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Midnight oil burned quietly in the shadows of the Forward Observation
Lounge on the _USS Croutonprize_. A tall figure stood by the large panes
of transparent aluminum-3, immersed in the starlight stretching slowly by.
Having lost himself in the shimmering of those distant suns, his only move-
ments were his infrequent breaths (as both his genetic structure and his
ancient musical training required fewer, but deeper, breaths than the norm)
and the occasional removal of individual strands of hair from the right side
of his head.
An hour passed as he stood there, unsleeping though much of the ship
slept. Much weighed on his mind and rarely did sleep come with such a
burden upon his already heavy head.
When he finally broke the silence, the words would have surprised any
that may have heard.
"O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of
invention," he whispered, his volume building slowly. "A Federation for a
stage, officers to act, and admirals to behold the swelling scene! Then
should the warlike Avenger, like himself, assume the port of Mars, and at
his heels (leashed in, like hounds) should famine, sword, and fire crouch
for employment."
Avenger's voice lowered once again to a soft whisper, although he now
began to use hand gestures to emphasize his words. "But pardon, gentles all,
the flat unraised spirits that hath dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring
forth so great an object. Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of Borg?
Or may we cram within this tiny starship the very casques that did affright
the air at Vulcan?"
The door to the Lounge slid open quietly, admitting brief illumination
to the room. Avenger paused, unturning, and hearing nothing, he endeavored
to continue.
"O, pardon--since a crooked figure may attest in little place a googol
and let us, ciphers to this great accompt, on your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of this galaxy are now confined the two mighty
collectives, whose high, upreared and abutting fronts the perilous narrow
ocean of interstellar space parts asunder. Piece out your imperfections
with your thoughts: into an Avogadro's number parts divide one man and make
imaginary puissance."
Avenger became bolder, now speaking aloud. Picard might have been
proud of the performance. Well, to be honest, probably not.
"Think, when we talk of starships, that you see them warping graciously
the very fabric o' th' surrounding space; for 'tis your thoughts that now
must deck our speakers, carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,
turning th' accomplishment of many years into an hourglass; for the which
supply, admit me Chorus to this history; who, Prologue-like, your humble
patience pray, gently to hear, kindly to judge our play!" [1]
Swept up in the emotion of the moment, Avenger took a bow for Mizar,
and another for Arcturus. He was surprised to hear a slow, methodical
applause erupt from the darkness behind him.
"Oh, bra-vo, Admiral," lauded Crossfire, with a sarcasm more befitting
the Continuum Q. "The prologue to _Henry V_, wasn't it?"
"Oh, um, yes," stammered the embarrassed Admiral, his face shading red
behind shadow.
"How many times do I have to remind you that you are NOT the Riddler?"
Crossfire scolded with a wavy finger as he joined the Admiral at the window.
"I suppose the reference is appropriate, considering, but you could certainly
use a few acting lessons."
"What's up?" asked Avenger, in an effort to avoid further embarrassment.
"The two of us, from the looks of it." Crossfire stroked his chin
thoughtfully as he turned to the starry void. "You feel the end nearing,
don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean, Admiral, is that it's coming to a head. Humanity and the
Borg. You and Bjorn. What we do in the next few days, maybe the next few
hours, will decide our fate. Will we win? Will the Borg? Who knows?
Nevertheless, it's nearly over."
Avenger nodded. These two Star Fleet veterans shared a common thread
that weaved well into the center of the Borg Collective. This war had not
started two months ago. It had started over six decades ago. They had
been there at Vulcan, Crossfire still a youth, Avenger a starship captain,
during Star Fleet's bloodiest encounter. Now they were yet again to play
out their roles in the ongoing struggle between Borg and Federation.
"Garth, I'm frightened," Avenger admitted.
"So am I, but that's not going to stop me."
"I don't think anything will ever stop you."
"Don't bet on it," Crossfire countered grimly. "Admiral, I think there's
something you need to bring an end to..."
"Bjorn will be there," Avenger nodded. "He and I have crossed rackets for
far too long. One of us is not going to survive *this* day."
"Just make sure that Bjorn's the one we bury, please."
"I'll do what I can," Avenger reassured with a feigned confidence.
"Admiral, there is an actual reason I came by."
"Well, I know you like the view here." Avenger yawned and turned for the
door. "I really ought to push off and get some rest anyway."
"Dave picked up something odd on his sensors a short time ago," said
Crossfire, stopping Avenger dead in his tracks. "It was a small pod, rather
like our mail pods, but of Borg design."
"Borg--?"
"It was homing on us, repeating a message on an older frequency...one
of the ones that was in common use before The Dilemma. 'For Avenger,' it
kept saying."
"From Bjorn, no doubt."
"No doubt," Crossfire agreed. He walked to the table and picked up an
object that looked like a small breadbox...if the Borg ever built such things.
