Instructions:  Insert tab Star Trek in slot Paramount.  Tighten the 
screws to A. Decker's Star Traks.  Glue Meneks' BorgSpace on top.


			Batteries Not Included

	Assimilation awoke to the most beautiful sight he could remember.
	An angry ocean at sunset:  blues, grays, greens mixed with bloody reds.  
Cream froth intermingled with brown algae to crash over the tall gunwales 
of a lone fishing trawler.  Streaks of vanishing yellows were lifelines 
to hope, a hope slowly snapping in twain as dark clouds rolled with 
lashing rains, vibrant lightening.  The picture breathed with near life, 
a stupendous piece of imagery, waxing despair and futility for those who 
thought to challenge the elements; and even more powerful was the 
knowledge it was a pale copy of the original oil-on-canvas masterpiece.
	"The Final Trawl," by Seltat LaVoore.  By the man Assimilation used to 
be.
	In color.
	In color!
	A snap echoed deep within Assimilation's head, more sensation of sound 
than sound itself.  Imaginary ozone wafted upon an unreal breeze.  The 
vivid colors of "The Final Trawl" faded to grayscale blah, 
three-dimensional reality compressed into an one-dimensional point.
	"Consider that a taste of a possible future fer yerself, matey.  Ye was 
seeing color, yes?"
	Assimilation stared at the wall, willing the print to explode into the 
rainbow hues he had only dreamt of in faded, half-purged memories.  
"More," he croaked, "more!"
	"Aye.  I be taking that fer a yes.  Turn and look at me now...we have a 
mite bit of discussing to do.  And don't try the forcefield.  If will fry 
even one of yer...special alterations," commented the deep voice with 
more than a tang of faux pirate accent, the type of which afflicts young 
children who spend too much time in front of a television watching drama 
in the high seas of outer space.  The man, however, was no child.
	Standing 180 centimeters in height, the speaker was instantly 
recognizable as species #5252, Qua'tohf, Assimilation's own base race.  
Humanoid in form, species #5252 resembled a classic elf; not the tree 
fetish breed redolent in pointy hats and bakers of cookies, but Gaelic 
Faire warriors from Underhill, come to wage war upon mortals, come to 
swap children for changelings.
	Hazel-yellow eyes calmly surveyed unfolding events, projecting the 
attitude of one incapable of surprise no matter how improbable the event.  
Clothing did not match pirate speech, captor attired in a black uniform 
cut in a style more casual than traditional military.  A hand phaser hung 
holstered against one hip, balanced opposite by a long knife.
	The speaker glanced down at a box held in his hands, one long, tapered 
finger absently rubbing against an edge.  "So, it seems all be working 
how it should be, matey.  I be Robbie.  I also be many other names not to 
be heard in polite company, but mostly I be called Sir or Commander.  You 
will call me Commander."
	Assimilation focused on Robbie, mind slowly beginning to function as his 
brain overcame the shock of temporary colorization.  Questions such as 
location and how he had arrived in a cell cried for attention.  A deep 
awareness noted the link to his sub-collective remained intact, but was 
attenuated to unusable dimensions.  Assimilation did not know if the 
cause was electronic interference, composition of nearby alloys, or shear 
distance to other Borg elements.  Any or all could be the case.  However, 
as long as the link, no matter how minute, endured, Cube #347 would be 
able to track their missing drone.  Internal chronometer indicated less 
than hour had passed since his body had been removed from alcove systems.

	The drone focused beyond Robbie, beyond the immediate confines of his 
small cell and the forcefield which denied freedom.  Unwarded apertures 
led to other holding areas; a dais in the center of the cell block 
featured a control console manned by another Qua'tohf, a hard-eyed female 
whom sported similar dress and weaponry to Robbie.  Two additional guards 
stood nearby, each holding a phaser rifle in a two-handed grip, positions 
alert.
	Robbie touched a button on the box.  The device emitted a quiet beep.  
Suddenly the scene altered, grays abruptly replaced by color.
	Color!
	Assimilation gazed in wondrous rapture upon the universe.  The cell 
walls were a sunny yellow, designed not to calm, but subtly torture.  A 
pastel green was the cell block, forcefield between a subliminal blue.  
Robbie's attire remained black, as did that of his underlings, but his 
carefully combed hair became tan; fingernails were painted a screaming 
pink gloss.  A green light slowly blinked on the stocks of guard rifles.  
A red jewel winked from its setting in the hilt of Robbie's knife.
	Finger danced over device once more.  Colors leached away to gray hues.  
The connection was obvious.  Questions about status of recovery to Cube 
#347 were dropped in light of more important matters.
	"Color," whispered Assimilation.  "Make it come back.  Aquamarine.  
Indigo.  Saffron.  Ivory.  Emerald.  Garnet.  Violet.  Eggplant.  Mauve.  
Puce.  Cherry.  Anything but gray.  You will return colors!"  The final 
sentence was an order, a pleading.  Assimilation reached forward, wincing 
as fingertips slid across the prickling static of a powerful forcefield.  
