It came from outer space...Star Trek by Paramount, that is.  Following somewhat close 
like a hesitant meteorite is Decker and Star Traks.  BorgSpace by Meneks orbits at a 
distance.

Additional disclaimer:  This is a work of fiction based in a sci-fi universe, which, in turn, 
has had a backspin off the bumper into an alternate reality.  Therefore, however the 
Roswell myth has been mutilated, torn, and spindled to fit the author's BorgSpace vision, 
remember, it is only a story.

The truth may be our there, but then again, it may only be in my head.


			The Roswell Incident, Part III

"The public will believe anything, as long as it is not founded on truth"
	-Edith Sitwell

		*	*	*	*	*

Recap with highlights:
	Ka-boom!  Bang!  An alien shuttle has plowed into the New Mexican desert. 
From the wreckage the local military presence extracts four bodies - Delta (both of her), 
Doctor, and a nameless dead drone; and Captain, having crash-landed on his own sans 
shuttle, is very dazed and confused as he is picked up (after being hit) by Gary the 
amateur astronomer in his truck; and even more so when he learns Doc, the vet who fixes 
him up, isn't human.
	In Part II, while there are no more crashed ships, many other things happen.  
Among them, Gary reveals that he knows Doc is an alien, but also notes that it is okay as 
long as the rent doesn't increase.  This happens after Gary falls through the ceiling.  Later, 
all three - Captain on a leash - go to Roswell Airbase to try and find Captain's comrades, 
but are foiled.
	Meanwhile, on the base, Doctor has been allowed to operate on the very injured 
Delta B.  This is made possible only by well placed words of one Dr. Al Ann, a physician 
who comes from a lot further away than Los Angeles.  Base commander Captain Conell 
remains clueless.  Lucy the ostrich is assimilated. 

			*	*	*	*	*

	Early morning seeped over the New Mexican desert, gently displacing night.  
Night insects quieted, replaced by their daytime counterparts; and the likes of fox, bat, 
and coyote sought their respective dens.  Birds rustled their feathers and called forth their 
first tentative songs.  Somewhere a sleepy graduate student puzzled over the loss of 
Meteorological Balloon Experiment 74, gone without a trace two nights prior (there was 
an odd story in the local newspaper, but no balloon could cause the crash effects the 
article detailed), as he released Experiment 75 into the air.
	Captain saw none of this.  He was locked in an alcove, which in turn was in the 
supply storage and preparation room of a rural veterinarian clinic.  No windows were 
available to show the breaking dawn; and the walls were too thick for birdsong.  Instead, 
the flea lifecycle and five common birthing difficulties of horses graced the walls as 
glossy posters.  Overhead lights made day and night immaterial.  Captain cared not for 
the lights, nor for sun and song had it been present (although the canine tooth decay 
poster was educational).  His eyes were closed as he discarded plan after plan for escape 
while simultaneously urging his addled neural transceiver to repair itself.  Unfortunately, 
the nanites mended complicated hardware only so quickly and were already moving as 
fast as possible.
	As he was not in regeneration, the loud ring of a phone prompted Captain to open 
his eye in semi-irritation.  Irritation was irrelevant, but without the sub-collective wide 
censure programs nor the steadying influence of other Borg, the ghost of emotion 
insidiously oozed into the psyche.  Besides, Captain was not having a good day.  Doc, the 
unhuman vet, bustled into the room, carefully stepping over a remnant pile of swept 
plaster Gary, long since retired to bed, had yet to cart away.  The handpiece to the old 
fashioned instrument was lifted to ear.
	"Roswell Veterinarian Clinic, this is Doc speaking," said Doc professionally into 
the mouthpiece.  One might even believe all was normal at the vet's office, disregarding 
the Borg in his borrowed alcove and the gaping hole in the ceiling.
	Doc's conversation continued, although Captain could only hear one side:
	"Sure.  Yes.  Whoa...whoa...slow down Richard and start at the beginning."  
Pause.  "Come again?"  Very long pause as Doc listened.  At one point his eyes flicked to 
Captain and gave the Borg a very long look before moving away again.  "Yes, it does 
sound serious and I think I know what the problem is.  No, no, Lucy is in no danger of 
dying."  Pause.  "Really.  No danger.  However, I would recommend keeping everyone 
else away from her, yourself included.  It's a rare type of, um, flu virus that is harmless to 
ostriches but potentially dangerous to humans.  To tell you more I'd have to go into all 
that technical vet stuff you say puts you to sleep."  Long pause.  "Yes, I realize Lucy is 
your...yes...okay...listen to me Richard!  I'll be over ASAP to confirm the diagnosis and 
start treatment, but I want you and your men to stay away from the bird.  I've, um, had a 
vaccination so the flu won't affect me."  Pause.  "Yes, I'm leaving now, as soon as I get 
my things in the truck.  I'll be there soonest."
	The phone was hung up.  The vet stared up at the ceiling as if seeking answers on 
the tiles.  As he did so, he absently fingered his beard.  Suddenly his head snapped around 
to focus on Captain.
	Captain returned the stare as dispassionately as only a Borg is capable.
	Said Doc, "Change of plans, Borg.  Fortuitous circumstance is allowing me onto 
base; and the ostrich run is near Building 18.  You are going to come with me.  I think 
Gary will be needed too.  Come along, let's get you out to the truck first before I wake the 
lad up."
	No further word of explanation was provided at that time.  Doc simply grabbed a 
leash carelessly curled on the nearby countertop and advanced on the alcove.  Captain for 
his part internally sighed and prepared for the indignity of leash and collar.  Inquiries 
upon the alien vet's plan were formulated, not that Captain expected much of an answer.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Captain Conell blindly wandered out of his office, navigating in only the most 
rudimentary of ways.  The steps and curb were automatically stepped down or over as 
appropriate, but the potted cactus placed for unknown reasons in the middle of the road 
was not avoided.  The resulting spines now embedded in Conell's pant leg were dismissed 
as unimportant.
	How dare Doc require time to get to the base, to get to Lucy!  The world needed 
a, um, transporter thingy or something.  The world needed a machine to instantly zap a 
body from one point to another for use in vital ostrich emergencies.
	Conell was not thinking logically as he hurried back to Lucy's pen.  All concerns 
related to White Sands and aliens were dismissed in favor of Lucy.  The run came into 
view and Conell paused, as he had done when he had first exited his quarters as part of 
his daily routine to visit his large pet.
	Lucy essentially had no feathers, all naked skin except for a trio of tail plumes 
which refused to be shed.  On the ground of the run were the remains of the ostrich's fine 
dress of black and white, trampled underfoot by the pacing bird.  The revealed skin was 
that of a plucked bird in texture being somewhat bumpy, but the color was not a healthy 
pink, instead a mottled gray Richard associated with dead or dying things.  Other than the 
distressing image she presented in Richard's eyes, Lucy appeared unharmed, her activity 
normal as she hissed at any of the growing crowd of base personnel who approached too 
close.
	Near the cage, unaccountably ignored by the ostrich, was Dr. Ann.  The large 
doctor was writing in his ever-present notebook, only occasionally glancing at the pacing 
bird.
	"Al!" called Richard as he drew near.  Lucy trumpeted a greeting before returning 
to her routine.  "Can't you do anything about her, at least until the vet arrives?"
	Dr. Ann paused his scribbling, removing pencil from paper.  The look he gave 
Richard was one of revulsion.  "I'm not an animal doctor; and I'm not going in there.  
Besides, look at the skin...it looks a lot like that of our detainees.  No hair, er, feathers, 
again like our guests.  And since I began observations, I've noticed the eruption of two 
star-shaped metal objects.  It /may/ be a disease that the ostrich caught from our guests, 
one which only affects ostriches.  It is likely harmless except for cosmetic purposes, but 
as I said, I'm not an animal doctor.  The vet is better equipped to make diagnoses."
	"Lucy," impotently whimpered Richard.  Dr. Ann returned to his notebook.

	Al was very satisfied.  The experiment was continuing apace, but the highlight 
would come when the vet appeared.  Perhaps the bird would attack the vet, perhaps not:  
it was all the same to Al.  He did hope that in the event the  animal was put down, he 
could claim the corpse for "medical necropsy to determine if affliction had the possibility 
to vector to humans."
	Al glanced sideways at Conell, noting in disgust the human's impatient rocking 
from foot to foot.  How could anything even mildly intelligent become attached to a 
lower lifeform?  Sure, lower lifeforms such as bugs or ostriches or humans were 
interesting to watch, but to become emotionally close?  Eyes shifted back to observations.
	The next experiment would involve darting a human, perhaps Conell.  The 
outward physical aspects of what the nanomachines did was apparent, but Al needed to 
interrogate a talking, semi-reasoning creature in order to document changes in mental 
status.

	Lucy was experiencing very unostrich-like thoughts.  Slowly her world was 
expanding beyond the basic categories of "me," "not-me," and the like.  She did not like 
it.
	For instance, there were the thought-streams, as unostrich as possible, which were 
me, yet not-me.  With the thoughts came snatches of an expansive dark area and odd not-
mes similar to the noisy not-mes, but very, very different.  It was very frustrating, and 
caused Lucy to hiss with irritation at any (except mate and bad) who came too near even 
when they remained beyond her normal territorial boundary.
	Although the ostrich did not know it, would not understand it, the nanites in their 
mindless programming had managed to analyze Lucy's brain structure sufficiently to 
build an organic neural transceiver.  The transceiver, in turn, had tuned in upon Doctor 
and Delta.  Unfortunately, the ostrich's brain was not complicated enough to properly 
integrate into the miniature sub-collective, which only served to confuse the ostrich 
further.
	Lucy hissed and charged the fence.

