Paramount produces Star Trek. A. Decker developed Star Traks. I twist in the dungeon of my dark mind, shackled thoughts dreaming BorgSpace at the behest of the torturer, myself.
Moo U
The decision to enter the star system was an automatic response based upon a moderate-level root compulsion by the Greater Consciousness for Cube #347 to catalogue new sentients on its way back to BorgSpace. The previous two weeks had been steeped in typical tedium - fixing minor systems which broke, detailing astrometric charts, suppressing internal impulses such as the bad pun contest or spinning up the cube to see if centrifugal force could overwhelm artificial gravity. Unexpectedly, subunit #522 had emerged from its self-imposed isolation; however, it hastily retreated minutes later, following a request from 253 of 510 for it to add to the rude limerick collection she was inscribing on a drone-sized chunk of lewdly sculpted marble.
{We are picking up a strong subspace signal, sentient in origin,} Sensors announced to the general sub-collective. In response, the cube dropped out of transwarp to a sedate warp 3. While the cube could hear and interpret standard subspace radio frequencies in transwarp, Doppler shift often made it difficult to analyze the signal. The effect was similar to attempting to make sense of a shouted comment from a person on a road shoulder to a recipient speeding by at 100 kilometers per hour. It was much easier to slow or stop the vehicle for a proper conversation.
The repeated message was of a strong intensity, one appropriate for an emergency transponder. The sub-collective became excited, Captain informing subunit #522 it should prepare to accept new drones if any survivors could be snagged. Subunit #522 warily began to interact with the host sub-collective, agreeing cadence and signal strength indicated a ship in distress. While the language was unknown, confidence was high robust translation algorithms drawing upon a database of tens of thousands of languages would render it understandable by the time a pronouncement of imminent Borghood was required.
Cube #347 veered toward the target system, slowing to high impulse. An initial sensor sweep noted an astounding seven gas giants, as well as the scattered remains of an eighth in close orbit to its primary. An immense hiccup of a flare due to the gravitic tug-of-war among the gaseous titans had most likely sealed the innermost planet's fate; the next two planets out at 1.1 and 1.8 AU also showed signs of solar-derived weathering, as well as wobbling characteristic of unstable orbits. In addition to the gas giants, three dense asteroid belts ran through the system. A distant Oort cloud and closer Kippler belt were sparser than the norm, huge Joves thinning the ranks in a cosmic game of comet billiards.
The message originated from the second asteroid belt.
Sensors gave a flick of incomprehension, {The [cherry blue] signal is not one, but multiple. All scream the same [jackrabbit iron walnut]. The sources are tightly packed, no longer resolving as one as we approach.}
In response, the cube slowed to a near stand-still, suddenly alert for a trap. Weapons powered up along the edges while the sensor grid focused more intently on the signal cluster. Internally, the message was finally decoded, abnormally long digestion time due to an unusual sentence syntax, as well as presence of several untranslatable proper nouns.
"Warning! By order of the Cateen Wildlife Department, the Zyk Ecological Preserve will be closed to all tourists and unauthorized personnel between the months of Dolo and Jolo due to the sisquana rut. Proceed at your own risk. No rescues will be held and the Cateen Wildlife Department is not liable for property damage or death as per Section 125.1112c. Severe punishment and fines as per Section 231.2274a will be served if biota of the Zyk Ecological Preserve are damaged."
Thrusters flared along two faces, bringing Cube #347 to a full halt. The signal was not an emergency transponder, but a warning beacon. Individual oblongs which was the hardware could been seen bobbing close to each other in an unnaturally compact formation. And what was a sisquana?
Almost in response to the internal query, a large /organic/ mass appeared on sensors, abruptly flared silver sails eclipsing the distant sun. It had been lying in ambush.
*****
Male 18 has completed his biannual rut gather of the beacons. Every single warning buoy set, including out to the near Oort cloud, has been removed to his breeding territory. The collection includes the 5 km by 4 km by 2 km asteroid onto which one beacon had been cemented; the misplaced effort male 18 used to collect his "females," while ignoring the real thing, has been immense. As always.
