Star Trek is ever and ever and ever owned by Paramount. Star Traks was created and created and created by Decker. BorgSpace is written and written and written by Meneks. Warning: too many repetitions and repetitions and repetitions of a single song is bad for your health.
Hotel California
3 of 310 noisily snapped his gum as he prodded the exposed plasma coupling with a multitool. Sensors had reported a small blockage within the coupling which connected warp nacelle tri-segment 4a with 4b. It was not critical - warp nacelles were used rarely - but it did result in an overall degradation of performance and efficiency during routine tests. Hence, the troubleshooting and repair squad of which 3 of 310 was a member.
"That is annoying," said 32 of 240 in regards to the gum. She was near an open access panel, running diagnostics on the biocircuitry and chips inside. As befitting the Borg concept of bigger is better, the armored bubble which housed the nacelle coupling apparatus in the intra-hull layers was more than sufficient to accommodate the ten-drone squad.
3 of 310 loudly chewed his gum in response, then popped a small bubble.
"Annoying," muttered 32 of 240 again, slamming closed the access panel to move to the next.
Echoed 2 of 42 from the other direction, "Very."
3 of 310 slowed his masticating as one by one the maintenance crew members expressed their view on the matter. Most vehement was 2 of 42, upon whom 3 of 310 had /accidentally/ popped the extraordinarily large - personal record? - bubble. Acetone and peanut butter had cleaned 2 of 42's cranial hose assembly, eventually leaving behind a delightful perfume. "And what are you going to do about it?" he forcefully queried to the crowd.
Eyes, a drone at a time, turned to glare at 3 of 310; and in the dataspaces, a wordless pressure to "conform" and "comply" was brought to bear...as was imaged a very graphic answer to the question, one which involved gum in very uncomfortable places. 3 of 310 shuddered slightly. "Fine, fine," he growled as he fished the wad out of his mouth. Pressure and glares (and imagery) vanished as individuals returned to their tasks. 3 of 310 looked around for a place to dispose of the gum.
A small gap between coupling hardware and internal housing armor beckoned. It was the perfect place. Normally 3 of 310 added to the growing megawad (it had a long way to go to reach the epic proportion of that built on the old Cube #347) of gum stuck around his alcove, but it was not appropriate here. The gap would have to do.
Gum safely deposited, 3 of 310 returned focus to his multitool.
{Test of warp nacelle coupling joint 4a-b in twenty minutes,} announced Delta to the engineering hierarchy. The maintenance squad bustled to finish final preparations.
Captain woke to find himself on the deck plating in his nodal intersection. His last coherent memory was channeling part of his attention to an engineering substream to follow the results of a minor maintenance test. After that...blurry lights, noisy silence, jumbled half-images set to a mostly fragmented song last heard when he was a fledge (assimilation had erased many of his childhood memories) among the insanity of his nest-clan.
Staring at the ceiling as his internal diagnostics ran tests, it was several long minutes before his programs declared "Functional" and unlocked his joints to allow him to stand. In that time, Captain determined himself to be the only drone conscious. Whatever had happened had sent Cube #347 into "Safe Mode" ("safety" being protection of physical assets, not drones) before rebooting the crew. As consensus monitor and facilitator, Captain had been reactivated first.
{Computer: command pathway to all local drone units, reactivate,} ordered Captain as he steadied himself against a wall. His left knee was not bending as smoothly as it should. Perhaps his collapse had badly stressed it. It was nearing time for a regularly scheduled joint replacement, but he had hoped to postpone the operation (and Doctor's promise of a milkbone) for at least another year.
Against the wall near the egress to corridor 97, limb assembly noises rose in pitch from idle to working as Second was restored to full awareness.
{Report,} curtly demanded Captain, the Borg equivalent for "what happened?" "where are we?" and other vital questions in one efficient word.
On his feet again, Second was waving a hand in front of his face. "Unless I've grown three hands during downtime, my optics are scrambled. I don't /have/ three right hands, do I?"
Captain shifted his eyes slightly and sent negation before returning to the duties required of him.
"Oh, good." Second added himself to drone maintenance roster, one of many whom had sustained injury more substantial than a bum knee joint. He was immediately assigned to Maintenance Bay #9. "I am gone, then." Pause. "You know, if there are still three of you when I am released, you can always reassign secondary consensus monitor and facilitator to one of yourselves." With that, Second disappeared amid a transporter beam.
Status reports from cube-wide diagnostics began to trickle through command and control for compilation. While most were significant only in that nothing was more out of kilter than usual, it was a combined report from engineering and sensor hierarchies which was of utmost import.
{A Burst Effect,} outlined Delta from afar, her stereo voices not quite in unison. In Captain's nodal intersection, a hologram formed as visual explanation; and in the dataspaces, a datastream of greater detail was directed to command and control hierarchy. {A foreign body of low resistance to sub-alpha particles was installed between warp coupling joint 4a-b and the inner cowling. It acted as a short. Too much power was drawn into the adjacent nacelles and a warp field briefly formed. Picoseconds only. Burst Effect.}
Elementary faster-than-light physics dictated a standard warp field would not play nicely with transwarp-style engines. In extreme cases, the outcome resulted in the addition of a new cloud of fine dust to the universe where such had not been present before. More normally, the warp field collapsed as soon as it formed, unable to sustain itself, causing a systems overload. Circuit breakers were tripped. Subspace radio interference blossomed. Minor spatial anomalies created transient extradimensional pockets whereupon a small broom closet became large enough to crowd the entirety of a cube's sub-collective with room to spare.
{And...} prompted Captain. If the Burst Effect brought about little more than reboot the crew, then both Delta and Sensors would not have remained hovering dataspace presences.
Sensors spoke in standard cryptic fashion, {Sensors cannot see the [wriggles], nor the [bagels]. Subspace [water spouts] okay, but no [wriggles] or [bagels].}
{The gravimetric refractor assembly system is degaussed. Even if all other systems are okay, we are not traveling faster than impulse anytime soon,} said Delta.
{Sensors is blind,} reiterated Sensors, translation faithful.
Captain groaned aloud.
The gravimetric refractory assembly system - GRAS - was a key component necessary for supraluminal travel. Mass in the normal universe deformed the subspace layers, with less deformation the higher the layer. This was at least partially the reason why hypertranswarp was faster than transwarp was faster than warp: higher subspace layers were gradually less curved, less affected by the permutations of gravity, and a straight line route was truly straight. In much the same way, a grain of sand covered by progressive layers of mother-of-pearl became less bumpy than the one before. While there were many other dangers associated with FTL, the GRAS saw the oncoming mass points to allow sufficient time for minor course corrections to miss them.
