I offer burnt sacrifices to the mighty Lords of Darkness which are Paramount whom own the Star Trek franchise. I worship at the alter of A. Decker with his Star Traks universe with Dorritos and several gallons of soda. M. Meneks has a pocket reality known as BorgSpace, and is perfectly happy with the occasional pistachio.
Director's Cut, Take II
Last time of Star Traks: BorgSpace -
<A scene of speedy Federation ships firing on a wing of Dominion attackers consolidates. The whoosh of vessels traveling through airless space is in evidence, as is the crackling 'bzzzzt' of phaser fire. A familiar Klingon voice yells something about...>
What a minute! How'd /that/ clip get in there! Bad production staff! Very bad production staff! No pizza for you! *Ahem*
Due to technical difficulties, if you wish to know what happened is last season's finale, you'll just have to go back and reread it.
*****
Captain sat on the sofa and stared at the opposite wall, tracing a crack from floor to ceiling and back again. A spring prodded his behind through thin fabric, but he had no energy, no desire, to shift to another cushion. Flaking ceiling. Dirty carpet. Flaking ceiling. Dirty carpet.
The domicile had been explored, revealing little. Bedroom consisted of bed and a dresser filled with nondescript clothes, and little else. The bathroom contained the bare necessities in toiletries; closet held extra linens, towels, toilet paper, a dusty bowling ball, and a giant beach towel with the words "To The Stars!" emblazoned across a background of deep space and a fanciful rocketship. A minimum of dishes and cutlery filled otherwise empty kitchen cabinets. The refrigerator/freezer stocked a gallon of unopened milk, half a carton of left-over Thai food, three apples, and two dozen frozen microwaveable dinners, all Salisbury steak with cherry dessert. Nowhere could Captain find any indication of family, a /life/, which existed outside of his driver's license picture.
Captain did not know if he should pity Gerson Moytite, or be afraid that he might actually be the human so named. His stomach growled. Captain shuddered at the thought of eating.
The phone rang, startling Captain from blank nothingness. It rang again, and a third time. Knowledge welled up the depths, prompting him to lift the receiver and push the "Talk" button.
"Hello?"
"Gerson," responded Rick Jones' voice, "glad you didn't go anywhere. Before I left the lot, Maria was round-about hinting in that way of hers that I should take you out for a beer or two, on me. I caught the tail-end of your 'episode' this afternoon, but I didn't realize how bad it was until Maria told me. I think a little chat between buddies at Link's Irish Brew Pub, maybe?"
"Well, I don't kn..."
"I'll throw in some grub, how about that? I talked to Link last night, and he told me he just found this recipe for awesome beer-battered onion rings. That and a burger would be great," hurriedly interrupted Rick.
"Well..."
"Great! I'll be over in twenty minutes or so, barring traffic. Seems Doc was home early tonight, so I'll knock on his door and see if he might want to tag along. The more the merrier!" The line clicked dead before Captain could answer.
Link's Irish Brew Pub had a muted ambiance, one suited for the booths and round tables that populated the main floor. A brass-railed bar dominated the back wall, behind which a bartender busily tallied receipts between bouts of pouring dark beers. The click of balls hinted of a pool table in an anteroom, the large archway of which provided a glimpse of rack of cue sticks and a pair of dart boards. The small pub was not crowded yet, Friday night crowd only beginning to trickle in.
Captain eyed the lager, hamburger, and onion rings arrayed before him on the table. On one hand, he was definitely hungry, but on the other, innate knowledge of the upchucking consequences should he consume the food was forefront in his mind. No such qualm was evident in the appetite of his two companions.
"You not hungry, Gerson?" asked Rick as he paused in the motion of dipping an onion ring into a bowl of horseradish sauce. "You look a bit on the pale side."
"Probably coming down with something. Check his nose for me, will you? My hands are full of burger right now."
"Doc, Gerson is a human being, not a stray dog brought into your clinic."
"At least a dog knows when its sick," said Doc with a snort. He dropped his hamburger in favor of his beer mug.
Doc, Dr. Bill Allmen, was a veterinarian. He had a small clinic which catered to the normal spectrum of dogs and cats, with the occasional ferret or turtle thrown into the mix. Under special license from the state, he also treated several species of "wild" animal, usually urban coyotes and foxes that had been struck by cars or had dug an almost empty jug of antifreeze from a tipped garbage can. Tonight he had left the clinic in the capable hands of a newly hired vet to whom he was having serious thoughts about offering a partnership.
