Paramount guards the pot at the end if the rainbow Star Trek.  At the Star Traks rainbow, 
the pot is filled with gold-plated silver, watched over by the leprecaun Decker.  The 
BorgSpace pot is empty; and Meneks has taken the day off.

				Rainbow Shift

	The two vacuum-dried mummies which comprised the former crew of the 
primitive vessel stared at nothing in particular.  The species was unknown, but they 
followed the general bipedal formula of two arms, two legs, and a head topping an organ-
filled torso.  Bony cranial bumps and knobs randomly placed appeared to be ornamental, 
a vistage of evolution.  Under bright blue jumpsuits, skin tightly stretched over skeletal 
frame and stringy muscles suggested the pair had attempted to fight crippling dehydration 
and lack of food until the idea of venting atmosphere had become more appealing 
compared to a slow, agonizing death.  Obviously they had realized no one was to respond 
to their radio cries of distress.
	And radio was all they had for communication, with a modified solid-fuel rocket 
motor their main engine and peroxide mass their fine navigational thrusters.  The 
cylindrical, flat-nosed capsule was pre-warp technology, of a type used when a species 
was attempting forays to high orbit or a satellite neighbor.  The overbuilt vacuum suits, 
carefully and deliberately racked at the back of the small living space near a drift of food 
wrappers, suggested the latter.
	How the little, green-painted vessel had arrived to a white dwarf system hundreds 
of light years from the nearest known warp society, and dozens of light years from a 
suitable yellow dwarf sun which /might/ support planets (with billions of stars in the 
galaxy, it was one of many systems never visited by Borg and never considered except to 
be assigned a catalogue number) was unknown.  However, here it was and here also was 
Cube #347.
	Inside cramped quarters made even tighter by the addition of Assimilation and 7 
of 203, the capsule's interior was being examined prior to its fracturing into a bulk cargo 
hold for dissection.  Two additional assimilation units were clambering about the hull, 
performing a similar chore.  Theirs was perhaps the easier of the duties, despite the 
ceramic re-entry tiles which covered the base metal superstructure and made magnetic 
footing unpredictable.
	There was no computer, or at least nothing more advanced than an electric and 
overly large version of an abacus which served to perform long multiplication and 
division.  It was pointless to assimilate a calculator.  Assimilation had instead focused his 
attention on the local equivalent of a flight recorder.  
Two spools of magnetic tape - one associated with the "computer" and the other 
with an omni-directional microphone - appeared to be salvageable.  A quick test had 
found some anomalies, but otherwise they seemed unharmed by whatever phenomena 
had hijacked the capsule.  The voice recordings especially were desirable because upon 
decoding they would be added to the universal translator algorithms for the eventual day 
the unknown species discovered warp and thus gained the attention of the Borg as worthy 
of assimilation.  Unfortunately, a tractor beam with its shifting magnetic polarities would 
erase the tapes, which necessitated their physical removal prior to bringing the capsule 
aboard.
Assimilation shifted slightly to find better positioning of the screwdriver.  Only 
two more screws were left to remove the voice recorder's cowling, except the screws had 
been nearly stripped during their installation.  Of one of the highest tech civilizations in 
the galaxy, he was reduced to painstakingly removing the screws by hand.
{Watch it!} complained 7 of 203 as she was jostled.  The lack of atmosphere 
made verbalization impossible.  {You messed up my scan and now I have to start over 
again.}
	Assimilation did not reply, instead squinting at the object of his labor.  At least it 
/was/ screws and not wires.  He hated cutting wires.  Wires were inevitably color labeled 
and when one cannot perceive color, red looks like green looks like blue.  One more 
turn...
	{All drone units on the capsule and exterior cube hull, attention.  Sensors indicate 
the proto-wormhole is about to become a bit frisky.  All units return to the interior of 
Cube #347,} announced Captain into the general intranets.
	The spatial anomaly which had drawn Cube #347 to the system prior to the 
discovery of the primitive ship was a phenomena on the edge of full wormhole status.  
The Collective was very interested and a science platform had been dispatched.  
However, it would not arrive for at least two weeks, which left Cube #347 on the scene to 
watch it with the impressive suite of sensors built into an Exploratory-class cube.  
Speculation was the proto-wormhole had been the cause of the capsule's unfortunate 
stranding.  Hypothesis aside, the proto-wormhole occasionally spasmed, throwing out 
sheets of radiation exotic and mundane, all easily shrugged aside by the cube's deflector 
shields and thick hull.  The signs leading to the fits provided at least five minutes 
warning.
	{We still have time,} countered Assimilation directly to Captain.  {We will 
remain a bit longer.  I will have the tape by then.}
	{But I don't want radiation burns,} whined 174 of 203 from the capsule's hull.  
{My epidermis turns all black and it takes my nanites /weeks/ to repair everything.  I 
leave charred bits all over my alcove.}
	Said Assimilation, {There are lots of things in life we don't want.  Too bad.  I do 
not feel your pain and I would not care even if I could.}  One stripped screw down, one to 
go.  Assimilation desired to spend as much time as possible, proto-wormhole tantrum or 
no proto-wormhole tantrum, performing his specialty.  Returning even a minute early 
would mean an extra minute to contemplate his uselessness and the gray blah of the 
universe.
