The host for your Star Trek game is Paramount!
Welcome the first contestant, representing Star Traks, A. Decker!
You lovely BorgSpace parting gifts tonight are supplied by Meneks!

			You're Assimilated!

	The choosing of a replacement for 8 of 8, deceased Hierarchy of Eight member, 
was not going well.
	Normally the Collective would fill the empty consensus monitor slot by 
reassigning a drone from the existing sub-collective populace.   The Hierarchy of Eight 
position required a mentally sound unit able to multi-task, manage, and otherwise guide 
the endless decision tree matrix resolutions and consensus cascades, big and small, which 
occurred continuously in a sub-collective.  Those not the primary nexus of Captain or 
Second nonetheless served prominent support roles.  Among Borg not imperfect, focal 
points did exist, but the load was more evenly distributed, "baby-sitter" not a part of the 
job description.  The Cube #347 Hierarchy of Eight was very specific as to qualification, 
however; and with no Greater Consciousness to point the metaphorical finger and say 
<<You,>> those most qualified for the post were also the most facile in eluding 
reassignment.
	Holographic dossiers were projected around the periphery of Captain's nodal 
intersection.  Opened entries featured a rotating bust of the drone in question, set next to a 
continuously scrolling column of history, strengths, weaknesses, neuroses, and other 
relevant information.  Second had joined Captain in the nodal intersection, as had a 
stylishly body-glittered 2 of 8.  The other four Hierarchy of Eight members were 
participating remotely, physical presence not a requirement on a Borg vessel.
	"35 of 480?" questioned Captain, words both verbally spoken and internalized.  
The appropriate dossier was accessed, its summarized contents projected even as the 
actual file itself with its minute details was scrutinized by all.
	{We have already considered 35 of 480,} complained 7 of 8, {three times.  Her 
propensity towards wanting complete agreement makes her unsuitable.  How about 11 of 
79?}
	35 of 480's dossier was replaced with the holoprojection of 11 of 79.
"Very nice, except for the small narcolepsy problem that neuro-stimulants and 
supplementary chemicals cannot compensate for," answered Second dryly, highlighting 
the appropriate medical details.  "Consider the following tactical scenario:  11 of 79 as 
Captain, this sub-collective under assault.  At a critical juncture in the decision of if and 
how we should engage...she falls asleep.  Weapons hierarchy - even disregarding our 
current tactical head - is prominent in such a scenario; and by the time they are restrained, 
we would be committed to a potentially undesirable action."  11 of 79's hologram was 
dissolved.
	{No narcolepsy with 376 of 480,} noted 1 of 8.
	Since 8 of 8's termination, the drones comprising Cube #347 had been 
categorized, slotted, pigeon-holed, and otherwise graded as to Hierarchy of Eight 
suitability.  Ranking and reranking potential replacements had occurred several times, 
each unit undergoing intense scrutiny.  This was not the first time those on the 'almost' 
list had been studied, nor second or even third.  Unfortunately, individuals on the 'almost' 
list had never been promoted to 'Bingo, all done' status.  The Hierarchy of Eight was 
spinning their wheels, going nowhere fast.
	Captain pointed out, "What about that incident last week?  That alone should 
disqualify him."
	Second blinked.  "The pudding?  That was staged, I know it.  If /I/ could have 
concocted a similar scenario prior to my Hierarchy of Eight assignment and be absolutely 
sure it would disqualify me, I would have."
	{We don't know conclusively it was staged.  If not, if it is an emerging mental 
instability, then he is not suitable as an 8 of 8,} argued 6 of 8.
Countered 1 of 8, {But if it /was/ staged and he's done such a marvelous job of 
concealing his tracks to fake an emerging neurosis, then he would be an excellent 
replacement.}  1 of 8 had, in fact, tried such a gambit, but been caught, unable to 
withstand Greater Consciousness suspicions ("emergent mental instability" incidents 
always rose during Hierarchy of Eight vacancies).
	"Perhaps we should wait until we relink with the Collective and let the Greater 
Consciousness make the determination, like it always has," voiced 2 of 8 as 376 of 480's 
dossier was retired to the 'maybe' pile.  The decision branch was valid, but growing 
increasingly weak the longer Cube #347 remained apart from the Collective.
	The Collective had long ago determined the optimal number of drones for a given 
sub-collective type, as well as appropriate unit specialties and the proportion each should 
comprise.  Therefore, assimilation specialty drones were a larger component on an 
Assimilation-class cube than a Battle-class; and neither of those sub-collective types 
included the cognitive drones which were assigned to a science platform.  On an 
Exploratory-class cube, the primary focal consensus nexus was eight; and a lesser-
number meant a greater burden on those who remained.
	Captain initiated an abbreviated consensus cascade upon the decision matrix 2 of 
8 advocated.  The projected consensus burden load, however, tilted to the red, advocating 
the filling of the empty Hierarchy of Eight position.  That urgency would only become 
more acute as time passed, until the sub-collective would be forced to chose a potentially 
unsuitable replacement such as 11 of 79 or 376 of 480.  The Greater Consciousness could 
always realign drones to a more suitable configuration later, but a bad choice now might 
mean there was no later.
	{Emergency beacon [fuzzy blanket],} said Sensors, the announcement 
accompanied by the fleeting tactile hallucination of scratchy wool against skin.
	Captain swept away all the holographic dossiers, replacing them with a tactical 
view, Cube #347 in the center of a spherical volume.  The vessel was dropping out of 
hypertranswarp to normal space so as to better pinpoint origination of the beacon, but the 
sensory hierarchy was already plotting a tentative location based upon initial content.
	This would be a rescue mission in the loosest possible sense.
"Perhaps," voiced Second, eyes focused on the blinking fluorescent yellow dot 
which was the beacon, "there is another possibility."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Geoni gasped as she suddenly woke up, arms flailing.  The last thing she 
remembered was the Breeze's captain, Abrett, yelling; and then there was a pale, furless 
man-not-a-man....
	"Shh," hushed a familiar voice, Ioneen, who had been traveling to the Institute's 
Oort cloud facility as the lead finance accountant, "it's alright.  It's just the drugs 
those...things used to knock us out.  You'll be okay in a moment."
	Geoni shivered as her temperature spiked, causing the capillaries of her arm 
webbing to dilate in response.  The moment passed, and with it went the dizziness and 
touch of nausea.  Geoni briefly panted and finally decided to open her eyes.  
This place was certainly not Breeze.
	The ceiling to the vast space - could such even exist if it wasn't burrowed into a 
planetoid's crust? - was many impossible troachs overhead, nearly lost in the distance.  
The room symbolized everything Breeze was not, starting with spacious:  the scientists, 
graduate students, and staffers recently decanted from cold-sleep during the final 
approach to the Oort facility had been crowded like canned fish, much to the visible 
annoyance of the ship's crew.  Of course, the Breeze had also been comfortable, in a 
claustrophobic sort of way; and as Geoni struggled to sit up, with help from Ioneen, she 
saw the lack of amenities.
	The floor space the eight Breeze survivors had been allotted was bare deck plates, 
perimeter delineated by hideously orange office partitions.  The true boundary of the 
obviously makeshift holding cell was beyond the partitions in the form of a forcefield 
humming that characteristic tone associated with dangerous voltages.  The cell itself 
lacked pallets, blankets, food, changes of clothing, although Ioneen silently pointed out 
the bucket of water and free-standing, curtained sanitary niche.  The heat and humidity 
was oppressive, and Geoni began to involuntarily pant again as she lifted an elbow to 
expose arm webbing in a futile hunt for a cooling breeze.
	"Where are we?  What happened?" whispered Geoni, although she already knew 
her good friend would not have the answers.
	Replied Ioneen, "Don't know, although I think we've leapt off the tree and into the 
cronoc's lagoon."
	Geoni groaned, closing her eyes to concentrate on both her headache and the 
nightmare of recent events.  Only a couple of short days ago she had been unthawed, the 
fusionship Breeze approaching one of the Chuckareen system's furthest inhabited 
outposts.  Geoni had been excited:  the changeover of personnel happened once a year, 
and only the best (or luckiest) scientist could finagle his or her way to have the chance to 
study cutting edge physics at the system's premiere laboratory.  People crowded against 
the small windows, fur against fur, everybody vying to be the first to catch a glimpse of 
the lights which outlined the torus of the immense particle collider...
	A miniature star had blossomed, momentarily backlighting the catastrophically 
crumbling remains of the Institute's pride and joy.  The light of the explosion had arrived 
only heartbeats before the sheering gravitational flux shockwave sent the fusionship 
tumbling stem over stern.  Artificial gravity was a fairly new technology among the 
Chuckareen, and the fusionship employed it to augment the spinning habitation module; 
and only when Breeze had a conscious, non-crew passengers did her captain turn it on.  
The explosion knocked out the fusion drive, and with it the gravity.  Chaos descended 
with the extinguishing of internal lights.
	Face crushed against the glass by a mass of bodies, some disturbingly keening 
their distress, Geoni had seen the universe rip, a jagged hole limned in violet, blocking 
background stars.  Into that ghastly maw Breeze had spun.
	In the end, the casualty toll had been horrendous, many of whom the shockwave 
had not outright killed falling to catatonic stress, literally dying of fright and shock.  Only 
eight remained of crew and passengers, stranded who knew where, the victims of the 
Chuckareen's first spatial distortion accident.  A fusionship was not the appropriate 
technology for timely interstellar travel.
	The Chuckareen did know of warp, but it was an experimental technology 
controlled by the military.  The initial forays into warp drive had brought aliens to the rim 
system, odd creatures who had largely left once it became known that the Chuckareen 
wished to develop their own technology, not buy it.  Oh, there had been purchases of the 
subspace radio variety, but there was a world of difference between a subscription to 
DirecTriV and warp cores.  Vessels such as the fusionship Breeze and her matter-
antimatter cousins were perfectly adequate, if a bit on the slow side, for intrasystem 
jaunts.
