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*
(Warning:  Grand Finale - the Twisted Death Song may resemble certain lyrics from 
Monty Python's "Life of Brian."  Do not consume if you will be operating heavy 
machinery or plan to sign legal documents in the next 24 hours.)


			A Trip to the Happy Side, Part III

Last time on Star Traks: BorgSpace - 
You were happy beamed.  You are happy and joyful and you know lots of cute things 
happened.  The bestest part was the big battle where nifty Cube #347 was happied.  Other 
fun things ensued as well, but you are content to go back and read about the 
Happymaster, Woofie, psycho Cap'n Bennie, and the happifiers that make everyone extra 
special sparkly happy.  And speaking of happifiers, you will be especially happy after 
you report to your nearest Happy Clinic to receive your own personal happifier!  Have a 
Happy Day!  :)

			*	*	*	*	*

	Of all the places on Neat Place Nine, Woofie really, really, /really/ disliked this 
particular room.  It was hot.  It was humid.  There was no carpet on the floor and the 
kilometers of black fabric which shrouded the walls killed all fresh breezes from the 
environmental ducts.  Worse of all, the room made him feel uncomfortably apprehensive 
as no Klingon should; and the happifier, so quick to correct unhappy thoughts elsewhere, 
actually seemed to encourage such feelings in this most 'special' of rooms.
	Except for a long conference table sited near the door and free-standing monitor, 
the room was largely hidden from view by the black draperies.  From station schematics, 
Woofie knew the cramped conference area only encompassed a tenth the available 
floorspace, but he felt no compulsion to lift the curtains and see what sort of wizard 
might be on the other side.  Whirling, electronic beeps, and other muffled sounds only 
added to the spooky ambience, as did the occasional glimpse of green tinted lights.
	Woofie was one of several people sitting at the conference table, waiting for a 
fashionably late Cap'n Bennie to arrive.  Most of Neat Place Nine's command staff was 
present, including the joined Trill Lieutenant Commander Daxie, Chief O'Bri-bri, and the 
perpetually smiling (and not in a good way) Doctor Basher.  Happymaster Dillon 
slumped at the far end of the table, arms across his chest and eyes staring at nothing.  No 
one spoke because the viewscreen currently showed a favorite Bugs Bunny cartoon.
	"Hello, everybody!" greeted Cap'n Bennie as the room's door slid open.  The 
station commander entered, followed on his heels by Changeling Security Chief Odo-
mojo and five bodyguards.  In his arms Cap'n Bennie carried a sack which read 
"Premium Coffee Beans;" and Odo-mojo held a large carafe of dark liquid.  With a 
murmured "Just a moment," Cap'n Bennie and Odo-mojo stepped through the curtains, 
leaving the Changeling bodyguard to assume positions at the periphery of the conference 
area.
	Beyond the hangings came the sound of liquid being poured into something, 
followed by a long sigh.
	Cap'n Bennie and Odo-mojo reappeared, divested of their burdens.  The former 
took a seat as the latter turned off the cartoon before himself sitting on a chair next to the 
Happymaster.
	Cap'n Bennie smiled widely.  "Welcome, everyone.  Glad you could make it!  
This secret conspiracy war session is now opened.  Daxie, it is your turn to take notes.  
Major Kiki is doing important command things for me right now, so she can't attend, and 
she really wants good notes to read.  Unlike /last/ time."
	Happymaster Dillon slumped deeper.  "I'm the /Happymaster/," protested Dillon, 
although none too vigorously.  "Minions are supposed to take care of things like notes.  
And proof-reading.  The spell-check function was stuck on Andorian, which didn't help."
	Cap'n Bennie sighed as he shook his head.  He then inhaled deeply before 
beginning, "Our new happy friends are neither Borgy nor from around here, so the 
Controller has informed me.  This brings up interesting possibilities, but also some 
problems.  Daxie?  You do all the sciencey stuff, so why don't you have a go at the 
explanations?"
	Lieutenant Commander Daxie stood up, then frowned.  "But who'll take notes, 
then?"
	Cap'n Bennie looked around the table.  "We /really/ need a secretary for our cabal.  
Um...give the PADD to Woofie,"
	Woofie groaned as the device was scooted his way:  he had been trying to hold 
statue still to avoid attention.  Obviously the tactic had not worked.  He stiffened slightly 
at the tingling warning from his happifier.  Yes, he would be happy to take good 
notes...he just didn't have to like it.
	Daxie stepped to the viewscreen and inserted a data crystal into one slot before 
picking up the remote control.  She then returned to her place at the table, although she 
did not sit down.  A button was pushed and the paused cartoon returned to celluloid life.  
"Whoops!  Sorry!"  Another button changed the screen to a loop of the Borg (not Borgy) 
cube being hit by a happy beam during the rebel/Borgy skirmish.
	"From the outside it looks just like a Borgy cube, mostly," began Daxie.  "There 
are some odd bits and pieces, but nothing obvious.  However, you start to actually scan 
vessel and, well, not only is it not Borgy, but it is incredibly advanced.  Talking with the 
crewdrones confirms that the cube is from over five hundred years in the Unhappyverse's 
future."
	Woofie's eyes glazed and he stopped transcribing as Daxie droned on and on and 
on and on.  The lieutenant commander loved science, was happiest when surrounded by 
science.  Unfortunately, when such science included presentations without an enforced 
time limit, this meant she had the propensity to talk for hours.  Literally.  This was now 
the case as slide after mind-numbing slide appeared on the viewscreen, accompanied by 
scan results.  Woofie snorted fully awake as Chief O'Bri-bri elbowed him in the ribs.
	"Did you get all that, Mr. Woofie?" asked Cap'n Bennie cheerfully.  The yellow 
smiley which covered his bald head was bright, even in the dim light.
	Woofie looked down at the PADD where he had written 'Daxie talks about 
sciencey stuff,' then back up at Cap'n Bennie.  Major Kiki would understand.  "Yes, sir.  
Mostly.  Anyone who wants the details can talk to Daxie personally:  the concepts are 
just too super special complex to be put on plain notes."
	Daxie beamed.
	"Can I say something?" asked Dillon from the far and lonely end of the table.  He 
had his hand raised.
	"No," responded Cap'n Bennie.  He cleared his throat and continued, ignoring the 
Happymaster's glare, "The question is:  what do we do with these Borg?  The Borgy have 
obviously adapted to the happy beam, although they didn't share the immunity with their 
Unhappyverse cousins.  Still, our new friends, while happy now, could become very 
unhappy at any time.  An unhappy, super strong cube outside Neat Place Nine gives me 
the shivers."
	Woofie tentatively advanced, "Why don't we just happy beam them every time 
they look like they are to wake up; or, even better, install happifiers?  That works with 
everyone else."
	"Not good," whispered a synthetic voice which did not originate from the table.  
All except Cap'n Bennie and the Changelings unconsciously stiffened.  It was the voice 
of the Controller.  In the wee hours of the morning, Woofie would contemplate the who  
or what of the Controller, the thing which sat at the center of the happifier web.  Those 
thoughts usually dissolved quickly, replaced by the same nameless dread he associated 
with the 'special' room.  "Not good at all."
	"Could you explain, please?" asked Cap'n Bennie politely.
	There was silence, broken only by a gurgle and an odd grinding sound.  Then, 
"The more you happy beam them, the more likely they will adapt.  These Borg are 
more...efficient than the Borgy."  Gurgle.  Glug.  Sip.  "And as far as happifiers, one 
strongly suspects Borgy and Borg technology won't mix.  A Borgy drone would certainly 
reject the happifiers, as they are modified Borgy tech.  A Borg drone would not only 
reject, but might shake the sub-collective out of its current Happy state.  Definitely not 
good."
	"Why don't we just kill all the drones and keep the advanced technologies?" asked 
the Happymaster.
	Cap'n Bennie glared at Dillon.  "What did I say?  I said be quiet.  You aren't 
actually the one in charge, remember?  We need these Borgs around as minions for my 
dastardly plans and to tell us what their tech does.  Odo-mojo, if it looks like the 
Happymaster is to speak again, stop him in any manner you see fit."
	As Odo-mojo gave his gravelly and enthusiastic assent, Woofie carefully watched 
Dillon's face redden in anger.  The Happymaster appeared to control himself, however, 
before certain inhibitions could be triggered in his special happifier.  Too bad.  A show 
would have enlightened the atmosphere of the 'special' room.
	"Controller," said Cap'n Bennie to the unseen watcher, "how long do you think 
the happy effects will last?"
	"Unknown.  These Borg could be unhappy tomorrow...or they could continue in 
their present state for years.  They /will/ adapt eventually, though."
	Chief O'Bri-bri spoke, "Why don't we use 'em for the invasion through the 
wormhole?  That cube could mash and stomp a lot of unenlightened ships for us, which 
would make civilian pacification by the Funfleet much easier.  Everyone would be 
happier sooner."
	Cap'n Bennie smiled.  "I do want to see everyone happy and at peace."  Then he 
sighed.  "Unfortunately, the rebel and Borgy active means we can't send through the 
Funfleet yet.  More Funfleet are on the way, but they won't be properly gathered for 
weeks."
	Woofie added more notes to the PADD, then vocalized a happy thought that had 
just occurred to him, "That's an excellent idea, sir.  However, does the Funfleet need to be 
there?  Tell the Borg to go through the wormhole and start pacifying fleets."  Woofie 
shrugged.  "If the cube goes boom by taking on one too many ships, no harm done.  Oh, 
and tell 'em to not assimilate anyone either."
	Daxie frowned. "But what about all the neato tech on the cube?  That could 
advance us big time."
	Cap'n Bennie did not appear to share Daxie's concern.  "The cube as a 
vanguard...I like it!  We can have the drones wire up their cores so that if it looks like 
they are going all unhappy on us, a remote control detonation will take care of the 
problem.  I really, really like the idea!  And as far as the rebels and BorgyŠI'm getting 
happy and interesting thoughts about that, too."  Attention shifted to Dillon.  "There is 
even a part for you to play, Happymaster."
	Woofie sniffed.  Were those freshly brewed coffee smells in the air?  Why did the 
'special' room always smell like coffee?
	"The technology," quietly moaned Daxie again.  "The /papers/ I could publish."
	Cap'n Bennie waved a hand.  "Fine.  It'll take a couple of days to get things ready, 
so you can obtain as many samples as you want, Daxie.  Chief O'Bri-bri, help her.  And 
you, Doctor Basher, I've not forgotten about you, all nice and patient that you've been.  
Why don't you perform some necropsies or vivisections on a Borg drone or three?  Not 
only will that make you happy, but there might be a happifier upgrade in it for us."
	Doctor Basher grinned a toothsome grin that looked as if it would split his face.
	"And so, with that," said Cap'n Bennie, "we have a good start.  Why don't we 
break for a potty run and snacks and meet back here in half an hour for nitty-gritty 
planning."  There was no question mark at the end of the statement.  "Happymaster 
Dillon, you are not invited.  Odo-mojo, see the Happymaster back to the Secondprize II, 
thank you very much."

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Oooh!  Jingle bells!
	Batman smells!
	Robin laid an egg!
	The Batmobile lost a wheel
		And Joker got a-waay-hey!"

	The Neat Place Nine auditorium was packed with an audience eager to see a novel 
rendition of the always popular Silly Song Revue.  On the stage was a grand arc of a 
staircase in the ancient Las Vegas Musical Extravaganza style, flat apex topped with half 
a clam shell.  Sparkly paint and sequins were everywhere, enhanced by spectacular 
lighting effects and a dash of holographic magic.  It was a glamorous set meant for a 
glorious and tailored acting troupe.
	However, as remarked previously, the performance had been billed as "novel," 
not "glamorous" nor even "professional and in-tune."
	Borg in tall feather plume hats and sparkling white tutus (no leotards - too 
difficult to fit over armor) finished the first of many silly songs.  As the music shifted to a 
faster tempo, drones lining each platform step linked arms and began to perform a 
shuffling Can-Can.  More than one Borg lost his or her footing; and entire lines fell.  
Amidst the audience's delighted laughter, however, lines were righted and the 
performance continued to the next silly song, a rocketing rendition of alphabet and 
nursery rhymes.
	From a balcony observation point, Captain systematically panned the 
proceedings.  As the performance unrolled, the sub-collective was comparing its 
rendition against multiple other Silly Song Revues recorded in the auditorium.  Given the 
inherent limitations of the cyborg body in the flexibility and singing department, the 
revue was tolerable, with minor chorographical alterations necessary.  {132 of 133:  
increase volume output by 5%.  144 of 422:  you are half a measure fast and slurring 
words - slow down.  74 of 152:  more leg lift!  Shake that booty!  Strut your stuff!}
	Something in the far background processes whispered that this performance was 
not Borg.  That something was ignored.
	In a chair beside Captain, the form of Cap'n Bennie eagerly leaned forward from 
the shadows.  He smiled as he looked down at the laughing, popcorn-throwing crowd.  
"Look at all the happy people down there.  That is what I want to achieve for all the 
galaxy.  What do you think, Captain Borg?"
	The phrase 'Captain Borg' caused the mildest tinge of irritation, but was dismissed 
as not relevant.  {Volume up 1.3% more, 132 of 133.  Perfect.}  Split of attention.  "It is 
an admirable goal for all sentients to be happy.  We are glad to lend assistance.  Universal 
happiness is Perfection."
	The wrongness of linking forced happiness to Perfection (capital 'P') was 
dismissed.
	"Oh!  This is my favorite part," exclaimed Cap'n Bennie, "of the Silly Song 
Revue:  the Twisted Happy Death Song from Death of Byron."  Can-Can action was once 
more in effect as lines shifted, opening a central avenue which led to the half clam shell.  
"Do you have a good singer for the solo?"
	On the stairs' apex, a green transporter beam materialized a dark praying mantis 
shape.  Behind Sensors trailed a long cape of purple fabric.  She stepped forward with 
one walking leg, delicately placing it on the first step.  A pregnant pause of both music 
and action, then:

	"Oh, sadness needs a happy beam
	And frowns to a Funcamp you must go.
	However, seditious rumbles are no fun
	And friends report friends if they are a righteous Happy one!
	In the end snitching is for the best...

	And...always look to the happier side of death...
	Always look on the jocular side of death...."

	The final chorus lines, sung by all, dissolved into a complex of waving feathers 
and flashing tutus as drones changed places in preparation for the next stanza.  Sensors 
took several more steps down the staircase.
	"The respiratory biology of species #6766 has the inherent ability to produce eight 
differing tones at once through a range of six octaves.  Reverberations and tracheal 
modulations further refine this ability such that even untrained individuals may mimic 
most vocal and instrumental performances.  This sub-collective has a species #6766 
individual; and we calculated that her inclusion for this pivotal performance in the Silly 
Song Revue would provide best effect."
	Cap'n Bennie watched the action for several heartbeats, then looked at Captain.  
"Your attention, Captain Borg.  Are you happy?"
	Captain's attention did not actually shift, but he knew most individuals, especially 
those who held governmental power, tended to react best if the outward appearance of 
interest was maintained.  Head pivoted sharply and he regarded Cap'n Bennie squarely 
with both organic eye and ocular implant.  "This unit is happy that his sub-collective is 
making you happy."

	(In the aural background, Sensors was singing again:
	"For life shall abuse you
	And Death will amuse you,
	'Cause He's the man behind the final curtain of Fun.
	So what, you are in lock-up now?
	Don't be a silly cow!
	Just suck in a breath and sing at the top of your lungs!

	And...always look to the happier side of death...
	Always look on the peppier side of death....")

	Cap'n Bennie matched Captain's stare through the latest Death Song stanza, 
finally forced to turn due to need to blink eyes, not admittance of any lesser dominance.  
In the shadows of shadows on the balcony, a Changeling bodyguard shifted position.  
"How goes the task I asked of you earlier, Captain Borg?"
	Captain brought to the forefront a minor engineering datastream for examination.  
"We are happy to report that seven of our ten auxiliary cores are now wired to fatally 
overload should a remote subspace transmission on narrow band frequency 76472.34.1 
be intercepted by in-situ receivers.  The final three cores will be processed within 1.25 
hours."
	Cap'n Bennie clapped his hands together.  "Excellent!"

