Mourn not ye Trekkites in the Real World, for Paramount is hale and
hearty, thus, so is Star Trek. As long as there is Trek to lampoon, so
shall there be Decker's Star Traks. And since I'm not quite dead yet,
BorgSpace doth continue as well.
Requiem for a Borg
Weapons was dead. There was no body, but one was hard-pressed to ignore
the absence of his interplexing beacon signature, not to mention the
plasma fire. The neural transceiver was designed to survive the
termination of a drone to allow body recovery, unless the improbable
occurred and the sturdy device was abused beyond functionality. A skull
squashed flat could cause catastrophic malfunction, as could absorbing
sufficient electricity to literally melt a body...and as could a raging
plasma fire.
Bulk Cargo Hold #5 had recently been refit by Weapons to recreate the
holoarena from the old Cube #347 for purposes of full-scale mock
BorgCraft scenarios. The task had been made easier by the fact
ubiquitous holoemitters were standard on all Borg vessels, for when the
Collective decides an idea is good, it is not hesitant about complete
implementation. However, Weapons was forced to find storage for what he
considered extraneous items; and for what others such as Delta regarded
as essential spare parts.
With the hold cleared to a sufficient degree to allow fictitious assault
simulations, Weapons had decided to test a recently devised scenario.
The details were not important, only that it was realistically dangerous,
risk increased by lack of anything resembling safety protocols. Safety
protocols were irrelevant. The first run had included only Weapons and a
dozen other drones, personal shielding pre-adapted, not to play the
scenario, but rather to walk through and note discrepancies in setting or
sprite behavior requiring adjustment before a real run.
Safety protocols may have been irrelevant as far as Weapons was
concerned, but there was more than one kind of safety. In building the
scenario, Weapons had taken into account only the safety of an individual
Borg, utterly disregarding the ship. Thus, holographic weapons that were
powerful enough to damage (not terminate...the Greater Consciousness had
an aversion to losing units in ways which did not further the Whole) a
drone were also sufficient to scar duralloy bulkheads. Even in the
normal course of events such might be okay, as long as one was willing to
weather the wrath of Delta when engineering hierarchy was called to
replace scorched wall plates.
Later calculated to be a one in a 101,321,773 chance occurrence, Weapons
found himself to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just because
shielding was employed to prevent injuries during the initial walk
through did not mean the scenario sprites were unaware of the Borg. On
the contrary, it was necessary to specifically engage the characters, to
goad them to action, in order to make sure programming was complete. The
sprite in question that Weapons was testing missed the hierarchy head
(aiming algorithms off) and hit a false wall panel installed by 242 of
480 for purposes to hide a stash of remote controls; and the holographic
disruptor lance had subsequently ricocheted off a powerful magnetic field
within the wall and slammed into a plasma conduit.
The explosion had been tremendous, made even more spectacular as the
plasma fireball had spewed forth in its entirety through the relatively
small hole where the false plate had been located. The fireball impacted
Weapons at close range; and less than two milliseconds later his
interplexing beacon had flatlined. The rest of the walk through team,
being further away, had sufficient time to beam out of danger.
The fire had been extinguished by exposing the hold to vacuum, opening
huge doors and allowing lack of atmosphere to tame the otherwise
unquenchable plasma beast. Unfortunately, it had been discovered shortly
thereafter that despite the inferno interlude, the BorgCraft simulation
played on, oblivious. The scenario had been tied to Weapons during the
debugging process, and corruption in the code had been introduced by his
sudden termination. On the plus side, partial safeties had engaged,
sufficient to prevent further harm to Cube #347. On the other hand,
drones were still recognized as fair game; and Level Insanity was locked
in, rotating sprite disruptor frequencies at potentially lethal power
levels and rendering personal shielding next to useless. To top it off,
the scenario could not be disengaged, only played to its conclusion. At
least the characters could not escape Bulk Cargo Hold #5, a program
root-level modification made long ago after such an incident had
occurred.
In summary, the plasma fire situation was under control, but engineering
could not enter Bulk Cargo Hold #5 to survey damage and begin repairs.
To do so, until the runaway BorgCraft program was tamed, was tantamount
to suicide. However, the cube had not lost efficiency and remained as
battle ready as it ever could be, and the sprites were not capable of
further structural damage, therefore the hold was considered high
priority, but not vital. "Vital" denoted required attempts to repair
damage, no matter every third drone was sent to drone maintenance by
holograms. "High priority" allowed for BorgCraft to be discontinued
prior to repairs.
The mood within the sub-collective was apathetic over the loss of
Weapons, or rather 45 of 300. Upon termination, the subdesignation
applied to 45 of 300 had been unlinked. In the broad picture, yes, 45 of
300 had served the sub-collective well, and, in his way, successfully
(Cube #347 /was/ in one piece, after all), but he had simply been another
drone. Borg do not mourn any more than a car does when it loses a bolt:
one replaces the missing piece and continues.
{Trigger the new lottery,} complained Delta, {so weapons hierarchy has a
focus designation. The hierarchy is obviously unable to concentrate on
terminating the idiotic BorgCraft program until that happens, which in
turn means we cannot appraise hold damage and initiate repairs.}
Replied Captain testily, {What do you think we've been trying to do?}
Unfortunately, every time a designation would begin to resolve, the to-be
Weapons promptly sabotaged it, causing a nonviable drone number to be
returned, either a non-weapons unit designation else an empty designation
slot due to the previous owner's termination. After the long tyranny of
45 of 300, the weapons hierarchy was traumatized, simply put. There was
a background fear that 45 of 300 would suddenly declare himself not
melted by plasma fire, a fear that he would spontaneously reappear to
reclaim his position, to the physical detriment of whomever had taken the
Weapons title. More than one drone had gone to drone maintenance over
the years for not relinquishing the post-wake Weapons lottery back to 45
of 300 fast enough.
{Well, hurry up,} griped Delta, impatient.
Doctor was equally dispassionate to Weapons' loss, desiring access to
Bulk Cargo Hold #5 for reasons other than those supplied by engineering
hierarchy. 45 of 300's body, assuming it could be found and was not now
floating somewhere in space after opening the hold doors, represented
scavengeable parts. Well, to be truthful, the fact that 45 of 300's
neural transceiver had been irrevocably damaged meant the rest of him was
likely less than pretty, but at the very least his tritanium body armor
could be recovered and reforged.
