It's deja vu all over again -

Star Trek is owned by Paramount;

Star Traks was created by Decker;

And I write BorgSpace

Lip-Sync

Cube #347 trekked confidently through space, on a straight line transwarp course towards a destination denoted on recently acquired starcharts. The vessel was battered and scarred, as was the sub-collective mentality within it, but both remained (more or less) in one piece. No obstacles barred the way: the goal would be attained.

This is not a story of Cube #347 and imperfectly assimilated sub-collective. Not exactly, anyway. This is a story of the behind, the beyond, the under, the microscopic, the macroscopic...the whatever (or whomever) makes the story the story.

First, though, one must rewind time, which is an absurdly easy thing to accomplish. Then one must focus, which is much harder, upon a huddle of eyes and mouths. The body parts are oddly animate despite the lack of body; and while there is a deficiency in the hand, feet, face, etcetera departments, the individuals do not appear to notice. They are crowded around a more-than-realistic model of a spiral galaxy.

Commence the story behind the story. Or a reasonable facsimile, anyway. Two disparate worlds are soon to collide, metaphorically speaking as the reality of the situation is a wee bit more complex; and the Writer of this protracted junket has declared the need for back-story...

Mouth picked up one of the game pieces which huddled in a group at the side of the Board and examined it with only mild interest. The Wickazi scout, an unsymmetrical form of spikes and spheres, was not currently in play: it required a specific card before it could be activated. The Critic had acquired the piece several millennia prior in an expensive trade with another Board, and had been waiting ever since for the appropriate time to deploy it.

With a sigh the scout was returned to its previous place of Game purgatory.

The sound of rolling dice proceeded the repositioning of a minor space anomaly by the Director Orb.

The scene around the Board was subdued, without the normal banter between Directors and Critics. The motions of disillusioned play were occurring because there was nothing else constructive to do.

"Ahh..."

"No, no, no!" exclaimed a voice without benefit of speaking the words, or even a mouth to do so.

"Ahh..."

"Pinch your nose! Pinch your nose!" suggested Mouth, in possession of appropriate mouthparts although it technically had no lungs or larynx to use them.

"Ahh-ahh..."

"It doesn't /have/ a nose," sanguinely pointed out Orb in a too-reasonable tone of logic.

"Ahh-ahh-a-CHOO!" The deed was finally, and spectacularly, completed. Silence. Then, "Well, at least I didn't sneeze all over the Board, like before." The words were muffled, as if the noseless Critic had indeed possessed a nose.

"Ew, Lips," complained Voice 1, also known as the Director Iris. Its green-irised eyeball self stared at its Critic counterpart. "/You/ get to clean up that mess; and I'm not touching those dice until they have been completely sanitized."

Lips glared as best as it could without the necessary equipment. "It's not like I have a choice in the matter. I think my eucalyptus-lemon-hot sauce drops are working: I'm not sneezing or coughing nearly so much." The Critic punctuated its statement with a minor hacking fit.

"Those things you have been eating are who knows how old," disapproved Orb. "Probably since our last Auditor visit when they went through the vending machines. I don't think anyone else has touched them."

"All the more for me, then," asserted Lips.

Mouth scanned the Board, looked over its nonexistent shoulder towards the partially open door to the hallway, then lowered its voice to a conspiratorial level. Critics could not resist gossip (or offering unsolicited criticism and/or advice), and this was one of those times. "I heard that the Auditors found /two/ packs of gum and a bag of chips shaken from the vending machines without payment."

"Wasn't me," muttered Lips. It was ignored.

Huffed Iris, "Well, at least they are doing /something/ they are supposed to. All their poking and prodding...In-betweenlife...who audits In-betweenlife? The ward nurses and counselors are very displeased." The eyeball paused, then continued, "Or so I've been told, by-and-by." Directors were above petty gossip. Really.

Lips tossed a cough drop into it, er, self, before conjuring a spray bottle of orange cleaning fluid out of thin air. It attacked the result of its sneeze. "I'm not the only one afflicted, you know. There are lots with this cold thing. Rod over in Board Room C-5 was telling me all about a lemon grass- dungbeetle tea recipe it came across. Although it swears by it, I think my cough drops are better."

"More appetizing, certainly," commented Iris. The Director was mildly disappointed when the Critic did not rise to the baiting, but then again, the eyeball had not tried especially hard.

"Speaking of other Boards," said Mouth, "did you hear about the H-2 incident?"

Orb winced, "Yah. Meltdown. Implosion. A minor race developed a Doomsday device and injected it into the galactic black hole. With all the wars breaking out on the Board, none of the H-2 Players could move a piece into position to block the device. We may be omnipotent, but not /that/ omnipotent. Ka-boom! Instant fire on the table. By the time the extinguisher put it out, the Board was a loss and maintenance had to be called in to fix melted floor tiles.

"Almost all the Boards have seen an upswing in sentient discord, it seems. And you know that that means: ratings drop."

Now all the others joined Orb in wincing.

The success of 'reality' was tied in a mysterious manner to ratings; and ratings were dependent upon the number of sentients and pre-sentients in existence at a given metaverse tick of the clock. The exact mechanism was unknown, but a thermometer display reflecting ratings was present in Complex public places and the offices of every Producer. Usually the ratings hovered around '7' and were accompanied by a yellow smiley face. Recently there had been a slip to '5.5' and the face had taken on a distinctly worried cast. No one wanted to personally learn what happened when and if a '0' was reached. There were theoretical discussions on the matter, and even a debate society which revolved around the subject, but most Complex entities preferred to avoid the topic whenever possible.

Directors and Critics only 'directly' meddled in the affairs of individuals, small groups, and the occasional civilization; and, even then, the roll of a dice merely precipitated an incident-to-be, did not determine its outcome. Free-will was very important. The violence which was reaching epidemically terminal levels in some cases could not be attributed to a simple roll of die, even the Infinity. Free-will trumped all, even omnipotent beings.

Lips paused scrubbing to deliver an irrelevant non-sequitur, "I wonder what the Auditors look like under their robes?"

The simple question ignited a new round of gossip. Mouth opted for nothing, but both Directors insisted something in the pink and wiggly department was present.

