Star Traks - BorgSpace Season 5: First Person Plural

News Flash! Paramount owns Star Trek, and all rights and merchandising thereof. By slightly altering the title, Decker created Star Traks and avoided all law suits. After consulting with Decker, I was given permission to create a spin-off, and BorgSpace was born.

First Person Plural

The deep growl of an electric bass echoed through the empty corridors near Supply Closet #18, subsection 24, submatrix 11 of Cube #347. It was followed by a few experimental snare riffs, cymbal clashes, and rim shots. An improbable harmonica whine was drowned by the twang of a guitar. A hint of speaker overload was swiftly moderated. The corridors quieted.

"Live from somewhere in the Delta Quadrant," suddenly screamed the usually placid Borg multivoice over cube loudspeakers, "is First Person Plural, the rock'nest band the galaxy has to offer! Assimilate this, you motherf***ing small beings out there! A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three, four!" Chaos erupted in the form of heavy rock music trying to play a sentimental love ballad, with country western salsa thrown in for good measure. Through it all wended an impossible harmonica melody.

Captain awoke from deep regeneration, the computer screaming of emergency malfunctions and the requirement to abort his maintenance cycle. He automatically stepped from his alcove, hearing Second on his right doing likewise. In the air were the terrible, horrible strains of what could only be called music by a culturally illiterate person congenitally deaf since birth; and while the Borg Collective did not rank music high on the list of things which would add to Perfection, sufficient cultures had been assimilated to have firm knowledge of the artform in all its varieties. This...thing...would not be considered aesthetically pleasing to any catalogued intelligent species, unless it was a delusional adolescent band playing in a well insulated garage far from parents, neighbors, or, for that matter, any other lifeform.

"Damn!" swore Captain in a rare expletive as mind was reseated in body. "First Person Plural!"

"What?" shouted Second, quite disorganized as he was unable to disengage his awareness from a complex navigational what-if scenario he had been pursuing with portions of command and control and sensory hierarchies.

"I said, First Person Plural!" repeated Captain loudly.

"What?" Second took a step forward, hip banging off the walkway guardrail. If the strip of restraint metal had not been present, Second would have had a long fall to the bottom of the shaft, and an even longer stint on drone maintenance tables.

"First Person Plural!"

Second's face finally showed a mediocre of animation of he suspended the scenario and regained control of his body. "Can't hear you, only First Person Plural!"

Exasperated, Captain switched mental gears. {That is what I said the first time! I thought their previous instruments had been smashed, the replicators forbidden from creating new ones, and a prohibition announced concerning importation of new instruments with complete mindwipe and neural reformatting as consequence for violating the rule.}

{We did,} agreed Second. {We most certainly did!} The "we" was used in the plural sense, for the Captain and Second at the time of the ban against First Person Plural had been 1 of 8 and 7 of 8, respectively, five hundred and a half real-time centuries earlier. {They've scrambled the loudspeaker command codes: we can't turn off or lower the volume.}

Captain abruptly swiveled, marching loudly towards his nodal intersection.

{And the transporters won't lock onto their signatures,} continued Second's report as command and control tried to ascertain how to stop the undesired concert. {We could physically destroy all speakers.}

Tromping into the nodal intersection, Captain curtly ordered five holowindows to appear. Each one displayed the visual feed from one of the quintet of First Person Plural. {There are other ways,} he said as a possible solution was determined by a portion of command and control. {Command drone maintenance pathway override, bridge from command and control hierarchy, destination following designation list: 127 of 422, 149 of 310, 95 of 203, 46 of 152, 265 of 300. Initiate paralysis pathways of all voluntary muscles. Comply.} On the floating monitors, drones froze in position, then the scenes one by one silently shifted to ceiling or floor as bodies toppled. The strains of First Person Plural stopped.

{Weapons hierarchy: go retrieve those idiots. Put a temporary cargo transceiver on them and beam them to my location,} ordered Captain.

{Compliance,} murmured Weapons as a team of his hierarchy was dispatched.

Captain nodded, "See? There are many ways to deal with First Person Plural."

"Repeat again, with full details, else assimilation hierarchy will be instructed to stir your neural pathways as only a new, resisting drone is forced to undergo," directed Second without humor.

Captain stared at the fivesome in stony silence as the band tried to sullenly resist. Not only was the music of First Person Plural unformed as to what genre it belonged to, but the members similarly reflected that lack in their dress. All five had been assimilated as adolescents sufficiently advanced developmentally to not require maturation chamber time; and while they were functional drones in other respects, Captain had the opinion that several months spent in the Borg version of a womb might have done them some good, attitude-wise at any rate.

