If Paramount owns Star Trek and you know it, clap your hands!  *clap*clap*
If Decker created Star Traks and you know it, clap your hands!  *clap*clap*
If Meneks writes BorgSpace and she stole Happyverse from Butler, and if this disclaimer 
is complete clap your hands.  *clap*clap*


			A Trip to the Happy Side, Part I

Note:  this story takes place several years following the Happyverse events of "So Happy 
Together."  Any continuality errors with past or future-to-be Happyverse stories is not the 
fault of the BorgSpace author, who is perfect in all ways, but rather inherent 
inconsistencies with the rest of the universe.  Have a Happy Day!  :)

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Thou must look to the happier side of life! / Thou must look to the happier side 
of death!"
	Delta, body A, paused in her activities to look upwards as body B continued the 
delicate rewiring procedure.  DEVIL, for reasons only known to the AI, had forsaken its 
normal obsessive trailing of Weapons to haunt the highest reaches of Central 
Engineering.  If that wasn't bad enough, the thing had switched from quasi-omens and 
incomprehensible "quotes" to singing nonsense.  Off-key.
	"For life shall abuse you / And Death willth amuse you / And something 
something I think about curtains and conga-lines and bows!" belted DEVIL-as-
caterpillar.  The mid-syllable sneeze which momentarily morphed it into a prismatic 
butterfly barely interrupted the awkward flow of words; and the AI's control of local 
holoemitters and speakers was too icon-clad for any drone or drones to allot runtime 
resources to counter due to more important priorities.
	Delta contemplated throwing a spanner at DEVIL, but did not.  One, such action 
against a hologram would be futile; two, the spanner might be damaged; three, she 
needed the spanner; and four, the impulse was not her own.
	{Don't you dare,} admonished Delta to 36 of 240 as body A caught the cock of 
arm in her peripheral vision.
	"Thou must look to the happier side of death! / Thou must look to the happier side 
of death!"  While the AI tended to fumble through the stanzas, it seemed to have no 
problem with the chorus.
	Delta hunched her shoulders, decreased audio gain to aural implants as much as 
prudence allowed, and returned both of herself to her task.  The jury-rigged fractal 
subspace booster was nearly complete.
	Step back a moment and look at the hustle and bustle of engineering drones 
focused on one goal.
	The vinculum, once the dominating heart of Central Engineering and sub-
collective, is gone, reduced to scrap and ash by a complicated series of events.  The 
remains have been swept away and stored, not recycled as is the normal fate of broken 
Borg devices, just in case an unlikely miracle allows salvage.  Unfortunately, for a Borg 
sub-collective, miracles are irrelevant.  On the other hand, it is permissible, although not 
advisable, to follow blueprints from a recently unearthed file promising that one can 
"Build Your Own Borg-Style Booster!  It Really Works!  Make Long Distance Calls 
Without Paying a Strip of Latinum!"
	DEVIL, performing its base programming of search engine, had found the mail-
order diagrams buried amid pentabytes (and then some) of digital junk and dross.  Shortly 
after completing its helpful deed, it had embarked upon its singing.
	The sub-collective was growing increasingly desperate to reconnect to the 
Collective, even if the result was a mere carrier wave.  Despite many misadventures over 
thousands of years, no group of imperfectly assimilated drones had spent as much time 
completely severed as the current incarnation; and none had ever disintegrated a 
vinculum.
	The nearly completed booster looked nothing like the component integrated in a 
vinculum.  Dominating the device was a four meter diameter bowl made of tritanium and 
covered by several layers of aluminum foil.  Within the bowl was a complicated gridwork 
of exotic metal wires from which rose a single, braided spire that terminated in a blinking 
green light.  The gigantic bowl was steadied by a tripod; and in the middle of the legs, 
directly beneath the bowl's lowest point, a box full of convoluted wiring rested.  The most 
difficult part of the plan's schematics had been wiring the box, a complication which 
included neural gel packs, meme crystals, and incomprehensible diagrams.  An attempt 
had been made to reverse engineer the instructions, to understand how it worked - there 
was little "Borg" in the "Borg-style" device - but later abandoned after several hours of 
contemplation had yielded no results.
	Delta finished soldering the last connection.  She closed the access panel and 
stepped away, body B almost tripping on the heavy, black cable which snaked away from 
device, across the deck, and into a connecting hallway.  Smaller leads sprouted from the 
dish itself and were strung across Central Engineering at neck height, eventually passing 
through holes in the wall to meld with cube superstructure at strategic locations.
	{Are we ready?} queried Delta to her hierarchy.  She transported the spanner and 
welder in her hands back to storage.  Agreement trickled back as designations replied.
	"Happy side of death!  Happy side of death!  Happy side of death!  Happy side of 
death!" chanted DEVIL, evidentially stuck on the phrase.  The caterpillar inanely 
tumbled through mid-air gymnastics, smoke from virtual cigar trailing behind.  Abruptly 
the avatar stopped, mid-barrel roll and mid-word, vanishing.  Delta was not sorry to see 
DEVIL disappear.
	Said Delta to Captain, {All is set.}
	{Acknowledged,} returned Captain.  He followed with an intranet-wide 
announcement:  {All drones - exceptions tagged by engineering hierarchy head - will 
return to their alcoves.  Units will comply.  Five minute countdown begins.}  A digital 
clock appeared in the dataspaces, marching backwards to zero.
	Delta felt the compulsion to go to her alcoves (she was not an exception) tug her 
psyche.  Her destination was nearby, adjacent to Central Engineering.  She allowed her 
bodies to dawdle as she cast her awareness to the two designations who would be the 
focus for the next phase to reconnect sub-collective with Collective.
	  {1 of 310 and 162 of 310:  status check,} ordered Delta.
	To say that a Borg cube had no up or down was a fallacy.  Any vessel, unless it 
was a hollow shell with no internal gravity, required up and down.  It was true that cube 
construction minimized apparent directionality, but a cube did have an equator located 
hallway between face #1 and face #6.  It was at this point that interior gravitational 
potentialities switched direction, and a drone that jumped from one side to the other 
would start on his feet and land on his head.  Needless to say, the change-over made for 
interesting games, especially those that involved dropping objects through shafts.
	Construction-wise, a Borg cube mirrored "up" and "down" at the equator, at least 
for major structures.  Central Engineering in subsection 14, submatrix 14 at the middle of 
the cube was one of those structures.  Central Engineering housed the vinculum and was 
connected to Central Shaft #1.1, leading to face #1.  On the other side of the equator, the 
Primary Core was present.  The rooms largely looked the same, both several stories high 
with three accessible levels and ringed with data pillars and alcoves, except the Primary 
Core was dominated by a transwarp core unit instead of a vinculum.  The Primary Core 
connected to Central Shaft #1.6 and thence to face #6.
	The thick cable which twisted from the booster was fed through one of the few 
"legal" physical connections through the equator and connected to the primary transwarp 
core which provided power for the cube.
	In the Primary Core waited 1 of 310 and 162 of 310.  Their base species were 
#8052, Wonapa, a race whose physiology was highly resistant to electrocution.  This 
natural ability had been enhanced upon assimilation, allowing charges lethal to other 
drones to be stored or shed as necessary.  On top of that, for this task, both were wrapped 
in insulating suits of rubber that not only made movement very difficult, but created a 
strong resemblance to the Michelin Man, a pre-warp Terran corporate icon known only to 
a certain breed of eccentric historian.
	162 of 310 flexed a hand held poised over a large switch which had been recently 
added to the core's housing.  Rubber squeaked against rubber as only rubber can.  He 
glanced at 1 of 310, who was bending as best as possible to inspect the cable's connection 
to the shunt mechanism.  {Ready,} replied 162 of 310 to Delta.
	Five minutes passed.  Drones secured themselves in alcoves:  only a few required 
prodding by command and control, even those most lost in a fantasy existence aware that 
the entirety of a power core was soon to be directed to a jury-rigged booster which 
included aluminum foil as a major construction element.  The internal timer reached zero 
and started to flash.
	{Initiate,} ordered Captain.
	162 of 310 allowed his arm to fall, flipping the large switch and redirecting the 
power flow of the Primary Core.
	::Happy side of death...:: whispered DEVIL's voice in the intranets.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Captain Bobby-sox of the USS Funship HappyDays waited impatiently in his 
inflatable command chair.  Being happy did not preclude one from being impatient, 