A warning hiss came from the direction of the door. All four Players paused their discussion to face the sound. An Editor - Hans by name - had been repairing a door squeak, or at least that was its cover. The hand was actually acting as a look-out, as well as catching up on the latest Complex gossip. The tool-belted Editor whispered, "Auditors! Coming this way!"

Less than a minute later, three cowled robes swept into the Board Room. The Auditors completely ignored Hans and its intent examination of a door hinge.

"What a pleasant surprise," said Orb diplomatically as it set down a Second Federation ship figurine. "What brings Auditors to Board Room D-7?"

In the background, Iris glared a nonverbal warning at the two Critics. Mouth, a very pragmatic pair of lips, was simply smiling, albeit the grin had a more than slightly fake quality to it. Lips, on the other hand, was literally biting itself, but to keep from saying something impulsive or to stop from sneezing was unclear.

Two of the Auditors broke away from the third, immediately advancing upon the Board while utterly disregarding the Players. The remaining Auditor floated towards Orb, angling its path to stay as far from the snuffling Lips as possible. The Auditor's robe appeared to be recently laundered, although not necessarily 'clean,' as if laundry service had been unable to definitively remove some snotlike substance recently splashed upon it.

A paper rustled. "The Players in Board Room D-7 are Director Orb, Director Iris, Critic Mouth, and Critic Lips, yes?" asked the spokesAuditor. It was less a question than a statement of fact as read from a notebook. Thankfully, the Auditor had substituted its FORMAL VOICE OF INTIMIDATION for a normal indoor voice.

With one last wordless threat at Mouth and Lips to not say anything 'critical,' Iris moved to the forefront of the group, displacing Orb. The eyeball stared for a long moment at the Auditor, but could not discern anything under the cowl than a sense of squishiness. Finally it answered the Auditor, "Yes, that is whom we are. I am Iris-"

"How...unexpected," said the Auditor in boredom.

"-and that is Orb, Lips, and Mouth," continued Iris, as if it had not been interrupted. "What is your purpose for butting into our session?"

In the background, Orb rolled its eye at the undiplomatic demand, then turned to watching the other two Auditors. Mouth and Lips were quietly bickering with each other.

Answered the Auditor, "We are Auditors. We audit." 'Well, duh' was the tone of voice.

"What, in particular, are you auditing? Maybe we can help."

"And get you off our backs," hissed Lips. It was elbowed, metaphorically (no elbows were in evidence), by Mouth.

The spokesAuditor ignored the aside, "Stuff. We audit stuff. And, no, you cannot help."

"Hey, what are you doing?" uttered Orb suddenly, drowning out (probably for the best) another verbal jab from Lips. The Critic wasn't the focus of the question, but rather one of the Auditors, who had picked up a cube-shaped playing piece. The Auditor, startled, dropped the Borg cube into the middle of a swarm of Second Federation, Romulan, and Vulcan ships. "Are you even /qualified/ to touch a Board when it is in active use?"

Mouth and Lips strained for a better position to see the fate of the suddenly misplaced cube; and Iris abruptly abandoned its conversation with the lead Auditor. "Glad that wasn't mine," muttered Lips to its Critic companion, following the affirmation with a pair of small sneezes.

The Auditor who had fumbled the figurine shuffled under the pressing gazing of Orb, then muttered a muffled, "Qualified, yes." The response was without conviction.

Orb narrowed its eye, then whirled to face the spokesAuditor, "Let's see your credentials, then. Come on, bring them out."

The Auditor, so confronted, swayed back and forth. "Um, left them in my other robe?"

"Not good enough. If you want to poke our Board here in D-7, fine, but I want to see a license - current, mind you, not half a billion years expired - that you have the training to do so. An active board isn't something to go messing around with if you don't know the consequences of your actions."

Muttering something incomprehensible, the Auditor backed a step. Its comrades left the table to flank it. "Er, um, it has suddenly come to our attention that the coffee machines haven't been properly inventoried yet. This audit will have to be completed at another time." The Auditors hastily glided from the room.

Auditors gone, Iris snatched its Cube #347 piece from the battle where it had tumbled. Because the move had been illegal, Board safeties had prevented interaction between cube and skirmishers. The Director critically examined the figurine for damage, then, with a sigh, replaced it somewhere near the locale from where it had been removed. As Iris had not been specifically tracking that particular piece, it was not returned exactly where it had hailed from, but the discrepancy should not affect the actual sub-collective too much.

The Editor abandoned its faux-repairs to join the foursome. "Bothersome creatures, aren't then?"

"You don't know the half of it," responded mouth disdainfully. "Did you hear about the Auditors and the Board in Room T-3? It seems..."

"Something isn't right," interrupted Orb before Mouth could deliver the latest hotsheet fresh from the gossip mill. It was staring at the sparkling jewel of a Board in contemplation. An unscheduled supernova momentarily flared from the sparsely starred rim area, spectroscopic analysis indicating it not to be of natural origin. "The impossible 'cold,' wonky Boards, sentients and sub-sentients intent on exterminating themselves, ratings drop, and, on top of it, Auditors showing up to poke and prod where they have never poked and prodded before. Something just isn't right." The Director paused as Lips coughed, then continued, "Hans, what would happen if a Board was declared instable?"

The Editor had no eyes to squint at Orb, but the sentiment was present. "You know what would happen as well - Lips, take one of your drops or something, but don't cough on me - as I do: the Board would be reset. Even without all the troubles, your Board would be, and still is, a candidate for the operation."

No further explanation was necessary, if one was an entity of the Complex. For everyone else, an expanded definition is required.

The Boards were a reflection, and an actuality, of a given facet of the quantum multiverse reality. Such has been described as a book, each page of an infinite library a slightly different variation upon a theme. The further apart the pages, the more divergent, until one would be hard-pressed to accept that a given 'here' was in fact the same in two realities. A Board could be viewed as the visualization of one page, although the other pages, while not explicitly on display, continued their parallel evolution, ever creating more quantum divisions to add to the already infinite library.

