Within the Game, Paramount has scored a Star Trek touchdown. On another field of play, the winning three-point jump shot was made by team Decker's star player Star Traks. Meanwhile, BorgSpace of the Meneks' foundation has made a goooooooooal.

Bloodsport

Engineer mentally glowered at the schematic of Cube #238. Within his mindspace floated a vast more-than-three-dimensional blueprint of the vessel. Using a complex symbol library upon which was superimposed gradations of color and hue intensity, engineering priorities were differentiated. To focus upon any one task would cause the associated file to expand, listing current status and drone designations (if any) assigned to it. Some of the tasks, such as the plugged drain in Supply Closet #37 - why the cube, and its garment-less drones, had a laundry room, much less one prone to a multitude of breakdowns, was beyond Engineer's ken - were chronic affairs which rarely impeded the sub-collective's overall efficiency, and as such could usually be ignored. Then there were the Monsters, the grand slavering Beasts confronting the engineering hierarchy, which had to be fixed, one way or another.

'Or another' definitely seemed to be the phrase echoing about the dataspaces as of late, at least in the case of the most recent Monstrous Beast to raise its ugly head.

The tunnel burrowed through subsection 14, submatrix 19 (and 10, 11, AND 14) during the Brianiac episode was a persistent engineering headache. The damage did not impede either propulsion or aspects of cargo hauling, so, strictly speaking, it was not of highest concern. It was, however, a great gash through the middle of Engineer's mental visualization, one which was impossible to ignore.

In the last month, progress had been made toward repairing the injury. Dry-dock facilities were scheduled at the end of Cube #238's duty cycle, the last portage to be at a major Collective cross-roads. At that time, the Lugger-class would undergo an extensive overhaul to repair its current litany of abuses. Such was not good enough for Engineer, who vowed to have the tunnel completely refurbished before then.

As a child, Engineer had been of the type to poke a bruise to see if it still hurt or tongue a soon-to-fall-out milk-tooth to insure it continued to wiggle. There were some things he just could not leave alone. The personality trait had translated well to his circusmaster career; and continued to serve him as Engineer, even if some units of his hierarchy would have preferred to let noncritical Monsters lie asleep.

The schematic (and associated datastreams of drones assigned to the Brainiac project) was finally dismissed as insufficient. Engineer required a personal inspection. As with the circus, when the boss was on-site, efficiency measurably improved. Opening eye and sending power to ocular prosthetic, Engineer stepped from his alcove.

And into the remains of a party.

Engineer looked down as his foot when *squoosh*.

{Assimilation! I tol' ye t' make sure ye cleaned oop af'er ye little celebration!} shouted Engineer into the intranets. Both Assimilation and Weapons had recently been informed by the Greater Consciousness that their designations were now the permanent heads of their respective hierarchies. Whereas Weapons had equably acknowledged the proclamation and continued his normal duties, Assimilation had decided the notice to be an excuse to party. Or, at least, utilize water balloons in a real-universe version of one of her stupid games. As only to be expected, the substances filling the projectiles had not been limited to water.

{Huh?} The response was a bit...fuzzy; and the intranet subcontext was definitely one of peevish confusion. One might suspect a hangover, except that Borg did not get hangovers. Assimilation was registering to be in her alcove, with a subscript adjacent her current status noting diagnosis by drone maintenance of mild concussion and something labeled as 'Cheeze Whiz Ear'. A longer than normal regenerative session had been prescribed. {Wha?}

{I told ye t' keep yer festivity clean!}

{It's only, um, strawberry pudding. I think,} slurred Assimilation, her thoughtstreams drifting in and out of coherence. {It won't stain. Unless it isn't strawberry pudding....} The voice trailed off into nothingness as the computer, under orders from drone maintenance, forced the new permanent assimilation hierarchy head back into deep regeneration.

Engineer looked down at his foot, then shook it. Chunks of bright pink something splattered on the wall. He sighed. The color clashed with his chassis paint scheme. Priorities, priorities, priorities. His new priority was now to wash the junk off, using whatever solvents necessary; and, then, suitably presentable, he would inspect the renovation project.

*****

The Milky Way galaxy is a big place. Even the most cosmopolitan and heavily populated regions include vast volumes of space no ship has ever ventured and stars considered too insignificant, too boring to visit. Therefore, the announcement by a Second Federation backed resource exploration consortium that it had discovered a previously unknown civilization on the rimward edge of the Beta Quadrant near its nebulous boundary with the Delta Quadrant was met by the societal equivalent of a yawn.

The newly encountered race - Stolarian - were best described as high-tech narcissist homebodies. Perhaps the ancient race had never felt the need to expand beyond its own stellar heliopause, else it had done so once-upon-a-time and had long since abandoned all its colonies. Whatever the truth, the reality of the now was of a people largely content to stay home. Such was not to say that the decadent Stolarians were xenophobic or lacked the technology (or will) to brave the galactic wilds - far from it - but the general racial attitude was that things were just-dandy-here-thank-you-very-much.

Even as the majority of Stolarians were comfortable to maintain their inward-looking, self-indulgent perspective, there were a handful of individuals curious about the offerings of the larger galaxy. The most pro-active speculators were also obscenely rich. The Stolarian system was awash in exotic ores, minerals, and gasses, the signatures of which had first attracted the attention of the exploration consortium's vessel. Observing that the rest of the galaxy coveted their natural wealth, certain Stolarian corporations had quickly retooled equipment or expanded existing production in order to offer the goods to the galactic markets. A number of high-end drugs, spices, fabrics, and foodstuffs were also found to have eager customers. A savvy race, restrictive quotas were emplaced to ensure that demand (and prices) remained high; and a swarm of small, yet highly effective robotic 'border agents' were woken from long-term storage to dissuade opportunistic 'entrepreneurs' from thinking the system (or race) to be easy pickings.

Acting upon a whim, a Stolarian syndicate consisting of the dozen richest of the rich contracted Green Borg for a multi-year pleasure cruise whereupon the delicacies and decadences (and whatever else caught the fancy) of the galaxy could be sampled. Surely there was a plethora of new and interesting diversions to be discovered, wondrous vanities and sins undreamt of even by the greatest Lotus Masters! Accompanying the syndicate heads were family and friends, as well as a gaggle of uninvited (but welcome) professional party-crashers and a trio of college students whom had accidentally boarded the wrong transfer shuttle.

At a little over a Stolarian year into the cruise, the interest of the participants had shifted to bloodsport. To this end, Green had recruited fifty professional gladiators - more or less...the numbers tended to fluctuate depending upon death-rate and swiftness of securing replacements - to battle dangerous beasts, each other, and not-always-willing champions among the galaxy's races. Animals were set upon each other, rarity no object to acquisition. Stolarians were intimately familiar with bloodsport, the gladiatorial game and its variants considered such a high Art that it was a mandatory inclusion to the educational curriculum. However, as any connoisseur knows, there are many gradations within the spectrum between 'merely adequate' and 'truly excellent'. Therefore, the focus of the season was upon sampling the goriest wares the galaxy had to offer, then, during mealtime over food and libation and drug, discuss the most recent contests and compare them to the grandest Games in the homeworld's history.

It was all very, very civilized.

The question had recently arisen how Borg would fare in the arena. Green drones, whom acted as cruise stewards catering to every whim, were a constant background presence. Then there were the occasionally glimpsed Red, subcontracted by Green to serve as extra muscle, tactical units of which were bristling with weaponry - a truly impressive sight. It was inexorable that speculation would occur concerning Borg versus beast, Borg versus a favorite gladiator, and, particularly, Borg versus Borg.

Even as Green was faced with the 'the customer is always right' mantra once the inevitable proposed addition to the gladiatorial schedule was requested, it was unwilling to risk its own resources. Despite its fearsome reputation, Red also refused to sacrifice its drones where 'client enjoyment' was the outcome, a result not considered to return a tangible gain towards Perfection for its Mind; and tentative queries sent to other Colors garnered similar replies. Finally, amidst much pouting, Green announced that a solution had been devised. Unfortunately, time was required to arrange for it; and, in the meanwhile, a brand-new agenda emphasizing audience participation (all the thrill and none of the pain...for the cruisee!) was to be offered.

*****

Prime awoke. She had barely registered the fact that she was in her alcove and the background Collective link was white noise when cube loudspeakers spat forth an echoing pronouncement: "All drones will assemble in Interior Cargo Hold #7 in ten minutes, whereupon further instructions will be provided. Those units whom are tardy or attempt resistance will be hunted down and involuntarily transported."

"There will be compliance? Yes? No? Maybe? The first option is the only choice, really. You will ensure all follow it." On the tier directly in front of Prime was a short drone of Ferrengi origin. If the intruder stood upon tiptoe, the top of his head might reach her mid-torso. Maybe. However, stature of the drone was irrelevant because he was backed by a quartet of burly units of the no-neck variety, confident in their armor and weapons (the latter of which was aimed unwavering at Prime) to keep their charge safe from a lone Flarn. "My designation is of no concern as you are unlikely to see me again. What is important is that I represent Green; and my comrades here are scions of Red. You will find only minor modifications have been made to secure your cube, not that such is really necessary because if you twitch wrong, Red has a pair of Battle-class cubes within optimal firing range. Therefore, resist if you like, but the outcome will be messy. For you. And, most importantly, there will be no profit." There was a pause. "But, you, this overly tall consensus monitor and facilitator type before me, have the ability to ensure no 'accidents' occur, no tokens of resistance which could escalate to undesirable consequences for all. Tell this sub-collective to comply quietly, and in less than ten cycles all will be let free to go your own way. Admittedly, there is a very strong possibility that fatalities will be involved at some point, but all remains will be returned for recycling.

"So, will there be compliance? Yes? No? Maybe?"

Prime was silent as she glared down at the Green drone. The Reds were ignored, focus instead upon the true threat. Compiled cube status diagnostics noted the fading effects of a directed dampening field; and, the link to the Collective had been severed due to transmutation pulse. Both were standard indications of a Borg versus Borg ambush. Additional highlights of the diagnostic litany included a blatant software worm leached upon loudspeaker algorithms and shielding emplaced around cube locator beacons, the latter effectively muting the automatic "Here I Am" pings used by the Collective to passively monitor its ship resources. Other than that - and the several hundred Red drones in the visuals of Cube #238's units - cube infrastructure and dataspaces appeared to remain inviolate.

Perhaps the attack was not the classic tactic it had first seemed. One would at least expect a demand for the payload manifest, if not a forced foray into the dataspaces to find it, so as to know where the choicest cargo was located.

