Paramount had a baby and named it Star Trek. A. Decker cloned the baby, but it was imperfect, and thus called it Star Traks. M. Meneks made a clone of a clone, found it to have fallen even farther from the original parent tree, and so dubbed it BorgSpace.
Drag Queen
Click.
Flicker. Fuzz. Static!
Bang...bang...bang. Stupid tri-TV display. Want a new unit, but need rent money first, gouging lardball landlord. BANG! Flicker. Steady picture. 'Bout time. Sit down with popcorn and a bottle of soda. Gotta clean this pigsty of an apartment one day, but not right now, because it is time for...
"Weeeeelcome viewer audience to the galaxy's premier daytime talk show - The Zyrian Hour! We have an exclusive live interview later this hour on subspace, but first, your favorite Emergency Talk Show Host Hologram, Ernie Zyrian!"
The studio audience goes crazy, clapping and cheering, as Zyrian materializes in the center of his stage set. He is a Mark I hologram type based on the old EMH design, but with extensive modifications including a full head of stylish hair, a trim mustache, and a very nice casual suit ensemble. The stage behind the hologram with the snake-oil smile has a simple background and is carpeted in cream swirled green. The focal point of the show, however, is centered on six chairs, three on each side of a stool; faded blood (and other bodily fluids) stains mar fabric of carpet and chairs, but although technology exists to remove them, they are purposefully retained on the advice of ratings consultants. In fact, such reminders of shows past were one of the early driving forces of the Zyrian Hour juggernaut.
Sip pop, munch popcorn. Wish it was the 20th century and one could sell plasma for a quick buck. Wonder if they need any day laborers at the station's dock tomorrow...have to check with the Union. Should have enough latinum to hold out until a berth on an outgoing tramp trader opens up. Munch popcorn.
"Welcome organic fleshpots, snot filled puss bags!" More cheering. A pair of Klingon sisters in very scanty "battle" gear shout lewd responses. Zyrian smiles, blowing the pair a sloppy kiss, "Quite a line up for you today. Before we get to our featured subspace interview - no details revealed until the time is right or I receive a high enough bribe - I present to you Alice, Inuk, and Sheeroth, transvestite mud wrestlers who head major toy corporations, and three parents who claim the products hocked by the companies influenced their male children to undergo sex change operations and join "Galactic Jello Gladiator Goddesses." Let round one begin!"
The classic sound of a boxing bout bell rings in the studio, accompanied to the roaring cacophony of cheers or boos, depending on the particular audience member's leanings, as six people enter the stage. The two "teams" give each other menacing glares. On the tri-TV display, a small picture-in-picture opens in the upper right corner, showing odds for various outcomes. Words scroll across the screen, urging viewers to place bets through the Ferrengi Stakes Parlor, one of the main sponsors of The Zyrian Hour. As odds fluctuate, Zyrian artistically lead the sixsome through their paces.
"My son," sobs one of the parents, human, female, "he was such a bright boy! Such an aptitude for 'Squares...he was to have made the school team next year, the coach told me so." Sob. Sob. "And then...then he /had/ to have that /thing/ from 'Blood Enterprises'!"
Sheeroth leapt to her feet. "Puny human! The 'Evil Ooze Beast' had nothing to do with your spawn's decision...it was obviously...VERY OBVIOUSLY, I might say...genetics at work. Shallow end of the gene pool."
"Take that back, you Klingon <bleep>! Freak of nature! <bleep> <bleep> and one <bleep> <bleeeeep>!"
"You have the mouth of a <bleep> station worker, you <bleep>. You dare to challenge me?"
The human is on her own feet now, tears forgotten, face beet red with rage, "Bring it on, <bleep>!" One arm is raised in front of her torso in a classic posture of belligerence, hand making 'come and get it' motions.
Yawn. Every week the same old thing. And no dockworker would talk like that, at least none on this station. Maybe out in the boondocks, but here the Union reps tend to take image quite seriously. Mouth off too nastily, no matter what the language, and find yourself slapped with a fine. Still, the fights, the blood, the (ouch, that had to hurt!) biting does take one's mind off one's financial difficulties. Good thing there's no spouse or kid to worry about. Lenny has that shrew of a wife and two bratty kids to support. Poor bastard.
