Gamshoo-mon!  Paramount reigns in the arena of Star Trek; Decker oversees 
Star Traks stadium; and I direct BorgSpace in the back lot.

				Iron Artist

	{...wy,} continued Weapons in the intranets.  He stopped, shocked, as no 
longer were the torpedoes just fired present, but neither was the 
opposition...nor the universe, for that matter.
	Simultaneously, a voice loudly asked the question, "Now will someone 
listen to me, or do I have to perform a Big Bang outside your hull to get 
your attention?"
	The eyeball was back, half in and half out of a bulkhead wall in 
Captain's nodal intersection.  In another part of Cube #347, Assimilation 
observed with distant boredom:  it was a punctuation in yet another day 
of dull existence.  The Director's banter with Captain and Second was 
pushed to a corner of awareness, the remainder of attention focused upon 
the mixture within vat #7 of Nanite Assembly Room #3.
	If Assimilation had little to do before the beginning of this flux jump, 
dice rolling nonsense, he and his hierarchy had even less chance to 
perform their function now.  Oh, sure, there was the routine, the making 
sure the regeneration system nanite mixtures were correct, the 
observations of vats for optimal growth, but that was, after all, 
routine.  A trained monkey could do as well; and most of the functions 
were performed by autonomic computer subroutines, anyway.  The brewing of 
a specialized nanoprobe strain for the shuttle-bot competition had 
required several hours of rush, rush, rush, afterwards the assimilation 
hierarchy having returned to its normal occupation of developing 
neuroses.  Without explicit direction from the Greater Consciousness, the 
sub-collective of Cube #347 could not assimilate sentient species except 
in self-defense.
	{Nothing!  Nothing!  Nothing!  Nothing!} whimpered Sensors into the 
intranets as she degenerated under the lack of sensor grid input.  The 
outburst was allowed to continue for fifty long seconds before Captain 
temporarily sent the insectoid into deep regeneration.
	"How much time is this going to take, this traveling?  It is disrupting 
to this sub-collective," asked Captain to the Director, momentarily 
catching Assimilation's attention.  Vat #7 required a bit extra carbon 
and chromium; and as they were released into the mixture it would 
necessitate several minutes for the elements to disperse throughout the 
slurry.  Proper balancing was tricky, and the vat's sensors were not 
quite calibrated correctly, compelling the personal presence of a drone 
to direct the process until such time they could be readjusted.
	The Director, apparently stuck in the bulkhead, was now visible, the 
many holoemitted displays previously obscuring it dismissed.  It seemed 
resigned to its position, producing bubbles with the fake cigar as it 
consulted its PADD.  It glanced up, however something all eye could 
glance up, at Captain's question.  "Time is a fairly meaningless concept 
at the moment.  In actuality, the flux jump is instantaneous, but for you 
to blink out of one reality and pop into the next, well, there is a high 
probability you would all emerge insane.  This period of passing is for 
the best."
	Second snorted, "And we aren't insane now?"
	"Only by the tenets of your Collective.  Probably the majority of the 
rest of your home galaxy as well, although I've not asked around.  I do 
know that there is a small corner of the multiverses where you would be 
considered perfectly sane, but I'm pretty sure you won't be sent there.  
Speaking of which, could you quiet it down so I can finish researching 
this roll?" asked the Director
	"So we aren't going home?" flatly said Captain, more statement than 
question.
	The Director grimaced.  "No, -6,745,900 is not the roll to send you back 
to your origin.  I'm happy it was an integer, to tell you the truth.  
Some of those imaginary numbers are brutal locations." 
	Assimilation's concentration was drawn back to the vat he currently 
stood next to, hand linked into adjacent data pillar.  The carbon and 
chromium were now at optimum levels, but a small bit of iron and calcium 
needed to be added to the mixture.  The computer was ordered to do so.
	"Here comes the landing!  See you later, I hope!" called the Director 
hurriedly.
	"What about this reality?" swiftly asked Captain.  "What about your 
research?"
	It was too late, the eyeball had already vanished, leaving behind a trio 
of cigar bubbles.  Assimilation dismissed the remote dataspace feeds and 
refocused undivided attention to the riveting display of nanite solution 
ionic balance.
	A great reverberating BONG rang the superstructure of Cube #347 as a 
deep voice intoned "Minus 6,745,900."
	Suddenly, everything darkened, as if a blanket had been thrown over the 
lights.  At the same instant, Assimilation felt as if he had been plunged 
into a sensory cocoon, feeling, hearing, everything wrapped in a thick 
blanket.  Before he could react, could do more than register the 
phenomenon, sight returned with blazing intensity, bright spotlights 
hitting him in the face.  One hand was raised to shade eyes from the 
brilliance as optic implants automatically adjusted.  
	Although senses had returned, the link with the sub-collective remained 
dulled.  If Assimilation concentrated, he could feel the rest of his 
compatriots present, but they were far, far away.  The sensation was 
mildly disturbing, but not something to induce panic, not when there was 
another threat looming much more immediate.  The situation might even 
prove to be a decent diversion from his normal boring existence, for a 
minute or two.
	The lights swung away, turning to focus on a large area, roughly 
circular, half surrounded by bleacher style seating.  Assimilation was in 
a deep aisle splitting the bleachers.  In the open area was a long stage 
against the back wall, spots of differing gray shades (presumably color, 
but Assimilation could not discern it) marking four separate locations.  
It was fronted by a low dais, currently empty.  In the center of the 
circle stood a huge table, upon which existed a bewildering array of what 
Assimilation could only classify as art supplies, from humongous blocks 
of fresh clay to rows of paint bottles to a variety pens and pencils; and 
flanking the table were two low counters which housed multitudes of 
drawers of all shapes and sizes.  Frisbee-sized cameras floated here and 
there like miniature flying saucers.
	"Welcome to Artist Arena!  Please honor your holographic GameShow Host, 
Zyrian!" announced a bodiless tenor from hidden speakers far above.  
Spotlights danced.
