Star Trek was brought to you by Paramount, makers of fine space opera and intergalactic toothbrushes. Decker sponsors Star Traks, considered top in markets comprised of parody Trek from the 20th-21st century transition. BorgSpace by Meneks sounds like a perfume, but it isn't.
And Now for a Word From Our Sponsor...
"Do you have burning, itching feet? Are your toes leaking yellow puss? If so, you might have athlete's foot; and if so, you need Crud B-Gone, the latest product in personal fungus eradication from Kryser. Kryser, because we care."
As the solemn, deep-toned announcer spoke, the view focused upon a foot. Abruptly it burst into the crackle of flame only possible by application of gasoline and a match. The lens pulled back as the smokeless fire raged higher and higher, only to hiss into wet submission when a canister of prominently placed Crud B-Gone sprayed it. The bright yellow on black container pinwheeled to prominence, regulating smoking foot to background.
The announcer continued, a final aside: "Also try our newly reformulated Jock B-Gone, for those unsightly itches. No birth defects or other sensitive nature 'difficulties' guaranteed, or your money back."
A lit crotch filled the screen, but only for less than a second before a howl of agony sounded, followed by said piece of anatomy disappearing from view. Distantly came the sound of liquid splashing and an extinguishing hiss, but the substance used must not have been water...or even cold. "Coffee! Who put the coffee there! That was where..." What was supposed to be where was never revealed, for at that instant, an earthshaking roar sounded:
"CUT! CUT, I SAY, CUT!"
Pull back in perspective. A sound stage dominates, a multi-species technician crew busy in their domains of light and sound and special effects. A green screen provides background for insertion of digital scenes; and cameras sit in a line, a lens for every occasion. Perched on a stool and behind a microphone is a creature that is largely mouth (with sharp teeth), body a near irrelevancy, ordering a gopher (literally) to find a sandwich, thusly revealing that it was the source of the announcer voice. The final side of the set included a table of high-calorie snack foods, a spilt hot beverage percolator, wet footsteps exiting a brown puddle, and a dissipating trail of smoke.
"You said there would be no trouble shooting this gig. What gives?" asked the voice who had shouted CUT, but at a more moderate volume.
Captain regarded the director, spelled with a small "d". The featureless mop of hair had no visible senses, and only because it was sitting on a canvas-backed chair did Captain know which direction, within 180 degrees, the head faced. As far as gender, that was anyone's guess, and so it had been regulated to the "it" pronoun. The species was #4313 - Ityg - and it was a typical humanoid biped...somewhere under its thick pelt. This individual was named Harry (no pun intended, at least not in the Ityg native language) and it was in charge.
"In this time of viewers demanding reality, not only in news and entertainment broadcasts but in their commercials, I was guaranteed by the casting agent your crew would be perfect. Perfect!"
Answered Captain, "48 of 510 is inexperienced, newly assimilated to the Collective. He retains lingering 'difficulties' as to the nature of bodily insult he can accept without accruing damage. For certain bits of anatomy," Captain paused, then forged ahead, "the attachment is a bit stronger than others, even when those bits may no longer exist or that which remains does not function. 48 of 510 has been returned to Cube #347 to undergo further mental adjustment, and has been replaced by 233 of 422."
During the "bits of anatomy" explanation, Harry appeared to draw in upon itself, shrinking towards its center. However, it quickly regained its poise when informed upon the change in personnel. "This 233 of 422 won't freak out at the sight of a little fire and go pour hot coffee on itself, will it?"
"No, 233 of 422 will not do so. Just don't set his lower backside on fire."
"Good. We'll avoid lighting that region." The director sighed, then hopped off its chair and stretched to its whole 120 centimeters height. A bellow was aimed towards the bustling technicians, "Give it a ten minute break, everyone! We begin filming again in ten minutes! Someone prep, um, 101 of 240 for the fire sequence again."
"Again?" griped a drone in the middle of the set who was examining his blackened foot. "We had finally gotten it correct after five takes, it was thought. Why can't the final product be spliced in with the footage already shot?" With no answer was forthcoming, 101 of 240 shuffled towards a pair of waiting special effects techs, brooding dejection coloring his mental signature.
*****
Director's Set Log, Entry #731 -
The first day of commercials are taped and ready to go into post-production, thank the Gods of Directors. It was Harve, Mr. Executive Producer of the unit, who had the bright idea of contracting out to the Hive for this gig. An experiment, he said. Let it be known in this log that I think it is a bad idea, same as I told him face-to-face. Let it also be known I think Harve's let his recent promotion go to his head in a big way. Having Hivers instead of traditional stuntpersons will /not/ make production cheaper, even if it seems that way due to lower contractual obligations and no need to provide medical insurance. No, I guarantee that it will be more expensive in the long run. I don't know how, but it will.
Outstanding details of filming today include...
*****
This reality had a Collective, one that was neither physically distant nor malfunctioning. However, that Collective was in the mode of Hive, not Borg, as if the transmogrification from the former into the latter had never occurred. Therefore, while the Hive in general remained aloof from the rest of the civilized galaxy, it also had normalized relations in such a way which didn't involve assimilating or exploding everything which moved. Of course, the impetus to expand remained, although it had been channeled into new endeavors, of which the foray into the commercial-making business was a minor one among thousands.
More importantly, the venture was potentially dangerous and most assuredly tedious at times, perfect for Cube #347. When the sub-collective had Fallen into this reality, it was to learn they were on their way to the gig, and that there was nothing they could do to escape except to complete contractual obligations.
