Star Trek is owned by Paramount. Decker created Star Traks. Meneks writes BorgSpace. Apologies to author Terry Pratchett as Discworld is temporarily co-opted; I'll return it unbroken, I promise. *Crash!* *Tinkle*tinkle* Oops. The Turtle Moves The Turtle moves. The Great A'tuin, the Great Star Turtle, swims through the darkness of interstellar space. Ten thousand miles long, the frozen dew of dead comets dust its shell, small meteoroid craters pockmark scales harder than dense packed steel. Black eyes in giant head are conduits to infinity, one particular cluster of stars forever held in a lidless gaze. If A'tuin knows why it travels towards such a destination, it is silent on the matter, devoting limitless energy on the slow trek. Standing on the back of the Great Turtle are four massive elephants. Like their bearer, they are eternal, impervious to the forces which affect every other living thing exposed to the rigors of space. Legs mightier than any tree forever stand stoic on A'tuin's shell. The elephants are also literally thick-skinned, able to withstand the enormous friction burn of the disc which slowly rotates on their backs. Liberal applications of oil and aloe helps as well. Surmounting the elephants, the Turtle, is the Discworld itself. An impossibility one might believe in a universe of stony balls with thin layers of atmosphere and the occasional living scum. However, a Creator can only stand to make so many planets before He goes totally wonky. Therefore, the Discworld was a relaxing hobby to pursue before Management returned to examine the Universe in progress, a mild amusement using the more imaginative bits and pieces contracting parties frowned upon in this particular cosmic construct. Disregarding the multiple laws of physics Discworld blatantly flaunted(1), it was a wonder to behold. A giant flat disk, hence the name, Discworld was home to mountains, deserts, oceans, continents, and even rutabagas, all the normal terrain. The sun was a small ball of gas(2) which daily arced over the disc before sinking below the rim, spending night hours dodging elephant legs in order to arrive at its morning starting point. On the disk itself was an astounding collection of beings, from humans to trolls, zombies to werewolves. Gods skulked on the sidelines, content to live in the rim mountains, occasionally tossing thunderbolts at newly declared atheists (a popular method of suicide) or playing games with Fate, often with rules missing and only half the pieces in the box. Anthropomorphic personifications strode through the unshadows, spectres of Death, Hogfather, Tooth Fairy, and Old Man Trouble both insubstantial yet terribly, horribly real. This, however, is not the story of the Discworld itself, merely several of the creatures which called it home, as well as 4000 which do not. This is the story of wizards of an Unseen University, a wizzard, Luggage, and clockwork men with tiny demons in their blood. Death plays a small part, but he is present solely to make profound observations upon the wonderful and absurd process of living. The occasional turnip is included as comic relief. The Great A'tuin would have blinked had it been able. One could easily imagine giant lids crashing over negative albedo eyes, surprise reflected in unfathomable depths. Here it had been, swimming as for millennia, traveling between two points of which only it had knowledge. Suddenly the universe shimmered, shivered, shimmied, replacing familiar constellations with new. No matter. Patience quickly replaced surprise, fortitude with a bit of stubborn mulishness, mixed with resignation as the Great A'tuin mentally placed the blame square where it belonged. All would be fixed soon enough; a tiny whisper of precognitive ability came in the package deal to literally carry the weight of the world on your back. The Turtle had definitely Moved. * * * * * "You idiot!" screamed Mustrum Ridcully, wizard and Archchancellor of the Unseen University in Ankh-Morpork. "You are supposed to skip two times around the candle, then drop three newt eyes in the potion, not three times around and two eyes!" The Dean stared down at his feet, or at least where his feet would have been had he been able to see them beneath the healthy bulge which was his belly(3). "Sorry," he mumbled. He vaguely thought of the good old days when archchancellors wouldn't dare raise their voices to the many wizards coveting the position, the action not conducive to a long tenure. Ridcully had put an end to all staff squabbles and assassinations via ungentle application of his unnaturally (for a wizard) muscled bulk and well aimed crossbows. Then the Dean remembered those same good old days would have him looking over his shoulder day and night for faculty desiring /his/ spot. Ridcully stabbed his finger in the large book precariously set on a table between bottles of wizardry supplies and mugs of medicinal ale. "It specifically says right here in the 53rd step: 'Thee caster shall dance lightly upon his feet twice about the taper before sprinkling three eye of newt into a simmering cauldron of bronze.'" The Archchancellor wrinkled his nose, "And you weren't exactly light on your feet." A snicker sounded from another portly man, dressed similarly to the other wizards in the large room with the standard robe and pointy hat ensemble. "The Dean isn't exactly a light man," observed the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Snapped Ridcully, "Who was it that misplaced the cauldron? Who was it that eventually returned with that, that thing?" The accusing finger now pointed at the vat, which was actually a large cooking pot snuck out of the kitchens while the cook was not looking. One of the good pots as well, made of a new dwarf substance called No-Stickum Sterling. If she found out, there would be seven kinds of misery to pay. The last wizard in her domain without permission had been threatened via a large butcher knife and a meat pastry shell. The Lecturer in Recent Runes gulped, his face blanching. He started to stammer a reply, but Ridcully cut him off with a brusque hand wave. "Never mind. That was the last step, but the spell obviously didn't work. Looks like that wart on Ponder's pinkie will never be removed at this rate." Ponder Stibbons, the object under discussion, if anything looked relieved. Unlike the other wizards present, his robe had a small pocket with pocket protector accessory. Also unlike other wizards present, he cultivated a good relationship with his graduate students and was actually somewhat in touch with the real world outside University walls. The rest of the faculty thought him a bit loony, probably as a result of the odd work he did in the High Energy Magic Building. "Um, perhaps I can go see Mr. Modo now? He has quite a good wart remover I hear." Mr. Modo was the University groundskeeper, a dwarf who knew his roses, as well as the fifteen ways to keep slavering monsters from the Dungeon Dimensions out of the daffodil beds. "Nonsense," dismissed the Archchancellor, "we take care of our own. Zhigavif's Wart Remover will work, just give it a chance. We'll try again after this brew has cooled down. And after we figure out what we made. Runes...you have any idea?" The Lecturer in Recent Runes looked down at the notes he had been keeping concerning the spell "substitutions" performed, trying to read between accidentally spilled splotches of beer. Next he looked in the spellbook troubleshooting tree, quickly tracing along branching questions such as "Yes or No: Did the solution turn green and burst into flame?" Finally he said, "Page 541, looks like." Ridcully thumbed open the book to the indicated page, swiftly reading the spell's description. "Oh-oh," he slowly exclaimed. "Well, that would explain that dizzy moment we all had when the newt eyes splashed in." "What, what?" murmured from the mouths of the various wizards in the room - the main dining hall after dinner - as they gravitated closer. The owners of the pointy hat forest elbowed each other as they tried to read the words. The Senior Wrangler had his foot rudely stepped on by the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Using his bearish bulk and liberal application of his staff, Ridcully pushed everyone away. "Give me some room. Seems the spell we cast was not a wart remover, but Zhigavif's World Remover. Simple enough switch." Ponder frowned. He had not joined the throng around the book. "I don't remember coming across that spell before. What does it do?" Ridcully grumbled as he finished the abstract. "Seems we've moved Discworld into another universe. Go fig. And it was all Dean's fault with the wrong twirling and newt eyeing." The Lecturer in Recent Runes was a bit more agitated than the other wizards(4), "Well, can we get back to the right place? Before someone notices and tries to blame the whole thing on us, instead of the Dean where it rightfully belongs." "Hey," protested the Dean, "you didn't bring the right pot. That has to count." Wizards began taking sides, bickering a favorite faculty activity, besides eating. Bellowed the Archchancellor, "That will be quite enough! The antidote can be found in 'Chapman's How To Reverse All Spells and Make a Great Soup Besides.' If someone will go to the Library and get it, that will make life a bit easier." Ponder looked around, then dashed out himself. He was on better terms with the Librarian than most of the other staff, and he could make a sidetrip to see Mr. Modo at the same time. Ridcully continued, "And the rest of us, let's start scrying, see what this universe contains. Might as well get some use out of the Dean's mistake before we return Discworld." The Dean's lone "Hey" was lost amid the excited rustling of wizards searching for their favorite crystal balls. * * * * * The unusual gravity anomaly caught Sensors' attention. The cube was in transwarp, crossing an unusually empty portion of interstellar space. Little tended to occur in the gulf between stars, and thus the odd fluctuation from gravity sensors sampling the Einsteinian universe was not expected. Unfortunately, Sensors had less than a minute to profile the anomaly before the cube passed the spatial coordinates. The silhouette which emerged was very, very disturbing. {Sensors requests return to coordinates just transversed. There was a turtle back there. A turtle with a flat disc on its shell. Maybe elephants too. Sensors wants a closer look.