Paramount is God! Or at least it is the Deity of the Moment for the Star Trek universe, more powerful than even the brashest Q. On a lesser note, Decker is in charge of Star Traks...when he can get his characters to sit down and behave. While I purportedly rule BorgSpace, trust me, it isn't so.
Deus ex Machina, Part II
"Deus ex Machina" - Literally: "God from a machine"; a deity in Greek and Roman drama who was brought in by stage machinery to intervene in a difficult situation
-The American Heritage Dictionary, 2nd College Edition
*****
The author is tired of the This-Is-What-Happened-Last-Time-On-BorgSpace spiel. If you /really/ want to know what happened, reread Part I. A really dedicated audience would do that anyway. (The Management)
*****
He floated at the edge of civilization, at the edge of the galactic rim, at the edge of his society. He was bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. His internal chronometer chimed, signaling the start to a new day as measured on a planet last seen a long, long time ago. He did not sleep, and concepts such as "day" and "night" were anachronistic for him anyway, yet he kept track of the passing cycles in much the same way a prisoner might mark the days of incarceration with chalk against a cell wall. And for much the same reason.
At the edge of everything, there wasn't much else to do.
*****
Cube #347 was in a place of wonder, a place of horror, but the sub-collective could not communicate its whereabouts to the Greater Consciousness. In some mysterious, omnipotent way, the Xenig mech which called himself Hek and claimed to be God (or at least a god), had barred the sub-collective from contacting the Collective. Either that, or the vinculum was malfunctioning again, which was an equally valid possibility, although Delta thus far was unable to determine if such was the case. At any rate, whatever the real reason for non-communication, the end result was the cube's isolation.
After taking the cube to a place tentatively hypothesized to be well distant from the Milky Way galaxy and proclaiming his deitiship, Hek had towed his confused prize back to familiar surroundings, or at least to an area with recognizable navigational pulsars. Unfortunately, the Borg had never actually visited these particular "familiar surroundings," the Collective was not sufficiently suicidal to send vessels into the Xenig heartland. Mech species #3 owned one system, the location of which was not unknown, but the star was densely populated with more than enough mechs to wipe the Borg from existence, should they be so provoked. It was not a place Cube #347 wanted to be (well, there were a few detractors to the thoughts of the majority, but that was to be expected in a group of imperfectly assimilated drones).
Mech species #3 did not claim territory beyond their home system, not that many species could argue if they wanted to. Attention was directed inward for the search of their Progenitors and Transcendence; and the outside was simply a convenient place to earn credits or conduct obscure experiments. What they did own, however, could be described as an industrial fairyland of lights and gossamer web.
Nearly every planet, chunk of rock, and smattering of dust, except for one lone terrestrial, had been broken down for its elements and spun into a lacy belt which girded the equator of the system's aged yellow dwarf sun at a distance of 1.8 AU. Unless the system had originally been unusually dense with matter, additional mass of an extraordinary amount must have been imported, a task easily within the abilities of Xenig. The belt sparkled metallic silver, gold, and green in the reflected light of the primary; and reactionary thrusters with cones the size of large moons occasionally spat blue flame as the ring was carefully counterbalanced against the sun's gravity. It was an awesome engineering achievement.
Sprinkled throughout the belt and traversing between strings and platforms were a wide variety of shapes made small only due to distance. Magnifying the specks revealed vessels of many varieties, the smallest a thousand kilometers from stem to stern. Flitting around these monsters were lesser ships, no less varied than their larger brethren, measured in hundreds of kilometers at the widest dimension. So on, like the proverbial mite upon mite to infinity, revealed successive magnifications, ending with mechs the size of Hek too minute to discern against the background. With the hypothesis that each ship represented one Xenig, the mech species #3 population potentially numbered in the high hundreds of billions in this system alone, not to mention additional individuals on the belt lacking space-capable chassis.
Cube #347 abruptly began to struggle in the invisible bonds that Hek held the cube. It was no use. The effort to escape did not go unnoticed, however.
