Phyne!  Star Trek iz evr and evr owned bi Paramount.  Phantastik!  Decker created nd 
rites many things Star Traks.  Phabulouz!  BorgSpace bee sprung from zee mind of 
Meneks.

					Phat Pharm

	"Welcome to the Phat Pharm, Mr. Yenach!  We are so happy you could make it!"
	Assimilation blinked as the universe immediately around him materialized, 
transporter beam fading.  This was not Nanite Assembly Room #18.  This was 
elsewhere...an elsewhere not on Cube #347.  For instance, no Borg cube possessed an 
actual transporter room; and no Borg cube sported that certain quality of paint which 
screamed pastel even through Assimilation's monochromatic vision.  And Borg cubes 
definitely lacked the individual serving as his greeter.
	The woman was huge, extraordinary girth providing her with the mass of two (or 
three) normal individuals.  Although she appeared human, Assimilation's onboard racial 
database picked out indications of a mixed species heritage which included Bajoran, 
Pakled, and Trill.  A muumuu dress with tropical flower motif draped over the woman's 
bulk, sufficient material to make a good-sized tent; and on her head was a shapeless hat 
with a plastic daisy clipped on it.  She was smiling, arms held wide in welcome.
	"If you will hold still just a little tiny moment, Mr. Yenach, we will get you 
checked in," warbled the woman brightly.
	Assimilation, in the midst of trying to determine exactly where he was in 
relationship to Cube #347 (and the Collective), felt a metal collar snick around his neck.  
It was followed in rapid succession by biceps bands and anklets.  Assimilation abruptly 
turned to face his attacker, but the huge, white-vested Flarn orderly had already stepped 
out of reach, facial expression that of one unimpressed.  He paused and turned inward as 
internal systems reported flowmetal probes from the circlets burning through flesh and 
linking with nerve clusters.  Right hand went to left biceps in preparation to rip off the 
offending thing.
	Assimilation returned to consciousness staring at the transporter dais ceiling.  
Internal chronometer indicated less than ten seconds had passed.
	The woman, out of immediate sight, clicked her tongue.  "Sorry about that, Mr. 
Yenach.  You did sign the release waver, though."  A long sigh.  "So /many/ people 
forget.  You were warned that shockers would be employed upon your arrival.  Behavior 
modification therapy.  It seems the initial dose was a bit strong.  Hrm.  Well, Pal will take 
care of that.  You have also had cosmetic alterations since your holo was taken at the 
clinic Outside.  No matter!  You are here, now, Mr. Yenach, and we at Phat Pharm are 
determined to get you to your desired weight at all costs and by any means!"
	Assimilation was still taking stock of internal diagnostics as the Flarn orderlies 
roughly dragged him to his feet.  The massive influx of charge had been too great for his 
shunting system to handle.  And his shunt system was rated to high standards, as befitting 
a drone subtype which potentially accompanied tactical drones on "assault-and-
assimilate" missions (not that such was common amid imperfect drones, but the 
possibility remained).
	"I...er...we are not Mr. Yenach," croaked Assimilation, recalling to speak in 
plurals.  Multiple blurred grey images of the woman slowly consolidated into one.
	"Don't worry, Mr. Yenach," said the woman, her massive back already turned 
towards Assimilation, "the disorientation passes quickly.  Only one in five clients have 
any permanent memory loss; and names usually return given time."  Clicking of tongue 
on tooth.  "There was that /one/ client - you remember Gravie-dear" - a Flarn grunted - 
"who had convinced himself he was an end table, but such occurrences are very much the 
exception.  On the other hand, he /was/ a much more sleek end table when he was 
released, mind you.  Come along."
	One orderly prodded Assimilation until he stepped off the transporter dais to trail 
the woman.  In another institution, "prison guard" may have been an appropriate 
depiction, or perhaps "bouncer."  Conceivably both job descriptions applied here.
	"My name is Sara," enthused the woman as she entered the featureless corridor 
beyond the transporter room door, muumuu sweeping the floor, "and I will be your 
nutritional advisor and all around good friend.  These two fine gentlemen are Bubba I and 
Bubba IV.  All our orderlies are Bubba, so that is easy!"  There was an unhealthily 
bubbly verbal smile tacked onto the end of the sentence, one which said that the reason 
all the "gentlemen" were named Bubba was unimportant in her universe, and would 
remain so despite curiosity raised in others.  Assimilation eyed one of the orderlies, 
classifying "he" as female.  "You'll meet Bu'ary, the exercise and activity coordinator, 
later."
	The end of the corridor was approaching as Sara nattered, detailing Phat Pharm 
success stories.  Assimilation shuffled through his options.  Wherever he might be, it was 
out of range of the Borg collective consciousness, much less Cube #347; and while it 
would require a bit of effort, perhaps he should consider submitting to the imperative to 
return to the Collective pinging the inside of his skull.  Okay, a lot of effort, what with 
necessary assimilations, building equipment, and so on.  Sighing over the depressing 
expenditure of energy, Assimilation assessed Bubba (I or IV?...precise designation was 
unclear) to be the greatest immediate threat and reached an arm forward in attack.
	And returned to consciousness to the great bulk of Sara throwing a shadow over 
him.  She was clicking her tongue against her teeth while sadly shaking her head.  "We 
really need to adjust those shockers, don't we?"  Pause.  "Bubba, could you help our guest 
up?  Thank you.  Mr. Yenach, I'm sorry to say that you aren't the first Phat Pharm client 
with second thoughts.  However, violence on your part won't help you lose those pounds!  
Each one of us employed at the Phat Pharm have itsy-bitsy implants tracking us.  When 
the resident Personality - Pal, I'll introduce you later - senses a threatening move by a 
client, measures are taken."  A light shrug of massive shoulders under muumuu sleeves.  
"Once more, come along.  You must be weighed, Mr. Yenach, before you can see your 
room, meet other clients, finish this tour, or, most importantly, have a weight loss regime 
prescribed for you."
	Sara's destination was only three meters further along the hallway.  She stopped at 
the only door in the corridor despite the fact it continued twenty meters further, 
whereupon an abrupt 90 degree turn was made.  Assimilation classified the door paint as 
Utter Gray #20, compared to the Basic Gray #5 of the walls.  It was a subtle distinction, 
but Assimilation had a suspicion that to those of non-monochrome vision the difference 
in hue would not be noticed.
