Star Trek, owned by Paramout, was the first attempt to show an epicly 
wonderous sci-fi future.  Then it mutated into Decker's Star Traks.  The 
third generation has since spawned Meneks' BorgSpace.  What will the next 
genetic alteration bring?

			A Second Chance

	Thyeo del Frantz's father had never been there.  Even when alive, even 
when present in the apartment, Father had never been there.  Father was a 
lump on the couch, a presence in the recliner, a form sprawled across the 
living room floor.  In body, Father had been around, either drinking, 
drunk, hung over, or trying to hustle another bottle of rot-gut booze, 
but in mind, in spirit, in soul, in all the ways it meant to be a 
"father," no, Father had never been there.
	Father had not been mean in his drunks, nor weepy, nor talkative.  He 
had been one of those men for whom alcohol opened a world more pleasing 
than the real one.  Some used drugs to achieve the same effect, but for 
Father alcohol was more than sufficient.  With alcohol, the low income 
hell in which Father existed did not exist; and nor did the grandiose 
plans, fantastic plans, he had written of in the diary Thyeo had stolen.  
It was, therefore, predictable, not ironic, that it was homemade 
moonshine "enhanced" with illegally obtained jet fuel, bought from a 
corner peddler, which killed him.
	Thyeo had been eight years old.
	At the funeral, Thyeo did not cry.  Nor did Mother.  Nor did the half 
dozen others who had come to pay respects, others who had known Father 
during a brighter, more optimistic time in his life.  The eulogies had 
been brief, and completely counter to the dead reality waiting for 
disintegration.  The words were a salve to the souls of the others, the 
ones in their well-tailored suits who had always /meant/ to call, who had 
/meant/ to write, who had /meant/ to lend a credit, but whom had never 
found the chance, the time.
	Thyeo watched, and remembered.  He did not flinch as the bright light of 
the funeral home disintegrator reduced Father to ashes, nor did he refuse 
the vial of those ashes that the rented priest thrust into his hands.  
Instead, dry-eyed, he hung the vial around his neck on the chain 
provided, tucking it under his shirt and close to his hearts.
	A child is meant to have a childhood.  Thyeo never had the chance.

	Thyeo's Mother had never been there.  Unlike Father, Mother had 
frantically worked two jobs for a living, a fleeting presence seen 
perhaps for a few minutes in the morning before school, and again before 
bed.  Thyeo was proud of Mother, and sad for her, but she did make enough 
at two legal jobs to pay the rent, put food on the table, afford 
utilities, and pay off the requisite bribes Thyeo's society demanded.
	From Thyeo's pre-adolescent point of view, it was not fair.  From 
Society's point of view, Mother was an idiot.  Thyeo's neighbors grew fat 
from the unemployment checks they drew, pretending to be three or four 
persons each.  Government was corrupt, that was a fact of life, and if it 
cost one check to an official in order to take in three times what 
otherwise would be allotted, all without lifting a finger, so be it.
	Why Mother did not wish to employ the scam, Thyeo did not understand.  
He only saw a mother slowly working herself to death.  Therefore, at age 
12, he dropped out of school (school was for fat-pursed pansies, anyway), 
turning to the authority of the streets for employment.  His mother...did 
not need to know school was no longer a priority.  She deserved to be 
home, to have pretty things, to not work 20 of the 30 hour days, to be a 
Mother.  Thyeo would give her those things.
	The authority of the streets was the Mob Families.  Or, at least, one 
not of Thyeo's culture might define it as such.  Families whose business 
was organized crime were the real rulers of society, of a government that 
did not care as long as bribes were paid, as long as day-to-day reality 
did not tread upon the well-heeled electorate which placed members of 
itself in high office.  For a lad of the lowest of the lower classes, 
only the local Family recruiter offered attainable employment, a career 
of sorts, if he survived to adulthood within the sometimes brutal ranks.

	Thyeo was a "loteur" in the Toley Family.  The word referred to a small 
alpine fur-bearer with a neurotic tendency to gather vegetative foods for 
the greater colony.  The image of a busy loteur was encompassed in the 
position; and another society in a place far removed from Thyeo's world 
would call him a gopher, or, more accurately, a courier.
	Thyeo at 14 had spent the last two years in Family employment.  His 
mother had not been happy when she learned of the job, but at the same 
time, she did not refuse the extra credits for food, for heat, for 
bribes, for door locks.  Thyeo had yet to convince his mother to stop 
working her second job, but he knew once, /once/, he was a loteur 
handler, a boss even, he would give his mother all she needed and she 
/would/ stop working.
	It never occurred to Thyeo to ask his mother's opinion in the matter.
	It was a normal job, carrying the ten packets of Spuff powder from his 
immediate supervisor to a distributor.  Thyeo was proud of himself, for 
he had risen in the loteur stable ranks from a lowly boy barely trusted 
to a few paper missives to the preferred courier stanch enough to carry 
several thousand credits of high-grade narcotic.  He had even heard 
rumors that he was on the short list to be assigned to a trial apprentice 
enforcer position.  Daydreaming, he did not expect the arrest.
	Thyeo not only did not expect arrest, nor did he expect the trial which 
followed, nor the conviction.  Newspapers and politics had been beyond 
the interest of a 14-year-old intent on making a few dollars.  Thyeo had 
not known (or cared) of the recent election of an official to city office 
who had pledged to crack down on the Spuff trade.  Behind-doors 
negotiations with city officials and the Families which actually ran the 
metropolis had inked agreements that sacrificed some Family assets in 
return for other, more profitable concessions, all for the sake of a 
happy electorate.  Thyeo was among those assets.
	The Toley Family knew Thyeo as a number, a body unimportant in the 
greater scheme of things, expendable.  To make the appropriate bribes to 
guarantee Thyeo a favorable day at court, or a reduced sentence, was more 
expensive than simply writing off the asset.  It was cruel.  It was cold.  
It was business.
	Thyeo's sentence was for ten years.

	Thyeo's race called itself Sabeen, although the names used by 
neighboring species ranged from "corrupt bastards" to untranslatable 
expletives.  Sabeens were of middling height as far as humanoids went, 
with male and female of similar stature.  Faces were generally smooth and 
without blemish, vaguely Asian in character; and hair came in shades of 
black and brown, rarely growing more than three centimeters from the 
skull, regardless of gender.  The most striking aspect of the Sabeen was 
that four eyes was the norm instead of the standard two. 
	At 19 years, Thyeo was an "average man" of his race.  He was, perhaps, 
somewhat more muscular than the standard, but he had had little else to 
do while in jail except a never-ending regimen of self-imposed body 
building exercises.  Sabeen did not believe in coddling their prisoners, 
mostly because such who were in jail rarely had the means to bribe the 
guards, for otherwise they wouldn't have been there in the first place.
	Over the years, Thyeo had done much thinking.  His dark, pessimistic, 
and critical view upon society's treatment of his mother had transferred 
itself to the Mob, and more specifically, the Toley Family.  The Family 
had been his ticket to make his mother proud, to help her as Father, as 
society, never had.  Instead, the Family had dismissed him to jail, not 
even making a token effort to counter the judicial system.  From letters 
Thyeo knew his mother still lived in the same apartment, still worked 
long hours at underwage jobs, still struggled to make ends meet.  Now it 
was the Toley Family who was to blame for Mother's predicament, from 
Thyeo's psychologically twisted point of view; however, the Mob would not 
be bothered by the likes of Thyeo, not when there existed means to 
permanently end any employee-employer dispute.
	"Going for a hike, neighbor?  Days off?" asked the overly nosy man who 
owned the next trailer over.  Thyeo shrugged his pack farther on his back 
and grunted a nasty reply under his breath, as if the idiot could not see 
the obvious.  The neighbor continued to peer over the fence, eyes avidly 
darting back and forth in overt curiosity.
	"Yes," finally replied Thyeo.  "And don't touch my stuff while I'm 
gone."
	"We /are/ in a mood, aren't we?  I bet you are out to try to find that 
meteorite, aren't you?"  The neighbor was of the type who would never be 
quiet, who always had a question, who would never take umbrage at a surly 
answer.  He also had a nervous malady whereupon his eyes did not blink in 
unison, but was rather a "stutter" of winks.  Thyeo wished the neighbor 
would mind his own business.
	"Maybe.  Just don't touch my stuff.  Anything gone, and I'll know who to 
come to," retorted Thyeo once more.  Ignoring the inanely grinning 
neighbor, he settled his pack one final time, then exited his back yard 
for the government game refuge which abutted the trailer park.
	Thyeo had left prison early due to a special work parole program.  At 
the edges of Sabeen-controlled space the Borg were nibbling, as they had 
been doing for the last twenty years.  Unlike other species in the 
sector, however, Sabeen were technologically advanced to a point where it 
was possible to hold off the Borg forces.  The last several years had 
seen a rise of incursions, drawing an increasing number of people into 
the space forces.  Those left behind on homeworld and major colonies, 
those without means to refuse like Thyeo, were drafted into the 
industries required to support the defense effort.  In return for working 
as a line inspector at a local manufactory of the rivets used in 
construction of the internal framework of corvettes and destroyers (i.e., 
push buttons to confirm robots peforming the actual work were 
functional), Thyeo's sentence had been halved.  Most of those who lived 
in the trailer park, including the nosy, kleptomaniac neighbor, were 
similar participants in the program.
	The work was boring, but it paid the rent and other necessities of life, 
with a bit left over to send to Mother.  Mother refused to move to the 
country; and Thyeo could not leave his assigned duty location for the 
city.  The latter was for the best, for if Thyeo had been living near 
Toley Family haunts, he may have given into temptation to exact revenge 
upon the Family for perceived injustices, which in turn would have 
seriously shortened a lifespan which otherwise could stretch 150 years.
	The night before, Thyeo had awoken to the sound of thunder and the sight 
of a great fireball slamming into the near hills of the game refuge.  At 
work that day, the factory's ten-person crew had gossiped of the 
celestial fireworks over lunch and breaks, but had heard nothing official 
on the news.  Rumor ranged from a crashed shuttle trainer to a small 
meteorite, with the latter gaining the most serious discussion.
	As there were always rich folk willing to buy a hunk of infallen space 
rock, Thyeo had decided to hike into the hills and find it.  His 
eight-day shift was ended, and he had four days off.  That would be 
sufficient time to look for the meteorite, or at least determine where it 
might have landed.  Thyeo had already done quite a bit of exploring in 
the hills, as much to get away from the neighbor as to investigate a 
landscape never before encountered by one grown up in the asphalt and 
steel of the city.  Perhaps, Thyeo thought, if the rock was large enough, 
he could cut it up and sell each bit, claiming to prospective buyers that 
it alone was the entire meteorite.
	Thyeo searched the dry hills of the refuge, looking for a route which 
would gain him a ridge vantage point.  He had a fair notion where the 
rock had crashed, and wanted a look-see from a height to try to locate 
the crater.  Animals did not worry him, at least not animals that went on 
four legs, for the refuge was a refuge in name only, the last game 
animals more than knee-high hunted to local extirpation many years ago by 
those with a gun and a large bankroll.  The wardens had been more than 
willing to look the other way for five hundred credits or so per animal 
taken.  Still, a suitable handgun was holstered to one thigh, just in 
case any hypothetical two-legged predator became a bit frisky.
	Stopping only once at a small spring to refill his canteen, Thyeo 
steadily climbed uphill, destination in view.  A rocky knob known as 
Troll's Head offered an overlook of the refuge's interior valleys and box 
canyons, as well as was near a small cave complex which Thyeo knew to 
make a good camp against the evening's chilled winds.
	"Now, if I were a bit of credit falling from the sky, where would I 
land?" asked Thyeo aloud to himself half an hour later as he stood on the 
brow of the Troll's Head.  He carefully scanned the ridgeline and nearer 
canyon walls as he turned in place, punctuating his search with sips from 
his canteen.  The wind was picking up speed as the sun drifted towards 
dusk; and there was a bite in the early autumn winds to be felt on 
exposed skin.  "Where would I be?"
	A thin column of smoke, a mere hint of a discoloration, caught Thyeo's 
attention.  The silhouette of Razor Ridge was broken, a slash plowing 
through the low line of gnarled blue-needle trees.  As Thyeo watched, the 
wisp disappeared in the strengthening evening winds, column broken apart.  
However, with a place to start from, Thyeo was able to trace a skipping 
pattern as the meteorite had plowed across the heavily forested canyon 
wall, finally coming to rest, presumably, in the shadow at the base of 
the ridge.
	Thyeo stared down into the canyon, but the dusking sun had already 
thrown impenetrable shadows over the goal.  Consulting a map showed the 
nearest physical landmark of any sort to be a seasonal water source 
called Rock Spring, likely dry at this time of year.  Thyeo unhitched his 
backpack and quickly rustled around in it for his binoculars, knowing 
that their help would likely garner little better results, but that there 
was no harm in trying.
	"What do we have here?" asked Thyeo suddenly as he sucked his breath in 
through his teeth.  He had sworn for a moment that there had been a glint 
of metal in the shadows.  Perhaps...perhaps the meteorite was a 
satellite?  Thyeo blinked, then considered thoughtfully.  Depending on 
who owned the maybe-satellite, he could make a sum either selling it back 
to the owner...or to a rival; and at worst, the scrap was a tidy bundle 
of credit waiting to be sold to an exotic metal recycler.  Either way, a 
satellite was worth more than a run-of-the-mill space rock.
	Thyeo smiled to himself as he repacked his binoculars before making his 
way to his evening campsite.  The smell of easy money was in the air, a 
sweet, sweet scent!

