Preemptive credits:
Paramount - Universe of Star Trek
Grant Naylor Productions - Red Dwarfian characters
A. Decker - All things Star Traks
M. Meneks (me!) - BorgSpace
The Crimson Short One and the Cube - A Fairy Tale
'A long time in the future in a galaxy far, far away...' No, that variation upon a cliche is not the appropriate way to begin. This tale starts with a blunder -
"Oh-oh," said a voice, feminine with alto overtones. Again "oh-oh" sounded, this time echoing through hundreds of miles of empty corridors. Well, not quite empty....
A man, whom some considered human only due to DNA evidence, looked up from a pile of...something...he had been prodding with a long pole. It was laundry day and the basket seemed to be a little on the feisty side. Greasy dreadlocks hung limply from his head as he turned towards a monitor sporting the head of a woman whom the stereotype "blond ditz" did not do justice. "'Oh-oh,' Holly? What is it."
"I think you'd better come up to the bridge, Dave. In fact..." The voice trailed off. "Will all crew please report to the bridge," announced over the internal PA system, last word ending on a feedback squeak.
About ten minutes later one Dave Lister by name entered the bridge, a rather dusty place with lots of blinking lights and buttons taped over with "Do not touch, ever!" signs. Less than a minute later, a fairly tall, dark haired man also stepped into the control room; a large "H" marred his forehead. He was followed by a humanoid, obviously android in character, unusual head of which often described by those on board to resemble a novelty condom; a hose with a vacuum attachment was affixed at groin level.
"This better be a real emergency, Holly," spoke the H-bedecked newcomer, voice dripping egotistical disinterest, "because I was just directing Kryten here to thoroughly clean out Starbug One. You wouldn't believe how much Cat sheds. Unhygienic if you ask me." The mechanoid, Kryten, nervously vacuumed a keyboard as the other ranted.
Sighed Holly, "Of course it is important, Rimmer. Remember that swarm of meteors which nearly smashed the Red Dwarf last month?"
"You mean the specks of dirt on your cameras which you took to be meteors?" corrected Lister.
"Okay, so that was a mistake. But there is a big problem here. You see..."
"I'm here! The universe is saved!" yowled the fourth, and final, member of the "crew" as he spun onto the bridge. Dressed in a tasteful ensemble of black pants and shirt overlaid with red coat, The Cat, as always, was late. Fashionably late. The Cat could not be anything but fashionable. Descended from highly evolved cats, Cat's bipedal humanoid form had distinctly feline features, which well complimented tendencies for vanity and self-centeredness.
Everyone ignored Cat, who in turn returned the favor. Kryten's cleaning efforts had shined a mirror in one corner, original purpose unknown, but now put to use by a preening felineoid. "So, what is the emergency, Holly?" asked Rimmer.
Replied Holly's disembodied head, "You know the Holly Hop Drive?"
"Of course! I thought you had scraped that thing."
"Well, not quite. I thought it might be a good hobby to tinker on it every now and then. Well, I goofed."
"Goofed?" echoed Lister and Rimmer together. The news was not entirely unexpected.
"I maybe had the scutters doing a tiny bit of rewiring when one of them accidentally pushed the Big Red Button, you know, the one that you're never supposed to push? I think the scutter was a bit mad over the 'chrome dome' remark."
"The point, Holly," said Rimmer, hand revolving in a 'get on with it already' motion.
"Okay. The Holly Hop Drive took us somewhere, but I'm not quite sure where yet. I think we are still in the Milky Way galaxy, but I don't know where. Or when. Or even if this is our native universe."
Mused Lister, "Well that would explain the wobbly bit there for a moment. I thought it was my knickers and socks getting ready for a counterattack: the fumes, you know. I hadn't quite beaten the lot of them down yet in preparation to dump them in the suds. Either that or the week-old curry I had at lunch was bubbling in the ol' belly." The other three looked at Lister sidelong, then took a careful step away. Old curries had a tendency to explode without warning.
"That's just great," spoke Rimmer into the silence. "Here we are, even more lost than before, stuck on a ship with a computer who can't even read a map, much less drive, in the middle of nowhere. I don't think AAA is going to bail us out of this smeg-up. Is there anyone out there we can ask directions from?"
"Scanning." Holly's voice took on a more mechanical aspect as her computational power was directed away from interaction and towards sensor grids. "Well, I do see this odd ship about a light year away. Cube-shaped bugger, kilometer and a third on an edge. I suppose we could see if they know where we are."
Rimmer resisted the urge to tell Holly exactly where she was, using several very unpolite words, many of which referred to an ancestry which required biological input. "Well, call them already."
Said Holly, "No need. They are altering course and should be here in half an hour or so."
"Oh no," exclaimed Kryten, "I have to clean the place up! Visitors!" The mechanoid hurried from the bridge, nearly tripping over his groin attachment. The Cat followed, muttering something about needing to find his good vinyl suit.
*****
{What is it?} asked Captain.
{Sensors has absolutely no clue, although hierarchy consensus leans towards the starship persuasion.}
The entire drone compliment of Cube #347, including subunit #522, were observing the odd vessel which had spontaneously appeared approximately a light year away, prompting the computer to slow to impulse from transwarp. The dimensions of the ship rivaled the largest of Borg cubes, eight kilometers in length with a girth of two kilometers. A large ram scoop device, itself contributing 1.3 kilometers to the overall (the size of an Exploratory-class cube edge!), thrust before the stubby main body; no nacelles or other faster-than-light propulsion methods could be seen on the otherwise very primitive piece of engineering. It was as if the vessel had been designed and built for a universe where the law of physics was less prone to bending. Considering the method of appearance, that theory was as good as anything.
Long range visual sensors focused on the ship, scanning from tip of spider-web ram scoop to end of mammoth engines. A name could be read along the front of the red juggernaut, letters tens of meters high spelling out two Terran words: RED DWARF. The Federation, however, had never been known to build anything remotely like this monstrosity. Standard subspace communication channels were opened, but a response was not forthcoming. Very curious, and wanting to know how the primitive vessel managed to get itself not only into the Beta quadrant, but jump from its multiverse thread to this one, Cube #347 altered course to intercept.
*****
"Stop that," muttered Rimmer as a spitwad passed through his torso. Another saliva drenched wad followed. "I said stop that, Lister."
"Just having a bit of fun, Arnold, you know. Lighten up," replied Lister as he worked on tearing up another napkin for more ammunition.
