StarTrekisownedbyParamount;DeckercreatedStarTraks;andBorgSpaceiswrittenbyMeneks.

					Great To G'floo! You

	"Describe what you see," ordered a floating voice that was floating overhead in a 
floating sort of way.  It was all very floaty.  The voice came again, this time a bit harder 
and a bit less floating, "What do you see?  I /really/ do not want to access your visual 
processor."
	With a sigh, 2 of 20 opened his eyes and allowed the outside world to intrude 
upon the comfortable fuzziness inside his skull.  The harsh reality of Maintenance Bay #8 
crashed upon him, a mechanical sterility of sharp edges and blinking lights.  2 of 20 liked 
his internal universe much better, a relaxing place of crisp and crackle and buzz.  
However, occasionally the crisping and the crackling and the buzzing escaped its ridged 
confinement, leaking to the exterior helter-skelter.  From 2 of 20's point of view, such 
incidents slowed the greater universe to a properly paced crawl where perceptions were 
pleasurably stretched and there was time enough to get everything done.  Unfortunately, 
such an opinion was not shared by the rest of the Cube #347 sub-collective, who 
apparently regarded 2 of 20's manic phases as a detriment to the Whole.
	Thus the regularly scheduled (and mandatory) visits to drone maintenance to 
ensure all the glandular, enzymatic, and chemical chains which kept the crisping, 
crackling, buzzing suitably caged were functioning properly.
	"Describe what you see.  Comply," came the verbal prod for the third time.
	"I see you," answered 2 of 20 to 107 of 133.  "You are looming over me.  Behind 
you are ceiling tiles and light strips and part of that torture device thing that is always 
attached to my head during these check-ups."
	107 of 133 straightened, leaving 2 of 20's immediate point of view.  {Speech rate 
a bit accelerated, but within acceptable parameters,} commented the drone maintenance 
unit to Doctor, currently elsewhere on Cube #347.
	A new entry was added to 2 of 20's personal dossier.  As the medical 
technobabble, full of 'xerimetric secretions from artificial gland beta-three' and 
'electrolytic balance tending towards the iota zone', was input, the drone in question 
absently scrolled through earlier entries.  The medical section was longer than the norm, 
full of footnotes and addendums, not to mention a meticulous record detailing every 
Incident.  When the mania was controlled, 2 of 20 was a functional component of the 
sub-collective, a member of the Group of 20 from whom the heads of the assimilation 
hierarchy were drawn.  It was G'floo! which was ultimately to blame for 2 of 20's 
little...Incidents.
	G'floo! was the generic name for a diverse group of marine sponges native to 2 of 
20's species' homeworld.  The sponge was infamous throughout the civilized galaxy for 
its addictive qualities...but only as applied to Infree.  For most other races, G'floo! and its 
many potent extracts was extremely poisonous; and for a very select few, such as Bugs, it 
was a tasty culinary spice.
	Among the Infree populace, G'floo! was universally used.  It came in a rainbow 
palette of colors, each signifying a different personal experience and potency should it be 
imbibed.  Such was not to say G'floo! was an 'evil' drug, and the great majority of Infree 
kept to the white, pale pink, and seafoam, the local equivalent of a morning pick-me-up 
caffeine stimulant.  For special celebrations, G'floo! of the orange and brown spectrums 
were suitable, loosening inhibitions amid the occasional mild hallucination.  Of course, 
there were always those individuals for whom G'floo! became their existence, individuals 
who slid down the slippery slope of excess, desiring the hard colors of ruby red and 
sapphire blue, even *whisper* mixing their extracts in their search for the perfect high 
which would never subside.
	G'floo! was the primary reason why the Infree were regarded with a wariness by 
the Borg Collective.  The potential presence of recreational substances within a subject 
was normally considered irrelevant, the assimilation process scrubbing an individual's 
system much more thoroughly than any 12-step recovery program.  For those Infree who 
exclusively imbibed of the 'mild' and 'moderate' G'floo! colors, the standard assimilation 
process was effective.  Unfortunately (from the Collective point of view), the neural 
rewiring associated with 'hard' G'floo! reacted unpredictably to assimilation; and, even 
worse, it was not possible to separate the addiction types except by a (fatal) neurological 
dissection.  About 90% of the time the outcome of processing a hard-addict was self-
evident, the new drone clearly suitable, or not.  It was that remaining 10% which caused 
the Collective equivalent of heartburn, the insidiousness of individuals who appeared to 
be assimilated properly, only to display radical behavioral alterations later, usually at the 
most inopportune time.
	2 of 20 represented the lattermost scenario.  Until his first Incident he had been a 
model, well-integrated drone.  Afterwards, once he had been netted and heavily sedated, 
he had been transferred to Cube #347.  The only reason 2 of 20 had not been immediately 
disposed of was that he represented an experimental test-bed to determine possible 
methods of 'rehabilitating' a G'floo! hard-addict to usefulness.  Thus far, the experiment 
was on-going; and, thus far, the Collective avoided assimilating Infree where possible 
because pre-determination of addict type was extremely difficult unless the subject was 
already in the throes of a raging high.  Until either reliable detection or rehabilitation was 
attainable, the Infree race was off-limits to complete assimilation despite desirable bio-
chemical technologies.
	Strapped to a workshop table, 2 of 20's mobility was limited.  Turning his head 
slightly, eyes alighted upon a brilliant blue glow that throbbed in time with his own 
heartbeat.  That blue became the center of his existence for a tick of one and two 
and...and then it shattered.  Sounds and sights of Workshop #8 once more intruded.
	{Pseudo-dopamine levels temporarily spiked, but are now returned to normal.  
The new tensor-gland algorithm seems to be working,} spoke 107 of 133.
	"No joy," grumbled 2 of 20 as he returned his attention to the boring ceiling tiles.  
A check of the exterior sensor grid showed a much more interesting sight in the form of a 
planet.  It was a terrestrial with vast oceans girding a trio of continental landmasses and 
numerous picturesque island archipelagos.  Although the gentle undulations of cloud and 
vast areas of clear atmosphere reminiscent of a holiday travel brochure suggested a 
pleasant worldwide climate, highly scalloped shorelines and deep fjords hinted of a 
torturous geologic history consisting of fire, ice, and storm.
	The moderate amount of orbital traffic did not appear to be reacting to the 
imminent arrival of a Borg cube.
"Are you even listening to me?" asked 107 of 133.  Her voice was no longer 
floaty, instead approaching the downright growly department.
	2 of 20 grumbled, reviewing the last minute or so of aural input.  He picked out 
the relevant question and began to answer, "Yes.  I-"
	{You are required, 2 of 20,} interrupted Captain, the strong presence of the 
consensus monitor and facilitator intruding upon the maintenance session.
	{I didn't do it!} responded 2 of 20 automatically even as he frantically dumped 
the short-term audio files for longer term memes in a hunt to determine what, exactly, he 
may or may not have done.  Voices sometimes emerged from the crisp-crackle-buzz, 
bading him do things that he didn't afterwards consciously recall.  Records were retained 
during those amnesiac times, although 2 of 20 tended to not consult them unless 
necessary.
	Notions of an unremembered Incident were dismissed by Captain.  {Irrelevant.  
We approach planet #541, homeworld of species #6070.  Consensus cascade last cycle 
decided that since you are the only Infree on-board, you were the best liaison in this 
instance to secure us the recipe ingredient to be found at this location.  This is a reminder 
that your physical presence will be required at my location in one hour, following 
completion of your drone maintenance session.}  Captain paused.  {/Do/ you remember 
the consensus cascade?}
	Checking his surface memories for the last ten cycles, 2 of 20 found himself 
recalling a great fascination with light auras, especially blue ones.  The deeper meme 
patterns captured a major recent consensus cascade, of which he featured prominently.  
{Yes?  Affirmative?}
	The sensation of a deep sigh flowed from the primary consensus monitor and 
facilitator.  {Just transfer to my nodal intersection when drone maintenance releases you.  
We will just have to muddle along, like we always do, from there.}
	The silhouette of 107 of 133 intruded, blocking light from the overhead light 
strips.  "The b-enzyme series are showing 10% anomalous protein folding of product 
originating from your lateral-dis neural cell clusters.  You will not be allowed to leave 
until that issue can be corrected or mediated," informed the drone maintenance unit.
	"Understood," acquiesced 2 of 20, perpetual guinea pig.  It wasn't like he had a 
choice, after all.