Arms fell limply to sides.
	Robbie smiled in an expression which was not intended to be comforting.  
Edges of mouth twitched in the wolf grin of a predator who knows the prey 
can not escape, in the sneer of a drug dealer seeing addiction madness in 
the eyes of a new junkie.
	"Oh, ye be talking about this interesting collection of circuits, are 
ye?"  A hand lightly tossed the box into the air and caught it.  
Assimilation reached out, only to snatch limb back once more.  "Yes, this 
simple device."
	"Give it to me, to us, to me," babbled Assimilation.  Focus was on the 
box and nothing else.
	Robbie appeared to thoughtfully contemplate his toy.  "Well, I wanted to 
relate why ye be here, matey, and all that jazz, but ye obviously have 
other things on yer mind.  Arg.  Well, let's get it out of yer system."  
An imperceptible nod caused the lowest twenty centimeters of forcefield 
to be deactivated, through which Assimilation's captor slid the box.  
Assimilation grabbed it.  "I think ye'll find controls straightforward.  
I'll be back in 'bout an hour, matey.  We'll have our little talk then." 

	Assimilation was not listening.  He had instantly determined how to work 
the device and was already gazing in rapture at "The Last Trawl" print 
hung on one wall of his otherwise bare cell.  The swirl of storm-tossed 
blues and greens drew him.  Robbie turned away, satisfied, and took a 
pair of steps.  He paused, swiveled on heel, and added, "By the way, 
ye'll find the batteries be givin' out in about an hour if ye be using 
the device constantly."
	The warning fell upon deaf ears.

	Assimilation had partially dismantled the device when Robbie reentered 
the cell block.  Parts lay strewn on the hard bed, batteries set 
carefully aside in position of honor on a pillow.  Assimilation knew 
electronics:  he was Cube #347's assimilation hierarchy head and required 
the knowledge of high tech as well as anatomy to install implants and 
prosthetics, even if the actions were practiced rarely.  Thus far he had 
determined the box to be little more than a transmitter; it did not, 
could not, directly affect his color sense.
	"Tsk, tsk," clucked Robbie, "I see ye have taken apart the toy I gave 
ye.  No problem, matey, if ye find ye can't reassemble it.  I have a 
bunch more, just in case."
	Assimilation dropped a transmitter part in disgust.  It bounced on the 
bed, but did not accrue additional damage.  He picked up a battery 
instead.  "This does not have charge.  Fix it.  Now."
	"A little addicted to those colors, eh?" Robbie's voice dripped oil. 
	"I can stop any time I wish.  However, I do not wish to stop at this 
time.  I have gone without color for too long."
	"Understandable, matey.  Or shall I say Seltat?"  Robbie paused as 
Assimilation's eye widened in surprise.  "Maybe Seltat is no longer 
appropriate, but I have no clue what you be called now, other than Borg.   

You used to be a damn fine painter, if I say so meself."  He indicated 
"The Last Trawl" with a flick of wrist.  "I have an original in me 
quarters.  'Rhapsody Rainbow.'  The cavern's embedded jewels are 
magnificently rendered in oils.  It captures reality very well, and I 
should know as I've been to the actual monument myself."  The pirate 
accent momentarily faded, then returned as Robbie realized his slip.  
"Ahem.  Arg!  Let us be pickin' up where we left off earlier.  I be 
Robbie, Commander to ye, the leader of the mercenary company 'Thunder.'"
	As Robbie spoke he reached into a trousers pocket, pulling out a pair of 
batteries.  These he began to roll in one hand like a pair of steel worry 
balls.  Battery casings quietly clicked against each other.  
Assimilation's gaze hungrily followed the motions even as he attempted to 
regain true Borgesque composure.
	"This drone is designated 13 of 20, but you will call it Assimilation.  
You will lower this forcefield and prepare for assimilation into the Borg 
Collective.  You biological (click-clicked the batteries) and 
technological distinctiveness will be added to our (click-click) to our 
own.  Resistance is (click-click-click) futile.  You will also give this 
drone those batteries."
	Robbie did not look impressed.  If anything, he looked bored, as if the 
threat meant nothing.  In fact, the threat did mean little, as long as 
Assimilation was on one side of the barrier and Cube #347 was elsewhere.  
The transceiver link retained the narrow state to which Assimilation had 
awoken.
	"Batteries," said Robbie.  He stopped the clicking and casually tossed 
one against the forcefield.  A blaze of light arose, accompanied by the 
explosion of matter converting to energy.  When the forcefield settled, 
only a whiff of ozone remained.  Robbie calmly fished in his pocket for a 
new battery and began rolling the pair in his hand once more.
	"Next time say please when ye give ultimatums."  Robbie paused.  "What I 
gave ye is a transmitter, which ye probably know by now.  I be sure you 
noticed the central crystal.  Special rock, that.  Only found on Qua'tohf 
homeworld.  It naturally resonates on a specific trio of frequencies to 
produce a harmonic; and /that/ harmonic interacts with some gizmo in your 
brain, located where color recognition in the Qua'tohf resides.  You, me 
matey, were set up so very long ago."  Assimilation noticed the pirate 
slang came and went, dependent upon technical flavor of the subject.  