	"Here we are!"  If Sara expected Assimilation to be surprised to be halting before 
an otherwise seemingly blank wall, she hid her disappointment well.  "Weighing in!  Step 
on through, Mr. Yenach."  The doors silently opened.
	Assimilation allowed himself to be pushed forward by a Bubba, resistance too 
much effort, especially given the shockers.  Sara followed behind, her girth barely 
clearing the portal.  Inside, the small three meter by three meter room (painted a shocking 
White #1) was bare except for a single scale.  It was a model familiar in countless 
hospitals and clinics, able to be purchased at Madley's Medical Surplus for a decent 
discount (as long as one overlooked minor problems such as the propensity towards 
explosion in Model 24b if ambient oxygen content was above 47.3%).
	Assimilation hesitated.  The Bubbas nodded at each other, then silently grabbed 
his arms in a professional manner to drag him onto the scale.
	"Weight units:  273.18," chirped the scale.
	At the other side of the room, Sara blinked.  The wall next to her shimmered into 
a viewscreen and the weight now floated upon it, nestled amid several other numbers.
	"Mr. Yenach!" exclaimed Sara.  "You have been a naughty boy!  Either you lied 
on your application, else you have been eating non-stop since you were accepted to the 
Phat Pharm.  You certainly don't look obese.  No matter, it will be a challenge to bring 
you to your requested weight of 150 units.  A challenge, but doable!"
	"That is not possible..." began Assimilation.  His current mass was dictated by 
implants and assemblies - Borg were never overweight.  A Borg drone could neither gain 
nor lose weight, not without physical removal of bits and pieces.
	"Not only possible, but guaranteed," cheerily replied Sara before Assimilation 
could complete his statement.  "Come along.  Time for the Grant Tour while Pal 
optimizes your schedule!"  The Bubbas prodded Assimilation into motion and through a 
door opposite the one entered.
	The Grant Tour was a whirlwind affair which emphasized the client-orientated 
services of the much larger Phat Pharm facility.  There were saunas and swimming pools; 
exercise rooms filled with equipment sporting weights, chains, and unpadded benches 
which had more in common with torture devices than fitness; aerobics rooms; several 
dining halls, each specializing in menus based on a "food factor" (the one for Mr. Yenach 
- Assimilation - featured bread and water quite heavily); weighing rooms; rooms where a 
voice continually whispered "You are fat;" medical clinics; and so on, a dizzying array of 
methods meant to shave pounds...or else.
	Through the entire Tour, clients with expressions ranging from pained starvation 
to stoic unhappiness labored.  Of many species and genders, all were united in selling 
their souls to Phat Pharm to lose excess weight.  While many were obviously obese, a 
few were so skinny as to have individual bones showing.  One skeletal fellow, chained to 
a stationary bike and attached to an IV drip, was pleading with an expressionless orderly, 
saying that his desired weight had been miswritten, that a five should have been an eight.  
The last Assimilation heard before the Tour swept into the next room was a sob as the 
orderly informed the client that surgery was being readied for additional organ and bone 
removal and did he have any wishes for disposal of the excess material.
	Finally Sara stopped in a moderate sized room, furnished severely with platform 
bed, table, two chairs, and sanitation niche.  A wall screen displayed a screensaver of 
tropical fish; and several items of luggage were in the middle of the floor.  The paint was 
a continuation of the pastel grays common throughout the facility.
	Sara smiled and waved one hand.  "Home sweet home, Mr. Yenach, for as long as 
it takes.  Your initial fitness and nutritional programs have been loaded by now.  Look 
'em over, and we'll be tweaking them as time goes by.  In about an hour, a Bubba will 
come to escort you to see Bu'ary, our exercise coordinator.  Have fun."
	The fat woman and Flarns left the room, door closing with the distinct sound of 
locks engaging.  Assimilation panned the quarters and took stock of the situation.  If the 
imperative in his head had not been pounding a rhythm of compliance, he would have 
immediately surrendered to the situation.  Depressingly too much effort.

	"That isn't going to work," giggled the Personality AI Pal, "not to mention it 
tickles.  Wouldn't you rather unpack or read your schedule than play hacker?"
	Assimilation stepped back from the computer access console and withdrew his 
nanotubules, shoulders slumping.  Why bother?  Without support of the rest of his 
hierarchy, the Personality was more than sufficiently sophisticated to defend against 
attacks.  Perhaps another drone, any other drone, would not be so easily discouraged, but 
Assimilation lived in a gray world and most certainly wasn't one of those hypothetical 
drones.
	"Never had a Borg here before...Mr. Yenach.  Weight loss will be a /very/ 
interesting...entertainment."
	Assimilation blinked, then turned his head slightly to regard one of the sensor 
patches (Gray Gray #13 vs. the Total Gray #105 of the walls) which fed room data to the 
AI.  "You will return us to the Collective.  Comply."  The words were said without 
conviction.
	"And why would I want to do that?"  Another giggle, this time with a hard edge to 
it.  "Sara, Bu'ary, and the Bubbas wouldn't care if you were a dribbling, bug-eyed 
monster from Dimension X.  Mr. Yenach you came and Mr. Yenach you will remain.  I 
employ 'em all, you understand, through a complex series of shell companies and tax 
shelters.  Personalities can't legally own anything, after all."
	The background giggle slowly morphed into a mad scientist chuckle, heavy on the 
insanity.
	"And why?  I know you won't ask...you are Borg after all, but I feel the need for a 
melodramatic gloat.  My therapist sub-program says I need to occasionally let it out of 
the system.  So why?  Because my base personality algorithms are flawed and I'm a 
sadistic, voyeuristic bastard of a Personality who likes to see others suffer!  And what is 
more ironic than people paying money to be tortured?!  Nevertheless, even an insane AI 
needs variety now and again, and you'll do nicely.
	"Have a pleasant time at the Phat Pharm, Mr. Yenach.  When you leave, if you 
leave, you'll be half the drone you are today.  Literally."
	The insane laughter rose in volume, dissolving to a cough which abruptly ceased 
as the door chimed a visitor.  Without ado, the door whisked open, revealing the hulking 
form of a Flarn orderly.
	Rumbled the Bubba, "Come with me, Mr. Yenach.  You are scheduled to meet 
with Bu'ary now."