	Doctor critically observed Delta, both of her as best as possible without physical 
access.  Delta B remained unconscious by drone maintenance command codes, but Delta 
A had woken.  However, Delta A could at best be described as groggy.  Without 
meaningful input from her twin, she was only "half there" as she occasionally ran into the 
walls of her prison.
	Neither was the alien input helping.
	An animal beyond the prison had been assimilated.  For once Doctor was not to 
blame.  Really.  Truly.  Unknown how it had occurred, the impact was nonetheless 
present as its organic transceiver attempted to align itself to the network represented by 
Doctor and Delta.  The animal was of low-moderate intelligence as such things went, 
from Doctor's experience; and it had a flocking or herding instinct which drove it to 
assert itself through the weak link.
	Blocking the organic neural transceiver was not an option because it operated on a 
broad range of frequencies.  One could try to ignore it, but the best method to remove the 
influence was termination (of the animal) or moving beyond the short broadcast/receive 
distance, neither choice of which was viable at the moment.
	Therefore, between the blurring of thoughts of animal and the not-quite-all-there 
advice from Delta (for example, {Put...modulate the...strip wire...}, made no sense 
because of the propensity for thoughts to jump from twin to twin with both relaying it, a 
method not workable when only one was conscious), Doctor attempted a prison break 
using the only tools available - himself and the radio.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The uncomfortably bumpy excuse for a ride came to an end, or at least paused.  
Captain had been compelled to enter the covered bed of a primitive internal combustion 
conveyance called a pick-up truck.  As there was no room to stand, and as Borg were not 
designed to sit in any position much less cross-legged, Captain was forced to lie on his 
back.  The situation only served to emphasize the lack of adequate suspension.  An 
additional indignity was Doc leashing Captain, then tying the free end through a hole at 
the head of the bed, leading to strangulation whenever the truck took a too sharp left turn.
	It was fortunate Captain did not require a regular oxygen supply.
	During the pause in travel, Captain hastily unwound the leash from his neck and 
resumed breathing.  The welt across the middle of his face was already being mended by 
nanites.
	"What sounds?" asked Doc's voice.  Captain immediately paused his activities, as 
motionless as only capable by statues or Borg.
	Returned a gruff response, as if the owner of the voice had a perpetual sore throat, 
"The back of yer truck, Doc.  There were odd thumpin' noises from back ther.  You know 
the rules, Doc, I'm gonna have to do some inspectin'."
	"Goodness, whatever for?"
	"Illegal thangs."
	"Bear!  You know everyone and their uncle's dog has been on base.  Why 
smuggle in someone when they could go down to that break in the fence half mile away 
in the arroyo?"  That was Gary.
	The one called Bear hrumphed.  "Yah, yah.  Hi, Gary.  Sorry, Doc, but that's the 
way thangs are.  I'll make it fast, though, 'cause I know Dick's gotta bug up his a** 'bout 
his giant chicken."
	"I have nothing back there," said Doc, "except vet tools.  You should let us go 
by."
	"Well..." wavered Bear.
	Doc grumbled, then said louder and with more emphasis, "I have nothing back 
there except vet tools.  You /will/ let us go by."  It was all very Jedi-esk, except neither 
participants nor eavesdropper had ever heard of a Jedi.
	Bear heaved a sigh.  " I guess there's nothin' back thar but vet stuff.  You'd better 
get along to the bird's cage.  You know where it is."
	There came a quiet and meaty thump, like that of elbow into ribs, followed by, 
"Later, Gary."  Then, louder and to Bear, "Yup.  I know where the run is."
	The truck's gears ground as it was set rolling and rocking and bumping again.  
The boredom of the topper's ceiling (and walls and floor) was not at the forefront of 
Captain's attention at the moment, nor the uncomfortable ride only marginally smoothed 
by concrete.  Instead, there were odd vibes tickling the inner mind via the organic 
transceiver, vibes not Borg and not necessarily of sentient origin....

	Gary opened the door and began to climb out of the truck, a much nicer and above 
all cleaner vehicle than Gary himself owned.  He stopped short as a hand pulled on his 
elbow.  The truck was idling between several buildings, out of immediate sight of base 
personnel.
	"Be careful," admonished Doc, his gray-brown eyes serious.  "Just look around a 
bit; and when you get to Building 18, try to find a way inside.  However, Don't Go Inside.  
Do I make myself clear?"
	Gary narrowed his eyes.  He had finally seen Doc do his alien mind control 
thingy, but he himself didn't feel any different.  No compulsion, then.  Good, as it was too 
early in the morning for beer.  Heck, it was too early in the morning for being awake, 
thought Gary the night owl, Gary the self-taught amateur astronomer.
	Yawning, Gary nodded.  "Yah, yah.  Don't go inside.  I get you.  They don't look 
that dangerous, though."  He paused at Doc's glare.  "Fine, yes, I understand."  With those 
parting words, Gary trotted away to the nearest building.

	Doc watched Gary move into the shadow of the nearest building - Building 15.  
He shook his head ruefully as the truck was shifted back into gear.  The lad just didn't 
understand.  He had been damned lucky that first night when the Borg was picked up, 
Captain too hurt, too disorganized to use his kind's most basic hand-to-hand 
offense/defense method.  Such was not the case now; and such was not necessarily the 
case for the Borg on the base, which meant the base personnel were quite lucky not to 
have been assimilated thus far.
	The truck rounded a building and came directly in alignment with the morning 
sun.  Doc slowed the truck to a crawl until vision adjusted, then rumbled on at greater 
speed towards the ostrich pen.  Its location was not hard to discern.
	Most base personnel, including those who should have been patrolling the 
grounds, were loitering near the run, else outright staring at it without pretext of 
busywork.  One notable missing from the crowd was the individual known as Dr. Al Ann, 
but as Doc had never met the erstwhile base medical officer - there was no need for Dr. 
Ann to be around the few times Doc had been on base for Lucy-related reasons - the 
absence went unnoticed.  As the truck stopped amid faint squeak of brakes, Captain 
Conell frantically ran to the driver door and tapped on the glass.  The window was rolled 
down.
	"Doc!  You're finally here!" bawled Conell.  "You gotta do something for Lucy!"  
The man was in tears, the tips of his moustache more ragged than usual.
	"Richard.  You have to give me a minute to get out and get my equipment, for 
Pete's sake.  Be a good lad and step back a couple of feet.  I'll be to the run shortly."
	Conell rocked back and forth on his feet like a small child confronted with 
something he didn't want to do, wiped the back of one hand across his face, sniffed 
loudly, then nodded.  He moved away about 15 feet, head swiveling between ostrich pen 
and vet truck.
	Doc sighed and opened his door, hopping to the ground.  One glance at the two-
legged, seven-foot tall patient pacing back and forth in her run had confirmed the worst.  
He would now play the vet routine, pretend to assess the bird and so forth, to give Gary 
more time.  It would be interesting to see if the normal tranquilizers worked on the 
animal any more.
	Making sure attention was directed to Conell or Lucy, Doc sauntered to the back 
of the truck and nonchalantly opened tailgate and topper.  The required veterinarian 
equipment was secured within easy reach.  From the depths of the truck bed glared a 
well-tossed Borg.  "Rumpled" was an apt description, despite the fact Captain lacked hair 
or clothes for the label to be so applied.
	"It is not our fault," stated Captain.  Doc noted the resumption of plurals.
	Hissed Doc in return, "Not so loud.  At least try to whisper.  Are you in contact 
with your comrades, then?"
	"No."  The volume was only slightly lower.  Most Borg could not whisper very 
well, and Captain was no exception.  "But they are incarcerated and I am...restrained as 
well."  Irony?  From a drone?  In spite of himself, Doc was intrigued.  "Therefore, it is 
logical that it is not our fault."
	Doc noisily dragged bags and boxes to cover the sound of conversation.  "What, 
exactly, is not your fault?"
	"The nonsentient intruding upon our link.  Its organic neural transceiver is active."  
Captain paused, then added, out of context from Doc's point of view, "Doctor is not 
responsible.  His 'accidents' do not produce creatures which attempt linkage."  There was 
a very short pause, as if an exception was remembered.  "At least not normally."
	Doc blinked, then hauled the appropriate bags from the truck and placed them on 
the ground, followed by a blowgun.  The tranquillizer dart was already prepared with the 
mixture which usually calmed Lucy.  "No matter.  We still need to find your friends.  
Gary could be skunked again.  Can you do it?"
	Captain did not answer immediately, and there was a distinct glazing of his eye as 
he contemplated an internal world which could be more real than the universe outside.  
The eye snapped back to the here-and-now.  "Yes, but it will require time.  The 
interference from the nonsentient is hampering me."
	"I'll give you what time I can."  Tailgate and topper were closed, locked.  Bags 
and blowgun were picked up and Doc reappeared, much to the obvious relief of Conell.  
Recognizing a show soon to start, one much more exciting than normal routine, gathered 
base personnel quietly murmured among themselves in the eclectic language of odds and 
money.