} She appended the petition to command and control with the a gravitonic-based sketch. If one squinted, there was a certain turtleness to the picture. Captain squinted mentally, rotating the three dimensional doodle. {Illogical. There are no space-faring turtles. Especially none of this size.} Rough estimate placed the anomaly over 15,000 kilometers long. Except for the fact algorithms insisted Sensors' speech had been interpreted truthfully, turtles and all, Captain would normally believe something untranslatable had been uttered. Sensors wheedled, {We have been [jumping] for a long time. Two weeks! This is first difference Sensors has seen in the nothingness. Let us investigate; such an oddity may be new technology for the Collective.} Pit stops were never motivated by sheer abstract need to explore. Concepts such as the satisfaction gained through climbing the hill to see what there was to see were irrelevant. {Consensus cascade initiate,} intoned Captain. The decision matrix returned positive. The cube, a darkness obscuring background stars, momentarily exited a conduit before reentering on a new transwarp vector. The ship would return to the anomaly in less than 10 minutes. {By the Directors, Holy Twins, and Beetles,} swore Captain, unconscious of the irrelevant references he evoked as collective disbelief welled within the dataspaces, {it /is/ a turtle.} {And elephants, and disc,} added Sensors. {A sun as well, if a bit puny. Class M planet biosphere on the disc.} {Blow it all up!} demanded Weapons. Fortunately he was all bark and no bite, munitions already restricted. The turtle confidently swam through space, legs slowly stroking as if the medium was water, not hard vacuum. One eye, much larger than a Cargo-class cube, flickered with annoyance as a probe flew past; it was an eye which said "Get in my way and I'll run you down(5)." The elephants on the turtle's shell ignored everything, trunks held relaxed, although one animal appeared to be caught in a slow motion application of an unknown substance to its back. However, it was the disc itself which evoked the most wonder, awe, surprise. The disc was an impossibility, plain and simple, yet there it was causing friction burns to the thick hide of enormous pachyderms. A primitive civilization's rendition of the world made into reality, the world was a planet squashed flat, yet retaining essential planetness. Spectral analysis indicated a breathable atmosphere and plentiful liquid water(6), as well as the footprint molecules of a pre-Industrial Revolution civilization. Visual observations confirmed the presence of a moderate humanoid population. The sensor grid also hinted of additional anomalous energy signatures of a type not seen before, as if the standard visual spectrum had managed to acquire a new color just over the rainbow of violet; however, as the whole situation was more than a little strange, one extra anomaly did not register high on the "To Investigate" priority list. The sub-collective was at a loss, as was the Collective when it was consulted for direction. With the most extensive databases in the galaxy, information stripped from over ten thousand races, a novel situation was, well, novel. No protocols existed as to how to proceed. Therefore, the Greater Consciousness took the back seat, allowing Cube #347 to rise to success or fall to destruction on its own. The sub-collective decided to utilize protocols of pre-space flight examination. The turtle and elephant would be ignored, the disc shaped world treated as if it were of the standard globular variety(7). Therefore, all which remained was to capture biological samples for dissection and species classification, followed by formal technology rating. The Collective would siphon the data into the Greater Consciousness to run scenarios on technological progress, estimating time to warp capability, at which point assimilation would possibly be acceptable. Unlike most worlds, when Cube #347 left, a beacon would remain behind to track the turtle's movement; traditional stellar cartography was pointless when the "planet" was not associated with a star. Captain felt someone tap his shoulder. SAY, said a Voice, capital letters seeping into the drone's mind in a manner unlike normal Borg communication, YOU HAVEN'T SEEN A MAN AROUND HERE, HAVE YOU? FUNNY FELLOW, NAME IS RINCEWIND. DRESSES IN ROBES WITH A POINTY HAT READING 'WIZZARD' ON IT. OH YES, THERE IS A SET OF LUGGAGE FOLLOWING HIM. I SEEM TO HAVE LOST TRACK OF HIM DOWN BELOW, AND THIS LOOKED LIKE THE BEST PLACE TO CHECK. Captain carefully turned to face the owner of the Voice. A human skeleton 210 centimeters(8) tall stood in front of a bored looking horse. Black robes wrapped the skeleton, except for the head where a cowl was thrown back. One bony hand lightly grasped a very sharp scythe, sharp enough to slice souls from bodies. The infinite depths of the skull's eyesockets reflected the merest shimmering of an impossible blue. Unfleshed hand reached into the robe, withdrawing an odd hourglass. Loops and twists ran in a Mobius clockwise manner between upper and lower hemispheres; one suspected a few turns detoured through alternate realities. The impression of sand running through the contorted pinch was intense, the feeling of life being measured by an impartial arbitrator. HIS LIFETIMER WENT WONKY ON ME AGAIN. I HAVE NEVER SEEN A HUMAN ABLE TO DISTORT A TIMER SO. The Voice sounded distinctly exasperated. THEREFORE I THOUGHT I'D BETTER CHECK ON HIM. I HAVE TO BE THERE WHEN HE FINALLY DIES, IF ONLY BECAUSE I CAN NO LONGER TELL WHEN HIS FINAL MOMENT IS DUE. The skeleton paused. ALTHOUGH, IF YOU DO SEE RINCEWIND, DON'T TELL HIM I SAID SO. LETTING MORTALS KNOW DEATH IS NOT QUITE AS OMNISCIENT AS HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE IS BAD FOR BUSINESS. Captain did not know how to reply to the confrontation. The personification of a human version of Death was mind-numbing. Neural diagnostics were initiated in the Borg equivalent of staring jaw agape, which Captain was performing as well. Programs returned null problems among either hardware or software. As if to reinforce warped reality, the horse's tail twitched in preparation of lifting. BINKY, DON'T YOU DARE. WAIT UNTIL WE RETURN HOME. "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile," Captain enunciated as he retreated to programming. Unfortunately the awing effect was lost due to omission to turn on internal speakers with multivoice. For some reason, Captain doubted Death would be cowed even if faced with the totality of the Borg Collective. WE? asked Death in confusion, head swiveling around to look for other drones. WHO IS THIS WE? AND I'M DEATH, SO NATURALLY RESISTANCE IS FUTILE. IT IS PART OF MY CONTRACT. Death absently turned to rummage in the saddlebag situated on Binky's near flank. Another hourglass was lifted into the light, odd metallic bits grafted here and there, although not nearly as outlandish as the previous example. AH. I SEE. YOU ARE THE ONE CALLED 4 OF 8. I WAS WONDERING FROM WHERE ALL THE NEW LIFETIMERS APPEARED WHEN I WENT TO RETRIEVE RINCEWIND'S. The conversation may have continued from there, except an intruder alert had arisen in subsection 16, submatrix 14. 252 of 480 had found an oddly dressed man - robes with a pointed "Wizzard" hat - delving in a large steamer trunk. The human had swiftly run, accelerating at a high velocity. The luggage subsequently exuded countless leg from its base and galloped after the man; 252 of 480 had nearly met an unfortunate end by standing in the path of the ambulatory luggage. The impression of teeth remained very strong. Death cocked his head. AH, THAT WILL BE RINCEWIND. He looked a final time at the half-assimilated lifetimer, put the hourglass away, then mounted the horse. WE'LL BE MEETING AGAIN. Horse and skeleton leisurely trotted through a solid bulkhead in the direction of subsection 16. The viewscreen suddenly brightened from screensaver mode without command directive. Captain internally groaned. Death and a human intruder are on the cube, and now mechanical problems? He swiftly set a trace on the disruption, fully expecting to find a drone crewmember at the root of the situation. However, the computer reported the screen to remain in low power mode. Captain watched an image form on the display. A human face with beard and bushy eyebrows squinted from the screen, tapering hat disappearing off screen. "I think the reception is clearing up," he said, "but it could be a bit better. Dean, move your left arm a bit higher. Senior Wrangler, tilt the tin foil more. And someone make sure the Bursar has taken his dried frog pills." The man smiled. "Yes, much better." A voice from the distant right: "Turn the crystal ball this way. I want to see!" "You'll just have to wait," snapped the man, "unless you can find someone else to hold the broom, Recent Runes." Captain was rewarded with another squint. "Oh dear, this picture can't be right. The fellow on the other end looks like he was in a cart accident and was fixed up by Ponders'" shudder "students." Obviously the observation was no