Star Traks - BorgSpace Season 8: Lexx Talionis

Star Trek was once created by Paramount

But Decker made Traks as a brain fount

Then Meneks came to play

With BorgSpace as the way

And now there are too many stories to count

Lexx Talionis

The sub-collective of Cube #347 was lost. Well, not precisely lost - the situation was both more and less complicated - but "lost" was as good a descriptor as any. The basic problem was all navigational files had been deleted; and without navigational "sign posts" or labeled destinations, the entirety of the universe had become the equivalent of "Here Be Dragons."

The cube knew it was traversing a galaxy, if only because the definition of a galaxy was a large group of gravitationally bound stars. Unfortunately, neither galaxy nor stars had designations. Somewhere awaited Cube #347's Unimatrix 013 destination, except it was unknown if it was near or far, galactic north or south, rimward or coreward. Borg being Borg, pulling over to ask for direction was never contemplated. Assimilating new navigational maps from a target was acceptable, but the unvoiced sub-collective consensus agreed it was better to drive into an unmarked spatial anomaly than inquire the location of the nearest Borg depot.

Cube #347 was enroute to a yellow dwarf star. Files of non-navigational subjects implied that civilizations were most likely to be found at such stellar addresses. A sentient, space-faring culture would have star maps to acquire; and if the cube was lucky, a Borg presence would be there as well. However, luck was an irrelevant concept. Reality and past experience being what they were, the sub-collective had modeled many scenarios, from the likeliest of a barren solar system to a major Second Federation secret military base.

"Ho! Ho! Ho! And I'm not a'laughing! This is the /real/ deal: no holos here, unless you, the customer, desire. With a wide selection of products to meet your every need, Love Station is your premiere out-of-the-way hide-a-way to exploit your most wicked and kinky perversion. Special orders and group rates upon request," bellowed a cheerfully bass voice, an omnidirectional subspace broadcast intercepted by the sensory hierarchy. A second voice replaced the first, artificial in nature and the verbal equivalent of a blur. It required slow replay to understand the words: "Cash or credit accepted. No checks. Gold latinum preferred. The management is not responsible for diseases, parasites, or injuries to the customer due to inappropriate or physically incompatible service. All services are provided at the customer's caution. Wavers are required."

The innuendos, and their significance, were completely lost upon the sub-collective.

Cube #347 braked from hypertranswarp to low warp, angling into a curving vector. A secondary channel to the advertisement included coordinates, but the galactic grid system had been part and parcel of the lost navigational files. They were forced to triangulate probable transmission origin, a process made easier as the message was rebroadcast every 2.3 minutes.

{Acquired,} informed Sensors.

Captain automatically stepped from his alcove to tier walkway as regeneration deactivated.

In Captain's nodal intersection, a holographic map with a fluorescent-peach Cube #347 at the central coordinate shimmered into existence. A cooling red dwarf star 1.32 light years distant was the source of the transmissions. There were no indications of regularly traveled star lanes nearby, which made the placement of Love Station a question mark for even smuggler hideouts required traffic to survive. Fading wakes of sporadic visitations attested to some business, but the most recent track was outbound two time periods prior.

No matter, Love Station would have navigational maps.

Captain entered his nodal intersection, taking position in the middle of the room. He stared at the scene, not really registering the Sensor-induced colors. Most of his attention was turned inward as consensus was debated upon what course of action to follow. The Love Station option was the most promising to further the goal of gaining maps, although various sub-factions were disputing upon what exactly to do once the cube arrived.

{Enough,} said Captain. {Consensus to change course for Love Station. We shall determine action once we are sufficiently close to scan defenses.} Cube #347 responded to the final vector alteration by command and control, angling towards the red dwarf star around which Love Station orbited.

Cube #347 aggressively approached Love Station to visual range, for not only were Borg unsubtle, long-distance scans had revealed a decided lack of defenses. While the station had a massive energy signature, signifying a huge power core, that energy was directed towards numerous non-military on-board facilities. Other than dust-abatement lasers and rock deflecting forcefields, neither of which were necessary in the barren red dwarf system, offensive and/or defensive technology was nil. This was a station a moderately enabled runabout could assault.

Weapons had cube armaments active, just in case. The "just in case" scenarios spun by Weapons for his hierarchy were many, often centering around a fleet of secret stealth ships.

Captain, after confirming the lock on offensive weapons so as to prevent inadvertent destruction of the target before it could be evaluated, absently directed a visual datastream to the holoemitters in his nodal intersection. A miniature Love Station materialized, hovering one meter above the deck plates.

"That's a brothel!" exclaimed Second, also present in the nodal intersection due to boredom from the view from his alcove: the Buck Rogeresque space-fantasy landscape painted on the opposite side of the shaft had been recently returned to BorgStandard gray.

Captain blinked, then set the station to slowly spinning. "A what?"

"A brothel. A facility at which..."

"I know the definition of a brothel," interrupted Captain. "How can you tell just by an image?" Second gave Captain a Look which was echoed by its dataspace equivalent. "Never mind. And I refuse to dig through your mind for an answer."

Love Station's basic form was cylindrical, not an unusual shape. However, knowing the station's primary commercial interest, it now seemed a bit more phallic than your usual cylinder, especially as one end of the 300 meter long structure tapered to a rounded point. The flat end sprouted eight docking pylons, four long and curling forth like skinny fingers, the remainder short nubs. For vessels of runabout size, a round entrance opened to darkness within the station, central the docking pylons.

The station's paint job was an odd orange-tinged flesh tone.

Giant holographic words of red-purple floated just above the station's hull plates, each letter tens of meters high. The words were repeated in triplicate, blinking thrice in a vertically arranged visual shout. "SEX SEX SEX" flashed, replaced by "GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS," then "BOYS BOYS BOYS." The gaudy advertisement continued with "HERMAPHROS," "ANDROIDS," "SHEEP," "TARGS," SEAWEED," and "SHOES." Following the incomprehensible addition of footwear, the sign recycled to "SEX."

Beneath the holographic glare, the hull itself was subtly shaded with giant figures performing impossible acts. The bipeds (and quadrupeds, hexapods, and octopeds) were painted so as not to draw the eye like the flashy words hovering overhead, but once spotted, the observer jumped from impossibility to improbability, morbidly fascinated at what could not be.

{I know that is not possible,} said 104 of 133, highlighting a certain trio of figures interacting with what appeared to be a feathered crocodile. {Not unless one surgically adds a joint between knee and hip. Pre-assimilation, I had a client opt for just such a surgery.}

Captain's head snapped sideways as a flat window opened, indicating the acceptance of a hail from Love Station. The audiovisual stream resolved to...

"If you are here about that little Borg Queen fantasy, I can explain. Really. Don't assimilate me," whined the flamboyantly dressed Ferengi.

The Ferengi, like all his kind, was large of ear, bare of hair, and orange of skin. His sharp, snaggled teeth were an orthodontist's nightmare. It was his dress which was strangely different. A zoot-suit of lime green, or at least the jacket as the screen only showed waist and above, contrasted horribly with epidermis. The jacket was partially open to show a deeply cut cream shirt heavy on the ruffles. While the Ferengi's chest had no hair, it was the resting platform of a number of heavy, gold medallions of abstract, but more than slightly suggestive, form. On the Ferengi's head was a matching wide-brimmed, lime green hat; and around his neck was a Technicolor feather boa. One hand tightly clutched the head of a gold, black, and bone cane that had more than a passing resemblance to a certain Ferengi male body part.

Cube #347 glided to a halt. Captain allowed Weapons to achieve an active lock, although weapons restrictions were not lifted.

