The surgeon of Star Trek is Paramount.  Anesthesiologist Decker is at Star Trak's table.  
The BorgSpace nutritionist is Meneks.

				DIY Surgery

	Doctor bustled about Drone Maintenance Bay #12, one of several units engaged 
in the biannual diagnostic of all surgical instruments.  From laser scalpels to specialty 
alcoves to mysterious machines which were a confusion of glaring lights and whirly bits, 
every item in the medical inventory was under scrutiny.  All drone maintenance units, no 
matter their normally assigned duty, were required to participate, hence Doctor's careful 
counting of neural stimulators.
	It wasn't necessary that he stack them in the shape of a milk bone upon return to 
their place in the storage cabinet, but it was fun.
	In the intranet background, an argument was underway.  Doctor was paying 
attention to it with the same keen interest that someone engaged in cleaning may listen to 
a radio station.  In other words, none at all:  it was mindless white noise, nothing more.  
Command and control was the primary decision body concerning where to go next, 
which of the 'ingredients' on Frank's list to attempt.  Individuals from other hierarchies 
could (and were) provide their own opinion, but when the final consensus cascade was 
run, their views would not lend little weight.
	Perhaps the greatest attraction the discussion held, in Doctor's estimation, was that 
Frank was present.  While the galactic map had finally been detached from the EMH's 
head, it remained unable to be manifested except in conjunction with the hologram.  
Oddly, when a sector of map was magnified, it appeared stars, planets, stellar 
phenomenon were reflected in real time, hence sub-collective inability to take a picture 
and dismiss Frank.  The 'how' of the matter was driving engineering hierarchy crazy, 
since it violated several supposedly immutable laws of physics.  Regardless, Doctor kept 
track of the debate, if only to ensure that his holographic pet wasn't being bullied too 
badly and that he could be returned to his data crystal kennel for a nap if it looked like he 
was becoming cranky.
	The flow and ebb of the dataspace currents shifted as the sensory hierarchy 
intercepted unusual grid data.  Cube #347 currently floated in the black interstellar gulf as 
the sub-collective debated destination.  As part of normal routine, sensors swept the 
immediate region of space, searching for potential threat or opportunity, drinking in vast 
quantities of information.  Something indefinite had been encountered.
	Data trees were seeded, comparisons made.  No discrete words accompanied the 
sensor hierarchy at work, and as it was outside Doctor's medical bailiwick, he did not 
bother to open himself to the data flow.  If he had, he might have heard wordless 
whispers of "Cloak?" and "Transporter signature?" and "Zero-point energy array?"
Doctor turned towards a workbench, a dozen used batteries in one hand, recently 
swapped out of sonic tissue cauterizers.  Nose wrinkled as he saw a neat scroll of paper 
sitting on the otherwise clean platform.  Head left, head right only showed other drones 
engaged in their own assigned duties; and there were no obvious emotional radiations to 
suggest a prank in progress.  After beaming the batteries to replicator reclamation, Doctor 
reached for the paper.
	On the outside of the scroll, written in block letters, was Doctor's name.  Not his 
numerical designation, not his hierarchical head subdesignation, but his pre-assimilated 
name.  The language was the common dialect of the Seffite species, extinct for centuries 
since the their absorption into the Borg Collective.  The scroll was sealed with a 
featureless blob of yellow wax.  Doctor broke it, unrolled the scroll, and began to read.
	Ears twitching, Doctor reread the paper.
	Tooth clicking accompanied the third read-through.
	None in the drone maintenance bay noticed the increased agitation level of their 
hierarchy head, all quite conversant with Doctor's mood swings, especially when illegal 
pets were involved.
	Doctor inhaled deeply as he came to an abrupt decision, one which would not had 
been possible if the vinculum remained whole and censure filters uneroded.
	{Drone maintenance override to all units except currently designated drone 
maintenance hierarchy head.  Initiate immediate shut-down, duration ten minutes, at 
which time standard reboot sequence will engage.}
	Around Doctor the other drones in the maintenance bay suddenly halted their 
duties, eyes glassy and focused on nothing in particular.  Conversations, debate, all 
intranet traffic ceased; and dataspace activity dropped precipitously until only basic 
computer-originated algorithms dominated run-time processes.  A flurry of transporter 
signatures accompanied drones back to their respective alcoves.  In too short a time, Cube 
#347 was reduced to eerie silence.
	{Huh?} inquired Frank, who, from his point of view in Captain's nodal 
intersection, had been abandoned without explanation.  {What just happened?}
	Doctor ground his molars together, then recalled Frank to the data crystal which 
resided in his head.  "We...I have to do something," the drone maintenance hierarchy 
whispered to himself as Frank's persona was stored.  A grave seriousness colored his 
voice, out of character for one whom regularly chattered at his patients in baby talk as he 
offered rubber toy treats.
	{Computer,} continued Doctor, {upon reboot temporarily advance the drone 
maintenance hierarchy head duties within the Group of 27 to 1 of 27.  If the unit 27 of 27 
does not return to this sub-collective within fourteen cycles, the duty shall be made 
permanent.  Addendum note to unit 4 of 8, nee Captain, record:  "Sorry.  Something came 
up.  If I have not returned from the emergency house call in fourteen cycles, Frank will 
be sent back to Cube #347."  End recording.}
	Satisfied, and with the clock counting down to reboot, Doctor transported himself 
to Bulk Cargo Hold #2; and, specifically, the racks where 127 of 230 kept her racing 
shuttle collection.  Less than two minutes later, a sleek red and white endurance racer was 
beyond the cargo bay doors.
	A ship decloaked.  Its form was the standard forty meter long dart of a Xenig GPS 
express courier, slightly bulging middle suggesting an expanded cargo area.  As Doctor's 
shuttle was tractored and pulled into a docking bay, he caught sight of GPS's latest motto 
- "Everywhere You Need Us To Be" - shimmering upon the near flank.  Then all went to 
darkness as the shuttle was set on a pad just large enough for it, outer doors closing.
	A few minutes later, lights flooded the dock; and a reverberating knock sounded 
from the rear shuttle hatch.  Doctor disengaged himself from shuttle controls, going to the 
hatch and opening it.  At the base of the unfolding ramp, a Xenig spider-mech, an 
extension of the chassis body, awaited.
	"Greetings!" boomed a voice on exterior speakers.  "My name is Olm, and I will 
be your ride today.  I do apologize for the cloak and dagger operation, but my employer 
in this matter was very strict.  Actually, I'm surprised you actually showed up.  I guess 
the alcove I installed in the bio-bay wasn't a waste.  You might as well use it because I 
have a few more deliveries to make before we arrive at your final destination.  With that, 
if you could follow my spider-mech forward so that I can secure your shuttle?"
	The multi-legged robot at the ramp raised one limb and beckoned.
	Doctor, with a flip of ears and click of incisors, complied.

			*	*	*	*	*

Dear Jas,
	I do not know if you remember me.  I don't know if you even /can/ remember me, 
or anything prior to your assimilation.  My own memories of that time are fuzzy at best; 
and I know I did not think of "before" at all when I was a part of the Collective.
	Plent.  I am Plent.  For a time I wasn't Plent, but I am once more.
	Does Jas exist within you at all?
	If it does, hello, old friend.
	I just recently learned you were alive.  The how is too long to relate in this letter.  
Suffice to say, I was surprised.  I was even more surprised when it was whispered in 
certain quarters that you might be - dare I even write it? - imperfect.  It was then that I 
thought there might be a chance for this letter to be read, be comprehended by you.  The 
real you, not the you of a numerical designation.
	I could be wrong and even now the Collective may be sending resources to 
retrieve me, but I'll take that chance.
	At this point, I'm sure you are wondering how /I/ came to be still alive.  Well, it 
all started, or perhaps ended, about five years after my assimilation.  I was part of a group 
sent to investigate a temporal phenomenon.  I remember very little from that point on, 
just a kaleidoscope of images.  The next (first?) clear memories I have is the Second 
Federation deBorgification facility.  There I learned that a SecFed temporal investigation 
team had freed me, determined that I was salvageable, and sent me on for processing.
	I will not bore you with the details.
	After I was declared "deBorged," SecFed essentially kicked me out the door to 
make it on my own.  Do you know what I found?  Discrimination.  No one wanted to hire 
an exBorg; and I didn't dare go near Colors because of the voices which would start 
whispering.  Nasty whispering, too.  I did not do too well on my own, not as a small 
being, as one; and I refused to take SecFed charity.  In the end I fell in which some not so 
good people, and am now in a small bit of trouble, although it is also through them I 
learned of your existence.
	I do not know if friendship and the dreams of two young vets can survive so many 
centuries, much less assimilation, or if such means anything to you...or if such is even 
/allowed/ to mean anything to you, imperfectly assimilated or not.  However, if it does, 
and if you can do anything about it, a Xenig GPS mech has been paid to bring you back 
here.
	As I said, I am in a wee bit of difficulty, and I would like to have my best friend at 
my side once more.  At the least, I wouldn't feel so small and one anymore.

						Sincerely,
						Plent

			*	*	*	*	*

	Doctor stepped from the shuttle's rear entrance ramp.  Olm had delivered him into 
low orbit around a moon, underground access points to its labyrinth of underground cities 
studding the regolith like a case of lunar acne.  Doctor had no clue where he was:  he did 
not maintain navigation files in onboard memory and the Xenig had not bothered to 
enlighten his passenger.  After indicating which of the ports Doctor was expected at, Olm 
had vanished, the work of a GPS courier never done.
	A human wearing a charcoal gray jumpsuit bounded over, long jump-walk typical 
of those who are accustomed to low gravity.  A purple breast patch featured the silhouette 
of a rampant lion, underneath of which were the words "Leo Port Customs."  In the man's 
hand was a large PADD.  He slowed as he registered the shuttle's occupant.