"And don't call me Arnold! I am your superior officer!"
Lister took aim with his straw and blew. Missed. The wad stuck on the back of a swivel chair on the other side of the bridge. "And you are dead. A hologram. Rank doesn't exactly work anymore. Wonder what is taking that cubeship so long to get here?" P'tooey.
"Hey!" Rimmer's matrix momentarily blinked out as the spitwad glanced off the light bee which powered his form. He quickly stabilized. "Grow up for once, you twit."
"You are just as much fun now as when you were alive." Lister glanced over to Holly's image, "Think those alien types are friendly? God only knows they'll probably love Rimmer; only beings as anal as him would build a ship in the shape of a cube." He ignored the hologram's indignant protest.
*****
Cube #347 hung motionless, in a universal relative sense, off the amidship starboard side of "Red Dwarf". It was not often an Exploratory-class cube was overshadowed by a nonBorg vessel. Deep scanning was underway, the other ship continuing to ignore attempts at communication.
{Captain, we are done,} called Sensors. {Two lifeforms are present: one is species #5618 - human, at least Sensors thinks so - and the other is unknown.}
Incredulous, Captain asked, {Only two crew for a vessel that size?}
{There may be robots on board, or a high level of computer-driven automation present, but the sensor grid can not determine if either is so. Active life support is restricted to a limited portion of the overall volume. Sensors thinks the ship is very, very old.}
{Then we will transport on board and secure it. The following members of weapon, assimilation, and command...}
Interrupted Sensors, {Sensors is not done yet! Sensors was about to add that the hull armor is of an unusual composition. There are no deflectors on the vessel, although at relativistic speeds, the ram scoop would make such technology irrelevant. However, at rest, especially in a solar system, the scoop would be useless as a shield. The hull plating is composed of a thick sandwich of alloys which not only shield the crew and delicate electronics from high energy rays, but more solid dangers as well. Sensors is pretty sure that while we could beam teams into the vessel, at least on the outer decks, she does not think we would be able to gain a sufficient transporter lock to recover drones.}
Said Delta, who had been listening intently as the conversation shifted to those matters she dealt in, {Sounds like a one-way mirror. If we could get a sample of the alloys, I think...} Delta continued, slipping into a little world which involved many revolving atomic structures, dragging much of her hierarchy with her.
{So any drones we send over would be stuck unless they could make it to the hull?} The question by Captain was rhetorical: he already knew the answer, the sub-collective already knew the answer. Sensors did not bother to reply. {In that case, Weapons, I need you to carve a tunnel through the decks to the center. You will follow Sensors' directions exactly, because I do not want this find to explode due to breaching a power core.} Weapons sighed a long sigh, his jubilation at action altering to disappointment. {After we have an entrance, we will beam down drones to lay pattern enhancers along the tunnel, and secure the ship from those beachheads.}
As Captain began to post teams of drones, a cutting beam lanced out, causing hull armor at the foci to glow. It resisted much longer than most armor in Collective Borg memory, but eventually began to give way, molten globules both vaporizing and freezing in the frigidity of space.
{Captain,} called Sensors, we are receiving a hail. {It is...radio. Very primitive. Language is of species #5618. Many nasty words.}
Captain paused in his work, received an earful of ranting, then took a few brief seconds to run a consensus cascade. When it completed, Weapons, with much protest, terminated the cutting beam. There was a proper method of assimilation (or investigation) and required protocols to be followed. Or there was a boatload of virtual paperwork to fill out. Cube #347 was already ignoring three Captain-cycles worth of forms; and certain sections of the Collective - accountants prior to assimilation, for the most part - were becoming increasingly insistent in demands for compliance. Once the crew was informed of impending doom, Weapons could merrily return to boring a hole in the side of Red Dwarf.
*****
"Holly, why didn't you bloody say you hadn't tried to talk to them buggers over there yet?" yelled Rimmer.
"You didn't ask." Holly was sulking.
"Well, I'm asking now!"
"Asking what?"
With a large gulp of virtual breath, Rimmer silently counted to ten. "Holly, why, before now, did you not try to contact the large cube which is currently trying to carve us up like a Christmas goose?"
"No one told me to."
Thoughts, definitely not of sugarplum fairies, danced in Rimmer's head. He gave up trying to drag answers out of Holly, instead heading Dave-wards to supervise.
"Listen up, you bloody smeg-heads! Do you know how long it will take to fix your mess, much less paint it over? And who will actually have to do the work? The scutters and me, that's who! Or Kryten, if I can bully him away from Rimmer's fetish for clean upholstery in Starbug. Therefore, if you don't stop..." Lister paused. "Hey, they stopped!"
"I'm sure it was due to your brilliant threat, Lister," sarcastically informed Rimmer. "Now move aside and let someone with brain cells which have not been fried by curry to take charge."
"I wouldn't trust you to negotiate between a rock and a hard place."
"Amazing, you can use the word 'negotiate' properly in a sentence. Now move aside."
"Will not."
"Will too."
"Will not!"
"Will too!"
"Excuse me, may I interrupt?" asked Holly.
"No!" shouted Rimmer. "Not until I show Lister how childish he is being!"
Dave rolled his eyes, "Go on, Holly."
"Well, the crew on the alien ship are responding. Thought you might want to know. Shall I put it on a screen so you can see?"
"Yes, Holly."
One of the little-used bridge monitors wavered to life, dust stuck to the screen by virtue of static casting the already dark scene behind in a patina of shadow.
"What the smeg...? Is this a joke? Where is the bloody crew?" demanded Lister with puzzlement. "And what is with that voice?"
*****
"Is this a joke?" unknowingly echoed Second as he stared at Captain's viewscreen. The relatively narrow bandwidth of radio, as opposed to subspace, contributed to the poor image quality, but it appeared as if the camera pickup on the other end was also to blame.
The image was blurry, dark, and had a definite fish-eyed cast to it. No sound was associated with the picture: that portion of the transmission had cut out. An argument appeared to be in progress, two shadowed shapes waving arms? at each other. A third shape entered, stage right, which caused the two to focus their attentions on a new front. Suddenly a large silhouette filled the screen; a yellow fuzzy something obscured the view.
When the item lifted, the pickup was not only much clearer and less fish-eyed, but the sound had returned.
Bodiless voice, female: "Sorry, chaps, but I hit the mute button."
"Sirs, I cleaned the camera up a tad. It looked like it hadn't been dusted for at least three million years." A humanoid with angular head entered the picture, waving a yellow rag.
