Star Trek iz ooned bi Paramount, fourever and ever. Decker rights Star Traks. I went to skoul and now can rite BorgSpace.
Skouldaze
The Fall to the new reality had taken over one subjective hour, and there was no end in sight. Outside was Nothing, an uncomfortable blankness of which it did not behoove the drone mind to spend too much time contemplating, else be shut down like Sensors. Inside, restless consciousnesses, with little to occupy, were placing a greater than usual strain upon the censure filters and command and control, at least those elements of command and control which themselves were not contemplating compulsive actions.
"This is supposed to be instantaneous," complained Captain to Iris. A reply from the eyeball's conversation where it had so uttered was set upon a holodisplay. "Previous transfers have not required this long. It is a strain on sub-collective resources."
The Director snorted. "Look, I have no control over the rolls; and I have no control on the time it takes to get from one reality to the next. Yes, I said the process is instantaneous, from one point of view, but from yours, there is a waiting. You are stalling. Do you have tens or not?"
Captain frowned as he peered down at his cards, unnecessarily scanning pasteboard faces once more. "No. Go fish."
Iris reached onto the folding table which was situated in the middle of Captain's nodal intersection and shuffled through the mess of face-down cards, finally selecting one. It turned it over, then hooted, "Hah! I got my wish!" A pair of tens joined the other cards already displayed upright like so many numerical trophies. The Director was winning the game.
"Do you have any aces?" asked the eyeball.
"We shall play poker next: the odds are more advantageous for me," retorted Captain.
Iris shrugged in its no-shoulder way. "Whatever. Do you have any aces or not?"
In his alcove, Weapons observed the card game with little interest. Go Fish was not high in the tactical quotient, so he did not consider it a relevant method to pass the time. Dismissing the visual datastream, the head of the weapons hierarchy returned to the BorgCraft scenario under development: it was time for a full-scale test.
Stepping from his alcove, Weapons beamed himself to Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Eventually the scenario would include assaults and other bits requiring physical participation, but first were the naval battles. Ignoring the protests of several engineering drones present who were sorting through inventory for repair supplies, Weapons dimmed the lights and initiated the scenario in the visual editor.
Bulk Cargo Hold #5 acquired a backdrop of stars, blazing all colors, with a red giant-white dwarf pair on the verge of a novae dominating at less than a light week distant. An Exploratory-class cube shimmered into existence, followed by the enemy squadron consisting of three small escort ships surrounding the target colonial transport. Other vessels, as well as stellar jetsam and flotsam, began to appear and vanish, to be moved hither and yon as the weapons hierarchy argued with itself about what, exactly, should be included in the scenario, and where it should be placed. Weapons directed all, not quite a God, but definitely a junior deity over this little slice of created cosmos.
Unexpected, a Voice broke through Weapons' concentration, booming, "Five to the square root of 6i." The pronouncement was followed by the soul-numbing BONG which heralded the sub-collective's arrival into a new reality.
Weapons' connection to the sub-collective faded to a tenuous link, a distant murmur of inaccessible noise. The holographic dance of ships and debris continued, the physics model newly loaded, under control of sprite subprograms and algorithms, a distracted Weapons no longer exerting direct dominion over every aspect of the editor. An escort spun into an icy comet chunk, shattering both, splinters from the wreckage fouling the transport's manifold. A fiery explosion lit the simulation, giant vessel undergoing catastrophic systems failure.
Then the holographic battle abruptly terminated, revealing not Bulk Cargo Hold #5, but an extremely messy room, one either inhabited by a sounder of pig, else a teenager from any of a multitude of species. Underwear and dirty clothes lay discarded on floor and lone chair, competing for space with a pile of clean garments, dusty, which were blatantly not in the dresser. Several glasses could be seen decorating ledges here and there, most clustered on the edge of a desk near a digital clock, all with a crusty brown substance on the bottom. Black and yellow posters proclaimed the greatness of Jhad-ball teams and music groups alike; and a computer terminal on the cluttered desk winked the words "CyberCraft Simulation Interrupted." The bed was...somewhere, as was a book shelf. A terrarium against one wall was a mass of green in which foliage occasionally shivered and from which black eyes flashed. The sole clean spot was a fairly large area, a third of the room's floor space, opposite the lone door and dominated by a well used surgical apparatus which had an uncanny resemblance to the contraptions gathering dust in Cube #347's assimilation workshops.
The door slid noisily open. In stalked a ten-limbed machine - six "legs" and four "arms" - which looked like a stick insect from Hades. The long body to which the legs attached was graced by compartments; and atop the upwards canted thorax was a head bristling with sensors. Four faceted eyes glowing red examined the room before finally coming to rest upon Weapons. Overall, the thing, while startling, was no more than a meter tall.
"Marvin," said the robot, exasperated electronic sigh following the unfamiliar name, "I told you twenty minutes ago to get ready for school, and here you are, playing games. Well, buster, time to go, ready or not." The machine paused. "And I wish you'd let me clean up in here for once. I swear, soon there will be a junk density sufficient for black hole formation, or at least foster spontaneous combustion. Anyway, go! Scoot!" The robot waved its arms towards the door.
Weapons stood, indecisive, as he was confronted by the twin problems of no meaningful connection to his sub-collective and the insectoid robot. The former was regulated to be the lesser problem of the moment, for the link was there, just not usable. The latter difficulty, well, Weapons could do something about that.
