The Star Tek gold medal is awarded to Paramount. Second place with the silver is Star Traks, raised by Decker. Given the bronze, but only because there were no other entries, is BorgSpace and Meneks.

Best In Show

"This is all your fault!"

"You can't completely place the blame-"

"Yes I can. Do I have the power to snap my fingers and have my every desire granted? Am I the one with a serious case of ego blended with an overabundance of omnipotence? Am I the one who said 'Watch this - trust me'? I do not think so."

"But-"

"Your fault!"

"But-"

"Completely your fault."

A rush of words: "It is not my fault. I am a Q and Q's do not make mistakes."

"Yah, right. And I'm the Andorian mother queen of all the hives." The tone was highly sarcastic. "I do not care if you are a Q, or a Y, or any other supreme super-being with a one consonant name. You made a mistake, and you are going to set it right."

"You can't make me."

"Piss on that. I may only be a mere linear mortal, one whom you can send to the far reaches of the universe with a snap of your fingers, but I know people. And you know I know people. Those people, and another mistake, are the reason why you are here in the first place; and those people would be highly...disproving if I suddenly became dead or was erased from this timeline."

Sullen silence was the speaker's answer, a wordless acknowledgement that a certain omnipotent being wasn't quite as all-powerful as he advertised.

"Good. I see we have come to an understanding. Now, back to my initial complaint...it is all your fault that my Flarn is no longer in her kennel. I want her back."

"That may not be, um, possible. Not even for me," admitted the voice of what was apparently a Q. There was a strong hint of verbal wince to the words.

"Not possible?" Without waiting for an answer, the speaker continued, "I raised the Flarn from a wee mite! She was near perfect! I've never seen a specimen like her...she swept the junior Shows last year and this was going to be her big debut on the adult circuit! My investment in her spans not years, but nearly two decades! You'd better offer a good explanation about why you can't bring her back, you bastard."

"Trust me, it is just not possible. Well...I technically could get her back, but, er, I'd worry about you retaining your sanity after you saw-"

"Fine, fine. Then I want a replacement. I refuse to forfeiture the upcoming event."

"If you are worried about the entry fee, I could-"

Roared the speaker, "This is not about a pittance of money! Does it look like I need latinum? Huh? No! This is about reputation. My reputation. Are you having some sort of Q-ish moral qualm about getting me a replacement for the Flarn you lost?"

A long sigh. "My morals have been lifted to a more enlightened stage than a mere mortal like yourself. I will procure a replacement. There are one or two Flarn relatively nearby I can secure for you. I'll have to put them back afterwards, you understand."

"Whatever. All I need is a replacement for the event. You can put her back when it is over, and then we'll have further discussions about restitution for your mistake."

"Her. Then you desire a female Flarn?"

"Yes. And she'd better look as close as possible to the one you lost me. Most of my colleagues on the Show circuit can't tell individual Flarn apart, so I should be able to bullsh** my way through any indelicate inquiries. Or I can just bribe 'em. A few thousand credits buys a lot of blindness. As I said, it is not about money, but reputation."

"You know, I just do not understand you mortals."

"Which, I believe, is at least one of the reasons why you were told to hang around with me in the first place. Now...my Flarn?"

"One moment, if you please...."

*Snap*

*****

The Q race is not amoral, despite being characterized as such by many beings, usually those on the receiving end of a prank. If anything, Q's, both as an individual and as a people, are highly moral. The difference is that a Q operates using a moral compass quite different from all the mortal, linear creatures of the universe.

After all, it is hard to imagine the possibility of sharing the same ethics and principles with ants scurrying through the dirt or bacterium in a Petri dish.

For instance, slavery of the body has no meaning to a Q, for a soul can never truly be chained as long as the mind is free. However, to enslave freewill, to take away all choice, particularly that of the self to escape through the power of imagination, is unforgivable. Even worse is to act in such a manner that the free choice of generations to come is reduced to a single option. To plead ignorance, to argue that one had no idea that one's actions could have such repercussions is not a defense, as several unfortunate races have discovered.

When a Q makes a mistake (or, at least, when a Q admits to an error...there is a difference), he is willing to do all which is necessary to set things right. The catch is that in doing so, secondary consequences may occur that may seem morally reprehensible to others. Unfortunately, it is often the innocent subject caught in the middle who is in the position of observing party.

*****

Prime stood on a stool at the edge of a 500+ meter chasm. With arms lifted over her head, she was just tall enough to lay both hands flat upon the ceiling. From somewhere above came the muffled sound of Borg feet on metal and the subtle hiss of plasma cutters.

{Will you hurry up and install the column?} griped Prime. The red dot of targeting laser skittered along the ceiling, indicating where the consensus monitor and facilitator of Cube #238 was gazing. {The deck has buckled another two millimeters. You out-built too much of floor #6-564 without shoring up the undersides.}

{The stresses be within tolerance. It would've been jus' fine, except f'r 52 of 175 wedgin' 'er 'ead inta the hole. We be takin' apart floor #6-565 a' fast as possible. If we be goin' any faster, then we might as well decapitate 52 of 175 and be done with it,} answered Engineer.

Protested 52 of 175, {No, no, no, no. no. My species doesn't do well without a head.}

{In what way? Ye surely weren't usin' it t' think with,} was Engineer's comment.

Cube #238 had been docked at its third port-of-call, Supply Depot #528, for over 20 cycles, cleaning the mess created by several million liters of spoiled Organic Precursor #4. All the time recovered by a speedy passage (from the Greater Consciousness' point-of-view) through Spatial Anomaly #141, via a Bug charted conduit pervaded by temporal riptides, was now lost, returning the sub-collective to a very-behind-schedule status. Resembling rubberized jello, end-stage spoilt Organic Precursor #4 was nearly impossible to eliminate, resistant to solvents, temperature extremes, cutters, and blunt objects. And as the first stage of the spoiling process, before it hardened, had resulted in the goo flooding numerous levels before corroding its way through an additional 700 vertical meters, removal and replacement of the impacted volume had been deemed the easiest course of action.

Hence the large hole in the middle of Bulk Cargo Hold #6's temporary deck stack.

There would, eventually, be repercussions concerning the loss of the Organic Precursor #4, but for the nonce the Greater Consciousness had merely huffed the equivalent of a long sigh, shook a non-existent head, and told the sub-collective to clean the mess, proceed with loading and unloading activities, then continue to the next port.

The rebuild had been continuing apace, goo-encrusted decks and support structure sent to the supply depot for disposal with replacements received in return. Of the 230 decks which had to be partially removed, 80 were returned to their pre-goo state, ready to accept cargo. Then 52 of 175 had espied the hole - used as a spar support when the decking was in a different configuration - and, succumbing to impulse, had decided to see if her head would fit. It had. Barely. Unfortunately, she had then subsequently been unable to extract herself.

Back up a bit. A completed deck in stack configuration is a three meter high volume that extends for kilometers. Light strips embedded in the ceiling provide a dim illumination and contribute to the impression of a vast metal cave. The occasional column is necessary, not to lend ominous ambiance, but to stop decks in the stack from sagging under their own weight; and even when artificial gravity was not present, the columns were still required to prevent unacceptable sway and vibration.

The emergency precipitated by 52 of 175 had diverted resources just before installation of a floor #6-564 column structure. Those drones nearest the incident had been dispatched to assist in the rescue. Participating in the rebuild, as were most drones engineering and non-engineering alike, Prime had volunteered to act as a temporary column whilst the remainder of her team transportered up one floor. Unfortunately, the extraction was taking longer than expected.

Prime piggybacked upon a visual feed to observe developments in the 52 of 175 situation. The drone in question was dangling from the ceiling, head completely within the ceiling, soles of her feet nearly 1.5 meters above the floor. While the decks were of modular construction, the size of each subsection meant it was not possible to unlatch a segment and lower 52 of 175 to the ground. Instead, drones standing upon grav sleds were using plasma cutters to excise a square around the trapped unit. Once 52 of 175 and her new metal collar were freed, she would be sent to drone maintenance for final extraction. Thus far, two sides of the square were complete.

{I've been standing here for two hours,} complained Prime.

{So? Ya volunteered f'r it,} replied Engineer.

{Because I thought it would take less than fifteen minutes to pop 52 of 175's head out of the hole. I now unvolunteer myself. I've other things to do.}

{Like what? We be in dock. Our other cargos be already loaded; and ye c'n do yer command 'n' control stuffs okay there, aye?}

{That is not the point.} Prime shifted her weight slightly as she dismissed the visual stream. As she did so, her stool rocked, one leg edging a wee bit closer to the chasm of uncompleted decks. An odd noise, like a high-pitched buzz, was echoing from somewhere. Prime ignored it. {There are thousands of drones assisting in the rebuild. A few can be redirected to finish the column installation...especially given how said column is lying on the deck less than five meters from my position.}

{Teams be busy and ye be low priority,} said Engineer. He was not being obstinate, only stating simple fact.

Retorted Prime, {My priority, as consensus monitor, is...by the Directors, what is that?} "That" was winged; "that" was the originator of the buzzing; and "that" was flying straight at her at high speed.

{Does anyone see my airplane?} sheepishly broadcast 122 of 550 into the intranet to all units currently within Bulk Cargo Hold #6. {It sort of drifted out of range of my remote control.}

The shape abruptly crystallized into the form of a small, propeller-driven biplane. It was not wavering from its course; and seconds following the announcement, it slammed squarely into Prime's chest armor.

