A hex upon ye, who doth not acknowledge Paramount hath sired Star Trek. Abracadabra and poof! Decker brought Star Traks into twisted existence. Hocus pocus, presto chango! BorgSpace metamorphosed after a wave of Meneks' wand. Where within this tale, thou shalt also find Anna Will (Kittytrek6@aol.com), aka Deane, who was the 10047th visitor to the BorgSpace pages.
Pure Magic
"For the last time," huffed the featureless metal sphere propped on a stand, which in turn was sitting on a workbench surrounded by broken and mangled tools, "I do not know how I work. Superficially, yes, but not the details you want."
Delta body B finished modifications to a quantum-tunneling phase probe, design and concept from species #6197. It was a fallacy to apply common characteristics and attitudes across the spectrum of an entire race, millions or billions of individuals different from each other. However, it could be done. For instance, except for the rare, deranged individual, Ferrengi were universally obsessed in acquisition of wealth. Species #6197 was also interested in acquisitions, although it was along the packrat lines. Their focus was on whatever the neighbor possessed, not wealth. As a race of incorrigible kleptomaniacs, their technology revolved around security - the best way to steal a hoard and the best way to protect it. The probe Delta held was a fancy lockpick, designed to slice through dense packed neutronium safe casings. The only reason the technology had not been applied to Borg cutting beams was a fatal instability if used on a scale larger than a penknife.
Depot was silent for a few moments, studying the drone's actions with senses the Borg had yet to quantify. "That won't work, you know. I know. This form is just a convenient extension of myself, a phantasm made solid. 'Me' is a nine spatial and two temporal dimensional complex, unseen, with a few fractuals thrown in for variety. Perhaps a game of scrabble, instead? I'll play against both your bodies, and give myself a three tile handicap."
The probe powered up. Delta ignored Depot's words. She knew he had already hijacked the hologrid in five places, much to Weapon's consternation, and was playing several simultaneous wordsmith games. A scrabble tournament had been organized for next week in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. The quantum-tunneling phase blade was pressed against Depot's casing.
The housing remained unmarked when the probe began to smoke several minutes later, victim of overload.
"You can't cut through dimensions," commented Depot, tone that of an adult pointing out the obvious to a small child, "at least not with that instrument. A word game will take your mind off of me. How about quote exchange? I start with a quote, and you guess who said it." The sphere continued without waiting for either 'no' or 'yes' from Delta. "'Any sufficiently advanced technology will be perceived as magic.'"
The quote was a very unsubtle attempt to chastise Delta, the Borg in general. However, Delta body B was too busy trying to put out her hand to respond, the probe finally bursting into flame. Body A materialized with a fire extinguisher. Delta covered herself, Depot, and part of the workbench with a thick layer of carbon dioxide foam, smothering the fire.
Asked Depot brightly, unconcerned he was invisible within his mound of white foam, "Give up? My point! It was a fellow named Arthur C. Clarke. A Director, I believe, although I'm not quite sure. They have that whole non-linear, quasi-deity racket, and so acquire names and bodies like some people buy shoes. Whoops! I nearly forgot, Borg don't wear shoes!" Depot began to howl in electronic laughter. What the joke was, or how it was funny, was neither apparent to Delta nor any of Cube #347's drone network. "Your turn!"
Delta shook the foam off her hand, then examined the damage. Body B was only slightly singed, several small shrapnel fragments embedded in the flesh of her forearm. Depot was ignored. "I am undamaged..." body A began.
Body B continued, "...and remain functional with only minor..."
"...cosmetic scratches. And we still do not know how these Artifact..."
"...components we have gathered fit together, nor what their purpose is and how they will..."
"...affect the wormholes," ended Delta body A. Both of her bodies turned to sweep foam off the table. Three additional engineering drones materialized in the analysis shop, wielding cleaning supplies such as mops, buckets, and sponges. They set to work cleaning amid cajoles from Depot to engage in a bout of quote exchange.
Of the six AD Artifacts, Cube #347 had retrieved four. First was the Card Artifact, a Visa Consortium credit card with a neutronium line of credit, useless due to an indecipherable encryption key, assuming the Borg had use for money in the first place. Second was Depot, perhaps key to understanding the function and construction of the AD system, but if so, an enigmatic one. He appeared to be little more than a glorified automated ticketing agent which while cognizant of the processes happening throughout the many fractual dimensions the AD megacomputer touched, could affect little directly. Third was the Schedule Artifact, a data crystal decipherable via several millennia of translation notes. It contained codes to destinations unknowable without a star chart from the era of the Progenitors, as well as ship passage prices presented in denominations called cloons. Most recently acquired was the Lock Artifact, a shoebox sized object with a Card shaped slot at one end and leads emerging from the back(?) side. All the components had been poked and prodded, and in the case of Depot, interrogated, to no avail. Yet to be collected were the Artifacts of Key and Ticket.
The Key Artifact was held by General Ta'loc, a reptiloid refugee from assimilation with a more than justified grudge against the Borg. She, what remained of her race, and others either knowing of Borg potential, or else just plain paranoid, had formed MAAC - the Mutual Alliance Against the Collective. It, along with the splinter collation MAAB - Mutual Alliance Against Borg - were powerful opposition against Cube #347 acquiring all the Artifacts. While General Ta'loc remained ignorant about the sub-collective's obtainment of Depot, she did know of the other three Artifacts in Collective possession. It was highly unlikely the Key Artifact would be provided to the Borg without major resistance; and even if Cube #347 had possessed no Artifacts, odds were very high General Ta'loc would eventually destroy the cube out of general motives of hatred and revenge.
The location of the remaining Artifact, Ticket, had just been recently discovered. Delta finished squeegeeing the remaining foam off her bodies as sensors intercepted the latest in a series of promotional advertisements on subspace radio KTWN.
*Triumphant bugle fanfare*
*Background collage of castles, waving pennants, large mythical beasts of the fire and/or acid breathing variety, cliche knights in armor, damsels, and other images of a time which never was except in the LSD dreams of a madman*
Announcers voice twisted into an artificial accent never naturally evolved, yet always associated with the previous pictures and invariably heavy on the th's and excess e's: "Hear ye, Hear ye! The Arrival Departure Faire begineth! This once-in-a-decade event is sonneth to start at the Faire grounds of the Sand Oasis. The Society of Creative Anachronism presenteth for ye pleasure rogues and thieves, knights and knaves, wizards and warriors, damsels in distress and Really Real Monsters! Entry is merely twenty credits per person per day. Camping sites and orbital paths are all available, as are several modern hotels."
*Collage altered to fireworks, pointy hats, staffs with knobs on the end, crystal balls, and more fireworks*
"Announcing the climatic event of the Faire: Magic! Yesseth, gentlebeings, the Society invites all aspiring magicians, warlocks, sorceresses, and wizards to apply to the contest, round robins of which will begineth in a week, with finals in a fortnight. The prize will be crowned Faire Magician, receive a kiss from the damsel or knight of ye choice, and be presented a framed Certificate of Award printed from the Ticket Artifact! Please tuneth to subchannel 5 of ye listening station for additional information.
"Otherwise, we'll see ye on Sand at the Faire!"
