It's deja vu all over again!

Star Trek is owned by Paramount;

Star Traks was created by Decker;

BorgSpace is written by Meneks.

Now, where have you heard that before?

I'm My Own Grandpa

"Grandpa? Grandpa, are you awake?" asked a voice, timbre suggesting the owner was both male and pre-adolescent. "Grandpa?"

Assimilation's ears heard the words, but as if from a distance. One part of his mind registered the speech, compared it against basic translator algorithms, and declared it a variant of species #5252 Common Tongue. As the current era Common Tongue of the species was very similar to the version Assimilation had spoken prior to his assimilation, the words were passed with very little post-processing. That was a good thing, because if Assimilation had required access to one of the galaxy's more obscure languages, he would have been out of luck.

Assimilation had awoken to complete severance from the sub-collective. And a headache, a blazing monster of a headache consistent with a very sharp blow to the cranium. Nanites were repairing damage and reducing swelling - one of the many internal diagnostic reports Assimilation was receiving - but for the next few minutes, pain would be a side-effect.

The head of the assimilation hierarchy triggered the command which released specific neurotransmitter blockers from an artificial gland. The headache instantly receded to background consideration, a reminder of the injury, but no longer of migraine status. To be Borg was to never need an aspirin.

"Papa?" inquired the boyish voice again, this time accompanied by a quick shaking of one shoulder. "Papa?" Pause, then a very disquieting, "Son? Are you okay? Wake up, please."

Grandpa? Papa? Son? All spoken by the same person? Diagnostics were complete. Other than complete disconnection from the sub-collective, a damaging blow to the head, burns consistent with taser electrocution, scrambled short-term memory memes, and an amount of degraded soporifics in his bloodstream to indicate a recent dosage sufficient to overwhelm even Borg defenses, he was perfectly fine.

Assimilation opened his eyes.

"Mama-niece!" shouted a boy of Assimilation's Qua'tohf base race, features oddly familiar. A young member of the species of which the adult resembled a Faerie warrior, the boy was on the cusp of the awkward stage of long limbs and too large feet which would, eventually, give way to adult grace...after he had tripped over them for many adolescent years. Until then, the boy had yet to grow into his ears, so put the ancient saying; and the boy's large ears were most definitely peeking out from unruly hair. "Someone!" cried the boy as he dashed from the room. "Grandpapa-son is awake!"

With the boy gone, Assimilation was better able to examine his room and his predicament. Concerning the former, everything was an unsurprising gray. These particular hues indicated the presence of color, but it was a color he could not perceive. The room itself was a basic three meters by three meters box, bare except for two chairs around a square table. Assimilation was strapped onto a table or bed opposite the door, the platform tilted such that he was at a 45 degree angle. A sketch book was on the table, pencil-on-paper Borg image half complete, abandoned by the boy in his departing haste.

Assimilation stared at the sketch book, trying to force his recent memory to realign itself into comprehension. The last thing he conclusively remembered was traversing the corridors near Nanite Assembly Room #9 in subsection 7....

The babble of approaching voices bade Assimilation to turn attention away from sketch book and memes. The bed-table's angle required him to crane his neck to watch the door. He did not dare attempt the bonds - assuming they could be broken, assuming he could muster the energy to try - else he would certainly land in an ungraceful heap if they snapped. Until he could determine where he was in relationship to Cube #347, and what was blocking his neural transceiver if he was close enough for a vinculumless linkage, he was the sole representative of Borgdom.

Assimilation stared at the doorway as best he could...wait a moment, was that sloppy paint stream above the lintel a new gray?

A hand blocked Assimilation's view of the unknown gray, forcing him to blink. "Grandpapa-son, are you okay?" It was the boy's voice. Assimilation had the vague recollection of the boy and two adults entering the room, but his focus had been upon other, more weighty matters.

"You ruined my cataloguing!" snapped Assimilation before he could censor himself. "I only had 218 more grays to compare the new color to. I was leaning towards the Gunmetal Guild, but the Standards were beginning to look promising." Assimilation paused as his brainware caught up with his mouth. "Um, forget we just said that; and forget this drone referred to himself in the singular. You will be assimilated?"

"The great Father is awake!" exclaimed one of the boy's companions. "A new nephew-cousin! I do so hope my genetic tests will be positive to receive his Legacy!"

"You and every other potential daughter-grandmamma here," sniffed companion #2. A tricorder-like device beeped to itself as it was swept through Assimilation's field of view.

Assimilation twisted his head sideways to more fully view the device wielder. He blinked, then turned the opposite direction to examine the other adult. Another blink, followed by lolling his head forward to study the boy at his book, within which he was furiously sketching lines. All three were...variations upon a theme. The two adults were women, the first obviously older than the second, but in appearance they were twins as if seen at different ages. More disturbing, the boy's face was that of the womens', appropriately masculine and still round with the fading chubbiness of youth. Assimilation /knew/ those faces...beneath the cybernetic implants and surgeries which had transformed him to Borg, the features were his own.

