Newtonıs Third Law:  everything has an equal and opposite reaction.  If Paramount 
catches you illegally stealing Star Trek, run really fast from the lawyer hit squad in the 
opposite direction.  If Decker finds you reading Star Traks, heıll happily shake your 
hand.  If Meneks learns you are perusing BorgSpace, sheıll sport you a beer (or a soda, if 
under 21).  Is this disclaimer long enough for you?

				Poultry In Motion

	Space is vast.  Really vast.  Mind-bogglingly vast.  So vast that when light has to 
travel several trillion trillion miles, it has time to sit back, read a book, take a nap, and 
even become bored.  Not that light can actually do those things, but if it could, it would.  
Regardless of allusion, comparison, metaphor, or simile, the fact is that space has a lot of, 
well, space where very little larger than the occasional hydrogen atom can be found.
	Space is also black.  Mostly.  If microwave, radio, x-ray, or other similar spectra 
is considered, then space absolutely crackles.  However, it is very difficult for most 
species of the galaxy to perceive (without mechanical assistance) wavelengths outside the 
near-infrared to ultra-violet frequencies.  The visible spectrum, the breadth of which 
depends upon the viewing eye, has little to reflect off of in the already mentioned 
vastness of space; and by the time light gets to its destination from its origin, the one or 
two photons which havenıt died from boredom does not make a noticeable difference.  
Not enough to read by, anyway.  Therefore, to the average being, space is black.
	Combining the basic ideas of "space is vast" and "space is black," it is not 
difficult to understand why Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347 was lost without its 
navigational maps.  Sailing vessels without satellite assistance (and occasionally with) 
had ever misplaced themselves on planetary oceans.  The sea of space was worse.  
Pulsars and other energetic phenomenon were the signposts of a space-faring civilization, 
traditional signs apt to be ignored due to lack of illumination, not to mention their 
attraction to bored teenagers looking for target practice.  Similarly, the vastness concept 
meant that the hallmarks of civilization were few and far between; and even the most 
heavily traveled trade route was a rural country road compared to the busy highways in a 
populated solar system.
	Cube #347 was growing increasingly desperate.  Like a person in a trackless 
wilderness without map or communication, the sub-collective could literally search for 
years without encountering signs of sentient civilization other than the occasional 
equivalent of a discarded beer can.  It was for that reason 231 of 480's collection of 
bargain basement mail-order AV-crystals had been raided for the educational series 
"Astrophysics for Sprats with Mr. Astronomy."  Unfortunately, thus far the children's 
show had been long on cutesy puppets like "Mr. Star" and "Miss World-Destroying 
Spatial Anomaly" and short on data able to be used to rebuild the semblance of a 
navigational chart.
	Sensors ignored the dataspace stream of Mr. Astronomy.  Not only was it 
irrelevant to her function - her hierarchy's purpose was to classify objects near and far in 
relationship to Cube #347, not necessarily know where abstract Points A and B were, 
much less the course to trek between them ­ but, more importantly, the harmonics of Mr. 
Telescope's voice grated on her senses.  Mr. Telescope was a major puppet character.  It 
was better to avoid the datastream all together.
	The re-alignment of microwave-sensitive arrays on sub-quadrant 14b of face #3 
was going apace.  Sensors was devising a filter to increase sensitivity to transverse 
polarized microwave bursts, a byproduct of certain advanced power sources.  While the 
code was relatively simple to implement, physical reconfiguration of the target arrays had 
been necessary.  Currently, twenty-four sensory hierarchy drones were stringing tinsel 
bedecked lines of molded aluminum foil between key sensors and embedded dishes on 
the hull.  Although Delta had refused participation by engineering hierarchy, claiming 
more important tasks beckoned, a pair of her units were on the hull observing in the case 
no-priority became emergency high-priority.
	In her alcove, Sensors unconsciously shifted her body.  Walking legs were one at 
a time lifted, then returned to the deck under her specialty alcove.  Antennae twitched, 
stilled.
::"Poultry in motion tend to stay in motion, unless they explode; and poultry at 
rest tend to stay at rest, laying eggs," from Chicken With Head Cut Off Manual, chapter 
1, verse 7, line 8,:: announced the hitchhiking AI DEVIL into the intranets.  Sensors' 
filter modifications shattered as the intrusive pronouncement twisted the focus of the 
partition laboring to integrate the filter code into the sensory grid pull-down menu.
	{Sensors says that you have obliterated 36.3 hours of computational run-time 
labor,} grumbled Sensors at the AI, one of many in the choir of complaint.  She 
unconsciously emphasized her statement with a right foreleg stomp of second degree 
annoyance, adding a slight abdomen dip to covey to the watchers that weren't a forth 
degree of confusion over the program's quotation.  Her species' language was a gestalt of 
word, sound, gesture, and occasionally odor, which was one of the reasons why the 
universal translator could not always completely convey meaning.
	As this is a story from Sensorsı point of view, her words will be conveyed as she 
intended, not how the are actually perceived.
	Before she could either expand upon her grievance to the AI or begin to rebuild 
the shredded filter, Sensors' attention was captured by a subroutine monitoring subspace 
disturbance.  It was reporting an anomaly among raw sensor input.  As it was a 
conventional grid configuration - boring, in Sensors' opinion - Sensors directed the 
analysis to the appropriate partition for interpretation.  The output returned seconds later 
prompted the necessity to inform command and control.
