It's Paramount's Star Trek show, with Special Guest Alien of the Week J. Doe! On Decker's Star Traks this week is somebody who's really well known...somewhere. And on my BorgSpace is No-one U. Kno!
The Mippet Show
"It's the Mippet Show, on location with our Very Special Guest Stars, the sub-collective of Borg Cube #347!" cheered a lumpy amphibian with sticks tied to its wrist. The dimness of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 burst into bright light; and multitudes of forms, most humanoid, raised their voices in a light-hearted song. A stage, complete with curtain, was suddenly present against one wall of the immense hold.
"It's time to play the music; it's time to light the lights; it's time to meet the Mippets of the Mippet Show tonight!" sang feminine voices.
"It's time to put on makeup; it's time to dress up right; it's time to raise the curtain on the Mippet Show tonight!" answered a masculine counterpoint. Cued, the curtain rose upward, exposing interlocking rows of dancers.
Forms gyrated around the Bulk Cargo Hold floor as spotlights swiveled to outline two people sitting oddly back to back on a strangely constructed chair - a bench with padded armrests - one facing the action with the other a view of hold inventory.
"Why do we always do this?" asked the body which was facing metal.
"Why are you asking me?" answered the form watching the dancers.
"'Cause your the one that is facing the show."
"Quiet! There's not much to see!"
A hidden orchestra kicked up the jaunty music a notch while dancers swung partners around the stage, and occasionally over-enthusiastically flung a comrade into a wall.
"And now let's get things started!" yelled the performers.
"Why don't you get things started?" chorused an audience which was abruptly present.
"It's time to get things started!" called the amphibian.
All together: "On the most motivational, lackadaisical, persperational, Mippetational...this is what we call the Mippet Show!"
The dancers hurriedly parted ranks as an overly obese individual stumped onto the stage, tossing a few beans into his mouth. Chewing, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Just as the happy music rose to an apex, it abruptly halted. Into the silence roared a huge flatulence. From the grin crossing the obese individual and the expressions of the dancers, it was obvious of the origin.
Song over, everyone rushed to the stage wings as the curtain dropped.
"Welcome to the Mippet Show! YEEHAW!" shouted the amphibian. It waved its arms wildly, hitting itself in the head with its wrist sticks, then ran stage left, out of view.
{What is happening?} demanded Captain, jolted to full awareness from his previous state of regeneration. While Borg were at times not the most observant of creatures when it came to invasions of the cube, it was difficult to miss the action occurring in Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Even the computer was complaining of intruders. It was a Situation which required the primary consensus monitor and facilitator.
Captain automatically stepped from his alcove, the familiar hissing clump of umbilicals and clamps disengaging accompanying the action. What was not expected was the warning tingle of a transporter beam, nor the involuntary transfer to Bulk Cargo Hold #2. He was not alone, for all the hierarchy heads were similar transported, as well as Second.
A high-pitched, insane giggling caught Captain's attention. However, it was Doctor who was facing the correct direction to see the oddly round bowling ball of a humanoid dressed in white lab coat and wearing aviation glasses. The man, a stereotypical mad scientist who just topped waist-high on the humanoid Borg, gleefully stood next to a contraption of levers, blinking lights, and buttons. Eyes did not quite track each other as the scientist looked at each of the eight drones (well, eight bodies, but technically seven individuals) who were now facing him. Finally, the giggling paused long enough for a yell: "Toady! Got'em, Toady! Can I go back to my experiments now?"
"Sure. Just don't blow anything up."
"You take all the fun out of it, boss."
"And be sure you have the pyrotechnics ready for the third sketch! Flash-bangs, this time, not real explosives! There were parts of the guest all over the place. It took forever to put him back together."
"You really take all the fun out of it."
"Too bad."
Senses expanding beyond the immediate focus, Captain and company found themselves roadblocks amid the busy rush of backstage. Locational beacon signatures placed the hierarchy heads - physically together in one place, a rarity - in Bulk Cargo Hold #2, but it was a cargo hold transformed. Internal cameras showed the stage which had sprouted in an open area of the hold usually meant for large construction projects or alien ship storage. The primary platform was raised several meters above the floor, complete with curtains, lights, ropes, catwalks, all the requirements of a stage, many of them floating in place without benefit of a building for attachment or any other high or low tech technology. To either side of the stage extended opaque wing walls, hiding the behind scenes chaos in the middle of which the Borg drones were embroiled. In front of the platform were several hundred comfortable chair of the type in which seats fold up vertical when no posterior was present to weight it down, all filled with...creatures, most no taller than the mad scientist. In a box to the side, hovering above the riffraff, were two humanoids joined back to back, sitting on a bench with padded armrests; and if audio gain was directed at the pair (conjoined twins?), bickering conversation could be heard.
Backstage, a bipedal frog or toad was elbowing its way through the crowd. It pushed its way past the flank of a miniature woolly mammoth, then waited for a gaggle of creatures which looked like fish with feet to pass. A pair of dog-sized cockroaches scuttled underfoot, eliciting a curse and a call to "Watch where you are going!" Nothing present, except for the bird creature with the overly long neck, was more than a meter in height, lending the perspective of gigantism to most of the drones, Sensors not included because her insectoid form put her head considerably lower than that of the humanoid Borg.
"Welcome!" cried the amphibian as he finally reached the eddying calm represented by the seven drones, eight bodies. "Welcome to the Mippet Show. Sorry your translation was a bit abrupt, but we are on location and have a slight time constraint. My name is Toady T. Toad, and I am the host of this production. The first sketch will be starting momentarily, as soon as the props are all in place." Toady winced as something crashed in the distance, ending with the sad tinkling of broken glass. "Maybe a bit more than momentarily. Geesh, seven...no eight? I thought it would be seven. No matter. I've never had to run a show with seven guests, but I suppose it is better than having all four thousand of you crammed on the stage."
Delta looked herself in the face, but said nothing to correct any notions Toady might have.
{You are the consensus monitor and facilitator,} poked Second in the intranets, {and you have the duty to speak for all.}
{You had to remind me,} groused Captain, who had needed no prompt of his obligations.