deterrent, as the human cleared his throat to begin a well rehearsed speech. "Hello human, dwarf, troll, vampire, werewolf, zombie, god or goddess, demon, and/or other entity not named. I am Wizard Ridcully, Archchancellor of the Unseen University in Ankh-Morpork. Can you tell us where we are? We performed a World Remover spell instead of Wart Remover - wholly by accident, mind you - and if we knew what universe we are in, returning Discworld would be quite a bit easier. So, can you help us out here?" Ridcully grinned a toothsome smile. "Ask him!" shouted from the left. "I will not, Senior Wrangler. It is not dignified." retorted the wizard. "Come on, ask him. How often will we get the chance to ask outside of an incursion of demons from the Dungeon Dimensions." "That happens every time /someone/," Ridcully coughed a word sounding like Dean, "forgets to close that little door in the basement. It has turned into a weekly tradition as of late." "Not my fault!" squeaked a new voice. "Runes was down there last!" "Enough!" roared Ridcully. "Fine. I'll ask. Mister and/or misses human, dwarf, troll, vampire, werewolf, zombie, god or goddess, demon, and/or other entity not named," sullen pause, "take me to your leader." Captain sighed. Sometimes it did not pay to get out of the alcove in the subjective morning. * * * * * Rincewind sighed. Sometimes it did not pay to get out of bed in the morning. Well, in his case it was a rather hard pallet complete with slightly musty wool blanket. He had recently found a quiet, out of the way hermit cave in the Ramtops, deciding such a solitary location meant relaxation and the chance to resew the "Wizzard" on his hat. Rincewind vaguely wondered what had occurred to the previous occupant as most of the traditional hermitting accouterments remained in the cave(9), but knew desiring the truth just might evoke it. Truth often came equipped with bad breath, sharp claws, long teeth, and an appetite. After digging through the Luggage - a large steamer trunk made of sapient pearwood with the unique ability to follow its owner anywhere - on the futile search for a needle, Rincewind subsequently began to poke around the cave. The hermit had been quite the packrat, collecting all manner of dross. Rincewind had always been under the impression one became a hermit to leave the trappings of civilization behind while ascending to a higher plane of existence(10), but this fellow obviously did not subscribe to the normal path. Behind a stack of mail-order catalogues, all with items such as fancy stagecoaches and ultra-expensive racehorses circled, Rincewind found a small black box. The box was of the perfect size to fit on the palm; a bright red button invitingly stood positioned for easy reach by the thumb. Rincewind would be the first to admit he was not a very good wizard(11), but even he could tell there was something magically compelling about the box. It begged for someone to push the shiny button. Literally. "Come on, you know you want to," whined the box from its location on top of a two year pile of magazines devoted to rock gardening(12). Rincewind hummed loudly, fingers stuck in his ears and eyes closed. "I can't see you! I can't hear you!" he sang-song. "La-la-la! La-la-la!" Cooed the box, "Think of what could happen if you push my button. Maybe riches? Maybe fame? Maybe all the turnips you could eat?" "La-la-la! I can't hear anything you are saying about turnips. La-la-la!" The Luggage trotted in from outside, a bit of hair caught between its hinges. A certain bear would not be not be galloping over mountains any more. It settled in the corner. "Maybe you would be able to travel anywhere on the Disc, or beyond?" "La-la-la! I've already traveled enough, thank you. La-la-la! Otherwise why would I be up in this hermit cave to begin with?" "Good point," muttered the box. "However, you know you want to. You just know it. Maybe you'll go to a place full of pointy hats?" Rincewind's eyes opened. "Pointy hats?" he whispered. "Pointy wizard hats? Do they have sequins and tassels?" "Sure," purred the box, "all the sequins and tassels you could ever want. Lots and lots of pointy wizard hats. All you have to do it push the pretty red button." Rincewind's hand hesitantly reached for the box. Finger hovered over the button. "Are you sure I'll have all the hats I'd ever want if I push you?" "Yah, sure, whatever. Just push my button." "Okay." Rincewind stabbed the button. The box gave a high pitched cackle as the human disappeared. It was actually a demonic joybox, of which only itself gained joy when someone was idiot enough to push its buttons. Rincewind would not be going to hat heaven, pointy or otherwise. "Hey, trunk," called the joybox, "maybe you want to push me? You know you want to." The Luggage heaved itself to its multiple feet, horny toes scrabbling on stone as it rocked back and forth trying to figure out where its owner vanished. Finally it centered on the babbling box; if one could construct a face out of the knotty wood of which it was made, one might see a dark frown. "Come on, trunk, just a little push. It won't hurt you. Promise." The Luggage advanced on the joybox. Then, with deliberate malice, it raised one foot, stomping hard. The box eeked as it cracked, then proceeded to cry pitifully as a heel ground back and forth. Finally the Luggage disappeared, following its owner. "Ouch, that smarted," whispered the broken joybox. Rincewind came to consciousness on a hard slab of metal. The air was warm and humid, much like Ankh-Morpork during the summer, only without the odoriferous battle of tannery versus sweaty people. He carefully opened one eye, body already primed to run. Most people would say it impossible to go from prone position to full sprint in less than two steps; most people had never met Rincewind. Nothing in view other than the Luggage. Rincewind sat, then stood, watching for danger to swoop. Satisfied he was not to befall a fate worse than death in the next five seconds, he decided to slip into clothes more appropriate for the environment. "Open," was directed at the Luggage. The lid obediently rose, revealing a change of robes, five turnips, a wooden hand fan, and a packet of beans. "Knew that box wasn't going to bring me to hats, I knew it." Just as Rincewind was to pull out his spare robe, he heard a whirring noise. A whirring, squeaking noise. A whirring, squeaking, clumping noise directly behind. He spun, only to see one of the most horrible sights he had ever beheld(13): a pale caricature of a man, one arm replaced by a clockwork monstrosity, lots of metal things all over his face, clothed in a black suit. Body being smarter than brain, Rincewind was already running before neurons could fire the sequence indicating "danger." The Luggage closed its lid and loped after. * * * * * Ponder returned to the dining hall with "Chapman's How To Reverse All Spells and Make a Great Soup Besides." Following behind was the Librarian, an orangutan whom once had been a wizard until a misspell. No one could quite remember what Librarian's original name, nor his appearance: for some odd reason all the old staff yearbooks were missing the vital page. The Librarian was much more comfortable as an ape than he had ever been as a man. "Ook," said the Librarian. Replied Ponder, "It'll be back in the Library soonest, I promise. We just need it to put the Discworld back in its correct universe." "Ook," nodded the Librarian sagely. He went and found a quiet corner to watch the forthcoming antics and fireworks. Wizards were the best show around, assuming one avoided accidental parboiling by a misfired fireball. "Ponder, what took you so long? And why do you have a bandage around your pinkie?" asked Ridcully. He was seated in front of a crystal ball. Various faculty members were holding ridiculous poses around the room, most holding cleaning implements or bits of metal. Ponder thought swiftly. If he admitted asking Mr. Modo for a wart remover which quietly did the job without invoking four different deities, the Archchancellor would give a long lecture on trusting fellow wizards, after which the afflicted finger would be subjected to ever increasing doses of wart magic. Ponder did not wish to end up with an appendage which turned yellow under the light of the full moon, or had a habit of sketching rude gestures at inappropriate times(14). "Um, just making sure the wart isn't contaminated before you can get around to fixing it." Ridcully smiled. "Good thinking." He suddenly frowned, "Runes, stop fidgeting. I'm losing reception." Peering at the crystal ball, he added, "Just a second, Mr. Borg, one of my wizards has just returned. I don't see how you can miss us. Ankh-Morpork is the most important city on Discworld, and the Unseen University the most important facility. We're in the hall just a jig from the bell tower." Ridcully squinted at Ponder, "Why don't you go find the appropriate spell over there. I don't think you'll harm the reception any. Say, you aren't wearing metal, are you?" Ponder quickly shook his head no, putting the heavy tome on the indicated table. Ridcully returned to his conversation with "Mr. Borg." The index swiftly led Stibbons to a spell entitled "Lucky Jack's World Reverser, or How to Get Back To Your Own Universe In 15 Easy Steps." Predictably there were quite a bit more than 15 easy steps. Ponder read the list of ingredients outloud. "Dragon toenails, 7 years old." "Check," called Ridcully. "Sweat from a pig." The Chair of Indefinite Studies pointed his chin at Dean, "Plenty over there." "Hey!" protested Dean. "What is this, pick on Dean night?" "Ook," added the Librarian. "Don't you start on me." "Ook." "Okay, maybe I can't do much about it without my arms being torn off, but don't start on me." "Check!" loudly shouted Ridcully. One ingredient at a time Ponder went down the list, one wizard or another affirming he could find the appropriate component. Then came the final item: "A crystal from clockwork men with demons in their blood." Silence. "I said, a crystal from clockwork men with demons in their blood." Ponder looked up from the book. Blanks expressions returned his gaze. "So, do we not have this crystal around the University somewhere? Not even in the student lost-and-found?" Heads shook negative. Ridcully spoke up, "I've never heard of that element. I think we may have a slight problem." "Oooooooook," sighed the Librarian. Ponder agreed with the orangutan. When a wizard admitted to cluelessness, Discworld was in trouble. * * * * * {It had teeth!