The predictable fight breaks out between the sides, ending with the transvestites being carted off to the stage wings on floating gurneys while the parents look on triumphantly. The issue was not satisfied, but frustrations had been worked out. Zyrian, standing to the side while "discussions" occurred, smoothly inserts himself back into the limelight.
"Sorry about the splatter, you in the front row. We'll get complimentary towels and moist towelets to you in the commercial break. And before we go to that break, let me tell you what is coming up next!" Shouts of the special interview. Zyrian ignores them. "Sorry, folks...I've been offered several bribes, but nothing spectacular as of yet. And Ti'cloth twins...I'm just not...equipped...to take on that proposition of yours, although I am speaking to my technicians to rectify that problem. Check back again a couple of weeks." Howls of disappointment from the Klingon sisters, accompanied by jeering laughs from other audience members and raucous speculation as to the nature of the proposal, most discretely bleeped into verbal lace by the station computer. "When we return, an unusual pet performs some amazing tricks. Be sure to keep your channels locked to The Zyrian Hour! We will be right back!"
A commercial for Grand-Nagus Pizza shimmers into being, the commentator describing the "Pizza of the Month" amid the sight of an Italian Pie too good to be true. It has been said subliminal messages are often incorporated into commercials, subtly urging a potential customer to buy a product not necessarily wanted. What a load of bull. Been an urban legend among Terrans reaching back to the era of bulky televisions...even radio and records! The tri-TV board would never allow such a ploy.
Still, that pizza does look good, and there is a Grand-Nagus Pizza outlet on the station, and they do deliver. Think. Is there enough latinum for a pizza? Just this once for a treat? There will be money soon, a berth will open up! It will! Yes, a single pizza affordable. Anchovies, chipped loopa meat, and pickled watermelon sounds rather tasty. Wonder what loopa meat is? Nope, doesn't really matter....
Pizza ordered. Was difficult to get through to the pizza parlor. Seems there was a sudden rush of orders. Wonder why. Anyway, dinner will be delivered in about twenty minutes, just in time for the special Zyrian Hour interview. Commercials seem to be done; missed most of the rest while on the vis-phone to Grand-Nagus Pizza. Tail end of a soap commercial gave mental reminder to add "Zesty Dove" to shopping list. Sit back down in chair, attention on show.
"And we are back, you organic bags of colored fluids!" Screamed suggestions of fluid type, ranging from blood to <bleep>, floats over the restless audience. The camera momentarily zooms to a threesome in the back row doing something that they really shouldn't have been doing on a quadrant-wide public (non-pay) subspace frequency, but the sight is fleeting as station censors cut back to Zyrian. An oily "trust me" grin wraps around the hologram's face.
"Our next guest braved Dominion forces to scour their quadrant for unusual flora and fauna. A hundred worlds she traveled, alone, a modern Indiana Joan searching not for antique graves to rob, but genetic treasures to exploit. She has now returned, intact, bringing with her a most unusual beast, selling her show to top bidders in a refreshingly honest attempt to grab as much latinum as possible before her star fades. Put your hands (or other limbs) together in a welcome to Joan Artsy and Ghost!"
A human female trots onto stage, clad in classic khaki adventuring gear, barbed whip held high over her head. The whip is snapped lustily over the crowd's head, and once "accidentally" through Zyrian's matrix, about groin level. Shortly the studio audience is eating out of Joan's finely manicured hand.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and..." tenor voice gives a long pause as a significant glance rolls over a foursome of hermaphrodites in the second row, "...others of a sexually-challenged or mixed up nature!" Laughs overwhelm a few good-natured boos. Suspenseful mood music washes over the crowd as lights dim, "I have dodged Dominion patrols, shot at their ships and in turn been targeted by them. Through a hostile quadrant I went, tracking a legend and finally capturing it, training it at great risk to myself. And now I bring to you...Ghost!" Whip crack!
