And in corner one, weighing in as a 600 pound gorilla, is Paramount, owner of Star Trek. Cowering in corner two, weight a 98 pound weakling, is Decker and Star Traks. Refusing to enter corner three and with a weight of "It is none of your business," is Meneks and BorgSpace. Let's get ready to rumble!
The Impact Zone
Artifact - Any of six devices of unknown function, together of which are believed to have the ability to control the Arrival-Departure system, including wormholes. The Artifact Seeker (see Artifact Seeker) who is able to accomplish this feat of unity will hold power over all other entities within the Arrival-Departure systems. The six Artifacts are listed as follows - Card, Depot, Key, Lock, Schedule, Ticket (see separate entries for individual Artifacts).
Artifact Seeker - Any entity (individual, race, government, corporation, collation, etc.) which participates in the activity to gather all six Artifacts.
*****
Weapons ignored the activities of command and control to properly organize data gained from a salvaged Jeraki science vessel. Dictionary shufflers. He also disregarded the busy engineering hierarchy as they repaired wormhole damaged systems or performed scheduled cube maintenance. Spanner heads. Similarly dismissed were drone maintenance (meat doctors), assimilation (nanite farmers), and the sensory (touchy-feelie-seeie) types. No other hierarchy was as important, as necessary, as weapons. Of course, weapons conveniently forgot the roles the rest of the sub-collective played to keep his toys in one piece, to allow him to aim weapons, to patch damaged drones.
At the moment, the BorgCraft program was quiescent, both dataspace and hologrid versions. No ships exploded in simulated death, no holographic defenders fought against a Borg invasion of their station. Memory-hogging algorithms and energy-hungry holoemitters sat unused. A more meaningful distraction had captured the attention of the weapons hierarchy, a distraction believed lost when the cube had left the bounds of moderately civilized species.
"This is KTWN, Kay Twin, your subspace multimedia variety station. Our next program has been produced by the Arrival-Departure branch of the Galactic Wrestling Federation guild. Today's sponsors include Visa Consortium - 'The Choice of the Multiverses' - and TidyPod - 'Keep your pods their whitest.' Enjoy, and stay tuned later for 'Growing Molpuls' with master gardener and molpul rancher, Todd Glzphk," carefully enunciated a polite voice as a pleasant scene from an orbital hydroponics farm filled the visual feed.
The tranquil picture faded, replaced by throbbing techno-disco rock music and camera shots of an audience screaming, cheering, waving various appendages towards a six-sided pro-wrestling ring. The energy was a psychic slap in the face compared to the previous serene vista. Colored lights swept both roaring crowd and scantily clad dancers of several species (and genders) high-stepping down the aisles. An excited voice-over commenced as the AD GWF logo was emblazoned across the picture.
"Welcome to 'The Impact Zone'," howled an announcer, "the AD systems' premiere pro-wrestling program. And remember, the AD GWF doesn't take Universal Express to sell you a seat ringside, nor the wrestlers to sign your autograph. Visa Consortium, the choice of the multiverses. And now, a rundown of last week's action..."
The transmission flashed to a collage of species with various anatomies being crunched, jumped on, bashed, thrown about, and, in one case, used as a harmonica. Pro-wrestling at its finest. "And with the defeat last weak of the Goodie Two-Shoes, it seems the Bully Boys, the black-hats of the ring, are poised to win the annual tag team contest, yet again." A shot of an empty ring snapped up on the screen, a large question mark hanging over it.
"Remember, the Card Artifact, as always, is the ultimate prize. Do you have the stomach, the heart, the giblets to take your three-sentient team into the ring, to compete against AD GWF's finest? Last time it was our systems' own Ta'loc who fielded a team, and today, nothing. Next week...next week is the last chance to enter for this broadcasting season. If you would like to try, please contact local GWF official for details. For the record, the Card Artifact has not left Arena Rock since initially acquired - 34 seasons," said the announcer dully, obviously desiring excitement to replace the time filler. The dancers were done strutting; spots focused on closed arena doors. The crowd quieted expectantly.