Rick wiggled a finger at Captain's full plate, offering admonishment with mouth full, "Eat up! At least try an onion ring! Link's new beer batter is wonderful!"
A shadow loomed over the table, blocking the few overhead lights. "And it should," boomed a voice, "since I traded untold wealth to gain it."
Rick rolled his eyes. "More than likely found it off the back of a box of onion dip, you mean. Link, my man, how're you doing? Maybe you can get Gerson to eat?"
Link was anything but Irish, coal black skin made darker by the pub's lighting. Intense green eyes (Captain swore they were akin to those of the director Maria) peered from intelligent brow, missing nothing. A grease splattered apron wrapped his hips and covered his front, under which he wore clean jeans and light denim button-down shirt. An incongruous shamrock pin was stuck in one lapel. "I'm not offended. He never did have much taste. Remember that excellent stout I brewed last year?"
Doc snickered. "The one which he swore up and down was Miller Lite even after you took him in back and drew a mug from the vat itself?"
"Yah. I swear, half the time the poor idiot can't see reality, even when it is biting him in the a**."
Captain felt as if he should be offended by the remark. Before he could speak out, Rick chimed in, offering his own observations, "Well, I've known him since high school. And you know what? You are right."
Link rumbled. "I'm first and foremost a bartender, not an owner of a brew pub. Being right is my job." He looked over his shoulder as the door opened to a noisy group of ten people. "Well, duty calls, and no one can escape it. See you three later."
"Later Link," called Doc, saluting with his beer.
Captain whispered to himself, "'Duty calls, and no one can escape it.'" The words from the green-eyed bartender were tumbling in his head, wrapping around his psyche and demanding attention. He had finally convinced Rick (Second, insisted Captain to himself) to drop him off at the silver land-boat. Despite misgivings, Rick had left Captain alone to supposedly drive the monstrosity home. The apartment was not Captain's destination; "home" was an Exploratory-class cube centuries and tens of thousands of light years removed from the here and now of Terra.
Even with the most severe modifications technologically possible, the car was not going to make such a distance.
Instead, Captain accelerated and braked his way to the studio lot, parking the recalcitrant vehicle across four empty stalls. No police were evident on the warm Friday night, for which Captain was glad. The lot itself was lit by a series of orange tinted street lights, occasional yellow streaming from a building window. Captain left the car and strolled down wide avenues, pass a dark espresso cart folded up for the night, stopping before a door of Building 4d.
Although a keypad with cardlock was attached next to the door, it was not necessary to hunt through the dreaded wallet for the appropriate access card. Captain was somewhat baffled at the concept of security precautions keeping him out to begin with; Borg generally blew a hole through barriers, or linked the resident computer into their matrixes and decoded lock algorithms from the inside. However, in this case, the door was already ajar.
Captain went inside, pulling the entrance shut behind. The cavernous building was dark, occasional light on ceiling or wall accenting the unlit expanses. Shadows within shadows were the props which mimicked one Exploratory-class Cube #347 of the Borg Collective. Captain walked among the sets, steps echoing, noting the bays, workshops, and nodal intersections which seemed so vibrantly real in his memory. A faux power core on a flat dolly was pushed in one corner, a transwarp coil canister beside it. Cardboard and glass and scrap metal and paint and glitter and neon lights.
Fakery. Pretend. A made-to-order make-believe world for a small segment of an overall population which increasingly had a difficult time separating reality from fiction.
Captain found himself staring at an artificial bulkhead propped against a wall, welded pipes leading nowhere. An abandoned acetylene blow torch hooked on its gas cylinder and a plastic milkcrate of additional piping attested to a technician's unfinished task. He reached out to touch the steel construction.
"I refuse to believe in this life. I refuse to believe I am a Terran actor named Gerson. I refuse to believe," whispered Captain towards the wall.
A mist, a shifting, slowly consolidated at the area just beyond Captain's too human hand. The fabric of reality flickered, becoming both more and less concrete. The hole was not clearly defined, appearance more akin to a heat mirage, but something on the other side definitely was moving, was rustling. Depth was behind the hole, one which went far beyond the concrete upon which the fake bulkhead leaned. With fatalistic intent, Captain reached through.