	The trek down to Rock Spring was not an easy descent.  No established 
trail led into the canyon; and the larger animals which once upon a time 
might have made a path were long residing as trophy heads on the living 
room walls of rich folk.  The thick groves of two meter tall blue-needle 
tree only made it worse, their branches grabbing at clothes as Thyeo 
passed and needle-like leaves carpeting the ground in a slick mat.  Where 
the trees did not grow, snow-thorn and burnbrush presented shorter, but 
no less annoying, prickly hazards.
	The canyon echoed with more than a few curses learned from jail.
	"F***ing spawn of a fungus-infested slime-snake's pile of s**t," swore 
Thyeo as he finally tore loose of a blue-needle tree which had threatened 
to impale him on its many branches.  He gave a parting swipe at the 
offending plant before looking about himself.  He was finally in the 
canyon dry wash, Razor Ridge stretching high overhead in one direction, 
Desolation Ridge (leading to Troll's Head) in the other.  The spring was 
upcanyon a short ways.
	Thyeo hoped to find the presumed wreckage before noon.  He then planned 
to eat lunch, before hiking a bit upslope to a mapped permanent water 
source.  He could camp there and search for a decent place to cache his 
deorbited credits:  it would not do to go through all this hard work for 
the rock, the satellite, the whatever, only to return at the end of his 
next eight-day shift to find someone else had hauled it away.
	Whistling a ditty of questionable taste to himself, Thyeo jauntily 
strode along the wash toward Rock Spring, eyes darting around for any 
trace of the satellite.  Mother could use the credits, definitely.
	Thyeo paused excitedly as a glint caught his eye.  He stood straight 
again moments later, frowning with disgust at the old aluminum tin which 
had once held a fruit compote.  He dropped it back to the ground, punting 
it into the bushes.  Quick eyes soon spotted another metallic wink.
	This time Thyeo hit paydirt.  The ragged square of metal was only a few 
square centimeters, but it had the characteristic warped melting of 
passage through atmosphere.  A second scrap, then a third, caught his 
attention, and he eagerly followed the erratic trail as it led past Rock 
Spring (dry, as expected) and up the opposite side of the canyon.
	An out-of-place whine alerted Thyeo that something was Not Quite Right.  
The grinding motor sounded again on the other side of a wall of thorned 
bushes, haltingly intertwined with the crunch of heavy footfalls.  Was 
that the clank of metal against metal?  Rubber rubbing on rock?  The odd 
noises were ones Thyeo associated with the factory floor, not in the 
middle of the Crusan Game Refuge.
	As the footsteps slipped and staggered away, the owner obviously 
unaccustomed to walking on the uneven surface of the canyon floor, the 
former meteorite/satellite hunter dropped to hands and knees and crawled 
stealthily forward.  Thyeo parted the brush and peered through, seeing 
the imprints of where feet had tread.  He also revealed a black wire 
snaking from unknown point A to equally unfathomable point B.
	Curiouser and curiouser.
	At this point, on a planet with a government less corrupt, a good 
citizen would have quietly retraced his path back to his hovel and made a 
phone call to authorities.  However, the government was corrupt, 
including the local version of police; and Thyeo by no stretch of the 
imagination could be labeled a "good citizen."  The wire, the footstep 
owner, both warranted investigation as to what or who they were and how 
they figured with the fireball of the night before.
	Deciding that the footstep owner was highly unlikely to sneak up 
unannounced, Thyeo crawled from under his bush and stood.  He glanced 
once more in the direction that the mechanical noises had disappeared, 
then proceeded to follow the wire to its terminus.  The wire wound around 
vegetation, following the vague definition of an old side channel to the 
main wash, finally climbing onto a low knoll.  Hidden in the center of a 
ring of rocks was a spread of solar fabric.
	Thyeo blinked in surprise as he peered around a stone and discovered the 
piece of high tech, and again as sun glinted off the glossy protector 
covering the stiff strips of photovoltic cloth.  The wire split, then 
plugged into each of the cells.
	Touching nothing, Thyeo traced the wire in the opposite direction.  
Quickly he passed his original hiding spot, carefully placing foot in 
front of foot as he neared the goal.  All four eyes squinted in 
concentration to see what might be ahead; and his ears listened intently.  
Finally a bush parted to reveal a most astounding scene.
	No meteorite, no satellite had been the origin of the spectacular 
celestial fireworks.  What lay on its side at the end of a short furrow 
was a badly damaged shuttlecraft.  It was a Sabeen vehicle, which meant 
it was a utilitarian box with four stubby warp nacelles, one set at each 
long axis corner.  It had all the aerodynamic properties of a brick as it 
was not meant for atmospheric entry.  However, it was a very touch brick, 
as evidenced by the fact that it was still recognizable after a crash 
landing.  The badly damaged aft hatch had been torn from its hinges and 
now functioned as a ramp to provide entrance and egress from the 
interior.
	While the craft was obviously Sabeen, its occupants were not.  Thyeo 
counted four humanoids of disparate racial origin, all united by the 
pallor of their skin, lack of hair, and the cybernization of their 
bodies.  Borg.  The image of the Sabeen enemy was known to every 
inhabitant, if only as a regular villain in space-set action-adventure 
movies.
	These Borg were not the feared masters of technology and representatives 
of forced collective unity portrayed on television.  For one thing, one 
of the foursome was quite dead, if the crushed skull was any indication.  
The body was set in the shade cast by the shuttle, torso opened with a 
wire exposed to dangle in sandy grit.  A second Borg nearby appeared 
shortly to be joining its comrade, one arm sliced clean at the shoulder 
and leg flexed at a point where body armor had no joint:  a dry puddle of 
old blood stained the ground beneath the Borg.  A third appeared to be in 
better shape, although it had both of its legs also, if less 
dramatically, broken, as it quietly sat on the ground beneath a shruby 
tree half pushed over from the shuttle's impact, performing surgery on 
the innards of a black box.  The fourth, and final, Borg was the one 
Thyeo had first encountered, walking wounded as it limped in and out of 
the shuttle.
	Thyeo watched the drones, pondering.  As he observed, Number Four paused 
at the shuttle entryway, head cocked.  The sitting comrade stopped its 
mysterious chore, miming the gesture; and even the living one flat on its 
back attempted to copy the stance despite its prone position.  After a 
few seconds activity resumed, as if the break had never occurred.
	A plot, a scheme, a notion which had previously been a daydream fantasy 
blossomed into sudden reality in the back of Thyeo's mind.  Here was the 
chance he had been waiting for, the opportunity which would assist him in 
a certain revenge-fueled desire.  A humorless smile lit Thyeo's face as 
he drew his handgun from its holster.
	The pistol could best be described as a streamlined hairdryer in form 
with long flanges running lengthwise down the barrel.  A finger-trigger 
plate was located just above the grip; and a laser sighting system showed 
where projectiles were aimed.  The handgun was a small portable rain-gun, 
favored by the lower elements of society due to inexpensive and the mess 
it made when projectiles of various flavors impacted body parts.  Example 
and deterrence at its finest.  Due to its basic nature, it was also a 
viable weapon when faced with a race which could shield itself from 
electromagnetic-based offenses.
	Thyeo forced his way through obscuring branches.  If Borg were capable 
of startlement, he did not know:  his closest drone encounter prior to 
now was via televised news or clever poster advertisements for NanoCola 
(Motto:  "Assimilate the Taste!").  Expressions on deadpan faces did not 
noticeably change, although some element of astonishment undoubtedly had 
to be present.  Eyes of the walking wounded and the sitting unit 
flickered between gun and owner, the drone standing next to the 
shuttlecraft eventually settling on Thyeo and the other Borg 
concentrating on the weapon.
	"Okay!" yelled Thyeo threateningly, eyes darting around the clearing.  
"I assume you know what I am holding; and I assume you know it can blow a 
hole through your heads so I can see daylight on the other side.  That'll 
make you dead.  What do you have to say to that?"  Threaten first, 
negotiate later, that was the tactics of the Family, of the city, of the 
prison in which Thyeo had spent five years.  Only the strong have the 
right to dictate terms, however "strong" was defined.  Thyeo would be 
strong, as he had never been strong before.
	Number Four began to haltingly advance on Thyeo, arms outstretched in 
the classic zombie position which would have been funny had the situation 
not been so serious.
	"You will be assimilated.  Resistance is futile," intoned Number Four, 
echoed by one of its immobile comrades.
	Thyeo took a prudent step back.  "I don't think so.  See your friend 
over there?  The one flat on its back?  Say good-bye.  I only need one of 
you, and that one is a spare."  Aim of the gun was shifted, sighting upon 
the prone drone in the shadow of the shuttle.  Thyeo's index finger 
twitched, squeezing the pistol's trigger plate.
	A crack sounded as the gun's projectile went supersonic in less than a 
handspan of distance, followed by a muffled thump as the same projectile 
powered through flesh and lodged into sand.  The Sabeen handgun was not 
meant to produce a "pretty" kill; and the reaction of a head to a 
projectile has been described akin to watching an overripe melon explode.  
The side of the shuttle took the brunt of the red spray and miscellaneous 
"bits," with scraps left over for an unlucky blue-needle tree.  The 
pistol returned to pointing at Number Four.
	It was as if the two remaining live drones had been given a full body 
slap.  Expressions did cross their faces, a fascinating mixture of 
horror, of pain, of a touch of fearful anticipation.  Number Four cringed 
slightly, arms moving upwards as if to ward its head against a 
projectile.  Then, as if a light switch was flicked, facial muscles 
relaxed into neutrality as if nerves had been severed.  Number Four 
straightened, but did not continue its advance.
	"State your demands," intoned Number Four.
	Thyeo grinned.  "Good, good.  Glad I have your attention.  First, what 
is your name?  And that one other there, too?"
	"This drone is designated 153 of 652, quaternary sub-processor of 
unimatrix 016.  The other unit is designated 25 of 110, secondary 
overflow buffer of unimatrix 016," intoned 153 of 652.
	Thyeo made a face.  "Too long.  I'm going to call you Drone 1; and I'm 
going to call other  one...Sparky."
	"Those are not our designations," protested 153 of 652.
	"Too bad, Drone 1.  They are now.  So, why doesn't Sparky speak?  I 
thought you all spoke in unison or such."  Thyeo made a gesture with his 
handgun.  As he did so, a concept of gender materialized.  As with most 
unassimilated individuals, Thyeo felt more comfortable with "he" and "she 
than genderless neutrality."  153 of 652, nee Drone 1, became male; and 
25 of 110 became female.  In fact, Thyeo was completely wrong, although 
the labeling was irrelevant except in his perceptions.  153 of 652 was 
mammalian, but female, with the male of her race suckling young.  25 of 
110 was hermaphroditic, not mammalian at all; and the swellings of its 
torso which suggested breasts were in fact well developed pectoral 
muscles associated with the vestigial wings that had been removed upon 
assimilation.
	25 of 110 shifted "her" attention squarely to Thyeo's face as 153 of 652 
answered, "The drone in question suffered damage to larynx and associated 
anatomy during the landing.  No speech is possible until surgical repairs 
are facilitated.  Vocalization is a low priority system."
	Thyeo snorted.  These were the menace of the galaxy?  "Crash landing?  
So, what did happen?  The news hasn't mentioned any Borg 'invasion 
force,' if that is what you sorry lot represent."
	The verbal pokes and jabs did not ruffle 153 of 652's composure, for 
such attacks were irrelevant.  "He" cocked his head slightly as he 
listened to words unheard before replying.  "The objective was to 
infiltrate a low orbit supply platform of this colony planet.  The 
vehicle was an automated shuttle, upon which we were transported during a 
cube fly-through of this system.  The shuttle malfunctioned, cause 78.6% 
probable a combination of deferred maintenance and effects of the 
transporter beam.  The vessel deorbited."
	Thyeo's eyes, all four of them, widened.  "So you took a ride on a 
s**tily maintained robotic courier shuttle that crashed?  Whoo!" yelled 
Thyeo gleefully.  "That means unless some station master's 'special 
order' was in the cargo, no one's going to look for it - no one official, 
anyway - especially if a cube buzzed through recently.  Drone 1, is your 
Collective thingy going to come and get you and Sparky?"
	"No," replied 153 of 652 shortly.  "Global defenses of this colony are 
too powerful at this time to allow retrieval of these drones and corpses.  
A cube will continue to observe this species #7200 claimed system from 
the Oort cloud, allowing these units to maintain a link with the 
Collective."
	Realization dawned.  "So...the Collective thingy is all there with you, 
Drone 1, but no one from your team will be retrieving you two?  You are 
in a bind, aren't you?  Just planned to hang out here, then?"
	153 of 652 stared at Thyeo in the unblinking manner possible only of a 
Borg.  There is something unconsciously unsettling about having trillions 
of minds gazing upon one with all the interest of an annoying insect 
about to be slapped, and Thyeo unknowingly stepped backwards half a pace.  
"We will be unlikely to survive longer than 125 local hours."  The 
question asked was not precisely answered, but Thyeo did not notice.  "We 
require regeneration, but this vessel lacks the necessary components to 
construct the minimum required equipment."
	Thyeo mused.  He had to keep at least one of the pair alive if he hoped 
to enact his plan.  "What do you need?" he asked suspiciously.  "If I 
can't pack it in, you ain't getting it.  If it's something I don't have 
around the house, or someone else's house, you ain't getting it neither, 
at least not within four days."
	"We require two replicator units, of the specification associated with 
food replicator devices.  We also require an energy storage device to 
hold power from our solar arrays."  153 of 652 paused.  His unaltered eye 
blinked.  "We also could use high-grade concentrated organic substrate, 
as much as possible, although it is not a strict necessity."
	Thyeo considered, organizing the shopping list.  "So, you want some 
mini-replicators, a battery, and ration bars.  Heavy, but doable."  One 
other item was mentally added to the list, but not said aloud.  "I'll be 
back tomorrow or the next.  Have fun.  You might want to clean up that 
mess over there, too, before the blood stinks.  There is a nasty little 
scavenger rodent that comes out at night.  The things have sharp teeth."  
With those parting words, Thyeo carefully backed his way from the crashed 
shuttle and Borg pair, gun held in front of him.  Safely through the 
brush, he turned and swiftly lurched into a forced march.