The stool tottered. The leg nearest the 500+ meter deep hole slid off the deck.

{Oh, sh-} began Prime as she lost her balance and was flung into empty air.

A sound, as if fingers snapping, echoed in Prime's mind just before she was engulfed by a radiant light of purest white.

The next sensation Cube #238's consensus monitor experienced was that of her face slamming against metal.

"That's a Borg!" exclaimed a voice as Prime attempted to regain her feet. Stars were floating before her eyes and her vision was blurred, to put it mildly. While her epidermis was not the true chitin exoskeleton of an insectoid, it was tougher than mammalian skin or reptilian scales. Nonetheless, a forehead plate had cracked, allowing reddish-yellow blood to well out. It was a good thing Flarn did not possess a nasal protuberance, else one of the consequences of the high-speed face-plant would undoubtedly have included a broken nose.

A second voice, a rich tenor to the first speaker's almost-bass, replied, "You asked for a female Flarn, similar in appearance to the one which was, um, misplaced. That is what I acquired. Is something wrong?"

"It's a Borg!"

"Is that bad?"

A grunt, as if a response had been halted before it could be uttered, was followed by a long sigh. "Yes, a Borg is bad. Misty was entered in Working Class, not Borg Class." The words were enunciated with great deliberation, as if the speaker was carefully thinking about what he wanted to say. "However, I believe I can make the most of this opportunity you have provided."

"Great! Since that is the only Flarn you are going to get from me, I will consider the matter closed."

Speaker One grunted again.

Upright, Prime found her equilibrium somewhat uncertain. Diagnostics confirmed a minor malfunction to balance-related implants, shortly to be self-repaired. Of much greater concern was the absence of her sub-collective: the busy intranets and dataspaces of Cube #238 were not present. Stance swaying slightly, Prime locked her joints and turned inward to examine her situation. The conversation occurring somewhere to her backside was temporarily dismissed from relevance.

A link to the Collective remained, Prime swiftly concluded. However, it was tenacious, her interplexing beacon signature being routed through a Borg vessel just on the edge of vinculum booster resolution. The cube - Exploratory-class Cube #771 - was lurking near a minor Second Federation colony, a dodgy affair located just beyond the edge of the galactic volume SecFed officially claimed. Much more important than the Collective's interest in what appeared to be the homebase of a dozen semi-legal businesses fronting wholly illegal enterprises was the fact that Prime had been transported nearly 30,000 light years from Cube #238.

All in less than the blink of an eye.

Admittedly, the outcome, for the moment, was better than the fate awaiting at the bottom of a 500+ meter hole, but there were few beings (or, rather, only one) of which the Borg were conversant that could accomplish such a radical dislocation of a drone.

Prime slowly turned to confront the voices which continued to converse behind her back.

Gesturing as he tried to make a point, one hand periodically flung in Prime's direction, was a species #1240 - Orion - male. Of standard humanoid form, the most outstanding characteristic of the race was an intensely green epidermis. This particular male was bald, small bumps furnishing his head a roughened appearance. He wore a loose-fitting uniform of worn leather, the outfit typical to that of a slave handler; and around his waist was a belt sporting several weapons, the theme that of containment and control.

Opposite the Orion was a light-skinned human. Also male, his frame was less than physically imposing, the proverbial 98-pound weakling. Dirty blond hair was pulled back into a short queue. He was wearing an ill-fitting assortment of garments, including blue jeans (one knee torn), a short-sleeved shirt with a color best described as brownish blah, and non-descript running shoes.

It was not difficult to ascertain which of the two entities to be the Q. The fact that the human was absently snapping his fingers, eliciting a brief flare of white light each time, was an unnecessary confirmation.

As neither of Prime's captors seemed to be aware of her revival, she took the opportunity to quickly pan her location. The room, at about 200 square meters in size, could best be described as a luxurious flat tailored specifically to Flarn tastes. For starters, the ceiling was a comfortable meter above Prime's head, not the just-barely-clearing-the-noggin claustrophobic nightmare a Flarn usually had to deal with when among soft-skinned humanoid sentients. A heated sand bath, perfect for scouring the epidermis, was set into the floor in one corner, while a comfortable-looking platform bed was located in another. One wall was inset a replicator, but it was not the sole food option: a transparent window allowed a perspective diner a view of real delicacies, both plant and animal, also available for consumption. Sofas suitable for a Flarn frame fronted a gigantic entertainment system.

And, for reasons unknown and unknowable to Prime, posters depicting a wide variety of SecFed boy-bands were hung on nearly every available vertical surface. Most prominently placed were those which included a bare-chested Flarn member. Prime had face-planted the wall halfway between sand bath and bed nook, at one of the few places not papered with a near-perfect specimen of Flarn maleness.

Finally, at the far side of the room was a discrete door. Prime intuitively knew that the Orion was the only individual with the ability to open the lock that was undoubtedly present. The apartment may have represented Flarn luxury, but it was still a prison to whomever had once resided there.

For it was becoming quite clear, from the conversation, that the occupant was no longer among the living...or, maybe, 'among the existent' was the more accurate term.

What to do? What action to take? With no input forthcoming through her connection to the Collective, Prime defaulted to base Borg tactics.

"You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile," said Prime as she began her advance. She was careful to focus proclamation and attention solely upon the Orion. She was uncertain of the Q's involvement in the situation, other than instigating her transport. Q's were fickle creatures, and there was the likelihood he would not interfere further. If she could only lay a hand upon the slaver....

*Snap*

Prime abruptly found herself unable to move.

"We are having a discussion here," haughtily informed the Q to Prime. "You will just have to wait until we are done. Be polite." Fingers snapped again. Ability to move returned. "If you try something like that again, I'll just leave you frozen. Stand there like a good Borg." Attention was returned to the Orion.

In the mental background, the Greater Consciousness officially wished Prime the equivalent of good luck. While the Collective was usually loath to lose a drone for any reason when there was a prospect to retrieve it, there were exceptions. An omnipotent being with the potential to wipe all Borg from existence by snapping his fingers topped the list. To attempt recovery in such a situation was foolhardy. If Prime survived, was even returned to Cube #238, so be it. Until and unless such occurred, the Greater Consciousness would observe from afar via linkage through Exploratory-class Cube #771, the vessel not slated to leave its position for at least half a Cycle. That was, of course, assuming Prime remained within vinculum range. When a Q was involved, literally anything was possible.

"Now, where were we, Katosh?" asked Q.

Katosh glanced once at Prime, expression bland, before replying, "I was saying that I should be able to shift my entry to Borg Class. I will have to mose closely examine the specimen, but my initial impression is that she is acceptable, at least conformation-wise."

"I /said/ I knew of a Flarn that looked like Misty. You didn't think I'd bring you something deformed or having long-jaw or the like?"

Ignoring Q's protest - how could a mortal get away with treating one of the universe's most capricious omnipotent beings so poorly? - Katosh continued, "After the Show, when you /set things right/ better than this haphazard way, I can claim that the Borg experiment with Misty didn't work out."

Prime, never known for her patience, had had enough. Her demand was delivered in a loud voice. "You will return this drone to its Collective." The third person tense was carefully applied.

Katosh blinked, obviously unaccustomed to interruption.

Q raised his hand in preparation to wield deadly fingers.

"We did not move," said Prime, "except for our jaw. Why is this drone here?"

Hand was lowered. "She is correct on the first point."

"Why is this drone here?" pressed Prime.

"By the Directors!" exclaimed Katosh. "That sort of attitude will never do! The Flarn may resemble my Misty, but she is definitely much, much louder. Give her an attitude adjustment."

"I will not," spoke the Q quietly.

Katosh waved a hand. "You have to do what I say; and you know why."

"If you are talking about certain people, they will agree with me. There are certain things a Q may not do, and 'attitude adjustments' are among them. Every being must have mental freewill."

"It's a /Borg/. Borg do not have freewill. It is...is like the food replicator over there."

Q turned to fully face Prime, regarding her quietly. Katosh seemed to realize that the issue would not be forced. After several minutes of silence, during which the Orion began to fidget (Prime, however, was capable of remaining motionless for hours), Q lifted an arm and flung it around the slaver's shoulders, pulling the other into a furtive huddle. Disturbingly, as he did so, he winked at Prime.

"How about if I, um, loosen the drone's inhibitions," he mock whispered to the Orion.

"What?" squawked Katosh. He lowered his voice to a murmur, unaware that the third party in the room remained perfectly able to hear the conversation. "You just said you could not perform attitude adjustments. And /why/ would I want a Borg with a /lack/ of inhibitions?"

Q hissed a reply, "The type of adjustment you want is not feasible. However, I'm talking about freeing her mind a bit. Make her more...individualistic. She'd still be Borg, you understand, but if she felt more 'single', I guarantee you that she would also have a wee more enlightened self-interest in following your directives." Voice was raised in volume, "Especially if she were to understand that if she performed as you told her, she would be returned to her Collective at the conclusion of the Show."

Katosh nodded his head in understanding. "Ah, incentive."

"Exactly. If a food replicator provided you with the wrong entree, it would be stupid to hit it as a punishment or to enourage it to comply with future requests. It is just a machine. Borg do what their Collective tells them; and no matter how much you shout at it or beat one, a drone is going to do what it is programmed to do because it sees itself as just one small, unimportant cog in a larger machine. However..."

