The secret masters of All (Paramount) own Star Trek.  His devilness (A. 
Decker) created Star Traks.  A minor diety of evil (me!) writes 
BorgSpace.


				The Doctor is In

	"Jas, your cat is in my chair again," complained a voice slighly tinged 
with a nasal twang.  "I just cleaned all the hair off of it yesterday."
	"Well, move him, then.  He's a cat.  You need to be firm with cats," 
came the reply, owner busy at the ship's primary terminal checking for 
personal communications and his latest electronic edition of Vet Digest.
	"Be he is giving me 'The Look' again, the one which says I'm going to 
wake up to a hairball in my favorite pair of slippers if I touch him."
	"For Goddess sake, Plent, Bruno is just a cat!"  Jas swiveled in his 
chair to regard the animal under discussion, exasperation plain.  "Tell 
me again how you can deal with a miner's ticked off razorfish, but you 
can't handle one insolent cat?"
	The cat in question, was not, strictly speaking, a cat, although it 
would be difficult to quantify precisely why.  Its genetic heritage was 
quite different from the Terran version, but an extraordinary example of 
convergent evolution and domestication had instilled a high degree of 
catness of behavior, temperament, and form to Bruno's species.  While 
Bruno, true, did sport a coat of soothing cobalt blue, the expression of 
disdain on his features and the posture of one who knew where the center 
of the universe was located would be very familiar to anyone having met 
an Earth feline.  Therefore, for all practical purposes, Bruno was a cat.
	"Bruno, move for daddy," said Jas, his voice taking on the tone one 
reserves for babies and favorite pets.
	Bruno carefully leapt off the chair, tail rapidly flicking back and 
forth.  As he left the room for quieter sections of the small vessel 
(probably Plent's recently laundered bedspread) it was clear he had not 
removed himself due to any command.  No.  It was simply a case where the 
main cabin was too crowded, too filled with lesser beings to be graced by 
his majestic presence.  If he was needed to save the universe today, 
well, too bad, because /certain/ people had interrupted his nap.
	Plent sighed as he sat on the well furred seat.  The cat was pure blue 
and the chair was a dark fabric, yet white hairs were visible.  "Tell me 
again why Bruno is a part of our crew?"
	"First," began Jas, "no ship is complete without a cat.  Second, we are 
a traveling veterinary clinic and Bruno does calm our patients.  Third, 
he was very cute as a kitten, and remains so."
	Jas and Plent were members of the Seffite race, a species which could be 
best described as resembling large bipedal dormice.  The average 
individual tended to be 160 centimeters tall; and while Plent fit the 
general description, Jas was about a head shorter.  Both had a short coat 
of brown and cream hair, and sharp rodent features moderated by a blunt 
muzzle.  Deft five digit hands waved in animated counterpoint to verbal 
conversation.  However, despite looks, no tails graced these sentients, 
that organ lost through evolution many millions of years prior.  
Temperamentally, Seffites could best be described as good-natured, prone 
towards social irrelevancies, and dedicated pet enthusiasts.	
	Archeological examination and ancient cave paintings indicated the first 
animal was domesticated not as a food source or for a hunting associate, 
but as a social companion.  And among the eldest of professions was the 
shaman, the prostitute, and the veterinarian.  Therefore, it was not 
surprising 19 out of every 20 Seffite adults owned at least one furred, 
feathered, or scaled friend, if not more.
	Many opportunities for veterinarians such as Jas and Plent existed at 
corporate, state, and private firms.  The latter, which usually proved to 
be the most lucrative, were unfortunately out of reach for newly 
matriculated vets, no matter how high one graduated in one's class.  
Clinics preferred to hire doctors with real world experience, not 
fresh-faced lads and lasses full of theory and short on practicality.  
Federal jobs came and went with a demand based upon the mysterious forces 
of politics and the latest budget estimates.  Corporations, on the other 
hand, especially those with concerns which stretched beyond the limits of 
Sef's atmosphere, were always looking for the cheapest vets on the 
market.
	Jas and Plent worked for CHON, an up and coming gas and volatile mining 
company.  CHON was an acronym for Carbon Hydrogen Oxygen Nitrogen, the 
four basic elemental ingredients in any organic system, including those 
foods and plastics fabricated through replicator processing.  The company 
was in a phase of rapid expansion, quietly researched technologies 
show-casing for the first time in the colonial system of Tyreen.  CHON, 
through political wrangling and /much/ outlying of capital, had managed 
to buy exclusive mining rights for ten years to Tyreen's largest gas 
giant, Twirl.  Jas and Plent were among the first of six vets being sent 
to the mining platforms of Twirl after having proven themselves competent 
among the company's stakes on Whirl and Swirl in the home system.
	Mining was a difficult and dangerous occupation, even when robots did a 
great deal of the actual work.  The corrosive atmosphere of even the most 
benign gas giant kept miners on their toes making repairs to machines, 
habitations, and other devices vital to their life and livelihood.  
Seffites also had notoriously daft artificial intelligences, cultural and 
religious rationale leading to a distrust of silicon minds.  Therefore, 
even the ultra hazardous task of deep prospecting for rich gas pockets - 
one person for weeks in a small can subjected to crushing pressures which 
made the deepest terrestrial ocean seem like a sea level cake walk - 
involved actual miners.  However, mining was potentially very profitable 
to those willing to become virtual indentured slaves during the typical 
two year tour.
	To keep the miners sane and psychologically balanced, pets were an 
important component to any mining platform community.  Animals even 
followed their owners on deep prospecting dives.  Many animals were also 
not of the typical Sef domesticated breeds, people routinely bringing 
exotics with them or picking up tame biologicals found on newly opened 
colony worlds.  Ergo, veterinarians were always in great demand.
	The miners would be very happy to see the vet pair.
	Of course, first Jas and Plent had to get to Tyreen, a three week 
transit time of which eleven days had passed.  The small ship, named 
Finfin after a popular Seffian aquarium pet, while more than adequate 
when it came to veterinarian supplies, boarding area, and an exquisite 
examination/operation room, was not nearly as endowed in the engine 
department.  The living part of the vessel was also lacking in some 
comforts, but neither Jas nor Plent had expected luxury when they had 
been hired out of school.  Heck, neither had ever expected the chance to 
go anywhere beyond the solar system of their birth.
	Plent nodded as he followed Jas' reasoning, "Okay, okay, I agree Bruno 
is a decent cat.  I just do not understand why he has it in his little 
blue mind to shed on everything I own."
	"Then why don't you add a pet to our little community here?  I am really 
surprised you have never bought one since that harpy of yours died during 
final semester at school."
	The harpy in question could be best described as a ball of feathers with 
beady eyes and a nasty temperament.  "Well, Shela had been quite a 
handful, and I've not really seen anything which has captured my 
attention.  Maybe one of the miners will have a pregnant exotic."  Plent 
paused.  "If we do come across a customer bringing in a litter, clutch, 
or whatever for first checkups, how about I ask for a youngling."
