Star Trek and all references thereof are the property of Paramount.  Star 
Traks belongs to A. Decker.  Everything else (BorgSpace, my phone bills, 
the Earth in general) is mine...all mine.


				Got Empathy?

	In Bulk Cargo Hold #5, a Jhad-ball game was in full swing.  On one side 
were the holographic greats of the sport such as Kilt Jugree, Fu'tun the 
Butcher, and Jak 'Metalhead' Jol.  The home team was composed of rabid 
Jhad-ball fans of the weapons hierarchy, eager for the chance to 
literally butt heads with the masters.  Weapons was the goalie for Team 
Borg, for while he did not follow the game, he was approving in all 
things violent; and while the potential to blow his opponents with 
torpedoes was very limited, there was always hope the cooperation and 
oneness required by the game would carry over into actual combat 
situations.
	The game was being played with standard rules, including no weapons not 
an integral part of the body and no player substitutions.  To even the 
sides, 31 of 83, previously employed as a holographic artist before her 
late patron's transport made a wrong turn, had sculpted fourteen of the 
"Greatest Jhad-ball Players of All Time," according to "The Definitive 
History of Jhad-ball."  Fu'tun the Butcher had once single-handedly 
slaughtered half of the opposing team using nothing more than speed and 
talons, giving rise to the dedicated Killer position the rougher leagues 
allowed; a Borgified Fu'tun, even a holographic one, was extremely scary.
	Weapons grumbled as the ball was stolen by Dewic Lopez, Terran surname a 
coincidence as the three meter tall terror of blue mucus had absolutely 
no relationship to humans beyond a basic humanoid shape.  Despite the 
reputations of Team Hologram players, no killing was allowed.  When 
Captain had heard the rumors of Weapons' undertaking, he had specifically 
stipulated no debilitating injury and no termination.  It wasn't that 
Captain was against death, it was that he didn't subscribe to the notion 
survival of the fittest as Weapons saw it.  
	{If you had free rein, Weapons, you would whittle a hierarchy of 600 to 
a few dozen highly paranoid drones within a few days.  That Cube #347 
would be detrimentally affected would be an understatement,} Captain had 
said.
	Captain said many other things as well, most of which Weapons had tuned 
out.  How did he, or /any/ Captain for that matter as all seemed to be of 
One mind in this instance, expect Cube #347 to function effectively 
against an enemy?  The dead wood, those minds not focused on the task at 
hand (exploding things), to attain the goal by any means necessary (by 
exploding things), had to be removed.  If the quest to achieve perfection 
meant cutting some healthy flesh, so be it.
	It never crossed Weapons' mind that he himself would probably be among 
the first to feel the knife should such a policy be adopted.
	The Butcher was approaching Weapons' position, adamantine claws held 
ready.  A Team Hologram flanker pushed away from 15 of 83, opening 
himself for a pass from Lopez.  Weapons braced himself as the Butcher 
rushed; while termination was not possible, heavy injury most certainly 
was.
	Fu'tun peeled off as a painful hoot by Lopez indicated the slimy 
humanoid (actually the substance was sweat, and while Borg did not sweat, 
31 of 83 had left in the effect as it was a vital component to Lopez's 
success) fell due to a thrown arm from 101 of 212.  The loose ball was 
quickly scooped up by Team Borg and action retreated towards the far end 
of the field.
	The "field" was not traditional living turf, grass an exceedingly rare 
find in a Borg cube.  Instead, the one hundred twenty meter long playing 
grid had been outlined with yellow paint on the floor of Bulk Cargo Hold 
#5.  An attempt had been made to paint at least part of the field an 
appropriate green, but was abandoned part way as Jhad-ball players became 
impatient to begin.  The area was not centered in the bay due to the bane 
of Weapons' existence - Delta.
	Delta had recently begun the very large task of replacing the cube's 
compliment of comet slush vats.  The process involved much pumping of 
liquids and much use of large lasers.  While each vat would eventually be 
cut up into large chunks and fed to replicators to reclaim metals, a 
place was required to store the backlog.  Delta had decided Bulk Cargo 
Hold #5 to be best location, as Weapons had essentially emptied it 
earlier of impediments (i.e. everything) to his holographic battle 
simulations.  Weapons had protested, to no avail.  Nearly a third of the 
hold was now precariously stacked two and three high with large 
cylinders.
	Weapons ignored the intermittent sound of transporters beaming in vats 
and taking them away.  The stacks occasionally shifted with alarming 
groans of metal on metal, but nothing had fallen yet.  It was an accident 
waiting to happen, in Weapons' estimation.  An accident which would 
seriously disrupt the Jhad-ball game, perhaps knock holoemitters out of 
alignment.
	{Get the ball in the net!  It isn't /that/ hard, 75 of 300!} shouted 
Weapons.  He received a pointed dart of blackness indicating 75 of 300 
would be very happy to be a goalie if Weapons wanted to try his hand at 
forwarding against the likes of Jack the Head Ripper and Metalhead Jol.  
Weapons sent his assent that he would do so at the next intermission, if 
only to show Team Borg the proper way to commit mayhem.
	The series of events which occurred next took less than one second.
	Weapons noted the quiet shimmer-buzz of a transporter, pinpointing it as 
somewhere above, not behind.  As he tipped his head upwards to locate 
origin, an {Oops, mistransport!  It is 115 of 230's fault; she is 
screwing around in the transporter pathways again!} sounded in the 
intranets, finger of blame instantaneous.  A large, dark, and 
overwhelmingly heavy object was descending upon Weapons.  A vat had 
materialized near the cargo hold's ceiling; one part of his mind picked 
up a thread of tangent calculations from engineering hierarchy indicating 
the mass of metal would be approaching terminal velocity about the time 
it hit the ground.
	{Oh, sh...}, began Weapons.  He did not have time to complete the 
expletive before the vat crashed to the floor.

	From a distance, whispered words:  "Steve Austin, astronaut, a man 
barely alive.  Gentlemen, we can rebuild him, we have the technology.  We 
have the capability to make the world's first Bionic Man.  Steve Austin 
will be that man.  Better than he was before.  Better.  Stronger.  
Faster."
	Much closer, an annoyed retort:  "For the last time, if you don't stop 
repeating the introduction to 'Six Million Dollar Man,' I am going to 
stick this spanner where the sun don't shine.  And it won't be coming 
back out, I promise you."
	{Children!  Puppies!  Desist, or else I'll put you in separate boxes!} 
intruded a third voice.
	Confusion, overwhelming confusion.  A touch of anxiety.  A sprinkle of 
fright.  Overall, a sense of ill-being, of missing something vital, of 
not being complete.  Of realizing the driver has stepped out of the bus 
at 90 kilometers per hour to have a smoke, and may decide not to return.