"I understand. As you said, a dollop of enlightened self-interest. But not too much, mind you."

"Of course not. And she'll even use 'I' instead of 'this drone'."

"Do it."

Q and Katosh broke from their huddle. The Orion had a large, and exceedingly fake, smile plastered across his face.

Prime shifted her head slightly. Flarn cannot squint, suspiciously or otherwise, but the forward tilt of her head towards Q amounted to the same thing. She had followed the discussion and understood exactly what he had been attempting to convey.

With the least of nods, Q said, "This will not hurt a bit." He waved one hand with an overly theatrical flourish. A flash of white light briefly illuminated Prime. "There, it is done. The Borg has been gifted with a degree of individuality. Say something, Borg."

"This unit.../I/ am not 'Borg'. My designation is 2 of 5. Why am I here?" responded Prime obediently. She was rewarded with a smile from the Q.

"Your new name is Misty. And if you do exactly what I say over the next week, without asking questions, you may find yourself back to where ever you call home," asserted Katosh brusquely. "Do you understand?"

"Yes. We...I understand." Prime refused to use any variation of the word 'comply'.

"Good Misty!" purred the Orion.

"Now that introductions are out of the way, I have a few errands to run. However, before I do so, there are some ground rules I would like to leave for my new cybernetic friend," proclaimed Q. "First and foremost, no funny stuff. For reasons I would rather not divulge, the good Katosh is under by protection. That means you do as he says, within reason; and /do not/ assimilate him. Or any of his peers. Second...well, I guess I do not really have a second.

"Be aware that I do not need to be present to know what is going on. I am omnivore...no, that isn't it. Omnificent? Omnibus? Omni...omni...damn, I always forget which omni it is. Anyway, I'm always there, even if you don't see me. If you do attempt something that negatively affects Katosh, maybe cause him to break out in a cybernetic rash, then I will not return you to your cube. There are, however, several parasitic pocket dimensions of which I've always been curious concerning how a cybernetic organism might fare.

"Any questions?"

Prime remained silent.

"Good! As I said, things to do and not all of eternity to do them in. Why I chose a human form this epoch, I do not know. I hear a few million years as a rock or a comet can be very relaxing. Toot-a-loo!" The Q vanished.

Prime shifted her attention to glare at Katosh.

"Q's make the best friends, don't you think?" inquired the Orion lightly.

Prime remained silent.

"I like this attitude much better than the previous one. Quieter, at least. So, down to business. There isn't much time before the Show, and I need to know exactly what Q brought me."

The slaver approached Prime tentatively, as if he fully expected, Q's threat notwithstanding, she would leap upon him. When she did not move, except to shift her gaze to a point approximately one meter before herself and about thirty centimeters over Katosh's head, the Orion became bolder. He began to circle her, eyes running up and down her frame as he whispered commentary under his breath. Finally, mere observation insufficient, Katosh started to physically poke and prod Prime; and although he did not go so far as to peer into her mouth to check tooth wear, the consensus monitor began to feel as she imagined an animal at a livestock sale must suffer when undergoing examination by a potential buyer.

"You are physically acceptable," remarked Katosh as he continued his inspection. "Your exoskeleton is a bit on the dull side, but that is nothing a good oil and buff cannot fix. However," the slaver stopped in front of Prime, "looks are not enough for the Show. Tell me, Borg, have you any talents?"

Prime tilted her head slightly to look down upon the Orion. Via her Collective link, despite its tenaciousness, she had downloaded to onboard files a complete species #1240 dossier. Therefore, although he was very good at hiding it, she was able to discern the slight tells indicating continued underlying nervousness. "What is this 'Show'?"

"You will find out. It is, how you Borgs say, irrelevant." Katosh smirked, obviously enjoying the fact that he was untouchable by Prime. "I need a talent. Surely you must be good at something."

"My principal function within my sub-collective architecture is as a prime coordination node, of which my present rating is 'excellent'. I am also proficient in troubleshooting and repairing engineering problems."

Katosh's forehead wrinkled. "That is not what I meant."

"Then explain what the 'Show' entails, you little green taguli-macah," retorted Prime, not bothering to even simulate politeness. The Q only said she had to refrain from physical assault, not verbal; and she had purposefully chosen an insult from a language extinct outside of Borg archives. With the local universal translator ineffective, Katosh would be unaware that Prime had just unfavorably likened his head to a set of deformed squid genitalia. It was childish, yes, but she was also an imperfectly assimilated ex-Chief Engineer. "Otherwise, I am unable to answer."

"What did you call me?"

Prime did not answer.

"Tell me..."

"Or else, what? Will you beat me?" Prime snorted. "I have endured worse. Much worse. None of this hardware, none of my implants," she waved one hand at herself, "was done with anesthesia. Pain is irrelevant. I comply with your demands only because I must. My sole goal is to be returned to a useful existence within my Collective."

The Orion digested Prime's words, a sour expression upon his face. Finally, he muttered, "The Show is a contest. My comrades and peers, not only Orion, bring their best pets for display. While the score is primarily based upon breed configuration, there are also agility and talent portions. So, what can you do?"

"I am a Borg. I am a primary decision node and can function as an engineer. And I can lift heavy objects."

Katosh sighed. "Yes, yes, except for the lifting bit, you already told me that. Those are not talents. Can you dance?"

"No." Prime's response was an abrupt one syllable answer.

"Juggle?"

"No."

"Hula-hoop?"

Prime cocked her head slightly as she sent a data request upon the term 'hula-hoop' towards Collective archives. After a few seconds, she received a short memefile which included images of a plastic ring and the gyrations necessary to keep it in motion around one's body. "No. Does this body look remotely like it possesses a high degree of agility?"

"True," hummed Katosh. "But Misty could hula-hoop quite well. And two years ago I saw a Pakled give the most marvelous interpretive dance sequence during a Junior Show at Rotinine II. Graceful. Not what you'd expect from the breed."

"I am a Borg. Borg." Prime tapped a finger against armored torso in emphasis.

"Fine, fine," said the slaver. He began to chew his lower lip as he thought. "Can you sing? Play an instrument?"

"No and no."

"Is there /anything/ you can do?"

"I can assimilate you."

Katosh narrowed his eyes to glare at his charge. "I do not think so."

"I can hit a fist-sized target at fifty meters with a spanner."

For a moment the Orion smiled, a large grin stretching across his face. Then mouth turned downward into a frown and head slowly shook back and forth. "No, I don't think I'd be comfortable providing you with any projectile more dangerous than a small beanbag. Oh, well, I suppose I could always stuff you in a tutu and wire you up." To 'wire up' was a slaver euphemism for inserting electrodes into muscles, then controlling the subject via remote control. It generally made the target look like a badly strung puppet. "It could be a comedic performance." Pause. "Unless you have another idea?"

Prime returned to staring at nothing.

"Tutu it is. I think extra large should do it."

"I can yo-yo."

"What?"

Repeated Prime sullenly, "I can perform yo-yo tricks."

"By the deepest hells, what is a yo-yo?"

"A Terran toy."

"A /toy/?"

This time it was Prime who huffed a long sigh. "It is a pair of discs connected together at their centers, with a sting wrapped around the axis. You can search an image on the GalacNet. I won the University interdepartmental contest five years in a row with my routines; and the only reason I did not win a sixth was because I was assimilated three weeks before the contest date."

The Orion looked dubious at the admittance. "And this is a talent?"

"It is a /skill/, not a mere talent. It requires years of practice to perform the tricks I can accomplish." Now that Prime had admitted to her secret (well, not among her sub-collective) proficiency, she was not about to allow the puny slaver to belittle it.

"Okay...you could, um, yo when-"

"Yo-yo, not yo."

"Er, you could yo-yo before you became a Borg. But can you still yo-yo?"

Prime returned to the one syllable answer, "Yes."

It seemed as if Katosh was expecting more, some greater explanation, but Prime was not obliging. "Can I have a demonstration?"

Prime thought of her pair of favorite yo-yos, both of which were in a small niche at the back of her alcove. On the cube, after all, if she felt the need to practice her yo-yoing technique she only had to transport one to herself. In the future, she vowed, she would keep at least one yo-yo upon her person at all times. "No."

"Are you /refusing/?"

"I have no yo-yo."

"Oh." Katosh returned to chewing upon his lower lip. "Well, I guess this yo-yoing will just have to do. I will want a demonstration, you understand; and if it doesn't look to be appropriate for the Show, there is always the tutu and wire option."

Prime's silence spoke volumes as to her opinion upon that particular alternative.

"Well, I can see that you need time to think about your new Show career. I'll allow you to your thoughts and return-"

"There is no alcove here," said Prime. "It was insinuated that I would be incarcerated away from my Collective for a week. My species cannot be without regeneration, and remain mind-conscious and functional, for that length of time. I must have an alcove. If necessary, I will adapt local technologies."

Katosh began to wave his arms in an excited manner. "No, no, no! I will not have my facilities Borgified in any manner! Totally unacceptable."

"If you wish to 'display' me, you have no choice. You will comply with my demand."

"Q!" called Katosh plaintively, face towards the ceiling. "A little /help/ here!"