127 of 422 was the band leader. A humanoid of species #9720, his build was tall and willowy, a trait obvious even with bulky armor and artificial leg. 127 of 422 functioned as primary vocalist (when the multivoice was not hijacked) and played the electric guitar. The word "played" was too strong a verb, as it was for all band members, for it denoted sufficient talent and aptitude to at least construct a chord correctly. He was under the impression that rapidly strumming the strings while rapidly changing finger positions would be adequate for music to spontaneously occur. 127 of 422 currently wore a leather jacket with the words "Assimilate This!" picked out in sequins on the back.

149 of 310 sang backup and played the bass. Short and squat, he had the opposite body form of 127 of 422; and because he was of species #7294, he had one additional limb pair besides, marking him as a bipedal hexapod. He had applied stripes of red and white paint to himself, so he somewhat resembled a reverse parody of a barber pole.

A feather duster was 95 of 203, a duster missing most of her feathers. She was a human - species #5618 - of average stature; and on her head she wore a pink mohawk attached to her skull by Velcro. Wrapping her torso was a webwork of leather, many stickum patches to better hold the tools of her trade close to her body. 95 of 203 was the drummer for First Person Plural. Unfortunately, an epileptic millipede missing most of its legs had a better sense of rhythm.

Playing the synthesizer and balancing the speakers was 46 of 152. He wore a long robe - black - with flowing arms and a hem picked out in Borg green letters of his native alphabet, spelling the band's name. In addition to the robe, he wore a skull cap - black - and loose pants - black. However, 46 of 152's species were cave dwelling humanoids and naturally albino, a pallor Borgification could not make more pale. The result was 46 of 152 looked like a disembodied head floating above a mobile shadow.

265 of 300 presented much as any other typical humanoid biped, with the green pallor of his species #9416 skin substantially lightened by the assimilation process. Unlike the "rock" garb of the other four, 265 of 300 was clad in Terran western wear, from ten-gallon hat to leather chaps to silver spurs (shoes beyond sandals did not generally conform to modified Borg feet, much less expect tight cowboy boots to fit). He had refused to relinquish the harmonica he played.

First Person Plural peered first at Second, then Captain, and finally each other. There was no actual communication between the fivesome through the cube intranet, but still something passed between them. 127 of 422 sighed deeply, then began speaking as he appointed himself the one to speak for the band.

"The Battle of the Bands contest."

Second said, "You already mentioned that. Expand. Explain."

"On the second moon of Vespa Six every three local years a contest is held called the Battle of the Bands. Bands enter, then are matched against each other in a series of concerts. A panel of judges listen and grade, although their opinion can be overruled by popular vote of the crowd. The concert winners from each bracket, one out of three to ten competing bands, are further matched against each other at additional concerts. Eventually one band achieves victory," mechanically recited 127 of 422.

Captain looked at each band member in turn. "You entered yourself in the contest." The question was not query, but rather a statement with known answer.

"Yes."

"Too bad. We will not be attending. First Person Plural is disbanded. All instruments will be destroyed. If so much as a kazoo is found in your possession, you will be reformatted." Captain was strict, then blinked as he saw the frantic expressions cross the faces of the drones arrayed in front of him.

"You can't do that!" exclaimed 95 of 203, her faux mohawk wiggling back and forth as she shook her head.

265 of 300 tightly held his harmonica, threatening to crack its silver case. "No, you mustn't!"

Second exhaled noisily, "It is the will of the Whole. Even of Sensors, who has a different idea of what is acceptable. You are mere units. You will comply. We will not be going to Vespa Six."

127 of 422 agitatedly interjected, "But we have to! The Collective's participation is the billed highlight of the festivities! What will it look like if we do not attend?"

Into the abrupt silence of the moment, 127 of 422 directed the sub-collective's attention to the FedNet weaving that strung in the computer space of a significant portion of the Alpha Quadrant. In one corner of a trillion such niches, in a place dedicated to alternative music festivals and contests, a simple poster floated, available for access and download. On it was a stock image of a cube's interior walkway structure, small bands perched on the catwalks caught in postures of wild playing. In the center were five question marks, with the words "First Person Plural" and "Welcome the Collective" respectively above and below the stylized punctuation. The rest of the poster had date, time, and place data, as well as other standard advertisements to inform the public that it was the galaxy's largest tri-annual band battle.

