All hail, and let it be known Star Trek is owned by Paramount, now and forever; and CBS produced Survivor, the "semi-reality" show. Star Traks, a parody of Star Trek, was created by Alan Decker. If this BorgSpace story, written by Meneks and based in the twisted Traks universe, appears to incorporate elements that look suspiciously like Survivor, it is all in your imagination. Maybe.
Survivor, Part I
Sand. Lots of pristine white coral sand mixed with the occasional pocket of glittering black flecks of volcanic origin. Borg drones despise sand, and Captain was no exception. The substance clogged joints, scratched lenses, and, worse of all, insidiously worked into the spaces between armor and skin. A day at the beach was not a vacation paradise, but rather a nightmarish hell. Sand was nearly impossible to remove, grit remaining in annoying and tender places for weeks.
Captain stood on a tropical beach, feet covered to ankles in loose sand. Dark blue sky was an ocean for the sun Arrival to swim in, glare not quite overshadowing either the bright pinpoint which was Departure nor the haze of the central wormhole cluster. Tall alien vegetation with an uncanny resemblance to coconut palms dotted the inland sand fringe, becoming increasingly dense until a full-blown jungle reduced visibility to mere meters of tangled greenery. Birds of a sort (discounting the third eye and canine teeth, they did have feathers and flew) alternately chirped and screamed their calls; and unseen insects hummed a chorus counterpoint.
Sand. Captain stood on one foot to unsuccessfully shake grit out of the other. How he hated sand.
After looking up and down the seemingly deserted beach, Captain peered over his shoulder at the miniature UFO which was silently hovering behind him. The size of a Frisbee, small cameras studded its circumference. It neither offered help nor hindered, a quiet observer of all actions the drone took. While not ranked among the top ten things Captain did not like, network and news cameras were still highly placed.
"Keep your distance," said Captain to the flying camera, making a perfunctory arm sweep at it. The bot easily dodged, edging backward a prudent half meter.
Captain examined the beach again. Sand, jungle, surf, and not much else. The initial gathering area was located in a clearing off the beach, attainable by a well marked path. The first task, however, was to find the trail. With bot following at a discrete distance, Captain turned south, the direction opposite the large smoking volcano looming in the near north, and strode off.
*****
"Welcome to the Isle of Paradise, which, coincidentally, is the only island on the planet Paradise in the Arrival system. I am your Emergency Talk Show Host Hologram, Ernie Zyrian, version 2.0, copied and subcontracted from Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises, here to bring you the annual installment of 'Are You A Survivor?' Taking place in the unique and picturesque systems of Arrival-Departure, Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises has acquired a local object called the Schedule Artifact to offer as a special Grand Prize," spoke Zyrian V2.0 into the camera hovering before him.
The hologram looked like its original - a Mark I format with extensive matrix modifications including a full head of hair and a trim mustache. He was dressed in stylish khaki shorts with a muted Hawaiian shirt, topped with expensive safari hat. Simulated leather sandals shod feet. Skin was perfectly tan, as appropriate given the tropical scenery. An unobtrusive portable holoemitter was clipped on the right sleeve.
"Our arena this year is the Isle of Paradise." A supplementary hologram of the island in question consolidated next to Zyrian. As it rotated, various attributes were described. "This amazing island is not anchored to the seabed, but rather floats in a circumscribed path over the course of several thousand years. This epoch it is in the tropical latitudes, thus contributing to our balmy weather. Watch out for hurricanes, though! Dimensions are an oval approximately 15 kilometer by 10 kilometer, with a submerged reef fringe extended an additional 10 kilometers from the shore. The north end is dominated by an active volcano which rises 3000 meters; and under the island is a huge keel plunging 2 kilometers down. A small lake is located in the central portion of the island, and a thick jungle with attendant noxious plants, poisonous insectoids, deadly animals, and perhaps a cannibalistic tribe.
"Enough of the preliminaries! You, the viewer audience, will become familiar with all the special parts and surprises of the Isle over the coming weeks. Now, more importantly, our contestants." The island was substituted for the first of eight revolving busts.
"Hailing from Babil residential web complex of Garage, Departure, is Satooth, clan Shawg. This young Tunian has recently graduated from vocational school and hopes to apprentice as a Progenitor-specialist engineer." The serpentine head - not a true bust as the species did not have shoulders - spun, showing off the mottled green, black, and brown feather patterns which were unique identifiers for each individual.
The Tunian was replaced by first one Zyn, then a second. "Marlo Tiga," said Zyrian indicating a yellow humanoid wearing a worn cowboy hat, "is a molpul rancher on Customs 29. Amazingly, he retains all limbs and digits, which says a lot for his ability, his agility, his luck, or all three. The next Zyn, our third contestant, is Dendri Polga, delivery shuttle driver. Her hobbies include weight lifting and arm wrestling in bars for drinks."
A Lupil took the place of the Zyns. She was a regal beauty by her race's standards - superbly thin and double jointed in a way to guarantee nausea in the estimation of observers not her species. The bones in her stark reptile face were sharply outlined, gaze sharp as her teeth. "No'kul Yarda'k is rumored to be a half-sister of Ta'loc herself, although the General will neither confirm nor deny such allegations." Zyrian threw a slow wink to the camera, indicating silence to be as good as admittance. "No'kul is also rumored to be high ranked in the Lupi intelligence department, and not the dull-witted bimbo she may appear.
