Star Trek is brought to you by the letter "Paramount"; and Star Traks by the number "A. Decker." Left-over punctuation mark "M. Meneks" is associated with BorgSpace.
Director's Cut
The clicking of dice rolling across a table top. A couple of grumbles follow, then an accusation:
"You're cheating! I don't know how you are doing it, but you are cheating!"
"Shut your big mouth! I do not cheat," returned an indignant response.
"Well, you're bending the rules, somehow." The first voice paused, considering. "I'm going to take it up with the DM, the moment I figure out who he or she is."
A snort. "Good luck."
A third voice chimed in, "Knock it off, you two. Just move the damned cube. You don't see me complaining, do you?"
"'Move the damned cube, move the damned cube,'" mimicked voice one. "At least you don't have your primary character stuck in the middle of a diplomatic nightmare. I think we should just..."
Three voices overruled the first with a shout, one rising above the rest, "/Don't/ curse the DM! Remember the last time you did that? Huh? Apocalypse! We had to start the entire game over! Whomever the DM is, he or she or it knows exactly what we do here."
"Yah, yah." Pause. "Well, just don't stare at me! Do as he told you to and move the damned cube!"
A figurine was moved on a giant game board, one in the form of a large spiral galaxy. Close examination of the picture was discouraged if one was not actually playing: the three-dimensionality and uncomfortably realistic manner in which the stars (and planets and dust and other stellar phenomena) moved was most unsettling to those uninitiated.
The dice was rolled a few more times; the mysterious DM unvoice offered explanation and information when warranted. Voice one suddenly crowed:
"Whoo-ee! Did you see the number I rolled on the infinity dice? Did you? Whoo-ee! I know exactly what I'm going to do with my reward!"
"And what would that be?" unwisely asked the owner of the cube-shaped figure.
A smile broke out which was more akin to bearing of teeth than a harmless grin. "You'll see..."
*****
The boarders were all over the cube, penetrating ever deeper into its bulk. Heedless fanatics, they overwhelmed drones, not pausing even as the died horrible disrupter deaths; and, worse of all, they were not assimilateable, chemically suiciding the moment nanoprobes entered bloodstream. The reason of the attack? Unknown, although it was likely the ship itself was the prize. The most probable outcome? Termination of all aboard Cube #347.
Transporters were down, remaining power from the five functional Auxiliary Cores focused upon internal security fields and exterior weaponry. Captain found himself in his viewscreen bedecked nodal intersection, readying himself for the invaders to pour into the area. Beside him was Second, similarly stranded, and eight tactical drones. Death was near, but it would be a costly one for the boarders.
For just a moment in time, Captain was reduced to the simple pleasure of no responsibility except that expected of an imperfectly assimilated drone denied submersion in the Collective; his existence would soon be reduced to mere echoes in the One. The feeling was banished milliseconds later as the newest flood of internal reports slammed into him, but remembrance of the feeling remained. A rueful half-smile crossed Captain's visage.
Battlecries raised, attackers streamed into the nodal intersection.
"CUT!" roared a female voice. "That's it for today, everyone! Have a good weekend! We'll pick up the scene on Monday and finish the episode with a few extra shots final production wants."
The world around Captain suddenly dissolved, became flat, unexciting. Props of metal and plastic. People talking to each other. Stage lights and cameras. A man sporting a large tool belt worriedly brushing past to check on a strut supporting a wobbly faux bulkhead.
"Gerson, what are you standing there for? You feeling all right? You'll be more yourself once you have make-up get that stuff off of you. At the very least you'll be able to take a whiz when the costume is removed."
Captain blinked, focusing on the voice. A woman, about 165 centimenters, stood before a wood and canvas folding chair, green eyes directed at him. Straight brown hair, bangs badly in need of a trim, was pulled back in a shoulder length tail. She wore comfortable black jeans and a plain T-shirt of light blue. An aide came up with a paper. Glancing at the gopher, she shook her head and muttered a few words which had the fellow quickly trotting in another direction. This was a woman who was definitely in charge. She headed for the rapidly emptying stage.