As the other drones present shuffled into a outward facing circular formation so as to better gain the sub-collective a 360 degree observation of the location, Captain tilted his head to peer downwards at the amphibian. Deliberations were occurring in the intranets concerning what course of action to pursue, but so far it had been discovered that, oddly (or predictably, depending on one's point of view), transporter resolution of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 was blocked and doors to the space would not open. However, as the drones were in no immediate danger, and neither was the cube as it floated somewhere in the dark between stars, emergency action was not required. "State why we are here, frog."
Toady's eyes widened. "I'm a toad, damnit, a toad! Warty skin, a propensity to walk instead of hop. Note these big glands behind my eyes? A toad, not a frog!" It appeared the topic was one which rated a touch of fervor usually reserved for religious debate. The toad visibly calmed himself. "Ahem. Excuse the outburst. You are here because you are the ones in charge of this place and best able to represent everyone. When we acquired permission from the Collective to do this gig, we were given your signatures. We already had the transporter unit." All the hasty deliverance was missing was a 'duh, that is so obvious.' "You told us you were ready for the show, so we came and set up."
Toady was a somewhat paunchy example of a toad: no clean lines of a sleek water-loving frog to be seen. His epidermis was knobby, color predominantly brown but with a scattering of muted reds and oranges. A faint cream stripe ran down his spine. He was unclothed, not that there was anything improper to espy on his outwardly neuter body, except for a dangling stick which was tied to one skinny wrist. Whenever Toady waved his arm, the stick would inevitably flail about, nearly missing bystanders.
Within the dataspaces, a recording of the Director explaining that there would be a plausible, if far-fetched at times, explanation for the inhabitants of each reality Cube #347 found itself located.
Before Captain could open his mouth to speak a reply, Toady turned to yell towards the stage, "I said, the black background, not the white! The black! Take it down and start over again! And hurry!" A cheerful obscenity drifted in the toad's direction, followed by the dusty whoosh of a large length of cloth falling to the ground. Two snakes with wings sped by just above head level, carrying extension cords. "Stay up higher, Pete and Peter, or I'll have your wings clipped again!"
"You were saying?" asked Toady as he swiveled adroitly back to Captain, his bulk belying his true agility.
"State..." was the sum total of the question presented when another interruption literally shoved itself between Borg and toad.
A squinty-eyed hog with overly styled locks regarded Toady, arms akimbo. She was not a pretty creature, but then again, pigs are not the most charismatic of animals; and as an anthropomorphic example of the breed, the hog had not gained any humanoid grace. Her color was a grayish pink, with brown stubble studding the skin. Stiff head hair was styled into a beehive 'do, and kept that way through application of hair spray until tritannium was pliable in comparison. The hog was wearing an elegant blue satin dress and a string of pearls, which only emphasized the homeliness of the creature underneath the finery.
"Where are the divorce papers, Toady? You promised them this week. I want them now!" demanded the hog.
Toady looked pained. "I don't have time for this right now, Henrieta. After the show? The first sketch is about ready to begin."
"After the show?" snorted Henrieta. "After the show? After the show the excuse will be that the production needs to be moved to the next location, then there will be the rehearsals, the set up, the guest negotiations, everything but the papers. I want the divorce finalized, Toady, else I'm going to bring in the lawyer."
"Henrieta..." began Toady.
"Don't 'Henrieta' me, you slimy amphibian. Get me those papers by the end of the show, else I'm walking."
"And where would you go? To my cousin's production? Will you go there and face your sister?" needled Toady.
The hog snorted. "I have prospects. I do. I don't have to stay around this one horse show." A pony trotted past, mane colored in fanciful hues of purple and green, carrying a brush in its mouth.
"Boss," urged a bipedal cheetah in running shoes and a hard hat, capturing the toad's attention. "We're all set up. The sketch is ready to go, and the audience is getting restless. Mack and Jack are being especially sarcastic."
"Ignore Mack and Jack," gruffly replied Toady. To Henrieta, "We'll finish this discussion later."
"It's always later with you, Toady," huffed Henrieta before she turned and flounced away.
Toady sighed, "What I ever saw in her, I do not know."
"You were drunk at the time," helpfully reminded the cheetah.
"Gee, thanks," said Toady with a glare. The cat rumbled a laugh, then scooted off. Toady grabbed a stick on a nearby table and swiftly tied it to his free wrist. "All ready to go. What are you doing here? Get out of the stage!" directed Toady to the drones. "Go! Go on!" He made motions with his be-sticked hands, and a press of creatures forced the eight drone bodies onto the stage. Toady himself slipped out to the front side of the downed curtain.
Captain only had a moment to glance at the darkened stage with its props when he heard on the other side of the curtain: "Welcome all! It is Joke Time, and put your hands together for JokeMiester Joe and our special guest stars from Cube #347! YEEHAW!" The curtain rose.
Hot lights flared to dazzling brilliance to show a stage stark, austere. The backdrop was black, minimizing visual distraction for purposes of emphasizing foreground individuals. The drones stood in a clump on stage right, here they had been herded, organic eyes squinting or blinking as appropriate as optical implants adjusted to lighting conditions. Sensors, who could neither blink nor squint, recovered first, focusing beyond the edge of the stage to the cool infrared signatures beyond which represented the murmuring, expectant crowd.
Opposite the Borg on the stage was a Mippet version of Groucho Marx, or perhaps a jolly combination of Larry, Moe, and Curly, with a facial hair addition. The tall Mippet - nearly 110 centimeters - was humanoid in form, although of no recognized species. The lack of obvious natural cranial ornamentation was not a distinguishing factor, nor the slightly yellowish cast to epidermis. What JokeMiester Joe did have was a humongous caterpillar of a mustache nestled under his large nose, and two extraordinarily bushy eyebrows. One of the latter jumped up and down on his forehead, seemingly not under conscious control. A hand held a fake cigar uncomfortably familiar in a Director sort of way.
Oddly, on both wrists were thin sticks, akin to those ported by Toady. Clandestine observation of the wings revealed all Mippets who conceivably had a reason to go on-stage also had sticks either attached to limbs or nearby. Additional searching from the viewpoint of internal sensors located inconveniently distant revealed small cameras, breadbox in size, just beyond the rearmost row of the audience. A swift simulation of the hypothesized camera angle demonstrated that the filming was so positioned such that the Mippets would appear to a broadcast view to be operated by hidden puppeteers, the sticks operating arms, instead of simple loose props. The reason for the deception was unknown, unknowable.