"Where are we?" demanded Assimilation, voice held at a monotone to hide growing bewilderment. Severance from the sub-collective and its anchoring comfort did not help. He ignored the scanner as it arced over his head again before sweeping down his body, only to be paused in the vicinity of his codpiece armor.

Woman #1 beamed, "On your vessel, Silly, in the Newest Age facility."

Assimilation blinked. "You lie. No Borg vessel includes a 'Newest Age facility.' What is the location of this drone."

"Why would I lie?" replied the woman, side-stepping the question. "I think names are in order. I am Lacina, an aunt-cousin. This is my sister-daughter Wali. And you've already met Toolot."

The familial relationships Lacina appended to her introductions were awkward in Assimilation's native tongue, words smashed together into nonsense. He dismissed the phraseology as unimportant. "Release this drone and return it to my, er, its ship."

Lacina frowned. "You never left your ship, remember? Maybe you were hit on the head a little too hard? Anyway, we need your Legacy first. Wali, what is the verdict?"

Wali silently read the readout display. "Geron thinks that if Dabbi can be restrained from decorating the next lot of ceramics in that horrid eye-and-mouth-and-cloak motif, then our cash flow for the Commune for the next quarter is assured. The bowl and vase market on Talarin II is absolutely sizzling right now."

"No," said Lacina, stamping her foot, "I meant our Father here. His verdict? You are supposed to be the doctor."

"Oh." Wali touched several buttons. "Armor is foiling the scan; and I don't dare try anything more powerful, as per the Law of the Holy One, may he grant us enlightenment. Unfortunately, unless there are latches or a flap I don't see, a plasma cutter may be needed to access any Legacy; and that route has dangers of its own, too."

Before Assimilation could begin to ponder what the two were talking about, the boy thrust his sketch pad into Assimilation's face. Upon the pad was Assimilation, strapped to the table, limbs somewhat disproportionate, but otherwise a decent likeness. "What do you think?" demanded Toolot to his model.

Lacina and Wali looked at each other, then Assimilation, wide-eyed. Both of them began to minutely shake their heads back and forth.

"Too many lines," critiqued Assimilation, unable to stop himself. "Where one line would capture my arm as it is bound, you have used five. Also, my legs are too long by 5%; and my head too small. The shading..."

With each comment, Toolot's face darkened; and a momentary switch to a thermal filter revealed building heat. Eyes squinted to slits. "Stop it!" shouted Toolot. "I said stop it! How dare you be so mean! I hate you!" The sketch book spontaneously burst into flame; and those flames were thrown at the immobile drone. Toolot ran from the room, his earlier cheer replaced by a screaming sob.

Wali pulled a small walkie-talkie, such as might be found in a toy store, from a jumpsuit pocket. "Could someone bring a fire extinguisher to the room where we have the Founding Father? Toolot's had one of his moments."

Assimilation could only stare at the blazing paper which had lodged under the straps which crossed his chest. It was a good thing Borg did not have facial hair, else eyebrows would have definitely been singed. The brightly flickering grays of the fire were doused abruptly by hissing carbon dioxide.

"Sorry," apologized Lacina as she swept away wet, charred paper and extra foam. "My uncle can be /so/ trying sometimes. He would eventually like to paint, like you did once upon a time, Father Seltat, but he needs to learn to sketch first. And take critique. His hormones are starting to percolate, which doesn't help. I really hope he can learn to control his pyromancy better, else he's going to end up in a lock-down room, just like his grandmamma-niece and gene-mother."

Wali harrumphed, "Lacina. The boy's geneline produces art with excellent resale value."

"When it isn't on fire," snapped Lacina. "I've seen the studbook: spontaneous, dominant mutation, plus a handful of recessives, leading to emotion-driven expression of pyromancy. The Seltat lineage needs a fresh influx of genes so that that taint, among with others, can be bred out. The Commune /needs/ the Father's Legacy, and /I/ have the best genematch. I /know/ I do."

"That's something the Council will have to decide, unless the Hermit tells us what to do."

Silence. Seconds stretched to long minutes in which the tricorder was waved about. For the nonce, Assimilation was content to stare at the opposite wall and door, thinking of as little as possible. Recent memory memes had now resolved an ambush, a dark cloth being thrown over his head, the bite of a taser.

Finally an unknown welter of sounds echoed from the hallway, accompanied by clicks, rasps, and finally a distinct "Leave me alone! Can't a fellow have some peace and quiet, especially when he needs to visit the sh*tter?" The voice sounded peeved, and more than a little exasperated. More scrabbling ensured, ended by a final thump, as if a door had been slammed.

Moments later, a man, also wearing a version of Seltat's pre-assimilation face, appeared in the doorway. Over his jumpsuit he was wearing a stained smock; and pockets on the smock bulged with a variety of brushes and canvas-stretching tools. A black headband kept unruly hair out of his bright eyes. "Lacina, Wali - the Council has interpreted the Hermit's latest Words. Although the way to enlightenment was couched in phrases most vulgar and anatomically impossible, the Council believes the Hermit was actually commenting upon what course of action to take with the Founding Father. Seltat is to be taken to the prepared Legacy room and readied."

Lacina clapped her hands. "Who shall be the receptacle?"