} {Very big teeth!} {Very, very big teeth!} {And feet. Lots of feet.} {Feet which kick you if you didn't get out of the way.} {Don't forget the teeth!} The Luggage - capital letter necessary for such an unique item - was the current primary discussion focus within the intranets of Cube #347. Wherever the running streak which was Rincewind tried to hide, the Luggage would follow. Although the ambulatory steamer trunk did not precisely protect its owner, like a bear sow and her cubs, standing between it and its destination was not healthy. {Teeth!} cried a voice, backing insistence with the close encounter pict of an open lid, serrated dental work, tongue, and a very dark gullet. Captain blocked background chatter as he tried to comply with the self-stylized wizard's request to be transported to the cube's leader. It was not often a species insisted on assisting in the sampling process, not that Captain planned to inform Ridcully what awaited him and any comrades who were transported to the cube. The threat of magic was nonexistent, as such did not exist(15); the sub-collective conveniently disregarded turtle, elephants, and flat world. Unfortunately, the buildings at the inexact coordinates provided by the wizard had a tendency to "slide" when sensors attempted to lock onto lifesigns inside. Sensors' was complaining of impossibilities which thwarted the laws of physics, not to mention gave her a throbbing headache unresponsive to neural pain suppressants. "Repeat," said Captain. He had yet to trace the exact manner of communication the humans (another absurdity as the species was unknown in the quadrant) were using, but it linked him face-to-face to the surface. He would have vastly preferred the anonymous quality of Catwalk Cam. "Maybe you fellows can help us. We need 'a crystal from clockwork men with demons in their blood.' Does that sound familiar at all? Without it, Discworld will be stuck in this universe. I suppose we could try Horace's Step-Back Spell, but I dislike temporal paradoxes...so dang messy when you find yourself putting cause after effect, or remembering tomorrow's newspaper headlines(16)." Ridcully's head suddenly snapped sideways as a loud explosion ripped off-camera. Static fuzzed screen edges. "Dean! If you weren't tenured and knew a really good fireball spell, I'd bust you to teaching assistant. Couldn't you have held that snee...." The picture dissolved into a black and white electronic snowstorm; an onion skin halo of almost-purple overlay all before evaporating. WOULD YOU LIKE A CURRY? asked a too-familiar Voice. "You are a skeleton, therefore you lack a digestive system. Eating curries is irrelevant, illogical." AH, said Death, BUT I AM THE ULTIMATE IN LOGIC. ALL THINGS EVENTUALLY DIE; ONE DAY EVEN THE UNIVERSE WILL CEASE TO EXIST, AND I WILL BE THERE. WHAT COULD BE MORE LOGICAL THAN THAT? He paused. IT IS A VERY GOOD CURRY. "No." Captain was striding down the hallway, heading to the locale weapons hierarchy had brought the Luggage to bay. He wanted to see the unusual travel accessory with his own perceptions, not vicariously. Somewhere along the way Death, minus his horse, had stepped out of a wall. "Where is the animal?" BINKY? THE ONE NAMED 27 OF 27 IS LOOKING AFTER HIM. Death must have noticed the twitch which crossed Captain's face. DO NOT FRET. BINKY CAN NOT BE HARMED, EVEN BY THE LIKES OF YOU. Captain internally sighed. The last thing which needed to be added to the situation was an assimilated horse able to walk through bulkheads. He was nearing the knot of tactical drones blocking the hallways adjacent to the nodal intersection the Luggage occupied. From the view of one observer, it remained in the quiescent state it had been found, sitting quietly against a hole leading to local interstitial spaces. Of teeth and feet, there was no sign. Death faded out of sight. The Luggage was a cipher. Scans other than visual spectrum merely reported the presence of an object, details frustratingly absent. Even quantum level examinations, difficult as no drone would voluntarily move close enough for proper resolution without compulsion, returned nothing. If one transited quickly from purples to ultraviolet there was a flash of uncolor as if several extra frequencies had been added, but a slow step-by-step advance along the same region produced no irregularities. "Disrupt it," ordered Captain verbally, repeating the command mentally to the local weapons hierarchy drones. Weapons, in an adjacent corridor, yodeled a species #7924 battle cry. A dozen energy beams set "disintegrate" impacted the Luggage. * * * * * Ridcully thumped the side of his crystal ball several times in annoyance. Unfortunately, the picture refused to return, static coating the inside of the ball like a shaken snow globe. When he turned his head to regard Dean, the latter wizard managed to look suitably abashed, eyes focused on shoes he could not see as if the mysteries of the universe were about to be explained by a floor-level imp. "Immmph," muttered Dean. "What was that? I can not hear you?" spoke the Archchancellor loudly, hand held sarcastically to one hear. "That sneeze has left me deaf." "I'm sorry," enunciated Dean, "but I had to. One of the Librarian's hairs was stuck up my nose." The Librarian ooked indignantly. It wasn't his fault he happened to be shedding right now. Ridcully heaved a sigh. "Well, I guess we'll just have to try again. I bet those Borg fellows can help us out with this crystal and demon-infested clockwork man problem if the situation is properly laid out. Therefore, everyone, places! Places, please? What do you want Runes? And stop waving your hat around like that: it lacks dignity." The Lecture in Recent Runes told Ridcully of another eminent explosion, only this one wasn't to be a sneeze. Ridcully shook his head. "Fine, fine. Potty and snack break. If you aren't in position in five minutes, however, I'll come and drag you back." Wizards dropped their bits of foil and cleaning implements in a rapid berobed rush towards the dining hall doors. "Are we all happy now? Tummies full, bladders empty?" asked Ridcully to his assembled staff. The Senior Wrangler looked as if he were about to answer the rhetorical question, but a well-placed wad of tinfoil to the head from Runes' direction halted the query before the first syllable. When the Archchancellor was in one of his moods it was best to just play along(17), at least until escape presented itself. "Good. Take your places." Wizards dutifully lifted arm and waved aluminum bedecked broomsticks as Ridcully peered at the crystal ball, muttering incantations under his breath. Ponder quietly stood next to the tome hauled from the library, lest he too be pressed into reception duty. The Librarian sat quietly against the wall ooking to himself. Ridcully smiled. "Aha! Found the right channel. Better, better. Chair of Indefinite Studies - move a squish to your right. More...more...stop! Don't move! Runes, I need that candlestick at a precise 48 degree angle. Perfect. I'm getting something." A scene slowly consolidated in the crystal ball. Dimly lit metallic walls formed, highlighted by an eerie green which cast no light. The location had a similar ambiance to the previous contact, but was obviously not quite the same location. Instead of an open space, the picture showed a narrow area barely a shoulder span wide crowded with pipes and wires; somewhere a red bulb flashed behind an obscuring grille. "Who's out of place?" demanded Ridcully. "That candlestick must not be 48 degrees!" Before the Archchancellor could continue, an out-of-focus face swam into view. "Hello! I say hello! I was talking to a jolly chap earlier, and am wondering if you could direct me to the correct wall?" shouted Ridcully. At the same time he fiddled with the controls to the crystal ball, trying to defuzz the head. The head ducked away, then carefully moved back into sight as curiosity replaced alarm. As Ridcully focused the crystal ball, the blurred face slowly became recognizable. There was a certain pointiness to the head suggesting a hat, buttons and shells stitched to the front to spell a word. A wizzard-like word. Ridcully started. While a wizard may forget a face, he never forgot a hat, especially that one. The face itself was thinner than memory evoked, but still familiar despite darkness and years. "Rincewind? How the blazes did you leave Discworld and get on that Borg ship?" * * * * * The Luggage reeled under the assault of a dozen Borg disrupter beams, however it did not crumble into a pile of ash; the forces required to destroy the Luggage was more than the entire Borg Collective could possibly muster. The reason it had not followed its owner into the interstitial space was because the hole was too small for its bulk. Eventually Rincewind would emerge, at which time the sapient pearwood trunk could rejoin him. After all, its owner might require clean underwear at any time. Finally the Luggage became tired of the heat tickling its lid. Exuding