Tis the sweetest of elixirs, absinth Star Trek, distilled by Paramount. Hankering for a well-aged Star Traks? Look no further than the winery Decker. Then there is BorgSpace lite, brewed by Meneks.

Going on a (Gender) Bender

"Bastard!" echoed from the midsection of the alcove tiers situated in central shaft #1, subsection 14, submatrix 14, followed by the distinct sound of fist thumping against metal. It was not the first time for such an occurrence, and it was highly unlikely to be the last.

Assimilation, unaware that she had added to the dent on the inside right wall of her alcove, was highly annoyed: she had been kicked out of Blood Allegiance Online, just as she had been about to dispatch her opponent and, thusly, advance in the rankings.

Not that she could protest the dropped connection, given she was not supposed to be linked to GalacNet (or any) gaming sites. Surfing the interstellar network was not Borg, after all.

Nonetheless, it was infuriating. Assimilation had surreptitious labored nearly eight cycles to create the connection which had allowed her to attend the Blood Allegiance Online megachallenge free-for-all. She had carefully inserted datathreads through existing Borg communication nodes that spied upon the GalacNet, building a huge library of innocuous queries within which to hide her actual activities. The effort had worked, allowing access to the electronic jungle beyond the Collective firewall. There had been an unavoidable lag, but Assimilation's Borg hardware had compensated, allowing her to advance to the final rounds.

And now...now her Blood Allegiance Online avatar was surely bleeding out of its virtual blood, assuming it was even in one piece. Netdead bodies were a favorite decapitation target by those looking for the easy kill.

As there was no way to salvage her megachallenge ranking - the free-for-all only allowed a single death - Assimilation turned towards determining the cause of the disrupted connection. Her personal dataspace was as she had left it, except for a single bundle of code pinging for attention. It was a notification from the computer, a priority label woven into the virtual ribbons tied around the package. Assimilation mentally frowned: she had deliberately turned off her message announcement subroutine for the duration of Blood Allegiance Online.

Assimilation selected the message, if only to shut off the cheery {You have mail!} chirp by the computer. She knew the communique had been purposefully sent to sever her GalacNet connection. Somewhere upon Cube #238, a fellow comrade of the imperfect sort was mentally snickering at their achievement, self-satisfied that their code had short-circuited Assimilation's mail block. Well, the header would tell her which drone sent the data package; and even if it had been wiped, there were surely digital fingerprints within the code to provide her a clue.

Unfortunately, as Assimilation quickly found out, the message was nothing so nefarious. In fact, its arrival appeared to have been entirely consequential; and nothing Assimilation might had attempted would have blocked its arrival. Her mail was a nonvital, routine notification by the Greater Consciousness to all assimilation specialized drones.

Assimilation groaned...she had been kicked out of her Blood Allegiance Online session for this? The content was simply a pointer to central files for assimilation drones to download the newest updates in assimilation techniques, nanite formulations, and so forth. Then, as she dutifully absorbed the message - not that she could forestall the process once the memo had been accessed - she was informed of a postscript, one directed specifically towards the assimilation hierarchy of Cube #238.

Newly encountered, species #13982 had presented a particular conundrum in regards to assimilation. Among other considerations, an unusually robust immune system had required the development of a new nanite configuration. While an individual could be assimilated using the standard formulation, the process required days to weeks to complete the process, not the normal minutes. Additionally, there were atypical post-assimilation surgical requirements, particularly respecting the poison delivery system embedded in finger talons.

At its next port, Cube #238 was to pick up six species #13982 individuals being held under hibernation. The task assigned within the message postscript was for the assimilation hierarchy upon the Lugger-class to demonstrate nanite configuration and post-processing data had been absorbed correctly. In other words, Assimilation and her hierarchy had been given a practicum. Success would see six new drones ensconced in deep stasis off-loaded, along with hierarchy meme records, at a later port for final evaluation. It was rare, but not unheard of, for the Whole to demand its imperfect sub-collective to prove a semblance of competency regarding species with nonstandard assimilation requirements. Cube #238 may never encounter species #13982, but if it did, and if the Whole had no other options to pursue, then the assimilation hierarchy would (hopefully) be able to perform its job in a more or less proficient manner.

At the worst, Cube #238 would fail its assignment. The loss (i.e., termination) of six species #13982 individuals was unimportant in the bigger picture of Collective scheming; and it was not unknown for imperfect sub-collectives over the megaCycles to fail when given assimilative practicums.

Blood Allegiance Online rankings regulated to insignificance (for now), Assimilation was suddenly filled with a sense of anticipation. True, the feeling was being channeled through her hierarchy as other drones read their memo from the Greater Consciousness, but the source was irrelevant. All which was important was that the Whole was calling upon the assimilation hierarchy of imperfect Lugger-class Cube #238 to undertake its fundamental reason for existence. The tool was to fulfill its purpose!

Assimilation was pinged by Prime.

{I/we have just received a cargo manifest change,} rumbled the primary consensus monitor and facilitator while simultaneously providing the appropriate data thread. {Changes to the list of items we are scheduled to transport occur with regularity, but to on-load live, if unconscious, unassimilated sentients is highly unusual. Even more so when the notation is that we, and assimilation hierarchy specifically, are to take delivery. Enlighten us.}

Assimilation gathered together her hierarchy and began to issue the necessary directives. So much to do! Assimilation Workshop #6 required preparation, the new formulation needed to be downloaded, drones checked to ensure proper secretion and sequestering of the updated nanite suite, and so forth down the checklist. Assimilation hierarchy - all fifty units - disengaged from their respective alcoves to eagerly began making arrangements to receive guests.

{Enlightenment?} Naturally, the Whole had felt no reason supply non-assimilation units of Cube #238 with copies of the memo. All were (theoretically) a single mind, after all; and to provide information to one was to provide information to all. Therefore, it was time to update the rest of the sub-collective of assimilation hierarchy's special assignment. Began Assimilation in response to the query, {Compliance. At timestamp 52450.13, a communique was dispatched Collective-wide, with a target audience of assimilatory units. Upon opening the message...}

*****

The assimilation process begins with nanomachines, of which five types are manufactured within the bodies of all Borg units. Hybrids of DNA, protein scaffolding, and metal lattice, complete with minute grasping legs, the nanites work in concert to create a new drone.

Following injection into a victim by nanotubules, the 1' nanites immediately home in upon key components of the circulatory system. Red and white blood cell analogues are attacked. With control of the oxygen-carrying element of the blood, a temporary anemia is induced, thereby pacifying the victim. Simultaneous inhibition of the immune system prevents the body from assailing the foreign particles flooding it.

Meanwhile, the 2' nanites find and inject their payload into cells programmed for fast division, usually epidermal and gastronomical in nature, as well as the hematopoietic stem cells which were the base of all blood/immune system components. The payload - artificial chromosomes - swiftly take over the cells and convert them to manufacturing all nanite types. A side-effect of the process is the epidermal conversion to mottled gray skin, lack of ability to digest food, and an immune system that requires artificial support to function.

The final primary player in the assault is the 3' nanoprobe. Targeting cells of a neurological function, its task is to build the organic transceiver through which the Collective would make initial contact with its drone, as well as begin construction of other deep-cranial implants. The linking of mind with Greater Consciousness is the most critical step in codifying the hold of the Whole upon its new drone. The faster such occurs, the less time available to enact an effective resistance.

Of the 4' and 5' nanites, both play an important role, but neither are strictly required in the first minutes of the assimilation process. The 4' nanoprobes complete the subject's conversion, focusing upon the transition of non-neurological cells to 'Borg-normal' and building the early body implants and ports required by the new drone. The eruption of implants upon the skin is a visual sign of the 4' nanite's deeds. The 5' nanites, on the other hand, eventually become numerically dominate, a jack-of-all-trades maintaining the Borg body, healing it from injury, rebuilding damaged implants, and functioning as an artificial immune system. They had other roles beyond personal maintenance, but such is their primary function when placed within a Borg drone.

All Borg have the fundamental ability to generate more drones. Theoretically, a unit's blood can initiate the assimilation process, if injected directly into a target, since all nanoprobe types were present in the serum. However, the reality is a minimal number of the critical 1' through 3' nanites, meaning a low probability of success unless the species has a particularly abysmal biological resistance quotient. To allow for proper assimilation, artificial glands at the base of nanotubules filter all nanite types from the blood, concentrating them to densities optimal for assimilatory use. Such a process is effective in most situations, but when species with unusual resistances were encountered, or when mass conversion was necessary, then assimilation-specialized drones were required.

Assimilation drones not only sported extra large nanotubules glands, but could sequester within them several unique 'recipes' in addition to the standard formula. Additionally, unlike other units, drones specialized for an assimilation function could shuffle between formulations, quickly altering internal manufactories to churn out the nanoprobe variant most applicable for any given species. Thus, the assimilation process was made more efficient.

In a small corner of Interior Cargo Hold #4, an assimilation seminar was underway. The topic was species #13982 and application of the new nanite formulation required to expedite an individual's conversion to the Borg point of view. The keynote guests of the workshop were six test subjects, on-loaded at the last port-of-call, sedated lest too much of a fuss be enacted over the honor. It seemed that the cell membranes of species #13982 were particularly resistant to intrusion by the standard nanoprobe; and while assimilation was possible via the generic assimilation configuration, modifications to the nanite suite had proven necessary to effectively work around the difficulty. The fifty drones which comprised the assimilation hierarchy of Cube #238 had been tasked to demonstrate competence (more or less) concerning conversion and initial processing of species #13982 by performing a live-victim exercise.

"Very good," said Assimilation as she critically appraised 30 of 32's actions. Subject #3, strapped to its gurney, was showing excellent outward signs of nanite infection; and the organic neural transceiver had come on-line as expected. "Everyone, as you observed, the armpit is a thin-skinned area especially rich with capillaries; and while the neck and groin areas are the preferred injection sites for this species, the armpit is an option, if presented."

Two units at the edge of the gathering snickered at the mention of 'groin'. The snickers were within the intranets, however, for by their outward appearance neither expression nor demeanor had changed throughout the lecture.

"11 of 32, 15 of 32, do not think I cannot hear you. This is not primary school, and you are not junior adolescents." Assimilation gestured at the next gurney in line. "Let us move to Subject #4. 9 of 18, you are listed on the agenda to point out five near-epidermal nerve clusters which can be manipulated in hand-to-hand combat to subdue a subject; and 16 of 18, you will follow-up by indicating, and utilizing, possible nanotubules access points upon the legs."

Subject #4 was groaning slightly and eyes under closed lids were rapidly moving back and forth: the victim was in the initial stages of waking. The intravenous drip delivering the sedative had been disconnected several hours ago as the species #13982 individuals had been prepped for the demonstration. But then again, seeing how they were soon to join the ranks of the Collective, the status of their sedation, or lack thereof, was highly irrelevant.

Subject #4 was swiftly assimilated, followed by an even more awake Subject #5. And then, the first half of the seminar was winding to its conclusion - post-processing surgery was still to occur - as attention shifted to Subject #6.

Conscious, eyes open, albeit very groggy, Subject #6 was struggling against the bonds which bound it to its gurney. The motions were weak and uncoordinated.