"Irrelevant. We will not be attending," reiterated Captain.

The link to the Greater Consciousness began to swell, increased intimacy to the All initiated from the other end. The action as unexpected; and while Captain had not requested consensus from the Collective concerning the trivial matter, nonetheless the greater Mind had been observing. The Collective was always watching, it just usually didn't involve itself in matters of an imperfectly assimilated nature. Conclusions had been reached which were quite different from the one the Cube #347 sub-collective had decreed concerning suitable action to take in respect to the unwarranted deed of five drones. The Collective had decided image was not irrelevant in this case, and besides, with the musical knowledge of over 10,000 cultures in archival storage, winning the contest over small beings would be simplicity.

<<We will be attending,>> boomed the Collective before retreating, grand Mind already turning to other matters.

"Jolly good!" said 149 of 310 brightly.

Second groaned, voicing the consensus of the sub-collective All concerning the subset of itself known as First Person Plural, "We are going to lose. Big time."

Supply Closet #18, the formerly covert practice studio of First Person Plural, had been transformed. Gone were the lengths of spare walkway railing, extra bulkhead panels, buckets of used neurogel packs, and carboys of mysterious blue liquid that occasionally went *blurp* with large, wet bubbles. Supply closets on the typical Borg vessel were not uniform in size, but instead represented the extra space left from construction of the rest of the vessel; and since the Collective disliked wasting usable area, these bits and pieces were designated storage. The volume of two city busses parked side by side, Supply Closet #18 was a very intimate concert venue.

One end had been built up into a stage sufficient for the band, their instruments, and a large number of speakers that would have been considered weapons of mass destruction on a dozen worlds. The speakers were themselves half the size of a Volkswagen beetle and ridiculously overpowered...and much too strong for the supply closet. When used, they were set at their lowest possible volume, a mere roar.

On the stage, First Person Plural was practicing what 46 of 152 claimed would be a Number One hit. Perhaps it would have been, if 127 of 422 could sing, and if the rest of the band could play. Even though the sailor's jig 265 of 300 was playing in his own little world was not appropriate, it was more than drowned by 95 of 203's drumwork. Listening closely, 127 of 422's voice could be heard in the rendition of "We're Too Sexy."

We're too sexy for our sub-pectoral auxiliary power capacitor implants,

Too sexy for our sub-pectoral auxiliary power capacitor implants,

Too sexy, but it doesn't hurt!

{I don't understand,} commented Second, {how we are supposed to make this work. And why do I have to be physically present?} Second was in Supply Closet #18, along with eleven other unlucky listeners. They stood at various points within the room, supposedly absorbing the harmonies as per species #6019, who had invented an audio feng shui, in order to find the "best" music loci. Second, same as the others present, had lowered the gain on his auditory implant until the song of First Person Plural was no more intrusive than repeated blows to the head.

Calculations flashed through the dataspaces as the sub-collective tried to mathematically discern optimum placement of band members on the stage, as analyzed from the most successful groups among all races for which the Borg had information. Occasionally an order from command and control would cause equipment or drones of First Person Plural to shift.

Unfortunately, even the dullest drone of Cube #347 knew there was more to musical success than cold numbers and a really good agent, even if the concern could not be articulated. The Greater Consciousness, on the other hand, could not be bothered with anything as unscientific as "passion" and "heart;" and, so by extension, neither could Cube #347. "Talent," or at least sufficient dexterity to animatedly gyrate around a stage without falling off it, would have helped as well. However, First Person Plural were the drones expected to perform at the concert, drones who did not have a touch of talent in their bodies.

Much of music was mathematics, but the math of the primal emotions evoked by proper compositions, be it rock and roll or a thundering classical orchestra, were of the square root of negative one kind, not real numbers. A song could be a mishmash of meaningless words, or perhaps the odd tale about a donkey and a taupe carpet, but as long as a chord was struck deep in the psyche of the listener, content did not matter. Numbers /were/ involved, but it was of the soul, an item long misplaced by the Borg.

Captain answered Second. {Because. That is sufficient. Take a step forward, and move ten centimeters to your right. Engineering will enter at the conclusion of the song in order to make some adjustments to the sound system. You have only three more songs for your shift.}

{Oh, goodie,} dully said Second has he shifted in the direction indicated by the audio feng shui partition.

First Person Plural sang on...

Too sexy for our lower limb assembly joint structure,

Too sexy for our lower limb assembly joint structure...

