The bluebird of Star Trek happiness is owned by Paramount. The Star Traks sparrow of joy is fed by Decker. Meneks has an assimilated chicken of delight, and is not afraid to use it.

They Came From Beyond, Part II

Previously on Star Traks: BorgSpace, the Happyverse and Unhappyverse once again collided, this time in the form of Borgy and cute killer robots. However, in the end of Part I, just as it seemed as if Cube #347 was to be chopped into bits, and enjoy it the entire time, a Trans-Dimensional Beast arrived on the scene. Once again, the sub-collective has fallen out of the pot and into the black hole.

Note: If you find continuality errors with past or future-to-be Happyverse stories, it is not due to blunders on the part of the perfect BorgSpace author. It is the rest of the universe which is at fault, along with large invisible pink bunny rabbit who is current demanding its weekly rabbit chow payment. Have a Happy Day! :)

*****

Three tentacles of oily black and green, an evershifting mottled pattern that seemed to glow with an inner light, reached for Cube #347. The central body of the Beast, slightly egg-shaped and covered by dark tangled hair, was larger than that of the Exploratory-class cube; and the disturbing single eye itself was nearly 100 meters across. The detail which garnered greatest interest, however, was the mouth which gaped underneath the eye, a mouth full of jaggedly sharp teeth from which hung glistening streamers of saliva.

The automatic reaction from Weapons was to fire a volley of torpedoes, followed by neuruptors. For once there was no argument from the greater sub-collective: the Beast, whatever it was, already looked to be pissed off (or hungry, or both), and such provocation was unlikely to anger it further.

The torpedoes passed through the Beast unscathed, heading into the depths between stars where they would either tumble until the heat death of the universe, else impact upon an unlucky vessel with odds of near infinity to one. Similarly, the neuruptors did not seem to trouble the Beast, at least not physically. There was, however, an acknowledgement of the attack, but not the expected one whereupon Cube #347 was twisted in half. Instead, mouth snapped closed and, as best could be described, a look of confused awareness was reflected in the single eye.

::Oh, goodness me. Whoops? Sorry,:: whispered into the minds of every drone present, Borg and Borgy. It was not the voice one normally associated with a Trans-Dimensional Beast; and, in fact, it sounded a bit...English. ::Transitions do so upset my psyche. One of my Little Moments. I hope you weren't too discombobulated over my appearance.::

What sort of slavering monster used the word "discombobulated"?

::Hello? Is anyone there? Those dreadful little robots...they weren't yours, were they? If so, I am sorry if I broke them. Unfortunately, I've a long standing racial phobia about robots. Bad experience in my species' infancy and all that psychobabble baggage. You can respond on a wide variety of radio, subspace, and visual frequencies: I will hear and understand you.::

The Beast, still of a size to very much menace Cube #347 (although the further Borgy cube was safe), had tucked its tentacles away and now resembled a furry egg. Sort of. It still retained its single lidless eye, although the mouth had mercifully disappeared. Still, it was difficult to reconcile voice with the sensor view.

A hail was received from the Borgy cube. Captain answered it, automatically noting his counterpart's headgear had altered once again, this time to a combat helmet. Cranial hoses and other accruements made for an ill fit, and a chin strap was the primary reason why the helmet remained in place. A soothing orchestral was playing in the aural background.

"That's a very large hairball. Can we help in any way?" asked MC.

Captain blinked. "We? What are you going to do? Wave sparklers at it? A volley of torpedoes and neuruptors did nothing." Command and control had temporarily disabled weapons hierarchy from additional futile efforts, although increased computational runtime was being drawn by BorgCraft modules. Knowing Weapons, there was a scenario for Trans-Dimensional Beast; and knowing Weapons, the actual likelihood of cube survival was in the single digits, even if the necessary Doomsday Death Device did happen to be in inventory.

(A Doomsday Death Device /was/ in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, but had been mislabeled as a crate of canned peas; and its use would not only have vastly shortened the present story, but resulted in the abrupt deletion of all matter within 1000 light years. Not that the latter would have dissuaded Weapons from using such a device....)

"That's not a party notion," sighed MC.

"This, one, is not a party sub-collective, and, two, we are much closer to the creature than you," retorted Captain.

::I am not a "creature,":: interrupted the Beast. ::My name is Bo. And while you are all funny little beings with rather quaint technology, now is no time for an argument. I seem to be a tad bit lost. Have you maybe seen any alike me around here? My universe sort of imploded, and I'd like to move on before the instabilities in this one become terminal.::

*****

HappyBots have no more self-will than a toaster. Admittedly, it is a rather complex toaster, one able to do bread, crumpets, AND English muffins to perfection with neither raw nor black bits; and one able to foresee the future sufficiently to know what sort of bread product the owner will desire the next day such that it can be ordered fresh from the bakery; but a toaster none-the-less. There was much leeway for this uber-toaster to complete its function, up to and including funding its purchases via creating underground criminal laundering agencies, but in the end, bread went in one end and toast (or other suitable bread product) came out the other. There was no desire to do anything but toast, no want to strive for omelets or orange juice. In-

**The author has been informed that the metaphor has been extended more than sufficiently and further elucidation will not be tolerated upon pain of mushy hashbrowns and extra-crisp burnt bacon**

The HappyBots had no self-will. They were programmed to perform a given set of tasks, although the manner of achievement was open. The individual robots were mere extensions of the central computer which resided upon the HappyBot carrier, or should have been. Unfortunately, after being constructed and activated during the most recent Fun War as the ultimate in Borgy eradication technology, it had never been deployed. It was the equivalent of a dog being chained to a short leash as a clutter of cats sauntered by. None had seen fit to turn off the HappyBots (or halt the news channel subscriptions) once it was decided in typical bureaucratic fashion to never release them.

It has been said that after a while, the puppeteer wonders how the puppet views the universe. However, outside of bad horror movies and a few of the more esoteric races, such is ultimately impossible. The puppet remains a construction manipulated by hidden hands (or tentacles), put away at the end of the day. The HappyBot central computer during and after Fun War IV had experimented in the puppeteer-puppet arena, allegedly to increase its efficiency, but mostly out of frustrated boredom as /other/ entities destroyed /its/ rightful Borgy prey.

The current version of the HappyBots was a result of the central computer purposefully fracturing its subroutines and then using them to animate individual robots. The puppeteer had not only become the puppet, but the entire puppet show, complete with characters talking among themselves. Any sensible person would have called the HappyBot computer insane. However, the HappyBots hailed from the Happyverse, where their current Master cared little for psychological stability of his assets as long as a smile was on the face, a spring in the step, and orders were followed without question upon pain of Unhappy Things.

The HappyBot computer especially liked the robot it had designated BigBoss. Originally BigBoss had been designated as the primary interface with Master (and other entities of lesser importance), but over time the role had evolved to the point where BigBoss was the main focus of the central computer's subroutines. The puppeteer had essentially been subsumed by its puppets...it was a plot only a Midnight Insomniac Movie could love.

"Tickles-A," sternly squeaked BigBoss, "why did you not bring this information to me/our attention sooner?" The diminutive HappyBot hovered in front of a much larger conspecific, like a hummingbird confronting a hawk. The words were conveyed by radio, as suitable for vacuum, but because they were only understandable by another HappyBot, they are thus rendered to sensibility.

The robot Tickles-A hung its head, or at least gave the impression as the lack of neck made the gesture physically impossible. "Sorry, Boss, but I was multitasking at the time." Tickles-A was the embodiment of the subroutines responsible for deciphering automatic Borgy subspace transmissions. Unless specifically silenced, all Borgy vessels broadcast a short-range, unencrypted "Hello, This Vessel's Designation Is -" message. So it seemed the Unhappyverse Borg did as well, although at a different frequency. "There was the rootbeer lollipop formula, then assignment as an attacker, and finally that spatial anomaly. I had seen there was an ID hit, but assumed it was the Borgy vessel, of which we already knew. I am sosososo sorry. There was a tricky phenol linkage, you see, to a carbon backbone precursor I was considering..."

As the explanation trickled to silence, BigBoss backed away. "You are forgiven, this time. The lollipop flavors are very important, after all, on par with our other tasks. Still, if I/we had been aware the Borg cube was Exploratory-class Cube #347, the one for which we search, we would have destroyed it outright, followed by the Borgy ship, not tried to slice it up for its vinculum."

"Can I go back to the rootbeer formula, BigBot Boss?" asked Tickles-A hopefully.

"Yes, yes," waved BigBoss in dismissal.

The carrier was recuperating and strategizing approximately ten light years from the site of the near-disastrous brush with the spatial phenomenon. Sensor data of the event was still being analyzed, but return to the spot was now an imperative. The status of the Borg cube had to be ascertained! If it was a confirmed termination, then other tasks assigned by Master beckoned, especially as He had never explicitly prohibited killing any local Borg which might inadvertently impede ultimate success. And if the target had survived, then the HappyBots would ensure that survival to be short-lived.

"Maximum Speed of Happiness, with sparkle overdrive, back to Cube #347," spoke BigBoss to both everyone and itself, "but stop a joyfully proper distance of a quarter light year away to scan before final approach." Pause. "And provide an update on the Master's new Play Palace during the transit."

The HappyBot carrier slipped into a spatial subspace subband, leaving behind an extra sparkly afterimage that none were present to see.

*****

::So you can see,:: said Bo as he lifted a delicate teacup to the region of hair hiding mouth and proceeded to sip the contents therein, ::it is very understandable why I was in such a mood when I emerged in this universe. Say, have you any biscuits to go with this marvelous cuppa?::

There was the shimmer and hum of a transporter beam, and 120 of 203 appeared, chef's hat atop head, with a tray of dainty pastries. Cube #347 did not host free-willed alien visitors often, either because they were destined for assimilation else were of that class of beings the sub-collective wanted to get rid of as soon as possible. It was even rarer for a visitor to request tea while chatting; and 120 of 203, ex-chef who now had no one to appreciate his post-assimilation pastry creations, was only too happy to oblige.

::What is this yellow, flakey one?:: asked Bo, one of his three tentacles pointing at an offering.

"Lemon chiffon," promptly replied 120 of 203, "and beside it is a wide selection of tarts and traditional biscuits. However, if you desire something different, may I suggest the dark one on the end: it has been adapted from a species #9228 recipe and includes chocolate, jalapeno, and several savory spices."

"Is this a teahouse?" asked Captain acidly.

Nearby, MC sniffed, "Obviously it is not. You need curtains for a proper teahouse, and knickknacks on shelves. There is no decor at all in this nodal intersection; and very little on this vessel in general. A string of lights, a splash of paint...are you sure you aren't interested in the pentabytes of bodacious interior decorating files, suitable for creation of any party atmosphere you desire, that we could supply?"