"We found this inside. I checked it over myself -- it's harmless. Borg
Tupperware, maybe? I figured I should bring it directly to you."
Avenger took the box from Crossfire and set it on the table before him.
Somehow, the box recognized him, perhaps sensing his fingerprints, and opened
to reveal...
"Tennis balls?" wondered Crossfire aloud. [2]
Clearly, Crossfire did NOT understand Bjorn at all, Avenger concluded.
He knew damn well what this represented...and that the contents of this box
WOULD hurt many.
"'We will return to face you at Wimbledon,'" whispered Avenger, as he
grasped a tennis ball tightly in his palm.
"What?"
'We will return to face you at Wimbledon,' Bjorn's voice repeated, over
and over again in the dungeons of Avenger's mind. [3] The Admiral stood
stunned for several moments, rolling the tennis ball over and over in his
hand, before madness finally overcame him.
"I am glad Bjorn is so pleasant with us!" he finally exclaimed with a
mock joy. "His present, and his pains, we thank him for. When we have
matched our racket to these balls, we will at Wimbledon (with all luck) play
a set that shall strike Bjorn's forces into the hazard."
Avenger whirled suddenly and propelled himself out of the room, strong
purpose again in his stride. Crossfire hurried to catch up as they reached
the bridge.
"Tell Bjorn he hath made a match with such a wrangler that all the
Collective will be disturbed with chases. I understand him well, how he
comes o'er me with my wilder days, not measuring what use I made of them."
Avenger dropped into his weathered captain's chair and continued his
flowery speech. "I never valued this poor seat and therefore, living hence,
did give myself to barbarous license; as 'tis ever common that men are
merriest when they are from home. Tell Bjorn I will keep my state and show
my sail of greatness, when I do rouse the Speakers of Borg!" [4]
Crossfire rolled his eyes, waiting for Avenger to get to the point.
The graveyard shift bridge crew stared at Avenger and looked to Crossfire
for guidance, wondering what the hell the Admiral was on about and if it
was catching.
"Admiral, would you quit with the Shakespeare and just tell me what
the hell is going on?!?"
"With all haste!" Avenger leaped to the con, placing his hand on the
young woman's shoulder. "Helm, plot a course for the planet of Wimbledon,
where we will gather our forces, save those needed for Xavion."
He whirled back toward the captain's chair and Crossfire. "It is an
end that Bjorn seeks and it is an ending shall have him! He has made clear
that his arena shall be Wimbledon!"
Avenger dropped into the command seat and assumed a melancholy Thinker
pose. "And so it shall."
FADE TO CREDITS
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
STAR TREK: THE CROUTON GENERATION
"The Perfect Game"
Part 17: "Wimbledon"
Written by The Admiral
Guest stars
Bjorn Borg
Brian Ridley
Robert Patrick
John Hurt
Lalla Ward
Music by Cliff Eidelman
Directed by Nicholas Meyer
Notes:
[1] _Henry V_, Prologue
[2] An extremely appropriate reference to _Henry V_!
[3] ST:TCG2 "Serving the Best"
[4] _Henry V_, Act I, Scene II
[5] _Henry V_, Act III, Scene V
[6] _Henry V_, Act III, Scene I
[7] _Henry V_, Act IV, Scene III
[8] The Scottish play, Act IV, Scene I
[9] Courtesy _Saturday Night Live_, circa 1989-91
[10] _King Lear_, Act V, Scene III
[11] _Henry V_, Act IV, Scene VII
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Sorry am I his numbers are so few, his soldiers sick, and famished in
their march," rambled Avenger.
"He's been living in the world of Henry the Fifth all night," Crossfire
told Soraya. "He doesn't belong in that chair any more."
"Do YOU want to be the one to relieve him of duty?" she countered.
"Would you rather let him get us killed?"
"For I am sure," Avenger continued, stopping only to sip a little mint
tea. "When he shall see our army, he'll drop his heart into the sink of
fear and, for achievement, offer us his ransom." [5]
"Crossfire, it's probably the only comfort he has at the moment. You
have to remember--Bjorn took his command out from under him and forced him
into the admirality that he now despises!"
"Good speech, Soraya. Listen, I like the man and I usually trust him,
but right now, I don't know how much is left but obsession."
"Maybe that's a good thing," Counselor Neon chipped in. "At a time like
this, obsession might be the only thing that keeps him going."
"But--"
"I hear you plotting up there," said Avenger in a voice that sounded
frighteningly like Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal Lecter. "I can assure you that
I am the same man I have always been."
"Prove it!" challenged Crossfire, overcoming his usual restraint.
"Easy," Avenger responded in his own voice, whirling to stand upon his
chair, facing them over the security railing. His recently hardened features
had given way to his more familiar goofy grin. "What's on your feet?"
"What?!?"
"What's on your feet???" Avenger pressed.
"Combat boots."
"What else?"
"Socks."