A something tentatively brushed against Captain's hand, prickles caressing flesh. The sensation faded, then returned with a vengeance as thorns bit into hand, squeezing, impaling. Startled, Captain yanked his arm back, drawing with it a silver-streaked, bethorned vine sprouting several large leathery leaves of dark green. For a moment, the entwined limb was not that of Gerson the actor, but of 4 of 8 the Borg. The vine snapped.
Captain was left sitting on the floor with a wriggling tendril from a much, much larger plant, one which in volume controlled an entire subsection of Cube #347. The plant was alien, did not belong on Terra, did not belong clutched in the palm of Captain's hand. A stunned realization dawned in Captain's mind.
"Well, I'll be da..."
Clunk. A heavy weight descended upon Captain's skull, knocking him senseless. With his last fading awareness, he heard words from a frustratingly unplaceable, yet familiar female voice. The muttered words were not directed at Captain.
"Sorry about that fella, but I had to take a slightly more active role in this fiasco. You'll be okay, I think. I sure hope I didn't knock you on the noggin /too/ hard. However, time's a'running out and I have a meeting to get to. You'll understand later."
Then Captain knew no more as unconsciousness claimed him.
Captain dreamed:
He was hovering, bodiless, over an immense table upon which was an exquisite model of the Milky Way galaxy, giant spiral arms loosely winding about the central core. The model was neither a flat 2-dimensional board nor a 3-dimensional projection: it was something in between; Captain had the itching feeling it was actually a representation of a higher order, as if all the multitudes of mathematically described dimensions were somehow given a physical aspect. Around the table were four chairs, in three of which sat indistinguishable blurs. A fourth blur suddenly entered the scene.
"Time's almost up. You've had a subjective year to get out of the trap. Why don't you rejoin us here at the board? You've plenty of pieces left, you know." A clicking, as if two dice were rubbing against one another in a hand, subtly accompanied the voice.
Replied the standing blur: "I'll not lose this piece! It is my favorite; and besides, I spent too much time molding and painting that figurine."
A third voice spoke, raspy, "If you are in the trap when it finally closes you'll be stuck there too, you know. You'll not only lose the cube, but /all/ your other pieces. And you know what that means."
The first voice smugly said, "I'll get first chance at buying the characters. All that I want. Who knows what plans I'll disrupt! I plan to win this time."
Voice Two grumbled, "I'll not give up, I'll not." The impression of a fist clenched and released. "I've almost woke one up, almost. With all the hints I've been dropping, I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner. Just a little more time."
"Which is all you have," chortled Voice One. "That is all you have. Remember you have to abide by the rules I set up. I'll be...ahem...watching you."
"Oh, shut up!"
The standing blur was abruptly gone. It didn't disappear, it was just gone. The dice clicked against each other. "Anyone up for a short game of dice? Cards? Her turn will be over shortly, one way or another, and we can't continue until it does. Might as well fill the time somehow."
Captain clawed back to consciousness, lone light on distant ceiling illuminating nothing. Half-formed images and impressions swam in his mind: blurs at a table playing poker? Another game with further reaching consequences? Confused, Captain pushed himself to a sitting position, feeling the back of his head for the lump he knew would be there.
He paused, dried vegetative matter wound around his hand catching his attention. Everything came rushing back - the ripple in the fake bulkhead, the grasping plant, the scratches.... The scratches! Captain dropped the desiccated vine and peered at the afflicted hand, feeling it for cuts, for scars. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Another might think everything to be a delusion brought upon by the blow to the head. Captain took the lack of damage to be collaboration of his belief (or nonbelief) of the situation. Someone else had to be told. Captain knew who.
"Awake, Second! Awake!" Captain pounded at the door to Rick's apartment, the address of which he had found in a book on his car's passenger seat, next to a marked map. He could have sworn neither had been there earlier. "Wake up!"
A series of clunks attested to various latches and locks undone. The door opened a fraction. "Gerson? I wasn't asleep, not yet. It isn't even midnight yet." A sigh. "This has gone too far, Gerson. I'm taking you to a doctor, now, and I don't mean Doc."