On the stage, 17 of 19, ex-chef, stood behind a waist high counter, knife poised over cutting board. He was dressed in apron and poofy hat, the latter of which was traditional for chefs the universe over, and for which there was no explanation as to why such should be. Arrayed beside the cutting board were several irregular yellow spheres of a soft-skinned fruit designated yomato and two empty tin cans minus their labels.
The mostly-mouth announcer gargled a glass of water, then nodded readiness from his stool. In response, Harry shouted for quiet on the set, then exuded a skinny limb from beneath obscuring hair and motioned for Taltos (the name of the announcer) to begin.
A rich voice filled the set. "Ginshu Vibroknives, a necessary kitchen aid for every cook, professional and amateur. It slice, it dices, it fillets, it chops; and with its patented vibroknife technology - the molecules of the monofiliment blade continually emit small quantities of high energy sound waves - this knife can cut through anything without needing sharpening. Ever. For instance, watch the Ginshu Vibroknife cut through this tin can! And watch as it similarly severs this Hiver limb! And, in the end, the Ginshu Vibroknife is still gentle enough to slice yamatos."
At the counter, in time with the narration, 17 of 19 deftly cut through a can. He then put his left limb on the cutting block and sawed roughly through the forearm, catching momentarily on the laminated bones around which the largely artificial limb was constructed. The forearm and hand fell bloodlessly away, casualty to the commercial. For the grand finale, 17 of 19 deftly maneuvered a yamato onto the board before cleaving it one-armed into perfect slices.
Continued the announcer, "Act now, and you will receive not only the vibroknife seen here, but the entire fourteen knife Ginshu collection! We will also throw in the special Ginshu butcher set, for those do-if-yourselfer chefs who believe a steak should have personal attention from pasture to plate. Call subspace at..."
"Hello! Anyone here?" yelled an unauthorized voice, interrupting the almost finished take.
"Damn!" cussed the director, before following up with a "CUT!"
Grumbling sounded on the set, the loudest from 17 of 19, who would have to undergo surgery to reattach the arm, only so he could cut it off again. True, another drone /could/ take his place, but since it had a cooking-ness to it, 17 of 19 was adamant that the commercial was his to perform.
A drone, not of Cube #347, not of the Hive Collective, marched across the sound stage, trailed by two others. All were base species human, two male and one female; and all had a twist of green elastic around their upper right biceps. Unfortunately, this reality not only had Hive, but many of the Colored splinters as well, including the capitalistic Green who believed Perfection could be bought. It was perhaps inevitable the Color would hear of the Hive's foray into the commercial business, and therefore show up to perform a hostile takeover for credits required as a Perfection down-payment.
The leader stopped in front of Harry, blatantly ignoring Captain at the Ityg's left. A paper was thrust at the ambulatory hairball's presumed head. "We have a contract."
"So?" said the director impatiently. "Everyone here has a contract. I have a contract. The resident /vermin/ have a contract allowing them to infest the more dusty corners as long as they don't interrupt filming." The words were delivered with an implication that the Greens were less than vermin in Harry's eyes.
If the Green noticed the put-down, he did not react. Likely the insinuation was not registered, irony generally too subtle a concept for Hive (or Borg), either the original or the Colored multitude. "Well, we've a contract which puts us in competition for this gig. We are here to demonstrate that we would make better commercial components than these currently employed."
A decided sneer was directed at Captain, his presence suddenly acknowledged. The speaker Green asked, "What do you say to those cookies?"
Captain narrowed his eye and said nothing. In the background, however, 17 of 19 called, "What sort of cookies? Chocolate chip? Peanut butter? Ginger spice?"
*****
Director's Set Log, Entry #735 -
Well, my life just became a lot more complicated. If I thought it was going to be bad with the weird Hiver drones here, it is doubly worse with the Greens. I had a short conversation with Harve, who replied it was his idea for the competition, to determine which group was best suited (i.e., most return for cheapest price). Harve has lost a few too many brain cells in his promotion, if you know what I mean, assuming he ever had them to begin with. And I don't care who hears or reads this, because that is what I believe. Fire me, if you want, but I know Cho'tak Studios would hire me in a heartbeat.
Hivers and Greens. Greens and Hivers. Well, I'll do it for now, even though it will take twice as long to complete a commercial since both attempts will have to be graded to determine a "winner."
Some notes on the Hylander Shaving Gel sequence: the actors really should have real hair to shave, not fake beard applications, because...
*****
<<You will resist Green intrusion into our exclusive contract. You will comply,>> spoke the Greater Consciousness to the sub-collective of Cube #347. It was not a suggestion, but a Statement of How It Would Be. While the Hive wasn't the Borg of old - there was some leeway for the noncloned drone to develop quasi-individuality and a personally - it was still the Collective and all which the concept implied. Despite pressure which would have the nominal sub-collective doing its collective best, Cube #347 through Captain managed to raise an objection.
Or at least tried to raise an objection.
{But...} started Captain.
<<You will comply. What part of 'you will comply' do you not comprehend?>>
{Just a moment if you...} tried Captain again.
<<You will comply.>>
{We want...}
<<You will comply.>>
{Listen! But...}
<<You. Will. Comply.>>
{We will comply,} sullenly replied Captain as the appropriate acquiescence pathways were triggered amid the sub-collective's root commands.
<<Repeat how you will comply.>>
{We will comply by resisting Green intrusion to the best of our abilities in order to show everyone that the original Collective is the best Collective.}
<<Sarcastic, but it will do. Don't blunder.>> With those scathing words, the Greater Consciousness, satisfied that the Cube #347 sub-collective would at least attempt the competition, distanced itself. The Voice of the Hive Greater Consciousness was a bit more relaxed than that of the Borg, reflecting the collective attitude required to (more or less) peacefully deal with the rest of the civilized galaxy. However, the Will behind the Voice was as strict as ever when it came to matters of compliance.
