dutifully repeated the words.
	"Disappointment is irrelevant," ominously commented the Multivoice.  "New 
karaoke technologies will be assimilated."

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Like," said Lena as she gestured at the holographic display, "just a little bit 
closer."  Lena Juconi - tall, athletic, blonde, beautiful - was currently a reporter for GNN, 
although her previous employee had been the gossip 'zine Starz Weekly.  Of her various 
attributes, the last two were the most important.  It is one thing to be persistent (another 
of Lena's useful qualities) when stalking an elusive tri-V star, and another thing to 
successfully talk one's way out of a tricky situation involving grumpy guards whom have 
found a certain Starz reporter digging through the personal diary the Federation President 
keeps at his chateau.  By the third break-in (the Presidential diary had been /very/ 
interesting reading), the guards, male and female, had been so taken with Lena that she 
had been given her own private entry pass.
	More recently, Lena had been hired by GNN as a front-line reporter, not for 
brains and talent, but because she added eye-candy to the otherwise dull subject of naval 
blockades.  Such was not to say she did not have intelligence - a necessity among the 
cutthroat world of the gossip 'zine - but that GNN had never bothered to look beyond 
Lena's appearance.  Serious topics were the province of the Walter Cron clones.  Those 
whom had hired Lena as expendable 'window dressing' were undoubtedly chagrined that 
their bubble-blonde was not only collecting a dedicated fan base, but also garnering a rise 
in the all-important rating.  It was probably a fluke of the fickle tri-V audience.
Lena snapped the piece of gum she had been chewing for the last several hours.
	Ted and Gingi, Lena's coworkers, as well as Gerald, captain of the chartered ship 
which accommodated the three GNN employees, did not look persuaded.  Ted, whom 
fulfilled the role of producer and editor and camera-wrangler and director, shook his head 
and said, "We've already followed that damned cube through the Keyhole and to this 
unimatrix.  In addition to the obvious Borg danger, not a lot of newsworthy material has 
been sent back to the home office.  As soon as the ratings drop below a threshold, our 
handlers will be screaming at us to return to one or another of SecFed's battle zones."
	Waving a hand, Lena dismissed the concern.  "Piffle.  The story is out here.  
However, we can't /get/ that story relying only on a telephoto lens."
	Rumbled Gerald, a squat bear of a man with human and Klingon among his 
forbearers as well as the frame of a high-gravity world native, "I don't want to be 
assimilated.  End of story.  You are paying me extra for this insane junket, but there 
comes a point where my survival outweighs your credits."
	"I doubly agree," inserted Gingi, the Andorian intern, "because /I/ barely get paid 
even when I'm not risking my butt.  Besides, I just don't like all this sneaking around.  
Now, trying to get an interview in the middle of battle while dodging disruptors, that is an 
assignment I might enjoy."
	Lena sighed.  "Trust me...we are too insignificant for the Collective.  We can 
move a lot closer-"
	"And how do /you/ know we will remain 'insignificant'?" challenged Gerald.  
"Did a little Color tell you so?  If the Borg decide we aren't insignificant, I won't have a 
chance to spend the extra credits you are paying me."
	Frowning slightly - Lena not an overly expressive person except when she was in 
front of the camera or trying to be persuasive - the reporter tilted her head slightly as she 
contemplated Gerald.  In turn, she stared at the equally obstinate faces of Ted and Gingi.  
Apparently coming to a decision, Lena chewed her gum a final time before delicately 
spitting it out and tossing it into a nearby garbage can.  "Fine.  I didn't want to bring this 
up, but I have a little something that may make you all feel a bit more confident about 
pursuing this opportunity of a lifetime."
	The empty runabout bay of Gerald's ship served as the office, production studio, 
and living quarters of the three GNN employees.  The space was not huge; and most of it 
was filled with news-related equipment.  Four people, especially when one was of 
Gerald's muscled bulk, filled up what little open room was left.  Therefore, Lena's trek to 
her luggage did not take long.
	A box with blinking lights and several loose wires was plunked down in the 
center of the small table Ted, Gingi, and Gerald sat around.  "I brought this little do-dad, 
just in case."
	"Just in case of what?" demanded Gingi.  "Just in case we found ourselves sitting 
on the Borg Collective's doorstep?  What does it do?"
	Lena shook her head, sending perfectly coifed blonde hair swaying.  "Just in case 
we found ourselves in a situation where we didn't want to be noticed.  Hooked up to the 
subspace radio, this thing broadcasts a signal that roughly translates to 'nothing here to 
see, move along'.  I call it the 'no-see-um'.  Sensor grids never 'see' us to begin with; and 
what the grids don't see, neither do the people monitoring said grids.  Of course, one is 
always at risk at being splatted against shields of the other vessels, but as long as one 
stays out of the way....  Anyway, it works against SecFed technology, as well as that 
developed by most other galactic species.  Including Borg."
	The runabout bay was quiet except for the normal noises of computers beeping at 
each other.  Gerald was the first one to break the silence.  "It looks sort of Borgish.  And 
what do you mean 'most other galactic species'?"
	"Well, Bugs and Xenigs and the like see right through the distortion.  Of course, 
they also utilize fundamentally different sensor grid systems based upon unique 
physiology or technological evolutionary histories," said Lena.  She paused as if suddenly 
realizing she was explaining a concept too complicated for the blonde stereotype.  
"Anyway, Borg sensors are not adapted from those exotic sources, so they are affected by 
this device.  As far as Borgish, well...you see, when I was a journalism grad student a 
long time ago-"
	Ted groaned.  "Don't you dare bring up that Color hogwash again.  I've heard a lot 
of tall stories in my life, but that one takes the cake.  And the kitchen along with it.  I've 
known you for less than six months, but I've more than enough experience listening to, 
and telling, tall tales to recognize 'truth expansion'."
	Although silent, Gingi waggled her short antennae in agreement.
	Gerald looked confused.  "What are you talking about?"
	"You know Lena worked for Starz Weekly?" asked Ted to Gerald.  When the 
other nodded, Ted furthered his explanation.  "Well, before that, Lena was a grad student 
at some journalism school.  Ask her for the details if you are interested.  She claims that 
for her grad degree she tracked down Colors to interview them concerning how their 
color represented their various 'specialties'.  You know, why Green is all about the credit 
and how come Red is violent.  That sort of thing."
	"You can find my thesis on the GalacWeb if you search," mildly protested Lena.
	Ignoring the blonde reporter, Ted continued, "Well, if you can believe Lena, she 
managed to find Peach.  You know, the spy-type Borgs.  The story seems to change 
slightly each time she tells it, but Lena claims she came away from Peach not only with 
her interview, but a few choice gadgets.  Personally, I think she found them from an 
'alternative' source, but she refuses to tell me the supplier.  I really don't care if it was 
legal or not, only that /I/ want some for my own."
	Lena rolled her eyes.  "It was Peach."
	Gerald glanced at the blonde reporter, then returned his gaze to Ted.  "Will that 
thing" a hand was waved at the blinking box "work as she says?"
	Ted's shoulders slumped.  "That's the thing.  Yes.  Where Lena /got/ the thing is 
debatable, but if she says it will disguise the ship from Borg sensors, it will."
	"I've some money put away for an emergency," said Lena.  She picked up a 
nearby PADD and touched several buttons on it before handing it over to the captain.  
"It's yours, Gerald, if you let me splice the gizmo to your ship - plug and play - and get 
me closer to the Borg action.  As long as you don't play chicken with or attack one of the 
cubes or spheres, the Collective will ignore us.  /Trust me/."
	"And what's in it for me?" demanded Gingi.
	"Glory.  And something that'll look /great/ on your resume," promptly answered 
Lena.  Her eyes slid sideways to Ted.  "And perhaps I can scrounge up one or two of my 
/Peach/ devices for your very own when we return to the home office."
	Ted snorted in skepticism at the Lena's continued insistence of her toys' 
origination.
	Wheedled Lena, "Well?"
	Still staring at the figure on the PADD, a wide-eyed Gerald slowly nodded his 
head in agreement.  Gingi and Ted followed in turn.
	As she clapped her hands together in a sudden revival of blonde-ism, Lena 
produced a small smile.  "Great!  I love it when everyone can agree!"

			*	*	*	*	*

	Little distinguished Unimatrix 004, node 31, from any other node at any other 
unimatrix.  The node was big.  The node was angular.  The node was linked to other 
nodes via a web-work of cables and connectors.  The scale was impressive, especially 
when one realized that the pint-sized cube passing the node was a Lugger-class.  Once the 
primary function of a unimatrix had been to guard the nexus points of the permanent 
transwarp conduit network.  Although that purpose had been made obsolete with the 
advent of hypertranswarp, nonetheless unimatrices remained central to Borg activity.  