A large black poodle saunters from the wings and nods to the people, diamond collar flashing. Stunned silence is the response, over a hundred minds thinking scam...not to mention the billions watching on subspace. Whip crack! The poodle shimmers, dissolves, and reforms as a white lion. Screeches of "changeling" erupt. A camera pans to Zyrian as the latter enters the scene.
"Now, now, folks...a changeling? Really? That would be quality programming, not to mention highly illegal. And have we ever done anything illegal here? Have we ever given the masses quality programs?" Laughter is the response. The white lion sits primly, tufted tail over massive paws, maw shaped to a hint of toothy, not-quite-innocent smile. Joan quickly takes over the act, swiftly explaining Ghost is related to Founders in much the same way chimpanzees, before they went extinct in the early 21st century, are cousins to humans.
Ghost goes through its (his? her?) paces, flowing from shape to shape at verbal command, whip cracking overhead. The more rambunctious audience members are chosen to come on stage, where Ghost makes fools of them, lifting wallets and stealing personal items of clothing. At one point Zyrian himself is the focus, but Ghost quickly realizes not much fazes the hologram...until the mass of mutating protoplasm splits into two. One part remains in view of the camera as the other scurries off stage, form of a rat. Zyrian's matrix fuzzes and goes off-line; the audience howls!
Finally the act ends, Ghost once more a black poodle, Joan standing triumphantly, the host with the most back on-line. A sneaker camera zooms on Joan's pant pockets, where the outlines of several credit chips can be distinctly seen, along with three wrist watches and a pen. Clapping. Shouts of approval. Ghost, with a too-sentient eye wink at a camera, and Joan leave the set.
"More to come! More to come! After this next commercial break - gotta keep the sponsors happy! - we come to the highlight of the hour! Yes, latinum has been credited to my account! I name no names, but I thank a certain pair of Klingons all the same. Next up...our featured interview!" The scene fades, lingering on the Ti'cloth twins, mugs of bloodwine held high, liquid sloshing on neighbors. In the background, a giant, inflated phallus sporting the words "The Zyrian Hour" is being bounced around zestily by the studio audience.
Ding-dong. The pizza is here. Go to door and get it, ignoring the robot with its hand outstretched for a tip. Slam door in its face. If it was human, then maybe a little extra would be coming...but it is just a machine. Seems machines are trying to replace the working organics of the galaxy. Kiroth, an okay Vulcan bloke, was pink-slipped just last week over in the assembly plant at Judith Station. Poor fellow; hear he is trying to get the credit together to head back to Vulcan and wander around in the desert for a few months. Illogical Vulcan: there are much less expensive ways to suicide.
Pizza is okay. The chipped loopa tastes a bit like chicken. Chicken isn't usually purple, however. Nice color combination with the anchovies. Time for a beer...that goes with pizza. Glance at tri-TV. Commercial for Roaring Targ Ale. Check in refrig. Yup, have one of those left over. Stole it from a buddy's retirement party last week. One hopes one day to make it to retirement, assuming one doesn't get cut by the Directors through a variety of occupational hazards.
Sip beer. Nice and crisp. Goes well with pizza. Have a few minutes to check berth lists. Hey, some openings on the freighter "Royal Flush". Looks like she's transporting machinery to five colonies out on the fringes of Federation occupied space, Delta quadrantward. Decent pay...would be gone from the station for a year, but there is no one special right now. Tell computer to add name to list of dock rats looking for a ride out of this dump, position either cargomaster or environmental maintenance. Not the most glorious of jobs, especially the latter, but it is a job.
The Zyrian Hour is about to return. Sit down, balancing pizza box on knees, beer never leaving one's hand. Time to see who this hyped and mysterious live interviewee is.
The studio audience is hushed, expectant. Zyrian, face solemn, expression composed, is a model of seriousness. A quiet drum roll buzzes on the edge of audibility...either that, or the Roaring Targ Ale is already beginning to kick in. "Studio, viewers...it is perhaps once in a lifetime, organic or computer, that an opportunity such as the one presented tonight comes along. When it is offered, one must grab it with both hands and hang on tight, smashing the competition into a pulp, offering bribes were necessary, and using other means when one's opposite numbers cannot be bought. Tonight, The Zyrian Hour, this show, not Sarah O'Riley, Hendrix, nor Taton'glah(whistle)(click), will be remembered in the annuals of tri-TV history to have the <bleep> of steel to present what will be presented, to offer the interview of the eon." Voices call for Zyrian to stop the pandering and start the show. Zyrian rolls his eyes, voice taking on its more normal, lighter tone of jeering jocularity, "Okay, okay. We've been having a tiny bit of technical difficulties, but the techies say it is all cleared up now. I now give you the ultimate Drag Queen."
