Paramount sings of visions of the Star Trek empire it owns. Decker warbles about the parody Star Traks. A coda to Alan's song, BorgSpace, was orchestrated by Meneks.
Boogie Borg
A place of shifting realities, perceptions, changing moment to moment, yet always orderly. Six voices inhabiting, cohabiting nowhere; six voices a casual observer would differentiate only by inflection, cadence; six voices engaged in brisk discussion, heated argument-
Four: *Is so!*
Three: *Is not!*
Four: *Is so!*
Three: *Is not!*
One (aloof, disgusted): *Will you babies shut up?*
Four: *Ma! One touched me!*
One: *Well, if you didn't leave your shells bulldozing into my territory...*
Two: *I agree with Three, it isn't so.*
Four: *No fair! Everyone is picking on me. One punched me, Two and Three say no when I know I am right. Just because I'm the youngest, it is.*
Three: *It isn't because you are the youngest, Four, it is because you are wrong and because you are a total dweeb.*
Four: *MA! PA!*
One (grumbling): *Will you three babies shut up already? I'm trying to think, peacefully. Besides, as much as I despise it, Four is probably correct.*
Two, Three, Four: *We are not babies!*
Four (adding): *See? Is so!*
Three: *Is not!*
Four: *Is so!*
Three: *Is not!*
Four: *MA! Three just made a rude gesture at me with some ore extractors!*
Ma: *Will the four of you just get along for once? My geothermal core taps are rattling. One, you are an adult, even if you never did leave home; and Two would be thinking about settling down if we were anywhere but Arrival-Departure. You two, at least, should be above petty squabbling.*
Pa: *I concur.*
One: *Hey, stop that! If you do that again, Four, I'll pound you. I may agree with you, but that doesn't mean I'm constrained from biting enough of your territory and off-lining enough shells to require a thousand orbits for you to recover.*
Pa: *One! Don't threaten your sibling.*
Four: *Na-na-na-na-naaaa-na. I am-am-am-am-aaaaaammmmm right!*
Three: *Are not!*
Four: *Are too!*
Three: *Are not!*
Ma: *By the Directors and Critics, I've had enough. One, Two, Three, Four - we'll just perform a little experiment to see who is correct, after which this had better be the last I hear of it.*
Pa: *I'll get the machine out of storage and clean the cavern. We can test in my territory. My borders will be opened to you to send observation shells for real-time data feeds.*
Ma: *Good enough. Four, you get the subjects. The rest of you, go help Pa. I need to rebore my taps.*
*****
Assimilation awoke to darkness. Visual input automatically altered to infrared, gaining nothing but the faint radiance cast by his own body. Electric echolocation? A confusing impression of stationary shapes, reflection indicative of metal or metal alloy. Radar? As dark as visual, the few reflective surfaces distant, denoting a vast cavern.
As he took stock of his dismal situation, Assimilation queried Cube #347 for his whereabouts. Dour at the best of times, the drone found the joke very unfunny. Nothing. No, not quite nothing, but rather the stillness of quiescent minds, as if the sub-collective were held in stasis. The cube computer was in the same status of unawareness. Beyond knowing it was orbiting a small, rocky planet which was fairly close to a star, it could supply no data in its digital lethargy. It remained unresponsive to commands directing return to full functionality.
Beyond being located in a dark place of unknown proportions, Assimilation was held in an upright position, limbs and body restrained. Strong bands of an unknown substance firmly clamped legs and arms to an unseen framework. Additional restraints circled hips, torso, and forehead. Assimilation attempted to flex his limbs, to no avail. It felt like he was in a maintenance bay awaiting an operation.
Assimilation rattled a rough exhalation. Typical. Here he was, the lone drone of four thousand awake, probably captured by some race or entity with a grudge against Borg, trussed up like a B-grade movie alien abduction victim. The cube computer was so zoned it was unable to provide limited assistance, not even to link him directly to the Greater Consciousness. The immediate environment was dark - if he could see, the vista could hardly improve due to his grayscale vision - and the situation hopeless.
One more depressing day in a long series of similar days stretching back to before his assimilation.
As if the sigh had been a trigger, sourceless light slowly rose until a twilight luminance lit the scene. The flat lighting was not conducive to depth perception, shadows nonexistent. However details were revealed of surroundings previously hidden or only tentatively hinted.
Six machines faced Assimilation, arranged in a semi-circle arc. Except for minor cosmetic differences, each was alike. The overall form was vaguely insectoid, spindly limbs and thin body segments similar to that favored by civilizations which have progressed beyond wheels to a class of highly versatile exploratory robots. Each of the eight limbs had four segments, the two rearmost pair serving as locomotory limbs. The forward arms were cocked stiffly in front of the torso, delicate manipulatory appendages folded into wrists. The advanced design probably allowed balance on any pair of limbs, perhaps even a single leg, freeing the other limbs for diverse purposes; or, conversely, all eight legs could be used as support in situations calling for maximum traction. Most of the nontactile sensors were concentrated in a head area located at the top of the forward canted torso, although Assimilation could pick out small tympanum for aural perception and possible infrared ports lining other parts of the body. Compartments were attached to the central torso and abdomen segments, likely holding tools and other items to extend the basic robot capability.
A blue light slowly blinking above the primary optics of each machine changed to a steady burning amber, not that Assimilation could perceive the color change. He also could not see the ominous red which now backlit the trio of camera lens devising the primary optic cluster, noting only a baleful glow. One by one the six metal insects came to life, stepping from stationary crouch to tall stretch, each limb undergoing a complex flex routine. As Assimilation watched, one of the robots stealthily approached a second, reaching out an upper arm to push as the latter stood precariously on its third leg pair. Recovery of the assaulted mechanoid was swift, clumsy topple turned into a blurred spin ending with arm crashing against the instigator's torso, leaving a dent in a utility box.
"Ma!" cried the flat synthesized tone from the now defensively crouched jokester. "Four hit me!"
The sensor cluster head of a robot decorated with white dots along its legs twitched slightly, perhaps in annoyance? "Three, don't provoke your sibling. Four, if you put those fliers into Three's territory, I'll send you to your room for time out and you won't be able to participate. Do both of you understand?"