	Ghydin, the pre-assimilation personality construct which Weapons had 
been born out of, the other survivor of a mental tug-of-war with the 
body's birth mind, awoke to a silhouetted Borg head.  Weapons, the proper 
operator of the vehicle also known as 45 of 300, was nowhere Ghydin could 
find.  Elvis had left the building (a figure of speech...the King was 
certain /not/ hiding in the already cramped confines of Weapons' mind).  
The head was withdrawn as a hot, yet not painful, sensation stabbed at 
the juncture of shoulder and neck; the distinctive odor of cooking meat 
briefly filled the air.
	"Where am I?" croaked Ghydin.  He vaguely recognized the area, the 
sounds, the smells.  Weapons' memories were still available, stacked 
haphazardly throughout most of their shared mind.  Ghydin preferred to 
remain in a small corner, occasionally riding as a silent observer if 
happenings appeared to be interesting, but mostly keeping to himself and 
those engrams which were his.  He didn't intrude upon Weapons, and 
Weapons did not intrude upon him - the perfect roommate relationship.  
Actually using Weapons' body, his neural pathways, was like slipping into 
a sibling's underwear and socks:  doable on a dare, but not necessarily 
enjoyable.
	The hot sensation faded, replaced by the sound of a dentist drill.  
"Where do you think, you idiot?" said Voice Two over the high-pitched 
whine.  "You were pulled out from under 2.7 tons of metal falling at a 
high rate of speed.  The only reason you didn't squash into a flat smear 
is due to the extreme density of your tritanium exoskeleton and armoring.  
Admittedly your head was a little lopsided, your limbs were less than 
perfect, and internal organ systems were on the point of collapse, but I 
think the vat came out of it worse than you.  The shock was great enough 
to dislodge a few cranial implants, which temporarily severed your link 
to us, but no lasting damage as you haven't reactivated as a gibbering 
idiot.  Complete maintenance files are located at data address grid 
243.6ae.  
	"And before you ask, you will be out of here and back to the Jhad-ball 
game in a couple of hours.  A full regeneration is recommended, but when 
have you ever complied with the orders of drone maintenance?  Oh, and 
Captain ran the lottery for a temporary weapons hierarchy head; trust me 
when I say 24 of 300 will vacate the position the moment you demand it 
back.  She does not wish to check into the fix-it-up shop."
	Ghydin followed as best he could, but most of the allusions were pure 
gibberish.  The events leading up to the described accident were sketchy, 
mere image sketches in Weapons' short-term memory storage.  The hit by 
the vat must have screwed up some hardware because Ghydin knew Weapons' 
did not forget such incidents.  The proper way to spot weld a hull patch, 
yes; an event which demanded possible retribution, no.  He lost the 
stream of words part way through.
	"I am 45 of 300, but I am not Weapons," conversationally returned 
Ghydin.  "Weapons is not...here at the moment.  He did not leave a note 
saying when he would be back."  Best to let everyone know immediately 
that there was a problem.
	The drill stopped.  "I had better check the alignment on those cranial 
implants we repositioned.  One, you are too polite; and two, you are 
speaking irrelevant nonsense."  A hand reached up to the torture rack 
hanging above Ghydin's table, grabbing a device with many blinking 
lights.  "No, don't move your head!"  Ghydin held still, squinting 
slightly at the bright lights directed on his face.
	{Testing, one, two, three, testing,} intruded, followed by a prickling 
sensation which traveled along each limb in turn.  It was similar to the 
feeling of a foot awaking from sleep, but as if felt over the entire 
body.  Unpleasant.
	"Nope, synapse-implant interfaces are correctly aligned.  Nothing is 
reaching illicit nanotendrils into the wrong portions of brain 
structure."  The blinking tool was replaced on the rack.  A low buzzing 
began near Ghydin's left ear.  "What you do need, however, is new tendons 
in your neck.  How about a durable polymer-tritanium blend recently 
adapted from species #7488 biotechnology?  It will compliment your 
physiology well."
	"Whatever," muttered Ghydin, "but I am not Weapons.  I am Ghydin, one of 
Weapons' parent personalities.  Only I'm not just a personality, now, but 
in charge of the body.  Weapons is not here."
	The buzz halted, as did other noises in the maintenance bay occurring 
beyond Ghydin's field of view.  Several pairs of footsteps indicated a 
forming crowd.  Ghydin faintly heard as his name was bandied about in the 
dataspaces, but the sudden initiation of interference blocked accurate 
eavesdropping.
	"Ghydin?" said Voice Two, an interrogative apparent both by vocal 
inflection and by link to the sub-collective.
	Ghydin felt as if he were suddenly the center of attention, the 
unpleasant type of attention associated with a case of terminal 
embarrassment, lack of clothes, and laughter from an overcapacity 
sporting arena.  "Yes."
	"Weapons?"
	"No."
	"45 of 300?"
	"Yes."
	But not Weapons?"
	"Not Weapons."
	{Doctor, we have a major problem,} called Voice Two into the intranets.  
Response was blocked from Ghydin's ken by resumption of the white noise.  
Ghydin knew Weapons would have swiftly cut through the obvious attempt to 
keep him in the dark, but he didn't have any idea where to begin 
manipulating the perceived streams and block of code.
	{It will keep,} pronounced the earlier Voice Three, suddenly audible 
again.  Doctor?  {Now, it is time for happy hierarchy to report to Bulk 
Cargo Hold #4 for seminar and demonstration.}
	Groans sounded from those Borg standing over Ghydin's table.  Protests 
arose within the dataspaces, many minds questioning the need for a 
presentation when pertinent information could be simply uploaded.  Doctor 
was adamant in his instructions.  Defeated, the various drones in the 
maintenance bay discarded tools and beamed to Bulk Cargo Hold #4.
	As silence replaced the sounds of busy workers, Ghydin twisted his head 
around as much as he was able, trying to gain a decent picture of where 
he was located.  Darn 45 of 300 for going...elsewhere.  Ghydin had given 
up responsibility for his body long ago, and after the incident with 
Micah, original owner by birthright, had no wish to reassume control.  It 
was comfortable floating in the darkness, shutting out the many black 
impulses of Weapons, dreaming of a simpler time.  Living among the left 
over memories of pilgrimage was more real than reality itself.  The rigid 
body on the next table caught his attention.
	"Psst...hey, you awake?  Can you hear me?" whispered Ghydin.  Restraints 
were looped over near arm, leg, and torso, more to steady the prone form 
and keep it from accidentally falling on the ground than for control.  
The eye Ghydin could see suddenly popped open and began to rove in his 
direction.
