Checkmate! by queen Paramount on the Star Trek board.  Knight Decker chases the 
bishop of Star Traks.  Meanwhile, the Meneks pawn flees from the BorgSpace king.

				Battlechess

	Second awoke.  The action was jarring and unexpected.  Until that moment of 
awareness, he had not known he had been unconscious; and the last thing he remembered 
was walking down hallway 37 of subsection 22, submatrix 2.  Beyond that point, nothing, 
until now.  Internal chronometer noted the passing of 87.5 hours.
	The backup consensus monitor and facilitator did not immediately open his eyes.  
There was no need to visually confirm that something was amiss.  Second had a hole in 
himself, an emptiness which was normally filled by the background chatter of computer 
and drone alike.  A swift diagnostic indicated no problems, either with his neural 
transceiver or the various quasi-organic structures which supported the apparatus.
	Finally Second was forced to engage his sensory suite to ascertain where he was.  
With a "Why does the universe pick on us...and me in particular?" muttered under his 
breath, optics were activated; and Second increased the gain on his other senses, both 
those Borg-enhanced and ones of artificial origin of which his species had no biological 
equivalent.  The sub-collective had already been the recent recipient of an assault by a 
Xenig for the purpose of using Cube #347 as Dark bait.  The scene which came into focus 
was not enlightening as to whom had snared the sub-collective this time, nor the why.
	White.
	The room was...white.  Very white.  Surreal white.  Approximately two paces in 
front of Second and his alcove (minus Cube #347) was a small, round tea table (white) 
draped in cloth (white), behind which on the side opposite Second was a single wicker 
chair (white) upon which a cushion (white) waited.  On the table, tea had been laid out 
for two with a delicate set of (white) porcelain; and even the crumpets in their (white) 
bowl were - can you guess? - white.  The sourceless light was not quite white, but instead 
of a character to enhance the whiteness of the room without creating a harsh visual tone.  
The only thing with color was Second himself.
	Leaning slightly out of his alcove without actually leaving it, Second glanced 
right and left.  Nothing.  He spoke aloud his thoughts, an unconscious need to fill the 
empty space in his mind:  "The only thing missing is a...wait...there it is."  As if in 
response to his verbalization, a white animal closely resembling a cat sauntered into 
view.  Utterly ignoring its audience as only a cat can, it moseyed to the chair, delicately 
sniffed the air, then leapt onto the cushion.  After a moment of kneading its nap location, 
it settled into a mound of furry ease.  A loud purr broke the silence of the room.
	bad kitty.  get out of our chair, spoke a voice, or, rather spoke the absence of a 
voice.  There was a sense of rudimentary punctuation, but things like capital letters, and 
possibly apostrophes, were entirely lacking.
	Between one blink and the next - and Second had not actually blinked - a being 
had appeared in the white wicker chair.  Its color was not precisely black, but instead an 
intense /nothingness/, a vaguely humanoid-draped-with-cloak hole were a being should 
be.  If Second had retained functional tear ducts, all four of his eyes would have been 
watering.  As it was, he was cycling up and down the electromagnetic frequency, 
searching for a personal view which made at least a modicum of sense.  Only visual 
spectra held information:  everything else reported a disturbing absence of...anything.
	The cat rose from the chair, still purring, arms of nothingness lifting the feline.  
The animal was deposited on the ground.  The purring stopped.  The cat glanced at 
Second with a you-are-not-interesting look, then leapt back into the chair, disregarding 
the fact that it was already filled...or not filled, whatever the true case of the manner.  
Retaking its previous position following an aggressive round of claws on cushion, the cat 
began to purr once more.
	cats... unspoke the shape once more, a hint of a sigh tacked on the end.  The 
matter of the feline was dismissed, or at least ignored.  before you ask, you can call us 
joe.  you are wondering why you are here.  dont be shy.  join us at the table.
Second stumbled forward as his alcove retracted all umbilicals and clamps on its 
own violation, then physically tipped forward.  Even as he regained his balance, feet 
firmly on the (white) floor, he knew without looking that the alcove would be gone, 
vanished.  He had read a sufficient number of the bad supernatural fiction and horror 
novels that were stashed within the dataspaces to understand the rules which were 
operating here.  Still, Second could not resist a glance over his shoulder, the motion stiff 
due to the various implants which made for an inflexible spine.  Yes, the alcove was 
gone.  Attention returned to the tea table.
	In the few seconds Second had been turned away, tea of a decidedly milkish color 
had been poured into both cups; and a crumpet rested daintily on the saucer which faced 
the drone.  Opposite, the shape was sipping at its drink.
	join us.
	Second warily stepped forward, if only because there was nowhere else to go.  He 
could have stood still or forged out in another direction, although he had the odd 
suspicion that whatever his decision, he would have ended up at the table, regardless.
	"You are designated Joe.  You will tell us why we are here and the location of the 
rest of our sub-collective."
	no, no.  dont be so formal.  call us joe.  A distinction was made between the two 
cases of joe and Joe.  and so charming!  your use of plurals, that is.
	Second ignored the tea which steamed on the table before him, looking down 
at...joe.  It was using plurals, despite the fact that there was obviously only one of it.  