"Can you smell socks?" He reached out and 'honked' Crossfire's nose,
then leaped backwards off the chair and up the ramp. Soraya was glad the
Admiral dashed away so quickly, for she feared that she'd otherwise have
been presiding over Crossfire's court-martial (on charges of throttling a
flag officer).
"I assure you," Avenger stated from the top of the ramp. "I am still
the Avenger. I merely absorb myself in the task at hand, bracing myself with
the words of the Poet, should they make my efforts more successful."
"What a loon," Zort commented.
"*You're* supposed to be in Cyberspace," scolded Avenger.
"I'm almost doneskers, Caporewski. I'll be down to see the Taubmeister
uno momento."
Avenger nodded and turned back to Crossfire. "Trust me. I KNOW what
I'm doing. You can't tell me that Kirk and Picard didn't quote classic
literature when facing this type of danger. I own video that supports MY
side of that argument!"
I wouldn't doubt he does, thought Soraya. Acting quickly, she leapt
forward and grasped Avenger's hand in an attempt to defuse the situation.
"You've got my vote," she said. "Just don't screw up."
"Not a problem," he winked. Crossfire couldn't take any more, so he
simply threw up his hands and left the bridge to deal with other issues.
"Gee, I hope it was nothing I said," frowned Avenger knowingly.
* * * * *
Bjorn and the other Speakers looked outward from their vessels, reaching
through Cyberspace, touching the _Croutonprize_...
"Wimbledon," they agreed. So Avenger *would* meet Bjorn as was planned.
So much the better. The _Croutonprize_ would be assimilated. Crossfire's
tactical genius would become part of the Uni-mind. Borg would learn how to
think perpendicularly courtesy of Avenger. Perhaps the future would hold
promise after all.
The loss of the No-Doz design team was unfortunate, but the addition of
Xavion (and Yoyoboq, which would be inevitable when the rest of the Federation
fell) would also give them needed advantages. The Collective would finally be
whole. The Collective would finally be able to defend itself...perhaps even
strike back. A giddiness passed briefly through the Uni-mind before matters
at hand resumed their importance.
* * * * *
The _Croutonprize_ led the fleet to Wimbledon, a small green world that
when viewed from 250 million kilometers' distance resembled a giant tennis
ball. It was a lush, life-giving world situated in a more desolate area of
burned-out star systems, an oasis in a desert. Here, so many years before,
a man's destiny had taken form. Today, a flotilla of starships followed
that man here.
_Croutonprize_, of course, had the support of _Volvo_ and _Plasma_, but
was now joined by the remnants of Star Fleet's forces in this part of the
galaxy. Ships of all shapes and sizes joined forces for the task at hand.
Most of the rest of the fleet was already on its way to Xavion.
Avenger, Crossfire and the admirals and captains of the fleet had already
conferred on general strategy for the coming battle. The outward ships began
to form up into position. This was going to be a big one, perhaps surpassing
Vulcan eleven years before, and scuttlebutt was that Xavion was going to be
just as big.
On each ship, the crews stood nervously at their stations, awaiting the
arrival of their opponents. There was no doubt in Avenger's mind that they
*would* come. The Borg had their treachery, but Bjorn had always kept his
word to Avenger.
It was strange, that these two men, so different, were so much the same.
Bjorn spoke for a segment of the Borg Collective, conveying the ideas of the
Uni-Mind in his own particular way. Avenger represented the Federation, true,
but he was also a conglomeration of his homeworlds and in many ways was the
speaker for the world he left to die some three billion light years distant.
Each was a strong individual, yet neither was alone.
In recent hours, questions of Avenger's sanity had relaxed as had his
quotations of Shakespeare. Crossfire was settled down and ready for the
task at hand. It was time for the customary inspirational speech, and as
the senior commander, it was Avenger's duty to perform it. As his finger
slid across the button that opened up intrafleet communications, Crossfire
suddenly realized what Avenger would no doubt say.
"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," Avenger began,
confirming Crossfire's worst suspicions. "Or close the wall up with our
dead! Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage, then lend the eye a
terrible aspect! Let it pry through the portage of the head like the photon
torpedo tube. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide, hold hard the
breath, and bend up every spirit to its full height!"
Avenger stood and walked slowly toward the main viewscreen, looking down
on the greenish world below. "On, on, you noble Federation! Dishonor not
your mothers; now attest that those whom you called fathers did beget you!
Let us swear that you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not, for there
is none of you so mean and base that hath not noble luster in your eyes. I
see you stand like grepplenocks in the slips, straining upon the start.
"The game's afoot! Follow your spirit; and upon this charge, cry,
'For Highlander, Federation and Alpha Cen!!'" [6]
* * * * *
The Borg arrived, swarming in fury. The battle ensued, with a variety
of new weapons, tactics and ideas mixed with tried and true methods. Few
proved useful to either side. The Collective was outnumbered, but being far
more powerful, its strength soon began to overwhelm the Star Fleet forces.