"Yes," tersely answered Captain. At the same moment, Bo took a lemon chiffon square and one of the special biscuits, placing them on the nearby teaservice tray. Satisfied, 120 of 203 vanished in another transporter beam.

Bo sipped his tea.

Bo was not a Trans-Dimensional Beast, but something potentially worse: an entity from a race on the cusp of transcendent omnipotence. The godlike powers were developed and a new species name had already been decided upon ('C' because all the sexy letters like 'Q' and 'V' and 'X' were already taken, and who, frankly, wants to be 'P' for all of eternity if better offerings were available?). Then, according to Bo, on the last day of the last year of the grand celebration prior to official transcendence, Something had happened.

That Something, capital 'S', had involved several naughty swearwords; an inside-out-twisted sensation; and several ghostly eyeballs, lips, and odd floating cloaks. Then an explosion, followed by nothing. As Bo /had/ been heavily participating in the bash, he had, in the muzziness of a mind moments from passing out, regarded it as a side effect of the colorful drink he had been imbibing.

Then the next had dawned, or, rather, not dawned. Instead of waking up to the stale smell of too much party and notification that the multiverse Transcendental Board of had officially accepted Bo's race as C, there had been darkness. Actually, worse than darkness, for dark implies light; and the place was in fact nowhere, limbo, the microscopic dimension between 'branes, the no-time found between one universal tick and the next. Panicking, Bo had concentrated, utilized his godlike powers, and dragged himself to a new somewhere.

Unfortunately, that somewhere, whilst vastly preferable to the Nowhere, was not his home universe; and no matter how widely he stretched his mind or loudly he called, he could not find any of his race.

At that point, Bo had begun to slide between universes. Time had become meaningless, assuming the concept could have been translated between an entity on the cusp of C-ness and a slightly-more-advanced-than-pond-scum being as represented by Borg (and Borgy). Bo had slowly come to the worrying conclusion that something - something horrible - had happened to his home universe; and while he was unsure why he survived, it was his hope to find others of his race.

::Slipping between multiverses is harder than it seems,:: continued Bo as he placed the lemon chiffon bar into hidden mouth. The act of eating did not affect his speech as the latter appeared to be a mind-to-mind process. ::It is especially true if one is naked to the ether, traveling sans vessel and forced to spend attention and energy on self-protection. I never liked the process when I first received my learner's permit; and I still don't like it because I develop bad travel sickness. You saw what I was like when I appeared: cranky and uncivilized.

::And compliments to the chef on this lemon bar.::

120 of 203 materialized. "Thank you. I have selectively assembled a number of herbal based remedies - teas and hard candies - which may..." 120 of 203 trailed off as Captain glared at him, both externally and via the intranets. "I shall discuss options with you later." He vanished once more.

There was an uncomfortable silence, then Bo asked, ::Have you chaps heard of anyone like me around hereabouts?::

"No," replied Captain flatly.

"Can't say I have," brightly said MC, the bobble on the top of his current hat wobbling gently as he shook his head.

Bo's eye swiveled as he looked at first one drone, then the other. The lidless eye continued its roving examination of the nodal intersection, apparently for the first time taking in the gray, functional walls and the almost subliminal sparkle of holograms detailing what was the host sub-collective's stream-of-consciousness. Eye returned to the not-quite-twins before it. ::You are the same, but different, aren't you?:: The question was delivered with a trace of accusation as the second biscuit was consumed.

"Different tau vector,:: chorused Captain and MC in unison.

"And a mite more relaxed and partysome vector," continued MC. "I, and my sub-collective, are from the Happyverse. As far as can be determined, the Happyverse and Unhappyverse split when-"

Captain interrupted, "Irrelevant. There is a task to complete, if only to rid this vector of your presence and allow us to return to our much more important activities. This conversation wastes time." A wordless reminder, originating primarily from Second, caused Captain to swiftly soften his rhetoric: omnipotent (or nearly so) beings did not always take kindly to the grand brush-off. "If you wish to continue this discussion, do so with MC aboard the other cube."

"Um..." began MC hesitantly.

Captain swiveled his head to look directly at the other consensus monitor and facilitator. "If this is an excuse revolving around your party quotient..." voiced Captain in a flat voice that nonetheless conveyed threat, assuming one was speaking to oneself and could recognize it as such.

Bo watched the exchange with a fascination reserved for beings whom are in no danger of assimilation.

MC raised his whole hand, the abrupt action jiggling bobble hat. "It has come to my attention Bo might make your, er, our task easier. You saw how he accidentally scattered the HappyBots. If would be, like, really ultracool if he could terminate them over a distance, then there would be no need for the bogosity of closing with them."

Two sets of eyes (well, technically two eyes and two optic implants) turned to regard the trans-dimensional visitor.

::You mean those robots?:: asked Bo. Tentacles waved. ::Oh, I couldn't do that, even if they are horrid little things. I'm a pacifist, like the rest of my race. The Transcendental Board is very strict on such matters; and that particular line item was, frankly, the main thing that held up our application for centuries. Accidents are one thing, or being tricksy or the like, but I couldn't /deliberately/ harm anyone or anything. And our race also decided to take the non-interference clause in regards to unenlightened species, unlike /certain/ entities (*cough*Q*cough*) I will not mention.::

"Dude, that may be a problem," conceded MC.

Captain frowned. Transporters hummed, only this time it was not 120 of 203 who appeared, but two heavily armed drones who were visually lacking in the neck department, and cranium thickness to brain size ratio was questionable. A third unit also arrived, several heartbeats behind, nondescript except for the aura of pervading depression tempered with a glimmer of cautious expectation.

As drones one and two grabbed MC's arms, Cube #347 raised shields. Simultaneously, a variety of lethal weaponry powered up, all of it aimed at the only other vessel present: the Happyverse Comedy-class Cube #347. The Borgy cube sluggishly responded, raising its much weaker shields and starting a defensive spin.

::Teatime theater!:: exclaimed Bo eagerly.

Captain ignored the visitor's words, focusing on his counterpart. "What are you not telling us? If you do not respond, Assimilation-" a hand gestured to drone three "-will extract it from you. If may be a bit metaphysical, extracting data from a unit who is essentially me, but Assimilation can use my schematics as a start point, so the process may be relatively easy. Survival of the unit, intact, is not assured."

MC looked one way, then the other. "Take a chill pill! I'll relay the information without the need for theatrics or lasing open my skull." Arms were released. With a sigh of disappointment, Assimilation vanished, followed by the tactical unit pair. "Don't you keep your BodyDude on joy juice?"

"Information. Now."

"Fine, fine. Someone has to work on their attitude, though. The HappyBots and their associated technology are based upon Star Empire relicts found by the Federation of Fun. Specifically, a pseudo-lifeform called a Plushkin."

Internal alarms sounded throughout the sub-collective. "A fuzzy toy, about so large-" Captain held out his hands to indicate a volume suitable for a soccer ball "-which is an emotional parasite?"

"Hey! You know of them!"

"Yes," said Captain flatly. He did not offer details.

"Well...okaaaay, then. Having already adapted the Happifier from the Joegonotization ray, the Federation of Fun knew a bit about the manipulation of emoticons - emotion wave-particles. After dissecting the Plushkins, their scientists were able to further the technology, cumulating with the HappyBots. The HappyBots are able to manipulate emotions, and as we Borgy do not have much in the way of emotional or empathic defenses, they make the perfect Borgy-killer. The catch is that HappyBot technology requires short range, so they must be engaged from afar...except using long distance weaponry allows enough time for HappyBots to blink away at the Speed of Happiness, among other defenses."

"The HappyBots are a Happyverse phenomenon. Earlier you claimed that they had been set to attack this sub-collective specifically. How did they gain the ability to cross to /this/ universe? When we left the Happyverse, the jump drive was under the control of you and the rebels." Captain paused as conjectures attributable to no single Borg wafted about the dataspace winds. Tone turned accusatory, "It wasn't the rebels, /was/ it?"

MC looked down at his feet, body posture that of a child who knows a lecture is forthcoming. "The HappyBots took the drive from us, from the Partymatrix," confessed the Borgy. "It isn't like we were /expecting/ an attack of HappyBots, after all. You see, the version of jump drive we had acquired had all these lights and such; and it wasn't like we, the Borgy, wanted to use it to visit some uncool place that wasn't the Happyverse. Therefore, it was kinda adapted for use in the discotheque."

"The discotheque." Captain's voice was flat.

The silence in the nodal intersection was worse than a lecture. MC looked up once at the Unhappyverse version of himself, saw something that he recognized as unpartysome, and returned to staring at the floor. He added in a very small voice, "The Partymistress wanted her light back, so we were sent. It /was/ a really good discotheque light."

::These HappyBots do not sound very nice,:: inserted Bo into the conversation. Eyes shifted to look at the hairball. The almost-C had not been precisely ignored, but rather classified as irrelevant by all present. ::Emotional vampires of a sort. Oh, I /so/ dislike that type of ilk.::

Bo's arms began to wave as agitation level visibly raised. ::Using empathic abilities for offensive purposes is wrong. Once upon a time, long ago during the dawn of my species, aliens came to my planet and enslaved my race. Those histories which remain say that the aliens used emotions to "convince" us to do their bidding. Fear, rage, joy, jealousy, all was perverted by them.:: A teacup shattered, showering porcelain to the deck. Bo did not seem to notice.

::My race was enslaved for a very long time, long enough for traits resistant to the alien empaths to naturally arise in the population. The histories are not overly detailed as to the how, but in the end that trait was strengthened and bred into my entire species. My peop...well, myself, anyway, still retain an emotion-damping aura. It reduces all emotional radiation within a double-arm length of my body. It isn't really necessary anymore; and because it causes a real downer among other species during mixed-racial gatherings, my race don't exactly top the galactic party guest lists. However, the aura serves as a legacy of a long-ago time, and a warning.::

"Um, warning to whom?" asked MC cautiously.

Bo shook himself. Hair which was on end was slowly returning to its normal lank state. He was muttering low to himself, apparently unaware he was still broadcasting his 'speech' to all present, ::Calm down. Calm down, Bo. That was long ago. Genocide is not an acceptable option anymore. You are a civilized being. The robot creatures are just distasteful robot creatures, not...them.:: Bo pivoted slightly to face MC, ::Did you say something?::

MC hastily raised a hand, "Never mind."

Bo brought the tentacle which had been holding the teacup before his eye. ::Oh dear. I am /so/ sorry. I don't normally go around breaking teaservice sets like that. Here, let me make you a new one.:: A soundless *snap* echoed in minds; and a new teacup, alike the old, was held by Bo. ::I do hope this works.::

There was silence, then Captain answered, "That teacup is just fine."

