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 II
Previously, on "Are you A Survivor?" -
Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises' annual installment of the popular "almost reality" show began with the standard eight contestants, this season based on the Isle of Paradise in the unique Arrival-Departure wormhole system. For the first time, a Borg was a member of the eight, vying with others to receive a local prize known as the Schedule Artifact. After one night, eight became seven when one person was ritually sacrificed and eaten. Later, the first contest, involving retrieval of a crate of goodies from the bottom of a crocodile-infested lake, was accomplished by the Borg. Several days following, during the second task - crossing a pasture full of meat-starved molpuls - another contestant was lost, this time due to a nervous breakdown. Attempting to instigate plots against the drone, No'kul, the most bloodthirst and devious member of the remaining six, is thus far unsuccessful, supposedly altruistic motives doubted by her companions. And now, "Are You A Survivor?" continues with the next exciting episode!
*****
Zyrian, Emergency Talk Show Host Hologram, arrived in the jungle clearing wearing a tasteful black rain slicker over his customary brand-name shirt and shorts. The coat did not repeal the steady drizzle because of material, but rather due to an embedded electrostatic charge which formed an impenetrable barrier to airborne liquid precipitation. The hologram also held a jovial umbrella striped purple and ivory. Of course, Zyrian did not require the water repellent gear in the first place, his photonic nature naturally immune to the effects of rain, snow, typhoons, and so forth: he could walk under a waterfall and remain perfectly dry.
Five of the six remaining contestants of the "Are You A Survivor?" show were not so blessed. They had been waiting for Zyrian's arrival for the past half an hour, steadily becoming increasingly soaked and miserable. The Tunian especially was a bedraggled mess, feathers plastered to his snakelike frame, the picture of absolute despondency. Except for the Lupil No'kul, who stood next to a log bench in the middle of the clearing to demonstrate her hardy nature, all tried to take shelter under the peripheral trees.
Captain, the sixth contestant, ignored the rain. Weather is generally regarded as irrelevant by beings engineered to withstand environmental extremes.
"Welcome!" said Zyrian loudly as he clapped his hands. He turned towards his camera, seriously recounting events thus far on "Are You A Survivor?", finishing with, "And for today's event, we have Cho, Marlo, Satooth, No'kul, Loove, and our favorite Borg, Captain. Special thanks are extended to one of our special sponsors, Rain Away, upscale manufacturers of outerwear for all occasions. If you have weather, Rain Away can outfit you."
Zyrian's personal miniature UFO glided to the clearing center, slowly spinning to pan all the contestants.
"Well, happy campers! Time for today's contest."
No'kul snorted an accusation, "You are late."
"Getting a little short on sleep, are we?" snidely commented the hologram whilst ignoring her gripe.
"My species can withstand sleep deprivation for a long time. We are the strongest left of our race. I will not fall prey to the Borg."
"My, my," remarked Zyrian with droll wit, "with that holier-than-thou attitude, either the rumors of you a high placed intelligence operative for General Ta'loc were correct, or Lupil experience PMS."
No'kul slitted her eyes. "Come too close, little hologram, and I'll smash that emitter of yours."
Zyrian smirked, but he also carefully remained beyond range of No'kul's ever-present spear. "So, any other complaints before we start?"
Satooth, the Tunian, wetly slithered forward. Damp feathers do not have a pleasant smell. "Please, I am very wet; and without sun to dry me, I don't think I will be able to perform." Cho, Loove, and Marlo, still leaning under their respective semi-dry trees, called agreement.
"Well," considered Zyrian, "in that case, I might as well do something about it. Someone was originally supposed to get the lighter to cook, as well to create fires for days such as this, but it didn't work out that way."
Captain said nothing, recipient of said lighter. He neither ate nor had need of warming blazes, but also had found the flame amusing to watch until the lighter had burned all its fuel.
The distinctive sound of a transporter beam enveloped the clearing, momentarily bathing everything in a pale red flash of light. As the visual disturbance cleared, left behind was a roaring fire in the middle of the fire pit, towards which nonBorg and nonholographic contestants gravitated. Additionally, a tarp shelter was now constructed over half of the four sitting logs, a dry place.
Captain covertly took a pair of steps towards the fire, secretly happy as steam began to rise from wet armor and skin. Rain and personal comfort might be technically irrelevant, but neither would he pass the chance to dry out.
As soon as everyone was at least partially dry, Zyrian called for attention to be directed to himself. "The show must go on. Today's contest will mean the elimination of not one, but two contestants. The six of you will be divided into three teams of two each, the losing team members returned to waiting friends or family."
Cho was sitting on a log. She peered at her fingers, trying to convince herself that six could indeed be divided thrice evenly.
Zyrian continued, "And the event today is also quite appropriate considering the weather. No tramping around the island, no wrestling dangerous animals. Instead, you will play charades. The first team to miss their word will be eliminated. The groups are as follows: Cho and Loove, Marlo and Satooth, and No'kul and Captain.
The protest from No'kul was immediate and explosive. "I WILL NOT BE PAIRED WITH A BORG! END OF STORY!" She quivered in anger.
Answered Zyrian nonchalantly, "Then you will instantly eliminate yourself from the contest, and we'll decide how to play charades with five people. No Artifact for you. What would your beloved General Ta'loc say, hmmm?"
No'kul shook with rage, head darting back and forth between Captain and the hologram, obviously contemplating her options. "The Borg probably does not even know how to play charades. I would lose anyway."
"Well, Captain old drone, do you know charades?" asked Zyrian mildly.
Captain ignored the cameras angling for close-ups. "This drone is familiar with the game. We know how to play." Understatement. Charades was a very popular activity on Cube #347, with a primary objective one of deception so the guessing partner(s) did not read word or phrase directly from the pantomimer's mind.
"Great!" said Zyrian. "It is your call, then, No'kul. Will you play, or will you be sent back to Beachball in disgrace?"
Spoke the Lupil through clenched teeth, "I. Will. Play."