"We are Borg," was the Ferengi's only response, the rest of the normal greeting cut. The Ferengi and his "staff" would not be assimilated; and it was highly doubtful any unique, non-procreational technologies were present which would further Perfection. Some things were self-evident, even without input from the Greater Consciousness.

The Ferengi cringed. "I can explain. Really! Just don't assimilate me! It was supposed to an one-off request, a specially ordered fantasy. Then word got around, and next thing I know..." Further explanations were ignored as the sensor grid felt and [tasted] a space-time disturbance originating 7.2 kilometers away, on the far side of Love Station.

The ripples crescendoed, then faded as the form of a giant bug resolved.

*****

"See," whined a voice which was, if the owner had known, extraordinarily similar to that of a certain Ferengi brothel owner, "as captain, I can make decisions without help from a dead guy."

Sighed the silhouette of a head located at floor level, "Kai...."

A female voice of reason, curiously cold even as it was seductive, scoffed, "You drove us straight into the purple mist. We were supposed to go the other direction."

"Ah-ha! That's what /they/ thought I was going to do as well! I fooled them, used my brain as a great captain should."

"You panicked. And not for the first time."

"Xev..." whined the erstwhile captain.

"Stanley..." mimicked Xev.

"Kai..." sighed the head again.

"Shut up, 790," said both humans at once, to the great consternation of both.

Stanley Tweedle, captain of the powerful Lexx, was not an imposing man. In fact, he was the very opposite of everything imposing stood for. A weak chinned, sallow-faced, insecure, middle-aged human with a penchant for sweating, except for an accident which left him as sole captain of the Lexx, he had been fated to a short, likely fatal, and definitely unimportant career as a security guard, class four. Dressed in the same red uniform and hat of his former job, he had never quite been able to exchange them for something more "captainly." While Stanley claimed he had yet to find clothing suitably dashing, reality dictated it was because Stanley had never psychologically found himself worthy of the planet-buster Lexx.

Whereas Stanley currently sat in a very organic command chair, Xev paced across a slightly lower dais which occupied the center of the command chamber. Seductive human in form topped with red hair, her movements were animalistic, that of a cold-blooded killing creature thwarted and barely held in check. Such was Xev when she was annoyed with Stanley, which was most times. Her outfit was a revealing number made of rust and black lizard hide.

Sharing the dais with Xev, but remaining deftly out of the way, was a chunky robot head on a mobile skateboard platform. At one time, 790 had been in love (lust?) with Xev, but now harbored a fascination for the absent one called Kai.

Xev stopped, turning to face the chair. "So, where are we Stanley? Do you even have a clue?" Hands rested on hips.

Stanley gulped, forcing away certain fantasies which did not mesh with the glaring reality below. "Just a moment." He waved his right hand vaguely towards the front of the chamber and muttered a few orders. The vast bow wall dissolved to an enormous exterior view revealing a space station and a very large cube. "Not lost at all."

"But where are we?" insisted Xev.

Muttered 790, "Captain Dum-Dum has no clue."

"Stellar configurations are unknown," interjected the calm voice of the Lexx in response to its captain's inquiry.

Stanley stiffened. "Of course...um...no, the Lexx can't place exactly where we are," he said as he read a scrolling screen next to the exterior view. "We aren't in the Dark Zone, though, nor the Light. We aren't anywhere the Lexx recognizes."

Grumbled Xev, "We're lost. Why don't we ask them over there for directions?"

"Well..." wavered Stanley, stuck between masculine desire to show that he was perfectly able to figure out where he was without asking and knowledge that Xev was right. The former was winning when a surround-sound beep indicated that the Lexx was intercepting a transmission. Stanley waved a hand to turn on the speakers.

"A whorehouse!" exclaimed Stanley. "What luck! Um, er, exactly where I planned on taking us!"

790 drove his skateboard back and forth. "What a base creature you are, thinking only of your sexual pleasure and need. Unlike my pure love for Kai."

Xev rolled her eyes, both at 790's proclamation and Stanley's assertion. She was not against the idea of a little bit of fun - if anything, her libido demanded it - it was just that Stanley was so /pathetic/ when he stated the obvious. No, Stanley was just pathetic, period.

"Let's go ask for directions," said Stanley eagerly, managing to turn the entire innocent phrase into innuendo. "The moth bay...hey, who the hell are you?" The last was directed to the pale, device-encrusted humanoids who had just appeared out of thin air on the command dais.

*****

The appearance of the gigantic insect ship had instantly drawn the sub-collective's attention. While "size of Manhattan Island" was a colorful, if irrelevant, descriptor of the shear magnitude of the beast, the reality was that it would require nearly /three/ Lugger-class cubes, the largest in the Borg stable, set side-by-side to surpass the intruder's bulk. Needless to say, a mere Exploratory-class cube such as Cube #347, not to mention the even smaller Love Station, was quite overshadowed.

In form, the vessel was the mother of all wingless dragonflies, immense facetted eyes of changeable color dominating the bow. The rest of the body was a black expanse of crags, wrinkles, and crevices upon which had been crudely grafted mechanical contrivances. The abdomen "tail," comprising nearly half of the ship's total length, emitted an immense power signature, much more than necessary to provide propulsion, even for such a massive body. Reality following form, the giant insect ship was alive, displaying as a solid lifesign to Cube #347 sensors.

Living, space-faring entities were not unknown to the Borg, although they tended to be much smaller. They was the Collective's bogeyman, an assemblage of highly modified beings which were the organic equivalent Borg. On a smaller scale, species #3577, communal parasites evolved on a gas giant, had once bred monstrous hosts with which to journey beyond their atmosphere and to the stars. Finally there was the extinct Dark, bastardized products of genetic manipulation created by the Borg itself as part of a long-range scheme that precipitated both Hive and the Dark War.

The insect ship appeared to be the unusual culmination of technologies where genetic manipulation had been just as important, if not more so, than traditional mechanical devices. The civilizations of the Milky Way, except for a few notable examples, had followed the much easier path of metal and electron, foraying into genetics only after mechanical engineering had shaped and set society. The Borg were no exception, and could even be viewed as a collage of the galaxy's prevalent technological mindset.

Assimilation of new technologies immediately rose to priority within the sub-collective's mostly collective Mind. Star charts from Love Station would have to wait. Defenses, offensives, even propulsion of the insect ship were unknowns, but thus far, in the less than minute required for the sub-collective to shift priorities, it had done nothing. Such argued that the insect ship, despite its biological origin, either had no higher cognitive abilities, else was tightly controlled. In either case, a crew must be present; and a crew was much more easily subjugated than a humongous bug.

Love Station and protesting Ferengi pimp (unaware of the new visitor) were shifted to the side of Captain's nodal intersection, replaced in the position of central prominence by the insect ship. It was a visual representation of Cube #347's new priority. Areas within the insect ship began to blink as the sensor grid stripped away the vessel's omnipresent lifesign to reveal possible crew within.

Weapons and assimilation drones were beamed to the highlighted coordinates. Less than four minutes had passed since the alien ship's arrival, barely sufficient time for an argument over purple mist, blame assignment, and if a certain whorehouse should be consulted for directions.

Of the three squads dispatched to the insect, the team sent to the deep bowels of the vessel was the first to comment on surroundings. The location contained the highest concentration of non-ship lifesigns, according to sensors.

{Eeewww!} said 127 of 300. Her exclamation was echoed with variations upon {Disgusting,} {Smelly,} {Squishy,} and {What just slithered over my feet?} Only 31 of 300, origination an overpopulated swamp world, had no objection.

Assault Squad #2, beamed to a dorsal locale at the juncture of body with tail, reported next. Images from 72 of 212 and others showed twelve mothlike creatures standing quiescent on six landing struts (legs?) in what a non-organic ship would term a shuttlebay. Other than a slight twitch of wing or absent stamping of leg, the moths showed no awareness that their nest had been invaded.

