The Star Trek franchise is owned by Paramount. Star Traks was created by Decker. I write BorgSpace. I could be a bit more creative with this disclaimer, but my brain hurts.

The Cows of Shangrila

"I say," shouted Bosie, "bartender! Bring me and my friends some more of that good ale! We are celebrating!"

The orange-skinned humanoid behind the bar paled to a shade somewhere between tangerine and peach. He was no stranger to rowdy crowds and drunken customers, but the...things...which lounged around their table were an entirely new breed of trouble. After that incident they had precipitated, complete with pointy weapons plus a rather novel and sadistic use of a disrupter from what he had heard, not even station peacekeepers were willing to tangle with the group.

"Bartender!" bellowed Bosie again.

The bartender quickly poured the pitchers of ale and skittered to the table. Other than these half dozen customers, the bar was prudently empty. He wished he was elsewhere as well. Doubly maddening, the sixsome did not have the appearance of those who would be paying their tab.

Bosie looked the humanoid up and down, menace reflected in her single brown eye (the other was covered by a patch) and in the curve of her horns. "About time." She snorted with amusement as the bartender hurriedly put down the pitchers and retreated to the relative safety of the bar. "Eh," she sighed, "I wish we could trample the lot of them."

Rocking on her stool and listening to the plastic composites creek, Dobbie shook her large head. "Bertha'd have a calf, and you know it. Besides, they're be time for that later. Remember our destiny; and remember the plan has to be complete before we can find a little planet to conquer and call our own."

Bosie frowned, then picked up a knife in her stubby fingers. She proceeded to carve a lewd picture in the table top. Without looking up, she replied, "Destiny, planet, whatever. Only one more to go...I've been keeping count."

Derry stopped filing her horny nails to regard Bosie. "Numbers? You? Give me a break! If you can count to three, I'd be surprised."

"Why you little..." howled Bosie as she leapt across the table to tangle with her shipmate. The other four at the table carefully raised their mugs of ale above the action, least they be tipped. "Right-o," said Dobbie, watching the two brawlers as they rolled on the ground and through bar furniture, "as soon as the fun is over, we'd best be heading back to the shuttle. Bertha will be at the rendezvous point in two days, and we don't want to make her wait. She can be a hell of an evil cow when she gets it in her mind." Derry's companions nodded in agreement, then turned to regard the live entertainment.

*****

"And I heard the Word!" Pause. "And the Word was good!" Pause. "And the Word told me of Togetherness! And it told me of Being Useful! And, most especially, it told me of cows! Lots of cows! So many cows that they were like a divine herd of locusts upon the land, calling out their wisdom to the night sky! Hallelujah! Rejoice!" preached 21 of 39 to the nanites in vat #6 of Nanite Assembly Room #10. "Remember, little brothers and sisters, it is up to /you/ to bring Togetherness; and it is up to /you/ to transform the slovenly masses into Utility! Only when Shangrila is reached will cows be granted, only then!"

The microscopic machines of metal, DNA, and proteins floating in nutrient growth brew did not respond, not even at the appropriate pauses. They were nanoprobes, after all, a tool no more intelligent than a hammer or a screwdriver. That fact, however, did not stop 21 of 39 from his daily self-imposed rounds. Vat #7 was next.

21 of 39 had once been a pastor of the Ministry of Universal Unitarianism, Togetherness, and Infinite Cows. Most people just referred to is as MUUTIC. 21 of 39 had not just been a pastor, but one of the ten founding fathers (and mothers) of the cult. A former rancher of meat animals, he had seen the light after taking a hoof to the head and receiving a vision (and concussion). In the prophecy, the beast had spoken to him, told him of the purity of cows, of what the herd could teach sentient beings, and given him his destiny; and the cow had also imparted a stupendous poultry marinade and suggested fowl was a better dietary option than red meat. From those humble roots, both MUUTIC and a multi-billion credit fast-food company were born.

The drone in question was a small humanoid of species #7103. Ears low of the head and an intricate series of nose and chin ornamentation separated his race from the thousands of similar others in the galaxy. He had an undefinable aura of "dapperness" about him, even as a Borg, as well as what could only be called an earnest quality. When another drone conversed with 21 of 39, the talker would inevitably receive a feeling of intense listening from 21 of 39, as if the words being spoken were the most important ones in the cosmos. If these somewhat unnerving qualities were but a shadow of the original person, what a formidable and charismatic persona 21 of 39 had once been.

Now, 21 of 39 was reduced to preaching to nanomachines. He didn't mind: his audience was appreciative, in an earless, mindless sort of way.

