Star Traks - BorgSpace Season 2: I Feel Good!

Paramount owns Star Trek. A. Decker created Star Traks, based on Star Trek, which Paramount owns. I created BorgSpace, written in Star Traks universe, based on Star Trek, which Paramount owns.

The End.

I Feel Good!

{Regeneration cycle complete,} chirped the computer, ending nutrient and energy flow to alcove 231, tier 7, submatrix 8, subsection 20. Clamps unlocked with a hiss, releasing the alcove's occupant from immobility. Assimilation awakened his senses to a gray, dismal, boring world.

{Query: schedule?} The response was automatic, part of a routine long since chiseled into silicon. Computer output indicated very little to be done, a typical state of affairs considering the assimilation hierarchy was not a demanding position in a cube rarely allowed to introduce more than one or two sentients at a time to the Collective. And even that task had been lessened by the introduction of subunit #522, who swiftly took over the care of any new drone lest assimilation imperfection be spread. The highlight of the current wake cycle included a tour of the Nanite Assembly Rooms, purpose to inventory supplies and note low-priority repairs for engineering.

Yes, it was yet another gray, dismal, boring day. Assimilation sighed and stepped from his alcove, final connections relinquishing their grasp. Time to begin duties.

Scrape. Click click. Silence. Scraaaape click. Sound of a hard substance worrying a piece of metal. Crunch. Screeeech of nails on chalkboard...scrape. Silence. Click click click click.

Assimilation followed the odd noises, craning his head to see over the tops of the nanite vats. Engineering did not have maintenance scheduled for the area, nor was weapon hierarchy performing one of their endless holographic assault simulations. A brief check showed all drones of his hierarchy accounted for, and no others had legitimate business in the area. Nearing the source of the disturbance, Assimilation peered around the curve of a tank into a blind alley.

Imagine, if you will, a scorpion a meter in length and encased by a spiked carapace, dark purple verging on black. The eight walking legs occasionally shift, hence the clicking; two gigantic claws bend and rebend a short pipe, attempting to free it from its attachment brackets, ridged claw scraping along metal as grip is frequently lost. Faceted eyes of deep red, glittering ruby jewels, flash in the subdued lighting, animal intelligence engrossed in a problem of comprehension: why can this pipe not be removed?

To Assimilation's eyes, a monotone universe of gray shades, red and purple meant nothing, deadly beauty of the creature unimportant. Mental inquiries were directed inward, scanning a specific file, an odd bestiary. The servos in Assimilation's legs whined quietly as he came to a halt; the scorpion suddenly turned in the dead end, faster than its bulk would suggest, barbed tail lifting high over back in threat. An eerie keening hiss emanated in warning from the creature.

{Assimilation, 13 of 20, priority path to weapons hierarchy: urgent request for assistance. Trinoth sighting in Nanite Assembly Room #1, internal sensor link upon my interplexing beacon signature. I need help and I need it now.} Assimilation held perfectly still as the scorpion's small head shifted back and forth, searching for a threat it could not see when motionless. It mock rushed forward, then retreated, unsure if it could escape. Assimilation dared not move because he, like all not of the weaponry hierarchy, did not mount weapons on self when not specifically required.

The trinoth, the monster scorpion in question, was yet another of the current Doctor's 'pets'. Seven years ago the then 27 of 27 had smuggled the creature on board, with predictable consequences. It had escaped. Usually the trinoth hibernated somewhere in the cube, motionless and undetectable to sensors. At unpredictable intervals it would emerge, wander around for a few hours causing terror to those who saw it, then disappear for several months, if not years. It routinely slipped by hunter patrols, eventually scurrying for cover deep into interstitial spaces unseen by drones since Cube #347 had been first built. This time, however, it was trapped.

The distinctive sound of transporter beams, accompanied by internal acknowledgment of arrival, announced a foursome of weapon drones. Personal distruptors were set on vaporize, which might, just might, score the trinoth's nanoprobe-enhanced carapace. Sensing danger, hearing the approaching steps of the hunters, the scorpion released another hiss and clacked its claws sharply together; legs pranced in place, agitation evident.

On its original homeworld, the trinoth had indeed been a pet, but of an illegal variety. Many beings experimented with plant or mineral derivatives, searching for a pleasurable high; advanced races tailored chemical secretions from biologicals, even going so far as to genetically design drugs. Natural trinoth venom produced a buzz, a time of disorientated happiness during which potential prey were easily dispatched; this particular beast, "liberated" from a laboratory, could send the venom recipient to Xanadu for weeks.

