Checkmate! by queen Paramount on the Star Trek board. Knight Decker chases the bishop of Star Traks. Meanwhile, the Meneks pawn flees from the BorgSpace king.
Battlechess
Second awoke. The action was jarring and unexpected. Until that moment of awareness, he had not known he had been unconscious; and the last thing he remembered was walking down hallway 37 of subsection 22, submatrix 2. Beyond that point, nothing, until now. Internal chronometer noted the passing of 87.5 hours.
The backup consensus monitor and facilitator did not immediately open his eyes. There was no need to visually confirm that something was amiss. Second had a hole in himself, an emptiness which was normally filled by the background chatter of computer and drone alike. A swift diagnostic indicated no problems, either with his neural transceiver or the various quasi-organic structures which supported the apparatus.
Finally Second was forced to engage his sensory suite to ascertain where he was. With a "Why does the universe pick on us...and me in particular?" muttered under his breath, optics were activated; and Second increased the gain on his other senses, both those Borg-enhanced and ones of artificial origin of which his species had no biological equivalent. The sub-collective had already been the recent recipient of an assault by a Xenig for the purpose of using Cube #347 as Dark bait. The scene which came into focus was not enlightening as to whom had snared the sub-collective this time, nor the why.
White.
The room was...white. Very white. Surreal white. Approximately two paces in front of Second and his alcove (minus Cube #347) was a small, round tea table (white) draped in cloth (white), behind which on the side opposite Second was a single wicker chair (white) upon which a cushion (white) waited. On the table, tea had been laid out for two with a delicate set of (white) porcelain; and even the crumpets in their (white) bowl were - can you guess? - white. The sourceless light was not quite white, but instead of a character to enhance the whiteness of the room without creating a harsh visual tone. The only thing with color was Second himself.
Leaning slightly out of his alcove without actually leaving it, Second glanced right and left. Nothing. He spoke aloud his thoughts, an unconscious need to fill the empty space in his mind: "The only thing missing is a...wait...there it is." As if in response to his verbalization, a white animal closely resembling a cat sauntered into view. Utterly ignoring its audience as only a cat can, it moseyed to the chair, delicately sniffed the air, then leapt onto the cushion. After a moment of kneading its nap location, it settled into a mound of furry ease. A loud purr broke the silence of the room.
bad kitty. get out of our chair, spoke a voice, or, rather spoke the absence of a voice. There was a sense of rudimentary punctuation, but things like capital letters, and possibly apostrophes, were entirely lacking.
Between one blink and the next - and Second had not actually blinked - a being had appeared in the white wicker chair. Its color was not precisely black, but instead an intense /nothingness/, a vaguely humanoid-draped-with-cloak hole were a being should be. If Second had retained functional tear ducts, all four of his eyes would have been watering. As it was, he was cycling up and down the electromagnetic frequency, searching for a personal view which made at least a modicum of sense. Only visual spectra held information: everything else reported a disturbing absence of...anything.
The cat rose from the chair, still purring, arms of nothingness lifting the feline. The animal was deposited on the ground. The purring stopped. The cat glanced at Second with a you-are-not-interesting look, then leapt back into the chair, disregarding the fact that it was already filled...or not filled, whatever the true case of the manner. Retaking its previous position following an aggressive round of claws on cushion, the cat began to purr once more.
cats... unspoke the shape once more, a hint of a sigh tacked on the end. The matter of the feline was dismissed, or at least ignored. before you ask, you can call us joe. you are wondering why you are here. dont be shy. join us at the table.
Second stumbled forward as his alcove retracted all umbilicals and clamps on its own violation, then physically tipped forward. Even as he regained his balance, feet firmly on the (white) floor, he knew without looking that the alcove would be gone, vanished. He had read a sufficient number of the bad supernatural fiction and horror novels that were stashed within the dataspaces to understand the rules which were operating here. Still, Second could not resist a glance over his shoulder, the motion stiff due to the various implants which made for an inflexible spine. Yes, the alcove was gone. Attention returned to the tea table.
In the few seconds Second had been turned away, tea of a decidedly milkish color had been poured into both cups; and a crumpet rested daintily on the saucer which faced the drone. Opposite, the shape was sipping at its drink.
join us.
Second warily stepped forward, if only because there was nowhere else to go. He could have stood still or forged out in another direction, although he had the odd suspicion that whatever his decision, he would have ended up at the table, regardless.
"You are designated Joe. You will tell us why we are here and the location of the rest of our sub-collective."
no, no. dont be so formal. call us joe. A distinction was made between the two cases of joe and Joe. and so charming! your use of plurals, that is.
