As always and forever, Star Trek is owned lock, stock, and beer barrel by Paramount; and, similarly Decker has reign over Star Traks (minus the lock and stock, although one suspects beer was likely involved at some point). BorgSpace is written by the Author, me, Meneks, I, myself, and so forth through many multiple personalities. Finally, Mystery Science Theater 3000 was created by the wonderful people of Best Brains, Inc., who likely never foresaw their characters visited by Borg, not even imperfectly assimilated ones.

They Came From Another Reality - A MST3K Review

The large room was dark, the only exception a square of light illuminating the tall screen. Apart from three chairs at the front, rows of empty theater seats sat forlorn, dusty, and never subjected to the abuse of sticky foods or small children. In the trio of used seats - lower right from the point of view of a nonexistent observer at the theater's rear - slumped three silhouettes, facing the lit screen, dull eyes (for those who had them) reflecting mental anguish as line after line of name or dedication scrolled by.

The center outline was that of a human. A dull human. A human so overwhelmingly average that...that...that he was average. His short-cut hair was brown, as were his eyes; and his features were of the standard Caucasian male. Average. Boring. Average and boring. Except for very unusual circumstances, he was of the type fated to spend his life at a minimum wage job, off-hours enlivened by a television. While not apparent in the dark of the movie theater, his rumpled jumpsuit was blue. Currently, this most average of humans was drooling.

On the human's right, nearest the locked theater door, was what appeared to be an empty gumball machine bolted to a squat body. Instead of legs and behind, a hover skirt rested on the seat cushion. Small hands on short arms twitched uncontrollably as the red and white robot - for robot it was - quietly mumbled to itself over and over: "My head is going to explode. My head is going to explode. My head is going to explode."

Meanwhile, a quiet snore arose to the human's left, despite the fact that robots should not sleep, much less makes noises while doing so. Nonetheless, such was occurring. This particular robot was gold in color and more or less humanoid, a construction of pipes and tubes which gave it, except for the wide shoulders, a thin appearance, especially the limbs. The head which lolled against the human's shoulder was prominent in its "beak"ed mouth, which looked as if the metal used had been poured into a mold also used for bowling pins. A complicated radar-like assembly poked up from the rear of the robot's head into a crest; and the eyes (seeing nothing as their owner ignored visual input) bore an uncanny semblance to ping-pong balls.

Finally, the last of the movie credits disappeared off the top of the screen. Slowly theater lights rose; and there was the welcome "thunk-rattle-squeak" of the exit corridor unlocking. The human wiped the drool from his face with a shaky hand, then elbowed the golden robot.

"Time to go, Crow. Movie is over." The human's voice was as average as his appearance suggested.

Crow snorted awake. "I'm not asleep! I'm not asleep!" it (he) protested, head swiveling rapidly back and forth, "I saw it all! The exploding skull that was actually a pumpkin, I saw it!"

"Don't talk about explosions," peevishly said the red and white robot. "Mr. Pumpkin Head happened over half an hour ago. Mike, let's go. I've a headache."

Mike stood, picking up the legless robot. Unable to hover over the grates which fronted the theater doors it (also he) required someone for a lift. "I still don't understand how you can have a headache, Servo. It's not like you have the biology for a headache."

"I have a head," was the indignant reply, "and therefore I can have a headache."

Mike passed through the first set of security doors, traversing the long hallway which led back to the living part of the ship. Crow followed behind, still protesting he had not been asleep. As the trio walked, Mike remarked, "I knew it was going to be bad during the opening sequence when the backdrop fabric began to flutter: stars should just not quiver like that. It only got worse from there. The dialogue...the effects...the costumes...the exploding pumpkins...the horror! Movies like that should have warnings attached to them: 'May cause brain to melt.'"

Whined Servo, "Now you know why I have a headache."

Security doors behind, the hallway terminated at the closed access before the bridge. There were several cross corridors, most leading to cluttered closets and one to a bathroom. A final hallway led to an elevator, and thence to other parts of the space-faring vessel, just before the door. Crow paused as the other two continued on. "Um...I'll be up shortly. I've been working on something I want to show you Mike."

"Oh, good. Joy." Crow's projects tended to go a bit overboard at times. But then again, besides being subjected to bad movies at the whim of a sadistic woman named Pearl, there wasn't much to do.

Mike and Servo entered the bridge of the oddly named "Satellite of Love." It was a cozy room, barely big enough to hold the human, Crow, Servo, and the other two robots which shared space in the ship. Company in the form of the occasional angry alien required crowding which would make a sardine feel claustrophobic. The current decor of the bridge was "Frat House," with faded sports banners plastering the walls and empty beer cans littering every conceivable surface. Dirty socks were draped on the console. Mike had prohibited the (unused) underwear Crow had tried to add. Servo, released from Mike's arms, hovered up to a height which put him at a position for easier conversation with his taller shipmates.

"Where's Gypsy? Cambot?" asked Mike as he looked around. The former was the ship's general fix-it robot, and the latter a mobile camera whose purpose had yet to be discerned since there were other pick-ups available for ship-to-ship transmission.

"Why you asking me?" demanded Servo.

Mike threw up his hands, "Maybe because you might know."

"Well I don't, so there. Wonder what Crow wants to show you?"

"You don't know?"

"Nope. He's not allowed me to so much as peek in his room. He's even gone all paranoid and locked it so I can't check when he's not there. Not trusting. I only tried to get in half a dozen times, you know. I barely tried at all."

"I got it!" came the cheerful yell as a hatch on the floor flipped open. The trapdoor was a secondary way to reach the lower decks; or for intruders to storm the bridge. Crow appeared with a huge syringe clutched in one hand. Mike immediately backed away, the only being present for whom the needle might puncture. The size of the syringe - suitable for a horse veterinarian - was intimidating, especially in conjunction with the manner Crow was waving his arms. "Hey, Mike, remember the Gatarian flu?"

Eyeing the needle suspiciously, Mike answered, "Yes. It is hard to forget something that turns a person purple and inflates their ears to the size of small Frisbees. And then there was all the hiccupping, not to mention the runny nose that required at least two handkerchiefs an hour. But that was last year! I'm all over it now."

Crow nodded his head impatiently, obviously paying no attention to Mike's words. "Yes, yes. Well, it took me some time, but I finally convinced the ship nanites to battle your illness. It was a difficult robot-to-nanite negotiation, but I struck an excellent deal with the nanites to allow them a week vacation. That's like a year in nanite time. At first they were willing to do it for free, but /I/, able mediator, managed to talk them out of their impossible demand." The thick electric blue goop in the syringe sloshed sluggishly as Crow talked.

Mike tried to retreat more, but could withdraw no further due to his back being against a bulkhead. A sock fell from the ceiling and onto his head. "I don't need the nanites. The flu was /last year/. I'm immune to it now. Tell him, Servo."

Servo hovered nearby. "Well, I don't know, Mike. What if you are a carrier or something? I don't want to hiccup like you did."

"You are a robot, Servo! You can't get the Gatarian flu." Mike glared.

Servo shrugged.

"You should be injected anyway," insisted Crow.

"No!"

"Just a little bit?"

"No!"

Suddenly the ship began to shake as if buffeted by a storm. The sensation was disturbing as space lacks atmospheric winds. The singular small window cum viewscreen to the outside showed wild flashing lights. It was like being in a disco carried within the funnel of a tornado.

"What's happening?" gasped Mike as the ship's bucking spun him uncomfortably close to Crow before slamming him into a console. Luckily, Crow had been sliding the opposite way at the same time.

A voice, vaguely female, definitely hoarse, echoed from the speakers. "Gypsy here. Unreal flux particles fountaining off the port stern are causing a subspace backwash."

"What's a port stern?" asked Servo. The hovering robot had not been affected by the ship's thrashing.

"Could you say that again using smaller words?" added Crow as he regained his balance.

"And where are you?" questioned Mike.

"It is our annual 3,000 light year or three month maintenance: I'm changing the oil." Before Gypsy could continue, the Satellite of Love shook again. A flying beer mug smacked into Servo, who in turn body slammed Crow as the hovering robot spun out of control. Crow wildly waved his arms as he attempted to regain his balance. With unerring accuracy possible only in uncontrolled chaos, the syringe found a resting spot in Mike's bum.

Mike went cross-eyed, rubbed his rear, then chirped "Ouch." Five seconds later he collapsed to the deck, passed out.

Servo, always quick to place the blame, accused Crow, "Now you did it! Look at that! Mike is going to be POed when he wakes up."

Looking at the slumbering form of Mike, Crow shook his head, "I didn't do it! You ran into me! It is /your/ fault!"

"Well, the lack of ship stabilization is why I ran into you. Therefore, it is /Gypsy's/ fault. She is in charge of ship stabilization." Both Crow and Servo nodded in agreement.

Gypsy's voice protested. "It wasn't me! The unreal flux particles were from the big cube-shaped ship that just materialized off the rear left of the ship! Cambot, show them."

The window went dark as the viewscreen activated. After several seconds, an unsteady view of a giant ship, cube-shaped as promised, appeared.

"It is /their/ fault," said Servo, one small hand pointing at the alien vessel. "Mike can be really POed at them when he wakes up."

*****

"Zero," boomed a Voice. A familiar Voice. A Voice with a commanding presence even though it lacked a body to house it. A Voice minus sniffles, sneezes, and coughs, although that single spoken word did reveal a residual huskiness. Following the pronouncement, the soul-shaking BONG of bell shivered cube and drones. Nothingness became Something once more.

The Fall ended.

Captain, in his alcove, carefully opened his eye and fed power to his ocular implant. No Director. Every other Fall had included the eyeball and its vague account of the new reality; and even when the "help" was not useful (most of the time), it was always present, seemingly for the sole purpose to watch Captain's reaction. {Report: does anyone see the Director?} Since the Director did not register to cube internal sensors, the computer could not be similarly queried.

A chorus of "no's" was the answer, except in one case.

{I see it!} exclaimed 151 of 203. {I see it.}

Captain carefully asked, {And what does it look like?}

{It looks like an elephant. An eggplant elephant.}

{Doctor, would you dig that crayon out of 151 of 203's brain eventually?} asked Captain as he switched a portion of his attention to drone maintenance hierarchy. Another part of his awareness was now listening to a long description of the nonexistent eggplant elephant.

Doctor responded with the intranet version of a noncommittal shrug. {Low priority surgery. Other than the hallucinations, 151 of 203 is quite normal. More or less. Digging around in his poor wittle brain could lead to turning him into a veggie.}

{And this is a problem, how?} interrupted Second.

Captain rebuked, {Second. You know how the Collective reacts to unnecessary terminations of otherwise functional drones.}

Director or no Director, post-Fall activities aboard Cube #347 continued as usual. Sensors was roused. Delta noted the need for repairs better done in dry-dock. Weapons looked for something to blow up; and, failing that, retreated into BorgCraft scenarios with the rest of his hierarchy. Assimilation stared at a wall, professing one reality was as good as another, and as boring for a useless hierarchy and its head.

Captain stepped from his alcove and trekked to his nodal intersection. Behind, he heard the hissing release of umbilicals as Second followed suit. The backup consensus monitor and facilitator trailed the primary along the alcove tier. As Captain entered his nodal intersection, he activated holographic emitters.

Two ships materialized, floating in the air. They were the only two objects of note within a one light-year diameter spherical volume. In fact, they were extremely close, Cube #347 Falling into this reality less than fifty thousand kilometers away. In the cosmic sense, it was a near collision, a side-swipe which missed by an atom's breadth.

{Destroy?} asked Weapons, already knowing the answer.

{No.}

{Just a tiny bit?}

{No,} repeated Captain as the sensor grid scanned the two vessels.

{The bigger one could be sliced in half with a cutting beam.}

{No.}

Weapons retreated, putting mental space between himself and the command and control hierarchy. It was not admittance of defeat, merely a pull back of resources to reconsider options. Weapons did not know the meaning of the word "defeat," selectively blocking his mind to dictionaries and thesauri, and purging the definition from his onboard data resources.

The smaller vessel of the pair was flea-sized in comparison to Cube #347. It seemed to be chasing the larger vessel, or at least following. Roughly 4.7 meters long, most shuttles and runabouts were larger. Of no recognized configuration (although another culture in another time would have called it a VW microbus), it was boxy; had four tires; three doors, a side one of which slid on tracks; windows on the bow; and stubby nacelles of an extremely inefficient design mounted on nearly nonexistent pylons. Occasional backfires and releases of a plasma aerosol attested to poor repair. No weapons were present, and only the most basic of shields prevented dust from abrading the flimsy hull. Inside the ship registered three lifeforms, which must have made for cramped quarters.

The other vessel was quite a bit larger than its smaller counterpart, yet still dwarfed by the incoming Borg Exploratory-class cube. It looked like a pair of barbells stacked on top of each other, else a bone abandoned by a very large stellar canine. Globes fore and aft were connected by a long spinal passageway. No external engines were visible, although energy signatures indicated two internalized nacelles. The nacelles were of better maintenance than those of its pursuer, but power from the energy core was directed to other parts of the ship, most notably the dorsal stern globe. The vessel had only the most rudimentary of dust abatement shields. Within the large living area represented by the ship, only one lifeform was scanned.

Unencrypted communications were open between the box and the flying bone. Captain directed Sensors to eavesdrop on the two parties. Cube #347 was slowed to a cautious glide - just in case one of Weapons' paranoid BorgCraft scenarios might prove to be true - as tractor beam range was approached.

Captain's organic eye rose fractionally as two additional holowindows were opened.

"Now, you don't see that every day," commented Second. Captain nonverbally acknowledged the statement.

On the bone, a human male was propped up between two robots. From the drool and the way the human's head flopped back and forth, it was obvious that he was not quite present in the mental sense. Sticks had been duct-taped to the human's arms and the back of his head, and the robots were attempting to manipulate him as if he were an overlarge puppet.

"What do you want, Pearl?" gruffly said the golden robot. A smaller stick, attached to the human's chin, opened and closed the mouth out of sync with the words. It was one of the worst cases of ventriloquism the sub-collective had ever witnessed, including 26 of 46's ongoing attempt to teach himself how to throw his voice without using cube speakers.