feet, the Luggage swiveled to face the hole(18). It backed up, then paused as if measuring the distance between itself and the wall. Abruptly it leapt forward at full gallop - multitudes of legs allowed extreme acceleration, much more than your average traveling trunk. It plowed into the bulkhead. The Borg defenders were left with a large Luggage-shaped hole leading into the interstitial spaces. Crunching noises receded into the distance. "Rincewind? How the blazes did you leave Discworld and get on that Borg ship?" demanded the stern face of Ridcully. Despite body urgings, Rincewind had not run when the wall near him had begun to glow. In these squished spaces it was too difficult to move at any speed beyond a fast walk. Rincewind had tried, only to run into wire webs, bonk his head against unseen pipes, or snag the hem of his robe. Besides, the picture did not look like it belonged to the locale, presentation not fitting with current ambiance. "Archchancellor?" asked Rincewind. "Never mind. Borg? What are Borg? Those weird men I've been running from, the ones that keep telling me to stop and submit to assimilation?" Rincewind did not know what assimilation was exactly, except that he wanted no part of it. People giving out free samples were not to be trusted(19), unless, of course, it was a turnip. One could hardly go wrong with turnips. Ridcully wrinkled his brow in confusion, then shrugged. "Could be. Anyway, how /did/ you get up there? And I mean up there. You are on a large ether-going ship in the shape of a cube, well above Discworld. Higher than birds can fly, perhaps even gods," thunder rumbled in the background prompting the Archchancellor to hurriedly add, "not that I question the altitude ceiling of a god, you understand." Began Rincewind, "Well, you see, there was this cave and a small box began trying to get me to push its button. Then..." An expansive arm waved. Ridcully dismissed Rincewind's explanation in standard self-centered demeanor, "Never mind. Background chit-chat isn't important at the moment. While trying to make a wart removal spell, there was a slight mix-up, and the Discworld was sent into another universe. The faculty and I are trying to get us all back to the correct place, but we seem to be missing a small ingredient. Nothing important, but maybe you could help us out. The component is a crystal from clockwork men with demons in their veins. Seen anything like that up there?" Rincewind thought. He hadn't exactly been moving slow enough to take in the scenery. "Well, these men - Borgs? - are awfully clockworklike, with all these metal bits and pieces. No demons that I've seen, however. What would demons in the blood do?" Ridcully looked over his shoulder, yelling the question. Several muffled answers were returned. "Your guess is as good as mine. Runes says he once saw his uncle rage about the fluffy bunnies being after him after a long day of drinking; however, as there was a fluffy bunny plague occurring at the time, I don't know how much that helps. Frankly, if I had demons in my blood, I'd probably be running around trying to get them out." A crunching echoed in the passageway behind Rincewind, a snapping and crashing which quickly neared. It sounded distinctly Luggage-like. Rincewind hoped the trunk had not broken anything expensive which would anger the Borg. Eventually it stopped next to its owner's knees; several dark scars criss-crossed its lid. "And where have you been?" muttered Rincewind. The Luggage did not respond. "What?" asked Ridcully. "Nothing," responded Rincewind, still glaring at the Luggage. HO! called an all-too-familiar Voice. I KNEW I'D FIND YOU EVENTUALLY. Rincewind glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening. If there was one anthropomorphic personification he did not wish to chat with, the seven-foot tall skeleton clothed in black was it. "Um, I'll keep a look out for the crystal and blood-drinking demons. Contact you later." The wizzard trotted off as quickly as he could go without falling on his face or tearing his robe. The Luggage dutifully followed behind, burrowing a Luggage-shaped hole through the interstitial space. Death faded into the shadow. Although Rincewind would try, no mortal (or immortal) could outrun Death. "Hello? Hello?" forlornly called Ridcully. He sighed. "Dean, move to your left two steps. Let's trying phoning again." The picture fuzzed into static and disappeared. * * * * * {Where is it? Trace!} Weapons was coordinating the search for the Luggage. Although it would not seem possible, the leggy trunk had been lost within the bowels of the cube. Engineering was physically tracing the path the Luggage had transversed, easy considering it had simply bullied through any obstacle, but was now reporting loss in subsection 16, submatrix 17, corridor 1. The location was near the hull, and the thing had exited interstitial spaces into hallways rarely used. HAVING PROBLEMS? asked Death of Captain. The skeleton had reappeared in the last several minutes, latching onto Cube #347's facilitator. "Go away," muttered Captain. He was busy overseeing not only the Luggage hunt, but also ongoing scans of the surface. A series of minor malfunctions had begun cropping up in routine diagnostics; nothing serious, but the number and timing was too coincidental to be accidental. Personally, Captain thought it related to the wall walking skeleton and horse - going through bulkheads could not be good for intervening components. However, Delta believed troubles were linked to the presence of Discworld. The most recent scans detailing sub-quantum flux field of the unusual anomaly revealed odd harmonics, combinations alien to the present reality. Death blinked. Well, he did not actually blink - one needed eyeballs and lids for that - but the hesitation was similar. He was not usually dismissed in such an off-hand manner. I AM WAITING FOR RINCEWIND. SOMETIMES IT IS EASIER TO STAY IN ONE PLACE THAN GO CHASING ALL OVER FOR SOMEONE. EVENTUALLY EVERYONE COMES TO ME. Captain was in his nodal intersection, a location increasingly crowded these days. Second was present also, attempting to ignore the presence of death incarnate and not doing very well. For once the secondary consensus monitor and facilitator spouted no sarcasm. "I will not come to you. Death is irrelevant. I will become one with the Collective," chanted Second in self-confirmation, perhaps unwisely. Death had an excellent sense of hearing(20). Death rustled around under his robes, bringing forth an half-assimilated appearing hourglass. On the base was inscribed 3 of 8 in large letters; the name Thyeo del Frantz followed in parenthesis. INTERESTING. YOU ARE CORRECT. EVEN AFTER MORTAL DEATH THE COLLECTIVE RETAINS A HOLD UPON YOUR SOUL. HOWEVER, EVEN THE COLLECTIVE WILL EVENTUALLY PERISH, AT WHICH TIME YOUR SOUL WILL TRAVEL BEYOND. Death paused. WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW HOW AND WHEN YOU DIE? THE SECOND TIME, THAT IS, NOT THE FIRST WHEN YOUR BODY WAS ALTERED TO ITS CURRENT STATE. THE DEATH IS NOT VERY DIGNIFIED, I MUST SAY. Second's eyes widened. He immediately started humming loudly, stopping long enough to say, "No! I can't hear you, no I can't! Hummmmmmmm!" The suggestion of a smirk played around the area of skull where no lips existed. Death always won. Attention returned to Captain. EVERYONE EVENTUALLY COMES TO ME, EVEN YOU. SPEAKING OF WHICH, HERE IS RINCEWIND. A human pelted through the nodal intersection. The gait was one which bespoke of sprinting endurance, the ability to outrace not only abushers, but to outdistance anyone who tried to keep pace. A faint keening sob accompanied the humanoid flash; sandals slapped against deck plates in a rapid tempo. Behind trundled the Luggage, patiently staying with its owner; a prosthetic was caught at the edge of the lid, a partially gnawed quality to the limb. The sensation of teeth was very strong, as was the impression the knotty sapient pearwood of which the trunk was made formed an expression shouting "Make my day." Rincewind caught sight of Death and the two drones, making an emergency direction change to charge out of the nodal intersection and into corridor 113. The Luggage was not so adroit, flashing through spectre and crashing into Second before it was able to follow its owner. {I found your arm, 50 of 83,} noted Second. He than began to complain of the footprints he could feel bruising his torso under armor. 