Underneath the accent was a very well-educated man.  "Thunder just be 
carrying out the final stages of a scheme long in the works."  Pause.  
"Arg and all that spittle."
	A think line of drool dribbled from between Assimilation's lips.  He had 
moved as close to the forcefield as possible without following the 
sacrificed battery into oblivion.  "Elaborate," he said, more out of 
programming than conceived will.  The objective was so close, yet so far!  
Focus painfully riveted upon mercenary's hand.
	"Ah ah ah.  Be polite!"
	Responded Assimilation, "Elaborate, please."  He continued a heartbeat 
later, "Commander."
	Robbie nodded, "That be better.  We'll train ye yet.
	"As I was saying, me matey, you was set up so long ago.  A shuttle, 
off-course, just happens to land on a small stretch of beach, and on top 
of a prominent landscape artist.  Body broken, the artist be rushed to 
the hospital where obvious wounds are set to healing; additional scars on 
the noggin are passed off as artifacts from the horrible accident.  Time 
passes, and the color leaches from the artist's world.  Doctors, 
specialists all, diagnose a deep brain bruise from the ordeal, 
irreparable even with modern medicine.  Careful psychological prodding 
begins, a road which eventually leads to a stolen shuttle and escape to 
the Borg.  A too easy escape, mind you, matey, especially as what you 
hijacked was of Home Guard military manufacture.  They ain't arging 
idiots, the state boys, let me tell you, and I should know as they be 
compatriots of a sort in me line of work.
	"The tale continues and the artist is assimilated.  The Borg can do 
nothing for the injury, assuming they even care, which the best 
xenopsychologists of multiple races assure Home Guard is not the case.  
The scene is now poised.  Many years later, mercenaries are hired to go 
find one Seltat LaVoore who was psychologically manipulated prior to his 
assimilation to crave color vision more than anything in the 
universe...the Borg Collective included.  A deep mole willing to perform 
any deed just for the possibility of a red sunrise or a blue lake.
	"And that, me laddy, is where I and me scurvy black hearts of Thunder 
come in."
	Answered Assimilation, his self-will asserting itself as Robbie spoke, 
"Preposterous!  You will be assimilated!  You will be..."  Assimilation 
trailed off as a guard scuttled forward with a box akin to the one laying 
in pieces on the cell bed.
	Robbie took the transmitter, flipping it over and popping off a back 
hatch.  Into the revealed compartment the two batteries were inserted.  
The device emitted a low bleep to show it was activated.  Robbie righted 
the transmitter.
	"As I was saying, matey, yer initial operations to save ye from 
potentially life threatening complications included an unnecessary slice 
into yer noggin.  An interesting protein was carefully emplaced, one 
which eroded specific neural linkages before becoming dormant.  However, 
when a certain frequency, " Robbie held up the transmitter in emphasis, 
"excites the proteins, they stretch and act as surrogate neurons.  Arg!  
Instant color vision."  Robbie paused.  "Or so the hot shot doctors told 
this untutored mercenary.  Arg."
	Finger caressed the transmitter, then depressed a button.  Assimilation 
fell into the bliss of color, turning his head to contemplate jagged 
lightening striking from boiling clouds.  The forcefield opened to allow 
the transmitter to be slid inside.
	"Remember, matey, batteries will only last an hour unless ye conserve 
them by shutting off the machine.  As fer me, I'll be back in an hour or 
so meself.  I've a dinner to eat, a certain private to remind who be 
boss, and a weapon manifest to examine."
	As before, Assimilation did not react to Robbie, neither his warning nor 
his departure.

	Two hours passed before Robbie entered the cell block, not the promised 
one.  Assimilation jittered the entire time following battery failure.  
He had proceeded to dismantle the new transmitter, discovering nothing 
new.  Four batteries now rested on the otherwise useless pillow.
	Assimilation drew back his better insulated prosthetic as the 
overpowered forcefield crackled in warning.
	"Watch it, you idiot," mildly commented a bored guard at the main 
console, "or you'll be losing that limb.  And none of us are fools enough 
to enter that cell to make repairs."  His head turned as the main doors 
opened, allowing Robbie entrance.  "Evening, Commander."  
	"Evening, sergeant.  How's our scurvy matey doing?"
	"Needs another dose, Commander, and seems intent on frying that fake arm 
of his in the process.  Otherwise, just as you left him."
	"Arg.  Good."
	Assimilation took half a pace back.  He had actually been testing 
forcefield strength and modulations.  His findings thus far were 
discouraging:  someone had designed the system with Borg in mind.  More 
phaser than traditional electromagnetic barrier, it could be adapted 
to...after sacrificing several drones.  A sample size of one unit could 
not pass.