{How much longer? How much longer? How much longer? I really, really,
really, really want to get poor-poor 45 of 300. So /many/ pieces to pick
up,} said Doctor, adding to Delta's urgings.
Grumbled Captain, {We are working on it!} He groaned as once again the
command and control initiated trigger to choose a new Weapons was
deflected. {If someone does not accept the subdesignation,} he warned,
{a unit will be chosen by "ennie-meenie-minnie-moe" method.}
Weapons was dead; and there was no sorrow in Cube #347. No funeral, no
lament, no wake, no requiem. The drone known as 45 of 300 was
terminated. End of story.
* * * * *
The end of a story is only the end for those without imagination.
Characters continue their fictional lives long after the final page had
been turned, after "Fine" is written, if only in the day-dream thoughts
of a reader. Similarly, the end of life is not the end, merely a
punctuation in the never-ending existence of a soul. The afterlife,
therefore, is not really the afterlife, nor a beforelife, but rather a
period of waiting for the next chapter to begin. Fittingly, the
In-betweenlife that most souls see is a waiting room.
Weapons awoke to the sight of pale cream walls and chairs upholstered in
green and blue checked fabric. Seated across from him were odd beings he
could not immediately classify beyond "ambulatory shag carpet." As he
peered about himself in his groggy, mentally lethargic state, he had the
indefinable feeling that this place, these chairs, were familiar. Unable
to quite nail the sensation, he dismissed it.
"Here," said a voice to his right, familiar, his own minus synthetic
overtones, "you can hold this. It is yours, technically, anyway: you
are the dominant personality. Prince Sleeping Beauty is drooling on me
again."
Weapons looked down at his hand as a ticker tape of paper was given to
him. Disinterestedly he glanced at the long number printed thereon -
47,474,747 - before staring at his unaltered limb. It was blackened,
crisped, with the deep type of penetrating burns that should have had his
damage control subroutines informing him of immediate need to visit drone
maintenance. However, the algorithms were silent, insisting nothing was
wrong. Similarly, his exoskeleton was tarnished with soot, a blackening
only possible by the fluid flames of a plasma fire.
Flames. Plasma. Fire. Weapons had the distinct impression an
explosion had been part of his immediate recent history; and the last
thing he clearly remembered was a burst of light behind his back,
followed by an uncomfortable quantity of heat.
Weapons abruptly scrambled to his feet, aware only peripherally he had
been sitting in a chars sans discomfort. He jerked to a sudden stop,
realizing a weight was encircling his waist, tying him to something in
the direction of the voice which had handed him the number. Weapons
turned.
"Yes, we've all died. Really dead, this time. No hanging around the
back of your mind anymore," calmly stated Pilgrim Ghydin. Of course, he
was used to death, and had been technically deceased as an active
personality since his assimilation and the subsequent Borg-shatteing of
his psyche which had built the Weapons persona. His body form was that
of Weapons, at least how Weapons has looked pre-assimilation, an average
sized Kreen with ridges along the bridge of his nose continuing to his
forehead, then resolving into a series of small horns which followed the
brow. Purple eyes. Ghydin wore the purple robe of the Order of Koh.
Belting his waist was a length of chain, one end of which linked him to
Weapons, and the other end trailing to a third body.
Body #3 was an insubstantial ghost compared to Ghydin. It much
resembled the ex-pilgrim, thus turning Weapons into a set of triplets,
except it wore a severely cut pale green robe trimmed with silver, a
style used by a the defunct cult once known as the Brotherhood of
Galactic Love. Weapons required several long seconds recall the name of
Micah, the original owner of the body, a troublesome personality he had
thought to be long excised.
Micah had fallen far from his formerly exalted position. Currently the
ex-priest's head was flopped over on one shoulder, and a conspicuous
streamer of drool was dribbling from his mouth. Eyes stared blankly
forward, catatonic gaze staring without interest at a spot approximately
two meters from his body, reacting to nothing.
Pilgrim Ghydin peered up at Weapons, then shook his head. "Even after
you destroyed his personality, a bit of him remained, a bit of you. I've
had not much to do over the years except think, and the conclusions I've
drawn are all very existentialistic. In a nutshell, it has to do with
our multiple personality state; and to totally get rid of him would mean
erasing all traces of yourself. I don't believe even Borg neural
reformatting would be sufficient, though, only cause another personality
to appear. And it is crowded enough in your head as it is, thank you
very much, without adding a fourth persona."
"Dead?" asked Weapons as he wrapped his mind around a concept uttered
earlier. It was /so/ difficult to make his mind work, as if he were
wading through molasses.
Making a motion to indicate the chair recently vacated, Ghydin answered,
"Terminated, if you wish. Dead pretty much covers it. You have all the
memories, and I wasn't paying too much attention at the time because you
were in one of your BorgCraft frenzies. All I know is one moment I was
in my normal niche in your mind, and the next, I was here, chained to you
and the Drooling Wonder. It took me a bit to realize what had occurred.
Your thoughts should clear up in a bit." Ghydin paused. He had not
spoken to anyone for so long, and was feeling a bit chatty. Hesitantly,
he continued, "I don't think one's mind is supposed to wake, actually.
Not from what I've watched around us. Everyone is so...out of it, as if
surrounded by fog. Our recovery - I'm not including Micah, who has been
mentally absent for years - may be related to the fact we aren't exactly
what one would call a normal personality. Since you are the dominant, I
expect you'll take a bit longer to pull out of it."
Weapons continued to stare at Ghydin as he digested the disclosure, then
awkwardly sat back down, ignoring the fact that the action should have
been nigh near impossible given his level of exterior cybernization.
Slowly his thoughts became more clear, faster, although never quite
reaching that plateau to which he was used. Perhaps the slow pace of
recovery had to do with his separation from the Collective (a concept
which somehow did not seem important in this place), perhaps it was an
inherent quality to the waiting room. Nonetheless, thoughts did begin to
flow smoother after a time.
As the waking process continued, Weapons examined his location. The
waiting room was both infinite in dimensions, and measured approximately
10 meters by 8 meters. The fabric upholstered chairs were arranged in a
double row, outer chairs against the wall with a row facing across an
aisle. As the room, the chairs were both finite and infinite in number,
without any undue paradox. Paradox so infused the place that it was
regulated to insignificance. At the "front" of the room was a
receptionist window and an curtained door adjacent to it; and another
door, this one seeming to be of wood, adorned the "back" wall. A sign
over the window read "Traumatic Injury Ward Waiting Room."