"Do you know of the Word? Do you know of cows? Do you know of Shangrila and of Xanadu? Let me tell you, little brothers and sisters, let me tell you!"

*****

Bertha was a statuesque image of a genetically engineered super Amazon, a vision of perfection. She was tall at 2.5 meters, with powerful legs and smooth muscles. Every feature of her was exquisitely sculpted, molded from the petrii dish of an artist. Her horns were tapered just so, her hooves neatly trimmed, her hide a delicate swirl of creamy brown, and her eyes limpid wells to loose one's soul in. Yes, Bertha was the perfect cow (or Bovine as she insisted with a capital "B").

The Bovines were a designed master race. Well, the "master" part would come in the future once a few planets had been conquered and several populations enslaved, but that was the destiny of /every/ well designed genetic construct. It was in the genes, Bertha liked to espouse: the creators had installed into their subjects the seeds of their own destruction.

The origin of Bertha and her Bovine companions was obviously of the livestock persuasion. Beyond being able to stand erect (four legs were only necessary during advanced pregnancy) and having hands instead of hooves in the appropriate place, the resemblance to bovinity was very strong. Most notable was the udder which was slung just forward of the hind legs low on the belly. It was a very complex bra which hooked behind and above the hips that was required to make the ultimate hallmark of cowliness manageable. No Bovine would ever contemplate ridding herself of the udder, no matter how cumbersome the bra, because of its trademark status. The only other clothes the Bovine Amazons tolerated was a many pocketed apron and, very occasionally, a straw hat decorated with one or two plastic daisies.

Bovines had been created on Shangrila, an idyllic, out-of-the-way jungle paradise planet discovered by the MUUTIC co-founders. Without a sentient population, and indeed, without animals higher on the faunal evolutionary ladder than a shrew, the founders found it a perfect place to delve into the mysteries of bovinity, to create a super cow to shed light upon a dark universe. Thus, top genetic engineers from a variety of races were recruited by MUUTIC to build a livestock angel. True, many of the engineers and scientists came more for the chance to live on a tropical planet with a low cost of living, but the MUUTIC founders were prosaic businessbeings and quite satisfied with a nominal pledge of allegiance to the cult in exchange for expertise unable to be gained otherwise. Unfortunately, none of the ten founders had been able to see their grandiose plans come to fruition, some dying and others just drifting away as younger leaders rose to power and the original vision was warped, as ideas are prone to do.

Fast forward over five hundred years, and the cult has grown and thrived during Dark War, the Hive era, and beyond. The sect, now recognized as an established religion, has become mainstream in many corners of the galaxy; and the secret poultry marinade has won the fowl cook-off contest on Traxlas III more often than nought since the competition began. Shangrila is no longer a backwater paradise on the rim of the quadrant, but rather the primary pilgrimage endpoint of cow crazy practitioners, along with Xanadu (alpha quadrant), Eden (gamma quadrant), and El Dorado (delta quadrant - pending). And the cows? The cows were Bovines.

On Shangrila, the intelligent, bipedal race of Bovines had everything they could desire. Exquisite delicacies from a thousand worlds came upon demand; and tri-TV programs of infinite variety were available. On the jungle planet of Shangrila, a Bovine simply had to speak a request and hundreds of pilgrims would jump to make it so, no matter how expensive, ludicrous, or difficult, just in case a word of wisdom might be imparted from cow lips. The Bovines were spoilt beyond belief, minds unable to focus upon anything but personal pleasure. It was cow paradise.

Not all was happy on Shangrila, unfortunately, and a group of evolved cows, led by Bertha, took the time to exercise brains the teams of long-dead genetic wizards had given them. In a few select barns (luxury mansions which resembled barns, not drafty buildings), tri-TV's were tuned not to the latest soap opera or sporting event, but to news reports and political pundits. Books which were not the latest comic were borrowed from the library for in-depth examination. The sugar and saccharine sweetness which was Shangrila was rejected.

Escaping the planet was easy. No Bovine had ever wanted to leave before, content to remain the narcissistic center of attention, and so the demands Bertha and company made were followed without thought. They were cows, after all. After kidnapping several bulls, it had been simplicity to order a ride to orbit and hijack the first likely ship - the private yacht Bummin' Around. By the time pilgrims and planet officials had realized what was occurring, the Bovines had transwarped far away.