"Now, now," boomed Hek over the loudspeakers. He was not even bothering to use subspace channels anymore, simply projecting his words directly. "Be good Borg. I have several someones that need to see you. I am on the Transcendence Board's docket, and I don't want to be late for the meeting. You have no idea how hard it is to get on their schedule if you don't give at least a century notice. I had a few strings I could pull, however, and I had to snap my fingers a few times," Hek paused, likely due to the nonhumorous reference to his nonpresent fingers, "but I am on there."
The sub-collective of Cube #347 did not like the sound of Hek's remarks, not at all. With calculation of near 100% probability, battling a Green Dreadnought-class cube without support and with depleted munitions would have been safer.
Hek sighed, glad to be home, to be where his soul had been forged and his first space-capable chassis earned. It had been nearly three centuries since he had last seen the home system, and little had changed. Sure, there were a few more industrial platforms in sector 731 and a new infant creche in the Gadazi District, but overall, it was much the same scene as engraved into his long-term memory.
As a matter of routine, Hek tuned in the satellites orbiting Hoodin Prime, the original Progenitor homeworld. The terrestrial planet was the one object which had not been scavenged for usable matter, left as a kind of shrine. If the Progenitors ever did return or were found, the world was ready for their occupancy. As no Xenig actually inhabited the planet, except for a lone and ancient caretaker, the ecosystems had been allowed to run naturally. Species had come and gone as the primary circled the galactic core, but Hoodin Prime remained recognizable to the historic records, more or less.
The acid-spitting, mobile carnivorous plants were new, evolutionarily speaking, and poised to claim several major predatory niches in the neotropical regions, but beings as enlightened as the Transcendent Progenitors would surely have no problems coping with 1000 kilogram flora
Hek could have popped directed to Hoodin Prime using his of late acquired powers, but his Borg cargo seemed to become somewhat panicked by sudden changes in scenery. Borg were /so/ excitable, so high-strung; and even more so when severed from the Collective. Unfortunately, the blocking of the cube's link with the Greater Consciousness had been necessary, a surgery performed by the simple act of wishing it to be so.
"Flight path delta-delta-delta-three-niner," declared Hek to Space Traffic Control, "enroute to Transcendence Board Platform, sector 11413."
"Affirmative, path clear," returned the Xenig in charge of navigation on this area of the Hub. "Quite a toy you have there."
Hek squirted a file on the cube's specs. "Yes, quite a toy. Hopefully it will be useful."
"Affirmative." Space Traffic Control directed attention elsewhere. It took a special personality to do that stressful job; and even then, it was the rare mech individual who lasted longer than 5000 years.
Several months earlier, while on a routine GPS run, Hek had Changed. He did not know what else to call it, except one moment he had been his normal self, and the next he had been different. At first Hek had feared the worst in the form of a new software parasite, but the worries were unfounded. To feel so /good/ could not be bad!
After taking a leave of absence from his GPS contract, Hek had set out to explore his new abilities. Unfortunately, the powers had not come with an instruction manual. Despite initial difficulties, Hek had quickly learned how to accomplish big things, such as exploding stars. It worked best if he graphically visualized what he wanted to do, then followed with the mental projection of snapping fingers. Hek didn't pretend to understand how snapping fingers expedited the process, but it did.
Exploding stars can be fun, but the Xenig already had had the ability for several galactic revolutions via their folded-space drive. Hek subsequently experimented with instantly altering the genomes of species to create new and unusual creatures; and proclaimed himself to be the literal Godhood of half a dozen religiously fanatic species. The big things, as mentioned previously, were relatively easy: it was the small tasks which inevitably failed, like getting blood from a stone and other transmutational effects which would go over good at a party.