The scene went downhill from there; sound was not an improvement.
Two humans, one with an "H" on his forehead and the other bedecked with a hair style never before encountered had returned to arguing with each other, totally ignoring the Collective pronouncement. Captain terminated that particular part of the cube's transmission, silently watching with the rest of the sub-collective with a fascination usually reserved for the pre-sentient lifeform evolved at the back of the refrigerator. The fourth being, sporting dark skin and sharp features suggesting feline, wore very tight black leather pants and a white silk blouse. It (he?) was holding up two vests, one checkered and the other paisley, demanding an opinion as to the best one to wear.
"Excuse us! We are trying to threaten you here!" Captain sent over the communication link, trying to gain the attention of the alien party. "Hello? Is anyone listening to us?" No response, not even a sideways glance. {Weapons, return to cutting the hole.}
The energy weapon lanced out; shouting broke out on the "Red Dwarf" bridge. "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" was the general consensus. Captain bade Weapons to halt, who did so grudgingly.
"Now that we have your attention..."
"Why the smeg are you talking in plurals?" asked the dreadlocked human ({Sensors, you are confident the sensor array is working properly? Are you sure that being is species #5618?} queried Second in the background), staring at his end of the transmission.
"As we were saying before...We are Borg. Prepare to be assimilated. Your technological and...er...um...technological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile."
"Technological and technological? That doesn't make a lot of sense," argued the greasy human.
{Scan complete,} spoke Sensors in the near background. {Sensors does not see weapons of any consequence. It is a mining ship, consisting primarily of holds to haul processed/raw ores and minerals, and mounts little offensive capability. It can not resist us.}
Captain split into real-time multitasking, one part ordering the recommencement of the bore hole and subsequent transporting of drones to secure the beachhead, the other part dealing with what seemed to be the entire Red Dwarf crew.
"Vessel crew, this discussion is at an end. You will be boarded; prepare yourselves for assimilation."
*****
"I wonder what this assimilation business is," mused Kryten outloud as he dusted a chair. "They, these Borg people, definitely seem caught up by the idea. Please move your feet, sir."
Lister absently shifted his feet from where he had propped them on a keyboard, allowing the mechanoid access to the dirty console. "I don't know, mates, but...it kinda sounds fun, if you ask me. Maybe if I ask a couple of their female types to do the assimilation...." Lister trailed off, eyebrows waggling suggestively.
"You are a wholly disgusting member of the human race, Lister," said Rimmer with a grimace, "and if you were a dog, you'd be getting it on with every leg you saw."
"Only if they were female legs, mind you." Lister's return was mild, designed to provoke the hologram. The appropriate response appeared to be forthcoming, as revealed in Rimmer's reddening face, when Red Dwarf began to thrum like a tightly stretched wire.
"The alien vessel is cutting into us again," needlessly reported Holly. After a pause during which four pairs of eyes rolled, the computer added, "And they are starting to board us as well. Just appearing out of nowhere. Everything is vacuum behind the emergency bulkheads, but it doesn't seem to bother them much. Would you chaps care to have a look?"
"On screen, Holly," ordered Rimmer. The main display, the one which had showed the odd scene of walkways and green lights, dissolved from the current screensaver featuring bouncing balls. Several beings faded into sight, pale humanoid things wearing an unhealthy amount of hardware and angular black bodysuit. It was impossible to determine gender of the attackers; and after a few moments of observation, it became quite apparent very few, if any, were human.
"Smeeeeeg," drawled Lister, "on second thought, I don't think I want to invite any Borg females into my room for a game of Hunt The Tuber."
'Hunt The Tuber?' mouthed Rimmer, but decided to not comment outloud.
Cat yucked, "And absolutely no sense of taste. I mean, black is supposed to go with everything, but that seems a bit much. No accent, nothing. And those faces! Someone, a lot of someones by the looks of it, needs to go get a facial! And some wigs!"
"Well," said Lister, suddenly businesslike, "I guess that does it. Time to make our escape. Sorry to leave you here, Holly, but we've got to make a run for it on Starbug." Holly did not respond. "Holly?"
The computer in question was making silly faces. First eyes became crossed, followed by the visage of an overhappy drunk, then cheeks puffed up with tongue extended in a raspberry. Holly abruptly stopped, except for a small tic affecting her left eye. "Yes, Dave?"
"What was /that/ all about?"
"Oh. Just the Borg. They've accessed my systems and are rooting around a bit. Wanted to know where we came from, how we got here. Seems we did manage to jump to a different universe."
"Well, did you tell them?"
"Tell who what?"
Sigh. "Did you tell the Borg how we got here."
"Oh course! Spilled my metaphorical guts to them." The tic was slowly becoming more pronounced. "Told them all about the Holly Hop Drive and where it was stashed. Only problem is the Drive is no longer where I left it. Quite lost." Holly's face looked as if it had a terminal case of spasmodic winks. "They don't seem to believe me and are slowly shredding my files and other computer-type thingies, looking for anything that might have to do with the Drive."
Slowly asked Rimmer with the dedication of a true coward, "So, if we could find the Holly Hop Drive and give it to these Borg, they might leave us alone?"
"Nope. Don't think so."
Rimmer sighed, the hope was too good to be true. He caught Lister's eye, "Looks like we'll have to do your...plan."
Lister chuckled in triumph. "Come on Cat, Kryten, let's go. First, however, I want to swing by the mess hall for some provisions."
"Great!" grinned Cat. "And we /have/ to make a pitstop for me as well. I simply cannot be seen escaping in /these/ clothes."
*****
Digital transmission? Squeak? Squall! Shuffle shuffle; waving motions with utility arm. Squawk! Rude noise. Scuffle. Ringing ding as carapace is hit by an arm. Whine. Digital transmission ending with a decisively strong do-not-argue-with-me-or-else-I-will-rip-your-wheels-off period.
Twenty scutters, knee-high machines vaguely resembling stream-lined bread loaves on wheels with a compact utility tool mounted on a long arm at the front of each carapace, disbanded from their meeting. The twenty were but a small proportion of the Red Dwarf automaton compliment, of which even Holly had no clue as to actual numbers. Three million years is a plenty of time for already semi-intelligent machines to figure out how to build more of themselves. As the most mentally endowed beings on the Red Dwarf (the toaster might argue otherwise), it was obviously up to them to set everything straight.
With the rattling of multitudes of wheels in vessel ventilation ducts, Stage One of the plan was begun.