"Hello? Gerson? Don't tell me you are going to go through this again."
"Gerson no longer exists," stated Captain uncomfortably. His face itched, and the bladder region felt very...full.
A long sigh as she entered the realm of painted pipes and plywood. "We are going to go through this again." She took his arm. "Let's get you to make-up. Once you are stripped it will be easier to talk to you. I'm not going to make /that/ mistake again." Captain had absolutely no idea what she was referring to.
"We are 4 of 8. We are Borg."
"Uhuh," the green-eyed woman soothed, one look from her clearing her path across the sound stage to a door. "Sure you are." She mumbled to herself, "And he seemed such a nice, competent man when I hired him. So able to get into his character. Who knew he would have problems returning to reality?"
Captain sat in a seat first cousin to a barber's chair. It had been disconcerting to watch in the mirror as layers of make-up, props, and molded mask had been removed. Underneath was a rather average looking human male on the lower end of forty, prematurely bald. Two eyes of sparkling blue looked back from the silvered glass. Unbedecked of Borg visage, removed of costume to dress in denim and button-up shirt, Captain observed as the chatty make-up woman was dismissed to a "good weekend with your kids."
He had not been allowed to speak, not once, for himself the entire time. An open mouth elicited frown and narrowed gaze from the green-eyed woman designated Maria Branson.
"Okay," said Maria, "let's begin. Get out your wallet and take a look at the driver's license. Maybe that'll pop your memory back. Your name is Gerson Moytite." Captain did as he was bade, fumbling the lump out of his back pocket and opening it to a small picture of himself.
"I am Maria Branson. I have lots of money. I own Branson Investments and Branson Enterprises. Others do much of the day-to-day scut work for me, but I do own them. BorgSpace is a hobby. It is a TV show stuck in a late-night slot on an obscure channel; perhaps ten thousand viewers watch at most, but I don't care. It is my hobby, and I'm rich enough to easily afford it and be called eccentric, not crazy. I do some writing, but primarily hire when necessary and direct. I am a director." She paused, eyeing Captain to see if any hint of understanding had lit his face during the short sentences. Nothing. She sighed. "Those that I hire, like you, are out-of-work or no-name actors. There is talent in my stable, but the big-wigs never recognized it. I also foot the paycheck for all the support, techies, production, and so forth." She shrugged, "Some rich folk buy paintings or small tropical islands; I do this. Petty cash for how much I make everyday in investments."
Captain held up the driver's license, squinting at the photo encased behind scratched plastic. His visual acuity was not correct. "We are not this...human. We are not Gerson Moytite. We are Borg. We are 4 of 8, sub-designation Captain for the duration of this assignment. What have you done to us, this drone and the crew of Cube #347."
Maria groaned, muttering to herself, "Save me from this Hell!" She continued, louder, "Gerson Moytite, YOU, came to the acting call, full of fire. 'Here,' thought I, 'was the perfect person for the Captain role.' I wondered at the time why you weren't making the big bucks in TV or film. Didn't take to long to figure that answer after I hired you. You have a slight reality problem: you immerse yourself too deeply in your character and have difficulties seeing the universe and yourself as it actually is.
"The first couple of episodes were already in the can at the time this mental handicap came out, but you weren't too bad. And you've lost touch only four other times. Don't force it, and reality will come back to you. We, your friends, keep trying to tell you to go see a doctor about the condition, but you refuse. Maybe someday you'll learn."
"So, we are Gerson Moytite?"
Maria nodded encouragement. "Yes, you, singular, are Gerson Moytite."
"I am Gerson Moytite."
"Yes. All coming back, eh?" Although the tone was still bright, a shadow of some other, darker, emotion briefly crossed her face. Captain did not catch the difference, as he was now standing, trying to put the wallet back in his pocket, with little success. "Here, I'll leave you now. Why don't you get out to that ancient silver boat you call a car and go home. You'll feel much better in your own apartment." Maria slipped out of the dressing room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Captain exited a few minutes later.