	{Oops.  The [blanket] has [popped],} informed Sensors well before the five 
minute mark and while Assimilation had only half the final screw extracted.
	Assimilation would have asked {What?}, but there was no need.  A composite 
dataspace feed of sensors focused on the patch of space inhabited by the proto-wormhole 
showed a sparking eruption of gasses whipping wildly in the grasp of magnetic tendrils.  
While the color aspect was being commented upon by some members of the sub-
collective, Assimilation could only see a succession of grays.  Those grays indicated a 
new level of violence in the anomaly.
	{Radiation flux increasing,} said Captain.  {Emergency transport initiated.}
	Even as the other three drones registered as captured in the transporter buffer, 
even as the first wave of radiation impinged upon the capsule, Assimilation used his 
access to the command pathways to cancel his lock.  Thirty more seconds...
	Barked Captain, {You /will/ be transported, Assimilation.}  Fifteen seconds later, 
command and control had circumvented Assimilation's hasty lockout.  Task unfinished, 
the head of the assimilation hierarchy was returned to Cube #347.

	Assimilation rematerialized in Maintenance Bay #5.  The other three of his team, 
already present, were the nexus of the hustle and bustle of radiation decontamination 
procedures.  While a Borg drone had neither hair nor lunch to lose to radiation sickness, 
vital and irreplaceable organs such as the brain did not function well after a dose of high 
radiation; and those cells which had been hijacked to manufacture the nanites that 
functioned as a drone's immune system often malfunctioned.  No one seemed to notice 
Assimilation's arrival.
	  And Assimilation did not notice when a maintenance drone walked right through 
him.
	Color was the first thing the head of the assimilation hierarchy perceived, even 
before his severance to the sub-collective (and Collective) registered.  While the walls 
were the standard gray, the light strips cast a bright, green-tinged light which made all 
present appear as if they had eaten something disagreeable.  Lights, an array of red, 
yellow, orange, and the ever ubiquitous green, blinked on equipment and Borg.  Blood of 
a brilliant blue dotted 7 of 203's arm as she stared with exasperation at the maintenance 
drone who had accidentally increased the power of a laser scalpel to a too high setting.
Doctor paused next to Assimilation, holding an object of flashy frills in a 
psychedelic leopard print which likely had a function only in the mind of an ex-vet.  
Assimilation gazed at the electric purple streamers as Doctor clicked his teeth and 
muttered, "Poor, lost puppy.  Got ran over.  He's not coming back."
"And this is a problem, how?" asked a unit (without dataspace access, 
Assimilation could not link designations to drones outside his hierarchy) tending 174 of 
203.  "He only depresses his hierarchy.  Efficiency will rise, and attempts at self-
mutilation should fall."
	"True, true," said Doctor, ears flattened against his skull rising to a posture of 
alertness.  "Yes, true!  Less nastiness and self-inflicted wounds!  Transporter accident 
amid rapid rise in radiation flux...the fellow likely never felt a thing.  A good euthanasia."  
Doctor flicked his pet toy - several streamers passed through Assimilation's head - then 
made a beeline toward one of the non-assimilation hierarchy members present, asking 
jovially, and irrelevantly, how often their kitty litter needed changing.
	Assimilation blinked, for the first time realizing he could "hear" neither intranets 
nor dataspaces.  Diagnostics returned "satisfactory" functionality except for a very minor 
case of radiation poisoning that his system was in the process of flushing.  Of course, 
diagnostics had always insisted he could see in color even when such was blatantly not 
true.  This had to be an elaborate prank, the humor of which was not apparent to a drone 
who had never been known for his humor, nor or pre-assimilation.
	"Hey," said Assimilation, "I'm right here.  Here."  Pause.  "Here!"  Assimilation 
waved his arms, then frowned as he was utterly ignored.  He stomped to where Doctor 
was relating to a captive patient the importance of stool regularity and consistency for 
optimal health.  "This is not funny.  My color vision is restored.  Acknowledge me."  A 
hand reached to seize Doctor's shoulder traversed without making contact, as if 
Assimilation had tried to grasp fog.  Doctor blinked, cocked his head, flicked an ear, then 
pivoted and walked through Assimilation on a line to 109 of 203.
	Something was not right.

	Something was not right, but Assimilation did not care.  Perhaps it had been a 
transporter malfunction, perhaps an overdose of exotic proto-wormhole radiation, 
perhaps a random fluctuation of fate, perhaps all or none of the above.  In the end, 
something was very not right, but the result of seeing color was worth it.
	Assimilation had made his way to Bulk Cargo Hold #2, a process requiring many 
hours to navigate the maze which was Cube #347 for an straight line travel distance of 
700 meters.  He had quickly discovered that while he could easily pass through walls, 
floors and ceilings remained solid barriers.  Except for the addition of gravity plating in 
horizontal surfaces, the composition was the same.  To move between decks had 
obligated Assimilation to seek out one of the few lifts, then ride it until it stopped at the 
level he desired.  Lack of transporter access was a definite drawback to being slightly out 
of phase with the rest of the universe, but not one which overshadowed the advantages of 
color, at least not in Assimilation's opinion.