The final squad, dispatched to a cavernous space in the body behind the massive eyes, hit the metaphorical jackpot.

"...hey, who the hell are you?" asked a sallow-faced man in an unfashionable red uniform as he stood from an elevated chair on a centrally raised dais.

The "technology first, people second" method of Collective thinking had been modified many centuries earlier after the Greater Consciousness had been repeatedly bruised by a First Federation ship designated Enterprise. The contemporary Collective attempted to secure potential assimilees where possible, even if it was later determined that the targets would not be assimilated. The adjustment had vastly decreased incidents of guerilla warfare. In this case, unless Assault Squad #1 found an intelligence in the sewerlike pit they were searching, or Assault Squad #2 located something other than moth shuttles, the two (three?) on the dais represented the whole of the crew on the insect ship.

The Cube #347 sub-collective had learned to distrust situations which included understaffing on giant vessels. The more undercrewed and/or the larger the ship, the greater the suspicion. Large ships typically required large crews, unless /something/, like a face-eating alien, had happened. The insect vessel was extremely understaffed and extraordinarily huge.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded the human male again. As he stood defiant, fists to his side, he trembled despite his bluster. "If you don't tell me right now, I'll...I'll...I'll call for the rest of the crew! And they are big, bigger than you!"

"Stanley..." called a hollow, omnidirectional voice.

"Since when did we get crew, Stanley?" asked what appeared to be a robot head balanced on a wheeled platform. It spoke over the bodiless voice. "The toilet ate that cleaning maid we abducted; and then there was the druggie who suicided by jumping in to the pit. The moth breeders don't care about anything beyond the moths."

Stanley appeared as if he was ready to jump off his chair platform to kick the robot head, but such an action would bring him closer to the assault squad.

Repeated the mild Voice again, "Stanley..."

"We are Borg," said 253 of 300, who had just lost the virtual drawing of straws for speaker. "No other complex biological entity exists on this vessel; and we do not find sign of mechanical intelligence. ("Hey!" exclaimed the robot head.) You are to be secured and removed to Cube #347 for further observation."

"Stanley, I'm hungry..."

In addition to the red-uniformed human and the robot head, a female human clothed in leather was present. Up to this point she had done nothing, but now she growled with a bass rumble that was incongruous with her appearance.

Stanley stared upwards. "Not now, Lexx."

Weapons, directing the assault from afar, bade the units of Assault Squad #3 to take all necessary measures. He then turned his attention from boring biologicals to the dank hell Assault Squad #1 was mired in. There were distinct possibilities there for a holographic tactical scenario.

In response to Weapons' urging, six of the twelve tactical drones of the squad pointed arms at the snarling woman. Mounted disruptors powered up with an audible whine.

"I am Stanley Tweedle, captain of the Lexx. I order you to stop?" said Stanley with less than authoritative force.

"But I'm really hungry..."

Said Leather Woman, "Stanley, shut up."

"Yah, Stanley, what Xev said, shut up," repeated the robot head.

253 of 300 stared up at the less than imposing Stanley, then began to alter her visual feed, drawing horns, a goatee, and a two-piece bathing suit onto an overlay image. Several of her squadmates struggled not to giggle lest they ruin the image of stern, dispassionate Borg.

{Cease,} ordered Second, playing watchdog. {Secure them and bring them back to the cube.}

253 of 300 sighed as the overlay was wiped by the secondary consensus monitor and facilitator, then mounted the steps to the chair. 187 of 212 followed behind. Stanley backed away as far as he could without falling off, tripping over the chair. The human's scramble was stopped by the expedient action of one drone to an arm and physically lifting him off the deck and carrying him down to the raised dais.

10 of 212 picked up the robot head and mobile platform. "You're even uglier up close," was the thing's comment.

None of the squad were willing to approach Xev, not with the bestial rumble emitting from her.

"Hungry..."

"Not now, Lexx. You'll have to hold it," called Stanley to the air.

It had already been decided that no other intelligence, organic or Personality, existed on the gigantic bug ship; and there was no obvious fourth entity on the dais speaking. Therefore, to the Borg, the voice did not exist.

{Transporter activate, lock on [list of designations and local spatial coordinates of non-Borg],} intoned 253 of 300. {Destination: subsection 13, submatrix 12, Supply Closet #27.} The supply closet in question had been designated an adequate holding facility until the question of assimilate-or-not-assimilate was answered. The two humanoids gasped surprise as all were beamed to Cube #347.

"But I am /really/ hungry," called the Lexx to the air and its absent captain.

Other than the grunt of escaping air as 156 of 212 was kicked in the midsection by a moth shuttle, silence reigned on the Lexx. The quiet was interrupted less than a minute later as the buzz of hundreds of transporters announced the arrival of drones prepared to catalogue, sample, and dissect the technology of the insect ship.

Doctor arrived amid the confusion, hiding his transport signature. This vast creature was alive! He only wanted to see with his own eyes and feel with his own hands the giant buggy-wuggy. Clicking his incisors together, ears held alertly upright, Doctor reached out a hand and laid it on a faintly warm and definitely slimy-wet wall.

*****

Adrek nervously pulled the lobe of his right ear. He longed for one of the girls (names were unimportant) to massage away his growing headache, but did not dare, not with that damned cube so close. The big bug ship on the other screen, at least the bit that would fit considering how near the thing was, was not comforting neither. Adrek assumed the Borg were occupied with Bug Ship, but it wasn't like the station could go anywhere; and if he /did/ try something stupidly heroic - not that, as a Ferengi, he would chose to do so - attention (and weapons) were likely to return to him.

"Hello? Anyone there? Hello?" tried Adrek for the twentieth time. His answer remained a cartoonishly written "Your hail is important! Please stand by!" scrawled in a childish script and set amid a scene of two-dimensional flowers, birds, and stick people. No attempt had been made to stay within the lines. It looked suspiciously like a piece of posterboard had been set in front of a camera.

Adrek sighed, then leaned back in his chair. Eyes flicked to the clock, then to a secondary screen of his office. Gold on gold sounded loud as beringed fingers played with necklaces. Hell with it.

"Computer, load 'Cassie Does Qo'noS.' Play on screen two in my office." Maybe some light entertainment would chase the headache away.

*****

Stanley, Xev, and 790 had been abandoned in, well, a big, bare room. Mostly bare, anyway, except for a small heap of chewed dog toys and well-furrowed cat scratch furniture. While the dead-looking cyborg fellows didn't seem the type to keep pets, one could not always tell.

After the organic rooms of the Lexx, the flat metal of the prison was oddly cold despite the air's ambient warmth and overly sticky humidity.

Immediately following the cyborgs vanishing into thin air - how /did/ they do that? - Stanley ran to a door-shaped rectangle and began beating on it. "You can't keep us here! Let us out! We are...are very important people! I'm the captain of the Lexx!" The man's voice raised to the squeak of hysterical registers.

Returned to the ground, 790 rolled his skateboard back and forth a few times, testing the steering. He made a rude, electronic noise as Stanley's hysterics verged on tears. "Be a man, or at least a facsimile thereof. Now, if Kai had been awake, we would not be in this mess. Even better, if Kai was alive and you the dead man, then I'd have my honeybunch and you could be flushed into space like the sack of garbage you are."

"Let us out! Out! There's no /bathroom/ in here!"

"790's right," said Xev with the calm of a trapped beast awaiting the chance to maul its captor.

"Hah!" crowed 790.

Stanley turned, "What? You want to flush me to space?"

"Well, maybe," admitted Xev, "since you are such a girly-man. What I definitely agree with is that if Kai had been awake, then we would not be stuck."