	{Sensors see a hypertranswarp wake signature.  Decay pattern indicates it is only 
two cycles old.}  Sensors accompanied her summary report to command and control with 
a secondary datastream from the grid, as well as a link to the appropriate analysis.
	Captain's response was expected, even as Sensors ever puzzled how the universal 
translator could so mistranslate such a simple pronouncement.  {Report.  What 
signatures?  And explain the decaying meat byproducts?}
	Sensors' antennae distantly twitched:  it was all so clear!  {Sensors repeats herself.  
Hypertranswarp wakes, she sees, passed through this region of space two cycles ago.}  
She slightly altered the gestalt emphasis, dropping the third-order undertone and 
simplifying sentence structure such as one might when speaking to a newly metamorphed 
second instar juvenile.
	{Recent hypertranswarp signature,} confirmed Captain.  Consensus was already 
resetting the cube's course to pursue as the sensor partitionıs analysis was accepted.  
{Type?}
	{Unfortunately, Sensors cannot determine origination because subspace shear has 
cut distinguishing amplitudes and sine wave patterns from the wake.}
	Captain's mental signature was one of bold and slightly furry question marks.
	Sensors tried again:  {Sensors does not know.}  The translator algorithms were 
familiar with the phrase and variations upon it, faithfully conveying the one-dimensional 
declaration.
	{Then we shall find out when we overtake it,} responded Captain.

	The vessel Cube #347 tracked was overhauled twenty hours later, under impulse 
power in normal space.  Dismay, or a reasonable facsimile, rippled through the sub-
collective as it was identified:  a species #6766 freighter.  While technologically very 
advanced, species #6766 was not a threat to any Borg cube; and in fact, the crew could be 
expected to be helpful to the point of happily submitting to assimilation.  It was just that 
it was species #6766, or "Bug" as the majority of the galaxy called them, unable to 
reproduce the race's actual designation without a pocket eight-piece wind orchestra.
	Sensors was species #6766, and she had never understood the collective hesitancy 
of welcoming new members of her race into the Grand Choir.  Of course, she had also, 
along with other members of her species, never comprehended the equal timidity of non-
Bug individuals to embrace the Song of the Collective.
	The freighter was a study of odd geometrical shapes, the straight lines and boxy 
construction so beloved by other civilizations rejected by Bug ship designers.  Start with 
a dumbbell a respectable eighty meters in length, of which the central waist was twenty 
meters.  The ends were bulbous, elongated spheres with a strong resemblance to an onion 
bulb.  Encircling the central shaft was a torus, unconnected to the main ship as it spun in 
a slow revolution.  From the torus came the signature of several flavors of translight 
drives.  Primary residence was most likely the waist, working Bug vessels tending to bury 
habitation volume in the middle of vessels; and the globular ends were more suited for 
maximum cargo volume, anyway.  No obvious hatches were present, but Bug scientists 
had perfected "liquid metal" centuries prior.  The freighter was painted a sapphire blue, 
with the name "Savanna Sailor" spelled out with a silver metal inlay on both bow and 
stern ends.
	Savanna Sailor, although a mere freighter, represented a wealth of technologies of 
which liquid metal was the most minor.  Despite its size, the ship could easily maneuver 
and land in the deep gravity well and atmosphere of a planet; and the power core utilized 
an early-generation zero-point array field, the mature version of which was the beating 
heart of a Xenig chassis.  However, Cube #347 was not especially tempted by the 
technological distinctiveness.  After all, the Collective had been examining Pilgrimage 
ships - vessels cheerfully sacrificed by 100 pilgrims plus cleric crew during the annual 
Golden Ticket Pilgrimage to be assimilated - for 1,300 years, and been stymied.  The 
individual components did not work unless a part of the Bug ship whole; and 
interrogating Bug computers was impossible due to a digital architecture modeled after 
the similarly incomprehensible neural system of species #6766.  The language barrier 
problem was merely a final punctuation to a host of other difficulties.
	As Cube #347 neared sufficiently for the sub-collective to announce its presence, 
Sensors directed detailed scans of Savanna Sailor.  Organic lifesigns too numerous for 
crew - cargo? - were a citrus-coffee with undertones of woodsmoke and a hint of melodic 
chiming.  The power systems were a bright exclamation point of emerald, none of the 
smell/scent counterparts present to signify potential difficulties in the form of active 
weaponry (not that any Bug ship would resist Borg!).  The constant bass undernote thrum 
of the impulse engines slid down an octave, then faded, as Savanna Sailor capitulated 
with Cube #347's demand to halt.
	{My eyes!  My eyes!  I'm seeing sound!} complained 197 of 510 as Sensors 
immersed herself in the gestalt picture of the freighter.  Most of the scans were 
BorgStandard, but two of the methods included quantum polarization of treble-harmonic 
gamma radiation.
	Added 100 of 422:  {Look at all the pretty swirling things.  I think I can catch one 
or five.}  Drone maintenance roster registered the addition of 100 of 422 as he 
disengaged from his alcove and proceeded to jump into the subshaft adjacent his tier.
	Sensor sighed a long exhalation through all her spiracles, then selectively ceased 
the nonstandard scans.  The result was two-dimensional, lacking the full richness of data 
she knew to be possible from Borg hardware tuned to those methodologies commonly 
utilized by her species.  On the other hand, efficiency was increased as complaints, 
incidents of injury, and spontaneous melting of cerebral implants reduced.
