Warning!  If you are offended by mild profanity, hit your back button now because the author 
became too bl**ping lazy to bl**p out every bl**ping bl**p.  Otherwise, all standard disclaimers 
apply:  Paramount owns Star Trek; Star Traks was created by Decker; and Meneks writes 
BorgSpace.

				Oh Captain, My Captain

	"Gerson!  Get your skinny-crest butt to my location!  Now!" came the authoritative shout 
from the intraship communicator (i.e., 'walky-talky' for those of a less technobabble orientation) 
which lay on the deck.  Under a nightmarish spaghetti pile of wires.  Behind a bucket of 
discarded tools.
	"By the Twins," muttered a voice from deep within an open panel access, half of his body 
swallowed by the wall and the machine congruent with it.  It was not his fault that his crest, one 
of the dominating features of a male Moytite in his prime, was a bit...sparse.  It was partially 
genetics, but mostly because he was late-adolescent in age with years of feather development to 
go, a sublegal 23-year-old who had lied about his age to hire on the poor excuse of a freighter he 
was aboard.  A late-adolescent aware that the spacers who had hired him were likely quite 
perceptive of Gerson's true age.
	"Gerson!"
	With a groan of frustration, Gerson pushed himself out of the access.  He was a Moytite, 
which meant his body form was of the typical humanoid type which tended to dominate the 
space-faring sentient community.  Beyond that, his skin was dark black, most of it covered in a 
very light colorless down which, as an adult, would be nearly all shed.  Conversely, his head was 
a thick bicolored mass of feathers - a tonsure of emerald green surrounded mane (crest) of 
sapphire blue which would eventually cascade down the side and back of his skull.  He was a 
standard pre-adult of his species in all ways except one:  where the typical Moytite had eyes of 
grey, his background included a rare set of genetic recessives which gifted him with piercing 
blue eyes.
	Gerson ground his sharp teeth together as he dug out the communicator.  "Killian!  Boss!  
If you keep pulling me off the jobs you give me, none of them will ever get done!  I thought the 
food replicator was top priority!  After all, and I quote, you said, 'Fix the damned thing so it 
works.  The borscht gives me hives, I'm allergic to cheese, and if I eat another meal of crackers 
and green tea, I will throw up.'"
	Silence greeted Gerson's accusation.  Then, "Don't be a smart-ass with me, Gerson.  The 
replicator is important, but the sanitation system is even higher priority.  There are /two/ 
bathrooms on this tub, and our glorious captain says that if anyone comes sniffing 'bout his loo, 
he'll send the trespasser to the infirmary with a case of steel crowbar to the head.  The other one, 
the crew shitter, is backed up.  Again."
	"Why do /I/ have to do it," whined Gerson, even as he knew the answer.  He was already 
dreading the smell which would accompany the sewage system repair work.
	"Because you are the lowest in the pecking order.  And with a question like that, ya also 
obviously have the least amount of brains.  So, get to my location!  Now!"
	"Yes, Boss," mumbled Gerson.  He levered himself to a stand, picked up a toolbelt and 
any tools likely to assist him in the odiferous task to come, then shuffled down the hallway.  The 
half-dismantled replicator was left in is current state.  It would be waiting when he returned.  The 
crew would have to subsist on borscht, cheese and crackers, and green tea a bit longer.
	Jezebel of the Twins - the Tub, as Gerson had privately christened her, was very sanitary 
compared to her many other nicknames - was a Moytite-built Tolley-class freighter.  Her bloated, 
cigar-shaped hull was 100 meters long with four-fifths of the aft end was dedicated to cargo 
requiring special atmospheric, temperature, and/or gravity needs.  That left twenty meters split 
into three cramped levels for quarters, mess, communal bathroom, infirmary, computer core, 
engineering, supplies, and everything necessary for seven people (one of whom took up enough 
space for two).
	A traditional pre-industrial beast of burden on the Moytite homeworld, a tolley was a 
strong and tireless mule, but also a mule stereotypically smelly and dull of wit.  All the 
descriptors of a living tolley were applicable to Jezebel to some degree.
	In addition to an internal cargo hold, Jezebel pulled a 300 meter detachable extension 
called a pannier.  The pannier framework was an upside-down "V" with a foresaddle that 
attached via magnetic clamps to a matching docking assembly on Jezebel's dorsal surface.  The 
pannier could hold up to ten cargo blocks (pannier loads), five to a side with each block 50 
meters wide by 30 meters tall.  When fully loaded, the pannier dwarfed Jezebel.  However, as 
alluded prior, the tolley was strong, and so was Jezebel with three massive ventral mounted 
nacelles providing her with the tow rating of a tug.
	The replicator node Gerson had been working on was Level 3, but the bathroom was 
Level 1, adjacent to crew quarters.  Traversing the ship required less than a minute, most of it 
spent on ladders as Jezebel did not have an elevator.
	"Geez," breathed Gerson in dejection as he peered through the hatch to the communal 
head.  The commodes had a super slick inner surface designed to funnel urine and feces to a 
pocket replicator, which in turn disrupted the waste and transferred the end product to bulk 
organics ingredients storage for ship-wide use.  Unfortunately, the commodes were designed for 
Moytite physiology and Moytite "loads," not that of a chronically constipated Shutov who 
preferred the discomfort of ascending a ladder to voiding in the cargo hold.
	The capacious Shutov waste had overloaded commode #3.  When the commodes sensed 
clogs, they were supposed to cease operation and signal for manual cleaning.  This one had 
attempting to backflush, the pocket replicator manufacturing water to dissolve the plug, 
subsequently turning itself into a fountain.  The quality of Shutov manure allowed a hole to be 
dissolved through the center of the mass without affecting the outer edges which clung to the 
bowl insides where the obstruction sensors were embedded.  One of the few portable forcefield 
generators on Jezebel had been placed at the head hatch entrance, confining water, odor, and 
waste.
	Gerson turned his eyes on Killian, "You did /try/ to shut off the replicator, at least?"
	"Jez is being a hellion bitch again," grunted Killian in reply.  "Polukeh and her apprentice 
are working on it, but it'll be faster if ya just scrape the crap out of the shitter.  And we gotta 
work on your swearing, boy.  'Geez'?  That's a load of..."
	"Yes, sir," hastily replied Gerson.