"Crow!" protested the red and white robot with the clear, globular head. "I won the coin flip to do Mike's voice. It isn't fair you get to work his right arm and his mouth /and/ do his voice."

"Shhh, Servo" shushed Crow, waving Mike's hand. "Pearl is watching."

Servo harrumphed, "But I still want to do Mike's voice. I do a better voice than you. Listen to this: 'What do you want, Pearl?'" The sentence was delivered in a falsetto that, unless certain anatomical alterations had been performed to the human, was highly unlikely to be Mike's voice.

At the other end of the transmission sat a, um, robust human female. She was heavyset in a manner achievable only by too much chocolate ice-cream combined with too much time spent sitting, but there was an odd sense of muscle behind the facade. This was a woman used to throwing her not inconsiderable weight around to gain her goals. Her face featured too much make-up of every type possible, turning her effort of self-beautification into a parody. She was also plainly unamused by the robots' antics.

"The big cube, you dummies," spat Pearl. "And what did you do to Mike? Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

The robots looked at each other, then Crow hurriedly said, "There's nothing wrong with me!" Mike's jaw waggled as a trail of saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth. Closed eyes began to flutter.

Pearl sighed.

Beside Pearl sat two other beings. To her left was a hairy, ape-like creature wearing glasses. He was paying no attention to the transmission, instead focusing on his arm and the attempt to pick something out of his pelt. Likely a pet. To Pearl's right was a pale humanoid, outwardly human except for a ghostly white epidermis, the top of his head shrouded by a purple cowl. The expression on the white face was one of quiet sternness, although eyes slipped sideways slightly to eye Pearl for cues, or perhaps regard the disgusting actions of the hairy animal.

"Brain Guy, do something," ordered Pearl.

The purple-robed man blinked. "Like what?"

"You have the big brain...think of something."

"Er," fluttered Brain Guy. His eyes glanced downwards, reading something. "Pearl, the big cube is closer. I don't think it is going to play nice."

On the bone ship, Mike's eyes were blinking open in a dazed flicker. He tried to say something, but was reduced to a mumble by the stick holding his mouth closed.

The cube was within tractor range. It was time for Cube #347 to introduce themselves. A channel was opened into the middle of the ongoing discussion.

{Aaaaaand...cue CatwalkCam #31.} Captain paused as he noticed that the random camera about to be included in the visual portion of the feed was currently pointing at a miniature stage upon which marionettes hung, ready for the next puppet show. {CatwalkCam #74,} corrected Captain.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Pearl. "Brain Guy!"

"I don't know," protested Brain Guy as he shrugged. Into camera view rose a glass dish, within which sat a blue brain covered in turquoise snot. The brain sank below the transmission frame as shrug completed.

"Don't you claim to be omniscient and omnipotent and so forth?" Pearl smacked the back of Brain Guy's head.

"Hey!"

"Ha-ha! You got hit this time and I didn't!" crowed the formerly silent ape-beast. He grunted as he also received a cuff to the back of the skull.

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

Mike, coming around, had finally noticed the sticks taped to his arms. He blinked at them, oblivious to the protests of Crow and Servo. "Wha' is happenin'?" was the slurred question. "And wha' did you inject me w'th?"

"The nanites?" helpfully reminded Crow as he lost his grip on his puppet sticks.

Cube #347 lanced out a tractor beam, capturing the van.

"Brain Guy," said Pearl, "I think it is time to go to the Satellite of Love. We'll have to put up with Mike and the dweeb 'bots, but it is bigger and, more importantly, it has more armoring."

As Cube #347 watched, Brain Guy squinted his eyes in concentration and rapidly nodded his head up and down. There was an almost subliminal hum from the return audio. Abruptly the pale humanoid, the ape, and Pearl disappeared from the vehicle, reappearing on the bridge of the Satellite of Love. Mike was knocked backwards, disappearing from view. There was a loud crash, followed by the tinkle of broken glass and a muffled "Ouch."

"Hey!" cried Crow. "You are stepping on my foot, Bobo!" The robot unsuccessfully pushed at the ape creature.

{[Film] in the target's [pencil],} warned Sensors. The hologram of the wheeled box began to flash, nacelles highlighted. Data, processed by sensor hierarchy, indicated the tractor beam was causing instabilities in the small ship's engines. Suddenly the nacelles exploded. If the engines had been in better maintenance, they would have ripped the little vessel apart. As it was, part of the roof twisted off.

Pearl, uncaring that her girth had turned the bridge of the Satellite of Love into very cramped quarters, indignantly exclaimed, "Hey! I just got a new paint job on that thing five years ago! And you ruined it!"

{Now can I blow it up?} queried Weapons.

Captain studied the scan summary from sensory hierarchy, then cocked his head as a consensus cascade came to a conclusion. {Yes. There is nothing technologically unique about the vessel; and the humanoids are now all on the other ship. A demonstration of our superiority is applicable.}

Weapons gleefully aimed neuruptors at the van. Very shortly nothing remained but a collection of scrap. Somehow unscathed, a pair of fuzzy dice floated amid the debris.

"Now, I'm really mad," declared Pearl.

"Cou'd someone help me up?" plaintively called the real voice of Mike from an unseen floor. "And cou'd someone stop standin' on my hand?"

*****

In a dark room, a pocket reality mathematically infinite even as it was confined, four entities clustered around a model of a spiral galaxy. "Model" was not quite the right word, nor was "simulation," for it reflected reality as perfectly as if it had been a whirlpool of stars spanning 80,000 light years. Or, perhaps, the Board /was/ reality. The whole concept is all rather metaphysical. Nevertheless, two eyeballs and two lips avidly concentrated upon the Board; and to the side of the non-room waited a hand and its toolbox.

"You can't do that!" complained the green-irised Director. Iris harrumphed at the purple-lipped Critic's smirk. "Orb, tell it that its actions are against the rules!"

Lips sneered. "It is my Wild Card. I can do with it what I want. I can play it anytime, anywhere, anyhow I want. Otherwise it wouldn't be a Wild Card. And with this Wild Card, I invoke the Reality Posse."

Orb shrugged shoulderlessly, "Lips has a point. Iris, I think you are really starting to take this Game a bit too seriously. Maybe you should just give up on this piece for a millennia or two...you know, take a bit of a break, see the sights. I hear Gythrus III is lovely this epoch with its volcanoes. At the very least, stop neglecting your other pieces."

The Wild Card shimmered in front of Lips as the Critic set it on the table which supported the Board. The Card was as much a tangle of probabilities and mathematical abstract as the Board itself, or the dice used to determine the fates of the pieces on the Board. It was also just a piece of stiffened paperboard with the picture of a joker on it. The Wild Card transmuted into Lip's new piece, an odd impossibility which superficially resembled a porcupine-spined porpoise with bat wings.

"Come on...this is against the rules!" Iris first eyed Mouth, but seeing no sympathy from the other Critic, turned appeal to the bodiless hand.

The Editor protested, "Hey! Don't look at me like that! I don't know the rules! I just work here!"

The affronted Director muttered something very un-Directorlike under its breath. When one is eternal and dang near omni-everything in the dictionary, one picks up quite a creative vocabulary over time.

Continuing its ghastly triumphant smile, Lips picked up its new piece and placed it on the Board near a semi-translucent cube. The Infinity Die floated nearby, not quite touching the Board, not quite touching the quasi-reality of the Board Room, not quite there even to the senses of Director, Critic, and Editor. Very quickly the winged porcu-porpoise took on the oil-slick rainbow shimmer of the cube, matching it uncolor for uncolor.

*****

Mike reached up a questing hand, finding purchase on a length of flowing fabric. Ignoring the sudden sputtering of Brain Guy as his robe was pulled backwards, Mike clawed himself to a semi-standing position. A well placed hand on the dashboard finished the process. Mike peered around, blinking owlishly: it was very crowded on the Satellite of Love's bridge; and there were these little specks floating around in his vision.

"I just finished paying off that van!" whined Pearl to no one in particular, more accusation than submissive gripe. "Now /look/ at it!" She whirled to Mike, nearly knocking him off his feet again, "Do something, you worm! You know how to fly this thing...well, fly it!" Before Mike could respond, Pearl pivoted to face Brain Guy. The woman could move when she wanted to. "Brain Fart, you are omnipotent...you do something too!"

Brain Guy blinked as he made choking noises. In one hand he held his brain-in-a-pan, a brain which was threatening to be dumped out in the general chaos. The Observer's words, mangled as they were by strangulation, were barely heard, "I would, madam, but someone is stepping on my robe! I can't breath!"

"I thought you didn't need to breath and all that," snapped Pearl, misery over her destroyed van abruptly forgotten, "after all, as you keep telling me, you are just a brain."

"True, but sometimes the demands of the body do tax the brain. This is one of those times. Could you please move your foot? Thank you." Brain Guy began to breath easier as Pearl shifted her weight slightly; and his face, which had been taking on an unnatural blue color, started to fade to a more typical white.

Pearl was not done with her demands. She spun again, this time stopping to glare at Bobo. "And you, ape face, go find somewhere else to stand because you are too smelly."

Bobo backed up slightly. "I'm sorry, Lawgiver, but that isn't my fault." The ape grimaced slightly as he noticed Pearl's face darken. "Well, it is, but I can't help it if I get a little smelly when I'm nervous."

"Just get out of my sight...and out of my nose, too! I don't care how you do it, but do!" A hand cuffed the side of the ape-man's head.

Bobo's eyes rapidly glanced around the small bridge, but the main egress and exit was blocked by Pearl, an obstacle he did not wish to pass. "How?"

Mike, a bit more steady on his feet, waved at the floor, "Hatch down there."

"Oh, thanks...where does it lead?" Bobo lifted the trapdoor and peered downwards, crouching slightly.

"Like, do I care? No! Get down there!" bellowed Pearl as she kicked at Bobo's backside.

The ape-man fell through the opening, head first. The wail was unnaturally drawn out, as if a body was falling a long distance, not the short meters which separated the bridge from the living levels. Finally there was a distant *thump*, followed by an "I'm okay! I only broke a couple of ribs! And my jaw! It hurts when I talk." Pearl toed the hatch closed, cutting off the words mid-syllable.

"Good," muttered Pearl. "Now where was I? Oh, yes...Brain Guy, Mike...do something right-now-this-moment! And someone call my insurance company so I can find out if I can get any money out of my toasted van!"

Through the chaos, the Borg transmission, after attempting to interrupt the tirade ("Hello?" and "Is anyone listening to us?" and "Yoo-hoo! The Borg are trying to threaten you here."), went silent. That is, would have gone silent, except Crow and Servo were trying to elicit answers to questions asked too fast to be answered.

Crow: "Where is everyone?"

Borg "Irrelevant. You will be..."

Servo: "And why is your ship such a big cube? Why not a pyramid? Or a dodecahedron?"

Crow, as an aside to Servo: "Good word, dodecahedron. That 'Word of the Day' calendar I gave you is paying off."

Borg: "Irrelevant. You will be..."

Crow: "What is assimilation anyway?"

Borg: Pause. "You will be..."

Servo, jumping in after deliberately waiting for the evil aliens (only evil aliens ever visited, after all; and the good ones inevitable turned evil after interacting with the Satellite of Love crew) to begin speaking: "Does assimilation hurt?"

Borg: "If you will allow us to explain..."

Crow: "If assimilated, will be have to watch bad movies?"

Borg, this time speaking as fast as possible, harmonics of multivoice altered so as to prohibit interruption: "Bad movies are irrelevant."

Crow and Servo looked at each other, then cheered. Turning away from the transmission window, Servo flew over to Mike while Crow pushed his way past Brain Guy. Together they chorused, "Mike! Mike! Can we be assimilated, pleeeeeeeeeease? Pretty, pretty pleeeeeeeeease?"

Added Crow, "And I won't ask for anything else afterwards, not for an entire week. I'll even try to convince the nanites to leave your body!"

"Hey! That was going to be my promise! I want to be assimilated first," groused Servo.

"No, I'm first," said Crow.

"Me!"

"Me!"

The two robots tackled each other, disappearing from camera view and accompanied by the sounds of metal hitting metal. With an "Oh-oh...", Brain Guy dropped his brainpan on the main console before his legs were knocked away, thereby losing the body's balance.

Through it all, Pearl continued to bellow.

"That's it," said Mike with determination, a resolve foreign to those who knew him. "Out of the way, Pearl. I'm driving." He pushed past the overlarge woman and slapped a large button on the console. Amid the sounds of sirens and flashing lights, manual ship control was activated. From the floor rose a chair; and from the console unfolded a steering wheel covered in a substance that vaguely resembled a blue shag rug. Fuzzy dice descended from the ceiling. A gas pedal (but no brake) flipped up from the deck. Mike flopped into the chair.

"Do you know how to drive this thing?" asked Pearl suspiciously, oblivious to her earlier order that Mike do exactly as he was doing.

From the speaker crackled Gypsy's hoarse voice, "Mike, manual control might not be such a good thing at the moment since I'm still changing the oil."

Pearl slapped the back of Mike's head as he hesitated. "Don't listen to that metalhead. What does she know? Drive." The 'or else' was a threat left unsaid. "If you don't, I have this lovely eight hour mini-series all picked out for you. Without bathroom breaks."

The horror of eight hours stuck in the Mystery Science Theater was enough to overcome Mike's reluctance to go against Gypsy's warning. Pedal went to the metal; and the Satellite of Love ponderously leapt forward with all the grace of a pregnant hippopotamus trying to jump a too tall fence.

Servo, Crow, and Brain Guy thumped against the back bulkhead. The brainpan began to slide off the console.

A loud *CRUNK*SPRUNG*CRUNCH* reverberated throughout the Satellite of Love, shivering the superstructure. The engine, which had been revving up through the gears, abruptly seized as it tried to function without oil in the crank case. A thick black smoke billowed up from the console, enveloping the bridge and causing everyone, including the bots, to cough.

Gypsy's voice cut through rasping hacks, "I told you so."

"Resistance is futile," faintly declared a synthesized multivoice, unheard by the persons on the bridge.