Second ignored the tea which steamed on the table before him, looking down at...joe. It was using plurals, despite the fact that there was obviously only one of it. Why should it be questioning his own use of plurals?
what an intriguing question! answered joe to Second's unvoiced thought. we are as much a singular being as you are. as to why you are here and the rest of your comrades, well get to that in a civilized time. do enjoy your biscuit. we imported them special for this occasion. jelly? A jar of (white) jelly appeared on the table, next to the teapot.
The crumpet, like the tea, was utterly disregarded. The response was as nonsensical and obtuse as the surrounding environment. "Where is the rest of our sub-collective? Why are we here? Answer. Resistance is futile." Second was at a loss of how to proceed if joe called his bluff...one could not assimilate, well, nothing.
The cat purred louder, then abruptly stopped. The white feline left its cushion for the table, jauntily heading for Second's serving. It arrived, sniffed tea and crumpet, tasted the nearby jelly, then promptly began to give itself a bath.
bad kitty. sorry about that. kitty has no manners.
The cat ignored the reprimand, continuing its clean-up and occasionally glaring at the shade as if daring it to do something about the self-bath. joe did not remove the cat, even as white hairs began to land in Second's tea.
well, we can see that you are not one for matters. very well. we can only expect so much from the uncivilized hoards on the other side of the Veil. Oddly, the word 'veil' was emphasized, even capitalized, whereas the rest of the sentence (or conversation) was not. you play andorian battlechess.
The statement had been exactly that, a statement. There was no question, just the fact, that Second played Andorian battlechess. Joe continued, not waiting for Second's acknowledgement, negative or positive, of the non-question.
we have watched the battlechess game on the other side of the Veil. it is very intriguing. we have played among ourself, but have not found it entirely satisfying. therefore, after examining the history-threads of the linear-reality-matrix from which battlechess originated, we decided we needed to play a native of the reality-matrix. you possess the faculties we desire. you will play battlechess with us.
are you a betting borg-being?
Second, trying to absorb the odd turn of phrases which were emanating from the tea-drinking joe, was caught by the change in conversational inertia. He answered with a variation of the standard Borg reply, "Borg do not bet."
are you sure? it would be a pity for us to dispose of you and your comrades. after all, the prize, should you win, is for all of you to be returned to your linear-reality-matrix at the juncture of history-threads from which you came.
"And if we lose or refuse to participate?" The cat paused its bath at the question and gave Second a long once-over before huffing a dismissive snort. It gave a paw one final lick, then rolled over and stuck its nose in the tea cup and began to lap the white liquid.
we will think of something, nonchalantly said joe. The threat of a threat was worse than the actual voicing of a threat. This was a being for which welching was not an option, should Second try to avoid a lost bet.
It was the classic damned if you do, damned if you don't scenario. Oddly, it felt right in place considering the surreal ambiance.
"We will participate."
excellent! by the way, the style of andorian battlechess we will be playing is what your history-thread-locus would term classic. An unhand was dramatically waved, and a holographic representation of a battlechess board appeared over the tea table. It was three-dimensional, as were all Andorian battlechess venues; and consisted of (Second swiftly counted) twelve layers, not including the surface. Each floor was 20 units by 20 units.
Further investigation of the unusually complex battlechess board was put on hold as thirty drone signatures impinged upon his awareness. It was not near the four thousand which was the totality of the Cube #347 compliment, but it was vastly better than the former singleness of being alone.
oh, and well also have observers.
Second was not focusing much on much beyond the flash of resumed internal conversation, but if he had been, he would have noted the (white) bleachers filled with joe-esk beings which suddenly appeared. The tea table was the center of a vast arena of cloaked-humanoid holes in reality. Amid the bleachers unfurled hand-painted signs of out of place bright colors, made even more vibrant for the otherwise white and unblack surroundings. The banners, appropriate for any number of sporting events which were not Andorian battlechess, sported grammatically awkward phrases such as 'we is the best' and 'joe bes number infinity.'
Of course, that would have been if Second had been paying attention. Which was just as well, as the cat had just hacked up a hairball onto Second's crumpet.
*****
Terran chess is alike Andorian battlechess in the same way an inbred lap dog is related to a wolf. There is a certain similarity, perhaps, about the ears; and a definite canine-ness to both. However, when it comes down to it, the wolf could snap up the lap dog for an appetizer.
Classic Andorian battlechess is played upon a three-dimensional grid. There are a minimum of four levels - one ground and three subterrarian - which the extent of each "floor" at least twelve units by twelve units. Larger grids were possible, with the battlechess board record a massive twenty-five levels, floors 100 units by 100 units. Within the board itself, each "unit" represented an element of the mother hive, the progenitor of the battlechess battleground. There were tunnels, storerooms, waste reclamation facilities, and so on. The units were interchangeable, so while certain popular configurations were "standard," it was equally possible for no two battlechess games be the same.