Captain grumbled, ground his teeth until warned by Doctor that such would only lead to requirement of replacements that much sooner, and returned full focus to the task at hand.
After presenting their contract and receiving grudging acceptance from the Ityg director, the Green Exploratory-class vessel had emerged from the sensor shadow which had previously shielded it from Cube #347's grid. A moon, for that was the object upon which the production studio (and other industries) was located, is a big sensor shadow, especially when that moon would be considered a fair-sized terrestrial planet in its own regard if it wasn't in orbit around a gas giant designated Fyk.
The moon was mildly terrestrial in environment. Because of its distance from the sun, under other circumstances it would be a dead iceball, but the reflected warmth from its gaseous parent and deep core tidal action kept air temperatures above freezing over more than half its surface. The side facing Fyk was tidally locked, meaning the gas giant always loomed overhead, moon's day the same as its orbit; and it also meant that much of that side was baked into eternal desert of 50 C. The dark side of the moon wasn't really in perpetual darkness, and did see a sunrise/sunset cycle of sorts once every five Standard days, but the meager heat afforded by the stellar primary was hard-pressed to raise the local ambient temperature of -70 C, with balmy days approaching -40 C. The actual part of the moon in which one could exist outside without need of special clothing to prevent either frying or freezing was a relatively narrow band between eternal Fyk and eternal stars, a thin strip of green and blue and brown which ran from pole to pole in a longitudinal ring. It was in this perpetual Mediterranean environment with predictable (and boring) weather that multi-species settlements thrived, including all the attendant industries of which commercial production was only one.
{One shot. One small torpedo. Just a welcoming present,} pleaded Weapons, as he had been doing since the arrival of the Green cube. Of course, he had also been trying to take similar "precautions" against the merchants, civilians, and odd light military ship sharing lunar orbit.
Captain began to grind his teeth once more, but caught himself before Doctor's attention could be attracted. {No. The answer before was no. The answer now is no. The future answer will be no. No.}
{But we can best resist these Green intruders by destroying their vessel. We will triumph!}
For a moment, a brief part of a second, Captain was tempted. However, he recognized the impulse as not belonging to him. {Stay out of my thought processes, Weapons. The answer, as always, will remain a resounding no.}
Meanwhile, the dispute between Cube #347 and the Green sub-collective concerning who would go first in the initial commercial of the competition very nearly led to unBorg blows.
"We will go first, for the Collective is superior," was the paraphrase from Captain.
And the summary rejoinder from the Green consensus monitor and facilitator, who was imitating Captain by insisting on remaining near the director's chair (on the right-hand side, since the opposition occupied the left)? "Green is more evolved than the original Collective, closer to gaining Perfection. We will go first."
Neither, regardless to say, was willing to back down. Caught in the middle of the growing verbal argument was Harry; and reflecting rising agonitism, the two Exploratory-class cubes were beginning to engage in electronic warfare, invisible unless one happened to be within fifty kilometers, whereupon anything with more processing power than an electric can opener was subject to spectacular malfunction. Finally the director had enough.
"Shut up!" the hairball shouted, clambering to its chair seat in order to seem taller. "I am losing valuable time in this nonsense. This will be settled, and it will be settled now. Paper, scissors, rock. Understand? On the count of three. One, two, three."
Captain and his opposite glared at each other, then each extended a clenched fist. The fist was pumped up and down with the "one" and "two," consensus cascade dithering on what configuration to use at the "three." Before a decision could be formally made, the last number was called, forcing Captain to randomly pick one of the three valid choices. His hand came down flat as paper.
"Paper covers rock. The original Hivers go first."
Captain allowed himself the slightest of smirks in triumph, only noticeable to Green observers. His reward was an equally miniscule glower.
"Do you have a hyperactive pet? Then this new Kibble brand pet food is for you! NarcoPet will calm your bundle of manic energy to something less than warp speed!" The announcer's smooth voice boomed across the sound stage. Harry waved a cue. Cameras quietly hummed.
At the side of the stage, a handler released a small globe of fur with crazed black eyes at the ends of long stalks. Besides the rapidly darting eyes, no other appendages were visible, although legs had to be present under the mop of fuzz as fast as the animal glided, else a miniature anti-gravity suspensor system. Similarly, there was a mouth connected to a very loud voicebox, once which gave forth a never-ending stream of high-pitched yaps. The only reason the wiggling bundle of insanity had not barked during the initial announce-over was because the handler had been near suffocating the animal to keep it moderately still and quiet.
"Come, Poochy, come!" animatedly called Doctor at the center of the stage. He leaned forward, heavily slapping the front of his thighs with his hands. "Come, there is a yum-yum for you." One look at the selection of hyperactive /things/ the pet wrangler had brought had convinced the other drones of Cube #347 that Doctor could have the NarcoPet spot, although he was being closely observed to prevent any "accidents" from occurring.
The furball paused for a long second, bobble eyes looking everywhere but Doctor, intelligence in the dark orbs on a level with the standard inbred lap-sized breeds the universe over, which is to say none at all. Finally it noticed the Borg and began to run in that direction, occasionally rolling invisible feet over eye stalks in its haste. Upon reaching Doctor, it raced through his legs, yapping incessantly the entire time.