	A deafening roar arose from the bleachers.  For the first time, 
Assimilation noticed that the seats were full of people of various races, 
some recognizable and some not.  They were focused on the dais, howling, 
clapping, stomping, and generally carrying on.  The volume rose in 
intensity until Assimilation was forced to lower audio input else suffer 
hearing damage.
	A thickness of air over the dais caught Assimilation's attention, a 
shimmering which was the first indication of a holoemitter in action.  
Swiftly it formed into what he recognized as a Mark I hologram based on 
the ancient pre-Dark EMH design, but with modifications.  A full head of 
hear was present; and there was a hint of the Orient to the predominantly 
Caucasian bone structure, a suggestion of darker skin and slanted eye, 
but with the interbreeding Terrans had experienced following their 
expanse into space, all humans had a bit of Asian in their background, as 
well as multitudes of other ethnicities.  Zyrian (Assimilation tried to 
remember why the name held relevance, but without a better link to the 
sub-collective, was denied additional data) wore a flowing robe of velvet 
trimmed with shiny metallics, and offset by intricate designs.  
Assimilation did not need a color sense to know the combinations were 
undoubtedly very tacky.
	Zyrian held up his hands, then lowered them, quieting the awaiting 
audience.  He began to speak, "Thank you.  Thank you.  Today you are here 
at Artist Arena, where I have brought the premier artists of the galaxy 
despite barriers of distance and time.  When you have enough money, after 
all, nothing is an obstacle."  Laughter followed that comment.  Peering 
upwards, Assimilation spotted several ceiling-mounted teleprompters 
facing the crowd, keying appropriate responses.  "And, for those four 
artists, the best of the best, I summon masters of the art of sculpture, 
of music and poetry, of photography, of painting, to challenge my Iron 
Artists.  Many are those who aspire to meet by artists in competition, 
and few are those who are successful.  Before I bring forth today's 
challenger, I introduce the panel of judges, all familiar faces to us at 
Artist Arena."
	A hand was gestured towards a line of three people sitting behind a 
table whom Assimilation had not previous noticed.  They were on the far 
left of the arena, just in view.  Each had an intent, even stern 
expression on his or her face.  A camera silently floated towards the 
trio, lens glinting.
	"The first," announced Zyrian, "is Atia 'Gertrude' Koi, hostess of the 
popular call-in subspace radio show 'The Psychic Hour.'"
	Atia ("Call me Gertrude, dearie, like I tell you every time") was an odd 
Vulcan-Betazoid hybrid dressed in a shimmering green and blue pattered 
dress.  On her head was a fancy scarf, top knot tied at a jaunty angle, 
which did not quite disguise the fact that she was bald.  Crystals hung 
from her ears and around her neck.  The voice of the self-proclaimed 
psychic as she bantered with Zyrian was powerful, as befitting a subspace 
radio host.
	Zyrian grimaced at Atia and said, "Enough, Gertrude, we do have a show 
to produce here."  Light laughter sounded as it was cued from the 
overhead board.  "Seriously, the next on the judging panel is perhaps our 
most somber member:  Sasig Gyver, art critic."
	Sasig Gyver was a full-blooded Klingon, maybe a bit on the heavy side 
around the waist and under the jowls, but more than capable of throwing 
his considerable weight around.   He wore a grim frown; and his arms were 
crossed in front of him.  A formidable presence, he did not break his 
silence, merely nodding at the hologram in acknowledgment.
	Zyrian showed no discomfiture at the art critic's dour attitude, instead 
plunging ahead to the final board member.  "Last, but certainly not 
least, is the heartthrob from 'All My Latinum,' Wok Ulitch."
	Sighs arose from the crowd, uncued, as females (and some males) swooned 
over the small Ferrengi.  He wore a half unbuttoned shirt which exposed 
his hairless, orange chest and lazily stroked his lobes before leeringly 
winking.  There was a thump as an audience member fainted and slid 
through the slats of the bleachers, falling to the ground.  A camera 
buzzed quickly overhead to catch the action.
	"Good!  And with our judges introduced, it is time for our challenger!  
Please give a warm welcome to," Zyrian peered at a small card which 
suddenly materialized in one hand, "13 of 20, also called Assimilation.  
He is here," another pause as the card was consulted, "from somewhere and 
appears to be a renown painter, although no examples of his works can be 
found.  Maybe there are all in private collection.  There is absolutely 
no history about our challenger, but as no other artists were willing to 
take up this contest - there is no truth to the rumor that the game is 
fixed - we are thus forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel until our 
lawyers straighten everything out, therefore, this is the best we can 
get.  However, I expect it will still be a dandy of a contest!"
	Cheering of a robotic quality erupted.  Assimilation had resolved 
several discrete humanoids at the bleacher edges holding phasers when 
something pushed hard from behind.  He reflexively stepped forward, but 
before he could glance behind to see who or what had shoved him, bright 
spotlights stabbed him in the face.
	"Welcome, Assimilation!" cried the voice of Zyrian as the drone stumbled 
into the center of the arena, a pair of cameras stooping like over-eager 
vultures.  Quieter, the hologram hissed, "Get up here.  By my side.  
Smile, if you can.  You aren't the first artist we've kidnapped for the 
show, and you won't be the last.  The ratings are too good.  Pretend you 
are having an enjoyable time."
	Bewildered, Assimilation did as bid, although smiling was out of the 
question.  Kidnapped?  Didn't that Director say something about these 
realities having logical backgrounds which would rationalize Borg 
presence?  Assimilation had not been paying attention at the time of 
explanation, a particularly tricky shade of Bulkhead Gray #8 requiring 
his focus.  He tried, once more, to reach the sub-collective, but the 
link remained indistinct, fuzzy.
