Ye all!  Here be a disclaimer!  Star Trek be owned by the feudal overlord Paramount.  Thee Lord 
Knight Decker reigns over Star Traks.  Peon serf Meneks plows the fertile fields of BorgSpace.

				The State of Assimilation

	Six figures sat around a large oval table.  Some may have been male, some may have 
been female, but all were equally obscured in shadowed anonymity.  Darkness reduced the six to 
mere sketches of humanoid forms clothed in nondescript clothing; however, there was a certain 
air to indicate all were of the same species, a species skilled at intrigue, custodians of secrets.  
Murmured voices were transformed to words of androgynous tone; and even the small noises 
each made were disguised.  Spyware high tech and low ensured cabal identities were kept a 
secret, both to the outside world and to each other.
	At the moment, a screen at the far end of the small room was lit, bright pictures 
contrasting with the shadowed ambience.  Despite the light, however, the half dozen figures 
remained wrapped in their individual cloaks of secrecy.  That which captured the attention of the 
cabal was a news clip recorded less than 36 hours previously.
	"Seltat LaVoore, famed oil painter, was confirmed dead today by Home Guard 
authorities.  The reclusive artist, retired since last year following an untimely shuttle accident 
near his home, was last known to be piloting a personal deep-space runabout in the Far 
Territories.  Released documents show his destination to have been the Hermitage of Satot IV."  
An elvish visage regarded the camera, faux solemnity pasted upon the reporter's face.  She 
continued her monologue.  "After receiving an automated distress call, a local Home Guard 
cutter found the runabout's wreckage.  Initial evidence points to a faulty translinkage converter 
which precipitated a massive core failure.  Mr. LaVoore did not survive the explosion.  The 
organic residue believed to be his remains are currently enroute to the home planet where they 
will be presented to his recently divorced wife as there is no other kin.  We now switch to an 
interview of Mr. LaVoore's ex-wife."
	The scene dissolved to that of a woman who, unlike the reporter, conveyed an expression 
of true grief.  The recording froze, then faded as screen returned to a nominal neutrality of a 
light-drinking grey.
	"The cover story is intact?" asked a voice devoid of gender, devoid of inflection, reduced 
to mechanical precision.
	Papers - no personal computers were allowed in the room - shuffled as notes were 
consulted by one of the nameless entities.  "Yes, Number One.  All credible media institutions 
are reporting the same story.  Of course, there is the Icon, but..."
	"But it is a gossip 'zine," continued the first speaker.  "Irrelevant.  Last week they were 
covering the birth of a three-headed grath and claiming that it had a prophecy about the end of 
the universe encoded in its DNA!  It was a good story, mind you, but only a story.  All the 
normal embellishments.  Still...Number Three, send around some snoops to the Icon's 
headquarters.  You know what to do."
	"Yes, Number One," said a third shadow.  A hand was bared and a cryptic note jotted 
down on the palm with an ink pen.
	"Can't you use a scrap of paper like the rest of the Qua'tohf race?" griped a fourth form.
	Number Three ignored Number Two's pet peeve.
	"If we are about done?" inquired Number One.  There were murmurs of assent.  "Good, 
good.  Number Five, is our guest here?"
	The paper shuffler glanced at a discrete screen set into the table.  While personal 
computers were not allowed, the room had plenty of electronics available for communal use.  
Number One could have checked for the "guest' as easily as Number Five, but Number Five had 
long come to the conclusion that Number One was used to others doing such menial actions.  
Unfortunately, that characteristic did little in narrowing Number One's true identity, it a trait of 
any number of politicians, petty supervisors, and next door neighbors.  Doing as Number One 
"suggested" was easier than arguing, and it kept the sulking fits to which Number One was prone 
at a minimum.
	Number Five gave an unseen nod.  "Our guest is present.  Shall I ring him in?"
	"Yes."
	Number Five tapped several inset buttons on his portion of the table.  A door silently slid 
open at the end of the room opposite the display.  As with the screen, the light it cast illuminated 
nothing.  Into the cabal's presence slinked a man.
	Unlike the living shadows, a diffuse spotlight picked out the features of the invited 
intruder.  He was Qua'tohf, as was the cabal, which meant his features and body form were best 
portrayed as belonging to a Gaelic Faire warrior, should a scholar in obscure alien literature 
apply the description originating from myths of a planet thousands of light years distant.  Tall 
and lithe with subtle strength and cat-like grace, he was a man who epitomized the Qua'tohf 
standard. 
	The man's eyes were an unusual hazel-yellow, out of place amid the racial norm of dark 
hues, but his hair was an appropriate somber black of shoulder length.  Black clothes were cut in 
a quasi-military style which almost, but not quite, aped that of the Home Guard; and a jagged 
lightening bolt patch adorned his right shoulder.  While considered young in a race which often 
lived to two hundred (or more) years, he still had over fifty years of experience, fifty years to 
mold a subtle cynicism:  when the man smiled, as he was often wont to do, the expression 
presented by mouth never reached the eyes.  Right now, the man was smiling as he strolled in, 
his posture relaxed where most should be at least tense, and at the most near paralyzed with 
fearful anticipation.
	To an individual, the cabal was instantly suspicious.
	"Do you have the item?" queried Number One brusquely.
	"Ye can at least greet me, like ye was civilized, you know.  Try something like 'Hello, 
Robbie, chap!  Good to see you!  How're you doing?  How's the new mercenary command 
working out?  Killed anyone recently?  You know, I heard your sister just finished her degree in 
genetic engineering...give her my congratulations,'" brightly said Robbie as he peered around the 
room, eyes squinted against the spot light's glare.  There was a peculiar accent to his voice, an 
unnatural lilt which had yet to evolve to the full-throated 'pirate' it would be years hence.  One 
hand absently brushed against a holster which usually held a hand phaser; and on the opposite 
hip was an equally empty knife sheath.
	A muffled chuckle from Number Five quickly turned into a cough as Number One glared 
in the former's direction.  Papers were rustled in self-defense.
	"Trivialities are irrelevant.  Do you have the item?" demanded Number One again.
	Robbie gave a mock sigh as he rolled his eyes.  "Has anyone ever told ye that ye sound 
like a Borg when ye talk like that.  There be always times for 'trivialities'...that's what separates 
us from them, ye know."  There was a pregnant pause of held breath; and the intense nonsilence 
of the rocketing blood pressure of one particular cabal member.  "Buuuut, in answer to ye 
question, I do have your item."  A hand was patted against a near invisible thigh pocket.
	Called out Number Six impatiently, "Well, let's see it, then!"
	A dangerous glint came to Robbie's amber eyes.  "There's the little matter of price first.  
The money promised isn't enough...especially considering the men and women I lost to extract 
your prize."  No accent adorned the sentence.  From the pocket was taken a small data crystal, a 
synthetic composite of quartz and plastic which glinted dully in the light.  
	"If all you need is more..." began Number Six.
	"Silence, Mister...Twixt," snarled Robbie in a tone used to command.  Number Six shut 
up, more from shock than in response to the order.  Robbie continued in a more normal manner.  
"Yes, I know your identity, Mister Twixt.  I know at least three of you in here, and I have my 
suspicions on two more.  Only one of you I have been unable to dig up a name, but I'll leave it up 
to you to figure out who I mean."
	Five of the six shadows nervously glanced at each other, then to Robbie.  Number Six 
simply shrunk in upon himself in contemplation.  The cabal was so secretive that not only were 
identities masked, but so was gender, the latter a matter of personal perception of one member 
concerning another.  To have one's identity revealed, intentionally or accidentally, was to no 
longer belong to the secret society, to no longer play with civilization as if it were a board game.
	"What do you want, Commander Robbie of the mercenary band Thunder?" asked 
Number One as diplomatically as he could as he squinted sideways to glance at what was visible 
of Number Three's profile.  Hadn't he seen that face before, maybe on a vid?  In the papers?
	Robbie smiled his false smile.  "More money, of course...I think a million extra should 
cover it.  Mr. Twixt is prophetic in that regard.  However, that only takes care of the death 
monies for me dead crew's families.  Well, maybe not technically dead, but as good as.  Selfish 
bastard that /I/ am, I want something special, something different.  I want 'Rhapsody Rainbow' 
by LaVoore.  Not a print.  I want the original."
	"Done," said Number One with the assurance of one who knows that nothing is an 
obstacle, not even the acquisition of a national treasure from a major public museum.  "Number 
Three, make a note, please."
	Number Three wrote a new line under the one already blurring with sweat on his palm.
	"The item?"
	"What is the magic word?"
	Number One sighed.  "Please."
	"Very good," said Robbie.  The crystal spun through the air as it was tossed from one 
hand to the other.  Number Five pushed a recessed button on the table, causing a data port to 
open.  Into the irregular hole went the crystal.  A sketch of a hand waved at the room door, a 
beacon of light which, as always, failed to illuminate the room.
	"Out...please," choked Number One with demanded faux politeness.
	Robbie flourished a practiced bow, one hand sweeping off an imaginary hat.  One could 
almost see the absent feathered plume bobbing.  "Thank ye kind sirs and madam...I expect the 
full payment, including the painting, to be presented to Escrow Services in one week."  The 'or 
else,' never voiced, remained hanging in the air as Robbie departed with the same grace as he had 
entered.  The shadow cabal, whom normally would consider the threat as requiring an 
immediate, and terminal, response, silently agreed to shelve the double-cross in this instance.
	The moment of awkward silence stretched into a long minute.
	Number Two made a throat-clearing noise.  "So, shall we continue then?"
	"Start it," ordered Number One to Number Five.
	The screen slowly brightened to show a Qua'tohf male, one with short, black hair and 
typical gray-blue eyes.  Pointy ears stuck out from the side of his head a bit more than the norm, 
and that, along with not-quite combed hair, lent a general air of absent-minded dishevelment.  A 
small ruby stud rode his right ear.  The static shot was that of shoulders and head only, revealing 
nothing of clothing except for the top of a dark green tunic.  The background was an off-white 
plaster common to living rooms around the homeplanet and across the colonies.  In the lower 
right corner was a date:  Hyliber 14, 1004 UDS.
	Number Five tapped a button.  The picture smoothly slid into motion.
	"This is the video diary of Seltat LaVoore, volume 8.  Today is Hyliber 12...no, 13...no, 
um, 14, 1004, of the Universal Dating System.  Well, it doesn't really matter since the camera 
should be showing the correct date anyway.  You are showing the correct date, aren't you 
camera?"  There was a muffled, off-stage double beep.  "Good.  As I was saying this is the first 
entry of volume 8.  As usual, nothing much happened today.  Mostly I spent time up at the cafe, 
watching the people walk by, trying to find inspiration.  Useless.  The people around Yarta 
Hamlet are boring, no matter what my wife thinks.  Boring.  Bland.  Worthless.  Do I need to 
continue?  No, I don't think so.  We will have to move soon...the beach maybe.  I like the beach.  
Anyway, as I was saying..."
	Number One interrupted the video.  "This isn't the right part, Number Five.  Fast forward 
to the correct date:  the day of the initial incident."
	Number Five noticed that the "please" used with Robbie had disappeared.  He made no 
comment about it; and nor did anyone else.  The screen momentarily returned to gray neutrality 
as the computer searched for the date whispered to it by Number Five.  The screen brightened 
again, this time with the famous, and now late, painter Seltat LaVoore against a backdrop of pale 
seafoam green.  Despite the difference in date - three years - the man's appearance was nearly the 
same, down to hair in desperate need of a comb.
	"Start it," demanded Number One.
	Seltat began to move.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Julack 35, 1007 UDS - 
	"Today is Julack 35, 1007, of the Universal Dating System...early morning.  There is yet 
/another/ benefit at the Quizelquof gallery tomorrow, and I am expected to go.  Idiotic hoopla.  
The whole purpose, I gather, is to raise investment monies for one politician or the other, for all 
that they are all the same, no matter claimed ideology or passion.  And I'm expected to be around 
like some sort of ornament, smiling and bowing and making small talk, selling myself and my 
works as if the event were some sort of live infomercial.
	"Bullocks.
	"/Everyone/ knows my name, from the least pre-school age child on the homeworld to the 
most distant geriatric on some deity-cursed Hellspot colony light years away.  I /am/ the one and 
only Seltat LaVoore, after all.  Unlike the generations of painters and other artists before me, 
/my/ genius has been recognized /before/ I died...which is good for me.  Therefore, why should I 
waste my time like a minor artist trying to sell a poor portrait for his next meal?  Every minute, 
second, that these events remove me from my studio is a minute, second, I am not making those 
works so admired by everyone.
	"Morons."  Pause.  "Just a moment, Pricelid!
	"Camera off."