	2 of 20 materialized in the nodal intersection Captain often frequented.  As always 
following his regular maintenance, the buzzing within was nearly mute and the universe 
in general (inside and outside his head) was a dull, mundane place.  There was no 
sparkle, no fizz, although in time all would inevitably return to what 2 of 20 considered 
normal, and which other drones labeled deviant.  2 of 20 was quick to disagree with those 
opinions, for it wasn't until the (nonBorg) voices emerged that things became a bit weird, 
even for him.
	Captain stood in front of a holowindow.  Within the floating pane was a member 
of 2 of 20's own species, species #6070 - Infree.
	Species #6070 was typical of the many humanoid races which populated the 
galaxy.  The primary item of interest which visually set Infree apart from others was a 
series of scalloped ridges which ran down the nose bridge and along jawline.  Internal 
structures were another story, however, and included many odd variations from what was 
considered 'normal'.  Chief among those differences was the brain, although comparative 
physiologists were divided in opinion if the deviances were innate to Infree or the result 
of evolutionary trends due to thousands of years of G'floo! addiction.
	The woman in the holowindow was visible from above the midsection.  She wore 
a pleasantly bright, multicolored vest incorporating LEDs into its patterns.  Brown hair 
was gathered into two ponytails to either side of her head, more lights entwined among 
the strands.  Upon her vest she wore a 'Hello - My Name Is' nametag, "Dude" written in 
large, somewhat shaky letters.  More lights bordered the sticker.
	"Dude?" questioned the woman, browed furrowed.
	{About time,} muttered Captain.  {Get over here and liaise with what I/we 
believe is a traffic control official.}
	{There were extra tests...} began 2 of 20 in defense of his tardiness.  There were 
always additional tests and adjustments, and it was rare he was released back to his 
normal duties (not that he had many, as a member of assimilation hierarchy) at the 
scheduled hour.  Captain was surely aware that the delay was not 2 of 20's fault.
	Captain mentally dismissed the explanation.  {Irrelevant.  Get over here and 
liaise.  This individual has precisely one word to her vocabulary, and I cannot convince 
her to switch us to someone with whom we can converse.  Note that the visual output is 
originating from this location.}
	Translation - CatwalkCam was not in effect.  2 of 20 briefly contemplated 
querying the why behind the unusual arrangement, but discarded that notion as a 
wordless compulsion to comply swept across his neural net.  Captain immediately 
shuffled to the side as 2 of 20 entered the camera field of view.
	"Du-de?" asked the woman again, doubling the number of syllables in the word.
	Replied 2 of 20 after a brief pause, "Dude."
	"Dude!"
	"Dude."
	"Dude?"
	"Dude."
	"Du-dude."
	"Dude."
	"Duuuuuuuude."
	"Dude."  2 of 20 turned his head slightly towards Captain.  The consensus monitor 
and facilitator was radiating confusion.  {The woman's name is Dude, and she is the 
traffic control officer in charge this shift.  She says that we can do whatever we want - 
orbit, beam down to the surface, engage in zero-gee tap-dancing - because we are 
hallucinations.  The domain of traffic control is over real ships and crew, not imaginary 
ones.}
	{You engaged in a complete conversation that consisted of one word,} stated 
Captain flatly.  {The translation algorithms confirm it was one word.}
	One word?  2 of 20 could hear the implicit disbelief in Captain's mental tone, but 
the conversation had been extremely in-depth and nuanced.  Obviously it had been more 
than one word.  {That is what she said,} he repeated.
	{Fine,} Captain muttered.  He edged back into the camera's view, crowding 2 of 
20.  "Black G'floo!  We demand the location of black G'floo! be divulged, else several 
kilograms of the substance delivered to us."
	2 of 20 swiveled his head fully to gaze at his consensus monitor and facilitator; 
and upon the screen, Dude stared blankly, jaw dropped.
	"Dude!  Like, black G'floo! doesn't, like, exist!   It is total and complete 
mythology," said Dude, displaying an excellent grasp of multi-word language skills.  The 
explanation was relayed slowly and with extra attention to pronunciation, as if she was 
talking to a young, and slightly stupid, child.
	"You can talk?" exclaimed Captain in surprise.  His jaw audibly snapped shut as 
he realized the faux pas.
	"Like, ever since I was a spratling, duh.  Of course, you are hallucinations, so 
some allowance must be made."  Dude rolled her eyes.  One hand reached for something 
off-screen, returning to view pinching a small, white ball.  The item was tossed into 
Dude's mouth.  Chewing commenced.
	Captain shifted his attention to 2 of 20.  {Black G'floo!  Explain.}
	2 of 20 blinked.  {It is the ultimate G'floo!  One taste, and the imbiber is plunged 
into perfect pleasure, never to be followed by a let-down.}  He sighed as fragmented 
memories bubbled up from the undercurrent crackle.  {Black G'floo! does not exist, of 
course, but it is what all strive for.  One mixes and matches one's G'floo!s, searching for 
the hallowed black-}
	{Cease.  Black G'floo! must exist because the ingredient list says so, and the map 
brought us here.}
	"Impossible," responded 2 of 20 outloud.  "Black G'floo! does not exist."
	On the screen, a line of drool was trickling down Dude's chin as she chewed.  
"Exactly.  That is, like, what I've already tried to tell you, Mr. Hallucination."  One arm 
was waved in emphasis.  "Like, of course, there is always someone who thinks otherwise, 
but all, like, /sane/ people know differently.  The current hard-addict crazy who is 
attempting to prove black G'floo! existence is, like, one, um, Balabo, down in Merconi 
somewhere.  He's all over, like, the newsvids.  Like."  Dude's eyes were starting to 
defocus, attention wandering to some point off-screen and to the right.
	An abbreviated consensus cascade consisting of including command and control 
washed through the Cube #347 dataspace.  Upon its completion, Captain prodded 2 of 20.  
{Ask.}
	{But-}
	{No buts.  Ask.}
	2 of 20 sighed.  "Dude."  He felt stupid, inquiring about something that did not 
exist except as fairy tales told to children or plot among a certain type of television show.
	Dude shrugged.  "Dude."  The one syllable word was elaborated upon.  "You are 
crazy, Mr. Hallucination, but, like, the singing candles say you are entitled to your wild-
plont chase."  The traffic control officer's right eye began to blink spasmodically.  "Like, 
I'll send you the vids that you need to, like, find Balabo.  If you could, like, park where, 
like, not too many people will run into you, that would, like, be nifty.  Have a nice day, 
Mr. Hallucination!  Dude!"
	{This woman falls under the "mild-addict" category,} sighed Captain, {and even 
she thinks this hard-addict individual designated "Balabo" is mentally unbalanced.  This 
may take awhile.}
	"Dude," agreed 2 of 20 as the crackling and crisping and buzzing swirled amid the 
background processes of his mind.

	A man stood at the end of a pier amid the picturesque backdrop of sandy beach.  
He waved, a broad, sweeping gesture able to be seen from a distance.  Grey and mauve 
birds - flying animals, anyway - soared through the air, crying their lonely calls as the 
water below their wings gently lapped upon the shore and around wooden pilings.  If the 
man had been facing the camera and wearing more clothes than a hat, the scene would 
have been perfect.  Instead, it faded, dissolving to feature the front of a house as a 
bodiless narrator began to speak.
	"Today on 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Addicted', we feature Balabo D'mtri, heir to 
the Wahzoo Hand Cream fortune.  Even now, hidden behind this facade of shrubbery and 
expensive brick located on the edge of the resort town of Merconi, Balabo is surely 
building his hard-addict fantasy of finding the fabled black G'floo!  Let us enter the 
premises and see what we can see...."
	The clip faded, leaving 2 of 20 staring at the same structure as that starred on the 
gossip-vid.  At the end of a long, cobbled driveway, the house was a single two-story 
affair where the prominent motif was 'square':  the bricks, the windows, the door, the 
overall shape, everything was square.  It also appeared as if visitors were rare, vine be-
decked shrubbery and thorn bushes creating an impenetrable barrier protecting the front 
door for those without Borg armoring.  At the edge of an overgrown lawn, a crude sign 
stenciled with 'G'floo! delLverIes hERe' was pounded into the ground; and an arrow 
pointed to a well-worn dirt track that wound its way around the house and to the seaside 
section of the property.
	2 of 20 sighed and turned his gaze skyward, focusing on that bit of sky where, far 
above, orbited Cube #347.
	{Go,} ordered Captain.