Mollified, Bo poured another cup of tea and returned to his previously silent observations.

Captain returned attention fully to his Borgy counterpart. "Now, where were we with you providing us with /complete/ information concerning the HappyBots and this situation?"

MC abruptly stiffened. "Whoa. That is very uncool," he said, but not in response to Captain's question. "If you could, like, drop your shields so I can return to my cube, that would be groovy."

"Why?" asked Captain suspiciously. Within the intranets, Sensors had begun pinging for attention; and at the same time, an inscrutable stream of data from the grid was disrupting several command and control threads.

MC cocked his head, sending bobble to, well, bobbling. "Sensors is yammering about blue puppies and green swirls and happy yellow faces. I/we are not quite sure what she sees, exactly, but it is likely a party-crasher and it would be most excellent if this junior partymaster is aboard when my cube boogies out of here."

Puppies, swirls, and faces...Captain peeked at the grid data, then shuffled it to a holographic venue. A small icon of Cube #347 blossomed in the center of a spherical volume, the Borgy vessel set just off-center. A whirlpool of angry green was spinning approximately a quarter light year away, orbited by running dogs of dark blue; and spherical yellow smiley faces were fountaining from the center of the maelstrom.

"That's exactly right, even the eye-watering bits!" exclaimed MC. "Maybe I should look into installing holoemitters in my rumpus room, instead of the screen."

{It seems it doesn't matter what version of Sensors one considers: they all think alike and are equally unintelligible,} noted Second.

Captain absently agreed with his backup consensus monitor and facilitator, even as he asked aloud, "You recognize the phenomenon? If so, relay what it is."

"Oh, that's easy. No need to go all Happymaster on me. No clue on the puppies or the swirl, but the happy faces, usually, indicate Speed of Happiness. Except when they don't. The only thing around here with Speed of Happiness drives are our not-so-friendly Mr. Roboto dance partners."

As the swirl grew in intensity, Captain asked, "How did you plan to destroy the HappyBots considering your alledged inability to effectively deploy your short and long range weapons?"

"Do /you/ argue with /your/ Partymistress?" rhetorically responded MC. "The impossibility of the task was not a factor. Besides, since the HappyBots want to terminate /you/, it was through that would be a good motivator for you, yes, with /your/ better weapons, greater resources, and higher efficiency-" (Captain ignored the snort with echoed in the intranet background) "-for you to maybe - Hey! Now I definitely must protest: you interrupted the concentration necessary in mixing a batch of mud for the pits, and now we have to start all over!"

Ceasing rotation, Cube #347 had latched a tractor beam onto its Borgy counterpart. Admittedly, it had required several attempts, but it had been accomplished. The Borgy shield had been no hindrance, scan and subsequent analysis matching its subtle modulations to a pre-Dark algorithm filed amidst the immense tactical dataset. The Borg Collective in general (and Weapons in particular) had never been one for discarding information, no matter tactical obsolence. The tractor beam had burned through shields as if they were not there; and it now served as an anchor point for two additional tractors.

The most difficult thing, at this juncture, was keeping Weapons from engaging the oh-so-tempting target which loomed large in the sensor grid, friend or foe status irrelevant.

"We must retreat to a more secure position to consider tactics," relayed Captain mechanically. His split attention was largely focused inward, and specifically upon Weapons and his hierarchy, where the phrase 'advance in the opposite direction' was being emphasized. The consequence was a degradation in such social irrelevancies like tonal inflection. "You will accompany us to, one, relay /all/ information known about HappyBot and emoticon technology, and, two, function as a supplementary shield."

"Do we have a choice?" asked MC without much conviction.

"No."

Dismissed to a peripheral issue considering more immediate problems, Bo inserted himself back into the sub-collective span-of-attention as he set his teacup upon the teaservice and cleared his throat. ::Eating and running is incredibly impolite. Perhaps I can be of assistance - in a pacifist manner, of course - as repayment for your hospitality, tea, and, above all, your most excellent biscuits.::

*****

A quarter light year from the linked cubes, the HappyBot transport solidified into Einsteinian reality with what could only be described as a visual giggle. While the two sides could 'see' each other in real time, technomagic conquering the limitations of traditional light-constrained optics, engagement (other than by verbal taunts) was out of the question. Not even the Borg, with more than eight millennium of experience adapting stolen technologies, had devised a successful supralight-speed systems to deploy against ultra-long-distance targets.

For instance, conventionally powered torpedoes allowed a dodge reaction time which was measurable in months, if not longer. Not even Pakled (okay, except for those two times) could be expected to remain in place, unbored, long enough to be struck.

After several minutes of staring at each other from metaphorical mountain tops situated on opposite sides of a valley, the HappyBot vessel vanished...only to reappear several million kilometers from its twin targets.

Cube #347 immediately spun to place its captured Borgy counterpart between itself and the danger, a massive shield. However, it quickly became apparent that the configuration was unworkable, at least by the offensive point of view. An initial volley of torpedoes spat from launchers NOT directly facing the Comedy-class cube failed to arc towards the target. Next, Cube #347 began to awkwardly spin, attempting to pirouette with a mass equal its own. Unfortunately, as any beginning shot-putter knows, such an arrangement can very quickly get out of hand.

The cube pair whirled faster and faster. After several test torpedoes, none of which went towards the HappyBot carrier due to target lock issues, Cube #347 conceded defeat in light of more pressing problems. As hard as the spin had been to start, inertia guaranteed it would be equally difficult to cease; and while 'letting go' was an option, it would also lead to extremely serious consequences. The Borgy cube deployed tractors of its own, locking itself to its partner, just in case the other ultimately decided to take the chance of release.

Taking advantage of the crippling dilemma faced by its adversaries, the HappyBot transport began to close. At first the motion was tentative because it was most vulnerable (although not unprotected) when it was within the long-distance weapons envelope. Confidence quickly built, however, as it became apparent that neither Borg nor Borgy could respond to the provocation. Soon...soon the HappyBots could fulfill one of the assigned tasks, allowing concentration to be focused on other, more fun (not that blowing stuff up was not) matters.

Then, as the transport was entering extreme effective emoticon range, as Cube #347 and Cube #347 seemed destined to mutual jellification of crew when inertial dampers inevitably failed, Something happened. That Something took the form of a giant, semi-translucent hairball with a single eye, resembling a cheap and not very convincing special effect. The transitory image encompassed the cubes; and there was the sound of snapping fingers. Borg and Borgy vanished.

And reappeared five light years away.

The HappyBot vessel slowed to a halt. It seemed there was something more to consider than just Borg.

*****

Captain was angry. Well, not precisely angry, that emotion, like all others, a pale version compared to pre-assimilation. Regardless of actual terminology, Captain was angry, was frustrated, was a mirror to the dark mental turmoil which roiled the sub-collective, and especially weapons hierarchy. Had there been a connection to the Collective, or even a mostly working vinculum, the storm would have been dampened, eliminated, leaving behind cold logic. Unfortunately, there was no linkage, only the Borgy Cube #347 sub-collective to serve as an outlet.

"Why didn't you do anything?" demanded Captain to the image of MC, the question capping a fifteen minute rant which had ranged from the inadequacies of Borgy technology to the inferior quality of drones to be found in the Happyverse (never mind many of those drones in the case of Cube #347 had counterparts on the rantee version). Throughout the one-sided conversation the transmission had included a secondary visual stream featuring Weapons making questionable gestures at appropriate times, but no effort had been made to repress the irrelevancy. After several long seconds with no answer except a statue-still MC featuring a fez and a too-neutral expression, Captain spoke again, "Answer us."

A water balloon, perhaps the Borgy equivalent of an elbow nudge, flew fro the left side of the screen to impact MC's head. The consensus monitor and facilitator blinked, then opened his mouth to say something, but there was no sound. An impression of 'Oops!' flashed over his face, present one moment and gone the next; and then a verbal response was made. "Are you done? Could you repeat the question? Like, the volume was muted and I'm not too good at reading my own lips, although your BoomBoom was entertaining."

Captain sucked in his breath for a scathing reply, then realized that he was channeling Weapons. Blocking that connection allowed much of the turmoil to abruptly drain away, although general background sub-collective emotional strain continued to color his perspective. "Why did you not assist by shooting at the HappyBots?"

"Before or after we were whirling around like an out of control carnival ride?"

"Any time."

"Well, before targeting lock ability was lost, we already knew we could not do anything. Their Happy Shields were up and we hadn't finished conversion of the munitions manufactory to aluminum products: it was still set for cracker and firework loads. And then, even if we had been ready, the comment you made at, um, 5.2 minutes into your rant was correct in that our offensive weaponry is not exactly up to snuff compared to yours." MC reached up to adjust his fez slightly.

"Aluminum? What does aluminum have to do with anything?"

Bo, still on Cube #347 in Captain's nodal intersection, having found the unfolding drama to be an amusing distraction to his personal problems, excitedly waved his arms. Captain would have preferred the entity elsewhere than the cube, and especially the intersection, but moving a (nearly) omnipotent being against its will was not possible, nor advised. Therefore, Captain had responded in standard Borg manner by ignoring Bo. Bo, however, was not to be ignored. He spoke, "It's a well known fact that aluminum inhibits emotional or empathic attacks and mind-altering rays, similar to the relationship between lead and radiation. Aluminum was used extensively by my species as a mental shield during our fight for liberation from our oppressive slavers so long ago; and there is even an ancient aluminum hat worn by Trigon the ExtraSpecial on display in the World History Museum." Pause. "Well, was on display, before the Incident, anyway."

"Aluminum is necessary to disrupt shields, and you did not tell us?" persisted Captain as Bo's ramblings were paid no heed. The question was less question and more demand.

MC sighed. Even his hat looked dejected. "You appeared to be having so much fun, and it seemed a pity to interrupt." MC paused, the next words dying before they emerged, the Borgy recognizing something in the deadpan expression of his counterpart. He verbally backpedaled with haste, "Aluminum is not necessary, but it helps."

"How can you know? By your own admission, Borgy have never fought HappyBots before."

The reply from MC was aggressively defensive. "Borgy /did/ assimilate engineers who worked on the HappyBot project, back during Fun War IV before the Collective self-destructed in adverse reaction to happification. We aren't total doofus-heads, no matter what I know I would be thinking if I were you and I am you, sort of. Of course, the information was put into deep storage since the HappyBots were never deployed. If uninvited guests don't show, why bother worrying about them? We may not be the top of the heap compared to /some/ cybernetic beings, but we /do/ know the secret of perfect balloon animals, the top ten configurations for a mosh pit, and that HappyBots and aluminum do not mix."