A datastream from the sensory hierarchy signaled need for attention. Prime shifted part of her focus, expanding the awareness of the sub-collective whole to include the new datum. Cube #238 was in the system of a feeble brown dwarf, a mere 11.3 light years from its previous route of travel. On opposing sides of the cube were the aforementioned pair of Red Battle-class cubes, while out of the immediate danger zone should lethal fireworks occur was a presumed Green Exploratory-class. Partially hidden in the sensor shadow of the latter was a vessel of unfamiliar design, made small by its proximity to the cubes, but nonetheless quite substantial if considered against non-Borg ships. It appeared as if the species-owner (or the designer) had a too-great appreciation for the use of spheres, yet the final effect was nonetheless oddly majestic, not ponderous.

Simultaneous to the glare and the datastream assessments, a consensus cascade was in progress. Of greatest importance was the severance to the Collective and the silencing of the locator beacon. Despite the fact that Cube #238 was a galactic equivalent of a gnat's whisker from its course, the Greater Consciousness would have no knowledge of where its errant resource had vanished nor its status. And, given the importance of the imperfect sub-collective to the Whole, it was unlikely the Collective would expend more than a token effort to locate its wayward drones. Given the long history of imperfection within the Collective, the most likely circumstance defining the disappearance (from the point of view of the Greater Consciousness) was one which included initiation of a misadventure on the part of the sub-collective itself, with the further assumption that Lugger-class Cube #238 would eventually reappear, or not. Therefore, it was the duty of the sub-collective to remain operative as long as possible, looking for avenues of escape, should any be presented, due to the very likely scenario that rescue would not be forthcoming. Top priorities of any detained sub-collective were to retain integrity of drones, cube, and cargo...although not necessarily in that order.

The consensus cascade drew to a conclusion. As the outcome was codified, Prime secured propulsion, weaponry, and other critical systems to a key responsive only to the Hierarchy of Five. Then she girded her own mental resources: full mobility of all drone units was a scenario she dreaded given the neuroses, compulsions, and other mental defects which so plagued an imperfect sub-collective and which were most prominent when individuals were free of their alcoves.

"There will be compliance," rumbled Prime, an unvoiced 'for now' understood by all parties present. Umbilicals were disengaged and the primary consensus monitor of Cube #238 began to exit her alcove. The theatrics of the moment would have been perfect, except for the bungee cords still in place across torso and thighs, a necessary precaution against an inadvertent trip over the unsafety rail should subspace turbulence be encountered, alcove clamps insufficient to keep the Flarn in place. Therefore, the movement was abruptly checked, leaving Prime to awkwardly crane her head and glower at the offending obstacle. Fortunately, not only was blushing irrelevant to a Borg, but Flarn physiology disallowed display of the biological sign of mammalian embarrassment.

To the tier on either side of Prime, drones left their alcoves; and the shaft echoed with the metallic sound of disengaging clamps and foot upon metal. Prime was finally able to untangle herself so as to join her comrades. While the Green drone backed away to provide space, the Red units moved not at all except to shift the aim of their disruptor limbs to follow their target.

"You now have seven minutes to assemble. I do suggest haste," said the Green before he vanished in a transporter beam, followed (reluctantly) by his Red compatriots.

Glancing to the right and left, and feeling the expectant pressure within her head, Prime began to give instructions, to become the nexus of an organism with three thousand heads, to rein too many divergent viewpoints in one general direction. {All hierarchy heads, get your hierarchies moving! Reserve and 1 of 5, assist Engineer. 4 of 5, you have personal domain over 210 of 242 and 88 of 185: if either even appears to be stepping out of place, shut 'em down and damn the consequences. We do not need an incident like the last time the pair of them were conscious and mobile at the same time. And as far as guarding against any inopportune "moments" of 134 of 185....}

The drones of Cube #238 stood in neat rows in Interior Cargo Hold #7. Mostly. Each hierarchy was separated into its own block, and while those of a tactical persuasion exhibited crisp lines, others, such as sensors, were much more slipshod. And despite the fact the deadline to assemble had passed twenty minutes ago, Red was still hunting down the few that refused to comply. Inevitably the defiance was not from a desire to resist the Colored invaders, but because a unit was so deeply engrossed in a personal project that he/she/it could not be bothered to be dislodged by something so minor as a compulsion by the consensus monitor or the menacing prod of a Red neuruptor.

Finally every wayward drone had been found and marched (or carried) to the assembly area.

In front of the quietly awaiting crowd - outwardly quiet...internal conversations and speculation were myriad - a platform had been erected. Upon it, perched on chairs that looked like padded barstools with back support, were eighteen persons of an unknown race. Although bodies were obscured with flowing robes, as the individuals talked to each other, a process that included many graceful gestures, it became obvious that limbs and torso were long, even willowy; and estimated average height, should one stand, would be 2.4 meters. The difference between genders, if more than one was present, was not evident. The head was somewhat unusual in that it resembled an upside down pyramid, skinny point at the neck with skull widening to a flat top. There were four eyes (two at the 'traditional' binocular location, and two at the sides of the head to allow excellent peripheral vision); a flattened slit of a nose; and a small mouth that opened vertically to present a set of sharp, triangular teeth. The jaws of three individuals shifted back and forth in a motion associated with chewing gum, showcasing the presence of massive muscles at the side of the head. There were no external ears; and except for a brownish fuzz upon neck and flattened pate, the yellowish epidermis was hairless.

A Green drone, the same one whom had confronted Prime, mounted the stairs set along one side of the platform and took a position forward-center facing the Cube #238 sub-collective. Conversation amongst the bar-stooled audience ceased, replaced with an expectant watchfulness. The Green sucked in a deep breath before bellowing, "Can all hear me?" The overloud voice echoed into the far recesses of the cargo hold even as members of the willowy race winced at the excessive noise. A ghost of a frown passed over the Green's features, followed by "Is this better?" at a more moderate volume. It apparently was, for without awaiting reply, the drone immediately launching into speech.

"Welcome! Let us start by considering the following humorous scenario: a duck, a Bajoran, and a very short Klingon walk into a bar. The barman sees the trio and hurries over to take the order. He cannot help but notice the unusual composition of the trio and asks...." The nascent joke, delivered in the standard Borg monotone, trailed away. A series of almost expressions flittered across the drone's face: one was unsure what was happening, but it likely involved the Green Greater Consciousness 'reminding' its unit that bad jokes were irrelevant. Finally the drone was allowed to resume speaking, pronunciation much more stilted than before.

"Units of Collective Borg Lugger-class Cube #238, we know your imperfect status: you have been specifically brought here to participate in a series of gladiatorial contests. Our clients, representatives of which are upon this platform with this unit, will select one hundred champions from your ranks. You cannot decline. Once all games are complete, drones will be returned to this vessel - both living and as many pieces as recoverable of the deceased - and the sub-collective freed to resume its current task. No more than ten cycles are expected to be needed. While communication between sub-collective members will be allowed, a link to your Collective is not permitted. Resistance is intolerable and will be met with an appropriate degree of force. If a champion is terminated before or during combat, the body will be repatriated and a replacement chosen.

"There is no 'easy way' or 'hard way', only one way, Our Way, and it is not voluntary. That is how it will be."

And that is how it was.

One by one, the berobed persons upon the platform fluttered fingers or causally flourished a hand, often displaying the flash of metallic jewelry. Obviously the gestures had meaning, for the movement was always followed by the bustling menace of a trio of Red guards moving amongst the assembled sub-collective to cut out a single drone. That unit would then be roughly guided away to stand with other 'champions', whereupon an awaiting Green with the air of drone maintenance would size up the selectee, choose a high-tech collar from a bin of similar objects, then close it around the subject's neck.

In the end, the majority of the drones separated from the sub-collective were from weapons hierarchy, as to be expected given the gladiatorial aspect of the games to come. Physically imposing units like Prime, whose naturally armored form literally towered head and shoulders above the crowd, were also among the hundred cybernetic champions. However, in an unexpected twist, included were a handful of drones of a decidedly non-martial bent, such as Engineer.

A new Green drone, not one espied previously, bustled its way to the awaiting century of Borg champions, stopping before Prime. For unknown reasons it was holding a clipboard, upon which was a sheaf of papers covered with dense writing and a myriad of complicated tables. There was also a whistle around its neck. It craned its head back to look upwards at the Flarn. "Excellent. My designation is 16 of 4312, and I will be your games coordinator. All participants have been sorted. You may dismiss the rest of your sub-collective to do whatever, as long as that whatever does not include resistance. For you and your comrades, however, the games will begin in an hour. Before then, you are to be transported to the arena sub-pits for further instruction. Alcoves will be provided for regeneration during your stay. Any questions?" The query was rhetorical, and no answer was expected. "Good. Expect beam out in three minutes."

*****

Engineer squinted and lifted a hand to shield himself from the light of the overly bright sun set against a painfully blue sky. He turned in a slow circle. Sand. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was a sea of sand, stretching to the distant horizon. Like the great majority of Borg drones, he did not like sand: the gritty particles inevitably lodged in the smallest crevice and beneath body suit, causing discomfort and, in the worst cases, an unholy rash.

All natural senses were insisting to Engineer that he had been transported to a hellish desert world, a land lacking in shade or water, perhaps even life. Well, almost all senses...despite the promise of brain-boiling heat, the temperature remained a comfortable, if cool compared to BorgStandard, 25 degrees Celsius. There was even a gentle wind, bringing a faint scent of cinnamon. However, when Engineer engaged certain visual protocols embedded in his ocular implant, ones guaranteed to provided hours of double-vision if utilized for more than a few minutes, a completely different scene emerged.

Engineer was in the center of an oval arena cleverly disguised as a desert wilderness via holography. Given his position, the closer wall was 200 meters distant and the further 250 meters. The ceiling was thirty meters overhead, which almost felt claustrophobic given the dimensions of the primary and secondary axes. A large portion of one side of the arena consisted of a clear material, behind which were multiple levels partitioned into rooms, all dedicated to the viewing pleasure of the Stolarian audience. High-backed bar stools and beanbag chairs were scattered throughout, many holding occupants eager for the first Borg gladiatorial game to begin. In addition to sitting spaces, there were rooms containing buffets of drink and food, monitors from which to replay a battle's best moments, or other esoteric offerings too obscure for a mere Borg unit to understand.

Unfortunately, amid the technological magic which altered arena into desolate wasteland, the sand, at least to the point it met the wall, remained very real.

Engineer completed the initial appraisal of the situation. As he considered if the risk of double (or triple) images outweighed an attempt to gain additional information through the hologram - the background sub-collective majority was tilting personal consideration towards 'more data' - the sand directly beneath his feet began to rumble. Stumbling backwards, Engineer fumbled for the spanner he had began to habitually store at the small of his back via mag-lock since the Brotherhood incident and hierarchy head confirmation. A very mild curse was then uttered as the mounding mini-volcano of sand knocked him completely off his feet.