Undoubtedly, node 31 housed several million drones, a number rendered into a pittance 
when considered against the /billions/ of units the unimatrix supported.
	Cube #347 floated several hundred meters from the subjective cliff of metal 
which was node 31.  In addition to the trio of vessels which had served as an escort into 
the periphery of Unimatrix 004, two additional Assault-class spheres lurked nearby.  
Presumably the Collective was taking precautions to prevent a wild rampage of 
destruction, but five ships-of-the-line against a lone Exploratory-class was overkill.  On 
the other hand, the Greater Consciousness was not known for thinking small.
	Besides, reassigning five ships to guard duty barely dented the fleet currently 
swarming in and around the unimatrix.
	Unimatrix 004 was the Collective's depot for used warp nacelles.  Although it was 
clearly evident that no use had been found for the nacelles, nor a determination made as 
to why entities such as the Second Federation were collecting them, the Greater 
Consciousness was taking no chances.  In the event that used warp nacelles could be 
transmogrified into a super weapon, the Borg Collective would have the largest stockpile.  
To that end, the nodes of Unimatrix 004 had been reconfigured to open a vast space in the 
center of the complex.  Ringing the central storage depot were processing yards to dissect 
nacelles from captured vessels, then recycle the resultant nacelle-less ships into raw 
materials to service Borg industry.  A vast number of cubes and spheres, representing a 
significant percentage of the Borg fleet, secured the unimatrix and surrounding volume of 
space from all intruders.
	Even a Green station-to-station traveling sales-cube.
	Locked in her alcove, Sensors' body twitched.  Antennae dipped; and both hands 
jerked upwards and stopped, trajectory aborted.  The gesture, should it be expanded to its 
full potential and another Bug be present to witness it, was that of second degree 
confusion.  Within the dataspaces, the perplexity radiating from Sensors was much 
clearer, emotion directed towards a blip on the sensor grid.  The head of the sensor 
hierarchy tweaked a small portion of the grid once again to increase resolution.
	{Sensors,} admonished Captain towards the insectoid, {return to your assigned 
duty.}
	With one nonphysical eye remaining locked to the object of her curiosity, Sensors 
rotated awareness towards Captain.  {The efficiency of the task assigned to Sensors' 
hierarchy is not degraded by her actions.  Sensors just wants to know what that ship is 
and why the local Collective is ignoring it.}  Or, at least, that is what Sensors meant to 
say to her primary consensus monitor.  As usual, translator algorithms botched her 
perfectly clear words.
	{What?} was Captain's predictable response.
	Sensors internally sighed and tried again, then a third time.  Three times must 
have been the charm because the gist finally filtered through the universal translator.
	His nodal intersection reclaimed for the moment with 8 of 8's liaison duties 
required elsewhere, Captain peered at the sensor stream Sensors was monitoring.  A 
thirty meter long, nondescript freighter of Second Federation manufacture was creeping 
inward towards the unimatrix.  Long ago the Collective had jettisoned the 'small, singular 
vessels are irrelevant' modality following encounters with the Picard-era Enterprise, and 
the mystery ship was well within the zone whereupon it should have been swarmed by 
Borg defenders.  A consensus cascade came to a conclusion.  {Continue to observe it,} 
said Captain to Sensors, {but not to the detriment of either our efficiency or our ability to 
survive our current attempt to prove we are truly insane.}
	{This sub-collective not [umber].  It is the Whole with a [touch] of [umber].  We 
will fix the Whole and [turnips] will be sung,} gravely answered Sensors.
	Captain shook his head and momentarily closed his eyes.  Neither action 
dismissed the image forming in his mind from the mistranslation.  {Okay, then.  Moving 
on.  Provide a summary on the sensor hierarchy's primary task.}
	While being escorted to the unimatrix, Cube #347 had discovered a disturbing 
development which directly impacted the sub-collective's escape plans.  Approximately 1 
AU - 150 million kilometers - from the peripheral ring of unimatrix nodes, the cube had 
crossed into a zone of odd subspace distortion.  Deep scanning into the local warp and 
woof of space revealed a signal not unalike a subspace ripple charge.  Further observation 
noted a lack of FTL use within a 1 AU zone from the unimatrix, all incoming and 
outgoing vessels trekking along at high impulse.  The final conclusion was disquieting:  
the Borg Collective had recently adapted subspace ripple charge technology into a large-
scale fixed field that prohibited use of all extraluminal propulsion.  As a defense (or, 
inevitably, an offense), the implications of the adaptation were vast, the potential to 
radically alter the tactics of space warfare forefront.
	For one Cube #347, a volume where nothing faster than impulse could be 
employed was potentially devastating.  However, that particular bridge would be crossed 
when the opportunity presented.  Until then, it was the sensor hierarchy's task to map the 
zone of distortion, to search for potential weakness.
	Thus far, as the report from Sensors outlined, none had been found.
	Summary absorbed, Captain redirected his primary attention to Bulk Cargo Hold 
#5.  On the karaoke showroom floor, Collective drones ringed several of the more 
complex displays, units undoubtedly providing a three-dimensional viewpoint for the 
Greater Consciousness, or at least the subMind tasked to Unimatrix 004.  At Demo Stage 
#4, nervous engineering drones, a twist of green cloth around biceps a visual reminder as 
to what Color they purportedly belonged, pointed out special features.  Cube #347's own 
tactical units unobtrusively ringed the perimeter, holding position against the bulkhead 
walls.  None of the Collective contingent were armed, and the much bigger guns 
positioned beyond the hull guaranteed that any battle begun would be ended with the 
cube a smear of metal, but Green modus operandi included preventative measures against 
customers who might be tempted to shoplift.
	Through it all, both Delta and Weapons were bombarding Captain with intranet 
vibes indicating each very much wanted to be in Bulk Cargo Hold #5.  Their intentions 
were vastly different, but each was restrained by the same reason; and that same logic 
required 8 of 8 to be on-site in the cargo hold to fulfill the liaison function.  If any of the 
hierarchy heads, the Hierarchy of Eight, or several of the more...memorable...members of 
the Cube #347 sub-collective were to be seen by the Collective, certain deductions were 
sure to be made by the Greater Consciousness.  The resultant consensus cascade would 
end with the realization that the Green sales-cube was anything but, and that a certain 
rogue sub-collective was figuratively sitting on the proverbial doorstep.  The exception to 
the rule was the current 8 of 8, whom had been acquired after Cube #347's vinculum 
accident, and thus was a drone unknown to the Whole.
	"We will test this equipment," brusquely said the Collective drone nearest to 8 of 
8 concerning the display on Demo Stage #4.
	8 of 8 twitched.  "Er, yes."  Thus far, all previous tests had amply demonstrated 
that it was the rare assimilated unit, species #6766 - Bugs - aside, to retain anything 
resembling a quality singing voice following larynx surgery.  Of course, like many beings 
the universe over, the Collective could not, or would not, hear what was obvious to all.  
As a unit strolled to the central microphone, 8 of 8 (prompted by Second) asked the 
speaker, "Is there any particular composition you wish projected on the teleprompter?"
	Throughout the cargo hold, Collective drones paused in their activities, heads 
tilted slightly.  Even through the interference provided by the scrambler, Captain could 
feel the faintest of tickles as the question was pondered by the Greater Consciousness.  
Finally the speaker answered, "Genre:  Terran ancient oldies.  Time:  20th century, pre-
Federation Gregorian calendar.  Song:  Do You Love Me.  Artist:  Contours."  Pause.  
"Teleprompters are irrelevant."
	As the requested music began to play and the test-drone started to (badly) sing, 
Captain caught himself mouthing the lyrics.  He quickly censored himself.  Bad enough 
the sub-collective was in the middle of this situation without the primary consensus 
monitor and facilitator dredging up pre-assimilation memories from his very confused 
clan.
	{8 of 8 almost slipped again,} noted Second.  He was in his alcove so as to better 
concentrate on managing the named drone, whom of which was very much aware of the 
conversation.  There was no such thing as talking behind one's back amid the fluid 
consciousness of the sub-collective.  {It was when our "customers" were enveloped by 
the Whole to consider their musical options.}
	Captain sent his assent.  A close-up of 8 of 8 on a holowindow showed a very 
fixed expression on the drone's face.  It /could/ have been in response to the out-of-tune 
'Do You Love Me' rendition, except that Captain knew better.  All knew better.  {I felt 
the call to join as well,} said Captain.  {We /all/ did.  Even through the scramblers.  