	Thyeo stood for a moment, observing the accident site from behind a 
blind of branches.  As perceptive as before, the two drones did not 
appear to know they were being watched.  Sparky's legs had been 
straightened and bound to short metal spars, presumably from the vessel, 
lengths of wire passing through the leg itself as part of the splint.  
Beyond that minor improvement, Sparky looked much the same as she sat 
under her tree tinkering on a piece of electronics.  Drone 1 also 
appeared to have physically improved, the previous limp much less as he 
entered and exited the overturned shuttle.  Of the two cadavers, they 
were no longer present, although dark rusty stains baked near black by 
the sun was a visual (and olfactory) reminder of their previous location.
	Sucking in a deep breath, gun was unholstered from thigh.  Branches 
crackled noisily as Thyeo pushed his way into the clearing. The drones 
halted their respective activities.
	"Your mobile hardware store has arrived.  This better be worth it 
because this is a damn heavy load," declared Thyeo without preamble.  
Backpack was unbuckled and allowed to fall to the sandy ground with a 
great thump; and through it all, the gun did not waver from its aim at 
the mobile drone of the duo.
	Two days had passed since Thyeo had left the shuttle for the forced hike 
home.  He had not wasted an instant.  The ration bars and battery had 
been the most difficult to obtain, requiring a full day in itself to 
acquire via a number of phone calls and cashing of favors.  The 
kleptomaniac neighbor had come in handy for the mini-replicators, simply 
a matter of accusing said neighbor of stealing them from him (he had not, 
but they likely had been "borrowed" from someone) and reappropriating 
them.  The kleptomaniac was used to such occurrences and did not complain 
too loudly, although he professed the entire time to not know how the 
units had "magically appeared" in his carport.  The last item on Thyeo's 
shopping list, unrequested by the Borg, had been procured from the same 
source as the replicator pieces.
	Drone 1 took several paces towards Thyeo before prudently stopping out 
of lunge range as the gun was waved in warning.  Eyes glanced down to 
backpack, then returned full attention to Thyeo.  "You will give us our 
requested items.  Now."
	"Pushy, aren't you?" asked Thyeo with a hint of sneer.  "Don't worry.  
You'll get everything you asked for.  But first, I've a special gift for 
both of you.  A gift so I don't have to hold this stupid gun all the time 
or grow eyes in the back of my head."  The backpack was opened, revealing 
two neck ornaments lying on top of a bag of rations.  The neck ornaments 
were in fact electronic collars for the Sabeen version of the dog, 
animals often bred for a vicious attitude.  With the collars came two 
transmitters, one which established an invisible perimeter beyond which 
the collar would not allow its charge to go; and the other to be kept on 
the owner's person.  Threatening moves towards the owner or attempted 
jaunts outside the perimeter elicited a serious of increasingly painful 
shocks.  Thyeo wasn't sure how much electricity a Borg could tolerate, 
but just in case, he had swapped out the normal power sources with one he 
felt more than capable of dropping a drone in its tracks.
	One collar was flipped at Drone 1, and the other chucked to Sparky.  
"Put 'em on," Thyeo growled, and then proceeded to graphically explain 
what they were.  Neither drone complied.  "I said, put 'em on!"
	"No," stated Drone 1.
	Thyeo shrugged.  "Then I guess you don't get any of your goodies.  I did 
so want to have a lighter pack on my way back out, but if you insist, 
I'll take everything with me."
	Both Borg glared at Thyeo as the threat was delivered.  Then, as one, 
they blinked and snapped the collars snugly around their necks.  "We 
comply," said Drone 1, sulkily in Thyeo's opinion.
	Smiling, Thyeo indicated a small box clipped onto the waist of his 
pants.  "Good.  Good!  This gizmo is already active."  He holstered the 
gun.  "Just so you know, the collars have a DNA lock.  I am needed, 
alive, if you ever want to get them off.  Cutting will unleash a fatal 
shock; and DNA which isn't a part of the here-and-now me just won't work.  
So, anyway, have at your goodies.  I'll set up the collar perimeter.  The 
transmitter's another DNA lock; and breaking it or otherwise compromising 
its case makes the collars go 'bzzt.'"  Thyeo paused.  "Do I make myself 
clear?"
	The drones glared icily at Thyeo, eyes in deadpan faces reflecting the 
ire of trillions.  Thyeo gulped, but held his place, secure in his young 
adult cockiness that everything would go his way, that he held the 
winning hand.  "We understand."
	Thyeo emptied the contents of his pack to the ground, retaining only 
water and food.  As Drone 1 picked up the mini-replicator units, the 
batteries, the ration bars, Thyeo whistled jauntily as he walked from 
point to point, setting the perimeter.  It never occurred to him that the 
Collective might be formulating plans of its own.