This year the Department coated the exterior of each beacon with a known sisquana chemical irritant. The inconvenience did not dissuade male 18, despite the welts raised on manipulator and feeding tentacles. He eventually used a small rock to "herd" (i.e. placed the rock between self and object of his amour) buoys to his territory. While this is the third recorded instance of tool use among sisquana, I still believe the animals rank lower on the intelligence ladder than my pet roolum, which has never been known for her brains.
Unfortunately, an unusual alien craft has entered the preserve, vectoring in on the concentrated warning beacons. Male 18 is moving to capture it, naturally; he was probably thrilled to find a "female" close to his own size, even if it is still a bit puny for a breeding partner. I would do more than passively eyeball the alien visitor, but if I turn on active systems of the blind at any time before the rut ends, male 18 will home in on the electromagnetic output and add me to his harem. That is a fate I would rather avoid.
If events to come even remotely follow the path taken by the smuggler ship which entered the preserve last rut, I pity the beings inside. While the smuggler was much smaller and probably lighter armed and armored in comparison to the cube about to find itself in male 18's clutches, the outcome will still be the same...messy. A bull sisquana in rut is not a nice beast to be around.
*****
With stereotyped open jaws of surprise (not literal, except in a dozen cases), Cube #347 was confronted with the immense bulk of a space-faring animal. Ether adapted organic flora and fauna was rare: the rigors of vacuum and hard radiation wrecked havoc on genetic structures vital to reproductive survival. Still, spatial biota did exist; and this example nearly eclipsed a Cargo-class cube.
The central body of the creature - sisquana? - was a football 5 kilometers long by 3 kilometers at its widest diameter. The epidermis was an oily black with brilliant red splotches; sickly rainbows of oil on water shimmered across the skin. Ridges, both longitudinal and latitudinal in orientation, stretched along the body, punctuated every 50 meters by tightly pursed holes which appeared small only because of distance - an organic thruster system? Eight tentacles, 30 kilometers long, trailed four apiece from the pointed ends of the football. Eight smaller, stockier tendrils - a mere 5 kilometers long - were seen in a similar arrangement, the final 100 meters bifurcated into two boneless "fingers".
The most astounding organ of the sisquana were the two silvered sails bellied out from the force of the solar wind. The wings were elongated half ovals ten kilometers at the longest dimension, situated 180 degrees apart on the football body. As the creature neared, tentacles trailing lazily, the sails rippled, demonstrating fine control required for plying the solar winds. A bright longitudinal line of quicksilver at a position equidistant between the deployed wings outlined a second pair of sails, furled, thus preserving the overall radial symmetry.
The space-faring beast had no obvious sensor structures visible such as sight, hearing, or taste. Instead, the sensor grid noted an immense self-generated electromagnetic field with poles anchored at the longitudinal axis of the sisquana. The field billowed out well beyond the wings and tentacles, fading to a point indistinguishable from background EM approximately 100 kilometers distant. Theory whispered in the dataspace, dredged up from the dark abyss of Borg archives, that the creature passively sensed its habitat in the same manner an electric fish knows its surroundings in muddy water - modification of current leading to a vastly expanded kinesthetic sense.
In addition to passive visualization of the universe, Cube #347 felt itself bombarded by subspace clicks and whistles, turning ordinary FTL radio frequencies into a hash of static. Modified echolocation? Whatever the true reason for its utterance, the shear power behind the noise "rattled" energy grids and superstructure; and while abuse could not be bodily perceived, it was nonetheless causing minute but detectable atomic band resonation in the subspace bands. As the locating pulses turning into a directed rhythm, the EM field began to contract and expand purposefully, allowing one to imagine the syntax of a song...a mating song. The beacon had warned of a rut....
Cube #347 had made a mistake and now it was time to tactfully extricate itself from the situation. With all possible haste.
{Terminate it,} pronounced the calm voice of consensus from Captain.