790 drove in a circle, happily chanting "Kai! Kai! Kai! Kai!"

"And that helps us how?" shouted Stanley over the robot head's sing-song.

Xev sighed. "It doesn't. I'm just stating a truth." Pause. "Two truths."

"But we need a plan!" shouted Stanley, control lost, not that such had been present in the beginning.

Another shrug. "I'm sure one will show up." Xev sauntered to the pile of broken pet items, idly picking up a de-squeaked rubber toy in the shape of a bone. She warily sniffed it.

"Kai! Kai! Kai! Kai!" continued 790, as if the mere name would summon forth an Assassin demon.

Stanley gave a whine of frustration, then returned to banging on the door with his bare hands.

*****

"Stanley? I feel funny in my tummy..."

*****

On board the Lexx, tactical drones avidly moved from chamber to chamber, pronouncing things like {Clear!} as the insect ship was secured. Unfortunately, given the volume of the vessel and the number of available drones, it was estimated 1.3 years would be required for a complete initial survey. Assimilation units, loitering quite a bit behind despite their official role as back up in the event of surprising something sentient, only rarely encountered fresh disruptor marks. At the core of the search areas, engineering drones were beginning to catalogue the captured vessel, although due to the fact that it was quite a bit more organic than technologic, Delta was insisting that the task was better suited to assimilation or drone maintenance hierarchies. And, of course, amid the "official" units, there was the occasional sightseer.

So far, a bathroom near the command chamber was the biggest draw.

{Let me try,} said 117 of 480, taking the bowl of, um, food from 93 of 152. Bowl and green gloop had been found in a presumed galley. 117 of 480 scooped out a handful of the runny pudding substance and dribbled it into a horizontal orifice situated about knee high at the side of the bathroom.

The toilet accepted the gloop with an audible slurping noise, followed by a loud belch. After a moment, a tongue-like organ emerged from the orifice, automatically cleaning the seat for the next customer. Comments about the tongue's possible function as a bidet were numerous.

{Nifty,} declared 117 of 480 as the bowl was passed to the next drone.

In the shower stall, 88 of 203 was entranced by the gently swinging phallus which was the shower head, a visual innuendo. The sight was inspiring a new cycle of obscene limericks, a poetry form 88 of 203 was obsessed by. He lisped: "There once was a man from Chowder / Who went to take a sudsy shower / But the soap was dropped / ..."

Meanwhile, in the sewers, only Weapons and a few elite (i.e., most likely to confirm a valid target /before/ shooting wildly) drones were prowling the odiferous maze. It was estimated the volume was roughly equivalent to that of an Exploratory-class cube. The depository of the Lexx's own waste products, as well as those of its crew, enzymes and bacteria worked to break down the obnoxious mess to a substance able to be reabsorbed by the ship. However, there were a number of larger lifeforms, unknown if symbiotes or parasites, living in the muck and darkness. Thus far, none of the exploded, crisped, fried, or otherwise terminated targets had displayed intelligence, but, just to confirm lack of sentience, Weapons was satisfied to continue the hunt. Besides, he was gathering very good raw data for his new set of BorgSpace assault scenarios.

The item /not/ found by either official units or omnipresent tourists was anything recognizable as a computer. Most of the vessel remained to be searched, but even in the command chamber where the two humans and robot head had been captured there was nothing. Oh, there were devices for display, scanning, and so on, but they all seemed to be linked directly to the presumptive bundles of lower order nerve cells which lay beneath the chamber walls.

The odd voice occasionally complaining of hunger was dismissed as irrelevant.

If the ship computer was determined to be wholly organic, as well as utterly alien, the attempt to understand it would require a wee bit longer than normal. Okay, a lot longer.

{Well, this room is different,} commented 20 of 83, point drone for Security Squad #5.b, as he strolled into a new chamber. Thus far, all rooms encountered by the group, in addition to sporting a disturbingly organic style, had been variations upon sleeping or living quarters. The normal crew composition was calculated to be quite a bit larger than 2 (or 3). This area included actual machines for engineering hierarchy to poke and prod. Even better, their design was distinctly different from the equipment grafted to the Lexx and appeared to connect to the ship solely via an electrical cord.

63 of 83 followed behind, craning her head as she entered. "Yes, you are right."

"Let me see," said 114 of 212, armed raised just in case a threat presented. He quickly panned the room, noting a distinct lack of slathering, acid-blood aliens. "Bah, nothing important here. I am returning to examination of that suspicious hole in the hallway ceiling." The drone, source of a number of "accidental" disruptor burns, including one which had scored a now maintenance-bound 198 of 212, slipped away.

20 of 83 carefully examined the equipment. He blinked, then took a step closer to the coffin object which appeared to be the focus of the device. Wiping away a buildup of ice crystals, a form inside was revealed. "Cryofreeze?"

"Why freeze a dead body so elaborately?" asked 63 of 83, before adding pragmatically, "It would be easier to subject the body to hullside temperatures. Instant corpsicle." If the body had been alive, even in hibernation, sensors on Cube #347 would have registered it.

Both drones paused a moment, heads cocked slightly as they listened to new directions. {Compliance,} they said simultaneously, 20 of 83 slightly faster than 63 of 83.

"I'll examine the console," said 63 of 83. "You check that pile of scrap by the wall for a crowbar if random button pushing doesn't work."

"Yes," agreed 20 of 83. Assimilation hierarchy desired the body - a human male, by appearance - for dissection. If the cryogenic coffin refused to open the proper way, then classic brutal finesse was a secondary option.

There was a click, followed by the hiss of super-cold air hitting moist, heated atmosphere. 20 of 83 swiveled towards the coffin. "You did it...but where is the body?"

63 of 83 blinked. "I did nothing: not one button did I press. The cryofreeze opened itself. And what do you mean no body?" 63 of 83 was not in a position to view the coffin directly.

"No body is no body," impatiently said 20 of 83, flinging his visual stream at 63 of 83. The latter took the requisite sideways step to view the sight for herself.

{Intruder! Invader!} spouted 114 of 212. His video feed was a blur of pale human in an oddly stylish black suit and really tall hair with a long fly-away sweeping across the left side of his face. Blur became darkness as 114 of 212 took a fist to the face; and, therefore, the misaimed disruptor almost hit 20 of 83 when he rushed from the cryofreeze chamber to the hallway.

"You will need facial reconstruction if you ever want to see or speak again," commented 63 of 83, ensuring 20 of 83 remained between her and the flailing 114 of 212.

The black clad phantom from the cryofreeze, obviously alive even as it refused to register on sensors, proceeded to wreck havoc following 114 of 212. Most drones attacked saw nothing before finding themselves hitting deck plate; and a few glimpsed little more than cold, dispassionate eyes. While the complete configuration of the Lexx was unknown as of yet, it swiftly became obvious that the human was heading towards the moth shuttlebay.

Argument had sprung up, especially among weapons hierarchy drones, if "human" was an appropriate designator. True, the man did not have the cranial ornamentation, epidermal discolorations, or ear variations of near-human non-humans, but no normal species #5618 was on record for moving so fast or exhibiting such strength. Unless...unless he had been genetically modified! Yes, genetic modification was the answer!

Um, er, back to the story. Walking dead are irrelevant, impossible, and not part of this discussion.

{Let us demonstrate how this is done,} informed Weapons confidently from the sewer. Using Cube #347's transporters, he beamed himself and his hunting squad to the shuttle bay. The cryofreeze human would be intercepted. Incineration was the likely outcome, a pity for Assimilation's request, but such a hidden threat had been among the "what if" scenarios Weapons had devised. Setting himself and his drones in a half arc in front of the door, they waited, arms held steady.