	{But I am the only drone here!} protested 2 of 20.  {Why?}
	{Because you are a native.  Because you understand a language that appears to 
occasionally consist of a single word.  Because atmospheric scans indicate that there are 
G'floo! aerosols associated with all major oceanic shorelines.}  There was a pause.  
{Because the consensus cascade declared you to be expendable.}
	{Oh,} said 2 of 20.  He deeply inhaled the unfiltered air, tasting the pleasantly 
acrid zing that was a combination of salt and the natural perfumes of wild, tide pool 
G'floo!s.  There was a *fizz* and a *pop* deep within his brain despite the fact that his 
cybernetics should sift out what his systems considered to be toxicants.  It was the 
uncertainty of potential effects which lay behind the sub-collective's hesitancy to risk 
units upon the surface:  the 'should be's' of Borg technology had never been pitted against 
the Infree homeworld.  If filters, nanite scavengers, and chemical neutralization elements 
were unsuccessful against the scourge of omnipresent G'floo!, the resultant high among a 
few drones of the imperfect variety could endanger the sub-collective Whole.  2 of 20's 
mood swings were a known quality and counters were already in place.
	Captain prodded.  {Go.}
	{Compliance,} muttered 2 of 20 as he set foot upon the dirt path.
	The narrow track led 2 of 20 around to the back side of the brick house, 
terminating at an asphalt walkway.  Another sign was present, consisting solely of arrow 
pointing towards a rustic wooden shack set next to the pier seen in the gossip-vid.  A dull 
thumping sound came from the shack; and the smell of ozone had joined the background 
odor of tide pool G'floo!s.
	2 of 20 slowly panned the scene before stepping forward to push open the slightly 
skewed door.
	"You are early!" came the shout over the building crescendo of bass rumble.  "I 
told you that I wanted my G'floo! delivery tomorrow!  Only on days that start with an 'R'!  
And if you are the landscaper, you are late!  I pay good money to maintain this estate, and 
a six month imbibing binge, followed by accidental death, is no excuse!"  The noise 
reached a plateau, then abruptly ceased, leaving in its place a shrill, somehow sad, 
whistle.  That, too, trailed off into inaudibility.  "Crap, I over tightened the hyoid cam 
bolts again.  Hey, you aren't either delivery or landscaper!"
	A middle-aged species #6070 male squinted up the steps that led down to an 
underground work area.  Unlike the gossip-vid, he was fully clothed; and he wore a horn-
rimmed glasses held together by silvery strips of duct tape.  A purple tinge at the edges of 
the facial bone ridges indicated a high usage of the harder G'floo! extracts, although if he 
was under the influence at the moment such was not overtly evident.  A spanner was 
waved.  "You must be one of those Borg-type hallucinations which are so in vogue this 
season.  Well, come on in and make yourself comfortable until you vanish.  Be sure to 
close the door behind you so that I can keep the candles and bears /outside where they 
belong/!  Cheeky bastards."
	{Okaaay,} drawled Second as he inserted his opinion to the situation.  While very 
few, for some reason, were the number of drones who would directly ride 2 of 20's 
perceptions, the audio-visual segment of his sub-collective link was attracting quite the 
crowd.
	The inside of the small shack proved to be a mere vestibule for a much larger 
work area.  Stairs steeply plunged downward, leading to a subterranean garage for 
submersibles.  The physics of the place was best not to dwell upon, a large swimming 
pool with an underwater tunnel clearly below sea level, yet air pressure clearly not the 
mechanism keeping the pool from becoming a geyser.  Overhead was a clever series of 
tracks and hoists such as would be the envy of any heavy fabrication shop; and, if 
distance measurements were to be believed, the ceiling should have created a noticeable 
hump upon the beach.  'Should have' was the operative word, for no aberration had been 
visible marring the sand.  2 of 20 was not an engineer, and so ignored the babble arising 
in the back of his mind as those of the invoked hierarchy tried to make sense of the 
impossible dimensions.  Instead he focused upon the presumed Balabo as the latter 
banged his spanner against the hull of a submarine being held in the air by a combination 
of anti-gravity platforms and old-fashioned block-and-tackle.
	Well, he focused there until the bear at the edge of the room caught his attention.  
The large, hairy creature waved, then proceeded to dance a jig.  On the table next to it, a 
pair of candles rolled flame eyes before crossing wax arms in embarrassed disgust.  Bits 
of duct tape - rolls of it were stacked on every conceivable surface - had been secured 
around the tapers about the place one would expect a mouth to be present.
	A final, echoing *bang* redirected 2 of 20's attention back to Balabo.
	{Was that a dancing bear and two candles?} queried Second worriedly. {Or am I 
channeling something from your decidedly warped neural net?}
	"Oh, hello, Borg hallucination.  Don't mind your comrades over there:  they snuck 
in earlier.  I had to gag the damn candles because they insisted upon singing romantic 
duets.  The forecasters say that the annual G'floo! bacteria cycle will be winding down in 
a month or so, but I think it is all bahooey.  Myself, I've always favored the secret 
subspace mind-ray theory since it seems to be more plausible.  If it was bacteria or 
contaminants or virii, why would it affect /everyone/, including those who aren't even on 
the planet?  At the very least, there would be /some/ immunities to the hallucination 
seasons.  Bahooey, I tell you, total bahooey.  Mind-rays all the way."
	{Hallucination season?  Bacteria?  Mind-rays?  Maybe we should re-evaluate this 
particular scheme in light of the new data,} commented Captain.
	The buzzing, crisping, crackling in the recesses of 2 of 20's mind upped itself 
another notch, despite the manacles of drone maintenance-derived algorithms controlling 
a suite of artificial gland secretions.  {It is an old argument,} replied 2 of 20 as he gazed 
upon Balabo.  {I was always in the vaporous-emanations-from-the-ground camp.  I think.  
The memory is...unclear.}  2 of 20 paused.  A hum arose from the direction of the be-
candled workbench.  Balabo frowned, picked up a convenient hammer, then threw it in 
the direction of the nascent song.  {Shall I explain?}

			*	*	*	*	*

	"He knows, he knows, he knows!  It will all be ruined!" wailed a voice.
	"Bah.  You are being melodramatic.  I've extensively studied the type, and no one 
of any importance ever believes them.  Forget about it, I say," countered a second voice.
	Said a third, "Yes, Regenald, you are totally blowing it out of proportion."
	Huffed Voice One, that of Regenald, "I am /not/!  I saw what happened with the 
team out of Gerry's lab!  A similar situation, and the next thing you know, *poof*!  The 
subjects are poking holes into space-time and shoving large explosive devices through!  I 
/do not/ want to become a scattering of highly radioactive dust!"  The words ended in a 
definite whine.
	"Reg has a point," interjected yet a fourth voice.
	The argument had been raging back and forth across the table for the last hour, a 
dozen specialists divided into two camps and trying to convince each other, and the 
uncommitted fence-sitters, their point-of-view.  In one sense, it would have been a 
familiar scene to anyone in a research field where the complexities of large-scale 
experiments force many people from many scientific fields, complete with their many 
individual personalities and many strong opinions, to work together.  On the other hand, 
if the hypothetical observer stepped back, he or she or it would have found the scene very 
strange.
	Assuming the hypothetical he or she or it could have focused upon it at all.
	Arrayed around the table may or may not have been things resembling miniature 
elephants.  The creatures had floppy ears and long probosci, although no Terran elephant 
had ever developed three hands complete with eighteen fingers at the end of their trunks.  
Four eyes, each at the end of wobbly stalks, turned and twisted to gaze at each speaker 
embroiled in the increasingly loud argument.  Long lab coats brushed the ground; and 
pocket protectors holding both pens and instruments decidedly not-pens were in great 
evidence.
	Or, at least, that is what an outside entity might have seen, had they the ability to 
peer through the veils of subspace and find one well-hidden pocket dimension not quite 
in sync with the temporal flow of the host metareality.
	Finally the argument sputtered to a close, neither side triumphant, but also lacking 
the need for combatants to visit the infirmary for pen-to-the-trunk maladies.
	"It is agreed-" began yet a fifth voice, one quiet up to this point, but radiating the 
tones of ultimate authority.
	"But...." tried Regenald.