"Yes, Ma," said the two robots designated Three and Four, the former standing straight and gesturing something to the latter. Four responded in kind, precipitating a minor scuffle ended only when a black stippled robot stepped between them.
"Obey your Ma. You are in my territory at my sufferance, and you will comply. Understand?"
"Yes, Pa," came the twin chorus.
Assimilation would have shifted uncomfortably, except he still could not move. The two robots not involved in the altercation had approached him, one removing a torture-like device of sharp edges from an abdomen compartment. The device was apparently a portable scanner, however, and not a Borg can opener. As the gray-spiral marked (likely a color Assimilation could not resolve) robot consulted its handheld, the lighter gray-splattered one reached out an appendage to prod one of Assimilation's arms.
"Tritanium armor," commented Splatter. "Are you sure the specimen won't be too stiff? It doesn't look very flexible. I still agree with Three on this."
Spiral replied as its device beeped a complex cadence, "It is more flexible than it seems, Two. Besides, it will have plenty of encouragement to perform. It is one of those collective consciousness things, vaguely like one of us, except it has organic units instead of shells construing a body. It also isn't a true singular personality, although it might become one in a few million of its years should it survive extinction. Highly unlikely, I think. These components," a limb flipped in Assimilation's direction, "retain an individuality not present in our constructed shells, a persona which becomes highly insecure if severed from the group mind."
Assimilation did not like the phrase "encouraged to perform." He also disliked the discussion referring to him as if he were not present or a nonsentient.
"You will release this drone," demanded Assimilation. Although Cube #347 and sub-collective remained oblivious, he had managed to worm his way into sluggish vinculum functions. Unfortunately, the link to the Collective was returning the Borg equivalent of a busy signal.
Splatter - Two - retreated half a pace. "It speaks! Does it understand us?"
The black stippled robot by the designation Pa was now approaching the restrained drone. It pushed between Spiral and Two, somehow larger than the duo although it had the same physical dimensions. "Yes, it does. I uploaded a complete Ehtu language profile into the vessel after One towed it in. There already were some data in the appropriate databases about us, but not sufficient. The universal translator for its computer remains functional, even if most everything else has been placed in a Slow Down field. It also has access to harmless files such as species dossier, inventory, and so forth. I did not have the time to block all access doors, so only those with potential to affect the test were closed."
Untranslatable sounds of understanding emanated from the two listening robots. All three turned to converse with the other trio, booming synthetic voices echoing off unseen walls.
Ehtu. That had been the translation Assimilation heard. The designation was a corruption of the numerals 8 and 2, which in turn was an abbreviation of [modem squeal]-8-2-6-5-3-2-8-...[string of 316 base 8 numbers]. They were classified by Borg as mech species #2.
Mech species #2 was a noncentralized computer consciousness, persona of an individual potentially distributed among several million "shells," specialized robots of numerous form and function. While only the eldest Ehtu possessed millions of bodies, even the youngest retained several ten thousands. Superficially, it might seem mech species #2 to be the mech equivalent of Borg, but it was not so. Each persona, each individual, was conceived as a separate being, which subsequently added additional shells to its overall self akin to an organic adding cells. Individual shells held no more attachment to an Ehtu individual than a hair strand, a scale, or a nail pairing. In comparison, the individual minds of the Borg created a One, the unintended loss of any component, although minor, minutely detracting from the Whole. The decentralized nature of mech species #2 meant assimilation was not possible, nor the extinction of a single individual outside a major holocaust destroying all shells simultaneously. The Ehtu were openly indifferent to the Borg, to any other intelligence both mech or organic.
With very long life spans, perhaps millions of years, mech species #2 individuals were unhurried in their actions, very deliberate. Even reproduction was a lengthy affair, birth through adulthood potentially lasting more than a hundred thousand years. A pair of settled adults, a function of mental growth, not physical, colonized a rocky planet, one at each pole. The planet had to be near the primary, but not close enough to be tidally locked, a distance approximate of Venus favored. A very thin or absent atmosphere was a must, as solar radiation was preferred energy source, although a range of other energy options from fission to fusion to geothermal taps to singularities were available; and a wide selection of ores, minerals, and rare earths was essential. After a suitable length of time, a "child" was born, created, built, the Collective was fuzzy on the details. About fifty thousand years of growth later, the child left the planet as an "adolescent," content to wander for an unspecified time before pairing with another adolescent and settling on a suitable planet to begin the cycle again.
Planet-bound Ehtu were very territorial among themselves, although they tolerated organic intrusion as long as shells remained unmolested. It was a case of "can't live with 'em, can't live without," child requiring parents for nurturing and schooling, adults needing each other for reproduction and mental stimulation. Intrusions into territory was a serious affair, met with minimum resistance necessary, planet-sessile child and adult partioning a limited resource required for personal growth. The Collective did not have the details of domestic life, but the arrangement of cautious territorialism appeared to work.
Within BorgSpace, four adult pairs - one with child - and three adolescents existed. The adolescents puttered between stars at impulse or very low warp, vast fleets of ship shells gnawing an asteroid tidbit. As with the adult preference for low-tech solar panels, the adolescents were capable of much faster speeds, but unless emergency threatened, the long life span encouraged a sedate pace. The very few intelligible conversations the Borg had been had with mech species #2 indicated Ehtu were spread throughout countless galaxies, albeit at very low densities; vaguely disturbing, one passing reference had hinted mech species #2 hailed from the universe's previous incarnation, the mechanoid race somehow surviving Borg Crunch and Big Bang, resettling once matter condensed enough for appropriate planets.
It appeared not even mech species #2, an admittedly ancient race, had escaped the clutches of the AD Progenitor-built systems. As far as Assimilation could tell, he was on a planet, likely the innermost rock of Departure, that terrestrial falling under the preference for a settled adult pair. The six insectoid robots were thus shells for six Ehtu, parents by the designation Pa and Ma, and four offspring One through Four, none of whom had managed to migrate out of the systems as adolescents to found their own lineages.