	The most recent work cycle had finally come to an end, and Thyeo quickly 
threw stuff into his backpack in preparation to checking on his Borg.  He 
regarded them as his property to do with as he pleased; and as he pleased 
was to start very soon.
	At work the buzz over the fireball had dissipated replaced by other 
concerns such as the most recent political scandal whereupon the 
politician in question had not been able to pay his Family bribes due to 
reasons of addiction to a very expensive designer drug produced by a 
rival Family.  The politician's life expectancy was estimated from two 
days to two weeks, with appropriate odds broadcast by public bookies.  Of 
mention of a Borg invasion of the colony there was nothing, either 
official or gossip.
	Therefore, after reminding his neighbor to keep his thieving hands to 
himself, a ritual in itself, Thyeo set off for the hills.
	Long hours later, Thyeo confidently strode into the crash scene.  On one 
level, not much had changed, with the shuttle still on its side and 
broken vegetation littering the ground.  However, there were some 
differences, the most obvious the complete removal of one of the 
shuttle's nacelles.  Where it had gone, no clue was obvious.  The Borg 
were also changed, in better health, with Sparky walking with only a 
slight limp.
	The latter cheered Thyeo.  If Sparky would not have been mobile, he 
would have had to put her down.  With two drone he retained a spare in 
case something happened to one.
	"Hello, my friends!  Come, gather around!  I have orders to give," 
cheerfully announced Thyeo.  The two drones who had been tinkering on 
machinery underneath a shuttle hull plate, narrowed their eyes, glanced 
at each other, then reluctantly stumped towards their supposed "master."
	"We are busy," stated Drone 1.  Sparky did not speak, instead focusing 
on something approximately half a meter behind Thyeo's skull, plainly 
still unable to talk.
	Thyeo smirked.  "You can be busy elsewhere.  I have it all arranged.  We 
are going to the city.  Get what you need, if anything.  It is a long 
walk to my place; and at the pace you can manage, slower than a 
slime-roller in summer."  He laughed at his clever simile.
	Neither Borg moved, but rather cocked their heads slightly, as if 
listening to a faint noise.  Eyes blinked once in tandem, then Drone 1 
answered, "Acceptable.  We must remove necessary equipment to transport 
with us.  Estimated time to completion is two local hours.  You must 
remove the inhibiting barrier."
	Laughing, Thyeo agreed.  "Of course, of course!  I need to take it with 
me, anyway.  Did you try it out while I was gone?"  Silence was his 
answer, but he did not care.  "We will leave in two hours, then."
	The trek to Thyeo's trailer, or, more precisely, the old van he had 
bought the past work-week, was as slow as he had feared.  On the up side, 
the drones, both heavily laden with mysterious bits and pieces of 
Sabeen-Borg hybrid machinery with a disturbingly organic quality to it, 
did not ask for breaks nor complain.  On the down side, they indeed 
approached the glacial velocities of a slime-roller in summer, a small 
invertebrate whose protective mucus coat hardened in heat and slowed the 
animal's movements to a literal crawl.
	It was well after dark when first the lights of the trailer park, then 
the dark shapes of civilization, came into view.  The timing was fine 
with Thyeo, who didn't wish to explain the Borg to certain nosy 
neighbors.  The drones were led to the van waiting at the side of the 
hovel and bade to enter.
	After resetting the electric fence inside the old vehicle to make sure 
the Borg were controlled, Thyeo climbed into the driver's seat and 
started the motor.  The van unsteadily lifted off the ground on its 
anti-gravity propulsion units, the rear sagging slightly to give the 
entire vehicle a distinctive tilt.  Thyeo did not care, only that the van 
had been cheap and guaranteed to last him at least as far as his 
destination.
	Without a second glance at his trailer home, Thyeo put the van into 
forward gear.  He did not plan to return to his dead-end job in a 
dead-end place with dead-end aquatences.
	And he would not.

	An entire dayspan of steady driving passed, punctuated by brief naps and 
the occasional pep-pill, before Thyeo and company arrived in the 
megalopolis of Quility, colonial capital city, population roughly twenty 
million souls; and, more specifically, a warehouse located on the 
outskirts of a run-down industrial/residential neighborhood which even in 
its heyday was considered to be the "wrong side of the mag-lift tracks."  
Thyeo was...home.
	Years separated the him of today with the him of the past, but the 
neighborhood was the same.  There were changes, of course, in the faces 
of the street brat packs, in the location and name of the pawnshops, in 
the number of abandoned cars.  However, the gritty atmosphere was the 
same, as were the hollow faces of the prostitutes, the fat girths of 
those playing the unemployment game scam, and the reining Family within 
their haunts.
	The warehouse was a dark, damp place, lit by flickering light strips and 
home to a series of short-lived and often illegal endeavors.  The outside 
of the four story concrete box was largely gray in hue, a few high 
windows along the roof edge intact, and decorated at ground level by the 
colorful scrawlings of lewd graffiti.  Inside was a hollow, echoing area, 
ceiling supported by pillars here and there, rotting boxes and crates 
strewn amid the garbage of vermin and transients.  No drifters or 
homeless were present as far as Thyeo could determine.  He did not care 
about the condition of the building, only that the rent was cheap.
	Through contacts, Thyeo had leased the warehouse for twenty-four days, a 
time which he figured would be more than sufficient to enact his plan.  
He had used his real name in the rent negotiations, and had been 
disappointed none of the Family representatives (Toley Family owned the 
warehouse, of course) recognized a previous employee.  In Thyeo's mind, 
he was important; for the Family, nothing could be further from the 
truth.
	Thyeo climbed from the van and promptly began readjusting the Borgs' 
perimeter fence.  As he did so, he shouted across the echoing space to 
the drones unloading their equipment, "I have a couple of things to do, 
some stuff to pick up, then I'll be back for a nap.  There's power from 
the wall sockets.  Make a list of stuff you need and I'll get it for you 
later.  Oh, yah, I'll probably be receiving a visitor or two tomorrow.  
Detain them, unharmed, for me.  Understand?"
	Drone 1's head was cocked in that odd listening posture as Thyeo asked 
his question.  The mannerism must have something to do with the 
Collective, but since said Collective wasn't here, only two suitably 
restrained drones, Thyeo did not care.  After a moment, Drone 1 replied.
	"We will comply."
	"Good, good.  Now get your junk out of my van because I need to use it."

	Thyeo stayed away from Mother's apartment building and places of work, 
although he was tempted to see her, to tell her he had returned.  Better 
to have everything triumphantly in place first for her to be proud than 
only bits and pieces.  Thyeo instead visited convenience stores and 
pawnshops, the former for food and other day-to-day necessities and the 
latter for a list of relatively minor items.  A small arsenal of guns, a 
sleeping cot, and a camp stove were the main purchases.  More collars 
required driving to the better parts of town to visit pet shops, 
explaining that he was in the fighting dog (Sabeen vs. animal) breeding 
business, and needed them as powerful as possible.  At each place he 
stopped, except the upscale pet shops, he carefully dolled out a bit of 
gossip, an insuation, an implication that he was employed by a non-Family 
agent hoping to enter the local drug monopoly with a new version of the 
old staple Rush.
	The bait was thrown.  It would be only a matter of time before the first 
fish bit.
	Whistling to himself, Thyeo drove the van back to the warehouse.