Bertha and her Bovines quickly found that their herd was very imposing, especially when wearing tight pseudo-leather aprons while wielding large phaser rifles and pointy weapons with serrated edges. That realization, along with never really having learned what the word "no" meant, allowed Bummin' Around to transmogrify into Hell's Bovines. From private yacht cruising the galaxy looking for the ten most pleasant paradise planets to mean vessel sporting every top-of-the-line weapon able to be crammed in or on the hull and powered by a core more fitting to a battleship twelve times its moderate tonnage, Hell's Bovines was not a ship to cross. More than one pirate or enterprising customs patrol boat - there was a difference? - had swooped upon the apparently defenseless and slow yacht to demand a heave-to for boarding, only to find the tables turned as the Bovines made off with earlier confiscated loot.

Bertha munched through her immense salad, occasionally waving a fork to make a point to her Bovine crew. They numbered fifteen in all, not including the males. Of course, as the bulls only served one function on the ship and were thus not required for their brains, the fact that they weren't at the dinner-meeting was not surprising: the two males hardly ever ventured from their cushy quarters. "So we've located the final MUUTIC co-founder, have we? Where's the body, ashes, bones, whatever?"

Dobbie, who served as second-in-command when she wasn't kicking tail, nervously put down the spoon to her cream of tomato soup. "Well, there's this slight problem. Lass confirmed that the subject is alive."

Bertha blinked. "Alive? He'd be over five centuries old! His race isn't one of those super long-lived types, is it?"

"No. By all rights he should be decently dead like the others," replied Dobbie. "The last co-founder is a Borg. Lass has pinpointed the ship designation, as well as some leads on where it was as of a couple of weeks ago. It was involved in that big mess in the Quantra system that was on the news."

"Borg..." Bertha mused. "Well, I've heard that they've gone back to that non-reactive mode when strangers beam on the ship. The Hive, I guess, had broken that habit, but there were several resets after their return to Borg. We'd better take advantage of that blindness while we can. So, Mertle, the cloak working?"

Mertle, a petite (relatively speaking) black and white Bovine with a penchant for engineering, nodded. "Like a charm. Those modifications we liberated from that lost Klingon battlecruiser really helped. I only wish we hadn't have been forced to destroy the ship."

"You know how Klingons are, all that honor stuff. It had to be done," said Bertha as she took another bite of salad.

Mertle shrugged. She really didn't care what happened to the beings on board, only that there had been several fascinating bits of technology she would have liked to incorporate into Hell's Bovines. Oh well, there would always be another battlecruiser or the like on another day.

There had not been much to do on Shangrila, at least not when one was a cow. After reading way too many books and watching way too much television, the Bovines had constructed a notion of revenge which was as much influenced by fiction as it was by fact. That, and the belief that it was the genes which were driving the need to destroy their creators, never mind the fact that the other Shangrila Bovines remained perfectly happy despite pleadings by Bertha to join her company, allowed them to rationalize bringing havoc down upon beings whose only crime was to possess the remains of long-dead MUUTIC founders. The truth was, the Bovines /liked/ being Bad, so different from their life on Shangrila. Of course, considering the sweetness and light of the MUUTIC pilgrimage world, it was a miracle Bovines had not snapped sooner.

Bertha loudly crunched through the rest of her salad. "So, it is decided. Lass, try to find us a more recent trail on our target, but in the meantime, we'll set course for the Quantra system. Agreed?"

The crew lowed their agreement.

*****

Cube #347 orbited a nameless, numbered planet in a nameless, numbered system, effecting minor maintenance. The planet's moon was rich in several easily recoverable ores which were duralloy precursors. Engineering was thus able to manufacture the struts and plates necessary for sub-hull work without dipping into stockpiled supplies. The busy cube did not note the arrival of a cloaked yacht, nor "see" the Bovine Amazons as they casually strode around the ship following directions from a recently stolen quintcorder unit.

21 of 39 quietly stood before the opened panel of a data relay and storage distribution array midway down corridor 18 of subsection 21, submatrix 7. It was one of several such arrays of crystalline biochips which lined this and several adjacent corridors, functioning as part of the noncentralized computer hardwired into Cube #347. As command and control tested each element of the currently exposed array, 21 of 39 listened. Those chips which failed were removed by 21 of 39, then replaced from a bucket next to his feet.  

This type of routine maintenance fell in the fuzzy area between bailiwicks of engineering and command and control. Technically, an engineering drone should have been standing in 21 of 39's place while command and control tested the array, one of the fundamental components of the onboard data system. However, as Delta was busy organizing her hierarchy to complete the task of duralloy strut manufacture, she had told command and control either to do the simple job themselves, else get in line for engineering's services. It was a very long maintenance list which currently floated in the dataspaces, much of it taken up by Weapons, who had broken parts of the hologrid again. Consequently, command and control had opted to do the routine array upkeep.