"The situation here on the second moon of Vespa Six in this concert hall under lunar soil is a powder key waiting to explode. If that explosion will be destructive or not is difficult to tell. The judges, as always, are impossible to read, but the audience! The audience for this particular Battle of the Bands bout is full capacity and comprised mostly of the newest fringe element to arise in recent years: Borgers. Their overall numbers may be small, especially when compared to punk-ratters and bobbleheads, but they are boisterous, in a refined sort of way."

The newscast reporter was human, dressed in the jeans and t-shirt of the conservative, if powerful, old Terran rockers clique. Behind him were several Andorian youths, clothed in ripped leather and sporting several serrated weapons which Security dared not remove from them due to the purported claim of religious significance (as in Security was religiously attached to their vital body parts).

The scene of reporter and Andorians was foreground to audience and stage. On the large stage, warming up, were no less than seven bands, each partitioned from the next by the flimsy walls of the type seen constructing office cubicles. The name of the group was prominently displayed in holographic words at the front of each respective performance area. An eighth spot, that of First Person Plural, was empty except for instruments and gigantic speakers, the equipment having been beamed down earlier.

"The Borg band - First Person Plural - will be playing last, and will not be arriving until their call time. Although highly unusual, the Battle of the Bands Commission Board isn't going to argue. After all, at the last tri-annual skirmish, Cajun Spiced Peanuts insisted they could only perform in the loo; and the Borg cube is an awfully nasty thing to antagonize, even a small Exploratory-class."

Bored, the Andorians drifted away, pulled by the calls of peers. The so-called Borgers, several of whom waved at the camera, were adolescents (primarily, although an adult could be seen here and there) wearing a parody of Borg armor and implants. Their faces were abnormally pale, usually through inexpert application of a cheap, white greasepaint. As if suddenly realizing making faces at the home viewer was not a "drone" thing to do, they turned away, although not for long. The temptation to make fun of the reporter behind his back was too great. Meanwhile, with expert skill, the newscaster disregarded his surroundings as he talked about the pros and cons of the first band scheduled to play - Western Reptile.

Captain ignored the newsman, the Andorians, the Borgers, the fuzzheads and rippers and other fringe music elements. The sub-collective's concentration was upon the stage. If any in the audience had been watching, he or she would occasionally have observed an instrument or speaker shimmer slightly in the clutch of a transporter beam. The math was continually shifting concerning the model constructed for optimum equipment placement.

Various ploys had been pondered by the Greater Consciousness as to how to tip circumstances in its direction, including the assimilation of everyone at the Battle of the Bands. After all, the Collective would most certainly agree with itself that it was superior in all things over individuals, including irrelevant music. However, those beings at the concert series, for the most part, appeared to be in that nebulous gray area the Collective believed produced the majority of assimilation imperfection cases. While more bodies were necessary to statistically test the hypothesis and refine it, a process which had been ongoing since the first instance had been discovered, the Greater Consciousness did not wish to absorb the event's estimated 65,000 ticketed attendees, bands, officials, sponsors, vendors, and gate-crashers all at once. The potential risk of increasing the Collective's population of imperfectly assimilated drones by over fifteen times was not acceptable.

And then the concert began.

First went Western Reptile, followed by Bestial Dimensions, and then Hands of Flesh and Silver. An all insectoid species #6766 group by the odd name Technicolor Waterfall Slipper (the translation was not accurate, but when a subsection of Cube #347 attempted to retranslate it from the original language, five units ended up in drone maintenance with neural trauma) played the crowd a confusing melody consisting of chimes, bagpipe, and possibly the universe's only set of tunable gongs. Finally it was time for First Person Plural.

{Maybe we have a chance, at least not to place last?} wondered Captain. {We can't be any worse than Technicolor Waterfall Slipper.}

In the background, Sensors insisted {[Technicolor] Waterfall [Slipper]}, as she had been doing since the initial retranslation attempt. No one except her could infer any difference between what she was saying and what the universal translator insisted was correct.

{The species #6766 group had a rhythm, at least,} reminded Second dryly.

Captain mentally grimaced, {Oh, yes. We lack that.}

Through the performances of the seven bands it was obvious the audience was restless. They were perhaps a bit quieter than they should have been, not as enthusiastic. As the last on-stage band - Floating Candles From Hades - finished their song, the crowd began to chant.

"First Person Plur-al! First Person Plur-al!"

Commented the reporter, "Look at the audience! If the Borg do not get their metal-plated butts down here, well, the consequences might be ugly!"

"First Person Plur-al! First Person Plur-al!"