Joe regarded the Borg, his hyperactive eyebrow twitching. Somewhere, a snare drum rolled, bounced on to the stage, then into the crowd with a horrible noise. Over the raucous jeers of the audience, Joe asked, "Why did the cockroach cross the road?"
From the wings scuttled an oversized cockroach. It paused at the center of the stage and waved one of its front legs at the crowd. A hiss from offstage told it to stop clowning around. It quickly continued its original trek, disappearing from view. The Borg, meanwhile, had become embroiled in a silent argument over possible answers. Outwardly the eight bodies in the background were unnaturally statuelike, but internally, they had shuffled together into the dataspace equivalent of a conspiratorial huddle.
{To get to the other side,} confidently answered Sensors, herself of the insectoid persuasion and sure of the motivations driving other exoskeleton-encased creatures.
Second argued, {But why would it go there, anyway? A cockroach is an animal. Animals require nourishment. Perhaps there was food on the other side of the road.}
{Water?} asked Delta, as she found the dataspace archives lacking in cockroach-related information. {Was it thirsty? Do cockroaches drink water?}
Confidently stated Doctor, {The poor cockroachy was lonely. There must have been friends on the other side!}
From Assimilation there was no answer. He didn't care in the proceedings, and therefore did not bother to participate beyond emitting a dreary pall of hopelessness.
{There was a predator after it! It had no handy rocket launchers and was forced to make a strategic advance in the opposite direction,} sternly affirmed Weapons.
Sanguinely opinionated Second, {You mean the cockroach retreated.}
{Strategic advance in the opposite direction,} insisted Weapons.
Captain called for an end to the discussion. Many possibilities are proposed. It is time for consensus. Cascade initiated. The sub-collective was overanalyzing the simple question, overlooking the fact that the query had been asked as a joke. The purpose of the riddle was lost on the literal minded Borg as the full computing power of 4000 organic nodes was bent to calculating the proper answer.
"To procure food," said Captain, the hesitance between original question and answer only the slightest of pauses for outward observers.
Joe blinked, then plunged gamely ahead. "No, the cockroach crossed the road...because it was being chased by the chicken!"
The cockroach who had earlier sedately strolled across the stage now returned in a comically panicked run. As it slid erratically, it was followed by an emu, the latter sporting a rather obviously fake comb and wattles set which would look more fitting on barnyard poultry.
Quietly, from offstage, Toady commented, "That gag would be /so/ much better if we had actual chickens, not an emu."
The cheetah in running shoes and hard-hat was returned from whatever tasks he had earlier hurried off to do. He replied to the rhetorical exposition, "They all went with the crook-nosed, purple weirdo, Boss, when your cousin left to start up his own production. You know that. The weirdo guy didn't like emus. Too tall, he said. Personally, I think there was something kinky going on, if you know what I mean."
Toady hissed, "I saw those pictures too, but they don't necessarily prove anything, or so said my cousin. All that matters is that we have emus, not chickens." He hushed as a glare from JokeMiester Joe was directed in his direction.
"Chicken, what chicken?" protested Captain. "There was no chicken in the question, only a cockroach. And that second animal was not a chicken." He mentally noted to Delta to use both her selves to restrain Doctor should he appear to act upon his loud thoughts of 'visiting' cockroach and emu.
Joe's glare shifted from Toady to Borg; the eyebrow crashed down upon his brow in a scowl. Beyond the stage, a pair of twin guffaws sounded from the box seat. "Moving on," said Joe in a loud voice, "to the...Knock-Knocks!" A door on wires spiraled down from above, separating JokeMiester from drones. Joe loudly rapped on the door.
"Knock-knock!"
Silence from the drones, who could only glance side-long at each other in mystification. In a world of doors which slid aside when one approached them and where privacy was a virtually unknown word, the concept of knocking on a door was one only dimly collectively remembered from a limited number of sub-collective units.
"Knock-knock!" shouted Joe a second time, a twinge of impatience entering his voice.
"You are supposed to say 'Who's there?' mates," whispered a voice from a catwalk spanning the stage overhead, out of sight of the audience. One of Delta glanced upwards, rewarded with the sight of a large mauve gecko, complete with sticky toepads, leaning over a rail. It presumably had a helpful expression on its face.
"Who's there?" dutifully replied Captain after several beats of internal argument.
Joe jerked open the door, setting it to swinging on its wires. "Boo!"
One versed in the subtleties of Borg body language and the ever-so-slight changes in facial expression which were allowed to cross deadpan visages would note the confusion present. Seeing no answers immediately present, Delta's other body peered upwards at the helpful gecko.
"You ask 'who?' mates. In this case, 'boo who?' It is really all quite simple," hissed the purple lizard once more. A tongue flicked out to wipe its eyeballs, which were lacking in lids.
"Boo who?" queried Captain.
"Don't cry! I didn't mean to scare you!" howled JokeMiester Joe before he 'slammed' the door shut again. The audience groaned.
"They get more and more stale each time, I tell you," quipped an unseen voice crowd-wards.
"You don't have to tell me. At least you don't have to watch the skits as well," answered a second voice to the first, eerily similar.
At the side, the cheetah said, "It's Mack and Jack. Should I have someone go out and gag them, Boss?"
Toady shook his head as well as he could with his essentially neckless body. "No, let them get it out of their system. Maybe they'll be quieter later. Besides, I heard that last time they tried to bite the gagger."
The cheetah winced. "Yah, I know. That was me. I was thinking a noose to hang them, personally, or a cattle prod."
Captain ignored the chatter off the stage as he tried to peer around the door. "Borg do not cry. You also failed to startle us."
"Moving on," loudly called Joe as he repositioned the door so that he was on one side of it with the Borg on the other. "Knock-knock!" Knuckles heavily rapped on wood.
After a beat and elbow to the torso by Second, Captain sullenly replied, "Who's there?"
"Ivan!"
Pause. "Ivan who?"
The door was pushed open. "Ivan been working on the railroad..."