	The quiet accented response matched Ghydin's initial call, as if the 
other were afraid of eavesdroppers, "Lad...45 of 300...Weapons, is that 
you?  I've been a'listening to the others talking about your injuries, 
but, frankly dearie, I've also not been paying much attention.  My inner 
eye is cloudy."  Ghydin realized he knew without asking his new companion 
was designated 127 of 152; an abridged personnel profile quickly 
condensed in his mind.  This odd flow of information must be what Weapons 
lived in.  "Lad, look around for me, will you?  I need to find my beads, 
but drone maintenance has paralyzed just about every muscle I have.  If 
they hear me talking, they'll take away vocalization too."
	Ghydin arched his head backwards and forwards, then side to side, 
carefully searching the walls for anything which looked remotely 
beadlike.  "So, what are you in for?" he asked as he contemplated a messy 
workbench, wondering why the equipment included a row of yellow votive 
candles.   Mentally shrugging, he continued his inspection.
	"It all has to do with those damn Ghosts," harshly complained 127 of 
152, "and me trying to help the cube.  I held a seance to gain their 
attention, but those involved protested my techniques.  I am the only one 
who can see the aliens, as they are slightly out of phase with us.  After 
command and control hierarchy caught up with me, Captain sent me here to 
be practically dissected by Doctor and his cronies.  They poke me, and 
prod me, and then take away my beads while claiming they negatively 
affect brain scans!"
	127 of 152 paused, then gave a quiet snort.  "And what do they have to 
show for it?  Nothing definitive; or at least drone maintenance can 
mumbo-jumbo it up to sound scientific, but they can't duplicate my feat.
	"My species #1818, and as can been seen in the species profile, has such 
a strong telepathic ability that it is impossible for the Collective to 
perform the necessary mental assimilations without first burning out the 
responsible section of brain.  Usually it works, but .001% operations are 
unsuccessful and the area grows back.  Regrowth is not good, for 
afflicted drones have 89% chance of going rogue; regular maintenance 
normally catches and destroys regrowth before it becomes a problem.
	"In my case, as no rogue tendencies were detected, regrowth was allowed 
to continue.  That was 4.7 years ago.  Actually, drone maintenance would 
prefer to burn it out (and thus remove my inner eye permanently, the 
unbelieving bastards), but directives from the Greater Consciousness have 
been lacking."  Something about the tone of 127 of 152's voice and the 
very satisfied feeling abruptly hovering in his mind hinted that the 
other may have had a hand in delaying the laser. 
	"Now, I have been vindicated!  They've been poking wires all over my 
brain, sampling my neural pathways, trying to determine why I can see the 
Ghosts while no one else can.  My design, prior to the Greater 
Consciousness categorizing me imperfect assimilation and sticking me in 
this sub-collective, was to assist in development of stable multiphasic 
fields for extra-dimension exploratory vessels.  Thus, I have a 
nonstandard set of lenses as a part of my optic implant, lenses which can 
focus on the Ghosts...like that one over there.  Unfortunately, that is 
not the whole explanation, else Captain would be having Doctor outfit 
several hundred drones with a visual system upgrade."
	Ghydin rolled his head around, trying to see what 127 of 152 had 
observed.  He saw nothing.  "Don't strain yourself, lad, but the fellow 
is already gone.  One of the teaching instructors.  Anyway, the lenses 
themselves are worthless, as Ghosts exist on several phasic planes.  My 
inner eye, or telepathic receiving and imaging center if you go all 
scientific mumbo-jumbo, perceives the aliens unconsciously.  I 
automatically focus on the correct frequency in the same way one focuses 
one's eye on an ordinary object.  Therefore, the lens system is useless 
without species #1818 telepathy; ergo, as the only specimen of species 
#1818 aboard, I am the only unit able to see Ghosts!"  127 of 152 ended 
her triumphal tirade well above the whisper she had begun with. 
	Ghydin flinched from strong emanations he felt originating from the 
trussed up drone, concentrating instead on the ongoing hunt.  He narrowed 
his eyes, "I've found them, your beads.  Black, silver, and green?"
	"Good lad!  Now, Weapons, can you go get them for a poor gypsy, a poor 
fortune-teller?" begged 127 of 152.
	"No.  I can't move anything below my shoulders."
	A curse was muttered under 127 of 152's breath.  "You are a hierarchy 
head, and you aren't exactly known for following rules.  You should be 
able to work around drone maintenance directives.  If I could only get my 
beads..."
	Ghydin rotated his head so he was staring at the ceiling directly over 
his table.  Someone had painted a picture of an four-legged animal.  It 
was overly cute in a furry way which screamed baby; it also had a smile 
plastered on its muzzle that no self-respecting animal of any age would 
dare to be seen with in public.  Ghydin, who had never hurt a soul in his 
unassimilated life, who had always forgiven those beings who insulted 
him, suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to step on small, helpless 
furballs.  "I am not Weapons.  I am Ghydin.  I do not really know how 
Weapons pulls these strings of data to make things work."
	"Ghydin, eh?" asked 127 of 152.  "I thought you sounded too polite for 
Weapons.  He would have been having a yelling fit the moment he came 
around, wanting to return to his phasers and torpedoes."
	"Yes, that is Weapons."
	"You are that, um, other personality?  Yes, your assimilation profile 
lists 'Ghydin' are your original name; and there is an appendum 
concerning events a short while ago with another personality known as 
Micah.  Your transponder is registering as 45 of 300..." 127 of 152 
sounded puzzled.  "You still have access as hierarchy head.  Just go 
around Doctor's compulsion and get me my beads."
	"I told you," began Ghydin, "that I do not know..."  He abruptly stopped 
as high pitched transporter beams announced the return of the maintenance 
drones.
	{Complete repairs on 45 of 300 such that his internal systems and 
infrastructure will remain stable.  Afterwards, send the poor confused 
beastie to Assimilation.  Don't worry, 45 of 300, be you Weapons or 
Ghydin, we'll get you all fixed up good as brand new!} sounded in 
Ghydin's head.  This time, he was able to instinctively track the origin 
to Doctor, a rodentlike figure prominent in Weapon's memory tracks.
	{Compliance,} returned the arrived drones simultaneously.  "And you," 
said one of the group vocally, "127 of 152...you've been talking about 
your beads again.  Don't deny it."
	"Lad, don't you da...."  127 of 152 stopped midword as a set of 
inhibitions overlaid those already in effect.  It did not affect the 
mental tirade which followed.
	Ghydin dejectedly focused on the happy animal, trying to ignore the 
sound of machinery near his knees and the occasional jiggle as a piece of 
something was forced into (or torn out of) his leg.  Wherever Weapons had 
gone, Ghydin hoped he would return soon:  he did not want to knowingly 
live out the rest of his life as a Borg, not when the blissful trek 
through memories beaconed.