	"Wake up," ordered a monotone voice with synthetic understones, 
interrupting a perfect dream.  "Wake up.  Your imperfect organic 
regeneration cycle is required to be discontinued.  Wake up."
	Thyeo opened all four eyes, then sat up with a start as a mottled face 
loomed overhead.  Blanket fell away and cot creaked.  Thyeo rapidly 
blinked as he regained awareness of his surroundings, his sleeptime 
vision evaporating into nonrememberance.  "What?" he asked peevishly.  He 
was not a pleasant person to be around immediately upon waking.
	"We have caught an intruder.  25 of 110 restrains the individual."
	"Just a few minutes.  Um...go wait with Sparky.  Look menacing or 
something," replied Thyeo sleepily as he climbed from his cot.  He missed 
the lip curl that momentarily gave expression to the drone's face, an 
expression that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived as a trillion 
strong consciousness reasserted control over the drone's emotional state.  
Instead, he splashed some water on his face from a nearby drinking glass, 
donned some clean(er) clothes, and ran a brush through his short hair.  
He was ready.
	The warehouse was a single open space, but had been partitioned off into 
Thyeo's sleeping/office space by the expedient manner of stacking empty 
crates to provide the illusion of privacy.  Thyeo rounded the temporary 
wall and saw the drones near the van, Sparky restraining a stranger on 
his knees with his arms in a surely uncomfortable position behind his 
back.  A heavy length of pipe, perfect for practicing the art of forceful 
persuasion, lay discarded nearby.
	Thyeo paused, sucked in a breath, composed himself, and continued.  
"Well, well, well," he said, "what have we here?"
	The intruder was the Toley Family enforcer which Thyeo had anticipated.  
Thick neck, wide torso, powerful arms, the man was built and overbuilt 
with muscles.  He had come armed with nothing more than a pipe, which 
meant the purpose of the visit was warning; and he was unarmored.  His 
clothes were serviceable pants and a sleeveless shirt, the latter 
allowing the Toley tattoo to show clearly on bulging biceps:  two black 
triangles overlapping side by side with a lurid red eye in the center of 
the design.  Thyeo had never risen high enough in the organization during 
his youth to warrant a brand to mark him as valued Family property.
	The enforcer struggled to stand, but Sparky had no trouble holding the 
intruder in place.  Drone 1 stood as a statue nearby.  The intruder's 
dark eyes flicked back and forth, settling on Thyeo, although they 
occasionally drifted back to Drone 1.  The significance of the Borg was 
not registering.  A blob of spittle hit the floor, aimed for the space 
directly to the side of Thyeo's left foot.  "I will talk to your boss.  I 
have a message to deliver."
	"Deliver it to me," ordered Thyeo.
	"I don't speak to kids.  I want your boss."
	Thyeo frowned.  True, he was in his late adolescence, the longevity of 
his race meaning true adulthood would not be upon him for several more 
years.  That was the physical body, however.  In mind, he was quite 
adult; and he had never really had the childhood requisite to being a 
child.  He leaned forward and tightly hissed, "I am the boss here.  You 
will give your message to me."
	The enforcer's eyes narrowed.  "Fine.  The message is from the Toley 
Family, who are gracious in warning you the local Rush market belongs 
exclusively to the Family.  Whomever or whatever you represent, you are 
advised to move on."  He paused.  "This is the part where I would give 
you an injury to remember me by to drive home the warning, but I can't, 
can I?"
	Thyeo snorted, then began to darkly laugh.  The enforcer grinned 
slightly, sure with his task complete he would be freed.  His desire was 
swiftly squashed.
	"Oh my," smirked Thyeo as he calmed himself, wiping tears from his eyes, 
"that was a good one.  Of course, there is one little problem with your 
warning as I am not really a Rush distributor.  Sparky, you can have 
him."  His mouth quirked again as he considered the enforcer's joke.
	Sparky's head swiveled to meat the gaze of Drone 1, but otherwise did 
not release her catch.  Drone 1 took several steps forward, coming to 
rest just out of range of the collar's warning shocks.  "Clarify," 
intoned Drone 1.
	Thyeo shrugged.  "I don't need him, at least not as he is right now.  
Oh, wait, just a second."  He quickly walked to the back of the van, 
opened the rear doors, and proceeded to dig through a cardboard box 
therein.  "Extra large, I suppose," he muttered under his breath.
	Thyeo emerged from the van holding a large dog collar decorated with 
ornamental chrome.  He strode to the enforcer and snapped it around his 
neck, thereby activating it, then moved back several paces.  "As I said," 
Thyeo continued, "I don't need him, at least not as he is now.  I do need 
more of you, Drone 1.  Do with him as you will."  The matter was 
dismissed.
	At the pronouncement, Sparky abruptly changed her grip.  Limbs were 
moved from the enforcer's elbows to one arm curling around the skull, 
forcing the head sideways to expose the neck.  The victim, sensing Bad 
Things To Come, tried to stand, tried to buck Sparky off, but was 
unsuccessful.  The drone's opposite hand plunged in towards the neck, 
knuckles leading.  Moments later the Toley enforcer leaned to his side 
and toppled to the ground.  Sparky and Drone 1 each picked up a leg and 
dragged the body away to where they had their equipment and were building 
some Borg contraption Thyeo did not care about.
	The plan had begun.

	The next two days saw the arrival, and disposal, of three more 
enforcers.  The most recent visitation was by a pair armed with EMP 
pistols, but so shocked had they been by the sight of former comrades 
advancing upon them that the weapons had not been used.  All had the same 
build of the original intruder, even the woman, and Thyeo fretted 
somewhat that he had not sufficient extra-large collars in stock should 
the probes continue.
	During the same time period, the Borg side of the warehouse had changed 
significantly.  Borg are the McGyvers of the universe, even if it is an 
ability only possible through the assimilation of thousands of races.  
From parts scavenged from forgotten crates, from several nearby abandoned 
cars Thyeo had graciously expanded the perimeter to include, from EMP 
pistols and a gold watch, from bits and pieces of the warehouse itself 
came the raw material.  Green filters had even been found to give lights 
the appropriate hue.  Thyeo was not sure what they were building, but it 
was impressive, especially the row of upright coffins (converted from 
real coffins stacked in a dusty corner - no occupants) which individual 
drones occasionally entered for what they called a regeneration cycle. 
	"Hey you!" Thyeo called, pointing to the first enforcer which had come 
a'visiting.  He had not bothered to name the new drones.  "Come here!  
Drone 1, you too.  Over here."  'Hey You' stopped pushing a heavy crate 
across the warehouse floor to approach; and Drone 1 abandoned dissection 
of a nonfunctional vehicle anti-gravity unit.  They stopped side by side 
to regard their punitive master.
	Thyeo ignored the cold stares, instead pointing to the ex-enforcer's 
biceps and motioning for Drone 1 to look.  He had unconsciously 
designated 153 of 652 as spokesdrone for the growing group.  The tattoo 
was a sharp contrast against a background of mottled gray skin, a 
colorful beacon.
	"Can it be removed?" Thyeo asked.
	"Yes."
	"I want it cut off, skin and all, as a little square.  I don't care 
about any pain, but I don't want to damage him."
	Drone 1 and Hey You cocked their heads slightly in the manner Thyeo had 
learned to associate with intradrone communication.  Drone 1 finally 
answered, although Hey You had a perfectly functional voice.  "Pain is 
irrelevant.  Damage will be minimal."
	Thyeo waggled his fingers at the tattoo.  "Do it, then.  Now."
	Drone 1 panned the area, eyes alighting upon a nearby crate with a 
monofilament knife balanced on one corner.  He left to retrieve it, 
returning as Hey You locked his joints for the minor operation.  Biceps 
was presented.
	The blade slashed a thin line above the tattoo, followed by a cut to 
either side, then one on the bottom to complete the box.  As blood welled 
out, the edge of the knife was inserted into the first cut, sawing 
roughly through muscle and fat.  The square was loosened and finally 
pulled away, leaving behind a glistening red patch in the arm of Hey You.  
The blood swiftly clotted.
	"Self repair of the drone will require longer time than usual due to 
lack of proper regeneration systems and inability to inject specialty 
nanite suites.  Performance will not be degraded," reported Drone 1 as he 
held both blood coated knife and flap of skin.
	"Great," said Thyeo.  "Put the tattoo over there."  A finger was 
pointed.  "I want the tattoos removed from the other three in a similar 
manner.  I have a little care package to make up."
	Drone 1 eyed Thyeo for a long minute before replying, "We comply."

		*	*	*	*	*

	A faceless shadow regarded an open box in disgust.  The edges of the 
skin squares had already begun to curl and blacken; and the smell wasn't 
exactly perfume.  The meaning of the tattoos sans (most of their) owners 
was quite clear.
	A voice issued from the shadow.  "This little wannabe Rush merchant is 
an annoyance.  How dare he request a meeting with me.  Tell Lucius that 
he'd better clean up his neighborhood before I find someone more worthy 
of the territory."
	Bodies scrambled to relay the message.