{Tis gonna take hours in th' steam wash t' get all th' sand oot! An' the grit is horrible on me chassis paint!} complained the head of the engineering hierarchy in frustration. {Bah...it's e'en in me mouth!}

{First, you need to work on your lexicon of profanities. Even the most junior engineer maintains an extensive dictionary and, more importantly, is not afraid to use it when the situation warrants. Second, get up,} urged Prime. {We can't see what is happening.} There was a pause as Engineer laboriously rolled to a position more conducive to standing. {What is that?}

'That' was a large metal globe five meters tall and ten meters in diameter. The top was slightly flattened and faint longitudinal lines discolored the otherwise featureless exterior. As sand continued to cascade from the globe's side, Engineer's attention was drawn to the net hanging from a trident(?!), the latter points down in the sand and neither present before the inadvertent tumble. Ignoring the incongruity, full focus was returned to whatever threat the globe might represent. Spanner, grip never lost despite the fall, was held tightly in whole hand.

The last grains of sand tumbled to the ground in a quiet hiss. Silence. Just as Engineer had decided (or, rather, had it decided for him) to advance on the globe and tap it with his tool, a melodious chime echoed overhead.

Droned a Borg multivoice: "Attention. The first contest of gladiatorial cycle 14 is about to begin. Refer to your agenda for a link to an interactive dossier describing the specifications for each drone champion, as well as a comprehensive bout schedule. A wide range of betting opportunities are available. Wagers between individuals and the house will be facilitated throughout the cycle. Consult the nearest Green unit for details."

Said Prime, {Agenda? What agenda? 16 of 4312 never mentioned an agenda during our 'instructional' period. Does anyone see 16 of 4312? An agenda must be acquired.} Engineer ignored his consensus monitor as the latter's primary focus turned away from the arena: the globe had begun to open.

Splitting along the lines which scored its exterior, the globe unfolded as if it were a vast metal flower beginning to bloom. As artificial sunlight illuminated the insides, a form started to uncoil, epidermis rubbing against itself to produce a softly continuous rasping sound. Engineer blinked, took a step forward to better see the creature, then hastily retreated several paces.

{That be a daasgot! How th' picklin' hell did Green, o' whome'er, get a daasgot? Trade in 'em be highly restricted...an' they be hazardous t' one's health!} This was said with the firm knowledge of a circusmaster whom had spent many, many years researching and building a menagerie. In his former career Engineer may not have particularly liked animals, but he had been well versed in the most exciting and dangerous beasts the galaxy had to offer...all the better to attract a paying audience.

Responded Weapons, who had risen to be the foremost personality of the Borg champions interested in the gladiatorial contest now that Prime was arguing with the Green liaison concerning procurement of an agenda: {We are being forced to participate in bloodsport - hazardous is the point. And because Green has plenty of money to throw at problems like 'restricted' trade, obtaining the animal was probably quite easy.}

Ranks of mottled tan pseudo-segments encircling sinuous muscle, the revealed daasgot was a small example of its species, a mere twenty meters in length. It was also emphatically not a snake, or an eel, or any similar invocation. It was a daasgot, which meant that the first three meters of its body flared into a cylindrical arrowhead designed by nature to cut through its native sand habitat; and when the mouth was opened in threat display, nearly the entire head split into a gaping maw consisting of four radially placed jaws. Jaws with sharp teeth. Teeth that continued down into a too-well-glimpsed gullet. The eyes, such as they were, consisted of simple lenses encased by a tough, semi-transparent covering. They lined the side of the creature in two longitudinal rows stretching from snout to tail, but provided only an awareness of light and dark, not actual images. Instead, the primary senses of the daasgot were rooted in organs of touch and hearing, for all practical purposes one and the same: a complex lateral line system combined with sonar allowed complete spherical sensory awareness. Perhaps worse of all, the daasgot was not a mindless beast, but rather a cunning predator with an intelligence in that nebulous niche between dog and dolphin.

A tsunami of clicks washed over and through Engineer's body as the daasgot reared its foresegments and 'eyed' its opponent. Small limbs, evolutionary remnants of another lifestyle millions of years in the past, waved from beneath pseudo-segment cowling.

{Mmmm...this may be a bit tricky,} spoke Weapons. {The Collective does not maintain extensive files on non-sentients, and given how we cannot query the Whole for what is available, we must rely upon what little data is currently loaded within cube systems. Assuming the daasgot displays similar physiology to other desert adapted animals, the epidermis will be quite thick in order to minimize abrasive effects from the sand.} A crude model of the daasgot was sketched in the dataspace and the forward end of its anatomy highlighted. {However, the mouth and head could be a weak point. Therefore, myself and my hierarchy strongly suggest you take the net and try to entangle the jaws in a partially open position, after which the trident can be employed to...are you even listening to me?}

Engineer was not listening to Weapons. The daasgot's rearing had revealed several angular shapes of a dark color on the head's ventral surface, just beyond the bulge defining the complex jaw joint. "Ta'glota-rei! Heek(click)! Heek(click)!" shouted the head of Cube #238's engineering hierarchy in his most commanding circusmaster (or drone taskmaster) voice.

The daasgot abruptly ceased its burgeoning threat display. Jaws snapped shut. Head swung back and forth in perplexed indecision as additional sonar pulses were flung forth. Finally, following a third "Heek(click)!", the fearsome beast meekly curled into a ball within the blossomed metal globe, stretching a portion of its forebody along the sand with head pointing towards Engineer.

{Hah, just as I suspected. The daasgot is legally exported, not smuggled: it has a tattoo,} smugly said Engineer.

Said Weapons flabbergasted, {What just happened? And what language was that? Universal translator algorithms seem to have failed.}

Engineer watched the now quiescent creature as it lay upon the sand. {The translator did not fail. The commands were gibberish. And it is doubtful even Collective files would have had much in storage concerning the daasgot. However, I retain full personal knowledge. Downloading now....}

When the Collective initially processes its drones, it closely scrutinizes mental contents for useful data. Those nuggets of information considered to be significant become part of the Whole, available to the Greater Consciousness entire, of smaller parts thereof, at need. However, the majority of the drone-to-be's personal memories and knowledge is often deemed irrelevant, and is thus fated to be overwritten by information considered important by the Whole, else simply scrambled into disjointed impressions during subsequent cranial surgeries. Therefore, most drones, and those imperfectly assimilated in particular, maintain bits of knowledge which is never integrated into the Collective. Among the intact memes retained by Engineer was knowledge of beasts popular for circus exhibition, including the daasgot.

Daasgot are considered to be an important export resource by the species-owner of its homeplanet. At one time hunted to near extinction, the remaining stocks are carefully husbanded to maintain a specific population level and optimal genetic diversity. Because of the danger represented by a daasgot, numbers are carefully monitored and younglings, with very few exceptions, are caught within their first year of emergence to the surface sands to undergo medical examination, including tattoo identifier and implantation of a tracking device, and, most importantly, be indoctrinated in basic control commands. The majority of daasgot, once released back to the desert wilderness, rarely encounter a sentient again in their lifetime. However, when populations exceed carrying capacity of the desert parks, suitable individuals are gathered and sold upon the galactic market.

Verbal orders are required to control a daasgot. All daasgot learn basic commands as younglings; and those tagged for export are taught additional behaviors, specifics dependent upon the client's needs. The secretive training process is very thorough, as it has to be given the impossibility of forcing a daasgot of any age to do something if it desires not. As an intelligent animal fully capable of future planning whilst holding a grudge, and coincidentally sporting a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth combined with a high tolerance to painful stimulus, the daasgot has the potential to be very dangerous if not adequately controlled. Standard daasgot commands take the form of nonsense sounds strung together, thus minimizing confusion on the part of the animal if held in circumstances which include actual language.

In his former life, Engineer emphatically had not directly interacted with his circus' ill-tempered and sometimes unpredictable daasgot. That was better left to the cadre of (replaceable) handlers hired for the task. However, he had carefully memorized all the required commands, just in case.

And, unexpectedly, that just in case moment had presented itself.

A part of Engineer strongly desired to turn and face the observation tiers, to switch to the brain-numbing ocular protocol required to pierce the arena hologram. The reaction of an audience not getting their expected bloodfest would be instructive. On the other hand, he did not wish to tempt fate, for a daasgot was perfectly capable of acting the well-trained critter, until one wavered in attention for that single, critical moment. Then it was all teeth and gore and burp. Engineer had lost three handlers that way, but one could hardly blame the daasgot, which had been acquired in a less than legal manner with the selling party mentioning (once credit had been irreversibly exchanged) that it had perhaps undergone a wee bit of mental abuse in its life and maybe had 'special needs'.

It was unknown if this daasgot had similar 'special needs', but Engineer would rather not take the chance.

"Ta'glota-rei!" uttered Engineer forcefully. One had to project utmost confidence to a daasgot. The beast shuddered slightly, indicating full attention to the speaker. Now came the tricky bit: was the daasgot only proficient in the basic commands, or had it undergone advanced training? There was only one way to find out; and if it worked, it would absolutely exasperate Green and the Color's clients. "Tee-ka! Dance f'r me! Tee-ka!"

The daasgot twitched, a tremble that began at its tail and moved, wavelike, to its head. Body sinuously exited the transport cage until all coils were upon sand. Head and foresegments were raised high, and higher, until it seemed as if the entire animal would crash to the ground. Then, heeding an internal music only it could perceive, tail started to slap the sands in a staccato rhythm as the rest of the body wove a mesmerizing display.

After several minutes of hypnotic motion, Engineer once again called "Ta'glota-rei! Heek(click)!" The daasgot immediately stopped, mid-twirl, and spun gracefully to the ground, head outstretched towards the drone in a posture of expectedness. Engineer advanced on the beast, then began to thump it as hard as he could with his spanner underneath one of the jaws. "G'd gal! Or g'd boy! Whatever ye be, ye be very g'd!" Several additional love taps, in truth barely felt by the recipient due to its thick skin, were administered.

Pausing his praise, Engineer stepped away. The daasgot's exhalations were quite fragrant, in a rotten meat manner, a fact which had apparently been erased from his personal memories. Then he saw the trident. Striding to the oversized, spiked fork, he picked it up, shook the net from its tips, then returned to the front of the daasgot. Intensity of sonar soundings increased.

"Nah, I'm not goin' t' skewer ya wi' t'is stupid thing. It'd only make ye all pissed off. Attention t' me! Ta'glota-rei!" Turning, Engineer tossed the trident as far as he could. The distance was not great,. Most Borg, Engineer included, were too stiff for the throwing arts, but the weapon nonetheless managed to fly fifteen wobbly meters. "Go get it! Galooki-ma! Fetch!"