	{Everything checks out okay, you are 45 of 300.  Compliance pathways 
remain intact; you are Borg,} sighed a quiet voice.  The owner of the 
voice, not currently present in the flesh, had been prodding and poking 
recesses of the mind Ghydin did not know existed.  The uncomfortable 
process had included flashes of a pot of paint and, for some unfathomable 
reason, a bulkhead at Very High Magnification.
	"But I'm not..." Ghydin caught himself speaking to the empty room, a 
place of angular walls and many alcoves.  He himself was plugged into one 
of the upright, open-air coffins.  How did Weapons remember to 
internalize his words properly?  {But I'm not Weapons; I'm not really 45 
of 300!  I am Ghydin!}
	A negative emphasis was impressed into Assimilation's answer, {No.  You 
are 45 of 300.  Your neural scans confirm the profile associated with 45 
of 300.  You may not be Weapons, but you are 45 of 300.  No degeneration 
of link to the Collective.  You do not feel the need to leave us, do 
you?}  The last question was a loaded gun, a trick.
	{No, no, no.  I do not care where I am, I just want Weapons back in 
charge of this body.  I resigned myself to this fate long ago, and was 
actually happy when the Weapons personality formed, for it meant I didn't 
have to deal with reality anymore if I did not wish to.  Now I have to.  
I do not like it,} replied Ghydin.
	 {What you like is irrelevant.  My hierarchy pronounces you fit to 
reassume your duties.  You remain Weapons.}
	"What?" squawked Ghydin, the word vocalized as a strangled squawk.  {I 
am not Weapons!  I can't blow anything up, that would mean /hurting/ 
someone, maybe /killing/ them.  I can not do that!  I will not do that!}
	{Irrelevant.  The interplexing beacon associated with the signature 45 
of 300 is designated Weapons until the Greater Consciousness says 
otherwise, or until the drone thus identified is terminated.  Neither has 
occurred, therefore you remain head of the weapons hierarchy,} 
Assimilation explained.  {Oh...now look what you made me do.  This coat 
of paint is ruined.  Captain, you explain it to him.}  Assimilation 
abruptly left Ghydin's ken.
	{Explain what?  Oh,} mumbled a voice which sounded as if its owner was 
either very busy or not quite awake.  Ghydin was becoming better as 
organizing his thoughts to take advantage of the vast stores of 
information which Cube #347 represented.  The sty which was Weapons' 
personal memory storage held methods to make bombs from household 
compounds common to 53 species, but very little practical knowledge.  
Ghydin managed to discover Captain (a figure which Weapons had an entire 
storage stack dedicated to) was located in his alcove, undergoing 
regeneration.  That fact would explain the slight detachment.
	{I can not be Weapons.  I vaguely recall an instance regarding 
Second...if I could only call up the proper information...}
	{The inane pizza device?  That event was a complete switch of minds.  3 
of 8's neural profile did not retain a hint of his native personality, 
ergo for all practical purposes he was terminated.  However, no matter 
how much you complain, Assimilation is correct.  Your scans remain 
consistent with those of 45 of 300, thence you are still 45 of 300 and 
still Weapons.  I can temporarily assign a new Weapons, but as you are 
not technically terminated, the responsibility is to be returned to you.}  
A stream of data was diverted towards Ghydin.  He automatically fielded 
it, but was unable to understand more than a few snatches of what was 
obviously his complete medical file.
	{But I don't want to be Weapons!} wailed Ghydin.
	{Too bad.  I do not /want/ to be Captain,} replied Captain, {but wants 
are irrelevant.  Command pathway initiate:  re-establish hierarchy head 
status to unit target designation 45 of 300.}
	Ghydin's shoulders literally slumped as the weight of 600 disparate and 
often violent beings threaded into his mind.  'Darn you,' thought Ghydin 
in the most severe bout of cursing he had ever engaged in, 'darn you, 
Weapons!  Where are you?'  The final plea was flung to the mental depths 
of unanswering darkness.

	Ghydin winced as the scene exploded, Cube #347 disappearing in a large 
ball of rapidly burning oxygen, hydrogen, and other flammable volatiles.  
The BorgCraft theme music, inappropriately jolly, bounced in the 
background as the too familiar "Game Over" dialogue appeared.
	{Well,} ventured Ghydin, {we did better that time, yes?}
	{This cube was destroyed by a species #4102 shuttle.  Species #4102!  
The plant in subsection 8 has more brainpower!} complained 60 of 300.  He 
was the most vocal of the hundreds of responses.
	Ghydin tried to edge in a word, {Maybe if those associated with tractors 
on edge #3 were paying a little bit of attention...}
	186 of 300:  {Huh?  You talking to us?  We have a poker tournament 
happening at the moment.  We'll have to get back to you.}
	{Poker?  What about the simulation?} screamed 60 of 300 to an 
unlistening coalition of card players.
	{Weapons, what are we supposed to be doing again?  I'm confused.}
	{I have a theory why the shuttle killed us...maybe we should use our 
offensive weaponry next time, not try to force a surrender by draining 
the enemy shields with the tractor beam.  That tactic usually works 
better...or it did before your accident.}
	{Cut me some slack, 60 of 300.  Poker is a very tactical game.  Deal you 
in a hand if you get off our backs?}
	{42 of 83 poked me!}
	{Did not!}
	{Did too!}
	{I'm tired of these simulations...let's do something fun, like finger 
paint.}
	Ghydin banged his head against the side of his alcove.  The situation 
was completely out of control.  Too many voices, too many minds, too many 
agendas, all knowing their way was the best.  Unfortunately, Ghydin could 
not separate the good ideas from the poor ones.  He wanted to complete 
the standard BorgCraft training scenarios (non-holographic) with minimum 
loss of life on the part of the target...which tended to assure all four 
thousand of Cube #347 sub-collective ended up as spare parts.
	The problem was that Ghydin could not enforce his directives, could not 
bring himself to yank the metaphorical reins and bring the hierarchy into 
a semblance of alignment.  Factions argued the best way to achieve the 
task Ghydin set out, while critical sub-hierarchies completely ignored 
the simulation to accomplish "more important" things, like the poker 
tournament.  Still others questioned Ghydin himself, claiming "the old 
Weapons was much superior to the new Weapons, and why couldn't we do 
things the way the old Weapons did?"  Most, except for an overly admiring 
band of devotees, did not see the point of minimum hardship and injury 
for the enemy crew; the "peace and goodness" supporters did absolutely 
nothing except get in the way.  The end result was BorgCraft (novice 
level) 10 and Cube #347 0.