The primary element of the GRAS was an exotic form of matter akin to the much more common magnetite. Instead of a magnetically positive and negative pole, however, gravitite had a "pro" and "anti" quality, one which was attracted to a gravitational field and the other which repelled. To function properly, GRAS gravitite had to be set in specifically patterned arrays. The Energy Burst had degaussed the gravitite - had scrambled the patterns. Without the ability to see mass points in subspace, there was a large probability of ploughing into those obstacles, with fatal consequences.
Cube #347 could laboriously recycle, reprocess, and re-array the 1000 kilograms of gravitite which comprised the GRAS. However, the process would require weeks. It would be much faster to appropriate what was needed from stores on another Borg vessel. In fact, Cargo-class Cube #2210 was less than a day distant and its manifest showed it to hauling the required substance....
<<Negative,>> blasted the Greater Consciousness when Captain made his inquiry, <<assets will not be diverted for noncritical needs. You will self-repair and return to your task soonest.>> There was no pleading with the Whole. What was, was; and of late, even less attention was being paid to the imperfect sub-collective of Cube #347.
{I think the used nacelle business may be growing a little out of hand,} noted Second from Maintenance Bay #9 where he impatiently waited in a line with other drones, his only amusement a copy of "Yoole-Vyst Fancier" about five centuries out of date. It was a scathing understatement typical of Second. The manifest of Cargo-class Cube #2210 also included a pair of old nacelles, recently salvaged, a very small volume of the overall cargo load.
Captain sent wordless agreement, then returned to the continuing damage and status reports.
It had recently come to the Collective's attention that several groups - Green Borg, Ferrengi, Second Federation, several commercial concerns - were buying or otherwise acquiring great stockpiles of warp nacelles. Used warp nacelles. At first, the action of these small entities had been ignored, but once the news of squabbling over the hardware had reached the venue of galactic news and nacelle futures were added to the Galactic Stock Exchange, more attention had been garnered. Increasingly alarmed as stockpiles grew, along with the conflicts, the Collective had entered the game, theorizing with a high probability factor that the used nacelles were to be used as a component in an Ultimate Weapon. It did not matter how ludicrous the notion, only that information gathered through assimilation pointed the hypothesis to be the belief of other involved parties as well.
Hence Cube #347's current location.
Recalled from patrol exile, Cube #347 was enroute to Unimatrix 005 to pick up a load of old nacelles for transport to a more secure location. As unimatrices were well-nigh fortresses to begin with, it was saying a lot that the Greater Consciousness had decided additional fortification necessary. Exploratory-class Cube #347 was not the only ship reassigned, the requirement to move nacelles resulting in a major redeployment of assets within and without BorgSpace. Cube #347's course to Unimatrix 005 included transit of Route #125.
Among nonBorg, Route #125 had another, less sanitary name: the Haunted Passage. Since before the inception of the Collective - rumor whispered the time to be 25,000 years in the past - the Haunted Passage had been avoided by all except the most desperate of pirates and legal captains. There were more than the usual number of anomalies and spatial hiccups, but not excessively so; and those encountered were generally at warp, not transwarp or faster velocities. It was the other...dangers.
The Haunted Passage was, well, haunted, so said even the least superstitious captain and crew. Civilizations had come and gone, but rumor remained. Disappearances, ghosts, demons, odd things which could not be, very few attempted the route even though it was a shortcut through a nebula which otherwise forced a weeks-long detour.
Borg, of course, did not bother with rumors. Those few vessels which had vanished from Route #125 were no more numerous or unexplained as those on other routes. Accidents, extra-dimensional beings, omniscient super-entities having a bad millennium...there were many plausible answers which did not invoke undead spirits.
Captain, consensus monitor and facilitator of a Borg cube stuck in the middle of the Haunted Passage, had as much superstition as that allowed the average drone: none. Instead, he had other matters to contend.
{Start gravitite recycling. Inspect all nacelle couplings to prevent another Energy Burst. Continue diagnostics of all systems,} provided Captain to all hierarchies. He looked down at his damaged knee and tested the joint again. Then, with an internal grimace as the leg froze in an awkward 45 degree angle, set himself on the drone maintenance roster.
*****
The Energy Burst had achieved more than degauss gravitite and perpetuate relatively minor drone injuries among the populace of Cube #347. As the insubstantial echoes of the Burst reverberated, dampened, died, something...awoke.
A shimmer in a volume of space not as empty as it appeared, a scintillation, a shiver. Lights blossomed. Music swelled. Figures blinked in confusion before continuing, glassy-eyed, about a routine disrupted somewhere, somewhen. Substance became.
*****
Cube #347 sat motionless in space. On its hull clambered the small shapes of drones, concentrated in those areas where GRAS components lay under surface armor. A few drones were by themselves, presumably attending to other errands, but at least one was flying a rocket powered kite. The particularly vulnerable tactical situation demanded constant vigilance, so even as part of the sensor system was dismantled, the rest of the grid was busy scanning, pushing the detection envelope incrementally further with each sweep of a spherical volume.
A curious blip appeared, eight light hours distant and on the edge of detailed scanning range. A second and third sweep found it still to be present, a solid object and not one of the transient anomalies for which Route #125 was renown.
The sensory hierarchy focused on the object; Sensors tweaked the grid to gain higher point resolution, to the detriment of a number of her hierarchy. A vibration on a common commercial radio band prompted Sensors to listen.
"Welcome. *static* freighter stop *static* -fornia *static* open all *static* -upplies avail- *static*" Interference increased, drowning all semblance of intelligible speech. The Energy Burst had done a number on the receivers, although they, unlike the GRAS, would clear on their own given several cycles.
{Contact,} reported Sensors to Captain. {Sentient-built structures 8.3 light hours on the plane rimward and antispin. Inhabited. Possible supplies.} Or, at least, those were the words she though she said.
Captain was currently on a table in Maintenance Bay #9. Unlike Second two benches distant, knee replacement was a straightforward operation. Second, on the other hand, had several wires dangling from cranium and ocular implants as he received a series of minor shocks which were supposed to reset his visual system. Thus far, it wasn't working. Second suspected his attendant was purposefully administering more than the required number of shocks, but had yet to prove it.