	Killian was Jezebel's master engineer and Gerson's immediate boss.  He was also a 
handsome lady-killer with striking gold tonsure and flowing scarlet mane.  Said crest slightly 
bristled at his apprentice's interruption, then slicked again as the minor insubordination was 
dismissed.  Jezebel was a freighter, after all, not some hoity-toity nobby military affair, all spit 
and polish.  "Then get to it, Gerson.  Scrape, mop, bleach, the works.  Captain J and Sir will 
inspect when you are done...as will I.  If ya need me, I'll be on Level 2 explaining to Madi, again, 
why the crew commodes are off-limits for him.  With my fist, if need be.  Then I'll be welding 
plates on the ladder hatches so they're too narrow for his body."
	"Yes, sir," responded Gerson once again.  Killian shook his head at his engineering 
apprentice's too-polite tone, then set off for Level 2.  Gerson simply stared through the 
forcefield, tentatively trying out one or two expletives under his breath which seemed 
appropriate given the circumstances.

	Gerson was not the first, nor would he be the last, underage adolescent to leave home to 
enlist in the army/navy/military-of-choice, take an apprenticeship, join the circus, or enter any of 
a large number of legally-challenged trades where age is optional as long as the fake ID looks 
good.  However, his reason to run from the home nest was, at least among the Moytite culture, 
one of the most unusual.
	Religion in the Moytite culture was slowly dying, the descent begun five centuries earlier 
amid discoveries of evolution, orbital mechanics, and telescopes.  The mathematical proof which 
disproved the existence of a supreme being, or at least one which had any particular interest in 
the microbes who called themselves Moytite, was also a major turning point...especially as the 
author was a media spin doctor always one step in front of the burning squads.  The pantheon of 
gods faded until they were remembered only through a small caste of die-hard priests and their 
followers, several odd dietary laws, and ancient artwork.  Even the mighty Twins, erstwhile 
Creators, were reduced to an oath.
	Flash forward to the present, focusing on one extended nest clan by the name Dreng.  
"Peculiar," whispered the polite, "odd."  "Raging cult lunatics," said others.  Based upon the 
discoveries (conveniently packed with universal translator) found in a container which had 
flashed into existence before the eyes of the clan's founder, four centuries prior Holy Juruvi 
Dreng had left his asteroid salvage/claim-jumper career to turn spiritual leader.  The King was 
the new leader of his personal pantheon, supported by the likes of Beatles, Elton, Holly, and 
Made In Taiwan.  In the alien music Holy Juruvi Dreng heard words of wisdom, as did those 
who eventually joined his nest clan commune.
	Unfortunately, like all good cults, the best way to grow is through children...children who 
are indoctrinated to view the cult's way as the only way.  Gerson was the product of nearly four 
hundred years of worshiping the King's pantheon, and would have followed in the footsteps of 
his parents and siblings except for a fateful day when, seven years old, he had wandered away 
from the nest clan compound.  
Gerson had found another boy, slightly older than he, a boy fighting pretend space 
monsters with his remote control shuttle while listening to music /which was not that of the clan/.  
The other boy, headphone volume up so loud as to block out the intruding sounds of nature, did 
not see Gerson as he conducted his space battle to the rhythm of a Moytite swing chantey.  
Eventually a hologramatic mother had appeared and told the boy to return to the campsite, or 
else:  the weirdoes were nearby, after all.  The boy had left, rolling his eyes over the foibles of 
maternal concerns, shuttle trailing behind at head height.  Later, back in the nest compound, 
Gerson had held that image of the "outside world" close to his heart, eventually running away to 
seek exciting new opportunities.
	True, Jezebel of the Twins had been neither new nor exciting, but few questions had been 
asked once Gerson had demonstrated his ability with a spanner (in the Dreng clan, he had been 
assigned at birth to be trained in the mechanical arts).  Too bad Gerson had not the experience to 
ask of Jezebel's primary cargo, else he might have immediately returned home.
	Jezebel was contracted to haul latchot manure, at least on the outbound legs of her trade 
circuit between the homeworld and a few select colonies.  Latchot manure was prized by certain 
specialty exotic fruit industries who were willing to pay the necessary shipping premium.  
Unfortunately, for the growers, latchot, a type of fowl over four meters tall, tended to die, young 
or adults, if shipped out of the Moytite home system.  Therefore, Jezebel catered to the demand 
of manure, shifting equally odorous cargo on her other trade legs.  She even carried latchot 
manure in her interior hold, and had done so for so many years that the smell had permeated the 
entire crew section and rendered the hold unfit for less smelly cargo.
	Sitting in the galley, sipping a cup of green tea, Gerson reflected that he barely registered 
the latchot smell anymore, and certainly not at this moment with his nose overloaded with the 
stench of Shutov waste.  "I see and hear you," said Gerson loudly as a nonMoytite head peeped 
into the mess before pulling back.  "I'm too tired to throw anything at you, not to mention if any 
tools were dented, Killian'd have my crest.  Come on in.  I'm the only one here at the moment."
	Hesitantly Infirmarymaster Madi entered the mess, head rapidly darting back and forth as 
if he expected an ambush by Captain J, Sir, or Killian.  Madi was a Shutov, an occasional visitor 
to Moytite space, usually males roaming at loose ends after being evicted from the harem house 
by pregnant wives who were the true power in the matrilineal society.  His general body form 
was that of a centauroid, which made climbing Jezebel's ladders a nuisance.  There were definite 
differences to the classic centaur, most of them centered around the fact that the Shutov had 
evolved from a carnivores.  Clawed feet, sharp teeth, baleful eyes, a neck ruff which extended 
into a spiked mane which covered the backbone from shoulder to tail, Shutov were a fearsome 
looking race; and Madi's dark red coloration, like simmering lava, made him even more striking 
against the black skin of the rest of the crew.
	"Why do you climb the ladders?" asked Gerson wearily.  "The crew head is Level 3, but 
you live in the infirmary on Level 2.  Wouldn't it be easier to use the hatch to the hold when you 
have to go?  Like Captain J wants?  Like /everyone/ wants?"
	Madi winced slightly, his neck ruff shivering as one clawed foot lightly stomped the 
deck.  "Not ssivilized," he said, canine teeth and needle incisors imparting a hissing sibilance to 
his speech, "to be ussing the hold like a common barnyard manure pit, even if it iss.  Bessidess, it 
iss /cold/ out there and I need an oxygen massk.  Not good when consstipated."  Shutov were 
matter-of-fact about body functions, modesty taboo a non-starter when clothes beyond a mesh 
vest or bandoleer were impractical.
