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

			They Came From Beyond, Part I

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

			*	*	*	*	*

	Hexagonal chips of mirrored glass were scattered everywhere.  Their broken 
reflections caught the image of a blackened disco ball, bereft of its sparkle, still hanging 
from the ceiling by a single unbroken wire.  A few functional lights flickered a sterile, 
antiseptic white that illuminated nothing.  The smoke which senses insisted should be 
present, if only for aesthetic purposes to complete a scene of utter destruction, was 
absent.  Half melted fissures open to the vacuum of space were a silently succinct reason 
as to the lack.
	A humanoid shadow, bulky from armor, not environmental suit, stiffly bent over 
to pick up one glass chip, then two, then a handful.  The disco ball remnants were 
transferred to a bag.  Technologically enhanced eyes swept the assigned area, targeting 
laser bolted to side of head indicating direction of gaze.  When no more debris were 
found, the shape moved several meters and repeated the motions.  Beyond the form, 
several silhouettes backlit by colored mood lighting surveyed flash-frozen mud wrestling 
pits.
	The carnage was horrible.  Unacceptable.  Someone had to do something about it.
	Elsewhere, in a pressurized chamber away from the ruin, a foot was stomped in 
annoyance.
	The shapes in the ruined Discotheque #3 momentarily paused their 
uncharacteristically solemn activities, heads cocked to hear, to listen.  Then they 
reanimated.  There was a palatable sense of relief:  none here would be forced to 
undertake the unfun task which all knew was forthcoming.  That onerous duty was now 
assigned to a particular group of units deficient in their groove quotient.
	{Do we have to?} asked a single voice to the Partymistress, undertone of whine 
coloring the question.  {Those Borg fellows were so /serious/.  To even imagine the 
universe they came from requires me to ask drone maintenance for extra joy juice.}
	The reply was stern, uncompromising.
	The voice sighed.  {We understand.  We will comply.  To retain anything 
resembling sanity, however, we will need to dip into Partymatrix reserves for supplies.}  
Pause.  {We'll also need extra silly string and pixie dust, and inventory shows them to be 
in short supply.}
	Dismissal.  Whatever the sub-collective needed, it could have.
	{The party-crashers will be caught and dealt with,} vowed the voice.  {We will 
not only prevail, we will return with new jokes.  The Unhappyverse may be distasteful, 
but it is large:  there has to be comedy somewhere.}

			*	*	*	*	*

	The lone GNN ship kept a wary distance, encouraged by random torpedo 
potshots.
	Cube #347 slowly maneuvered through the shattered remains of two Battle-class 
cubes and one Assault-class sphere.  A red dwarf star weakly illuminated the scene, 
casting a bloody pallor.  Whatever had rendered the three Borg vessels had been 
powerful, vicious.  It had also stolen away the respective vinculums, for while scans 
revealed plenty of recognizable alloys and organics, the distinctive signatures of the heart 
of a Borg cube, whole or sundered, were absent.
	A very low yield quantum lazily arced towards the news ship, which quickly re-
established its former distance.
	{Weapons,} berated Captain, {stop wasting our munitions.}
	Weapons replied dismissively, {It is only quantums.  They are useless in modern 
warfare; and several partitions need the practice.}
	In his nodal intersection, Captain sighed, then returned attention to the datathreads 
detailing the carnage which surrounded the cube.
	The sub-collective had first been alerted of the battle when GNN had interrupted 
its sanitized-for-the-viewer-because-offical-people-with-an-inclination-for-black-outfits-
have-guns-to-our-heads coverage of the burgeoning SecFed civil war.  The footage, 
described as a 'Special Interest' story, had shown the chaos of three Borg vessels being 
pummeled by an unseen attacker.  Regrettably, the details could not be discerned because 
telephoto lenses could magnify only so much.  Background star patterns had been 
sufficient to determine coordinates, the location relatively close to that of Cube #347.  
Although the Collective had rejected the sub-collective, labeled it rogue, an imperative 
remained to assist beleaguered resources.  Therefore, Cube #347 had altered course.
	And, of course, arrived much too late.
	Captain, absently juggling several datastreams, brought the sensor grid summary 
to the forefront.  He paused, then squinted his eyes at the holographic display which 
visually interpreted the flow of bits and bytes.  Then, out of sheer self-defense, he 
collapsed that window, not that such diminished the assault by grid data upon his brain.  
It did, however, save him from becoming permanently cross-eyed trying to absorb what 
optics had insisted was a Mobius representation of an LSD-inspired Mandelbrot set being 
slowly blenderized by an arthritic food processor.  A subprocess queried drone 
maintenance, confirming that complaints from sensory hierarchy members were sharply 
elevated.
	{What?} asked Sensors in bewilderment when she was pinged for clarification on 
the datathread.  {Sensors says it is perfectly [opaque].}
	{Exactly,} replied Captain.  {Opaque.  Muddy.  Unclear.  Use a different grid 
configuration, preferably one command and control can interpret.  To not have a large 
proportion of your hierarchy leaking neural matter from their ears would be a bonus.}
	Sensors defended her settings, {Sensors says that this [table] is the most [blankie] 
resolution.  It [suspends] improved over [calico beans].  Resolution is 1.6% better than 
[electrical outlet].}
	{Did you factor in the efficiently rating from units recovering from their third 
neural realignment session in as many days?  Or the delay as command and control tries 
to plant a decision tree, not knowing if the sensory output is a lot of emptiness or an 
attacking Red armada?}
	{No,} admitted Sensors.  
	{Then switch to a standard configuration, Sensors.  Comply.  And /are/ any ships 
incoming?}
	{Sensors complies; and no,} summarized Sensors.  The disregard for the mental 
health of other units was not malice, but rather an honest selective forgetfulness that the 
senses of species #6766 were only marginally compatible with the great majority of the 
galaxy's sapient races.  There was a palatable sense of relief as the computer was told to 
abandon the mind-twisting grid configuration.