Captain tilted his head slightly as he captured the directed datastream. The report from Sensors was interpreted quite a bit different than her intention: {Contact. [Yellow fuzzy] structure 8.3 [sunbeam steps plaid] on the plain rimward and [top fun]. Inhabited. Possible [quilts].}
{Repeat,} commanded Captain.
Sensors did so a second time, then a third before the command and control hierarchy sufficiently understood that a little over eight light hours away existed a location where supplies such as processed gravitite might be available. The concept of purchasing or otherwise acquiring said supplies in a legal manner was not considered.
Cube #347 set on a vector towards the structures. Even at full impulse, estimated time of arrival was twelve hours. On the hull, engineering drones continued about their assigned gravitite task; and although the kite had been confiscated, that did not stop the kite flyer from defiantly materializing another from his hidden stockpile and sending it aloft.
The station was large, such as nonBorg structures went, an impressive engineering feat made more so as it drifted in interstellar void far from the raw supplies represented by a solar system. Six toroids were stacked on each other like a pile of carefully arranged doughnuts, each half a kilometer in diameter and each rotating at a different speed. While the toroid stack itself was half a kilometer in height, the total dimension was pushed to three-quarters kilometer by the mast which was impaled through the open center of the giant doughnuts. Docking pylons were present along the mast and at the circumference of the two central toroids. Unseen ports were also likely available in the central well, suitable for runabouts and other small, short-range vessels.
The structure was painted in a rather garish candy stripe pattern of bright pink and florescent blue. Large advertisements for a variety of consumables were randomly placed in prominent locales.
Several vessels of known and unknown configuration were parked along the mast; and two bulky freighters were anchored nearby to free-floating buoys.
Borg files held no note of the station's existence. Of course, except for emergencies such as that of Cube #347, there was no reason to halt in Route #125. Sensory hierarchy's examination of the subspace transmission had revealed it to penetrate to warp layers, no further. Borg ships at transwarp and hypertranswarp velocities would not hear the station's self-advertisement. On the other hand, for the captain willing (or desperate enough) to buck superstition and traverse the Haunted Passage, the station was perfectly sited to act as a black market profiteer. From its size, it had obviously seen better days, times when the docking pylons were fuller than that represented by the double handful of pitted and scarred travelers.
Cube #347 glided to a halt a threatening five kilometers distant. Weapons actively targeted the station and all vessels present. During the impulse trek, a temporary subspace array had been rigged on the hull to allow conversation which did not include static storms.
Borg protocol dictated several minutes to be spent in silent looming. It was a tactic for psychological warfare, a period in which local panic would allow an eventual invasion to proceed smoother. Unfortunately, the tactic had been known to backfire as it provided time for defenses to be raised and pre-emptive attacks to be made. Those failures were carefully ignored by the Borg Collective as anomalous blips. Before looming time could end, however, a hail was received, audio only.
"Greetings from the freighter stop California, your one-stop shop for all your supply needs. We also feature fine inns, dining establishments, and a casino. Daycare facilities are available, but we require several hours notice if you will be depositing more than fifty younglings at a time. Please inquire about our escrow services and slave-holding pens. We regret that video is not functional at this time due to technical difficulties. How may California serve you?"
Although the contralto voice was live, not a recording or computer, there was no hint of panic or surprise at the appearance of a Borg vessel. Of course, station sensors had likely been tracking approach for several hours. If anything, the voice sounded eager, full of anticipation.
Captain absently activated the Multivoice function. Audio was acceptable as an extremely minor damage report indicated the Energy Burst had affected internal cameras. The only outbound feed available was from camera 23b, which was currently frozen on its swivel mounting to face a wall painted with rather graphic graffiti of a very nonBorg nature.
"We demand 1000 kilograms of high-quality processed gravitite of a grade suitable for superluminal sensor arrays. Resistance is futile. You will comply." Captain allowed the weapons hierarchy to cycle weapons, although a tight rein was kept. Since his mishap a while ago, Weapons' explosive "accidents" had decreased, but no chance was being taken.
The return silence was short, barely time to digest the threat, much less illicit a response from station command personnel. "Of course!" the voice brightly said. "Anything else? We'll do all we can to help."
Returned to his nodal intersection, automatically bending his new knee the requisite factory-recommended 5000 flexation breaking-in period, Captain (and the sub-collective) was take aback. That was not the expected script! The station was supposed to threaten, plead, perhaps unleash offensive weaponry. Even the parked ships had not so much as altered energy output. Capitulation was not on the agenda.
Borg so disliked it when things did not go according to expectation, good or bad.
"Anything else sir? Sirs?" queried the station as no response was given by Cube #347.
"Stand by." Pause. "Our demands will be fully met?"
"Of course!"
"Free?"
"Station California is quite pragmatic about these things. That is what insurance is for. Besides, you do have superior firepower."
{Time for a demonstration?} asked Weapons eagerly. {A ship? Part of the mast? A toroid or two?}
Captain minutely shook his head in an unconscious gesture absorbed from the several Terran drones aboard. {No. The gravitite might be destroyed. Weapons will remain locked.}
Weapons withdrew, no struggle to comply offered.
"We will take the gravitite," stated the Multivoice to station California.
The contralto voice bubbled enthusiastically, "Good! Good! Then if you will find a place to park your vessel nearby? As you appear to be Borg, please send a representative - one who will speak for all - to the following verbal coordinates for final arrangements to be made. In fact, it is recommended you send two, just in case." ‘Just in case' for what, was not explained.
{Ready for a little jaunt?} asked Captain to Second. As primary and secondary consensus monitors and facilitators, the duties of liaison fell to them. At best, the gravitite would be acquired and the station left intact. At worst, well, Cube #347 could make many situations worse, and had. In between the extremes, the station might have to be assimilated. The Greater Consciousness would not be enthused about such proceedings, especially as an Assimilation-class cube would have to be diverted to process the new drones, but the fact that most of the docked ships were warp-only vessels (with, thus, used nacelles) would mitigate displeasure over disobedience against imperfectly assimilated sub-collectives performing mass assimilations.
In his alcove, recovering from the procedure to reset his ocular system, Second waved his hand in front of his eyes. Unfortunately, the appropriate number of limbs were present. {Well, since there is only one of you again, and one of me, I have no choice.}
Ten minutes had passed since transporting to the station. The destination coordinates - verbal directions consisting of "Look for the two rusty panels near the ‘Swat Zap' logo. Found them? Good. Go twenty meters nadir and five meters...wait. No, that won't do. Okay, look for..." - had been an empty bay for visiting shuttles, spacious and with a temperature just below the freezing point of water. There were two egresses: a closed circular hatch leading into the station and a forcefield warded opening facing the toroid's central mast.