	Seltat ordered the camera to its resting place, watching it fly up and land itself on the top 
of a series of bracket-mounted wall shelves.  It was the only thing on the top two tiers relatively 
clean, an eclectic collection of items ranging from old electronics to tacky tourist souvenirs 
bought for him by a well-meaning wife all covered in a patina of dust.  He gazed at the upper 
shelves, as he did upon occasion, wondering why he didn't just take the time to toss out all the 
old, worthless junk accumulated up there.  There again, so resolved his thoughts, if he did do so, 
not only would time be taken from his painting, but people might get the urge to try to fill the 
shelves again.
	"Honey!" called the voice of his wife, Pricelid, again, from the other side of Seltat's 
closed workroom door.  It had a patient quality to it that he had never recognized.  "Honey, the 
Boers are on the vid asking if we have time for dinner tonight.  Maybe something Tuni 
seafoodish.  Do you think we can make it?"
	Seltat, while most self-absorbed into his own ego, did recognize some things.  He winced 
as he turned away from the shelves.  While it was a waste of time - dinner out, conversation, 
marriage at times since it involved living with another person - when that certain tone entered his 
wife's voice, he knew he should make the time, however inconvenient it might be.  Frowning, he 
replied loudly, brusquely, "Fine.  But not before 1600."  The time was sufficiently late in the 
twenty hour day to maybe discourage the Boers, however unlikely that hope might be.
	"Good, good.  I'll tell them that.  They'll be thrilled for our company."  The undertone 
hinted that Seltat would best to try to act likewise.  However, he would make no promises except 
that he would dine with proper manners and not give monologues as to why the latest art fad was 
an atrocity to all proper media, i.e., oil painting.
	Footsteps on the other side of the door indicated retreat.
	Seltat raised his eyes to look around his workshop.  The glass double doors which led to 
the balcony were open to the morning sea breezes, gossamer curtains of white billowing as best 
they could from their velvet rope prisons at the side of the entranceway.  Shelves lined the room 
on all sides except that with the balcony door, crammed primarily with the artifacts of a painter 
such as canvas, frames, paints, brushes, pigments, oils, woods, and so on.  Interspersed amid the 
items were dross and flotsam - a broken shell shimmering with mother-of-pearl, a child's model 
spaceship, a jar of pebbles vibrantly glowing in shades of amber and rich wood, a single dried 
flower badly mounted on a bit of ragged cardboard - which, while as useless as the things on the 
upper shelves, were nonetheless afforded the honor of permanence, the right to exist, each a story 
in and of itself which Seltat had painted, or planned to paint...someday.
	In the center of the room was the canvas, the altar to which Seltat painted his soul.  Some 
critics questioned how Seltat could create masterpiece after masterpiece, whispering only half-
fastidiously that he must have sold his soul to the Underlord of Evil.  No devils were involved, 
Seltat knew all too well, unless they came from within.  Truly, Seltat painted to exorcise himself 
from himself, pouring himself - literally - into the medium using ancient techniques no more 
magical than the journal camera.  Some may see the use of his own hair, blood, and sweat for 
ingredients as barbaric, but those people did not count.  The fact of the matter was /he/ had 
excellent color sense, and /he/ could capture the universe onto the canvas as no other, past or 
present, could.
	Currently the canvas stood empty.  White.  Waiting.
	Seltat went to the doors and thence outside, standing on the balcony in the breeze.  He 
breathed deeply of the salt air.  It was the Boers:  it was their fault.  It they hadn't have called, 
then his wife wouldn't have felt the need to bother him, and he could have finished his daily 
morning ritual of the diary in peace.  His day was ruined and inspiration had fled.  He would 
need to find it again.  Grunting, he climbed over the railing and onto the ladder which leaned 
against the balcony, then methodically lowered himself to the sandy ground.
	It was post-tourist season, and the beaches would be empty except for birds.  Waves 
driven from a storm far out at sea were crashing magnificently against sand and rock.  He would 
take a walk to clear his mind of distractions.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"This is where the shuttle 'accident' happened?" inquired Number Four, silent until now.  
There was a certain emphasis on "accident" which meant the incident of the shuttle crashing on 
Seltat during his morning constitutional had been anything but accidental.  While Number Four 
did not speak often, when such did occur, the utterance was usually obvious and banal.
	Number Five squinted into the darkness which cloaked Number Four.  As always, he had 
the impression of flowing clothes of a decidedly feminine, and expensive, cut.  Either Number 
Four was a woman...else a male with very eccentric tastes.
	"Number Five!" barked Number One.  "Are you listening to me?"
	Number Five quickly replayed the question in his head.  "Um, yes?"
	"Then why the delay?"
	"Because Number Four wanted to say something, so I paused the recording.  It is down in 
the log...Number Four's light flashed at me."  Number Five moved back from his recessed 
electronic panel slightly, allowing others to have a view of the silently blinking orange light 
above the words 'Number Four'.
	"I just wanted to confirm that this is where the accident happened," defensively said 
Number Four as attention shifted to her.
	Number Three snorted, a sound vocal disguise machinery oddly twisted.  "Of course the 
accident happened.  I made sure it happened.  I watched it happen.  It was I, through my 
connections, who paid the right people to look the other way as the automated delivery shuttle 
blew its own nacelle, which in turn forced it to land on a certain beach several miles from the 
shuttle port.  It was I who made sure that computer jockeys reprogrammed it to fall specifically 
on Seltat; and it was I who made sure that those same jockeys unleashed the virus to completely 
scramble the shuttle's brain so that it seemed as if a nasty software infection was to blame for the 
loss of the person-avoidance function."
	"Geesh, you don't have to be so...so...you about it," muttered Number Four peevishly.  "I 
only asked a simple question."
	"Enough!" shouted Number One before the cabal could degenerate into verbal sniping.  
Number Two, who had leaned forward in preparation to add his own opinion, prudently stifled 
whatever view was to be voiced.  "Number Five...next entry, if you will."
	"Coming right up, Number One," said Number Five as he touched a button on his 
console.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Kulan 3, 1007 UDS -
	"I've lost eight days, they tell me.  Eight days!  How am I supposed to function when the 
doctors at the cursed hospital keep me unconscious for eight days?
	"I don't remember much:  the sea birds going silent, the roar of the shuttle, a shadow as 
the sun disappeared.  Sand and salt grit in my face, my eyes, my mouth.  They - the doctors - say 
I was pretty well banged up.  Am pretty well banged up.  Having a f**king shuttle land on you 
would constitute 'banged up.'  
"As I'm sure the diary shows, I've had surgery.  The gods only know what I look like.  
With the bandage over my face and eyes, I don't know.  On the upside, the camera is voice 
operated, not that there is much an upside to this predicament.  My hands are wrapped too...I 
know that.  Beyond that, I don't care.
	"I am at home, at least.  Being famous does have its perks.  Hospital saw the light and 
declared I would do better recuperating at home.  Of course, it took screaming at them - my 
voice is perfectly fine - and a high-priced lawyer.  Oh, they say I'm not supposed to paint, that 
I'm not supposed to take off the bandages, but it isn't like they can stop me.  What harm will a 
little arm movement do?  What harm looking at canvas?  The shuttle crash has inspired a new 
piece, and I must begin it.  Immediately.
	"Camera, stand-by mode."

