Paramount owns, owns, owns, owns Star Trek.
Decker created, created, created, created Star Traks.
Meneks writes, writes, writes, writes BorgSpace.
It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Galaxy
{Five points for me!} asserted 71 of 230 as his personal dataspace score card was credited the appropriate amount.
Protested 201 of 230, {Staples are worth less than nails, especially when lodged in rump armor.}
{I've the Staple-ator. That was /fifty/ staples in fifteen seconds in your buttock. Five points for me,} replied 71 of 230, {and if you don't agree, well, you'll just have to catch me, you and your pitiful "Nail Gun League."}
Inserted 55 of 310, {I've a brad shooter, and I'm not afraid to use it.}
201 of 230 was not daunted, {We've a special gift for you, 71 of 230, if you dare show yourself near us again: compression power.}
{A vacuum cleaner on reverse, plugged into a nail gun? Don't make me laugh. Hey! Who did that?}
55 of 310 smugly added three points to her score card for her perfect brad bull's-eye in the middle of 71 of 230's forehead. {I said I'd a brad shooter and was not afraid to use it.}
Captain checked the location of the mobile nail/staple/brad/spitwad/whatever shooting game. It had started among a trio of bored engineering drones, but was slowly snowballing as misaimed projectiles induced additional units to join. Thus far he had halted it several times, but each time the game had resurrected itself, larger and more complicated than before. It was once again hovering on the threshold of necessary corrective action.
"Will you stop that?" said Captain to Second. They were in Captain's nodal intersection, and next to corridor 26 the latter was waiting in ambush, staple gun held at the ready. A trio of nails were embedded in Second's right thigh. "A command and control drone, especially one of the Hierarchy of Eight, should not act like you are behaving. You only encourage them."
Second balefully glanced over at Captain. "I was nailed. This is how a command and control drone acts when he is nailed. Quiet. Members of the Staple Posse are heading in this direction."
Cube #347 was on a straight-line trajectory through space. The target yellow dwarf remained five cycles away, even at hypertranswarp; and no obstacles, anomalies, or pissed off war fleets were in immediate evidence to focus the sub-collective. Therefore, as usual, individuals were pulling their own way, worse than normal due to lack of a vinculum, lowering efficiency in the meantime. Second's behavior was not helping.
A ping from the sensory hierarchy elicited command and control's attention. Captain accepted the datastream, expanding it. A rogue transmission, exact location indeterminate, was whispering from somewhere within the underhull space of face #3. The sensory hierarchy could not be more exact, the underhull areas lacking the correct sensor type and positioning for pinpoint accuracy. The transmission appeared to be simple location beeps, low-powered and lacking data content, the pulse occasionally intense, but mostly erratic.
{Spitwad Brigade, attack!} yelled 166 of 240. The target, 201 of 230, went down under a hail of semi-wet paperwads. Several were as large as a clenched fist; and 201 of 230 was in danger of becoming living paper mache. A massive thirty points were added to 166 of 240's team scorecard.
Captain called, {Enough! This activity is cancelled! Delta: select designations to find the rogue transmission; and coordinate with Sensors to include units with the appropriate sensor suites. Everyone else...return to your alcove or your normal activity.} Captain monitored as teams disbanded (for now) and tools were shelved. "This means you, too, Second."
Second muttered, "What use is being the secondary consensus monitor and facilitator if one has to obey the rules?" The answer to his rhetorical question was a wordless stare. "Fine, fine. What were we doing?"
"/We/ were performing our duties. /We/, along with the rest of the Hierarchy of Eight, were contemplating possible candidates to replace 8 of 8."
"Oh, yes," said Second. His carpentry weapon of mass destruction vanished in a transporter beam. "Let's reboot after a new 8 of 8 is assigned, and ensure that unit is next in the primary consensus monitor and facilitator cycle."
"There is the danger /you/ would serve as Second again, not to mention your position in the Captain chain would be advanced much more quickly than otherwise if 6 of 8 and 7 of 8 were skipped," reminded Captain.
Second was silent. {I see what you did, 6 of 8 and 7 of 8...stay out of my thought processes.}
*****
Pak loomed at the center of his digital web like a bloated spider, loving every minute of it. The credits were rolling in: his eventual donation to the Transcendence Fund would surely garner him recognition, if not his name scribed on the Contribution Asteroid which recorded for posterity those who had most advanced the Cause on an annual basis. It was a coveted award. But first...
"I'd like to put two credits on the cube," said the voice of a young girl, human, chin barely clearing the betting counter. Two pieces of wadded paper were thrust forward.
Pak took remote control of the spidermech, one of several manning the booth for those who preferred physical laying down of credits as opposed to the remote betting which was more typical in this sort of contest. "The odds on the cube are very long. Aren't you a bit young, anyway?"
The girl's face scrunched up as her lip was thrust out in a pout. "My mommy said I could. It is /my/ two credits. What do you care?"
If Pak had possessed shoulders, he would have shrugged them. However, he did not, so the action was not possible. "Actually, I don't care at all." Pak released the lock on the spidermech, returning it to its automated duties. It swept away the money, giving the girl a betting chit in return. "There you go."
The girl smiled. "Thank you!" She skipped happily away, golden braid thumping against her back.
The young human was an anomaly. Pak was content to allow his spidermechs to handle physical money; and online transactions and setting odds were supervised by the passel of younger Xenig he had recruited. Such a golden opportunity!
As far as Pak could conclude, the galaxy's organic population was becoming mentally unbalanced. It was a sentiment most Xenig shared. Many individuals and groups had become fascinated with used warp nacelles, hoarding them because (as far as Xenig could determine) rivals were doing likewise. It was nonsensical, but then again, organics with their squishy, carbon-based brains could be silly that way. One particular Borg cube that had dropped out of the Collective's ken - Exploratory-class Cube #347 - had become a Holy Grail, the used warp nacelles it carried in its cargo holds somehow better than all the rest.
Seizing the opportunity, Pak had organized a grand game, one which centered around capture of Cube #347. Any interested party who could afford the entrance fee was allowed one chase vessel, that number enforced by Xenig referee-observers. Once all was ready, the chasers would be provided a decryption algorithm to allow access to a large constellation of subspace buoys of Xenig manufacture. Those buoys, in turn, were listening for a locator beacon which had been carefully smuggled onto the cube in question.
Chaser fees, although extravagant, were an insignificant percentage of the credits Pak hoped to garner. Most important was the betting aspect, always shifting odds provided for any number of possible events, from Cube #347 escaping entirely (exceedingly long) to which participant would not make it five meters past the start line. Heavy advertisement ensured that the civilized galaxy was watching closely. Part of the Green entrance fee had been waived in return for temporary facilities at the Green mega-casino and resort Infinity.