	"That color of body paint does /not/ go with the fingernails.  Peach and butter 
gold?  It don't think so.  Peach demands a strong color, preferably something with gem 
qualities, such as amethyst or sapphire," critiqued Assimilation as he watched 2 of 8 
apply swirls of a fruity hue to her torso.  "Listen to one who /knows/ these things.  Lime 
green?  No no no!  Especially not with that nose stud!  Are you color blind?  Too pastel 
and lifeless and not a good highlight to accent your limbs!"
	Assimilation had discovered other drawbacks, such as the fact regeneration was 
now impossible.  As with access to the dataspace and transporter system, he considered it 
a minor inconvenience.  A terminal inconvenience, true, and one in which he would 
never live on as an echo in the Greater Consciousness, but at least he would die within a 
universe of color.  From what he had heard in Maintenance Bay #5 and on the way to the 
bulk cargo hold, no one was looking for him, his designation already recorded as 
deceased.
	If only 2 of 8 could hear the expert and understand that she was /not/ making a 
fashion statement, no matter what civilization or species she invoked.
	Outside of the ring of paints 2 of 8 had set for herself and her experiments in 
criminal fashion, Bulk Cargo Hold #2 was its normal hustle and bustle.  Engineering 
drones entered and exited the vast rows of shelving where small-parts inventory were 
stored, or busily cut newly replicated lengths of conduit and girder to desired size.  Small 
against one bulkhead wall, a half completed sculpture of metals and organics showed its 
true size whenever anyone ventured near.  For a moment, the clockwork precision of 
engineering became a dance of chaos as a squad of weapons units materialized among 
them, Weapons at the forefront barking verbal orders as loud as possible.  Like a dust 
devil, the squad disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving behind disorder for others 
to set right.
	Unusual color, not unusual movement, caught the eye of the ex-artist.  Near the 
sculpture and on a heading for the conduit-and-girder-cutters (and himself, if the 
trajectory was maintained) were a pair of unknown beings.  Their hues were of the 
monochromatic variety, surreal against the backdrop of color, and more fitting with 
Assimilation's previous worldview.  They were of no known species - Assimilation, as 
befitting his hierarchial specialty, had an entire race catalogue, abridged version, loaded 
into his brain - but a Terran gardener on his or her ancestral homeworld would declare 
without reservation that the intruders resembled slugs.  Civilized slugs, perhaps, but 
definitely slugs.
	Sliding along on a thin trail of slime, there was no need for legs.  The front half of 
the slug-being was held upright to function as a torso; and the head was set squarely on 
the body without an intervening neck.  Two skinny arms radiated from the shoulder 
region, terminating in a three-finger-one-thumb arrangement.  There was no nose, but a 
wide, lipless mouth of sharp teeth was present.  Large globular eyes on thick eyestalks 
waved in a vaguely disturbing manner.  Except for the very white belly, the epidermis 
had a distinct spotting pattern of dark blobs set against a lighter gray background.  Both 
slugs wore vests with many bulging pockets; and both carried tricorder-like instruments 
which they occasionally waved over anything which snared their attention.
	And not much was catching their attention:  the pair seemed to be in deep 
discussion about a subject which required much finger wiggling, arm waving, and eye 
bobbing.
	No other drones in the cargo hold seemed to see them except Assimilation.  In 
fact, much to Assimilation's astonishment, on more than one occasion drones and the 
objects they carried passed right through the intruders, interactions as substantial as 
swinging a bat through fog.
	The slugs neared.
	"The Padaffey Pirates, you have to be kidding!" piped one slug with a voice 
higher pitched than Assimilation would have expected.  "They were a decent Jhad-ball 
team until that unfortunate accident with their center.  By the time the new center settles 
in and stops flinching every time the ball comes near, the season will be over.  The 
championship this year will go to the Kar Killers."
	Protested Slug #2, "You say that every year."
	"It is true every year," confidently stated Slug #1.
	"Only because the Killers spend money as if it were slime!  If there was a bit 
more equality in the league, money-wise, the situation would be a lot different!"
	Assimilation stood still as a statue, watching the slugs crawl past and discuss the 
various strengths and weaknesses of Jhad-ball teams.  Whatever their mission - 
Assimilation strongly doubted it was sports debate - it was being ignored for a higher 
purpose; and how he could understand what logic dictated to be an unknown language, 
Assimilation neither knew nor cared.  He silently pivoted in place to follow their journey 
across the cargo hold, as ignored by them as he was ignored by 2 of 8.
	As the pair passed Assimilation's position, Slug #1 dug into its vest and emerged 
with several flat rectangles of some substance wrapped in a silver foil.  "Gum?" it asked 
its partner.  At the refusal, all except one piece were returned into the vest, the last one 
shucked of its wrapper.  As the gum went mouthward with one hand, the other wadded 
the foil into a small ball and absently tossed it over the shoulder with the careless habit of 
a long-time litterer.
	The wad struck Assimilation on the face between the eyes before bouncing to the 
ground.  Shocked, he stared at the offending foil for several long moments before raising 
his eyes back to the slugs.  He was in time to see their tail ends vanish through a nearby 
wall.

	Assimilation loitered in Bulk Cargo Hold #6, the final destination of the two slugs 
cum arguing Jhad-ball fans.  Since the trek began and ended on the same level, the time 
taken to move from one hold to another had been less than that required for Assimilation 
to go from maintenance bay to hold.