Captain stood statue-still, staring at the closed hatch, content to wait...for now. No provocation by station or accompanying ships had been directed at Cube #347. A plume of steam accompanied each slow breath. The freezing condensation building up on his ocular implant and tingling the inside of his nostrils was a bit distracting. Compared to the vacuum of open space, on the other hand, the temperature of the bay was quite tolerable.
Beside Captain, Second was turning in a slow circle as he panned the dock. In addition to scanning for weapons, traps, and electronic surveillance, he was perusing the wide variety of products advertised in movie poster format. Both dynamic holograms and static flat paint toted wares such as the mysterious Swat Zap ("Get rid of ugly zibotubers fast, and without wishing upon a star") to Nacy's Fruity Perfume ("A hot, steamy XXX-rated night awaits all who try"). The bright colors moderated the otherwise standard gray of background metal.
{Go back to the "Indiana Jenny and the Temple of Beauty" one,} pleaded 35 of 203. She was an ex-beautician with a fixation on all things hair and makeup, much to the annoyance of her alcove neighbors who regularly woke from regeneration bedecked in wigs, lipstick, and foundation powder.
Hidden hydraulics hissed as the door began to iris open. Second pivoted in place to mirror Captain's stance. Warm air blew into the bay, noticeably raising the ambient temperature. The silhouette of a tall humanoid was outlined against the well-lighted background of the station interior. Both drones prepared for an attack.
"Welcome," said a voice, the same one earlier heard on the station link, "to the freighter stop California!" The reverberating undertones were stronger in person than when heard remotely. "I am /so/ sorry for the wait, but there was a last minute emergency for me to delegate to the proper subordinate. The door was not locked. You could have exited the dock."
{I knew it!} crowed Second triumphantly. Outwardly, neither posture nor expression was altered.
To the outside observer, one would never know a conversation was occurring as Captain replied. {We all err. How many times have any of this sub-collective been invited onto a station and not encountered security measures or locked hatches?}
{Well, there was that one time...} began Second.
{A fluke,} retorted Captain as he captured the record Second was accessing, {which involved an illegal hallucinogenic drug shipment, the station's primitive ventilation system, and a crowbar used unwisely and without regard to warnings on a certain crate. The station personnel were so lost in their own worlds they would not have registered a nearby supernova, much less assault and assimilation.}
Second sulked. {You did ask.}
Lights in the docking bay brightened, bringing into focus the station host. It was all Captain and Second could do to remain outwardly unmoved, especially as sub-collective reactions demanded action. The entity with the contralto voice was Borg, specifically a rogue disconnected from the Collective.
Which did explain the synthetic undertones when speaking.
At 2.5 meters, the rogue was tall and barely cleared the lock, although the station ceiling in the hallway beyond allowed an extra meter of head room. Her thin frame and willowy extremities classified her as species #6754; and she must have been among the last of her race assimilated "in the wild" as her kind was now solely reproduced as creche clones within the Collective. A creche clone, indocturnized by the Greater Consciousness since conception, had no desire to separate from the Whole.
The rogue's epidermis was largely free of implants, and the few visible metallic stars might be mistaken as jewelry by those unschooled in Borg. The stylish blue and green jumpsuit had several low profile bulges on abdomen, upper left leg, and upper right arm, all likely locations of more extensive assemblies unable to be removed without compromising body integrity. The rogue's black cranial hair was long and luxurious; and while her smooth face was composed in a serene nonexpression, pale yellow eyes held a hint of a smile. However, even had all visible stigmas of her connection to the Borg been removed, any drone would still have recognized her rogue status.
Captain tried to contact the Collective and inform upon the discovery of a rogue drone, as per standard operating procedure.
<<We are sorry, but all drones are busy right now. However, if you leave your designation and reason for this contact, We will return your call as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, be assured individual units are irrelevant and your echo will shortly join those who have terminated before you. Otherwise, you will be answered in the order your call was received. Current wait time is 15.2 cycles.>>
Sighed Second as current Collective status reports were tapped, analyzed, {This nacelles thing is getting /way/ too out of hand. Illogical.}
{Well, you can tell the Greater Consciousness that. You implants and assemblies are in good condition for reuse; and all organic parts will be recycled. There are six other drones within the Hierarchy of Eight able to assume your duties.}
Second was not adverse to relinquish his subdesignation as secondary consensus monitor and facilitator, only that he'd rather be functional when such occurred. {Illogical,} he muttered again.
"My name is Tesel," said the rogue - for her, there had been no pause between opening the door and her subsequent greeting, "and I will be your guide. Arrangements for gravitite are already being made, although time is required to retrieve it from stores. Stationmistress Calafia will be seeing you when her busy schedule allows for final negotiations."
"We are Borg. You are a rogue. You will be re-assimilated into the Collective," said Captain as he took a step forward.
Tesel did not budge. "Hey now. I'm not stupid." The corners of her mouth turned down in the slightest of frowns. "And I'm well aware of what I am: free. There are many other free Borg on this station as well." Frown returned to neutral. "But don't get any ideas. California may not have the arms to stop even an Exploratory-class cube like the one parked outside, but if us ‘rogues' are re-assimilated, and nonBorg follow behind, well, say goodbye to your gravitite. Stationmistress Calafia will explode us first." Conviction. "Myself, I'd prefer to be dead than assimilated again, and so believe the other ‘rogues' aboard. However, if you just wait for the day or two it takes, you'll get your gravitite and be on your way."
Captain stared at Tesel as Second scanned the disembarkment hallway behind her. Concurrently, a consensus cascade spun webwork "what-if's" in the sub-collective dataspaces, Greater Consciousness too absorbed with used nacelles to bother with mere rogues and an imperfect sub-collective a whisker from being classified as such. While Weapons and his hierarchy predictably leaned towards the more violent and direct actions, final consensus was to take what gravitite was available, install it, and return to the original task. After all, a station (or freighter stop) was by nature stationary and could be revisited at a future date by the Collective now that its existence and coordinates were known.
"We...acknowledge," slowly replied Captain.
A wide smile crossed Tesel's face. "Wonderful! If you will follow me, I will lead you to temporary quarters..."
"Quarters are irrelevant."
"...where you can await a break in Stationmistress Calafia's schedule," continued Tesel, as if Second had never spoken. "In answer to what you undoubtedly wish to demand, you may be Borg, but Stationmistress Calafia can't divert from her set schedule even for the likes of you. Busy, busy, busy." There was a note of admiration in Tesel's voice which did not match with the faraway haunted look to her eyes. "Come. No Borg hanky-panky, now."