All the chairs were occupied. A wide variety of sentients were present,
both recognized and not. Weapons stared for an eon or two at a giant
orange mushroom, certain the creature was familiar. In addition to the
fungus and shag carpet beings, Weapons spotted a small humanoid with
piebald skin sporting a large hole in its chest; a human with an
unhealthy blue complexion, her arm swallowed to the shoulder by a toothy
fish; and a rather weasened example of a species #7694 male The
lattermost opened his eyes, as if feeling Weapons' perusal, winked in a
manner which suggested he was not partaking of the general waiting room
lethargy, then settled himself as comfortably as possible in his chair
before resting chin on chest in preparation for a nap.
Every once in a while a loud "Next" would be shouted from the
receptionist window, followed by a ringing clang. Above the window was a
large number counter, recently installed by the fresh plaster scratches
which had yet to be painted over, that would incrementally advance by
one. Currently it read "Now Serving - 20,326,511." Somewhere in the
room someone would rise, shuffle to the window, exchange a few low words
with the receptionist, then disappear through the curtained door. At odd
internals otherwise, the wood door would open to admit a person, who
thence immediately zombie walked to an open chair. There were always
open chairs, an infinite number of open chairs.
"This is going to take forever," sighed Ghydin. After turning Micah to
drool on a humanoid holding his decapitated head in his lap, the pilgrim
had picked up a convenient magazine to read (there were tables next to
every chair, in that impossible way the room excelled at). The magazine,
predictably, was out of date, by about fifteen billion years. "I don't
think I want to learn about the five basic ways to condense matter into
real atoms, nor the proper way to pluck cosmic strings."
Weapons glanced at Ghydin's magazine. It was entitled "Transactions of
the Cosmological Society," and billed itself as "The leading journal of
universe architecture - from Big Bans to Heat Death to Big Crunches and
Beyond."
"Come," ordered Weapons as he stood from his chair and tugged on the
chain.
"Come where?" asked Ghydin, showing reluctance to stand. After an
series of increasingly insistent pulls, he gained his feet.
Weapons pointed at the receptionist window, "There. The answers are
there. We will acquire them. Now." He was adamant.
"Look, I don't think that is a very good idea..." Ghydin's protests
died as he looked at Weapons' stubborn stance. At any rate, he was the
subordinate personality to Weapons' very strong will. "Fine, whatever.
Let me get Micah up first."
Weapons was silent as Ghydin struggled to stand the priest. Vertical,
Micah docilely followed the link, like a dog on a leash. His head
loosely flopped with each step, but at least he automatically avoided
obstacles such as outstretched legs and misplaced (literally) feet which
might otherwise trip him.
Behind the receptionist window sat a human male wearing a charred
Federation uniform - cerca 24th century Federation, not Second Federation
- with nurse insignia. He glanced up as Weapons' shadow darkened the
crossword puzzle he had been filling in. "Yes?" asked the receptionist
peevishly, "can't you see I'm busy here?"
Weapons held up his ticker tape number. "What is this?"
The nurse sighed. "Your position in the queue. There are 27,148,236
souls ahead of you. Your waiting time will be approximately 492
real-time years of whatever sort you use to mark time, give or take six
months or so. Your questions are answered, now go away."
Weapons slapped his hand on the receptionist counter, hard.
"Unacceptable!" Behind his shoulder, Ghydin had covered his face with
his hand, and was shaking his head back and forth in embarrassment. "I
am not supposed to be dead. Return us to the Collective at once!"
The receptionist put down his pencil. "Look, whatever you are,
all...three of you are dead. I am dead. He is dead. She is dead. All
of them are dead." Fingers were stabbed towards various sentients in
nearby chairs. "Every soul in this waiting room is in-between lives.
Limbo. Some of us, like me, are employees; and some of us, like you,
will be going back to life after you talk to your case worker...in 492
years. Other entities, like the Directors and Critics, are in a whole
different class altogether. You gotta live before you can die, and they
have never lived."
"Unacceptable!" shouted Weapons again. "Comply, or you will be..." The
phrase was cut as the receptionist stood, ire marked on his face,
radiating the attitude of a bureaucrat who knows he holds all the cards,
and all the paperwork.
"Look, nanite brain, I've heard it all. Your case worker will get to
you in 492 years. I am a simple employee and cannot hurry the process.
There has been a budget cut recently; employees have been allowed to
reincarnate for early retirement; and there was a little industrial
accident that blew up a galaxy just before you arrived, flooding the
queue. There is a whole host of things that contribute to your belief of
unacceptability. Let me put it simply...I do not care. I am not paid to
care. So sit down and shut up before I am forced to come out there and
tie all three of you to a chair!"
Throughout the speech Weapons had been retreating backwards, attempting
to escape the nurse's wrath. This was more than he had bargained for;
and, after all, what threat does assimilation hold to one who is already
quite deceased? At the final bellow, Weapons about faced and marched
back to his chair, trailed by a relieved Ghydin.
Micah drooled.
* * * * *
Imagine a dart board. Make it overwhelmingly large and let all fields
equal a bull's-eye: it is as difficult to hit as the proverbial side of
a barn at close quarters. Now, toss a dart at the board, confident that
there is no way to miss. However, not only do you miss, but the dart
twists mid-flight, impaling you in the forehead. Now imaging this
happening not once, not twice, but every time you face off against the
hypothetical dart board.
This dilemma was a succinct description of the problem Captain was
facing. The dart board represented weapons hierarchy; the dart the
command to designate a new Weapons; and the hand launching the dart was
command and control. After an unthinkable hour spent in the fruitless
endeavor during which engineering hierarchy became increasingly vocal, if
possible, concerning the need to examine Bulk Cargo Hold #5, a new
strategy was necessary.
The sub-collective of Cube #347 proceeded to talk within itself,
discrete units much more evident than a normal sub-collective, which
wouldn't be having this problem to begin with. Most active in the call
and response was command and control, Captain requesting status and
intrahierarchy elements answering.
{Transporter?} queried Captain.
{Disengaged,} responded partition 56.