Subchannel 5 provided a list of rules, none of which were important by Borg estimation. The overall situation was suspiciously akin the Jhadball tournament several years and thousands of light years prior, so much so one had to believe the nebulous beings who were in charge of fate, time, and determining if a grape juice stain can be removed from a white carpet were running out of ideas. The truth was, originality had been depleted many universes prior, the primeval Writer long since departing to greener pastures, a higher paycheck, and a more appreciative audience, leaving behind his (or her) reject scripts. The forces which thus ran the present reality (as well as rented condos in several subrealities) were forced to work with a vast, but ultimately limited, library of possibilities and plots. Therefore, it wasn't very surprising similar themes occasionally reoccurred, budgeting constraints and plagiarism common. The Collective, of course, knew none of this, and Cube #347 was simply left alone to observe yet another example of a perverse universe.
As the Ticket Artifact was involved, although not as a specific prize, security was required to ensure a friendly Faire did not turn into vicious battle. A cheery disclaimer on subchannel 3 displayed a Faire history retrospective, and how the decadal event had begun 310 years prior with sponsorship by one of the mech inhabitants of Transfer in Departure. The mech, Two, was young by Ehtu standards, and claimed to enjoy observing the antics of organic lifeforms as part of its on-going research project. It had been the entity to originally donate the Ticket Artifact, but declined responsibility for the device once it was in possession of the Faire Commission. While very few entities actively plotted stealing the Ticket Artifact on the off chance the mech eventually wanted it back, "borrowing" it for a few dozen years was an option to be taken if opportunity presented. Likely, once the mech lost interest in its project and failed to appear one year, the resulting lack of security would embolden various Artifact Seeker factions to fight over the Artifact, effectively ending the Faire tradition.
Delta, now cleansed of fire extinguisher foam, laid the broken probe on the workbench, alongside other similarly nonfunctional tools. Both bodies joined the cleaning effort, assisting with final wipe and polish. Meanwhile, a subset of engineering hierarchy returned to contemplating the vast technological archives, seeking a new method to open Depot's shell. Delta ignored the Faire commercial, her mind turned towards more important items, sub-collective decision upon that matter long resolved.
Cube #347 cautiously trekked towards Sand.
*****
Sand: world of deserts. Aptly named, the planet was dry, Mars-like, vast dust storms plying the latitudes. The few mountain ranges were mere remnants of once enormous Alps, ground by relentless winds to fill the vast seas of grit. Although hot by day and frigid by night, temperature and atmosphere conspired to create a place one could, if inclined, step foot upon without being suffocated, baked, or frozen, as long as prudent precautions were taken. It was the Bonestrippers one had to worry about, storms which encompassed a quarter or more the planet, winds approaching the speed of sound driving forth a wall of sand able to scour flesh from bone in mere seconds.
Sand had a complex ecology, an unseen network of animals and plants which lived in (never on!) the sands, utilizing the planet as ocean creatures did water on wetter worlds. The equivalent of plankton, grazers, and carnivores swam or crawled or drifted through the grit layers. Some types of sand were more prone to sliding and slipping around others, and so formed vast sand "rivers" flowing into "lakes" and "seas." Sand "islands" and even "continents" had the consistency of almost-set concrete, and so were less predisposed to movement. Each system had its own ecology, its own interconnected foodweb safely hidden from the Bonestrippers.
Missing was intelligence, sentience. Through the millennia, observant species caught by AD observed the placement of Arrival planets, postulating each world had once been a hospitable layover for a specific clade of weary travelers. For example, there were Jungle's temperate and tropical forests, as well as the planet-spanning ocean of Paradise, both clear as far as the beings for which these planets might be attractive. Sand, however, was an enigma, suitable to one or two races, but hardly worth the effort involved to prepare an entire world. Still, despite assertions to the contrary, to the "this is how it should be" arguments, Sand persisted, Bonestrippers and all.
The sole, obviously habitable area on Sand was called Oasis. A lush, green patch exactly 100 kilometers square - 10 kilometers on a side - sat like an unexpected emerald amid the equatorial desserts. Even the most sophisticated instruments had never been able to determine where the water originated, nor why the winds and sands did not destroy it. A paradise surrounded by hell, exotic plants reaching for the sky, few had desire to stay more than a few weeks. Perhaps it was the manicured lawns and perfectly sculpted topiaries, all maintained by an unseen army of gardeners; perhaps it was the eerie silence possible only by an absolute absence of animal and insect life; whatever the reason, even the most adamant of hermits, cults, races, groups always hastily packed and left within a couple of days, weeks at most. The habitation record was set by a mystic at 3 months, 5 days, held only because his shuttle had malfunctioned and it had taken that long to contrive a transmitter to call for help; shortly after rescue, he had suicided, claiming the voices refused to leave him alone.
For those of a mind to stay a shorter time, Oasis was a perfect place to hold a convention or meeting. The Faire was the currently longest running of such, and thus attracted many tourists. It was a systemswide Event. Harking to an impossible world of chivalry, it was a fantasy, an escape from the trials and tribulations of everyday reality. Among the various special activities, the Magic contest was the premier draw.
Spectacular magic! Fantastic magic! Magic to elicit ohs and aws! Contestants of the competition used technology to inspire the audience, a fickle animal which in turn voted for the best illusion. One-on-one melees, the magician with the most stunning, most frightening, most funny, most /something/ eventually won the coveted prize - a printout from the Ticket Artifact.
At least that was the premise for how Magic contest should work. In reality, the bouts were not polite "you go first, then me" affairs. The struggle to disrupt the opponent's illusions, try to make him/her/it flinch and lose control was as important as showing oneself was immune to such underhanded trickery. It was traditional for an opponent to sabotage unwarded gizmos of magic, causing injury or fatality; and psychological warfare was common as well. Sometimes reality was mixed with illusion - a stampede of molpuls is much more impressive, and frightening, if the template animal is among the herd, sharp horns and wicked teeth aching to take a bite from the opposing magician's hide.
No one knew what the printouts were nor what they truly represented, but they were dang pretty. Oh, the 10,000 credit purse was nice as well, as were the coveted boasting rights.
Magic was a serious business.
On Sand, the Bonestrippers howled death over the desserts, just beyond the Oasis boundary. In Oasis itself, the skies were clear, the manicured meadows and trails thronging with people on holiday. The many members of the Society for Creative Anachronism lent a Faire atmosphere, dressed as wenches, as drudges, as musicians, as thieves, as nobles.
And still the Bonestrippers screamed.
*****
"Follow me to high orbital insertion slot beta-three. The part of myself escorting your vessel is one of five components assigned to you for the duration of your stay. Additional components are located on the surface. I will be aware of you at all times, just as I will be watching everyone. Have a nice Faire," lightly spoke a gender neutral voice over the subspace channel. The message had an automatic quality, having been repeated hundreds, if not thousands of times. Cube #347 received no preferable treatment, the four plus one escort provided to obvious warship and small pleasure runabout alike.
Delta A and B gazed at separate viewscreens. The monitors were BorgStandard, meaning they were each the size of the average drone's head, round, displayed everything in a fisheyed format, and had a tendency to tint the picture green unless the color filters were adjusted. Delta's usual view of the universe was generally inward looking, hull and all within engineering hierarchy's domain. Command and control, weapons, sensors, and, to a lesser degree, assimilation, those divisions of the Cube #347 consensus structure dealt with the outside. However, the monitors in this part of the vessel were undergoing scheduled maintenance, and therefore displayed pictures of something, anything, moderately more interesting than stars or the overly brown sphere called Sand.