	Captain Abrett had turned on the subspace emergency beacon when it became 
clear Breeze was lost.  That had been two days ago.  Since there, Geoni had coped as best 
she could, putting bodies into hibernation boxes - it was not right to space them like 
garbage - and assisting with repairs.  Then the big cube had come, overshadowing Breeze 
despite the fusionship's large size....
	"Don't you dare go all catatonic on me, girl, not after what we've gone through.  
Here, we need to get you to your feet, walking.  Wherever this place is, it has gravity.  
Grig!  Help me get Geoni standing!"
	Geoni opened her eyes again as she felt herself hauled to her feet.  To her right 
side was Ioneen, ears twitching in concern and shared distress, tunic in less than normally 
immaculate condition.  On Geoni's left was the hefty and somewhat slow-of-brain Grig, 
Breeze's answer for moving heavy things.
	"I'm okay," protested Geoni as she tried to remove her arm and pinned webbing 
from Grig's hands, "really.  I'm okay."  Heads from both helpers swiveled to look at her.  
"I'm okay."
	"Good, it looks like the sensible brain of this piss-poor troupe is going to live.  If I 
had to listen to Fagorn's 'hypotheses' any more, I might be forced to shove his head in that 
sorry excuse for a 'sanitary facility,'" announced captain Abrett loudly as he approached.  
His clothing was a bit neater than that of Ioneen, or at least less prone to show wrinkles.  
The midnight blue tunic had characteristic split sides to allow freedom of movement for 
arm webbing; and his black ship-kilt looked much more comfortable than Geoni's shorts.  
The dark colors, however, contrasted sharply with Abrett's reddish-blond pelt.  "It's a 
damn bucket that'll need to be dumped soon; and without a single grooming comb among 
us, Fagorn would not like the consequences."
	As Geoni squinted at the horrible orange partitions which bounded the cell, the 
lights of the big room, not extremely bright to begin with, darkened.  A single, overly 
intense spotlight focused attention at one particular partition.  The background forcefield 
hum vanished.
	"Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the contest we are calling 'You're 
Assimilated!'  Give a big round of applause to our primary consensus monitor and 
facilitator, your liaison to the sub-collective of Cube #347, and all around excellent 
drone, unit 4 of 8, sub-designated Captain!"  The synthetic voice echoed loudly, its 
precisely enunciated words vanishing beneath the clapping of an obviously artificial 
audience.
	Within the glare of the spotlight, two of the pale, furless not-men alike to those 
who had attacked the Breeze survivors moved aside the partitions.  Through the gap 
entered a third alien, not quite as bulky as the pair, but having more mechanical, plastic, 
and otherwise non-fleshy bits.  His single eye narrowed to a squint as his whole right 
hand raised to shield his face from the bright light.  Abruptly the spotlight vanished, 
replaced by the earlier shadowless light, dim, although enough to see by once sight 
adjusted.  Geoni noticed with the erratic crystal clarity of fright that the Captain-person's 
real eye was a brilliant blue, contrasting to the gray of its (his?) flankers.
	"I am 4 of 8, or, if you prefer, Captain.  We are Borg," said the pale man, 
pluralities switching from the first to third person.  He paused, then slowly swept his gaze 
over assembled Breeze refugees.  "You are species #12506, Chuckareen, of very low 
interest to the Collective at this time.  Few samples have been acquired.  Do you know 
what 'Borg' represents?"  Geoni recognized the name from the subscription subspace 
broadcast news and drama channels she occasionally watched - she was sure they all had 
- but the shows were never informative, assumption being the listener was a cosmopolitan 
species, not the cosmic equivalent of a backwoods hick.  She knew the Borg were 
cybernetic beings, but had never quite envisioned them as the reality before her, and the 
associated concept of 'assimilation' was fuzzy as well.  "No matter.  Your knowledge is 
irrelevant.
	"We have need to identify a specific type of individual.  However, insufficient 
data exists on your species to determine if any of you can fulfill the role.  Therefore..."
	The Announcer interrupted, "Therefore, you have been invited to play 'You're 
Assimilated!'  Our first round we call 'Brain Scan,' from which we will decide which of 
our contestants - you - shall advance, eventually leading to the Grand Prize!"
	Geoni noticed clenched muscles around the Captain-Borg's jaw; and there was a 
distinct exhale, as if he had sighed, assuming these partially mechanical men did such.
	Abrett stepped forward and boldly said, "And what if we don't want to play this 
'game'?"
	Captain's head tilted sideways slightly as he regarded Breeze's captain.  Eyes 
seemed to be calculating something unknowable.  "Who said you had a choice?  Bring 
them."  As Captain pivoted and walked out the cell, sixteen other Borg entered from the 
opening, two per Chuckareen.
	Geoni let out a startled squeak as the Borg men (was one a woman?) each grabbed 
an arm and pulled her forward.  Their grip was stronger and much more uncomfortable 
than Grig's; and she briefly struggled.  When it became clear they were as willing to drag 
Geoni as let her walk, the scientist decided she preferred the dignity of the latter.  Several 
others, including Abrett, loudly protested.
	The destination was within the immense room, not far from the cell.  As she was 
steered across the deck and around pallets stacked with closed container drums, Geoni's 
eyes wandered.  Suddenly she stopped, a gasp stuck in her throat as she /truly/ realized 
the size of the room: on a wall and near the ceiling, clamped in a vast cradle, was the 
battered form of the fusionship Breeze.  Relatively thin habitation module was still 
attached to the more bulbous engine module, and together they were suspended like a 
trophy or a child's model.  The solar panel petals which normally extended amidships 
were crumpled and broken.  Breeze was 300 troachs long from nose to terminal thrust 
nozzle, yet somehow it had not only been hung, but there was room to spare fore and aft 
to the next wall.
	The female drone prodded Geoni, "Move, else we will carry you."
	Geoni lurched forward.
	The locale the reluctant parade stopped at was a space largely hemmed in by 
crates and barrels and big metal objects.  Eight open-faced boxes looking like highly 
technological soaking tubs tipped up on their ends were arrayed in a rough circle.  At the 
hub waited Captain and a second Borg, this one with pointed ears on the side of his head 
and a distinctly slumped posture.  It quickly became clear that the tub-boxes were the 
actual destinations.
	"No!  No, no, no!" chattered Geoni, eyes wide, as she was steered towards a box.  
Dignity be damned, she did not know what those things were and she wanted no part in 
them.  She bunched her feet under her and tried to kick at her escorts.  "No!  Let me go!"  
With nary a sign of effort, she was spun around and shoved back first into the box.  Metal 
clamps engaged, capturing ankles, thighs, wrists, waist, shoulder, and head.  On the 
opposite side of the circle, Fagorn, the surviving graduate student, began the keening wail 
of an absolutely terrified claustrophobe.
	"Initiating neurological scan, all alcoves," said the point-eared drone.  "Results 
will be available in five minutes."
	  A loud hum rattled Geoni's head, shaking her incisors and shivering her cheek 
pouches.  She folded her ears against her skull, but that did nothing to filter out a noise 
that was being fed directly to her brain.  Through the buzz she continued to hear Fagorn's 
scream, as well as rough curses that had to be originating from Abrett.  She also heard 
one of her jailor drones remark, "The noise from specimen #4 includes secondary 
subharmonics which are murdering my aural sub-processors.  If he doesn't shut up, I 
/will/ excise his vocal cords:  replacements can always be grafted on later, if necessary."  
Geoni had the unhappy suspicion that Fagorn was the coldly named specimen #4.
	Finally the horrible hum stopped; and with its cessation, Fagorn descended into 
animalistic pants and whines.  Geoni winced as she saw the graduate student's face, one 
of absolute panic characterized by bulging throat and cheek pouches, bugged out eyes, 
and bared teeth, incisors prominent.  She did not know it, but Fagorn distinctly resembled 
a startled chipmunk caught raiding a stash of sunflower seeds.  The young man, so 
promising in his passion to advance physics, was tottering on the edge of plunging into 
stress-induced mania, which, along with its catatonia counterpart, was one of the major 
terminal stress diseases of the often high-strung Chuckareen.
	Captain ignored Fagorn, ignored all the captives, eye focused on absolutely 
nothing Geoni could see.  Finally he spoke, "Analysis complete.  Report, Assimilation."
	The now named drone sighed, as if the simple act of breathing was a burden.  
"Very well.  Assuming these individuals are a representative neurological selection of 
general populace, two are not suitable for our projected needs."  Assimilation turned and 
moved to Geoni's right.  She swiveled her head just enough to track its - his - progress; 
and for a moment she thought his destination was a now quietly glaring Abrett.  Instead, 
the drone halted in front of a blinking, nonplussed Grig.  "Specimen #8 is neurologically 
deficient."  He swung around and approached Fagorn.  "Specimen #4 displays emotional 
dysfunction, but that aspect is irrelevant.  More important, he exhibits cerebral excellence 
well above that required by us.  The others are likely suitable."
	Neurologically deficient?  Grig was a bit slow, true, but he wasn't exactly stupid; 
and he did seem to be a very nice man, in his way.  And what was meant by cerebral 
excellence and what was going to happen and what did this torture mean and...  Geoni 
clenched and unclenched her hands in an attempt to break the panic nightmare that was 
threatening to develop.  She opened her mouth to pant.
	Captain blinked, then distinctly rolled his eye and muttered under his breath, 
"Fine, Second, go ahead."  As the clamps to Fagorn's and Grig's boxes disengaged and as 
their respective jailors pulled them out, the Announcer spoke:
	"We are sorry, but specimen #4 and specimen #8 did not win our Grand Prize.  
They will, however, receive a lovely introductory gift of several billion nanoprobes 
apiece.  Specimen #8, due to his neurological deficiency, will likely be assigned to a 
weapons hierarchy where he will have a very short career as frontline disruptor fodder.  
On the other hand, specimen #4 will undergo initial processing, be set into stasis, 
eventually removed from Cube #347, reassigned to a science platform, experience 
additional modifications, and live a long and productive existence as a cognitive drone 
with a subdesignation such as 'floating point coprocessor for advanced multiplex 
transdimensional functions'!"
