Star Trek is owned and operated by Paramount. Decker says you must be at least three feet, two inches to read Star Traks. I write BorgSpace; and seat belts are optional. Resemblance in this story to certain televised, but never actually named, programs is purely inconsequential.
Of Flux Jumps and Shuttle-bots
Beyond the hull of Cube #347, the universe disappeared, reality twisted to a photo negative which slowly faded to absolute Black. Moments before, or perhaps seconds (maybe a unit of time too small to be sliced?), the sub-collective had been facing certain capture by a coalition of Colors and covert Second Federation forces, but then the impossible had occurred in the form of a space-time anomaly. It was as if the Universe had rolled dice, coming up snake-eyes.
One knowledgeable in the manner knows that the Universe doesn't gamble; and if there is some Grand Entity which has countless stars as its neurons, it probably would pay little attention to the minuscule microbes known as life that inhabit its body. However, Directors and Critics (and the occasional Editor, but only by accident) /do/ play with dice, and the roll in this case had been infinity minus one.
Yonder the hull now existed Nothing, with a capital N. Space is a busy place despite appearances, with primordial dust a major component, not to mention the stray atom of the lighter elements; and even in the very rare ultra hard vacuum, the electromagnetic spectrum is awash with the singing of the universe, from clicking pulsars to warbling nebula to the modulations of sentient life. Nevertheless, in this pit of untarnished Black, there was an absence of everything: no rock, no lonely hydrogen or helium, no whisper of song. For Sensors, it was a living Hell.
{Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!} repeated Sensors over and over again in the intranets. She echoed her exclamations verbally, urgent whistling clicks of her native language loud to those near her alcove, not to mention the repeated banging of her head against unyielding metal. Everyone was being hit by the sudden deprivation of the sensory grid, the sub-collective's metaphorical eyes and ears to the outside, but for Sensors, it was a living Hell. {Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!}
Captain, in his nodal intersection and feeling somewhat abused from being flung into a bulkhead only a short time before, brutally severed all input from the exterior sensor grid. As it was, it was not helping the situation. The sub-collective reverberated from the unilateral unplugging of a major system, then again as the node which was Sensors fell into a stupor, higher mental functions suppressed. Drone maintenance was dispatched to deal with the matter, to determine that no permanent damage had occurred, in addition to the more physical repairs required by a significant number of other units due to the running battle against overwhelming Color forces.
The answer to the predicament was not immediately apparent, spatial-temporal anomalies rarely arriving with convenient manuals on how to escape them; and as the link to the Greater Consciousness was predictably severed, there was little to do except begin delving into the duct tape stock. The noise of rasps and bangs, buzzes and "don't weld my foot to the floor" sounded all over the cube.
Captain, head slightly cocked as he dealt with several internal matters simultaneously, absently watched a multi-hued schematic of Cube #347. A multitude of colors were apparent, detailing different types of repairs with status and urgency of each. Certain portions, such as those related to weaponry, had a tendency to waver towards the fix-it-now category, thus, keeping command and control busy filtering the immediate desires of certain drones. A part of him caught the clank of footsteps arriving from the catwalk to his right. At the same time, another set entered from corridor 113, directly behind. Dataspace consultation with the position of local drones stated the former to be Second and the latter to be 93 of 240.
Second silently stopped next to Captain, swiveling to face the holodisplay. He winced slightly as the engineering drone who had arrived to survey damages to the nodal intersection chortled for irrelevant and unknown reasons: 93 of 240 tended to unconsciously giggle or snicker at inappropriate times, making her a unit unsuitable for "public" display...an oddity for not only was she a Borg (okay, imperfectly assimilated), but also a Vulcan, the masters of repressed emotion.
"Your voice is /so/ lovely," commented Second about the high-pitched squeal which was anything but. "However it needs an adjustment. You should see drone maintenance about it. Maybe they can also burn out the part of your brain that produces that inane giggling."
93 of 240 blinked at Second's words, confusion tingeing her mental image. "What giggling?" she asked. "Giggling is irrelevant, illogical." The drone refused to believe she could produce such sounds, even when faced with replays of her caught in the act, much as a snorer may deny he rattles the house at night.
"Whatever," muttered Second as he returned to his considerations, leaving 93 of 240 to her repair appraisal. It was then the eyeball chose to walk through the bulkhead wall, a wall which created a relatively thin barrier to the shaft on the other side.
"Did I make it to the right place? Hello? Could this hologram be turned off, please? Thank you."
The eyeball was, well, an eyeball, a piece of bodiless anatomy, iris of green. It both lacked and possessed arms, hands, legs, a mouth, an expression. The specter was slightly transparent, like an out-of-tune hologram, yet strangely solid, more so than the densest of dense-packed neutronium. In one non-hand it held a lit cigar...a joke cigar as became quickly apparent when drags upon it created a rainbow of soap bubbles instead of smoke. The other appendage clutched a PADD at which the eyeball occasionally squinted.
"Infinity to the minus one. Why did it have to be infinity to the minus one? And why did I have to roll a 47? No chance to counter, no chance at all," muttered the eyeball to itself as its attention was directed momentarily to the PADD. "I guess the exit point won't be too bad. It /could/ be worse. Of course, with the infinity die in play, there are an infinite number of worses, as well as an infinite number of betters. It all evens out in the end, assuming they /make/ it to the end. Er...where were we?" was asked quickly as the eyeball noticed the hologram which had been obstructing its view of the nodal intersection had been moved.
Three drones stared at the apparition with four sets of eyes/optical implants (remember, Second's species had an unorthodox four eyes instead of the humanoid standard of two); and a total of four thousand other spectators crowded the input originating from on-the-scene units and local internal sensors. The eyeball was familiar in an odd way, the same way a dream is recalled a day later, however the data could not quite be pulled from memory archives. Oh, the eyeball was recognized to be the manifestation of an energy being which called itself a Director, but this /particular/ Director had a familiarity to it.
The Director pushed buttons on its PADD, eliciting several quiet beeps. "Er, guess that block better be altered. That'll make this whole thing so much easier. And it is a free move...you hear that? It is a free move!" shouted the eyeball towards the ceiling. At the same time, the hand holding the cigar waved in a complex pattern which cumulated with the sound of snapping fingers, although, to all appearances, no digits were available to make the noise.
Understanding flooded the sub-collective. "We know you," sputtered Captain as he utilized the collective "we," a rarity for him when he wasn't faced with creatures outside the Collective (the Director, an omnipotent being, didn't count). "You...processed us when we were dead. And something concerning a galaxy on a table with...dice?"
The Director nodded, ignoring the latter half of the blurred recollection. "Yes. Well, reincarnated would be a better description, but yes. Also, don't forget that little side-trip to circa 20th century Terra when you all thought you were ordinary humans with dull lives. Um, there was also that incident with 45 of 300. Messy. The charge nurse is still POed about the mess in the traumatic ward waiting room."
"What is your designation?" demanded Captain.
Shrugging, the eyeball answered, "I've had many names. You, however, may call me Iris."
"How original," stated Second with flat sarcasm, "an eyeball with the name Iris."