The six robots crowded together into a knot. Ma, Pa, Spiral (One), and Four were actively involved in a buzzing discussion which was only partially vocalized. Two and Three were separated slightly from the others, covertly kicking at each other, producing soft clangs.
Pa whirled on the pair, raising one arm for emphasis. "Two! You are almost of an age to be an adult. Three, just cool it for a bit. Don't think you can get away with that nonsense. You are in my territory, and I can see you all the time."
Two peered towards ceilings and walls, obviously perceiving more than Assimilation. "Geez, Pa. This is only an exploratory stilter shell. It isn't like I had a thermonuclear bomb strung to the chassis. Are all the plasma disrupters necessary? And do they all have to be active?"
Pa replied, "Automatic phage defense. You've been told of the old wars, and what forces directed our evolutionary track. I may tolerate you, even like you, but it doesn't mean I have implicit trust for you. That trait was bred out long ago."
If the robot form had supported organic eyes, they would have rolled in that age-old, species-nonspecific gesture of passive rebelliousness toward a parent. Two answered, a note of almost-contempt tingeing synthetic voice, "Yes, Pa. I have phage defenses too."
The black stippled machine snapped, "Don't sass your Pa. I may be old compared to you, but I've a hell more shells to expend defending my territory than you have to attack. Don't try me. And don't roll those dismantlers across my borders."
This time a sincere, "Yes, Pa," was returned. Building tension drained away.
Assimilation silently observed, well aware those casual displays of might - the six shells were only the merest extension of /much/ larger entities - could be turned on him. Oh well. If he died, he died. The gray world would finally come to its inevitable end. "Why me?" he muttered to himself as he tried to determine what futile Borg phrase to spew.
One, after dragging itself to a height which distanced itself from the petty squabbles of siblings Two through Four, swiveled its torso, followed by the rest of its body as it heard the rhetorical question. "Why not?" asked One as it closed the distance between it and Assimilation in three long strides. "Why not, indeed? You were available, a random sample from your Borg ship. Nothing nefarious about it."
"Return this drone to the ship," said Assimilation without conviction. He wasn't Weapons, he wasn't Delta, he wasn't anyone except an ex-painter. He was the head of a nearly superfluous hierarchy, a boring grower of nanites.
One passed to a fore appendage the bladed tricorder device he had been holding in a median hand. It examined its handheld. "Why? Your comrades are all sleeping, as is your computer - a most idiotic set of subroutines. The link to your Collective is jammed. It isn't like you are going anywhere."
"What is the purpose of my theft, then?" inquired Assimilation, dropping any pretense of pluralism. Borg PR, it wasn't worth it in this situation. Of course, Assimilation thought little worth effort of pursuing, a belief which included life most of the time. Unfortunately, a drone could not self-terminate except under highly proscribed conditions; existence of an unit was up to the Greater Consciousness, not the individual in question, otherwise Assimilation would have euthanized long ago when he learned his color vision would not be restored.
The one called Four, identified by the dark gray stylized wave patterns marching up legs and torso, bounded forward, crowding aside One with a clang. One hrumphed, then stepped tolerantly back, returning sensory device to a compartment. Four, meanwhile, pressed forward with the energy only present in children, this particular one a youngling of mere fifteen thousand years. It stopped less than half a meter from Assimilation, thrusting head sensors into the drone's face. The steady glow from camera lens trio gazed unblinking into the Borg's own eyes. "Dancing!" boomed Four gleefully, word causing Assimilation's aural implants to warn of dangerous decibel levels.
"Don't discomfort our visitor," said Ma as it approached. Four backed several meters, squatting to a patient crouch similar to the one the shells had been positioned prior to activation.
Taking advantage of the opening, One stepped forward again. It was obviously attempting to embody scientific detachment, despite Three's behavior in the background. Assimilation assumed the waving arms were a nonverbal analogue of the hideous faces siblings use to provoke each other. One, as eldest, was trying to be "adult." The robot spoke, "Dancing. To be more precise, a test of agility. Four and Three have had a running dispute over the last two thousand orbits concerning organic sentient flexibility. Unfortunately, Two and I were drawn into the childish argument, and in order to stop it, before we broke apart the planet, Ma and Pa organized some experiments. We thought the whole thing had been settled, then you Borg entered the systems. The newest altercation has been your ranking on the agility list."
"Ranking?" queried Assimilation warily.
One said, "Yes, ranking. Your cybernization leads to questions. Four and I believe you rank above Bonoi, while Two and Three place you at the level of Ityg, if not lower. Ma and Pa reserve their opinion, so as not to influence us. They are, however, willing to assist in determining a solution."
Assimilation continued, "And dancing fits in how?"
One replied, "Dancing is a perfect exhibition of flexibility and agility, of rhythm and coordination."
"And it is fun!" interrupted Four, rising out of crouch to lightly prance before squatting stationary again.
One waved an appendage in Four's direction. Assimilation bet there was more conversation occurring than it outwardly seemed. After all, mech species #2 were computer sentients, and likely the six individuals were networked together. "Organics, as well as quasi-organics such as Borg or other heavily cybernised civilizations, are not expected to have achieved the level of Ehtu dance artform. Even Four, a child, has many shells to utilize in complex original choreographs of ground, air, and space, while you must be content with a single body unit. No matter. You will be tested regardless."
With that, One backed away, mirroring Four's position. All the other robots, except for Pa, reflected similarly stationary postures. However, the telltale located on the head burned steadily and optic lenses remained lit, indicating continuing active control of the shells. Assimilation felt as if he were flanked by living statues; and he could still not move. Life was hopeless, dreary, as always.
"The dance test machine!" announced Pa with a flourish. It directed Assimilation's attention to a point beyond the robotic sixsome.
Silently gliding into view, a platform floated on an antigravity field . A spotlight, as sourceless as the dim ambient light, consolidated on the heavily loaded dory, bathing it in an almost too bright glow. The platform settled to the floor, dissolving to leave burden firmly grounded.