To Play the Game, Players first attempted to choose a stable reality. An infinite metareality meant there was also an infinite number of pages only partway filled. Sometimes the cause of destruction, either in whole or of an otherwise Board-suitable galaxy, was natural and occasionally it was sentient precipitated. As it is somewhat difficult to devise and direct storylines on an instable or dead Board that one has had the bad luck to choose, a reset is sometimes necessary.

A reset was not so much a pushing of a button to start over as discarding the current Board iteration and replacing it with a more stable version from the related multiverse line. Unfortunately, when such as required, the metaphysical 'nearby' versions tended to be instable as well, and stability required selecting a version in which timelines had suitably diverged to produce a difference such as that which existed between Federation and Happyverse. Plotlines were required to be salvaged and rewritten, much to the annoyance of the Producers; and Players had to contend with altered playing pieces, assuming a given piece even existed in the alternate universe. All around, resets were not something to look forward to. When Boards threatened to destabilize, Players tended to do everything possible to salvage the situation, up to and including hiding the situation from the Editors. Metaphorical eyebrows had been lost in such endeavors, much to the amusement of Complex denizens.

Orb swiveled in a full eyeball approximation of a nod. "Fine. So, what would happen if all Boards, actual and unplayed, were declared instable?" The question was at the heart of the Zero Ratings Debate Society.

"The /entire/ quantum continuum?" asked the Editor in disbelief. "We are talking infinity here." It self-consciously shuffled, then hitched its toolbelt higher on its nonexistent waist, as the attention of the Critics and other Director focused upon it.

"The ratings, Hans, the ratings. Everything would still /exist/, but it would be an empty existence. What would be the point of the Complex, us, if the ratings dropped to zero? Without sentient or sub-sentient lifeforms, or the potential to evolve such, there is no Purpose. A sterile metaverse doesn't need a Complex, doesn't need In-betweenlife, doesn't need Directors, Critics, Editors, Producers, Auditors...."

The Editor shuddered as it contemplated the impossible...except that the very nature of the quantum declared that the impossible was intrinsically possible, even certain to happen given the appropriate conditions. "There's been low ratings before, but cancellation? That would not mean just the end, but The End. That goes beyond any Big Bang of colliding 'branes and spurring of new metarealities. It means *poof*. /Everything/ would be reset, and I mean literally. Big Button of Doom time. Book of infinity discarded. /Us/ discarded, recycled into a new Purpose."

"Death," whispered Lips, "a cessation of being me. Who would /want/ to create a new metaverse without /me/ in it? Although...if it meant my cold went away, I might just give it a brief consideration." The Critic sniffed, then blew into a handkerchief.

Orb ignored Lips and its narcissist suffering. "There's been ratings drops, but never like this. Everything is too pat, which is why I think something is wrong. It is like someone is engineering the fall, making everything destabilize, although for the life of me, I cannot figure out why.

"This Board...can it be examined while in use?"

The Editor was on firmer footing with such a question. "Depends on what you want to look at. I've certain diagnostic tools with me, of course."

Iris was now staring at the board in the all-seeing way only possible by a Director. "I think I see what Orb means. There is an aura of wrongness, sort of."

"Gee...can you be any more specific? I left my 'wrongness aura' meter in my other toolbox," sarcastically replied Hans.

Orb snorted, "I didn't say it would be easy."

Hans sighed, then relented. "If this 'aura' has anything to do with the quantum plane, the Board will have to be brought to the lab; and even a basic quantum appraisal requires continual activity. Stasis freezes the associated quantum. I'll go set up the appropriate equipment. You four, pack the Board, including /all/ the pieces and dice, and bring it to the Editorial Wing. Pack it up while active - stasis cannot be used within thirty hours for a suitable diagnostic - and be /very/ careful with it: too much jostling and there is the possibility of affecting your Game."

Lips hocked up a goober, spitting it into his hankie. Its compatriots ughed. "We are professionals. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Are you sure this is necessary?" asked Iris of the Critics. Its unreal arms were akimbo as the result of hasty preparations were analytically surveyed. "It all seems so...cheesy, with extra cheese."

'It,' by any stretch of the imagination, was very cheesy, figuratively speaking.

Giant paper mache eyeballs, crudely painted, and wax lips were arrayed around the table to provide the greatest obstructionist view to anyone entering the Board Room. Upon the table itself was a cardboard galaxy cut from the box of a "My First Creation Set - A Young Deity's Learning Tool" construction kit; and pewter figures, including a boot and a car, had been stolen from one of the Complex's Rec Room Monopoly games. Under the table, a recorder on endless playback shuffle was delivering stilted phrases like "Your turn to roll" and "Hey! Your anomaly just ate my prime piece!"

"Yes," asserted Lips. It was particularly pleased with its inanimate replacement. "What if the Auditors come back while we are gone, after all?"

Orb joined the conversation as Mouth left to finish packing the Board. It replied skeptically, "Then they will immediately know that we are not here and probably up to no good. I think a simple sign outside the door warning a session is under way and to stay out would be easier."

"Nah," said Lips, for whom 'easier' never equaled 'better,' "that'd just make 'em more...more...more sus*CHOO*!" The words ended in a nasal explosion.

The wobbling, soul-displacing sensation of a short-range temporal splash accompanied the sound of a set of dice accidentally dropped. Orb whirled to see a sheepish Critic looking down at a galaxy nestled in a carry box. Two ten-sided dice scintillated in the temporal spectrum.

"The Board is still active," berated Orb. "What are you doing? Who knows how many temporal anomalies you just activated!"

Mouth frowned, but unlike its Critic comrade, was less hasty to verbally counter-attack with insults. However, it did lean towards art of the smart-arsed remark. "Er, eight, according to the dice."

Iris grumbled, "Idiot! 'Don't drop the galaxy,' isn't that what we've been warning each other? That goes for all the Board bits and pieces too."

"Can we go now?" plaintively asked Lips in a patented Critic whine. "I'm out of cough drops and I really, really want to get some more. And I think I need to stop at a restroom to clean up, too."

Directors and Critic turned to look at Lips, whose last sneeze had sent it well out of any hankie recovery zone. "Eww," said Iris; and that was about all which could be said.