Echoed Weapons gleefully, {Terminate it!}
{No! Don't hurt the big boy!} called Doctor. The protest was lost in the mental chaos focused on offense, his words having even less effect than that demonstrated during the formal consensus.
Ranks of already energized weapons acquired a lock. The Very Large Target floated unconcerned, continuing to emit the modulated subspace and EM static which was the sisquana mating song. Tentacles tens of kilometers long lazily waved in the light pressure of the solar wind as the body slowed, reflective sails furling. Deftly fending off Doctor's desperate bid of weapon control, Weapons ordered his hierarchy to fire.
A wavering subspace squeal replaced the song, a trilling note which rose high in the frequencies before descending into a wavering click to sound like an overworked Geiger counter. All 16 tentacles drew in towards the main body. Puffs of gas erupted along a row of orifices, spinning the plump body like a rotisserie chicken. Weapons paused the bombardment to allow the sensor grid to survey the damaged creature.
The sisquana was not hurt. Neither scars nor scores marred the central ovoid. More gas puffed from a second row of orifices, slowing the quickly rotating animal. Two sails unfurled just enough to catch the solar wind and completely halt rotation. Previously noisy, the sisquana was now silent. The wings were fully extended, held at a sharp angle to the sun and angled to reflect light on the cube.
{Oh-oh,} said Weapons. He recognized a threat display when one occurred, no matter what the species or circumstance.
{Sensors detects a [yellow squiggle] force field encircling the animal's body. It grew in volume as the sails were deployed, but does not include those tendrils which are now reaching beyond [infinite wood] borders. Sensors [hint of mint] the field is of organic origin, naturally evolved.} The reasoning was logical, as resistance to speeding molecules, dust particles, micrometeroids, and so forth is required beyond the atmosphere of a planet.
{Sensors can not completely [puce zipper] the strength of the shield because of its unusual origin, but it may be able to withstand any of our normal weapons. Sensors apologizes she did not see this [window] earlier, but Sensors was using standard grid configurations. The grid could not resolve shield signature under the electromagnetic and subspace [rain static].}
{Sensors!} rebuked Weapons. {How can I defend us from a battleship armada, much less a nonsentient animal, if tactical information is incomplete?}
A pessimistic voice spouted, {Armada? Hah! We would be dead if it was only /one/ battleship,} but withdrew before it could be traced.
Captain broke in, {Enough chatter. Initiate decision matrix cascade. Problem - what course of action shall we take? Possibilities - fight, retreat, square dance.} Pause. {1 of 8, do not abuse you Hierarchy of Eight access privileges.} Pause. {Reparameterization of possibilities - fight, retreat. Begin cascade.}
The bitter dispute ended as the sisquana came within 20 kilometers, its eight long tentacles arching forward to physically grapple the cube. The animal's silvered sails rippled with minute variances via unknown organic rigging; the epidermis flared bright brick red. Retreat, despite imploring from Weapons that his hierarchy would be successful (if the sensory hierarchy provided relevant data in a timely manner, not two seconds after the fact), was the final decision. Idling engines throttled up.
And immediately began to whine in a manner comparable to revving an engine without taking the vehicle out of neutral. A proper deflector shield, a necessary requirement to move at speeds above that attainable by thrusters, collapsed at each initiation. While it was a simple task for four thousand bodies as much silicon as organic to engage impulse or warp-flavored engines without the protection of the deflectors, it was also suicidal. As speeds approached a useful fraction of c, the abrasion of inert gasses eroded the most impervious of duralloys; a single electron at supralight speeds disintegrated any vessel. The chance of surviving a short plunge into transwarp (or any other mode of transit) was infinitesimal, and Cube #347 had never been known for its luck when it came to gambling on odds pertaining to /good/ outcomes.