"Contestant number five is a Sphinxian, quite insane according to his parole officer." A Sphinxian male with uncharacteristically rumpled fur rotated. The eyes peering from ferret face had a quality of wrongness apparent even through photons and camera lens. "Loove - alias Giggling Pirate for his tendency to giggle while committing robbery - was recently released from multispecial detention on Customs 50. He claims to be a born-again Meatist, as well as self-appointed messiah for the cannibalistic sect, pledging never to rob anyone again except in name of religion."
A ratty Bonoi replaced the ferret, pelt in worse condition than the Sphinxian. The hair twisted into matted dreadlocks. "Remerat Techtron holds the current AD systems record for longest time by any species with a less than one hundred year natural life span to go without a bath. Entering his soapless and showerless second decade, one is advised to stay will upwind unless your sense of smell has been surgically removed.
"Lucky number seven is not so lucky, as Okim do not believe in luck, or much else for that matter. Brain capacity is lacking, sacrificed for additional muscle." A muscled (head, neck, and shoulders were immense) humanoid woman stared at nothing a meter in front of herself. "Between you, me, and the rest of the universe, my bet is riding on this lady, Cho Choo. She holds the part-time job as security for GWF on Arena Rock, when she is not engaged in her professional employment as a bouncer and freak show exhibit for The Casino in orbit around the gas giant Beachball, Departure."
The final bust faded into photonic solidarity, familiar in the way of cockroaches: recognized but not particularly welcomed. It was doubtful anyone could identify the specific individual pictured, a victim not usually scrutinizing Borg drones while fleeing in the opposite direction. "Originally an Ityg was scheduled to be our last contestant, but due to a case of adult sudden onset baldness - a rare genetic disorder, not Borg caused - the individual was forced to withdraw. After a long series of negotiations with Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises, which are too trivial to relate on primetime subspace, a recent addition to the AD systems, the Collective, donated a drone from their trapped cube. His designation is 4 of 8, but I've been informed that Captain is a suitable nickname. Several precautions have been taken to insure he does not receive help from the Collective, as all players must compete without outside assistance, but again, the details are not relevant."
Zyrian paused, allowing time for the audience to envy the hologram's faultless skin, not too white and not too brown, but tanned perfection. "And with that, I've been informed all our contestants have made it to the start clearing. Let us go there now, where our eight new friends will be provided their initial instructions."
*****
Captain had half of the intimate jungle clearing to himself. The other seven contestants, a motley assortment of races, warily watched from the other side of the central fire pit. Well, six watched warily, the Sphinxian, uncharacteristically considering his species history, stared intently at the drone, giggling under his breath the entire while. Eight cameras, one assigned to each individual, milled overhead.
The link to Cube #347 was all but absent, a situation Captain disliked. The connection was narrowed to a general "wellness" signal, indication for the cube Captain remained functional, and visa-versa. Captain knew the ship itself was in orbit around one of the Customs planetoids, as were vessels associated with the other contestants. The rules of the game prohibited outside contact or assistance, rules which were enforced by a hidden machine jamming transporters and all transmissions, except for those coded to secret Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises frequencies. Cube #347 had to abide by the rules until endgame, the desired Schedule Artifact held elsewhere on a cloaked ship which thus far the cube had been unable to find.
The clearing was a rough circle thirty meters in diameter. Other than central fire pit containing cold ashes, logs were laid on the ground in a square around the pit, set at a distance to allow comfortable fireside chats without either roasting or freezing. Unlit torches two meters in height were speared into the ground here and there. Other than the winding path leading to the beach, a thick wall of greenery discouraged travel outside the clearing.
A ninth person strolled into the clearing, followed by an obedient camera. Unlike the other miniature UFOs which were focused solely on their specific target's actions, this floating saucer took in the whole scene, actively panning to obtain an overall atmosphere. Captain stared at the safari hat wearing hologram, recognizing the face as that belonging to another host on another program who had utterly embarrassed Captain and Collective some time ago. Zyrian, from The Zyrian Hour, was now here. Captain fought the urge to do something nasty, unBorglike.
"Welcome contestants," cheerily said Zyrian, pausing as he saw the distribution around the clearing. "Welcome to 'Are You A Survivor?' show, presented by Zyrian Enterprises Entertainment, and sponsored in part by Swoo-a-cola," Zyrian held up a hand as a brightly colored can materialized there, "made from only the best crushed swoos. Get one today." The hologram smiled broadly into his camera, pretended to drink the refreshment, then gave a sigh of false contentment. The advertised product vanished. "So, your first task is simple...survive the night. We'll reconvene in the morn, two or so hours after dawn, to see how many of you eight remain. As you know, anything goes, but try not to slaughter all your comrades in one night. Things are more fun when the game lasts several weeks, or at least several days. And remember, your Grand Prize is the Schedule Artifact. See you in the morning."
Zyrian's form dematerialized. His camera bot swooped down, capturing the emitter in a mechanical arm, then retreated high above the canopy. About three hours remained until darkness. The Sphinxian giggled louder.