"It is my name, boy-o. Don't get sassy with me. I'm an omnipotent being, after all, and I don't /have/ to be going to so much trouble to save your collective a**es when I could be developing other pieces, other plots," stated Iris. It glared at the drone; and there is nothing so piercing as a glare from an entity which is essentially all eye.
{Play nice,} reminded Captain internally to Second. Aloud: "Fine. Since you are an omnipotent being, you can remove us from this Nothingness we are in."
At that charge, the Director managed to look embarrassed. "There may be a slight problem with that, although I'd be glad to do it. You see, there was a trifling accident, the details of which don't concern you. I'm trying to get you back to your reality, but it might be a while. Meanwhile, you will be jumping to different realities - different Boards, really, or perhaps different Pages in the Ultimate Book. It is hard to explain to linear beings. Where you land, the beings around you will generally assume you belong there, have a reasonable reason for being in the situation you will find yourselves in. After a while, you will move on to another reality, and, eventually, hopefully, back to the original Board."
93 of 240's non-implanted eye opened wide. Prior to her entry into the Collective, she had been a Vulcan intellectual performing an in-depth study of the human culture and how pre-warp history had influenced contemporary civilization. Specifically, she had been attempting to explain some of the current illogicalities via analysis of televised science-fiction medium of the late 20th to early 21st centuries. 93 of 240 was a fount of eclectic information.
"And you will guide us through these leaps? We will have to set some situation right before we are allowed to move to our next assignment, always hoping that it will be the last?" asked 93 of 240 avidly.
Iris blinked (winked?) at 93 of 240 in confusion, blew bubbles with its cigar, then responded, "What do you think this is? Some trademarked Terran television program that is heavily protected by vicious lawyers? Despite the evidence to the contrary, despite similarities, there are significant differences. For instance, what you are undergoing is technically called a 'flux jump', not that other terminology I cannot utter." Pause. "Frankly, I'll just be satisfied you survive until my turn comes again so I can roll the infinity die."
{Survive?} questioned from several diffuse sources as the sub-collective digested the matter placed before it.
As if Iris had heard the silent question, the eyeball nodded. "Yes, survive. Speaking of which..." The PADD was consulted. "You are about to reach your first stop. See you later, I hope!" The Director began to fade as it stepped through the bulkhead adjacent the central shaft, returning quickly in a more solid form. "Oops. That's a long drop out there. I think I'll just dissipate right here, thank you very much." With that, the Director slowly disappeared, serenely blowing bubbles that remained in the nodal intersection long after the entity who had created them was gone.
The silence of expectation reined, both inside the dataspaces and without. A bubble landed on Second's head; and another floated under Captain's nose and popped, causing him to stifle a very unBorg sneeze.
"Forty-seven," intoned a bodiless bass, a voice the Universe might possess should it be able to speak. It was not an utterance with which to argue. A single reverberating BONG rang, not so much heard as felt, as if a giant clock had struck one (or the final note of thirteen). The flux jump ended, the new "here" gradually appearing, absolute Black twisting to a photo negative, then resolving in the standard hues one expected. Somewhere existed beyond the hull of Cube #347 once again; and a very crowded Somewhere at that. Back to that in a moment.
Holodisplays switched on all over the cube, wherever there was a drone, conscious or not; and internal speaks spat the sounds of a screaming crowd overlaid with a commentator's voice. No commands for such had been provided by the sub-collective or an outside agency, it just was. Simultaneously, a triple stream of data was within the dataspaces, two visual representing twin visual feeds and one verbal reflecting the noises echoing throughout the cube.
{Reactivate Sensors,} snapped Captain. A fully functioning sensory hierarchy was required to explain the datastreams, to determine how to sever them as necessary, or at least moderate. At the moment, they were at the equivalent of a full-spectrum full-volume level, impossible to ignore and invasive to the point that they were interfering with normal cognitive functioning. In other words, the sub-collective could not hear itself think, which was not a good thing when it came to controlling the impulsive actions of those such as Weapons.
On one of the screens floating in Captain's nodal intersection was a nearly translucent box with large metallic spheres at its corners, exact dimensions unable to be calculated. However, if the ship forms floating outside its confines were any indication, the volume represented was likely in the range of a cubed kilometer. As the camera view switched, zoomed, panned, and generally followed the actions inside the box, it became apparent that the objects under scrutiny were two small vessels, shuttle sized, with a variety of attachments, some viciously functional and others simply decorative. The shuttles were engaged in a contest to literally rip each other apart by any means necessary, at the same time avoiding a variety of obstacles both stationary and mobile within the cage. As one or another vessel rammed, clawed, or pushed the other into a spiked asteroid, the cheers of the crowd surged.
Meanwhile, on the second display, on the second visual feed, a pair of announcers sat behind a desk, providing commentary and occasional banter witty only to those of average or below intellect. Specs of the shuttles in the box were discussed, as well as tactics as it became clear that the vessels were under remote control. The announcers appeared as human males, at least from the waist up because the desk obscured any view of the lower regions. However, many races in the Borg catalogue were known to look at least nominally human; and in this case, only one of the pair was actually speaking a Terran derived language, the other utilizing a tongue which was beyond the ability for humans to utter. While it was not recognizable to the sub-collective, not able to be put in one of the nice boxes Borg are so found of and thereby catalogue it, a translator was in effect through the audio feed, rendering the need to transliterate it unnecessary.
"Ouch, that had to hurt," exclaimed the human with a wince as one shuttle, a spiky vessel with an uncanny resemblance to a sea cucumber bounced off a box face. Spectacular sparks spat from both sides of the barrier, quickly extinguishing in the vacuum of space. "Those force fields don't do good things to the electrical systems of these bots, you know. Let's hope that the builders remembered to harden their electronics, else this match will be over quickly."
"No worries there," literally growled the second announcer. Perhaps the glimpse of his teeth showed a dentition more carnivorous than the standard Terran? Maybe that waving hand sported finely manicured claws, not flat nails? "Rube-zilla looks like it has recovered and is charging at Zeus." The sea cucumber rammed its opponent, a box painted black with a lightening bolt splitting its side. One of the cucumber's spikes punctured the pilot's section, but with observation glass already broken, there was no real damage done. "Zeus may have the more powerful engine" (schematics and numbers popped up in the background behind the commentators) "but Rube-zilla definitely has the better contact weapon in this match. Still another five minutes to go, however. Anything can happen!"
At this point, Second's mind went from the idle of forced downtime to active status. {Shuttle-bots!} blurted Sensors suddenly. {Sensors has not [jellied] shuttle-bots in [red carpet]. Sensors thought it only a species #6766 sport.} Exactly what "shuttle-bots" were, or how they pertained to the situation was unclear.
Sporting pursuits were irrelevant to the Collective, although all facets of a culture were stored in archives, if only because an obscure bit of data might be adapted at some future point for the betterment of the Whole. Species #6766 was enigmatic to begin with, and even in the most recent century Cube #347 had reincarnated into were yet to be fully assimilated...or even their /homeworld/ located despite many clues as to its whereabouts. Therefore, without access to the Collective, a data download on shuttle-bots could not be performed; and delving into Sensors' convoluted mind or listening to an explanation where every fourth word was marked as untranslatable were methods sure to result only in greater confusion.