"And here are the Bully Boys!" shouted the announcer with renewed abandon as the doors were flung wide, admitting three humanoid shapes rippling with muscle. Moments later, a second door, opposite side of the arena, thumped open. "And, my oh my! Where did /they/ come from? I thought the Bully Boys had utterly destroyed, decimated, annihilated the Sugar Daddies last season! Hammerman was in crutches last I saw him! But yet, here they are to challenge the Bully Boys!" Three more humanoid muscles with heads attached ambled into the aisles, posturing for the crowd and throwing rude gestures at their opponents. The audience cheered lustily, loving every minute of it. Signs waved in the air, proclaiming admiration for individual wrestlers. The arena was a barely controlled riot looking for a place to happen.
{Captain,} directed Weapons towards the named drone. He kept all thoughts of alternative motives locked as deeply in his mind as possible, double encrypted. {Request for consensus concerning an item designated Card Artifact.}
"Now, let me go over the rules one more time," began the AD GWF liaison.
"We understood the first time," said the Voice of Cube #347 over the subspace channel.
The official, Salator, sighed the theatrical sigh of an overworked, underpaid, unappreciated official, "Nonetheless, it is my job, so let me do it. More than one Artifact Seeker has claimed understanding, only to try something stupid, like raid the prize vault." Salator was of species #5999, Bonoi, masters of bureaucracy and supposedly assimilated. The cube was discovering many supposeds weren't as true as they had been a short while ago. Bonoi was a rodentlike species, but unlike the outwardly similar race represented by Doctor. Seffites had been jolly, generally optimistic, and, above all, hygienic. Species #5999, on the other hand, was shifty, squint-eyed, and greasy-pelted, all the bureauc"rat" stereotypes given bipedal form. Who says the universe doesn't have a sense of irony?
"We are Borg."
"That doesn't change the rules for you. Well, maybe a bit as assimilation is not allowed, but as far as cybernetic enhancements...your opponents are all mechanically or chemically boosted, anyhow, so that aspect doesn't matter," replied Salator, ears flicking irritation. "Above all, remember AD GWF is a subsidiary of the GWF guild. Due to the obvious circumstances surrounding the AD systems - no one able to escape once entered - all talent is local. After this meeting, you will beam your tag team to Arena Rock, where you will meet with choreographers. There /will/ be a wardrobe session, no matter how many 'irrelevants' you claim. We have an image to uphold, and the fans expect it."
"Irrelevant. Clothing is irrelevant."
"For you, maybe, but not for the customers. They are the ones with the money, the fans and the sponsors. We do have rent to pay, you know."
"You will be assimilated?"
Salator rolled his eyes with a calculated precision for insult that had likely been gained after weeks of practice in front of a mirror. "No. As part of the Customs planet constellation, Arena Rock has some interesting old devices about it. Devices which still work and which AD GWF knows how to operate. We cannot elaborate on the systems, of course, as that might embolden certain of the more militaristic Artifact Seekers to try their luck if they are eavesdropping." Pause. The next several words were directed at an unseen audience, "Which they /always/ are." Pause. "Excuse me. Suffice to say, we fear no Borg here. If we can contain a rioting audience avid to try pro-wrestling techniques on whatever moves, Borg are nothing in comparison. Nothing. Neither accidental nor purposeful assimilation will be tolerated.
"Do you understand?"
"We understand."
"Fine. Commence transport of your tag team to the following coordinates. There you will sign a liability waver, and then we'll head down to wardrobe."
"Yer name, voyo, shall ve...ve Flamenco Master. Yer weapon of choice shall ve...oh...a vlying clothesline. Ven you do thees move, ve sure to fling yerself vrom thee ring ropes. Thee vans always like that," nattered a prissy humanoid 1.3 meters high. The unknown species was called Zyn. This particular Zyn was thin with distinctly yellow skin, and wore a robe which included much faux gold thread and glass costume jewelry. The accent (artificial?) tended to alter 'b' and 'f' consonants into 'v.'