{Wonderful,} commented Second as an aside, {I now know whom to contact should a herd of balloon dogs be required to combat evil clowns run amok.}

Captain's eyes lost focus as the Borgy's piecemealed revelations were considered, implications drawn. "Let us summarize," began Captain, the plural unconsciously utilized while attention remained more internal than external, "we cannot close to energy weapons range because of the emotional field; and we cannot shoot from afar because we need aluminum-coated torpedoes or other projectiles to be effective." No mention was made that simply hitting the target from an extreme (or moderate) distance was a potential difficulty. "Anything else which has been missed?"

As MC held perfectly still, except for minute fidgeting by his right hand, Captain looked at the tactical display. Eyes, along with the part of his brain which continually monitored the ever-present currents of information flowing in the dataspace ocean, confirmed that the HappyBot signature remained at its original location five light years distant. In the aural background, meanwhile, Bo continued to reminice about his favorite History Museum displays, unconcerned that his audience was not listening. Eyes returned to staring directly at MC.

"Well," relented MC, face absolutely deadpan even as his voice betrayed his hesitancy, "there is one wee, itsy-bitsy, tiny-winey thing-"

{Isn't there always?} quipped Second from the intranet depths.

"-in that all assimilated data indicates the bestest way to stop the HappyBots is to disable the nexus, the primary computer. If you destroy individual robots, they can be quickly replaced: much of the transport is materials labs, industrial replicators, and replicator precursors."

"A Terran analogy has been brought to my attention: this problem is like trying to open a crate when the necessary crowbar is packed inside." Captain recapped his earlier summary, word for word, including the new datum, "We cannot close to energy weapons range because of the emotional field; and we cannot shoot from afar because we need aluminum-coated torpedoes or other projectiles to be effective; and the most effective method to stop the HappyBots requires us to already be on their vessel."

"That sounds about right," brightly said MC. After a few long seconds of holding a rictus of a false smile while being assaulted by a recriminating stare from his Unhappyverse self, he wilted. "Dude, this situation is like so uncool; and you are not helping. Assuming we survive - which is not a given - the Partymistress will require us to undergo months of neural realignment sessions of the party sort before the Collective will allow us to fully - well, as fully as we are ever allowed - relink."

Suddenly an alarm sounded, a squealing, honking cacophony like that of a flock of ducks being strangled. Captain tilted his head slightly, looked inward. The long-distance sensor display was replaced by a detailed model of Cube #347's immediate environment, multiple color and false texture combinations denoting the routine encounters of the vessel with cosmic phenomenon ranging from gamma rays to micrometeoroids. Thirty meters off face #2 spun a very slow moving blob of pulsating red.

::What is it?:: shouted Bo, temporarily overriding intranet chatter. As the alien did not speak aloud, the increase in mental volume was unnecessary. The response was obviously a hardwired reaction shared by most species to raise their voice in the presence of increased ambient noise.

The alarm abruptly ceased. "It is a rock!" replied Captain, voice overloud in the suddenly quiet nodal intersection. The vessel vicinity display altered as the blob shattered into smaller, high velocity blobs which subsequently began to disappear one by one. Continued Captain at a more appropriate volume, "It was a rock. Weapons is now reducing the rock into dust. Sensors continually scan for lower-velocity objects with the potential to cross shields. Shields are excellent at stopping radiation and high-velocity projectiles, but abysmal when it comes to low-velocity shuttles carrying soldiers, red-shirted officers from Starfleet flagships, hackers wanting to field test their newest malware virus, and college students who accepted stupid bets while drunk."

"You have that problem too?" asked MC from the communication feed. "We don't dare pass within one hundred light years of certain major academic institutions during their respective breaks, else we spend the next month finding students and kicking them off the ship." The Borgy became contemplative, "Of course, that's also how the Collective has found some of its most excellent drones: college students really know how to party."

Although there were many ways to breach defenses and access Borg vessels, low-velocity shuttlecraft were no longer an issue. That particular problem had been finally recognized and appropriate scanning protocol changes made during the Hive Era. Captain did not relay that particular nugget of Borg history to his counterpart, however, its revelation irrelevant given the circumstances.

::Fascinating,:: said Bo, but if in response to MC's lament or a partially coherent thoughtstream originating from the local sub-collective, it was unclear.

The long-distance scan display returned to central prominence in Captain's nodal intersection.

On the Borgy vessel, DJ staggered by in the background, partially wrapped in a stick, stringy substance. One arm remained free, bearing a parody of a gun, bright colors and oversized magazine arguing against lethal functionality. DJ stopped, then using MC as a partial shield, raised the weapon to aim at something out of the picture frame. Finger tightened. Confetti abruptly filled the screen, backwash of the multicolored paper whirl hiding MC and his backup.

Captain internally groaned as he rolled his eye. A glance over at Bo showed the almost-C raising his teacup in a hopeful gesture. {120 of 203, provide our visitor with more tea and biscuits.} Captain was not being polite, merely exercising prudent self-(sub-collective)-interest: purported pacifist or not, it was not healthy to ignore the requests of omnipotent (or nearly so) beings.

The confetti was wiped from the pickup, not by MC, but by some drone with a demeanor that screamed overworked Engineering unit. Even during the most bodacious party, there was always the need for some poor schmuck to clean the resultant mess. As the drone ducked away, revealed was MC, whole hand holding the fez as it was shook at DJ. Sound abruptly returned, confirming that a lecture was occurring.

"...capture the flag is not appropriate when I am liaising. Not only is it disruptive, it reminds me that this drone cannot participate until after duties are complete. Do you-" the 'you' was plural, despite the fact that only DJ was present "-understand me? Good. Now take your flag and silly string shooters and confetti guns and go elsewhere in the cube."

The nameless engineering drone went by again, this time wielding a push broom. A clear lane emerged in the drift of confetti.

MC glanced sideways, then pivoted his body to face the pickup. "Sorry. That interruption will not happen again. Sometimes a verbal lecture is the /only/ way to emphasize a point." One foot, then the other, was absently lifted in response to an unheard request by the drone performing janitorial duties, confetti underfoot whisked away. DJ vanished in a transporter beam.

Deep in the virtual dataspace depths of the Cube #347 sub-collective, an idea, a notion, a plan blossomed. Elements as diverse as aluminum and shuttles and silly string were melded together. It was not innovation, for which Borg are not well known, but rather adaptation of an extreme variety. As the idea, the notion, the plan was passed between partition and node, it was refined, the unconscious computational whole determining its merit and enacting changes. The final collaborate product finally surfaced, transiting to the aware collective consciousness, flagged for immediate attention of the primary consensus monitor and facilitator.

Captain paused, mouth partially open and words he was to say to MC temporarily overridden. The idea, the notion, the plan crystallized for the Cube #347 sub-collective. Jaw clacked shut as Captain pivoted to face the cube's visitor.

Bo's tentacles, except the one holding a freshly refilled teapot in preparation to pour, waved in questioning expectation.

"We are prepared to provide you with all the tea you can carry, plus the recipe for the special biscuit, if you will assist us with our HappyBot problem," said Captain. One part of him - okay, technically many parts of him, the loudest originating from the weapons hierarchy - strove to reconfigure the request into the more typical this-is-how-it-will-be demand. Fortunately, the self-preservationist parts of the Whole won out.

Bo set down the teapot. ::I don't want to hurt anyone, not even nasty robots.::

"Leave that to us," assured Captain, "we only need an escort."

*****

The two cubes - Borg and Borgy, although it was the former which was of greatest interest - were retreating. Far from feeling satisfaction at having enemies on the run, the HappyBot computer, and thus all the HappyBots, was frustrated. For every advance, every sprint the carrier made to close to effective emotional assault range, the targets matched, playing an increasingly tedious game of keep-away. Of course, at the distance the cubes were forced to maintain, the transport's countermeasures had thus far proved to be a more than effective defense. Still, the uncooperative attitude on the part of the targets to be destroyed made for an unhappy computer.

That frustration was translated most strongly to BigBoss. The computer had effectively abandoned the hardware into which it had been originally installed, leaving behind a shell of pretty blinking lights. The distribution of itself was complete, the computer now spread among a body of thousands of individuals, ostentatiously to better compartmentalize itself and increase efficiency on projects assigned by the Master. It retained need of a nexus point, however, of which the BigBoss unit fulfilled. Besides, it was /so/ much more fun to be mobile and see from thousands of eyes than to sit in one extremely boring, if well armored, room.

The transition to ultimate split personality complete, the HappyBots had temporarily put aside considerations of Fun Palace architecture and lollipops to concentrate on the Borg issue. The earlier escape, and especially the unknown specter, had not so much been dismissed as unimportant, but rather categorized as outside the scope of programming. Perhaps the Borg of the Unhappyverse had a new technology; or perhaps the Borgy had devised a larger-than-life hologram...there were too many possibilities to dwell upon. Instead focus had been placed upon building new HappyBots, tuning emotimitters for maximal effect, preparing countermeasures, and overall girding nonexistent loins for battle. Once everything had been declared ready, the carrier had unceremoniously sped away at Speed of Happiness, taking battle to the two dots loitering a mere five light years away.

Only to experience increasing frustration as the dots, resolved as two cubes, did not welcome the chance to be transformed into their inevitable fate of scrap metal.

BigBoss pounded a wall of his command cum television studio cubicle, leaving behind a dent. The other HappyBots present floated backwards a few centimeters, a few scraping their backsides on the walls. The individual semi-autonomous algorithms comprising the whole, as expressed in the pseudo-personality of the robot each 'wore,' had no wish to unglamorously and unhappily end useful existence, or at least be forced to go to maintenance, by becoming a punching bag for what was in essence itself.

It was all a bit metaphysical, more than a little confusing, and totally irrelevant to the story at hand. Mostly.

"There's, um, something incoming, too slow to be another torpedo or railgun projectile. It appears to be a shuttle covered in aluminum foil," tentatively said Giggles-3 to BigBoss from its position at the periphery of the room.

BigBoss sounded a synthetic snort, followed by a raspberry, as the sensor data was appraised. Because of the aluminum, it was not possible to count lifesigns; and even the shuttle itself required the equivalent of squinting to resolve satisfactorily. "So they think they can use /that/ trick on us? Destroy it!"

The carrier was not totally without close-range offensive weapons. After all, errant meteoroids and suicidally ramming vessels rarely react to even the highest emotico setting. Low-powered phasers lanced out as the glittering shuttled entered range, triggering an explosion as the antimatter containment field of the small vessel's power source was breached.

"Organic residue and cybernetic signatures among the debris. No living Borg," reported Giggles-3.

"Obviously the target thinks us stupid. Increase power to engines another 5% - pedal to the metal. And get someone in here to redecorate my cubicle, pronto: shag is so ten minutes ago."