	Voice Five raised in volume, "It is /agreed/, Reg, except for one or two noticeable 
exceptions, that a single subject is highly unlikely to have any impact at this point in the 
experiment.  The quantum forecasters in bloc C are as certain as any in their discipline 
that Something will happen in the near temporal future, and unless certain unlikely events 
come to pass, we will be a part of that Something unless we decamp.  Now.  This lab has 
collected more than enough information concerning manipulative evolution on a species-
wide scale to fill a dozen theses and hundreds of journal articles.  It is time to wrap up all 
on-going tests and prepare for insertion of the final experiment.  The neural projector will 
be among the last item to be shut down.
	"Do I make myself understood?"
	Trunks were waved in acquiesce.
	"Good!  And will someone go to the grad pod and tell those students, again, that 
adding unauthorized items in the projector stream is not allowed.  Last week it was 
photos of fish and balloons; and before that a rowboat and hiking boots.  The purpose of 
the neural projector is /sciency/...it is /not/ to confuse the subjects with candles, bears, 
and wind-up mechanical toys!"

			*	*	*	*	*

	{So you are saying,} paraphrased Captain, speaking for the sub-collective, {that 
every year for as far back as species #6070 history recalls, there is an annual occurrence 
of hallucinations.  Any of your race who has ever taken G'floo! gets them...which 
essentially means everyone.  The majority opinion is that there is a benign virus or 
bacteria that survives G'floo! processing methods, takes up residence in brain of the new 
host, and then are quantum linked to each other and their wild cousins.  Then, once a year 
an unknown trigger impacts the wild population and everyone is sympathetically 
affected.  And this hypothesis is the best explanation despite the fact that no one has ever 
found a candidate bacteria or virus.  Others believe in subspace mind-rays.}
	{Or orbital mind-rays.  Or subspace orbital mind-rays.  Or vapors that waft up 
from the ground or clouds or bricks.  I remember the Great Event of...of...of some year, 
where rubberducks floated throughthesky and everything was paintedinplaidstuccoand-}  
2 of 20 abruptly stopped as his body jolted, joints stiffening as if he had touched a live 
wire carrying too much electricity for body systems to shunt.  The crisping and crackling, 
which had threatened to overwhelm his thoughts, faded to a background hiss.
	{Don't stress your systems!} chided Doctor.  {You /just/ underwent a check-up!  
And don't poke the puppy!  Too many jumps are not good for him.}  The latter 
admonishment was directed towards Captain.
	"Mr. Hallucination...you okay?  You looked like you were going to explode or 
something.  I'd've hit you with a crowbar to break you out of the fit, but you are just a 
hallucination."
	2 of 20 blinked, focusing upon Balabo.  "Our designation is 2 of 20."
	Balabo squinted in confusion for a moment at the use of the plural, then snapped 
his fingers.  "Of course!  You are a /Borg/ hallucination, which means 'we' and 'our' and 
stuff.  Good, I like it when my hallucinations are consistent."
	Still reeling from the shock from the newest addition to his system by drone 
maintenance, 2 of 20 shifted his attention to the vehicle Balabo had been striking with his 
spanner.  As submarines went, it was standard in many respects, a metal can with a 
propeller sticking out one end and a periscope on top.  However, it was the rare 
submersible which had four pairs of manipulators haphazardly attached to the bow, arms 
not ending in pinchers, but instead odd contraptions such as the one that looked like a 
dust mop, or another that resembled a tennis racket strung with green jelly.  Several large 
portholes perforated the side, filled with nothing but air:  either the inside of the 
submarine was meant to be as wet as the outside, else forcefields would eventually fill the 
void.  Near the nose, hidden amongst the multiple arms, the name "Black Dancer" was 
visible.  Streaks suggested use of a non-waterproof paint.
	Delta offered her opinion, {Not a viable design.}
	"Interesting," said 2 of 20.
	Balabo smiled, then turned to regard his submarine.  He radiated a paternalistic 
pride.  "Isn't it?  I built it myself using blueprints I received last year from Great G'floo! 
Incorporated.  I think they give them to everyone who places more than fifty orders of 
blue G'floo! over the course of a year.  Anyway, it was /supposed/ to be the blueprints for 
a remote controlled toy, but the balloons told me it could be scaled up.  Polite 
hallucinations, the balloons.../much/ more amiable, and quiet, than the bears and candles 
this season."
	2 of 20 opened his mouth to make a comment, then closed it as he titled his head 
slightly.  {Of course...} he began, only to be overridden.  {Fine.}  Directives received, 2 
of 20 sullenly spoke, "I have been instructed to ask about black G'floo! and why you are 
not acting like hard-addicts are supposed to act."
	Shrugging and without turning around, Balabo answered with a question of his 
own, "How am I supposed to act?  By gibbering and drooling and such?"  There was a 
brief moment of self-examination, followed by a head shake.  "Man, there must have 
been /something/ extra in the last batch...I'm not usually so introspective with myself.  
However, why fight the current?  Well, Mr. Hallucination which is really myself talking 
to myself such that I can verbally work through potential issues without use of a 
psychiatrist, I act exactly how /I/ should act.  I long ago realized I could not search for 
black G'floo! if I was going around all the time seeing things that did not exist.  Then, 
one day, during my G'floo! mixture experimentation, searching for that point of perfect 
nirvana and enlightenment, I managed to concoct a  most excellent blend that allowed me 
to see things as they really are.  I even remembered to write down the recipe so I could 
reproduce it.
	"My personal mixture allows me to see beyond the candles and bears and Borg 
and other hallucinations that would otherwise disrupt my black G'floo! quest.  One can't 
turn a screw or pound a rivet, after all, if one is also thinking one's arm has turned into 
floppy blue rubber.  As a side effect, I now know for certain that subspace mind-rays, 
created by elephants in lab coats, are the cause of the hallucinations, not that anyone 
believes me.  Of course, no one else can see what is really there; and since I am most 
definitely /not/ going to share my personal G'floo! recipe with anyone else, it is their loss 
and my gain.
	"Say, Borg hallucination, could you move to the side a bit?  Thanks.  Your unreal 
solidity was in my light."  Balabo squinted at a point on the submarine's hull that looked 
like ever other point, except, perhaps, a bit less dented.  "Stupid hyoid screw-linkage is 
/still/ not working."  The spanner was brutally slammed once, twice, thrice onto the 
offending spot.
	{Did that make any sense at all?} complained Captain.  Despite the rhetorical 
nature of the question, a chorus of "no's" answered the plea.
	{Yes,} replied 2 of 20, for whom the ramblings of Balabo were perfectly clear.  
He was seconded by Sensors.
	Not privy to the internal discourse, Balabo had continued in his perceived self-
conversation.  "Until the hyoid screw-linkage works, poor Black Dancer cannot be taken 
out for her maiden voyage.  Mr. Hallucination - 2 of 20 - maybe you...no...that wouldn't 
work.  None of the hallucinations this season have any aptitude for engineering.  I guess 
I'll just have to rely upon myself."
	The spanner was set upon the workbench, exchanged for a long and very heavy 
length of wood.  With a roundhouse swing that spun his body through half a revolution, 
Balabo aimed for the submersible.  2 of 20 side-stepped at the last moment to avoid being 
beaned.  The submarine was not so lucky, and a loud *BONG* reverberated throughout 
the underground workroom.
	Polite applause caught 2 of 20's attention.  He turned his head to sight upon bear 
and candles.  The clapping produced by the bear's paws was obvious, although 2 of 20 
was unsure how the armless candle was producing the sound.  A roaring noise prompted 
2 of 20 to return his attention to Balabo.
	The hard-addict inventor was smiling as he contemplated his submersible, one 
hand holding a box upon which resided a single, red button.  It was from the submarine 
the noise was originating.  There was a metallic cough, followed by a rattling rumble; and 
the machine began to sway back and forth in the air, a thin smoke streamer wafting from 
its open windows.  Hesitant turning by the propeller transformed into an invisible blur, 
and the racket of operation settled to a quiet purr.  At least when compared to the 
previous noise.
	"Isn't it wonderful!" screamed Balabo, trying to make himself heard over his 
submersible.  "I knew all the hyoid screw-linkage needed was some jarring!"
	Exclaimed Delta as she examined the scene from afar, {It's on fire!}  She was 
aghast at the travesty of machination as only a true engineer could be.
	Dutifully repeated 2 of 20:  "It is on fire."
	"What?"
	"It is on fire!" tried 2 of 20 again, emphasizing the observation by waving an arm 
at the portholes and the increasing amount of dark smoke.
	Balabo cocked his head to regard the developing plume.  "Oh!  That's right!  I left 
the portable G'floo! infuser plugged in!  It must have turned on with the submarine!  And 
there must have been some G'floo! sludge at the bottom that I had not cleaned out!  No 
fire!  Just a lot of smoke!"