Drone maintenance is attempting adjustments.}
	 In the cargo hold, several Collective units at Demo Stage #7 were trying a 
selection of "So Easy To Play A Toddler Can Do It!" instruments.  Even though low-
powered forcefields were supposed to muffle cross-display noise, a dissonance comprised 
of one part bagpipe and two parts electronic guitar could be heard competing with the 
Demo Stage #4 drone.  Through it all, the usually aurally sensitive 8 of 8 continued to 
stare at the singer.
	Except for the lingering wail of an out-of-tune bagpipe, testing at both Demo 
Stage #4 and #7 ended simultaneously.  A new Collective spokesdrone approached 8 of 8 
and began speaking without preamble, "A decision has been made.  We will take-"
	{Drone maintenance override of unit 8 of 8 via hierarchy node 27 of 27 pathway:  
all higher-order cognitive systems rerouted to standby regeneration mode.  Your vet says 
you must have a sleepy-time for a while,} said Doctor.
	A decision had been made by the Cube #347 sub-collective as well.
	8 of 8 slumped to the deck before the Collective unit could finish his sentence.  
Her prone form was promptly captured by a transporter and beamed to the nearest drone 
maintenance workshop.
	Second swore, {Damn!  I blocked her attempt to override the scrambler in time 
for drone maintenance to shut her down, but it was close.}
	Like all drones, 8 of 8 had a desire to belong, to be One with her Collective.  In 
addition to that basic programmed drive, 8 of 8's base race retained a flocking instinct 
unusually strong for a species evolved from omnivorous stock.  In other words, both 
natural and artificial instincts drove 8 of 8 to feel most comfortable when a member of 
the largest, strongest group.  Unfortunately, even in the best of times, the sub-collective 
of Cube #347 had been held at figurative arm's distance by the Greater Consciousness.  
Most imperfect drones quickly adapted to their pariah status, secure in the knowledge that 
one was part of a larger entity, but also able to autonomously function (sometimes /too/ 
well) within the boundaries set by the 4000 unit Exploratory-class cube subunit.  When 
the larger Whole had been denied, well, it was an uncomfortable misfortune, but 
existence continued.  Unfortunately, 8 of 8 had never been, even peripherally, a cog 
within the machine Collective; and her desire to Belong had finally threatened to 
overwhelm the scrambler.
	{Doctor and Assimilation,} said Captain, {resolve the issue with 8 of 8.  We need 
her to continue liaison duties without exposing our identity.}  A high priority tag was 
appended to the end of the order.
	254 of 300 was dispatched to Bulk Cargo Hold #5.  While not the first choice 
among those drones deemed suitable (i.e., least likely to display idiosyncrasies able to be 
linked to Cube #347), in this case her personal peculiarity was potentially valuable.   
After all, it was the purpose of Green to gain as much money as possible so as to buy 
Perfection; and what better depiction of that perspective than an ex-AVON sales 
representative?  Besides, 254 of 300 had vast experience during her pre-assimilation 
career making sales pitches to tough customers.
	"We apologize," said 254 of 300 as she materialized in the hold, taking 8 of 8's 
place, "for our technical difficulties.  I will be your substitute liaison."
	The Collective spokesdrone blinked.  If it was in response to the replacement or 
the use of the singular (Greens could and would use pronouns) or dirt in his eye, the exact 
cause was not evident.  The drone began once more.  "A decision has been reached.  We 
will require the components and blueprints associated with displays on Demo Stages #1, 
#4, #5, #7, #9, and #12."
	254 of 300 nodded.  "All excellent choices!  Now, before we continue with the 
transaction, a very important question needs to be asked:  have you identified your vibe 
nexus?"
	An expression of perplexity briefly crossed the other drone's face, reflecting the 
confusion of the subMind overseeing Unimatrix 004.  254 of 300's query was met by an 
increasingly long silence, during which Collective drones throughout the cargo hold 
paused in their activities.  Apparently the search through vast informational archives had 
returned a negative, for the next words out of the spokesdrone's mouth were "Explain 
'vibe nexus'."
	Borg are terrible liars.  There is no need to practice the art of deception.  Within 
the Collective, all worked as One to attain the same goal.  Even among the imperfectly 
assimilated where pursuit of personal obsessions led to facility in redirection, verbal side-
stepping, loophole exploitation, omission, and/or silence, outright lies were exceedingly 
rare.  Occasionally lying served a purpose when interacting with the non-assimilated, but 
for the most part "Resistance is futile" was a very direct and highly efficient pathway.  
Even among the Colors, with Peach a notable exception, the ability to convincingly tell a 
lie was an underdeveloped skill.
	Cube #347 was no exception.  With the knowledge that lying was not a forte, 
GalacWeb research had been conducted prior to approaching the unimatrix specifically 
for this critical juncture.  That research, combined with luck using the Galactipedia site 
random-entry button, had uncovered a new application in the ancient art of feng shui.
	"Many races or multi-species cultures practice variations upon feng shui," began 
254 of 300.  "While the concept of 'universal harmony' and 'energy flow' is unscientific at 
best, there are a very few instances where the rituals actually provide a measurable 
outcome."
	The Collective spokesdrone cocked his head.  "We understand.  A relevant 
example is species #7025.  The ceremonial placement of quartz around fusion reactors to 
dampen 'unhappy soul echoes' was investigated.  We adapted and refined the 
methodology for use in micro-fusion cores, increasing efficiency 35% by redirecting 
otherwise wasted energy output to crystalline collector arrays."
	254 of 300 waved a hand as she replied, "Exactly!  The karaoke vibe nexus is a 
similar tenant, one utilizing audio feng shui.  How deep subspace harmonics interact with 
the visible universe can either amplify or diminish a musical performance.  Karaoke is 
especially susceptible to minor fluctuation in what is best described as the universal 
hum."  The former AVON representative made a calculated pause to allow her 
explanation to seep in, and to also prepare herself for the deceitful phase of the sale.  "We 
stock the appropriate vibe-seeking equipment, and for a nominal fee we will search for 
the local vibe nexus so that you know where to install your new karaoke machines for 
best effect.  I see that our escort is powering weapons.  Note that all relevant equipment is 
calibrated for use only by drones aboard this vessel, so it would be ineffective to forcibly 
take it."
	{Targeting lock remains, but all enemy weapons disengaging,} sighed Weapons 
in disappointment.
	"You will locate for Us an appropriate vibe nexus," demanded the spokesdrone.
	"We comply," was 254 of 300's response.

	{Time to completion of PMS - stop it, Second, I can hear your ridiculous 
snickering - armor application,} inquired Captain of Delta, with a pointed aside to his 
back-up mid-sentence.
	Shortly after teams had left to search for nonexistent karaoke vibe nexuses, Delta 
had dispatched units to Cube #347's hull to finish spraying the reverse-engineered phasic 
armor paint.  With all able-bodied engineering drones active, Delta was stretched to her 
limit.  Several command and control partitions, along with two Hierarchy of Eight 
members, were assisting the engineering head to ensure the task was accomplished as 
promptly, and with as few observable faux pas, as possible.  Meanwhile, 8 of 8 remained 
out of commission, forcing Captain to juggle Collective inquiry into the hullside activity 
in addition to his normal consensus monitor duties.
	{1.7 cycles,} answered Delta.  Her twinned presence was less crisp than normal 
due to the increased supervisory load.
	"A little over 44 hours," said Captain outloud.  Simultaneously, his voice was 
passed through a simple subroutine, transforming his vocal pattern into one resembling 8 
of 8's.  Two holowindows floated prominently in his nodal intersection.  One, the video 
feed originating from the unimatrix, showed the standard CatwalkCam view.  The other 
window was blank.  "Hull work continues apace to be completed within the originally 
estimated three cycle time period.  When finished, the paint will amplify the subtle vibe 
signal in the event investigative teams are unable to find a suitable candidate location - a 
unimatrix is a large search volume, after all.  We also apologize once more for the lack of 
a video stream, but with all engineering units currently on the hull or assigned to away 
teams, tracking down the camera malfunction is of lesser priority."
	The Collective, for that was whom Captain was conversing with, was silent as 
answers to questions asked were digested.  Finally an "Apologies are irrelevant" was 
uttered.  The communication signal was cut.
	Cube #347 continued to not blow up, therefore the deception must have been 
successful.  The Borg Collective did not ascribe to the "enough rope to hang oneself" 
idiom when direct action was more efficient.
	Captain turned his attention to other items.  It was ten hours later, when he had 
just logged off for downtime, that the computer roused him with a priority alert.