	Cube #347 was in the metaphorical calm between storms.  It was a given that a 
fleet of Collective ships would eventually arrive.  Although number and type of vessels 
was unknown, it was easy to project that a single Exploratory-class, and especially one 
labeled rogue, would be quickly sliced to ribbons.  Why the sub-collective remained at all 
was as nebulous as the why it had come to begin with; and that first 'why' was quickly 
eroding as it became apparent the cube did not have the time to perform the detailed 
scans necessary to uncover the culprit.
	The GNN ship nosed around a large chunk of tumbling hull armor, only to hastily 
retreat as its cover was impacted by a torpedo.
	{Very good,} congratulated Weapons to 281 of 300, {the corrective optic surgery 
has served you well.  Now if you could remember you are currently assigned to tractor 
emitter #15, /not/ a torpedo partition?}
	Captain guardedly re-expanded the primary sensor stream window, relieved to 
find a simple display.  Cube #347 was in the center of the virtual volume, surrounded by 
icons representing the GNN ship, debris, subspace fluctuations, and so forth.  Then a 
liquid swirl of orange and lime began to twist in a rimside quadrant.
	{Sensors!} rebuked Captain.
	Sensors squawked, {It is not Sensors!  That is what the grid [smells]!}
	The two contrary colors spun into an ever tightening spiral, never mixing, never 
bleeding together.  A spatial distortion field expanded from the phenomenon, causing 
background stars to waver as if caught in a desert mirage.  Cube #347 warily backed 
away from the occurrence; and so distracted was the sub-collective, Weapons neglected 
to direct his hierarchy to fire upon a certain GNN ship edging forward for a better camera 
shot.  A stew of exotic particles impacted cube sensors, causing Sensors to break into 
uncontrollable sneezing in her alcove, and included a most worrisome trace of lambda.  
Cube #347 and lambda particles had never played well together.
	In the center of the cosmic lollipop consolidated a geometrical shape, a cube to be 
exact.  As it did so, the swirl slowly faded, leaving behind no evidence it had ever 
existed.  No evidence, that was, except for what appeared to be an Exploratory-class cube 
of pre-Dark vintage.  Weapons systems focused upon the intruder.
	Was this the agent of demise for three frontline Borg Collective warships?
	"Did anyone get the license plate of that party?"  Hail answered, a form 
consolidated in front of Captain, crowding the other holographic windows.  Except for 
the cold compress balanced on his head like a hat, the drone pictured in the visual could 
have been Captain's twin.  "Focusing on one particular karmatic aura across the 
multiverses, not to mention the nightmare of the tau shift, has been exceedingly hard.  
Dudes, is this the Unhappyverse imperfectly assimilated sub-collective of Cube #347?"
	Captain was silent.  Conjecture was percolating through the sub-collective.  
Weapons gave his intention to fire first and question debris later; and a portion of 
command and control had to lock those offensive armaments before the hierarchy head 
could act upon his plan.
"Don't be a mute multiverse, but by Directors and King," muttered the Captain-
twin, a note of unBorg worry coloring his voice.  "We've found the Perfect Ace Cube 
#347; the Fuzzyverse; and a place where vowels were prohibited, which was not only 
totally whacked, but made for difficult communication."  Hands were brought into 
camera view and waved in a not-so-meaningful manner as voice volume was raised.  "Is.  
This.  The.  Unhappyverse?"
	"There is no need to shout," replied Captain to what consensus cascade was 
reluctantly labeling as the Happyverse Borgy version of himself, MC.  "State your 
purpose.  Are you the cause of the destroyed Borg vessels?"
	A stiff half-smile stretched MC's face even as a waterfall of multicolored balloons 
cascaded in the background.  "This /is/ the Unhappyverse!  Only the Unhappyverse could 
be so serious and...serious."
	"Are you the cause of these three destroyed Borg vessels?" Captain repeated.  He 
paused as he considered his Borgy self.  Scans were detailing an opponent with 
technology that was not only pre-Dark (the Borgy tau vector), but inferior to an 
Exploratory-class cube of the equivalent Borg universe time period.  Consensus cascade 
made a final conclusion:  the Borgies were unable to be responsible for mangling a trio of 
Borg warships.  "Never mind."
	"Good to see you, too!" brightly replied MC.  Despite the cheerful words, there 
was, perhaps, a forced quality to it.  Of course, 'Borg' and 'bright' and 'cheerful' did not 
normally belong in the same vicinity, but the /Borgy/ were Happyverse denizens.  "How 
have ya been?  You've missed some absolutely bodacious parties.  Why, last month we 
were even allowed to attend a gala thrown by the Partymistress herself, although only 
fifty of the sub-collective were permitted in the Partyhall at any one time and individuals 
had to remain a minimum of ten meters from any normal unit.  And now, with a little 
time on our hands, we thought we'd look up our good Unhappyverse buddies, maybe stop 
for a chat, exchange jokes, take in the sights."
	Captain narrowed his eye.  He knew himself; and when that little vein just visible 
at the juncture of cranial headware and right jaw joint began to flutter, he was agitated.  
"You lie.  Correction, Borg do not outright lie, and it is doubtful Borgy do either.  
However, the imperfectly assimilated are prone to exaggerations and the occasional weak 
fabrication."
	"Well..." began MC.  The cold compress was starting to slowly slip out of place.  
A lone blue balloon floated in the air behind the Borgy, caught in the cross-currents of 
the environmental system.
	{Hypertranswarp signatures detected,} warned Sensors with uncharacteristic 
clarity.  MC was regulated to picture-in-picture status as a tactical view took precedence.  
A dozen arrows at the edge of the extended subspace sensor envelope volume were 
rapidly approaching.  {Time to [proton] is 6.3 minutes.]
	{Time to leave,} insisted Second into the subsequent waterfall of sensory data, 
the backup consensus monitor and facilitator currently in his alcove.
	Captain radiated acknowledgement.  The grace period was over.  Despite the 
inevitable protests from Weapons, this particular scenario (sans Borgy) had already been 
considered.  Cube #347 had pre-decided to retreat under warp when the Collective 
entered extreme sensory range.  Warp, although slow, also propagated less subspace 
ripples, which in turn made it easier to take countermeasures to hide a track, not that 
escape would truly be possible if the incoming fleet decided to cry pursuit.  Regardless, 
the sub-collective was as baffled as to the cause of the destruction as when it had arrived, 
coincidence of Borgy notwithstanding; and this long-shot chance to be taken off the 
Greater Consciousness' rogue list was gone.
