The Star Trek diagrams are printed by Paramount.  To assemble Star Treks, consult the 
fold out directions provided in each box o' Decker.  Unfortunately, the instructions to 
build BorgSpace were written by Meneks in a bad BableFish translation of pig-Latin.

			Have Spanner, Will Travel

	Management.  The job of engineering hierarchy head of Cube #238 could be 
summed up in one word - Management.  To be sure, there were elements of actual 
engineering, of spanner-wielding and arc-welding, even broom-pushing, but such 
technical aspects were available for download from the extensive files maintained within 
the local dataspace.  In the case of esoteric needs beyond the mundane, it was possible to 
send requests to the massive databases of the greater Collective, although answers were 
not necessarily forthcoming.  The Whole was understandably hesitant to interact more 
than need be with its imperfect sub-collective, especially when the topic revolved around, 
say, steam-driven looms.
	Engineer winced and attempted to suppress memory of /that/ particular fiasco; 
and, once again, failed.  Some memes were so deeply burned into the brain that nothing 
short of a full mental reformat would erase them.
	Back to Management.
	In many ways, the position of hierarchy head was similar to Engineer's pre-
assimilation circusmaster job.  To be in charge of a traveling circus was to be lord and 
dictator and marriage counselor and policeman and accountant and...the list was nearly 
infinite.  Hundreds of individuals split among a dozen races, not to mention animals and 
often obstinate equipment, demanded a special skill set.  The fact that Engineer's base 
species was Bowsti, species #2133, had helped, an inherent racial ability to divide one's 
mind, to compartmentalize and multitask, immensely invaluable.  Cube #238 was little 
more than an expansion of Engineer's long defunct circus, his sub-designation a glorified 
circusmaster badge.
	On the up side, animals were no longer a constant headache.  On the down side, 
propensity of equipment to be stubborn was the same.  And, unlike the circus, he was 
expected to be physically amongst the laboring masses, not ensconced within a shabby 
office slash bedroom slash storage closet.
	{Well, ye shud've thought o' that /before/ ye decided t' test the conduit pressure,} 
admonished Engineer to 173 of 370 in response to a comment.  His whole eye was 
narrowed as he glared through the cascading spray of (mostly) water, offender squarely in 
view.  He was hip deep in oily liquid and it was too noisy to speak outloud.
	The named drone redoubled his actions, one of a dozen units attempting to halt 
the flood gushing from a series of burst pipes that, when whole, recirculated slurried 
replicator precursor feedstock among a line of six enormous vats.  Even with the most 
efficient reclamation technology assimilated by the Borg, no vessel was a perfectly 
closed system.  With each replication/disruption cycle, energy (and, thus, mass) was lost 
via heat; and it was therefore necessary to keep on hand a ready supply of slurry to 
replace losses.  One could rely solely upon the core and energy-to-mass technology, 
except to do so would be to continually burn expensive (in time, material, and drones) 
fuel.  Much more efficient was to utilize water harvested from comets and laced with a 
stew of essential molecules and metals as feedstock.
	Pivoting, Engineer waded to a vat.  Although superficially appearing to be as 
sturdy as the others which filled Comet Slurry Processing #3, the abrupt change in pipe 
pressure had initiated a webwork of minute stress fractures.  If the conduits could be 
repaired and slurry reintroduced to the vat in time, the fracturing would halt.  If not...well, 
it was a good thing Borg did not need continued access to atmospheric oxygen because 
the subsequent domino effect would result in a room water level well above the breathing 
apparatus of most drones present.  Raising his prosthetic right limb, Engineer returned to 
his interrupted task of scanning metal.  The data was combined with that of the other five 
units performing the same duty, providing a real-time analysis upon the degenerating vat.
	And Engineer was coordinating the preparation of two Bulk Cargo Holds and a 
Internal Cargo Hold to accept cargo at Cube #238's first port-of-call in 5.7 cycles.
	And he was examining the latest diagnostic from an intermittently malfunctioning 
ion thruster bank on edge #6.
	And he was reordering the maintenance roster to reflect the continual fluctuation 
of sub-collective priorities.
	And he was explaining (again) to twenty-five would-be artists why it was 
inappropriate to be painting hallway murals on a Borg vessel, never mind explicitly erotic 
material.
	It was all about Management.  The capitalization was purposeful.
	The sound of a transporter beam was followed by a wave of displaced water.  
Engineer did not need to check designation transponders, nor borrow a visual input 
stream, to know whom had just arrived about a meter from his backside.
	{You are going about this all wrong,} said Prime.  The Flarn, even before 
modification to her vocal cords, could have easily bellowed over the roar of water, but 
use of the intranet conveyed nuances which would have been lost using mere 
vocalization.
	{Go away.  I be jus' a wee bit busy 'ere,} retorted Engineer.  He continued to slide 
his limb along the vat's contour, refusing to turn to face the primary consensus monitor 
and facilitator.
	Prime rumbled an intranet sigh.  {Not forceful enough.  I need to feel as if you are 
about to pick me up and throw me from the room if I do not comply.}
	{Ye be too heavy f'r me t' lift.}
	{Semantics,} scoffed Prime.  {Reality does not matter.  Reality /never/ matters to 
a Chief Engineer.}
	Engineer briefly visualized a trussed Flarn at the bottom of a full slurry vat, but 
dismissed the image to concentrate upon the multiple other needs and datathreads of his 
hierarchy.  {I be Engineer, not a chief engineer.}  He deliberately de-emphasized the 
stress Prime had placed upon the title.  {And I be busy.}
	{Exactly...you are not a Chief Engineer, and you need to be,} muttered Prime.
	Engineer twisted his head just enough to catch the hulking bulk of the consensus 
monitor out of the corner of his whole eye, then returned full attention to the vat.  A slight 
change in the pitch of roaring water broke his focus.  {It is righty-tighty, lefty-loosey!  
While I be in engineering hierarchy by appointment, not training or inclination, ev'n /I/ 
know that basic mantra!}  Across the room, socket wrenches were hastily turned the 
opposite direction.
	Prime mentally rolled her eyes, but restrained herself from comment.
	Engineer did not have to sample the Flarn's thoughts to know them.  Although he 
proceeded Prime's arrival to Cube #238 by nearly four Cycles, she had fixated upon him 
from the onset.  She could be Prime or Reserve or just a Hierarchy of Five member, but 
when the Whole designated him to be engineering hierarchy head, she was as a metal 
filing in the presence of a magnet; and the position was more likely than naught to fall to 
him with each new duty cycle.  It was as if he were an apprentice and Prime had claimed 
him, taken him under her wing in an attempt to impart upon him what it meant to be 
Chief Engineer.  Engineer wished she would point her obsession elsewhere.  To be 
Engineer was to be a Manager, end of story.
	Well, almost end of story.
	There /was/ an indefinable pop, a certain snap, which occurred in the presence of 
those whom had been chief engineers, or their equivalent.  While those particular drones 
primarily originated from starships, a decent number also hailed from locales as diverse 
as a planetary metropolis, a starport, a company or firm, an ocean liner.  Those 
individuals were not only present on Cube #238 - although an oddly large proportion of 
ex-chiefs were ultimately declared imperfectly assimilated and assigned to engineering 
hierarchy - but found throughout the Collective.  An in-depth examination of drone 
dossiers would not uncover an efficiency quotient statistically different from their non-
chief peers.  Nonetheless, there remained that pop, that snap, by which the units 
surrounding them, be they a sub-node or merely a peon, /were/ more efficient in their 
actions.
	Although 7 of 30 had neither snap nor pop, he did have his species' unique brain 
structure, as well as the experience of Management.  That combination was obviously 
sufficient, given the imperfect environment of Cube #238, for the Greater Consciousness 
to declare him a suitable Engineer...despite Prime's obvious belief to the contrary.
	{You have a very vivid paint scheme this cycle,} noted Prime, the change in 
subject abrupt.
	Engineer briefly took stock of himself, glancing down for reassurance that the 
colors - yellow and blue diagonals - were not running.  The body paint was a 
modification of his circusmaster days of sequins and gold cord and bright fabrics.  The 
costume had been an extension of his ringmaster performance role (separate from 
circusmaster), a visual reminder that he was the entity in charge.  Among the hustle and 
bustle of the circus, such had been necessary, in addition to keeping with the flashing 
excitement of the venue.  Here...here he was unsure why he continued the practice.  It 
was not necessary, all drones instinctively knowing which designation held the 
engineering hierarchy head.  A symptom of his imperfect nature, he supposed, albeit one 
less self-destructive than a fascination for fire and more ornate than an obsession for 
baking giant muffins.
	{Aye,} responded Engineer absently.  He would ignore Prime.  Sometimes (not 
always) that worked, the consensus monitor eventually growing bored and leaving.  Arm 
was raised to continue sweeping the expanse of vat metal while water insidiously 
threatened to seep through a chink of submerged armor.