Assimilation tilted her head as her hierarchy contemplated certain options, then blinked as a conclusion was reached. "Acceptable," she murmured. Two drones nearest the gurney brusquely unstrapped Subject #6, standing it upright whilst continuing to hold its upper arms in an unbreakable grip.

Assimilation grasped a hand, then raised it as much as possible given its living fetters, so as to better display the talons which tipped each of six fingers and thumb. A pale green substance was weeping from minute apertures at the end of the sharp nails. Subject #6 tried to resist the manipulation, tried to withdraw its hand back to itself, but was unsuccessful.

"When stressed," began Assimilation, verbalizing and paraphrasing the relevant entry in the species #13982 dossier, "adrenaline analogues trigger glands at the base of the talons to produce venom. It is introduced into the bloodstream of an attacker via a clawing motion. The effects of the venom upon Us is largely unknown, but for those species units which have been tested, the impact has been negligible: onboard nanites quickly denature all active toxicants. Access the meme files at address y56.1 within the species #13982 file for additional information."

Hand was released. Awareness swiftly increasing, Subject #6's ineffectual struggles were becoming more desperate. Assimilation half-turned in preparation to highlight other relevant species quirks perceivable only in a conscious specimen.

And, then, at that moment, a thumb-sized insect with too many legs landed upon 24 of 32's face. The drone shrieked like a little girl, releasing his grip on Subject #6 in order to bat at the offending bug. Simultaneously, the duo of 11 of 32 and 15 of 32 bent over with guffaws while slapping each other in a congratulatory nature on the back, self-censors unable to halt the unBorg display.

Subject #6 frantically swiped at the nearest target it could see. Assimilation was scored across nose and cheek with seven deep cuts. One eye - both were outwardly unaltered - just missed being pierced. The programmed instinctual reaction from Assimilation was to pivot and stab nanotubules into the vulnerable spot at the side of the neck where an artery would deliver nanites directly to the brain.

"No fair!" wailed 4 of 18. "/I/ was on the agenda to assimilate Subject #6!"

Assimilation blinked as she took stock of the situation. Beside her, Subject #6 was already starting to slump, held upright by 20 of 32, while 24 of 32 continued to hit himself about the head in an effort to dislodge his minute attacker.

The bug fell to the deck, where it was viciously stomped. A sharp *crack*, followed by the noise of metal grinding against metal, indicated the insect to have been a small construct, not a biological creature.

"15 of 32! 11 of 32!" The two drones stiffened as the nonverbal portion of the rebuke impacted their mentalities. "To your alcoves! You will be dealt with later...perhaps some 'counseling' practice by our hierarchy is required to realign your minds to a more acceptable BorgStandard configuration." The pair vanished in a transporter beam. "And you, 4 of 18..." The workshop agenda was altered. "You can demonstrate the tertiary preferred technique for inserting a hardware neural transceiver with Subject #3." It was something Assimilation had been scheduled to perform, but 4 of 18 could accomplish it just as well. After all, the hierarchy as a whole was supposed to demonstrate its competence in this exercise.

{Hooray!} exclaimed 4 of 18.

Immediate crisis averted, Assimilation lifted a hand to feel her scored cheek. Her fingertips, when she checked, were stained with blood and a faintly green ichor. However, diagnostics were reporting satisfactory healing of the afflicted epidermis; and there was no tingling or muscle paralysis which might indicate reaction to the venom. A quick borrowing of another visual point-of-view to confirm the scores were vanishing under the deft work of 5' nanites, and Assimilation summarily dismissed the incident from relevance. There was no need to visit drone maintenance.

"That concludes part one of our seminar," announced Assimilation. "Assuming there will be no further untoward interruptions, let us move to part two - initial processing."

{That is the third time in a row that I have captured, and kept, the flag. Either your mental processes are not focused on the game, else my practicing is paying off,} said 72 of 150.

Assimilation mentally shook herself, then panned the gamespace for her opponent. Sighting the weapon drone's avatar peering around a column at the far side of the virtual arena, she swiftly raised her BFG-9000 and nailed him in the head. A theatrical fountain of gore spurted upward before the body collapsed and vanished.

{Option number two is invalid,} stated Assimilation.

As her most recent workaround to access game sites in the GalacNet had been found, and neutralized, by the Greater Consciousness, Assimilation had returned to sparring with units of her sub-collective. Due to basic Borg drone interconnectivity, the pastime was not as satisfying as the challenge in trying to outguess the non-assimilated portion of the galactic populace. However, it was what Assimilation had to keep herself mentally amused when the oh-so-demanding needs of her hierarchy did not call. For the more violent variations of the first-person shooter, such as the one in which she was currently engaged, weapons hierarchy units were usually available for a game or three.

Oddly, the fast-reflexes and attention to detail needed by one of her favored games - HaloDoomNuke'emForever - were not keeping her attention; and concentration when matched against an opponent with the same intimate computer link, as well as the ability to capture unguarded thought streams, was essential. The alternative was to be constantly respawning at a start point.

For some reason, Assimilation kept drifting to focus upon the rather primitive (and blocky) graphics and color/texture combinations which were one of the distinctive hallmarks of the game.

A rocket-powered grenade exploded overhead, raining shrapnel on Assimilation's no-longer-safe spot. 72 of 150 had respawned and was trying to find the right vantage to flush her out...in pieces, preferably. Attention to the gamespace resharped in response to the threat.

{That was a mistake,} purred Assimilation as she swapped out the BFG for a semi-automatic rifle. Early in the game, she had found the spawn point for the special ammunition able to be remotely steered around multiple corners. {Now that I know where you are....}

The brightly painted blue and white station circled its star in an orbit meticulously cleared of dangerous rocks and other debris. A variation upon the classic rotating cylinder, it was composed of six decks inset each other like a Russian doll, each able to be independently spun about the long axis so as to create varying gravities. The weightless center was a hanger, subdivided into berths for those visitors able to afford the convenience of hard-docking. At four kilometers long and one kilometer in diameter, it loomed over most of the vessels which came to partake of its services. However, in this case, it was Lugger-class Cube #238 which was playing that particular role, a threat spectacularly heightened as the nearest cliff-like face was parked less than 500 meters from the station's hull.

Unfortunately, the dramatic intensity of the moment was unable to be appreciated given the station was unoccupied. The original owners of the station (species #9416 - Cofee) and their customers had been assimilated and removed from the premises prior to Cube #238's arrival.

Six cycles ago, the station, at the nebulous edge of Borg-claimed territory, had been attacked. Despite the species #9416 reputation for paranoia and juju magic, all aboard had been assimilated with minimum triggering of booby traps. However, after the newly acquired drones had been on-loaded, but before the station could be catalogued as to technology or harvested for resources, the Borg vessels present had been diverted to confront a small species #9416 armada on its way to protest the hostile takeover. Because Cube #238 was the closest nonmilitary resource at the time, it had been ordered to baby-sit the empty station for the 3.2 cycles necessary until the demolition detail - a Cargo-class and two Exploratory-classes - arrived to finish the job. Cube #238 thus represented a presence to dissuade potential attackers, not that such was expected, but it was better to be ready, just in case.

The only instructions given by the Greater Consciousness to its imperfect sub-collective was to try not to blow up the station. In hindsight, the terse lack-of-orders was probably not a good thing, for with the temptation represented by the station, there was nothing prohibiting the Cube #238 crew from beaming aboard.

Assimilation stared through the (real!) glass-fronted display of the shop, head cocked as the flower display was contemplated. Although the station was devoid of people, all its systems functioned perfectly; and would continue to do so until cybernetic limbs began to tear out the station's innards. A squad of tactical drones had just passed by - Weapons was using the opportunity to practice station assaults - and 55 of 65, an avid holophotographer of windows, was impatiently waiting for Assimilation to move so that her subject could be 'collected' by the intricate, and heavy, equipment she carried.

Assimilation winced slightly as a limb was jabbed with a hypospray. "Hey! You ruined the moment! Could you not have waited a few more minutes?"

Doctor held up the small vial of blood, performing a visual inspection before inserting it into a small device he had belted around his mid-section. A Dromelan had few choices when it came to attire due to its octopoid physiology, and as such, the fannypack variant was an enduring style. The device spat a quiet beep, then fed its output directly to Doctor. Finally the drone maintenance hierarchy head deemed to reply. "I must take blood samples every fifteen minutes, or during particularly intense 'male moments'. You know that."

Assimilation sighed. "Yah, I guess I do." The impatient 55 of 65 was eyed. "Where to next?"

Large, saucer eyes panned the promenade of expensive boutique shops. One establishment in particular captured Doctor's attention. "The GalacNet cafe. We go there."

"Compliance." Even as Assimilation uttered the word, a part of him huffed in disgust. He should not be so pliable, so unassertive. Less than seven cycles ago he would not have even considered himself capable of the level of meekness he now displayed. He would have raised some protest, as much as any imperfect drone was allowed, anyway. However, that was then and this was now.

And that was the problem. Then he had been female. And now? Now he had shifted into male mode. Neurologically, anyway. Unfortunately, the brain was the most important aspect of the Change, its status defining gender orientation. While it would require months for his body to catch up, the female left side of his brain had already largely shut down, shuffling control to the male right.

Assimilation's race were serial hermaphrodites. Depending on environmental and social cues, an individual could Change gender, a happenstance which might occur several times over the course of a lifetime unless chemical stabilizers were used. The Borg Collective had decided that species #9008 males were not especially useful, and so locked new drones into female mode.

Gender differences, both physical and psychological, among Tagarian was a product of genetics, not nurture. Males could be likened to 'peacocks', minus the feathers, flaunting themselves to attract a mate. While the masculine gender was more heavily muscled than its feminine counterpart and sported vast quantities of hair, the true difference between the sexes was found in the brain: higher cognitive functions for males was the domain of the right half of the brain, and females the left. Part of the brain literally turned off for a sexed individual, with activity on both sides only seen in a neuter in the midst of the Change.

Males, or kyn, scored low on the analytical scale. Such was not to say they were stupid - far from it - but that focus was shifted other endeavors. Tagarian individuals in male mode were the species' best poets, fictional writers, artists, and philosophers, as well as award-winning architects and landscape designers. However, due to the type of hormones infused within the body, the gender was also easily distracted and unable to exclusively concentrate on one thing for any length of time.

Female mode - nyk - species #9008 often displayed the exact opposite traits as the male, even when that male was themselves. The writing of technical manuals and the pursuit of trades such as metalwork, carpentry, and mechanic was the forte of the gender. Females were the military leaders and politicians. The gender was excellent at ignoring disruptions and creating the long-range plans which were so critical to the running of planet, nation, or household.

And the nu'un neuter caught between male and female mode? The transitional gender was considered to be instable, often combining the worst traits of both, a figurative 'blonde ditz' during the months of Change. Individuals often cloistered themselves during a gender change, lest they embarrass themselves in a manner that might haunt them for the rest of their life.