	Jas clicked his incisors together, "Good idea.  Bruno will hate it, but 
then again, he's a cat and hates everything that might disrupt his naps.  
Us included."
	"I'll do it then.  And Jas...it is your turn for cooking tonight."
	Jas groaned in good natured indignity, then turned back to the display 
to engross himself in the latest letter from his sister.

	"Are you sure we should be stopping in this system, Jas?" asked Plent.  
When he was nervous, he had a tendency to overly groom the short hair on 
his forearms; it was being finger combed with a vengeance.
	Jas snorted, "We are ahead of schedule, aren't we?  That gravitonic flux 
wave picked us up like a woodchip in the surf and propelled us nearly a 
warp factor faster than the ship can go.  It was a bit rough, I admit, 
but we are in one piece and /two/ days ahead of where we should be.  You 
know as well as I do that as long as we get to Twirl on time, or radio in 
with a damn good reason why we will be late, CHON doesn't care."
	Plent's answer was an increase in grooming.  At the current rate of 
picking, the Seffite would soon have a bare arm.
	"Look, mate, did you ever think you would have the chance to see 
Entropy?  It is alien art!  Alien art from an extinct species!"  Jas 
punctuated his point with an expansive wave of his hands.  "At least 
that's what it is thought to be.  How could we pass up a chance like 
this, especially as we may never have the chance to see it again."
	Plent sighed.  "Okay, okay.  We'll expand our cultural boundaries for a 
couple of hours, then make space tracks.  If a spatial anomaly can speed 
our trek, then another one can as easily delay us.  Besides, I want to 
interact with an animal other than Bruno.  He coughed up a hairball on my 
pillow yesterday."
	Jas rolled his eyes, then set the coordinates into the ship's 
navigational computer.  They would arrive at Entropy in less than half an 
hour.
	For the sufficiently advanced race, time becomes yet another medium to 
exploit.  In the weird world of quantum mechanics, all matter is reduced 
to paradox of wave and particle; why should time not be the same?  Many 
civilizations have quietly "bottled" time as chronoton particles, while 
others gleefully fling themselves into the River Continuum.  Although 
Seffites were beginning to understand their very first temporal riddles 
(FTL drives and time travel went hand in hand), they tended to hold the 
view that paradoxes made their brains hurt, that the whole "step on an 
ant" and "Whoops, were you my grandfather?" ideas were better left to the 
more cerebrally inclined intelligences.
	In fact, quantum mechanics also state that such paradoxes are 
impossible.  /Every/ particle in the universe spawns a multitude of "What 
if?" possibilities; at the moment of the Big Bang, the book of the 
multiverse expanded to infinity and has only been become larger since.  
Therefore, as the savvy traveler will explain, going back in time and 
killing grandpa isn't as horrible as it seems, as such a deed /has 
already happened in some other time line/.  If it can happen, it has, it 
will.  In fact, massacring the Old Old Man is /necessary/ for that other 
time line to exist at all.  The trick is to return to one's own time line 
afterwards, in which grandfather escaped that most mortal of wounds, in 
time begetting one's father and eventually oneself.  The unsophisticated 
traveler tends to forget to return to the page of the Big Multiverse Book 
he or she originated from, having the typical reactions and misadventures 
which cumulate with meeting his- or herself, ad nauseum.
	Entropy was postulated to have been built by a race so advanced that 
playing with time was something taught to kindergartners, if not 
toddlers.  While its actual function may not have been artwork, but one 
of several possibilities such as jail cell and practical joke, it was 
nonetheless very pretty to look at.  Of course, if anything came within 
one hundred fourteen (and two-tenths) kilometers, it became caught in 
Entropy's Time Shell and was subsequently insta-aged to dust.
	The heart of Entropy was a beautifully faceted dodecahedron, faces 
shining with an inner radiance.  The colors subtly shifted from crystal 
blues to emerald greens and thence along the color spectrum, ending in a 
ruby red which slowly mutated into a dark violet and finally returned to 
its beginning tone.  Some observers claimed to see a shadowed shape, 
vaguely humanoid, writhing inside the translucent center; others said 
such assertions were visual illusions like the canals of Mauve. 
	From the central dodecahedron crystal, which had been estimated 
(distanced measurement tools worked poorly) to be approximately 15 
kilometers in diameter, spread a wonderous network of webbing.  The 
structure looked as if it should be as ephemeral as an ice sculpture 
under the noonday dessert sun.  Whimsical threads arched ten kilometers 
above Entropy's heart, weaving an intricate structure which was never 
recorded in the same configuration.  This particular property of Entropy 
was unnerving, as a camera trained on the artwork would never document 
movement; however, a blink of an unwary eye later, and the web would be 
different.  Also unsettling was the fact the threads were transparent to 
all scanning equipment other than those relying upon standard visual 
wavelengths.
	Entropy's most daunting characteristic, that which prevented close 
approach, was the Time Shell.  A barrier of time existed which would turn 
biological organisms into dust, vessels into rust and decay, rocks into 
powder.  The field gave Entropy its name.  A verbal warning cast upon all 
subspace frequencies, announced in an unknown and untranslatable 
language, cautioned trespassers who came within one hundred thousand 
kilometers.  At least it was guessed to be a warning, although it may 
very well have been an advertisement for carbonated beverages.  The alert 
became increasingly incessant the closer a vessel neared, then abruptly 
cut off at two hundred kilometers.  To pass beyond was to risk drifting 
into Entropy.  
	Finfin halted fifty thousand kilometers from Entropy, close enough to 
appreciate the artwork, yet far enough to feel quite safe.  The ship's 
common room also functioned as bridge, a cozy state of affairs common for 
small private Seffite vessels.  Jas routed the exterior visual to the 
main viewscreen/TV, then instructed the computer to hold station for an 
hour.  While Entropy was an engrossing structure to watch, it didn't /do/ 
much.  
	Boredom was a universal emotion.
	Plent and Jas passed an enjoyable hour, tightly shutting eyes and 
counting to ten, then pointing out changes in the webbing to each other.  
Imagination turned phantom shapes into a variety of objects; the slowly 
shifting, throbbing crystal at the center cast a suitably eerie light.  
Somewhere Entropy had captured an asteroid, yet another mystery as the 
structure did not register as having a gravity well.  Analyzation of its 
slowly decaying orbit showed it would impact the Time Shell in 
approximately twenty years.  No other ships currently shared the system 
with Finfin, for as beautiful as Entropy was, it also was out of the way 
for casual tourists, and was obviously not to give up its secrets anytime 
soon for the scientific set.
	"That's it," announced Plent as the timer went off, "we are done.  Let's 
get back on our flight path."
	"Worry, worry, worry.  You need to take it easy.  I think it is time to 
take you to a good party."
	"Bah, I don't need a party.  Since it is your turn to wash the dishes, 
I'm going to set the coordinates to Tyreen."