In this particular case, Delta A looked upon the traffic control component, while body B sighted one of the four peacekeepers. All were machine parts of the body whole known simply as Two, an Ehtu, mech species #2. As this particular mech species aged, it built additional components, thus increasing overall size and further dispersing its "soul," its self, over tens of thousands, if not more, machine shells. The loss of one body, of hundreds of bodies, was inconsequential, the equivalent of an organic sentient losing a similar number of epidermal cells. Borg knew very little of the culture, biology, or technology of mech species #2, assimilation of the rarely encountered individual impossible, if not downright suicidal.
The two component types escorting the cube were of radically different design. The traffic controller was small, a brightly painted yellow sphere twenty meters in diameter. Orange lights revolved and flashed at regularly placed intervals on the hull; and the hemisphere facing cube sensors had a "Follow Me" message (in Borg alphanumerics, which was disturbing) outlined in blocky black lettering. The machine looked as dangerous as a soccer ball, easily punted. By contrast, the euphemistically named "peacekeepers" were small wars with no place to go.
Jagged compositions of sharp edges and oblique planes, the peacekeeper escorts were quadruplets of mayhem. With no bilateral symmetry involved, each was a construct built solely for the most efficient use of space-faring destruction, design composed by a mind evolved outside organic constraints, organic sense of aesthetics. Utterly alien. At its widest point, the component was sixty-four meters, a paltry size compared to the overshadowing bulk of an Exploratory-class cube. A highly abstract spheroid, the muzzles of unidentified weapons were obvious. Weapons was unsure as to the destructive power of the escort, but was very eager to conduct live-fire tests. Command and control was equally avid to /not/ initiate hostilities, for while it might be possible for the cube to destroy the foursome, an incoming reactionary swarm of escorts assigned to nearby vessels was a bit more problematical.
Delta continued her self-imposed task as Cube #347 smoothly slide into orbit and began to negotiate with Faire personnel to enter the Magic contest. On their part, the Faire administration was skeptical as to the sub-collective's motive for entering, especially as the conversation had began with a "You will release the Ticket Artifact to us. Comply." statement. Others had likely declared similar, although probably less brazen, ultimatums in the past, for the demand was unilaterally denied. Eventually the sub-collective consented to entering a drone. A list of acceptable and unacceptable hardware was received, the primary stipulation being all illusion-generating or breaking devices must be transportable by the contestant without use of assistants such as anti-gravity; and an official would inventory each contestant upon arrival, noting what each donkey-laden being brought with him/her/it as the sole devices allowed over the next week of gaming.
The list crystallized the true nature of the contest to the sub-collective. It would not be the warriors who would win, nor the intellects. Engineers were the champions of this modern-day magic contest, which in turn opened several interesting possibilities....
Decision cascades commenced.
{Delta, report to drone maintenance,} spoke Captain to Delta.
Delta continued her wiring task, both bodies working together to find the fault causing a malfunction to a particular display. {No,} she replied. {I am too busy.} She activated the screen, body B frowning as the image showed a scene of the outside vibrantly shaded in red and purple plaid. The monitor was disconnected once more.
{Report to drone maintenance. Comply.}
{Too busy. Get another drone.}
{Unacceptable. We need a drone from engineering hierarchy. You are a single designation in possession of two bodies. Therefore, you can convey twice as much equipment as any other drone on this cube,} said Captain. The logic was unnecessarily relayed, Delta already aware of it. She had protested strongly during the initial consensus, and been overruled.
{Too busy,} Delta reiterated, scrolling a personal "to do" list, recently bloated by the hasty addition of a dozen nonessential tasks. As she watched, command and control stripped the list, randomly reassigning the jobs to other engineering drones. 24 of 230, who had a slight epidermal sloughing problem in the presence of water, would not enjoy cleaning the saunas in subsection 14, submatrix 22. (The sauna story was long, tedious, and involved an imperfect sub-collective three thousand years and several vessel predecessors earlier. Suffice to say, since that particularly embarrassing and odorous incident, all subsequent "special needs" cubes had a very large sauna). A single task replaced all duties, accompanied by a top level compulsion.
{Comply, Delta. Report to drone maintenance for modification,} ordered Captain, directly backed by the combined wills of command and control.
Delta felt her resistance collapse, her priorities alter. {This drone complies,} was her sullen answer. It was unnecessary to add her irritable feelings on the matter. Delta set down the monitor she was laboring on, standing as 109 of 230 appeared to take over the task. With grimaces of disgust on both her faces, she transported to the nearest drone maintenance bay.
"Thiz iz thoooo highly unusual," complained the Zyn sent to inventory Delta. He wrung his hands together in agitation, then glanced over his shoulder at two other of his race occupying the tent pavilion, as well as a silent mech shell. The Zyn pair, dressed alike as soldiers with light chainmail made for appearance, not for war, and sheathed wooded swords spray-painted silver, shrugged. They were for decoration, and inventory was not their concern. The component, predictably, retained its statue demeanor.
"This drone is 12 of 19," said Delta, with both of her bodies, "and represents the Collective for the duration of the Magic contest. Inventory this drone."
The Zyn, Dolos by name, waggled his fingers, repeating, "Tho highly unusual." Dolos was dressed as a scribe, the fabric of his costume of much better quality than the pseudoguards. The sky blue tabard, however, clashed severely with his species' yellow skin. In one black stained hand Dolos held a thoroughly modern PADD, although the tools of a scribe trade - board, paper, quills and pens, powdered ink, all wrapped in a compact bundle and protected by oilcloth - leaned against the pavilion's central support pole. A gentle wind quietly rustled tent fabric. "Well, I guess tho, since it hath already been cleared by the Faire authorities." Dolos heaved a sigh. "Okay, let uth begin."
As the inventory progressed, an intimate affair in which each element of recently installed technology was iterated, described, and, if possible, extracted for visual inspection, Delta let the eyes of the currently unoccupied body roam freely. As information passed through her link to the sub-collective, she was directed to more closely examine some sights and disregard others. The general consensus was the Faire was crowded, busy, noisy, and above all, an anachronistic place, as to be expected by a Society which prided itself in reenacting a civilization which never was.
The tourists, whatever the species, were obvious with their holocameras, their clothes (those who wore clothing) and bought trinkets, their gawking. On the other hand, Faire participants wore period clothing of leather and wool, bright colors in evidence. Knights, men-at-arms, and other armed beings sported armors and weapons of all kinds, most made for show, not combat. Fantastic dress of nobles and upper-class clashed with dull fabrics of drudges and servers. Shop and innkeepers shouted their wares, vying to entice the all-important tourist dollar into their establishments.
The establishments themselves were of a non-permanent variety, fitting due to the temporary nature of the Faire. More enduring structures erected in the past by various people had all long vanished, likely by action of the same invisible caretakers of Oasis flora. Tents, some of brilliant color and others of drab beige canvas, dotted the grass field, at the edge of which Delta was located. The Faire was large, and the people many, and this pasture one of many similar open spaces. Some tents and pavilions were exceptionally large, able to house many hundreds of people, while others were intimate, spacious enough for a single seller and wares, nothing else. An entertainment stage of faux wood and a contemporary sound system squatted on one side of the clearing; and speakers were unobtrusively erected here and there on poles or anti-gravity platforms for the purpose of Faire-wide announcements. Port-A-Potties, each with its own mini-fusion reclamation system, suitable for a wide range of physiologies, loitered not quite out of sight opposite the stage. They were notable for the inevitable lines as well as an odor which even the most modern of technologies and pine-fresh chemicals could not eliminate. Also conspicuous throughout the Faire concourses were Two's shells.