	Cube #347 captured Savanna Sailor with a tractor beam.  Seen via normal Borg 
sensors, the tractor beam was a scintillation of directed gravitons.  Boring.
	The sub-collective demanded communication with the freighter, which swiftly 
complied.  Sensors normally ignored such proceedings to focus on sensory function, but 
in this instance set her normal duties on automatic autopilot in order to observe.  This was 
her own species, after all, and besides, she wanted to know what the extraneous lifeforms 
were so that she might pair them with gestalt signature for future reference.
	Sensors noted Captain had to discard several CatwalkCams for various reasons 
before he found one uncontaminated by graffiti, window treatments, or paper mache 
mobile.
	The audiovisual stream consolidated to that of the freighter's bridge.  On the 
central command dais stood a species #6766 individual, average for his species in that he 
outwardly resembled a 1.3 meter tall black praying mantis.  There were differences, of 
course, in eye structure, presence of hands, and many internal structures, but anyone with 
an insect phobia would have gone screaming in the opposite direction.
	"Greetings," said the Bug, Sensors noting the just visible enamel inlays on the 
back of his thorax which denoted his position as a Merchant Marine Guild captain, "Holy 
Ones."  The captain sketched a deep bow, fore walking legs bending as arms gestured 
first degree submission.  "My name in this existence is" [a burst of clicks and orchestra 
sound which Sensors heard as the crash of winter waves, the tang of salt air, and the wind 
of a wild storm] "Seafoam.  I am so sorry on the behalf of myself and my crew, but 
unless you insist, I respectfully decline assimilation at this time.  It is not that we do not 
wish to ascend to Heaven and join the Song of Togetherness, but we've a /tad/ bit of a 
problem at this moment.  If you will wait until we've completed the delivery of our 
current cargo, myself and my crew will enthusiastically join you at these coordinates in 
two weeks for our assimilation."
	Sensors was the only drone in the sub-collective who fully understood the 
courteous speech, including all the second and third degree gestalts conveyed by tonal 
aspirations and body posture.  Anticipation was present, but so was duty to completing 
the cargo run.  They conflicted, with the latter barely edging the former.  There was no 
query for Sensors to relay a simpler translation, however, as Collective and sub-collective 
experience showed translator algorithms would capture just as much sense firsthand as 
they would if communicated through Sensors of any other assimiated Bug unit.
	Silence.  The sub-collective did not desire to assimilate the species #6766 crew, 
even had the sub-root command prohibiting casual assimilation not been present.  In this 
case there was no need, the Bugs known to happily cooperate where the Borg Collective 
(original Collective, not Colors) was involved.  Just as the freighter had complied with 
the order to stop and had not protested the tractor beam, so navigational charts would be 
delivered sans the fuss expected from any other species.  "We require a copy of your 
navigational files," said the multivoice.
	Seafoam winced slightly, then performed a gesture of second degree 
embarrassment.  "I may have a slightly problem with your request, Holy Ones."
	At that moment there was a loud cackling commotion off-screen, and a chicken 
flew into view.  It landed on an unprotesting Seafoam, flapped its way to a head perch, 
and then began to contentedly preen its feathers.
	The animal was not precisely a chicken, but the descriptor was close enough.  The 
basketball-sized fowl had definite chicken qualities, disregarding the fact it had four 
drumsticks in the leg region paired with four wings.  While the red head and neck were 
naked, a salt-and-pepper pattern of blue and white feathers covered the remainder of the 
animal.  The head, with comb, beak, and wattles, was indistinguishable from the Terran 
concept of chicken; and the mad, black eyes were similarly devoid of intelligence higher 
than that necessary to eat, sleep, lay eggs, and make a mess.
	Which the chicken did on Seafoam's head before it settled down with a feather 
fluffing for a nap.
	Other aspects of the bridge scene, thus far unregistered, suddenly became clear in 
their nonconformity to the normal state of affairs on a Bug ship.  For instance, the deck, 
except for the dais Seafoam stood upon, was covered in a straw-wood chip mixture 
liberally sprinkled with feathers.  Two crewmembers at consoles in the background had 
three and five chickens perched on them, respectively; and said consoles and tri-V 
monitor bases had white streaks of poo on them.  Small fluffs of down floated in the air, 
spun by the air recirculation system.
	A squawk announced the entrance of another chicken, one intent on an 
examination of the camera pickup utilized by the Bug captain.  A beak was pecked 
several times against the lens, following by an exploratory scratch.  Evidently deciding 
the camera was inedible, Cube #347 was treated with an extreme close-up of the fowl's 
nether regions before it awkwardly took flight to a more food-rich destination.
	Seafoam elaborated on his difficulties as a third crewmember sneaked awe-filled 
peaks at the CatwalkCam visual while moving on the bridge between strategically placed 
feeders, filling them.  "My cargo, these zhubits, has a contract stipulation which insists 
'free range.'  Well, whenever the data transmit function is used - audiovisual is okay - the 
zhubits become extremely upset.  We think they are highly sensitive to certain 
electromagnetic frequencies, and if one starts to make noise and a lot of mess, well, they 
all follow suit.  Sometimes it takes /hours/ to calm them down.  It is not that I don't want 
to help you, Holy Ones, but...."  Seafoam trailed off with an apologetic whistle, arms 
moving in gestures conveying shame and helplessness.