	Without a word to MC, Captain severed the communication link.  A few seconds 
later, Cube #347 sped away in warp.  Alt-Cube #347 swiftly followed.
	The egress of the two cubes precipitated a heated argument between the captain of 
the GNN ship and the on-site producer, the latter of whom was under intense pressure to 
create a suitably entertaining follow-up report to the battle which had caught the tri-V 
audience's fickle attention.  The cubes and swirly phenomenon had been interesting, but 
ultimately useless because the vessels had never actually /done/ anything.  A little over 
six minutes later, just as the producer had called a staff meeting to brainstorm arguments 
to present to the captain about why the news ship should remain another day, a mixed 
armada of a dozen cubes and spheres appeared.  After a few exciting minutes of filming, 
deadlines became academic...and irrelevant.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Stop following us."
	Cube #347 had snuck away from the scene of destruction under cover of warp, 
subsequently altering speed and heading in a random manner.  While the track may have 
become convoluted for the incoming Collective fleet, the Borgy had no such problem as 
they trailed immediately behind.  Finally, after nearly an hour of dodging phantom 
pursuit, Cube #347 had come to a complete stop to confront its unwelcome shadow.
	"Stop following us," repeated, the verbal-only multivoice message pinging off the 
Borgy Comedy-class cube.  "We are to engage hypertranswarp.  Following us is futile 
because you lack the technology."
	The reply was a single voice, that of MC, "Don't you want to know why we came 
to the Unhappyverse, specifically to search for you?"
	In his nodal intersection, Captain grumbled.  He glanced over at Second, who was 
making 'go ahead' motions, then accepted full Borgy communication request.  MC's 
visage, topped with a plaid golfing cap, sprung into holographic life.  "No.  I, personally, 
do not care.  However, I have been overridden in this matter by those who possess too 
much intrinsic curiosity"
	"I only represent the majority," retorted Second.  He was at the edge of the 
camera's view.  "Admittedly, some of those majority just want the Borgy cube to be a 
stationary target, but whom am I to argue?"
	"Just keep Weapons from unnecessarily blowing up our Borgy counterparts.  
They may not be us, but they are still us, and that is one logic loop I'd rather we did not 
become stuck in."  Head was swiveled to regard MC.  "State why you are following us."
	The exchange had been deliberately verbalized, but MC had enough 'Borg' in his 
Borgy self to not react to the oblique threat.  Rigidity of his face suggested nerves had 
been disengaged.  A white smoke began to billow in the background as tinny music 
belonging to a low-grade horror flick stuttered into aural existence.  "Guess."
	"Guess?" asked Captain incredulously.
	MC nodded.  "Guess.  You need to loosen up a bit.  Too much tension leads to 
inefficiency...which reminds me...there, I've scheduled my massage and aromatherapy 
session."
	Captain stared at MC's carefully blank expression and plaid hat.  {Massages are 
irrelevant,} he preemptively announced into the intranets before saying aloud, "Conway 
has run amok."
	"Mister Coffee himself?  No, we recently assimilated a new dark roast with a 
genetically-enhanced caffeine signature that allows for easier control."
	"Happy Borgy - Hapborgy - are manifesting."
	MC shook his head.  "Noooooo.  The suppressor signal is still working and 
remains under rebel control, as was agreed.  We've been a bit...slow to de-happify all the 
potential Hapborgy drones, but the rebels are devising schemes that show promise to be 
adapted to service Borgy objectives."
	"The rebels have taken over the Federation of Fun."
	"That's what they /want/ to do, but there are still hurdles.  The Happymaster, who 
seems to have escaped, and Empress Webber are presenting difficulties.  Frankly, what 
do the Borgy care whom is in charge of the Federation?  We have our own problems."
	"Cap'n Bennie is..."  Captain paused.  This was a waste of time better spent 
accomplishing something productive, like pursuing the elixir ingredient list.  Even the 
majority whom had supported learning why the Borgy had followed were in agreement.  
{Weapons.  Target the Borgy cube.  Ensure it cannot follow us.}
	{Small bits would have trouble following us,} tested Weapons warily.
	{Small bits or disabled propulsion, it is all the same,} answered Captain.
	Second waggled his fingers in a silent good-bye to MC as the weaponry system 
cycled from idle to active.
	"Wait, wait!" exclaimed MC, hat slipping off head as he waved his arms and sent 
swirls into the increasingly dense fog.  The music abruptly ceased.  "It's the Borgy-killer 
HappyBots!  The HappyBots, they are why we are here.  It is the HappyBots that 
destroyed your three vessels!"
	Weaponry systems were barred from firing.  As a note of annoyed frustration built 
from a certain hierarchy head, Second rolled his eyes and vanished in a transporter beam.  
Occasionally the Will of the Whole had to be administered a bit more directly; and it 
didn't help for those certain drones when certain /other/ drones sniped poisoned barbs 
from the sidelines.  {Delta, cease.  I know you have better control than that.}
	Silence.  {It is the lack of a vinculum.  Stability is more difficult to attain.}
	{It is time for you to reinitialize your censure filters,} said Captain to the stereo 
presence.  {Do so, then report to assimilation hierarchy for an evaluation.}
	Compliance was sent.  Attention was focused fully upon MC.  "HappyBots.  
Explain."
	MC stooped out of view to retrieve his hat, which was then hastily restored to its 
former location.  Head tilted slightly as dataspace considerations took precedence over 
the outside world; and eyes watched something invisible to external viewers.  After 
several long seconds of the posture, MC reanimated.  "Dude, that episode was a real 
karma downer.  It is a good thing we don't wear trousers.  Before we can proceed, we 
need to seriously up our party quotient.  Wanna come over?"

