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 by 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, base 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.
	"You 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 Director's 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 
bend 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!"