	Gerson heard the Infirmarymaster's unvoiced rebuke.  "I /know/ borscht, cheese, and 
crackers don't agree with your digestion.  Maybe you should try drinking more tea.  
Unfortunately, every time I start troubleshooting, Killian pulls me off onto other, more 'urgent' 
problems."  Gerson added a silent admonishment of his own.  "I'm only an apprentice after all."
	Madi snorted.  "You could be much more, Gerson, than a spanner-monkey on this dump.  
Much more."  Many married Shutov males prided themselves to be junior mystics, probably due 
to having so much time on their hands - two to three years - each time their wives barred them 
from the house.  Madi seemed to be leaning toward mysterious oracle mode when he stopped, 
wide eyes focused on the open hatch which led to the forward section of the ship.
	"Madi!  I want to talk to you, you turd voiding catastrophe!"  It was Captain J; and from 
the abrupt clang of metal on metal, he was toting his customary crowbar.
	Madi reared, ducked to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling, and prudently turned tail 
to flee back to the relative safety of his infirmary.  A ship's doctor could not be assaulted in his 
own domain, both by tradition and by the fact that hyposprays of sedative were close to hand.  
Hopefully Captain J would remember such niceties:  Jezebel, poor excuse of a freighter that she 
was, could ill afford to have either doctor or captain out of commission.
	Sipping his tea, Gerson grimaced.  He /had/ to fix the replicator system.  It wasn't even 
particularly /good/ green tea.

	The small crew of Jezebel of the Twins was gathered in the galley cum rec room.  As the 
largest space on the ship, other than the hold, it could encompass all seven crew with only minor 
crowding.  Claustrophobes need not apply to a Tolley-class freighter.  The replicator was 
repaired, or at least providing a greater selection of foodstuffs, and a celebration was occurring.
	Captain J had wheeled his chair in from the bridge and sat at the place of honor at head of 
the bolted-down table.  No one knew what the "J" of Captain J symbolized.  The one possible 
exception was the first mate, co-owner of Jezebel with Captain J; and if Sir knew, he wasn't 
telling.  Captain J lounged in his chair, relaxed almost to the point of falling asleep, his light blue 
and dark blue crest, peppered with the age-whitened feathers, slicked in calm satisfaction.
	"More puffed fish chips and spice dip for me and my apprentice!" shouted Polukeh to Sir, 
who was manning the replicator.  Sir, Jezebel's first mate and cargomaster, made a face at the 
communication specialist's request.  "Puffed fish chips!" Polukeh insisted.
	"How can you stand such garbage?  Seaweed styrofoam," said Sir as he slid the requested 
items down the table.  Sir - like Captain J, none knew his actual name - had grown up in an 
inland desert nest clan where fish had been a foreign concept.
	Polukeh's apprentice and niece Lunilin neatly fielded the bowls.
	"Seaweed's pretty good too, but it has to be real, not flavors and textures replicated from 
our own crap," responded Polukeh merrily with the knowledge of a seafood snob as a chip was 
dunked.  "Oh, what I would not give for fresh seaweed just harvested from the high tide line after 
a storm...scrumptious!"
	Sir blanched, his skin tone lighting slightly in disgust and shading towards a green tint 
uncomplimentary to his silver and dark green crest.
	Even Madi joined in the banter, infirmary isolation lifted and his belly filled with a wide 
variety of grilled, roasted, baked, and raw pseudo-meat products.
	"Wake up, matey," nudged Killian to Gerson.  "We haven't even gotten to the cards and 
beer stage.  I can't cheat ya outta your pitiful wages if you're asleep."
	Gerson rolled his eyes at the master engineer.  He had not been napping, but he had been 
staring rather too intently at Lunilin.  As the only female on Jezebel even remotely close to his 
age, his adolescent mind had traveled down a path well beaten by a millennium of young males 
before.  Unfortunately, Gerson was sure Lunilin took no notice of him.  His developing crest was 
almost as thin as a female, by the Kin...er, by the Twins and the Seven Cousins!  Why would 
Lunilin ever look once at him, much less twice, when....
Killian's sharp elbow went into Gerson's side again.  "Ain't gonna happen, boy," chuckled 
Killian, able to read the transparent adolescent mind.  "If you're that desperate, we'll be docking 
in a week or so at Picon Station; and I know this nice little brothel.  It is not too expensive, and 
I'm sure one of the girls there would find ya interesting, even at your pay rating."
	Gerson swiveled his head to stare at his master in ill disguised horror.
	"We gotta work on your education, boy," laughed Killian at Gerson's expression.  "If you 
wanna be a spacer - a real one, not one of those pansy military types - you need t' talk the talk 
and, well, walk the walk."  The innuendo was delivered with a wide smirk.
	Catching the conversation from afar, Captain J turned a chuckle into a hiccup.
	The party continued into the wee hours of the local ship night, alcohol flowing aplenty 
once the cards were broken out.
	Jezebel drove herself.  To be more precise, Jezebel's old computer drove Jezebel, but 
semantics were unimportant.  The course was one the ship had followed many times over the 
years, a smuggler's route longer than the more heavily traveled official trade lanes, but one which 
offered other perks in Captain J's estimation.  One of those benefits was present in the system 
Jezebel was leaving warp to enter.
	Jezebel of the Twins was not strictly a hauler of latchot manure.  She had...surprises built 
into her by Captain J and Sir which made her more than her advanced state of rust implied.  For 
example, her three nacelles could provide more than the standard oomph when required; and she 
carried a very non-regulation torpedo launcher in her belly for those "just in case" moments.  
Additionally, hidden in her holds by stinking manure, were a series of caches perfect for 
smuggling small items of high worth.  Even the hardiest customs agent tended to hesitate when it 
came to inspections in Jezebel's infamous hold.
	Captain J was not a big man in the smuggling world, more of a dabbling connoisseur who 
occasionally had need to supplement his income.  Only he and Sir were aware of his hobby, 
although Captain J suspected Killian was suspicious in an "anything in it for me?" manner.
	In this particular out of the way system, several false rocks were hidden among the 
billions of real ones.  The rocks currently held a small cache of unset starstones, a high priced 
and moderately illegal semi-organic psionic jewelry that Captain J's contact at Picon Station 
swore he had a buyer for.  Captain J had felt it worth the risk for Jezebel to stop in the system 
and recover the starstones.  Rendezvous and retrieval was automatic; and even if the crew had 
been sober, Captain J's crowbar and Jezebel's chronic fits of minor warp failure, the latter 
carefully hardwired into the engines, would quash curiosity.