	"Assimilation!  What an odd name, but better than that mouthful 13 of 
20.  So how are you?  Excited to be on this show?  Do you have what it 
takes to beat my Iron Artists?"  Before Assimilation could respond, 
Zyrian hurried on.  "Of /course/ you are, for this is an honor!  As far 
beating them, well, we will see."  The hologram stepped away from the 
drone, flinging an arm towards the spotlit stage.  Theatric dry ice 
vapors began to swirl dramatically as pounding music from an unseen 
orchestra sounded; cameras bobbed up and down.  "Now, I introduce the 
Iron Artists of Artist Arena, the best of the best!"
	"First is Kolth Ju'vich, Iron Artist Sculptor, the Klingon master 
sculpture.  If it can be shaped by hand, tool, or machine, Kolth is the 
man to ask for, if you can afford his price!  With an aggressive style 
both in the Arena and with his sculptures, Kolth is surely at the acme of 
his trade.  Just don't get between him and the last hunk of wet clay, if 
you value your hand."
	Polite laughter, then cheers followed the introduction by Zyrian.  On 
the stage at the leftmost spotlight, a Klingon form was rising from below 
stage level.  He was set in a threatening posture, clutching chisel and 
hammer to his chest as if he were to charge into battle with the tools as 
his weapons.  The scowl on his face combined with deeper than average 
brow ridges to add to his belligerent manner.  He was dressed shirt, 
trousers, and artist smock of a darker material, not quite black to 
Assimilation's sight; and peeking over his right shoulder was the end of 
a bat'lith.  Assimilation quashed an unBorg urge to hide his organic hand 
behind his back, out of sight of the sculptor.
	Zyrian continued with introductions, moving to the next.  "Always a 
favorite is Iron Artist Composer, Aqua Shrrrritz[pop!] [wavering 
trill]Li."  The mouthful of a name was not actually pronounced in the 
hologram's own voice, but rather a prerecording produced by the one 
species who could say the chords without resembling a badly tuned quartet 
missing all its pieces.  "This Bug is Iron Arena's own muse of music and 
poetry; and even when her listeners cannot understand her imagery, it 
always sounds nice."
	To the side of the Klingon sculptor, a species #6766 insectoid rose 
silently to stage level.  While many might consider a giant bug-like 
creature with the general form of a praying mantis to be a bad nightmare, 
compared to the scowling Kolth, Aqua was as threatening as a bunny.  She 
stood relaxed on her four walking legs, an archaic quill pen held poised 
in one hand as if to write poetry upon the air, and a conducting baton in 
the other hand ready to lead an orchestra.  The insectoid visage had no 
expression, of course, and one not a Bug could not read the minute body 
gestures that in the species were as rich a form of communication as 
speaking, but the impression was of Aqua smiling.  An ill-fitting apron 
hung around her neck, lighter in shade than her neighbor; and an abstract 
design of the same hue was painted on her carapace.
	"Third in my stable of renown artists is Telsa Artick, Iron Artist 
Photography.  A human, yes, but it was humans who invented the medium 
known as 'Retro New Age' aural photography.  The art has now spread to 
all civilized corners of the galaxy and is practiced by a wide range of 
races, but it is to the Terrans one must look to find the master of 
masters."
	Next in line on the stage gracefully appeared a human female.  Telsa was 
over-tall for her species, and thin with a graceful air, indicating that 
she had been born and raised in a low gravity environment.  Her pose was 
one of rapture as she gazed upwards into a trio of glinting crystals 
dangling at the end of a necklace.  Telsa's clothing was a riot of 
billowing robes with grays in clashing patterns, although a white smock, 
which Assimilation was learning to be a theme, was present.  Suspicious, 
the drone compared the facial structures of the Iron Artist and the 
psychic judge; and despite the fact the former had luxurious tresses 
while the latter did not, there was more than a passing resemblance which 
suggested a familial relationship.
	As the audience's expression of appreciation died down, a hush of 
expectancy filled the arena.  Zyrian flashed a wide grin.  "And last, but 
certainly not least, is Seltat LaVoore, Iron Artist Painter, a Qua'tohf 
who is /the/ acknowledged master in all things which require a brush be 
put to canvas...or paper or plaster or cloth or anything, for that 
matter.  Welcome the fourth Iron Artist!"
	If the stomping and clapping had been intense before, it was nothing 
compared to now.  The teleprompters had not even been required to be lit.  
The man who rose from below stage knew the audience was favorable of him, 
and the lopsided smirk showed it.
	Seltat was a Gaelic Faire warrior in an artist's black smock, paintbrush 
held in one hand while the other arm cradled a palette.  At 190 
centimeters he was not quite as tall as Telsa, but he was more heavily 
muscled than the aural photographer.  Features were classic elf, from 
bone structure to pointed ears, a form Assimilation knew well because it 
belonged to his base race.
	Assimilation's organic eye had widened at the initial mention of name, 
for it was his own, or had been his own before Borg processing had 
rendered such identifiers irrelevant.  Even with monochromatic vision, 
Assimilation knew that the stage Seltat's short hair was black, his eyes 
gray-blue.  Was this the Seltat Assimilation could have became had he not 
been in a shuttle accident, or was it a different timeline, a different 
reality with little relationship to his own excepting name and 
occupation?
	Sensing the intense scrutiny he was under, Seltat's own eyes slid 
sideways to examine his examiner.  A moment of confusion swept across his 
face, as if he somehow recognized himself under Assimilation's hardware, 
body suit, and surgical modifications.  The visual indication of deja vu 
was swiftly suppressed, however, as Zyrian urged the crowd to silence so 
that the contest might continue.
	"Assimilation, who shall you pick to be your opponent?  Which Iron 
Artist will you endeavor to beat for the top prize of becoming an Iron 
Artist yourself?"  Ambient music lowered in volume to a guttural growl.
	There was no conflict in Assimilation's mind as to his choice, as to who 
he had to pick.  "Iron Artist Painter, Seltat LaVoore."
	As a smiling Seltat stepped forward and down off the stage, as music 
swelled into thunder, as the crowd cheered, Zyrian raised his hands high.  
The hologram loudly shouted over the noise, "Seltat LaVoore it is!  Iron 
Artist Painter!  If our two combatants will take their places, the 
challenge will be revealed!"  Meanwhile, on the stage, the remaining Iron 
Artists sank out of sight below stage.