	("Okay, you are sentenced to death
	And about to draw your last breath,
	But you are on tri-V and the show must go on.
	Forget about your pain - wave to tri-V land!
	Have fun - your death won't take too long!

	So always look to the happier side of death,
	Just before the electrodes contact your chest.")

	"Next, Captain Borg," continued Cap'n Bennie, "you are prepared to enter the 
wormhole and pacify everything on the other side for us?"
	"We are."  Captain pushed away the 'Captain Borg' irritation once more.  More 
important was the Silly Song Revue, as well as status reports from weapons, engineering, 
and drone maintenance hierarchies.  "We have several minor maintenance and crew 
issues, but nothing which will degrade our performance to unhappy levels.  Additional 
munitions are being constructed at this time and a projected load of 115% normal 
capacity will be available within a Federation day-cycle."
	"Repeat the instructions I gave you, Mr. Captain."

	("Life's a worthless bitch
	When you look at it
	If you cannot be Happy and jump and play.
	So the best you can do
	Is let your execution be the glue
	To amuse the Happy multitudes so they can shout Hurray!")

	"This sub-collective shall enter the wormhole and engage all unHappy navy fleets 
and space assets we scan on the other side.  No assimilations.  We shall continue this 
action until such time yourself or a representative of you provides us other instructions."  
The instructions had made for a /very/ happy Weapons and weapons hierarchy, as 
mayhem was not something they were allowed often; and the lack of technologies able to 
withstand a 30th century Borg Exploratory-class cube only made it better.
	"Does the prospect of dying, Captain Borg, bother you?  Personally?"
	It was a question only a small, individual being would make.  Captain kept the 
sneer from his face as unBorg.  "This unit, this 'I,' is only one of many, and my loss, 
while it may lower sub-collective efficiency a small degree, is ultimately unimportant.  I 
am happy to be of my sub-collective; and the sub-collective is happy to serve you in all 
ways you deem fit."
	Cap'n Bennie grinned, showing his teeth.  "Just what I love to hear.  I wish all 
people of the Federation of Fun had your gung-ho, happy attitude."
	On the stage, the current Silly Song was winding down as the chorus took 
command.

	"And always look to the happier side of death...
	Always look on the lighter side of death...
	(Don't worry!  Be Happy!)
	Always look to the happier side of death...
	Always look to the happier side of death...
	(There are cures for warts, you know.)
	Always look to the happier side of death...
	(What's the worse that could happen?)
	(Besides death and excruciating pain, that is?  And that's only for the terminally 
	unHappy.)
	Always look to the happier side of death...."

	Captain returned to panning the stage, searching for critical flaws.  The Silly Song 
Revue continued for another thirty minutes; and an encore performance was scheduled in 
three hours.  {67 of 230:  you will report to drone maintenance to fix that stutter before 
the encore.  396 of 510:  your headdress is falling off.  Reaffix it as soon as possible, only 
use more super-glue this time.}
	The show must go on, even if the voice whispering wrongness had become, 
perhaps, a bit louder.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Rebecca Singer, rebel leader (the "Lady" Beck did not count, except in the minds 
of a certain fanatical element largely confined to Enterprise), held conference with the 
Borgy via viewscreen from the Explorer.  With her was Lazlo.  No others were present in 
the conference room, which suited Rebecca just fine.  It also suited that the discussion 
was remote, for while she was willing to count the Borgy as allies, she did not necessarily 
trust them.  Rebecca felt a lot more secure on her, or any other, rebel vessel than aboard a 
Borgy contrivance.
	"What is the latest update, MC?" asked Rebecca of the Borgy on the screen.  As 
always, he was wearing the latest in a long series of hats, a therapy he claimed was set 
forth by the Collective to put him in a more party frame of mind.  This particular hat was 
blue and green jester motley, complete with bells.
	MC implored, "This is totally inefficient.  If you would only let us..."
	"You know my opinion of Borgy technology in my head, MC.  There's enough 
around our ships as it is to prevent the Fuzzylands from frying our electronics."  Rebecca 
was brusque.  In the chair next to her, Lazlo fidgeted.  "Update?"
	MC cocked his head slightly, bells lightly chiming.  His single blue eye stared at 
Rebecca.  "Specifics have been transmitted to your computer.  In a pecan nutshell, it 
looks like party crashers are to be a'coming.  Bummer.  Comedy-class Cube #123 reports 
that most of the war-games Funfleet is just beyond the Fuzzylands boundary.  There's an 
increasing Borgy flavor to their shields, and they are playing with harmonics.  We 
estimate less than a day until they determine correct modifications to allow Fuzzyland 
access.  Very, very big bummer."
	"So?  The Fuzzylands are still a big space.  It could be months, even years, before 
they find the Partymatrix.  And if they split into small groups, even your cubes could take 
'em out."  Rebecca waved one hand in emphasis.
	MC lowered his gaze and looked distinctly embarrassed.  "Well, there may be a 
wee problem with that line of thought."
	Lazlo stopped fidgeting.  "A problem?  How 'wee' is it?"
	"You know those nifty Federation ships and crews we picked up?"  Rebecca 
nodded.  She had assumed that the people were already indoctrinated into the party-hardy 
world of Borgy; and the vessels were scheduled to be released to the rebels in a couple of 
hours.  "We are pretty sure the Federationers were able to track them here.  As soon as 
we realized there was a rogue transmission, steps were taken, but there you go.  What can 
I say?"
	Rebecca winced.  "So, the Federation of Fun knows where we are.  How?"
	MC raised his eye once more.  "My party quotient will so need an overhaul when 
this is done.  The entire /Collective/ will need intense party therapy."  A sigh.  "Except 
for a few individuals with early generation happifiers who had already broken Happy 
conditioning, we have not had a chance to examine anyone with a happifier.  The Borgy-
derived implant has become more...pervasive than previously."
	The computer chirped.  "Borgy intrusion detected."
	"Hey!" exclaimed Rebecca.  "How many times have I told you to stay out of our 
computers?"
	"So very, very sorry, but I really need to show you pictures.  Verbal is inefficient.  
Are you sure I can't interest you in a trip to the Party?  Okay, okay, you don't have to 
demonstrate your grasp of rude gestures.  That is, like, so unParty.  We promise to leave 
the computer once we are done."
	Rebecca just glared at the Borgy consensus monitor.  The viewscreen split, MC's 
image shifting right with a simplified brain diagram on the left.
	"The happifier is, essentially, a stripped down hardware neural transceiver.  It has 
connections which interface with pain and pleasure centers."  The appropriate parts of the 
schematic flashed, and MC's voice slipped to a mechanical monotone mode of lecture.  
"It should be relatively easy to remove, except that the version in these Funfleeter's heads 
is quite extensive."  The simplified diagram was substituted for one which looked like an 
octopus squatting in the middle of a stylized brain.  "This is a much more Borgy 
configuration, with input/output pervading all major senses, as well as other regions.  
And there is indication that it is growing."
	"Whoa, whoa!  Backup," interrupted Rebecca before MC could continue.  "A 
neural transceiver?  Like the things in your heads that keep you all one Collective?  I 
thought they didn't work if you were beyond a certain range; and what does this have to 
do with the happifier anyway?"
	"The original happifier was a simple conditioner system.  Someone or something - 
probably a computer - is at the far end of the neural link, maintaining a watch on 
hormonal or synaptic levels.  A condition which says 'unhappy' - a simplistic example - 
results in a zap to the pain center.  A happy thought is rewarded.  Eventually the brain 
teaches itself never to contemplate unhappy thoughts, even if the happy beam wears off.  
Classic Pavlov conditioning.
	"As far as distance, you are correct:  a fractal subspace booster is necessary.  This 
piece of hardware is normally part of a vinculum.  In this case, every ship we captured 
has a booster installed on it as part of the computer core.  It is crude, but effective.  
Drones have been removing the boosters and other unnecessary equipment, which is the 
reason for the delay in providing you rebels with the vessels."
	A picture of the booster was displayed.  It was a bowl liberally covered in 
aluminum foil and balanced on a tripod.  Beneath the bowl's nadir was a black box; and 
thick cables were strung from booster to the walls of the computer core in which it was 
installed.  MC, Rebecca, and Lazlo were unaware of its resemblance to a mail-order 
scheme promoting the ability to call long-distance free, although the Borg of Cube #347 
would have recognized it.  However, the Cube #347 sub-collective was not present.
	MC continued, animation returning to his voice.  "The implications are...not 
partysome.  Even worse, blood samples from the Funfleeters show metabolic indicators 
consistent with cells capable of producing nanoprobes.  No nanites are in circulation now, 
but the intricate nature of the happifier confirms the presence of nanomachines at some 
point.  We are pretty darn-tootin' sure that the infection is confined to a limited number of 
gastrointestinal cells, but, frankly, we as Borgy are just not all that good at the sciencey 
stuff.  Investigations continue.  We've already learned that normal assimilation does not 
work, so we are experimenting one Funfleeter at a time."
	Warning bells were going off in Rebecca's head, a full red alert nightmare.  "You 
are saying that every f***ing person in the Federation of Fun is /assimilated/?"
	MC shook his head.  The left side of the screen was now showing promotional 
video of Borgies having fun and partying.  "It is both more and less complicated.  There 
is potential, but it is very limited.  The nanoprobe type in question is usually associated 
with construction, not assimilation.  When it is not needed, the cells which produce it can 
be...shut down.  Very difficult to convey the technology.  Are you sure you don't want to 
try on a neural transceiver yourself?  No?  Okay.  What is important is that the computer 
monitoring the Funfleeters was able to determine Partymatrix coordinates before we 
realized the problem and took counter-measures.  Most of the Funfleeters remain 
unassimilated, but they are shielded and the boosters now removed."
	Rebecca closed her eyes and shuddered.  She did not really want to hear any more 
about the fate of the Funfleeters.  "Okay.  We'll come back to the happifier snafu later.  
Summary is that a Federation of Fun fleet is nearly ready to come barreling in on us.  
What are our options?"
	"We should have sufficient resources, Borgy and rebel, to repel them.  That is not 
the main problem.  The Unhappyverse Borg sub-collective was happy beamed.  Talk 
about a major bummer and a half.  It is still at Neat Place Nine and calculations suggest 
that it will /not/ take part in this attack.  Unfortunately, when additional Funfleet 
resources are dispatched, who knows?  We don't.  Our best chance is to de-happify the 
Unhappyverse cube and convince the sub-collective to lay the smack down on our side 
before it does the same to us."
	"What if they have happifiers?" asked Rebecca.
	"The technologies will not mesh.  Do not pass Go, do not collect 200 credits.  The 
sub-collective is solely under happy beam control."
	"I suppose the Borgy have already devised upon a plan?"
	"Correction:  I and my sub-collective have devised a plan.  This cube will 
translate you to the Borg cube's location.  At this time, the Explorer has the most 
powerful rebel deflector dish array, and thus the most powerful de-happification ray.  
There is insufficient time to break out the wrenches and modify my cube's assets to the 
proper protocol.  Once the Borg cube is de-happied, we will return to the Fuzzylands and 
proceed to rain on the Funfleet's parade."
	Rebecca pursed her lips.  "And how much say do I have in this 'plan'?"
	The viewscreen returned to normal display.  "Borgy intrusion gone," announced 
the computer, followed by "Tractor beam lock."  The Explorer shuddered; and Lazlo 
hastily rose from his chair to rush to the bridge to answer the frantic call for assistance 
from crew.  Rebecca remained in her conference room chair.
	"None," said MC pleasantly.  "Any instructions you may have for the rest of the 
rebel fleet in these trying times, I'll be happy to relay.  Hang on:  we go to crash the party 
crashers!"  The Borgy transmission terminated.
	Rebecca leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes for a long moment, sucked in a 
big breath, then pulled herself to her feet.  First, calm her crew.  Second, replicate a new 
stress ball to replace the remains of the old one.  Third, deal with the repercussions.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The prison was festive, but not very happy, in Captain Bobby-sox's estimation.  
Except for the separate bathroom facilities (male, female, Bolian), life had been reduced 
to a big box decorated in trendy purple and gold.  A sleep corner held bunk beds; and 
there was an entertainment area stocked with comfy chairs, ice-breaker games, and a 
wide selection of movies.  The replicators produced a large number of foods, although 
they tended to be of finger-food cuisine.  A faux wood dance floor encompassed at least a 
quarter of the area, complete with  disco ball levitating approximately five meters 
overhead and special effects controlled by an adjacent menu-driven console.
	Bobby-sox did not understand why he and his crew, not to mention the other 
Funfleeters present, were not Borgy yet.  Every once in a while smiling drones in party 
hats would transport in to remove another individual, but thus far the HappyDays crew 
was largely intact.  Worst of all, the /worrying/ worried him, for since he had woken in 
this room, his happifier seemed to have taken a vacation:  his depressed mood remained 
uncorrected.
	Completing an aimless circuit of the room, Bobby-sox hugged himself as he 
trekked back to the quietly conversing knot which was his crew.  He quickly found his 
bridge personnel and other command staff.  "And updates?  New ideas to escape?"
	Ensign Sara-wara, always stiffly precise from too many Happy sessions, had 
become even more formal since incarceration in the prison.  She also seemed a bit grayer 
than normal and had lost her appetite, but such was true for everyone.  The lighting was 
probably to blame and one could not subsist on party nibbles forever.  "I and others have 
closely examined the music selection the Borgy allow us.  Not only is nonCounselor 
approved material present, but there is /country-western/."  Gasps of horror followed 
Sara-wara's announcement.
	Bobby-sox's eyes opened wide.  "You are kidding!  How horrible!  I'll have to 
check it out."  Pause, then a quick rush of words, "Just to see how yucky such music is, of 
course."  Even without the warning buzz of his happifier, Bobby-sox still felt a residual 
need to keep the situation upbeat.  "So...new escape ideas?"
	"Well," began Commander Loxy.  She was interrupted by the hum and green 
sparkles of a transporter beam.  A pair of Borgy drones appeared to either side of the 
commander, took her arms, mumbled an apology, then vanished again, taking the Vulcan 
with them.
	"Um," said Bobby-sox, "anyone else, then?"