	Jezebel coasted at one-third impulse in an arc "high" to the system's galactic north, 
scanning for the asteroid caches.  The sensors caught an unusual reflection, paused, and 
rescanned.  Pattern matching algorithms stirred.  The silhouette was confirmed, categorized.  Not 
good, or at least that would have been the computer's thought had it been capable.  However, 
Jezebel's computer, little more than a fancy autopilot, was not sentient and only knew that the 
crew had to be informed of a potential difficulty requiring resolution before cache recovery could 
continue.
	"Attention," chirped the computer's neuter voice over the galley speakers.  "Potential 
hostile contact detected.  Borg cube at 98% probability."
	"A wha?" slurred Captain J as he shook himself awake from a beer induced slumber.  His 
chair was very comfortable; and prior to his doze, he had declared disinterest in the jhadiz-poker 
variant being dealt.
	"Borg cube at 98.6% probability," helpfully updated the computer.  "It has detected us.  
Ninety minutes to interception at current velocity indexes."  Pause.  "And engines are reporting 
an initiation malfunction.  Jezebel cannot warp."  The news was delivered in a pleasant 
programmed voice utterly inappropriate given the content.
	"Booger," stated Gerson, more alert than the others due to having partook less alcohol.
	Sighed Killian, "Even half drunk, you need education, boy.  What am I gonna do with 
you?"

	The Borg cube looked huge.  The Borg cube /was/ huge.  With pannier attached, Jezebel 
of the Twins stretched nearly 400 meters.  Superimposed against the oncoming Borg vessel, 
Jezebel's length was less than a third of /one/ cube edge.
	"Stop magnifying the cube so damn much!" barked Captain J to Polukeh.  "You are 
scaring the fledge!"
	Gerson blinked, barely registering Captain J's use of the word "fledge" and thus his 
implicit admission that Gerson was an illegally hired underage adolescent.  As the picture was 
dezoomed to a less ominous size, Gerson shivered:  he knew Borg existed, everyone did, but 
they were galactic zombie bogeymen far from the Moytite worlds.  Moytite, after all, were 
insignificant beings, neither outstanding nor unique.  If anything, their technology and 
civilization had been stagnant for the last three centuries following advent of warp drive.  Why 
would the Borg have any interest in them, much less a single, old manure freighter?
	Unfortunately, such logical reasoning had not registered to the Borg mind or minds.
	"We are all going to die," bemoaned Gerson.
	Killian smacked his apprentice on the back of the head, causing loose feather to fly away.  
The entire crew, chemically sober and full of wake-me-up pills, was crowded into a small bridge 
at the center of the living volume.  The space usually housed only one or two people.  "Stop 
thinking like that.  Besides, if we're lucky we'll die.  More likely they are gonna try to assimilate 
us."
	"The master engineer is right, lad," said Captain J with a pragmatic shrug.  "This life is 
probably kaput.  We'll do our best to make it otherwise, but don't be too surprised if we don't 
make it out of this system."
	The cold words of fact were not comforting.  Unfortunately, reality rarely is.  A small 
corner of Gerson's mind was quietly relieved that he would never have to return to his insane cult 
of a nest clan again.
	"Ya elbowed me!" complained Lunilin to Killian.
	A moment of silence, then, "Ssorry.  I get gasssy when I'm nervouss."
	"Get back to your infirmary, Madi, before I toss you out the airlock as a gift to the Borg!" 
roared Captain J as the silent-but-deadly smell wafted around the bridge, mixing with the already 
unpleasant scent of sober pill metabolic byproducts being exuded through Moytite feather-oil 
glands.  "That might just buy us a few seconds as the figure out what to do with you!"
	Madi backed out of the bridge, then fled to the infirmary with a skittering of claws on 
deck plates.  The degree of crowding did not decrease noticeably.
	Captain J paced in the small bit of space his rank and crowbar afforded him.  "Killian, 
you take your apprentice and get the engines working.  I don't care if you have to get out and 
push.  The damn things have conked out and it isn't a sham, this time.  The Borg'll want to tractor 
us.  If we can get our engines working before they get here, our lesser mass, once the pannier is 
chucked, will allow greater initial acceleration.  Once in warp, those Borg buggers are faster, but 
that jump'll open up possibilities."
	Questions went unanswered, at least to Gerson.  What did Captain J mean when he said 
the troubles of the chronically engine-challenged Jezebel weren't a sham?  How did he know 
Borg tactics?  How did he know he could accelerate faster than the cube?  Questions there may 
be, but Gerson knew better than to ask them.
	"Knew it might come to this one day," Captain J muttered under his breath as he and Sir 
exchanged significant looks, "but I had hoped I would be dead by then.  To the infirmary, Sir, 
and have Madi cough up the meds.  He knows which ones."  Captain J blinked, then stared at 
Killian.  "Well, what the hell are you doing on this level?  Shouldn't you be down in engineering 
fixing the engines?"
	A crowbar was flailed in the air, causing Sir and Polukeh, the closest people to Captain J, 
to hastily duck.
	"Come on, boy," growled Killian as he exited the bridge, "now I getta show ya why I 
have a master engineering rating and you be a mere apprentice spanner-money."

	Captain J and Sir were not just latchot manure haulers or small-time smugglers.  Decades 
ago, they lived had other lives, been other people.
	Once upon a time, Captain J had been Second Lieutenant Jackon; and Sir had been 
Security Chief Eligni.  Both had been crewmembers upon a secret military vessel testing 
experimental drives and technologies far from Moytite space.  Unfortunately, the ship had the 
misfortune during one rather energetic experiment to catch the attention of a passing 
Exploratory-class cube.  The outcome was anticlimactic, but not unexpected.  Second Lieutenant 
Jackon and Security Chief Eligni had been two of the many crew who had survived the battle, 
only to be processed into drones.
	The next coherent memories of either man - post-processing was a dream blur of voices 
and blinking lights and repetitive activity - was waking in a hospital maintaining by the Drin 
Borg Institute.  They had been found by a Drin Institute research ship sent to examine the 
remains of a small moonbase recently destroyed by a natural catastrophe in the form of a Xenig 
with a case of space-lane rage.  Nearly dead, the pair had been successfully stabilized and later 
deBorged in a series of lengthy operations.  Certain implants, such as the neural transceiver and 
metabolic stimulators, had to remain because removal meant certain death, but both men were no 
longer of the Collective.