	Seltat gave a jaunty wink at Assimilation, then went to the counter left 
of the central supplies table.  He removed his smock, substituting it for 
one much more worn, fabric splattered with the endeavors of past contests 
until it was itself a careless abstract.  Assimilation considered the 
situation, analyzing the surreptitious security presence, and especially 
their weapons.  While assimilation units were often included as 
second-line with tactical during assaults, necessitating a tougher than 
average exoskeletal armoring and EM warding ability, without a firm 
linkage to the sub-collective there was no given that the few common 
personal shield adaptation routines he kept within onboard storage would 
be sufficient.  A move to assimilate or a move to attack (one and the 
same for Borg) would likely result in a very crispy Assimilation.  
Therefore, the Borg option, that which he had been specialized upon his 
assimilation to perform, was, as usual, denied.  As the shadowy guards at 
arena periphery noted his overly long pause, as phasers begun to lazily 
swing in his direction, Assimilation took the several steps necessary to 
reach the counter opposite Seltat.  A white apron, crisply new, awaited 
for Assimilation to don.  He awkwardly did so, clothes a foreign element, 
as was the flexibility required to tie the strings around his back.  
	Zyrian stalked to the low dais in front of the stage, the latter 
beginning to sink away to lie flush with the floor.  The dry ice vapors 
had returned, billowing around the hologram's feet as the tip of 
something rose from the dais.  That something resolved into the peak of a 
tent of fabric draped over an unknown item.  Cameras orbited Zyrian and 
the dais for a 360 degree circular view.  Of the hidden object, nothing 
could be determined other than it was roughly the size of a prone 
humanoid body, such were the obscuring folds of fabric.  As the vapors 
dissipated, it was possible to see that the lower edge of the cloth was 
damp, and that a clear, viscous liquid was slowly trickling to the 
ground.
	"Before the subject is revealed, the medium is presented:  static oils!  
Artists, your tools are thus delivered."
	A transporter beam materialized an easel before each contestant, canvas 
already set upon it.  Before his assimilation, Assimilation had been 
cognizant in all the many variations painting could take, but had been 
chief among the advocates of traditional oils.  With static oils, the 
canvas was stretched across a device which, at the flick of a button, 
dried any paints already applied, cutting days of labor into mere hours, 
even minutes.  A special wand allowed portions of the canvas to have its 
paint "rewetted," thus allowing mixing of oils.  Assimilation had been a 
purist, considering the static oil technique as one more assault upon the 
true artist, turning compositions which should require days, if not 
weeks, to complete into assembly line productions.  The layperson may not 
be able to tell the difference between traditional and static oils, but 
any connoisseur would not be fooled.  Assimilation glared at the easel 
disdainfully.  A glance to Seltat showed an overt expression of similar 
contempt at his canvas, but it also revealed the arrival of several 
additional security guards in the background.
	"Remember, contestants, you have one hour to complete your masterpiece 
for the panel to judge.  The time will be ticking.  Everything you need 
is on the supply table or in your counter.  If, by some reason, you 
cannot find an item or material you require, just tell me, and it will be 
delivered promptly."  Zyrian paused, allowing a hushed expectation to 
fill the arena.  "And now, the moment you've all be waiting for...the 
subject.  Iron Artist, challenger, I present you the most recent Miss 
Milky Way, in the nude, on a bed of greens, fruits, and fish products!  
Begin!"
	The dropcloth was swept dramatically aside, revealing a forest green 
slug.  Miss Milky Way might be the approximate size of a humanoid, but 
she (assuming it was a she by Zyrian's proclamation, for there was no way 
for the uninformed to tell the difference) did not have a similar form.  
She lay redolent in a pose that might have been seductive to another of 
her species, half on her side and half on her singular foot.  Forebody 
curled upwards to shoulders and a pair of seemingly boneless arms.  There 
was no neck, body melding with the head region to form a "face" mostly 
sharp-toothed maw.  Incongruously, the mouth was heavily ringed with red 
lipstick.  Two bulbous eyes rose on eyestalks that gently swayed back and 
forth in an unfelt breeze.
	As slime oozed from slug body to dais to ground, slowly producing a 
puddle which threatened to migrate across the floor unless something was 
done to halt its progression, Assimilation idly wondered how one could 
tell such a species was naked or not.  It did not look like it had a body 
which adapted well to the concept of clothes, or that clothes would even 
be necessary for reasons of modesty except to another...whatever it was.  
As she lay in a melody of leaves, exotic fruits, and fish heads, a dinner 
entree ready to be served, Miss Milky Way slowly winked one eye. 
	"A beauty, isn't she?" asked Zyrian to the crowd.  Stunned silence was 
broken by wolf whistles as the audience was cued.  "That's what I 
thought."  The fleet of saucer cameras drank it all in.
	Assimilation had opened his mouth to inquire upon what aesthetic sense 
judges had crowned the slug Miss Milky Way, when he heard a whisper 
directed his way.  As he gathered pigments and paints from the supply 
table, seemingly concentrating solely on his choices, Seltat quietly 
hissed, "Don't ask questions.  Just paint, and hopefully you'll get out 
of here.  We'll talk later, if we can, when the cameras aren't focused on 
us.  For now, just paint."  Selections complete, the Iron Artist leapt to 
his side of the arena and began organizing his booty.
	Approaching the central table, Assimilation looked it over.  Obviously 
there were a great many of colors present, but he could not determine 
what they were.  It was depressing.  Once he had been able to discern the 
finest of hues.  Mixing them together would be a farce, creating, most 
likely, the muddy brownish shade with which every child who has used 
finger-paints is familiar.  However, there were the well-known, the black 
and the white, and it was those Assimilation appropriated.  Black and 
white were the core components of gray.