especially when an expected transmission was long overdue.  Fingers hollowly drummed 
on clear vinyl.
	"Do you want different music, Big Bob?" asked Ensign Sara-wara from the 
Internal Environment console.  "Today we have a wide selection of Counselor-approved 
music, ranging from disco to easy listening to classical from many species."  Her voice 
had the slightly mechanical and stilted quality of one who had been happied, de-happied, 
and re-happied one too many times in the years of chaos and rebuilding following Fun 
War IV.
	Bobby-Sox cocked his ear at the soothing pre-warp Terran light rock which 
played in the background.  It was the aural equivalent of calming pastels in a psyche 
ward.  One part, a deeply hidden part, of him longed for sappy country-western, but sad 
music wasn't Counselor-approved; and if he did try to order it played, his happifier would 
disapprove.  One /never/ challenged the happifier if one could help it.
	"No, the music is perfectly joyful," answered Bobby-sox.
	Replied Sara-wara, "Yes, sir."
	Captain Bobby-sox returned to drumming on his chair.  His thoughts wandered.  
Maybe he shouldn't have worn his sailor-boy outfit today.  Although it was utterly 
adorable, it also tended to itch in uncomfortably sensitive spots when worn too long.  On 
the other hand, today was supposed to be the day he became promotion material, and he 
wanted to look his best.  It wasn't every day, after all, that one was accidentally emailed 
the master plans of a war-games exercise.
	The USS Funship HappyDays was tasked to play the minor role of scout patrol 
during a week of war-games.  Neat Place Nine was coordinating the fun; and as an 
"independent" element, Bobby-sox had indicated his desire to scout the volume of space 
between the station and the Fuzzylands.  The other captains had laughed at him.  What 
they didn't know was that the "enemy" fleet was supposed to sneak onto the battlefield 
from the direction of the Fuzzylands.  Bobby-sox planned to be present to raise the initial 
alarm, thereby increasing his chance at the next round of promotions to be given 
something larger than his current Defiant-class command.
	Unfortunately, the enemy fleet was inconsiderately late.
	Just as Bobby-sox had begun to imagine himself Fiesta Modeing through space in 
his happy new Ebullient-class flagship, Lieutenant Kalli-cute at sensors squeaked, "Oh!  
Oh!  I see something!"
	Bobby-sox literally bounced out of his chair.  He was so enthused that the flimsy 
furniture fell over.  "About time!  Where are they coming from?"
	"No, no, Big Bob!  It's not the war-game fleet!  It's a big buncha omni-phasic 
radiation forming off our port bow a skip and a jump and fifty kilometers!"  Lt. Kalli-cute 
always talked in exclamation marks.
	"Oh glorious day!  Oh happy day!" said Lieutenant Kaluhaluha, Andorian, from 
his position at tactical.  "I get to push buttons!  Should I raise shields, Big Bob?"
	"Do so," snapped Bobby-sox to his tactical officer, "and Lt. Kalli-cute, put the 
joyful view on the happyscreen."
	The main viewscreen, which had been displaying a computer generated 
kaleidoscope choreographed to the bridge music, faded to star-studded space.  In the far 
distance was the angry, gaseous band of dark red which was the Fuzzylands.  Closer, an 
unhappy combination of burnt umber and bright green was swirling in space like a 
miniature tempest.  A boxy silhouette could vaguely be discerned at the center of the 
storm.
	Bobby-sox adjusted his sailor hat:  the pins holding it in place were pulling his 
hair.  "Anyone know what it is?  Lollipops to the first correct guess."  Sounds of "Oh-
oh!" and "Pick me!" echoed on the bridge.
	Then the game was made moot.
	The pyrotechnics faded to an illuminating glow.  In the center of the artfully 
dissipating green fog a vessel quite a bit larger than HappyDays was revealed.  Bridge 
music had shifted to an angelic choir, and the singing added to the element of awe.
	"I thought they were all dead," gulped Captain Bobby-sox.  His happiness was 
shattered; and he could feel the building pressure from his happifier as it warned that the 
intolerable situation had to be fixed and mood adjusted.  From the expressions of the rest 
of the bridge crew, his implant wasn't the only one shifting to overtime.
	Said Lt. Kaluhaluha, "This is most unhappy, Big Bob.  We are outmassed, 
outgunned, and most of my readouts are an ugly puce.  I suggest retreat?"
	Bobby-sox grasped at the suggestion.  Yes, retreat would make him very happy, 
which, in turn, would make the happifier happy.  "Run away!  Run away!  Set course for 
Neat Place Nine and run away!"
	HappyDay's engines flared as she skidded off into warp.  She never noticed the 
distant sensor echoes which indicated the approach of the late war-games fleet.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Sensors was blind.  While her physical eyes continued to function normally, 
virtual sight linked to grid roiled in confusion.  Both BorgStandard and "special" 
configurations were affected.  Omni-phasic radiation dominated, but tachyons were a 
large bulk of the whole as well.  Taus, virtual temporal particles, were sprinkled heavily 
in the morass; and a dash of omicrons provided a harsh seasoning.  Disturbingly, the 
occasional aroma of lambda could be distinguished, and anything which included lambda 
had never gone well for Cube #347.
	At a loss to dissect the complex concoction, Sensors did not try, instead guiding 
her hierarchy to see through the storm before the cube bumbled into something immobile, 
indestructible, omniscient and angry, or all the above.
	{Shut it off!  Shut it off!} called Captain to the duo tending the Primary Core, not 
for the first time; and his order wasn't the only one bombarding the pair, just the clearest 
and with the most units backing.
	For the first few seconds after 162 of 310 had flipped the toggle, nothing had 
happened.  That "Nothing" had swiftly become "Something," before graduating to "Not A 
Good Idea" proportions.  The function of the booster, as advertised in the mail-order 
instructions, was a failure.  Instead, the energy from a full transwarp power core had been 
shunted through the faux-booster and its oddly wired box, and thence into the 
superstructure of Cube #347 itself.  The result had been electrifying.  Literally.
	And shocking.  Definitely shocking.
	Oh, and don't forget the sparks.
	At the center of the maelstrom, 162 of 310 was unconscious...and glowing with a 
healthy dose of St. Elmo's Fire.  1 of 310 was balanced as best a Borg could on her 
comrade's body, taking advantage of the extra insulation provided.  Unfortunately, her 
natural and artificial capacitors were still building charge at an unacceptable rate.  
Members of her species had been known to spontaneously combust when "over-charged."  
She was well beyond that point and heading towards meltdown territory.
	{Shut it off!}  The individuals of the sub-collective, those that had managed to 
avoid the effects of excessive charge, were becoming increasingly unified.
	1 of 310 stiffly held her arms out to her sides as she calculated the distance to the 
toggle switch.  Two point three meters.  Not far, but not very close neither for one whose 
native long jump ability had been slight, even before addition of Borg hardware and 
insulating suit.  Regardless, the compulsion to {Shut it off!} was strong, and so 1 of 310 
launched herself at the shunt toggle.
	Contact with the floor and the power core casing brought forth the monotone 
warning of diagnostic programs reporting massive internal injury.  Heart spasmed.  
Muscles twitched.  Neural patterns scrambled.  Mechanically facing her goal only due to 
the throb of programmed compulsion in her brain, 1 of 310 shoved the switch to its "off" 
position before promptly crumpling to the deck plates.
	{Sensors can see,} announced the head of the sensory hierarchy to the general 
intranet.
	As the green fog slowly cleared, the first thing noted was unfamiliar star positions 
and radio bursts from pulsars and other galactic signposts.  Cube #347 /was/ lost and had 
no navigational files, so unfamiliarity was expected.  However, this new place was 
different than the one where the cube had been prior to testing the homemade fractal 
subspace booster.  Conclusion?  Cube #347 had moved.
	The second item observed was the small ship, an antique Defiant-class from the 
First Federation and 535 years out of production.  It looked brand new.  Navigational 
files may have been deleted, but Weapons ensured multiple copies of tactical related data 
existed, even upon obscure, obsolete ships.
	{Attack-ck-ck!} called Weapons.  His mental voice stuttered even as he took 
stock of his physical self, noting peripheral damage such as severe crisping of the organic 
portions of his left leg.  The targeting arrays would not focus, nor weapon ports stay 
open, drones not the only item affected by the cube's self-electrocution.  {Fix-x-x.  
Attack-ck-ck.}
	The Defiant-class ship pivoted on its y-axis and sped away at moderate warp 
speeds.
	Said Weapons, not unexpected, {Foll-ll-llow!}
	In his alcove, Captain had opened his eyes.  His damage was easily reparable by 
nanites.  The chain of ball lightning which aimlessly bobbed in the subshaft beyond his 
tier did not inspire confidence to leave his alcove, however.  Not that he was required to 