Lifting its head, the daasgot swept a stream of sonar clicks over Engineer before aiming them at the tines-down hunk of metal. A flip of tail, and the daasgot was swimming through the sand towards its target. In a very short amount of time the trident was dropped at Engineer's feet, the haft noticeably bent due to action by the four-way jaws. And the daasgot had been gentle in its retrieval.

"G'd beastie!" exclaimed Engineer as he reached overhead to the hovering head to smack it with his spanner. "Why donna not you go fetch again? Galooki-ma!" The trident was flung in a different direction, much to the apparent pleasure of the daasgot.

Engineer was brushing sand off torso armor from the daasgot's enthusiastic sprint to get the trident when the sound of a transporter beam alerted him to the presence of a visitor. He turned, espying an unknown Green drone. Truthfully, Engineer (and his sub-collective) was amazed it had taken so long for the Color to respond to what had become a farce of a gladiatorial match.

The trident, bend now approaching a 45 degree angle, was dropped at Engineer's feet. He picked it up, and with a "Galooki-ma!" heaved it away again.

"This is inappropriate behavior," said the Green, an actual frown crossing the unit's face. "Our clients do not like it, and, therefore, we do not like it. It is not good for profit. You will stop your actions and fight the animal."

"An' why should I do that? It isn't like I would be th' winner, not without a heavy caliber energy lance," calmly commented Engineer. Eye slid sideways as the mangled trident landed in the sand, but then returned to the greater of the two threats currently present upon the artificial desert.

The Green bent to pick up the oversized (and very bent) fork, then brandished it in Engineer's face. "this is a travesty. No profit at all. If you do not comply with Our demand to initiate combat, there will be consequences. For all of you." The plural was invoked, indicating more than Engineer was at risk. "The collar placed about your neck-"

"-be an enforcement tool. Yes, we know that. We have not be forgettin' yer earlier demonstration o' its use." Engineer paused. He glanced up at the looming daasgot as its shadow fell across the two drones. Head was bobbing and jaws were clacking, both signs of agitation, although at the tone of the budding argument or the non-throwing of the trident, it was unclear. "Ye may be wantin' t' toss that pointy stick."

The daasgot, and Engineer's advice, was ignored. "We projected coercive use of the collars would not be required until later matches, either when higher order tactical units were deployed, else the consensus monitor. Obviously we were wrong. Then again, you are an imperfect sub-collective."

The rate of sonar clicks increased exponentially as the Green unit's voice gained decibels. The daasgot was becoming increasingly distressed. Engineer retreated half a stride, but was followed by the Green. "It be strongly suggested the primaries o' tis discussion be ye 16 of 4312 liaison and our consensus monitor, in the sub-pits ye have detained this sub-collective's drones. Or, at least, decrease ye volume."

"We, and this drone, refuse to comply. It-"

What else was to be relayed was lost as the daasgot lost patience with the annoying, non-trident-throwing irritant disrupting its play. Maw gaped as the head plunged forward, engulfing the Green drone. *Crunch* Multi-jaws, already having demonstrated their power by bending a tritantium trident shaft, ground viciously together. Head was thrown back, allowing the morsel to descend to gullet teeth. Given improperly handled daasgots were recorded on their homeworld to consume multi-ton vehicles without damage to themselves, a lightly armored Borg unit would not chip a tooth.

There was an odiferous belch as head reoriented itself upon Engineer. Trident, sporting a thin, reddish film, was disgorged. The weapon had been bent in double, but was otherwise whole. "Um, g'd boy 'n' girl. G'd treat? Galooki-ma!" The warped trident was thrown, much to the obvious delight of the daasgot. Engineer wiped his whole hand across his torso in a futile attempt to remove an unavoidable stickiness.

In the intranet background of the sub-pits holding area, Prime was informing 16 of 4312 that how Green cared to spin the outcome - daasgot win, loss, tie, or unscheduled pre-contest amusement - was unimportant to the sub-collective. Unfortunately, Engineer could not follow the discussion too closely, even if it eventually led to release from his current sandy hell. Instead, full attention - more than that reserved to keep his hierarchy functioning in a mostly smooth manner - was required for the daasgot. One wrong move, one mis-uttered command, and he would join the designationless Green drone in the animal's digestive system. The daasgot had been figuratively grabbed by the tail, and Engineer dared not let go.

Retrieved trident thumped upon the sand. Spanner'ed love taps were administered, along with appropriate praises. "Galooki-ma!"

*****

{Donna move a muscle. Not e'en t' breathe,} warned Engineer. The emotive radiance attached to the thoughtstream included flavors of extreme caution.

It was Prime's turn within the gladiatorial arena. Unlike earlier spectacles of Borg versus animal, not all of which had ended as benignly as Engineer's contest, this particular showground was intimate, a circle a mere thirty meters in diameter. There were no holograms to hide the eager Stolarian audience within their transparent armored observation boxes, nor provide the illusion of a grand outdoor setting. The ground was carpeted in grass, of the spun plastic Astroturf variety, and fake bushes. Plastic dirt mounds were scattered in a haphazard manner.

From Prime's understanding, her bout was the last on the schedule matching beast champion against coerced drone challenger. As such, it was supposed to be a spectacular event, a bookend to Engineer's daasgot; and if the body language of the Stolarians was being correctly interpreted, Green's clients were awaiting commencement of the action with great anticipation (and betting of credits). She obviously did not comprehend the 'why', for not only was the overtly fake scenery unimpressive, so were her opponents.

Assuming 'opponent' was a sufficiently grand label to apply. Prime was personally leaning towards 'fuzzball'.

The eight critters sauntering amiably towards Prime resembled nothing so much as ambulatory hairballs. Due to the density and length of the fur, she was unsure of exact number of legs, except that it was either six or eight. Individuals ranged between thirty and forty centimeters in diameter, again actual dimensions, be it length, width, or height, obscured due to the coats. The pattern of each animal in the pack was distinct from its neighbor with coloration including white, cream, brown, and dark red. The only fully discernable features were three eyes, large and limpid brown orbs arranged in a triangle upon the upper third of the presumed head of the presumed fore end.

As the creatures approached, high-pitched piping and chirping noises could be heard. It sounded like a cage of curious, out-of-tune songbirds.

{Donna be fooled by the wee beasties' demeanor: it be worse, much worse, than any ol' daasgot,} said Engineer.

Prime grunted an internalized snort, ignoring the datathread link to the fragment of a personal meme being offered by Engineer. {Whatever those things are, there has obviously been a mistake. Those are pets, not whatever animal of which you retain a memory.} Warning dismissed, the Flarn began to advance upon the nearest furball.

The atonal twittering faded, replaced by an odd, almost mechanical, whining buzz.

Stopping in front(?) of a cream-and-brown swirled what-ever-it-was, Prime tilted her head sharply forward in order to appraise her opponent. The thing had gone silent and was returning her lidless glower with a tri-part stare that would melt the heartstrings of most sentients. Irrelevant. Whatever gory titillation Green had planned for their clients, the Color had obviously made a huge mistake when it paired these hairy things against a Flarn, much less a Borgified one. Prime had no compunctions about dispatching the critters, most non-sentient lifeforms slotted into a 'nuisance' category by the Greater Consciousness. A foot was lifted.

{Nah!} cried Engineer. Unfortunately, he did not have the ability to override a consensus monitor in manners not engineering related.

Prime's weapon of choice descended. There was a sharp *crunch*. A thick, red liquid oozed out to stain both the ex-furball's pelt and Prime's foot.

{Ugh,} said Prime. {Now I have to hose myself off. Could someone inquire upon our Green liaison if there is water available? Otherwise the gunk is going to dry on my exoskeleton when I'm finished here, and then it will start to stink.}

Sighed Engineer, {Now you've done 't.}

{Done what?} asked Prime as she continued to glare at her foot and the mess surrounding it. Then she noticed the absolute silence.

Head was raised, then rotated just sufficiently to bring the audience into peripheral view. Expressions varied from adjunct horror to keen surprise, but all were united with the addition of intense interest as to what was to occur next. Unheard conversations full of gesture were occurring. Something was not right about the situation. Prime had just stepped on one of the animals pitted against her, thus demonstrating the idiotic nature of the match, yet the Stolarian response was not as expected.

The silence which had descended upon the small arena abruptly ended.

A sound part idling chainsaw and part blender, with a hint of bandsaw chewing through metal nails, began to arise from the seven remaining furballs. The menacing noise began at the edge of aural perception, but quickly rose in volume until it filled the entire space, echoing against walls and ceiling. Prime lifted her foot from the mess she had created, pivoting to face the nearest critter.

Said Engineer, {As I've b'n trying t' inform you, ya thick-headed prooter, that there be a pack o' joompas. I donna recall much aboot 'em, except I dinna allow 'em in me circus 'cause they were too dangerous. I do hope there be something o' ya left when they be done wit' ya that we c'n put the remains in reclamation, or that Green stuns the lil' bastards afore ya get too damaged so ya c'n participate in other o' its game schedule.}

{Wait a minute. That's not biologically possible!} exclaimed Prime of her former ostensibly innocuous opponents.

'That' was the revealing of the joompas' mouth. The hair beneath trinocularly arranged eyes pulled back to expose an overlarge circular opening; and within the maw, one could see a variety of very sharp mouthparts rotating around the circumference. Engineering often looks to nature for inspiration, attempting to copy what has been evolutionarily refined through thousands, if not millions, of generations to produce the best solution to the problem of survival. In this case, even the most deluxe high-end cuisanart advertised to slice-'n'-dice most any conceivable item to a fine paste was a poor replica for the pack of biological blenders confronting Prime.

Prime took a step backwards. She was Borg; she was Flarn; but she also had root-level programming which highlighted the importance of personal survival in the case of potential injury or termination outside the course of furthering Collective interests. She did not know what, precisely, these critters were capable of, and while it was unlikely anything biologically derived could cause severe damage to an armored Flarn, the preference was to remain whole. As the remaining beasts seemed inclined to punish her over the loss of a single member, she felt a strong defensive position was warranted. Animals being animals, there should be a few probing attacks by the weaker pack members to gauge the prey's strength. Prime was not prey, and she was confident she could reduce all incoming singletons to pulp.

Unfortunately, the joompas did not leap solo, nor in groups of two or three. Instead, all seven pack members scooted forward at high speed simultaneously, streaking across the artificial habitat like fuzzy ground-hugging, ankle-biting, yap-yap dogs from Hell's own kennel. They plowed into the Flarn, appearing to levitate into the air with nary an effort, targeting whatever piece of Borg anatomy onto which their circular mouths could latch.