	The Bug captain truly wanted to help.  The fact that the helpee was Borg only 
increased the desire.  The reason chicken comfort might be placed even above the species 
#6766 desire for assimilation was not fully explored by the sub-collective.  In truth, it 
was not considered at all.
	{We should put some holes in them,} said Weapons as he built a virtual 
demonstration model showing a freighter with a distinct resemblance to Swiss cheese.  
{Then they will cooperate.}
	Second rotated Weapons' depiction.  {And what if we hit the part of the computer 
where the navigational files are stored?  Species #6766 computers do not wholly reside in 
a single core.}  True.  In spatial mimicry of a Bug's diffuse neural architecture, most 
functions were centrally located.  The key word was "most" as storage hardware could 
also be placed anywhere as well, including the fore and aft storage holds.  Such was 
sensible...if you were a Bug.
	{A few less holes, then,} compromised Weapons, erasing one from his 
simulation.
	{Why don't we just follow them?} inquired 7 of 31, head of a partition sorting 
through possibilities as a decision tree matrix was built, branches weighted.  {The vessel 
is obviously going somewhere.  Once it arrives at its destination, non-species #6766 ships 
may be present from which to assimilate data.}
	42 of 79, of a partition set to examine cons of potential actions, countered, {The 
destination of the ship could be waaaaay out in the boondocks.  It could be going to an 
empty moon in an empty system far from anywhere to offload the zhubits for reasons 
only knowable to another species #6766 individual.}  The counter continued, outlining 
the notoriety of Bug vessels to charge through obstacles neither Borg ship nor even Xenig 
would attempt, often claiming the obvious spatial rift spewing lethal radiation was not 
present.  On the other hand, the Bug captain could decide an empty volume of space 
required a convoluted detour for no reason apparent to others.
	Sensors listened to the debate, but did not participate.  The final decision did not 
concern herself or the sensory hierarchy, excepting in which way grid services would be 
required for support.  Increasingly ignoring the discussion, Sensors began to select and 
bundle the sensory protocols and grid configurations most likely to be used, depending 
upon outcome.
	{Consensus accepted,} announced Captain into the general intranets.  Sensors 
waited, her antennae unconsciously held in a posture of alertness.  {Sensors:  you are 
tasked to be beamed to the species #6766 freighter to retrieve the required navigational 
database.  You will be accompanied by 110 of 212 and 196 of 300.}
	In her alcove, Sensors rocked back on her rear walking legs, causing her alcove to 
creak.  Simultaneously, she protested to Captain, {Sensors is not adapted to an 
assimilation function!}  She replayed the most recent consensus process, searching for at 
what point she had become a decision matrix option.
	Replied Captain, {Irrelevant.  You are species #6766 and can converse with crew 
and computer, and thus are most likely (77.6%) to retrieve the data we require.  The only 
basis of accompaniment by the two tactical units is because it is standard operating 
procedure.  You will comply.}
	The Song had Sung its Decision.  Sensors would not fight the inevitable, not as 
some drones habitually attempted.  In her alcove, her body slumped slightly, then 
straightened as alcove clamps disengaged.  {Sensors will comply.}
	Sensors squatted to move out from under her upside-down bathtub of an alcove 
without scraping her carapace.  Once clear, she flexed each of her four artificial walking 
legs one at a time, confirming functionality.  A bob and a jig - unlike the bipedal majority 
of Borg, species #6766 drones were mobile and graceful due to an evolution which 
included an exoskeleton and the attendant "stiffness" alien to noninsectoid units - 
completed the parody of a wake-up stretch.  Before transporter lock, however, Sensors 
had one final task which involved the electric shoe buffer stored behind her alcove.  After 
all, she was part of the Holy Choir, had ascended bodily to Heaven (well, mostly, as she 
/was/ labeled imperfect) and it would not do to be presented to her unassimilated brethren 
in a slovenly manner.
	{Sensors is ready,} Sensors announced after restoring the shoe buffer.  She felt 
the transporter lock to her body.
	The first thing which struck Sensors upon arrival to the Savanna Sailor's bridge 
was its filth, understated from a mere audiovisual stream and uncharacteristic of her 
fastidious species.  Straw, chicken feces, feathers, and discarded feed was a fifteen 
centimeter layer of disgusting spongy crunch underfoot.  Consoles, walls, even the 
ceiling was streaked with white and brown droppings, resisting cleaning attempts which 
included harsh chemicals and steel wool brushes.  A blizzard of down erupted with each 
movement, feathers in the air swirling on the artificial breeze of an overworked 
environmental system.
	To her right side, Sensors' generous peripheral vision observed as 110 of 212 
stiffened; and her aural pits heard the cessation of breathing.  {It /reeks/ in here,} whined 
110 of 212.  Unfortunately, 110 of 212's species was unusually sensitive to smells, a 
characteristic maintained through assimilation.  Sensors lazily waved her antennae, 
"sniffing" the atmosphere.  There was a definite odiferous quality of fermenting feces, 
feathers, and dust, but unlike 110 of 212, she could preferentially block smell receptors, 
"tuning out" disagreeable scents.
	"Holy Ones, I greet you for myself and my crew."  Captain Seafoam descended 
from command dais to barnyard muck, lowering himself into a deep bow.  As he did so, 
the chicken, still perched on his head, loudly squawked before defecating and fluttering 
away.  Seafoam gracefully returned to his normal stance, retrieving an eyerag from a 
discrete thorax pouch and using it to remove a streak of shit from the lenses of his left 
eye.