	{Regeneration is incomplete,} chirped the computer as the consensus monitor 
stepped out and down from his alcove.
	"Well, yes, you just woke me.  Of course it is incomplete," muttered Captain 
under his breath.  Dismissing the idiot machine, thoughts were reordered, internalized.  
{104 of 310, this had better not be a false alarm, else you will be joining your comrades 
with whatever unpleasant task Delta has picked out.  Scrubbing nanite vats to remove 
PMS remnants, I believe.}  The away teams, in the event of identifying the elixir 
ingredient or other vital information directly relating to cube survival, were supposed to 
elevate their findings through a screen of command and control partitions.  The purpose 
of the screens was to determine if the finding was sufficiently critical to engage the sub-
collective's primary attention - i.e., notify Captain - else be handled at lower decision 
levels.  Since the hunt for the crystalline condensate had begun, four units had managed 
to circumvent and/or bullsh** their way through the vetting process.
	{I, er, or rather we, that being Scan Team #19, have found the condensate,} 
replied 104 of 310.  His initial use of the singular had been swiftly amended to include 
the entirety of his team...just in case.
	Captain trekked along the alcove tier walkway towards his nodal intersection.  
{That is what 46 of 230 claimed, too.  She is currently up to her neck in suds.  Literally.  
Just because something is shiny does not make it omega altered used warp nacelle plasma 
crystalline condensate.}
	{It /is/ the required material.  It /is not/ a well-polished hunk of quartz.}
	Entering his nodal intersection, Captain simultaneously activated a holoemitter 
and redirected 104 of 310's visual stream to it.  As usual, the action was merely an 
outward sign of internalized processes.  In truth, he was accessing the feeds of all four 
designations associated with Scan Team #19, not just 104 of 310.  {What is your reason 
for conviction?}
	{Because,} explained 104 of 310, {that's what the sign over this workstation says.  
And one of our escort warned us away from the condensate.}
	Scan Team #19 had managed to finagle themselves into a node 14 workshop.  The 
node in question was associated with the vessel processing facility ringing the unimatrix's 
central depot yard.  This particular workshop appeared to be dedicated to warp nacelles, 
and specifically the dissection of components and materials for which it was more 
efficient to recycle and reuse than manufacture.  As the nacelles in question were the 
external outrigger variety ranging from fifty to three hundred meters in length, that 
provided a sense of scale of the workshop.  Drones moved about their tasks, ignoring the 
presence of Scan Team #19 and the three tactical drones assigned by the subMind to act 
as escort.
	Omega altered used warp nacelle plasma was a substance known to Borg.  
Although rare, it was a natural byproduct of warp technology.  For every several 
thousand hours of use, one or two molecules of the unusual plasma variant were created.  
The origin of the substance was not completely understood, although the species from 
whom the knowledge had originally been assimilated from believed warp drive 
interacting with remnant harmonics tracing back to omega particle dissolution shortly 
after the Big Bang was the causal factor.  With no other competing theories, that is what 
the Collective assumed as well.  Unfortunately, the filtering of the altered plasma was 
laborious; and, additionally, the omega altered plasma in its base state was volatile and 
prone to explosion.  The inherent instability could be overcome by condensing the 
substance into a crystalline form, with the caveat that it required a /lot/ of used warp 
nacelles to produce a mere gram of condensate.
	The Collective had originally been interested in the omega altered warp nacelle 
plasma due to its apparent connection to the coveted Omega particle.  When nothing 
useful was produced by the research, it had been shelved.  Of species #321, from whom 
the concept and applicable technology had been assimilated?  An exotic quasi-crystalline, 
deep water biologic, they had regarded the condensed byproduct a high-priced culinary 
spice.  Despite the unusual physiology, the race had been found to be susceptible to 
assimilation.  Unfortunately, the process of Borgification irrevocably affected the brain, 
producing a living shell of a body that could only be puppeted through direct interaction 
by the Greater Consciousness.  Inefficient!  In the end, it was deemed that, except for its 
biological curiosity and the omega altered warp nacelle technology, species #321's 
contribution to the Whole was insignificant.  On the other hand, the resources 
commanded by the young civilization's homeplanet and colonies were substantial.  To 
avoid the inevitable resistance when resources were appropriated, species #321 had been 
eradicated.
	The fate of a species over four millennia extinct was not important, except in that 
an equal amount of time had passed since the Collective had last produced omega altered 
warp nacelle plasma condensate.  Yet, in this particular workshop, the technology had not 
only been resurrected from deep data storage, but expanded to full production.  Arrayed 
before 104 of 310 were 24 barrels of 200-liter capacity, each carefully labeled as to 
contents and full of fist-sized hunks of condensate.  Another barrel was partially filled.  
The overall effort represented the processing of thousands, if not tens of thousands, of 
used warp nacelles.
	Curiosity piqued, Second verbalized the thought circulating throughout the sub-
collective:  {What is it being used for?}
	"What is it being used for?" spoke 104 of 310 aloud, parroting the sub-collective.  
{Whoops,} he added.  {I could not stop myself.}
	The local Greater Consciousness apparently did not find the question odd, for one 
of the escort replied, "The crystals possess an unusual index of refraction which, if 
applied in a powder form, add an extra-special element of spectral reverb to free-style 
sculpture projects."  There was a pause, during which the Cube #347 sub-collective 
processed the fact that the Collective had just used the phrases 'extra-special' and 'free-
style sculpture projects'.  Finally an addendum was tacked on to the explanation, "The 
condensate is not for sale."
	Said Second, {I think we have found our karaoke vibe nexus.}
	Captain reflexively nodded agreement as the consensus cascade returned 
concurrence.
	A bell hidden somewhere deep inside 184 of 230's chassis suddenly started to 
ring, followed in turn by the husky thrum of a buzzer and a high-pitched 
*bleep*bleep*bleep*.  She was a one-drone anti-theft shuttle-alarm.  The noise had 
obviously /not/ been expected by the tactical drones, whom immediately lifted their arms 
to aim at the engineering unit.  A trio of whines swiftly spiraling up into the supersonic 
registers indicated weapons on the verge of firing.
	"Um.  We've found a vibe nexus?" informed 104 of 310 uncertainly.  He carefully 
ensured he did not step between the escort and their target, just in case.
	{Thank you for caring,} sniped 184 of 230 sarcastically as she attempted to turn 
off the alarms grafted to her body.  She was an connoisseur of noisy devices.  In this case, 
everything, from egg timer to back-up beeper, had been remotely triggered by command 
and control. 
	Answered 104 of 310, {It isn't like I have body armor that can withstand 
disruptors.}
	{Wimp.}  That particular interjected opinion originated from Weapons.
	Finally, comparative silence reigned, into which 104 of 310 repeated, "We have 
found a vibe nexus."
	Throughout the workshop, drones shuffled to a stand-still, then began pivoting 
their heads back and forth or raising limbs in scanning motions.  Unfortunately (or 
fortunately, depending upon point of view), unless one happened to be a G'floo addict, it 
is not possible to perceive what is not actually there.
	"We see nothing," was the predictable response from an escort member.  The 
weaponry arms of all three drones remained raised and pointed at 184 of 230.
	104 of 310 snorted.  "Well, of course you don't.  You do not have the proper 
equipment.  However, there is a vibe nexus right here.  Well, relatively near here.  We 
will require more effort to pinpoint the exact nexus location."
	A hail pinged off Cube #347's hull.  Captain checked on 8 of 8's status, finding 
the designated 'liaison' to be released from the clutches of drone maintenance and 
assimilation hierarchies.  However, Doctor had also prescribed a period of deep 
regeneration from which there would be absolutely no interruptions, not even if the cube 
were blowing up, she was on fire (her alcove was unfortunately near 279 of 300), or the 
Collective rang.  Therefore, it was Captain's responsibility to play 8 of 8's role once more, 
hidden behind vocal resynthesizer and false camera malfunction.
	"Yes?" answered Captain to the communication request.  This time the Collective 
had not bothered with video, sending an audio feed only.
	Never one for small talk, the Multivoice immediately came to the crux of the 
matter, "What procedure must be accomplished to isolate the karaoke vibe nexus?  You 
will find it for Us."
	Captain rolled his eye, then had to focus internally as he was bombarded by 
suggestions as to what the sub-collective answer should be.  These offerings were, 
naturally, disregarding the scripts which had been concocted beforehand based upon a 
wide variety of 'what-if's.  The current scenario was Script 1-beta, and Captain blocked 
the rogue whispers to concentrate on the set of communally approved responses.  "Of 
course we will.  Our locator service includes pinpointing the vibe nexus, as well as 
providing one of our fine karaoke systems for quality evaluation.  You will be able to 
observe firsthand the difference a vibe nexus makes in a performance."