{Shut it up! Shut it up!} urgently demanded Second, aboard Cube #347. He was echoed by more than a few other designations. The image of throttling the small beast was strong, followed closely by stepping on it and disrupting it...or all three at once.
Reminded Captain, {You can always turn off aural input, you know. I reside on the ground, and I have taken such measures.}
Second replied with the impression of negativity. {You know that doesn't work. The noise is always there, will always be there, no matter how it is filtered. The ghost of the barking is present.}
Captain agreed. Unfortunately, it was how the little creatures were bred, with vocal cords genetically linked with compact size and hyperactivity. Even a sentient deaf since birth would hear rapid-fire yaps in his soul.
Doctor did not seem to mind; and in fact enjoyed the animal's vocalizations.
The director extended an arm and made 'move it along' motions.
"You are hungry, aren't you Poochy?" asked Doctor of the pet. In response, the animal, if possible, became more excited. "Well, here's your NarcoPet treat." A silver bowl of already poured kibble was lifted from a convenient table and set upon the ground. Immediately the hyperactive animated mop fell to, dish disappearing beneath shrouding hair. The yapping was replaced by the loud sounds of teeth crunching biscuit.
Within five seconds, Poochy's eyestalks began to droop and the eyes had a less than alert glimmer. Ten seconds more, during which the sounds of rapid eating never halted, the furball was visibly wobbling; and then it fell over, rolling off of half-eaten dish of food and onto Doctor's foot.
Following an abruptly motioned cue, skimpily dressed dancers entered from both wings, decorated in sequins, pink feathers, and Kibble brand logos over strategic naughty bits. High kicking a can-can, they passed in long lines in front of drone, Poochy, and table. In the background a jaunty jingle was sung:
"NarcoPet! NarcoPet! What a treat to eat! NarcoPet! NarcoPet! It'll knock your pet off his feet! Yummy, yummy, yummy! Yum, yum, yummy! Calm your pet with a treat to his little tummy!"
Peering at a nearby screen showing the digital inserts, Captain observed an animated cartoon animal resembling a humanoid blue and white skunk. It jumped in line with the real dancers, providing clumsy comic relief. Additionally, at the bottom of the screen, flashed unobtrusive words "Effects vary by species. Check with chart on bag for compatibility."
Behind the high-kicking action, a certain furball was moving.
A certain furball was gaining its hidden feet.
A certain furball was growling instead of yapping, a red glow deep in its black eyes.
A certain furball was leaping impossibly high.
A certain furball was latching onto one of Doctor's hands.
{This fellow has sharp teeth!} spouted Doctor. {Very, very sharp teeth. Someone has definitely been taking care of him.}
Instead of being put to sleep, or at least slowed down, the furry globe had transformed into an angry berserker. Eyestalks quivered in rage and hair bristled, which may have been a comical sight in such a small beast, except this particular small beast was firmly fastened onto Cube #347's drone maintenance hierarchy head. Blood ran to the end of Doctor's elbow and dripped to the floor. Poochy's increasingly loud snarls threatened to overpower the musical jingle.
The dancers made their feather-flashing way off the stage, leaving Doctor and pet once more in full camera view. At this point, the script called for Doctor to hold the animal, gently stroking it to show how calm it was prior to the final shot of a bag of NarcoPet. From the audience point of view such seemed to be the case. In reality, Doctor was squeezing the creature so tight it could barely breath, much less growl. It still insisted on keeping its jaw locked on flesh despite its predicament.
Someone obviously had not consulted the chart for NarcoPet compatibility.
Finally the camera focused upon a brightly colored bag of NarcoPet, with announcer voicing the parting words: "Best of all, Kibble brand NarcoPet is non-addicting! Also look for NarcoChild at all reputable grocers, pet stores, and physician offices."
*****
Director's Set Log, entry #739
What a disaster, the NarcoPet commercial. /All/ of the animals provided by the wrangler reacted badly to the product. One even had an allergy which ended with it inflated like a balloon...before it exploded. That was a mess. I had to call it a day to go wash my hair.
Both Hiver and Green drones took the commercial as well as could be expected considering the circumstances. There were definite toothmarks on limbs, even teeth left embedded in armor, not to mention the shedding and the saliva. For once, and only once, perhaps it was a good thing drones were on stage. The medical bills, as Harve predicted, were non-existent. Still, I think someone nonassimilated would be better. At the very least I wouldn't have to deal with personal nightmares (don't tell me this is silly and impossible!) of waking up hairless because of some Hiver or Green "accident."
The next set of commercials will be a bit more straightforward, and definitely petless.
Concerning take #1 of the NarcoPet set, minor editing should include...
*****
{I'm on fire! I'm on fire!} shrieked 105 of 310. He indeed was on fire, or at least his arm was. He was frantically waving the limb, which is not the best method of extinguishing a normal fire, much less one caused by plasma: the action only served to aggravate the problem. Part of the set was beginning to smolder, especially the decorative bits made of plastic and cardboard, meant only for a particular commercial and destined to be recycled the moment the final shot ended.
"Will someone put that drone out?" sighed Harry from its chair. Through the hair Captain saw the minute motions that could indicate a face being placed in palm of hand, and the head subsequently shook back and forth. There was a definite component of shoulder slumping as well; and, if one boosted one's audio gain, a muttered self-whisper about prohibiting stage production of anything remotely flammable until the Hiver/Green situation was worked out.