	As Fagorn and Grig were held securely by their captors, Assimilation silently 
approached Fagorn.  The Borg raised a hand, clenched it into a fist, and set it next to the 
graduate student's neck in unknowing parody of a Chuckareen good-luck gesture.  A 
something emerged from the Borg's knuckles, thin threads of metal which plunged into 
furred neck.  The process only took a few heartbeats and was repeated with Grig.  The 
latter flinched slightly.
	Geoni watched, scared and uncomprehending, as expressions on both Fagorn's 
and Grig's faces slowly vanished, replaced by a blank slackness.  Their flankers led them 
docilely away in a direction that wasn't the cell.
	"Thank you for playing this round of 'You're Assimilated!'" concluded the hidden 
announcer.
	Abrett spat out a curse, followed by, "By the three heated hells, what did you do 
to that lad Grig?"
	Captain was silent, ignoring Abrett's question, as well as the tentative words from 
several other Breeze survivors.  Geoni remained mute.  "Return them to the holding 
area," directed Captain, although Geoni had the odd feeling that the words were said 
more for their benefit than as instructions to the jailor Borg.
	Clamps released; Geoni stumbled forward and into the iron grip of her captors.
	At the holding cell, Borg of a slightly different variety than the escorts were hard 
at work.  They were less bulky, more flexible; and cybernetic arms had a tendency to be 
comprised of whirly, buzzy bits.  Many tools were in evidence, scattered around the cell:  
wrenches, hammers, pliers, spanners.  For such a busy endeavor, the drones, other than 
the clank of metal on metal, were oddly silent, no directions, no questions, not even a 
single good-natured oath.
	The six remaining Breeze refugees huddled together in a corner of the cell away 
from the busy drones.  "Do not bother the engineering units," bade one of the escorts 
before all turned and left through the partition gap.  The exception were two Borg at the 
rear of the convoy, who paused, then assumed sentry positions just inside the exit.
	"What's going on?  Does the universe hate us?" quietly wailed Ikeen, Ioneen's 
younger sister.  She had recently graduated from a trade school; and Ioneen had pulled 
strings to land her sister a job as one of the Oort facility's fix-it-alls.
	Abrett glared at the two guards, ignoring those the captors had termed 
'engineering units.'  "Bastards.  Grig was a good man.  True, he was never going to win 
an award for smarts, but he was still a good man."  His eyes were calculating.  "I bet we 
could rush those two.  This place is huge, and once we get past them pair, it'd take forever 
to find us."
	Whimpered Malai, Breeze's cook, "I don't think that'd work.  If we just sit here 
and be good, maybe these Borg people will eventually let us go?"
	"Let us go where?" demanded Abrett.  "To our ship hanging on the wall?  We are 
so far from home that we might as well be in the innermost ring of the three hells.  Our 
best chance is..."  The captain continued his harangue, verbally beating Malai into the 
ground.  Geoni tuned him out, much as she would a long-winded colleague at an 
extended meeting.
	The Borg appeared to be improving the cell, making it more fit for Chuckareen 
habitation.  Construction of a sanitary facility more civilized than bucket and curtain was 
the current focus of the four drones.  Also present were half-built bunk beds and an odd 
machine, the latter like a skinny file cabinet with an inset horizontal ledge set about waist 
high and a complex computer screen.  The water bucket was next to the non-file cabinet; 
and Geoni had a distinct thirst, although she did not dare leave the safety of the group.
	"You are insane," whispered Malai fiercely in response to one of Abrett's 
comments.  "Totally insane.  I only signed up for the one roundtrip cruise to get my 
fusionship rating.  And since we don't, as you pointed out earlier, have a fusionship 
anymore, you are not my captain.  I will not be doing anything to make our captors mad 
at me:  I want to live."
	"Say," began Ioneen.  Her words were lost under a unexpected blaring noise, 
serial out-of-tune pulses like a reed instrument played by an overenthusiastic, but 
untrained (and tone-deaf) musician-wanna-be child.  The engineering units paused, mid-
step and mid-reach.
	"Emergency.  Emergency.  All units will report to stations.  Comply," announced 
a dull, monotone voice from a hidden speaker.  The drones immediately dropped their 
tools, then turned as one and stiffly jogged out of the cell.  As they left, the guards pulled 
the partition gap closed; and the hum of the forcefield indicated resumption of the more 
formidable barrier.
	"Now is our chance!" said Geoni suddenly, a desperate idea crystallizing in her 
mind.  "If we each take a heavy tool, something common that might not be missed, we'll 
have weapons.  Then we have to take their captain hostage.  If we have him, the rest of 
the Borg will surely do as we say.  They could put us somewhere civilized, or 
something."  She was not a violent Chuckareen by nature, the exact opposite, if anything, 
a simple scientist.  However, she also had the overwhelming desire to get away from 
these Borgs, by any means necessary.
	Suspiciously protested Malai, "That's like a bad television plot!  This is the real 
world, and that stupid idea will get us all killed!"
	Abrett stalked forward and picked up a large wrench, swinging it once.  He 
looked like he was imagining a Borg skull as the recipient of the bash.  "I like how this 
lady thinks."
	Chuckareen skin was very elastic, a relic of a time before civilization and the 
advent of pocketed clothing.  Underarm webbing, like a Chuckareen's slick pelt, was an 
evolutionary leftover from a time when ancestors had been partially aquatic, had 'flown' 
underwater.  A foraging pre-Chuckareen in water, and later on land, could only store so 
much food in internal throat and cheek pouches, supplementing carrying capacity by 
wrapping arm webbing around items.  To a lesser extent, skin of torso and thighs 
similarly could be employed, although only children trying to hide sweets from the 
watchful eyes of a parent generally did so.
Geoni picked up a hammer and stuffed it into her left armpit, manipulating 
webbing to form a secure pouch.  "We have to do /something/.  You saw what they did to 
Fagorn and Grig, that assimilation thing.  I don't think they are going to stop at a mere 
two people.  They are looking for something."
	Troby, a quiet astrophysicist, scooped up a screwdriver, then discarded it for a 
pair of pliers.  "I agree," he said softly.  "And it /was/ a plot from a television show, 
episode 45 of Star Warriors.  It worked against the Goombas.  I like Star Warriors."
	One by one everyone else, except a defiant Malai, followed suit.  "No," said the 
cook, chin held high, dark fur bristled, "I want to live."
	The alarm stopped mid-bleat as suddenly as it had began.  After several minutes, 
the forcefield disengaged and a single drone, not a guard, squeezed its way between two 
partitions.  It was carrying a pail.
	"Not that one," whispered Geoni as Abrett took a step forward.  "The captain 
one."
	"We must retrieve our tools?" said the Borg, its words more interrogative than 
statement.  "Um, excuse us?"  It made its way around the cell, filling its pail with 
wrenches and hammers, a welder and pliers.  It did not seem to notice that tools were 
missing.  "We will return in twelve hours to complete our tasks.  They hygiene facility is 
complete, but the replicator will only furnish borscht and water."  Pause.  "We must go."  
The thing scuttled away, exited the cell.  Outside, the forcefield reinitiated.
	Said Geoni with forced conviction, "We wait."

	The night, if such could be called in a place where the illumination never 
changed, was horrible.  First of all, no one was tired, residual adrenaline stress, worry, 
and oppressive heat combining to create a situation didn't foster weariness.  Second, the 
food machine - the purpose of the file cabinet thing - only produced the promised water 
and a cold, red, and, frankly, disgusting soup.  Therefore, the six Chuckareen huddled 
together and quietly talked, although Malai remained near only for comfort and did not 
participate in anything which even faintly resembled rebellion.
	Geoni was leaning against a bunk bed support, half dozing, when one ear picked 
up the distinctive shuffling step of Borg.  She opened her eyes and looked at the others, 
seeing that they had heard as well.  As the forcefield hum vanished, she scrambled to her 
feet, tool weighing heavy in her webbing pouch.  "Let's go," Geoni whispered, second 
(and third) thoughts pushed to the back of her mind.
	Malai's ears lay against her skull in defiant negativity.  "Go, get yourselves killed 
or assimilated or whatever.  I am going to live."
Abrett flared his nostrils, "When we get home, I'll see you never work off-planet 
again."
	"Come on," hissed Geoni urgently.  The partitions were already being swung 
aside.  Quickly the five Chuckareen lined up in a rough arc.  Geoni crossed her arms, 
right hand in left armpit, feeling the solid weight of the hammer.  Her throat pouch 
nervously fluttered.  A sideways glance at the others showed similar signs of agitation 
except for Abrett, who was compulsively licking his lips.
	"Greetings," said Captain as he entered through the gap, not waiting for the 
guards to take their places, "we will..."
	"Get him!" screamed Geoni, doing her best to banish the squeak her voice wanted 
to be and imitate the lead hero from Star Warriors.  A good pair of lungs was a 
requirement to be a physicist, debates often an endeavor where the winner was the one 
who could shout the loudest.  She raised her tool and leapt forward.
	Geoni found herself abruptly jerked to a stop, wrist with hammer caught mid-
descent in the grip of Captain's whole hand.  As she was lifted off her feet to dangle, the 
drone's blue eye gazed directly at her, accompanied by the merest hint of upturned lips.  
How had the Borg moved so fast?  Direct attention was fleeting, however, as Captain's 
head swiveled to observe the outcome of the short-lived assault.
	Like Geoni, Abrett had attacked Captain, hoping to gain a hostage.  He, however, 
had been stopped by one of Captain's guards.  Abrett was now being held close to the 
guard's chest in a parody of a one-armed hug, the free limb cruelly wrenching the 
Chuckareen's head sideways to expose his neck.  Despite his uncomfortable predicament, 
Abrett impotently kicked out with his feet.
	Troby, Ikeen, and Ioneen had faired better, ganging up to assail the other guard.  
That drone was being soundly pummeled around the head, shoulders, and ribs with heavy 
hand tools.  A ragged scratch on the Borg's face was weeping greenish-blue blood.  Then 
an odd buzzing, shimmering thickness of air formed; and from that unrecognized 
phenomenon materialized three Borg.  Geoni's eyes widened; and her subconscious brain 
began to consider hypothesis by certain radical scientists who had proposed the 
possibility of bulk matter transmission.  The Borg trio easily captured the assaulters.