Why should it be questioning his own use of plurals?
	what an intriguing question! answered joe to Second's unvoiced thought.  we are 
as much a singular being as you are.  as to why you are here and the rest of your 
comrades, well get to that in a civilized time.  do enjoy your biscuit.  we imported them 
special for this occasion.  jelly?  A jar of (white) jelly appeared on the table, next to the 
teapot.  
	The crumpet, like the tea, was utterly disregarded.  The response was as 
nonsensical and obtuse as the surrounding environment.  "Where is the rest of our sub-
collective?  Why are we here?  Answer.  Resistance is futile."  Second was at a loss of 
how to proceed if joe called his bluff...one could not assimilate, well, nothing.
	The cat purred louder, then abruptly stopped.  The white feline left its cushion for 
the table, jauntily heading for Second's serving.  It arrived, sniffed tea and crumpet, tasted 
the nearby jelly, then promptly began to give itself a bath.
	bad kitty.  sorry about that.  kitty has no manners.
	The cat ignored the reprimand, continuing its clean-up and occasionally glaring at 
the shade as if daring it to do something about the self-bath.  joe did not remove the cat, 
even as white hairs began to land in Second's tea.
	well, we can see that you are not one for matters.  very well.  we can only expect 
so much from the uncivilized hoards on the other side of the Veil.  Oddly, the word 'veil' 
was emphasized, even capitalized, whereas the rest of the sentence (or conversation) was 
not.  you play andorian battlechess.
	The statement had been exactly that, a statement.  There was no question, just the 
fact, that Second played Andorian battlechess.  Joe continued, not waiting for Second's 
acknowledgement, negative or positive, of the non-question.
	we have watched the battlechess game on the other side of the Veil.  it is very 
intriguing.  we have played among ourself, but have not found it entirely satisfying.  
therefore, after examining the history-threads of the linear-reality-matrix from which 
battlechess originated, we decided we needed to play a native of the reality-matrix.  you 
possess the faculties we desire.  you will play battlechess with us.
	are you a betting borg-being?
	Second, trying to absorb the odd turn of phrases which were emanating from the 
tea-drinking joe, was caught by the change in conversational inertia.  He answered with a 
variation of the standard Borg reply, "Borg do not bet."
	are you sure?  it would be a pity for us to dispose of you and your comrades.  after 
all, the prize, should you win, is for all of you to be returned to your linear-reality-matrix 
at the juncture of history-threads from which you came.
	"And if we lose or refuse to participate?"  The cat paused its bath at the question 
and gave Second a long once-over before huffing a dismissive snort.  It gave a paw one 
final lick, then rolled over and stuck its nose in the tea cup and began to lap the white 
liquid.
	we will think of something, nonchalantly said joe.  The threat of a threat was 
worse than the actual voicing of a threat.  This was a being for which welching was not 
an option, should Second try to avoid a lost bet.
	It was the classic damned if you do, damned if you don't scenario.  Oddly, it felt 
right in place considering the surreal ambiance.
	"We will participate."
	excellent!  by the way, the style of andorian battlechess we will be playing is what 
your history-thread-locus would term classic.  An unhand was dramatically waved, and a 
holographic representation of a battlechess board appeared over the tea table.  It was 
three-dimensional, as were all Andorian battlechess venues; and consisted of (Second 
swiftly counted) 12 layers, not including the surface.  Each floor was 20 units by 20 units.
	Further investigation of the unusually complex battlechess board was put on hold 
as thirty drone signatures impinged upon his awareness.  It was not near the four 
thousand which was the totality of the Cube #347 compliment, but it was vastly better 
than the former singleness of being alone.
	oh, and well also have observers.
	Second was not focusing much on much beyond the flash of resumed internal 
conversation, but if he had been, he would have noted the (white) bleachers filled with 
joe-esk beings which suddenly appeared.  The tea table was the center of a vast arena of 
cloaked-humanoid holes in reality.  Amid the bleachers unfurled hand-painted signs of 
out of place bright colors, made even more vibrant for the otherwise white and unblack 
surroundings.  The banners, appropriate for any number of sporting events which were 
not Andorian battlechess, sported grammatically awkward phrases such as 'we is the best' 
and 'joe bes number infinity.'
	Of course, that would have been if Second had been paying attention.  Which was 
just as well, as the cat had just hacked up a hairball onto Second's crumpet.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Terran chess is alike Andorian battlechess in the same way an inbred lap dog is 
related to a wolf.  There is a certain similarity, perhaps, about the ears; and a definite 
canine-ness to both.  However, when it comes down to it, the wolf could snap up the lap 
dog for an appetizer.
	Classic Andorian battlechess is played upon a three-dimensional grid.  There are a 
minimum of four levels - 1 ground and 3 subterrarian - which the extent of each "floor" at 
least twelve units by twelve units.  Larger grids were possible, with the battlechess board 
record a massive twenty-five levels, floors 100 units by 100 units.  Within the board 
itself, each "unit" represented an element of the mother hive, the progenitor of the 
battlechess battleground.  There were tunnels, storerooms, waste reclamation facilities, 
and so on.  The units were interchangeable, so while certain popular configurations were 
"standard," it was equally possible for no two battlechess games be the same.