	Bulk Cargo Hold #6 was deserted of drones, empty space made emptier by lack of 
Borg.  That state of affairs also made it more difficult for Assimilation to act as if he 
belonged.  Fortunately, the cargo hold was a shadowy maze of docking cradles and 
equipment designed to assist in the dissection of ships and other objects.  Their opaque, if 
unsolid, bulk presented a barrier against ocular observation by the slugs.
Encamped in an open space in the hold the Moslig - the name of the species, 
Assimilation had learned - expeditionary force was a combination of scientific and 
military.  Scientists were the majority, slug forms with heavily pocketed vests working in 
temporary labs, entering data at computer terminals, or forming into information 
gathering teams such as the one Assimilation had followed.  Individuals moved between 
work and the eating and sleeping areas; and a few gathered before the giant vacuum 
doors, arguning over the meaning of dubious-natured limericks they obviously could not 
read.  There were no sanitary facilities as far as Assimilation could ascertain; and he 
blocked himself from considering the composition of the thin slime which slicked the 
deck after each Moslig.
	The military contingent were few, but prominent.  In addition to a harness or less-
pocketed variety of vest, they wore a bulky cloak which draped from shoulders to tail, as 
well as sported an odd helmet with holes cut for the eyestalks.  Heavy caliber slug (no 
pun intended!) throwers were in evidence, magnetic coils hinting of hypersonic 
velocities.  Lighter disruptor sidearms were present as well.  The eyes of the soldier 
Mosligs, from lowly guard to high brass, would have made them distinctive even without 
the military trappings:  all had that slight squint of paranoia common wherever military 
service is the suggested career for borderline (and outright) -paths of all flavors.
	As with the Jhad-ball arguing scientists, everybody and everything associated 
with the Mosligs was a jarring monochrome at odds with the colored majesty of the 
surroundings.
	Two high-level military slugs were meeting with an equal number of their 
scientist counterparts.  Also present was a smallish, shifty Moslig who only wore a thin 
vest, but for whom could be applied many titles, depending upon society - spy, black 
operative, watchdog, political officer, internal enforcement agent.  Not so much for 
secrecy, but for the need to not be in the middle of active scientific pursuit, the meeting 
was occurring at the edge of the encampment.  Half hidden by a pair of quietly humming 
generators providing power to the camp, Assimilation observed.
	"The Final Option is ready for a full-scale trial," said Military #1, eyestalks 
steady.  "If successful, this part of the parasitic ghost universe will be eradicated, after 
which we will be able to go forward with eliminating the rest of it."
	Wheedled Scientist #1, a highly speckled individual, "Another 10-day more!  
Contur, we are learning so much...!"
	"Donee!  Don't tell me you are becoming attached to these ghosts, actually believe 
they are real...have souls, even?" snapped Military #2.
	Donee's eyestalks abruptly began to quiver, as did those of its companion.  "No, 
sir, we don't believe that, no more so than we believe microbes in a petri dish have souls.  
Microbes, however, can teach us new things, as can these ghosts."
	The spy smirked, but remained silent, obviously adding some tidbit of potentially 
damning information to a personal internal file.
	Rumbled Contur, "Our leaders have decided - based on the best scientific 
evidence, mind you - that the Final Option has to go forward.  Soon.  These soulless 
phantasms and their shadowy projection universe are the root cause of so many of our 
problems:  low warp velocities, limited power plant outputs, skin spot disease, civil 
disquiet, economic woes.  So much!"
	"Pseudo-science quo-sh*t," coughed Scientist #2.
	"What?" breathed the spy, mild question of sudden interest holding the promise of 
steel, nails, and inventive ways to cause pain.
	Donee went rigid, then carefully distanced himself several extra centimeters from 
his comrade, as did the two military Mosligs.  "Don't mind Arni.  Um, he has a mild 
mental condition which is easily controlled by drugs.  Random swearing.  He obviously 
forgot to take his medicines with his last meal, so enthused he is with this project.  Just an 
oversight.  He was definitely not commenting on any unpatriotic, hearsay-laden belief 
that politicians are blaming this ghost universe on their shortcomings or that of our 
general society, as evidenced by other species which have faster, more powerful ships 
and robust, peaceful economies.  Not at all."  Pause.  "I will have Arni flogged forthright 
so that he does not forget to take his pills in the future."
	The spy placidly replied, "See that you do.  I will stop by to watch."
	"Yes, sir," mumbled Donee.
	Contur cleared his throat.  "Well then.  If that is concluded...Donee, you have 
three days to finish any studies and begin to pack.  The Final Option is scheduled in five 
days."  Contur carefully avoided looking at or addressing Arni.  The scientist had 
obviously been demoted, and no one wanted to catch what might become a terminal 
disease.  "Any questions." 
	"No, sir."
	The generator Assimilation was leaning against abruptly halted its throbbing, then 
started again with a cough and a crackle of electricity.  Encampment lights dimmed 
before returning to original brightness; and in the distance, a Moslig voice called out 
"Oops" and an apology.  Unfortunately, the power surge had sent a current through 
Assimilation's body, not enough to damage systems and easily handled by onboard 
shunts, but sufficient to cause the drone to step automatically away from his hiding place.