A stunning, heavy on the electronics, theme song swirls from hidden speakers, ill-defined sense of threat undiminished by the passage through subspace and out the tinny speakers of the typical tri-TV set. On the center of Zyrian's stage, furniture removed but for the Emergency Talk Show Host's stool, a three-dimensional rectangle of light forms. Not a peep from the audience can be heard; beer bottle in hand shakes slightly with nervous quiver of anticipation. A pale face, mottled gray, consolidates from the holographic transmission, visage largely obscured by unknown devices, except for an eye of piercing blue. Mouth opens....
"Drag Queen? Drag Queen? What the <bleep> do you mean by that? If you weren't halfway across the galaxy...."
Whispers of Borg flutter from mouth to mouth, heightened tension as palpable as a swarm of mosquitoes. Zyrian holds up one trim, manicured hand, palm forward; the audience hushes obediently. "Welcome to The Zyrian Hour. I am happy you were willing to grant us this interview. Your majesty." Zyrian's lips quiver on the last two words, moments from a laughing outburst programmed to be contagious.
Blue eye widens. "Wait a minute. We were told...I...we...why won't this transmission terminate? What do you mean there's a worm in the software? Second, here's a command and control partition, find the bug." Pause, words are obviously directed elsewhere, although no background, no crew, can be seen behind the holographically supported head and shoulders. "Delta, well, the bugger has got to be on the hull somewhere! It can't just get up and crawl....okay, so the network's probe did get up and crawl away to hide itself. Sensors, cut through the outgoing transmission ghosts and find the real one; and Delta, start searching for the hardware end of it."
"Done with your temper tantrum now, Majesty?"
"And you, you holographic fool, stop calling this drone that!"
Zyrian gives a heavy sigh, balefully regarding the audience in a trademarked expression of sarcastic patience reserved for those Federation species less than endowed with brainpower. Chortles break out. "Come, come...my network paid good latinum to confirm the rumor, nearly beggared itself putting bribes in the right places, right timelines, to get the probe out to you in the first place. For a few hours the entire Borg Collective was directed to you - first or third person it does not matter. I've been told you are genetically, physiologically male; and the Borg Queen is supposed to be female. A male wearing, metaphorically in this case, female clothing in my book is, well, a drag queen." Howls of laughter from the audience. The phallus flies through the air, expertly piercing the holographic interviewee, bouncing off the back of the stage and back into the general studio chairs.
"Delta!" goes the pleading to an unknown. The cry is taken up by a hundred throats, led by a chanting Zyrian.
Delta. Delta. Delta. Delta. Delta.
"STOP IT! TERMINATE YOUR WORDS THIS MOMENT!" A bellow of command, one used to obedience. The chant dies out. Zyrian expectantly watches the flustered Borg visage. "All right, all right! If the story is told, will this irrelevant broadcast be terminated? Will this sub-collective be left in peace?"
"Of course. Zyrian has never broken a solemn vow." Zyrian's fingers are shown crossed with an extreme camera close-up. "So...let's hear all about it. Tell Uncle Zyrian everything. Especially the juicy bits."
The Borg's eye narrows and a distinct frown of annoyance forms. One begins to think the interview must be a hoax. A very good hoax, very entertaining, but a hoax nonetheless. Who ever heard of a Borg with an expression? Very good make-up effects. Sip the last dregs of the beer. Munch the last bites of pizza. Oops, dropped a bit of loopa on the floor. It will be picked up later.