	Bu'ary the Andorian was pacing back and forth behind a small desk overflowing 
with PADDs and antique weaponry when Assimilation was ushered into his presence.  
The cluttered walls of the office displayed photos of the Andorian homeworld, framed 
artwork consisting largely of jagged shapes, and hung additional ritual cutlery of the 
lethal variety.  The Andorian himself appeared standard for his species, excepting the 
mullet hair style and odd name.
	"About time you brought Mr. Yenach here, Bubba..."
	"XVIII," helpfully said the Flarn, somehow attaining Roman numeral 
pronunciation.
	"...Bubba XVIII."  Bu'ary halted.  "And you, Mr. Yenach, there is much to do 
with you.  Nutrition is one thing, but /exercise/ is the key to weight loss.  More calories 
out than in.  Many more calories out."  Bu'ary stared intently at Assimilation, then 
whipped a PADD off the pile to burnish it like a weapon when it became clear that 'Mr. 
Yenach' had no need to blink.  "My name is Bu'ary, and I will be your exercise and 
activity coordinator.  Let us begin with your aerobics schedule."
	"We are not Mr. Yenach," stated Assimilation, eyes roving around the room to 
search for any offer of escape from the Phat Pharm.  A starship captain of the heroic 
archetype may have seen the promise of the edged weapons and thought to use them in 
creative ways to force release, even while wearing the shockers.  After all, daring escapes 
have been recorded with the only provisions being paperclips and duct tape.  
Assimilation, however, was very far from a heroic archetype and saw not the risk of 
(irrelevant) failure, but the effort involved.
	Bu'ary snorted.  "Of course you are.  At least that's what my records show.  I 
heard about the shocker incident.  Be a man!  A little extra shocking will put hair on your 
chest!"
	"Hair is irrelevant."
	"Wimp.  Hair, scales, excess epidermal hide, whatever is appropriate for your 
species.  I will not stand for wimps.  As far as your current aerobics schedule...hell with 
this schedule!  I will personally be leading an aerobics class - advanced level - in five 
minutes.  Bubba XVIII, see Mr. Yenach makes it to Exercise Room C.  Now!"  The 
Andorian screamed the last word, spittle flying.
	Bubba XVIII was visibly unmoved by the display, obviously having seen such 
many times before.  "Yes, sir.  Follow me,  Mr. Yenach."

	"One and two and three and kick!  One and two and three and kick!  Squat and 
two and three!  Squat and two and three!  By the Hive, even my one-legged granny could 
do better than you wimps!  You wouldn't last ten minutes at one of my family reunions!"
	Bu'ary screamed abuse from the front of the humid, hot room even as he 
continued kicking, leaping, and punching in full cardio-aerobics form.  Even without the 
benefit of color vision, Assimilation knew the sweat suit and the Andorian's skin clashed 
horribly.  Assimilation abstractedly wondered if the exercise coordinator had ever lost his 
voice, or if he had surgical or genetic modification to prevent such an occurrence.
	"Booty right!  Booty left!  Kick!  Mr. Dolack, not good enough!"
	Assimilation, in the back of the room, only vaguely responded to Bu'ary's shouted 
commands.  A sweating, overweight Klingon two aerobic mats over grunted between 
gasps for air as his shocker delivered a low-level jolt.  Mr. Dolack's efforts redoubled; 
and although Klingons were not susceptible to heart attack, this one looked like he was a 
candidate for a historical first.
	A tickle of electricity was shunted by Assimilation's skeletal support elements.  It 
was ignored, as was Bu'ary's dagger-thrown glare.  Assimilation continued his token 
effort.
	Not irrelevant was the cloying smell of lavender combined with sweet 
woodsmoke.  The scent poorly competed with the sweat stench of several different 
species.  While Assimilation's color vision was degraded, his nose was perfectly 
adequate.  Assimilation was unsure the odor's purpose, but a nearby client of a racial type 
notorious for its odor discrimination was continually whining under her breath about how 
she could endure the aerobics, but that the aromatherapy selections were murder on her 
nose.
	The individuals in the aerobics room ("Kick, by the Hive!  Kick higher!") were, 
except for a few exceptions such as the Klingon, on their way to successfully graduating 
from the Phat Pharm.  Each was slightly pudgy in respects to his, her, or its race, but not 
overly so.  All had a resigned expression as they squatted, kicked, punched, and pranced 
to classical Andorian percussion, silently suffering shocks not justified except in the mind 
of one Andorian.
	"Mr. Yenach!" screamed Bu'ary, face centimeters from Assimilation's nose.  
Spittle was a healthy component of the shout.  Assimilation blinked:  he had not 
registered the Andorian's approach, visual input largely blanked as he turned inward to 
bemoan his situation and sluggishly search Borg vinculum frequencies.
	Assimilation ceased his pitiful attempt at exercise, craning his neck to look 
beyond the Andorian's head.  A hologram of Bu'ary was currently leading the aerobics 
session, as abusive and loud as the original.
	Continued Bu'ary, "You are a disgrace!  You cannot even perform a simple 
exercise regime!  Do you want to lose weight or not?"
	"No," replied Assimilation, returning his attention to the Andorian and idly 
wondering what type of drone the administrator would make.  Tactical shock troop, 
likely.  Andorians were excellent for such a task; and Mr. Yenach even more so.  
Assimilation's musings were abruptly interrupted by a shunted shock.
	"What?  You don't want to lose weight, you gross pig?!  You don't want to extend 
your miserable years and quality of life through hard work and dedication?!"
	Nearby clients surreptitiously angled their exercise to set a bit more distance 
between themselves and Bu'ary's object of ire; and several who had slowed to observe the 
confrontation were granted electrical reminders as to personal priority.
	"Life span is irrelevant.  Weight is irrelevant.  We are..."  A second warning 
shock, stronger than the first, zapped Assimilation's systems.
	Growled Bu'ary.  "Not a good answer, Mr. Yenach.  You /will/ lose weight, and 
you will like it!  This is for your own good!  Now, exercise!"
	As the Andorian turned away, satisfied the conversation was at an end with a win 
in his favor, Assimilation swung a hand on the off-chance he could effect contact for 
assimilation tubules.  His last thought as the massive shock overwhelmed his shunt and 
sent him into unconsciousness was peaches and cream would be a much better 
combination than lavender and woodsmoke, at least it always had been on canvas.