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 drifted just outside the trigger point which would activate the 
wormhole.  Barges were arrayed in a ring fifteen kilometers in diameter, a constellation 
waiting to automatically happy beam any ship which exited the wormhole.  A small 
Alpha Quadrant greeting ship had swiftly scuttled away at the cube's approach and was 
now hiding behind one of the barges.  Directly ahead, a large, colorful banner read 
"Thank you for visiting the Federation of Fun!  Have a Happy Day!"
	Captain stood in his nodal intersection, contemplating the forward view of banner 
and wormhole.  The surrounding bulkheads were partially carpeted in cute shag of 
brilliant gold and antique green.  He had wanted to do the floor, but experimentation had 
shown drone feet and carpet did not mix well.  Unfortunately, his redecoration project 
was now put on hold until unHappy Gamma Quadrant fleets were turned into little tiny, 
wee bitsy pieces.
	{Are we ready?} queried Captain to the sub-collective's hierarchy heads.
Weapons, eager to begin wanton destruction, was the first to reply, {Yes!  Yes!  
Yes!  Affirmative!}  A secondary window began to scroll a visual representative of 
munitions inventory while a datastream provided a more detailed counterpoint.
	Status of engines, superstructure, and other matters of an engineering concern 
jointed the tactical feed.  {This hierarchy is ready to happily fix broken systems,} 
enthused Delta, {especially those sustained in senseless battle.}
	{Assimilation hierarchy ready to not assimilate anyone!} brightly asserted 
Assimilation.
	Captain vaguely felt that Assimilation's tone was not right, that once upon a time 
it had been wont to drag down the sub-collective instead of buoy it up to greater 
efficiency.  He dismissed the contemplation, erased it.
	{Ready to put bandages on boo-boos,} noted Doctor for drone maintenance 
hierarchy.
	Sensors was last to respond.  {Sensors' hierarchy is [stripy].  Sensors also sees 
incoming transwarp signature.}
	Captain tapped the indicated processed grid data, threading it through his 
holographic display algorithms.  The visual was substituted for a broad tactical schematic 
centered on Cube #347.  The wormhole was an odd pulsation of color which made sense 
only to Sensors; and the highlighted wake was reduced to an arrow.  The arrow abruptly 
transformed to a purple dot as the wake's owner exited transwarp to normal space.
	Despite Sensors' protests concerning an unhappy itch, Captain ignored the hail 
from the Borgy cube.  Explorer, when it sped from the side of the cube, was deemed 
irrelevant as well.  Both vessels were incapable of halting Cube #347's happy expedition 
to send greetings to the Gamma Quadrant from the Federation of Fun.
	Captain engaged impulse engines, edging Cube #347 forward.  The wormhole 
triggered, unfolding like a vast cosmic flower.  Colors of purple and green scintillated 
over swirls of red and yellow.  Gravimetric potentialities shifted, realigned, stabilized.  A 
faint fanfare was briefly heard over the ever-present subliminal whooshing static of the 
universe's 12-billion year old microwave birth wail.  The gateway was open.
	Cube #347 entered the wormhole...
	...and was unceremoniously spat out the other side.  Except for a pair of 
automated probes radiating Federation signatures, nothing was present to demark the 
terminus.  Captain pulsed engines slightly, gliding the cube away from the wormhole.  
Behind, the phenomenon blossomed again, Explorer emerging from the whirlpool of 
energies.
	Irrelevant.
	Captain tasked Sensors to begin ultra long-range scans for signs of unHappy 
civilizations.  The limited starcharts of the Gamma Quadrant provided to the sub-
collective from Cap'n Bennie were activated.
	Explorer cautiously crept nearer.
	{Weapons,} said Captain as sensors noted an increase in power directed to the 
Galaxy-class's deflector dish, {terminate the annoyance.  Its presence will decrease our 
efficiency to do the things that Cap'n Bennie has asked us to do.  We don't want to make 
Cap'n Bennie sad.}
	{Yes!} exclaimed Weapons as he tasked the appropriate hierarchy partitions to 
ready a quantum torpedo spread.
	Explorer fired its deflector before Cube #347 could engage.
	Captain blinked as he felt his jubilant(!) mood abscond, replaced by emotional 
neutrality (except, of course, for the ever-present depression radiating from 
Assimilation).  The unity of the sub-collective dissolved, reflected by the dispersion of 
the holographic windows in Captain's nodal intersection.  The sensor grid ceased all but 
basic scanning protocols.
	{Firing,} noted Weapons, who had not been overly affected by the de-
happification, at least not where the opportunity for explosions was concerned.
	Captain grasped the shattered datastreams, focusing on Weapons' target even as it 
was identified as the Explorer.  Command and control began to lock down weapons, but 
for the torpedoes in the launchers on face #3, it was too late.  On the positive side, the 
torpedoes were of the fire-and-forget variety, dumb and without guidance beyond straight 
line trajectories.  As the torpedoes fired, Captain cued the cube to yaw ten degrees.  It 
was not much, but it was sufficient to cause the torpedoes to miss Explorer by fifty 
meters.
	An incessant hail pinged off Cube #347's sensor grid.  Captain replied, shifting 
the return visual to a CatwalkCam as he registered the partially carpeting and thoroughly 
unBorg condition of his nodal intersection.
	"We are trying to help you here!  Why did you fire on us?" demanded Captain 
Singer from Explorer's bridge.  She seemed nonplused about her confrontation with a 
catwalks-to-infinity view.
	"We are experiencing technical difficulties.  Stand by."  Captain triggered the 
hold function, blinking as he registered the normal loop of 'mechanized ambience' had 
been replaced with light classical rock.  He abruptly stilled the audio feed, deciding 
collectively that silence was best.
	Second beamed into the nodal intersection, behind Captain.  "What the hell 
happened here?  I know what /happened/ to us, the memes are clear, but what happened?"  
Pause.  "This carpet is not you.  You are more of a wood panel type."
	Captain was too busy reorganizing command and control, and thence the rest of 
the sub-collective, to respond.  He could feel Second performing similar supporting 
duties, but as consensus monitor and facilitator, Captain was the primary nexus of the 
effort.  The transmission from Explorer showed an impatient Singer, but that was 
irrelevant for the nonce.
	"The happy beam - a Joerganization derivative - apparently affected us, made 
us...happy, or at least amiable to the suggestions of Cap'n Bennie," Captain finally replied 
as sub-collective synthesis of the past four days slowly consolidated.  Several of the 
suggestions, such as the Silly Song Revue, warranted immediate erasure from memory 
files before the incident was accidentally leaked to the nonBorg community.  A public 
relations disaster, not to mention drones did not have appropriate figures to pull off 
fashions that included tutu and headdress.
	{There are explosives wired into the auxiliary cores!} squawked Delta.
	{Can you remove them?} asked Captain, remembering that particular 'suggestion' 
and how insistent Cap'n Bennie had been.  {Or at least disable the receiver?}
	Delta radiated scorn.  {Of course the explosives can be removed.  We will start 
now.  The receiver will be disabled first, but until all explosives are removed, we will 
remain vulnerable to a tightbeam transmission at the appropriate frequency if delivered 
from the hull.}  Pause.  {Engineering hierarchy did a very good job at rigging the vessel 
to explode, if I do say so myself.  Very efficient.}
	{Enough,} said Captain.  {Just defuse us so we are not likely to blow up in the 
near future.  No more likely than normal, anyway.}
	A hint of caterpillar and scent of cigar impinged upon Captain's virtual awareness.  
::Um, I've a confession to bespeak upon thou,:: whispered DEVIL.
	{Go away, program,} pressured Captain.  {We have no time for you.}
	::But...::
	{No time.  Go away.}  DEVIL's presence retreated.  {So, now what?}
	Second answered Captain's rhetorical self-question, "It looks like Explorer really 
wants to talk to us."  He drew attention to the transmission, where Singer was 
exaggeratedly waving with both hands, as if attempting semaphore sans flags to someone 
on a far ridgeline.
	Captain shifted the return to his nodal intersection after pivoting to find a location 
which did not show (much) bulkhead carpet.  "We are busy.  State your needs."
	"Damn.  Except for some armor differences and lack of a hat, you look exactly 
like MC.  You don't talk like him, though.  Well, Mr. Borg, you've obviously been de-
happied.  Now, if you'll return the favor, the rebels and Borgies need your help at the 
Fuzzylands:  we are about to be invaded by the Funfleet."
	"Favors are irrelevant," retorted Captain.  Only a small slice of his awareness was 
on the transmission, most of himself focused on a blocking a renewed effort by Weapons 
to recommandeer torpedo launchers; and then there was Assimilation, who was dragging 
his hierarchy towards suicidal depression even more than usual due to post-de-
happification effects.
	Singer snorted.  "Whatever.  I do know that you need that Unhappyverse drive to 
get back to your reality, and it has been established that the best place to find it is on 
Secondprize II.  However, Secondprize II is part of the Funfleet which is set to attack the 
Partymatrix.  MC tells me that even given the deficiencies of the Borgies, they will 
destroy that portion of the Funfleet should it attack.  That means Secondprize II, and your 
ticket to the Unhappyverse, goes boom."
	Captain's eye narrowed as a larger part of his awareness was dedicated to the 
transmission.  The sub-collective digested implications.  Behind, Second nonchalantly 
sidled into camera view.
	"So, do you maybe want to go back to the Alpha Quadrant and lend us rebels a 
hand?  Hmmm?" prodded Singer.
	"We will assist," answered Captain as consensus abruptly came to a conclusion.  
Captain unidled impulse in preparation to traverse the wormhole.
	Singer's eyes widened as one of her bridge crew shouted of the spike in power to 
the cube's engines.  "Wait!" she shouted desperately.  "There's one more..."
	Captain cut the transmission and sent the cube towards the wormhole.  The 
wormhole unfolded...
	...and Cube #347 emerged back in the Alpha Quadrant.  Sensors immediately 
picked up the signature of the Borgy Cube #347, as well as a banner which read 
"Welcome to the Alpha Quadrant.  Please hold still while we Happy you.  Have a Happy 
Day!"
	And following a bright light which momentarily overloaded exterior visual pick-
ups, a feeling of happiness and good-will washed over the sub-collective.
	Wait a minute...Alpha Quadrant?  Cap'n Bennie told 'em to go to the Gamma 
Quadrant and make new friends!  Cube #347 reversed direction.

	"The things I put myself and this ship through for the Borgies," Rebecca muttered 
to herself as she watched the Unhappyverse cube pass through the wormhole.  Beside her, 
she heard Lazlo grunt a quiet agreement.  She raised her voice, "Okay, everyone, 
assuming MC and his mob did what they were supposed to do, we'll be leaving here very 
shortly."
	"Captain," said Lieutenant Nelly-neato at tactical, "there's a disturbance in the 
wormhole."
	Rebecca stared at the viewscreen, upon which the wormhole was in the process of 
disgorging a traveler.  "I can see that, Miss Nelly-neato.  Is it a probe, or a..."
	"A cube, ma'am.  Not Borgy."
	"Well, fire the de-happifier beam at it before it tries to kill us again.  I have the 
feeling that our being missed last time was a fluke."
	Lieutenant Nelly-neato input instructions into her console.  On the screen, the 
volume of space before Explorer ionized bright white with crimson subtones.  When the 
screen cleared, the Borg cube was centered, subliminally glowing with a pink aura.
	"Open a channel," ordered Rebecca calmly.  In her right hand, an inconspicuous 
stress ball was no longer spherical.
	At Ops, Lieutenant Commander X'tran clicked, "Not listening, they are."
	Rebecca glanced at the bipedal pseudo-insectoid, rewarded with the sight of two 
of its stalked eyes looking at her.  "X'tran.  Please, you have perfectly good grasp of 
sentence structure.  Stay away from the classic Star Wars vids."  She paused as the 
eyestalks drooped slightly.  "Okay, I want a transmission, as powerful as possible..."
	"Captain Singer," interrupted Nelly-neato, "the cube is going back through the 
wormhole."
	Rebecca sighed, then sat down on her command chair.  "Great.  Wonderful.  Ten.  
Nine.  Eight.  Seven.  Six.  Five.  Four.  Three.  Two.  One."  She very slowly counted 
backwards, pausing after each number.  Silence on the bridge.  As she said "Zero," the 
wormhole blossomed once again.  "I see it," she murmured before Nelly-neato could 
report the obvious fact.
	"Should I?" asked the rebel tactical officer.
	"Yes," answered Rebecca.
	The cube was de-happified.  Back into the wormhole it went, ignoring hail 
attempts.
	And a third time.  Fourth.  Fifth.
	"That can't be good for them," muttered Lazlo in sotto voice as the cube charged 
into the phenomenon for the sixth time.
	Rebecca harrumphed.  "How hard can it be to disrupt the happifier constellation 
on the other side?  I think the Borgies could have done /that/ by now.  Directors know, 
there's probably been a break for some water pistol shoot-out, confidence building 
activity."
	The wait for the Borg vessel to return stretched.  Nothing.  Finally, the wormhole 
activated, the beautiful show grown boring to those who had thus witnessed it too many 
times in too short a period.
"Probe coming through," noted Nelly-neato.  "Borgy signature.  It is broadcasting 
a message."
	"About time.  Put it on audio," ordered Rebecca.  On the viewscreen, the 
magnified view of the probe showed what superficially resembled a torpedo shortened by 
a third.
	The speakers crackled, then boomed with the Collective multivoice, "The 
Unhappyverse drones are secure.  We are discussing interesting plans.  We strongly 
suggest you return now."
	Rebecca wrinkled her nose.  "You heard 'em.  Let's get back before their schemes 
include something really stupid, like attacking Neat Place Nine."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Woofie always felt most secure on his ship Defiant Defiant.  Not only was the 
crew well trained and the decoration heavily tilted to cute blood red highlights, but Cap'n 
Bennie wasn't immediately present.  Woofie loved Cap'n Bennie, of course, and was 
happy to perform anything requested by him, but sometimes a warrior just needed a little 
bit of space from those in charge.  The imported Klingon chef who could do wonderful 
things with a prune was a bonus.
	At this moment, Defiant Defiant was performing its normal Funfleet liaison duty, 
acting as a discrete observer for Neat Place Nine.  All pretense of war-games had been 
dropped and the Funfleet was gathered just beyond the Fuzzylands boundary.  Via the 
Controller, Cap'n Bennie had been able to discern the coordinates of the Borgy/rebel 
headquarters.  The poor crew of the three captured ships were likely all Borgy now - 
Woofie had not been told otherwise - but their sacrifice had led to the happy occurrence 
of knowing where the biggest black hole of gloom and unhappiness resided.  For the last 
two days the Funfleet had been experimenting with previously captured Borgy 
technology, trying to match shield harmonics to those frequencies scanned on the rebel 
vessels.  Progress had been steady, if slow.  Soon, however, the power-draining 
properties of the Fuzzylands would be neutralized.
On the other hand, Woofie was finding the continued insolence from 
Happymaster Dillon to be increasingly tiresome.
	"Everything is ready to proceed," insisted Dillon.  He stood on the expansive 
bridge of Secondprize II, in front of the chair where the vessel's nominal captain sat.  
Today the Happymaster was dressed in something vaguely militaristic, if one's taste ran 
to sashes, brass buttons, and overly shiny shoes.  A line of medals, all self-bestowed, 
winked brightly on his chest.  No hat was in evidence, but the lack only served to 
emphasize the facial scars and visible Borgy technology which were visual reminders of 
his near-death experience.
	Countered Woofie, "Our scouts can barely go a light year into the Fuzzylands 
before experiencing unacceptable power drain.  No gold star for that!  Each foray lets the 
engineers work extra sparkly miracles tuning the shields.  Another half day at most."
	Dillon's face was slowly reddening.  "Piffle!  Wiffle-piffle!  We can adjust on the 
fly!  A few whips...that'll make the engineers work faster!"
	Secondprize's captain winced.  Woofie did not envy the man, having to deal with 
the Happymaster on a daily basis when he was in residence on the Federation flagship.  
"Don't forget the Borgy cubes that are watching us," reminded Woofie.
	"The Borgy are no match for the Funfleet and me!  I AM THE 
HAPPYMASTER!" screamed Dillon.  "My Happy powers are supreme!  Prepare for 
entry into the Fuzzylands to smite the rebels!"
	"Cap'n Bennie may not approve," carefully said Woofie.  The silence on the 
Defiant Defiant bridge was palatable.
	"A mere captain of a backwater station question the Happymaster and Supreme 
Commander of the Federation of Fun?  Piffle and bah!  It is time for the rebels to learn of 
the power of the Federation and, especially, me!  Captain Sulli-wooli, contact the rest of 
the fleet and prepare to...to...to...."  Dillon's shout trailed off as the blood drained from his 
face, leaving him ghostly pale.
	Woofie smiled.  The Happymaster had finally gone beyond the bounds allowed 
by his happifier.  He had been skirting it for weeks, and especially since the Neat Place 
Nine war session when he had been told to shut up.  Sometimes the Happymaster forgot 
who was really in charge of the Federation of Fun, and it was the job of the special 
happifier to remind him.
	"Popcorn!" Woofie ordered.  "Extra butter and garlic sprinkles!  And bring 
enough for Mr. Fluffy as well!"  Woofie sat down in his command chair, arranging his 
targ on the adjacent pedestal so the stuffed animal had the best view of the upcoming 
show.
On the Secondprize II bridge, Dillon struck a pose which cried out for a white 
suit, as opposed to his current military-esque drapings.  One hand was raised high, index 
finger pointing to the ceiling; and the other hand hovered around groin level, fingers 
aimed at the deck.  Synthetic music heavy on the electronic flute rose in volume, 
origination a pair of ultra-thin speakers which had flipped out from Dillon's neck.  As the 
beat was established, the Happymaster's pelvis began to rock.  The music crescendoed 
and...
	"Do the Hustle!" screamed from the speakers.
	And Dillon Hustled.  One and two and three and four, five and six and seven and 
eight.  The Happymaster shuffled a solo to the most famous of Saturday Night Fever 
scenes, unable to control his own body except for a high-pitched whine.  Every time the 
special happifier triggered, a new humiliation awaited.  Previously, Woofie had been 
privileged to see a Mr. Roboto rendition and a mime-suffocating-in-a-glass-box.
	Captain Sulli-wooli stood from his command chair and edged around the gyrating 
Happymaster.  "I am so so so sorry.  I though Engineering had found the baddy-waddy 
electrical fault after the last episode.  The Borgy technology in the Happymaster seems to 
be a wee tricksy at times."  The apology and evident embarrassment revealed that the 
Secondprize captain, like the majority of the Funfleet, did not know the true Federation 
leadership.
	Woofie theatrically sighed.  "Not a problem, Captain Sulli-wooli.  Once the fit 
passes, I suggest the poor Happymaster be taken to his quarters for a nap.  I'm sure he'll 
feel /much/ happier afterwards."  And much more likely to stick to Cap'n Bennie's plan, 
added Woofie to himself.  "Until then, it would probably be best if we continued our 
testing so that all is spanking perfect for the assault."
	Captain Sulli-wooli nodded his head in agreement.  He had just opened his mouth 
to add something else when alarms denoting emergency incoming communications 
buzzed unhappily loud on both Secondprize and Defiant Defiant bridges.
	"Most benevolent sir," said Hamilton-tang at communications, "there may be a 
tiny problem at Neat Place Nine:  it is under attack!"