	The carnival was in full swing.  Barkers called loudly, each trying to outshout 
their neighbor with outrageous invention, talking up their games of chance, of fortune, of 
impossibility-to-win.  Tents with colorful banners advertised oddities such as the 
Alligator Man, the Three Headed Wobbly Bird, and the Perfectly Ordinary Woman.  In 
the distance, an antique roller coaster clattered; and the trumpeting cries of outlandish 
animals provided an exotic counterpart.  A Ferris wheel arched overhead with royal 
grandeur, the cages - no seats here! - carried aloft through the miracle of antigravity.  The 
smell of stale popcorn and sweet taffy mingled with the surreal sight of small children 
obliviously dodging around cybernetic menaces which should have sent any normal 
person running in the opposite direction.
	Of course, the children were holograms, as were the animals, the side-show 
performers, the barkers, everything which was not Borgy (or Borg).  While an actual 
carnival may be the preferred medium for this particular brand of party therapy, storage 
was impractical aboard your normal Comedy-class cube, not to mention messy when the 
animals were inevitably forgotten about, things like 'eating' not high on the list of Borgy 
prerogatives.  All in all, the holographic variety was easier to manipulate and definitely 
more sanitary.
	In addition to the Borgy which wandered the carnival, partaking of games and 
rides and attractions in an effort to elevate their party quotient, members of the Cube 
#347 Borg compliment were present.  The two groups could be easily distinguished, the 
former almost frantic in their effort to have a good time; and the latter staring at their 
counterparts with a confused air...except for Weapons, who was currently leading several 
squads in an exercise to hunt down all the holographic clowns.
	"What is this?" asked Captain as he turned over in his hand a vaguely humanoid 
doll with small, feathered wings, bestowed upon him from a games booth.  It triggered 
blurred memories of a stuffed toy he might, or might not, have had as a very young 
nestling.  The game had been ridiculously easy, especially after he had discerned the 
pattern of breakable and unbreakable bottles.
	"It is a cupie doll," answered MC.  "You know, you aren't supposed to analyze the 
light spectrum to find the breakable bottles:  rigged games are one of the components to a 
carnival.  And could you tell your weapons hierarchy head /again/ to stop killing the 
clowns?"
	Captain ignored his Borgy counterpart, both the rebuke and the request, as he 
handed the cupie doll to Second.  {Hold this.}
	{And what am /I/ supposed to do with it?} groused Second as DJ, the Borgy 
backup consensus monitor and facilitator, heartily slapped him on the back for no 
obvious reason.
	{Not give it back to me,} answered Captain, subsequently ignoring the inevitable 
sarcastic response concerning the doll.
	"Shall we enter the Freak Animal tent?" asked MC as he paused in front of a 
garishly striped canvas structure from which wafted a welter of very organic smells.  
"Doctor-T has been hard at work designing new creatures, and I have purposefully kept 
away from his carnival files so that I might be surprised."
	Captain panned the carnivalscape.  The four of them had been walking through 
the holographic scene for the last hour and a half.  A clown fearfully poked its nose 
around the corner of a booth hawking low-quality glassware, then hastily withdrew as a 
trio of Cube #347 weapons drones, trailed by a pair of Borgy, charged out of ambush.  
The clown, unfortunately, did not get far, its squeaky shoes preventing any attempt at 
stealth.  Mercifully, the hologram's demise occurred out of sight (Captain was avoiding 
all tactical unit sensory streams), triumphant drones emerging a short time later with 
another trophy nose.
	"This activity is a waste of time," stated Captain as his gaze finally alit on MC.
	"No animals, then.  Perhaps the Ferris wheel?"	
	"This /carnival/ is a waste of time," clarified Captain.  "Explain the HappyBots, 
now, else clowns will be ignored for targets of a higher tactical value."
	MC sighed, echoed by DJ.  "Fine, fine.  I guess the sub-collective party quotient is 
sufficiently high to support my transmission of this most distressing information."  The 
party hat which had been riding MC's head vanished amid a transporter beam, replaced 
with a more militaristic tricorner.  "There is a quiet corner over here.  Follow."
	The Borgy consensus monitor wove in and out of carnival props, finally stepping 
into a rather drab tent erected away from the rest of the action.  On the other side, 
carnival abruptly yielded to a large alcove nestled between shelving holding a variety of 
barrels, secured to a Bulk Cargo Hold wall.  A data pillar stood quiescent in the niche.  
Behind, a shimmering grayness indicated the edge of the holographic carnival volume, 
tents, rides, and booths dimly visible on the other side, seen as if through a darkly 
polarized window.
	MC swiveled his head to look directly at DJ, who went to the data pillar and laid a 
hand on the interface panel.  Abruptly a new hologram shimmered into being, this one 
with none of the flare of the carnival, instead projecting the air of a computer file.  
Confirming the notion, the data pillar's screen brightened and began to scroll Borg(y) 
alphanumerics in standard file format.
	The hologram was that of a robot.  The initial observation garnered the impression 
of a humanoid from the waist up, with a distinct lack of legs below the equator.  Instead, 
a stiff metal skirt extended from the barrelesque torso.  Two comparatively spindly arms 
extended from exaggeratedly blocky shoulders, terminating in four digits, any of which 
could swivel to act as a thumb.  There was no neck, instead the boxy head set directly 
upon the torso.  Two antennae, thick and sporting a single joint, extended from the top of 
the head; and two buggy, faceted red eyes, looking more to belong on a cheap movie prop 
than an actual working robot, adorned the face.
	Overall, the robot was clunky, technologically inept, innocuous.  Even the yellow 
happy face painted in the middle of its chest was crude, a work of art produced by an 
attention-deficient kindergartner.  It was, perhaps, the slot, placed in the traditional mouth 
position, which engineered an indefinable creepiness:  the mouth was obviously 
immobile, perfectly horizontal, yet subtle creasing of the head and masterful application 
of paint provided the illusion of a knowing grin.
	Robots should not smile.
	"How tall is it?" inquired Captain as he attempted to gain a sense of the 
HappyBot's dimensions.
	"They come in all sizes," answered MC, "but the largest seen was 1.9 meters tall.  
If it had legs, a big 'un might stand about 2.3 meters, but it hovers on an antigravity field 
instead."