"Mr. Moytite! Aren't you gonna get your espresso tonight?" Captain blinked, then slowly turned to see a man standing behind a cart bedecked by all manner of strange machinery and bottles of colored liquid. His face was lightly marked by acne scars; a ridiculous hat with logo covered his head. Captain would have dismissed the twenty-something youth except he jittered in a very familiar manner.
"2 of 20? Report. How are you also here?"
The man jerked his head back. "Who's this 2 of 20? The name's Justin. And I've been here selling java for nearly two years. You buy nearly everyday." Justin smiled and began to do something with one of the machines. It spat steam noisily. "Double tall mocha with a swirl of non-fat and a touch of cinnamon."
Captain ignored the nonsensical words. "You are 2 of 20. You look like him...and you shake like him in one of his less lucid times."
Justin made a face. "Too much coffee man, that's my problem. Dream job, working here at this caffeine cart, but I do get the java shakes badly. Finally ditched the chocolate-covered espresso beans last month: I was eating up the profits. Managed to keep myself up for nearly three days straight as well. Near scared my girl to death." The prattle rattled on, finally drawing to a conclusion as a paper cup of hot liquid was capped and handed over. "Here you go! I'll put it on your tab, like always, so you can pay me when your paycheck is deposited next week."
"Get a move on! I need my coffee!" yelled a voice behind Captain. He turned to see an irate woman waving a very large travel mug. She vaguely resembled Captain's memories of 110 of 203, if that particular drone had ever worn a power suit and had blond hair piled up in a massive bun.
"Stuff it, Steph! I'll get to you in a moment after I finish talking with Mr. Moytite here," shouted Justin to the woman. The latter muttered something unflattering, but calmed down somewhat. One foot anxiously tapped the pavement. "Well, you'd better get going sir. Or else Steph might tear my arm off and beat me with it." He grinned.
Seeing the conversation over, Steph rudely pushed her way between Captain and the espresso cart, loudly demanding a drink which Justin was well on his shaking way to preparing. Now what to do? Maria had indicated he should "get out to that ancient silver boat you call a car and go home." A trickle of people were drifting across the lot towards an unknown goal. Captain watched for a few minutes, pondering his options, his lonely options, and decided to follow. At the very least it would appear he had a purpose.
As he walked, Captain carefully observed others who held cups and mugs of the coffee drink, so as better to blend in. He finally tried a sip of the mocha, painfully burning his tongue. The sweet-bitter taste was not to his liking. A trash can offered a convenient solution to the problem via the jettison of the drink. Everywhere Captain looked, vaguely familiar faces hurried past, but after his first meeting he was not willing to confront these people immediately.
The small stream of people eventually led to a large asphalt lot, two-thirds empty. Wheeled vehicles - cars - of all descriptions sat in their stalls, waiting silently for their owners. Captain wondered which one was supposed to belong to him. Craning his neck to use his height to full advantage, he spotted a very wide silver vehicle; it appeared to be a car and not a conveyance for crossing the water solely due to the four tires which rested on the ground.
Captain strode briskly to the car, imitating the actions of other people in a hurry to begin their weekends. A cautious fishing expedition in one pants pocket brought forth a ring of metal keys, one which, after much fumbling, unlocked the silver door. Once ensconced inside the metal beast, Captain had no clue how to proceed.
Curiously, much of the general data which should have been available to him was still present, but sleeping in the far corners of his brain. It was easily awoken, thus he could recognize those that appeared to be of his sub-collective, but it was overlaid with other knowings more pertinent with this planet, this time. Examples included knowledge of what a car was and why it was a bad idea to cross a street without looking both ways. Unfortunately, the method to working this primitive vehicle was absent.
Had he been in his normal body (although this body felt oddly right, the mind comfortable), all the abilities of the Borg to assimilate technology would not have helped. One did not assimilate a hammer, nor any other purely mechanical tool. A dumb object confronted Captain, one which did not respond no matter how many times he said "Start" or "Take me to my home."