	The last week had been heck.  Ghydin shuddered to think he could even 
conceive of mild cursing; it wasn't that he didn't know the words (he was 
Borg after all, and Weapons had never hesitated to use derogatory 
language from as many databases as possible), but he had never thought he 
would have need to use it.  Not only had the series of simulations been 
disastrous, but the internal search for Weapons was returning negative 
results.  Metaphorically high and low Ghydin swept his psyche, poking 
into the less savory parts of Weapons' memories.  His more violent half 
was nowhere to be found.
	{Okay, listen up, everyone!  Listen to me!}  The mob quieted, more out 
of habitat than any goading on Ghydin's part.  {I think we all need to 
take a long break.  The next scheduled BorgCraft session will be in three 
days.  I urge everyone to meditate upon the outcome seen today...and the 
previous nine endings as well.}  Ghydin tried to initiate warm feelings 
of togetherness to bring the hierarchy together, which was summarily 
ignored by most drones as they descended into conversations as to how to 
spend their unexpected free time.  A few vastly confused mentalities 
turned towards the peace group.
	Disengaging himself from his alcove, Ghydin decided he needed to take a 
walk.  Perhaps a change in scenery would magically give him the strength 
to weld his hierarchy efficiently, perhaps Weapons would suddenly return 
and demand the body back, perhaps he would stumble across an open power 
conduit into which he could stick his head.
	Ghydin had traversed less than one hundred meters when an alert flashed 
through the dataspaces, multiple feeds from the sensory hierarchy 
expanding into his immediate awareness.  He stumbled slightly, reaching 
out a hand to steady himself against a bulkhead as he regained composure.  
Ghydin continued to be disorientated by sudden information uploads to his 
systems.  One stream showed a ship as extrapolated beyond the confines of 
the transwarp conduit Cube #347 traveled through; a second feed detailed 
ever-changing numbers as they related to the alien vessel's size, 
tonnage, propulsion spectrum, speed, heading, and current distance to 
target.  A third datastream featured the soap opera "As the Milky Way 
Turns."
	{Sensors...} warned Captain into the general intranet.
	The subspace tri-TV show abruptly cut, to the general protest of several 
dedicated viewers.  {Sensors will tape it.}
	The root commands of Cube #347, the directives which played a large part 
in how the sub-collective reacted to many situations, thrummed as they 
were automatically triggered.    An alien ship of unknown capability and 
species lay almost directly in the cube's path of travel.  They, the 
sub-collective, must slow to investigate, to sample technologies and 
perhaps take biological specimens if warranted.
	{Weapons,} commanded Captain as he directed his attention away from 
delegating navigation and to Ghydin, {prepare us to /capture/ the target.  
No blowing it up, minimum of casualties if possible.}
	Ghydin frantically tried to respond, {But...}
	{I don't want to hear it Weapons.}
	{Bu...}
	{No.  /Capture/ the target.  A simple procedure, even for this 
sub-collective.  Unless it is a Xenig or omnipotent being looking to have 
a laugh at our expense, Sensors indicates the target is little more 
dangerous than a species #4102 shuttle.  Prepare us.}
	Ghydin gulped.  That was what he was afraid of.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"So, Regis, anything interestin' happenin' up here?"
	A figure that had been leaning backwards in a chair awoke with startled 
thrashing.  He awkwardly spun the seat around to see who had entered the 
small bridge module.  "Crimes, Ichik, don't scare me like that!  Sneaking 
up on me like that, geesh."  Ichik paused.  "That the caf I asked for, 
isn't it?"
	"You be the one who sent me to mess to get one.  The way you sleeping on 
the shift like that, you need it."
	"Well, what the supervisor at the penal moon don't know won't hurt him.  
Give me caf."
	Ichik stepped into the cramped room to hand his superior and very good 
buddy the cold and slightly sour carbonated stimulant beverage.  Many 
other species would have called the bridge spacious.  However, Veebs were 
the humanoid equivalent of a daddy longlegs spider - small torsos with 
very long limbs.  Consequently, second-hand ships built by neighboring 
species, like the prison barge on which Ichik and Regis were guards, 
tended to be confining.  Refitting beyond swapping out a few chairs and 
installing prisoner cells was not a priority for the Veeb judicial 
system.
	Ichik folded his spindly frame into a second of the three chairs sharing 
the room.  The bridge was not very sophisticated, merely a screen for 
exterior views and a few monitors; the computer did the actual driving.  
The bulk of the twenty person crew were guards, with a few people 
doubling as engineering and propulsion experts should anything go wrong.  
The judicial system also did not really care if a few ships were lost in 
transit between point A and point B:  with high population and high 
unemployment, neither guards nor felons were difficult to come by.
	"So, what be we transporting this time?" asked Ichik.
	Regis sighed, "We've been on this tin can for two weeks, and you only 
now wonder?"
	"You know that information be secret, and only you and Lorin have the 
keys to make the computer spit up answer.  And the felons, they no talk 
to us, not unless they want heads bashed in."  Grammer was not a high 
priority among Veebs, or at least the translated version included syntax 
most species found odd.
	Regis sipped his caf, "Let me tell you, Regis, we got scum in those 
there cells.  Lowest of the low.  Savage animals."
	Ichik leaned forward, hanging on every word.  Veebs were notorious 
rumormongers, the galactic nosy neighbor gladly willing to dig up a 
little dirt.  "What did they do?  Not murder, surely?"
	"Nah," belched Regis as he reached to scratch an itch on his knee, "not 
murder.  Get with the times, bud!  Anyone can get away with murder.  I 
went on a rampage when I was home last.  Finally got that idiot neighbor 
who won't keep dog quiet and refuses to take down windchimes.  Neighbor 
and his whole degenerate family.  Me wife helped."  Regis gave a large 
smile, displaying his perfectly even teeth as he remembered the incident. 
"No, we got pure scum."
	"Your murdering sounds very justified.  Very civilized.  What have we on 
board, then?  Robbers?  Drug dealers?"
	"No, low, low scum.  We got," Regis paused for effect, "defacers of 
public property, the ones who use spray paint.  We got speeders and 
buggers who neglected to pay their parking fines."  The Veeb's tenor 
dropped into a quiet whisper  "We even got an honest politician.  I no 
know the details, but I hear it took nearly ten years to rack up the dirt 
on him and an entire ring of honest politicians.  Never broke a promise, 
never told a lie.  Scandal!"
	Ichik's eyes were wide, "An honest politician?  Which one?  I gotta tell 
the boys and gals below!  Surely boss won't miss one tiny prisoner when 
we arrive at the penal moon.  It is getting so boring, and we've another 
two weeks to go!"
	Regis sighed, "No, no can tell you which bird is the politician.  You'll 
have to figure out which head to bash on your own.  If you and other 
grunts can con it out, I betcha Lorin will back me up in allowing a 
little extra recreation."
