The BLTS Archive - Another Morning Wasted
by Bianca O'Blivion (blancaoblivion@yahoo.com)

---

Disclaimer:No money has, or ever will, change hands. The characters
will be put back in their boxes only slightly mussed.

Warning:  Slightly risqué language.

Notes: I didn't invent Unobtanium, but neither did the screenwriters
on that dumb but entertaining movie. In fact, I'm not just sure who
did invent it, except for a trace memory that it had something to do
with the Lockheed Skunkworks, where the U-2, SR-71 and such were
developed, which required alloys which were rare, expensive and hard
to machine.

---
Chapter One:
---

Our mise-en-scene is the Conference Room, the time is morning, the
participants are the usual suspects. As we fade in, we're about midway
through the morning briefing about the latest Voyager crisis/fiasco. .
. ..

The faces around the conference table reflected Vulcan serenity, Borg
impassivity, Klingon impatience, and that uniquely dignified
expression only the First Officer could attain. Lieutenant Kim's
visage varied between mere boredom and total ennui. Even Lieutenant
Paris' demeanor was more blank than usual as he tried to balance a
pencil on a fingertip. Only the Captain seemed interested in
prolonging what had already been a long meeting. She asked, "So.. . .
then what happened, B'Elanna?"

B'Elanna, startled out of some distant daydream, came back to the
present and replied, "We waited."

"For?" asked Chakotay.

"For Voyager to contact us, of course. I mean, if you're going to send
me and Seven out on a scouting expedition in one of those damn
shuttles, you got to expect that we're going to crash sooner or later.
It was sooner, as it happened, and fortunately, there was a planet
nearby to crash on."

Seven of Nine added, "I would like to note how improbable it is that a
hospitable planet with breathable atmosphere and edible food should be
so conveniently located."

Captain Janeway said, "I don't know about improbable. Isn't that what
usually happens?"

"Nevertheless, given the odds against there being any sort of planet
available, let alone one with compatible gravitation and the proper
atmospheric ratio of oxygen to nitrogen, I should posit that this is
more than mere coincidence."

B'Elanna rolled her eyes upwards and asked, "You aren't going to start
rambling on about the infinite improbability drive, are you?"

Seven retorted, "I do not know why you so adamantly refuse to consider
the concept. It was predicted by a human researcher over three hundred
years ago."

The Captain interrupted, "Let's don't get off on a tangent, ladies. I
assume you followed proper Starfleet protocols after landing on this
planet?"

B'Elanna nodded. "We did a quick survey, totaled up our resources, and
settled in to wait for Voyager to contact us, like the last three
shuttle crashes this year."

Harry Kim added, "Four crashes, if you count the time Paris ran out of
fuel while taking the Delaney sisters on that field trip."

"It's lucky you had your portable regeneration unit, Seven," said the
Captain.

B'Elanna said, "That's 'cause Seven refuses to go anywhere on a
shuttle without dragging her crap along."

Seven snipped, "The proper term is Compact Regeneration Appliance, not
'crap'. Given the safety record of shuttlecraft, it is merely prudent
to be prepared in the event we are stranded. Unlike the Lieutenant, I
cannot survive by eating the raw organs of the local fauna."

B'Elanna grinned wolfishly. "They weren't raw. Just rare. Don't be
such a wussy, Seven."

"Borg are not wussies. We simply have better sense."

B'Elanna went on, "Anyway, we did all the required Starfleet bullshi-
, sorry, protocols, and I put Seven to work repairing the repairable
systems on the shuttle. The drive engines looked to be unfixable, so
we concentrated on replicators and communications. Never did get the
replicator to work, so I had to live off the land."

Seven told the Captain, "After we crashed, the Lieutenant waited
almost 8.22 hours before going hunting for animal protein."

"Hey, unlike the Ice Princess, I can't recharge by plugging my butt
into the power converters."

"I should have thought we had sufficient emergency rations for an
extended period."

"You ever eaten emergency rations? Sorry, I forgot. Borg don't eat."

"Borg do not disembowel and skin dead rats, either. Let alone devour
their charred flesh."

B'Elanna said thoughtfully, "Not a rat so much as kind of a miniature
deer with really long back legs. And horns. As their discoverer, I've
named 'em Jackalopes. Pretty good eating too, with a little pepper and
some onions. Especially the liver."

Seven made a Borg expression of disgust.

Oblivious to Seven's distaste, B'Elanna continued, "Anyhow, it was
only prudent to save the compressed sawdust energy biscuits in case we
were stuck for a really long time. I didn't notice Seven waiting
around too long before starting work on her solar power collector."

"That was also prudent. If the shuttle power converters were to fail,
I would be unable to regenerate. Unlike Lieutenant Torres, I cannot
maintain my systems using the seared muscle tissue of the local
fauna."

B'Elanna retorted, "And using the solar power to heat water for your
shower instead?"

"It would be inefficient to waste the stored power, so I devised a
simple cleansing device."

Chakotay interrupted the bickering. "The sonic cleanser doesn't use
that much power, Seven."

"The sonic cleanser causes my metallic parts to vibrate unacceptably.
It is very unpleasant. Since I was not able to replicate another
biosuit, it was important to maintain cleanliness."

B'Elanna huffed, "I don't remember anything in Starfleet Protocol
about needing to shower for an hour at a time."

"I do not remember any reluctance on the Lieutenant's part to use up
all my hot water every morning."

Commander Tuvok gritted his teeth with Vulcan determination and said,
"I believe we are getting off-topic, Captain. We were discussing the
shuttle incident, rather than personal hygiene."

B'Elanna elaborately consulted her PADD and continued, "So. We spent
the time working on the shuttle."

Seven added, "Except for the eight to twelve hours per day the
Lieutenant spent 'hunting', taking naps and wandering aimlessly
through the woods. And swimming. And insisting on teaching me to
swim."

"You learned to swim?" asked Chakotay.

"It would be more accurate to say that I learned to sink, Commander.
Borg do not float."

"Drowning lessons, then," smirked Harry Kim.

Seven agreed, "It is fortunate that Borg also do not need to breathe
for extended periods. However, Lieutenant Torres demonstrated that she
could support my weight in the water, so I did eventually assimilate
several basic swimming strokes."

The Captain remarked, "It's a good thing, then, that you two brought
swim suits."

"What is a 'swim suit'?" asked Seven.

B'Elanna interrupted hurriedly and said, "Long story short, eventually
we did get the subspace communications system operating, and we put
out the usual 'Come and get us' call for Voyager. But when we finally
did contact the ship, we were kind of surprised to hear banjo music
and someone shouting "Yeee-haw!" instead of the usual Starfleet hail.
So, I asked Seven to analyze the transmission, and she said that the
phrase, 'Pass the jug, Otis', sounded like a race called the Yokulls.
Going by recent history, we figured you guys had been taken over by
aliens or had your brains drained or something. Again."

Seven said, "At the time, it seemed improbable that an Intrepid-class
starship could be commandeered by so primitive a species."

Commander Tuvok, sounding a bit peeved, retorted, "Apparently the
Yokulls are more sophisticated than you credit them."

Seven replied, "Perhaps. But I do not know that these people had ever
seen chairs before, let alone a warp core. The Yokull practice of
consanguineous marriage is not conducive to high intelligent
quotients."

"Con-what?" asked Chakotay.

"Among the Yokulls, mating is generally practiced with partners who
are at least first cousins. Closer relatives are preferred."

"What are the genetic consequences of that?" asked the Captain.

"There may be a long-term decline in cerebral acuity," said Seven.

"They're dumb as a bag of hammers," said B'Elanna.

Chakotay added, "Really, people. We're letting our standards slip. The
last time the ship got taken over, at least they were smarter than us,
if not nearly as good looking." He smiled and waited for the laugh.
None came.

Seven noted, "The appearance of the Yokulls might have contributed to
the problem, Captain."

"How's that?"

B'Elanna grinned and said, "Maybe Tuvok didn't take them seriously. I
mean, they didn't look very dangerous. Feed caps, no shoes, general
air of non-bathing.. . . "

Seven droned on relentlessly. "I meant to suggest that if the security
detail were somewhat less susceptible to being distracted by
pulchritudinous Yokull females, it might have been possible to avoid
the latest fiasco."

Captain Janeway said defensively, "I think fiasco is a bit strong,
Seven."

"Captain, I have been on Voyager long enough to recognize a fiasco."

"Try debacle," suggested B'Elanna.

"In any event," Seven went on, "I would also suggest a review of the
policy regarding shore leave activities. The Yokulls would have had
more difficulty stealing the ship's ignition keys, had they not
succeeded in getting Lieutenant Kim.. . .  I believe the term is
'likkered up'?"

"Hindsight is always so 20-20.. . . " Kim said, sotto voce.

"Even discounting hindsight, Lieutenant Kim, we have benefited by the
usual impossible coincidences. Since Lieutenant Torres and I happened
to have been stranded on the ICHP because of the ill-advised Away
Mission, we were not stranded with the remainder of the Voyager crew
on the other convenient planet."

"ICHP?" asked Captain Janeway, "What's Eechep?"

"I have designated the planet ICHP. Improbably Convenient Habitable
Planet."

The Captain groused, "Our planet apparently wasn't quite as improbably
habitable as yours. More like a large spherical cowflop, than a proper
planet. Swamps. Mosquitoes. Nothing to eat but beets."

Harry Kim added, "I've designated our planet 'Dungheap'. And that's
being kind."