A seized engine was the least of the Satellite of Love's troubles; and while Bobo's smell below decks would eventually cause difficulties as the ape-man became extremely nervous, it was unlikely the odor buildup would be allowed to reach a critical stage. The cubeship, growing impatient, had locked tractors to the Satellite of Love.

*****

Captain cocked his head slightly as he watched an image of the Satellite of Love. A complex latticework of lines - magnetic, gravitonic, and something Sensors labeled [platonic] - wrapped around the hull of the oddly shaped vessel. Eyes shifted slightly as the sub-collective's attention shifted to the subspace feed, visually represented by a secondary window open in Captain's nodal intersection. A brawl was occurring on the target's bridge between the two robots (and the unlucky pale humanoid with the disembodied brain); and the male human was making himself comfortable on an unseen chair as the woman made strident demands.

{Ready tractor beams,} said Captain as he followed the plan collectively devised, minus many of Weapons' "embellishments." Cube #347 slid closer to its victim. Debris from the van sizzled against shields.

The lattice pulsed, immediately redirecting the sub-collective's focus. At the same time, Second warned, {[Island] engines activating. Sensors sees the [platonic] glow.} Blue [platonic] lines increased in intensity, followed in turn by gravitonic and magnetic fields as internal supralight engines revved.

And then abruptly died to nothing.

The visual feed flickered, then stabilized as a very loud, very mechanically unhealthy sound crackled. Even Delta winced, proclaiming {That was not a good noise.} A thick smoke swirled, reducing visibility to little more than vague shapes accompanied by coughing. A new voice, unheard previously, called, "I told you so."

Well, at least the Satellite of Love would not be making any unexpected escapes, not unless a spatial anomaly suddenly opened up. While such luck would be fitting with Cube #347's success rate for captures, such did not occur. "Resistance is futile," intoned the multivoice, Captain silently mouthing in counterpoint.

{Tractor beams.}

Tractors lanced out, requiring only two attempts to lock onto the target's hull.

Second, in the nodal intersection and behind Captain by several paces, interjected, "Why 'resistance is futile,' anyway? There are /so/ many species out there that have successfully resisted the Borg in general, not to mention us in particular." The secondary consensus monitor and facilitator followed a tangent which occasionally surfaced at the oddest moments.

"Do we have to chase this thread, /again/?" groused Captain. He cut the subspace transmission as irrelevant, of no more use. Soon there would be direct observation in the form of an assault force.

Thinking of which...

103 of 212, 98 of 300, and 160 of 203 materialized on the bridge of the Satellite of Love. The first two, of the weapons hierarchy, found themselves wedged against the walls due to the close quarters which just did not afford sufficient room for the crowd the bridge currently contained. With arms to their sides, they were effectively rendered irrelevant to the proceedings, unable to attack, unable to assimilate, unable to do anything except move their heads. 160 of 203, on the other hand, had appeared directly behind a conveniently placed Mike. Acting with programmed instincts, the assimilation hierarchy member automatically reached for the human's neck.

Pearl shrieked and whirled with unexpected swiftness to confront 98 of 300. "Don't you touch me there!" The sub-collective winced as the drone was on the receiving end of a wallop of a slap. "And you neither!" she bellowed at 103 of 212, who attempted to hunch inoffensively in upon herself.

"Assimilate me! Assimilate me! Assimilate me!" chorused a pair of voices belonging to the robot duo. They were no longer fighting, instead shouting their demands at 160 of 203. Servo literally flung himself into the drone's face, small arms waving. "Assimilate me! Assimilate me!"

160 of 203 stumbled backwards as much as he was able, ripping assimilation tubules from the human's neck. Nanites had been introduced into the victim's bloodstream. Unfortunately, Mike did not react quite as expected, instead standing slightly, slapping his hand to his neck as if mosquito-bitten, then sitting down again, blinking his eyes. He was dazed, obviously, but it was not the normal post-injection stupor.

"My brain! My brain! Where's my brain?" weakly called Brain Guy as he struggled to his feet, head whipping rapidly back and forth as eyes slitted against the smoke still present on the bridge. "Careful no one steps on my brain."

"Assimilate me!" cried Servo and Crow again in unison.

160 of 203 held up his arms to ward off the confrontation. Eyes swept over the pair as the sub-collective came to a swift decision. Responded 160 of 203, "You are inferior examples of technology. Very primitive. You will not be assimilated."

Silence reined for several beats, broken only by Pearl's continued berating of 103 of 212 and 98 of 300, and Brain Guy's search for a brain which balanced precariously on the dashboard.

"Primitive?" asked Servo, shocked.

"Inferior?" sputtered Crow, who then added, "But...but...but you were doing some sort of neck massage thingy to Mike. It sure didn't look all that friendly, if ya know-what-I-mean. If anyone is inferior around here, Mike is."

Servo advanced with all the menace of a flying Chihuahua. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" With each word, the hover skirt of the red, white, and black robot slammed into 160 of 203's head with unexpected force. Meanwhile, Crow had begun to kick the drone's shins to the same beat.

{Help!} whimpered 160 of 203.

{There is not sufficient room to beam additional drones on to the bridge,} replied Captain, {and the adjacent corridor appears to be shielded.}

{Yes, Sensors agrees,} noted Sensors, {corridor [marathon], as is the big [ball-point pen] at the other end of the vessel. Sensors says we cannot use transporter in those [dragons].} The appropriate areas of Captain's holographic model were highlighted an obnoxious pink which was quickly substituted for something both more "Borg" and less hurtful to the eye.

In the space opened by 160 of 203's retreat and Brain Guy's half-blind search, Mike struggled to his feet. He swayed back and forth, obviously dizzy. The human was only partially seen by the three drones present, but by combining the bits and pieces available a complete picture could be devised. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then crossed his eyes and began to blink furiously.

"I've enough with all these fresh aliens," abruptly bellowed Pearl (did the woman not have a volume control?). "Everyone...to the Mystery Science Theater!" The large woman pushed her way to the bridge exit, which obediently irised open. "Come, Brain Guy."

"But I can't find my brain," moaned the pale-faced humanoid.

Snapped Pearl, "I don't care! To the Theater...now!"

"Yes, ma'am," said Brain Guy.

"You too, Scum, I mean Mike...and the bots too. Move it! Move it or else!"

Protesting, Crow and Servo were herded away from 160 of 203. Mike followed dazedly; and Brain Guy's whimpering about his brain could be heard even after the main bridge hatch irised shut. 160 of 203 came out of his half-hunch, ready to duck again should the robots attack again; and his two compatriots stood perfectly still, both radiating an emotional signature of wariness mixed with a tinge of unBorg fright that Pearl would return.

The whines and clumps of doors slamming shut, each more muffled than the last, followed the disappearance of the fivesome. The life signatures of the non-robots no longer registered to Cube #347's sensors, lost behind shielding of unknown composition.

Balancing on the console, a blue brain wobbled as its glass pan settled into a divot in the vinyl, sharing space with three forgotten pencils, two socks, a beer mug, and several wild dustbunnies.

160 of 203 glanced upwards (the other two still refused to open their eyes) as a hatch opened in the ceiling. Through the opening poked a camera lens...a camera lens which quickly resolved into the head of yet another robot. The be-lensed head of the thing rotated slightly until it focused on the trio. "Got 'em, Gypsy," it muttered quietly, seemingly to itself.

The new robot was dismissed as irrelevant.

{We still see a lifeform below your current location,} noted Captain.

103 of 212 and 98 of 300, poked by 160 of 203, restored their visual input. 98 of 300 scanned the floor, then levered up the trapdoor he found. 103 of 212 peered down into the darkness which was the lower deck.

{Do we have to go down there?} asked 98 of 300. {What if there is...another like that woman. And, besides, I don't do well with ladders.} The drone indicated the vertical ladder which disappeared downwards.

Harshly berated Weapons, {Don't be a wimp, 98 of 300. There are three of you, even if one is of the assimilation hierarchy. Shoot first and assimilate later.}

Captain, in his nodal intersection, groaned at Weapons' proclamation. {Just go below and find the source of the life signature. We can't beam additional forces over until you clear the bridge area anyway. Too cramped in there.}

{Compliance,} said the threesome.

98 of 300 shuffled backwards, not wanting to be the first the attempt the ladder, "Um...after you, 103 of 212? You have thicker armor than me."

103 of 212 sniffed the air slightly, then stopped breathing in preference to obtaining her oxygen in a way which did not involve a continuous stimulation of her olfactory senses. {It stinks down here,} she noted.

The lower decks of the captured vessel were not only dark, but smelly. It was the vaguely disturbing organic smell which comes from long occupation by a single male who has little cleaning acumen, an odiferous bouquet of socks, of sweat, of dishes left to dry in the sink until such time they evolve their own civilizations. If the gym-bag aroma had been the only scent waiting in nasal ambush, the exploratory force would have been fine. However, there was also a newer smell on top, an animal smell, a...smelly smell, like that of a nervous tortoise which has been on a steady bean and broccoli diet.

While 98 of 300 had followed 103 of 212's lead, 160 of 203 inhaled deeply. {Smells like my childhood home-den,} he sighed, {especially when my secondary maternal parent was cooking. Delicious! Too bad I don't have taste buds anymore.} The nostalgic regret was reduced by software censors.

103 of 212 and 98 of 300 put slightly more space than was strictly necessary between themselves and 160 of 203.

{Something moved! Over there!} indicated 98 of 300 suddenly, snapping his head around to face a blind corner. Upping audio gain brought the sound of breathing, but little additional data.

{I guess we should light it up,} sighed Assimilation. {Then we can all go back to our alcoves and do what we usually do: nothing.}

For a long moment, the three drones stared at empty space, fighting the melancholy brought upon them by the hierarchy head. Finally it ebbed sufficiently for action to occur. 103 of 212, the nominal leader and the only one who had thought to bring a flashlight with her, stepped forward, swinging up one arm. A light stabbed into the darkness, revealing...

Revealing a humanoid with heavily matted fur. It wore glasses and clothing. The uber-stench was coming from it. It cowered down within its corner and began to whimper.

"What is it? Is it the animal we saw in the tiny ship?" asked 98 of 300 aloud as he stepped up beside his compatriot.

160 of 203 joined the duo, answering the question as species dossier entries flashed by at high speed, "Maybe Species #4313?"

"No, too tall," replied 103 of 212, beam of light never wavering from the humanoid form.

"Species #5518?" ventured 160 of 203 once more.

98 of 300 countered as quickly the conclusion was made in the dataspaces, "Not blond enough. It doesn't even /look/ intelligent. I don't think it is even sentient."

The hairy creature abruptly jumped to its feet. "I am too sentient! I will have you know that I am Professor Bobo, a...is that a banana? Oh, give me the banana! Give me the banana!" Bobo began to stomp a foot angrily as 98 of 300 held the just-materialized banana out of reach and waggled it invitingly.

"There are many instances of talking nonsentients," said 103 of 212 rationally, shadows dancing behind Bobo. "Some mimic and some even have a rudimentary awareness of what they are saying. Of course, there /is/ the most notorious of nonsentients..."

{Why does everyone always link me with the vysts?} demanded Doctor as part of the sub-collective focused upon the head of drone maintenance. The vysts - Luplup, to be exact - were technically nonsentient despite the fact they (or she, rather) could quite handily hold up one end of a conversation, devise tactical strategies, and adapt new uses for old blenders. Non-Borg civilizations might have long since reconsidered the matter of Luplup's sentience, granting, if grudgingly, that the nanites had indeed elevated her from the realm of intelligent animal to thinking creature. Borg, however, refused to alter the original designation, and would continue to refuse until the heat death of the universe.

"Nonsentient," echoed the three Borg in unison as a decision was made. Bobo was labeled animal, unsuitable for assimilation. And, of course, there was that whole smell problem. If it was brought on Cube #347, the sub-collective would /never/ get rid of the odor, no matter how many times the atmosphere was vented to space or decks lit on fire.

98 of 300 waggled the banana again. "Bobo do tricks for banana?"

Bobo watched the banana. "What sort of tricks?"

"Demeaning and cruel tricks."

"Oh, those kind. The Lawgiver makes me do those all the time." Bobo shrugged. "Go ahead."

The trio conferred, helped by an interested contingent on Cube #347 itself. Finally 98 of 300 said, "We want you to..." The words were cut off in mid-sentence.

A more pressing problem than securing the alien ship had just appeared from Nowhere.

The new intruder was of a configuration never encountered before; and since Cube #347 retained a very large archive of vessels from the very small to the immense, from every space-faring race encountered plus many variations thereof. Start with the sleek lines of an aquatic creature able to slip through water with minimal turbulence, then stud the skin with a thick forest of spikes, a black color contrasting red hull. Stretching from either side is what superficially look to be bat wings, but in reality is a highly unusual configuration of non-nacelle engines, green-blue membrane stretched between turquoise struts swirling with oil-on-water intensity. The wings prove to be mobile as they smoothly fold into the protection of the spines following the vessel's emergence from the unReality Cube #347 has grown more than familiar with.

The sensor grid on face #1 focused on the unusual ship. A myriad of readings began to flood the dataspaces, many of them making little or no sense, and several of them outright contradictory to the law of physics as assimilated by the Borg from over 10,000 species. Even Sensors was having difficulties, which in turn meant there was no chance for the sensory hierarchy to understand, much less the rest of the sub-collective. In response, the translations from Sensors had become even less intelligible than usual, one of three words rendered insensible instead of the normal rate of one in seven to ten.

{Unknown technology,} noted Assimilation, unnecessarily. Whereas this would have been the cue for most sub-collectives to switch to sampling protocols, Cube #347 was a bit more wary.

{Blow it up!} insisted Weapons. Imagery indicated the head of the weapons hierarchy meant both the Satellite of Love and the spiny intruder. Captain, through command and control, altered the suggestion to a minor testing of the new vessel's defensive capabilities. The resulting consensus cascade confirmed the action to take.

To a sullen Weapons, Second said, {Better than nothing. Do not aim at the vessel we have tractored, not even a little bit. It is on the opposite side of the cube from the target, so there should be no "accidental" straying of munitions.}

Grumbling, Weapons complied. Captain watched an active holodisplay as a single low-yield quantum torpedo was lobbed at the spined ship: the Borg equivalent of a friendly hello. The intruder made no move to dodge the incoming torpedo as it sedately approached Cube #347. The torpedo splashed against shields, as much notice of it taken as a driver may take of a splattered bug.