{That is our cue. Initiate transportation}, intoned Captain with the fatalistic and resigned emotion of one who is digging his own grave in the shadow of a gallows tree.

On the stage, First Person Plural materialized, each drone at his or her properly positioned instrument, except for 265 of 300, who had never been separated from his harmonica to begin with. The point of view for the sub-collective of Cube #347 at the concert expanded by five beyond that afforded by the broadcast camera, then extended again by four as bodyguards were beamed to the edges of the stage partition area. The four weapons hierarchy members stood motionless, arms crossed over chest, visual input darkened due to addition of sunglasses. The bodyguards were not strictly necessary, both because it was highly unlikely fans would start flinging themselves at the band and because the fivesome were quite able to protect themselves, but since all successful groups had them, they had been decreed required for the proper image. First Person Plural struck impressive poses. The audience quieted in anticipation.

Use of the multivoice had not been granted, but the speakers which amplified 127 of 422's voice more than made up for that lack.

"This drone will speak for all. We are First Person Plural! You have not heard anything until you assimilate this!"

{We need to work on that opening,} critiqued Second as the appropriate notation was added to the sub-collective To Do list. He had recently moved from alcove to Captain's nodal intersection, joining the primary consensus monitor and facilitator in watching various holowindow visual feeds. Captain, however, was not observing the floating screens, giving the barest minimum of acknowledgment that Second's comment had been heard. The many decision cascades and partitions dedicated to subtly altering different technical aspects of the performance required Captain's clear dataspace presence.

The crowd, comprised primarily of bored Borgers who had paid exorbitant credit amounts in order to see their fad's idol, cheered at the opening pronouncement. The formerly unison chant dissolved into organic white noise, gaining in volume as instruments were hefted. The more rabid of the standing room only crowd pushed forward, oblivious to the huge humming speakers.

Each band was allowed one song to showcase their talent, a single song per non-finale bracket match. The piece had to be under five minutes in length in order to avoid a competition which might otherwise drag on for days. The judges were not allowed to leave until all songs had been completed and verdict rendered. The rule had come about after the first Battle of the Bands, whereupon one group had played a set lasting a record thirty-three hours; and one judge had literally exploded when a bathroom break request was not granted.

127 of 422 announced, "We play for you, 'Assimilate It'! A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three, four!" Guitar twanged, harmonica wailed, drums beat, and speakers melted the eardrums of Borgers in the first several rows. At one audio feng shui focal point, amplified harmony caused a concert listener to catch fire, not that anyone noticed or cared other than the frantic humanoid torch.

Just assimilate it,

(Assimilate it)

Assimilate it,

(Assimilate it)

It is to the Collective you will relate it.

You will be a drone,

Yes, you can,

It doesn't matter if woman, neuter, or man,

Just assimilate!

The words were horribly awkward and the melody outright stolen from an ancient Terran rock tune. The latter, however, was not noticeable, at least not after First Person Plural finished mangling it beyond all recognition except by highly skilled audio forensic scientists. Despite the faults, the crowd appeared to love it, or to be specific, the Borgers did. Of course, many of them were now deaf due to the speakers, and, along with the required hit of recreational drugs, were cognitively doing pretty good to realize they were even at a Battle of the Bands bout.

The judges, on the other hand, were sober and far enough away from the stage to retain intact eardrums. They did not appear to be impressed. Notes were written on scraps of paper, an old-fashioned defense to electronic manipulation of scores.

First Person Plural's song came to an end. The crowd cheered, then fixed glittering eyes upon the judges' platform. On the stage, bands fidgeted nervously; and in the pits, a fire extinguisher had finally put out the flaming audience member. Borgers rattled against each other in the close confines.

One of the seven judges stood, an aged Klingon. She peered around the crowded room, then cleared her voice. The sound rang throughout the audience, indicating house loudspeakers were on. Mouth was opened.

"The winner of this bracket bout is...Hands of Flesh and Silver!"

There was a stunned silence, interrupted only by a "Yippee" from the stage area containing the named band, then an animal growl of booing arose from the Borgers. Menacing rumbles came from all quarters as threats were shouted above the general crowd noise. The audience shifted in the direction of the judges, previously buoyant mood transforming into the darker prelude to riot.

The Klingon judge paled, a remarkable accomplishment considering her dusky skin. The other judges huddled close for an emergency consultation, then one approached the announcer, whispering in her ear. The Klingon raised her hands in silent plea.