do so.  Power may no longer be actively energizing the superstructure, but time would be 
required for excess charge to bleed to space.  At the moment, engineering hierarchy 
ranked quite a bit higher than Weapons' desire to cry chase on a vintage ship.
	Replied Captain, {Negative.  We have higher priorities.}
	"Like, why am I magnetized?"  The rhetorical question had been asked aloud.  
Next to Captain, Second had stepped from his alcove, although not on purpose:  the 
clamps had spontaneously disengaged in reaction to a tier power conduit surge.  Captain 
allowed sufficient awareness to return to his body in order to focus on the secondary 
consensus monitor and facilitator.  Upon ejection from his alcove, Second had 
immediately stuck to the safety railing; and, in turn, loose bits of metal, such as a lost 
paperclip, had spun through the air and were now glommed to his carapace armor.
	{Unknown [basket case] signatures approaching!} warned Sensors.  As charge 
drained and the fog of unreal particles dissipated, the tactical long-range sensor envelope 
was expanding towards normal dimensions.  At 3.2 light years distant, a concentration of 
35 warp signatures could be sensed.  Warp.  Not transwarp nor hypertranswarp.  Warp 
only.
	Warp similar to the antique Federation signature of the Defiant-class which had 
just fled.
	Weapons seized upon the data, charging those drones of his hierarchy still 
conscious and not too badly damaged to analyze the information.  {Borg-gCraft scenario 
274b-b-b most lik-kely with 87.3% prob-b-babilit-ty,} replied Weapons, invoking a 
circumstance conceived /before/ the sub-collective's "reincarnation" several years prior.  
{It is a fl-leet-t of pre-Dark Federation starship-p-ps.  Assuming tech-chnology matches 
the level suggested b-by warp sig-gnature, our advanced w-w-weaponry will destroy 
them.  Prob-b-bably.  Although normal sure odds are slight-tly lowered t-to 18.5% 
consid-dering our present st-t-tat-te.  Our inabilit-ty to raise shields to more than 10% 
may b-be a slight-t prob-blem.}
	"Hey!" protested Second as 125 of 152 fell out of his alcove and stumbled into the 
backup consensus monitor and facilitator.  They stuck together with a sharp clang.
	Captain initiated a consensus cascade:  fight or flight?  Minutes stretched as 
scenarios were built, odds coldly calculated, and nonsensical options discarded.  
Engineering and drone maintenance weighted the matrix heavily as damage reports both 
mechanical and biological scrolled in the decision space.  Finally, much to Weapons' 
disappointment, consensus suggested (temporary) retreat; and, more specifically, to a 
destination away from the nearing warp signatures and into the reddish nebula only ten 
light years distant.
	"Not you too," groaned Second as most of the clamps to Captain's alcove 
spontaneously disengaged.  Captain was left with his shoulder awkwardly pressed into 
the other's waist while right leg remained firmly in its original position.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Are you sure you don't need more fiber in your diet?  Or at least a dose of 
HappyLax?"
	Woofie regarded the human on the forward screen with contempt.  Unfortunately, 
the scorn was internalized, Happymaster Dillon known to become very Unhappy if one 
didn't show at least superficial love and adoration.  To that end, the lieutenant 
commander of the USS Funship Defiant Defiant kept a carefully polite smile on his face.  
To anyone who did not know him, Woofie appeared to be distinctly constipated.
	"My bowel movements are joyfully regular," replied Woofie in a cartoony 
falsetto.  "I can send over my personal number-two log if you require proof.  My purpose 
in calling is to learn if his Happiness has any changes in his orders considering the sensor 
contact."  Pause.  "Cap'n Bennie at Neat Place Nine has concerns."
	Happymaster General and Supreme Commander Travvy Dillon was the nominal 
head of the Funfleet who were serving as attackers in the war-games exercise.  His 
presence was not strictly necessary - every ship had a competent captain, after all - but 
one did not say "no" to a man who had powerful mental powers which included the 
ability to crush windpipes and wedgie underwear with a mere thought.  Then there was 
the certain-near-death experience, which had left his face scarred, his hair prematurely 
streaked with silver, and his mind slightly unbalanced towards the violent end of the 
spectrum.  On top of that, the visible pieces of stolen Borgy technology which had been 
required to return him to mostly functional life tended to put people off and made it 
difficult to meet women at parties.  To put it mildly, Dillon was a very bitter man.
	Unfortunately for the Happymaster, he and his Empress Webber were not the 
supreme dictators-for-happily-ever-after that trillions of adoring happified subjects 
believed him to be.  Woofie worked not for the Happymaster, but the real powers of 
authority whom were content with the shadow.
	And those powers had /so/ much better taste in clothing than the pastel yellow and 
pink Neapolitan jacket with bright purple cape Dillon was wearing at the moment.  Lace 
was not a positive fashion statement for the Happymaster.
	"Concerns?" asked Dillon, his face enlarged to gargantuan proportions on the 
screen.  Neither bridge nor crew of the Ebullient-class Federation of Fun flagship 
Secondprize II could be seen around the Happymaster's wide hat.  "It is just a not-so-fun 
prank by the pitiful, unhappy rebels that putt-putt in the Fuzzylands.  Not only did 
sensors show an impossible Borgy cube - they are all extinct, remember? - but said Borgy 
cube zoomed away much faster than possible, even by Borgies."  Dillon flew a hand by 
his face while making "Vrooom!" noises.
	Woofie shook his head, causing the bells woven into his ponytail to lightly chime.  
"Are you sure?"
	"I am the HAPPYMASTER!" roared Dillon.  "I am SUPREME COMMANDER!  
The concerns are duly noted and ignored.  The war-games will continue.  If you want to 
take your little ship and get lost in the Fuzzylands, go ahead.  We'll just have to have fun 
pretending to blow up our own ships without you."
	Most Funfleet crew, like the great majority of Federation citizens, did not know 
the Happymaster was not as supreme as it was believed.  The war-game fleet would obey 
Dillon.  Woofie very much wanted to follow the purported Borgy ship to the Fuzzylands 
and determine if it was a rebel plot or not, but he daren't leave the Happymaster on his 
own.  Cap'n Bennie didn't approve when Dillon became a wee bit too ambitious; and 
Woofie /really/ wanted to be there when the Happymaster's "special" happifier kicked in.
	"I'll inform Neat Place Nine of your decision, then," said Woofie.
	"Do so," answered Dillon grandiosely before the transmission abruptly cut.
	At Communications, an ensign in the standard Federation uniform of canary 
yellow with black shoulders raised his hand and frantically waved it.
	"Mr. Hamilton-tang," spoke Woofie, "what is it?"
	"Deployment directions, Benevolent-Sir-Who-Hasn't-Sliced-Anyone's-Head-Off-
Today."  Woofie had trained his crew well; and /they/ also knew where the real power in 
the Federation lay.  "What shall I do?"
	"Acknowledge and tell them we'll continue our observation position."
	"No, Kind Sir, what shall I do about Mr. Fluffy?"  Hamilton-tang held up a cuddly 
stuffed targ with pink fir.  It had a big, white heart on its chest and a cute snarl on its face.
	Woofie stalked over to the comm station and snatched away the toy.  "I'll take 
care of Mr. Fluffy.  If you are very good, maybe I'll let you baby-sit him again.  As is, 
you /have/ earned the right to clean my spare boots with your tongue."
	Mr. Hamilton-tang beamed, oblivious to the envious expressions from the other 
bridge members.
	"Miss P'tahaha," barked Woofie at the lieutenant at the science console, "deploy a 
probe.  Send it towards the Fuzzylands after the Borgy cube signature.  It'll probably 
return no joy before it is blown to itsy, tiny, bitsy bits, but the effort will make the Cap'n 
happy.  Very happy."
	"Yes, sir!" squealed Miss P'tahaha as she tapped the necessary blinky buttons to 
comply.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 limped into the nebula at high impulse.  In many respects, the 
phenomenon was like all of its type, a stellar nursery glowing with the light of young 
stars struggling to be born.  Broad cavities within the gas were slightly older stars, still 
wreathed in their dusty afterbirth and some already beginning to spawn planetary 
families.  On the other hand, the nebula did not attenuate gradually to interstellar vacuum, 
instead sporting an unnatural barrier, reddish clouds swirling majestically within an 
invisible corral.  The barrier, as substantial as it was to the nebula, did not hinder Cube 
#347's passing; and the unexpected slow power drain encountered on the other side was 
easily neutralized via adjustments to shield harmonics.
	Odd eddies of electromagnetic, gravitonic, and quantum flux set an edge of static 
upon already abused sensors.
	Captain, after having managed to unlock his alcove and pry himself from Second, 
was in his nodal intersection.  Surprisingly, the local holoemitters had survived the cube's 
mishap.  Admittedly, the images were a tad on the blurry side and prone to gradual shifts 