As the foursome charged around the corner, the scorpion backed up, hitting the bulkhead with its back end. With a hiss the trinoth suddenly leapt forward - a meter of scorpion is enough to make anyone retreat. The hunter group skidded to a stop, opening a hole for the rushing creature to escape through. Assimilation, joints still locked motionless, bore the brunt of the charge, knocked to the deck by a not inconsiderable weight. The tail flicked out, piercing through suit and armor, barbing the torso underneath.

A shout was raised, a babble of accusing voices, both verbally and in the dataspaces - Weapons ordering the detachment to stop cowering and follow; Doctor begging all to not harass "Archie"; the foursome itself blaming each other for flinching. The drones took off down the aisle, chasing the rapidly retreating scorpion. Assimilation, left behind, flat on his back, did not care - the happy fuzzy happy bunnies were incredibly fuzzy and happy.

The bubble, rainbow of grays streaking its side, split into two, pulling into the daughters with slow-motion exactitude. Two bubbles became four, then eight, and so on until the world was full of floating orbs. Suddenly the objects turned into raindrops, which fell to the ground with the clatter of a game of horseshoes by a team of psychotic octopi, shattering the scene. The broken funhouse mirror of a view reformed itself, this time into one of countless white cats sitting on black chairs, all meowing piteously for food; milk began to rain from the sky, melting cats and chairs.

Assimilation giggled. Somewhere voices were talking; and beyond the haze of a sky sporting a smiling sun, real shapes moved. It was not important, the flying fish deemed it thus.

"13 of 20, answer. Assimilation, I know you are in there somewhere, we need you to come out now. Come here boy. Come on...come to poppa, come to your poppa." Thudding claps of beckoning paused. "He's not responding."

Complained a second voice: "Could you at least mute his verbalizing? That giggling is giving me the creeps; and it is starting to affect the rest of his hierarchy."

"You are the top doggy around here, use the appropriate command codes to lock him out of the dataspaces."

"Do you think I haven't tried? He responds to nothing! You try."

{Drone designation 13 of 20, path priority drone maintenance, origination signature 27 of 27, hierarchy command code authorization to enter regenerative stasis. Comply.} The first voice was garbling something in Assimilation's head, but the whispers of the dancing snake were more interesting. He giggled again. "I suppose I could terminate him..."

Sigh. "Too late for that option. I've done my best to isolate the assimilation hierarchy, but they are definitely affected now, which I may remind you, is due to a pet of /yours/. Which escaped yet again. Delta and Weapons are in agreement for once, and it is all I can do to keep them from dismantling you."

Defensive tone: "I can hear them perfectly fine. Archie isn't a bad boy, he was just startled. It could happen to anyone."

"But most 'anyone' can't shoot another up with happy juice. This problem has gone beyond the bounds of simple termination: too many of our sub-collective are involved now. Find a way to fix it. Now, Doctor."

"Yes, Captain," sighed the first voice.

Assimilation giggled again.

A prick against his neck; Assimilation batted away the gnat which had come to visit the white rabbit's tea party. As he tried to compliment the walrus over the marvelous job of training the dancing clams, the world began to shimmer slightly. Assimilation put down his tea cup, begging the rabbit's pardon, turning to watch the spectacle.

"I say," said the Carpenter to Assimilation's right, "I think he is coming out of it."

"But that expression! Totally unprofessional, not to mention he's still giggling," replied the Duchess as she rocked her baby pig.

The gnat dove in for a second bite. The Carpenter peered closely at Assimilation's face, "I gave him a second dose. Doctor said only one, but it obviously wasn't working very fast."

"I agree. Whoops." The pig was dropped, hitting gray grass with a clatter. "Dropped part of his skull."

"Pick it up, then!" The Carpenter demanded, waving one arm in agitation. Both Carpenter and Duchess now sported mottled gray skin, that which was exposed, and clothing of a black and increasingly mechanical nature.

Assimilation blinked. For some reason he was in a maintenance bay, securely strapped on a work table with (slight shifting of head) four bands of metal preventing him from large movements. Two of drone maintenance hovered nearby, one on each side of the table, Borg on the left holding an item identifiable as belonging on Assimilation's head.

"Look at the dust!" berated 99 of 152. "That cranial armor can not be reattached in that condition! At least shake it off first."

The other, 23 of 133, sighed. "Okay, okay. Wouldn't want to get more dirt in Assimilation's hardware, especially the cranium, than necessary." Pause. 23 of 133 swiveled his head to peer at Assimilation, ocular implant actively scanning. "Speaking of which, guess who is back from La-La land."

Assimilation suppressed the urge to giggle, failing. For some reason everything was immensely funny, even the normally depressing fact his vision only registered shades of gray.