A very large shadow fell over 21 of 39. As the luminescent panels which provided light in this part of the cube were barely adequate to cast shadows, the fact that one had fallen upon him was impressive. Automatically 21 of 39 checked locations of drones in his region to determine who was standing behind him. It may have been easier to simply turn around, but that would have necessitated extra physical exertion. 21 of 39 was surprised as no designations were returned upon his query; and he was even more dumbfounded as an unBorg hand clamped down upon his shoulder, forcing him to turn despite the not inconsiderable weight granted by light armor and implants. 

"Cows!" he said as he recognized the four forms standing before him. "Wow! Excuse me." 21 of 39 turned and quickly replaced the biochip at socket 239 before returning attention to the large Bovines. He was far from alarmed at the appearance, and that mental quietness meant no alarms rang within the dataspaces. "Cows!"

"We are Bovines," rumbled the foremost Bovine as her companions (all very obviously female) glanced at each other in surprise at the amiable greeting. A salutation of a horde of drones had obviously been expected, not genial words. The lead cow held a bayonet-mounted phaser rifle which took on the aspects of a handgun in her grip. "You are coming with us."

21 of 39 replaced the biochip at socket 251, tossing the defective element in the discard bucket. "Sure. No problem. Will we be leaving now or later?"

The Bovines were taken aback: this is not how they had envisioned the encounter. All four eyed each other, communicating through raised eyebrows and flicked ears. This was the feared Borg Collective? They did not realize that the drones of this particular cube were quite a bit different from the norm. "Um...right now would be best."

"Okay," replied 21 of 39. "Let us go."

The lead Bovine nodded her massive head, then called for a beam back to Hell's Bovines with her prisoner. At that point the cube finally noticed something was amiss for it was not everyday, even on Cube #347, that a drone signature disappeared from the ship, only to reappear several dozen meters off the hull. Theoretically 21 of 39 should have been floating in his own orbital trajectory around the planet, but such was not the case when sensors focused on that region of space.

{21 of 39,} demanded Captain, {what has just occurred?}

{I've just been kidnapped by divine cows! Whee!} excitedly relayed 21 of 39. {I'll be back promptly. They are just like the vision I had of Bovines before I was assimilated, just like my vision for Shangrila. Well, they appear to be a slight more aggressive, but one can't expect everything to be....} 21 of 39's voice abruptly cut and the exterior sensor grid noted the characteristic sign of a small vessel entering transwarp.

One of Cube #347's drones had just been stolen. The cube would have to pursue...as soon as all the drones currently on the moon mining ore were retrieved, Delta's work areas were secured, and so forth and so on with the long list of necessary delays.

*****

Bertha walked through the virtual recreation of the bull quarters, trailed by Dobbie. The yacht had come with a small holoroom and a variety of rather steamy programs. After tossing the porn, the holoroom had become both a training ground for away missions and a method to watch the bulls without actually intruding upon them. It was much easier to walk from room to room in the bulls' suite than stare at a little monitor and manually flip between camera views.

The many-roomed suite took up half the second deck of the five deck yacht and included such amenities as game room, spa, weight room, and library, not that the bulls ever opened any book less colorful than a comic or more complicated than the latest Jhad-ball magazine. There was plenty of room to lounge and every desire the bulls had were supplied efficiently by the ship's compliment of robots. Until now, the doors to the bulls' suite had remained unlocked should the males decide they wanted to take a walk beyond the confines of their quarters (a very rare occurrence), but with the new addition of a prisoner, protocol had changed.

The Borg drone was male, and thus it was logical that he be put in the bulls' suite even though he was not a Bovine. There were no facilities on the yacht for prisoners, so the suite was as good a place as any. The MUUTIC co-founder was not as imposing as Bertha had imagined from religion history, which practically described the man to be a fire-breathing demi-god of good. If anything, the man was a small thing made dangerous only because he was Borg. The Bovines did not have the nanos which were available in the part of the galaxy governed by the Second Federation, small machines which lent a degree of protection against assimilation, but, thus far, the prisoner had not acted aggressively. When originally let into the bulls' suite, he had explored the rooms and eventually sought out the occupants. Although the drone had undoubtedly come to the conclusion that the males were not great conversationalists unless the subject matter was sports related, he was still trying.

"Computer, hologrid off," commanded Bertha. The computer gave a beep in acknowledgment as the bulls' suite faded from view, replaced by plain black walls on which a gridwork of yellow lines appeared to float. "Well?" she asked her second-in-command.