Infinity was the locale around which the Great Chase revolved. Resembling a miniature unimatrix, the celebrated casino-resort was busier than any Borg structure of similar size, thousands of visitors coming and going at all hours. Pak's chassis - a standard GPS dart configuration forty meters in length - was moored in long-term parking, a relatively quiet volume as most would-be winners rarely stayed more than a couple of days; and those who remained longer tended to not have any further use for personal transportation.
"Attention! Attention! The Great Chase will start in five minutes!" Pak broadcast the warning through casino speakers, as well as all GalNet betting parlors. The locator transmission had activated; and it was time to begin. How exciting! The pace of betting picked up as certain categories would be shuttered once the game began.
Well distant from Infinity, transported there by Xenig towships, impatiently waited the chasers. Both the Second Federation entry and the Green cube were heavily favored, although a Battle-class from late-comer #66CC33 was surprising for its high rank on the odds board. Peach was a dark horse, the Color small but potentially formidable; and the Ferengi, well, everybody knew how devious Ferengi could be. Thirteen additional entries were present, but they were unimportant except as race fodder, and the bettors knew it.
Pak had a dronemech on site at the start line, allowing for direct observation. It made him feel a bit on the schizophrenic side, but the split would only be for a couple of days, at most. The Xenig referee-observers were ready, as were the media correspondents and hoards of external and internal camera feeds which would provide round-the-clock race coverage to bettors. The non-betting audience could subscribe, for a minimal fee.
"Participants, start your engines," transmitted Pak to the chasers. Energy spikes indicated the eighteen participants were more than ready to go. "Algorithm release in five...four...three...two...one...you have buoy access. Good luck."
Seventeen vessels vanished into transwarp or hypertranswarp, depending upon engine ability or strategy. Referees and media followed. The last entry, a Pakled transport, was a crippled wreck, pre-emptive strike by the Green cube as it passed knocking the rival out of contention. While some bets were paid out, the majority of credits riding on starting line events were taken in by House Pak.
*****
The underhull, a cramped volume between inner hull and the deep ablative armor, was not the most favorite of places for a Borg. Eight meters between "floor" and "ceiling" may seem like a lot of room, but those eight meters were a maze of criss-crossing spars which were the components of the internal shock-scaffolding system. To make matters worse, gravity was not a constant, strength and direction dependant upon complex interactions of the system proper within adjacent hull corridors and hallways.
Teams of engineering drones paired with sensory units were slowly crawling, pushing, occasionally falling, but otherwise maneuvering themselves through the sparwork. As they did so, they searched for the origination of the rogue transmission. Unfortunately, odd sensor echoes were making location difficult, and the hunt was largely a visual hide-and-seek for an object which could be any size, any shape.
{Have we found it?} asked 7 of 19 as she noticed several metallic twists of out-of-place wire strung between spars. The threadwork became increasingly dense as it converged unto a central nexus. She lifted her prosthetic arm and swept it over the flimsy wire for a metallurgic scan. {Aluminum? Braided lengths of aluminum foil?}
41 of 310 had passed his teammate, working his way to the center of what other nearby drones were reporting to be an extensive webwork. At the nexus resided a triV base from which two cables sprouted, one snaking to an adjacent power coupling and the other spliced into a sensor juncture box. 41 of 310 nudged the on-off button with his foot.
"...and that's the most recent news from the on-going battle at the Legos II Retirement Castle for Active Old People. On the lighter side of entertainment, the Great Chase has officially begun. Analysts believe that while the Great Chase may be the most heavily wagered event in recent centuries, it is unlikely to surpass the gambling volume seen during the historic Ultimate Jhadball Tournament MMDCXII between the Biblo Bloodletters and the Wazarzian Novas. From her location on the Second Federation starship Prometheus, reporter..."
The talking head (literally, as the species #8344 reading the news was mostly cranium) blossomed static, then turned into a pattern of white noise. "Hey!" exclaimed 41 of 310. "I was watching that!"
7 of 19 slashed an arm through the aluminum foil webbing. "If you could learn to focus on more than one thing at a time, you would know 78 of 240 had confessed to the triV. The antennae matrix is to be dismantled because it is fouling the sensory drones' searches."
"I can focus on more than one thing at a time," muttered 41 of 310 as he joined 7 of 19 in the task. An unusual scraping noise, like that of fingernails on slate, briefly caught his attention, but was dismissed as one more distraction. "I wonder what that Great Chase thing was about?"
*****
"Will someone remove her from my bridge? Now? That is an order!" shouted the SFS Prometheus captain to the GNN reporter's security escort. "By the Directors, this is supposed to be a prototype ship! I can't have images of the bridge shown all over the cosmos!"
"Too late," muttered a voice, sans body.
The GNN reporter, a female version of the popular Walter Cron clone, harrumphed, "What about freedom of the press?"
"You have all the freedom of the press you need down on C-deck and in the Star Bar. This is a /military/ ship, and by default I'm its dictator. Get her out of here...NOW!" The last word was bellowed. Security gathered her and her cameras, pushing everything into the turbolift. The doors closed, silencing the protest.
A melodious chuckle sounded from bridge speakers.
"Shut up, Io. And don't think I didn't hear that comment a moment ago," Captain Jim McCree said to the Prometheus' Personality. Jim felt a headache coming on, but it was just a normal stress headache, not like the ones he occasionally contracted during his Academy days. The few Betazoid genes in his otherwise human family tree were dormant, only emerging that once-upon-a-time as a raging migraine when a certain Klingon dormmate neighbor had been "entertaining" the ladies. While a quick trip to the infirmary would assuage the headache, it was worrisome that such stress was building only hours into the Great Chase.
"Sir, incoming message from #66CC33 Borg: 'Stop following us,'" called an ensign from communications.
Jim's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "But we are nowhere near that Color. Aren't they way off by themselves?"
"Yes, sir," was the answer.
"Well, ignore it, then. How are we doing?" The question was directed to navigation.
Lieutenant Cron (no relationship to the GNN reporter clones) indicated the main viewscreen. "The Xenig buoy system reports that the target is about fifty light years away, traveling at low hypertranswarp velocities on a general vector to...not very much. Most Great Chase transponders have all participants, including us, on an interception course. The Pakleds never made it off the starting line; and Peach seems to have disappeared. No clue what #66CC33 are doing."
"Tell engineering to squeeze more speed out of our hypertranswarp engines. We /are/ supposed to be a prototype, after all."
The sub-collective piloting Green Exploratory-class Cube $251 was becoming increasingly frustrated. The best cube money could buy for the Great Chase had been reduced to a third its top hypertranswarp speed, all because of the Orion entry.