	Originally, battlechess was reserved for the wealthy, primarily because Andorians 
believed on a full-scale approach to the game.  Those of lesser stature served as pieces 
within a labyrinth board.  Only the wealthy could afford to construct boards and to stable 
and train battlechess pieces.  It was not until the advent of holographic projectors that the 
Andorian masses adopted battlechess as a game of the commons.  It also helped that 
enthusiastic programmers had spent long hours ensuring artificial blood and gore (one of 
the attractions of battlechess) of virtual pieces was perfect.
	At a minimum, an Andorian battlechess set consists of twenty pieces arranged as 
seven types:  siege, pawn, barricade, knight, cleric, queen, and king.  As with Terran 
chess, the goal is to capture the king.  Unlike Terran chess, just because pieces happened 
to interact  - pawn to knight - that was not to say that a specific outcome - pawn takes 
knight - occurred each time.  Very much the opposite.  The classic style was one of head-
to-head combat (generally underground in the case of the pieces, but more than 
occasionally in the players' chamber following a duel challenge).
	The armoring and arms of each piece varies; and variations in a given game can 
further determine the nature of the conflict.  At the least, the surface level starts with a 
siege and three pawns.  Underground are eight additional pawns, a king, a queen, and two 
each of the remaining "primary" types.  Initial deployment locations and configurations 
are fluid, but the royals are required to begin in the royal chambers.
	Most numerous are pawns.  Pawns sport thin armor and only the most 
rudimentary of weapons in the form of crossbow, short sword, and dagger.  Being a pawn 
is not conducive to a long life.  Although pawns are the only piece allowed to be two to a 
chamber, they also tend to be so much fodder when placed against the major pieces.  
Historically, the most successful pawns - defined as those which lived more than one 
game - were those which scavenged additional weapons and armor from the slain.
	Siege, although immensely strong and able to strike at a distance, are also 
extremely slow and regulated to the surface.  The traditional siege is a ballista tipped with 
explosive-tipped javelins.  The associated crew are similar to pawns, but are not allowed 
to abandon their equipment, a rule enforced with chains if necessary.
	Barricades are modeled upon the mobile tunnel "plugs" of past inter-hive warfare.  
With thick armor, they are essentially unassailable from the front; and the ports allow 
engineers to fire crossbows at any frontal enemy.  However, they tend to be slow and 
awkward, especially if located in a chamber instead of a tunnel, and are next to helpless if 
attacked from behind.
	Knights are heavily armored and armed riders of vicious insectoid mounts.  With 
lance and long sword, not to mention the mount itself, the knight is particularly fearsome 
to pawns.  The knight is equally adept at tunnel and chamber work; and, if necessary, can 
be dismounted from his mount, although such a ploy is not often used.  A pawn's only 
chance to remove a knight depends upon surprise, a crossbow, and lots of luck.
	Clerics, other than traditionally beseeching the gods to look kindly upon the 
pieces of a battlechess set, are purveyors of large blunt objects which often sported pointy 
bits.  A hammer is one example, followed by the ever popular mace-with-lots-of-spikes.  
While not considered as strong as a knight, clerics nonetheless are more than capable of 
wrecking havoc upon the battlechess board.  Just don't tell one that his vestments look 
like a dress. 
	The queen is, to put it simply, a walking quisenart.  Able to move quickly and to 
wield just about anything which comes to hand as a deadly weapon, from a paperclip to 
actual battle equipment, it is the queen that many pieces last see in their final moments.
	Unlike the Terran king which has limited movement and tends to wait for capture 
from any piece, the Andorian battlechess version is not a pansy waiting to be killed.  
While classic rules mandated a king to remain within a certain unit radius from the royal 
chamber, that did not mean he had to be passive.  More than one knight has made the 
mistake of victoriously charging into a room which supposedly contains the king, only to 
fall with a terminal case of lost head disease.
	From the player's point of view, an order is given and the pieces obey.  Simple 
enough, except personal playing style can range from a general "go there" to 
micromanaging of his or her chess pieces.  The rules of Andorian battlechess are 
extremely...mutable, with the primary rule "if you cheat, don't get caught."  Historically, 
over half of battlechess games end not with the capture of the king, but with players using 
the game as a chance to settle disputes with a good ol' fashioned face-to-face duel.  The 
modern era of holographic battlechess, especially with the advent of players non-
Andorian, has lowered player fatalities, but it is not unexpected for an annual 1% rate of 
player fighting to occur.
	Among pieces, fatalities have decreased to near nil, holograms substituting for the 
stables of classic battlechess.  The exception is the Xtreme Battlechess bracket, where 
elite from all walks of life meet to battle on vast boards constructed in the classic style.
	Above all, Andorian battlechess is a very civilized game.