*****

127 of 230 impotently watched as yet another of her precious racing shuttles was transformed into scrap. Faster than she could rebuild her collection, faster than she could assemble new ships from their kits, they were used for target practice. Or substituted for a probe. Or taken for joyrides and parked on some desolate planetoid when the pilot was forcefully returned to the cube. 127 of 230's unhappiness at the latest loss to her personal fleet radiated throughout the sub-collective.

"See, I said it wouldn't work," commended Second calmly to Captain. Aside from a lone camera, previously attached to the aluminum-foiled shuttle's surface and now tumbling aimlessly, still transmitting, the only view of the small vessel was from Cube #347 sensors.

The hologram showing the expanding cloud of debris, liberally spiked with replicated organics and spare cybernetics from drone maintenance inventory, was dismissed.

Stalking through a hallway distant from Second, Weapons' only response was an irritated grumble. He did not like the strategy of retreat; and he did not like the tactic of a decoy. It did not matter that all was a ruse, racing from an enemy, even one with an insurmountable advantage, was not the Borg Way (or, at least, Weapons' Way). His attitude on the plan, backed by many of his hierarchy, was much stronger than the solitary whimpering of 127 of 230. The only thing which kept him from expressing his derision more fully, from putting up more than a token protest against command and control, was the next phase of the scheme.

Captain sent a query trickling through the intranets, receiving the expected replies of readiness from the pinged units. A glance towards the form of his Borgy counterpart, in a pseudo-Roman Hoplite helmet which fit poorly, was sufficient to see a slight tightening of facial muscles, the Moytite equivalent of a nod, the bristling of crest feathers which no longer existed.

"If you do not return," said Second as he accepted the key command datathreads which habitually converged at the sub-collective nexus, "I will be highly despondent. Then I'll probably terminate soon after, along with the rest of the remaining sub-collective, but at least I won't be forced to remain in charge."

Ignoring his backup's remarks, Captain stiffly pivoted to face Bo. "We are ready. Initiate plan alpha."

::Is that the one where I warp space and time to-:: inquired Bo, tentacles anxiously waving back and forth, single eye glinting with uncertainty.

Interrupted Captain, "No. That is plan gamma."

::Oh! You mean the one that involves the hippopotamus, the star whale, and fifty trillion liters of mint chocolate chip ice-cream!::

"That is plan eta-three," said Captain. "Alpha. Plan alpha. The plan where you do as little as possible."

Bo brightened. ::I remember. Sorry, so many plans; and that Weapons fellow with his thoughts aren't helping. I can do that...just let me get my clickers going...:: One of Bo's three tentacles curled around oddly. There was the sound of rubber rubbing against rubber; and, finally, the clear *snap* of unreal thumb against equally nonpresent finger.

*****

It was an invasion! Nine organics had appeared at the stern area of the transport, upon the ventral spine amid the laboratories and other facilities located there. Eight of them had a cybernetic signature, indicating them to be Borg or Borgy or both. However, it was the ninth which was the most distressing: aspects of it were similar to the phantom wind phenomenon and the giant hairball mirage.

"How did those vermin get here?" thundered BigBoss as he flew in a circular track. "We destroyed all three sneaker shuttles before they could pass shields; and both cubes are too far for accurate transport, even if Happy Shields weren't up! /And/ there was no transporter signature to boot!"

There was no answer to the initial question, and nor was one possible. The HappyBot computer did not know and, thus, could not inform itself of the answer. Every scenario it considered concerning the problem was illogical; and much more so than any Vulcan, than the Borg Collective or any derivative Color, the computer could not think outside the programmed box, could not consider what it was not coded to consider. Growth, to become more than the sum of parts, is only possible through free-will. Even the Borg on the level of the Whole (but not individual drones) had free-will and the potential for growth. The HappyBot computer was many things; and in this instance, it was agitated by the illogicality of the situation, unable to comprehend the root of its frustration was its fundamental toaster-esque qualities.

Therefore, the HappyBot computer responded in a tried and true method, one open to all multiverse entities, whatever their origins: it lashed out.

BigBoss halted. "All big bruiser squads are ordered to switch their paint schemes from offense to defense, and to not skimp on the sparkly red. Set emorifles to joyful bliss and eliminate the vermin invaders!"

*****

It was the openness to vacuum which made the HappyBot transport impressive in a way Borg constructions were not. The Borg unquestionably built larger and more massive constructs, but the inevitable geometric shapes looked inward upon rooms and levels and divisions and, above all, drones. Heavy armor precluding windows, hiding the naked majesty of the universe. The modified dry-dock the HappyBots rode as a transport, on the other hand, fostered agoraphobia, structures upon the backbone exposed to vacuum and open ribs arching to dorsal spine, only the rare light casting a pitiful glow.

Too bad none of the entities engaging in the drama - Borg, Borgy, HappyBot - with the exception of Bo could appreciate the philosophical implications in comparative architecture; and Bo as currently distracted by the eight drones whom were intimately invading his personal space, jostling for position within the volume that emotion assault could not penetrate.

{Weenies!} sneered Weapons as yet another of the thus far few seen HappyBot robots abruptly pivoted and ducked around the corner of a brightly painted building. {Weenie weenies!}

{Not even a hope of a shot, after I brought all the party favors,} bemoaned Weapons' Borgy counterpart, BoomBoom. Weapons' opposite wore a kilt and for some reason had half his face painted blue, but was otherwise a mirror image. Their respective abusive personalities had gotten along not like a house a fire, but rather a house /on/ fire, stoked by gasoline. For that reason, the two consensus monitors had immediately placed the pair on opposite sides of the circle around Bo, one glance at each other speaking greater volumes than the limited communications allowed.

Before the excursion, the eight selected for the assault, the largest number able to be comfortably packed within Bo's aura, had been implanted by their respective drone maintenance hierarchies with communication devices. These had been tuned to allow conversation among the eight in a manner normal for Borg and Borgy, yet disallowed the deeper interchanges and routine data exchanges which occurred between sub-collective units. The only other alternative was for one sub-collective to subsume the other unto itself, and that, needless to say, was not an option. Bo, of course, needed no such crude prosthetic and continued to converse in his own fashion.

There was an internal beeping, audible to all within the group. Captain's attention shifted from the cheerful mural of frolicking children and giant carnivorous vegetation which decorated the side of a structure to his weapons hierarchy head. The latter was just beyond the effective edge of Bo's protection. All Borg and Borgy had a similar alarm device, incorporated with the comm-unit. {Weapons, return to position.}

{But-} began Weapons in argument.

{Return,} reiterated Captain. Despite the distance to the cube, the Borg component of the assault group remained well within the range of (non-boosted) transceivers. Therefore, it was more that Captain alone who was ordering Weapons back to his place. The tactical drone sullenly complied.

The group edged forward.

{There's a door,} said MC, {on our side.} He referred to the division of Borgy to Bo's right and Borg to the left, as well as to the closed entrance to one of the many structures upon the backbone.

203 of 212 turned her head to look upon the door, allowing others in the Borg party, as well as the remainder of the sub-collective, to view the find. Like most of the other doors thus far seen, it was bright yellow. It also lacked any distinguishing marks to indicate what might be found inside. And, like most other doors, it vanished as a contact explosive was lobbed at it. The subsequent exhalation of air gave the momentary illusion of sound before the interior equalized with the infinite vacuum of space.

Except for a Borg and Borgy tactical unit left standing guard at the entrance, Bo plus six crowded into the facility.

{It is another chemistry laboratory,} grumbled Weapons. He raised an arm to aim. Heavy glassware and intricate devices which had survived decompression could not withstand a disruptor blast. {Boooooring.}

Nearly all of the facilities the group had thus far broken into had been similar; and what had not been dedicated to chemistry had been little more than shells sheltering intricate models in clay or lego. The labs, such as this one, inevitably included a storage device in which shrink-wrapped, flat, round sugared consumables on a stick could be found. This one was no exception.

One of Bo's tentacles lazily tore open the front of the storage, displaying a strength out of proportion with the size of his arms. A consumable was retrieved, plastic removed, and sent mouthward.

::It tastes like shizoth!:: exclaimed Bo, using a word too alien to be translated, although it did evoke an odd mental mirage of a darkly colored carbonated beverage.

Drones poked at devices and beakers, but it was quite obvious there was nothing of interest, and certainly no Happybot nexus, in the one room structure. Captain conferred with MC; and both agreed it was time to move on.

::Say,:: interjected Bo, ::who's that? That picture has been in every building we've entered, and it is a tad bit creepy.:: This was being said by a (nearly) omnipotent hairball with one eye, three tentacles, and a lollipop stick emerging from the vicinity of a hidden mouth. One arm pointed.

In a place of prominence hung a portrait within a heavy gilt frame. It was a testament to Borg and Borgy narrowness of mind and dismissal of irrelevancies that the cybernetic component of the group had not previously registered the indicated item. The picture was a photo of a dark human in uniform. The bald head was painted yellow; and one instinctively knew that there would be a happy face visible if viewed from above. The 'creepy' part was the half smile, as if the owner knew a deep secret and was contemplating the best way to use it as blackmail. The eyes which, by a subtle trick of holography grafted to the otherwise two-dimensional photo, seemed to follow one around the room did not help, neither.

The picture was that of Cap'n Bennie, former shadow-ruler of the Federation of Fun. Perhaps he wasn't a deposed as had been believed.

Before implications could sink in, and before a puzzled Bo could once more inquire upon a name to his suddenly statue-still comrades, 203 of 212 glimpsed movement along the nearest dry-dock rib. She elbowed the Borgy standing guard with her. Both blinked as they zoomed in upon the motion, resolving many individual robots pained in garish colors.

{Um, I think we are about to have company,} informed 203 of 212.

In very short order, and some more-forceful-than-necessary pushing by certain drones, all were outside the building.

The first wave of HappyBots intersected the spine and began to advance along the central avenue between buildings. Additional robots were likely crowding up the adjacent side-streets. These HappyBots were 2.5 meters talk, much larger than the maximum dimensions provided by the Borgy. Floating as they did above the walkway at a level appropriate if they had possessed legs, the wide-shouldered hulks were quite imposing. Well, imposing if one wasn't omnipotent or did not view all non-Collective entities as insignificantly small. In addition to the ubiquitous happy face branding on the chest of each robot, a multitude of geometric decorations colored otherwise gray metal in hues of brilliant orange, baby blue, canary yellow, and, above all, sparkly rocketship red.

203 of 212 abruptly jogged forward at best Borg speed, ignoring both warning beeps and the call by Captain to return. Bo watched with the same not-quite-aloof interest he had thus far demonstrated, unwilling to directly intervene even as he passively lent his assistance. Lollipop stick busily turned in his mouth. An outside observer would find the scene more than a little surreal, not a sound accompanying actions due to airless vacuum. Several HappyBots at the forefront of the wave raised their rifles; and 203 of 212 abruptly stopped, an unBorg smile of dreamy bliss radiating across her face.

