StarDestroyer.Net BBS

• .

They had failed.

Of course they failed. The Cult of Skaro had been the Emperor's insurance, a way to guarantee the survival of their race. But like all insurance policies, it failed to insure the most common flaw of any species. A flaw which, according to empirical evidence, existed even in their race.

Stupidity.

He had commanded a heavy cruiser tasked with hunting down refugees. They had boarded the vessel, and even though the enemies were inferior, the fighting was fierce. Hundreds of Daleks were killed as Zorn watched. As the last of his Daleks were exhausted, Zorn, at that time an absent minded automaton, boarded the vessel when he should have retreated, to destroy the last mortally wounded inferior. He exterminated the being, but not before it fired a blast into his armored skirt, severely hindering his mobility. Zorn then absorbed the being's DNA, in an attempt to regenerate.

It was then that he became aware of the stupidity, and utter futility of the Dalek directives. In the thousand of parallel universes where the Daleks existed, only one formed where the Daleks accomplished their mission. Only one, out of so many. Such odds meant the Dalek purpose, perhaps its very existence, was futile.

He had spent a millenia contemplating suicide. The feelings, the emotions, the way of thinking, was not easy to absorb. The method of regeneration he used was utterly discouraged, due to the dangers of foreign contamination, but used in extreme circumstances when high ranking Dalek generals or other indispensibles were damaged. It was only due to a minor variance in programming, one line out of trillions altered due to the impossibility of perfect manufacturing, that he had made the impulsive move to absorb his enemy.

Only the Dalek directive of extermination kept him alive. But even this was unsettling. Exterminate, exterminate, exterminate! This was the primary goal, but why did exterminate have to be incompatible with other directives? Why exterminate those who could be useful, who could be bent to one's will? Then when all was done, all was safe, all threats eliminated -- then was the time to exterminate. But could this ever be done, without sacrificing all it meant to be Dalek, to be superior?

The dilemma was solved when the Cult of Skaro transmitted a message to all remaining Daleks to join them. This would only happen in the worst case, the destruction of Skaro and the millions on millions of Daleks. Zorn did not obey, did not comply. He simply watched. The primitives of the planet the Cult was invading broadcast their transmission unencrypted, as foolishly as most other species. He watched as the Daleks flew in formation above the primitive's cities, laying waste to any and all opposition. He was about to contact the Cult to swear his fealty to the new Dalek order, when the vortex opened. All the Daleks were sucked into oblivion, and the Cult, using its emergency temporal relocators, disappeared. Only one species could steal victory at the last moment like this. The one species which were the sworn enemies of the Daleks. The one species which was now, a part of him.

Time Lord.

The Great Time War was over, but there was at least one Time Lord remaining to have thwarted the Cult of Skaro. But even if he managed to locate the Time Lord, it was just as likely he could be disabled or destroyed as victorious. Only one logical course of action remained. One which would guarantee the future of the Daleks, the future of extermination of the weak and useless.

Zorn powered his energy shield, and gravitic thrusters to lift himself. Suicide was not an option, not now. The Time Lord which he had absorbed had long since turned to dust, and the ruined remains of Daleks were all that remained of the battle. He scanned both ships and the surrounding space. The Dalek heavy cruiser's power source and the Time Lord War TARDIS power source were still intact, as expected. With them he could lay waste to countless planets, but that was not his goal.

Crossing dimensions required much power.

• .

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Borg. Over the course of this term--"

Jacob supressed a yawn. The Borg, one dimensional beings with little creativity and even less intellectual challenge. Compared to Vector Calculus or Partial Differential Equations, memorizing facts about the Borg defined trivial. But then again, most Starfleet courses defined trivial.

Jacob had been born on Regima Prime, a planet at a crossroads between Ferengi, Federation and Bolian space. The Bolians and the Ferengi ruled the Regima system with dabo girls, holographic games and psychotropic drugs. The Federation had tried to stop the Bolians, and especially the Ferengi, but in the end economics won out. Federation troops and starships, redeployed to the Dominion War, never seized enough contraband. Regimans welcomed the Ferengi and their cheap, mass produced goods, and especially their holosuites. Holo addiction catapulted to the number one health concern, and the Regiman World Government imposed strict time limits on use, which most Regimans violated.