			*	*	*	*	*

	{Where /are/ we?} demanded Captain. {And why am I chained to this primitive 
piece of equipment?}  The visual feed from Captain included the dark, boxy outline of a 
barricade, positioned with the armor facing a tunnel entrance.  A very large, very heavy 
chain ran from Captain's waist to the wheeled barricade, a precaution from the historic, 
pre-gunpowder time prior to battlechess when Andorian warmasters had to make sure 
their troops didn't abandon post.  It was a tradition mirrored within the game, although 
the chain was usually ceremonial and not so obviously utilitarian.  Hanging on hooks on 
the back side of the barricade were a pair of crossbows, several spare bowstrings, and 
many buckets of bolts.  {And why do I have a helmet on my head?}
	Captain's question was just one of thirty distinct thought streams, all directed at 
Second due to the fact that the latter was the only one /not/ surrounded by the dark 
confines of tunnel or chamber.  100 of 230, cast as a knight, was regarding his mount in 
suspicion; and Sensors, similarly thrust into the role of mounted crusader, absolutely 
refused to have anything to do with her steed.  On the "surface" of the playing field, 84 of 
310 tentatively touched a large handle on the side of the siege, only to watch the loaded 
ballista fire a large spear on a trajectory which narrowly missed 124 of 203, a surface 
pawn.
	...hodgepodge, or random starting locations, said joe as the shade continued a line 
of nonwords to which Second had not be paying attention.  In response, the pieces on 
holographic battlechess board flashed, twice each side, showing the scattered distribution 
throughout the play volume.  Hodgepodge was an unusual starting configuration, both 
teams scattered all over the board, except for the surface units and the royals in their 
chamber.
	Second immediately noticed one pawn deep in enemy territory, situated just two 
units from the royal chamber.
	{Sorry, 22 of 422,} dryly noted Second to the aforementioned drone, {I foresee a 
/very/ short game for you.}  His response was a wordless question sheathed under a layer 
of confusion.
	are you ready to begin? asked joe.
	"We require a moment to..." started Second.  He stopped and looked down at the 
cat, which was on its haunches playfully batting at an arm hose assembly.
	sorry.  you are not allowed to plan strategy with your cohorts.  we would not gain 
a better understanding on how you, as a linear-organic-being, functioned under these 
circumstances.  we wish to play you, not a gestalt-being which includes you.  the 
information flow will be one-way from the pieces to you, except when instructions are 
required to be relayed and those instructions will be verbal-equivalents only.  the pieces 
will be unable to communicate with each other.  
	At once, the babble of confusion flowing to Second rose in volume.  The "pieces," 
as joe stylized the thirty members of Cube #347 (including all hierarchy heads), had been 
severed once more from each other; and while Second continued to perceive queries and 
sensory data, any attempt to direct a connection to any one designation resulted in an 
unpleasant "sliding," as if his mind were slamming up against a block of ice.
	are you ready to begin? asked joe a second time.
	Second pushed the cat away.  The animal backed to the center of the table, glared 
at the drone, then jumped to the floor.  It followed its performance by leaping back to the 
chair otherwise occupied by joe to begin a lengthy, leg-lifting, fur-scrubbing grooming.
	"We are ready," spoke Second.
	good.  you have the first move.

	The holograph of the battlechess board simply showed the co-occupation of two 
pieces on the same square, both flashing as an indication of combat.  It was a sanitary 
representation of the visual feed Second was receiving from 22 of 422, an ill-lit chamber 
currently filled with the battering ram force of a Andorian-form cleric wielding a mace-
with-lots-of-spiked-bits.  22 of 422, dressed in the flimsy armor of a pawn and clueless 
on how to operate such an archaic weapon as a sword, was not doing well.  In fact, to 
describe the action as a slaughter would not be far from the truth.  Up until this point, 
both Second and joe had been maneuvering their primary pieces into a semblance of 
strategic tactical structure; and Second knew that the pawn, located as it was, would 
eventually be terminated, and so had not bothered to waste a move on it.
	{Try to lift you sword just a bit to the right and angle the pointed bit...oh, and 
watch your head.  No, don't switch out of visual, you know the Andorian only registers 
on visual,} drove Second from the backseat far, far away.  22 of 422 was completely 
ignoring the backup consensus monitor and facilitator, too busy with her own struggles.  
{I told you not to change to a non-visual frequency range.  The Andorian is a hologram, 
or something similar.}
	All Borg are armored to a greater or lesser degree, possess redundant systems, and 
are generally rebuilt tough.  However, even a Borg has a tendency to, well, die if swatted 
about the head and shoulders with a heavy spiked mace one too many times.  As a pawn 
which did not know how to finesse a sword as more than an unwieldy club, 22 of 422 
was doomed to failure.  Second's final visual stream from 22 of 422 was that of a mace 
rapidly zooming inward to Extremely Extreme Close-up.
	On the holographic battlechess board, Second's piece flashed a final time, then 
disappeared.  The crowd of joe entities enthusiastically cheered and waved their gaudy 
signs in a manner entirely unlike the standard battlechess spectator.
	your turn, sanguidly said joe.  The white cat had finished its bath sometime ago 
and was now snoozing, eyes closed and front feet tucked under its body, on the chair 
cushion.
	"Is 22 of 422 terminated?" asked Second.  Classic battlechess, due to its nature, 
tended to have a lot of turn-over among the pieces, which was the primary reason once 
upon a time only the very rich could afford to play.  The constant training of new pieces 
until they could earn their keep was very expensive.	
	termination.  we have heard of this concept.  describe.