Captain slashed through Sensors' babble as she tried to detail the sport using nonsensical [printer]s and [telephone pole]s. {Not now. Where are we? What are we seeing? Where are the transmissions coming from? Can we jam them? We require answers from sensory hierarchy.} Sensors quieted as concentration was turned fully towards the grid, towards the hierarchy awaiting direction, towards implementing contorted grid protocols which would only add to the drone maintenance burden as the inevitable unit was unable to cope and blew the Borg equivalent of a fuse.
{Weapons don't even think of....are you even paying attention?} simultaneously asked Second as he performed a check upon one of the reasons Cube #347 found itself in so many unwanted situations. Due to the circumstances so recently escaped which had included overwhelming odds forcing a direct confrontation, Weapons should still have been highly, if not over, stimulated. The hierarchy in such a state required constant watching to prevent undesired misfires and "oops, we didn't mean to disintegrate your head of state, really." The near entirety of his hierarchy, including Weapons, however, were utterly engrossed in the shuttle-bot feeds.
Weapons responded, {We are busy. Go away until we are needed. This is a stupendous program. So many /new/ scenarios to build into BorgCraft!}
Second mentally backed away, leaving the uncharacteristically engrossed hierarchy head. A small partition was set to observe the weapons hierarchy, just in case signs of greater interest in the universe outside the broadcast became apparent.
And there was much for Weapons to be interested in.
The area beyond the hull of Cube #347 was crowded with all manner of ships, some recognizable and others ciphers. They were in orbit around an aged white dwarf star with no planetary system except the standard collection of asteroids, comets, and other common dross. If there was an order to the parking, it was unclear, vessels crowded as close as possible to a faintly shimmering box, the same one as seen in the visual feed. The only rule to the apparent chaos was that none were allowed within half a kilometer of the cage nor the huge holding area for shuttles immediately adjacent. None, that is, except for a single ship.
The single vessel was the origination of the visual and audio broadcasts, as well as numerous private communiques to the shuttle yard and individuals in the parking zone. Its general shape was that of a deflated football 110 meters long. On one end, presumably the bow, stylized Terran scribbled the name "Shuttle-bot Prime"; and underneath it was a second line of writing, a series of icons the sub-collective did not recognize. A tall, stiff fin sprouted from the mid-dorsal and mid-ventral surfaces, linking stem and stern. The fin was the source of the broadcasts. To each side on the lateral midline, warp nacelles were mounted on short pillions. Forcefield-warded openings on the belly of the ship continually issued forth and received a string of single-person carriers traveling to and from the shuttle yard, else small globes which, due to a size and configuration which would otherwise require a spherical pilot no more than twenty centimeters tall, were driven remotely.
On the audio and visual feeds, from sensors trained on the box (Cube #347 had awoken to find itself in a particularly good viewing spot with more than the usual buffer space between it and its nearest neighbor), the most recent shuttle-bot bout came to a spectacular end. Rube-zilla had managed to ram several of its spines into Zeus' power housing, causing an overload that cumulated in a fireball. Rube-zilla was declared winner and allowed to move on in the fight brackets, after which a /third/ audio-video channel impinged the hull and forced the opening of new holodisplay windows: it was a commercial.
"Do you have a question? Do you need an answer? Well, Tizork the Jambalaya Sage has an answer for you! Call our number and have a three minute psychic reading with Tizork, personally, for free! That's right, free! Listen to these testimonials!" screamed an unseen announcer. Meanwhile, the visual feed showed an odd creature (species #8120 - rather like a giant green slug with spindly arms), eyestalks staring at Tarot cards. She was dressed in flamboyant Terran Jamaican clothing, at least those of her which would fit into such garments.
{Turn it off!} protested Captain to Sensors even as he found that he had no control over the commercial feed. Simultaneously, portions of command and control hierarchy were blocking outgoing transmissions as several drones attempted to contact Tizork for their "free" reading.
Sensors responded, {Sensors doesn't believe species #8120 to be [snake] psychics. [Empire paperclips] not mentioned in species [adobe].}
Captain did not attempt to translate the untranslatable, but could understand the gist of the complaint, which did nothing to answer his, the sub-collective's, demand. {Turn off the commercial! Turn off all transmissions!}
{Sensors is unable to do so. [Galloping] passive [radiation shield] of the [lights] means that [dragons] and [desks] serve to [calendar]. Sensors has found volume control and displays can be [tromped] to less [coffee] spots. This cube, however, will always receive the [swimming fish],} helpfully explained the always cryptic Sensors.
Captain caught himself grinding his teeth, immediately stopping. He glanced over his shoulder as he sensed movement, seeing 93 of 240 trying to position herself to more fully watch the commercial window. {Return to your engineering duties! Comply! Delta, control your units!} 93 of 240 snapped her head up as Delta did so, disappearing in a tractor beam.
Second eyed Captain, "A little testy today, are we? Straining the emotional censure programs, are we?"
"Shut up," muttered Captain. One subtle effect of the severance from the Collective (if such existed in this "forty-seven" reality, the vinculum had yet to lock on the appropriate fractual frequency) was a decrease in the efficiency of the robust censures which were laced all through the dataspace programming of Cube #347. The censures moderated extreme impulses into ones subsequently able to be handled by command and control; and those censures were continually monitored through passive means by the Greater Consciousness, which would lend a bit of additional stability as warranted. It was an automated system, one which did not expose the Whole to assimilation imperfection corruption, and one which was not noticed until it was no longer present.
Second smirked and returned to his mandated duties.
One solution to the immediate broadcast problem in Captain's nodal intersection included physically damaging the local holoemitters, although that would not stop the cube from passively receiving the transmissions. However, with volume control available, Captain instead opted to mute the speakers, which while doing nothing for receiving via "internal" ears, did remove an annoying stereo effect. The displays were thence moved out of the way and allowed to show their contents to an unseeing corner.
{Weapons: load scenarios for destruction of the broadcast vessel,} ordered Captain.
Uncharacteristically so when confronted with an order for mayhem, Weapons was reluctant. {But...this is good programming. And the other ships might be somewhat peeved by the action; and we don't recognize all the vessels, much less what type of weaponry they could deploy. And our offensive and defensive systems are still 5.8 hours from full repair. Is such the wisest course of action?}
Large portions of the sub-collective reeled. Was this really Weapons, or a cunning impostor with Weapons' mental signature? Had Weapons' pacifist alter ego returned? No, it was Weapons, but a Weapons who had finally found something of destructive interest beyond BorgCraft scenarios. Before Captain could press the matter, the sensor grid reported the approach of a globe from Shuttle-Bot Prime.
Captain opened a new window, this one uncluttered by announcer, shuttles, or species #8120 psychics. It showed a camera view from the hull as the featureless, golden robot approached. Automatically catalogued as no threat, it was allowed to approach within fifty meters before targeting systems pinged warnings off of its metallic hide. The robot glided to a halt and tight-beamed a laser communication, audio only. The base language was Terran, but translator algorithms twisted it into archaic syntax vastly different from the boisterous shuttle-bot announcer.