99 of 152 joined his hierarchy-mate in observations, both on the physical level and the edges of the mental. "Well, everything seems to be fine physically, but his signature feels different somehow, not quite sitting the same in the lattices." {13 of 20, can you hear us?}

Assimilation looked between the two drones, acutely aware of the grin plastered on his face, but not caring. The situation was laughable for reasons unknown. The world - the universe! - was a good place to be! An impulsive urge drove Assimilation to dive into the sub-collective's miscellaneous datatrees of packrat-sequestered material, searching for a specific branch, a certain file. Music boomed out on loudspeakers in the maintenance bay, visibly startling the two drones. Assimilation smiled, then perfectly sang in synch with the song fragment he had found.

"I feel good! (na-na-na-na-na-na-na)

Like I knew that I should! (na-na-na-na-na-na-na)

So good! (na! na!) So great! (na! na!)

I got you!"

99 of 152 and 23 of 133 eyed each other, listening to saxophone and trumpets ringing over the speakers as complaints registered from the three other drones currently in attendance in the bay. 23 of 133 shrugged, blowing dust off the piece of artificial cranium while the other cut speaker output.

"Seems perfectly fine to me, an improvement even. Falls right into parameters of normality for our sub-collective."

Captain stood in his nodal intersection, ignoring incoming routine sensor data as displayed on the viewscreen, vibrant blues and greens depicting flux in long-range neutrino emissions. The occasional pinpoint flash of yellow indicated a stellar burp, or one of other countless natural phenomena automatically logged by the sensor grid. The assimilation hierarchy was currently forefront in his mind, namely because he refused to allow them full integration back into the sub-collective: outwardly, once the incessant giggling had more or less ended, they appeared to be fine; however, the erratic mental front was not normality as appropriate for drones headed by the current Assimilation.

{Doctor, upload your final report now. I need to know what you finally did to counteract the trinoth venom.} Captain watched Assimilation's actions through the perceptions of 190 of 240, currently tasked by Delta for routine replacement of pipes in Nanite Assembly Room #1. Assimilation and a dozen others of his hierarchy were clustered around vat #2, talking to the growing assembly nanites. It sounded like a pep talk. An additional twenty drones were engaged with painting the walls of the room not in a version of gray, but a pastoral scene complete with daisies and the occasional white rabbit in waistcoat looking at a gold pocketwatch. This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

190 of 240 began to yell at a painter who had attempted spray a coat of dark green on the work area. The drone, 18 of 203, apologized with a dreamy smile and a giggle (a complete flip from a personality firmly rooted in the belief she should have been assigned to weapon hierarchy) before continuing on.

Doctor's formal report, mostly edited for less than professional content, filtered into the dataspace partition maintained by the Hierarchy of Eight. Captain absorbed the content.

Assimilation was the key to that hierarchy's odd behavior, of that Captain knew. Over the centuries Exploratory-class Cube #347, or some version thereof, had been in commission, the Group of Twenty, which supplied assimilation hierarchy heads, had maintained a very close link within what was one of the smallest divisions of labor in the sub-collective barring drone maintenance. And the Group of Twenty was traditionally mentally erratic, the current drones no exception - 13 of 20 was normally depressed, 2 of 20 had quite a few drug-fried synapses, 5 of 20 firmly believed she and all else were characters made up by a writer on late 20th century (human reckoning) Terra, and so on down the list. Whatever designation currently held the reins, the hierarchy in turn shaded their views in that direction.

To counteract the trinoth's venom before the effects could spread empathetically beyond the boundary of the hierarchy affected, Doctor had concocted an artificial antibody, a nanite which would prevent venom molecules from binding to neural sites, tagging them for dismantlement by resident 5' nanoprobes. The report concluded 13 of 20 /should/ have returned to his normal neurotic condition of depression, which, by evidence of the flower fresco going up in Assimilation Workshop #7, obviously wasn't the case.

Captain sighed, shaking his head. {Doctor, your solution did not work as outlined.}

{But it is a much more pleasant presence, don't you agree?} promptly responded Doctor. Captain could feel the other discarding half-formed replies rapidly, trying to determine the best method to pass a mistake off as success.

A few seconds was used to feel the lattices, to judge if the residue of Assimilation's mental state would affect Cube #347 in general. Captain knew what the Greater Consciousness might tolerate in part of the sub-collective as another quirk of assimilation imperfection would be quickly terminated if it appeared to be infectious to the rest of the Borg mind. A decision was reached within the bounds of command and control to further observe the changes, only fully integrating once it became clear the new mental state of Assimilation was permanent.