A hail was received by Cube #347. Captain answered it.

"We are the Borg. You will be assimil..." began the multivoice, visual feed the same locale as that earlier sent to the Satellite of Love.

"We know who you are," interrupted the return subspace transmission. The voice was synthetic, but not of the quality or type used by Borg voders. Instead, it was the electronic overlay of someone attempting (and succeeding) to hide their identity by scrambling the voice print. The visual was as uninformative as the voice, an obscuring computer-generated black mist set before a blue background which existed only in a machine's digital imagination. "Put down the other ship and slowly back away. We are the Reality Posse; and you can call me...Captain G. We have been tracking your progress for many flux jumps, following as fast as we can to correct all the damned paradoxes and screw-ups you have committed. You are in violation of so many regulations that I won't bother to name them all. We have /finally/ caught up with you, and you will be coming with us. Quietly or not, it is up to you."

The Reality Posse - whomever or whatever they represented...the introduction was not enlightening except to indicate a technology able to purposefully control flux jumps - slid closer to the Borg ship. While only fifty meters long (minus the spikes) compared to Cube #347's 1.3 kilometer per edge, it nonetheless radiated a posture of supreme confidence. It also emitted a power signature which was similar to the Xenig use of vacuum potential, yet more refined, as a phaser is refined in comparison to a primitive projectile gun.

Still, the unnamed Reality Posse ship was so dang small. To yield without resistance would be...would be...would be not right. True, Weapons' feeling on the matter was influencing Cube #347's mindset, but it was also a general Borg belief of superiority and reluctance to give in to anything which had yet to conclusively demonstrate an ability to kick the Collective's butt from one end of the galaxy to the other.

Returned Cube #347, "The Satellite of Love and its occupants belong to us. We will not submit. You will be assimilated, or destroyed."

"How did I know you were going to say that? Well, I tried to allow you the option of the easy way," said Captain G, heavy sigh apparent even through computerized disguise, "and now we will do it the hard way." The transmission was cut. The Reality Posse glided nearer.

*****

Captain G, or Gerson as he was known to his crew, silently watched the blank bulkhead which had previously shown the walkways and stretching shafts of the smallish Borg cube. The other members of the bridge were quiet, respecting their captain's moment of self-contemplation.

Though some quirk of humor knowable only to a being ranking at Supreme Deity or, perhaps, the vast torpid consciousness of the universe itself, Captain "G" had found himself face-to-face with...himself, or at least a variation thereof. With the infinite realities out there, he had known that the possibility of one day meeting a version of himself in his line of work approached near certainty. However, logic was not the same as visceral, emotional knowing. All the crew, except Abbic - a one-of-a-kind, if ever there was - knew they would eventually meet one (or more) of their "twins;" in Joseph's case that seemed to be every reality translated, but for the average crew member to serve a stint in the Reality Posse and /not/ see him/her/itself would be highly unusual.

Gerson flipped several feathers out of his face with a shake of his head. He spun in his chair - a special, deluxe, limited edition, super-duper comfy model with independent suspension, ability to swivel a full 360 degrees, and optional drink dispenser - to face the SensCom station directly behind. "Joseph. Give Abbic a jingle. We may need it to make an appearance if the going gets a bit rough. The Posse" Gerson indicated the ship "may have technology a bit more advanced than the quarry, but what the Borg lack in sophistication and charming personality, they more than make up in quantity." Pause. "And any word from the snoops about who our employer is?"

Joseph, mostly human and who refused to divulge what the non-human part comprised, nodded crisply. "You know how Abbic is about leaving Nullspace, though, Cap. It finds subspace too 'hot' or whatever, much less an actual matter plain. 'I am a taxi service. As long as I get paid, I leave linear corporeal matters to linear corporeals.' Shall I go on?"

Gerson sighed. "No, no. I get the picture. I've heard it enough times too, you know. And the other matter?"

Joseph shrugged. "My contacts know squat. Very unusual. Tas in financial says we are still getting paid; and it wouldn't be the first time we've taken dodgy money."

No, not the first time at all. The Reality Posse were part mercenaries, part vigilantes, available to whomever could afford their astrometrical fees. While few were the jobs the group would say "no" to, they specialized in cross-reality contamination clean-up. Be it due to anomalies, omnipotent entities with little in the way of propriety, or a purposeful devising of technologies, when beings crossed from one 'brane-bound reality to the next, navigating the Nullspace Nothing between, there were always consequences. Contaminations. Paradoxes. Out-right cock-ups.

Abbic, an entity perhaps of Nullspace, perhaps not, it was always coy when it came to its origins and motives, allowed the Reality Posse to more easily traverse the Nothing than otherwise. The Posse, as well as the other three ships the mercenary group owned, could make the translations on their own, but the process was slower, more wasteful of energy, and not nearly as pinpoint accurate. Unfortunately, of the small fleet, three of the vessels were suited for the Reality Posse's specialty of clean-up, while the Posse itself was the sole ship rigged specifically for hunting, capturing, killing, whatever may be required to fulfill the more aggressive portions of a contract.

Gerson nodded at Joseph's quick analysis. "Understood." The chair was returned to its forward position and the lock set so that it would not inadvertently pivot in the middle of the action to come. "Okay, crew, our first task is to free the ship that the Borg cube has captured. Hylin, prepare an assault team to physically remove any Borg who may be on the tractored ship. Thank the Directors we are in the middle of nowhere for once, and the damage that sub-collective can do is limited. Other than that, let's take this slow and careful: scans have shown at least half a dozen singularity-based weapons, likely torpedoes, available for use, and it is unknown how many more could be constructed in a short time period. One of those up our a** at the wrong time, and I don't care how advanced our technology is, 'cause we'll be too dead to worry about it.

"Immobilization and capture will gain us the most money, so we'll try that first. Are we all ready?"

Assent sounded throughout the bridge; and implant linkage to other decks echoed the sentiment.

"Let's go, then." Gerson waved at the forward bulkhead, which was now showing an increasingly large cube. Another warhead was incoming, but it would barely shiver shields. No damage was projected; and the dishes in the galley were secured. It could be ignored.

*****

Mike shivered. He lay on the ground in front of the movie screen. While the ground was hard and cold, it also lacked the sticky hallmarks of movies past which paved normal theaters. To either side of him were Servo and Crow, although neither appeared to be overly concerned about their human comrade's troubles. Instead, as usual, they were arguing, trying to place the blame.

"You and that giant syringe and everything, you caused this," complained Servo, disregarding the fact that fault for this particular subject had already been assigned earlier.

"Well, if you hadn't have run into me!"

"And if you hadn't had been constructed!"

Pause.

"It is all /Joel's/ fault Mike is sick," declared Crow confidently as he referred to the human companion prior to Mike, the one who had built the bots. There was a longer pause, then, "But I /liked/ Joel."

"Me, too," said Servo.

Both bots stared down at Mike.

Declared Crow, "It is Mike's fault for encouraging us. He didn't do enough to control our impulses. Therefore, it is Mike's fault that Mike is sick."

Servo bobbed up and down excitedly. "Yes! That's it!"

Meanwhile, Mike had managed to push himself into a sitting position, back braced against a folded theater seat. An odd facial tic was twitching the corner of right eye and mouth. More disturbing, his hands, despite his best to control them, were moving on their own violation, reaching out to slap and/or hit various parts of his body. In horror, Mike watched helpless as left fingers reached over to pinch his right leg; and in retaliation a punch from the right landed on his left right arm. Then, of course, there were also the continual specks which floated across his vision, not to mention the tiny voices in his ears, almost overwhelmed by a white noise roar.

"What'cha doing that for, Mike?" asked Servo.

Wide-eyed, Mike answered, "I don't know! I'm not doing it!"

Pearl snorted in disgust as she watched the performance, turning instead to her own, much more important, problems. "Get us out of here, Brain Guy. I have better things to do than be cooped up in this theater."

Unfortunately, the Observer had been separated from his brain. Or, more precisely, the brain had been separated from its body. The further the body went from the brain, the dumber it became. It was able to function on its own, but the intellect level sunk to that of moron, or perhaps TV addict. The Observer's omniscient powers were intact, more or less, but without a brain to effectively direct them, they might as well have not been. Brain Guy stared without comprehension at Pearl. "Coop? Chicken?" He began to make clucking noises.

Pearl eyed Brain Guy. "You'd better not lay an egg." She sucked her teeth, stared at Mike as he slapped himself amid the cheers of Servo and Crow, then considered the theater ceiling. There /were/ two more bots on this scow. "Um...Gypsy? Or whatever your name is. You need to get me out of this mess. Oh, and if you see Bobo, give him a swift kick in the behind, just because."

The speakers coughed to life with Gypsy's distinctive voice. There was the sound of clanking machinery in the background, punctuated by the heavy sizzle of sparks. "Sorry. I'm still in the middle of changing the oil, not to mention I need to fix what Mike did to the engines. Just a moment...." A crackling roar drowned out other noises, then was replaced by the hiss of a deployed fire extinguisher. "There, much better. I'll do what I can. Cambot is already on his way."

"Cambot? What is a handless lens on wheels supposed to do?" demanded Pearl. However, she was talking to herself because Gypsy was no longer listening. "And what are you two looking at? You aren't exactly full of help yourselves, you know."

Crow and Servo returned their full attention to Mike.

One of Mike's fists balled up; and he gave himself a sucker punch to the gut. "Ouch," he grunted. A truce seemed to have been temporarily declared as the specks retreated from his vision. He was allowed to lean against the theater chairs, panting, and otherwise not abusing his own body.

"That's gonna leave a bruise," noted Servo, intrinsically unbruisable. "Crow, maybe the nanites /Mike/ injected into himself know what is going on."

Crow nodded. "Good idea!" From seemingly out of nowhere, Crow brandished a Nan-o-scope. Vaguely looking like a stethoscope with blinking lights, it enlarged nanites to a size observable by those of the macroscopic world, as well as allowed verbal communication. In a pinch, it could also be used to listen to internal bodily functions and hear tumblers rattle in Mike's safe. The flat end of the Nan-o-scope was pressed against Mike's forehead, then his chest, and finally his right bicep.

"Ronnie! Ronnie! Can you hear me?" yelled Crow overloud.

Mike winced.

Crow stared into the Nan-o-scope's small output monitor for a moment, then shouted again, "Could you repeat that, Ronnie? I can't hear you well over the explosions."

"Could you just shut it up?" bawled Pearl from near the security doors. She was ignored.

"I see. I understand," muttered Crow. "Mike, I think you have a problem." The bots were always quick to accept praise and offload troubles.

Mike rolled his eyes, then winced as Servo elbowed aside Crow in order to look into the Nan-o-scope, bumping a nascent bruise as he did so. "And what is my problem?" The words were delivered with the implication that he already knew at least part of the cause, even if certain robots were loath to admit it. A sound suspiciously akin to that of a cry to charge echoed in his skull.

Crow pointed at Mike's body. "You know the ship nanites?"

"The ones which somehow I put into my body? Yes, I and my buttocks know about them."

"Well, they aren't alone in there. That cyborg who grabbed you around the neck left a few presents. Well, a few hundred thousand presents. You've been invaded, Mike, by alien nanos. The aliens are really bad, according to Ronnie. The ship nanites are committed to fighting them off for you." Pause. "Even if they have to kill you to do it, you will not be taken over by the alien nanos."

"Hot diggity!" exclaimed Servo excitedly. "You should see some of the ammunition Ronnie and his buds are rolling out! It's going to be a heck of a war!"

"Oh, wonderful," murmured Mike as he closed his eyes. Then..."Ouch!" as his right hand began to pinch his left arm. Hard. The temporary truce was broken.

"I said shut it up!" bellowed Pearl.

The humanoid shape, features hidden by an environmental suit with opaque head bubble, leaned out of the crossing corridor and took aim. 27 of 203, who had been trying to move from point A to point B so as to better gain a visual on the nook the alien held, looked down at her chest as the transporter tag darted her chest, sharp point sinking into torso armor. She was locked upon by an unfamiliar transporter, unceremoniously rematerialized on Cube #347 in Bulk Cargo Hold #6. This was done despite the fact that the cube and its prickly combatant were in the midst of wary combat, tossing long range projectiles at each other (the Reality Posse ship with better aim than the cube); and despite the fact that even had Cube #347's shields been lowered so it could attempt the same feat, corridor shielding would have prevented the action.

In the lower deck, 103 of 212, 98 of 300, and 160 of 203 had yet to be so molested. Perhaps it was the smell. Shortly after the Posse vessel begun matching its attack vector to Cube #347's aggressive moves, a half-dozen person assault force had materialized on the upper decks. The sub-collective had had a ten-squad detail present already - examining the bridge, exploring the level (it was bigger than previously thought, but mostly consisted of storage rooms and one well used bathroom needing a scrub), and attempting to gain access through the many security doors which blocked access to the Satellite of Love crew and refugees. The assault had not been expected; and now there were only four drones left in the upper level, all of assimilation hierarchy and all, thus, lacking drone-mounted weaponry.

{Can we come back, now?} asked 103 of 212. The trio crept through aromatic darkness, slowly leaving behind the scent (and Bobo) as they traveled towards the stern of the long vessel. Attempting to find access to the shielded area from below was their sub-collective mandated chore. 103 of 212 swung her flashlight back and forth in front of her, which not only ruined any attempt at true stealth, but also made looming shadows on the walls.

Assimilation, to whom the task of securing the captured Satellite of Love had been assigned - Weapons, Captain, and Second were all a wee bit busy at the moment - sighed a colorless sigh. {No. You may not. We have shields raised and we cannot take the time to beam through them. You have your task.}

{We could always backtrack and return to the bridge, then allow the intruders to dart us,} noted 98 of 300, second in line. Pause. {Of course, that would mean the ladder.}

A new smell was intruding upon the senses, an acrid, hot metal stench only possible with overloaded relays and escaped plasma vapor. An increasingly thick smoky pall hung in the air, reducing visibility even more and scattering the flashlight beam. An oil slick, vaguely outlining the distinctive form of a tracked vehicle, albeit a small one, meandered up the center of the corridor.