The machine in question was odd looking, function not immediately apparent. A black rectangle, one meter by two, defined the base. It had the dull sheen of rubber, but not the appropriate visual texture. At the short end farthest from Assimilation's position was a flat viewscreen, blank, supported by two thin poles, located at a height suitable for Assimilation's viewing. As the drone watched, a silent introduction began to play, a splash of unreadable words and abstract shapes, likely of colors he could not perceive. The flashy intro ended with a stylish logo featuring two outlined feet(?) randomly wandering around the picture.
Perhaps recognizing the faint lines of puzzlement which crossed Assimilation's face, perhaps simply wishing to be dramatic, Pa boomed, the voice coming not just from robot form, but all around, "The Boogie Machine, my own design. Like it?"
Assimilation was released from his restraints. He had given up rebooting the cube computer, prodding sub-collective members into wakening, or trying to work around the jamming interference. He was only one drone, and one drone was a rather useless creature. Useless. Assimilation hierarchy was useless. Assimilation was useless.
Assimilation was not really sure why he had agreed to the "dance" test. Pa and One had carefully and succinctly explained that each refusal would lead to the termination of a cube crew member. Each death would inevitably shrink a sub-collective which while silent, continued to lend support to Assimilation's version of sanity. However, sanity was highly overrated, and the drone was tempted to say "no" just to see what might occur. Unfortunately, it was unlikely the Ehtu were bluffing , the life of a mere organic as meaningless as that of a fly to a frog at dinnertime. The mechs presented only cold facts, not psychological torture. Therefore, for reasons not easily articulated, Assimilation acquiesced.
Four bounded onto the dance mat of the Boogie Machine, elevating the robot to a seemingly precarious bipedal posture. The stilter easily adjusted, head rising nearly three meters in the air. "Before the game begins, a tutorial. I will show you how. Start by pushing the start button. You will be provided an unimportant dialogue; just press the '1' key. Finally a dance list will appear. Choose the waltz and follow the feet on the screen. The machine is already configured for two-legged beings. As the tutorial runs, it will become faster and more complicated. If you overly hesitate in foot placement, you will loose. A level in the actual test is won by successfully following the dance to the end. Watch me to understand."
The mech shell swiftly touched a series of buttons on the viewscreen, then waited as a classical music with light caresses of French horn strummed the air. Two outlines of feet, the left marked with a "1" symbol and the right with a "2," appeared on the center of the otherwise now dark screen. Assimilation knew from the differing gray tones that the outlines were of different colors to emphasize their respective natures, but the contrast was subtle. The feet began to move - left foot left, right foot left, left foot forward, right foot forward, and so on. Eventually a fundamental box step was circumscribed. The box step sped up, then was embellished by spins and twirls. The shell easily kept pace. The sight of what many races considered an exploratory robot form waltzing by itself was an amazing scene to behold. Finally the tutorial came to an end, Four successfully passing. The monitor erupted into fireworks before returning to the chicken scratch dance list Assimilation could not read.
Dropping to four legs, Four sidestepped off the dancing mat. "Easy, yes?" asked the young mech. The question was not expected to be answered, the robot immediately turning attention towards the black stippled adult. "Don't forget to lower the gravity, Pa."
Assimilation felt himself become lighter as gravity lessened.
Ma explained, "After experimentation, we found 0.75 natural subjective gravity of the specimen, unless the subject came from an exceptionally low gravity or no gravity environment, to be most suitable to gauge organic dance ability. The amount is enough for an individual to feel the greater energy which comes with less weight, yet is enough to keep mass under control."
"Ready to begin?" avidly asked Four, looming over Assimilation. It abruptly squealed an ear-splitting electronic protest as One and Three worked in concert to drag their sibling to a less threatening distance.
"Careful," admonished One. "When you stepped too close to that little Tunian prima donna, remember what happened? The organic literally fainted dead. It took several orbits to wrinkle another suitable player from a clan, a task I had to do."
Protested Four, "MA! ONE AND THREE TOUCHED ME!"
Ma hrumphed, "Don't tattle every little thing, Four. Besides, your siblings are correct. Stand back and give the quasi-organic some room." It concluded by making shooing gestures at Assimilation with all four manipulatory appendages.
"If I fail to pass this test, what occurs?" asked Assimilation as he eyed the Boogie Machine.
Ma replied, "Piffle. Only if you refuse all together, or blatantly throw the task, are consequences evoked. Why, we even tested a Luxor before they were extirpated from AD systems during the last major organic altercation. Clumsy oafs. Could not dance worth a lick. Absolutely no foot coordination. Assuming your cardiovascular, skeletal muscle, and neural systems are able to withstand the strain, all you have to do is try. If you die," Ma gave a shrug of indifference with its upper arm pair, "then you die. One through Four will have their ranking, and I will have peace for a couple hundred orbits."
Assimilation stepped onto the black surface, gazing at a screen of jumbled lines presumably forming words. Mimicking the motions of Four, he sequentially touched the appropriate buttons, listening as waltz music played from all directions in the cavern. The screen flashed for attention, then the "1" and "2" feet slowly picked through a complete box step. Unlike Four's demonstration, a faint secondary outline corresponding to the drone's foot placement was added to the picture; and the screen lifted away from its twin supports, always floating in front of Assimilation's head to provide directions no matter which way he turned.
The first box step was slowly completed, Assimilation spending as much time watching own feet as screen. Not only was this exercise dreary and pointless (everything in Assimilation's life was dreary and pointless, therefore no new revelations), but it was stupid. Worse of all, Assimilation was finding he could dance despite the fact he had never done so after assimilation and rarely in pre-assimilated life. The foot outlines sped to a faster cadence echoing tempo of the leisurely waltz music, skipping into twirling flourishes. One and two, and one and two, left step and right foot follow, step, step.
Assimilation shuffled to a stop as the music faded. The floating screen, flashing gray fireworks and what was likely alien congratulations, parked itself on its support poles. "Test completed. I will be returned to my vessel, and the cube allowed to leave," spoke Assimilation in his customary monotone. Somehow he held the suspicion the trial was far from over. He was correct.
Four leapt out of its waiting crouch. "More, more, more! Only tutorial is complete. Full system, now! " Pause. "MA! PA! Three touched me!" Three was nowhere near Four, much less in arm range.