The Borg practice of locking species #9008 into female mode was one of practicality. Males, although sporting greater muscle mass then females, were only slightly above average when compared across the spectrum of races assimilated into the Collective stable. As such, there was nothing outstanding which might recommend a male Tagarian as a tactical drone, other than as shock troop or front-line phaser fodder. Females, on the other hand, sported excellent analytical abilities able to be capitalized by multiple drone specialties. Therefore, the nyk was much preferred above the kyn; with the added bonus that the former was the 'base' gender, able to be maintained with minimal hormonal intervention once achieved.

According to Doctor, following extensive, and often invasive, tests, the Hivli venom was to blame for Assimilation's undesired Change. Specifically, it was the serum in which the neurotoxin had been delivered. The toxin itself had been successfully broken down by nanites, thus preventing it from affecting Assimilation's body. However, the serum had included a prion component.

Prions are defined to be stable, albeit misfolded, proteins. When a prion comes in contact with a normal version of itself, a chain-reaction is triggered to convert the normal protein into the prionic form. Thus, in some respects, a prion can be considered to be virus-like, not classically 'alive', yet able to reproduce itself. Accumulating in tissue, ignored by most cell processes and highly resistant to denaturing, prions are responsible for a variety of diseases.

In hindsight, it was obvious that species #13982 had, via the long road of evolution, either incorporated prions into the neurotoxin serum, else had 'learned' to ignore the particles. Unfortunately, the prion was novel to Assimilation's species; and, doubly disastrous, a key segment of the master hormone controlling racial gender was very similar to the accidental invader. Thus, when the serum prion contacted a sex-determination protein, the latter spontaneously refolded to the male form...then incorporated the prion into the new configuration.

As long as the prion was integrated into the master hormone, Assimilation was stuck as kyn. The standard method to convert species #9008 to the desired gender was to inject mass quantities of the female-configured hormone into an individual. Once it had become obvious that Assimilation had been undergoing Change, that was exactly the route drone maintenance had tried. The result? An acceleration of the switch to male mode, neurologically. When prionic hormones had bumped against the female versions, the latter had converted to the former. It had been like throwing gasoline on a fire, with Assimilation's brain flip-flopping to the male side in days, not the normal months.

Drone maintenance could not simply filter the prionic hormone out of Assimilation's blood, simultaneously replacing for the female version, for such a process would require complete exsanguination to be successful. To allow even a few of the altered proteins to escape would reinitiate the chain reaction. Doctor was fairly certain he had identified an agent which might function as a temporary blood replacement, if the highly experimental procedure was authorized. However, in this case, the final decision was a prerogative of the Greater Consciousness, not the Cube #238 sub-collective; and given the objective was a single, imperfect drone, a verdict ranked very low on the priority scale of the Whole.

As a consequence of Assimilation's Change to kyn, he was no longer a suitable choice to serve in a command node function. He just could not focus himself upon the tasks required to organize his hierarchy and ensure drones remain functioning on a mental even keel, even when said hierarchy consisted of a mere fifty units. Unfortunately for Cube #238, in this era the decision of hierarchy head designation was up to the Greater Consciousness, not the sub-collective. Such was different in the past, and could be again in the future, but neither of those time was the current reality. And, just as the experimental operation was a low priority determination, so was the choosing of a new hierarchy head. After all, the position was to coordinate an assimilation hierarchy of fifty drones upon an imperfect Lugger-class cube. Even if Cube #238 did not have prohibitions in place against purposeful assimilations, it was highly unlikely given the vessel's basic mission that it would be in a situation necessary to perform forceful conversions.

Therefore, while 18 of 18 technically retained the subdesignation Assimilation, the reality was that most command functions had been shifted to 3 of 5 upon the Hierarchy of Five. If no cure was found for his unfortunate maleness, Assimilation would be stripped of his command node status when the current duty cycle was completed, but until then, his gender issue did not overly impact the efficiency of his hierarchy.

"Interesting," murmured Doctor. "Your kappa-dopamine levels continue to rise, along with your testosterone analogues."

Assimilation automatically accessed the latest data thread relating to analysis of the samples Doctor was taking. As the head of drone maintenance had been denied (for now) the chance to attempt total blood replacement therapy, he had assigned himself the duty to follow his newest 'interesting case', performing periodic tests in order to track the prion-mediated Change. Unfortunately for Assimilation, he could not appreciate the medical output. It was not that he did not understand the charts and jargon, but that the meaning of the whole slipped away whenever he tried to grasp it. It was frustrating, especially as he knew that if he were nyk that comprehension would be simple.

Entering the cafe, Doctor paused in front of Assimilation to scan its contents. Stylized pictographs wishing good fortune were painted on the walls, complimenting passive juju spells of hunger and thirst engraved onto tabletops. Except for the fact that its normal customer base had been forcefully removed, the store, like most others on the station, was open for business courtesy of computer and robotics.

"Welcome sirs and/or madams," said the a stilted, bodiless voice. "The management apologizes for lack of biological staff, and as such the services offered will be limited. How might I serve you?"

The sound of beak edges grinding emanated from Doctor. "We need samples."

"A coffee and tea sampler? Excellent, sir and/or madam. Please insert your credit chip into the payment slot."

Assimilation glanced sideways at Doctor. The octopod twitched, then ground his beak again before advancing upon the main computer interface of the cafe. A foot-hand was lifted, balled into a fist such that delicate fingers were hidden beneath horn sheathe, then trust forward. Nanotubules deployed.

"I am sorry sir and/or madam, but customers are not allowed...allowed...allow...." The computerized voice paused. "Thank you for your payment. Your coffee and tea sampler will arrive momentarily."

Doctor disengaged from the computer, then turned to eyeball Assimilation. "Most stimulants are highly complex in nature. There is a very slim chance one of them may cure your condition. Personally, it is my opinion that complete blood filtering is the only sure bet, even if mortality is 95.7% likely." The Dromelan sighed, a heaving of body-sac and hip/shoulder girdle. "But my thoughts in the matter are irrelevant."

The alternative to Doctor's preferred choice was to find a compound which would successfully knock the prion out of the sex-determinant hormone while simultaneously bonding to the aberrant protein. Thus free of its hitchhiker, the master hormone was expected to refold to its base female variant. Unfortunately, the number of chemicals available to screen was staggering, even when those outright poisonous to the species #9008 physiology were discounted. Therefore, as the opportunity presented while Doctor was accompanying Assimilation, the former was randomly testing potential cures. As expected, none had been identified.

As Doctor impatiently waited for the sampler platter, Assimilation examined the cafe. Several monitors advertising cheap GalacNet connections were set against one wall. Approaching them, he lifted one hand, considered briefly, then triggered his own nanotubules.

The bright clink of glass against glass and a mental ping brought Assimilation back to the here-and-now.

"Poetry? Demonstrations on flower arranging? Poetry about flower arranging?" said Doctor in an accusatory tone. As the monitor Assimilation was plugged into was blank, it was obvious that the octopod was reading the datastream directly. "Just a moment...." Hypospray jabbed arm, and blood sample was transferred to the diagnostic rig. "Those sites do not fit your profile."

"Correction," replied Assimilation mildly as he managed the now difficult process of splitting his awareness into multitasking mode, "those 'net sites do not fit my female profile. Prior to my assimilation, the one time I decided to experiment with a Change to kyn, I showed a distinct leaning towards interior decorating, floral feng shui, and the related liberal arts."

Silence.

Assimilation reintegrated his psyche. He was not the only drone taking advantage of the ease of GalacNet access. Across the station, several hundred units were catching up on the galaxy beyond the firewall controlled by the Collective. As long as they were not attempting something egregious, such as auctioning the cube (or portions thereof) on gBay, the activity was tolerated by command and control. Of course, certain members of command and control (*cough*Prime*cough*) were also engaged in the behavior, so objection was a moot point.

And it was well known that Doctor himself had already downloaded several terabytes of esoteric medical periodicals that had somehow been overlooked by the Whole. How 'Advanced Sex Reassignment Operations - A Comparison of Techniques Among Four Mammalian Species' was to benefit the Collective was unknown; and many drones had set themselves personal reminders to closely watch the drone maintenance hierarchy head the next time routine maintenance was scheduled.

Another ping. {Go to a gaming site.}

"Why?" asked Assimilation outloud. "That pastime has no interest to me."

{Go to a gaming site.}

"Flower arranging-"

{Choose a gaming site you might visit as a female, and log on. This is for the advancement of the medical arts.}

"You just want to stick me with another needle or take a tissue biopsy. I may be male, but I'm not mentally deficient."

{Go to a gaming site. Now. Comply.}

Assimilation knew he could argue, but it was just too difficult in his current frame of mind. Scrolling through the file his female self maintained, he randomly chose one.

<<Welcome to the Universe of Warcraft!>> brightly chirped a digital nonvoice which registered as sultry female to Assimilation's aural senses. It was followed by a flashy splash screen that swiftly enveloped his virtual presence, turning it into a fully immersive experience. Assimilation was suddenly standing in the bowels of a brightly lit (and too clean) dungeon, surrounded by doors with such words as "Rankings", "Achievements," and "Enter The Game" painted on them.

{Log in,} insisted Doctor. {This is the non-member portal.}

Bowing to the demand, Assimilation entered his user identification and password. Process complete, his shadowy, formless body condensed into that of a well-endowed female Terran barbarian. His avatar's clothes consisted of little more than chainmail-and-leather garments thusly placed to avoid human decency taboos. On the other hand, the weapons rack that materialized simultaneously with the game character was stocked with a wide range of extremely sharp mayhem waiting for an enemy to smite.

{DangerGal9610? What sort of name is that?}

{Do you know how hard it is to find a unique name at these sites? There were already 9609 DangerGals registered. I was lucky to not need five numbers instead of four.} Assimilation's UOW avatar blinked as diagnostics registered a familiar epidermal damage. {You are planning to draw all my blood from me one hypospray at a time, aren't you?}

{Nonsense,} protested Doctor. {I merely required an additional sample to check your hormonal and neurological profile in light of this new stimulus. Additionally, there are several coffees and teas to test concerning their prion dispersal properties.}

{Whatever. This is boring. I think I will return to that treatise on flower-} The foyer shimmered. {What the-}

Interrupted the game, <<GoTeam1 requests you join in private conference.>>

A private conference was usually a prelude to a one-on-one challenge. Unacceptable. Disinterest in shoot'em-up gaming aside, Assimilation knew that in his present gender that he would be stomped by an opponent. As kyn, he just did not have the mental reflexes and coordination necessary for a fast-action game where response time was literally measured in milliseconds. Something like farming was more to his current taste, as long as there was no timer or other deadline. If (when) he resumed female mode, he would be cursing himself should he ruin his placement in game rankings due to accepting a challenge. Therefore, it was better to ignore chat requests and stay away from gaming sites, even if it meant defying Doctor should he attempt additional coercion.

Responded Assimilation to the game computer, ::Denied.:: The connection to Universe of Warcraft was severed.

Except that the dungeon foyer remained active in Assimilation's mind's-eye.

::You have to understand, my nemesis, it wasn't really a request, but more of a demand. Okay, exactly a demand. And unless you want to risk brain damage - not much, just enough to ruin you as a premier gamer - you will hear us out.:: The voice came from behind Assimilation. He spun to confront the speaker, nearly falling on his unreal behind as certain parts of his nonanatomy had more inertia than expected.