Weapons was appalled. This was not happening as initially envisioned, a picture which included butt-kicking, a couple of assimilations, a pile-driver or two, maybe a half-nelson or a super noogie, but not dress-up. And a creature by the name of Ongul was certainly /not/ part of the fantasy. "We protest! This drone is designated 45 of 300, or Weapons. Not Flamenco Master!"
Ongul pouted, flipping a decidedly limp wrist in Weapons' direction, "Oh, poo. Vat iz one more name? Thees iz show vusiness! You would not velieve thee numver of names I have had over thee years. Flamenco Master will do vine." He turned his attention to the other two drones accompanying Weapons, both of whom while outwardly stoic, were inwardly wishing one of the system wormholes would open up beneath their feet. "And vor you two...um...the two-legged vuggy one will ve The Bug, and thee muscley one will ve Brick." Ongul appeared to have no trouble dropping the accent when bestowing new titles, leading to additional questions concerning authenticity.
Weapons took an aborted step towards Ongul as the latter turned his back to converse with a clipboard bearing member of his species. Arm lifted to fire disrupter, but was restrained by meddlesome overrides from command and control. {Look what that twerp has dressed me in,} whimpered Weapons. {Just look!} He highlighted optic streams from his tag team partners 87 of 212 and 202 of 203.
{I don't know,} responded Second, {I think it looks snazzy. High heels might add a certain accent.}
Wailed Weapons, {I am wearing a slinky black dress, split at the legs! I have plastic fruit glued to my head! How can I do my Borg duty of weapons head if my enemies all laugh at me?}
{Perhaps they will laugh themselves to death,} was Second's dry response. In the background, Delta was cheering.
Rumbled Captain, {Enough. You will endure it. You wanted the assignment, so you get it. Neither 87 of 212 nor 202 of 203 are complaining.}
{They also got off light, compared to me,} grumbled Weapons.
87 of 212 was built like a bulkhead, his species average IQ only moderately boosted by Borg hardware. However, his race had not been assimilated for its mental acumen, and thinking was not encouraged. He had been dressed solely in an aquamarine bikini brief. On a drone it looked utterly ridiculous, especially as 87 of 212 sported the standard head to toe defensive armor of a tactical drone, a minimum of epidermis exposed.
202 of 203 was the cube's sole Flarn, exoskeleton studded with implants and supplemental armor. While he was not weapons hierarchy, he had been included on the team due to his imposing size and stature. Ongul had seen fit to direct wardrobe lackeys to dribble abstract paint designs over his body. Well, almost abstract. The sketches incorporated a very stylized insect motif, apparent only if one squinted just right. It was mayhap a vulgar insect motif, but it was not possible to confirm without specific cultural lacking in the pilfered Jeraki files.
Ongul returned attention to Weapons, a smile crossing his yellow face, "Good news! Ve are avout ready to vegin. I'd take you over to met thee Bully Boys, vut Feathered Boa's mount iz loose again. Vat a mess, vat a mess. Not usually zho hectic avout here. Now, vinners are decided upon voting vy thee Arena crowd. Ve tailor thee vights using the vollowing cues..."
As Ongul babbled, Weapons dulled aural input and gathered 87 of 212 and 202 of 203. He then nudged his hierarchy to begin a specially programmed BorgCraft scenario. Visualization was a key preparatory tool. They would win!
Techno-funk rap with electric voodoo accordion accompaniment screamed over the speakers. The crowd roared in anticipation, waving banners over their heads. Dancers urged the audience to greater heights of frenzy. Despite the supposedly soundproofed doors, Weapons could easily hear cries for the action to begin.