50 of 83's limb had dislodged from the Luggage in the tangle, landing on Second's face. Captain looked at Death, who seemed not at all disconcerted by the fact a large steamer trunk had just passed through him. I JUST SAID RINCEWIND WAS COMING. I DID NOT SAY HE WAS GOING TO STICK AROUND. Assimilation was busy in Nanite Assembly Room #5 when he registered the pitter-patter of multiple feet, as well as the distinct sound of the two-legged bipedal variety. However, he was a bit busy at the moment with both arms to the elbow sunk into a vat and so did not bother to identify who was nearing. "What'cha doing?" asked a voice. The steps had halted behind him in a position not covered by peripheral vision. Assimilation could have linked input to his visual cortex from local internal sensors or drones, but the exertion would have required effort. The universe was a dull, gray place, undeserving of effort beyond what was essential to survive. Replied Assimilation absently, "Checking 5' nanoprobe density prior to injection of vat contents into subsection 17 regeneration system. The sensor suite to this vat is malfunctioning, and thus a drone is needed to monitor growth curves until engineering replaces equipment. The sensors are currently very low on the priority list. At this time another ten-fold increase is necessary before injection procedure may commence." "Open." Wood scraped against metal; creaking hinges squealed quiet protest. "Huh? I understood very few of those words. What is a nanoprobe, anyway?" The voice was muffled, as if its owner was bent over to dig through the contents of a thigh high container. "Close." A snap indicated the lid to said container had shut. Puzzlement surged through Assimilation. What drone did not know nanoprobes? Still, taking the less than millisecond required to query the computer concerning drone designation represented labor better spent contemplating the exact hue of the gray soup thirty centimeters from optics(21). Besides, there were several individuals in the sub-collective whom experienced extreme memory problems, usually following self-electrocution or heavy blows to the cranium. "Nanoprobes, nanites - the bits of technology in blood and body which facilitate initial assimilation, and then assist in maintaining balance by suppressing implant rejection and acting as an artificial immune system." Silence, the silence of incomprehension. Feet scuffed against the floor in the manner of a child faced with a school marm demanding the answer to the capital of Norway. Were those shoes? What Borg wore shoes? "Are these nanites like demons? Are they related to demonkind at all?" "There are no horns, tails, or fire," replied Assimilation as he laboriously dredged up files related to common species myths. "It is technology which transforms a small being into a specimen easily introduced to the Collective and perfection." "Oh! You mean possession!" A light brightened in an otherwise dark house. "So nanoprobes are servant demons, and these minions run around in your blood in order to bend you to the will of the archdemon Collective. It all makes sense now...and that means...." The voice trailed off. Assimilation, who had now exerted himself to access files upon demons, finally queried the computer as to the questioning drone's identity. The computer replied that no crew were located next to the unit 13 of 20 in Nanite Assembly Room #5. Assimilation blinked, pulling one arm out of the nanite soup in order to twist his torso. "You are not of this sub-collective. State your identity." "...means you must be possessed. All the mechanical men of this ship are possessed!" Two feet quickly retreated from the room, followed by the slapping of multiple bare soles against mental. Assimilation was left with the view of a large steamer trunk smoothly exiting. Of the voice owner there was no sign beyond the echoing beats of swift departure. * * * * * Ridcully swore. "I can't find that specific Borg fellow again, nor Rincewind. Between the two of them moving about and the sheer size of the ethership, I keep opening a connection in dark places. And where there is light and people, the Borg are ignoring me." "Ook," proposed the Librarian. The Archchancellor glanced at the orangutan. "That is a good suggestion." He glared at the other wizards, who had found great interest in the most mundane of objects - the wall, tin foil, a lost fly buzzing near the ceiling. "Why couldn't the rest of my faculty come up with good ideas every once in a while?" Boy, that speck of dust in the corner sure is amazing. I bet the secrets of the universe are contained within(22). "Fine. I'll follow the Librarian's recommendation." Ridcully fiddled with the crystal ball, engaging the little-used magical homing function. He had bought it from one of those fancy catalogues which sold items like staffs with three dozen add-ons including automatic ghost detection and the ability to perfectly rewarm leftovers. However, Ridcully rarely used the special buttons on his crystal ball beyond the on-off switch. The device began to hum slightly as homing engaged. "There we go. Looks like there are only two magical items on the ship(23). I'll try focusing on the larger one." * * * * * "You don't understand," whispered Rincewind, "all these people up here are possessed. I haven't seen any 360 degree head swiveling yet, but I'm sure it happens. Get me out of here!" Rincewind knew better than to ask help of wizards, especially those of the Unseen University. Anyone who has had close interactions with wizards, other wizards included, know begging assistance from a man who would turn time inside-out just to see what might happen is not healthy. Unfortunately, Rincewind had no clue how to escape from his prison. A ship implied finite boundaries, ones which eventually would restrict further flight; the Discworld, while also finite, was much, much, much larger. Ridcully smiled, "Wonderful! Part of the riddle is dismantled, then. I knew I could do it." Wizards were not known for humble attitudes. When the populace can be divided into men privy to amphibianology techniques and those who were potential frogs, humble ceases to be part of the vocabulary. The Archchancellor's features had appeared in the air over the Luggage, hovering with disconcertingly solid two-dimensionality. Explanations indicated the wizard had used magical emanations of the Luggage as a homing point. Rincewind hoped the light cast by the picture did not draw Borg to his hiding spot. "Get me out of here," begged Rincewind again. Humble was definitely part of his personal dictionary, as was submissive, meek, and tractable. Dignity was not a priority when personal survival was at stake. "Tell him to get rid of that stupid 'Wizzard' hat! Not only is it misspelled, but it gives wizards a bad name in general!" yelled from off-screen. As the Luggage was a distance away, the speaker felt bold. Rincewind's eyes widened. Perhaps he did have a smidgen of dignity in him, a dollop of pride. A proper wizard was never separated from his pointy hat! If it came down to escape or hematological demons, Rincewind was prepared to undergo neck twisting exercises as long as the hat remained. Ridcully, apparently noticing the sudden defiance which swept over Rincewind's features, quickly spoke, "Now, now, Chair of Indefinite Studies, I don't think such extremes are called for. All we need is a bit of crystal and all will be hunky-dory. As long as Rincewind has a hold of the crystal we need, we'll have to transport him back to us." Silence in the background. The Chair of Indefinite Studies' voice squeaked, "Here? Bring him back here? The Luggage'll follow! You can't do that!" A chorus of protests echoed the Chair's concern. Whereas most of the faculty had experienced the Luggage first hand, the Archchancellor had never been so...lucky. "What are you fellows yammering on about?" demanded Ridcully. "It is only a trunk. It isn't like it can eat you." The picture began to spit static as if someone were trembling. "Oh stop that shivering! You are wrecking the reception. We need that crystal else Discworld will be stuck in this universe." "Preferable to Luggage," muttered the Dean's voice as an overly loud aside. Ridcully glared at his staff before returning attention to Rincewind. "So, think you can get us a bit of crystal?" "You'll transport me back to Discworld in one piece and no one'll take away my hat?" questioned Rincewind in a demanding tone. "Whatever you want," soothed Ridcully. One might not think a bear like the Archchancellor able to pacify anything without resorting to fireballs, a bonk with a staff, or a crossbow, but convincing the Bursar to take his dried frog pills occasionally required creativity. "You are the one in charge. Whatever you want." "Okay," answered Rincewind with a sigh. Options were very limited. * * * * * "I don't think he's going to do it," commented Recent Runes. The wizard was currently standing on a bucket, mop and broom in either hand and a colander on his head. He looked like he was about to embark on the downhill cleaning appliance slalom(24). "Good," muttered Dean, voicing the attitudes of the other wizards present. Ridcully flashed his staff a dark look. "Admittedly Rincewind is a bit of an idiot, but he can't be much worse than /some/ people I know." Blank looks were his response. The Archchancellor sighed. "Okay, let's try to contact that one Borg fellow again, see if he is any closer to - how did he put it? - beaming me up. Senior Wrangler, hoist that fishing pole a bit higher. Ponder, be a good chap and shift your left foot two inches to the right and lift both thumbs. That's right." Ponder remained near the spellbook and did as he was instructed, internally grimacing as he was co-opted into the madness. Only the Librarian remained a bystander at this point, a status not even the Archchancellor would dispute. Ridcully rubbed his hands together as reception components shifted to new positions. "Okay, time to try phoning the Borg again." * * * * * Captain regarded the Archchancellor. The Archchancellor regarded Captain. "So," said Ridcully in a conversational tone, "I understand you all have demons in your blood. There is an ointment for that, you know. Minimal side-effects such as hair loss and extreme skin pallor, but I don't think you'll have to worry about that." "You are thinking of Dr. Miranda's Wrinkle Reducing Cream and Sobriety Restorer, Archchancellor," called a voice from off-screen. "Really?" blinked Ridcully in surprise. "I probably shouldn't have given a vial to Ms. Jana of laundry services to relieve her headache." The sub-collective found it a wonder Discworld retained civilization if these humans were representative examples of the population. Death had wandered off to torment Second when the latter retreated to his alcove. Second was doing his best to ignore the spectre, but even regeneration was no escape from whisperings of the Final Chapter. "We do not have demons in our blood," corrected Captain. "We will share a sample of nanoprobe technology when we transport you to our cube." Ridcully shrugged. "A frog's a frog in my book, and a demon a demon no matter what you call it. To each his own, I guess. I've heard some people claim a man wearing a robe is sissy, dresslike; those same people, after a fortnight croaking in the ornamental pond, usually change their opinion." He paused. The irrelevant comparison left Captain very confused. "So, when will you be able to 'beam' me up? If you are having problems, maybe Ponder can give you advice. He has this magical contraption Hex..." "No assistance required," quickly interrupted Captain. "We have analyzed the problem and are now compensating." "Good, good. Glad to hear it. Now that I have this location locked in, I'll get back to you about that crystal dilemma. First, however, I have another call to make." The picture disappeared. Captain sighed in exasperation, expression replacing deadpan visage. A plea for assistance caught his attention. {If Death is pestering you,} responded Captain, {then move elsewhere in the cube. I can't exactly order him to place his designation on Delta's engineering roster. Besides, he might decide to exclusively bother me.