What follows was less conversation than diagnostics given words-
Captain: {What is wrong. Engineering, answer.}
Delta: {Unknown external interference affecting stability of deflector fields.}
Sensors: {Sensors detects [lime cat Louie Louie].}
Captain/Delta: {Repeat?}
Sensors (slowly, as if explaining quantum physics to a young child not of her species): {Sensors detects interference originates from the animal. Its electromagnetic [turkey] is feeding from our deflector [pillow], draining the latter's power. The effect appears to be deliberate, not a [smell of black pepper] coincidence].}
Delta: {We must move beyond the influence of the sisquana to use our primary drives.}
Sub-collective: <<Agreed.>>
Thrusters lit along one face, thus beginning, to an exterior observer accustomed to high speed stern chases, a snail race. Cube #347 crept away from the sisquana, using a prohibitive amount of reaction mass to overcome stationary inertia. Unfortunately, not only did the space-faring creature have the advantage with already deployed solar sails and a form evolved for its unique environment, but its feeding tentacles gave it a very long reach. The superstructure of the Borg cube rang like a struck bell as the heavy tendrils twined around the new toy. The sail rippled in preparation to tack upstream to the center of the male's territory, newly acquired female in tow.
The prize had to be brought securely into the harem, no matter how hard she struggled.
*****
The capturing of the intruder by male 18 went as predicted. Just like the smuggler, weapons were first employed. Futile, of course. An animal able to skim the plasma surface of a star or forage deep within a gas giant for food is not going to notice a few phasers or torpedoes. Sure, a large enough explosive will pulp anything, but few vessels, unless it is a dedicated planet-killer, have the necessary munitions in immediate stock.
A male sisquana must capture a female, and thus has two methods to bring her within grasping range. One, he can eclipse the solar wind with his sails, a technique often associated with aquatic sailboat regattas. However, a sisquana may still move by using EM repulsion, i.e. surfing the magnetic fields. The second form of transportation is most effective when near the solar primary or within the gravity well of the local gas giants, but is still useful in tenacious situations. The male sisquana can envelope the female with his EM field, thus preventing her movement. Unfortunately, the same technique generally renders deflector technology useless.
Fight option exhausted, flight for the intruder was the only recourse. It did not work. Again, I note in my log male 18 is proceeding as he did with the smuggler ship. And again, when male 18 eventually tries to force his...attentions on the cube, the outcome will also be similar.
*****
Cube #347 sat amid a cloud of beacons, all screaming the same ineffectual warning. Hovering always less than 100 kilometers distant, and usually within 30 for gentle "love taps" capable of rattling the entire ship, the sisquana loomed. Occasionally it directed streams of echolocation clicks towards the cube (one wondered what went through its deranged brain for the ship did not resemble a mate), but mostly the animal crooned its song of love. Cube #347 was very much trapped.
{Partition #183, provide results of brainstorm,} wearily directed Captain. The sub-collective had been divided into several hundred partitions, all tasked in parallel to provide ideas of escape.
21 of 42 confidently said, {We wait for a pinpoint blackhole to spontaneously form in the middle of the sisquana.}
Captain groaned, {Two things are problematic with the solution provided by you, partition #183. First, the odds verge upon the infinite that such a possibility will occur. Second, that ideas has been voiced not once, not twice, but four previous times. We need /new/ ideas, ones which can be implicated and controlled by us, not dependent upon random chance.}
On the other side of the system, blocked from sensor view by the brilliant primary, a miniature blackhole popped into existence, swallowing a courting male sisquana, much to the disappointment of the wooed female. Then, as abruptly as it had formed, it evaporated. A male in a neighboring territory gave the sisquana equivalent of "What's a nice girl like you doing in an asteroid belt like this?" as he coyly sailed out to capture the female and add her to his growing harem.