A man approached, briefly appearing in the rear view mirror. He was not familiar, although a cast of features or a flash of bored green eyes sweeping absently over obstacles in his way suggested a very distant kinship to Maria. The destination of the man was the dark blue compact in the stall to Captain's left; eyes slid sideways to watch.
Once in the car, the nameless man inserted his key into the slot on the driving column's right. A quick turn of the ignition and a pumping of one leg brought the pint-sized vehicle roaring to life. He then reached forward to fiddle with a few sliders on the dash, hand dropping lower to spin a pair of dials and punch one button. Music of some sort faintly vibrated the blue car's windows. Satisfied all was how it should be, a knobbed bar emerging from the floor to the forward right of the driver was moved; the car spun off.
Perhaps the most merciful aspect to call attention to in the following endeavor was the fact Mr. Silver Land-Boat sported automatic transmission.
The car jerked along; acceleration was not an easy ability to master, nor brakes. The unknown rules which governed the ordered chaos which was the road were elusive, many followed by a set of drivers, only to be flaunted by another. Occasional honks sounded as Captain maneuvered the massive vehicle down the street, followed by abrasive language and more than a few one-fingered salutes.
An odd car, black and white with an oversized bumper, pulled up behind Captain. Blue and red lights began to flash; other cars instantly shied sideways, as if they were potential prey in the vicinity of a predator. Captain ignored the annoying lights, jumping as a loud siren sounded.
"You in the silver car! Pull over! Now!"
Captain's eyes flit to the rear view mirror, just in time to see the fellow in the black and white raise an arm to point towards the curb and a nearly empty bank parking lot. Fuming, Captain complied with the order, bumping over the sidewalk and through an ornamental bush. The other car, "Police" written on the door in large letters, followed via an access ramp.
The police vehicle stopped, a large man in a uniform getting out of the drivers' side. He settled his belt around his middle, then sauntered toward Captain's car. He leaned down to look in the window; a complex badge was pinned to his breast, under which was a name tag reading "Micah Ghydin." Knuckles tapped the drivers' door glass.
"Please turn off the engine and step out of the car, sir. You were driving a bit erratically."
Captain frowned, turning the key the wrong way and eliciting a squeal of protest from the starter. Sheepishly he rapidly flicked the key the other way. The door heavily opened and Captain stood up.
"I was driving as well as the other people. The red car, the one with 'Porsche' on the back: it was speeding down the central turn area quite rapidly. Perhaps that is the vehicle you seek?"
The man snorted, "Not likely. Think I would mistake a cherry speedster with that silver boat of yours? It seems you might have had a tad much too drink this afternoon. Could you please step away from your car and open your arms wide. I want you to close your eyes and touch your nose with the index finger of each hand."
"This is ridiculous!" protested Captain. He paused, looking more closely at the male. He was very, very familiar, practically radiating an official boredom. "Weapons?"
"Do as I said, buddy, or you'll get a closer look at my weapons than you like."
"No, you are Weapons, are you not? Drone designation 45 of 300." Captain was now convinced.
"One last chance. Do as I say, or I'll be taking you in to the station. You may not be drunk, but you are definitely on something."
"I will not. I am Captain, consensus monitor and facilitator of Exploratory-class Cube #347 of the Borg Collective! You are 45 of 300, a drone under my control and guidance. I will not be swayed so by one lower in the hierarchies. I will not comply." The frustrations of the afternoon began to surface.
"Your funeral. Now give me your driver's license and keys. I need to make a call to the station. If you try to make one move of escape I'll run you down so fast your head will spin."
A black pick-up truck with a pair of thin blue stripes streaking down the side pulled into the parking lot as the policeman was halfway between Captain and his own vehicle. The door opened and a very familiar face jumped out of the cab, calling to the officer:
"Wait, wait! Gerson's just having a bit of trouble, officer, no need to ticket him. He's new to some medicine and forgot to take it at lunch today. He's harmless, really."