Tesel pivoted on foot, a stiff, abrupt motion which further revealed her drone heritage, and trundled down the disembarkment hallway.
Captain and Second looked at each other, then followed behind.
"Designations?" inquired Tesel before the hallway widened into a main concourse. "'Hey, you!' and ‘Borg' don't sit well with me."
"This unit is 4 of 8, sub-designation Captain, primary consensus monitor and facilitator of Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective."
"This unit is 3 of 8, sub-designation Second, secondary consensus monitor and facilitator of Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective."
Tesel shrugged slightly, obviously unimpressed, as would any rogue be who was perfectly aware that titles and designated speakers-for-all were fluid within a sub-collective. She had not yet realized the special status of Cube #347. "Captain and Second. I'll do that since your numerical designation are so close together. Well now, introductions out of the way, welcome to freighter stop California, second torus."
The disembarkment hallway exited to a twelve meter tall concourse split into three levels. From outside dimensions, the toroid obviously had more facilities devoted to it, but as far as malls went, the layout was grandiose.
The floor of the concourse was a vast botanical garden, greenery (and purplery, bluery, orangery) from myriads of worlds laid in decorative patterns. The naked trunks of tall trees rose in scaled splendor from low bushes and herbs, spreading graceful feathery fronds just below the ceiling lightstrips. Ornate ceramics masquerading as stone flagged the main walkways. Fountains of multiple designs tinkled, trickled, or cascaded water, lending a background noise more soothing than any mall muzac.
Stores - unnecessary luxury in an era of replication - were stacked three stories high to either side the central garden. Bright storefront names contested with each other to lure customers. Clothing, food, exotic services, jewelry, from the general to the specialty niche, all desires of all galactic species were represented. The endless rows of shops disappeared in the linear distance when looking right or left, never a store name to be repeated. There was an indecipherable theme which linked the stores, one which catered to an image of conditioned bodies, surfing, palm trees, gold, and leisure.
Captain gazed across the concourse at the "Road Rage" video game gallery, then up and down. The disembarkment hallway was on the second tier. Other exits, presumably also to docking bays, existed left and right, discretely tucked between shops. Something was not right...off kilter.
"Where are the people? Why are the shops dark? Explain," voiced Second, echoing the sub-collective's observation and concern.
Tesel sighed. "Obviously there isn't much traffic in the Haunted Passage. A few smugglers, an adventurer, some explorers, the lost. Mostly the first and last. There used to be more, but the Borg, you know...." Tesel's voice dripped irony as she turned to lean on the balcony rail and stared down at the garden.
A very few individuals strolled below (all rogues, instantly recognizable as such to Captain and Second), paying no attention to their perched observers. Occasionally a browser would turn into a dark shop, whereupon interior lights would brighten and a holographic host appear. Inevitably the host would be the physical perfection of his, her, or its species; and inevitably the host would be wearing a brightly colored tank top, whether or not the physiology allowed.
"California was obviously built elsewhere," continued Tesel, "somewhere with a star and planets and resources for the construction. It is old...very old. Once these toroids and docking spaces were full of patrons, living beings rushing helter-skelter on their errands." A note of wistfulness entered the rogue's voice. "Then something happened. Before my time and most of those who live here now. Stationmistress Calafia undoubtedly knows how California came here; and many of us suspect the Bartender does too. Maybe a few of the other, older residents. They don't tell us new-comers, though. For me, it is enough that I am free of the Collective, although there are times I would like to see my homeworld again." Tesel swiveled abruptly to face Captain and Second, face composed to nonexpression.
"Let's go. Follow me." All business, Tesel led Cube #347's liaisons along the tier.
Captain panned the concourse once more, then followed, Second trailing behind
"Visitor suite #1969," commented Second once Tesel had left, protesting that she had to finalize arrangements with the yet unseen Stationmistress Calafia and that the two drones could wander where they may as long as no assimilations were performed, "has seen better days. Years. Decades, even."
Captain, slowly inspecting the room, could not disagree. The suite - actually a large double-room with a fabric curtain to divide sleeping area from living room - was shabby and had a distinct air of disuse. While furniture and stereotypical alien moonscape photos were unfaded, their colors were muted by a thick layer of dust. The only area of cleanliness was an arc of floor near an air conditioning vent, and that development looked fairly recent.
Second stepped over to a coffee table, then stooped to pick up a tablet-sized PADD. As the object sensed movement, its screen brightened to show the logo of a palm leaf. A tinny electronic voice squeaked: "Hello esteemed visitors! I am your California brochure. Please take a few minutes to browse me. I list a wide variety of restaurants, entertainments, professional resources - "
The speaker abruptly silenced as Second's nanotubules were inserted into the PADD, short-circuiting the greeting. Captain cocked his head slightly sideways as the data contained within the unit was absorbed and disseminated.
{Half of torus three is a giant water park!} exclaimed 138 of 152 excitedly. {There are swimming pools, water slides, a tropical reef...and a surfing pool! Waves to twenty meters! Real sharks and other predators for that "authentic experience"!} Sensors' hierarchy was abruptly scrambling as the surfing obsessed drone hijacked part of the grid for a deep scan of the aforementioned toroid to confirm the brochure's truth. She was not the only one suddenly interested in what California had to offer.
Gushed 17 of 19, echoed by 120 of 203 and other culinary-minded drones who had formed a consensus bloc, {We really must be allowed to drop by the "Celebrity Chef" arena. The list of holographic chefs one can duel in the kitchen is spectacular, as is the theme ingredient list. A must.}
{No,} interposed Weapons, {Weaponry hierarchy will visit first. After the station is secure and all entities assimilated, we will use torus four's "Streets of L.A." holographic "shoot ‘em-up" simulation. Assimilation and other hierarchies will benefit as well. Over three-quarters of the toroid, including multiple levels, has been furnished as a "high-adrenaline, neo-modern urban environment, safety protocols optional." If the standard gang, commuter, and disgruntled public official opponents are insufficient, more lethal holographic sets can be substituted.}
{There is an earthquake simulator on torus two, just off the mall concourse! Oh, do stop...or, even better, let me ride it personally.}
{Hey, there is a gallery called "Meet the Stars" which features the greatest, and most notorious, of history's entertainers. There is even a full, interactive copy of Zyrian the Great!}
For each drone, California held an interest or diversion. No exceptions. One of the mega-mall concourse stores even specialized in grey paints for the color spectrum-challenged, which piqued the interest of even the perennially depressed Assimilation. Each drone was clamoring to be allowed on California, and transporters had to be universally locked to prevent mass exodus to the station.