"Are ye and ye shuttle-bot ready to go? Ye are expected at slip 96 in six hours for pre-fight examination and ye battle time is eight hours. Thee officials remind thee that no electromagnetic weaponry or energy shields are allowed, nor kinetic projectiles. Tractor beams be hunky-dory, as be passive entangling devices. Spikes, arms, and other such ornaments are okay. Impulse drives or the equivalent sub-light engine only. If referees doth find ye hath flaunted these rules, thou shall have one hour to set all right prior to a second examination. If ye do not pass the second examination or thou doth not send a shuttle-bot to slip 96 within the allotted time from this warning, thou shall be eliminated from the match and ye opponent shall advance via default. Doth thou understand and doth thou have a shuttle-bot ready?" The tone was stilted, the speech automated in character and likely repeated word-for-word hundreds of times per day to hundreds of competitors.
The multivoice function was activated. Cube #347 responded, audio-only to match that of the robot: "We are Borg."
Answered the globe, boredom trending towards insolence apparent despite its mechanical nature, "Yah, yah. That is what thee entry form shows. We also hath Barg, Berg, and Birg here as well. I doth not have all cycle. Will thee be ready to go?"
"If we do not?"
"Thou arrived late, so thou did not witness the several earlier opponents who were unready. If thee train thou sensors over there," the globe glided away from the cube a short distance before returning, "thee shall see the remains of those opponents. People get a little riled when denied a good battle. One ship against one hundred, even if thee had a dreadnought of the line, usually guarantees that ship a loss."
The sensor grid focused on a spot in the parking zone unusually devoid of vessels. Within it floated debris, that of a larger ship now reduced to scrap.
"Yes, yes! We will be ready to go!" inserted Weapons into the conversation before he could be stopped.
If the robot was taken aback by the sudden change from guarded question to eager compliance, it did not show. Instead, it turned and began to motor on a line to the broadcast vessel. "Good. Remember, thou has six hours to bring thee shuttle-bot to slip 96."
{Weapons...} began Captain.
Weapons radiated confusion, unsure what he had done wrong even when it was explained to him. That, however, was Weapons, and by extension the weaponry hierarchy he represented; and now the sub-collective was committed.
Start with a shuttle shaped like a mini-van the size of a small house, nacelles under-slung like sled runners in place of tires. The vessel is big because it was once hauled cargo; and it is more streamlined than most of its breed because it had begun life within the racing subtype, and it is widely believed that slanted noses, like painted flames and stylish stripes, will make for better aerodynamics, even in the depths of space where there is no atmosphere. Now, remove those nacelles, for warp is not required in this contest, and shoehorn an engine originally designed for a tug into the cargo hold. Outside, Battle-class neutronium armor is welded to the thin hull, painted a matte black. The exception is the chromed spikes of which there are numerous ringing the lower circumference, with two large ones fore and aft pointed outwards like hellish jousting tusks. A name - "Assimilator" - is scrawled in luminous green paint across the roof.
Or, at least, that was the final vision for the shuttle-bot taking shape on the floor of Bulk Cargo Hold #8, holographic representation rotating lazily in the air above the heads of busily working drones. The current reality was a stripped down racing cargo shuttle recently appropriated from 127 of 230's collection, a collection forced to begin from nothing following reincarnation and the move to the new Cube #347, shuttles a tad bit too big to smuggle. Unfortunately, there were...creative differences...slowing the work which had to be completed in four hours.
Near the shuttle stood Weapons, present to supervise, flanked on each side by Delta. A very argumentative Delta, for it was the engineering hierarchy which was building the shuttle, an engineering hierarchy Delta was not to allow Weapons direct influence over beyond suggestions.
"Phasers and disrupters are not allowed..." firmly stated the body of Delta A. Dataspace schematics of the shuttle were altered from Weapons' hack-and-slash job to delete the offending weaponry.
"...as per stated in the tournament rules," finished the sentence by Delta B, presenting Weapons with a verbal stereo. Simultaneously to alterations to the shuttle blueprints, Weapons received a stream of the reams of regulations that, if they were to be printed out on paper, would fill several encyclopedia-sized volumes.
Weapons fumed, "But we must win. A small neuruptor, placed so, and camouflaged?" Since neuruptors were not able to be scaled for any smaller platform than a full-sized Borg vessel, the weapon was not exactly inconspicuous. Above, the holographic representation altered to fit the new dataspace design, a cylindrical device fully as large as the shuttle itself attached to the underside and painted with the words "This is not an illegal addition."
{No, no, no!} shouted Delta, both internally and verbally. {You will not follow that design,} snapped Delta to her hierarchy. {We will follow the original.} The neuruptor was erased.
"One cutting beam cannot hurt," commented Weapons, oblivious to the glances he was receiving from the engineering hierarchy members present working on the shuttle, the drones holding implements that could as easily be employed with taking something apart as they were with putting something together. Command and control was hard pressed to keep the peace, to blunt desire from becoming action. Meanwhile, one of the forward ramming spears shimmered into a cut-away view, showing a cunningly inserted cutting beam meant for fine-scale mining operations.
Delta balled the fists of both her bodies, one part of her fighting the censoring influences of command and control, pleading with her forced programming to, just this once, allow her satisfaction of using a certain drone as part of the design. After all, there were many bits of Borg that were applicable to this shuttle-bot endeavor. {Denied,} Delta could only remove the offending weaponry. "No! How many times must it be repeated...it isn't allowed!"
"We are Borg. Rules apply to small beings, not us."
Thus the next four hours passed.
{Told you so,} said Delta as Assimilator was maneuvered from the holding slips back to Cube #347.
The inspectors, golden globes akin to the initial messenger, had carefully probed, prodded, peered along the entire electromagnetic spectrum, measured gravitonic potentials, and used other methods to examine the remote-controlled shuttle-bot. They had found the disguised railgun, not to mention the two torpedoes and the phaser array. Monitoring the comings and goings of other shuttles, the sub-collective was not alone in its attempted noncompliance, many other contestants trying to sneak illegal hardware past the officials. However, as with Assimilator, none were obviously successful, each ship sent back to its base vessel for alteration to ruled specs.
{Maybe a...} began Weapons.
Captain interrupted, {No. The shuttle-bot will be altered as needed and returned to the inspection slip.} Although there had been no observations of the implied threat the messenger robot had spoken of, the debris clouds were worrisome; and some of the vessels belonging to observers and contestants, while none remotely approaching a Borg cube in size, were very, very heavily armed, trouble looking for a place to happen. It did not need to happen on Cube #347.
Assimilator was drawn into Bulk Cargo Hold #8 by docking tractor beams.
"And for the next round, we have two first-time contestants, each with a heavyweight shuttle-bot new to the competition," said the human announcer on the audio-visual feed. As far as could be told, neither host had been allowed a break, not for food, bathroom, or sleep, which brought up the question concerning if the pair were actually flesh and blood. Debate within the intranets gave the most weight to holographic projection, followed by androids, with genetic engineering a distant third. 76 of 203 held to the notion that they were remote controlled pod creatures bent on taking over the universe, but, then again, that was 76 of 203's answer to everything. "Atun, what's the scoop on the machines and their owners? Do either have a chance of advancing past more experienced opponents?"