Stepping forward, as if to comply, Weapons paused next to the robot. He swiveled and sharply pushed the creature, causing it to tumble. The sensor-studded head sharply hit against the desk, rattling glasses. With satisfaction, Weapons watched the glowing eyes dim and scissoring limbs still.
"We do not comply," retorted Weapons. The open door beckoned. It was time to figure out where he was and how to return to Cube #347 .
"Marvin! I told you to hurry up! I don't have time for your little temper tantrums this morning. You will be late for school." Beyond the door waited another robotic insect, this one larger than the first at two meters in height and sized for the corridor outside the room. "Young man, one more infraction, and I will be suspending your game privileges. Only school work will be possible on your terminal, no entertainment. Now, come along."
Weapons held his ground. No expression crossed his face, discounting the slight narrowing on his unaltered eye. A small robot, a football sized crab with heavy armor, scuttled past the belligerent drone and into the room, emerging less than a minute later hauling the machine Weapons had broken. Crab and its prize, the latter loudly scraping against metal floor, moved away down the corridor in the opposite direction the metal stick insect, now paused, had gone.
The larger motile returned, looming over Weapons. "Let me get a look at you. You look different." The robot's voice had a feminine timbre, for all that the machine lacked gender; and Weapons had the distinct impression that the tone was maternal, belonging to a person who would spit on a hanky to clean dirt off a protesting child's cheek. A suspicion was growing in the drone that the three robots seen thus far represented the much larger body of mech species #2, Ehtu, a mechanoid potentially comprised of millions of specialized shells. The red eyes of the robot continued to scan Weapons up and down. "There it is. You altered your right biceps! This cybernetic fad of yours is getting out of hand, Marvin. It can't be healthy for a biological to replace so many parts, but, I'm not going to argue with you about it." The refusal to dispute had the sense of a topic long exhausted with neither party willing to budge on a point. "Just don't come whining to me when you cut off something you really should have kept."
The robot reached forward and grabbed Weapons on the upper arm with a strong limb, force marching him down the corridor and through a series of hallways. Glimpses through the occasional open doorway showed various rooms, some obviously designed to be taken advantage of by an organic being, and others esoteric with purpose known only to an Ehtu. Shells of all description trundled, rolled, and flew, headed on unknown errands. Weapons and his escort finally arrived at their destination.
The room, a moderate 50 meters by 100 meters by 30 meters, had a series of platforms on the floor. The smallest dais was sufficient to place a shoebox, while the largest could encompass a full-sized shuttle. To one platform was led Weapons, and then forced to stand upon. The robot stepped back.
"Here we go, your school stuff. Here's your backpack with your Port-A-Brain, e-books, and stylus; and I've also packed your lunch." A shell like that first encountered materialized on a nearby dais, holding a lumpy fabric bag, well-used and with a large purple stain marring its green color. The backpack was handed to Weapons, who finally took it. The larger shell stepped forward. "Your lunch today has extra potassium, vitamin C complexes, and calcium, which your growing body needs. Please absorb it all. And have a good day at school. See you later."
Weapons had just realized that the most probable function of the platform he stood upon was a transporter. However, before he could protest, he and the backpack were beamed elsewhere, arriving in the midst of a busy crowd. A sign on the wall nearby proclaimed: "Transport Station A - Highland Tertiary School for Fostered and Adopted Biologicals."
"Marvin!" yelled a voice over the group, most of whom were moving quickly out of the immediate area as they materialized, all heading in the same direction, some noticeably faster than others. "Marvin! Over here! Come on, man, we're going to be late to our first class!"
"Out of the way, cyberhead," snarled an elephantine hexapod as she beamed in, only to find her exit blocked. The being shouldered her way past Weapons, muttering to herself something unintelligible, but doubtless vulgar.
"Marvin!" shouted the voice again, this time closer. Weapons peered around, still not moving, and sighted a rather skinny example of a human male. He was of short stature - a head less than Weapons - with flaming orange hair and capaciously freckled pale skin. Glasses adorned the face, held in place with an elastic band around the back of his head. Clothing had of sense of edge-of-season, if not completely out of it, a slightly too large fit which proclaimed either hand-me-downs or thrift shop super-bargain-basement deal. "Don't just stand there and let Rosie stomp on you, we gotta go!" Hand tugged on the loosely held backpack, and Weapons followed.
"Q!" called several people in a group, followed by a lone "Q!" from a smiling female biped with large horns curling on her forehead. The redhead smiled at each shout, then frowned as a "Quentin!" was spat from a bulky humanoid male lounging against a cement wall.
"My name's Q, Vern. I am a Q, therefore my name is Q!" retorted Quentin as he stopped to face the catcaller.
Vern smiled widely, "You're delusional, Quentin, a class-A mental freak, like your cyberhead buddy with the Ehtu for a parent. You are Quentin, a nobody, always been a nobody, will die a nobody. You ain't no Q, Quentin." He had a body bulky with muscle, a form any contact sport coach would love to have, except for the personality that came in the package deal. Vern had no neck and his brow was low, yet there was an intelligence to him, a diabolical smarts which knows right from wrong, but, frankly, doesn't really care.