A pair of hunch-backed ogres stood before Assimilation. With bumpy green-gray skin, protruding tusks, and pig-like snouts, they were the epitome of ugliness. Both wore black cloaks, the cowls pulled back to reveal their faces; and under the obscuring fabric, leather armor could be perceived. Heavy broadswords, two apiece, plus a large axe were obvious shapes under the cloak. One ogre, slightly smaller and more hunched than the other, stood a pace back from its compatriot. As Assimilation's gaze fell upon it, the ogre rubbed its hands together while chortling in an evil manner which must have required weeks of practice to perfect.

::I,:: said the lead ogre with a dramatic flourish of his cloak, ::am GoTeam1, and with me is my best twin bro in the whole wide universe, GoTeam1Too. We are the GoTeam brothers. And you will join us at the gaming venue of mutual choice, as long as it isn't something lame like that stupid RoboWarriors site, for a deathmatch challenge.::

Assimilation tugged at his connection, finding himself to be stuck. The station computer was refusing to break its GalacNet link with Universe of Warcraft. ::No,:: he replied even as he began to ping his dilemma to the general sub-collective.

GoTeam1 snorted, echoed by his brother. ::You don't have a choice.:: Pause. ::You have to understand, we despise you.::

::Utterly and totally,:: murmured GoTeam1Too.

::Exactly. Utterly and totally. You - and we know your userid for over sixty sites, by the way - sweep into a game, run your way into top rank, sit smugly there for a week or so, then vanish. You are never considerate enough to wait for challengers to beat you to a bloody pulp and take your ranking. Everybody who is anybody-::

Inserted GoTeam1Too, ::Like us.::

::-hates you for it. We know because we set up a poll.::

::There were over a million votes. Since me and my brother are definitely the bestest anybodies, we voted against you. A whole lot of times. A few thousand people somehow found the poll even though it was hidden and voted for you, but since they obviously didn't have enough money to be an anybody, their fraudulent ballot stuffing activities were eliminated.::

Assimilation increased his pinging to a higher level of urgency.

{We are working on it,} rumbled Prime. {When the Collective smashed the station firewalls, most of the systems were left undefended.} True, why protect something one is planning to dismantle shortly? {Needless to say, the computers have been accumulating nasties from the outside. Something seems to have followed your signature back and is preventing disengagement of your communication data thread.} Pause. {Do you know these two?} Prime had tapped into Assimilation's stream-of-consciousness.

{No! Dig through my memories to confirm, but the answer is no. They are crazy. And completely narcissistic.}

Neither GoTeam1 nor GoTeam1Too appeared aware of the background conversation. ::Anyway, by your selfish actions, you deny gamers like us the chance to show that we are Number One. How can we say that we are the best-::

::Like we know we are. Mum and Da and our older sibs and our cousins and our aunties and uncles tell us that all the time; and give us money, too,:: informed GoTeam1Too.

::-when you never give us the chance? By the time we track you down to your latest game, you are too high in the ranks for our new characters to challenge without getting the smack down. And, by the time we have leveled to where we could offer challenge, you have declared "victory" and gone elsewhere. It is just no fair!::

::No fair at all.::

Assimilation finally saw an opening, ::Fairness is irrelevant.::

::I think DangerGal9610 has been modded too much,:: mock whispered GoTeam1Too to his ogre comrade, ::'cause that sounded awfully Borgy. Implants to the brain and all that.::

It was standard procedure for hardcore gamers, a label which had once described Assimilation, to procure illegal Color (or Borg) technology, with an emphasis on neural accelerators. Even a picosecond increase in reaction speed, when considered upon the digital battlefield, was an advantage; and all the hardcores sought that gain. For Assimilation, the practice had eventually led to an inadvertent self-assimilation. It was an unspoken given that the two gamers confronting him were modded.

::The next thing he or she or whatever is going to try, is to convince us that it actually is Borg...Collective Borg, I bet,:: continued GoTeam1Too.

GoTeam1 wrinkled his snout and rolled his eyes. ::Yah, right. Who ever heard of a Color, much less a Collective drone, playing games.::

Both ogres broke out in snorting laughter.

{Update!} called Assimilation even as he tried once more to sever the connection. Theoretically, he could simply disengage nanotubules from the cafe access point (or request Doctor to physically break the connection as his body seemed frozen), but to do so while the majority of his conscious awareness was locked in the UOW interface was to court brain damage. If the neurological damage was sufficiently severe, he would be euthanized and recycled.

Assimilation's immediate future was at the cold mercy of a cost-benefit analysis. While his wish was to continue functioning, personal desires within the Borg Collective were irrelevant. As long as a perceived attack was solely directed at a single drone, the hardwired directive was to attempt to save that unit and, thusly, preserve its usefulness. However, if the threat escalated to encompass sub-collective (or even Greater Consciousness), then there would be no compunction about ending the life of the one in order to safeguard the many.

Replied Prime, {It has only been a few seconds.} Time sense in the digital realm moved at a different pace than the real universe. {And species #9416 will install other than purely physical booby traps. Because the station assault left the communication protocol largely untouched, we have to move carefully least we unleash something nasty.} There was a short pause. {On the upside, you seem to be the sole focus of the attack, so you continue to function.}

{And with this stress provoker, I expect an excellent data series once blood samples have been fully analyzed,} added Doctor. {Of course, it would be even better if you could be morphed to nyk to allow a true comparison with the male mode neuro-chemical profile, but I will persevere.}

If Assimilation had been female, he might have replied with an appropriately sarcastic comeback. However, his kyn personality was not sufficiently aggressive.

::What do you want?:: inquired Assimilation to the ogre brothers.

::The brain mods must be causing aural-to-comprehension malfunction or forgetfulness,:: said GoTeam1, ::or both. We challenge you to a two-on-one match, us against you, at a good game site.::

::And if the answer is no?::

Shrugged GoTeam1 as he replied matter-of-factly, ::Then you will die.::

::And so will everyone wherever it is you are logged in from,:: added GoTeam1Too with a snicker.

A blank stare was Assimilation's response.

::Targ got your tongue?:: taunted GoTeam1Too. He stuck out with own tongue and waggled it.

::That's funny!:: laughed GoTeam1. ::Since it I who won our little twin-versus-twin shootout this morning, I get to play the expository villain role. I know, cliche, but it is so much fun!:: The ogre cleared his throat.

::When my bro and I were young and innocent and stupid, we avidly followed your conquests. We admired you, studied your playing style as it evolved, and cheered at your matches and wins. We were your number one fans...perhaps the number one of number one fans. Then, after months of preparation - we even snuck in to watch Da's confidence building seminars for his employees - we approached you. All we wanted was to be taken under your wing, to be teammates with you and, thusly, rule the game sites. But you totally blew us off. You laughed at us and said that you played solo.

::That was when we decided that it would be our goal to take you down.::

GoTeam1Too made a sound like a shuttle falling from orbit and crashing. The audio effect came complete with the appropriate hand gesture, ending with fist smacking into palm.

Assimilation frowned to himself. He had no memory of that particular event, despite its apparent vivacity to the brothers. Then again, many of his pre-assimilation memories, particularly towards the end when he had been heavily modded, not to mention often under the influence of multiple game-enhancing drugs, were either a blur or outright gone. There was the vague recollection of wanna-be teammates begging to join, but the answer to all inquiries of the type had been the same. There had been no malicious intent. In fact, if he recalled the request volume correctly, he had instituted an automated program to say "no" to all solicitors.

Calculating back, even if the confrontation had occurred in his last pre-assimilation year, then the twins had been obsessively pursuing Assimilation for 27 years. And that calculation was the minimum, so reality was likely longer. After his adoption to the then-Hive, memory had not only become much more reliable, but his activity level at the game sites had been curtailed. Since realignment of Hive to Borg Collective five Cycles ago, quality GalacNet gaming opportunities had become even more limited.

Assimilation visualized the mental image of two brothers, middle-aged and spoiled by their family, rarely having heard the magic word "no". Viewed as insignificant or useless, relatives had thrown money and gifts at the twins, essentially bribing them to stay out of productive family businesses. The picture was a stereotype - for some races a period of three decades was merely a long adolescence, and the twins' species was unknown - but the vision persisted. Assimilation (or, perhaps, another drone observing the exchange) even pictured the two with skin paler than a Borg, a pallor achievable only by spending hundreds of hours in a basement amid high-end gaming gear.

In the midst of exposition, GoTeam1 could not be side-tracked: ::A legion of daemons was created and sent forth to watch all the popular, and not so popular, gaming sites. Because we had already harvested the key variances of your digital signature, user identifications or avatar did not matter. You have been difficult prey to stalk, never in one place for very long, rarely using the same GalacNet portal more than once...it has been like you have been purposefully evading us.::

Or, thought Assimilation to himself, like I was navigating Borg firewalls and could not use the same protocol twice, lest call attention of the Greater Consciousness to himself. Again.

::But now...now you have logged into a game site without your protections, allowing us to unleash a program to keep you immobilized for the duration of the conversation.

::You will agree to meet us for the Ultimate Fight Of The Epoch<tm>.::

Whispered GoTeam1Too, ::Auntie Kuli trademarked the phrase for us, by the way. If you want to use it, you'll have to pay us royalties.::

::Ahem, as I said, you will agree to meet us for the Ultimate Fight Of The Epoch<tm>. Even as we speak, sprites are reporting back to us. We know you are on a station, which provides us with a very interesting situation full of possibilities.:: GoTeam1 paused to utter a low chuckle with distinct undertones of evilness. Unfortunately, the piglike snort at the end of laugh ruined the effect. ::The sprites whisper of an inability to access cameras and other basics, but, for whatever reason, certain, shall we say, more critical systems appear to be open. Not that we are complaining - never look a gift fratooh in the ear, and all that - but it seems you finally chose the wrong station to alight upon. Neither my bro nor I know where you are exactly, but, quite frankly, we don't care. The important think is that you are there, in a big, defenseless tin can full of people....

::By the way, while we have been having this nice chat, we have dispatched some nasty malware construct can openers in your general direction. We've had many, many years to think about what to do when we finally confronted you. So many scenarios! Our little digital fiends should be initiating in three...two...one...now.::

Assimilation's primary attention was abruptly diverted from the UOW portal. While he remained locked to the datastream, unable to disengage without scrambling a good chunk of his brain, that did not stop him from watching the spectacle suddenly unfolding.

Tractor beams lashed out from the station, blindly arcing through space. While a handful latched onto miscellaneous debris left from the earlier Borg assault, most either encountered nothing and shut off, else found the hull of Cube #238. In a very short order, two dozen energy beams were grasping the Lugger-class. The tractors were multipurpose - docking assist, asteroid deflection, vessel stabilization - and, as such, were relatively low powered when considered individually. Collectively, however, they had sufficient strength that if Cube #238 attempted to move, it would be forced to drag the station behind.

Simultaneously, the energy signature of the station core began a meteoric rise toward critical overload. In less than two minutes, the core hit a power level just below the redline threshold, then ceased its climb. The station had just become a bomb. Given the size of the core and the nearness of Cube #238 to the station, a *BOOM!* had a very high chance of eliciting heavy damage. It would not be enough to destroy a vessel as enormous as a Lugger-class cube, but it would strip away sufficient armor, and likely impart other deleterious effects, to require the sub-collective to abandon cargo deliveries and report to the nearest dry-dock for emergency repairs.