With an almost floating step, 203 of 212 started to turn, disruptor arm languishly raising to aim even as the other limb stretched outward in a parody of a hug. The flash of two disruptors at high power, origination the two Borg tactical units remaining, momentarily hid the scene. A return of sight showed nothing left of 203 of 212 except a cloud of hot ash and energized particles.

::Oh, my,:: commented Bo, ::wasn't that a tad bit harsh for the poor lass?::

Captain turned his head just enough to catch Bo's single lidless eye. {She was...made happy, joyful, unBorg. 203 of 212 could not be returned to the cube for corrective neural realignment and she posed an immediate danger. That danger was eliminated.} The words were clipped, cold, analytical...Borg.

Meanwhile, MC was using the outcome as a lesson, {And there you have the danger of straying. Do not ignore the beeps, even if they don't have a decent dance beat. And if you do, you will be terminated. You will /not/ be invited to join The Grand Party because we are in the Unhappyverse and out of communications with the Party. Do we all understand?} MC was rewarded by a chorus of acknowledgements.

Replied Bo, ::I see,:: even as it was obvious he did not. A triple-arm shrug was performed. ::In that case, I highly suggest none of you go beyond my aura because it is being hit pretty hard by directed emoticons.::

A HappyBot exploded, victim of Weapons' disruptor arm. As parts windmilled away - power had was decreased from disintegration so as to produce satisfactory explosions - a second and third robot joined the first. There was no obvious impact to the HappyBot ranks, whom continued forward, rifles raised.

MC shouted, {No, no, no! That won't work! That's what the party favors we provided are for!} In emphasis, the Borgy consensus monitor and facilitator hefted the weapon he was holding, an odd sight considering the fact he was command and control (or, at least, the Borgy equivalent). The gun looked less like a conventional artifact of lethality and more like an outsized cross between a super-soaker and something one might find on a paintball range. It was also painted a stylish silver and dark blue, with sparkling stars glued along the barrel.

BoomBoom stepped to the forefront edge of Bo's aura and took aim with his Borgy rifle. From the muzzle emitted a thick liquid which hardened upon contact with a HappyBot. As the liquid hardened, it foamed, creeping and flowing around the robot. Soon all which remained was a floating lumpy pink shape from which emerged two antennae and two arms. The cotton candy-esque blob sparkled silver in the diffuse lighting.

{That did a lot,} opinionated Weapons sarcastically as he raised his disruptor arm again.

Captain slapped Weapons upside the back of the latter's head. {Stick to the plan, Weapons,} he warned. His words were backed by a substantial part of command and control.

As the HappyBots continued to futilely fire, unwilling to advance forward for the moment - either they were wary or Bo or, more likely, a trap was in the making - MC added, {We/I are confident that the plan, as adapted to these new anti-HappyBot party favors, should work. Theoretically...}

*****

The HappyBot computer was beginning to feel inconvenienced.

The root of the problem was one of numbers. The computer had long determined the optimal number of units, one which allowed for suitable dispersion of algorithms, yet was not too unwieldy to coordinate. The loss of one, or a hundred, robots was a nonissue, a manufactory ready to birth new units when inventory of pre-built units in storage bays was depleted. Upon activation of the new unit, the key algorithms of the old, as well as memories/experiences up until the most recent backup, were uploaded. For the individual unit, 'life' was continuous except for the occasional memory hiccup.

By disabling units instead of destroying them, the stimuli to trigger new unit activation was absent. The HappyBot pseudo-personality floating like scum atop of lines of immutable code and which was largely embodied by the BigBoss unit knew something was wrong. Unfortunately, primal code insisted everything was okay...numerically-speaking. The devious substance which immobilized HappyBots was just sufficiently impregnated with aluminum flecks that meaningful communication to an affected unit was impossible. On the other hand, sufficient carrier wave remained for one part, the underconscious, to believe the unit remained operational; and as long as that operationality was present, never mind access to the embedded algorithm was lost along with mobility, new units (and relevant algorithms) would not be activated. The active conscious could scream, plead, debate with the undermind, but in the end it was futile.

It never occurred to the HappyBot computer that one way to break the conundrum was to destroy its own entombed units.

With its choices limited, the computer was increasingly backing up its dispersed algorithm network back to a central source: BigBoss. Thus far, nothing important had been lost and overall processing ability affected insignificantly. The pseudo-personality of the computer, which had long centered itself in BigBoss, never considered returning to the machine it had originally inhabited. To do so would be to give up mobility, senses...or at least experience them in an unsatisfying manner.

As more and more algorithms were consolidated in BigBoss, it was perhaps not surprising the robot was becoming twitchy. Its cybernetic systems had not been designed to house an entire AI.

The HappyBot transport slowed, stopped. In response, so did the ostentatiously fleeing cubes. Borg Cube #347, as if purposefully attempting to solicit chase, began to drift towards its opponent. Shields were invitingly dropped.

"Ignore them!" screamed BigBoss. "Until the vermin aboard are exterminated, the rest are unimportant. If they get too close, we can zap 'em, but otherwise take up a defensive posture. There are only seven cyborgs left." The unknown alien was purposefully ignored: thus far, except for floating in the middle of the invaders and probably being the reason emorifles were fairing poorly, it had done nothing. Besides, HappyBots specialized in Borg(y) eradication, not cleaning up hairballs. "Seven! There are over 10,000 units on the carrier! Do the math!"

The HappyBot computer did the math, and was pleased.

"All out attack?" queried Huggable-G.

BigBoss thumped the other robot on the side of the head. "Of course," it said even as another algorithm was added to already overstrained systems.

*****

Captain did the math, and was not pleased.

{Too many structures to check and too many robots to dispose of. At this rate, we will attrit to nothing, else run out of ammunition...and /then/ attrit really fast. Either way, we will fail. We must find a way to speed our search.}

The group was down to six: Captain, MC, Weapons, BoomBoom, and one tactical unit each Borg and Borgy. 20 of 300, Borgy, had stepped into a wire snare and been unglamorously hauled out of Bo's Zone of Unemotion. Borgy, despite their tuning to resist happification, had proven to be no more immune to the emoticon rifles than Borg. Instead of bliss, however, 20 of 300 had been hit by extreme rage; and before MC or BoomBoom could order her destruction, Weapons had summarily dispatched her. Needless to say, there had been words exchanged over that incident, an argument of tactical drone versus tactical drone, neither side willing to back down, even as some HappyBots began to switch to more conventional phasers.

It had taken much cajoling by respective consensus monitors to put the party back in motion.

On the upside, snares were actively sought out; and anything which remotely resembled a trap demolished. Borg /could/ learn.

Bo avidly waved his tentacles, clearly excited at the action despite his supposedly pacifist nature. Eye glinted with forbidden longing; and he could be 'heard' talking to himself, reminding himself that his race, that himself personally, had grown beyond bloodsport.

The HappyBots were clearly stymied. While they had numbers, they lacked decent offensive weaponry. It was obvious that the robots relied heavily upon their empathic-based technology; and when it was blocked, they were slow to switch their emorifles to inadequate phasers. The phasers were easily foiled by personal shields. For some reason, the HappyBots were avoiding firing at Bo, focusing their attention on Borg and Borgy.

:;That tickles,:: giggled Bo as a stray phaser glanced off an arm. The HappyBot who had fired the shot abruptly imploded. ::Whoops...sorry, a Little Moment. I didn't mean to do that, even if you were a nasty robot. Reflex. I'm really a pacifist.::

It seemed that the HappyBots took even greater care to not shoot the almost-C afterwards.

{What, exactly, are we looking for?} demanded Captain of MC as the view through a forced door showed yet another variation of the lego palace. Small people made of colorful plastic bricks were bowing towards an empty throne with a happy face sticker on it.

MC lowered his rifle, head tilting slightly to look at his mirror self. {I don't know,} he admitted, {but I'll know it when I see it.}

Captain waved an arm at the structures which lined the avenue. {We are running out of buildings.}

Borgy unit 177 of 212, already at the edge of Bo's aura as he cocooned a trio of attackers, suddenly tripped. Arms windmilling, he took a few ill-advsed steps forward to recover balance. A wall of HappyBots closed in, blocking sight of the unit from the remaining members of the away team.

BoomBoom and MC winced, and not because of the suddenly bright light.

{They didn't even bother to zap poor 177 of 212,} commented MC. {It was some sort of overpowered taser, I think.}

Three down, five (not including Bo) to go.

Captain wheeled on Bo, causing the latter to abruptly stop. There was the impression of blinking eye even as the orb remained lidless. {Can you assist us by finding the nexus? We'll trade you a shortbread recipe for it.}

::Um....:: Bo sounded tempted, but finally dug in his nonexistent heels, ::No, I'm not supposed to provide help in that way, not even for shortbread. That would be active assistance, while my present actions are passive. Whoops! Mostly passive.::

Perhaps in a bid of desperation, a HappyBot had lobbed a substance at the group. The material had been an oxygen-rich pyrogel, a material capable of burning even in the vacuum of space. While some of the flaming goo had splashed onto Captain and BoomBoom, both closest to Bo, the majority had landed directly on the almost-C. Even before one could conjure up the illusionary scent of burnt hair, the catapulteer and ten nearest buddies had been transformed into small wads of metal.

Bo scooped the gel off his backside. ::I'm not singed, am I?::

Before Captain could answer, MC, at the entrance of yet another building alike the others, called, {I think I see what we are looking for.}

*****

BigBoss watched as one, two, four of the cybernetic vermin pushed through the forcefield airlock and crowded into his room, followed by the odd organic creature. Two of the Borgs? Borgies?, whom looked very similar, had accidentally brushed shoulder to shoulder and were now pushing at each other in retaliation. The final member of the group was lagging behind, so BigBoss ordered the door to snap closed.

Benefit of supporting protection, the Borg (its armor was obviously more advanced than that of the Happyverse Borgies) quickly fell under the combined weight of the HappyBot horde.

"Why do you invade my domain?" boomed BigBoss. Well, he would have boomed had the air in the room approached anything close to standard pressures found on the typical humanoid-crewed vessel. The air was instead very thin; and, consequentially, his voice was reduced to a squeak.

Four of the horrid riffles were leveled at BigBoss. In the background, the hairball alien avidly bobbed up and down as it attempted to gain a clear field of view for itself that did not include armored legs and hips.

"You are the HappyBot nexus...er, dude," said one of the blue eyed almost-twins, a Borgy, voice also altered by the low air pressure. It wore a shiny gold helmet with a plume.

BigBoss decided to interpret the statement as a question. "You can call me BigBoss."