{Internal force fields?}
Partition 17: {Disengaged.}
{Holographic subsystems?}
Partition 21: {All disengaged, except Bulk Cargo Hold #5.}
{Internal gravity grid?}
Partition 5: {Nominal and locked.}
{Weapons hierarchy?}
Partition 43: {All units within alcoves and locked down, clamp controls
temporarily overridden for all relevant designations.}
Captain nodded to himself: all was ready. Swiveling, he exited his
nodal intersection, walking along tier 7 in the direction of his alcove.
On his left, rising above and below, stretched the expanse of subshaft
#3.g2. Only a modest railing prevented incidents of accidental careening
into the shaft. On his right were a series of alcoves, interspersed by
data pillars, regeneration system components, power junctions,
subdistribution nodes, and the occasional scrawl of graffiti.
Assimilation, drone maintenance, drone maintenance, engineering, command
and control, engineering, sensory, another command and control,
unassigned, Captain passed each alcove, but none were of the hierarchy of
which he was interested. Those drone occupants who were present and not
powered down in a regenerative torpor opened eyes or activated optic
implants to watch their primary consensus monitor and facilitator pass.
Sensory, unassigned, engineering, engineering, his own alcove, Second,
drone maintenance. As Captain strode by Second, the latter stepped
forward and down from his alcove and began to trail behind.
An alcove occupied by a weapons drone. Captain stopped, turning to
regard 141 of 212. The drone in question could not physically escape,
but he still attempted to batter at Captain's senses, trying to insert a
convincing perception of an empty alcove. Captain, however, could not
have his mind changed so easily by a single drone, especially when backed
by the whole of command and control. There was a reason he had been
singled out for a Hierarchy of Eight slot when he had been transferred on
board.
"Stop it," instructed Captain. He then reached forward to touch 141 of
212 on the shoulder. "You are now Weapons. Live with it."
Simultaneously, the subdesignation was attached to 141 of 212,
accompanied by the relevant command authorizations and responsibilities.
141 of 212 whimpered in response.
* * * * *
Weapons was bored. Completely and utterly bored. He was unsure how
much time of his 492 years had thus far passed because his internal
chronometer was malfunctioning, but since only 20 of the several millions
in front of him in the queue had passed through the curtain, he suspected
it hadn't been too long. The clock on the wall over the receptionist
window did not help neither, all the numbers on its face replaced by the
word "Now" and the hands frozen.
Fidgeting in his chair, Weapons looked at his companions. With a long
history of waiting, Ghydin was not fazed by the delay. The ex-pilgrim
was engrossed in an article from a magazine entitled "Deity News," and
when asked, would only absently reply that he was reading a comparison
study of ten fundamentally different religions and their sociological
impact upon sentient terrestrial insectoid species. Micah, predictably,
was drooling on his robe.
Weapons shifted again, increasingly aware of his discomfort afforded by
the chair. He tried staring at the wall, then his unaltered hand, then
the ceiling, then the other people in the waiting room, but the boredom
refused to lessen. Usually he had many things with which to occupy
himself, from devising BorgCraft scenarios to armament system diagnostics
to searches of the Collective databases for the latest adaptations or
upgrades of offensive/defensive technologies. Here...here was nothing.
It was going to be a hellish 492 years.
"Stop that," grunted a tenor-baritone voice, a double harmonic speaking
as one. "You are annoying me."
Weapons swiveled to regard his left-hand neighbor, a species #8472
individual with a distinctly melted look to her. She squatted in her
chair and had been the recipient of more than a couple of elbow jabs from
Weapons. The expression on her elongated face was one of annoyance.
"I am bored," commented Weapons.
The species #8472 displayed no sympathy. "Join the club. Most of us
are adult enough to sit quietly. It is not like there is any place to
go."
Weapons narrowed his eye, twisting his torso to more fully face the
fluidic entity. He ignored Ghydin's grumbles as the chain pulled taunt.
"Do you imply I am a child?"
The species #8472 female drew herself up straight, then spat on the
ground. "You are less than a child. You are a Borg. You are a baby, a
baby worm to be crushed beneath my heels. Only worms wiggle as much as
you."
Insults should have been irrelevant, but the Weapons persona had been
constructed of the aggressive, hot-tempered impulses which had been
largely suppressed by Ghydin. Without the mediating influence of the
sub-collective, Weapons was not wont to weather derogatory descriptions
very well. He slammed his sharp, heavy, tritanium reinforced elbow into
the species #8472 female's torso, midway between pelvic and shoulder
girdles. "I am Borg, not worm. Can worms do that?"
The species #8472 female gasped for over a minute, then caught her
breath. She glared at Weapons, then leapt to her feet. "If you weren't
already dead, I'd kill you. I don't know if the dead can be dismembered,
but I am going to do my best to experiment on you!"
And the fight began.
As if a curtain had risen from dulled minds, enemies in life realized
they were sitting next to each other in death. A cluster of lower caste
Deeni humanoids, resembling knee-high pandas, eyed the despised upper
caste lord who had ordered them to die as sacrifices at his funeral
celebration. Tempers flared. Teeth were bared. Punches were thrown.
The fight became a riot, infinite in proportion.
"Come on," urged Ghydin as he tugged on the chain around his waist. He,
Weapons, and Micah were in a temporary bubble of sanity, one which would
not last long. The species #8472 female had been trying to twist off
Weapons' head before she herself was tackled by a spindly spider creature
calling for the revenge of her homeworld, eradicated by the xenophobic
fluidic entities in a fit of genocide. Already the calm was beginning to
disintegrate, several dark looks being passed among a gaggle of
ferret-like species #6970 sporting Borg disruptor burns in their fur and
made brave by the knowledge that they were already dead.
The tugging became more insistent. Weapons followed.
Propelling Micah ahead, Ghydin led Weapons to the wooden door.
Somewhere in the room rose the voice of the nurse-receptionist, shouting
for order else face the orderlies. No one was listening. With one last
glance around, Ghydin pulled open the door and slipped through, Weapons
behind.
"What were you thinking?" yelled Ghydin. He smacked himself on the
forehead, then continued in a more restrained tone, "Of course, I know
what you were thinking, since I am you and have lived in your brain for
many decades."
Weapons shrugged, but answered anyway, "I was bored."
Outside the waiting room was a corridor lined with doors. Unlike the
waiting room, the hallway was clearly not of infinite proportions, each
end T-ing into other passages after only 80 meters or so. However, one
had the impression that while individual corridors had finite dimensions,
the complex in which they were housed was a completely different story.