in hue, but the emitters were functional.  The consensus monitor and facilitator was 
currently the pivot of an orbit of windows, each a separate stream in the multi-tiered 
complexity Captain was striving to keep from degenerating into chaos.
	A drone maintenance roster replaced a cube schematic of plasma conduit damage.  
Beneath the surface of the data represented by the slowly scrolling list lurked detailed 
files outlining medical assessment, required treatment, and prognosis.  The dry 
information was liberally spiked with irrelevancies such as reactions to the stimulus of 
various pet toys.  Several designations, a pittance considering the magnitude of the 
incident, blinked the dull red of termination.
	{Update on 8 of 8,} queried Captain of Doctor.  {We need him functioning as 
coordinator with engineering before Delta is completely overwhelmed.}
	In Maintenance Bay #5, Doctor tiredly ground his molars in irritation.  He had 
been at the end of his wake cycle when the emergency had hit and was now actively 
suppressing the body fatigue warnings from internal diagnostics.  The electrical surge had 
overwhelmed the shunt capacity of over half the crew compliment; and that was a system 
which nanomachines could not rebuild to 100% functionality.  In addition to those 
surgeries, multitudes of critical implants and prostheses required replacement, not to 
mention trauma to organics.
	Doctor automatically located 8 of 8 in Maintenance Bay #10 on the other side of 
the cube.  {The prognosis is very, very, very, very poor.  The pup-patient has suffered 
complete collapse of higher synaptic and cognitive functioning following his...}
	{Contact!} overrode Sensors to the intranet, blanketing the dataspaces with a 
hastily normalized grid output.
	In his nodal intersection, Captain banished the windows in favor of a tactical god-
perspective.  Cube #347 sat in the center of the volume, just inside the nebula's boundary.  
At the very edge of the sensor envelope in non-nebular space blinked the signature of an 
irrelevant spy probe.  However, it was the approaching transwarp wake which had 
triggered Sensors' warning.
	An echo of an echo of the Collective washed across 3,953 neural transceivers.
	{T-tactical situation.  Mine,} demanded Weapons, stutter, while much 
diminished, still present.  Captain, already spread unusually thin due to many priority 
datastreams, diminishment of command and control hierarchy from damage, and looming 
loss of a Hierarchy of Eight member, relinquished control with only the mildest of 
remonstrations to assess the situation before firing.  Responded Weapons, {I comply.}
	Shields had been raised to their current maximum of 50%, weapons brought on-
line, and the cube set in a defensive rotation when the transwarp conduit spat forth its 
occupant.  Or, rather, occupants.  A Galaxy-class vessel with the distinctive glowing 
green of Borg technology embedded in its hull immediately accelerated to high warp, 
vector to intercept the lurking spy probe.  The antique Federation ship had not created the 
conduit, however.  Transportation had been provided via the slipstream of its companion, 
a Borg Exploratory-class cube.
	The lash of Collective echoes whispered in neural transceivers again, but fractal 
frequencies were not aligned correctly to allow contact.
	The other cube stopped a respectful 100 kilometers distant, out of the envelope of 
reliable beam weaponry, but well within the limit of short-to-medium range projectiles.  
Its shields were up, but weapons remained at idle.  Sensor sweeps showed the cube to be 
obsolete technology, as pre-Dark as the Federation warship.
	{Time travel...?} whispered background processes attempting to make sense of 
the situation.  Sensors had seen/tasted/whatever tachyons during the incident which had 
transported the cube; and temporal displacement would explain the antique technology 
encountered.  However, many other threads remained free to flap in the winds of the 
unexplained.
	"Aren't thee to answer that?" asked the caterpillar avatar of DEVIL as it 
materialized amid the stars of the tactical display.
	Captain shifted his head slightly, eye narrowed at the AI.  "Answer what?"
	DEVIL's image froze for a part second, then reanimated.  "'Slap me for a chowder 
head and set me on fire,' I quoth from the Bible of Indignities, chapter 3, verse 18.  I be 
requireth tau compensation to align me quantum projection algorithms to this Page."
	The sensory hierarchy reported a hail from the other cube.
	"Aren't thee to answer that?" repeated DEVIL.
	A new window opened amid the three-dimensional tactical display.  It was a 
CatwalkCam view, similar to that Captain knew was on the return video feed...except, 
were those balloons tied to safety railings?  And could that be confetti drifting in the air?
	"Knock-knock," intoned the multivoice of the other cube.
	Silence.  The sub-collective of Cube #347 knew the expected reply to the ancient 
gag opener, but was at a loss as to the relevance of a joke in this situation, or any 
situation for that matter.  A transporter beam briefly illuminated the nodal intersection as 
Second returned from his demagnetization session.
	"Knock-knock?" attempted the other again.
	"Who's there?" responded the Cube #347 multivoice.
	"Borgy."
	"Borgy who?"
	"Borgy on down to the fun!  We are the Borgy.  Resistance is futile.  Life's a party 
and all fun technologies will be added to our own.  You shall become One by having 
Fun."  A waterfall of colorful balloons cascaded past the camera feed as drones conga-
lined into view, all wearing party hats.  Techno dance music began to play.
	Muttered Second as Weapons finalized a targeting solution upon the insane cube, 
"That's not how knock-knock jokes are supposed to go."
	Elsewhere in the sensor envelope, the Borgified Galaxy-class and spy probe 
signature merged.  Only the former survived the encounter.
	Cube #347 fired a low-yield photon torpedo at the Borgy cube.  The warning 
torpedo hit, shivering the other's shields, but not causing damage.  {No, no, no.  Past, not 
at.  Past-t.}  Weapons was disappointed, not due to lack of explosions, but that targeting 
and fire control systems were not yet realigned.
	The video from the other cube abruptly shifted, fading from party and refocusing 
to that of a single drone.  His base race was species #2553 and his left side was heavily 
cybernized.  The single whole eye was a startling blue.  In fact, except for the clown hat 
he wore on his head, he looked like Captain, pre-Dark.
	"Just kidding!  Just kidding!" said the drone, whole hand lifting into view to 
waggle a rubber chicken.  "Borgy does not assimilate Borgy, after all!  This is Comedy-
class Cube #347.  Identify yourself and why you've only just returned to the party, 
especially in such a foul mood.  A little enlightenment as to why we can't reach you on 
normal Borgy frequencies would be groovy as well."
	Exploratory-class Cube #347's defensive spin held, as did the targeting lock.  
Shield strength was now 61.2% as repairs continued and systems were able to shift back 
to the primary generators.
	Captain altered the Cube #347 video to show his nodal intersection, banishing the 
tactical view.  Checking the feed, he noted Second was in the frame, but, thankfully, 
DEVIL was not.  "We are Borg, not Borgy.  This unit is Exploratory-class Cube #347.  
this is neither our reality nor our temporal vector.  We are here due to an accident."
	"Wow!" exclaimed the alt-Captain.  "You look just like me, only more boring.  
And that other fellow looks like DJ!  Another universe and time, eh?  Sounds like a royal 
screw up somewhere.  Well, I'm MC - short for "Master of Ceremonies" - the consensus 
monitor and facilitator over here."  MC grinned.  The expression looked practiced, but 
not as out of place a similar smile would appear on Captain.
	Captain cocked his head slightly as he tracked internal debate.  The drone had 
used the singular, but if the sub-collective analogue had a similar imperfect status to that 
of Cube #347, then lack of pluralities meant little.  On the other hand, given lack of 
knowledge about the "rules" of this reality, the party atmosphere and non-Borgness of the 
other cube could be perfectly normal.
	"This drone is 4 of 8, subdesignated Captain," replied Captain, "and consensus 
monitor and facilitator of this sub-collective."
	"Welcome to the Fuzzylands, Captain and crew.  As soon as Explorer returns, 
what say you stand down your weapons and follow us back to Partymatrix 001?"
	{Weapons...} said Captain to the head of the weapons hierarchy, a wordless order 
for the tactical alert level to lessen and full control to return to command and control.
	Weapons wavered, finally admitting, {This situation has not been explored in a 
BorgCraft scenario.  Yet.  Our technology is more advanced and we have an 87.3% of 
victory.  The invitation may be a trap.}  A vast tree of what-ifs put down roots and began 
to grow.
	Second interrupted, creating a still picture montage of balloons, confetti, and 
drone conga-lines.  {Does that look like a trap to you?}
	{Very elaborate deception,} affirmed Weapons.
	"We will follow," said Captain to MC as command and control locked down 
weapons.  The defensive spin was allowed to continue.
	MC flipped rubber chicken into view once more.  Clown hat bobbled.  "Party on, 
dudes!  Estimated time to Explorer's return is ten minutes."