	Jas snorted, "Dishes?  I do not recall any dishes?"
	"You are being juvenile, Jas."
	"Fine, fine, I'll go clean up the mess in the kitchen.  Afterwards I'll 
be in the pharmacy working on that rockfish tranquilizer compound.  I 
almost have the structure modeled, and I'd like to finish it."
	Plent made a noncommittal noise as Jas stood.
	An alarm suddenly blared, siren wailing in counterpoint to a distantly 
yowling Bruno.  Both vets looked at each other with mirrored "What the 
Hell?" expressions.
	"Transwarp signature detected," calmly announced the computer.  "Profile 
is consistent with Borg cube."
	"Oh, crap.  What did I tell you, Jas?  First we are ahead of schedule, 
and now we are going to be delayed.  Seriously delayed."  Plent levered 
himself from the comfortable sofa and went to one of the navigation 
stations, dejectedly punching at console buttons and speaking quietly to 
the computer.  The alarm halted.  Neither Seffites had any illusion about 
forthcoming events; Finfin could not outrun a Borg cube, much less 
outfight one.  Jas shook his head and sat at the opposite station.  Bruno 
wandered into the room, tail twitching in anger over a disrupted nap.
	Finfin's position was the perfect vantage for what transpired next.
	The transwarp conduit opened into normal space, spitting out the Borg 
cube.  Compared to Finfin, the vessel was immense, a monster.  Automatic 
scanners identified each edge to be 1.3 kilometers in length; a 
subprogram displayed an inset on the viewscreen, noting it was the 
smallest class commonly observed.  The information was of little comfort 
as most anything, including a space suited figure with laser rifle, could 
kick Finfin's tail from one side of the sector to the other.
	The cube had entered normal space too close to Entropy, too close to the 
Time Shell.  A quarter of the cube, a massive bite from one corner, 
disappeared as the barrier was glanced.  Amazingly, the crippled cube 
managed to not only stabilize itself, but retreat on a semi-controlled 
trajectory.  Sections exposed to vacuum shed bits and pieces to space; 
some of the objects had a disturbingly humanoid quality to them.  
Unfortunately, Entropy had a rocky companion in this epoch, and a limping 
escape turned into a slow motion collision.
	The asteroid was much bigger than the cube, was a very solid chunk of 
basalt and iron ore.  It noticed not at all as millions of metric tons of 
Borg hardware splattered across its surface, a majority embedding itself 
in the crust of an ancient crater.  Miscellaneous spars, plates, and 
equipment quietly tumbled away from the sudden grave, rebounding in 
nearly nonexistent gravity to take up its own decaying orbit about 
Entropy.
	Plent paused his frantic button tapping to pick at his left forearm.  
Jas simply stared at the screen, mouth open.  Bruno looked back and forth 
between his two peoples, then meowed to break the silence:  wasn't it 
time for someone to feed him?  And his litterbox needed immediate maid 
service.  Meow.  Isn't anyone listening to me?  Meeooow.  Well, if you 
aren't going to pay attention to my very reasonable demands, then I have 
a lot of shedding to do.  On your best vests.  Bruno left the room.
	"Well, f***," said Plent, drawing out the vowel.  He very rarely swore, 
society frowning upon those who felt a need to express themselves using 
obscenities.  "F***."  A stunned look was passed to his shipmate.
	Jas bent over his console.  He glanced up as a new display came onto the 
viewscreen.  The asteroid filled the picture, a single red circle blinked 
on and off in the middle of what several minutes prior had been a working 
Borg cube.  "There is a survivor.  A life sign."
	"F***."
	"Shall we go investigate?  I know we need to radio the authorities to 
come out here and salvage this mess, but maybe we should take a little 
look-see for ourselves first."  Morbid curiosity was a common trait often 
shared by bipedal sentients.  The quality led to a tendency to stick 
one's nose in where it really shouldn't go.
	Plent gave one final four-lettered exclamation, then replied with 
fatalistic fervor, "Why not?  My mother always said 'In for a berry, in 
for a bushel.'  Maybe we can snag us a trophy or two.  Keep an eye on 
that life sign, though.  I'll chart us a course to the wreckage."
	Jas nodded.

	"We are closing in on that life sign," noted Jas as he glanced down at 
his utility pad, the Seffite version of a Federation tricorder, only with 
not as many bells and whistles.  The area of Borg vessel the Seffite pair 
were in was one of the few sections retaining both atmosphere and power, 
although the former was quickly being lost to vacuum around leaky seals 
and the latter reduced to emergency light bulbs every five meters.  Both 
wore the heavily armored miner excursion suits CHON issued all their 
field employees.
	Plent shook his head, a gesture lost inside the deep helmet.  "I think 
this is stupid, Jas.  We've already filched a treasure trove of stuff.  I 
found a lovely diagnostic device and that globe which can move around all 
by itself; and you managed to wrestle that functioning alcove into 
Finfin's storage hold.  Besides, what if the drone attacks us?"
	"Look around you!  It is amazing anything is working, period."  It was 
true, as severed limbs and shattered torsos comprised those crew which 
had rode the present section of cube into the asteroid.  Heavy bulkheads 
and massive pieces of equipment had turned other beings into very flat 
meat pancakes.  Random sparks weakly showered from broken power conduits.  
"Besides, it hasn't moved the entire time we were on approach, nor while 
we have been poking around.  I imagine that while the body is still 
going, the thing itself is the Borg equivalent of a vegetable.  I've 
never seen a real live drone before, and I want something," Jas patted 
the camera which was in one suit pocket, "to show my future grandkids."
	Plent snickered.  "I can see you now..."  Voice altered to that of an 
old man, "Gather around, pups.  It was back in the days of 3018, and I 
was tooling around the universe searching for treasure when a Borg cube 
suddenly attacked me.  Now, while I admit the Borg did put up a decent 
fight, they were no match for me.  Afterwards as I surveyed the 
carnage...."  Plent trailed off with a smirk as Jas punched him in the 
arm.
	"Shut up."
	The two climbed over and ducked under debris, following the direction 
indicator on the utility pad.  Lights flickered as the final reserves of 
cube power leached away.  Jas stopped next to a chaotic tumble of 
bulkhead and wire.
	"I don't understand.  The drone should be right next to us, but I don't 
see it.  We are on the right level, but of course, as flat as this cube 
is, everything is one level.  Do you see it?  Plent?  Hello, Sef to 
Plent, are you even listening to me?"
	Plent was staring at the leaning metal wall, eyes wide.  Jas turned his 
head to see what his mate was looking at, landing his sight upon the 
quarry in question.  The drone was not in good shape, a roll of the die 
of chance the sole reason of its continued existence.