The answer was already known, but Assimilation said it anyway. {No. At least /you/ are experiencing things, seeing sights...I just have my gray, gray world.}

"Yah, sure, and we have this black world," muttered 98 of 300 under his breath. It action was a minor act of rebellion for his words did not go unnoticed. However, the opinion of one (or three) imperfect drones was not relevant.

A dim blue glow lit the smoke, shedding no light. Instead of pure black, the shade faded to a deep midnight blue. The corridor had turned into a suspended catwalk, floor a see-through grating; and when 103 of 212 stuck her head over the railing in order to determine distance to the bottom via inbuilt laser range-finder, it had been found to be approximately ten meters to the floor. To either side stretched the thick thermos bottles which were internalized warp nacelles. From the occasional juncture or weakly glowing panel rose wisps of bitter smoke.

{Hole,} stated 103 of 212 as the flashlight picked out a space where a grate had been removed. The rainbow slick was more prevalent on the catwalk, as if the tracked vehicle had paused for a few minutes before continuing. In the distance was the sound of tools clanking against metal with an undercurrent of off-tune humming. The portion of the grid facing the Satellite of Love registered no unknown lifesigns in the vicinity, but then again, it could be another robot.

103 of 212 stepped over the opening. {Hole,} repeated 98 of 300 as he did likewise, adding, {and oil.}

160 of 203, head swiveled sideways to peer at the starboard nacelle casing, was paying less attention than the situation warranted. {Huh?} he said as his foot stepped onto open air. {Oh...sh**!} Through the hole 160 of 203 tumbled. From the darkness below came the thump of a body hitting hard deck plating.

{I am functional,} reported 160 of 203 from the depths, along with a short list of superficial injuries already being repaired by nanites. {But I don't see any convenient way to return to the upper level.}

Assimilation shrugged at the unvoiced, but nonetheless asked, question. {It doesn't matter. Just wander around a bit. 103 of 212 and 98 of 300 will continue the primary task.}

It was not much of a solution, but then again, Assimilation did not usually put more effort into thinking than was strictly necessary.

Continuing onward, the port wall bowed out into an odd extension which straddled the nacelle. Attached to the wall was a vertical ladder adjacent to a small lift. Both had destinations which were above and below the current level. The elevator platform was insufficiently robust to hoist the weight of either 103 of 212 of 98 of 300, the drones too heavy with their armoring and various assemblies and implants. The sound of tool use and humming remained some distance further along the corridor, but its origin was not immediately important. Instead, a projected schematic determined the ladder to be correctly located with a 97% probability to provide access to the shielded area.

103 of 212 took to the ladder first, slowly climbing the rungs to a height of fifteen meters before encountering a trapdoor. Prodding at the hatch, 103 of 212 found it to be heavy, but not locked. Carefully wedging her head under the trap, she lifted it upwards just enough to bring her eyes, and the eyes of the sub-collective, to floor level just outside the final security door leading into the target section.

"Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tap. Tap-tap," echoed though the only door which led in or out of the theater. No one paid any attention: Brain Guy was holding a conversation with a chair; Pearl was fuming; and the bots were huddled over a groaning Mike, Servo jostling Crow for a chance to look through the Nan-o-scope. "Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tap. Tap-tap," thudded more forcefully, the sound of a heavy object hitting against metal.

"AVON calling," slurred Brain Guy. He giggled to himself, then made his uncoordinated way to the door. Several tries were required to fumble the catch open (no movie was playing, therefore the security door could be unlatched from the inside) before swinging open the door a crack. At first Brain Guy saw nothing. It was interesting. Then his eyes slipped downward to about knee level to fall upon the mobile camera which was waiting impatiently. "We don't want any."

Pearl pushed Brain Guy away, then gazed down at Cambot. "You come to tell us the aliens and their cube are gone?"

Cambot's lens whined slightly as it refocused on Pearl's face. The voice which responded was more mechanical than that of the other three Satellite of Love robots. "No. There are more aliens on board now. The new aliens are fighting with the other aliens. I have brought you a link to see what is happening outside the theater."

"That isn't good enough. I order you to...hey! Where'd you go?" Pearl fumed as Cambot's head disappeared. A scraping was the woman's answer as a small television was pushed into the theater. It trailed a black cord into the hallway and thence out of immediate sight. The screen showed an unimpressive sight of deckplates, which transformed into an extreme close up as Cambot finished his task and lifted his head to regard Pearl - Cambot's point of view.

"Gypsy thinks you should stay in here until all the aliens are gone. They have powerful weapons," noted the bot as he withdrew. The door slid shut and relocked itself, cord neatly threaded through the thin gap at the bottom.

"Hey! Hey! I was talking to you!" shouted Pearl uselessly. She snorted when there was no response, glanced around at the idiots she was locked in the theater with, then kicked the television. The screen flickered, then darkened.

Pearl's gaze pierced that of Servo and Crow, who had stopped their antics to watch the exchange at the door. "If you say anything, it will be a Shatner fest for you, I swear." The bots quickly returned their attention to Mike, who was complaining that there were millions of hot needles moving up his legs, accompanied by splinters of ice marching along his arms.

"Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tap. Tap-tap."

Pearl wrenched open the door. "What do you want now, you useless bot? Your box doesn't even work." She stopped, mid-tirade as her knee-level glare focused upon...knees. Working her way swiftly upwards, Pearl found herself face-to-face with one of the pale cyborgs. "We don't want any," she blurted harshly, an unconscious repeat of Brain Guy's earlier answer to knocking at the door.

To the side, said Brain Guy paid no attention, his focus on the television as he pushed the channel button in an attempt to find something on his current intellectual level. He paused for a moment as a semi-reality show fuzzily resolved, then continued to a cartoon after dismissing it as too infantile, even for him in a state of mind where vegetables had insightful observations upon the universe.

The door clanged to a halt. A metal encased foot had been wedged into the door. "We require admittance. Now. You will comply," uttered the cyborg as it leaned against the security door, forcing it inward.

"No," retorted Pearl as she returned the lean, attempting to close the door. "I could use some help here!" The call went unheralded by Brain Guy, who settled on one of many short ballads showing the eternal struggle between roadrunner and coyote. And from the bots?

"Sorry...we've gotta war going on over here!" called Crow.

"And it my turn to watch it," muttered Servo darkly as he made yet another grab for the Nan-o-scope.

The cyborg unrelentingly shoved. Additional weight was added on the other side as another body lent itself to the effort. Suddenly the door flung open as Pearl fell backwards, landing on her amply padded behind.

Outside, a voice: "Hey! There's some more!"

Two cyborg hurried inside, but not before one was clipped with a near miss by what appeared to be a miniature lawn dart. The projectile bounced harmlessly off door jam, leaving behind the impression of wicked point and a tri-arrangement of overly stiff stabilization wings. Once into the theater, the door was shut and hastily locked.

Pearl scrambled to her feet as the cyborgs turned to face theater occupants. "Okay, whomever you are, there will be some rules in here, else I'll...I'll...I'll..." The threat was trailed off as she looked around the space, encountering only shrugs from bots, a Mike who was staring with horrified intensity at his navel, and an Observer who was a mite too far from his brain. "I'll have Brain Guy find a really, really inane soap opera. Or even," pause, "a cop show featuring...enforcement of leash and pooper-scooper laws."

As one, the two cyborg retreated a step, backing into the security door.

The Reality Posse's ship stooped towards Cube #347. Cube #347 pirouetted in place, swinging around the Satellite of Love to brandish it as shield. The prickly hedgehog of a ship shied away at the last moment; and its torpedoes detonated prematurely.

The hypothesis was correct: the Reality Posse did not wish to accidentally hurt either the Satellite of Love or its inhabitants. Not yet, anyway.

Except for the three drones still on the Satellite of Love, the Posse assault team had returned all to Cube #347. However, the positioning of the trio was not good: 160 of 203 was lost in the bowels of the vessel; and 103 of 212 and 98 of 300 were locked in the theater with a large woman neither wanted to approach, two technologically inferior robots, a pale-skinned man staring at a television, and a human, half-assimilated and at war with his own body.

160 of 203 stumbled as the hairy, nonsentient lifeform designated Bobo jumped out unexpectedly from a corner. He recovered from the defensive semi-crouch as the nonthreat registered.

"Got any more bananas?" inquired Bobo.

{What shall we do?} asked 103 of 212 and 98 of 300 in tandem. The shielding made contact to the drone pair tenacious. Delta desired a sample of the substance later, once the Reality Posse threat was overcome and after the Satellite of Love was properly sectioned by cutting lasers.

Assuming the Reality Posse threat could be overcome.

{Be Borg,} directed Captain, distantly. {At the moment...} The Satellite of Love's engines thrummed to an extremely low-powered and rough idle which did little more than flicker the theater's dim lights. However, the interference was sufficient to narrow the link with 103 of 212 and 98 of 300 to little more than presence. Even when the engines died again, the connection remained minimal. The two drones were on their own.

160 of 203 had bigger problems to deal with in the form of fending off Bobo.

Cube #347 could spare no effort to determining how to retrieve its drones. The Reality Posse ship, faced with the specter of destroying what it was trying to free, had spun a sensor mirage. To the grid it appeared as if half a dozen Posse vessels were incoming, only one of which was real.

98 of 300 mentally nudged 103 of 212. {Shouldn't the human be assimilated by now? Or at least receptive to our presence? 160 of 203 did inject him with nanoprobes.}

103 of 212 accessed the visual input of her compatriot, setting it side-by-side with her own view of the theater. The human male, lying on the ground at the front of the theater, was quietly muttering to himself, front of his jumpsuit pulled open to expose his chest; and an odd reflection of internal battle was playing itself on his skin, epidermis on one side of a line the mottled gray characteristic of Borg, while the other side was a warm flesh tone. The war front surged back and forth across his torso, gains from an opponent balanced moments later by swift retreat from a counterattack.

"State the problem with the human," demanded 103 of 212 to the room in general. She raised one arm in threat. It would have been more menacing if it had been the arm with her disruptor instead of the one mounting a flashlight.

The robot Crow looked up from where he was crouched over the human like a skinny, golden vulture. The flashlight's beam reflected off metal as 103 of 212 pointed at him in response to his sudden movement. Came the bright answer, "Mike's nanites are fighting against some alien nanos. Did the nanos come from your, um, friend, the one that isn't here at the moment?" He paused, eyes sliding sideways to regard the hovering robot avidly cheering at a device, one end of which was stuck on Mike's chest. "Hey, Servo, it is my turn!"

"You already had a turn," protested Servo.

Grumped Crow, "And the Nan-o-scope belongs to me!"

"Well, I want a longer turn."

"You don't get a longer turn."

As the robots devolved into bickering with each other, Mike, Nan-o-scope, and drones briefly forgotten, 103 of 212's attention focused on Pearl. 98 of 300 continued to observe the bots, just in case unexpected danger suddenly threatened from that quarter. Both drones were of weapons hierarchy, and both were suitably paranoid to a moderate degree. They had absorbed some of the dominant mindset of their hierarchy head over the years, an attitude which remained even though both were temporarily severed from the sub-collective.

Pearl guardedly watched the Borg intruders. She squinted as the blinding flashlight was turned on her.

"Answer: do all humanoids present have similar nanites?" demanded 103 of 212.

The question was not as farfetched as might initially seem. In the "when" Cube #347 had come to accept prior to the flux jumps, highly affluent Second Federation citizens and all the military personnel utilized nanites based at least partially on Borg technology. Those nanomachines, in addition to lengthening life by boosting the immune system and assisting the body in its day-to-day functions, also gave a degree of protection against Borg assimilation. As to be expected, the more expensive the nanomachine, the more security afforded, with top-secret nanoscale military hardware the most effective. Given sufficient time and appropriate assimilation facilities, even the most sophisticated system could be adapted to and the host absorbed into the Collective. However, in this case, not only was support in the form of Cube #347 lacking (both in hardware and sub-collective support), but so was time; and neither drones was optimized for an assimilation function...that specialization fell to their comrade still wandering around in the bowels of the Satellite of Love.

Or so went the internalized deliberations of two drones disconnected from their sub-collective.

Pearl warded the flashlight with a hand, casting a shadow upon her eyes so as to see better. "Um, of course I have...nanites. And not the ones Mike has. Better ones. Much better ones. And Brain Guy over there doesn't need them because his kind are near omnipotent and can do whatever they want though mind power."

The omnipotent being in question quietly drooled on himself as he intently watched the television set. Currently on the screen was a jerky stop-and-go view of tight ductwork, point of view that of a small robot as it trundled through access corridors too claustrophobic for any but the thinnest of humanoid cat burglars. A tinny sound accompanied the picture, that of two synthetic voices talking to each other in a near incomprehensible lingo.

Voice One: *Hiss* "Breaker, breaker, this is Cambot. The package is delivered, Gypsy...the package is delivered."

Gypsy, heavily garbled: "Roger. Roger. Understood."

Cambot: "Am currently traversing linkage 67.4b to juncture 12.beta. Final destination at this point shaft gamma-3, for access 2-niner. Copy?"

Gypsy: "Roger and copy." Background rattle of a tool dropped and subsequently falling a long ways before hitting a distant ground (and accompanied by a distant "Ouch" which may or may not have been 160 of 203). "Advise that the stroller needs a new rattle. The stroller needs a new rattle. Over."

Cambot: "Gotcha. I mean, roger. Turning into cross-way overhead 88-delta."

A T-intersection loomed as Cambot turned right, rolling forward in slow, yet steady progression. The conversation, such as it was, continued unabated. Brain Guy chortled at the development, despite the fact that not even the two drones - Borg not known for understanding humor - could see nothing remotely laughable in the situation.

"What about the hairy animal below decks?" continued 103 of 212's interrogation.

Pearl blinked, but not in response to the flashlight. "Bobo?"

"Yes."

Pearl began to laugh, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. "No, he doesn't have nanites." The attitude was plainly one of 'If you want him, take him.' 103 of 212 and 98 of 300 affirmed the earlier decision cascade to not assimilate the Bobo creature. In unspoken agreement, Bobo was dismissed by all parties present.