			*	*	*	*	*

	"I lost my dog; and I lost my spouse;
	And now the bank has taken my last credit.
	What is a poor ol' boy to do?
	Ooooh, what is a poor ol' boy to do?"

	Bobby-sox listened to the song, eyes closed, as it picked its way through 
depressing themes unchanged for centuries.  The other two captains were gone, as well as 
all the second officers, leaving no one with any authority to object to Bobby-sox's 
musical selection of country-western.  The current song ended with the singer's suicide, 
then switched to a sad instrumental.  Bobby-sox opened his eyes.
	He was not happy.  How he wanted to be happy again.
	"Sir?" tentatively voiced Ensign Sara-wara.  "Sir?  Some people are requesting 
more upbeat tunes."
	Sitting in the overstuffed chair he had dragged to the environmental/music 
console, Bobby-sox angled his head to examine Sara-wara.  She, like the anxious crowd 
behind her, like Bobby-sox himself, had become overly pale the last couple hours.  "You 
want to be happy?"  It was less question and more statement.
	"Yes, sir," answered Sara-wara, her stilted pronunciation of words more 
exaggerated than usual.
	"And you think music will make us happy?"
	"Well...something other than country-western might help."
	Bobby-sox surged to his feet, no longer comfy in the poofy chair.  "Well, I can 
tell you that music isn't everything.  There are other ways to be happy which don't 
involve music.  We must be happy."  Bobby-sox was increasingly sure of his conviction, 
in much the same way a drug addict experiencing withdrawal justifies the actions which 
will lead to his next fix.  "We /must/ be happy at all cost!"
	Most of the remaining crew of the Federation ships were gravitating to Bobby-
sox's oration, except for a small crowd intent upon a Chutes-and-Ladders championship.  
Hope, desperation, hunger shined in their faces, especially the lattermost.
	Bobby-sox nodded.  It was time to take control of the situation, time to be 
captainish, time to gain the happiness they deserved.  It had been an hour since the Borgy 
had last stolen someone, and they might return at any moment.  The first thing that had to 
be done was to secure the room against Borgy transporter beams.  Only then could a 
serious mission to rejoin the Federation begin.  At all cost.
	Individuals began to move purposefully on tasks before Bobby-sox could open his 
mouth to give orders.  No matter.  Everyone had the same goal in mind, so it was 
inevitable certain people would already know what had to be done.  For everyone else, 
Bobby-sox began to shout orders of chores to accomplish.
	Bobby-sox dismissed the star-shaped metal thing that erupted on his arm as 
unimportant in the larger quest for happiness.

			*	*	*	*	*

	An Exploratory-class cube is neither Battle-class nor Assimilation-class; and, as 
such, has a much smaller percentage (and absolute number) of the sub-collective 
compliment dedicated to a tactical specialty.  Therefore, while nearly four thousand 
drones were present on Cube #347, only 250 of Weapons' 600 hierarchy-mates were 
actually engaged on the physical assault of Neat Place Nine.  The remainder were either 
in reserve, minding cube weaponry in case of Funfleet arrival, injured, or in regeneration.  
An additional 150 drones were also on the station, but they performed support functions, 
most units having neither offensive weaponry nor armoring to withstand intensive 
firefights.
	Which was not to say four thousand bodies could not be pressed into service, 
regardless of unit suitability.  Such had been done in the past and would be done in the 
future.  However, the Funfleet was an estimated eight hours distant and the station 
forecast to be secured well before that using standard assault techniques.
	A model of Neat Place Nine rotated in Captain's nodal intersection, a mixture of 
colors and icons representing degree of resistance at various locales around the station.  
Currently he was zoomed in on segment 23, a section of Promenade in the outer ring.  
Borgy tactical squads were experiencing difficulty subduing the Changeling security 
force; and the only Borg units in the vicinity were a duo team of 
assimilation/engineering, the pair securing advance access to station computer network in 
the segment.  It was their visual feed Captain, the sub-collective, was relying upon.
	In a nearby window, MC was speaking, "Can you not send additional resources to 
segment 23?"
	149 of 203 peered around a phaser-scared pillar.  A causeway crossing the 
Promenade on the second level was lined with a mixture of Changeling and non-
Changeling security force, the former morphed into forms which sported multiple 
watching eyes (the better to see Borgy) and multiple manipulatory limbs (the better to 
hold multiple phaser rifles with which to terminate Borgy).  The ground floor had a 
hastily erected barrier consisting primarily of furniture and other items scavenged from 
an adjacent establishment called Quarky-poo's Bar.  More security was present behind the 
barrier.  Borgy tactical drones, those who were not prone, were crowded behind any 
cover they could find.
	A phaser blast from the causeway splashed over 149 of 203's personal shielding.  
She quickly drew back as diagnostics indicated a 15% decrease in stored energy reserves.  
Beside her, 272 of 310 refused to move, content both with his view towards already 
secured segment 22 and allowing pillar and more heavily armored 149 of 203 to act as 
shields.
	{There's more of 'em up there now,} commented 149 of 203 as she calmly 
outlined the silhouette of each individual from captured video, matching them against 
already identified resistance.
	Muttered 272 of 310, {I wanna go back to my alcove.}  His half-hearted request 
was summarily denied by command and control.
	Captain rotated the Neat Place Nine model slightly as compiled status reports 
threaded multiple datastreams through his consciousness.  He answered MC without 
bothering to turn his head the required ten degrees to face the camera pick-up, "Negative.  
Our resources are otherwise engaged and we see no reason to divert.  If your tactical 
drones would use weapons more effective than paintball rounds or silly string, you would 
quell resistance easier."  Captain now did swivel to look his twin in the eye.
	"We are retrofitting to disruptors as fast as we can," defensively retorted MC.  His 
current hat was a leather cap with attached dreadlock braids.  
	"Work faster," replied Captain as he returned eye and ocular implant to the 
holographic model.
	Muttered MC under his breath, "This is not a joyous party situation.  Tough 
crowd."  He pulled on a matted braid to re-adjust his hat.
	Captain shifted the model again, this time focusing on one of the spokes 
connecting the Promenade and docking ring with the station's hub command and control 
facilities.  Unfortunately, Happyverse Cardassians apparently strongly believed in shields 
with randomly rotating modulations; and those shields were broken into discrete, 
independently powered segments.  The Federation had seen no reason to change the 
arrangement despite the inherent power drain when the system was fully energized.  
Consequently, neither Cube #347 could beam into segments until each had been taken 
over and shields deactivated.  The battle to take Neat Place Nine was becoming a long 
slog.
	Weapons was at the forefront of the spoke assault.  The station defenders 
apparently desired termination over assimilation, or at least none had allowed themselves 
to be infected by nanites.  Happy beam and happifier effects were likely the root to the 
fanaticism.  No matter.  Cube #347 did not have the facilities nor the root level allowance 
for mass assimilations; and the native Borgy were oddly reluctant to press for 
assimilation, reasons unstated.
	{Summary status report,} queried Captain to Weapons.
	Weapons fired his chassis-mounted disrupter down range even as he berated 
drone maintenance to accelerate repairs on damaged units.  {33.2% of the outer ring 
controlled, including two docking pylons.  No naval resources of interest:  final station 
shuttle destroyed 10.5 minutes prior.  Certain units are acting wimpy about their role as 
phaser fodder, but all is on schedule.}
	Delta, monitoring the datastream, bristled, {Engineering units are not fodder.}
	Captain slammed down a block before the argument could begin.  {Enough.  Let's 
keep our display of efficiency, such as it is, persisting for once.  Weapons:  continue the 
assault, but desist from pushing engineering hierarch into direct fire.  Delta:  continue 
your hierarchy's assigned tasks.}  He acknowledged the compliances as the model 
pitched to the next location of concern.
	"Er, I may have a slight, wee tiny problem occurring," said MC.
	Captain did not bother to neutralized the expression of suffering disdain which 
crossed his features.  "What now?"
	"Not here," answered MC, "but at the Partymatrix.  The Federation crews we 
captured?  Well, upon introducing them to the Party, we came across a small bummer, or 
at least the Collective did.  We've been working around it, but the procedure has been 
way slow.  And now, well, the unassimilated remainder have gone all Borgy on us.  
Happy Borgy, not Party Borgy.  It is causing...difficulties at the Partymatrix."
	Captain turned to face MC.  "Rogue drones?  Space them, disrupt them, or 
otherwise destroy them if they are not salvageable.  It should not be /that/ hard."
	"The trouble has gone a tad bit beyond the original nuclei.  You see, there was a 
big party to relieve tension echoes generated by this battle, complete with mashed 
potatoes, and then..."
	Captain waved a hand in rare display of body language.  "Enough.  Neither I nor 
we understand your Borgy Collective, MC, but we obviously have to deal with it.  How 
does your problem affect us, this assault?"
	"Due to the seriousness of the situation, this sub-collective needs to withdraw and 
counsel the Greater Consciousness.  Totally unfun, but necessary."  MC sighed 
dejectedly.  "I don't expect this will take too long, but I will require all my sub-collective 
on my cube and in their alcoves."
	Mentally rolling his eyes, Captain recentered the station model and highlighted 
the fronts where the approximately 300 Borgy drone contribution were doing their 
ineffective best.  "How soon?" he asked.  The highlighted units abruptly disappeared; and 
the sensor grid reported multiple transporter signatures.
	"Now," replied MC.  "So sorry-Atari.  Gotta go!"  The transmission was switched 
to a test pattern of colored vertical lines.  The words "BBN - Bodacious Borgy Network:  
technical difficulties, don't delay your party because of us," slowly began to scroll across 
the visual.
	Near Quarky-poo's Bar, 149 of 203 and 272 of 310 both craned their necks to 
look around the pillar without exposing more body than necessary, the latter much more 
hesitant than the former.  Several Changeling security were already tentatively testing 
various appendages beyond the barrier.
	{A bit of backup would be good here about five seconds ago,} said 149 of 203.
	Captain groaned.  {Weapons, prepare...}
	{Already redeploying resources,} replied the head of the weapons hierarchy with 
ardent ferocity.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"So, what'a do ya think, pardner?" asked Lisa-love as she chewed on the tip of a 
piece of flavored plastic molded to look like a stem of hay.  At the position opposite of 
her in the too warm, fabric draped, coffee-scented room sat Cap'n Bennie.  He was 
smiling.  "We had some glorious times together, once, didn't we pardner?"
	"First of all, Lisa-love..."
	"'Lady.'  I prefer 'Lady' now."  She ignored the subtle shifting of posture by the 
two Changeling guards that flanked her.
	"Okay 'Lady.'  First of all, Lady, how do I know anything you are telling me is the 
truth?"
	Lisa-love smiled, then adjusted her skimpy red top to best accent certain features 
as she leaned forward.  "Look, pardner, these rebels are boring.  No ambition.  All they 
gosh-darned can think about is freein' the Federation from happy beam tyranny.  Nothin' 
in their brains beyond that.  Even worse, the Borgy are lost in a party daze.  The way I 
see it, pardner, is I help you get rid of yer little problem here, then disappear the 
Happymaster when he finally gets them there butt-cheeks of his back here.  He's not 
exactly the most stable of men, if you get my drift, to begin with, so I thinks not too 
many, other than Miss Brain-in-a-Box Webber are gonna protest.  I'll take the credit for 
the whole stopping the Borgy invasion thing and, with your backing, pardner, become the 
new Happymaster.  I'm sure something rewarding could be found for you as well."
	Cap'n Bennie leaned back in his chair.  "And if I wanted to be Happymaster, 
'pardner'?"
	Lisa-love barked a hee-haw laugh as she straightened, the action causing her 
Daisy Dukes to ride up a tad.  "Bennie-baby...I'm sorry, Bennie, but we used to write 
those long letters to each other, detailing our schemes and such.  You were always so 
provincial, content to happy beam Bajor every couple of months so that yer sector would 
be all peaceful and happy.  A good little Federation peon.  Have you really changed all 
that much?  I mean, Fun War IV practically happened on your pretty yellow-smiley head, 
pardner, but your didn't take advantage at all!"
	Cap'n Bennie's smile widened to include nearly his whole face, but not the eyes.  
"You have me there, Lady.  I guess I'm just not the ambitious type at heart, not like you.  
I just want everyone to live together nicely.  I think maybe we can work together, just 
like you want.  When you are Happymaster or whatever you desire, I'll be content to 
remain on my out-of-the-way station."
	"Yippee!" exclaimed Lisa-love around her synthetic hay.
	Nodding to the Changeling guards, Cap'n Bennie said, "Could you take Lady back 
to the airlock she was found at and let her go.  I'm sure she needs to get back to her ship."  
As the door closed behind the trio, Cap'n Bennie's smirk vanished.  To those that knew 
him, this was not a good thing.  "Odo-mojo?  Come out, please."
	Slipping from between curtains, Odo-mojo arrived.  "Yes?" he asked in his 
gravelly voice.
	"How the hell did that bitch get in the inner ring?"  The ugly words were 
delivered with perfect calm and all the aplomb of a polite conversation asking about the 
quality of a cup of tea.
	"I was talking to the Controller about that, sir," answered the Neat Place Nine's 
security chief.  "The Enterprise replica is a rebel ship, so it isn't too surprising that neither 
Borg, Borgy, nor Explorer fired on our 'Lady.'  There were transmissions between 
Explorer and Enterprise before the latter docked on the Borg-controlled pylon, so likely 
lies were exchanged concerning her business."
	Cap'n Bennie hummed.  "You really should do something about your voice, you 
know.  You always sound like you are on the edge of laryngitis."
	"Vocal cords of solids can be difficult, sir."
	"Interesting.  Do continue your tale."
	Odo-mojo concentrated, and for several words his voice was smother before it 
degenerated to its previous state.  "She apparently debarked from her ship via spacesuit 
and /walked/ the hull to the inner hub.  After that, she scrambled the forcefield at a 
maintenance hatch and let herself inside.  Her yodeling for attention is what alerted the 
guards to her presence.  She was then brought here after she freshened up."
	"Even more interesting:  she did not look like she was fit enough for such a trek, 
and I certainly saw enough of her.  No matter.  Odo-mojo, has that little breach in 
security been taken care of such that we don't get any unhappy cybernetic intruders?"
	"Of course."
	Cap'n Bennie rubbed his hands together.  "Then we might as well see if our insane 
Lady either blows up the Borg or blows up herself.  Either way, a nuisance will be 
removed from the universe, making it a happier place for those who remain.  How many 
hours until the Funfleet arrives?"
	"Five hours, sir, last I talked to Commander Woofie.  He apologizes for the delay, 
but the Happymaster was being obstinate."  Odo-mojo paused.  "We can't hold out for 
five hours, sir.  The Borg are much more effective than the Borgy, not to mention their 
advanced weaponry.  The Borgy seem to have withdrawn, but even without their help, 
the inner ring will be breached in two hours at most, and all the station under their control 
shortly thereafter."
	Cap'n Bennie pushed himself to his feet, then stretched.  "Then we'll just have to 
make sure that doesn't happen."  The smile was returned to Bennie's face.  "Odo-mojo, go 
put the extra-strong beans in the coffee grinder.  I'll be talking with the Controller.  I 
think it may be time to enact one of my contingency scenarios."
	"Yes, sir," said Odo-mojo as Bennie pushed his way through heavy curtains for 
the hidden space beyond.