	Jackon and Eligni eventually returned to Moytite space, learned of their officially 
deceased status, forged new identities, performed several distasteful deeds, and bought the 
Jezebel of the Twins on the cheap.  Thus, a new life was begun.
	Unfortunately, it looked like the old life was returning.
	Sometimes, in the deep part of his sleep shift, after hearing a news clip of a Borg sighting 
near Moytite space, if the assimilation of that long dismantled military test ship was the reason 
why the Collective held any interest in the Moytite.  Certainly there were no unique features 
otherwise for either civilization or species to warrant such attention for at least another few 
centuries of maturation.
	The greatest nightmare, of course, was the intrusion of the insidious voices, the 
Collective whispering for its lost drones to return, to rejoin.  It was a seductive siren call, as both 
Captain J and Sir well knew.
	Madi knew of Captain J's and Sir's ex-Borg status.  However, despite his many faults, he 
was an excellent and honorable physician who would take the secret to his grave.  Such was the 
reason the Jezebel's co-owners only hired Shutov doctors to the position of Infirmarymaster.  
Madi would produce the emergency medication Sir had been sent by Captain J to obtain, no 
questions asked.
	When/if the voices became too strong, too seductive, a self-administered hypospray 
would send the ex-Borg to blissful sleep, a coma through which not even the voices could 
penetrate.  If the appropriate counteragent was not introduced within six hours, coma would 
progress to death.  Death was preferable to re-assimilation, for if Captain J's plan did not work, 
assimilation was the only future of Jezebel and her crew.
	It was selfish, Captain J knew, to leave behind the crew to cope while he and Sir slept; 
and it was selfish for them to die while the crew entered that special hell which was loss of 
individuality within the Collective.  Too bad.  Such was the fault of the individual.
	Sir returned to the bridge, soundlessly handing Captain J a hypospray.  The two nodded 
at each other - sometimes it seemed they could still sense each other's motives without benefit of 
speech - before Sir left again, heading to Level 3 to check the torpedo magazine.  Futile, but it 
was the nature of individuals to resist by any and all means possible, including death.  The 
hypospray was pocketed.  Polukeh and her apprentice's curious expressions were ignored.

	"What did Captain J mean when he said the engine trouble wasn't a sham?" asked Gerson 
as he industriously tested power flow with a voltmeter, searching for a possible short.
	Killian, meanwhile, was unsocketing data crystals one at a time, shining a laser through 
them to look for damage, then returning them to the racks.  He grunted, "Concentrate on this, 
fledge.  Sometimes Captain J and Sir find it convenient for engine difficulties to occur.  This, 
obviously, isn't one of 'em."
	Gerson paused in resetting the leads to a new circuit pair.  "Then all the times you had 
me..."
	"Not all the times, kid.  This bitch of a ship /does/ have her temper tantrums.  But some, 
okay, most, of the times, yes.  Taught ya the core, engine, and propulsion systems good, did it 
not?  No harm done.  Can't learn anything if it doesn't break now and then so you can put it back 
together."
	"But..."
	Killian looked across the cramped engine room to Gerson, eyes narrowed and crest 
slightly flared.  "Less questions.  More work.  Trust me, Gerson, some day you will earn yer 
master rating and be a damn fine engineer.  Maybe I'll even've educated ya properly by then.  But 
first we gotta survive, so work your little downy butt on what I told you to do!"
	Gerson hastily returned to work.
	The next seventy minutes passed swiftly, although unproductively.  One at a time, Gerson 
and Killian troubleshot the systems, looking for a short, blown relay, wad of misplaced gum, 
anything which may have fatally affected propulsion.  Nothing; and, when queried on the 
intraship radio, Polukeh insisted that the computer ("Damn her bitchy, buggy programs!") was 
not to blame.  Every few minutes, Sir or Captain J silently looked on from the engine room lentil, 
never interrupting, never asking for a progress update; and each time, Gerson thought they 
seemed just a bit more agitated, maybe even worried.  It was hard to imagine the captain or first 
mate frightened.  When (If?) he had his own ship, vowed Gerson (his secret ambition), he would 
be more hands-on in a crisis.
	"Damn it!" exclaimed Killian as he threw down a spanner in disgust.  The strain as 
affecting him because he /never/ mistreated a tool, his apprentice not withstanding.  "We've done 
all we can here, outside of an actual shop.  Nothing!  The problem must be outside.  Gerson, get 
yer suit on and go hullside t' the nacelles.  I'll direct ya from here."
	"The hull?" asked Gerson with dread.  He hated the hull.  Outside was too...big.  When 
everyone was assisting with wrangling cargo in dock, Gerson always kept his eyes on his hands 
or the station's bulk.
	"We don't keep nacelles in here, Gerson.  Get your skinny crest ass outside before I toss 
you outta the airlock without your suit!"
	Gerson scooted.  The suit locker was on Level 2, between hold lock and infirmary.  From 
the hold, the hull was gained through a person-sized hatch next to the large cargo doors.  He 
passed the infirmary and entered the locker, retrieving his suit from the rack.  The suit was an 
older third-hand affair purchased dockside after Gerson had been hired to work Jezebel.  It fit, 
more or less, but the rust-colored paint was flecking, several of the joint connections were worn, 
and the air scrubber sometimes smelled more than a little of the previous owner's body odor.
	The Borg cube was less than fifteen minutes away.
	As Gerson wiggled into the suit and checked vital life support systems, he heard the 
voices of Sir, Captain J, and Madi.  They were not speaking loudly, but the infirmary /was/ next 
to the suit locker and the doors were wide open.
	I can hear 'em, J," said Sir, a waver in his voice Gerson had never heard before.  The first 
mate seemed on the verge of break down.  "I was never as strong as you, never as...resistant."
	Responded Captain J, "Hold on, mate.  Killian's said the problem is outside, maybe a rock 
through a conduit or such.  That's a simple fix, less than five minutes.  We can still beat the 
acceleration curve, especially if we dump the shit on them.  They'll be too busy dealing with the 
latchot crap."  Pause.  "Two is easier to resist than one, Sir."
	Claw on deck as a foot stamped.  Madi.  "The monitorss aren't good, Captain J.  Sserebral 
cortexss functionss are sstarting to alter.  I'm far from an expert, but I /think/ I'm sseeing 
regeneration."