	Silence from Prime.  One knew that she had followed his personal stream-of-
thought, avoiding the disparate datathreads of his multitasking self that entwined through 
the engineering dataspaces.  Not that Engineer had been shielding his musing.  {Not good 
enough,} declared Prime.  The words were repeated outloud.
	Engineer blinked, confused at the pronouncement.  Before he could turn to 
confront the Flarn squarely, directly, Comet Slurry Processing #3 was plunged into 
darkness.  The computer reported a cube-wide black-out.  {Wha' the-} began Engineer as 
his ocular implant cycled to infrared.  He simultaneously began to craft a query to the 
computer to determine cause of the failure.
	It was then that /something/ expertly smacked against the back of his skull, 
plunging him into unconsciousness despite Borg armor and other cranial protections.

	Engineer awoke to find himself on the ground.  He was on his back; and the space 
in front of open eye and active ocular implant was dark, pitch black to all visual and near-
visual frequencies.  Absolute silence, except for his own slow breathing and the muted 
clicks of assemblies, greeted his ears.  All these external inputs, or lack of them, were 
unimportant, however, for of greater concern was the stillness within his own head.  
Except for the murmur of white noise equivalent, Engineer's neural transceiver was 
quiescent.  He was severed from the Collective.
	Stunned at the sudden awareness of his own individuality, Engineer stared upward 
into the dark.  Self-diagnostics ran in the background, reporting minor cranial damage, 
including skull fracture and bruising.  Chronometer function was scrambled.  It required 
several minutes of unthought before Engineer could shake himself out of his fugue.  He 
was Borg.  He was also imperfectly assimilated; and while there were many 
disadvantages to that label, it also meant that the psychological insult of severance was 
less severe than a normal drone.  He would survive.
	Engineer rolled over, then laboriously pushed himself to his feet.  As he did so, he 
kicked something.  The something slid a short distance, scraping against the unknown 
ground with the characteristic sound of metal.  Upright, Engineer switched to sonar 
imaging, then slowly began to pivot.  Sonar was an inefficient manner of perception, but 
it did have its uses.  The sonar revealed that Engineer was not alone:  eight entities, none 
closer than four meters, were surrounding him in a rough circle.
	Suddenly, a blinding light slashed the darkness, placing the engineering hierarchy 
head at the center of a bright splash of white.  Blinking as visuals compensated, Engineer 
squinted at the beings dimly illuminated by spotlight backscatter.  All were bipeds, but 
that was as much as could be discerned.  The entities were uniformly hooded and robed 
in a light-drinking black material that obscured their forms.  Different postures and 
bulges suggested that several races were present, but such also could have been a product 
of the clothing.  Engineer randomly chose one of the figures and stared at it in an 
unblinking manner only possible to a Borg or someone willing to court dry-eye.  There 
was no response.
	A second spotlight blinked into existence, focused on the floor near Engineer's 
feet.  Warily glancing downwards, the drone found a simple spanner.  It must have been 
the something he had kicked while gaining his feet.  The object was a solid length of 
metal thirty centimeters in length at the end of which was a pair of gripping jaws, size of 
the gap able to be controlled by a screw.  It was among the most basic of tools available 
to craftsman and engineer alike, able to be put to many uses.  Even the highly advanced 
technological entity which was the Borg found the humble spanner to be indispensable.
	Engineer bent over and grabbed the spanner with his whole hand.  As a weapon it 
was wholly inadequate, a Borg's most potent hand-to-hand offensive ability rooted in its 
nanoprobes and its ability to deploy them.  However, the spanner did have a certain heft 
to it, a certain /something/ that spoke to the primal centers of the brain.  Once upon a 
time, when he had been circusmaster or newly assimilated drone, Engineer would not 
have perceived the comforting calmness which came from gripping the simple tool.  
However, after 29.1 Cycles as an engineering drone, over half that time spent as head of 
that hierarchy upon Cube #238, to have a spanner in hand when confronted with an 
otherwise unknowable situation just felt...right.
	Straightening, Engineer raised his spanner, unsure how to proceed.  If the entities 
- none of whom had moved while his attention had been temporarily diverted - had 
wanted him dead or incapacitated, such would have already been accomplished.  While 
Borg could move fast over short distances when necessary, four meters to the nearest 
individual was too far to lunge; and even if he managed to reach a target, there would be 
more than sufficient time for the others to scatter or bring hidden weapons to bear.  In all 
cases, he would never acquire answers to the questions demanding to be asked, would 
never reforge a connection to the Collective, much less return to Cube #238.  The best 
option, such as he could filter from the few choices available and his inadequate single 
viewpoint, was to just stand and wait.
	And, so, Engineer stood, spanner raised in readiness, and waited.
	And waited.
	And waited.
	Just as several of the robed entities began to overtly fidget, one individual stepped 
forward into the ring.  Engineer pivoted to face this new threat.  The being held up an 
arm, revealing a six-fingered hand encased in a glove.  After several heartbeats of silence, 
the entity began to speak, true voice hidden behind electronic distortion:  "I am the 
Spanner Master, and with me are senior members of the Brotherhood of the Spanner.  
We-"
	"Sisterhood!" interrupted an individual two positions to the Spanner Master's 
right.  Its voice was also altered, but there was a certain indefinable something which 
implied its owner to be female.  "There are more than just males in this group."
	Silence, broken by a long sigh from the Spanner Master.  "Is this really the time?"  
Apparently the objection was well known.
	"When else is the time?  Every time I bring it up in council meetings, the topic is 
always brushed off."
	"None of the other females, or neuters, or other genders for that matter, object to 
the 'Brotherhood' name."
	Several individuals were squirming again, this time in a manner which suggested 
embarrassment rather than boredom.
	"That is just because they are too afraid to speak up, in case they might be 
censored...or worse.  'Brotherhood' is soooo old-fashioned, soooo unenlightened."
	"Look," said Spanner Master, a rumbling growl able to be heard through the 
verbal distortion, "this is neither the time nor the place.  We /will/ discuss this later. 
'Persons of the Spanner Without Regard to Gender Pronoun' does not roll off the tongue, 
and you know it.  Just drop it for an hour or so, okay?"
	"Fine.  But this isn't the last of it."
	"It never is," muttered a figure on the objectioner's right.  The figure received a 
punch to the shoulder for its comment.
	Spanner Master's cowl turned right, then left, as the periphery of the circle was 
scanned.  "Let us start again.  Properly, this time."  Throat was cleared.  "I am the 
Spanner Master, and with me are senior members of the Brotherhood of the Spanner.  We 
represent a secret society of engineers; and a member of the ranks in good standing has 
nominated you to join our hollowed numbers.
	"With spanner in hand and the appropriate attitude, it is the engineer whom 
ensures society functions.  That society may be as small as a single starship or as large as 
a quadrant-spanning empire, but, somewhere, there is an engineer, a Chief.  Gears turn 
and machines work because of the Chief.  It is only while the infrastructure operates 
smoothly that those whom think themselves to be in charge can continue.  If the 
machinery fails, then the president or dictator or captain or CEO will fall.  A Chief owes 
allegiance not to credo or belief, not to contract or individual, but rather to the machines 
he-"
	"Or she," murmured a voice.
	"-tends."  The interruption was ignored.  "Even when the universe itself winds 
down, when heat death claims the stars and dark energy has split the atoms themselves, 
there will still be engineers, and among their ranks will be the Chiefs.  It is the purpose of 
the Brotherhood - do /not/ make a snide comment! - of the Spanner to ensure that true 
Chief Engineers are in place in the appropriate locales to guarantee the fabric of society 
as a universal whole continues at its utmost efficiency."
	It was a very pretty speech, but Engineer was unsure how it applied to him.  "Why 
should we cooperate?"  He remembered at last second to substitute the plural for the 
singular.
	Spanner Master's robe fluttered in a shrug suggesting that more than two arms 
were present under the fabric.  "Okay, I'll admit the circumstances are highly unusual.  
Very, very irregular.  Normally the Brotherhood-"  Pause.  No verbalized objections.  "-
auxiliary which operates in this galaxy does not bother with either Borg or Colors...or 
communal intelligences in general, to tell the truth.  Fabric of society speech aside, there 
is just no need for a Chief when the entity in question is essentially a single being, no 
matter actual number of parts.  However, in this case, the Borg Collective is on the cusp 
of assigning a single unit of itself to oversee engineering functions upon a single vessel.  
In the past, while one or more 'imperfect' sub-collectives have been maintained by the 
Borg, there was no guarantee a specific unit would head engineering from assignment to 
assignment.  Oh, there were units which held the position for long times, admittedly, but 
no /assurance/ they would not be replaced the next day.  That is soon to change, 
according to our source; and the drone most likely to be permanently assigned the chief 
engineer position is /you/.
	"And for the Brotherhood's charter to remain valid, only a member of the society 
can hold the position.  That means you, despite your atypical background - not the Borg 
thing, but rather your lack of formal engineering training - must be initiated.
	"Will you two stop that!  This is neither the time nor the place!  And don't think I 
don't know what that gesture means!"