The hallway was cream in color, matching the waiting room, with a light
blue carpet on the floor. Of the beings who had been entering the room,
they were not in evidence; and there was a feeling that more than one
door, more than a dozen dozen doors, led to that room, perhaps a
different door for every individual. The doors in the hallway were all
plain wood, spaced much too close for anything except custodial closets
or insanely skinny rooms, or at least such would be the case in a
normally constructed building. Needless to say, the complex was not
normal.
Above the doors were marks, the scratchings of a chicken on LSD. They
faintly glowed with a silver light, although the intricate scrawling over
the door recently exited was tinged red.
Of anyone else in the hallways, there was no sign. However, at the same
time, there was the impression of busy bodies bustling just beyond
perception's ken. Somewhere a siren faintly wailed; and the heavy beat
of a platoon marching to war beat a martial counterpoint.
"Maybe we should move?" asked Ghydin hopefully. He had the puzzled look
on his face common to people unable to read a map or follow a compass to
save their lives. "You're the personality in charge."
Weapons frowned. He had the peculiar feeling that these doors were
supposed to be soundproof, yet the faint chaos of riot, 20+ million souls
worth, could be heard. Even he could calculate that if he was to survive
to fight another day, it would not be expedient to return to the waiting
room. Coming to a decision, Weapons swiveled to his right and strode
down the hallway. "This way."
"But..." began Ghydin as he latched onto Micah's hand and dragged the
zombie priest behind.
"This way. I am the one in charge."
"But," tried Ghydin again.
"No buts!"
"But the marching sound is louder in that direction," spat Ghydin in a
rush.
Weapons ignored Ghydin's concern, randomly turning when he reached the
T-intersection. More hallway. More doors. Louder footsteps. Finally,
another turn later, Weapons paused. "I think the marching sound is
louder."
Ghydin groaned. Micah drooled, blinked, drooled some more.
From the crossing corridor, an elite force of feet (?) appeared.
Several dozen bodiless feet marched by, sparing Weapons and his comrades
not a glance. Of course, feet don't have eyes (well, normal feet do not,
although a starfish might beg to differ); and it was unclear exactly how
they were marching since they had no legs, nor body. The form of feet
itself was fuzzy, but it was the strongest of several body parts which
the feet could have been.
At least one foot had red painted nails.
All the feet had the no-nonsense impression of orderlies, the burly type
who moonlighted as club bouncers to make a few extra dollars. After the
squad had passed, Weapons continued to peer in the direction they
disappeared for several long seconds. The distant siren wailed. Finally
Weapons shook his head and glanced down the corridor from which the feet
had originated. "Let us go this way. The opponent rarely expects one to
more deeper into held territory."
* * * * *
141 of 212 listened as Captain and Second's steps faded, becoming lost
in the ambient background noise. He knew without hearing, without sight,
that Captain had paused at his alcove, then entered it for regeneration,
while Second had continued on, several hours of randomly wandering the
corridors planned.
The new Weapons stood stiff in his alcove, waiting for 45 of 300 to
begin demanding his subdesignation back, waiting for an armored fish to
contact his unarmored nose.
And he waited.
And he waited.
And he waited.
'Perhaps,' a rogue thought whispered, himself or another in the weapons
hierarchy, it did not matter, 'perhaps 45 of 300 is terminated? Perhaps
he will stay terminated?' As the waiting stretched without physical or
verbal assault and additional musings wisped through his mind, 141 of 212
relaxed.
{I am Weapons,} 141 of 212 declared strongly. It was time to get to
work.
* * * * *
Weapons explored the complex of never-ending hallways and countless
doors. Ghydin walked gamely behind, for the most part silent except when
urging Micah to keep pace. As they marched, the character of the
corridors subtly changed, not overt nor suddenly, but definitely
noticeable over the long run. The walls retained their cream hue, but
the paint was of a richer luster implying greater expense. Similarly,
the carpet was of a more expensive variety, a more vibrant blue.
Most noticeable of the alterations was in the doors. No longer plain
wood, they were progressing towards ornate art masterpieces. Gold
filigree and silver inlay traced delicate designs against a rich teak or
mahogany background. Single doors gave way to pairs; and handles and
knobs were plated in precious metals, molded in fanciful shapes, or
occasionally encrusted in sparkling jewels. The chicken scratches above
the doors remained inscrutable chicken scratches.
It felt like they were approaching an activity center, an impression
reinforced by the encounters. No more feet were in evidence, but the
occasional hand was seen trotting by, inevitably muttering to itself was
sounded like a long "to do" list. Some appeared to be naked, so to
speak, a fairly useless term considering the fact it wasn't attached to a
body, but most were festooned with an improbable number of tools which
had as much grounding in reality as the hands themselves. Also seen were
indistinguishable blurs, whirlwinds without substance, smudges of
perception, sporting backwards baseball caps and carrying boxes from
which arose pizza smells. Neither hands nor blurs acknowledged the trio;
and for them, Weapons and company may well have not existed at all.
Weapons stopped at a door cracked open, the first incident of such he
had noticed. A tenacious streamer of mist originated from the dark
opening, seeping across the floor with the cold quality of vaporous
carbon dioxide.
"Don't do it," pleaded Ghydin, without conviction.
Weapons glanced over his shoulder at the ex-pilgrim. "I will look.
This might be a way to return to Cube #347."
"We're dead," slowly explained Ghydin, as if to a small child, "and by
looking at you, our body is not serviceable. What are you going to do if
it is Cube #347? Become the first Borg ghost?"
Weapons disregarded Ghydin and peeked into the room. Infinity was the
first thought, followed improbably by cozy. A small room with a sense of
galaxy scale largeness. Mood lighting. Pieces of anatomy (lips?
eyeballs?) huddled around a table. The sound of dice. Weapons withdrew,
unenlightened.
Ghydin pulled Micah several unprotesting steps, then tugged on the
connection to Weapons, "Come on. Let's go."
Weapons nodded and took the lead once more.
Several turns later, a new sight was beheld part way down the most
recent corridor: two eyeballs and two pairs of lips loitering outside a
closed door. They were obviously conversing among themselves, paying no
attention to their surroundings. Of the eyeballs, one had a brown iris
and the other green; and one of the lips was painted purple. They seemed
to hover above the floor as natural as a biped standing on two legs.
Weapons drew closer, interested in their speech, confident they would pay
as much mind to him as the feet, the hands, the pizza toting blurs.