{I agree. General efficiency might rise without the constant depression of 13 of 20 dragging down the entire sub-collective. Time will tell,} said Captain. Doctor sent the suggestion of a nod in relief, disappearing from immediate awareness as other matters called for his attention. Captain watched through 190 of 240 a few additional minutes as another conflict emerged when the drone's arm was accidentally sprayed canary yellow. A note was made to have a few words to Assimilation about make-overs to be toned down to more traditional motifs; if Captain could not see a real need to paint rainbows arcing from nanite vat to nanite vat, it was a sure bet the Greater Consciousness wouldn't neither.

The bird was back, the skinny two meter tall one with frilled feathers and long beak, vaguely resembling a cross between ostrich and heron. It bobbed its head up and down, eyes actively examining all the modifications Assimilation had directed in Nanite Assembly Rooms and Assimilation Workshops. Sammy was the designation of the bird; too bad no one else could see him. The long beak was clacked together twice in appreciation before the bird vanished.

{Assimilation, I repeat, Assimilation, are you listening to me?} It was the voice of Captain. Assimilation automatically located the consensus monitor, finding him on the other side of the ship.

{Yes. Yes, I do hear you. How are you? Is everything fine? I would hate for everything to be less than fine. When is my hierarchy to be reinstated full dataspace access?}

{After you repaint the walls to a dignified gray. It would not be good for the general Borg image if one brought some to-be assimilated on board, only to take them to an area sporting smiling suns.} The 'you' was sent in the plural sense of encompassing the entire assimilation hierarchy.

{But everything is gray,} replied Assimilation with puzzlement as he looked at the bulkheads. {I'm just making the patterns Sammy told me to.}

{Sammy?}

{Yes, Sammy. Sammy the bird.} Assimilation giggled, no reason.

A sensation of a long sigh. {Well, I guess if 12 of 310 can have a pet rock, you can have an invisible bird. At least it will make less of a mess than Doctor's projects.}

{My pets do not make messes! And I don't /mean/ to bring them on board...they just sort of follow me home.} It was Doctor, butting in.

{Through a transporter beam? Doctor, I think we can all agree that the little vegetative problem which is currently contained in subsection 8 did not follow you home on its own. Now stop interrupting me; I am not addressing you.} Active attention was returned Assimilation-wards, tone harder. {You will be returned to the general net when you successfully comply with my directives and demonstrate you are not a danger to the sub-collective.}

Sammy would not be pleased. In fact, there was Sammy now, a look of anger in his black eyes, feathered crest raised in annoyance. Assimilation made 'trust me' gestures with one hand. {We will comply, although I still maintain all looks proper.}

{If you could still sense color, you would see the pictures your 'patterns' describe. You have twenty-six hours to return the affected areas to their pre-altered condition.} An incoming sensor alert suddenly demanded Captain's focus; his awareness withdrew to deal with other concerns.

Color. Assimilation's mood momentarily darkened as that woeful deficiency was brought forth for ridicule. He, an artist, was no longer able to truly access the world and capture it to canvas for others to admire. Sammy crooned, clapping his beak for attention. The black frame of mind abruptly lifted, turning lighter, airy. Sammy was funny; Sammy knew how to comply with Captain's demand and still retain happiness.

Sammy was currently in the process of becoming akin to an Escher drawing.

Assimilation giggled.

*****

"Are we there yet, dude? Are we, Zyig? This road trip is taking forever. I told you we should have stopped at Nadrin Freeport and asked for directions."

"Quiet Liny! Can't you see I'm driving here? The navcomp is acting up again, and I'm having to feed navigation pulsar coordinates in by hand."

The owner of the whining voice, Liny, threw the driver a rude gesture, suggesting sexual deficiencies on the part of the recipient. Zyig pointedly ignored Liny, absorbed in his calculations, mentally cursing the old ship he and his housemates (Liny and currently sleeping Jubilie) had borrowed for the trip over school break. "Winnebego - King of the Space Lanes" indeed - toilet of the space lanes, maybe, but definitely not king. Even a garbage scow had more intelligent navigational software.

Zyig glanced over his shoulder at Liny, "Butthead, your vertebral spines are digging into the cushions again; why you had to get them uncapped and sharpened is beyond me. And you're getting fake cheese goop all over the carpet. My parents will kill me if the Winnebego is torn up any more than it already is."

"F*** you," was the good-natured reply, four-fingered hand wiping the sticky powder onto his shirt in a long streak.