An obscuring fog of retardant wreathed 105 of 310 in gritty white as several stage techs converged upon him with fire extinguishers. {Not so much fun, now is it?} asked 48 of 510 peevishly. {And you only got it on the arm, even if it is your unaltered one. My experience was a bit more distressing. Assimilation hierarchy has helped to adjust my attitude over the episode, but the memories remain. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, you know.}
Second, safe in the cube and far away from plasma fires, retorted, {We all have post-traumatic stress syndrome. We /were/ all assimilated.}
{Yah, but Assimilation says I have it worse than others.} 48 of 510 was radiating pride at his new neurosis.
Captain glanced once more down at the Ityg director, then decided that he would offer no comment until he had been addressed directly.
The set-up had been straight forward, and in fact done perfectly by the Green prior (order of shooting was determined each time by Rock-Scissors-Paper method). The product was a Seers catalogue multi-tool advertised for engineers, both professional and amateur. The tool consisted of a polymorphic metal linked to a base which stored thirty useful forms, from screwdriver to current tester. The upgraded base - part of the extended Seers multi-tool, only $29.95 extra - also had a plasma temperature gauge, which had been the focus of the commercial, and whereupon events led to 105 of 310 catching fire.
A mock-up starcraft bulkhead had centered the commercial, around which were the screams, noise, and general indicators of a ship in Trouble. Into the scene came the "Heroic Engineer Tech," outfitted with the multi-tool, of course. Through the demonstration of mini-crowbar, adjustable socket wrench, Allen wrench, and other simple tools, Hero Engineer Tech quickly burrowed through the bulkhead to reach a suspected plasma conduit. At that point, a cover was supposed to be removed, exposing plasma inside, contained from certain explosion by a forcefield. Through the forcefield would the plasma gauge be pushed, temperature noted, then a final tool used to make adjustments to Save The Day. All had gone as scripted until the temperature portion.
The mock-up was largely made of light weight metals, nothing close to starship grade, the metal equivalent of cardboard. One could punch through the "bulkhead" to reach the conduit within, but that was not the point of the commercial. The conduit, however, did contain real plasma contained by a forcefield; and although dangerous, it certainly wasn't the caliber of a space-facing vessel. It was in fact a small computer-controlled kiln rented from a specialty ceramo-metallics fabricator down the street from the studio. Nothing could have gone wrong.
{I am no longer on fire,} stated the obvious by 105 of 310 as the technicians retreated. He inspected the charred remains of his arm, pain repressed. {I think I need drone maintenance. Nanites won't be able to take care of this.} Understatement. 105 of 310 disappeared in a transporter beam heartbeats after he added himself to the drone maintenance docket.
The director shifted slightly, and Captain imagined he could feel Harry's eyes glaring at him. The ambulatory heap of hair then jumped off his chair and, without any words, headed towards the camera techs to see if there was any salvageable material. The Green consensus monitor and facilitator stretched a thin, malevolent grin across his face then quickly erased it, but not before Captain had noted it.
Suspicious, Captain abandoned his post next to the director chair and ambled onto the ignored stage.
*****
Director's Set Log, entry #752
My job has recently become more difficult, if that was possible. No, nothing as disastrous as, say, another Color arriving with a contract, but close. The Hivers are accusing the Greens of sabotage; and the latter, of course, flatly deny the charges.
According to the Hiver captain, the Seers multi-tool commercial had been corrupted. As it was, the Hiver shooting was a fairly complete catastrophe, what with three drones on fire before a proper taping could be finished. After the third flambeed drone, the Hivers insisted upon examining the rented kiln, which my techs (and those brought in from the fabricators) insisted was working perfectly. The Hivers claim they discovered a bit of code inserted into the kiln computer, one with tags that indicated it to be of Green origin. Naturally, the code self-destructed the moment it was found and no copies could be retrieved, so there was no proof. However, the next Hiver attempt at the Seers multi-tool commercial was without incident.
I think I need a vacation.
I know I need a vacation.
Lighting for the next commercial in this shooting series should include the following...
*****
The Farmer BOB infomercial was being prepped. A line of potted cron plants, essentially blue-tinged corn, were already on the stage, with several other fruits and vegetables waiting in the wings. The primary backdrop of the infomercial was a giant static fabric print of a stylized farm, complete with red and white barn, matching house large enough to accommodate a small sub-collective, and high-tech windmill for power generation. Green would go first, with infomercial costume requirements that Captain (and others of the sub-collective, except for the chosen Cube #347 "star") found amusing.
The Green was garbed in overalls, wide-brimmed straw hat, and a glare. The last wasn't scripted, nor evident unless one knew what to look for. Additionally, the drone had a straw, the vegetative kind, inserted in his mouth with instructions to chew upon the end like it was a wad of gum. The whole reason of the agricultural get-up was to lend an element of authenticity to the infomercial, although the only requirement of the drone was to stand at the end of whatever row of produce was on stage and act as a living prop. The Farmer BOB harvester unit was the center of the commercial.
The harvester waited patiently, as only a powered down machine can, at one side of the stage. It bore an odd resemblance to the cron plants being lined up by technicians under the Harry's direction, in a tall and skinny sort of way. Overall the harvester was two meters tall, with the central body a thin tube topped by a bristle of sensors at the "head" area. Four tubular "legs" split off the body at about the "waist," angling outward to provide the four-point stability of an ambulatory hat stand. Just below the head was a similar arrangement of thin arms, each with two elbow joints and ending with a versatile three-fingered "hand."
Satisfied everything was in its place, Harry returned to its chair, climbed into it, then waited for technicians to call their readiness. "Got your water?" it called to the announcer, who responded with a full body nod. "Let's get this show on the road, then. Start the BOB!"