"You get first try, Lacina."

The woman giggled in glee.

Assimilation lay on his back, spread-eagled with arms and legs pulled towards the corners of a four-poster bed and secured with heavy straps. Mittens of an impermeable plastic had been duct-taped into place. The transfer from tilted table to plush bed had required four burly men, familiar Seltat face set upon a well-muscled body the original had never possessed. On the down side, he had been given no chance to escape; and his captors, other than knowing winks, had not answered any demand or question. On the up side, he now knew why his neural transceiver could not find a Borg signal.

Of all the grays Assimilation had recorded, one was wholly unique: BIC #1. Initially catalogued long ago when pre-Dark, pre-reincarnated Cube #347 had met with the then Borg Internment and Containment protocol, the technology had transmuted a thin molecular layer of hull, opaquing it to all subspace transmissions. While more refined iterations had renamed the protocol to 'transmutation pulse,' the output was the same unique shade of gray which refused to be lumped with any other hues or color clades.

The recognition of BIC #1 had led to the inescapable hypothesis that Assimilation could indeed be on Cube #347.

During his relocation to his current room, Assimilation had converted hypothesis to conclusion. Wall, ceiling, floor, everything which construed an exterior boundary between facility and Cube #347 was coated in what could only be BIC #1 paint. Additionally, one side of a narrow corridor through which his table had been wrestled had sported a paneling pattern specific to Borg vessels. The Newest Age facility was too large to exist, too expansive for internal sensors to have not sensed a 'hole.' However, Cube #347 had on occasion hosted twists in the space-time fabric, the most notorious in recent sub-collective history being the transdimensional pocket on the pre-Dark cube designated The Closet. Therefore, it was plausible the inside of the facility was larger than the outside would suggest. The phenomenon was either an accidental consequence of an action by Cube #347, else, more disturbing, created by an alien entity.

Such was not to say the suspected pocket universe was spacious. In fact, what little Assimilation could see during his relocation gave the impression of cramped quarters. Sleeping arrangements for the masses were barracks featuring stacked bunkbeds; and both eating and hygienic facilities served the maximum number of people possible. From the casual comments of the men who forced Assimilation's table around too sharp corners, additional (and much nicer) quarters were used by an entity designated Hermit or Holy One; and that the Commune was merely one in a long list of short-time guests seeking an elusive enlightenment. The current visitors were scheduled to leave in two days, to be replaced by another (smaller and more racially diverse) group.

And now...now Assimilation was unable to move, unable to assimilate, tied to a plush, bouncy bed, awaiting his fate. Memory of his capture continued to be an elusive series of disjointed images, terminating abruptly with a blow to the back of his head. The gray of the ceiling was a visual reminder of his inability to connect to his sub-collective despite evidence he had never left the cube. All escapes were blocked. All potential avenues of action were futile, so why even try?

The door to the small room, bare except for the hastily fabricated bed, opened. Assimilation rolled his head slightly and was rewarded with the sight of Lacina. She wore a bathrobe cinched at the waist and was pushing a wheeled dessert cart. Upon the cart's shelves were not tasty pastries, but rather a variety of tools including hammer, chisel, screwdriver, and plasma cutter; and other devices of a less obvious nature were present as well.

Lacina smiled as the door slid closed behind her, lock audibly engaging. Selecting from the cart an object composed mainly of palm-sized speakers, its function was revealed as a tap on a recessed button caused it to play soothing music. The lyrical sound of strings and mellow wind instruments filled the room. The stereo was set upon the floor by the door. Two tall, scented candles were lit, joining the stereo. Lacina approached with her cart of tools.

If this was the opening gambit of a torture session, it was a most unusual methodology.

Lacina chose a hammer and chisel. A PADD, balanced precariously, clattered to the ground. An expression of annoyance with a hint of embarrassment crossed Lacina's face before she kicked the PADD under the bed and out of the way. She then approached the side of the bed, a determined smile on her face. Her bathrobe had fallen open, revealing a peek-a-boo teddy underneath.

Assimilation tested his bonds, hearing the servos embedded in his muscles whine. The straps gave not a millimeter.

"It is okay," cooed Lacina, "why would an aunt-cousin hurt you? I only want your Legacy, great Founder. To have your Legacy is a necessary honor." The wedge end of the chisel was set against Assimilation's codpiece armor, just over his left hip. Hammer was applied to chisel head. The sharp jolt shook the drone, although Lacina would require more than mere steel carpentry tools to compromise any piece of Borg armor.

"Explain your actions," demanded Assimilation as another jolt shook his frame.

"Your Legacy," repeated Lacina, matter-of-fact. The robe was proving to be a hindrance to her work, so she paused to discard it. "The Commune requires your Legacy, my Father and nephew-cousin."

The 'Commune' sounded like a religious cult; and why they desired a piece of his body armor obtained in such a bizarre manner was known only to them. "We are not your father, nor of any relation to you." Assimilation ignored the fact that all Commune members thus far encountered looked like him - biosculpting was a common cult past-time, as evidenced by the infamous Elvis Is King sect. "Our designation is 13 of 20, subdesignated Assimilation."