			*	*	*	*	*

	{Splice red wire of}
	{primitive electronic device to}
	{the corn cob straw beast...}
	Delta trailed off.  Which one, A or B, did not matter, as the mental voice bounced 
between the bodies.  Doctor sighed, one hand holding the aforementioned red wire, but 
unknowing where to put it.  While it was rare for a neural transceiver to be built in the 
animals Doctor had accidentally infected over the years with nanoprobes, it occasionally 
happened.  When such did occur, Doctor was the only one who actually received 
nonsentient imagery, and thus had practice separating his thoughts from those of the 
animal.  However, Delta had no such experience and kept losing her stream of 
consciousness amid the nonsentient thought images.
	{Red wire goes where, lassie-girl?} prompted Doctor.  While he preferred Delta 
B to remain unconscious, the previous attempt to confer exacting engineering 
technicalities had produced half conversations embedded with extended silences in 
addition to ostrich imagery.  {Red wire where?}
	Both of Delta refocused on the task, Delta B notably slower than Delta A.
	{Red wire of primitive electrical device}
	{to light socket wire white.}
	Doctor swiftly did so, which required a /long/ reach to the ceiling.  The light bulb 
had been removed from the socket, but darkness was not an obstacle to Borg eyes.  
{Done.  Next trick?}
	{The Flock Leader}
	{comes!  Here is the}
	{Flock Leader!}
	Doctor's ears folded to his skull as he clicked his teeth together.  Distorted ostrich 
image as transmitted along a low bandwidth was focusing on a ground vehicle.  The 
animal was, frankly, stupid, even Doctor had to admit (and he often gave a large leeway 
for his pets).  The truck was dismissed.  {Your vet needs direction.  What next?}
	{Lick your finger and}
	{put it in the light socket}
	{but first...}
	Additional information relayed by Delta was lost as Doctor complied with the 
direction.  Pull back for the full scene before the effects are revealed.
	Doctor stands in the middle of his cell, facing the barrier, ears perked once more, 
one finger in an empty light socket.  In the other hand he holds the radio 
transmitter/receiver, now a mangled mess of wires, tubes, and naked speaker.  Bits dangle 
here and there, some unattached to anything, others wound around and plugged into 
various exposed apertures on Doctor's body.  One red wire snakes upwards to connect to 
the exposed innards of the light socket.
	Let the action commence.
	All over the base the lights flickered, as they did across the whole of southeast 
New Mexico into adjacent Texas counties.  The cell was a maelstrom of high-pitched 
sound.  The unearthly tune screamed across the senses, squealed forth from abused radio 
speakers.  It was shrill shriek of a thousand B-rated horror movie actresses crossed with 
countless fingernails across infinite chalkboards.  Sparks lit the cell's darkness, reflecting 
the subtle oscillations the barrier was undergoing.
	Meanwhile, Doctor had gone deaf.  For him, after the first half second, the world 
was a soundless picture show.
	The barrier began to vibrate, then flex, shaking in its mounting like a wild thing.  
Suddenly the world as reflected by the unglass shattered into a million possibilities, 
shards dropping to the ground in an unheard musical clatter.  Doctor removed his finger 
from the light socket as freedom beaconed.
	"All done!" he shouted.

	Al dug through the devices hidden in the cubby, rejecting one after another in 
frustration.  Who knew what unobserved activity was happening at the run, especially as 
the vet's arrival was imminent?  Al wouldn't even have been in his lab except his need to 
properly document happenings had become too great.
	He had to have data!
	A multi-dimensional aural spectrometer with optional voice recorder was rejected 
because it looked too much like a miniature bazooka, as did the militaristic appearing 
XOOMBY2000 portable sub-nucleonic scanner.
	The ostrich experiment was rapidly reaching a conclusion.  Al firmed his 
conviction to dart Conell next, the confine him to medical for "quarantine and detailed 
analysis to determine vector of spread for the alien pathogen."  Anything, no matter the 
species, no matter the procedure, could be justified with sufficient application of medical 
technobabble.  In Al's head the obligatory triplicate military paperwork was already being 
filled out, but first...
	No, not that device neither.  There /had/ to be something appropriate!

	Richard hovered at Doc's shoulder, peering at the medicines the vet was mixing, 
at the equipment carefully arrayed on the ground outside the pen door.  He was oblivious 
to the glares of annoyance Doc repeatedly shot at the base commander.
	"What's that for?  It looks sharp."
	"Syringe for a blood sample.  Of course its sharp:  it's a needle.  Do you think you 
could step back a step or three?  I'll go faster if you aren't so...immediate."  As usual, 
Conell missed the very unsubtle hint of "back away, you bugger."
	Sergeant Jones of the red-hair and with fair skin long crisped by desert sun and 
wind, slid behind Richard, touching the captain on his elbow to gain attention.  "Sir," said 
Jones, who was well aware of Doc's barely suppressed ire, "phone call."
	"Take a message," snapped Conell.
	"It is White Sands, sir.  They'll be here in a couple of hours.  The..." began Jones, 
but was interrupted.
	Retorted Richard, "I don't care if it is General Julian Trast himself!  Tell the man 
on the other end that I'm in the middle of an emergency at the moment!"  Richard's eyes 
never left Doc and the vet's preparations, missing Jones' sigh.
	"As you say, sir.  I'll tell White Sands so."  Hurrying back to the communications 
building, the sergeant ruefully shook his head, yet another thing missed by the 
unobservant Richard Conell.  The Captain's eyes were only for Doc, who was now 
entering the ostrich run.

	Lucy's eyes rolled, an action ostriches whatever their name are wont to do.  They 
rolled and alighted upon the shouting not-mes (who quieted as they noticed her attention 
directed upon them), at mate, at the bent not-me with the somewhat familiar tube thing, at 
the world in general.  Mostly they focused upon the wheeled not-me, a type of noisy 
unanimal the biped not-mes often rode around within, always emerging whole and 
uneaten, unlike the bits and pieces Lucy occasionally coughed up after a particularly fast 
feeding.
	"Truck" floated within the ostrich brain, consolidating out of nowhere.  Lucy 
ruffled her feathers uncomfortably, or would have had she any left beyond the three tail 
plumes, the ostrich brain, even a Borgified one, just not designed for the linking of 
abstract with concrete.  Along with truck came "human," "building," "sky," "sun" and 
dozens more besides.
	Lucy was getting a serious case of brain overload.
	More rustling of absent feathers, more hissing.  She paced back and forth in her 
cage, eyeing all, even mate, with suspicion.  Then, without knowing why, Lucy paused to 
stretch her neck high, to look in the direction of a building.  It was Building 18, not that 
the ostrich's already stressed brain could handle the concept of numbers without either 
hemorrhaging or exploding.  The echo of an echo, a noise not heard with her ears, caused 
Lucy to collapse to the ground, to fold in a futile attempt to bury her head in the feathers 
she no longer had.  The unnoise departed as swiftly as it came, and eyes rolling more than 
ever, Lucy scrambled to her feet.
	A dart hit her on the rump.  Lucy ignored it.  The tranquillizer which should have 
put an elephant to sleep was swiftly neutralized by nanites.
	{Mate!} called Lucy, or that was what she would have said had she vocal cords, a 
speech center.  What actually emerged from her throat was a very unostrich honking-
hiccup.  Unknown to her, certain drones were being rather badly affected by the 
imploration.  {Mate!} cried Lucy again, wanting mate to make things all better.
	Mate was not paying attention.  Mate was arguing with the not-me - human - just 
about to open her cage door.  Much hand waving by mate was happening.  Eyes rolled to 
the crowd, then finally upon the truck one last time.
	{Flock Leader!} shouted Lucy.  This time there was an answer, not in concrete 
words, the organic neural transceiver of low bandwidth and the ostrich brain unable to 
understand those words, but it was a response.
	A Borg would have accurately translated the message as {Stop it!  Go away!  
Above all, shut up!}
	{Flock Leader!} emoted Lucy a final time.  The cage door opened.  Lucy sighted 
upon it, then sprinted through the exit, one clawed foot barely missing the human who 
tumbled to the ground in front of her charge.