	Reacting to the abrupt change in tone and topic, Engineer swiveled his head 
sharply to peer behind his back.  None of the figures behind him had stepped from their 
original location, but a sense of sudden stillness hinted at hasty cessation of movement.
	"Ahem," said Spanner Master.  He redirected his words at Engineer, "Any 
questions so far?"
	"Ye dint answer our question:  why should this drone cooperate?"  As he spoke, 
Engineer continued to stare out of the corner of his eye at the duo behind his back.
	"Mmmm, direct, to the point, and unwilling to be diverted from the topic.  Those 
are definitely qualities the initiation committee likes to see.  There are several reasons, to 
answer you; and before I do so, no need for the third person or pluralities.  The 
Brotherhood-"
	"Sisterhood," hissed the objectioner, no longer able to remain silent.
	Spanner Master paused, then slightly raised vocal volume, "The /Brotherhood/ 
may not be omniscient, but it does hold a damn lot of information about a damn lot of 
things.  That includes assimilation imperfection and the Borg Collective.  Anyway, on to 
your answer.
	"First, this committee is under the impression that you would like to return to your 
Collective.  Your neural transceiver has been blocked and you will not recover the link 
until you are back aboard your ship.
	"Second, the Brotherhood of the Spanner is a secret society, and as such we have 
a monopoly on intrigue, conspiracy, and other similar silly stuff.  It has been decided that 
a Chief Engineer is required on your ship; and as you are the most likely prospect, you 
must be initiated.  It is an ass-backwards way, as Chiefs are usually initiated in the first 
days of their appointment, but, again, unusual circumstances and all that.
	"Third and most important...do you want your orders obeyed?  Okay, before you 
object, the committee knows that you do not give 'orders', per se, but still you are first 
among equals.  Up until now, things have been...arranged to ensure that you could hold 
your position without Chief status.  However, that leeway is quickly running out as it 
becomes increasingly likely you will be permanently retaining your status as 'engineering 
hierarchy head'.  If, at that time, you are not a Brotherhood member, then, trust us, your 
efficiency will go down the toilet.  There are...ways to guarantee that, even among the 
Borg.  Very shortly thereafter, you would no longer be the Collective's choice for 
hierarchy head."
	Dismissing the antics of the figures behind his back, Engineer fully faced Spanner 
Master.  For some reason the words triggered thoughts of the indefinable snap and pop 
held by certain units within the engineering hierarchy.  Those vague considerations 
transformed into nagging suspicion, from the explicit advice imparted by Prime to the 
much more subtle efforts put forth by those drones whom had once included 'chief 
engineer' as a job title.  Engineer mentally shook himself.  No, not possible - the shock of 
individuality was generating paranoid delusions.  All Engineer had to do was play along 
with this 'Brotherhood' until they either let him go else the Collective recovered their 
kidnapped drone.
	Spanner Master did not seem to recognize Engineer's internal deliberations.  Of 
course, there was no facial expression, no body posture, no unconscious gesture to 
telegraph the hierarchy head's thoughts.  
	The next words by the robed speaker captured Engineer's full attention.  
	"Unfortunately, if you fail, you will not return to your ship.  Your sponsor knows this and 
was willing to take the risk.  By the nature of this initiation process, to fail is to, well, fail 
rather spectacularly, catastrophically, and, on occasion, fatally.  Such is the potential fate 
of a Chief Engineer in the real universe, and therefore the Brotherhood has never seen 
any reason to tweak tests to avoid a real universe outcome."
	An unsettling high-pitched giggle sounded from the figure to Spanner Master's 
left.  It stopped as abruptly as it had started, but not before the individual mumbled 
something that sounded like "Splat".
	"It is strongly suggested that you do not fail.  We have no janitorial staff, so we 
would have to clean any resultant mess."  Spanner Master paused.  "Then again...the 
interface of technology with biology /is/ a fascinating field, so if you do fail, try to 
maintain your corpse as complete as possible.  I would /love/ to examine your cadaver 
before it is disposed.  Academic interest only, of course."
	Silence.  Complete silence.
	Engineer had no choice.  These individuals, this Brotherhood of the Spanner, 
were completely insane.  A lone drone could only hope for rescue, his link to 
spontaneously re-establish, else a chance to escape.  "What be these tests?" he asked 
cautiously.
	Spanner Master clapped unseen hands together.  "You'll see," he said.  "I would 
not want to spoil the surprise.  Just remember, to be a Chief is more than just engineering 
know-how - anybody can look up technicalities in a database - but also requires a bit of 
theater."

	Crew, most clutching PADDs or diagnostic devices, single-mindedly performed a 
wide variety of incomprehensible tasks.  A pair of individuals in bulky environmental 
suits trundled by, helmets held under respective arms as they engaged in a deeply 
meaningful conversation that consisted primarily of acronyms.  At the center of this 
bustle, ignored, stood Engineer.  He did not know exactly where he was, although he had 
a suspicion given the fact that the majority of the crew was human and the sleeves of 
their otherwise black uniforms were mustard yellow.
	Disconnected from the Cube #238 sub-collective Engineer might be, certain basic 
attributes maintained by Federation and Starfleet throughout the centuries were burned 
into the expanded memory of every Borg drone.
	The location was main engineering, as evidenced by the warp core dominating the 
room and the numerous computer consoles.  While the ceiling was two stories overhead, 
structural elements embedded in the walls suggested main engineering was sited out of 
alignment with the rest of the vessel.  In other words, if the floor was supposed to be at 
'Deck 5', in reality it was sunk to 'Deck 4.5'.  Oddly placed ladders and doors, 
accompanied by "Watch Your Step" signs, reinforced the notion that either designers or 
the dry-dock manufactory had seriously screwed up when constructing this particular 
ship.  
	What was out of place, and which indicated that this was not an actual vessel, was 
the small room inset into one bulkhead and fronted by a transparent aluminum alloy 
barrier.  Inside were eight chairs, albeit one 'chair' resembled a low stool topped with fist-
sized beanbags.  The Brotherhood cadre were also present, still robed and cowled, 
animatedly talking to each other as they stood in line to order popcorn (or its equivalent) 
from a small replicator.  Panning main engineering one final time, Engineer ambled over 
to the barrier, raised the spanner he still clutched in one hand, and rapped it firmed 
against the aluminum.
	Heaving a heavy sigh, Spanner Master made one final unheard comment to a 
comrade before approaching Engineer.  A pat-down of the robe located a pocket which, 
in turn, relinquished a small device.  The item was lifted to cowl and its single button 
pushed, revealing it to be a communication device.  "Yes?" sounded from a hidden 
speaker.
	Engineer absently affixed his spanner to a specially magnetized section of torso 
armor at the small of his back.  Most engineering drones had such a spot to temporarily 
store tools for quick access.  He didn't really need the spanner, but he also somehow felt 
better with it near...if only as a solid length of metal with which to whack obstinate 
equipment.  "Explain."  He waved his now empty whole hand at the main engineering 
scene.
	"Impatient are we?  Fine.  First of all, you are in a holoprojection of a Starfleet 
ship.  Exact location and time are unimportant, although you may note the rather hideous 
uniform design which characterizes the era."  Spanner Master audibly sniffed, an 
indication of a displeased fashion snob.  "This holo setting is the generic one used for 
humanoid, oxygen-breathing applicants."
	Engineer heard a buzzing sound as Spanner Master paused to wave a hand.  The 
hierarchy head pivoted in time to see a table materialize next to the warp core.  Engineer 
turned back to face Spanner Master.
	"The task," said Spanner Master, "is to support the ship's astrometry department.  
Specifically, you have been asked to temporarily increase power output from the core to 
120% above design maximum.  The output must be sustained, safely, for at least thirty 
minutes to allow astrometry to complete its experiment.  Any concurrent degradation of 
core components must be easily fixable."
	Engineer blinked.
	Spanner Master made shooing motions, robe not quite obscuring the fact that 
three limbs were involved.  "Go on.  Get started.  You can only use the materials on the 
table.  This trial is not timed, but we do not have all day.  If you need any help, the crew 
will respond to verbal commands."  The tone suggested that any requirement of 
assistance would be equitable to failure.
	Obviously dismissed, Engineer pivoted to face main engineering once more, this 
time to contemplate the slowly pulsating warp core.  Warp mechanics, from theory to 
hardware, was one of the files permanently stored in the memory of every engineering-
specialized Borg drone, even those whom lacked a proper engineering background.  
While assimilation of advanced power and propulsion technologies had made warp 
obsolete for multiple millennia, all Borg vessels maintained the capability as back-up in 
the event of hypertranswarp and transwarp failure.  For that reason, warp knowledge was 
retained.
	In the standard warp core, dilithium crystals were suspended in a 
matter/antimatter stream.  When subject to high frequency electromagnetic fields, the 
crystals were rendered largely non-reactive to antimatter, a necessity as they were the 
crucial catalyst regulating the matter/antimatter reaction.  The reaction produced a 
plasma, the great majority of which was funneled to injectors in the warp nacelles, thusly 
generating a warp field.  Plasma not used by the energy-hungry nacelles was diverted to 
converters for production of shipwide power.