	"Acceptable.  The showroom display of Demo Stage #12 will be utilized for the 
assessment.  It will include both disco effect and ten-piece orchestra options."
	{Demo Stage #12?} carped Delta in the background.  {Why did it have to be the 
display on Demo Stage #12?  With the orchestra?  An auxiliary power core is easier to 
assemble than that particular set-up, and more likely to work the first time it is turned on, 
too.  The wiring diagram resembles a plate of gagh.  A plate of live gagh which has been 
fed stimulants.}
	"As you request."  Captain ignored Delta's continuing complaints.  "We do 
request that you clear an area indicated by Scan Team #19 such that scanning can 
continue without interference from potentially vibe-altering materials.  For swifter 
service, it is recommended other teams be escorted to the nexus area to assist in scanning 
and assembly of the karaoke display."
	In the vast workroom, over a quarter of the Collective drone population abruptly 
ceased their tasks and turned to advance upon Scan Team #19.  Very shortly, several 
hundred units were following the directives of the four team members, clearing an ever 
greater area of the deck.
	Taking advantage of the fact that 184 of 230 /still/ retained the suspicious 
attention of the three weapons drones, 104 of 310 casually sauntered in the direction of 
the recently moved barrels of condensate.  The dull eyes of Collective engineering drones 
followed his trajectory, but the action was more reflex to observe movement than actual 
awareness on the part of the subMind.  With a great show of waving his prosthetic arm in 
the same gestures he used when searching for structural microfissures, 104 of 310 moved 
along the line of barrels pretending to scan.  Simultaneously, a casual motion with his 
whole hand liberated a chunk of condensate, transferring it into a thigh compartment.
	104 of 310 waited for an alarm to be raised, for the sharp shock of a disruptor to 
the back.
	Nothing.  
	104 of 310 completed his fake pass along the barrels, then directed three of them 
to be shifted elsewhere.  Obviously the pilfering had gone unnoticed, else the Collective 
would have made its displeasure known.
	The sub-collective was now the proud owner of a hunk of omega altered used 
warp nacelle plasma crystalline condensate.
	Unfortunately, immediate retreat was not an option.  Drones remained on the hull 
applying the last of the PMS armor; and the Collective expected a demonstration of the 
karaoke vibe nexus.  /And/ the demo unit chosen required a minimal set-up time of eight 
hours, not including the inevitable delays for troubleshooting when it did not function 
immediately.  If excuses were made and the cube attempted to leave at this juncture, 
suspicions would be raised within the decision network of the Greater Consciousness; 
and if that happened, a comprehensive review of workshop drone memory memes would 
be made.  With the number of eyes available, 104 of 310's actions had surely been 
observed, even if the significance had been labeled irrelevant for the nonce.
	Therefore....
	"The showroom display from Demo Stage #12 will be ready to transport shortly," 
said Captain into the still open communications stream.  "A direct transportation is 
recommended, which will require this cube to be escorted deeper into the unimatrix to the 
appropriate node.  Other options can be discussed, however, if this arrangement is 
unacceptable.  Our mission is to please the customer."
	{Until we cut and run, that is,} inserted Second with a mental smirk.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"This is soooo frustrating," exclaimed Lena with a big sigh followed by an 
aggressive grinding of her gum.  "We /need/ to get just a little bit closer."
	Gingi grunted, "But nothing is happening."  The intern was more than a little 
bored at the inactivity, which in turn had fostered a moderate degree of testiness.  She 
was currently playing a game of Andorian solitaire, and was on her third pack of 
replicated cards.  The less said about the fate of the previous packs, especially after Gingi 
had lost too many games in a row, the better.
	Lena shook her head.  "Like, that's not the point.  The cube and the Collective are 
talking to each other on subspace, but it is a narrow beam transmission and we are in the 
wrong location to intercept anything but a word here and there.  What is happening?  This 
could be the story of a lifetime!  Is the Collective and Green in the process of making an 
alliance?  Could one be about to attack the other?  It took too long to talk our way 
through the battle lines on the other side of the Keyhole to get to the sling.  Who /knows/ 
what happened between cube and Collective before we caught up with it on approach to 
this unimatrix."
	"Or Green could be trying to sell something to the Collective," suggested Ted 
from his workbench where he was tinkering with one of the news cameras.  "That is what 
Green does, after all."
	"Don't burst my bubble, Teddy Bear," pouted Lena.  She emphasized her words 
by blowing a bubble and popping it.
	Hunched at the table, opposite Gingi and her card game, Gerald was visiting his 
passengers.  He had a very firm opinion about Lena's proposal.  "No.  I am the captain of 
this ship, and I say no.  So far the cubes and spheres whizzing around have ignored us, 
but I don't want to take chances.  My poor ship was almost plastered on the bumper of 
one of those mega-monster-big cubes earlier today!  And besides, if the Collective does 
finally notice us, we are way too deep in this odd no-go-FTL zone to have a chance of a 
chance to escape."
	Silence.  The camera under Ted's hands uttered a quiet beep in response to a prod 
from a spanner.  Gerald's stomach rumbled.  Gingi placed several cards upon her solitaire 
formation.
	"Look," said Lena, directing her words at Gerald, "what if I took the runabout?  
Just me?  I've a spare no-see-um gadget in my luggage, so I wouldn't be depriving you of 
your protection."  Although the shuttle bay was currently full of GNN news staff and 
equipment, such was not to say that its usual occupant had been off-loaded.  Instead, it 
was moored on the freighter's hull, linked to its mothership by magnetic grapples.
	Gerald was skeptical.  "My runabout?  GNN chartered the ship, not the shuttle.  It 
isn't like good shuttles grow on trees, you know."
	Ted and Gingi silently watched the verbal spar match.
	"Hon!  Ducks!"  Gum was snapped.  Blonde hair swayed just so.  "Like, the 
money I gave you - most of my retirement account, mind you - to bring us in this close is 
more than enough to buy you a new runabout, or four, if something should happen to me.  
/I'll/ be the one risking my neck, not Gingi, not Ted, and certainly not you nor your 
crew...thing.  What the heck is she, anyway?  No matter.  If anything, you'll be /safer/ 
because I can get in close while you retreat.  When I'm done, I'll link up with you and 
you'll pick me up."
	"Assuming there is anything left to pick up," muttered Ted.
	Lena swiveled her head to squint a skunk eye at Ted before returning her attention 
to Gerald.  "Honey Bun, I am confident that nothing will happen except you'll have a 
good chunk of credit in your account and I'll have a story.  I mean, really, the defenses 
around this unimatrix are, like, /nothing/ in comparison to the main AVON research 
facility.  Back in 2913, I managed, with nothing more than a shuttle, a space suit, and a 
few gizmos, to infiltrate for a sneak peak of the not-yet-revealed Dusky Warrior line of 
cosmetics, guaranteed to bring out the sultry Klingon warrioress in every woman."
	At the workbench, Ted threw down his spanner.  "Now that," he accused hotly, "is 
an outright lie!  /No one/, not even the Borg Collective, can crash one of AVON's R&D 
facilities!  After all, there's a factory in the /middle/ of Borg controlled space that has 
been there for at least five centuries.  I'd sooner believe that you successfully found and 
interviewed Peach for your graduate thesis before I'd accept you entered, and returned, 
from an AVON facility.  And since I /know/ the former did not happen, neither did the 
latter."
	Gingi's antennae quivered.  "I know that was ten years ago, but you didn't happen 
to notice any Andorian products, did you?  I've yet to find a decent foundation that 
compliments my particular complexion while also matching accidentally splattered 
blood."
	Ted threw up his hands in disgust.  "I give up.  If you want to risk death or 
assimilation, that is your prerogative.  Personally, I'm of the opinion that this venture has 
turned into a waste of time and we should return to the Keyhole Battle before GNN loses 
all patience and cuts us from the payroll."
	"Gerald, baby," cooed Lena as she batted her eyes, "it is all up to you.  Me and the 
runabout, an extra no-see-um gadget, a possible story.  You, your ship, your money, 
retreating to safety.  Win-win from what I can see."
	At that moment, a triplet of beeps blared from the ship speaker system.  It was a 
proximity alarm, one which indicated that a Borg vessel had closed within ten kilometers; 
and while it was not on a direct collision course, the freighter could be at risk should the 
interloper change trajectory.  The warning was triggered at least once an hour.
	Gerald's large bulk shuddered.  The captain levered himself to his feet.  "Fine.  