Captain fumed, toe tapping against the welcome mat. Patience at an end, he pushed forward, forcing the door open wide to confront a startled looking Rick. "You are coming with me...now."
"Hey, hey, hey, buddy, you don't have to go violent on me. I'm your good friend Rick, remember?" Rick backpedaled a pair of steps, raising his hands in submission.
"You are coming, now. Comply!" Captain reached out a hand, grasping Rick's shirtfront, bodily hauling him from his apartment while ignoring the other man's very verbal protests. "We will go to my car. You will drive. You drive better than I."
"Ouch! Stop it, Gerson! Let go of me!"
Despite Rick's yelps, Captain managed to propel the other to the silvered boat with wheels. He slid in the driver's door, scooting across the bench seat while pulling Rick inside with him. No good Samaritan offered help, no blue and red lights flashed - it was late 20th century Terran, after all.
"Close the door and drive to the studio."
"Why, Gerson? What will you do?"
Captain glared at Rick. "Drive. Now. Comply." Something in Captain's expression must have convinced Rick to follow orders. The latter blanched, carefully slammed the door shut, and started the engine with a practiced ease Captain could only envy.
"Here, watch this."
Rick nervously eyed the direction of the exit. "I really don't think we are supposed to be here after hours. Security is going to bust us."
Captain growled, "I /know/ those two guards, 241 of 300 and 167 of 212. They are always being reminded by Weapons to keep their minds on the task at hand. If he didn't harass them, they would happily work on their unending quest to compile the unabridged history of the galaxy. Weapons is not here; the two 'security guards' will be otherwise occupied."
"You are really scaring me, Gerson. Maybe I should make a few calls. There are people who can help you."
"No!" shouted Captain. The syllable echoed off the ceiling "No, I forbid it! Watch...Second...just watch." Captain stood before the faux bulkhead, the same one which had responded earlier, and concentrated, eyes closed. From the gasp behind him, he decided the effort was working. Eyes opened to a squint, Captain carefully inserted his hand into the wavering special effect which had no place existing out of movie or television. As before, the sensation was akin to reaching through a forcefield. A sharp grasp signified success. Captain pulled back his arm.
A silver-streaked plant, much more active than the sedentary Terran variety, tangled around Captain's hand, needle thorns digging deeply into skin. The pain was not as considerable as it seemed it should be, discomfort dulled to a distant ache belying the blood welling from multiple puncture marks. With a sharp yank, Captain broke the tendril, then began the careful process of unwinding it from his limb.
Rick appeared to be stunned. His wide eyes stared at the writhing plant piece Captain presented him. Attention abruptly shifted to Captain's arm, which was healing with swiftness well beyond human normal, although perfectly within Borg parameters.
"Is /this/ evidence a figment of my imagination? Delusion brought on by mental instability? I think not." Captain held up the limb, final wounds disappearing, no scar left behind. "You try." Rick hesitated. "You will comply...Second."
Rick took a stance facing the fake wall. He sucked in a deep breath. "Well, what do I do? I feel like a complete idiot."
Captain put his right hand on the other's shoulder. "Look through the lie to the truth. Concentrate." He snorted. "Sensors would probably see right through to the crux of the matter. Come to think of it, I have not seen Sensors' analogue among the familiar faces."
"Sensors is a computer animation, a big bug the video boys put on after film..."
"Terminate this line of discussion and focus on the task. Concentrate!" Captain clamped down hard on the shoulder. "Do you see it? Answer."
Rick stared, "I...I do. It is like...like a mist is obscuring my view. I perceive a," eyes squinted, "moving shape. Long. Dark."
"Reach for it."
Rick obeyed, gasping slightly as he saw the limb fuzz as it passed beyond the plane of the artificial bulkhead. The arm returned to focus, consolidating into something more mechanical in nature. Exoskeleton augmented fingers grabbed at a questing vine shape, pulling the treasure back. The hand Rick looked upon was again human, yet a plant of alien origin writhed on the palm, leaking pink sap. "What happened?" he whispered, fist closing over the shoot. "I...I have these thoughts in my head. Murmurs. People talking in the distance behind closed doors." He paused. "Am I losing my sanity?"
Captain heaved a sigh of relief. "No, Second. If anything, I think we all became a little more sane tonight."