*****
{What the hell?}
{Ow! It /bit/ me!} A feeling of satisfaction momentarily overwhelmed the general emotion of annoyance as the attacker was soundly punted down the corridor. It hit a wall and slid down to land with a noisy clatter.
{Watch out, there's another group rounding the corner ahead. And they have welding lasers!}
A group of ten weapon drones, under orders to secure corridors adjacent to Cube #347's bore hole beachhead, were under attack by small machines. Individually, while the devices were very maneuverable and speedy, they could do little damage; in packs they were quite annoying although still not overly dangerous. Single drones had been swarmed ("It was like I was being nibbled to termination by ducks!" so complained one torn up drone to Doctor), but groups of five or more were relatively impervious to attack. Unfortunately, the numbers of machines did not seem to diminish, no matter how many were smashed.
Shortly the scutters were beaten off. They retreated into rough holes cut at floor level, disappearing into the interstitial space equivalent of Red Dwarf. Drones were much too large to follow.
{There has to be a main nest of the things somewhere,} pleaded Weapons, not for the first time, {let this hierarchy have free reign to flush them out and destroy them all.}
{Not free reign. If you had that, you'd dismantle the target in your task,} replied Captain.
{Would not.}
{You would too, so don't try to pull the innocent act on me. I do pay some attention to the BorgCraft simulations you set up, and many of the current parameters lead to an end with the alien as a cloud of debris.}
Weapons sulked.
Captain sighed, {However, the machines are degrading efficiency in vessel securement, therefore you are allowed to use up to half...half!...your hierarchy in hunting. All weaponry must be drone-mounted and must not have the capacity to punch holes in bulkheads if indiscriminately fired. Cutting through walls will be performed with care and with the appropriate tools. Absolutely /no/ cube weaponry will be used to assist in the extermination effort without my express blessings. Understand?}
Silence. Finally, {Compliance.}
{Good. And if you deviate one millimeter from the orders, and this includes any "unique interpretations," I will end all your fun. Decreased efficiency is a small price to pay to leave the goal intact.}
Captain returned to general sub-collective observance. The bore hole was now complete, and drones deposited on the top third of exposed decks. The vessel's primitive condition had shown itself again when no forcefields appeared to limit atmosphere loss, automatic emergency bulkheads, of the same metal as the hull, extending instead. Engineering crews were now faced with cutting the doors one at a time and installing forcefields in their place, in addition to setting pattern enhancers. No, allowing weapon hierarchy to be distracted by the scutters, thus lessening the chance they would do something destructively disruptive, was the appropriate action to follow.
*****
Rimmer was angry: escape was taking too long! In the mess hall Lister rustled himself some curry; and then Cat required over two hours to choose himself a new outfit, one which seemed nearly the same as the previous one, but for a different set of shoes and socks. After /that/ episode, Kryten insisted stopping where he stored his parts to reassure his spare heads (and himself) that everything was to be okay.
During the lost time Rimmer could only complain and nervously watch the number of Borgs in the hallways jump from nothing to many. They appeared to be quite busy at unknown tasks; and their expressions, for the most part, tended to be an emotionless deadpan a poker player might envy. Several times the group had come close to exposure, avoiding capture only by ducking into nearby rooms and holding perfectly still. The last was obviously a trial for Kryten, who, not allowed to clean, was in a personal hell considering the dust and grime blanketing most of the boltholes.
Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten peered around the corner; a third person view would see three heads stacked upon each other. Six eyes shifted back and forth, determining the validity of harmless shadows in the half-lit corridor.
"Come on Lister...I know you've been eating that curry, but that is no reason to lag behind. Coast is clear; we are almost to the hanger and the freedom of Starbug," said Rimmer absently, not bothering to look behind. "Lister?" Pause. "Lister?" Pause. "Cat, is Lister still back there?"
"You want me to look? There might be something scary!" whispered Cat quietly. "Kryten, you look."
Kryten swiveled his head slightly, just enough to peer to the rear, yet keeping his body forward to allow a bit of strategic fleeing. The only item visible was a plastic plate, half filled with an orange curry in the process of crawling away. "Sirs, Lister is gone."
*****
37 of 203 held the human in appropriate assimilation posture for the species, head angled up and away with one hand, other limb hovering near the exposed neck, ready to trigger assimilation tubules. All had gone perfectly up to this point, trailing the foursome fairly easy given their noise level and the low light environment. The human had consistently lagged behind, slowing to shovel an unknown food into his maw. When the other three of the group had forged ahead, an excellent opportunity to strike had opened.
{I don't wanna assimilate him,} whined 37 of 203. {He smells like old socks, sweat, and nasty spices.} 37 of 203's race, species #8004, had an excellent sense of smell, often employed by the Collective as "bloodhounds" and organic detectors of chemical leaks or explosive caches. His free arm wavered.
Assimilation's measured, monotone voice: {It is our job, we can not escape it. Get it over with and we can give the new drone to subunit #522 for processing.} The thought tangented with {We rarely are allowed to process drones, even less so now that subunit #522 is present. Assimilation is so boring when one is not allowed to assimilate.} Pause. {37 of 203, get on with it. At least give me /some/ satisfaction.}
37 of 203's eyes closed. He wished he could shut out the smell, but it felt like it was oozing through exposed skin: one almost believed the stench was alive, had sentient characteristics. {I don't wanna! I don't wanna! I don't wanna!} 37 of 203 was practically crying. {Please, have mercy, I don't wanna!}
{Mercy is irrelevant, 37 of 203,} intruded Captain's presence, an image of stern glare accompanying. Assimilation had passed the buck. {Assimilate the human. Comply.}
Whimpering outloud, 37 of 203 plunged assimilation tubules into bared neck.
*****
Lister flailed as he was grabbed from behind, losing his curry. 'Damn,' he thought, 'I almost was done with it. And, more importantly, it was driving Rimmer crazy.' The unknown attacker expertly immobilized Lister, pinning his arms, wrenching his head sideways. Acutely aware of his vulnerability, he didn't dare shout, just in case the noise would enrage the assailant.
For several minutes nothing happened; a cramp grew in Lister's neck and right shoulder. He could see a hand, mostly obscured by black armor and the occasional dimly blinking light, holding nearly motionless at chin level. As sluggish air currents chilled his neck, another thought percolated through Lister's brain: 'What is it? A smegging reluctant vampire that drinks your blood through its hand? This is more freaky than a gelf...although not quite as bad as my dirty underwear basket. Nothing could be as bad as that basket.'