		*	*	*	* 	*

	The Borg flock had grown by five, for a total of eleven.  Three had been 
Rush addicts, brave (or desperate) enough to come a'knocking to request 
"free samples" in order to spread the word on the quality of the newest 
Rush supply.  They were now former addicts, conversion to drones ending 
the craving much more efficiently than any ten-step program.  The other 
two were unlucky transients found sleeping in the bed of a broken down 
truck slated for salvage.  Their wake-up call had not been pleasant.
	Thyeo sat in his van, driver's seat reclined, reading a dog-eared novel 
he had discovered stashed under the chair.  Presumably it had belonged to 
the previous van owner; and although mystery in the vein of Jumba the 
Wise Lizard was not Thyeo's favorite read, it helped pass the time.  
Outside the van, drones bustled here and there; and most recently an 
operating table of sorts had appeared in the Borg area.  It was simply a 
slab of metal on crates, but it was more than sufficient for the stomach 
turning surgeries the drones had begun to perform on each other, usually 
consisting of inserting hodge-podged mechanisms into body cavities.
	Ears pricked as Thyeo caught the sound of motorized limbs.  Only the two 
original drones had those particular implants; and only Drone 1 ever 
spoke to Thyeo.  The van's window was rolled down.  
	"What?"
	Drone 1 immediately replied, "We require expansion."
	"I made the perimeter larger," retorted Thyeo, a slight grin of 
enjoyance in the power he held over the Borg.
	"Scrap vehicles are not sufficient.  A robotic manufactory of customized 
sheet-metal products is present five blocks south of here.  The factory 
will be adequate for our needs at this time."
	Thyeo considered.  "I don't remember any sheet-metal place around here.  
And I grew up nearby."
	"It was converted to its present usage three years ago."
	"How do you know this?"
	"The new drones have so informed us.  247 of 8953 has extensive 
knowledge of the immediate area."
	Thyeo waved his hand dismissively.  He neither knew nor cared which one 
247 of 8953 was.  "I'll have to think about it.  There are other 
consid...what?  What's happening?"
	Drone 1 had suddenly snapped to attention, head cocked and eyes staring 
at sights only he could see.  The sound of busy Borg had halted 
throughout the warehouse as all mimicked the alert stance.  Purposeful 
movement abruptly resumed, but it was focused towards the main warehouse 
door.
	"Intruders detected," intoned Drone 1 rigidly.  "Seven individuals, six 
armed with EMP devices and one with a semi-automatic projectile weapon.  
Targets assessed.  Downloading adaptation protocols.  We are now 
partially adapted to EMP devices, but project loss of two units before 
implementation of full adaptation.  Priority placed upon neutralizing 
projectile wielder."
	"Huh?  We're being attacked?  How do you know this?" frantically asked 
Thyeo.  "And EMP rifles are nothing to sneeze at, or ignore, for a simple 
handgun!"
	Answered Drone 1 emotionless, "We emplaced sensors around the exterior 
of this building upon expansion of the perimeter.  We will prevail."  
Drone 1 swiveled and paced towards the other gathering, waiting drones.  
"Resistance is futile."  The latter three words were repeated in unison 
by all drones, although in Sparky's case it was a mouthing rather than a 
speaking.
	Thyeo scrambled out of the van in order to grab seven collars.  He would 
be needing more soon to assure control of his growing empire!
	The gaunt forms of transients and former addicts advanced first, 
followed by beefy enforcers.  Sparky anchored one wing while Drone 1 
moved into place on the opposite side.  The warehouse door remained 
closed, innocent of the Family forces which were gathering outside.  Then 
the door began to ring with the heavy pounding of a fist.
	The main warehouse entrance had been mechanized in the past, an electric 
motor-chain system which ratcheting the door open and closed.  It had not 
worked when Thyeo had first arrived, requiring manual exertion; and until 
yesterday had continued to be quite nonfunctional.  No more the case.  
Evidently the Borg had found time and parts to fix the door, not to 
mention cleaning and oiling away squeaks in the rails.  At an unseen 
trigger, the door smoothly, silently slid aside.
	The following tactics were very straightforward.
	The Toley Family, any Family, had access to military-grade armaments.  
In fact, several Families were in the business of developing and selling 
arms to the military, not to mention mercenaries, police departments, 
other Families, paranoid individuals, or whomever could pay the credits.  
The six EMP rifle toting enforcers were an army unto themselves, heavy 
flak suits with insulating properties able to withstand most projectile 
and electromagnetic-based personal weaponry.  The smaller individual 
behind the row of enforcers wore a much lighter set of armor and held a 
more powerful version of Thyeo's favorite handgun.  All sported bug-eyed 
helmets which obscured heads above the nose, but if the dropping of jaws 
was an indication, they had not been expecting major resistance, much 
less Borg.
	Thyeo stifled a dark laugh, settling for a chuckle.
	The Borg said not a word as they advanced in unison, no battle cry, no 
verbal order.  They simply stepped forward, a lethal line which ignored 
battle casualties as first one of the front row, then a second, toppled 
to the ground, victims of EMP rifle pulses.  Those two, however, were the 
last as an odd shimmering flickered in and out of view with each direct 
hit.  Drones reached the line of six back peddling enforcers, who each 
fell limp to the ground as it was discovered that flak suits were not 
Borg resistant; and then there was only one.
	"Get him alive!" shouted Thyeo, bold as he found his Borg infantry 
victorious.
	For the him in question, the man had found his gun to have jammed at the 
most inopportune of times.  He dropped the useless weapon and tried to 
flee, a firm believer in the ancient Sabeen adage about running away to 
live to fight another day...preferably with a force of suitably loyal (or 
bribed) followers in order to pound the enemy into the pavement.  
Unfortunately, everywhere he turned was a Borg, and shortly he found 
himself being dragged towards a faded blue van which was more rust than 
metal.
	Thyeo, hands full of collars, cheerfully snapped each restraint device 
around the neck of the new additions to his army, rightfully distrusting 
that the Borg would so shackle their new comrades.  Soon, by his 
estimation, he would not be able to give each drone a personal welcome, 
not to mention the strain on the local dog collar supply, but those 
problems could be dealt with as necessary.  For now he had a prisoner to 
attend.
	The man, unassimilated as of yet, hung limply between an ex-enforcer and 
Drone 1.  He peered up as he heard Thyeo's arrival, no hint of 
recognition in his eyes for a former employee.  Of course, Boss Lucius 
was well above a lowly Family courier, uncaring of the fates which befell 
the young lads and lasses desperate for money, notoriety, and the 
adrenaline rush of risk.  On the other hand, Thyeo well recognized the 
Toley neighborhood boss.
	Thyeo attached the final collar to the man's neck, then stepped back 
with a wide grin.  "Lucius!" he exclaimed.  "Long time, no see!  How'd a 
pimple like you go from my handler to a tinyboss, anyway?  I assume you 
are a tinyboss, what with all your fancy decorations and the muscle which 
didn't work."  Thyeo had slipped into street slang whereupon "handler" 
was the label of the person who ordered and paid the loteurs; a 
"tinyboss" was the neighborhood head honcho, responsible for Family 
assets in a certain area; and a "pimple" was a rude word because, for 
whatever reason, the Sabeen race regarded acne-related language as 
impolite (which made dermatology a highly controversial occupation).  The 
drones were told to let their captive go, but remain ready to reacquire 
him.
	Lucius fell to the ground in a heap, then warily regained his feet.  He 
was small, as Sabeens went, a head shorter than Thyeo; and there was a 
distinct weasel cast to his features.  Lucius was blind in one of his 
four eyes, the result of a clash in his youth between Families.  As a 
handler he had kept the empty socket covered with a plain eyepatch, 
disdaining a cloned replant because of the pleasure he received revolting 
couriers when he "forgot" to wear the covering.  Now, the patch was a 
complex abstract artwork of silver and gold with ruby inclusions.  A 
matching necklace encircled his neck; and there were ruby studs piercing 
his ears.  For the assault he had worn a flak jacket and heavy pants.  
The helmet was gone, appropriated by the Borg to add to their technology 
stockpile.
	"Who are you?" snarled Lucious, unsuccessfully ignoring his guards as he 
unsteadily stood.  "And /what/ are these /things/?  Secret military 
program rejects?  They could use a better personality.  What Family or 
entity do you represent?  And what is this thing around my neck?"
	Thyeo turned his back on his unwilling guest.  "Full of questions, 
aren't you?" he responded conversationally.  "My name is Thyeo del 
Frantz.  I represent myself.  Around your neck is a dog collar:  note 
everyone but me has one.  Finally, those things are my army to wipe the 
Toley Family from Sabeen.  They are my tame Borg.  It's funny the things 
one can find abandoned in the desert."
	"Thyeo...Thyeo...Thyeo....  The name doesn't ring a bell.  Wait a 
minute...weren't you a loteur that got sent to jail on a drug charge?  
What're you doing out?  I've not heard of any prison breaks."  The 
revelation of Borg had not quite registered yet.
	Enjoying himself, Thyeo turned to face his ex-boss.  "Jail to work 
program due to the fighting happening with the Borg in space, that's why 
I was released.  And, yes, I was the lad the Family abandoned for 
politics.  They could have stopped the sentencing, did so much besides 
letting me rot.  The Family is going to pay."  Thyeo's voice hardened.	
	"Hey," protested Lucius, "it wasn't my decision.  It was business.  How 
about you let me go.  I'll take up your case with the bigboss, see if you 
have any reparations due.  Who knows, maybe you can be a tinyboss 
yourself."  Pause.  A mental light was coming on.  "Borg?  Did you say 
Borg?  Head turned one way, then the other, to stare at the dispassionate 
expressions of the flanking guards.
	Thyeo shook his head.  "No.  I'm more than a tinyboss here:  I am 
absolute dictator.  I need a message sent to the bigboss, one which the 
tattoos didn't quite get the point across.  You will do nicely."  
Attention was set upon Drone 1.  "Take him, assimilate him, whatever it 
is called.  Don't do too much to him afterwards, though, because he will 
be sent as a courier with a very special message.  Understand?"
	"We comply," said Drone 1 and enforcer together as they closed in upon a 
blubbering, cowering Lucius.

		*	*	*	*	*

	There was a black hole on the surface of the colony known as Sabeen 
Minor, and it was worrying certain people.  Not astronomers, for they 
were interested in stellar phenomenon.  For the Toley Family, however, it 
seemed as if a singularity had indeed landed in a specific Quility 
neighborhood, one which sucked in all personal assets thrown into it; and 
one which even the citizens were talking about, for non-Toley individuals 
who wandered too near were disappearing.  Worse of all, the black hole, 
just like its astrometrical counterpart, was growing.
	The Voice in the shadow, the Toley Family bigboss, sat before a bank of 
monitors.  Their light chased away the mysterious and revealed an 
anonymous face which could be (and had often been) lost in a crowd.  
Still, it was a Voice to be reckoned with, shadows or no.
	The bigboss swiveled his chair away from the monitors in disgust, 
robotic spies as unable to enter the black hole as were living resources.  
Those outside the zone of electromagnetic interference were too far to 
discern vital details such as number of invaders.  Voice eyed the object 
on a silver platter which took center stage of the desk of the security 
expert who usually watched the screens.
	"Your way obviously didn't work, now did it?"
	The Borgified head of tinyboss Lucius, very dead with back side of the 
skull messily blown off, as if severance from body was not enough, did 
not respond.
	"Perhaps we should tell the military?" carefully suggested an adjunct, 
an aide to the Voice.  "They might have some insights on the matter since 
they have been fighting the Borg for twenty years."
	"Using hardware produced by this and other Families!" yelled Voice as he 
stood, hand thumping on the desk next to the platter.  The head leered.  
"No.  The military will want to nuke the area.  Those buildings are part 
of my assets, my territory, and I will not have it turned into a 
radioactive fall-out zone.  Besides, what would the other Families think 
should we turn to the military for help?  Toley would be as good as dead 
once the Borg were eradicated, the other Families moving in to kill us as 
weak.  Anyway, vaporization would mean I couldn't have the head of Thyeo 
del Frantz to add to my new collection."
	Murmurs of assent came from the questioning aide, and two others 
besides.
	Two eyes were cocked at the offending adjunct.  "Good enough for you?  
You could be on the front lines next, personally verifying my orders are 
carried out if you still find fault."
	The aide rapidly waved his hands in a negative, declining the offer.
	The Voice laughed