	Within multiple drawers and behind the doors which were part of 
Assimilation's work counter were a wide variety of bowls and cups, 
paddles and ladles, pails and buckets.  One at a time, the containers 
were taken from their storage location and set upon the countertop, next 
to the mound of white and black pigments.  Soon, all receptacles, from 
teacup to cauldron, was filled with a shade of gray under construction, 
each of which looked exactly the same to the one adjacent, unless one was 
a cybernetic being with augmented monochromatic-only vision.
	With his peripheral vision, Assimilation noticed the shimmering of air 
which heralded the arrival of a hologram.  As it was not important, he 
ignored it, concentrating on the batches of Bulkhead Hue #1 through #10 
which were being created.  The flickering grew increasingly distinct, 
resolving into a two-third sized version of Zyrian with facial features 
cast more from the simian mode than the human.  The mini-Zyrian pattered 
up to Assimilation, materialized a holographic stepping stool, mounted 
it, then loudly inquired in a pipping munchkin voice, "Whatcha doing?"
	Assimilation was silent.  It was quite obvious what he was doing.  
Behind his back, at Seltat's counter, he heard a similar voice asking a 
similar question:  the Iron Artist had his own imp bothering him.
	"Whatcha doing?" persisted the mini-Zyrian, leaning forward to peer into 
a pail of paint.
	"If the question is answered, will you desist?"  A dollop of black was 
dripped into white, perfecting Bulkhead Hue #6.
	The imp shrugged, then made as if to touch a finished batch of Hull 
Metal #7.  A camera swooped for a manual close-up.  Assimilation slapped 
the hand away with a swipe of a stirring stick, then aimed a second at 
the camera, which quickly retreated.  "Do not touch.  Paint is being 
mixed for this composition, and hands, holographic or otherwise, must not 
be in it."
	"Ah," nodded the hologram sagely, its monkey-like features showing 
comprehension.  It stepped off its stool, dragged it to the side, then 
stepped upon it again.  Once so positioned, it shouted, "Gamshoo-mon!  
The challenger is mixing lots of gray paint for reasons unknown!  All the 
paint looks exactly the same!"
	Assimilation paused in his work to stare at the high-pitched commentary, 
then turned as the twin mini-Zyrian also reported:  "Gamshoo-mon!  Seltat 
is mixing silver specks into his green paint.  He says that it is to 
'make Miss Milky Way shine like her namesake.'"  The Borg returned to his 
preparations.
	The picture on the canvas slowly, yet quickly due to the imposed time 
limit, took shape.  It was a perfect replica of the lounging Miss Milky 
Way, from slime slowly rolling to the floor to fish heads to bulbous 
eyes.  It was also in such fine gradations of gray that the canvas looked 
like a foggy day at the coast during a volcanic ash eruption at dusk.  
The static oil canvas gave some trouble, as the device was normally wont 
to do, drying paint in the middle of a stroke when no button had been 
touched, thus freezing the brush to the painting.  Traditional oil 
techniques were much better, if of lesser technology, but they also 
didn't allow an action-packed hour of artistic production.
	Occasionally Assimilation tried to discern what Seltat was painting.  
His competitor's canvas, however, was kept, like a paranoid poker player, 
with the business side hidden at all times.  Meetings at the supply table 
inevitably were accompanied by flying cameras, and Seltat's demeanor was 
an overt agonistically utterly unlike the original meeting.  Instead of 
words of advice, Seltat dealt snide comments and criticisms, as well as 
colorful insults which had the crowd alternately laughing and cheering.  
Assimilation was not a popular person, mostly because he refused to 
respond to the threats, doing so not only an unBorg action, but requiring 
undue effort of Assimilation's part.
	During the entire hour, the mini-Zyrian attached to Assimilation seemed 
determined to be in the way.  Standing on its stool, it would continually 
ask "Whatcha doing?" and "Why?" in its maddening voice which was a nano 
away from crossing the line into whining.  Once an answer or explanation 
was received, the hologram would scramble away to do its "Gamshoo-mon" 
report before weaseling back underfoot.  Ignoring it did not make it go 
away, only become more annoying; and there was no possibility of 
scrambling the emitters without access to something more technically 
interfaced with the arena computer systems than an electric paint 
stirring device.  At ten minute intervals, a vaguely feminine voice would 
announce the time remaining in the contest.
	Throughout, the cameras flew, sometimes unobtrusive, but mostly not.  
There were eight of the machines, distinguishable only by "seeing" their 
electromagnetic aura, otherwise outwardly all alike.  They paused to 
image crowd reactions, to capture the commentaries of holographic host 
and judge panel, to perform manual close-ups which practically had the 
saucers sitting on Assimilation's head to photograph his work in 
progress.
	"Two minutes," called the pseudowoman, voice echoing throughout the 
arena.  Seltat increased his speed to a frantic pace that somehow 
outstripped his earlier swift painting.  Thick liquids and metallic dust 
flew, most of it landing in precise patterns on canvas.  Assimilation 
plodded at his normal rate, the one calculated most efficient for the 
task, holographic interruptions and nosy cameras notwithstanding.  It was 
a monotonous pace fitting with Assimilation's monotonous mind, with the 
monotonous contest, with a monotonous world.  Hopefully this game would 
be complete soon and he would be allowed to return to Cube #347.
	"One minute."
	"Thirty seconds"
	"Ten.  Nine.  Eight.  Seven.  Six.  Five.  Four.  Three.  Two.  One.  
Time is up!  Put down your paintbrushes."
	The crowd erupted into cued applause as Seltat finished his composition 
with a flourish, pressing the button on the side of the canvas to freeze 
the oils.  He smiled widely, swept a low bow to the crowd, a second 
towards Zyrian and judges, and a final one at Assimilation.  He then 
proceeded to remove his smock, an hour of work added to the abstract 
designs of previous contests, substituting it for the clean apron of 
black.  On his side of the arena, Assimilation added a last touch up of 
Goop #18, and similarly froze his image.
	"Time is up!" shouted Zyrian as he energetically leapt from his place 
near the judge panel table to the main arena floor.  The mini-Zyrians 
scattered as he neared, disappearing midstep to wherever it is holograms 
go when they are not visually displayed.  The GSH beamed at Iron Artist 
and challenger.  "If the paintings will be moved to the judges, the next 
step of the process can begin."