Atun growled a response, "Jack, these two might put up a fight at the lower brackets, but they don't stand a chance. I could be wrong, but the designs are variations upon the commonplace; and, most importantly, driver experience is lacking. First is Moby," behind the announcers sprouted a spinning holographic schematic of a discoid shuttle-bot, "a standard rotating buzz-saw model. This shuttle-bot has potential, and we've seen some of its type advance far, but it requires a good driver to control. The Moby team, based from ship Riven Gate, are unknowns to the shuttle-bot circle, without even an experienced driver at their core. The shuttle-bot Assimilator is in similar circumstances," the Borg entry replaced Moby, "and with a worse design. Structurally, refit shuttle forms are generally not the best bases, with a good shuttle-bot is built from the keel out specifically for competition. Still, it is known that this particular contestant has managed to insert quite an engine in that hull, and the armoring is fantastic. Now, can the team in Cube #347 - isn't that the stupidest name for a ship you've ever heard, Jack - pilot?"
"Thank you for that commentary, Atun. For all these answers and more, why don't we go to the proving grounds, where our opposing shuttle-bots have entered. The four house shuttle-bots have taken position on their edges. All is ready to go. Meanwhile, tune to channel four for a more detailed examination of these shuttle-bot designs; and channel five for live betting coverage," smoothly answered Jack.
The broadcasts consumed only a small percentage of the sub-collective of Cube #347's focus. Instead, attention was upon the shuttle, and, more specifically, upon the information arriving from on-board sensors, as well as the portion of the grid centered on the battle field.
The battle box was a kilometer an edge, not as big as Cube #347, but more than sufficient a volume for two small shuttles. Rocky debris of various sizes strategically placed within the box provided cover, obstacle, or potential weapon; and so did the ingenious traps floating here and there which spat corrosive acids, leaked plasma, or simply buzz-sawed into any shuttle-bot which ventured too close. Along four of the inside edges patrolled each a massive robot, twice the size of any contestant, a machine designed to take apart anything which might enter its zone of protection. In all, it was a nightmarish place to put a shuttle, especially as one either exited as victor or in pieces.
Weapons, the mind primary in directing Assimilator's driving, was ready. A destruction derby using modified shuttles for proxies? This was to be fun. Too bad there were limiting things like rules; and too bad the shuttles didn't allow for a pilot to be at the physical controls.
Moby, floating in the box opposite of Assimilator, sported a classic UFO shape. At least such a form was visible under the circumferential blades which turned the shuttle-bot into something more fitting to be found in a woodshop of the gods, especially when spinning at full speed. Additional spikes and blades angled from dorsal and ventral surfaces, not that either was sufficiently distinctive to be conclusively determined, made attacks there as potentially painful as the direct assault method. It was a design meant to literally slice all opponents into small bits.
At the edge of the arena leading to the pits near the single portal in or out of the box, now sealed, was a large screen. It briefly flashed a color sequence of red-yellow-green: the contest was officially begun.
Predictably, Weapons sent Assimilator hurtling towards Moby, oversized engines accelerating the transformed racing cargo shuttle. Internal sensors complained that the structure was not meant to withstand such forces; and should the insane driver of this mindless contraption attempt to make sharp turns at such velocity, there was a good possibility of the engine making the curve (prior to explosion), leaving behind a chassis with a hole in its side. The warnings were ignored as the still spinning-up Moby darted behind a rocky barrier, forcing Assimilator to follow.
While the design of Moby may have been good, it quickly became evident that the commentators had been correct in that a spinning shuttle-bot was difficult to control by inexperienced drivers. It wibbled, it wobbled, it careened drunkenly within the enclosure, bouncing off anything in its path. While neither team were particularly strong in the strategy department, tending to simply make runs at each other as if they were at an ancient jousting tournament, Moby was highly likely to reel away at the last moment, as if inebriated. However, there was also the likelihood that Assimilator would be struck, not so much due to skill, but due to luck.
At five minutes into the bout, Assimilator was showing the strain of the contest. The paint was chipped, as to be expected, and several lateral spines had been sliced. Both the fore and aft horns remained, not that they were dealing much damage; and it had been the dense-packed neutronium hull armor which had prevented Moby from slicing a swath into the shuttle itself and, thus, accidentally winning the bout.
{There is this little thing called strategy,} tried Second, putting voice to the nebulous thoughts floating around the intranets. At this rate, Cube #347's entry would be chopped to debris, one sliver at a time, by the wild, nearly uncontrollable Moby.
{We are weapons hierarchy,} retorted Weapons. {Although we do not have access to the Collective, we still retain more than sufficient archival matter to produce a wide range of combat options at scales ranging from single drone assaults to coordinating a 100 cube armada. One shuttle is simple.}
{Then why persisting at this charging? It is not gaining us anything.}
{It is allowing the enemy a sense of complacency,} responded Weapons even as his hierarchy frantically searched for another tactic, if only to show that there was more in their repertoire. {It is a classic maneuver.} True, it /was/ a classic Borg maneuver, for when a Mind did not care how many drones were lost in a direct assault, how many ships, only that the sheer numbers were sufficient to overwhelm the opposition, there were few instances when deviousness was required. However, in a one-on-one situation, it was an ill-advised tactic to use, not that Weapons was against attempting the tried-and-true, just in case.
"So classic it has been discarded by most species of the galaxy. Obviously not our opponent, but by everyone else," muttered Second aloud. He ignored the mental emanation from Captain, which could be compared as akin to rolling eyes.
For the next charge, Assimilator veered downwards at the last moment, yawing upwards to strike Moby from underneath (or above) near the outward edge of the spinning saucer with a glancing bow spike blow. The results were unexpected in their severity. For the effort, Assimilator lost its horn; and Moby began a chaotic careening.
Flipping, in addition to spinning, the pilot of Moby lost whatever trace of control previously present. Rocks, traps, force field wall, a house shuttle-bot, all were bounced off of. With each impact, a bit of armor, a chunk of hull, a protective spine whirled away, taking on a trajectory of its own. Moby was disintegrating, and there was nothing its owners could do to stop the process. Finally, the shuttle-bot came to rest in the largest asteroid present, having spun itself too deep into the rock to be extricated except by crowbar and welding torch.
"Well, glory be," said Atun in surprise, his sharp teeth visible with that utterance, "who would have expected it. Certainly not this announcer, with all his experience. It seems Assimilator will be advancing in the ranks. What can I say, but, congratulations. Moby...I suggest piloting lessons for you. Hopefully the helm of Riven Gate is a bit more competent than Moby's drivers. So, Jack, while the sweeper bots clean up the mess in the box, who's next?"