	Most civilizations more advanced than the internal combustion engine had some 
variation upon the 'warp core', even if the plasma went to uses other than propulsion.  
Even the contemporary Borg power core was a distant cousin to the warp core, although 
the dilithium utilized was a secondary catalyst:  nano-engineered crystalline matrixes 
adapted from species #165 had long ago increased efficiency and controllability, thereby 
substantially enhancing power output of the matter/antimatter reaction.
	Unfortunately, one of the problems with traditional warp core technology, like 
that squatting in the center of main engineering, was its propensity towards catastrophic 
instability.  If the matter/antimatter streams were pushed to a higher density than that able 
to be handled by the dilithium crystal, then the catalyst would begin to erode; and, in 
turn, control over the reaction would degrade, often quickly.  Worst case scenario was a 
matter/antimatter reaction running wild just before the inevitable explosion.  While it was 
easy to increase matter/antimatter density in order to 'turbocharge' a core for short periods 
(i.e., less than five minutes), it was nearly impossible to /sustain/ output without need for 
major repair of the power system components afterwards, assuming one avoided learning 
first-hand what an explosion looked like from the inside.
	In order to delay the unavoidable, Engineer approached the table Spanner Master 
had indicated to possess the items required for any success.  Forehead furrowing, 
Engineer's first thought was /junk/.  Upon the table were paperclips, several rolls of duct 
tape, odd lengths of wire, light-emitting diodes, lithium batteries, a (broken) digital clock, 
copper nails...the list went on and on.  It looked like the contents of a box filled by an 
absent-minded kleptomaniac had been spilt upon the tabletop.  Gingerly moving items 
aside, only to discover that additional 'treasures' were hidden beneath the top layer, 
Engineer spotted a can of SimuMilk-brand non-dairy whipped pseudo-cream product.  
Pushing junk away in his haste to grab the pastel green and white container, over a 
quarter of the table contents clattered to the deck amid a mini-avalanche.
	Engineer turned the SimuMilk container upside-down to reveal the product code 
stamped on its base.  Inside the aerosol can were two substances - a long-chain 
hydrocarbon polymer which could only vaguely be considered edible and a mysterious 
propellant.  The latter not only expelled the SimuMilk product, but also acted as a 
catalyst to increase the polymer's 'cream' factor.  It was extreme food science at its best, 
minus any actual food.  /If/ the can and its contents originated from one particular 
factory, discernable by product lot number, then a certain inert (and unknown) substance 
would be contaminating the propellant; and /that/ contaminant was key.
	Prior to his assimilation, neither Engineer's circusmaster title nor his ownership 
stake had excluded him from certain noisome tasks necessary to keep his low-budget 
operation running.  /All/ circus members were expected to take turns cleaning cages 
aboard the animal barge.  While the barge did not have propulsion more advanced than 
thrusters (hence the term 'barge'), it nonetheless had a warp core.  The core's primary 
purpose was to power life support for the circus menagerie.  However, once a week or so, 
and specifically when the tigaluth cage was hosed out, the disruptor would have to 
manage an extra large 'load'; and to cope, the core would be ramped up to run above 
recommended maximum output for several hours.  By enriching the matter/antimatter 
stream with the propellant from a can of SimuMilk-brand non-dairy whipped pseudo-
cream product (lot #412a), the power output could be temporarily sustained at an elevated 
level without damage.  The mechanics behind the boost were unknown, as was where the 
knowledge originated - within the circus, no one had cared as long as it worked.  And, 
until this point, Engineer had believed the SimuMilk secret to have been a quirk lost upon 
his circus' assimilation.
	The lot number stamped at the bottom of the can was #412a.
	Engineer swiveled his head to peer at the alcove.  Inside, a food fight was in 
progress between five Brotherhood members.  The other three, one of which was Spanner 
Master, were intently watching Engineer's actions.  Engineer received the distinct 
impression that to simply attach the SimuMilk can upstream the matter/antimatter 
injectors and spew its contents into the streams would be unacceptable.  Yes, the task 
would be successfully completed, yet the outcome would lack a certain...something.
	Locking his joints, Engineer focused his gaze at a point about an armspan in front 
of his face, then turned inward to contemplate the situation.  To be technical, he literally 
held the solution to the assigned task in his hand.  In reality, it was a solution /anyone/ 
could apply, even himself, an ex-circusmaster with no formal engineering training 
beyond information uploaded to his Borg-modified brain.  What was missing?  What 
grand Brotherhood secret was hidden beneath all the unnecessary pomp and theater?  
Engineer mentally frowned:  it had been many Cycles since he had considered options 
outside of the structure of the sub-collective consensus-building processes, and with only 
a single point of view, he felt utterly inadequate.  How had he ever /survived/ outside the 
Borg as an individual?
	Individual.  Circus.  Theater.  Secret.  Random concepts rattled around in 
Engineer's mind; and although Borg were not known for creativity, they were excellent in 
the realm of adaptation and linkage of disparate elements.  The parallel processing and 
multitasking ability of his species #2133 brain assisted Engineer in the otherwise painful 
necessity of thinking alone.
	Engineer suddenly blinked, focusing his eyes on the table of junk.  Of course....
	Fact #1:  The Brotherhood was a secret society of engineers.
	Fact #2:  He had been given a task /anyone/, engineer or not, could accomplish, 
assuming they knew the SimuMilk secret.
	Question:  What set engineers and, specifically, Chief Engineers [capitalization 
required] apart from the general populace?  What made them indispensable in the 
perception of those whom employed them?
	Answer:  By training alone, Chief Engineers were /not/ different from their 
engineer brethren.  Some situations, perhaps /many/ situations, might not require 
specialized engineering knowledge at all.  Chief Engineers, however, /were/ creatures of 
theatrics.  The Brotherhood was a case in point.  Why visually inspect an isolinear chip 
for functionality when one could wave around a device with blinking lights?  Why 
quietly fix malfunctioning equipment when one could thwack it with a spanner and use 
choice swear words?  Why posit a series of simple engineering tasks for entry into a 
secret club when one could build an elaborate holosimulation and wear mysterious black 
robes?
	Swiveling his head, Engineer gazed into the alcove.  All eight of the Brotherhood 
members were now pressed against the barrier, food fight forgotten as they attempted to 
ascertain what was happening.  The only way a Chief Engineer could be indispensable 
was to create an illusion where he (or she) held mysterious knowledge or techniques vital 
to the survival of ship or station or city or company.  The Brotherhood had been creating 
such an illusion for untold aeons, perhaps in time units better measured by the revolution 
of galaxies or the birth/death cycle of stars.
	The galaxy, the universe, was well and truly bamboozled.
	Well, Engineer may be Borg, but he also hailed from a circus.  A circus was 
nothing if not theatrics, be they found within the performance rings or amid the wailing 
of a contortionist trying to finagle a pay raise.  The Brotherhood wanted theater?  He 
would give them theater.
	Engineer picked up the broken digital clock, examined it, then set it aside.  A 
cheap tin box painted silver was opened, revealing a collection of miscellaneous plugs.  
Engineer was about to discard the container when he realized it was of sufficient 
dimensions to hold the SimuMilk can.  Upending the box, its unwanted contents were 
sent clattering to the ground, their holder the actual prize.  In such a manner, Engineer 
efficiently and swiftly sorted the table of junk until he had acquired a neatly organized 
collection of objects.
	And then, selecting the appropriate soldering tool built into his prosthetic, 
Engineer began to build.  Ten minutes later he was done.
	Except for its nozzle, the green and white SimuMilk can was completely hidden.  
The shiny tin which served as the housing was decorated with an assortment of blinking 
diodes; and the display of the digital clock had been resurrected to flash meaningless 
numbers in a pseudo-random manner.  Engineer had even incorporated a child's toy, a 
small wand that when waved made a suitably mystic *whoosh* noise.  The only 
functional portion of the contraption was an unobtrusive button lost amid the diodes.  The 
button connected to a lever, which in turn gently depressed the top of the aerosol can, 
thusly releasing the propellant whilst leaving the SimuMilk non-dairy whipped product 
within its container.
	Glancing a final time at the Brotherhood representatives, Engineer marched to the 
upstream injector port of the primary matter/antimatter stream and locked the device in 
place.  One anticlimactic push of the button later, and core displays were reporting an 
increase in power output with minimal degradation to the dilithium crystal matrix or 
other infrastructure.
	Within the alcove, Brotherhood members had each retrieved a small board and 
pen from within their robes.  One at a time, marks were scribed upon the boards, and the 
boards subsequently held up to face the engineering simulation.  Upon the boards were 
numbers originating from five different languages; and together they averaged 7.4.
	Spanner Master beckoned Engineer to the barrier.  The hierarchy head complied.
	"Not spectacular," said Spanner Master as Engineer neared, "but decent.  Much 
better than I was expecting, given you /are/ a Borg, not to mention your non-engineering 
background."  From the tone, the latter was more critical than the former.  "A bit more 
flourish on the implementation would have garnered a higher score, but as is, your effort 
was passable."