Ma snapped at Three, "Stop taunting your sibling, Three. Put those fliers back into their hangers. Fission and fusion bombs are tools, not toys. You are acting like a child, not an adolescent. If you absolutely have to squabble, take it to the other side of the primary where I neither have to watch nor listen."
Three pouted, "But, Ma, Four won't be able to put itself completely into space for a long time yet."
Pa: "Enough! If I hear one more whine between you, Three, and you, Four, I foresee grounding in your future. Ma and I will take away all your constructor shells for several dozen orbits. Do I make myself understood? Good. Now, find something constructive to do with yourselves. Be more like One, or increasingly, Two. Many diversions exist within your own territories, ones which do not involve beating each other to scrap shells."
Three and Four muttered something unintelligible. Resentment appeared to be present concerning comparison to their older siblings, but it was not demonstrated too overtly.
Meanwhile, One was talking to Assimilation. "No, no, the test is not complete, only begun. That tutorial was to limber you up, to make sure you weren't a totally helpless case like a Luxor. As Two now admits, and as I had already hypothesized, your armor does not impede movement as much as might initially seem. We have thus decided you are an acceptable specimen for the full contest." The squabble between Three and Four drew to a conclusion. "Pa, could you initiate the full Boogie Machine?"
Indistinct shapes began to consolidate out of thin air, like viewing fog evaporating in reverse. Quickly, a new room was built, a holographic dance club. There was an odd sense of solidity, although no firm walls were in evidence and, like the cavern, the physical boundaries were not visible. The six robots and dance machine looked out of place as the floor - wood, but not quite as wood did not have a slightly rubber spring - formed. Surrounding the main dance area was a population of tables and chairs, none suitable for stilter physiology, not that the robots required furniture to begin with. A disco ball hung unsupported in the air, reflecting infinite times votive candles now decorating the center of each table. A bar, well-stocked with liquid refreshments, fuzzily occupied one not-wall, both close and obscenely distant at the same time.
Two gestured at the disco ball. "I thought it was supposed to be a chandelier, gaudy with glass teardrops and plasma candles."
Pa replied, "It is my cavern, my territory. I like the disco ball. It has a better aesthetic taste considering the surroundings."
Two did not offer additional complaint, the objection more an observation as opposed to a criticism.
The Boogie Machine, very much out of place, dissolved, leaving behind only the floating touch screen. It waited with mechanical patience.
"Lesser Boogie Machine tied in with hologrid programs," intoned Pa. The six robots were moving off the dance floor proper to take up residence around an especially long table proportioned for the shells, but inappropriate considering the atmosphere. Assimilation began to follow, but found a forcefield blocking his exit to the club area. The drone did not bother to try the hopeless task of adaptation: mech species #2 would not have easily passed barriers, and the computer on the cube was not sufficiently aware to assist in the futile task. Besides, what would Assimilation do if he did escape the dance floor? He could not assimilate the Ehtu; and he orbiting Cube #347 was out of reach. Crashing against the invisible barrier as Weapons would be wont to do was pointless. "Inserting contestant," concluded Pa.
A transporter beam deposited a rather bedraggled furry lump. As it climbed to its feet, blinking eyes blurred both with interrupted sleep and the effort to focus in the flat twilit environment, Assimilation recognized it to be species #6970, Sphinxian. Best described as a bipedal ferret, it, she, craned moderately long neck first in the direction of the robot forms, then squinted at the drone. While she did not appear to be overly alarmed by the transport which had woken her from deep sleep wearing little more than boxer shorts, the sight of a Borg swiftly aroused her. Giving a short scream, she sprung away from motionless Assimilation, crashing into the forcefield. Stunned, the Sphinxian sank to her knees, then slumped sideways into a faint.
A knee-high box with three pairs of wheels whirled into the dance club, dodging holographic tables and chair legs. It plunged unaffected through the forcefield, unfolding two grappling arms as it reached the unconscious ferret.
A grumble colored Pa's synthetic voice, "Oh, phooey. I did not expect such an extreme reaction from one of my menagerie. I knew the Sphinxians were a tad high-strung and had some traumatic racial experiences with the Borg, but not to that degree." The wheeled robot, another of Pa's shells, sat motionless next to the Sphinxian, then folded grapple arms and wheeled off the dance floor. "My specimen will be okay, but it needs to recover. And she is such a good dancer! Flawless, for an organic. Flowing! I guess I'll have to settle for something lesser, and take a few minutes to make sure another unfortunate accident does not occur." The Sphinxian disappeared in another transporter beam. "Borg," boomed Pa, "familiarize yourself with the dance floor. Your contestant requires five minutes to prepare."
Four minutes later, the transporter deposited another contestant. The dwarf humanoid was immediately recognizable as a male Zyn, after which any tasteful resemblance to those individuals already encountered was lost. He was wearing extremely tight sequined black leather pants, as well as a loose white shirt, similarly trimmed with twinkling plastic bits. A single white glove adorned his right hand, for which Assimilation could see no purpose. A sweatband crossed forehead, above which sprouted sparse hair formed into greasy spikes shiny with hairgel and mousse.
Assimilation took an involuntary step backwards. Borg feared little, and Assimilation less so due to the relief termination would bring to his boring life, but the Zyn struck a fundamental chord of dismay which the drone had difficulty shaking.
The Zyn spun on one foot, struck a pose facing the mech species #2 shells which had gloved hand pointing down and bare high in the air, followed by two pelvic thrusts. "I have /dance fever/, baby! There is no cure! YEOW! Let's boogie!" Assimilation retreated another half pace: the Zyn was insane!
Three and Four were actively banging forearms against the table in appreciation. One and Two followed suit in a restrained, more adult manner. Ma and Pa thumped the table thrice, and then were still. The applause died; glowing red lenses watched expectantly.
"Good show, Zyn," said Pa. "You will choose first."
As the disco ball began to rotate slowly, the screen floated expectantly to the dwarf humanoid. The dance list was displayed, through which the Zyn quickly scrolled, eyes narrowed. A smile lit face, followed by a sneer in Assimilation's direction. The gloved hand touched a line to highlight it, then tapped again to confirm selection. "Boogie, baby, boogie down!" exclaimed the Zyn. "My name is Mic, Dance Master, and don't you forget it. YEOW!"