"I am too!" argued the redhead. "I just haven't come into my powers yet, which is why my 'real' parents aren't raising me. One day you'll see, Vern. You will see. You'll be the first one to see."
The bully laughed, nearly choking. "You threaten me, you little wuss? I'd beat the s**t out of you, ifn't it wasn't beneath me. You aren't even worth the spit to spit upon." Giving another grin, Vern pushed off from the wall. "I'll be seeing you around, Quentin." He strode forward, purposefully bumping his shoulder into Weapons'.
Until the physical contact, Weapons had not been paying attention to the quarrel, too busy examining the place whereupon he found himself. Far overhead arched a dark blue dome, providing the illusion of planetary sky; and except for the small spider-robots (visible only by zooming in on metallic glints) clambering on their never-ending task of structural maintenance, one might believe one was on a planet. Beyond the transporter station was a large building, done in institutional "box" style, surrounded by lawns of a reddish grass interrupted by flowering bushes. Sidewalks of cement led off in a myriad of direction, some to other transport stations, some to streets or parking lots, and some to smaller outbuildings. It was not a pretty place, but it was functional.
The school was not the only structure present, simply the most dominating. Surrounding the area were lesser buildings of a less standardized nature, most promoting products via holographic projections outside forcefield windows. Traffic in the form of silently floating vehicles, some piloted and others empty of sentient beings, rode a nearby busy street. In the distance in one direction were the silhouettes of much larger buildings, while opposite rose the dark shadows of massive tree tops. Whether this was enclosed asteroid or constructed platform structure, Weapons could not tell, and neither was it important. Currently, the school was the center of focus as which saw the most pedestrian traffic converged upon it.
"Stupid Vern," muttered Quentin as he glared at the retreating back of the bully. "One of these days..." The thought was not continued. "No, he's not worth it. When I get him, I'll get /all/ of him. Anyway, Marvin, we've gotta get to class. I hope you have everything in your pack there, 'cause there isn't time to go to the locker first. If you're late again, you'll have another demerit, and certainly detention this time. Why your parent puts up with it, I don't know, but I know my mums and dads would absolutely kill me."
Quentin led the way through the crowd, adroitly dodging between passing people as opportunity presented. As he walked, he talked, uncaring that Weapons' answers were little more than grunts. On the part of the crowd, they tended to avoid Weapons, moving out of his path. Other "cyberheads" were present, sentients whom had self-cybernized themselves in unknowing parody of Borg (the Collective did not seem to exist in this reality), but none nearly as altered as "Marvin."
Weapons swiftly built his hypotheses, attacking the problem with the same deadly intent he gave tactical situations. This reality apparently only required a single participant, of which Weapons was now installed as "Marvin." Marvin was an orphan adopted, for whatever reasons, by a mech species #2. Marvin was also a cyberhead, deep in the body mutilating fad. The school was for older adolescents, those soon to enter the work force; and at the teaching facility, Marvin's closest acquaintance was a deranged human who believed he was a powerless Q.
Hopefully this reality would end quickly and allow Weapons to return to his simulation. Blowing things up was much more satisfying.
Weapons, trailing Quentin, converged upon the front doors, passing through them and into a large hallway beyond. At various intervals crossed additional corridors; and doors to classrooms lay to each side. Metal lockers lined the sides of the hallway, creating living eddies as bodies clustered around one locker or another, gossiping. Above, a bell rang, prompting knots to break up and people to dart into rooms.
"Here we are," said Quentin triumphantly, "and we aren't even late this time. Math, what a bore." Quentin led the way into the room, appointed in standard fashion with student desks, a teacher's desk, and white panels which were the high-tech equivalent of blackboards. Faded posters with slogans such as "Only Teckla Do Drugs" and "Math is Cool!" hung on the wall. The set-up was one repeated not only across cultures, but across the multiverses, down to the placard with cat creature holding onto a limb, phrase "Hang In There" emblazoned on it. Seats were taken in the back row. To be more precise, Quentin took a seat, leaving Weapons to one of the taller tables present for those who preferred to stand or did not have an anatomy suitable for desks. Weapons' choice was not remarked upon.
From the larger desk in the corner stood a nondescript teacher. He was a middling man, of middling height and middling build. Outstanding features included dark purple epidermis and matching eyes, but otherwise he was, well, average. Mathematics instructors are generally dull creatures, and this one was no different. If anything, he looked haggard, as if he had taught for far too long, eager young academic wanting to inspire adolescent minds giving way to tired old man thrilled if individuals passed their basic skills tests.
The first class passed uneventfully, Weapons ignoring everything the instructor said and wrote. In turn, the teacher ignored Weapons, presenting his lecture to those in the front row, to those who where eager to learn. Between taking notes, Quentin stared at a certain female one row forward, quickly returning to his e-notebook and stylus every time the outwardly human young woman glanced behind herself and at the redhead, puzzled expression on her face. Weapons did nothing, backpack laying untouched on the ground. Instead, he diverted himself by considering abstracts to build into future BorgCraft scenarios.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the class. Quentin shoved his stuff into his bookbag, then said, "Come on, Marvin, let's get to the locker before history." Once more Weapons followed behind, not so much because he felt an obligation to do so, but because the action filled the time as he waited for this reality to be terminated.
Of course, if he found a way to eliminate the Enemy, thus making his wait that much safer, he would take it. The Enemy, as always, equated everyone not Borg; and even that mental equation was iffy at times, especially with no sub-collective to anchor him.