The _Croutonprize_ shuddered as another tractor beam locked on, however
briefly. Crossfire repelled the beams as best he could, but the result of
this day was becoming clear to him.
"I should have stayed in bed," he muttered under his breath.
"Susan, I have something!" cried Kindig.
"What? What?!" She leaned in quickly over his shoulder, her eyes
bugging at what she saw.
"Zort," Avenger called into his communicator.
"Yowsa, Capo." Zortylwankoid currently resided somewhere deep inside
the bowels of Cyberspace. "I'm having some problems in here."
"I figured. Soraya's going to join you."
"I am???" Soraya leaped from the first officer's chair.
"He needs help, X. You're the next most versed on board, plus you've
got command and tactical experience. You're the best option." He leaned
closer and whispered. "Besides, somebody has to survive this day."
She looked at him hard for a moment, wondering whether he was serious
or merely quoting Shakespeare again. As another tractor beam locked on,
she decided that this was not the time to worry about it and ran for the
nearest turbolift. Taubman would send her into Cyberspace as soon as she
got to the Croutonizer.
"Admiral," shouted Susan. "We've got a Borg reinforcement on its way."
"Sh*t," exclaimed Crossfire. "How many more do they HAVE???"
"There's an even bigger blip coming from the Klingon border..."
Avenger's breathing stopped--hard. His heartbeat grew louder inside
his head. Last he'd heard from T'Lilith, she was on the Klingon homeworld...
* * * * *
"Is Wimbledon in sensor range yet???" wondered hj.
"I wouldn't know, Captain. I'm only the squire." Palmer gestured over
his shoulder to the tactical station. "He's the knight."
Dave Quixote looked up hard from the security sensors, the tragedy of
Sancho Panza still not fully played out in his heart. "My sovereign lady,"
he announced harshly. "Bestow yourself with speed! The French are brave in
their battles set and will with all expedience charge on us."
"All thing are ready," echoed Nortylutilz, "if our minds be so." [7]
"Pointy Ears, you know what the deal is with the Shakespeare?" asked the
frustrated captain.
"Had I three ears, I'd hear thee," spat Practor. [8]
hj glared hard.
"All haste, Lady Romulan," Jim ordered. Practor pushed the engines to
their limits, much to Melissa's chagrin. Meanwhile, hj considered if she had
made a mistake in softening her stance with her first officer...
* * * * *
"They've locked onto Engineering!" Himle exclaimed, gripping his
console to avoid being pitched across the bridge as it heaved to and fro.
"Merde," spat Crossfire. "Jez reports Borg near the warp core."
"They're just looking for a few good men," smiled Avenger.
"What?"
"That's what the Marines are for."
"Damn it!" Rhee grabbed a spanner and leapt at the nearest Borg, smashing
at its nutritional interface. It turned to examine her and, for a moment,
thought she saw a reflection of herself in its face. Her thought was broken
as it swung its closest arm toward her, flinging her across the room. She
rolled off the chamber coil emission display and rubbed the bruises while
planning her next course of action.
Engineering was a mess. Her people struggled against the two dozen or
so drones, but they were about as successful as she, being flung like rag
dolls about the room. Then she had an idea.
She raced toward Jeffries Tube #3, her spanner still in hand and began
to race up the ladder toward her first stop.
"Maybe I can lock out the Engineering controls manually by severing
some primary conduits." She worked feverishly and within seconds had the
first link severed. She began to climb up the ladder toward the next level
and the next link when she heard the whisper of the Jeffries tube doors
below her. Looking down, she saw a Borg drone looking back up at her. She
swallowed hard as fear hit her stomach. She thought she could almost see a
smile cross the drone's face as it reached its mechanical arm out toward the
ladder and electrified it.
"What was that?" McKelvey shouted as he looked toward the Jeffries tube.
He grabbed the nearest PFC and ran to the source of the noise. As the doors
parted, he found a Borg kneeling over a woman engineer. She turned her head
toward him and gasped in the effort. She was the chief!
"Son of a glommer!" McKelvey charged the drone, taking it down and
wrestling it into the corner. The PFC pulled Rhee out of the way, then
joined in the fray.
Wrestling with a Borg is not a recommended pastime for most Federation
species; for Terrans, this is especially true. McKelvey held the upper hand
for just a moment, but he sound found himself at the Borg's mercy. It turned
its powerful mechanical arm on him and the Sergeant-Major found himself face-
to-face with a hypo-spray attachment that had been intended for Rhee. Sean
ducked left and rolled under the Borg as it forced the spray toward him.
The kick he aimed toward what he presumed were the Borg's kidneys did
knock the Borg over, but it also left McKelvey's foot stinging. As Sean hopped
away, the PFC hammered the Borg with a blow from a tool rather like an ancient
crowbar. On his third blow, the drone turned and electrified the crowbar,
this time with an intensity several times greater than had been used on the
ladder. The PFC died horribly as every muscle in his body tightened and every
nerve ending sizzled as the Borg electrocuted him where he stood.