Other than the no longer relevant Pakleds, the Orions were out-classed by all other Great Chase participants. The raider looked like something a small child might make out of construction paper. In form it was a stooping, four-winged vulture (if one squinted and had a good imagination), bow constricting forward of the wings to an undersized "head" where the bridge resided. Individual hull plates were visible, each a slightly different shade of red. Except for specialized weapons used in the Orion "cultural" pursuit of piracy, and now deployed to slow Cube $251, Green would have long dismissed the vessel from significance.
The wings of the Orion raider did not function as propulsion aids, and nor were they simply decorative, but instead were generators for the wake disruptor which flowed behind the ship like the bridal train. The subspace vortexes created by the wake disruptor, when used from ambush, collapsed the deflector field of a target and forced it to normal space, usually at a location with several waiting pirate compatriots. However, when employed continuously, as it was now, a "vacuum" of sorts was created behind the ship, within which other vessels could draft. Unfortunately, said drafters had extreme difficulty in leaving; and the quasi-vacuum could imprison even a small Borg/Color ship.
True, the involuntary capture had at least partially been the fault of the Cube $251 sub-collective, which had attempted to capitalize on an opportunity for threatening looming tactics. The cube had been pulled into the wake when the Orion crew had defensively deployed their weapon; and now the sub-collective was treated to the lovely view of the butt end of an Orion raider moving at top speed. A bumper sticker below the port plasma exhaust vent read "Have You Hugged Your Slave Girl Today?"
<<We are losing ground, as well as profits from bets we have placed upon ourselves,>> said the Green Greater Consciousness to its sub-collective. <<Go faster!>>
Cube $251 tried to lunge out of the wake disruptor vortex, only to fail. Again.
{Screw this,} said the Green consensus monitor and facilitator. The sub-collective was Green elite; and the cube was a thoroughbred compared to the plow nag it trailed. A transmission was directed at the Orion raider, multivoice function engaged, "Get out of our way, or else. This is your only warning. Feel lucky you even get a warning."
In Supply Closet #181, the GNN reporter assigned to the Green entry made a frantic subspace call to his opposite on the Orion ship, and at the same time urged his camerawrangler to keep the live action streaming to Headquarters.
A flash of green which was a rude gesture was the only reply to the Color's demand.
The sub-collective's response was immediate: conventional weapons may be problematic while embedded in subspace layers, and the cube may not be able to escape out of the wake, but nothing prevented Cube $251 from powering directly forward. Rotating an edge to the fore, the Green cube revved engines; and shortly the sundered remains of the Orion raider were tumbling away into the unreal quasi-dimensions of hypertranswarp, those bits which weren't entrenched in the cube's armor.
A second Walter Cron clone (with entourage of cameras and handler) materialized beside the first in the large supply closet Green had allowed the news organization. "Thank you for the warning. When the Xenig observer pulled out its submech, it took me along for the ride, then deposited me here. Think the Green GC will mind?"
Walter Cron clone #1 shrugged. His voice, when he answered, was exactly the same as #2. "Not really. Say, as long as you are here, why don't you start a retrospective on the Orion entry; and then maybe you can get a drone or three to fill you in on Green tactics for the Great Chase."
"Just what I was thinking," said Walter Cron clone #2.
The #66CC33 Captain, 7 of 10, of Battle-class Cube #1 was in his alcove, but he was not in regeneration, instead observing (and directing) unfolding events. At the behest of GODly directions, the sub-collective had sped in a direction different from the rest of the Great Chase, confident their AI would accurately foretell interception. Indeed, as the other contestants attempted a mad sprint, the target had abruptly changed direction, spinning through a series of odd course changes that was not quite zig and not quite zag; and now Cube #347 would shortly enter #66CC33's striking range.
Unlike the other Color participants, #66CC33 had fielded a Battle-class vessel, not a faster Exploratory-class. Then again, the mere capture of Cube #347 for used warp nacelles was not the Color's primary reason for entering the Great Chase. With GOD on their side, the Color meant to destroy the imperfect sub-collective and, most importantly, the anti-Perfection code designated DEVIL which resided in its digital spaces.
For mayhem and destruction, a Battle-class cube was best. Besides, the Color didn't /have/ any Exploratory-classes.
::Probability wave estimated to collapse in our favor in two hours,:: whispered GOD in a general, intranet-wide announcement.
Then something hit the cube, eliciting a groan of protest from superstructure support spars. The embedded surface grid on the currently leading face went off-line; and deeper sensors registered static or spat grossly distorted output. The condition was slowly leaking - the only appropriate word - around the edges of the cube, affecting additional quadrants of the sensor grid. Alarms screamed of breaches, neutronium hull armor cracked and an unidentified substance seeping into deeper hull layers.
Hypertranswarp engines shuddered, threatened to disengage.
Cube #1 needed to slow down. Captain sunk himself deeper into the local dataspaces, weaving the sub-collective into a Whole, which in turn was supported by the Greater Consciousness. The {What the hell was that?} question would come later, after survival was ensured. The opening of a transwarp conduit was dangerous, but less so than an emergency dive to normal space when engineering reports labeled such a maneuver in the cube's current condition as a very good way to end up as debris.
::Agreed,:: said GOD, its dataspace presence the suggestion of pulsating dark blue, ::the quantum concurs transwarp is the best for the nonce. Shift in three...two...one...mark.::
Captain was used to following the directive of GOD in such matters, the code's ability to foretell the future exquisitely accurate. Usually. Obviously some jitter in the AI's code had been blinded to the whatever it was the cube had hit, despite the fact that theory insisted there was nothing to run in to in hypertranswarp.
As Cube #1 skipped roughly into transwarp, brakes were applied, further decreasing velocities. The odd contagion continued to creep both along the sensor grid and into the hull structures, like a thick blob of gelatin enduring a too-fast ride on a windshield...or maybe a bug was the more appropriate allusion. The remaining sensory capacity tracked the shadow which was the Xenig referee-observer, as well as momentarily resolved the trace of Cube #347 before the target's much faster hypertranswarp speed sped it out of Cube #1's direct ken.
Captain transitioned Cube #1 into normal space, then brought the cube to a complete halt. Now it was time for the {What the hell hit us?} question. The initial tentative replies compiled by the command and control hierarchy did not entirely make sense, unless one wanted to believe that a blob of congealed star whale vomit had somehow wound up in the higher subspace layers.
{Why did you not foresee this outcome?} demanded Captain to the AI.