The two drones silently conferred as each faced a slightly different way, keeping watch over all potential dangers, although only Pearl seemed likely to attack. Even then, her assault would likely comprise of sitting on her victim. Their major non-destructive offensive weapon, i.e., nanoprobes, was rendered useless; and to use disruptors was to go against the capture goal that was lodged in their root command process tracks.

{What now?} asked 98 of 300.

{Why should I know?} returned 103 of 212. In front of her, Pearl was beginning to become annoyed as the drones' silence stretched overlong,

98 of 300 answered, {Because you have been leading.} An image of his comrade below decks, in front of a line, was imparted.

{I was in front because it was dark and I had flashlight!}

{Exactly.}

There was a long second of silence as a wordless give and exchange occurred at computer speeds, each drone adamantly refusing to be the one to take the lead.

Slowly said 103 of 212, mentally tasting each thought-word as it was broadcast, {Welllll, assimilation will eventually work, /if/ we had full cube facilities. These sentients are fairly innocuous, although the primitive robots appear to have a capability of minor, if annoying, violence. Unfortunately, we cannot contact Cube #347 for data or other needs unless we are out of the shielded area; and we cannot leave the shielded area because the Reality Posse intruders will transporter us back to the cube, whereupon we will have failed our assigned duty to capture these sentients. Therefore...}

{...we must remove the intruders from this vessel,} finished 103 of 212 and 98 of 300 together, their thoughts linking in sync. Of course, there was no plan to go with the conviction; and no novel scheme beyond the standard weapons hierarchy "frontal attack" was possible by the two drones without sub-collective deliberation and input. However, there were unassimilated beings present, and they had a flair for creativeness the Borg lacked.

103 of 212 spoke, "We propose an alliance to remove all intruders from this vessel."

Pearl blinked, then snarled, "Could you stop waving that flashlight in my eyes? It is bright!"

The flashlight beam was deactivated. 103 of 212 automatically switched to aiming her other arm at the human, but her target did not seem to realize the danger of substituting harmless light for a potential disruptor to the face.

Continued Pearl, "An alliance? You are not going to try to do to me what you did to Mike?" She indicated the human male.

"Negatory. Assimilation does not appear to be efficient at this time. At this moment, our goals are as one: to remove the intruders from this vessel."

A sly smile, a hideous gash of lipstick, stretched Pearl's face as she visibly considered the offer, "/All/ intruders?"

103 of 212 confirmed, "All intruders."

Without consulting the other beings, organic or robot, present, Pearl nodded with exaggerated graciousness. "Then, on behest of everyone here, I accept this alliance." A hand was put to the center of her chest in a mock sincerity even a drone could recognize.

The obvious insincerity and unvoiced future resistance was irrelevant as far as the drone pair was concerned. Once the purpose of the temporary alliance was complete, the Satellite of Love, crew, and refugees would be secured for assimilation, termination, or dismantlement, whichever action was most appropriate.

"We require a plan," stated 103 of 212.

Pearl's eyes narrowed, "You mean you don't already have one? What use are you, then?"

In response, 98 of 300 raised his left arm, aimed it at a point just to the side of the robots clustered around Mike, and fired. A line of melted faux-carpet over scorched metal was the outcome; and both Servo and Crow had dived behind Mike, using their oblivious human friend as a impromptu shield.

"I guess that is useful," noted Pearl as she struggled not to show a sudden nervousness. "You are going to get the bill for that damage, though. Well, while your fireworks are pretty and all, I have a better method: Brain Guy."

Hearing his name, Brain Guy looked up from his television set. Unfortunately, the pale humanoid, eyes slightly glazed and an expression on his face appropriate for a low-grade moron, did not inspire confidence. Savior material this was not.

103 of 212 pointedly turned her head to examine Brain Guy, then returned her attention to Pearl. The skeptical attitude was apparent, even without the facial expression 103 of 212 was carefully keeping from her face.

"You'll see," promised Pearl.

Resistance is futile.

<<Someone get hold of Ronnie! Incoming! We are losing this bowel sector!>>

You will be assimilated.

<<Hah! Push the buggers out of those cells, boys! We will retake the pancreatic line!>>

A flurry of sound which bypassed the ear to directly impact the brain, sometimes the noise of many people talking in a small room, sometimes the whistle of artillery and rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns, sometimes the screams of the dying. Sometimes silence. And, once, the disturbing whispers of using a nuclear bomb to secure the lower brain stem and how that would affect the larger body.

It was an all-out war; and Mike knew in a distant way that the battlefield was his own body. He sure hoped the nuclear option wasn't employed, not on his brain stem, not /anywhere/. Unfortunately, his wishes were not important to the two sides.

When he did open his eyes, any of a number of sights could be present to his fuzzy tunnel vision. Most commonly, Crow and/or Servo were overhead, looming like metal gods...arguing metal gods as they vied for the Nan-o-scope and loudly "discussed" the best place to observe the war and contemplated odds on which side would win. When the two cyborg were in view, a part of Mike's mind shuddered, for it was at those moments that the multivoices were strongest; and it was at those times that the sounds he associated with the ship nanites were pushed into retreat and talk of nuclear bombs surfaced once more. Other shapes swum into view as well: the bulk of Pearl, a lurching Brain Guy whose coordination was less than perfect due to body-brain distance, the silhouettes of seats, a theater screen, a television set filled with endless utility corridors.

The cyborg walked by again, intent on their own tasks. The multivoice gained in volume, two distinct voices rising above the rest. The voices...belonged to the cyborgs.

Voice one: {How long do we have to put up with this? My most recent scan shows the one designated Mike to be increasingly assimilated. The nanites are adapting.}

Voice two: {We still need to remove the intruders and secure the vessel.}

Voice one: {If the humans are assimilated, and an attempt made on the third humanoid, then we will have additional numbers for an assault.}

Voice two: {Observe how long it is required for our nanites to adapt to the human male. Pearl claims she has superior nanoprobes. The time required is prohibitive. We will wait.}

Voice one, long pause: {Compliance. Examination of tangent option #5a complete. We will continue with the original plan. This examination of alternate options is difficult and slow without the rest of the sub-collective, 103 of 212.}

Voice two: {Tell me about it.}

The two voices abruptly faded away as a loud explosion rung in Mike's inner ear. Literally. The war was contesting along a new front in an auditory nerve. The explosion sparked a surge of adrenaline, prompting Mike to sit up.

"They are going to get us all!" shouted Mike in garbled warning. His eyes rolled wildly.

Crow was spilled to the floor by a waving arm. "Arg! You made me miss the rest of Ronnie's plans! Can't you just lie there and be a good, unconscious patient, Mike?" Crow regained his feet and glared at Servo. "It's still my turn, so don't even think about taking the Nan-o-scope."

Servo harrumphed. "You have two more minutes, and you bet I'm counting every second."

"They are going to get all of us!" tried Mike again.

"Shush," said Crow, "you are hallucinating again." The robot pushed against Mike's bare chest, forcing him to lie on his back again. "Much better. Don't move."

Mike did not hear the dismissal, caught once more in his own personal internal war. Lights flashed, seen by the mind even as the eyes were bypassed. Specks floated across the field of view, two lines, and when they met there was the sound of rending metal in his ears.

*****

"Hylin," said Captain Gerson through his jaw implant, subvocalized words picked up for transmission, "concentrate on the drone in the basement. We'll deal with the consequences of the two in the shielded area later. We just don't have the time to spend opening those damned security doors."

"Aye, sir," responded Hylin's voice, made tinny and distant by the cochlear implant which transmitted the communication directly to his ear. Gerson could mentally picture the large Klingon fuming, a scowl on his face, as he heard his new objective. Of course, Hylin was always fuming, always scowling. It was when he smiled that one had to tread carefully.

The Posse bucked as a curtain of antimatter bomblets exploded against shields, causing the ship to shimmy due to sheer amount of munitions. Minor damage was reported. Unfortunately, the "minor damage" concentrated upon sensors, effectively blinding the Posse.

"Get us an outside view back," screamed Gerson as the forward bulkhead screen went dark, "and I don't care if you have to shove an intern on the hull with a camera! That's what interns are for!

Without the need to sacrifice an intern, the main monitor flickered back to life. In the middle of it was the bulk of the Borg cube, a bulk which was swiftly getting larger. Collision alarms sounded, computer registering that there might be a small problem looming. While Borg weaponry was a minor to moderate irritant, ramming by the cube would flatten the Posse, shield or no, advanced technology or no, with all the grace and finality of an insect splatting against a window.

"Turn us! Turn us!" bellowed Gerson. The Posse nimbly altered its vector, skimming along the outer perimeter of the cube's shielding system, face flashing by underneath. Too close underneath. A variety of energy-based weaponry thrust into space, always a hair behind and stabbing where the Posse just was. For a moment of a moment, a tractor beam locked on, but automatically modulating shield frequencies allowed the smaller ship to escape.

Gerson sighed as Posse pulled away to a somewhat safer distance. "Okay, let's try that again, people...only without the drama."

*****

A viewpoint which normally resolved items at knee-level nosed along a counter in the Satellite of Love's small galley. There were crumbs, a discarded sani-wipe which had seen better days, the forgotten remains of a microwavable dinner. A very dirty plate. The civilization which had developed in the sink was sending out armed expedition parties to conquer the refrigerator backcountry, a fabled land where a puddle of goo could live unmolested by the constant threat of being sucked into a hell gated by the Dark Lord Garbage Disposal Unit.

The view was that of Cambot, reflected on the television set earlier delivered. Before the bot had reached the galley, and after leaving the confines of maintenance shafts, Cambot had in fact seen knees, suited knees whose owners ignored the be-lensed robot. No details of the figures which now haunted the lower decks could be perceived through obscuring suit and mirrored helmets, although from one intruder came the impression of fashionable dreadlocks, and another that of a squashed dogface.

103 of 212 and 98 of 300 observed proceedings in the background.

Clustered around the television set was Pearl and Brain Guy...mostly Pearl due to her bulk. Pearl squinted as the image slid over several tarnished forks and a recent battleground between the Sink Goos and the vicious Space Cockroach gang which inhabited the darker corners of the galley.

"Gypsy...tell Cambot to back up," ordered Pearl, speaking to the air.

"Cambot, back up a bit," echoed hoarsely from the television.

Cambot paused, then began to back away from counter. "Roger, roger."

Pearl frowned. "No! I meant go back to what he was just looking at before, not moving backwards. What an idiotic bot. More lens than brains."

"Cambot, Pearl wants you to not move backwards, but to pan the other way. Slowly."

"Roger. Could she make up her mind? I'm getting dizzy." The view obediently reversed direction.

"Why you little..." began Pearl, degenerating into a flurry of unusual curses which the two drones avidly recorded for later use.

Relayed Gypsy, ever politically correct, "Pearl isn't happy about your attitude."

"Then she can kiss my metal...oops..." Cambot adroitly ducked as a suited waist went by, interrupting his view of the counter as seen from a nearby table perch. As prior times, the bot was ignored. Intruder gone, scanning of the counter continued.

"What the hell is that?" commented Pearl as a plate of...something...was seen. That sort of quivering was not natural.

Finally Cambot focused upon a cup of cold coffee. It was in a chipped black mug with the words "World's Greatest Coward" scrawled across the side in bright yellow letters. Most notable in the view which included more evidence of a galley long since the past-due date in the cleaning department were several jars, one of which was shaped like a jolly, fat pig; a chromed toaster; a pair of dirty plates; an old shoe; and a faded sticky note to remind Mike that he needed to reheat the coffee by Friday, and Sunday at the very latest, else suffer the bacterial consequences.

Pearl smiled. "Ahah! There it is!"

103 of 212 shuffled in place slightly, jostling her comrade. "Clarify the need for a caffeinated substance."

Pearl started slightly. So intent had she been on the television that she had forgotten the presence of the two drones. Turning slightly, she said, "I already explained it once: Brain Guy needs caffeine poured on his brain because that will extend his range. The further his brain is from his body, the more dull the body is. Any further at this point, and he'll start wanting to watch demolition derbies."

On the floor nearby, Brain Guy glanced up from playing with the toy cars he had created. Seeing that the discussion did not explicitly require his participation, he returned to crashing one vehicle into the other, accompanied by appropriate "Bang!" and "Boom!" noises.

103 of 212 looked at 98 of 300; and 98 of 300 looked at 103 of 212. A wordless series of skepticisms and alternate plans were exchanged.

"Will you two stop doing that? It is creepy," complained Pearl.

103 of 212 blinked. "Wouldn't it be easier to..."

"No."

"We did not finish our sentence. Instead of this," 103 of 212 waved a hand at the television, "activity, we could..."

"No."

"But," tried 98 of 300, attempting to add his voice where 103 of 212 was failing, "there..."

"No. You asked for a plan, and I provided one. It is my plan, and we will do it." Pearl's tone was that the scheme would go forward, come Hell or high water or protesting Borg drones.

103 of 212 interjected, "We did not previously have all pertinent facts. We have formulated several alternate plans based upon the one you devised. Our adaptations have a higher probability of success than yours." She was blunt and to the point, very Borg. While neither drone was particularly adept at novel planning, they were of weapons hierarchy and could adjust a base tactic to suit a given situation. She was dismissed.

"No. End of story. Gypsy, tell Cambot to get the coffee and bring it to the theater."

The message was relayed. Cambot responded. "And how would I do that?" was the answer. "I don't /have/ hands."

Pearl fumed, standing up for a pouting stomp. Finally she calmed down and turned to regard the pale humanoid. Speaking slowly, she said, "Brain Guy...look at the television. Bring the cup of coffee here. Now."

Brain Guy blinked as he set down his cars to regard the television. "Coffee?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Eyes narrowed in concentration. The toaster disappeared from Cambot's camera sight, reappearing at 98 of 300's feet.

"That is not a cup of coffee," noted 98 of 300.

Pearl slapped Brain Guy on the back of his head. "That is not a cup of coffee, Brain Dweeb. Try again."