{Partition #184, provide results of brainstorm.}
{We tranquilize the animal using [visual display of 3-D chemical structure], then move outside of its EM field and leave the system,} cheerily said Doctor. {The poor, misguided boy will not get boo-boos, and the sedative in question has a possible psychotrophic effect which may realign his confused state to one of more normal tendencies.}
Protested 67 of 152, 155 of 203, and 197 of 203, all members of Doctor's partition, {It wasn't our idea. We were leaning towards the blackhole option until you dismissed it from relevance. Doctor's notion was the remaining fruit of our session.}
Second abandoned his queries of partitions, interest piqued, {That is a very detailed compound, Doctor. How do you know it works?}
{I know,} stated Doctor, {because I was a vet. Am a vet. The Greater Consciousness has left me with many pre-assimilation memories as they are integral to my medical specialty performance. To purge the data, to empty the litter box, would lower my efficiency.} Doctor paused. Incredulous silence permeated the dataspaces. Doctor continued. {I have examined scans of the sisquana-boy and determined it is alike to an injured creature identified by its papa as slor. It was brought to the Seff Veterinary School while I was a fifth year intern. My advanced spatial fauna class was chosen to patchy-uppity the patient.}
{Fine, fine, fine,} began Captain, but it was too late: Doctor had initiated a memory dump of associated files into the dataspaces.
"I wonder where they got it? What do you think, Jas?" asked Plent, nose twitching at the display. His rodentlike self leaned eagerly forward in the workstation's chair, eyes intently focused on the exterior camera shot. While my companion's short body fur had been neatly groomed for firstmeal, it was now being systematically mussed by his vest and shorts, his chair, himself as he ignored the species-urge to comb it straight. Of course, I was not in much better condition myself.
I stared at the monitor, pitched unconsciously forward from the stool I had dragged over, taking in the immense size of the creature. Tentacle tip to tentacle tip it was longer than gas harvester siphons working the atmospheres of Swirl and Whirl. "It belongs to a circus, Plent. Who knows where the circusmaster found it. Our job is to succor it."
Plent wrinkled his muzzle, rolling the eye nearest to me. "You are all work, Jas. You are about as anal as a Borg sometimes."
"Pleeeese," whined Gili from another, less crowded workstation, "I don't want to hear about the Borg. Let them drift around in the interstellar wastes, just as long as they don't come here."
Plent answered, "Don't worry, Gili. They've always ignored us. No reason why that would change after two centuries."
"Enough chatter," called Vet Master Larcos from his position at the stylus board installed on the front bulkhead of the room. He rapped the railing which separated the student commons from the instructor/speaker space with his pointer. VM Larcos was famous for his meter length graphite ruler, of which he was not shy of banging on the desk or chair of a dozing student. "We have work to do. The College has been contracted to assist this creature. The animal is called a slor. The slor's trainer has transferred relevant physiological information. We, or rather this class, must determine how to calm it long enough to concretely diagnose and, if possible, heal it."
I quickly claimed one of the fifteen workstations lining the room's walls; one for each student of my class. The room was the nerve center for a series of labs located along the central spinal axis decks of the Seff Veterinary College research ship Wild Thing. Although we would all be required eventually to learn all data pertaining to the slor, my initial assignment was anatomy.
{This is a waste of time,} muttered Delta, voicing general opinion. {Pointless.}
Doctor replied, {The slor my classmates and I saw was exactly the same as the sisquana which is playing with us like a chew-chew toy, only it was female. It is unknown how the circus acquired a specimen, or how only the animal may have been. This file is very relevant, I think.}
The symptoms the trainer, and thus the circusmaster, were worried about centered on the slor's loss of appetite. It normally ate five tons of processed organic matter a day; i.e. giant flakes of fish food. Additional salts and minerals were provided in the form of a one tone nickel-iron asteroid and two ton comet every 30 diurnal cycles as measured by the main circus vessel. The slor, Behemoth by name, had refused any food for the last fifteen days, ever since a freak accident involving a thrill-seeker. The intruder had managed to creep past Behemoth's natural shields while the circus was in orbit at the terrestrial colony moon of Whirl. Mr. Thrill-seeker's hopper had crashed into the slor's epidermis when the slor had panicked and flared her personal EM fields, terminally scrambling the shuttle's computer. And the thrill-seeker.