"Um, due to the rule which allows the crowd to override judges, a new verdict has been reached. First Person Plural will be advancing. Remember, tearing the judges apart is not a good thing, and will be punished by loss of your ticket."

The proto-mob had already turned jubilant, ignoring the judge's strict admonishment. Borger fans faced the stage, ready to rush it in unBorg excitement. The real drones, however, had already prudently beamed back to Cube #347.

The following two bouts had similar outcomes, sheer numbers of Borgers mixed with fear of losing skin cowing the judges. By no long stretch of the imagination was First Person Plural advancing due to their skill, but loudly chanting fans willing to perform bodily harm to get their way can be very compelling.

The semifinal match, the contest which would decided which bands would eventually face each other in a grand finale, required initiation of a back-up plan. The Borgers, although numerous, were not the dominate gang present in the crowd. That label fell to the Andorian death-rockers, few in number but very...um...persuasive. It is hard to say no to someone who is willing to self-file teeth to sharp points to show devotion, among other warped things. As a clash began between Borgers and Andorian death-rockers at the conclusion of the semifinal, it became readily apparent that the judges more feared the latter than the former. The tilting leaned back towards First Person Plural when a large pile of credits appeared before each judge, accompanied by a note that to not pick First Person Plural would mean transportation to the cube and introduction to the Collective.

First Person Plural advanced to the finals. It took Security three hours to calm the resulting riot. The seven judges prudently took their bribes (a time-worn practice which had been used in past Battle of the Bands contests, although never so openly), escaped the howling mob, and took chartered flights away from the Vespa Six moon for paradise vacation planets.

The stage was set, both literally and figuratively, for the final match of the tri-annual Battle of the Bands. Historically, the winner usually went on to fame and fortune, the newly discovered group graduating to the big time of bright lights, agents, skimpily dressed fans of both genders, and lantinum record hits. The losers of the grand finale inevitably played warm-up, small fish swimming cautiously in the shark tank. Those who had never made it to the last bout returned to their garages and their tavern gigs: only no-name groups with no prior Battle of the Bands apperance could apply to the contest to gain a chance at instant notoriety.

Four groups were in the final bout - Pocket Full of Pennies, Def Targ, The Scarabs, and First Person Plural. Each band would play one at a time, two songs not yet showcased, with the entire stage their own. For expediency, set up and take down between groups was via transporter beam. When not on stage, the bands were expected to wait in their assigned dressing rooms, small closets barely adequate for one person, much less four to six individuals. At curtain call, the group named would go to the stage, play, then return to the dressing room, there to wait nervously until the judges were ready to render the verdict.

The hall for the grand finale was a large auditorium able to hold the 50,000 ticket holders who had scraped together the credits to attend the event, as well as Security, support personnel, refreshment and souvenir sellers, and other such people. Whereas the bracket bout halls had only allowed 3,000 to 5,000 bodies to be crammed together, often comprised of the backers of one or another band, the finale hall admitted all concert goers to rub shoulders. Stiff Borgers in their costumes eyed sharp-toothed Andorian death-rockers, and old-fashioned rappers snorted contemptuously at white robed flower-child spiritualists. Tensions were rising.

Most concerts ended in a riot. It was a tradition.

At the back of the hall was the reinforced judging platform. A dais was raised above the crowd, offering the nine judges sitting at their long table an excellent view of the stage. Theatrics was as much a factor in final scores as the songs. The platform was separated from the audience by a forcefield, one which would deliver a nasty shock if brushed against; and transporter dampers prevented bribes from being beamed inside the fortification. The whole purpose of the setup was to insure honest judging, and to guarantee the verdict givers were suitably protected from that segment of the audience which would inevitably disagree.

First Person Plural was scheduled to play last. Usually the final band had a slight advantage by being the group most fresh in the memories of the judges. In this case, the purpose was to delay the horrible "music" as long as possible.

Theoretically, the bands were isolated in their dressing rooms, unable to know how their rivals were received by audience and judge. Reality was quite different, replete with smuggled receivers at a minimum which could pick up on the event's live broadcast. It was a rare group which played by the rules and went to the stage cold. With several engineers as purported stage crew associated with First Person Plural, the sub-collective of Cube #347 was present as no other band could be, but the spy game went a bit further.

{36 of 42: Pocket Full of Pennies is enroute to the stage. The dressing room is empty.} The drone was standing motionless near the backstage hallway which lead to the dressing rooms. Across her visual feed moved the four eager members of Pocket Full of Pennies, each individual dressed in shiny jumpsuits of copper material. 36 of 42 was not exactly hidden, but standing as she was out of the way, she faded into the background.