	Ichik clapped his hands together twice in anticipation before leaning 
back in his own unwieldy chair.  He closed his eyes to better picture the 
felonious scum in the holding cells, mentally deciding who fit the bill 
as an honest politician.  Maybe it was Number 49...she certainly had the 
'look' to her; or perhaps that fellow who insisted on daily showers (not 
that he received them), that Number 12.
	A beeping sounded from one of the consoles.  Ichik opened his eyes to 
peer towards the annoying noise.  "What's that?  Trouble in the cells?"
	"No, you idiot, that's a different alarm.  It sounds like a twitterbird 
in heat.  Besides, if there was a riot the boys and gals downstairs 
couldn't handle with a few well-placed baton raps, what be the use of a 
warning?  This one means something is approaching us."
	"What would be near us?  I thought this route only be used by prison 
barges and the sometimes smuggler.  A pirate not have interest in us 
because all they get for their trouble be more trouble.  Who wants load 
of third-class scum?  Not even make decent indentured servants."
	Regis smacked a few buttons on the little used console, finally managing 
to bring a grainy picture to the small viewscreen.  The display was 
rarely used because a better screen existed in the mess/rec hall to watch 
movies on.  The cube-shaped object was on the edge of camera resolution, 
and by the numbers scrolling up a monitor, approaching fast.
	"What be it?" asked Ichik idly.
	"Hmmm," hummed Regis.  "I may have idea.  Me wife heard from her brother 
who heard from his best buddy since grade school who heard from his 
mother-in-law who heard it from her boss who heard it from her fiancee 
who heard it from an old platoon sergeant...well, the exact line of rumor 
not important.  Anyway, I hear a couple hundred light years over that 
there occasionally be seen these big geometrical ships.  Don't know what 
shape, but they be run by this multispecial empire or conglomeration or 
federation or something.  Borg, they be called.  No clue what they look 
like, but they all supposed to be green with plants growing out of them."
	"Plants?  Like flowers and such?" questioned Ichik in confusion.
	"Well, that's what me wife said.  Plants.  I guess green would make 
sense if they covered themselves in grass or bushes.  They are alien, 
after all."
	Ichik nodded in agreement.  Aliens had so /many/ weird customs.  "So, 
maybe's a Borg ship.  Still a bit in the middle of nowhere, though."
	"True."  Both studied the picture for a while.  Very quickly the cube 
was growing in size, which meant to all moderately intelligent species 
that the ship was drawing near.  Soon it was almost taking up the entire 
field of view...without magnification.
	"Regis?"
	"Yes, Ichik?"
	"I no think they going to stop."
	"I no think so either."
	Silence.
	"Regis?"
	"Yes, Ichik?"
	"Maybe we should, like, try to steer away?"
	"Good idea, Ichik, but this barge has all the evasive potential of a 
pregnant cow mired in quicksand."
	Silence.  The cube loomed on the screen.
	"Regis?"
	"Yes, Ichik?"
	"Today is not a good day."
	"Not to you, maybe, but I've had my caf.  I'm ready to die."
	The automatic range finder quietly pinged as the cube matched the sedate 
warp 2 of the prison barge, holding course less than a kilometer away.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The target was an ugly shoebox one hundred fifty meters in length under 
delusions of aerodynamic grace.  Chunky pseudowings swept back in a delta 
configuration from the nose.  In reality, the "wings" were struts 
supporting warp nacelles and would fall apart under the stress of 
atmospheric pressure.  At one point the hull had been painted red with 
brown stripes, but was now a faded hue best described as blah with blah 
splotches.  Scans revealed no offensive weapons, although a low-powered 
asteroid clearing laser could theoretically lightly scorch Cube #347's 
hull plates should shields be nonfunctional.  Defensive capabilities was 
standard shielding; top speed was estimated to be warp three, assuming 
the poorly maintained nacelles did not overload or the inefficient core 
lose the gerbil/exercise wheel set-up which was obviously powering it.  
For once the sub-collective was confident there was no possible way for 
the target to escape.
	Ghydin was highly nervous, a foreign feeling to those used to Weapons' 
paranoid focus, and a feeling which was quickly infecting an otherwise 
mostly competent hierarchy.  Show time was nearing; the cube had matched 
course with the vessel, and unless the crew did the unexpected and 
immediately surrendered, very soon Ghydin would be forced to perform his 
less than mediocre best.
	"We are the Borg.  You will be assimilated.  Your technological and 
biological distinctiveness will be added to our own.  Resistance is 
futile."
	The initial hail from the cube had been received by an alien with 
obscenely long arms and too many joints.  Disregarding the limbs and 
smaller than average torso, the head was startling in its humanoid 
normality, dark red hair shaved close to the skull.  A subhierarchy of 
command and control dedicated to the task of initial psychology indicated 
a 95.8% level of confidence that the expression on its face was utter 
confusion mixed with awe.
	"Regis," said a voice from off-screen, "juliek hy auwl lark..." the 
simplistic language was swiftly translated, "and I see no plants either."

	"Quiet, Ichik," snarled Regis.  "Um, very large Borg ship, we no have 
anything of value.  Ask any local pirate.  We prisoner barge Felon Bob, 
and all we's got is scum.  That be description of both prisoner cargo and 
crew, including meself.  Nothing of value.  Move along?"  The last two 
words were given with a pleading voice and the suggestion of a grin.
	"Discussion is irrelevant.  You will be assimilated.  Your species will 
be adapted to service Us."
	Regis' eyes widened; his limbs shook as if he was a spider caught in a 
strong wind.  "As in slavery?  I be a free man!  All be free men, even 
felons, assuming they survive penal colony.  No be slave!  Fight to end 
to be not slave!"  Communications were severed by the barge.  With the 
casting of the die, the target vessel surged in speed by a factor of .2 
warp.
	Ghydin felt/saw as Captain directed a flaring of the cube's static warp 
shell, matching frequencies and momentarily merging it with that of the 
barge.  The maneuver was dangerous and easily overcome by sufficiently 
advanced equipment, a decently fast computer, or efficient crew.  It had 
been judged Felon Bob held none of the above.  When performed correctly, 
the action of the more powerful vessel (i.e. Cube #347) disrupted warp 
stability of the target with minimum of damage; when unsuccessful, the 
very high possibility existed one or both ships would explode.  Cube 
#347's gamble was favorable as both itself and the freighter dropped out 
of warp, increasing the likelihood of the sub-collective's eventual 
success by skewing an already sharply tilted playing field.
	{Capture it,} directed Captain.
	{But...} tried Ghydin one last time.
	{Capture it.  Now,} said Captain.  Ghydin shuddered as codes of 
compliance arced through his neural linkages, enforcing the collective 
will of Cube #347 as represented by the primary facilitator and consensus 
monitor.