Assimilation watched as Mic stalked to the center of the dance floor and struck a pose. Hands and face were held upward like a worshiper beseeching a deity for help. However, most gods preferred natural wind or string instrumentals accompanied by angelic chorus, not crescendoing electric guitar and percussion. The music flowed into a quick and catchy beat, lead singer passionate about tapioca, laundry, and pearl earrings. While not Terran, Captain, by dint of his pre-assimilation upbringing, would have accurately placed the rock-and-roll style; however, Assimilation did to wish to expend the effort demanded - several seconds - to dig through the consensus monitor's brain.
The Zyn began to prance a meaningless wiggle which had none of the concrete nature of formalized dance. The viewscreen, ignored by Mic, showed a computer-generated representation of a biped jerking through motions like a mobile seizure victim. Attention was instead directed downward where the foot outlines were now superimposed on the floor. Mic was placing his own feet as close within the shapes as possible, only sparing a glance now and then for the screen to confirm he was gyrating appropriately.
The music finally ended. The robots politely applauded again, this time with more enthusiasm by One and Two. "A bit more hip work," was Ma's comment, but it too slapped the table in appreciation. Expectant attention was shifted onto Assimilation.
The viewscreen flashed at Assimilation, a large button prominent. Obviously he was to push it to begin his turn. He carefully moved to the center of the dance floor and obliged, triggering another song of the same venue, this time wailing of carpet, showers, and sweet potato pie.
The dance, as Assimilation had observed, was not difficult. Disregarding the fancy flourishes Mic had added, the basic movements were a pseudo-random shuffle with the dancer bouncing in one place. It was a dance appropriate to large crowds and mosh pits, not open floors. Even the waltz had required a mediocrum of coordination, while this travesty required nothing more than a living, upright body; and the living requirement was an open option.
Song complete, level successfully concluded, the Ehtu slapped congratulations. The vigor was less because Assimilation had not been as flamboyant as Mic. No matter. Flamboyance was irrelevant. Mic smirked condescendingly when the drone glanced in his direction.
"You both passed, excellent. Your choice, Borg," thundered Pa.
The screen hovered eager in front of Assimilation, list exhibited. An unintelligible list. Assimilation peered at the glowing lens eyes, then thought better of admitting his language deficiency. Even the Zyn, a small being, had apparently mastered the writing. Admittedly, the Borg had only limited files on mech species #2 as individuals rarely bothering to enlighten the Collective with pertinent information. However, ignorance was irrelevant. Assimilation had little pride, that which remained submerged under the combination of programming and depression, but it did not seem right to admit illiteracy in this instance. The Zyn might form unwanted conjectures about Borg, ones which undermined eight thousand years of careful image PR. Scrolling was stopped, a random dance chosen.
Mic appeared distressed as the wail of bagpipes screamed in the air, sound appropriate for an outdoor festival, not a night club. The Zyn hunched, hugging himself. "Polka," he whispered, a waver in his voice. "Polka, evil polka."
Assimilation blinked. Polka? Of all the choices available, he had selected polka? How could he? How /could/ he? Polka was the national dance of species #5252, Assimilation's race. Cosmopolitan in many other respects, the species had never grown beyond the polka, which along with square dancing, was the bane of every teenager's prom aspirations. You just can't slow dance to a polka. However, it did mean he had polka associated movements so firmly entrenched in memory pathways that not even the worst mental scouring by the Collective could erase it.
Polka. Polka. Polka. Polka. Polka. Assimilation lightly polkaed around the dance floor. The Boogie Machine was not even attempting a difficult polka, not like the annual Qua'tohf global extreme polka contests the drone remembered, competitions which included broken legs, heart attacks, and occasional death. This was beginning polka, rudimentary polka.
Assimilation raised a triumphant hand as the final bagpipe note faded, then hastily lowered it while reminding himself the action was unBorglike, that he was not supposed to enjoy the experience. With firm control, the drone dampened his mood to customary dour grayness matching his color vision. Meanwhile, Ma and Pa were shaking the sturdy holographic table with their alcalde; One through Four looked at each other with the shared embarrassment children reserve for foolishly demonstrating parent.
Mic paced to the middle of the dance floor. He visibly steeled himself before punching the start button. A new round of polka music blasted the club, subtle variations indicating it a different song than that previously heard. Carefully the Zyn picked his way through the polka, competent if not confident. A sour expression of disgust stuck on his face the entire time, hands involuntarily inching towards ears to block bagpipes, only to jerk away. He ended much less dramatically than before, garnering a more modest show of appreciation from the adult Ehtu. One through Four perfunctorily hit the table twice in unison as acknowledgment, then tried to pretend they were anywhere but in public (the Borg and Zyn counted as public) with their parents.
Called Pa, "What a fun dance. You both have passed, and still no clear-cut winner. We cannot yet rank the Borg. Zyn, your turn."
The dwarf humanoid readjusted his sweatband, then proceeded to scroll rapidly through the list. He obviously knew what he wanted: retribution for the polka. Licking his lips, Mic finally settled on his choice. A fast-paced psychedelic mix screamed overhead, one which elicited visions of sinuous hip movements and blatant innuendo. The more joints, the better; it was not a music to bode good things for a Borg with tritanium reinforced exoskeleton.
Following the directives of outlined feet and supplementary computer-generated figure, Mic spun in a circle on the balls of his left foot. The "YEOW!" was entirely superfluous in Assimilation's estimation. The "dance," could it be graced with such a dignified description, went downhill from there.
Mic flashed white glove this way and that as his feet stylishly slid him backwards. "Moonwalk, baby!" exclaimed the Zyn; and Assimilation rapped the side of his armored head with a fist. Was the universal translator malfunctioning? Had he misheard the words due to failing cochleae implants? Diagnostics returned clean bills of health for both translator program and aural implants, indicating the questionable phrase had been parsed correctly.
Next Assimilation watched as a very odd series of outlines, none of which were feet, obscured the floor. Mic dove to the ground, then arched his back and performed a series of what the drone tentatively labeled extreme pushups. The dance finally came to an end amid body contortions with the humanoid spinning on his back.