Originally, battlechess was reserved for the wealthy, primarily because Andorians believed on a full-scale approach to the game. Those of lesser stature served as pieces within a labyrinth board. Only the wealthy could afford to construct boards and to stable and train battlechess pieces. It was not until the advent of holographic projectors that the Andorian masses adopted battlechess as a game of the commons. It also helped that enthusiastic programmers had spent long hours ensuring artificial blood and gore (one of the attractions of battlechess) of virtual pieces was perfect.
At a minimum, an Andorian battlechess set consists of twenty pieces arranged as seven types: siege, pawn, barricade, knight, cleric, queen, and king. As with Terran chess, the goal is to capture the king. Unlike Terran chess, just because pieces happened to interact - pawn to knight - that was not to say that a specific outcome - pawn takes knight - occurred each time. Very much the opposite. The classic style was one of head-to-head combat (generally underground in the case of the pieces, but more than occasionally in the players' chamber following a duel challenge).
The armoring and arms of each piece varies; and variations in a given game can further determine the nature of the conflict. At the least, the surface level starts with a siege and three pawns. Underground are eight additional pawns, a king, a queen, and two each of the remaining "primary" types. Initial deployment locations and configurations are fluid, but the royals are required to begin in the royal chambers.
Most numerous are pawns. Pawns sport thin armor and only the most rudimentary of weapons in the form of crossbow, short sword, and dagger. Being a pawn is not conducive to a long life. Although pawns are the only piece allowed to be two to a chamber, they also tend to be so much fodder when placed against the major pieces. Historically, the most successful pawns - defined as those which lived more than one game - were those which scavenged additional weapons and armor from the slain.
Siege, although immensely strong and able to strike at a distance, are also extremely slow and regulated to the surface. The traditional siege is a ballista tipped with explosive-tipped javelins. The associated crew are similar to pawns, but are not allowed to abandon their equipment, a rule enforced with chains if necessary.
Barricades are modeled upon the mobile tunnel "plugs" of past inter-hive warfare. With thick armor, they are essentially unassailable from the front; and the ports allow engineers to fire crossbows at any frontal enemy. However, they tend to be slow and awkward, especially if located in a chamber instead of a tunnel, and are next to helpless if attacked from behind.
Knights are heavily armored and armed riders of vicious insectoid mounts. With lance and long sword, not to mention the mount itself, the knight is particularly fearsome to pawns. The knight is equally adept at tunnel and chamber work; and, if necessary, can be dismounted from his mount, although such a ploy is not often used. A pawn's only chance to remove a knight depends upon surprise, a crossbow, and lots of luck.
Clerics, other than traditionally beseeching the gods to look kindly upon the pieces of a battlechess set, are purveyors of large blunt objects which often sported pointy bits. A hammer is one example, followed by the ever popular mace-with-lots-of-spikes. While not considered as strong as a knight, clerics nonetheless are more than capable of wrecking havoc upon the battlechess board. Just don't tell one that his vestments look like a dress.
The queen is, to put it simply, a walking quisenart. Able to move quickly and to wield just about anything which comes to hand as a deadly weapon, from a paperclip to actual battle equipment, it is the queen that many pieces last see in their final moments.
Unlike the Terran king which has limited movement and tends to wait for capture from any piece, the Andorian battlechess version is not a pansy waiting to be killed. While classic rules mandated a king to remain within a certain unit radius from the royal chamber, that did not mean he had to be passive. More than one knight has made the mistake of victoriously charging into a room which supposedly contains the king, only to fall with a terminal case of lost head disease.
From the player's point of view, an order is given and the pieces obey. Simple enough, except personal playing style can range from a general "go there" to micromanaging of his or her chess pieces. The rules of Andorian battlechess are extremely...mutable, with the primary rule "if you cheat, don't get caught." Historically, over half of battlechess games end not with the capture of the king, but with players using the game as a chance to settle disputes with a good ol' fashioned face-to-face duel. The modern era of holographic battlechess, especially with the advent of players non-Andorian, has lowered player fatalities, but it is not unexpected for an annual 1% rate of player fighting to occur.
Among pieces, fatalities have decreased to near nil, holograms substituting for the stables of classic battlechess. The exception is the Xtreme Battlechess bracket, where elite from all walks of life meet to battle on vast boards constructed in the classic style.
Above all, Andorian battlechess is a very civilized game.