	Behind Seafoam, at the consoles, the two crewmembers present had also bowed to 
the Borg.  Their genuflection was abbreviated as one after another the chickens on the 
bridge took up the cackling call of the one which had deserted Seafoam.  Shortly a fuss 
consisting of feathers, mess, flapping wings, and screaming squawks had engulfed the 
bridge.  The two crewmembers leapt into action, seizing convenient nearby brooms and 
gently pushing the fowl off the immediate bridge and into adjoining rooms.
	196 of 300 did not flinch as a chicken laboriously flapped over her head, although 
she had much to say about the rain of droppings which hit shoulders and cranial hoses.
	"Sorry, sorry, sorry," apologized Seafoam with a trilling flourish and flutter of 
hands.  "The zhubits are so very sensitive to certain electromagnetic fields.  Only last 
week one of them blew up when my clock-radio alarm went off.  Very unfortunate.  Very 
messy."
	{The universal translator understood one word in four, and the remainder made no 
sense,} said 196 of 300 to 110 of 212 as an aside.
	Faced with one of her own species, Sensors did not have to dumb down her 
language for a computer.  Full gestalt meaning - minus scents considering the 
environment - was possible.  For Sensors, it was like being able to have an adult 
conversation after spending several decades amid pre-school babble.  She bobbed an 
acknowledgement to Seafoam's words, adding a second degree dismissive gesture 
punctuated by a mandible rasp-click of authority.  "It is not necessary to bring you or 
your crew into Heaven" [subharmonics from three spiracles suggested the Eternal Choir] 
"at this time; and the duties of this sub-collective do not permit waiting for your return."  
Sensors paused as Seafoam expressed his dismay with an eight note sigh.  "This drone is 
1 of 3" [secondary gestalt included sensory hierarch head subdesignation; and a third 
level evoked hints of her original birth-name] "and you will render assistance by 
providing us with a datasocket for our download of your navigational charts."
	Successfully having herded most of their charges off the bridge, the two 
crewmembers returned, with their brooms, to stand guard against additional avian 
intrusion.  The remaining chickens, perched on high nooks or beady eyes staring from 
low crannies, continued to mumble clucking disapproval.  A distant crow floated in from 
a doorway leading to a corridor.
	"Computer?" inquired Seafoam to the air.
	"Bibbibly-boop!" chimed the computer with typical Bug-programmed good cheer.  
The tone was somewhat muffled by the guano encrusted on bridge speakers.  
"CaptainBug!  What can I do for you?"
	"The Holy Ones demand navigational files.  Resistance is futile.  Can we 
comply?"
	A sad, wobbling tone emitted as surround-sound stereo.  Any supporting scents 
were deadened by the overwhelming barnyard odor.  "I am sorry, CaptainBug and 
BorgBug, but all my dataports at your location are filled with zhubit shit; and too much 
information exists to visually view the database by console alone."
	Captain, who had been following from afar, interrupted, {What did the computer 
say?  What did the species #6766 individual say?  For that matter, what are you saying?}
	Sensors flattened the gestalt and summarized it in the one-dimensional manner the 
universal translator algorithms required.  Even relaying as clearly as possible, it required 
three attempts to adequately convey meaning.  One chicken, apparently unaffected by 
Borg electrical fields, had emerged from its hiding place and was pecking 196 of 300's 
foot.  196 of 300 was resisting the impulse to boot the bird despite urges to the contrary 
from certain weapons hierarchy members on Cube #347.
	"Holy One?" inquired Seafoam as silence stretched into minutes.  "You are not 
angry, are you?"
	Sensor waggled her antennae in the merest suggestion of apology.  Borg did not 
apologize, after all.  "Anger is irrelevant.  Query:  are other access ports available?"
	"Computer?" asked Seafoam, a double-trill indicating the question asked was for 
the machine to answer.  A whirlwind of feathers was flying into the air as a pair of 
chickens peering in from a restroom annex began to fight, reason only known to zhubit-
kind.  The commotion ended as abruptly as it had started.
	"Sorry, BorgBug.  I am searching really hard.  You might want to try the rec 
room.  Onyx recently cleared a dataport to the tri-V so he could watch movies from his 
collection.  It shouldn't be /too/ gummed up yet."  A small celebratory fanfare punctuated 
the declaration.  Chickens scolded their protest at the noise.
	Seafoam picked up and set down each of his walking legs in turn.  "Excellent!  
Will that do, Holy One?"
	"Yes," said Sensors, emphasizing the word with a stamp of right foreleg and a 
sharp click of expectation.
	With a cheerful "Follow me!" Captain Seafoam delicately picked his way across 
the bridge, barely disturbing the straw.  Sensors followed easily.  At the back, the two 
weapons drones trudged forward, collecting increasing amounts of crud on their legs until 
both were coated in filthy straw and wood chips from knees downward.
	Areas off the bridge, if possible, were more soiled than the command space.  In 
addition to omnipresent straw, perches and nesting boxes were scattered about in the 
corridor.  All rooms had doors wide open, likely due to the "free range" stipulation, and 
evidenced similar arrangements.  As nest boxes were passed, Seafoam would pause and 
reach inside, occasionally withdrawing an egg to be cached in a basket inevitably hung 
nearby.  Disturbing splotches of brown, too large to be poo-related even for the most 
ambitious bird, decorated the walls, often coated with stained feathers.