The pile of objects at the drones' feet grew with each attempt, Brain Guy transporting everything except the mug of caffeinated liquid. Amid the junk was the pork-themed jar, which quietly oinked when 103 of 212 opened it. Inside were foodstuffs of a flat, round, crunchy nature. Hearing the oinking, Crow abandoned Mike, padding over and tapping 103 of 212 on the hip.

"I want the cookie jar," said Crow, despite the fact that robots, like Borg, did not eat.

Internally shrugging, 103 of 212 passed over the jar. Gleefully cackling to himself, Crow returned Mikewards, brandishing the cookie jar. Servo verbally pouted, demanding the ceramic pig. Mike momentarily forgotten, the two argued over cookie ownership. Meanwhile, Mike drowsily opened his eyes, blurredly focusing on the two drones as he struggled up on one elbow.

98 of 300 offered the slightest bit of a sharp-toothed grin. He cocked his head and quested towards the human, feeling the first stirrings of linkage to sub-collective frequencies: the nanoprobes were slowly adapting to the human's nanite defenses. {Can you hear us yet, human?}

Mike stared at the 98 of 300 for a long moment, then groaned and reclined back to the floor.

"About time, Brain Guy," snorted Pearl as the coveted cup of cold coffee appeared, precariously balanced on top of the toaster. Glancing at the television screen, 103 of 212 noticed that there was nothing else to transport except the countertop itself.

And then the countertop was balanced on several rows of seat backs.

"Stop it," spat Pearl, cuffing the back of Brain Guy's head. "Go play with your cars."

"Cars!" exclaimed Brain Guy, attention abruptly shifting to a new venue.

Pearl smiled a tight smile, then stooped to rescue the coffee before it could tip. "We now have the caffeine. It is time for the next part of the plan." She stared at the two drones.

Blinking, the drones stared blankly back.

{Why is she looking at us like that?} asked 98 of 300.

"Why are you looking at us like that?" inquired 103 of 212 aloud. She raised her disruptor-laden arm slightly, then thinking better of the action, returned it to her side.

"Well, /I'm/ not going to be the one to go out there and pour the coffee on Brain Guy's brain. And Brain Guy isn't exactly in top form, which is the purpose of this little exercise." Pearl paused. "You are the ones with armor and weapons, and thus you going out with this coffee is /your/ contribution to the alliance." The statement was delivered with more than a little 'well, duh' attitude.

103 of 212 and 98 of 300 consulted with each other, attempting to come to a consensus. On one hand, Pearl was correct in that they were adequately armed and armored for the ordeal; and all intruders appeared to be on the lower decks, so risk of transporter darts during the short length between theater and bridge should be minimal. On the other hand, once they left the theater, what was to prevent a locking of the doors, leaving them to the mercies of the Reality Posse assault team and, most importantly, allowing them to fail at their sub-collective mandated task? It was a dilemma. 98 of 300 cast around the theater as 103 of 212 confronted Pearl.

"We require a hostage."

Pearl frowned. "What for?" She was obviously not used to being confronted on her decisions.

"To insure your end of our alliance is not flawed."

"My, my...a little paranoid aren't you?" When she received no answer except for a piercing stare, Pearl chortled, "And you think that just because you have a hostage, that I won't lock you out?" The chortle became a chuckle, finally mutating into a full laugh. Tears streamed out of Pearl's eyes. Finally she regained control of herself. "That is too funny. Well, /I/ won't be your hostage, and neither will be Brain Guy. Pick another loser."

The bots, noticing first one set of drone eyes, then a second, shifting to focus upon them, returned the gaze with a deer-in-the-headlights stare. Then, oinking jar and Nan-o-scope squabbles forgotten, both Crow and Servo melted into the background, crawling underneath or dodging over seats, as appropriate, in their haste to be out of line of sight.

Mike was left behind as the "volunteer,"

"The human male is acceptable," intoned 103 of 212.

Crow and Servo emerged from their hiding places, creeping forward until they perched on seats behind Pearl and Brain Guy. As they settled down, Crow tapped Servo on the head. "You let Mike walk away with my Nan-o-scope."

Servo snorted. "Me? I didn't see you making any moves to get it. In fact, all I could see of you was your butt where the chair didn't quite cover. And Mike didn't actually walk away. More like dragged away."

"He wasn't resisting."

"I don't think he was aware of much anything," retorted Servo.

Crow had no answer for a moment, then with the desire to get in the last word, said, "That's how Mike is all the time. I guess that means..."

"Will you two shut up," grumbled Pearl. She had no need to look over her shoulder: the squint-eyed glare of threat in her voice was more than sufficient.

The two bots shut up.

The television view had changed venue, leaving the denuded galley. "Hallway" was the dominant theme; and a semi-translucent "CambotTV" logo rested in the lower right corner of the screen. A crackling issued forth, proceeding the sound of running boots, heavy breathing, and general shouting.

"This is Cambot. Now approaching the target area. The kettle to the fire, repeat, the kettle is to the fire. Roger, roger, willco."

Gypsy: "I have report of weapons discharge. Just find out if there is damage to anything critical."

"Roger. Cambot out."

The point of view smoothly slid forward, moving ever closer to the center of the commotion. Cambot's lens augmented the normally dark view to suitable brightness. From a cross-corridor ahead lurched a Borg, followed close behind by a Bobo alternating between begging for bananas and warning those behind to stop darting him in the back and bum. After a moment, three suited figures jogged past, each toting a large rifle.

"I think we have it," huffed one anonymous figure. Which one was not possible to discern. A rifle was raised and a dart puffed from of the bore.

Bobo's voice rang out, "Ouch! That was my toosh!"

"Damn. I hit the ape-thing again. Posse, disregard tag #4a." The answer, internalized to the suited being, was not heard.

Cambot turned the corner, following behind the pursuit group. The televised view consisted largely of legs.

"The Borg is cornered."

"Resistance is futile?" questioned the cyborg from behind the mostly sheltering body of Bobo. It was followed by a quiet "Bobo...for a banana, shield this drone," barely audible to Cambot's audio microphone.

"Do you promise a banana this time? The last," pause as fingers were counted, then mathematics given up Bobo ran out of digits, "at least ten times, you didn't give me a banana."

"Yes, you will get a banana."

"Oh. In that case..." Bobo squarely faced the suited invaders and pounded on his chest.

"Stupid monkey," muttered Pearl as she watched the image, "like anyone would be scared of that. Yah, right."

The be-rifled assaulters were as unimpressed as Pearl. Each raised their weapons, took careful aim, and fired. While two darts hit Bobo, one flew past the ape to squarely hit the Borg in the arm.

"Posse, activate dart #5d. Quickly, before the drone removes it."

The Borg shimmered, caught in a transporter beam, then vanished. Bobo spun around, then howled, seeing all chance of bananas gone. He slowly turned to face the three suited figures, growling, "You stole my bananas! Stand still so I can pelt you with feces!"

The three figures looked at each other, then turned tail and ran. Cambot was bowled over first by the retreating trio, then Bobo. As they passed, one invader said, "Group one, sensors show movement on the upper decks. Go check it out. Group two, find me a tranquilizer gun, fast. Hylin out." By the time Cambot righted himself, all which remained was the sound of increasingly distant footsteps.

"Well, that was exciting," said Pearl. Her eyes slid to Crow and Servo, then demanded, "Don't just stand there...I saw you swipe that piggy cookie jar. Since Brain Guy is too loopy to make me popcorn, I want the next best thing."

Crow scrambled to obey.

Mike lurched along the corridor, concentration focused on his hands and not spilling the cup of cold coffee. The hallway between theater and bridge seemed longer than normal, distance stretched to Mike's altered perceptions. With each hesitant step he swayed, knocking shoulders against those of his flanking escort. The forgotten Nan-o-scope, draped around his neck, thumped its dangling ends on his chest.

To either side of Mike, the cyborgs were jumpy, heads jerking quickly towards every perceived threat. "Twitchy" was the label Mike applied, although in his mental fog he was unsure if it was appropriate. Still, the actions were those of the hyper-sensitive, a somebody who expects a slavering monster with tentacles to suddenly appear from around the next convenient corner.

The cyborg to Mike's right abruptly stopped as a creak echoed. Mike absently identified the noise as a deckplate that regularly squeaked at odd intervals and for no apparent reason. It was a problem Gypsy considered too low priority to fix when considered next to the regular equipment-wrecking havoc unintentionally perpetuated by Crow, Servo, and Mike himself. Whirling with unexpected speed, the cyborg raised an arm and aimed it at the offending deckplate. A green burst impacted the deckplate. Mike owlishly stared: well, at least Gypsy wouldn't have to worry about fixing that particular annoyance, although the bot would likely complain about the necessity to replace the section of scorched floor.

The trio pushed forward.

As slow progress was made, Mike became increasingly aware of a conversation; and he became increasingly aware that the conversation was occurring between the two cyborgs despite the fact that they were not moving their lips. He had "heard" their voices before, words which impressed themselves upon his mind while bypassing the ears, but the ability had been erratic at best. Now, however, he was an eavesdropper. Somehow, someway, he even knew their names, despite the fact that Pearl, who had been the one interacting with them in the theater, had never asked (nor received) them.

103 of 212, to the right, abruptly paused, head swiveling back and forth. Mike shuffled to a halt. {Did you hear something?}

98 of 300, on Mike's other side, similarly paused. {I hear nothing except normal background noises. There is no need to attack another defenseless deckplate.}

{You never know what a deckplate might do, you know.}

{Now you are beginning to sound like Weapons.}

{That paranoid, eh?}

{Yes.}

The cyborg resumed their march towards the bridge, prodding Mike into motion.

98 of 300: {Do you think the human is looking more assimilated? The pallor of his left arm is definitely paler than it was.}

103 of 212 was noncommittal. {Could be. Could be. It /is/ taking the nanites awhile to adapt. A couple more meters we'll be out from the shielded region of the corridor. Influence from the rest of the sub-collective should accelerate the process. And we won't be forced to choose our actions alone anymore. Spread the blame, you know.}

{Chatty, aren't you? Nervous....? AHA! Don't try to deny it! I feel it! Nervousness is irrelevant, and all that rhetoric. Anyway, I propose a slight test before we relink with the sub-collective. Watch this: testing, testing, one, two, three, testing.}

The phrase, standard throughout the universe for checking performance of audio gear and individual unit connectivity of a collective organism, was directed at Mike. In response, Mike stumbled over one dragging foot, nearly dropping the coffee. He miraculously recovered just in time, splashing only a minor amount of liquid onto one sleeve.

{There's your answer,} noted 98 of 300. {The human obviously can hear us now. To determine how much he understands would require an assimilation hierarchy member. Unfortunately, there isn't sufficient linkage to brain functions to allow remote control.}

As the Borg-to-Borg conversation drifted to other venues, a new voice intruded upon Mike's awareness. Part of his perception insisted it originated about two inches from his right ear, above the shoulder, despite the fact no one was present. This voice was breathy, utterly unlike that of the cyborgs.

'Can't people stay out of my brain?' complained Mike to himself.

<<Sorry, but no can do, Mike. This is Ronnie. I and a small portion of the command squadron are currently lodged in your right auditory nerve to establish communications with you. Thought you might want to know things don't look so good at the moment.>>

'What else is new?' commiserated Mike to himself...and the few hundred thousand (if not more) microscopic intruders within his body.

If Ronnie caught the thought, he did not respond to it. <<Well, Mike. On the up side, the alien nanos have more or less halted the assault on your body. That is why you can use it at all right now, if albeit a bit clumsily. Unfortunately, the nano forces are concentrating on the brain. They are making deep inroads in places; and there are some mighty weird gizmos currently being constructed in portions of auditory comprehension. The buggers won't even listen to our attempts at setting up truce negotiations. "We will assimilate you" and "Resistance is futile" appear to be major components of their vocabulary.>>

Mike nodded to himself. The phrases were familiar, occasionally heard echoing in his left ear. A siren emerged in the background.

<<Don't worry, Mike,>> said Ronnie, <<we will not allow your body to be overrun by the alien nanos. We are preparing the tactical nuke now. Your higher brain functions will not be compromised. Additional situation reports will be provided as necessary.>> Ronnie's voice cut.

Mike stopped. Coffee sloshed over the cup edge, dribbling to the floor. "No, no, no, no, no!" he uttered. It was, of course, no good, for Ronnie was not listening; and even if he was, well, there is always collateral damage in war.

The drones swiveled their heads to look at each other, then, as one, grabbed Mike by the elbows, lifted him up, and hustled him forward. His feet dangled just above the deck.

Ahead, the bridge door fully irised open, an inviting portal to salvation. As the trio passed the elevator corridor, a second set of doors slid apart. Mike's eyes were dragged sideways to focus upon six suited figures holding rifles stuffed inside the lift's box. The sight was momentary, as was the view of the half-dozen intruders staggering against each other in the rush to be the first to exit the cramped confines, for the commotion had not gone unnoticed by the drones.

An exchange occurred between the cyborg duo; and between them and the plethora of /new/ voices Mike suddenly realized he could distantly perceive. He heard/felt/saw a data exchange, an undecipherable maelstrom of confusion. Then, as abruptly as it had commenced, it came to a conclusion which radiated finality. The entire process had taken less than half a second.

{When we are in the bridge, you close the doors. I'll hold off the intruders,} confirmed 103 of 212.

{Why do you always get to hold off the intruders?} griped 98 of 300.

{Because I have upgraded weapons system and armoring in comparison to you.}

{Oh, yah.}

Beyond the words, the air-raid siren had reached a plateau and begun to throb in time with a nascent headache. Mike found himself propelled forward as the bridge was gained and his Borg support removed. He narrowly caught himself from falling to the ground and thus negating the entire endeavor with an inevitable spill.

"I'm in charge, and, therefore, I will go first!" bellowed from the hallway. The voice, despite being muted by distance to elevator, nonetheless radiated the tone of one used to command via employment of ample lung power.

Mike blurrily focused on the scene in front of him. It was the dashboard to the Satellite of Love, primarily decorated in "Frat House" style, but also collecting dross of which origin is uncertain. In addition to socks and beer cans were piles of lint, chewed pencils, and the a left-over parking stub. Brain Guy's brain, a pulsating blue gelatinous mass which resided in its glass brain pan, was wedged as far forward as possible. Looking at the blue-tinged smears which were present on the front bulkhead, Mike hoped Brain Guy had not lost any important neurons.