	Gary wedged the length of rebar between building frame and window and gently 
pried.  The ground floor window to Building 18 had only been slightly ajar, but Gary 
knew a little persuasion would fix that deficiency.  Doc's words about being careful 
echoed in the back of his mind, but Gary had convinced himself that just /looking/ inside 
wouldn't cause harm if he didn't actually enter.  Besides, with everyone except a few gate 
guards and dedicated office flunkies at the ostrich pen, there was no better time for a little 
breaking and entering.  At least the breaking part.
	On the other side of the black painted glass something went *ting!*, followed by 
a *snap!* and *crinkle!*  A small metallic object dropped to the ground on the inside, 
allowing the window to freely swing out.  Gary lifted it up to peer inside, then sighed as 
daylight illuminated nothing more exciting than boxes untidily stacked such that an aisle 
of sorts drunkenly intersected the window.
	The human is a rational animal, especially when it comes to rationalizing how to 
do something that has been expressedly prohibited.  In such a matter anything from 
shoplifting to war can be justified, to be shined attractively with fancy bow tied on.  It is 
not unexpected that one day, when the universe spontaneously disintegrates to elemental 
muons and baryons, a member of humanity (in the waiting room of the afterlife) will 
defensively say, "How did /I/ know this would happen?  The only reason I built a sub-
atomic baryonic discombobulator and code-named it 'Doom2All' was because my granny 
wanted her toast a lighter brown."
	Therefore, following in the footsteps of ancestors and descendants alike, Gary 
decided to enter Building 18.  Doc'd want to know for sure if Captain's friends were 
inside, and if Captain had to be snuck into the building, well, he needed a door since the 
alien was surely too rigid to climb over any window sill.
	Gary scrambled through the opening, careful not to allow the window to crash 
closed lest a pane break.  The shadowy outlines of boxes and sacks haphazardly placed in 
piles and jagged rows gave the illusion of pending collapse, yet miraculously did not fall 
over.  Overhead lights were faint, flickering, and might as well as been absent for the 
illumination they provided.  The window aisle emptied into a better defined alley bound 
by tall shelves.  On the shelves resided unrecognizable dusty metal bits, all unified in the 
fact that they used to be part of a larger object that had exploded, crashed, spun apart, or 
all three at once.
	Metal gave way to cardboard boxes as Gary crept down the alley towards a 
conspicuous open space.  The boxes were closed with packing tape and carefully labeled 
with a black marker.  With primate curiosity, Gary pried open a box which was not as 
well sealed as the others.  Inside, carefully vacuum wrapped in individual packages, were 
spongy golden objects - Twinkies.  Blinking at the recognizable "food" product, he 
closed the box then squinted at the writing.
	"From archeological dig, Athens, Greece.  Dated 720-750 BC.  Still edible," 
murmured Gary to himself.  "I wonder what that is supposed to mean...?"  The 
unanswerable question trailed off as discernable words - English, naturally, for 
whomever heard of an alien creature actually using its own language when eavesdroppers 
were nearby? - were shouted.
	"I can't hear you!  Speak up!"  The metallic undertones were similar to those of 
Captain.
	Gary tiptoed to where the aisle emptied into a large clear space, suitable for 
forklifts, trucks, small spaceships, whatever could be driven or dragged through the large 
doors visible to one side.  Of greater interest, however, were the lighted cells.  They were 
fronted by an odd transparent solid that reflected light in such a way the brain rejected it 
as glass.  One window was broken, a coarse powder heaped amid sharp shards no longer 
than a finger.  In two of the other cells stood more mechanical men, or, rather, 
mechanical women, thought Gary, although he did not know why he should assign the 
gender.  In one case, "leaned against a wall" was more appropriate than "stood," but the 
other was quite mobile in a lurching sort of way.
	The mobile Borg peered out of her prison, hand shading her eyes in much the way 
Gary might try to look into his truck when the sun was casting reflections on the 
windshield to see if his keys were locked inside again.  The Borg obviously saw Gary, for 
she took a step back and began to mouth something while pointing towards Gary's hiding 
spot.
	"You'll have to speak up!  I'm a bit deaf at the moment!"  Speaking in the manner 
of one who thinks shouting will compensate for one's own hearing loss, another Borg 
faced the caged female.  Although details were lacking due to Gary's view of backside, 
there was a distinct rodent character to the fellow, especially around the ears.
	The imprisoned Borg continued to point; and the rat Borg continued to protest its 
(his, decided Gary, unable to see anything particularly feminine about armored back and 
rear) non-understanding.  Finally Girl Borg stepped away from the window with a 
headshake, cocked her head, then made a complicated gesture.  If Gary had been 
watching the other occupied cell, he would have seen mirrored gestures, albeit weaker, 
from the second drone.
	"Charades!" yelled Ratty excitedly.  "That is a good trick!  A phrase with three 
words.  First word, one syllable."
	Despite himself, Gary edged closer.  He always had felt himself to be particularly 
keen at charades.
	Girl Borg brought up a hand, holding it flat over her eyes in a static salute (or at 
least where her eyes would have been had she two whole ones), and made an exaggerated 
display of peering around.  Back and forth, forth and back she gazed.
	"Look," said Gary with the confidence of the Roswell area charades champion.
	Meanwhile, Ratty was not so swift on the uptake.  "See!  Find!  Locate!"  
Everything except "look."
	Girl Borg switched to miming half a pair of binoculars, one hand curled into the 
appropriate tube, the other hand lacking such vital charade tools as fingers.
	"Sight!  Peer!  Gaze!"
	"'Look,' you idiot," muttered Gary as he took another step away from cover.  
"Anyone can tell it is look."
	Finally, exhausting all other options, Ratty blurted "Look!"
	Girl Borg immediately held up her hand in a warding motion, indicating the 
choice was correct.  Another flurry of gestures followed, then she started to pat herself on 
her rear.
	Muttered Ratty overloud, "Second word, two syllables, entire word...butt!"
	"'Look butt'?" cried Gary indignantly as distance to safety increased again.  
"'Look butthead', maybe.  Butt only has one syllable."
	"Rear!  No, only one syllable!" shouted Ratty, catching on at last.  "Tail!  No, not 
good neither!  Buttock!  That is two syllables!"
	Groaning, another unconscious step was taken.  Now he was behind Ratty and to 
one side, approaching the shoulder.  "'Behind', you numbskull.  That is the 'behind'."
	Girl Borg sucked in her breath, blew it out, and switched to indicating her back.  
When that garnered answers such as "spinal cord" and "backbone," she returned to the 
gluteus maximus region.
	"Behind, behind, behind!  Are you thick of brain?" asked Gary to Ratty's back.
	"Behind!" spouted Ratty.  "'Look behind...'  Um, look behind what, Delta?  Do 
you see somewhere I can plug in?  Maybe look behind a box?  What?"
	Girl Borg's face, expressionless to begin with, now had that wooden unexpression 
people wear when they feel they are being perfectly clear, yet the other person isn't 
getting it.  A final set of gestures was performed in charades tradition.
	"Third word, one syllable!  Doctor!" called Ratty.  "How can I look behind 
myself?  That doesn't make sense!  I think it maybe time for a logic function check up 
with Assimilation, addled puppy!"
	Girl Borg pointed unwaveringly at Ratty.  At the first guess, she pinched her gray 
lips together and made as if to punch the window.  Controlling herself, she shook her 
head back and forth and continued to finger Ratty.
	"You!" happily exclaimed Gary.  "The final answer is 'Look behind you.'"  Gary 
blinked.  Look behind you.  Eyes slid sideways.  He was nearly even with Ratty's 
shoulder.  Oh-oh.  A careful step was taken backwards.
	"27 of 27!  No, too many syllables!  Me!  That doesn't make sense-wence 
neither!"
	A second, then third step was made towards safety of cover, slowly to avoid 
attracting attention.
	Girl Borg stopped pointing, curling hand into a fist.  Stepping up to the window, 
she extended an index finger and began to sketch something on the unglass, a graceful 
rune shape which did not fit the image of clunky Borg.
	"That's not how charades are played!" protested Ratty.  "You are writing a 'U' 
symbol!  Bad girl!  No playing the game correctly!  No biscuit!"
	Girl Borg continued to trace the symbol.
	Gary eased backwards another step.
	"U!  No good!  U...u...you?"  Ratty slowed as comprehension dawned.  Gary 
froze.  Girl Borg took a step away from the window, the thinnest of satisfied smiles 
crossing her face, as well as the one in the other cell had Gary looked in that direction.  
"'Look behind you'?"  Look behind you!  I get it!  I should look behind me!"
	Ratty swiveled on heel much faster than should be possible by such a creature.  
Indeed, as surmised, there was a great deal of rodent to his visage, not just around the 
ears.
	Gary, caught in the open, squeaked and dropped all pretense of silence.  He 
scrambled backwards fast...and even faster as Ratty advanced, one hand reaching 
forward, eyes glinting.  Maybe Doc knew what he was talking about.  Despite the 
perception of the Borg moving fast, such was not so, and a dash for freedom might have 
netted Gary a chaotic pursuit through the dim warehouse followed by a narrow dive out 
his jimmied window.  Unfortunately, there was an inconvenient pile of boxes in the way, 
an unstable pile which became an avalanche as Gary backed into them.

	Lucy ran to the truck, naked wings extended.  With feathers she would have been 
imposing; bare mottled gray skin turned her into a Thanksgiving nightmare come to 
haunt a turkey rancher.  The noise from the crowd was disregarded.  One, two, three, a 
powerful foot kicked the back of the truck, shattering window and crumpling metal of 
tailgate and topper.  Inside, something scrabbled away from the attack, pausing with a 
grunt as leash tangled.
Lucy stuck her head inside the back of the truck, then exhaled a sigh which was 
the closest an ostrich can come to a coy coo:  there was Flock Leader.

	Al swiftly ambled towards the ostrich pen.  It was not quite a run, a jog, or other 
pace which might seem to, in some indefinable way, lessen his dignity, but he was 
definitely in a hurry.  "An amble" was how Al liked to think of it, but the overstretched 
legs moving a shade too fast and the wildly swinging arms called to mind a term to be 
adopted in later decades - power walking.
	In one pocket a camera thumped against a thigh.  It was the least alien looking of 
his devices; and if anyone should ask, he planned to say it had a function perfectly 
transparent to anyone who went to medical school.  The glare helped too.  For some 
reason, humans rarely asked questions when Al glared at them, instead hunching oddly 
with arms drawn close as if expecting them to be stuck full of needles.
	Humans.  A backwards race fated to extinction.  Sigh.  And he had to live 
amongst them.
	Al slowed as he saw the crowd around the ostrich run.  The men were excitedly 
babbling among themselves, tens of conversations ongoing in a verbal white noise.  Of 
the sixty base personnel (including the ten pilots who rarely flew anything except 
mothballed planes to their parking spots), all were present.  Among them were those on 
gate duty, finally succumbing to temptation after leaving little signs at their posts saying 
"Thank you for not infiltrating our base."
	Of the ostrich there was no sign...wait, there it was, head stuck in the back of a 
truck.  Nanite infection had certainly not improved the beast's brain power.
	The wind shifted slightly, wafting a breeze of hot desert air from ostrich pen to 
Al.  Al slowed to a crawl, then paused, one foot held midair.  He sucked in a great 
draught of air once, twice, thrice.  There was a scent oddly familiar under the stench of 
ostrich manure, unwashed human, and Earth in general.  Puzzled, Al resumed his former 
pace.
	As the ring of servicemen saw their medical officer they quieted, much as small 
prey animals do in the presence of a predator.  One man continued to talk loudly on the 
issue of a sporting match, but was quickly elbowed to silence by his nearby mates.  Men 
shuffled out of the way, allowing Al a wide path.
	Al abruptly stopped, staring at the bearded human sprawled on the ground in front 
of the ostrich pen access door.  It was impossible!  Impossible!  Yet, the achingly familiar 
smell came from him.  The form did not match the reality, but Al himself wasn't exactly 
of right body at the moment.
	Face screwed up in rage.  "YOU!" roared Al as he altered his gait to that of a 
threatening stomp, one which had airmen all but trampling each other in their haste to get 
away.  "YOU!!"