The hologram nodded, his umbrella - black and orange - bobbing. "Okay, then. The rules are simple. One member of each team will draw a PADD out of a hat," a large top hat, upside-down, materialized on the end of a sheltered log, "on which a word will be found. Replace the PADD into the hat, after which you will have two minutes to convey to your partner what the word is. No fair other teams guessing, although you may indicate the ease of the word with snide comments. A team member alternates miming and guessing. If, after going through a round with all three teams, one team fails to make a correct guess, that team shall be eliminated and the game declared over. If two or all three teams fail during a round, none will be eliminated, and the next round began. Any questions?"
Cho raised her hand. "Two times three is six, yes?" Loove giggled nervously at his partner's question.
"Yes, Cho," patiently answered Zyrian.
"Okay," said Cho.
"Well, let us begin, shall we? Marlo and Satooth, you are first."
As the contestants rearranged themselves, Captain simply taking several paces sideways such he was out of the direct rain, Satooth gave a shoulderless shrug and reached a tendril into the hat. Withdrawing the PADD, he examined it for a moment in thought, then replaced it.
"One word, one syllable," muttered Marlo as Satooth began his pantomime.
The Tunian rose as stiffly vertical as he could, his species equivalent of standing on tiptoe. Tendrils rigidly spread, and Satooth began to sway with the breeze, back and forth.
"Tree?" ventured Marlo. "If it isn't a tree, I'll have to risk some sort of weird coral critter."
Satooth nodded, "Yes! Tree!"
Zyrian pointed at No'kul and Captain to take a turn. Peering at a still sulking No'kul, the Borg took the PADD out of the hat. After a quick examination, he restored it, then proceeded to point at the fire.
No'kul frowned, "You stupid Borg, you are supposed to tell me how many words and syllables first, if it sounds like something, and so forth."
Captain continued to point at the fire.
"Well, you obviously aren't a tree. Too ugly. Statue, then?"
Captain narrowed his eyes, then stalked through rain stepped into the fire. With flames licking his calves and steam rising around his face, he pointed at the fire again.
"Witchcraft trial? Sacrifice? Painful?"
The drone reached down for a flaming brand, wincing as sparks burned exposed flesh. He brandished the torch.
"Fire?"
Captain dropped the stick and hastily exited the fire pit. "Species #6214: of average intelligence quotient. Perhaps species dossier should be revised?"
"Ouch," muttered Zyrian.
"I knew that one!" exclaimed Cho, the ultimate insult to No'kul's intelligence.
"Ouch times two," Zyrian snickered. He indicated to Loove and his partner to have a try. The Sphinxian gamely scooted to the hat for a look-see. Giggling, he tossed the PADD back, then gestured eloquently.
Cho said, "One word, two syllables, first syllable. This is fun, just like at home during the holidays."
Loove dug a handful of loam. Holding his hand flat, dirt on top, he wiggled an index finger through the mould.
"Bug. Slug. Worm."
Giggling louder, Loove dropped the soil at the word "worm," holding out his hands to indicate that was the correct answer. Next, he formed a tube with his hands, and proceeded to peek through the opening at the Okim.
"Wink? Blink?" Loove shook his head emphatically in a negative, making an exaggerated show of curling a single hand into a tube and poking a finger from the other hand through. "Empty? Wormempty doesn't make sense."
No'kul heckled, "By the Directors, Cho, you are a moron. It is easy."
"Wormtube? Wormtelescope? Wormthrough? Hole? Wormhole?"
Loove began to dance with manic energy. Obviously wormhole was the correct response.
Zyrian called attention to himself. "Very good. Round one is done, and all were successful. Round Two will be harder. Begin, Marlo, look at your word."
The Zyn went to the hat for his word, staring long enough at the PADD to earn a sharp rebuke from Zyrian about dithering. With a sigh, Marlo returned the handheld and began to mime drinking out of a...something.
Hissed Satooth, "One word, two syllables. Not cup. Stein? No, too few syllables; cannot be mug, neither." Marlo started again, this time removing an object from an imaginary belt, twisting off a cap, then chugging from the container. "Can...no..." The Tunian halted abruptly as Marlo pointed at him, urging him to reconsider. "Can? Is that part of the word?" Marlo nodded frantically, then returned to his phantom drink as Zyrian called out a thirty second warning. "Can...can...can...canteen?"
"Yes!" shouted Marlo. "Are we good, or are we good? High five!" Marlo held out his hand. The Tunian dutifully exuded five tendrils from their protective pouches and slapped the proffered appendage.
Without waiting for Zyrian, No'kul stomped to the hat, perfunctorily glancing at the PADD tablet. After returning the tool, she pointed to her neck.
"One word, two syllables." Captain considered. "Neck. Throat. Larynx. Assimilation." The last guess earned him a murderous glare from the Lupil, who next began to pantomime circling an object around her throat and buckling it on. "Necklace. Necktie. Bow. Bowtie. Bolo."
Seeing her efforts were not working, No'kul held up her hands in defeat, then pointed to an earhole. She next spread little finger and thumb of one hand into an exaggerated "Y," holding that hand to the side of her face with the thumb next to her ear. Soundlessly she talked to her little finger. Captain was baffled.
"Telemarketer. Telephone. Receptionist." No'kul responded to none of the words. "Ear cleaning. Q-tip. Bad habit. Itch." The skinny reptile was now shaking her head in a species gesture for no, emphasizing her imaginary telephone receiver and the process of talking into it.
"Time!" called Zyrian. "The word was collar. Next! If Cho and Loove are successful, you two are out; and if they miss, we begin again."
Captain asked the fuming Lupil, "What does an ancient piece of obsolete technology have to do with a collar?"
"'Sounds like,' you idiotic drone. I was showing you call, plain as day. Call, collar, get it?"
"Your first attempt was better. At least we were answering with items of wearable neck apparel."
"Quiet, you two," hissed Zyrian. The cameras, however, were gobbling up the argument.