Carefully setting down the coffee in a cup holder integrated with the driver's seat, Mike reached for the brain pan. As he did so, the Satellite of Love rattled in response to the battle beyond the hull. Mike lost his already precarious balance, falling to his rear.

"Dang it," slurred Mike under his breath.

As Mike levered himself back to his feet using the chair as support, his attention was drawn to the two cyborgs. 98 of 300 stood next to the door, out of line of sight of the six suited figures. One hand was on a side panel, thin tubules extending from the back of his left hand and merging into the control. What he was doing, Mike was not sure, but the other Borg was obviously in a position of protective aggression, one arm pointed down range at the assault force. The deck plates and bulkhead in the corridor were taking a serious scorching.

Return fire in the form of a large dart flew through the open door and onto the bridge. It narrowly missed 103 of 212, sticking into the driver's chair less than a fingerbreadth from Mike's hand. The point looked...dangerous, reminiscent of a certain syringe. Adrenaline surged through Mike's system, urging him to a standing position. He grabbed for the coffee and more or less fell onto the dashboard, fingers outstretched for the brain pan.

Silence. The siren had cut. Mike paused, coffee on the brink of pouring, waiting for his head to explode. The expected thermonuclear headache did not occur. And still did not occur. And continued not to occur. Mike was mildly surprised.

<<Mike, good news!>> wisped Ronnie the ship nanite in Mike's ear. <<The alien nanos have come to the conclusion that we were willing to destroy the host in order to deprive them of their objective. Good thing the aliens agreed to a truce prior to negotiation, because we would have been hard-pressed to offer any compromises on our end with you a twitching, radioactive husk.>> In the background came cries to "Stand down, you mother-loving sons and daughters of she-virii." Ronnie added as a side note, <<The alien nanos have a rather interesting philosophy. Very intriguing the concept of assimilation. I can't wait to hear more about it during the parley.>>

Mike suddenly didn't feel too good about the possible outcome. Maybe it would have been better had his head mushroomed into a miniature nuclear incident.

The zap of disruptor fire hissed behind Mike. With primate instinct, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a dart hit 103 of 212 square in the chest. The cyborg looked down at her torso, muttered "Well, damn me for a..." and dematerialized in a swirl of blue-green before the oath could be completed. The other drone, protected by a bulkhead, stood up straight as he ripped hand and nanotubules from the wall panel.

"Moronic computer. No logic to the thing at all. I can't even /find/ the door commands, much less force them to activate. And Assimilation hierarchy isn't being much of a help at the moment, not while waging electronic warfare on the target...." The complaints were spoken to the air; and Mike sympathized as he had wrestled more than once with the Satellite of Love computer.

98 of 300's eyes slid sideways as he took up a guard position in front of the door, raising his arm. {What are you looking at? Pour the coffee. Comply!} Before a shot could be fired, he was darted, disappearing the way of his compatriot.

Mike was alone.

Acting on the instructions given by Pearl and further emphasized by the Borg drone, Mike poured cold coffee all over the pulsating blue brain.

*****

"Captain, this is Hylin," spoke into Captain Gerson's ear. Even over the implant, Hylin sounded angry. Of course, Hylin /always/ sounded angry, but this was even more so than usual.

"Not now, Hylin. I'm a tad bit busy at the moment. Salvor, begin attack pattern Gerson-eta three; and someone please tell me the fire is out on B deck? Hylin, have you secured your target?" Gerson gripped the armrests of his chair, leaning into the turn as Posse swung into such a tight corner that inertial dampers could not completely cancel out the G-forces. A bright burst erupted off the starboard, a volley of missiles barely missed.

"Not exactly," replied Hylin. There was an undertone of unexpected sullenness, of suppressed frustration uncharacteristic of the Klingon.

Gerson blinked. "How exactly is 'not exactly?'"

"I'm on the Posse. So is the rest of my detail." Embarrassment? From Hylin? "All drones were removed from the target, however."

Gerson sent the mental commands to link with the Posse computer and queried for locations of Hylin and his security crew. As stated, they were on the Posse, not the alien vessel. An additional request for information showed they had simply /arrived/ less than a minute prior and, more disturbing considering the technology level enjoyed by the Reality Posse, there was no transporter signature.

"Well then, Hylin, hang on. At least all the Borg are in one place now. Stanson, target the tractor emitters. Let's see if we can get the cube's prize away from it."

*****

Pearl flared her arms wider, making a space for herself on the once more crowded bridge. With all alien intruders gone, she had claimed the bridge a more acceptable command post than the theater, and relocated herself thusly. A revived, if caffeine-jittered, Brain Guy had followed, trailed behind by the bots not wanting to be left out of Important Doings. In response to Pearl's stretch, Mike retreated into Crow, who in turn accidentally walloped Servo across the head. The two bots quickly degenerated into a loudly whispered argument about who was at fault, with Mike as the primary scapegoat.

The Satellite of Love violently rolled as the Borg cube roughly passed the ship from tractor beam to tractor beam. Pearl lost her balance and fell against a wall, disrupting the robot argument and causing the Mike to dive to the ground least he be squished. From the floor the human yelped a short curse, hand trod upon by Brain Guy's foot, then followed with another grunt, this one wordless, as the hatch to the lower decks flipped open, thumping against an overly sore leg. Bobo's head poked up from the floor; and Bobo's smell swiftly followed.

A near miss of an explosion rattled everyone on board. Bobo lost his grip and fell, the trapdoor closing after him. Pearl snorted with indignity, then pointedly pushed herself to a more stable stance and stood on the hatch lest Bobo return.

"Okay. I am tired of this. Brain Guy: get me the 'special package'," uttered Pearl with a malevolent glint to her eye.

Mike and the bots gasped theatrically.

"What's the special package?" whispered Servo to his comrades.

"I hope it is something to eat, because I'm hungry," replied Crow.

Mike frowned, "You are a robot, Crow. You don't eat. You don't /need/ to eat."

"Biased organic lifeform," pouted Crow. "If you aren't nice to me, I'll have a talk with Ronnie. I've already looked into the Nan-o-scope and I bet he's learning lots of things from the Borg nanos that he'd love to try out."

Brain Guy squinted his eyes and rapidly nodded his head with the intensity of coffee hyper-stimulation. Into Pearl's suddenly gloved hands materialized a metal canister about a foot long and of sufficient diameter to hold the largest of film reels. The canister was a glaring yellow, decorated with black biohazard and radiation stickers as well as multiple copies of the word "PELIGROSO!" In addition to the gloves, Pearl now wore cheap plastic safety goggles, a white mad-scientist overcoat, and held a pair of long tongs.

"Open the canister," pronounced Pearl in her Voice of Doom.

The bots cowered slightly before natural curiosity of all things dangerous had them urging each other to take a closer look. Meanwhile, a tapping was heard from beneath Pearl's feet, accompanied by the muffled sounds of Bobo begging to be let in.

Brain Guy, similarly decked out to Pearl minus tongs and with a plastic "hair net" over his brain, unscrewed the top to the canister. The action required several attempts before jittery fingers complied. With the success, an ominously cold, white smoke slowly poured out. After glancing inside the canister, Pearl reached in with her tongs and began to fish around. The activity required more fishing and more time than possible given the apparent size of the container. Finally she emerged with first one, then a second movie reel, carefully placing her prizes on the bridge's dashboard.

Mike, taller than the two bots, craned his neck to see the offerings. He blanched and whispered with horror, "It is 'Abraxas: Guardian of the Universe' and 'Babes in Toyland'. Crow...talk to Ronnie and the other nanites. Please tell them to nuke me now."

Crow wasn't listening, too busy trying to convince the bridge door to open.

Pearl said, "They aren't for you, Mike. Brain Guy: give our 'friends' these little...presents. That should stop 'em for a bit."

Brain Guy closed his eyes. His head and shoulders shook with coffee and the effort of doing whatever unseen thing he was doing. The reels disappeared from the dash, leaving behind nothing except plastic melted due to the aura of the films' inherent cruelty.

Eyes opened again. "Done. Could someone point me to the nearest sink? I need to pour this highly efficient liquid stimulant out of my brain pan."

The Satellite of Love was suddenly silent, except for the continued sound of Bobo pleading to be let in. Outside, the Borg cube and the Posse ship had stopped their battle, both quiescently drifting. The tractor beam no longer held on to the hull.

"Nifty," said Crow, awed. Mike nodded his wordless agreement as Servo bobbed up and down in the air.

*****

Gerson's eyes focused on the video screen in horror, expression wincing with each addition to an already bad dialogue or actor/editing faux pas. He, like the rest of his crew, had been engaged in battle one moment, and locked in his quarters the next. Since the Posse functioned without fancy or extraneous space, the only difference between the captain's quarters and that of common crew was lack of a bunkmate and a few extra square meters to accommodate a desk.

The movie which played on the monitor could not be escaped.

Gerson had already tried to force open the door to his quarters, to access the maintenance spaces, to destroy the screen. The first had led to a small fire which had required an extinguisher to put out; the second to shock when it was found the metal around the access point had been electrified; and the third just not possible given the advanced technology of the vessel and Gerson's most effective weapon in the form of a chair. Right now he satisfied himself with huddling under the blankets of his bed, pillow over his head and eyes closed, with occasional forays to see if the torture had ended.

Because the Posse remained in one piece, Gerson could only hope that it was because the Borg cube was undergoing a similar experience.

Elsewhere on the Posse, all crew were having a similar experience to their commander. A few, those who were rare connoisseurs of the bad movie, actually enjoyed the flick, but most watched with emotions part confusion, part growing insanity. Not even the computer was exempt.

The Reality Posse did not realize until much too late Cube #347 had disappeared; and by that time, a third of the crew required a swift retreat to the home realm for a good psychiatrist.

Within the confines of Cube #347, four thousand drones were locked in their alcoves. Like their opponents aboard the Posse, they were in the thrall of a bad movie. Unlike the enemy, a drone intimately linked to a central computer has no means to escape when a movie is being played directly to the mind. Whereas Posse crew could huddle under sheets, slam head against a wall until unconscious, contemplate suicide, or simple go temporarily insane, none of those options existed for the Cube #347 sub-collective. Worse of all, the central gestalt meant that /all/ (or at least the vast majority) drones understood plot (or lack thereof), language, and other movie attributes which the film violently abused.

The horror! Oh, the horror!!

Captain blindly stared at the figures in his mind. To the outward observer, he appeared to occasionally ball his whole hand into that of a loose fist, but even that amount of defiance was draining. And futile.

Although Fall occurred half way through the movie, it continued to play. Not even Nothingness could interrupt.

*****

EPILOGUE

"I think the engines should be working soon," said Gypsy via the speakers. "And the oil change is done." There was a hesitant pause, then, "Do I need to reconfigure life support for three additional bodies?"

Pearl frowned. "No. Why the hell should I want to stay around here? It is smelly and dirty." Eyes took in the scattered remains of the frat party decorations. A hand waved at fake vomit adorning a corner of the ceiling. "Utterly unsuitable. Brain Guy: I want my rocket ship back."

Brain Guy, who had stripped off his gloves and was tipping the extra coffee from his brain pan back into its original cup, glanced over at Pearl. "Do you want it back exactly as it was? Maybe it should be fancied up, perhaps some beaded seat covers or a more tacky color."

"Brain Boy, are you trying to be smart with me? Even sarcastic? A girl needs to have her own space, her own ride, and there is no way I'm going to hang around with these losers on this ship." Pearl's eyes narrowed. "My rocket ship was paid for, after all. Now, give it back to me, or I'll..." The threat was left unvoiced. That an overlarge human could intimidate a near omnipotent being was laughable, yet the Observer hunched up slightly, cowed.

"Yes, ma'am." Brain Guy nodded his head three too many times. "Your van is back in one piece."

Pearl smiled. "Good. Um, Cambot or whatever your name is, show me." In response, the exterior monitor brightened, focused on the microbus Pearl (and Brain Guy and Bobo and whatever hitchhiker most recently picked up) called home.

"Will you stop that?" muttered Mike, who had been trying to remain inconspicuous, as Crow edged close, Nan-o-scope in hand.

"Shhh," replied Crow, "I'm trying to find out what is happening with the ship nanites and the Borg nanos." The Nan-o-scope's listening disc was placed on the back of Mike's neck. "It's coming in clear now. Still a truce, it seems, but there are complaints that there have been illegal incursions from Borg territory into nanite land in the area of the spleen. Hmmmm...you may be in for a flare up of tensions, Mike."

"Let me see!" insisted Servo.

Murmured Mike, "Oh, great." Louder, "Is there anything I can do to get them out of my system...both sides?"

Crow relinquished the Nan-o-scope to Servo, who moved the focus to Mike's mid-abdominal region. "Funny you should mention it. You see, I have this..."

"What are you three doing?" inquired Pearl suddenly. The question was asked with a dangerous mock sweetness worse than her normal rough tone. "Do you think I forgot about you?"

Servo dropped the Nan-o-scope and hastily hid behind Mike. Crow followed suit, pushing the smaller red and white robot out of the way.

"I bet I have something special, just for you three." Pearl smiled a wicked smile as tongs dipped into the still open PELIGROSO! canister. After a long moment, the tongs emerged, clutching a coldly steaming film. Along the rim was the title: "A Boy and His Dog."

"Shall I do the honors?" queried Brain Guy.

Pearl nodded. The film disappeared.

A light on the dashboard abruptly began to flash, accompanied by a wailing alarm. In the background was the clashing metallic ring of security doors opening one after another, leading eventually to the Mystery Science Theater. The bridge egress irised into a gaping hole, beaconing.

"Movie sign!" shouted Mike, Crow, and Servo together as they scrambled for the theater.

*****

Iris watched the Infinity Die roll across the Board as only a Director can. Probabilities twisted before the omniscient sight of the eyeball. "I have a good feeling about this..." said Iris.

Scoffed Lips, "That's what you've said about every other roll, too," as it shuffled its Reality Posse icon to the side of the Board, removed for now, but not out of play.

In the background, an Editor nervously twiddled its thumb.

---

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