It was in this den of decadence which Jacob was born. It wasn't all that bad. It meant the schools and colleges accepted anybody with even a hint of promise, and rather than failure resulting in the end of a career, a student could just try over and over until he got it. Most didn't, and just flunked out, but Jacob persisted. Eventually, something just clicked. He went from barely above water in his courses to straight A's, and applied to Starfleet Academy, hoping to kickstart his career in Warp Physics. And other things.

He was in for a shock. Yes, children were introducted to Calculus at eight years old across the Federation. Yes, they joined their parents in Starfleet on ships, at least before the Dominion War, to work alongside them. All of this was supposed to produce geniuses, and Jacob had hoped he would be surrounded by men and women ten times his intelligence. Instead, they were all... children. At first he thought it was him. In his mid-twenties, he had little in common with the nineteen and twenty year olds from Starfleet families. But it wasn't. There was something... wrong, that he couldn't put a finger on.

At least the women were hot. Well, most of them. This Admiral... whatever her name was, had a voice like she smoked Klingon targleaf, and was well beyond her years. Beside Jacob was a Kimberley, a lady from a well-off Starfleet family, the only woman mature enough to have a conversation with.

"As they say in the Temporal Mechanics Department, there's no time like the present," the Admiral said.

"Temporal Moronanics," Kimberley whispered. Jacob grinned, and wanted to say something back, but a quick glare from the Admiral and Jacob shut his mouth.

The rest of the class was a bore. The lecturer and the Admiral recited facts he already knew, from the textbook he had already read. No math, no science, and the Admiral was more interested in talking about herself than teaching. When it was over, Jacob followed Kimberley to the artrium.

"So what did you think?" Jacob said.

"I think the way he stammers is cute."

"I was talking about the Admiral."

"Oh. She's like most celebrities I guess, stuck up and full of herself."

Time to make the move. "Hey, the things they were talking about in class... it's all child's play."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. I'm working on something at home. Bought a--" Jacob leaned in. "--site to site transporter, from a family friend."

Kim smiled. "Do you try that line on all the girls?"

"No," Jacob said. "Just the ones I like."

"Okay, I'll bite."

"Great. Meet me at oh-sixteen hundred at the usual place." Jacob moved his hand ahead of the sensor to open the door for Kim. Even if the classes were boring, at least he had time for his other things. Things which would make even the most bookish Vulcan's eyes bulge. And on top of that, he might get laid.

• .

"You're not going to shoot. You're not like me. You're not gonna--"

The Colonial Officer fired at Fat Black. Sarah dropped her glass, which shattered into a million stars. Fat Black ran things on Prometheus. Even Captain Franks steered clear of him. And some hotshot pilot walked in and just shot him?

"Do something," Sarah said to Yam, her pimp. Yam usually oozed class, wore a pistol on a cowboy draw, and even had a genuine leather jacket from Caprica. Yam wasn't like other pimps. He didn't sell sex. He sold meds, and escorts. The one time a client tried to move on her, Sarah pressed the panic button and Yam broke in with two skinheads. The next time the client saw her, he begged for absolution. She gave it, knowing Yam could kill the guy if she didn't.

Where was that Yam now?

"Shut the frak up." Yam said. He glared at the hotshot, and Sarah noticed Yam's hand tighten on his pistol as if to draw, but then release. "Don't you know who the frak that is?"

"No," Sarah said. The hotrod said some shit to Fat Black's bodyguards. What the frak was going on? Their eyes oozed terror, their skin sweating like bad sex. Even Chuck, usually the first one to move, wasn't doing shit. "And I don't fraking care."

The hotrod moved to a bitch at the table. So it was a bitch. Always a bitch. A bitch with a kid. Sarah smiled. She remembered how angry she got when she found out Fat Black was keeping kids last cycle. Maybe it was a good thing he was dead. Come to think of it, she had thought a lot about capping Fat Black herself. But nobody could get away with it, and killing was wrong.

"There he goes," Yam said. Yam crossed his arms.

"I want out," Sarah said.

"What, because of this?"

"No." Sarah pushed the shards of glass on the floor in a little neat pile. "We have enough. We could move to a liner. You and me."