	Doctor estimated the moon's gravity to be one third Borg standard and adjusted 
the magnetics of his soles appropriately.  As long as the floor was covered in metal 
plating, he would be fine.  However, raw regolith, a not unexpected occurrence since it 
was cheap to burrow through rock and smooth the flooring, might cause problems since 
Borg were less than graceful in low gravity.  Doctor would deal with that happenstance 
when and if it occurred.  Until then, satisfied he would not be sending himself into the 
ceiling by a too vigorous walking pace, Doctor craned his head to better look amongst the 
gathering crowd for a familiar face.
	"Sir...or ma'am.  Docking fees are required," curtly informed the customs 
inspector, shoving the PADD into Doctor's face.
	Doctor blinked.  His ears laid back.  Without moving his body, he swiveled his 
head to look directly at the source of annoying intrusion.  The man blanched slightly, but 
otherwise held his ground.  "Kenneling fees are irrelevant."
	The man looked more than slightly confused at the retort.  "Kennel feeds?  Um, 
I'm sorry sir, or sirs, but docking fees are required.  You need to pay if you want to 
debark here."
	In the background, the crowd was muttering amongst itself.  Overloud whispers of 
"It looks like the bionic rat, only more Borgy" and "I didn't know there were other ratsies 
around" floated in the artificial breeze.  One unseen person commented "I wonder what 
Color it belongs too?"
	"Kenneling fees are irrelevant," repeated Doctor evenly.
	"I got it!  I got the fees!  I'll pay for it!" shouted a voice that Doctor recognized, 
that belonged to the reason for his departure from Cube #347.  Shouldering the customs 
inspector aside, Doctor turned to confront Plent, a friend he had last seen 570 years 
earlier laying on a workbench of their veterinarian ship, the victim of assimilation.
	Plent was Seffite, which meant he resembled a bipedal dormouse 1.6 meters tall.  
While he wore shorts and a pocketed vest of neutral brown, neither could disguise the 
fact that at some point in his life he had been assimilated.  Plent's pelt, once a personal 
vanity, had not returned to its previous luxurious condition, skin instead studded with 
patches of overly short hair that gave the visual appearance of ill health.  A slouched, 
almost cringing, posture reinforced the notion.  Although Plent, like Doctor, had kept 
both hands during assimilation, one leg was clearly artificial, but of Second Federation 
manufacture, not Borg.  Scars criss-crossed Plent's skin and into disheveled fur, likely 
from removed implants and assemblies; and a few implants were still visible, two on left 
arm and one on neck, attesting to devices unable to be removed because to do so would 
compromise body functions.
	"Ah, Plent," said the customs inspector, obviously relieved to be speaking to a 
familiar person, "you say you will pay the fee.  You do have the credit, do you?"
	"Yes, yes, yes, Albey," chattered Plent impatiently.  "Give me the thing and I'll 
sign for the fees."  A thumb was heavily pressed upon proffered PADD, authorizing 
money transfer.
	Satisfied, Albey turned back to Doctor.  "Now I need an inspection.  Have you 
anything to declare?"
	Glaring at the human, Doctor abruptly pivoted and took the necessary steps to 
reach the shuttle's exterior access port.  Placing one hand next to the panel, he triggered 
nanotubules.  The shuttle was instructed to lift ramp and lock hatches, to not open to 
anyone but Doctor.  "Inspections are irrelevant."
	"Not..." began Albey.
	Doctor sharply disengaged from the shuttle, then swiveled on one heel.  
Something in his expressionless face must have struck a nerve with the human, for 
Albey's face paled and he took a step backwards.  The crowd catcalled:  apparently Albey 
was not the most popular of people.  "Inspections are irrelevant," repeated Doctor.
	"Um...maybe we can let it slip this time," replied a flushed Albey.  "It isn't likely 
you have any weird fruits or vegetables in there; and deBorgification from accidental 
assimilation can really eat up accumulated sick leave."
	Doctor stared at the man several long heartbeats, imagining him to be an annoying 
pet from next door he daren't touch, else risk the neighbor's wrath.  Finally he clicked his 
incisors once as he turned towards a fidgeting Plent.
	"Hey!  Aren't you going to move your ship?  This is a loading/unloading zone 
only!"  Albey waved his hands to indicate the space, the slip able to accommodate vessels 
quite a bit larger than a racing shuttle.
	Doctor paused.  Without facing Albey, he said, "Do not touch or move the shuttle.  
Bad.  Moving shuttles is irrelevant."  He resumed his motion.
	Albey obviously did not know what to do.  There was the sound of several hurried 
steps, then the customs inspector boldly forced himself in front of Doctor.  Doctor 
stopped, lest he run over the man.  "What is your Color?  I am going to lodge a protest.  
How am I supposed to do my job when some obstructionist Color lands here?"
	"This drone belongs to no Color," flatly answered Doctor.  He shoved past Albey, 
knocking the latter away into a low-motion, flailing fall possible only under light gravity.
	Plent craned his neck to follow Albey's motion.  His response to the inspector's 
wordless bellow of frustrated rage was a shrug that conveyed volumes of information, the 
most important being 'I'm not responsible for a Borg's actions.'  Plent beckoned for 
Doctor to follow him.
	Doctor ignored the customs inspector's parting volley of verbal abuse as 
irrelevant, of no greater concern than the yapping of a small dog.  He was confident the 
shuttle would not be touched; and if Albey felt that way about Doctor's maternal lineage, 
well, unassimilated individuals were allowed their singular opinions.  More whispers, 
attributable to no one in particular, followed Doctor through the crowd.
	"No Color?  I wonder what that means?  There's no such thing as Clear, is there?"
	"This new ratsie is definitely /not/ White."
	"Black suicided a long time ago."
	"I bet it is Peach.  They're all mysterious and dodgy, and it'd explain why Albey's 
inspection was refused.  I bet the shuttle's full of spy hardware and such."
	Plent hurried Doctor along, obviously wanting to leave the nascent gossip behind.  
The crowd was starting to disperse anyway, impromptu entertainment over and bosses 
shouting at employees to return to work.  No one followed Plent or Doctor away from the 
busy port and warehouse area and into the underground lunar city proper.
	If Leo had a prosperous district, this obviously was not it.  Just as terrestrial cities 
had slums and less savory neighborhoods, so it was here.  This entrance was a port for 
cargo and rough crowds, not tourists or (legal) businessbeings, and storefront 
advertisements reflected this reality.  Perhaps at one time engineers had envisioned a 
high-class port-of-call, as evidenced by grand corridors and expansive plazas, but now 
bars, seedy hotels, banks of cheap food replicators, and stores selling questionable goods 
filled the space.  Smaller hallways, perhaps leading to residences, branched off the main 
thoroughfare at odd intervals; and one door, from under which leaked odiferous water, 
had a sagging sign taped to it that proclaimed "Public Restroom Closed For Repairs.  
Again."
	The further Plent led, the more rundown the area became.  Doctor looked around 
himself in curiosity, unperturbed by the long stares he accrued from loiterers and 
passersby alike.  No one would dare touch a Borg:  the legal system recognized 
assimilation, or termination, of an attacker to be a valid method of Color self-defense.  
And obviously Doctor belonged to a Color, for a single Collective drone on its own was 
unheard of.  The residents ignored Plent, their attitude that of familiarity and, perhaps, a 
touch of revulsion.
	"Leo is not the nicest of places, but it is home," began Plent, breaking the silence.  
"I am glad you came, Jas.  I was unsure if you would, or even could."
	Doctor laid back his ears in disproval at the chatter and the use of his pre-
assimilated name.  Incisors clicked.  Like the scroll, Plent was employing a language long 
extinct, one with Doctor's translator algorithms did not need to translate.  "Watch your 
words," hissed Doctor in response.
	Plent guffawed, a croaking chuckle unlike the laugh Doctor recalled, "Do not 
worry, friend.  The translators cannot understand us.  Well, I guess the computer at the 
facility which de-assimilated me can, but the SecFedders did not bother to disseminate 
the algorithms.  After all, why bother for /one/ ratsie?  Instead, after removing all my 
other language features, they reinstalled a data crystal into my head which has Terran 
SecFed and several other major languages.  When I talk to anybody, I use that.  Oh, Jas, it 
has been so long since I could use the mother tongue."
	Doctor's ears rose to a forward pointing position.  He was silent for a time, 
digesting the words.  "We...I see.  Name is not Jas, however.  Designation is 27 of 27."  
Doctor felt uncomfortable referring to himself by his pre-assimilation name:  that person 
was gone.
	Plent cocked his head slightly, looking at Doctor out of one eye.  Ears flipped; a 
muscle in his brow twitched.  "The rumors are true!  There is a singular you in you yet.  I 
understand the name.  It took me a long time to think of myself as 'Plent' again, not 87 of 
1223.  I still sometimes have trouble.  Don't mind me if I call you 'Jas', however.  That is 
the friend I remember, not 27 of 27."
	"Acceptable," answered Doctor.  "Explain why you asked me to come here."
	"Well," began Plent as he slowed a bit more, turning his skittish limp-walk into a 
distinct scuttle, "um, you'll have to bear with me on that.  It is, er, hard to explain...and 
here we are, anyway!  Our destination!"  The exBorg ducked his head at his comrade's 
narrowing of eyes.
	It seemed Plent was actively trying to evade the subject, so Doctor instead 
focused on the inset doorway in front of which they had halted.  They were down one of 
the side hallways from the thoroughfare, a dimly lit alley which did not see regular 
cleaning services.  Above the door, in large Terran letters of silver, was written "DIY 
Club," and under that in elaborate cursive, "Members Only."