The lockers were nearby, upright narrow boxes a third the width of the average alcove. They were colored a creamy peasoup green, much like the walls of the school, although random ones were originally a bright yellow hue designed to relieve the visual monotony. The latter had faded to a color more commonly associated with certain biological functions; and it was in front of one of these lockers Weapons found himself. Following Quentin's example as the redhead blithely chattered about an individual designated Glytha, the Borg applied the thumb of his unaltered hand to a touchpad. The locker front melted away.
Inside was a mess, homemade shelves wedged into the locker and all overspilling with items. Books, e-notebooks, loose papers threatened an avalanche, but, somehow, did not quite spill forward. One shelf at eye height was different, clean, more or less, in order to display several thin sheets of plastic tacked up for viewing. More lay carelessly in a pile on the shelf, all with the title "Cyberhead Monthly" emblazoned across the top.
The topmost plastic on the pile featured the picture of an electric blue skull, both eyesockets filled with optical implants and a presumably rude tattoo applied to bare bone. Subtitles along the left side of the skull advertised "The Top Ten Cyber Part Companies" and "Can't Stand the Pain? We Test Local Anesthetics On The Market So You Don't Have To" and "Feature! The Most Converted Being!" Weapons' eyes slid past the final headliner - "Worried Your Next Conversion Might Impede Your Sex Life? Check Out These Modifications!" - as Quentin impatiently tapped his foot.
"Come on," curtly said the redhead, "we've got to get to history. We can't stand around here all day." The human reached past Weapons, grabbed a certain electronic device from a lower shelf, then shoved it in the Borg's unprotesting hand. "There. You have the memory for your Port-A-Brain. Let's go." Weapons followed, locker automatically regaining its front as it sensed its owner departing.
History. The room looked exactly the same as the mathematics class, except the posters tended towards a historical theme. Once again, Quentin slipped through the milling crowd to the back and took a seat, leaving Weapons with the option of a standing desk adjacent. He took it, prepared to continue his BorgCraft scenario buildings.
"Tactics!" bellowed a bass voice as the teacher stood from her desk. The instructor was built in the romanticized Viking tradition, complete with heavy braids. The horns, however, were part of her head; and her shirt covered four mammoth breasts, two on top of two, which likely required an intricate bra to control. "Today we continue our examination of the tactics used at the Battle of Jemal, whereupon a small blockade force prevented an invading armada from gaining access to the vital Jin moon during the Fourth Rymoolan Solar War. Room! Lights! Begin simulation where it was paused yesterday!" The orders were roared to the unseen classroom computer in a vigor appropriate to a general commanding battlefield troops.
The lights dimmed, revealing a holographic scene floating over the heads of the seated students. The colors were pale and individual icons fuzzy, indicating a holographic system with a long deferred maintenance log. For a few minutes, Weapons was intrigued, but the focus quickly slipped into an analyzation of all the things the armada did wrong as the instructor explained "correct" defensive maneuvers.
"Marvin!" shouted the teacher. "Pay attention. I asked you to point out where the heroic vessel Thorril was at this time period."
"Busted, man," whispered Quentin quietly so the instructor could not hear. The redhead's face reflected a wide grin.
Weapons examined the display. "Wrong," he uttered, "entirely wrong. The tactics of this engagement were flawed." He ignored the hissed warning from Quentin to shut up, as well as the surprised titters from other students in the room. "Accidents and an imbecilic commander allowed the offense to fail. The battle was won by a fluke."
The instructor's eyes narrowed, glinting by the light of the holographic display. "Marvin, I've never known you to be so...chatty." She was obviously aching to use another word, but held herself from doing so. "Can you defend your accusation?"
"It is obvious," dismissed Weapons. "Very obvious. No competent admiral would have allowed such an insignificant fleet to stand in the way of the primary objective of destroying the Jin moon base. At any cost."
"Put your grade where your mouth is, Marvin. I'll play defender using the same tactics employed at the Battle of Jemal; and you will be the invaders. If, and only if, you achieve the objective, your grade will become a certain pass, instead of its current questionable state. Otherwise, well, I'll likely be seeing you again next semester. Room! Reset simulation. Stepwise voice control with myself as defender, student Marvin Ehtu as aggressor."
The instructor began, ordering her vessels into a specific orbit around the moon, one in which Weapons immediately noted huge holes. He, however, did not exploit the weaknesses, for he had a more direct tactic in mind. As the swift game progressed, it became increasingly obvious that Weapons was not adopting the ploy as relayed by history, ignoring the feints of the defenders. Despite the cost in material and, presumably, people, Weapons bore in upon the objective in the unsubtle Borg manner. In the end, his fleet was destroyed, but so too was the base. And all the defenders. And the moon Jin. And a good chunk of the terrestrial planet the moon had been orbiting around.
The bell rang. Lights automatically rose. The instructor stared with stunned expression at the now very pale holographic icons as the primary planet continued to disintegrate, simulation unhalted.
"Come on, Marvin. We've gotta get out of here before she realizes class is over," said Quentin frantically. "She is gonna be pissed in a few minutes, and I've heard about her frenzies." A molten chunk of planet spun into a carrier group of the secondary defensive fleet, with disastrous consequences. "That was brilliant, man, but I hope you can stand the consequences tomorrow."