	As a Borg, 110 of 212 could not retch, which was a good thing.  Unfortunately, 
she also could not hold her breath forever and was forced to endure the occasional 
inhale/exhale cycle to retard depletion of stored oxygen reserves.
	Zhubits scattered as the four entered the freighter's compact recreation room.  The 
Bug version of recreation included a holo-niche suitable for up to three individuals, 
workout equipment designed by an insane torturer, table to gather around for communal 
games or meals, and a sunken oval centered around a tri-V base.  Currently everything 
was encrusted with the ubiquitous zhubit mess, exercise machines appearing to be post-
modern sculptures of metal and feather.  The holo-niche was full of perches; and the less 
said of the table, the better.  An effort had recently been made to clear out the tri-V pit, 
but it was in the process of rapidly in-filling with straw once more.
Chickens wanly fluttered out of the way of the drones.  These ones did not appear 
to be quite as offended as the bridge fowl, or at least they were slightly quieter, if more 
messy, in their agitation.  Both weapons drones collected additional poo streaks; and 
Sensors' previously spotless exoskeleton and implants suffered several direct hits as well.
	Captain Seafoam entered the tri-V pit, quickly eyeing the master console set 
against the back wall.  He whistled.  "Just a couple of feathers, which I have removed.  
Will this port work for you?"
	Sensors delicately descended the pair of steps, stopping before the console to 
inspect the access.  While there was suspicion of corrosion, it was otherwise free of the 
debris clogging the bridge's ports.  "This is adequate," said Sensors as she reached out 
with one hand and triggered the nanotubules she, as a cube-bound sensory drone, so 
rarely utilized.  Within seconds she had accessed the computer.
	{Greetings,} said the computer.  Like its species #6766 masters, it was friendly 
and offered no resistance.  {Navigational files, yes?}
	A Bug computer is completely unlike the ordered information of the Borg 
dataspaces, or any other computer system for that matter.  Just as the neural architecture 
of the species #6766 brain is always changing, new connections made and old ones 
broken, so too does the Bug digital mind continually modify its file tree structure.  Unlike 
most brains of the galaxy, the Bug brain as an adult does not have set areas corresponding 
to specific functions:  neuron bundles controlling a leg one year may be interpreting x-ray 
spectra from the eyes the next.  Once again, the mutability of the Bug computer 
mimicked its builders, files ever shuffled around from metaphorical dining room table to 
under the bed to top of the refrigerator.
	Plunged into the computer's local datasphere, Sensors was forced to center herself 
before continuing.  Given enough time, she could find the desired files on her own, but it 
would be much swifter for the computer to do so.  {Affirmative,} she answered.
	{There may be a /wee/ wait.  So sorry.  We are experiencing slight engine 
difficulty due to feathers in the wrong place, which caused our initial stop.  The feathers 
are cleared out, but I am trying to manage a small radiation leak at the moment.  The 
patch glue seems to have been eaten by some zhubits, which is making repairs difficult 
for the crew.}  Pause.  {There is no risk of explosion; and the radiation danger is non-
existent for crew or yourself, Holy One.}  The computer added the digital equivalent of 
first degree apology, combined with an equal degree of reassurance.
	Sensors mentally blinked, then ordered her hierarchy to scan for excess radiation 
from Savanna Sailor.  Physical distance from Cube #347 did not preclude her position as 
hierarchy head.  Data returned a positive indication of elevated sierra band panchromatic 
radiation, a short-lived radiation type unique to species #6766 vessels.  As said by the 
computer, danger was minimal.
	{We demand navigational files,} said Sensors, adding a mental tone of highest 
priority.  {Computational run-time requirements to provide us with an archived copy of 
the database is minimal; and as present radiation danger is nominal to vessel and organic 
crew, then you can allot the resources for the demand.}
	The Savanna Sailor's computer was not sentient, at least not as the rest of the 
galaxy would recognize, but it was moderately intelligent as such devices went.  It was 
also stubborn at the same time it was unerringly polite and engaging, unwilling to shift 
programmed priorities.  {I do apologize, BorgBug, but the radiation leak is my top, 
number one task.  It is not the ship, crew, or yourself which is in danger, but the zhubits.  
They react poorly to prolonged quantities of panchromatic radiation.}
	Sensors unconsciously stomped two of her legs in annoyance, then canted her 
metathorax into an aggressive posture.  {Elaborate.}
	{Well, you see...} began the computer, trailing off as Sensors' exterior awareness 
registered speakers playing a funeral dirge, accompanied by overhead light strips altering 
to a deep red hue spiked with x-ray flashes.  Simultaneously, cube sensors recorded a 
sharp spike in panchromatic radiation.
	"Computer, report!" shrilled Captain Seafoam, his exoskeletal inlays sparkling 
under the emergency lighting.
	"Sorry, sir.  Really, /really/ sorry.  A zhubit entered the tertiary fuel storage area, 
where it ate a tetralithium shard.  The shard didn't agree, with explosive results.  The 
ensuing mess shorted out a fuse, and due to earlier damage, I am unable to immediately 
reroute.  Engineer Popkins and apprentice Cueball will have a dampening field raised in a 
moment, but not before It happens."
	Seafoam groaned, a sound like the creaking of a rocking chair.  "Not again."  