Dobbie shrugged, "I say we just crush his skull...that should take care of him, Borg or no. After that we can burn him to ash, then desecrate him like we did the others and express mail the defiled remains back to MUUTIC."

Bertha shook her head. "I think this opportunity demands something more creative. After all, we have a /live/ co-founder here, not dusty ashes. I think a real-time transmission to the current MUUTIC leaders is in order, in which we reveal our trump card. We can then demand a number of our sisters be set free in exchange for not hurting him...along with a suitable number of bulls, of course. Once we unbrainwash our Bovines-in-arms, we'll have sufficient force to take over a nice world."

"And the co-founder?" asked Dobbie, unsure where this plan was leading, so different from their previous acts of revenge against MUUTIC. Blackmail she could understand, but not allowing the prisoner to live.

"We kill him of course!" responded Bertha with surprise that such a question could even be asked in the first place. "Once our demands are met, there will be no reason to keep him alive. He's a Borg, so he should survive quite a time if we slowly dismember him joint by joint. We'll broadcast it real-time to the MUUTIC leaders."

Bertha was a sadistic daughter of a cow. Dobbie loved it.

*****

21 of 39 was frustrated with the Bovines, especially the male pair which inhabited the suite in which he was locked. Before his assimilation, he remembered a time when he had been convinced cows held the secrets of the universe, and would divulge them to willing listeners if only they could talk; and that belief had not played a small part in his current state of assimilation imperfection. Now, here was the MUUTIC quest for supreme bovinity brought to full fleshed life, yet it was not as he had envisioned. For the first time, 21 of 39 contemplated if allowing himself to be kidnapped had been a mistake, and, if so, what he should do about it.

The bulls were a larger, more heavily muscled version of their female counterparts. Their horns spanned a wider distance; and their necks and thighs were massive. Both wore fashionable noserings of 24 karat gold and dangling hoop earrings of the same metal. As their anatomy was obviously different from the cows, the bulls wore what could only be called a full-body support jockstrap under their faux leather aprons. It was likely very sexy to the female Bovines, but 21 of 39 would have called the whole garment set-up preposterous and unbelievable except for the fact he had seen it for himself.

The smaller of the two bulls was called BillyBob. BillyBob was a mere 2.6 meters tall with a hide of black splotches against a white background. His ears were floppy and his horns a curious mottled pattern similar to his coat. His favorite apron, of which he gladly showed off to 21 of 39, was dull green in color (Bovines had perfectly adequate color vision, unlike their spectrum blind genetic ancestors) with the words "The Bull Stops Here" scrawled across the front of it in bright yellow letters.

The larger bull, a monster at 2.8 meters tall who nearly brushed the vaulted suite ceiling, was named Joe. His coloring was the sedate hue of over-creamed coffee, very different from his boldly patterned roommate. Joe tended to wear so much ornamentation piercing his ears that they could not perk upright due to the weight. He also had an extensive collection of hoof paint for his toes and fingernails, ranging from hot pink to tar black. Unlike BillyBob, he did not have a favorite apron, although he did have an extensive number of support jockstraps.

Both bulls, despite their impressive stature were, as far as 21 of 39 could determine, as curious about life beyond the confines of their suite as the average clod of dirt is interested in the adjacent field. For them, they had never left Shangrila; and, in fact, had more "things" on the ship than they ever had on their home planet. Beyond the occasionally requirement to "service" the cows, the males had their predilection for comic books and Jhad-ball more than adequately satisfied. It was not lack of mental power as far as 21 of 39 could conclude through conversation, but rather apathy for anything which did not concern them right-now-this-minute.

It was narcissism at its highest form of evolution. Such an image had definitely never been in the vision conceptualized by the founders of MUUTIC, or at least it hadn't been in 21 of 39's, from those few memories left to him after the trauma of assimilation.

Perhaps it was time to take action. It was time to send the Bovine mystics of MUUTIC back to their proper place AND time to return to Cube #347. Both were almost mutual goals that could be accomplished together. Maybe. 21 of 39, like all Borg, didn't function at his best when he was separated from the Whole. Like the rest of his imperfectly assimilated brethren, he did not go to immediate pieces like the average drone, but that did not mean he mentally functioned as well as he normally did when plugged into the sub-collective. Still, a half-baked plan with no thought of possible negative consequences was better than no plan at all.

*****

Bertha stalked into the holoroom, muttering obscenities under her breath. Finally she exclaimed, "Secretaries! The bane of my existence. It doesn't matter if they are organic or computer, they /all/ have passive-aggressive complexes. All of them!"