Frustrated and bored, Hek had finally turned his attentions toward the Transcendent Question, discovering omnipotent powers did not provide instant enlightenment nor grant the ability to find where the Progenitors might have traveled. Both were likely chapters in the "So Now That You Are A God, How Do You Get Things Done? A Deity's Primer," but the book was sold out from every book seller Hek visited. Then, while idly rearranging stars into a lewd cartouche which would be visible in 500 years to the astronomers of the planet Gelph, an epiphany struck.
There /was/ a way for Hek to assist the Transcendence Search. All he required was a suitable candidate in the form of a Borg cube and a presentation slot before the Transcendence Board. With both items secure, Hek knew he had a valid idea; and if the Board didn't agree, well, he would change their minds for them.
As the cube was dragged closer to the grand belt which girded the system's sun, it only became more breathtaking and astonishing. At least to the eye interested in aesthetics, as Borg were not. The materials which constructed the ring had been chosen as much for beauty as for strength, although never was the second sacrificed to buoy the first. Exotic compounds for which the Borg had no name nor chemical composition confused the sensor grid with ambiguous readings even as they turned the scene into the crystal weaving of a giant spider. Vast vapor clouds tuned and sculpted by electromagnetic fields were artistic endeavors that likely served other, more prosaic purposes in addition to looking pretty. And where the intrinsic base material did not lend beauty - carbon monofilament braided into giant cables was still dull black carbon monofilament - poetic graffiti with individual runes 50 kilometers high had been added with fluorescent paints.
The mech fairyland was afforded only the most basic recognition outside of the sensory hierarchy. As long as Hek was not about to tow the cube into an industrial reprocessor or the stellar equivalent of a too low bridge, the outside spectacle was irrelevant. Internal discussion raged.
{If we explode,} began Weapons, {we will be able to destroy our mech captor, if not part of the ring structure. It will be glorious!}
Muttered Second, {And we will be terminated. What do we, thus, gain?}
{Knowledge that the enemy has been hurt and that no Borg technology has fallen into nonCollective databases.} Weapons was highly confident.
{One,} counted Second, {the Collective is a leaky sieve when it comes to propriety technological information. Two, the dead feel no satisfaction. What part of terminated do you not understand?}
{We will at least destroy the Xenig that brought us here.}
Captain entered the argument. {This discussion has occurred already, Weapons, eight times to be exact in the last twenty minutes. The facts will not change no matter how many times your hierarchy proposes "Kamikaze Solution #1." This Hek Xenig has displayed abilities which are beyond those supported by mech species #3, not to mention it radiates an aura similar to that of Q and other energy-based entities of which it is Borg policy to leave strictly alone. As far as we know, an explosion on its chassis will only make it angry, and then where will we be? We will be terminated, our memories, such as they are, lost to the Greater Consciousness, and Hek will have minor scratches to his hull plates.}
{But we will have put those scratches there!} insisted Weapons.
{No, no Kamikaze Solution #1...or #2 through #15. No Kamikaze Solution at all, or its relatives. Find us a viable way to escape, Weapons, with our hull more or less intact. That is the task of the weapons hierarchy.}
Weapons grumbled, then grudgingly offered to the sub-collective an idea worked on by one of his hierarchy partitions. It was based on the basic tenant of "Run Realy Fast" and included not a single explosion. Needless to say, Weapons did not like this particular option.
{Maybe one small torpedo, 100 isoton yield,} wheedled Weapons, as a purely diversionary tactic, of course.
{Of course,} repeated Second dryly and with heavy sarcastic imagery.
Announced Seconds into the discussions: {We're heeeeeeere.}
"What?" said Captain aloud, who had been paying only the most basic attention to the exterior feeds. In his nodal intersection, he opened a holographic window to the outside, showing that the cube had indeed stopped. Second entered the intersection by way of corridor 26, returned from convincing 182 of 203 that there was no need to build a lead and aluminum foil fortress around her alcove. Despite the sub-collective's present difficulties, individual drone neuroses continued to rage strongly. Second walked directly through the floating image.