Prime stumbled, then fell onto her back with a resounding crash.

{Six legs! These bastards have six legs! Mystery solved! And the hair has the consistency of steel wool! Now, how do I get them off? Engineer? Anyone? Someone do a little bit of thinking for me! Targ crap...they can bite through armor! And exoskeleton!}

In the end, the joompas were declared the winner of the final Borg versus animal contest. Due to Green requiring the Borgified Flarn - the Stolarian clients considered her to be quite impressive - to participate in matches scheduled later in the gladiatorial cycle, the animals were eventually sent to sleep with a gas tranquilizer before irreparable damage, like termination, could occur. Drone maintenance declared that there would be new scars, both to exoskeleton and armor, but the consensus monitor's effectiveness at martial combat was not degraded.

And, best of all, while most Stolarian clients had bet on the joompa pack to win (a foregone conclusion), many had added side-wagers for a greater number of animals to be killed than the pair actually lost. The Green house had raked in the winnings, adding a respectable amount to the coffers of the Whole. One megaCycle in the far future, Perfection would be purchased and, thus far, the benefit of kidnapping imperfect Borg Cube #248 for gladiatorial entertainment outweighed the risk.

Projections indicated upcoming bouts upon the agenda would only increase the Stolarian interest (and cash flow).

*****

{This is stupid,} commented Weapons as he watched the performance at the other end of the sixty meter by fifty meter oval. {Fighting is fighting - it is not a show.}

In the sub-pit area - several connected rooms with alcoves lining the perimeter, but otherwise devoid of anything else - a tactical drone repeated Weapons words to 16 of 4312. The summarized reply from Green's liaison was that gladiatorial games were categorized as sport, all sports were shows, his (or the sub-collective's) opinion upon the matter was irrelevant, and that participation was compulsory. And if Weapons choose to stand passively when his opponent eventually attacked, that was his choice, but the contest would be altered from 'end - first blood' to measuring the time required for a bladed implement to sever a major body part.

Weapons frowned, then deliberately wiped the expression from his face.

The Borg versus (sentient) gladiatorial champion arena was a different layout from the animal matches. All the games occurred in the same arena, floored with a mixture of sawdust and sand. No holograms were utilized to either hide or enhance the playing field. Additionally, the audience was not barricaded behind an impenetrable barrier, instead freely strolling between refreshment areas and open-air stadium seating, else leaning over a safety railing, near enough to shout encouragement to a favorite contestant, but too far to be at risk of blood splashes or from any danger except the most vigorously thrown weapon.

Several bouts had proceeded Weapons' turn, so he knew the drill. His opponent would first work the crowd at his/her/its end of the arena, posing and shouting not only to build excitement, but encourage larger (and more risky) wagers. Likely there was also supposed to be an intimidation factor, but if so, the efficacy was lost upon a Borg competitor. Finally the display portion of the contest complete, and the gladiator, with much drama, would advance. A flurry of bladed or spiky or pointed weapons later, first blood would be drawn and either Borg or non-Borg declared the winner.

Thus far, it had been well demonstrated that Borg sucked at the use of the primitive weaponry favored in these low-tech games. Out of five bouts, only one drone - 111 of 150 - had won, and that had been by pure accident. The agenda indicated more advanced (and, thus, more dangerous and prolonged) bouts later, but Weapons had been scheduled to this idiotic time slot.

At the far end of the arena, the species #6412 - Lamooti - gladiator bellowed a wordless scream of faux rage, appending it with a list of body parts she was determined to slice off and eat singed over an open fire. Beyond the fact that Weapons was the wrong species to sport the referenced genitalia, he was fairly certain that live flame would not be allowed upon the vessel. The display shifted to a weapons exhibition whereupon the gladiator performed an elaborate, four-armed dance with her serrated swords and bucklers. The waste of energy better spent in actual combat was monumental.

Audience members clustered along the railings near the gladiator were loving it, as they had all prior bouts. The appreciation was bewildering, from the sub-collective point of view. Conversely, the few Stolarians at Weapons' side of the arena were engaged in energetic jeering, backing their verbal derision with a wide range of presumably rude and/or profane gestures.

{You have been provided with a rack of weapons, as well as defensive shields, should you desire the to use the latter. Make your pick. The pre-clash display period of gladiatorial cycle 14, sub-agenda item 56 is nearly complete.}

Reminded Weapons with a sigh, {82 of 150, I can perceive what the Green liaison is saying perfectly well through one of multiple sensor streams. There is no need to repeat what he says.}

{Tend to get carried away when assigned sock puppet duties,} replied 82 of 150 matter-of-factly, mental tone holding no trace of a nonBorg apology.

Weapons rolled his eyes, then turned his head to consider, yet again, the piece of 'furniture' which had been beamed into the arena shortly after his entrance. The custom stand held a variety of edged implements, most of which Weapons could label as to name and origin, courtesy of permanent files held within Cube #238's vast database. Also available were several shields and three varieties of weighted net. Unfortunately, there is a vast gulf between the abstract knowledge of what a 'sirvan blade' is and knowing how to effectively use said weapon without maiming oneself by accident. Such martial skills were developed through years of practice and could not be downloaded, even if Cube #238 had been connected to the Collective. Prior to his assimilation, Weapons had been proficient in knife-work, as well as able to employ several of the more popular edged arms still in use by modern Klingon and Andorian military (and civilian) personnel.

Dismissing the weapons rack, Weapons pivoted to face his opponent. {This is stupid,} he reiterated as he raised his disruptor arm in preparation to simply shoot the gladiator. It was the most tactically efficient course of action, and a strategy not yet employed in a Borg versus sentient match.

The unmistakable tingle of electricity prickled limbs, intensity rising to a sharp shock.

Weapons disregarded the warning. Upon their selection to be Borg champions, each drone of the cybernetic gladiatorial century had been outfitted with shock collars. The devices - officially termed 'behavior modification apparatus' because 'shock collar' precipitated moral squeamishness in most societies when applied to sapients and not animals - were often used for prisoner and asylum patient control, but could occasionally be found ringing the necks of politicians. The utilization of the collars upon Borg drones was not unheard of, Colors (and the Collective) deploying them to coerce acceptable conduct in captured rivals; and agencies or persons non-Borg were also known to use shock collar variants.

The collars had been largely ignored. After all, Green had announced multiple times that all drones would be released at the conclusion of the gladiatorial farce. Therefore, the sub-collective was willing to acquiesce to the idiotic charade to achieve freedom, although there was the unspoken understanding by all parties that resistance to captivity would occur if opportunity presented. A demonstration had transpired during the pre-game orientation, but the utilized shock level had been minimal, with discomfort, if any, experienced by individual units either dismissed as irrelevant, else shunted to the sub-collective whole for dispersal. Weapons was the first drone to offer defiance sufficient to require shock collar application.

Disruptor limb swiftly cycled to firing initiation.

A second electrical buzz surged through Weapons, only this bite continued gnaw and chew and worry systems long past the point other shocks had ebbed. This was no warning. Weapons collapsed to the ground, body paralyzed. While the shock was painful in the abstract - several methods were available to a drone to marginalize or ignore injury - of greater concern was electrical over stimulation, which could cause involuntary muscle contraction, threaten vital organs and implants, and, most importantly (for a tactical unit), completely screw up on-board weaponry systems. Case in point for Weapons, heart altered tempo into arrhythmia, muscle contracting spasmodically as the embedded Borg pacemaker implant cycled into temporary nonfunctionality.

{How annoying. This little side-trip was providing me time to focus on important experiments, the outcomes of which will be applicable to multiple facets of the Borg Collective. Eventually. Once the details are worked out.} A distinctly irritated voice cut through the white noise which had overwhelmed Weapons' perceptions. A string of commands and authorizations, origination the head of drone maintenance hierarchy, swept through Weapons.

Weapons' whole hand jerkily rose, piloted by an being who believed that any entity with four limbs, only two of which were specialized for manipulator use, was evolutionarily deficient. Hand curled into a fist, which then was propelled down onto Weapons' chest. Due to thick torso armor, the action was barely perceived, although diagnostics monitoring body systems did add 'bruise' to the overall litany of damage. The fist rose again, and again, and again, driver gaining increasing confidence with each downward thrust. The effort was not in vain, for one particularly brutal self-jab jiggered the pacemaker sufficiently to restart it; and, in turn, Weapons' heart was reinitialized to the correct rhythm.

Control was relinquished. Holding back an unBorg cough, Weapons stared at the arena ceiling for approximately thirty seconds, allowing balance and external senses to reset. Then he stiffly pushed himself to his feet.

So involved in her warm-up display, the gladiator at the far end of the arena had never noticed her opponent's drama. And the few spectators near Weapons were laughing, having enjoyed the show.

Weapons swiveled his head, eyes sliding over the obligatory Red guards stationed about the arena until he espied the expected Green drone. The unit, holding what appeared to be a remote control featuring a single button and a large dial, was intently staring at Weapons. Weapons deliberately lifted his whole hand and placed it upon the collar, as if in preparation to crush it. He was rewarded by an abrupt shake of the Green's head and a finger incrementally inching closer to the button. Hand was removed from collar.

"The next grand contest in this glorious gladiatorial cycle is scheduled to begin in one minute! Have you placed your bets?" announced the Green multivoice from hidden speakers.

Grumbling, Weapons glanced once more towards his opponent, then turned attention to the weapons rack. Strategies flashed through his head, a combination of abbreviated weapons hierarchy modeling and Weapons' native battle intuition, the latter of which made him attractive to the Whole even as his imperfection was repellant. Finally, with seconds to spare, an implement with a bayonet-ish knife on the end of a meter long club was chosen. On the haft just above the grip was an innocuous button of uncertain use. Also taken was a targe - a round shield approximately fifty centimeters in diameter.

The weapons rack vanished in a transporter beam.

A resounding gong indicated the start of the sub-agenda item 56 of gladiatorial cycle 14.

Hanging the targe on prosthetic limb and hefting bladed club in whole hand, Weapons turned to face his opponent, content to wait. It was the rare Borg who exhibited dexterity and speed; and Weapons represented the standard tactical model: the Collective tended towards the 'tank' end of the foot-soldier spectrum, strategy consisting of pointing large numbers of heavily armored drones at a target until the enemy was overwhelmed. Therefore, in the situation of a single unit versus a much more agile opponent, it was better to force the other to make the initial approach.

It also provided Weapons additional time to contemplate his woefully few options.