Captain silently watched as the seven contestants scurried to prepare for the evening. From the shelter provided by a natural roof of palm fronds on the edge of the jungle just beyond the reach of the despised sand, he was able to observe. Very little talking was seen to occur between competitors, other than the occasional protest as a choice stick or thatching was stolen. The seven were in the process of building each his or her version of a shelter.
All the shelters looked tenuous at best, like the effort a child might expend to create a temporary fort knowing a real house is located nearby. The lean-tos, teepees, and in the Tunian's case what appeared to be an aboveground tunnel, were far from weatherproof, many holes for wind and rain to enter. The shelters were also not bugproof, blood-drinking insects awakening with the dusk and finding a banquet magically spread. Captain, happily, was safe from the attentions of bugs, smell handily indicating to would-be diners that the Borg would be a very poor meal, especially when other succulent opportunities were available.
Before embarking upon the contest, Doctor had retrofit Captain with a special mobile regeneration unit. Located next to his spine, partially coiling through the empty space in his abdomen (removal of what little remained of Captain's large intestine had been necessary), and filling a thigh compartment of his mostly artificial left leg, the unit had enough power to run about three weeks, after which he entered a three day grace period until stasis lock. The unit supplied nutrient and energy needs, as long as Captain entered a powered down mode for several hours every day to allow on-board 5' nanites a chance to repair damage from the normal wear and tear of living. Besides being forced to observe a regular sleep pattern, the unit was also damned uncomfortable; and the surgery to install it had been extensive, which was a primary reason why it was not standard gear on all drones.
Captain planned to have as much of it removed as possible when he returned to the cube.
Loove slunk near, incessant giggling and bulging eyes causing Captain discomfort, although he would never outwardly admit such. The Sphinxian stopped out of lunge range, then looked the drone up and down. "You would not serve," remarked Loove mysteriously, emphasis on the word "serve." He continued, "You using that branch?" One hand was swept towards a nearby palm frond mostly hidden by sand.
Captain gazed at the bipedal ferret, who was displaying none of the aversion his species normally exhibited in presence of Borg. Fingers continued to flip inquiry at the branch, waiting. "No," curtly said Captain, realizing Loove would not leave until he received an answer.
"Excellent!" exclaimed Loove. He squatted to swipe at the frond, then ran along the darkening beach towards his lean-to hovel. The prize was triumphantly divested of sand, then woven in among the other branches.
"I'm hungry," declared one of the Zyn, Dendri. She plunked her hefty frame heavily to the sand, leaning against a tree. Captain swiveled his head toward the unfolding scene, increasing audio gain as well as shifting visual frequencies to those better suited to the dusk. "I'm getting hungry. A big-boned girl like me needs to eat regularly. Wonder if there are any McMolpul joints around here."
"Geesh, woman," replied Marlo, the other Zyn, from the pathetic excuse of a shelter he was trying to keep from collapsing, "we are on a deserted island, the only island to boot, in the middle of an ocean planet. Without a decent population base, McMolpul isn't going to open up any restaurants around here. Trust me on this. I'm a molpul rancher."
*****
Three kilometers beneath the turbulent surface of Paradise drifted a "building" woven of kelp and other local substances. As the only McMolpul franchise beneath the planet's waves - the company had recently expanded to Paradise - it enjoyed booming business. Merpeople (with a humanoid top and piscine lower, the designation fit) traveled from hundreds of kilometers to partake of the novelty of fast-food; the parking zone was full of merhorses and meroxen, fish-animals waiting impatiently for their owners. The swim-through window line stretched for half a kilometer.
No one else knew of the booming civilization deep beneath Paradise, a gentle society living amidst giant kelp kilometers in height, bedecked by naturally florescent sessile organisms. McMolpul certainly wasn't going to announce the finding, as such an action might bring in competition from archrival Patty Emperor.
*****
"I didn't ask what you did for a living," snapped Dendri. "You wanna make something of it?" The dwarf Amazon with yellow complexion and beer belly began to rise from her seat.
Marlo raised his hands in appeasement, which in turn allowed his vegetative tent to fold in upon itself. "No, no. I don't want to make anything of it."
The Lupil, No'kul, hissed, "Hunger is only a passing sensation, a body urge easily controlled." Of all the shelters, hers appeared the most sound. She was currently using a bit of sharp shell she had found to carve a point to a heavy stick. Critically regarding her spear, No'kul continued, "Hunger is not something to worry about, as all your races can function many days without harm if food is foregone. Larger problems loom, such as the Borg. If we band together, we can kill it. As long as it is here, it is a danger. We should act tonight."
Captain prudently retreated several steps deeper into the foliage. He could still see and hear, but the twilight world would hamper vision of those unaugmented.
The Tunian looped his coils across the sands. "Why? He hasn't done anything except stand under a tree. No threatening moves; barely any speech. My kind may not have encountered the Borg before, but from what I've seen in the newsvids, so far they have been politer than your group, No'kul. I remember the Tunian enclaves your General Tu'lok evicted from Beachball moons when she forcefully took them over. I lost clan."
No'kul glowered at the feathered snake. Pointedly she returned to her spear, using touch to guide her whittling.
Somewhere under a bush, Cho began to snore. She had given up the complex task of making a shelter.