	As if to belie the shouted explanation, a few weak flames licked out one porthole.
	"Mostly smoke!" amended Balabo.
	As a light haze smoke began to fill the workroom, 2 of 20 inhaled deeply.  "Do I 
detect a perfume of red and rose, with a hint of lime-green?"
	"Mr. Borg Hallucination, you are a connoisseur!" approved Balabo with a laugh.  
"I like you!  Since the hyoid issue appears to be resolved, wanna come with me on my 
first dive for black G'floo!?  I think I'm pretty sure I know sort of where it is!  The bear 
and candles /are not invited/, but you are!"
The delicious odors of burnt G'floo! impacted 2 of 20's senses, causing the 
crisping and crackling and buzzing to grow incrementally louder, fortified by whispering 
voices.  He did not need a consensus cascade to tell him what to do, not when the road to 
take was so obvious before him in the form of a smoke-wreathed, out-of-water submarine 
with whirling propeller threatening to mince anything which came too close.  "Sure!"

	The inside of the submarine was cramped, at least if one was a Borg drone 
incapable of sitting without discomfort.  The low ceiling necessitated bent knees and 
awkwardly bowed head for all but the shortest individual.  2 of 20 was not that 
individual, of slightly above average height for his species.  He had eventually found a 
place to wedge himself between curved bulkhead and one of the puffy, reclining chairs.  
The much shorter Balabo, on the other hand, perfectly fit within the submarine, ceiling 
clearing the top of his head by several centimeters.
	The smoky fire had done little damage to the inside of Black Dancer.  All surfaces 
were a bit sooty and a lingering odor of burnt G'floo! remained, but nothing had 
noticeably melted.  Even the G'floo! infuser - a necessity for any addict, mild through 
hard - was unscathed except for a slight discoloration of cheerful red plastic and shiny 
chrome accents.  It sat on its own stand at the front of the submarine, next to several 
panels of blinking lights ignored by Balabo.  The inventor's attention was directed to a Y-
shaped steering yoke and a screen which displayed the watery universe beyond the hull.
	And, yes, all portholes were currently filled with forcefields.  The one nearest 2 of 
20 occasionally snapped in a most disturbing manner; and there was the merest 
suggestion of condensation pooling on the protruding window ledge.
	2 of 20 craned his head to better see the monitor.  He knew where he was courtesy 
of his link to Cube #347, the sensor grid easily able to track his location from orbit.  The 
submarine was descending a near-shore ocean trench, diving deeper and deeper into the 
watery bowels of the planet.  It was unlikely Balabo knew with such exactitude Black 
Dancer's current locale.  However, a sterile description of location rendered into 
decimalized coordinates was not the same as directly observing the denizens of the deep.
	Balabo's display was a dazzling circle of light surrounded by inky black.  Within 
the spotlight thrown by the submarine a rocky wall was revealed upon which clung the 
sponge from which G'floo! was derived.  As sponge types differed in color, so also form 
between species was unalike.  The sponges prevalent in this particular area grew from a 
narrow base, spreading stiff, fringed fingers into a vast, lacey fan.  Interspaced among the 
predominantly dark orange subtype were bright spires of mottled turquoise, thin columns 
that towered above the fan forest, swaying in the current caused by the submersible's 
passage.
	A smoldering red, like that of cooling lava, entered the view.  Thin tendrils curled 
around neighboring sponges, turning several square meters of rock wall into a delicate, 
red froth.  Balabo squeaked excitedly, as he had done several times during the many 
hours of descent, then, using a low-tech pencil, scribbled something intelligible only to 
himself upon a large pad of paper.  The cataloguing of sponge forest composition as it 
changed with depth had been occurring since Black Dancer had entered the trench.
	Paradoxically, exploring space is easier than diving the deep ocean depths.  In 
vacuum the primary concern of the engineer is to design a ship able to keep the air within 
from successfully attempting to equalize the non-pressure without.  A balloon is a simple 
analogy; and as long as there are no holes, multitude methods abound to prevent 
'popping'.  On the other hand, it is not the challenge of the submersible designer to 
prevent a paltry single atmosphere of air from escaping, but rather stop the might of an 
entire ocean from collapsing the bubble of life which dares to navigate its depths.  Add in 
other difficulties such as water viscosity, pressure that increases with depth, and abject 
darkness, and it was understandable that the vast majority of land-dwelling species 
continued to find their own watery backyards mysterious long after colonies had been 
established on nearby moons and planets.
	Despite the lure of G'floo!, the Infree ocean was no different in its lack of 
exploration or detailed maps.  The sponges used by the majority of the populace were 
found in the tidal zone and near-shore environment, colors craved by hard-addicts 
denizens of the largely inaccessible depths.  In truth, the market for the hard-addict was 
very small, the mercantile forces that might push for exploration and exploitation 
nonexistent as needs were able to be fulfilled by known sponge beds.  One of the side-
effects of G'floo! in the hard-addict, disregarding anomalies such as Balabo, was a lack of 
ambition, that quality difficult to pursue when one's greatest desire is to remain in a 
pleasurable haze surrounded by one's personal hallucinations.  Therefore, despite a 
known link between sponge color/hardness and ocean depth, it was very likely Balabo 
was the first explorer to dive into the trench near Merconi.
	The Black Dancer halted its downward momentum with a loud *bang* that 
segued into the worrisome screech of bending metal.  In the driver's seat, Balabo blinked.  
"We are at the bottom!  Isn't this fun, my favorite Borg hallucination?"
	"Um, yes?"  2 of 20 checked the transporter lock upon his signature for the sixth-
fifth time.  He may be an ex-G'floo! addict with permanently altered behaviors and a 
tendency to flashbacks, but he was not suicidal.
	Twisting the steering yoke and kicking at a foot pedal prompted the Black Dancer 
to pivot away from the rock wall.  The new vista revealed in the display, where it was 
illuminated by the submarine's lights, was a plain of rippled sand.  Errant heads of a low-
growing, dark emerald sponge broke the monotony, as did the lonely tracks of a 
multilegged creature.  Outside the cone of light shone blue-green bioluminescence blobs, 
revealed as the local fish equivalent as a pair darted into view.  A string of sinuous lights 
resolved into a twenty centimeter long centipede-like eyeless worm, legs substituted for 
graceful, feathery paddles.
	"Oh, pretty!" gushed Balabo, a thin stream of saliva trickling from the corner of 
his mouth.  Near his hand was an empty teacup.  Throughout the voyage, the G'floo! 
infuser had been kept busy, churning out batch after batch of single-use G'floo! mixtures.  
Like a master chef dissatisfied with a spice combination, Balabo had continually fussed 
over the proportion of various colored powders he had added to the infuser.  2 of 20, who 
could vaguely recall being satisfied with whatever sponge he could get his hands upon in 
his prior hard-addict life, had been impressed.  However, now it seemed as if the latest 
batch, or its additive effect with those consumed before, had noticeably altered Balabo's 
mental state.
	Black Dancer's exterior lights were extinguished, as were most of the interior 
illumination except that provided by the console with blinking buttons.  Propulsion, quiet 
during the descent, revved.  "Must catch pretty thing!" exclaimed Balabo as the string of 
greenish lights representing the hapless paddle-worm was centered in the display's view.  
As if sensing danger, the paddle-worm's aimless twirls became a deliberate path which 
sped away from the alien predator intruding upon the trench's depths.  With a laugh, 
Balabo thumbed a control on the steering yoke.  Black Dancer leapt into blind pursuit.
	{No, transporters will not be released,} informed Captain to 2 of 20 as the latter 
found access to that particular system blocked.  {You will stay on that submarine until 
black G'floo! is found or your functionality is in imminent danger.}
	Although it was too early, considering the recent nature of the drone maintenance 
check-up, for the voices which shared mental real estate in 2 of 20's head to emerge, 
nonetheless several were making themselves known.  Perhaps airborne G'floo! essence 
from Balabo's infuser was to blame, despite the fact that nanite should neutralize the drug 
before it could affect his biological systems.  All the voices were in agreement that the 
submarine was not a healthy place to be.  {But-} began 2 of 20 as Black Dancer 
sideswiped an unseen obstacle, causing the hull to ring like a bell.  Several of the 
forcefielded windows flickered.
	{You had no objections when Balabo invited you on the vessel in the first place,} 
reminded Captain.