	Located in a pocket cleared of gas by action of solar wind from a newborn star, 
Partymatrix 001 outwardly looked like any Borg unimatrix facility.  It was a bit small 
compared to the usual sprawling constructs the Cube #347 sub-collective was used to, but 
it amply abounded with vast nodes of geometric design and connecting tubes.  That was 
as far as superficial similarity extended.  No Borg unimatrix would tolerate the numbers 
of nonBorg vessels which parked within its volume; and the full tally of cubes was a bare 
handful, including one Battle-class (or its Borgy equivalent) under construction.  
Scanners indicated the majority of lifeforms to be unassimilated.
	The trek from border to partymatrix through the nebula phenomenon locally 
designated as Fuzzylands had required half a cycle at moderate transwarp velocities.  Alt-
Cube #347 could not go faster, else risk losing the Galaxy-class vessel which rode its 
slipstream.  The time had been sufficient for Captain to regenerate; and now he was 
returned to his nodal intersection.  The trip had also allowed the transfer of many vital 
pieces of recent history in this reality.
	Start with the Borg, or rather Borgy.  They were a technologically-bound 
Collective, although Perfection through Oneness was not their focus.  Being One 
remained important, but having Fun even more so.  The Borgy goal was to assimilate 
everyone into a grand, giant Party.  However, this universe-view had skewed priorities, in 
the view of the Cube #347 sub-collective.  "Fun" and "party" technologies (i.e., a novel 
silly string formulation), and the civilizations which spawned them, were more likely to 
be assimilated than the inventor of a Giant Ray of Doom(tm).
	Enter Fun War IV seven years prior, a Federation of Fun civil war.  The conflict 
had been indirectly (or maybe directly) precipitated by crew from First Federation ships 
Aerostar and Explorer and the ambitions of a Frenchman.  On one side was a ragged 
Federation of Fun, nominally led by Empress "brain-in-a-box" Webber and Happymaster 
Travvy Dillon, both revitalized from near-death by stolen Borgy technology (very long 
story).  On the other side was nymphomaniac and ex-Playstation commander Lisa-Love 
Beck and Manservant Jaroch (an even longer story).  Not having enough toys to beat each 
other around the head with, the two sides happy beamed - a variation of the 
Joegonotization ray - new allies in the form of Borgy and Dominionators, respectively.