"Say," said Satooth into the awkward silence, raising his head in a show of looking around, "has anyone seen that rat Remerat, or the giggling madman?"
"Something probably ate them. At least /someone/ is having dinner tonight," sourly pouted Dendri.
Unobtrusively, five cameras filmed their respective targets, watching as the group parted to their shelters for sleep. Number six hovered near Captain, rewarded with an unstimulating action sequence of the drone carefully flexing his joints to dislodge as much sand as possible before settling upright and motionless for several hours of quasi-regeneration. Of the other two cameras, they were lost in the tropical night.
It was seven contestants, not eight, who greeted Zyrian's arrival.
"My, my, my," said the hologram once his camera had released the emitter from a carry compartment, "and how was your night?" The question was not asked out of personal curiosity, but to garner ratings-raising responses.
"Horrible," replied Marlo, Dendri, and Satooth in unison. All three were rumpled, the Tunian more so than the Zyn pair. Feathers require more hygiene work than a head of hair, and Satooth was beginning to seriously regret being forced to forego a decent plume comb: grooming with tendrils and teeth was not only primitive, it was inadequate to style feathers the way he preferred.
No'kul, holding her spear with butt end grounded, waved her other hand in a so-so gesture. "Okay, except for Cho's snoring. Of course, I was awake much of the night to guard against a possible Borg attack." The spear's pointy end was swung to indicate Captain. "I have spent much of my morning prior to this meeting preparing myself, even as the others ignore the threat." She indicated the makeshift dagger held under the belt at her waist. The weapon was made from a long shard of razor-sharp shell, flat end embedded in a rough wooden handle end and secured with a tough vine. For a supposed Lupil beauty queen, she was well-versed to endure jungle hardship.
Captain said nothing when Zyrian glanced in the his direction. As in the clearing the night before, he was separated from the others by a substantial distance.
"Slept good. I am hungry, though," thundered Cho. "I also need to find good rocks for the weight set I am constructing. Where is stinking Bonoi?" The Okim looked none the worse for wear after having slept under a bush. However, the question she asked was pertinent.
Loove began to laugh, as if he had just heard the best joke in the universe. It quickly subsided into a snorting giggle. His thin shirt and sturdy shorts were darkly stained here and there with black splatters.
Zyrian just shook his head. "What you did was very disgusting, Loove. Very disgusting. In all the years Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises has produced 'Are You A Survivor?', no one has ever sacrificed and eaten a fellow contestant, killed yes, but never eaten."
Loove softly burped.
The five contestants near the Sphinxian placed several meters of space between self and the insane ferret.
"Let bygones be bygones. Time for our first tor...er..contest. First, let us embark to the proper Isle locale," said Zyrian as multiple transporter beams grabbed contestants, host, and cameras, depositing them elsewhere on the island.
The location was a dirt-sand beach at the edge of the isle's unnamed central lake. The lake was shaped as an oval like the island, with dimensions 3/4 kilometer by half a kilometer. Depth was unknown, both due to floating vegetation which graced the periphery and the murky water. Unpleasant swirls hinted at large animals lurking just beneath the surface; and the various floating logs were trying a bit hard to appear innocuous.
Zyrian pointed, "Out about twenty meters is a small buoy. Beneath the buoy, at the bottom of the lake, is a crate. Within the crate is an item highly desireable for a particular contestant. The other objects may be useful, either as tools or trade, but whomever gets to the crate first, activates the float bags, and ultimately returns it to shore, will be declared winner.
"The crate inventory is as follows - a knife, a lighter, a limited edition Jumba the Wise Lizard novel on crystalline storage, a plume brush, gourmet rations and energy bars, a pair of twenty kilogram weights, and wintermint mouthwash." Zyrian turned to squarely regard his camera. Next to him consolidated the image of a plastic container full of a crystal blue liquid. "The mouthwash is curtesy of one of our primary sponsors, Frosty Breath - 'Wash your mouth out, already!'."
Zyrian returned attention to the contestants. "You have several minutes to consider your tactics. There may be several slightly dangerous predators in the lake, and lab tests have indicated the presence of a pathogen which will give you diarrhea if you swallow any water. Just a warning."
At the edge of the lake, Cho stopped with a cupped hand partially to her mouth. She had been drinking the water. The Okim quickly stood up, spitting out what remained in her mouth. Cho's head began to dart around, as if measuring the distance to the nearest bushes, although it was unlikely any bacterium or protozoan could act so fast.
"A knife," muttered No'kul, then louder, "Is it of good quality?"
Zyrian nodded, "Of the finest neutronium glazed dense-packed steel. Monofilament edged. Can cut through hull metal."
No'kul's eyes widened. "It isn't...it isn't a Ginzual Neutronium Chef hunting knife, is it?" She was practically drooling.
"The very one, as seen on tri-TV."
"What type of energy bars?" inserted Dendri. Several paces away, Loove was puffing air into a hand in an effort to smell his own breath.
"Nature Rock Granola, all six flavors," replied Zyrian.
"Hell with waiting," cried No'kul, "I want that knife!" She dashed toward the lake, splashing through water with a high-stepping gait. One of the many near-shore weeds must have wrapped an angle, for the skinny lizard form abruptly fell forward in a wet header.