	Second blinked.  Assuming he won, there was a very large chance one (or all) of 
the hierarchy heads would be killed; and when the members of Cube #347 were returned 
to their  'linear-reality-matrix,' confusion would be great until new drones were 
designated to fill the empty spots.  In the case of Weapons, the loss might actually raise 
overall efficiency.  However, if Captain were terminated...that would mean /Second/ 
would be primary consensus monitor and facilitator.  Might as well throw the game than 
allow that consequence to occur!
	"Termination is the cessation of all body and mental functioning," replied Second 
as he contemplated his next move.  Weapons, a pawn, was in a very good position to be 
sent against a knight calculated to become a threat in ten or so moves.  Of course, the 
likely outcome still had the knight a threat in ten or so moves.
	Decisions, decisions, decisions.
	joe was silent a long minute, before countering, why not just restart body and 
mental functions?  the individual cells of you linear-organic-beings continue to function, 
after all.  we have made studies upon this subject, when we have not been playing 
andorian battlechess.  The type of "study" necessary for such an investigation was not 
elaborated upon.
	"It does not work that way.  Terminated is terminated, even for a Borg.  Except in 
a few, specific cases.  Look up a creature called Luplup, if you get the chance," said 
Second, referring to a certain Borgified vyst for whom the individual self of the greater 
whole was able to be puppeted, even after body death.  "Pawn Seven to Knight Two."
	{Weapons, leave through the tunnel on your right, go straight, and attack the first 
thing you see.  It will be a big bugger of an Andorian on a large insectoid steed,} relayed 
Second to Weapons.
	Grumbled Weapons as he shifted to regard the egress in question, {About time 
you did something.  I would have won this game long ago.}  The head of the weapons 
hierarchy shifted into the shuffling trot which was a Borg charge.  Unlike most of the 
other pawns, Weapons knew how to use a sword:  he kept knowledge of a large number 
of primitive weapons in on-board memory files.
	The crowd oohed at Second's daring move.
	interesting, commented joe, if insensible and chaotic.  Too bad the shade didn't 
know Second's strategy was a complete and utter /lack/ of strategy.

	Weapons used the jousting pole in an entirely unorthodox and seemingly 
impossible manner.  The opposing pawn had no chance, impalement the only option.  
The fact that Weapons was much more heavily armed and armored than the enemy pawn 
was not relevant, a knight's kit (minus the mount) having largely replaced the starting 
package of thin tin and short sword.  Weapons was following in the hallowed classic 
battlechess tradition of pilfering from the dead.  Second had not prompted Weapons to do 
so; and was not going to interfere.
	Even if it meant Weapons continued to survive.
	Anyway, the success of that particular pawn did not seem to sit well with joe.  
Many of the things Second had done were not sitting well with joe.
	For instance, there was the siege incident.  Siege and surface pawns were 
generally neglected, even by battlechess masters.  After all, most of the action happened 
on the subterrarian floors.  However, using a combination of innate Borg skill to judge 
trajectories and a bit of unBorg luck, Second's siege had incapacitated joe's siege with a 
single ballista javelin.  Several moves later, joe's surface pawns were also kaput, and the 
siege had switched to hammering joe's surface exits with a potent mixture of fire-based 
munitions.  Currently, the sub-floor 1 units adjacent the surface exits were unable to be 
used; and Second's surface pawns had descended below ground to replenish those pawns 
already terminated.
	Such was not to say that everything had been going Second's way...
	joe stared at the holographic representation of the board, as best could be 
determined by a being which was little more than a dark shape interposed on a white 
background.  The remains of a teacup littered the table, a casualty from the beginning of 
Second's surface bombardments.  A second teacup was now in unhand, but it was 
beginning to show minute cracks of eggshell delicacy along its surface.  The pawn under 
attack by Weapons was terminated, and thus it was joe's turn.
	From the bleachers came both words of encouragement and suggestion.  The 
latter were rather graphic, not to mention unconducive to Second's continued wholeness.
	let us see how the insect-borg-being does against my queen, said joe with more 
than a sneer in its voice.  On the board, the representation of the queen moved forth from 
the royal chambers, aimed directly at Sensors.
	{Sensors...you may have a wee bit of difficulty coming your way,} informed 
Second to the Sensors, soon to be ex-head of the sensory hierarchy.

	{All you have to do is aim and pull the trigger,} spoke an ever-helpful Second to 
Captain.  Captain's point of view largely consisted of several small slits bound by metal.  
The environment in which the joe entities had built the battlechess board did not allow 
for most Borg optical enhancements to work.  In other words, a drone could only rely on 
the parameters of his or her natural senses to peer through darkness punctuated by the 
occasional globe of Andorian glow fungus.  The myriad of "trick walls" and "trap doors" 
which linked space units were unperceivable.
	Captain was blatantly unhappy, or as unhappy as programming allowed a Borg 
drone.  {Aim and pull the trigger.  That isn't easy when you are chained to a large, metal 
object that doesn't roll very well, despite the fact that it sports somewhat squarish 
appendages that are supposed to be wheel.  You should either send another drone to my 
location or visa-versa.  If we were in physical contact, we could communicate with each 
other and combine our mental resources.}
	Second disagreed, eyes narrowed as he regarded the flashing icon which 
represented joe's remaining knight as it approached Captain's position.  The path was 
unclear as of yet; and the final choice of approach could make a large difference in the 
outcome.