Lacina grunted as she shifted the chisel to another, more frontal, codpiece location: upon the previous angle she had almost hit her thumb. "You are also Seltat LaVoore, the most celebrated oil painter in the history of the Qua'tohf race! Why you are alive, nearly six centuries after your 'disappearance,' on this Borg cube at this particular era, only the Directors know. However, the boys who snuck out of the facility, the same boys who risked punishment upon their return with their fabulous tale, told of seeing an impossibility, an assimilated member of the Seltat line! An expedition was undertaken to find you and bring you back; and now the genetic samples confirm it: you are one of the ancestor Founders of the Commune!"

Assimilation was confused. The few clear memories he retained from pre-assimilation were precious to him. Oils had been the totality of his existence - he had had barely enough time for his wife and a select circle of acquaintances, much less start a cult; and as far as Lacina's insistence of a relationship...impossible! Assimilation curtly informed Lacina, between increasingly hard chisel blows, of their biological non-relation, ending with, "This drone does not have offspring."

"There are children of your body, Father! You are one of the Founders of the Commune!" Lacina frowned at the chisel, returning it and the hammer to the cart. In exchange, she picked up a small, hand-held, compressed gas blowtorch. It was lit from one of the candles. The mood music was abruptly drowned by the loud hiss from the torch. An observer, had one been present, would have been faced with a most improbable bondage scene consisting of Borg, sweaty woman in diaphanous teddy, and blowtorch.

Assimilation did not answer, merely squinting against the gray glare of the torch as it was applied to his codpiece. As with the steel, his armor was more than sufficient to ward damage, although the conducted heat would eventually become uncomfortable. He absently tried to shift his right leg, more out of the background insistence from root level commands that he try to free himself than any belief that the attempt would succeed.

Lacina paused in her blowtorch attack to grab a pair of polarized goggles from the cart and don them. As she returned to her futile disassembly, she began speaking loudly, "The Commune was established a long time ago, Father, shortly after your heinous shuttle accident. The government, in its wisdom, secretly initiated a program whereupon the genetic legacy of yourself and other leading artists would not be lost. By the time the Commune became fully functional, you were lost - believed dead, a myth which Commune historians eventually debunked - but the government had by then somehow acquired your genetic Legacy for the early breeding program.

"As such things go, unfortunately, government sponsorship could not last forever. Shortly before the Dark War and Hive Years, the Borg completed assimilation of the Drin and began pushing upon our race. The government was faced with a difficult decision: fund the Commune and its artists, or let an interior designer contract for a new class of warship. The military won, of course."

As Lacina stopped to wipe her brow with a corner of her discarded robe, Assimilation fidgeted. Tritanium was slow to heat, but the blowtorch was hot, and the temperature of his groinal armor was incrementally rising. He internally sighed in relief as the torch was swapped for a hacksaw.

Continued Lacina over the rasping rhythmic grind of the saw, "The Commune was provided with breeding records and Legacies - eggs, sperm, and other DNA sources - then tossed to the streets. No matter, for by then the Commune was producing ample masterpieces and artistic wares to be self-sufficient. As the Dark War years deepened, the Commune sought out and acquired additional Legacies, sometimes by welcoming willing artists into the Commune, sometimes by 'donations,' other times - such as when the artist was dead - by exhuming the body and collecting as many live cells as possible before the police arrived.

"Your Legacy, Father and Founder, is prized over all by the painter lines, and especially the Seltat lineage. There are some mental instabilities, but psychotic breaks are a minor price to pay compared to the prize of the exquisite color sense. Now a'days we, the Seltat lineage, perform as many internal crosses as possible, outcrossing to other genelines only when absolutely necessary. Your Legacy is still prized, nephew-cousin, but what little which is left shows poor stem cell vigor after nearly six centuries of lab propagation. Also, it increasingly produces the spontaneous mutations that introduced the likes of Toolot into the genelines."

As if realizing she was doing more speaking than sawing, Lacina returned to her hacksaw with a vengeance. A spring somewhere in the bed mattress broke with a loud *SPRONG!* and began to squeak rhythmically. Surface scratches were propagating across Assimilation's armor, but nothing a little touch-up paint and buffing could not fix. Finally, after several minutes of intense effort, Lacina halted. She discarded the tool, then sat on the edge of the bed, massaging weary arm and hand.

Assimilation stared at his captor's backside, neck, shoulder. If he could only...except his arms were tied, and even if Lacina would obligingly position herself for assimilation, plastic mittens prevented nanotubule activation. Useless. All useless. He was an assimilation drone who could not assimilate. Depression, which had been temporarily banished amid novel situation and stimuli, was returning.

"You imply," said Assimilation dully, boredom with the situation pushing him to speak, "that unknowing genetic donations were made by this drone prior to my, er, its assimilation. Yet you and others insist in naming me by impossible familial relationships. Similar irregularities are also used among yourselves. Explain."

Lacina sighed, then returned to the codpiece. She was now running her fingers over the armor, millimeter by millimeter, obviously feeling for something. She concentrated on the longitudinal seam present over the hip region.