Replied GOD, ::You, plural, tasked me with discerning the fastest intercept course to the target and the rogue subset DEVIL. The quantum is inherently random, and even more so when that particular target is involved. Not even I - not yet, anyway - can foresee every minor rip current that may threaten to explode into a whirlpool.:: The AI almost sounded defensive, despite the fact that such could not be so. The instances of impossible pseudo-emotion had spiked since the DEVIL incident.
Captain mentally frowned, then sent a message to the Webmistress' inbox suggesting another examination of GOD's algorithms, especially those with the highest potential to be infected by self-will and sentience, might be in order. He did not notice as the message was quietly intercepted and summarily lost.
*****
Sensors contemplated the minor anomaly recorded by grid element #22.b and flagged by the partition monitoring and compiling that particular datastream. The routine scan of the lower subspace layers had reported (and still was) the presence of a transwarp wake: origination of Color manufacture, angling to intersect Cube #347. Before the occurrence was passed to command and control for notice, however, Sensors needed to determine if the blip was real or not.
The portion of cube face grid element #22.b was a part of had been demonstrating intermittent low-grade malfunctions since the Happyverse. It was not serious, and therefore ranked low on the engineering maintenance roster, but it did force Sensors to thoroughly vet incoming data from the associated grid elements lest an abnormality be erroneously reported as fact.
Sensors nudged a selection of code; and an extra trickle of energy was sent through the suspected problematic couplings and connectors. The process lent an unpleasant metallic twang to data from the grid elements (at least so Sensors experienced), but the waste heat also minutely expanded associated metals. Power was cycled several times; and then the datastream from the grid element sampled again.
Nothing. In her alcove, Sensors absently picked up and put down her right hind walking leg. The transwarp wake was gone. As expected. The head of the sensory hierarchy once again input the malfunction on the engineering maintenance roster, then returned her attention to the teams attempting to find the annoying rogue transmission.
*****
"I speak for the sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube $251 and we protest the number of Walter Cron clones which are being stored on this cube," said 19 of 2554, current Green Captain. He was speaking to Pob, the Xenig observer-referee who was shadowing the cube. "They and their individual entourages are overflowing from Supply Closet #181, disrupting our efficiency for this task."
"Surely on a vessel the size of yours you have a space that will accommodate a mere seven clones, their camera wranglers, and associated gear," replied Pob. As with most Xenig communications the datastream was audio-only. "Besides, Pak says we have to put them somewhere when their assignments are blown up under them."
Drones were actively avoiding the area near Supply Closet #181, unwilling to be assaulted by cameras and "What do you think of your chances now that <insert Great Chase participant> has <action of Great Chase participant>?" type questions. Even worse, forcefields were not containing the media, clones and cameras displaying the uncanny ability to escape their confinement in search of the Next Great Story.
"Why here?"
"Why not? And don't get any ideas about making them disappear. Your Color signed the contract, like everyone else, stating that you would not physically harm nor assimilate media representatives."
The Green Captain frowned. The Xenig could enforce their contract, too, so breaking it was out of the option, or so decided the Greater Consciousness. "We still protest."
"Protest away. Oh, by the way, another clone is incoming. Enjoy! Just think of the saturation media coverage your Color is receiving, your image beamed to trillions of potential customers." Pob closed the transmission.
19 of 2554 focused on a point on the catwalk beyond his alcove as a Xenig transporter (unknown technology, but able to shift objects very long distances) deposited a female Walter Cron clone. A microphone was immediately shoved in 19 of 2554's face, the clone not at all disconcerted over her scenery change. "What do you think of your chances now that the Orange cube has met with an unfortunate end after being swallowed whole by a previously unknown space-faring organism with a taste for refined metal?"
Fingers twitched as emergency censure programs set in place by the Green Greater Consciousness took effect. He would not strangle the clone. He would not strangle the clone. He would not strangle the clone....
"Daimon, are you sure that was wise?" asked a subordinate Ferengi of his superior.
Daimon Kazago grinned at his under-officer. It was not a nice smile. "You read the contract carefully, yes? Such things are still taught to youngsters, I hope?"
The other Ferengi flared his nostrils at the implied insult that he was less than a child, had attended an inferior school. "Of course Daimon, but..."
"Then you should have seen that nothing was mentioned about non-lethal chemical restraints regarding our media representative. We are only forbidden from killing or injuring the clone and his staff, not drugging them into a coma. Specifics are everything! They will be revived with nothing worse than a headache. Meanwhile, their broadcasts will neither give away our position nor overly influence our odds at the betting houses. After all, we have to maintain our long-shot status if we are to reap great profit when we snatch the prize from under the noses of the Colors, Second Federation, and others."
The under-officer looked at Daimon Kazago in awe. "I understand. I hope I can be as wickedly devious as you someday."
Kazago snorted in amusement at the presumption: given the lad's obvious mental deficiencies, he would need an awful large pile of latinum (which he did not possess) to buyout Kazago's fairly purchased commission.
The anomaly was not large, as such things went, a frothy cosmic confection of nebular gasses and strange gravitational fluxes. Depending upon axis measured, it was anywhere from fifty to two hundred light years side to side. The faint electromagnetic roar of several fetal stars echoed within the gasses, but scanners could not see through the anomaly's self-induced "fog" to pinpoint their locations. Due to gravimetric permutations which extended as far as the hypertranswarp layers of subspace, speed was limited to high warp, at best; and to go faster was to invite destruction as already confounded sensors were unable to react to obstacles and subspace vortices in time for avoidance. Unfortunately, according to the Xenig beacons, the target Borg cube was on the far side.
Going around was not a feasible option: it would take too long to thread the wisping projections that starcharts indicated were associated with the anomaly. And to go through...well, it was possible, and perhaps the best decision, except several Great Chase contestants were trying to enter the same small access at the same time.
The Prometheus dodged as a cutting beam sliced from the Green cube, nearly running into the Ferengi frigate. As the bioarmored corvette prototype returned fire with a spread of high-yield quantum-phasic torpedoes, the hulking #66CC33 Battle-class, one face looking as if it had been dipped in sickly yellow candle wax, stooped upon the lesser massed opponent of the Peach Exploratory-class. The energy-hungry Peach cloak was swapped for a more sensible shield to prevent additional damage from an onslaught of strange-matter bomblets.
In the middle of the row, oddly untouched, a small sloop from the decadent (and dying) Quorian Empire broadcast the sobs of its extremely frightened captain and crew. Amused Xenig referee-observers hovered on the outskirts, talking amongst themselves and quietly taking side-bets with each other as to outcome and how long the Quorian ship would remain in one piece.