	Robbie stalked to the cell, flowing with the panther grace of one who 
knows he is absolute master.  With him he carried yet another 
transmitter.  He sighed theatrically, forthcoming words uttered without a 
trace of surprise, "Laddy, laddy, laddy.  Assimilation, it was?  
Whatever.  Ye can't keep breaking yer toys.  Trust me, they be all the 
same; and ye've probably also figured out by now the crystalline 
transmitter chip has a tendency to disintegrate when the box be 
compromised.  My ship only carries a limited number of these toys," 
Robbie held the whole device in mock display, "and they be not 
replicatable.  Arg.  The chip is made upon the Qua'tohf home planet in 
very limited quantities."
	Assimilation fixated upon the transmitter.  "Why did you take so long to 
return?  And why do you torture me like this?"
	"Arg!  Never question a commander, especially not the commander of 
Thunder!  Me dinner took a bit longer than I thought, that be all.  One 
cannot rush the fine cuisine we have on this here tub."  Robbie ignored 
the aborted snicker a guard choked upon; the Qua'tohf sergeant rolled his 
eyes and pantomimed gagging.  "Arg, fine cuisine.  At least fer 
commanders, mind you.  Spent too many years eating grunt slop to go back 
to it now.  Me personal slop has fancy names; it may even be made of 
something which wasn't replicated from the bodily waste reclamation 
facilities.  However, laddy, matey, I not be here to talk about meself, 
but rather you."
	If the cell had had bars, Assimilation would have been hanging from 
them, reaching desperately through the openings for the transmitter.  The 
addition, while not of the traditional chemical variety, was very strong, 
very active.  Colors were craved, colors and the endorphins they 
triggered.  "Why are you doing this?" whispered Assimilation.
	"All in good time, matey, all in good time.  First, let's get caught up 
to yer present predicament," said Robbie.  "It all begins several tens of 
thousands of light years from here with Commander Robbie - meself - 
accepting a contract from Home Guard to retrieve one of their military 
research subjects.  We be given an unlimited operating budget along with 
our normal fee, as well as the pick of high tech and black market 
weapons.  Yer cell be one of several such items.
	"After yer initial assimilation, the sacrifice of many people, much 
equipment, was necessary by Home Guard to track you, to determine what 
cube or Borg community you were placed.  Imagine the surprise of the 
Qua'tohf military skunkwork brass when ye assignment was to this cube, 
which the Drin Borg Institute, before their recent demise, listed as 
'special.'  It was decided to let the project continue, that you would 
serve their final ends no matter personal 'status.'  Fast forward 21 
years where Thunder receives the task to find yer cube and steal ye from 
it.
	"With unlimited funds, finding yer cube was simple, merely a matter of 
hiring a Xenig.  Once the mech matey had found ye, it transported us a 
few light years from ye cube when it was in normal space, me ship 
naturally cloaked.  Again, only the best cloaking technology was used, a 
device known to be transparent to Borg sensors even at very close range.
	"In we sneaked, closer and closer.  Arg!  However, I don't know if ye 
cube would have noticed the Home Guard fleets attacking, or the end of 
the universe if ye ask this commander, through the fireworks display.  
Flares, harmless lasers, antimatter; special effects gone gangbusters in 
the grandest show I have ever seen, and I've seen many things in my line 
of work.  Arg!"
	Robbie twirled the transmitter, then threw it in the air in an arc, 
nearly missing it as it dropped.  With a flourish he caught it at last 
second.  Assimilation winced.
	"So in comes me cloaked ship.  At that point we were all holding our 
breath, hoping ye was still alive and on the cube; after all, it had been 
21 years.  The Home Guard sometimes neglects to think plans through.  It 
was a simple matter of transporting ye aboard into this here cell.  Ye 
was already unconscious, but yer body was pumped up with all manner of 
sleepy juices by me battalion medics, just in case.  Then we left.  I was 
always under the impression ye Borgs be a bit anal when it comes to 
drones snatched away.  I don't think yer cube even noticed, at least the 
fireworks never stopped.  Maybe they be having some party in which one 
body more or less is unimportant, but I not be the one to second guess an 
easy extraction.
	"So, after me ship's retreat, the mech bounced us a couple light years 
to a nice trinary system with plenty of rocks to hide behind.  Very hard 
to find us if they try, especially as another toy is supposedly limiting 
yer Collective link.  Me techs assure me all is working within 
parameters.  Arg!  Once our business with ye is finished, ye will be 
returned to yer cube.  Count on it."
	Assimilation had heard little of the explanation of his capture by 
mercenaries.  While Robbie spoke, he had also been playing with the 
transmitter, giving the drone teasing flashes of beauty interspersed by 
long periods of gray boredom.  The words had gone in one ear and out the 
other, sound registered and content dismissed.
	"Now as far as what I want, or rather what Home Guard wants, matey..."  
Robbie trailed off with a wide yawn.  "I be a bit tired.  Perhaps we can 
continue in the morn when this old noggin of mine be a bit more awake."  
The commander moved towards the exit; Assimilation edged so close to the 
forcefield he could feel the metal in his body begin to heat.