{Assimilation, initiate plan 3a,} said Captain. He remained on the cube, his proper location considering his role coordinating the scheme. The plan was simple, straightforward, and utterly Borg in its lack of subtlety. The judges would not choose First Person Plural as the winner, both bribes and threat of violence removed from relevance for them. Unacceptable. However, if First Person Plural was the only band remaining, the outcome would be clear.

Most would call the actions to be taken as cheating. Borg do not cheat. The Collective simply "expedited" the situation to favor itself. The opinions of small beings on the subject of fair play (the universe did not have "fair play" in its vocabulary, so why should the Greater Consciousness?) was irrelevant.

Assimilation sighed, {Compliance. Why don't you just put me into deep stasis between those rare times I am needed? It would be so much easier.} Assimilation had over the years become even more depressed and cynical, if that was possible; and the more depressed he became, the more paint he used. Several assimilation bays sported intricate mosaics and sweeping landscapes...which looked no different from other walls to the unaided eye due to the very fine gradations in gray paint.

Second asked hurriedly, {Can we?}

Captain blinked as the consensus cascade was initiated, aborting it before a decision was reached. {No. The active head of a hierarchy can not be placed into stasis except in cases of emergency. Nor can the secondary, Second.}

{Bummer,} said Second.

In the dressing room of Pocket Full of Pennies, four assimilation hierarchy drones materialized. The room was a chaotic mess of makeup, half consumed food items, discarded clothes, and unidentifiable garbage. A broken chair lay in one corner; and lipstick had been used to scrawl an obscene message on the mirror. Pocket Full of Pennies had obviously been practicing their dressing room trashing techniques, but had been unable to fully unleash their potential before the curtain call. Setting themselves to greet the band when they returned, the detachment waited.

{I wonder what I stepped in? It squashed, but it smells like onions,} questioned 27 of 46, {and it is green.} As the delay lengthened, the drones in the dressing room had struck up a conversation in which their surroundings largely figured.

115 of 203's eye roved as he glanced at the ceiling. {We didn't notice that before. Are those pencils stuck up there?}

{Announcement: the target returns,} warned 36 of 42 from her position in the hallway. The jubilant band passed her, formerly whole clothes now artfully torn. They were congratulating themselves as if they had already won.

Pocket Full of Pennies did not at first notice the intruders as they squeezed into the dressing room.

"Did you see that Klingon babe in the front row?" asked one band member to no one in particular as he peeled off his tattered shirt and tossed it over 115 of 203's head.

A reply came from another member, "How could I miss her? Especially when she...hey, what's going on in here? You aren't supposed to be here!" The guy had just noticed that his mate's impromptu coatrack was moving, and that there were three similar trespassers in the dressing room.

13 of 203 quietly closed the door. The room was suddenly very, very crowded.

"You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile," intoned the four assimilation hierarchy drones, the effect somewhat spoiled due to 115 of 203's head still being partially entangled in a shirt.

Pocket Full of Pennies did not have time to protest.

Following Pocket Full of Pennies, both Def Targ and The Scarabs fell to the same ploy and were assimilated. There was a tense moment with Def Targ because the band actually used a targ in their stage performance as a prop, but the animal was given to a handler just outside the dressing room door. No one appeared to notice anything amiss. The bands were transported to Cube #347 for initial post-assimilation processing before being shoved into an alcove for conveyance to a proper sub-collective. The Greater Consciousness hoped that not too many of the fifteen new Borg recruits would eventually be sent back to Cube #347, or, alternately, the other imperfectly assimilated sub-collective of Lugger-class Cube #248.

The playing of First Person Plural was, predictably, atrocious. By now, the audience had learned either through direct experience or rumor that the speakers used by the group were literally quite deadly. Earplugs were in evidence, which likely dropped the volume to a level comparable to the three previous bands. The judges in the back blatantly wore ear protection as well. Only the 4,000 or so Borgers in the crowd showed any enthusiasm during the set, and even they sported many puzzled expressions during the impromptu drum and harmonica duet during "A Mid-Sector's Night Scream." The less said, the better.

And then, after First Person Plural returned to their dressing room, it was time for the final announcement of the winner.

"All bands report to the stage, please. Thank you," coughed from a speaker hidden in the wall. First Person Plural dutifully complied.