Said Zyrian innocently, "Go?"
A mad scramble ensued, all cameras except two flying in pursuit of their assigned contestant. Of the exceptions, Zyrian's saucer stayed back to record the overall scene, as well as any witticisms the host might interject; and Captain's companion bot also remained where it was as the Borg had not immediately joined the contest.
A battle raged within Captain's mind, a consensus of one trying to decide what course to follow. On the one hand, the purpose of the overall game was to simply survive, to be the last person left. A pointless task, such as this one, provided survival tools to those that needed them. Captain required neither weapons nor food, and the other items in the submerged crate were useless, therefore there was no need to join in the quest. On the other hand, it /was/ a limited edition Jumba the Wise Lizard novel. On the third hand, water was an unpleasant medium for a Borg, being wet and penetrating, although it was not harmful. On the fourth hand, it /was/ a limited edition Jumba the Wise Lizard novel. Quickly, all good reasons why not to engage in frivolous activities were overshadowed by the reality of a limited edition Jumba the Wise Lizard novel.
Drones are generally too heavy to swim, and Captain was no exception. The others were just beyond the vegetative fringe, alternately foiling the advances of neighbors or dodging toothed threats. No'kul, already at the buoy, was in a fight with one of the log creatures, now revealed to be a crocodilian. Somehow she had managed to float her spear out with her, and was using the sharp end as a prod while she tread water.
Knees, waist, chest, neck, the water crept higher and higher, finally closing over head. Weeds waved like a monstrous meadow swaying in a slow motion breeze, gently parting as Captain forged through, then closing behind. A splash alerted him to the arrival of the camera; he had been hoping the thing would be unable to submerge.
Captain was now ten meters beneath the surface and approaching the edge of the weed bed. He was following the commotion above which marked the buoy's location, contestants forced to call an interpersonal truce in order to beat off the breakfast crowd. The water was stained dark in that direction, a pigmented fluid obscuring sunlight.
A dark shape passed to Captain's left, then right. It flashed by again as the drone caught sight of crate through murky water, an impression of six meters of muscle grinning an ivory-sharp smile. Any single tooth would more than fit No'kul's desire for a knife. Suddenly it charged.
And bit down on Captain's prosthetic arm, above the elbow. It bit, then recoiled in pain, teeth cracking against armor more than sufficient to stop mere enamel. Frustrated, the crocodilian struck again, garnering similar results. Before the animal could try a third time, possibly catching hold of flesh, Captain wrapped his other arm around the beast's thick neck and squeezed. A dull crack indicated a broken neck; the animal went limp.
Curious, Captain stopped next to the crate, still holding the corpse. Something did not seem right about it. A quick examination revealed it to be a radio controlled cyborg, a construct mostly crocodile with a crocodile's brain, but mechanically enhanced in certain ways to boost muscle power. Most importantly, a subdermal neck collar had wire leads penetrating the skull, a brute force method of primitive control some species used on lower animals, and occasionally each other. This contest was rigged.
No matter. Captain let go the dead crocodile, allowing it to sink to the muck. Next he casually disengaged the float mechanisms - simple severance of several wires - to keep the crate from popping to the surface. Finally he picked up the objective, balanced it on one shoulder with arms supporting, then trudged towards shore. Above, the battle with cyborg animals continued, none of the combatants having the luxury to peek underwater to see their prize walk away.
The weeds were a minor hindrance, entangling crate. Captain stoically continued, getting closer to the surface. Head, neck, chest, waist, knees, the water drained from beneath armor as more of the Borg emerged above the lake. Finally he reached the dirt-sand shore, dropping crate to ground with a thump. Ignoring the beaming hologram, he levered the waterproof box open, fishing out the aforementioned crystal and inserting it into a small port just up and under the lower right side of his upper torso armor plate.
It /was/ a limited edition Jumba the Wise Lizard! A very rare unabridged copy of the often censored Jumba the Wise Lizard Visits the Brothel of Sins. It was even digitally autographed! Captain gave a long sigh of pleasure, allowing a brief smile to cross his face. Only briefly, mind you.
Zyrian strolled to the lake edge and kept on going, walking on water as if it were solid ground. Of course, the action was no miracle, surface a rather arbitrary concept when one is comprised of photons and cleverly contrived magnetic fields. He continued out to the flailing swimmers, kicking at a crocodile that approached too close. "We have a winner," he jovially announced as he arrived. The tired contestants stared up at the hologram in disbelief, treading water wearily as the crocodiles suddenly redonned their log disguises. "Captain has retrieved the box. Shall we all retire to shore?"
Finding most of the crate items irrelevant, Captain had tossed all except for crystal, knife, and lighter onto the beach near the palm tree he had decided to temporarily call home. The data crystal, of course, was his special prize. He certainly was not going to allow the blood-thirsty Lupil access to a knife able to cut through his armor; and the lighter he kept just because.
Entranced, bored, Captain flicked the lighter, watching the flame burn. Click - off. Click - burn. The flame danced in the light wind, nearly washed out under natural light, but a bright beacon with infrared.
Click - off.