Directors and Critics nonchalantly traversed the corridors of the Complex, just another four entities going from Point A to Point B. Nothing special to look at, nope. How silly: why would anyone be carrying an /active/ Board? This is just a /box/, dontchaknow, and it requires four to take it to the colons at Recycling Services. Nope, nothing out of the ordinary.

The forced casualness that the foursome were projecting attracted the very attention they were attempting to avoid. Shadowed cowls followed Directors and Critics as they scuttled by, robes pivoting away from whatever item was currently under audit.

"Stop smiling like that," hissed Iris to Lips.

"What? Do I have something caught in my teeth? I did brush today."

"No. When Critics smile like you are, /everyone/ knows that something is up."

Finally the Editorial Wing of the Complex was reached. Hastily passing through the double doors, the conspirators left behind the increasingly dubious ungazes of the Auditors and almost immediately stopped in surprise.

The foursome had entered a mad scientist wonderland. Glass beakers of myriad sizes from extra-small to enormously gigantic contained a dizzying array of colored liquids, some of which were bubbling vigorously and without benefit of heat. A maze of tubes curled, bent, spiraled, and otherwise seemed to have no purpose except to convey liquids from one container and back again. Exotic machines beeped and whirred; and a partially dismantled (inactive) Board lay upon a workbench, unknowable bits and pieces arrayed in precise lines while the parent galaxy was submitted to a quietly humming device. Racks of tools, cabinets of tools, baskets of tools littered all available space.

The part of the Editorial Wing which was visible was largely devoid of Editors. Such was not unexpected as the ongoing Board problems had vastly increased demand for the ambulatory hands. When the gaggle of Directors and Critics paused to absorb the sights - none had actually been in the Editorial Wing before - one of the few remaining Editors began to vigorously beckon. The four made their way to a workspace not too distant from the door.

"Glad you finally arrived," said the Editor as its workspace was invaded. The area consisted of several benches covered with incomprehensible equipment. A raised dais was the focal point of the controlled chaos. One of the few non-work surfaces was a desk, largely concealed under a mound of paperwork; and the nearly hidden computer monitor was itself well disguised with yellow sticky notes. On a stand next to the desk was a fairly large aquarium, from whose watery domain glared a fish of indeterminate species.

Defensively answered Lips, "We couldn't hurry, else we might be noticed!"

Iris muttered under its breath, "As if that didn't happen anyway with every sneeze." It was rewarded with an eyeless glare from the Critic.

Sighed Hans, "Could I please have the Board?" Mouth handed over the requested item. "Thank you. This might take a few moments." 'This' was a swift unpacking of the Board, the parts, although still active, handled with a rough confidence which caused the foursome to blanche. The dais was soon covered with sparkling galaxy serenely rotating and inactive pieces. Those figurines which represented pieces in play remained invisible, embedded in the Board, where they would remain until specifically moved.

Unknown equipment was aired, calibrated, poked, and otherwise wrestled into position with the dais as the target. "Excuse me," said Hans several times as one or another of the anxious Players got in its way. Finally the Editor picked up a notebook and a device from the counter, the latter a small box which sprouted a T-shaped coat hanger antenna at one end and sported a single yellow button on its face.

Hans aimed the box's antenna at the galaxy and pushed the button. Immediately a series of rapid electronic beeps emerged from the device. Hans waved the box back and forth a couple of times, listening to the change in pitch and speed of beeps as it did so. It went "Uhum-um" to itself, then furiously scribbled something in the notebook.

The procedure continued, stretching into intense boredom for the nonparticipants. Hans subsampled and sub-subsampled different parts of the Board, making wordless sounds to itself as it recorded the unintelligible beeping results. As it began to pick up each figurine, starting with those not in play, and waved them at the box, Mouth stifled a yawn. Finally Lips could not stand it anymore.

"Well, have you learned anything yet?" demanded the Critic loudly.

The Editor, who had been intently focused on its measurements, startled. It automatically turned to confront Lips; and as it did so, its devices was trained onto the pair of lips. Beeping, which had ceased the moment the Board piece under investigation had left the box's range, returned with a high intensity vengeance. "Well?" repeated the Critic again.

Hans thwapped the side of the device, and again a second time as the noises continued. It swung the antenna away from Lips. The beeps halted. The noise restarted as the box was focused again on the Critic. Several times the procedure was repeated, and as the impatient Lips sneezed, the intensity briefly spiked. "That is unexpected."

"What?" asked Orb with renewed interest. The Directors had been playing 'I Spy With My Omniscient Eye' to pass the time prior to the welcome interruption.

"It shouldn't be doing this," complained Hans as it harshly shook the device before turning it on Lips once more. There was no change in the output. "I should only be measuring Board quantum aberration level and type. No Board is ever without quantum stress, of course, both natural and that sentient propagated. However, I should not be picking up any vibes outside the Board." The device was pointed sequentially at Iris, Orb, Mouth, and itself, then returned to Lips. Only the targeted Critic elicited any response. "I don't know what it means, but it can't be good, especially with the abnormal readings the Board is producing."

Air movement announced the opening of the Editorial Wing doors. Iris and Orb swiveled to see who it was, unimpeded by the mere fact that there were objects between them and the egress. Iris groaned and said, "Auditors. Three of them. It is next to impossible to tell the buggers apart, but the one in front has that same stain on its robe that we saw back in our Board Room. They are coming this way."

The Editor's fingers started to twitch. "Damn. You four shouldn't be here - nonEditors aren't really allowed in this Wing." It frantically looked around. "Um, one of you might be able to fit under the desk; and Knuckles' work area next door always has empty boxes and crates since it is too lazy to take anything to recycling."

A swift argument ensued, followed by several rounds of 'Rock, Paper, Scissors.' Iris managed to secure the dubious honor of underdesk space, leaving the other three to hurry next door to squeeze into boxes. The commotion had just settled as the Auditors swept around a corner, invading the Editor's workspace.

Hans glared at the berobed interruptions. The intensity may not have been as strong as a Director's, but the eyeless hand had long since perfected the outraged indignity of You-Are-Wasting-My-Precious-Time. "Don't you know this is a restricted area?"

The Auditors were not impressed. As the two trailing Auditors paused at the threshold of where general Wing became personal workspace, the third floated forward. "Everything will be audited."