The fight was to first blood. On the face of it, a Borg had the advantage simply because so little flesh was exposed. For a tactical drone, the face, whole hand, and perhaps a bit of an arm or neck were the only permissible targets from which to score a hit. Although it was possible for an edged weapon to be thrust through a joint or other location where body armor was thin due to necessity of allowing drone movement, to do so would open the attacker to a counter-strike. In comparison, as demonstrated by the fighter smoothly sauntering across the arena, the gladiator sported only the skimpiest of coverings, chain and plate mail arranged more for decoration and/or notion of racial modesty than for any concept of protection. Theoretically, all Weapons had to do was swing with his bayonet-club and scrape a small bit of the large expanse of bare skin.

The key work was 'theoretically'. As conclusively illustrated by the fights prior to Weapons' bout, theory was useless when set against a professional gladiator in his or her element.

Therefore, Weapons waited.

The gladiator halted in front of Weapons just within lunge range, a large grin-equivalent stretched across her face. She knew she could dance aside much faster than the drone could swing his weapon and was obviously anticipating a quick victory. Then, with an artistic flourish, she leapt forward, brought both swords down in quick succession against Weapons' targe before jumping away. The force of the blows forced Weapons back a pair of steps.

The Stolarian crowd cheered, a raucous buzzing which called to mind a combination of summer cicadas and a twittering sparrow flock. Words of encouragement (or disappointment) rose above the general noise, as did the occasional trilling whistle. Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Weapons noticed one of the audience members to be waving a giant foam hand.

"This is beneath me," hissed the gladiator in contempt as she began to circle to Weapons' left, forcing the head of Cube #238's weapons hierarchy to pivot in response. One of the swords flashed out to tap the shield again, while the other scythed down the club, stopping just short of nicking hand, and, thus, ending the bout. The Lamooti was toying with her opponent. "Because you are forced to fight fair, you are fated to lose. Mistakes happen. I should 'accidentally' kill you, for what your kind did to my cousin and his kin-line. They were of an illustrious lineage of bartenders and mix-masters, and because of you, the secret recipe for the celebrated drink 'Fluffy Pink' has been forever lost. Neither Green nor their clients would particularly care, although I might be docked pay for the 'mistake'." A buckler easily deflected a half-hearted swipe of bayonet-club. The action was followed with another double sword tap to the targe which nearly drove Weapons to his knees.

Despite the urgings from hierarchy and sub-collective, Weapons refused to yield to suggestions to charge. Eventually, so whispered the unvoice which had ever guided his tactical sense, the gladiator would make some mistake, large or small, which would leave her open to attack. As the bout continued, Weapons stoically absorbed the strikes from his opponent, none of which actually scored flesh even as they came within millimeters to doing so. From smirk and comments, it became obvious that the Lamooti had decided to batter her drone opponent to death, or as close as could be accomplished before the audience grew bored with the lack of blood.

Stated Weapons as the Lamooti gladiator danced an adroit retreat following yet another blow to torso armor, "You would make an excellent tactical drone." There was an unusually rhythmic cadence to the assertion. More was forthcoming, but Weapons managed to clench his jaw before it could be vocalized.

Weapons was aghast! The thought just uttered had been floating around in the metal background, both that of Weapons' and his martial-leaning hierarchy, but also the sub-collective populace in general. All drones had censure algorithms in place to prevent the inadvertent voicing of streams-of-consciousness; and those imperfect tended to have even tighter blocks installed to prevent involuntary proclamation, not that such restrictions always worked. And, in this case, something had definitely failed.

Or, rather, someone(s).

{319 of 370! That was your fault!}

{No way!} protested 319 of 370. {It was an accident!}

{The words came out as a chant! And, if I had not regained control, I would have finished with a "hurrah". You are an ex-cheerleader, and are the most prominent designation of the bloc that has been constructing cheers. You focused a sufficient number of drones on the task that you overrode my censures. Ergo, it was partially your fault.} Weapons barely paused in his accusation as he mentally spun to prod another presence. {You have fault here, too, Prime. All of command and control. You did not defuse the situation.}

Objected Prime, speaking not only for herself, but her hierarchy, {Now wait a moment-}

{Did you not hear me?} continued Weapons' complaint. {My vocal synthesizer has become abhorrently untuned, once again. Not only did it sound like I have been sucking helium, but the tertiary harmonic resonance is a quarter-beat out of sync. I am a lisping chipmunk.}

Complete silence greeted the allusion. None, except other humans within the sub-collective, understood the reference.

{What is a chipmunk?} asked Prime warily. Without a connection to the Collective, the term could not be queried.

Simultaneously, Doctor noted, {If your scheduled check-up had not been postponed due to extenuating circumstances attributable to our capture, your voice could have been normalized.}

{As if I would allow you...} Weapons' reply trailed to nothing as he belatedly realized his opponent was not attacking. Despite the on-going conversation, he had never ignored his surroundings, for to do so while under threat by an individual wielding a pair of dangerously sharp skewering instruments was a recipe for being 'accidentally' run through for a terminal first-blood. Borg, after all, were perfectly capable of multitasking. What Weapons had abruptly noticed was that the species #6412 female had actually retreated several paces.

And was shaking.

And was holding her breath, tanned complexion of face flushed an odd orange-red.

The gladiator finally exhaled, held breath rushing outward in a gushing blast. Shoulders twitching, an odd noise could be heard emanating from the female.

Was Weapons' opponent having a seizure?

{Laughter,} said Assimilation, vocalizing the sub-collective's consultation of the on-board racial dossier, a permanent file tree found on every Borg vessel, platform, and station. {She is laughing.}

{Why?} demanded Weapons. He did not see anything which was funny, and he refused to lower either bayonet-club or shield. However, if it was a trick, it was one of which the obviously confused audience had been left out. His face twisted into the subtle expression of suspicion. Risking a sideways glance first towards the nearest Red guard, then the Green with the remote control, he noted both had the blank face and tilted head of intense internal communication with their respective Greater Consciousness.

Ventured Prime, {Say something.}

{I am already talking to you.}

{Outloud,} clarified Prime.

{I am a lisping chipmunk. Not only is it not the image the Collective tries to project, the tone does not fit my physique. No.}

{Speak.}

{No.}

{Speak, else we'll make you. Comply. Your decision, until it is not.} Prime countered obstinance with Flarn ex-Chief Engineer stubbornness.

Weapons narrowed his whole eye. "Hello universe. This drone is coerced to speak."

The skimpily armored gladiator, who had just regained control of herself, burst into a new round of giggling.

A frown crossed Weapons' face, then was erased. "This Borg currently bears a malfunctioning vocal synthesizer. Do you find the ailment humorous?"

The fit of laughter increased exponentially, out of proportion for the apparent cause. Weapons, the entire Cube #238 sub-collective, was clueless as to what the gladiator found so amusing. While there were no subnotes or tertiary bullets in the dossier entry for species #6412 to account for the incongruity, such minor trivia, such as over-reaction to vocal characteristics mismatching form (assuming such was the causal agent), was unlikely to be captured.

"We are Borg," said Weapons as he took a tentative step forward. His opponent shuffled backwards half a meter, then doubled over in laughter, dropping to her knees. "We are not allowed to terminate you." Another step. "We are not allowed to assimilate you." A pair of paces closed the gap between the head of Cube #238's weapons hierarchy and the bout champion, bringing the former into weapon range. "You will still submit to us. Resistance is futile." The bayonet-club was swept sideways, drawing a thin line of pale orange-red across one of the target's bare shoulders.

The gladiator stared blankly at her drone opponent, glanced at the new addition to the plethora of scars which crisscrossed her skin, then fell onto her back in a renewed fit of involuntary giggles. Swords and bucklers fell from hands, allowing all four arms to wrap around torso.

"Bout 56 of gladiatorial cycle 14 is completed with a Borg win," announced a multivoice. From the stands arose the groans of many Stolarians, indicating the direction of the majority of bets. A few whoops signified the few individuals who had risked long odds, and had thusly been rewarded. "Winnings and losses will be credited to all bettor accounts. Betting for bout 57 will open in twenty minutes, with contest to commence in thirty minutes. Consult your agenda, else the nearest kiosk or Green representative, for statistics of bout competitors."

*****

{Square!} gruffly ordered Weapons as all Lugger-class Cube #238 champions materialized from the transporter beam. {Square it up! Now! Comply!}

Eighty-two weapons drones shuffled around until all faced outwards, although the final configuration more resembled an elongated oval than a crisp geometrical shape. In such a pattern it was very difficult for potential danger to approach the group unobserved. Most of the remaining units, all non-tactical, observed the proceedings and, for the most part, radiated an intense confusion. The latter was quickly swept away as Weapons began to non-verbally bellow at the motionless drones, chivvying them into joining the formation and attempt to look halfway fearsome.

At the center of the not-so-square, Prime used her eyes, as well as borrowed visual streams, to scan the surroundings. The arena was an immense circle, 200 meters in diameter, encircled by comfortable benches and luxury boxes from which the packed Stolarian audience could observe the forthcoming action. Tall barriers of a transparent material separated the stands from the gladiatorial proceedings. The surface underfoot was the familiar mixture of synthetic sawdust and sand. Missing was any clue of what opponent the sub-collective was to about to face.

In the sub-pit area, information had been less than cooperative concerning the final bout. Even the agenda, a copy of which had finally been obtained, had been sanitized of event particulars other than start time.

A drone materialized outside the defensive formation. From the lanyard-with-whistle dangling around its neck, as well as other notable features, it was swiftly identified as 16 of 4312, the sub-collective's Green games coordinator. Prime pushed her way through armored bodies to approach the lone unit.

Prime bent over to bring her head to a level closer to that of the smaller Green. "What is the meaning of this? Without knowledge of our opponent, we cannot prepare our response," said the Cube #238 consensus monitor in what was, for her, a whisper. Given that she was both Flarn and Borg, the query was quite audible to any hypothetical eavesdropper within three meters.

Replied 16 of 4312 with only the slightest roll of his eyes over the attempt at conspiracy, "This bout is the grand finale. Your opponents are your comrades. It will be a free-for-all with only one drone left standing. Weapons will be provided." There was a pause. "So many wagering opportunities! This bout alone is projected to bring in the largest profit of any event thus far on our clients' tour." The drone could barely control his personal excitement. However, his Mind obviously found it too demonstrative, for the gleeful expression twisting his face was abruptly banished.

"Impossible," countered Prime. At her backside, several drones on the opposite side of the formation, despite the fact that the conversation could be followed perfectly well via dataspace, had abandoned their stance to pivot and stare directly at the proceedings. All gawkers were shouted back in position by Weapons. "You know very well that drone cannot fight drone within the Collective. It is a basic core code restriction, with exceptions only for rogues. If Green or Red care to field their own drones against us, we can accommodate. From the point of view of the Borg Collective, after all, Colors are rogue, and all rogues will eventually be repurposed back to Us, else terminated." The latter were defiant words of propaganda from a disconnected, imperfect sub-collective helming a Lugger-class cube.