Captain watched warily as Dendri hopefully sifted through the remains of packing material in the crate, searching for anything overlooked. The Borg knew nothing was left, but inefficient optimism was a trait of most unassimilated. Earlier, Loove had claimed mouthwash before disappearing, and a damp, sandy Satooth his plumage brush. After Cho carted away her weights, a disgusted No'kul had began to look for the knife before noticing Captain displaying it for her in his grasp. Dendri had at that point taken all the rations and energy bars in order to feed her ample self. Marlo had not bothered to hunt the lighter, able to see Captain playing with it from afar.
"Borg, sir," asked Dendri carefully, "do you want the crate?"
Captain returned to watching his lighter. Click - burn. Click - off. Boring.
Taking the nonanswer for a "no," the Zyn hastily drug the crate towards her shelter area. It would make better living quarters than sticks and fronds.
"Today," said Zyrian, wearing a safari shirt with swimming trunks, a dash of white zinc sunscreen covering his nose, "today is another day."
The morning had brought a line of dark clouds on the horizon, in addition to the hologram. No more contestants had disappeared in the night, although Loove smelled very strongly of wintermint. Dendri, secure in her crate, had slept as soundly as the snorting Cho, at least when the latter wasn't visiting the (downwind) bushes. Unlucky Marlo, on the other hand, seemed to have been discovered by a local nest of sand fleas, and now had small welts dimpling his skin. No'kul was only partially awake, having spent the entire night "guarding" herself from possible Borg sneak attack.
"I'm hungry," noted Marlo. He scratched one of the multitudes of red rashes marring his yellow skin. "And I itch."
Cho peered uncomfortably towards the jungle, then dashed off. The lake parasites were striking with a vengeance.
No'kul, holding her spear, grimly said, "I could use some food as well, or at least an indication of what is edible. A stimulant would be nice too. However, I will continue to survive without."
Captain, of course, said nothing; as neither did Dendri nor Loove. The latter two had access to food, the one hoarded ration bars and the other something less appetizing. However, it was only cannibalism if one ate one's own species. Satooth was also quiet, although he ducked his head in embarrassment as stomach growled.
Zyrian clapped his hands together. "I'm glad the sentiment is hunger, for Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises has thoughtfully provided you all with molpul burger meals, donated from McMolpul, a sponsor of 'Are You A Survivor?', fast-food for the multitudes." Shirt was adjusted. "Let us go!"
Transporter beams again latched onto contestants and cameras, dropping them as before elsewhere on the island. Captain automatically panned the area.
A volcano flank rose high in the air, indicating the group was now in the north. It loomed ominously, but was a silent black hulk, quietly smoking. The mountain, however, was not the focus of the test, but rather a twenty acre meadow cleared in the jungle. Bright flowers and other bits of color dotted knee-high grass of a soft green lighter than surrounding foliage. Hexapod animals with a shoulder height of 75 centimeters quietly grazed on the blades or rooted in the ground.
"Molpuls!" exclaimed Marlo in surprise.
The animals superficially resembled miniature bovines with an extra pair of legs. At that point, semblance ended. The forward facing eyes which regarded the seven contestants plus host in mild curiosity were the stereoscopic configuration of carnivore or omnivore, not herbivore; and while most animals were grazing on grass, the glint of sharp canines and oversized shearing teeth glimmered from the occasional display of bared teeth strongly hinted at a less than placid nature. Stubby, outward curving horns ended with sharp points. Grass did not quite obscure the powerful claws tipping each foot.
Marlo eyed the animals critically, commenting, "Your pack is Dobbo strain, not very nice temper, if good producer. You appear to have all steers, no females or uncut bulls anywhere, which has obviously affecting their mental status, reverting them to territoriality. I also see no meat feed, no old carcasses. I hope they have been fed something more filling as of late than grass, otherwise they may be a bit testy."
"Ah, the expert speaks," said Zyrian. "In answer to your concern, no, no meat. They are definitely hankering for something less green. As far as the territories, that is more artificial than it looks. Each molpul is wearing an invisible electric fence collar, and must thus remain inside certain areas, else be shocked." The hologram abruptly changed the topic, "Look yonder across the clearing. You will see seven packages, one for each of you, containing your yummy prize: McMolpul meal deals!"
Captain gazed through the milling molpul bodies, spotting aforementioned boxes. "Food is irrelevant," stated Captain. "We do not eat. Query: why should this drone participate?"
Zyrian blinked, then clapped his hands together. "Did you get that? Tell me you got that. The Borg's longest speech yet!" The host must have received confirmation, for he now answered Captain's question. "True, you won't eat the prize, however your personal survival is at stake. The combined mauling of all these molpuls will overwhelm even you. When I say 'go,' all contestants will have thirty minutes to cross to the other side, either straight suicidal dashes, or inching along the unseen border area - safe, but slow. Or, any other way you can think of. After thirty minutes, the electric fence will be turned off, allowing the molpuls free rein," Marlo turned pale yellow as he listened to Zyrian, who was now addressing all contestants, not Captain solely, "to attack whomever they please. They may be a tad bit peckish for fresh meat, any meat. To stop you and molpul from leaving the clearing, a forcefield is erected; and for those of you forcefield tolerant, you'll find your camera has been equipped with a highly charged cattle prod to prevent departure."