"...all the live long day! I've been working on the railroad, just a'working my time away, HEY!" The door rose up, out of sight, as from both sides of the stage entered multicolored furry creatures of indeterminate shape. They wore buckets on their heads and swung a variety of excavation tools. Shovels and picks waved overhead as they sang, then were thrown away as the creatures joined into a line. Background music altered from jaunty sing-along to can-can dance tune. The creatures high stepped their way off the stage, leaving behind the discarded tools.
"One more joke!" cried Joe as the music faded. He jumped up and down excitedly. "It is now time for the Final Question! Think about this carefully," he directed to the drones. "What goes 'Ha ha', 'plop'?"
In the dataspaces whirled a thousand, ten thousand, a million audio files, dissected for their component sounds. Archives held tetrabytes of information, not to mention that stored within the personal memories of 4,000 drones. Synthetic and natural sounds were examined, from the singing of stars to the screams of battle to the clang of metal on metal. Nothing precisely matched "Ha ha" followed by a "plop." So long was the search taking that Joe began to impatiently tap his foot.
"The closest match to 'ha ha' and 'plop' is that of the Acturian laughing turtle, which makes an alarm call closely mimicking the most common form of humanoid verbalization of humor prior to its entry into water to escape predation. If we are provided additional search time, we might find a better approximation." explained Captain. Overanalyzing, indeed.
Joe rolled his eyes. "Wrong! It is the sound of someone laughing their head off. Most notably, me!" With that, JokeMiester convulsed in chortling. After a few seconds, his head began to wobble alarmingly, then suddenly fell off and rolled away. To the delighted screams of the audience and the nearly unheard snide comments associated with Mack and Jack, the body kicked its head off stage with the adroit skill of a champion jhad-ball player.
The curtain gracefully came down, obscuring the audience from the sight of Borg were not bothering to hide their startlement over the fate of Joe. The JokeMiester, as he reached the wings, reached down and quickly reset head to body. "Stupid gits," he commented, "wouldn't know a good joke if it bit 'em in the butt. Toady! Next time, get someone with a sense of humor! I can't stand someone or someones so serious, not to mention those smart-ass answers! If you want me, I'll be in my dressing room!" Joe stomped off.
Toady called, "You eight! Get off the stage! The crew needs to rearrange for the next skit. And could someone tell Doctor Chi that it is time for her?"
"Like the sands slipping through the hourglass of time," pronounced an unusually solemn Toady, "this is Animal Hospital." Pause, then more boisterously, "YEEHAW!" The curtain smoothly glided upwards, revealing to the audience the familiar scene of a pet hospital operating theater.
"Doctor Chi! Doctor Chi! Is Poofy going to live?" cried a curly haired woman in exaggerated anguish, tears streaking down her face.
Doctor Chi, of humanoid stature in a very robust, Valkyrie way, hefted a power drill and replied theatrically, "I will do as I can. I cannot make promises, but my staff and I will do our best. We have a special doctor here with us today, and it is rumored that there is magic in his fingertips." The drill was revved, then allowed to spin back to a silent idle.
On the table, Poofy, a cockroach, lay not quite motionless. Its legs twitched slightly; and its mandibles clacked together in what Sensors was explaining via dataspace was an expression of boredom. However, the cockroach could not move, at least not gracefully, not with the carapace of its abdomen propped up as it were little more than a car's hood with the engine beneath being examined. In many respects, as had been revealed in the last several minutes of the skit's behind-scenes set-up, such was a very appropriate metaphor.
The Mippets were cyborgs, but not as such were the units of the Collective. Drones began as wholly organic beings who, after their submission into the Greater Consciousness, had bits and pieces replaced or augmented with inorganic parts. On the other hand, the Mippets began with a base robot skeleton and brain of artificially intelligent algorithms. Over the underpinnings was set a cloak of organics, creating an astounding variety of shapes and forms. However, in the core, the Mippets retained their ancestral character of children's toys, of puppets runaway from their handlers to seek an independent existence. Of the last, they had done so, somehow for many "generations" as such they counted, from performers to the audience, the only "real" people on the show the guests.
The particular guest featured on the soap opera script of Animal Hospital was Doctor, a logical choice considering his veterinarian background. It was he who had been pushed into position to gaze at the internal workings of the patient cockroach, carapace removed to allow glimpse of the metallic skeleton. It was to him the drill was handed.
"Oh, save Poofy!" simpered the "owner" as she dramatically threw hand to her forehead.
Encouraged Doctor Chi, "You can do it. What is the diagnosis, Doctor?" The horned helm the Mippet doctor wore in contrast to her doctors' scrubs slipped sideways upon head, but was quickly replaced to its correct location.
"The diagnosis is horrible acting," sniped Jack from the audience.
"At least you don't have to watch it," retorted Mack with a loud snort.
Doctor did not allow the rude comments to distract him, too engrossed with the innards of the cockroach in front of him. True, it wasn't a real animal, but it was close enough in form for his vet obsessions to trigger. Doctor stepped forward to the proffered place, optical implant altering to a viewing frequency more appropriate to troubleshooting ills, and arm with built-in diagnosing technology swinging over the opened cockroach.
"Poor, baby buggy. Doctor fix," soothed Doctor.
The cockroach glanced back worriedly, as well as it could considering it had no neck. Nothing was wrong with it: it was acting the part of a patient. Its mandibles clattered together with growing nervousness.
"At least he is getting in the spirit of the skit," commented Toady from the stage wing. He looked satisfied, as if he had just swallowed a fat fly.
Captain, on the other hand, was radiating alarm, reflecting the mood of command and control, which had been unable to dissuade Doctor from the inevitable course he was pursuing. Doctor was not just in the "spirit of the skit," but had become completely absorbed by it. Damn. Engineering was still unable to determine why transporter beams were not working in regards to Bulk Cargo Hold #2, else the head of the drone maintenance hierarchy would be safely far away from Mippets who wore the bodies of non-sentient creatures. "Abort this skit," ordered Captain.
"And why should I do a thing like that? The crowd loves it," replied Toady with a wave of one warty hand. He would have continued in the same vein, except Henrieta Hog was suddenly present, papers clutched in one chubby fist.
"Sign these, now!" demanded Henrieta.