Dobbie yawned and rubbed her nose. It was almost time for Lass to take over the observation duties of the bulls' suite. Dobbie had been anticipating a long nap. "Oh?" she asked.

"All I want is a time when the five MUUTIC leaders can be available to view our co-founder and listen to our demands. A simple time! The whole process will take all of ten minutes, from opening to final gloating, allowing one minute for various protests and posturing on the part of MUUTIC. Ten lousy minutes. You would think scheduling such a paltry amount of time would be easy. They don't even have to be in the same room, the same quadrant, for Director's sake! But noooooo, the secretaries are obviously the ones that rule MUUTIC, not the clerics who are the purported leaders," raged Bertha as she paced around the room, ignoring the holographic furniture as she plowed through it.

Yawning again, Dobbie only looked down at her wrist watch. Fifteen more minutes, then nap time. Hopefully Bertha would eventually get it out of her system.

"...and then, the AI had the gall to put me on hold!" continued Bertha. "On hold! I told it I was calling long distance and didn't want to have exorbitant charges from the subspace carrier wave company, but it still put me on hold. I swear, the first thing I am going to do when Bovines rule the cosmos is to dismantle all secretary AIs and organics. First thing, I tell you."

"Is there a reason you came to see me? Or am I just a convenient wall to yell at?" asked Dobbie pointedly.

Bertha finally ended her tirade. "Oh, yes, that's right. I want an update on the co-founder and his interaction with our bulls."

Dobbie scratched one ear, licked her nose with an overlarge tongue, then replied, "Well, the co-founder has been trying to preach dogma to the bulls for about two hours now. It is standard MUUTIC drivel, but tends to be a bit heavier on the utility and togetherness than the cow-centric stuff lectured today. I guess there has been a shift in the religion over the past five centuries, not that I really care."

"And the males?"

"Well, Joe is asleep on the couch, as you can see," said Dobbie as she indicated the relevant bull with a dismissive wave of her hand, "and BillyBob is playing a video game. As soon as they figured out the Borg was not giving the latest Jhad-ball stats, they tuned him out." The co-founder was currently standing next to BillyBob, spouting something about the necessity of being useful; and BillyBob was paying him as much attention as he would give a masterpiece oil painting which did not utilize the latest comic book hero as its main motif.

Lass came into the holoroom, stopping short as she saw Bertha in the room with Dobbie.

Bertha nodded to Dobbie's comments, "I see. Harmless, then. I just don't know how these Borg got their reputation, I don't. Secretaries are a much worse threat. Speaking of which, I want you to come help me beat the evil creatures into submission. If we double-team one of the power hungry megalomaniacs, perhaps it will cave in to our demands and put us on the MUUTIC leaders' schedule. Ten lousy minutes!"

Dobbie sighed as she saw her chance at a nap slipping away, then the pair of them swept past Lass. In the background, the drone continued to preach.

*****

"Listen to me! Bovines are the core of the entire MUUTIC dogma! The herd is Togetherness and cows are among the most Useful entities in the known universe! You must rise above yourself and see this simple fact! You must be Bovines. You must be the prophets to lead MUUTIC back to its proper place; and give me back to the Collective. Do you understand?"

BillyBob flicked the ear closest to 21 of 39, much as if the drone were an annoying fly. The bull was intently staring at the screen of his game machine, deftly maneuvering a spiny blue targ through a game space fraught with golden coins and improbable monsters. Weapons would have loved it, especially the large ray gun which disintegrated all enemies encountered.

"Listen to me, you pathetic excuse for a Bovine," blasthemised 21 of 39 as he leaned forward to rip the control from the hands of the subject he was trying to preach some sense into. The bull snorted angrily, then rose to his full 2.6 meters, a height which more than towered over the much smaller drone.

"Why you do that?" demanded BillyBob darkly. On the screen, the blue targ fell off a platform and into a vat of bubbling acid, dying a horrible virtual death. "I was on level 43! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get to level 43? Gimme back my control!"

21 of 39 suddenly had the idea that his action had not been among the smartest of things he could have done. Over three hundred kilograms of bone and muscle, the latter toned by hours per day spent on fitness machines, loomed. "Try to understand..."

"Control!" bellowed BillyBob. At the other end of the room, Joe snorted in his sleep, then turned over. "Give me my control, now, else I will squish you!"

"Just listen to me about MUUTIC..."

BillyBob stamped one hoofed foot, causing the deck to shake. "Now!" He reached forward, radiating menace.