Meanwhile, Cho was squatting down to splash a puddle with her hand. Loove had stopped giggling in his puzzlement, spouting a stream of water related words, but evidently not the correct ones. Cho stopped to consider an agonizingly long twenty seconds, then stepped into the rain to meaninglessly point in all directions, especially the gray sky.
"Clouds? Fog? Jungle? Wet jungle? Showers? Drizzle? Wet? Sprinkle?"
It was obvious how frustrated the large Okim was, a frustration which only grew until Zyrian called an end to the attempt. "Rain," blurted Cho.
The Sphinxian shrank in upon himself. "Oops."
"Round three," said the hologram. The umbrella was now green and red.
Satooth blinked as he read his word, glancing between it and his Zyn partner before taking position to begin. He mimicked eating something, tendrils curled around a sandwich item requiring careful handling lest the insides spill out.
"Hoagie," said Marlo with confidence, followed by, "Reuben. Sandwich. BLT. Grilled cheese. Sloppy Joe. Tuna melt. Burger." Satooth indicated positive, then began to pick apart his unreal meal. "Bread. Bun. Lettuce. Mayo. Fish sauce. Cheese. Baco bits. Special sauce. Gristle. Grease. Tubers. Patty." The Tunian waved a tendril in a gesture of close, almost. "Patty? Not that? It has two syllables and is one word." A questioning glance was spared at a smiling Zyrian, to no avail. "What about the patty? Are you grinding something? Meat? Okay, what type of is ground to make a burger? DUH! The answer is..."
"BEEP! Time up!" screeched Zyrian.
"...molpul," finished Marlo, an instant too late.
Satooth angrily fluffed his damp feathers and advanced with uncharacteristic threat upon the talk show host as the latter directed Captain to the hat. "Come on! You have to allow that! He was on the virge of saying it when time lapsed! It wasn't like he was stumped!"
Captain took advantage of the one-sided argument to contemplate his entry. He was going to look ridiculous. The protest came to an end, Satooth loosing to an ironic eyebrow raise on the Mark I's face. It is hard to argue to an eyebrow. Defeated, the Tunian slithered away to curl next to Marlo, nervous tendril combing his plumes.
"Go," said Zyrian.
Captain gave signals for "one word, two syllables," then held his arms stiffly away from his sides at shoulder height and began to trot around the rainy clearing. Buzzing here and buzzing there, the Borg pretended to fly around the fire pit, swooping now and then.
No'kul waited much longer than necessary, attempting not to laugh. She knew the answer, but wanted to savor the priceless moment of a member of the Collective making a fool of himself for network cameras. "Airplane," she finally choked out at Zyrian's vocal time warning, breaking down into a fit of snickering. Captain returned to the shelter to drip dry, glowering at the chortling Lupil.
Marlo looked anxious as Loove quietly read the PADD. If Cho didn't guess correctly, there would be a reprieve for group one; if she did answer, then the game would be over. The Zyn shifted worriedly, even going so far as to remove his hat and knead the wrinkled rim. Beside him, Satooth continued to obsessively groom feathers.
"One word, two syllables, first syllable," dutifully said Cho, each word eliciting a grimace of apprehension from the Tunian in the form of a plucked feather. "Dirt. Ash. Sand. Goodie! Sand!"
Loove allowed a handful of sand to trickle through his fingers, pantomiming reading something. He gestured that the physical object he was reading from was the target, not the action itself.
"Sand-PADD. Nope. Sandbook. Sanddocument." In the background, Zyrian blinked at the large word. Cho was not necessarily stupid, merely slow at times, brain unable to function at the speeds of most other sentients. "Sand, er, paper. Is sandpaper a real word? It sounds silly."
Sandpaper was indeed a real word, silly sounding or not. Cho had never built anything in her life which required exotic supplies such as sandpaper, hand-crafts not a hobby of the hamfisted. Ignorance, luckily, was not a requisite to winning, and Cho had answered correctly with less than ten seconds remaining.
Zyrian smirked. "For the winners, I inform you to meet back here in three days, at dawn. No'kul, try to get some sleep; and Loove, don't eat anyone if you can resist temptation. As for our losers," Satooth and Marlo dejectedly stared at tail and feet, respectively, "I would like to say Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises has some lovely parting gifts for you, but I would be lying."
The cameras hovered silently in the air above the threesome, drinking in a scene made light as noonday through technology. In actuality, the tropical night was a world of black shapes swaying under the onslaught of the outer edges of a hurricane. While the eye was hundreds of kilometers distant and unlikely to approach nearer, wind and rain slashed through the small camp. No'kul had graciously allowed the use of her half cured shark skin lean-to, as long as the other two were willing to listen to her persuasive arguments.
"Now is the time to get that Borg," insisted No'kul. A distant flash of lightening turned the beach into a stark study in black and white. The small fire, a leftover gift from charades night, spat as drops of rain impacted flames.
Cho mumbled uncertainly, "I don't know."
"What is there to know? It is a Borg. Given the chance, it will assimilate you, me, Loove. You'll go to sleep one night, and in the morning you'll be spouting about futile resistance. I /saw/ friends assimilated; and I had to kill one of my own cousins. It is horrible, and should never be allowed to happen in Arrival-Departure. If we can kill just one Borg, this one, that will be one less to menace the systems, one less to intrude upon territory. Hell, Sphinxian, you should understand." No'kul pierced Loove with a look which momentarily stifled giggles.
"It would not be a proper sacrifice," solemnly replied Loove, "and thus might miff the Critics. Removal of a main character mid-series is prohibited. The Directors might get a bit pissy too." Pause. "Besides, I can't eat the Borg. Indigestion. Will not taste like chicken."
Lo'kul sighed, "Don't get all weird on me. At least not more weird than you already are. Cho, you must help me! All I need is a distraction, maybe a little bit of restraint, just enough for me to stab the Borg in the face. It won't be able to recover from a spear to the brain. The job will be just like a bouncing gig."
"I don't know," repeated Cho. She twisted the corner of her filthy shirt in agitation.