"Well," muttered Hans darkly, "you aren't scheduled to do so /today/ are you? I've seen the calendar posted in the common rooms, so I know you aren't; and with most /everyone/ trying to handle the Board crises, there isn't exactly anyone here to attend to the Editorial Wing audit, like the rules say needs to be done."

The spokesAuditor did not answer the wordless accusation. Instead it floated nearer to the dais. "What are you doing?"

Huffed the Editor, "My job. And if the lot of you would go wherever it is Auditors go when they aren't at the Complex, my fellow Editors and I could focus better on said job."

"What, exactly, are you doing?"

"Testing for excessive quantum aberrations on this Board. Do you want the entire technobabble explanation, because I can do so if you want. Hey! What are you doing? Give me that! Can't you see this Board is active?" The Auditor had reached into the Board, seemingly plucking a playing figure from the starry matrix by random. Hans had snatched the cube-shaped piece away before something could happen to it.

From under the desk came a shuffling, scratching noise, as if a certain Director was barely holding itself from entering the fray. Fortunately, the fish took that moment to suck up an exceptionally large number of rocks into its mouth and spit them against the glass, precipitating a rattling that largely obscured the noise of Iris' movements.

The Auditor glanced in the direction of the fish tank, immediately dismissing the relevance of the distraction. "Demonstrate," it said, the cowl gesturing meaningfully at the figurine Hans held.

The Editor looked at the cube, then the Auditor, and finally back to the cube. "Fine. I push the button and point the antenna at the playing piece. Depending on the level of quantum flaw and fluctuation, the quality and speed of beeps will..." Hans paused, stared at its device, then shook it. "Stupid thing malfunctioning all over the place today. I think it needs new batteries."

Asked the Auditor, "What is wrong?"

"Everything on a Board has a component of quantum aberration. That is the nature of quantum. Origin and what it means - is it out of tolerance specs? - takes longer to discern and specialized equipment that I don't have at my bench. This figure is registering nothing."

"Which means?"

"Well...I don't know. Maybe, outlandish as it seems, there /is/ no quantum aberration, else something is shielding it from the detectors, although I can't imagine how such would be accomplished. Most likely is I need new batteries." The Editor was consternated. "You see, if I turn the device on you..."

Loud, insistent beeps began the moment the antenna lined up with the Auditor. The Editor stared, glanced down at its device, then back at the floating robe.

Hurriedly said the spokesAuditor, "Things to do. Things to do. So much to audit, so little time. Gotta go." As it pushed by Hans, it severely jostled the Editor, causing it to lose its grip on device and figurine. A one-hand juggling exhibition commenced, ending with the device safely grasped but the cube flying through the air and plunking with unerring accuracy into the fish tank. By the time Hans had itself under control, the Auditors were gone.

The door to the Editorial Wing thumped shut.

Iris surged out from under the desk and immediately pushed itself up against the tank, frantically searching. "Where is it? That thing won't eat my cube, will it?"

Hans wasn't listening, instead frantically scribbling in its notebook.

Orb and Critics re-entered Hans' workspace. "Why'd they leave so fast?" asked Mouth.

"Will your fish try to eat my piece, or not?" demanded Iris again.

Hans stopped writing. "Bubba? Oh, he'll try to eat anything which goes in his tank. Great fun at parties if you can get a fellow Editor to stick a finger in the tank."

Iris urked. A splash sounded as the Director retrieved the cube figure before it could become a fish snack. There was a relieved sigh as Iris was successful. The piece was returned to the Board from where it had been plucked.

"Fascinating," murmured the Editor, mostly to itself, as it read the results of its writing. "Absolutely fascinating."

"What is fascinating?" asked Orb, breaking Hans from its reverie.

Answered Hans, "It is all somehow related: the Board quantum aberrations, Lips, the Auditor. All have similar signatures. Not exactly the same, but similar. The Board is obviously sick, as is Lips, although no Complex entity should take ill. The Auditor seems fine. I don't know what it means, but it obviously means something. More tests are needed."

"With this Board?" inquired Orb.

The Editor seemed to snap out of its bemused state. "No...no, not with this Board. Other 'sick' entities, other board, other Auditors if I can. It is all linked."

"The Auditors are at the bottom of it, aren't they?" asked Lips. "/They/ gave me this cold." It coughed in involuntary emphasis.

"I don't know. That's why more tests are needed," answered Hans.

Orb hummed. "In that case, I think we four should return to our Board Room. I bet those three - why can't they wear nametags? - were the same ones that visited us earlier. If there was no real reason for them to be in here as you tried to claim, Hans, then I bet they were looking for us...or at least the suspicious Critics and Directors who were last seen heading in the direction of the Editorial Wing."

"We were not suspicious," countered Lips. It snorted as both Directors eye-rolled in its direction. Relented the Critic, "Maybe just a little."

"Well, until someone things to visit Board Room D-7, we are probably safe. Let's get back as soon as possible," said Orb.

With full agreement amid the Players, the Board was repacked.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked Lips nervously.

Iris snorted. "It is as good, if not better, than the idea of 'us' left in the Board room. In other words, not a good idea at all. However, the Producers have to be told."

The four were clustered in the outer office of the Producer who oversaw D-block Board Rooms. Usually a secretary was in attendance to control access to the mobile brain, but no one was present. Such was a very fortunate circumstance because the normal gatekeeper was a hulking, no nonsense foot who was not above punting unscheduled petitioners back into the hallway.

"Why are we whispering?" hissed Mouth. "We have every right to be here. This is our boss, after all. Well, your boss, as Critics are above the need for bosses."

The door to the Producer's inner sanctum was slightly ajar. As Iris reached forward to knock, it felt it was all alone. Looking back it saw its three comrades, Mouth tightly clutching the packed Board, waiting at a distance out of splash range in case the Producer took exception at the invasion and needed a target for its wrath. The Director rolled its eye in annoyance, then continued its motion, pausing once more as it heard voices from within the office. It leaned forward to listen - Directors did not eavesdrop - so as to determine who might be present and if a polite interruption would be welcome.

"Time for your spa," smoothly said an unknown voice, hollow character marking it as an Auditor.