"It is all very simple," began Lacina. "For the last five plus centuries the Seltat lineage, more so than other Commune lineages, has been conducting crosses, backcrosses, intercrosses, and Legacy reintroductions to maintain genetic purity. I am of the Seltat lineage. My relation to you is aunt-cousin. My parents were brother and sister, the brother of which was sired using your biological great-grandfather's Legacy - for all Founders, the Commune also secured Legacy from direct blood relatives. Therefore, my father is your half-grandfather, and from that I am a cousin.

"Next, my father had another child, a daughter, via a collateral Seltat line which has been carefully bred to have a genetic profile alike your grandmother. That daughter has 90% resemblance to your mother, with the other 10%, primarily cosmetic, Seltat influence. Therefore, my half-sister is your mother, and thus I am your aunt.

Lacina grimaced as she tried to force fingernails into a too small seam. Frustrated, she crawled onto the bed, straddled Assimilation's left leg, and began to yank on his codpiece armor at the waist juncture. The squeaky spring began to sing once more. "Technically you are my grandson as well," grunted Lacina as she tugged at the armor, "as I am wed to my father, but 'grandson-aunt-cousin' is a mouthful. Of course, that means my half-sister is also my daughter, which explains why Wali is my sister-daughter. On the other hand, the whole wedding thing is pretty much meaningless at the moment as my father-uncle has been paired by Commune geneticists with my great-aunt-niece until such time a child is conceived." The concept of rampant serial incest approaching that forced upon lab rats did not seem to bother the woman

Assimilation ignored the tugging and yanking as his mind momentarily discarded depression to try to sort out the relationships described. It was confusing, to say the least. The standard genealogy charts of squares and circles, dashed lines and solid were melting before his mind's eye, twisting into a semblance of an Escher painting. "Toolot?" he rasped, not really wanting an answer, but unable to self-censor himself from asking. His pelvis moved in time with the abuse his codpiece was enduring.

Bouncing up and down on Assimilation's leg, Lacina was causing the bed frame to join the mattress spring in protest at her futile effort. Finally, with a curse, she slid off the bed to sit on the ground, panting. "Toolot. Actually, he is pretty easy. Your pure Legacy has been used sequentially on his sublineage for the last several generations. You are both father and grandfather...also a few greats, I believe. Recently he was married to Wali, your almost gene-mother, so you are also his son. Of course, it will be at least ten years until he will be officially old enough to produce a child, but his match with Wali is exquisite: I've seen the studbooks. Their child will be your grandson-brother, with a few 'great-grands' thrown in, if you want to be technical.

Assimilation's head was going to explode. According to her, not only was this entire clan, cult, lineage, whatever related to him (and each other) in some manner, he was his own grandfather. And father. And son. And probably great-grandfather, brother, uncle, nephew, and cousin as well. He was an extended family of one. Staring at the ceiling, he almost missed Lacina's next comment and was forced to replay the words before he could answer.

"Damn it! How do you get that piece of armor off, like if you have to pee or something?"

"Armor is permanent and not removed, except when cause exists and usually only by drone maintenance. Metabolic poisons are removed and hydration levels balanced during the regeneration process. Borg do not pee."

Lacina scrambled to her feet and stared down at Assimilation. "There is no flap or catch or anything? Nothing?"

"Specialized equipment built into drone maintenance and some assimilation units is required to remove armor. The methods you have been employing are inadequate, if removal of torso or groinal armor is your goal. Return this unit to the sub-collective."

Assimilation's obligatory demand went unheard. "Well, what about little Borgs? You know, sex and reproduction? Surely you remove armor for that?" Lacina's voice was rapidly becoming more shrill, more panicked.

"What does assimilation and creche clones grown from genetic templates have to do with reproduction?"

Lacina steeled herself, "Oh, Founder and Father, can you or can you not have sex? Are you even...er...whole, because if you aren't...." The woman trailed off.

Suddenly many things clicked into place. Upon assimilation, certain concepts, such as those of a reproductive nature, became irrelevant to a Borg drone. Assimilation had been aware of the verbal capitalization of 'legacy,' but it had been as meaningless as Lacina's futile efforts to dismantle him. However, Lacina /had not/ been trying to dismantle him, not exactly, but remove a single strategic bit of armor.

"Assimilation left this drone reproductively intact, mostly, although nonfunctional."

Lacina seized upon the words. "Mostly. You are whole? You have all your, um, equipment?"

"Yes, except..."

"If you really wanted to, do /you/ have this specialized equipment to remove your own armor?"

"Yes, but we would not comply with compromising our chassis."

"And what, exactly, do you mean by 'nonfunctional'?"

"Upon assimilation, it is standard procedure to burn out or otherwise disable the synapses associated with libido and reproductive interest, to better focus a unit's energy and attention on the Collective. Because reproductive organs often include glands required for endocrinal health, they are normally left intact unless unit modification requires otherwise."

Lacina stooped for her discarded robe, wrapping it around herself and knotting the ties securely at her waist. "I'm sorry, nephew-cousin, but I don't think I'm up to the challenge you present. However, there is one who is." With that, the woman unlocked the door and left the room, nearly knocking over a candle in her rush. Beyond the egress, two Seltat-faced guards abruptly straightened, projecting the attitude that they absolutely, positively were not voyeuristic eavesdroppers. The door slid shut.