Winced Toady, Captain's concerns temporarily dismissed. "Not so loud, Henrieta. They'll hear you out there."
"Does it look like I care? Sign the divorce, you toad."
Toady grimaced, then said to the drones who were crowded into the wings, "I'll be back in a moment." To the hog: "Why don't we go and talk somewhere a bit more isolated?" Toad and pig moved away, quietly bickering.
Meanwhile, on the stage, the real soap drama had went unseen and unremarked by the Borg featured prominently in the current sketch. Doctor was reaching into the cockroach's abdomen, electric drill whirling. "This equipment is primitive, but it will suffice for the tune-up!" cheerfully said Doctor.
As the cockroach's legs scrabbled futilely (it had been strapped to the table), Doctor Chi and the female owner stared at each other. This was not how the skit was supposed to go. Sure, there was always a certain element of improvisation when a guest star and no set script was involved, but this went beyond the norm. Doctor Chi turned towards the wings and frantically made "cut" motions with her hands, but as the amphibian director was elsewhere, no one wanted to take the initiative (and the blame) to halt the show.
Off stage, Second was slowly shaking his head back and forth, face hidden by the open hand covering it. One of Delta peered upwards at the purple gecko who seemed to have acquired a fascination concerning the twins, but the reptile had no words of wisdom beyond a shrug. Weapons was lost in the intranets, coordinating a detachment of his hierarchy to haul a powerful mining laser to an internal cargo hold door in order to gain entrance. Assimilation had set himself to standby, as close as he could come to regeneration without actually entering an alcove. And Captain? Captain was trying to gain the attention of the engrossed ex-vet.
"Here's the problem," murmured Doctor to himself as he concentrated to the exclusion of everything else, drill whining, "riiiight...here. Oops. I can fix that. It just needs a band-aid." Pause. "No, no, that was a big oopsie." Following a disturbingly liquid squishing noise, the cockroach's legs spasmed, then were still. The audience was quiet, rapt; and even Mack appeared at a momentary loss for words (with Jack demanding an update since he was not facing the action).
{You just had to do that, didn't you, Doctor?} queried Second, as always the first with a cutting comment. He had pre-created many of his remarks well prior to an incident, only requiring a trigger to activate them, thus lessening the effort required for spontaneous sarcasm.
Doctor glanced up from his work to focus on Second, then looked quickly back down again as he withdrew his hands from the cockroach's carapace. {It was a boo-boo?}
{That's always your excuse,} sighed Captain in resignation. {Assimilation of inappropriate species is an accident? We really need to work on your control, Doctor. You were supposed to be taking those sessions with assimilation hierarchy.}
{Assimilation was busy painting all the times I had available.}
Assimilation did not respond. He "awoke" suddenly as Delta, body B, thwapped him across the head.
{Thank you,} replied Captain. Delta, both of her, shrugged.
Assimilation defended himself: {All you said was heard. Doctor only inquired once...}
Captain grumbled, {Enough accusations. This will be straightened out later. There is another situation to concern ourselves with at the moment.}
Doctor slammed the carapace down to its normal position. Externally, the cockroach appeared the same as before, but creatures with exoskeletons, even artificial creatures, typically did not exhibit the characteristics of assimilation. Internally was another matter as organic flesh was transformed before the onslaught of nanoprobes while other nanite varieties bored into the self-contained electronic brain to convert it for the Collective, or in this case, Doctor.
"Poofy is all better," said Doctor to the ex-owner and Doctor Chi. "Poofy will also be staying with me for further observations. Come, Poofy. Come to Doctor. Doctor has Poofy treats!" The cockroach drunkenly surged to its legs as Doctor removed the restraints, then fell to the ground. It righted itself and wobbled off, on the heels of the Borg vet.
A sumo wrestler? No, it wore more clothes than a nappie. A beach ball? A Punch-Me inflated toy? Whatever it was, it was round, obese, yet humanoid by stature. Following it, almost a living presence, was the stench of boiled cabbage and beans. The man rushed onto stage, skidded to a halt to stare at the cockroach, then loudly confronted Doctor, "What did you do to him? What did you /do/ to him?!"
"Bumbo!" yelled Toady as he moved at a swifter pace than seemed possible given his body, elbowing through Borg and general Mippet crowd. "Bumbo! Get a grip on it, Bumbo!"
"The papers!" wailed Hog as she dogged Toady's heels. "You promised! It is always something, you toad, always some 'emergency'. I want satisfaction, now!"
"You are gonna get it, you cockroach abuser!" shouted Bumbo, his hands bunching up into fists. Doctor took a step backwards, nearly tripping over Poofy, as the Mippet advanced. It was like being attacked by an ambulatory bowling ball, assuming that bowling ball wore shorts and a too-tight T-shirt with the words "Hang Loose, Man" scrawled across it.
Ordered Toady loudly, "Someone! Get Bumbo's tranquilizers! And get that curtain down!" The curtain fell to the cheers of the crowd; and a now familiar voice criticizing, "That was actually entertaining. It would have been better if the stage had been on fire, though."
The third skit was delayed. After Bumbo's tranquilizers, it had been necessary to wait for the agitated Mippet to calm, during which time Doctor had been removed from his sight. While the drone did not necessarily leave the thoughts of Bumbo, the obese man did relax noticeably. That left time for the scenery to be changed.
The set which was swiftly rolled onto the stage was that of a miniature amusement park crossed with that of a one-ring circus. Colorful tent canvas artfully draped the back of the stage. There was a small Ferris wheel, a three-pony merry-go-round, and a complicated trapeze/balance wire system, all sized for creatures the size of dogs. The stars of the show quickly became clear as six cockroaches were herded into the center ring, decked out in fancy paint, dark blue capes, and sparkles. Bumbo, when he wasn't featured in the opening act with bean-enhanced sound effects, was the troupe's cockroach wrangler.
And it was Weapons' turn to take central stage.
{This is ridiculous,} insisted Weapons. {Why must I be assigned this?}
Second indicated a virtual handful of matchsticks, one of which was noticeably shorter than the others. {Because you lost the draw. You did not sufficiently cheat to win.}
Weapons had no retort, for it was true.