There was a flash of bright light. When it cleared, an alcove was standing near the food replicator. Prime cocked her head slightly, then internally groaned: it was her alcove from Cube #238, inclusive malfunctioning clamps and, although Flarn sized, a fit which was not quite right. On the upside, it appeared as if the niche where her yo-yos were stored had also been transported with the alcove.

"Watch the tri-V if you like, or listen to some of Misty's music. Just don't Borgify anything. And replicate yourself a yo-yo. I'll be back in a couple of hours, and when I return you will provide a demonstration of your talent." Instructions given, Katosh whisked himself from the room.

The subtle *snick* of a lock engaging confirmed Prime's earlier speculation concerning the nature of the ex-Misty's luxurious prison.

The Show was located on the surface of Tipari II, the system's sole inhabitable terrestrial planet. Specifically, it was situated within the air-conditioned halls of a cavernous convention center built upon one of the larger islands which comprised the many archipelagoes that crisscrossed the planet's watery face. The natives, a deep-water gill-breather whose actual form was shrouded in mystery, were ambivalent as to what occurred upon the landmasses of their world; and as long as the rent was paid and visitors refrained from dumping garbage or toxic material into the seas, what happened on Tipari II stayed on Tipari II.

With their outlandish clothing, swaggering walk, and loud boasting, slave owners were easy to distinguish from bystanders. Being the Alpha Quadrant, the great majority of owners were Orion or Ferengi, species with a deep-seated belief, one which had persisted for centuries in the face of contact with other civilizations, that a fellow sophant was simply another form of property. Humans, a race well known for producing individuals with fluid morals, were also in evidence; and there was a sprinkling of Klingon and Nausicaan.

Prime quickly learned that Show participants disliked being referred to as 'owners' or 'handlers', and the term 'slaver' was especially insulting. Instead, the euphemism 'custodian' was in great evidence, as if they were benevolent caretakers of wayward children. Similarly, their charges were always 'pets', a term most sentients would decry as derogatory due to various unflattering connotations, but for which the handlers seemed to consider endearing.

Naturally, the pets in question were not asked of their opinion upon the matter, no more than a cat or dog would be consulted upon its name or living arrangements.

Stabled in one of the many three meter by four meter stalls that divided the convention center floor into a vast grid, Prime had plenty of time to observe her surroundings while Katosh hobnobbed elsewhere with his peers. The Show was based upon the same premise as a breed show or livestock fair, with enslaved beings of intelligent species substituted for non-sentient lifeforms. The race of each pet (purebreeds only!) defined which of ten classes it belonged to, with Decorative, Working, and Martial the most popular. The exception was the Borg class, whereupon a hodgepodge of entries were present, all united in origination.

Supposedly.

Prime snorted disgust to herself as she panned her competitors. These were Borg? Perhaps the uninitiated outsider might think them to be, but they most certainly were not. To label any of the...the...things stabled within the Borg bloc of the Show as Borg was like pointing to a pack of yapping Pomeranians and declaring them to be vicious wolves.

The Borg class could be divided into the assimilated and the fakes. The sham Borg were especially easy to discern, individuals whom had been painted (sometimes poorly) by their owners in hues of gray and forced to wear ridiculous costumes that included hoses and blinking lights. Of those who had actually undergone assimilation, there were three additional subclasses - Color escapees, individuals who had experienced an unfortunate reaction to black-market nanites, and poor bastards whose owners had purposefully injected virulent nanobots to achieve a more authentic Borg semblance.

"You will be assimilated. Resistance is, er.... Psst! Hey, Flarn, do you remember the rest of the phrase?" whispered the mock-drone in the stall to Prime's right. Underneath makeup was a skinny, late-adolescent Romulan. Either it was his first time playing a Borg, else he had severe memory problems, because he was continually forgetting Collective catchphrases. A glance towards Romulan section within the Working class bloc of the convention center was to be rewarded with near perfect specimens of the race, and a strong hint as to why the boy pestering Prime had been disguised as a faux-Borg.

"It's 'resistance is futile', you idiot," said a feloid Caitian as she reached over the low wall her stall shared with the Romulan to cuff the boy on the head. "At least try to get into character."

Bleated the Romulan, "It's not fair, though! At least you've been assimilated!"

"Only because of an ill-conceived sorority initiation," retorted the Caitian, her tail lashing back and forth. "Sure, the SecFed may /claim/ to be tolerant of life in all its forms, but have a few implants on your face and a family unable to afford the fees of a proper de-assimilation clinic, and see how far you get. I'm damn lucky my custodian came along, saw my potential, and adopted me. All I have to do is prance around on a stage a couple of times a year in this stupid outfit, and all my needs are taken care of. Much better deal than if I had actually finished university." As she talked, the feloid gestured to her body. Given her condition, it was not unexpected that she was missing the fine pelt and mane of which her race was famous. However, unlike a real Borg, she did not wear a bodysuit, but rather a skimpy leather bikini which displayed pale skin and curves alike.

"It's still not fair," sniveled the Romulan, which earned him another smack across the back of his thick skull.

The subtle whine of muscle servos caught Prime's attention, and she swiveled her head to regard her neighbor to her left. In the stall was an actual Borg, specifically, a human whom had undergone assimilation and processing under the auspicious of a Colored Collective. His mind hovered just on the edge of understanding, neural transceiver just sufficiently out of sync with Prime's to muffle his mental voice as if he were standing on the other side of a glass wall. However, like said glass wall, his origin - rogue - was clear to her; and, in reciprocal fashion, her Borg status was plain to him. The human froze, teeth bared in a rictus of a smile: it was perfectly obvious he desired to be anywhere but next to a real Borg whom maintained a functional link with her Collective.

"This is my Misty. Magnificent, isn't she?" announced a voice with just the faintest of slurring to indicate the speaker to be mildly intoxicated.

Prime internally sighed, then pivoted to face the front of her stall. Around her, pets of a purported Borg nature ceased their conversations. An owner had arrived.

"Why'd you Borgify her?" inquired Katosh's companion, a Ferengi with a definite weasel cast to his features. His eyes traveled up and down Prime's form as his lip curled in a sneer. The Flarn species did not have the best olfactory sense, but even she could smell the alcohol wafting upon the Ferengi's breath. "Last I heard, you were bragging how your Flarn would sweep the breed, class, and show ribbons at this Show."

Katosh dismissively waved a hand. "Too easy. I wanted a challenge." Looking furtively back and forth, he leaned forward to offer a clandestine explanation that did little to maintain secrecy. "Actually, Misty tried to rebel. Nothing major, just flaring Flarn hormones. To make her think about her actions, I took away all privileges and injected an assimilation kit. She threw a fit at first, but I do believe she is coming to realize the error of her ways. Smacking isn't exactly an option with a Flarn."

The Ferengi chortled nastily, "I've always thought you've over-indulged your prize pets. There is no need for education or mental stimulation, especially the females. After all, look at my beauty...perfect in all ways." In one hand, the slaver held a dainty, silver leash; and at the end of the leash, vacant eyes wide in a manner which suggested a definite dearth of IQ, was a Bajoran female. In comparison, the mock-drone Romulan teenager was a genius. Perhaps to compensate her lack of brains, the Bajoran was mind-numbingly beautiful. "Candy is a strong contender for Best In Show, especially now that you've taken yourself out of the running. Flarns are a handicap at the best of times, and nothing from Borg Class has ever done better than the class ribbon."

"I plan to change that," retorted Katosh. "This is the best Borg any Show has ever seen."

"And the only one," muttered Prime under her breath. Out of her peripheral vision, she could see her neighbors standing as still as possible, heads bowed and eyes diverted in the classic posture of 'if I cannot see you, then maybe you cannot see me'.

Blinking, the Ferengi yanked his Bajoran away from Prime's stall. "I swear your pet just spoke, Katosh, and without being spoken to. You should punish it."

Prime turned her head just enough to stare directly at the Orion. If he laid one hand upon her, Q or no Q, he would quickly find said limb no longer attached to his body. There were some things that would not be tolerated. The Color rogue must have felt overflow of her emotional state, for she heard a commotion as the human dove over a wall to the next stall.

Katosh seemed to realize, despite his impared mental state, that to follow the Ferengi's suggestion was probably Not A Good Thing. "You know I do not believe in such crass reprimand, Koul. Only an unintelligent man, a small-lobed man, would leap to the stick at every little thing."

To call a Ferengi 'small-lobed' was an reprehensible insult. Koul narrowed his eyes. "So, Katosh, you seem to be implying that you and your pet Flarn are better than me and my Candy-girl?"

The Orion rolled his eyes. "Take my words however you wish."

Prime liked neither the turn in the conversation nor the alcohol-fueled undercurrents of things left unsaid.

"Well then-" Koul interrupted himself to belch, then pat his Bajoran pet on the rear "-I suggest a little wager. A thousand strips of latinum that my Candy will place higher than your Misty. Personally, I do not think your brute will even make to Best In Class, unless, of course, her talent is to bedazzle the judges with her ugliness." The Ferengi chuckled.

Katosh opened his mouth, then closed it again as he felt Prime's unblinking stare focused upon him. He raised his eyes to glance at his real Borg, then flicked his attention to the Bajoran perfection (currently staring with open-mouthed enchantment at a holographic advertisement drifting overhead) which was Candy. He may have been a bit buzzed, but he wasn't that drunk.

"Hah! You are as worthless as a hooman."