	Seltat frowned as he considered his problem.  The bandages were tightly wound and well 
bound with surgical tape.   The best course would be to cut them off with knife or scissors, but 
that would require a second person to assist.  He knew his wife would not cooperate.  She wasn't 
home at the moment, anyway, off at the grocer trying to find 'special' food for dinner.  Pricelid's 
idea of special food was always the same; and Seltat just didn't feel like fresh sea-tomato stuffed 
with brinefish tonight, no matter that it was his favorite.
	Seltat fumbled at his head bandages for a moment, but could find no purchase with his 
wrapped hands.  Grumbling, he leaned back against the pillow rest of his bed.
	"Camera.  Confirm that you are not currently recording."
	The camera beeped somewhere in front of Seltat.  "Camera is not recording," said a 
precisely mechanical voice.
	Seltat thought for a moment.  The camera was more than the standard flying video diary.  
It was actually a high-priced journalism tool, hardened for battlezone use.  Being nigh-near 
indestructible, at least to anything less than a direct hit by a fusion cannon, was what had caught 
Seltat's eye.  Hardiness was important because it had to withstand the occasional creative temper-
tantrums which had reduced previous video diaries to scrap at the base of a wall.  The camera 
/should/ have other tools, ones he had briefly read in the owner's manual, but had never bothered 
to try.
	"Camera.  Deploy laser tool.  Set to cut."
	"Acknowledged."  There was the faint electric whir of a long-disused motor.
	Seltat blindly held out both hands.  "Camera.  Cut bandages from my hands.  /Do not/ 
hurt the skin.  Can you do that?"
	"The camera understands and is able to perform the task."
	Smiling to himself as he felt faint heat through the bandages as the laser gently burned 
through layers of fabric, Seltat waited.  Soon enough the bandages fell away, allowing warm air 
to caress his hands.  Fingers were experimentally flexed, but there was no pain, only the stiff 
feeling of disuse.  Hah!  Over-cautious doctors!  If his hands were as normal as they seemed, 
then there was no reason his head should be wrapped.  Cosmetics did not matter.
	"Now if I can just..." muttered Seltat to himself as he yanked at the tape fastener and 
began to unwind bandages.
	Brighter and brighter became the light as Seltat strained his eyes.  Each layer of bandage 
removed incrementally increased the amount of radiance available.  He could see...stupid 
doctors.  Double-damned, too-cautious doctors.  Oh, yes, there was a twinge of headache which 
grew with the light, but it was nothing Seltat could not cure with pills once he could see well 
enough to read the bottles in the medicine cabinet.
	Finally the last layer of bandage was removed.  The fabric fluttered to the ground, 
slipping from Seltat's fingers.  The painter eagerly looked around his bedroom, eyes darting 
automatically to the masterpieces (his own) hung on the wall amid photos of his wife's family.  
Something...something was not right.  Not right at all.
	Where was the color?
	Wide eyes focused upon "The Rainbow Waterfall," a delicate composition of the same-
named waterfall with its perpetual gauze of rainbows.  It had been a delight painting what was 
considered one of the homeworld's natural wonders, capturing the tumble of water as it poured 
over a bedrock lip and fell a thousand meters to the underground Rainbow River.  The 
combination of quartz, gold, and rough gems offset by flecks of mica and lighted with the sun 
created the numerous rainbows; and those ever-shifting bands of light had been one of the 
hardest things Seltat had ever tried to capture to canvas in his career.  Now...now the sparkle was 
not there.  "The Rainbow Waterfall" was reduced to a grayscale blah.
	Frantically, Seltat shifted his gaze first to the colorful "Birds of Paradise," next to the 
darker "Tsunami Aftermath," and finally to the minimalist "Jar of Pebbles."  Bright-plumed birds 
and flowers, despondent body recovery workers in red rain slickers amid a composition heavy in 
blues and blacks, richly brown and amber pebbles...all were reduced to the same, boring colors.  
Nothing - nothing! - was right.
	And still the headache grew.
	And grew.
	Seltat was not sure when he passed out, his last memory that of staring at "The Rainbow 
Waterfall," mentally urging the colors to reappear.

	Kulan 15, 1007 UDS -
	"Doctors!  Butchers with fancy educational degrees is more like it!  Sadistic butchers 
who enjoy seeing patients suffer.  I am home again - finally - and have access to my journal.  Do 
you know the blasted doctors wouldn't even let me have my camera?  And, if possible, the 
/nurses/ were even worse!  They should have just kept me in a medical coma...much better all 
around.
	"Yes, dear, I'll calm down.  No, I don't need any tranquilizers.
	"Apparently there was a relapse.  The doctors mumbled something about light impacting 
my eyes and other such mumbo-jumbo, but I didn't listen.  That was after the surgery, when I 
was imprisoned in a hospital bed with not even a sketch pad in sight, much less canvas and oil.  
They kept me in that hospital bed for far too many days, only allowing me to go home when I 
could use my hands again, and when I could see without becoming dizzy.
	"Well, not too much dizzy.  I didn't bother to tell them about the headache, lest some 
smart-gyuss hot-shot doctor decide I needed to stay another indefinite amount of time.  
	"One would think there would be a little deferential treatment since I /am/ Seltat, but 
noooo.  Instead, they went on, once more, about how I was landed upon by a shuttle, and, by all 
rights, should have died, not be sitting there moaning about my hurts.  My wife has promised I 
will return to the hospital in a five-day to begin physical therapy.  We'll see.  I've escaped them 
now.
	"Camera off."