The components were a versatile eight-limbed insectoid stilter similar to the variety Assimilation had confronted. Motionless, balanced on rearmost four legs with the other pairs tucked against linear torso segments, the machine bodies were dopplegangers of the one which occupied the pavilion with Delta. Camera eyes glowed a subdued red, ceaselessly watching all those who passed. No obvious weapons were evident, but then again, the stilters themselves were sufficient weapon against mere organics. One assumed Two had more powerful units in reserve, the mech species #2 equivalent of killer T cells, if the situation warranted. As it was, it was easy to forget the mechs were there, as evidenced by more than one person's reaction to the very rare shifting of metallic limbs. At one point, Delta observed an unscheduled, nonFaire-related brawl begin and then quickly die in its infancy, a stilter coming to life to easily separate the combatants. The two beings were held high in the air, Two patiently waiting for Faire organic security to arrive on the scene.
"That is all?" asked Dolos as he finished entering items into his PADD. He had lost his accent sometime during proceedings.
Delta shifted her attention to the Zyn. "Affirmative," she answered in stereo. It was unnecessary for her to use both her bodies in such a way, but it obviously discomforted the pseudoscribe, and thus served as a reminder to him as to what Borg represented, even if his species was uncatalogued before entry to the AD systems.
Dolos hummed a tuneless ditty as he entered a final data tidbit into his handheld computer, then reached under his tabard, emerging with a small, palm-sized PADD from a hidden inner pocket. He briefly touched the new device to its larger relative, then held it for Delta to take. Body A, the closest of herself, did so. "Here is your registration," explained Dolos. "Do not lose it, else you will be unable to participate. It also has a summary of Faire history, a map, a list of your fellow magicians, a continually updated schedule of where and when you will battle, and a contest ladder. Remember, single elimination rules. Oh, and I would suggest a little better in the way of dress. You just don't look the part of a magician." Dolos was addressing body A, and continued to be uncomfortable with the notion that Delta was truly a two-in-one package deal.
Delta remained silent at the suggestion.
Dolos cleared his throat noisily. "Or not. Well, um, er, your first bout is tomorrow, the hour of bells, Faire time, on the Grassy Sward of Jewels. If you are more than ten minutes late, you will forfeit and be automatically eliminated. Your opponent is Murgo the Magnificent, I believe. Do you have any moniker I should be aware of?"
"We are 12 of 19," said Delta in response.
Dolos flinched. He appeared to decide he desired the interview and inventory session done with as soon as possible. "Fine. That is all. Tomorrow, hour of bells, Grassy Sward of Jewels. Understand?"
"We understand."
The Grassy Sward of Jewels was a short-mowed meadow studded with creeping carpets of flowers in topaz gold, sapphire blue, ruby red, onyx black, and other precious or semi-precious stones. The plants were very much alive, yet despite the pounding they had experienced after fifteen days of foot traffic, a punishment which would have ground other flora into green paste and bare earth, the turf remained springy, sweet smelling. An expectant crowd rimmed the Grassy Sward of Jewels when Delta materialized at the fancifully named hour of bells (just after lunch hour, local time). Beings of all AD races stood five or six deep in places, heads craning for the best view while elbows (or other appendages) were put to use in jockeying for prime position, just beyond a hastily erected barrier of yellow "Do Not Cross" construction tape. Several people, ferretlike in form - Sphinxians - hurriedly slunk away when Delta arrived, swiftly losing themselves in the crowd.
A dozen stilters were strategically positioned around the Grassy Sward of Jewels, alert for difficulties. An additional three machine patrolled on separate trajectories through the crowd, "head" occasionally visible as the shell reared to its full extended height for a looksee.
The crowds, the mech shells, the delightfully springy turf, none were relevant. As Delta materialized, she, the sub-collective, noticed the details with peripheral interest. Races were automatically catalogued, the Sphinxian deserters noted. No, the important item was the magician standing self-confident at one end of the meadow - Murgo the Magnificent.
Murgo was a Tunian, and a rather flamboyantly dressed one at that. He wore a striking suit, green trimmed in gold, fitted to his snake frame. "Suit" was too strong a word, and "hairnet" ("feathernet") may have been more accurate, as the outfit was mere filigree strands of sparkling green and gold, highlighting Murgo's carefully silver-dyed body feathers. A golden cape swung from his, well, shoulders, or at least where his shoulders would have been if he had them. On Murgo's head was a tall, pointy hat, black, edged with celestial objects in yet more gold thread. A knobby staff taller than his upper body was grounded upright, supported by several head tentacles; and an unobtrusive harness holding a variety of gadgets was strapped to his torso.
"Tis the hour of bells," announced loudspeakers, sending echoes across the 100 square kilometers of Oasis Faire grounds, "and a Magic contest begineth on the Grassy Sward of Jewels. Cometh to see the magicians battle! Free admission!" As if by, excuse the pun, magic, the crowd swelled to ranks of ten deep. One daredevil, or a suicide, depending on one's point of view, dared to climb onto the back of a mech stilter. The stilter stood motionless for several seconds, then, as if Two had become highly annoyed, began furiously bucking. The trespasser was sent high into the air and into a bank of Port-A-Potties.
Murgo the Magnificent clung to his staff, using it to draw himself as tall as he could. A breeze ruffled his feathers. "I am Murgo the Magnificent!" the Tunian boomed, exceedingly loud without obvious use of loudspeaker. "I will please you, I will amuse you, and above all, I will show you that /I/ am a magician, and my unworthy opponent is nothing more than a pretender," he imperiously addressed the audience. An aura flickered into existence, surrounding Murgo in an unsubtle bearing of power.
Delta narrowed her eyes. This posturing was a complete waste of time, an activity not sanctified as necessary by contest regulations. Had the crowd not read the rules? They were responding to the theatrics and gestures with shouts of appreciative encouragement.
"Enough talk! Begin!" ordered Delta. Like Murgo, she required no PA system to amplify her voice, a bellow function prerequisite for any drone to be engineering head.
"Ah, the Twin Temptress," said Murgo with score, using a tone even the Borg could identify as sarcasm. "My ladies, or lady as I understand the case to be, I shall, as you demand, begin." The Tunian began to weave a complex pattern in front of himself with his staff, dragging the butt end to form an intricate symbol in the grass. Simultaneously, his free manipulatory tendrils were working furiously, dancing over the devices on his harness, pressing buttons and adjusting dials. At one point, he reached into an inside cape pocket, throwing a paper wad skyward, where it burst into a blossom of sparkles. "And so you demanded, Temptress, and so you shall have!" Murgo barked. "I give you a giant!"
With an immense gout of pyrotechnics and smoke, the 50-Meter Muscle Man appeared in the Grassy Sward of Jewels. An AD commercial icon of this epoch, the 50-Meter Muscle Man promoted the goodness of kang in building muscles. "Kang" was a root vegetable, a sort of potato, outlawed on most planets, planetoids, platforms, outposts, and ships in the wormhole system due to the fact it would eat you if you didn't eat it. One certainly needed muscles if kang was on the diet, muscles to subdue the veggie, muscles to hold down the lid of the boiler while the veggie cooked. Delicious, but dangerous. Superficially, the 50-Meter Muscle Man resembled an icon of a much earlier era, of a place located on the other side of the galaxy, of an icon white and marshmallowy and trademarked and destined to be cruelly blowtorched for the sake of entertainment. The 50-Meter Muscle Man was not, however, of the type to wear a sissy sailor's cap; no, he was too macho. He instead wore a slumped chef's hat, the extra tall variety.
The crowd screamed in horror, in delight.