"He will accept your gentleman's wager!" announced a familiar voice. With a flash of light, Q appeared in between Orion and Ferengi, arms draped around their shoulders. He was dressed as casually as the first time Prime had seen him, which meant he was a drab blackbird compared to the peacock plumage all the custodians were wearing.

"I...I will?" inquired Katosh, a waver in his voice.

"You do not have to...as always, all decisions you make are entirely up to you. However, certain mutual acquaintances would be happier knowing that you had taken this little risk. After all, it isn't like you can't afford it; and you did tell me that this Show was more about reputation than winning. To give in to a Ferengi - no offense, Koul - might seem weak," cheerily spoke Q.

Koul looked somewhat dazed at the verbal whirlwind which was Q. Or it might have been a reaction to the alcohol. "Er, no offense? Who are you, hooman? Are you showing a pet?"

"In a manner of speaking," Q replied without actually answering either question. Slapping both slavers on the back, he raised his head and winked at Prime. "So, I think both of you, and the lovely Candy, should go talk about your little bet. Maybe a thousand strips of latinum is a little on the low side?"

Gaining verbal footing, Katosh said, "Yes, maybe it is a bit low. Especially since I know that Misty will not only beat Koul's Bajoran ornament, but will surely take Best In Show."

"In your dreams, Orion," dismissed Koul. "Why don't we retire to the bar and draw up the wager in a more formal manner?"

Disentangling himself from Q, Katosh gave a sharp nod and then took the lead. After staring at Q for a long moment, confusion evident, Koul shook his head, tugged his leash twice to recapture Candy's attention, then followed after.

Q's face stretching in a wide smile, the omnipotent being casually sauntered to Prime's stall and leaned against the low wall. The "Beware Of Borg" signs, prominently placed throughout the stable bloc, did not apply to him. "So, what do ya think about the Show?"

"It is a despicable, small being behavior," rumbled Prime. "You winked at me." While the suspicious accusation did not change the tone of her voice, the emotive signature would have been quite apparent to the other drones of her sub-collective.

Q shrugged. "You can always choose not to participate. Freewill, you know. Some Q believe Borg drones don't count in the freewill department, only the Greater Consciousness as a whole, but I think otherwise."

"And if I choose not to participate?"

"I can choose not to send you back to your sub-collective."

Silence. To Prime's left, the ex-Color was begging for his custodian to withdraw him from the contest; and to her right, the Romulan faux-drone was muttering "resistance is subtitled" to himself.

"You do not actually have to win," relented Q, "only try. Unless, of course, you feel intimidated by your competition."

"/Futile/, not subtitled, you moron," exclaimed the Caitain. A clawed hand struck against earhole, eliciting a yelp.

Prime straighted herself from the customary slouch Flarn, even those Borgified, adopted when among the physically smaller beings of the galaxy. "We are Borg," she declared. Competitive by nature, as were many of her species, that facet of her personality had been dampened upon assimilation. However, the tenacious nature of her link to the Collective and the lack of the balancing influence of her sub-collective had allowed certain censure filters to begin to erode. "These things are not Borg."

"Atta-girl!"

<<We concur. It is unacceptable for small beings to be declared superior to Borg,>> unexpectedly commented the Borg multivoice from the depths of Prime's psyche. At that point, even if Prime had retained reservation at Show participating, it would have been overruled by the Will of the Greater Consciousness. <<You will win.>>

Q clapped his hands together twice, creating a pair of stuttering flashes. "Whoops, sometimes I get carried away with myself. No matter. Excellent, I am glad we are all in agreement, then."

Prime stood upon the stage, projecting a dispassionate calm as she waited, a yo-yo in each hand, for her cue to begin. The stage was a simple dais constructed at one end of the convention center, opposite the stable blocs. It was expansive - 40 meters wide by 15 meters deep - with the ends obscurred by curtains supported upon three meter tall free-standing metal frames. The stage floor was reached by one of two sets of stairs Floating overhead on antigrav trusses was lighting; and the backdrop was a giant span of dark blue fabric attached to the convention center wall. The audience for the stage was seated upon raised bleachers. Cameras transmitted the performance to monitors scattered throughout the building for spectators unable to attend.

The Show was divided into three parts spread over two days. On the first full day, following an evening of entry registration and parties, came the talent show. Worth 25% of the final score, custodians displayed the special skills of their pets. On the same day, also valued at 25%, was an agility contest at which pets had to navigate a dozen obstacles set along a fixed course. The beauty pageant occurred on the second day, whereupon the final 50% of the score was dispersed. First breeds competed amongst themselves for various ribbons based upon conformation - how well an individual epitomized his/her/its species' form; then breed winners advanced to class contests. The pageant cumulated in the class winners vying for the coveted Best In Show title. It was theoretically possible for an entry to sweep talent and agility portions of the Show, do abysmally in the pageant, and still win. However, in reality the pageant was everything, the other competitions mere sidebars.

Just beyond the lip of the stage was a long table, behind which sat two Orions, two Ferengi, and a human. These five were the judges, the individuals whom would score pet performances through each of the three contests. They were the only important figures within the audience; and, more often than naught, how an entry actually scored related to the size of the bribe paid by the entry's custodian rather than the ability of the entry itself.

Prime knew that both Katosh and Koul had invested heavily in the judges.

Still, regardless of the latinum offered, and accepted, an entry had to display some aptitude throughout the subcontests, if only to maintain the fiction that he, she, or it had actually earned the scores achieved.

The link to the Collective remained sufficient for Prime to make limited queries for information from remote data archives. Therefore, as she waited, she amused the corner of herself allowed a degree of mental freedom by considering the myriad of techniques which could be applied to assimilate the judges. She was halfway through the "Advanced Assimilation Manual for Humanoids" when the head judge, an aged Orion, stood.

"Entry #14 - Misty, with custodianship by Katosh of Katosh Kennels, you will begin," announced the Orion.

Prime cocked her head slightly, regarding the implant configuration she had overlain the judge's face. No...he was not suitable to be assigned a sensor specialty. The tactical option was better, and, specifically, front-line phaser fodder. The image was reluctantly erased: it was time to begin.

The consensus monitor and facilitator of Cube #238 was of the opinion that if something was to be done, it should be done /right/. The attitude was equally applicable to engineering, pranks, swearing, and acting as a command node for an imperfect sub-collective. She might not /like/ the assigned duty, but likes were, and always had been, even before assimilation, irrelevant. Now that Prime was committed to the Show, she /would/ win. There would be no try, only success.

At any cost.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she still wondered what the Q really meant with his winks.

Prime gave an exaggerated nod. The gesture was not native to her species, but it adequately served as a cue to a human member of the stage crew to push a particular button upon a console filled with toggles, switches, and blinking lights. Speakers hidden under the stage came to life with the sounds of percussion and an electric guitar riff. Prime had long ago discovered that Terran music, and particularly the ancient artform of rock-and-roll in all its varieties from classic to ultra-modern, to be the perfect backdrop to her yo-yo routines. Humans had few redeeming qualities in her opinion, a belief that originated from the day she had left her Flarn enclave to venture into the galaxy, but this music genre was one of them.

Prime knew from the moment her first yo-yo was flung into a sweeping arc that she would garner high marks for her talent contest participation. Katosh's bribe probably helped, but her display of excellent yo-yo skills immediately captured the judges' attention. The human was so entranced as to have his jaw unconsciously agape, head pivoting and eyes swiveling to follow the flight of the yo-yos.

Both yo-yos were punched straight towards the ceiling to start the performance, then transitioned to broad looping patterns on each side of Prime's body in the classic trick known as Around The World. After a few cross-body motions which had the toys zipping back and forth, one yo-yo was deftly captured, then tucked away in a hidden body compartment. The opening volley for five minutes of perfection had begun.

Prime began the single yo-yo portion of her program with a few basic moves such as Walk The Dog, Rock The Baby, Warp Drive, and Buddah's Revenge. They were showy tricks, yet considered to rank simple to moderate difficulty for the yo-yo aficionado. The origin of the names were largely lost to history, vanished as the Terran language drifted over the centuries. In many cases, Prime was unsure if the universal translator was even rendering them correctly - case in point, Skin The Cat - for the mental images invoked by the words could be highly nonsensical.

As she performed her routine, Prime pivoted and twisted, as well as she was able given her species and body armor, to give the illusion of greater movement. Most Borg rated low in the agility department, and races such as Flarn even more so, but the secret of yo-yoing was arm placement and precision, not random body gyration.

A change in music tempo heralded the transition to more advanced single yo-yo tricks. The particular routine was one Prime had choreographed well before her assimilation: it had been her secret weapon in winning the third annual University-wide yo-yo competition against a particularly strong pack of contenders.

Hop The Bucket. Prime tossed the yo-yo out towards the audience, then let it pendulum over a finger of her free hand as she captured the string in order to make the bucket. Back came the yo-yo, plunking down into the awaiting cats-cradle bucket. The hops the yo-yo then made as strings were pulled taunt, loosened, then pulled taunt again were unnecessarily high, but this audience wanted drama, not finesse. It was obvious that the more subtle tricks, such as Shock Wave and Spirit Bomb, that had taken Prime months to achieve flawlessness, were not appropriate here.

Again the music shifted, this time to a more urgent beat. It was time for the double yo-yo tricks. Prime deftly palmed her second yo-yo and added it to the routine.