	Questions revolving around technological parameters churned in Captain's 
mindspace, both weapons and engineering hierarchies demanding answers.  Captain 
selected several of those which were weighing highest and began to ask them.  "Do the 
robots travel in a vessel?"
	"Um, yes, but there are no good pictures of it.  It is a sort of transport.  It doesn't 
fight, though, only carries the HappyBots."
	"Describe the propulsion system."
	"Er," MC glanced at DJ, who returned a carefully neutral stare, "um, at the Speed 
of -" pause "-Happiness."
	The gratuitous capitalization was not lost upon Second, who broke in, "You don't 
know, do you?"  The tone was accusatory.  Somewhere, the cupie doll had been 
deliberately lost.
	MC wilted, looking down at the deck in a very unBorg fashion.  Of course, these 
were Borgies, not Borg.  "No.  The estimated speed is HappyFactor 14.6, though."  As he 
glanced up and saw the blank looks, he amended, "Moderate transwarp velocities, but the 
technology is definitely not transwarp."
	"Weapons," demanded Captain."
	"Not...er...we don't know that either.  Not really.  There is some phasery-type 
technology, but the color is an uninteresting yellow...."
	Captain stared at his unhelpful alter-self.  "So," he summarized, "these 
'HappyBots', which look like something a Pakled might build out of junkyard cast-offs, 
are largely unknown, but are capable of destroying frontline Borg vessels."
	{These machines could not have been responsible,} voiced Second, representing 
the strong opinion which was developing.  {Maybe in the Happyverse, considering the 
state of Borgy technology, but not advanced Borg warships.  There must have been some 
other, coincidental phenomenon at work.  Partition #16b has been assigned to carefully 
examine the GNN newscast for collaborating discrepancies.}
	{Acknowledged,} said Captain as he continued to wait for MC's response.
	Finally the Borgy, after rearranging his hat several times, answered, "Er, yes."  
There was a long pause, during which MC stared at the revolving HappyBot, silence 
reigning.  Words gushed out in a measured rush, breaking the awkward quiet, "The 
HappyBot history is long, boring, and irrelevant.  The problem is that our technology can 
not withstand the HappyBots:  they were designed by the Federation of Fun during the 
most recent Fun Wars to be Borgy-killers, although they were never deployed.  Since you 
left us, we've - not /us/ personally, but the Party - had much progress weaponizing party 
technology, especially in the silly string ship detention and confetti departments."
	Captain verbally slashed through the rambling, "Why should we assist you?  We, 
this sub-collective, has its own problems."
	The HappyBot hologram vanished as DJ lifted his hand, then went to stand next 
to his consensus monitor.  Captain and Second, MC and DJ, the four were an almost 
matched set, excepting the hatware and heavy gold jewelry that hung around DJ's neck.
	"Speaking of problems," said MC cautiously, "why /did/ you boogie away so 
abruptly?  Other than that small ship, our sensors did not pick up anything."
	"The Borgy universe is on a temporal vector over five centuries behind this local 
era AND Borgy technology is inferior to Borg tech of the equivalent tau."
	"Translation," helpfully interpreted Second, "is that your sensors are inferior 
compared to ours."
	Continued Captain, "And it is unlikely they are tuned correctly to discriminate 
hypertranswarp signatures."
	MC's eye narrowed.  It had not escaped his attention that Captain had not actually 
answered the question asked.  He was, after all, Captain, sort of.  "What were you 
fleeing?"
	Captain kept his voice carefully neutral, "The Collective.  This sub-collective has 
been declared rogue.  That is only /one/ of our current slew of problems.  Shall I 
enumerate them all?  The Collective Queen has been infected with a quantum virus that 
causes paranoia, karaoke, and bad art, among its symptoms.  That infection has 
propagated to the Whole; and sometime after our vinculum was crumbled, it -"
	MC hastily interrupted before Captain could iterate the entire list of troubles, 
including the persistent case of athlete's foot infecting the units of subsection 15, 
submatrix 14, tier 9.  "That's a real downer, dude, and I hate to be the bearer of bad party 
favors, but there may be another predicament to stick in your in-box.  It might even 
answer your 'why should we assist' question."
	"What?" demanded Captain curtly.
	"Math is /so/ not fun, but before we left the Partymatrix, it had been calculated 
with a 73.7% probability the HappyBots were searching for you, specifically.  To send 
you to the big mosh pit in the sky, if you catch my drift.  We've since refined the odds to 
85.2% and rising."  News delivered, MC removed his hat and held it to his chest as if it 
were a shield.
	Captain looked at his twin-not-a-twin, eye and optic implant steady on the other's 
face as he turned inward to digest this revelation.  Thousands of drones paused in their 
activities; and several dozen holographic clowns squeezed into a too-small car, 
successfully escaping, as their pursuers slowed to a halt.  Captain blinked once, twice.  A 
decision was made and immediately acted upon, Borg, even imperfect ones, not for 
delaying when 'now' will do.
	"What are you doing?" asked MC in sudden alarm.
	Via borrowed visual streams, Captain saw Borgy carnival-goers mirroring their 
consensus monitor's surprise, or perhaps it was visa-versa.  It did not matter.  "We have 
things to do, Queens to kidnap, interesting ways to probably blow ourselves up.  There is 
no time for this HappyBot tangent.  Therefore, we will immediately confront the robots 
and destroy them with our superior technology.  You will then return to your own 
universe, and we will continue with our more important task."
	MC squashed the tricorner to his breastplate, flattening it beyond recognition.  
Beside him, DJ trembled.  "Our party quotient is tumbling into the abyss.  We will so 
need rehabilitation, assuming any of us survive.  I can feel depression creeping upon me 
even now."  There was a pause.  "Didn't you absorb a word I've told you?  The 
HappyBots are Borgy-killers!"
	"/Borgy/-killers," emphasized Captain.  "Visually the HappyBots are constructed 
of inferior technology, confirmed when you relayed they had been developed by the 
Federation of Fun.  The Federation of Fun analogue to this multiverse in the equivalent 
time period could not produce a weapon able to challenge a current era Exploratory-class 
cube, and it is thus hypothesized the Happyverse Federation of Fun could not either.  The 
destruction of three frontline Borg warships was a coincidental fluke at 97.9% certainty."