	"We be done, then?  Ye'll now return me t' my sub-collective."  The statement 
was less question and more demand.
	Spanner Master chuckled.  "Oh, no.  We are empathically not done.  In fact, we 
have barely begun.  There are still two more trials to determine if you are worthy to be 
included in the Brotherhood-"
	"Or Sisterhood!" interjected a familiar voice.
	"-of the Spanner."

	The second trial, like the first, was set in main engineering of the unknown 
Starfleet vessel.  Everything was the same, from warp core and computer displays to 
nameless crewmembers.  The only observable difference was the table had been removed 
and in its place was an individual whom did not belong among the busy ranks of PADD-
wielding peons.
	Standing next to the barrier, waiting for Spanner Master to return from an 
excursion to take care of biological necessities, Engineer examined what would obviously 
be the principal of the upcoming trail.  The man was big, broad, dusky-skinned and 
largely bald.  While human in most respects, a receding hairline accompanied by 
suggestion of forehead ridges hinted of Klingon somewhere in his ancestry.  The man's 
sleeves were red, not yellow; and upon his collar were three gold pips.  Engineer's 
permanent onboard Starfleet database did not extend to rank insignia, although he 
suspected the man was high in the local hierarchy.
	For some odd reason, the man reminded Engineer of a Flarn...and one particular 
Flarn at that.  Perhaps it was the human's bulk or his epidermal coloration or his slight 
slouch.  No matter, the thought was irrelevant.  Turning inward, Engineer consciously 
searched for the mental process causing the speculation and deleted it.  Certain inhibitors 
appeared to be starting to degrade due to severance from the sub-collective.  While 
diagnostics were not flagging anything out of normal variation (for an imperfectly 
assimilated unit), to even experience a daydream, albeit minor and inconsequential, was 
disturbing.
	A dull rapping redirected Engineer's attention.  He turned his head slightly and 
saw Spanner Master.  The speaker for the Brotherhood was holding a spanner in one 
hand.  Seeing his efforts successful, the tool disappeared into the depths of his robe, 
exchanged for the communication device.
	"I have returned and all are ready in here.  Are you prepared to proceed?" inquired 
Spanner Master.
	Curtly responded Engineer, "Aye."
	"The task here is very simple," said Spanner Master.  "Your department has been 
invaded by a most horrible creature - a bridge officer.  He is being nosy, asking 
questions, poking at buttons he should not poke, and generally getting in the way.  You 
must remove him from the environs before he either accidentally sets the self destruct or 
drives you insane.  Yes, a very simple task."  There was a pause.  "Well, go to it."
	Engineer was certain this assignment would be far from simple.
	Pivoting on heel, Engineer stalked towards the warp core.  As he approached, the 
human turned, holding out an expectant hand.  The fact that the gesture was not 
reciprocated did not seem to register upon the man's smiling face.
	"Hello!" said the human.  "My name is Mitchell Barnes and I'm a visiting 
commander from the Franklin.  I'm supposed to be attending a conference at Starbase 12, 
and since your ship was heading in that direction, your captain decided to give me with a 
lift.  Jolly fellow, your captain.  Anyway, I didn't want to spend the next couple of days 
cooped up in my room, so I thought I'd take a look around, maybe pick up a few ideas to 
take back to the Franklin."  Mitchell was practically bubbling with enthusiasm.
	Without pausing, Engineer raised his whole hand, balled it into a fist, and plunged 
it, knuckles first, at the human's neck.  The computer running the holosimulation was 
obviously top notch:  Mitchell responded appropriately to the attack, trying to step away, 
only to stop, eyes glazing, as fingers of necrotic gray started to appear on his dark skin.
	"Stop!" bellowed Spanner Master.  The simulation froze.  Engineer turned to face 
the alcove.  "That was not an acceptable solution.  Efficient, yes, but still inappropriate."  
The speaker heaved a long sigh.  "You may not assimilate Commander Mitchell.  Neither 
may you kill, maim, injure, or otherwise bodily harm the man, no matter how much you 
may wish to do so."
	From the tone, Engineer formed the opinion that thoughts of 'bodily harm' upon a 
certain subset of superior officers was common, and not only for Spanner Master.  The 
seven other members of the Brotherhood cadre were talking amongst themselves, quiet 
conversations unable to be overheard by Spanner Master's communicator.  However, 
even without words, the gestures, many of them involving punching or other abruptly 
violent motions, provided more than ample evidence of content.
	"Do you understand?" asked Spanner Master.
	"Aye, we understand and will comply," said Engineer grudgingly.
	"Let's start this again, shall we?"
	The half-assimilated Mitchell vanished, replaced by a whole version.  His hand 
was held out in greeting.
	"Hello!" repeated the hologram.  "My name is Mitchell Barnes and I'm a visiting 
commander from the Franklin.  I'm supposed to be attending a conference at Starbase 12, 
and since your ship was heading in that direction, your captain decided to give me with a 
lift.  Jolly fellow, your captain.  Anyway, I didn't want to spend the next couple of days 
cooped up in my room, so I thought I'd take a look around, maybe pick up a few ideas to 
take back to the Franklin."
	Engineer ignored the hand.  "Coom back lat'r.  We be busy right now."  He waved 
a limb to encompass main engineering activities, then added a belated "Sir" as the 
human's cheeks began to darken slightly in a flush.
	"Really...." drawled Mitchell.  "Well, maybe I could help?  I used to be pretty 
handy with the ol' socket wrench set and dynamo-whatsits when I was younger.  I was 
/always/ taking apart my older brother's shuttle.  Geesh, he so hated my curiosity.  It 
wasn't /my/ fault I always seemed to have a part or three left over when I put everything 
back together.
	"Hey, those fellows over there seem to be doing something interesting!  If you 
don't mind, I think I'll go take a look."
	Engineer blinked as the verbal whirlwind which was Mitchell glided towards a 
trio of crewmembers clustered around a workbench.  Upon the table was a machine, 
neatly disassembled into several subcomponents, one of which was the object under 
discussion.  Protests arose as Mitchell appropriated one of the parts for himself and begun 
to chatter inane pleasantries, but quickly quieted as rank insignia registered.  One of the 
crew shot Engineer a pleading expression.
	"Unacceptable," Engineer called.  The rogue process had returned, superimposing 
a certain Flarn consensus monitor's likeness upon the human hologram.  Well, if the 
human was to continue to remind him of Prime, then he would treat the human as he 
would Prime.  Or attempt, at any rate.  When Prime finally retreated from Engineer's 
confrontations, he always felt it was she who had made the decision to leave, not him.  
"Totally unacceptable."  Engineer tromped heavily forward, arriving within distance to 
snatch the device from Mitchell's hands.  "Tis be a delicate piece o' equipment.  Sir.  
Professionals only."  And this being said by a Borg unit with a background in engineering 
which came from downloaded information and on-the-job training.
	Mitchell's expression drooped to an incipient sulk...for a few seconds, until, like a 
jackdaw attracted by a shiny object, his attention shifted to a nearby computer display.  
"Maybe you could give me the grand tour, eh?"  Fingers flew across the access pad, 
calling up a wide variety of topics, none of which seemed to be the one the human was 
searching for.  "There has to be a map in here somewhere.  You know, this is one of the 
few times I've actually been in main engineering.  For some reason on the Franklin, every 
time I try to enter engineering for an inspection or a chat or something, I always find the 
doors locked.  Imagine that!  The Chief says that it is an intermittent fault that she does 
not have the time to track down."  As Mitchell chattered, the warp core injector menu 
popped open, then scrolled to the maintenance options.  Troublingly, indicators on an 
adjacent display were showing current ship propulsion status to be warp.  To activate a 
maintenance cycle when underway in a non-Einsteinian environment would be 
disastrous, at the very least, if not outright lethal.
	To blow up the ship, even if a holosimulation, would probably constitute test 
failure.
	Engineer trapped Mitchell's wrists within his whole hand before the officer could 
accidentally depress an enter key.  The human tried to wrench his limbs away, but was no 
match for artificially enhanced Borg strength.  At least in this aspect Mitchell was not a 
human-analogue of Prime, who would have had no problem in disengaging herself from 
Engineer's grip.
	"Well, that is a bit rude," said Mitchell.
	Risking a glance towards the Brotherhood's alcove, Engineer received no 
inspiration.  If anything, a sense of disappointment radiated from behind the clear barrier.  
Attention was returned to the human.  How to get him out of main engineering in a 
manner that did not require subsequent assistance from medical, or the morgue?
	"Say, you are not having any little problems around here that I may be able to 
help you troubleshoot?  I've offered on the door back on the Franklin, but the Chief says 
that she prefers to leave it as a future punishment option for any disrespectful 
crewmembers."
	Engineer strongly suspected the door fault in question was far from intermittent, 
or unknown as to origin.  If only such a simple solution was possible on Cube #238.  