**{Aerostar and Explorer crew?} queried Second, breaking the emerging stream of 
consciousness.  {Why are we not overly surprised?}  His snide asides were hushed.**

	Fun War IV was a year of explosions, death and destruction, and mutual 
annihilation.  It was grand and, above all, happy fun for those drifting on the clouds of 
artificial joy.  Due to the emphasis on party technology, this alternative universe pre-Dark 
version of Borg were lacking in the offensive/defensive department.  Cutting edge 
karaoke machines do not (normally) win space battles.  On the other hand, Borgy 
numbers and enormous ship size were able to overcome the technological advantages of 
the Dominionators.  On the losing side, Lisa-Love and Manservant Jaroch fled, leaving 
their allies to be gleefully ground into extinction.
	Next the Federation of Fun and their adoringly coerced Borgy allies set about 
dismantling the rebel network.  The rebels had arisen from those who either did not desire 
to find happiness at the end of a ray gun or were immune.  An annoyance prior to Fun 
War IV when the Federation had been strong, their unhappiness quotient and boldness 
vastly increased during the civil war as they allied themselves with the Multeks and 
Cardassians.  Most of the rebels had been converted to happy citizens and their networks 
broken by the time the Borgy mentally imploded.

**Second could not help himself:  {What is with the phrase "adoringly coerced Borgy 
allies"?  Slaves.  The proper word is slaves.  Who wrote this exposition?}  He was 
shushed again.**

	Within the Borgy psyche, "happy" and "fun" were two subtly different paradigms 
which did not play well with each other.  After nearly a year and a half of internal and 
external abuse, the great majority of the Borgy had self-destructed.  Some vessels simply 
stopped, their sub-collectives terminating mid-step; and others destroyed every 
Federation of Fun facility in sensor range before diving into the nearest sun.  The end 
result had been a severely crippled Federation and the extinction of the Borgy.
	Or so believed the Federation remnants.
	As in the Borg universe, the Borgy Cube #347 sub-collective was not "right in the 
cranial region" when compared to the Whole.  Whereas the Collective was the Party, the 
sub-collective was that inevitable cluster of people in the corner who absolutely cannot 
leave work behind.  They were dour.  They were serious.  They had been on the far side 
of the galaxy on a compulsory stand-up comedy club circuit to work on their party and 
improvisational skills when Fun War IV had broken out.

**{Since when are rubber chickens, party hats, and conga-lines dour and serious?} 
inquired Second, interrupting once again.  {Is there a point to this overly long 
recitation?}  The boredom quotient was growing, and several designations with lesser 
attention spans were beginning to mentally fidget.**

	Due to the mental distance maintained between imperfect drones and Greater 
Consciousness, the alt-Cube #347 sub-collective had been able to neutralize the happy 
beam effect that had propagated through the rest of the Whole.  The drones broke their 
club contract and hurried to the scene of the civil war.  Unfortunately, traversing the 
galaxy with transwarp requires at least a year; and like their Borg counterparts, 
unexpected and irrationally illogical incidents plagued the sub-collective.  Alt-Cube #347 
arrived in Federation of Fun territory just as the Borgy Collective suicided.
	The mental backwash nearly sent the "serious" sub-collective to its own 
termination.
	Holding onto its sanity by looping "Greatest Movie Party Moments" and 
collectively participating in intense mosh pit psychoanalytical sessions, the sub-collective 
found and gathered the few Borgy remnants that, for whatever reason, had not followed 
their brethren into termination.  A backup Partymistress Queen had been the most 
important find.  The Fuzzylands became the Borgy retreat, odd properties of the nebula 
fouling all but Borgy technology.

**{Mosh pit?} said 87 of 203 as she focused on a particular detail.  {Can we install a 
mosh pit?}  Her request was dutifully refused.**

	Shortly thereafter, ex-physician Rebecca Singer and Colonel Martini Lazlo, rebels 
desperate enough to attempt the Fuzzylands in order to escape the Federation, made 
accidental contact with the hidden Borgy.  They managed to convince the Borgy to (1) 
not assimilate them and (2) become the nucleus of a revitalized rebellion.  A new disco 
ball for the Partymistress' renovated dance chamber had helped as well.  From there the 
trickle of rebels had grown, eventually including Lisa-Love (later called "Lady") and 
Manservant Jaroch.
	Mutual hate for an enemy makes bedfellows out of strange allies; and still the 
Federation had no clue of the Borgy hidden in the Fuzzylands.  The Federation was aware 
that the rebels were somehow surviving through use of Borgy technology to shield 
propulsion and power systems, but assumed the equipment was scavenged, not factory 
fresh.
	During the next months and years, the Federation of Fun managed to mysteriously 
acquire a new flagship prototype, code-named Ebullient-class.  Whispers of 
Unhappyverse involvement spread throughout the quadrant as only rumors can.  Then the 
rebels, seeing a chance to remove Happymaster Dillon and Empress Webber, had struck.  
The Unhappyverse had become involved again, only this time the contribution from the 
alternate reality was the secret to reversing happy beam effects en masse.  With the 
Funship Explorer part of the rebellion and on a mission to unhappify the quadrant, thus 
freeing everyone from forced joviality, it seemed that all would end "happily ever after," 
so to say.