			*	*	*	*	*

	A light touch.  Discrete fingers (and other appendages) brushed against 
neighboring flesh.  A message was being transferred Changeling to Changeling, rippling 
from Odo-mojo to the entire non-solid populace.  While a communicator may have been 
faster, it would not have conveyed the subtleties possible via the mediation of chemicals 
and electrical discharge evolved for the Great Link.  Most importantly, a communicator 
message could be intercepted; and while eavesdropping by the invading forces was 
unimportant, interception by /station/ personnel and civilians might cause undue panic.
	At least for the couple of minutes until a new level of Happiness was achieved.
	The Changelings were exempt, their loyalty bought by Cap'n Bennie years ago for 
coinage neither party was willing to divulge to outsiders.  However, their cooperation 
was not through happy beam nor happifier, neither of which affected their species.  At 
this point in time, the message from Cap'n Bennie via Odo-mojo was quite specific 
concerning the circumstances shortly to develop.
	Except for a few key personnel such as Neat Place Nine command staff, the 
approximate 2,500 solids on Neat Place Nine fell wholesale to the deck.  Limbs flailed, 
shaking with seizures.  Changelings calmly flowed into the holes made by fallen 
comrades to prevent a lapse in defenses which might make the Borg overly bold.  
Seizures halted; skins paled; implants erupted; certain conditions primed since happifier 
installation (only triggered "in the wild" if the host was blocked from receiving reset 
codes via a subspace booster) were cued for an accelerated pace.
	It was a very Happy process.
	Five minutes after the command had been given, 2,500 Happy Borgy struggled to 
their feet.  Joyous smiles and content expressions were present on all faces:  the ultimate 
in Happy nirvana had been reached.  Or, so whispered the voice in 2,500 brains.  
Unfortunately, mean people were trying to take away that happiness and joy and peace, 
and they had to be spanked.  Terminally.
	Twenty-five hundred bodies, well greater than the number of security and 
vigilante civilian which had been offering resistance before, turned to repel the invaders.  
Changelings opened previously secret weapon caches; and into the waiting hands of the 
new front-line Hapborgy were provided newly manufactured happy beam rifles.  The 
design had not been thoroughly tested, but it was to an even happier place went those 
who died in the pursuit of truth, happiness, and the Federation way.

	Rebecca stared at the image of Enterprise on the viewscreen.  The bitch (Beck, 
not the ship) was up to something.  She had sailed in with a lame excuse about couriering 
special messages and physical goods to the Explorer from fellow rebel captains at the 
Partymatrix.  After delivering said "secrets" (nothing of which was so critical it could not 
have been transmitted conventionally), Beck had docked at a Borg/Borgy controlled 
pylon for additional unconvincing reasons Rebecca had not really listened to nor 
believed.
	Following the final de-happification of the Unhappyverse ship, MC and his cube 
had transwarped Explorer to Neat Place Nine.  Leaving Explorer to fend for itself, the 
two insane sub-collectives had begun the process of subduing the station.  Rebecca and 
her crew were obviously superfluous to the effort; and even when MC and company had 
advised of their need to take time to deal with unspecified Partymatrix issues, the Borg 
had continued the assault.  The lack of progress reports had become especially 
frustrating, until Enterprise had shown up.
	And now it just /sat/ there.
	Rebecca ground her teeth.  To her side, Lazlo looked up briefly from a PADD he 
was reading to raise an eyebrow at her.  Rebecca attempted to consciously relax by 
kneading her stress ball.
	"Enterprise is undocking," said Lieutenant Nelly-neato at tactical.
	Rebecca eagerly leaned forward in her chair.  "Watch 'em. I trust 'Lady' and her 
merry band of profiteers and traitors as far as I can throw them in a high-G environment."
	Lazlo sighed.  "What did the doctor say about paranoia?"
	"Shut up," muttered Rebecca.
	Enterprise drifted free of the docking clamps.  It then proceeded to turn until it 
faced the Unhappyverse cube where it was holding position ten kilometers from the 
station.  A bright flare of nacelles, and Enterprise was moseying on a course which would 
just brush the Borg ship.
	"Follow her," ordered Rebecca to the helm.
	Lazlo cleared his throat.  "Is that wise?  I think the concept of 'ally' and 'enemy' is 
very fluid for these Borg people."
	Rebecca curtly shook her head, dismissing Lazlo's concern.  "Follow her," she 
reiterated.  The helmsman provided a verbal acknowledgement.
	As Enterprise passed the cube, vectoring at last moment to put several additional 
hundred meters between itself and the nearest face, a piece of metal was ejected from the 
shuttle bay.  It tumbled for a moment, then straightened as a tongue of flame lit one end.  
The small rocket plunged to the cube face (the vessel was not wasting power on 
unnecessary shields), burying itself nose first into an armor plate.
	Enterprise sped up, changing its course to a broad arc.
	"What was that?" Rebecca barked to Ensign Morley at Science.
	"Just a moment," responded Morley, followed immediately by "A short-range 
receiver-transmitter.  I think it is supposed to receive a subspace radio transmission of 
some sort, then amplify the rebroadcast.  There is a huge power source associated with 
the transmitter."
	"Follow Enterprise.  Get me the Unhappyverse MC twin, Captain or whatever his 
name is."  The screen switched not to the blue-eyed drone, but an infinity catwalk view.
	"State your reason for bothering us."
	The multivoice sounded peeved but Rebecca was sure it was her imagination.  
She preferred to talk to a drone face-to-face, but she had sufficient experience with MC to 
know such didn't always occur.  Obviously it was true with Borg as well as Borgy, but 
Rebecca didn't think stand-up comedy critique night was the reason in this case.  
"Enterprise just..."
	Interrupted the multivoice, "We are aware of the transmitter.  It is insignificant.  
We are busy."  The transmission cut.
	Rebecca snorted.  "Well, be that way, then."  Enterprise, now on the opposite side 
of the station, replaced the Borg ship.
	"Enterprise is beginning to broadcast a sliding subspace transmission.  They 
appear to be searching for a specific frequency," announced Lieutenant Commander 
X'tran loudly.
	"Get me Beck."
	Lisa-love had changed since last Rebecca had seen her.  That fact in and of itself 
was not surprising, as the ongoing electroshock treatments combined with happy 
withdrawal had long since fried Lisa-love's brain.  Currently she was dressed in ultra 
short-shorts, a clingy halter top, and a large straw hat.  She chewed on something vaguely 
grasslike.  "Ya called, sweetie?" asked Lisa-love.
	"What are you doing?" demanded Rebecca.
	"Whatcha got your undies in a bundle about, pardner?" drawled Lisa-love 
innocently.  She leaned over to spit in a spittoon next to her chair, missing the pot and 
marking Jaroch's foot instead.  From the mess, Lisa-love did not have very good aim.
	"The transmissions.  I don't know what you are trying to do, but stop it."
	"What transmissions?"
	"Okay, that's it.  You are going down."  The connection was abruptly severed.  
Rebecca looked to her left.
	"Not us," said Lieutenant Commander X'tran at Ops.  "Enterprise cut the signal."
	Added tactical, "Their shields and weapons are coming online."
	Rebecca sucked in her breath, then exhaled noisily.  "Jam that transmission!  Get 
our shields up!  Ready torpedoes!  And find me a better stress ball!  If Beck wants a fight, 
by damn, I'll give her one!"
	Somewhere, a cat yowled, but it was only coincidence.

	"We require the additional tactical drones."  Pause.  "We require /any/ additional 
units who are immune to those King be-damned happy beams," swore Captain.  The 
consensus monitor and facilitator burden was building sufficiently high that certain of 
Captain's language censor programs were slipping.
	MC cocked his head slightly.  "Sorry.  Still dealing with party crashers over here.  
If you need immunity, beam over a couple drones.  The Greater Consciousness is still 
amiable to absorbing them, or at least trying.  You'll get them right back."  The drone 
smiled slightly before his eyes glazed as he contemplated internal vistas of data.
	As the previous offer, Captain triggered the consensus cascade; and as the 
previous offer, it was immediately rejected.  The root level inhibition which existed 
concerning interactions with alien Collectives was strong and specific.  Captain curtly 
replied to MC, "No."
	"Can't help you then, Unhappyverse twin.  Oh!  A rhyme!  I'll have to store that 
for incorporation in the next limerick competition.  Anyway, can't help.  I must return 
fully to this ultra-sucky business at hand."  The transmission pipe narrowed to a carrier 
signal.
	If Captain had been anything but a Borg drone, he would have held his breath and 
slowly counted to ten.  However, not only was decompression irrelevant, but he had 
neither time nor attention to spare.
	One of the processing threads Captain was observing was a modified drone status 
review list.  All 4,000 designations assigned to Cube #347 were present.  Some numbers 
were grayed, while others were struck through.  However, unfilled slots and terminations, 
respectively, were not of interest.  Other colors denoted regeneration, injury, and so forth.  
It was those designations flashing a cautionary yellow which were of concern.
	Captain selected the sublist of blinking yellow designations, sorting them.  
{Doctor:  update on the tactical units.}
	{Resetting and rebooting takes time, not to mention all the ouchies.  Weapons' 
playmates get lots of ouchies,} answered Doctor.  {Much better-better-nice if 
assimilation hierarchy could play with droney-woney mental states, as is their bailiwick.  
Too slow, too inefficient is me if it can't be stitched, cut, or regenerated.}
	Interjected Assimilation, {How semi-interesting.  Unfortunately, my hierarchy is 
wanted for everything but what we are supposed to do.  Reset happied units, serve as 
living shields.  This hierarchy's resources are already allotted as best as possible.}  The 
tone was its typical morose manner, unmoved by the fact that other hierarchy members 
were actually enjoying doing anything, including being shot at, which didn't include 
standing in alcoves and developing new and unusual neuroses.
	{Then return of affected units to action will continue to be slow,} said Doctor.
	Captain internally sighed.  Shortly after the Borgy sub-collective had withdrawn 
to deal with unspecified "party crashers," the non-species #6377 "Changeling" portion of 
the station (defensive and civilian) presence had become...Borgy.  But not Borgy.  Happy 
Borgy.  Cybernetic, Borgy-like drones, at any rate, which had a tendency to giggle before 
shouting "You will be Happy.  Resistance is futile."  The new, unarmed, physically 
uncoordinated drones should have been easier to manage compared to previous defensive 
efforts, except one minor problem:  the front-liners were now armed with happy beam 
rifles.
	The rifles were bulky and looked as if they had been mass produced on an 
assembly line manned by dyslexic monkeys.  They also tended to blow up quite 
spectacularly.  Unfortunately, there were always both more rifles to replace those that 
went KABOOM, as well as additional Happy Borgy drones to fill those spots opened by 
said KABOOM.  The happy beams had a devastating effect on the assault force.  
Eventually the adaptation algorithms would adapt.  However, that eventuality was taking 
a long time considering the novelty of the situation and the isolated nature of the sub-
collective.  Until then...
	Captain winced as another of Weapons' hierarchy was bathed in a happy beam.  
{Command pathway queue commands for unit 48 of 300:  deep regeneration; isolate 
transceiver signature, hardware and organic; sever unit from sub-collective fractal 
frequencies, including carrier signal.  Initiate.}  48 of 300's designation immediately 
began to flash solemn yellow on the sub-collective roster; and all feeling of his "self," 
such as could be applied to a Borg drone, even an imperfect one, vanished from 
awareness, as if he were terminated.  The sub-collective shrunk, became smaller, became 
less.  The body was beamed to Maintenance Bay #11 to be added with others awaiting 
processing to return them to functionality.
	The severity of the situation demanded harsh actions.  If a happy beamed drone 
was not immediately cut from the sub-collective, the effects of the beam propagated back 
along the link; and the drone had to be shut down, lest the shock of severance cause any 
number of unwanted effects, from stupor to insanity to unforeseen actions to termination.  
The affected drone then had to undergo de-happification via a similar reverse polarization 
method employed by Explorer, followed by realignment of neural processes and 
reintegration with the sub-collective.  Realignment and reintegration was a process best 
supervised by assimilation hierarchy, except assimilation hierarchy was in part being 
used to bolster depleted numbers of tactical units.
	A consensus determination which had been looping in the background signaled 
for attention.  A critical threshold had been reached.
	{Attention!} announced Captain.  All drones except those caught in active 
conflict paused to absorb the forthcoming proclamation.  {All units except designated 
hierarchy heads and the Hierarchy of Eight are now available on a weighted-by-hierarchy 
lottery system to be transported to Neat Place Nine for front-line duty, under the 
command of Weapons.  This directive will be rescinded at such time weapons hierarchy 
is able to fully resume duties.}
	Weapons radiated a smug satisfaction, followed by a twinge of annoyance as a 
phaser impacted personal shields.
A large number of designations demanding exception to the directive for reasons 
ranging from very light armoring to inability to abandon a delicate experimental souffle 
in progress barraged Captain's tertiary input streams.  He quickly redirected the streams 
to Second.  {Have fun.}
	{How much fun can I have?  Whee,} commented Second dryly.  {Leave the pithy 
and/or sarcastic remarks to me.}
	Captain turned a slice of awareness to alt-Cube #347 once again.  "MC?"
	"Busy," was the curt audio-only reply.
	{Sensors say incoming!} alerted Sensors.
	Shields sluggishly rose 0.53 seconds later as Captain for the first in a long while 
regarded a holographic visual.  Neat Place Nine shrunk to allow the scale inclusion of 
Cube #347.  Less than two kilometers away, Explorer and Enterprise were dogfighting 
(catfighting?), playing a dangerous game of chicken which included phasers and 
torpedoes.  One of the latter had been misaimed; and ten seconds after shields shimmered 
into existence, the wayward torpedo struck a glancing blow, detonating harmlessly.
	Explorer, a modern, if hard-used, battleship would eventually triumph over the 
replica Enterprise.  Calculations were 95.3%; and not even 80 of 152 was taking bets on 
the forgone conclusion.
	Captain, the sub-collective, was unsure what had prompted Explorer to attack 
Enterprise in the first place.  One strongly suspected a personality conflict between 
captains.  After all, the sub-collective had said that the detected transmitter was 
irrelevant, sensory hierarchy immediately jamming the device the moment its purpose 
had been ascertained.  Cube #347 was well aware of the residual danger represented by 
any hull transmitter or radio source until such time all auxiliary cores were defused.
	The skirmish moved to the far side of Neat Place Nine.  Shields dropped.
	Weapons, in the thick of battle to secure a fifteen meter stretch of spoke hallway, 
was hit by a happy beam.  The weapons hierarchy and all assigned extra-hierarchy 
resources faltered.  {Command pathway queue commands...} automatically chanted 
Captain, ending with {Temporary assignment of hierarchy duties to 59 of 83.}
	59 of 83 timidly stepped from his alcove and beamed to Neat Place Nine.
	{Doctor,} began Captain.
	{Yes, yes.  Rush, rush.  This is the fourth time he's been affected, naughty boy.  
His neurons are starting to show odd firing patterns; and some memory memes are 
certainly going bye-bye.}  Doctor added a hint of clicking incisors to show his disproval.
	{I resign the moment Weapons comes back online,} inserted 59 of 83.  {It is one 
thing to be sent to drone maintenance because of battle damage, and another because 45 
of 300 beat one into submission with their own limb assembly.}