Micah stopped in mid-step. "And you are?"
"Rick Jones. I work with Gerson, up on the film lot. We're actors for an independent series, distributed late night on the Sci-Fi Alternatives channel."
The policeman, Weapons as Captain continued to think of him, considered, thoughts rolling obviously across his face. "What series?"
"The one produced by Maria Branson. Unless you're into specialty cult sci-fi you've probably never heard of it. Star Traks: BorgSpace. It isn't much, but it pays the rent and puts food on the table."
"Branson, as in Branson Enterprises?"
"Yup, that's the woman."
Micah snorted, "Didn't know she was into filming."
Second as one Rick Jones shrugged, "Rich girl's hobby. As I said, it is cult TV stuff and it pays the bills. Nothing for us poor actors to get rich off of. We can't all be Harrison Fords, now can we?"
Micah acknowledged economic reality. He tilted his head in Captain's direction, talking as if the latter could not hear. "And him, what's his story?"
"Oh, he plays one of the primary characters," replied Second, following suit as if Captain were in another time zone. "He's really quite good, but he's a touch metal, if you know what I mean. His doctor recently put him on a new pill regime, but he forgot the bottle at home today. Told me at lunch he hoped one missed pill wouldn't matter, buuuuut..." A long shrug. Traffic crawled by on the road. "We thought he'd be good enough to get home tonight without baby-sitting."
The policeman grumbled, "So he's not been drinking and he's not on anything?"
"If anything, he's more fun when he's drunk and the fact he /isn't/ on his prescription is why you pulled him over."
"Okay, okay. You convinced me. I don't want him driving, so either he calls a cab or you take him home."
"I don't live too far from his apartment: I'll take him home."
Micah rounded on Captain, "And you, Gerson, take your medicine."
Captain glowered at almost-Weapons, watching as he sat in his vehicle, scribbled something on a pad of paper, then drove hurriedly off. Second spoke, "Lied my butt off to save you there, Gerson. You owe me one. And I really think you /should/ be going to see a shrink sometime soon about that little schizo condition of yours. There may be a day when I or Maria or any of your other friends aren't around to help you." He indicated the door to the truck then moved around to the driver's side. Captain climbed in.
"Second..." began Captain.
Second sighed, "Rick. Please remember Rick. We've been good friends for twenty-seven years now, ever since high school. Big plans we had then, eh buddy?" The truck rolled forwards and into the river of slowly inching cars. "I'll drive you back tomorrow to pick up your car. For now, let's just get you home. I want you to concentrate on anything but BorgSpace right now."
Second might as well as told Captain to try to not think of the Greater Consciousness when it was dumping direct compulsions into the dataspaces and deep lattices of the cube's awareness.
Captain was dropped off at the corner of a middle-class apartment complex. It wasn't exactly shabby, but neither was it upscale. A fading lawn more brown than green edged the building, upon which several children and a dog played keep-away with a ball. Second noted Captain's domicile was "357" and that he would "Give a call in a little bit to make sure everything was well. We can talk then." The black truck drove off.
Captain, nee Gerson Moytite, opened the door to his apartment, entering a small living room dominated by a large-screen TV. The rest of the room was sparse, no wall decorations nor trinkets on the shelves of the overfull bookcase. A ratty sofa backed against one wall; four chairs surrounded a small dining table. As he closed the door behind him, he absently noted the archway leading to tiny kitchen and short hallway with three closed doors.
Four steps brought Captain well into the room. This was wrong, all wrong! He was Borg, not a lonely and neurologically unbalanced human in twentieth century Terra pretending to be so. He was 4 of 8! He was 4 of 8 of the Borg Collective!
The white wall showed its age through a minute network of fine cracks; it needed to be repainted.
Captain clung to the thought: he was Borg. He had to be. The other option was conceding to this distasteful reality.
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Yes, this /is/ a cliffhanger, and will be concluded in story one of BorgSpace Season Three. No hints to be given as to how it will end.
Return to the Season 2 page