On the stage, the Borg band was the only one present. Two minutes stretched into five, and then into ten, but no Def Targ, no Pocket Full of Pennies, no The Scarabs. First Person Plural remained outwardly unperturbed, standing as patient as only a Borg can as the audience dueled with chanted band names. Internally, they were absolutely thrilled to be on the stage, no matter the path taken to get there; and 265 of 300 was nearly crushing the harmonica in his hand (he never put it down, paranoid it would disappear) in anticipation. At the back of the hall, the judges leaned towards each other, whispering furiously.

Finally, one judge, a mousy man with gigantic handlebar mustache who was wearing a conservative jumpsuit of neutral beige, stood and tapped the side of his jaw. An implanted microphone activated.

"We have come to a decision...Pocket Full of Pennies is the winner of the 19th tri-annual Battle of the Bands."

Part of the crowd cheered happily, but they were the ones who would likely scream just as enthusiastically if it was announced that a thermal nuclear device was about to explode on their heads. The rest of the audience was silent, digesting the declaration. Where was the named band? The rules explicitly stated the winner had to be present to accept the award. That was the reason behind the separate dressing rooms, to prevent "accidents" such as the beheadings which had happened to the crowd favorite !Phule! during the 2nd tri-annual gathering. In that case, the otherwise runner-up, Klingons With Sharp Bat'leths, had won.

127 of 422 spoke, his voice carrying easily above the murmuring audience, "Pocket Full of Pennies had an...accident."

The judges looked at each other in confusion, then conferred again. The mustached man cleared his throat. "Well, second place was The Scarabs."

"Also had an accident."

"Def Targ?"

"Another accident."

Tentatively the judged asked, "The nature of the accidents?"

"Accidental assimilation."

The judge opened his mouth, as if to ask how assimilation could be accidental, then closed it again as he thought better of it. "Er, well, I guess First Person Plural is the winner of this 19th tri-annual Battle of the Bands."

"As it should be," commented 127 of 422 in satisfaction. The rest of First Person Plural animatedly began slapping each other on the back in a very unBorg display. Words and exhibition went unnoticed, however, as the crowd began to riot. In the end, forcefields were insufficient to stop the mob from storming the judging platform; and the stage was reduced to scrap. All in all, the post-announcement festivities ranked a mere 4 on a scale of 1 to 10, a mild ending not even close to the 4th Battle of the Bands controversy whereupon The Band had won over Cargo Hauler and Company.

First Person Plural, now formally disbanded, stood morosely as they watched their instruments being fed to a replicator reclamation machine by several weapons hierarchy members. Guitars, synthesizer, speakers, drum set, one at a time the pieces which had composed First Person Plural were unceremoniously heaved into the open maw of the reclaimer. A flash of green light, and the instruments were disintegrated, mass converted to energy, and that energy either used in the general cube electrical grid, else returned to elemental mass as stored replicator goo.

When equipment was destroyed, one at a time the members of ex-First Person Plural were stripped of their clothes and other wearable accessories. That too enjoyed the same fate as the instruments. When 265 of 300 refused to relinquish his harmonica, the appropriate hand was sliced off and disintegrated.

As the last set of black pants belonging to 46 of 152 disappeared, all eyes shifted to Captain. Captain had decided to be present at this momentous occasion, the day First Person Plural would die, forever. Of course, that was what 1 of 8 and 7 of 8 thought too when the group had been disbanded the first time.

"You will never touch an instrument again," stated Captain darkly, "not even a comb with a bit of waxed paper folded over it. There will be no bottles half filled with liquid in your future, nor wrenches beat against resonant lengths of metal pipe." He paused, staring at each ex-First Person Plural member in turn, both physically and internally. One by one the drones acquiesced to the Will of the sub-collective. "You will not touch anything with thoughts in your mind of how it can be used as an instrument. You will not compose songs, nor attempt to hum a ditty. First Person Plural is no more. /One/ infraction against this edict will mean mindwipe and reformatting." Captain made the appropriate notation on the drones' permanent records as instruction to future Captains and Seconds for as long as the five remained functional. "Is this understood?"

"Yes."

"Indubitably."

"Bing."

"Right-o."

"Uh-huh."

One by one, the five drones of ex-First Person Plural acknowledged the instruction. Captain combed the mental pathways of the quintet, searching for any spark which would herald a less than truthful response. They were clean.

"Report to your appropriate hierarchies and duties."

"We comply," said the five in unison. They turned as one and filed out of the replicator reclamation chamber. As they left, however, Captain could not help but notice the sound of their stomping feet, and how they were just sufficiently out of step to produce the nascent beginnings of a rhythm.

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