	Plent placed his hand on a low-tech palm reader next to the door.  There was a 
quiet beep and the door slid open.  He beckoned for Doctor to follow as he stepped 
inside.
	The spacious interior was formulated in tasteful decor that suggested Gentleman's 
Club, but not of the pole and scantily clad women variety.  People of both genders - albeit 
mostly male and mostly human - lounged on comfortable chairs or clustered around low 
tables, only one or two looking up as Plent and guest entered, suggesting that Doctor's 
presence was expected.  Against the near facing wall of the L-shaped room was an 
impressive set of shelves which featured hardbound books, spines sporting multi-syllabic 
titles in dead languages.  Upon closer examination it became apparent the display was a 
hologram hiding a modern data crystal dispenser, although at least one case was in fact 
what it appeared.
	At the other end of the room, the lounging area shaded into dining tables, a 
holographic fireplace, and a high-end food replicator.  A self-service wet bar with a wide 
selection of alcohols and liqueurs, some very expensive, was in a cubby all its own.  Near 
the unreal fireplace was another set of shelves, this one featuring cards and boxes of 
games.  Of the latter, something called "Operation" seemed to be very popular, for there 
was no less than six of it visible, all of them with the cardboard box patina of heavy use.
	Fabric draped corridors and closed doors showed that the club consisted of more 
than a single large room.
	Upon the far wall, where lounging shifted to tables, a polarized window, currently 
dark, was present.  It seemed out of place, not least of all because Leo was an 
underground lunar city, hence not needing windows.  A double row of chairs, all 
currently empty, had been set up in front of the window.
	A human male stood from a chair.
	As if an unheard cue had passed through the room, individuals who had been 
studiously ignoring Plent's entrance started to call out greeting.  There were cries of 
"Plent!" and "Ratsie!", and at least one "Where have you been?  The schedule shows you 
in half an hour."
	"What is this place?" asked Doctor as he panned the room.
	"My home," quietly answered Plent.  "Just a moment.  I'll be right back."
	Doctor ignored Plent's departure as he peered at the holographic (and real) books, 
noting a general theme of anatomy and surgery.  He focused on Plent just in time to see 
something pass to his friend from the human who had stood.  With a gesture, Plent 
invited the man to follow him back to Doctor.
	As the pair approached, Doctor critically examined the human.  Typical for the 
species, he was a head taller than either Plent or Doctor, but then again, the Seffite race 
wasn't exactly of imposing stature.  His clothes were nondescript, a grey sweatsuit which 
even Assimilation might have found boring, providing no hint as to occupation.  The 
human's dark hair was distinctly thinning and styled to a bad comb-over, human 
scientists, despite centuries of experimentation, never having found a decent cure for 
premature baldness.  The sweatsuit could not hide a slight paunch.
	Plent stopped in front of Doctor.  One hand was tightly clutched around the neck 
of a paper bag.  "Jas, this is Brett, president of the DIY Club.  Brett, this is Jas, the one 
you wanted to meet and my friend a long time ago."  The words were spoken in Terran.  
"If you will excuse me, I, um, gotta prepare for my demonstration."  With the poor 
apology made, Plent scurried, like the scraggly rat he resembled, through a curtained 
doorway.
	Doctor look up at Brett.
	If Brett had any discomfort at being stared at by a Borg, he did not show it.  
Instead he smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and motioned for Doctor to follow him 
towards the out-of-place window.  "So, Jas, welcome to the DIY Club.  Excuse me if I 
don't shake your hand, but I know you Borg types aren't all that gung-ho for such 
gestures."  For the first time, Doctor noticed that Brett was wearing surgical gloves.  
	Doctor didn't know exactly what was going on, or how it related to Plent's letter 
and his understated plea for help, but he was willing to wait.  For a time.  In the vet 
world, sometimes patience accomplished more than any chemical or procedure.
	"Provide the purpose of this place," demanded Doctor.  Unlike the similar 
question posed to Plent, a straightforward answer was provided.
	Said Brett as he stepped in front of the polarized window and shifted a chair 
slightly, "This is a special association - the DIY Club.  Specifically, Do It Yourself 
Surgery.  None of us are classically trained, nor is there a medical doctor - other than 
Plent, sort of - among us.  We are from all walks of life, from Barry over there - a janitor 
- to our most newest member Xris - a corporate lawyer.  I myself am an elementary 
school teacher.  We are all united in the love and fascination of the surgical arts."
	Doctor's ears twitched, but he did not comment.  Who was he to protest 
peculiarity?  For one, he was Borg, and it would not be in the best Borg image to do so.  
Two, Cube #347 /did/ have a riding lawnmower racing society, among other odd intra-
sub-collective associations, so who was he to judge?
	 A quiet double beep interrupted Brett before he could continue, and at the same 
time the window depolarized.  Revealed within was a compact operating theater, in the 
center of which was an empty table and several trays of tools.  Equipment both high-tech 
and low was all within easy reach.  It was the type of room an expensive private facility 
which catered only to the well-heeled might have...maybe...if they could afford it.  It was 
not something to be found in the common hospital or teaching university, much less in an 
obscure club down a dark alley amid the slums of a rundown lunar city.
	On one side of the theater, a door opened.  From it strutted Plent, gowned in white 
surgical apparel.  There was a spring to his step and a sparkle to his eyes which had not 
been present before; and he stood straight, no slouching.  It was as if a new Plent had 
replaced the one which had led Doctor from port to club, a Plent resurrected from pre-
assimilation.
	"Ah," commented Brett, "I see that we will be beginning the demonstration 
shortly.  All of our newest members, if they haven't already arrived, will be wandering 
over here soon; and I'm sure that some of the others will take an interest as well.  We all 
do so like to watch Plent at work.  And you, I understand, are even better.  A virtual 
master of the art."
	Doctor did not know how to respond, so he said nothing.  Instead he turned to 
look through the window and down to the operating theater, thoughts whirling (it did not 
help he was singular, alone) as he tried to puzzle what was going on.

	Plent completed the surgery to the appreciative applause of the small audience 
who had watched the one hour procedure.
	The operation had been simplistic, and pointless, performed on a volunteer DIY 
member.  Once the subject had been anesthetized under a stasis field, Plent had 
proceeded to open the torso and remove, one at a time, all the organs until the body 
cavity was empty.  Lungs, heart, liver, stomach, intestine, all had been displayed on an 
empty bench, kept in prime condition under another stasis field.  Then, when the body 
was the little more than a gutted (but still alive) carcass, Plent had carefully restored the 
organs to their place, suturing them with a cellular regenerator.
	"How did you like it?" asked Brett.   The man had disappeared when the surgery 
had begun, only recently returning.
	Doctor's ears twitched slightly.  "Stupid.  Simple."  He was not one to mince his 
words in this matter.  Although disdain was technically irrelevant, nonetheless it was 
reflected in his flat tone.
	Brett shrugged and gave a noncommittal hum.  "Yes, it wasn't very complicated, 
was it?  Very smooth, though.  The operation was primarily a demo for the club's newest 
members.  Want a chocolate?"  A hand dove into a pants pocket, retrieving several 
thumb-sized candies wrapped in silver foil.
	Doctor glanced downwards, slightly confused at the abrupt change in topic.  "No.  
I...we do not eat.  Yucky."
	"Suit yourself."  Brett peeled the covering from one candy, then tossed the 
chocolate into his mouth as the remainder were repocketed.  "So, do you know why you 
are here?"
	Doctor glanced back to the window.  Plent was placing surgical instruments in a 
sterilizer; and someone had taken the patient away.  The audience was dispersing now 
that the show was over.  Attention returned to the human.  "Plent wrote a letter.  Poor boy 
begged I come.  A GPS courier brought me here."  Doctor discarded the plural for the 
singular, but could not quite keep his speech pattern from reverting to the patter he used 
on his Borg patients.  He also did not mention the difficulties to which his friend had 
alluded.
	Brett hummed again.  "It's a bit more complicated than that.  The auto-bartender 
mixes a mean chocolate liqueur drink.  Want one?  No?  Why don't you follow me over 
anyway."  The lead was taken, path away from operation theater and towards the bar.  
The latter was not the final destination, however, but a small entertainment PADD which 
had been left on the counter.  Brett took it, then gestured Doctor to look at the screen.
	Leaning in, Doctor did so...and saw himself.  Specifically, it was himself twenty 
subjective years and a resurrection ago, although the recording itself was actually well 
over five centuries old.  At the time, Doctor had not been head of the Cube #347 drone 
maintenance hierarchy, just 27 of 27.  Following an accident that had corrupted certain 
sectors of cube memory, he had been tasked to produce a series of training videos 
demonstrating emergency self-surgical techniques, the final product to be stored on data 
crystal.  In this particular recording, Doctor was showing how to perform a one-handed 
repair on the opposite limb's major tendons.
	"That is you, isn't it?"
	"Yeeeees..." answered Doctor slowly as he handed back the entertainment unit.
	"Oh, wonderful," gushed Brett, hugging the PADD to his chest.  "Wonderful!  
These few videos - one of a kind - are what the members of the DIY Club strive to 
achieve.  They are our inspiration.  We've had them forever...far before my time, at least, 
and maybe back to the club's founding.  At any rate, until Plent came into our lives, we 
didn't even know what species you were.  And later, well, it came to our attention that 
there was another of his kind, but assimilated.  Pictures were acquired, and imagine the 
club's surprise when Plent claimed that you and the drone in the videos were one and the 
same...and that he /knew/ you.  It was a miracle!  Of course, miracles can't be questioned, 
no matter how outlandish, so Plent was asked to attempt to bring you here to allow us all 
to meet our idol.  Therefore, while poor Plent was the conduit that brought you, the club 
was ultimately the will.  M'n'M?"
	A bowl of brightly colored, candy-coated sweets was offered to Doctor.  What 
was with this human and his chocolate affliction?  The bowl was pushed away.