Responded the familiar voice of the Producer of D-block, "Do I have to? So much work to be done."

"It'll relax you, wash away your concerns. Extra bubbles are ordered, the better to tickle the temporal lobes. It'll make time pass quicker; and before you know, the audit will be done. Before we head to the spa, however, why don't you let the masseuse start you out with a cerebellum massage? Meanwhile, for pre-audit records only, of course, could you provide some background information about, say, the Board and Players of Room D-7?" The oily quality of the voice could have put several petroleum manufactories out of business.

Iris hastily backed away from the door.

Asked Orb curiously, "Why didn't you go in?"

"Probably lost its nerve," inserted Lips. Its quiet snigger devolved into a contortion which foreshadowed a massive sneeze.

Iris barely spared the Critic an obligatory glare. "The Producer's being brainwashed," urgently whispered the green-eyed Director, "literally. There's Auditors in there with it, and one of them is asking about us."

"Ahh..."

Wondered Orb, "What have we done to deserve attention?"

"Ahh..."

Countered Mouth, "Oh, kick three Auditors out of our Board Room, for starters; and didn't you dump that cup of hot tea on one of the creatures the other day in the cafeteria?"

"That was an accident," hissed Orb vehemently.

"Suuuurrre," agreed the Critic sagely, for whom 'accidents' were few.

"Ahh-ahh..."

"Quiet, or someone is going to hear us," warned Iris. Its eye (or itself) widened as it glanced at Lips: an explosion of epic proportions was building. "No, no, no...no sneeze."

"Ahh-ahh-ahh..."

Orb blinked, then assessing the situation, grabbed a box of tissues off the absent secretary's desk and proceeded to shove the container's contents into the gaping mouth. "Push Lips against the floor. Quick!"

The three dog-piled on the Critic, shoving it lips-first to the ground. With a muffled *CHOO!* it divested itself of its sneeze, as well as many wet Kleenex.

"Let's get out of here," said Iris with an anxious eye on the inner door.

"Wait, I need to blow into my handker..." protested Lips. It was cut off by its arch-nemesis Director.

"No time. Come on!"

The four hurried from the room, not bothering to pick up Lips' mess. They did not see the door to the Producer's office crack open wide enough to admit an Auditor. The Auditor, its robe sporting a distinctive stain, curiously floated to the a wet pile of tissues which had not been present earlier. After briefly consulting with its comrades inside the inner office, it left the brainwashing session to track the path of discarded Kleenex and determine who had been present only moments before.

"The Writers' Annex," said Iris as the four moved purposefully away from the Producer's offices.

Orb swiveled to stare at its fellow Director. "Writers? Are you mad? They are kept locked up in their Annex for a reason! Mad, certifiably insane, the lot of them. Besides, have you ever /seen/ a Writer? I haven't...no one has."

Mouth added, "They are supposed to be horrible entities, monstrous to look upon. Worse than Lips, even."

Iris glanced at the named Critic, who was dribbling a streamer of snot as it tried to dislodge tissues from its teeth without running into a wall. Purple lipstick was definitely in need of a touch-up. "Yuck. Still, someone needs to be told about the possible link between Auditors, illness, and Boards. If not the Producers, then who has the authority to do something? The Writers." The Director's logic was impeccable, except for one small problem....

"And how do you - not 'we' - propose to talk to them when you get there? Shout through the mail slot?"

"I don't know. I'll figure it out when /we/ get there, Mouth."

"Can we maybe move a bit faster?" asked Orb. "There's an Auditor a ways behind us. I don't think it is following us, but I'd like to put a couple of corners between it and our conspiracy theories." The four picked up the pace.

"The Writers' Annex," concluded Iris firmly, taking the lead for one of the less popular parts of the Complex.

As the goal neared, the corridors perversely became increasingly populated; and not with the normal ambulatory anatomy which comprised the Complex masses, but with Auditors. Directors and Critics unconsciously huddled into a compact knot even as they assured each other that they had the right to go anywhere in the Complex they wanted. Mouth made sure the Board was hidden in plain sight as well as it could be. They slowed as the great gold-gilded doors to the Writers' Annex were approached.

In normal times, the corridors around the Annex would be nearly deserted, the only occupants those who were on their way elsewhere. The entrance to the Annex itself was a pair of large double doors, fanciful bas-reliefs of feather quills, ink pots, and computers decorating the face. Filigree gold scrollwork limned the edges. The doors themselves were chained closed with heavy tritannium links bolstered by quantum sheathing; and a no-nonsense lock for which the key had long since been purposefully misplaced prevented entry. A small mail slot was present, from which bound scripts occasionally issued. Those scripts were quickly scooped up by the Messenger who had drawn short straw for doorkeeper duty, swept off to a Producer.

These were not normal times. The density of Auditors only increased the closer the Writers' Annex was approached; and at the Annex itself, the black robes were in tight knots, conversing. Six guards flanked the doors themselves; and while lock and chain remained intact, both showed signs of repeated attempts at tampering.

The foursome were coming under increased scrutiny.

"Not a good idea, Iris," iterated Lips harshly. "If we get blasted, it'll be all your fault."

Orb nervously made a throat-clearing noise. "I think we should get back to our Board Room and deny we ever left its relative security. At the very least, let's leave here."

With fixed smiles (literally in the case of the Critics, figuratively for the Directors) pasted on their nonexistent faces, the group continued their trek. Just passing through. This was not our destination, nope. Places to go, of which the Writers' Annex is not one of them. Walking pace increased.

The stain-berobed Auditor, non-eyes narrowed in suspicion, paused in front of the massive Annex doors. It beckoned at one of the guards to follow it, then continued trailing the out-of-place Directors and Critics. Speed was increased to keep up with the quarry. It had not been able to move close enough to positively identify the entities in question, but it had a sneaking suspicion deep down it /knew/ who the four were. It was only a matter of time.

"Through that door."

"Second turn to the right."

"Left at the T-intersection."

Lips was in the lead, partially from bullying itself into the position, but mostly by claiming to know a back route to Board Room D-7 which would avoid Auditors. Curt verbal directions were provided, the Critic obviously reveling in the fact that it was in charge, at least temporarily. It was also quite clear that while the instances of Auditors was becoming less, no one else was present, neither. In a word, the 'back route' was becoming a very long short-cut indeed.