As if the above was not trouble enough, speakers throughout the station coughed to life. After several beats of warbling static, the species #8011 version of muzak started to play. Banned by nearly a hundred races, the slow, atonal 'music' was known to cause psychiatric distress, and even suicide, in otherwise mentally stable individuals. Needless to say, adolescents of those nearly hundred races acquired black-market recordings to play whenever they could, if only to tick off their parents or parental equivalents.

Tractor beams, power core, muzak, and other affected systems, they all had one thing in common: they had been compromised during the Collective's attack upon the station, their firewalls and other protections never reinstated.

::Okay, that's enough! You obviously know what is happening by now,:: said GoTeam1. ::If rumor is correct, you have enough mods to practically become a computer.::

Assimilation blinked. In the background, the sub-collective was threading multiple conversations among itself as to what action to take. With the imminent power core threat, Weapons was heavily advocating destruction of the tractor emitters, either via disruptors or beaming squads stationside, before backing the cube out of the danger zone.

Laugh-snorted GoTeam1, ::I bet it is pretty crazy around there now! I so wish we could see, but whatever a**-end of nowhere station you got yourself aboard seems to have the stupidest security systems ever. The daemons blasted right to the power core protocols, but cannot find a crack into cameras. Speaking of which...I have already dispatched a stationwide missive that no one mess with the tractors. Should one of 'em off-line, or a ship manage to break away, well, it could be a little messy.::

If Assimilation focused on aural input, he could barely hear a recorded announcement warning station inhabitants of their hostage status. If people had been present, none would have been able to understand the message over the muzak. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon one's point of view, only Borg were on-board. Drones within audio range had no problem discerning the threat.

Within the dataspaces, Weapons abruptly withdrew his action option; and the sub-collective in general quieted as Prime roared for silence.

::You have our attention,:: said Assimilation evenly.

GoTeam1Too snickered, ::It is using plurals. It really should stay away from the black-market Borg mods. I once heard about this gal that, like, assimilated herself with a bad hack.::

::Yah, that was cool. I remember that.:: GoTeam1 cocked his ogre head. ::We are graciously giving you six hours to prepare. Or six hours to explain yourself to station big-brass, whatever you want. Or six hours to try to flee, like the coward you are. However, if in six hours you are not on-line ready to meet us in the Ultimate Fight Of The Epoch<tm>, the station, and all the innocent lives aboard, will blow up.

::And it'll be your fault, so don't try any reverse psychology crap on us. It is your choice to meet us, or not. After all, we didn't cause the problem in the first place, you did when you flagrantly blew us off.

::Win or lose, it does not matter to us. Obviously, we want to win so that we can show how hawt we are, how we are Number One-::

::And Number OneTwo.::

::-in the game-verse. And don't even think of sending a clone or throwing the fight! We know your playing style. If you don't give a good showing, the station goes boom. So, by saving your own skin, you save all the probably thousands of people caught up in the mess that you created. So, see you in-::

GoTeam1Two leaned forward to whisper in his brother's pig-like ear.

The lead ogre smacked himself upside his own head. ::Oh, yes, the mutually agreed site. My twin and I have mutually decided upon the Deathmatch Arena venue. It has the best challenge environment and the most awesome munitions. Six hours...be there, or be dead.::

The ogres disappeared.

Feeling the hold upon the communication thread wither, Assimilation swiftly pulled away. The UOW interface vanished. Nanotubules were ripped from the cafe console.

A hypospray hissed.

"Keep up the stress! I am amassing an excellent record," said Doctor, his emotional signature radiating the maximal amount of self-satisfaction allowed to an imperfect Borg.

{Initializing consensus cascade,} intoned Prime, her voice echoing in Assimilation's head. The announcement was sub-collective-wide. {Input potential decision nodes into the process, but keep them relevant. The following designations, as usual, are excluded from input: [designation list]. Keep in mind, girls and boys and neuters, that the Greater Consciousness has already declared us to be on our own, but has also indicated that keeping the station in one piece is preferential.}

Greater Consciousness? Assimilation, still somewhat dazed from his experience, automatically selected the relevant intra-Collective communication log. He noted that the Whole had, indeed, distanced itself from the decision making, as normal, allowing the sub-collective to survive, or not, on its own. The potential loss - station, Lugger-class cube and cargo, drones - was insignificant when including the always present consideration of imperfection tainting the Whole due to too much intimate contact.

Despite the fact that final consensus by the sub-collective would dictate his immediate future, Assimilation had no desire to include himself in the process. Due to his current gender, he was not particularly interested in analytical deliberation, even when the topic under debate was himself. He was still participating, albeit distally as his species #9008 male mode neurology was utilized as a (minor) computational node in the consensus, but the involvement was remote.

There were six hours until the inevitable fate which would likely terminate himself, whilst simultaneously damaging Cube #238 and destroying the station. After all, there was no way in his current state he could win a shoot-'em-up game challenge. He just did not have the tactical ability, the reflexes, or, most importantly, the competitive drive that so defined his nyk self. All those facets of himself were locked away on the inaccessible left side of his brain.

Assimilation refocused on his surroundings, then retrieved a station map. An art gallery featuring vases was a short walk away. He might as well do something with the time remaining in his existence. Perhaps he could absorb a nugget of Cofee cultural uniqueness to contribute to the Whole.

"Bah, that is a horrible idea," opinionated Doctor. The octopod was following Assimilation's thought-stream. "There is an apothecary and sunlight-spa salon 104 meters astern. As species #9416 records indicate the race to self-medicate for the least issue using a wide range of interesting substances, we shall go there. One of the chemicals or botanicals might react to the prions. It will, of course, necessitate drawing quite a bit of blood." The most recent sample, sloshing sluggishly at the bulbous end of a hypospray, was waved in the air for emphasis.

Sighing, Assimilation turned to follow Doctor. It was at that moment 200 of 260 crashed into the head of the drone maintenance hierarchy. The lesser massed Dromelan tumbled to the floor amid an armful of bottles, several of which shattered, bathing the octopoid in their alcoholic contents.

Said 200 of 260, "Whoops. Guess I wasn't looking where I was going. Station inventory indicated this cafe to stock a number of flavored liqueurs, and I desired to acquire them before other drones with no understanding that paint should engage more senses than just the eyes." She paused, panning the extent of bottle breakage. "Dang. It looks like I'm going to have to go back to the Liquor Barn."

The drone, of the engineering hierarchy, used alcohol, among other liquids, as a solvent in mixing paints. She did not actually use any of the products she created, her interest solely in concocting them and modifying their formulations. While alcohol was easily synthesized by replicators, she believed there was a tangible difference in paint quality when native-distilled wines, beers, spirits, and so forth were utilized. Because specialty alcohols were of high demand by several designations for widely differing imperfect reasons, and could only be acquired during the rare times Cube #238 was near a (mostly) intact station or planet, there was great competition to replenish individual stockpiles. The fact that 200 of 260 was pursuing her obsession even as the threat of explosions loomed was not entirely unexpected.

Hidden beak grinding annoyance, Doctor pushed himself back to his feet. Eight limbs and a general dearth of armor made the procedure much more graceful than the average drone. Once again stable, he reached with one foot-hand for the dropped hypospray while at the same time wiping alcohol out of his three whole eyes with two other limbs.

"Was anything broken?" inquired 200 of 260. "Other than my bottles?"

"I smell like spoilt beer. More importantly, this sample is contaminated," complained Doctor. The hypospray's reservoir had cracked when stepped upon by a errant true-foot. The contents, that which was left, was an oily-brown mix of blood and beer.

200 of 260 bent over to pick up those bottles which remained whole. "Er, okay." With whole eye panning rapidly from Doctor to Assimilation and back to Doctor, leakage from her thought stream indicated a personal decision had been reached. "I will return later to the cafe to find those liqueurs, after I, er, store these bottles." She vanished in a transporter beam.

Assimilation mutely held out an arm to allow Doctor to take another sample.

"That can wait," muttered Doctor. After holding up the damaged hypospray to contemplate it, he passed it to another limb before upending the contents into the analyzer. "Maybe some of the profile can be salvaged, assuming the alcohol hasn't destroyed too many delicate hematological components."

Dismissed for the moment, Assimilation waited. And waited. In the background, consensus was taking longer than usual because a unit on the prohibited list had managed to sneak in superfluous input which had subsequently infected three relevant decision trees. Finally, Assimilation reached forth to sample the output of Doctor's analysis device. Given aspects of his function within the Borg whole, much of the data was familiar in the abstract, but the meaning of it remained just beyond his ken.

{Apothecary?} questioned Assimilation, including a mental nudge with the interrogation. From Doctor's glazed eyes, it was obvious he would neither hear, nor respond to, a verbalized inquiry.

{We may have a solution to your gender problem,} replied Doctor in the third-person after a several beat delay. {This drone is a genius.} The latter was appended to the end, disregarding of the reality whereupon it was accident, not design, which had lead to the discovery.

Whatever that discovery was.

{Solution? I can return to female mode? In a timely manner?} If such was true, maybe, just maybe, Assimilation might not be terminated in less than six hours, and both cube and station would remain intact. The moment had not gone unnoticed by the sub-collective, with the consensus cascade temporarily suspended in light of the new information.

Doctor blinked one, then the other, of his primary, forward-facing eyes. They swiveled upward to focus upon his current charge. "Alcohol appears to displace the prion element upon the sex-determinant hormone, allowing it to relax back to female configuration. If, and how, such might be applicable in situ is unknown. I will be forced to...experiment."

Six hours following his confrontation with the GoTeam brothers, Assimilation found himself returned to the station cafe. He, personally, did not believe the course of action which had been decided for him was the best. Unfortunately, he was Borg, and as such, individual beliefs were irrelevant once communal consensus had been made. Double unfortunate, as a member of the assimilation hierarchy, he was well acquainted with the techniques to change a mind should one not submit to the inevitable.

Translation? Cube #238 had been unable to extract itself from the situation in a manner which did not detonate the station core and, thus, damage the ship. Therefore, the necessity of Plan B: forcing Assimilation to play a game which he, as kyn, was highly unlikely to attain victory. However, Doctor, nee drone maintenance, was fairly confident (67.5%) mitigation had been devised regarding the gender issue. It would not be a permanent fix, but it should - emphasis on should, with a healthy dollop of maybe - tilt the game sufficiently in Assimilation's favor to at least provide the decent showing necessary to release the cube.

Not win, which irked the underlying Collective impetus to demonstrate Borg superiority in all matters, but survive. On the other hand, for an imperfect sub-collective, simple survival was often good enough.