"That's it!" shouted captain McCree as Prometheus eluded the grasp of one Color tractor beam, only to be thrown bow over stern by the pressor of another. "/None/ of us are going to catch that damn Borg cube at this rate. Get the captains - Colors too, no catwalk crap, I can't stand talking to catwalks - of everyone out there on one frequency, now!" Jim paused. "Um, see if Horizon has any partylines available: they have the cheapest rates."
As the Prometheus continued to twist through maneuvers that would turn everyone inside the hull into a jelly smear should inertial dampers fail, one by one connections were added to the reserved partyline.
"I'm sorry," said Io, "but the Quorian captain can't join us."
Jim held tightly to the arms of his chair as overloaded dampers did not quite mask a too-tight change in direction: all the mini-war's Color participants seemed perfectly able and willing to talk and fight at the same time. "Why is that? Did you tell him, her, it, or them that I'll shove a singularity torpedo up their tailpipe if they refuse?"
"Too late. The #66CC33 Battle-class already did," replied the Personality.
"Oh," said Jim as the viewscreen caught the shattered remains of the frigate during the next series of maneuvers initiated by the helm. "Then put everyone else on the screen."
Including the SFS Prometheus, the Great Chase entries had been whittled down to eight, of which four were represented by the faces hovering in front of the bridge's forward bulkhead. The remainder, according to the Xenig tracking network, were nowhere near, essentially out of contention for the used warp nacelle prize, with one unlucky participant waaaaaaay off the edge of the relevance map in intergalactic space between the Milky Way and Andromeda. The expressions facing Jim ranged from mildly annoyed (#66CC33) to carefully neutral (Green and Peach) to fake pleasantry (Ferengi).
"Captains?" said Jim, his own face set into what he hoped was 'Stern Federation Officer Knows Best.'
"What?" answered the three Colored representatives simultaneously, overriding the Ferengi's protest that he was a daimon, not a captain. The Borg engaged in a three-way staring match, finally interrupted not by Jim's objections, but by an intrusive GNN reporter shoving a microphone into the Green consensus monitor's face.
In the back of his mind, Jim was glad to see that he was not the only one with media difficulties. "I'll come directly to the point, as I know how much most of you Colors dislike small-talk. This fighting is getting us nowhere. As we - Hey, watch the torpedo! You almost scratched the bioarmor! - scrabble around like kids in a playground, our objective, and its used warp nacelles, is getting away."
"Who said we wanted used..." began the Captain of #66CC33, only to suddenly snap his mouth shut.
"Bear with me for a moment, and try not to destroy me mid-word? I'm just saying that getting through this anomaly will be a pain, even without shooting at each other. How about a short truce? Just until we all get to the other side and disable that Collective cube? Then we can do this last-ship-standing routine." Jim smiled, then added the magic word, "Think of how /inefficient/ our current actions are."
On the small holographic tactical view which was positioned left of the conference call, the three Colored cubes had stopped spitting munitions, although each continued the traditional defensive spin. The Ferengi vessel had retreated to the periphery of the battle theater.
The Colored Captains all had their heads cocked in similar postures of Collective contemplation. #66CC33 was the first to answer: "We will agree...as long as all else agree. Just don't follow us."
"And why would we want to follow you?" asked the Peach Captain, a frown crossing his face. "You would only get this sub-collective lost. Federationer, we will accept this conditional truce for the sake of efficiency."
The Green Captain fended off another foray by the GNN reporter. On the feed, two bulky tactical drones materialized, each capturing an arm of the protesting Walter Cron clone, then beaming away. "Parasites," muttered the drone, stopping to stare at a point which seemed to be located beyond Jim's shoulder.
The Prometheus captain nonchalantly peered behind himself, seeing the flash of a camera lens through the grillwork of an environmental system duct. "Ensign Samich: paint, grill, now." He pointed at the offending camera. The ensign, lounging at a console, leapt to his feet and immediately went to work spraying paint into the offending ankle-level duct under the science console. Other grills around the bridge showed similar treatment. Jim returned attention to the Green, "Anything more to say?"
"Yes. I personally dislike these reporters. Do you want any? We've several to spare. I'll sell them to you, cheap, since we are not allowed to simply assimilate or terminate them." When no acceptance was forthcoming, the Green captain sighed. "Fine. We will abide by the truce; and we will exit the other side first because we have the best sensors credits can purchase."
Jim's gaze centered upon the Ferengi, who bared a snaggle-toothed, uncertain grin. "Sure. Why not? What do I have to lose? Unless certain factors can get their bribes in the right place, my ship isn't going to catch the target; and /I'm/ not going to risk /my/ hide disputing the likes of Colored cubes or a SecFed warship."
"Good. Truce called."
"We have the largest vessel. Therefore, we will enter the anomaly first," declared the #66CC33 Captain.
"But we are closest," disputed Peach. The tactical view showed the cube had cloaked once more.
A torpedo was fired towards both rival Colors from the Green Exploratory-class. "And we have the prettiest color," announced the consensus monitor.
Suggested Io to the Prometheus captain, "Maybe a truce for the truce is in order?"
"Oh, shut up."
*****
Cube #347 detoured along the outskirts of a Type IV nebula anomaly, carefully picking its way through a tangle of spatial vortices. Warp was slow, but slow was better than the alternative of being on the receiving end of an obstruction obscured to sensors. With starcharts lost, along with any notations about this particular anomaly, the sub-collective had to literally feel its way along, scanners probing deeply into the local subspace layers. The goal was to determine a route which would allow the cube to proceed at best speed along the straightest possible line towards the course objective. Unfortunately, efficiency was not at its best at the moment.
The small campfire currently smoldering in Supply Closet #33 was one minor problem among the routine many. No drone would admit to its setting; and the usual suspect in pyromaniac 279 of 300 was confirmed to have been regenerating in his alcove prior to the discovery. The campfire was in no danger of spreading - metal, after all, did not burn well - as its vegetable-derived fuel source was almost gone, but the capacious smoke was bothersome, not to mention the soot stains in the closet.
The greatest threat to Cube #347's achingly slow progress was the rogue transmission. Sensors stated it was degrading her hierarchy's effectiveness, causing distracting sensor abnormalities and [wobbling] the input from several key grid sectors. The engineering and sensory drones assigned to find the transmission source increased speed at the prodding of command and control.
*****
The small tramp freighter was little more than an ancient tug hauling a string of cargo boxes. Discolored armor peeled from the underhull, exposing scratched metal; and so many modifications of the bailing-wire-and-duct-tape affair had been completed that the original configuration was obscured. If the ship had a name, it was hidden under a scab of rust, one of many areas of decay on the ship's ancient hide which attested to its occasional venture into a water-rich atmosphere. The freighter puttered along at a sedate impulse, although a flickering signature indicated a (mostly) functional warp engine. However, there were limits even to what the used warp nacelle craze would accept.