Assimilator faced off against a jellyfish with the unlikely designation of Foghorn. In fact, that was not the name of the unusual shuttle-bot, rather the announcers' nickname for a overly voweled title which sounded like a bass clarinet brought to foghorn volumes. It was a wholly organic shuttle, oily blue epidermis slightly pulsating as a myriad of long tendrils writhed in a nonexistent wind. As unusual as the opponent seemed, the sub-collective of Cube #347 recognized it, and knew the species to which it belonged as one eradicated by the Collective in the "original" reality. Several of the species present at the contest may be unknown, including the non-human announcer - {Holograms! Genetically engineered beings! But they have not left to eliminate bodily wastes! We only see them from the waist up...who knows what is happening below the level of that desk.} - but the enemy of this bout was not among them.
They were species #3577 - OOoooIeeeOoOo a crude translation without the aforementioned foghorn - a small parasite of the shuttle-bot's mothership, itself a larger copy of its literal parthenogenically produced sterile daughter. Species #3577 were little more than bags of tough gelatinous, near leathery skin enclosing a highly developed brain, a reproductive system, and an abbreviated digestive system. Each individual was seventy centimeters in diameter with a fringe of tentacles as long as the body was wide on the ventral surface, touch the primary sense in a species where vision and hearing were degenerate. Instead, the parasites linked to the nervous system of their jellyfish mounts, animals selectively bred and genetically manipulated over two million years from their beginnings as a common gas giant planet herd beast to their current form as faster-than-light capable organic transport. Each host creature contained a clan of parasites numbering seventy to one hundred, working collectively in their purposes, yet still retaining a sense of self, of individuality. It was a very alien race.
The Collective had caught specimens of species #3577 and their mounts, studied them, dissected them, interrogated them, assimilated them. The parasites were useless without their specialized mounts; and as products of a long artificial evolution, an unrode mount had as much initiative as a parked car with no motor running. As a biological resource, species #3577 did not fit the Borg mold. The culture and technology were either unremarkable or so specialized as to be inapplicable to anything not of species #3577. Even the collective/individual duality of the family clans was dismissed as a primitive organic version of the Collective, not worth further study. Therefore, without further ado, that which was deemed not suitable to add to the perfection of the Greater Consciousness had to be destroyed, else it might detract from the millennia-old pursuit. After specimens of parasite and mount were retained in storage, just in case their genetic codes might become useful at some unspecified future, species #3577 was eradicated.
And, yet, here the race was, in this reality, hale and hearty. On the other hand, the ongoing search for evidence of a Collective presence remained in vain, giving rise to the hypothesis that the Borg may not exist in this reality. If such was the case, it would be expected that species #3577 had survived, thrived, along with other races which had directly or inadvertently gone extinct due to the Collective.
Knowing beforehand from the brackets of whom was to fight whom (yet another audio-visual feed unable to be dismissed once discovered), the Cube #347 sub-collective had been able to prepare. Between bouts, the rules allowed shuttle-bot owners time for repairs and to make minor modifications to their creations, as long as the vessels were presented for inspection at least an hour prior to the start time. Engineering, under Weapons' direction, had altered the two primary aft spikes to house extendible blenders able to wreck havoc on the opposing shuttle-bot's insides should the exterior be perforated. The bow spikes had been changed to shoot forth long hypodermic needles able to deliver a special internal package should the chance be presented, a package which had required Assimilation six hours to brew in a vat, bringing the repair window nearly to a close. The nanites may not be precisely legal, but detailed scanning of the rules had not indicated them to be explicitly illegal, neither.
As before, as the announcers chattered, oblivious to the debates concerning their origin which raged within the intranets of Cube #347, Assimilator took position in the box opposite that of Foghorn. The battle zone had changed somewhat, three matches prior managing to split the largest obstacle asteroid in twain; and several of the mechanical traps had been swapped out for other, no less damaging contraptions. At the four edges, as usual, prowled the massive spiked, clawed, be-razored house shuttle-bots, waiting for unsuspecting prey.
The light sequence flashed. The fight began.
The tendrils of the shuttle-bot were its primary weapon, able to secrete a highly corrosive acid (which, in the mothership, had a digestive function, as evidenced by the way the vessel floated in the middle of ship debris, absorbing them). Additionally, contact allowed for a devastating electrical jolt. Despite the danger, the weapons hierarchy sent Assimilator charging directly for Foghorn.
Foghorn lazily drifted upward using the minimal amount of effort necessary to dodge the oncoming Borg vessel. The remote drivers of this shuttle-bot were much more experienced than that of Moby, veterans of the game; and the fact that Foghorn retained at least a rudimentary brain helped. Assimilator passed underneath Foghorn. Tendrils of the latter stroked dense-packed neutronium plating, releasing acids. At the same time, the sub-collective gave an internal wince as connection with Assimilator was momentarily broken due to electrical shock.
{Again!} shouted Weapons as Assimilator was spun in a flat circle and sent again at Foghorn.
Foghorn was drifting at moderate speed towards the cover represented by the double asteroid and did not bother to avoid Assimilator's contact. The epidermis of the shuttle-bot was deceptively tough, the creature specifically bred for situations which required protection from a dangerous environment and further modified for the demolition battle. It would require more than a couple of body slams to rend the skin, minor wounds swiftly healing in a manner not possible of its inorganic counterparts. Therefore, the pilot of Foghorn was willing to receive a little abuse in order to reach the superior strategic advantage represented by the asteroids. That was a mistake.
Assimilator plowed into Foghorn, bow spikes forward. For a moment the two shuttle-bots were linked, then Assimilator hurriedly pulled back as shock after shock began to dance across vessel electronics. Thrusters finally pushed Assimilator away, where it drifted quiet for several seconds before Weapons could remotely force secondary systems to engage. The Borg shuttle-bot limped away to survey the situation from afar.
"Oooh, that was a mistake," said Jack. "Those jellyfish always pack quite a punch, as they should since they regularly make the heavyweight semi-finals. Only the absolute newbies make a blunder like actually attacking a jellyfish head-on! I am amazed Assimilator is still functional. Atun?"
Atun waved one clawed hand, "Yes, I agree. Assimilator is running on luck, when it is skill and good engineering that determine the winner."
{Good engineering?} exclaimed Delta. {Good engineering? You wouldn't know good engineering if it bit you...}
{Delta, stop talking back to the announcers,} reprimanded Captain. He had just intercepted an impulse that, should it have passed uncensored, would have activated the communications systems and broadcast Delta's commentary to Shuttle-bot Prime.
Meanwhile, in the cage, strange things were happening. Foghorn had stopped purposeful movement and was now drifting along an unpowered trajectory. It bounced off one of the twin asteroids and spun uncontrolled on a path which would eventually intersect the eager pinchers of a house shuttle-bot. In form, it was still a jellyfish, but now a jellyfish with leprosy, patches of gray and white obscuring the healthy blue sheen. Tendrils twitched as if in a seizure.
Due to their long history of husbandry, the species #3577 host ships and their shuttle offspring shared much of the same genetic profiles as their parasite masters, the better to respond to their owners. A mixture of nanoprobes meant for species #3577 was not a perfect match when introduced into a shuttle, but it was close enough for quick adaptation.
Reported Assimilation in a dreary monotone, {We have control. Oh, boy. Joy. It fights, but will be subdued. What shall be done with it? This diversion is keeping me from watching my paint dry. Or perhaps observing nanite assemble themselves in the vats. Grass still won't grow on board, you know, since the lawnmower racers insist on cutting it until it can't be cut anymore, else I could be surveying its growth.}
{Let us blow it up!} insisted Weapons.