**Assimilation sighed as he added his observation upon life, {There must be a catch.  
Not only does nothing ever end that well, this datastream continues for quite a bit 
longer.}**

	Turn back many years and enter a forgotten Federation station, Neat Place Nine.  
Situated on the backwater frontiers of the Federation of Fun, it had been a Cardassian 
oppressor to a subjugated Bajoran populace until the Federation had happy beamed the 
lot in the name of peace and happiness.  The nearby stable wormhole had nothing to do 
with the pacification decision.  Nothing at all.  Nope.  That the wormhole had stopped 
working shortly thereafter also had nothing to do with the corrective happification spa 
retreat certain officials had to undergo to overcome disappointment and an outbreak of 
frowns.

**{This is interesting,} noted 71 of 79, who had been browsing secondary appendix files 
attached to the main history.  {Frowning is a capital offense in the Funfleet, punishable 
by forced tickling; and citizens who display even the slightest bit of melancholy that can't 
be cured at the local Happiness clinic are sent to Federation Funcamps for the Terminally 
Unhappy.}**

	Then, in the opening days of the civil war, the wormhole had abruptly begun 
spilling forth pretty purple ships.  Neat Place Nine had, naturally, happy beamed the snot 
out of them.  After all, it is easier to make new friends when they are already glad to see 
you.  Although the new Dominionator allies had subsequently been captured by Lisa-
Love and company, the Neat Place Nine staff was content to continue to happify all 
newcomers, especially those non-Dominionator.  In fact, a happy beam network was set 
up to automatically bring peace and light to anyone who came through.  Neat Place Nine, 
however, neglected to tell anyone about the new captives - why bother important people 
in the middle of their Fun War? - instead secreting new acquisitions away on Bajor.
	The Borgy cube that had later suicided nearby was similarly towed to the growing 
shipyard.
	With the resurgence of the Federation of Fun, even after the demise of the Borgy, 
it appeared as if Neat Place Nine was to be forgotten once more, except for the pesky 
remnant rebels that hid in the Fuzzylands.  Then the specter of mass de-happification 
crashed upon the Federation.  As entire populaces were brutally ripped from the bosom of 
joy and sent into the harshly cold realities of the universe, Neat Place Nine engineers 
looked to Borgy technology.  The final solution was a brain implant, the happifier, which 
not only neutralized the effects of the de-happy beam, but enforced good cheer upon its 
recipients.