	Assimilation desperately called, "Commander.  Please give me the colors.  
Please!"
	Robbie sighed and returned to his just vacated position.  "You 
understand the batteries only last an hour?  Me sleep period be quite a 
bit more than this.  If ye waste the power, ye will have to go without.  
If ye crack the box...well, who knows how many transmitters I have left.  
This may be the last one."  Pause.   "Arg!"
	Assimilation whined, then did what no Borg had ever done:  he stiffly 
folded to his knees and begged.  "I understand, Commander.  I /need/ that 
transmitter.  I /need/ the colors.  It has been too long!"
	Robbie pretended to consider, finally relenting, sliding the transmitter 
under raised forcefield.  Assimilation was too far in his addiction to 
contemplate escape, to contemplate attack on the mercenary providing his 
color fix.  The drone straightened, hesitating only a moment before 
flipping on the device, before basking in the glow of hues not gray.
	Robbie triumphantly smirked as nodded to himself.  Phase II would begin 
in about six hours.

	Flick (on).  Flick (off).
	Mind slipping into dull caverns of boredom.  Exterior grays affecting 
mood, outlook.  Jittery shakes.  Withdrawal.
	Flick (on).
	Bliss!  Color!  Endorphins and other pleasure chemicals flooding the 
senses.  Oh, for a paint brush, a box of crayons!
	Check internal chronometer - estimated 5.47 minutes remaining in 
battery.  Must save it!
	Flick (off).
	Must distract craving.  Maximum magnification to count pores in guard's 
face.  Yuck!  Oily.  Someone needs a good pore-cleansing soap.  Looks 
like tar pits and petrochemical filled craters.
	Wouldn't the task be more efficient if it was in color?
	Flick (on).
	Flick (off).
	Flick (on).
	Flick (off).
	Assimilation knew he had only so many minutes, seconds, of battery time 
left, but could not help himself.  Every distraction he set before 
himself, from constructing unique fractuals in his mental scape to 
micron-level examinations of dismantled transmitter components, either 
ended in boredom or an unconscious finger activating color.  Even if the 
box was stuffed under the bed mattress and wrapped in the pillow, 
Assimilation would find himself utterly surprised when grays disappeared, 
unable to explain how the transmitter had leapt into his hand.  Finally, 
after four hours of struggle, the battery gave out.
	Assimilation sighed and removed the dead batteries from the transmitter, 
careful not to crack the main case.  At least two hours until Robbie 
returned, two hours in which to wait.  Nothing to do...nothing to do!  
The batteries clicked as their casings lightly touched.
	The batteries!  Well, why not?  Assimilation had taken two transmitters 
apart, so why not the batteries.

	"Avast, ye matey!  Arg and damn thee mechanical heart to the eleven 
hells and all that rot!  Double arg!"  A disheveled Robbie stood before 
Assimilation's cell, breathing mask hung loosely around his neck.  
Although the environmental mask was not in use at the moment, it could 
quickly be positioned over nose and mouth should an emergency arise.  He 
continued cursing in the pirate vein for several minutes before stopping.   
His next words were uttered without any trace of faux accent, voice low 
and dangerous, "I would suggest, Borg, that you not do something foolish 
like that again.  Next time I will simply shoot you and report to my 
employers your unavoidable loss due to threat of crew assimilation.  I'll 
even have the doctored tapes to prove it, thus retaining my pay through 
equipment failure.  Do you understand me, Borg?"
	Assimilation, blacked from head to toe by a close-quarters explosion, 
gave verbal acknowledgment, "This drone understands."
	During the course of examining the batteries, Assimilation had 
discovered them to be rechargeable.  Each could hold ten hours of bliss, 
not an undercharged sixty minutes.  Some creative rebuilding of the 
dismantled devices plus a strategical bit or two from exterior body 
hardware had the potential to act as a recharge device, with the barrier 
static field acting as an energy source.
	Unfortunately, Assimilation did not have the correct engineering 
expertise loaded in his memory, although he could mix five hundred 
eighty-three distinct shades of gray should the need arise.  Where 
details were lacking, Assimilation forged ahead with the desperation of a 
junkie needing a fix.  So what if the plan was a little flawed?  So what 
if the batteries could be recharged using safer, if much slower, methods?  
If all worked, he would have sixty wonderful hours of uninterrupted 
color.
	The plan was more than a little flawed.
	The first battery of six began charging when Assimilation inserted it 
into the jury-rigged recharger, soaking power from the forcefield via a 
length of exoplating which served as a grounding device for drones caught 
in high voltage situations.  The battery charged and charged and charged.  
And began to smoke.  And burst into flames.  And finally exploded with 
great gusto as Assimilation realized he had neglected to include an off 
switch on his device.
	The ship's computer, sensing fire in the cell block, honked a warning 
for guards to immediately evacuate.  After the three shocked mercenaries 
had removed themselves from harm, a fire suppressant gas began to leak 
into the cell block.  Either potential prisoners were expected to expire 
in such a situation or Assimilation's cell was programmed to ignore 
protocols which included dropping of forcefield, but the dazed drone 
found himself still incarcerated.