	The battered drone straightened, then glared at each of his saviors in turn.  With 
unreal swiftness the cut on his forehead was healing, leaving behind only drying blood to 
show the tear had ever existed.  The Borg holding Troby made a noise which sounded 
distinctly like a muffled chuckle.  Then the expressions on all four went blank, as if the 
muscles in their faces had been frozen.  Geoni noticed Captain was staring directly at the 
foursome.
	It was as if there was a conversation happening of which the Chuckareen were not 
privy.
	"Take this one," spoke Captain aloud, perhaps for the benefit of his nonBorg 
audience.  "Secure all individuals, including specimen #5 in the hygienic facility, in the 
center of the holding area.  Comply."  Pause.  "And be careful with the tools:  Delta 
wants them back, undamaged."
	Geoni was passed to the clutches of the empty-handed guard; and then gained a 
second jailer as the transportation beam materialized seven additional Borg of the bulky, 
armored type.  As Malai was pulled from the toilet, Geoni joined her conspirators in 
being forcefully lined up in the middle of the cell.  Sometime during the short struggle 
the forcefield had been re-erected, and it now hummed loudly in the resulting silence, 
broken only by an odd flushing from the restroom (waste was instantly disintegrated - no 
water involved).
	"I didn't do anything!" screamed Malai as she was prodded into place.  "And I 
told the others not to try anything stupid!"
	Captain's eye panned over his captives, alighting finally on Malai.  He pivoted on 
heel and took the requisite steps in her direction until he was less than an armspan from 
her face.  "We know."  Malai jerked her head back as if slapped.
	A static buzz interrupted the hum from the forcefield; and Geoni felt the short 
hairs of her hackles raise as she realized the Borg who had just arrived had passed 
through the barrier as if it was not present.  It was the Borg called Assimilation.  Geoni 
was not the only one who had made the observation, nor realized the implication.
	"We've been tricked!" spat Abrett.  "You could have materialized here any time 
you wanted, or walked through that energy barrier thing.  And you've been watching us, 
haven't you?  You already knew what we planned!"
	"And...and you set it up," whispered Geoni, puzzle pieces clicking into place as 
she took the accusation one step further.  "The tools were left here on purpose."
	Captain's head turned to regard first Abrett as he spoke, then Geoni.  Eye flicked 
over the other three conspirators, seeming to reject them from consideration.  "Yes," he 
said simply, answering many questions with that single monosyllable.
	Assimilation stopped his advance next to Captain.
	"Are you going to let me go?  I didn't go along with them," groveled Malai.  Her 
eyes were wide, pleading, that which Geoni could see as she leaned forward.  She was 
abruptly yanked back to her former position.
	Captain spoke to Malai, "By not participating with the majority, you have 
displayed potential rogue tendencies.  Although any latent rogue leanings will be firmly 
quashed by the time you have completed processing, the actions necessary to ensure 
eradication of discordant thoughts will make you unsuited for what we require.  
Therefore..."	
"You're assimilated!" called Announcer, drowning Captain's pronouncement.  
"Although you did not win our Grand Prize, you still look forward to many productive 
years, if not decades, of being Borg!  The neural realignment necessary for your 
processing will, unfortunately, make you unfit for any but the most menial and repetitive 
of tasks.  On the other hand, after integration into the Whole, your contribution towards 
Perfection will unlikely to include direct opposition against maniac guerrillas bent on 
resistance by any means necessary!"
	Captain stepped sideways as Assimilation took his place in front of Malai.  The 
Chuckareen's throat and cheek pouches were pulsating in fear.  One of the escorts forced 
Malai's head sideways, allowing Assimilation to apply knuckles with metal tubules to the 
exposed neck.  Like Grig and Fagorn, within moments of Assimilation's retreat Malai's 
fear was replaced with something...else, an expression of emptiness, of waiting, of 
passive expectation.
	Assimilation, escorts, and Malai vanished in the green-tinged transporter beam.
	Captain retreated to a position more central to the five remaining survivors.  He 
opened his mouth in preparation to speak to his stunned audience, but before words could 
emerge, he was interrupted by the transporter beam arrival of a new Borg, or, rather, 
Borgs.  The drones were twins, each holding a pail.
	"I want..." started the drone to the right.
	"...the tools back..." continued the second, its (her) voice exactly the same as the 
first.
	"...before you continue..."
	"...with your little session."
	"When you return, we will have completed the holding pen."  The final sentence 
was delivered in unison.  Tools, those which had not been dropped, were deftly plucked 
from nerveless fingers and tossed into the buckets.  The twins vanished as they had 
arrived.
	Captain heaved an audible sigh.  "Follow me," he said as he turned, forcefield 
flickering out of existence as he approached the partition gap.  A jabbed finger placed just 
so into a nerve located in her back forced Geoni into motion.  Her position in the line was 
second, behind Abrett and in front of Ikeen.  The back of the former's tunic was no longer 
as clean as it once had been.  Captain led all, never looking back to see how jailors or 
charges fared.
	The walk across the room was long, and for a moment Geoni was certain they 
were returning to the hideous tub-boxes.  The place where Fagorn and Grig had met their 
fate was not the destination, however, as became clear when the giant room was exited 
for an adjoining corridor.  Captain halted.  Geoni was wrenched to a stop.
	The hallway was a metal-plated tunnel which felt oppressively low after the 
lofting heights of the big room.  A light strip, ever so slightly green, was embedded in the 
ceiling.  The humid heat argued for the growth of mildews and molds, but the bare 
surfaces were spotless.  Five rectangular openings, each approximately shoulder width 
and stretching from waist to head height, were present along one wall, respective cover 
panels leaning nearby.  Two plastic pails sat beneath each gap.  Geoni was pulled to the 
second opening, escorts backing to the opposite side of the corridor once they were 
satisfied she would not try to bolt towards imagined freedom.
	Wide-eyed, Geoni peered within the opening, seeing a vertical board sporting a 
ten by ten arrangement of rectangular objects, each the size of a finger.  One of the pails 
at her feet was empty, while the other was half full of the same blocks.  Glancing 
sideways, she observed a similar set-up to her right where Abrett was positioned, and also 
to her left with Ikeen.
	A flicker overhead caught Geoni's attention.  Normally the concept of a well-
crafted hologram would send her scientist mind to pondering background hows.  
Emotional numbness from the thwarted attack was still settling, however, and the 
Chuckareen script number - 20 - which floated over her opening was merely registered.
	"I will have your attention," ordered Captain in a tone that promised more direct 
methods if focus wasn't voluntarily provided.  He continued after everyone had turned to 
face him.  "You have been given a task..."
	"What if I don't want to do it?" demanded Abrett as the fingers of his right hand 
made a transitory, and very rude, gesture.  If the assault's failure had impacted him, he 
was hiding it well.  "What if none of us wish to play this senseless game you are torturing 
us with?"
	Captain's head tilted slightly as he regarded Abrett.  Geoni shivered despite the 
heat:  those blue eyes were colder than any ice, and not only did they seem to look 
/through/ a person, but the intensity suggested the presence of multiple observers.  "Then 
you will be assimilated.  Now.  Is this your desire?"
	"No, damn it!  I've seen that assimilation thingy, and while I don't know what it is, 
I want no part in it!  But what's in it for us if we play your stupid game?"
	"The Grand Prize.  All else will be assimilated and immediately set into stasis 
following initial processing."
	Geoni's heart skipped a beat.  "The winner will be let go?"  Captain was silent, 
although his head had swiveled to regard her.  "Why can't you let us all go?  Why play 
with us like a prica with a sow-bug?"
	Captain did not answer for many long seconds, then, "Species #12506 dossier 
entry is incomplete.  We are uncertain how specific qualities are expressed due to limited 
collection and processing of your species.  Observation and testing of unassimilated 
specimens is required."
	"We are all lab animals," muttered Ioneen.
	"Yes, and you will all be assimilated lab animals unless you follow our directives.  
The choice is yours:  those who do not participate will be immediately assimilated.  Any 
takers?  No?"  Captain paused, then proceeded to engage in a one-sided conversation with 
someone who wasn't there.  Geoni wondered, for the first time, if the Borg was even 
sane.  Perhaps the entire crew was loony?  "Look, Second, this is ridiculous.  There is no 
reason...I don't see how...fine.  Get it over with."
	Announcer's voice was distinctly louder in the confines of the corridor.  "Ladies 
and gentlemen, this exiting round of 'Multi-tasking' is brought to you by Visa-
Consortium, everywhere you want to assimilate!  Within the wall, dummy boards with an 
isolinear chip grid have been set up.  Your task, should you choose to accept it, is to find 
the twenty bad chips and replace them with good ones.  Bad ones are blackened; and the 
good ones are in the pail at your feet.  You will be timed.  Don't dawdle!  During the task, 
distractions may occur.  Some may be relevant, others not.  Your priority is to replace 
chips, but some of your distractions may need to be dealt with as well.  Your decision.  
Winners will advance towards the Grand Prize!  Others will be assimilated!"
	"Are you done?" asked Captain to thin air.  His tone was definitely exasperated.  
"Well, begin already."  Several holographic clocks sprang into existence.
Geoni swallowed and looked across the hallway to her escorts.  Both were staring 
at her.  Abruptly deciding that she desired a couple more minutes of life, versus the 
uncertain fate represented by assimilation, she turned to look at her board with its 
isolinear chips.  For all his defiance, Geoni noticed Abrett had done likewise.  In fact, all 
the Chuckareen had individually decided to participate.
	Randomly selecting a chip, she tugged it free from its socket.  The ambient light 
was difficult to see in, but squinting she could discern the exposed end to be clear.  She 
reset the chip back into its hole.  Another random choice revealed the hidden portion to 
be smoky, like a burned out incandescent bulb.  The bad chip was dropped into the empty 
bucket and a good one retrieved from the full.  The new chip was pushed into the vacant 
slot; and the holographic "20" decreased to "19."
	Maybe this task wouldn't be so hard.  However - Geoni glanced left and right - 
Troby had dropped into the intense state of concentration he was infamous for, his count 
already at "17."