Second mentally blinked, {With what? There are no explosive munitions in the shuttle-bot.}
{I will blow up Assimilator on the enemy,} explained Weapons, as if it was completely self-evident as to the best course to proceed.
{No,} inserted Captain, {if such is done, we will not have a vessel for continued bouts. Survey says...} An abbreviated consensus cascade was initiated. {Survey says: send it to a house shuttle-bot.}
Weapons grumbled as Assimilation did so. When Foghorn drifted sufficiently close, the artificial monster which patrolled the edge snatched at the jellyfish and proceeded to tear it apart. Other house shuttle-bots left their assigned zones, moving in to assist like sharks in a feeding frenzy.
Sensors noted, {Sensors [smells] robot approaching from Shuttle-bot Prime. [Books] broadcast need to speak to [fish] about rules. Sensors does not [speaker] that they [desk] we used legal techniques.} The sensor grid had been eavesdropping on communications between ships, and the owners of the species #3577 host vessel were complaining loudly to shuttle-bot officials as to rule irregularities.
{Nowhere does it say nanites are illegal,} asserted Weapons as his hierarchy piloted Assimilator through egress and to the slips. {And if there is disagreeance, we will blow them up!}
{Accept the hail,} directed Captain as he searched for an appropriate camera for a return CatwalkCam view. {And there will be no explosives, Weapons. None. Not even a small one.}
Doubts remained in the sub-collective concerning the validity of threats surrounding what happened to opponents who either refused to fight their shuttle-bots, else were unable for one reason or another after the battle was declared begun. The debris clouds seemed almost too perfect, as if they had been placed prior to any vessel gathering, a theatric designed to encourage peaceful tolerance among peoples who might otherwise be inclined to squabble. That theory was proven spectacularly wrong.
The fight was to be a low bracket lightweight bout between the favorite Talonous (top winner previous cycle) and the newcomer Slick As Lightening, a plucky, well-built machine with an excellent driver. Despite the underdog status of Slick As Lightening which made it an attractive shuttle-bot to root for, it was expected Talonous would be the winner. Lights flashed and the fight began.
Talonous did not move. Talonous did not twitch. No lights blinked on Talonous; and scanning showed Talonous to have had a spontaneous electrical failure. Slick As Lightening carefully approached, nudging its opponent with an expendable grappling arm, just in case the routine was a new ploy. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The fearsome Talonous was dead in space.
If the venue had included stands for a live crowd, menacing grumblings would have been erupting. The watchers were not happy: they had come to see parts fly and shuttle-bots torn into scrap. It was one thing to default because of mechanical difficulties prior to entering the box, and quite another to be in the cage and unable to perform as expected. It did not matter if the shuttle-bot was a high-ranked favorite or a bottom-ranked newcomer, certain things were /expected/; and when they did not happen, a certain disgruntled mindset emerged, one which had much in common with a shark feeding frenzy.
As Cube #347 watched, ships large and small began to converge upon the vessel which housed the Talonous team. That vessel, in turn, rapidly brought its engines out of idle in preparation to flee. It was too late, however, considering the densely packed nature of the parking zone, the nearest irate fan/shuttle-bot contestant letting fly with a photon torpedo. The munition was not high-powered, but it was sufficient at close quarters to damage impulse and warp. A different ship fired upon the offending team, this time with a much more powerful tri-cobolt flavored torpedo, permanently crippling any chance to run.
Torpedo after torpedo, laser after phaser after disrupter after plasma beam, railguns, a hail of rocks, an unclassified weapon which caused a chunk of ship to simply disappear like a bad special effect, the Talonous team was punished for their inability to perform. Through it all, Shuttle-bot Prime did not interfere; and, in fact, the commentators discussed the actions as if it were another match.
The sub-collective of Cube #347 was startled at the level of vicious violence which continued long past the point of necessity. Scenarios, more nightmare than dispassionate examination of might-bes, ran through the dataspaces, each ending with the cube in teeny, tiny bits. Only one could-be ended differently, and unless the crew of every ship spontaneously morphed into Borg (probability was 0.009%), it wasn't going to happen.
In the end, little remained of the Talonous team transport except an expanding cloud of swiftly cooling debris; and even that would not be around much longer as the species #3577 host ship drifted from its current parking place towards the new source of food.
It was the heavyweight demi-hemi-semi-championship. The winner of the bout would continue to the next round of single elimination bracket matches, cumulating, eventually, in the all-weight trophy battle. However distant that match was, this was the first of the major fights, prior ones separating the wanna-bes from the those who had piloting experience, a good piece of equipment, and, occasionally, a direct link with Lady Luck herself.
Somehow, the Borg shuttle-bot Assimilator had survived. It was scratched, paint chipped, no longer as shiny as it once had been. Such could be said for all the contestants who had made it thus far, the sustained stress of fighting battle after battle taking its toll on machines which had arrived in immaculate condition. Still, Assimilator was sound, its overpowered engine purring smoothly and its spikes gleamed.
{It looks like it is bent,} complained Weapons for the sixteenth time. The left aft horn had been severely damaged in the previous bout, bent near ninety degrees due to a glancing impact with an asteroid fragment. Engineering had straightened the mutilated spike, returning it to its previous condition.
Delta was not pleased with the criticism. She had been forced to make time in the busy engineering schedule for this silly contest, to divert resources, both drones and equipment, better suited for other tasks. {It would be a figment of your imagination, if you had any. It is likely a fiction caused by the broadcast camera angle. The spike is straight.} A synopsis of the latest maintenance on the shuttle-bot was sent to Weapons.
{It still looks like it is bent,} reiterated Weapons, who ignored evidence which denoted otherwise.
{Weapons! Delta! Stop your bickering!} interrupted Captain as he felt Delta's irritation build to dangerous levels. One of these days.... {We are Borg, not children! Act like it! Load programs to force you to act like it! Either way, stop sniping at each other: it lowers our overall efficiency.} The two focuses of Captain's ire mentally backed away from each other, figuratively turning their backs
"That is not going to last long; and our efficiency rises and lowers independent of Delta and Weapons' disagreements," noted Second to Captain. Both were currently in Captain's nodal intersection, which, in turn, was awash with holographic windows, one for each broadcast feed. There were dozens of them, and more were continually being found, from the main contest stream to one which featured an always-on-line auction of battle-bot memorabilia. The lattermost had been banned for certain drones, those who had a weakness when it came to auctions, mail-order magazines, and the Galactic Shopping Network.
Captain slid his eye sideways to regard Second, then returned it to the commentators on the holographic window to the fore of the swarm. He could have "watched" in the dataspaces, and in fact part of him did, but habit and mild dislike of fragmenting his attention too much prompted the holodisplays which packed the nodal intersection. "Tell me something new," answered Captain to Second.
"Well," began Second, "there is..."
"Already know it."
"How about..."
"That's old, not new."
"In subsection 29..."
"Known about that for ages."
"Stop reading all my thought processes. How can I make a snappy comeback to a comment that practically begs such when you intercept every thought?"