"And three, and two, and one," calmly counted a Zyn wearing headphone-microphone gear. Ongul's race was apparently the dominant group on Arena Rock, along with a healthy sprinkling of the ratty species #5999. The blocky species #7493, a race which made 87 of 212 of species #4102 look lithe, was also in evidence, likely as security and crowd control; as another presumably assimilated race, they had achieved warp only due to pity from a stellar neighbor with much higher IQ. "That's your cue, Borg Posse, go on out there. Only one in the ring at first - Flamenco Master. Once all is in order, the Bully Boys will make their appearance." A gesture was made toward the doors as they opened. The wall of welcoming sound was nearly solid enough to cut.
A commanding voice echoed over rabid pro-wrestling fans, "Oh no! Look who is here tonight! It is the Borg...the Borg Posse, that is! No assimilations here, so no worries. First is Flamenco Master!"
The headgear wearer made shooing motions. Weapons yanked away arms when it actually appeared the yellow dwarf would touch him. "Don't touch this drone," he snarled. Stoically, he turned to face the audience and set off down the aisle. He kept his attention on the rink, looking neither right nor left.
The view Weapons was receiving would have been confusing for any not of the Borg. Not only was he experiencing his personal perspective, as well as views from the two drones waiting in the wings for their cues, but also watched himself from the broadcasting angle. Normally "The Impact Zone" show was tape delayed, but tonight, as it was the final challenge of the annual Artifact tag team competition, the feed was live. Subspace transmissions received by the cube were thus available for Weapons to see.
His costume was silly.
The crowd, oblivious of potential danger either through ignorance or adrenaline, cheered Weapons' appearance. As 87 of 212 and 202 of 203 cautiously followed, accolades remained at the same preset volume - deafening. Weapons lowered audio pickup until the noise was a distant roar. 202 of 203 tried to put a swagger into his step, an action Weapons hastily warned against on the grounds it wasn't Borglike, wasn't proper tactical behavior.
{But I am assimilation,} protested 202 of 203.
Replied Weapons, {Irrelevant. For the duration of this assignment, you are under my direct jurisdiction, not Assimilation.}
202 of 203 hrumphed, but did as told.
87 of 212 did not, except in rare instances, have the mental processing power to contemplate an action contrary to that set out by his hierarchy head.
Weapons reached ringside. He laboriously clambered through the elastic ropes while contemplating the efficiency a set of steps would provide. At least it would lessen the potential faux pas of falling on his face. He had never noticed the lack before when watching GWF programs, but a quick review of prior shows highlighted the deficiency. The dress did not help; and neither did the plastic fruit, which was threatening to detach itself, superglue or no superglue.
The crowd quieted itself, relatively speaking, as all wandering spotlights focused on an arena door. "And now, ladies, gentlemen, neuters, and others," the audience began to slowly crescendo back to ruckus level as the bodiless voice spoke, "AD GWF presents the bad boys - and girl - you love to hate: the Bully Boys!" Wild cheers and boos shook the arena hall. Retro acid rock percussion, heavy on the timpani, throbbed. "First, Feathered Boa!"
A hefty humanoid - 2.3 meters tall, no neck, thighs like small trees, sloping forehead - strutted into the aisle. He wore a black leather g-string and a pink and purple striped feathered boa, nothing more. Chants of "BOA! BOA!" called from the seats. In response, the humanoid unwrapped the accessory item from his shoulders, holding it high. All, however, was not as it initially seemed.
When the scantily clad biped reached ringside, he carefully placed the feather boa within the ropes. The true wrestler was now revealed as the snakelike Tunian (species #10035 - recently designated by Collective via Eyeball data) raised the front third of his three meter length high, waggling delicate manipulatory tendrils usually tucked in pockets behind his head in acknowledgment to his fans. The vibrant purple and pink feathers shined brightly in the spotlights, a contrast to the brown, green, and black camouflage mottle of natural feathers, as displayed by other Tunians in the audience. Feathered Boa held tendrils wide, basking in adoration; his mount, the humanoid, now stood dully next to a ring post, eyes reflecting all the intelligence of a cow, if that.