Is this what 'electric chair' executions were like? Rhee wondered with
disgust. She flirted with consciousness and barely noticed the glint of metal
as the Sergeant-Major plunged his bayonet into the Borg's electronic eye.
The drone hissed a sort of electronic shriek and turned slowly around.
Its energy reserves mostly spent, the electro-zap component withdrew into its
"hand" and a small circular saw blade appeared in its place. McKelvey and the
drone began a deadly dance of feignts and lunges. Bit by bit, McKelvey struck
key components, but the Borg continued its struggle. A cable cut here, then a
spurt of blood as the Borg's saw cut a gash above McKelvey's eye. A ruptured
nutrient cell, then a scream from the Marine as the Borg opened his left thigh.
Sean could take no more and rushed forward with all his might, pushing
the mechanical arm away with his left hand and driving the bayonet home with
his right. The Borg shrieked and shivered several times before its eyes shut
and its electrical indicators blinked out.
McKelvey slumped, the pain in his leg too much to bear. He fell to the
floor and clutched his leg in agony, then swallowed hard and crawled to Rhee.
"Are you...all right?" he gasped.
"I will be," she whispered. "Just knocked the wind out of me." She
forced herself up into a sitting position. "What about you?"
"What...about...me...?" He slipped out of consciousness and into her
arms. She cradled his head and breathed deeply, hoping desperately that this
would all be over soon.
And then another Borg walked into the Jeffries tube.
* * * * *
"_Croutonprize_," said Ridiculus, his laser bouncing about the screen.
"You, um, can not resist our, er, attacks. I'd, um, hate to lose my, er,
prize students--"
Crossfire spat in disgust.
"--but if you, erm, continue to resist us, then, um, we will be forced
to destroy you. Oh, um, yes."
"Orders, sir?" asked Chuang.
"Um..." Avenger stammered. "Er..."
"Admiral? Anybody?" Crossfire looked about impatiently.
"Don't look at me," shrugged Himle.
Ridiculus's gaze turned sharply away from the _Croutonprize_. Before
Crossfire could ask why, Ridiculus cut the commlink and dropped his tractor
beam.
"What the hell?" wondered Avenger.
Ridiculus' crazed circuit board and three Borg cubes moved away from the
_Croutonprize_ and locked their tractor beams onto...empty space. Or was it?
"Admiral!" exclaimed Susan. "Forty-some Klingon vessels decloaking off
starboard. Various classes..."
The commpanel suddenly lit up. "This is Admiral T'Lilith, in command of
tlhIngan Hubbeq yo' wejDIch [Klingon Defense Force Third Fleet]. borgh peyov
jay'! [Charge the #$%@ Borg!]"
* * * * *
The Borg looked at Rhee and at McKelvey, then turned his back and bent
down next to its fallen comrade. After removing a few key components, it
stood up and whispered out of existence with the green flare that was the
trademark of Borg transporters. Just as suddenly, the fallen drone disinte-
grated, leaving only the injured and the human dead.
"Whas goyng onch?" whispered McKelvey groggily.
"Hush," Rhee whispered. She placed a small kiss on his forehead and
held him closer. She wanted to give him all the strength she had left while
hiding the terror that filled her heart.
* * * * *
The Klingons swept through the fleet, pounding the Borg while suffering
many losses of their own. The Imperial heavy cruiser _ghorqon_ shook about
T'Lilith as Ridiculus locked on a tractor beam.
"Shields down to 45%!" shouted T'Kreila from the gunner's station.
T'Lilith pushed herself out of the massive throne at the center of the bridge
and staggered to T'Kreila's side.
"Keep control," she warned.
T'Kreila turned and glared at her. "t'lil, this is the most fun I've
had in years!"
"Fun?!?" T'Lilith spat. She turned and shook her head in disgust,
then just as suddenly snapped back around. "Fun! That's it!"
"That's what?"
* * * * *
"Happy Fun Ball?" [9] wondered Bundy.
"It's the most dangerous and most toxic toy ever created," said Wombat.
"Something one of the seedier Ferengi clans came up with a few years back.
Silly thing is, Klingon kids LOVE 'em."
"So what's her idea, Counselor?"
"I don't know, but I'm transmitting the recipe now."
The ship rocked.
"What was that?" asked Bundy.
"The Borg just locked onto Engineering," reported Heins.
* * * * *
"'aj [Admiral], we are receiving the information now," reported the
hefty Klingon science officer.
"lu. [Okay.]" T'Lilith turned back to her sister. "You know what to do?"
"Better than you, be'NI'oy [Sis]. I know every nook and cranny of those
ships!"
"majQa'! [Excellent!]"
* * * * *
Meanwhile, far across the field of Wimbledon, the _Croutonprize_ faced
a new threat -- Bjorn.