Captain and Rick stood in the ornamental azalea bushes under a window of Doc's vet clinic. The lights were blazing and the sound of excited yapping could be heard through the partially open glass. A pall was cast over the scene as clouds drifted in front of the waxing moon; the silvered light quickly returned as the wind momentarily picked up.
"I don't like that moon," commented Captain.
Rick glanced up towards the satellite. "It's the Moon. What is there not to like?"
Captain stared at the shining orb. "It looks like a half-lidded eyeball. See how those craters are just so? There's even a hint of green to it."
"It is a moon," slowly spoke Rick, "and moons have craters. And if you see anything green, it is because of the smog. You talked me into this nonsense, so let's get on with it."
The pair waited several more minutes. Soon the barking quieted and eventually the lights were extinguished. At the back of the clinic, where the staff parked their cars, a door rattled open. Captain nodded to Rick.
"Doc! Buddy! How're you doing?"
"Rick? Gerson? What are you two lurking back here at," glance at wrist watch, "three o'clock on a Saturday morning?" His eyes shifted nervously between his two friends. "You haven't been doing any drugs or stupid stuff like that, have you?"
Captain grinned toothily.
"Oh my God, you have. Gerson never smiles like that. It's unnatural."
Rick punched Captain in the upper arm. "Stop that." He looked at his fist. "That hurt...more than it should." Rick shook his head in dismissal. "No, Doc, we haven't been 'doing stupid stuff like that.' We do, however, have something we need to show you. Now."
"Bu...but it is three in the morning! The only reason I'm out of my bed is because of an emergency at the clinic; I do have work in the morning, Saturday or not." Doc began backing away as Rick and Captain advanced. "Stay away, both of you, or else I'll...I'll..." The threat trailed off.
Captain snorted, "You'll do what, 27 of 27? Sic a hamster on us? Don't worry, you'll recognize who I want to take you to meet." Doc bumped into the hood of his dark green sedan, unable to retreat any farther. "You will comply."
Doc didn't have much choice.
"You know, Doc's car is a heck of a lot more comfortable than my old pickup. Maybe I should look into buying one. If anything, it would have better gas mileage."
"Be quiet and concentrate, Second."
"Rick."
"Second."
"Rick."
"Second."
"Will you two shut up and tell me again why I'm here in this warehouse of a building in the wee hours of the morn?" cut Doc's voice into the argument.
"Look at the wall, Doc," and "Look at the wall, 27 of 27," rang out from Rick and Captain, respectively and simultaneously. The two eyed each other, then turned towards the fake bulkhead.
"Look beyond the wall, Doctor. There's a something on the other side I'm sure you will be pleased to meet," instructed Captain.
Several minutes later:
"Thorny! This is Thorny! I'm not quite sure what a Thorny is, but this is him!" echoed Doc's happy voice among the distant rafters.
Captain closed his eyes. The murmurs in head were stronger, two besides his own immediate. He had been right: he was Borg, not that pitiful Gerson Moytite. It was time to find and bring the rest of the sub-collective back from this horrible nightmare.
"Mr. Moytite, what are doing here on the lot at this hour? Hey! What's going on here!"
Sounds of a scuffle break out, a slightly overweight security guard not holding his own. A gun clatters to the floor and is kicked away.
Ten minutes later -
"I'll go get Vern..."
"241 of 300."
"Whatever. I'll go get him."
The sky slowly lightens. An espresso cart is opened, umbrella unfurled and water put on to heat. Someone hums a snatch from the top rock song of the week as milk is moved from portable cooler to the cart's chiller. Although it is Saturday, enough traffic is on the lot in the morning to warrant a few hours of pouring lattes and mochas. The line hasn't begun to form yet, but the barista is a little earlier than normal on the already warming AM.
"Justin," called a voice.
The named peered from behind his business. He looks back and forth with the rapid jerks of a caffeine addict, shrugs, and goes back to his opening routine.
"Justin! Pssst! 2 of 20! Over here you former G'floo junkie!"
"Mr. Moytite? Is that you?" Two eyes squint as they gaze towards a beckoning hand. Apron is donned over loud, out-of-style Hawaiian shirt, strings tied with blind experience as Justin jitters his way towards a dimly perceived two-legged shape. "What are you doing on the lot on a Saturday, especially a nice one like today? Myself, I and my girl are heading out to the beach for some surfing this afternoon."