Captain swiveled his head to regard his ever-present, all-seeing companion. The floating camera had a miniature javelin underslung its chassis, held securely in a pair of grapples. While it might not cause Captain "pain," likely it would screw up his systems.
"By the way, go," finished Zyrian. "Remember, thirty minutes."
All except Captain cautiously walked forward, wary eyes glued to the nearest molpuls abutting the safe area. An animal raised its head, nostrils flaring, then slowly ambled towards the intruders. Slow became deliberate became a six-legged trot of anticipation, horns swinging back and forth. It sighted on Cho, the largest target, and charged.
Captain squinted at the field, ignoring Zyrian's running commentary about contestant actions. Hopefully he had proper filter equipment installed. With a click, Captain blinked, closing his whole eye to examine the revealed scene by optic implant alone. Faint blue lines wavering in the air, as insubstantial as a desert mirage, indicated invisible fence boundary. Confident, Captain began to slowly walk the narrow line of safety.
The Tunian had disappeared. Taking advantage of his low ground clearance, he had ducked beneath grass tops and was now hidden. Obviously he hoped the sneaking mode would be successful; and his belief appeared to be secure, for each time his head carefully rose from scratchy blades to affirm path and search for potential danger, he was a bit closer.
Cho, on the other hand, had apparently decided to wrestle her pint-sized attacker. Bad mistake. While small, the molpul was incredibly dense, powerful muscles driving the steer. With several holes torn through her dirty pants, one of which was welling a minor trickle of blood, the Okim retreated to the safe zone, stymied.
Loove simply walked across the fields, ignoring territory lines. When a molpul began to charge, the ferret would stare at the animal, giggling loudly. Inevitably the beast would veer off: even molpuls recognize when someone is not exactly of sane state of mind.
After seeing muscled Cho retreat, Dendri stood motionless in the safe zone, adamantly refusing to budge.
Marlo had moved into an adjacent territory and was goading the molpul within to charge. The Zyn sidestepped at the last moment, allowing the animal to run by. The molpul did not go too far, however, for the wrangler immediately leaned over and caught at the thin mane, swinging himself onto the animal's back. Shocked, the molpul abruptly stopped. Tucking his legs up so they didn't dangle too ridiculously, Marlo cried "Yippee!" as the molpul broke into a fit of bucking.
Captain observed all activities as he edged along the visible safe zones. He also espied the Lupil was following his track, back far enough to elude the drone, but close enough to avoid misstep.
"So," said Zyrian, striding beside Captain while disregarding the molpuls who were eyeing him, "how are you doing? Twenty minutes to go and you are halfway across. Do you resent your tag-along?"
Captain did not reply. He stepped through the hologram as he came to an electric fence junction, choosing the most efficient path though Zyrian stood in the way.
"Strong, but silent." Zyrian altered his attention to focus on No'kul, "And you, are you not hypocritical to be using your nemesis to win your way across?"
The emaciated reptile snorted. "Not at all." She battered at Captain's camera as it came within reach of her spear, missing. "Damn, nearly had the prod weapon that time."
"I see," commented Zyrian.
Elsewhere, other contestants were enjoying varying measures of success. Both Loove and Satooth had transversed the field relatively easily, although only the latter was avidly eating his McMolpul meal. Dendri continued to cower in the safe zone, now crying in a manner unfit for her tough-woman shuttle driver background. Cho had eventually wrestled her first molpul to submission and was now working on her second; she appeared to be planning to cross the field through brute force. Marlo, on the other hand, had successfully convinced his molpul to accept a rider, and was now removing the restraint collar. Task accomplished, and with much yelling and pounding of shoulders with hands, the animal was pointed towards the goal and let run. The ride - there was no true saddle area as for quadrupeds - looked to be very uncomfortable.
Captain concentrated on his endeavor, an ever-present timer runner backwards in his head to remind him of remaining minutes. One wary eye was reserved for No'kul and her spear, but the other contestants were ignored. Somewhere to the rear, a resounding crash occurred, followed by a molpul shaped form momentarily eclipsing the sun. A frantic moo-bark sounded. Another animal gained the power of flight without benefit of wings.
"Yeehaw!" shouted Marlo. "Watch out! Coming through!" The Zyn galloped by. It was difficult to discern if the rancher was in control, or the snorting molpul. Satooth and Loove scattered as six legged disaster approached, spitting snot and swinging horns.
Ten minutes left to finish the deadly obstacle course, Captain stepped into the goal safe zone. No'kul followed several paces behind. Nonchalantly, she edged towards a McMolpul meal, prodding it with a toe.
"I'm not all that hungry," the Lupil commented.
Asked the Tunian, tendrils and mouth shiny with grease, "Can I have it then?"
Snarled No'kul, "No! I never said I was not going to eat it. I learned many years ago never to pass up the chance at a meal, as it may be your last." A pointed glare was directed at Captain.
"Whoa! Whoa! Other way, Beastie, other way!" cried Marlo from the center of the cleared acreage. His molpul was squaring up to challenge a fellow steer, content to disregarding the shouting rancher.
At five minutes to Armageddon, Cho bulled through her final molpul, grapple-and-throw technique perfected. Ignoring the meal awaiting her, she ran for the bushes. Diarrhea is a powerful goad, much more potent that threat of disemboweling by a molpul preparatory to becoming a protein supplement.