Seven gave her Borg one-armed faint shrug. "At any rate, once we were
able to launch, we succeeded in locating and boarding Voyager, and
negotiated a 'swap' with the Yokull's leader, Cletus the Slack-Jawed."

Captain Janeway asked, "So just what did we swap them for the ship?"

"Sixty two meters of copper tubing, a Dilithium crystal, and several
bags of magic beans," answered Seven.

"A Dilithium crystal, Seven?"

"Yes. They thought it was 'purty'. And 'sparkly'."

"Why the copper tubing, anyway?" asked Chakotay.

"I believe the Yokulls use it to distill 'White Lightning', which is
the mind-altering substance they used to incapacitate Lieutenant Kim."

The Captain mused,"It does sound like you got the better of the, ah,
swap. How did you persuade them to agree to return the ship?"

Seven said, "Lieutenant Torres employed the Flim-Flam technique."

"Flim-Flam? Is that a Borg term?"

"No, Captain, it is a Maquis reference. The Borg have the similar
concept of Bafflegab, the humanoid ability to speak rapidly and at
great length without conveying any true or useful information."

"And B'Elanna is good at this.. . .  Flim Flam?"

During her service with the Maquis, the Lieutenant apparently
assimilated this method of verbal persuasion which proved remarkably
effective. Briefly, it appears to involve flattery, hyperbole,
disingenuousness, and appeals to avarice. Also, outright
prevarication."

"We scammed 'em real good," smirked B'Elanna, with evident
self-satisfaction. Another ten minutes, and I could've gotten the gold
fillings out of their teeth. 'Course it helps that they're not the
brightest bulbs in the candelabra."

Seven observed, "I can attest that the Lieutenant has considerable
ability to induce a person to ignore her. . . . their better judgment
and do things she ordinarily would not regard as wise or appropriate."

"In the Maquis, we were always scrounging for parts, fuel, supplies.
You had to know how to find what you need, and how to get them to give
it to you. Whether they knew they were giving it or not, if you catch
my drift."

Captain Janeway admitted, "It does seem remarkable you had so little
trouble repossessing Voyager."

B'Elanna said, "Hey, they wanted me to throw Seven in on the deal. But
she was a big wussy about that, too."

"They wanted Seven? Why?"

"I assume they were impressed by my technical expertise and
organizational skills."

"Yeah, right!" snorted B'Elanna.

Seven, attempting smugness, said, "Cletus the Slack-Jawed specifically
admired my 'gazongas'. I have not been able to translate that word
from Yokullish, but it seems most probably a reference to my
scientific abilities."

The rest of the officers attempted to suppress various snorts and
giggles.

"What?" pouted Seven. "Why would such a primitive culture not seek my
technological skills?"

B'Elanna attempting to keep a straight face and failing, said,
"Anyway, after Seven got all bent out of shape about going with the
Yokulls, I let them talk me into taking the magic beans, instead."

"What exactly are magic beans?" asked the Captain.

"Ahh. . .  well, coffee, actually. See, they'd been chewing coffee
beans and getting all buzzed."

"And spitting," said Seven, with a delicate shudder.

Janeway looked as if she'd been hit in the back of the head with a
padded two by four. "Did you say. . .  they took all the coffee?"

B'Elanna replied, "I saved the instant. And some decaf."

Seven added, "By another improbable coincidence, Captain, the ICHP
happened to be overgrown with bushes bearing what I am informed are
very high quality coffee beans. Knowing your predilection for that
beverage, I picked 56 kilograms of ripe beans which I brought to
Voyager. Unfortunately, the Yokulls had apparently discovered the
stimulating effects of caffeine during their occupation, and insisted
on taking all remaining coffee stores with them."

"So. . .  you're saying there's no coffee left on board?"

"Just the pound or so of used grounds Neelix had hidden in his used
sock hamper," said B'Elanna. "Apparently, it keeps the weevils from
eating them. The socks, I mean, not the coffee grounds. Or maybe it's
the other way 'round."

"And right now, we're drinking.. . . "

There were discreet sounds of spit-takes from down the table.

The Captain quavered, "A-and.. . .  there's no more coffee at all?
Anywhere on the ship?"

Seven replied, "It seemed a small price for the return of Voyager."

"Chakotay. . .  how long would it take to intercept the Yokull ship? I
mean, at maximum warp, we could cut them off, right?"

"That would be a significant diversion from our course towards the
Alpha Quadrant, Captain. We'd be going in the wrong direction for a
week. Towards Borg Space."

"Yeah, well. There are some things worth a little side trip."

Hoping to get off the subject, Harry Kim asked, "Seven. . .  just how
did you get the shuttle repaired, anyway?"

"Lieutenant Torres employed one of my Borg enhancements."

"Your cortical processor?"

"My follicular restraint device."

"What's that?" he asked.

Seven said, "As you may have noted, I prefer to maintain my hair in
order."

"If 'in order' means 'rigidly confined in a tight bun', I've noticed."

"My cortical processor functions more efficiently if I am not
distracted by hair in my face."

B'Elanna snorted, "I thought that was a Borg gluteus tension
enhancement."

"Gluteus what?" asked Chakotay.

"Y'know, winding up the hair to increase the tension of the gluteus
maximus. You know how important it is for Borg to be tight asses."

Seven haughtily said, "I do not recall that the Lieutenant found such
tightness to be objectionable while we were stranded on the ICHP. In
fact, she seemed appreciative."

B'Elanna cleared her throat, tapped her fingers, looked out the window
and waited to receive a good glaring at from the Captain. Or, for a
hole to open in the deck and swallow her up. However, Captain Janeway
was looking through the engineering report and had apparently tuned
out the squabbling. She asked, "What was that about follicular
restraint devices?"

"Maintaining my hair in order necessitates the use of a number of
follicular restraint devices."

"And they are?"

"Hairpins," said B'Elanna.

"You fixed the engine with a hairpin?"

"Four of them, actually. Once we finally did get the subspace
destoltifier running, it occurred to us that we could bypass the
framistator circuits and re-initialize the antimatter grommets using
the follicular restraint thingies to confine the inertial dampening
field gaflooies. Piece of cake, really."

Seven assumed her best air of Borg superiority. "I would like to point
out that the Borg have assimilated a superior method of fostidulator
regrammification which would have been more efficacious, if Federation
shuttlecraft were supplied an adequate tool kit. Which they are not."

"Was it safe to fly the shuttle in that condition?" asked Captain
Janeway.

"Yeah. Kind of," said B'Elanna.

"No," said Seven.

B'Elanna explained, "The control circuits were pretty well fried.
Couldn't get the computer to accept commands, 'til I got a brainstorm.
I had Seven plug her assimilating tubes into the main processor. Put
her right into the loop."

Seven made another Borg disgust _expression.

"I would remark that the shuttle computer has an extremely creepy
personality."

"Creepy?" asked the Captain.

" The computer wanted to reinitialize me, and kept talking about how
hot my interface was. It was unpleasant. Especially its' prurient
suggestions that it could defragment my C Drive."

"Creepy or not, it worked," said B'Elanna. "The ship handled like a
cow on roller skates, but it flew."

"I would suggest the term careen. Or possibly lurch randomly through
space. However, Lieutenant Torres' pilot skills were sufficient to
allow us to intercept Voyager. Fortunately, the Yokulls' lack of
experience with Warp Dynamics resulting in them basically traveling in
large circles."

"So.. . .  why didn't you take off earlier?" asked Lieutenant Kim. "I
mean, you were on your convenient planet for quite a while. You did
let us stew on planet Dunghill for days."

Seven gave him the full eyebrow. "Lieutenant Torres was in command of
the mission. She thought it prudent to obey Starfleet protocol for
shuttle crashes, and wait for Voyager to contact us. In any event,
extensive repairs were needed on the propulsion and communication
systems. We were not able to send or receive subspace messages."

"For two weeks?"

B'Elanna, with an expression like someone passing a kidney stone,
admitted, "It took Seven that long to grow a Unobtanium crystal big
enough to replace the melted circuits in the subspace
reflammiganifier. Without that, we'd never have gotten the subspace
field working. I have to admit, it was kind of a clever solution."

"Clever?" the Captain asked, "An Unobtanium crystal? I didn't know it
was possible."

"OK, it was unorthodox, original and freaking brilliant. Daystrom
Prize stuff. Is that enough?"

"At the time, Lieutenant Torres said it was not the worst idea she had
ever heard from me," observed Seven.

Tuvok, sounding Vulcan smug, said, "However ingenious the solution, I
believe the pair of you having to spend two weeks in close contact
offsets the superior environment of the planet of your exile."

Tom Paris snickered quietly, "He said close contact!"

Seven, ignoring or unaware of irony, said, "As I noted, it was a
particularly habitable planet. The Lieutenant seemed to be enjoying
inhabiting it."

The Lieutenant replied, "Yeah, well, if Miss Perfect had her way, we
would've spent the entire time cataloging the flora and fauna."

"As opposed to eating it?"

"I'm just saying, there's more to planetary exploration than
classifying every damn pebble and fern."

Tuvok's Vulcan composure seemed a bit tested. He said, "I was merely
noting that you both might have learned a degree of patience and
tolerance from spending so much time in close quarters."

"Screw patience," muttered B'Elanna.

Chakotay said, "That doesn't sound like you two learned anything from
being on top of each other for two weeks."

Seven began, "I could not say, since Lieutenant Torres always insisted
on being on top. . . .."

But, B'Elanna hurriedly cut her off, interrupting with, "Seven has
prepared a kind of survey of the geological and atmospheric conditions
of the ICHP, and as much data as was available on the biological
organisms we encountered. Would you like her to read it?"