Unfortunately, personal access by every drone to transporters made locking doors 
impossible when it came to excluding certain annoyingly nosy consensus monitors.  On 
the other hand...Mitchell was a /human/, not a Borg.  If he could be escorted out of main 
engineering, perhaps the local doors might spontaneously develop intermittent issues of 
their own, with a little help.  At the very least, a fast spot weld from equipment on 
Engineer's prosthetic arm would stop Mitchell's immediate re-entry until a more suitable 
solution could be devised.
	"Perhaps not ar'nd 'ere," said Engineer, answering Mitchell's question, "but 
maybe-" Engineer had no clue what facilities might be applicable to this Starfleet vessel, 
so he randomly chose one "-hydroponics.  Aye, I distinctly a'member a problem in 
hydroponics."  He took Mitchell by one arm and began to steer the officer towards one of 
the be-laddered access points.
	"Hydroponics?" repeated Mitchell, brow furrowing in a manner exaggerating his 
distant Klingon ancestry.  "I did not know your ship had hydroponics."
	"Very new addition.  That be why it ha' been reportin' problems.  Other, more 
important, items on maintenance roster ha' prevented troubleshootin'.  Why not ye take a 
look f'r us?"  Engineer snatched a PADD from a passing crewmember and shoved it in 
Mitchell's hands.
	"I think I could do that...."
	"Very good.  Sir."  The door, and success, was only meters away.  "Theref're-"
	"Sir, I need a signature, sir.  Lieutenant Maltese from Shift B asked me to bring 
you the final report concerning the replicator maintenance you assigned.  If you could 
make your mark, sir?"  A young ensign stepped in front of Engineer and respectfully 
extended a PADD.
	"I-"
	"Sir, it'll only take two seconds of your time."
	Engineer hesitated, which was just sufficient for Mitchell to be diverted from his 
hydroponics course.  "I say, this looks interesting over here!  What /are/ you fellows 
doing?"  The human was striding rapidly away from the access ladder and towards two 
crewmembers standing before an oversized display showing a nacelle schematic.
	Groaning, Engineer shoved the ensign aside and scrambled to follow after the 
escaping human before he precipitated something catastrophic.
	Engineer knew that many races looked upon the inoffensive appearance of his 
species and assumed it reflected a similarly mild temperament; and, in the Bowsti case, 
the outside did echo a laidback, even pacific, outlook on life.  The wrinkles and jowls, the 
droopy expression, floppy ears, and a short muzzle with corners of mouth permanently 
upturned in a grin, a Bowsti was the embodiment of an anthropomorphized Terran 
bloodhound.  However, unknown to the universe at large, Engineer's race held a deep, 
dark secret, a shameful history suppressed by a thousand years of deliberate social 
engineering stressing emotional control, to repress certain feelings while emphasizing the 
expression of others.
	Once upon a time, the pre-warp Bowsti civilization had pursued war with a 
ferocity which would have put Klingons, even Andorians, to shame.  The Bowsti had 
been a race of berserkers, reveling not in conquest or gain, but the personal gratification 
which came from uncontrolled bloodshed.  Only when confronted with the precipice of 
self-genocide had the race developed a glimmering of sanity.  That dark era, now 
regarded as the 'Rabid Times', was largely buried amid dusty history tomes, not so much 
hidden as deliberately regulated to footnote status overshadowed by the strict Zen-like 
meditations practiced by all.
	One did not want to be around a Bowsti when the tranquility slipped.  Survivors 
were rare; and bloodstains from certain species could not be removed from fabric, no 
matter the application of advanced laundry technology.
	Once assimilated, a species #2133 individual no longer had to worry about the 
mental rituals necessary to maintain the veneer of civilization and keep the inner beast at 
bay.  Species-specific cranial implants and inhibitors installed in addition to the normal 
suite of neural hardware preserved internal harmony.  Unfortunately, in Engineer's case, 
physical governors and software censure programs, already stressed due to both 
severance from the Collective and his imperfectly assimilated status, were insufficient to 
control all the incipient impulses bubbling deep within his psyche.
	Engineer's entire demeanor changed as he chased after Mitchell.  Deck plates 
rattled under heavy feet.  Crewmembers skittered away from the Borg; and, worst of all, a 
smile was plastered upon Engineer's face, a stiff bearing of teeth that any Bowsti would 
recognize to herald a need to search out the heavy-duty laundry detergent.
	Mitchell, perhaps alerted by the expressions upon the engineering techs he was 
verbally assaulting, paused his inquisition and turned to face Engineer.  "What are you 
grinning at?  Oh, I know, you-"
	"Shut up, ye human carbuncle unfit t' adorn the hairy ass o' a gyin!" barked 
Engineer.
	"I say, that's a bit overly dramatic," countered Mitchell.  "And what is a gyin, 
anyway?  Some native fauna to your homeworld, I presume.  Did you know-"
	"I said f'r ye t' shut up!" bayed Engineer again.  A frothy saliva was gathering 
about his muzzle.  "Ye be 'n annoyin' git!  Ye've no place 'ere, pokin' 'nd proddin' like un 
scoozy-faced maloit searchin' f'r a pickle.  There be no pickles 'ere!"
	Mitchell took a step back in a futile attempt to avoid spittle.  "Hey!  I am a 
superior officer!  You cannot talk to me like that!"
	"In this place ye be as dung t' me!  I /am/ god!  I /am/ the supreme overlord 'nd 
deity!  /Ye/ be a piece o' rancid rheto piss!  Ye've stained me carpet 'nd I must clean 't 
a'fore it stains the undermatting!  Go find ye pickles elsewhere, ye gantid f'rt!"  Engineer 
took a threatening step.
	"I...I...I-"  Mitchell was actively retreating, glancing over his shoulder with 
increasing frequency.
	Pressing forward, Engineer continued his tirade, underlying accent increasingly 
thick, "Flee me domain!  Flee a'fore I rip oot y'r foul gizzard 'nd y'r brittle bones!  I sh'll 
take ye brain 'nd grind 't to plontic feed; 'nd ye bowels shall adorn me house!"  A hand 
was flung toward the warp core.  "And y'r skull...t' remains of ye rottin' skull I will set 
onna pike as a warnin' t' other pickle-stealing scoozy-faced maloits who dare t' invade me 
domain!"  Engineer howled and leapt forward.
	"You seem to be a bit busy right now.  I'll come back later," rapidly said Mitchell 
right before he turned and fled.  The bridge officer sprinted towards the nearest ladder, 
scrambled up it with an unsuspected agility, then dove head-first through the door when it 
was still only half open.
	"Sir?  Do you have time to sign this Shift B report now?" inquired a voice.
	As Engineer spun to confront this newest offense, hackles bristling, his internal 
governors abruptly regained control.  Burgeoning rage drained away, flushed by massive 
application of neural tranquilizers and chemical inhibitors.  Left in its wake was the 
emotional suppression characteristic of effectively functioning Borg censure programs.
	"Aye, we do," replied Engineer mildly as he reached forward for the proffered 
PADD.
	The holosimulation froze.
	"Very impressive!  A slow start - it looked like you would allow the bridge officer 
to walk all over you - but a magnificent ending," called the voice of Spanner Master.  
Blinking as he shifted mental gears, Engineer turned to face the Brotherhood's alcove.  
"Your sponsor was unsure how you would fare in this portion of the trial, but I think it 
was a fine performance!  The frothing at the mouth was an especially nice touch."
	As Engineer reached a whole hand to his muzzle and self-consciously wiped away 
the spittle he found there, Brotherhood members were raising scoreboards.  This time the 
average was 9.2.
	"Wow!  That is one of the highest scores this panel has given an applicant in a 
very long time," commented Spanner Master.  "Just to let you know, it'll take a bit to 
ready your final trial."
	Before Engineer could ask what the final test would require or how much longer 
he might expect to go without a Collective link, a heavy length of metal was expertly 
applied to the back of his skull.  For the second time.  
The universe went dark.
	
	Once again Engineer awoke to darkness; and once again he awoke with 
diagnostics informing him of internal bruising, as well as worsening of the earlier cranial 
fracture, due to an overenthusiastic knock to the head.  The damage was nothing nanites 
could not repair, but it remained annoying nonetheless.  Neural transceiver was still 
blocked.  After carefully clambering to his feet - gyroscopic balance feedback was 
slightly out of kilter - he squinted into the foreboding velvet blackness.  Something, a 
highly energetic something, was nearby:  a suite of sensors in Engineer's prosthetic was 
reporting upon an usually high concentration of theta and delta radiation.  However, 
before he could toggle his ocular implant to infrared or another filter so as to assess his 
surroundings, the familiar sourceless spotlight captured him in a radiant pool of white.
	"Will ye stop that?" asked Engineer peevishly as he raised his whole hand to 
shade his eyes.  The spotlight slid sideways slightly, readjusted to a less blinding angle, 
as additional lights joined it.
	Engineer stared as the radiation source was unveiled.
	It was a bomb, pure and simple.  A very big bomb.  The five meter high device 
may have begun its existence as any one of a number of power core designs, but it had 
been modified such that the energy it produced could no longer effectively dissipate.  