Delta scanned the humongous humanoid at the same time she stared at Murgo's staff. Two bodies did come in handy at times. The sub-collective returned a 96.3% chance the staff was an illusion generator, devices in the harness either acting as supplementary tools or controllers for the pyrotechnic and vocal effects. The Muscle Man was an illusion; Murgo and his staff were her goal.
Body A and body B split, Delta angling to approach her target from two directions. Murgo appeared unconcerned he had two Borg drones bearing down upon him; and if anything looked highly disappointed. Delta was not responding with an illusion of her own. Oh, Delta had the necessary odds and ends recently added to her bodies, but one rarely used rule detailed that if an opponent could be disabled by non-illusion means in less than ten minutes from contest start, the opponent would thus lose, no matter the resulting vote by the audience. "Disabling" in this case was of a rather permanent nature.
Murgo lazily waved his staff. The 50-Meter Muscle Man lifted his right foot. The illusionary foot swung down, gathering illusionary momentum, but Delta continued to ignore it. She would not flinch. She was vastly surprised when body B was flattened, victim of a not-so-illusionary stomp. The 50-Meter Muscle Man's foot needed an emergency barrel of anti-fungal cream and many cans of deodorant spray.
Borg do not throw up (unless forced to eat food, or confronted by the collected ballads of John Tesh), however Delta found herself distinctly nauseous.
{Come on, do something,} ordered Weapons in the off-handed manner of someone distant from the action.
Delta gritted her teeth. {Let me terminate him, just a little bit. I'll leave most of the parts salvageable.} To her immense disappointment, Captain halted consensus before it could progress.
While body B struggled for breath, rolling as the toxic foot descended again, Delta body A programmed an appropriate response into her in-body holoemitter. Two could play at this game. A giant yam leapt into existence, fully as large as the 50-Meter Muscle Man. It wasn't a kang, but it was close enough. Murgo would have to respond, if only because the increasingly rowdy crowd would tear him tentacle from body if he did not. Such an action would definitely constitute a "no" vote.
The 50-Meter Muscle Man turned his vegetable hunting gaze towards the immense root. "Ho ho ho," he chuckled in a baritone which was an overamplification of Murgo's own voice, "I shall boil you and eat you for dinner!" The yam did not respond, lack of (holographic) vocal cords, mouth, and so on a detriment to speaking.
Delta sent the yam into battle by the simple action of felling it onto the 50-Meter Muscle Man. With a great grunt, the giant stumbled to his knees, failing to catch the descending tuber. Murgo gestured with his staff, impetuously ordering his creation to stand, to make fritters from the kang-pretender. The Tunian ignored the Borg in favor of the contest.
With help of body A, body B stood. Narrowing her eyes, she assigned herself a double task - one, control the yam, and, two, remove Murgo from significance.
The yam flew through the air, hitting the Grassy Sward of Jewels with a hard thump. Cracks crazed the surface and one spot leaked orange pulp. The tuber rose to hover in the air, then charged the 50-Meter Muscle Man once more, pointy end forward. The corporate icon himself looked distinctly battered about the neck and torso region, and if he had been a real being, one would expect the bruising around his right eye to swiftly bloom into a magnificent shiner.
Delta B openly stalked Murgo. Several of the nearest Faire patrons were expectantly silent, watching the developing situation. Their absence of sound, however, was minor compared to the screams of encouragement elsewhere. Murgo concentrated on his creation, oblivious to his very real danger. One of Two's shells shifted slightly, glowing red camera lenses of the stilter tracking Borg progress.
"Yam! Yam! Yam!" chanted one faction, opposed by cries of "Mus-cle Man! Mus-cle Man! Mus-cle Man!"
The audience cheered, disregarding the illusion supported, as the 50-Meter Muscle Man broke the yam in twain over his knee. The giant lumbered into a victory dance, aping his diminutive master, as tuber bits dissolved amid a shower of holographic sparks. The contest, however, was far from over.
"We are Borg," announced Delta B as she reached Murgo the Magnificent. "You are an obstacle. You will be assimilated."
The Tunian pulled back, startled, head waving back and forth in consternation even as he denied to himself his breaking of the Faire magician's cardinal rule: never become so engrossed in Magic you neglect the world around. Those who forgot the dangers of the physical realm, or assumed their opponent would "play nice," did not survive long, else quickly retired to the life of stage and kiddy party magician, if not returning to an actual full-time job.
Delta body B ripped the knobbed staff from the Tunian's tendrils.
"Not fair!" protested Murgo. "Security!" His voice switched to the upper registers of panic.
Delta body A glanced towards suddenly quiet crowd, and more specifically the stilter shells. Two remained motionless, unwilling to become involved. This was a contest, a game, after all. Whether such a sentiment applied only to the Magic contest, or to Two's entire purpose of sponsoring security for three centuries of Faire was another matter altogether.
The predator longing in the gaze of the audience was highly disturbing, expressions of vicarious anticipation instead of horror and disgust shadowing the visages of all present. Body A noted the arrival of a dozen extra stilters at the crowd periphery, stilters which appeared to be more interested in the mob itself as opposed to the focus of the mob's attention.
Taking body B's uncertain pause as a cue, Murgo very unmagnificently abandoned his stolen staff, turning to slither a quick getaway. Unfortunately, he turned right into body A, which had continued to approach even as holographic yam was defeated. The Tunian smacked into Delta's tritanium reinforced torso armor. As he dazedly swayed back and forth, Delta mentally shook herself out of her fugue state, reaching a hand of body A to subdue Murgo while at the same time peering at the knobbed staff to examine the engineering marvel she had acquired.
"Did we /have/ to assimilate the Tunian?" sighed Assimilation. Another drone in his position would have jumped at the chance to do something, to be useful, to show his/her/its importance in the One. "Termination would have been easier." He gestured at the assimilation alcove. "His physiology is wrong, difficult."
Delta's reply was succinct, "So is species #7001, and they are multi-limbed insectoids."
"There are also specialized alcoves for that species in storage, not to mention they have a stiff exoskeleton. This specimen is...floppy."
Delta eyed the alcove in which the Tunian was installed. The snakelike body was a novelty, and doubtless would, already was, the center of speculation as how the species could be best employed. The most likely specialties were tactical or engineering, but that was a future which did not involve Cube #347 and its cargo of imperfectly assimilated drones. For now, Assimilation's job was to stabilize the sentient for long term storage, emplacing only the most basic of implants. The Tunian would be disembarked to a proper sub-collective for detailed study, once (and if) Cube #347 escaped AD to rejoin BorgSpace.
Shed feathers mounded on the floor in front of the alcove or drifted in silver piles in the corners of the assimilation workshop. "Use more duct tape," was Delta's suggestion. The Tunian's length was curled into place on the bottom of the alcove, upper torso/head segment held upright through liberal use of bungie cords, twine, the infamous duct tape, and other jury-rigged methods.
Assimilation was not satisfied, although his gray tone did not overly emphasize the fact, "But you are engineering. Adapt us something more efficient."
"Duct tape is efficient," responded Delta. A chime dinged in her mind. "And I also am required on the surface. Engineering has more important tasks that adapting an assimilation alcove for the use of a single sentient of nonconforming physiology." Body A dematerialized from the assimilation workshop, joining body B in the transporter buffer for the trip to the surface.
It was the hour of scampering toads.