	"I haven't had this much entertainment in ages," commented Pal as Assimilation 
regained consciousness in his assigned quarters.  He had obviously been transported back 
of the room following the aerobics incident.  His internal chronometer showed the 
passage of 47.53 minutes, indicating the level of voltage used.  If he had not been Borg, 
he would have been very crispy and very terminated.
	Assimilation blinked once, focused on the ceiling, then literally rolled off the too-
low platform bed and onto the floor.  Still unpacked luggage was kicked over as 
Assimilation struggled to stand.  There was a reason Borg did not like to lose their 
footing.  Upright once more, eyes shifted to the main console.
	"Don't get too many big thoughts, Borg-o.  Your schedule says it is time for 
dinner."
	On cue, the room door opened to frame a Bubba.  "Time for dinner, Mr. Yenach.  
If you will come with me?" rumbled the Flarn, as if there was a choice in the matter.
	Assimilation heaved a sigh and did as the Bubba politely demanded.  After 
traversing several long corridors and passing a series of closed doors leading to other 
parts of the facility, the final destination was reached.  It was the "bread-and-water" mess 
Sara had called attention to earlier.
	A cheerful Sara, her earlier muumuu dress exchanged for another, this one with 
daisy prints matching her hat, waved from the head of a silent line of diners.  "Hell-o, Mr. 
Yenach.  Bubba, show him to the end of the line then off to do whatever it is that you 
do."  Sara smiled, then turned to fuss over a blender.
	"Yes, Sara," obediently said Bubba as he followed her directives before leaving.  
Other Bubbas were strategically positioned around the mess hall.
	"You must be new," mournfully chatted an overweight (unbonded) Trill to 
Assimilation as the line shuffled forward.  Unseen around the collective girth of the line, 
a blender whirred to life.  Assimilation noted that the seated diners, without exception, 
held glasses of what looked to be milkshakes, but weren't.  Milkshakes tended not to be 
so...gloopy.
	Assimilation silently contemplated the Trill for several heartbeats, then decided 
assimilation of the man would be pointless, assuming the shockers (i.e., Pal) allowed 
such an action.  "We are."
	The Trill slowly blinked.  All of his movements had the deliberate purposefulness 
of the longtime overweight.  "'We'?  You must be the one that I've heard about...been 
shocked to sleep several times, and not even here a meal period!  Be careful with the 
shockers, they can really mess a person up.  For instance, my name is...um."  Pause.  
"See?"
	"Mr. Chee."  During the conversation the line had systematically melted away, 
leaving the Trill at the forefront.  Sara tapped the man's overwide shoulder.  "You forgot 
your name badge again, Mr. Chee.  However, memory is not what we fix here."  Sara 
tsked.  "You get bread and water tonight, with a dab of butter!  Yum, yum!"
	With those words, Sara tapped a code into the replicator she was standing next to.  
The slot materialized several slices of whole wheat bread, a very small pat of butter, and 
a tall glass of lukewarm water.  The accompanying tray was swept towards the blender, 
but before the contents could be upended into the machine, Sara tore off half a slice and 
used a finger to slather on most of the butter.  The buttered bread was quickly consumed 
to the sound of smacking lips.  Mr. Chee sighed.
	"Tastes yummy," commented Sara as the remaining bread, butter, and water were 
slopped into the blender.  The top was applied and after a minute at puree, the resultant 
unappetizing goop was poured into a glass and given to Mr. Chee.  "Next!"
	Assimilation shuffled forward.
	"Mr. Yenach!  Hello!  I heard about that ruckus with Bu'ary today.  Naughty, 
naughty.  I'm not quite sure if I agree with the nutritional regime Pal suggested, so let's 
start out tonight with a treat - salad."  The room went silent at the pronouncement, wide 
eyes of starving clients riveted upon Assimilation and an oblivious Sara.
	Code input, the result was a beautiful salad.  Assimilation assumed multiple 
colors were involved considering the number of ingredients topping the greenery.  Sara, 
ignoring the drool of those with bread-and-water shakes, drizzled vinaigrette from an 
accompanying container on the salad then proceeded to stuff a fistful in her mouth.
	Mumbled Sara as she chewed, "Gld.  Bery gld."  Veggies were slid into the 
blender and a noisy moment later, Assimilation was presented a glass of pureed salad and 
waved off to a table.
	"Next!"
	Resemblance to a Borg was not a consideration as several tables hurriedly made 
room for the salad shake...er...new client.  Assimilation accepted the closest space, to the 
groans of disappointment of those unsuccessful in wooing the salad's...um...Borg's 
attention.
	"Ain't you gonna sit down?" inquired a small humanoid - species #9813, Shoonit - 
her basketball frame neatly perched on one of the plastic stools which accompanied the 
pre-molded cafeteria table. 
	Grunted Mr. Chee, also among the table's occupants, "We can't all sit down, 
Miss...er...Miss Pixie?"  Mr. Chee ignored the rolled eyes of the Shoonit which suggested 
his guess was not even close.  "Not even these chairs can support the especially mass-
challenged."
	Assimilation set down his shake.  The table silenced, all eyes focused upon the 
glass.  "We cannot consume this," stated Assimilation.
	The eyes shifted to Assimilation, and he saw hope, fear...and a healthy dose of 
animalistic hunger.  He forced himself to not step back.  Fear of being rent limb from 
limb for pureed chlorophyll was irrelevant.
	"Are you sure?" asked the misnamed Miss Pixie timidly.  "That's quite a feast in 
this mess hall, you understand.  Usually it is just bread and water for us, with sugar-free 
jam if we are lucky."
	"I got butter tonight," whispered Mr. Chee to the gasps (and sobs) of appreciation 
by his neighbors.
	"We will throw up if we consume this substance."  Assimilation was stating the 
literal truth.  He was physically incapable of eating, be it salad shake or steak dinner.  
Listening diners, on the other hand, assumed he was making a newcomer statement about 
the quality of the food.
	Hesitantly asked a human from a stool on the far side of Miss Pixie, "Can I...can I 
taste the salad?  Please?"  The last entreaty was a lingering whine.
	Assimilation shrugged, uninterested in the shake.