"Consequences are irrelevant," proclaimed Weapons as he grabbed his backpack and followed Quentin.
Answered the redhead, "Yah, that's what you always say. One of these days that attitude is going to land your cybernized butt in jail." Quentin smiled a wide grin. "Still, that was brilliant. I especially liked how you rammed your flagship right into the munitions dump, igniting the fusion plant to critical. Spectacular!"
Once more through the crowded halls Weapons forged. Third class, entered just as the bell rung an end to the break period, was an outbuilding of the main school. There was a warehouse quality to it - open space unobstructed by internal walls. Bladed machinery waited for busy hands to wield it, humming with power. An antique shuttle lay partially disassembled against the far wall. Scraps of metal and electronic parts lay in carefully sorted heaps or in large wheeled bins. It was a dream come true for those with tendency towards building...or taking apart.
"Fabrication," uttered Quentin happily as the pair entered the large room. "This is the best class."
Fabrication was a free-form metal shop. Sparks and metal slivers flew as students retrieved their current projects from cubby holes, returning to work upon them. Quentin brought forth an odd three-sided box that he claimed would be the base chassis for a fully functional model shuttle. Through it all circulated a broad shouldered man (Jhad-ball coach...why did it seem Jhad-ball, or some variation thereof, was always present? Weapons filed the query for later examination) who kept chaos from disintegrating from semi-sanity to mass trauma ward.
Wandering over to sift through the bins, Weapons found highly interesting bits and pieces. A plan formed in his mind, or, to be more precise, he accessed blueprints for a primitive weapon that nonetheless could be quickly built using the items represented in the scrap piles. Clearly the bins had been carefully vetted by the shop teacher to not include the parts for potential mayhem, but no provision had been made for a tactical drone with on-board weapon information stored from 3723 different species.
Sparks, welding, lathing, bending, Weapons single-mindedly worked his design, swiftly piecing it together. At the end of the class, he held a fully functional crossbow, complete with laser-guided smart bolts which would deliver a lethal amount to electricity to many known sentient species. Of course, it didn't look like a crossbow, and would not until certain bits were disengaged from their location and reset into new locales. As was, the crossbow appeared to be a stand for an aggressive plant.
"Marvelous!" exclaimed the instructor when he examined the contraption prior to the bell. "And all done, too. If you don't have any finishing touches you want to put upon it, why don't you just take it with you to show your parent?"
Weapons shoved the crossbow into his backpack when the bell rang.
It was lunch time, and the whole of the school was stuffed into one of two cafeterias, else lounging outside on the lawn under a faux sky. As was the case in many similar establishments, there was an unspoken pecking order, who could sit at which table, who had to claim a spot immediately with a token bookbag, and who could confidently enter ten minutes late and still expect to find an available chair. The cafeterias were large rooms with molded plastic seats and tables available for all physiologies, faded school banners fluttering high on the walls near ventilation ducts. A long forcefield separated the crowd from the open kitchen, those who through misfortune or a genuine like of school cuisine queuing up to accept an assembly-line meal from stations carved through the barrier. Lording over all was a very plump matron with puffy chef's hat, stained apron, and a frying pan.
The woman was given a wide berth by all students; and rumor was she would add any student who gave her gruff into the stew to be served the next day, whether said item was on the menu or not.
As Quentin, and apparently Weapons nee Marvin, had packed lunches, there was no need to brave cafeteria food. Instead Quentin led Weapons past many full tables, happily calling greetings to people he knew, ending at a circular table which was of suitable height to eat at while standing. Considering the sticky state of many chairs, the standing option was popular, even for those who weren't required to do so because of anatomy.
Quentin pulled a paper sack out of his backpack and emptied it onto the stained beige countertop. Tumbling out came a sadly squished sandwich, a lopsided purple fruit, several crackers in a plastic baggy, and a green metal can with the words "47-Down" scrawled across its side. "I swear," said Quentin after he had taken a massive bite out of the sandwich, "that food you are forced to 'eat' has deprived your brain of vital nutrients. I mean, who, in their right mind, would actually remove parts of their own insides, other than you and the other extreme cyberheads around here? I just don't get it. My mums and dads won't even let me pierce my ears; and if I 'fixed' my eyes so I didn't have to wear these stupid glasses, wow, think of the parental unit explosion." Another bite of sandwich was taken, chewed.
Weapons, meanwhile, emptied his bookbag onto the table, revealing not only disguised crossbow and school supplies, but a syringe, minus needle, and bottle of a watery brown fluid. The liquid moved sluggishly in its container. He pushed it to the side and ignored it, instead scanning the area to gain a better overview of the tactical situation.
"If you don't take those nutrients, Marvin, your parent is going to force-feed you again. You know how she is about balancing your meals for you. If you want, I'll syringe it into your feeding port. Why you put the port on your back is beyond me, but I guess you had your reasons." Pause as the purple fruit was peeled, revealing an amber flesh inside. "How come your parent is so lenient with you? What is your secret? Do you think she'd adopt a second biological? My mums and dads are great, you know, but..."
"But they are poorer than snot, Four-eyes. And you are about to get a lot lighter in the wallet region. Hand over your money, Quentin," demanded a familiar voice. Weapons turned towards the words, seeing the bully Vern...and Vern...and Vern.