	And into full view.
	Five sets of eyestalks turned in Assimilation's direction.
	"We think another generator would eliminate any power deficiencies," stated 
Assimilation lamely.  He pivoted on one heel then moved at best Borg pace through the 
mist which was Cube #347 equipment for the nearest internal bulkhead wall.  Cries of 
intruder rose behind him.

	Assimilation had long since slowed to a steady walking pace.  If there was 
pursuit, hunting parties had to search the extensive volume of Cube #347; and if the sub-
collective routinely lost items within their own cube, what chance had the invaders?  The 
Mosligs were no threat.  Passing through a random wall, across the intervening interstitial 
space, and thence into yet another corridor, Assimilation considered his options.  Without 
the support of the sub-collective, or at least a few other drones, he was forced to come to 
a decision by himself.
	The decision matrix had two main branches.
	Option One, the most attractive, was to do nothing.  Assimilation remained in his 
original universe, but had been shifted to a slightly different polarization.  The Final 
Option would destroy his native phase-shift.  Irrelevant.  By accident or unfathomable 
design, he no longer belonged to that polarization.  The Mosligs would provide the raw 
materials he required for regeneration and transport; and, eventually, he would leave 
behind their odd black and white society for one with the verve he craved and his visual 
senses could now perceive.  The resurging alure of painting something other than walls 
was strong.  One day he would terminate, but it would be amid color.
	The second choice, to advert the Final Option, would require effort.  After so 
many years of cultivating deliberate apathy, Assimilation found the notion of labor 
difficult.  Then there was the consideration that he had no clue how to stop the Final 
Option or if such was even within his ability.  All told, Option Two was the noble, and 
futile, path of the soon-to-be-terminated-with-glory hero.  Assimilation was no hero, 
disregarding the fact that tights and a cape was not his dress of choice.  Besides the 
requirement of effort, a swift termination would do nothing to halt the Final Option.  
Worst of all, he would not experience color as long as projected by the other matrix 
branch.
	The decision cascade tumbled to a final conclusion:  Option One.
	Choice made, Assimilation halted in a T-corridor, contemplating which direction 
to go.  Eventually he needed to return to Bulk Cargo Hold #6, preferrably in as 
convoluted a path as possible.  Head turned right and left, then snapped straight as a loud 
*thwunk!* sounded from behind the wall directly ahead.  A net sailed through the 
bulkhead, neatly wrapping around Assimilation and causing him to crash to the deck, 
unbalanced.  Two Mosligs slid rapidly after their net, eager to examine their prize.
	"Got it!" breathlessly squealed the plumper of the pair.  It wore the many-
pocketed vest of a scientist and clutched a small, nearly featureless box in one hand.  
"Did you see how well the tracker worked?  Stupendous!"  The device was victoriously 
brandished.
	The second Moslig - military - did not share the scientist's enthusiasm.  In fact, it 
looked a bit bored, assuming one could accurately interpret emotion in the set of the 
eyestalks, as if netting Borg were an everyday occurrence.  As Assimilation watched, it 
racked the empty net-gun to its harness, substituting it for a weapon with greater lethality.  
"Quiet, Rothan.  There might be more of the shadows.  I wonder how the hell this one 
managed to enter the true universe?  I thought they were oblivious to our existence."
	"Pish, Tur," wisped Rothan as it approached, bending forward to peer at 
Assimilation through the net strands, "this is the only one.  The tracker would have found 
evidence if such was not so; and we've seen no sign of the shadows preparing to swarm 
into our universe."  Pause.  "Oh, this will be quite an opportunity!  Donee was so 
unhappy we would be leaving with no specimens despite the Ouija board sessions."
	Tur carefully prodded Assimilation with its weapon.  "I wonder if it talks?  I also 
wonder if it will cooperate?  I don't really want to drag it all the way back to camp:  it 
looks heavy.  You!"  Tur directed words at Assimilation, raising its voice as if 
Assimilation's hearing, as well as intellegence, was questionable.  "Do you understand 
me?  Can you get up?"
	Assimilation glared at his two captors, one full of bubbly enthusiasm as it outlined 
a series of investigations and the other the epitome of bored professionalism.  Careful 
testing of the net had already shown it to be of a substance not easily broken.  "We hear 
you.  Do we have a choice?"
	Tur confusedly bobbled its eyestalks.  "Rothan, what's it babbling about?  I only 
see one of it."
	Rothan shrugged, "Well, the science team has recorded the shadow beings 
speaking both in singular and plural.  It is thought the plural-speaking may indicate a 
mental deficiency."
	"Oh, great, so this thing is either an idiot or crazy.  Wonderful," Tur growled 
under its breath.  Louder, "Get up, else I'll shoot you.  Even morons understand 
shooting."
	"Tur!" protested Rothan.
	Assimilation carefully climbed to his feet, unable to use the insubstantial 
bulkhead for support.  Swaying under the constricting folds and weight of the net, he 
noticed the two were standing closer to him than was normal for races confronted by 
Borg.  Perhaps they were incognizant of the danger a drone, even one trussed, 
represented?  Idly, a back process considered the assimilative possibilities.  However, his 
main consciousness discarded it as a valid option, once again requiring effort, assuming 
the Mosligs were suceptable to assimilation.