The hour of scampering toads. Delta materialized in the Grove of Vicious Lights surrounded by...a swarm of scampering toads. The warty amphibians were everywhere, croaking and bellowing and chirping and in general making a deafening din. Delta degraded incoming auditory. There were green toads, brown toads, green toads with brown stripes and brown toads with green stripes. Some toads even came in very nontoad hues of puce, eggplant, fuchsia, and cauliflower blue. And while there were toads everywhere, nowhere was to be seen the magician presumably responsible for their plague level occurrence.
Delta body A retrieved the Magic contest PADD she had been given by the Faire authority. The majority of the data had been absorbed by the sub-collective shortly after it had been acquired, but certain functions, such as the contest ladder, were dynamic. While body A waved the PADD around in the air in an effort to find a decent reception point to allow the device to update itself, body B scanned the battleground.
The local time was evening. The slender trunks of tall trees similar to quaking aspen gleamed white in the fading dusk, not reflecting the sinking sun, but instead glowing with true bioluminance. Pale green leaves rocked in the absence of wind, located high in the canopy well above Delta's head, and in turn shook their associated twigs. Small seed pods on said branches gently bobbed, subtly radiant in pale reds, blues, and yellows. The "vicious" aspect of the label Grove of Vicious Lights was not apparent, but neither did the corpse seem benign.
Of the humanoid Faire tourist populace, there was no sign. The extensive grove was mapped on the Oasis map to be a rough kilometer block, but neither that, nor the coming night, should have scared the rabid audience Delta had experienced previously. An insect, dragonfly in shape, whirled past, followed by a second, and a third and a fourth. Soon the air was full of winged jewels which quickly settled on branches and trunks, wings stiffly extended. Unlike the scampering toads, which avoided close scrutiny or touch, the dragonflies held still under examination.
"Hear ye, hear ye! Attention Faire goers," called a distant PA speaker, "tis the hour of scampering toads. Our security host, Two, has generously lent mobile camera eyes to watcheth the action deep in the Grove of Vicious Lights. Please, no direct viewing. If you wisheth to watch the contest betwixt the Twin Temptress and the Mistress of the Mind, observation tents have been erected in many convenient locations. Free admission." The echoes dissipated, leaving behind only the incessantly noisy toads.
Delta had, by this time, uploaded the newest Magic ladder. As she examined the PADD information, she also switched to an infrared filter, scanning the forest for body heat sources.
The Mistress of the Mind, aka, Deane, Hunam. Delta peered at the picture provided with the contestant biography. The picture showed a widely smiling Hunam, white teeth marred by silver braces. Her brown hair was long, tucked behind her ears and held in place with unobtrusive barrettes. Several bead necklaces and a tasteful pendant circled her neck; and small earrings adorned her ears. The eyes which peered from the picture were green with a hint of gray or black. A final entry noted Deane to be one of a very select group of "hero" or "villain" Hunams able to leave Rock, a hero able to abandon planetoid and not only live, but continue to practice her superhero ability as well. By Rock standards, the aptitude to transform into a toad was unspectacular, especially when the toad could not shoot lasers from her eyes nor trap villains with a supersticky tongue, but here, surrounded by toads....
Delta shelved the PADD and turned her full attention to the toads scampering around her feet, staring at her from the tree trunks, peeking at her from under piles of neatly raked leaves. At the urging of many internal voices, she began to stomp.
Splat.
Splunk.
Splook.
Spluck.
Fat toad bodies squished and splattered with realistic gore and disgusting sounds. Only the fact Delta felt no resistance as she stomped, nor saw warty bits coating her feet confirmed the countless toads were holographic, unreal. The popped corpses lay in all their glory for several minutes after dispatch before dissipating. However, for every one toad crushed, another two appeared in its place, adding to the croaking chorus. It quickly became apparent a different strategy was needed. Delta halted her rampage, waiting for a new suggestion from the sub-collective.
{That is a ridiculous suggestion,} scoffed Delta. The suggestion wasn't really suggestion, but it was still ridiculous.
{It will be efficient,} began Captain.
{And it will squish all enemies!} ended Weapons, drowning the calm logic of the consensus monitor and facilitator.
Delta grumbled, {It is still ridiculous.}
Answered Captain, {And this situation is not? We are participating in a "magic" contest which utilizes advanced holographic technology with the desired result to acquire an enigmatic object know as the Ticket Artifact, a piece of a much larger puzzle which will either allow us to return to BorgSpace, else blow us up. Personally, I vote for the explosive option, but the Collective believes otherwise, and what the Greater Consciousness believes, so must we. Don't /we/?}
{Of course /we/ do,} retorted Delta with half trite sarcasm, half acknowledgment of the reality of being (almost) One in the Borg Collective.
{Comply,} ordered Captain.
Delta sighed, {Compliance.}
Concentrating on miniaturized holoemitters, Delta built the frame of the desired object, then added the skin. A toy-sized Federation shuttle appeared in front of body A, hovering for a moment before zooming away. A second shuttle popped into existence next to body B. Shortly, a fleet of small vessels dodged among shimmering tree trunks. Delta guided them into a rough line, pointed bows in the direction of the toad chorus, revved engines, and finally released the ships into the eager clutches of individual drones on the cube.
A roostertail of holographic toad parts followed each highspeed shuttle.
Several minutes of zigging and zagging, of too many shuttles running over too many amphibians and the occasional mid-air collision (followed by arguments as to who had been at fault), the grove floor looked like the site of a massacre. All toads except one were gone, evaporated following their pseudodeaths. The lone toad, squatting next to a leaf pile, had a stunned glaze to its bulbous eyes. The only reason it had not suffered a similar fate as its comrades was they had been programmed to interact with other holographic creations, each spawned of code from a parent software object and sent to "live" out its unreal life. The final amphibian, however, was not a hologram.
As Delta turned to regard the green streaked brown toad, it gave a croak of frustrated consternation, then stood on its hind legs. The body blurred, stretched, melted, fused, folded, and spindled itself, finally reforming as the Mistress of the Mind pictured on the PADD display. She wore a black robe, on which cute green frogs with red eyes and sticky toes clambered. Literally, after a holographic fashion. Out of seemingly thin air she plucked a heavy pack, slinging it onto her back with effort, followed by a pair of silver wands.
Delta advanced. With a cheesy grin plastered on her face, the Mistress backpedaled. Dragonfly wings rustled as Two rearranged its camera eyes. A wand gestured; a thunder cloud appeared over both of Delta's heads, forking distracting lightening bolts before loosing a heavy downpour.
"Can't we just talk about this?" asked Deane. "I do, um, have a knife? A big knife." The other wand gestured. An extremely large blade crackling with blue energies rose from behind the magician's back to float menacingly. Whereas the toads had obviously been illusion, the knife had the possibility of being all too real.
Delta cycled through her visual filters, but was unsuccessful at gauging the true level of threat the edged weapon represented. Waving a hand at the storm (and receiving a mild electrical shock as body A's hand intersected a bolt - the holoprojectors these "magicians" used were very sophisticated), Delta continued to approach. "Unless you have more than one knife, we will successfully eliminate you. The loss of one body is insignificant to us." Yes, in the greater scheme of Borg things, it was, but Delta wasn't thrilled to be risking herself so for the sake of a /game/. This was Weapons' cup of tea, not hers.
The Mistress retreated one step, and another, and another. No second weapon rose to join the first, which argued strongly it was a real object, not a template to be replicated umpteen times. "Excuse me," she said, "but I think I have an appointment elsewhere. My uncle's courier business really needs another hand, and I'm sure there is a kid's birthday party I should be at." Lame excuses made, Deane threw a handful of purple powder high into the air. The powder became a thick, choking smoke. When it dissipated, helped by a sudden gust of wind, the Mistress was nowhere to be found, either as toad or Hunam.