An odd keening rose from the nearly still attacker, which quickly degenerated into quiet sobs. The arm suddenly moved; Lister watched a pair of thin tubules swiftly exude from the back of the hand, disappearing from view. A rather painful pair of pricks on the neck followed.
*****
{What did you mean it didn't work?} demanded Captain. He currently had his screen following four primary points of view, and was internally juggling incoming reports from many other drones, automatically sorting and passing them along to the appropriate partitions and subhierarchies like an organic switching board. Little in the way of disciplining was required at the moment.
While three of the viewscreen's quarters were highly relevant (Upper Right: the three Red Dwarf crew sneaking unstealthily, extrapolated destination a hanger; Lower Right: skirmish between a weaponry detachment and fifteen scutters; Lower Left: a task group lost in a virtual forest of clothes, currently unsure which way to the room's entrance), it was the upper left square which had a majority of his attention. The human, a distasteful view of the back of his head, could not move his body, but his mouth was under no such restraint.
"Ouch! That bloody hurt, you smegging lummox! What are you, a smegging vampire? Ouch! Stop it! Ouch!" Each "ouch" accompanied 37 of 203's futile attempts to assimilate the human.
{It isn't working.} ("Ouch! You are a total bastOuch!") {He's not being assimilated! Tell me what to do!} 37 of 203 swift fell back upon his position of one among many, not wanting to think for himself. While it was an admirable Borg trait, it was one which would be quickly abandoned at the next opportunity, for 37 of 203 had amply demonstrated the hallmarks assimilation imperfection in the past.
Captain ran a truncated decision cascade, involving three hundred drones from various hierarchies currently in regeneration, returning moments later with directives. {37 of 203, terminate your attempts and take him to the primary bridge. Weapons group #12, cease searching for scutters to mangle and escort the other three crew to the bridge as well. Do not harm them. Do not vaporize them. Understand? Assimilation, corral the Red Dwarf computer's main personality subroutines to the bridge; and then compile an assimilation report upon the various beings involved. Meet me on the vessel's bridge in an hour. Comply.}
Captain refocused on the other views in his screen, sighing as he noted the one currently filled with the sight of striped shirts. {For pity's sake, exploratory group #2...how did you manage to become lost among racks of clothing? No, I don't want to hear the explanation.}
Captain stood on the deck of Red Dwarf. This was one of those instances which could perfectly well be handled via intranet connections, but the subjects in question were incredibly fascinating in their ineptitude. A rogue scutter wheeled itself from under a chair, clawed arm extended to attack.
"Can't you do something about these annoying things?" Captain shook the limb which the scutter had attached itself with the tenacity of a leg-hugging four year-old child. One could hear it revving up a miniature plasma cutter. Captain grumbled, laid his prosthetic hand on the machine, and triggered an arc of electric current; the scutter disengaged from the leg with a synthetic yelp, turned two complete full circles, then scurried off at a rapid pace trailing smoke.
Spoke the bodiless head, pictorial representation of the ship's computer, "Nope. They get a command they don't agree with and it's 'That's not in our contract! We refuse to do that without representation by our labor union rep!'...never mind the fact he turned to dust quite a while ago. And they know that perfectly well, mind you." The head bobbed up and down once, as if invisible shoulders were shrugging.
The hologram, arms folded with one foot impatiently tapping the deck, turned to regard the screen, "So /that's/ why the bloody things..."
"Quiet! All of you, cease irrelevant conversations!" The budding argument stammered to a halt. "Assimilation, give me a run-down on this so-called crew."
Assimilation, who had been facing a bulkhead, intently absorbed in memorizing the unique shade (chicken soup and curry splashes were among the ingredients), looked up. His eye shifted to regard the less-than-military line-up of Red Dwarf crew before stumping forward, arm raised to point. The finger stabbed in the general direction of the pixelated head.
"Let us start with the computer, also known as Holly. It is extremely old, three millions years, and has long since devolved into senility. At one point it was top of its line, perhaps able to outcompute extrapolated abilities of the older mech races, but now it is seriously compromised. Personality subroutines appear to remain intact, more or less, and it still has access to most real-time systems such as propulsion and sensors. However, in other ways it is seriously degraded. The file trees we have hacked into are disorganized, corrupted, and/or missing. As seen, it doesn't even have complete control over its own automatons, nee scutters."
"It? Who are you calling an it?" demanded Holly, face twisting into a dark frown. "Hey! Stop that! Hee-hee. That tickles." The computer's image abruptly grimaced and began to giggle. Captain felt as a subhierarchy of assimilation wormed its way into a new directory of the ship's computer. Holly continued to quietly chortle in the immediate background, complaint forgotten.
Assimilation continued, pointing at the hologram. "Arnold Rimmer. A dead crewman resurrected by the computer to be a companion to the ship's final living human. He is a hologram, obviously, although projection technology is quite unique. His neural patterns are complete; assimilation is not possible. He is also, according to comments on his official personnel file, a bit of a 'smeg-head'."
As Rimmer began to sputter about the description (and inquire what else was in his file), Captain's attention was directed to a pair of posted requests, one by Delta and the other by Weapons. While both wanted to be the first to examine the hologram technology, Delta's request was more in line with the general push of the Collective to acquire distinctiveness leading to perfection; Weapons wanted to upgrade his holographic toy.
{Battle simulator! Holographic battle simulator!} corrected Weapons. Captain sighed: sometimes the ability to eavesdrop on the thoughts of another could be annoying.
"Continue, Assimilation. We will dismantle the hologram after the vessel is secured and we have determined how it traveled to this universe."
"Dismantle?!?" gasped Rimmer, eyes wide in fright. "Dismantle?!?" The voice sailed to the upper registers, ending with a squeak.
"Shut up, Rim-boy. You sound like a smegging girl," snidely commented the sole remaining member of the original crew.
"Dave Lister," began Assimilation as the named gave a leering wink and the suggestion of an impertinent kiss. "Scans to be human. Really." {Second, look at the records, if you still don't believe.} "As far as assimilation...it was tried, but it didn't take. Tissue analysis is on-going, but preliminary consensus points to massive intake of a substance called curry."
Lister snorted, then held up an arm, middle finger extended. "Just look at the hole you blokes made when you took your 'sample'."
Blinked Assimilation, "We did not sample from there, it was taken when..."
{It is an insult, Assimilation,} noted Captain.