{Just relax,} rumbled Prime to Assimilation. Given the likelihood of explosions, most crew, including the primary consensus monitor, were prohibited from the station to minimize sub-collective risk. Naturally there were a few unauthorized units who had bypassed the restriction in order to pursue personal obsessions, but the great majority were content to be an audience to the spectacle about to commence. {You will be a little, or maybe a lot, drunk. You surely have some pre-assimilation memories left to you of being drunk or stoned?}

Responded Assimilation, {Yes I do. It is the after bits that are worrisome. I still do not know how I woke up with that traffic cone, particularly as the nearest location with traffic was over 120 light years away.}

"We are ready to begin administering the product," said Doctor, a drone necessary to the proceedings. He had lost the argument that he was too irreplaceable to sub-collective functionality should he become one with a fireball. "A pale ale has been chosen to-"

"It's a lite, isn't it?" Assimilation's head was strapped in place, so he could not tilt his head to look. On the other hand, as a Borg he could borrow the visual stream of another unit to serve as a proxy. "Blah. It is a lite, and a Cofee product too. As a species, they cannot brew a decent beer. With all that has been done to prepare my body, could you not have deadened my taste receptors, too? As nyk, my palate is horrible, which explains a lot about the food choices I used to make, but my male mode sense is very good."

Pausing with one limb curled around a device featuring lots of blinking lights, Doctor answered, "Taste is irrelevant. But, because you mention it, I will monitor neural impulses associated with buccal cavity chemoreception. All which is required is another sensor, or three, inserted into the appropriate neuro-region. For the Whole, of course, I acquire the most complete dataset possible to document species #9008 gender transition male to female."

Pull back to take in the entire scene. Except for one arm, Assimilation was tightly trussed to a gurney, the bed tilted forward to hold his body at a 45 degree angle. Strapped to his head was a modified beer hat. Instead of sporting two cans, one to either side of the head, a pair of tubes curled away from empty holsters, terminating at a large, clear plastic box. Marks on the side of the box indicated the ability to hold up to ten liters of liquid; and its placement was such that it was elevated higher than Assimilation's head. Most horizontal surfaces within the cafe were hidden under a vast number of alcoholic beverages in a dizzying array of cans, bottles, and other containers, all collected from the many bars found throughout the station.

Extruding fingers from a foot-hand, Doctor picked up the beer hat's outflow tube, placing the end in Assimilation's mouth. "We will be starting momentarily. There remain a few items to check." Wired and wireless sensors had been sited upon, and within, Assimilation's body, many of them about the head and neck region. Armor had even been removed to facilitate placement of the myriad intrusive monitoring devices. The most important of the apparati was a catheter inserted in Assimilation's carotid artery: continuously sampling hematological elements, it would be the primary gauge as to the success, or failure, of the procedure.

The drone maintenance hierarchy had determined that alcohol knocked the prion out of the sex-determinant hormone, allowing it to revert to the preferred nyk configuration. A greater blood-alcohol content equated a higher percentage of setback, and, thus, a stronger female-typical neurological response. A theoretical cure was to inject alcohol into Assimilation, then run his blood through filter, similar to a kidney dialysis machine, thereby removing the offending prions. Unfortunately, the six hours allotted by the GoTeam twins had been barely sufficient time to develop a plausible treatment, much less initiate it. A different plan had therefore been instigated: raise the alcohol content of Assimilation's blood as much as possible, without killing him, in the expectation that sufficient female neurological function would be regained to kick virtual butt in the game challenge.

Or, failing that, to at least avoid complete embarrassment and subsequent station detonation.

To inebriate a Borg unit was actually quite difficult. The 5' nanites which acted as custodians to ensure optimal functionality were very quick to break down alcohol, sedative, or any other perceived poison before the toxin could affect the body. While one way to counteract this effect was to inject massive quantities of a product, such was a temporary solution, one destined to fail as soon as the nanites finished denaturing the substance.

In addition to the nanite quandary, a series of experiments had shown that the method in which alcohol was delivered was critical. For greatest impact, it had to be absorbed through the gastrointestinal system, not introduced directly via intravenous drip. The mechanism of effectiveness was unclear - there had been insufficient time to determine the why - but such was unimportant.

What was important was one particular side-effect of nanomachine infestation: the digestion system of Borg drones was shut down; and the most efficient way to egest substances which may have been inadvertently eaten was to puke.

In the end, the solution to all the interrelated issues had been one of suppression. During surgery it was routine protocol to suppress the healing function of 5' nanites, lest the microscopic machines attempt to heal incisions as fast as they were made. Using a variation upon that protocol, drone maintenance had crippled Assimilation's artificial immune system, disengaging all functions but those required to prevent implant rejection. It was dangerous - without fully functioning 5' nanites, a Borg drone was vulnerable to virii and bacteria, as well as physical injury - but in this case the benefit outweighed the risk. Due to the degree of imposed quiescence, intestinal cells had regained sufficient function to transport simple compounds such as alcohol from intestine to bloodstream. However, the ability was temporary, and they would resume their DNA-reprogrammed mission of nanomachine factory once suppression was reversed.

The end result? Assimilation had been provided with the dubious ability to become drunk. Royally drunk, if necessary.

Assimilation lifted his free arm in preparation to link himself to the cafe computer and, thence, the GalacNet via a non firewalled portal.

"Drink," ordered Doctor.

"Wha?" mumbled Assimilation around the tube in his mouth.

"Drink. The beer has been loaded. We require confirmation that the antiChange procedure is effective. Of course, even if it doesn't work, you will still be engaging the brothers."

Assimilation dutifully sucked at the tube. A mouthful of beer was swallowed. He tried, and failed, not to grimace at the bitterness. As female, he could not recall taste bothering him, hence his ability to chug over-caffeinated energy drinks had been unmatched among the gamer community. Perhaps that had been one of the reasons why he had chosen to spend most of his pre-assimilation life as a she instead of a he.

Doctor canted his body-sac slightly, his species' equivalent of a tilted head, as he followed the output of multiple datastreams compounded by his hierarchy. "Excellent! The free prion concentration is already rising." A limb absently brushed against a tray of empty syringes, the contents of which had been injected during Assimilation's preparations. "The bile collected from 91 of 242 is working as posited. While it is known to increase alcohol absorption rate for species #7155 and species #10212, it appeared your base physio-chemistry to those races was sufficiently similar to act in an alike manner. Experimental, of course, but the prediction was correct. If anything, it is acting better than expected."

Indeed. Even on an empty stomach, a single mouthful of beer should not have initiated the slight buzzing sensation Assimilation could feel in the back of his head. And such an effect should not have occurred less than two minutes following consumption.

"More," commanded Doctor, hidden mouthparts emphasizing the order with a rasping sound even as a compulsion was applied.

More beer was swallowed. At a mental nod from the head of drone maintenance, Assimilation was finally permitted to connect to the station computer.

::What took you so long? We almost did not think you were going to show, which would have been highly disappointing to us and very fatal to you.::

The Deathmatch Arena portal was similar in layout to Universe of Warcraft, except instead of medieval fantasy decor, the motif was archetype space-fiction. The doors leading to various subrooms were of chrome and matte black metal; and scrolling displays utilizing jagged-edged fonts were in evidence. The weapons rack included not swords and staves, but energy rifles and rail-guns incapable of existing in a universe where the rules of physics were applicable.

Combat armor was an obvious supplement to the gamesite theme, and the avatars of GoTeam1 and GoTeam1Too did not disappoint. The former was in the form of a massive centauroid, four sturdy legs a stable platform par excellence for the colossal pair of arms to aim and fire the most oversized gun in the game. Conversely, GoTeam1Too was a lithe, eight-limbed creature with no obvious real-world counterpart, legs ending in wicked claws suitable for climbing, close-combat rending, or holding multiple small-caliber arms. Both brothers' heads were hidden beneath a helmet, mirrored visor preventing an outside observer from seeing beneath.

Glancing at his reflection in an over-chromed door, Assimilation found himself to be attired similar to his opponents. Beetle-carapace armor covered a humanoid biped form, topped with an all-enclosing helmet.

Floating discretely above the heads of all the players were userids. Assimilation could not help but noticing that the brothers had "GoTeam1" and "GoTeam1Too" as their names, a near impossibility considering the fierce competition by gamers to retain unique identity between sites. In contrast, Assimilation's login for his Deathmatch Arena account was "DangerGal760".

::How...how can you have the same...:: inquired Assimilation, one gauntleted hand pointing to the identifiers.

GoTeam1Too answered, smirk clearly visible in his voice, ::Cool, yes? Years ago when we declared our vendetta against you, we bought out, bribed, harassed, did everything necessary to get those names at all the sites. Brand recognition, ya know. There were a couple of hold-outs in the end, but after we borrowed one of Uncle Palod's hitsquads, well, it was easy to pick up the vacancies.::

::Enough,:: said GoTeam1 impatiently. ::I wanna kick your butt from one side of the arena to the other.:: The armored centaur reared slightly before kicking out with both back legs. ::It is time for the Ultimate Fight Of The Epoch<tm>. Our game, our rules. If you have a problem with that, we can blow you up now.::

Snickered GoTeam1Too, ::Boom! The daemons report you to be calling from the same station address, so you obviously didn't manage to escape. Too bad, so sad.::

Assimilation did not reply. The buzzing at the back of his head was growing. He felt it best to simply concentrate on keeping his avatar from swaying. On the upside, he was starting to feel eager for the contest, a bit more...girly.

GoTeam1 continued, ::The game will last an hour. Which ever side racks up the most kills, wins. Simple.:: Pause. ::Most kills against the opposite side, just to remind you, bro. If you screw this up, I'm telling Mum on you.:: Another pause. ::The arena is Death From Above (And Below), with the game AI spawning guns, munitions, and avatars in random locations. There will be observers, of course...can't tell the universe how we pwned the supposed best unless there are witnesses.::

::And the bookies are having a very good day, too. I just don't get why you are favored to win. Stupid odds.:: noted GoTeam1Too, adding an echoing raspberry sound to the end. All eight limbs scraped against the ground, digging furrows.

Assimilation mentally accessed a diagram of the specified Deathmatch Arena field. It had lots of hard-to-access platforms and vertical surfaces, as well as a central killing ground where a player thusly caught would be a prime target. The best strategy was to acquire a sniping perch as soon as possible, then move often lest a rocket propelled grenade or homing missile was let loose in response to a missed kill. Already, Assimilation could feel his mental processes speeding up in regards to the analyticals at which his female mode excelled. Unfortunately, it was increasingly becoming self-evident that the real-world infusion of beer - his distant body was regularly sipping and swallowing the beverage - was translating to a virtual-world impact to coordination. The latter was not obvious, yet, but there was a distinct possibility it might affect gameplay.

::Let's start! Once we are spawned, the game clock will begin.:: GoTeam1 mock bowed, one arm sweeping out to indicate the arena egress. "ACTIVE" was written in bold letters upon the door.

A twinge of apprehension caused Assimilation to delay, kyn sensibilities overriding emergent female enthusiasm. Jeering at the hesitation, the multi-limbed brothers began to 'encourage' him through the door with a series of not-so-friendly shoves. The arena door slid open, and Assimilation stumbled through....

....Only to find himself standing in the middle of the kill zone, weaponless and exposed to unfriendly fire. Metal cliffs punctuated with steep stairs and vertical climbing routes surrounded the middle of the arena. Even a mostly-male perspective could see the position was tactically unsound. Sighting upon the nearest sheltered nook, he stumbled into a ragged run.