	{It seemed like a good idea at the time,} admitted 2 of 20, {although perhaps not 
anymore.}
	Chortled Balabo, "Pretty!  Come here my pretty!"
	Showing an amazing turn of speed and maneuverability, the 'pretty' eluded 
Balabo's hunt for ten long minutes, twisting away just when it seemed it must become a 
smear on Black Dancer's bow.  The hull magnified the sounds of everything the 
submarine crashed into or through, and the grainy rubbing of sand was an ubiquitous hum 
when the vessel dipped to plow through the substrate.  2 of 20 unwedged himself from 
his location and made his way forward to Balabo's chair, falling sideways into a recliner 
only once when a particularly vicious steering correction was made in response to the 
paddle-worm's dodging.
	"Hello, Mr. Hallucination," greeted Balabo as 2 of 20 gripped the back of the 
pilot's chair in an effort to remain upright.  "Did you come up to watch me get the 
pretty?"
	{No,} ordered Assimilation, stopping 2 of 20 mid-motion and mid-thought.  A 
deep sigh flavored the mental link.  {Do we really need another like you aboard?  You 
have been assimilation hierarchy head before...consider it.}
	2 of 20 dropped his free arm, unballing his fist.  {It would solve some problems,} 
he said without conviction.
	{And give us others,} countered Assimilation.
	Inserted Second, {And can /you/ drive that contraption?  Hmmm?}
	Before 2 of 20 could answer, Black Dancer's forward momentum abruptly halted.  
Teacup flew forward to smash against the bulkhead; and 2 of 20 nearly followed, saved 
only when he lost his footing and went face first into the back of Balabo's chair.  That 
inventor, meanwhile, was securely buckled into place, as was the infuser upon its shelf.
	"Dang, I lost the pretty.  And I think we hit something," said Balabo.
	2 of 20 groaned as he struggled back to his feet.
	The steering yoke was jiggled several times, to no avail, followed by futile 
kicking of foot pedals.  Finally one of the several unlabeled switches next to the yoke was 
flipped.  "Glory be!  Look at all the G'lfoo...and some of it is black!" exclaimed Balabo 
excitedly.
	Upright once more, 2 of 20 peered at the exterior display, once more lit with a 
spotlight.  The Black Dancer had wedged itself between the arms of two giant specimens 
of sparkling amethyst, their tangled branches creating a net sufficient to render immobile 
the largest of sea creatures.  As more and more lights were turned on, the extent of the 
sponge forest outside the hull was revealed, a wonderland of jewel tone colors and 
fantastic shapes.  While it was difficult to definitively label some hues, here and there 
rose skinny fingers of onyx, the G'floo! non-reflective even under bright spotlights.  From 
the forest appeared paddle-worms - two, five, eight - perhaps attracted to the illumination 
where none should be despite an apparent lack of eyes.  Whereas one of the small 
creatures had so totally captured Balabo's attention only moments before, now they were 
ignored in favor of the G'floo! bounty.
	2 of 20's eyes widened as he saw in untouched, raw form the sponge he had once 
heavily imbibed.  Internal crackling and buzzing increased in intensity before being 
smothered by a flood of enzymes from artificial glands.  Still, the governors could not 
completely stop the saliva of remembered anticipation from filling his mouth.
	"Beautiful, is it not Mr. Hallucination?" asked Balabo, eyes riveted upon the 
sponge vista such that he did not see 2 of 20's nod.  "I think...yes...I think I can grab one 
of the nearest black G'floo! fronds."  A floor button was stomped upon by the inventor, 
causing a pair of joysticks to suddenly fell from a previously hidden ceiling compartment, 
nearly braining the Borg.  Grabbing the joysticks, Balabo began twisting them left and 
right, up and down; and on the screen, the myriad of manipulators came to life.
	Hesitantly, the green-strung racket swung at a black G'floo!, just missing it.  
Several unlucky paddle-worms were diverted from their beeline trek, watery vortices 
spinning them onto new trajectories.  Swearing, Balabo twisted his joysticks and mashed 
buttons, bringing the mop head and what appeared to be an oversized egg beater into 
play.  The two arms tangled with each other, then crashed into the racket, all three finally 
careening into the target G'floo! frond.  The black G'floo! shattered in slow-motion, 
falling apart like a disintegrating house of cards.  Whooping excitedly, Balabo rocked 
forward in his chair, sending an odd hose-with-a-propeller zinging forward.
	Something within the bowels of Black Dancer rumbled and coughed.  A fan spun, 
then stopped.  A bell dinged.  A slot underneath the infuser's platform slid open, 
revealing a handful of gleaming, slightly damp black shards smelling of saltwater and 
iodine.
	"Success!" declared Balabo.  Before 2 of 20 could move, the inventor's arm shot 
forward, grabbing the largest shard and shoving it into the top of the G'floo! infuser.  A 
grinder whined, followed by the whoosh of steam and the subtle buzz of a replicator.  
Seconds later, the front of the infuser swing open, allowing the momentary glimpse of a 
teacup alike that previously shattered on the forward bulkhead.  'Momentary' was the key 
word, for Balabo's hand was already swiping at the cup, steaming contents whisked 
mouthwards.  The contents were gulped.  Balabo sighed.
	The entire sequence had taken less than fifteen seconds.
	{Whoa!  Top of the line G'floo! infuser!  Mine always took at least...at least...} 2 
of 20 concentrated, forcing memories to align appropriately {...at least a minute.}  Still 
gripping the back of the pilot's chair with one hand, he reached carefully for a sample of 
the remaining black G'floo!, glittering in the bin.
	One of the forcefield windows buzzed.
	Doctor chirruped a warning:  {Don't eat, drink, smoke, inhale, stuff up your nose, 
mash into a powder and rub into your skin, nor lick that G'floo!  It is not good for you.}  
The words were accompanied by a chiding click of incisors.
	{You will do what Doctor says-}
	Second interrupted Captain, {Except in regards to the nose stuffing.}
	{Second!  You are not helping.  2 of 20, ignore your backup consensus monitor in 
this circumstance.  You /will/ do what Doctor says in regards to G'floo!  Prepare for 
transport,} said Captain.
	{But the whole idea of stuffing something up one's-} began Second hopefully.
	{No.}
	{Just once.  It isn't like 2 of 20's brain can be fried any more than what he did to 
himself in the past and what drone maintenance does to him now.}
	{No.}
	As the not-quite-argument raged in the background, 2 of 20 raised the G'floo! 
shard up so as to better examine it in the light of the overhead light strips.  As if he would 
/ever/ stuff raw G'floo! up his nose!  That was for beginners!  A true connoisseur knew 
that liquid extracts were most delightful, followed by various vaporous concoctions and 
oral imbibing.  The G'floo! had a slight rubbery give to its surface when gently squeezed; 
and proved to be ever-so-slightly translucent.
	"Oh!  Look at all the baby elephants!" exclaimed Balabo as he rapidly blinked his 
eyes.  He reached out a hand as if to pet something about waist high, but was hampered 
by his chair harness, leaving him flailing in puzzlement.  "I think I'm seeing things that 
are really, really, really here!  How fun!"
	2 of 20 politely ignored the inventor.  {This G'floo! is not black.  It is a very deep 
purple.  Indigo?}
	{What?} exclaimed Captain.  The conversation between him and Second ceased.  
{Confirm.}
	2 of 20 squinted as he turned the G'floo! shard over in his hand.  It was substituted 
for another from the bin.  {Indigo.}  The pronouncement was made with the confidence 
of a long time addict who knew his G'floo! colors.  {I've never seen such a dark indigo, 
but it is definitely /not/ black.}
	"Elephants!  I love elephants.  Aren't they so /cute/, especially with their little 
pocket protectors and subspace mind-rays?"  Balabo's eyes shifted back and forth as he 
focused on sights only he could see in his really real reality.  His continued his efforts to 
touch one of his visions, thwarted by an apparent inability to remember that he was 
firmly buckled to his chair.
	{There is black G'floo! somewhere on this planet:  the map indicates thus,} said 
Captain.  {You will not return to this cube without it.  Do you see any other likely 
subjects in the water outside?}
	{I...}  Attention shifted to the still-active display in front of Balabo's aimlessly 
waving hands.  2 of 20 paused, then began again, {I do not know.  There are too many 
crawlies in the way to see anything.}  Paddle-worms were completely obscuring the 
view, feathery fins and segmented bodies densely packed together.