	"Sorry," apologized Brett.  "Plent likes them well enough.  I just want to make 
you feel welcome."
	"Where is Plent?" asked Doctor as he panned the room.  The theater window was 
dark.  Frankly, Brett and the whole idea of a surgical club was giving him the creepy-
weepies, no matter such feelings were irrelevant.  He had come to see Plent; and he now 
wanted to do so, to learn the meaning of the letter and how he could help.  Afterwards he 
would return to the Cube #347 before several...projects became overly unhappy at his 
extended absence.
	Brett smacked his forehead, "Oh, I forgot to tell you!  How stupid of me. During 
the surgery, I talked with Plent via the theater communicator.  About the time Jackie's 
spleen was removed, I think.  Anyway, he wanted me to relay a message that he was 
feeling awfully tired and was planning to retire after finishing.  He would be sure to catch 
up with you tomorrow."
	Doctor eyed the wide-smiling human.  Something was not right, but he wasn't 
sure what.  If he had been linked to his sub-collective he would have asked a human Borg 
how to interpret the expression.
	"Why don't you come back in eight or nine hours?  Or, if you are restless, I can 
find you someone to give you a tour of Leo."
	Incisors were clicked.  "I will return after Plent's nappy-time," he declared.
	Brett nodded.  "Can I offer you a hot chocolate before you go?"  His response was 
an unblinking stare.  The human sighed.  "I guess not.  Here, let me show you to the door, 
then, if you don't want an escort.  It is easy to find the landing slips.  I will warn you that 
while club members have been polite tonight, I think tomorrow that you'll be having a lot 
of people who want to talk to you, ask questions."
	Doctor stepped through the door, leaving behind cheery club interior for a dingy 
lunar city slogging through the evening hours.  
The thoroughfare was trod, Doctor ignoring his surroundings, turned inward in an 
attempt to sort his experiences over the last several hours.  He did not see the pedestrians 
who dodged out of the Borg's way when it became apparent he would not deviate from 
his path; and nor did he hear the gossip that was convinced he was Peach...or Green...or 
Aquamarine.  The "Caution:  Do Not Cross" tape stretched between waist high traffic 
cones caught his attention, but only because it tangled around his legs as he neared his 
shuttle.  Once inside (minus tape), Doctor stepped up and into the alcove he had 
convinced Olm to transfer to the shuttle, not because he needed to regenerate, but because 
there was nothing else to do.  Doctor slipped into lonely blackness, personal conundrums 
unresolved. 

	"It's the bionic rat's big brother."
	"I talked to Lena this morning, who said Toni saw it down near the Mad Doctors' 
haunt."
	"Did you see Albey last night?  I swear the man's going to give himself an ulcer 
trying to decide if he dared tow the Borg-rat's ship.  I hear he raided the police's tape 
supply."
	"Five credits that it turns out to be an Avocado practical joke."
	Doctor ignored the conversations which swirled around him as he made his way 
back to the DIY Club.  Discussions halted when he passed, but before and after his 
personal Cone Of Silence low voices whispered.  He easily focused on speakers:  
sometimes mobile ears and built-in audio enhancement were good things.  The 
speculations became less as the busy area around the port was left behind, replaced with 
fewer people, most of whom took "minding your own business" to an art form.
	Finally Doctor reached the DIY Club entryway.  As there was no obvious 
doorbell and knocking on metal was a fine way to acquire bruised knuckles, he put his 
hand on the scanner.  There was a quiet whine, then a loud noise that was a part fart, part 
bagpipe, and all denial.  Doctor tried again and was rewarded with the same sound.  He 
was about to change tactics to a nanotubule-based strategy to 'convince' the scanner to 
pass him when the door whooshed open.
	"Good morning!" said Brett brightly, a necessary enthusiasm cultivated by those 
whom teach pre-adolescents until it becomes second nature.  "Come in, Jas."
	Doctor entered without a word of thank-you, head slowly scanning the main 
room, looking for Plent.  Unlike the night before, the club was empty.  The only sign of 
occupancy was a table on the bar end of the L, covered in neat stacks of colorful 
children's PADDs.
	"I am so sorry, " apologized Brett as he anticipated Doctor's inevitable question, 
"but you just missed Plent.  He said he had to run some errands while the commercial 
sector crowds were still light.  I think he also had a meeting or appointment somewhere 
as well.  I expect he'll be back in a bit.  Make yourself at home...well, I'm sure this isn't 
the type of home /you/ are used to, but you understand.  I also apologize about the 
doorlock, but this is an exclusive club, after all.
	"Coco-puffs?"
	Doctor blinked.  He had tuned out the human's long-winded chatter once it 
became evident the reason for his leaving Cube #347 was not present.  "What?" he asked.
	"Coco-puffs.  A chocolate rice cereal.  Makes a good breakfast, or all around 
snack.  My students love it.  I can replicate you up some if you like."
	"I do not eat," said Doctor evenly.  Obviously the DIY president was deficient in 
the hearing and/or memory department:  the same response had been given several times 
the night before.  "I will get a tummy ache and make a mess all over the place."
	Brett smiled, a cousin to the odd grin 8.36 hours prior.  "If you say so.  It's just 
Plent can't do without his coco-puffs in the morning, and since you are both the same 
race...."  The explanation, which was going nowhere, trailed off.  "Anyway, if this had 
been any work week but a school vacation, the chance is very good no one would have 
been here to let you in.  Until around mid-afternoon, when shifts are letting off, the Club 
is pretty empty...which makes it an excellent place to work on lesson plans or, as I'm 
doing today, grade essays.  Not even the most advanced Personality is up to the rigors of 
a second-grade essay without blowing a logic circuit.  I consider it job security."
	As he spoke, Brett gestured for Doctor to follow him to the occupied table.  In 
addition to the stack of PADDs, there was a larger tablet upon which the electric screen 
held a cryptic paragraph detailing butterflies, elephants, targs, and a scratching post.  
Several tight rolls of stickers, each with a stylized fruit, were in danger of falling off the 
table.
	"I shall wait for Plent to return from walkies," declared Doctor.  Internally he 
somewhat dreaded the prospect:  without access to the sub-collective, there was no one to 
talk to and his reading material was limited to the 325 out-of-date and well perused 
copies of Vet Digest, Vet Weekly, Vet Inquirer, and Stylish Vet he held in his onboard 
memory.
	Brett nodded, as if expecting the answer.  "Here," he said, moving PADDs to 
reveal a sheet of paper subdivided into circles, each with the word "Visitor" crossing the 
equator.  The sheet was picked up and a sticker peeled off.  "I just replicated some visitor 
badges.  Because of the club's exclusivity, the passive integrated transceiver in the badge 
decays 24 hour after body heat activation.  Therefore, you'll need a new badge once a 
day; and just in case, I recommend every twelve hours so that you aren't accidentally 
locked out.  If you stay for more than a couple of days, I'll see about updating the lock 
with your bio-identifiers.  No offense, but I don't think it would be in the best interest of 
the club if you used that special means of computer persuasion you biomechanoid types 
have.
	"Hold out a hand.  The sticker goes on the back."
	As Doctor took the sticker, he wrinkled his nose.  A chocolaty scent struck his 
olfactory senses.  What was with this human and his obsession?  He hesitated, peering 
more closely at the sticker stuck on one finger.  Eyes shifted to Brett.
	"What's wrong?" asked the president of the DIY Club.  He sniffed, then blushed.  
"Whoops!  I think the replicator screwed up:  it does it on occasion.  Before the badges, I 
was making stickers for my students - cellulose, vegetable ink, aromatics.  Then I did the 
badgers - the transceiver is synth-org, which is why it decays and why the food replicator 
can do it - but the silly thing must have gotten became stuck on the chocolate scratch-
and-sniff command.  A technician is to check the machine next week, or so I've been 
promised."
	Doctor brought the sticker to his nose and inhaled again.  It was an odd, alien 
aroma, not unpleasant, maybe even slightly tangy.  He was normally insensitive to odors, 
not because his race was scent-blind, but because a vet career fostered an obliviousness to 
objectionable, usually very organic, smells.  The badge was placed on the back of his 
opposite hand.  Perhaps he should look into 88 of 152's aromatherapy offerings when he 
returned to Cube #347.  "Irrelevant."
	Brett, ever the good, if long-winded, host, wrung his hands.  "Are you sure it is 
okay?  I can make new badges, although it does seem a shame to disrupt these ones 
because of such a small mistake."
	Clicking his teeth, Doctor caught Brett in an unblinking stare.  "Irrelevant," he 
repeated.  "No boo-boo exists."
	Brett heaved a long sigh.  The funny grin sat upon his face once more, only it was 
more...satisfied?  Why couldn't common bipedal sentients like humans have tails or ears 
or other sensible auxiliaries that conveyed emotional intent?  "Good, good.  Is there 
anything, um, non-food or non-drink related I can get you while you wait?  No?  Then if 
you will excuse me, these essays will not grade themselves."
	As the day progressed, it became apparent Plent was not returning.  While Brett 
agonized over his essays, DIY Club members began to trickle in.  Around shift change, a 
virtual flood flowed into the club, turning it into a lively place of conversation, gaming, 
and social drinking.  Brett put away his school work and Doctor left his place against the 
wall to ask for an electronic copy of a city map and a selection of the latest veterinarian 
magazines.  So bored was Doctor, he even answered some of the inquiries by curious 
members, eventually allowing himself to be drawn into discussions of a surgical nature.  
A succession of minor operations - one participant severed her own foot then reattached 
it, to vigorous applause - occurred in the club's theater.  Finally, as afternoon turned into 
evening, Brett approached Doctor with a request.
	"I am waiting for Plent," insisted Doctor.