A moth twitched an impatient wing.

Weapons increased his audio gain to maximum, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps, the beat of a heart.

The next thing the head of the weapons hierarchy knew, he was watching a moth shuttle rapidly fanning its wings as it took off. A chance glance through the odd "eye membranes" of the head which functioned as windows showed the human. Except for his eyes, his face was as expressionless as a drone. Abdomen and legs of the activated moth flexed as the shuttle was pointed towards the orifice which led to space.

Even a slow-motion replay from many points of view was unhelpful as to the actual sequence of events which ended with eight heavily armed tactical drones upon the floor. In addition to fists and feet, a claw object was implicated in the action.

As the moth emerged from the Lexx and set a course for cube or Love Station - the ultimate destination was unclear - the sensor grid focused, scanning the moth. Only the shuttle's own insectoid lifesign was present. The human had obviously jumped shuttle, hoping to use the moth as a diversion. It was a tactic encountered so many times prior in the Collective's history that the insect was promptly ignored as irrelevant (it was only transport, lacking offensive or defensive systems) in favor of intensive search for the renegade remaining on the Lexx. Somehow the human was hiding his signature. The reaction from Cube #347 was to heighten drone awareness and allow Sensors free rein to rotate the grid to increasingly hallucinatory settings in an attempt to see through the mystery personal cloak device.

Weapons muttered several unBorg phrases in the intranets as he levered himself back to his feet, simultaneously running body diagnostics. As he panned the chamber to visually assess the condition of his squad, his eyes alighted upon a section of wall which did not look right. Instead of brown or black or purple-red, the underlying flesh was uncharacteristically pale. It was almost as if the Lexx had been...assimilated.

{Doctor!} roared Captain.

Weapons winced, as did most drones of the Cube #347 sub-collective: there was no way to lower the virtual volume of the intranet.

*****

The moth rapidly beat its way through vacuum, wings in constant motion despite the lack of an atmosphere to push against. At the controls, Kai, dead man walking and one-time Divine Assassin to His Shadow, briefly pondered his actions.

The machine which kept him inanimate and his limited proto-blood quiescent between bouts of activity had automatically awakened him when it sensed inexpert fingers plying the console. Kai had not found a frantically bumbling Stanley, but cyborg men the color of leprous death. The cyborgs were slow, but many, and they infested a relatively large portion of the Lexx regularly frequented by the resident crew. Stanley, Xev, and 790 had not been in evidence, and since Xev was not the type to cower in a hidden corner when limbs could be yanked from sockets, Kai assumed the cyborgs had removed all three elsewhere. Kai's first order of business, therefore, was to free his shipmates from their captors.

The rest of the plan would happen as it happened.

Kai's priority was set as he traversed the Lexx from the cryomachine chamber to the moth bay. Not knowing the exact circumstances of the invasion, Kai had refrained from slaughter. The situation could have been born of deliberate malice, although knowing Stanley, Xev, and 790, it also could be an innocient misunderstanding. Kai was no longer a mindless Divine Assassin unable to choose between life and death, but was willing to wait until his crewmates were secured before making the decision which would mean death to the cyborg men.

The eight waiting cyborgs in the moth bay were easy to overcome, their pitifully slow reactions no match for that of a dead Assassin.

The moth was nudged on a course for the cube. While the cyborgs could have originated from the gaudy station, the cubeship with its grayscale scheme and occasional glowing green highlight seemed more aesthetically fitting. If Kai was wrong, then the station was only a short distance away.

It never crossed the dead Assassin's proto-blood fueled mind that he would not be successful in retrieving his three comrades.

*****

"Stanley? My tummy doesn't feel so funny anymore. I am still hungry, but not hungry...." Pause. {Stanley?}

*****

{I didn't mean to assimilate the buggy-wuggy! It just sort of happened,} protested Doctor. Innocence had quickly caved to guilt once command and control had pressed the issue. One drone, even one with the fortitude to be a hierarchy head, could not withstand 700. Doctor was currently locked in his alcove.

{It always "sort of happens",} countered Captain. The holographic Lexx schematic which floated in Captain's alcove was tightly focused on the midsection of the giant ship, and more specifically, at the segments linking thorax and abdomen. The gray stain of assimilation was visible to cube sensors; and drones on-board watched the process as well. Occasional odd colors shimmered the scene as Sensors continued the search for the black clad man.

The insect ship's assimilation was occurring slowly, for not only was the Lexx extraordinarily huge, but there was an organic bulkhead system present. The circulatory system which carried nutrients to fuel the vessel's living parts was not contiguous, instead linked as a series of smaller systems. It was assumed the normal purpose of the bulkhead system was to limit damage in the case of a vacuum breach, preventing undue loss of blood. In this case, the Lexx appeared to be moderately aware of its situation and was serially blocking circulation to each affected area. Unfortunately, nanites were not regulated to blood transport alone. Although the resultant infestation was slow, nanites were able to transfer directly cell to cell. As each bulkhead segment was assimilated, the nanoprobes spread through tissue until a new circulatory area was reached.

{The buggy-wuggy seemed so /lonely/. I only wanted to visit it for a moment.}

"Now it's going to be with us forever," muttered Second as another bulkhead segment began to visibly trade its black luster for mottled gray. He continued, voicing a general question held by many of the sub-collective, "So what?"

Captain glanced at the other drone in the nodal intersection before returning eyes to the Lexx. 'So what?' indeed. The Lexx did not seem to be overly intelligent. The brain, recently located, was little more than an enlarged ganglion housing automatic stimulus-responses. Nothing resembling an insectoid version of a cerebellum was present. Direction to do more than float quiescent in space required a captain. Presumably Lexx's captain was Stanley, who had self-identified himself as holding the position.

Attention was shifted to Love Station, and more specifically to a small, translight capable runabout that had entered the system. Ignoring cube and Lexx, the runabout made a beeline for Love Station. Automatic algorithms classified the vessel as a non-threat; and consensus categorized it as irrelevant considering the current situation. Dismissed, the runabout continued its trek unmolested, disappearing into Love Station's inner docks.

Focus returned to the Lexx.

Unfortunately, nanites did not always react with predictability when nonsentient lifeforms were involved. Cube #347 had vast experience with all the variations. Usually, such as with the hexapod hamsters, the effect, other than cosmetic, was mild. On the other hand, sub-sapient species like the yoole-vyst were pushed into precocious awareness. Then there was the utter unpredictable like vegetative Thorny.

Best all around if Doctor could keep his nanites to himself.

Captain shifted his weight slightly, dismissing the hollow feeling to his midsection.

Doctor mentally cringed under the withering collective consensus. {Poor buggy-wuggy?}

Again, return to the question of 'So what?'

"Stop playing with the displays," said Captain as Second swung Love Station around to a better viewing angle. The entire station was starting to rhythmically rock. Second returned Love Station to its original place; and in the intranet, the Love Station datastream was demoted to lesser prominence. "And stop affecting my aural perceptions."

Silence. "I am not doing anything."

Captain blinked, then cocked his head slightly as he listened to a whisper on the edge of hearing. The hissing was internal: {Stanley? Stanley, where are you, Stanley my captain?} It was accompanied by the rumble of an empty stomach and an ache to smash something, anything, to smithereens. The origination of the words and sensations was not Second, nor any other drone of the sub-collective.

"You are correct," affirmed Captain. "Listen...."

Second narrowed his eyes as he turned inward; and throughout the cube and on the Lexx, drones paused in their activities to adopt similar poses. The unBorg rumble of hunger for rock, metals, and carbon grew stronger. The /something/ on the edge of conscious perception was originating from...

The Lexx.