Captain allowed himself a most minute of smirks, but did not bother to respond to what was a rhetorical question. Dismissing Second's grumblings, he instead focused on the next bout, facial muscles returning to passive nonexpression. Assimilator was being guided into the cage.
"Did you ever think you'd see such an unlikely shuttle-bot as Assimilator make it to the demi-hemi-semi championship, especially in the always difficult heavyweight class?" asked Jack.
Atun began to answer a negative when his head unexpectedly fell off, bounced on the desk, and rolled out of sight. Several sparks sizzled on the open neck; and two tubes bubbled a milky green fluid over Atun's well-tailored sport jacket. The body's hands reached up and waved in the area the head was supposed to be.
{Android!} crowed the appropriate contingent of the sub-collective as the mystery was solved.
{Only for the Atun commentator,] answered supporters for answers other than android. {There is still the human Jack to consider.}
{If he is a human.}
Meanwhile, Jack grimaced as the camera quickly slid sideways so that he was the only one in sight. Muffled words - "My head is under the chair, by the producer. No, don't kick it, you idiots!" - sounded to his right.
"Well, then," broadly smiled Jack, "a little bit of excitement in the studio. I think, however, this battle-bot match will have a lot more to offer than a rolling head. Assimilator versus Horizon. Why don't we go to the cage and see the action?" Jack made frantic cutting motions with his hands as a howling curse sounded from foot level. The announcer feed abruptly switched to a test pattern with the words "Technical Difficulties - Please Stand By" flashing in several languages.
As attention switched to the box, Assimilator and opponent Horizon were setting up in their respective start locations. Horizon was an usually flat shuttle-bot resembling a flying wing used in atmospheric transport rather than the more traditional forms which were built for an environment which did not include air resistance. The front edge of the wedge was deadly, a monofilament blade which could literally slice completely through enemies when the machine was able to accelerate to full potential; and at lesser speeds or a glancing blow, the knife edge dealt deep cuts. Even neutronium armor was vulnerable. Horizon's primary weak spot was a ventral or dorsal attack, but the shuttle-bot was surprisingly nimble under guidance of an experienced pilot.
Red. Yellow. Green. The bout began.
{Make it go already,} pushed Captain. Assimilator had not moved upon the signal. Beyond the fact that the change in tactics was unlike Weapons, Horizon was currently arcing to the "upper" part of the cage in preparation to a dive-bomb run upon Assimilator's back.
Weapons snapped, {The shuttle-bot won't go! Technical difficulties. You did this on purpose!} The denunciation was aimed at Delta.
{Me? Us?} venomously answered Delta. {The machine was sound when it left Cube #347 for the slips. You are the one that bounced it off several walls on the way there.}
{It was working when it was piloted into the cage. It will not go now.}
{There are backups,} pointed out Delta. Secondary and tertiary systems were common in all aspects of Borg engineering except safety, which was rudimentary if it was present at all. {Try them.}
{The backups are malfunctioning. The backups of the backups are malfunctioning!}
Horizon had slowed its approach and was now cautiously drifting in upon Assimilator. Some shuttle-bot drivers played dead, luring their opponents in, only to wake with deadly results. While Assimilator had thus far not used such a strategy, the Horizon team had not returned cycle after cycle to the shuttle-bot matches without learning a thing or two. One wing edge carefully spun around to nudge the seemingly dead Assimilator, metal clashing on metal in a soundless vacuum.
{Make it move,} ordered Captain. Assimilator remained motionless as it was prodded again. The house shuttle-bots had left their edge zones and were rapidly stooping, claws of various sorts extended. {Weapons, power up shields and weaponry. We require a defensive posture.} A consensus cascade was initiated, the answer returned. {30.5% probability we can survive long enough in a functional state to escape.}
As evidence mounted that this glorious demi-hemi-semi championship was to be a dud, parked ships were leaving their slots. The allusion, would the drones of Cube #347 had the imagination, was of a pack of wolves suddenly realizing one member to be a Chihuahua. The insult had to remedied. Permanently. Shuttle-bots were a serious business, after all, and the average fan could not be troubled by mere technical difficulties which threatened to ruin the whole sporting experience.
Horizon slashed a wing edge into Assimilator, tearing off a chunk of armor and severing a spine, before moving away for the house shuttle-bot rending frenzy. Phasers and other EMP weapons may not be legal for contestants, but they were standard issue for the hulking monstrosities which were preparing to slice and dice the Borg shuttle.
"Hello!" said Iris as the green-irised eyeball suddenly popped into being. Its arrival was spoiled by the fact that it was half in a bulkhead and a loose holographic window was obscuring the rest of its "body".
Cube #347 began to spin as the many ships closed in, their armaments registering hot on the sensor grid. A dozen of the vessels belonged to opponents defeated by Assimilator during the course of the matches, defeats which were not always strictly legal in a moral sense, but had never quite crossed the line as written in the rule book.
{Offensive is best,} insisted Weapons. {First strike. This is much better than any shuttle-bot match.} In the cage, Assimilator was being swiftly reduced to a collection of less than spare parts; and soon there would be an effort for Cube #347 to follow to a similar fate.
{We agree,} replied Captain as consensus did so. {However, when a hole is opened, we /will/ leave this area.} Weapons made as if to argue, but was pushed to acquiescence by command and control. {You will comply, Weapons.}
{Compliance,} sulkily replied Weapons in a tone that said every possible loophole would be exploited in an effort to extend combat, even if it meant Cube #347's destruction.
"Hello?" tried the Director again, not used to being ignored. It waved at the display blocking its view, but the hand it did not possess went right through. "I see you are in quite a fix. If you just wait a tick, the dice will be rolled." Pause. "Is anyone even listening to me?"
No one was listening to the Director. No one even knew the Director was present. In the requirement to concentrate on the crisis, monitoring of places safe from intrusion, such as Captain's nodal intersection, had been not been quite suspended, but regulated to insignificant status. Senses such as hearing and sight were directed internally, listening to dataspace, intranet, computer, and sensor grid. An eyeball half embedded in a wall and hidden behind a holographic display did not register.
{Sensors sees incoming,} spouted Sensors as the first torpedoes of various flavors (literally, in the case of the head of the sensory hierarchy, who was more than happy to share with the rest of the sub-collective) and yields dove towards the cube.
{We will survive,} assured Weapons as Cube #347 readied a deadly response.
Iris heaved a sigh. It squinted through the obscuring display, seeing the statuesque forms of Captain and Second. "Since I am obviously not important, I should just leave. However, certain entities" the words were directed to someone not present "would gloat too much if I did so." The Director paused a moment, but still no reaction from the drones. "Fine. Here goes the roll."
A barrage of over-powered quantum torpedoes was launched, followed by one of the few singularity torpedoes remaining in storage. They streaked towards their targets, passing those incoming at Cube #347. {Torpedoes aw...}
Dice somewhere, nowhere, were rolled. The multiverses tore and swallowed Cube #347 into the utter Black of Nothing.
"Now will someone listen to me," asked Iris conversationally, "or do I have to perform a Big Bang outside your hull to get your attention?"
Return to the Season 6 page