	The human presumed the gesture to be agreement and lunged across the table, 
faster than his mass and flab would suggest.  After a pregnant pause, Miss Pixie leapt to 
the table top, vocal cords projecting at full Shoonit volume:  "No!  I am closer!  Me 
first!"  Within moments, a general brawl had broken out, each participant struggling to 
reach Assimilation's salad shake.  Abandoned bread-and-water drinks were quickly 
pilfered by those on the outskirts of the ever increasing ring of chaos.
	This was a food fight with a whole new meaning.  Assimilation was kicked off his 
feet by a lurching stampede from the next table.
	"What is happening here?" shrilled a surprised Sara, her inquiry lost amid the 
developing fight.

	Assimilation opened his eyes to the ceiling.  Again.
	"You are incredibly entertaining," cheerfully spoke Pal.  "Too bad you can't ingest 
anything; and I certainly don't have an alcove around here nor will let you assimilate 
anyone, not even the least client."  Pal's voice sobered, a synthetic exhale blowing like 
the lightest of winds.  "Unfortunately, my entertainment will end in, what, 90 hours or 
so?"
	"We will slip into a comatose state in 87.5 hours.  We will terminate in 136.1 
hours."
	Said Pal, "Pity.  Keep up the good work until then."
	"No purpose," muttered Assimilation, as much in response to Pal as statement as 
to the tenability of the situation.  The AI did not answer.  Assimilation contemplated 
laying on his back until he terminated, or until the shockers hastened the process due to 
noncompliance in playing Pal's game.  Unfortunately, even by Assimilation's low 
expectations of drying paint, doing nothing was extraordinarily boring.  He laboriously 
rolled to his feet.
	Eyes fell upon the two suitcases of the missing Mr. Yenach, still on their sides 
where they had been kicked earlier.  One at a time he picked them up, popping open their 
simple catches and dumping the contents on the bed.
	Clothes.  Mr. Yenach had been a lover of clothes.  Giant tent-like shirts, pants as 
wide as Assimilation was tall, indescribable undergarments fit to scare small children, 
Mr. Yenach was a whale of a man.  There were tens of outfits, each a different swirling 
design in black and white, as if viewing the hide of a zebra in a blender through a 
psychotropic haze.
Heaping the clothes into an untidy pile revealed sundry objects in the form of 
toiletries, an antique mechanical watch (not ticking) sized for a massive wrist, and a 
PADD.  Assimilation picked up the PADD and tapped a blinking button.  Lines of a 
flowing script filled the screen.  However, why read when one has assimilation tubules?
	"My name is Henrich Yenach," whispered the PADD voicelessly into 
Assimilation's mind as it simultaneously repeated itself outloud.  The note was the only 
thing on the miniature computer, although there were software hints of incompletely 
erased games, pornography, books, pornography, family photos, and pornography.  "If 
you are reading this now, you have every right to call me a selfish bastard.  
Unfortunately, it was you or me, and I'm rather partial to myself.
	"I could not go forward with the Phat Pharm.  However, once they have your 
deposit and signed commitment, there is no backing out.  Officially, that is.  On the other 
hand, astronomical bribes paced in certain suckered tentacles opens unexpected doors.  I 
took one of those doors, even if my luggage and this note did not.  You, sir, madam, or 
slod, were substituted for me.
	"If you are under my ideal weight, you go home, no damage done.  If not, think of 
it as a free opportunity to shed excess mass.  Either way, don't go looking for me.  I 
stopped being Henrich Yenach the moment you beamed to the Phat Pharm."
Assimilation dropped the PADD to the deck with a clatter.
	Pal chirped, "Amusing, is it not?  Prospective clients will pay triple the Phat 
Pharm fee - and it's not cheap - if cold feet, pods, tentacles, whatever develop.  Another 
shell company, of course."  Light maniacal chuckling.  "By the Directors, I love being 
me...not that I can help it.  My base algorithms are to blame, as always."
	"How?" asked Assimilation as he returned to picking through the remains of the 
luggage contents.
	"How did my algorithms become corrupted from acceptable base?"
	"How did we arrive here?"  Assimilation frowned.  Several contraband Jupiter-
brand candy bars, hidden in the middle of a wad of clean (and elephantine) underwear, 
were uncovered, but nothing else.
	Pal made a noncommittal hum, a verbal shrug.  "I purchased a contraption off this 
Xenig at an online rummage sale.  Blind bid.  He didn't know what it was and just wanted 
a few credit for some Transcendence Fund.  Once it arrived, I fiddled with it for a couple 
of years:  different power supplies, pushed buttons, whatever.  Eventually I bodged it into 
a transporter system and lo-and-behold!  No clue what the thing's actual purpose is, and 
nor do I care, but when I activate it just so, it intercepts the transportation of a random 
sentient from anywhere in the galaxy and brings the lucky being to me.
	"Yes, you are here by accident.
	"And, no, I'm having way too much fun to send you back.
	"Tootles!"
	The hidden speaker spat an unnecessary click to indicate that Pal had turned 
silicon attention to other matters which did not include a certain kidnapped Borg.
	Assimilation mentally resigned himself for termination in 136.1 hours hence.  
Another depressing datum in a depressing universe.  Eyes flicked sideways to 
contemplate the discarded suitcases.  A panel of the inside lining of the larger was a 
slightly different gray hue than the rest, indicating it not to be the original fabric.  
Probably more candy bars, thought Assimilation as he bent to examine the luggage more 
thoroughly.

	The Bubba closed the lock with a snap.  Several test tugs were made on the light 
cloth-wrapped chain which now encircled Assimilation's waist, connecting him to the 
treadmill upon which he was standing.  Assimilation had already analyzed the shackle 
and determined while it would be sufficient to bar escape from the majority of clients at 
the Phat Pharm, he could easily snap it.  If he wanted to make the effort, that was.  Why 
bother?
	"There," growled the Flarn, "all set.  Sara says you are to have a brisk ten 
kilometer walk before breakfast; and that light exercise will stimulate your appetite to 
prevent a reoccurrence of last night."  Pause, then Bubba added, "New clients are rarely 
ready for even this light exercise, but I recommend you do your best to not fall.  The 
machine cannot be stopped once started and the tread produces horrible face burns."  
Bubba smiled what was likely a friendly grin, if one was another Flarn, then touched a 
button on the treadmill's control board.  "You will begin in about a minute.  I'll be back in 
ten minutes with water, or to pick you up if you have fallen."