The navcomp beeped, registering it had digested the most current list of beacons and needed more; Zyig returned to the tedious job. Several minutes later, after a round of intense typing, Zyig screamed an obscenity at the bulkheads in frustration as the navcomp pleasantly said it did not have the star charts needed, despite the fact the appropriate data crystal was quite obviously plugged into a memory slot. Deeper in the bowels of the small and rather boxy ship, a voice muzzily asked what the problem was and why couldn't certain people keep it down so others could sleep.

Overall, the scene was stereotypical of spring trips the universe over.

As three students continued their bickering, complaining, eating, and road-tripping, a ship far larger than the boxy Winnebego slowed from transwarp. Sensor grid actively focused on a particular region of space, one which gravimetric tuned sensors indicated the presence of a vessel, a potential target. Additional sensory methods came on-line, extra frequencies added to the current suite, all centered on one point half a light year distant.

A giant shadow in the shape of a cube altered course to intercept.

*****

Assimilation paused in his skipping, his chasing after Sammy. The bird had leapt over the rail into a central shaft with a flurry of long wings, making following problematical: Assimilation's own wings hadn't quite sprouted yet, after all, although they were becoming less transparent by the hour.

Sensor hierarchy was demanding attention to be paid to incoming information. A boxy vessel, seventy meters by thirty by twenty, consolidated in the dataspaces, a pair of flickering nacelles slung underneath the main body in the fashion of Federation shuttles. Dents and dings marred unsleek white sides; a giant "W" trailing superfluous racing stripes adorned the long axis above the nacelles.

A hailing frequency was opened to the vessel. Three beings answered the subspace phone, staring into their camera, dark faces caught in classic humanoid expression of startlement. All wore tank tops, low cut in back nearly to rump, sporting various logos unknown and obviously innuendo laden. Gold and ivory inlays on hairless skull were ciphers: a small subset of the sub-collective drawing conclusions on data gathered from assimilated species ranked theories as to probable function in regards to caste, social status, or personal decoration. One sentient was slightly askew to the camera's eye, showing sharp vertebral spines four centimeters in length running from base of cranium to mid-back just above shirt fabric.

"Hyzagba doth? Doth? Dooooth? Kjarami rtarack krily grutrom bhroit clubo. Doth?" The unknown language flooded into the intranet of Cube #347, triggering massive comprehension cascades in the routine matter of translation. A link with the Greater Consciousness, already alerted at the sighting of a new space-faring species, became momentarily deeper, more profound, as the sub-collective drew upon resources greater than which could be contained in one cube. Complete understanding was achieved in mere seconds. "Hello dudes? Heeeeellllloooooo? We need some directions here, as our navcomp is on the blink. You guys happen to know the way to Gnorrian Prime? The Pleasure Palace is our final destination, but we need to get to the planet first. I think the dudes over there are a serious mental case." The last statement was said as an aside by the speaker to the spined humanoid on its right.

<< Directive Exploratory-class Cube #347: assimilate unknown species and transfer new drones to subunit #522 for processing and integration; sample vessel technologies, >> boomed the Greater Consciousness. The order - compulsion - could not truly be rendered into concrete words because Borg communications incorporated the digital language of computers as well as concepts gathered from more than ten thousand species; however, the meaning was clear enough to all crew on Cube #347, even those temporarily ostracized from the primary dataspaces.

An answer was immediately sent to the box ship, one which caused glances of 'oh-oh, I think we may have royally screwed up' to pass between the three visible crew members:

"We are Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile."

Various protocols for capture and assimilation sputtered into imperfect action, Captain at the center of the web as always. Finally attention was directed upon Assimilation, who hurriedly banished thoughts of the bird effortlessly hovering beyond catwalk railing. {We are in the process of repainting the wall, although I continue to maintain all appeared fine to my perceptions. Sammy is somewhat annoyed, but we can adapt,} said Assimilation. Indeed, while some of his hierarchy wielded brush and spray can, others prepared fanciful mobiles of scrap metal. Kinetic sculpture was a new medium for Assimilation, but the nanites seemed to like it. So did the tree frogs.

{I can see that,} replied Captain, {but that is not what I need to discuss with you. Normally there would be absolutely no qualms about sending your hierarchy to properly assimilate targets, but in light of recent occurrences, I am not fully confident in your actions. There is a Correct Way to Do Things, after all; and having weapon hierarchy perform your duties would not be right.}

{We can do it! My hierarchy is up to the task!}

Captain was clearly taken aback by the enthusiasm. Assimilation knew from his memories he had not always acted thus, but that was before the trinoth, before Sammy, before the dragons currently in the midst of a limbo contest in Nanite Assembly Room #2. Assimilation giggled; his hierarchy, caught up in his mental directorship, also giggled.