Two life signs registered on Green sensors; and when the freighter accepted the Colored cube's hail, revealed was a codger of a naked human with a calico cat perched on his shoulder. The man disturbingly resembled his ship, hard-used with parts (such as an ear) reattached by the most mediocre doctor money could buy. He squinted at the display showing catwalks-to-infinity, mouth chewing a brown substance which dribbled into a stained beard.
"Let my ship go, ya Borg bastards," spat the freighter pilot and probable owner. The cat loudly purred. "I've got things to deliver." A scan of the boxes had revealed an organic cargo which closely matched several types of low-grade fertilizer. "Very important, my things."
"We are Green. You will be released after you provide us with information." The Green Captain was reluctant to even hold the freighter with a tractor beam: who /knew/ what sort of unknown and unknowable diseases were possible to catch from that /thing/. Assimilation was right out of the question, even if Green was wont to act like its distant Collective cousin and abduct unwilling victims (individuals unable to repay their credit were completely different). To waste a torpedo or erg of neuruptor power to destroy the ship, well, the universe may be done a favor, but the debris might infect the cube with something ghastly.
In Bulk Cargo Hold #2, the current Green Second was holding a press conference. Many microphones from the Water Cron clone plague were being shoved in his face, and each reporter had a different question concerning the situation. Cameras dive-bombed him, those which weren't attempting extreme close-ups. Captain sighed. The mental signature of the drone was starting to edge out of acceptable stress limits, and soon the Greater Consciousness would assign a new Second for the sub-collective. That would be the fourth Second since the Great Chase had begun; and the consensus monitor herself was the second Captain.
The codger's face scrunched into a form resembling a wrinkled winter apple. As he leaned over to use an old bucket as a spittoon, a shade too much backside (and foreside) was revealed. The ripple of sub-collective (and, more distantly, Greater Consciousness) revulsion apexed at 203 of 800. Yes, very soon it would be time for a third Captain.
"Answer!" demanded the multivoice.
The man slumped in his chair, long and unkempt beard gratefully covering all naughty bits. "Fine, fine. Don't get yer hoses in a bundle. What do ya want?"
"Provide us with the fastest route to get to the other side of this anomaly."
Belching, the freighter pilot answered, "That all? I've this math theorem I've been working on in my spare time, ya know." His voice trailed off as his offer was not accepted. A hand scratched under his beard. One hoped it was his belly. The cat continued to purr. "Fine, fine. Listen closely, because the route can be a bit tricksy. You see, from here travel straight a quarter light year, then turn rimward 84 degrees - exactly, mind you - at the big, orange whirly thing..."
"...continue straight until ya see the green sparkly things. Ya can't miss 'em, annoying buggers. Whatever ya do, don't go through the green sparkles because they are absolute /hell/ on yer engines. At the green sparkles..."
Captain Jim McCree automatically nodded, fake smile plastered to his face. He subvocalized, "Io, put a loop on for the old man to see at his end. I want our feed to be blanked and the sound cut. Continue to note his directions, of course."
"If the techs determine you have scarred this Personality for the rest of its existence because it was forced to monitor and record that...that...that thing words cannot describe, then it will be on your head," whispered Io in return.
"I'll take that chance. Do it."
"Yes, sir."
The forward holoscreen was transformed from the mind-killing view of naked, uncouth old man to a blissfully bare bulkhead. Bridge crew broke out in applause, whistles, and foot stamping.
Moaned Io, "The horror!"
"Can it, Io, just tell me when the fellow is done with his directions so we can bid him goodbye and good riddance. The Directors' only know how glad I am that they didn't incorporate any of those prototype odor translators when they were finishing Prometheus' interior." The bridge crew were returning to their normal activities, although one young crewman guarding the turbolift against unauthorized (e.g., GNN) personnel was being removed to sick bay for psyche evaluation. "Lieutenant Cron, location check."
At the navigation console, the lieutenant examined her screen. "The nebula doesn't appear to be affecting the Xenig beacons, I think. Anyway, it looks like Green is wandering around in a circle. Peach is..."
::Not right. Not right. Everything is not right,:: complained GOD to the general intranet. It was troubling to have proof that the AI was not omniscient, that building and tweaking of the Ultimate Code still had much to accomplish, but the anomaly seemed to have disrupted GOD's accurate reading of the quantum. As long as #66CC33 Battle-class Cube #1 was within the nebula's boundary, the associated sub-collective would be unable to take advantage of sifting quantal probabilities for the most advantageous outcome.
Instead of the Code which would eventually lead to Perfection, #66CC33 was forced to rely upon a disgusting human. Apparent human. Human-shaped and with human anatomy, anyway, the latter of which the sub-collective had seen entirely too much. Sometimes a collective mind was a liability: at least one unit had to monitor any transmission; and that single mind thence propagated content to the greater Whole.
"...and this is the important part, mind, that ya have to rotate yer ship three times ass over teakettle so that the fairy dust doesn't stick to ya. If ya don't, well, I wouldn't want to be you. I did try to not spin once, just once, and, woo-ee, took me forever it seems to find my way out. Cargo'd practically gone rotten! Anyway, one ya pass the magnetic vortices near that bastard of a baby blue giant, ya need to..."
::Not right. The quantum does or doesn't agree? Not right.::
The #66CC33 Captain focused on the cat. That calico was a safe place to look, a peaceful animal perched on the human's shoulder. Then the cat jumped to the man's lap and proceeded to kneed the overlong beard. The cat was no longer a safe place to look; and certain units of the male persuasion who had not long been assimilated by the #66CC33 Collective broadcast sympathetic winces, even as the human did not seem to be reacting to the cat's sharp claws.
{Focus. Look to the background. What food item might that gloopy pile of fuzz have begun life as when it was first replicated? Anyone have any ideas? I think it was scrambled eggs,} said 7 of 10 as the freighter pilot droned on.
"I'll give you fifty strips of gold-pressed latinum if you will just transmit to us a map, hooman," pleaded Daimon Kazago. "One hundred strips! As many strips as I can flog out of my crew!"
"And what the hell would I want with latinum?" asked the unclad hooman. His cat was staring at something which did not exist, ears erect and tail lashing. "Besides, I don't have no maps. All the directions are in my brain." The hooman tapped the side of his head.
Daimon Kazago groaned as the hooman recommenced his instructions.
"...and once you pass the bit of nebula that usually looks like my Kitty here, although sometimes it looks like a duck or a trombone, and once it looked exactly like the arse end of a horse, ya are almost there. Another three hundred meters anti-spinward at quarter impulse, no more and no less, will pop ya out on the other side."