*****
{Where /are/ we?} demanded Captain. {And why am I chained to this primitive piece of equipment?} The visual feed from Captain included the dark, boxy outline of a barricade, positioned with the armor facing a tunnel entrance. A very large, very heavy chain ran from Captain's waist to the wheeled barricade, a precaution from the historic, pre-gunpowder time prior to battlechess when Andorian warmasters had to make sure their troops didn't abandon post. It was a tradition mirrored within the game, although the chain was usually ceremonial and not so obviously utilitarian. Hanging on hooks on the back side of the barricade were a pair of crossbows, several spare bowstrings, and many buckets of bolts. {And why do I have a helmet on my head?}
Captain's question was just one of thirty distinct thought streams, all directed at Second due to the fact that the latter was the only one /not/ surrounded by the dark confines of tunnel or chamber. 100 of 230, cast as a knight, was regarding his mount in suspicion; and Sensors, similarly thrust into the role of mounted crusader, absolutely refused to have anything to do with her steed. On the "surface" of the playing field, 84 of 310 tentatively touched a large handle on the side of the siege, only to watch the loaded ballista fire a large spear on a trajectory which narrowly missed 124 of 203, a surface pawn.
...hodgepodge, or random starting locations, said joe as the shade continued a line of nonwords to which Second had not be paying attention. In response, the pieces on holographic battlechess board flashed, twice each side, showing the scattered distribution throughout the play volume. Hodgepodge was an unusual starting configuration, both teams scattered all over the board, except for the surface units and the royals in their chamber.
Second immediately noticed one pawn deep in enemy territory, situated just two units from the royal chamber.
{Sorry, 22 of 422,} dryly noted Second to the aforementioned drone, {I foresee a /very/ short game for you.} His response was a wordless question sheathed under a layer of confusion.
are you ready to begin? asked joe.
"We require a moment to..." started Second. He stopped and looked down at the cat, which was on its haunches playfully batting at an arm hose assembly.
sorry. you are not allowed to plan strategy with your cohorts. we would not gain a better understanding on how you, as a linear-organic-being, functioned under these circumstances. we wish to play you, not a gestalt-being which includes you. the information flow will be one-way from the pieces to you, except when instructions are required to be relayed and those instructions will be verbal-equivalents only. the pieces will be unable to communicate with each other.
At once, the babble of confusion flowing to Second rose in volume. The "pieces," as joe stylized the thirty members of Cube #347 (including all hierarchy heads), had been severed once more from each other; and while Second continued to perceive queries and sensory data, any attempt to direct a connection to any one designation resulted in an unpleasant "sliding," as if his mind were slamming up against a block of ice.
are you ready to begin? asked joe a second time.
Second pushed the cat away. The animal backed to the center of the table, glared at the drone, then jumped to the floor. It followed its performance by leaping back to the chair otherwise occupied by joe to begin a lengthy, leg-lifting, fur-scrubbing grooming.
"We are ready," spoke Second.
good. you have the first move.
The holograph of the battlechess board simply showed the co-occupation of two pieces on the same square, both flashing as an indication of combat. It was a sanitary representation of the visual feed Second was receiving from 22 of 422, an ill-lit chamber currently filled with the battering ram force of a Andorian-form cleric wielding a mace-with-lots-of-spiked-bits. 22 of 422, dressed in the flimsy armor of a pawn and clueless on how to operate such an archaic weapon as a sword, was not doing well. In fact, to describe the action as a slaughter would not be far from the truth. Up until this point, both Second and joe had been maneuvering their primary pieces into a semblance of strategic tactical structure; and Second knew that the pawn, located as it was, would eventually be terminated, and so had not bothered to waste a move on it.
{Try to lift you sword just a bit to the right and angle the pointed bit...oh, and watch your head. No, don't switch out of visual, you know the Andorian only registers on visual,} drove Second from the backseat far, far away. 22 of 422 was completely ignoring the backup consensus monitor and facilitator, too busy with her own struggles. {I told you not to change to a non-visual frequency range. The Andorian is a hologram, or something similar.}
All Borg are armored to a greater or lesser degree, possess redundant systems, and are generally rebuilt tough. However, even a Borg has a tendency to, well, die if swatted about the head and shoulders with a heavy spiked mace one too many times. As a pawn which did not know how to finesse a sword as more than an unwieldy club, 22 of 422 was doomed to failure. Second's final visual stream from 22 of 422 was that of a mace rapidly zooming inward to Extremely Extreme Close-up.
On the holographic battlechess board, Second's piece flashed a final time, then disappeared. The crowd of joe entities enthusiastically cheered and waved their gaudy signs in a manner entirely unlike the standard battlechess spectator.
your turn, sanguidly said joe. The white cat had finished its bath sometime ago and was now snoozing, eyes closed and front feet tucked under its body, on the chair cushion.
"Is 22 of 422 terminated?" asked Second. Classic battlechess, due to its nature, tended to have a lot of turn-over among the pieces, which was the primary reason once upon a time only the very rich could afford to play. The constant training of new pieces until they could earn their keep was very expensive.
termination. we have heard of this concept. describe.