The harvester shivered to life as a stage technician ran forward to depress a button on the machine's waist. A similar operation was performed on a knee-high open-topped box on tracks which waited at the harvester's feet. As the box rocked back and forth slightly, the technician dashed off stage to join a compatriot holding a very complicated remote-control device. After the kiln incident, the director was taking no chances on rogue machinery.
A motion was made towards camera, stage, and announcer to begin. Chirping bird noises provided a background.
"The Farmer BOB harvester - BOB as in Best Original Brand - by Advanced Techniques is the best selling equipment on the market today for specialty agriculture. If you have a small farm on a budget unable to afford traditional sentient pickers; if you farm am orbital operation and are simply not on a route frequented by agricultural migrants; or if you have sensitive produce requiring hand-picking, this machine is for you. Infinitely programmable to harvest any crop, the Farmer BOB is sold with a tracked bin to haul produce to on-site storage, additional bins extra."
The announcer paused to take a quick drink of water.
"But descriptions are worthless without demonstration and testimonial! Today, now, you will be provided with each. First, the cron plant. Sure, if you are an operation which measures production in square kilometers of cron, a large machine is worthwhile, but if you only have a few acres, you can't afford to buy or rent a full-sized harvester. This is where the Farmer BOB shines."
An arm motioned from Harry. Captain glanced down at the pile of hair, then over the director's head towards his Green opposite. The glance was returned as a stare by the other drone before a pointed redirection of attention toward the stage. Captain similarly shifted his focus.
The harvester bounced up and down slightly as it tested its balance, one leg at a time extending. The arms all stretched outward and upward at once; and lights at the ends of the bristle sensors twinkled. Agilely the machine then sidestepped to the row of cron and began to harvest, cobs delicately twisted from plant stalks and dropped into the bin trundling behind.
"The Farmer BOB is lithe enough to pick grido fruits without bruising the delicate skins, yet robust enough to rip verbin tubers from the ground. And do you grow drissel bushes? Then you know how difficult it is to get the oil-filled berries from a plant that is trying to stab you with its thorns. The Farmer BOB can also gather aquatic and submersed produce, as well as immobile animals like proten trout."
Meanwhile the harvester had made short work of the potted cron. The bin was three-quarters full. At the end of the row, the overalled Green drone chewed his straw mechanically, in a way more artificial than the graceful Farmer BOB. Barely a glace was spared for the harvester; and none was needed since the Green consensus monitor and facilitator was watching the entire scene from afar.
"And now, on to the first set of testimonials about the Farmer BOB...what the hell is that thing doing?" asked the announcer, script forgotten. The nearby technicians with the remote control frantically pushed buttons and flipped switches, to no avail.
The Farmer BOB had reached the end of the cron row...and continued. Unfortunately, while no more cron plants were available, there was a Green drone. As noted by the announcer, the harvester could be delicate or forceful, as required by the product, and, drone limbs were no match for BOB brute force.
The Green had been steadied by one pair of the Farmer BOB arms while the second set wrenched upward with great strength. After a few seconds of straining, the arms tore away from the torso and were deposited in the bin. The drone's legs were treated similarly, followed by the head. Finally, after the torso was stacked atop the tracked bin of cron cobs and dismembered limbs, the harvester powered down, waiting for its next set of instructions. Stunned shock filled the stage and surrounding environs.
A blink is technically a wink for any Borg with a single organic eye, but there are subtle differences separating the two actions. Feeling the stare of his Green opposite, Captain swiveled his head Exorcist-style to regard the other drone. Then, deliberately, he allowed himself a wink paired with a one-sided smirk.
*****
Director's Set Log, entry #765
There has been some difficulties as of late, and I don't mean the normal ones of a hung-over technician or some vital piece of expensive equipment deciding to break down an hour before deadline.
The infomercial was an utter bust. The Green captain began to accuse the Hiver captain of sabotage, and I heard later that there was an altercation in orbit as the Green cube fired upon the Hiver one. I don't have all the details on the antics above, except that space traffic control now has the two ships parked on opposite sides of the planet where they can't directly engage each other. On the ground, the accusation was deja vu, mirroring the one the Hiver had levied against Green prior; and, like the previous incident, any evidence was lost.
Now, with harvesters tearing actors, even poor ones like the drone, apart, I could not allow the infomercial to continue. Call me biased, but I don't really consider drones to be people, more like machines such as the Farmer BOB. I know that there was blood during the dismemberment, and that the drone was terminated (or so the Green captain insisted upon calling it, an impersonal term for murder if I ever heard one), but I can't take the chance of the "accident" spreading to include my very living technicians.
Even Harve was taken aback when I reported what occurred in no uncertain terms, and laced with vulgarity. Maybe Mr. Executive Producer might think about the folly of contracting not just /one/ drone presence, but /two/, and come to the conclusion we would be better off with one of the normal nonBorg agencies. Or, then again, he may not. At the very least, there are going to be the monetary penalties to move the infomercial to another unit for shooting.
Soon, I hope, this episode will all be behind: the final commercials for the gig are ready to film. These are the high-budget takes, so, everything had better go smoothly, else I might declare war on both Hive and Green.
In other news, technicians Jokle and Marrid...
*****
The Frod escape pods waited in orbit for their prospective occupants, dull grey metal glinting faintly in the reflected light of Fyk. Nearby hulked an ugly, if functional, Frod corporate vessel, not quite a flagship, but more than capable of repulsing the unwanted attentions of cutthroat business opponents such as Deewop and Homa. It had been suspiciously guarding the pods, not only from the aforementioned interests, but also any "accidents" which might be bestowed upon them by one sub-collective or another.