Without a word of thank you - Peach normally maintained an outward fiction of politeness, simulations by the Collective having indicated pleasant attitude more likely to garner espionage contracts - the cube cut its tractor beam and cloaked. The other Great Chase participants of any relevance were ahead of it. However, with this new data, Peach would surely exit the anomaly first.
*****
Beyond sensor range of even the most sensitive of Colored sensor grids, the tramp freighter vanished in a flash of white light. Left behind was the fading giggle of an amused Q. The Great Chase betting machine shifted the odds as necessary.
*****
Prometheus was half a light year from the Borg cube. Ship sensors, even those tweaked for better performance for the prototype, could not actually see the cube through the anomaly; and distance to the target was known only because the Xenig beacons. Also only known via the networks was the position of the other four Great Chase participants within the anomaly, none of which appeared to be as close to the goal as Prometheus. Then the Second Federation ship shot through the eye of an electromagnetic vortex at three-quarters impulse, as directed by the repulsive freighter pilot, and into a small bubble carved out of the gas.
The accuracy of the Xenig beacons to locating contestants within the nebula was apparently not as precise as believed.
"What the hell is that?" yelled captain McCree as a thick curtain of gas parted to reveal a looming wall of metal. "Never mind. Turn! Turn now!" Jim had instinctively stood from his command chair, and it was now dawning upon his conscious brain that the action was probably not the best thing he could have done if a head-on collision was in his near future.
Prometheus banked, briefly skimming along the face of a Colored cube. A few heartbeats later, the ship was in a position to see what exactly had happened.
The Green entry was partially embedded in the gooey face of #66CC33's much larger Battle-class cube. Many drones were on the hulls of both vessels, most of them clustered near the impact area and probably examining the damage, but several clusters seemed to be engaged in rowdy pushing matches. A transmission channel was active.
Heartbeat slowing, Jim sat back down into his chair. It seemed these two Colors were out of the race. Before the Prometheus continued, however, he had an intense curiosity to know what the two were conversing about. "Can we eavesdrop?" asked Jim.
"Maybe we should just go around and continue?" suggested McCree's second-in-command from the next chair.
Jim gave the woman a glance. "I'm the captain around here, and I feel we should know what those two are talking about. After all, if they are to be charging up our backsides in the next five minutes, I would like to know."
The Colored exchange resolved upon the screen, the respective Captains of the two cubes glaring at each other. There was no CatwalkCam nor multivoice as the pair confronted each other. Conversation was mostly third-person, but the occasional "my" and "I" were in evidence.
"This is all your fault," grumbled Green Captain. "If you had cleaned off that gunk from that face, you would have seen us."
Retorted #66CC33 Captain, "Our fault? We can't exactly stop this vessel on a microdot. I think you should have been able to dodge."
"Dodge where? We had right-of-way."
"You would argue right-of-way with a cube that both outmasses and outguns you? And control your units: your tactical drones are harassing our tactical drones."
"Other way around. /Your/ drones are harassing my drones."
Jim silently watched the exchange for several minutes, but other than determining that neither cube was to be re-entering the Great Chase anytime soon, the blame-game was not divesting any Colored secrets. "Let's get out of here," said Jim. "Pick up where we left off on the old man's directions."
Prometheus began to shudder.
"Sir!" called Lieutenant Commander Gangi at tactical. "The Battle-class has ten tractor beams on us! All are different phasic rotations and two have already locked onto our hull." Ten tractor beams was more than a tiny bit of overkill, for while the Prometheus might manage to slip one or two by modulating shield harmonics, so many guaranteed no amount of engineering voodoo would prevent escape.
The Colored Captains had stopped arguing with each other, and the #66CC33 drone was now the only one speaking. "I know you are eavesdropping on us, so listen carefully. If this cube is going nowhere fast, you will be joining us. Stop resisting us. GOD is on our side; and while it may be having a wee bit of difficultly in this anomaly when it comes to foreseeing the future, its algorithms remain powerful enough to accurately determine your 'random' shield modulations."
Prometheus was being reeled in towards the #66CC33 cube; and reports of power drain through the tractors were being reported.
"Gangi, can we knock out any of those emitters?" asked Jim. The viewscreen, in addition to showing the two drones (who had returned to quarrelling), was now presenting the unwelcome view of an ominous metallic cliff.
Answered Gangi, "No, sir. All of our energy weapons have been hit hard by the power drain and the backwash from torpedo at this distance would be detrimental to us, to say the least."
"Harpoons. What about those new harpoon weapons we have?"
Gangi's scaled forehead wrinkled. "The warp harpoons?"
"Yes, the warp harpoons."
The warp harpoon was a new weapon from Starfleet research and design, with the Voyeur-class upgrade prototype Prometheus the first to mount them. Designed to be used in the warp, transwarp, and hypertranswarp environments, the harpoons were fired from a /very/ close range at the target. The harpoons, still connected to the ejection port via an umbilical, were then steered into the opposing vessel's hull, avoiding the target lock problems normally encountered when trying to deploy torpedoes under superluminal conditions. The harpoon, once attached, then functioned as a conduit to disrupt the other's deflectors, forcing the target to return to normal space. Harpoons were meant to be used as a tool to force a vessel to halt for boarding, such as for customs inspections, not in actual battle situations. Unfortunately, the harpoons were the only option the Prometheus captain had available.
"I'm not really sure they will work."
"What choice do we have? Fire four volleys. Io, steer 'em into the emitters."
"Yes, sir," said the paired voices of Gangi and Io.
Four volleys of three harpoons each exhausted Prometheus' ready supply, not to mention created a tangle of lines leading back to the launchers. Io was a more than competent Personality, however, and easily coordinated the flight of what were essentially rocket-powered spears on strings to their destinations. One at a time the harpoons buried themselves into the target emitters, smashing vital components. Cables were released and Prometheus began turning in a bid to escape.
The getaway attempt did not last long.
A cube-shaped hole, minus the cube, was carved through a thin curtain of gas at one side of the bubble. The originator abruptly decloaked to reveal the Peach cube frantically trying to shed velocity from half impulse. Unfortunately, the volume of space between it and the two-cube pile-up was too short; and it slammed into #66CC33 Battle-class Cube #1, coming to an abrupt halt.
Red emergency lights lit the Prometheus' bridge. Crew began to pick themselves off the deck where they had been thrown. "Everyone okay?" called Jim as he levered himself to his feet using his chair as support.
"What do you think of this newest development?"
A bright white light was thrust into Jim's face. The words were just beyond immediate comprehension. "Huh?" blinked Jim as he attempted to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the light.