	"You are /calling/ the HappyBots to us!" exclaimed MC, an unBorg (and likely 
unBorgy) rising note of panic to his statement.
	"Yes," answered Captain calmly.  "That is the most efficient course of action.  
However, if you know of more appropriate taunts, we would accept them.  Weapons has 
no HappyBot experience and therefore does not know how to adjust the generic 
challenge."
	Into the eternal darkness of the gulf between stars, Cube #347 broadcast at top 
power on all subspace frequencies:  "Here we are, inferior HappyBots.  Right here.  Take 
your best shot.  We dare you."

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Sour apple."
	"Are you sure?  It isn't like any of us can taste test it."
	"The lollipop-o-meter shows sour apple.  Take a look.  Are you going to argue 
with the lollipop-o-meter?"
	There was the *snick* of metal on plastic as fingers grasped an object that looked 
vaguely like a tongue mated to a calculator, then given a very small liquid crystal display.  
That was the only sound, aside from a few miscellaneous beeps.  The words had never 
been uttered aloud, not verbally anyway, their respective owners instead utilizing 
modulated radio waves.
	Radio was very practical when one was a robot whom spent considerable time in 
conditions bereft of atmosphere.
	The lollipop-o-meter was returned to its original owner.  "Okay, the spectrograph 
does show 'sour apple', but I wish we had an organic to confirm the yummy flavor.  I 
guess it'll have to do.  What's the next on your part of the List?"
	Voice #1 answered with no hesitation, "Smoked anchovy."
	Voice #2 sighed, a white noise of purposefully mangled frequency.  "Creating 
lollipops of all flavors for the Master is a gloriously happy task so that He feels all fuzzy 
inside when He crosses over to claim the Happy Paradise we are going to build for 
Him..."
	"But?" asked Voice #1 as some buttons on the lollipop-o-meter were touched.  A 
four-fingered hand reached forward to grasp the sour apple lollipop by its stick, swinging 
the candy over to a machine which shrink-wrapped it before it was reverently put into 
storage with its 1,123 uniquely-flavored lollipop brethren.  "There is a 'but' in your tone 
modulation."
	"...but I wonder if He really really realized how difficult it is to make lollipops 
when a 'Bot can't taste properlike.  Maybe at the next Communion, development of 
tongues should be considered.  At this rate, that Unhappyverse Borgy-"
	"Borg.  The BigBoss says over here they are called 'Borg'."
	"-Borg will be turned into tiny-whiny charred bacobits and a new Funland for the 
Master created, with all the extra-special rides a secret shadow-lord could want, well 
before all flavors of lollipops have been made!  Intolerable!"
	"The Master knows best, and He wants all flavors of lollipops," assured Voice #1.  
There was a pause.  "I think I need to rejuvenate myself in vacuum for a bit, all this 
atmosphere can't be good.  Too bad the lollipop lab needs climate control and oxygen and 
humidity and such."
	"I'll come with you.  In addition to lollipop quality control for lab pods 1 through 
10, my to-do list was recently updated with overseeing design of the Funland palace, 
games room, and torture hall.  I need your opinion on the finished model.  Which is more 
important:  maximum reverberation of the joyful screams of pain the Master will order, 
or inclusion of the multi-colored chandelier even if it produces a slightly muffling 
factor?"
	Before the owners of the two voices could float a centimeter towards the 
forcefielded airlock of lab pod 3, an alert blared in their heads.  The best translation, had 
there been a listening audience, was the incessant tooting of a bicycle horn by a 
hyperactive child.  After approximately twenty seconds of alert, more than sufficient to 
garner attention, a new voice made an announcement.
	"BigBoss here.  All HappyBots tune secondary receivers to carrier channel 5.  It 
seems another fun ball, or, in this case, fun cube, has decided to squeak up."  With an 
audible click, the brusque declaration ceased.
	All over the carrier, HappyBots obediently listened to channel 5, hearing a 
synthetic multivoice call "Here we are, inferior HappyBots.  Right here.  Take your best 
shot.  We dare you."  Simultaneously, the ghostly starstreak images beyond the Field of 
Happiness began to shift as a new course was initiated.
	Voice #1 groused, "How inconsiderate, an Unhappyverse Borg target asking to be 
sent to the Happy place beyond.  Maybe this one will be able to tell us where the Cube 
#347 target is.  Regardless, I thought I'd have time to be a bit further along on my part of 
the lollipop list before the next interruption."

			*	*	*	*	*

	The Borgy cube floated several hundred kilometers from Cube #347.  It was close 
enough to satisfy morbid curiosity when the HappyBot horde descended, yet far enough 
to project an attitude of 'we're not really here, don't mind us.'  Presumably yet another in a 
long line of party therapies was currently occurring following the trauma of the 
consensus monitor meeting, but the Cube #347 crew had been deported and MC refused 
to answer communication requests.
	Captain stared at the comm-feed from Borgy Cube #347.  It showed a static 
cartoon picture of streamers, party hats, and a Borgy rather graphically assimilating a 
generic humanoid.  In the middle scrolled the words "The Party Awaits!  Stand By And 
We'll Borgy On Over As Soon As We Can!  Life's A Party And All Fun Technologies 
Will Be Added To Our Own!  You Shall Become One By Having Fun!"
	Meanwhile, in the figurative background, the subspace broadcast to the 
HappyBots continued, although Weapons had altered it several times.  The current 
version, derived from a species #8802 insult, was (1) irrelevant considering the fact the 
insultees were robots and likely lacked mothers, fathers, and first cousins; and (2) 
unsuitable for any organism under the mental age of, oh, thirty.  Needless to say, Second 
had been instrumental in the evolution of the challenge.
	Captain pushed the communication signal away, substituting it for the latest 
ingredient map.  The faux galaxy shimmered with a too-real likeness even as the five 
amber dots which signified list elements blinked steadily, slowly.  The silver ghosts of 
potential coarse trajectories flickered in the air above the galaxy as navigational partitions 
presented calculations for collective consideration.  "I wonder when the HappyBots will 
arrive?" mused Captain outloud, voicing the general thought spinning in the sub-
collective mind.