The speaker shot an indecipherable look to its opposite. One might almost think its message was 'I told you so.' The glance was returned by the briefest of rolled eye.

The heavily armored Borg with a disruptor in its arm hefted his rifle. He opened his mouth, closed it again, frowned, then started once more, "The Borgy claim that if we terminate or disable you-" the Borg obviously preferred the former "-then all HappyBots will stop. What is to stop us from doing so?"

The floating alien's tentacles waved.

BigBoss wished he could smile. The Master had a diabolical smile, one part irony, one part joy, all parts sociopath. The HappyBot had to settle for mad scientist laughter, the effect somewhat compromised by its high pitch. A single command was sufficient to trigger defenses.

With a series of booms, thuds, and squeaks, wall panels in the room began to slide as hidden machinery came alive. The building was similar to the others on the backbone strip, nothing to set its exterior apart. However, it /was/ different, not another lollipop lab nor modeling room. The building was the gateway to the central HappyBot computer, or had been before so much of what was the HappyBots had transferred itself to BigBoss. The gateway did retain its original function, however, which was to terminally detain any individuals who might try to force themselves to the computer.

The deadly muzzles of weapons emerged from the walls and aligned themselves with the invaders. There were phasers and plasma arcers, miniature rail guns and poison-tipped dart throwers. There was even a water pistol filled with a fuzzy pink liquid which dissolved organic matter on contact. One of the guns shook slightly, a malfunction causing it to shudder and trickle smoke. With an abrupt burp, it disgorged a stick from which unfurled a banner upon which was printed "BANG!"

BigBoss waved one of its spindly arms. "My little friends will stop you."

"Um, oh," said the provocateur, eyes shifting back and forth. That was about all which could be said of the situation.

BigBoss really, really wished he could smile.

*****

{The bridge club will be recruiting,} noted Weapons in a non sequitur as the sub-collective linkage with 53 of 83 went dead. {None of the teams would take me, last time there was an opening.}

Captain panned the room. {That is because, one, you don’t know how to play bridge; and even if you downloaded the rules, there is, two, the fact that winning is not a matter of beating your opponents about the head with a metal pipe until they withdraw.}

{The Uno society rules did not prohibit it,} sulkily protested Weapons, referring to the incident which had led to his banning by all the card and game organizations of the sub-collective. He then added after a short pause, {At the time, anyway.}

{There are several drones who still have dents in their craniums,} said Captain.

Although the building exterior had not proclaimed the structure to be unlike any of the others thus far searched, the interior was quite different. For one thing, it was brightly lit, overhead lights revealing a clutter of equipment scattered about the main room. Most of the items - cameras, boom mikes, teleprompter - appeared to have a production studio function, although none of the stations were manned (robotted?) at the moment. Also unlike the other buildings, the interior of this one had floor-to-ceiling partitions carving out a series of cubicles at the side opposite the entrance door. A large dent marred the otherwise smooth walls; and a picture of the Master was placed in a position of prominence, alongside a poster featuring a kitten holding onto a branch and the phrase "Hang In There." The only occupant was a single HappyBot.

Arms held wide in greeting, the robot was the same one featured in communications with the HappyBots: none others thus far seen had the same forehead-shot happy face design. However, the visuals had not provided any perspective to reveal the size of the robot, or, specifically, lack thereof. Unlike the attacking horde, the presumed HappyBot leader was only 75 centimeters tall, from bottom of skirt to top of head, excluding antennae. It would almost be comical except for the illusionary grin of the mouth slot which served to temper any sense of amusement.

Behind, Bo was bobbing up and down. ::I can't see very well,:: he complained.

"You are the HappyBot nexus...er, dude," said MC. Captain noted that the low air pressure had altered his Happyverse twin's voice to a higher than normal pitch.

The HappyBot replied, "You can call me BigBoss."

Captain's eye slid sideways to look at MC. {How do you know this is the nexus?}

{Well,} capitulated MC, {before we left the Happyverse, I was implanted with a device to alert me to the nexus. According to the product manual, it intercepts and triangulates upon the central point of the radio frequencies that tie the HappyBots together. Wait, my bad, that is the manual for the RoboBugZapper 2000. The implant was adapted from that and theoretically tuned to HappyBot frequencies. I suppose that if that HappyBot is housing a nest of Neumann Wasps, I might be focusing on them...}

Captain ignored the insect tangent. {You knew the nexus location the entire time we were searching buildings?}

{Don't be such a drama queen! It only works when I'm within ten meters of the nexus,} said MC defensively.

Captain rolled his single eye, returning full focus upon the robot.

Beside Captain, Weapons pointed his anti-HappyBot weapon at the nexus.

{No,} said Captain sharply, {that is not appropriate. Even if Cube #347 were here, it still would not be appropriate.}

Weapons' mouth turned downward in a minute frown. A different set of words were substituted, "The Borgy claim that if we terminate or disable you, then all HappyBots will stop. What is to stop us from doing so?"

From the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, a series of loud noises began to emit. Sections of wall slid aside, revealing the business ends of large-bore weaponry. That weaponry thrust itself forward on gimbaled arms, swinging around to aim at the Borg and Borgy present. The types displayed were several, including both energy and projectile, and more than sufficient to terminally remove the threat represented by four cyborgs. One of the more deadly looking contraptions began to shake, smoke leaking from its bore. When it seemed to be on the verge of exploding, it gave a noisy *BRAWK* and spat forth a plastic flag upon which was written "BANG!"

"My little friends will stop you," said the lone HappyBot.

Weapons' eyes roved the walls, the ceiling, the floor, noting the number of deadly devices pointed at the group. "Um, oh." However, even as he voiced the syllables, he was already considering how to counter the situation, earlier animosity with his Happyverse opposite forgotten as the pair started to devise a plan.

Although it still maintained its confrontational position, BigBoss began to behave oddly. As it yawed fore and back, then twisted side to side, it became apparent the robot was examining the gun emplacements, exaggerated movements necessary for one unable to move a neckless head. "Damn it! I told maintenance to re-install the real guns post-haste after they were cleaned," muttered the robot to itself, just on the edge of hearing. As if realizing that any vocalization was probably not the best action it could have taken, BigBoss straightened itself and began to slowly float towards the back of the room.

MC tilted his head slightly as he observed the robot boss' not-so-clandestine retreat to the cubicle area. The Borgy consensus monitor and facilitator was obviously conversing with his sub-collective; and BoomBoom held the same posture of internalized discussion. That discussion was not passed through the Borg-Borgy comm-link, however, and it was only when heads regained normal orientation that it was clear a decision had been reached. {The Partymistress tasked us with eliminating the party-crashing threat. I will retrieve the nexus and return us to the Happyverse.}

Weapons had sidled over to one of the faux weapons and was now closely examining it. He had dismissed the HappyBot as a threat.

{If you say so,} replied Captain. Something about the situation was not right, but he could not focus on the specific wrongness.

{We say so,} affirmed MC using the collective plural. The Borgy swung his anti-HappyBot rifle around to aim at the nexus. Unfortunately, said nexus had just ducked around a partition. Where was it to go? None of the other structures had sported more than the single entrance door. Ordering BoomBoom over the communal comm-link to remain behind, MC stalked after the vanished robot.

Bo heaved a disappointed sigh. ::Well, that was anticlimactic.::

MC turned the corner. As he did so, new sounds came from behind the walls. The fake gun Weapons had been poking at wobbled, then fell to the ground. It was not alone. Another contraption emerged from the now empty hole, this one more cannon than gun, bore barely small enough to fit through the opening. Weapons backed up one step, then two, disruptor arm raised in offensive defense. Before he could fire, however, the new threat, and three others, coughed.

Nets flew into the air, not expected energy beams nor traditional projectiles. Weighted at the edges, the nets spread wide, looking to engulf and tangle whatever was in their path. What they caught were Weapons, BoomBoom, Bo, and a free-standing camera: Captain had advanced sufficiently into the room that the net gun meant for him had not been able to acquire an adequate target lock given the short deployment time.

{I'm stuck!} exclaimed Weapons as he fell heavily to the floor. The net had a thin coating of pink along the webbing; and there was the distinct smell of fruity bubble gum.

"Mmmm!" groaned BoomBoom, followed by another, more empathic "Mmmhmmm!" While he retained his balance, several strands had wrapped around his face, sealing his mouth shut. Several of the weights had also thumped his jaw; and while broken bones were a small issue for Borg(y), one must have hit the comm implant insertion point in a Murphy-inspired manner for the link with the Borgy had been reduced to faint static. "Mmmmmm!" tried BoomBoom one more time before gravity claimed him as well.

Captain peered around the enmeshed camera, prepared to return to his place of relative safety should another net gun appear.

::There is gum in my hair! Gum! GUM!:: cried Bo into the minds of all assault team members present, plus the whole of the Cube #347 sub-collective (and, presumably, the Borgy vessel as well). Two tentacles were futiley attempting to pull the net from the nearly-C's head...body...self, the third curled in a visually painful position under the mesh. It seemed there were some things that even omnipotence could not cure. ::GUM!! Get it out! Do you know how long it took me to grow out this hair?!::

Captain carefully touched a corner of the net which had ensnared the camera, then pulled his finger away, losing skin in the process. Once more he panned the two downed tactical drones, followed by Bo, the latter of whom was muttering what he would do to the owner of the gum-net-guns if he wasn't a pacifist.

{Looks like it is up to you,} unhelpfully input Second.

Captain hefted the anti-HappyBot weapon. It was an inherently unfamiliar weight, command and control units very rarely required to carry such. {Why me?}

{Well, you are the only drone standing; and then there is the little problem that both Cube #347s are a tad bit too distant to directly assist,} answered Second even as he was well aware the question to have been rhetorical. He received the dataspace equivalent of a skunk-eye.

With one more glance at Weapons (the expletives flowing nonstop through the intranet were a more than adequate measure of his continued functionality at expense of movement), Captain squared his shoulders, purposefully blanked his mind, and followed in the tracks of MC.

The partition-created hallway dead-ended in a cubicle. BigBoss was holding a larger version of the emoticon weapon - it required its own antigravity platform - than what the attackers had fielded outside. Muzzle was pointed at Captain, held at the ready, barrel nearly as long as the robot was tall. MC was standing behind BigBoss, no expression on his face except for a slight smile and a too-blank stare. That was all Captain had time to register as the HappyBot shifted its aim ever so slightly.

"And they lived happily ever after," gleefully sang BigBoss as the firing stud was depressed.

Nothing happened.

BigBoss brought the barrel up before its face slightly and shook it, demonstrating once more the frustrations of having no neck. It then reaimed the device and jabbed the appropriate red button again. For the second time, nothing happened.