With each beat of its matter/antimatter heart, it took another step towards catastrophic 
failure.  At some point, probably in the very near future, the central containment 
forcefields would be overwhelmed by plasma buildup.  Once the intermix chamber was 
compromised, a very large explosion would result.
	Worst of all, the device was /not/ a hologram.  It was /real/.
	Engineer began to rapidly pan the darkness beyond the pools of light, searching 
for an exit.  He was under no Collective compulsion to remain, which in turn allowed 
personal survival subroutines to dominate.  Eye and ocular implant swept over a lighted 
rectangle, paused, then returned.
	The Brotherhood's alcove, inset a real, not holographic, wall had been altered.  
While the inside was the same, the transparent aluminum barrier was now reinforced by 
the subtle swirl of energies representing a level-10 forcefield.  Marching up to the alcove, 
Engineer held out his whole hand, feeling the incipient bite of energy.  Without pre-
adaptation, he could not pass through, never mind the physical barrier beyond.  The 
egress inside the alcove remained so close, yet so far.
	Engineer turned and resumed scanning the room periphery for an exit he could 
use.
	"Borg!"  Spanner Master's voice was loud.
	Engineer blinked as he pivoted to face the alcove once more.  He had utterly 
ignored the beings inside, so intent had he been upon finding a solution to his personal 
survival.  "This bomb will explode in-" Engineer paused to check radiation readings "-
approximately eleven minutes.  Release us.  If ye wished t' dispose o' this drone, there be 
less messy methods."  In the stress of the situation, he had reverted to plurals and third 
person references.
	Spanner Master's cowl nodded.  "Exactly.  You have discerned the crux of the 
problem:  there is a bomb.  Actually, it is a cleverly modified Mark VII Agornian power 
core, but a bomb by any other name is still a bomb.  Your final task is to defuse the bomb 
by any means possible.  If it explodes, you will have failed.  Terminally.  I did note 
earlier the potential of rather extreme consequences to failing the Brotherhood 
application process.  The purpose of this test is to ensure that you do have actual 
engineering know-how, that you are more than obscure knowledge, theatrics, and a good 
set of lungs.  While the latter items are very important, in the end we cannot have 
incompetent Chief Engineers running around the multiverses, now can we?
	"There are no exits to this room.  The technology used is unknown to the Borg:  
the walls have been molecularly welded to create a seamless surface.
	"And, finally, the only tool you have to assist you in your endeavor is your 
spanner.  You did remember to keep the spanner you were provided upon your initial 
entrance, yes?"
	Engineer reached behind the small of his back to where he had cached the tool.  
Grasping it, he disengaged magnetics and then swung it around to display.
	"Excellent," said Spanner Master in approval.  "I strongly suggest you start.  The 
core is probably around the ten minute mark to destruction at this point."
	Turning to regard his soon-to-be nemesis, Engineer considered all his options.  
Very few and very poor, was the appropriate answer.  There was no reason to doubt 
Spanner Master's assertion that the room held no method of escape; and to perform a 
comprehensive search to confirm would require too much time.  Instead, Engineer was 
faced with technology of which he was unfamiliar; and without a functional Collective 
link, he could neither request data from the Whole nor allow his sub-collective to do his 
thinking for him.  And because Borg drones, by dint of an assimilation process which 
intimately tied individual psyches to the many, were not known for their innovation 
acumen, Engineer's final conclusion was that he was pretty well screwed.  Up sh** creek 
without a paddle.  A scoozy-faced maloit pining for a pickle where no pickles were to be 
had.
	Nine minutes to catastrophic failure.
	Hefting the spanner, taking comfort in its weight, Engineer advanced upon the 
core.  His first order of business was to circumnavigate the device, looking for an obvious 
twist of wire, an out-of-place panel, a neon sign with flashing arrow, anything which 
might hint to a solution which did not involve a bright light and shards of metal heated to 
temperatures normally associated with the surfaces of stars.  Nothing.  If there was an 
easy way to defuse the situation, it was probably situated upwards several meters, near 
the top of the bomb's superstructure and very much out of reach:  the average Borg, a 
category which included Engineer, were not known for their climbing abilities.
	Seven minutes to catastrophic failure.
	Logic.  Careful application of Logic, a distant cousin of Management, would see 
Engineer through.  Engineer orbited the bomb a second time, this time gently tapping on 
the cowling with the spanner while simultaneously performing a wide-spectrum scan 
with his prosthetic.  Slowly, too slowly, he was building an internal picture of the core, 
finding access panels, grossly mapping how subcomponents were linked to each other, 
noting the precise manner in which energy flowed.  Unfortunately, Logic was failing to 
present a solution, the internal investigation no more profitable than the external scan.
	Three minutes to catastrophic failure.
	Censor programs unable to fully cope given their earlier failure and continued 
severance from the Cube #238 sub-collective, Engineer's sense of frustration built.  If he 
had been a /real/ engineer, not an ex-circusmaster reliant upon Borg databases and a 
pitiful amount of basic information permanently housed within onboard storage, perhaps 
he might have had a chance.  If required, he could do drama and even bellow and curse 
(given failure of certain governors).  Management was easy, as was application of Logic.  
What he could not do was determine how to defuse an unfamiliar piece of hardware on 
the brink of destruction.
	Two minutes to catastrophic failure.
	Stopping in front of a random panel, Engineer popped it off and tossed it aside.  
Revealed was a hole sixty centimeters tall by forty centimeters wide, inside of which was 
a densely packed array of circuit boards and skeins of multicolored wire.  Thrusting in the 
spanner, Engineer used the jawed end to snag wire and rip it from its setting.  Sparks 
danced; and, somewhere far above, a motor spun to an abrupt stop amid a horrendous 
screech.  The circuit boards were next, delicate connections and embedded crystals 
shattering as the spanner's heavy head descended.  Smoke and the smell of burning 
electronics filled the air.
	Less than one minute to catastrophic failure.
	Energy levels were reaching a final plateau.
	Tearing deeper and deeper into the device, Engineer busily excavated integrated 
subcomponents and wire, small motors and thumb-sized isolinear crystals.  His chassis 
paint, intact to this point, began to scuff as armor rubbed against access point edges.  He 
did not have a destination and, frankly, at this point did not care.  Perhaps if he 
dismembered enough of the core's innards he might destroy a critical component and 
cause the thing to spontaneously shut down.  Or he might slow the energy build up.  Or 
he might keep himself sufficiently busy that he would not notice the transition from life 
to death, severance from the Collective denying his echo a final resting place within the 
Whole.
	Zero minutes to catastrophic failure.
	One minute /past/ catastrophic failure?
	Engineer withdrew from the access panel, spanner still held firmly in hand, and 
leaned back to gaze in confusion upwards at the bomb.
	*KABOOM!*
	It was as if a great furnace had opened up, heat and light washing over Engineer, 
accompanied by the roar of an explosion.  When it cleared, Engineer was stunned to find 
himself alive and whole of limb.  Diagnostics registered /no/ damage.  Even more 
surprising, the core itself, inclusive the hole excavated behind the access panel and the 
dross strewn about nearby, remained intact.
	Slowly turning to face the Brotherhood alcove, spanner still held in his upraised 
hand and mind in a state of shock, Engineer was confronted with a battery of scores.  The 
final average was 8.1.  He must have temporarily blacked out, internal censors and other 
programs requiring reboot to cope with the situation, for when he returned to awareness, 
Engineer found the ambient light level in the room increased to a more comfortable (and 
less theatric) level.
	"You okay, son?" asked Spanner Master, standing before Engineer.  The 
Brotherhood speaker was no longer behind the alcove's protective barrier.
	Spanner-wielding arm allowed to swing down and hang at his side, Engineer 
attempted to vocalize.  Unfortunately, the stuttering "Wha...wha...?" was nearly 
unintelligible.
	"What happened?" inquired Spanner Master, correctly deciphering the question.  
"In truth, you managed to defuse the bomb about halfway into the test, when you went 
a'tapping around the outside with your spanner.  Specifically, you hit a panel with just 
enough force to short a command circuit underneath, thus disrupting the feedback 
process.  However successful you might have been, it was still necessary to observe how 
you would fare when faced with certain failure.  To have a Chief Engineer break down in 
a weeping heap when confronted by inevitable doom is unacceptable.
	"Therefore, there was a device embedded into the core which emitted a fake 
energy output.  Normally such would not be necessary, but given your inbuilt sensors, the 
deception was suggested by your sponsor.  And, finally, at the end there was that little 
light show you experienced."
	Engineer could only stare at Spanner Master, jaw agape in an unBorglike manner.
	Spanner Master nodded.  "You did it!  Welcome to the ranks of the Brotherhood 
of the Spanner!"
	"Sisterhood!  What about Sisterhood?" shouted a voice.  Obviously Spanner 
Master was not the only Brotherhood member present, but he was the only one Engineer 
had the presence of mind to focus upon.
	Turning his head slightly, Spanner Master yelled, "Our initiate is male under all 
those gizmos and armor.  That is what his sponsor said.  Therefore, /he/ is a 
/Brotherhood/ member."  Clearing his throat, cowl returned to fully face Engineer.  