	Then the light strip began to flicker.  The already horrible lighting was further 
reduced in quality.  Geoni required many long ticks of her timer to tell that her next chip 
was clear.  An element of panic began to rise in her throat, compounded by the sound of a 
muttering Abrett discarding a bad chip.  She would just have to focus better, flickering 
light or no flickering light.
	Ikeen suddenly gave a moan of frustration.  "I can't do this."
"Sister," hissed Ioneen from the far end of the line, beyond Troby, "be a good 
little junior fix-it-all engineer and finish the board."
	Geoni glanced over her shoulder, but the Borg guards had not moved.  "Do as she 
says, Ikeen."
	The light shone unsteadily, hurting the eyes with its inconsistency.  Ikeen winced.  
"I can't.  That thing is driving me insane."  Her eyes were wide, a muscle in her jaw 
twitching.  Abandoning her board, she tentatively crossed the space to where Captain was 
standing statue still.  "Sir, can't you do /something/ about the light?"
	Geoni watched the unfolding drama, convinced the younger Chuckareen was 
going to be assimilated, even as she tried to determine the status of the chip she held.
	Captain's eye focused on the ceiling, then Ikeen.  A cart with tools materialized 
beside him.  "Maintenance of this light strip is low priority.  However, engineering 
hierarchy informs me that you may try to fix the problem, if you feel there is one."
	The bad chip was discarded.  Geoni's count now read "18."
	"Ikeen!" implored Ioneen plaintively, increasingly bold as her actions failed to 
provoke reaction from the guard Borg.
	Ikeen flattened her ears and pointed to the ceiling, "I have to fix it."  A note of 
desperation colored her voice.  "If I don't fix it, I can't see the chips."  A tool was 
selected, one of spiky bits and blinking lights, of which Ikeen obviously had no idea of its 
function.  The young engineer upended her empty pail to use as a stool.
	Geoni tried to put the sounds behind her out of mind and concentrate on her task.  
Instead of inefficient random plucking, she began to systematically check chips.  The top 
row of ten yielded two more bad ones.  Unfortunately, the heat was becoming 
increasingly oppressive.  Chuckareen did not sweat, panting and exposure of arm 
webbing their only means to dump heat.  The thick, still air was not conducive to 
facilitating either method. 
	Troby dropped another chip into his filling bucket.  Abrett panted, swallowed, 
panted.  Geoni lost her concentration and could not regain it, thinking only of how hot 
she was.
	Both the Breeze captain and administrative staffer paused as Geoni left her board 
and began the trek to Captain.  Troby was oblivious to anything but his task; and Ikeen 
was precariously balanced on tiptoe on her bucket as she tried to fix an alien technology 
with an unknown tool.  Captain silently observed Geoni's approach.
	"It is too hot in here," complained Geoni when she reached Captain.
	Assimilation was not to be her immediate fate.  "The temperature is 3.2 degrees 
above normal," answered the Borg.
	Geoni waited, but when no more was forthcoming, she burst out, "Can't you /do/ 
anything about it?  Turn on the air conditioning, or something?  I cannot focus!"
	"The temperature is within acceptable working parameters for Borg.  You are not 
Borg.  The temperature will eventually be adjusted to normal...unless you wish to try to 
repair it?"  A significant nod was made towards the tool cart.
	"I can't fix anything," moaned Geoni, who barely knew one end of a screwdriver 
from the other.  "I just want a fan to move the air a bit."
	Captain blinked, once again tilted his head in that odd manner, and an oscillating 
fan set atop a tripod materialized next to him.  "Is this sufficient?"
	Geoni eyed the fan.  "Where is the on-off switch, and does it need to be plugged 
into something for it to work?"
	"The power source is self-contained.  Activation and speed is set using the dial on 
the back of the device."
	"Thank you," said Geoni as she laboriously pulled the fan into a position just 
beyond Abrett where everyone would be able to benefit.  Less than a minute of 
experimentation had blades spinning a sluggish, hot, but welcome breeze down the 
corridor.  There was a minor squeak of annoyance which accompanied the oscillation, but 
it was bearable.
	Geoni returned to her board, behind everyone but the absent Ikeen.  She started on 
the second row of chips, arms slightly splayed to capture the breeze.
	"Stop it, you idiot," commented Abrett harshly.  "Leave it alone."
	On the third row despite the flickering distraction of the light strip, Geoni had not 
noticed that Ikeen had switched interests.  She was now examining the fan.
	"It is making a noise.  I can fix it."
	"Like the lights?" sarcastically asked Abrett.
	"I need to fix the squeak before I can fix the lights.  Then I can finish the board."
	"Ikeen," moaned Ioneen.  She was ignored by her sister.
	Thirteen chips to go.  Geoni started on her fifth row.  As long as the fan kept 
spinning, that a breeze of some sort was present, she was okay.
	"What'cha doing?" asked a voice with synthetic harmonics next to Geoni's ear.  
She leapt sideways, concentration broken, heart beating.  She had missed the subtle sound 
which accompanied the transporter beam.  Five new Borg were present in the corridor, 
crowding a space already confined with Captain, guards, tool cart, and fan.  One of these 
Borg, slightly shorter than the others and thus of a height equivalent the standard 
Chuckareen, had glommed itself (himself?) to her.
	"Wha...what your captain told me to do," stuttered Geoni as she consciously tried 
to stop fluttering her throat pouches.
	"Why?" asked the drone innocently.  He had not advanced further into Geoni's 
personal space, but neither did he retreat as she sidled back into position so she could 
work the board.
	"Because he says he'll assimilate us if we don't."
	"Why?"
	"I don't know.  Ask him.  Maybe because you like to torture prisoners?"
	"Why?"
	"I /don't/ know.  Go bother someone else!"
	"Why?"
	Geoni stifled the urge to scream, or cry, or both.  A new level of strain in an 
already stressful situation was manifesting, and Chuckareen in general did not handle 
tension well.  She was not the only one experiencing difficulties.
	At the far end of the line, Ioneen was slapping at the hand of a Borg who was 
ever-so-unhelpfully trying to replace good chips with already discarded bad ones.  
Ioneen's counter gained a step towards twenty, instead of zero, as she was unable to 
prevent the loss of a good chip into the bad bucket.  She shoved the drone away half a 
pace.
	Troby's annoyance was obtrusively scanning him, waving a flat, beeping device 
around his head.  Troby, however, was ignoring his drone, ignoring the universe, merely 
hunching his shoulders against the overt provocation.  His counter registered only five 
chips until task completion.
	At the fan, Ikeen had abandoned her squeak abatement project for a new 
challenge.  Her drone was pointing to its arm, demonstrating something which involved 
the clenching and unclenching of the affected limb's fist.  Ikeen had her nose less than a 
fingerswidth from the arm.
	"Go away!" shouted Abrett as he grabbed something from his Borg.  That 
something resolved itself into a lit lighter that flared uncertainly as it arced through the 
air, finally gutting out as it hit the deck with a clatter.  The drone, wide-eyed as it 
followed the flight, grunted as the lighter spun to a stop.  Glancing once at Captain, it 
abandoned Abrett, intent on retrieving the lost lighter.
	"Why?" continued Geoni's own pest with the doggedness of a five-year-old.
	"Shut up!"
	"Why?"
	"Because I told you to."
	"Why?"
	"You are annoying me."
	"Why?"
	Geoni stifled a small scream, then tried to emulate Troby, tried to block the overly 
persistent why's.  The sudden loss of gravity, however, was a distraction she could not 
avoid.
	The Borg, all of them, remained firmly attached to the deck.  As Geoni flailed her 
arms, trying to find something that wasn't her interrogator to grasp, she spun in an 
awkward circle.  A slight smirk on Captain's face abruptly vanished as he noticed her 
staring at him during one of her slow revolutions.
	The fan had become a center of chaos, the spinning blades now assuming a 
propeller-like aspect under the current weightless condition.  Ikeen had latched one hand 
to her drone, the other to the fan's tripod, and was trying to use the former to anchor the 
latter.  The fan was not cooperating, especially as an errant bump on the ceiling initiated 
maximum speed and threatened to spin the situation even more out of control than it 
already was.
	Troby, the exact opposite of Ikeen's pandemonium, calmly wrapped one foot into 
the scanning drone's hoses.  Using the action to steady himself, the last chip was swapped 
out even as Geoni watched.  "Done," said Troby.  He abruptly recoiled as the scan device 
was shoved in his face, mind consciously registering the Borg's presence now that there 
was no need to concentrate solely upon the task.
	Ioneen's chips were a hopeless muddle in the air, good and bad buckets spilt and 
mixed.  On the up side, she had somehow convinced her drone to look for the bad chips 
on the board as she herself frantically sorted her mess, the hub of a miniature planetary 
system.
	Dangerously close to the fan chaos, Abrett, minus his drone (who had never 
returned after fetching his lighter) gritted his jaw and shoved his body half into the 
opening to stop himself from drifting.  Of all the Chuckareen present, he was the only one 
who regularly worked in a weightless environment and, thus, appeared the most 
comfortable.
	"Do you have any straps I can use?" demanded Geoni to her drone.
	"Why?"
	"So I can stop myself from floating away."
	"Why?"
	"Yes or no."  Geoni could not stop her spin.  "If you do, give me one."
	"Why?"
	"Because I'll puke on you if you don't.  The momentum might get me to a wall."
	Amazingly, there was no answering "why?"  Instead, on her next revolution, 
Geoni was handed an elastic rope with clips on both ends.  After performing that duty, 
the Borg carefully backed out of reasonable vomiting distance and was mercifully silent.  
By flailing legs and flapping her arms, Geoni finally reached the panel opening, where 
she clung.
	The fan whizzed by, Ikeen desperately clutching to one tripod leg.  It crashed into 
Troby's drone.  Ioneen eeked, shoving her sorted good chips into an underarm least they 
be irretrievably lost.
	Geoni, finding a likely protuberance inside the gap, snapped one end of her rope 
into place.  Thus secured, she returned to her chip task.