	The next ten minutes were uncomfortable for Assimilation, more due to 
thickness of gas than lack of oxygen.  The latter simply required 
cessation of breathing, while the former reduced visual on all 
wavelengths to a distance of two centimeters.  Finally deciding the fire 
extinguished, the computer had drawn off the gasses, allowing people into 
the cell block again.
	Among them had been an irate Commander Robbie.
	"Good," replied Robbie, "you had better understand me."  He cleared his 
throat before giving a long rolling Arg.
	Silence reigned in the cell block.  Assimilation studied his feet in a 
very subservient and unBorglike manner.  Robbie glared, dark expressions 
glinting behind feral eyes, lending life to old Terran tales of wrathful 
Faire princes.  A female guard shifted her rifle to a more comfortable 
position.  Her partner shuffled his feet.
	Assimilation raised his head, looking Robbie direct in the eye.  He 
broke the penetrating silence with an imploring question, "Does this mean 
I am forbidden additional batteries?"
	Robbie's face blushed red, then white, anger twisting his visage.  
Abruptly he opened his mouth and began to laugh loudly.  "By the gods of 
pirates, mercenaries, and prostitutes!  You have a set of 'em on ye, 
don't you?"
	Blinked Assimilation in confusion, "A set of what?"
	Robbie responded with frank vulgarity.
	"What do reproductive organs have to do with batteries?  My assimilation 
left me reproductively intact, for the most part, although nonfunctional.  
I..."
	"No, no, matey, I don't need to hear yer life history," hastily 
interrupted Robbie.  He shuddered in contemplation of the phrase 'for the 
most part,' deciding details were not relevant.  "I'll take yer word fer 
it.  As fer batteries, I think if ye promise not to explode any more, I 
can accommodate ye.  Lottel," ordered the mercenary over his shoulder, 
"go get our friend here what he wants.  Two hour charge."
	"Yes, sir!" chimed the female guard.  She scooted out of the cell block 
on her errand, environmental mask banging against her chest in 
counterpoint to rifle slung on back.
	"Now then," continued Robbie, "I think it be time to tell ye why ye have 
been stolen from yer cube.  The Home Guard needs subjects to test new 
gadgetry on, both biological and conventional weapons.  The subjects must 
be living, intact, responsive, and Borg.  Now, that poses a wee bit of a 
problem, as conscious Borg tend to go assimilating and blowing up 
everything in their path, adapting quickly in situations which are not 
conducive to meticulous adjustments of sensitive equipment.  Yer buddies 
on yer cube are just what the Home Guard ordered.  By being so distant 
from yer normal stomping grounds, the isolation of yer cube has both good 
and bad points.  Transport will mean expensive payments to me contracted 
mech, but on the other hand, there be no worry a fleet of cubes be 
popping up anytime soon.
	"Now, I assume there are ways to accomplish what I need done - all the 
drones on yer cube in a state of unconsciousness, the cube unpowered and 
passive.  I also assume that unless I have a hell of a good team of 
hackers in me pocket plus a computer 'bout a billion times better than 
any I can get me grubby hands on, this job'll have to be done on the 
inside.  By a drone."
	Assimilation grunted, the mercenary was asking the impossible.  It was 
enough to drag the drone out of his fugue, put forceful quality into his 
words, "I would not do such a thing.  Never.  Unacceptable."
	The cell block door opened for the returning guard.  In her hand was a 
pair of batteries.  "Found 'em, Commander.  Two hour charge."  She gave 
them to her superior.
	Assimilation's resolve abruptly weakened.
	"But it be possible, yes?  Hypothetically speaking, of course," asked 
Robbie.
	"This discussion will continue only under hypotheticals.  Yes, 
hypothetically, what you ask is possible.  The status is akin to 
hibernation, in which drones are stored if there is need to transport 
them exceedingly long distances.  Less ship resources are used when crew 
is in hibernation than when active or in long-term stasis.  The 
sub-collective is brought out of this state when certain preset 
parameters are met."  Assimilation watched the batteries.  "And, 
theoretically, a single drone can initiate this state, although the 
circumstances would be highly unusual.  Usually the directive originates 
from the Collective."  He paused.  "All hypothetical, of course."
	Mildly agreed Robbie, "Of course.  Hypothetically, could you perform 
such an action."
	"Yes."
	"That be all I needed to know.  Why don't you amuse yerself with these 
batteries for a bit.  I have a few chores to attend due to yer rather 
spectacular wake-up call.  I'll be back latter, laddy."
	Assimilation eagerly snatched the cylinders as they were rolled in, 
snapping them into his transmitter.  For some reason the colors did not 
seem as crisp, as riveted as before; a touch of faded pastel, a hint of 
gray teased at the edges of his sight.  No matter.  It was still better 
than the boredom of monochrome.