	"Let's go," said Tur impatiently.  "You walk first and we'll follow.  I'll tell you 
what direction to take.  No funny stuff."
	Assimilation moved to comply, then halted as an issue bubbled up, one which had 
been nagging him since his first glimpse of a Moslig.  "I have an inquiry.  You will 
answer."  It was not a question, but a blunt statement.  "This drone has noted you have a 
monochrome hue, as is all your equipment.  Why?"
	"Hey, it said 'I'," spoke Tur in surprise.
	Rothan ignored its partner's comment.  "Monochrome?  What are you talking 
about?  Everything looks perfectly full-colored to me...wait a minute, your universe is the 
black and white one.  Maybe...just maybe...as shadow projections of the real universe and 
therefore not quite real, you can only /see/ in black and white.  And it translates to here, 
however you arrived!  How exciting!"
"But..." said Assimilation, who wanted to explain "his" phase-shift was perfect in 
its color and only the Mosligs were in monochrome.
	"Think of the tests that need to be done!  Full brain mapping!  Sense 
experiments!" babbled Rothan.
	Tur snorted, "Whatever.  Onward, you.  Back to camp."  The muzzle of the 
weapon poked Assimilation's shoulder.
	Assimilation ignored the likelihood of injury should Tur decide to use the gun.  
Possibilities and what-ifs churned in his mind, and he disliked the outcomes.  What-if his 
color vision was not restored?  What-if this polarization was to be as drab as his native 
one?  What-if the only reason he could perceive color on Cube #347 was due to the phase 
differential?  What-if all that color was destroyed with the Final Option?
	What-if he were plunged once more into an oppressive world of grays?
	Unacceptable!
	As the door to Option One of the decision tree swung closed, that of Option Two 
opened.
	"We will not comply," stated Assimilation as he pivoted in place, net hampering 
movement.
	Tur harrumphed.  "Plurals again.  Whatever.  I have dinner coming up and the 
cooks have a special dessert programmed into the replicators.  Enough of this 
nonsense...get moving!"  Meanwhile, Rothan eagerly leaned forward, hand now holding 
tricorder instead of tracker, trying to gain a pre-experiment scan.
	Before either Moslig could protest, Assimilation lunged forward, arms reaching 
through the net.  Both appendages found purchase against clammy Moslig flesh.  
Nanotubules snaked out, injecting their payload of assimilating agents into the victims.
	Assimilation noted with detached professional interest that the Moslig species 
appeared to have a very low assimilation resistance quotient once nanites were 
introduced.

	The camp in Bulk Cargo Hold #6 was a busy place.  The activities, however, 
radically differed from previous scientific endeavors.  The Mosligs, ignorant of the 
dangers of assimilation despite their research, were swiftly converted.  Except for the few 
with the sense to flee and a handful of cube-wandering data-gathering teams bivouacked 
elsewhere, the focus of the ex-Mosligs had turned from observation of a "shadow 
universe" to adapting equipment to further the survival of a nascent Collective.
	Assimilation stood to one side of the encampment, more or less ignored (or 
tolerated) by the new drones bustling about their tasks.  The behavior was largely 
instinctual without a Greater Consciousness to direct; and the Overmind would not truly 
emerge until a Queen was established.  Assimilation understood the necessity of a Queen 
(a point of focus for the Whole), but was extremely fuzzy on why it /had/ to be female.  
The Mosligs were at a slight disadvantage in the Queen department, the species 
sequential hermaphrodites and the encampment currently all in male mode.  The hormone 
balance of several individuals had been triggered for female mode, but time was required 
until the first unit was sufficiently female to act as a suitable nexus.
	A distinctive hum indicated the transporters were repaired.  They had been a 
casualty of sabotage before the military detatchment had been overwhelmed.  As 
Assimilation watched, several drones vanished, destination the small Moslig corvette 
which sat somewhere beyond Cube #347's hull, puzzled skeleton-crew waiting for an 
update on the camp's communication difficulties.  The update was now on its way.
	Three drones tasked to pursue those fled returned, surrounding a fourth with the 
glazed eyes of the newly assimilated.
	Assimilation's place in the new Borg colony was clear - stay out of the way.  
Gratitude was irrelevant.  The nascent Mind, while unformed and "fuzzy" without a 
nexus, was still sufficiently coherent to recognize Assimilation's kinship...and know 
Assimilation was not quite of self as well as "off" from BorgStandard in an indefinable 
way.  While the forming Greater Consciousness could not articulate a definition of 
assimilation imperfection, it already rejected it.
	Therefore, Assimilation stood ignored (or tolerated) at the edge of the camp, 
watching not the transformation of monochrome machinery into alcoves, but instead 
focusing on the loveliness of a single flickering green lightstrip.

	The Queen did not appear very different from her male counterparts.  Her 
epidermis was mottled and reflected that particular Borg gray hue which was consistent 
be it color or black and white; and her reduced slime production was just sufficient for 
mobility.  She lacked any distinguishing assemblies or implants beyond those 
automatically generated by nanites, but then again, self-modification was of lower 
priority than survival of the Collective:  no drones had undergone the laser scalpel as of 
yet.  There were no obvious secondary sexual characteristics, such as a mammal's breasts 
or a repson's scale slough, to indicate the Queen's gender.  Still, she was a she and she 
was a Queen; and she was Collective and Greater Consciousness.