Seven, with something approaching enthusiasm, said, "I have cataloged
3,452 separate entries, and I have slides of almost all of them. Shall
I set up the projector?"

Captain Janeway cleared her throat. "Maybe we should move along. How
is damage control going, Lieutenant Torres?"

"Ah. . . ." She consulted her notes. "We've managed to get all the
major systems on line again. There's still a lot of detail work to
finish. I could use some more help to remove the Yokull's graffiti
from the hallways, and I think there are still possums hiding in some
of the Jefferies tubes. And there are still four or five lavatories
that are basically uninhabitable. If anybody has any idea just what
they were doing in there.. . .  Oh. And the Doctor would appreciate it
if we could remove the subroutines the Yokulls installed. He doesn't
seem to like wearing bib overalls, and apparently they removed his
Verdi programs and substituted something he says sounds like 'Grand
Ole Opry'."

"Is that an improvement?"

B'Elanna shrugged, "Last I heard, he was singing something about his
pickup truck breaking down and his dog dying and his wife leaving him.
Or maybe it's the dog that's leaving him. All the Doc's music sounds
about the same to me."

Seven protested with a Borgish shiver, "I would not have thought
anything so unpleasant would qualify as music."

B'Elanna retorted, "Hey, I've heard your Borg music. Hours of it."

"It is not Borg music. The proper term is Techno, and it dates to
Earth's 20th Century."

"Techno. How appropriate. Machine music for a machine person."

"You might recall that I did not protest your musical selections."

"Klingon Opera?" asked Harry.

"If only that were the case," said Seven.

B'Elanna added, "And I let you listen to that Gold guy meandering away
at Back participles for about three days."

"I should have thought that an engineer would appreciate the
mathematical perfection of Glenn Gould's interpretation of the Bach
Partitas, even if she were immune to their esthetic qualities. I
should also have realized that someone who enjoys 'The Captain and
Tennille' would be indifferent to perfection. And I had to endure your
recording of 'Muskrat Love' 32.76 times."

"Muskrat Love?" asked Harry Kim.

"A composition concerning mating habits of aquatic rodents. My first
surmise was that Lieutenant Torres favored this music simply because I
found it intolerable. However, I now believe that she actually enjoys
it. I cannot say which supposition is more disquieting."

"Yeah, and that Phillip Glass stuff is easy on the ears? Give me a
break!"

Seven grated, "If I am ever subjected to "Afternoon Delight" again, I
cannot give assurance that I will be responsible for my actions."

Tuvok asked, "May I assume, then, that your musical preferences do not
converge at any point?"

B'Elanna looked thoughtful. "Well. . .  Maybe those old Shriekback
singles the Princess listens to. Can't say just why, but those were..
. .  not so awful."

Seven said, "Lieutenant Torres' k.d. lang collection was inexplicably
tolerable."

"Otherwise, if I ever, ever have to suffer through the Goldberg
Variations again.. . . "

"I considered disconnecting my auditory processors the last time I
experienced 'Guns and Roses'."

"Steve Reich? Pencil in the eardrum time!" grated B'Elanna.

Seven countered, "Deafness would be a preferred condition compared to
listening to your 'Kiss' retrospective on a continuing basis."

"Yeah? Two words. Brian Eno!"

Seven grated, "How a sentient being could listen to the 'Carpenters'
Greatest Hits' once, let alone seventeen times, is beyond my
understanding."

B'Elanna smirked and began to sing almost inaudibly, "Why do birds
suddenly appear, ever'y time you come near.. . . "

Seven gritted her Borg enhanced teeth. If they had not been enhanced,
she would have ground them to powder, as B'Elanna continued, "Just
like me, they want to be, close to y-o-o-u-u. . . "

Seven began to subvocalize, "Serenity now, serenity now.. . . " and
managed to maintain her impassivity for almost fifteen seconds and
27,282 iterations before blurting, "Barry Manilow was a tedious,
maudlin hack."

B'Elanna looked stunned. She sputtered, "You.. . .  You take that
back, Borg! Or I'll kick your shiny metal a. . . ."

The Captain interrupted, "Seven. B'Elanna. Could the two of you just..
. .  Look, I don't know just what you did for two weeks on that
planet, but I will say that it's amazing you're both still alive. Now,
please, is there anything else in your damage report?"

With a visible effort, B'Elanna calmed herself and said, "We've still
got some retuning work to do on the warp systems, but the impulse
drive and shields are fully operable. So, all in all, not so bad."

Seven said, "My Alcove smells of urine."

"You're lucky that's all it smells like," the Captain said darkly. "If
you'd been in my Ready Room. . . "

B'Elanna noted, "Yeah, goats get pretty rank, but I'm pretty sure we
rounded up the last of them, Captain. Neelix was wondering if he could
keep a couple of them."

"The goats? Why, are they edible?"

"As pets, I believe," Seven said. "Perhaps they are reminiscent of a
Talaxian species."

Kim snickered, "Yeah, the women." Seven ignored him, as did everyone
else, as usual.

Captain Janeway asked, "So, did anything positive come out of this
incident? How about some good news for a change?"

"Mr. Neelix seemed exceptionally pleased about one aspect of the
experience," Seven said, not noticing or ignoring B'Elanna's negative
gestures.

"Neelix? What's he happy about?"

"Mr. Neelix reports that during the time the Yokulls occupied the
ship, they were using the hydroponics bay. He said that they had left
behind a substantial crop of something he calls 'Primo Weed' and
assures me it is righteous- Ouch!"

"Seven?"

Seven glared at Lieutenant Torres.

Lieutenant Torres looked at the ceiling.

Seven muttered, "It is irrelevant, Captain. Lieutenant Torres kicked
my shin implant. I assume that was accidental."

"Did you say.. . .  Primo Weed? I don't believe I've heard of that."

"Yes, Captain. Apparently it is an herb used in baking, since Mr.
Neelix seemed enthused about its utility in getting 'nicely toasted.'"

A look of slowly dawning realization struggled to display itself
across Commander Chakotay's immobile features, but eventually gave it
up as a bad job. "Ah, Captain," he said hurriedly, "We should probably
talk about the distress call situation."

The Captain looked up with obvious enthusiasm. "Distress call? Did we
receive a distress call?"

"Again? In the last fifteen minutes?" groaned B'Elanna.

Chakotay said, "I thought we might want to review our policy regarding
distress calls, given the. . .  incident with the Agnorakians."

Seven looked through her PADDs, and said, "Captain, I have devised a
computer program which will deactivate all sensors and cut off
communications upon receiving future distress calls."

"I don't think so, Seven. Starfleet protocols require us to respond to
such calls."

"I would then suggest my alternate program which would target phasers
and photon torpedoes at the source of any distress calls. That should
constitute a response, and avoid situations such as that to which
Commander Chakotay referred."

"Noted, and rejected, Seven. It is our humanitarian duty to respond to
ships in trouble. Anyway, that, er, situation with the Agnorakians
wasn't all that bad."

"Captain, they tried to suck our brains out," objected Chakotay.

"With straws," added Harry Kim.

Seven noted, "I believe the proper term is 'Cerebral Extraction
Tubule', Lieutenant Kim."

"Yeah, the Borg would know all about cerebral extraction," retorted
Kim.

Seven said, "The Borg do not extract brains out of humanoids. Rather,
they attempt to install more brains." Looking at Lieutenant Paris, who
was absently picking his nose, she continued, "In many cases, this is
a distinct improvement."

"The whole thing was a simple interspecies misunderstanding," the
Captain said. "And there wasn't any lasting damage, was there?"

Chakotay replied, "Fortunately, most of the zombification seems to
have been temporary, once the Doctor sorted out which brains came from
which people. I'm not so sure about Lieutenant Paris, though."

Harry Kim nudged him and whispered, "Hey, he's sitting right here, you
know."

Lieutenant Paris seemed to have found something fascinating about the
pattern of holes in the acoustic ceiling . Seven monotoned, "Most
Voyager personnel seem to have recovered completely. I have noticed
many lower-decks crew members who may be impaired in that they still
seem to perform no duties, except to walk purposefully through the
corridors and stand about holding clipboards in Engineering. However,
since that is all I have ever seen them do even before the Agnorakian
incident, this behavior may not be a symptom of alien brain-sucking."

"You mean all those guys in the red shirts?" asked Harry Kim.

Chakotay asked, "So, what's with all those people, anyway? I mean,
they never say anything and we seem to do all the work on the ship.
They never get to go on Away Missions, and some of them just spend all
their time in the Mess Hall."

Kim asked, "They're always wandering around, but do they, y'know,
actually do anything?"

A series of shrugs and "I dunno's" went around the table.

Captain Janeway asked, "Lieutenant Paris, are you fully recovered?

Lieutenant Paris was looking idly out the window and humming to
himself.

The Captain whispered to Chakotay, "Are you certain he should be back
on duty?"

Chakotay whispered back, "The Doctor thinks it's good for him to be in
familiar surroundings."

"Certainly, but I have to consider the safety of the ship."

B'Elanna chimed in, "It's OK, Captain. Seven and I disconnected all
the knobs and buttons on his console. Safe as houses."

"Doesn't that make it impossible for him to fly the ship?"

"It does not seem to have made any difference, Captain," Seven
remarked. "Apparently, the computer has been doing the actual flying
all along, and it simply ignores Mr. Paris' steering inputs.
Theoretically, there is no reason a spacecraft would require a
helmsman in any event, since it maneuvers in a vacuum, and at speeds
far beyond human reaction capabilities."