Prime began with Orbit The Moons, keeping the yo-yos slightly out of sync so that the changes in arc trajectory seemed to defy the laws of physics. Pinwheels and arm/elbow wraps, she knew that the audience (and the judges) were surely trying to figure out what sort of technological wizardry was in play to allow the yo-yos to return to Prime's hand no matter the contortions she put them through. After a sequence of fountain tricks with gratuitous flourishes, the Flarn completed several repetitions of Spread Eagle Warp Drive, a behind-the-back trick where yo-yo position had to be felt, not watched, in order to prevent tangles.

The routine was ended with a double Shoot The Moon, yo-yos falling into awaiting hands, strings neatly wound around the central axis, just as the music cut.

Perfect.

Drawing herself to her full height, Prime riveted a stare unto the judges. While the clapping of an appreciative audience was satisfactory, ultimately it was the scores from the five individuals behind the table which was of any significance. Leaning in to whisper amongst themselves, the judges discussed the merits of Prime's performance, punctuated by appraisal of the quantity of latinum each had received from her custodian. Finally consensus was reached. Out of 25 possible points, Prime received a "23".

All the way back to the Borg bloc, Prime 'restrained' by a wholly inadequate leash wrapped around her throat, Katosh burbled excitedly that the Flarn's score was the highest received in the talent contest for the last ten years the Show had been hosted by Tipari II. Apparently a Vulcan with a flaming-chainsaw-juggling-and-dirty-limerick routine had been the last to score thus, and had thence went on to sweep Best In Show. By Koul's estimates, there was no way he could lose.

Later, secured once more within her stall and surrounded by the inane chatter of her fellow 'Borg', Prime followed the remainder of the talent contest via a nearby monitor. For the most part, the performances were mediocre, both by the consensus monitor's reckoning and that of the judges. It was well over two hours until Candy walked out onto the stage. Would there be a credible talent behind an admittedly beautiful body?

The short answer was an empathic 'no'.

If the Bajoran had come prepared with a routine, it quickly became apparent that the performance was not in the forefront of what passed for Candy's mind. For five long minutes she stood at the center of the stage, mouth half open, her head twisting to follow the flight of something outside of camera view. By extrapolating the angle of the Bajoran's gaze, Prime was able to search the convention center ceiling while utilizing the zoom function of ocular implants embedded within a subset of her compound eye structure. The object of rapt attention on the part of Candy turned out to be an iridescent moth-like flying insect that had had the misfortune of being trapped inside the building.

Needless to say, even with the bribes they had undoubtedly received, Candy's performance did not garner a high approval rating from the judges. In the end she received a "5" - one point from each judge - the minimum possible.

"Psst, Misty, is it 'resistance will be subtle' or 'resistance will be motile'? I've forgotten again," inquired the too familiar voice of Prime's more annoying neighbor.

The less said of the Prime's showing in the agility portion of the Show, the better. It required thirty minutes to reconstruct the obstacle course once she was done crashing through it. In contrast, who could have guessed that the empty-of-brain Candy would be so coordinated, light on her feet, and fast?

It was nighttime at the Show. The overhead lights of the convention center were dimmed, but the half-darkness might as well been day-bright to Prime's augmented compound eyes. Three-quarters of the stable blocs were empty, inhabitants returned to the ships of their respective owners for the night. Of those left in the convention center, the great majority lay sleeping upon bed pallets or cots within their stalls.

Prime had no need to regenerate. She had completed a full regeneration cycle just prior to her transport to the surface of Tipari II, and it would be many more cycles before impending stasis lock would require her to return to an alcove. Therefore, her silhouette was one of the few visible bipedal forms.

A whisper. The squeak of artificial joints. A curse, bit off mid-syllable, as someone ran into something unyielding. The consensus monitor of Cube #238 swiveled her head slightly to track a trio of shapes, quite perceptible to her vision, which were slowly navigating their way towards a set of unwarded doors. Despite the opportunity offered, the Show's pet participants had no inclination to escape their servitude, either recognizing the futility of fleeing to an island upon an oceanic planet whose natives could care less about the antics of air-breathing folk, else believing their pampered slave status was a better arrangement than the alternative. The exception were the three Colored rogues currently in motion, although their drive to leave the premises was solely due to the presence of an actual Borg.

Prime concentrated, deliberately increasing power to her neural transceiver. The fractal frequency differences maintained by Color and Collective meant it highly unlikely the rogues could comprehend her stream-of-consciousness, but they would perceive an increase in volume to the wordless whispers that were undoubtedly echoing in the depths of their minds. The pace of the trio abruptly, and predictably, increased. Prime mentally smirked - she was bored and required /some/ sort of mental stimulation, even of an irrelevant sort - before returning transceiver power levels to their normal setting.

On the ceiling, a native night creature chirped twice as the rogues furtively scurried through the door to presumed freedom. Or at least absence of Borg.

No matter. One day, all Colors would submit to the original Collective, their aberrant views of Perfection annihilated. Ultimately, there was no escape.

Prime returned to staring at nothing.

The sound of drunken conversation, full of "shushes" and "shhhhs", returned Prime to full awareness beyond the contemplation of her narrow Collective link. Turning her head, she was startled to find the five Show judges standing in the aisle adjacent her stall. As she focused upon them, the human raised a cylindrical object and thumbed a button inset to its side. A bright beam of light illuminated Prime's face, eliciting a flinch response.

"She's awake," slurred one of the Ferengi. "Excellent."

Prime was not the only one aware of happenings. From the change in breathing patterns of formerly sleeping Show entrants, the attempt at stealth by the fivesome had not been particularly effective. However, neither was any stall occupant making an attempt to intervene, preferring to feign sleep so as to not draw attention to themself.

Prime had a sinking suspicion that whatever was about to transpire was not new to those who traveled the Show circuit.

"Hello there, my pretty," crooned the Ferengi. He was the shorter of the Ferengi pair, with skin a deeper orange. "We've brought you a little present."

By no stretch of the imagination could Prime be considered pretty, at least to a non-Flarn; and any beauty she may have possessed prior to assimilation had evaporated upon insertion of hardware and hoses.

The door to the stall was opened, allowing entrance for all but the speaker. It was suddenly very crowded, but Prime refused to give ground to these small beings. She also fought the impulse to smack the flashlight from the human, who continued to shine the thing into her eyes. She was Borg...she was Borg...if she did anything to hurt these annoyances, Q would never send her back to the Collective.

The Orion - the head judge - nearest the Ferengi speaker leaned over to hiss something in the Ferengi's overlarge ears, obtaining a drunken chuckle. "Funny. So, Misty, I've a little prop-prop-" the Ferengi was having trouble with the multiple syllables "-offer to you. I know you want to be a good pet. And to be a good pet, you need to make your custodian happy. And what would make your custodian most happy would be for you to take Best In Show."

The other Ferengi belched, which sent all five into a fit of non-masculine giggles.

"So, what was I saying?" commented the overly-orange Ferengi. "Oh, happiness! You 'nd Candy be nearly tied in points 'nd one of you'll win the Show. That's a given. However-" one finger was raised and waggled unsteadily back and forth "-it is up to you to decide who'n'll win. If you make me and my friends happy, Best In Show will go to you, which will make your custodian happy. We'll all be happy. A very happy family." The judge hiccupped slightly, eyes crossing before (sort of) refocusing upon Prime. "I've never tried out a Flarn before. I don't even know where t' begin...we'll have t', er, experiment. With all those Borgy bits, she certainly looks sturdy enough for everyone. She shouldn't, um, break like that pet at the Polon Outpost Show."

Velvet silence from the surrounding stalls. The other Show entrants weren't even trying to pretend to sleep anymore, instead holding their breaths as they listened to the exchange.

With a nod from the Orion head judge, the four non-speakers took flanking positions to either side of a motionless Prime. Meanwhile, the Ferengi simply stood, a leering, snaggletoothed smile of anticipation stretching his face.

Prime turned her head one way, then the other, as hands grabbed her limbs. "Hell with this," she muttered. One had to be blind to miss to blatant innuendoes and the extracurricular 'performance' the judges were expecting. She was Borg, and Flarn, and the Q could go throw himself into a black hole if he expected her to submit to the attentions of these ugly, small beings.

The consensus monitor intended to use her greater bulk and Borg-enhanced strength to simply toss the fivesome into the aisle, preferably knocked unconscious. Unfortunately, programmed Borg instincts dictated otherwise, and less than two minutes later Prime found herself disengaging nanotubules from the neck of the Ferrengi speaker. As she dropped the final of her five victims upon a pile consisting of his equally unlucky comrades, what just occurred abruptly crystallized.

"Crap."

A flash of white light.

"Double crap." Prime prepared to be transported to whatever hellish parasitic subdimension Q had chosen for her incarceration, never to be returned to Cube #238 nor the Borg Collective. On the upside, the flashlight previously welded by the human had been smashed during the scuffle.

Q shook his head solemnly. "They made a choice, and a poor one at that. And in doing so, they took away /your/ choice. Oh, well, now they have to live with the consequences of their action." The Q's previous attire had been substituted for a tie-dye shirt and Bermuda shorts that exposed extremely knobby knees. The blond queue remained the same. Face titled up to peer at Prime. "So, the question becomes, what is /your/ choice at this juncture?" The Q winked. "You still have a contest to win, after all."

She was coming to /despise/ that ambiguous wink.