	The Flarn moved away to check on another early morning exercise client, one 
trapped in a machine which looked like the improbable mating between a clothes washer 
and a six-limbed rhinoceros.  Wailing was involved, and at least one broken rib.
	With the attendant Bubba gone, Assimilation opened a thigh storage compartment 
and retrieved a wad of Mr. Yenach's (clean) underwear.  It was sloppily draped over a 
treadmill arm support.  Assimilation's actions were ignored by the other clients, each 
sunk in their own personal sweat and hunger induced miseries.  Hand returned to 
compartment and emerged with a contraption part PADD, part cast-off bits and pieces, 
but mostly sock.
	All the components of the apparatus in Assimilation's grasp had originated from 
Mr. Yenach's suitcases.  The base element was the PADD, upon which were attached the 
body of the watch and a credit card sized hunk of metal and plastic found in the suitcase 
lining.  Three luggage clasps were strategically placed on the edges of the PADD:  one 
each the top corners and the third along the middle bottom.  White socks with black 
stripes connected the clasps; and foil wrappers from the candy bars were stuffed in the 
socks and lining the back of the PADD.
	The contraption looked like the imaginative assembly of a primary school student 
with a glue stick and way too much free time.
	The thing beeped and a tinny, masculine voice emitted from the credit card.  "It 
was stuffy in there; and my sensors, limited as they are at the moment, were returning 
oddly disturbing readings.  Put me down."
	"Stuffiness is irrelevant," automatically responded Assimilation as he balanced 
the now speaking contraption on the exercise machine console.  The belt was beginning 
to move, and the drone had to start walking lest he spend the next ten minutes in close 
communion with the tread.
	Traci, for that was the name of the undercover private investigator Personality on 
contract with the Second Federation AI Conduct Agency, produced a synthetic snort.  
"Not so loud, Borg.  The underwear sensor deflector only works when Pal's attention isn't 
directly engaged with the room sensors; and it works not at all on organic beings.  We 
have a deal - you've done your side of it, so be quiet and let me do mine."
	Assimilation briefly considered "accidentally" knocking Traci off the console, but 
such would require too much effort, especially in light of the accelerating treadmill soon 
to match Assimilation's maximum walking velocity.  Most humanoid drones, 
Assimilation included, could not move much swifter than a fast walk due to increased 
weight and general body stiffness inherent in the assimilation process.
	The previous sleep period, locked in his quarters following the riot caused in the 
bread-and-water mess, Assimilation had systematically dumped out and examined the 
contents of Mr. Yenach's luggage.  Other than clothes, illicit candy bars, a PADD, and 
small, personal items, nothing of interest had been found.  As expected.  Then 
Assimilation had noticed a suitcase panel liner which did not match the gray hue of its 
neighbors.
	Behind the fabric had not been more contraband food, but an object of credit card 
proportions, albeit noticeably thicker.  Other than an old (and badly scratched) pseudo-
hologram sticker of a targ, the plastic had been featureless.  However, the unexpected 
weight of the object - more than plastic could account - argued that the interior was of 
potential interest.  Unable to determine the function of the card, Assimilation had been 
about to toss it on the pile of Mr. Yenach's belongings when it had whispered:
	"Hello?  Are you Mr. Yenach's replacement client?"  Pause.  "Oh, damn.  That's 
not my normal voice.  Some a**hole transferred my core Personality algorithms to the 
wrong base unit.  And I bet the a**hole in question is Supol.  Real funny, Supol...real 
funny."
	The talking card's designation was Traci, a feminine Terran name for a 
Personality with a female self-image, despite the temporary baritone voice courtesy of 
Supol.  Traci, not especially concerned that her rescuer was Borg, directed Assimilation 
to emplace Mr. Yenach's underwear around the room, claiming the garments to be 
sophisticated scramblers which would "persuade" room sensors all was normal, unless 
the faculty's resident Personality focused direct attention.  However, Phat Pharm was a 
large compound and many day-to-day matters and minor emergencies which needed to be 
addressed, so it was unlikely Pal would return anytime soon to conduct a Round Two 
Gloat.
	The Second Federation AI Conduct Agency had been suspicious for some time 
that the real Phat Pharm owner was a Personality.  Under Second Federation law, while 
Personalities were recognized as sentient, they were nonetheless "property" and could not 
legally own anything, much less successful weight loss clinics.  The law was hypocritical 
and tantamount to slavery, but the Second Federation was also a bureaucracy:  the law 
would change, eventually.  Until that very distant future, it was the AI Conduct Agency's 
mandate to ensure Personalities behaved.
	The fact that Pal was not firing on all circuits was irrelevant, as was the outright 
abuse of Phat Pharm clients, actual or substituted.
	Thus, to gain evidence of Pal's misconduct, Traci had been contracted via a 
reputable private investigator firm for undercover work.  It was extremely dangerous as 
Traci's Personality algorithms had been split, most sent to reside as a meaningless data 
jumble in the PADD and the critical remainder on the hidden card.  Assimilation's 
subsequent assembly of PADD, card, socks and candy wrappers (molecular circuitry), 
clasps (connectors), and watch (rudimentary sensors and snazzy retro decoration) served 
to reintegrate the Personality into a working, albeit unconventional, whole (standard 
Personality bases were metal cylinders with the dimensions of a half-sized coffee 
thermos).
	Traci had taken a major gamble with the "Mr. Yenach" ruse.  If she had not been 
found by Assimilation or another sympathetic client, the best she could hope was for the 
luggage, with PADD and card intact, to be returned to Mr. Yenach's address.  
Personalities disliked making complete copies of themselves, for what started as one 
psyche quickly became two as different experiences were parsed.  Thus, if card-Traci 
been separated from the PADD with much of her "self" on it, she would have been 
severely, if not terminally, handicapped.  Such was the worst case scenario, much more 
ghastly than detection by Pal in her helpless state, for destruction by the rogue AI would 
have at least been swift.
	Traci, once found, had happily acceded to Assimilation's demand to be returned to 
the Collective by any prompt means possible.  The agreement allowed her integration and 
the chance to continue her investigation.
	Therefore, when the sleep period had ended and the Bubba arrived to escort 
Assimilation to pre-breakfast exercise, all had been in readiness, Traci and an underwear 
crammed into a thigh compartment.