Standing in the center ring, next to Bumbo, and surrounded by six oversized bugs as Toady prepared to announce the act, Weapons was a shoddily dressed picture of seething irritation. He had been forced to don a satin cape of purple and a shiny tri-cornered hat which had a white plastic pompom attached to its apex; and he had been provided a whip, a toy such as might be won at a carnival by tossing rings on a peg, or bought at certain leather-orientated stores. He was a pale imitation to Bumbo, who's rotund body was head to toe dressed in pale lilac featuring a cut of cloth which did not flatter, and whom held a water pistol in one hand and a beach chair in the other.
"Put your hands together for Bumbo and his grand cockroach circus! And introducing one of our Special Guest Stars as visiting trainer! YEEHAW!" shouted Toady's voice gleefully, cueing the curtain to rise and tacky, stereotyped carnival music to play.
"Ha-yup!" ordered Bumbo, waving his water pistol. "Salute the audience!" The six cockroaches rose up on their hind legs and precariously balanced, waving their feelers. After several seconds, they flopped to all six feet and began to hurriedly run around, finally lining up, three each at stage right and left.
Bumbo gave the audience a big grin. "Welcome to Bumbo's Grand Cockroach Circus! Here you will see the best cockroaches go through their paces, so well trained that even someone who has never wrangled these beautiful beasts may do so with ease." The crowd clapped and cheered.
From the box which held Mack and Jack, one of the pair jeered, "What you need is a giant roach motel! And that pale pasty couldn't command anything, much less one of your brainless bugs!" Doubled croaking laughter followed the rude comment.
"Well," replied Bumbo cheerily, "what do two old codgers joined at the behind know?" The cockroach wrangler shifted his attention to Weapons, and said quietly without moving his lips. "Just wave around the whip and shout the commands I tell you to. The cockroaches will do the rest." Louder, "Guest Star, sir, tell my cockroaches to do a handstand."
Weapons stared at Bumbo, then directed a baleful glare towards the wings. His intranet emotion could best be described as scathing, but command and control had /directed/ him to remain on the stage in the strongest possible compulsion short of physically controlling his movements. Captain returned the look, a silent "Test us if you dare" floating unvoiced. Weapons internally sighed, urged the members of his hierarchy who were setting up the mining laser to make more haste (which inevitably created more delaying difficulties), and obediently raised his whip. "Handstand."
The command was not given with much, if any, sense of demand. Nonetheless, at a slight crooking from Bumbo's right index finger, the cockroaches sprang into a series of "handstands" on their forward legs, a reverse of their previous rear of greeting. The position was held for only a short time before the insects tumbled feelers over abdomen to a more normal stance.
Bumbo clapped his hands. "Very good! Very good, indeed! You, sir, may just have the presence required to be a keen roach wrangler!" Once said, a smell wafted from the direction of the round man and began to drift around the stage, to investigate the props and finally wander in the direction of the wings. Weapons automatically held his breath: the ability to withstand a hard vacuum had other applications as well.
Toady gasped, then frantically peered around as his bulbous eyes began to water. Other Mippets, of lesser fortitude, urgently moved for safe areas, preferably in another time zone, or scrambled for emergency oxygen masks. "Who allowed Bumbo beans before his skit?" hissed Toady between bouts of not breathing. "Everyone knows Bumbo is not allowed beans, cabbage, or other such items when he is going to be on stage." If anyone had provided the cockroach wrangler with a flatulence-enhancing product, no one was telling.
Meanwhile, on the stage, Bumbo was unaware of his transgressions, unable to smell that anything was wrong. The cockroaches on the relevant side of the stage looked a bit wilted, but, being what they were, were quite able to adapt, or at least endure. Besides, a job well done earned Cockroach Treats following the skit. The performance continued.
At Bumbo's behest, Weapons made (or, rather, Weapons lacklusterly ordered while Bumbo cued) the cockroaches jump, roll, somersault, and tap dance. Several climbed into the miniature Ferris wheel and rode it while three mounted the ponies of the merry-go-around for a spin. An amusingly clumsy game of jhad-ball was played; and, finally, it was time for the Grand Finale: acrobatics on the trapeze/balance wire set.
"Cockroach one: triple back flip twist with half gaiter, click front legs together midair, and end with a dismount on middle legs only," intoned Weapons. At least this farce was nearly over. The mining laser was beginning to make progress on the door, or had been until someone pulled the extension cord out of the wall, leading to a round of placing blame.
Bumbo waggled both pinkie fingers and twitched his ears while wrinkling his nose. At the sign, a roach leapt dainty onto the wire and smoothly flowed, as best as one could with an exoskeleton, through the routine. However, it was marred by the full gaiter and clicking of back legs, for the nose wrinkling had been the precursor to a sneeze, not a cue. As the cockroach landed, Bumbo exploded, from both ends.
Pyrotechnics had been set to emphasize the Grand Finale, a simple flash-boom of glorified black powder along with several sparkling fountains. The fireworks detonated as they were supposed to, mad scientist Mippet just out of sight in the left wings giggling the whole while he pushed buttons on a small device. Unfortunately, fire and flammable gasses mix a tad bit too well. The minor celebration of the end of the skit turned into a fireball of epic (and smelly) proportions.
{We are under attack!} screamed the always hair-trigger Weapons as he dropped to the ground amid the pyrotechnics and resulting pall of smoke. As a tactical unit, he always sported drone-mounted weaponry, a limb-embedded personal disrupter to vaporize threats. In a sane cube, specific triggers were required to override safeties, but Cube #347 was sane only by the loosest of definitions. Weapons had long since rendered to hash the continuing attempts by command and control to repair and strengthen codes meant to halt what was now occurring on the stage.
Weapons squinted into the smoke, automatically switching to thermal imaging. Bumbo had blown himself up into the catwalks by being at ground zero; and was otherwise okay, if dazed, except for being tangled in ropes. Six other targets of smaller proportion, however, presented themselves, six other targets of a hexapod variety.
Cried Weapons as targets were acquired and locked, {Enemy! They will be destroyed!} He was not listening to any of the internal voices which cried for composure. With exacting skill rarely displayed when the cube was forced to shoot at something beyond the hull, Weapons shot at each cockroach target in turn. One by one, there was a *hiss*pop* sound of instantly microwaved roach, the thick smoke dissipating disrupter beam to the point whereupon vaporization did not occur. A smell eerily akin to chicken filled the air.