With a long, musical sigh, he tucked all legs under his thorax and abdomen and 
proceeded to sink to the floor.  Hands went over head, and antennae were tucked into 
grooves next to his eyes.  It was the Bug equivalent of the airplane crash position.  "I 
recommend, Holy Ones, that you take precautions."
	Sensors, who had not removed her nanotubules connection from the computer, 
bobbed her head.  "Explain."
	"It."  There came a distant sound from the corridor, like that of a soggy, over-
microwaved sandwich exploding.  "Too late."  Seafoam drew even closer upon himself.  
"Here It comes."
	A chicken fluttered in from the corridor, cackling loudly and with mad intent, all 
four wings wildly flapping.  It landed on 110 of 212's arm as he automatically raised it 
into a posture of threat.  Outside the rec room, more pops could be heard, increasing in 
number; and within and without, the volume of squawking, crowing, and general fowl 
vocalizations was growing.  110 of 212 moved to shake the chicken off his arm.
	The zhubit gripped tighter with its four sets of claws, defecated a stream of runny 
droppings, shuddered, then exploded.  Wetly.  In 110 of 212's face.
	Guts, feathers, and perhaps even a bit of yolk covered 110 of 212's face and torso 
carapace.  Gore dripped off his paralyzed arm.  While his face maintained a 
BorgStandard nonexpression, in the intranets he registered what could only be described 
as stunned and shell-shocked.  After all, it was not every day a chicken blows up in one's 
face.
	The first zhubit was not the last.  One after another, sometimes several at once, 
the chickens began to explode.  Some did so spectacularly, disintegrating mid-flight into 
a ballistic blob of grossness.  Others just seemed to implode, exhaling a final squawk 
before falling over, dead.  All, however, were noisy and very messy before the final 
*poof*; and many suddenly seemed to be attracted to the Borg present like metal to a 
magnet.  By the time the last zhubit had exploded and a crushing silence reigned, all the 
Borg were covered head to toe with feathers and gunk.  Captain Seafoam, while also 
affected, had ridden through the chicken storm with much less cosmetic damage.
	Somewhere, a last crow echoed, followed by a sucking *pop*.
	"That's the last of them, CaptainBug," reported the computer.
	Seafoam unfolded himself to a standing position, digging eyerag out of thorax 
pouch and proceeding to wipe gore off his eyes and antennae.  "Zhubits react poorly to 
panchromatic radiation," he explained, "much worse than electromagnetic fields."
	{You don't say,} sarcastically responded 196 of 300 into the shocked intranet 
silence.
	110 of 212 had closed his eyes and was swaying back and forth.  {It smells 
/worse/ in here, if possible.}
	Savanna Sailor's captain wrung out his rag, then began to remove feathers stuck 
near his speaking spiracles.  His words were muffled.  "Oh, well.  Third time we've lost 
the complete stock this trip.  No matter.  The eggs are radiation proof; and we save all the 
eggs that are laid.  I'll have the crew pop 'em into the hatcheries and force grow the chicks 
to adults.  All stock will be replaced in two days or so."  Seafoam added a trill-click of 
third degree annoyance, then stopped scrubbing his carapace to sketch an apologetic bow.
	{Do you still require the files?} pushed the computer into Sensors' datasphere 
presence.  {I have plenty of run-time resources now since all the zhubits are exploded and 
there is no need to manage the radiation leak.}
	Sensors removed a rag from a torso compartment and began her own cleansing of 
important sensory anatomy.  {Affirmative.}  While neither 110 of 212 nor 196 of 300 had 
moved since the chicken explosion, both here internally demanding to be transported 
back immediately so they could be steam cleaned and thoroughly sanitized.  110 of 212 
additionally wanted a dozen shuttlecraft deodorizers to hang around his neck, preferably 
"Spring Rain" scented.
	Anticlimactically, the computer rounded up the far flung shreds of its navigational 
files, bundled them together, then copied the database for Sensors.  The hierarchy head 
accepted the copy, funneling them through her short-range neural transceiver link to the 
appropriate sub-collective elements.  Still wiping the drying gore off the organic half of 
her eyes, Sensors disengaged herself from the dataport before turning to face the Bug 
captain.
	Seafoam bowed deeply.  "Have you acquired the data you sought, Holy One?'
	"Yes, we have," answered Sensors.
	"Are you sure you cannot remain here, Holy One?"  Subchords of longing entered 
Seafoam's tones.  "My crew and I, perhaps even several more, could return here in as 
little as two weeks.  We all long to enrich the Choir with our Song, to be One with 
Heaven and sing of the Perfection which will be."
	Sensors fluted regret, combined with a deeper gestalt that the decision was not 
hers to make.  "We cannot.  We are recalled to our cube."
	"Yes, Holy One.  I understand.  Resistance is futile.  Perhaps myself or one of my 
crew will join you in the future, either by chance encounter with the Holy Borg 
Collective, or by Golden Ticket."
	Seafoam's visage and the unsightly recreation room vanished to Sensors' sight as 
the transporter beam returned her to Cube #347, depositing her next to her alcove.  
Success.

	No success, or that was the verdict of command and control hierarchy only thirty 
minutes following Sensors' return to the cube.  Sensors had removed the worst of the 
feathers and gore and excrement, but was now forced to use a chisel to dislodge bits 
which had set with a cement-like quality.  While neither Savanna Sailor nor Cube #347 
had departed the local volume of space, both were ignoring each other.