The appropriate files were accessed, one of the several human drones helpfully adding his own knowledge. {I see. Irrelevant.}
"Fine, let us continue."
The next in line was the android. "Kryten. Self-motivated service mechanoid. From observations, it is probably as senile as the computer. At the very least it has the android equivalent of low self-esteem and will do anything it is told. Due to its nature, it is not assimilateable."
"Need anything cleaned?" helpfully asked Kryten. "I come with a full range of attachments, including vacuums, blenders..." The list droned on.
"Traitor," muttered Rimmer.
"Dismantle," evilly stated Lister. The hologram immediately quieted.
The last member of the current Red Dwarf crew was fingered. The being in question slumped bonelessly in a chair, quite asleep. Assimilation kicked at the creature. "Wake up." Yawn and long stretch later, the felineoid stood on his feet, blinking sleepily.
"Cat. Evolved from Terran house cat, a pet. What you see is what you get. Seems to like garments; we have found entire sleeping quarters in the area filled wall to wall with racks of clothing. This hierarchy decided not to assimilate. A human, even of the specimen known as Lister, the Collective could handle...we are of the opinion Cat would seriously detract from perfection."
{Don't even think about it, Doctor,} warned Captain.
At the same time, Cat gave a grin full of sharp, white teeth, "Perfection! That is me! Perfect in all ways! No clue what you are talking about, but I am too perfect for you. Yup, if you do this 'assimilate' thingy, I'm sure there would be no way you could equal my perfection."
"He's talking about brain-washing what little gray matter you have, you tit," said Rimmer.
"Dismantle!" Lister seemed to be having entirely too much fun at the hologram's expense as the latter's expression swiftly shifted to one of anticipated pain. Or intense constipation.
Captain turned inwards, blocking out Cat's reply, Kryten's request to perform a product demonstration, and Holly's giggles. {Okay, I've seen enough. Weapons and engineering hierarchy, take the lot of them to quarters and seal /all/ exits, including those leading to ventilation ducts and such. Assimilation, does the computer have access to any vital systems?}
{It didn't have them to begin with, and Sensors noted earlier the absence of hull-mounted weapons. Mining equipment might serve in offensive capability, but it would require extensive modifications. And while the program is helpless to stop our continued hacking, it is too large to bully for detailed information in response to requests of how it got here. Considering the senility factor, it may either not understand the question, or lost the original data; it doesn't even know where the device - Holly Hop Drive - is currently located.}
{Fine, let it roam where it will, then. I must regenerate. Second, take over primary physical operations; I will join mental support to command and control partition assisting in assimilation hierarchy hacking.} As compliance came from all quarters, Captain left the Red Dwarf bridge, destination a local pattern enhancer and thence his alcove.
*****
The door to Lister's (and Rimmer's) quarters closed with an ominous clang; the whine of plasma torches sounded for several long minutes. Lister looked at the three others, then tried the door. It did not budge.
"It is melted closed, you twit," stated Rimmer.
"I knew that. Just had to make sure. Haven't you ever seen those movies where the evil guy makes a mistake? There's /always/ a way for the good side to escape." Fifteen minutes later it was apparent all egresses, from scutter door to the vent grille in the bathroom, were sealed shut. Lister grumbled, "Guess they haven't been watching the right movies."
Rimmer sighed, "Holly? Wake up Holly." Holly's face condensed on the quarter's monitor. She had finally stopped the inane giggling. "Holly, give me a clipboard."
"Why do you want a clipboard?" asked Holly.
"Just do it." A fuzzy teddy bear shimmered into holographic existence in Rimmer's waiting hand. Both Lister and Cat burst out laughing; Kryten himself struggled to keep a passive face. "This isn't a clipboard!" choked Rimmer.
"Yes it is."
"No, it is a teddy bear!"
"It is a clipboard."
"Teddy bear! A pink one at that!"
"Clipboard."
Rimmer fumed, silent. "Okay, Holly. Get rid of the clipboard and give me a teddy bear."
"A teddy bear? Are you sure? Why do you want a teddy bear?"
"Just give me a teddy bear, Holly." The bear disappeared, replaced by a standard clipboard, paper and pencil already under the clip. "Out of curiosity, Holly, where were the Borg digging around most recently."
"My word-to-image comprehension database."
"Figures. Okay, let's brainstorm, people. There has to be a way to get out of this mess."
Cat snorted, "Who died and left you in charge, bear-boy?"
Lister seconded Cat's reprimand, "The time is for action, Rimmer, not dithering around with paper. All we know is that these Borg are tearing apart the Red Dwarf looking for the Holly Hop Drive. Are you absolutely sure you don't know where it is?" The last was directed at Holly's image.
"No. The scutters dragged it off somewhere and they refuse to reveal its location. I've tried to engage them in a game of 'Twenty Questions' to figure out where it is, but they don't want to play right now," replied Holly.
"Not nice people, these Borg," sighed Lister. "Okay, we can't give them what they want, it looks like. Cat, Rimmer, Kryten, ever get the feeling the Borg are talking behind our backs? That Captain Borg and the other had the oddest pauses, as if they were discussing us, and not outloud. It's like...it's like..." pause as Lister hunted for the appropriate simile, "it's like looking at two people on the other side of a glass window: you know they are saying something, but you can't hear them and you daren't get any closer to the house to try and read lips. And you can't leave your hiding place neither because you are buck naked, the bushes would rustle, and the girl's father would be running you down with a large baseball bat."
"Yah," said Cat, "now that you mention it, those Borgs that brought us down here broke out laughing for no reason. Must have been a great joke, but I sure didn't hear them telling one, and I have perfect hearing."
Lister chewed his thumb. "Maybe if we could hear what they were saying we might be able to make a plan...." The thought trailed off.
Stated Holly into the silence, "I can hear them."
The four looked at each other. "Repeat that, Holly?" asked Lister.
"I can hear them. The joke Cat was wondering about was quite off-colored, although not too tasteless. It involved a miniature piano player, a duck, and three pears. Would you like me to tell it?"
Cat jumped up off Lister's bed, "Lay it on me, man!"
"Quiet, Cat! Be serious for once!" rebuked Lister with unusual sobriety on his part. "Since when can you hear the Borg, Holly?"
"Since they began playing in my systems."
Rimmer, aghast: "Why didn't you say so before?"
"You didn't ask."