	"Just a little demonstration.  Nothing fancy.  It would pass the time, and I've 
several volunteers who would /love/ to be your patient."
	Finally Doctor capitulated.  The badgering, supported by other vocal club 
members, proved too much for his inbuilt need to comply with the majority.  The shunt 
procedure - bile duct reroute, species #6070, Infree - was completed with no 
complications; and Doctor even took the opportunity to test a novel technique of bowel 
massage developed to increase digestive efficiency and promote weight loss, as detailed 
in his new copy of Vet and Scalpel.  He was offered many congratulations when he 
returned to the club's main room.
	"Wonderful!" exclaimed Brett in bubbling excitement after he had shooed away 
fawning DIY Club members.  "And that thing you did to Mach'i's lower interesting, I 
don't know the reason, but I am sure there is a good one!  New techniques...that is only 
one of the reasons why we were so excited to meet you."  Brett paused, then continued, 
his voice sobering, "Oh, I do so hate to tell you, but Plent returned while you were 
engaged.  He said he'd had a long day, full of unexpected hassles and delays, and to tell  
you that he was so exhausted that he needed to go straight to bed.  He was sorry, 
especially after you had traveled so far at such little notice, but that he had no obligations 
tomorrow and would be available first thing in the morning."
	Doctor stared at Brett.  Ears flicked.  For some reason he was feeling annoyed, 
more so than censure filters should allow.  Likely it was an effect of the general erosion 
of filters since Cube #347's vinculum accident, combined with separation from the sub-
collective.  Doctor consciously pushed away the unwanted emotion.  "Then I will return 
in the morning."  He did not need to regenerate, but he also did not want to stand here all 
night.
	Brett nodded his head.  "I, or rather, Plent will see you then.  Here, why don't we 
exchange that badge for a new one, just in case."  The sheet of chocolate stickers was 
unfolded from a pocket, and old one swapped for new.
	Doctor immediately felt better.  He left club behind, destination the shuttle.

	Doctor stepped from the ramp of the shuttle and stopped short.  The warnings 
around his abode had grown more elaborate in the short 8.5 hours he had been within; 
and the instigator was still present.  Startled, customs inspector Albey stood straight, 
attempting (and failing) to hide a roll of "Danger!  Construction Zone!" tape behind his 
back.
	After considering the maze of warning tape and pedestrian barriers surrounding 
the shuttle, Doctor closed the access ramp, locked the vessel, then began to make his way 
out.  The procedure involved much snapping of tape for there was no other path...until 
Doctor passed, that was.
	"I'll figure you out!" shouted Albey.  "I will!  The Colors I, as customs officer, 
have contacted have all denied your existence, but I know one - or more - of them are 
lying!  'We do not lie to small beings' my left buttock!  Your ship will be towed and a 
fine leveraged...do you hear me, Color?  I've got a subspace neural transceiver interceptor 
on back-order from the main office at Gemini!"  The man was practically frothing at the 
mouth.
	Head facing straight ahead, ears pricked forward, Doctor ignored the ranting.  
Today he /would/ finally talk to Plent, his one and only reason for being here.  Excuses 
were not acceptable.  Well, maybe one slight delay to check out an exotic pet shop which 
the map showed was only slightly out of the way....
	Doctor cocked his head slightly as he walked, free of the tape, as he considered 
the pet option.  It would not take that much extra time, and Plent, a once-upon-a-time vet 
would understand....  Hand with badge was absently raised to noise, as had periodically 
occurred all night, even in regeneration, and chocolate scent inhaled.  No...no, Doctor's 
resolve was firm...Plent first, /then/ pet shops.
	The twenty minute trek passed in that peculiar unthought possible only to Borg or 
the very tired.  Body on autopilot, Doctor was almost, but not quite, surprised when he 
found himself before the DIY Club entrance.  Presenting the scanner with bestickered 
hand was sufficient for the door to slide itself open.  Doctor entered, head automatically 
panning the room for animals, Plent, threats, or anything else of interest, in that order.
	The club was empty, devoid even of Brett and his schoolwork.
	The door slid shut behind Doctor with a quiet whoosh.
	The distinctive sound of flip-flops echoed from behind a beaded curtain obscuring 
the entrance to an interior corridor.  "Brett?  Is that you?  I...Jas!"  Plent abruptly halted, 
partially through the barrier, beads clicking as they hit against each other.  Then he was 
through, arms wide for a hug.
	Doctor was taken aback at his old friend's appearance.  Compared to the day he 
had been met at the landing slip, this Plent was in a state of ungroomed untidiness, and 
that was saying a lot.  Hair, where it was present, stuck out in stiff spikes, utterly at odds 
to the well-groomed Plent that Doctor remembered from long ago; and the jumpsuit he 
now wore needed laundering.  The flip-flops revealed toenails in desperate need of a trim.  
Worse of all, an unnatural hunger filled the Seffite's eyes.
	"Plent?" asked Doctor uncertainly as he submitted to the embrace.
	"Jas!  I wasn't sure you would return.  But now that you are here, everything will 
be better...um, I need a pick-me-up.  Over here, Jas."  As he grabbed one of Doctor's 
hands and pulled him towards the bar end of the club room, Jas yelled, "Replicator!  
ChocoBlock, big size."  There was an answering chirp from a food dispenser.
	Plent left Doctor beside a tall table designed for casual standing or barstools, then 
practically ran over to the replicator.  Once there he snatched his item from the slot and 
hurriedly unwrapped it.  Even from the table, Doctor could hear and see the relieved sigh 
as Plent bit into the food.  Sated, the exBorg returned to the table.
	The revealed "ChocoBlock" was a solid hunk of dark chocolate nearly half a 
kilogram in mass.
	"I am in so much trouble," said Plent in the Seffite tongue without preamble as he 
chewed, then swallowed.  The Borg rejection of small talk had obviously survived 
deassimilation, as had dismissal of chairs even though Plent was perfectly capable of 
perching on a nearby barstool.  "I didn't really want to write you, even after I knew you 
were alive.  I hoped you won't come, that you couldn't come.  But He knows my 
weaknesses, and He withheld it until I would have agreed to anything.  I am one; I am 
small; I am weak.  He is strong."  There was a pause.  "I didn't tell Him you were 
Collective, though.  He thinks you are some sort of Color."
	"Who is 'He' and what are you barking about?" demanded Doctor.  An intruding 
irritability was pushed away.  He brought one hand up in preparation to scan his old 
friend, to determine for himself what - organic or remnant mechanical - might be wrong.
	Plent gnawed on his chocolate.  "He is Brett and...and...oh-no!"  The exBorg 
moaned as his eyes fixed on Doctor's hand, and, more precisely, on the visitor badge. 
"You can't eat or drink, but /He/ got you anyway.  I'm doomed!  You're doomed!  We are 
all dooooomed!"  A savage bite was taken from the chocolate bar and swallowed with 
nary a chew.
	Doctor aborted his motion, turning his hand to look at the sticker...the chocolaty-
smelling sticker.  "Explain, now, Plent.  Comply.  Have you been a bad boy?"
	Hanging his head, Plent whispered, "I'm an addict, Jas, to chocolate.  And now 
you are too."
	At first slowly, then with increasing intensity, the story tumbled forth.  As the 
letter had related, the Second Federation deassimilation facility had released Plent 
following his successful rehabilitation.  Without guidance, lost in the future and knowing 
that his species had long ago been completely assimilated, Plent had drifted from port to 
port, his fare on scum-bucket transport paid via services as a medical technician.  The 
freighters that were desperate enough to hire a temporary ship's doctor that was also 
exBorg were not exactly what one could call first-class.  Quite the opposite.  In such a 
manner, Plent had arrived at Leo; and then come to the attention of the DIY Club as he 
haunted the outbound employment offices.
	The DIY Club had a fascination not only with surgeries on each other or self, but 
also exotic aliens.  It wasn't power or dominance or sexual perversion:  it was all about 
taking things apart to find the tick.  Plent was not only exotic, but an exotic /doctor/ 
according to his want-ad.  Plent had never revealed to prospective employers that his 
medical experience largely consisted of pre-assimilated vet school and remnant 
knowledge as a Borg drone maintenance unit not taken from him during deassimilation.
	It was by accident that Brett, hospitable host, had offered Plent a substance called 
"hot chocolate with marshmallow."  And it was by accident that Plent had discovered that 
the complex brew which was Terran chocolate, a tasty treat to many races, created almost 
instant addiction to a Seffite.
	"At first it was hot chocolate," whispered Plent, his eyes focused on the last bite 
of ChocoBlock held in his hand, "and then it was M'n'M's and chocolate chips.  Next 
brownies and ice cream.  Peeps and bunnies, marshmallow insides removed.  Now it is 
the hard stuff, like this ChocoBlock, several a day, just so I can feel normal.  Next..." 
voice dropped even more, "next I fear it will be a confection known only as Death By 
Chocolate."
	Doctor, eyes narrowed, huffed.  "This unit is Borg.  Addictions are irrelevant."  
He pointedly tore the sticker off his hand.
	Plent ate his last chunk of chocolate.  The hunger had left his eyes and he was 
starting to absently draw one hand over the fur of the opposite arm in a grooming motion.  
He said nothing, instead offering a knowing silence.
	Ten minutes later, Doctor hastily replaced the chocolate sticker:  he had been 
starting to shake.
	"Instant addiction," repeated Plent.
	"Borg.  Addiction cannot occur."
	"Yes it can."
	"No it can't."
	"Yes it can."
	Doctor sucked in his breath to reply, then let it out noisily.  "This is a momentary 
set back, a wrong turn on the agility course of life.  Once the counter is determined, 
addiction will be irrelevant."  He started an intensive system diagnostic.
	Plent crossed his arms over his chest, content to wait.