A gust of wind swept through camp, billowing lean-to and rattling palm fronds. "You /will/ help me, Cho," pressed No'kul once she could be heard without excessive shouting.
"Okay," said Cho, not quite sure what she was agreeing to.
Heedless of weather and plan alike, Captain stood under his palm tree, drifting in the black oblivion of lonely quasi-regeneration.
Captain jolted to awareness as his proximity alert screamed a warning through his brain, followed immediately by a very large and very strong form pinning his arms to his side. Something, someone, had grabbed him from behind! He twisted his head side to side in an attempt to glimpse his attacker, to no avail. Mind was far behind programmed instincts, still forming the question "What the hell?" as body reacted.
Mere muscle, even that built up by years of weight lifting and bouncing drunk-strengthened individuals, was no match for cybernetically enhanced limbs. Captain ripped his right arm free and spun around, automatically sighting on jugular area. Arm continued its trajectory, ending at the neck. As assimilation tubules triggered, a long length of wood thudded against back of cranium, causing no damage.
Captain stepped backwards as brain caught up with body. He blinked in surprise as the Okim, Cho, slumped to the ground. Tubules were yanked out of neck. A crash which was not thunder sent the drone spinning to a new vector. He was in time to see his despised camera companion attempt to rise, only to be slammed again by a broken spear. It gave several pitiful beeps, then was still.
No'kul grabbed the downed saucer. Several lenses were broken and a large dent decorated the upper surface. She tucked her prize under an arm, rain running down her head and neck in small streams.
"Don't come near me Borg! Don't come near me!" Crash - boom! Lightening forked directly overhead. The Lupil's eyes bulged wildly as she brandished what was left of her wooden weapon. No'kul was neither the picture of health nor sanity at the moment. "Look what you did to Cho!" she screamed. "Bastard! All Borg are bastards!"
A camera swooped low. Somewhere, someone was envisioning Good Things for the ratings department.
Captain was still stunned, mind not quite balanced. He needed support of the sub-collective in this situation, support greater than a mere wellness telltale. He glanced at the motionless lump on the wet ground. He also needed assimilation hierarchy, command and control files filling memory woefully inadequate.
"Bastard!" reiterated No'kul forcefully. "If you come after me, I swear I will kill you!"
Who was attacking whom here? Captain had the distinct feeling he was somehow the guilty party.
"I swear I will," ended No'kul. "Don't enter my territory!" With that final warning, the Lupil disappeared into the lashing rain, leaving behind a highly confused drone and a quickly Borgifying Okim.
{Come on. That's a good drone. Follow me.}
"You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
{That's nice. No assimilation. Follow.}
"Resistance is futile."
{You will make a fine addition to the Collective. No cognitive processes to get in the way of cliches, are there?} sarcastically asked Captain. He slowly led ex-Cho up the path towards the meeting area.
Cho stopped in front of a tree, as she had done dozens of times thus far in the short walk. "You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile." The object of her pronouncement, a green lizard clinging to the trunk just out of reach, blinked in confusion before scurrying off to hide.
Captain groaned, then retreated to physically prod the assimilated Okim along. {That was a lizard. A lizard. Nonsentient, do not assimilate. Follow me.} Without a decent link to the Collective, Cho was running original nanite programming, programming which apparently had yet to settle into the appropriate species #7493 brain centers. Her only source of data was Captain, who dared not leave her on the beach lest he return to find ranks of birds and reptiles sprouting implants. At least the small size of the island meant the organic transceiver the nanites had constructed had sufficient range to stay in contact with Captain until a proper hardware one could be installed.
"We are the Borg. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own."
{It is a nectar-eating bird. It has neither technological nor biological distinctiveness to add to the Collective. Move along.} The bird in question shrieked an avian curse, then flew off.
Finally Captain entered the clearing. Cho was directed to stand out of the way and be quiet, a task she was familiar with as a security guard from her pre-assimilated life. As far as Captain could tell, nearly all her mental processes, what little there were, went into a stand-by mode.
Both Cho's and Captain's cameras took up position over the clearing with their conspecifics. Captain had acquired a new saucer to replace the downed one sometime in the wee hours of the morning.
Zyrian was waiting on Captain's entrance, as were Loove and No'kul. A penetrating drizzle, the last dregs of the storm, soaked the latter two. Zyrian, as a hologram, remained perfectly dry. Today he was dressed in some sort of thong. The Mark I hologram did not have the physique to warrant a thong, the body, no matter how sculpted through software manipulation, more of a swim trunk build.
"I hear there was a small accident last night," commented Zyrian.
Captain said nothing, only staring at No'kul. The Lupil had dissected her prize and now had a new spear, this one tipped by the electric prod device from the molpul contest.
Loove giggled.
No'kul said, "The Borg's camera 'accidentally' fell down and broke. Cho was 'accidentally' assimilated. I'm sure the Borg would like to 'accidentally' assimilate me and the Sphinxian as well."
Cho took that moment to say, "You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
{Shut up!}
"I see," replied the hologram with a smirk. "No matter. The judges are in the midst of debating how to handle Cho's unfortunate 'accident,' but until a ruling is declared, we will continue with the next contest. The task is simple. You will all be transported to different parts of the Isle, after which your job is to return to this clearing as quickly as possible. The last one back will be eliminated form the show. Easy, yes?"
Without waiting for a reply, transporter beams locked onto each of the four contestants, placing them elsewhere.
The omniscient view of camera wranglers and other staff associated with "Are You A Survivor?" productions was much more interesting than any single first person viewpoint. Zyrian hummed happily to himself, occasionally consulting with technicians over the best shot or if a "special effect," like the cyborg crocodiles, should be launched. Other than the humanoid tribe of cannibals (Actually, they usually ate fish, except during a strictly orchestrated ritual when a family member died. Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises had offered a suitable amount of money and a small space ship for the tribe to leave the AD equivalent of nowhere, if in return they dressed up in grass skirts, gibbered a meaningless language, and harassed any contestant who came near.), the largest naturally occurring land animal was a one meter tall flightless avian fond of grubs. Large animals tended not to survive when Isle drifted to the colder latitudes.