	The prone form appeared to be unconscious, limp body sheltered from an 
alarmingly groaning load of metal by a single leaning bulkhead.  Breath 
weakly trickled from mouth and nose, thin plume of steam attesting to the 
frigid cold claiming the area.  The right leg lay at an unnatural angle, 
surely broken; a prosthetic left arm was crushed under the protecting 
bulkhead's bottom edge.  While abrasions peaked from pale flesh under 
torn black armor, there was amazingly little blood.  Worst of all the 
injuries was the head - exposed skull and jaw bone, hole where an optical 
implant used to be, lacerations.
	"We've seen it.  Take your pictures and let's go before this place 
explosively decompresses on us," said Plent.  Previous attitude was 
replaced somber and subdued reflection.
	Jas sucked in a rattling breath, releasing it to a feedback which echoed 
through suit radio connections.  "I want to save it."
	Plent's eyes riveted on his shipmate.  "It is a Borg, not a stray pet!  
Assuming it survives its injuries, it will only assimilate us.  Borg!"
	"But look at it.  We have to do something."
	"We can Goddess well leave the thing here for the Exploratory and 
Defensive Forces.  EDF will take the thing into custody if it still 
lives.  Don't forget we still need to radio EDF about the cube's accident 
in the first place.  We have our toys, so it is time to continue to Twirl 
and our jobs."
	Silence.  "I can't help but think of a certain childhood fable, the one 
about the freeb, the house cat, and the thorn.  The house cat corners the 
freeb, but finds it cannot pounce because of a pain in his paw.  The 
freeb asks if she might take a look, and manages to pull out a splinter.  
The cat is so grateful he vows to never hurt the she-freeb again, and in 
fact adopts her into his family.  All live happily ever after."
	"Jas, that is a Borg, not a cat, and we are certainly not freebs.  And 
if the Borg invites us into its family, I am damn well going to refuse."  
Another round of silence.  "Don't forget the dark morality tale with the 
same characters.  In that one the freeb is killed despite pulling the 
splinter.  The cat's explanation was that he could not go against his 
nature, which was to catch freebs for his mistress."
	The Borg's breath was beginning to falter; the life sign on the utility 
pad flickered with increasing weakness.  Jas gave a hopeful smile at 
Plent, features distorted by the faceplate.  "Well?"
	Plent groaned, species instincts regarding lost pets finally winning 
against good sense.  "Fine, let's transport it back to Finfin.  But if it 
makes one wrong move, /assuming/ it lives at all, I'll flush it 
personally to space."
	Jas clicked his teeth together in triumph.

	The Borg was strapped to the main examination table using the heaviest 
restraints available.  A stonehound, notoriously difficult to subdue for 
even the most benign of routine check-ups, would not have been able to 
budge.  Jas hoped the stout bindings of tritanium cord reinforced leather 
wrapped around limbs, torso, and abdomen would be sufficient.  The room 
was equipped with forcefield restraints, not that they would do any good.  
For double measure, a voluntary muscle nerve inhibitor was attached to 
the base of the skull.
	The million credit question continued to ask if the precautions were 
even necessary.  The badly wounded drone was in a state of deep coma, one 
which was not feigned according to monitors next to the table.
	"Plent, why don't you peel off as much of the body armor as you can.  
Cut it if necessary.  We need to scan for internal organ damage and the 
armor is fouling our diagnostic equipment."  Plent nodded and set to work 
with laser scalpel.  "I'll see if I can clean up some of this mess on the 
head.  Goddess only knows what sort of brain damage our patient has 
accrued, but if it has lived this long, it will live long enough for me 
to see something other than gore and grime."
	The efficient team of Plent and Jas set to work stripping their patient.  
They had worked together as a viable vet pair for the two years since 
their hiring by CHON; they planned to formalize the relationship into a 
quad marriage as soon they could settle down and find themselves a pair 
of available females.  Until then, it was the bachelor life of the 
occasional willing femme miner for companionship, punctuated by long 
bouts of celibacy.  Traveling vets did not have an exciting social life.
	In the course of initial clean and prep, it became apparent their 
subject was male, species unknown.  At least it was assumed the drone was 
of the male gender, although such things were never a given.  At any 
rate, "he" was a better label than "it."  Stripped as naked as possible, 
some armor impossible to remove without cutting away layers of muscle, 
the drone seemed smaller, less dangerous.  The prosthetic had been deemed 
a complete loss and removed on the cube; the broken leg would have to be 
reset from its initial hasty straightening.  
	Finally the Borg was ready for deep scanning.  Jas triggered the 
computer to begin, then stepped to the main terminal where Plent already 
stood.  Both watched as a picture was built layer by layer using laser, 
sonar, magnetic resonance, electric flux, and a myriad of other 
noninvasive techniques to image insides.  The subject as displayed did 
not look healthy.
	"Metabolic poisons are very high," commented Plent, eyes glancing to 
several graphs at an auxiliary screen, "and sugars and carbohydrates are 
low.  The muscles appear to be in a process of wasting, as if the 
proteins were being motivated for use in more critical systems.  However, 
the rate is phenomenal.  I don't know if the process is one native to the 
species, or a product of Borg nanomachines.  I also have no clue over how 
much tissue poisoning he can take, but if it was one of us on the table, 
we'd be dead a while ago."  Professional detachment had overtaken Plent's 
demeanor, one reserved for interesting cases.
	Jas frowned, grinding his molars together absently.  "There are quite a 
few foreign bodies throughout the drone - must be implants.  I'm labeling 
best guess for organ function, but most of what I see appears to be on 
the brink of failure."  Livers are livers, and kidneys are kidneys; a 
Seffite veterinarian worked with a very wide variety of disparate species 
and had to know if the orange blob under the intestine analogue secreted 
digestive juices or was the immune system nexus.  While the pet database 
was always growing, a competent vet had to be able to best define organ 
functioning, even if he or she had never seen the animal type before, 
much less have extensive files on its physiology.  /Doctors/ were 
limited, typically only worked upon a single race; /vets/ required 
intelligent ingenuity spread among dozens of species.  "Damn.  There is 
some cellular repair occurring, but it will not be sufficient to keep the 
patient alive for more than an hour at most.  Damage is too extensive 
unless we get in there with a regenerator."
	Plent nodded as he keyed the display for the cranium.  "Oh crud, take a 
look at this."  Jas obediently complied, then heaved a sigh of 
frustration.  A piece of shrapnel had penetrated the braincase, making 
hash of organic matter.  Wires and the phantom outlines of complex 
solid-state devices reached fingers to all parts of the skull, but the 
foundation brain looked as if someone had ran it through a blender.  The 
shrapnel had not exited the head, but finally lodged itself in one of the 
implants deep in the core, general vicinity of language processing if 
neural map followed the norm of Seffite physiology.  "I don't think there 
is enough brainstem left in there for basic breathing, much less complex 
motor skills!"
	Jas looked down at the quietly lifting chest, at wounds and abrasions 
leaking a yellowish-clear fluid which was not quite blood.  "Maybe the 
Borg technology is keeping our drone alive.  Perhaps if we fix the body, 
the brain will...reassemble itself?"  Jas' voice conveyed the extreme 
unlikelihood of such a neural miracle occurring.  "And then again, maybe 
not.  At the very least, if we can keep him alive as a vegetable, EDF 
will be pleased when we meet them at Tyreen."