	Large humans with more than a slight touch of Klingon in their 
bloodlines entered from off-arena.  Likely moonlighting as bouncers at 
the rougher nightclubs, the four burly men were no holograms.  Two each 
carefully lifted easel and canvas, carrying them to the awaiting judges 
and setting them so the paintings were displayed to good effect for the 
crowd.  A pair of cameras floated near as the porters left the arena, one 
per picture, for a close-up, before backing to their normal orbit above 
(and, occasionally, in the middle of) the action.
	Assimilation's painting was an exact likeness of the subject, 
approaching as close to three-dimensional as possible on a 
two-dimensional surface, assuming one had the ability to resolve fine 
gradations of gray.  The difference between Bulkhead Hue #1 and Bulkhead 
Hue #10 was minute, unable to be distinguished except by a computer so 
programmed and outfitted with a special camera, or a few select nocturnal 
species who relied on eyesight as their primary sense, none of whom were 
present as judge or audience member.  For everyone else, the canvas was a 
solid block of boring gray.
	Seltat's picture, on the other hand, was a rich tapestry of colors (not 
that Assimilation could distinguish them) painted in an abstract 
impressionist style.  Miss Milky Way was little more than a suggestion of 
a green smear, and everything else was even more indistinct, verging on 
multicolored haze.  An exception was the model's eyeballs, which were 
very detailed, although located at opposite sides of the canvas, 
unassociated with the subject; and, oddly, the eyes of the fish heads 
were similarly explicit.  Likewise, Miss Milky Way's mouth received 
individual treatment, painted the brightest pink possible, a hue which 
forced any observer to squint.
	Zyrian waved his arm with a flourish at the canvases, as different from 
each other as were the painters.  Yet, there was an odd similarity in 
brushstroke, in composition, should a professor of the visual arts 
closely examine the works, just as Assimilation and Seltat were 
improbably related.  Such nuances, however, were lost on GameShow Host 
hologram, judge panel, and audience alike.
	"Who's masterpiece is fated to be guarded by police?  Who's work is it 
kinder to use it as a garbage can liner?  Let us turn to the judge panel 
to find out!" pronounced Zyrian, the phrases awkward in flow, as if 
writers had struggled for hours to find a rhyme which would parse before 
giving up and using the first of many increasingly senseless suggestions.
	The trio of judges stood and walked over to regard the paintings, a 
process which required much easel circling, muttering of comments in 
overloud voices, and gestures.  The Klingon art critic crossed his arms 
across his chest and set a dour expression on his face, one which 
crinkled his forehead ridges even deeper than normal.  Psychic Gertrude 
produced a crystal ball and proceeded to gaze deeply within it, 
occasionally flicking her eyes between scene of gray and suggestion of 
green slug.  The Ferrengi Wok struck poses for an appreciative audience.  
Through it all the cameras wove, no attention paid to the two artists, 
who had been directed to a position on the sidelines.
	"Do you see this part here?"
	"That brushline, I don't know...."
	"Bah, I've seen better compositions from three year old children given 
finger-paints."
	"Will you stop preening, Wok, and help us decide this contest?"
	"It's all a show," whispered Seltat out of the corner of his mouth at 
Assimilation.  "The cameras aren't on us, and neither is Zyrian.  
Security couldn't care less.  We have a few minutes to talk, as long as 
we are quiet about it."  The Iron Artist carefully kept lip movement 
minimal and an expression of knowing anticipation on his face, just in 
case a flying camera should turn in his direction.
	Assimilation was brought out of the musing in which he had been engaged.  
Innate programming had been initiated, that which examined the 
probabilities of a drone to expand the Collective.  Without others 
supporting the introspective, all calculations were suspect, but it was 
amusing, in a morbid way.  So far, Assimilation had shelved fifty-three 
methods of what was essentially suicide, some more creative than others, 
ranging from covertly infecting Seltat with nanoprobes to outright 
jumping into the audience.  It passed the time, even if it was as boring 
as any other prospect in Assimilation's dull life.  The Borg shifted his 
outward attention towards his alter-self even as he contemplated scenario 
number fifty-four.
	"I'm not sure where they got you, friend, but hopefully you'll be 
heading back there soon," muttered Seltat.  "There is a 
certain...likeness in you.  I don't know what, but normally I don't 
bother risking their wrath with talking.  They think I've finally 
broken."  The 'their' and 'they' were not explained.  "The game is fixed.  
Money is passed to the judges during the head-to-head portion of the 
show, which determines who actually wins.  Usually it is the Iron Artist, 
even when the creation is substandard.  All us Iron Artists are 
essentially slaves.  Sure, we can have anything we desire, but we are not 
allowed to leave, not allowed to talk to anyone of the world outside 
studio and apartments.  What I'm doing right now is liable to win me 
punishment, but I can take it:  I have before.  They can't do anything 
which might be visible to the audience or hinder my creativity."
	Seltat abruptly stopped as Zyrian glanced in their direction, indicating 
with a hand wave a point under discussion.  The Iron Artist snorted 
loudly, then shifted his expression into one of arrogant disdain, as if 
conveying the attitude that his work was the superior of the two.  Focus 
returned to the easels.
	"That was close," hissed Seltat.  "No matter.  The only way for me to 
leave here is to lose a contest, whereupon the challenger takes over as 
Iron Artist, but I'm sure you already know that.  Everyone who watches 
the show or knows anything about it knows that point.  That is why no 
artist in his or her or its sane mind wants to be on the show anymore, 
because rumors of Iron Artist indenturhood has spread.  However, no one 
knows what happens to the dismissed Iron Artist, although we, the four of 
us locked up here, hope the one defeated is allowed to rejoin the wider 
universe.  I'm not quite sure that happens, unfortunately, because 
although the other three Iron Artists have been here less time than me, 
none of them has heard of any exploits by former Iron Artists prior to 
their arrival.  It is like they...disappear."