	The buzz of a forcefield window prompted the drone to glance over his shoulder.  
"Oh-oh."
	"Oh...oh...oh...oh, I like everyone!  I love everyone!  I even love you, Mr. Borg 
Hallucination!" crowed Balabo happily.
	{Oh-oh?} inquired Captain.  {Define "oh-oh".}
	"The wormy things with fins," said 2 of 20 outloud, "seem to be attracted to 
light."  At every porthole clustered paddle-worms; and while they obviously found the 
sting of the window forcefield distasteful, the hordes of continually arriving beasties was 
pressing down upon those already present.  In response, the forcefields were audibly 
complaining as small sections temporarily overloaded, not enough to collapse the larger 
field, but sufficient to allow in small streams of water.  It was evident even to an ex-
addict and non-engineer like 2 of 20 the eventual fate if the paddle-worms could not be 
diverted elsewhere.  The pressure differential between inside Black Dancer and the water 
outside was more than sufficient to crush the submarine, and all those inside, should the 
windows breach.
	2 of 20 pivoted to face Balabo, who had managed to find a switch on the armrest 
which spun the chair in a circle.  "Where is the light switch?" he demanded.
	Balabo's face scrunched up in confusion.  "Light switch?"
	"Light switch.  The pretty has returned, and brought lots of friends.  If we turn out 
the lights, they will go away."  Black Dancer had no computer for 2 of 20 to link to, or at 
least nothing sufficiently advanced to be worth the effort.  The controls were primarily 
simple linkages, the mechanical equivalent of stimulus and response.  Presumably a 
button to operate the lights existed, likely upon the console with its wildly psychedelic 
blinking, but /nothing/ within the cockpit was labeled.  2 of 20 had just enough of a sense 
of self preservation to know that randomly flipping switches in this case was probably 
Not A Good Thing.
	The inventor's eyes focused temporarily upon 2 of 20, then shifted elsewhere to 
follow an invisible sight.  "The really real elephants are talking.  We need to be quiet so 
we can hear their devious mind-ray plans.  Shh!"
	For just a moment, voices broke through the background crackling of 2 of 20's 
mind, but for once he had no time to listen to their wisdom-filled words.  Smacking the 
side of his head manually stimulated one of the several artificial glands implanted in his 
cranium, flooding his system with correcting chemicals and silencing the voices.  
{Request emergency transport.}
	{You do not have black G'floo!,} replied Captain.
	{And I'm not going to get it at all if I am not transported!}  He reached for the 
transporter controls, but found them blocked - his designation was among those on the 
permanent lock-out list.  It had been added many years earlier following an Incident he 
personally recalled poorly, but was very vivid in the memories of a certain subset of 
drones.  Paddle-worms writhed on the display; and most of the forcefielded windows 
buzzed protest, thin streams of water visibly pooling on the floor.  There was a subtle 
change in air pressure, a sense of the universe holding its breath.  {Transport menow.  
Nownownownownownow!}
	The background calculations within the sub-collective dataspaces finally 
acknowledged that the potential for loss was greater than gain, especially considering that 
2 of 20 remained only unit able to interpret the often self-drugged Infree populace.  The 
transporter tingled a warning among 2 of 20's limbs.
	"I love you, Mr. Hallucination Borg!  Have I told you this?  And I really don't 
think this is black G'floo!:  the experience is too indigo-ish.  I want to hug the elephants, 
but you are closer.  Hugs!"  Balabo leaned forward in his chair as he babbled, catching 2 
of 20 in a great bear hug.
	Caught in the same transporter lock, both vanished from the deck of Black Dancer 
seconds before the window forcefields collapsed, imploding the doomed submarine.  
When the shockwave dissipated, all which was left behind was crumpled metal and 
several thousand very confused paddle-worms.

	2 of 20 was bored.  He walked the winding streets of Merconi.  He had returned to 
the resort town from whence he had begun his adventure, transporters on Cube #347 
manifesting a targeting glitch as they had done periodically since the Luplup incident.  It 
was one more thing engineering was 'looking in to'.  Perhaps he should be grateful he had 
not ended up floating in his own personal orbit or a permanent fixture grafted to a cube 
support spar.  Regardless, 2 of 20 was in Merconi and extremely bored.
	If only the voices in his head would do more than mumble.  Eavesdropping on an 
intelligible conversation might be interesting.
	Shortly after materializing in Merconi's central plaza, Balabo had abandoned his 
unintentional savior.  The inventor had simply wandered away, abandoning one 
hallucination for another, chasing after midget elephants while demanding at the top of 
his lungs an explanation for subspace mind-rays.  In truth, his actions had been restrained 
compared to the dozen or so other addicts under the influence.  The appreciative crowd 
gathered to watch the hard-addict perform with the bear conga line had been especially 
large.  From the plaza 2 of 20 had wandered off, joining the other seasonal hallucinations 
studiously ignored by Merconi residents and tourists alike, waiting for either the 
transporter to be declared reliable or the sub-collective to finalize consensus as to his next 
action upon the surface.
	A G'floo! shop, one of several along the street he was currently trekking, caught 2 
of 20's attention.  Like all the others of its type, the shop sold various types of G'floo!, 
exciting banners and tacky signs sporting the Infree equivalent of multiple exclamation 
marks touting how its wares were superior to all the other stores.  The G'floo! shop was a 
vital component to any town, although Merconi, as a resort destination, tended to have a 
greater number than the norm.  This particular store was standard in that it was colorfully 
painted - orange and purple - in abstract whirls, with large windows to allow the passerby 
to glimpse at the wares inside.  In many respects, the resemblance to the nostalgic Terran 
candyshop of centuries past was startling, although 2 of 20 had never been exposed to 
"Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or its like and could therefore not make the 
comparison.
	The unusual, eye-catching addition to this particular G'floo! shop, setting it apart 
from its competitors, was the aquarium.  Set upon a wheeled platform, the sixty liter tank 
quietly burbled to itself as multiple streams of bubbles arose from hidden sources 
underneath gravel.  A long rock wall had been set within the display; and grafted upon it 
was a dense assortment of sponges.  These specimens were freshwater varieties, or so 
proclaimed a sign (nearly as large as the tank), and absolutely did not contain the correct 
combination of chemicals necessary to produce a G'floo! high.  Not even a small one.  
Not even if all the sponges in the display were blenderized together and shot directly into 
the veins.
	The sign, and several ancillary ones tacked to the main board, continued as to how 
the sponges could not create an altered state of mind (although there were plenty of 
bodily consequences which would send a potential imbiber to the hospital).  2 of 20 
ignored them as he peered within the tank - his inner voices seemed to be murmuring in 
approval - to look at the sponges.  Unlike their marine counterparts, the freshwater 
versions were pale pastels, tending towards the pinks and greens.  The bodies had a soft, 
jelly-like consistency, not hard like the sponges which grew in saltwater and nearly 
lacking in the spectacular ornamentation of spikes and fans and lace.  However, despite 
the visually unappealing nature of the freshwater sponges and the sign with all its 
warnings, a powerful forcefield audibly hummed, protecting all denizens within from the 
hungers of the indiscriminate addict.
	:: Eat it!  Eat it! :: chanted the voices.
	"Blah.  I don't think so," muttered 2 of 20 to himself as he straightened up in 
preparation to continue his aimless wandering.
	Then, between one blink and the next, a new object occupied the center of the 
tank's rock wall.  It was a small sponge, not much larger than a clenched fist, and as 
amorphous in shape as all its companions.  However, where as the others sported washed 
out hues, this particular sponge was a deep, absolute black.  It seemed to suck the very 
light from the air, holding it to itself as if it were a black hole given form.
	:: Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it! ::
	A hand balled itself into a fist.  2 of 20 watched his limb in fascination, an 
observer to his own body.  The crisping and crackling and buzzing veil to his inner mind 
was thinning, allowing the voices hidden within to increase in volume.
	{No, no, no!  Don't you dare, 2 of 20!  Your vet tells you no!  Bad Borg!  Bad, 
bad, bad!} whispered the voice of Doctor from afar.  It, and the jolt which temporarily 
paralyzed muscles, were easy to ignore.
	:: Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it! ::
	"Maybe Ishould.  It lookssopretty andyummyanddarkandblack," proclaimed 2 of 
20 as the limb which was and was not a part of his body pulled back, a cocked weapon 
waiting for the trigger to be pulled.
	Captain's voice, the voice of the sub-collective Whole, was even fainter than that 
of Doctor.  Something about black G'floo! and its need for further some potion or 
ingredient or recipe or quantum.  It was unimportant, and quickly drowned out by the 
incessant chanting.
	:: Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it! ::
	2 of 20's limb shot forward, cleaving through forcefield and glass, shattering the 
aquarium.  The black sponge was grasped from its watery universe and dragged into the 
air.  In the distant now, a voice could be heard - "Not again!  And this time a 
hallucination...maybe next time I should set out a hologram, not the actual tank." - but it 
was not nearly as real as the chanting which was reaching an excited crescendo.
	:: Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it!  Eat it! ::
	Exclaimed 2 of 20 triumphantly, "Yummyyummyyummyinmytummy!"  The 
fistful of black G'floo! was shoved into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.  As the world 
promptly began to spin in new and interesting ways that included elephants and bears and 
candles, the inner voices broke into trumpeting cheers.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"I am very, very disappointed with you, with the /entire/ graduate pod of this 
facility," rumbled a Voice.  That Voice was connected to a miniature elephantesque 
creature with a trunk which split into three hands.  All those hands, with their multiple 
fingers, were uncharacteristically still, indicating a barely contained anger.  Four 
eyestalks swept the ranks of similarly shaped beings before it.  Only the merest fidgeting 
betrayed their discomfort.
	A nervous /giggle/ arose from somewhere within the arrayed crowd.
	The Voice verbally pounced, all eyestalks focusing on the individual who had 
dared make such a noise.  "Do you think this is funny?  Do you?"
	A chorus of negatives were mumbled.
	"This goes well beyond pranks with the neural projector involving toys that come 
from the bottom of cereal boxes.  Someone - and I /will/ find out whom - not only 
transferred the essence of the /only/ black G'floo! template produced by this lab, but also 
presented it to an /unsuitable/ subject.  This is /not/ a simple case of throwing mind 
shadows into the metaverse, but /physical/ manipulation.  And we cannot even gain any 
useful information out of it as the template was /consumed/ by an altered subject."
	The crowd's eyestalks shifted this way and that, focusing on everything, anything, 
except the Voice at the front of the room.
	"Due to the increasing instability of the local quantum, there is no time to attempt 
to salvage the experiment.  We are going home /now/.  Therefore, you will all break to go 
assist the Investigator you are assigned to with packing; and only /then/ will you be 
allowed to pack up the graduate pod quarters.  If things are left behind that you deem 
important, so be it.
	"And that is /not/ the extent of your punishment, so don't be getting any ideas that 
this incident will be overlooked as were the earlier pranks.  I will be determining a 
suitable punishment, both for the individuals - and I /know/ more than one was involved - 
that actually performed the deed and the graduate pod as a whole.  The punishment /will/ 
be more extreme than curfews and forbidding pub treks."
	The Voice glared one final time at the shuffling graduate students.  "Dismissed."

			*	*	*	*	*

	2 of 20 woke.  The ceiling above him was familiar:  there was no need to query 
the computer to confirm that he was in a drone maintenance workshop.  The happy blue 
targs and yellow rockfish dancing in a circle indicated his exact location to be 
Maintenance Bay #5.  He was well conversant with the ceiling art of all the workshops.
	It was not unusual for 2 of 20 to return to awareness strapped to a work table amid 
the bustle of drone maintenance; and nor was the lack of a coherent memory following 
his emergency transport from a leaky submarine several thousand meters below the sea 
surface odd.  What /was/ non-standard was that he usually did not have a two tubes 
attached to his body, one to each arm, that on the right draining blood as the one to the 
left returned it.
	"Ah!  Wakey-wakey!  How is the patient today?" brightly asked Doctor as he 
leaned into 2 of 20's field of view, one hand reaching forth to feel his nose.  "You seem to 
be a bit dry...running a fever, maybe?"
	"My...my nose is always...dry," replied 2 of 20 hesitantly.  How /did/ he feel, 
considering the circumstances?  It took a moment for the words to be assembled, all the 
diagnostics in the universe incapable of turning cold numbers into a functional narrative.  
2 of 20 finally answered, "There are no...no voices.  And everything seems so clear?  
Yes, clear."
	Doctor straightened up, head cocked sideways; and in the dataspaces, a flow of 
data related to 2 of 20's vital signs was redirected to the head of the drone maintenance 
hierarchy.  Incisors clicked twice.  "Interesting.  Your neurotransmitter levels are nearly 
at a level and composition considered normal for assimilated species #6070.  Do you hear 
anything else?  Or not hear?"
	It took a moment for 2 of 20 to decipher the question's meaning, and even longer 
to realize that something /was/ missing.  The crisping and crackling and buzzing which 
was a background component of his existence was faint, very faint.  2 of 20 reported thus 
to Doctor, as well as answered several other questions, before he managed to make an 
inquiry of his own.  "Why is my blood being filtered? That is not a normal procedure 
following one of my Incidents.  The pathway for that information is locked to drone 
maintenance and command and control.  Did I do something egregious this time?"
	{The subject's speech rate is within 5% of normal patterns for the species,} 
dictated Doctor into 2 of 20's overly long medical file.  He peered down at the work 
bench, ears flipping back.  "You remember nothing?  Your meme pathways of the 
appropriate time index seem to be more scrambled-wambled than usual."
	"Nothing."  2 of 20 paused.  "I really screwed up this time, didn't I?"
	Doctor waved a hand in a so-so motion as he reached with the other for one of the 
many instruments vital to his hierarchy's performance.  The device was waved over 2 of 
20's sternum.  "You found the black G'floo!"
	"I did?!"  At this point, the crisping and crackling and buzzing usually would 
increase in volume, in sync with emotional state.  This time is remained at in the far 
background.
	"Yes, you did.  The good puppy fetched the black G'floo!  Then the puppy ate it.  
And finally the puppy went all over the town he was at, doing what this sub-collective 
does not know, because the puppy's link with the cube was narrowed to near nothingness.  
Cube sensors could only track the poor puppy's zigs and zags; and listen to the news 
reports of a hallucination gone crazy, using candles to set bears on fire.  Your vet was 
/very/ happy when engineering fixed the transporters and could return you to the cube.  
You /were/ a bit difficult to send to sleepy land, but all was good in the end."
	Doctor offered a video file to his patient.  2 of 20 gingerly accepted it, opening the 
compressed memory meme to find himself (from Doctor's point of view) in the middle of 
Maintenance Bay #5, foaming at the mouth as he shouted about an invasion of midget 
alien elephants with pocket protectors and mind-rays.  Even after being physically 
subdued by several burly drone maintenance interns, one of whom would was destined 
for nose reconstruction following a well-placed elbow, a strong sedative delivered via 
blow dart had been required to finally tranquilize the raving Borg.  Of the incident, 2 of 
20 recalled not a thing.
	2 of 20 closed the file, then refocused both internal and external attentions upon 
Doctor.
	"You did not throw up the black G'floo! after you yummed it up.  Instead your 
body absorbed it very, very, very quickly.  We still need the black G'floo!, so every drop 
of essence is being filtered out of your blood.  The process will require another six hours, 
to allow time for G'floo! absorbed by organs and muscle to be excreted back to the 
bloodstream."  The device in Doctor's hand beeped.  Satisfied, he returned it back to its 
tray.
	"Oh," replied  2 of 20.  That was all which could be said, considering the 
circumstances.  It would not be the first time he had been left strapped to a worktable for 
a long length of time; and it was doubtless not his last.
	Doctor turned in preparation to return to other duties, then paused.  "Blood 
filtering has been very, very good for you, resetting neurotransmitter profiles to that alike 
records early in your assimilation, before your psychotic break and transfer to Cube #347.  
Therefore, you will now undergo filtering for at least one hour during your normal 
maintenance check-up."  Information delivered, the drone maintenance hierarchy head 
hummed brightly to himself as he picked up a tray of dog biscuits on his way to his next 
victim.
	2 of 20 swiveled his head slightly to regard first the outflow tube, then the inflow.  
The crisping and crackling and buzzing continued its distant crisping and crackling and 
buzzing.  He sighed, turning his head back towards the ceiling to stare at the cheery scene 
overhead.  The mystical black G'floo!, and not only had he in its hand, but he had 
imbibed it...and forgotten the experience.  Maybe, a small corner of his mind insisted, 
very likely his own even as it had just the slightest of slight timbre he associated with the 
voices, he might gain a few drops of the essence which was being filtered from his blood.  
It wouldn't be missed....
	Somewhere, someone cheered.