"You will be assimilated," repeated Bjorn.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," whined Himle.
"Admiral," reported Crossfire. "Shields are down to 32%...30%."
"Draw thy sword," Bjorn requested. "That if my speech offend a noble
heart, thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine. Behold it is my privilege,
the privilege of mine honors, my oath, and my profession." [10]
"Zort, Soraya," said Avenger into a small microphone hanging from his
chair.
"Working on it," replied Soraya.
* * * * *
"Oh, er, um, what's this?" Ridiculus asked as _ghorqon_ began to fire
a continuous stream of...something at him.
"The replicator is overheating!" cried the Klingon science officer.
"I don't care if you slag it," replied T'Kreila. "Just keep making those
things!"
Before he knew what was happening, Ridiculus' ship gained momentum and
began to push itself out of the battlefield. Since his tractor was still
locked onto _ghorqon_, it followed him. The more Happy Fun Balls it fired,
the more momentum he gained.
"Oh, er, you are straining our engines, did you, um, know that?"
Ridiculus suddenly dropped the tractor beam and continued to disengage
from the battle, the Happy Fun Balls continuing to clump to his ship and the
final shots from _ghorqon_ pushing him even faster from the battle.
"Serves him right," said T'Lilith.
"_ghorqon_, we are in need of assistance!" qey'rI suddenly called from a
commpanel.
_ghorqon_ turned and headed back to Wimbledon. T'Lilith just hoped they
would get to qey'rI in time.
* * * * *
"Admiral, shields are down to 15% and falling!"
"Engineering!" Avenger shouted at the commpanel. "Rhee, are you there?"
* * * * *
_ghorqon_ found qey'rI's vessel in the grips of a monster...a monster
that was once known as Starbase SMC1. Federation and Klingon vessels swarmed
around it, looking for a weak spot, but finding none.
"You bastards can't have HIM!" shouted T'Kreila as she unloaded every
weapon on board into the Starbase. Repelled by the barrage, SMC dropped the
tractor on _wilyum reyqIr_...and instead reached out and grabbed _ghorqon_.
"be'nI [Sister]," muttered T'Lilith. "I wish you hadn't done that."
* * * * *
The tide turned against the Federation. Ship after ship was crippled
or immobilized as the Borg slowly repaired their own damage and reactivated
for battle.
"Incoming message from _ghorqon_, Admiral," Susan shouted.
"On screen."
Parts of the _ghorqon_'s bridge were on fire. T'Lilith stepped forward
through the smoke, coughing. "Mike, I..."
Avenger leapt to his feet. "T'Lil!"
The screen went dark.
Rage boiled up inside the Admiral. His ears turned bright red and a
careful temperature measurement would have noted a sharp increase there.
He clenched his fists tightly, his teeth even tighter...Crossfire actually
thought about ducking.
And then they ALL dropped their jaws in surprise.
A flourescent yellow, pink and green cube shape unfolded itself from
warp space and grabbed hold of the nearest of Starbase SMC's starship docking
pods, literally ripping the pod off and spilling thousands of Borg drones into
Wimbledon's Van Allen Belt. Following the cube was a sleek _James T. Kirk_-
class vessel with the Pleiades star cluster painted above Japanese characters
on the face of the saucer section.
"I don't f***ing believe this." Crossfire stared in disbelief.
"Yoyoboq offers its assistance," echoed Nortylutilz through the dozens
of ships in earshot. "Leave the Borg to us."
_ghorqon_ slipped from SMC's grasp and grabbed _wilyum reyqIr_ in tow.
Relieved to see them alive, Avenger dropped back into his chair and smashed
his fist into the communications panel.
"Bjorn, I'm coming for YOU now."
"It was inevitable that it would end this way," Bjorn agreed.
"His eyes are humbler than they used to be," noticed Crossfire. As he
realized what he had just said, and what the response from Avenger and Bjorn
would be, he regretted it and cursed himself. How could he have contributed
to this Bard nonsense?
"How now? What means this, Bjorn? Know'st thou not that I have fined
these bones of mine for ransom? Com'st thou for ransom?"
"No, Admiral," Bjorn replied. "I come to thee for charitable license,
that we may wander o'er this bloody field to book our dead, and then to
recycle them." [11]
"You must surrender."
"Surrender is irrelevant. Resignation...impossible."
"Admiral?!?" shouted Crossfire impatiently.
"Bjorn," hissed Avenger through clenched teeth. "Don't make me do this!"
"We will prevail...Admiral. We of this ship are irrelevant." Bjorn
paused, digging deep into his memories. "I...I..." Bjorn stuttered. "*I*
am irrelevant. The Borg will continue...no matter the cost. We. Must.
Survive."
Avenger's mouth moved close to the microphone hanging at his neck as he
drew the various C-space connectors close. "Zort, Soraya -- I'm coming in."