No matter how many treats the trainer waved around, no matter how many electric "corrective training" shocks received from a generator embedded in a sensitive nerve, Behemoth refused to allow anyone or anything to approach within five kilometers of her main body. The circus vet was unable to inspect the damage, which was theorized to be linked to the slor's refusal to eat. The circusmaster had become understandably concerned one of his star attractions might die, and so brought the convoy to Seff and its renown vet school.
"Well, what does the trainer normally do if himself or the vet need to move in close?" asked Lyr. The class was in a discussion circle with their VM silently watching, evaluating. For many students, myself included, this class was the final one before the grueling certification process.
Gili clicked her incisors sharply together, emphasizing her right to speak with an ear-flick. "It is the same as with any large animal, Lyr, such as a zoo-bound zyph. It responds to ingrained commands in return for a reward. Bad trainers use pain to punish wrong actions, but bad trainers usually end up under a zyph foot. There is no way, short of death, to control a rampaging zyph should one decide it no longer wants to follow commands."
I laugh, "Well, this slor is definitely no zyph, not unless you propose to blow one up like a balloon and make a few major cosmetic alterations. She still does follow her trainer's commands; however, approach within five kilometers is suicidal. A robot might be able to go fast enough to penetrate her defenses, but it would also be moving too fast for a remote diagnosis."
"Agreed," said Plent. "Sedation is definitely necessary. She has circulatory fluids inside and is thus susceptible to tranquilizers...if we can find the right type and amount without killing her. We only have one specimen to work with."
VM Larcos began to tap his pointer against the floor. The fifteen students eyed each other with nearly telepathic understanding: they were on the right track, but missing something obvious.
Plent nervously groomed the fur of his left forearm with the opposite hand. "Um...we need samples before we can proceed. Maybe...maybe a robotic probe can penetrate the skin of Behemoth..."
"...and we can get samples that way!" I concluded. "In fact, the anatomy charts indicate much of her interior are airbags surrounded by a water medium. Miniature areo and aqua sampler robots from Survey, if we can obtain them, might be operable. We could /explore/ the slor's insides!"
"An autonomous chemical factor," spouted Gili excitedly, "clamped to an artery. Think about it. We obtain blood and tissue samples to manipulate and model directly; signals are sent to the factory to produce small amounts of chemicals, relative to body size. A downstream sampler monitors interior changes to the slor while we shoot disposable probes past to monitor exterior reactions, or lack thereof."
I chuckle. "The size of our patient, all those macromachines will be as nanoprobes are to Borg."
VM Larcos' tapping had stopped. We all basked in the silent praise and congratulations which embodied the Master's simple cessation of the gesture.
{Pointless!}
{Stupid!}
"Add a carboxyl group there. And a methanol at the C3 position. Also, cleave the third phosphate group in quadrant two of the current visual field," ordered Lous to the computer. He had been employed in the chemical research and development industries before leaving to pursue his dream of becoming a vet. Therefore, Lous had the most experience using molecule modeling software and developing virtual compounds.
"Student Lous, why did you remove that phosphate group?" asked VM Larcos.
Lous was also the eldest student in the class and had spent much of his previous career justifying laboratory decisions. He answered in a casual tone which I had yet to achieve with any VM, "Homeostasis model output from Student Gili indicates phosphate sensitivity, projected allergic response to be proportionally greater with number of phosphate groups in the compound. The phosphate removed is redundant: it serves no overall functionality nor conformity purpose. Ergo, I deleted it from the proposed molecule."
"And what shall it be replaced with, Student Lous?"
"I do not know yet, Master Larcos."
"Adequate answer, Student Lous."
"Thank you, sir."
I was amazed. VM Larcos rarely gave verbal approval, even the grudging example Lous had just received. As the VM moved away from the common workstation to a singular module with classmate cursing at the screen, Lous flicked an ear my way. Smug bastard. And rightfully so. He was on the way to becoming an excellent veterinary pharmacist researcher.
Gili completed biological iteration models of the most recent of Lous' creations. "By Tilah! This compound has a much higher compatibility quotient, but is still too acidic."
We all went back to work.