Second blinked. Assuming he won, there was a very large chance one (or all) of the hierarchy heads would be killed; and when the members of Cube #347 were returned to their 'linear-reality-matrix,' confusion would be great until new drones were designated to fill the empty spots. In the case of Weapons, the loss might actually raise overall efficiency. However, if Captain were terminated...that would mean /Second/ would be primary consensus monitor and facilitator. Might as well throw the game than allow that consequence to occur!
"Termination is the cessation of all body and mental functioning," replied Second as he contemplated his next move. Weapons, a pawn, was in a very good position to be sent against a knight calculated to become a threat in ten or so moves. Of course, the likely outcome still had the knight a threat in ten or so moves.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
joe was silent a long minute, before countering, why not just restart body and mental functions? the individual cells of you linear-organic-beings continue to function, after all. we have made studies upon this subject, when we have not been playing andorian battlechess. The type of "study" necessary for such an investigation was not elaborated upon.
"It does not work that way. Terminated is terminated, even for a Borg. Except in a few, specific cases. Look up a creature called Luplup, if you get the chance," said Second, referring to a certain Borgified vyst for whom the individual self of the greater whole was able to be puppeted, even after body death. "Pawn Seven to Knight Two."
{Weapons, leave through the tunnel on your right, go straight, and attack the first thing you see. It will be a big bugger of an Andorian on a large insectoid steed,} relayed Second to Weapons.
Grumbled Weapons as he shifted to regard the egress in question, {About time you did something. I would have won this game long ago.} The head of the weapons hierarchy shifted into the shuffling trot which was a Borg charge. Unlike most of the other pawns, Weapons knew how to use a sword: he kept knowledge of a large number of primitive weapons in on-board memory files.
The crowd oohed at Second's daring move.
interesting, commented joe, if insensible and chaotic. Too bad the shade didn't know Second's strategy was a complete and utter /lack/ of strategy.
Weapons used the jousting pole in an entirely unorthodox and seemingly impossible manner. The opposing pawn had no chance, impalement the only option. The fact that Weapons was much more heavily armed and armored than the enemy pawn was not relevant, a knight's kit (minus the mount) having largely replaced the starting package of thin tin and short sword. Weapons was following in the hallowed classic battlechess tradition of pilfering from the dead. Second had not prompted Weapons to do so; and was not going to interfere.
Even if it meant Weapons continued to survive.
Anyway, the success of that particular pawn did not seem to sit well with joe. Many of the things Second had done were not sitting well with joe.
For instance, there was the siege incident. Siege and surface pawns were generally neglected, even by battlechess masters. After all, most of the action happened on the subterrarian floors. However, using a combination of innate Borg skill to judge trajectories and a bit of unBorg luck, Second's siege had incapacitated joe's siege with a single ballista javelin. Several moves later, joe's surface pawns were also kaput, and the siege had switched to hammering joe's surface exits with a potent mixture of fire-based munitions. Currently, the sub-floor 1 units adjacent the surface exits were unable to be used; and Second's surface pawns had descended below ground to replenish those pawns already terminated.
Such was not to say that everything had been going Second's way...
joe stared at the holographic representation of the board, as best could be determined by a being which was little more than a dark shape interposed on a white background. The remains of a teacup littered the table, a casualty from the beginning of Second's surface bombardments. A second teacup was now in unhand, but it was beginning to show minute cracks of eggshell delicacy along its surface. The pawn under attack by Weapons was terminated, and thus it was joe's turn.
From the bleachers came both words of encouragement and suggestion. The latter were rather graphic, not to mention unconducive to Second's continued wholeness.
let us see how the insect-borg-being does against my queen, said joe with more than a sneer in its voice. On the board, the representation of the queen moved forth from the royal chambers, aimed directly at Sensors.
{Sensors...you may have a wee bit of difficulty coming your way,} informed Second to the Sensors, soon to be ex-head of the sensory hierarchy.
{All you have to do is aim and pull the trigger,} spoke an ever-helpful Second to Captain. Captain's point of view largely consisted of several small slits bound by metal. The environment in which the joe entities had built the battlechess board did not allow for most Borg optical enhancements to work. In other words, a drone could only rely on the parameters of his or her natural senses to peer through darkness punctuated by the occasional globe of Andorian glow fungus. The myriad of "trick walls" and "trap doors" which linked space units were unperceivable.
Captain was blatantly unhappy, or as unhappy as programming allowed a Borg drone. {Aim and pull the trigger. That isn't easy when you are chained to a large, metal object that doesn't roll very well, despite the fact that it sports somewhat squarish appendages that are supposed to be wheels. You should either send another drone to my location or visa-versa. If we were in physical contact, we could communicate with each other and combine our mental resources.}
Second disagreed, eyes narrowed as he regarded the flashing icon which represented joe's remaining knight as it approached Captain's position. The path was unclear as of yet; and the final choice of approach could make a large difference in the outcome.