"Approximately a month ago," begins the pseudo-Borg, "the Collective readied to test a new device, theoretically postulated to part the warp and woof of space-time fabric sufficiently to allow the generation of a zero-point energy field. This field is necessary as a first step to several power-demanding industries, weapons, and prototype engines. Due to the importance of the project, the Queen was dispatched to the site to examine and directly control the experiment.
"Second! Watch the partition closer! Several members are prying into irrelevant files. And this situation is not funny! Stop laughing, you are all interrupting my concentration. Sensors, you are the worst of the bunch...didn't you receive a certain command? Well, do it then!
"As. We. Were. Saying. The Queen was at the epicenter of the experiment when the device was activated. It was a success, but there were certain side-effects. The primary one set the entire grid in which the experiment was conducted 0.00421 nanoHynds out of phase with the nominal universe. The effects were not dangerous, but communication to the Queen and those in the grid was disrupted.
"Imagine, with your unaugmented minds," raspberries sound in the darkened audience, "if you can, a game of...what is it called? Telephone. One whispers a phrase to a neighbor, who whispers to the next neighbor, and so on down the line. In the end, the final recipient receives a garbled version of the original message. So it was in the Collective. Root level commands, normally interpreted by the Queen to be translated into relevant Collective actions, became incomprehensible. The mental equivalent of staring through a desert mirage. Very disconcerting. The Collective fell into inefficiency; it could not be tolerated.
"There are usually several drones stored as back-up Queens, just in case we do something stupid, like tangle with Federation officers or ships. In this case, however, the Queen was not terminated, merely incapacitated for a couple of hours until the phenomena dispersed. There are no root commands for this possibility.
"So, the Greater Consciousness instinctively cast about for a mental signature which continued to function with efficiency despite the problem in Unimatrix 01, on the theory such a mind would be able to hold the Collective on an even keel until such time the Queen could reassert herself as Hive keystone.
"Let's just say some wires were severely crossed somewhere, because the entire weight of the Collective fell on /my/ shoulders. I don't even want to be Captain of four thousand, much less Queen of trillions! Something went <bleep> wrong...wrong, wrong, wrong!" Frustration is vented, to the delight of the watchers.
Zyrian's expression is mild as he states, "So...you /were/ a drag queen."
"Shut up about the drag queen already! I've told the story you wanted, so now pack up your little transmission and get out of our lives." A sound of disgust. "Can't anyone do /anything/ around this insane asylum? It can't be that hard to find one little probe or dismantle one little worm. And if I find any copies of this show in our files, I will personally transport the offending drone to an asteroid before allowing it to be used as target practice by the weapon hierarchy!"
A string of bleeps erupts, followed by a long sigh. "This little fiasco has been leaked to the Queen. Now this sub-collective will never get out of the doghouse, not for a dozen years and countless tasks of dubious relevancy...and it is all YOUR FAULT!" Zyrian merely basks in the wash of finger-pointing; he has heard worse. The audience is merrily laughing at the comedy on the set, mighty Borg menace reduced to the danger of a toothless chihuahua.
"So tell me, your former majesty," begins Zyrian as he throws a mocking wink towards the home viewers.
"4 of 8, Captain...anything but majesty!"
The Borg is ignored. "...what are the perks to being Head Honcho? You don't eat, you don't sleep, you don't," pause for a suggestive gesture, "well, you know. At least I've never heard about such an occurrence: no advertisements of billion-body orgies on the Federation networks. Maybe you should talk to your propaganda arm, Majesty...I've got at least a hundred warm bodies in my studio who would be chomping at the bit to be assimilated if the proper motive were given." The word "assimilated" is pure innuendo. More adventuresome and less subtle suggestions from the peanut gallery are bleeped.
"Perks? Perks? There are no perks, not from this drone's point of view. Trillions of drones scattered throughout billions of cubic light years, projects and industries to keep on track, species to assimilate, information to gather, battles to be fought, spatial anomalies to avoid, the list is nearly endless. All of that awareness routed through me! Like I was some sort of galactic switchboard! Oneness is much nicer when you are on the fringes or part of the flock...not when you are the shepherd.
"It was pure disaster. There are some screw-ups so vast it is impossible to relate."