"I said, what do you think of this newest development? Our GNN viewers want to know."
Jim finally made out the shape of a remote camera with a microphone duct taped to it. The thing was less than half a meter from his nose. "Go away." The camera hovered closer. "Go away before I come down to Star Bar or wherever you are and shove that thing into a very unpleasant place!"
"We are live," noted the female Walter Cron clone voice helpfully.
"Go. Away. Now." The camera abruptly fell to the ground, victim of a wobbly phaser shot from the direction of tactical. "Thank you, Gangi, although you nearly fried my head in the process. Okay, people, I want a status check, and I want it now."
Io's report, when it came, was through Jim's cochlear implant. "This is a general address to all relevant command and engineering personnel. Sorry, but my speaker system is out. Thought you might like to know that we are currently sandwiched between two Borg cubes."
"Lovely," muttered captain Jim McCree to himself as he began the process of seeing to his crew and ship.
Buried as the Prometheus was, it never knew the final footnote of the Ferengi ship plowing nose first into the Green cube.
*****
The rogue transmission was close, very close. Five sensory drones had triangulated the general volume in which the transmitter was broadcasting its erratic, meaningless beep, but the intrinsic properties of the underhull space prevented pinpoint accuracy. Engineering drones were now traversing the suspect volume meter by cubic meter, examining each spar, conduit, and structural element for anything out of place.
A scrap of shiny foil caught 88 of 240's eye as it fluttered in the slight artificial breeze created by moving drone bodies. He plucked it from the finger of protruding metal it had snagged upon. After flattening it out, he turned his find over and determined it had once been a wrapper for some sort of edible confection. Only half the brand name was in evidence - "Milky..." with a swirling constellation of stars and a multi-colored comet - the torn half of the wrapper missing.
{Keep your mind on priorities,} rebuked Second from afar, tasked to keep drones from becoming distracted from the task on hand.
88 of 240 crumpled the wrapper in his whole hand. His other limb automatically reached out to hook a spar for balance as slight shifts in gravity changed vertical orientation by five degrees and slightly increased the G-factor. {The object should not be here,} noted 88 of 240.
Answered Second, {Irrelevant. Transmitter before wild-targ chases.}
{Compliance,} began 88 of 240, but before he could add any further words, a muffled *crunch* sounded under his left foot. Shifting his leg, he looked downwards and focused on a flattened, cigar-sized jumble of what used to be a complex electronic device. A blinking light slowly faded as the last vestige of power was spent. {Whoops.}
{Rogue transmission is gone,} announced Sensors into the intranets. {Gone, gone, gone, [blackberry pie] terminated.} The sensory hierarchy had been recording odd readings from inside the anomaly of whose perimeter Cube #347 continued to skim, but without starcharts and associated notes, could not know if the output was normal or not. With the transmission no longer a distraction, the hierarchy could focus on anomaly analysis and, most importantly, the best course to quickly pass by the nebula.
88 of 240 scraped the sole of his left foot over the top of his right, dislodging several crumpled components of the ex-transmitter. {Really whoops?} he said sheepishly. Several nearby drones had turned to stare at their compatriot.
{Pick up the pieces and transport them to Analysis Shop #12,} ordered Delta to 88 of 240, {not that I expect we can determine the origination considering its condition.}
{Really, really whoops?} tried 88 of 240 a third, and final, time. He received no response. As the drones of the search squad were released back to their normal duties, 88 of 240 transported a canvas shopping bag to his location. With a sigh, he began to pick up the mangled components.
*****
Pak was exhilarated: even after expenses and payout to bettors, his donation to the Transcendence Fund would smash the previous record, set by Lun a quarter of a galactic revolution ago. "Pak" would be carved on the Contribution Asteroid in letters tens of meters tall! Until the Xenig finally joined the Progenitors, youngsters on the creche platforms would be uploaded his name alongside other famous individuals of his race! If he had been organic, he would have long since wet his pants in excitement.
"I want my money," demanded a young Terran girl dressed in her best sparkly pink overalls. Her face was set in a stern, unimpressed frown as she gazed up at one of Pak's spidermechs. In the background, her ecstatic parents were animatedly talking to reporters.
Through the spidermech, Pak asked, "Do you even know how much money you have made? You were the only one who bet on the cube, after all."
"More than two," answered the girl with confidence, referring to the number of credits she had wagered. "My mommy says I can buy a pony."
"Very true," answered Pak as he directed the spidermech to begin the transfer of credits to a bank account. The girl would be provided a voucher stating the exact amount of money she had won. The actual currency weighed quite a bit more than the girl and would purchase any number of ponies, as well a planet upon which to build the stable to house the animals. Still, even with the massive payout, the final amount donated to the Transcendence Fund would be more than substantial.
Pak returned the spidermech to background processes, retreating from the bustle which was the Infinity casino and recentering himself in his chassis.
After the Borg cube had found, and destroyed, the transmitter, Pak had declared the Great Chase done and ordered retrieval of those entries still in one (more or less) piece. While certain participants had been easy to recover, the five glommed into a massive dogpile at the edge of the Tangle Nebula anomaly had been a different story. The meddling by the Q had not helped matters, even if it had lent an interesting spin to the betting boards. In the end, only the Ferengi and Second Federation ships had accepted a tow back to their respective home ports by Xenig observer-referees. The Colors had harried off in pursuit of the unknowing Borg cube, the latter once again difficult to locate without assistance from the subspace beacon network. Green had been a bit delayed behind the other two until the stockpiled GNN reporter clones had been off-loaded to a Xenig with a life support module.
One of Pak's spidermechs at Infinity signaled that it had a problem its limited programming was ill equipped to handle. Pak mentally sighed, moment of introspective peace shattered. He checked on the spidermech and found the pink overalled Terran girl screaming in the midst of a temper-tantrum.
"I WANT MY MONEY! I WANT MY MONEY! I WANT MY MONEY!" bawled the girl at the top of her lungs as she stamped her feet. Cameras had edged around the child's embarrassed parents to focus on action guaranteed to be included in (suitably muted) sound bites wherever subspace news was broadcast. "I WANT MY MONEY!"
Pak increased the volume on the spidermech. "Terran girl-child, your money has been transferred to an account..."
"I WANT MY MONEY!"
"...where it will be available to withdrawal from any..."
"I WANT MY MONEY!"
"...automated teller machine. By the Directors and Critics, don't you have a volume button on you somewhere?"
"I WANT MY MONEY!"
"Fine! If you will stop trying to burn out my mech's aural circuits, I'll get you your money. All of it." The girl immediately stopped her pseudo-crying; and Pak added 'armored wagon' to his expense list. Organics. Bah. Mad, the lot of them.
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