A bullet kicked up sand as Assimilation rounded a wall. One of the GoTeam brothers had already attained, or been spawned into, a sniping position. Gun, he needed a gun. A small hand phaser was floating waist-high in the nook, but it took Assimilation several heartbeats to recognize its significance. He grabbed it: the weapon was puny, but better than nothing. Sucking in a deep breath to calm himself - in the distant real-world, he swallowed another mouthful of beer - he tried to think of a tactic, a strategy, anything. Unfortunately, his mind was blank. So, with no particular plan, Assimilation spun around the wall to face the killing ground, frantically searching for the ledge which might hold the sniper.

Assimilation thumped into the muzzle of a very large assault rifle held by GoTeam1. He froze.

The armored centauroid laughed. ::I rule! How could you have ever risen so high? What a noob maneuver!:: The business end of the gun shifted to aim at Assimilation's visor. The sound of a cannon exploded in his ears as the world shattered.

The world reformed. This time Assimilation found himself on a secluded ledge high above the arena floor, almost at the ceiling. A high-powered sniping rifle and a bandoleer of grenades met his eyes. No immediate danger threatened.

Claiming the munitions, Assimilation glanced over the edge of his platform. Far below, GoTeam1 was loitering under an overhang, head turning as he methodically panned the tunnels at, and just above, his level. Higher, the spindly, eight-legged form of GoTeam1Too flashed through the air from one mid-way ledge to another, the avatar an excellent climber and leaper. Once the pair had determined Assimilation had not spawned within easy access, they would begin to look upward. For the moment, however, he was relatively safe.

The alcohol must have been starting to work because instead of the rudimentary tactics and short-range planning which were a hallmark of male mode, Assimilation found himself contemplating potential choices which actually allowed him to survive more than five game seconds. Laying prone, he scooted himself to the edge of his ledge, carefully sighting along the length of his rifle. The muzzle shook slightly, his virtual self translating the decline in motor control his body was experiencing as beer infused his system. Still, GoTeam1 was a large target, even with his body partially hidden. The trigger was squeezed. The centaur dropped.

A small display upon one armored gauntlet flashed as the kill was recorded.

Assimilation did not wait to see the body vanish, instead shifting focus towards where he had last observed GoTeam1Too. The armored spider was not where expected, instead charging out of a tunnel one level up. Aim shifted quickly. Unfortunately, finger control was not as steady as desired. The shot missed. GoTeam1Too ducked backwards into cover. Swearing, Assimilation stood, ripped a grenade from the bandoleer and tossed it. Although the munition wobbled slightly in flight, it made it to its target. The bloom of fire from the tunnel entrance was spectacular.

Game score, as mirrored by the gauntlet, shifted "2" from "1" in favor of DangerGal760.

For the next fifteen minutes, Assimilation ruled the game. Although he died multiple times, death was a greater friend to his opponents. The beer-induced shakes were mild, annoying but easy to counter, particularly when using weapons such as a rocket launcher or the Deathmatch Arena version of the BFG for which the mere concept of aiming was ludicrous. Then, perhaps inevitably, it began to go wrong. Clarity and reflexes started to diminish, and the kill count between DangerGal760 and the GoTeam brothers subsequently narrowed.

{Status?} requested Assimilation as he hid deep in the shadow cast by the shallow wall ledge upon which he had spawned from his most recent death. He dared not move, lest he call attention to his weaponless self. Then again, it was only a matter of time before GoTeam1 walked grenades from his launcher along the niches, assuming GoTeam1Too did not simply espy him first. His thoughts, which had been moving fairly well, had frozen. All he could consciously contemplate was how the minimalist arena decor might be improved by the addition of spikes and wall torches.

{Your race is poorly designed in the fall-down, blind drunk department,} opinionated Doctor. {On the other hand, the species #9008 physiology explains much why it is in the top ten for winning at alcoholic drinking games.}

An explosion bloomed from a ledge on the opposite side of the arena, two levels down. It was followed by a second, then a third, each grenade closer to Assimilation's position. GoTeam1 had obviously given in to impatience. ::Come out, come out, where ever you are!:: shouted the centaur over the game chat channel.

Assimilation risked a peek at the arena floor. {I no longer have female mode thoughts! And there are still forty minutes of game to play! Status?!}

Replied Doctor clinically, {Species #9008 exhibits a gastrointestinal "pressure differential maximum" in regards to alcohol. In other words, blood alcohol concentration is limited by the alcoholic content of the substance in the gut: a Tagarian has a set level of drunkenness dependent upon the beverage being imbibed. And you have reached your saturation limit for beer. With achievement of a steady state, no "new" alcohol is entering your system and the prions are adapting. The gender differential hormone is recorrupting to male mode. To maintain an acceptable level of nyk neurological patterning, you need more alcohol. You need to become more drunk.

{Therefore, we are swapping the beer to...what selection, 54 of 550?}

54 of 550, ex-bartender assigned to assist drone maintenance for the duration of the emergency, gruffly said, {Tarelian red wine. Fortified. Has a strong kick. Tastes like a scintillating combination of targ piss and targ vomit.}

Before Assimilation could offer comment, his world transformed into a wash of red and oranges, accompanied by an ear-numbing blast.

Respawn.

In the distant real-world, Assimilation forced his body to suck on the tube. After a few seconds of beer, the taste radically altered. 54 of 550 had neglected to mention the sharp undertones of burnt pine resin. However, as promised, it did have a kick. Male mode thoughts retreated, to be replaced by a stronger than before sense of femininity...as well as a perceptible stagger when his DangerGal760 avatar was in motion.

::Now you've annoyed *hic* me. I am coming to get you!:: shouted Assimilation belatedly to the GoTeam brothers.

::Bring it on!::

Assimilation brought it on. His kill-to-death ratio crept upward again, but it might have been even higher had his aim been better. Unfortunately, game feats he recalled as easy when he was a she, such as strafing a target while leaping ledge to ledge, seemed terribly hard; and when he missed his landing, thereby slamming into a wall, his opponents were quick to take advantage.

::Are you on frickin' drugs, or something?:: inquired GoTeam1 following a particularly spectacular misjudgment that ended in an accidental self-kill involving ground, head, and rocket launcher. ::The gateway shows your connection speed to be optimal, so it surely can't be lag.::

Unfortunately, as with the beer, there came a point the fortified wine was no longer effective in keeping the prions at bay. Reflexes (even impaired by inebriation, they were still better than straight male mode) slowed, matched by a decreasing ability to make split-second tactical decisions. Thirty minutes of Deathmatch Arena remained.

{Your neurology is shifting to less desirable qualities, again,} notified Doctor to Assimilation. {No worries. 54 of 550 will have some cocktails for you shortly. Correct?} The latter was directed at the bartender.

54 of 550 grumbled, {I'm making the cocktail as quickly as I can. It is my own recipe, devised when I mixed drinks for royalty. I call it "Imperial Sunrise". However, one does not usually make this concoction in large batches, and the little umbrellas keep getting caught in the blender.} Distant ears reported the muffled sound of a mixer on puree. The next words were directed at Assimilation. {The drink should be smooth on the palate, but if you find any crunchy, woody bits, I suggest chewing.}

A delightfully light citrus mint filled Assimilation's being, a transcendent taste that faded to mere memory as female mode neurology once more became ascendant.

The Deathmatch Arena challenge continued.

For unknown reason that Assimilation ascribed to blatant cheating, the GoTeam brothers seemed to have acquired doubles of themselves. The doubles were not always discernible, but the more Assimilation sipped at the Imperial Sunrise, the more often they appeared. He dared not point out the irregularity, lest the twins decide to use the protests as an excuse to blow up the station, but he did loudly argue (several times) with the game computer that it should at least register a double-kill to his point count when GoTeam1 or GoTeam1Too were killed during those times their doppelgangers were present.

::You are on drugs! And not the good kind, neither,:: criticized GoTeam1 following a particularly vehement one-sided exchange. Assimilation responded by falling off the ledge he was tottering on.

Damn it! Now the computer was moving arena bits and pieces around, too! How the hell was a body supposed to have a chance at winning?

The paranoid thoughts retreated as the prions adapted to the level of blood alcohol achievable via cocktails. However, they resumed with a vengeance as the drink selection was substituted for a high octane, triple-distilled whiskey-like malt beverage.

{There are still ten minutes to the game. The prions are adapting quicker. The only way we can maintain the current neurological profile is if the patient's blood was completely replaced with ethanol; and while that particular experiment might prove to be highly interesting, the side-effect would be termination. The alcohol content of your most recent selection will last five minutes, at most.}

{No worries,} replied 54 of 550 to Doctor. For Assimilation, the voices were nearly lost in his mental haze. {I've a secret weapon yet left to deploy.}

{You mean those bottles of clear liquid pulled from behind the bulkheads within the hub hanger area.} Strong disapproval flavored the words. {That stuff-}

{Is rotgut moonshine distilled from rocket fuel, maybe a few weeks old and at the peak of its potency. I've flavored it with a twist of lemon and a dash of pepper. It'll grow hair out of places not meant to have hair if imbibed by a species which does not express hair.}

{That idiom makes absolutely no sense, but I/we understand. If necessary, it will be used, even if the ultimate survival index of the subject is 47.3%.} A brief pause was followed by an injection of eagerness to Doctor's intranet voice. {On the positive side, models predict he should last long enough to complete the game successfully, allowing us to escape. The Collective will not be deprived of my acumen and ability.}

A background chorus of disillusionary {Yipee}s followed the pronouncement.

Assimilation concentrated on his game. Most of the rifles and pistols had developed an extreme gyroscopic instability which made precision aiming impossible. However, he had found not one, but two BFGs, and was wielding them one in each hand. Menacing matte black with sleek barrels, blinking lights, and knobby projections, the game designers had lavished much love upon the design. Best of all, a fully automatic BFG pointed in the general vicinity of the target would shoot over a dozen rounds a second. 'Aiming' was unnecessary. They would be lost upon his next respawn, but until then, Assimilation was invincible!

Even if GoTeam1 and his brother were now triplet doppelgangers. Six on one? Assimilation would show 'em all!

::Shwhee!:: cried Assimilation into the chat channel, appending a giggle to the end. Then he saw motion at the edge of perception. Twirling, he shot it. Unfortunately, the movement had been his shadow; and the backwash of double-fisted BFG immolated his avatar in a roiling cloud of friendly nuclear fire.

F**k this! The GoTeam twins had hacked into the game such that even the environment, his shadow, was against him! No matter, he would prevail! For the Collective!

Assimilation never noticed the change in taste signifying substitution of rocket fuel distillate for whiskey. He did notice when the virtual lights went out, returning moments later with a change in scenery from arena to themed portal.

Pronounced the Deathmatch Arena computer, <<Final score: DangerGal760 at 155 kills; GoTeam1 and GoTeam1Too combined at 149 kills. Self-kills and friendly fire kills are not included. Winner of this challenge is DangerGal760.>>

Disorientated, Assimilation only registered that the enemy was standing directly in front of him. He raised an arm in preparation to fire his weapon point-blank, then blinked in confusion as he realized that the gun was gone. Suddenly, the situation seemed quite...funny. Or as funny as drunken Borg sensibilities allowed.