	Assimilation opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again as Seltat 
dug an elbow into his ribs.  Or, at least, where his ribs would be 
located if he wasn't armored in the torso region.  Seltat winced as the 
action produced a *thump* and the beginnings of a bruise on his arm.  The 
debate over the paintings had come to a conclusion, Zyrian approaching 
master and challenger with a wide smile, followed by a quartet of 
floating cameras.
	"A decision has been made!  Please, you two, step over to the panel and 
hear all about it!"  The judges had retaken their former seats.  Zyrian 
indicated where to go with an intricate hand flourish.  Seltat took the 
lead with Assimilation trailing behind.  Continued the hologram when 
everyone was positioned to his liking, "First the challenger.  Comments?"
	Sasig cleared his throat, a ponderous sound fitting to his ponderous 
bulk.  He leaned back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly.  "The 
challenger presents a blank slate, literally, it seems.  Anything can be 
put upon it, be it the model or something else.  It is the essence of 
existentialism painted on a canvas.  I, personally, would prefer a bit 
more color, though.  The monotony of gray does little to uplift the 
spirits, a quality inherent in a persona such as Miss Milky Way."
	"I disagree," interrupted Gertrude.  "It is a bold stab in a new 
direction, a reflection of the shallowness our society embraces.  The 
gray symbolizes the fog of our minds, through which nothing can be seen, 
not beauty, not intelligence, nothing."
	Wok blinked.  "My turn?  I don't really like it, actually.  It doesn't 
look like Miss Milky Way at all.  Not a bit."
	Gertrude replied, "I never said I liked it or not, myself.  I just noted 
that it takes an artist with a lot of, um, lobe, to put it in crude terms 
you would understand, to try something so radical."
	The Ferrengi nodded, then squinted at Assimilation, as if to see where 
lobes might be hiding on the apparently earless Borg. 
	Nodding, Zyrian said, "Okay!  Great!  And the Iron Artist?  Discussion, 
please."
	Gertrude began, "It is standard fare, although perhaps a tad more 
abstract than normal from Seltat's brush.  The theme of eyeballs and 
mouth lends a sense of surrealism to the entire piece, drawing the focus 
away from the rest of the composition.  It makes one feel insignificant, 
as if the universe were peering at you, assessing you, then preparing to 
pass judgment.  It could be seen as a political sketch upon the business 
of beauty pageants, the blur of bodies passing by, with eyes always 
ogling the contestants."
	"Once again, my psychic friend, you overanalyze," responded Sasig.  "The 
painting is the exposition of clashing cultures.  This is less about what 
the picture /is/, than it is about the colors.  Note the unsubtle hues, 
the use of primaries.  The artist is shouting, he is saying:  'World!  
Look at this!  Look at me!'  It is a typical Seltat composition."
	The Ferrengi snapped out of his long-distance flirtation with a sultry 
human woman in the crowd.  He peered perfunctorily at the picture under 
discussion, then said with a shrug.  "I don't like it.  It doesn't look 
like Miss Milky Way.  I like my art to look like things."  He returned to 
making eyes at the woman.
	"And with that statement, we come to the announcement of the winner.  
Each judge, including myself, has drafted a score, and the marks have 
been tabulated," explained Zyrian.  In the background thundered a 
growling timpani, adding to the growing suspense.  People in the audience 
began to shout, to beg for the name of the winner.  Assimilation glanced 
up to the ceiling, seeing directions to that end, which would explain the 
less than enthusiastic attitude.  To his side, Seltat sighed deeply.  
"And the winner is...Assimilation!  Welcome our new Iron Artist!"
	'Cheer' flashed on the overhead teleprompters; and security brandished 
their weapons, all carefully out of sight of the cameras.  The crowd 
applaud vigorously, whistles mixed in with the occasional yelp of 
not-quite pain as someone didn't do their best to greet Assimilation to 
the ranks of Artist Arena greats.
	Zyrian, all smiles, turned to acknowledge Assimilation.  As the hologram 
approached, he waved for security, uncunningly disguised as those people 
always needed when heavy things required to be moved, to advance 
on-stage.  Back facing the camera, Zyrian whispered to the stunned 
Seltat, "You've become too much trouble, boy.  And you," was directed to 
Assimilation, "will do as I tell you to.  You will come with me to the 
center of the arena to be presented.  You will be happy.  Ecstatic.  You 
will then head towards the door at the side of the stage and exit.  You 
will not deviate.  Do you understand?"
	Assimilation blinked.  "No compliance.  We have other obligations.  We 
are Borg.  Our sub-collective will retrieve us."
	"I don't think so," murmured Zyrian.  "Do as I say, else there may be a 
bit of a...mess.  It is /so/ difficult and expensive to perform a 
mindwipe on so many audience members, but it has been done before.  At 
least this isn't live, and any difficulties can be edited before release 
to subspace broadcast; and a proper ending sequence can be spliced in 
using holograms at a later date if necessary."
	Seltat paled as the guards arrived, flanking him.  Each took one arm and 
began to drag him backwards.  "Don't do it!" screamed the ex-Iron Artist.  
"It is a fake!  A fake!  It is fixed!  Run while you can!  Run!  It isn't 
worth it!  Run!"
	"Damn," cried Zyrian.  "That tears it.  Holograms it is.  Get that filth 
out of my sight.  And you, Assimilation, a session with the mindwipe 
machine is in store for you.  Get the audience out of here and processed.  
Enough!"  The background music abruptly cut and cameras whizzed upwards, 
flying out of sight.  Security materialized without benefit of 
transporter beams, simply stepping forward from the shadows to become an 
overt presence, phaser rifles alertly lifted, ready for trouble.
	The three judges, heads close for a confidential conference, broke their 
huddle.  As one, they stood and quickly shuffled out of sight before 
Zyrian could order something done to them, or worse, retract their 
bribes.