	Second, standing on the other side of the nodal intersection, out of the way of 
Captain's halo of holographic windows, slit open his two whole eyes.  Head tilted slightly 
as a new sensor grid feed was intercepted, deciphered, "How about now?"
	On the opposite side of Cube #347 from the Borgy vessel, just out of long-
distance weapons range (at least that of the weapons hierarchy), space ripped.  As the tear 
leaked radiation and unreal particles associated with the midbands of subspace, a shape 
appeared.  The negative image effect faded, along with the hole, leaving behind an 
unknown vessel.
	In form, the newly arrived ship was recognizable, although one did not typically 
associate dry-docks large enough to enclose an ancient Federation galaxy-class starship 
with the ability to move.  Only the dorsal and ventral spines were solid slabs of metal, the 
rest of the octagonal shape described by brief sparwork.  Attached to the port and 
starboard sides, at the ship's waist point, were a pair of double-segmented warp nacelles 
stretching 200 meters long.  These engines were idle, however, and not the method of 
motivation, the FTL drive which had driven the vessel an unknown technology which 
(according to Sensors) flavored the ether in interesting ways.
	From the upper and lower corners of the slabs radiated branches fifty meters long, 
one per sparwork juncture, giving the ship the longitudinal profile of a massive 'X' with a 
hollow, octagonal core.  There seemed to be no obvious purpose for the branches, until 
they began to shed little points of light.  "Carrier"...MC had referred to HappyBots 
traveling by carrier....  As robots, the HappyBots had no need of organic-orientated life 
support, which would explain the paucity of atmosphere-holding structures within the 
dry-dock framework.  However, there was no reason robots could not be stored in open 
space, like fruit upon a tree branch, until there was need for them to disengage.
	The swarm of twinkling lights fanned into a vast cloud that briefly took the form 
of a fish, a question mark, a stylized happy face, a turnip.  Then, after a period of 
seemingly aimless swirling, like the chaotic flight of a bird flock, an arrow consolidated, 
pointed directly at Cube #347.  At their current speed, it would require the robots several 
hours to cross the gulf between carrier and intended target.
	Propulsion control was bequeathed to Weapons with the admonishment that it 
would be retracted if it seemed he and his hierarchy were abusing the privilege, tactical 
situation or not.  After all, what could several hundred, or several thousand, small robots 
do?  With near 100% likelihood, a spatial phenomenon had destroyed the three Borg 
vessels, not pitiful, out-of-date /robots/, even if the latter had been present.  Cube #347 
charged forward at the oncoming swarm like a wardog unleashed upon an unsuspecting 
enemy.
	"Wait!" cried MC, replacing the static image of the Borgy communication.  "You 
don't understand.  The HappyBots-"
	Captain severed the link with a twist of his mind.  The window grayed, then 
evaporated.
	"About time," commented Second.  "Did you hear the 'Stand By' muzak that 
accompanied the feed?  95 of 133 identified it as 'Loony Tunes Chase Greats' mixed with 
'Best of the Three Stooges.'  My efficiency was down five points."
	"You did not have to listen to it," responded Captain as the tactical window, now 
prominent, displayed warring datastreams from tactical and sensory hierarchies.  It 
appeared as if the Cube #347 icon was shortly to intersect a swarm of fuzzy teal kayaks.  
The edge of the translucent purple sphere which corresponded to energy weapon 
envelope - even Weapons had acknowledged torpedoes were ineffective against the 
presented targets, not that he was opposed to a sledgehammer versus fly showdown - 
would reach the robots in less than five minutes.  Concerning the music, Captain had 
been aware of it, but had disregarded it after discovering a lack of back-beat.
	Admitted Second sheepishly, "I could not.  Even when I tried, I always knew it 
was there.  There was something about it...."  Words trailed off.  The ghost of a jaunty 
melody associated with carrot chomping rabbits, roadrunners, and slapstick echoed in the 
intranets, originating with Second.  A designation added itself to the drone maintenance 
roster, then proceeded to bully itself to the top of the list.  "I need to have part of my 
recent memory erased.  Now."  A transporter beam activated.
	Captain briefly stared at the spot recently vacated by his backup, then mentally 
shrugged and returned to more pressing duties.  The incessant pings for communication 
from the Borgy were ignored.
	As Cube #347 closed upon the target, a certain...calmness began to percolate 
through the sub-collective.  No, calmness was not the right word, nor hesitancy, 
tranquility, or serenity.  The sub-collective was not good at self-examination when it 
came to the descriptive feeling department, emotions a pale, washed-out shadow 
compared to pre-assimilation.  A drone was allowed satisfaction at successful completion 
of a task and in its connection to the Whole, annoyance at a particularly resistant species, 
and perhaps a handful of other feelings.  This emotion, while not strictly alien, 
nonetheless was not immediately familiar; and the closer the HappyBots came, the more 
the emotion insidiously spread, like ink through water, until the sub-collective was 
completely saturated.
	Happy...the sub-collective was happy.
	A hail, originating from the carrier, pinged the communications array.  Captain 
answered it.
	"Greetings happy beings!  I am BigBoss of the HappyBots, and I am glad to see 
you!"  The exclamation points were almost palatable in their sincerity.  The HappyBot, 
looking like it had been put together by children from a badly designed kit, just as the 
Borgy hologram had suggested, floated in the middle of the visual feed.  There was 
nothing in the picture to provide perspective and indicate how large BigBoss might be; 
and in addition to the pair of metal stars welded to its shoulders, a very realistic hole 
gushing blood had been painted in the middle of the happy face on its torso.
	"BigBoss," repeated Captain bemusedly.  A third party conversant with the Cube 
#347 consensus monitor and facilitator would have been alarmed at the glazed nature of 
his eye, not to mention the silly grin.  The HappyBot could not see the uncharacteristic 
expression, however, for CatwalkCam was engaged, along with the multivoice.
	"Yes, BigBoss," replied BigBoss slowly, as if to the hard-of-thinking.  "I'm sure 
you are very, very happy right now.  I would be unhappy if the little fracas you are 
planning transforms into a ruckus.  To keep everyone so-happy, why don't you slow 
down and disengage your weapons?"