"I wonder how much longer?" grumped the purple painted lips.
The green-irised eyeball shrugged, or at least that was the impression
from the shoulderless entity, "You know I can't see ahead in this place.
Too many Boards, too many possibilities, even for me. Besides, you are
the one who got us thrown out of the room, you and touching the Editor's
tools."
The purple lips managed to take on an indignant air. "The Board was
messed up to begin with. And the Editor did lose my powers with its
little tweak. What was I supposed to do?" The argument had the tone of
one repeated over and over again, ad nauseam, ending known, but other
topics long exhausted.
"You could have been patient and let the Editor fix everything when it
returned."
"Say," said the unpainted mouth, "Iris, don't those things down the hall
belong to you?"
"Wha?" asked the green-irised eyeball, shocked wordless. It swiveled to
regard Weapons and company with the patented stare possible only to a
Director. "Oh, no!" it bemoaned. "That means the entire game is screwed
up, over, under, everywhere! He is not supposed to have died, not yet!
This wasn't foreseen when we left the Board Room, other unhappy things,
yes, but not that piece's death! What has the Editor done?" The last
words had a nearly hysterical note to them.
The purple lips twitched into a wolfish half-smile, as if pleased to see
someone else having troubles.
"This isn't funny, Lips," snapped Iris.
The brown-irised eyeball gave a tut-tut clucking sound of sympathy.
"You gotta calm down a bit, Iris. Everything will be okay. Think of
your blood pressure."
"Well, I think it is damned funny," sneered Lips at the same time,
precipitating a new argument which grew increasingly loud.
Deciding now might be a good time to leave, Weapons retraced his steps
back to the last turned corridor and chose a new direction to explore.
* * * * *
The situation in Bulk Cargo Hold #5 was yielding to the control of the
new Weapons. True, the holograms still inhabited the hold, still fired
upon Borg intruders with computerized malice, but personal safeties had
been forced upon the program, decreasing game intensity from Insanity to
Normal.
As a ten-squad of engineering drones beamed into Bulk Cargo Hold #5 to
examine plasma damage, 141 of 212 (Weapons, he reminded himself, Weapons
is the correct subdesignation) participated with a number of his
hierarchy in completing the scenario. Once every sprite was killed, the
BorgCraft program would disengage. The problem was now not in the hunt,
since the holographic weapons were useless against Borg, but rather in
the finding: the scenario scene was a very intricate orbital station.
141 of 212 raised his arm to fire at a sprite, absently stepping over a
body. He looked down, blinked, requiring several seconds to digest
visual data and come to a positive identification so badly burned was the
corpse. Within himself, 141 of 212 relaxed his last paranoid barriers
and fully embraced his new subdesignation.
{Drone maintenance,} spoke Weapons, {report to my coordinates. 45 of
300's body is found.}
* * * * *
There were more intersections in this part of the never-ending complex,
and shorter corridors. The hallways had a distinctly seedy air to them,
cream paint gone to a gray matching the threadbare carpet. The doors
were of the type found at cheap by-the-hour motels, an aura of "warpness"
permeating their otherwise plain facade. Even the markings above the
doors felt old, used; and while most continued to glow ethereal silver,
here and there the light was fitfully flickering, or extinguished.
Ghydin leaned against a wall and gasped for air. He had never been a
particularly fit specimen when alive, enough to get by, but a life of
living on space stations and in fourth class passenger ship
accommodations did not for muscles or stamina make. Sitting around as a
shade in Weapons' mind had not helped the situation; and it appeared his
body form, once created, could not be altered to something more fitting
for the occasion. Even Micah seemed winded, but it was difficult to
truly tell if his mouth gaped more than usual.
Weapons, on the other hand, was not tired. While Borg were not built
for speed, what they did have was endurance. A drone could literally
march for days at an unvarying pace, terrain ignored, until it fell on
its face due to regenerative need. Servos, enhanced musculature, an
efficient lactic acid filtration unit, such were the tools that kept a
Borg in motion. He tugged on his chain to Ghydin.
"Just...a...minute," panted Ghydin. He held his breath, paused, then
continued hyperventilating. Slowly his respiration came under control.
"Do you think we lost them?"
A faint wailing siren sounded in the distance, as it had been for quite
some time. Weapons cocked his head to listen, increasing his audio gain.
"No."
The alarm had begun shortly after the disturbing encounter with the
eyeballs and lips. Instead of indicating trouble in another waiting
room, it quickly became clear that the siren was in response to Weapons,
Ghydin, and Micah. A chase had ensured, Weapons forging forward with
best Borg speed, dragging Ghydin and Micah behind, turning randomly down
each corridor. Always in pursuit was the ominous marching cadence of
what presumably were feet, although they had yet to be seen. Weapons was
determined to evade them, to find a way back to Cube #347. What could
Ghydin do except follow? He had so long given up decision making and
body ownership that he could not assert himself.
Ghydin stood up. "Where to, then?" He breathed heavily, but it was
under control.
"They are in front and behind us," calmly stated Weapons. He glanced up
at the scrawling above the nearest door, noting the steady silver glow.
"We will go through here." He opened the door and boldly stepped
through, disregarding Ghydin's sudden protest.
The door swung shut and clicked.
It was a bar. Smoky. Low lighting. Alcohol of an infinite variety
flowing freely. Tables. Laughter. Conversations. A bank of dart
boards. Peanut shells and pretzel bits underfoot. A long counter behind
which a bartender shined a beer mug. A hundred, thousand, million beings
from a hundred, thousand, million species originating from a hundred,
thousand, million worlds.
People in the bar clustered around tables, telling intricate stories
which required wild gesturing of limbs, tentacles, antennae, and other
less identifiable pieces of anatomy. Occasionally an occupant would move
to a new chair at another table, or call loudly for another drink.
Through the thronging sea of sentient beings glided waiters and
waitresses dressed in everything from the species equivalent of a formal
tuxedo to practically nothing at all, if that.
"Say," said a voice, full of consternation, "you don't belong here!"
Weapons turned, finding the bar at his hip, although he was quite sure a
moment ago it had been much further away. On the business side of the
counter was a bartender, human in appearance, middle-aged, wearing a
well-washed shirt of dark green under a large apron. His black hair was
badly in need of a cut, and his eyes were the dark blue of a deep,
sterile sea. The glass he had been polishing was set aside and the towel
draped over his left shoulder. He ignored a drunken call for another
Kolplashi rum.