Avenger locked his goggles into place and tightened the velcro strap around
the control glove. "Oh, by the way," he added. "Mr. Crossfire, you have the
conn."
"What?!" shouted Crossfire. "I don't want--!" Crossfire was cut off as
the ship shook around him. Realizing that Avenger was ignoring his pleas, he
switched modes.
"Neal, hard about!" ordered Crossfire. "Himle, ready Avenger Maneuver
Fifteen C."
"15C, aye," responded Himle.
* * * * *
"Gaaaary, are you telling me we're not going to get warp drive back???"
"I don't know, Captain. We're trying everything, but it's not working."
Bundy looked to his first officer, then back to the commpanel in the
armrest of his sheepskin-covered chair. "Well, maybe you could get out and
push?"
"If you think it'll help, sir." Lt. Cdr. Hren shrugged resignedly.
Thirty seconds later, he was suiting up in a nearby airlock.
* * * * *
In Cyberspace, things were just as frantic as they were in real space.
"I didn't (gasp) realize that (gasp) netrunning (gasp) required so much
(gasp) running," gasped Avenger.
"You're still thinkin' like a froopin' netvirgin," swore Zort. "Now
shush and let me concentrate."
"Shush?"
"Yes, shush!" snapped Soraya, who hovered a meter above the ground in
some sort of meditative trance.
* * * * *
"Switch to Kabeta 17R, course 311 Mark 2. Engage."
"Aye, sir." The _Croutonprize_ swooped about as Chuang commanded it.
Crossfire looked about the bridge a moment, then tugged his uniform into
place.
"_Plasma_: Picard 92A, Gomez 2C, Riker 4-Beta, Strazynski 11-Theta."
"Understood, Commander," replied Captain Cary. "We're following you in."
"Come on..." said Crossfire impatiently. _Croutonprize_ and _Plasma_
flew into position and his fingers danced across the tactical station.
BOOM! Crossfire's concentrated volley tore through the metal surface of
Bjorn's ship, spilling debris and bodies into space.
"Game," said Avenger through clenched teeth.
* * * * *
"Engine room!" exclaimed Bundy. "Where the hell's our warp drive?"
"Just one minute, Captain, sir!" Heins and Biggs reached their target.
"Tighten that clamp there when I tell you to," instructed Heins. "Turn
it to the left."
"Left. Right. Got it."
"No, left."
"Yes, I know. Left. Right, I've got it."
A Marine named Lenny happened to wander up to them at the moment.
"What are you guys doing?"
"Shhhh!" hissed Bruce, a finger to his lips.
John shook his head and continued. "Okay, let's see now..." His hands
began to fly across the board, moving wiring around. "Switch the motherboard,
reverse the polarity of the neutron flow, pump the excess anti-neutrino's
through the gamma port and..."
"Oh, Vishnu, John!" Bruce complained. "You're beginning to sound
particularly like K.T.!"
* * * * *
"Oh, I think I get it now." Avenger went into his wind-up, released his
pitch...and hit a Borg Net connection with an electronic tennis ball (!) that
disrupted its data stream.
"More of them," said Soraya. "Pick up the pace."
"And sneakier," muttered Zort. "Hit 'em where you're not even expecting
to, Admiral."
"Considering how well I pitch, that's highly probable anyway."
"They're losing steam," commented Soraya, eyes still closed in her
meditative trance. Her body rotated slowly through 360 degrees head over
heels and then righted itself again. "We're making headway."
"Keep it up," encouraged Zort. "Keep it up..."
* * * * *
"I have you now," said Nortylutilz and the Yoyoboq Collective.
* * * * *
"Steady..."
"15,000 kellicams and closing. The borgh have not activated their
tractor beam."
"Prepare to dump all power to weapons," said qey'rI.
* * * * *
KABOOM! The second volley, a concentrated volley of C-space end-runs,
tearing apart Bjorn's connections to the Uni-mind, rendered many of Bjorn's
higher combat functions inoperable.
"Set," spoke Avenger's disconnected body.
* * * * *
"NOW!!!" screamed Heins. Biggs turned the wrench hard to the left and
the _Volvo_ lurched forward.
Outside the ship, Lt. Cdr. Gary Hren held tight to his tether line as
the _Volvo_ leaped into warp space, dragging the chief engineer behind like
a tin can from a rich newlywed's Porsche.
Inside the ship, a chaotic, swirling disturbance in the fabric of
space-time formed outside the main warp reactor, absorbing the veteran
red-haired first officer, the curious Marine and the _Volvo_'s only decent
bartender.
* * * * *
The _Volvo_ literally leaped into the fray. Two Borg ships that were
about to lock onto the _Volvo_ instead locked onto one another, ripping out
fragments before realizing their mistake.
_Volvo_ stopped abruptly in front of Starbase SMC and lost its lunch.
Every weapon the _Volvo_ crew was able to stuff into the tubes burst forth
all at once. One side of the base ruptured.