{Okaaaay,} drawled Captain, {well, perhaps this change will be permanent.} A quick decision matrix was set up and run within the bounds of command and control. {Assimilation hierarchy, if duties are performed correctly and with efficiency, the assumption will be 13 of 20's personality is stable, and full re-integration of the hierarchy into the sub-collective will commence. You will re-receive appropriate command codes, access reopened to all systems, and so forth.}

Assimilation grinned, an expression which stretched muscles accustomed to frowning, if any expression was to displayed at all. {We will comply!}

*****

The Winnebego rocked, shuddered, as engines screamed in protest, fighting against a tractor beam: it was going nowhere fast. "This is like a cheesy horror movie, only this is real," mumbled Liny in fear. Zyig uttered a curse at his buddy, swearing louder as the paltry shields - the generator was temperamental to begin with - on the recreational vehicle collapsed. There were no weapons on the Winnebego, nothing stronger than asteroid-sweeping lasers.

"Your parents are going to kill us, Zyig!" shouted Jubilie as he frantically fiddled with a welder from the tool kit, trying to turn it into a weapon to repel the inevitable boarders. All traces of sleep were erased. "We are absolutely dead!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!! Oh, crap. Transporter signatures on C-deck and shuttle dock; and worse luck, the internal pick-ups are not functioning, so I can't see what they look like. How's it going Jubilie?"

"This is like whittling a computer out of a block of wood. I'm done, but it'll probably blow my hand off the first time I try it."

"Well, the invaders, these Borg pirates, are now on B-deck, and this level is going to be next. You ready to show them what students from Brithlic University are made of? Ready to make them wish they hadn't taken on B'takians, the most awesome and daring race in the galaxy?" Jubilie nodded, face mirroring Zyig's own anticipation. "Liny?"

Liny, eyes closed, had crawled under the navcomp console to hide. His vertebral spines made the cramped spot even tighter.

*****

{Secured,} reported Weapons to Captain in a businesslike tone. {The vessel offered no resistance, but we disabled engines and possible weapon ports just in case.} Captain sighed. In typical overkill, one of the nacelles of the overgrown shuttle had been sheared off, and an aperture sensors diagrammed to be either com or asteroid lasers uttered melted, along with hull plates in a five meter diameter from distruptor foci. {Crew consists of three, all currently confined to bridge. One had a modified plasma welder as an offensive weapon, but it was futile. We are ready for assimilation hierarchy.}

Normally assimilation and weapon hierarchy secured a target simultaneously, the former concentrating on neutralizing crew as the latter dealt with physical resistance. This time Weapons had been ordered in without accompaniment, the better to keep a tight rein on whatever actions drones under Assimilation may attempt.

{Assimilation: target is three of unknown species. Assimilate with efficiency. I will be examining closely all actions,} spoke Captain to an impatiently waiting Assimilation.

{We comply. We comply. We will do well.}

Sammy materialized on the bridge of the box ship with a silent pop. Assimilation had assigned himself, along with five other drones, for the task in order to demonstrate his usefulness to the sub-collective. Sammy had evidently come along for the ride, and was already sticking his beak into various places, eyeballing the new surroundings.

{Who ever heard of puce and pink together?}

{I found a nice polka-dotted curtain of light green and electric blue.}

{Orange, tan, and vomit yellow?? I don't think so. I can't even focus on that chair for more than a few seconds at a time.}

Complaints rang from all corners of the ship as weapon hierarchy was replaced with those from engineering, tasked to begin examination for new technologies. Assimilation panned the room, not seeing anything to fuss about; if anything, contrasting shades of gray and interesting textures were soothing to the senses. A half-finished sketch lay abandoned on a table: a starscape as seen on an airless moon. Of course, color was no longer a concept he could directly see, only recall from memory.

{If the species is color-blind,} noted Doctor from the safety of Cube #347, {then it may have excellent natural night-vision, or perhaps be sensitive to minute changes in light polarization or intensity.} There were very few true color-blind sentients within the Collective, all of which were prized for the very reasons Doctor alluded. Another variation upon the theme would be welcome, would present a direction to expand upon in the realm of optic implant technology.

Sitting on a long sofa at the back of the bridge, the three crew stared dejectedly at their impassive captors. One of the drones glanced over his shoulder to confirm what he already knew, then all five shuffled to the side to give the assimilation detachment admission.