Not good. Not good at all. Especially not good as the hunger was increasingly focused and directed at Cube #347.

{Intruder! Subsection 7, submatrix 27, corridor 49,} shrilled 6 of 19, an engineering drone performing routine stress fracture analysis of subhull hallways. Her visual stream showed the same white-faced, black clothed man who had first been found in the cryofreeze coffin.

Captain's nodal holographic display rapidly shifted as threat to Cube #347 took precedence over Lexx's assimilation or Love Station's rocking. The moth shuttle had been declared /empty/ and dismissed! As improbable as it seemed, analysis set probability at 96.9% positive that the intruder was dead. Cube #347 was invaded by a very lively corpse. Unacceptable.

6 of 19's stream of consciousness abruptly blacked as higher thought patterns were reset by a strong thump to the cranium.

Facial muscles absently twitched as Captain began the task of rearranging the sub-collective's priorities. It did not help that the tritanium bulkhead behind the holographic display was increasingly looking like a rather yummy snack.

*****

Kai prowled the confusing hallways of the monstrous cubeship. While not nearly as large as the Lexx, nonetheless the alien vessel was big. Those cyborg men he found, he knocked out, but increasingly it was becoming difficult to surprise one. Although some would hold their ground, inevitably of a type bulkier than the others, most would vanish into thin air using an unknown technology.

The assault upon the cubeship had started promisingly. No notice of the moth had been taken either during transit or when landing on the hull; and, serendipitously, he had found a hatch which pierced the outer skin before vacuum ("The dead do not breath.") had become too uncomfortable. Admittedly, the hatch had seemed out of place, especially as no other exterior entrance other than eight giant doors could be found, but Kai was not one to question fortune. Instead, he had used the somewhat cramped airlock, gaining entrance to a maze of shocks and struts that eventually gave way to a portal into the ship proper.

Since then, however, Kai had come to the conclusion that finding his crewmates among the endless hallways and chambers would be difficult.

Kai paused as he peered around a corner. Ahead was a lone cyborg man, oblivious to his surroundings as he worked upon something within an open panel. Further along the hallway was a flickering light strip. Occasionally the cyborg would glance at the light strip while manipulating a hidden wall control. Kai considered his options, then slid around the corner.

"If you move, cyborg, I will kill you. If you announce my presence to others, I will kill you. I have killed thousands of people in my time, from babies to dictators. You would be just one more," whispered Kai in the cyborg's ear (or at least the place an ear should be, except it was covered by smooth plastic). In one swift movement he had trapped both arms of the cyborg, immobilizing it.

The cyborg stiffened, then attempted to pull its arms free.

"Still, cyborg man. I was a Divine Assassin, and my body itself is a weapon more than sufficient to kill you."

The cyborg ceased movement. Its head was cocked slightly, listening.

"Good. Aboard this vessel are three crewmates: Stanley Tweedle, Xev Bellringer, and a robot head. Do you know of them? Speak."

"Yes," answered the cyborg, its voice a synthetic reverberation.

"Do you know where they are located?"

Pause. "Yes."

"Then you will take me to them along routes where other cyborgs are not. If I see other cyborgs or you raise an alarm, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Long pause. "Yes. The distance is far."

"That does not concern me. The dead do not tire. Will you take me to this prison?" The question was less query and more statement of what would be.

"We will comply."

Kai nudged the cyborg into motion, ignoring the plurality.

Stanley sat against an unyielding wall, head on his knees as he rocked back and forth in a very uncaptainly manner. "We are going to die. We are going to die. We are going to die," he repeated over and over again.

"You are so pathetic, you bag of pus," said 790 as he deliberately ran into Stanley's foot. The robot head retreated before he could be punted.

Echoed Xev, "Yes, pathetic." She gnawed at an almost intact pig ear she had found. "Maybe /you/ will die, but I will live. And if you die, I will be there for the Key to be passed to me." A calculating gleam came to the woman's eyes.

Stanley scrambled to his feet. "Don't even think about that, Xev! You know..." He trailed off as the door to their prison slid open.

Xev readied herself for action, dropping the pig ear.

A Borg stumbled through the opening, pushed ahead by...

"Kai!" exclaimed 790 happily. "You are here to rescue us!"

Kai quickly looked over his crewmates. "We must move quickly. I have secured us a guide who will lead us back to the moth."

"Ta-ta!" said the cyborg as it dematerialized, leaving Kai empty-handed. Simultaneously, a high-pitched whining buzz announced the formation of a security forcefield. Kai automatically turned, saw the shimmering curtain of blue over the open door, and punched out a fist. He was thrown back by an immense electrical shock, falling on Stanley, much to 790's audible disappointment.

It was a good thing that Kai was already dead.

"Such actions are not advised," said a new voice beyond the door, "when level ten fields are activated." The voice's owner resolved itself into a Borg, left side heavily cybernized. The single blue eye peered into the room, taking in Stanley, Xev, 790, and Kai. "This unit is designated 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain. There is a small difficulty with the Lexx for which we require assistance. You will comply."

*****

Adrek grumbled as yet another popcorn shard wedged in his teeth. The hooman food was a terrible addiction, but when slathered in salt and fake butter, it was difficult to resist. On the other hand, the constant flossing required to remove the more annoying kernel bits was making his dentist happy.

The Ferengi frowned as dialogue and a semblance of plot interrupted the otherwise nonstop action of "Cassie Does Qo'noS." And speaking of nonstop action....

Adrek disliked it when this particular client offered his patronage to Love Station. The credit was accepted, of course, even at the inflated prices the client was willing to pay for services frowned upon at more discerning brothels. However, station thrusters could not completely dampen the vigorous exercise of the this most "physical" of Adrek' special clients. After thirty minutes, even with the new Joyhouse stimulant, even with his three most experienced girls and one boy, the client /had/ to be lagging.

Another popcorn piece was crunched.

As far as his nonpaying visitors, the Borg cube remained unresponsive except for the busy signal; and the Bug Ship was looking a bit gray in places. Hopefully the pair would blow each other up soon and leave Love Station alone.

Resettling himself in his chair, Adrek adjusted his broad-brimed, lime green hat and returned to his movie.

*****

"Comply, comply, comply," mocked the robot head as it wheeled itself to and fro next to Kai. "You've stolen our ship and stuck us in this little room without the decency of killing Stanley. And now you need our help? Why should we bother, you ballock-brained cyborg?"

Stanley, who had regained his feet after serving as a cushion for the dead man's fall, cried, "790! I'm the captain here! I'll make the demands." He paused as 790, without benefit of body, still managed to make a rudely dismissive gesture. Stanley cleared his throat. "Um, yes, why should we bother?"

Captain watched the four captives on the other side of the forcefield both with his own eyes and via an integrated datastream from the room's sensor suite. He allowed his silence to stretch long past comfortable; and he knew from the watering of the (living) humans' eyes that his unblinking stare was upsetting. The actions were deliberate, and by Stanley's increased fidgeting, it was working. The robot head was making inquiries upon the health of Kai, the latter of whom responded "The dead do not feel pain." Xev shifted slightly, bringing to her mouth a hunk of gristle from the chew toy discard pile Doctor had been keeping in the storage closet.

"Well?" squeaked Stanley, unable to let the silence last longer.

Captain activated the holoemitters in Supply Closet #27. Why there were holoemitters in a storage room, Captain was unsure, except that once the Greater Consciousness latched onto an idea it was overly thorough in application. Holoemitters fell in that category. Captain linked the holoemitter output with a visual of the Lexx. The insect ship consolidated.

"The Lexx is being assimilated," informed Captain. He magnified the image and centered it over the relevant regions. The patchy gray was startling compared to neighboring segments of unaffected black hull (exoskeleton?).