Staring down at the vacant-eyed judges, Prime considered. The fivesome were conscious, or as much so as any post-assimilated sentient, but making no move to stand. Epidermis was rapidly fading to the mottled gray typical of thin-skinned humanoids and several multi-legged implants had erupted. Upon the Borg fractal frequencies, each was beginning to broadcast an integration request. They were fixating upon Prime, their newly constructed organic neural transceivers too weak to hear the signal from the Exploratory-class cube lurking beyond the edge of the Tipari system.

A plan was forming. In the distance of her neural link, the Greater Consciousness gave the equivalent of an indifferent shrug: as long as Prime did not bring the wrath of a Q down upon the Collective, her imperfect notion was acceptable. If it allowed for her return to Lugger-class Cube #238 - which was shortly to leave Supply Depot #528 to continue its duties, at which time it /would/ have a fully functioning command structure in place, regardless of Prime's actual inclusion in the hierarchy - then all the better.

If Prime had been able to smile, she would have. She would win this contest, one way or another.

"This is going to prove to be very interesting," commented Q, who apparently had no problem reading Prime's intention. "So much so, I think I'll cancel my surfing lesson tomorrow and watch."

Oddly enough, assimilation of the judges, while a first, was neither the most egregious nor the most creative case of tampering in the annals of Show history.

As long as one sentient being had enslaved another, some variation of the Show had existed. While the Show's current format was only 35 years old, fragmented archeological records from civilizations which had left the galactic stage over ten thousand years ago conclusively demonstrated the concept of a slave pageant to be far from new. And as long as there had been a Show, bribing and other forms of judge fixing had been accepted as a common, even expected, practice.

In the last century, it was widely acknowledged that an attempt in the year 2895 to manipulate Show outcome was the most scandalous. To sway the final scoring, a custodian had offered what was believed to be a harmless drug whose only effect was to create a feeling of euphoria. Unfortunately, exhilaration could only be guaranteed in the Infree species; and in the slave owner's defense, the properties of G'floo! were not widely understood in the Alpha Quadrant. In the end, three of the judges died (happily), while the remaining two became locked into perpetual hallucinations.

Show rules dictated that the five judges who opened the Show had thusly to finish it, no substitutions allowed. Ever. No exceptions. In the case of the G'floo! poisoning, the trio of dead judges had been propped up in chairs, then a local spiritualist contracted to disseminate the will of the panel, including the pair now technically insane, via Ouija board. There was broad agreement that the final awarding of Best In Show was the fairest in a very long while. After all, it is very difficult to bribe a corpse.

And, perhaps due to the inability to sway judgment, none of the five were invited to participate in any subsequent Shows.

{Hey-You 3,} barked Prime to the human component of her miniature, and unwanted, sub-collective, {at least /pretend/ to do your job. I can hear you thinking, and you /will/ stop thinking about assimilating nearby audience member. And /all/ Hey-Yous, desist tracking my every movement.}

A general chorus of {Compliances} arose from the ex-judges. In order to stop the constant designation requests, Prime had flippantly provided temporary names of Hey-You 1 through 5 to her former attackers. It was the prerogative of the Greater Consciousness to assign proper designations; and unknowing of the fate which was in store for the new drones, given Q presence, the Whole had declined to commit resources towards them.

It was the final round of the pageant, and ten Best In Class winners trotted, slunk, or, in Prime's case, stomped around the show ring. Leashed to their respective handlers, each individual was put through their paces to display gait and ease of movement, forced to pose in uncomfortable positions, and suffer poking and prodding by judges. At stake was Best In Show, the award given for the individual whom best epitomized a stereotype configuration for a particular race.

Prime had easily risen through Breed and Class ranks to achieve the final show ring. Due the lack of other Flarn entries in the Borg class, Best In Breed had been a foregone conlusion. Similarly, a little mental nudging of the judges by Prime had quickly led to the disqualification of all would-be Class rivals. It was not Prime's fault that Show rules, often overlooked, dictated that only true Borg could be entered in the Borg class. The faux-drones and the accidentally assimilated did not count; and of the Color rogues, who could have offered actual competition, none had yet to be recovered following their nighttime escape.

To all but the most obtuse audience member, slave owner, or pet participant, it was obvious that the judges had run afoul of Prime. Beyond the obvious signs of assimilation and the tendency to talk in unison, there was the fact that, unless reminded, the quintet would completely fixate attention upon Prime. Heads would swivel and eyes pivot, all in an attempt to ensure she remained in sight at all times.

It was also widely agreed, as Prime overheard in snatches of conversation, that the fault of assimilation was not due to the Borg, who was only following its nature, but by the judge's actions. As often happened during the second Show night, the panel had retired to a bar and subsequently become roaring drunk on chemical libations of personal choice. Many, often graphic, boasts had been told regarding the awarding of 'bonus points' during other Shows. One thing had led to another, with Misty-the-Borg-Flarn entering into the discussion, cumulating in self-assured bragging about the likely (physical) complications in taming the Misty beast. As the cliche goes, the rest was history.

It was an open secret that to leave one's pets in the stable blocs through the night was to risk gaining the attentions of the judges. While prudent custodians removed their entries to other quarters to prevent potential ruin, some, on the other hand, purposefully kept their property in place, fully intending to add the 'bonus' to their score. Other owners, such as that of the faux-drone Romulan and, likely, Katosh, figured that no sane judge, drunk or otherwise, would ever consider approaching their pet with certain notions in mind.

If the judges had been assimilated due to a poor decision, so be it; and if Katosh had somehow engineered the ploy so as to sway the final ribbon ruling in his direction, all the more power to him, the canny bastard.

In the audience, out of place with his colorfully casual attire, sat Q. Every once in a while he would turn away from whatever conversation he was holding with his neighbors to offer a not-so-secretive wink or mysterious half-smile. From the frequency of the former, Prime was beginning to wonder if the Q had managed to lodge something in his eye, as ridiculous of the notion might be.

{Do not assimilate that Pakled,} warned Prime of Hey-You 5, the ex-head judge Orion. Hand trajectory was altered, intention left unfulfilled, to return to pinching flesh to test adequacy of subcutaneous fat. The constant attention demanded by the five to keep them from submitting to mindless Borg instinct was draining. Prime had never directly overseen the aftermath and processing of the newly assimilated. Nor, given her control node status, did she have the protocols on-board that undoubtedly made control easier for assimilation units. Despite repeated requests, the Greater Consciousness was not authorizing those particular memes to be uploaded, they considered unnecessary for the proper functioning of a command and control drone.

So Prime was left to cope as best she could. After being consensus monitor for 3000 imperfect drones, one would think five managing units would be easy. It was not.

{Hey-You 4-} began Prime.

{This specimen rates 8.5 out of 10,} informed Hey-You 5 as assessment of the Pakled was concluded. {It is insufficient to be awarded Best In Show.} The Pakled was the final contestant to be evaluated. For all the headaches they were imparting upon Prime, examination of the judges' minds did show them to be excellent purveyors of the enslaved 'breeds' recognized by the shady Show organization.

At one end of the ring, the Ferengi Hey-You 2, Prime's no-longer amorous admirer, gestured with one gray-orange hand for handlers to line up with their pets. Katosh yanked Prime's leash - too hard in her opinion - then sauntered to a position next to Koul and his Bajoran beauty.

"This is not fair," hissed Koul out of the corner of his mouth, even as he maintained a pleasant (for a Ferengi) smile. "My Candy is clearly the best in this group. She is graceful and her lines are perfect."

In fact, as Prime very well knew, Koul was correct. Candy had earned 9.8 out of 10; and her weighted pageant score, combined with the points gained from the other subcontests, was more than sufficient for her to take Best In Show.

Prime herself had only ranked seventh out of the field of ten. Apparently the fact that she lacked at least one completely cybernized limb had lowered her score, as did the unsymmetrical placement of certain dorsal implants. In a fair contest, the Flarn would never have won.

However, this contest was not fair, as Koul very well knew. Such knowledge did not stop his quiet complaints.

"Misty is in the Borg class," offered Katosh simply. Although he kept his expression bland, an appropriate veneer for the cameras panning the arena, the triumphant sneer in his voice was clear.

Retorted Koul, "She's too much of a Borg. She's a real Borg."

"There's nothing in the rules against entering a Borg in the Borg class."

"Well, there should be."

"Loser."

"Cheater."

As the two bickerers softly exchanged barbed insults, the five judges moved together into a close knot. Ostentatiously, the action was required to consult and compare scores. In reality, the winner was a foregone conclusion, and it would not be Candy. Everyone knew the outcome, but appearances and traditions had to be maintained. Finally breaking from the huddle, Hey-You 5 retrieved a miniature microphone from a pocket and raised it to his lips.

"We declare Best In Show to be 2 of -"

{Wrong designation,} interrupted Prime. {Use my alternate.}

"Pri-"

{Other alternate. My Show subdesignation.}

"Misty, with custodian Katosh of Katosh Kennels."

Continued all judges in unison, "Our judgment is final. Resistance to the proclamation is futile."

Prime lifted one hand, placed it over her face, and shook her head. It was a gesture learned from human colleagues long ago, and it was appropriate here. Hand was lowered, revealing all five drones to be staring at her. Requests for direction were pinged. {Go stand against a wall and stare at it. And don't assimilate anyone.}

Order received, a chorused {Compliance} proceeded a unison pivot to retire elsewhere in the convention center.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Katosh, oblivious to the exchange. He slapped Prime's flank affectionately, as a man might congratulate a dog for a well performed trick. Leash was eagerly tugged. "Come, Misty! We have things to do, monies to collect, people to meet, and a party to attend! Best In Show! And everyone claimed a Flarn would never win! Hah!"

