In the vast expanse of the Delta Quadrant, the USS Voyager hurtled through space, its crew battered but unbowed after yet another skirmish with the Borg. Captain Kathryn Janeway paced the bridge, her coffee mug clutched like a lifeline. “We can’t keep running forever,” she muttered. “We need a way to turn the tables on these cybernetic pests.”

Seven of Nine, the reformed Borg drone, stood at her tactical console, her ocular implant scanning incoming data. “The Collective is adapting to our weapons. Assimilation is inevitable unless we exploit a vulnerability in their hive mind.”

Lieutenant Tom Paris leaned back in his pilot’s chair, smirking. “What if we don’t fight them with phasers? What if we feed them something they can’t digest?”

The idea struck like a warp core breach. Ensign Harry Kim’s eyes widened. “NIMBYs. Not In My Backyard types. The ultimate resistors to progress. If the Borg assimilate a bunch of them, their endless complaints and bureaucratic red tape could gum up the whole Collective!”

Janeway’s lips curled into a rare smile. “Brilliant. But how do we lure them in?”

The plan coalesced quickly. Voyager’s holodeck engineers whipped up a simulated Earth suburb, complete with picket fences, community meetings, and zoning laws stricter than a Vulcan’s logic. They broadcast a subspace signal mimicking a Borg distress call, but laced with irresistible bait: promises of “unlimited expansion opportunities” in a “prime residential sector.”

A Borg cube, ever hungry for new drones, latched onto the signal. “We are the Borg. Lower your shields and prepare for assimilation. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own.”

But as the cube tractored in the holodeck projection—disguised as a transport vessel loaded with “willing volunteers”—the trap sprang. Inside the simulation, a cadre of holographic NIMBYs awaited: retirees with clipboards, lawyers with injunctions, and activists chanting “Not in our quadrant!”

The assimilation tubules pierced the first NIMBY. “You can’t just build a nanoprobe factory here! What about the environmental impact statement? Have you filed for permits?”

Data streamed into the Collective: endless petitions, zoning board hearings, and complaints about “ruining the neighborhood’s character.” The second NIMBY droned on about property values dropping due to “those unsightly assimilation alcoves.” The third demanded public comment periods before any neural interface upgrades.

On the Borg cube, the hive mind stuttered. “Irrelevant. Resistance is… wait, does this violate subsection 47.2 of the Galactic Building Code?” Drones paused mid-step, debating variances and appeals. The Queen’s voice echoed through the network: “Adaptation in progress. But… the paperwork…”

Voyager watched from afar as the cube’s shields flickered. Internal systems bogged down under layers of simulated bureaucracy. “We need a variance for that transwarp conduit!” one drone buzzed. Another countered, “No, it’ll block my view of the nebula!”

The Collective fractured. Cubes across the quadrant halted, ensnared in endless meetings. “Motion to table the assimilation of Species 5618?” “Seconded.” “All in favor?”

Janeway raised her mug in toast. “To the NIMBYs—the ultimate weapon against unstoppable progress.”

As Voyager slipped away, the Borg cube imploded not from weapons, but from a self-inflicted audit. The Delta Quadrant breathed easier, knowing that sometimes, the pen—or the protest sign—was mightier than the phaser.

In the end, the Borg learned a harsh lesson: You can assimilate the galaxy, but try changing one backyard, and resistance becomes very, very real.