	With a whirr, bang, squeak, scratch, and boom, the flickering of the light strip 
ceased.  Unfortunately, the resulting darkness was not conducive to determining good 
chip from bad.  The only illumination remaining was from holographic timers and 
counters, as well as the red pinpoints of Borg ranging lasers.
	"Enough!" shouted Captain.  Gravity abruptly returned, followed by the clatter of 
floating chips hitting the ground, as well as heavier thumps possible only from bodies.  
Geoni had the breath knocked out of her as her midsection caught on the opening's edge.  
"This task is over.  Secure the specimens."
	Except for a small segment in which a fan blade was embedded, the light strip 
brightened.  It was obvious that the malfunctions had been contrived.  The holographic 
counters showed that only Troby had successfully completed the task.  Geoni's effort 
showed "8," third behind Abrett.  Ikeen's remained "19," the same number prior to her 
distraction first with bogus flickering lights, then squeaking fan.
	Geoni's two Borg guards flanked her, grabbed her arms, made her face Captain.
	Captain gestured, "Specimen #6 and specimen #7, attend."  Troby and a rumpled 
Ikeen, tunic torn, were forcefully moved forward half a pace.  Geoni's eyes widened:  
Troby had obviously won the Grand Prize, whatever it was, but why was Ikeen being 
singled out as well?  "You have both failed this task."
	Ioneen gasped, but any move she might have made toward her sister was checked 
by her flankers.
	Assimilation materialized in the hallway as Captain walked down the corridor, 
stopping in front of Ikeen.  "You have absolutely no attention span, specimen #6, no 
multi-tasking ability.  We do hope we are wrong with our calculations of potential 
nascent assimilation imperfection, because while you will likely be assigned to an 
engineering hierarchy, we have enough difficulties as is maintaining efficiency without 
adding to our burden."
	Captain's plural usage was unremarked as he pivoted to regard Troby.  "Specimen 
#7, while very efficient, you concentrate too deeply upon a single task.  The others 
demonstrated an ability, albeit crude at times," Captain paused to pointedly glance at 
Abrett, "to confront or ignore other distractions as necessary.  You are not suitable."
	"Thank you for playing 'You're Assimilated!'" echoed Announcer as Captain 
turned away.
	Geoni was pushed into motion to march past Troby and Ikeen, both of whom 
were held in place by their respective escorts.  "Ikeen!" wailed Ioneen as she was literally 
drug away.  Ikeen began to scream.  Geoni tried to shut out the noise even as she called 
comforting words to her friend.
	As the three remaining Breeze survivors re-emerged into the big room, Ikeen's 
scream abruptly ceased.  Although all had been removed before they could see 
Assimilation do his deed, all knew what had been accomplished.  Ioneen's shoulders 
slumped as the magnitude of her loss fell upon her; and even Abrett seemed to have been 
affected.  Geoni, for the first time, wondered if immediate assimilation for refusing to do 
the last task may have been preferable to the struggle to gain whatever freedom the Grand 
Prize represented.

	During the time in the corridor, the cell had undergone minor changes.  One of the 
bunks was gone, leaving four beds for three people, as if it had been a foregone 
conclusion one or more of the "contestants" would not be returning.  The food machine 
now sported a larger menu than red soup and water, although none of it was Chuckareen 
cuisine and all of it was disgusting to the point of nausea.  The item called gahk 
especially bad; and the less said of the cheese and spinach souffle, the better.  The 
enclosed toilet remained the same, as did the orange partitions and the parameter 
forcefield.
	Geoni was unsure how much time had passed since the three had been returned to 
their prison:  she had no watch, and neither did Abrett nor Ioneen.  Thus far she had 
choked down a horrible dinner, fitfully slept on an uncomfortable pallet, and eaten a 
dismal breakfast.  Abrett had done similar.  Ioneen, meanwhile, had sunk to the floor a 
few minutes after the Borg had left, entering a depressive haze in which she stared for 
hours on end at the deck, a streak of discolored partition fabric, a bunk bed corner.
	"What are those noises?" asked Geoni nervously, one ear twitching.  Grinding 
abrasion of metal against metal screamed from somewhere in the cavernous room, 
momentarily overwhelming a steady hammering.  At the same time, a nearly subsonic 
groan came from the walls themselves, a subtle protest to unseen stresses affecting the 
ship entire.  While the latter was a common, and recognized, occurrence, the construction 
cacophony had only begun a short while ago.
	Muttered Abrett from a lower bunk, opposite of where Geoni sat, "Don't know.  
Don't care."  His position was such that he could gaze longingly at the out-of-reach 
Breeze.  "At first I thought they hung my ship up there to taunt me, you know.  I don't 
think that anymore.  I think it is just a storage place, like us in our cage, until someone 
gets around to doing something to her."
	Ioneen shifted slightly, turning her sightless gaze upon a scuff on the floor.
	"Only one of us is going to get it, the Grand Prize, whatever it is," said Abrett, 
swinging the conversation (and his eyes) away from the fusionship.
	This particular verbal trek had been trod many times in the last unknown number 
of hours.  Geoni answered as before, "Freedom, of course.  If there wasn't freedom at the 
end of the torture, /something/ to make us want to play, why bother?  I just don't 
understand how Captain or whomever is choosing the winners and losers."  She had 
convinced herself of the final goal, even though the Borg had never explicitly 
disseminated the Grand Prize.  At this point, all she had left was optimism.
	Persisted Abrett, "But only /one/ of us will get this supposed freedom, and it 
certainly will not be Ioneen.  The fate of her sister has hit her pretty hard."  The 
observation was an understatement, the grief depression brought on by mental trauma 
showing every sign of evolving into a stress coma.  Ioneen desperately needed 
medication and treatment which was not present.
	Geoni looked at her friend, knowing Abrett was right, unless there was an aspect 
to the winner/loser conundrum which favored debilitating depression.  "Only one.  Who, 
then?"
	"Does it matter?  In my own, selfish world, I, of course, damn well want it to be 
me.  However, it could be you.  What is important is what actions you or I should take 
when freed."
	"I hope it is you.  I don't know anything about aliens or spaceports or such.  The 
Breeze was my first trip on a ship that went further than the second moon," admitted 
Geoni.
	Abrett snorted.  "And that qualifies me?  I'm not some fictional Star Warriors 
hero!  I'm a captain of a glorified shuttle, hauling hibernating corpsicles from point A to 
point B.  I don't think our spaceports have much in common with whatever is out here; 
and the only alien I've ever personally seen, before now, has been on the subspace 
broadcasts.  Same as you, I suspect.  Hell, you're the smart one:  you'd have better luck 
out in the wilds than me."
	"Assuming I didn't go catatonic," sighed Geoni.  "Do you have any ideas for the 
person that goes free?"
	"Not really, other than trying to get home.  Our people need to learn about these 
Borg.  Dangerous, they are.  Isolationism, other than subspace or the occasional alien 
trinket, may not be the best policy anymore, no matter how patriotic it sounds."
	Geoni flicked her ears.  This 'glorified shuttle captain' probably had more political 
sense and real-world experience than her from the hallowed (and sheltered) halls of 
academia.  "I agree."  She paused, listened.  "I don't hear the noises anymore.  I wonder if 
that means something?"
The question was answered as soon as it was asked in the form of seven Borg 
materializing in the holding cell.  One of them was Captain; and the others were the 
standard two-drone escorts.  Geoni stood up, making a futile effort to finger-comb the 
rumpled fur of her right arm, knowing that she would simply be plucked off the bed if she 
tried to resist.  Ioneen was physically picked up from the ground, then held in position by 
her guards when it became apparent she wasn't going to make any effort to stand.
	"Follow," said Captain.
	Geoni gasped as she felt an icy sensation claw at the core of her being.  The 
universe swam before her eyes, returning to solidarity at a new location.  She had been 
transported through the Borg beam!  Wide-eyed, Geoni glanced as best she could towards 
Abrett, rewarded with a stunned expression which was probably a mirror to her own.  
The continued presence of Breeze proved that they remained in the same big room, 
although it was almost too much to consider that the Borg ship should have more than 
one gigantic open space.
	An expanse of wall had been recently cleared of shelving.  A resumption of 
hammering in the echoing distance indicated that this was not the origin of the noise 
heard from the cell.  Two vertical white lines split the exposed wall into three sections, in 
front of which each stood two drones.  Buckets of gray paint, matching that of the wall, 
waited at the drones' feet, and in their hands they held paintbrushes.
	Geoni squinted at black writing on the wall, behind the waiting drones, unable to 
read it.  There were several lines of spray-painted scrawl, arranged in a form reminiscent 
of Chuckareen poetry.  However, without the ability to decipher the script, as far as she 
knew it could be vulgar sayings, a recipe, or the math theorem for Everything.
	Captain opened his mouth to speak, but the words were drowned out.
	"Welcome to the next round of 'You're Assimilated!'  Today you will demonstrate 
your leadership skills.  Directing these drones, you will paint your section of wall!  How 
exciting!  Do well, and you will advance one more step to the Grand Prize!" spoke the 
always-hidden Announcer.  The voice could not quite mask the sound of renewed 
construction.
	Captain's jaw, clenched now, tightened.  His head tilted upwards and eyes focused 
on something not apparent to his captives.  That attention quickly returned to the Breeze 
refugees, however.  "As Second says, you will be painting a wall.  The drones you are 
assigned will follow your verbal orders.  Exactly."
	Geoni was maneuvered to the middle position.  She eyed the paintbrush wielding 
drones - both of the worker type - as her guards stepped back.  "What are your names?"  
No answer.  "Tell me your names, please?"  Both Borg began speaking simultaneously.  
"One at a time!  You first, then you."
	The drone to Geoni's right spoke.  "This unit is designated 202 of 230," followed 
by the second with "This unit is designated 230 of 310."
	Geoni frowned at the numerical mouthful, as well as the implication of just asking 
a simple name.  This would be like a certain childhood game where the objective was to 
follow the literal orders from the leader.  The results then had been hilarious.  Geoni did 
not think the potential outcome here would be so laughable.
	Pointing at 202 of 230, Geoni said, "You will go by and answer to 'Borg One.'"  