{No!} roared Captain in the intranets, taking full advantage of his position of consensus monitor and facilitator to rein in the burgeoning chaos. Even among Borg (or especially among Borg), some were more equal than others. {We will be acquiring gravitite, realigning the GRAS, then leaving. All of us. This station will remain, to be assimilated at the behest of the Greater Consciousness, not us. We will abide by our required task with no exceptions. Compliance by designation.}
One by one, each drone gave his, her, or its compliance, some more notably grudging than others. Those of whom the greater suspicion remained - drones of the Cube #347 sub-collective could no more lie than any other Borg, but they could be very unBorg in the creativeness required to circumvent decrees - were tagged for close observation by command and control hierarchy.
Second returned the PADD to the table.
Captain scanned the suite one final time, noting an odd lack of communication panels, or indeed any other electronics than the brochure. If the computer was verbally controlled, it was not responding to the two drones. "We require Tesel; and we require Stationmistress Calafia to acquire gravitite," said Captain aloud, a verbal affirmation to any listening ears as to his and Second's intentions.
{I agree,} replied Second, {but if, on our way, we pass the Witty Remarks Novelty Shoppe....} He paused, absorbing both scathing look and mental pressure from Captain. {Oh, very well. It was only a suggestion.}
Captain swiveled and headed towards the suite door.
While the station crew was not solely ex-Borg, the rogues did appear to be in the majority; and they were ex-Borg of the Collective, not one of the many Colors splintered during the Hive era. Given the size of the Collective, it was inevitable that drones would go rogue, although only very rarely did they hail from the ranks of the imperfectly assimilated. While those drones of Exploratory-class Cube #347 and Lugger-class Cube #238 were slightly insane, they firmly bought into their programming of seeking perfection. Other incidents created rogues: usually, although not always, due to outside meddling by the Second Federation or similar do-good governmental entity.
As to how many rogues came to be in one location? Such blights were not unheard of, ex-Borg tending to gravitate to each other. Likely a ship of rogues had found California, either accidentally or through smuggler's rumors, and decided to stay.
Except for a couple sideways glances, rogue and non-rogue station crew went about their business, ignoring the two Borg.
Peculiar were the reactions, or rather non-reactions, of the few non-station people seen along the mall concourse. Whether they were shopping, carousing in a bar, or engrossed in an entertainment, they were utterly oblivious to the drones. Smugglers were a naturally suspicious breed, and one expected one or more vessels to have tried to leave by now. It almost seemed, however illogical, that entire crews were on California throwing caution to the wind, even when ship computers must have been howling alarm over the Borg cube visible on sensors.
At one point, a pair of quite drunk species #6970 exited a discrete alcove which led to a multispecies restroom. The ferret-like race was notoriously paranoid of Borg, their homeworld long assimilated and their species reduced to tattered traces. In fact, it had been assumed that all remnants had fled into deep intergalactic space towards Andromeda during the Dark war. A species #6970 who did not run screaming in the opposite direction upon sighting a Borg at least slunk away forthright, no matter how drunk. The pair gave Captain and Second nary a second glance as they chattered with slurred imprecision about the next stop on what was obviously an epic bar crawl.
Very strange. And neither Tesel nor a functional computer terminal had yet to be located.
Captain and Second paused before a facility titled simply "The Bar." Unlike other drinking establishments passed, this one had an air of permanence and use; and a glance through the smoky glass windowfront showed the shadow of a bartender, not a self-service counter or a smiling, too-bright hologram. This was a place of reality, as so much of the rest of the mall concourse seen thus far was not.
{Shall we?} inquired Second with virtual arm flourish inappropriate for the actual world to view.
The inside of The Bar was larger than the outside suggested, back wall set deeper than the other concourse facilities. Dark paneling of alien wood soaked what light was available from recessed lightstrips; and dark pseudo-leather of barstools and padded benches only enhanced the shadows. It was the ambience of the serious single drinker, the being who wanted to withdraw from the world to their own alcohol-fueled thoughts without the chatter of comrades. Several such souls huddled in the shadows, a few of them station visitors, but most of them station crew. A flash of implant here and there indicated rogues were among the drinkers, but none were Tesel.
"What'll it be?" said the bartender, bowl of mixed nuts and pretzels slammed down between Captain and Second.
{How did we get to the bar?} asked Captain in confusion. {We just walked in!}
Answered Second, {Never mind the bar...how did the bartender sneak up on us?} Second was running a diagnostic of his various sensory implants, from aural to electromagnetic (especially ocular), but finding no faults.
Captain turned with trepidation to face the bartender, leaving Second to pan the room for danger, literally a second set of eyes. Captain noted the humanoid's face lacked blue eyes, which, for some unformed reason linked with oddly fuzzy memories relating to another bar...somewhere...relieved him. The bartender was of no recognizable species, although human would have come closest if it were not for the slightly scaly cast to the epidermis. The small blue horns on the top of the skull, tips just visible through thick black hair argued against human as well. Beyond that, the bartender was dressed as bartenders did the universe over, complete with ubiquitous towel with which to dry already dry glasses.
"State your designation," said Captain. Other than Tesel, the bartender was the first being on California to actively acknowledge the drone's existence.
"I'm the Bartender," grunted the bartender in a ‘what's-it-to-you' attitude, the title distinctly capitalized. The Bartender was also the first to actually show emotion in the form of a deep scowl. Even Tesel had refrained from visible expressions, although that lack might have been due to lingering trauma from her time as Borg. "Do you want something to drink or not?"
"Drinking is irrelevant."
The Bartender snorted. "Not to the clientele I usually serve, it isn't. Drinking is very relevant. Absolution and forgetfulness in the same bottle, and me not even a priest. Probably illegal, like half the liquors I dispense." ‘Dispense,' not ‘sell,' as might be expected. An odd phrasing which Captain (and sub-collective) observed. In the concourse or the other stores, such strange phrasing would have gone unnoted, unremarked.
"We look for Tesel. We will speak with the Stationmistress Calafia immediately. We will acquire gravitite. Compliance is mandatory."