The escape pods were shaped like snub-nosed bullets, just long enough to hold a single body comparable in size to the average adult humanoid. Stubby wings the length of the craft provided barely sufficient lift in atmosphere to keep the craft from dropping like the proverbial brick, and a similar dorsal rudder kept the vessel from spinning. There were no windows, no exterior amenities beyond the Frod name scrawled in light blue across the port side of the pod.
The standard government-mandated crash tests usually utilized dummies or robots to simulate a passenger (except in a few cases involving very poor college students who had already sold their excess organs and blood and really, really needed beer money), a practice common for ground, aerial, and orbital vehicles alike. Unfortunately, the discerning customer in the last several years had grown skeptical of the industry standard slow-motion replays of oversized puppets surviving mock accidents, and had demanded proof of advertised safety features. Thus, live volunteers were finding their way into commercials that had previously starred dummies. After all, if a living person could walk (or hobble) away from an actual re-entry and hard landing as broadcast during the prime-time viewing period, then the product had to be safe.
Cameras were bolted inside the modules to film every detail, later to be suitably edited for the standard 30-second ad, most of which would be arms and legs bending in ways joints had not been evolved by nature to undergo. If there was a failure, the contracting company required video for crash investigation and to conduct a risk-to-expense analysis to determine if re-engineering was an option, or to chock it up to an Act of the Directors.
Dangerous, yes, but that was what liability release forms were for.
On Cube #347, 73 of 203 wanted to ride the escape pod to the moon's surface, "volunteering" via unrandom generator not required. Waiting with apparent disinterest, remote cameras captured 73 of 203 as the Borg epitome of nonexpression, mirroring the Green in the second pod. The intranet was a different story, for, punctuated by laughter with a more than maniacal edge, 73 of 203 endlessly repeated variations upon the mantra {Gonna fall! Like a burning angel, a rollercoaster to oblivion, an expensively pitched techno-spy-thriller which fails to deliver because of incomprehensible plot development, here I come!}
73 of 203, once upon a time, had been a frustrated editor for a small publishing company, and continued to have writing related issues long after her assimilation, an obsession which remained no matter how often or how severely her brain was rewired. She often could be observed grammar checking the latest engineering summary, or trying to create a plot where none existed amid the drone maintenance roster.
In orbit, Cube #347 and the Green vessel remained at opposite sides of the moon, allowed to approach the pods to deposit their crash test drones one at a time and under the be-weaponed gaze of the Frod corporate ship. As always, it had been a trial to restrain Weapons from taking potshots at the tempting target it represented. Unfortunately, from the Frod and Harry point of view, orbital mechanics and desire to land pods in the narrow habitable band would necessitate them to pass eventually below the two cube-shaped antagonists, which in turn might provide a chance to needle the competition in a way likely to be terminal to both free-falling drones.
"Is everyone ready?" asked Harry on a communications band. It was aboard the Frod corporate vessel, orchestrating filming from there. A link was established between Green cube, Cube #347, and director for the latter to provide commands, or reprimand, as necessary. Of the holoscreens Captain observed, one had the Ityg and the other had the Green captain. Currently, the two consensus monitor and facilitators were engaged in a staring match, mirroring the stalemate of long-distance electronic warfare.
"We are ready," voiced Captain. Behind him approached Second, who joined the staring match. In the display to the Green cube, a drone appeared on-screen to backup that side before a similar assent was provided.
A ping chimed in the director's background, followed by an off-camera voice saying "Pods away."
The escape pods swung nose down as tractor beams from the Frod ship pushed them into a decaying orbit. The thickening atmosphere swiftly increased the heat around the pods, turning them into artificial meteors.
The view inside the pod from 73 of 203 was rather, well, boring. With no window there was no exciting view of the outside, no sight of flaming air boiling around glass, no panorama of ice and dessert. What there was included bouncing and building heat. Neither reached intolerable levels and soon enough the stubby wings were biting thin air, beginning to produce that little bit of lift necessary to put the pod into the "rapidly descending object" category, instead of "free fall." The Green pod had survived as well, and both streaked deeper into the moon's gravity well, a scant kilometer separation.
Then a notion percolated from deep in the intranets, a notion that became a thought, then morphed into an idea, finally blossoming into fruitful impulse. The impulse was primarily directed towards 73 of 203, but she had already been leaning towards the actions the whim prompted. A subset of command and control automatically began tracking the convoluted thought-thread, following it to its source. Eventually the origination would be uncovered as instigated from the weapons hierarchy, although not Weapons himself. Who had prompted the idea was not important, only that 73 of 203 seized upon it and altered it into a perception more fitting her universe view, one which required such an immediate reprisal that automatic censures were unable to adjust.
{You are one of the reasons I failed at my job! You are one of the slacking writers I was forced to coddle, only to learn you had left your talent back in your previous book!} abruptly exclaimed 73 of 203. In the visual datastream from the drone, one could see her leaning forward as much as possible considering restraints, reaching out one arm, then plunging assimilation tubules into the pod's computer access port. The computer only had one job, which was to see the pod safely to the ground, and therefore no security software was included in the specialty system. Mere milliseconds were required for 73 of 203 to take control of the driving.
Captain blinked, caught flat-footed by the 73 of 203's action. {73 of 203! The previous occupational status of the drone in the Green pod is irrelevant! Return to...stop...listen to...} Captain's mental voice trailed off, aware he was being ignored, and that 73 of 203 had managed to block commands that would force her to obey. 73 of 203 would eventually bend to the will of the sub-collective, except that the will was a tad bit divided at the moment, with Captain in the minority.