Sammy stalked forward to investigate, head bobbing up and down with interest as he eyed the sketch. Assimilation paused to grab the drawing, examining it closer. A talented artist in his infancy had lovingly penciled crags, shaded infinitesimal natural variations in rock and shadow, suggested stars swirling in a vast nebula overhead. He ignored groans of unprofessional conduct as not important.

"What are you going to do to us, Mister?" asked one of the crew, directing his question at 118 of 203. The drone had reached the sofa, and now sent an inquiry as to action to take.

Assimilation focused on the speaker, stalking forward. "You will be assimilated into the Borg Collective. But first, which one of you sketched this picture." The three nervously glanced at each other, visibly weighing advantages of speaking versus remaining quiet. Finally one, the apparent captain - at least he was the one who had originally conversed with Cube #347 over subspace - answered.

"I did, sir. It's a hobby of mine. I want to be an artist some day, if I ever get the time." He sighed, sinking deeper into the couch. "Doesn't look like I'll get the time now when you get done with whatever the assimilation thing is. I really don't think I'm going to like it." The spined crewman began to whimper, the stopped as he took a prudent elbow to the ribs from the wannabe artist.

Assimilation stared at the simple, yet complex, starscape, Sammy peering over his shoulder. The bird clapped its horny beak thrice together. "An artist?" murmured the drone to himself. "A color-blind artist among a color-blind species..."

{The target is escaping. Warp bubble initiating,} cut the calm signature of Sensors through the commotion. A pictorial representation of the previously secured vessel showed the expanding sphere of a static warp shell, power from one working nacelle barely sufficient to drag ship into overlight drive. An abortive attempt to re-tractor the Winnebego did not succeed, energy to beam cut even as emitter warmed up. Cube #347 unable to pursue due to propulsion "problems," could only watch helplessly as the other ship limped into warp.

And the cause of Cube #347's monumental failure to comply with the Greater Consciousness' command?

{Assimilation, you will voluntarily deactivate the modified nanites you let loose in the power grid, or else I will direct Doctor to pull all your memory logs to facilitate this desired action. You will not survive the procedure, as you well know. Hopefully the nanites will be rendered dormant before they blackout the cube.}

Sammy cuddled under Assimilation's arm: the bird knew that whatever the outcome, he would not be visiting anymore. Neither would the tree frog choir, nor banana slug balloons, and definitely not girls who routinely fell down rabbit holes. Still, triumphantly, the budding artist had escaped! Assimilation giggled; his hierarchy giggled.

Structural nanites from the vats had been reprogrammed to seek active power flow within fifty centimeters of a beam out point, then perform deconstructive effort to halt that power flow. The plan was exacting, perfect, and no danger to the cube in general beyond specific transport sites. Access to transporter control had not been restricted at the time, that system considered non-vital and thus not included in the hierarchy's semi-isolation.

A power failure here, the forced transport of a few drones there, an urging over subspace for the Winnebego to flee...all had occurred with efficiency, hierarchy meshing smoothly. Captain had determined quickly where to place the blame, but rampant chaos in the dataspaces initiated by Assimilation himself, putting into play all the tricks he knew as hierarchy head, kept lockdown at bay. At least for the time it took for artist and company to flee.

Art was not irrelevant, despite exhortations to the contrary by the Collective: therein this unbreakable kernel of concrete belief lay Assimilation's imperfection. Whereas the striving of the universe to attain perfection was mirrored in the efforts of the Borg, its heart and soul could only be expressed through less analytical methods. In another life Assimilation had been an extension of this oversoul, but had tragically lost the ability to exhibit reality's grandeur to his people. The young artist had his whole life ahead of him to sketch the beauty of a world ungray in the eyes of a color-blind society.

Assimilation sent the radio command which would cause the modified nanites to repair their damage and subsequently denature. The order that swiftly followed, flashing to himself and his hierarchy from the combined signatures of command and control, was fully expected:

{Assimilation hierarchy [drone designation list], activity path drone maintenance, origination command and control [drone designation list], with bridge notification to drone maintenance head 27 of 27, command code authorization to enter regenerative stasis. Comply.}

Assimilation settled into his alcove, obediently darkening visual input as the echoing compulsion surged over synapses and hardware connections. Sammy, black eye glinting, faded from view.

The head of the assimilation hierarchy lay on a workbench in Maintenance Bay #5, vital signs held just above the threshold of termination for his species, transceiver severed from the sub-collective, higher level neural pathways disengaged. He was alone, a nightmare to a cognizant Borg, and presently a whisker from death. The deep unconsciousness which left Assimilation unaware was necessary for the duration of Cube #347's internal discussion on what action to take, sans a certain hierarchy which continued to exhibit signs of instability despite the absence of the original instigator.