	{That would not be wise for my, um, strategy.  Clumping battlechess pieces is 
rarely prudent.  You have played Andorian battlechess and know this.}
	{I have no datastream from you other than verbal input, but I doubt you have any 
long-range tactics.  Your strategy is to play on the fly, a fluid status quo until the 
opponent makes a mistake.  Any mistake.}  Second did not respond to Captain's analysis, 
chiefly because it was true.  {Of course, sometimes the initial pawn move is a mistake.  
As to the other matter, Borg do not do well singly...whoops.  I keep on forgetting to set 
the safety.}  A bolt lodged in the roof over Captain's position.  Several small clods of 
earth, knocked free, fell to the floor.
	{And when has being One as a four thousand strong sub-collective ever really 
helped us?} inquired Second with more than a trace of irony.  The enemy icon neared, 
pausing at the vital decision point.
	Captain reset the crossbow string and seated another bolt.  {True.  However, at 
least /I'm/ not the one making the decisions right now.  It feels...good... not to have 
consensus monitor and facilitator priorities.  If I may dare say, a vacation.}
	The icon began moving again, along the wrong path, from Second's point of view.  
And it gained speed.  {Damn.  You need to turn around the barricade unless you want 
your vacation to be permanent.  Now.  The knight will attack from your rear.  The trap to 
the floor above you is located approximately 20 meters to your current back.}
	In the visual stream, Captain put his shoulder to one side of the barricade and 
slowly (too slowly) pivoted it to face the opposite direction.  During the reversal, Second 
watched as joe's knight icon drew near.  It finally halted at a location which seemed to 
place it less than three meters from Captain, and on the same game level.
	{Where is it?} demanded Captain.
	Additional dirt sifted from the ceiling, followed by a tendril of saliva which had 
nothing to do with the previously misfired crossbow bolt.
	Captain tilted his head back.  {Oh.  The mounts can walk on the ceiling; and the 
knights have seatbelts.}
	Second winced as his barricade representation disappeared from the holographic 
board.

	Half a white feline head - silted eyes and pricked ears - appeared opposite Second.  
After a lazy yawn and only the merest glance at the floating battlechess representation, 
the cat disappeared again, returning to its nap on the cushion co-inhabited with joe.

	how did you do that? asked joe, small spoon to stir milk hovering over tea cup.  
For an omniscient being (at least as far as Second was concerned), the shade could be 
rather blind when it came to battlechess.
	"It was a allowed move," explained Second.  Allowed, true, but highly 
unconventional and not oft used.  Clerics in classic Andorian battlechess matches tended 
towards the burly end of the scale, all muscle and wide shoulders, so as to better swing a 
mace.  Doctor was none of the above, and as such, could easily fit in the garbage disposal 
chute which linked sub-floor 2 with sub-floor 7.
	Barricades were rather easy to take out, as long as one attacked from behind (or 
above).
	joe had neglected the barricade in question, the initial randomization placing the 
piece at the mouth of a garbage chamber, far from action.  Due to the slow movement 
rate of a barricade, joe had abandoned it, focusing turns upon stronger and more mobile 
pieces.  Too bad for joe that the chute just happened to end in that particular chamber.  
Even allowing the time required for Doctor to refocus after his tumbling ride and bring 
his badly wielded (and overlarge) mace to bear, the barricade had still fallen.
	joe did not respond to Second's words.
	The spoon was placed carefully on the tablecloth, bent about its middle. 

	Second was winning.  Most of the reason for Second's impending victory resided 
with Weapons.  A virtual clanking armory, any piece sent against Weapons was 
terminated.  Weapons had not come through unscathed, but little things such as a 
damaged eye or leg or crossbow bolt through the abdomen were minor obstacles to the 
drone.  joe kept a large space between its pieces and the rabid pawn.
	There had been set-backs for Second:  most of his pawns (other than Weapons) 
were gone, as were both knights, a barricade, and a cleric.  The push by joe had been 
strong at times, and the shade was quick to take advantage of any opening, no matter how 
small.  However, the entity seemed to play as a computer does:  carefully considering all 
possibilities and selecting that with the least risk and greatest gain.  Second played a 
similar game, but he was also willing, by dint of assimilation imperfection and base 
personality, to take high risk gambles; and his Borg instincts ever pushed to sacrifice 
pieces for the gain of the whole.
	In all, Second was playing a less conservative game, with the result he was 
approaching a position in which victory was inevitable.
	"Your turn," said Second, not bothering to consider the trace of nonBorg 
smugness from his voice.  He had advanced Weapons forward a tunnel segment to 
threaten the royal chamber; and his queen, Assimilation, was a short ways behind, 
sighing depressive despondency.  The king would fall in five moves.
	joe was still, silent.  Its posture was mirrored by the crowd, banners sagging as 
individuals murmured to each other.  From joe's side of the tea table came the muted 
sound of unseen fingers tapping on the tabletop in deep, and futile, contemplation.
	"Are you going to move?  Or do you yield to us?"
	don't rush us, spat joe.  there is no time limit between moves in this game.