Assimilation was left alone, still tied to the bed, unheard romantic music softly playing. He stared at the ceiling. Unfortunately, the calm (and boring) monotone gray of BIC #1 could not sidetrack his mind from the whirling confusion of impossible genealogies and an artistic cult bent on the reintroduction of fresh Seltat genes into their inbred lineages. On the up side, for the moment he as not depressed.

The room had been redecorated.

Shortly after Lacina had left, the same four burly Commune members who had moved Assimilation entered. They brought furniture, primarily of the folding table variety, and now hundreds of spice-scented votive candles blazed along the room's periphery. Amazingly, no fire alarms had sounded nor had internal cube sensors registered unusual oxygen depletion levels wherever the Newest Age facility was located. Several shaggy faux-fur rugs had been unrolled to cover the floor; and the stereo, still playing soft music, had been moved to a table. The cart, with its tools, remained, pushed discretely against a wall.

Assimilation himself had been released from the bed. Mostly. After fastening a chain around his neck and leashing it to a bracket set into the bed, Assimilation's right arm had been released from its straps, duct tape loosened. Even as the four burly Seltats were leaving, Assimilation had used his new freedom to scrap off the mitten and free his less cybernized, and thus more dexterous, left limb. Following that action, he had awkwardly unbound his legs. It was only after standing up that he discovered that he could neither break nor remove the chain, and that the leash only allowed about one meter of movement from the bed. Assimilation sighed.

Lacina's PADD, forgotten under the bed, caught Assimilation's attention. He bent over to pick it up. It looked like any other PADD, convergent technological evolution leading to a similar endpoint for most species. Knuckles leading, he linked into the device with nanotubules. Drivel. The contents were largely romantic tripe short on plot and long on physical attraction. The novels were overwriting other data, mostly erased, consisting of long numerical strings. Coordinates? Encrypted information? Electronic garbage? Assimilation copied the contents of the PADD to on-board storage, both romances and partially erased data. Nanotubules disengaged and the PADD was dropped.

The door opened as Assimilation was straining to reach the cart, and more specifically, the plasma cutter Lacina had not used. Into the room glided a new Seltat-woman, only the face wasn't a feminized version of Assimilation's pre-Borg visage, but, except for the makeup, an exact match. Needless to say, the face looked out of place when set upon the perfect, statuesque body; and there was a lot of body to see, strategically positioned bits of cut leather held in place either by glue or voodoo.

For some reason, Assimilation was not surprised by the whip the woman held casually curled in her right hand.

"My name is Mykiel, and my relation to you is unimportant. What is important is that when I am done with you, you will be begging for me - or anyone - to have her way with you." The matter-of-fact pronouncement was delivered with ultimate confidence, each syllable separately enunciated.

"We know what you wish to achieve, and it is not possible," stated Assimilation. He automatically calculated the distance between himself and the woman, then internal sighed at the futility as he saw Mykiel had stopped just beyond the reach allowed by the leash.

Mykiel purred as she unlimbered her whip, "I can, and have, made the dead yearn for the pleasure of which they are beyond feeling or caring about. I am Mykiel, and I am a Facilitator." The whip was cracked. Mykiel struck a pose commonly associated with classical Qua'tohf Goddess statues. The leather bits did not fall off.

Assimilation ran his eyes up and down the woman, then dismissed her as irrelevant. The tool cart, that was relevant. If he could reach the plasma cutter, he might be able to free himself; and if could free himself, he might be able to exit the BIC #1 painted prison and rejoin the sub-collective, as his programming was demanding. Admittedly, he would then be returned to a dull, gray boring existence as the head of a hierarchy not allowed to perform its basic function, but such was preferable compared to this inane world of inbred, insular artists who wanted his 'Legacy.'

The whip lashed Assimilation's back, causing no damage, but regaining his full attention.

"I am a Facilitator, and I will Facilitate you!" announced Mykiel. The line was delivered with a subtle innuendo wasted upon Assimilation.

Assimilation stared at Mykiel. "Explain what you will facilitate. The Collective rendered this drone a reproductive neuter upon assimilation."

Another pose was struck. "Many within the Seltat lineage, and other artistic lines, are not vigorous. The juices and energies of life are focused upon art, the body and all its pleasures neglected. To counter this lack of desire, even ability, a mutation was isolated centuries ago from which the lineage Facilitators were bred." A third pose. "With my mind I will directly stimulate your libido, no matter the synapses have been burned. You /will/ desire me. You /will/ desire whomever I tell you to desire. Under my influence you will become a love slave, eager to spread your Legacy, eager for the pleasure only I can stimulate in you." A fourth pose. The leather bits wobbled, but continued to remain in place, defying artificial gravity. "I am Mykiel! You will be Facilitated!"

Watching Mykiel with unblinking eye for several long heartbeats, Assimilation once more turned away to focus on the tool cart. "I am Borg," he muttered under his breath, "and as current head of this sub-collective's assimilation hierarchy, I declare the entire Commune mentally unbalanced and would detract from Perfection. You will not be assimilated." Maybe if he pulled hard enough on the chain, the bed would move?