		*	*	*	*	*

	Thyeo's Borg empire was growing.  Where only days ago he had been the 
proud owner of a half-dead van, a cot, and a camp stove, he now had a 
luxury car (plus half a dozen other  vehicles besides) and a myriad of 
furniture.  One portion of the warehouse looked like the suites of an 
overenthusiastic designer for the rich and famous with bad taste, while 
the other part was a Borg zone of machinery cobbled together from 
miscellaneous parts which bore no resemblance to their origins.
	Expansion occurred under the cover of night.  Dark was no obstacle to 
drones, who would disconnect the electricity from the area to be invaded 
during a nocturnal sortie.  Although it was an open secret who and what 
was controlling the territory, no official response was forthcoming, 
military and government apparently in denial about the invasion.  
Therefore, every evening simple wooden barriers would be moved a block or 
two, barriers which indicated the edge of Borg influence; and every 
evening those buildings behind the barriers had their populations added 
to the Borg force and their contents appropriated for Hive and Thyeo's 
comfort.  Light industry and active warehouses were of most interest, but 
apartments had also been victims.
	The citizens of the area, well trained through generations of being in 
the territory of one Family or another, turned their heads to ignored the 
nocturnal happenings and did not walk beyond the barriers.  Despite 
evidence to the contrary, rationalization placed it as the latest in 
ongoing Family disputes.  As said, the average citizen was well trained.
	Thyeo found part of the answer to his collar dilemma in one Toley 
warehouse.  The building's inventory had included several crates of 
spyders, with a central computer controller.  Spyders were robots, body 
fist- to head-sized, depending on model, with twelve dexterous uniflex 
legs that doubled as manipulatory limbs.  Their purpose was to serve an 
unobtrusive, yet visible, guards within captive populations such as 
prisons or work camps.  Thyeo remembered them from prison, remembered 
wanting to kick one of the little things, except to do so would bring 
large Sabeen guards with stun sticks, blunt instruments, and no humor.
	The spyders were programmed to constantly watch the drones, focusing 
primarily on the presence of neck collars.  Collarless drones, such as 
those newly assimilated, the spyders remedied, agilely attaching the 
restraints.  Through linkage with the collar transmitter system, any 
attempts to hamper or compromise the spyders led to shocks for all 
drones.  When Thyeo explained this little innovation to Drone 1, the look 
he received in response could not exactly be called a glare (the drone's 
expression had not changed), but neither could it be labeled 
unconditional acceptance of the situation.  Still, the as Borg expanded, 
spyders followed behind.
	And the collar supply, the other part of the conundrum?  Thyeo simply 
robbed every pet store he could find, their local distributors, as well 
as kennels; and later when that proved insufficient, began stealing 
collars from pets.
	"No," said Thyeo as he reviewed the night's planned expansion, a holomap 
of the area spread on the warehouse floor.  Miniature buildings rose from 
the concrete, with the Borg sector highlighted a pale green.  
Approximately twenty buildings just beyond the perimeter were targeted in 
yellow.
	"Clarify objection," ordered Drone 1.  Borg expansion could not proceed 
until Thyeo emplaced new transmitters to allow collared drones access to 
the desired areas.
	Thyeo paced back and forth in agitation, then strode into the map, 
wading through ghostly buildings.  He pointed at a residential high-rise, 
a very familiar residential high-rise.  "Are those people absolutely 
necessary?  I don't care about anything else, but I don't want this place 
touched."
	"We require more drones to increase our efficiency.  The residence is 
estimated to hold 459 usable individuals."
	"No, damnit!" shouted Thyeo.  "That's where I grew up!  That is where my 
mother is!  I will not have you assimilate my mother!  I'm doing this all 
for her, and I just won't allow it!  Expand anywhere you want, but not 
there!"  He angrily stomped away.
	Drone 1's eyes followed the retreating back, head slightly cocked, face 
as expressionless as always.  On the holomap, the disputed building 
flickered as the yellow was substituted for a neutral color.

	Except for a certain residential high-rise and a modern office park 
which bore a strong resemblance to bunkers designed to withstand 
attacking hordes, the Toley sector of Quility was completely engulfed.  
In a city of 20 million, the number of citizens affected only approached 
10,000; and the size of the territory, although nearly 16 square 
kilometers, was primarily comprised of warehouses and automated 
industries, a mere postage stamp in comparison to the overall Quility 
sprawl.  Toley had greater presence in other parts of the world, not to 
mention the home planet, but in the Sabeen Minor capital city, all 
Families were represented, with many, like Toley, having headquarters 
facilities.
	Borg moved openly in daylight on the streets, the occasional spyder 
skittering underfoot.  None were present to challenge the drones in what 
Thyeo now considered to be /his/ territory.  It was unsettling to 
recognize a drone as someone from his youth - a pawnshop manager, a 
childhood acquatance, a Snuff dealer - but he quickly learned that if he 
regarded them as things, as pale organic automatons, he could disregard 
familiar faces.  Thyeo ignored two such Borg as he walked with Drone 1, 
heading in the direction of the office park.
	"Update," ordered Thyeo as he paused to adjust the flak jacket he wore.  
It pinched slightly around the middle and he made a mental note to check 
the armor pile later for one which was more comfortable.	
	Drone 1 took a pace before stopping.  He waited for Thyeo to settle the 
jacket and catch up before responding.  "We have breached the outer walls 
of the compound.  The targets are using projectile weapons.  We have no 
suitable tactical units with appropriate exoskeletal armoring, but 
casualties are acceptable.  The perimeter defenses are overwhelmed and we 
move into the heart of the complex."
	"I wish I could see what was happening," bemoaned Thyeo.
	"That could be arranged," said Drone 1.
	"No, no, no, no assimilating me," firmly retorted Thyeo, the subject of 
conversation familiar, "and I don't like the helmet idea, neither.  You 
ain't sticking some interface in my head so I can see what you see on one 
of the helmets.  I will not be touched by your surgeries.  Understand?"
	Assured Drone 1, "We understand."  The remainder of the walk passed in 
silence except for the occasional assault bulletin.
	The office complex was reached.  The squat buildings, none more than two 
stories high, had once sat in the middle of sand gardens and carefully 
manicured bushes.  The current scene was reminiscent of a warzone, white 
stone of complex stained with splashes of red and black, sand patterns 
trampled by heavy feet, delicate vegetation burned or uprooted.  Dead and 
disabled Borg lay where they had fallen, a small contingent of drones 
visiting each body, sometimes to drag away an injured party for repair, 
and sometimes to begin the scavenging process...not always on comrades 
who were completely deceased.  A larger number of noncombatants were 
leading the newly assimilated away, the latter sporting the dazed 
expressions Thyeo had come to recognize over the last fourteen-day (was 
it really only fourteen days since he had returned to Quility?).  Agile 
spyders climbed the stumbling neo-drones, efficiently snapping collars 
around each neck.  Drone 1 took the lead, stepping over the body of a 
Borg missing half her head, heading unerringly towards an entrance with 
sliding glass doors twisted from their railings.  Thyeo glanced at the 
body, slowed, then hurried to catch up.
	"Update," called Thyeo as he passed through the doors, striding gingerly 
over shattered glass and various body fluids.  The carnage inside was not 
necessarily worse than that outside, but it was more concentrated.  The 
open inner foyer had a mezzanine balcony upon which several machine gun 
emplacements had been located.  Drones as they entered had been mowed 
down, only overcoming the defense through sheer numbers.  
This...mess...was acceptable casualties?  Thyeo shuddered, turned his 
mind to demanding everything cleaned before he dared bring his mother to 
the compound and show her his new seat of power.
	Drone 1 laid his hand upon the elevator console.  Thyeo saw not what 
happened since the Borg's body was in the way, but the doors opened when 
the elevator arrived much more expediently than normal.  The absolutely 
unblemished interior of the car was sharp contrast to the battle zone 
outside.  Drone 1 entered the elevator before answering.
	"We have secured the upper levels.  All lower levels are now secured 
except for one room.  We have encountered a difficulty that requires your 
attention."
	Thyeo stepped into the car, eyeing the console and seeing that the panel 
included four subterriarian levels in addition to what could be seen 
above ground.  "My attention?  What am I to do?" he asked in confusion as 
Drone 1 again put his hand against the row of buttons.  This time Thyeo 
saw thin tubes emerge from the back of the drone's hand and burrow into 
the machinery.  The elevator smoothly descended.  "I can't exactly walk 
into the middle of a gun battle."
	The elevator stopped at the lowermost floor.  Drone 1 withdrew his head 
then turned to stare with the eyes of trillions at Thyeo.  "No conflict.  
Your presence is demanded.  Follow."
	"Demanded?  You can't demand me!  I own you all!" protested Thyeo
	Drone 1 silently watched Thyeo, only returning attention to the 
Borg-strewn hallway when the Sabeen had involuntarily taken a step back.  
"We do not demand you.  The Toley bigboss demands you.  If he does not 
see you, he will kill your maternal biological parent.  We would 
assimilate them both, except for the orders concerning your mother.  We 
cannot attack without damage to her, either inflicted by us or the Toley 
bigboss.  Therefore, you must follow."
	Thyeo's eyes widened, "My mother?  Here?  Go, then, hurry!"
	The doorway to the room was clear, Borg standing in silent rows so as 
not to trigger their collars through inadvertent moves in Thyeo's 
direction.  Inside had once been a security hub, one wall a bank of 
monitors, half of which continued to reflect scenes of drones throughout 
the compound.  Also present were consoles of computer displays and 
keyboards; and a desk overloaded with paperwork and electronic pads, 
topped by a silver platter upon which sat a blackened head sporting a 
fancy eyepatch.  Drones lined the walls, eyes focused upon two Sabeen 
near the monitors - a blindfolded woman tied to a chair and a man 
standing behind her, gun held threateningly to her head.
	The man did not have the stature Thyeo had mentally associated with 
being a bigboss.  If seen in the streets, assuming he was noticed at all, 
Thyeo would have labeled him "accountant" at best, not one of the most 
powerful men in Quility, in the world.  The gun he held with practiced 
ease did mark him as more than mere number pusher, a gun which was aimed 
at the ear of a haggard middle-aged woman Thyeo knew to be his mother.
	"Ah," said the bigboss in a Voice which did not fit the body, which 
added size to the small man, "so the" deliberate pause "boy has arrived.  
Thyeo del Frantz, is it?  Definitely an ambitious lad, aren't you?  Well, 
if you really want to be a bigboss, the first rule is to secure any 
assets which tie to you.  One way or another, they must be secure."  The 
tone suggested the bigboss had secured his assets in a rather terminal 
way, a Family tradition.
	"Bigboss Toley!" exclaimed Thyeo.  "Let my mother go!  You cannot win.  
I have an army you cannot beat.  None can beat it!"
	Toley sniffed disdainfully.  "Yes, your tamed Borg.  The military will 
deal with them soon enough.  I thought I could kill 'em off, but I 
obviously underestimated them.  With the headquarters down, Toley Family 
is all but dead - already my assets in other cities are being attacked by 
rivals - so there is no loss in informing the military about your 
Achilles heel.  Yes, little wannabe bigboss, I know how you control your 
Borg.  In fact, I have a transmitter ward on me, as undoubtedly do you.  
If I had enough time, perhaps I could have even figured out how to 
disable yours and thus assume control of your army, adding your head to 
my collection afterwards, of course.  Alas, it is not to be.  At this 
point, I will settle with my life.  Ready to hear my demands, boy?"
	"Thyeo, is that you?  I told you not to come to the city, son.  You were 
better off at that country factory," whispered the woman.  She quieted as 
the gun was pointedly set against her temple.
	Thyeo's eyes flickered to his mother, then back to Toley.  He nodded.  
He did not notice the slightly cocked heads of the Borg present as the 
Collective determined a course of action more fitting to further its own 
ambitions.	
	"My demands are simple," said Toley.  "First, and foremost, I will be 
escorted from here.  The transmitter may work on your friends, but your 
mother is warding against any foolish moves on your part.  Trust me, I 
can and will kill her before you can do anything.
	"I will be escorted to the edge of your controlled territory.  You can 
play bigboss all you like here with your Borg slaves, but I want out.  At 
the edge, I will have a vehicle waiting, type doesn't matter as long as 
it is in good condition and fully energized.  At that point, myself, the 
woman, you, and perhaps a Borg buddy, will all go for a short ride.  When 
I feel secure, I will leave the vehicle.  You can have your mother and 
little empire; and I will have my life.  Does this work for you?"  The 
question was rhetorical.
	Thyeo stood uncertain, confronted as he was by the demanding Voice.  He 
didn't like the arrangements, but what did he have to counteroffer?  In 
desperation, he glanced at Drone 1.  The Borg raised a hand and beckoned 
to the hallway outside the room.  Thyeo nodded, then told Toley, "I need 
to consult."
	"Take your time, boy, just don't take too long."
	In the hallway Thyeo noticed Sparky had joined the silently waiting Borg 
crowd.  He dismissed her presence, centering attention on Drone 1.  
"Well?  You have something to say?"
	"We have determined a course of action likely to succeed with 95.3% 
probability," began Drone 1 without preamble.  "However, six units must 
be able to approach the male target.  We cannot do such at this time due 
to the transmitter.  Collars must be removed from six units."
	"What about me and my mother?"
	"Both will remain unassimilated while the units are uncollared.  Borg do 
not lie.  Untruths are a trait of small beings.  Borg are not small 
beings."
	"And the collars will go back on afterwards?"
	"Yes.  You will allow the target to exit the room.  He will be seized 
from behind and to the sides by uncollared units.  Success is highly 
probable.  Collars will be reattached afterwards," assured Drone 1.
	Thyeo gulped, feeling the pressure.  "Well, um, okay, if that is the 
only way.  Which units, then?"
	Five drones stepped forward, Sparky among them, to join Drone 1.  "These 
six units are suitable."
	Thyeo nodded, then proceeded to press his thumb against each of the 
collar's DNA locks.  The restraints fell away.  Seeing no spyder 
immediately available, the collars were handed to a drone with 
conveniently outstretched arm.  Thyeo returned to the room, alone, hoping 
his nervousness was not too apparent.
	"Made your decision?" asked Toley smugly, a slight smile playing on his 
lips.
	"I...I have no choice," stuttered Thyeo.  "The arrangements are made."
	"Instant communication, I like it.  That is one good thing abut a tamed 
Borg army, I suppose."  Toley untied Thyeo's mother from the chair and 
forced her to stand.  "Proceed ahead or behind, whatever you desire."
	"I'll be...ahead."
	"Brave boy.  You give me the chance to shoot you when you proceed ahead.  
On the other hand, you also tell me that I am beneath you when you are in 
front, that you consider my threats below you.  Maybe you are bigboss 
material after all, assuming you don't end up a Borg, that is.  You are 
playing with fire, lad."  Toley smirked again, allowing Thyeo to exit the 
room first.
	Only a few short paces had Thyeo gone when he heard an abruptly cut 
swear word behind him.  He turned in time to see Toley go limp in the 
clutches of half a dozen drones, gun clattering to the ground.  
Overjoyed, he ran to his mother, swinging her out of the way in a bear 
hug.
	Missed were the spyders as they came clicking down the hallway, only now 
allowed access to the lowest level of the complex.  Also missed were the 
collars the drone gave to the spyders, collars with a few small 
additions, but otherwise the same ones removed from the six assault 
units.  The spyders took the collars, adroitly climbing the appropriate 
drones to reattach the restraints.