Coughed distant loudspeakers as mechanical dragonflies swirled into the night, "Hear ye, hear ye! The Twin Temptress triumphs ov'r the Mistress of the Mind, advancing to the next rung! Only a few more rungs to climbeth until the final Magic meet. The hour of buzzing butterflies rapidly approacheth, and tis the Isle of Twinkling Candycanes we goeth to find the anticipated match between arch-rivals Humorous Henry and Freud the Fantastic. This battle will be a broadcast event, soeth don't leaveth those tents. Free admission!"
"Hear ye, hear ye! Tis the hour of bumbling bees, and contest begineth at the Meadow of Blood. The struggle between Lord Longjohns and Twin Temptress comenseth! Come seeth the wonderment! Free admission!"
"Hear ye, hear ye! As the hour of Technicolor blankets striketh, come to the observation tents to gaze upon magicians in battle. Tis Pyromancer crossing againsteth Twin Temptress on the Blasted Plain of Ruin. Admission, as always, doth free!"
Delta waited. After the previous contest, she had vowed to arrive early. The Blasted Plain of Ruin had been an immense rock garden designed to facilitate peaceful meditation, the tips and crowns of unobtrusive succulents adding a soothing touch of green. She had been unable to register much more than "rock" and "small plant" when she had materialized, for the overwhelming thought had been "Fire!" The aptly named Pyromancer employed fires which were much more than mere illusion. Both of Delta's bodies were still singled from the contest, which had installed a wariness of future ambushes. The hour of shimmering light neared, local time translated into high noon, an appropriate time for the final Magic battle.
The Watergarden of Musical Reeds was located on the edge of Oasis. Literally meters away the Bonestrippers howled, screams muted by an unknown science. Delta could not discern the technology at work, yet a knife-edged line delineated lush green from sandy grit. Neither intruded upon the other; and what was a fierce, deadly wind on the far side of the unseen barrier was a refreshing breeze on the near.
Small ponds and marshes interconnected by babbling trickles of water comprised the Watergarden of Musical Reeds. As the label hinted, neatly tended clumps of decorative grasses grew profusely, the light breeze rattling stalks with percussion measure, else composing haunting flute melodies through reed groves. Other water-loving plants also grew in abundance, but none so varied or lavish as the reeds, some of which attained a height of three meters.
Mechanical dragonflies swayed on their perches, camera eyes glowing with the same red intensity as the stilters which frequented the crowded Faire areas. The audience was watching from afar.
"Hear ye, hear ye," sang a loudspeaker, somewhere distant, in an announcement long familiar, "tis the hour of shimmering lights! The Twin Temptress challenges the Necromancer, who in turn hath recently defeateth the thrice time Faire Magician champion. The contestants are at the Watergarden of Musical Reeds, and the observation tents are open for ye enjoyment. Cometh see this premier Faire event. Free admission!"
Delta blinked, then peered carefully around herself. The announcement implied her opponent was already present, yet she did not perceive him. She set herself back to back, to better foster a 360 degree awareness. As far as preparations, she could only wait. Borg tended to be reactive, not proactive, imagination required for the later and a quality actively discouraged by the Collective. With engagements of opponents employing known or extrapolatable strategies, "what-if" scenarios could be run, likelihood probabilities assigned, and effective counters devised. In the case of the unknown, and a magic contest using often all-too-real illusions definitely had no predecessor in all the vast Borg archives, the sub-collective of Cube #347, and by extension Delta, had to wait, reviewing over and over again the Necromancer profile.
The Necromancer was species #6214. His picture showed a small, no-nonsense, shifty-eyed reptiloid, bones wrapped in sinew and set in sharp relief under skin to form the characteristic Lupil seeming of extreme emaciation. His real name was not in the Faire records; and the alternative sources Cube #347 had - General Ta'loc's assimilated half-sister in long-term storage (following the "extraction" of relevant mental resources) and several AD ship databases - did not assist in learning the enemy. It was known the Necromancer won his bouts in a vicious and efficient manner, a trait which epitomized species #6214 when territorial instincts were aroused. Most Magic battles, excluding those of Delta or Necromancer, were playful boasting, one magician trying to gain the crowd's appreciation, then advancing on the strength of votes; egos were bruised, but no one was hurt. The Necromancer, however, set illusions to distract, he himself remaining unobserved until the moment of dispatch, an euphemism of seriously injuring, or killing, an opponent. In either case, with concentration broken, illusions did not persist. Whispering rumors hinted the Lupil was redefining Magic single handedly, and the next Faire, ten years away, would see a major decline in democratic wins at the expense of "involuntary" wins.
The Necromancer would be striving for dispatch, one fact the sub-collective could be sure of with near total certainty and no simulations required. Species #6214 rightfully blamed the Borg for their race's demise; and unlike the cliche holding someone to task for an atrocity not directly committed by that person, what one segment of Borg society accomplished truly could be spread to criticize drones who had been many light years distant trying to clean pudding out of the transwarp coils. Whereas dispatch of prior opponents had been a matter of personal choice, the Necromancer, a Lupil wronged by Borg, driven from his homeworld by the Collective and subsequently prevented by General Ta'loc from landing a final blow with an ineffective kamikaze run, would undoubtedly take advantage of any killing opportunity.
Dark shadows, vaguely humanoid, appeared in the Bonestripper winds beyond the Oasis border. They neared, obscured by blowing sands, eerily silent. Delta carefully watched, even as she methodically searched for her Lupil opponent, knowing he must be in line-of-sight to create and command his illusion. Shedding sand, a line of mummies (lichs? zombies?) marched into Oasis green.
The creatures were the shambling remains of species #6214 individuals, skin stripped to reveal dry muscle and tendon over dull bone. Sightless eyesockets sought Delta, and as they advanced, they sprouted an implant here, a cybernetic device there. The last of the line of eight zombies to exit the Sand dessert were humanoid, but not Lupil. They were Delta, mangled and torn with armor scoured by erosive grit, cartilage shocking white against the dull pallor of dried sinew, but recognizably her. As she watched, her illusion selves melted, dust to dust, and blew away, leaving behind only a pile of rapidly evaporating Borg parts. The display was a very unsubtle warning of the Necromancer's contempt for all things Borg.
The six Lupil zombies remained.
Delta shook her hand as body A was contacted by the foremost zombie's outstretched fingers. Cold! Bitter cold! She stumbled backwards, arm numb to shoulder; and she saw with body B the squinting visage of a Lupil peering from a nearby reed clump. In one hand he held a wand, and in the other a gun. Waving the wand slightly, Necromancer sent his minions forward. He aimed his weapon at the same time.
The lead zombie swiped at Delta and missed, touching vegetation. The grasses turned brittle and broke, caught in the cone of an ice ray. Delta curled one arm into a rather rude gesture aimed at the Lupil. More greenery acquired a frosty countenance.
The cold ray had been developed by Lupil early in their exploration of energy weapon technology. Depending on setting, a beam could be used as nonlethal crowd control, a humane method of hunting or slaughter, or as a weapon of war. Necromancer obviously had his ice gun dialed to "frozen hell."