	Silence.
	"You are going to have t'knock me out, J.  Be sure to strap me down too, just in case.  If 
you don't, well, that sub-collective out there will have seven willing friends by the time it tractors 
us.  Or you will have to kill me."
	Silence, then Captain J's voice.  "Knock him out, Madi."  The hiss of a hypospray.  "I'm 
to rounds, Madi.  Check me in five minutes when I get back.  I may be forced to join Sir."
	"Yess, ssir."
	Gerson jammed the helmet on his head, made sure oxygen and communications were 
working, then slipped out the cargo lock as fast as he could.  He wasn't sure what the three had 
been talking about, but it was not good and he didn't want Captain J and his crowbar to learn he 
had been eavesdropping.
	The cargo hold was a dark cavern filled with a vast mound of slushy latchot manure.  
Latchot manure, besides being excellent fertilizer, had several special properties.  For one, even 
in the cold vacuum of space, the manure retained a quasi-liquid nature.  In the hold - which was 
held just below the freezing point of water and pressurized to allow Madi, with an oxygen 
respirator, to use it as a latrine - the cargo had the consistency of melting snow.  In the 
unpressurized, unheated pannier loads, the manure was a slowly oozing jello.  The other special 
property only manifested when latchot manure was chilled to under-ten Celsius and transformed 
from slush to jello:  extreme flammability.  A popular Moytite winter campaign weapon during 
the era of the great feudal nest wars, latchot manure burned like naphtha or jellied gasoline, a 
gooey fiery mass that refused to smother.  Even in vacuum, latchot manure would burn, a 
curiosity more than one student prankster of an orbital university outpost had taken advantage of.
	And then there was its generally caustic nature, mixed with a witch's brew of other 
properties, that only appeared at ultralow temperatures.
	Still, it /did/ make excellent, if smelly, fertilizer.
Gerson glided quickly across the access platform to the exterior hatch, avoiding puddles 
of latchot manure and heaps of frozen Shutov shit alike.  A swift trip through the double lock 
found him on the starboard hull, amidships and just "above" a nacelle.
	Space was vast.  Even with the cube minutes away, it was much too small to be seen 
against the velvet backdrop of sharp diamonds.  Since the red primary was much too far to throw 
shadows, Gerson was forced to turn on suit lights to navigate, hullside floodlights inadequate.  
Gerson gulped and forced his attention to the hull, forcing his world perspective to be reduced to 
the metal under his feet.
	"I'm outside, Boss," said Gerson into his suit radio.
	"About time," spat Killian's voice, made tinny and slightly reverberant by the suit 
speaker.  "Get down to the pylon couplings and check the connecting conduits for rock damage.  
If we are Twin-blessed lucky, all we have is a small hole in something unimportant.  Patch and 
re-route, and we are outta here."
	Muttered Gerson as he carefully walked to the nearest pylon, lifting each heavy foot 
against the magnetic attraction which stopped him from drifting away, "Yes."  He did not add 
that he had already heard an abbreviated version of Killian's words minutes earlier while suiting 
up.
	Each nacelle had two short pylons holding it four meters above the hull; and each pylon 
required at least two minutes inspection for obvious irregularities.  One minute average to safely 
traverse the hull between each pylon.  Three nacelles.  Six pylons.  Do the math.  Not enough 
time, especially when the first three inspections resulted in nothing.
	"Update," insisted Killian as Gerson trekked Jezebel's belly toward the fourth pylon.
	Replied Gerson, eyes riveted on his goal, "Everything is sound."
	"Flaming latchot crap," spoke Killian, using an ancient oath Gerson had only read about 
in heroic fictional history.  "Now, don't panic Gerson, but the cube is almost here, coming at us 
from a dorsal approach.  It is gonna tractor us, but you keep working.  You should be protected 
from the tractor's initial attachment while you're on the ventral side."  Pause.  "And both Captain 
J and Sir are real sick, says Madi.  I'm...in charge.  Damn me to the Seven Hells.  But don't ya 
worry about that...just concentrate your skinny crest on the inspections."
	Before Gerson could digest the news or his orders, a great jolt almost shook him from the 
hull.  Even with the bulk of Jezebel blocking his view, Gerson knew the Borg cube had arrived 
and locked on with a tractor beam.  Crap.  Crap.  Crap.  No, not strong enough.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  
The scatological monoword became a footstep cadence as Gerson trudged to the next pylon, the 
part of his brain not focused on not panicking wondering how long until the Borg torpedoed 
Jezebel, assimilated her crew, did whatever it was that Borg did.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.
	Shit?
	Latchot shit.  Of course.
Sometimes when the mind is maddeningly whirling on a thousand different tasks, a small 
bit of the subconscious is left floating in the calm eddies between mental maelstroms.  That small 
bit of subconscious, without an anchor point, is able to leap among the possibilities without the 
dragging weight of reality.  From such insignificance comes inspiration, especially in times of 
desperation when all sane options are closed doors barred from the other side.
	"Killian?"
	"Have ya found the problem?" asked the master engineer eagerly, more than a note of 
panic in his voice.  In the background was Polukeh, as well as undecipherable words which 
sounded as if spoken by a chorus of mechanically tuned computer synthesizers.
	"The latchot manure."
	"What about the shit?  No time!"
	"You know how the pannier blocks have special liners and we need to respray the hold 
interior every couple hauls so the stuff doesn't eat through?"
	"Get on with it, kid," warned Killian, the final word drawn out to a thin hiss which hinted 
of crowbars.  Gerson was suddenly glad he was outside, black of space or Borg cube not 
withstanding.
	"What will happen if a few pannier loads are dropped against the Borg's hull and ignited 
with a torpedo...or even a flare?  I bet /they/ don't have a liner."
	"Shields.  They got 'em and if a big hot-shot military ship can't blow 'em, as I've heard 
they can't, how can we?"  Despite the pessimism, Killian almost sounded hopeful.  Of course, a 
drowning man will desperately grab and stand on anything which floats, even a would-be 
rescuer.
	"Drop a load on the shields and see what happens.  Can it get any worse?"
	"Good point."  Open microphone, but change of attention.  "Drop a block into the tractor, 
Madi.  No, not that button, the other one."  Pause.  "Yes, I know you know how to work cargo, 
but that would have been the whole pannier."  Pause.  "Well, try again."