"Your plans may be a bit...altered. I'd rather you, of all drones, weren't awoken, but you have knowledge we seek. Time to meet Thorny."
Justin looked around. Several other people, all bigger than himself, had surrounded him. He recognized Mr. Jones and the two security guards, but the other man was not known. "Um, think we could talk this over? My hoards of admiring Java fans should be here shortly."
"Exactly."
"That one," whispered Justin into a walkie-talkie 167 of 212 had provided, talk button taped down and the entire contraption duct taped behind the espresso cart.
"Not this one; he's middle management." Latte, espresso shot, double tall mocha with a hint of cinnamon. "Her." Americano. "The guy with the ugly power tie." Latte, latte, steam milk. "Those pair...the twins. They work on stage construction and don't drink coffee, but I see them often enough on the weekends. Workaholics." Hot chocolate, iced single shot mocha skinny with a spritz of vanilla flavoring. "Him."
One by one, the marked individuals, most of whom visited the cart, were waylaid and drug into Building 4d. One by one, the ranks of an awakening Cube #347 sub-collective swelled the ranks, many leaving in groups to search for others. By noon, several hundred bodies packed the studio, garbed as everything from tourist to executive. The count was still well short of four thousand (the status of subunit #522 was unknown), but not everyone could be expected to be working on or near the lot. Confusion continued to reign, especially from the newest abductees only recently subjected to "The Wall Treatment."
Captain climbed to the top of a shaky step ladder. He wavered back and forth alarmingly before catching his balance. "Listen up!" he called. "People, /drones/, listen to me!" Captain looked around as the noisy ruckus calmed. "Those at the edges, watch the doors. We do not need any surprises.
"Now, I have no clue what is going on, beyond the fact we have been somehow isolated in this delusion from 20th century Terra. It is unknown if this is a holographic simulation, a spatial anomaly, an omnipotent being, or some other force at work. What is known is that /we/ are still as we should be, drones of the Collective, even if we can't see it. As each person is given 'The Wall Treatment', it becomes easier to see who is Borg and who isn't; it becomes easier to access that part of us which is Borg, to sense the dataspaces."
The audience rumbled, a random white noise of talking multitudes, the intranet of Cube #347 given a voice. "What shall we do? How can we form proper consensus? We are few. We are not linked," was shouted from the rear of the crowd.
"We must find others of our sub-collective and bring them back here, back to this focus." Captain paused. "And we must also find the one designated Maria Branson, director of the BorgSpace program filmed in this location. She will give us answers. You will comply."
"We will comply!" responded three hundred eighty-six throats.
THE CITY TIMES
Precinct #11 - Police are baffled by a rash of disappearances, the earliest traceable to early Saturday afternoon, and peaking in the evening hours. Several witnesses have told of small groups of people approaching a target, usually by vehicle, and physically abducting the them. Police have commented the assailants appear not to be gang members, but ordinary citizens. One report details twin women wearing construction garb and a male senior citizen as attackers. Police have been able to identify two of the instigators as personnel associated with Television Production studios, specifically employed by Maria Branson, stock tycoon and producer of the late-night cult science fiction show 'Star Traks: BorgSpace.' The names were not released.
Possibly related to the kidnappings is a report of breaking and entering into Ms. Branson's residence early Sunday morning. Ms. Branson was not home at the time and no belongings were stolen.
(Continued page 3)
Late Sunday morning saw Captain, Rick, Doc, and Kitra and Leeta (twins) talking quietly in a corner of Building 4d. Over a thousand of the sub-collective had now been found. The many knots of sleepers and conversational circles arrayed around the hard floor did not represent all the awakened drones; many had been installed in nearby buildings or were continued to search for new victims. One now barely needed to concentrate to activate "The Wall Treatment," the belief in a deception growing with each new member.
"Did you see this article?" asked Rick as he motioned towards the front page of The City Times laying on the ground at the center of the small circle.
"Yes, Second."
"I still like Rick. It's hard...very hard to dismiss all these memories in my head. I can /remember/ when I was ten years old. I lived in Hinkley, Idaho and was on a little league team. There was a dog, a black..."
"Enough, Second! Desist your ramblings. You are not Rick, your species is not Terran; you are 3 of 8, you are my Second. You are Borg," snarled Captain. "Yes, I read the paper. We /must/ find Maria Branson! Those green eyes...."