	"I said, get them out of here!" screamed Zyrian with a motion towards 
the audience.  His demeanor was utterly opposite his earlier jovial host 
attitude.  Several crowd members flinched.  Others sighed in resignation, 
vague memories haunting the edges of awareness concerning earlier 
mindwipes of Artist Arena incidents.  The majority of guards escorted 
people towards the main exit behind the bleachers.
	"Run!" wailed Seltat's voice as he disappeared through another doorway, 
dragged away by his attendants.  The noise cut abruptly as the soundproof 
door swung shut.
	As Zyrian fumed, muttering half-discernible words under his breath, the 
GameShow Host's tacky robe was holographically substituted for a plain 
business suit.  Suddenly he looked up, piercing Assimilation with a look, 
"Are you still here, too?  Security!  Get him installed in his apartment, 
and get him a session with Dr. Su and her machines right away!"
	"Yes, sir," acknowledged a guard crisply, one of two now flanking 
Assimilation, phasers shoved into the small of his back.
	"But we are no longer an artist.  We are Borg.  Release this unit," 
protested Assimilation as the pair of security marched him towards the 
door previously utilized by Seltat.
	One guard shrugged indifferently.  "Sorry, guv-sir.  We's gots our 
orders, not to mention paychecks.  Down to the cellar you go."  The voice 
of the man was apologetic.  "Don't try anything funny, 'cause me and Tony 
don't want to hurt you."
	Assimilation loaded creative suicide scenario #55.  As the door neared, 
the option was analyzed and found woefully wanting, but it was the only 
alternative open short of meeting Dr. Su.  Oh well, it seemed that if he 
were fated to terminate far from the sub-collective, far from the 
Collective, far from Borg immortality, it would only be a predictable end 
to a monotonous existence.  Assimilation abruptly halted, jerking his two 
surprised guards to a stop.  "We will not comply," he uttered as he 
turned to reach for the one designated Tony.
	And then, lights were extinguished, the essence of sight removed.  
Brutally, sensations flooded Assimilation, both data and body, as the 
cocoon was lifted.  He stumbled, then caught himself, as he found himself 
standing where he had begun adjacent to vat #7 of Nanite Assembly Room 
#3, hand on a data pillar; and the intranets were alive with thousands of 
conversations while dataspaces streamed information by the tetrabyte.
	{Your mental signature disappeared, as did your onboard physical 
presence.  Where were you?} demanded Captain to Assimilation.
	Assimilation, still stunned, could not order his mind quick enough, 
prompting command and control to ransack his immediate memories.  As the 
computer dispassionately fed interrupted datastreams concerning vat #7's 
elemental balance (requirement:  potassium), Assimilation felt part of 
his mind tear.  Usually, when his hierarchy was allowed to perform its 
function, Assimilation was on the end which coerced information out of a 
subject, but all drones were knowledgeable of the sensation, knew that it 
could come at any time.  Normally, however, there was a bit more warning, 
a bit more stability to the situation.
	Blinking as he gathered the shreds of his mind, his balance, 
Assimilation quieted the computer through a reflexive command to add 
potassium.  Within the dataspaces, the Iron Artist show was digested, 
absorbed.  Assimilation automatically captured an audio-visual datastream 
which impinged upon his consciousness. 
	"Sorry you were put on hold," spouted an eyeball which was suddenly in 
Captain's nodal intersection, "but most of you weren't necessary.  This 
reality only required one, and Assimilation seemed best in this 
instance."  The Director swam up through the floor, stabilizing with the 
feet it didn't have several centimeters above the ground.  It peered 
downwards.  "Dang.  I've gotta do something about my phase stabilization.  
I think /someone/ keeps 'readjusting' it every time I am required to go 
corporeal."  The words were clearly directed to someone or something not 
immediately present.
	Second, present, asked sarcastically, "What are we, a phone?"
	"What an archaic concept," responded Iris after a short pause.  "No, you 
aren't a phone, but you can still be put on hold.  Limbo is a better 
term, actually.  Say, where is Captain?"  The Director spun in a midair 
circle, trailing bubbles behind it from its pseudocigar.
	"Regeneration," answered Second brusquely.  "He is not required to be 
present.  You speak to all through me.  Or you could speak to the empty 
air.  It is all the same to us."
	The eyeball shrugged, dismissing Second's sardonic response as 
irrelevant.  "Rolling is occurring.  And three, two, one...away you go."
	Assimilation, who had finally reordered his mind sufficiently to note 
exterior sensors were fixated on a starless nothing which was 
nevertheless a something, had time, had space, had a uniform energy, felt 
that shift which heralded the drop into Nothing.  Sensors' fit also 
punctuated the change.  Swiftly the insectoid was put to sleep.
	{Sensors is going to be a very sad buggy before this is all done,} noted 
Doctor.  {She is not designed to be flicked on and off like a light 
switch.  It is not good for her wittle brain.}
	{She is of species #6766.  Her neurological physiology is already 
twisted, and herself even more so.  Maybe she'll stop speaking in third 
person when it is all over,} retorted Second in the intranets.
	The eyeball checked its PADD, touching two buttons.  "Well, my lotto 
numbers didn't fare well this week.  I haven't won anything since they 
installed those precognitive filters on the ping-pong ball machine.  Used 
to that I could at least see one or two numbers, and sheer guessing 
worked to gain me another to win a free ticket at least.  As far as the 
roll...you are coming in for a landing, all of you.  I hope you like 
variety shows."
	{Variety shows are not painting,} managed to say Assimilation.  {I never 
saw the point in musicals.  The color is still off in vat #7.  Not enough 
potassium was added.  It is too much Goop #8, and not enough Goop #2 in 
hue.}
	As Assimilation rambled about the continued state of unbalance within 
the nanite assembly vat, Artist Arena already shelved to the depths of 
memory storage amid the other punctuations in his existence, the great 
majority of the sub-collective pondered.  For the exterior watcher, there 
was only the slightest of pauses between the Director's disparate 
comments and Second opening his mouth to reply.
	"Variety shows?  What do variety shows have to do..."
	It was too late:  Iris had vanished.