	"Killian," said Lunilin, faint with distance from the mike, "the computer says the clamps 
are frozen...something's severed the control lines from the dorsal clasp to the pannier.  All the 
blocks will have to be dumped manually."
	Gerson gulped, then replied before the master engineer could say anything, "I heard, sir.  
I'm heading for the pannier, then."
	A sigh.  "Good lad.  You' re too young for this shit, you know, and I don't mean our 
cargo.  We all are, but you really should be in a nest.  Still, any fledge who has the knobbles to 
make up his own mind to join a tramp like the Jezebel isn't a fledge anymore.  Good luck, boy.  
I'll have a torpedo ready when the shit hits the shield."
	Gerson sucked in a big breath of slightly stale air and headed aft, towards the shadow of 
Jezebel's pannier.  From his perspective, the loads were vast featureless blocks disappearing into 
the infinite dark, floodlights absent on the pannier.  It was a grand sight, 300 meters of pannier, 
but it became insignificant as Gerson edged around to Jezebel's butt plate.
	Looming "ahead" in Gerson's new perspective, much of the Borg cube was obstructed by 
the pannier and Jezebel.  However, they could not hide the immensity which was the cube as it 
drifted less than a kilometer away, less than a length of one of its own edges.  Structures on the 
faces - antennae clusters, machinery networks - were made small by distance, but nonetheless 
unbelievably vast.  Gerson had not realized something mobile could be built on such a scale as 
the Borg cube.
	From one of the facing edges, the faint blue-green glow of a tractor beam connected the 
cube to Jezebel of the Twins.
	Gerson felt a slight tug as he crawled onto the dorsal surface and stepped on the pannier 
walkway.  While not enough to overwhelm his boot magnets, he did feel like a toy in the middle 
of a nestling war.  A place between his shoulder blades itched, so exposed he felt, as he waited 
for a phaser or laser or something to disintegrate him on the spot.
	The first pannier load was reached without incident, or, indeed, without any obvious 
interest from the Borg cube.
	Gerson detached a large wrench from its place next to the manual release, inserting the 
tool's flat end into the crank slot.  Pannier load clamps were notorious for freezing; and it was 
rare Jezebel or any freighter could unload a full ten-load without manually releasing at least one 
block.  Therefore, Gerson was very familiar with the procedure, the entire crew except Captain J 
routinely working as stevedores when in dock.
	The pannier load released from its clamp with a sluggish clang felt through Gerson's 
soles.  Inertia seated in a thousand tons of manure held the freed load in place for a moment 
before the insistent tug of the tractor beam took hold.  Unlike Gerson, nothing held the load to 
Jezebel; and the tractor differentially began to pull the load towards the cube.
	After a short 0.75 kilometer, the block serenely bumped into the shields.  The Borg would 
not drop their defenses, not with potential hostiles nearby.  However, the Borg had surely 
scanned the block and found it to be harmless organics, harmless crap.  Literally.  Therefore, 
there was no harm in allowing the load to rest against the shields until such time it could be dealt 
with.
	A dull *ka-thump* shook Jezebel and pannier as the freighter fired one of her limited 
supply of torpedoes.  Gerson turned to watch the flare of engines as the torpedo arced around and 
headed towards the cube.  Once again, no move to counter was made.  Gerson imagined the Borg 
crew laughing - did zombies laugh? - as the small weapon was sent against their shields.  The 
cube was not the target, however.
	Gerson closed his eyes as the torpedo hit the block, splitting it open and igniting the 
contents.  When he opened his eyes again, the gelatin latchot shit was spreading along the 
shields, flaming ameoboid fingers oozing on the unseen barrier, rendering it visible.  That /had/ 
to capture the Borg's attention, a university prank blown up to huge proportions.  The tractor 
beam did not waver, the cube unwilling to release its captive.
	"Again, Gerson!  Lunilin's getting weird readings off the shield!"
	Gerson clambered over to the load opposite the now empty clamp.  Manual release was 
operated, and the block ponderously floated away to join its merrily burning nest-brother.  
Unlike the first, Jezebel's torpedo was not required to explode the load:  a beam weapon from the 
cube itself broke open the box.  The shit, however, was not affected except to catch fire.  Since 
the Borg were unwilling to shut off the tractor, fresh flaming latchot shit impacted the shield, 
fueling the bonfire.
	The shield was actively flickering.  Why, Gerson had no clue, but it was perhaps one of 
the most spectacularly peculiar scenes he would ever see, especially if, as Captain J and Killian 
had said, he was not fated to survive the encounter.
	"Another!  Two!" ordered Killian gleefully in Gerson's ear.
	As Gerson unclamped pannier loads #3 and #4, one after another, the cube's shield 
dissolved amid the tinny celebratory whoops of the Jezebel crew crowded on the bridge.  Madi's 
ululations rose in volume until Killian told him to stuff it, only with much less polite words.  The 
freed blocks were caught in the tractor beam the Borg continued to refuse to drop, drifting 
towards the cube.  As before, a beam weapons sliced the boxes in twain; and, as before, the 
action simply ignited the jello'ed manure as it continued to fall inwards.
	Gerson wondered if the Borg crew was unusually stupid.  The logical action was to either 
let Jezebel go, else blow her up, not cling to her like a nestling to a favorite blanket.  At the very 
least, taking potshots at the containers was not smart.
	Splat.
	The Borg cube's hull did not have a liner.
	The corrosive latchot manure spread against the hull where it landed, not only burning, 
but also eating into the hull.  Secondary fires began as conduits were breached and atmosphere 
rushed out to feed the growing conflagration.  A plasma geyser briefly fountained before 
dispersing.  Sensor clusters melted.
	Laughing with more than a tad bit of hysterical intensity, Gerson scampered as best he 
could to loads #5 and #6.  They floated with majestic ponderance towards the Borg vessel.  
While they were not greeted with offensive weaponry, when they impacted the hull near the 
tractor emitter, already weakened plating gave under them.  Combined with heat and the 
corrosion of the already present manure - the blocks were only coated on the inside - the loads 
cracked open one after another, allowing their contents to ooze like mindless blob beasts onto the 
hull.
	The tractor emitter flickered, then cut.  Before any festivity could begin, another emitter 
recaptured Jezebel.
	The edge and face nearest the impact site was burning merrily, metal boiling to space.  