Silence descended over the fivesome, each absorbed in his or her own thoughts, thoughts which were almost, but not quite, heard by the others. Despite the reawakening of minds, bodies continued to broadcast superfluous organic needs of food, water, and sleep. Concentration could banish the last, but desire for the other two remained strong. The doughnut Captain had eaten for breakfast had been a novel experience, especially as it had not immediately come back up.
"We are still missing 1 of 3 and 45 of 300," remarked Kitra (or was it Leeta) concerning the absence of the other two hierarchy heads. Delta, for that is whom the twins represented, continued to cling to their names. They were also impossible to tell apart.
Second nodded. "I know. 45 of 300 is known here as Micah Gyndin; he will be very difficult to liberate as he is a member of the police. As far as 1 of 3, no one has seen a Terran analogue. That goes for all the insectoids as well as several of the more unusual species in our sub-collective. Members of subunit #522 have been lacking as well."
Leeta (Kitra?) spoke, "This method of planning is inefficient."
"Agreed," returned Captain.
Doc did not join in. His thoughts were drifting to his clinic, and more specifically, the animals there. Hopefully the new vet was taking care of everything. No, no one could feed his patients correctly. He began to push himself up.
Captain barked, "Sit down, Doctor. The animals are not real. None of this" wave of arm "is." Doc settled back to the floor, again.
"So, Gerson, Captain, now what?" questioned Rick. It was a very good question.
"Why do you keep on asking me? I can not form a proper consensus alone."
"Because it seems right. As long as we can not discuss options," nod to Kitra and Leeta, "properly, someone has to be in charge. And I'm not the primary consensus monitor and facilitator...you are. Besides, you went through 'The Wall Treatment' first."
Captain frowned. "Those are not qualifications, but the outcome of chance."
"Well, what /is/ the plan?" pushed Rick.
Captain's eyes shifted towards the main door, where a foursome was carrying in a struggling, gagged clown. Several groups sitting on the ground arose to assist. Others simply watched, attention riveted upon a scene which had played out hundreds of times over the weekend. "We continue what we are doing. Maria will come to work Monday morning. We will interrogate her at that time if we can not find her prior."
"I'm (puff puff) coming around the corner now. He's still behind me," called a frantic voice from a walkie-talkie.
Captain pushed the "send" button on his device. "Keep coming. We are ready."
"You had (puff puff) better be. He has a gun out and I think he means to shoot (puff) me."
"Less talk, more running."
"Yes, Captain."
The sound of pounding footsteps on concrete floated through the half-open door leading out of Building 4d. A double rank of people in various garb stood to either side of the egress, waiting. Justin slammed through the door, sprinting full out, walkie-talkie clutched to his chest. Dogging his heels was a police officer.
The pursuer skidded to a stop, eyes wide. "What the hell?" A gun was brandished, obviously useless in a mob situation. The quiet 'click' of a door latching closed off any hope for escape.
Captain stepped forward from the intently staring crowd. "Remember me, Weapons? Well, welcome to my world. You'll be entering it shortly."
Maria Branson often came to the lot early, remembered Captain with memories which were not his own. She was among the first people to arrive, barring those, like security or writers seeking inspiration, who had been at the grounds all night.
"The target has passed our checkpoint," reported 241 of 300's voice through the walkie-talkie. Both he and 167 of 212 had returned to their security booth to put on a show of normality. Similarly, Justin was at his espresso cart.
Building 4d had been cleared (mostly) of squatters, adjacent buildings packed full of people. A goodly number remained, however, including all hierarchy heads, minus Sensors. Shadows loitered behind props and at the building periphery, not inconspicuous in their nervous waiting and overly loud shuffling.
Several minutes later Justin's voice rang out from the walkie-talkie Captain held. "Good morning, Ms. Branson! Early as always, I see. The water is warm and the milk is steamed. Do you want your usual?"
"Yes, Justin. A tall mocha with quadruple shots."
"Coming right up, ma'am!" The sounds of mocha manufacturing hissed from the speaker.
Commented Rick, "That woman, or whatever, really likes caffeine."
Captain shushed him.