} Elsewhere in the cube, the Luggage hunt continued. * * * * * Rincewind wandered in a delusional stupor. Although the ship was very large, it was still a fraction the size of the corridors winding through occupied n-dimensional space of the Unseen University. The expedition to find the map room(25) was two years overdue at the time of Rincewind's entry as a student. When one wanted to use the loo it was considered prudent to pack for a minimum two day hike, just in case. The corridors wizzard and Luggage transversed were quiet, still. A thin layer of dust lay on the floor, interrupted here and there by footprints. Rincewind was nervous because tracking would be easy. At each corridor intersection he stopped to listen, turning towards the sounds of toil. What he needed was a section with enough traffic to obscure traces of passage, yet few of the demon-possessed men. A secure bolthole to hide in would be a bonus. Eventually Rincewind found himself before a door, one of many nearly featureless entrances in an otherwise undistinguished hallway. No Borg were in sight. He supposed the scrawling tracks at eye level were writing, but as he could not read them he could only hope they did not read "Demon Processing Facility" or "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here." Trepidly he poked the buttons beside the door, which smoothly slid open after only a couple random fumblings. Neither dragons nor demons were inside, not even a surprise party of Borg pointing with arms which shot green beams of fire. Rincewind was almost disappointed; almost, but he would not push his luck by whistling up a psychopath like Old Man Trouble. Inside was a relatively small room by ship standards, no more than eight feet high by twenty long by ten wide. The exact dimensions of the room were difficult to resolve due to the glass-fronted ovens stacked on each other. Rincewind peered into one of the appliances. The room, unbeknownst to the failed wizard, was Dilithium Growth Laboratory #3, adjacent component to Auxiliary Core #5. A Borg cube is ultimately powered by a warp core, even if the energy itself is normally used to drive transwarp coils and not nacelles. Other sources of power are used by the Collective, but for portability on old-model vessels such as Exploratory-class Cube #347, the main warp core and its ten auxiliaries were more than adequate. A single core outstripped anything in use by the Federation after all. Warp cores require dilithium crystals as part of the fuel matrix. Part of the standard maintenance cycle for auxiliary cores included replacing potentially stressed crystal with new shards grown from seed stock. The growth process itself was largely automated, consisting of a dilithium seed, several caustic chemicals, and a warm incubator. Dilithium Growth Laboratory #3 was the initial phase of growth, completed proto-shards transported to another room with larger vats and a slightly different chemical soup. Rincewind stared at the translucent blue crystal only inches from his nose. It looked like a slice of summer sky as reflected in a still mountain lake. Was this the object the Archchancellor needed? Would alarms be set off if he tried to take it? "What do you think?" asked Rincewind of the Luggage. Naturally the Luggage did not reply. Not only did the sapient pearwood trunk lack a voice, it found such abstractions unimportant. Wrestling (and eating) sharks constituted fun; crystals with the potential to move Discworld back to its native universe were boring. "That's what I thought," murmured the bumbling wizard to himself in response. The "shiny" and "pretty" neurons in Rincewind's brain fired, momentarily overwhelming well-developed synapses associated with "self-preservation." Eyes watched with confused bemusement as hands opened the oven, fishing out a handspan crystal. The stone throbbed with residual warmth and fit comfortably in the palm. Self-preservation abruptly reasserted itself, but no alarms blared, no lights flashed, no firebeams lanced with lethal intent. The treasure was apparently unwarded. However, Rincewind had not lived as long as he had by accepting appearances at face value. A sweet puppy trotting along side the road unerringly turned out to be a man-eating weredog escaped from the local insane asylum, at least in Rincewind's experience. Best to run when liberty had many options. Rincewind pocketed the crystal before kicking at the Luggage. It heaved itself to its many feet. "Come on, you. Hopefully the University wizards will contact me soon, and I need you for the transmission. Let's find a place to hide." * * * * * "Say again, Rincewind?" Ridcully concentrated on keeping the crystal ball on mark. Unfortunately the target was moving, which caused the picture to break out in static at the most unfortunate places. Rincewind's shoulders heaved up and down as he gasped for breath. "I said you need to get me out of here! I have the crystal, but the Borgs are tracking me. Right when I think I've given them the slip, several materialize out of thin air and I have to run again. Oh gods, not again!" The scene altered, Ridcully gaining a fleeting glimpse of clockwork men, arms raised in threat. A green beam impacted a wall, leaving behind a black scorch mark. Then, as the picture had done several times since Ridcully had homed on the magical emanations from the Luggage, a blurring passage of corridors passed. Occasionally he could see the dirty robes of Rincewind's back leading the way, but more often a stark metal wall filled the crystal ball. Finally the chase stilled as Rincewind's overly honed sensitivity to danger declared momentary safety. "Bit of trouble, eh?" asked Ridcully, a man whom when faced with trouble often found it backing off to look for more suitable prey. "'Bit of trouble?'" screamed Rincewind. "You could say that! Get me out of here!" Ridcully wrinkled his brow, "Let me see the crystal." Rincewind gave the Archchancellor a look one generally reserves for small children kicking the back of a movie seat before patting around his robes. A blue shard emerged. It was waved around in demonstration, the replaced with an Ultra Close-Up of Rincewind's face. "Now will you get me off this boat of possessed clockwork men? I'll beg if I have to. I'll beg even if I don't have to." Ridcully waved a forgiving hand, "No, no. That will be quite okay. If you could just hold still..." Rapid traveling commenced once more, eventually ending in a featureless corridor where the major tourist attraction appeared to be dust bunnies the size of baby elephants. "What did you say?" "I said," repeated Ridcully, "that you have to hold still for a second. The spell is prepared, but you can't be moving helter-skelter." Rincewind nervously nodded, hand clutched tightly around his ticket back to Discworld's relatively safe surface. The Archchancellor read a series of numbers scrolling across the base of the crystal ball picture. They were coordinates of Rincewind's location, not solely spatial, but also magical with a few extra dimensions just in case. More precisely they centered on the crystal the wizzard clutched, but as long as he held onto the object, Ridcully would be forced to transport him as well. "Hurry, hurry, hurry! I see a couple coming from down the hall!" A whirring clank emanated from the background on the crystal ball. Rincewind was hunkering low, shuffling to put as much of the Luggage as possible between himself and danger. "Just a second. Can't rush. There we go!" Ridcully waved his hands in the motions proscribed in "Text of Basic Hand Waving." The flourish he inserted at the end was entirely unnecessary, but as "Text of Advanced Hand Waving" noted, theatrical gestures can make an otherwise clumsy waggle of pinkie finger appear elegant. In the picture, Rincewind squeaked and stood as a near miss slashed into loose robe fabric. A second green firebeam impacted the chest, causing him to look down in cross-eyed wonder as he did not incinerate. The transportation spell was already taking effect, rendering Rincewind unaffected. Unfortunately, there were other consequences. Ridcully furiously chanted and waved his hands some more as translocation went awry. The firebeam had affected the exit locus, randomizing it to a location other than the Unseen University. Finally he managed to grasp the pattern which was the crystal, losing Rincewind in the process. The crystal ball dissolved into static snow as Ridcully accidentally kicked the table. "Bugger," muttered the Archchancellor as the translucent crystal shard materialized next to his chair. Rincewind was nowhere to be seen. * * * * * Rincewind kept his eyes closed for several long minutes after he came to a stop. He remembered snatches of firebeam, followed by a long falling sensation, ending with a turnip field flashing by at speeds man was not meant to attain without help of psychotrophic drugs and a backpack rocket. The ride ended with the rapid approach of a series of hay piles, inside of one Rincewind presumed he now resided. Hesitantly the wizzard dug himself to the surface, noting in relief he had held onto his hat throughout the ordeal. A wizard was nothing without his hat. On the other hand, the crystal was gone. Oh well. The miles of turnip fields which greeted his sight was a relief, as was the single wide-eyed cow chewing her cud. The Luggage would show up eventually as it always did. Rincewind looked up at the sky and sighed. He knew better than to ask "Why me?" - he might receive an answer. * * * * * Boom! Bang! Crash! Tinkle-tinkle. Crunch! {Subsection 17, submatrix 23!