{That would not be wise for my, um, strategy. Clumping battlechess pieces is rarely prudent. You have played Andorian battlechess and know this.}
{I have no datastream from you other than verbal input, but I doubt you have any long-range tactics. Your strategy is to play on the fly, a fluid status quo until the opponent makes a mistake. Any mistake.} Second did not respond to Captain's analysis, chiefly because it was true. {Of course, sometimes the initial pawn move is a mistake. As to the other matter, Borg do not do well singly...whoops. I keep on forgetting to set the safety.} A bolt lodged in the roof over Captain's position. Several small clods of earth, knocked free, fell to the floor.
{And when has being One as a four thousand strong sub-collective ever really helped us?} inquired Second with more than a trace of irony. The enemy icon neared, pausing at the vital decision point.
Captain reset the crossbow string and seated another bolt. {True. However, at least /I'm/ not the one making the decisions right now. It feels...good... not to have consensus monitor and facilitator priorities. If I may dare say, a vacation.}
The icon began moving again, along the wrong path, from Second's point of view. And it gained speed. {Damn. You need to turn around the barricade unless you want your vacation to be permanent. Now. The knight will attack from your rear. The trap to the floor above you is located approximately twenty meters to your current back.}
In the visual stream, Captain put his shoulder to one side of the barricade and slowly (too slowly) pivoted it to face the opposite direction. During the reversal, Second watched as joe's knight icon drew near. It finally halted at a location which seemed to place it less than three meters from Captain, and on the same game level.
{Where is it?} demanded Captain.
Additional dirt sifted from the ceiling, followed by a tendril of saliva which had nothing to do with the previously misfired crossbow bolt.
Captain tilted his head back. {Oh. The mounts can walk on the ceiling; and the knights have seatbelts.}
Second winced as his barricade representation disappeared from the holographic board.
Half a white feline head - silted eyes and pricked ears - appeared opposite Second. After a lazy yawn and only the merest glance at the floating battlechess representation, the cat disappeared again, returning to its nap on the cushion co-inhabited with joe.
how did you do that? asked joe, small spoon to stir milk hovering over tea cup. For an omniscient being (at least as far as Second was concerned), the shade could be rather blind when it came to battlechess.
"It was a allowed move," explained Second. Allowed, true, but highly unconventional and not oft used. Clerics in classic Andorian battlechess matches tended towards the burly end of the scale, all muscle and wide shoulders, so as to better swing a mace. Doctor was none of the above, and as such, could easily fit in the garbage disposal chute which linked sub-floor 2 with sub-floor 7.
Barricades were rather easy to take out, as long as one attacked from behind (or above).
joe had neglected the barricade in question, the initial randomization placing the piece at the mouth of a garbage chamber, far from action. Due to the slow movement rate of a barricade, joe had abandoned it, focusing turns upon stronger and more mobile pieces. Too bad for joe that the chute just happened to end in that particular chamber. Even allowing the time required for Doctor to refocus after his tumbling ride and bring his badly wielded (and overlarge) mace to bear, the barricade had still fallen.
joe did not respond to Second's words.
The spoon was placed carefully on the tablecloth, bent about its middle.
Second was winning. Most of the reason for Second's impending victory resided with Weapons. A virtual clanking armory, any piece sent against Weapons was terminated. Weapons had not come through unscathed, but little things such as a damaged eye or leg or crossbow bolt through the abdomen were minor obstacles to the drone. joe kept a large space between its pieces and the rabid pawn.
There had been set-backs for Second: most of his pawns (other than Weapons) were gone, as were both knights, a barricade, and a cleric. The push by joe had been strong at times, and the shade was quick to take advantage of any opening, no matter how small. However, the entity seemed to play as a computer does: carefully considering all possibilities and selecting that with the least risk and greatest gain. Second played a similar game, but he was also willing, by dint of assimilation imperfection and base personality, to take high risk gambles; and his Borg instincts ever pushed to sacrifice pieces for the gain of the whole.
In all, Second was playing a less conservative game, with the result he was approaching a position in which victory was inevitable.
"Your turn," said Second, not bothering to consider the trace of nonBorg smugness from his voice. He had advanced Weapons forward a tunnel segment to threaten the royal chamber; and his queen, Assimilation, was a short ways behind, sighing depressive despondency. The king would fall in five moves.
joe was still, silent. Its posture was mirrored by the crowd, banners sagging as individuals murmured to each other. From joe's side of the tea table came the muted sound of unseen fingers tapping on the tabletop in deep, and futile, contemplation.