{Yippee. Can we desist with this irrelevant memory file?}
"Releasing test compound #7," called Plent from his station. He was monitoring the machinery currently within Behemoth. Although our massive patient was several thousand kilometers distant from Wild Thing, the technology borrowed from Survey made the proceedings seem as immediate as having the subject on the lab bench. My job was to monitor the bloodstream for the appearance of toxins. "Increasing dosage."
"Stop!" I shouted. "Anomalous molecular structure emerging from the organ that looks like a squashed fish. The, um, primary liver analogue." I tapped a few buttons on my console, ordering the probe (a device usually employed in cataloguing complex chemical output from certain biotechnology manufactories) to relay the unknown molecule's structure.
Routine had emerged. The factory would manufacture one of Lous' possible sedatives, then feed it into the slor's circulation system. Various probes near key organs monitored blood analogue for the appearance of chemicals different from the baseline profile thus far gathered. After each appearance, the factory would be idled and the unknown carefully analyzed to determine if it was a toxin, or a relatively harmless derivative of our introduced drug. If the former, molecular dissection pinpointed toxin-causing structures and the compound was appropriately modified to lessen allergic response. Finally a new iteration of the drug was prepared for injection. Overall, the complete cycle required hours of intensive work, and this was already our second day of clinical trials.
Gili said, "I have the structure. Beginning virtual breakdown and bioresponse modeling."
Test compound #17, a complex skeleton of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, phosphorous, sulfur, potassium, and other elements twisted into a ball with two prongs rising from the equator. It was significantly different from test compound #1, which had resembled a floor lamp with a very long extension cord. Lous curtly ordered the computer to spin the 3-D holographic display of the compound #17.
"This is what we propose to use," I nervously told VM Larcos. Personally, I wished Lous was in my place, but I had drawn short straw to be spokesman for the class. "It fits all parameters of toxicity and function. We pumped just enough of the compound into the patient to observe a deadening of reflex, but refrained from full sedation. Computer models indicate a higher dose will adequately work as the client desires. We are ready to proceed at the client's discretion."
"Side effects, Student Jas?"
"Probes have found several unusual compounds similar to mood-altering drug derivatives employed by many local sentient species, including our own. Physiologically it is unknown if the compound will have any effect on the patient."
VM Larcos' ears raised in surprise. He tapped a finger against an incisor in thought. "So, this class may have devised a slor sedative...with possible psychotrophic effects found in black-market drugs."
"Um, yes Master."
"Oh well," dismissed VM Larcos with a wave of his pointer, "it can't be helped. We aren't a pharmaceutical company, and this project needs to be done before the spring session ends. I'll explain possible dangers of excessive euphoria, anger, hallucinations, and so forth to the parties involved and see if they want to proceed." The VM paused. "In general, you, Jas, need to work on your speaking skills. Dazzle the audience with technobabble which only another vet will understand; never demean your profession by resorting to lesser words, or gods forbid, baby talk. Overall, the class has performed well."
My ears had drooped at the criticism, but perked up again with the praise. Hopefully the circusmaster and trainer would agree to allow the operation to continue.
{Enough!} said Captain. His consciousness flickered through the dataspaces, deftly leading the effort to terminate Doctor's flashback. {This digression is not bringing us close to a solution. Delta, replicate the compound. Weapons, prime a series of probes to use in delivery of the payload; use the same techniques outlined in Doctor's memory file to achieve successful insertion.}
Weapons smugly replied, {Yes, and once the animal is sedated we can blow it up.}
{No,} reminded Captain, {then we can leave. That decision was the most recent consensus, and it remains in effect.} A mid-level compulsion sequence blanketed the neural patterns of the weapon hierarchy, Weapons in particular.
Doctor pinged for attention, {Do you not want to know the outcome? The side effects? The ouchie Behemoth had acquired?}
{No,} was the general consensus, provided from multiple signatures.
{We may be terminated before the sedative takes effect,} noted Doctor in an offhand manner.