Weapons was not surprised by Feathered Boa's appearance. After all, the Bully Boys had been featured on the previous transmission which the cube had caught. The Boa was a potentially deadly enemy, one which Weapons would have to remove from contention as soon as possible, especially if laughter was involved. He eyed the Tunian, following the entrance of the other two tag team members remotely.
"Heeeeere's Masher! Miss Masher, if you please!"
A species #7493 female jogged down the aisle, hands held over her head. The women weren't appreciatively smaller or less bulky than their male counterparts, which tended to mask secondary sexual characteristics, but they were slightly smarter. Only slightly, mind you. Masher had hardware appliances bracketing her limbs - external muscle augmentors, able to increase muscle power by a factor of ten, as long as the wearer did not mind the painful aches which would accompany any movement ten years down the road.
"Aaaaaaaaand, Whipping Boy!"
A small canary Zyn, a dwarf even in comparison to others of his species, trotted out of the doors. He was dressed in spandix which only served to heighten the rippling muscles along arms, legs, torso. In one hand he held his trademark whip, cracking it over his head as he moved towards the ring to join Masher.
Boos, hisses, cheers, jeers greeted the crowd favorite Bully Boys, whom, as the announcer had indicated, were the team one loved to hate.
A Zyn wearing red and while longitudinally striped clothes vaulted into the arena - the referee. He approached Weapons, then whispered using a volume considered loud in any other circumstance than the present, "We are ready to start. Remember to keep an eye on me, as I'll be relaying cues from the choreographers. You'll be allowed to tag in and out as much as you want, but after about half an hour to an hour, the crowd usually gets restless. At that point, the vote is in, and the appropriate directions given. Oh, and less stiff. The crowd likes posture, flamboyance. Boa's great at it. That's the only way you'll actually win." The ref stalked to the middle of the ring, waving his hands for attention.
"Let The Impact Zone begin!" cried the announcer over whoops and hollers and music. Lights bedazzled. The Zyn dropped his arms and stepped to the side of the ring, leaning against ropes where he was not blocking any cameras.
Boa rustled forward, exaggerating his loops. He followed the ring circumference, glaring at the crowd and shouting nonsense. Obvious pomposity. Outside, both Masher and Whipping Boy followed suit, faces twisted with scowls. Masher stalked towards 87 of 212 and 202 of 203, flexing her limbs. Intimidation.
Weapons calmly stood in the center of the ring, turning to follow the Tunian's progress. He berated 87 of 212 and 202 of 203 not to respond to provocation. The referee made a discrete finger gesture at Boa, who sinuously turned to regard Weapons through half-lidded eyes (although snakelike, the species was more closely allied with mammalian stock than reptiles).
Boa leapt forward, feinting his upper body left just beyond Weapons' reach. Meanwhile, the tail end swung right. The subspace announcer was yelling about a Pincher, which was the designation of the attack. The tail deliberately prodded at knees as the head reversed direction and came flying in. Weapons was momentarily confused: on broadcasts, opponents fell down at this point, but he had no impetus to fall. "Fall, idiot," hissed Boa. "You are making us look bad, and this is live." He thumped his nose into Weapons' breast armor while at the same time shoving tail behind knees. Weapons lost just enough of his balance to tumble backwards. A huge 'BANG' sounded from beneath the mat, much more noise than Weapons knew he had made. Before he could react, Boa had sprung lightly away, slithering next to the ropes to the joyful jubilation of the crowd.
Weapons regained his feet, filing the attack away. His hierarchy began determining counters to the move which did not utilize disrupters, nanites, or other prohibited technologies. He stalked towards the cavorting Tunian, ignoring the referee's frantic hand waving.