You can have the runabout while I back my ship out to a safe distance where I'm not 
under the constant threat of becoming roadkill.  I wish you luck, but don't expect me to 
swoop in to rescue you if find yourself in trouble.  I'm a freighter captain, not a Starfleet 
hero, and I value my skin."
	Lena smiled.  "Win-win, as I said.  I'll be in and out with a story before you know 
it, with your runabout intact.  /Much/ easier than AVON."

			*	*	*	*	*

	The latest calculations boasted a 98.7% chance of success.  Only a very few of the 
'what-if' scenarios gracing the decision tree matrix led to Cube #347's termination.  
Against the odds, the sub-collective was not only to achieve their crystalline condensate 
objective, but do so in an efficient and competent manner.
	Discounting minor set-backs like 8 of 8 or the Hidarian vodka flambe incident, of 
course.  No one, least of all an imperfectly assimilated sub-collective, was perfect.  One 
could only strive.
	{Say, "Have you received all the files?  Equipment schematics and instructions to 
finalize vibe nexus preparations are included.  The delivery invoices are especially 
important."}  With 8 of 8 returned to her liaison duty, Captain was once more standing at 
the verge of nodal intersection and alcove tier, out of camera view.
	8 of 8 twitched, then began to parrot Captain's words.  Her recent experience with 
drone maintenance and assimilation had left behind what could only be described as a 
whole body tic.  Doctor claimed it was the result of imprecise knowledge of species 
#12506 neural anatomy; and that if had realized that a particular neural cluster had 
contained ties to motor control, he would not have directed reconstruction of the trinary 
parietal lobe processor through it.  However, he was confident the involuntary twitches 
would eventually vanish on their own.  If not, surgery was always an option.
	Boomed the Multivoice, "All documents have been received."
	The exchange continued.  Through it, Cube #347 made vague not-quite-promises 
as to when the ordered karaoke equipment when arrive.  In return, the Greater 
Consciousness offered equally noncommittal responses concerning the likelihood that 
cash-on-delivery commitments would be honored.  Finally permission was granted to 
leave Unimatrix 004.  As Cube #347 accelerated away, its escort remained at the 
periphery of the unimatrix.  Apparently the Greater Consciousness was confident that a 
single Green Exploratory-class cube did not represent a military threat, and that any 
antagonizing actions could result in special-ordered karaoke equipment never arriving.
	Communications between cube and unimatrix finally ended.  Captain entered his 
nodal intersection proper.  Holoemitters were directed to show a navigational display of 
all vessels in a half light year volume.  In the center of the intersection, 8 of 8 swiveled 
her head to stare at Captain as another twitch racked her body.
	"No, you cannot return to your alcove yet," verbalized Captain in response to the 
wordless question.  "If the Collective calls back, it would be most efficient if you were 
already present.  Go stand over there."  A corner was mentally indicated.  "Just 
think...eventually, maybe, you will be assigned as Second or Captain.  A neuromuscular 
rewiring mistake that will clear itself on its own is nothing.  There is a reason I am more 
heavily cybernized than many other drones, even those abused by Weapons, and it isn't 
age alone.  Examine my meme files for what you have to look forward to."
	Captain felt as a selection of his early memories were accessed.
	"We do not wish to be consensus monitor and facilitator," said 8 of 8 as she 
absorbed several of Captain's more...spectacular...recollections.
	"Join the club.  None of us wish to be consensus monitor.  You don't have a 
choice:  you are Borg.  You didn't have a choice the moment you were identified as 
possessing the appropriate mental facility.  The fact that you actually survived your 
assimilation into this sub-collection with your basic psyche intact despite your species' 
stress-related issues proves that you continue to 'have the right stuff'.  Now stand against 
the wall and out of my hologram."
	Captain took his accustomed place as 8 of 8 moved.  After examining the various 
navigational options, Cube #347's vector was slightly altered to pass close to the shuttle 
which had taken the place of the freighter some time ago.  Like its larger mothership, the 
runabout remained unmolested despite the volume of unimatrix traffic and the intolerance 
of the Collective for intruders.  Sensors desired to perform a deep scan upon the small 
ship, and the minor course correction required to do so was unlikely to increase the 
suspicion level of an already wary Greater Consciousness.
	An alert suddenly rippled through the sub-collective, origination the sensor 
hierarchy.  It was not unimatrix reaction to the course correction which had caused the 
warning, but rather the subspace distortion which indicated the imminent arrival of a 
vessel from hypertranswarp.  The forming egress was on the opposite side of the 
unimatrix complex from Cube #347 and just outside the non-FTL zone.  One might think 
such an arrival to be a non-event considering the fact that Unimatrix 004 /was/ a hub of 
Collective activity.  However...
	{Green!} declared Sensors as subtle engine harmonics were analyzed.  {Green 
Exploratory-class.}
	The Green cube exited hypertranswarp well within the mayhem envelope of two 
Battle-class cubes inbound to the unimatrix.  An unidirectional broadcast was 
immediately initiated, a subspace shout temporarily overriding all normal communication 
systems and even intruding static onto the fractal frequencies which tied drones together 
into One.
	"Do not attack!  Green is offering the Borg Collective a once-in-a-lifetime 
opportunity which cannot be missed!  This cube carries a large selection of karaoke 
equipment and set-ups, all available at low, low prices!  When would you like to schedule 
a viewing?"
	{Well...crap,} was Second's utterance into an uncommonly silent intranet.  That 
one scatological word pretty well summed up the precipitant plummet of calculated 
success from 98.7% to the single digits.  This particular scenario had been one proposed, 
and rejected, very early in what-if deliberations.  Therefore, there were no models 
outlining how to contend with what had just become reality.
	Captain responded by increasing the cube's speed from 'inoffensive retreat' to 
'brisk sidle'.
	The central node of the Greater Consciousness was infected by a quantum parasite 
with real-universe symptoms ranging from paranoia to urges to embark upon bad artistic 
endeavors and a compulsion to collect used warp nacelles.  By extension, the whole of 
the Collective was equally affected.  However, despite distractions from the quest for 
Perfection, the Borg Collective, with its vast computational resources, was not stupid.  
One did not have to be a genius - and such a label had never been applied to Cube #347's 
imperfect sub-collective - to know the inevitable outcome of a decision matrix which 
featured /two/ purported Green sales-cubes pushing karaoke.  The typical Collective 
response when faced with a confusing situation was to eliminate the potential threat(s) 
and pick through the resultant pieces for answers.
	A volley of torpedoes from the Battle-class pair was the reply the Green cube 
received for its sales pitch.  The distance between attacker and victim was sufficient that 
the Exploratory-class could have reinitiated hypertranswarp and escaped.  Unfortunately, 
residual forward momentum upon arrival of a quarter impulse had pushed the Green cube 
through the ripple field boundary.  Unable to escape, the flight of fifty-six torpedoes, a 
dozen of which radiated singularity signatures, swiftly overwhelmed shields and reduced 
the target to a burning husk.
	Cube #347 leapt forward into full impulse as nonchalance was discarded.
	The hologram of the local navigational volume showed a massive fluctuation in 
traffic as any vessel with even a remote chance to cut off Cube #347 was provided new 
directives.  With the head start and an Exploratory-class's (relatively) lighter mass 
compared to other models, any ships directly behind, such as the escort, could not catch 
up.  However, there was a more than sufficient number of incoming or outgoing cubes 
and spheres which could be diverted upon an intercept course.  At full impulse, Cube 
#347 required fifteen minutes to clear the ripple field and be able to hypertranswarp.  
Unfortunately, the first of the diverted resources - a pair of Assault-class spheres - would 
be in weapons range in a bit over eleven minutes.
	Looming in the more immediate future was the mysterious runabout.  The shuttle 
was not moving, despite Cube #347's prior course adjustment.  Correction, the pilot was 
shifting his or her charge, but only just enough to avoid becoming cosmic bug splatter on 
the cube's shields.  The pilot was obviously confident in the technology which rendered 
the shuttle, and its freighter mothership, invisible to Borg vessels.
	Unfortunately for the pilot, Cube #347's sensor grids were not set BorgStandard, 
but rather a variation devised by a sensor hierarchy head whom also happened to be 
species #6766.  It was highly unlikely the Greater Consciousness would tolerate Bug-
mediated experiments in grid settings by any but the imperfectly assimilated.  The altered 
portion of the sensor grid easily tracked the runabout.