The three Verns did not look impressed as Quentin protested. "I need that money for the shuttlebus home! You know I can't afford the transporter, and my family doesn't have one installed in the house!"
"And I need that money for a little joy juice, Quentin. All of me. Hand it over, else there is going to be trouble." The flanking Verns each balled up a fist and began to smack it against the opposite open palm.
Quentin tried again. "What if I have proof that your duplication, all thirteen of you, wasn't the accident you say it was. What if I can show that...that...that...." The threat petered out at the scowl on all three of Vern's faces.
"I'd say that you were a dead man, Quentin. The day that you become a Q, I'll eat my locker, until then, you can give me your bus money. Now," ordered the bully to the smaller redhead.
Weapons eyed Vern, as unimpressed with the bully, all three of them, as he had been at the first meeting. Vern was wider than Weapons, although not so tall, and likely weighed quite a bit less than the Borg with his implants and armor. With nothing more destructive than fists to back up his bullying, Weapons could easily face a whole army of Verns, much less three. Besides, they were interrupting tactical analyses. "Go away," pronounced Weapons, fully expecting the other to comply.
Vern blinked in surprise. "Well, Marvin speaks! You gonna protect your four-eyed friend, here? Have you have the kobobbers to do so, or are they already cut them off? I think, for payment, you should...um...give me your lunch."
"He does not have four eyes," stated Weapons. "You are bothering us. Go away."
Quentin winced, suddenly finding himself caught in the middle. "Be reasonable, Vern. Here, I'll give you the money. Marvin can give me a lift home, can't you Marvin?" The redhead fumbled a wallet out of his backpack, extracting a plastic card and handing it to the nearest Vern. "Come on, Vern, Marvin can't exactly eat cafeteria slop, you know."
The nearest Vern glared at Quentin, ignoring the proffered credit chip. "Take a flying leap, Four-eyes," spat the bully. Meanwhile, the Vern confronting Weapons had approached until he was nearly chest to chest to Weapons. "Repeat that, Metalbrain, if you dare."
The lunchroom had gone deathly quiet, hundreds of pairs of eyes watching the scene as it unfolded. Anticipation sparked the air.
Weapons stared steadily at Vern. "You are bothering us. Go away," enunciated Weapons clearly.
The Vern pushed Weapons strongly, but the latter could not retreat because of the table digging into his backside. "One more chance, Loser. Give me your lunch and apologize, else you are in a heap of trouble."
Weapons' eye narrowed dangerously, and his state of mind was one which would have set red flags waving for command and control. The censoring portion of Cube #347 wasn't present, however, and any on-board programs had long since been dismantled due to their propensity to cause a degradation in tactical performance. "We will not comply," snarled Weapons. And then he attacked.
Weapons stood in the principal's office, arms crossed, staring at the master of the school. In turn, the principal sat calmly at her desk, emotionlessly returning Weapons' nonexpression, unfazed by the latter's passively belligerent attitude. The principal was small as humanoids went, under a meter in height, similar in stature to species #9813, but without the vocal amplification which made all conversations a shouting match. Her hair was black and cut in pageboy style; and her garment was a one piece black uni-suit which, while matching hair and eyes, caused her pale skin to appear glowing. The chair included a booster seat so she could see over the top of the desk.
"So," said the principal, a frown finally crossing her face as she re-read something on a desk terminal facing her, "this isn't the first time you've been here, Mr. Ehtu, but it certainly seems to be the worst. Anything to say for yourself?"
Weapons remained silent, which the principal took for an admission of guilt.
"You killed one Vern using an illegal weapon, mounted on your body, nonetheless. Young man, you know disruptors are not allowed on school property. You also made a second Vern very sick: it took the nurse and the school's computer quite a time to find a countering agent for the mechanical parasites you introduced into Vern's blood. Finally, the third Vern is fine, other than a black eye." The principal paused, sighed, then continued. "What I want to know, Mr. Ehtu, is what's wrong. If you are having problems at home or here or anywhere, I would like to know. I am here to help, and you aren't the first kid whose come through here who thinks all the universe is against him. Whatever you say will remain between you an me. All I want to do is help, Mr. Ehtu."
Weapons remained silently staring at a position approximately ten centimeters behind the woman's face. Usually the unblinking glare of a Borg would cause a nonBorg to eventually shy, but the principal was immune due to her many decades of first teaching school, then running one. Weapons' action was futile.
The principal shook her head and slid out of her chair to stand upon the floor. She walked around to the front of the desk. "If this is how it is going to be, Mr. Ehtu, then we might as well get on to your punishment. I'm going to allow you to finish out the day, if, and only if, you offer Vern an apology. This little incident is going to go on your permanent record. If it was anyone but Vern, I'd be sending you to the police, but Vern, let's face it, has quite a few extras he can lose. I'll be going now, and Vern will come in. I'll leave you alone for the apology; and, in case you are worried about that adolescent notion of losing face, I've turned off the recording equipment in here so there will be no record for the mythical blackmailers of the future you kids always seem so worried about. You have three minutes."
The principal swept out of the room, an attitude twice as large as the body which housed it. Weapons turned to follow the action. The door opened to allow her egress, then opened again to admit Vern. It was a Vern with a black eye. A Vern with a black eye whose expression turned from polite contrition to outright hate when he saw Weapons.