Inside 21 of 39, programming which substituted for Borg instinct took over. He was a drone being threatened, and he performed the only action left open to him, one which would not only allow him to survive, but would neutralize the opponent while contributing to the Collective. 21 of 39 leaned into the attack, expertly laying one hand on bulging biceps and triggering assimilation tubules. Seconds later he blinked from the pre-programmed fugue state, finding himself three hundred kilograms of Bovine already reacting to nanoprobe injection, three hundred kilograms of Bovine threatening to fall on one small drone. 21 of 39 stepped aside and allowed the bull to slump over on a nearby beanbag chair.

21 of 39 raised his eyes to look at one of the numerous cameras which studded wall and ceiling. No more than slight discolorations, his own implants had noted their minor electromagnetic signature the moment he had been placed within the rooms. By now, they had surely relayed the details of the accidental assimilation to observers. 21 of 39's attention shifted first to suite door, then mentally leapt to consider the ship transporter system, and finally ended upon the still napping form of Joe: he had a lot to do and not much time to accomplish it in. 21 of 39 shuffled towards the door console, arm extended.

21 of 39 peered from behind his wall of assimilated bull Bovine, ducking back as he saw a dagger spin his way. The weapon clanged against the large metal shield which had once been a door in the bulls' suite. Even without the benefit of surgically implanted muscle augmentation, the Bovines were genetically engineered to be hideously strong.

{What is the true purpose of MUUTIC?} grilled 21 of 39 as he followed behind his living shields. The bulls' organic transceivers were sufficiently developed to receive the mental question.

Answered 21 of 39's disciples promptly: {Utility and Togetherness, emulating the cosmic herd. Cows are a reward not to be taken lightly. The ultimate accolade is to be reborn as a cow. Therefore, we have attained the ultimate level of nirvana and it is our task to inspire others to reach our plane of enlightenment.} There was a pause, then a continuation with, {Additionally, one must litigate any entity which attempts to steal the secret poultry marinade recipe.} The deep baritones were followed a discordant 50 milliseconds later by ten other voices not quite in unison. While most of the crew had succumbed to the relentless assault of the bulls, their assimilation process was not nearly as advanced as that of the males.

At the end of the hallway was the last bastion of the remaining five Bovine Amazons. They had barricaded themselves in the crew mess. While the fivesome had not been able to secure energy weapons prior to their entrapment, they were not without an assortment of sharp knives and heavy objects courtesy of the yacht's well provisioned kitchen. A chair unbolted from the floor and hurled with great force was sufficient to make a bull take notice, and would likely do damage to 21 of 39's body which would require a drone maintenance team to fix.

Bertha, the Bovine leader, bellowed from behind her barrier, "What do you want? Could you at least wait a day or two and let us finish our revenge plan against MUUTIC? I just arranged to procure a time slot with the MUUTIC leaders. According to the AI secretary, I have a fifteen minute multimedia window to occur twenty-eight hours from now. I practically had to sell my soul to that secretary to get that slot; and as it is, my bank account is many credits lighter for the long distance charges." The Bovine peeked around the doorjamb, hand cocked to throw a butter knife hastily ground to a semi-sharp edge.

"Resistance is futile," began the bulls, but quieted as 21 of 39 sent them a desist order. They stopped advancing.

"Explain," called 21 of 39, "MUUTIC employs secretaries?"

A bit more of a brown body emerged from behind the doorway. "Bastard, power-hungry secretaries that will bite your head off if you don't call them by the politically correct 'executive clerical assistant.' They are the real rulers of MUUTIC, the AI and organic lot of them. They don't like you? Then why don't you sit on hold for the next two billion years."

21 of 39 spoke again, "And why do you dislike MUUTIC? It only strives to bring Utility, Togetherness, cows, and other worthy causes to the galaxy, much like the Borg Collective."

Bertha snorted in amusement, echoed by her four companions. "Have you ever been on Shangrila? Recently? It is a paradise, everything a Bovine could want, sure. However, if you start to look around, start to dig deep and listen, you learn we are nothing more than a commercial opportunity. Livestock. 'Come see the Bovines!' is preached to all MUUTIC followers...and you too can be a pilgrim, if you can afford the 100,000 credit fee, not including lodging or food. All I and my shipmates want in life is a little backwater world to conquer and call our own, perhaps a small sector of space. We do not wish to be free-range zoo exhibits. It is this that we are protesting; and we are taking revenge upon those who thought up the whole business plan to begin with...namely, you!"

21 of 39 was stunned. "That is not the point of MUUTIC," he sputtered. "Shangrila was to be a place to view cows in their natural environment. Everyone who wanted to come could, free of charge."