B'Elanna told the Captain, "Anyhow, if you want to come to Course 362,
Mark 8, all you'd really have to do is type it onto your keypad. I
mean, why tell somebody else to type it into his keypad? It'll work
out exactly the same."

"So.. . .  why do we have a helmsman, then?" the Captain asked.

Another series of upwardly rolled eyes went around the table. Mr.
Paris picked up his coffee spoon and attempted to stick it on his
nose.

"It, ah, keeps him out of trouble, Captain." Harry Kim said at last.
If you recall, his father, the Admiral.. . . ?"

The Captain cleared her throat and asked, "Does that conclude the
report on the Yokull incident, Seven?"

"Substantially, Captain. Damage repair is underway, and the ship has
resumed course in the general direction of the Alpha Quadrant. Some
systems still need maintenance and my Alcove still smells of Yokull
urine."

"Yes, well. I think there are more important priorities, Seven," the
Captain said sternly.

Seven protested, "It reeks. Seriously. It is very unpleasant. Stale
urine."

B'Elanna smirked and said, "What, you'd prefer fresh urine? That can
be arranged."

"I would prefer that it were clean."

"So scrub it, Seven!" B'Elanna ordered. "I'll get you some Lysol and a
mop."

"I had thought that if you do not require all of your lower-decks
crewmembers, you might detail one of them to clean the Cargo Bay. As
noted, they do not seem to have any defined functions."

"What's the matter, the Borg do not do bathrooms?"

"The Borg do not require bathrooms. Or mops. Both are inefficient."

Captain Janeway said with mounting exasperation, "Could we do without
the bickering, ladies? I don't see how the two of you managed to
survive each other on a deserted planet."

Seven answered, "We survived because, on the ICHP, the Lieutenant
managed to temporarily suppress her tendencies towards hostility and
aggressive behavior."

"And Her Iciness managed to be at least slightly co-operative, in a
pedantic sort of way."

"I would commend Lieutenant Torres for at least attempting to avoid
aggravating confrontation."

"Yeah? Well, even if she is a walking Frigidaire, I'll give Seven
credit for making the breast, er, best of a bad situation."

"I do not recall that you regarded the situation as bad. In point of
fact, if I had not insisted on remodulating the subspace transceiver,
we might still be marooned on the aforementioned planet. And you could
now be attempting to devour the organs of a wider range of
quadrupeds."

"And you could be classifying every bleeding leaf and rock, and
droning on about the atmospheric pressure. And writing out tables for
the three moonrises."

"Considering your predilection for wandering through the forest in the
moonlight, I should think you would find my tables useful."

"Maybe. But some things are better left, y'know, spontaneous. There's
more to life than analyzing and recording."

"I can be spontaneous, if given an opportunity to plan it
efficiently."

"Oh, I think I caught you in an unplanned, inefficient moment or two..
. .  or are you going to claim than watching the sunset has some
meteorological importance?"

"I measured the duration and intensity of the afterglow. It is
relevant data."

"Relevant like when we flew the kite? Or when we went out in the
moonlight, skinnydip-. Right. Swimming. Radio repair. Fixing the
shuttle. I guess we didn't do so very badly working together at that."

The Captain said, a bit smugly, "See? You two can work together
without a lot of pointless friction between you."

Seven glanced at Lieutenant Torres and then replied, "Yes, Captain.
Surprisingly, we found friction between us to be mutually satisfy-
Ouch!"

After a moment, the Captain asked, "Are you alright, Seven?"

"Yes, Captain. It is reassuring to see that the Lieutenant has
reverted to her normal personality. Unfortunately, she has lost the
ability to judge the distance between her foot and my shin."

Seven glared at B'Elanna. B'Elanna glared back.

Finally, the Captain said, "If we could move on, then. Seven will give
us some information about the next planet on our itinerary."

Seven opened her attaché case and took out a three-ring binder about
four inches thick. There was a chorus of muffled groans around the
table.

"The database provided two reports, Captain. I have compiled the
information the Borg have assimilated and there is also a second,
rather more brief version provided by a local race."

"Ah.. . .  how long is your report?"

"Three hundred twenty six pages, and there are accompanying graphs and
charts. Also, I have prepared a presentation."

"Three hundred.. . .  Seven were you up all night typing this?"

"No, Captain. That would be inefficient. I simply plugged the printer
into my port."

"Port? You mean some sort of implant?"

"I have Ethernet and USB ports. And Firewire."

Janeway blinked. "Where do you have.. . .  Never mind, I don't think I
want to know. Maybe we could just get the short summary?"

"Mine is the more efficient report, Captain. If we begin now, we
should be able to complete the briefing by 19:00 hours."

"The shorter version, Seven?"

"My presentation is much more complete. I used PowerPoint. I made
animations and bullet points and everything."

"Seven.. . . "

"I printed out the charts so you could all follow along."

"I'm sure your charts are very nice, Seven. But we do need to move on,
here. Could we have the short version?"

Seven shuffled her papers and muttered, "Nobody ever lets me have any
fun on this ship" She put down the briefing book and picked up a
single sheet of paper.

"This report was prepared by a species called the Kohl' Rhabi, who
surveyed the system approximately five years ago. The subject is the
inhabitants of the third planet. Shall I read it?"

"If you would, Seven."

Seven scanned the sheet carefully and read, "They are total assholes."

The Captain blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I did say that the report was rather brief."

"Did you say.. . .  assholes?"

"Yes, Captain. I have run this report through four different
translation matrices, and they all return the same phrasing. I assume
that the term is pejorative."

"I, ah, I would suppose so. It usually is."

"I do not understand why the term asshole is used as a contemptuous
reference in Federation English. Considering that all humanoids have
at least one, and that this orifice is vital for proper physiological
functioning, I should think it would be regarded as an important and
useful organ."

"Perhaps the Borg don't have any real experience in the matter," said
Harry Kim.

Seven continued, "I am anatomically complete, Lieutenant. You are
correct that since I am Borg, this orifice has no biological function
in my case, but I do not understand why one should have less regard
for this part of the body than any other."

"I don't think we need to go into the, ah, semantic details just now,"
said the Captain, sounding a bit uncomfortable.

Seven shrugged. "As you wish, Captain. I was merely curious because,
during our stay on ICHP, Lieutenant Torres demonstrated that seemingly
irrelevant parts of the anatomy can, when properly stimulated, give
rise to surprisingly pleasant sensat- Ouch!"

The Captain glared witheringly at B'Elanna, who was too busy glaring
at Seven to notice. Seven complained, "Captain, if I am to continue
this briefing in an efficient manner, I will require Lieutenant Torres
to stop kicking me in the shin."

After some more general glaring, the Captain said, "Seven, I think we
need a little more information about these people. Is that the entire
report?"

"There is an appendix written by the Commander of the survey mission."

"Could we hear that, then?"

"My report has much better appendices. Five of them, with footnotes."

"If you don't mind, Seven."

"Are you sure you would not like to examine my cross-referenced
bibliography?"

"Seven.. . . "

Seven picked up another sheet of paper, and read, "The Commander
wrote, as an addendum to the official report concerning the
Thurbians.. . . "

"Yes?"

'They can be quite clever, in a nasty sort of way.'"

"These Kohl' Rhabi do go on and on, don't they?" said Chakotay. Again,
no laugh.

"The Borg found the Kohl' Rhabi report to be a model of efficient
simplicity. They have expanded somewhat on it, of course. But
apparently you do not wish to hear that."

The Captain feigning casual interest, asked, "Ah.. . .  Seven, could
you give us a... . .  brief synopsis of what the Borg know about this
planet?"

Seven brightened visibly. "Can I show my four dimensional pie charts?
They are in full color holography, with cross- fade effects!"

"If you could just give us a brief précis, please. We do have a ship
to run, after all."

Seven complained, "With respect, Captain, if we conducted a thorough
briefing on these alien cultures, we might avoid encounters such as
the one with Grndnkshtmnzns. I think we can all agree that did qualify
as at least a To-Do, if not an outright debacle."

"Another cultural misunderstanding, Seven. I admit, if we had known
that their planet was suffering from a severe vowel shortage, we might
have taken precautions. But no lasting harm was done."

Harry Kim protested, "Except that we had to spend two weeks trying to
talk in only words without 'e' and 'o'. And some of us didn't have
'i', and a couple of ensigns were down to 'y' only."

B'Elanna added, "It was almost worth it though. A week of Seven going
around saying things were 'nffcnt'! And rrlvnt. That was hilarious. Or
maybe hlrs," she snickered.

"Lieutenant Torres' attempts at humor notwithstanding, Captain, the
Grndnkshtmnzns did attempt to extract all vowel sounds from our
cerebral cortices using telepathic brain slugs. It was not a
particularly pleasant encounter. If a proper briefing had been
conducted, we might have devised more effective countermeasures than
wrapping our heads with aluminum foil."

Mr. Kim pointed out, "Worked, didn't it?"

"Aside from causing us to appear ridiculous and inducing the
Grndnkshtmnzns to attempt to insert sour cream and chives into us, I
will stipulate that it did permit us to escape with our 'a's' intact.
I still contend my solution would have been more efficient."

The Captain huffed, "We can't go about the galaxy vaporizing all the
people who annoy us, Seven."

"That was my second suggestion. My first suggestion would have been
even more efficient."

"Run away?" protested the Captain, "What kind of example would that
set? We can't go running away from every alien we encounter."

B'Elanna grumped, "I hate to agree with the Princess, but if we can't
assimilate them, we can't vaporize them and we can't run away from
them, we are gonna keep getting our brains sucked. And I'm worried
about Paris. He can't lose much more of his, without it affecting his
job performance."