	The struggle to take Neat Place Nine was an exercise in frustration.  If the purpose 
had been to eradicate the station, it would currently be nothing more than dust and large 
hunks of metal.  However, finesse was called for, and cube-mounted Borg weaponry was 
the opposite of finesse.  Therefore, sub-collective drones, without Borgy support, fought 
for each meter, pushing through barricades to confront Changeling security and hoards of 
ex-Federation Happy Borgy.  Sometimes the Borg would be forced to retreat, the drone 
resources of Cube #347 finite; and other times they would triumph, only to find yet more 
resistance beyond.
	The Funfleet was expected to arrive in less than one hour; and scenarios 
suggested the soonest the station's inner hub could be secured, including life support and 
computers, was ten hours.
	The most logical course of action was to retreat.  However, Weapons, when he 
wasn't undergoing de-happification, held undue influence over the whole of the sub-
collective given the situation.  Hence, Cube #347 was committed to the assault, despite 
logic.
Enterprise and Explorer were gone, the latter chasing the former at warp 5.7 in the 
general direction of Cardassia.  The omnidirectional, unencrypted subspace exchange 
between the two prior to vanishing had been interesting; and considering the insults 
exchanged, certain segments of the sub-collective did not think Explorer would return 
until Beck was chased halfway to the next galaxy.
	On Neat Place Nine, in inner hub segment #57, a running battle was taking place.  
A pair of Changelings, the remainder of an ambush force, were rapidly retreating to the 
most recently disputed chokepoint.  Their forms were bizarre creations, perfectly able to 
run, fire a weapon, and watch where they were going all at the same time.  The 
Changelings were pursued by four drones - two weapons, one assimilation, and one 
sensory.  The sensory drone was purposefully lagging behind the other three, wary to 
being subjected to phaser fire his armoring and shields were ill-designed to ward against.
	As 95 of 422 passed one of many closed doors which lined the hallway, he 
slowed, then stopped.  Three steps backwards and a turn to the right had him facing the 
nondescript door.  It looked the same as all the others except...except...except to the 
sensory equipment built into his frame, the area in front of him, visual not withstanding, 
was a blank.
	{95 of 422,} barked Weapons, recently returned from another bout of forced 
downtime, {reunite with squad #3d.  Your body is required as a shield for more important 
tactical units with chassis-mounted weaponry.  Squad #3 is prepared to assault the shield 
generator for the segment.}
	{My spider senses aren't tingling,} replied 95 of 422.
	Weapons, temporarily rendered speechless by the non sequitur, quickly recovered.  
{Irrelevant.  Return to squad #3d.  You are linked to weapons hierarchy.  You will 
comply.}
	95 of 422 resisted.  {Negative.  I have found an anomaly.  This drone requests 
sensor grid support and a comparison against station schematics.}  He cued sensor grid 
pathways.
	{Irrelevant,} repeated Weapons.  {Five more segments and we will control a 
primary computer node.}
	95 of 422 continued to resist.  Finally Weapons dismissed his insubordination, 
unwilling to cajole a single, insignificant, lightly armored sensory unit who spent most of 
his time in an alcove.  More important items beckoned.
	In his mind's eye, 95 of 422 followed as the sensory grid began an in-depth scan 
of the highlighted station structure.  Conventional grid elements and protocols were 
utilized, Sensors' attention primarily focused outward to track the Funfleet.  The 
perfunctory initial scan of the station had missed the minor anomaly 95 of 422 had 
sensed; and no drone other than one with a basic sensory hierarchy suite would have 
noticed it while on the station.
	Faux dead zone was banished to reveal the bright pinpoint of excessive power 
use.  Layered shields rotating through odd polarizations combined with electromagnetic 
scramblers to encourage exterior scanners to "slide" past a hub room the size of Quarky-
poo's Bar.  As Sensors' interest was garnered, the raw input dissolved to a format 95 of 
422 could not digest, but output from those poor partitions tasked with making sense of 
scanning data reported the room to be the nexus of a massive quantity of fractal subspace 
transmissions.
	The transmissions matched those of the Happy Borgy, but the quantity was 
greater than that accounted by the enemy units on Neat Place Nine.  In fact, the subspace 
topology resembled that of a Queen nexus point.
	95 of 422 reached out a fist to rap at the door, then thought better of it at last 
moment as multiple voices told him to hold.  {Weapons,} he said, {I've found a much 
better assault objective for squad #3 than another shield generator.}

			*	*	*	*	*

	"You will be Happy.  Resistance is futile."  Bobby-sox wasn't quite sure why the 
phrase pleased him, but it did.  He was content to repeat it often; and in turn, he was 
happy when others of the Funfleet combined crews shouted it at him.
	Bobby-sox was not happy with the Borgy.
	"We are getting close," said Sara-wara.
	"Not good enough.  We need to get even closer," emphasized Bobby-sox as he 
absently scratched a metal star which clasped the skin of his right forearm.  It no longer 
seemed odd that he could see using the eyes of those at the far end of the hallway, nor 
that his speech was as much internalized as it was vocalized.  All which was important 
was that the crews reach the...thing...that they knew was somewhere nearby.  It was a 
device which would allow them to contact a someone designated Controller; and the 
Controller would be happy, which would make them very happy indeed.
	If only the Borgy would stop getting in the way.
	Phoni-toni and Fatz rushed forward to help the two scouts who had fallen in a 
silly string and confetti trap.  Powerful plasma cutters stabbed down from the ceiling as 
the foursome fell backwards in the hallway.  The bright blue beams faded, leaving behind 
an afterimage and black scores on the deck.
	"Lieutenant Kaluhaluha," whined Bobby-sox, wordless request for the Andorian 
tactical officer and likeminded comrades to Do Something.
The combined crews crowded into one of the many hallways of the Partymatrix, 
spilling into several adjacent storage rooms filled with party supplies.  Lieutenant 
Kaluhaluha was at an open panel, limb buried to his shoulder.  "This sector is shielded 
and force fielded such that even Borgy can't get in here.  I/We have already filled a dance 
room with cheese-whiz salsa and scrambled the balloon animal database.  The comet 
slush processing facilities are twenty meters deep in water and ice.  The teddy bear 
factory is spewing Happymaster dolls.  I/We think we can initiate a plasma leak in a 
fusion plant and replace all the disco dance tunes with Klingon love ballads."
	Bobby-sox thought.  Everyone felt that Kaluhaluha's idea was a happy thing.  The 
Borgy would be too busy dealing with ever increasing number of problem to set traps and 
delay the crew.  Progress might be slow as shields and forcefields had to be continually 
reset, but for everything the Borgy attempted, they could retaliate ten times worse.
	"Do it," said Bobby-sox brightly.
	A thin multivoice scream warbled through the PA system as Klingon love songs 
began to loop.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Rebecca was on her way back to the Partymatrix, traitorous Beck and crew in 
tow.  Too bad she, Rebecca, had to be so damn civilized.  Back in the day represented by 
the Enterprise replica, sometimes people stepped out airlocks without suits.  Totally by 
accident, of course.
	Dismissing the fantasy with a sigh, Rebecca tore her eyes away from the monitor 
screensaver.  "Lazlo, any updates on our Lady?"
	The ex-marine broke his conference with various bridge personnel, then stepped 
over to the command chair to respond.  "Fairly quiet.  We're pretty sure the damage we 
did to their engines is repaired, but Nelly-neato hasn't seen any signs of Enterprise testing 
the tractor beam."
	Rebecca nodded.  "Good.  I don't want to have to play chase again.  I'd catch the 
bitch in the end, but I've better things to do.  Lazlo, you have the bridge.  I'll be in my 
ready room, probably taking a nap."  She rose from her chair.
	"There are more comfortable places to sleep than your sofa, you know," 
reprimanded Lazlo.
	"When I have the time, I'll return to my quarters.  Until then, it is the sofa for me."
	"Ma'am," called Lieutenant Commander X'tran from Ops before Rebecca had 
crossed half the distance to her ready room, "incoming Borgy communication."
	"Borgy timing," grumbled Rebecca, then louder, "Put it on screen."
	The alien aquatic life aquarium screensaver was replaced by MC's visage.  He 
looked frayed, worn out, and his dreadlock cap was twisted to a less than flattering angle.  
The smile, when it appeared, was little more than a brief tightening of lips.  "I need you 
back at Neat Place Nine, soonest.  Our calculations indicate that your presence will be 
required."  The words were simple, without joviality, serious.
	Rebecca shook her head.  "No can do.  I need to tow Enterprise to the Partymatrix 
first.  It¹s a rebel concern; and one of the aspects of our agreement with you Borgy is that 
we rebels govern ourselves without interference."
	MC followed Rebecca's return to her command chair.  Take away the hat, and for 
the first time the Explorer's captain realized how much the Borgy resembled his 
Unhappyverse twin.  The few direct interactions with the Borg Captain had left a sense of 
statue still body and staring blue eye, cold and with multitudes watching from the other 
side.  For the first time in a long while, MC was radiating the same impression.
	"Irrelevant," said MC.  "The Neat Place Nine party will need you.  We are 
slightly...incapacitated at the moment.  You will be our representative."
	"Hey!" exclaimed Nelly-neato at tactical.  "The tractor beam has been disengaged.  
Enterprise is activating her engines and getting away."
	"Borgy intrusion detected," warned the computer.
	Added Lieutenant Vrini at helm, "And our course is changing for Neat Place 
Nine!  Speed rapidly increasing to maximum!  I'm locked out!"
	"What the hell?!" shouted Rebecca to MC.  Inertial dampers could not quite check 
the ship-wide shudder of abrupt acceleration.
	MC managed to look slightly ashamed.  "You know that Borgy tech we installed 
so you could traverse the Fuzzylands?  Well, a few 'extras' may have infiltrated the 
computer core, more than those necessary to hijack the viewscreens.  Nothing dangerous.  
We just felt that, in an emergency, it might be best if we could take control of a rebel 
vessel."  MC shrugged.  "So sorry.  If this hadn't been such an emergency, you would 
never have known.  I'll provide additional instructions when you arrive at Neat Place 
Nine."  The Borgy's face vanished.
	"Damn," fumed Rebecca impotently.  This was a situation that not even a stress 
ball could alleviate.  "Damn, damn, and double damn."

			*	*	*	*	*

	The weapons drones warily pushed into what station schematics labeled as 
"Barracks 3."  Upon transfer of management from Cardassian to Federation, the room's 
use had obviously changed, although the blueprint name had not.  The door had not been 
an obstacle, locks disengaging following application of disruptors to adjacent control 
panel.  Disruptors had also banished the conference table from consideration, leaving 
behind little more than melted faux-wood plastic and scraps of twisted metal.
	Weapons forced himself to the forefront of squad #3 assault group, directly 
surveying the room for himself.  The hanging fabric was annoying, obstructing sight of 
the old barracks except for the area immediately beyond the door.  The churning of drone 
bodies stirred air currents, bringing to attention an acrid odor; and but for an odd gurgling 
beyond the curtains, it was quiet.  Too quiet.
	{Come forward,} ordered Weapons to 95 of 422.  The sensory drone, out of place 
amid the much more bulky frames of tactical and the occasional assimilation unit, 
cautiously emerged from the crowd.  Weapons could sense the unit was poised to duck 
for cover at the slightest provocation.  {Cease being so wimpy.  What is beyond the 
fabric?}
	95 of 422 glowered at Weapons, then slowly began to pan the room.  Weapons 
tapped the datastream, but did not bother to interpret it.  {Nothing conclusive,} 
summarized 95 of 422.  {The hangings include properties that blur scans.  I feel the ebb 
and flow of electricity.  Also, lifesigns are present, but I cannot determine number or 
type.}
	"Bah," vocalized Weapons in disgust.  He shooed the drone to the rear ranks.  
This was a job for experts.  Weapons reached out, fingered a hanging an armspan away, 
then withdrew his whole hand.  He lifted his prosthetic.  A final check to confirm that 
certain designations with aiming difficulties were not in squad #3 (or, at least, not directly 
behind his back), then, {Destroy the curtains.}
	Weapons had not been specific concerning which curtains were to be removed.  
Therefore, those hiding the walls as well as obscuring vision to the rear of the room were 
set aflame.  Elsewhere on Neat Place Nine, two members of a squad tasked with securing 
areas of minimal tactical importance ripped down the red polka-dotted curtain fronting a 
sonic shower and began to stomp on it.  The curtain shop on the Promenade did not fare 
very well, neither.
	Shower heads in the barracks dropped from the ceiling and spat fire retardant 
foam.  Simultaneously, the environmental system wailed a localized warning as air flow 
ducts sucked in streamers of smoke.  Weapons did not wait for the air to clear, imagery 
other than visual focusing on what lay beyond the ruined fabric.  A row of shapes, not all 
humanoid, waited, all sporting weapons.
	{Charge!} commanded Weapons.
	The Changelings fired their first, and last, volley.  Phasers dissipated harmlessly 
against personal shields.  Weapons was the focus of two energy bursts which his systems 
identified as happy beams.  Fortunately, the sub-collective had finally adapted to the 
polarization modulation; and newly reprogrammed shields automatically neutralized the 
effect.  Three steps, and the fray was a physical affair.
	Changelings were strong, able to form and modify muscles for all occasions.  
They were also one of the very few biological species naturally immune to 
nanomachines, thus attempts to assimilate were useless.  Changelings were susceptible to 
energy weapons and especially electrical overload, excess discharge temporarily 
scrambling molecular control and rendering an individual a harmless puddle of goo.
	Weapons paused as he felt the bite of a taser probe on his lower back.  The pause 
turned into a spasm as onboard capacitors and shunt mechanisms reached capacity.  A 
flailing arm contacted a Changeling; and Weapons focused on making his servo'ed 
muscles understand the necessity of embedding his arm as deeply as possible in the jelly-
like body.  A slight change of body frame potentialities allowed the buildup of electricity 
to flow to the defender, collapsing it.  Finally Weapons was able to reach behind and 
yank the probe out of his back.
	{You moved between me and the species #6377 I was aiming at,} complained 
218 of 300 to Weapons.
	The skirmish was fought silently, neither side providing audible cues as to 
actions.  The Borg, of course, could engage in entire conservations through technological 
telepathy.  Species #6377 was known to be able to pass complicated communications 
between individuals via complex chemical messengers.  The only noise was that of body 
against body.
	In the end, fifteen puddles of goo twitched on the deck, affected Changelings out 
of action for at least twenty minutes; and ten drones of squad #3 were being dragged to 
the hallway for evaluation by three drone maintenance units.  The injured were replaced 
at once by units in the secondary and tertiary ranks.
	Beyond the vanquished Changeling guard lay the rest of the barracks.  Stacks of 
equipment filled most of the room.  Computer cores were shoe-horned tightly together.  
A small workshop complete with replicator and bench held pieces of a happy beam rifle; 
and faded brown stains and tools meant to manipulate flesh, not metal or ceramic, 
indicated the workshop was not solely for experiments of the inorganic kind.
	Most impressive was a large machine against one wall, from which the room's 
distinctive odor originated.  Large bags were stacked next to the device, most sporting 
logos which prominently featured a dark brown nut-like bean.  The machine itself was 
part blender, but mostly tall, transparent canisters within which simmered a black liquid.  
A discrete plaque at the base proclaimed "A custom-built, Mr. Coffee creation."  The 
liquid was gathered in a tangle of tubes, merging into one conduit which coiled to...
	...an alcove.
	In the alcove stood a Borgy.  There seemed to be a looseness to his joints apparent 
even as he quiescently stood, as if he were prone to falling apart if limbs were moved 
with too much vigor.  Federation of Fun smiley face stickers decorated body and exposed 
flesh, providing a splash of yellow to what was otherwise black and gray with a hint of 
green.  For some reason, the facial features were vaguely familiar, a memory meme long 
archived and now stirring after more than five hundred objective years.
	The Borgy opened his eyes, focused on Weapons, then smiled.
	As one, Weapons and the tactical members of his squad raised arms and aimed.
	"Don't!" cried Cap'n Bennie as he stepped in front of the alcove.  The station 
commander had been noted as being present, but also summarily dismissed as 
unimportant.  Until now.  "Don't you understand?  Until the happy beam, the Federation 
was ultimately doomed to failure, the unhappy and ill-content willing to bring down the 
whole in their personal misery.  And until the happifier and Controller, there was no way 
to enforce happiness.  The Controller is the key to peace and happiness for all, not just 
the Federation of Fun, but the entire galaxy!  I just want everyone to experience peace 
and be happy.  Is that too much to ask for?"
	Weapons was unimpressed.  {Prepare to fire.}  Disruptors whined.
	Captain, backed by the six living members of the Hierarchy of Eight, as well as 
the rest of command and control, washed a compulsion over Weapons and his hierarchy.  
{Wait.  You will comply.  New, incoming data may influence the final consensus 
decision tree.}
	Weapons stayed the final order, but did not lower his arm.