	Ghydin turned to the task at hand.  The Felon Bob looked as dangerous as 
a toothless dachshund with sleeping sickness.  Ghydin was afraid to prod 
it; this was not a BorgCraft simulation where one merely had to restart 
the game when one was blown up.  No do-over buttons in real life.  
{Maybe...} tentatively began Ghydin.
	{Phasers!} yelled an overly eager group of drones who oversaw operations 
along edge #12.  Unfortunately (or fortunately) that particular section 
of the cube was facing away from the barge, so the burst of green mayhem 
hit nothing.
	{Torpedoes!}  A wave of three torpedoes flew towards Felon Bob.  Two of 
the three outright missed the target; the third impacted shields with the 
equivalent of a dull thud.  In the rush to fire, the subhierarchy 
responsible had neglected to arm the charges.
	{Tractors!}  The less said the better.  The questing beams of gravitonic 
potential stabbed everywhere but the barge, which was using thrusters to 
ponderously turn.
	{Um, um...yah, tractors,} babbled Ghydin.  {Let's use those.  No 
phasers, no torpedoes.  Just tractors.  Focus on the tractors?  Please 
focus on the tractors?  Come on, listen to me.  You are supposed to let 
me organize us.}  Slowly the hierarchy centered on the idea of tractor 
beams, of the desire to capture the target ship.  Phasers along edge #12 
sputtered into silence.  {Good.  Okay, let us reach out and get that 
freighter.}
	A torpedo left its bay, not the photon variety, but quantum.  An itchy 
trigger finger had not been goaded to compliance.  As Ghydin watched, 
helpless, it flew straight and true, as accidents are wont to do.  It 
squarely impacted the shields of Felon Bob.  Ghydin breathed a sigh of 
relief as sensors indicated that while the target had been given a 
shaking, it remained intact; only 5% of shields remained.  In accident 
occurred what could not be accomplished through directed finesse.
	An incoming transmission from Felon Bob was fielded by command and 
control.  The subspace communication resolved itself into a dark scene of 
flickering lights, sparks, and oily smoke.  A shift in the background 
behind Regis, the caller, indicated he had changed his location in the 
barge.  Tortured screams sounded distantly.
	Regis wiped a spindly hand along his forehead, smearing blood from a 
deep cut which begun somewhere around his ear.  "Borg ship, you hear me?"  
An especially loud moan caused Ghydin to wince.
	"Lower your shields and prepare to be boarded.  Resistance is futile."
	"I guess that means yes," responded Regis.  He glanced over his shoulder 
to a point off-screen and yelled, "Keep quiet over there!  Can't you see 
me be on the phone?"  A mumbled reply.  "And same to you too!  You no 
know what you are saying, you are such a wreck!  You need to go to 
medical bay, but doctor is down on floor too!"  Regis shifted his 
attention back to the screen; another stream of blood slowly crept down 
one cheek.  "Please, we no have anything of value!  You gonna shake us 
apart!"
	If Ghydin had known anything about Veebs (an impossibility as the Borg 
had never encountered the species before), he would not have leapt to the 
conclusions which were rapidly forming.  True, in most circumstances, the 
sounds and sights as seen on the subspace feed would indicate extreme 
distress on the part of the target.  The Veeb guards, however, had been 
in the midst of a party when the cube had begun its attack, Regis and 
Ichik the sole crew officially on duty (i.e. had yet to imbibe alcoholic 
drinks and drugs smuggled aboard, or engage in acts of carnal pleasure).  
A Veeb party was not a party without strobe lights, smoke, and music 
which sounded like the sound track to a slasher movie involving chainsaws 
and a dozen blond teenage girls.  The cut on Regis' head was not 
inflicted by Cube #347, but by a partygoer angry when the guard had 
turned off the karoke machine midsong.  The other guards had not even 
realized they were under attack until informed by Regis; most were so 
stoned they would not have noticed if Felon Bob had become the epicenter 
for a new Big Bang.  The glancing blow from the torpedo had locked Regis 
in the mess/rec hall, forcing him to call from the local screen.
	"You gonna shake us apart!" repeated Regis plaintively.  The muted roar 
of a small internal combustion engine accompanied a rattling death 
gurgle.
	"Resistance is futile," was Cube #347's succinct reply.  
	{No!} bellowed Ghydin forcefully.  The sudden inner potency was not 
drawn upon Weapons' customary source for command, but was rather the 
unknowing strength a mother might use in the frantic haste to rescue her 
child from under a heavy car.  {No!  No!  No!  Feel for them!  They are 
hurting...they are dying!}  
	The burgeoning empathy Ghydin had been holding within himself flooded 
into his hierarchy.  These were not sprites created from digital 
imagination, but flesh and blood suffering horrible pain, grinding pain.  
Ghydin felt Captain abruptly distance himself from the weapons hierarchy, 
slam up partitions of solid code to stop the rest of the sub-collective 
from following the infected portion into utter collapse.
	All over the cube, systems closely associated with the tactical drones 
failed, subhierarchies falling apart as confused minds quested for 
leadership.  Tractor emitters powered down; couplings to disruptors 
overloaded; critical components fused.  Shields dropped.  The backlash of 
problems overflowed to propulsion, leaving the cube dead in space.  Over 
one third of the weapons hierarchy immediately converted to the peace 
faction.  The poker tournament dissolved as 186 of 300 spontaneously 
admitted he had been cheating.
	The computer on Felon Bob quietly burped and re-established a stable 
warp bubble.  The decrepit barge wobbled off towards its destination at 
warp 2.  Regis had been accidentally knocked unconscious by the flailing 
dance of the sole crewman with decent medical experience; and Ichik, 
convinced he was soon to die, was hacking into records to discover the 
identity of the politician so that he or she would be sure to reach Hell 
first.  Of the prisoners and the rest of the crew, none had any idea they 
had been under attack by one of the most feared civilization of the 
galaxy. 
	Ghydin stood motionless in his alcove, staring with unseeing eyes at 
nothing.  Those poor, poor people.  The visions persisted, random 
multimedia memories of sight, of sound.  The screams of agony!  The 
blood!  The stress in the alien's voice!  The muted growl of ill 
functioning life support!  In his shock, he did not acknowledge the 
ranting by Captain, or the multitude of other voices, asking for an 
explanation for the weapon hierarchy's utter collapse, of why many drones 
were happily etching, lasering, painting emblems of peace and harmony all 
over the interior bulkheads.
	{I need to visit Assimilation,} choked Ghydin, {and I need to visit him 
now.}

	"Are you prepared?" asked Assimilation.  Not 'Are you positive you wish 
to do this?' or 'Did you know you are insane?'  A simple question, 
rhetorical in nature:  one could not prepare to have one's mind stripped 
to its bare essentials, self sundered and then rebuilt upon new 
foundations.  Ghydin would truly be reduced to nothing more than memories 
which the new drone would (or would not) use.