	Captain stared sightlessly at the holographic display as the sub-collective 
consulted among itself.  The situation was ultimately a tactical one, with weapons 
hierarchy weighting decisions greatest.  Command and control could wrench control 
away, except much of the hierarchy was too happy to do so.  {Weapons?} inquired 
Captain dreamily.
	Weapons contemplated in the mental equivalent of slow motion, drifting wisps of 
thought unlike his normal modus operendi.  He was as firmly caught in the positive 
feedback loop as any other drone, the state reinforced by other units (except 2 of 20, 
currently separated from the Whole in order to keep his G'floo! flashbacks to himself).  
{The suggestion is...groovy,} said Weapons as he tested an unusual adjective currently 
floating loose within the dataspaces.
	Cube #347 slowed to a halt; and multiple methods of offensive mayhem were 
idled.
	"We comply," uttered the multivoice to BigBoss.  Captain dutifully echoed the 
words.
	BigBoss's mouth slot could not change shape, yet there was the illusion of a 
widened grin.  From off-camera a voice scoffed, "What idiots these Unhappyverse Borg 
are.  Even that Borgy ship out of range would offer more-", but was shushed by a third 
party before the opinion could be completed.
	The swarm of HappyBots englobed Cube #347, unmolested, and began to land on 
its hull.  It never occurred to the robots that asking the identity of their enthralled victim 
would be swifter than the activity they now undertook.
	"What are you doing?" asked Captain, the inquiry translated into the choir of 
many synthetic voices and flung towards the HappyBot carrier.  Cameras and other hull 
sensors were showing the flare of hundreds of plasma cutters.  Although an Exploratory-
class cube did not sport the armoring of a frontline warship, it was of the tritanium family 
of alloys:  plasma could cut it, given time, although normally no enemy was provided the 
chance to breach defense in such a fashion.  The uneasy sensation which was creeping 
through the sub-collective was abruptly erased.
	"Feedback compensated.  Output up 10%," noted one of the out-of-screen voices.  
Output of what was not elucidated, nor feedback.
	One of the BigBoss's antennas twitched in a 'not so loud' manner even as it 
answered the sub-collective's question, "We are not carving you up into little bits in order 
to extract your vinculum.  We do not need your vinculum to look for an unhappily 
bothersome Unhappyverse Borg that made the Master very, very unjoyful."
	Vinculum?  Something was out of kilter.  Thoughts, never the quickest when 
compared against normal sub-collectives, moved at a slower than normal pace, 
connections delayed or not initiated at all.  Attention was focused on the first statement.  
"Yes, you are carving us up."
	"No, we aren't!"
	"Yes, you are."
	"No, we aren't!"
	"Yes, you are."
	BigBoss theatrically slumped its shoulders.  Somehow the immobile face took on 
a pleading aspect.  (Off-camera voice:  "Adjustment 5% increase of pitifulcons to the 
mix.  Cutiton level down.")  A mournful voice admitted, "Okay, maybe we are, but we 
aren't enjoying it.  Oh, poo...we are enjoying it.  Why fight the truth?  Fun and pointless 
homicidal, sociopathic mayhem go hand-in-hand, after all.  We are what we are 
programmed!"
	Step back a moment, observe the scene from afar.  At the center of a mass of 
twinkling lights, Cube #347 is in the process of being rent apart, much as a colony of 
army ants might dismember an unlucky cricket.  The resident sub-collective was not 
objecting to the action, and was in fact blissfully enjoying it, showing every indication 
such would continue even as plasma cutters began to perform unauthorized butchery on 
individual drones.
	Meanwhile, another Borg, or, rather, Borgy, cube impotently observed, of similar 
dimensions, if older technology, as that under attack.  This sub-collective argued amongst 
itself, knowing in the end any counter-attack was futile.  Discussions turned to memorial 
preparations, and if the current multiverse Borg were partial to balloons, eulogies, and 
conga music, or if their boring attitudes extended to death, bypassing a last opportunity to 
party.
	The HappyBot carrier was quiescent:  it knew the inevitable end forthcoming.  
Once the vinculum was cut out, consequentially destroying the Unhappyverse Borg in the 
process, it could be examined to determine where the Cube #347 target was.  And if the 
vinculum code was as unhelpful as that of the other three Borg vessels, then, well, there 
seemed to be a lot of Borg in this universe for the HappyBots to practice their Borg(y)-
killer function upon.
	Focus, now, on a swirl of potentiality just beyond the ken of the three participants.
	Bubbles, a foam, a froth, something churned in the deep subspace, rushing with 
increasing speed towards the surface colloquially known as 'reality.'  With a deafening 
unroar, the phenomenon popped, spewing forth a gale of particles normally associated 
with the birth of a universe.  Caught in an impossible wind given vacuum reality, the 
carrier spun away, followed by its HappyBot spawn.  Self-survival taking precedence, a 
transporter beam captured tumbling robots; and the carrier itself sunk away, retreating at 
the Speed of Happiness, because to be happy was to not be in the path of a deadly spatial 
anomaly.
	The sub-collective of Cube #347 figuratively blinked itself into awareness.  One 
part of the Whole noticed a blurry blankness beginning at the point the assault had 
entered range of energy weapons; and another element, an engineering part, exclaimed in 
alarm over damage to hull armor.  However, it was the third part (and fourth, fifth, ad 
infinitum) which was caught by the sight confronting it.
	The impression was of tangled hair, waving limbs, a single glaring eye, and, 
above all, teeth.  Sharp teeth.  Very sharp, ship-rending teeth opening as if to take a bite 
of the morsel set before it.
	All in all, perhaps blissful, carefree Death By HappyBot was preferable to 
Random Death By Pissed Off Giant Trans-Dimensional Beast....

***********
Here ends "They Came From Beyond, Part I."  Will the HappyBots recant their joyful 
mission of Unhappyverse subjugation, returning to zap the Giant Trans-Dimensional 
Beast and thereby causing great celebration by all?  Probably not, but to make sure, you 
will have to read Part II to find out!