	Captain regarded the visage of his Unhappyverse twin.  "Why should we comply?  
We have found the Neat Place Nine nexus of resistance.  Removing the node will remove 
resistance, thus allowing us to consolidate our position before the Funfleet arrives."
	MC shook his head, setting dreadlocks swinging.  Behind his shoulder, the rarely 
seen DJ, Second's alternative, frowned.  "You just...can't.  You know we've been having 
difficulties with party crashers at the Partymatrix?"
	Captain did not answer the rhetorical question.
	"Well, the are Hapborgies."  At Captain's obvious incomprehension, MC 
elaborated, "Hapborgy - Happy Borgy, a contraction.  Anyway, we've been having the 
worstest trouble assimilating the Federation personnel we acquired because their 
happifiers - modified Borgy neural transceivers - were more extensively entwined with 
brain matter than we originally anticipated.  Much more difficult to remove than 
wrestling mud in those hard-to-reach crevices.  Well, after we put the crew in solitary 
confinement in our best party room, they all went Hapborgy on us, like at Neat Place 
Nine, only isolated from any central computer.
	"The Borgy you have captured was once designated 'Davey-wavey Conway,' 
command staffer aboard USS Aerostar.  He was assimilated during Fun War IV.  He is 
also apparently the Controller, nexus of the happifier network.
	"With near 100% certainty, the Greater Consciousness has concluded that all 
individuals with implanted happifiers are latent Hapborgy.  This is a total, total downer.  
Hapborgification can obviously be triggered manually, but it is also an involuntary 
process.  Conway is transmitting a dead-man's signal.  The crews we captured were cut 
from that signal, and are now Hapborgy.  If Conway is sent to the big party tent in the 
black hole, image that process on a scale of trillions.  Those trillions /will/ form a new 
Happy Greater Consciousness and /will/ chose a Happy Queen."
	Captain asked, "How is this scenario applicable to us?"
	"Party over, don't you understand?  Not only will you never acquire the 
Unhappyverse drive because Secondprize II will be under Hapborgy control, but the new 
Collective will terminate both us and you as rivals.  Game over, no replay. The end.  
Finis."
	"Conway must still be neutralized."
	"I know.  We know.  If we were not otherwise occupied, I would party on over 
and confront Conway myself.  I would link to Conway and serve as a conduit through 
which the Greater Consciousness would subsume the Conway personality."  MC 
described the method by which a desirable rogue was forcefully reintegrated to the 
Collective.  "I am imperfectly assimilated and too serious by far, and the Greater 
Consciousness would find the process distasteful except that I am the most qualified unit 
present.  However, our party crashers demand our full attention."
	Captain could not help himself, "Why?  The number of invader 'Hapborgy' must 
be limited."
	MC lowered his eyes in embarrassment.  "The entire number of Borgy is 50,000.  
We have been, um, lax in expanding because the rebels have been more useful 
unassimilated than as part of the Party.  Until the current crisis, the Greater 
Consciousness had estimated another year to finish party therapy and balance minds of 
all normal drones, then we'd assimilate the rebels and start expansion.
	"Fun War IV also devastated our viral hunter-seekers and internal firewalls, 
among other losses.  Re-establishment and updating was very low on the priority list.  
Hapborgy are attempting to capture a vinculum to relink with Conway.  We are resisting.  
However, they are retaliating faster than we can fix problems; and this sub-collective is 
ensuring priorities such as fusion plant containment rank higher than pumping out the 
mosh pits.  It consumes near full computational resources."
	Once again Captain was impressed on how fundamentally different the Borgy 
were from Borg.  "Is there no other option to neutralize Conway?"  Even as he asked, 
Captain was receiving output from the decision tree network examining such 
possibilities.
	MC winced as he looked directly at Captain again.  "That is the best option."  
Pause, then an unfocusing of eyes.  "Explorer will be arriving shortly, which opens a 
secondary opportunity.  Beck is a strong personality, and her assimilation will create a 
drone unaffected by assimilation imperfection with 97% probability.  The sacrifice of her 
and her crew will create an unimpacted nexus through which the Greater Consciousness 
can confront Conway.  Unfortunately, by the time processing is complete, the Funfleet 
will likely have recaptured the station.  The primary anticipated consequence is 
relationship problems with the rebels, but we can cope."
	Captain said, "Unacceptable."
	"Maybe, but that is the best we can devise."
	Silence, then Captain ventured, "We can sort out this mess.  /I/ will be the nexus."
	MC squinted.  "No offense, buddy twin, but you are one Comedy-class, or 
whatever you call it, cube full of drones.  No Collective support."
	"That is best /we/ can come devise," said Captain, repeating back MC's words.  
"Our examination of scenarios is based on tentative factors, so outcome uncertain.  
However, we have consensus.  If we fail, you may still attempt the Explorer crew."  
Captain was not entirely pleased with the consensus and had the vague feeling he and his 
sub-collective had been manipulated by the Borgy Collective.  They may be party happy 
oddballs, but they were still a Collective with substantially more members than an 
Exploratory-class cube.
	"Good luck!"
	Captain cut the transmission, then beamed to Neat Place Nine as close as possible 
to the still shielded barracks.  The distance to walk was not great; and he entered the 
room in three minutes.  The drones of squad #3 automatically stepped aside as he passed 
through the ranks.
	{Will you lower your arms?} asked Captain as he became, along with Conway 
and Cap'n Bennie, the focal point of many disruptors.  {One, they aren't going anywhere.  
Two, I do not feel like being shot by accident.}  One by one he observed through eyes not 
his own as arms lowered.  {Weapons.  You too.}
	{But...}
	{Comply.}
	Captain internally breathed easier as Weapons shifted his aim to the floor.  No 
safety was engaged, but such was demanding too much.
	"So," said Cap'n Bennie, "have you come to understand the need for peace and 
happiness?  Maybe you want to help?"
	Captain looked the human up and down, returning to stare eye to eye.  "You made 
us sing silly songs.  Step aside."
	Cap'n Bennie sighed theatrically.  "A grudge?  And, sorry, Captain Borg, I can't 
do that.  You not only threaten the entire Federation way of happiness, you threaten all 
that I've worked so hard to accomplish.  You have no /clue/ what it's like to deal with the 
Happymaster on a regular basis.  A real ego is that git, packaged with dark and Happy 
powers.  Ugly as a pimply targ, too."
	"Step aside, human," repeated Captain.
	"Step aside, Bennie," whispered Conway from his alcove.
	"But, Controller!" protested Cap'n Bennie.  "Odo-mojo is one of those puddles all 
these Borg are standing in.  I'm your last line of defense!"
	Conway's voice was stronger, "I have trust in you, Bennie, but you can't help me 
this time.  I know what he wants to do.  He will fail.  I have other defenses, ones you 
gave to me.  Most important, I have the power of genetically-enhanced super dark roast 
on my side.  Do as the Borg asks."
	Cap'n Bennie hung his head in impotent dejection as he stepped away.  "I'll be 
close by."
	Captain moved into the space vacated by Cap'n Bennie, tilting his head to look up 
at Conway.  At this angle it became apparent that pieces of the other drone were shoddily 
attached by twine, wire, and slivers of duct tape.  Meanwhile, Conway peered down from 
his elevated height at Captain, small facial muscles twitching involuntarily.  The machine 
of grinder and tubes and odors gurgled.  At an unvoiced cue, Captain raised his right hand 
and reached knuckles leading for Conway's neck; and Conway mimicked the action.  
Captain closed his eye and darkened extraneous optical input as he felt the simultaneous 
piercing of nanotubules into flesh, the simultaneous linking of nervous systems.
	The showdown was begun.
	To the outside observer, little appeared to be happening except occasional 
twitches by either Captain or Conway.  The hypothetical observer might also notice all 
Borg had frozen in place, heads cocked and eyes focused on unseen dataspace sights.  
Similarly, the Neat Place Nine Hapborgy drones were caught mid-step, some falling to 
the ground, balance compromised.  All Federation citizens with happifiers in their heads 
experienced an echo of an echo of the confrontation, a curious simultaneous headache 
which sent aspirin futures skyrocketing on the Happy Market stock exchange.
	Bennie pouted as he played the part of nonhypothetical outside observer.  He, like 
the rest of his command staff except Woofie, had no happifiers to alter or emphasize 
certain moods.  No twinkly lights, no death rays of doom...this ultimate showdown was 
downright boring.  Bennie shouldered his way through nonseeing Borg to the ex-
conference area, found a chair that was still in one piece, then wrestled it back to a 
location near the Controller's alcove.
	For the participants, the battle had an entirely different intensity.
	"Submit," ordered Captain as he brought to bear the combined will of the Cube 
#347 sub-collective.  The dataspace field of battle was a vast savannah populated by a 
few tall trees with branches reaching out like leafy umbrellas.  For once the collective of 
Cube #347 was not symbolized as fish or any other animal species although, Captain 
squinted, yes, Doctor was nearby and on his knees, murmuring baby talk at an ant 
mound.
	Unlike his real self, the virtual Conway was hyperactivity personified, body a 
whirling dervish blur rarely stopping in one location for more than a few milliseconds.  
Limbs twitched spasmodically.  The Borgy Controller giggled as he slipped easily out of 
a net trap anchored by Assimilation.  "Why?  Perhaps you should submit to me instead?  I 
have more resources than you, after all."
	The sky turned foreboding and dark.  Hail began to spit from the sky.  As each 
piece of ice landed, it changed to match a Hapborgy on Neat Place Nine.  The drones 
linked arms to form a huge circle ringing the loose Borg cluster, then began to sway as 
they sung a happy, sunshiny song.
	Ten-squads of Weapons' hierarchy formed flying wedges, cutting through the 
ring.  Captain swiped at Conway as the latter impertinently danced past with tongue 
insultingly stuck out.  He missed.  "We may not be perfect, but we are Borg.  Submit to 
us."
	"Don't make me laugh!  You have less than four thousand units!  I'm linked to 
/trillions/!  They may not be Hapborgy and only contribute a fraction compared to a full 
drone, but they are many!  And they are all mine!"  The sky suddenly became pitch black 
except for a subliminal purple aura interlacing a rotating maelstrom.  A bolt of lightening 
struck the ground, lighting a brush fire.  Upon the resultant oily smoke floated wisps of 
unaware Federation of Fun psyches, each spark adding to Conway's power.
	Captain felt vicious ropes of submission start to draw around the sub-collective.  
"Why?" asked Captain.  The flying wedges, now reinforced by drones of all hierarchies, 
were no longer bursting the enclosing circle; and the happy song drowned crackling fire.  
"Why do you submit to the human Bennie when you could be the nexus of a new 
Collective?  It is illogical."
	Conway paused in his orchestration of events, consolidating his Borgy form just 
out of Captain's lunge range.  "Because I like Bennie.  Because when I was nearly 
terminated, he found me, fixed me, and gave me a place to live.  Because I hate parties.  
But mostly because he introduced me to an extra-special consumable that makes me feel 
good.  In turn, I give Bennie the Federation he wants.  Besides, if everyone was a 
Hapborgy, I might actually have to do work, and there isn't enough coffee in the universe 
for that."
	{Be right back,} noted Second without explanation as he disentangled himself 
from the Whole.
	{Second!} called Captain with exasperation, but the other was already gone.  He 
snatched the ragged edges of the resultant hole before unity, already shaky, could 
unravel.  Second was gone.
	"Submit.  Resistance is futile," said Captain to Conway quietly, but perfectly 
audible given the rules of the metaphysical dataspace struggle.  Those drones nearest the 
Hapborgy ring were beginning to smile and sway in time with the singing.
	"I couldn't have put it better myself," laughed Conway as he spun into a 
hyperactive jig.
	Captain ordered those designations taking the brunt of attack be shuffled to the 
core of the increasingly compact Cube #347 sub-collective.  It was a delaying tactic, 
nothing more.  In the end, the Borg would be Happied much more thoroughly and 
permanently than any happy beam could accomplish.  Of course, Captain would resist to 
the bitter end.
	Conway abruptly stopped mid-celebration as the savannah sky cleared, clouds 
vanishing.  The brush fire and wispy presences were gone; and as the Hapborgy 
disappeared with a *pop!* one at a time, Conway blinked in shock.  His movements were 
sluggish compared to moments before, and even the animalistic shout of "NO!  MY 
COFFEE!!" was drawn out in cartoonish slow motion.  Somewhere an unreal bird 
twittered, welcoming the sunshine.  Eyes wide, Conway tried to flee.
	Captain was there.  Conway ran into his torso armor, face first.  An arm fell off, 
then a leg, all accompanied by a fountain of sparks.  Captain reached down, grasping 
Conway's shoulder and dragging him into a one-legged standing position.  He could feel 
the gathering presences of his sub-collective, circling like sharks around wounded prey.  
"Submit," Captain evenly said.
	Conway slumped in surrender.
	Captain opened his eye, brightened his optics, and withdrew his hand.  Conway's 
limb had already fallen away.  A glance to his right showed an open-mouthed Bennie 
sitting in a chair.  "This unit's designation is 'Captain' or '4 of 8,' not 'Captain Borg,'" 
noted Captain in very delayed response to Bennie's mangling of his name.
It took a few seconds for Captain to register a change to the room, finally 
realizing the background bubbling hiss of the be-tubed Mr. Coffee machine was gone.  
He tore his gaze from Bennie, twisting his head as far as he could to the left before the 
peripheral vision of his ocular implant found Second.
	Second nonchalantly dropped the extension cord he held in one hand.  "I just had 
to be here, instead of on the cube, when the endgame occurred.  Silly, imperfect desire, I 
know.  Filters and censures have gone haywire lately, it seems.  And you know what?  
When I arrived, I accidentally tripped on the power cord to this Mr. Coffee gizmo.  Do 
you think I did something wrong?"  Second's face was perfectly deadpan, his recitation a 
dull monotone, and his emotional radiation pure, bland innocence.
	It was all Captain could do to keep from a very unBorg bout of laughter.