	{Sensors asks if we can try to catch it?} inserted Sensors into Captain's stream-of-
consciousness.  {It has such a [pretty sparkle] on the [chartreuse] frequencies.  A single 
scan will not [fluff].}
	With the majority of the engineering hierarchy returned to their alcoves, Delta 
was undergoing regeneration.  Likely that regeneration would be interrupted once the 
cube was confronted by its pursuers, but the head of the engineering hierarchy would take 
all the mental rest and physical restoration she could before the next crisis.  However, her 
status did not prevent her from following the developing situation.  {There is a 53.4% 
chance that an unknown technology on that runabout is clouding normal grid perceptions.  
I want it.}
	{In the middle of a retreat?  Excuse me...a tactical redeployment, Weapons.  
Regardless, we do not have the time to stop and pick it up,} protested Captain.  
Unfortunately, he was merely consensus monitor and facilitator; and it was a larger 
subset of the sub-collective than himself which demanded an assessment of potential 
choices.  Ten seconds and one swift consensus cascade later, a decision was reached to 
attempt a full impulse tractor grab.
	Captain grumbled.  Despite his apex position, he was just one drone, subject to 
the many.  The concerns raised by himself and others of a similar mind had been 
overruled, potential gain outweighing the very real risk.  After moving the navigation 
display to one side, overlapping 8 of 8, Captain opened a new window and directed 
exterior camera feeds to populate it.
	Cube #347 was to pass the runabout with mere meters to spare.  It was almost too 
close to tractor, the equivalent of peering cross-eyed at one's own nose.  After the 
customary argument between Delta and Weapons as to which hierarchy was to operate 
the tractors, with the former winning, four beams unerringly stabbed at the target.  The 
pilot was undoubtedly surprised; and even more so was Captain as one successfully 
locked upon the hull despite hurdles of speed, Sensors' grid alterations, and interference 
by the elements of the weapons hierarchy whom usually controlled the tractors.
	{Got it!} exclaimed Delta in satisfaction.
	Captain dismissed the exterior view, returning the navigational volume to 
prominence.  "Yes, 8 of 8, as it is highly unlikely the Collective will call for a civil 
conversation, you may return to your alcove."  The loitering Hierarchy of Eight member 
vanished in a transporter.  Attention was directed inwards.  {Delta, lock the shuttle in a 
cradle and initiate a transporter inhibitor field around it.  We'll deal with your and 
Sensors' catch later.}
	Inserted Second with sarcastic intent, {Assuming there is a later.}	

	Less than two minutes remained to reach the edge of the ripple field.  The two 
Assault-class spheres were well within beam weaponry range, and several additional 
vessels had entered the torpedo envelope, but thus far no attack had occurred.  Just in 
case, the single face with incomplete PMS application had been rotated away from the 
pursuers, although basic effectiveness of the reverse-engineered phasic armor was still a 
large question mark.  However, testing of the new armor whilst under battle conditions 
could very well never happen, for the spheres' maneuverings were recognized to be 
preparatory for capture, not annihilation.
	{You will allow my hierarchy weapons access!} demanded Weapons to Captain.  
{A single torpedo!  One neuruptor!  A rail gun!  The enemy is right /there/!}
	Captain responded with a thematic variation of words (and logic) used since the 
sub-collective had 'tactically redeployed' at full impulse away from the unimatrix.  As all 
previous times, it was highly unlikely the reasoning was impacting Weapons' thought 
processes.  {The "enemy" is Borg...the "enemy" is Us whom we are trying to cure.  You 
know very well that if we attempt any offensive actions, the Collective will respond.  As 
it is, the Greater Consciousness is acting to capture, which thus far has provided us with 
an extra 2.5 minutes of nontermination, which is more than we had previously calculated.  
All we need is a few additional minutes.}
	{We can gain those few minutes by destroying those spheres.}
	{Our singularity torpedo inventory is nearly nil.}  Captain brought forward the 
appropriate datathread.  {And even if we had a full load, it would not be enough to 
destroy one Assault-class sphere, much less two.  You /own models/ show that if we used 
all our conventional weapons, we /might/ reduce the shields of /one/ sphere to 32%.  And 
we won't even go into the unrealistic notion that the sphere will not fight back.}
	Weapons harrumphed, then virtually pointed to a file box where all the outlier 
BorgCraft scenarios were saved.  {There is a 0.0004% chance an industrial accident 
originating from a galaxy on the other side of the universe will open a black hole in the 
middle of the target sphere, thus decreasing its effectiveness.  When that happens-}
	{No.  End of story.  We are not in a committed tactical situation, and thus 
command and control will continue to maintain weaponry lock-outs.}  As Weapons 
mentally retreated to construct another tactic to gain full weaponry control, Captain 
glanced at the backwards running timer hovering over the navigational hologram.  There 
was no need for the visual confirmation, the same datastream prominent in his working 
mindscape.  The time to hypertranswarp was narrowing, but still it was too much.
	And, then, not enough.
	Less than 3000 kilometers distant, the two spheres unleashed the one-two punch 
which was transmutation pulse and directed dampening field.  The standard method of 
Borg versus Color (or Color versus Color) for one side to capture the other, the first 
severed connectivity with a Greater Consciousness, thus sowing sub-collective confusion 
and lessening ability to respond to the energy disruption of the second.  Being on the 
receiving end of a transmutation pulse several times, not to mention having no Collective 
from which to be severed, that particular attack had little impact.  The directed 
dampening field, on the other hand, especially as the effective cone of influence from two 
Assault-class spheres was sufficient to engulf the smaller Exploratory-class, should have 
caused complete temporary power failure to Cube #347.
	Except for sensors registering a slight increase in hull plate temperature under the 
PMS coating, neither pulse nor field attacks noticeably affected cube systems.
	Quick to assess the tactical situation and how best (depending upon one's point of 
view) to take advantage of it, Weapons grabbed for propulsion control.  {If we pretend to 
be incapacitated, we will have the element of surprise when one of the enemy drops 
shields and enters tractor range.}
	{Negative.}  Captain felt as command and control figuratively lurched to protect 
the dataspace equivalent of steering wheel, gas, and brakes.  {We are less than a minute 
from hypertranswarp.  We continue.}  The process to spool up FTL engines was begun so 
that they would be available the moment the ripple field boundary was cleared.
	Hypertranswarp was no guarantee of escape, but it substantially increased the 
odds.  The subspace disturbance created by a hypertranswarp wake was traceable, with 
Exploratory-class cubes in particular able to follow the spoor days after a vessel had 
passed.  On the other hand, a head start, combined with greater acceleration curve and 
higher FTL cruise velocities of the Exploratory-class over other Borg vessel types, meant 
that Cube #347 could theoretically maintain an indefinite lead.  Unless resources were 
committed or intercepts calculated, a chase was a futile endeavor.
	The question ultimately became how desirable the cube was to the Greater 
Consciousness.  The pseudo-sales-cube intruder had risked both the wrath of the Borg 
Collective and Green - the latter brokered neither trademark infringement nor 
competition - to approach the unimatrix.  Unless the local subMind had taken time to 
closely examine drone memes to discover the act of condensate pilferage, it was likely 
the current working hypothesis was that Cube #347 represented espionage.  Foreign 
drones wandering all over the place with scanning equipment, and even the hullside 
application of a mysterious substance, it was all very suspicious.  And, following that 
train of logic, the only Color sufficiently brazen to attempt such a ruse was Peach.
	The consequences of being linked to Peach were several.  On the up side, if the 
cube did make hypertranswarp, pursuit was doubtful.  Peach's penchant for plots within 
schemes wrapped by conspiracies created an environment where the Collective was 
unlikely to commit resources away from the all-important used warp nacelle depot, just in 
case that was what Peach wanted.  On the other hand, if the purported Peach cube could 
not be detained and whatever information it had acquired wrung from its drones' minds, 
an attempt at destruction would be made with a near 100% surety.
	If the subMind directing the Assault-class pair was confused at why the capture 
had not worked, such was not in evidence.  Failure was not an option; and if the 'Peach' 
cube shrugged off the attempt, well, the Color was known for novel adaptations.
	"Oh, sh-," said Captain outloud, channeling the sub-collective as the sensor grid 
was temporarily overloaded by the energy spike from an excessive number of neuruptors.  
A moment of blankness was followed by a sense of wonder at continued existence.  The 
amount of energy being funneled into the attack was conservatively estimated as the 
output of two power cores...per Assault-class sphere.
	Shields had dropped in the initial moments of the battering.  Theory at that point 
stated large holes of molten metal should be cratering Cube #347's hull, or at least those 
bits not already vaporized.  Instead, subhull temperature sensors were registering a mild 
heat, only slightly greater than that recorded during the capture attempt.