And if that wasn't enough, two Auditors were trailing them.

"We're lost," muttered Iris.

"No we aren't," replied Lips. "I know right where we are."

"Then where are we?"

"Right where we are supposed to be. Would you like me to take a few hours to draw you a map you'd understand?"

Orb shushed, "Quiet, children. Maybe a bit of speed will throw off our hunters."

The four moved faster, then faster again, each increase in speed matched by the two pursuing Auditors. Finally they skidded around a corner, then paused to catch their metaphorical breath. In the case of Lips, it actually did wheeze heavily, cold having an effect upon its exertions.

"Do you see anything? Have we given them the slip?" asked Mouth of the two Directors as the latter rotated, giving 'eye rolling' a very literal meaning.

"Hard to tell," said Orb, "what with the way the Complex interferes with omnipotence."

Iris wobbled to a halt, looking at a wall, or, rather, beyond it. "Black robes at two-o'clock. They are only a couple of corners behind and not acting like they are lost."

Mouth swore, inventive curses a Critic specialty. It turned its attention to Lips. "You said you knew an expedient way to our Board Room that avoided Auditors. The Auditors are mostly avoided, so now would be a good time to invoke the expedient part of your boast."

The purple-painted pair of lips straightened from the wall with a final phlem-ladden gurgle. "That way," it handlessly gestured. "Um, third door on the right." It hesitated, as if more was to be added.

"Third door on the right, you sure?" asked Mouth dubiously. All the doors in the corridor appeared the same, as if they had been duplicated by a Xerox fabricator. The discrete identification placards which should have been present were gone, replaced by plaster-furred screw holes and faded notifications of routine maintenance.

Lips nodded stiffly. "Yes, third door on the right. Absolutely sure. I've taken this route lots of times." A hint of indignity colored its tone.

"Let's go," urged Iris. "Two more turns, and the Auditors will see us." The Director swiveled to stare impatiently at the Critics.

"Follow me," said Lips as it sped down the corridor. It yanked open the specified door and charged through. With nowhere else to go, the remaining trio glanced apprehensively at each other, then followed. Mouth held tightly to the packed Board. Bodiless eyeballs and lips can make a good turn of speed when necessary.

And they can stop quickly, too.

"Please define 'lots,'" sarcastically whispered Iris as it simultaneously riveted the equivalent of a broad, fake smile on its nonexistent face.

Mumbled Lips to itself, "Maybe it was the fourth door on the left? Most definitely fourth door on the left."

As is the convention in situations such as the one developing, the door just passed through had shut, leaving behind no evidence that it had ever existed.

The four stood on a stage lit by a pair of anemic spotlights. 'Stage' was probably too strong a word, calling to mind grand operas and plays. This particular stage was standard issue for dive bars of the lowest sort, where musicians are merely the opening act for the main entertainment of brawling. No musical instruments were set up at the moment, replaced by a complex boxy contraption of speakers, snaking wires, and thin screen. Upon the latter hovered the words "Quit Playing Games (With My Spleen)." Four microphones, three set back from a prominent solo, waited upon the stage.

Lips was at the forward edge, peering over the low parapet. In its haste, it had apparently bowled over the stage's original occupant, sending that worthy onto an audience member's table. The yellow-shirted human was carefully picking himself up from the wreckage of wood and alcohol with the deliberance of the overly intoxicated. He was being assisted by the table's occupants and jeering cheers of "Kirk! Kirk! Kirk!"

"This is the Captain's Bar!" hissed Orb in sudden understanding. "And on karaoke night, too!"

There was the quiet click of a door closing within the shadows of the stage's rear. Iris glanced backwards. "The Auditors have found us," it informed quietly.

The Auditor pair whom had been pursuing Directors and Critics had not passed the door with the wild abandon which had sent pursuees to stage center. As the two dark robes glided to the stage wings, it was apparent they were loath to enter the spotlight and make a scene, a hesitancy common to sentient beings Everywhere. It was also apparent that they were fuming over their impotency to do anything as long as their quarry was behind the impenetrable shield of the stage. Robe sleeves shadowed cowls; and there was a sense of squinting as the spotlight strengthened, making it next to impossible for the Auditors to positively identify their prey.

The bar audience would not be deprived of their entertainment, even if the original performer-to-be was currently too incapacitated to sing. "Kar-a-o-ke!" Kar-a-o-kee! Kar-a-o-ke!" was being chanted (or slurred) to the beat of pounding mugs, glasses, steins, skulls, and other drinkware. Directors and Critics could not slip into the wings, but neither could they push towards the main Captain's Bar entrance, not without serious and likely painful consequences.

The title on the teleprompter began to flash as music, a driving electronic beat with heavy bass overtones, increased in volume. The audience, even the infamous James T. Kirk, started to wildly applaud and cheer. Alcoholic beverages sloshed. Orb, Iris, and Mouth looked at each other, then scrambled for the three back-up microphones, leaving Lips, still slightly confused over the situation, the spot of prominence.

"Get to the microphone," hissed Mouth to its comrade as bright notes slashed across the opening rhythm. The audience quieted to mostly expectant silence, except for a few belches and the murmur of talkative drunks. From behind a column at the back of the bar - impossibly far, yet space-twistingly near - a should-be familiar voice complained that the view was blocked.

"Huh?" spouted Lips.

"Microphone. Now," repeated Mouth.

As the music temporarily paused, Lips took in both the unglare of the irate Auditors and the alcohol-fueled gleam of the audience. It scrambled to its place behind the lead microphone. It was just in time for the return of a rapid, complex melody offset by pounding percussion. Words began to scroll up the teleprompter.

"Baby...Ohh...I hold your spleen and I see that you were not being true to me. Deep within my soul, I feel that this isn't as it should be...." Lips read the lyrics as they appeared, unfamiliar with song and only vaguely attempting any semblance of music or timing. All in all, it was a typical karaoke effort, perhaps better than most. Lack of talent was not bothering the audience, for through the haze of alcohol, anything can become a chart-topper.