One of the Bartender's eyebrows rose. "Persistent, aren't you?" The eyebrow returned to neutral. "Tesel and Calafia. Now there's a pair. Tesel has a lot of ambition, you know. You wouldn't know it by looking at her, but she's been in here a time or three. They all have, even Calafia." Towel absently rubbed empty glass. "I know ‘em all, their desires, their ambitions, their dreams, their liquors. Especially their liquors. I'm sure Calafia knows Tesel's game as well, for game it is. Tesel won't want to present you until the last minute. Tesel wants Calafia's place, after all, to sit in the center of the web like a giant, bloated spider. It won't gain her her freedom any more than when Calafia removed her predecessor. Not that it matters. There's only one thing that matters here, and right now Calafia gets the lions share." A shrug. "But the wars are inevitable, the childish squabbles. Better to be the Bartender, outside it all."
The Bartender paused, then leaned close to Captain's face to whisper, "I don't think Tesel can do it: Calafia is too strong, too alert as of yet. Tesel isn't patient enough. Give it another century or two or four, then maybe. After all, Calafia was willing to wait two thousand years and some change for her chance." With a sharp nod, the Bartender pulled away, smiling grimly as if he had divulged an especially damning piece of gossip.
Captain took a step away from the darkly grinning Bartender, mirrored by Second. A second step. The smile was distinctly predatory, tips of sharp canines just visible; and there was the disconcerting feeling that had the Bartender desired, leaving the bar would not have been an option.
{Not suitable for assimilation,} said Second, an understatement.
A third step.
None of the bar patrons looked up from their drinks, even as the Bartender swept away the snack bowl amid a loud clatter. "You don't belong here, not in this bar, not on this station. I would recommend you leave, but it is probably already too late. Stationmistress Calafia doesn't like giving up new acquaintances." A slow shrug and return to toweling the well-polished glass: the drones had been dismissed.
Slow, muted music - a hip-hop funeral dirge - wafted in from the concourse. The bar interior deadened it as it did the light, but could not completely silence it. The sinister music was more inviting than The Bar.
On the concourse, the music was louder; and, more importantly, the uncomfortable feeling of uncaring shadows preparing to pounce was lifted. Not gone, but definitely less.
Uncomfortable feelings were irrelevant. Most of the time.
The two drones were on the second tier of the mall. As Second searched for the source of the music, Captain's eye lingered on The Bar's windowfront.
{Tesel!} hissed Second. Captain blinked, captured Second's visual feed, then took the two requisite steps to the safety banister to see for himself.
In an open area amid the first level foliage, Tesel was slowly pirouetting through a dance, eyes closed. There was an odd ritualistic sense to it. An arm gracefully rose over the rogue's head while the other swept outward in a flowing arc, fingers positioned just so. The precise tempo forced the beat, an unforgiving conductor demanding unwavering obedience.
Arrayed around Tesel were five ex-Borg, each a mirror to her motions although always a fraction of a second behind. The six together whirled in an off-kilter synchronized dance, always slaved to the music. Solemnly clapped beats by an outer ring of station personnel - rogue and non-rogue - completed the spectacle.
Tesel opened her eyes and looked up at Captain and Second, never missing a step nor a wave of hand. She nodded slightly and swept out of her pivot point. Behind her, her five orbiters closed ranks, never wavering in their motion; and none stepped forwards to take her place. Tesel disappeared under the tier's overhang.
And reappeared seconds later behind the drones, an impossible silent surprise. Tesel was ex-Borg, and her remaining assemblies should have alerted Captain and Second via their subliminal whines.
The situation had long passed through the rapids of the surreal and was currently floating on the other side in the Sea of Bizarre.
"Come," said Tesel, faintest of smiles creasing nonexpression, "Stationmistress Calafia will see you now."
The office of Stationmistress Calafia was not large, an unpretentious domed box twice the size of Captain's nodal intersection. On one side of the room was a heavy, wooden desk with a chair behind it; and two more chairs of uncomfortable design were in front. A potted fern which had seen better days sat forlornly in the corner, under an indecipherable artwork of string and aluminum chopsticks. A line of framed pictures - all blank - were lined up on the right wall, opposite an empty video screen. Only one door entered, or exited, the office.
In a no-nonsense business suit of charcoal and white, Stationmistress Calafia reigned over California. Standing behind her desk as drones and Tesel entered, Calafia was of Amazonian proportions, ebony black skin glistening blue under lightstrip luminescence. A series of abstract tattoos marked her face with curlicues of shimmering violet and periwinkle; and a pattern of golden, bony knobs covered her hairless cranium. Every once in a while, a leonine tail would swish into view.
Stationmistress Calafia tapped manicured claws on her desktop as Tesel announced Captain and Second to her superior. No mention was made of gravitite.
"Two? Of four thousand? That is insufficient, and you know it," verbally chastised Calafia, ignoring the drones' presence. "The docks are slim these centuries. We /need/ those souls." The Stationmistress' face was twisted in anger.
"You mean /you/ need those souls," retorted Tesel, nonexpression dropped for loathing. "The rest of us subsist as we can. These two will feed twenty of us, Calafia..."
"Stationmistress Calafia to you, you insolent pup!"
"...and you know it. Why should we starve while you grow ever fat. That wasn't what you promised us, we rogues, when we arrived! Freedom? You just wanted to save your hide because we were strong then, able to challenge you though we knew it not!"
"Silence, thrall! Comply! You used to know the meaning of that word! Now you are so incompetent you can't even lure aboard a ship full of stupid Borg who are of questionable sanity to begin with! Some things I just have to do myself. Time is wasting, and I want four thousand more souls, not two. I'll deal with you later, little Tesel." Tail whipped back and forth.
Captain and Second looked at each other, unsure what was happening. "Gravitite?" interjected Captain into the pause. The sub-collective's moment of confused introspection did not last long. Suddenly not only were new versions of the tabletop brochure being directed at cube communications, but every drone with less than perfect inhibition (i.e., a great majority) was either petitioning to visit the "newly upgraded facilities" of California, else attempting to bypass transporter lockout. The only reason a mass exodus of crew had not begun was because individuals working crosswise at hacking were hampering each other's efforts.
"'Little Tesel'? I think 'Stationmistress Tesel' is a better title, with you added to the portraits of Mistresses and Masters before. Maybe you could even open another Bar...or perhaps a Hair Salon would be more to your taste. 'Salonmistress Calafia,' maybe? I'll toss you some scraps of soul now and then, after my followers and I have finished. Even if we can't escape this damn place, we will have our personal freedom."