She stabbed her finger at the other drone, "And you will go by and answer to 'Borg Two.'  
Do you both understand?"  Nothing.  "Answer me."
	"Affirmative.  We will comply," spoke the pair in unison.
	To Geoni's left, Abrett had started off very badly, realizing a second too late the 
literalities of Captain's instructions.  "That's not what I meant!  You have all the initiative, 
less even, of a brainwashed military plebe!"  In the time it had taken for Geoni to reduce 
her drones' names to something she could handle without tripping over her tongue, 
Abrett's charges had deposited their brushes into their paint.  Abrett's nose wrinkled with 
irritation.  "F*** this stupid game," he growled to himself.
	Abrett's drones stared unblinking at the fuming Breeze captain, looked at each 
other, swiveled their heads to gaze at Captain, then returned their focus to Abrett.  
Tentatively began the Borg furthest from Geoni, without being bade to speak, "Must we 
attempt that order?  Such will be very difficult.  112 of 230 has undergone surgical 
alterations which preclude reproductive activity; and I myself am a neuter of species 
#9008, and as such will require at least twenty cycles and specific hormonal injections to 
attain male or female mode.  Prosthetics can be acquired for both of us if you insist, but 
the problem remains concerning the ambiguous nature of your directive."
	Abrett opened his mouth as if to add another, inappropriate phrase to the mix, 
then snapped his jaw shut.  Ears twitched.  "Never mind.  Just pick up your brushes."
	Geoni took her eyes off Abrett and his situation, catching a fleeting expression on 
the faces of her two drones.  The faster the wall was painted, the better.  "Okay. Um, 
Borg One, holding on to your paintbrush always, dip it bristles first into the paint.  The 
paint in the bucket next to your feet, that is.  Then stand up, turn towards the section of 
wall behind you, and apply the paint to the wall using the brush."  The drone watched 
her, moving not a muscle.  "Do what I just said."
	"I comply," answered Borg One.  It (she, thought Geoni) followed direction 
precisely, almost.  Paint was applied to the wall (and everything else) as Borg One shook 
the brush to produce splatters.  Belatedly Geoni realized that while she had told the Borg 
to not let go the brush, she had forgotten to have the drone approach the wall to 
appropriate painting distance.
	This task was almost, but not quite, as exasperating as supervising first-year 
physics students who had never been in a lab before.
	"Borg One, stop!"  The drone halted, mid-flick.  Paint began to run down her arm 
and drip off her elbow.  "I want you to approach the wall, stopping half an armspan - 
your armspan - from the wall.  Then, using the brush, apply paint to the wall."
	Uttering another verbal compliance, Borg One took two steps towards the wall, 
then began to dab paint on it.  No matter, thought Geoni, technique could be refined later 
to include more traditional, and effective, swaths.  Now it was time to set Borg Two in 
motion.
	A small commotion bade Geoni to briefly check on Abrett's progress.  He had 
managed to cajole both his Borgs to the wall, the neuter using its brush in an appropriate 
manner.  Unfortunately, the other drone was painting her compatriot's head; and Abrett 
was trying to physically (and futilely) turn the offending Borg so she faced the wall.
	"State what is wrong with specimen #3," demanded an unexpected Borg voice.  
Geoni gasped and turned, nearly falling against Borg Two.  How had Captain approached 
unheard?  "I repeat, state what is wrong with specimen #3."
	Geoni blinked, swallowing convulsively despite her suddenly dry mouth.  
"Specimen #3?"
	"The individual designated Ioneen, what is wrong?"
	Geoni looked at Ioneen's position.  Her friend had not moved since the Borg 
guards had stepped away, leaving her squatting on her haunches.  The current point of 
focus appeared to be her knee, or perhaps the edge of her tunic.  Without directions, 
Ioneen's drones had not moved; and while Geoni was far from being an expert on Borg 
facial expressions, when they displayed them at all, the pair did not seem to be in the 
here-and-now, attention directed elsewhere.
	"She's...depressed.  You assimilated, killed, whatever her younger sister.  Ioneen 
was very close to Ikeen, and is the one who found her the job she was reporting to.  
Ioneen is probably blaming herself.  She won't come out of her fugue without medical 
help," answered Geoni.
	Captain stared at Geoni, "State the leadership potential of specimen #3."
	Geoni nervously swallowed again.  At least her heart was no longer beating as if it 
wanted to flutter out of her chest.  "Ioneen's only worked a couple of years for the 
Institute, but is already the head of her finance administrative section.  If someone like 
me needs to get something done, she is, or was, the one to make it happen."
	The Borg captain continued to stab Geoni with his blue-eyed glare for several 
long seconds.  Then he glanced over to where Abrett was furnishing terse commands one 
at a time.  Finally he began to pan sideways, pausing briefly at Borg One behind Geoni, 
and finally ending at Ioneen.  The gaze returned to Geoni.  A decision had obviously been 
made.
	Abrett's paint crew ceased their actions, mid-motion, much to the Breeze captain's 
verbal consternation.  Geoni daren't look behind to confirm, but she had the suspicion 
that Borg One had also turned into a statue.
	The dreaded Assimilation materialized next to Ioneen.
	"No!" protested Geoni helplessly.  She and Abrett had discussed this possibility, 
and intellectually she knew that the outcome had been virtually certain.  However, 
intellect is not the same as emotion, especially when a good friend was involved.  "You 
can't!"
	With a look, Captain evaporated any nascent thoughts Geoni might have harbored 
concerning physical attack.  If a hammer had been useless, then bare hands were even 
more so.  Geoni forced herself to turn away from Captain's cold stare and observe 
Ioneen's fate.
	The two would-be painters had been roused, bending over to pick up Ioneen by 
her arms.  As the Chuckareen was lifted to her feet, Assimilation advanced.  Ioneen's 
back was towards the drone, but that position did not seem to hinder him.  As with his 
earlier victims, Assimilation's fist deliberately approached Ioneen's neck; and after a few 
breaths he retreated, hand dropping to his side.
	"Specimen #3, you're assimilated!" intruded Announcer into the relative quiet.  
"For our remaining two contestants, we are so sorry that this task was not able to be fully 
completed.  However, our most excellent Final Event is ready, and very soon the Grand 
Prize shall be awarded!"  Canned claps and cheers erupted, slowly fading away.
	Neither Geoni nor Abrett were provided with an escort as the Borg matter 
transmitter perfunctorily whisked both away, along with Captain, to yet another location 
in the big room.
	The destination was the epicenter of the now completed construction.
A rough oval, or perhaps a rectangle with rounded edges, had been partitioned off 
from the rest of the deck by a waist high wall topped by several troachs of clear plexiglas.  
In length the oval was perhaps a tenth the big room as measured wall to wall, and its 
width half the length.  A confusing series of straight and curved lines were painted on the 
floor, the focus two arches at either end of the oval.  The structure was clearly a game 
field of some sort.
	Borg drones pressed against the barrier, elbows in evidence as individuals 
jockeyed for the best position.  Banners and flags were present, although there was no 
clear delineation of sides:  myriads of colors and stylized logos were displayed, content 
less relevant than the simple action of waving something.  Several drones had painted 
their faces blue.
	At precise intervals ringing the game floor sat large speakers on poles, facing 
inward, not out.  Geoni had barely registered their existence when a nearly inaudible 
thrum began to rattle her molars.  The subsonics were quickly overshadowed by a 
nervously flopping stomach and the urge to cower.
	"Welcome 'You're Assimilated!' participants and spectators to the final round, 
where specimen #1 and specimen #2 will battle it out on the glorious field of Jhad-ball to 
determine who wins the Grand Prize!  The loser will, of course, be assimilated and 
locked into long-term stasis.  Here to present the ball and explain Jhad-ball rules, our 
very own Weapons!" barked Announcer.  Borg began to cheer and flags to wave, 
although there was a mechanical almost-unison to it at odds with the expected chaos of a 
sporting match.
	"Pay attention," muttered Captain as he prodded first Abrett, then Geoni, to turn 
and face a particular direction.  A door opened in the barrier, and through it strolled a 
Borg.
	The drone was one of the bulky kind, like the escort-guards which were currently 
absent (or, more likely, hidden amongst the crowd).  In the elbow of his mostly prosthetic 
arm he carried a ball painted black and white, such as might be the centerpiece of any of 
a wide variety of Chuckareen games.
	Geoni gulped.  She had never been particularly athletic, and for some reason she 
did not think this 'Jhad-ball' would be a polite game of dromar or lenti.  Eyes sliding 
sideways, Geoni noted that while Abrett was unconsciously licking his lips, his ears were 
also alertly pricked in anticipation.
	The drone - Weapons - halted in front of Geoni, Abrett, and Captain.  He 
brandished the ball.  "This is a Jhad-ball ball.  You are on a small and inadequate Jhad-
ball field.  Do you know what Jhad-ball is?  Answer!"  The words were delivered in a 
tersely clipped manner.
	Weapons' gaze dismissively slid over Geoni, focusing on Abrett.  Before the latter 
could fumble a response, however, the drone's head abruptly snapped upward.  Captain 
followed suit, although not as swiftly.  Geoni tried to see what the Borg (spectators too!) 
were looking at, wrinkling her nose in consternation as she saw nothing.
	"You have activated the local holographic emitters," growled Weapons to thin air.  
"Stop.  Following.  Me."
	Something slowly materialized, a something green and soft-seeming with too 
many legs, like a novelty plush insect.  The entity was not solid - fixtures behind it could 
be seen as the shadow of a shadow - but rather a sophisticated hologram well beyond that 
possible using Chuckareen technology.  An odd mixture of hairless person and bug, it 
peered down from its lofty height at Weapons, holding a smoke-stick.
	"Thou art most interesting," commented the hologram.
	"DEVIL," said Captain, "we are busy and your presence is distracting.  Go away."  
The last two words were delivered in a rote manner, as if the order had been given many 
times without necessarily being obeyed.
	Geoni rubbed her stomach as it twisted most uncomfortably.  She wanted to sink 
to her haunches, hide her head under her arms and scream until the universe decided to 
make sense again.  She resisted the impulse, least her chance at freedom be taken from 
her.