	"We would have to explain why we have a Borg on board in the first 
place, you know."
	"I know."  The beep of monitors and quiet whirl of diagnostic equipment 
filled the otherwise empty silence.  The Seffite race had no telepathic 
tendencies, but nonetheless, similar thoughts revolved in separate 
brains.  The third mind present held no thoughts at all.  "I'll begin an 
electrolyte drip.  You prepare for opening.  I suggest rockhound 
protocols."  Rockhounds were not only extremely strong, but had blood 
with such a high acidity most ceramics and metal alloys melted if contact 
was made with the deadly liquid.  Flesh dissolved into runny gelatin.
	Plent began laying the necessary equipment out on a supplementary table.  
It was always easier to prepare for rockhound protocol before one climbed 
into the armored suit.

	Hours later, Jas and Plent carefully removed their suits, placing them 
in the sterilizer.  The operation was over, but neither knew if it had 
been successful.  Although clean techniques had not been rigorously 
pursued, it was assumed infections would not be a problem if the patient 
survived because of Borg physiology and the inevitable nanite driven 
immune system.  Both Seffites were very tired, very drained by the 
touch-and-go operation, desiring to fall into bed but not daring until 
final procedures were completed.
	The scanner currently displayed the poor fruit of their labors.  Much of 
the organ damage within abdomen and torso was repaired, or at least was 
no longer leaking blood and pus.  Neither knew if the organs worked, or 
if their function was actually performed by one of the many invasive 
pieces of technology which were not touched.  The leg was set, held 
straight by inserted metal and screws; normally a osteo-regenerator would 
have been employed to speed bone matrix regrowth, but in this case the 
bones appeared to have a metal embedded in the structure, unusual alloy 
elements mixed alongside calcium.  And the head...the head was not 
touched other than a coating of dermaskin to cover exposed bone.  The 
piece of shrapnel was buried too deeply to risk scrambling what little 
brain remained intact.
	Jas sucked in a long breath, held it, then let it go with an explosive 
exhale.  "The organs look much better, and that odd internal 
reconstruction appears to be focusing on rebuilding muscles.  Amazingly, 
something is trying to recondition and redirect what neural pathways are 
intact...electocephilic profiles of the head show a strengthening of 
synapse firing."  He closed his eyes for a moment, massaged the base of 
his ears, then focused on the nearly dry IV bag.  A full bag of 
electrolyte solute quickly replaced the empty one.
	"That sugar juice is being used up as fast as it goes in," commented 
Plent, attention focused on a subdisplay, "and I have no clue where the 
water portion goes.  The drone does not produce urine - probably one of 
the few times I've completed an operation without the patient peeing, 
spitting, or otherwise wetting me - and he is not bloating either.  Minor 
mystery.  Unfortunately, the metabolic poisons are not undergoing a 
similar vanishing act.  If we can't filter them out of his blood, he is 
going to crash beyond recovery.  Our work has only put off the 
inevitable."
	"What about that alcove I picked up?"
	"What about it?"
	"Well, I'm not exactly up on my Borg knowledge, but don't the drones 
spend their downtime in those upright coffins of theirs?"  Jas looked 
down at the comatose, restrained, mottled gray patient.  "Pissing is not 
the elimination method of choice, so it follows they must rid themselves 
of waste in some other manner.  I'm making a serious leap, but maybe the 
alcove is the key."
	Plant absently groomed a forearm.  "It is not like the alcove came with 
an instruction manual.  'Place blue wire K into slot A.  Plug contraption 
B into host ship life support.  Press the purple button.'  I don't know 
if my brain can handle trying to jury-rig technology we know nothing 
about.  Assuming Finfin doesn't blow a fuse, we could end up assimilating 
ourselves by accident."
	"It is our best chance.  How about if I brew my trademark caffeine drink 
which kept us alive on the nights before major tests while you beam the 
alcove from the hold to the...um...observation and boarding room.  When 
the drink is done, we can try to get the alcove to work."
	The drone lay quietly, shallow rise of naked chest and beeping heart 
monitor the only indications of life.
	"You are right, Jas.  Call me an idiot for wanting to see this through, 
a suicidal moron of the ultimate degree, but you are right.  The alcove 
is probably his only chance of surviving." 

	Five days later and still nine days out of Tyreen, the drone awoke from 
his coma, sending observing machines into a frenzy of activity.  A 
warning alarm sounded, ruckus impossible to sleep through.  Neither Jas 
nor Plent had been in bed at the time, however, the former in the midst 
of a long shower and the latter performing routine maintenance checks on 
life support.  They met in the hallway outside the recovery room, Jas 
very damp under his clothes and Plent coated in dust.  Bruno was peeking 
from a bedroom doorway, looking for someone to blame for his interrupted 
beauty sleep.
	"Computer, disengage alarm!" shouted Jas over the din.  The siren 
stopped.  Bruno meowed disgust before disappearing back to bed. 
	Plent rubbed some dust off his face, only succeeding in leaving a long 
smudge along his jawline.  "Shall we go in?"  Weapons were a moot point 
as none were aboard.  With a flick of water from his nose, Jas nodded 
assent.
	The door opened to the boarding room, an area dedicated to stacked cage 
space for moderate to small animals.  Large pets which required 
observation following veterinary procedures were housed in the small 
cargo bay within modular paddocks.  The alcove had been set upright next 
to an otherwise featureless bulkhead, cables and wires plugging into a 
variety of wall sockets.  Duct tape and extension cords figured heavily 
into the hodgepodge, as did several bungies.  The drone itself, after 
instillation into the alcove, had been secured with a number of 
restraints.
	The Borg in question was awake, surviving eye wide open and watching the 
Seffite's entrance.  The head swiveled slightly to follow the pair's 
activity, the only movement available as the voluntary muscle inhibitor 
remained in place.  The eye blinked once, returning a gaze which was not 
dulled in idiotic stupor.  Astonishingly something, some mentality, 
survived within the neural soup of the drone's brain; hopefully the 
Collective wasn't running the show by puppet proxy.
	"Do you understand me?" asked Jas.  "Blink once," a single digit was 
held up, "for yes, or blink twice," two fingers, "for no."
	An uncomprehending stare was the response.
	"Do you understand me?  We pulled you from the wreckage of your cube."
	Nothing.
	Plent wrinkled his short muzzle and flared his nostrils.  "Vegetable.  
Very dangerous vegetable."
	Jas waved Plent quiet.  "One more chance, fellow.  Do you understand 
what I am saying?  Blink one time for yes, and two times for no."  Pause.  
"Answer me."
	The pupil of the single eye contracted slightly, orb flicking from one 
vet to the other.  It returned to Jas and gave a slow motion wink.