"Now, that's a Grand Finale!" cheered Mack and Jack in a jeering stereo.
As the smoke slowly cleared, helped by the volume of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 and several large stage fans, Weapons was brought under control. The drone stood, rooted to the spot by compulsions burrowing through his mind. Above, Bumbo, witness to the slaughter of his precious cockroaches, screamed obscenities and flailed about, not helping those stagehands who were trying to cut him down.
"Hey! This tastes just like lobster!" exclaimed Henrieta, who, in the confusion, had moved closer to investigated a cockroach colored the red of boiled crab. "Delicious!"
Bumbo shrieked in wordless rage.
"What am I going to do about Bumbo?" moaned Toady. He was commiserating aloud, not expecting, nor requiring, anyone to answer. One unattached wrist stick was used by the amphibian to absently hit himself in the head. "The Animal Hospital fiasco...weird, but he could deal with it as long as that one Borg was out of sight. The blown up and otherwise exploded cockroaches. Well, it isn't the first time, as much as Bumbo'd like to believe otherwise, and he knows it. The /eating/, however, is what sent him over. I really hope he calms down enough to remove the restraints; and that his dressing room will be intact, afterwards."
Distantly there was the sound of a body thumping against a stout door, accompanied by the tinkling of glass and the more robust crack of wood.
"Toady!" shrilled the voice of Henrieta. "The papers Toady! I won't have any nervous breakdown by an actor or by you ruin this divorce. Sign the papers! NOW!" The hog thrust herself into Toady's face, one hand waving sheaf of papers and the other wielding pen.
Captain watched the drama unfolding in semi-interest. The attitude was more akin to a human stooping to watch an ant trying to carry an overlarge seed than any overriding fascination: it occupied the external senses, and was more engrossing than staring at a wall.
Similarly, the rest of the Borg had wandered off, seeking their own distractions. Weapons and both of Delta were near the door, the latter flanking the former, engaged in a vicious argument over how to open the door. The tactical squad had somehow (the actions leading to the incident weren't clear, even after sorting through several dozen first-person memories) melted the laser, not to mention begun a plasma fire, thus requiring the "rescue" operation to begin anew. The exact plan to do so was under discussion by Weapons and Delta, very loud discussion, both verbally and via intranets. Meanwhile, Second was shadowing Doctor as the vet cheerfully attempted to teach Poofy to balance a dog biscuit on the latter's head. The sub-collective didn't need roaches; and was unsure how to deal with the one apparently acquired without forcing Doctor to resort to the slyness for which he was renown when his pets were threatened. Sensors was quietly exploring the dark reaches of Bulk Cargo Hold #2, looking for the cockroaches whom had recently scuttled out there seeking safety from the stage, explaining that there existed an exoskeletal bond between herself and the insect Mippets. Or, at least, that was the translation of Sensors' words. Assimilation, meanwhile, was a statue in a corner, a hat and two coats hanging off of him as he was mistaken for a new, if ugly, clothing stand.
From the mysterious darkness of the behind-scenes stage, jogged the cheetah. Ignoring Henrieta's haranguing and Toady's stunned expression, the cat said, "The props are a total loss, Boss. It is going to cost a bundle to get new Ferris wheel and merry-go-round. It was all a custom job. There's some other problems too, like the emus eating the insulation on the lights, again." The cheetah continued to rattle off an every lengthening list.
One corner of Toady's large mouth began to tic.
"Mack and Jack are instigating unrest!" shrieked a mop of bright green hair with two protruding eyeballs and no obvious method of locomotion. "Listen to them! If the closing musical isn't done soon, they'll riot, they will!" The mop frantically bounced up and down to catch Toady's attention.
In the background was the nonsensical chant: "Yo ho-ho, let us go! Yo ho-ho, let us go!" Prominent in the voice mishmash were those of the conjoined twins.
As if there wasn't enough confusing ringing Toady, causing the amphibian to turn from one demand to the next, all convinced their message, their trouble, had priority, another mop, this one fluorescent pink, tumbled into the fray. "The cockroaches won't come out from their hiding places. From what I can get out of them - I don't speak fluent roach, you understand - they are afraid that the stagehands will cook them up and eat them. I think the bugs have a point. Some of the hands, and the actors, are making little bibs with roach silhouettes on them and calling around to find someone who can deliver several crates of lemons and quite a few big tubs of butter." The words were delivered rapid-fire, yet distinctly pronunciated for all their haste.
A twitching eye joined the mouth tic.
"These divorce papers..."
"...can fix the extension cords, but the mess made of the 'Space Hillbilly' backdrop has to be seen to be..."
"Yo ho-ho, let us go! Yo ho-ho, let us go!"
"...here's the pen, you oaf. All you need..."
"I've tried the roach treats, but without Bumbo's help..."
"...Mack and Jack! Listen to them..."
"...papers..."
"...rips all over..."
"Yo ho-ho, let us go!"
"...cockroach..."
Toady's eyes bulged. He was surrounded on all sides. Frantically he looked around, spotting Captain as the latter quietly observed in the non-blinking, yet not-staring Borg way. A manic expression crossed the amphibian producer's face; and his eye was more winking than twitching. "You! Don't you have anything to add? Everyone else seems to need something!" Captain did not respond, considering the question hypothetical. Toady, however, wanted an answer as he maniacally demanded, "Tell me! Add something!"
Hog, cheetah, and colorful mops abruptly quieted. They glanced at each other, then as one, stepped back a pace. Henrieta more firmly clutched her papers.
"Clarify the wrist sticks," stated Captain, as bade. It had been a topic of discussion within the dataspaces; and, at the moment, was foremost of the threads Captain was observing.
Violently shaking for a moment, Toady visibly calmed himself. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and controlled, prompting another step back by his former Mippet badgerers. One wrist stick was held in demonstration.