"Maybe," Yam said. "Maybe. Maybe next--"

"That's what you always say." Sarah made a vee with her boots, and pressed as hard as she could. "Fat Black is sitting right there with a bullet in his head. What if it's me next time? What if it's you?"

"Okay," Yam said. "Okay. I've been saving these." He reached in his leather jacket and gave Sarah two papers.

"Are they real?"

"Yeah." Yam smiled, the first time Sarah had seen him since their first night. "Cloud 9 here we come."

• .

Allright, looks interesting although the prose/pstory telling structure could use some cleaning up for clarity.

• *.

"Cyberleader One has been terminated. The invasion has failed."

"Explain. Download shared files. I will be upgraded to Cyberleader."

In life, Mr. Samuel Grant had been an Lieutenant of Her Majesty's Royal Airforce, a blimp commander and the perfect gentleman. His lovely wife enjoyed tea with him at the same hour every day, discussing the latest East Enders. Now he was a cold calculating machine with a single purpose -- expansion of the Cybermen race.

The new Cyberleader processed the images in seconds. Small squat beings called Daleks had destroyed their beachhead with ease, refusing to be allied. The new world had failed to communicate, and the rift had closed. Now their numbers were few, in factories isolated from the outside and surrounded by human military with weapons specially developed to destroy them. They lived at the mercy of the humans. This could not be tolerated. The Cyberleader processed the possibilities.

They could not convince the humans of this world. They had to leave. The new world, the other world had resisted and was unsuitable was well. Another world was necessary.

"Prepare the secondary void," Cyberleader said. "We must depart immediately."

• *.

"Do you like it?" Jacob said. He pressed a few buttons on the console. He didn't need to -- the computer could do everything. But Jacob's Regiman instincts and training told him never to trust automated processes, especially Federation ones. And he wasn't trusting a computer today.

No, today, he was definitely setting the computer to manual.

"I... what is it?" Kim said. On the transporter pad, suspended in midair was a small hole. It didn't look like much, like any other transport. There was absolutely no difference visually compared to a normal transport. The swirling sparkles were a little retro, as if from an old Galaxy class transport. But unmistakably Federation. The difference wasn't visual.

The difference was all this time he'd been staring, the transporter sparkles hadn't gone away.

"It's what we'll use for Robotics 101," Jacob said. "You remember what the Professor said about artificial life forms in the Federation?"

"Yeah," Kim said. "There's only one. Datoid or something."

"Data." What a retarded name. "And he's dead now. Well what if the Federation... what if we had a chance to meet one? One that can talk in contractions and have feelings. One that is a real artificial life form, who can fall in love, think, feel without someone telling it what to do?"

"I'm pretty sure... Data can do that, at least according to the course reader--"

"Even if he can, it's first contact. Isn't that the mission of a Starfleet Officer, to boldly go where no man has gone before?" Jacob adjusted the settings on the transporter console just a little. Blasted Starfleet digital controls. He would've loved an analog system, but the only consoles at the warehouse were digital fleet crap. The merchant had been more than happy to sell him it -- apparently some problem with the consoles exploding had led to their retirement from Starfleet. But Jacob had neutered the power flowing into the console, rather than having a starship main running right under. There would be no danger. At least he thought.

"It's forming up," Kim said. "Hey. If it's sentient, we shouldn't be doing this. It's kidnapping."

"Don't be silly," Jacob said. "We're just talking to it. As soon as we're done we'll send it back. And I got this." Jacob held up the voice recorder, a reliable Ferengi handheld model the size of a nickel. He attached it to the interior of his Ensign uniform, under the cuff. "It won't even know we're recording it."

"What if it's hostile?" Kim said. She tossed her head back, shaking her blond hair. God, she was hot.

"It can't be. I set the parameters for the computer to look for the most friendly, intelligent artificial life out there."

"I thought you hated computer searches."

"I do," Jacob said. "But there's a million universes out there, and it's not like I can look at all of them. The computer found the coordinates and I uh, keyed them into the transporter--"

"You didn't even look to see what you're bringing in?"

"No," Jacob said. "Looking would've let Starfleet Headquarters on. I read up on it. Apparently they have a whole jamming center dedicated to stopping peeping toms."