Pricelid entered the workroom with barely a knock on the door.  Seltat had insisted 
moving a small bed in the room, rationalizing that he would convalesce better surrounded by 
paints and familiar things than in a dark bedroom.  So far, the sights had only deepened his 
depression, remembered vibrant colors already beginning to fade in the face of a gray reality.  
Still, he was nothing if not tenacious; and he already had a pair of abortive attempts at painting 
stacked canvas-face down in one corner.  A third canvas waited on the easel, empty, with a 
palette of paints slowly drying nearby.
"Honey?" ventured Pricelid.
	Seltat grunted from his spot on the balcony, but didn't turn from his ocean view.  
The sun was setting over the rolling surf.  The only part of the living composition which retained any 
sense of normalcy were the black and white sea birds, and even they seemed somehow dulled.
	"Time for dinner, Seltat.  You should come and eat."  There was a pause, and Seltat 
imagined his wife taking in the organized disorder of the workroom, eyes lingering on his 
wretched attempt at painting.  "You should not push yourself, dear.  It will come back.  Have 
faith in the doctors."
	Seltat did not reply.  Silence was his answer, as was his pointed resistance to moving 
from the balcony.  After a while, he heard Pricelid leave, shutting the door softly behind.  Seltat 
continued to stare at the ocean, returning to dark workroom and cold bed only when the stars 
shone brightly in the black sky.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Number Two shifted in his chair.  Finally, after two diary weeks (and 30 actual minutes) 
of an increasingly despondent Seltat alternately complaining about his doctors and bemoaning 
continued monochromatic vision, he blurted, "How much more of this is there?  Is it all like this?  
And could someone tell Number Three to stop taking notes on his arm like that?"
	Number Three hastily hid a black marker and pulled down the sleeve of his shirt.
	Before bickering could begin, Number Five loudly answered, "Let me do a fast 
forward...just a moment...just one moment."  A few brusque verbal commands sent the racing, 
Seltat's hand waving and changes in expression achieving comic potential.  Dates and times 
flashed in the lower right hand corner.  A stifled giggle came from Number Four's shadowed 
chair.  Finally, after more than two subjective months, the computer beeped, informing that the 
content had changed.  Number Five caressed a button, freezing the diary once again.
	Number One peered at the date.  "Observation modules had been placed in the household 
by this time, yes?  All tuned and the manipulation program started?"  The question was directed 
obliquely at Number Three, who was the usual contact point concerning such operational 
aspects, as well as the less subtle facets of cabal operations like the "accidents" department.
	The shade which was Number Three gave an indication of nodding.  As the gesture was 
mostly distorted, it was quickly replaced with a verbal assent.  "Yes.  The house was wired by 
that time.  Took a bit of work, and in the end the entire block had free satellite tri-V as a side 
effect, but all was complete."  Number Three paused, thoughtfully studying the frozen image.  "I 
think the manipulation program started on that diary date, too.  But I need my notes to 
check..."  Number Three stooped in his chair to roll up a pant leg, much to the annoyance of Number Two.
	"That won't be necessary," said Number One.  "Number Five, continue the diary."
	Seltat jerked into motion.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Popire 8, 1007 UDS - 
	"I'm never going to see color again.  Never.  The doctors and physical therapists 
say I can live a normal life without color vision; and the accountants indicate I have more than 
sufficient funds to never need to take a - deities forbid - menial job.  'Normal life'?  
Pah!
	"Pricelid has been spending more and more time out of the house.  Right now, for 
instance.  She obviously doesn't understand my pain.  Every time I try to explain for her 
understanding, she gets this odd expression.  She never says anything, but one would think that 
she was tired of me talking to her about my vision.  I thought it was the purpose of a spouse to 
listen.  She sometimes tries to tell me about her day, or the latest neighborhood gossip, or other 
such drivel about feeling with me in my lack of color.  As if.
	"She even had the gall to suggest one day for me to see a /shrink/.  The body doctors 
were bad enough...I don't need one for my head.
	"I think it was around that time that the latest of social circles really started to keep her 
from the house.  Or maybe she always was busy like that, except I was in my workshop and 
didn't notice.  Well, I notice now, and I want her to be here!
	"Lacking a wife, unable to paint properly, and becoming bored with the view out my 
window, I've taken to watching tri-V.  There was a company which offered a free sample of 
their services to the area a couple of weeks ago.  They haven't been back since to pick up 
their equipment, which is fine with me.  Tri-V is a waste of brain cells, but since my brain is already 
wasted, what's the difference anymore.
	"Right now, 'The Adventures of the Prebsot Twins' is about to begin.  Mindless, 
but...what the hey?  Camera, off!"

	Seltat frowned at the tri-V set.  The image faintly glowing several centimeters above the 
base was an advisement not of the upcoming Prebsot Twin episode, but a splashy star-studded 
landscape upon which a menacing cube rotated.  An unseen announcer spun a line of glowing 
superlatitives concerning the forthcoming six-part special entitled "The Definitive Guide to 
Borg."  With a sigh, Seltat ordered the camera position itself in a ceiling corner, out of the way.  
The remote control to the tri-V was lost within the sofa cushions amid the debris of a week of 
munchie crumbs, and Seltat was much too apathetic to find it.  So...if not the Prebsot 
Twins, then Borg.  Same difference, really, colorless pictures making motions in the air.
	Although he would not admit it, not even to himself, the real reason he had traded the 
airy lightness of his workshop for the stuffy dungeon of the rarely used living room was that the 
latter fit his mood.  The living room was dark and dim, the better to avoid confronting his loss of 
color vision.  He had tried, more than once, to paint, but the compositions were lackluster, not to 
mention a psychotropic riot of color for those able to perceive it.  More importantly, the living 
room was devoid of the personal memorabilia which littered the workroom and the masterpiece 
paintings that adorned the rest of the house.  The tri-V completed the mental escape, focusing 
attention on banal programming to an extent that even the bare living room could be ignored for 
hours at a time.
	As Seltat watched the program, eyes half-lidded, his posture slowly changed, becoming 
more alert.  The program, against all expectations was interesting.  Qua'tohf had known 
about Borg for nearly a century, first as a rumor from well beyond expanding space frontiers, then later 
through direct confrontation.  The Borg had yet to show active interest in the Qua'tohf 
beyond a freighter in the wrong place at the wrong time or a research station unfortunately sited.  Perhaps 
it was due to the out-of-the-way nature of the Qua'tohf homeworld, or perhaps the Borg just 
saw no pressing need for assimilating the society, but, thus far, Borg remained a curiosity which 
existed far from the minds of most citizens.
	The first part of the six-part program was an overview of the forthcoming weeks.  What 
especially interested Seltat was the Borg implant technologies to be showcased, and, more 
specifically, how they were forecast to impact Qua'tohf medical technology.  
	Alien medical technology.
	Alien cerebral medical technology.
	Alien cerebral medical technology, with an emphasis on visual processing.
	Seltat was hooked on the program.

	Tulyo 22, 1007 UDS - 
	"Camera, over here.  Focus on this picture.
	"As anyone who may watch this diary can see, I've outlined all that needs to be done 
in order to restore my vision to prefect functionality.  This is a /historical/ document.  The Borg 
mini-series special has all the pieces of the puzzle, and I've assembled them into a working 
whole.  Or what should be a working whole, if anyone would listen to me.  So far I, Seltat 
LaVoore, painter extraordinaire who /will/ return to the craft better than ever, have been 
practically laughed at by so-called doctors.  Oh, they don't quite laugh, but they 
definitely snigger behind their hands and make not-so-sly comments that I need to see a shrink.
	"When I am whole, we'll see who laughs last.
	"Camera, this paper, near the window.
	"As can be seen, all I need is a few minor pieces of Borg hardware.  The military types 
I've talked to deny any stockpiles of Borg bits; and that all the parts shown in the tri-V 
show are either clever mock-ups, computer animation, or footage of hardware long destroyed.  As /if/ the 
military was ever one for destroying anything with potential use.  Anyway, when I procure the 
hardware, the implants need simply to be inserted in my brain about this location.  It 
shouldn't be too hard; and I've more than sufficient money for a doctor.
	"Everything is for sale; and nothing is too steep a price for restoring my vision.  If 
anything, the Borg hardware might even enhance my vision...which would only make for better 
paintings.
	"The details - camera, this side of the room - I've drawn out here.  It only took 
re-watching the series too many times to count, but it should be easy."  Pause.  "Not now, Pricelid, 
I'm busy.  The door is locked.  I'll be down later."  Pause.  "This here is one of the bits 
that I need.  The program called it an optical coupling.  It will fit right here in the skull with only minor 
skull resculpting, nothing a good plastic surgeon couldn't accomplish.  The Borg do it all 
the time, and they are uncouth cybernetic creatures.  Err...um...
	"Camera, pause."