	And Assimilation was just Assimilation.
	"The Final Option will not be allowed," said the Queen as she bobbed her 
eyestalks in Assimilation's direction.  The comments were offered as one might if 
speaking thoughts aloud to a wall or a sleeping dog.  "It might be disruptive to Us.  We 
have initiated a jamming frequency which will prevent remote triggering of the Final 
Option."  Assimilation had since learned that the proto-wormhole was the physical 
manifestation of the Final Option, a contortion of space-time which "acted up" and 
vomited exotic radiation each time it underwent readiness tests.  The erstwhile space 
capsule had been accidentally transported to its final location during the initial proto-
wormhole establishment; and Cube #347's fortuitous arrival during the final phases had 
precipitated the opportunity for a quick examination of "shadow entities" before the 
"parasitic universe" was collapsed.
	"Once this founding race is assimilated, the Final Option will be dismantled.  We 
have much work to do, adapting and modifying the flaws of this species' scientific 
assumptions."  The "difficulties," as inferred by the conversation overheard by 
Assimilation behind the generators, was little more than an engineered excuse by Moslig 
politicians to retain the status quo of a failing socio-political system, focusing the 
attention of the restless masses on a variation of the bread-and-circus fantasy.  "And, 
now, the question becomes, what do we do with you?"
	Assimilation regarded the Queen, but did not answer.  He was not expected to 
answer.  He had been largely excluded from the new Greater Consciousness, not even 
allowed basic noncritical query access, but he could still feel the gross currents of what-
will-be.
	"What to do with you..."  The Queen's words trailed off as her eyes glazed and 
stilled their bobbing.  She turned inward in contemplation.
	Assimilation felt/saw/experienced a flash of (black and white) images, a 
peripheral stream of consciousness leaked from the infant Greater Consciousness.  In 
quick succession he saw himself disassembled, absorbed into this Collective, sealed in a 
capsule and rocketed into a star, atomized by a disruptor.  Most of the fates were rather 
terminal.  However, each was discarded as unsatisfactory for the reason that some "bit," 
be it physical or otherwise, would always be left behind, a "bit" which symbolized the 
corruption of assimilation imperfection.
	This Collective refused to sanction assimilation imperfection despite the fact that 
it had been born out of it.  Wistful thinking might be irrelevant, but Assimilation believed 
that this Greater Consciousness was indulging in it if it thought that assimilation 
imperfection could be eradicated simply by removing himself.
	The Queen abruptly animated, blinking as her eyes swiveled to look in two 
different directions before returning focus on Assimilation.  "We will send you back to 
your phase-shift...or at least remove you from ours."  And with that pronouncement, the 
Queen turned to other, more important matters, dismissing Assimilation.

	Assimilation stood before what could only be termed a contraption.  At its heart 
was a disturbingly coffin shaped niche, similar to an alcove, but forbidding in a way a 
regeneration unit was not.  Surrounding the niche was a hodgepodge of coils, conduits, 
wires, and parts of a linear accelerator, all formerly Final Option hardware.  The pieces 
had originally resided upon the flagship of the Moslig fleet (only two of the 13 vessels 
had managed to escape) testing the proto-wormhole while the scientists and their 
assigned corvette examined shadows.  Dismantled, the necessary parts had been 
transported to Cube #347's cargo hold for reassembly in a new configuration.  A 
generator, upgraded and much more efficient than before, provided power to the gizmo.
	"You will enter," said the drone next to Assimilation.  The drone had once been 
Thyisu, Kar Killers fan extraordinaire, but was now simply 18 of 900.
	"Is it safe?" asked Assimilation as he stalled and looked around the expanse of 
Bulk Cargo Hold #6, absorbing as much color as possible.
	Answered 18 of 900, "There is a 77.29% chance you will return to your own 
phase-shift.  There is 100% surety you will leave this phase-shift."  The reply neatly 
sidestepped the question without actually answering it.
	Assimilation's role in the drama about to commence was to step into the niche, at 
which time he would be exposed to a large dose of kappa radiation.  The Collective had 
determined that kappa, ejected from the proto-wormhole, was the radiation flavor 
primarily responsible for priming Assimilation's initial polarization.  Once sufficient 
radiation was absorbed, a test sequence would be sent to the Final Option proto-
wormhole, triggering the singularity to undergo a specific cascade to spindle realities and 
twist space-time.  Finally, a transporter built into the contraption would activate.  If all 
went according to calculations, Assimilation would be wrenched out of the present phase-
shift; and as his polarization reestablished, it should "remember" its original setting, like 
an electron returning to its ground state, and snap to its native phase.
	At the very least, Assimilation, body and mind and assimilation imperfection, 
would be totally removed from influencing the present Collective.
	"Enter," repeated 18 of 900, a hint of unBorg impatience in his voice.
	Assimilation heaved a sigh, stepped forward, turned around, and backed into the 
niche as if it were just another alcove.
	Somewhere, a drone threw a switch or pushed a button, causing sparkly special 
effects and a pale aura to spring forth from the machine.  Encampment lights dimmed.  
An ominous hum arose.  All was totally unnecessary.