**{Are we there yet?} grumbled Second.  His outburst earned him a virtual skunk eye 
from Captain.**

	Neat Place Nine thus sent forth its captured fleets, crews shielded with happifiers, 
to rescue Happymaster and Empress and stabilize the Federation.  It was the Right Thing 
To Do, saving unhappy populations from doom and a life of disappointments.  And so it 
was the Federation of Fun was saved.  The Explorer, minus its re-happied crew and 
stolen by rebels who subsequently fled to the Fuzzylands, was a minor footnote.
	At Neat Place Nine, a lowly station commander by the name of Bennie Sisko was 
not the shadow power behind the Federation of Fun.  He did not have legions of 
Changelings loyal only to him; and he did not have the master nexus to which all 
happifiers were controlled.  Such were ridiculous rumors which required immediate 
readjustment by a Counselor should a citizen ever utter them, should a happifier ever 
catch scent of such sedation among monitored mental patterns.
	In the four years since the footnoted Explorer had become property of the rebels, 
the Federation of Fun had been recovering from civil war and the De-happy Crisis, 
rebuilding its fleets.  At the same time, the rebels had been consolidating and making 
plans with the Borgy.  Well, with alt-Cube #347 sub-collective, anyway, the activity 
uncomfortably "serious" for a Collective still in intense party therapy.
	The rebels were ready to strike a blow for the cause of freedom to decide if one 
wanted to be happy or cranky; and Cube #347 had dropped into the middle of it.
	Take a deep breath to banish an overlong recitation of History and return to the 
Partymatrix 001 vista.
	{About time,} muttered Second, to a chorus of agreement.
	"Honey, we're home!" said MC with cliche comedy when Captain accepted the 
intercube hail.  The other consensus monitor and facilitator had swapped his party hat for 
a red wig with braided pigtails that stuck out horizontally from his head.  "Welcome to 
Partymatrix 001, home of the Borgy and hotbed of rebel sedation."  In the audio 
background sounded a rim tap and cymbal crash combination, followed by applause from 
a synthetic audience.  "We are so sorry the Partymistress won't interact with you directly, 
but the Collective Will prefers that this sub-collective deal with the more serious topics in 
life, such as planning rebel raids and talking to alternate reality imperfect counterparts 
from the future."
	The Borgy, in addition to their "non-professional" attitude (at least when 
compared against the /Borg/ quest for Perfection), had a small being propensity towards 
irrelevant small talk.  Captain buried his annoyance and cut straight to the heart of a 
request delivered a hour prior:  "Are the supplies we require available?"  Luckily, none of 
the damage the cube had sustained in its inter-reality ride required dry-dock maintenance.  
On the other hand, the continuing repairs, now including ship-wide regeneration, had 
strained both replicator resources and the non-replicatable spares inventory.
	The sensor grid registered a secondary datastream piggy-backing the primary 
subspace transmission.  Decoding the packets revealed a list which Captain subsequently 
set to scrolling next to the MC holoscreen.
	"Wow, right to the point, aren't you?  As the Partymistress keeps telling us, you 
need to relax and figuratively let down your hair.  You double so than us, it seems.  As to 
your request, it appears a cube's a cube despite the reality, be it your Exploratory-class or 
this Comedy-class.  The basics we can get you.  However, there are some items such as 
the 'hypertranswarp coupling array' of which we are clueless; and tritanium is an alloy 
we've only recently encountered, its adaptation to our use currently of lower priority than 
vitally important projects such as the confetti gun."
	The list of desires was compared to the list of availability.  It would have to do.  
"Acceptable.  Navigational charts?"
	MC yelped as a stream of water, origination off-screen, hit him on the side of the 
head.  "DJ!  Can't you see I'm busy right now?  I'll be to the Bulk Cargo Hold for the 
scheduled weekly water gun fight as soon as I can.  Resistance to fun is futile."  Pause, 
refocus on Captain.  "Your peoples and my peoples will have to talk a bit more about 
that.  This /is/ a different reality to your own, and we are assuming that you will want to 
go back eventually.  The data could be just so much garbage."  The synthetic audience 
was back, this time showing displeasure with hisses and boos.
	"How do we return to our reality?  The history indicated existence of an 
established protocol."
	MC waved his whole hand (it was holding a sparkling pink water phaser).  "That's 
a Federation of Fun thing.  It isn't exactly a traditional 'party' tech, so we've not bothered 
to make any particular effort to assimilate it."
	{That Galaxy-class is of Federation origin,} noted Second, picking out the 
relevant fact and displaying it to the sub-collective.  In Captain's nodal intersection, a 
tactical window opened and focused on the Explorer, drifting ten kilometers from alt-
Cube #347.  Sensors initiated an intensive scan.
	Captain mentally shrugged.  {Detain and dismantle it.  Weapons, tractor the 
vessel.  The additional Borgy technology is inconsequential.  No cube weapons:  the 
Borgy Collective might object.  Once the target's shields are depleted, transport a 
detachment to secure the vessel.  No assimilations at this time; and attempt to keep 
casualties to unimportant staff, such as security.}
	Weapons gleefully acknowledged the command.
	"Where are you going?" inquired MC in puzzlement as Cube #347 abruptly 
lunged as best a Borg cube could towards Explorer.
	Three tractor beams reached forth to the Explorer, with two making contact.  For 
twenty long seconds the Federation ship did nothing, then it started to buck as impulse 
engines engaged.  A pair of photon torpedoes, then a phaser burst, impacted upon Cube 
#347's still regenerating shields, but the primitive technology did not so much as trip a 
relay breaker.
	"That's not very nice of you," commented MC mildly.  "You are going to make 
me miss my scheduled party therapy if I have to deal with this matter."
	A hail, directed at both Borg and Borgy, was intercepted by Cube #347.  Captain 
opened the transmission to reveal a standard, if antique, Federation bridge, although the 
paint scheme showed signs of having been applied over a much brighter foundation.  
Shag carpet was also not among the normal decor the sub-collective had encountered.  
Standing in front of the captain's chair was an unhappy woman in a gray and black 
uniform (why did rebels, no matter the universe, go for the same two-tone clothing?) 
highlighted by a shoulder flash of bright red.
	"Hey!  This is Captain Singer here.  MC, I know you told us to stay out of 
negotiations, but if you haven't noticed, my ship is being attacked.  A little help here?"  In 
the background, crewmembers were shouting to each other about status of shields and 
engines.
	MC's attention shifted to the Explorer feed.  "Oh, no problem.  Be cool.  The Borg 
just want your Unhappyverse drive.  If you give it to them, I'm sure they'll stop.  No 
worries."  The Borgy drone did not seem unduly concerned that an ally was in the initial 
stages of a road that eventually led to assimilation.
	More sparks from a console.  Singer flinched as an ensign, or the rebel equivalent, 
called out 70% shield strength.  "We don't have an Unhappyverse drive.  When we stole 
the Explorer back from the Federation of Fun, it was smashed into intsy, tinsy, tiny bits.  
Fixing it hasn't been exactly top priority, assuming that the scraps haven't long since been 
swept into the disposal system."
	Head cocked slightly as MC (and sub-collective) considered.  "An engineer, then?  
If you have an engineer that knows about the Unhappyverse drive, I suppose you could 
send him or her over for assimilation.  That will probably be acceptable."
	"Read my lips you stupid, party-happy Borgy.  We /stole/ the ship while the 
original crew was in detention being re-rehappied into the next dimension.  I push buttons 
and give orders:  the ship goes.  Knowing esoteric information like how to make a device 
that jumps to another universe isn't on the resume of /anyone/ on this crew!"  Singer 
appeared to be a wee bit stressed, and even more so as a rain of sparks showered down on 
her and threatened to catch hair on fire.  She clutched an object reminiscent of a squishy 
ball in one hand.
	"Oh, I see," responded MC.  "In that case, Captain and Borg chaps, could you let 
the Explorer go?  They contribute very importantly to the Party, and one day they will 
make excellent drones.  Until then, they function better as individuals and we would be 
bummed if you assimilated or terminated them."  The Borgy managed to look 
appropriately grave, red wig not withstanding.
	{Can my hierarchy still kill a couple of security officers?  We need the live 
practice,} attempted Weapons.
	Captain enforced the decision tree's consensus.  {Negative.  Borgy displeasure 
may mean we will not receive the necessary resupply items.  Additional ammunition, 
even of these low isoton yields and pre-Dark configurations, is on the list.}
	The pull between "munitions" and "assault" mentally divided the weapons 
hierarchy, but with additional leverage from command and control, the former won.  
Tractor beams disengaged.
	Explorer promptly cut the transmission to Cube #347 (a tight-beam remained in 
effect to the other cube, but the angle was wrong for eavesdropping) and scooted to put 
bulk of Borgy vessel between itself and its former attacker.
	"Do any vessels here have the appropriate trans-universe drive?" asked Captain.  
Many nonBorgy ships were present in and around the partymatrix.
	MC sighed.  "Just a moment."  Pause.  "Scans indicate negative, but...we do know 
where one would certainly be found - the Funfleet flagship Secondprize II."
	The sub-collective was not enthused.  Not only was the designation "Secondprize" 
familiar, again from the same pre-Dark encounters that included the likes of Aerostar and 
Explorer, but the ship in question was probably halfway across the galaxy.  The fact that 
the vessel was a flagship meant little considering pre-Dark weaponry and defensive 
systems.  "Disclose location of the Secondprize II."
	"The Funfleet has been performing military maneuvers and war-games for the last 
two weeks around Neat Place Nine and the Fuzzylands.  Borgy and rebels were planning 
to make a raid within the next couple of days.  Many opportunities present themselves." 
MC excitedly waved his water phaser.  "We're going to go shopping!  The rebellion 
needs new warships; and the Party is becoming a bit boring with the same old signatures.  
Therefore, while the rebels get ships, we get the crew.  Want to join?  It will be quite a 
bash with explosions and everything!  We could use your advanced technology.  If the 
Secondprize II isn't there when the fun descends, they'll join the party soon enough."
	Captain cocked his head slightly as the sub-collective deliberated.  "You, the 
Borgy, are not upset that we attacked your ally?"
	MC shrugged, causing faux-pigtails to bounce.  "Why?  They are only small 
beings, not part of the Party.  Maybe they will be assimilated one day.  Until then, they 
are just...tools."  The drone suddenly whirled and fired his water phaser at an unseen 
target.  "Hah!  Got you that time!  Next time hide the transporter signature better, DJ."
	Captain waited until MC faced the camera again.  Finally, an understandable 
Borg-like attitude.  "We will assist."
	"Excellent," said MC.  The synthetic audience broke into a standing ovation.

**********
Here ends "A Trip to the Happy Side, Part I."  Will Cube #347 return to their 
Unhappyverse reality?  Will Happymaster Dillon's special happifier provide amusement 
for Woofie?  Will there be a musical number with Can-Can drones?  You'll just have to 
read Part II to find out!