	Thyeo proudly leaned back in /his/ comfortable chair behind /his/ exotic 
hardwood desk, both located in the master office of /his/ Family 
compound.  Once it had been Toley, but, in his mind, the phrase "Frantz 
Family" rolled off the tongue oh-so-smoothly.  Thyeo closed his eyes and 
smiled, sure he was among the youngest Family bigboss historically 
recorded.
	"Son," interrupted Mother's voice into a fantasy of Frantz Family world 
domination, "are these Borg creatures really necessary?  I swear I saw 
one that looked like my neighbor.  They scare me.  I am perfectly capable 
of cleaning, you know.  Let me do it, or perhaps I can hire some good 
help.  Non-Borg help."
	Thyeo sat forward in his chair, a long sigh crossing his lips.  "You 
have a warding transmitter, Mother.  You are perfectly safe.  Don't worry 
about the Borg, neither.  Once the territory is consolidated I will be 
looking for nonassimilated employees.  The army is big enough anyway, and 
I plan to put an end to the assimilation."
	"The cleaning, though," prompted Mother.  She fidgeted on the cushy 
couch which faced the desk.
	"I told you, Mother," patiently explained Thyeo, just the slightest hint 
of annoyance in his tone, "that I don't want you to work any more.  You 
have worked enough and deserve a rest.  Take up a hobby, travel, do 
something, but don't work.  The drones are cleaning up the mess they 
made.  In a day or so the compound will be as it was before my little 
invasion force came a'knocking."
	Mother opened her mouth as if to protest further, then closed it as the 
office door swung inward.  A Borg entered - Drone 1 - followed by a 
number of other drones.  There were eight in all, including Sparky.  
Thyeo narrowed all four eyes as he regarded the intrusion.
	"If you needed to talk to me, I have a perfectly good comm panel," said 
Thyeo in irritation as he waved one hand at a screen built into the desk.  
"I want this to be a Borg-free zone.  What brings you down here, anyway?"
	Drone 1 crossed the room to the desk, limb servos audible.  Meanwhile, 
four drones arrayed themselves behind the couch, much to the dismay of 
Thyeo's mother, while the other three flanked the desk.
	"What?" asked Thyeo again.  "Don't make me shock you all."
	In response, Drone 1 reached to his collar and removed it.  The DNA 
lock, which should have prevented the action, was clearly nonfunctional.  
Thyeo's eyes widened as he fumbled the transmitter from a pocket and 
pressed the button on it.  Nothing.  As one, the other seven drones also 
detatched their restraints.  Seven collars fell to the floor, the eighth 
carefully set on the desk by Drone 1.
	"Original estimation of probability for successful course of action was 
95.3%.  Revised estimate is 99.8%, approaching absolute certainty," 
intoned Drone 1 levelly.
	Thyeo stood from his chair, eyes darting from one drone to the next, 
then to the scared visage of his mother, and finally to Drone 1.  "You 
have to do what I tell you to!  I'm the only reason you survived out in 
the hills!  You gotta repay me for that!"
	"Gratitude is irrelevant.  We will not comply," tonelessly replied Drone 
1.
	The button was attempted again, with the same nothing response.  
"Impossible!  Why isn't it working!?"
	"The six units decollared were restrained with modified equipment.  The 
DNA lock was broken, which in turn allowed freedom of movement for those 
six units.  We have subsequently been able to begin the process of 
breaking locks on noncompromised units, as well as disrupting the 
transmitters and converting the spyders for our use.  Your use as an 
unassimilated being is at an end.  We have sufficient numbers and 
resources to allow the assimilation of this world; and we are thus 
beginning.  Within three months it is estimated this planet will be part 
of the Collective; by six months, your homeworld will be assimilated; and 
in eight months, no species #7200 will exist outside the Greater 
Consciousness.  You will add your distinctiveness to our own.  Resistance 
is futile."  The final words were uttered in unison by the eight drones.
	"Run, Mother!" shouted Thyeo as he tried to dodge around the 
outstretched arms of the drones flanking his desk.  He was almost 
successfully except for the aborted call for help from the couch.  
Reflexively, Thyeo glanced towards his mother - despite his ambitions, he 
was not bigboss material when it came to severing ties with beloved 
assets - and was rewarded with a hand grasping the back of his shirt.  He 
spun around into Sparky's iron grip.
	As his head was forced sideways to expose his neck, Thyeo involuntarily 
whimpered.  Struggle was useless.  Drone 1's visage swam into view as 
Thyeo began to wonder why the deed he had witnessed so often from the 
third point of view was delayed.
	Thyeo had been given a second chance at life with his release from 
prison, a second chance to start clean.  A second chance is a precious 
thing, a wiping of the slate, and it is the rare person who receives 
such.  Instead, he had squandered that second chance by pursuing a 
personal vendetta, an old obsession, dredging up the past, a past which 
had more or less forgotten his existence.  Thyeo's mother had recognized 
the chance for what it was, but her wise counsel to not return to the 
city had went unheeded.  Now, the whole of the Sabeen race was to pay; 
and if second chances are scarce, third chances are even rarer.  Thyeo 
was about to receive a third chance at life...an involuntary third chance 
for a life many in the universe considered not life at all.
	Drone 1 reached a hand forward, aiming for Thyeo's neck.  The reflection 
of trillions were in the drone's eyes, but 153 of 652 was also there...an 
153 of 652 who resented his (her) treatment by Thyeo.  To bad revenge was 
irrelevant; too bad Thyeo was declared excellent drone material by the 
Collective.   "Resistance is futile.  You will be assimilated."
	"Get it over with then," said Thyeo, suddenly defiant.  "Get it over 
with, you pimple.  I don't have all day."  And then there was nothing, 
something, everything.