Zyrian mulls over the answer, playing to the audience. A scrap of holographic paper materializes in his hand. He brings it up to read, eyes squinting in simulated nearsightedness. Zyrian clears his throat. "Well, our favorite pair of Klingon playmates tonight," whoops of encouragement and wolf whistles fill the air, "have written down a few things for me to read to you, followed by a short question. If I can have quiet?" The crowd docilely silences itself. "'Mr. (or Mrs.) Borg - the Collective sounds like a great place and we would love to join it...if you can answer us one little question first. Please be truthful, and you can assimilate us until your Hive heart is content.'" A quiet drum roll begins to crescendo into audibility. "'How long /is/ your <bleep>?'"
A living animal is the delightful roar from the studio, including the techies behind the stage. They heard the censured word, even as the tri-TV viewers must use their imagination. Imagination is a powerful tool; it is quite possible that even if the bleeped word was perfectly allowable, it would have been treated in a similar manner. The Borg face appears to be dumbfounded, jaw open, quivering, with shock, even as Zyrian holds a perfectly deadpan expression. A distinct flush of red - red! - is creeping over gray skin. The crowd commences to chant, demanding an answer.
"You have got to be kidding!" Tone momentarily is directed away from Zyrian, "All of you in this sub-collective, shut up, especially you, Second! This isn't funny. I'd put the lot of you clowns in long-term stasis if you weren't needed to end this tri-TV mockery." Back to the Emergency Talk Show Host Hologram, "And I refuse to answer that!"
Answer. Answer. Answer. Answer. The chanting volume steadily increases. Over the holographic interview flashes the question "<Bleep> Challenged?", which mutates into "<Bleep> Envy". The Borg can not see what is going on, does not know why the mantra dissolves into adolescent giggling. Zyrian's smirk is wide: he has won once more, the ratings are off the chart, as usual. The party quickly comes to an end.
"The probe is found? Finally! We all see it now." The Borg's eye is focused elsewhere, observing a scene not immediately present. One hand comes into the camera's holographic view, waving back and forth as if directing a squadron of workers. The gesture is automatic, unconscious. A rather evil smile replaces the look of concentration. "Your network's probe is toast. Some rather interesting technology in it for us to assimilate. Here...we have resurrected a lovely little parting gift from our virus files to amuse you. Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347 is off the air."
Borg head and shoulders are replaced with soundless static - classic tri-TV "snow." Zyrian himself is also looking a bit fuzzy around the edges, but he is gamely waving to the applauding audience. A pair of multicolored beach balls have replaced the phallus as toys of choice. The camera pulls back to pan the studio. A disembodied announcer voice speaks: "That's all for The Zyrian Hour tonight! Stay tuned for a sneak preview of next week! Prime-time's hottest variety show will be right back for few parting words from Zyrian!"
Tri-TV display has taken on the same fuzz as Zyrian' s matrix. Put down empty beer bottle next to cardboard pizza box, then lean forward to thump the unit's base. Bang! The static is worse. Out of curiosity, the channel is tuned to find the next station is broadcasting perfectly; return to previous frequency and see nothing but snow. Oh well...must be problems on the other end for once.
Still need a new tri-TV.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The computer is demanding attention is to be paid to it. The tri-TV is turned off: nothing much more is on tonight. Six thousand channels to choose from, dozens of species-specific motifs, and /still/ one can never find something decent to watch. Punch a few buttons at the computer display and find one has been hired by "Royal Flush" as cargomaster! Pay time! It'll be a long, boring haul to the fringes of the Alpha Quadrant, but there will be latinum at the end of the rainbow!
Musings momentarily return to tonight's The Zyrian Hour, specifically the final interview. Obviously fake, although one would bet there was a real being under that make-up and not a computer animation. The personality, the reactions were too believable to be a simulation. And that itself is why the Borg had to have been fake...who ever heard of a Borg displaying emotions, becoming flustered over a few "irrelevant" insults, not to mention flagrantly referring to itself on and off in the first person.
Still, fake or not, it was all clean, good fun. One will have to see if one can get a pict of that shocked Borg expression...classic! Staged, but pure classic! Wonder how the Borg will react if they pick up the show?
Return to the Season 2 page