	"YOU!!" roared in Doc's ears, a bellow of pure outrage.  Startled, Doc scrambled 
to his feet and looked around, then almost fell over again as he spotted the human in 
white lab coat bearing down on him.
	No...it couldn't be...he was...impossible!  That human was not a human; and the 
body aura which flickered around the form indicated whom exactly it was under the rage-
twisted human features.  Doc was astonished, making no move to retreat as the un-man 
stumped forward.
	Despite residing only a short distance apart, Doc and Al had never met...at least 
never met on Earth.  Off-Earth, that was another story too long to tell here.  On Terra, 
however, the paths of animal and people doctors don't usually cross; and in those few 
times Doc had been on base giving Lucy her annual check-up or trying to induce her to 
throw up a grenade (inactive) she had swallowed, Al had inevitably been in his medical 
domain ministering to an unlucky serviceman.  Except for the Borg incident and Al 
becoming curious as to the nature of nanoprobes, the situation could have continued for 
years, neither the wiser, until their respective exiles ended.
	It is a well known fact that people living on the opposite side of the globe will 
continually bump into each other, while neighbors can go for decades without actually 
seeing each other until such time the dog has pooped on the wrong lawn one too many 
times.
	Al drew himself straight, his foot taller frame threatening.  Well muscled belly 
thrust into the more diminutive form of Doc.  "YOU!  What the hell are /you/ doing here, 
you miserable excuse of a vitcamorph?  It's all your fault I'm stuck here!  All your fault 
for the entire Incident!"
	Doc, staggered from the bump, gamely pushed back.  "What am I doing here?"  
His indignity was not quite as advanced as Al's, yet, but it was rising, along with volume 
and spittle production.  "What am /I/ doing here?  You should know, you mangy wartax-
leeg, since /you/ precipitated the Incident which exiled me to this backwards dirtball!  
There is /no/ decent GalixNet reception here, and the post is atrocious.  And it is all 
/your/ fault!"
	"Me?" spat Doc's rival.  "Me?  No way, parasitized brona-bug!"
	"Jeliko-klag!"
	"Ingitifant!"
"Um, excuse me," timidly interrupted Captain Conell, "but do you two know each 
other?  Dr. Ann?  Doc?"  He stepped back as he took the full brunt of Doc's glare, and 
that of Dr. Ann.  Conell swallowed and tried again, "Al?" followed by "And, Doc, Lucy 
has her head in your truck."
	Doc glanced behind Conell towards his vehicle, then back to the base commander.  
He'd sort out ostrich and Borg matters later, for more important things beaconed.  
Namely, "Dr. Ann?  Dr. Al Ann?  Let me guess...the middle initial is an E, isn't it?"
	Al smiled smugly.  "Gee, how did you know?"
	"Dr. Al-E-Ann.  Dr. Alien."  The words were said in a tuneless monotone.  "How 
original.  Ha-ha.  I'm laughing my wings off, can't you see?  Ha-ha.  You never were very 
smart, Smegus."
	"At least I tried, Johnsey.  You probably have some Smith or Johnson.  No 
imagination is you.  I am creative!  If one is going to be banished to a dirtball for a 
century, one might as well have a little fun."
	"Oh, yes, your creativity.  Before I was formally exiled, I remember the news 
stories about your 'creativity,'" riposted Doc.  "With pictures, too.  Very...red, green, or 
yellow, depending on the body fluid of your victim.  Just further proof that your are the 
rabid fotch-eater who started the Incident and got me blamed for it."  Pause.  "And my 
last name is Holiday.  Keith 'Doc' Holiday.  See, better than you."
	The name explanation was dismissed with a lazy wave of hand in favor of more 
needling subjects.  "Fotch-eater?  Fotch-eater?  Better that than a trosh-spleker!"
	"What's going on?" asked Conell, who wore a very puzzled expression.  "It 
doesn't sound like you two like each other."
	Doc, at that final insult, held his breath then slowly, every so slowly, let it out.  A 
"trosh-spleker" was a graphic, inflammatory insult.  Think of dead alien sheep, with a 
whipped cream topping and crunch bits, and the mind might start to get a handle on the 
vulgarity.  It definitely was not polite, and blood feuds between aeries on Doc's 
homeworld had been started over it - well, before the present enlightened, pre-
transcendent times - feuds only recently quashed after a millennium of simmering.
	As noted, it was not a polite word.
	Fortunately, this was not a polite world; and the self-named Dr. Al E. Ann was 
not a polite being.
	"That does it, Smegus, it is time someone taught your pointed a** a lesson," 
growled Doc.
	Smegus smiled.  "Bring it on, bird boy.  I've been dreaming of this moment for 
years.  You'll look real nice incorporated into my most recent work.  You have an iron-
based blood, yes?"
	The onlookers were forgotten; and Conell's protests and questions unheard, 
ignored.

	Despite his attachment to Lucy, the unexpected spectacle involving the two 
doctors had regulated the ostrich to the back burner of Richard's mind.  There had been 
yelling, there had been shoving, there had been words exchanged which bore no 
relationship to any Earthly language and in fact could not be reproduced by a normal 
human throat.
	For some reason, Dr. Ann was calling Doc Johnsey; and Doc was naming Dr. 
Ann Smegus.
	What kind of name was Smegus?  It sounded like a sneeze.
	Finally, at the end of a flurry of words punctuated by a gargled consonant ridden 
insult that topped even the harshest of German, the two antagonists drew away from each 
other.
	"Bring it on, bird boy.  I've been dreaming of this moment for years.  You'll look 
real nice incorporated into my most recent work.  You have an iron-based blood, yes?" 
said Al, a tight-lipped smile dominating his expression.
	Doc looked like he was ready to explode.  His face darkened to red, then 
continued along the spectrum to white rage until he fairly glowed.  Wait a sec, thought 
Richard, Doc /is/ glowing...and his beard is catching fire...and he seems to be, um, 
melting.
	Like a candle set too close to the fireplace, Doc's skin was slumping, liquefying.  
Bits of, well, Doc dripped to the ground, creating a growing puddle of a distressingly 
flesh toned hue.  The beard, still smoldering, plopped to the ground, followed by both 
eyebrows.  As skin melted away, Doc lost inches, shrinking in height even as his torso 
strained against his shirt.  With a ripping sound, the shirt tore, revealing two...no, four 
feathered wings.
	Where Doc the Roswell veterinarian had been stood Johnsey the angel.  Or at 
least angel was the best verbal descriptor Conell could wrap his mind around.  Doc, or 
Johnsey, or whatever was now four feet tall, dressed solely in a pair of jeans (the belt of 
which was being cinched even now to prevent an embarrassing accident in the nether 
regions department).  The wings were those of a swan, white, numbered four in number, 
and were held awkwardly, as if severely cramped.  The milk white skin and perceptibly 
glowing nimbus were mere visual effect afterthoughts, easily overlooked in light of the 
transformation.
	A snapping crackle called attention to Dr. Ann, where another transformation was 
in progress.  Unlike Doc's disturbing, yet bloodless, metamorphosis, Al's change was 
more abrupt.  Dr. Ann's grin widened, and widened, and widened well beyond the realm 
of possible human physiology until it stretched from ear to ear.  Literally.  Then, without 
further ado, Dr. Ann split in twain, clothes shredded, both halves clunking to the ground 
amid a viscous pink sludge.  More than a few airmen turned away, heaving.
	A small bundle of wet sticks remained where Dr. Ann's body lay discarded.  From 
the organic shell Smegus unfolded...and unfolded...and unfolded...and unfolded.  When 
complete, a whopper of a stick insect, a full ten feet from armored head to abdomen end, 
gleamed wetly in the morning sun.  Oddly, it, he, still wore the lab coat, which had 
somehow survived the transformation intact and relatively clean.  The out of place coat 
ill-draped segmented thorax, worn on the lower pair of four arms; and eight clawed feet 
dug into the sand.
	"Let's get it on," growled Smegus.  The voice belonged to that of Dr. Ann, and the 
language, incongruously, remained English.
	"You are going down," retorted Johnsey-Doc.
	In the background, outside the ring of spectators, unheralded, Lucy ran past, 
Captain balanced upon her back.

	Doctor looked down at the strange human thrashing amid the pile of boxes, 
attempting to stand.  The drone's ears were perked alertly as his incisors clicked together.  
"Hello!  Did we have a wittle accident?  Do you have boo-boos?" asked Doctor at what 
he thought was an appropriate volume.  The human winced.
	Doctor was deaf, very deaf.  The shattering of the barrier had shorted out certain 
critical aural elements.  The problem was temporary, but several hours would be required 
for repairs to complete without surgical support.  The overload effect had unfortunately 
also propagated to those areas of the brain which interpreted drone-to-drone 
communications, both words and imagery, so he was effectively deaf in that quarter as 
well until certain aspects of neural wiring were realigned.
	"Do you need help?" questioned Doctor, holding out an imploring hand and 
purposefully smiling.   The other perspective must not have been quite what Doctor had 
envisioned, for the human, who had stopped struggling, began his attempt to once more 
melt into the boxes.  The man was covered in dust and dirt from the warehouse.  His 
eyes, which darted back and forth looking for escape, were wide in fright when they 
turned to Doctor and his helpfully waiting hand.
	Finally, impatient with the human's antics, Doctor sighed, "You are being plain 
silly!  Here, stand up and make yourself useful!"  Doctor reached forward and grabbed 
the human by his shirt, plucking him from the boxes and placing him on unsteady feet.  
One hand brushed away the worst of the dirt while the other neatened clothing.  "Much 
better!  No time for a thorough grooming, unfortunately!"
	The human's eyes opened wider, if possible, and he was shivering despite the mild 
air temperature.
	"Don't be cold!  You can help your doctor!  Here, take this wire and find a light 
socket to plug it in to!  Fast, fast!"  Doctor plucked a wire from the mess hanging from an 
arm and handed it to the human.  After peering suspiciously it for several long seconds, 
the human edged away before running into the depths of the warehouse, trailing wire 
behind.
	"Good boy!" shouted Doctor.  He turned back to Delta, pleased with himself.  
Both of Delta were standing next to their respective barriers, and both had an expression 
which said "You're an idiot" as plainly as possible without words.  Doctor blinked.  
"What?"
	Delta heaved a large sigh, then body B wobbled to a corner to lean against.  
	After a few minutes of contemplating incremental changes of internal aural 
reconstruction, Doctor realized that the wire was no longer moving.  However, 
experimentation showed it remained unelectrified.  "Human?" shouted Doctor as he 
panned those parts of the warehouse in line-of-sight, infrared overlay to better see his 
quarry.  "Boy?"  Distantly echoed a clanging thump, as if that of a window falling shut, 
not that Doctor could hear it.
	Following the limp wire, Doctor found where it had been abandoned, nowhere 
near a light socket or electrified outlet.  "Boy needs more training on tricks!" the head of 
drone maintenance mumbled to himself, or so he thought, unaware of the actual elevated 
volume.  Looking around while holding the wire, Doctor considered:  there are some 
things you just have to do yourself.