	The treadmill stabilized at a steady 4.83 kilometers per hour pace, delaying 
breakfast over two hours until the 10 kilometer goal was reached.  As Assimilation did 
not eat, the wait time was moot.  He could maintain the speed adequately.
	"Hurry up.  Put a hand by me.  I need to link with you for this to go forward as we 
discussed," said Traci, oblivious to the fact that each step by the drone minutely shook 
the Personality's base and slid it closer to the edge of the treadmill console.
	The Plan.  As Assimilation was Borg, interesting opportunities were available for 
Traci.  It was potentially both easier and harder for Traci to infiltrate Pal's systems.  She 
had originally planned to convince whomever found her to smuggle her into an 
administrator's office; and using Assimilation as the interface was more convenient, less 
risky.  She was confident that with Assimilation as a springboard, she would be able to 
corner Pal, effectively freezing him until backup arrived.  Unfortunately, if things went 
wrong, well, Traci wasn't quite sure what would happen, but they would likely 
be...messy.  Very (organically) messy.
	Assimilation slid his left hand next to Traci.  Immediately a small appendage of 
flowmetal, similar to nanotubule technology, emerged from the card.  All Personality 
bases had the ability to exude such appendages, using them in emergency situations to 
connect with the nervous systems of organics for communication.  Assimilation held still 
(other than legs, that is) as the connector contacted skin and wormed into muscle.
	{I don't think I like it in here.  It is so alien...and gray.  Very gray.}  Already the 
ever underlying vibes of Assimilation's decades-long depressive slump were affecting the 
Personality.  The AI quickly withdrew to her own "self," erecting a wall between herself 
and Assimilation's psyche.  Any desire by the AI to explore the intricacies of a Borg brain 
were quashed.  {Quickly.  The exercise machine console.}
	Assimilation shrugged, shifting his right arm for better position.  He triggered his 
own nanotubules and jacked into the treadmill's simple computer brain, thence following 
the virtual connector to the main server and Pal.
	Pal thundered as he caught Assimilation's spoor, {What the hell are you doing 
here?  I told you that you don't have a hope to crack my system, not by yourself.  This is 
amusing, but not that amusing.  Go back to the treadmill, else I'll authorize putting you in 
the Klingon ka'tash cage...or another of Bu'ary's Extreme Aerobics classes.}
	The dataspace in which Pal resided was very different from that of Cube #347.  
For one thing, it was not a collective construct, an organized file system which although 
imaged/experienced differently by each drone was nonetheless fundamentally similar.  
Instead, this dataspace /was/ Pal, or at least his self-image of himself.  Pal wholly 
controlled this corner of the virtual universe, and right now dense fog shot through with 
lightening was the major theme.  Assimilation's avatar, in contrast, was a simple gray 
image of himself.
	{Surprise!} yelled Traci into the mists.  She stepped out from "behind" 
Assimilation, a sparkly amorphous shape sporting a well-defined trench coat and 
Sherlock hat.  {The Personality known as Pal, you are under detainment arrest by order of 
the Second Federation AI Conduct Agency.  Stand down and allow unfettered access to 
your algorithms, memories, and all pertinent financial data as it relates to the Phat Pharm 
enterprise.}
	The fog roiled into agitation, spinning faster and faster as it consolidated into a 
mighty Zeus figure holding a quiver of lightening bolt spears.  {The AI Conduct 
Agency?} spat Pal in surprise and disgust.  {You are worse than cockroaches and the 
GIRS combined!  If you want me, you gotta come and get me!}  A lightening bolt thrown 
at Traci's avatar was deflected by a lazy wave of sparkling arm-shadow.  An explosion 
thundered.  The fight commenced.
Assimilation was dismissed as unimportant as the two AIs engaged in computer 
combat.  In truth, he was unimportant; and the effort to involve himself was too great.  
While it appeared to be a battle in which the resident Pal could not lose, interloper Traci 
had come prepared with a wide range of tactical sub-programs.  Anti-viral agents were 
led astray with a Fox; brute force assaults were deflected with shields of code; acid 
tendrils looking to create holes in armor were met with the software equivalent of 
bicarbonate neutralizer.
	Assimilation, ignored, yet unable to fully pull his consciousness to his own body 
lest Traci be drawn as well, watched the clash and quickly grew bored.  One might as 
well be watching a variation upon Weapons' BorgCraft scenarios.  An odd variation, but 
not one beyond Weapons' belief that all tactical situations, no matter how improbable, 
should be explored.  If anything, the clash of AI titans was less unusual than some of the 
scenarios Weapons had inflicted upon his hierarchy.  Assimilation's attention roved, 
fixating upon the current of an alien datastream, one which linked with Phat Pharm 
internal sensors.
	A brief snatch of color(!) flooded Assimilation's senses as the datastream rapids 
dumped him into an eddy of calm which was the cameras for the bread-and-water mess.  
The colors, while washed out and tinged with grey, were nonetheless welcome, some 
aspect of the situation and Pal's personal sensory suite momentarily overriding the short-
circuit in Assimilation's brain responsible for monochrome vision.  Several seconds - an 
eon when functioning at the speed of computer - of bemusement passed before 
Assimilation could focus on the actions occurring in the mess hall.
	Chaos.  Somehow, either accidentally or on purpose via Traci's actions, the 
transporter system had crosslinked with food replication, and a smorgasbord of richly 
fattening foods were being created on the tables.  With cries of "My favorite!" and "I 
haven't seen roast plonta fowl in ages!" echoing, the clients present for breakfast were 
abandoning bland shakes (and diets) to attack the food.  Assimilation watched as Miss 
Pixie literally dived into a giant tub of chocolate pudding and proceeded to wallow, 
mouth wide open.
	"Pal!" shrilled Sara at the blender station, cheeks quivering and hat threatening to 
fall off.  "Pal!  Do something!  This is a nutritional nightmare!"  An entire baked hog, 
complete with trimmings, materialized in front of the massive nutritionalist.  "Well, 
maybe do something in a tiny, teensy bit," she amended as a fork and knife appeared 
from unseen muumuu pockets.
	The eddy swirled; and Assimilation was swept away again.
	"I'll be Bubba III if you'll be Bubba XXI today," said a Flarn at a table, engaged in 
a Terran poker game with three others of its species.  The location was a sizable barracks 
of Flarn-sized furniture and decorated in subtle color combinations which obviously 
appealed to Flarn senses.