Boa whipped his head and upper body sideways, surprised, as Weapons lunged. Missing, Weapons fell against the elastic ropes, bowing them outwards. They gave, stiffened, then flung the Borg back at a high rate of speed directly at the feathered snake. Thump. Bang. Weapons' flailing prosthetic impacted Boa's head, throwing the Tunian backwards, stunned, tailing wiggling fitfully.
Masher slapped Feather Boa's tail, then began to climb into the ring as Whipping Boy hauled the dazed wrestler hand over hand to the outside. The referee blew a whistle and ran forward, acting as if to grab Weapons' elbow, then thinking better at the last moment.
"What did you do that for?" hissed the ref. "I plainly told you to wait. The crowd eats up Boa's struts. Hopefully you haven't injured him permanently. I want you to tag out!"
Weapons blinked, confused. The feeling arose from both himself and the many of the sub-collective watching the program, "Clarify. Pro-wrestling is not real? It is staged?"
The ref's face echoed amazement and disbelief. "You mean you didn't know this is all, excuse me, faked? What did you think the choreographer was doing when he explained the signs?"
"We were not listening. The speech was irrelevant, therefore, we were engaged in other, more important, concerns."
The referee groaned. "Well, it is fake, but don't tell the fans that. Most of them believe it is very real. Anyway, fall when you are cued to fall; and when you are motioned to attack, don't actually follow through! Now, tag out!" The ref pointed. Weapons resisted, contemplated something very messy.
{Comply,} sent Captain.
Weapons complied, slapping 202 of 203. The Flarn stiffly climbed into the ring, snapping one of the ropes in the process.
{Foul!}
{Dirty pool!}
{Not fair! Did you see that chair, did you? Fake, my glandular inhibitor!}
{5 to 2, Bully Boys, any takers?}
Several {Me's} chorused.
{But don't we want /us/ to win?}
{How could the ref miss that? How? Not fair!}
"Ouch! That chair to the noggin had to have stung, Borg or no," said the announcer voice-over on KTWN. An instant playback, slow motion, was inset to the top right corner of the picture. "The chair splintered all over the place. Hopefully Masher has it out of her system, but as Boa is only now coming around, probably not. The ref can't be everywhere, folks!"
Weapons clutched his head, blocking both chatter and KTWN transmission from immediate awareness as he brushed wood away. The chair had meant to shatter, analyses from 202 of 203, who had been looking in his direction, confirmed purposefully shoddy construction. Masher had walloped him astride the cranium and back during a sneak attack, using force which was not faked.
One particularly annoying splinter was lodged firmly in a vertebral crease, a segmented section of back armor allowing moderate spinal flexibility. He pointedly ignored it; and he couldn't remove it himself, anyway, as it was located in an out of reach spot. Enough Mr. Nice Drone. Weapons had been restricted, polite, continuing to follow directions from the referee even after the revelation that pro-wrestling was rigged. Of course, such enlightenment was not shared by the fans cheering, booing with every take-down. He demanded a review of options by the sub-collective, of which he had several proposals to include.
87 of 212 wobbled ringside, whip marks crossing cheek and forehead. {They aren't playing this like a game, boss. Not a game at all. And the ref isn't bothering to call anything anymore. He's just standing there.}
Weapons tagged 87 of 212's hand. A glance at the referee showed a particularly vacant smile on his yellow face. His head was bopping slightly side to side; selective audio gain revealed a speaker stuck in the ref's ear was transmitting soothing song with hypnotic phrases designed to increase sex performance, decrease dependency upon a mildly narcotic drug, and teach how to divine lucky lottery numbers from tea leaves. He absently stepped out of the way as Whipping Boy trundled past, on his way to a rendezvous with Masher for a switch. Boa, a bemused look on his face, stared stupidly at a light fixture on the distant ceiling.