Alarm coursed through the sub-collective, jumping from drone to drone like bad gossip (only not quite as fast). Captain and Second scrambled to dampen and purge the irrelevant emotion. Finally Captain demanded, {Explain.}
{Without the memory dump,} added Second.
Doctor deactivated the neural pathways he had begun to stimulate, suffering a momentary hallucination of ghostly sisquanas, a graphite ruler, and the cheerful visage of a long deceased classmate once known as Plent. Data was instead reorganized, reordered, and summarized into an acceptable, if boring, format. {Before the sedative took full effect, the poor girl went into a flailing fit, decimating several satellites, two of the circus convoy ships, and in general disrupting traffic patterns. Bad girl. Bite her vets.}
Doctor inserted a brief clip of 16 tentacles waving in jerky earnest, slapping at unknown EM hallucination 30 kilometers from her body. Four of the long tendrils wrapped around the wallowing shape of a circus freighter, lugging it close to the shorter manipulatory organs. The latter swiftly tore the ship apart like a roast turkey at Thanksgiving. Debris floated in a broad cloud while the central body rotated in a chaotic tumble, all four sails extended at differing degrees of fullness. The clip dissolved, faded from general sub-collective data access.
The sub-collective deliberated. They were not going anywhere fast. There was always a possibility the sisquana would become apathetic when the cube did not respond properly to his advances. Internal boredom factor would rise in the mean time, but it /had/ to be apparent the cube was not a potential mate. The rut could not last forever.
The animal's song suddenly changed, cadence altering into a staccato beat throbbing in the aural equivalent of a fractual pattern. At 83 kilometers distant, the epidermis of the male began to pulsate in vibrant red and orange streaks; the colors extended to the fully unfurled sails, turning them into four rosy stained glass windows. The entire demeanor was suddenly...aggressively seductive. At least it was probably seductive to a sisquana of the female persuasion.
{Sedative!} ordered Captain frantically. {Sedative, now! No arguing!}
*****
With rut in full swing and the reverberations of EM pheromone analogues on the solar winds, male and female sisquanas are in full mating activity. The first fertilized females are swinging towards their Jovian nursery grounds where they will release their spawn into the plankton rich atmosphere of the gas giants. Unfortunately, only 1 of 10,000 podlings will survive to emerge from the rearing area to space; and of those, only 1 in 20 will dodge voracious predators to achieve breeding size. The species continues to slowly build its numbers to pre-Preserve populations, but it may require another century of diligent protection from poachers before the sisquanas can be deemed recovered. At any rate, the most current rut will soon be over and I will be able to get out of this blind.
Concerning male 18, he /may/ have a change of heart, or at least temper his attractions to appropriate partners in future ruts. When the infamous male began the final courting sequence, I sincerely believed the violent act of consummation would leave behind a similar mess to the doomed smuggler ship of last rut. Somehow the unknown cube escaped without outward permanent harm to male 18 (not that, I suspect, the Department could have recovered levied fines due to biota damage). I have appended a video file to the log showing remote observations, but I also feel the need to relate occurrences in my own voice.
The alien vessel shot a series of probes towards male 18, the first several of which shattered against the sisquana's shields. I am unsure how many actually survived, nor do I know how shields were circumvented, but at least two, if not more, delivered a payload. The payload must have been a chemical compound, perhaps an irritant more potent that the paint sprayed on the warning beacons, for male 18 aborted his courtship and began flailing as if a pack of jugills were approaching. After several minutes enduring punishment both physical and EM, the cube slipped away on thrusters. By this time the male was as passive as my aunt after someone slips her a sedative to slow her down.
What a way to say "No." When male 18 regained full awareness, the intruder was long gone, engaging an unusual drive once it reached a point where deflectors reliably held. Poor male 18. He spent the next several hours calling for the "mate" which had deserted his nonexistent harem.
Anyway, the rut is nearly done and I'll be very happy to exit the blind. And get a decent shower. And decent food. And decent entertainment. And the list goes on.
Of other significant instances to report, female 27 was killed when....
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