The bully strode close until he was less then five centimeters distant, and well within Weapons' personal space, had he had any. Vern sneered, then said in a low voice, "I don't want an apology from you, Metalhead, at least not the type Mrs. Malon wants me you to give me. However, if you don't run home to your parent fast enough after school, I'll take my 'apology' out of your hide. It'll take mechanics and doctors /days/ to put you back together, and I guarantee you'll need a few more artificial bits and pieces when I'm done." The bully pulled back slightly to watch for a reaction.
As Weapons had not planned to ask for forgiveness, the arrangement was quite to his liking. If not for the intervention of school security, he would have terminated all three of Vern, not just one. Weapons was not threatened, could not be threatened. "You will lose," he replied.
"Well, what happened?" whispered Quentin to Weapons. The sum total time of the principal office trip had been the remainder of lunch and two class (physical education and computer programming), leaving only one instructional period to the school day. As Mrs. Malon had not trusted "Mr. Ehtu" to directly go to his final class, two security had served as escort, making sure he entered the darkened room that was his destination. It was only after choosing the final space left available next to Quentin had Weapons been able to determine the subject.
It was Health; and more specifically, Health was focusing on the sexually transmitted diseases of multiple species, shown in full color holographic detail. From the reflected light of the holoemitted display, it looked like many in the room were struggling not to be sick, with several appearing extremely worried as they glanced at certain parts of their bodies.
"Next is the Vangarian fungus, also called the vangi. Note the open sores which form on legs and torso as the fungus spreads beyond the point of entry. This STD is interspecial. Note on this holo the particularly fine demonstration of what happens when this disease is left untreated for more than a week," intoned the dark form of the instructor from the side of the room. There was a tone to his voice which indicated he was enjoying his students' reactions. From one desk came the sounds of almost-retching.
Quentin glanced at the display, shuddering slightly at the sight of pus and sloughing skin. He swallowed weakly, then concentrated on the conversation he was trying to have with Weapons. "Come on, Marvin, what happened? There are all these rumors."
Gossip, unlike light, has no speed constraints. It also has no temporal boundaries. It is a proven fact that rumors can begin /before/ the cause is initiated, then spread faster than can be accounted for by current understanding of physics, mutating with each recitation.
Weapons remained quiet, then uttered, "The enemy will be terminated." Unfortunately, a Borg is not built for whispering; and even if Weapons could lower his voice, he was of a personality to never do so. Silence in the room greeted the pronouncement, prompting Quentin to hunch down on his desk in embarrassment.
Said the instructor, "Yes, Mr. Ehtu, most STDs can be terminated, as you put it, but that isn't the point of the discussion today. Instead of conferring with your friend over there, why don't you direct your attention to the display, where there is now a riveting holo of Yidarian pseudo-pregnancy, which causes the male of the species to look as if he were pregnant. Too bad the progeny will all be half meter flukes, which in turn seek out an intermediate host in the earth-whale." The picture flicked from a pregnant individual, to a clip of Alienesque origin, giant flatworms bursting from torso. This time, someone did get up to run out the door; and Quentin had a distinctly queasy expression on his face. Weapons simply stared at the wriggling flukes, considering their potential as a biological weapon.
The final bell rang, and Weapons retraced his path towards the transporter station. He had no plan to actually use the transporter - that would be retreating - but tactical projections established between Hindi warts and interspecial crabs indicated the most probable locale to confront Vern would be at the station.
As he walked with single-minded purpose, Weapons was trailed by an increasingly large crowd. Rumor, gossip, hearsay, the word had quickly spread among the school populace as to the entertainment soon to erupt. It would be a good show. On the roof of the building glinted binocular lens, held by teachers interested in the proceedings (and had bets upon the outcome), but whom were too intelligent to risk bodily harm by attempting to break up the imminent dispute. Trying to walk backwards and present reasons for not going through with the fight was Quentin.
"Come on Marvin, this is stupid. What if all of Vern shows up? And you'll technically be off school property, so he can bring as many weapons as he wants. The smart thing would be to teleport home, give you both a cooling off period," argued Quentin. He paused as he tripped over a hump in the pavement, then scrambled back to his position in front of Weapons.
"No compliance," insisted Weapons. His eyes darted back and forth, seeking. He was nearing the station, yet still there was no sign of the enemy.
Quentin huffed, "You are not invincible, Marvin! I don't care how much of yourself you've cybernized. One good disruptor...hell, one could laser, and you'd be in a world of hurt. If all of Vern is here, he'll tear you apart. That'll piss off your parent to no end; and you know what Ehtu are like when they are pissed off. Even if you won't take your own safety into account, what about the safety of the rest of the people in this system?" Quentin desperately tried to throw logic into the equation. While the argument may have given Marvin pause, Weapons did not care.
"No compliance." Weapons was before the station. Behind him was a growing audience, people with no connection to the school adding to the crowd, coming simply to see the source of the commotion, then staying out of curiosity. In the distance wailed a siren.
Vern abruptly materialized, all twelve of him. One of him had a black eye, and another was somewhat pale and unsteady on his feet, but the other ten were ready for action. All were dressed casually in one piece jumpsuits, white so as to better show off the stains of conflict. While no energy weapons were in evidence, a variety of "on hand" examples were, including steel knuckles, metal sticks, chains, and knives. Vern did not necessarily mean to kill his opponent, but he was definitely in the market to send Weapons to the hospital...or the garage, whichever was most appropriate.