The teleprompter started to flash "Chorus" as the first stanza wound to an end. Directors and remaining Critic inharmoniously joined Lips, eyeballs demonstrating even less musical talent than the 'lead singer.' Iris was energetically substituting volume to make up for aptitude.

"Quit playing games with my spleen before I slice you apart (with my bat'leth). Quit playing games with my spleen. I should've known when you turned green...."

As the song wound through its many verses and choruses, the Auditors were becoming increasingly impatient. They also tended to wince a lot as out-of-tune notes combined for less than harmonious results. Still they refused to step upon the stage.

"Last chorus" warned the teleprompter as now-familiar lyrics started to scroll. Unexpectedly the one-way conversation continued, "If I were you, I'd use the opportunity for a big exit. The microphones are detachable."

Orb and Iris blinked, then began to scan the crowd. Both eyeballs alighted upon the barkeeper; and Director-vision noted an odd blurring of forms. While the bartender was an unassuming bipedal sentient proficient in the art of serving drinks, it was also another Director. Who better to keep an eye upon the often rowdy patrons of the Captain's Bar? The blue-irised eyeball winked as only an eyelidless Director can. Orb and Iris took their microphones, then nudged Mouth.

Mouth pointedly poked Lips with a corner of the Board's box.

"Quit playing games with my spleen! Quit playing games!" forcefully sang the foursome as they descended from the stage and fanned out into the audience.

An obviously very, very drunk Klingon whose 'My name is' sticker-badge read 'Klag' quietly sobbed. "Oh, I /love/ the Alley Targs. They are my absolute favorite band. And those four did it so /well/."

As the karaoke machine started to play the song's instrumental conclusion, Directors and Critics met at the bar. Microphones were tossed upon the counter.

"Thanks," said Orb to the bartender. "Mac is it not? I think I've seen you at some of the staff meetings. Where's the door?"

Mac made a dismissive gesture, then pointed at the egress mostly hidden in shadow. "Don't worry about it. Auditors are bastards. Last time they were here, they found 'irregularities' with my pretzel and snack budget. As it /anyone/ can keep track of such things in a place like this. I'll do my best to stall 'em."

The crowd was starting to chant "Kar-a-o-ke!" once more; and on the stage, trapped by the lights, stood the Auditors, frozen. Captain Kirk, who had managed to climb back onto the stage, was glaring at the pair who were threatening to upstage him. Even Auditors, omnipotent beings that they were, knew better than to mess with the likes of James T. "A-Fight-Looking-For-A-Place-To-Happen" Kirk.

"Thanks," said Orb once more before the foursome hurried out the door and back into the plain corridors of the Complex.

Snorted Iris, "Expedient route."

Lips managed to look slightly contrite before it broke into a fit of hacking coughs.

The door into Board Room D-7 was flung open. Silhouetted against the brighter illumination of the corridor was a black shape that quickly resolved into an Auditor as it floated into the room. The robe was more than a little disheveled; and where before this particular Auditor had fretted over one barely visible stain, liquids of various alcoholic proofs, colors, and planets of origin were drying into a tacky mess resistant even to the powers of an omnipotent laundry attendant.

It was trailed hesitantly by a second Auditor, also decorated in a manner unbecoming a mysterious being. This Auditor exuded the air of a guard who /really/ wanted to be watching over something out of the way where excitement was measured by millimeters of dust accumulated per millennium.

YOU... began the lead Auditor, using an official Voice.

Orb lazily spun away from the central table and towards the words, then sanguinely asked, "Didn't you see the sign? We're a tad bit busy deciding the fates of trillions, you know."

"Yah," peevishly added Lips, Critic whine strong, "busy, busy, busy. And what's with you? You Auditors are usually dressed a bit...cleaner than you two. You look like you just waded through one of the karaoke night brawls at the Captain's Bar. What are professional standards coming too?" It would have continued, except a sound suspiciously alike that of foot impacting shin, despite obvious lack of either in the room, echoed from under the table.

Mouth grinned widely, showing more teeth than was strictly necessary, or considered friendly outside of the shark world.

YOU... tried the Auditor again.

"Hey," said Iris as it put down the dice it had been holding, "aren't you one of the Auditors who was in here earlier? You look vaguely familiar, although I could be wrong. Do you have your credentials with you? It's not a correspondence course that you can earn with a couple of hours of reading, so your papers better not have 'Q Institute' or similar on them."

Lips started to speak once more, but was interrupted by a cough. It groaned, unwrapped two cough drops, then noisily began to suck them.

YOU...YOU...YOU.... The Auditor, trembling, trailed off into silence. Its cowl turned to face each Player in turn, taking in too-innocent facades. Sounds of barely suppressed anger increased in volume with each inspection and the dawning knowledge that any suspicions could not be conclusively proved. Finally the Auditor exploded: I'LL BE BACK! It abruptly swiveled and left the room, the guard swept up in its wake.

"And don't forget your credentials next time!" called Mouth at the retreating figure.

The door swung shut.

Silence.

A communal sigh of relief.

"That was close," noted Iris with a significant glance towards the exit. Paper mache and cardboard heaped in a haphazard pile had been hidden solely by the open door. Concealment options in Board Rooms were limited. The Director reached into the hastily unpacked Board and extracted a favorite playing piece. "So, what do we do now?"

"What can we do?" asked Mouth glumly, seconded by a nodding Lips. "We have a bunch of may-bes and could-bes that are probably paranoid delusions."

Orb squinted at the figurine its comrade held, blinking as an ethereal flash of Mandelbrot fractals flared in concurrence with one of Lips' sneezes. An ejected cough drop that barely missed the Board and translation into one of the more odd spatial anomalies was ignored. The shimmer settled into a protective scintillating sheath enveloping the piece. As the shield slowly evaporated, it was accompanied by a sense of...butterfly wings.

Iris stared. "It's never done /that/ before!"

"We don't acquire paranoid delusions. Of course, we aren't supposed to become sick, neither. Regardless, if our and the Editor's suspicions are correct and something /is/ out of kilter, maybe, just maybe, there is something we can do," said Orb as it directed a significant Look at the opposite Director.

The Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347 representation was returned to its place on the Board.

---

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