	It was the only logical option.
	Ghydin /knew/ Weapons was somewhere in the blackness, locked away.  
Perhaps he was inadvertently lost due to the trauma associated with 
having a large chunk of metal fall on his head; perhaps he was having a 
sick joke on Ghydin's behalf, watching from behind a blind and laughing.  
Or perhaps, he really was gone, artificially constructed personality 
shard shattered.  The problem with the depressing thoughts revolving 
around possible demise of Weapons was that in the case of shattering, the 
stray bits and pieces should have melded with Ghydin.  
	Ghydin felt nothing remotely Weapons-like swirling around in his psyche.  
The violence, the drive, the ambition, the self-destructive lust were not 
present.  Ghydin felt, well, like Ghydin.  He felt like the inoffensive 
wandering pilgrim he had been before he met his "death" by the Borg.  He 
knew intimately after nearly three decades of silent watching who Weapons 
was, what Weapons was.  And while Ghydin did not approve of Weapons (few 
in the sub-collective did) and his methods, Ghydin also knew none of the 
qualities which made Weapons a somewhat capable tactical hierarchy head 
were available for the current body owner-operator to use.
	Living as a disembodied mental shade allowed one to quickly 
psychoanalyze oneself.
	The conundrum of escaping the position of hierarchy head was that the 
neural signature associated with the designation 45 of 300 had to die.  
Physical death was distasteful to Ghydin, not when his body could still 
serve the Collective.  If it wasn't for the forced position of Weapons, 
Ghydin would have had no problem wishing the original Weapons good-bye 
and becoming one more imperfect drone within the sub-collective.  
Unfortunately, as Captain had succinctly said "wants were irrelevant," 
and so, while the mind known as Ghydin would die in reformatting, a new 
drone would rise and the body would still serve.
	Unless, of course, the gamble paid off and Weapons awoke from whatever 
box he was in.  In that case, Weapons could have the body back, return to 
his violent hobbies, and Ghydin would step back to the worlds of memory 
and shadow.  Either way, Ghydin did not have to be the responsible party 
anymore.
	"Sure, I guess," responded Ghydin from the assimilation workshop alcove.  
His final musings had required scant milliseconds.  Joints locked and 
eyes closed as the assimilation hierarchy began the indelicate procedure 
tearing apart the resident personality.

	{What the hell is going on?} yelled Weapons as his simulation melted 
around him.  Cube #347 had been leading the bloody fight in the 
Federation, key element in the final push towards Terra.  The gas giant 
colonies had all fallen, as well as Mars; both Earth's moon and the 
asteroid belt were faltering.  Millions of drones, many assimilated 
humans, waited to descend upon the Federation capital itself, with the 
Cube #347 weapons hierarchy in the vanguard.  Best of all, Weapons was 
primary facilitator, Hierarchy of Eight (and all suitable replacement 
drones) lost early in the spectacular engagement; and Delta was 
undergoing mental lobotomy and conversion to a tactical specialty.
	It had never crossed his mind to wonder why Captain had allowed such an 
egotistical and utterly irrelevant simulation to proceed.  Admittedly 
Captain did not care what Weapons did in BorgCraft as long as real 
battles were moderately efficient and the cube emerged intact, but the 
simulation had crossed the unmarked line quite a while ago.
	A shadow punched through disintegrating walls, wincing as sickly green 
disruptor fire sliced by in a near miss.  A vaguely familiar voice, a 
voice which Weapons belatedly recognized as a variation of his own:  
{Finally I've found you.  Finally, finally, finally.  I thought I could 
stand stoic in the face of my personality demise, but I am a coward.  I 
flee the same way I did when the Borg first did this, even if I didn't 
realize what I was doing at the time.  Last time the sensation 
was...indescribable; this time I feel as each string of me is 
disconnected.  You have to save me, you have to save yourself, you have 
to save us!}
	{The victory,} said Weapons as the final shreds evaporated.  He 
frowned...where were the others of his hierarchy?  It was time for the 
post-simulation analysis.  For that matter, why was he not seeing the 
familiar view from his alcove tier although his eyes were wide open.  It 
felt like he was locked in a closet with only a few photons for 
illumination.
	Somewhere, beyond the room's unknown door, a monster snuffled.  
Something crashed; metal squealed as if bending under extreme pressure.
	{They are following me!  Too efficient!  Too efficient!}  The babbling 
shadow controlled itself.  {I am Pilgrim Ghydin.  Do you remember me?}
	Weapons snorted, {Of course I do.  You are that wimpy part of me 
associated with the bulk of the preassimilated memories I have not 
purged.  You are usually hiding, afraid of violence; why are you here?}  
He peered around, squinting, but the darkness did not lift.  Outside, the 
noises were becoming louder.
	A shudder seemed to go through the misty form.  {I'm fading.  I can feel 
it.  Very unpleasant.  I can also feel that you, the fundamental Weapons 
part of us, is all balled up in this corner of my psyche.  All the nasty 
bits wadded together and unconsciously ignored by me until there was 
nowhere else to retreat.}  An urgency colored the voice.  {You must 
hurry!  I found you, but it is almost too late.  This is the last refuge, 
and soon they will tear it apart too!}
	You are One.  You belong to Us.  Do not resist.  Resistance is futile.  
A whispered chanting, a devil's chorus of angels, murmured in the 
distance.  Closer, the rattling of an insecurely locked door echoed. 
	Weapons blinked, {That sounds like...}
	{Yes it is!  It is the assimilation hierarchy.  They are reformatting 
us, sundering us in preparation to spin a new personality.  Only you can 
stop it, only you have the strength.  Perseverance in face of adversary 
became a facet of your shard, not mine.  I can only flee.}  The 
increasingly indistinct form huddled against the dark wall, voice little 
more than a gentle breeze fluttering the leaves of a vast tree.  Ghydin 
was fading fast.
	{They threaten me?  Wipe my mind when I am not dead?} snarled Weapons.  
{I do not think so.}  The closet door crashed open, revealing a blinding 
light of white and green.  Weapons charged into it, shouting, {What the 
hell do you think you are doing?  You will desist these actions 
immediately, else I'll find you in your alcove and take you apart with a 
lug wrench and a rusty hacksaw!  You will comply!}  The door swung close, 
returning the space to metaphorical darkness.
	Ghydin exhaled a profound sigh of relief as he curled into a tight fetal 
ball.  The assimilation hierarchy was beginning to slow its rampage, 
caught in surprise by the apparent resurrection of Weapons in full fury.  
Weapons would set all straight, would reclaim his body as his own, would 
return to his place as the correct head of the weapons hierarchy.  By, as 
he was wont to emphasize, any means necessary.