"182 of 203 is now making a small aluminum foil sphere," commented Second. "I convinced her it will modulate mind rays and deflect them better than a large barrier. Assimilation hierarchy are all mental cases, you understand, all of them with no exception."
Captain sent his acknowledgment of the informal diagnosis, then concentrated on incoming sensor grid information. Sensors had more or less rendered it palatable, but the occasional unaltered packet slipped through, turning the scene into a rainbow vision as a non Species #6766 brain attempted to interpret.
Cube #347 had been towed into a great webwork sphere with a relatively cozy ten kilometer diameter. Multicolored plasma globes - miniature suns - floated here and there, although their purpose had nothing to do with illumination because Xenig functioned perfectly well using senses to "see" which did not rely upon the visual electromagnetic spectrum of the standard terrestrial organic. However, the globes did bring out the sparkle of the materials used in the compartment's construction, fiber optic properties transporting color well away from its point of origin and turning the sphere into a dazzling piece of art.
Many large holes penetrated the sphere, allowing entrance and egress to a myriad of Xenig chassis. More were entering than leaving at the moment, the ships stacking at the periphery in what was obviously the spectator galleries. Small robots, little more than mobile cameras, flitted among the crowd, jockeying for prime viewing localities. The vehicles were most likely extensions of those Xenig who inhabited chassis too large to enter the sphere. The entire picture had the feeling of a town hall, a judiciary council, or, just perhaps, an execution.
At the center of the sphere, sharing space with Cube #347 and Hek, were five mech species #3. The chassis of the quint, unusually, were very similar, so unlike the individualistic Xenig norm. The ships were roughly ovoid with large spikes of various sizes sticking out every which way. The impression was that of a spiny pufferfish or an angry porcupine, incomplete analogies for the chassis had no obvious ventral-dorsal orientation nor a bow-stern dichotomy. The minor differences between the five lay in subtle variations upon the color white, number of spines, and hull stickers that the sub-collective only later learned were the equivalent of "Hello! My Name Is..."
Hek's voice echoed through tiers and hallways: "Attend the Transcendence Board! Hallowed are they that serve to lead the search for Transcendence and our Progenitors this millennium. Attend them and listen!"
What could Cube #347 do but redouble its efforts to devise a method of escape?
Hek stood, figuratively speaking, in the Realm. The Realm was to FedNet holopod chatrooms as a solar system was to a single grain of dust. The software plane which was the Realm allowed full interaction between Xenig, as much reality to the mechs as reality itself.
In the Realm, the bubble which was Transcendence Hall on Transcendence Board Platform, sector 11413, was transformed into a vast judicial court, ceiling and walls wreathed in fog to hide the infinite dimensions. The Transcendence Board sat behind a large desk chased in brass scrollwork, their forms crystalline versions of their chassis. In this instance, Hek had imaged himself the debonair human spy from the classic Bond films, twentieth century Terra, pre-Federation. The many Xenig observers sat in the gallery, each a perfect view, their psyche reflections as varied as beings in the multiverses, some even forsaking the traditional mobile form for the present fad of inanimate furniture. Only in the Realm did benches have chairs perched upon them. The Borg cube was represented as a picture on a two-dimensional movie screen: non-Xenig did not have access to the Realm.
Hek paced back and forth in the clear area between desk and gallery, finally stopping to regard the Transcendence Board squarely. "I am ready, Your Honors," he said, reaching up with one hand to flick an imaginary dust speck from his perfectly tailored suit.
The centermost of the Transcendence, Nup by name, flared the inner light of her crystalline Realm body. "Acknowledgment. This special session of the Transcendence Board will come to order. We understand you have an interesting proposal, Hek. Our time is precious, so don't take all century."
Hek made a deep bow, his dashing image eliciting more than a few sighs from the gallery. His message box intercepted 1,028,312 proposals of a soul-mating from impulsive watchers. The fact the offers came from both "male" and "female" mechs, as well as other "sexes," was not important, for the issue of gender was a malleable convenience, a whim of the moment among what were essentially sexless machines. Hek returned several of the more intriguing overtures, but did not provide any sureties. He had other things to attend before personal pleasure.