	"By the Goddess," swore Plent as he sucked in a deep breath.  "The 
Collective f***ing knows where we are.  Good job, Jas.  We are now 
toast."  His voice became wistful, "Now I'll never have that private 
clinic I dreamed of, the one under the tropical sun of paradise, next to 
the shore."
	Jas hushed his mate.  "Quiet."  The drone, if anything could be inferred 
by its near non-expression, was puzzled.  Confused.  Jas directed his 
next words at the Borg, "Do you remember the Collective?"  No response.  
"Answer me as before."
	Two slow blinks.
	"Do you remember from before you awoke here?"
	Two blinks.
	"Hear any voices in there with you?"
	Confused wrinkling of forehead, then two blinks.
	"Do you know what you are?"
	Two blinks.
	"Um, okay, just hold on there, then.  Be right back."  Jas grabbed 
Plent's dirty vest, pulling him back into the hallway for a whispered 
consultation.  "I don't think he knows what he is.  That job to his head 
may have cured him of his, um, Borgness."
	Plent harshly whispered back, "And how do you know he is telling the 
truth?  Probably wants us to let him go so he can assimilate us."
	"Have you ever heard of the Collective lying?  In all the stories of 
their activities?  They tell it how it is going to be, and it is.  It is 
'You will be assimilated' this and 'Resistance is futile' that."
	A grunt was Plent's answer.  Both returned to the boarding room, forced 
smiles plastered on their faces.  Seffites are not photogenic in the 
smile department, looking like rapid weasels.  A ripple of alarm passed 
over the drone's face; although it was not possible, it seemed as if he 
had pressed himself as far back in his alcove as possible.
	"Would you like to speak?" asked Jas with forced brightness, the same 
soothing tone he used on scared animals.  "Would ums like to speak?"
	Single blink.
	Jas wiggled his fingers at Plent, who went to one of the diagnostic 
machines set to watch the alcove and its occupant.  A frown touched his 
face as a combination of buttons were swiftly touched, allowing nerve 
impulses to travel the route to diaphragm, neck, and other muscles 
associated with speech.  Limbs remained frozen.
	"There, you can speak now," said Jas.  "Do you know where you are?"
	A rumble emanated from the drone, quickly modulating to become the 
graveled sounds of a voice long disused.  A hoarse whisper:  "No."
	"What is your designation?"  A puzzled look.  "Designation...you know, 
your name?"
	Cough.  "I...I...I don't know."
	Plent gave a slight gasp as Jas turned to catch his partner with a 
stunned glance.  The same thought was reverberating through both minds - 
the drone had spoken in first person!  Plent returned his full attention 
to the Borg, growing excitement visible in the twitching of his nose.
	"Do you have memories?  What is the last thing you remember?"
	"Corridors.  Dim light.  A loud noise.  Smoke.  Cooking meat?"  A slight 
shaking of the head.  "No...no...I remember a ship.  It...it is my ship, 
and I...I am crew.  I am...am an engineer."  A smile ratcheted across the 
pale face.  "I am chief engineer.  I have recently received a promotion 
and the bars are still new on my uniform."  A darker look prevails, one 
of moderate fear, as the voice picks up in tempo.  "But it is not a happy 
time.  The line has been drawn - the children must not be hurt.  The 
planet must not fall!  For the children we fight, for our future we will 
die!  The B...Borg are attacking, and my captains are yelling at me to 
fix the weapons, the engine.  I do my best, but it isn't good enough.  We 
are tractored!  Our shields fail!  The Borg are now on board, moving from 
deck to deck.  Power has been cut and gravity is lost.  I have a phaser 
rifle and I am in the fighter bay, shooting at shadows.  I hit one!  I 
kill one!  No, I have hit a box of munitions.  It explodes.  I am hit by 
flying debris and nearly loose consciousness.  A something looms over me, 
blinking lights, a targeting scope.  It is Borg.  I try to raise my 
rifle, but my gun, my arm! are several feet away.  No blood...no 
blood...my wound must have been cauterized.  The Borg reaches for me.  I 
remember no more."
	"By the Goddess," Plent breathes, "that is horrible."
	"I...I remember a name.  My name is Dakeen.  I am a father.  I have 
three lovely daughters.  I fight to protect them, to protect my future.  
Did you pull me from the wreckage of my ship?  Did we hold off the Borg?"
	Jas sighs, shoulders drooping.  "Not...exactly.  We found you in 
wreckage, but not...your ship.  I hate to be the one to break this to 
you, but I don't think you won your engagement with the Borg.  You kinda 
/are/ a Borg.  Sorry."
	Dakeen's single eye is wide in astonishment, mind obviously a roil of 
conflicting thoughts and emotions.  Head is shaken back and forth in 
denial, then craned forward and down for a glimpse at his almost naked 
body, clothed only in a strategically placed Borg codpiece, irremovable 
armor, and a wrapped leg splint.  The head is thrown back; eye is closed.  
A tear wells up and begins to make a journey down Dakeen's cheek.  
"No...my daughters...I have failed...no."  He performs an action no drone 
can do:  Dakeen sobs in sorrow.

	Seffites are not an overly suspicious race; the most paranoid among them 
would rate barely a blip on the psychotic radar for many species, 
including humans.  Jas and Plent radioed to EDF, spilling their guts on 
the unmentioned portion of the detour to Entropy, noting the astounding 
outcome of a Borg drone which had regained individuality through massive 
head trauma.  EDF relayed instructions of where to rendezvous once Tyreen 
system was entered in order to transfer the poor fellow off Finfin.  In 
the mean time...
	In the mean time, Dakeen was given access to most of the veterinarian 
ship.  The engine room was off limits, but the reason had more to do with 
Bruno and cat hair then the slowly recovering ex-Borg.  Besides, Finfin 
consisted of precisely two decks (living and engineering) and a cargo 
hold; the trouble of confinement was senseless considering the fact no 
true brig space existed unless one was a pet.  Dakeen was too large to be 
stuffed into a cage, and rockhound paddock forcefields were probably 
useless.
	Dakeen kept mainly to the boarding room, content to stand in the alcove 
in a type of meditative sleep much of the time.  The scanner revealed 
ongoing repair by the nanites, although the end product would be a 
functional Borg body, not the one Dakeen wanted returned to him.  Brain 
reconstruction was much slower, and thus far had only strengthened 
memories and personalities from pre-assimilation; those few blips from 
the Collective came in the form of nightmarish shadows which disappeared 
as quickly as they appeared.  It truly seemed as if that fateful piece of 
shrapnel had worked a miracle.
	Plent had lent his bathrobe to Dakeen, the latter while comfortable in 
the temperature maintained in Finfin, begging for something to cover the 
exposed skin.  His species - Ratif - had a cultural nudity taboo.  The 
powder blue bathrobe did not flatter Dakeen's mottled skin, but fashion 
statement was not a priority.  The clothing also did not quite fit - a 
hemline which for the shorter Seffites was ankle-level ended just above 
Dakeen's artificial knees.