{Due to depth of linkage within the assimilation-nation hierarchy, it is unknown if the drones thereof will return to "normal" upon the termination of poor 13 of 20 and installation of a happy new head, or if the influence is permanent,} ended Doctor's report on pros and cons of actions to take.

Commented Second, {We've had enough "happy" in this head to last us all for the next galactic revolution. Would the giggling at least stop if 13 of 20 was euthanized?}

{Unknown. We could try it and see. However, remember little boy, one can't undo putting a drone to sleep.}

{/Anything/ to stop the giggling. I will agree to any action which will end the annoying, pointless example of insanity from that hierarchy.} Assents from all quarters, especially those who had alcove neighbors assigned to assimilation, followed Second's empathic decry.

The object of the debate slumbered on, blissfully unaware as his fate was decided.

Captain finally caught the wandering tendrils of discussion, holding them tightly as he brought the sub-collective to bay. {Our end conclusion is thus: is the old assimilation hierarchy better than the new? If the negative, then we take no further action. On the other hand, a positive causes a new fork in the datatree: shall we simply terminate 13 of 20 and hope the problem disappears, or shall we repair the named drone to his original factory specifications, depression and all?} All decisions hold unpleasant consequences.

Question laid out, the sub-collective of Cube #347 went to work, sorting facts, ordering probabilities, running simulations both short- and long-term. Consensus was a cold name for a cold mechanism, one which based its final outcome on hard numbers to bring the best advantage to the cube's survival and furthering of Collective perfection. Emotions played no part; or at least that was the given in a normal cube when it calculated odds with frigid precision, the slanted view point of an individual unit dismissed as irrelevant. In this case, personal wants and desires were actually shelved as Cube #347 contemplated the eternal question of two doors, one inscribed "Damned if you do" and the other "Damned if you don't."

{Outcome to first fork: assimilation hierarchy as is was not acceptable. Second decision fork hinges upon unknown variable of ability of assimilation hierarchy to restore to previous condition; relevant point of inability to retry if drone 13 of 20 is terminated. Conclusion? Fix 13 of 20.}

Stop the giggles.

The operation was difficult, even for a Borg drone able to draw upon medical and mechanical maintenance acumen gathered from thousands of races. Unbalanced neural chemicals needed to be set right and the last vestiges of trinoth venom flushed from the system; memory, both that stored through biological processes and that written into data crystals, completely wiped back to the point the scorpion had attacked.

While Assimilation personally received the bulk of drone maintenance focus, other tasks required attention as well. All of assimilation hierarchy required to have their own memories wiped - while they had not been physically touched by trinoth venom, all possible vectors of contamination needed to be accounted. Command and control subtly altered local data logs, rendering the events of the last several days into boring routine punctuated by an encounter in which the target escaped at the last moment. Hopefully none of the assimilation hierarchy would dig into permanent Collective archives and discover true events.

The final touch of the self-purge included Captain and Second issuing stern warnings to 3600 drones not touched by drone maintenance to take whatever steps necessary, but /never/ mention the episode to 13 of 20 or his hierarchy-mates. The consequence of disobedience, intentionally or otherwise, was severe: total mind wipe. The transgressing drone would relive the experience by which newly assimilated had their minds broken and remolded as Borg. Unlike the first time, the subject would be painfully aware of the entire experience until the final sequence, waking up later bright and fresh with no memories and little left of the previous personality. While he process could not erase the kernel of assimilation imperfection which tainted those on Cube #347, much to the Collective's disappointment, it was known to be very, very unpleasant to feel one's mind slip into the ether.

{Query: schedule?} The response was automatic, part of a routine long since chiseled into silicon. The computer's output was not normal, an excessive number of duties backlogged. Assimilation checked his internal chronometer, noting a time index gap of several regeneration cycles. That action triggered a flood of recent memories, ending with the sight of a very large scorpion barreling into his torso.

A memo from drone maintenance caught Assimilation's attention, detailing a list of necessary repairs following the attack. Deep cranial implants had dislodged when he had roughly hit the ground, causing a loss of consciousness and several days of operation on a workbench. A hand curiously brought to side of head felt a subtle difference in skull plate, a ridge of regenerated skin where none had been so before.

A shake of head: it was not important. Logs indicated a brief encounter with a new species, but his hierarchy had not been needed. As cube had not burned down, personal analysis concluded all must be perfectly fine. Why bother digging into records to examine the past when the present demonstrated the same lack of excitement?

Yes, it was yet another gray, dismal, boring day. Assimilation sighed and stepped from his alcove, final connections relinquishing their grasp. Time to begin duties.

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