	DEVIL impaled its smoke-stick on one of a pair of horns that decorated its 
forehead.  It swooped down until it was in front of a trembling Geoni.  Retrieving its 
smoke-stick, it sucked mightily on one end, then exhaled holographic smoke in Geoni's 
face.  As she blinked and futilely attempted to wave the un-smoke away, DEVIL did 
likewise to Abrett.  It then retreated to its former location.
	"'Winners are losers; and losers do win.  But there are no do-overs:  you can't spin 
the wheels of fate nor toss the Infinity dice again.  Unless you have another quarter to bet, 
that is,' so speaketh the Care and Feeding of Prophets for Profit, chapter 3, verse 25," 
intoned DEVIL gravely.
	"Go away," repeated Captain, unimpressed.  "We are very busy."
	DEVIL harrumphed.  "I readest to thou from the quantum, the very possible 
future, and thou always tellest me to 'Go away.'  Thou utter words as doth a broken 
parrot.  Why?"
	"If we had known how annoying a hitchhiker you would be, we would have let 
that AI you are spawned from turn our files inside-out."
	Sighing, DEVIL retorted, "No appreciation."  It rotated to face Weapons.  "I'll 
findest thou later."  The hologram vanished.
	Weapons twitched.  For a moment, it seemed as if the ball were to meet a noisily 
terminal end, but pressure was released just before the break point was reached.  "Attend 
to me!" demanded Weapons, dismissing the previous distraction by raising the volume of 
his voice.  "Do you know what Jhad-ball is?"
	Hesitantly answered Abrett, "There is an alien game by that name on the 
subspace.  Entire channels are devoted to it.  I have seen it.  There is often...blood.  
Sometimes even broken bones."
	"And terminations!" shouted an anonymous voice from the Borg crowd, despite 
the fact the listener should have been too far away to hear clearly.  "The best leagues 
/slaughter/ their opponents."
	Geoni shuddered at the mental image which flooded her mind.  Screaming was 
looking like a better and better option.
	"Jhad-ball is simple," said Weapons as he began to bounce the ball up and down 
on his whole hand.  "This ball goes into your goal."
	Squeaked Geoni, "Are there any rules?"
	Weapons blinked.  "As I said, the ball goes into the goal.  The end.  This match 
will last for ten minutes."  A holographic counter appeared over the field, accompanied 
by a scoreboard.  Weapons pointed at Geoni.  "Specimen #1, your goal is there.  
Specimen #2, you have the other goal.  You will start when I drop the ball."
	Captain disappeared in a transporter beam.
	The ball was dropped.
	The resultant (figurative) slaughter was not unexpected.
	Abrett had obviously come to the conclusion that it was every Chuckareen for 
himself, assuming he had ever felt otherwise.  With the ball in his possession, he could 
not be stopped, easily dodging or running over an increasingly defensive Geoni to reach 
the goal.  Each point was delivered in an ever more boisterous and flashy manner, Borg 
urging him onward with stiffly waved banners.
	In contrast, Geoni felt her prospective freedom slipping away each time she lost 
the ball to one of Abrett's well-placed elbows.  While she did not exactly know the man, 
initial acquaintance made the day she had stepped aboard Breeze, his aggression seemed 
excessive, out of character for the average Chuckareen.  On the other hand, Geoni's own 
inherent nervousness was growing, her stomach writhing as she forced herself to run up 
and down the field, passing Borg spectators and looming speakers.
	Ten minutes passed both all too quickly and all too slowly.
	A loud buzzer sounded.  Weapons, who had been a statue in the middle of the 
Jhad-ball pitch the entire game, went into motion, plucking the ball from Abrett's grip as 
the Chuckareen ran by.  Geoni, meanwhile, leaned forward on her thighs, eyes half 
closed, as she fought to catch her breath in the humid air:  a physicist's occupation did not 
lend towards an athletic lifestyle.  She did not have to look at the final score to know she 
had lost.
	"Get it back to me!" demanded Abrett to Weapons.  He jumped to try to snag the 
ball, but Weapons, being the taller of the two, merely lifted the Jhad-ball out of reach.  
"Give it!"
	Weapons narrowed his eye as he examined the uncharacteristically hyperactive 
and not at all cowering Chuckareen.  "No."
	"I want the ball!"
	"Irrelevant."
	Geoni raised her eyes just in time to see Abrett attempt to punch Weapons in the 
gut.  Not only was such an act useless considering the armored nature of the Borg, but 
two guard escorts materialized behind Abrett, checking his motion mid-swing.
	Weapons tossed the ball in the air, pointing at it with his prosthetic arm as he did 
so.  When the ball reached its apogee, a bright, green-tinged energy beam lanced forth 
from the artificial limb.  The ball collapsed in on itself, landing on the deck as a 
blackened, partially melted husk.  "No more ball."
	Arms gripped Geoni from behind.  She stiffened, fully expecting one of the Borg 
to be Assimilation.  However, they were only escorts, and they pulled her into position to 
line up with a fidgeting Abrett.
	Captain materialized before the Chuckareen.  "If you are done with the 
melodramatics," he directed to Weapons.
	Weapons dismissively shrugged.  "The subsonics are disrupting my range finder.  
I had to confirm target lock had been compensated for."
	The nausea which was affecting Geoni abruptly lessened, replaced by a more 
normal level of stress, given the situation.  Beside her, Abrett stopped struggling, blinked 
several times, then began to flutter his throat pouches.
	"Now I need to decalibrate my recalibrations," muttered Weapons as he turned 
and stalked towards the door from which he had entered the arena.
	"Thank you for playing 'You're Assimilated!'  And to show us who did /not/ win 
the Grand Prize, Assimilation!" gushed Announcer.  On the sidelines, Borg shook their 
flags as enthusiastically as the had with each Abrett goal; and several individuals 
appeared to be trying to organize a wave.
	Assimilation materialized.  As he approached, Geoni tried to cringe, but her 
guards held her firmly in place.  Closer and closer, she could only focus on the Borg's 
face, the knowledge that she was going to join the other six assimilated Breeze survivors 
foremost in her mind.  Then Assimilation veered, swiveling to face Abrett.  Hand raised.
	"You're assimilated!" shouted sideline drones in (mostly) unison, banners 
bobbing.
	Captain swiveled on his heel to face Geoni.  "Species #12506 has proven to be 
mentally instable and susceptible to multiple stressors.  The subsonic emanations from 
the speaker system, combined with a novel situation, were calculated to provoke intense 
psychological response.  Specimen #2 demonstrated marked magnification of manifested 
belligerence of which he either did not recognize or could not control.  You, specimen #1, 
also showed signs of impact from provocative subsonics, but did not submit.  Although 
not an ideal subject, you adequately pass our tests."
	Geoni could not quite grasp what Captain was saying.  She flipped one ear in 
confusion.  "So...so I win the Grand Prize?"
	"Yes."
	Exuberance rose, a bubble of hope.  "I...I am free?  You are going to let me go?"
	"Second," said Captain, ignoring Geoni's question, "I know you have had this 
particular speech crafted for days.  Therefore, before you burst something and create a 
mess for drone maintenance to fix, tell specimen #1 what she has won."
	Announcer eagerly responded, "Specimen #1, you have won an all-expense paid, 
one-way trip to the Collective!  There you will experience excruciatingly painful 
surgeries which include amputation, assembly installation, and neural resequencing!  In 
the end, you will be assigned to this sub-collective's command and control hierarchy and 
designated 8 of 8, fated to a thankless existence as a node for consensus integration!"
	Geoni's eyes widened as the implications sank in.
	"We never said that the Grand Prize was to release you," added Captain.  "We 
will be seeing each other soon.  Resistance is futile.  Assimilation, assimilate specimen 
#1 and complete her processing as soon as possible."
	This time there was no other target for Assimilation's hand to deviate towards.

			*	*	*	*	*

 	In his nodal intersection, Captain observed the activity in Assimilation Workshop 
#8 as seen from a ceiling camera.  He could have directly sampled the visual feeds from 
any number of assimilation hierarchy drones eagerly performing tasks they were so rarely 
authorized to do, but the camera provided a satisfactory overview.  The current center of 
focus was the table upon which was strapped specimen #1, once named Geoni and soon 
to be designated 8 of 8 upon her full integration into the sub-collective.  Before that time, 
however, she was to be kept sedated and mentally isolated until her body was fully 
processed.
	Second stepped forward out of a transporter beam, returned from a routine 
maintenance check which included realigning his vocal resonator to normal parameters.  
"Too bad she is required to fill out the Hierarchy of Eight position," commented Second.  
"By the time we relink with the Collective, the Greater Consciousness will consider our 
to-be 8 of 8 too infected by assimilation imperfection to be salvaged.  The other seven, 
locked in deep stasis, should be acceptable for Collective integration."
	Captain minutely shook his head, a gesture absorbed from drones of human 
origination.  "You've seen the odds calculated by the assimilation hierarchy that she will 
be mentally intact at thirty cycles:  not good.  Once the thirty cycle mark is reached, 
however, survival is more probable.  She did pass all the tests - neural configuration, 
multi-tasking, management, mental stability - but the species is inherently instable."  
Captain dismissed the concerns:  what would be, would be.  No matter.  "On the other 
hand, the Greater Consciousness will be satisfied with the data we have gathered on 
species #12506.  The species' already low resistance quotient will surely be revised 
downward due to stress reactions.  The anxiety-related neurological conditions 
downloaded from the fusionship's primitive computer is amazing."
	Asked Second rhetorically, recapturing the original discussion thread, "Who else 
are we to assign to the 8 of 8 slot?  We've already eliminated, legitimately or otherwise, 
all possible in-situ replacements.  Of course, if we decide this new 8 of 8 won't work out, 
Weapons has an idea for our next group of contestants:  cage match."
	As two assimilation units argued over the best prosthetic configuration to replace 
the Chuckareen's already amputated right arm, Captain groaned, "We will try this 
replacement first.  You will have to save your announcer spiel for another time."
	Second shrugged, then exited the nodal intersection, headed for his alcove and 
regeneration.