Assimilation, a Borg, was supposed to do that? Those were actions fit for a circus contortionist, not a drone of the Collective, assuming he could find the necessary flexibility in the first place.
Panting, Mic sauntered off the dance floor, pausing to bow towards this appreciative audience of eight-legged robot shells.
"This body cannot do that," protested Assimilation, "and so I refuse."
At the table, One shifted slightly. A chiding click emitted from the spindly form. "Failure is an option, but refusal is not. My and Pa's shells are on your cube currently. With each refusal, I will terminate a Borg, as you were so informed earlier." The Boogie Machine screen altered to show a view of an alcove tier. The camera angle tilted to center on 4 of 8. Captain slept oblivious, eye closed and optic implant dark. "Shall I start with this one? I have been examining the neural architecture of your sub-collective. Primitive, but interesting. I'm thinking of beginning a hobby of comparative neural physiology and psychology of amalgamated entities, those in which many individuals make one or one is comprised of many bodies. Your cube is deviant from the Borg version of One, if I interpret your files correctly, but even so, the loss of one or a thousand shouldn't impact you, personally, too much. However, the sanity and efficiency of your sub-collective rests upon a few linchpins. Shall I off-line the body I am looking at? What should it be, the welfare of the one - you - or the welfare of the many?" One paused. A manipulatory limb entered the picture, reaching towards unconscious Captain. "So, was that actually a refusal you voiced? We really need a ranking on your Borg to settle our dispute."
Assimilation considered. Captain and sub-collective versus moonwalks and back spins. He hated dilemmas like this, decisions not his strong suit, nor an acumen of any isolated drone. Fallback programming was very clear, unfortunately, and Assimilation was forced to choose for the good of Cube #347. "I will dance."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed One. The grapple hand on the picture retreated, then the screen flickered to the despised button. Assimilation touched it, unleashing the horrible music which accompanied the selection.
Assimilation spun on one foot. He jiggled this way and jiggered that way, superior hardwired reflexes and body coordination off-setting the hideous requirements the Boogie Machine demanded. The "moonwalk" was attempted, turning into a backward shuffle with exaggerated heel movements. Of the pushups, the less said the better; one could swear the cavern shook with the deadweight of Borg bellyflopping. The music dissolved, leaving Assimilation slowly spinning ungracefully like an upside down turtle. He wondered if he should swallow whatever remained of Borg dignity and ask for help to rise, or inelegantly roll to his stomach and awkwardly get up from there. With Mic openly snickering and none of the Ehtu shells moving from their table, Assimilation pursued the latter option.
"I have failed," stated Assimilation after recovering his feet. He resisted the urge to bat at the screen at it approached.
Four stamped a leg, "No! I disagree. One more time? Results remain inconclusive." The robot was not talking to Assimilation, rather vocalizing an outburst from the alternative plane of communication the six shared. "Pleeeeeeeeaaaaase," whined Four. Mic grimaced at the piercing squeal; and Assimilation shook his head as feedback affected his optics, momentarily doubling everything.
Three shuffled slightly.
Pa: "No, Three. And you, Four, there is no need to snivel. All which is required is asking politely. However, it is agreed that rankings are unsettled. The previous dance was not wholly fair in light of the specimen's inherent condition." Attention was first directed at Mic, then Assimilation, one long arm waving emphasis, "Zyn, no more body contact dances. Borg, pick."
Assimilation sighed deeply as the hated screen with list presented itself. With nary a glance, the drone randomly selected. Sweet orchestral music filled the air...another waltz? Assimilation peered with confusion at the floor's foot outlines which only displayed the tip, then the screen. The monitor showed a figurine dressed in a tutu and standing gracefully on her toes.
Ballet.
Inexpertly, Assimilation took the en pointes position, arms spread for better balance. As he stomped through a dance full of pirouettes and cabrioles, he desperately hoped no recording devices were in evidence. If this scene was broadcast to the galaxy, it might require centuries before proper attitudes towards the Collective were reestablished. It is difficult to take seriously a Borg twirling on toes, or leaping through the air in ungraceful grand jete. Assimilation successfully, somehow, concluded the task, final pose a bow with one foot and both arms stiffly extended.
The competition required pausing for several minutes until Mic could regain composure lost from laughing.
The Zyn took position, sequins and spiked hair out of place for ballet. He leapt lightly through the air, then faltered, spasms of giggling contorting his face. Two pirouettes later, Mic was on his knees, face flushed with effort of curtailing laughter. As music and foot outlines continued unheeded, the humanoid peeped once more at the Borg drone and burst in withheld mirth.
"Here, here, stop it!" called Pa, stepping from behind the table. One and Ma remained motionless, but Two through Four were glancing at each other furtively. Small whistles of aborted sound, desperately silenced chuckles of infectious laughter, emanated from the trio. Pa ignored the siblings, striding through forcefield to physically pick up the Zyn from the ground. "Desist," it roared.
Squirming slightly in the robot's firm grip, Mic opened his eyes and attempted to stifle giggles. The ballet music had ended, leaving the screen to float unattended nearby. The humanoid coughed twice as he tried to regain restraint, then caught sight of the patiently waiting Assimilation, who saw no humor in the situation. "Ballet, baby," chortled the Zyn before embarking on another round of snickers oblivious to the fact he was being gripped by a potentially dangerous machine piloted by a seriously miffed Ehtu.
"Ma, could you come and hold this creature for a second?"
Ma left the table. Three was now rattling with effort to suppress laughter, shell vibrating. The Ma robot entered the dance floor, taking custody of the Zyn.
Black stippled Pa held a manipulation appendage flat, finger flanges spread. A small object, a hypospray device, materialized. The business end was set against Mic's upper left arm, substance discharged through fabric and skin with a loud hiss. "That should counter the hysterics without altering performance ability. A light sedative for calming until the endorphin blockers work."
Mic was set on the floor, allowing the two parental unit shells to retreat to the table; Three had regained its poise. The Zyn blinked several times, hiccuped, then regained his feet. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Pa grumbled, "Do not do that again. This is a serious contest. Both you and the Borg have failed a level now, and it is your choice. Choose." The screen floated close, invitingly showing the list.