"That will end soon," said Zyrian to the Okim as she emerged. "Modeling indicates the final parasites should be flushed in another twelve hours or so."
Marlo had managed to bring his animal back under control, directing it towards the safe zone once more. Unlike the previous attempt, it barreled straight through, disappearing into the jungle beyond as the Zyn threw himself off. If the forcefield had any effect on the animal, it was not in evidence. Marlo stood up, dusting himself off; somehow his worn cowboy hat remained on his head. "So," he asked, "the food any good?"
"Stay away from mine," replied No'kul. The Lupil grabbed one of the unopened boxes, justifying her action with, "This one belongs to the Borg, who /certainly/ doesn't need it. It is mine now."
Zyrian shrugged, unconcerned, "Whatever you say. This is a no-holds barred contest."
The Tunian blinked, "You mean I could have eaten all the meals before anyone else arrived?"
Again Zyrian shrugged, "If you wished so. However, you are such a nice fellow. I'm amazed you have survived thus far, nice fellows rarely winning on 'Are You A Survivor?'"
Satooth considered the final box, the one belonging to a cowering Dendri, who had still not even begun the trek across the dangerous field, even though a wide swatch had been cleared of animals courtesy of Cho. "In that case, um, I want that final meal." He curled his coils around it.
"Three, two, one...release. The molpuls are released from confinement," said Zyrian. With morbid interest, everyone watched Dendri's fate.
As the molpuls closed, Dendri gave a short scream, then curled into a fetal ball. Captain caught sight of her disappearing via transporter beam seconds before the ravenous crowd of animals could set fang to flesh. Disappointed tails whisked; several steers snorted challenge to a neighbor while others formed small packs to attack those molpuls still dazed by Cho's throws.
"Where did she go?" asked Marlo, half eaten burger in one hand. He had not seen the beam out. "They could not have consumed her that fast. At the very least, a couple of bones should have been left."
Zyrian replied, "Her family managed to pay the credits required for her to be retrieved via the escape clause. Very last moment. Dendri appears to have suffered a nervous breakdown, likely associated with a traumatic episode experienced as a child."
Marlo scoffed, "Those beasties aren't that bad. A little evil tempered, I admit, but okay."
"Whatever," dismissed Zyrian. "For now, you six are our survivors. You are to be returned to the beach, where you will have several days to recuperate. In three days, we will meet in the fire pit clearing at dusk, whereupon I will tell you your next contest.
"As I'm sure you will be wanting something more to eat, a few tips. The coconuts are safe, as are the big purple pods. Stay away from anything with yellow on it, unless you enjoy hallucinations followed by convulsions, nausea, and probable death. Most of the fish are edible, although I would avoid both the spiny red one and the black and white striped one. They are poisonous. Also, beware the sharks.
"Barring accidents, I expect to see all six of you in three days. Have fun!"
"We need to arrange for the Borg to have an 'accident'," expounded No'kul. She was munching on shark sushi; nearby, the stretched hide dried in the sun, a sun which was slowly disappearing behind a haze of high clouds. The shark had not stood a chance against the Lupil. "If we work together, we can accomplish the accident before it becomes too late."
Satooth delicately nibbled on his purple bean pod, the smallest of which was half a meter in length. Purple juice stained tendrils and the feathers beneath his chin. "I still don't see why."
"At the very least," continued No'kul, "we will have eliminated a contestant. Then the five of us can vie amongst ourselves for the Artifact."
Satooth quietly considered the reasoning as he took another bite from his dinner.
It was early afternoon of the second day since the molpul field, and a storm would engulf the island before nightfall. The Lupil had corralled the five other nonBorg to hear her proposition. Captain watched from under his palm tree, No'kul unsuspecting of his ability to eavesdrop on budding plans. If she had been aware, the meeting would have either occurred elsewhere, or at considerably lesser volume.
Cho yawned. "I want to take a nap. My head hurts." The Okim had employed her head as an anvil to break open coconuts. The complaint was likely an understatement.
Loove quietly giggled to himself. He had partaken of a purple pod liberally coated in yellow fuzz. If there was any hallucinogenic effect, it did not seem to have affected the Sphinxian; and neither convulsions and death seemed forthcoming in his immediate future.
"If we don't do something, we risk the Borg gaining the Schedule Artifact! It is already known that damned cube has the Card Artifact, but if it gets the Schedule, then it will have two Artifacts. I've been told that it has been centuries since any Artifact Seeker has had more than one Artifact," said No'kul fervently.
Marlo pointed out, "And if you eventually win this shindig, the General Ta'loc will have two Artifacts as well. You Lupil already have the Key Artifact."
"Taken from a Tunian monastery when Beachball was annexed," added Satooth darkly.
Continued Marlo as if not interrupted, "And certainly your group is trying to become the holder of all six. Me...me, I just would like to win it, then sell it to the highest bidder. I can't be ranching molpuls forever. I need to think about my retirement."
"My head really hurts," moaned Cho.
No'kul glared at the five. "Fine, have it your way. But I warn you, if we don't do something about that Borg, the Collective will win the Schedule Artifact. That isn't going to happen, over my dead body."
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