	Somehow an engineering hierarchy, prompted by Delta and most of the sub-
collective, managed to convince the engines to add a few more tenths of a percentage to 
maximum impulse speed.
	Among the lone detractors was, naturally, Weapons.  From his point of view, the 
PMS armor effectively rendered the cube invincible.  His conviction was only 
strengthened as the Assault-class sphere duo slowed at the ripple field boundary, flinging 
forth a volley of torpedoes, each of which seemed to /vanish/ as the hull was impacted.
	Fortunately, neither Captain nor a majority of the sub-collective wished to stay to 
continue live fire testing of the PMS armor.  Hypertranswarp was initiated the moment 
Sensors declared the ripple field effect to no longer be in effect, accelerating Cube #347 
away from Unimatrix 004 and a highly vexed Collective.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"By the holy hive mothers!  It got Lena!  The cube got Lena!" exclaimed Gingi.  
Captain Gerald, good to his word, had moved his freighter well away from the unimatrix 
and Borg ship traffic.  Ted had unpacked his extreme telephoto lenses to continue filming 
action around the complex, but the pictures were of less than stellar quality, not to 
mention several light minutes out of date.
	Nearly fifteen minutes of silence followed the abduction of Lena's runabout, Ted 
and Gingi watching the gap between sphere chasers and cube chasee narrow.  Right as it 
seemed the inevitable end was to occur, somehow the cube managed to survive.  Evade 
was not the proper word, nor elude, both implying an act of dodging which was not in 
evidence.  If anything, the improbable scene was the exact opposite, the Green vessel at 
the heart of certain destruction.  Incredibly, the cube endured a full bombardment by 
neuruptors AND torpedoes before fleeing, intact, into hypertranswarp.
	Presumably with Lena still aboard.
	Reaching forward, Ted flipped a toggle.  The screen he and the Andorian intern 
had been watching faded.  Gingi's antennae twitched slightly; and Ted absently tapped 
the fingers of his left hand against his thigh.
	In a forgotten corner of the runabout bay, a cricket chirruped.
	"I think we need to ask Gerald about getting another bug bomb in here before that 
one bug becomes a chorus," said Gingi.  There was a long pause.  "Lena's gone, isn't 
she?"
	Ted nodded.  He continued to stare at the dark screen.  "A-yup.  She was a tall-
tale telling, blonde haired, gum chewing, non-quite-bimbo, but she was also our reporter.  
Without her, we don't have a story.  And without a story, GNN won't pay us.  For some 
reason, I don't think she'll be able to talk her way out of whatever predicament she is in 
right now."
	Gingi wrinkled her nose.  "If /I/ was captured by Borg, I would die as gloriously 
as possible.  However, I retain my personal freedom, which includes the need for credit to 
pay for food and other necessities.  As an intern, I get very little of that credit, too little to 
be sitting on my butt out here near a unimatrix."
	"Well, aren't you the sentimental type?  Already over your mourning, are you?" 
asked Ted sarcastically.
	Antennae quivering, Gingi indignantly answered, "I'm an Andorian.  And, quite 
frankly, Lena is, er, was a human and I didn't know her all that well.  I say we take what 
we have and hightail it back to GNN for a new reporter and a new assignment."
	"I guess you are right," acquiesced Ted.  "There isn't much we can do here.  
Gingi, call up to Gerald and ask him to transport us back to the home office.  Meanwhile, 
I'll see if there is anything useable in this footage.  At the very least, I bet I could whip up 
a homage montage to Lena that'll be good for a few rating points.  Assimilation in the 
line of duty and all that.  GNN execs seem to like any sort of fluff these days that takes 
the real news out of the limelight."

	Lena was not having a good day.  First, she had been almost run over by not one, 
not two, but /five/ Borg vessels as she tried to maneuver her runabout sufficiently close to 
the unimatrix in pursuit of a story she /knew/ was associated with the nonCollective cube.  
Then, said cube had left the unimatrix, seeming to deliberately alter its course as if it 
could see through her no-see-um device.  Finally, after the appearance, and destruction, 
of a Green sales-cube on the far side of the unimatrix, the target cube had accelerated into 
full impulse, somehow managing to grab her shuttle in the process and haul it inside to 
storage within a large cargo hold.
	Worst of all, the rough handling had caused all of Lena's gum sticks to scatter to 
the far corners and crevices of her small ship.  /And/ she had spilled coffee onto her /best/ 
pair of work coveralls, the designer ones she had found cheap at that cute little 
consignment shop in San Francisco on Terra.
	And now, she was being marched from the shuttle to the deck of the cargo hold, 
flanked to either side by two expressionless Borg drones.  /Borg Collective/ series drones.  
There were none of the minor touches of individualism, diode color highlights, nor 
indefinable mood which defined the Colors.  Borg had been chasing Borg at the 
unimatrix, and it was up to Lena to not only find out why, but package it for consumption 
by the news-watching masses.
	Lena was jerked to a stop.  The drone to her right shifted slightly, and she felt a 
sting against her neck.  It was an action which had been repeated several times since the 
Borg pair had first materialized upon the runabout.  "Like, as I said before, stop that.  I 
was like sooooo inoculated against assimilation a long time ago when I was working on 
my graduate thesis.  Maybe you've read it?  All about Colors and their idiosyncrasies?  I 
even interviewed Peach.  Like anyway, only the /bestest/ nanite suite for me.  If you are 
going to assimilate me, you'll have to majorly pump me up with something radically 
more sophisticated than whatever you have on-board there.  However, if being utterly 
annoying makes you happy...."
	"Happiness is irrelevant," muttered the Borg holding Lena's left arm.
	Lena rolled her eyes at the pronouncement.
	The sound of a transporter beam announced the arrival of two new drones, one 
appearing slightly before the other.  The first was of average humanoid height, heavily 
cybernized with the left side almost completely replaced by various hardware.  Although 
its (his?) head was turned as though in silent conversation with the other arrival, Lena 
could see that the remaining whole eye was a striking blue unusual for a Borg.  The 
second drone was taller than the first, and despite the obscuring nature of its body armor, 
it was also noticeably thinner.  An ear not sacrificed to the alter of assimilation sported a 
distinct point; and the eye not replaced with an ocular implant was slanted.  Lena was less 
confident about the second drone's gender, but decided 'male' was as good as anything 
until other evidence was provided.
	The unheard discussion - an argument? - between the two had obviously been 
underway before the pair had beamed to the cargo hold.  Lena narrowed her eyes.  
Despite the bubble-blonde persona she had crafted and carefully projected at every 
opportunity, she was far from stupid.  If indeed a dispute was happening, and not some 
sort of odd staring contest, then these drones were acting as focal nodes of two competing 
points-of-view, an action which occasionally happened among semi-autonomous Colored 
sub-collectives, but rarely among the Borg Collective.  The implications 
were...interesting.
	A series of bangs and the whine of a high-speed saw startled Lena from her 
contemplation of the situation and how she could best turn it to her advantage.  Pivoting 
her head slightly, she could see a hoard of drones were in the initial process of 
dismantling the shuttle.  Damn!  Now she'd /never/ get her deposit back from captain 
Gerald.  Even worse, she had /two/ good outfits, complete with accessories, packed in the 
runabout, as well as part of her stash of /real/ coffee.  No sane reporter traveled anywhere 
without coffee:  centuries of tinkering by the best and brightest engineers had yet to truly 
replicate the complexities of a cup of java, at least to the satisfaction of coffee snobs like 
Lena.  Oh, and there went her spare no-see-um device as well.  
	A loud sigh redirected Lena's attention back to the two drones.  The position 
represented by the tall Borg had obviously lost, for his shoulders were slumped and he 
was waving a hand towards Lena in a gesture of dismissal.  Head swiveling to face Lena, 
the blue-eyed drone opened his mouth in preparation to speak.
	This was her chance!
	Displaying an unusual strength, Lena ripped her arms from the admittedly lax grip 
of her captors.  As she stepped forward, she reached up into one sleeve where she kept 
holstered at all times the most valuable tool of the (traditional or paparazzi) reporter - a 
recording microphone with mini-camera attachment.  One just never knew when or 
where news would occur.  With a confidence cultivated from hundreds of stalk-and-jump 
Starz Weekly assignments, Lena shoved the business end of the microphone into the 
startled blue-eyed drone's face.
	"Sir!  The public demands your insider opinion on the most important of matters 
facing the average person in these tumultuous times:  how is the war going, what is your 
role in it, and, most vitally, will the outcome finally prompt an update in thousands of 
years of boring Borg fashion to something more modern?"