---
Chapter Two: More of the Same!
---

As we fade back in, you might remember that Seven has been prolonging
the morning staff meeting to excruciating length, droning on about the
next planet on Voyager's itinerary, the Class M planet Thurb.

The Captain harrumphed, "If we can just get on with some sort of brief
description of the next planet? What's it called? Thurb?"

Seven said, "Yes, Captain. If you prefer, I will attempt to keep my
remarks brief, although that will reduce the accuracy of my report.
The inhabitants of Thurb are, as is usual, pinkish-gray humanoid
bipeds with the usual complement of fingers, toes, eyes, elbows, yada
yada yada."

Captain Janeway blinked. "Excuse me? Yada yada?"

"A Borg term, Captain. It denotes another humanoid species falling
within the parameters of the Braganian Hypothesis."

"I know I'm going to be sorry, but what is the Braganian Hypothesis?"

"I should have thought Starfleet would be familiar with the Braganian
Hypothesis, Captain. It was developed on Earth, in the late 20th
Century. It was assimilated by the Collective some three hundred years
later, and they realized that it was a useful concept to explain the
improbable similarity of all humanoid species across the galaxy. As
you must have realized by now, every species we encounter consists of
pinkish-gray humanoid bipeds, with two eyes in the usual place, a
central nose, one mouth, again in the usual place, knees, elbows,
metacarpals and so on. There are always two genders, male and female,
which are always sexually compatible with other species, specifically,
with humans. The males are always taller and more robust, the females
are more gracile, and always keep their hair longer and wear longer
clothing. All of these supposedly distinct species act from precisely
the same predictable motivations and emotions, and all have similar
societal and cultural norms, which would be familiar to any twentieth
century schoolchild. Each species individually develops appalling
architecture suitable for an airport of the mid 1970's. They all dress
badly, favoring earth tones and the sort of garb favored by
environmentally concerned ex-hippies. Many vests are worn on many
planets. In fact, the only differences noticeable from one planet to
the next consist of minor variations of the shape of the forehead, an
occasionally the ears. It is all perfectly tedious."

"Tedious?" the Captain queried.

Seven replied, "The Borg have encountered thousands of such species
across the galaxy, and the sheer predictability of them does become
tedious. For the sake of efficiency, they have developed the concept
of yada yada yada, which describes a set of parameters into which
these species always fit."

"I didn't know the Borg knew what tedious means."

"Believe me, Captain. If you had spent 3,000 years assimilating the
same people over and over again, you would have developed an exquisite
sense of tedium."

The Captain massaged her temples and asked, "So. The Braganian
Hypothesis? Briefly?"

"It was assimilated by the first Borg probes into human space.
Apparently it was first postulated in the late twentieth century on
Earth. Simply put, the theory is that all humanoid species in known
space are inexpensive variations on a single design."

"Design? Are you talking about intelligent creation, Seven?"

"The intelligent part is open to question, Captain. As for creation,
simply note that on each M-Class planet we encounter, the residents
are almost identical to those on every other M-Class planet, excepting
only variations in F.L.Q."

"FLQ?" asked the Captain warily.

"The Forehead Lumpiness Quotient, Captain," answered Seven. "Homo
sapiens foreheads are the baseline, assigned a value of one. There is
a scale of plus five, represented by Klingons, to minus one, an
example of which would be the Galdafians, who, as you might recall,
have virtually no foreheads at all. There are also indices of
ear-pointiness and for latex-appearing variations of the bridge of the
nose."

B'Elanna, smirking, added, "And don't forget the Kirk Index."

Chakotay asked, "The Kirk Index?"

"Yeah." Said B'Elanna. "Measures B.H.S.B.M.D., with corollary C.E."

The Captain sighed, and asked, "BHSBMD?"

"I'd have thought Starfleet Command would be familiar with the Kirk
Index of Big Haired Space Bimbo Mammary Development, with related
Cleavage Exposure," said B'Elanna. "I mean, the Borg must've been up
on it, judging by appearances."

Seven looked as if she were trying to think of something cutting to
reply, but instead, plowed onward. "Even slightly reptilian appearing
species such as the Hirogen or Cardassians still conform almost
entirely to the Braganian baseline, with the correct number of
fingers, eyes, ears and so forth. Some species are more scaly than
others, but they all are similar humanoids under the skin."

"And this hypothesis covers all these species?"

"The Braganian Hypothesis attempts to explain why all humanoid species
are physically similar and why they all seem to suffer from petty
moral dilemmas which can be resolved over a period of one hour by an
outside observer. Or, in forty-two minutes, if one allows for the
inexplicable interruptions which seem to suspend actions at twelve
minute intervals."

Chakotay asked, "And this Braganian thing explains this how?"

"It postulates that the humanoid species were created by a group
entity, composed of beings who fail to achieve normal social
development. Briefly, imagine a universe created by a committee of
middle-aged white males with extremely limited social skills and
deficient imagination. Postulate further that these creators did not
do well in their science classes in school, preferring to spend their
study halls reading graphic novels and drawing pictures of
granite-jawed spaceship captains interacting with improbably
large-bosomed alien women. Would not a cosmos designed by such beings
resemble the one in which we find ourselves?"

"Surely you can't be serious."

"My designation is not Shirley. As to the Braganian Hypothesis, it
attempts to explain the disparity between this universe and common
scientific knowledge. As an example, consider the ease with which
morphologically dissimilar species with distinct genomes can
hybridize. Interbreeding between species from different planets should
be as impossible as mating an armadillo with a turnip, but such
hybridization seems to be occurring constantly, all over the galaxy. A
reasonable explanation might be that the putative designers of the
galaxy are, in fact, ignorant of the physical laws they have set in
motion."

Harry Kim asked, "How did that happen, anyway, B'Elanna? By every
standard of genetics, you're impossible."

Seven was heard to mutter, "By any standard of any sort, Lieutenant
Torres is impossible."

B'Elanna pointedly ignored that comment, but said, "That's where this
Braganian business does make a weird kind of sense, I guess. I mean,
science doesn't permit 99% of the stuff we run into out here, but. . .
here we are. For that matter, given the real distances between stars,
we shouldn't actually ever run into anything. I mean, if you draw a
straight line between us and Earth, it's never going even remotely
approach another star. Let alone all these freaking inhabited planets.
And why does every damn inhabited planet we land on look exactly like
Southern California? And what are the odds of encountering a distress
signal every other freaking week?"

Seven pointed out, "The theory of infinite improbability.. . . "

At that moment, Voyager and the conference room began to rock from
side to side, and sparklers inexplicably went off in various corners.
The officers caught coffee cups and pencils as they slid from the
table, riding out the swaying motions with the practiced ease of
countless repetitions. The ventilators struggled to clear the clouds
of smoke, which inexplicably accompanied the inexplicable
pyrotechnics. "Ion storm?" asked the Captain, as Voyager settled back
into somnolence.

B'Elanna grimaced. "Or another of these frigging nebulae we're always
running into. Anybody every notice that any stellar nebula in the
frigging galaxy would still read a damn sight better vacuum than
what's inside these damn CRT display tubes. And why does a starship
have CRT displays anyway? What, Starfleet couldn't spring for plasma
screens?"

Commander Chakotay replied, "The display panels on Voyager have been
scientifically designed to transmit as little information as possible
while maintaining the attractive yellow and black color scheme. As for
ion storms.. . . "

B'Elanna fumed, "It's the damn rocking back and forth that gets to me.
Why do we always rock back and forth? Why are clouds of smoke released
on the bridge every time we do that? What's this scow powered by,
steam? And anyway, why would ions make the ship slosh around? It just
doesn't make any freaking sense!"

Harry Kim whispered to Tuvok, "She's been kind of, ah, frustrated
since they got back, if you know what I mean."

B'Elanna took a deep breath and grabbed a PADD from the pile on the
table, frowned at it, and then winged it against the wall, where it
shattered and fell into a strategically placed wastebasket, already
overflowing with the remains of other PADDs.

The Captain and Chakotay exchanged glances, implying a call to the
Doctor for a hypospray of Thorazine might be in order.

"Sorry," B'Elanna muttered. "Been a bit tense lately. And I'm tired of
these bleeding PADDs. Hasn't anybody ever heard of Wi-Fi? Why do we
need to lug these stupid things around, anyway?"

Captain Janeway replied, "We are all familiar with the budget
constraints in effect when Voyager was built, B'Elanna. When we get
back to Utopia Planetia, we'll see about getting this Wi-Fi, whatever
that is. Seven, can we please get on with this briefing? And try to
keep it brief?"

Seven relentlessly continued, "I was about to note that, on the ICHP,
Lieutenant Torres was able to eat and metabolize the local species,
despite lacking evolutionarily compatible enzymes to disassemble their
proteins. That is as unlikely as being able to eat a Formica tabletop,
yet she was able to digest alien animal tissue with no more than the
usual complement of strange biological sounds."

B'Elanna, feeling better after venting, shrugged. "People burp, Borg
just sort of hum."

Seven replied, "The Borg prefer to cycle their nutrient elements as
free ions, as opposed to emitting digestive gases from various bodily
orifices. We find it more efficient, however culturally deprived you
may think it to be."

"Lieutenant? Seven? Could we stick to the point?" Captain Janeway
said.

Seven continued, "In addition to the impossible genetic compatibility
of different species, consider that all known humanoids have no
difficulty understanding Federation English, including those in First
Contact situations."