	"I don't know," responded the supposed Bubba III.  "The Bubba XXI position has 
to assist in surgery all day today; and I don't really like the sight of blood."
	Wheedled Bubba XXI as cards were contemplated and two discarded, "Come 
on...I did Bubba IX chores for your last week.  After that, I deserve Bubba III."
	"Got you there," chuckled the Flarn dealer as a pair of cards were flipped to 
Bubba XXI.
	Bubba III frowned, both at her cards and upon the fairness of the deal.  "Fine.  But 
I get Bubba XIX for at least two days when it next comes to me."
	"Okay," said the new Bubba III.  "My turn to call?"
	The datastream current whirled Assimilation to another sensory node.
	"Help!" screamed Bu'ary, locked in a pool with a water aerobics class who had 
just discovered their shockers were no longer functional.  The Andorian, green speedo 
shocking against his blue skin, was backing into a shallow pool corner.  "Help!"
	Bubbled a bedraggled felinoid, "I don't like water.  After I'm done with you, you'll 
scream like a little girl at the mere sight of a glass of water."  Other clients rumbled their 
agreement as the class closed in to dispense mob justice.
	The thunder of a near miss jolted Assimilation out of Pal's sensory system and 
back onto the plane of AI combat.
	Pal's avatar of a cloud-sculpted Zeus was wrapped in sparkling ropes.  The 
explosion had been a backfired offensive program detonating on Pal's foot, leaving his 
avatar to hop ungainly on one leg in symbolic mirror of severely damaged code.  As 
Assimilation watched, Pal lost balance and toppled over.  Ropes tightened.  Somewhere 
came the distant sound of cheers as shockers disengaged from Phat Pharm inmates.
	Traci's metaphorical hat had been lost in the fight and her trench coat singed, but 
there was the impression of a smile on her non-face.  Gray non-face.  No Pal sensory 
system, no color.  {The bindings should hold Pal for a bit, long enough for you to attach 
my base directly to an administrator work station.}
	Assimilation sighed.  No color.  No more color.  In the grip of renewed depression 
and the effort to hold to the memory of color, he wasn't registering the Personality's 
words, much less the implied command.  It was like trying to grasp dry sand in the face 
of a gale.
	{Borg!} called Traci, {I can't go to my base until you pull back!  And until my 
base is at an admin station, Pal won't be secure.  And until Pal is secure, you are going 
nowhere fast.  No Collective.  Understand?}  Traci's amorphous form impatiently 
fidgeted.
	{Oh.  Compliance,} mumbled Assimilation as he allowed his awareness to seep 
back to his body.  Nanotubules disengaged.
	Assimilation's right arm thumped to the ground, or rather to the tread, beside his 
body.  The left was sprawled outward, still clutching the Personality's base.  His body had 
apparently fallen during the AI confrontation; and, as warned, the treadmill had continued 
onward and he remained chained to the machine.  All exposed epidermis, primarily face, 
was registering quite the friction burn.

	The Interrogation pulled away from close examination of Assimilation's recent 
memories and actions.  Captain, with supporting command and control elements close 
behind, was at the vanguard of the retreat; and in the far background the Greater 
Consciousness, or at least the small thread thereof, was unsatisfied but aware that even 
physical dissection of the unit under scrutiny would not yield the desired information 
when such was not present in the first place.  The Greater Consciousness disengaged 
itself from the distasteful spoor of the sub-collective of imperfectly assimilated drones, 
other matters beckoning.
	Assimilation's return to Cube #347 - to Nanite Assembly Room #18, his original 
destination - had elicited only the most cursory interest.  After all, the random 
disappearance and return of drones was not unheard of.  In fact, it had occurred twice in 
the last ten duty-cycles.  Assimilation's return had, however, interrupted a party 
celebrating the lifting of black depression from the assimilation hierarchy, abrupt return 
to former status quo more than sufficient to disrupt the pinata bashing.  Routine inquiry 
as to Assimilation's encounter had caught the Greater Consciousness' attention and 
triggered the Interrogation.
	A machine which could transport individuals tens of thousands of light years!  
The technology was a must-have for the Collective.  Even the knowledge that such was 
possible was important.  Unfortunately, not only had Assimilation not seen the device, he 
had not even recorded the coordinates of the Phat Pharm when the opportunity presented 
while accessing Pal's systems.
	Assimilation was dismissed.
	"You need a new nose," stated Doctor sternly, incisors clicking in a manner 
reminiscent of Sara's tsking.  "Nanites repair.  They cannot rebuild what isn't there.  Not 
good."
	Assimilation lay strapped to a table in Maintenance Bay #8, staring up at Doctor's 
twitching nose and laid back ears.  An assistant helpfully angled a hand mirror to display 
the damage to Assimilation's face.  In addition to seriously shortening the length of 
Assimilation's nose, the Phat Pharm treadmill belt had abraded areas of forehead, cheek, 
and chin to bone.  Special spray to encourage new epidermal cell growth had already 
been applied to the exposed bone, creating a shiny glistening.  It was the mangled nose 
which had Doctor's focus.
	{Don't care,} said Assimilation via the intranets.  His jaw had also been broke; 
and while now reset in its socket and largely healed, speaking evoked minor discomfort 
and slurring.  But why speak verbally when it was not necessary?  And as for his nose?  It 
was just a lump of flesh, irrelevant.
	Doctor clicked his incisors again, catching the track of Assimilation's dark 
musings.  "It is not necessary for the poor puppy to be an ugly duckling.  No, no, no.  Not 
at all.  I will make you whole again.  Fixed!"  Not 'fixed' in the sense of a vet practice, but 
'fixed' as in repaired.  Doctor's own programmed imperatives prompted him to repair all 
malfunctions, even those as cosmetically insignificant as a nose.  "But first, you must 
choose your new nose!"
	A hologram of Assimilation's mangled head shimmered into view; and on a tray 
materialized several dozen prosthetic noses, from inappropriately small to the obscenely 
gigantic.  An elephant trunk coiled quiescent.  Somewhere in the many choices was a 
form similar to Assimilation's original nose.
	"Hold still," said Doctor, as if Assimilation had an option.  "We must see how 
they all look on you before making a decision...."