Calafia started laughing, as if had heard the best joke ever. Red-faced Tesel gave a piercing whistle, and through the door tramped the five dancers who had accompanied her on the concourse. Each held a serrated knife of gladius proportions; and Tesel also clutched one, although where she had drawn it from was unknown. Calafia stopped laughing, her eyes narrowed.
"One is always more equal than the rest," said Calafia. She was...melting, her form blurred around the edges. The drones were apparently forgotten, or at least dismissed as irrelevant to the proceedings, of no more import than a goldfish in a bowl. "It has been tried before, the sharing of souls, of power. One always rises to the top, however, and the others always get less and less until they have no more than what they started with."
Snarled Tesel, "We were Borg, once. We will share equally, and be stronger because of it. Upon that strength California will be returned to richer pastures."
Calafia, now mere suggestion of Amazon, stared, her eyes untouched by the transformation. "You are mad. California was bewitched, hexed, banished long ago, little Tesel, although as you were not present, you would not understand. It cannot be undone; and if you believe the Bartender's cryptic words and pseudo-prophesies, then you are totally insane. I thought you and your kind would make good thralls, no more, no less. Obviously I misjudged."
Knives were hefted. Tesel and her five followers leapt upon Calafia, stabbing. There was no blood.
Despite the violence, both words and actions had held an air of ritual played out many times before, sometimes with success, sometimes without. It was the same mood associated with the funeral dance, but stronger.
The brochure broadcast ceased.
Calafia's form wavered between solid unreality and blurred shadow, only her yellow-orange eyes remaining constant. In succession she was a black Amazon; a creature like the Bartender; an ex-Borg rogue, implants blinking; a medusa with hissing snakes for hair. Calafia was all this and more as she writhed under the stabbing blades of her attackers. Blood had yet to be spilt.
"Now is probably a good time to leave," whispered the Bartender, suddenly present, glass and towel included. There was a sense of The Bar as well, a translucent overlay of both office and drinking establishment occupying the same space. "Stationmistress Calafia should win, it is only a question of when. California is soon to fade - our curse, you might say, although there are no words to adequately explain - and if you are nearby, you will fade as well. And be trapped. Trust me, you don't want to be here when that happens."
Captain fell against Second, or perhaps it was the other way around. A malfunctioning gyroscope? Startled surprise was irrelevant, of course, but it was distinctly annoying how these people (?) were able to sneak up on a drone. Both drones flailed with their arms until they were safely balanced, Second continuing to watch the fight while Captain turned to confront the Bartender. The chaos aboard the cube and in the intranets had stilled: a moment of collectively held breath.
"Why?" Pause. "Explain," demanded Captain.
A splatter of black blood impacted wall, plant, and artwork with a damp sound. The fern seemed to brighten, grow greener.
The Bartender absently polished a glass as if contemplating an answer, deliberation contrary to his previous call for haste. "We are cursed. Bad decisions were made long ago, by me and others. The details are unimportant and occurred well before your Collective was birthed. The 'others' are largely gone, now, true self-forgiveness finally setting them free; and I prefer Bartender to Stationmaster. We are ghosts, Captain Borg, ghouls who feed on the living.
"The fathers of fate dictate our return to this universe, where we stare hungrily at a reality we can never hope to rejoin. So we prey upon the living - smugglers, the desperate - who attempt the passage when we are here. Lure them and obliterate them, maybe a few turned to thralls once the energy of life has been siphoned, the strong always wanting the weak for cruel amusement. However, it is never enough, for the Stationmaster or Mistress takes the greatest amount, leaving the thralls weak, subservient, hungry. Always hungry."
Towel was flipped over shoulder and glass set down upon barely existent bar. The Bartender's eyes reflected an ancient haunted pain. "This is my Purgatory, Captain Borg, my Hell. My punishment for hubris, both before and...after. The others - Calafia, Tesel, so many - have their own sins to consider. Hunger drives us, power drives us: we are slaves to it. At the same time, we cannot be allowed to become too powerful, for the taste of energy from a few wayward souls is an addiction which can never be satiated." The Bartender shook his head at a long ago folly. "The power struggle for Stationmaster and Mistress will continue, as it always has. Calafia should win, but there is always the remote chance Tesel will prevail, and with the potential represented by your crew - four thousand souls - Tesel may be able to do as she thirsts and move us to her 'richer pastures.'
"Addicted and always hungry...a parasite will kill its host if it becomes too greedy, too hungry, you know. We are cursed, as are those we touch, but the rest of the galaxy, the universe, should not suffer as well.
"I suggest you leave, Captain Borg. Soonest."
A curtain suddenly lifted in the sub-collective's mind; and insights and observations unconsciously dismissed were clear, like a desert mirage dissipating to show the hidden reality:
* Incongruity #1 - All desires or obsessions of individual drones, no matter how obscure, were to be found on California.
* Incongruity #2 - Tesel had referred to her homeworld, yet that planet had been assimilated pre-Dark, many centuries prior; and the last of her species only absorbed recently.
* Incongruity #3 - The Bartender, Calafia, and every uncatalogued species was speaking their native language...and the sub-collective was understanding without benefit of the translator algorithms. Even the brochure, upon closer examination, had output words and data of no recognizable tongue.
And the incongruities continued to stack one on top of each other, a house of cards in the path of a hurricane and starting to blow away.
Another arc of dark blood pattered on the wall, the desk, the ceiling.
Cube #347 sped away on impulse as fast as possible, given its handicap. California and its seductive delights were left behind, as were the ships and crew already caught in its siren song. Not even Weapons suggested (not strongly, anyway) that an attempt be made at destruction. It is difficult to kill that which is already dead, after all.
An hour after leaving the freighter stop California, it vanished. No debris were recorded on long-range sensors, no signs of an explosion. The station was simply gone, leaving behind empty space and the fading signs of an anomaly Sensors described as [crunchy purple].
And although Captain knew the aural hallucination was logically a delayed reaction to the Burst Effect, he once again heard the fragmented whispers of a mostly forgotten fledgling song. Deep recollections recalled it to have only been invoked during the worship of minor clan deities such as Eagle, Beastie Boy, and Pink Floyd. Shake of head; erasure of incident. Irrelevant.
The prospect of weeks spent recycling gravitite for the GRAS did not seem onerous anymore.
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night.
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell."
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say...
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year, you can find it here
Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget
So I called up the Captain,
"Please bring me my wine"
He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine"
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say...
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
They livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice
And she said "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."
And in the master's chambers,
They gathered for the feast
The stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
"Relax," said the night man,
We are programmed to receive.
You can checkout any time you like,
but you can never leave!
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