"But not today," answered the Green dismissively, responding to the overt threat. "For this bout, drone will fight drone, and the drones involved will be you and yours. All core code restrictions have been taken into account. First of all, KERF<tm> weapons will be utilized."

At the mention of weapons, several large racks materialized in the middle of the Borg non-square. At first (and second) glance, the implements upon the free-standing shelves were vicious edged killing tools of traditional Klingon design, serrations and spikes located everywhere but handle or hilt. However, a closer look would reveal all gear, ranged and melee and other, were constructed (mostly) of a dense foam. The incredibly realistic toys had been developed by an arms manufactory company during its early forays of entering the literally, at times, cutthroat child entertainment industry. After parents had vociferously complained about the initial marketplace offering severing limbs and/or requiring stitches, company managers had turned to research and development to find a less injurious solution. Upon redevelopment of a foam-based passive restraint system, KERF ('Klingon Equipment of Recreational Foam') was born. It was now a favorite among children (and adults) galaxy-wide where actually weapons were disallowed for various reasons.

"Second of all-"

Interrupted Prime, "How did you say that?"

"What?"

"How did you say that KERF..." - Prime coughed something that only vaguely mimicked the Green's pronunciation - "...whatever?"

"You mean <tm>?"

"Yes, that...noise. What is it, and what does it mean?"

"It stands for 'trademark'. Proper pronunciation is...what a minute...what does <tm> have to do with anything?"

Prime shrugged her massive shoulders. "Actually, I - this drone - only harbor minor curiosity, easily subsumed. However, there are others in the sub-collective that overrode my arguments against inquiry. It happens, even to a consensus monitor."

16 of 4312 narrowed his whole eye in an annoyed glare. "Enough. You have been provided KERF<tm> weapons, several ranged varieties of which have been augmented with paint ball capacity. You will use them to fight each other. When a unit is hit, that unit is expected to fake the appropriate injury. For example, for a hit to the leg, falling down is required; and if 'beheading' occurs, the 'headless' body better lie still. We will be augmenting what the audience expects to see with holograms.

"Above all, gladiatorial games are performances. Our clients have requested and expect a free-for-all, and they will be getting a free-for-all. They do not need to know that the blood and gore are not real. And if you, as consensus monitor, or others of your command and control architecture do not enforce the stipulations for this final bout, We will enforce them for you. Goads include the shock collars, as well as other, more extreme, and realistic, means using Red units.

"Do you understand?"

Prime unbent to her full height, then tilted her head to look down upon the Green drone. "We will comply," she said stiffly.

"Good. Choose your weapons. The grand finale begins in five minutes."

{Hey! I am not a shield!} groused Prime as a pair of foam projectiles impacted her torso carapace and bounced away, followed by the *splat* of disintegrating paint balls. {And you almost stepped on-}

"Not listening," muttered 35 of 160 aloud as she lifted her head to peer over Prime's prone form. Another faux-arrow zipped overhead, forcing the drone maintenance unit to duck. None was quite sure why the lithe 35 of 160 had been chosen as a champion in the first place, although the bony ornamentation about her reptilian features may have provided a fierce visage to a Stolarian selectee. Appearances were definitely deceiving in this case, for 35 of 160 was a not-so-closet pacifist, continuing to promote enlightenment and an anti-violence agenda even as a Borg. Theoretically, 35 of 160 (and her karma) should have been one of the first casualties of the grand finale. However, not only had she survived the first chaotic minutes of the free-for-all, she was amongst the last drones still standing. Or, in her case, hiding behind the bulk of a handy Flarn.

As with previous gladiatorial bouts, all of which she had not only survived, but won, 35 of 160 was intently following the suggestions of Doctor. All other conversations, or attempts thereof, were mere distractions. The great majority of Dromelans were avid jhad-ball fans, able to deeply discuss the sport's history, statistics, and strategies even if the individual had never set true-foot upon the playing field. Doctor was no exception; and as Borg, he had even greater access to the data required to elevate him to the rarified strata of 'uber-fan'...at least when such did not conflict with either his official duties or his medical experiments. By translating applicable jhad-ball strategy to the single representative of his hierarchy participating in the gladiatorial games, Doctor had provided 35 of 160 with the advantage necessary to survive.

The problem, as usual, was getting 35 of 160 to take the offensive in order to win the bout. The string of good fortune which had seen all prior opponents step on their own tails, stab themselves with their own swords, or similar, did not seem to be materializing.

Which left Prime to serve as an impromptu bunker as Doctor argued with 35 of 160, the former trying to convince the latter that the best defense was a good offense, one which hopefully included permanent removal of the forward striker from the Game by severing limbs...or head.

Perhaps it was just as well, mused Prime in a minor thread of her stream-of-consciousness, that she had been one of the first casualties in the free-for-all. The concentration required to keep the faux battle from turning into an actual drone versus drone brawl, one that extended beyond the arena and into the bowels of Cube #238 itself, was all-consuming. All command and control resources were required, including the entirety of the Hierarchy of Five.

In truth, the simple presentation of fake weapons to the sub-collective was insufficient to allow the turning of drone upon drone, a fact very well understood by Green. A normal sub-collective, one not imperfect, would not have been able to comply with the Color's threat. However, the weapons hierarchy maintained a work-around, a variation upon the virtual gaming model paradigm employed by the larger Collective to contemplate the strategies of Borg versus Color or Borg versus rogue. The caveat was that it was developed to work only in a holographic environment, when the weapons hierarchy desired to test tactics that required 'live' targets, as opposed to those composed of photons and magnetic fields. Under such conditions, there were safeties in place, safeties unable to be disengaged, not even by the most determined drone. The Collective permitted the otherwise forbidden exercises because it kept at least a small segment of its imperfect sub-collective busy - a good thing, for the worst mishaps often included a bored unit as a common denominator. Regularly scheduled scrutiny of the relevant code prevented it from mutating into a form which might allow damage to drone resources.

The weapons hierarchy had 'convinced' the relevant pieces of software that the gladiatorial scenario was a variant of live testing. It had required quite a bit of bending of virtual perceptions; and if a Collective link had been present, it was highly unlikely the rationalization would have been successful. The problem was that the string of caveats and what-ifs was highly instable, threatening to spill beyond the century actually involved in the free-for-all and into the general sub-collective environment. Which would be disaster. Upon Cube #238 there were neither foam weapons nor paint balls: injuries and terminations, should an overly impressionable drone decide to copy what was occurring in the arena, would be real. Therefore, command and control, especially the Hierarchy of Five, was monitoring thoughtstreams much more closely than normal, quashing anything which seemed even remotely questionable. Due to the high incidence of false-positives, the overall efficiency of the sub-collective for even routine activities had been vastly reduced. On the other hand, to allow even a single true-positive to slip through the net was a potential disaster.

Still, taking a paint ball to the head was highly annoying, particularly when one had no lids to blink multicolored wetness from one's eyes. And to move a limb to wipe away the offending material would be to receive, at best, a warning shock or, at worst, forced unconsciousness. She was a key command and control element, and the mental disruption of a shock was unacceptable. As a minor assuage to self-pride, the little Prime had been allowed to retain as Borg, she was not the only high level unit out of action. Neither Weapons nor Engineer, the other two hierarchy heads present, had lasted more than three minutes into the event. Upon initiation of the twisted code to allow mock-battle, multiple units had made the gestalt conclusion that certain drones were too strong, too powerful, too whatever to be allowed to survive. A collective decision had therefore doomed those drones, leaving lesser units, like 35 of 160, to subsequently turn on each other, forming alliances, and dissolving them, as the situation warranted.

35 of 160 blindly thrust a limb into the danger zone above Prime's body. When there was no response, the maintenance drone began to walk fingers over the consensus monitor's upper right arm. Although all of Prime's limbs appeared outwardly unmodified, such was not strictly true, as evidenced by the hoses and wires which burrowed into chitin to connect with implants beneath the exoskeletal surface. As if a magician, 35 of 160 suddenly had a laser scalpel in hand, origination unknown. She began to burn an access port.

{By the...what the four frozen nether-Hells are you doing? Doctor! Your drone has lost her mind!} called Prime. She was forced to divert a critical slice of attention away from maintaining sub-collective status quo to deal with the impromptu dissection.

Doctor was disgusted, but not for any obvious reason. {Not going to work. A winning strategy cannot be passive. It is unheard of.}

{Explain, Doctor. You have concocted something,} said Prime. A square of chitin and armor removed, fingers were delicately feeling around. Body schematics indicated sub-assembly 17.b-f to be closest to the opening. The sub-assembly increased the sensitivity of a sensor implant whose purpose was to scan for magnetic differentials. As an ex-engineer, Prime found the capability diverting, although, in truth, it had no use on a command and control platform and she was unsure why it had been installed in the first place during her assimilation processing. Unfortunately, Prime could not ascertain why the drone maintenance unit was questing for the part.

35 of 160 was warding both perceptions and personal surface thoughtstream, and Doctor was assisting by adding a second layer of shielding. As it was a free-for-all, a degree of mental defensiveness was not unexpected, those unable or unwilling to engage in the practice broadcasting their actions, thereby making themselves easy pickings for an opponent. Most, however, did not have a hierarchy head assisting; and although Prime could break the barriers, to do so would require time and concentration, neither of which were presently available, either for herself or the command and control hierarchy in general.

Answered Doctor, {I have concocted nothing. I simply offer advice such that my hierarchy provides the best showing in these games. It is 35 of 160's plan.}

The sub-assembly was grasped, then unceremoniously yanked out. Automatic diagnostics voiced minor complaint at the damage, but were ignored. The intriguing sound of assembly was happening behind Prime's back, just beyond perception by her compound eyes.

"Not my plan. Movie. Adapted it to the situation," murmured 35 of 160 from behind her living bunker, continuing to speak aloud to minimize inadvertent access to her thoughtstreams

{And it is stupid. It is not in the spirit of jhad-ball,} opinionated Doctor.

At first glance, the gladiatorial arena and jhad-ball had little in common, the most obvious of which was lack of a ball or goal posts. However, the situation was actually quite similar to some of the more extreme jhad-ball variants, so it was understandable that Doctor was blurring the two.

Finally the noises of construction ceased. Approximately twenty meters distant, a three-way sniping was underway between bunkered survivors; and a fourth drone was taking advantage of the commotion to inch stealthily along an arena wall, seeking to position himself for an assault upon one of the combatants. The audience was shouting encouragement and/or advice to the cybernetic gladiators.