"If you had a neck, and I had actual arms, I would strangle you, you tit! You computer moron! You senile idiot!" Rimmer's voice abruptly cut even as his mouth continued throwing unheard insults. Spoke Holly, "Whoops. Must have hit the mute button. Can't seem to find the unmute function now. Sorry." Rimmer made a rude gesture in Holly's direction before pointedly turning his back on the unrepentant head.
Sighed Lister, "Well, even knowing what the buggers are thinking won't do us much if we can't get out of here."
Immediately following the words, sparks began to drip from the ceiling of the loo; the ventilation grille fell to the floor with a loud metallic clatter. A scutter head, streaked with black and green warpaint and sporting a rather jaunty Robin Hood cap secured with duct tape, peered from the hole.
"I guess I forgot to mention the scutters formulated a plan to break you out of there. There's a little diversion happening on the lower decks while you four are sprung." The scutter made a beckoning motion with its head as Holly relayed the plan, then disappeared again into the overhead ducts.
"You could have told us earlier, Holly," said Lister. Rimmer made another series of rude arm motions towards the monitor.
*****
As the last foot disappeared into the ducts over the closet bathroom, a small hole, scutter-sized, was completed at floor level, metal hemisphere pushed out. Behind the wall, noises echoed.
Bleep. Whine. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. Squawk! Squall! Shuffle shuffle scuttle. Beep? Beep.
A scutter stuck its arm beyond the hole, scanners eyeing the room. Something behind it pushed the reluctant machine fully into the quarters with the metallic scrape of metal on metal. If one looked carefully at the utility tool, one might see a matchstick, head broken, clutched firmly.
The scutter emitted a distinctive rattle-beep, conveying not only a sense of defeat and anticipation, but a healthy fear. As it bodily swiveled, looking for its target, sparks began to rain down the wall: the bolthole was required to be enlarged. There. Scanners alighted upon the objective - Lister's laundry basket.
Stage Three of the plan was almost ready; the scutter just wished it hadn't been the one to drew the short straw. The basket shifted ominously, nervous rustling sounding from the heart of the clothes pile.
*****
"Man, am I glad to get out of those ducts. Makes my belly go all queasy," muttered Lister, arms crossed over his stomach. Rimmer snorted in disdain. "Go ahead, laugh smeg-head, but you don't have a belly to worry about anymore."
The scutter had led the foursome through several hundred feet of the Dwarf's guts, gesturing for them slip into the empty storage room they now found themselves in. A fifteen by ten meter box, it was unknown what the area used to hold, although a couple old wrappers reading "JUPITER MINING CORPORATION HAPPY TIME RATIONS - NOW WITH REAL BEER FLAVOR" provided a clue. While Lister moaned his discomfort, Kryten examined the door.
"Sirs, our exit appears to be locked." He peered at the seems. "Actually, sirs, it looks like it was welded closed from the inside."
Cat, who had been sniffing one of the wrappers, glanced back towards the corner where they had all entered. "Hey!" The grille had been quietly repositioned, and was now in the process of being secured. No other escapes were present, other than a scutter hole in the back wall much too small for anyone to squeeze through.
"Why those bloody little traitors!" cursed Rimmer. "The next time I see one I'm going to..."
"Be careful there! Don't bump so much, or else I'll be sick. No, I know I can't actually get sick, but that isn't the point. Are we almost there yet? Oh, shut up about the union rep thing already." A familiar voice echoed from within the dark depths of the scutter hole. Inch by slow inch a monitor was pushed into the room, Holly's head squinting. "Okay, a little bit more..." One final movement. "Hey there, Dave, Rimmer, Cat, and Kryten. Think you could pull this display out a bit more? The scutters don't want to come into the room for some reason."
With Lister still clutching his belly in nausea, Kryten complied with Holly's request. A long extension cord ran into the wall. "If I may ask," said Kryten, "why have the scutters locked us in here? Rimmer is about to bust something, convinced as he is they are on the side of the Borg."
Holly's head shook a negative. "No, no. They have a plan, not quite the one I told you, but a jolly good one anyway. Wish I'd thought of it. Problem is that they didn't want you four messing it up." Holly paused as protest was raised from Rimmer, "Don't blame me! They won't listen to me to begin with, and the Borg are still playing in my head. They just wanted you guys safe when they began their attack."
"Attack?" echoed Lister. He seemed to have gained temporary control over his nausea.
Confirmed Holly, "Attack. They want to remove the Borg from Red Dwarf and take out the Borg cube itself if possible."
*****
Disaster was the only relevant word...disaster.
{Drone 2 of 83 requests maintenance at current time index 43ah13.622. Damage is as follows...}
{...and I see another one on the hull - subsection 11, submatrix 20. It has noticed me!} A surprisingly articulate rude gesture from a laughably inoffensive machine half-obscured by hull sensor paraphernalia filled 113 of 310's view as he zoomed in with optic implant. The scutter slipped away, leaving behind a deadly package, one already dissolving its way through the outer layers of cube armor.
{Forward!} roared Weapon's mental signature to a squad on the Red Dwarf. Replied the recipients, combined fear and desire for nontermination overcoming mental compulsion: {NO! They're bringing up another one of those THINGS! We can hear it! We can /smell/ it!}
The scutter offensive had begun simply - lobbing of a "food" item known as vindaloo, a curry relative, at a weapon hierarchy hunter patrol. Unless certain biological rules of the Red Dwarf universe were vastly different from the Borg's native one, vindaloo could not be a palatable dish, not if it cut through stomach lining with the same aptitude it displayed on Borg hardware and armor. Yet, the human Lister had obviously eaten the substance, consumed it such that his blood was rendered a terminal environment for nanoprobes. Once again Second was calling into question the validity of designating Lister as species #5618.
Following the first attacks, a second weapon had been deployed, driven before scutter lines with whips and drilling lasers. No designation, no name, existed for the creatures; no description could adequately paint a picture. Imagine piles of boxershorts, mounds of socks, and other items of laundry so abused they had sprung to life like a cotton-blend Frankensteinian monster. Nothing could stop the advance of the Laundry Beasts: deadly force only scattered clothes to become miniature Dooms which slowly consolidated back to its original form; and the Directors help the drone who accidentally used anything with spark potential around the underwear mounds.
As Borg were being driven back towards the beachheads on Red Dwarf, scutters were discovered on the hull of Cube #347, setting vindaloo bombs. The substance quickly dissolved its way into vital areas of the cube, indiscriminately frying everything in its path until neutralized with many liters of water and kilograms of antacid.