Latchot manure tended to burn slow, but hot, in vacuum.  Vast quantities, such as those 
represented by the pannier loads, had been known to surpass red dwarf temperatures.  Several 
years prior, the news had been full of an extremely bad industrial accident at an orbital holding 
facility which had completely consumed the station and five docked ships.  The cube appeared to 
be following the station to such a fate.
	Asked Gerson, adrenaline fueling his heart and making him forget his agoraphobia, 
"More?"
	"Why the Seven Hells not?" cheerily responded Killian.  "If those bastards won't let us 
go, we might as well take 'em with us.  Shit, let our last four blocks go."
	Clank.  Ke-clang.  Clunk.  Bang-crack.
	One after another, four manure-filled cargo blocks tumbled unerringly towards the cube.  
They left behind a pannier which resembled a skinny skeleton of a stick insect now that it was 
denuded of its load.  As if finally realizing the danger represented by the innocuous blocks, the 
Borg shut off the tractor.  Unfortunately, the blocks had sufficient inertia to continue their 
course; and the cube had too much mass to push itself out of the way, no matter how much 
power was directed to maneuvering thrusters.
	Even though sound does not travel through vacuum, Gerson imagined he could hear the 
grand crashes as each block smashed into the Borg ship.  It had begun to rotate and each block 
hit a different area, like a pearl string of meteors plunging into a gas giant.  One.  Two.  Three.  
Four.  Four new infernos caught and blazed and bubbled.
	The Borg cube retreated, its looming presence over Gerson and Jezebel of the Twins 
visibly diminishing until it seemed no larger than a child's block.  In the background, Gerson 
absently registered Polukeh telling Killian that the Borg had severed communication amid a hash 
of static.  Gerson was not paying attention, his focus riveted on the cube and its pinpoints of 
orange fire.
	The cube abruptly disintegrated in a miniature nova of white as one or more underhull 
nacelles were catastrophically breached.  The wreckage quickly cooled to red, except for the 
masses of still burning latchot shit.
	"Boy!" boomed Killian.  "Superb job!  Damn, but we'll have something to brag about at 
the taverns.  Even if no one believes us, we'll be stood so many drinks that we'll be drunk from 
the fumes!"
	Gerson abruptly felt tired, as if he had ran a marathon or three, uphill, while wearing lead 
ankle weights.  For some reason, a small, selfish corner of his mind was not celebrating the 
extension of life, but bemoaning the fact that he might actually be forced to see his clan again at 
some unknown future time.  No matter.  The pressing void of space returned, forcing him to look 
once more at his feet.  "Can I come in, then?"
	Silence.  "Inspection, boy.  Even when distracted, an engineer will eventually get the job 
done.  You've three more pylons.  Go."
	Gerson sighed.

	It was the sixth pylon, and the last, and it, predictably, had the telltale crater of a high 
velocity pebble scaring the faded paint.  The small rock had dinged the pylon, punctured a 
conduit, and severed a few small, but important wires.  The anticlimactic fix was a matter of 
minutes, followed by a quick weld job to prevent intrusion by dust and micrometeoroids.  A 
more permanent repair would be undertaken once Picon Station was reached.
	Gerson was trekking back towards the airlock when the eruption of bright light caused 
him to stop and throw up his arm.  Blinking through the afterimages burned on his retinas, he 
saw one...two...three cubes.  Borg cubes.  The new vessels had dropped out of supraluminal 
speeds with unbelievable precision.
	"Crap," said Polukeh over an open channel so that Gerson could hear, "there are five of 
them, and they are all larger than the one that exploded.  Much larger.  The nearest will be on us 
for tractor range in less than two minutes.  And we are fresh out of shit to throw at them unless 
Madi cares to help out in that department."  Unsaid was the assumption that the new cubes would 
not simply destroy Jezebel.
	Gerson could not move any faster, not without pushing himself off the hull.  Under his 
feet, he felt the nacelles thrum to life, shaking Jezebel.  Without her pannier loads, she would 
have a very high acceleration.
	"Get your butt inside," shouted Killian, "because ya don't wanna be riding warp outside 
the hull.  However, if you aren't in the lock in twenty seconds, I'll be sure t' raise a beer to your 
abbreviated education at Picon Station.  Move your ass."  Pause.  "Captain J?  Sir?  Why didn't 
Madi tell me you were up?  Ya look too pale to be on your feet.  And what's with all the 
hardware sticking outta yer faces?"
	A brief shout, then a scream that had Lunilin's timbre, and the link with Gerson died.  Not 
even static.  The engines, revving to a bat-out-of-hell standing start, shifted to idle before starting 
spin-down.
	Gerson paused before the hatch leading into the cargo hold.  "Killian?  Polukeh?  
Lunilin?  Madi?  Anyone?"  For some reason, he was reluctant to call upon either Captain J or 
Sir.  "Hello?"  One minute of indecision became two; and the approaching cubes slid to a stop, 
surrounding the much smaller Jezebel.  No tractor beam, absently noted Gerson.
	The airlock hull hatch emitted a puff of frozen atmosphere and began to open.  For a 
moment, just a moment, Gerson relaxed as he saw Captain J and his crowbar...Captain J would 
make it okay.  Then he noticed it was Captain J, sans suit.  A /very/ pale Captain J.
	Gerson tried to run, not that there was anywhere to go.  He did not get far.  Killian would 
have been proud of the educated language he used.

	{Subject:  species #2553, Moytite, male, late adolescent, 23 local years.  Status:  initial 
processing.  Maturation chamber required - six months.  Possible signs of assimilation 
imperfection present.  Re-evaluate placement following decanting.}
	He drifted, focused, drifted again.  He was without name, without identity.  It was 
unimportant.  The voices were there, inside.  Somewhere he heard a noise, outside, with his ears.  
A scream.  It was himself, maybe.  A buzzing, grinding sound as an arm - his? - was amputated.  
Most of the pieces of his broken self drifted back to the voices, the growing consensus.
	{Potential of resistance index of species #2553 to increase five points due to inclusion of 
data on new weapon.  Unacceptable.  Organic substrata analyzed and poses extreme threat to 
Collective vessels, bases, and unimatrices.  Solution:  initiate phase III and phase IV of species 
#2553 assimilation before organic-based weapon is widely disseminated.}
	He listened.  A small part of him, the part whimpering as an eye was removed and 
discarded sans anesthetic, yelled in frustration as his species' fate was pronounced.  Unimportant.  
Resistance was futile.
	Flaming latchot shit.