A gesture brought forth a model of the galaxy in the air over the gallery. "Bear with me for a few milliseconds as I recite some of the highlights of our Transcendence and Progenitor search."
"Relevance?" demanded Nup.
"I will get to it, Your Honors, but how I came up with this idea requires some background," insisted Hek.
Nup gave the equivalent of a nod. "Very well. We are aware of your new status, but that won't stop us from demanding your chassis if you are wasting our time."
"I promise, I am not!" The galaxy model began to spin.
Approximately thirty minutes and nearly half a million years of history later, the cube on the screen began to move. Perhaps less screen and more window, it almost seemed as if one could reach through it to interact with the universe beyond the Realm. As the Borg cube aligned itself with one of the Transcendence Hall openings which had line-of-sight to open space, its warp engines flared into active status.
"Excuse me," said Hek, then reached /into/ the window screen.
Beyond the Realm, in the universe which was not an ongoing chatroom figment of the collective Xenig software mind, a giant hand materialized. It appeared insubstantial, like fog, but was more than adequate to pinch Cube #347 between thumb and forefinger, aborting the escape attempt. Warp engines momentarily strained against the capture, then stepped down to idle as it became apparent a static warp bubble would not be forming. The act, while well within the technological realm of the Xenig, had not been performed by twisting the fabric of reality. Instead, it had been pure thought, distilled omnipotence, that had stalled the cube's egress.
After issuing a stern warning to the sub-collective to desist from future escape attempts, Hek returned to his discourse. "Excuse the interruption, Your Honors. However tiresome the Borg cube is, it is central to the scheme I will propose to you. Speaking of which, with history covered, I am ready to detail the plan itself. I thus begin."
The first escape endeavor, a simple attempt at running after carefully aligning the cube such that no major obstructions barred the way, had left the sub-collective shaken. After all, it was not every day that a large hand literally held a Borg cube in place until such time engines had to be shut down else risk catastrophic overheating of certain key propulsion units. The exact source of the hand was not quite clear, but a 93% probability indicated the origination to be Hek.
It was the silence, more than anything, which was unnerving. Cube #347 had been brought to the Xenig home system for a reason. Unfortunately, the Collective never had been able to crack the high order fractal encryption algorithms mech species #3 individuals used to talk to each other, although the frequencies utilized were blatant. It was hypothesized that the decryption key, if one existed, might be hidden on a concurrent carrier wave, one which was embedded in the nature of the Xenig folded-space drive, a technology the Borg had never been able to acquire nor make developmental progress towards. For Cube #347, it was like being on the other side of a thick pane of glass while a judicial sentencing was declared in an unknown language: lips could be seen moving, but no sense was to be made.
{The reason,} said Weapons, {that we were unsuccessful is that there was no distraction. No explosions. No bangs.}
Second snorted, {Not true, you numskull. The reason we failed is that we are surrounded by mech species #3, one of which radiates omnipotence.}
Captain absently listened to the internal bickering, to Weapons trying to justify the more violent of the escape options presented by his hierarchy. However, the alternatives under serious consideration in consensus cascade were three, all without a single bomb or neurupter. Captain blinked as one of the options was discarded, leaving two. The holographic screen which currently reflected the cascade tallied percentage thermometers as one idea was examined in calculated detail, then the other. Finally, Solution #2 was decided upon.
Three minutes had passed since the hand incident and subsequent warning from Hek.
Lining up on the previously attempted egress, Cube #347 fired several thrusters, then cut them. Fire. Stop. Fire. Stop. The action served to begin a vector towards freedom, a stealthy sneak, or at least as much stealth as possible by a vessel 1.3 kilometers an edge. Fire. Stop. Fire. Stop. At the rate the cube was building momentum, the spherical hall would be left behind in less than ten minutes. To go any faster would be to call undue notice.