	Seltat blinked, confused.  He thought he had heard the front door slam, but Pricelid, the 
only other person in the house, would never slam a door.  Even fainter was the soft purr of a 
ground-hover vehicle accelerating.  Motor noise was quickly lost amid the rising moan of an 
incoming storm heralding winter's demise into the blowing freshets of spring.  Concentration 
broken concerning the grand scheme to recover his vision, Seltat sighed.
	"Camera, stand-by mode.  Go wait on the ceiling."  The camera beeped twice in 
acknowledgement, then silently floated upwards until it was out of the way of errant heads.
	Seltat's workroom was drastically different compared to a mere six months ago, prior 
to the shuttle accident.  Canvases, brushes, pigments, all the tools Seltat once had held dear were 
piled haphazardly on the balcony outside the workroom window doors, unrecoverably weathered 
from the ravages of a marine winter.  The only object saved from the elements was a salt-stained 
easel, now used to display one of the many crude sketches scribbled upon common butcher paper 
which currently hung from shelves, walls, every workroom surface able to support tacks or tape.  
The shelves, once overcrowded, were now largely empty, clean outlines amid dust the only 
evidence of the varied objects which had once been present.  The sole exception was a jar of 
pebbles, although the glass did have a large crack crudely fixed with masking tape.  The bed 
which Seltat had insisted upon his return from the hospital remained, blankets and sheets mussed 
as sign of his current sleeping arrangements.
	Several plates, empty except for crumbs, were stacked on the floor near the interior door.  
Seltat's frowned as he eyed them, eyes flicking to the wall to examine a newly installed 
clock.  It was over fifteen hours since he had last emerged from the room, and then it had only been to use 
the bathroom.  Perhaps he should eat.  "Pricelid," Seltat shouted, "bring me a sandwich!"
	No answer.
	"Pricelid?"
	Continued silence.
	Seltat unlocked the workroom door, opened it, then stuck his head into the hallway.  
Nothing.  No one.  The house had that still air which indicated he to be the sole occupant.  
Exiting the room, he hesitantly made his way along the hallway, down the stairs, and towards the 
kitchen.  "Pricelid?"
	As he went along, Seltat noticed small things he associated with his wife to be missing.  
Bright squares and circles on the walls outlined vanished photos; and, when he peeked into the 
bedroom, he noted the bedspread given to Pricelid by her great-grandmother as a death gift was 
missing.  Also gone from the house was jewelry, items of clothing, crystals of favorite music, 
and a pair of suitcases.  Seltat entered the kitchen.
	On the counter, near the refrigerator (Pricelid was an old-fashioned woman, preferring to 
have real, thus expensive, food available as opposed to replicated meals), was a ring, an earring, 
and a piece of paper.  As Seltat approached, he realized the jewelry was Pricelid's wedding 
band and earring, and the note was in her handwriting.  Picking up the note, Seltat read: 
	"Dear, dear Seltat.  I still love you, and will always love you.  However, I am at the point 
where I have to admit that it isn't working out.  I've been seeing a marriage therapist for 
many months now, and, well, she's made me take a close look at myself.  I..."
	Seltat skipped down the first page of the letter, only glancing at the second and third 
page.  The fourth page mentioned divorce papers to be arriving in the morning.  There was also a 
vid-number for the friend where Pricelid was staying for the next several days should Seltat want 
to talk things out.  Shrugging, devoid of emotion, Seltat tossed the letter back on the counter 
where he had found it.  Ring and earring were left undisturbed.
	Opening the refrigerator, Seltat found a day-old sandwich and a carbonated fruit 
beverage.  Taking both, he shut the door to the fridge and returned to his workroom:  he had to 
continue working on his plans.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Wasn't the whole manipulation just a wee bit obvious?" asked Number Six when the 
diary and supporting observation documents were paused for a potty and snack break.  He had 
not spoken, or even drawn much attention to himself, since the mercenary's revelation of the 
his identity as Mr. Twixt.
	The semblance of a shrug came from Number Three.  "The man wasn't exactly stable to 
begin with.  Intrusive surgery to place a visual filter following being used as a landing pad by a 
shuttle isn't exactly a recipe for a mental even keel.  The subharmonics, subliminal tri-V 
messages, and prescription alterations didn't help either."
	"Still," persisted Number Six, "his wife...his neighbors...."
	"His neighbors," answered Number One, "didn't know him.  Such was the privilege of 
an eccentric painter.  His wife was manipulated just as much as he was, although much more subtly, 
to make sure she was away from the house as much as possible in order to inhibit tracking of 
personality changes.  The doctors belonged to us."
	"But..."
	"It's not like you have a job anymore, Mr. Twixt.  I suggest you be quiet and think 
upon the memory erasure concerning all cabal activities which is in your future," sternly replied 
Number One.  "Number Five, back to the show.  And, Number Two, those Crunch Chips better 
not be too noisy, nor too many crumbs.  The custodian was very vocal in her complaints 
following the last meeting; and she has a very shrill voice, not to mention untouchable because 
of union regulations."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Avo 37, 1007 USD - 
	"Since doctors and other such ilk continue not to listen seriously to me, I have decided to 
take things into my own hands.  Unfortunately, until yesterday, I did not know how exactly how 
I could do so.  The obvious course of action is to procure Borg hardware myself, from the source 
one could say.  It shouldn't be too hard, I would think.  Once I have the bits I need, then 
I can hire a suitable doctor.  The problem is open market spaceships, runabouts, and such 
don't have the speed or power I need, even the alien types.
	"Camera, focus on this mail advertisement.
	"Then, a week ago, I received this announcement from Visa-Consortium that I had won 
sixty-third place in the 'Use Your Visa-Consortium Sweepstakes.'  Actually my wife won it - 
the credit cards are in her name - but since she doesn't live in the house anymore, well, I 
thought I might as well use it.  It was a behind-the-scenes visitor pass to one's nearest military 
installation.  For me that is Loman Base, down the coast and next to the spaceport.  I took the tour yesterday, 
along with a dozen other local winners.
	"Of course, no photos were allowed.  Security issue.  Camera, point yourself at these 
sketches.  As can be seen here, I don't need photographs.  I've recreated the important 
parts from memory.  This is a warp-capable shuttle.  The tour guide said that it is among the fastest of its 
type in the fleet, occasionally used for scouting, and that the base has six of them assigned.  
Three are currently on the ground, parked here...near this cliff which overlooks the back of 
the base.
	"Camera, the map.
	"This map, the standard tourist fare, highlights all major features.  I've circled 
where the shuttles are stored.  Out of the way of all the big ships that land, notice, but perhaps, just perhaps, 
in a location that a single person with lots of ingenuity - me - can get to.
	"Camera, back to the cliff overlook sketch."

	Seltat leapt from rough sketch to rough sketch, returning repeatedly to the base map and 
the cliff overlook.  Ever since the unification of the Qua'tohf race from nation-states to a 
true planet government centuries prior, homeworld military bases had become lax with their ground-
based defenses, relying primarily on "Keep Out" signs and token fences with intrusion detection 
grids.  Corporate campuses, ever at war with their economic rivals, had better security than 
military bases.  Homeworld defensive firepower was concentrated in orbit.  Still, that did not 
mean a casual sojourn to the base to steal a shuttle would be easy.
	First of all, and most important, Seltat had to learn how to pilot a shuttle manually.  It 
was extremely unlikely the ship computer would condone its own hijacking.
	Seltat paused in his mania, twisting his wedding band in thought.  Although formally 
divorced, he had never removed the ring, nor the small stud in his right ear.  The ex-painter was 
distinctly scruffy, hair frizzed, eyes wide, and clothes rumpled in unsubtle indication of a body 
running on too many stimulants and not enough sleep.  In fact, he had not slept since the base 
visit, too busy refining and re-refining plans and sketches.  As if suddenly realizing his condition, 
he looked down at himself.
	"No, this will not do, not do at all.  Not at all.  Camera, pause recording.  Connect to 
house computer and link with shopping net.  Initiate projection."
	The camera beeped and pivoted.  A square of light illuminated a moderately clear section 
of wall near the interior door.  The shopping net logo shimmered into view.
	"Keyword search:  gaming systems and games.  Specific:  contemporary military 
shuttles."
	The search was swiftly parsed, a variety of entertainment systems and desired games 
displayed.
	"Next.  Next.  Next.  Stop.  That system.  No, not that game.  Next.  Stop.  Provide 
review."  Pause.  "No, not what I want.  Next.  Stop.  'Based upon real military shuttles, 
fighters, and capital ships.'  Yes, that one sounds good.  Order them both, with same-day 
delivery."
	The price materialized.  While not astrometrical, neither was it a bargain.  Seltat rolled 
his eyes.  "I don't care how much it costs.  Price is no option.  Confirm the order."
	The camera beeped.  The linkage to the house computer was severed, and along with it 
the shopping net visual.  The camera pivoted to face its owner.  If the machine had had enough 
intelligence to understand the narrow-eyed thoughtfulness of Seltat's expression, it would 
have left via balcony door and never returned.
	"And you, camera, I need to read up on your specs.  I think I may have a mission for you.  
But first...camera unpause.  Focus on the base map."