The Borg had been transported to the volcano, and was contemplating how to climb off a ledge without taking an unhealthy tumble onto sharp rocks. Eventually he turned around and butt-surfed down the scree slope, muttering something under his breath just on the edge of comprehension. Unless the drone was informing the volcano about its future as a member of the Collective, he was swearing. Very unBorglike. Occasionally he stopped to peer across the expanse of jungle canopy stretching southward, unerringly focusing on the area Cho had been deposited.
The Okim was the closest to the clearing, yet paradoxically was moving the slowest. By dint of her "accident" in the early hours of morning, she had lost her normal skin complexion and now sported a necrotic gray pallor. White, leprous splotches marred epidermis, giving her a piebald look uglier, if possible, than the normal Borg. Here and there a star shaped implant had erupted from her skin. Cho's slowness was not due to stiff body armor and struts such as Captain sported, but rather her insistence to inform all moving organism of their impending conversion to Borgdom. Currently she was squatting next to a large anthill, ignoring biting jaws from the pinkie sized insectoids while solemnly proclaiming the futility of resistance.
Switch to another camera, this one centered on No'kul. The Lupil had been dumped in the middle of a swamp formed by water from Isle's lone lake. As she swayed precariously on the thin crust of peat while trying to orient herself, crocodilians were closing, four to be exact. Three were visible as toothed logs stalking nearer, while the more dangerous fourth glided under the peat bed, searching for the proper ambush point. No'kul brandished her electrified spear, gave a war cry, and sprinted toward the nearest reptile. Perhaps she needed fashionable crocodile hide clothing to match her sharkskin tent?
Loove was not too distant from No'kul, but more than far enough to not hear the Lupil's shouts. In many respects, the Sphinxian was in the most dangerous part of the island, within a stone's throw of the tribe. The tribe, of course, had been forewarned of their visitor, and were now stealthily approaching in their ridiculous costumes; one or two young men had stuck bones through nostril septum, much to the exasperation of their parents. The tribe's orders were to try to capture Loove, then do as they pleased with him, up to eating him for dinner; and if they could not capture him, harassment via pointy sticks and arrows was a valid option.
The party crept closer and closer. Loove, blithely skipping through the underbrush, abruptly stopped. He peered around, eyes squinting and nostrils quivering, a giggle under his breath. Something had caught his attention, that something a bark-brown teenager with a bone through his nose, a bone which had caught in some feathery greenery to which said teen was highly allergic. A half-stifled sneeze sounded as Loove approached.
"Hello, there," brightly said Loove. "Bless you. Take me to your leader."
The control nexus for "Are You A Survivor?" was not a cloaked ship, as the Borg believed, but rather a vessel submerged under water just beyond the north reef fringe of Isle. It in the control room of the ship, Zyrian groaned. This was not going according to hypothetical script. The Sphinxian was supposed to run, a self-confessed cannibal ironically forced to flee from other cannibals. Zyrian glanced at the other three monitors, relieved to see their respective contestants were progressing adequately, although No'kul was now high in a tree yelling threats to her two remaining scaled attackers.
The teenager rose out of the bushes, awkwardly clutching his spear and looking around for parental assistance. He sneezed again, dislodging the annoying greenery. The Sphinxian and tribal member were of similar height, although the humanoid's proportionally longer limbs made him seem taller. One by one, the other members of the group sheepishly stood from their hiding spots.
"Pa?" asked the teenager, forgetting his gobble-gook lines.
The Sphinxian avidly looked around, focusing on the teenager's father. "Sir! Hello! Take me to your leader. I am a religious man, a holy man, a shaman man. I bring to you a glorious religion!" Loove giggled under his breath. "You do eat sentient flesh, don't you? What is a tropical island paradise without cannibals, after all?"
"Aye," responded the man carefully, "we eat people." He paused. "You aren't some minister come to tell us we have to worship some humanoid, else suffer eternal damnation, are you? Someone who preaches love and kindness with one tongue, while sanctifying horrible punishments with another? We can read you know; and we even have a subspace TV, even if we can only receive public broadcast, KTWN, and the 26-hour Shoe Channel. We won't stand for religious prosecution. And don't try that worthless glass bead spiel, not when we have prime hand-crafted folk items worth big credits on the open market."
The Sphinxian appeared properly horrified, but not for the reasons a normal person might quail. "The Shoe Channel? Out here? You should at least be able to get the Infommercial Channel if you can get the Shoe Channel. I definitely must help you! Take me to your leader, now! I now know my calling," seriously avowed the Sphinxian, giggling forgotten, "my calling to lead you people to the light! I will present you Meatism, the faith for the sophisticated modern cannibal; and I will show you how to pirate subspace channels such as Gardening Network, Kinky Day and Night, and CineMovies."
A humanoid carrying bow and arrow came forward. "CineMovies? Really? Can you do this before nightfall? I would really like to watch 'Big Blue Boots - The True Story of Headcrusher Hank, Jhad-ball Goalie Great'." Heads nodded agreement all around.
"Well, okay," said the first man, "but we reserve the right to eat you, furred stranger, if you don't deliver as promised."
Loove excitedly jumped up and down. "Oh, yes, of course. I steam best with garlic. However, I will deliver for it is my destiny to be your messiah."
The tribal group quickly formed a column, Loove in the middle, and tromped toward their village. The Sphinxian seemed to have totally forgotten the fact he was on a game show. Zyrian groaned louder.
Switch to another, more productive, feed.
Cho had her face stuck, literally, in a tree hollow. Between bouts of trying to extract herself, she was informing a family of terrified birds to "Lower shields and prepare for assimilation." The birds, meanwhile, were alternately scrambling around inside the bole with manic energy, or huddling in an exhausted pile on their stick nest.