Stanley was obviously clueless as to what "assimilation" entailed. "So?"

"We are Borg. We integrate biological and technological distinctiveness to Ourselves to gain Perfection. Sentient beings are assimilated, added to Us as drones. Technology is dissected, integrated, adapted to Our use. The Lexx is being assimilated." Captain winced internally as he added the admitting qualifier. "By accident."

While Stanley managed to look blankly confused, Xev spoke, "You f**ked up. Lexx is technology to be 'dissected, integrated, adapted,' not assimilated. Lexx has the brains of a dog, maybe. At least all he usually talks about is eating and blowing up stuff."

"Lexx is smarter than Stanley," gleefully commented 790.

The aforementioned whispers of food and destruction were growing louder with each assimilated bulkhead segment. Lack of vinculum meant a limited reception range, but an aborted test of moving the cube had already shown the Lexx able and willing to follow.

"The Lexx was not supposed to be assimilated," agreed Captain with the leather clad woman. "We require assistance to deassimilate the vessel." Assimilation hierarchy had already attempted standard deassimilation techniques. Unfortunately, the counter-nanites and denaturing solutions stored on Cube #347 were of insufficient quantity to rid a giant, space-faring insect of its nanoprobe burden. Fancy, the Greater Consciousness never having foreseen the need for an Exploratory-class cube to keep a Lugger-class eight-holds worth of deassimilative elements.

Sensor hierarchy absently noted Love Station had ceased its wobbling. The same runabout which had arrived 41.3 minutes prior emerged from the station, taking no more notice of cube or bug than when it had arrived. Still classified as an irrelevant non-threat, it sped to translight velocities unmolested.

Clearing his threat, Stanley attempted to take charge. He failed, but pushed forward anyway. "What's in it for me if I help?" The Lexx captain blatantly excluded the rest of his crew.

Captain resisted the urge to step through the forcefield and demonstrate the reality of Borg, or at least strangle the self-serving human. Regrettably, while the robot head was irrelevant, Xev and the dead man were not. His termination would only infuriate Second, who would then be forced to be Captain. Most importantly, the death would not advance the sub-collective's agenda.

"The Lexx is being assimilated. When its central nervous system is fully infected, you will no longer be able to control it. We can feel the vessel's confusion: it wants you, Stanley Tweedle. It is also hungry, but hungry in a way which is not gastronomical. When the Lexx is completely assimilated, it will be an abomination, indiscriminate with its raw, insatiable hunger. It will not be Perfection."

"But what's in it for me?" asked Stanley again, unimpressed by Captain's Borg-o-centric explanation.

Captain decreased the syllable count of his words. "You will live."

"That's all?" asked Stanley, obviously disappointed.

"Listen, you little weasel of a human," said Captain, breaking from Borg standards to say what he (and sub-collective) really wanted to say. Second urged him on. "We have determined that you, and only you, control that monstrosity. The ship only wants /you/. 'Stanley, where are you? I'm hungry, Stanley,' it says until we are ready to go insane. We could assimilate you, and I'm tempted to do so personally, except we do not know if that will make the situation better, or irretrievably flush it down one of your Lexx's disturbing crappers. And then there is the wee fact that your assimilation will detract from Perfection to such a degree to make this sub-collective look like the epitome of excellence. Therefore, you must be kept whole.

"The others we could care less about, but we'll throw them in the deal. They will continue to live, or not live, whatever the case. Just remember that they are not irreplaceable. The robot head, after the engineering hierarchy is done dismantling it, is serviceable scrap. Although the one designated Xev can be assimilated, none of us are willing to get close enough to inject nanoprobes; and, therefore, she would be terminated. The dead guy is already dead and therefore neither assimilation nor death are relevant. However, we are near one hundred percent sure that a plasma bath would destroy even his undead organics."

"Kai!" protested 790 loudly.

"The dead do fear large quantities of plasma," admitted Kai quietly.

"Do you require further detail, or will you comply, captain Stanley Tweedle?" asked Captain, not bothering to hide his impatience. "If you do not respond to this carrot, we have several sticks. While we do not desire to assimilate you, we can introduce implants directly to your cerebrum's pain centers. We are 89.3% sure that intense pain sufficient to cause bowel release will not detract from your acceptance by the Lexx. For this sub-collective, those are excellent odds."

Stanley trembled. "Um, just a minute. I need to consult with the others."

"Do it, you small-minded idiot," said 790 as he rolled over Stanley's foot, "otherwise they will dismantle me! More importantly, they will /kill/ my dead man!"

Stanley's head whipped sideways as Xev thocked the back of his cranium with a hand. "Be a man, Stanley. Do it, or else." The woman added a distinctive growl to her command.

Kai shrugged. "The dead do not have opinions, but in this case, I think it would be in your best interest to comply."

"Okay, I'll help."

Captain, internally purging the last of the unBorg rant from his system, replied in a calm tone, "We accept."

"I don't think I like this 'beaming'," muttered Stanley after he had materialized on the raised dais in Lexx's command chamber. "It makes my head go all fuzzy."

Captain did not bother to respond to the comment.

The Lexx's command chamber had been prepared for the transfer of Cube #347's captives. Not trusting Xev or Kai, the former impulsive and the latter proven deadly, to keep their word to remain bystanders, several members of the engineering hierarchy had erected a prison on the dais. Essentially a containment box constructed of level ten forcefields, it was activated milliseconds after Xev and Kai were beamed into it. The robot head, deemed irrelevant, was left to wander where it would, spouting verbal abuse.

As backup, two dozen weapons drones packed the dais, all focused on the twin threats of Xev and Kai. Captain, official speaker for the sub-collective, was the only non-tactical unit present.

Stanley mounted the steps to the command chair, followed by Captain. A hand was waved as he turned to face the forward command chamber. The resultant sparkle of golden light did not quite hide the disturbing pallor of gray visible even in the dimness of the chamber.

"I'm back, Lexx," said Stanley.

"Stanley, my captain. Welcome. I do not feel good, Stanley," replied the pleasant voice of the Lexx.

Stanley glanced sideways at Captain, who poked the human in the ribs. "As we discussed. You will comply."

Whined Lexx's captain, "Are you sure it will work?"

"No," admitted Captain, "but the consequence of not trying are worse. Especially for you. Assimilation is prepared for the operation. Anesthesia is irrelevant." Captain had no need to add the last sentence, even if it was true, but he had observed the human's aversion to anything which disrupted his personal comfort. On the lower dais, 790 snickered.

Stanley predictably paled before addressing Lexx. "Lexx, are you listening?"

"I am always listening, Stanley."

"Do you trust me?"

"I always trust my captain; and you are my captain, Stanley. Therefore I always trust you."

"Um, good. Lexx, listen carefully: you need to think yourself better. You are sick and only you can make yourself well again."

"But it is so hard, Stanley, and I am /so/ hungry."

Captain stared straight ahead. The Lexx was not talking about a physical stomach hunger, but a concept more nebulous, one which the insect ship did not have the cognitive ability to grasp, much less elucidate. That hunger was affecting Cube #347's sub-collective, more so as the creep of assimilation approached vital nerve clusters of the giant bug.

"You can eat when you are done," soothed Stanley in the voice one uses when calming a cranky four-year old. He apparently had much practice in talking to Lexx.

"No, not hungry. Hungry. I want to show you how I am hungry."

Captain glanced sideways and down. The organic chair was fading to a mottled gray from its formerly healthy blue-black hue. He nudged the human towards the steps, just in case. "You do not want to do that," muttered Captain.