"There you go, Ms. Branson, one mocha just the way you like it. Anything else this morning? Chocolate dipped shortbread cookie? I've decided to try chocolate covered espresso beans again this week, assuming I don't eat up my stock. Maybe you should buy a couple packages before I become too tempted and try to keep them all for myself."
A laugh. "No, Justin. No thank you. You always make my morning, without espresso beans. I'm sure you'll find plenty of customers."
Justin cleared his voice, "Um, ma'am, may I be so rude as to ask a question?"
"If it is too rude, I won't answer. Go ahead."
"I read in the paper this weekend about someone breaking into your house. Are you okay?"
Another tinkling laugh, "Oh yes, I am fine. I had to make a little, um, business trip this weekend. Nothing valuable was stolen. A security company is installing a new system today, just in case."
"That's good, ma'am. Hope to see you later."
"Oh, Justin, I'm sure you will. I'm sure you will."
Several tense seconds passed. "Captain, she's gone. She should be entering the building shortly, assuming she keeps to her normal routine." Pause. "What did she mean by that last comment, do you think?"
"Keep to your task, 2 of 20," replied Captain.
"Compliance."
The rattle of a door not unlocking to the swipe of an electronic keypass announced Maria's arrival. The stubborn door shook again before finally relenting at the third try. A 165 centimeter woman bedecked in jeans and short-sleeved denim shirt entered, muttering loudly about technologies which were put on the market before all the bugs had been worked out. The door swung shut behind.
Captain gestured. Kitra and Leeta, near the control boxes, threw several switches, turning the building's interior from poorly lit weekend status to midday brilliance. Maria threw up one hand to shield her eyes from the sudden assault, squinting.
"Who the hell is here?" Maria shouted, green eyes flashing anger. "I will have security here pronto if you don't answer. I'll have security here even if you do answer. Whoever you are, you are busted! This is private property!"
Captain emerged from his vantage point and strode angrily to Maria, spinning her around by her shoulders so that she faced him. She dropped her arm. "You are the key! You are the one at the heart of this deception, you and those green eyes! Well, I don't believe it anymore! /WE/ don't believe it anymore!" The gathering ranks of people behind Captain shouted their agreement, more pushing open the doors to the building to shove their way inside. The walls of the sound stage wavered slightly, a three-dimensional reality showing through the facade of television pretend.
"Let go of me, you idiot Borg. It is about time you figured it out." She easily slapped away the tight grip, then spun on her heel to shake a fist at the ceiling, demeanor of modern business woman dropping away. The words she said next were not directed at Captain. "You hear that Lips? Do you? I've straightened out your little infinity dice roll and recovered my piece. Just you wait until my turn; I'll not be removed from the game that easily!"
Maria pivoted to look Captain in the eye once more, but it was not Maria anymore. Oh, the green stare was the same, however a lidless eyeball with arms and legs stuck on as an afterthought can not help but to stare. In a metaphysical blink all was set to how it should be. Captain glanced down at his cybernetic systems in relief, gently cradling his link with the ship, his sub-collective, the distant Greater Consciousness. All were present again, all were within his mind.
"Beware the Critics, 4 of 8, Captain, Gerson of species Moytite, and the several other designations you have held and are to hold. At least one Director watches over you, if only because you provide so many hours of entertainment I would miss if you were gone." And then Maria, or whomever, departed.
*****
"Gotcha, Lips. Who's cheating now? Mind clouding is not allowed this game," said the green-irised eyeball towards a pair of huge lips sporting purple lipstick.
"I made the roll on the infinity dice, thus I get whatever I wish, allowed or not. That is the DM's rule."
"But putting /me/ in that silly excuse for revenge? Admit it, you're still sore at what I did to one of your secondary pieces." A hand was waved to indicate an icon of a crippled Flarn; it - more specifically what it represented - would be out of serviceable commission for decades, if not centuries.
"Lips, Iris, stop your bickering. It is Orb's turn, after all." A second giant pair of lips nodded (as much as a piece of anatomy can do so) in the direction of a brown irised eyeball. It was contemplating two of his special figurines - a Malaxian and an exquisitely painted Federation starship with the words "Explorer" picked out on her saucer section. Orb's hand momentarily hovered over the infinity die, then reached for the normal six-sided pair.
"Well," he commented, "let's see what I roll this time."
Return to the Season 3 page