	 Assimilation was pacing back and forth in his cramped cell when Robbie 
returned.  The mercenary blinked at the sight.  He had purposefully came 
before the batteries were scheduled to give out so as to confront the 
drone at his mellowest before withdrawal set in.  Every four or so 
circuits, the Borg stopped, shook his transmitter in irritation, and 
smacked the side of his skull.
	"How long has he been like this?" asked Robbie to the private currently 
manning the console.
	The guard shrugged, "A little over an hour.  You gave orders not to be 
disturbed short of a nuclear explosion, so I refrained from informing 
you, Commander."
	Robbie sighed.  The think-for-self and follow-all-orders solder was very 
difficult to find in one package, the best usually either forming their 
own mercenary companies or rising high in the ranks of Home Guard.  The 
standard trooper, like the guard, fell into the "order" category, 
anything to the contrary beaten out by sergeants who well knew their duty 
to install discipline as a number one priority.  "Very good, private."  
Yelling at a guard because he had not disobeyed a command was 
counterproductive.
	Assimilation's head snapped around as he caught sight of the mercenary 
commander.  The unaltered eye was wide, crazed.  Before Robbie could move 
to the cell, the drone bellowed, "Give me back my colors!  Now!  NOW!"
	Robbie held up a pacifying hand as he approached.  "Quiet, me matey, 
quiet.  No need to shout.  What seems to be the problem?  Did ye 
batteries fail?"
	"All grays," raged Assimilation, "all gray!"  He poked the transmitter; 
it beeped the "on" tone.  "Gray!"  The device was fingered again.  "Gray!  
All is functional, but still I only see monochrome!  Give me colors now!  
You will comply, or else!"  The drone was practically frothing at the 
mouth.
	Robbie was taken aback, although he did not outwardly react, not with 
members of his company present.  Had the transmitter malfunctioned?  That 
was the most obvious answer, even if the Borg claimed otherwise.  He 
called over his shoulder, "Someone, go get a spare transmitter and fresh 
batteries fer our guest here while I talk to him.  Now."  A male guard 
dashed out the doors.  Robbie turned towards pacifying the drone, or at 
the very least keep him from flinging himself against the forcefield.
	Assimilation jittered.  Assimilation shook.  Assimilation shuddered.  
Assimilation was experiencing full withdrawal of a hard-core addict.
	From the initial noting of less than perfect colors, grays had continued 
to creep into the vision until the monochrome world reasserted itself.  
No matter how many times transmitter buttons were depressed, no matter 
how many times the batteries were removed and reinserted, the universe 
retained the dreary scene it had metamorphosed to shortly after the 
fateful shuttle unaccident.
	"Concentrate on something else," soothed Robbie, "such as how much ye'd 
like to strangle me, or assimilate me, or whatever Borg visualize to 
release tension."
	"Tension is irrelevant.  Give me my colors."
	The doors opened; the dispatched guard ran into the room, gasping.  He 
held out a new transmitter, batteries already installed, for his 
commander.  Robbie plucked it out of the guard's hand.
	"Give me!" demanded Assimilation.
	Robbie sighed patiently.  "Those hypotheticals we talked abut earlier.  
If ye could make those hypotheticals reality, I can guarantee ye'll see 
in color fer the rest of yer life.  We have a special machine on me ship 
here, one which be suited fer yer body.  It be supposed to have a power 
system which never need recharging.  I think it be cobbled together out 
of some Borg 'spare parts' the Home Guard had, but I did not inquire too 
closely upon such ghoulish practices.  I do know me medics are confident 
they can put it in ye.  Arg!  What ye say?  Deal?"
	Thoughts boiled in Assimilation's head.  Commander Robbie was asking him 
to betray his sub-collective, the Collective!  It could not be done.  
Unacceptable.  However...however...however what had the Collective done 
for him?  It had certainly not given him back his color sense, not with 
all the technology at its disposal.  No.  The solution to the dilemma 
which had driven him to the open arms of the Greater Consciousness was on 
the other side of the forcefield.
	Assimilation deliberately ignored the itch at the back of his brain 
which was the narrowed link to Cube #347.
	"I'll do it.  Anything.  Just give me my colors!"
	Robbie smirked.  The game had been won.  Sure, he had used more than a 
few dirty tricks, but he had emerged triumphant, and with the rewards of 
money and new weaponry for his mercenary company.  "How about a fix, 
then.  Fer the road?  Just a bit o' juice to remind ye of yer ultimate 
reward when ye deliver yer cube to us.  I'll give ye the details on how 
to proceed when ye have calmed down a bit."  Robbie confidently pushed a 
button on the transmitter, eliciting the standard beep.
	"Stop torturing me!  Give me my colors!" screamed Assimilation.  "I 
agreed to your demands, now fix me.  Fix this drone!"
	Beep.  Boop.  Beep.  Boop.  Oh-oh.  Something was seriously wrong.  As 
Assimilation became increasingly agitated and viciously vocal, Robbie 
fiddled with the transmitter.  All appeared in working order, which meant 
the problem had to be on the receiving end.  The mercenary stared at the 
drone, and more specifically, his head.  Was the receiver malfunctioning?  