} Snap! Bang! {Correction, submatrix 24!} Boom! Pop! {Subsection 18, submatrix 22!} The humanoid Rincewind had disappeared with the dilithium crystal the sub-collective had used as a trace after the computer reported the shard's removal from oven 8a in Dilithium Growth Laboratory #3; and, much more importantly, the Luggage had seemingly gone insane. It was swiftly traveling through the cube in a rough trajectory towards Discworld. Little things like disruptors, mass amounts of electricity, forcefields, and five meter thick bulkheads did little to slow the trunk down. One might as well have set up cobweb barriers to halt a rabid elephant charge. The Luggage was festooned with warped conduit and colorful lengths of wire. At one point 155 of 300 managed to gain a seat on the lid to ride it like a bronco, an activity the drone professed to never want to repeat. Somehow through the ruckus no Borg had terminated, and injuries remained surprisingly light. Delta was understandably upset, engineering the hierarchy required to fix structural and systems damage. Finally the Luggage approached the inner bulkheads under face #3. Behind it was a long line of Luggage shaped holes plowed through metal able to withstand near plasma temperatures and extreme kinetic impact. Cube #347 braced for hull breech, knowing 30 meters of outer armor would do little to slow the pearwood juggernaut. Weapons was itching to see if the Luggage could withstand cutting beams and quantum torpedoes. The expected decompression did not occur, Luggage disappearing as it reached immense barrier between Borg environment and hard vacuum. Meanwhile Captain kept his face perfectly impassive, nerves disengaged, expression frozen. Internally he winced with each new damage, then blinking with surprise as the multi-legged menace abruptly vanished. Archchancellor Ridcully was on the screen, explaining that while Borg cooperation in deciphering their clockman-demon-crystal riddle was no longer necessary, they still might like to visit before Discworld went back to its native universe. "We have determined the proper frequencies to pinpoint your location. Several adjustments are required for our transporters to work. Stand by," said Captain. * * * * * "We have determined the proper frequencies to pinpoint your location. Several adjustments are required for our transporters to work. Stand by," droned the Borg in a steady monotone. Ridcully thought the fellow awfully boring, maybe constipated? Perhaps he needed a dried frog pill or two, after all it did wonders for the Bursar; why the wizard had almost been coherent this morning, speaking of turnips and jelly spoons only twice! He'd have to swipe a couple of pills from the Bursar before beaming commenced. "Good!" smiled Ridcully. At the other side of the room, the Librarian and Ponder were following the recipe laid out by Lucky Jack's World Reverser. To be more precise, the Librarian was handing ingredients to Ponder, who then added them to the simmering brass fondue pot. Stibbons disliked the old methods of wizardry, much more comfortable with the progress he and his graduate students were making in the High Energy Magic Building. A revolution was coming the wizard knew, however old school masters such as Ridcully and the rest of the faculty would resist change. They always did. Ponder knew he could present the current problem to Hex(26) and receive a concise spell; Ponder also knew the likelihood of such a path being explored was similar to Death donning a tutu and playing the lead role in a ballet production(27). The evil smelling mess was burnt orange in color, slowly bubbling and glooping. A delicate yellow froth threatened to spill over the sides of the pot and extinguish the flame underneath. "What next?" asked Ponder. The Librarian read the next line of the spell. "Ook." "Really? Almost done?" The wizard looked at the bluish crystal sitting on the table, the object of so much frustration and fuss. The shard serenely reflected ambient light. "Ook," insisted the Librarian. "Okay, okay." The crystal was tossed into the fondue pot. A miniature mushroom cloud poofed in the air over the viscous liquid, swiftly dissipating. Orange hue altered color to pure emerald green, followed by a perfect transparent yellow. The ground shivered slightly as if in sympathy to a distant thunderstorm. All in all, the spell was rather unspectacular to one who witnessed a turnip and frog downpour during one unsuccessful wart removal attempt. "That's it?" complained the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "Well, wasn't that slightly anticlimactic." He paused. "We are back in our proper universe, aren't we, and not gallivanting around a reality with miniature electric pink hippos that go flashing on and off?" The wizards all looked at each other in alarm. One by one they removed foil helmets and put down broomsticks, unobtrusively edging away from the Chair. Ridcully peered at the crystal ball, confirming the Borg ethership was gone and the Discworld was back where it belonged. Next he turned his attention to the Chair of Indefinite Studies, "Been in the dried frog pills, have we?" The Chair of Indefinite Studies shook his head. "No, just a bit of indigestion, I believe. You mean you can't see them? They are waving rather rude gestures at you." Ridcully rolled up his sleeves as he stood from his crystal ball. "Just you hang on, Chair, I know just the spell to fix you up. And it is only slightly more complex than wart removal. Ponder, you won't mind waiting in the queue while this spot of indigestion is cleared up?" Life swiftly returned to normal for the Unseen University, not that it had stepped out of kilter to begin with. * * * * * Target locked, Captain tripped the command pathways to beam all lifesigns in the building room to the cube, Assimilation Workshop #18. Nothing happened. {Subjects not available for transportation,} unhelpfully chimed the computer when queried. Simultaneously, Sensors began to celebrate. {All gone! All gone! All gone! The turtle is gone, gone, gone! The elephants are gone, gone, gone! The Discworld is gone, gone, gone! Sensors' head no longer feels like it will explode! All gone, gone, gone!} In subsection 3, submatrix 25, the insectoid disengaged from her alcove and proceeded to dance a joyous jig. Artificial walking legs lightly clinked against walkway metal. {Gone, gone, gone!} Examination of exterior sensor feed confirmed the absence of giant reptile, pachyderms, and flat world. In its place was the normal low interstellar concentrations of dust and molecules, accented by tachyons and cosmic radiation. A vision at the edge of purple, just this side of ultraviolet, shimmered like the afterglow of a television recently turned off. The point, both one- and infinite-dimensional, faded to the realm of imagination and nightmare; a literal-minded Borg could easily dismiss the sight as sensor grid hallucinations. Captain regarded the black clothed spectre who had not vanished with the Discworld. The skeleton reached for the cowl of his robe, flipping it over yellow-white skull. Bony fingers were placed between fleshless lips, calling forth a piercing whistle. Somewhere an equine whinny answered. "Why have you not vanished with the anomaly? You are a projection, an impossibility associated with Discworld." Bottomless sockets passively observed the drone, a subliminal hint of duck egg blue emanating from the depths. Dark amusement rolled from the somber skeleton. DEATH IS EVERYWHERE, NOT JUST DISCWORLD. THEREFORE I AM EVERYWHERE, EVERYTIME. PHYSICAL APPEARANCE IS IRRELEVANT AS YOU BORG MIGHT SAY, ALTHOUGH I FIND THIS FORM SATISFYING. The horse trotted out of the wall, stopping beside his master. Binky appeared to have suffered no harm from his time with Doctor. Death mounted, transformed from whimsical anthropomorphic personification into terrible truth. I WILL BE SEEING YOU ONE DAY. EVENTUALLY EVERYONE COMES TO ME. And with that chilling reminder, Death clucked to his horse and left. * * * * * The Turtle moves. The Great A'tuin, the Great Star Turtle, watches with eternal patience as stars spill across the heavens in familiar constellations. Its pace had never slackened despite the detour into an unfamiliar universe, confident only as a mildly precognitive turtle can be that the wizards would somehow set all back to right. Now, with only the slightest of confusion due to a small flurry of cosmic dust, the Great A'tuin focuses upon its distant goal: a shining star little different from surrounding suns. Only the Great A'tuin knows what it will find when it arrives bearing its disc-shaped burden. One might guess a gathering of Star Turtles carrying their own impossible whimsies, or perhaps the twinkling is simply another beacon along a much longer road. A'tuin, however, is not telling. The Turtle moves.