"Where is here?" asked Weapons. Several tables and half a galaxy away a
good-natured brawl was in its nascent stages, and he could swear the
glimpse of the humanoid in 23rd century Original Federation attire (gold
shirt) had been familiar in a gut wrenching,
double-fist-punch-to-the-back-of-the-neck sort of way.
The bartender answered, "You are in the Captain's Table bar, and only
the best captains are allowed to enter here and brag of their
accomplishments. Before they can leave they must pay their tab with a
story...or a lie as the case usually is around here. No exceptions.
You, however, are not captains, none of your three selves, although you,"
the bartender waved his hand at Weapons, "come the closest. Sort of.
Damn it! I told 'em at maintenance to fix the gateway after the others
stumbled through, and now look! Where did you come from, anyway?"
"A hallway with many doors where I was told I was dead. But I cannot
wait 492 years to return to Cube #347. You will tell me how to exit this
place," demanded Weapons. He shifted as someone jostled Micah, which in
turn staggered Ghydin, then himself in chain reaction fashion.
"From In-betweenlife? Ah, crap-ola. Someone has really messed up
somewhere. I would send you back to wait at the Reject's Table, if only
to get you out of the way, but it is in use at the moment." The
bartender flipped his hand in a particular direction.
Weapons tried to follow the gesture, narrowing his eye as he scanned the
boisterous crowd. Way, way, way in the back, so much as the bar could
have a back, he spotted a large pillar blocking his view of a table and
its occupants. Someone momentarily leaned back, allowing Weapons the
merest glimpse of the armored back of a Borg drone. At the same time, a
familiar presence tickled his mind, as if he was at the edge of the range
of a neural transceiver. "4 of 8?" he muttered aloud to himself.
Meanwhile, Ghydin found himself pierced by the shrewd gaze of the
bartender. "Say," he asked suddenly, "how do you know we're not
captains? Maybe we're a bit down on our luck, crashed our ship, met with
some pirates?"
The bartender shook his head. "One, you're dead. Dead people don't
come here, at least not usually. Two, you three are actually one; and
you one is a Borg. There is precisely one Borg captain that has ever
come here, accidentally mind you, and I've met him. You are not him.
Three, I can see it. It is my job."
Ghydin stared at the bartender. As he did so, he gained the impression
of an eyeball behind the counter instead of a human, an eyeball with a
blue iris. The not-quite eyeball winked, an interesting gesture without
an eyelid.
"As I said," reiterated the bartender, "I see everything."
Ghydin grumbled, "You're one of those eyeball things, aren't you?"
The bartender nodded, once again just a bartender. "Yup. I've
contacted the authorities. You'll be picked up and returned to
In-betweenlife in a moment. The Editors in Management swear they'll be
fixing the gateway doors now. Want a drink while you wait?"
Weapons turned, catching the relevant portions of the conversation as it
related to his imminent recapture. "Drinks are irrelevant. We will find
our own way out."
The bartender sighed, then flipped the towel off his shoulder and
resumed the never-ending task of polishing glass. Weapons and Ghydin
found themselves frozen in place. Presumably Micah was similarly
restrained, but since he rarely moved on his own accord, his status was
moot. "Nope. You're going to wait," cheerily spoke the bartender.
Weapons, Ghydin, and Micah loitered against one wall of the small room.
Unlike the other localities visited, this one had a definite feeling of
dimensions sans infinity. This room was an office showing the signs of
hard use that indicated it was as much a home as a place to work.
Personal touches included soothing blue walls, a tan carpet, and stars
stuck on the ceiling, doubtlessly arranged into familiar constellations.
A desk stood in the middle of the room, a giant imposing thing of heavy
blonde wood, covered with neat piles of paperwork and PADD devices. A
black coffee mug with the words "Multiverse's Best Boss" picked out in
cheery yellow stood on one corner. Three chairs were in evidence, a
poofy recliner behind the desk and two utilitarian faux-leather seats on
the visitor side. All the seats were occupied.
The beings were conversing about Weapons and company in the third person
as if they were pets, simpletons, or an unlistening wall. Perhaps for
these entities, they were all three.
In one chair on the visitor side of the desk sat (floated?) an eyeball,
green iris in color and chillingly familiar. While the other two
entities did not have any names which were mentioned aloud, the eyeball
seemed to be called Iris. It was rapidly trying to argue its agenda,
voice pitched on the edge of pleading, on the verge of shouting, but
never crossing the line of polite, if spirited, discussion.
The other leather backed chair was occupied by a spleen. Or perhaps a
pancreas. Maybe an appendix. Other than the fact it was an internal
organ often associated with the digestive system, little else about its
form was clear. Just as well because it was one thing to see a
disembodied eyeball, lips, hand, or foot wandering around, and another
all together to observe an organ from the bowels running free. Unlike
Iris, there was no name attached, but there was a definite aura of
"accountant," but not the wimpy, eyeglassed sort. Instead it was a
gladiator accustomed to fighting calculator wielding foes from IRS-like
organizations. It carried a clipboard which was frequently consulted.
Behind the desk was the owner of the office. While its actual form may
have been anything, Weapons perceived it as a giant brain. It lounged in
its recliner, a neutral expression to its wrinkled lobes, as it absorbed
Iris' arguments. Occasionally it would ask a pointed question to the
eyeball or request clarification on some point from the spleen. For the
most part it was a silent, yet commanding presence.
"Frank was in here complaining about your subpiece earlier," rumbled the
brain. "He keeps a tight shop in the traumatic injury ward, has since he
was recruited following his death. Good soul, Frank, if a little on the
type-A side at times. Still, I saw the waiting room after the orderlies
secured the situation and all the rioting souls had their consciousness'
refogged. It is a mess directly attributable to your subpiece."
Iris pleaded, "But they weren't even supposed to be here at all! The
primary of the three is slated for a suitably gruesome, yet humorous,
termination Board years from game present. A plasma explosion? An
accidental plasma explosion? Come on! I am appealing this death and
will continue to appeal this death. This subpiece belongs to my main
piece, which as is will be entering a tangled nexus before the Board year
is done. Mind you, it was a tweak by the Editor which sent my storyline
careening off towards the cliff, but I'm not a Critic to place blame for
every unlucky roll. However, if this subpiece is not part of my larger
Borg piece, I will be losing the cube, permanently. I have too many
millennia invested in my primary piece to give it up, to start
manipulating the strings of my minor pieces to bring one to prominence.