B'Elanna agreed, "Yeah, how does that work? I mean, even the Yokulls
spoke it pretty well, and I know for a fact that they don't even
realize dishes can be washed. Or toilets flushed."

Harry Kim attempted to look thoughtful. "I thought the Universal
Translator took care of that sort of thing."

"Yeah, and somehow it synchronizes their lips to fit the English
words? Give me a break. Kahless' Knee Socks, these aliens don't even
speak with an accent, let alone drone on and on like a walking
encyclopedia. Like some people."

Seven relentlessly wrestled the conversation back to her own purposes.
"The Borg surmise that the powers that control the universe are only
slightly conversant with the facts of biology. Hence, the improbable
supposition that sentient beings possess some ill-defined life force,
which is available for consumption by various non-corporeal entities."

"Hey, we've all seen that happen like ten, twenty times. So?"

"Apart from the citric acid cycles and oxidative phosphorylation, no
such life force exists. The concept is on a par with human
superstitions regarding the separation of mind and body."

B'Elanna groaned. "Not glop again. . . "

"Glop, B'Elanna?" asked the Captain.

B'Elanna sighed, "A Borg term for humanoid brains, Captain. It seems
that the Princess thinks human brains are overly gloppy."

"As opposed to Borg brains?"

Seven answered, "Because of our cortical implants and associated
wiring, our cerebra are considerably more firm than those of humans."

"Among other bits, right?" Harry whispered to B'Elanna.

"Is this somehow relevant?" asked the Janeway.

"Yes, Captain. We were discussing that various non-corporeal beings
are forever taking possession of Voyager personnel, or stealing their
unlikely life force, or switching one personality into another body,
to the extent that every morning upon awakening, each crew member must
attempt to ascertain whether or not he has been disembodied, had his
personality switched, been alienated or otherwise possessed during the
night. There are fifteen chapters in the Starfleet manual devoted to
the alienation problem, despite its biological impossibility."

"Why impossible?"

"The human mind does not exist apart from the brain that contains it.
A personality simply a construct of stored memories and
electro-chemical patterns contained in a few ounces of glop. Or,
cerebral tissue, if you prefer."

B'Elanna said, "And you claim Borg aren't sentimental."

"A sensible degree of skepticism is the advantage of a proper
scientific education."

"And being a pedantic girly swot is the disadvantage. You got a
tick-tock soul, Borg."

"The soul is a romantic fiction."

Tuvok attempted to regain control of the meeting with the Vulcan
technique of ahem-ing loudly. Chakotay massaged his itching tattoo
some more, making a mental note not to use that brand of permanent
marker next time. Mr. Paris had a rubber pencil thing going. Harry Kim
considered screaming 'Good Christ, I'm Bored!' at the top of his
lungs, but knew that Drama Queen just wasn't in his repertoire.

Captain Janeway gestured impatiently. "Seven.. . .  Just what is the
shortest possible explanation you can give us of this Braganian
Hypothesis?"

"In its simplest terms, the theory postulates that there is a God, and
He had to work with a very small budget."

"God?" asked the Captain.

"A causative force, if you prefer. This force is clearly indifferent
to, or ignorant of the scientific laws it has established for the
universe it has created, and appears to be severely lacking in
creativity. Further, it is indifferent to causality and history, which
accounts for the human tendency to do the same things over and over,
while learning and remembering nothing."

"Learning nothing?"

"It is known as the 'Reset Problem'. Starfleet vessels, for example,
encounter the same situations repeatedly, and invariably execute the
same ill-considered actions, resulting in the same debacles. It is as
if the concept of learning from one's mistakes, or even remembering
them is unknown. Rather as if all of history were forgotten from one
week to the next, or as if there were some cosmic reset button which
is pressed at weekly intervals."

B'Elanna sneered, "And all this is due to some mystical boogity-boo
involving a pig-ignorant creative force? You got to be kidding me!"

"There are, of course, many alternate explanations. Inebriology, as an
example."

"Are you going to make us ask?" groaned Harry Kim.

"Inebriology is the spiritual belief that God is drunk. It would
explain a great deal."

B'Elanna snorted. "Do the Borg really believe this bullshit?"

"The Collective has assimilated thousands of theories regarding the
remarkable sameness of the universe. This one seems as good as any.
Frankly, they just don't care anymore."

The Captain noted, "That doesn't sound like a very Borg attitude."

"Perhaps not, Captain. But this theory, while it is unlikely to be
grounded in fact, is still a useful tool for predicting the behavior
of humanoids. When a more useful theory is assimilated, the Braganian
Hypothesis will be discarded in favor of some different bullshit."

Commander Tuvok said, "Captain, this is all getting piled up fairly
deep. Perhaps we might attempt to focus on the Thurbians?"

The Captain looked relieved. "Yes, by all means. Seven, would you
please give the Braganian thing a rest, and tell us about the
Thurbians?"

Seven sighed Borgishly and adjusted her ocular implant for reading.
She opened her briefing book, and began, "The Thurbians, or Thurbies,
as they are described by the Kohl' Rhabi, have a fairly well-developed
planetary civilization, and have made some primitive probes into the
outer reaches of their star system. They have not developed warp
capability, but if they do so, they will probably annoy the other
species in the local star cluster. Their cultural achievements are
minimal, and their technology uninspired at best. It is their
political and economic systems which are chiefly of interest."

"OK," said the Captain. "What's interesting about their economic and
political systems?"

Seven continued, "The Thurb civilization is based on the acquisition
of motorized vehicles, machines which are powered by heat engines of
amazingly inefficient design, and require a hydrocarbon fuel distilled
from black goo. The vehicles waste most of the energy contained in the
fuel, in the form of discharged heat and poisonous fumes, so a great
deal of time and effort is devoted to acquiring more of the black
goo."

"Black goo?"

"A crude blend of naturally occurring hydrocarbons. It is distilled
into lighter fractions, such as pentane and octane, and used to fuel
the amazingly inefficient heat engines. Since the supply of black goo
is limited, the planet is engaged in constant intrigue and warfare
over possession of this resource. Without the fuel, the motorized
vehicles would be inoperable, despite the ready availability of
superior renewable energy sources."

"Why are these vehicles so important?"

"The social status of an individual Thurbie is determined by the size
and new-ness of the vehicle he possesses. The ideal is own a SHUV
larger, newer, and less efficient than those of his neighbors."

"SHUV?" asked the Captain.

"Super Heavy Useless Vehicle is the translation provided, Captain. A
large, basically rectangular passenger capsule mounted on four wheels.
They weigh between 5 and 6 thousand pounds, and usually transport one,
or, at most two Thurbies. They have something called 4WD, which allows
traction in swamps and mountains. It is apparently very important that
the vehicle be able to drive through a swamp on the side of a steep
mountain."

"So, Thurb is covered with mountainous swamps? Or swampy mountains?

"No, Captain. Approximately 75% of the land area of the entire planet
is covered with asphalt and concrete. The SHUV's never actually leave
pavement, so it would seem the requirement for all-terrain capability
is chiefly symbolic. It is also important that the SHUV be as
inefficient as possible and have an awesome stereo."

"Stereo?"

"An entertainment device with subwoofers and CD changers. It is very
important for Thurbies to be entertained at all times, to prevent
disruptive thoughts from distracting their pursuit of even more
powerful stereos and larger vehicles."

"So the whole society is devoted to making these SHUV's?"

"Approximately one third of the population is occupied in
manufacturing and selling such machines. Another third is required to
extract the black goo, and process it into distilled hydrocarbons for
fuel."

"What's the other third do?"

"They produce entertainment programs and music designed to induce the
population to purchase the vehicles, the fuel, and other items the
populace neither needs nor particularly wants. It is apparently very
important to stimulate the economy by keeping the public in a constant
state of wanting more consumer products, so a great deal of effort
goes into designing new products to replace the ones already in use."

"This all sounds rather inefficient."

"You have no idea, Captain."

Commander Tuvok asked, "How is this society governed?"

"It is basically an end-stage capitalism, operating through the
remnants of a decayed republic. There are two major factions in the
government, but since both are wholly owned by the vehicle and black
goo interests, it is unimportant which faction is in control at any
given time. Their agendas are substantially identical."

"Why have two factions, then?"

"In order to distract the population from the realization that they
are slowly poisoning their environment and despoiling their planet.
The two factions maintain a façade of constant argument and
contention, but since both are owned by the same corporations, there
is no chance of the situation being improved."

Chakotay, thinking back to his Maquis days, wondered, "Isn't there any
dissent?"

"Yes, but it is quickly suppressed by the Pundits and Talk Show
Gasbags. The dominant faction employs BRWB's to make certain any
radical ideas are not allowed to spread."

With an air of knowing she'd regret asking, the Captain asked,
"Pundits?"

"The factions keep control of political dialog with a system of crude
electromagnetic transmissions. Pundits generally appear on a visual
medium, and offer expert advice on why the ruling faction should
continue ruling. An audio-only medium is dominated by Talk-Show
Gasbags, who shout down any questioning of the status quo, until the
dissenters get discouraged and go off to wine tastings or committee
meetings about zoning changes."

"And BRWB?"

"A subgroup of the Pundit class, Captain. The Blonde Right Wing Bitch
is the current fashion among Pundits, on the theory that ridiculous
political opinions will sound more reasonable if shouted by an
attractive blonde female rather than by a sixty-ish overweight male
with no discernable job skills."

"And the population accepts this system?"

"The population is kept lulled into passivity with continuous
entertainment and sports."

"Did you say sports?" asked Chakotay with unseemly enthusiasm.