"Well, that ain't happening." Bertha had fully emerged from behind the wall, one hand planted on wide hip. The muzzles of her mates were visible poking around the sill.

Glancing up at his huge bodyguards, 21 of 39 considered. He listened to the bulls' minds and found only emptiness. The narcissistic "I" had fled, replaced by the deeper instinctual "we" of the herd. Similar were the already assimilated females which lay strewn along the path of Bovine retreat. The Bovines would make excellent drones for the Collective, their psyches ready for the strong will of the Whole to take charge. At the same time, if left on their own, they would not be able to adequately act as 21 of 39 wanted them to function to bring back MUUTIC to its imagined glory without someone in charge. 21 of 39 could not be that one, no matter his desire, for eventually Cube #347 would catch up to reclaim him to the Collective.

"We propose negotiation," declared 21 of 39 finally. "You must bring the true meaning of MUUTIC as the founders wanted it to be; and you must remove the secretary barriers from the hierarchy as you do so. No more charging of pilgrims. Bovines must be allowed to take interest in the universe. In return, you will not be assimilated."

Bertha's eyes narrowed. "But I do not believe in this MUUTIC stuff. Load of bull, if you take my meaning."

"The true vision of MUUTIC is being installed in the bulls and cows already assimilated. Several hours will be required to complete mental adjustments." 21 of 39 was of command and control, and while not as facile as assimilation hierarchy in the art of replumbing the mind, his grasp of the concept was more than adequate. "In the end, you will be the indisputable herd leader. They will follow all directives you give, no questions asked, as long as you keep preaching MUUTIC dogma and move to fix the organization back to the way it should be. After your task is complete, it is of no concern what you do. Keep these Bovine drones more than two light days from Borg influence, and they will be yours."

"And if I don't pay MUUTIC lip service?"

"You will be assimilated, as will all around. Drones will immediately begin construction of a transmitter to call the Borg Collective. If cows are to be spurned, then none shall have them, ever. Cows are a reward."

Bertha looked at the knife in her hand, then glanced at the nervously flipping ears of her companions. "What about you?" she finally asked.

"Put me in an escape pod with an emergency subspace transmitter."

"Deal."

21 of 39 was forced to wait in the escape pod for nearly fifty-six hours before Cube #347 arrived. That amount of time, combined with the hours already spent on the Hell's Bovines, had brought him almost to the point of forced stasis without benefit of alcove. Through it all, the transmitter he had modified screamed into subspace for the nearest Borg vessel to retrieve a lost drone. The question was if Cube #347 would arrive to find a functioning unit, or a body ready for recycling.

{Where have you been?} asked 21 of 39 as the cube glided to a stop less than a kilometer from the escape pod. He tried to ignore the feed from the weapons hierarchy, the one which had painted the little vessel with a target lock, but was unsuccessful. {I do not wish to be blown up.}

Weapons answered ominously, {We all wish impossible things. You went without a struggle with enemies. Therefore, you cannot be trusted. You obviously harbor a strange virus which will infect us when you are reabsorbed into the Collective...}

{Weapons,} warned Captain, we are already tuned with 21 of 39. {He has no virus.}

{It is a biological variant, then, which will contaminate each of us. Sterilization is the proper procedure.}

{No, Weapons. Just, no,} reiterated Captain. 21 of 39 twitched, very much aware that the target lock had not been removed from his escape pod. {In answer to your query, we were unavoidably detained.} 21 of 39 received a download of summarized cube logs, including realignment of struts, manual extraction of engineering teams in the subhull when transporters had temporarily malfunctioned, an odiferous and sticky "explosion" from what turned out to be a pet slime mold caretaken of by Doctor, and a multitude of other delays. In the end, it had required over forty hours from time of kidnapping to embarkation upon the quest to retrieve stolen drone; and several other problems enroute had forced additional emergency stops whereupon the transwarp trail from Hell's Bovines had almost been lost. {Prepare for transporter lock.}

21 of 39 was beamed back to Cube #347 seconds before the escape pod exploded, recipient of a neuruptor lance. Barely had he rematerialized next to his alcove than in his head he felt the wordless pressure of the sub-collective demanding a memory download. 21 of 39 submitted, preambling his experiences with: {I was blessed with Bovines; and I, in turn, blessed them with Utility and Togetherness. My disciples go forth into the galaxy to show contemporary MUUTIC the true meaning of cows. Okay, it didn't go /precisely/ as planned, but it will work. Maybe. One day MUUTIC followers will know the true meaning of the cow.}

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