202 of 203 leaned into the ring to slip Weapons a small object, recently beamed down from the cube. Arena Rock had few security fields in operation, those areas protected extrapolated to be administrative rooms and wrestler quarters (to prevent intrusion of unwanted fans). The Flarn then marched off to pace next to the front row, looming menacingly. His mandated purpose was to focus low frequency sound waves at a watcher already squirming with the eternal question of dashing off to a restroom, or trying to hold it. 202 of 203 was to encourage the former option.
The plan which was now unfolding had been forced upon Weapons following consensus outcome, much to his disgust. He had argued to pursue options more befitting Borg, including burning, hurting, and torpedoing of the other side. So there might be a little bit of corollary damage to Cube #347, so there might be a few thousand drone terminations. That was irrelevant. In the end, there was a solid 11.3% chance that not only would Cube #347 emerge somewhat functional (definition: armaments operational), but the Card Artifact would be procured. None of this sissy sneaking around. In fact...
{Weapons,} admonished Captain, {you will do as consensus dictates.}
Weapons tightly clutched the small device 202 of 203 had handed, waiting for Masher to climb into the ring and finish her posing.
Masher approached, arms wide for a bear hug. As no cues were coming from the blissed out referee, the Bully Boys were operating on their own revengeful prerogative. All was fair game, as long as the blood-thirsty crowd approved. Weapons waited, still. He wanted to respond properly to the attack, but /certain/ drones were heavily monitoring every impulse, every half-formed thought. As Masher wrapped her arms around his torso and began to squeeze, Weapons slipped the device, a small receiver, onto the wrestler's shoulder at the juncture of limb apparatus and skin. The device dug in.
{Done,} said Weapons. The squeeze was not affecting him, torso armor more than adequate to withstand a hug capable of liquefying ribs in an unprotected individual.
{Acknowledged,} replied both 87 of 212 and 202 of 203. 202 of 203's target began a potty dance in his seat, torn between wrestling and bladder.
87 of 212, meanwhile, carefully turned on the transmitter 202 of 203 had provided him when he had exited the ring. A small antenna telescoped from the box, which had a pair of joysticks on it, one able to move left-right and the other up-down. A light flashed on the remote control, indicating the receiver had found the appropriate frequency and made correct connections. 87 of 212 loved playing with RC toys!
The squirming fan leapt from his seat, dashing up the adjacent aisle at full speed. 202 of 203 moved in, as inconspicuous as a Borgified Flarn painted with stylized bugs at a pro-wrestling match can be. Which was to say, no one paid him any attention, all eyes focused upon the ring.
Masher abruptly let go of Weapons. She stood ramrod straight and saluted the hierarchy head. Masher's face reflected startlement and fear as her body, or at least those parts with mechanical enhancers sunk into muscles, refused to respond. With a scream of terror, she broke into a stiff parody of disco.
{Ballet!} suggested from the peanut gallery on Cube #347, spawning a flood of similar propositions.
{Break dance!}
{Gymnastics!}
{Charades!}
{Interpretive mute opera!}
{Attack the referee!} ({No, Weapons,} interjected Captain.}
A consensus upon the matter formed. As the topic was very important, detailed pros and cons were argued for each idea. Finally 87 of 212 mentally nodded. Break dancing it would be.
Masher began an exaggerated moonwalk as she yelled at the referee, for anyone, to get their butts in gear and stop her. The crowd, oblivious, cheered, believing it to be part of the program.
202 of 203 casually peered at the vacated seat. On the armrest was the voting toggle, as well as a small base 12 keypad for more complicated input. Crouching slightly as a fan threw a wadded food wrapper at his back for blocking the view, he clamped his hand around the number pad, triggering tubules.
Swiftly the sub-collective crowded into 202 of 203's brain. burrowing into a specific part of the Arena Rock computer system for a looksee. This was the true objective, with Masher serving as diversion. Code indicated the match was rigged: no matter who the fan voted to win, the tally would go to the AD GWF team, not the challengers. In other words, AD GWF wasn't taking chances on losing the Card Artifact. Well, a little poking and prodding would take care of that obstacle. 202 of 203 withdrew ringside as the now relieved fan pelted down the aisle to retake his seat.