	"That may be, but waiting a millennium or two will not erase my, er, our 
imminent win.  Yield."
	there may be a way out of this.  we are consulting the history-threads for similar 
situations, and this requires duration.
	Second shrugged, then allowed his attention to wander the overly white chamber.  
The cat provided little diversion as it continued to quietly snooze on joe's chair, only 
occasionally flicking an ear or twitching a whisker.
	now we have you.  we will win.
	Second abruptly returned focus upon the board, multithreading the remaining 
visuals flowing from the drones still functional.  The most relevant optic-stream was that 
from 227 of 480, a pawn lurking just beyond the forward straight-line move radius of an 
enemy barricade.  The barricade had...altered.  Instead of the pointed profile of a 
crossbow poking through one of the armored barricade's arrow slits, the snub-nosed 
muzzle of a high-powered phaser was visible.  And a phaser didn't have a straight-line 
move radius...
	There was a flash of bright light. 227 of 480's visual feed abruptly ceased.
	Protested Second, "Post-gunpowder weapons are not allowed in classic 
battlechess!"
	joe leaned back in its chair.  says who?
	"The rules!  Rule #41 of the Unabridged Guide to All Things Andorian 
Battlechess expressedly forbids post-gunpowder weaponry!"
	and what are you going to do about it?  
	Second glared at joe.  The truth was, he could do very little about joe's 
substitution of phaser for crossbow...and presumably high-tech armaments for all other 
weapons as well.
	The reason of Second's impotence was rooted in the primary rule of battlechess, 
the rule which overrode all others no matter what canon was utilized.  The Prime Rule 
regarded cheating.  Cheating in battlechess was allowable, as long as the cheater was not 
caught and/or the cheatee was unable to do anything about it.  joe was not hiding its 
actions, but Second could not counter.  If joe had been anything except the noncorporeal, 
nonlinear shade it was, Second /could/ have invoked a duel.  As it was, that option was 
nonviable as well.
	now it is time for us to move.
	"You already had a move!  What do you call that pile of ash which was a pawn?" 
demanded Second, waving at the board hologram.
	joe sipped its tea.  we never moved.  technically.  the barricade has remained in 
the same position.  check the precedent whereas in the third grand-champion-master 
game during the rule of shazaaazz the flatulent, one pawn was killed by the crossbow of 
another whereupon neither pawn had moved.  it was ruled that no move had actually been 
taken.  such applies in this case.
	Second internally fumed, although he did not show it beyond the merest fisting of 
his whole hand.
	we think we will advance our queen upon that annoying pawn of yours.  not even 
that pawn can survive repeated barrages of high-intensity phaser fire.  
	
	Second allowed himself a visible sigh as the siege exploded under the assault of 
high-explosive mortars.  Bits of metal and wood and rope flew high in the vision of 84 of 
310, the single surviving siege pawn who had managed to cut herself free from the 
machine at the last moment.  There had been absolutely no reason for joe to detour on its 
march to Second's royal chamber and victory, except for pure revenge.
	What was it about these omnipotent types and their thirst for revenge upon those 
insignificant beings who had as much chance to resist as a snowball in a bonfire?

	From joe came the sense of smiling, of satisfaction.  As the shade stood, the 
boisterous crowd similarly came to their feet (or whatever functioned thereof under the 
cowled robes).  Bright banners with their nonsensical phrases were waved; and an airhorn 
trumpeted, momentarily overwhelming the crowd noise.  At the tea table, joe 
monogamously waved an unhand. 
	you have been a worthy opponent.  however, you have lost the game, and the bet.  
it has therefore been decided that you and the other linear-borg-entities will join our 
ongoing experiments examining the effects of temporal dislocation and temporal 
disynergy on different body parts while those parts are still in attachment with the host 
base-entity.  the concepts of pain and death are the focus in this non-linear temporal 
period.  your kind, different from other organic linear entities, should allow a 
comparison...
	joe did not just trail off, but froze, unarm still outstretched.  The crowd had 
abruptly stopped in mid-cheer; and Second's gaze over the bleachers showed the 
assembly to be halted in mid-pose...and in one case, mid-fall from being jostled off a top 
tier.  One banner had apparently caught on fire, and the odd whitish flames were caught 
frozen with the crystal clarity of a photograph.  Even the steam rising from the ever-warm 
tea pot was motionless.  Only Second remained mobile.
	"What now?" asked Second aloud.
	With a thump, the cat jumped onto the table and stalked to the exact center.  It sat 
primly amid crumpets, crumbs, teacup shards, butter, and silverware, white tail curled 
around its feet.  A forepaw was lifted to mouth, licked, then smoothly applied to ears for 
a face scrub.
	Second peered at the cat.  "I see you are still able to move.  Should have figured."  
He considered tossing a butter knife at joe, if only to see what might happen, but stifled 
the impulse.  "Well, it was fun while it lasted.  At least I won't have to be secondary, or 
primary, consensus monitor and facilitator."
	Lick.  Face scrub.  Ear flick.  "If you think that, you would be wrong."  Lick.  
Lick.  Nibble on a claw to remove a non-existent dirt speck.