Mic looked over his selections, finally centering on one. He looked down at his feet and muttered, "Dang, baby. Don't have the correct shoes. Must party on, anyway."
A-tap-a-tap-a-tappity-tappity-tap. A-tap-a-tap-a-tappity-tap-tap. Mic held his hands behind his back and solemnly tap danced. He did not bother to look at either screen or floor, yet his feet perfectly fell within proscribed outlines. The dance was obviously well known to the point of instinct. Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap! Tap-tap! Mic ended by sliding on his knees, breathing heavily.
"Top that, baby! YEOW! I'm feeling /good/! More than good, great!"
"The Zyn used to be a tap instructor," explained Pa, off-hand, "which is why he is in my menagerie. Excellent specimen, if a little rambunctious. Your turn, Borg."
Assimilation approached the screen, fingering the button. Tap. Stomp. A-stomp-bang-tap? Boom-bang. Stompity-stomp-stomp? Tip-tap-trip. Ouch. Tap? A-tap-stomp. The intricacies of the dance were immense, made more complex because the format was different enough from the Zyn's turn that pattern memorization was not viable. Tap. Tap-tap. STOMP! Tappity-stomp? The moments required both lightness and speed, neither of which were Borg fortes even in a 0.75 G environment. The Boogie Machine demanded swift changes of gait, double and triple taps of the same foot, lightening reflexes possible only after years of repetitive honing. Stompity-stomp. Tap. Tap? Tap!
The six robots regarded each other as Assimilation struggled through the debacle. Gestures accompanied silent communication - canting of torso, so-so wave of hand, shrug of two shoulder pairs. Somewhere a debate raged, somewhere unheard by the faltering drone. Assimilation contemplated stopping in the middle of the dance, then followed that thought with the knowledge the mech species #2 audience might consider the action refusal to perform. Which, in turn, would lead to terminations among the sub-collective, or worse, requirement to dance again. Failure was the more attractive offer.
The less than energetic tap dance came to a stuttering end, Assimilation refusing to slide on his knees. Assuming the situation was resolved, Doctor would heap enough meaningless complaints upon the head of the assimilation hierarchy concerning body abuse without adding a requirement for knee alignment.
No applause greeted Assimilation's performance. Bad or good? Mic was staring up at the unseen ceiling, posture of one that knows he has triumphed. The disco ball revolved uncaringly, reflecting light onto unpeopled tables.
The long table behind which the six robots crouched disappeared, holographic image vanished. Pa led the approaching crowd, booming to Mic, "We are finished. Back to your cage."
The Zyn gave a cheerful wave of acquiescence. "'Bout time, daddy-o. My dinner is probably cold now, and I know I've missed most of that movie I was going to watch on the boob-tube."
Rumbled Pa, "The show has been recorded. I cater to the whims of my menagerie."
"That you do, daddy-o. Speaking of which, when's my spa to be installed? I need to keep the limbs limber, you know. And the arboretum commons...Phela's been carping about my tulim plants again. Do you think I could be built a private greenhouse to grow 'em in so I don't offend the Sphinxian's delicate nose?"
"Back to your cage, Zyn. We can discuss it in your apartment."
"O-kay!" Mic vanished in a transporter beam, offensive leather pants finally removed from Assimilation's presence.
Four pranced in a circle around Assimilation. "I was ri-ight. I waa-aas right! My ranking was riiiiiight!"
Three stalked towards Four, pushing the former when it passed. The robot, much larger and more massive than Assimilation, nearly fell against the drone. "Stop telling the universe, Baby. Win gracefully."
Four whirled to confront Three, all four arms rising in aggression. "Don't touch me! And /you/ lose gracefully, or else!"
Three shouted, "Or else, what, dweeb? Baby! Your shells are no match for mine!"
Assimilation scuttled out of the way as Four tackled Three, sending both robots into a crashing heap. Arms and legs smacked against torsos, denting carry compartments. Part of a limb spun away. Unintelligible insults were swapped, drowned by the noise of metal against metal.
"Stop!" bellowed Pa. "I will not have your fights on my territory!" Three and Four ignored their parent. "Fine. Your shells are terminated, and both of you sent back to your rooms! You are grounded until further notice. Ma and I will both deploy fliers over your territories to make sure you comply." Bright plasma lanced from above, rippling dance club illusion to strike combatants. The struggling forms evaporated in a wash of heated ions.
One noted, "Boy, they aren't too happy at loosing their stilters."
"They should have through of that before I was forced to break their toys. They have lots of other shells, and perhaps the pair might think about this lesson while they are grounded for the next, oh, fifty orbits," replied Pa.
Two whined, "Only fifty orbits? When I was Three's age and preemptively attacked One, you grounded me for two hundred orbits!" It spluttered to a stop, objection shelved as Pa turned baleful gaze of "don't mess with me" on the adolescent.
Assimilation stared at the two lumps of glowing metal which had been Ehtu shells. The individuals they represented were unhurt except for parental edicts, but the intensity of the destruction seemed harsh. Visions of the incandescent goo he might become drifted through the drone's thoughts. Perhaps boring was a tolerable life after all, with nothing more exciting than watching paint dry.
Ma approached the drone, "The experiment is over. Pa wanted to add you to his menagerie, but I reminded it of the fuss you caused that poor Sphinxian. I also told it that if special precautions weren't taken, which Pa sometimes neglects as being more trouble than worth, it might end up with too many Borg cluttering its zoo apartment complex. Therefore, you will be returned to your vessel now, and the ship allowed to continue on its way. Ta-ta!"
Assimilation felt a transporter beam lock onto his body, nerve ends tingling, as he was summarily dismissed. Mech species #2 had settled their irrelevant (from the Borg point of view) dispute, and were now content to return to an attitude of general indifference towards the organics flitting through AD systems living their gnat length lifespans. Assimilation was not one for optimism, or any bright thoughts for that matter, but one relief stood out: he had not been forced to contra-dance. Welfare of cube be damned, certain lines should never be crossed.
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