"Sorry about that.  Anyway, welcome to the Brotherhood of the Spanner.  You do not 
have a conventional engineering background, but by your actions, and scores, you 
showed yourself worthy of membership."
	"Now what?" whispered Engineer as he finally gained control of his vocal 
processors.
	"Well-" began Spanner Master.  He was unable to finish the sentence because at 
that moment Engineer was expertly whacked upon the back of the skull.  Again.
	Falling to his side upon the ground, Engineer felt darkness descend.  Before non-
thought could fully claim him, however, blurred vision registered the outlined backside of 
a familiar Borgified Flarn in conversation with a robed Brotherhood member.  And, then, 
with that final vision burned into his brain, unconsciousness claimed Cube #238's 
engineering hierarchy head.

	{Command and control, initiator drone unit 2 of 5, activating command pathway 
to drone unit 7 of 30 - initiate higher consciousness functions.}  Pause.  {Wakey, wakey, 
Engineer.  Doctor has pronounced you functional and his prescribed regeneration has 
concluded:  there is work for you to oversee within your hierarchy.}
	Engineer felt his mind stir as programs integral to his assimilated self forced his 
sleeping brain to full awareness.  In the Borg Collective there was no such thing as a 
snooze button.  Levering his whole eye open and activating ocular implant, Engineer 
stared blankly at the space in front of his alcove.  The first thing which registered to his 
groggy mind was the resumption of a firm neural transceiver link to the Cube #238 sub-
collective, and thus the Collective Whole.  The second item which registered was the 
face, an unflattering combination of reptilian and insectoid features, hovering just in 
view.
	"Ye!" barked Engineer, adrenaline-analogues flooding his system as he struggled 
to step forward, to lift limbs, to curl fingers around a certain chitinous neck, only to find 
his body locked in place.
	"I took the liberty to secure you in your alcove under command and control 
authorization.  Unless you are a better computer jockey than me, and I know you are not, 
you will have to work around a Hierarchy of Five lock-out to disengage the clamps.  Do 
not fret.  You will be let go.  /Once/ you hear what I have to say...and you've calmed 
down a bit," said Prime.
	Engineer immediately turned inward to examine the code securing him in his 
alcove, but no matter how much he twisted or tugged at the data he could not make the 
authorization unravel.  Manually triggering artificial glands to release tranquilizer agents 
into his bloodstream, Engineer allowed himself to refocus on the Flarn patiently standing 
before him on the alcove tier.
	"Much better," commented Prime.
	"Enlighten us," hissed Engineer, deliberately invoking the plural.  "Why be we 
kidnapped?"  He paused as a thread of data, origination the Whole, not the local sub-
collective, trickled into his mind.  There was a change to his personal dossier?  "Why be 
we /allowed/ to be kidnapped?"
	Prime held up a hand.  "Before you get your answer, let me be the first to 
congratulate you.  Or the first to offer condolences.  It all depends upon point of view.  
The Collective has made its first decision concerning permanent staffing of hierarchy 
heads upon this cube, and your designation is now locked as Engineer, or whatever you 
wish the sub-designation should be."
	Engineer carefully tested the clamps trapping his right limb.  Did they feel just a 
bit loose?  "What does that have t' do-"
	"I am getting to that," interrupted Prime.  "The Collective was well aware of 
your...kidnapping.  In fact, upon my lowly recommendation - and wasn't /that/ a bitch to 
get through the subMinds - it contacted the Brotherhood of the Spanner.  I was your 
sponsor."
	"Ye hit me.  On the back o' the head.  /Three times/," accused Engineer.  "Ye 
/cracked/ my skull 'nd /dislodged/ several cranial implants."
	"Whoops.  I am species #6251.  Most sapients in the galaxy are rather weak and 
squishy compared to me.  There were several times you had to be rendered unconscious, 
and that was the most efficient manner."  The intranet conveyed no sense of apology.  
Then again, apologies were irrelevant.
	Yes, the right upper limb clamps /were/ just a bit loose.  But were they enough?  
"Ye be a member o' the Brotherhood o' the Spanner," said Engineer.  It was statement of 
fact, not question.
	Prime slightly inclined her head.  "Of course.  I achieved my Chief Engineer 
status long ago, well before I was assimilated."  The verbal capitalization set the 
achievement aside from, and perhaps above, the mere job title of 'chief engineer'.  "The 
Collective has assimilated many Brotherhood members over the megaCycles since 
inception of the Greater Consciousness, but knowledge of the secret society has been 
inconsequential, until now."
	"Why be not I aware o' its existence?" demanded Engineer.
	Prime's emotive signature betrayed her surprise to a much greater degree than the 
electronic reverberations which colored her voice, "Why should you be?  Such 
information was not relevant to your functioning as engineering hierarchy head, at least 
not when the slot was a temporary assignment.  And no member of the Brotherhood of 
the Spanner, even when assimilated, would reveal their status to a non-member.  The 
Collective knows, of course, but that is different.  Again, the information was, and 
continues to be, irrelevant to a non-Brotherhood drone."
	True.  Why burden a unit with knowledge superfluous to the task at hand?  And if 
a drone, such as Engineer, did not know to request certain data in the first place, then it 
was highly unlikely to be freely volunteered.  "But no longer."
	"No longer," agreed Prime with a sigh.  "The Collective made the decision, after I 
suggested a closer examination of circumstantial evidence, that an engineering hierarchy 
head whom was also a Brotherhood member would be more effective than a non-
member.  There is a certain...something all Chief Engineers possess that is lacking in 
those outside the society.  It is a something unable to be quantified or defined /or/ 
programmed, which bugs the Greater Consciousness to no end, but the final the 
consensus agreed with me.  With the Collective's sanctification and full knowledge that it 
could fatally lose an excellent, albeit imperfectly assimilated, unit, I arranged for your 
initiation.  The potential gain outweighed the risk.
	"Oh, and you cannot tell a non-Brotherhood unit of your membership in the 
society.  A block has been placed in your head, hardwired to your pain center.  If you 
attempt to speak, or think, a word about the Brotherhood of the Spanner to an outsider, 
there will be intense, debilitating pain.  If you attempt to continue despite the pain, 
termination is a distinct possibility.  The Collective agreed to the block with the 
Brotherhood, assuming a successful indoctrination.  You are unique, one of a kind.  All 
other Brotherhood members, including myself, were tested before assimilation, and 
varying degrees of machine hypnosis assured our compliance.  Such a method would 
obviously not work upon a Borg drone."
	"Nah," agreed Engineer.  There were many more questions spinning through his 
mind, but they were largely unformed.  They would have to wait, especially as the 
demands of his hierarchy, ranging from routine maintenance to cargo inventory to 
determining whom had wallpapered Auxiliary Core #1 with aluminum foil, were 
requiring attention.  First, however...
With a sharp snap, the clamps holding Engineer's right limb in place abruptly 
yielded.  Blindly questing with his hand, he felt a familiar haft:  the spanner he had 
gained during his Brotherhood trials had been hung inside his alcove.  Engineer did not 
know how it had arrived there, nor whom had welded the magnetic holder in place, 
although suspicions momentarily flitted through the back of his mind.  Irrelevant.  All 
which mattered was this place, this now, this spanner in his free hand and the Flarn face 
just...within...reach....
	Prime leaned back, allowing the heavy tool to miss contact with her head by mere 
millimeters.
	"Frarking pickle," muttered Engineer.
	The consensus monitor and facilitator stood fully upright as she stepped back half 
a pace.  A distinct chuckle floated upon the intranet currents.  Apparently Prime was 
amused, as much as she was allowed to be, at the display.  "Decent.  Better than before 
your initiation, but you still need some work.  /Especially/ your swearing.  You are a 
/Borg/, you have /pentabytes/ of vulgar lexicons to draw upon.  Pickle?"  She paused as 
she accessed the species #2133 language databases.  "Obviously the concept does not 
translate well.  Obscurity has its place, but sometimes you want the opposing party to 
know /exactly/ what you think of them.  Therefore, I suggest cultivating a vocabulary 
with universal application.
	"I will be sure to make time in my busy schedule to impart upon you the secrets of 
being a proper Chief Engineer.  You may have membership in the Brotherhood of the 
Spanner, but I consider it to be, at best, a learner's permit."
	Grinding his teeth, Engineer took aim and awkwardly threw the spanner at Prime.  
There was a satisfactory *thump* as it hit her torso carapace, not that there was any 
damage.  The spanner clattered to the tier alcove.
	"Excellent!" said Prime approvingly.  "However, it is time for my exercise 
session.  I will be back."  She vanished within the clutches of a transporter beam.
	"Wait...wait...the alcove..." began Engineer.  {2 of 5!  Prime!} was bellowed into 
the intranets, to no avail.  Sighing, Engineer tilted his head forward as much as possible 
to consider his situation, then flicked his eyes towards the spanner which lay well out of 
reach given his predicament.  "Pickle."