::You *hic* stole my pis...pis...:: The partial word elicited a giggle. The sentence was attempted again. ::You stole my gun. No fair!:: Assimilation swayed back and forth. He looked down at his hands, still positioned as if holding weapons, and found them to be exceedingly interesting.

Even without visible eyes, it was obvious via the body language of the multi-limbed avatars that the twins were staring with disbelief at their opponent.

Said GoTeam1, stating what was now very, very obvious, ::You are piss-faced drunk!::

::More than piss-faced,:: opinionated GoTeam1Too. Spider legs lifted and set down one at a time in sequence. ::I don't know what that is, but it is worse than fat Uncle Pilby during the wedding last year. A lot worse, and he was trying to do a strip tease on the table in the middle of dinner. I still have psychological scars from that one.::

::As do I, bro, as do I.::

Something, or, rather, multiple someones, mentally nudged Assimilation. He concentrated, finally understanding (and remembering) the gist of the prodding. ::Shwhee! I win! We win! We are the number one best! You will let us go now!:: Pause. ::Shwhee!!::

Battle-suited centaur and spider peered at each other's visors. ::What do you think?:: asked GoTeam1 to GoTeam1Too seriously. The stare continued for several heartbeats before a rising tide of throaty guffaws indicated the two to be laughing.

::That's funny!:: said GoTeam1Too. ::I think punishment is required. Of course, we knew that what going to happen regardless of the game outcome, but I believe she actually deserves it!::

Gushed GoTeam1, ::I could not have said it better!::

The avatars turned to regard Assimilation, her bipedal form reflected in their visors.

Somewhere not-so-distant, alarms began to sound. The sirens impacted his real ears, as well as were telegraphed via his dataspace connection. Even through his drunken condition, Assimilation knew that the station core had just been pushed into overload. Adrenaline analogues surged; and while they could not banish the haze, the triplet doppelgangers consolidated to singleton twins.

::But...but,:: stuttered Assimilation, expressing not only his disbelief, but channeling that of the sub-collective, ::you said that if I played, win or lose, you would release the station.::

The spider waved a limb at Assimilation's avatar. ::We lied.::

GoTeam1 nodded sagely. ::We very much lied. What should we care about some stinking station thousands of light years away, filled with people that mean nothing to us? This was all about you, and us. Even if we won, and especially if we lost, the universe would know that you were still around. We cannot be the best if others are always comparing us to you. Best to get rid of you. This is the game-verse: if you don't put in the facetime, your aura eventually fades.::

::Besides, you disrespected us,:: continued GoTeam1. ::There was that disrespect way back when we asked to be teammates, but there is also the fact that you played us drunk. It's like you regarded us so little that you decided you could chug the brews. You were not playing at your best. Maybe if you were, then we might have reconsidered this whole explosion thing.::

::But probably not,:: said GoTeam1Too. The spider avatar minced about on its eight legs. ::I worked too long on these daemon programs, and I really, really want to see them in action!::

{The power surge is redlining. I am leaving,} said Doctor. {We can bring you with us, or you can stay here and become one with the fireball.}

Assimilation hastily logged off, allowing the Deathmatch Arena portal to fade. He left behind the brothers, both whom had begun laughing so hard that their respective avatars had fallen to the ground to roll about, multiple limbs kicking in the air. He ripped assimilation tubules from the cafe computer access.

"Shtop movin' so much. You're gonna make me sick," complained Assimilation to Doctor as the latter waved a pair of limbs holding diagnostic devices.

Ignoring the slurred admonishment, Doctor spoke to his assistants, "It seems this unit will survive the degree of alcohol poisoning currently underway. Species #9008 can definitely hold its liquor. This opens up interesting...possibilities." Pause. "Given Assimilation will not terminate in the immediate future, I suppose we have to take him with us."

Assimilation attempted one more pull upon the tube in his mouth, but was denied as the mutilated beer hat was pulled off his head and discarded. All drones within the GalacNet cafe (and those still upon the station engaged in last minute shopping) were summarily caught up in a transporter beam.

Engineering hierarchy had not been idle during the game, nor the six hours leading up to it. Multiple attempts had been made to defuse the core or cause the tractor beams to release, but species #9416 paranoia, their penchant for booby traps, and the disorientating corridor and room maze outside of the tourist/alien zones had made the effort highly dangerous. Previously, the Collective had secured the power grid and other major systems - those very systems which the GoTeam brothers had attacked - via dataspace onslaught, thereby side-stepping physical hazard to focus on the biologicals. That pathway was no longer viable, the twins' programs scrambling the controller programs into digital pig latin. Given time, and the resources of the Whole, the problem was surmountable. Unfortunately, the latter was not forthcoming due to the Greater Consciousness' admittedly understandable desire to keep the majority of itself separate from its imperfect, yet still useful, portion; and of the former, the countdown had reached zero.

In the end, the efforts of the sub-collective had been for naught.

Thrusters on the side of Cube #238 facing the station flared against the darkness of space, only to be subsequently extinguished as impulse engines engaged. Station tractor beams, even deployed en masse, while sufficient to keep the Borg Lugger-class cube from drifting, were woefully inadequate to prevent it from leaving. Cube #238 backed away; and as it did so, tractor emitters overloaded one after another, showering the surface of the station in fountains of plasma and sparks.

A vessel as large as a Lugger-class cube has a lot of inertia: it takes time, and energy, to change direction, come to a stop, and, most importantly in this instance, start from a stationary position. Lest the station be inadvertently dragged into subspace during the transition, Cube #238 needed to gain several cube-lengths - fifty kilometers! - before slipping into any FTL flavor. Escape was not assisted by the fact that several tractor beams stubbornly refused to disengage long beyond the point they should have melted due to the strain. Cube #238 was trying to tow dead weight that massed a decent proportion of its own bulk.

Neuruptors lanced from Cube #238, striking the tenacious emitters. Fire blossomed on the surface of the station. The cube, finally, began to increase the distance between itself and its very large albatross.

One kilometer. Two kilometers. Five. Ten. Twenty kilometers....

It was not enough.

As if in mockery of the small damages to its hull, the station crumpled in on itself before exploding outward in a rush of hellish energies, boiling gasses, and debris. The fireball spread outward, faster than Cube #238 could accelerate. Striking the cube, the shockwave was held at bay for nearly twenty seconds, an subjective eternity, before overloading shields (which, admittedly, were not quite as advertised in strength due to the imperfect nature of the sub-collective). Several meters of ablative armor on the face taking the brunt of the blast evaporated.

Then, it was over. The wavefront passed the cube, continuing into the space and dispersion. Cube #238 had survived with what was, in reality, a mere singe, particularly when considered on the size scale of a Lugger-class.

The Greater Consciousness was immediately aware of what had occurred. To not be aware would have meant a serious breakdown in Borg self-communications. Perhaps that might have been better. The emotion (what a small word!) radiating from the Whole in regards to its imperfect part was not anger, not annoyance, not pique. At best, it might have been described as bemused exasperation: the sub-collective had simply been tasked to baby-sit the station for a few cycles. In hindsight, perhaps the Whole should not have indicated success to be defined as not blowing up the station.

Figuratively shaking its head, the Greater Consciousness ordered Cube #238 to resume its cargo delivery schedule. There was always the chance that the salvage detail would find something not disintegrated or immolated.

Although background processes automatically tracked all which might affect him as a unit of his sub-collective, Assimilation never consciously registered the fiery drama, nor subsequent Collective vexation. Instead, much more important considerations beckoned.

"You gave me two righ' hands! Admit it!" accused Assimilation. He had managed to free the aforementioned limb from its bindings and was holding it up in front of his face. The new hand moved in perfect harmony with the original. "You did it when I was...when I was...when...." He trailed off. For unknown reason, the flawless memory implanted in all Borg drones shortly following assimilation was failing him. Recent memes were scrambled. Diagnostics, previously suppressed, were screaming of dangerous levels of alcohol circulating in his system. "No matter! You attached 'nother hand t' me!"

Doctor ground his mouthparts and huffed the full body-sac sigh of the long-suffering. "We shall just have to remove it then, yes?"

The last thing Assimilation registered was {Drone maintenance override, target unit 18 of 18 - initiate immediate regeneration. Comply.}

Assimilation slit open her eyes. Squinting against the light (too bright!), she leaned forward slightly to glance down first right, then left. Most of her torso armor was removed and a tangle of tubes perforated her abdomen. The semi-transparent conduits on the right side of her body conveyed blood to a quietly humming machine out of immediate visual range, while those on the left returned the fluid to her system. Seeing all was as it had been last time she had performed a self-inspection, and given diagnostics remained quiet, she leaned her head back against the rear of the drone maintenance bay alcove and closed her eyes.

If only there was a way to counteract the throbbing headache. Unfortunately, the drug used to moderate her symptoms of inebriation were the cause of the headache. Until the filtering process was complete, the drug would be in her system; and because the pain center of her species could not be fully disengaged, she was forced to suffer the long, drawn-out migraine.

At least Assimilation was feeling like a 'she' again, not a 'he'.

Following flight from the exploding station, drone maintenance had contemplated the problem of correcting Assimilation's gender issue. Doctor had provided primary input due to the experimental nature of the task, although engineering hierarchy had assisted as well. After all, someone(s) had to actually build the machine. After several designs (of which one had been consigned to the 'Very Dangerous - Keep Out, This Means You, No Exceptions' file), a device had been adapted utilizing the concept of kidney dialysis.

Alcohol was diffused at an appropriate rate into Assimilation's blood via the machine, not imbibition. As the blood thence circulated through her body, elevated alcohol levels disengaged prions from the gender differential hormone. Before they could reaffix, they were filtered from the blood stream amid a whir of centrifuges and electromagnetic fields. Because of the bulky nature of the machine and the need for continuous observation lest a spring go *SPRONG* at the wrong moment, the procedure had to be accomplished under the direct auspices of drone maintenance, hence Assimilation's current incarceration in a maintenance bay. As much as Assimilation would prefer to be in her own alcove, she liked the prospect of accidental exsanguination even less.

Doctor estimated three cycles to remove prions, requiring an elevated alcohol level the entire time, and another cycle to confirm decontamination. Not one prion could remain, else risk initiation of a new cascade of gender confusion.

The headache, unfortunately, was expected to linger following Assimilation's disconnection from the mechanism. Time was required for reactivated 5' nanites, most functions disabled during the filtering process, to break down alcohol and inebriation drug from her system. The exact period of post-procedure suffering was unknown, but Doctor was confident it would not last more than two cycles.

Without anything to do - engaging any but the most basic dataspace or intranet function exasperated the headache - Assimilation was forced to keep to her own thoughts. It was boring, yes, but all Borg drones were conversant with boring. To counteract the tediousness of staring at the inside of her eyelids, Assimilation was in the midst of devising ever more elaborate scenarios entailing a future confrontation between herself and the GoTeam twins. Her next GalacNet gaming prospect was, as always, an unknown, but when she did manufacture the opportunity, the brothers would be forced to acknowledge whom was truly the best gamer in the galaxy.

Shwhee.

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