	As it was, the cause was missed during the fist scan.  It was only after removing 
the sticker, then awaiting the initiation of tremors, that a neural implant suite which 
monitored neurotransmitter levels noticed the dip in cadaferin.  The suite, while installed 
in all Borg units, could only be fully accessed and understood by drone maintenance.
	The drop was not major, within acceptable parameters except...except the gland 
which /should/ have been producing the neurotransmitter was not doing so, was not 
compensating.  On top of that, for unknown reasons Doctor's motor systems were 
reacting out of proportion given the depression.  Reattachment of the chocolaty sticker 
saw the gradual rise of cadaferin back to standard levels, given appropriate lag time for a 
mystery drug to pass through skin, enter bloodstream, and be transported to the brain.
	Doctor tagged the suspect neurotransmitters for continual monitoring, then 
refocused his attention outward.  Over thirty minutes had passed, more than sufficient 
time for the nonassimilated, even an exBorg, to lose interest in a statue-still drone.  As 
Doctor blinked and began to look around for Plent, he heard a loud buzz from behind.
	"Dang!  I can /never/ get the wishbone out."
	Turning, Doctor saw Plent hunched over an odd game, one which involved a box 
with a cartoonish human on it, nose a red light bulb, metal-lined openings perforating the 
body.  Plent held a pair of metal tweezers; and beside him was a small pile of plastic 
bones and organs.  Seeing motion, the tool was set down.
	"Sorry, sorry,  Let me turn this off.  There.  So, did you find anything?"
	"This bad-bad thing," Doctor waved his bebadged arm, "is delivering a complex 
molecule that mimics cadaferin.  Synapses are preferentially taking it up.  With an 
exterior source, the production gland doesn't produce as much.  When the exterior source 
ceases, synapses react unfavorably to the lack."
	"And..." prompted Plent.
	Ears were pressed flat against skull.  A sullen, sulky, and whiney nonBorg tone 
entered Doctor's voice.  "And, it is a gland which can only be stimulated back to 
appropriate levels manually.  The appropriate tool is not part of my body suite.  If 
neurotransmitter level is not kept at an appropriate level, my motor facilities will 
degenerate.  A shaky vet is not a good thing."
	"And cognitive functions and inhibitions and a whole host of other things go as 
well.  I know.  I've tried to kick the habit, but I can't.  I don't think it can be done.  On 
more than one occasion I've left here, only to wake on the street, Him standing over me 
with a disproving look on His face, myself surrounded by chocolate wrappers and no 
memory.  Finally I gave up.  Better shelter and guaranteed chocolate in return 
for...whatever He demands, than memory lapses, stealing, police, and overdose 
flashbacks."
	"Pet," hissed Doctor.  "No, not a pet...slave to small beings."
	Plent shrugged, a somberness to his eyes.  "As I was with the Collective."
	"It is different."
	"Is it, really?"
	Doctor was silent.  He refused to answer.
	A quiet swoosh announced the opening of the club's main door.  "Is anyone 
here?" called Brett's voice.
	"Yes," answered Plent and Doctor in unison.
	Only the sound of Brett's footsteps could be heard until he turned the corner of the 
L.  "Ah, my two alien rat friends.  Jas, I am so glad you finally managed to pin down 
Plent."
	Doctor left the table to approach Brett.  His ears were stiffly angled outward in a 
manner another Seffite would decipher as anger.  He had to tilt his head upward to keep 
his stare on the DIY Club president, but such a height difference was the norm when 
interacting with other bipedal sentients.
	Brett held his ground, although his smile vanished.
	"You are not a friend," said Doctor scornfully as he stopped in front of the human.  
He held up his right hand.  "This visitor's badge delivers an addicting drug."
	"It is only..." protested Brett.
	"...an addicting, chocolaty drug," ended Doctor.  His ears were now laid back.  "A 
drug you have addicted Plent upon.  And this unit.  We demand the antidote."
	Whined Plent from the table, "I didn't request nothing."  He was ignored.
	Brett laughed.  "A cure to /chocolate/?  You have got to be kidding!  One, it 
doesn't exist:  why make an antidote to /candy/?  Two, why would I give it to you?  The 
DIY Club can always use guests of your caliber...permanent guests."
	Doctor blinked.  Teeth clicked once, twice.  "You admit to this addiction?"
	"Why not?" Brett shrugged.  "I know you Borg types, even ex ones like my good 
ratsie buddy Plent, don't like 'small talk' or lies.  Horrible conversationalists, let me tell 
you.  I, and others on the DIY cabal, figured that if you responded to the letter, then you 
were ours.  I've heard what customs-Nazi Albey thinks - the bars he frequents can't get 
him to shut up; and the street gossip holds its own judgment.  They are all wrong.  
Whatever your Color is - and I don't care - you've severed yourself from your Collective 
to come here.  It was a one-way trip.  There is no one in your head with you."  A finger 
reached out to tap armored skull.
	Doctor ducked his head to avoid the touch.  He was unsuccessful.  "Then you will 
be assimilated.  Together we will fix me and make me all better."
	"Ah-ah," said Brett, finger waggling.  He stepped backwards just enough to be out 
of immediately arm range of Doctor.  "Let me tell you a little story first, like I might tell 
my students.  
	"Once upon a time there was a man.  He had something his new ratsie friend 
wanted so much that he was afraid the friend might try hurtful things.  This something 
was a chocolate sticker; and only with a chocolate sticker could Ratsie be happy.  
Although the chocolate stickers could be replicated, the recipe was not in the machine, 
but instead on a data crystal the man always kept with him.  As long as the man used the 
data crystal and spoke the right passwords, he could replicate lots of chocolate stickers 
for Ratsie and Ratsie could be happy.  However, if Ratsie did hurtful things to the man, 
there were safeguards so that data to erase data and forget passwords.  Then Ratsie would 
be sad, and shaking.  And Ratsie's other ratty friend would also lose chocolate replicator 
access.
	"The end."
	An urking noise came from Plent's direction.
	Doctor glared up at Brett with narrowed eyes.  "You offer blackmail."
	Laughed Brett, "Yes, I do!  It is a bit harder with a Borg than Plent, I admit, but 
I've taken precautions.  The question is:  can you bypass the traps, of which I won't detail, 
if you try to assimilate me?  And I'm the only one with the chocolate sticker recipe, mind 
you.  Or will you bide your time until you are like Plent, ever wanting to escape, but 
unable because you know who you are beholden to?
	"Here, have another sticker while you think upon it, Jas.  If you need me, I'll be in 
my office - Plent can show you where - setting up your biometric access file for the club 
door and finishing my grading."
	A sticker, seemingly conjured out of nowhere, was boldly slapped on Doctor's 
face.  Then, still chuckling to himself, Brett turned and headed towards a door next to the 
bar.
	When the human was gone, Doctor reached up and peeled the sticker from his 
cheek.  After a few seconds of contemplation, he carefully placed it on a section of torso 
armor for safekeeping and later use.
	"You aren't going to defy Him?" asked Plent worriedly.  Doctor pivoted and 
found his friend, eyes rapidly blinking, ears twitching, hands wringing.  "I tried it several 
times, once.  He'd lock me in my room and won't give me chocolate.  I don't remember 
much, but the cravings were horrible and don't want to be punished for something that 
you do."
	Doctor looked upon his friend in disgust, although he was very careful to keep the 
sentiment from his face, his ears.  For the first time, Doctor acknowledged that while this 
was Plent in body, the friend his fragmented memories recalled was no more.  Worst of 
all, it wasn't the Borg who had caused the loss, although they had certainly contributed, 
for Doctor had seen glimpses of the Plent-that-once-was.  No, Plent's psyche had been 
broken by the human and his chocolate.
	"Will you help free me of the addiction?" asked Doctor of Plent.  He hurriedly 
added, "Not a hair on Brett's thinning pelt will be touched."
	Plent was wary, perhaps, sensing Doctor's feelings, perhaps reacting to the perfect 
unexpression and monotone, "Doing what?"
	"I can manually readjust an implant to stimulate cadaferin from the gland.  Since I 
do not have the appropriate tool nor can construct it, brain surgery is the only option.  A 
zip-zap of electricity applied directly to the implant will suffice.  Brain surgery is very 
difficult for one, so I would like assistance.  After the gland is all better and excess 
cadaferin is in my system, I can make other internal adjustments to remove the yucky 
chocolate substance."
	Plent twisted little tufts of hair on his arm.  "And if it doesn't work...or if it doesn't 
work and He finds out...or if He finds out before the surgery...?"  Agitation levels were 
rising out of proportion to the question asked.  "No, no, no...I can't do it.  I won't tell Him 
nothing, if you decide to try, but for me the risk is too great.  He might ration my 
chocolate back to M'n'M's, or, even worse, cut it off all together.  He already made me 
stay in my room yesterday, else face the consequences."  Plent shook his head as he 
backed away.  "I need a pick-me-up."  Practically running towards the replicator, he 
shouted his need for a ChocoBlock, extra large.
	Doctor heaved a long sigh as he watched the shell of a Seffite he had once called 
friend.  Sometimes you just had to do it yourself.

	Each time over the next two days when Doctor entered or exited his illegally 
parked shuttle, the maze of barriers and warnings around the small vessel grew more 
elaborate.  It was apparent the obstacles were much more of a nuisance to pedestrian 
traffic than the ship.  Upon each entrance or egress the pile of discarded apparatus also 
grew, equipment which supposedly tracked a drone's interplexing beacon so as to 
implicate the Mind behind the unit.  Unfortunately, in this case, there was no signal, 
which only made Albey more paranoid.
	The last time Doctor had seen the customs officer, the latter had been wearing a 
crude tinfoil hat.
	Now, two days after his confrontation with Brett, Doctor was scheduled to present 
solo brain surgery to the DIY Club.