	Gary hastily clawed his way through the window, falling head first to the dusty 
ground.  Behind, the window slammed shut, but he no longer worried about little things 
such as noise, discovery, or men with large rifles.  That /thing/ in there had not been what 
he had visualized, not a simple mechanical man, but rather a giant rodent.  And when it 
had smiled...!  Assuming that was a smile and not a baring of teeth.
	Odd how it had persisted with the sing-song tone Gary associated with baby talk.
	Gary found his bearings, then ran in the direction of the ostrich pen.  He skidded 
to a stop in the lee of Building 14 as he beheld the unfolding sight.  Perhaps the scene 
inside the warehouse was safer than the one out here; and at the very least, it wasn't so 
surreal.
	Doc was not visible, although the presence of his truck argued he had to be in the 
vicinity.  Instead, inside the ostrich run were what appeared to be a short, four-winged 
angel squared off against a gigantic too-many-legged stick insect in a lab coat.  
Surrounding the pen was a crowd of airmen changing "Fight, fight, fight" while waving 
bills of various denominations.  Captain Conell stood half in and half out of the run, 
paralyzed confusion written on his face as he tried to figure out what to do with a 
situation which was most assuredly /not/ covered in any military manual.
	In the pen, the stick insect picked up the angel and bodily threw it against the run 
fence.  The chicken wire had enough elasticity that when the angel hit, back and wings 
first, it was able to use the bounce to push off, aimed directly at the stick insect.  Feet 
somehow swung around mid-air, and suddenly the big bug found itself with a bootfull of 
boomeranged angel straight to the thorax.  There was a distinctive "oof" from the stick 
insect as the angel landed gently on the ground.  Cheers rang from the crowd as money 
changed hands.
	Less than half a century later, the phrase "pro-wrestling" would be recognized by 
the general public, although the costumes portrayed would be much more fanciful than 
any wuss angel or giant bug.
	Finally, running at an angle away from the excitement, was an ostrich.  The 
ostrich had Captain on her back.  Captain was holding onto the bird with one hand around 
the neck while the other frantically waved the air in a futile bid to stop the bird.
	As said, the whole scene was very surreal.

	Captain wasn't quite sure how he arrived to his current position upon the back of 
the ostrich.  His memory - a blur, perhaps aftereffects related to his recent accident - was 
not helpful.  One moment he was in the back of the truck, staring at the sheet metal 
ceiling and contemplating the input stream from his organic neural transceiver, and the 
next window glass was shattering.  Following the rain of shards, a head all beak and eye, 
belonging to an obviously Borgified animal, had entered.  There had been raucous noises 
of some sort; and the blur had commenced.
	And then he was seated on the big bird, sans saddle, sans reins, and, most 
importantly, sans brakes.
	Captain was very uncomfortable.  Beyond the fact Borg are not really designed to 
sit, the truth was anyone, even the most experienced of ostrich wranglers, looks 
uncomfortable on an ostrich.  The lack of feathers enhanced discomfort, if possible, 
removing not only potential handholds, but any shred of padding between rump and a 
rather pointed bird backbone.  Captain resorted to holding on as best he could with legs 
and knees (and hand around neck), for while he didn't exactly want to stay on board, 
neither did he want to tumble to the ground, at least not yet.
	The ostrich would neither run away nor stop, insisting on circling its pen at a 
distance.  In the nexus of the circling, Something was occurring, a Something involving 
two non-human combatants, but between bobbing neck, rough gait, and sudden changes 
in direction, Captain could not gain a clear view.  In an effort to force the ostrich to stop, 
Captain began to slap at the bird's neck with his free arm.
	This was a job for Doctor with his animal obsessions.  Undoubtedly he could sort 
out the animal imagery overwhelming the neural link, could convince the thing to 
comply.  However, such was not possible for Captain; and, worse, the ostrich's simple 
mindscape was overpowering any trace of Borg on base, making his primary task of 
finding nearby drones impossible.
	Grumbling, Captain cast an eye at the wire enclosure, the crowd of humans, and 
the pair of aliens, then bent to the chore of pummeling ostrich neck.
	{By the twins, stop you bloody creature!  Stop!}

Lucy had found Flock Leader!  True, Flock Leader did not look much like an 
ostrich, but then again, neither did mate.  The important thing was that she was united 
with Flock Leader.
Flock Leader was on Lucy's back, which was mildly uncomfortable; and hitting 
her about the neck and shoulders, which was even more so.  Lucy knew Flock Leader 
wanted to stop, even as he wanted her to run away:  he was yelling at her in a way which 
she heard inside her ears.  Very confusing for an ostrich.  At the same time, Lucy herself 
didn't want to leave mate, not to mention the presence of other flock members perceived 
to be nearby.
	The outcome was for Lucy to circle her cage at a distance, marking time until one 
impetus or another broke the stalemate of confusion.
	If only Flock Leader would stop squawking inside her head!

	Doctor squinted at the outlet, reading its electrical aura.  Shifting his eyes slightly 
to the right and up, he eyed the light switch.  A hand reached out and flicked the switch 
as eyes returned to the outlet.
	"Wow!  Nifty-thrifty!  On-off!  On-off!"
	If he could have heard, the words from Delta would have been along the lines of 
{Just plug it in, you chisel-toothed rodent.}  However, Doctor could not hear, and instead 
he played with the switch a several more times before recalling the urgency of his task.
	"Oh...right!"
	With the switch in the 'off' position, the key wire was inserted into the outlet.  
Satisfied all was prepared, he shouted aloud and in his mind {Ready-ready!} and flicked 
the switch to the 'on'.  While Doctor could not hear the hideous scream of overloaded 
radio transmitter, the rest of the immediate universe in the form of one military 
warehouse could.
	The first casualties were warehouse windows.  Made of ordinary glass, each in 
turn cracked and shattered.  Glass showered to concrete floor and cardboard boxes in a 
most spectacular manner, unheeded by either those inside or out.
	The second group of objects to go were also glass.  Jars holding things with too 
many arms or eyes to be of Earthly origin (and neither of the insect world nor from 
deepsea volcanic vents) broke.  As liquid contents splashed outward, solid specimens fell 
wetly to the ground.  Tinkles and explosions within boxes hinted at similar carnage.
	Ceramics, tougher than glass but still vulnerable, were the next victims, following 
the example set by windows and jars.  The results were not quite as spectacular, and in 
most cases were only obvious by the sound of subtle snaps.  However, broken were vital 
components of many devices, as would become apparent in the next months and years 
when spare parts originating from the warehouse were found to be universally defective.
	Overhead, light bulbs, escaping harm until now, popped one after another like 
strings of firecrackers.  The dim light of the warehouse became even darker, blackness 
reigning except for the faint light cast from broken windows.
	With nothing left to break, the destruction of the remaining cell barriers was 
anticlimactic.  With a sigh and a hiss, the unglass spidered a web of cracks before falling 
to the ground with a rattling tinkle.  Unfortunately, the outlet Doctor had found was out 
of sight of the cells and, not knowing his task was complete, he blithely allowed the noise 
to continue.
	{Turn it off!} shouted Delta, or so Doctor would have heard if he had been able.  
Delta had taken precautions against deafness, so she could still hear.  Body A, the more 
mobile part of Delta, climbed through the space where the barrier had resided and limped 
to Doctor's location.  Doctor watched Delta emerge from around a pile of boxes and rip 
the wire out of the outlet.
	"Ouch!  That stung!" complained Doctor.
	Delta said something which Doctor could not hear.  She said it again, this time 
exaggerating mouth movement.
	"Sorry!  Can't hear you!  I'm a bit deaf at the moment!"
	Delta curled her whole hand into a fist, then grabbed Doctor by his elbow and 
hustled him back to the cells, wires dragging behind.
	"Maybe we'd better get you outside!" said Doctor.  "You take part of yourself and 
I'll take the other side!  There will be a door!"
	Both of Delta shook her head.  Doctor quickly checked body B visually, clicked 
his teeth together in satisfaction, then took position on the right side.  With Delta A to the 
left of Delta B, Doctor helped Delta help herself.  Somewhere, as Doctor had asserted, in 
the dark warehouse was a door.

	The battle between insect and angel ground along in painful stalemate, at least to 
Richard's eye.  The angel had the dazed, cross-eyed expression which comes only from 
head violently meeting ground three too many times; and the bug had developed an odd 
double limp from karate-esk chops being applied at vulnerable joints.  Despite the 
difficulties each combatant was experiencing, there was no sign of let up.  In fact, the 
only pause in the action came when the pair backed up to duel with insults instead of 
fists, or wings, or claws, or whatever.
	Standing just within the ostrich pen and so engrossed with the contest, Conell's 
mind erased all else not immediately relevant.  Therefore, he saw from the corner of his 
eye, yet did not see, the rat thing sneak around the corner of Building 13.  Rat froze, as if 
trying to be tricksy, for all that such a quality was sorely lacking in one who had 
difficulty bending at the waist, then yelled something lost under the cheer of the crowd as 
the angel found itself in a winglock.  The twin humanoid former detainees emerged from 
the building's shadow, one supporting the other.  If there was a response to the rat's 
words, it was lost amid the groans arising from the loss of the wingpin.  Crouching down, 
the rat, um, scampered stiffly for the nearest cover represented by a parked jeep, followed 
behind by the humanoid duo who affected no pretense of covert action.
	However, none of this was "seen" by Richard, too busy trying to resolve how to 
bring sanity to the out of control situation, as a good commander should.
	In the background, Lucy and her rider ran past, another orbit complete.
	There was a pause as the aliens retreated from each other, one nursing a seriously 
bruised and partially defeathered wing, the other shaking an arm gone numb to the elbow 
from a carefully placed head butt.  Seeing his chance, Richard leapt forward, placing 
himself in the middle of the fight arena...and in the middle of danger.  More observant 
servicemen around the pen quieted to watch the next scene of the drama play out.
	"Stop!  This had gone on long enough!" yelled Richard.  "You are intelligent 
beings, and should be able to settle your differences peacefully."  Richard lowered his 
volume and assumed his sternest expression, the one he used to use as a teenager when 
forced to baby-sit younger cousins.  In turn the angel and bug were given glares; and was 
it his imagination, or did the two aliens gulp and hastily look away, as if ashamed?  
"Intelligent beings.  Advanced beings.  You should know better."  If Richard had left his 
impromptu speech as is, the future might have been different.  However, he did not have 
that special quality of good speakers:  the knowledge of when not to speak.  "Can't we all 
just be friends?"
	The stick insect who had been Dr. Ann reacted as if slapped, rearing back on his 
back two pairs of legs.  Landing eight-square to the trampled ground, there was a high-
pitched wheezing which took Richard a moment to identify as laughter.
	"What moronic ka'tones humans are!" brightly exclaimed the voice of Dr. Ann 
from the insect's mouthparts.  "Why you have not gone extinct yet is beyond me."  And 
then the bug, all ten feet of it, charged.
	With only one manly option open, Richard screamed like the woman in any of a 
thousand generic monster flicks and fainted dead away.