How could that happen?
	The answer came to Robbie in a flash of inspiration.  The fire 
suppressant gas.  Oh, sh**.  Unfortunately, to see if the feces had just 
hit the rapidly rotating blades, to learn if pay for successful 
completion of contract was in danger of being lost, the drone had to have 
his brain scanned.  The procedure was simple and quick to locate the 
neural bridge protein (medics had done so upon kidnapping the target), 
but in his current state the Borg was very unlikely to allow anyone near 
him voluntarily.
	"Knock him out!" yelled Robbie over his shoulder.  "Nighty night, 
matey," he said as gas hissed into the cell, forcefield turning opaque to 
atmosphere lest the entire cell block be contaminated.  "Don't bother to 
hold ye breath.  The chemicals will be absorbed into yer bloodstream upon 
skin contact."
	Assimilation blinked once, twice, rampage suddenly forgotten.  Eye 
rolling up into head, the drone bonelessly collapsed with a heavy thump.

	Robbie uttered a series of expletives in several nonQua'tohf languages.  
Although the universal translator was off, its services unneeded by the 
single species company, the common scatological theme was obvious.  
Finally the mercenary commander regained his composure.  "Ye are sure the 
fire suppressant gas was responsible?  It completely degraded the 
proteins?"
	The medic nodded.  "Yes, sir.  Damn bad luck if you ask me."
	"Can ye reinsert it?"
	"Sorry, sir, but no.  I may be able to do it, if I had Home Guard 
resources and a top-of-the-line sickbay.  If I try as is, all you'll get 
back is a dead Borg."
	Robbie growled, spitting forth additional choice oaths.
	"You already said that one, Commander.  And you've lost your accent 
again."
	"Avast, ye scurvy matey.  I'll talk how I want, when I want!  Well, we 
can probably salvage this fiasco yet.  We'll put the drone back where we 
found him, lest the Collective come roaring up to step on our tails.  
Before he goes, however, grab a goodly sample of his nanoprobes.  We need 
evidence for an assimilation attempt by a raging drone, one which 
required us to shoot him.  Alas the Home Guard did not have their plan 
mete out, but we will still be receiving our paychecks."
	"Yes, sir," said the medic.

	{Assimilation cycle complete,} reported the artificial tones of the 
computer into Assimilation's mind.  {Schedule of duties for unit 13 of 20 
are as follows...}  The stilted, perfect unvoice of the computer 
continued, listing tasks for Assimilation.  However, he was not 
listening, instead shuffling through his recent memories.  Had he done 
the supposedly impossible and dreamed while in regeneration?  Had it been 
reality?  And why did the sub-collective not realize his absence?
	The last question was the easiest to track, answer traceable to a 
lengthy malfunction accidentally precipitated by 152 of 480.  The reason 
behind initial unfunny prank were many, but suffice to say for twelve 
hours the sub-collective had been distracted trying to rectify an out of 
control situation.  The whereabouts of a single drone had not been 
relevant in the face of imminent destruction.
	Assimilation stepped from his alcove, resigned to begin his required 
duties amid a gray world, adventures already uploaded and consumed by an 
uncaring Collective.  A heavy weight thumped against his chest.  Curious, 
Assimilation grabbed the offending object, yanking supporting string over 
his head.  It was a sound recorder of Qua'tohf design.  Assimilation 
toggled the play switch.
	"Avast, matey," sounded Commander Robbie from a speaker, powerful voice 
tinny, "told ye I'd put ye back.  Arg!  Decided not to kill ye.  Call it 
a commander's prerogative, if ye will.  I think temporary insanity be a 
better term.  No matter.  Ye was the best painter of a generation, ten 
generations, if ye ask me, and it seemed a shame to wipe ye out of the 
universe, even though I know as a Borg ye surely believe painting, any 
art, to be irrelevant.  Even yer own.  I probably could have put me 
niece's scrawlings on the cell wall and had ye just as engrossed.  
Anyway, I've put ye back."  The voice paused.  "I saw no need to keep 
'The Last Trawl' print, it being too damn dismal fer me taste.  Perhaps 
ye'll find a use for it, perhaps ye'll flush it into space or shove it 
into a replicator reclamation system like so much trash.  All the same to 
me.  Ye'll find it in the crack next to the upright coffin ye live in.  
Arg!"  The recording ended.
	Assimilation automatically scanned the area next to his alcove, swiftly 
locating the rolled up cylinder.  He opened it, finding "The Last Trawl," 
beautifully savage colors of desperation reduced to nothing more 
inspiring than the latest batch of Bulkhead Gray #8 drying on the wall.  
He stared at the print, willing the colors to return, failing; and then, 
caught by frustration at opportunity lost, relief in knowledge 
hypothetical was not to become reality, lingering dregs of withdrawal, or 
some combination thereof, Assimilation performed his second unBorglike 
action in one day:
	He cried.