SMC crippled, _Volvo_, _Subaru_, _ghorqon_ and the Yoyoborg turned on
Bjorn. Other ships moved to finish off SMC, which shattered like a glass
cathedral in a hurricane.
Other Borg vessels began to move away from the center of the battle,
pursued by a motley array of Federation vessels.
* * * * *
"Kang XV9, Worf 3L, Crossfire 7B, Ghiasi 2A, Bowman 7."
Himle and Chuang responded instantaneously to every command, as if
Crossfire were playing the _Croutonprize_ like a Vulcan harp.
Crossfire pulled another Picard Maneuver on his uniform.
"Fleet: Vulcan 4, Mars 2A, and remember Picard!"
As the other ships swept around, _Croutonprize_ turned and leapt forward
in a perfect demonstration of the *original* Picard Manevuer.
Commander Highlander (voice-over): "There can be only one!"
The final straw, a concentrated combination of fire from all available
ships of the Federation Unified Alliance plus intense tractor beams from the
YoyoBorg ship plus a continual barrage of C-space activity from Nortylutilz,
Zortylwankoid and Soraya, completely obliterated the cube housing Bjorn of
Borg. Caving in upon itself, it exploded in a miniature white-hot nova,
showering debris in all directions.
* * * * *
"And match," concluded Avenger sadly. Having no time to mourn the loss
of his long-time foe, he turned to other more important matters.
The Allied Forces rallying and the Collective's spirits broken, chaos
ensued. Over the next few minutes, the combined Federation force cleared out
the remaining Borg ships and chased them to the far corners of Federation
space. The Borg, with superior speed, evaded pursuit and hastily retreated
towards their own dominions with the meager remains of their fleet.
In C-space, Soraya floated back to the ground and turned to Zortylwankoid
and the eerie hologram-like Avenger. She smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.
"What," asked Zort, pointing ahead, "the froop is that???"
Avenger and Soraya caught only a split-second glimpse before the image
faded from Cyberspace...along with the Borg influence. It was huge...a
black metal orb large enough to encase a star.
"I guess we'll never know," said Soraya disappointedly.
Zort eyebrows wrinkled at Avenger. Soraya noticed and turned her gaze
to Avenger as well. He seemed...puzzled, lost in thought... He also looked
like a man with an elaborate plot of questionable legality coursing through
his mind.
"Admiral?" prompted Zort.
"Yes, perhaps we'll never know," Avenger lied.
* * * * *
"_USS Volvo_ Bartender's personal log, Stardate 104302.7," Bruce Biggs
said into the small portable recording device. "Through some weirdness of
quantum mechanics that only KT could explain...and nobody would understand
anyway...John and I have ended up on Vegas IV. Since there's no way we could
possibly be of use to the fleet until they have time to come and get us, we
have decided to...(smiling)...explore our surroundings."
Biggs and Heins stood at the end of a long rectangular table in a back
corner of a dimly lit casino on the far side of Vegas IV. Dozens of spec-
tators clustered around, many of them female and most quite alien. John
stared across the table at Papa Berenstein, a rather large bear, who did
not look happy with the losses he had taken so far. His wife and two
children looked similarly displeased from their own seats at the table.
The Marine named Lenny reappeared from his trip to the restroom, but now
he was decked out in gold chains and sunglasses. "Howzit goin', John?" He
also had seemed to have picked up a rather awful New York Italian accent.
"If they could only see us now," smiled Heins. He took the dice up into
his hands, breathing upon them softly until they were just warm. He nodded
to Bruce, and added "Another 1000... and keep it coming!"
John grinned an evil grin and leaned back, putting on a show with a
mock pitcher's wind-up before releasing the dice.
"Holy cow!" shouted Heins, looking at another positive result.
"Now they know why they call you 'Number One!'" Bruce exclaimed.
Papa Berenstein looked nervously from Biggs to his wife to Heins and
back again. The sweat dripped from his brow as he watched the croupier
confiscate the remainder of the Berenstein family fortune and hand it to
the shaggy bartender. On the verge of tears, Papa Berenstein's head fell
to the table.
"I wonder how things are going at Xavion anyway?" John wondered aloud
at Bruce as he reaped their latest winnings.
TO BE CONTINUED
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Next time, on an all-new episode of
STAR TREK: THE CROUTON GENERATION
"The Perfect Game"
Part 18: "Nothing Up My Sleeve"
It's showdown time at Xavion.
[Image of three Borg cubes treating the planet like a Thanksgiving turkey.]
And Kabeta's right on the edge...
Bradford: I will be forced to remove you from command.
It's time for desperate measures.
Chow: What is it with that crowd and hippos?
But will the Speaker for the Dead's attention be elsewhere?
Polgara: I hadn't noticed you were possessed.
PERPENDICULAR THINKING on the next STAR TREK: THE CROUTON GENERATION!
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