	The voice was calm and pleasant, one which might be expected to emanate from a 
cat, should a cat ever speak.  Well, which might be expected should food or elements of 
string and toy mice not be involved.  Second was not overly surprised.  In his long 
existence as a Borg, and especially as one branded imperfectly assimilated, he had seen 
many odd things.  A talking cat rated 4 (maybe) on a scale of 1 to 10.
	"Okay.  I should have provided more weight to the probability calculation of this 
outcome.  Provide your designation:  Q?  One of those eyeballs or lips?  Another piece of 
anatomy?  A noncorporeal super-being which enjoys taking a feline form?  All of the 
above?"
	The cat stopped its mini-wash, piercing Second with a direct, uncatlike gaze.  
"None of the above."  Ears and whiskers flicked as if warding off an offending fly.  "Just 
a cat, born and bred, thank-you-very-much.  Oh, I had a run-in with a practical joker in 
my youth, but other than that, a genetic scan would very much place me as felis sylvestris 
catus."  Pause.  Resumption of face-scrub, interrupted by the occasional lick of tail tip.  
"You did know Terran cats are actually hyperbeings for whom the feline form is just a 
physical manifestation of the whole...the 'tip of the iceberg' you could say?"  Longer 
pause as a knot in tail fur was worked out.  "Or, maybe, I'm just a cat with really bad luck 
when a Q came to visit."  Lick.  Ear scrub.
	The cat had a perfect poker face.  Second could not determine which, if any, of 
the convoluted explanations was the truth and which were bald-faced lies.  Satisfied with 
its grooming, the cat resumed its position of sitting with tail wrapped around feet.
	Second asked the cat, "What is the fate of my sub-collective and myself, now?  
Are we still to undergo the temporal experiments joe alluded to?"
	Dropping its jaw into a sharp-toothed smile, the cat huffed in the feline version of 
a chuckle.  "I am trying to train these beings, and that might not be in my best interest.  
They get /so/ easily distracted, picking up and playing with /every/ little thing that 
catches their attention.  Linear temporal beings are the worst.  I don't really want to have 
to deal with you, so think of it as me picking up what the cat has drug in and tossing it 
back out the door."  The cat was obviously tickled at using the analogy.  Its tail tip lazily 
waved back and forth.
	"Then you..."  Second started another inquiry, but was unable to complete it.  The 
impossible whiteness of the non-room was gone, as were cat and shades and banners, 
replaced by impenetrable black.
	"Yes," breathed the voice of the cat.

	{...and that is why all drones should be loaded with a meme package which 
includes knowledge of primitive edged and non-edged weaponry.  Furthermore, all 
drones, regardless of hierarchy designation, should be required to practice those skills at 
least four hours per wake cycle...}
	{Denied,} said Captain to Weapons.
	{Three hours, thirty minutes per wake cycle,} countered Weapons.
	Answered Captain, {Denied.}
	{Three hours, fifteen minutes.}
	{The entire proposal is denied, Weapons.  You may so require your hierarchy, but 
I will not inflict such a directive on the whole of this sub-collective.  The other 
hierarchies - other than assimilation, that is - have full duty rosters per wake cycle and 
cannot set aside large blocks of time to play with archaic weapons.}
	Second, in his alcove, reveled in the knowledge that he had once again escaped 
being primary consensus monitor and facilitator.  4 of 8 was better suited for the role.  
Heck, any of the Hierarchy of Eight (except him) were better suited for the role, in 
Second's estimation.  Backup consensus monitor and facilitator still had responsibilities 
above that of normal command and control unit, but not on the scale of the primary.
	The cat (or whatever it was) had returned the intact sub-collective to its starting 
point.  Second's internal chronometer had been a bit off from that of the Collective whole, 
and his alcove had been angled a bit oddly, but one supposed that even a hyperbeing in 
the form of a cat (or a cat at the unhealthy end of a Q prank) could not be expected to get 
all the details correct.  Which triggered a reminder...
	Directed Second to Doctor, {You have not 'adopted' any pets recently?  
Specifically, a cat?}
	Doctor, who had been in the middle of an exacting neural procedure, paused.  
With laser scalpel poised only microns from a vital ganglion cluster in 2 of 79's head, he 
answered, {Um, a cat?}
	{A cat.}  Second provided the image of a white feline in an indecorous position 
cleaning itself.
	{How cuuute!}  The adjective was stretched over-long, followed by a sigh.  {No, 
no cats.}
	Second probed Doctor's mental presence, but could not find signs of outright lie.  
There was deception present, probably resulting from the illicit hoarding of an animal, 
but no hidden cat.  Second allowed Doctor to return to the surgery.
	{De-nied, Weapons.  What part of "no" do you not understand?  If you can 
convince Assimilation of your proposal, fine.  Otherwise, drop it.}  Captain waited a long 
beat for a response.  As Weapons' signature backed off, he turned attention to the next 
pressing problem.
	Second pinged Captain.
	{What?  The cube is off-course, we are behind schedule, and Weapons wants to 
turn all units of this sub-collective into tactical drones, regardless of the consequences.}
	{What else is new?  Perhaps you'd fancy yourself a little game of Andorian 
battlechess...?}