It is my right as a Director to appeal this untimely, ney, unwarranted
death!" The eyeball caught itself before it could turn the demand into a
bellow, settling sheepishly back into its chair.
The brain contemplated Iris for a long half minute before answering,
"And it is my job to determine the validity of your appeal. I believe it
has merit. This is an odd situation, and you present a hardship case.
Perhaps a Miracle can be arranged." A wordless request was sent to the
spleen.
The accountant tsk-tsked as it peered at its clipboard, flipping through
sheets of paper. "A Miracle? We are a little booked on your Board. I
believe there is an open slot in a Board year or so."
"A year?" choked Iris. "That is not suitable! One, I already said my
major piece will be entering a nexus in /less than/ a year; and, two, the
cube sub-collective is set to send in a body recovery team very shortly!
There is no pause button in this game. Once the body is recovered, it
will be dismembered, parts scavenged, and the remainder rendered for
constituent atoms. There won't be a body to return the soul to, hence no
Miracle possible!"
"Iris!" snapped the brain. The eyeball glared at the spleen as it
calmed itself. The next words were directed at the internal organ.
"You're an accountant. Find a way, a loophole. Now." The brain's tone
was one of command.
"Yes, yes," muttered the spleen as it swiftly read through its papers
again. "Well, there might be a way, although it will take a little
creative tinkering, but it can be done. Iris, you have a series of
class-3 Miracles scheduled for your Meleek subplot with the Hrak ship
thread? Little girl, cutsey pet, religious persecution, healing of
royalty, water into wine, and so forth and so on?"
Answered the Director suspiciously, "Yessss?"
"Well, there are sufficient class-3 Miracles to add to one class-1
Miracle - raise the dead, for instance - if you want to make a transfer.
It will mean the Meleek subplot will die, as will the little girl. The
cutsey pet could go either way."
The eyeball heaved a sigh. "Very well, if I must, I must. I really
only initiated that subplot with the Hrak ship because it would
eventually screw up one of Lips' major pieces, although it doesn't know
it yet. Now it never will. I guess that is the price. Make the
transfer."
"Done," replied the spleen as it made several notations on a page.
Tired of the discussion, Weapons pushed himself away from the wall. "I
demand a say in these proceedings. And I demand to be sent back to Cube
#347." Behind his back, Ghydin frantically shook his head back and
forth, then made gestures to implicate Weapons as a simpleton who should
not be listened to and from whom one should take no umbrage because he
didn't know what he was saying.
The brain appeared affronted and confused, as if it had just been
addressed by a sheep asking about the ethics of butchering an
intelligent, talking animal. Finally it said, "No, you don't have a say.
You are just a piece, a dead piece at that."
Iris interjected, "But you will be going back to Cube #347. Now hush
and let us talk."
* * * * *
Weapons was falling. Falling, falling, falling. With him fell Ghydin
and Micah, dim presences which could be felt nearby. Falling, falling,
falling. And then he wasn't falling. There was no sense of hitting
ground or sudden deceleration, simply a cessation of falling.
He was still dead, Weapons instinctively knew, but he was now dead in a
familiar place. No more In-betweenlife. It was dark, yet not dark, and
this was where he kept his files on the most efficient ways to disable or
terminate known species in hand-to-hand combat, and there were the neat
stacks of data which included how to construct a disruptor in a pre-warp
civilization. Ghydin's niche was in the back, squeezed between dusty
memories rarely accessed, a cozy nook more than sufficient for the
partial personality. Micah, on the other hand, was tenaciously
everywhere, concentrated in no particular place, although his ghost
presence, still drooling, occasionally consolidated in the memory stacks
close to Ghydin.
'Live,' urged Ghydin, 'else we'll go back to the waiting room. I don't
think we'll be allowed a second chance at this second chance.' Even as
the personality said it, the specific memories of In-betweenlife were
slipping away, replaced by fuzzy generalities, impressions.
Weapons concentrated. And lived.
{We will beam the crispy critter to Maintenance Bay #5 for further
evaluation,} nattered the familiar voice of Doctor, {and salvage.}
Weapons abruptly sat up. "But I'm not dead!" he declared loudly. His
mind raced through the dataspaces, confident, then hesitant. What was
this? He had no subdesignation? He was simply 45 of 300?
The drone maintenance units scrambled back from 45 of 300, surprised as
Borg can rarely be. {He's alive?} 119 of 152 declared uncertainly as she
quested towards the hologrid, attempting to determine if what was before
her eyes and of two others of her hierarchy was a twisted jest.
"I live," snarled 45 of 300 as he stiffly regained his feet and steadied
himself against a plasma fire blackened bulkhead. "Where is 141 of 212?
He has something which is mine!" Disregarding the flurry of surprised
speculation his resurrection had spawned, 45 of 300 shouted into the
intranets, {141 of 212! I am Weapons, not you! Submit! Resistance is
futile!}
In Bulk Cargo Hold #5, separated from 45 of 300 by a confounding
holographic maze, Weapons considered for a moment, just a moment,
resisting the directive. After all, he was Weapons, hierarchy head, and
the other was only a unit designated 45 of 300, a unit on the verge of
termination. Then Weapons weighed the other fact, the fact that 45 of
300 had been verified /dead/, yet he had returned from death to reclaim
the Weapons subdesignation. If termination was not a barrier, then 45 of
300 would eventually heal and be repaired; and at that time, would try to
reclaim the subdesignation to the detriment of whomever currently held
it.
Weapons relinquished the subdesignation, returning to the status of 141
of 212. It was not a hard decision to make, one which required no
consultation with the sub-collective, no consensus cascade, only a desire
not to visit drone maintenance.
45 of 300 captured the loose subdesignation, tacking it to himself. He
was Weapons once more, as it should be. With all right in his universe,
important things accomplished, Weapons was free to examine less weighty
matters, like the status of his body. Not very good was the diagnosis,
not very good at all.
Delta broke through the stunned silence which surrounded Weapons, her
acid question embodying that which was on the collective mind of Cube
#347. {You are not terminated? How?}
As Weapons placed himself on the drone maintenance roster, as he leaned
against the warped bulkhead and regarded charred skin and a multitude of
diagnostic warnings, he answered, {For some reason I do not fully
understand nor remember, the afterlife didn't want me....}