	{Can you translate this...this mess?} inquired Captain of Sensors.  The hierarchy 
head halted her chiseling as her consensus monitor and facilitator directed speech at her.  
{Several of my hierarchy have been sent to drone maintenance with cerebral 
hemorrhages.}
	Sensors blinked, or would have if she had eyelids, then cocked her head.  It was 
the one of the jobs of command and control to interpret navigational files and set courses:  
sensory hierarchy merely made sure the cube had enough lead time on an obstacle to 
avoid it.  Usually.  {Species #6766 navigational charts are very exacting.  Sensors was 
not trained pre-assimilation to interpret them, but she will take a look, if you demand.}
	{I definitely demand.}
	Locking her leg joints, Sensors plunged deeply into the dataspace, galloping 
towards the file highlighted by command and control.  Randomly selecting a sub-file, she 
watched it explode, filling her sensory perception.  Tangles of superstrings vibrated her 
antennae as a spectrum of stars burst flavorfully upon taste buds.  Like the Bug language, 
the star charts encompassed multiple layers which had to be taken simultaneously as a 
gestalt whole to understand.  The singing of temperature gradients stacked upon the trills 
of gravitational currents piled upon navigational warnings which, if rendered to sound, 
would be an orchestral masterpiece.
	Sensors could comprehend the basics as a novice sailor might understand a harbor 
current map, but this content was complex in the way of an always shifting channels of a 
sandy river.  She was not sure if she could adequately translate the information to the 
one-dimensional datastream required by the rest of the sub-collective, much less 
compensate for her ignorance.  The computer would probably commit digital suicide if it 
was tasked to compile the charts.
	Centering upon a single star, Sensors asked, {What do you see?}
	Captain responded, {A spiky, whirling thing with sparkles.  Wet cinnamon, I 
smell.  Maybe.}
	{But what do you see?}
	Silence.  {What am I supposed to see?}
	{A blue giant star with an average rotation frequency of 10.2 days.  Mass is 2.2 
Herms.  Gravitational inclusions indicate it is approximately 100,000 years from novae.  
More data exists, but Sensors cannot adequately convey it.  Sensors just /knows/ it.}
	More silence as Captain digested the words.  Sensors had to repeat it three more 
times, with subtle variations of phraseology, until he fully (or mostly) understood.  {A 
blue giant.  That's all?}
	{Sensors asks if you want the rest of the gestalt file?}
	{No.}  Pause.  {We cannot use this database.}  It was a pronouncement of fact.  
By the time the files were adequately translated into a form usable without succumbing to 
mental indisposition, the cube could have circumnavigated the galaxy on low warp drive.
	Sensors withdrew from the navigational files, returning to her chiseling.
	Captain hailed the Savanna Sailor.
	"Greetings, Holy Ones!" chirped Seafoam as the audiovisual feed consolidated.  
Sensors absently assigned part of her awareness to observe the datastream.  Bugs with 
push brooms were sweeping sodden straw and wood chips while other crewmembers laid 
fresh bedding.  The total maximum complement of the freighter was ten, so the majority 
of the crew was currently on the bridge.  "Are the files to your liking?"  Pause, then a 
note of hopefulness shaded his voice.  "Or, perhaps, you are to assimilate us against our 
will?"  The background crewmembers had stopped their actions and were whispering 
excitedly amidst themselves.
	"The database is incompatible with our system.  We demand compatible files.  
Resistance is futile."
	Seafoam reared back slightly, shocked, then thoughtfully settled four-square.  
"Oh!  You wanted Federation-quality maps.  We don't use them:  not sufficiently 
detailed.  However, I do have a spare copy in the safe.  Federation regulations say we 
have to have a copy on-board for when we trade there.  No provision is made that they 
must be loaded."  Sensors could read Seafoam's posture, knew that a caveat was coming.
	"You will provide us with the Federation-standard navigational files," said the 
multivoice.
	Savanna Sailor's captain clicked his mandibles, then gestured with second degree 
apology with a flutter of anticipation.  "There may be a /wee/ problem.  The safe is 
/slightly/ gummed up; and dried zhubit shit" [Sensors tasted the acrid subharmonics of 
the word] "is somewhat sensitive to heat.  We'll have to chill my sleeping compartment to 
-30 C in order to prevent hull breaches when we use chisels and explosives.  I estimate a 
day or two, tops!"  The downspiral tri-whistle which punctuated the boast indicated the 
affirmation was a best guess estimate, and reality was probably in the three to four day 
range.
	Cube #347 abruptly shut off its tractor beam, releasing Savanna Sailor.  As the 
computer reported the action, body postures of sorrowful dismay dominated the 
background crew.  Seafoam controlled his reaction better.  "No, then?" 
	"No," said the multivoice.  The transmission was cut.  Consensus had Cube #347 
sub-collective attempting other means to acquire navigational charts, ones which had a 
higher degree of chance for success (i.e., random course selections) and which did not 
involve Bugs or exploding chickens.
	Next to her alcove, Sensors gave her species' equivalent of a dismissive shrug.  
DEVIL had been correct:  poultry in motion stayed in motion, unless it exploded.  
Unfortunately, the hitchhiking AI had failed to include the mess an exploded chicken 
created.  However, there were remedies available to a hard-bodied insectoid that would 
tear the epidermis of a soft-skinned mammal.  First the electric sander with a course-
grade belt, followed by the shoe buffer, and her exoskeleton would be clean and good as 
just molted.