The whip cracked once, twice over shoulders, then was worked down Assimilation's back until his thighs felt the lash. Irrelevant. Body armor only slightly less dense than a tactical unit prevented damage from such an anachronistic weapon. The whipping ceased.

A tickle grew deep in Assimilation's brain. He paused his straining upon the leash. Straightening, Assimilation cocked his head, darkened optical input, and plunged inwards to examine the new sensation. Had his neural transceiver locked onto a Borg fractal subspace frequency, perhaps through a door carelessly left ajar?

It was not his neural transceiver. The synaptic firing rate of a ganglion cluster located deep in his forward occipital lobe had been elevated from normal near zero to a level well beyond his personal accepted parameters. Assimilation pivoted, then reinitialized visual input, prepared to tell Mykiel to cease trying to mess with his brain. He paused, words dying upon his lips. Eye widened. It was the most beautiful vision he had beheld in a long time!

The candles! They were the most delicate hue of rose spiked with cinnamon, the perfect visual accompaniment to their spicy scent. Flickering yellows and oranges, shaded by just a hint of cauliflower blue, danced the eternal ballet of the flame. Complex shadows upon the wall were a silent play, half-seen animals living fleeting existences as they leapt through each other in time with the candle's unheard symphony.

Mykiel deliberately stepped into the allowed zone of Assimilation's chain, placing herself square in his line of sight. The leather bits were no longer present; and the wrap of whip around her waist was the only item which 'clothed' her. "Take me. I know you want to. You cannot resist me," said Mykiel, eyes closed, arms held wide for an embrace, thin Seltat-lips pursed into a pout.

Assimilation roughly shoved Mykiel aside. How dare she place her boring, mundane body between himself and perfect color, perfect art. The candles were Assimilation's universe, the plastic of the table, the subtle shading of the rugs. Rich colors had replaced grayscale doldrums.

The sounds of Mykiel levering herself off the floor were unimportant, as was the whip which neatly cut a candle in two. The splash of wax against the wall, however, was fascinating, as were the minute changes in hue and luster as the splatters cooled, solidified.

"By the Founders, what the hell is going on? You are supposed to fixate on me, not some stupid mood prop!" A hand dared to touch Assimilation's shoulder, shook it hard. "Hello! Beautiful, naked woman here, well-versed in all 724 sexual positions, able to take the most inward-looking artist to unbelievable heights of passion and pleasure. A woman who has the endurance to last for hour after sweaty, athletic hour. A woman who is theoretically twisting your mind around so that you have the self-will of an aroused milet stud let loose in a herd of receptive mares."

The candle's halo was a delicate thing, a gossamer shade of translucent yellow which reflected in the shining pool of liquid rose wax.

Long silence, then "Screw this. I, Mykiel, refuse to compete with a prop. I am going to leave and let you get your little candle fetish out of your system. When I come back, however, you'd better have a certain piece of armor off and be ready to spread a little bit of Legacy around." Mykiel's voice continued as a mutter as the slap of bare feet receded towards the door.

Synaptic activity of a certain ganglion cluster abruptly plunged to zero. Between one flame flicker and the next, the beauty which was the candle had been reduced to mere molded wax set aflame, all in shades of gray.

Assimilation's head swiveled to focus on Mykiel. The woman was still hissing complaints under her breath as she returned discarded leather to their former strategic locations. The link between color and woman with self-professed psychic ability was quickly made. Assimilation lunged at the Facilitator, but was brought to an abrupt stop by the leash. "Give them back to me!" he choked, arms flailing.

Mykiel silently scrutinized the Borg, never flinching, eyes narrowed. "Your candles are right over there, grandfather-uncle. I suppose near six centuries of forced celibacy is enough to drive anyone insane. When you are done learning that a candle will not quench your desire, I will return."

Assimilation heaved his body forward, feeling the bed slide slightly in response. The broken spring squeaked. He fell stiffly to his knees, and from that position was almost able to reach Mykiel's calf. The woman backed a step. "You will give me the colors! Comply!" Already the memory of hues not gray was slipping away like dry sand escaping a clenched fist.

"You are insane, old man," stated Mykiel, confusion on her face. She retreated another pair of steps, but had now reached the door.

On hands and knees, Assimilation scrambled forwards. The heavy bed, although an immense anchor, followed, legs scraping against floor in a most unpleasant manner. "Comply! Colors! Comply!" He pawed at her feet.

Mykiel kicked at Assimilation's imploring hand. "Stop it!"

The bed shifted another centimeter.

The Facilitator turned and frantically began to prod the door's open button. When nothing happened, she started to smack the door with the flat of her palm and loudly shout, "Someone! I know you are out there! Get me the hell out of here now! This thing has gone completely insane!"

"The scans confirm it: the region central to libido and sexual interest has been completely excised, not just burned. There is nothing left, unless you want to count the metallic blob in its place."

"Then what did I stimulate?"