"Yes, Commander. The populace is distracted from the realities of the
situation by an unending series of sports seasons of various types. In
the printed and broadcast media, far more space is given to sports
than to the political machinations of the ruling caste. In addition,
the media use Ad Spots."

"O. . . K. Ad Spots," asked Chakotay, attempting to emulate the
Captain's air of resignation.

Seven droned, "A form of broadcast hypnotic messages which induce the
populace to purchase more and larger SHUV's, and the black goo to fuel
them. The Corporate caste uses these to stimulate a constant need to
replace one's present supply of useless products with new and improved
useless products. The Political Caste uses them to slag off each other
in the simulated electoral process."

"And these Ad Spots are effective?" asked Captain Janeway.

"Apparently, Captain. However, they must be repeated constantly to
remain effective. For example, during a one hour transmission of a
Talk Show Gasbag, at least thirty minutes will be devoted to Ad Spots
concerning SHUV leasing arrangements, and Natural Male Enhancement."

"Did you say.. . .  Male Enhancement?" asked Chakotay and Tuvok almost
simultaneously. Harry Kim blushed, and even Lieutenant Paris showed
interest.

"Another proof of the Braganian Hypothesis," murmured B'Elanna.

Seven plowed on relentlessly. "The broadcast visual medium also
alternates between dramatic presentations of the travails of medical
and legal professionals, and Sitcoms, interspersed with more Ad
Spots."

"Sitcoms?" asked the Captain.

"Yes, Captain. Apparently, actual humor is in short supply on Thurb.
Sitcoms provide a simulation of humor, without depleting the supply of
actual amusing situations or wordplay. The Thurbies respond with
simulated laughter or, more typically, indifference."

"When you say dramatic presentations, do you mean things like
Lieutenant Paris subjects us to?" asked B'Elanna.

"Yes, but with slightly more 'ane'."

"Ane?"

"I have frequently heard that the holoprograms Mr. Paris prefers are
'inane'. The samples of Thurbie entertainment I have seen have
slightly more 'ane'. However, they are still unworthy of viewing by an
advanced being."

"So what are these dramas about?" asked the Captain.

"They usually involve criminals performing crimes, and then law
enforcement professionals insulting and shooting them. Would you care
to see some recorded examples?"

The Captain idly flipped through Seven's book. "What's this one
about?"

"That serial program concerns the misadventures of the ill-assorted
crew of a spacecraft as they go from one unlikely planet to the next
and solve petty ethical conflicts involving humanoids with lumpy
foreheads. The technological level of the Thurbs is indicated by the
scientific impossibility of the situations they encounter."

"Yeah. Devolving into lizards. Who writes this stuff?"

"While the program does lack intellectual rigor, it nevertheless has
developed a cult-like following which argues endlessly about minor
plot points, and develops elaborate justifications for its scientific
implausibilities. The actors portraying even minor characters can
become independently wealthy by doing personal appearances at
conventions and signing memorabilia."

"A cult built around a B-grade television program?"

"Though you may find it difficult to believe, thousands of Thurbies
devote their spare time to writing their own scenarios based on these
dramas, emphasizing the personal relationships of the characters in
matters of sensuality or angst."

"Angst?"

"The opposite of comedy, Captain."

"I thought the opposite of comedy was gravity," said B'Elanna.

Captain Janeway noticed, "You seem to have a lot of material about
entertainment in your report, Seven."

"A sizable part of the economy is dependent on producing continuous
entertainment, Captain. Without it, the Thurbs might begin to question
the status quo."

"You mentioned crime? And criminals?"

"Yes, Captain. There are two criminal classes on Thurb, consisting of
the very poor and the very rich."

"That seems like an odd arrangement. What sorts of crimes are
involved?"

"Apart from the usual human predilections for interpersonal mayhem?
Very poor criminals usually steal money from fueling stations and
inconvenient stores. When apprehended, the criminals are punished with
long periods of incarceration in behavior modification units."

"The Brig, in other words."

"Yes, Captain. Poor criminals are subject to imprisonment for various
arbitrarily assigned periods. Wealthy criminals usually steal money
from bank depositors, government agencies, and the shareholders of
their corporations. They are punished by being forced to accept huge
bonuses, additional vacation homes, and extravagant stock option
plans."

The Captain said doubtfully, "That seems rather an inequitable
arrangement."

"These are rather inequitable people. If I might quote from the notes
of the Borg field agent assigned to survey this planet, "The
inhabitants are culturally or genetically inclined to be
superstitious, greedy, shortsighted, mendacious, litigious, bellicose,
xenophobic, homophobic, self-righteous, loud-mouthed thoroughly awful
people without any notable redeeming characteristics beyond their
tendencies towards self-destruction. These tendencies should be
encouraged if at all possible."

"I take it the Borg don't want to assimilate these people."

"The Borg do not wish to think about these people."

"Why's that?"

"Thinking about them makes our cortical implants hurt. I have
experienced a nagging headache from the moment I began this report. To
the Borg, the Thurbs are carborundum particles in their lubricant
systems."

"Huh?"

"Sand in the Vaseline," smirked B'Elanna.

"While I do not understand the derivation, that does not seem as
inaccurate a metaphor as you usually suggest."

---
Chapter Three: Can the hands on that clock move any slower?


If you made it to the end of the last chapter, you might recall that
Seven is finishing her briefing, if anything so prolonged can be
called a 'briefing', about Planet Thurb. Seven had just mentioned that
the Borg were not interested in assimilating the Thurbies, since they
were technologically unimpressive and personally unpleasant. . . ..

The Captain asked, "Are you saying that to avoid being assimilated,
all a species has to do is to become totally annoying?"

"The degree of aggravation required is very high, but it could not
hurt to try. You might be reassured to know that homo sapiens is
already quite close to qualifying."

Chakotay asked, "Getting back to the Thurbs. How can a society
actually function, if it's that screwed up? Don't people notice?"

"Basic needs are met. The air is breathable, even if it does smell of
unburned hydrocarbons. Entertainment is provided on a continuous
basis. Food is plentiful, although of low quality. I might mention
that most food is designed to be eaten while driving a SHUV."

"They eat in these things?"

"It is possible for a Thurb to eat, sleep, be entertained and
procreate without leaving his vehicle."

B'Elanna sniped, "Hey, Borg can do all those things without leaving
their cubes. What's the big deal?"

"Borg do not have to negotiate a complex lease arrangement for a new
cube every three years."

The Captain asked, "So, if we decide to visit Thurb, we can eat the
local food?"

"There is a network of nutrient dispensing stations listed as 'Fast
Food'. Despite a level of culinary mediocrity, which would make Mr.
Neelix envious, they are inexplicably popular, with some 1.7 million
separate locations. If Lieutenant Torres can digest the vital organs
of a Jackalope, I see no reason that humans could not subsist on a
diet of 'Whappers'."

"Whappers?"

"A pulpy sandwich assembled of ground animal muscle tissue and gristle
extended with parts of various internal and external organs, preserved
vegetative matter, limp iceberg lettuce, dehydrogenated protein
extracts, inert fillers and spices. This substance is charred and
deposited on a baked sawdust lozenge. With a special sauce. There is
also a semi-liquid lactose-based supplement containing carrageen, gum
Arabic and artificial flavorings. However, be advised that this
supplement has no nutritional value."

Captain Janeway idly flipped through the pages of Seven's book, but to
everyone's palpable relief, put it back down.

Seven asked, "Captain, have I given you enough information about this
planet to convince you to we should avoid it?"

"That's not the purpose of this meeting, Seven."

Seven said resignedly, "That is the response I had predicted. May I
make suggestions regarding your contact with the Thurbs?"

"If you would, please."

"During your interactions with the Thurbs, at some point a piece of
paper will be placed before you, and you will be asked to sign it.
Under no circumstances should you do so."

"Why? What would happen?"

"There are many possibilities, mostly unpleasant, involving
contractual matters. If you are married, you would likely be divorced,
or, if divorced, be remarried. You might find yourself declaring
bankruptcy, or signing over all rights to Voyager. Most probably, you
will find yourself in possession of a large motor vehicle, for which
you will be required to pay in 48 installments with a balloon payment
at the end. License fees, taxes and a handling charge will be required
up front. Should you decide to ignore this advice, at least do not buy
the extended warranty."

"And if we decided not to honor such a contract?"

"You would find yourself enmeshed in a legal system which would make
the Ferengi seem a non-profit charitable organization, by comparison."

"Anything else?"

"You may be asked to discuss your spiritual beliefs. In that event, I
would advise you to feign deafness or run away."

"Why's that?"

"Most Thurbies profess one of a multitude of indigenous spiritual
systems, most of which are centered around the human concepts of
peace, love and charity. The adherents of these belief systems use
them to justify discriminating against those not of their particular
version of peace, love and charity or, in many cases, to engage in
warfare against them."

"So spiritual beliefs are dangerous?"

"At the very least, you will be proselytized."

Chakotay sputtered coffee out of his nose.

Seven, with full Borg distaste, said, "That word does not mean what
you think it does, Commander."

Mr. Tuvok asked, "Are there any security concerns?"

Seven replied, "There are as many security concerns as there are
inhabitants. At the very least, I would recommend full body armor and
force screens."

"Why is that, Seven?"

"Most Thurbies carry chemically driven projectile weapons. Many
Thurbies regard these weapons as status symbols, and are prone to use
them to settle minor disputes or property crimes."

"Status symbols?" asked B'Elanna Torres.