Unfortunately, a ship the size of a Borg Exploratory-class cube cannot just slip into the shadows and disappear. For one thing, there were no shadows within the webwork sphere, just bright plasma globes; and one of those multicolored orbs drifted into the cube's path. Bright orange plasma curled over the hull as the miniature sun shattered, the flames swiftly evaporating after the initial flare.
Cube #347 shook as a giant black plunger impacted face #3. A string tied to the handle of the plunger reeled the cube back to the center of the sphere, back to the Transcendence Board, back to Hek. The unlikely apparatus vanished as Cube #347 found itself where it had began.
"I said," rang Hek's voice throughout the cube, "no escape attempts. You are making me look bad. Now, stay."
{Okay,} conceded Captain to Weapons, {something a bit more explosive, but only a bit. No kamikaze, singularity torpedo, or nova bomb solutions. Minor explosions only. Minor disruptive explosions only.}
Like a door-to-door salesman smelling a major deal about to be sold, Weapons expanded a new folder of escapes for sub-collective perusal. {How about Torpedo Assault #18? The good points include...} spun Weapons into a tale of fabulous proportions as each plan was precisely detailed.
Five minutes later, Look-Over-There Plan #3 was chosen. It was a basic scheme which included remote controlled piloting of a small vessel into a crowd of Xenig spectators, followed by detonating an explosive payload and leaving while chaos ensued. It was simple with very few points to mess up, and even included a small (well, actually quite large for the proposed carrier vehicle) explosion to pacify the weapons hierarchy, but Weapons continued to insist on other, more destructive plots.
{No, the consensus cascade is final, as always,} said Captain.
Weapons: {But...}
{Too many buts, and you won't be driving the payload shuttle...command and control will.}
Weapons shut up.
Moments later, following frantic efforts by engineering hierarchy elements to prepare the distraction, the huge doors to Bulk Cargo Hold #1 slightly opened, ejecting a small vessel. The little boxy ship was one of several miscellaneous shuttles Cube #347 had "picked up" over the past several months during inventory tasks. True, the group of racing enthusiasts led by 127 of 230 would now have to wait longer to have their competition, but it was a small sacrifice to pay (127 of 230 didn't see it so, and was quite vocal about her opposition) to escape.
The shuttle had traversed a kilometer towards its goal when a white bowler's hat appeared out of nowhere, heading for the tiny vessel. As the rim of the spinning hat neatly sliced the payload carrier in two, the sub-collective's hopes sunk. {Okay, what was next on the escape list?} Captain began scrolling through strategies for the impending consensus cascade.
"Okay, that is it. I don't have time for additional distractions, entertaining through they are to the gallery. It is time for something a bit different," sighed Hek's voice. The words were followed by the distinctive sound of snapping fingers.
Before Captain could form the word "oh-oh," he found himself standing behind a waist high railing at the side of what appeared to be a court room. Five crystal representations of the Transcendence Board chassis presided over the room from behind a tall desk; and a smiling human with black hair stood in the space between desk and gallery, right hand raised with fingers still moving in the final act of snapping. The gallery was in an uproar, a myriad of beasts and beings (and furniture) raising various appendages as questions were shouted. Somehow Captain knew without actually querying for a response that the entire 4000 members of the Cube #347 sub-collective were with him in the courtroom, also standing behind the railing.
"What is the meaning of this atrocity?" yelled the crystal chassis furthest away from the stunned sub-collective. There was no mouth for words to be uttered from, but the rules of the place did not require adhesion to expected physics or biology.
The black-haired human raised his hands high, calling for silence. "Hear me! It will all be explained! My cube was being a little too playful, so I thought it best to bring the drones here. Besides, they should know their place in the Plan as well." Hek winked as the gallery slowly retook seats and the Transcendence Board whispered among themselves.
"You may proceed," boomed the central crystalline entity.
Captain had not been reassured with that wink, quite the contrary; and as he requested all designations to report their current status, he knew his sentiment was one shared by the whole of the sub-collective.