Prime resisted the urge to reach for Katosh's neck. Somewhere in the milling audience, amid well-wishers congratulating the Orion upon his coup, was Q. She might not be able to see him, but the omniscient being was present. Watching. Waiting for an excuse to not keep his word.

The traditional post-Show party lasted much of the night. At the center of attention was Katosh, all smiles as he fended off questions related to the secret of his success. Prime, as winning pet, was forced to accompany her supposed custodian, a silent and looming figure at the end of a decorative leash with complementary rhinestone collar. More than once, as she was yanked one direction or another, she suppressed the desire to pull back, to demonstrate in a graphically assimilative manner that she was not a tame Borg. As it was, all she could do was wonder what defect was affecting her chronometer, for it seemed impossible time could become so stretched outside a temporal anomoly.

The twin impediments to Prime acting upon her impulse was (1) the fact that the Collective frowned upon mass assimilations instigated by its imperfect units and (2) Q. The omnipotent being was very much in evidence, materializing out of the crowds to heap additional congratulations upon Katosh each time Prime found herself reaching for the nearest party-goer.

Finally, as the dawn was beginning to lighten windows high on the convention center walls, Q slid into place next to Katosh's elbow. "I think," whispered Q in the Orion's ear, "that it would be prudent to call it a night and retire to your ship."

"But the party has just-"

Q interrupted the protest with a pointed glance at Prime, who was sullenly glowering.

Katosh seemed to understand, for he quickly made excuses concerning the need allow his prize pet time for a well-earned sleep. He then contacted an employee on his ship and had the pair of them beamed to Misty's room. Q met them with his race's trademark flash of light.

"We," said Prime, pointedly utilizing the plural, "have held up our end of the bargain. You will return us to where you found us." As she directed her demand at Q, she wrenched the leash out of Katosh's hand. The Orion could not win a tug-of-war against a Borg and therefore prudently let go before he was dragged to his knees.

"I don't know," said Katosh thoughtfully, finger scratching chin. The words earned him a startled glower as Prime snapped her head around to stare at the Orion. "I think I'd really like to keep this new Misty. She did win Best In Show, after all. She also opens up some interesting Syndicate-related possibilities. What say you, Q? The agreement is that you have to do what I tell you to."

Q sighed and rolled his eyes. "Within reason. A promise was made to the Borg to return her when the Show was done; and a Q makes every attempt to fulfill his obligations, as you very well know. I do not think you'd like the consequences of reneging on that promise. Not today nor tomorrow, but eventually I'll be released from the duty owed you. Then I'll not be here...and this Borg will. Think what that means."

"You make a good point."

"Beside, I've done some more research and I think I've located original Misty."

"Really? You said she was gone!"

"I didn't say it was going to be easy, even for a Q, to get her back, only that there is a possibility."

Katosh contemplated for a moment, then said, "Fine, send the Borg back. Her yo-yo talent is unique, but in six months there will be a dozen copy-cats among the Show fodder. Anyway, it isn't like I could use her for breeding stock, and stud and dam fees are where the real money is made in the Show business."

Prime snorted at the proclamation. She had been trying to remove the collar, but there was an odd catch on its underside which made it difficult. She gave up - soon enough she could request a fellow unit of her sub-collective to take it off. "You will return us. Now."

"Be right back," said Q to Katosh as he raised a hand, fingers poised.

*Snap*

"This is not my sub-collective!" protested Prime. Instead of Cube #238, she was standing upon a featureless white plain, the only objects imparting color to the scene being herself and Q. Oddly, and comfortingly, her Collective link remained unchanged despite the radical alteration in venue. "I demand-"

Q rolled his eyes and placed hands upon his hips. "Omnipotent being here...."

"-nothing," wisely concluded Prime. There was a long minute of silence. "Why am I here?"

"You know, that is a philosophical question that has been pondered upon since the first being spawned from the wild chaos of the multiverses became able to string two thoughts coherently together. My belief, which I formed during the million or so years I spent as the Dog, and then later refined as the Porch, is that-"

"Here!" spat Prime, one limb gesturing towards the non-ground. "This place. Why am I not returned to my sub-collective?"

Replied Q simply, "Because the narrative demands a few loose ends to be tied up."

"What narrative?" Now Prime was confused. All she wanted was to be One, or as much as she was allowed, among her sub-collective and Collective. Metaphysical discussions were beyond her, both as a command node among imperfect Borg and as an ex-engineer.

"It is all a grand Production, you know," said Q mysteriously, imparting what was obviously some glorious datum of information which made no sense unless one already knew what it meant. "That narrative."

Prime blankly looked at the Q. Had he gone insane? Was it possible to tell if an omnipotent being was not in his right mind? And what did it mean to her?

Q sighed. "I'm perfectly sane. Q do not become insane. Well, except in that one instance, but Q is getting the best of care." Answer was provided for a question never actually voiced. "As far as narrative, do you not want to know what happened to your, um, new drone friends?"

"No," responded Prime.

"I am so glad you have an interest," continued Q as if Prime had not spoke to the negatory. "Well, although the decision which led to their assimilation was wholly their own, I do bear at least part of the responsibility as I did bring you to Katosh in the first place. I could have picked another Flarn, but you seemed to offer the most possibilities. The most fun." Fun as only a Q understood it, obviously. "So I deBorged them. One snap of the fingers and *poof* no more implants or nanites. All five judges will remember their experience...in great detail. Call it a life-lesson."

The too-white landscape, with its absence of shadows and no obvious light source, was strangely oppressive. "You will send me, this drone, back to her sub-collective?"

"Are you sure? I could de-assimilate you...give you back the life that was taken from you. Or let you embark on a whole new one. It is your choice; and it is the least I could do after putting you through the last week." Q suddenly smiled as he clapped his hands together. "Oh, I know! Q has been looking for a linear-mortal travel companion. You'd be perfect!"

Prime was not tempted. Imperfectly assimilated she might be, but the Borg programming which made her desire to be One with her Collective functioned perfectly. Then there was also the frightening unknown of interacting with an immortal omnipotent being any more than what was necessary. "Send us back exactly from where you took us."

Q deflated. "Exactly? Are you sure?"

"Yes. Exactly."

*Snap*

It was only when Prime found herself tottering upon a stool, arms flailing and balance shifting as body rapidly shifted towards the horizontal, that she recalled the circumstances of her theft from Cube #238. To be exact, she had been on the precipice of a 500+ meter deep hole, poised to become involuntarily airborne. It seemed Q had returned her to exactly where he had found her...which was, to be fair, what Prime had demanded.

If Prime's immediate future had not involved termination as the universe's first cybernetically enhanced Flarn pancake, the irony of the situation might have been amusing. At least the renewal of a strong link with sub-collective and Collective meant she would live on, after a fashion, among the echoes of those drones who had perished before. Such was a fate that many imperfect drones, for one inglorious reason or another, were denied.

Contact with stool was lost. Prime stared up at the ceiling, idly wondering with the small part of her mind not lost amid confusion and panic (1) how long it would require for her to hit bottom and (2) if it would be at all possible to lock a transporter and beam herself to safety.

{The answer to number one is about 10.5 seconds, assuming a standard gravity of 9.8 meters per second squared and vertical displacement of 540 meters. That is, of course, not factoring in aerial drag: would you prefer to plummet in a fetal ball or wildly thrashing spread-eagled? Number two would depend heavily upon transporter functionality. And, by the way, the system in question temporarily ceased to work about the time you disappeared due to an incident involving a remote control airplane.} Pause. {As it was, your actual fall lasted 0.48 seconds. Welcome back. Did you have a good vacation?}

Prime's vision was obscurred by a feather blizzard: she had landed upon a pile of mattresses. As Reserve's measured voice continued to speak, the consensus monitor and facilitator reviewed recent cube logs. While she had been gone, all Bulk Cargo Hold #6 stack decks had been successfully repaired and new cargo on-loaded or present cargo shifted. In other words, life, such as it was, had continued despite the 30,000 light year displacement of Cube #238's consensus monitor.

The purpose of the mattresses was unimportant - Borg, after all, did not use beds - known only to the Greater Consciousness. The information was considered irrelevant to the lowly drone cogs toiling within the grand machine which was the Collective. The feathers, on the other hand, were very important to at least one unit.

{Aye! The feathers will be gettin' into th' environmental systems, ag'in, a'less all be vacuumed up!} exclaimed Engineer. There was the sound of a transporter in use, and a hand-held vacuum cleaner materialized in the air above Prime before falling upon her stomach. {Start a'suckin'! Cleanin' crews t' be dispatched forthright!}

Welcome home, indeed. Status reports continued to scroll through Prime's head, indicating the imminent departure of Cube #238, still behind schedule, for its next port.

Hopefully her alcove, faulty clamps and all, had also made it back, albeit with less drama. It was damn uncomfortable to regenerate in an alcove configured for an average sized drone. On the upside, Prime's prized yo-yos were safe, both concealed within a torso compartment.

Now, if she could only get the collar off her neck. She never had been partial to rhinestone.

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