"Specifically, the projectile weapon is symbolic of the owner's penis,
and is thus displayed as a socially acceptable indication of size and
potency. It is a concept which should be familiar to Klingons."

B'Elanna smirked, "Wouldn't it be simpler to just display their. . . .
you know?"

"That would be socially unacceptable."

"But it's acceptable to shoot these weapons at each other."

"This is a very strange planet, Lieutenant. Other symbolic penis
displays involve large, expensive wrist watches, power tools, and, of
course, SHUV's."


Chakotay said carefully, "Seven, you're not implying that the Thurbian
males have particularly large, ah, organs?"

"If that were the case, Commander, it would seem unlikely they would
need to compensate by collecting firearms and sports cars."

"So, then, human males wouldn't be considered.. . . less adequate? By
female Thurbians?"

Seven did not dignify that question with a response beyond a raised
implant and eyes rolled upwards.

The Captain considered reacting, but deemed the question
unglareworthy. Instead, she asked, "Any other security concerns,
Seven?

"Perhaps the obvious suggestion that you avoid situations involving
caves or tunnels."

"Why obvious?"

"I have noticed that a remarkable number of Voyager's crises and
misadventures involve roaming through improbably well-lit caverns,
mines, crevasses, pits or various underground corridors. It appears
that the Thurbies, like all Braganian species, construct underground
corridors, which are remarkably alike from planet to planet. They also
invariably suffer from cave-ins, which trap together incompatible crew
members, who must then learn to interact and develop trust and respect
for each other. Everyone at this table has been involved in at least
one such cave-in. Lieutenant Torres has been trapped four times, to
date."

Chakotay added, "You'd better be careful about that, B'Elanna. It'd be
terrible if you were trapped by a cave-in with, say, Seven."

B'Elanna said, thoughtfully, "Yeah, that would be. . . .terrible."

The Captain said resignedly, "OK. Caverns are right out. What else?"

"Perhaps lessons in fist fighting would be appropriate."

"Again, why?"

"These incidents also often culminate in fist fights, or the exchange
of hand phaser fire. Since all alien species encountered to date are
incapable of aiming a phaser accurately, Voyager personnel have
emerged unscathed so far. But I do not advise pressing your luck."

Captain Janeway asked, "So, all in all, you recommend against
contact?"

"That would be my assessment, Captain."


"By the way, do they have coffee?" the Captain asked casually, again
flipping through Seven's report.

B'Elanna gave a warning look. Chakotay lowered his face into his
hands. Harry Kim held his breath. Mr. Paris stared blankly.

Seven said carefully, "There may be coffee-like substances, but it
would be an unlikely coincidence if that particular plant species
occurred on this alien planet."

"What's this about.. . .  'Starbags'?"

"A franchise, Captain."

"A franchise, Seven?"

"A method of inducing large numbers of people to purchase identical
products indifferently manufactured from low quality ingredients. They
are very popular, in that they allow Thurbies to consume the exact
same products anywhere on their planet, thus eliminating the stress of
choosing items for themselves. In the case of Starbags, beverages are
the standardized items."

"What sort of beverages?"

"There are approximately 314,000 Starbags outlets on Thurb, purveying
overpriced cardboard containers of a local beverage in various
iterations. It is composed of hot water and bovine lactation, infused
with a pulverized vegetable seed."

"Is it any good?"

"The Borg would ordinarily regard the taste of Thurbian products as
irrelevant. However, there is a notation that the local foodstuffs and
beverages are nutritional unsound and esthetically unpleasant."

"Since food and beverages are a matter of irrelevance to you, perhaps
you should be on the First Contact team, Seven."

"I would prefer to spend the duration of this visit in regeneration,
or, if possible, be placed in stasis."

An anonymous ensign came in and set a plate on the conference table.
With an air of being grateful to have any lines at all, he announced,
"Mr. Neelix sent this with his compliments," and exited.

Chakotay took the lid off and said "Hmm. Brownies. Very thoughtful of
him." The plate was passed around, and various officers made sounds of
enjoyment. Only Seven demurred.

"I do not require nutritional supplement at this time," she said.

Harry said, "Oh, go ahead and eat one, Seven. It won't put you off
your nutritional schedule that badly."

"Yeah, Seven," agreed B'Elanna. "Have a nipple, er, I mean, a nibble."

"My reluctance is based on Mr. Neelix's previous attempts at baked
goods, rather than my metabolic requirements," Seven replied
haughtily.

Captain Janeway said, "You really ought to try these, Seven. They're
surprisingly tasty. . . . I can't quite put my finger on the spice."

Seven hesitated, and then, using her metal fingertips, picked up a
brownie with all the enthusiasm with which she might have handled a
pickled squid.

"You did tell me the Borg were not wussies," pointed out the Captain.
"And these are surprisingly edible."

"I must agree, Captain. These are really good!" said Tuvok, with a
wholly un-Vulcan grin.

With an equally un-Klingon smile, B'Elanna turned to the Janeway and
began, "Say, Captain, I've got an idea."

"B'Elanna?"

"Before you take off on your Thurbian debacle.. . .  adventure, why
don't you let me take the Delta Flyer back to the ICHP? That way, if
the worst happens, I'll be unaffected by the usual brain-sucking, and
I can bail you guys out."

"That hardly seems necessary, B'Elanna."

"Our track record lately hasn't been all that confidence-building, is
all I'm saying," B'Elanna replied.

"Nevertheless.. . . " Captain Janeway's Command Demeanor had slipped a
little. She asked, "What's this planet of yours really like?"

B'Elanna said, "Kind of what Eden would've been like, if God had taken
his time instead of knocking it out in six days."

"It is entirely lacking in technological resources," said Seven, "and
excessively messy."

Captain Janeway licked brownie residue from a finger, and said, "I
don't think that we want to divide our resources with another mission
just now."

B'Elanna slid her chair over next to the Captain's. In doing so, she
inadvertently elbowed the Captain's left bosom, giving Janeway more
than she'd gotten in the previous five years.

B'Elanna said quietly, "Coffee, Captain. Bags and bags of Kona, Blue
Mountain, Arabica, you name it."

Captain Janeway mused, "Perhaps at that, it might be sensible to have
a fallback plan.. . . "

B'Elanna continued, "I could take Seven along for backside. Backup.
Just in case."

"You're asking for Seven? I would have thought you'd rather have
needles stuck in your eyes."

"Look, I'll admit that the Princess and I don't always get along. But,
ah, I have to say, when it comes to a tight spot, I'd choose hers.
Her. If we were in a tight spot, she'd be good to be have. To be with,
I mean.. . . "

Tuvok began to giggle, and didn't stop even under the impact of a
B'Elanna's attempt at a force five glare. Even Commander Chakotay
smirked despite the danger of cracking his face.

"Seven?"

Seven made a small moue of Borg distaste, and then nibbled delicately
at the brownie, making very certain not to leave crumbs on her fingers
or lips. "Captain?" she asked.

"What do you think of B'Elanna's idea?" Captain Janeway asked.

Seven's blank demeanor showed a faint trace of lack of disinterest in
what she was tasting. After meticulously dabbing her perfect lips with
a napkin, she said, "The concept is not as entirely without merit as
most she has formulated."

The Captain raised an eyebrow. "You don't need to be snippy, Seven."

"I do not understand."

"Your remark was a bit rude, Seven."

Seven said poutily, "Lieutenant Torres has been rude to me ever since
we left the ICHP."

"Yes, well, she's excitable. That doesn't mean you have to respond in
kind. "

"Lieutenant Torres started it. And she called me a wussy. Twice. And
you did not reprimand her."

Out of the Captain's line of sight, B'Elanna stuck her tongue out at
Seven.

Captain Janeway sighed, and said, "B'Elanna, stop calling Seven a
wussy. Seven, are you interested in this mission?"

"My options are to either accompany the Away Team to Thurb, or to
accompany Lieutenant Torres?"

"Are you comfortable with that position? Serving under Lieutenant
Torres?"

"Having already served under Lieutenant Torres, I would say that I
have found some positions are more comfortable than others."

Janeway ignored the snickering from down the table. She continued, "If
you'd prefer, you can be on the Away Team to the Thurb planet."


Seven thought for a long time.

"I will accompany Lieutenant Torres," she said at last, with Borg lack
of enthusiasm.

Down the table, Commanders Chakotay and Tuvok were animatedly
discussing the availability of Natural Male Enhancement Products. This
topic was also the first thing that had engaged Lieutenant Paris' full
attention since the unfortunate business with the Agnorakians. That,
and the brownies. Harry Kim was humming show tunes to himself. And
playing Air Clarinet.

Captain Janeway rearranged her stern air of command, and said, "Look,
ladies, if do I ask you to undertake this mission, will you both
promise not to be at each other's throats?"

"I will comply," Seven calmly replied.

B'Elanna thought for a moment, and said, "Could you.. . .  re-word
that a little?"

"I just don't want to send you out there knowing you're going to
jumping all over each other at every little thing. Commander, would
you pass those brownies down here?"

Tuvok and Paris were still giggling about 'jumping all over each
other' as Mr. Chakotay handed the platter to the Captain.

Lieutenant Paris had already started on his second brownie, and
Chakotay was licking crumbs off his fingers when Seven raised her
chrome eyebrow and began, "Captain, I must caution you. These pastries
seem to contain a considerable concentration of Cannab- Ouch!"

The nanoprobes had already begun to repair the bruises on Seven's shin
as four of Voyager's senior officers tried to make themselves feel
guilty about kicking Seven under the table, but, under the influence
of Mr. Neelix's brownies, failed.

---

The End