{All drones on Red Dwarf,} ordered Captain, {regroup and retreat to bore hole. Engineering hierarchy, we need a better method to counteract the vindaloo! Weapons: use cube weapons to destroy all scutters on the exterior of the target, and be careful not to inflict too much structural damage.}
*****
Red Dwarf shook, rattling its crew around in their prison. Lister was looking distinctly green again and had sat down against a wall; Cat had begun to complain the clothes he was wearing were not appropriate given the circumstances.
"Leather," declared Cat, "is what I need."
"Shut up, Cat! Holly, can't you tell us anything about what is happening out there?" cried Rimmer. "Holly? Are you listening to me at all, Holly?"
Holly's face blinked from its unnatural stillness. "Sorry Rimmer, where you saying something? The scutters and I are a tad bit busy right now. Oops! Get back to you in a few." A rainbow replaced Holly's visage, underneath which were a pair of happy bluebirds chirping the message "Technical difficulties. Please stand by." Rimmer wished he could kick the display.
*****
The sheer viciousness of the unrelenting attacks had driven all drones to Cube #347, beaming back before pattern enhancers were smashed. No drone wanted to be trapped on board Red Dwarf. Weapons had destroyed dozens of scutters as they tried to bridge the vacuum between ships, but their small nature made detection difficult. Several recent scars, one half a kilometer in length, marred the mining ship's side due to near misses with overpowered weaponry. Attention now focused entirely on hull damage control; as one area was cleansed of scutters and repaired, another quarter came under attack.
Captain was examining a rotating, three-dimensional cube schematic in the dataspaces, noting the many colored dots denoting damage of various degree, scutter sightings, active vindaloo infestations, and so on. Sensors interrupted the perusal with the message of an incoming communication from Red Dwarf. Captain refocused his attention to take in external surroundings, directing the transmission pathway to be displayed on his viewscreen.
The computer's personage consolidated on the screen, eyes blinking out of synch with each other. "There they are. They are responding now." Holly looked to the side as if another entity, unseen, was giving it instructions. "You sure?" it asked. "Okay, if you say so. Ahem. Borg vessel, we are ready to accept your surrender."
"We will not comply," sent Captain with the multivoice. The scutters and vindaloo (and Laundry Beasts) would be cleared, eventually. Besides, Borg did not surrender.
"They say they aren't going to surrender," complained Holly, again to someone not in view. "All right, all right, I'll try that." Clearing of throat. "Surrender was too strong a word, I admit. How about backing off? If you toddle off about twenty kilometers or so, AND if you get out of my files, the scutters will stop their attack."
"Resistance is futile."
"Now what is /that/ supposed to mean? Totally out of context. I've also been instructed to tell you that several hundred vindaloo bombs have been set at various locations on your ship's hull. If they are allowed to go off, and they will in fifteen minutes, we here project you will have less than an hour before things start to explode. If you move away a bit, the scutters will stop the countdown."
{We can't deal with that many breaches of hull integrity,} warned Delta. {We are barely keeping up replicator antacid demands as is. It is not a substance we typically stockpile.}
{Weapon hierarchy, stand down. Assimilation hierarchy, disengage from the computer,} sent Captain to appropriate drones as a sub-collective-wide consensus favored a wait-and-see stance. Thrusters were powered, backing the cube away from Red Dwarf.
Holly smiled, involuntary blinking ending. "Much better chaps. Glad we can do business with you."
*****
Silence. No bangs, no bumps, no metal screams of a ship falling apart. The Red Dwarf crew trapped in the supply room stared at each other, each desiring to know the outcome of the battle; well, all but for one member.
"I think I'm going to throw-up if I don't get a curry to settle my stomach."
*****
Digital image transmission. Bleep. Shuffle.
"Are you sure? After all, I'm the one who came up with the original design."
Beep beep beep beeeeeeep.
"Okay, okay, you don't have to use such language. As long as the Borg keep their distance there is plenty of time."
Scuffle. Squall squeak. Bleep.
"I'll go with you on that. Yes, put the wire there. Where did you hide the Drive anyway?"
Bloop. Braupity bleep.
"Really? Never would have thought to look in the kitchen, but you are right, it does somewhat look like a microwave if you remove the 'Holly Hop Drive' sign."
Digital transmission.
"Yes, the curry Lister tried to heat in it did gum up the works a bit. Good thing not too many wires were melted."
Beep!
"Great! All done! Push the button and get us out of here; and I know that is something you can do without a union rep."
The universe briefly twisted, turning all sensor input into a film negative. An odd fanfare sounded at the edge of hearing, a chorus of out-of-tune angels frantically blowing on tarnished trumpets. Between blinks of the multiverses, the gigantic bulk of "Red Dwarf" moved, tearing itself from the thread which contained Borg and returning to solid existence at its original space-time coordinates.
"Well, here we are. Seems those meteors are still following us, though."
Bloop.
"Dirt on the lens? You are right! Maybe if you scutters can take time out of your busy schedule of playing poker you might do a job on the sensors. And there is that big hole on the side of the ship as well. Oh, by the way, you should let the crew out of the supply room you locked them in."
Twitter breep?
"Lister just threw up. Very colorful, but the vomit managed to get on the light bee. Rimmer is looking a bit...fuzzy."
Scuffle-oh-sorry-we-might-have-forgotten-about-them [embarrassment].
*****
Red Dwarf vanished from sensors, visually evaporating as a raindrop on hot pavement. The action was not surprising. Cube #347 did nothing to hinder the other vessel's departure; if the universe which produced the Holly Hop Drive was truly represented by the Red Dwarf, crew, and computer, it was not worth assimilation. Besides, the sub-collective of Cube #347 had other concerns demanding immediate attention.
{There's one! Get it, get it, get it! It is heading towards your grid, 15 of 300,} yelled 97 of 212 through the intranet, vacuum unconducive to carrying speech. 15 of 300 and 16 of 300 leapt for the machine and collided, nearly losing contact with the hull. The scutter bleep an unheard cat-call - translatable to "idiot smeg-head" had anyone been near to interpret - before scurrying into the base of an antennae cluster.
While the curry threat had been determined to be a bluff, numerous scutters had been remained as a parting gift. All had not ended happily ever after, at least not for Cube #347.
********
All good stories have an ending moral. While the worth of this tale is debatable, there is a lesson learned: Do not eat anything which is made out of ingredients which can not be held in a bare hand; and never discount the little guy.
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