	Avar 12, 1007 UDS - 
	"Today is, um, Avar 12, 1007 of the Universal Dating System.  I am about to assault 
Loman Base and steal a shuttle.  The technicians have taken their lunch break and left a shuttle 
door open, so it is now or never.  Of course, my actions aren't really stealing.  After all, 
I'll return the shuttle when I'm done with it and can properly paint again.  If anything, 
the military should be /thanking/ me for my actions, for I /am/ and will be again, a national treasure.  
Therefore, here I go.  
	"Camera, film all which follows for posterity, no matter what."

	Seltat stood at the top of the cliff, peering over the edge.  Although spring was beginning 
to fade into the mild ocean breezes of early summer, there was still a bite to the light wind which 
stung through layers of warm jacket.  Far below was a shuttle, little more than an box with 
overlarge nacelles, cargo bay door invitingly open.  The camera, Seltat's spy, had watched 
from this position every day for the last several weeks, noting in the last two days that the shuttles 
were undergoing routine maintenance, one per day.  Today was the third day, and today was the 
third shuttle.  The technicians had a predictable routine whereupon they dropped all tools at 
precisely lunch, wandering off for a mid-day snack elsewhere on the base.
	The camera Seltat used as a diary was the key to his whole plan.  It was a battlefield 
camera for the hardcore journalist determined to win lauds in the tough arena of reporting.  It had 
many functions besides 'record,' including a very useful electronic disruption function 
which had allowed Seltat to sneak past the token intrusion detection perimeter with no one the wiser.  
Now, however, as he eyed the makeshift harness draped around the camera and contemplated his 
own weight versus the lifting power of the machine, a few cells at the back of his brain, those 
which specialized in self-preservation, were firing.  He ignored them.  The manual indicated 
there would be a whole three kilos of extra lifting power left to the camera.
	The free ends of the harness were attached to the equally jury-rigged straps criss-crossing 
Seltat's torso; and a small bundle of clothing and other necessities was hefted.
	"Lift me up and begin to descend towards the base of the cliff.  Quickly, but not too 
quick...and not too slow, neither!"  The free hand slapped at the diary as it contemplated 
its ambiguous command.  The camera finally beeped twice in acknowledgement.
	Seltat never noticed the flash of the binocular lens which was trained upon his position as 
he started down the cliff.
	"Not so fast!" shouted Seltat at the camera as the pair descended.  Downward motion 
abruptly slowed to a crawl.  "You idiot machine.  Faster than this!  I'm totally exposed out 
here.  And don't swing me so much!"
	In such fits and starts Seltat descended the 70 meters from cliff top to tarmac.  He was not 
unnoticed, but the eyes of the common base worker had been briefed beforehand of the "special 
operation" scheduled to occur today.  Not even had Seltat smacked into a cafeteria window or 
landed directly upon a mechanic would he have been acknowledged.  Feet finally touched 
asphalt.  Seltat quickly shed his impromptu harness.
	"Need padding next time," declared Seltat to himself as he rubbed his shoulders and 
back.  A shuttle, not his target, provided a place to hide as he congratulated himself on his 
progress thus far.  The camera faithfully hovered above and behind, recording as ordered and 
quite exposed to any roving eye.
	Satisfied no one had noticed anything amiss, Seltat picked up his bag and nonchalantly 
sauntered towards the open shuttle.  He exuded an air of belonging, or at least attempted, despite 
the fact he was not dressed as base personnel.  Binoculars continued to track, unobserved, from 
afar.  Seltat entered the open door, camera trailing.
	From the outside, the shuttle was motionless for nearly twenty minutes, long past the 
point technicians would have returned had they actually been performing routine maintenance.  
Finally, much to the relief of the unseen watcher, Seltat stumbled across the "casually 
misplaced" hardcopy help files of how to disable the shuttle computer.  Nacelles of the small 
craft began to glow a faint purple.  With satisfaction, the watcher observed as the shuttle began 
to lift, settle back to the tarmac to close the rear payload door, then rose again before 
disappearing under the auspices of a cloak.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"I thought you just went at the last break!' exclaimed an exasperated Number One.
	Number Four refused to back down, bladder making her bold.  "I did, but you see, the 
drink I got from the vending machine..."  The explanation faded to a low mumbling.  "I have to 
go.  End of story."  The most vital part of the demand was conveyed.
	"But we're just getting to the exciting parts," complained Number Six, "and I want to see 
them, even if I will be having my memory erased afterwards.  Can't you just hold it?"
	Icy silence from Number Four was a more than adequate answer, quashing all similar 
objections.
	Number One sighed.  "Fine.  Extra bathroom break.  Everyone is to be back in five 
minuets...AND /no one/ is to return with a beverage.  Do I make myself clear?"  Mumbled 
assents were Number One's answer.  "Good.  I'd like to finish reviewing the diary sometime 
today.  Maybe this year or decade, even."  Heavy sarcasm.  "I'm sure /other/ cabals are 
more...dignified than us."
	The door to the room opened, and leading the pack to exit was a hasty Number Four.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Hyliber 2, 1007 USD - 
	"Captain's Log, Hyliber 2, 1007 of the Universal Dating System, more or less.  I think 
there are supposed to be more numbers and points, but I don't care.  Time:  doesn't matter.  
Location:  somewhere in space, Far Territories.  Bullocks.  Enough of this drivel.
	"A couple of days ago at the ore station - what a slop bucket /that/ place was - that miner 
swore up and down these Far Territory coordinates had Borg sightings.  I should know never to 
trust an alien, especially one with too many eyes and tentacles coming out of its...well, it makes 
me shudder when I think about it.  Slimy bastard, in more ways than one.  There's nothing out 
here in this particular nowhere to give a reason for Borg to visit.
	"The star charts this shuttle came with show an outpost about 14.3 light years from here.  
That'll be another two days of travel, another two days of staring at the bulkheads.  So far I've 
catalogued thirty-one types of gray in the shuttle's interior.  The outpost is marked as owned by 
some race called Drinan.  Deities know what /they/ look like."
	"Damn, that thing is back.  I thought I had fixed the display.
	"Camera, off."

	The ghost was back.  Seltat frowned as he absently scratched his head, fingers running 
through hair that was in desperate need of a wash, not to mention a comb.  More disheveled than 
ever without another being on board to which to be presentable (much less deodorized), sashays 
to the sonic shower had become few and far between.  One hand prodded the console of the 
display in question, but nothing happened except a few obligatory sparks and beeps of electronic 
protest from wires inexpertly spliced.
	The tracking display was supposed, through means unknown to Seltat (not that he had 
any interest in physics), to track all ships within 2.5 light years.  It could be defeated through the 
use of certain cloaks, organic armor, and the like, but on the whole it worked well enough.  
Except in one instance.  That instance was currently a fuzzy shadow on the edge of the screen.
	Seltat had come to the conclusion that it was a electronic malfunction, perhaps even one 
the Loman Base mechanics had been slated to fix before the shuttle's unscheduled test drive.  It 
surely wasn't any Qua'tohf military ship:  they all had given up after a week of pursuit, after 
Seltat had bribed a scrap merchant (another horrible alien, this one with fur everywhere) to hide 
the shuttle within several thousand metric tons of junked spacecraft on their way to the recyclers.  
The ghost had continued to dog him after that episode.
	A little over a week ago, however, Seltat had begun to study the owner's manual he had 
found tucked in an onboard compartment, still shrink-wrapped in the original plastic.  The 
resultant spaghetti mess had developed when he had forged on despite the fact all pertinent 
directions referred to color-coded wires.  At any rate, the ghost had subsequently disappeared.  
Until now.
	Seltat applied a bit of duct tape over the display where the ghost hovered.  Now it could 
not be seen.  Good enough.
	Returning to the star chart on the main screen, Seltat examined it.  Yes, this was one more 
dead-end rumor handed to him by an over-greedy alien who couldn't tell a truth even when 
bribed through liberal application of drink, drugs, and/or credits.  There had been many such 
dead-ends thus far.  Who would have thought finding Borg would be so hard?  All he needed 
was /one/ drone, after all, hopefully somewhat humanoid, although he was prepared to capture 
just about anything at this point.
	A few Borg bits was all he asked.
	Seltat sighed.  The Drinan outpost it was, then.
	As he was carefully inputting outpost coordinates, a display to his far right began to 
urgently flash.  With sudden excitement, Seltat swiveled his chair and leaned forward.  This 
screen was dedicated - after much trouble and long searching of the owner's manual for the 
directions - to a single function.  That single function now reported the detection of a Borg 
signature.  Relatively nearby, a transwarp conduit was about to open and disgorge a Borg cube!
	Seltat waited with eager anticipation.