"Are you going to move? Or do you yield to us?"
don't rush us, spat joe. there is no time limit between moves in this game.
"That may be, but waiting a millennium or two will not erase my, er, our imminent win. Yield."
there may be a way out of this. we are consulting the history-threads for similar situations, and this requires duration.
Second shrugged, then allowed his attention to wander the overly white chamber. The cat provided little diversion as it continued to quietly snooze on joe's chair, only occasionally flicking an ear or twitching a whisker.
now we have you. we will win.
Second abruptly returned focus upon the board, multithreading the remaining visuals flowing from the drones still functional. The most relevant optic-stream was that from 227 of 480, a pawn lurking just beyond the forward straight-line move radius of an enemy barricade. The barricade had...altered. Instead of the pointed profile of a crossbow poking through one of the armored barricade's arrow slits, the snub-nosed muzzle of a high-powered phaser was visible. And a phaser didn't have a straight-line move radius...
There was a flash of bright light. 227 of 480's visual feed abruptly ceased.
Protested Second, "Post-gunpowder weapons are not allowed in classic battlechess!"
joe leaned back in its chair. says who?
"The rules! Rule #41 of the Unabridged Guide to All Things Andorian Battlechess expressedly forbids post-gunpowder weaponry!"
and what are you going to do about it?
Second glared at joe. The truth was, he could do very little about joe's substitution of phaser for crossbow...and presumably high-tech armaments for all other weapons as well.
The reason of Second's impotence was rooted in the primary rule of battlechess, the rule which overrode all others no matter what canon was utilized. The Prime Rule regarded cheating. Cheating in battlechess was allowable, as long as the cheater was not caught and/or the cheatee was unable to do anything about it. joe was not hiding its actions, but Second could not counter. If joe had been anything except the noncorporeal, nonlinear shade it was, Second /could/ have invoked a duel. As it was, that option was nonviable as well.
now it is time for us to move.
"You already had a move! What do you call that pile of ash which was a pawn?" demanded Second, waving at the board hologram.
joe sipped its tea. we never moved. technically. the barricade has remained in the same position. check the precedent whereas in the third grand-champion-master game during the rule of shazaaazz the flatulent, one pawn was killed by the crossbow of another whereupon neither pawn had moved. it was ruled that no move had actually been taken. such applies in this case.
Second internally fumed, although he did not show it beyond the merest fisting of his whole hand.
we think we will advance our queen upon that annoying pawn of yours. not even that pawn can survive repeated barrages of high-intensity phaser fire.
Second allowed himself a visible sigh as the siege exploded under the assault of high-explosive mortars. Bits of metal and wood and rope flew high in the vision of 84 of 310, the single surviving siege pawn who had managed to cut herself free from the machine at the last moment. There had been absolutely no reason for joe to detour on its march to Second's royal chamber and victory, except for pure revenge.
What was it about these omnipotent types and their thirst for revenge upon those insignificant beings who had as much chance to resist as a snowball in a bonfire?
From joe came the sense of smiling, of satisfaction. As the shade stood, the boisterous crowd similarly came to their feet (or whatever functioned thereof under the cowled robes). Bright banners with their nonsensical phrases were waved; and an airhorn trumpeted, momentarily overwhelming the crowd noise. At the tea table, joe monogamously waved an unhand.
you have been a worthy opponent. however, you have lost the game, and the bet. it has therefore been decided that you and the other linear-borg-entities will join our ongoing experiments examining the effects of temporal dislocation and temporal disynergy on different body parts while those parts are still in attachment with the host base-entity. the concepts of pain and death are the focus in this non-linear temporal period. your kind, different from other organic linear entities, should allow a comparison...
joe did not just trail off, but froze, unarm still outstretched. The crowd had abruptly stopped in mid-cheer; and Second's gaze over the bleachers showed the assembly to be halted in mid-pose...and in one case, mid-fall from being jostled off a top tier. One banner had apparently caught on fire, and the odd whitish flames were caught frozen with the crystal clarity of a photograph. Even the steam rising from the ever-warm tea pot was motionless. Only Second remained mobile.
"What now?" asked Second aloud.
With a thump, the cat jumped onto the table and stalked to the exact center. It sat primly amid crumpets, crumbs, teacup shards, butter, and silverware, white tail curled around its feet. A forepaw was lifted to mouth, licked, then smoothly applied to ears for a face scrub.
Second peered at the cat. "I see you are still able to move. Should have figured." He considered tossing a butter knife at joe, if only to see what might happen, but stifled the impulse. "Well, it was fun while it lasted. At least I won't have to be secondary, or primary, consensus monitor and facilitator."
Lick. Face scrub. Ear flick. "If you think that, you would be wrong." Lick. Lick. Nibble on a claw to remove a non-existent dirt speck.