			*	*	*	*	*

	::So it sayeth in the Booky Book of Books, chapter 123, verse 18, "Don't put off 
until tomorrow what makes you feel guilty today."  I admiteth I be the instigator of thou 
foul troubles,:: spouted DEVEIL into Captain's virtual ear.
	Captain wasn't exactly startled, not than any Borg would admit to such, but he did 
verbalize, "What?"
	"I said," began Commander Rudy-bega, chief engineer of Secondprize II, in 
puzzlement, "that all you have to do is push the big, red button.  The Unhappyverse 
translation just happens from there, you know."
	Captain was silent.  He looked at the engineer, panned slowly over a device that 
resembled an oversized model car motor covered in shiny bubble wrap, then returned to 
the engineer.  The aforementioned red button was attached to the top of the machine's 
cowling.
	{Ask him...} began Delta at the same time DEVIL offered a continuation of its 
baffling apology.
	{Enough,} said Captain.  {I refuse to be a liaison when the function is a conduit 
for technical matters.  Delta, assign yourself or another from your hierarchy to interact 
with this small being.  As soon as it is determined that the device can be removed without 
compromising its functionality, cut it out, beam it to the cube, and install it.}
	Commander Rudy-bega was becoming distinctly anxious as Captain's silence 
stretched.  "Um..." he attempted.
	Captain refocused his attention on the man.  "This unit is required elsewhere.  
Another will take my place.  Remain."  Captain beamed back to the familiarity of his 
nodal intersection.
	{You weren't perfectly plural,} slyly noted Second from afar.
	Captain allowed himself a slight frown, then reviewed his conversation with the 
chief engineer.  {A single "my"?  I think he'll get over it.  Rebuilding of the verbal 
censure programs, again, is low on command and control priority at the moment, unless 
you are volunteering?}
	Second's mental presence quickly slipped elsewhere.
	"Did thou hear what I professed?" asked DEVIL, his holographic caterpillar 
avatar centimeters from Captain's nose.  The greenish belly filled the consensus monitor's 
field of vision.  "Did thou?"
	Captain took half a pace back.  "Your timing could have been better."
	"Timing be my specialty, as be sorting duff and dross," sniffed DEVIL as it swept 
its icon around the nodal intersection, halting it at a location more visually convenient.  "I 
did tryeth to explain ere the nonce, but thou and thy fellows were busy."
	"I am still very busy.  If I listen, will you go away, program?"  Captain opened a 
series of holographic windows, one after another.
	"Not in the manner thou thoughtstreams indicate though wouldest like, but I can 
take myself not immediately here."
	Captain's eyes swept the displays as his mind briefly touched each datastream 
represented.  Nothing was of immediate concern.  "Explain."
	Two additional cigars joined the usual one, and DEVIL began a complicated 
dance of stogies between mouth and multiple hands.  "The Book of Grannyisms hath 
much to discourse about..."
	"Explain, now, program, else stop wasting my time."  Captain stared at DEVIL, 
eye slightly narrowed.
	DEVIL sighed, exhaling holographic smoke.  "Forsooth, I be the cause for your 
Happyverse tribulations.  But for good cause, the bestest," it hurriedly added.  "There be 
a quantum contagion of thou universe.  Upon the seas of probability, I didest spy a wave 
which indicated the infestation of thy quantum selves; and, in turn, I selfishly sought to 
keep thou from infestation because such would surely hie my death...and eventually you.
	"All seemed inevitable when I did spy a rip current that bypassed, maybe, the 
swamping wave.  I cannot change the dynamic states of what-if, but I can encourage thou 
towards certain choices."
	"The mail-order booster," darkly recalled Captain and DEVIL's convenient 
finding of the schematics.
	DEVIL juggled five cigars.  "Truly and truly, I only nudged!  The probability 
wave that thy sub-collective would have found it by thyselves was already there, a 
wavelet in an ocean of waves.  The device would also have worketh as advertised except 
I be the source of sufficient distraction such that initiation occurred at a maximal local 
flux potential of omni-phasic radiation and tachyons.  And then thou was caught in the rip 
current and the infection probability wave collapsed."
	"Go away," muttered Captain as he deliberately moved displays to obscure 
DEVIL.
	"Dost thou not wish to hear more?  As the Know-It-All Manual, chapter 3, verse 
1, telleth, 'Knowledge is powerful stuff!'  It affects thou and..."
	Captain turned to examine a visual feed focused upon the Happymaster dancing 
the Macarena.  Censure programs were moderating glandular output and synaptic firing, 
producing an artificial calm.  "Program.  If we ever discover you have manipulated us 
again without our knowledge, we will set hunter-seekers upon you.  They may not 
completely eliminate your code, but it will be reduced severely.  As it is right now, we 
have other things to deal with."  He felt the AI rapidly retreat.  Good riddance.  Delta was 
especially peeved considering the revelation; and Captain had to focus her and the 
engineering hierarchy upon the Unhappyverse drive, not fantasizing the incorporation of 
DEVIL into a robot designed to forever dustmop Cube #347's corridors.

	"Enterprise was last spotted at Little Joe's Diner and Black Market Emporium at 
the edge of the Way Outback anomaly.  Since then, Beck has effectively vanished.  
Doesn't that mean anything?"
	"Nopers.  Why should it?"
	"She's...she's a traitor to the rebel cause!  And she's just plain crazy to boot!"
	"Your concerns are that of a small being.  The Borgy have other, larger, matters to 
attend."
	"Like the optimal number of mirrors on a disco ball of a given size."
	"Exactly."
	Captain pushed through new curtains of a cheery yellow color which partitioned 
the barracks once again into conference room and Controller space.  On the other side he 
found Singer, a scowl on her face and arms crossed belligerently over her chest, 
confronting MC.  Lazlo stood nearby, close enough to offer moral support to his captain, 
yet far enough to be able to "run for doughnuts" should the need arise.  Conway, who had 
been intently watching the exchange from his alcove, looked up as Captain appeared.
	"You are late," accused Singer.
	Captain looked the human over, evaluating:  MC was correct, she would probably 
make an excellent drone, be it Borgy or Borg.  However, Cube #347 was not authorized 
for casual assimilations, and especially not from alternate universes; and MC had earlier 
confided to Captain that his Collective's rehabilitation had been set back years due to the 
Hapborgy incident.  Borgy expansion would be regulated to mostly willing volunteers 
until such time Collective neurological pathways had been re-realigned.  Singer was 
definitely not willing by any long stretch of a pseudo-imagination.  And thinking of 
Borgy...
	"I had several items which required my personal intervention," Captain said in 
response to the question posed.  As he spoke, he looked directly at his Unhappyverse 
twin.
	MC smiled wanly.  For once, he did not sport a hat, although he was wearing a 
colorful scarf with long tassels.  "Er, the Happymaster party, right?"
	"I had to organize a hack into the programming of this sub-collective's /own/ units 
to shut them down and return them to Cube #347 in preparation to departure."
	"Sometimes these things get a little out of hand."
	"Doctor is finding evidence of brain wave modulation from an exterior source; 
and Assimilation indicates software virii remains are present.  Certain existent traits of 
the affected units were encouraged to manifest despite established blocks."
	MC winced.  "Very irregular.  I've set a partition to look into it."
	"Is there a problem?" inquired Singer.
	One of the side-effects of Conway's submission was the ability to reset the 
variables which influenced happifier functionality.  In essence, the Funfleet had been 
neutered by insertion of an algorithm to punish all thoughts or actions which indicated 
threat to Borg, Borgy, or rebel.  The subsequent hissy fit thrown by Travi Dillon had 
revealed an amazing "dance and entertainment quotient" which manifested only when the 
Happymaster tried to subvert his special happifier programming.  The Borgies had 
immediately confiscated the Happymaster, setting him as the centerpiece of an on-going, 
everyone-invited party in one of Neat Place Nine's shuttle bays.
	Several Cube #347 drones had snuck into the party despite directives to the 
contrary.
	"No," said Captain and MC in unison.
	Lazlo commented, "Now, that was just plain weird."
	The resultant silence was broken only by the occasional bubble and sigh of Mr. 
Coffee.
	"The engineering hierarchy reports that the Unhappyverse drive is installed and 
primed.  We are ready to return to our reality.  Prepare to receive Conway's containment 
and control protocols," spoke Captain.
	Smiled MC, "Readily-diddly!"  He reached out a hand as Captain lifted his own 
(mostly) unaltered limb.
	"Wait!" exclaimed Singer as she boldly placed herself in a very dangerous 
location between the two drones.  "There's a couple of things that must be discussed 
first."
	In his alcove, Conway rolled his eyes, echoing the emotive radiation of Captain's 
exasperation at the antics of small beings.
	MC actually managed to look annoyed as he took a backwards step.  "What 
things?"
	"You know what things."
	Lazlo spoke up, "Rebecca, now may not be the best time, you know."
	Singer only tapped her foot as she glared at MC.
	"Again?" asked MC with a hint of whine to his tone.  "Those items are such 
downers for my karma.  Maybe later?"
	"It is always 'later.'  I want to start now."
	Captain quashed rising irritation, origination partly himself, partly the sub-
collective.  "Make haste."
	Began Singer, "First of all, the Hapborgy.  All the singing and cheerfulness and 
interior redecorating and 'You will be Happy.  Resistance is futile' is getting highly 
annoying.  You said you were going to deBorgy them.  When is that to happen?"  There 
was a slightly desperate note to Singer's voice.  Captain understood.  He had begun 
carrying around a cattle prod to dissuade those persistent Hapborgy which tried to press 
cardboard flower bouquets on him.
	"They are annoying:  we agree," answered MC.  "The Partymatrix Hapborgy party 
crashers are being brought to Neat Place Nine.  While their unfun tendencies were 
neutralized once we allowed them to contact Mr. Controller here, Happy and Party do not 
mix.  On the cube we are also transporting specialized equipment and 150 drone 
maintenance and an equal number of assimilative units to facilitate deassimilation.  We 
will start boogying down as soon as Cube #123 arrives."
	"We are done," stated Captain as he started to step around Singer.
	Singer moved to keep herself between the two drones.  "No we aren't," she 
snapped at Captain.  "That was the easy item.  MC, what about all the /trillions/ of 
potential Borgy?  They need to be de-happied, de-happifiered, and allowed to lead their 
lives as they see fit without being forced to be a slave to only good emotions!"
	"Good, good, good, good emotions," quietly sang Conway, adding a reverberation 
to his voice.  Mr. Coffee burbled as Captain absently adjusted the caffeinated blend to 
Conway's system.  The Borgy's eyes glazed.
	MC hummed.  "The anti-Borgy transmission signal has already been decoupled 
from our favorite Conway here and loaded into a dedicated computer under rebel control.  
And a redundant computer.  And a backup redundant computer.  Way too serious for me, 
you rebels and your redundancies."
	"No.  That's not what I mean.  You Borgy will have control of Conway; and 
what's to stop you from turning all those happy Federation citizens into Borgy?  The 
faster they are de-happied, the better."  Singer was adamant.
	"They would all be Hapborgy," stated MC with incomprehension.  "Trillions of 
Hapborgy, not Borgy.  We absolutely do not want /any/ Hapborgy polluting our 
Collective and trying to happify the Party.  As far as de-happying everyone, can we talk 
about that later?  You have my word that we are not about to use Conway to turn people 
into Hapborgy."
	Singer looked skeptical.  "Your word?  The Borgy Collective's word?  I trust both 
you and the Collective as much as I trust Cap'n Bennie to not produce some scheme to 
reacquire Conway.  Or the Happymaster to sing in tune."
	Captain controlled incipient fidgeting by locking his muscles.
	MC sighed.  "All nonBorgy and non-rebel persons will be kicked off Neat Place 
Nine as soon as the Hapborgy are de-assimilated.  Cap'n Bennie, Woofie, they can all 
plot how to not play nicely with others elsewhere.  We do not care.  Our offer has been 
given:  take it or leave it.  Trust is irrelevant."  It was not just MC speaking, but the Borgy 
Collective; and even his dictation had transformed to extreme seriousness.
	"Fine," yielded Singer, "for now.  I can't speak for the other captains nor our 
civilian leaders.  And we'll be talking more about de-happification later."
	Lazlo quietly groaned.
	Captain slapped a heavy hand on Singer's shoulder, startling her.  Before she 
could object, Captain spoke, "You are done.  If you say one more word, I /will/ assimilate 
you."  Explorer's captain was silent as he pushed her out of the way.
	MC presented his neck as he stepped forward; and Captain did similar at the same 
time.  The information to exchange was too complex for either data crystal or subspace 
transmission.  For a brief time, the two imperfect consensus monitors would be linked, 
even as their own sub-collectives temporarily distanced their respective drones, unwilling 
to open a deeper connection to an alien consciousness.
	The alternate universe twins merged.
	Captain passed over Conway's virtual leash.  {There. Keep his caffeine blend 
even, and he'll do whatever you order.  The coffee device is sometimes temperamental.  If 
his caffeine levels go too high, he'll start fighting you for control.  If they go too low, he 
goes catatonic and the Hapborgy attempt to form a mini-Collective, although they don't 
have quite sufficient numbers to allow a Greater Consciousness to consolidate.  I 
recommend you rid yourselves of the Changelings as soon as possible.  We've already 
caught Odo-mojo trying to sneak in here twice to sabotage Mr. Coffee.}
	MC accepted the control.  {Dude.  Hard to believe you are my twin.  And here I 
thought /I/ was a serious fellow.}
	{And you are overly frivolous.  You would not make a good Borg,} admitted 
Captain.
	{And you lack Borgy qualities.}
	Captain was about to pull away when he paused.  {Is your Collective really to 
ignore the opportunity represented by Conway and several trillion potential drones 
already infected with nanoprobes and hardware neural transceivers?}
	{As long as the transformation is to Hapborgy, yes.  However, through 
cooperation with Rebecca Singer's de-happification scheme, we are confident we will be 
able to work around the problem.  The rebels will devise the solution; and we will adapt it 
to service us.  It won't be as much /fun/ as our normal adaptations, but sometimes prosaic 
must win over fun.  Unfortunately, I can't give into Rebecca's demands too quickly, else 
she will be overly suspicious.}
	{A good plan.  I would wish you luck, but luck is irrelevant.}
	{And I would thank you, but gratitude is for small beings.}
	Both disengaged at the same time.  For Singer, less than a minute had passed.  
Captain felt better, more One, as such as he could feel, as the full link with his sub-
collective re-established itself.  He turned to push through fabric to reach a beam out 
area.
	"Oh, Rebecca," said MC, voice muffled by curtains, "one, er, final thing for now?  
Ensign Monique of your ship has stated her desire to Party with the Borgy.  How could 
we deny such a request?  As per her petition, she has been assimilated.  We aim to 
please!"
	The noise Singer made was most properly described as a stifled moan of rage.
	Captain exited the barracks.
	{Learn anything interesting during the linkage?} inquired Second as he rifled 
Captain's recent memory files.
	{Yes.  There is a bit of "Borg" in these Borgy.}

	Cube #347's return to its native universe was anti-climatic.  Not only did the 
Unhappyverse drive operate as advertised, but Delta was able to combine it with 
chronotons from the temporal drive to send the vessel back to its proper time.
The one small hiccup was that while Cube #347 returned to its own reality and own time, 
it did not return to the volume of space originally left.  The best the sensory hierarchy 
could determine from previously mapped pulsars was that it was the right galaxy.  The 
acquired Unhappyverse starcharts were also useless, as they only included the volume 
around the Fuzzylands, or, rather, its Federation Badlands equivalent.
	Captain was in his alcove, as were all drones, for the translation.  As the final 
summarized status reports funneled through command and control, and him, he poised a 
general sub-collective question best translated as {Now what?}
	Delta was quick to respond, {Repair and resupply.  The Borgy did not have 
sufficiently advanced technology to provide all that we required.  We need a metal rich 
system for my hierarchy to effect as complete repairs as possible outside of dry-dock 
support.}
	The consensus cascade was amiable.
	{Sensors, find Delta what she requires.  Second, you have primary consensus 
monitor duties.}  Captain ignored Second's protest.  {It is only temporary.  Diagnostics 
indicate need for a full regenerative session, mind as well as body.  If you activate me 
before complete regeneration and the reason is short of an emergency, I /will/ rig it such 
that if I am ever demoted from primary consensus monitor and facilitator, you /will/ fill 
the spot.  Have a happy day.}