As Doctor waited in the operating theater vestibule for the "warm up 
demonstration" to finish, he contemplated his recent actions.  Brett had been delighted 
upon the surgery suggestion, the novelty overwhelming suspicions of ulterior motive.  
Or, perhaps, the human was so used to Plent's whining capitulation that it had never 
occurred to him that the most recent involuntary DIY Club member would act otherwise.  
Regardless, the surgery had been scheduled, not immediately as desired by Doctor, but 
rather to provide sufficient time for the maximum number of potential attendees to make 
arrangements or provide excuses at work.  As good as his word (since his ChocoBlock 
supply remained unaffected), Plent remained silent on Doctor's novel approach to 
sidestepping the twelve steps of the typical Narcotics Anonymous program.
	Finally the operation proceeding Doctor's was finished.  The door to the theater 
opened, allowing a levitating gurney to exit.  Upon the bed was a Dromela, a tourist, 
seemingly unmarked.  Doctor knew better, knew that the Dromela was a victim of what 
the DIY Club members referred to as "snatch-and-slash," a kidnapping which would 
return the patient to his, her, or its place of appropriation with no memory of any 
operation.  In this case, all of the Dromela's tentacles had been cut off, then sewn upon 
different stumps.
	Five more minutes passed.  Anticipation was irrelevant.
	"Ready to begin," said Brett's voice over a hidden speaker in the vestibule.  "The 
crowd is very excited and the popcorn has been handed out."
	With no verbal acknowledgement, Doctor entered the theater.
	The operating theater was small, barely large enough for the bed which usually 
took central stage, along with one or two "surgeons."  Equipment of various types, most 
of it sporting tongue-twisting names, was inset within wall niches, quiescent.  Similarly 
overhead, a bloated metallic spider with a diverse assortment of manipulation and cutting 
instruments for arms was silent.  No, for this operation Doctor needed nothing fancy:  an 
external brace to maintain an upright stance, a small selection of laser scalpels, several 
electrodes connected to a nine-volt battery, and, above all, three strategically placed 
mirrors.
	Doctor settled himself into the brace - an abbreviated exoskeleton of heavy gauge 
wire which clasped waist and legs - and eyed the mirrors.  They were not quite right.  
After several rounds of adjustment, then confirming the tray held the instruments he 
needed, he was ready.
	Unfortunately, the window into the theater was one-way, the interior resembling 
another panel upon the upper wall; and the cameras which were recording the surgery for 
posterity (or, at least, DIY Club collections) were hidden.
	"The adjustment of my primary endocrine governor implant is now initiated.  The 
first step is to remove right lateral skull armor, followed by underlying bone structure, in 
order to access the brain," announced Doctor formally as he selected a sonic scalpel, 
adjusting the frequency to one which would nullify the appropriate armor lock downs.
	Keeping an eye on the mirrors, Doctor carefully opened his own head.  There was 
no pain, little blood, and no risk of infection.  He had operated on his own head several 
times before, usually to install or take out unofficial hardware, but it remained an 
awkward affair.  The use of mirrors was especially annoying, but Brett refused to allow 
Doctor access to even a closed-circuit camera, paranoid (and rightly so) the Borg would 
somehow manage to wiggle his way into a more vital system.
	Once his brain was exposed, Doctor paused to critically eye the visible neural 
structure.  Occasionally nanites would be naughty and build extra implants or reroute 
pathways in response to trauma.  While his diagnostic programs had not reported such an 
instance, confirmation was good.  Satisfied everything was as expected, Doctor began to 
carefully push a finger of his right hand into a neural fold.
	His left leg jerked.  Whoops, too close to the motor cortex!  Hand position was 
adjusted.
	Working more by feel and neural schematics than mirrors, Doctor found the target 
implant.  The whole time, he kept a running commentary.  Squishing of brain structure 
was unavoidable, but Doctor did his best to limit the damage, confident that he could 
compensate.  Still, it would be awhile until the tic which was affecting his left ear would 
vanish.
	Doctor paused.  Now was the most difficult, most ticklish (no pun intended) part 
of the operation.  He had already initiated a program within the controller implant which 
prompted nanomachines resident in the cadaferin gland to attach a molecular tag to each 
finished product.  However, now he had to increase assembly of cadaferin, which 
required manual electrical stimulation...without electrocuting himself.
	"An insulated wire is carefully threaded into the brain.  Once the end is correctly 
positioned against the primary endocrine governor implant, the wire is connected to the 
battery terminal," narrated Doctor.
	He closed his eyes as he brushed the wire against the battery.
	A nine-volt battery is relatively harmless to the average user, unless one decides 
to attempt something ill-advised, such as licking the terminals or applying voltage deep 
within the brain.  In fact, the warning label for this particular brand of battery specifically 
warned against both of the above, as well as a host of other misapplications, which 
probably said something about the lawsuits the manufacturer had defended against and 
the propensity of people in general to do stupid things.
	Doctor's limbs stiffened as electricity leaked into elements of the motor cortex.  A 
phantom ringing echoed in his ears; and, for just a moment, Doctor had an inkling as to 
how a certain G'floo! ex-addict might view the universe.
	Hand motion completed.  The electricity ceased.
	Doctor queried the implant.  The jolt had not worked.  With a sigh, he verbally 
reported the failure of adjustment, and placed wire to terminal a second time.  Then a 
third.
	Before a fourth round of brain abuse could commence, internal programs 
indicated a rise in native cadaferin output...among other, less positive outputs.  The wire 
was withdrawn.
	"Adjustment successful.  Skull and armor will now be replaced."  Doctor dawdled 
on this part of the operation.  Time was required to allow tagged neurotransmitter levels 
to rise, as well as initiate necessary nanite-mediated repairs.  It was also highly desirable 
for the blue tinge which was coloring his vision to go away.
	Finally Doctor was done.  He imagined he could hear applause.  "This unit 
requires a minimum of ten minutes recovery before it can return to the main room," he 
said in third person.  After a brief pause, he added, "Give this poor doggy a bone."
	A speaker keyed.  "Take your time, Jas.  There are no more operations scheduled 
- who could top you? - so come out and join the party in your honor when you are ready," 
jovially replied Brett.
	Doctor's left ear continued to twitch uncontrollably.  With one last glance towards 
the one-way window, Doctor unbuckled himself from the brace, staggered, regained his 
balance, and finally limped out of the theater.  Once in the vestibule, hidden from public 
view, he slumped against the wall, then turned inward.
	Cadaferin levels had risen to a suitable level.  No ill effects were projected if the 
chocolate-derived neurotransmitter was now removed from his system.  So, that was 
exactly the command Doctor gave to his nanite immune system:  destroy all cadaferin-
like substances, /except/ those tagged with "do not denature" tags.
	Doctor was still following progress of fluctuating cadaferin and faux-cadaferin 
levels when he felt a tentative shaking of his arm.  He opened his eyes to see Plent.
	"It's been about twenty minutes.  He is wondering where you are."  Plent paused.  
"Did it work?"
	Hissing through his incisors, Doctor responded, "Yesssss.  It has taken longer for 
the chocolate neurotransmitters to decay from synapses than expected.  Perhaps Brett 
modified his 'recipe.'  We are free-free-free of addiction...for now.  The gland will fatigue 
in approximately 36 hours, at which time native cadaferin levels will dropy-woppy to 
normal and I will be vulnerable again.  However, there will be," Doctor paused to rip the 
sticker from the back of his hand and slap it on a wall, "no more administration of 
chocolate without a prescription.
	"I will be leaving...and you will come with me."
	Plent's eyes widened.  "But what about the chocolate?  And Him?  And I don't 
/want/ to return to the Collective."
	Doctor ignored the whine in Plent's voice.  "The vet knows best, even if the 
patient doesn't."  He pushed off the wall.
	In the main room of the DIY Club, a party was at full throttle.  Alcoholic drinks 
and recreational stimulants were flowing; and a 2-D projected replay of Doctor's 
performance was playing against a wall.  Animated conversations detailed the aspirations 
of would-be surgeons to perform similar self-administered techniques, disregarding the 
fact that being Borg was probably a critical prerequisite for success.
	"Jas!" exclaimed Brett, mug of something hot and steaming and smelling 
distinctly of chocolate raised in greeting.  "Very good show.  /Very/ good.  I know you'd 
turn around, see things the DIY way.  After all that work, you need to relax, learn how to 
have a bit of fun.  I've even replicated a new sticker with, I hope, a 'kick' to the recipe to 
help.  Just hold out your hand."  Brett paused.  "Say, where /is/ your sticker?  Did it fall 
off?"
	Ear uncontrollably twitching, edge of vision still shaded in blue, Doctor 
aggressively advanced on Brett.  Plent squealed a protest, but was ignored.  Doctor 
grabbed at the human's throat, pivoting on heel to slam the man against the wall, to lift 
him as high as possible.  Brett's weight was no problem for Doctor's servo-enhanced 
muscles, although leverage was more than a bit awkward.  Still, Doctor managed to lift 
his adversary such that only toes were touching the ground.
	The party surrounding Doctor, Plent, and Brett quieted, although those further 
away continued celebrating, unaware of the confrontation.
	"The sticker is gone," hissed Doctor with a vehemence that those drones who 
knew him would not have recognized.  "I am no longer your slave.  You are unworthy of 
assimilation - not even I assimilate sociopathic weasels.  Plent and I will..."
	Brett was starting to turn a distinct shade of blue as he struggled against the neck 
hold when a loud, rhythmic pounding began to echo from the main door.  Sirens started 
to blare; and red lights flashed.  Party abruptly turned to panicked chaos.
	Plent grabbed Doctor's arm, "We gotta go!"
	Doctor continued to hold a weakly kicking Brett in the air.  "Why?"