{Adaptation!} demanded Delta as zombies blocked her view of the Lupil danger. {What is the correct adaptation?!}
Answered Weapons, {Well, we haven't required that particular protocol for quite a while. It may be a bit. I suggest you wildly charge the aggressor. At least one of you should get through. Unless his gun is automatic, as opposed to single shot, that is.}
{Well, find it!}
Delta listened/watched as the weapons hierarchy, supported by file shuffling command and control, discovered the appropriate protocols to be missing from on-board archives, replaced by "Six Hundred and Sixteen Neck Pinches, A Vulcan's Self Defense Primer." And the subsequent request for information placed on the Collective line?
<<We're sorry. All circuits are busy right now. You may either hang up and try again later, else stay on this line until the next available operator sub-collective is able to assist you.>>
The neo-industrial flute concerto was an...interesting...choice of hold muzak. One suspected the current Queen to be musically challenged. The sub-collective grumbled, but did not hang up. Doing so would only place them at the back of the wait queue next they called.
Meanwhile, Delta remained without adaptation, unless she cared to risk herself for the local weapons hierarchy to adapt a shielding protocol from scratch. Unfortunately, she was quite sure the adaptation would require more than two great hits, or so Weapons would insist.
Delta backed in lockstep. She could not look behind herself as she retreated, all eyes required to watch zombies, to try to look through zombies to find Necromancer. Body B was struck in the leg by the cold ray, causing her to stumble into a meditation pond. Somewhere the Lupil was having fun, enjoying the game of numbing his prey piece by piece.
The water was shallow, only rising to her knees. Body B's leg buckled as creeping cold affected muscle servos, submerging half of Delta into the pond and over her head. Delta reached down to help herself stand, then began to drag herself backward as the zombies splashed forward, noticeably lowering the water temperature. She required strategic retreat to regroup herself and give her nanites time to heal her body. Unfortunately, the Lupil was not providing her with the chance to fall back. She caught a glimpse of Necromancer, sufficient to duck the next shot in her direction.
{I need adaptation, now!} shouted Delta.
{We got it! Retrieve units Delta body A and B. Break orbit. Trajectory 1347.3 mark 2. Engage warp drive. And stay on hold, but try to terminate the music.}
*****
The uproar at Sand was extreme, an intense rollercoster of emotions, accusations, denial, triumph, and other passionate sentiments which was the slow simmer of an AD conflict waiting to boil over. No Federation, no altruistic goodwill, rather temporary alliances and xenophobia.
First it appeared the Borg had actually /retreated/, ran away as their drone entry was severely pressed by Necromancer, or so claimed General Ta'loc, personally at Sand from Beachball to watch the Magic trials. Those who had experience with the Borg, either firsthand or via history from dead ancestors, accused the Lupil of self-delusion. The Lupil might be strongest of current Artifact Seekers, but Borg were Borg. Borg did not retreat. The Collective would rather sacrifice its presence in AD systems than allow the impression it was assailable.
Meanwhile, Faire authorities declared the Necromancer to be Faire Magician. Over the course of three centuries and 31 Faires, withdrawal was oft seen. The leave-taking of the Twin Temptress was not a cause for concern. Instead, it simply meant Necromancer had won the bout by default, and Faire authorities did not have to tally votes for a democratic finale.
In the midst of celebration, boasting, and warnings of caution, Two decamped. It beamed all of its units to carry-all ships, bunching its spacefaring bodies into the compact traveling swarm which was a mech species #2 individual on the move. After thanking organics for being such good subjects, it declared it had learned what it had set up its study to ascertain. While Faires might continue, it would no longer supply security. Following its words, it pointed itself on a least energy trajectory to return its shells to Departure, and presumably the planet claimed as home by the mech species #2 there.
Then the sh** hit the fan, the industrial-sized fan, the wormhole-sized fan.
The really, really, really big fan.
Really Big.
The Ticket Artifact was gone.
Removed from a presumed secure holding facility, the Ticket Artifact disappearance prompted a round of denunciation. General Ta'loc blamed Faire authorities, who in turn shifted onus to the security concern charged to guard the Artifact. The security company, meanwhile, accused the Lupil (among others) as to having designs on the object, and so somehow stealing it before trying to confuse the issue by blaming anyone but their own guilty selves. The increasing number of accused parties led to hurt feelings and additional accusations, the primary Artifact Seekers flustered because, after all, it /was/ to be the year they would try to "borrow" the Ticket Artifact, really, except some other inconsiderate entity had done so first. Accusation led to shooting, and shooting to skirmishes, none suppressed due to the leave-taking of Two. By the time the suggestion was made as to Borg contribution to the situation, Cube #347 was long gone.
After all, the Collective did not retreat.
*****
In Analysis Shop #17, five Artifacts sat in a line on a workbench. Systematically, Delta looked at each one. Although only five drones total were presently in the room, vicariously four thousand were in fact attendant, and beyond that, the distant and dispassionate interest of trillions comprising the Greater Consciousness. Depot sat on his stand, an innocently quiet silver sphere, followed in turn by Card, Schedule, Lock, and, now, Ticket Artifacts.
The Ticket Artifact superficially resembled an ancient cash register, blocky with a sloping front, inclusive a key pad with alien alphanumerics. Touching random letters and numbers activated a floating, thin-screen holographic display, although nothing was reflected except an untranslatable message. The message was echoed on a "ticket" (of unknown substance) which was inevitably dispensed from a slot at the base of the device, followed by the return to stand-by mode. Like Depot, the machine resisted scans and its power source was indiscernible; and unlike the chatty dictionary, the Ticket Artifact was mercifully nonsapient.
At the top of the Artifact, a deep pit suggested an installation point for a Schedule-sized object; and plug-ins measured to be of a measure to accept the leads from the Lock Artifact. The sub-collective suspected the Artifacts were merely components of a larger puzzle, but had decided to allow partitions of command and control and engineering simulate how the parts might fit together before actually taking the step of doing so.
"I spy with my ninth-dimensional eye something which begins with C. The game is no find synonyms of what I am thinking of," gaily spouted Depot.
"I will not," snapped Delta body A.
Continued body B, "I am tired of games. Unless..."
"...you want to play jhadball. Weapons always..."
"...needs a ball," finished body B.
Depot fell silent, cowed. His physical self might be a three-dimensional projection of a nine-dimensional computer program, but he did know when a certain drone was in a Bad Mood.
Delta had been entered in the Magic contest to provide a distraction. As authorities, fellow contestants, and audiences alike grew complacent that the Borg actually were playing by the rules, such as the saying went, the sub-collective had actually been carefully poking and prodding Faire computer systems. Deftly avoiding software pitfalls and security alarms, the sub-collective had slowly navigated the confounding maze with a minimum of mishaps. The plan had always been to cut and run with the prize once it had been acquired; and the fact success had come just as Delta was to get her hinney beaten upon was coincidence. Being used as a Judas goat would put anyone in a Bad Mood, weather or not Bad Moods were irrelevant.
Delta looked to either side of herself, released from contemplating the Artifacts. The other drones in the room sped their work, projecting an aura of busy, busy, busy. One drone, just about to enter, committed a grevious error as he paused, accessed the general blackness emanating from the engineering hierarchy head, then tried to sidle sideways and out of sight. He failed.
{14 of 240,} snapped Delta, both nonverbally and outloud as the duty roster was radically realigned, {there is a small task for you to perform. Immediately. All the light strips, light bulbs, and light-emitting diodes on the cube need to be inspected, and where necessary, replaced. And while we are at this maintenance, 29 of 42 corridors 1 through 15 of subsection 2 are dirty. Mop them. Twice. 141 of 310, you will...}
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