The full Borg, Captain, was making relatively good time now that he was off the volcano. However, a jungle is a tough place to push through, especially when crisscrossed by vines. Traveling would have been easier on the beach, but the drone appeared to be pointedly avoiding the sand. He was also no longer quite on track to intersect the clearing, instead walking a straight line towards Cho. Words such as "stupid," "inefficient," and "you need a long rehabilitation session with Assimilation," occasionally slipped out as an unconscious mutter.
No'kul was leaping from tree to tree, out distancing her crocodilian friends. One prodigious jump sent her through the clinging web of a canopy spinner, much to the disgust of both parties involved. The Lupil spent several minutes removing the sticky strands from her face; and the hand-sized ten-legged spiderlike bug forlornly watched through compound eyes as a night's work was torn to shreds. Frustrated, No'kul slashed at a branch with her spear, starling a sleeping lizard the length of her arm. The lizard hissed, then indignantly waddled away to find a quieter limb to nap on.
Zyrian considered. There were several good moments in there, but barring accidents of the real variety, Borgs and Lupil would return to the clearing before nightfall. Loove appeared to have ditched the show. Altogether, there might be barely enough decent material to squeeze out an hour's worth of clips from the tapes for the required "Are You A Survivor?" weekly network installment. Zyrian V2.0 pondered...there /had/ to be a way to spice up the final showdown.
Captain stood under his palm tree, gazing up at the night sky. He had arrived to the clearing, Cho immediately behind on a vine wrist leash, to discover he was the second to return. No'kul had predictably arrived first; and Cho was declared third. Presumably that meant the psychopath Sphinxian was fourth, and thus eliminated from the competition. However, as Loove had never returned to the beach, Captain was unsure to infer if that meant he had been quietly transported away, or if he now resided in the belly of some beast or lay broken on the roots of a jungle tree. Either way, Zyrian was not divulging the outcome.
A meteor shot across the sky. Instead of wishing upon it, an irrelevant superstitious behavior, Captain analyzed its spectrum composition.
"What is our designation?" questioned Cho for the thirty-eighth time since sunset. Proper programming was beginning to set in, although Captain had been forced to tie the new drone to a tree to prevent her wandering. Not everything was kosher yet, and unsuitable living organisms still tended to distract her.
For the thirty-eighth time, Captain replied, {Shut up. You will be assigned a designation later.}
"'Shut up' is an inappropriate designation. Provide us with a designation." Cho had not yet began to appropriately subvocalize her words.
{Unless we remove you to appropriate facilities within eighteen hours or so, designations will be irrelevant. Your body can not metabolically withstand the stress of nanite generation and unassisted assimilation; you require proper care and maintenance unable to be provided by coconut shells and coral. I still do not know how that Professor human on the ancient "Gilligan's Island" show created those gadgets.}
Captain's mind was wandering, shorn of the normal stabilizing influences of the sub-collective. He recentered himself, returning his line of thought to proper pathways. Cho did not have the Extendo-Regeneration kit installed in Captain, and was thus ultimately limited in her lifespan unless she was transported to Cube #347 soonest. The Okim's career as a Borg looked to be very short.
A star, a satellite, tracked swiftly across the sky, moving from horizon to horizon. Captain focused on it, magnifying as much as possible, but was unable to resolve any details. Was it perhaps the slightest bit geometrical?
A lone camera swooped out of the darkness, followed by a sarcastic "Please state the nature of the talk show emergency." Captain turned attention from sky to Zyrian, seeing an Extreme Photonic Pore Close-up. How amusing. The Borg returned magnification to normal levels. This evening the hologram was wearing an elegant pant and jacket combo, with a tie which outlined a rude hand gesture in flashing red LED lights.
"I just love saying that," announced Zyrian to Captain. "By the way, the judges have ruled that Cho is eliminated for all practical purposes at this point. Therefore, she must be removed. To your cube, so don't get your tritanium undies in a bundle," added the hologram hastily, reacting to some expression on the drone's face. "Besides, if she somehow won, the prize would still go to the Collective, and the rules specifically state that the same entity can only have one entrant. The rules were changed many years back after a scandal involving a colonial organism which had split itself three ways and managed to finagle all of itself on the show."
Captain asked, "Query: final contestants thus this drone and species #6214 designated No'kul?"
Zyrian nodded, "Yes, it is down to you and No'kul. The dragonlady is currently awake, convinced you are going to attack her the moment she goes to sleep. Too many more nights of this, and she's going to fall on her pointy face. She's a tiny bit paranoid, don't you think?"
Captain did not reply. The answer was obvious.
"Well, no matter. I'm off to tell No'kul the news. As far as the final contest, that will occur in three days, noon. You will learn of the challenge at that time."
Cho called out, "You will be assimilated."
"No I won't honey! Off you go!" Zyrian gestured, and the Okim disappeared in a red-tinged transporter beam. "There, all taken care of. She is securely on your cube now, all transport issues taken care of earlier. Ta-ta!" Zyrian headed down the beach whistling, camera trailing silently behind.
Captain lifted his head in time to watch the satellite pass over again. Perhaps it really was cube shaped.
Captain and No'kul stared up at the vertical wall which was a black basalt cliff leaning over lush jungle. While not high, only 128 meters according to Captain's range finder, it nonetheless managed to loom with that quality of which only sheer cliffs are capable. Midway up, a colony of seabirds were nested, streaking dark rocks with hundreds of years of white excrement. The greenery at the base was especially verdant, recipient of natural fertilizer for countless generations.
"Question: describe how this geological formation relates to aforementioned coin toss," asked Captain. He craned his neck further back, internally wincing as gyroscopic implants muttered warnings about potential loss of balance.
"Yes, what the Borg said," slurred No'kul. She was awake by will-power alone; that and an addicting plant she had found which had a stimulating effect. Currently she was chewing on a leaf, trying to eke out every last molecule of natural pep.
"Just a moment," replied Zyrian, today sporting head to toe spandex in a tie-dye color pattern, "as first I need to inform all those nice viewers out in subspace land that today's sponsor is the maker of Revive! Revive!, the stimulant which will revive you!" Zyrian retrieved a holographic medicine bottle from thin air, prominently displaying it to the camera. No'kul focused on it, a dollop of droll inching down her chin.