35 of 160 shifted, cautiously peeking over Prime's bulk. Seeing her comrades otherwise engaged, an arm came into the consensus monitor's field of view. Held within the maintenance unit's hand was a lumpy cylinder. It was not a KERF weapon. It had obviously been devised from bits scavenged from arena resources, the latter represented by 'killed' drones such as Prime. And now that Prime thought about it, 35 of 160 had been rather purposefully moving from uncorpse to uncorpse, pausing at times on the circuitous trek to her current location.

Assimilation tubules burrowed into the cylinder.

And, then, Prime dismissed 35 of 160, dismissed the gladiatorial game farce, dismissed the Colored threat. All were abruptly made irrelevant by the appearance of an immense danger, one with the potential to impact the Borg Collective itself and its pursuit for Perfection.

A dozen They troops had materialized in the middle of the mock skirmish. The creatures were bipedal, genetically engineered parodies of humanoids sporting thick plates of spiked chitinous armor and armed with claws and fangs and venom. There was a pregnant pause, a moment of indrawn breath as Borg contemplated They and They contemplated Borg; and even the Stolarian audience stilled its cheers, confused as to the new addition to the gladiatorial field.

Then all Hell broke loose.

<<Primal root command 004: They to be destroyed at all cost; presence of They to be recorded and reported. Secondary primary root command 004: if evidence of They intrusion into any volume with current Borg presence is ascertained, They will be eradicated at all cost by any means.>>

It was core programming for Borg to oppose They with extreme prejudice. Invaders from neighboring galaxy M31, the uninformed observer might consider They to be a biological version of Borg. There were superficial similarities - a collective consciousness; a quest to unite the sentient beings of the universe into One; employment of a virus (literal in the case of They) to begin the assimilation process; mental and structural transformation of a victim to best serve the Whole. However, there were also indelible differences, the primary of which was that They were not Borg, and Borg were not They. It was the Order of Borg versus the Chaos of They. There could be no compromise when the two entities met. Eventually, when the primary They swarm entered the halo of the Milky Way, there would be a final reckoning; and the small beings caught in the center of the conflict would suffer. Until that apocalyptic day, however, Borg were committed to destroying They scouts whenever They showed Theyself.

Why They would appear in the middle of a gladiatorial arena was not questioned.

Cries of {They!} echoed in the intranet, accompanied by a shared sense of confusion. They assault units required transportation...but no They ships were within the sensor envelope. Although a Lugger-class cube sported the weakest sensor suite of the Borg fleet, it was more than adequate to discern one of They's living vessels if within transporter range. Whispered conjecture that the dreaded Enemy had adapted a new cloak swirled in the sub-collective mental background.

In the arena, the remaining 'live' drones automatically turned their ranged KERF weapons upon They. Simultaneously, those units declared 'dead' due to various faked injury acquired during the free-for-all abandoned pretense of feigned termination to rise from the arena ground. Any threat of shock administered from the collar restraints was irrelevant. Tactical units tossed away their faux weapons, if such were still near to hand, to aim limb-mounted disruptors; and those not of a tactical specialty advanced upon the dozen They in preparation for hand-to-hand combat.

The Red and Green Borg within the stands were also reacting. All Colors had inherited animosity towards They, a primal root directive unchanged from the long ago schism of the first Color from then-Hive. Transparent barriers were shattering under the incessant pounding of Red drones, while other segments simply vanished as transporters dematerialized entire panels. Green tacticals were appearing amid the swirls and sparkles of transporter beam special effects, joining their Red brethren to eliminate the They threat. Screams and shouts were arising from the stands, the Stolarian audience bewildered as to the sudden change in their tour guides. Several individuals, attempting to inquire as to the problem, were roughly shoved out of the way by expressionless drones hurrying to join their comrades.

Prime pushed herself to her feet. In her shadow, 35 of 160 shuffled sideways to prevent being stepped upon by the larger Flarn. Something...was not right. Prime mentally shook her head, unable to focus upon what that something might be. There was chaos within the arena, there was chaos upon Cube #238, there was chaos within both intranets and dataspaces. As the primary consensus monitor and facilitator, Prime was expected to rein in the chaos, or at least focus it in the direction deemed to be least destructive. Still, there was a nagging incongruity that prevented Prime from throwing herself into the gathering scrum.

Movement. Prime swiveled her head to look down and to her right, directing attention upon 35 of 160. The drone maintenance unit continued to stare upon the huddle closing upon the They dozen, cylinder still aimed towards the action. Prime shifted her ocular attention towards the crowd, back to 35 of 160, once more to the crowd, and once again to the smaller drone. Suddenly the purpose of the cylinder snapped into clarity, albeit Prime was unsure if it was due to subliminal knowledge of what the device represented, else capture of a whisper of 35 of 160's still-warded thoughtstream.

"Give me that," rumbled Prime as she stooped to grab what she now recognized to be a bodged together holo-wand. 35 of 160 had been very busy when moving between 'corpses' to collect parts from thereof. The gadget was torn from 35 of 160's grip, assimilation tubules roughly disengaging.

The They invaders abruptly disappeared.

The scream of primal root command 004 faded.

Except for a few units slower on the uptake, most Cube #238 drones turned to look at Prime before shifting attention to 35 of 160. Neither word nor coherent thought were necessary: all knew what had just occurred. 35 of 160 tentatively waggled several fingers in a quasi-wave while radiating sheepishness. She would have shuffled sideways to put Flarn bulk between herself and the mass of tactical units contemplating a shift in disruptor aim, but was prevented by Prime's hand falling heavily upon her shoulder.

And if the imperfect sub-collective of Borg Lugger-class Cube #238 had determined the whom and how behind the They 'attack', the Minds of the two Colors present were no less swift in their respective conclusions.

"Er, um," spoke 35 of 160 aloud into absolute hush broken only by the white noise babble of the bewildered Stolarian audience, "you see, I...um, this drone doesn't really like, you know, antagonism. Aggression isn't really good for the karma. All I, er, we wanted was to end this free-for-all as quickly as possible, and this, er, very small drone thought that if there was a target in the middle of the fight, everyone would aim at each other. And hit each other. Well, aim at the target, miss the target because it wasn't really there, and then hit each other. And I, um, this drone would be the last one standing and the fight would be over and we would all be put back on our cube and then we could go back to delivering cargo." The final, run-on sentence of the explanation was delivered in a single, rapid exhalation of breath.

The silence spoke volumes. Disruptor limbs of Red, Green, AND Cube #238 weapons hierarchy twitched in the explainee's direction.

Continued 35 of 160 into the void, "So, um, there were these plans for a holo-wand. It was easy to check the schematics of each drone in the arena to determine which designations had the required parts on-board. And since the holographic template needed to be shocking to have everyone fire on each other without thinking twice, They assault troops seemed to be the best." Pause. "Doctor did tell me that distraction was an acceptable jhad-ball strategy."

Within the intranets, Doctor was very careful to not add to the explanation. The hole being dug could only grow deeper, and the octopod had no desire to fall into it.

Upon the arena walls, a drone pushed its way to one of the segments currently lacking a transparent barrier panel. It was 16 of 4312, primary Green liaison to Cube #238. He lifted the hand not currently clutching a clipboard and opened it; and upon the upraised palm materialized a familiar box with its overlarge button. "We are unamused," declared the drone in a monotone that still managed to be sharply biting. The capitalized collective plural was invoked. "You have disrupted Our plans. You have created pandemonium on many fronts. You have prompted some of our clients to make requests concerning refunds. Unacceptable." All of the Cube #238 sub-collective was obviously accused, not just the hundred involuntary gladiators, not just the drone who was at fault. To be Borg was to be part of a greater whole, for the good and the bad. "We require time to sort out this mess."

Before Prime could offer a rebuttal or offer up 35 of 160 to the Color for disassembly, the button on the remote was pressed. Shocks were applied to one hundred restraint collars, overloading one hundred cybernetic systems, and sending one hundred drones into unconsciousness.

Well, almost one hundred drones.

35 of 160 looked to her right and her left, then slowly pivoted on her heel. She was the last 'gladiator' standing. Early in the games, with long-distance assistance from Doctor and others of her hierarchy, she had completed the delicate self-surgery required to disengage the collar from her nervous system, yet still have the device broadcast that it remained uncompromised. Unfortunately, neither she nor Doctor nor the remainder of drone maintenance had quite found the correct moment to relay this fact to Prime or the rest of the sub-collective.

Amidst the spreading chaos of sub-collective mental disruption in reaction to the loss of ninety-nine drones, three of which were high level command nodes, 35 of 160 was a neglected pool of calm. Her karma exercises were paying off, else she might very well have been reduced to the blubbering wrecks emerging within the intranets. Reserve, the remainder of the Hierarchy of Five, and the less impacted command and control members, all were shifting into overdrive to soothe the sub-collective. Perhaps the next time 35 of 160 inserted the need to implement mental and spiritual calisthenics to strengthen karma into a decision cascade, the suggestion would not be outright dismissed.

At the edge of the stands, 16 of 4312 glared down at the serenely smiling imperfect drone. The remote's button was pushed several more times, but there was no response except involuntary twitching from several of the downed Cube #238 units. The small sigh was initiated by the Green games coordinator was mirrored by likewise Colored units nearby.

The arena speaker coughed into life: "The victor of the final bout of gladiatorial cycle 14 is the Collective Borg drone designated 35 of 160. Winnings and losses will be credited to all bettor accounts. Consult the nearest informational kiosk for post-gladiatorial cycle 14 activities. Do not approach either Green or Red drones at this time, else assimilations, or terminations in the latter case, may result. Have a pleasant afternoon."

*****

Lugger-class Cube #238 was unceremoniously abandoned at the brown dwarf system. Green, after settling the demand for a refund from its clients by promising a month-long extension of the grand galactic tour, free of charge, had vectored to a new destination, Red subcontractors in tow. Although the original intention had been to return the sub-collective to the location of acquisition so as to minimize the expected negative reaction by the Borg Collective, such plans had been discarded. Green wanted as little to do with the imperfect sub-collective as possible. The Collective would just have to understand.

And it did, at least to the point that no pursuit was initiated once Cube #238 had washed down sufficient hull area to surmount the transmutation pulse effect and reopen a linkage with the Greater Consciousness. The fact that the Lugger-class was off-course and extraordinarily behind schedule, and that neither of the above was the fault of the imperfect sub-collective, was irrelevant. The directive, along with an agenda adjustment which altered the Borg homesystem to be the final destination of the duty cycle, was to continue at the assigned task...and to try, for once, to avoid further incidents.

It was perhaps a good thing promises were irrelevant within the Borg Collective, for what could not be made could also not be broken. All which was required of Cube #238 was to plot a course to the next port-of-call, warm up engines, put out the lint fire amongst the ever-problematic dryers of Supply Closet #37, and accelerate into the aether.

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