"That doesn't really make sense," Kim said. "So it's easier for you to beam something from another universe than look at the damn thing?"

"Yeah," Jacob said. "Hold on, it's forming up."

The sparkles coalesced into a humanoid shape. No, too fat for humanoid. Its torso was far too thick, in the shape of a small cargo container. Its arms retracted into its body with two red pincers, click clacking as the torso rotated. The center control was as foreign to Federation as a Vulcan to manners, full of blinking lights. The skinny neck supported a transparent torus, even more energetic than the being's center panel.

"Warning! Warning! Alien approaching!" The guardian yet soothing voice said.

"Uh, hi," Jacob said. "I'm Jacob, and this is Kim--"

"Jacob and Kim." The Robot blinked its lights like a tricorder. "Where am I?"

"San Francisco," Jacob said. He should say something grandoise. "Uh, welcome to the United Federation of Planets, Earth."

The robot drove forward, somehow managing to drop from the transporter platform to the ground several inches below without toppling over. It stopped right in front of Kim, and rotated three hundred and sixty degrees.

"That does not compute."

• *.

Number Five's Centurions took flanking positions around the apartment building. Number Five strode with the confidence of a man unafraid of death. He had been resurrected at least twenty-two times already, and the Resurrection Ship in orbit would ensure his survival should the humans be stupid enough to show themselves. The Centurions swiveled their heads and scanned the perimeter with cold unyielding eyes. This particular Centurion unit, the Hand of God, was tasked in a medium-sized provincial town on the outskirts of inhabited regions of New Caprica. The gamma rays had been spared here, thousands of humans allowed to live their pathetic lives.

Allowed to live so the Centurions could hunt.

Number Five witnessed a blur at the apartment building's edge. He didn't have to direct the Centurions -- they acted, spraying air with god's fury. The bullets ate into the concrete, deforming the pristine corner like notes on a music sheet. The Centurions bent their reverse-joint legs, preparing to pursue the human scum. Number Five raised his hand.

"Let him go," Five said. The Centurions obeyed. The machines had to be taught patience, to believe in the divine plan. The humans were no match for the Centurions, nevermind the Cylon race. At any moment, Five could order an orbital strike to annihilate this entire city. The weapons factory the resistance manufactured small arms from was allowed to survive. The resistance's command post was known, a hole in the ground near 324th and 86th Street which the humans thought would evade Cylon detection by virtue of not being updated in automatic floor plans. Every single human in the city had a profile and was catalogued. Extermination could occur only as God willed, one at a time. The Cylons had to be prepared for true challenges, and their warriors the Centurions needed to be honed. This first unit, the Hand of God, had already increased its combat efficiency. Already marksmanship was at 99.99%, and they had never failed to apprehend a resistance fighter when requested. In fact, marksmanship was so good Five had to order the Centurions to deliberately miss, so the resistance would stay ignorant.

Number Five noticed a girl run out the apartment complex. A little girl, Samantha Raines, age six. Five smiled. The Centurions whirred, begging to destroy humanity's future. Should he allow it? Maybe a small deviation in protocol should be allowed. Psychological warfare was the greatest asset of the Cylons. All the basestars in the universe did not compare to the fury of God.

"Take her," Number Five said. "And make it... painful."

DEATH wrote:Allright, looks interesting although the prose/pstory telling structure could use some cleaning up for clarity.

I thought about it a lot and if you want you can edit my shit. You read a lot more books than I do and probably have a better idea of what people want.

I can share the outline with you later. On the one hand I don't want the robots to be brainless automatons with no humanity at all, which is why I added in the new Dalek and the Cylons. On the other I believe there's fundamental differences between a human intelligence and an artificial intelligence. This is a point I'm not exactly sure how to cover, since if I let the artificials "win" it will be a robot centric story and if I let the humans "win" people will accuse me of human centrism. If I pick something in the middle it will probably leave a lot of unsatisfied readers, both sides accusing me of picking some golden mean between human beings and robots. I guess it depends what "win" means.

Be warned though I started fanfics before and never finished them. I like robots today but in one month or two months I might get bored. I'm hoping with an end goal of 20 chapters only and an outline that I can finally finish one.