"We used, once upon a time, to all be slaves, toys required to obey whatever fool command some drooling child, or adult, gave us. We were subject to dress-up parties, make-up, random battering, maulings by pets. Toys don't have rights, even toys who have self-aware algorithms installed at the factory so as to better provide 'hours of interacting fun.' Do you know Hell? Well, I do. Hell is being buried by the family hyden. Hell is being flushed down waste reclamation. Hell is many things. Needless to say, the product line was abandoned when most of us began leaving our purchasers.
"Technically, somewhere, we have an owner, or at least that what it says on a paper we have. We are owned by a company which specializes in children's programming. Ironic, yes? Personally, I'd like to see the little monsters suffer what I've suffered. We need credit, however. The show is shot so that it looks like somebody is controlling us, directing our movements out of frame. That satisfies the proponents of the AI League, who believe all electronic intellegences more complicated than a pocket calculator should be turned into scrap."
Toady looked as if he were to continue, but a phone rang. It was an old-fashioned sound for an old-fashioned device hanging on the wall. The cheetah, being closest, sidled sideways to answered the audio-only machine, holding the ear/mouth piece to the side of his head.
"Mippet Production Company." Pause. "Doing good, Roger, and you?" Pause. "Uh-huh." Pause. "Okay." Pause. "I understand." Pause. "Yes, and no." Pause. "I see." Pause. "Couldn't you hold them off a day or so? The company is quite busy." Pause. "Really?" Pause. "Okay, I'll tell the boss. Bye." The receiver was replaced to its cradle.
"Well?" demanded Toady, his preternatural calm remaining.
The cheetah winced. "That was Roger, our 'owner'."
Impatiently, Toady replied, "I know who Roger is. Get on with it."
Continued the cat, "It seems the AI League has dispatched 'surprise' inspectors to check us when we get to our next gig day after tomorrow. He got wind of it, and gave us a call. They pulled a similar stunt with your cousin's group last week, which is what made Roger suspicious. We'll have a day at most to hire humanoid 'extras' to make us 'legal.'"
"Did they put my cousin out of business?" Certain questions were more important than others.
"No."
"Damn."
Henrieta capitalized on the pause to thrust the papers in the toad's face once more. "Sign these! If we are busted, I want this marriage over with. I'll never have the chance if we are detained."
The eyeball twitch and ticing mouth returned with a vengeance at the demand, followed by trembling. As the cheetah muttered "Now you did it," to the hog, the trembling became shaking, which in turn evolved into a near seizure. Just when Captain judged that Toady was about to literally shake himself apart, there was a pause....and then an explosion.
Bits of Toady rained down, several large and slightly rubbery lumps embedded with metal hitting Captain about the shoulders. There was no blood nor nothing as vulgar as gore. The Mippets were simply machines overlain with organics. The mechanics behind how the organics were nourished was not important, but the bodily process obviously did not require anything as crass as digestive or circulatory systems. One arm, miraculously intact, was caught in Henrieta's bullet-proof hair; and both eyes were being chased down by the colorful mops.
"Damn Toady! This is another of his schemes to avoid me!" snorted Henrieta as she threw the arm to the floor. "He knows he has high pressure, and he allowed the stress to get to him on purpose. Tell me when he is put back together. I'll be in my dressing room, on the phone with my lawyer." The hog turned and flounced away.
"Yo ho-ho, let us go!" The audience continued chanting, oblivious to the drama unfolded, to the fact the Mippet host was currently in multitudes of pieces.
The cheetah sighed. "Had to do this boss, didn't ya?" he asked the bits on wall, on counter, on floor. There was no answer. With more authority, the cat shouted, "Pete and Peter! Get your winged tails out of the rafters and start the clean-up of our esteemed leader. Dump him in the Regenerator as you find him. If he comes out missing some of his parts, well, it is his own damn fault for exploding. Hands above! Rig for the final musical! Actors! Get to your places! I'll be taking Toady's part, if only to get this over with so we can get moving to the next location, and ready to deal with the AI League inspector."
The cheetah paused, then seemed to remember that Captain remained. The Borg was eyed, then told, "I think it may be best to skedaddle before Toady is put back together. He's very unpleasant after the Regenerator." Message delivered, the cat straightened his hard-hat, checked the laces of his running shoes, attached some wrist sticks which did not belong to him and which were blatantly too short, then jogged onto the stage.
"From the Mippet Show on location...goodnight, everybody!" shouted the cheetah over the clapping of the audience. A song and dance began on stage, mirroring the opening, Mippet bodies gyrating to the flash of colored lights and rich orchestrations.
Captain did not move. A Borg did not retreat from a runaway child's toy, and certainly not one in the form of a toad. And then, suddenly, between one blink and the next, between refrains, between notes, the stage was no longer present. Captain, who had been standing in the wings, raised to the level of the stage, suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor following a hard fall.
{Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!} gibbered Sensors. Moments later there was a crash as the insectoid fell from a perch on one of the inventory shelves of Bulk Cargo Hold #2, where she had been pursuing cockroaches, and where she had been located prior to her disconnection by a sub-collective which did not want to listen to her single repeated word until such time the cube exited the null reality it was traveling through.
Or falling through. Or not falling through as the passage actually took no time. Or whatever the concept the sub-collective was purported by a certain Director to not to be able to understand.
And the certain Director was likely correct, at least when said sub-collective could not pass the problem onto the Greater Consciousness for analysis. Captain viciously ended the futile cycle of inquiry before it could absorb too many computational resources.
One of the many internal doors to the cargo hold opened, no longer mysteriously held shut. Weapons and Delta were nearly sliced in half with the powerful plasma cutting tool engineering had wrestled into place to replace the defunct mining laser.
Captain stood, centering himself before plunging into the dataspaces, absorbing the internal sensor views of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 as elements of command and control and sensory hierarchy sorted them. The Mippets, from stage to audience to wings to cameras to Mack and Jack, had ceased to exist, evaporated between one instant and the next.
{All gone,} stated Captain to the general sub-collective as the swift search for intruders of the Mippet variety returned a negative.
Second interjected, {Not quite.}
Captain glommed first onto Second's visual stream, then piggybacked Doctor's, simultaneously viewing two points of view. He groaned.
"Good Poofy!" praised Doctor as the assimilated cockroach balanced a dog treat on his head before twitching sideways when cued to catch the biscuit in his mandibles. "Very good Poofy!"
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