"Going somewhere, Metalbrain?" asked the foremost Vern, indistinguishable from the other nine intact Verns present. They presented an effective block to the station. Quentin faded back into the audience, not wanting to be literally caught in the middle.
Weapons looked the enemy over, prioritizing individual Verns as to threat level, then returned his gaze to the speaker. "We were waiting for you."
Vern made a show of peering around, all of him, except the speaker, searching high and low. "I don't see more than one of you, loser. Did you finally cut out too much of your brain, or were you counting on Quentin to back you up? If you wanted Quentin, well, he has more of a survival instinct than you do."
"We will defeat you," intoned Weapons.
Vern looked vaguely confused. "Hello, Metalbrain, there is only one of you. Ka'pok you, I'm going to make sure you need serious medical help before this is all over. Only I am allowed to kill one of myself. You are not allowed to touch me, much less hurt me. You are a dead cyberhead, Marvin."
The crowd was beginning to chant "Fight! Fight! Fight!" From the school roof, more instructors had gathered, and several were adding their distant voices to the that of the impatient mob. The sirens drew closer, and gained in number.
Weapons did not understand this posturing. As head of the Cube #347 weapons hierarchy, threats and cross-bow shots did not parse, and neither did the hesitation on the part of Vern. Therefore, the only logical action was to attack, to force the fight, to go on the offense and bring the battle to Vern. Weapons did so, raising one arm with disruptor to tag a primary target wielding knife before charging, arms open, the speaker.
Chaos erupted.
An elbow to the face, a toe to the ribs, a chain to the head, Weapons absorbed the blows he was given as Vern got in the way of Vern in order to pound on him. Meanwhile, Weapons calmly accepted collateral damage in order to break an arm, snap a neck, backhand a face, confident that armor meant to withstand assaults against professional resistance would afford protection against one bully, no matter how many bodies that bully had.
Unfortunately, the truth of the fight was twelve on one, and Weapons did take injury. Exposed skin was cut, deeply at times, and regenerative systems struggled to repair the continual damage. A knife wedged in the small of the back, millimeters from a vital ganglion subsystem, hampered power flow to servos in the upper right thigh. Thinner armor necessary at joints deformed, and in one case broke apart to expose machinery, wires, and pale flesh underneath. Only because bones were laminated with ceramometallic compounds did Weapons keep from breaking limbs, ribs, back, skull several times over. The sheer weight of Vern was pushing Weapons back, forcing him into a defensive stance.
Sirens wailed on the street adjacent to the station. Individuals on the outskirts of the crowd began to melt away; and the teachers on the roof of the school ducked down so that their silhouettes would be less obvious. Those at the center of the audience, not to mention the combatants themselves, did not notice the arrival of police in riot gear.
Weapons stepped back a moment to observe the condition of his enemy, as well as take stock of himself. Of the original twelve Verns, four were terminated, disrupted, or otherwise permanently out of the fight; one had been infected with nanites; and two were hanging to the back of the pack, nursing wounds that put them in the realm of the walking wounded. On the other hand, five Verns remained relatively unscathed, and the injured pair still constituted a threat. Examination of his own systems revealed a need for drone maintenance, which, although not critical, might become so if the no-holds-barred conflict continued. Calculations began to skew towards Vern's victory, but Weapons instead focused on his 37.3% chance of winning.
"Break this up!" shouted an amplified voice. More of the crowd moved away, but stopped just short of complete dispersal in order to watch this new twist to the brawl.
"Do you give up?" asked Vern. Not the original speaker, who was one of the four on the ground, out of the match.
"We do not submit," answered Weapons, ignoring the blood trickling down the side of his face, faltering regeneration system unable to completely close the wound. He advanced once more, gaining a stick in the side of the head for his troubles. In return, however, came the satisfying sound of snapping bone from the hitter's ribs and back.
"Break it up!" sounded again, this time in Weapons' ear. Annoyed, he turned as a Vern was pulled away, only to see a tall biped in the quasi-military uniform of police, covered by flexible body armor. Weapons lifted a limb to shoot a disruptor pointblank into the intruder, then returned to his original enemy. Vern flailed back, a knife leading blade first, aimed for the eyesocket.
There are some things that even regeneration and the "miracle" of Borg surgery can't fix. Twenty centimeters of steel to the brain is one of them, a fate which was traveling towards Weapons at high velocity.
And then, Weapons was falling, face first, to the unyielding floor of Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Above him, a colonial transport smashed into an escort, followed by an Exploratory-class cube spinning into the conflagration and out the other side. The BorgCraft scenario was wiped away by a flick of the mind, a mind not Weapons.
{I was winning!} cried Weapons from his position on the deck. {Put me back! Put me back, now!}
An eyeball shimmered into existence overhead, floating serenely, followed by two drone maintenance units. The latter grabbed Weapons' arms, hauling him to his feet, only to have him fall again, balance lost due to a severed hamstring tendon. He was plucked upright again. Doctor materialized to start a preliminary damage evaluation.
"If that is winning," commented the Director, "I would hate to see losing. 'Play nice with others' is a concept they don't teach at school anymore, is it?"
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