	Hyliber 7, 1007 UDS - 
	"Damn Borg.  I've been sitting here for /days/, but every cube that comes through utterly 
ignores me.  So far I've seen 33 cubes of four distinct sizes.  I thought Borg were avid to 
assimilate everything and everyone in their path.
	"At this point I've tried sending messages, flashing my lights, all but drive directly into 
their path.  That would, of course, be suicidal.  I do not want to end up as a smear and deprive the 
universe of soon-to-be-restored painter Seltat LaVoore.
	"Being ignored by the Borg is a good thing:  it makes the next part of my plan much 
easier.  Since I'm not in immediate threat of assimilation, I don't need to go diving in and out of 
warp all the time.  I am ready, therefore, to begin the next phase of my plan.  Soon...soon I will 
have the drone that I need."

	Seltat glanced at the Borg warning display, but it was quiet.  On the ship tracker, the 
ghost had drifted to a new quadrant, but remained on the edge.  Seltat readjusted the duct tape.  
Boring.  He had now catalogued 47 distinct shades of gray.
	The Borg cubes which passed through this area inevitably exited in the same location 
each time, transited normal space precisely 151 kilometers and 352 meters, then vanished once 
more into transwarp.  The ship's sensors, such as Seltat could reconfigure and understand them, 
reported a region of subspace which was slightly denser than the norm, a "fault line."  
The dense subspace did not extend indefinitely; and, in fact, was quite short:  cubes could 
easily have detoured with only minor course corrections.  However, from what Seltat knew of 
Borg (primarily through the mini-series and general hearsay), Borg liked straight lines.  
Presumably, this fault line was directly between Points A and B; and, if taking the shortest 
distance went through the fault, so be it.
	The shuttle drifted dangerously close to the Borg right-of-way.  If a ship altered course by 
less than a kilometer, "roadkill" was an apt description despite lack of roads.
	Several more hours passed.   Seltat flicked an idle finger at the tracking display.  The 
ghost faded away, only to reappear.  Duct tape was reapplied.  The camera hovered in the rear of 
the shuttle compartment, a silent witness, filming 20 hours a day - around the clock - so that 
nothing of importance would be missed by the to-be-famous historical document in the making.
	The Borg warning sensors screamed an alarm.  Seltat jerked awake from his doze, turning 
to stare at a screen focused on the transwarp exit nexus 100 kilometers distant.  With a flash of 
light, a cube was there, vomited from the conduit and into normal space.  It charged heedlessly 
onward, making for the other nexus, looming large in the display.
	"Small one," muttered Seltat to himself.  He had increasingly indulged in the habitat of 
speaking his thoughts aloud in the last week.  Fingers slowly moved over the input board.   The 
camera jerkily retreated to a less magnified view.  "Primitive contraption."  Seltat had never fully 
trusted the shuttle's computer, and preferred manuals unless otherwise absolutely necessary.  He 
assumed the computer, if given the chance, would head home to authorities.  The camera finally 
locked onto a steady image, focus following the cube; and in the tracking display, numbers ran 
backwards as the kilometers between shuttle and cube decreased.
	Closer and closer the cube came.  Ninety kilometers.  Seventy kilometers.  Forty 
kilometers.  At ten kilometers, the camera view was no longer necessary, and a sufficiently good 
eye could look out a window and see the cube as a dark shadow blocking background stars.  Five 
kilometers,  Three kilometers.  Through it all, the cube showed as much interest in Seltat as all 
the others before, i.e., none.
	"Shuttle.  Transport, code 1."
	It was the one command he knew he could not perform fast nor accurately enough for 
manual input, not when the target was moving at the same time.  The transporter, however, had 
nothing to do with the shuttle computer's higher functions, so Seltat felt relatively secure in its 
use.
	Seltat eagerly swiveled his chair, peering across cramped quarters to the small transporter 
pad at the back of the shuttle.  Upon it materialized a sealed drum of unknown contents, Borg 
alphanumerics marching in a vertical column down one side.  As a test, Seltat had programmed 
the computer to randomly lock onto a non-biosign and transport it to the shuttle.  The lens of the 
nearby camera glinted slightly as the machine shifted perspective to focus upon the entire scene.
"It worked!" exclaimed Seltat.  The chair was returned to a forward position.  The cube 
had not reacted.  It continued on its course, reaching the transwarp nexus point and vanishing in 
a flash of light as if nothing had happened.
	Seltat grinned to himself.  Time to initiate phase four of his plan.

	Celebration Week 5, 1008 UDS - 
	"It is fitting for New Year Celebration Week to be ushered in by my gaining the implants 
I need to recover color vision.  I already know what I shall paint when the operation is done.  It 
will be my grandest composition yet:  a bleak starscape over an alien ocean with...well, I don't 
want to give away the entire scene.  Needless to say, it /will/ be a Seltat masterpiece.  A 
Masterpiece of masterpieces.
	"I have spent the last month perfecting transporter techniques.  I thought, maybe, perhaps, 
I could transport the implants I needed, sans drones.  There may be storage for the gadgets on 
those cubes, but I can't find it, not by random transports.  I do, however, have an interesting 
collection of Borg junk.  Some of it inspires, some I have tossed out the airlock as garbage, some 
I have kept as bargaining chips for whatever doctor installs the optical implants in my head.  
None has evoked a Borg response.
	"I am in position and have been waiting for...hello...here is a cube coming through.  Not 
one of the super big ones, but the next size down.  Good.  It'll do.  I'll be locking onto a biosign 
this time.  Then I'll have my drone.  If the Borg don't care when I've taken possibly vital pieces 
of equipment, they surely won't care about a single drone."