Stanley, startled, looked over his shoulder, seeing the chair. He stared at it for a long moment, then shifted his eyes to Captain before returning attention to the chair. The cogwheels of his mind were churning, and the conjectures were not good. Stanley was fuzzy on the how the whole assimilation process worked, but having it done via buttock was probably neither pleasant nor dignified. "Um, maybe later, Lexx. First you need to think yourself better. Just for me, Lexx."

"Okay, Stanley. I will try."

Lexx focused inward.

Lexx, as previously mentioned, had the approximate intelligence of a dog; and the large insect possessed other startlingly canine qualities as well. Although he lacked a sex drive, indeed a gender (Lexx was "he" only by convenience due to his crew finding it difficult to think of anything which talked with a masculine voice as an "it"), that drove many a dog, he more than made up for it in the food and fighting department. Admittedly, no one would ever confuse a space-faring insect the size of Manhattan with a dog, but like man's best friend, Lexx was also deeply loyal and obedient to his master-captain.

In this case, his captain Stanley was ordering him to fix himself.

Lexx was aware of all the things that took place within his body. He knew how many moths were gestating, what his power reserves were, the volume of organic wastes in the process of recycling in his deep gut. He knew that there were Stanley-sized parasites roaming his body; and he had felt when one of the parasites had infected his flesh with even smaller parasites. Unfortunately, at the time, Stanley had vanished and he had been terribly hungry, so the big parasites had been ignored and the little dealt with via autonomic reflexes.

Now Stanley was back and telling him what to do: make the little parasites go away. Lexx was very happy to try to comply.

Comply...what a nice, new word! Just like all the other new words that he had been learning from the big parasites! For instance, he liked "assimilate." Lexx was hungry and wanted to show Stanley what "assimilate" was, but first he would do as Stanley asked.

The little parasites were relatively simple to kill, once Lexx focused his attention on the problem. They were many, but they did not function well in highly basic environments. A simple alteration of uninfected cells and flooding of his circulatory system with high pH liquids should do it. His auto-immune system would remove those parasites not outright killed. There might be short-term degradation in cognitive function and potential loss of some recycling facilities, but Stanley-captain was worth it.

Lexx loved his Stanley.

Captain listened to reports detailing a sudden reversal of Lexx's assimilation, progress accelerating as more segments reverted to their natural coloration. Simultaneously, the internal voice of the Lexx was lessening, as was the sensation of hunger. So absorbed was Captain with the internal diagnostics of the sub-collective that he did not see that the robot head had altered its random course to one of deliberate intent; and the weapons drones present had attention only for a glowering Xev and quiet Kai.

"Kai! I'm coming to you, my love!" called 790 as he rammed his board into one of the free-standing forcefield pylons. So great was the impact that the head was flipped from his mobile platform. Like a pin glanced by a bowling ball, the pylon wobbled, unable to decide to settle or fall. Finally, with one final revolution, it clattered to the ground.

The security field dissipated.

Xev emitted a high-pitched animal scream.

"Kai!" shouted 790, slightly muffled as his mouth speaker was facing the deck.

{Recall,} said Captain immediately, locking transporters upon himself and all the weapons drones, removing them from the abruptly manifested threat.

*****

"Lexx," said Stanley, free of his Borg shadow, "I want you to blow up something for me." He glanced at his chair, pleased to see its normal color returning. He, Stanley Tweedle, had saved the day. Never mind Lexx had done all the actual work and his major contribution had been not to pee his pants.

He wasn't quite ready to trust his butt to the chair, neither.

"Removing the little parasites has made me tired. And I am very, very hungry now. I must eat. I do like to blow things up, though."

"I want you to blow up the cube, Lexx." Stanley paused, suddenly remembering something. "But try to miss the station if you can. You can eat whatever is left of the cube...but please /don't/ hit the station."

"The cube will only be a small snack, but I will try," replied Lexx. Deep within the pit which dropped beneath the command dais, a subliminal rumble began to build.

"Aren't you being just a tad hasty?" asked Xev. She looked disappointed that all the cyborgs had fled.

Stanley shifted. He was a petty, selfish man at his core. Petty men demanded petty revenge. Lex talionis? Stanley could not be bothered to look up the definition of a word from a dead language; and turning the other cheek was not his way when an eye for an eye (or the whole body for an eye) was much more satisfying. Whereas the dead did not take revenge and Xev struck only when her blood boiled in the head of anger, Stanley reveled in the act of revenge.

Besides, the cyborg Captain had threatened involuntary bowel movement, /humiliating/ him more than normal for an ordinary Lexx day.

*****

Captain plotted a random vector, unsure and uncaring what the eventual destination might be. All drones on the Lexx were being recalled to Cube #347; and the day spa was nearly secured against sudden acceleration. Mud baths could be such a mess they escaped; and then there were all the cucumber and lemon slices.

Captain disentangled himself from 177 of 203's stream of consciousness as the latter prepared for the abrupt departure.

The power output of the Lexx was rising...and rising...and rising. It had passed the levels expected for a starship, or even a unimatrix complex. The power signature was approaching that associated with stars; and the facets of the Lexx's eyes were beginning to fill with a uniform yellow glow as if fueled by St. Elmo's Fire. The eyes were aimed directly at Cube #347.

The sub-collective did not require conclusive identification of a planet-buster to know that being downrange of such a weapon was not healthy, especially when one was much less than planet sized.

{But I don't have all the mud baths covered!} wailed 177 of 203.

Captain hit the accelerator. It was better to charge into unknown space and possibly trip into a temporal rift than face a certain future of becoming a wingless dragonfly's crispy crunch.

*****

"Okay, you can power down, Lexx," said Stanley as the cubeship bolted, taking all its cyborg crew with it.

"I cannot," replied Lexx. "I must blow up something!" Focus on the large command screen shifted to Love Station.

Stanley groaned, "Not the whorehouse." Oh well, it wouldn't be the first, nor the last, thing Lexx had exploded by accident. Perhaps there would be a few morsels unvaporized for the ship's snack.

On the dais, Xev simply sighed, consigned to the station's fate. Her libido would have to be restrained, somehow. A look at Stanley. Xev squinted her eyes and imagined him naked, except for his hat, awaiting her upon her bed. Soft-core porn music with an electric beat played in the background. Eww. There, libido under control.

Kai peered upwards, ignoring 790's continued muffled gush of admiration. "What is that purple mist?" he asked. The dead did have curiosity.

Stanley followed Kai's pointing finger. "Oh. That. Oops."

*****

The Borg cube was gone, fled faster than the plot of Adrek' favorite movies after the first five minutes; and Bug Ship had vanished as well, purple mist wreathing the entire vessel until even the sparkling jewel eyes had disappeared. Good riddance.

Adrek removed his hat and idly scratched a lobe. The Borg Queen fantasy had to go, else hidden a bit better. Thoughts churned, financial spreadsheets paramount. Better to hide it: it made too much money to be simply dismissed. Unwatched on the secondary screen, "Connie Does Qo'nos" played to its final climatic conclusion.

Being a Ferengi, which meant greedy when sums of money were involved, Adrek had already dismissed the cube and bug which had so troubled his afternoon. One of his girls had just nervously reported that client Shidoth had not only broken all the furniture in Pleasure Pod #3, but vibrations from his patronship had seriously misaligned the holoprojection units. Worst of all, the sheep were so upset that they were refusing to be dressed in the leather numbers client Gra'tow insisted upon.

Client Gra'tow was scheduled to arrive in half an hour; and he was a big tipper.

"I swear I have to do everything myself," Adrek muttered to himself as he shoved lime hat on his head, picked up his cane, and left to sort out the mess. Good thing cube and Bug Ship had left: the fleet of cloaked robotic warships were expensive enough to keep on stand by, but to actually /use/ them...a week profits, at least. And then there would be the /mess/ to clean up.

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