The voice was calm and pleasant, one which might be expected to emanate from a cat, should a cat ever speak. Well, which might be expected should food or elements of string and toy mice not be involved. Second was not overly surprised. In his long existence as a Borg, and especially as one branded imperfectly assimilated, he had seen many odd things. A talking cat rated 4 (maybe) on a scale of 1 to 10.
"Okay. I should have provided more weight to the probability calculation of this outcome. Provide your designation: Q? One of those eyeballs or lips? Another piece of anatomy? A noncorporeal super-being which enjoys taking a feline form? All of the above?"
The cat stopped its mini-wash, piercing Second with a direct, uncatlike gaze. "None of the above." Ears and whiskers flicked as if warding off an offending fly. "Just a cat, born and bred, thank-you-very-much. Oh, I had a run-in with a practical joker in my youth, but other than that, a genetic scan would very much place me as felis sylvestris catus." Pause. Resumption of face-scrub, interrupted by the occasional lick of tail tip. "You did know Terran cats are actually hyperbeings for whom the feline form is just a physical manifestation of the whole...the 'tip of the iceberg' you could say?" Longer pause as a knot in tail fur was worked out. "Or, maybe, I'm just a cat with really bad luck when a Q came to visit." Lick. Ear scrub.
The cat had a perfect poker face. Second could not determine which, if any, of the convoluted explanations was the truth and which were bald-faced lies. Satisfied with its grooming, the cat resumed its position of sitting with tail wrapped around feet.
Second asked the cat, "What is the fate of my sub-collective and myself, now? Are we still to undergo the temporal experiments joe alluded to?"
Dropping its jaw into a sharp-toothed smile, the cat huffed in the feline version of a chuckle. "I am trying to train these beings, and that might not be in my best interest. They get /so/ easily distracted, picking up and playing with /every/ little thing that catches their attention. Linear temporal beings are the worst. I don't really want to have to deal with you, so think of it as me picking up what the cat has drug in and tossing it back out the door." The cat was obviously tickled at using the analogy. Its tail tip lazily waved back and forth.
"Then you..." Second started another inquiry, but was unable to complete it. The impossible whiteness of the non-room was gone, as were cat and shades and banners, replaced by impenetrable black.
"Yes," breathed the voice of the cat.
{...and that is why all drones should be loaded with a meme package which includes knowledge of primitive edged and non-edged weaponry. Furthermore, all drones, regardless of hierarchy designation, should be required to practice those skills at least four hours per wake cycle...}
{Denied,} said Captain to Weapons.
{Three hours, thirty minutes per wake cycle,} countered Weapons.
Answered Captain, {Denied.}
{Three hours, fifteen minutes.}
{The entire proposal is denied, Weapons. You may so require your hierarchy, but I will not inflict such a directive on the whole of this sub-collective. The other hierarchies - other than assimilation, that is - have full duty rosters per wake cycle and cannot set aside large blocks of time to play with archaic weapons.}
Second, in his alcove, reveled in the knowledge that he had once again escaped being primary consensus monitor and facilitator. 4 of 8 was better suited for the role. Heck, any of the Hierarchy of Eight (except him) were better suited for the role, in Second's estimation. Backup consensus monitor and facilitator still had responsibilities above that of normal command and control unit, but not on the scale of the primary.
The cat (or whatever it was) had returned the intact sub-collective to its starting point. Second's internal chronometer had been a bit off from that of the Collective whole, and his alcove had been angled a bit oddly, but one supposed that even a hyperbeing in the form of a cat (or a cat at the unhealthy end of a Q prank) could not be expected to get all the details correct. Which triggered a reminder...
Directed Second to Doctor, {You have not 'adopted' any pets recently? Specifically, a cat?}
Doctor, who had been in the middle of an exacting neural procedure, paused. With laser scalpel poised only microns from a vital ganglion cluster in 2 of 79's head, he answered, {Um, a cat?}
{A cat.} Second provided the image of a white feline in an indecorous position cleaning itself.
{How cuuute!} The adjective was stretched over-long, followed by a sigh. {No, no cats.}
Second probed Doctor's mental presence, but could not find signs of outright lie. There was deception present, probably resulting from the illicit hoarding of an animal, but no hidden cat. Second allowed Doctor to return to the surgery.
{De-nied, Weapons. What part of "no" do you not understand? If you can convince Assimilation of your proposal, fine. Otherwise, drop it.} Captain waited a long beat for a response. As Weapons' signature backed off, he turned attention to the next pressing problem.
Second pinged Captain.
{What? The cube is off-course, we are behind schedule, and Weapons wants to turn all units of this sub-collective into tactical drones, regardless of the consequences.}
{What else is new? Perhaps you'd fancy yourself a little game of Andorian battlechess...?}
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