	When the one-armed Ratif was not in his alcove, he was awkwardly 
building small devices.  He claimed the activity calmed him, kept his 
mind from dwelling too long on his condition, or the fact his daughters, 
assuming they survived at all, were probably Borg themselves.  An 
engineer in his past life, even missing one arm he showed considerable 
talent - much more than the two Seffites whom knew enough to keep their 
ship functioning long enough to reach a certified mechanic - in 
contriving the objects.  Most, unfortunately, had a Borg quality 
architecture to them, reminding all of the subtle influences which 
remained within Dakeen's scrambled brain.
	Four days from Tyreen, Dakeen presented Jas with the first technological 
gift.  For some reason the ex-drone had latched onto the vet as being the 
one in charge, although in truth neither was superior to the other.  The 
device resembled nothing, wires and discarded life support system parts 
from a discard pile in the cargo bay soldered together into a roughly 
globular form.  Several blinking lights of red and green appeared to 
serve to purpose except decoration.
	"Um, what is it?"  Jas was in the midst of the latest report to EDF 
concerning the updated health of the ex-drone.  Pet patients were so much 
easier to take care of, not requiring mounds of paperwork.  No matter 
what his heart told him in the future, no more Borg hitchhikers; he could 
swear several meters of red tape had been developed by the bureaucracy 
for such an unlikely occurrence.
	Bruno curled around Dakeen's legs, purring.  The device was placed in 
the middle of Jas' desk, the now free hand reaching down to awkwardly 
scratch the cat's ears.  "Scanner, mostly Ratif design.  Your systems are 
not as advanced as that of my race, and this will better resolve the 
exterior universe while in warp."
	"Mostly?" asked Jas, picking up on the relevant portion of the 
description.  The globe blinked red red green.
	Dakeen shrugged, then shook his head in what Jas was beginning to 
recognize as a negative for the species.  "I don't know.  It just 
seemed...right to wire it a bit differently than I originally wanted to."
	"You do know this ship isn't exactly top-of-the-line.  Better scanners 
can probably be found on our military ships."
	"No...no they can't.  I don't know how I know this, but I do.  This one 
is much superior.  May I install it?"
	Jas sighed, then looked at his terminal.  Plent was taking a nap and 
there was so much stuff to do.  Off-loading the overly helpful Dakeen and 
getting hands on an actual pet would be a relief.  "Yah, sure, whatever.  
Just don't mess up our propulsion, power, or life support grids."  Jas 
keyed in a short code on his board.  "There, I've unlocked engineering.  
Don't let Bruno in, no matter how much he cries.   Cat hair is horrible 
to vacuum out of the manifolds."
	Dakeen happily nodded, picked up the scanning device, and trundled 
towards the stairs to the lower deck.  Bruno followed behind, meowing.

	"Are you awake, Veterinarian Jas?" whispered out of the darkness.
	The named groaned as he rolled over, slitting a single eye.  A tall 
shape loomed.  "I was, Dakeen, but I'm not anymore.  I told you before I 
went to bed to ask Plent about the enhancements you wanted to make to our 
diagnostic scanner."
	"I finished that task two point seven hours ago.  Veterinarian Plent 
observed me the entire time.  No, you said to come to you if I remembered 
anything about the...accident.  I have memories now.  They are not very 
good, but I think know what happened."
	Jas sat up in bed, thumping his pillow into shape to serve as a 
backrest.  The lights remained off, the metallic voice hovering somewhere 
over his head.  Two point seven hours?  Jas yawned as he shook his head.  
No way to tell if the phrase was a product of Borgdom or racial 
upbringing.  
	"Shall I tell you?"
	"Yes, tell me.  I am listening."
	"What you call Entropy is listed as temporal anomaly #118 by the Borg.  
We...I mean the ship was dispatched to examine the anomaly, a routine 
assignment.  Unfortunately the conduit opened too close to Entropy and 
we, the ship could not abort in time.  Severe damage.  Entire 
sub-sections lost and others in darkness.  A third of the compliment 
terminated.  We would have escaped and survived, except for the asteroid.  
Loud noises.  This body trapped by debris, but not killed outright.  
Lives reduced to a handful, then only one.  Massive internal damage.  
Compensating, but systems are collapsing.  This drone goes into forced 
stasis."  Pause.  Jas contemplated turning up the lights...the change in 
Dakeen's voice and cadence was frightening.  "And then...then I was here.  
Awake.  Me."
	Jas swallowed hard.  "And tell me who you are?"
	"Dakeen.  Dakeen Frimiz of the Ratif.  You know this fact.  Why do you 
ask?"
	"Just...just making sure."
	Silence.  "I see.  I think I will retreat to my alcove for meditation.  
I will be there if you require my assistance."
	"Yes," said Jas as the ex-drone left.  He lay staring at the black 
ceiling for the rest of his rest period, unable to return to sleep.

	"So, Plent said you were up to something.  What are you making now?  We 
are about a day from Tyreen, so it better be finished before you leave to 
your new home with the EDF.  They may even have found news of your race 
when we arrive," Jas cheerfully said as he stepped into the boarding 
room.  The gaiety was partially forced, the spookiness of two nights 
prior still haunting his sleep.  The ex-Borg had been on his best 
nonplural behavior since then.
	Dakeen busily wielded soldering iron and a utility pad, deftly adding a 
length of yellow sheathed wire to the conglomeration growing on the work 
bench.  At its heart was a vaguely familiar piece of equipment.  
"Communications device, I think."
	"You think?  And isn't that round thing in the middle Plent's Borg toy 
he retrieved from the cube wreckage?"
	"I'm not quite sure what it is going to be.  And yes, the globe is Borg 
technology.  Specifically it is an intracube communications relay node.  
At least I think it is.  At any rate, it functions as a switching board 
and contains some of the circuit patterns that I need."
	"And its purpose?"
	A smile.  "I will give this ship better communications.  It is a booster 
to expand Finfin's subspace radio range.  You will be able to receive 
your copy of Vet Digest without having to leave warp, for one thing.  I 
have also heard you complaining over your inability to speak to your 
family in real time without renting expensive equipment owned by your 
employers.  Pay phone you named it?  Whatever...I will help you avoid 
that obstacle.  There is nothing more important than family."
	Jas clicked his teeth together.  "And will you be able to contact the 
Collective with your device?  Do not be angry, I just need to know."
	Dakeen shook his head rapidly.  "No.  I told you, I do not want to be a 
drone again.  I want to be me, Dakeen.  I want to know the fate of my 
daughters, and that I can not do as a drone.  I would not want to, I 
remember that much now.  It feels like you are underwater, your thoughts 
locked in a comfortable womb.  Smothering.  Besides, I now know what 
implant that piece of shrapnel is lodged in."
	"You do?"