Three very large species #7493 guards lumbered down the aisle, followed by a worried looking rat in a business suit. Two of the security hulks mounted the ring, then tackled the still dancing Masher. The third of the trio tramped to 87 of 212 and proceeded to have a tug-of-war with the drone over the transmitter; Masher wildly gyrated under her restrainers as toggles were accidentally bumped. The Bonoi, meanwhile, smacked the referee in the face before ripping out the headphone mashed in one ear.
As the action occurred, Weapons urged 87 of 212 to hold onto the controller even as others were telling him to let it go. His concentration wavered as the suited rat stalked towards him, away from the dazedly blinking ref.
"This is not in the rules," hissed the species #5999 representative.
"We have not assimilated anyone. We have not used lethal weaponry," responded Weapons, adding to himself that everything would have proceeded quicker if such had been allowed. 87 of 212 suddenly let go of the controller, causing the guard to fall backwards into the looming Flarn. He hurriedly regained his feet.
The rat sniffed. "Well, the management has decided to pull the plug on this fiasco. As soon as the referee is awake, we'll be announcing the vote. The Bully Boys have won; AD GWF retains the Card Artifact. You'll take the loss gratefully, else Arena Rock defense will be activated."
Weapons said nothing, although he did allow various murderous picts to consolidate in the his mind. Taking silence for assent, the species #5999 official scurried away.
Whipping Boy climbed into the ring, both confused and more than a little frightened. He was the final member of his team still mobile.
The referee walked to the middle of the ring, raising his arms for attention. The audience hushed in response. Music quieted.
"Wrestling fans," called the hidden announcer, "you have chosen your winner! Who will it be? The pale Borg Posse or the 'so bad you gotta love them' Bully Boys? Direct your attention to the holoemitted answer over the ring!"
Thousands of eyes peered towards a space over the ref's head. With a fountain of illusory golden sparks, the words "BORG POSSE" resolved in six different languages.
The fans cheered, never questioning self or neighbor about the vote. After all, the GWF was an honest sporting organization. The referee stared, dumbfounded, at the verdict, as did Whipping Boy and a still twitching Masher supported by two guards. Feathered Boa intently examined his tail, jumping with shock every time it moved, as if he could not understand how such an appendage belonged to him.
Weapons sidled up to the stunned suited rodent, who had not bothered to leave the ring after his haughty pronouncement. "We have won. Bring us the Card Artifact. Now. Comply." Weapons struggled, winning the chance to add two final words (and several hours of future grief for the cube), "Or else."
Divested of dress and plastic fruit, sequestered in the relative peace of his alcove, Weapons contemplated the Card Artifact he still retained. Or, rather, the credit card.
The Card Artifact was a Visa Consortium Neutronium credit card. The silver-flecked black piece of plastic had no credit limit: it was the card corporations, governments, and Very Rich People used to buy moons, planets, solar systems, political elections, and hard-to-find nostalgic toys. It did not expire; and if it was truly associated with the wormhole-binary system, it was very old, perhaps dating to the foundation of Visa Consortium itself. It was also worthless.
Neutronium cards were protected by a complex passwording system consisting of a six digit PIN and a series of modulated tones chanted as specific words. While the PIN could eventually be cracked by sheer computational power, the song phrase, of nearly infinite possibilities, could not. The static memory chip inside the card held all the particulars, but it was protected by immense prime number mutating algorithms which made Borg security pale in comparison.
The particulars of the Card Artifact washed over Weapons, dismissed. As a transporter beamed it away to drones who could appreciate it, he blahed. Useless. Cube #347 had an Artifact...so what? No explosions. No pretty lights. No plasma. No decompressions. No fun. The next encounter would have more action to it, Weapons would see to it.
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