	"It's a raid!  That Dromela that was snatched must have been a someone; and 
when someones go missing, the police raid here!  They don't like the DIY Club.  Most of 
what happens on here is legal, but barely.  And there are members that, if caught in 
association with an /illegal/ surgery, would find themselves in hot water.  Worst of all, 
the police tend to be a bit more vigorous than necessary to subdue those who 'resist 
arrest.'"
	Coherent cries of "Raid!" and "Back door!" could be heard over general 
commotion and the continued thump of the ram being used to break down the entrance.
	Doctor abruptly let go of Brett, who fell to the ground gasping for breath.  "How 
do we exit here?"
	Plent tugged at Doctor's head, "Follow me."

	In the city corridors outside the DIY Club, it was a confusion of pedestrians, local 
residents, escaped members trying to blend in, arriving media, and police in heavy riot 
gear.  All kept their distance from Doctor, a path almost magically opening up as he set 
course for the shuttle.  Plent trailed behind, shoulders hunched.
	The further the pair trekked from the maelstrom centered on the club - complete 
with a clan of very angry Dromelans - the more the normalcy of Leo returned.  By the 
time the port was reached, only rumor remained, already becoming embellished and, for 
the moment, supplanting Doctor's presence as chief underground news item.
	Doctor tore down, pushed aside, or wove through the barriers, as appropriate, 
which surrounded the shuttle.  A lurking Albey made a wordless gesture that needed no 
translation as he lugged into place his latest device.  Into the vessel Doctor went, Plent at 
heel.
	"Are we safe now?" asked Plent nervously, eyes darting back and forth.
	"Yes," said Doctor curtly as he went to the forward of the ship.  He quickly linked 
into the shuttle's computer for a status update, then withdrew.  Plent, standing in the pilot 
compartment doorway, was eyed.
	"What?"
	Doctor shook his head slightly, then internally shrugged.  He had always been, 
and continued to be, a sucker for the hard luck cases.  Usually it was pets, but this time it 
was an old friend.  "I am leaving.  You are coming with me.  Once we desired to start a 
veterinary business, but then the rolled up newspaper of life intervened.  We will now 
resume our ambition.  I will not return to the Collective.  I will...deassimilate myself, 
somehow.  The trick I used to clean my system of chocolate can be adapted to you.  It 
will take much, much longer, but you will be fixed, er, cured.  Together we will be free."
	Plent blinked.  "But...but what about money?  It takes money to start a veterinary 
practice."
	Doctor dismissed the concern.  "I have already opened an anonymous Orion 
Syndicate Bank account.  The DIY Club accounts were poorly guarded:  even /I/ could 
bypass their security.  They will not miss 30,000 credits.  Once we find a place to dig a 
den, this shuttle can be sold, as well.  Finances are irrelevant."
	"You...you stole money from Him?" squeaked Plent, eyes wide.
	"Yes," answered Doctor.  He pushed past Plent on his way to the alcove.  He 
needed to regenerate for at least 10.3 hours, to allow nanites to finish repairs and for 
systems to complete removal of any chocolate dregs.  He stopped to regard Plent.  
"Together we will be strong, not alone, not one.  A pack.  Together we will be vets.  Shall 
it be?"
	Plent's expression transformed into one of thoughtful contemplation.  "No club.  
No chocolate.  No Him...I mean Brett.  Animals.  Freedom.  I...I think I will.  I think it 
shall be, Jas."  For the first time since Doctor had responded to the letter, Plent smiled a 
real smile; and for the first time, Doctor found the friend he remembered.
	"Acceptable," said Doctor.  He pivoted, stepping up and back into the alcove.  
"When regeneration is complete, we will leave."  Eyes closed as darkness descended.

	A beeping emergency alarm greeted Doctor upon his waking.  A chronometer 
check showed 8.7 hours had passed, indicating incomplete regeneration.  With a thought-
command alcove clamps disengaged, allowing Doctor to step to the deck.  The alarm 
continued to sound.
	"I'm sorry," said Plent.
	Doctor turned and saw his business-partner-to-be crouched next to an open alcove 
panel.  Several wires were lose, and it looked like Plent had been attempting to bypass 
circuitry.  Eyes too-bright, shining from a chocolate high, were an admission of guilt.
	"I'm sorry," again said Plent, ears drooping.  "I thought if I could disengage the 
lock that you might not wake up.  That would have been best."
	"What is 'best'?" demanded Doctor.
	"After you went to regenerate, I, well, became board.  And...fidgety.  I thought a 
walk might help.  And sometimes the dock workers will give me a candy bar if I load 
cargo and the like.  So I left the shuttle - you never said not to.  Outside I walked, and no 
one would give me chocolate, and I had no money to buy anything, and the DIY Club 
was barricaded, and He wasn't answering his vidphone.  I was coming back when Albey 
saw me, knew that I had been inside with you.  He...he offered me a handful of M'n'M's if 
I told him about you.  I'm sorry, but I /needed/ the chocolate:  I couldn't wait for you to 
wake.  I said that you were of the Collective and that you were alone.  Albey promised 
me a whole ChocoBlock if I made it so you wouldn't wake up so that he could call for 
police to remove you and so he could tow the shuttle...."  Plent's torrent of words ended 
with a whimper.  "I'm so-so-so sorry.  I wanted to be a vet again, but the chocolate...."
	Doctor came to an abrupt decision.  Sometimes salvage was not possible.  It was 
true of animals, of drones, and, now, of old friends.  Plent shrunk back as Doctor grabbed 
him by the scruff of his neck.  Candy coated chocolates, lost from a clenched fist, 
clattered to the deck.
	The rear hatch was opened.  Doctor stopped short as he saw not the expected 
barricades, but a squad of heavily armed SecFed marines in the midst of deployment 
preparations.  A shout of surprised alarm prompted Doctor to action.  With no word of 
apology, he tossed Plent as gently as possible to the ground outside.
	"I'm sorry," whispered Plent one final time as the hatch was hastily closed.
	Thoughts were pushed aside.  Only action was required.  Doctor went to the pilot 
station, linking himself into the computer, and took off as soon as engines were warmed 
up.  As it was, there was the sound of phasers leaving what were likely ugly scars on the 
shuttle's formerly pristine paint scheme.  The vessel rose from the moon's gravity well; 
and Doctor finally allowed himself to contemplate how he would return to Cube #347.  It 
no longer occurred to him /not/ to return.
	A dark shape materialized off the shuttle's port.  The form was Xenig GPS mech, 
not SecFed or a host of other governments which tended to fire first upon Collective 
transports, and ask questions of the debris later.  After maintaining pace for several 
heartbeats, a hail was intercepted from the mech.
	"You call for a taxi?" asked the voice of the Xenig.  "Is this shuttle being piloted 
by a drone with the designation 27 of 27, final destination Collective Borg Cube #347?"
	"This unit is 27 of 27," cautiously replied Doctor.  Sensors were showing three 
customs frigates, heavily armed, and two marine transports lifting from Leo ports.  
"Destination is Cube #347."
	"The fare is 30,000 credits.  Is that agreeable?"
	"Yes."
	"Great!" exclaimed the Xenig.  The mech shifted itself to a dorsal position, then 
latched a tractor beam onto the shuttle and began to draw it towards an opening cargo 
bay.  "Please transfer the fare to the account of 'GPS Courier - Temporal Division - Keg.'  
I want to leave as soon as possible because SecFed organics have been so /tetchy/ as of 
late.  I've been fired upon /twice/ in the last week.  Can you imagine?"  The shuttle 
cleared the bay, and doors started to close.  "As a friendly reminder, once you are 
delivered to your destination, please don't delay in placing your order to pick yourself up.  
Any GPS agent will be more than happy to help.  Temporal paradoxes can be so messy."

	{You scratched the paint!  No, you /decimated/ the paint!  It will take /weeks/ to 
fix the damage,} moaned 127 of 230, not for the first time, and unlikely the last.  Doctor, 
however, had more important things to attend, so he blocked 127 of 230's personal 
despair.
	Returned to Cube #347, Doctor was once again head of the drone maintenance 
hierarchy, taking back the mantle from 1 of 27.  Since the Collective had locked the 
command ranks, only termination (or other exceptional circumstances) could alter 
hierarchy heads.  Therefore, resumption had been a foregone conclusion.  Such was not 
to say that he was not in trouble; or that command and control had not ripped from his 
mind of all his recent experiences; or that he was not currently undergoing unpleasant 
"reorientation" sessions with Assimilation to guarantee he would never voluntarily 
separate himself from the Whole (or as much represented by the sub-collective) again.  
All the above, and more, were the consequence of his action.  The only reason he was not 
dismantled was that 3941, the current Cube #347 complement, was a small number to 
challenge a hostile universe; and 3940 would be even worse.
	For the moment, however, Doctor was free, relatively speaking.  Except for a 
grumbling 127 of 230, who wanted Doctor to know the catalogue of every bump and ding 
to the racing shuttle, no one required his attention.  There were no issues that needed his 
physical presence and his next session with Assimilation would not begin for 2.3 hours.  
Even his "special friends" secreted about the cube were content.
	In the middle of Drone Maintenance Bay #15, Doctor was alone.  Near at hand 
were several tools, primarily scalpels, but also a cauderizer.  Several cameras were 
pointed in his direction; and in the air before him was a detailed schematic of his own 
brain.  Areas associated with memory, and specifically remnant pre-assimilated memory, 
were highlighted, as well as nodes of a more recent nature.  For all practical purposes, 
friend-Plent no longer existed, could not be resurrected; and, even if it meant losing most 
of his cherished pre-assimilated memories, Doctor felt it only right that Plent had the 
dignity of a true death.
	A cauderizer would take care of that.  Brain surgery was so much more efficient 
with the right tools.
	Sometimes you just had to do it yourself.