	If anything, thought Assimilation, this Collective understands the concept of 
dramatization.
	The hum rose in volume, slowly sliding up the register from baritone to bass to a 
tenor buzz.  The aura increased, as did the amount of sparks.  A subtle resonant shudder 
vibrated the niche, making Assimilation wonder if a bolt or three had been neglected to 
be tightened.  A blinding flash of light abruptly overwhelmed Assimilation's optics and 
simultaneously a gong of epic proportions shimmered the air....
	Oily lemonade assaulted Assimilation's olfactory sense as sharp prickles dented 
exposed epidermis.  The sound of green rang in one ear while at the same time hypnotic 
lights played across the tongue.  A discordant symphony consisting of a hundred mad 
trombonists and one off-tune oboe registered visually.  Unlike the initial transportation to 
the phased universe, the return was a very bad disco LSD trip with a healthy dollop of 
cross-connected senses.  Assimilation felt as if he were formless gelatin heated to a liquid 
too many times and now about to be poured into a new mold by inexpert hands.
	*Blink*
	Empty space.
	*Blink*
	Familiar confines of Cube #347, except for an orange atmosphere.
	*Blink*
	A chaotic jumble of colors which nonetheless seem alive.
	*Blink*
	The bridge of a Second Federation starship, a lone crew member with a faint 
Betazoid cast to the features staring in puzzlement.
	*Blink*
	*Blink*
	*Blink*
	A demented slide projectionist at work, rapidly shuffling through infinite photos 
of the family holiday.  Something was wrong...this was not a (relatively) simple induction 
to rephase, but something else.  The Mosligs were ultimately part of Assimilation's 
universe, an offspring of the Big Bang, except slightly polarized.  It was similar to the 
way a holographic memory crystal could store an astounding amount of data in a small 
chunk of plastic, reusing the same matrix except burning additional info with differing 
spectrum frequencies.  The snatches which Assimilation saw were alternate /realities/, 
slight divergences in the quantum Whole, different pages in a book instead of different 
words on the same page.
	Frankly, Assimilation did not care, for in each instance, he could still see (and 
occasionally feel, taste, hear, smell) color.
	The cosmic slide show gradually slowed, each slice of reality lasting longer and 
longer.
	Tottering on the edge of solidification, the universe-to-be resembled Bulk Cargo 
Hold #6 of Cube #347, down to the location of the disused heavy mining laser and lines 
of limericks painted on the vacuum doors.  The only thing missing was the off-phase 
Moslig Collective...and any trace of monochrome.  The cargo hold was in beautiful color, 
those parts which should be gray were gray and those bits not gray were not gray.  And 
the thing which was added...
	Or rather substituted...
	Humanoid bipeds, the dominant racial form of the Borg Collective, were very few 
of the work gang which busily worked to cover the vulgar poetry.  The majority were not 
quite humanoids, not quite bipeds, and definitely not mammalian, reptilian, avian, or 
insectoid.  The majority were silver-green in hue, or silver-red or silver-blue, the color of 
assimilated photosynthesis.  Vines, thorns, leaves, roots were in evidence.  Mobile 
vegetation.  Shades of Thorny multiplied and given true sentience in a variety of forms.
	Assimilation did not care, would not care as long as color was included.
	As several of the plant-Borg halted their activities and turned to regard the place 
where Assimilation stood, there was a sudden *snap!* and *blink!*.  The scene was the 
same, except the familiar forms Assimilation knew replaced vegetation.  Forms not in 
clear colors of green, red, blue, and silver, but dull monochromatic gray.  The Moslig 
camp was not present.  Scaffolding and anti-gravity sleds held a large number of Borg 
wielding a variety of solvents and Borg Standard gray paint.
	{You missed a spot.}
	{I said wash it down, not add to the limericks!}
	{This one is actually rather clever:  there once was a drone from Venus, who kept 
an expandable...}
	{No one has confessed?  Only a matter of time.  79 of 510 is a possibility, as is 
129 of 133.  Second and a "special" partition are interrogating them now.  I give odds 1 to 
10 that 79 of 510 will confess.}
	{The proto-wormhole is in an absolute-tizzy.  Analyses show it is beginning to 
tear itself apart with a high probability it will be gone when the science platform arrives.  
I'm glad I wasn't on the hull when it erupted.}
	{You'd rather be here?}
	{Hey, I'd rather be looking at superstructure spar stress fractures than being 
decontaminating.  Doctor has a new hypno-psyche sensitivity thing he is trying out.}
	{Have you seen the latest composite instant replay of the primitive vessel 
exploding?  One would not think sufficient volatile fuel was left for such an outburst!  
Command and control thought processes are still focusing upon Weapons and his 
hierarchy.}
	The engineering drones' chatter was the "closest," but by no means the only thing 
Assimilation could hear.  The whole suite of dataspace and intranet streaming was 
present.  The return of Assimilation to the dataspace was noted by a very surprised sub-
collective, which in turn led to a variety of queries.  In Bulk Cargo Hold #6, solvent and 
painting slowed, but only for a moment as Delta snapped her virtual whip.  Assimilation 
was home.
	Home to a gray, gray universe.  Option One or Option Two:  damned if you do, 
damned if you don't.
	*Sigh*  Bummer.