	"Camera, position alpha," ordered Seltat to the camera.  It obediently beeped before 
flying to a previously defined locale, one which had a superb overview of the cabin from 
transporter pad to pilot chair.
	The cube, as all cubes before, sped upon a familiar path.  If the medium had been land 
instead of space (and a wheeled vehicle instead of a ship larger than a building), deep ruts would 
have marked the well-used transverse.  Seltat waited about midway along the track, uncloaked, 
unafraid.  The cube neared optimal transport resolution.  Seltat licked his lips in anticipation, 
then stood up and took the requisite four steps to the rear of the shuttle, whereupon he picked up 
two items:  a stunner (standard issue for all military vessels, regardless of species, with cache 
helpfully marked in large letters for invaders) and a hypospray with sufficient sedatives to knock 
a holdelanty flat.
	"Shuttle.  Transport, code sigma-tau," stated Seltat unnecessarily loud to the computer.
A form shimmered into existence upon the pad as the shuttle obediently locked onto a Borg 
biosign and engaged the transporter.  It was a biped, seemingly mammalian under its body suit 
and implants, to which Seltat breathed a small sigh of relief.  It had the appropriate number of 
arms, legs, and eyes, or would have if certain replacements and additions had not occurred.  The 
skin had the unnatural pallor of assimilation.  It stood, unaltered hand outstretch and holding a 
low tech wrench, obviously caught in the midst of equipment repair.  The Borg blinked as it 
considered its abrupt change in scenery.
	Seltat ducked around the drone, which was a finger shorter than himself, and slammed 
the hypospray against the thing's neck.  As the button to deliver sedate was depressed, Seltat 
hoped by the deities that there were blood vessels in the neck suitable to carry the drug.  "Ho-
boy!  Success!" crowed Seltat as the Borg fell to the deck with a loud clatter, wrench still 
clutched in its hand.
	Congratulating himself, Seltat looked to the front of the shuttle, expecting to see the cube 
retreating towards its egress.  Instead, he saw that the cube had stopped and was beginning to 
rotate around its y-axis.  Seltat had the ominous feeling that had a bow been distinguishable, it 
would have been swinging towards the shuttle.
	Stumbling forward, Seltat flung himself into the pilot's chair.  A back glance showed the 
Borg in repose, a potion it would remain for a long while, assuming the sedative didn't kill it.  
Eyes returned to the main screen.  There was no time for tapping on buttons, no time for manual 
input of everything.  "Um, shuttle, cloak.  Cloak, damn it!"  The computer chimed an 
acknowledgement tone as the cloak engaged.
	The shuttle might as well been flashing a neon 'Here I Am.'  The cloak did not fool the 
cube as it powered forward from its stop, still spinning, unerringly on an intercept vector.  Seltat 
cursed under his breath as he tapped at the navigational input, fingers accidentally hitting wrong 
keys and causing typos that sent shudders through the shuttle.  The small ship's engines went into 
gear with the electronic equivalent of grinding gears.
	Movement did not seem to help, the cube never wavering from its prey.  Wide-eyed, 
Seltat looked back at his passenger.  "Must be following its signature," he muttered aloud as he 
stared.  "All I need is the head.  I can keep the head in storage and toss the rest of the body.  
That'll do."  The chair was left and an unsteady step taken off.  Eyes looked around the cabin for 
a suitable beheading tool, coming to rest upon the camera.  The camera had a cutting tool.  
"Camera..." began Seltat.
	The shuttle lurched.  Seltat banged against a wall and found himself draped over the 
pilot's chair.  Behind, he heard objects clatter to the deck; and the meaty clank as the drone slid 
into a bulkhead.  Only the camera managed to hold place, hovering safely in the air, recording all 
with dispassionate lens.
	Seltat pushed off the chair, then read the various displays.  According to the main display, 
helpfully flashing with words undoubtedly a cheerful warning color, the Borg cube had locked 
on a tractor beam.
	"Double damn it!"  Seltat flung himself into the chair and frantically began trying to pull 
the shuttle out of the cube's grip.
	From behind came the sound of more equipment and other dross sliding to the floor.  
Clatters and bangs and thumps were tuned out as Seltat swore louder, the tractor beam sticking 
tight.  "Weapons...weapons...what is the military without weapons?  I know this ship has 
weapons."
	Seltat paused as he felt the merest breeze against his neck.  The journal had obviously 
drifted out of place for whatever reason.  This was /not/ the time!  Snarling, Seltat blindly waved 
one hand behind his head, as if shooing sand flies, attempting to push the camera to a less 
obtrusive distance.  Hand encountered something...something not the camera.  A heavy limb 
clamped down upon Seltat's shoulder, easily picking him up from his chair and spinning him 
around.
	At least the camera was were it was supposed to be, thought one part of Seltat as he 
espied the journal.  The Borg, however...that was a different story.
	Despite the sedative, the Borg was obviously awake and aware.  It held Seltat in place, 
gazing at him in a manner which made the lens of the camera seem warm in comparison.  Worse 
of all, there was both less than a person behind that gaze...and more, much more, than a single 
entity.
	"Species #5252.  Qua'tohf.  Suitable.  You will be assimilated.  Resistance is futile," 
intoned the drone without inflection, without passion.  The hand on Seltat's shoulder shifted 
slightly, and there was a sudden pain in his neck which swiftly faded to a dull ache.
	As his head lolled sideways, Seltat's fading attention was caught by the tracking display.  
The ghost had left the periphery and was heading towards the center - towards the shuttle - with 
an intent that belied its previous status as a malfunction.  Anything more, any additional thought, 
was lost as darkness overcame Seltat.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The diary continued to capture the final moments of Seltat LaVoore.  The end was 
anticlimactic, several minutes of Seltat staring blankly at the Borg, the latter with assimilation 
tubules in the former's neck.  Both disappeared into a Borg transporter beam.  The journal was 
left with nothing to photograph except the walls...walls which disintegrated as the Collective 
decided for reasons only known to it to destroy the shuttle rather than take it on board or leave it 
behind.  The camera survived - as it had been designed - but its subsequent spin prevented any 
meaningful interpretation of the next fifteen minutes, a time filled with disrupters and photons, a 
small mercenary ship attacking a much larger enemy.
	Neither darkness nor identity cloaking could hide the sound of Number Five trying not to 
throw up.  Number Five was prone to vertigo and motion sickness, even when it was projected 
rather than directly experienced.
	The recording ended with a transportation, a "What have we here?", and an Extreme 
Close-Up of Captain Robbie of the Thunder mercenaries.
	"Lights!" ordered Number One.  "Lights!"  He looked over at the huddle which was 
Number Five, a miserable shadow slumped over the room electronics.  "Number Five, lights!"
	Number Five blearily peered at Number One, then touched the keypad that controlled 
lights.  The room brightened.  Number Five returned to contemplating his personal misery.
	"Good ride at the end," commented Number Three of the cast iron stomach.  A groan and 
muttered curse for Number Three was Number Five's answer.  Number Three laughed.
	Number One waited for the noise to die down.  "Good, good.  The insertion of the Trojan 
into the Borg Collective appears to have been successful.  We'll have to plan to pick him up in a 
couple of years or decades; and with this success, we can move forward on the rest of the Trojan 
program.  The spin on this story, meanwhile, will continue.
"And with that, the cabal is adjourned for the night:  the custodian asked we be out of the 
room by 1900 so she could scrub it.  Also, Management will be wanting to start interviews for a 
new Number Six next week, so be sure to bring dossiers of any candidates you'd like to see 
replace Mr. Twixt.  Speaking of which..."
	Number Six sighed as he stood.  He was a man who had fully accepted his fate.  "Yah, 
yah.  I know the way to Memory Manipulation.  I won't be seeing you around."

			*	*	*	*	*

	The new drone, half-processed, nameless, numberless, slowly awoke from his induced 
coma.  A multitude of voices were in his head, both comforting and disturbing at the same time.  
One voice in particular came forward, a pressure which inserted itself into the drone.  The voice 
sounded...bored.  It was a voice which knew its place and did its job, yet still, somehow, retained 
that spark which exuded boredom.
	{Drone.  Your temporary designation is Drone 5.  Acknowledge.}
	Drone 5, now no longer without designation, replied.  {We acknowledge.}  There was an 
overwhelming urge to speak pluralities, an urge too strong to resist.  The background voices 
murmured approval.  Drone 5 relaxed as endorphins flooded his system.
	{Interactive systems diagnostic,} intoned the voice, still without designation of its own.  
Drone 5 felt he should be able to access such data, but there was a block preventing him from 
doing so.  {Reply as required.}
	{We comply,} said Drone 5.
	What followed was a long check list steeped part in biology, part in technology.  With 
phrases such as "ionic path reassembler" and "cardiovascular adrenalitic booster quasi-gland," 
some part of Drone 5 knew he should be utterly confused.  In fact, that small part was confused.  
However, with each demand, the dominant part of Drone 5's consciousness correctly, 
instinctively found that which was asked and returned a ramble of alphanumerics related to the 
part.
	Occasionally there was the reply of {Beyond compliance parameter.}  Afterwards would 
be an awareness of adjustment.  Sometimes, adjustment came in the form of a wash of wordless 
data filling his being; and sometimes it was the physical sensation of painless cutting into his 
body.
	The voice continued, {Initiate optical pathways.}
	Drone 5 opened his eyes.  The scene which greeted him was one of exquisite detail, an 
image sharply in focus.  He was amid the bustle of busy drones, all alike in purpose, yet all 
uniquely different in form.  He was only one of a dozen drones, all clamped into alcoves which 
ringed the room; and more drones lay on tables in the center of the room, parts biological and 
technological being swapped out and/or replaced with the same disinterest as a car mechanic 
changing an air filter.
	{Report!}  The voice demanded compliance.  Drone 5 turned his head slightly, the most 
he was allowed, knowing the voice came from a drone to his right despite the fact it had not 
moved its lips.  It stood, tool in hand, waiting for the reply.  {Comply.  Report on optical 
pathways.}
	'Something is wrong,' emerged the rogue thought from Drone 5's subconscious, 
momentarily overwhelming the background babble of voices.  The small, confused part exerted 
itself.  'Something is very wrong.'  Eyes, or rather eye, flicked back and forth.  There was detail.  
There was shadow.  There was zoom.  There was even a way to make it look as if everything was 
seen through a fish-eyed lens.  Unfortunately, there was something missing in the 
monochromatic scene.
	Monochrome.  Black and white.  Grays.  No color.
	Despite the blocks to prevent vocalization, despite the restraints which allowed only 
minimal movement, Drone 5 uttered an unBorg sob.  This was not right!  It wasn't supposed to 
be this way!  Where was the color?!
	A howl of frustration and disappointment erupted in an Assimilation Workshop aboard 
Cube #1818, echoing through hallways and onto tiers.  It abruptly halted as Drone 5 was returned 
to standby status, but even while comatose, the revelation continued to echo.  And would 
continue for ever more.
	No color.


23