	Lucy ran and ran and ran, as only an ostrich can.  Flock Leader was starting to 
weigh heavily on her back and his yelling inside her head was irritating, but at least, after 
she had tripped and almost fallen, he was no longer hitting her with his arm.  As she 
orbited her cage, Lucy had seen the other members of the flock appear from around a 
building.  Curiously, while her eyes saw three flock members, a sense inside her only 
registered two.  No matter.  Thinking was not her strong suit.  Thinking could be left to 
Flock Leader, who seemed to understand the complicated world of truck, sky, sun, and 
building.
	Circling her pen, Lucy kept a watchful eye on the monsters inside.  Even though 
their forms were altered from when first Lucy had seen them, with animal instinct she 
continued to recognize who was who; and especially knew the big multi-legged one to be 
the bad.
	The monsters had paused and mate was barking something at them.  The winged 
one was staring at the ground, drawing aimless circles with one foot.  The bad was 
cringing a bit, but then it stood straight, gurgled in human-squawk, and charged mate.  
Mate was in trouble!
	Skidding to a halt, the stalemate which had sent Lucy circling, circling, circling 
was broken.  Mate needed help!  The bad was to hurt mate!  Trumpeting a counterpart to 
Flock Leader's "Wha' the...?  Oh-nooooo!" Lucy vectored towards the open pen door.  
Humans scattered before her, leaping out of the way.
	Jumping over mate, who lay on the ground as if dead even though he was 
untouched, Lucy flared her wings, lowered her head, and hissed.  The display would have 
been more dramatic had Lucy retained feathers, and Flock Leader thumping her ribs with 
his heavy heels did not help.  Flock Leader could be ignored for the moment, mate the 
more important consideration.
	Bad reared back, confronted by the mad overgrown naked chicken with a Borg on 
her back.  The intelligence which glinted behind multifaceted eyes dismissed the threat 
posed by clawed feet and seven-foot of bird, seemed more fascinated by the drone.  
However, Lucy would not be ignored.
	"Hissssssss," spat Lucy.  And within the link afforded by the organic neural 
transceiver, a series of fleeting images could at best be translated as {Bad.}
	The bug twitched in a way which suggested a snort of contempt.
	Lucy stepped forward, ramming heavy beak into the area of the bad's thorax not 
obscured by tattered lab coat.

	Al reeled under the attacks of the enraged giant chicken, as he continued to think 
of Lucy, swiping defensively with two arms.  Seeing his chance when Dick had decided 
to insert himself directly into the stalemated combat drama, Al had attempted to threaten 
the human.  The plan, if something devised spur of the moment was entitled to such a 
grandiose name, was to make goodie-two-shoes Johnsey act rashly; and if Johnsey did 
not act, then cutting down the idiot Roswell base commander would be a bonus.  
Then...then the bird had been there.
	It wasn't the initial beak blow which had All feeling funny, nor the following 
kicks.  The ostrich's attacks were inconsequential to Al's race, more force better placed 
required to harm him through his tough pseudo-exoskeleton.  Still, something /had/ 
occurred during the exchange.
	Lucy gave a loud squawk, then reluctantly turned as her rider viciously jabbed her 
in the ribs with his heels.  To one side, Johnsey watched Al, calculating look on the 
angeletic face more fitting for a devilish servant.  The opportunity was perfect for Al, 
perfect to resume the brawl, perfect to slash at the retreating ostrich, perfect for stepping 
on Captain Conell.  Unfortunately, all Al could do was stand there, motionless, looking 
inward.
	He did not understand his sudden urge for corn cobs.

	A slight grin lit Captain's face, although the casual observer would have seen 
nothing more than a minor tightening of certain facial muscles.  His mount was finally 
turning, finally obeying, finally complying.  While the heel jabs had been necessary to 
gain the animal's attention, control had been achieved through nanotubule linkage to the 
beast's nervous system.  True, there was the major downside of being directly assaulted 
by raw ostrich imagery and desires, but after coordinating 4,000 imperfectly assimilated 
drones, as well as tolerating Sensors' contributions to the controlled chaos which was the 
Cube #347 sub-collective, an ostrich's neural strings were easy to control.
	Well, kind of easy.
	With mental nudging backed up by well-timed rib kicks, Captain guided the big 
bird away from the alien fight arena, away from the crowd of stunned, silent humans.  
The rough gait more than once threatened to tear nanotubles out of the animal's spinal 
cord.  However, obstacles were overcome and Captain sent his mount jogging for the 
hills.
	{Hurry up,} admonished Captain to Delta and Doctor.  The steady words belied 
the abuse his body was undergoing and had undergone:  if he had not been Borg, kidneys 
and liver would have long since been shaken from his body.  As it was, he was sure his 
hardware neural transceiver, just repaired, would be jarred from its supposedly secure 
position within his brain.
	{Speak louder,} said Doctor in the equivalent of a mental shout, his own internal 
aural wiring beginning to show signs of repair, {I can barely hear you!  Can we keep 
her?}
	Chorused Delta strongly, {No!}  The double voice was out of sync with itself.  
{And we'll go faster if you help me carry myself instead of diving behind trucks and 
buildings.  Are you trying to get us noticed?}  The static-filled visual feed (overlaid 
faintly by an ostrich eye wide-angle view of the world) from Delta showed Doctor 
attempting covert stunts that only worked in fictional spy-thriller novels.  Doctor 
appeared to be doing bellyflops onto the ground, raising clouds of dirt.
	{What?} asked Doctor.
	Replied Delta, {I said...}
	{What?}
	Captain kept the ostrich on her heading.  He'd found the steering wheel, now if he 
could only apply the brakes....
	Unseen to any of the sub-collective (plus Lucy), a dazed stick insect of gigantic 
proportions was slowly, drunkenly ambling with sleepwalker gait out of the ostrich pen.  
As it ungracefully tripped over an unconscious Conell and kept on going, ranks of 
humans parted an aisle for it.  It was heading in the direction of the vanished ostrich and 
her rider, and none were willing to try to stop a ten-foot bug-shaped alien nightmare.

	From his position in the shade cast by Building 14, Gary watched the conclusion 
of the alien wrestling match, an unexpected drama involving Lucy, Borg, and Captain 
Conell.  Lucy and her rider had disappeared on a southern heading, followed by a 
tumbling Ratty, the two Girl Borgs, and, most recently, the big bug.  In the pen, Conell 
was shakily gaining his feet, helped by his sergeant aide, the final kick from the alien 
stick insect awakening the base commander.
	In the distance arose a thrumming thump.  From the rolling hills to the west came 
six helicopters painted a featureless matte black.
	Doc, ignoring the helicopters, assisted in steadying Conell.  Gary blinked.  The 
angel was gone; and Doc was present.
	"Gary!" shouted Doc.  "Lad!  Come here and make yourself useful!"
	Gary carefully left his shadow, glanced southward one final time, then trotted 
towards Doc's waved beacon.  Once arrived, he hovered, unsure what was expected next.
	One of the circling helicopters broke from the pack, settling in an open area amid 
a whirlwind of dust and small tumbleweeds.  As rotors slowly wound down, a door to the 
main compartment opened, disgorging a pair of soldier.  Unlike the airmen pressed into 
gate and sentry duty at Roswell Air Force base, these were trained marines, as indicated 
by every moment, every precise gesture.  The heavy guns complimented an already 
deadly package.  Convinced no threat was immediately forthcoming, words uttered 
unheard over the whine of motor were directed inside the helicopter.
	From the compartment emerged a man.  Although the man was dressed in plain 
military fatigues sans rank insignia, this was a man used to command.  When he spoke, 
he expected orders to be followed.  This was the type of man Conell occasionally strived 
to emulate, at least once a year when annual reviews were held; and this was the type of 
man who was a wolf to Conell's Labrador retriever.  Even Gary, without a shred of 
military experience nor desire for such, could tell this insignialess man was high in the 
military hierarchy.
	Conell stiffened.
	"Who's that?" asked Gary.
	Doc smiled slightly.  "We'll see, lad.  We'll see."
	Conell groaned, fending off the attentions of his sergeant aide.  "God d**ned 
White Sands, that's who.  General Julian Trast himself, his majesty.  Why the hells is he 
here?"
	The sergeant replied, "I told him we had an emergency when he called.  You 
remember the phone call, sir?  The one that you didn't want to take even if General Trast 
himself was on the other end of the line?"
	Conell's eyes shifted sideways.  "Don't tell me..."
	"Yes, sir," answered the sergeant, "it was General Trast calling, personally."
	Captain Conell groaned again, louder.
	Sighting the group just outside the ostrich run, General Trast gestured his marine 
escort to follow.  The airmen nearby had begun to slip away in ones and twos, making it 
seem as if the crowd was evaporating.  By the time the general had made his way to the 
waiting captain, all Roswell personnel except Conell and Sergeant Jones had vanished, 
like mist in the desert sun.  The aide looked as if he would rather be elsewhere as well, 
but couldn't think of any way to legitimately escape.
	A phone distantly rang, somehow heard through the roar of the overhead 
helicopters.
	"I've got to go get that," muttered the sergeant.  "Sorry, sir."  And then only 
Captain Conell was left, along with Doc and Gary.
	"Captain Richard Conell!" bellowed General Trast unnecessarily as he came 
within conversation distance.  The general was not a physically big man.  However, if 
one has a big attitude, body does not matter.  The image of a wolf was enhanced by sleek 
black hair which strived to be a mane even through the taming of a regulation haircut.  
Chin jutted forward strongly.  Eyes, while not yellow, glinted with a predatory air.
	"Sir," dully responded Conell.
	"I was just dispatching troops here when I heard of a situation that might need 
addition reinforcements, as well as myself.  And then I see a great hubbub down below 
when I fly in after advancing the schedule.  What the hell is going on?"  The General 
paused, eyes critically appraising Doc and Gary and disliking what he saw.  "What are 
these civilians doing here, Captain?"
	Doc smoothly inserted himself into the discussion despite helicopter noise, 
despite General Trast's open hostility.  "I think you are owed an explanation, General 
Trast.  My name hereabouts is Keith Holiday, although everyone calls me 'Doc.'  I'm 
Roswell's vet.  You see, it went like this..."
	Gary bet the General neglected to bring any beer with him.