Zyrian snapped his fingers, vanishing the Revive! bottle. Simultaneously, a transporter beam deposited a large coin at his feet, the upward facing side inscribed with the sponsoring pharmaceutical company's logo. The metal disc was three centimeters thick and a meter in diameter.
"Your mission, should you choose to accept it, not that you have a choice, is to transport this coin to the top of the cliff, then call heads or tails and toss it off. The winner of the coin toss is awarded the Schedule Artifact. However, there is a slight catch."
Captain contemplated his chances of scaling the cliff, slim to nonexistent if he had to be burdened by the coin. The Lupil must have had similar reservations, for she blurted, "When is there not a catch? Just explain it, you talk show leech!"
Nonplused, Zyrian continued, "Don't look so dismayed! There is a kilometer long path to reach the top. It isn't easy, but it is much less vertical than here. The catch is that the coin weighs fifty kilograms, and you are required to jointly carry it to the top. That means cooperation."
No'kul managed to look outraged. The expression was marred by her action of spitting out a mass of green strings, replacing it with a new leaf from a sharkskin pouch tied around her waist. Her posture became more animated as the stimulant hit her bloodstream.
"Go on, pick it up, you two. We don't have all day," urged Zyrian. "The path begins right this way."
Suspiciously eyeing the Borg, a paranoia only heightened by the leaf's chemicals, No'kul gestured for Captain to pick up the other half of the coin. The drone did so, one-handed with his prosthetic. One the right side of the coin, No'kul struggled to raise the disc to an acceptable height, finally having to settle with a two-handed grip which bowed her body into a sideways crab shuffle; spear was reluctantly discarded. She straightened her back, then proceeded to walk awkwardly after the hologram's retreating back. Borg and Lupil were now closer than they had been during the entire contest, separated by a mere meter.
The cliff quickly disintegrated to a mild slope peppered with clumps of struggling trees amid volcanic rubble. A switchback path wound up the mountain's flank, angling towards the cliff top and visible as a light colored scar cut into rock and greenery. As the laser beam traveled, distance from start to end was only 319 meters; however, the many twists and turns of the trail easily lengthened the journey to the purported kilometer. On flat ground, a kilometer is quickly transversed at a normal walking speed, and even a hike along the trail unencumbered would require at most twenty minutes. Two people, one with an active dislike for the other, forced to jointly carry a moderately heavy and very awkward object would need much more than a third of an hour.
"No, you stupid Borg, not like that," irritably said No'kul as Captain started up the slope. "If you do that, I'll be sideways the entire way, turning my ankle every other step. You'd think that as part of the Collective you would have some clue about how to work together."
Responded Captain, "If you were Borg, this task would be completed with efficiency. This drone is not to blame. You have a weak, inefficient body."
"Weak and inefficient? I'll have you know, I was at the Battle of Minos III! General Ta'loc kicked Borg butt from one side of the system to the other, and I participated. I killed many drones that day, many." Stimulant from the leaf No'kul was chewing kicked in with a vengeance, making her irritable and prone to argument.
Captain was silent. "You are a small being, and complain about how not to complete a task. How, then, shall we proceed? We do not hear you making suggestions."
The cameras avidly orbited the pair, drinking in the scene. Zyrian stood in the background, watching. No side comments were required to spice up the action.
No'kul considered, "We cannot walk side by side, as the trail is not wide enough. That means we must go in a single file." As Captain began to shift himself such that the coin was held in front of him, the Lupil further interjected, "No! You will not be at the back! If you were, it would mean I either had to walk backwards up the trail, or turn my back on you while holding the coin behind me. Both are unacceptable! I will be at the rear of the coin, and you can be to the front."
Captain grumbled to himself as he carefully transferred his grip to one which was behind his back. He did not desire to climb to the cliff top backwards, neither. "You are paranoid. Your suggestions upon body placement are irrelevant."
"Chatty, are you now? This is not irrelevant to me, the one who would suffer if I did not keep an eye on you at all times. Why have I survived as long as I have on this show? Paranoia. The others did not have the survival instinct, the mental discipline to survive. I did." The coin shifted in Captain's grip. "All ready. March."
The drone stepped forward, immediately slowing as it became clear No'kul could not manage even a moderate pace. Stimulants were no substitution for sleep; and by being on the downward tilting side of the coin, she coincidentally supported more of the fifty kilogram shared weight. Captain sighed as the pair of them shuffled along, estimating an hour, if not longer, to reach the cliff top.
The hot afternoon sun baked the black rocks, turning the trail into a tropical hell. Temperatures soared to heights normally reserved for ovens, basalt radiating heat; and humid air rising from the canopy at the base of the slope meant no amount of panting (the Lupil species method to remove excess heat) cooled the body. The air was still. Captain automatically shunted excess warmth into dumps, using metal coils built into prosthetic limbs to shed heat to the air, preventing body systems from overheating. No'kul could not do likewise, and soon was breathing heavily.
"Maybe you need a rest?" asked Zyrian, who had been trailing behind. No'kul hrumphed, pressing forward with a renewed urgency which failed after a couple of steps. "It would not do for you to collapse from heat exhaustion or have a stroke. Such an ending will not satisfy the audience."
"I can withstand these temperatures. It is no worse than a sauna. Do not bother me, hologram."
"How often do you exercise in a sauna?"
"I said, do not bother me, hologram. Borg! Pick up the pace! You are slowing me down!"
Captain rolled his eye, but dutifully walked faster. Once again, the Lupil dragged behind, returning the speed to its previous measure. Zyrian lightly skipped around the roadblock, turning around to walk backwards in front of the drone.
"And you, Borg, how are you doing? Do you need a rest?"
"Leisure is irrelevant. Temperature is higher than standard on a Borg vessel, but humidity is comparable. Conditions are not beyond parameters for efficiency. We have adapted."