Captain, who had slit his eye halfway and stiffened his joints in preparation of something, anything, fully re-engaged his optics and began to advance.

"What is wrong?" muttered BigBoss to itself as it viciously shook the gun and tried again, experiencing the same non-result. "The Mega-Supreme Emorifle(tm) should be working. It /is/ working. Your buddy was zapped perfectly." With each step Captain made, the HappyBot floated backwards an equal distance. Back clanged into MC's front.

Captain paused, whole hand raising to tap at his skull. "Aluminum. My skull, in fact my entire skeletal matrix, has been impregnated with aluminum. It was a /very/ uncomfortable procedure, nanite repair systems or no, which will only be matched when the substance is removed. And it itches."

{Phantom itchies,} insisted Doctor, as he had been doing since Captain's initial complaint following the procedure. {No scratch.}

{I don't care how psychosomatic it is, it still itches. My /bones/ itch.}

{No scratch,} admonished Doctor, threats of a certain type of head collar coloring his voice.

Meanwhile, BigBoss had taken advantage of Captain's pause to duck around MC. Rifle muzzle emerged from the gap between right arm and body of the drone. "Aluminum bones? That is cheating! Borgy aren't sophisticated enough to cheat!"

"We are not Borgy: we are Borg; and imperfect ones at that," evenly replied Captain as he took another step forward. "Cheating is within /our/ repertoire."

The gun was withdrawn. MC stumbled forward, as if he had been pushed. "You are no fun. You don't play by the rules," whined the HappyBot's voice. "Borgy, destroy the Borg."

"I am your slave...your slave of love, oh BigBoss of mine. Whatever you want, with kisses and hugs and a bow on top," dreamily responded MC as he took another step towards Captain, this time of his own violation.

{A little bit of leather...}

{Shut up, Second,} said Captain tersely as he tried to wipe from his mind the images his backup consensus monitor and facilitator had included with the verbalization. This time it was Captain who retreated a step. {Weapons, now would be a very good time to get in here.}

{All tied up at the moment,} grumbled Weapons. The very bad pun, unintentional knowing Weapons, went unremarked by Second or any of the other members of the sub-collective Pun Patrol. It was just as well, considering the tactical drone's current state of mind.

It looked like it was to be an existentialistic match-up. As Captain hefted his only weapon, the anti-HappyBot gun, his Happyverse opposite did likewise. Except for the hat and a wee bit of difference in the tau vector department, the two were (more or less) very similar. Reflexes, modes of thought, what one attempted, the other would surely counter. This was a no-win situation.

Then a cry of pure primal rage echoed everywhere, and most especially in the recesses of the mind: ::GUUUUUUUM! DAMN GUUUUUUM!:: Someone was having a Little Moment.

There was a brilliant flash of white, overloading optics. The only reason Captain knew he wasn't terminated was that he was pretty sure the dead did not maintain an itching skeletal structure. Slowly, and with a lot of blinking and fiddling with ocular controls, white was replaced with black spots, which in turn resolved to cubicle partitions, MC, BigBoss, and oversized emorifle. The primary difference was that MC and the robot had switched places.

::Oh, sorry,:: apologized a familiar voice, ::I don't think I atomized anything or anyone, did I? Other than a small section of this ship that is? Is everyone back the way they were? All parts in place, as they were before that wee Little Moment? I did get the gum out of my hair, by the way.::

Captain stared at BigBoss; and BigBoss stared back at Captain. "Happily ever after?" asked the robot hopefully.

Without a single word, Captain squeezed the trigger on his gun. The air was filled with aluminum impregnated strands of faux cotton candy.

*****

"We're all feelin' much better now. Hooray for apple pie," slurred MC on the communications holowindow. He was wearing a thick aluminum foil hat, the top of which had been twisted into a bent spike. Whole eye blinked at odd intervals, then began to wander as something unseen captured the Borgy's attention. DJ, who had been hovering behind his consensus monitor, reached forward and snapped his fingers several times next to MC's ears. Attention focused, returning to the here and now, mostly. "Yes, this dude is much, much better. Prognosis to full recovery is, like, excellent to the n-th degree"

One did wonder what the previous state had been like to warrant the current display to be a step up.

"Is all secure? Are you ready to leave?" inquired Captain. The brusque questions were not ones of curiosity, but the shared desire by the sub-collective for Borgy to be untangled from nonexistent Borg hair.

MC either had not registered the questions, else he was still operating on a suffciently different wavelength from his sub-collective that he was not functioning fully in the speaker-for-all role. Regardless, he continued an already started conversation, one in which other people played no part. "Doctor-T says that although we are inherently less vulnerable to emoticons due to post-Fun War IV adaptations to prevent happification, we are not immune. Bogus, I know, but thanks for asking anyway, dude. The party-shock therapy has been rough, but Doctor-T has decided that this unit is sufficiently fit to be let out of isolation and returned to normal duties. Mostly." There was a pause, then an explosive, "Duuuuuuuude. Apple pie party on!"

With a faint grimace of distaste that Captain knew too well when Second was forced to act as primary, DJ carefully pushed MC to the side. The latter took two steps before seeming to fall in a reverie where he was definitely more 'there' than 'here.' An odd smile stretched the Borgy's face as he began to mutter an off-key chant or song of sorts, key phrases of which included the words 'girlfriend' and 'hot like me.'

"Yo, not-quite-homeboys! MC still has a number of rehabilitation sessions scheduled," said DJ in way of apology, not that Borg or Borgy would ever actually apologize. The thick chains around his neck slid against each other with the music of gold on gold.

"Are you prepared to leave?" asked Captain again. He was not quite sure the switch in liaisons had been for the best, but then again, MC was now at the edge of the visual pickup performing an odd slow-motion dance which included slapping himself on the rump.

{Second,} said Captain to his backup as an aside, {if I /ever/ start acting anything like that Happyverse version of me, terminate me.} He tried to block the generalized unBorg sense of sniggering amusement which was beginning to permeate the sub-collective, to no avail.

{And leave me running things?} asked Second in mock astonishment. Second was in the nodal intersection with Captain, albeit positioned where the return feed would not show him.

Eye shifted sideways. {Terminate me.}

{This is great footage,} Second replied, although not necessarily to Captain's pleading request. {A bit of editing, and no one would know it wasn't really you.}

Captain closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he was looking once more at the communications holowindow.

The HappyBot transport was currently tractored by the Borgy cube. Following the entombment of BigBoss, the remainder of the HappyBots had fallen quiescent. Such had been a good thing, for ringing the building where the final confrontation had taken place, over a thousand robots had been found. Those at the forefront had wielded plasma cutters, the first of which were already set to metal, and it was apparent the HappyBots had been poised to literally dismantle the building such that a mass rush could occur.

Not even Weapons' most optimistic BorgCraft game (HappyBots, emorifles, and a large number of increasingly unlikely scenarios were recent additions to the dataset) which duplicated the real-life end gambit resulted in anything except the loss of all assault team drones. Bo was not included in any of the scenarios because Weapons felt relying upon an omniscient being, even one who assured that not a single tentacle would be lifted in assistance, was cheating.

"Chill out, homeboys. The HBs are secure, locked to their perches; and the little BigBoss is all wrapped up. We've removed the jump drive from the HB's ship, so they ain't goin' nowhere. It makes the coolest centerpiece for a rave, after all, and we plan to use it as such to lift, lift, lift our party quotient before we have to hand over the goods to the Partymistress."

"You will be using advanced technology as disco lighting," stated Captain flatly. He internally winced as he watched his almost-self wink in a not-so-sultry manner at the two drone maintenance orderlies who had just materialized next to him.

DJ stared at Captain, as if the latter had just asked a stupid question. From the Borgy's point of view, such was probably true. "Lighting is essential to set the right mood, other brothers, but it is believed by this sub-collective that the jump drive is better suited to raves, not discos. We are unsure if the Partymistress will listen to our reasons, though, because they are too serious.

"Yo, if you must insist on being so unPartysome, be knowin' that the HB tech will be closely examined: can't have drones being converted into Fun Federation slaves again, after all. It is also obvious that Cap'n Bennie has something goin' down, likely a something meant to crash our crib as well as yours. If we find anything out, we'll drop you a line. Unless other priorities beckon, of course, like advancement in the field of balloon animals or glow sticks."

Captain's last sight of MC before the primary comm-feed was severed had been the pole the drone maintenance pair began to weld into place. Even contemplating the link between pole and dancing and what that meant for the unknown 'shock Party therapy' had Captain scheduling with drone maintenance for selective memory erasure. Needless to say, command and control was already noting the installation of at least four poles at various locales throughout the cube; and that was by those drones whom were less adept at disguising their impulses. Likely there were, or would soon be, others.

"Are /you/ ready?" inquired Captain as he turned to confront the final entry on the list of unwanted problems.

Bo waved a tentacle. His other arms were full with a tea-filled thermos, a tin of herbal candies allegedly beneficial for travel sickness, several recipe cards, and a bag full of biscuits and other goodies. 120 of 203 had gone overboard providing the gastronomically appreciative almost-C with more than the agreed upon price for assistance with the HappyBots. Besides gifts, Bo's other consequence of participation was a new hairstyle, necessary when it was discovered not all the gum-gun substance had yielded to omniscience, forcing the utilization of low-tech scissors.

::I am. I look forward to seeing if the candies work.:: Bo gazed steadily at Captain. One herbal remedy lozenge was already being sucked upon in preparation to departure. ::Returning the Borgy and those horrible robots to their own universe will be easy; and it is another place to look for my people as it is obvious that no one is in this one. Besides, I don't like the taste of this universe: it reminds me too much of right before the Incident, a sour-bitter sensation that can't be explained by Mootoma Blast shooters alone.::

With that cryptic remark, Bo waved his free tentacle goodbye to Captain and Second (and, by proxy, to the rest of the Cube #347 sub-collective) and was gone. At the same instant vanished Borgy cube and HappyBot carrier, leaving behind little more than a gravitonic ripple and grumbles from Sensors concerning discord upon the grid due to particle interactions.

Pure silence reigned, the universe holding its breath.

The introspective moment was abruptly shattered as the dataspaces were filled with the noise of the opening theme to "So You Don't Want To Be a Borg XXXII - Classic Reruns and Humorous Moments."

{Turn that off!} demanded Captain to 192 of 480. The tri-V program, seasons V through LI acquired many years earlier during an inventory assignment, was muted. After a few heartbeats, the entire thread was shuffled behind a firewall where it could be viewed without impacting the rest of the sub-collective.

Captain panned his nodal intersection, taking in the few holodisplays present and Second's presence. The former all vanished as holoemitters were shut off. Captain pivoted to face the tier exit which led to his alcove. Internal diagnostics were advising regeneration. {I never did like parties.}

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