*****
"What do you think you are doing?" asked Iris. "The Editor will be very POed at you for touching its tools."
"I am only immortal now, not omniscient. What is immortality if one can't be omniscient as well? The Editor is late returning from break; and I /will/ have my powers back. Rearranging a few cosmic strings can't be that hard! I know right about where the Editor was working...I'll just put things back the way they were, and then my powers will come back," replied Lips defensively.
As events unfolded upon the Board and the Editor continued to be absent, the Critic had become increasingly agitated. Without powers, Lips was simply a humorously large pair of ambulatory lips, not a being able to change the course of history. It had, therefore, resorted to the unthinkable: use of the Editor's tools neatly ordered at the side of the room. Currently Lips clutched what the uninitiated would call a cordless drill.
"What do you think?" asked Lips to the room in general. "Should I use the 3/16 bit, or the 1/4?"
"None," said Iris.
Orb interjected, "Why are the drill bits labeled in an obsolete measurement from an obscure planet, anyway? English units were discarded by the inventor species and replaced by a sensible base-10 metric. Therefore, why do inches persist in the universe in the form of drill bits?"
The unpainted pair of lips answered, "I've done research on the matter. In fact, English units were not discarded, but rather the rights to them were bought by a large multi-dimensional drill bit company."
"Enough!" cried Lips. "I am going to get my powers back! Out of the way!"
The cordless drill and the bits in question were not exactly as they appeared, in much the same way the Board was and was not the Milky Way galaxy. After all, a mundane tool could not be expected to bore through layers of reality and spin cosmic strings onto new trajectories. Take a closer look at the bit and be prepared to gaze into a bit of infinity shaped into corkscrew form. Some claimed infinity to be ebony in color, while a select few insisted upon duck's egg blue; and others, usually following overindulgence of recreational drugs, believed infinity to be a progression of bright green and orange gibbons which flashed on and off like holiday lights. Actualities were not important, for in this moment and time infinity was a spinning drill bit of 3/16 size.
Lips plunged the drill at the board.
Protostars in a stellar nursery nebula whirled into a clearly unnatural formation which future astronomers would label the Whirlpool. The Whirlpool would subsequently become the central premise to several mind-shattering philosophical treatises, a theological symbol, and, eventually, the primary character of a children's cartoon show.
A new species of vacuum petunia spontaneously evolved, flowered once, then went extinct.
As an entire civilization watched in horror, the secondary sun of a binary went from red dwarf to plaid. Plaid was the sign of the Evil One Who Shall Cause Sinus Blockage. For a race which relied heavily upon the nose to experience the world, it was a bad omen.
And in the Board room: "What did you do?" spouted Lips' Critic companion.
Lips stopped its drillwork. "Huh? Did you say something? I'm not done yet, you know. My powers are not returned."
"You idiot!" cried the Critic. "/My/ powers are now gone."
Orb shrugged, "Mine are fine. Iris?"
"Nothing wrong here," replied the green-irised Director.
Meanwhile, at the edge of an out-of-the-way white dwarf system, a featureless black sphere stirred. Banished from his society for blasphemous views, the sphere suddenly felt that things had Changed, that the Door of Opportunity had Opened. The sphere was a Xenig, name of EinTon, and now...now he felt Something supercharging his systems, a Something which did not originate from his vacuum-power core. As the white dwarf suddenly dimmed and then disappeared into a black hole which never should have been, EinTon's thoughts turned along a new tangent, one previously regulated to the paths of self-indulgent fantasy.
EinTon's views would not be laughed at this time, no, they would not.
***********
Here ends Part II of "Dues Ex Machina." The really exciting bits are soon to come up, whereupon you will learn why Xenig only have one-syllable names, why it isn't a particularly sane mind that capitalizes all the "important" words in a sentence, and how come it is not a good thing to be in the middle of a tug-of-war between omniscient beings.
Return to the Season 5 page