"I see," said Zyrian. Seeing nothing more was forthcoming, he stepped off the path and allowed the duo to pass.
They were only halfway up the hill.
The short train continued trudging the path. Several times No'kul slipped, once dropping her burden. Luckily the coin only skidded a short distance on the scree and did not roll down the hill, an action which might have meant the undoing of nearly an hour of exhaustive work. Zyrian alternately pestered Captain and No'kul, heat not bothering the hologram. Of the three, only the Lupil seemed to be tiring, gasping breaths becoming increasingly loud.
The top of the cliff was reached. No'kul dropped her end of the coin with a thump, sinking to her knees. "Don't try (gasp) anything (pant) Borg. If you try anything (gasp), I'll make sure both of us go off the (gasp) cliff. If I (pant) can't have the Artifact, then neither of us (gasp) will." Slowly she caught her breath, eventually standing again, if a bit wobbly. Mush from a well masticated leaf dribbled out of the corner of her mouth.
Zyrian clapped his hands. "Good, good, you both made it. That means it is time to flip the coin. Who is going to call it?"
"Heads, um, logo, I mean," panted No'kul, hands on her knees as she bent over to catch her breath again. Her camera silently hovered overhead, dispassionately recording the tired Lupil.
Captain lightly steadied the coin, which was now on its edge, poised to tumble off the cliff. "Tails," said the Borg, removing his hand and allowing the coin to roll to its fate. It fell off the cliff, somersaulting through the bird colony. Several of the avians took to the air, shrieking.
Zyrian's camera zipped over the edge after the coin, following it on its long decent. The hologram himself blithely stood at the cliff edge, unconcerned about a long fall. With a swoosh, the heavy coin plowed through the upper layers of the canopy, chased by the saucer. It disappeared as leaves folded back over the hole.
"Oh-oh," said Zyrian.
"'Oh-oh'?" huffed No'kul. "What do you mean 'oh-oh'?"
Zyrian shrugged. "Seems some creepers managed to stop the coin's fall. It is currently lodged in a tree about ten meters above the ground. Looks like you two will have to carry the coin back up the cliff and throw it over again. That toss was not a good one. Go on, go back down. Once you both arrive at the bottom and see where the coin is, a bot will cut it down. Then back up the hill you go!"
If looks could kill, Zyrian would have burst into flame and expired on the spot. No'kul sucked in a long, shuddering breath, popped a new leaf in her mouth, and turned to trudge back down the path. So exhausted and angry she was, she let down her guard, uncharacteristically turning her back on the Borg up to this point she had guarded carefully against.
Captain glanced once at Zyrian, who appeared to be mildly amused by the proceedings. Of course, 'mildly amused' was his default expression, an almost sneer determined by talk show researchers to most infuriate stage guests while entertaining the audience. "Are there really no rules for contestants?" the Borg asked.
"Whoever said there were? Once upon a time there was code of conduct, but that was tossed a long time ago. Didn't go with the ratings."
"Then why these contests? They are pointless."
Zyrian shrugged. "They help whittle down the contestants, if said contestants won't cooperate and do so for the sake of entertainment." His camera zoomed back from beyond the cliff.
"The coin?"
"Was tails, actually. It has been hoisted into a tree by now."
"We understand," said Captain. "How many times would we toss it?"
"There are /lots/ of vines under those trees. Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises is in the /entertainment/ trade, and fair play is rarely a component of a business where ratings are all that matter. Fairness does not garner high ratings."
Captain turned his attention away from the smirking talk show host and towards No'kul, who was slowly slogging down the path, occasionally slipping on loose rock. As he watched, she jerked sideways, narrowly avoiding a turned ankle. "Will this conversation be on the final episode cut?"
"Are you kidding? And let everyone know 'Are You A Survivor?' is as rigged as any other show out there? Pshaw!" Zyrian V2.0 snorted at the ridiculous notion.
The Borg started down the path, after the Lupil.
General Ta'loc was going to be highly pissed once her underlings managed to work up the courage to tell her of No'kul's failure. That was the future, however, and Cube #347 would deal with the repercussions when they materialized. For the record, Zyrian's rumor sources had been correct: not only was No'kul the head of Lupil military intelligence, but she was in fact Ta'loc's half-sister. Her assimilation would be a blow to General Ta'loc, an insult. Worst of all, from her point of view, she would have to rearrange all her tactics before she could comfortably consider retaliation, lest the Collective use her sister's knowledge against her.
With much fanfare, Zyrian Entertainment Enterprises had presented Cube #347 with the Schedule Artifact, concluding the "Are You A Survivor?" show. The Artifact itself was a data crystal, information captured within a format not allowing copies. While the original encrypting language was not discernible, a long series of previous Artifact Seekers had made successive translations back to the original, managing to save their knowledge on the crystal, where it to became unable to be altered or copied. The final form was an immense table, listing destinations as well as the amount of money needed to buy a ticket. The fees were based upon a credit unit called cloon, meaningless in and of itself, exchange rate long vanished along with the Progenitors. Prices for ship passage were based upon transport class (commercial, private, military) and tonnage, with additional fees levered or discounted due to factors such as robotic pilot, living cargo, and so forth. Tickets were also available for the individual traveler willing to ride the equivalent of a bus. All in all, the Artifact seemed rather useless, ancient destination names irrelevant information without a period stellar atlas.
When queried, Depot had replied mechanically with spatial coordinates, as useless as the Artifact itself without a known reference point. Pressed, Depot asserted he knew nothing except what was in accessible databases; he was a ticketing agent, not a star map. Stellar chartology, after all, had nothing to do with his word hobbies, and thus he had never bothered to fill his memory with such useless information, end of story, leave me alone.
Captain was simply relieved to be off the Isle of Paradise, able to feel almost One again, and not under the constant scrutiny of flying cameras. No more Zyrian. No more ridiculous contest. No more extended regeneration unit.
And, best of all, no more sand.
At least when the last particle of grit was dislodged from joints and armor, that is.
Return to the Season 4 page