	"Yes.  It is the neural transceiver for this drone."  Dakeen correctly 
interpreted Jas' twisting features and quickly clarified.  "By that term, 
I mean the drone that I was.  Whomever he was, he is dead now; and even 
if he wasn't, that small shard of metal would prevent him from 
reconnecting with the Collective.  Only Dakeen remains.  A Dakeen trapped 
in this ugly body, but if that is my fate, then that is my fate."  The 
Ratif sighed.  "Please, I must continue my work.  I know of no better way 
to thank you and Veterinarian Plent for helping me.  I will finish it and 
present it to you tomorrow morning, before our rendezvous."
	Jas flicked an ear in assent.  Bruno was down the hallway loudly 
demanding his mid-afternoon, pre-dinner snack.  If he wasn't fed soon he 
would throw a temper tantrum and shred something.

	"Damn gnats," muttered Jas.  For some reason he was slogging through a 
swamp, unknown goal forever a marsh away.  On one level he recognized the 
setting as a dream; another portion of his mind insisted reality was 
stinking mud clinging to hair.  It would take forever to clean his pelt!
	Slog, slog, slog.  Gnats buzzed in an annoying cloud, occasionally 
dive-bombing his head.  Their proboscis could not penetrate his outer 
coat of hair, but that did not stop them from trying.  Slog, slog, slog.  
A waterway now stood between himself and his nebulous goal, so it was 
wade, wade, wade.  Yuck!  The rotting slime combined with the swamp's 
natural high humidity and temperature would make him unfit for company 
once he reached civilization again.
	Suddenly, as nightmares are wont to do, the muddy water mutated into 
quicksand, sucking mud grasping at legs, at arms.  Jas struggled, called 
for the help he knew was not there.  Unfortunately, the rules of the 
dream dictated he had to try to attract attention, even if that attention 
was not the helpful kind, was the kind with sharp teeth looking for 
helpless travelers to eat.  Jas struggled as the mud pressed tighter, 
binding limbs to his side.  Soon he was nothing more than a head inches 
from suffocating death, waiting for inevitable fate to befall.
	Time to wake up.  Time to wake up.  Time to wake up....

	"It is time for you to wake up, Veterinarian Jas.  I know you can hear 
me, the monitors tell me so.  I am very, very sorry."
	Jas woke to a hell, mental fuzziness momentarily convincing him of the 
swamp's reality.  Temperature and humidity were high, much higher than 
Seffite norm; and arms and legs could not be budged.  An increasingly 
awake mind noted the fact he was no longer in bed, was actually strapped 
upright in the Borg alcove.  Jas blinked, then focused on the nearly 
naked form of Dakeen, minus bathrobe.
	"I...we...I...we..." stuttered Dakeen, a look of intense concentration 
passing over his face.  "I am so very sorry.  I...we.../I/ did so want to 
meet your EDF people, to know if any of my race survives."
	"What has happened?" croaked Jas.  He concentrated on his right 
arm...was the binding a little less tight?  Attention was abruptly drawn 
away from the limb and set upon a gurney on the other side of the room.  
The lower tier held the odd device Dakeen had been working upon.  The 
upper table held Plent.  A very unhealthy looking Plent.  "What did you 
do to my friend?"
	Dakeen glanced over his shoulder, puzzled.  "Veterinarian Plent?  He 
will be okay.  You will be okay too.  They...we? did not want you to 
awaken at all, but they are still distant.  Distant enough to ignore at 
times, but it grows harder."
	"They?" whispered Jas, a dread feeling growing in the pit of his 
stomach.  "The Collective?"
	"You once asked me if I heard voices.  I did not.  Dakeen did not.  This 
drone did not."  The single eye squeezed tightly shut as hand curled into 
a fist.  Dakeen's body abruptly relaxed with a long shudder.  "Memories 
intruded as the body healed, but my thoughts were still my own.  Then I 
began to build the communications device, not knowing I...we...I was 
building an exterior neural transceiver booster.  It is not very 
powerful, but it was enough.  Weak implants within me interact with it, 
and it seeks out the Collective.  They whisper to me; we...they grow 
stronger as I...we...they near.  I grow small, yet I grow large."  Third 
person and first person perspectives tangled into a confused morass.
	Panic welled in Jas.  He forced himself to calm, to think.  Logic would 
see him through, just as it had when the brood of jumpers had escaped 
their cages.  Potential disaster with a path to safety, if one could 
navigate the pitfalls.  "You said you can ignore the Collective.  Smash 
the device!  Do not listen!  You said family was everything, your future.  
I'll resign from CHON, help you find your daughters, even if it means 
spending every last cent I own, stealing if necessary."  Jas consciously 
stopped his molars from grinding.
	"Daughters?"  Dakeen asked dreamily.  "Yes, daughters.  Family is 
important.  Very important.  The Collective tells me where my daughters 
are.  One is terminated, but two still survive as Borg, as drones.  I 
must return to my family.  My family is my future."  Voice turned direct.  
"And you saved me, helped me...us.  I must show you and Veterinarian 
Plent my family, let us thank you properly.  Your skills as a medical 
practitioner will add greatly to our perfection."
	"Release us!" pleaded Jas.  "We helped you to live!  You owe us your 
life!  A life for a life!"
	Dakeen spared another backwards glance to Plent's oh-so-still form.  
"Veterinarian Plent has already begun the assimilation process; he will 
awaken as Borg.  The voices, the whispers, the Voice, grow stronger.  
Dakeen is fading, losing cohesiveness.  You also once asked the 
designation of this drone.  We...I...we are 18 of 21, primary processor 
of unimatrix 002.  We," a tear welled from the corner of the whole eye, 
"are so very, very sorry."
	A blue head at knee level poked into the boarding room, eyes 
suspiciously darting about.  Ears pricked up as the born-again Borg drone 
was seen.  The purring and meowing bundle of cobalt fur which was Bruno 
advanced forwards.  For one fleeting moment, Jas hoped the cat would do 
what words could not.  Optimism was quickly dashed.
	"Bruno.  Cat.  Domesticated animal native to species #7922 homeworld.  
Household pet," mechanically recited 18 of 21, hand trailing along 
Bruno's arching back.  "You will not be assimilated.  You will not add to 
our perfection.  We...I will place you in an escape pod and return you to 
your species-owners.  You should not follow your family to the Borg.  The 
Voice says otherwise, but I can still resist on this point.  For now."  
Regret tinged the increasingly stilted voice.  Hand jerked away from 
Bruno as if stung.  "Veterinarian Jas, we are truly, truly sorry.  When 
you are One, you will feel the depths of my regret.  Hopefully.  You will 
also make an excellent medical drone."
	Jas fell into unconsciousness as a member of the dreamtime gnat cloud 
burrowed though hair, scoring his neck.  His last vision, however, was 
not of the fell swamp, but of an inquisitive blue cat comfortably curled 
in the crook of an arm, ears pricked alertly.  There were worst final 
sights in the universe, and as suddenly heavy eyelids sagged shut, 
Bruno's feline visage accompanied Jas into oblivion.