{Second!} Captain snapped as he peered over his shoulder, breaking the on-going staring contest (the Green ship now had /three/ drones in the camera pick-up). {You too?}
Second blinked his eyes out of sequence, then narrowed them to glare at the holodisplay. {It /is/ more interesting than this view. Besides, we need another designation in here to even this contest.}
Meanwhile, 73 of 203, to the overt urging of Weapons and many of his hierarchy, as well as others galvanized by the action, slewed the pod increasingly close to the Green vessel. Dangerously close. Deliberately close. As Harry demanded to know what was happening, both to Frod officials and Cube #347, 73 of 203 slammed the side of her pod into the other.
On the holodisplay, the Green captain and his two comrades each narrowed their eyes, but remained silent. In the thickening air of the moon, the Green pod responded in kind, swinging slightly away from 73 of 203, then crashing sideways with force.
A deep voice, owner unseen, intruded into the audio spectrum from the Frod corporate vessel, ordering both participants to relinquish control back to pod computers. It was ignored by both sides; and there wasn't anything the big ship could do from orbit but continue to issue demands long past the point it was obvious no compliance was forthcoming.
A third drone - 43 of 480 - materialized into Captain's nodal intersection, bolstering the staring contest to three-on-three.
As the two pods dropped deeper and deeper into the gravity well, as the ground came closer and closer, they continued to shove and push against each other. The exteriors were no longer a smooth gray, but instead pitted and nicked with jagged gouges. Wing surfaces had become ragged, threatening to return controlled fall back into the realm of heavy brick. 73 of 203 pivoted her pod away as her opposite did the same, banging together again seconds later with a jarring thump, followed by the tooth-numbing scream of tearing metal.
The pods fell away from each other, integrity lost as first wings, then rudder spun away into the atmosphere. Inside the pod, sensors deployed explosive airbags, pushing 73 of 203 deeply into her seat and ripping hand from access port. Presumably a similar situation was occurring in the Green pod. The mop which was the director's head was rapidly flicking back and forth as eyes followed the action from cameras mounted inside the Frod pods.
Down, down, down spun and flipped the pod pair, out of control and unlikely to regain it. The flight plan was off, eliciting complaints from surface-to-space traffic control, not to mention those incoming and outgoing shuttles and transports which had to deviate to avoid pod debris from marring windshield or new paint job. One portion of Cube #347 tracked the pod, extrapolating where the eventual impact would occur, and finding the most probable ending to be as multiple bits spread over tens of kilometers of the moon's frozen side.
A transporter beam was detected originating from the Green vessel, with confirmation that the Green pod was now empty of life signs.
Yelled Second, "Hah!" in Captain's ear, prompting a wince from 43 of 480. {Oops. Sorry. Weapons, get out of my verbal processes!}
A transporter beam on Cube #347 was triggered, beaming the bumped and bruised 73 of 203 from the pod directly to a maintenance bay for damage assessment. Impacting the surface of the moon, the pod so recently vacated became a fireball traveling at supersonic speeds over scorching sands and baked earth.
{Wow,} said 73 of 203 from Maintenance Bay #9 where she had materialized, {can I do that again? There may actually be a plot in it.}
Meanwhile, from Harry came silence, and only silence. It was the silence which prompted one to imagine accompaniment by a stony glare of the truly ticked off (or of one about to gibber madly), except the Ityg's face, as always, remained invisible.
*****
Director Set Log, entry #767
Harve is deliberating, last I heard. It seems that the Hivers and Greens have become a bit...expensive. There is no medical and the rate being paid for drone services is a criminal pittance, yet fees, fines, and the necessity to save customer relations by offering huge sums of money has by my estimation made this gig at /least/ twice as expensive as the norm.
I'm no xenophysician, but I do know Harve was looking a bit yellow around the gill plates when Frod presented him with a list of damages, material and punitive, the commercial company was expected to repay. We have good lawyers (more expense), but Frod has better. And on top of Frod, there were traffic control penalties, very angry transport captains whose schedules were delayed, and three claims (so far) for vessel damage caused by pod debris. I admit the latter is a bit convenient since all three were well away from the crash site and in one case in a different solar system, but I don't think Harve wants more publicity by fighting the claims. In all, much money went out the airlock.
After examining the Frod films, I believe there may be usable material. For instance...
*****
In the end, both Hivers and Greens were released from the contracts. The exact phrase, before the subspace connection was severed, was: "Don't call us. We'll call you." No monetary penalties were levied, however, because, frankly, the Hive didn't utilize money and the Greens would refuse to pay: Frod may have great lawyers, but Hive and Colors only assimilated the best. Nor did Hive and Green fear the repo-man, any assimilation of a repo agent a justifiable self-defense.
Cube #347 quietly orbited a star 16.2 light years from Fyk and its moon, doing not much, which was just fine with this reality's Greater Consciousness. Somewhere there was an irked Green presence which might eventually attempt to extract "lost credit potential" (not revenge...Green was a branch of Hive/Borg, and as such did not allow the small concept of revenge to get in the way when there were other avenues of satisfaction available) from Cube #347's hide, but that was a problem for the native sub-collective, not the ones waiting to Fall. Anyway, notification had been received that several of the successfully filmed commercials were about to be broadcast, and the sub-collective wanted to watch.
{That's me! That's me!} pointed out 101 of 240 needlessly. {Look at me burn!}
{Well, I burned better,} sulked 48 of 510, ignored {even if I didn't make it through the editing process because of my disabling case of traumatic stress syndrome.}
"Do you have burning, itching feet...."
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