"Well, as you know, cousin-cousin, the primary visual assembly ganglion is near the libido cluster; and in the Seltat lineage in particular, the enhanced size of the former is inversely related to the atrophied size of the latter. You couldn't know that there was no libido to stimulate, so I would guess you...missed. The visual assembly ganglion shows signs of chemical burn and extreme synaptic degradation. I do not think our Founder can see color, which might explain some of the puzzles surrounding the pre-Dark, pre-Alliance conspiracy histories. When you directly stimulated the neurons..."

"I understand. For awhile there, I thought I'd lost my Facilitator touch to a votive candle. Now I wish he'd stop staring at me. Borg: aren't your eyes just a tiny bit dry? Blink, damn it."

Assimilation, had he cared to volunteer the information, could have told Wali - Voice #1 - that the compact nature of the species #5252 libido ganglion cluster made its complete removal standard assimilation procedure, unlike the more diffuse networks of other races which necessitated laser, sonic disruption, or caustic cell burn. However, Assimilation was not only once more secured to an examination table in the original room to which he had awoke, but his jaw was duct taped into immobility, so speaking was not possible. Besides, even if he could speak, information would not have been the topic, but rather demands, imploration, outright begging for Mykiel - Voice #2 - to return the glorious colors.

Lacina walked into the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've been told to relay that we will be leaving in two hours, by the Hermit's request." She was dressed once more in utilitarian jumpsuit. "Toolot had a drawing. He tried to elicit comment from the Holy One. I think the poor boy needs psychological assistance before he is allowed to continue pursuit of Newest Age style enlightenment. Or at least he should have automatic fire extinguishers strapped to him."

Mykiel winced. As with Lacina, bedroom-ware had been swapped for shapeless, unsexy clothing. "Was there any damage?"

"The Hermit has told the Council that the singeing will disappear after his next moult. The tapestries, on the other hand, will be a wee bit harder to fix." Silence. "Sister-niece Wali, what about the Founder's Legacy? We cannot take the Father outside the facility's walls without risk of the Borg noticing, much less steal him away to the Commune."

Assimilation focused on Mykiel, occasionally making "Mmmm! Mmmmmm!" noises in lue of speech. The sub-collective would not care about a single, imperfect drone (reality of root level compulsion to the contrary). Take him! He would do anything, try anything for color. Armor? No problem. Except for intervening circumstances, Assimilation had previously accepted the ideas of betraying the Collective and allowing the universe be destroyed for the sake of color. The current problem was trivial: experiments with devices and chemical stimulants would surely take care of any performance difficulties. Color! "Mmmmm!"

"That does it. Enough staring. Where is that roll?" Assimilation's last sight before the descent of enforced darkness was Mykiel slapping a strip of duct tape over his eye and ocular implant. He switched to radar - sensors were embedded in small epidermal patches at the periphery of his face - but the resolution was less than crisp.

"What about his Legacy?" asked Lacina.

Wali answered, "We don't really need gametes, although perpetual cultures made from such are preferred by the Commune geneticists, as is natural conception. I'll just take a strip of skin and hope the techs back at the Commune can wash out the nanites and culture the cells."

Internal diagnostics reported deep epidermal damage to the exposed skin of his right arm. The damage would heal, but a five centimeter by thirty centimeter section had just been flayed. An epidermal regenerator was suggested by diagnostics for swifter repair of the compromised limb.

"He is still staring at me," said Mykiel, arm akimbo. "I've things to pack, candles to crate. I'll see you on the ship for dinner, after a Facilitation session scheduled for a certain brother-son."

Assimilation frantically "Mmmmm!"ed as Mykiel left the small room. He slumped against the table's restraints in defeat.

"I wish I had the genes to be a Facilitator," sighed Lacina in admiration. "Wali, since we can't take Father with us, what is going to happen to him? I do hope we aren't going to kill him. He is Borg, but...he is a Founder." She voiced extreme concern.

Wali laughed. "You are still young, my sister-aunt! If we killed our Father Founder here, especially after discovering him to be alive after so many centuries, he would be gone! Facilitators like Mykiel love a challenge, even if she is acting a bit prickly right now. I'm sure she'll eventually convince the full Genetic Council that the health of the Seltat lineage is paramount; and the best course of action is for the Commune to harvest his Legacy properly. A few skin cells will not suffice."

Lacina giggled. "I expect not."

"Before we leave, I'll mix some sleepy juice and shoot up Seltat. That should knock out even him with his Borg defenses just long enough to wrap him in a TransPulse blanket and dump him in a corridor. By the time he comes to, we'll be gone and he will not be able to find the Newest Age facility."

Lacina changed the topic. "I've been assigned to help Toolot and the other boys pack. Do you want to help? It will make things go faster if you were there to steady your husband before he lights something else on fire."

"No problem."

Radar painting a fuzzy (and gray) picture, Assimilation's attention had never wavered from the doorway Mykiel had passed, ears only peripherally registering conversation between sisters, between aunt and niece. The two were ignored as they exited the room. Only Mykiel was important, for only she could return the colors. A rose (gray) candle, a flickering (gray) flame..."Mmmm! Mmm-mmmm!"

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