	A mirage shimmered in the dusking desert air.  It was an odd mirage, not the 
usual wavering pseudo-water, but instead sporting a distinctly spherical character.  There 
was a definite greeness, as might an iris be should the orb be viewed as an eyeball; and 
there were suggestions of legs and arms, or perhaps not.
	"About time," stated Captain as he squinted at the Director.  Iris refused to fully 
resolve.  Captain did not retain tear ducts, therefore his eyes could not water.  As it was, 
he was performing a very unBorg squint to keep the eyeball in view.  "Several additional 
hours and we would be required to...forage.  The alien designated Doc has the only 
alcove."  The euphemism of "forage" meant a range of possibilities, from finding the 
material to build necessary equipment from scratch to forcing the use of Doc's antique 
alcove to wholesale assimilation of the populace.
	The disjointed fragments of Iris swiveled to look at each of the four drones in 
turn.  Well, most of the fragments did.  One of the legs that wasn't actually there was 
attempting to wander off on its own.  The eyeball pivoted again until it focused on Delta 
B.  "Looking a bit pale there."
	Delta supported half of herself, body B held between body A and the twisted 
skeletal hand of a dead tree.  Both of Delta glared at the eyeball, but she remained silent.
	"Yes, indeedy," cheerfully answered Doctor, voice returned to normal volume 
along with most of his hearing.  "Delta needs alcove support righty away as soon as pos-
si-ble!"  Pause.  "I could use a bit of time as well.'
	Doctor appeared to be willing to continue, but stiffened as Captain rebuked him 
internally to silence.  Captain said, "When are we to leave this reality?"
	"And can we keep the ostrich?"
	"NO!" replied Captain and both Deltas together.
	"No animals," affirmed Captain.
	Nearby, the ostrich in question happily pecked at the ground and trampled patches 
of sage.  She made little hiccupping-clicks to herself as she did so.  At her heels and 
mimicking her actions was the oversized stick insect formally known as either Al or 
Smegus.  Currently his designation was "Hey, you."
	For all practical purposes, Al's mind was gone.  During the scuffle between Lucy 
and Al, nanoprobes had been exchanged, nanoprobes modified by their trip through an 
ostrich system.  The overwhelming ego of the alien bug had been broken by the shock of 
communing with an ostrich, self shattered as he became an unwitting assimilation 
experiment.  Because the former sentient was sentient no longer, he was ignored by the 
drones.  Such a failed drone in the Collective, without sufficient awareness of self to be 
more than a full-time marionette, would have been swiftly terminated and parts recycled.  
Some individuals or species just can't handle assimilation, and Al was among them.
	Al attempted to squawk as a startled mouse ran from its burrow, but it came out  
as a grunt.  The former highly intelligent being was now nothing more than an oversized, 
ungainly, ugly alien un-bird.
	The Director peered at the ostrich.  "No, no, I don't think an ostrich would be 
appropriate.  On the up side, since this reality didn't actually happen in your timeline, the 
drone who died didn't actually kick the bucket.  However, I would recommend strong 
psychological intervention when you all return.  The panicky screams may be a bit 
intense."  Iris shrugged a dislocated shrug, arms drifting away in the sunset breeze which 
was picking up.  "I'm rolling the Infinity die now."
	The rattle of a single die echoed on the wind.
	The mirage extended briefly, encompassing the four drones (or three, depending 
on point of view), in addition to the Director.  When the wavering dissipated, the 
intruders were gone.  Left behind was an extremely confused ostrich wondering where 
Flock Leader and flock had disappeared.  Al, meanwhile, unaware anything had changed, 
viciously attacked a small cactus whose only offense was to look vaguely like a human 
head wearing a moustache with chewed tips.

	"But that isn't what happened," protested Conell after General Trast had left.  The 
six black White Sands helicopters were specks on the horizon, then dots, then nothing.  
The thump of rotors vanished shortly thereafter in the background noise of day insects.  
Standing next to the base commander, Doc shrugged.
	"Doesn't matter."
	"/I'm/ not really sure all that happened.  There was you...and you turned into an 
angel...and Dr. Ann became a giant bug...and...and...and..."  Conell's words petered out.  
He clutched his head.  "I feel like I was kicked in the head, or trampled, or both."
	"All the above," said Gary.
	Doc elbowed the young man in the ribs.  Hard.  Gary quieted.
	"Well," brightly replied Doc to Conell, belying the aches and bruises which were 
forming, "you told the General about the weather balloon, just as the newspapers were so 
informed.  Then, later, Lucy became sick; and when I came to help her, an altercation 
broke out between two of your men.  In the commotion, the emergency you didn't have 
time to explain over the phone, Lucy escaped from her pen and ran away.  All 
coincidence."
	Conell closed his eyes as if he had a headache.  "But that isn't what really 
happened.  There was a crash, and there were aliens, and Lucy went all...odd.  And the 
fight."
	Doc signed patiently.  "An alien disease.  An alien disease affected your ostrich, 
and was beginning to affect everyone on the base.  Mass hallucination.  Lucy ran you 
over, giving you a slight concussion - you /must/ go to a doctor, Richard - and then you 
imagined all that followed."
	"And Dr. Ann?" asked Conell in a small voice, a man searching for answers in an 
uncertain world.
	"Dr. Ann?  He's gone AWOL.  I, um, met the guy before.  A real piece of work.  
A total con man.  I bet if you do a deep background check, you'll find inconsistencies.  
And if you check the arroyo next to the medical building you might find 
other...inconsistencies."
	Gary loudly whispered, "What are you talking about?  What's in the arroyo?"
	"I'll explain later, lad," said Doc.  "Later."  The word was emphasized.
	"And do I get the real story?"
	"/Later/."
	While the words were audible, Conell wasn't listening.  He shook his head, then 
squinted at the sunlight.  "I think I need to lie down."  No dismissal, no 
acknowledgement, Conell wandered off as if in a daydream, or a waking nightmare.
	Doc thoughtfully scratched his beard as he watched the base commander leave.  
Dang thing always itched the first couple days the body suit was donned.  "It's the 
concussion.  I'll make sure a people doc is sent to base."  Conell stumbled into a building 
with the words "Officer's Quarters" on it.
	Gary appraised Doc long and hard before speaking.  "I don't understand either, but 
I was in the warehouse part of the time.  I do know there was no mass hallucination, 
through.  And what about the mechanical men and Lucy?  They are somewhere out in the 
scrub!"
	Contemplating his options, Doc was silent for a time.  The lad did know he was 
an alien, a fact which would require /months/ of rehabilitation to fix, assuming such was 
possible with the crummy equipment he had on this dirtball.  "Last things first.  Lucy and 
the Borg will be found.  I'm not totally without resources."  Doc smiled for Gary's sake.  
Yes...hopefully he'd find the Borg before any difficulties happened.  "As for the other, it 
will all work out.  Someone once said 'The public will believe anything, as long as it is 
not founded on truth.'  This axiom is true for the military as well, more so even.  By the 
time the investigations are done, the reports written, the facts delved, the investigation 
reinvestigated, well, everything will be so thoroughly muddled that if the truth is 
somehow discerned it will be dismissed simply because it is too plausible.  After all, why 
believe in a series of accidents and coincidences when you can have conspiracies.  
Besides, conspiracies make for better television."
	Gary sighed.  "That explains nothing."  Behind his beard, Doc grinned a wide 
grin.  Geesh, even his face hurt.  "Welcome to the real world, lad.  Doesn't make sense no 
matter what planet you're on.  Let's leave here before someone gets ideas."  Taking Gary 
by the elbow, Doc guided him to the truck.

The sunset faded.  As night blossomed, the cricket serenade rose in volume.  Low 
on the horizon a silver moon glinted, reflected dully by a weather balloon lofting high 
overhead on the evening desert wind.  Unlike its predecessor, this balloon survived 
unscathed by crashing spaceships.
	The temporal anomaly was another story, one which is not to be relayed here.
	Somewhere, in the near future, a graduate student will be trying to figure out why 
his weather balloons keep disappearing; and in the more distant future, a weather balloon 
in the fossil record will be dismissed as a hoax.
	On the ground, oblivious to weather balloons, temporal anomalies, and up-and-
coming meteorologists, Lucy impatiently paced back and forth.  Flock Leader was gone, 
gone, gone.  There was no other parts left to the flock except for this really stupid 
member - and that was saying a lot coming from an ostrich  - which meant.  Which 
meant.  Which meant (the gears of the brain were spinning so furiously it was amazing no 
smoke was billowing out her ears) /she/ was Flock Leader!
	Lucy squawked as her stupid member threw dirt onto her from the hole it was 
industriously digging.  She kicked at it, wincing as she herself felt an echo of the impact.  
The member sidled sideways, rumbled a low noise, cocked its head, then returned to 
digging.  Even Lucy knew corn cobs came from magic bags, not from underground.
	Overhead, the weather balloon wavered as if caught in a mirage, then faded.
	And the crickets droned on.