Dawn of Forever, Part XI-XIX

[darthdavid]

You are a master.

[Stuart Mackey]

"Thats no moon"
Excellent.

"Soon we will reveal ourselves to the empire, soon we will have revenge"?

Those wacky sith and their big happy fun balls. Supurb chapter.

[2000AD]

Death Star form a parallel universe?

[Crayz9000]

I've stopped trying to figure out the plot kinks, twists and U-turns that Chuck invents. People talk about StarCrossed having twisted plotlines. See, Chuck doesn't just twist the plotlines. He makes the plotlines become their own grandparents, and then mixes in a healthy dose of insanity (as if the universe wasn't insane enough as it was).

[Sonnenburg]

The shuttle closed in on the monstrosity that hung in the void. As the image grew it was revealed that the shape was broken, incomplete. It was like looking at the bleached bones of some great beast and knowing what it was with the flesh on, and knowing what kind of threat it would pose were that the case. The difference, of course, was that this was a machine, and machines never really die as long as there are people foolish enough to try to bring them back to life. As it began to dominate the front window Lando had the eerie suspicion he'd been nominated for head fool. "What in the hell," he said in a slow voice, awe and horror fighting for control of his voice.

"It's exactly what it looks like, Mr. Calrissian," the Oracle remarked. "It's a Death Star."

"It seems our General Taar is a man of far greater ambition then I imagined," Garak said. Even he seemed awestruck by what he saw, despite his own world's fate in the face of another super-battlestation.

The Oracle smiled; it was a wholly unpleasant experience for those who witnessed it, almost frog-like. "Him? He lacks such ambition. This thing was built back when he was studying at the Imperial Academy."

"The Empire's had a Death Star sitting here all this time?" Garak asked. "Why haven't they used it?"

"It's not actually a Death Star, it's a prototype Death Star. Don't worry, Mr. Garak, it still works well enough for its macabre purpose."

"Hold on," Lando said. "If the Empire has a functioning Death Star, even a prototype, why didn't they use it? You know, finish it off? My company makes prototypes all the time, and they may not see front line duty, but we still find uses for them, or salvage the parts. The Emperor just went ahead and built a new one from scratch, and was commissioning the construction of more like it right before the Bastion Incident. With the hard work all done, they could easily have filled this out in a fraction of the time."

"You should know the answer to that, Mr. Calrissian," the Oracle said. "This is the first, the basis for Tarkin's Death Star."

Realization dawned. "The exhaust port."

The Oracle nodded. "A fundamental flaw in the design. The Emperor saw no need to waste resources on this, but also no need simply to scrap it. After the destruction of the second Death Star and the collapse of the Empire the records were purged and those who knew about it perished."

"Rather convenient," Garak remarked, who never found anything convenient in his experience.

"That was my doing," the Oracle admitted. "Between the two Death Stars most had been killed already. I just cleaned up the handful that was left, mostly a few scientists and technicians."

"I'm sure that was a challenge to a master of the Sith," Lando said bitterly. His throat tightened, but it was due to involuntary reaction rather than any Force powers. It was the sight of the Oracle, and those eyes... those mad eyes. Lando swore they flashed, actually flashed, when she glared at him. He suddenly felt he'd been lucky that Vader had worn that mask.

"Tracking down every last individual," the Oracle said slowly, darkly, "finding the right moment in time and space, carrying out the termination and returning again was a feat you couldn't accomplish in a hundred lifetimes. The existence of this untouched battlestation is the result of a plan meticulous in its planning and flawless in its execution." She stepped eye to eye with Lando. "And I won't have it mocked by some counter of money."

Lando was unable to pull away or close his eyes. He felt like the Oracle's eyes weren't just eyes, but an opening into an infinite abyss that threatened to suck him into oblivion. Lando would have handed the business, his possessions, the clothes on his back and lived naked on bare rock for the rest of his days if it meant not looking into those eyes. "I'm... sorry," he choked out.

The Oracle held the stare for another eternity or two. "Apology accepted," she said turning back towards the Death Star, "this time."

"I thought you couldn't alter the past," Garak said once the tension seemed to have lessened. "You said it wasn't possible."

"It's impossible for you to understand Garak," the Oracle said. "Some things must happen, it seems; cannot be interfered. It could be the will of the Force... or perhaps something, or someone, even more powerful. Whatever the reason, manipulating time without generating a paradox or skewing us into some alternate dimension is not an easy thing. I was not exaggerating when I described the difficulty of this task; for every successful assassination there were a dozen failures."

"I've known many people who traveled through time," Garak pointed out. "They always said it was hard to avoid altering history. Sometimes they saw history altered... had to actively participate to prevent it from being altered."

"Drop a stone into a pond and the surface will appear to be distorted, but the water will soon show no sign of its passing." The Oracle held up her hand before any more could be said. "I've have had centuries to learn this, Garak, and I admit that even my understanding is far outweighed by my ignorance. There are some changes that can be absorbed, and some that aren't truly changes at all, but historical requirements. Time sometimes requires a thing or a person in the right place at the right time. At the moment, we require this battlestation. And I think you should be grateful for that."

"And I would be," Garak said. "Believe me, I've long wished I had a Death Star of my own, if nothing else than to return the favor the Imperials performed for my people. But besides the fact that it's decades old and obviously incomplete, it has the most famous design flaw in the universe. What good is it to me?"

The Oracle turned back to Lando; he'd rather hoped she'd exclude him from further discussion. "Mr. Calrissian, you were a piece of criminal scum back in the day."

"Thank you."

"You ever use a hold-out blaster?"

"On occasion," Lando said.

"Even though it's small, is less powerful, and in some cases can only hold a single shot?"

"Once or twice," Lando admitted. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Lando knew what she was getting at. "Because it doesn't matter if it's only one shot; it's the one shot they don't know you have."

"The largest hold-out pistol in the universe," Garak said as he looked back at it. "I suppose... It's going to take an incredible amount of work to get this thing working. Does it even have a hyperdrive?"

"I have the datapad with all the information there was before I purged the files," the Oracle said. "Alema's running a sensor sweep as we speak to see if anything's changed over the past few decades. Once that's done we'll drop you back off at your shuttle; after that it's up to you."

"No," Lando said. He felt all the eyes were on him, so he didn't look up. He didn't want to see those faces... it'd sap whatever strength he had left. "I won't do it. That thing is morally repugnant."

"It's a machine," Garak said. "There's no morality in a device, it's how it’s used."

"What, Death Stars don't kill people, people do?" Lando shot back. "Garak, I'd have thought you of all people would know that that thing is evil incarnate."

Garak smiled. "Not when it's on my side."

"I won't do it," Lando repeated. "Find somebody else. And don't bother saying it," he pushed on as Garak opened his mouth. "You can run the company into the ground if you like, but this is where I draw the line."

"And what of her?" the Oracle asked. She gestured and an image of Molly O'Brien formed in the air. "Is she less important than your conscience?"

"Nice try," Lando said. "I've seen her working with your people; you wouldn't hurt her."

The Oracle's horrible smile returned. "Alema, come here." The Twi'lek at the controls got to her feet and came over. "Don't resist," the Oracle ordered, and Alema nodded. Force lightning shot from the Oracles fingertips, picked Alema up, and tossed her into the wall. "Get up. We'll try that again."

"Yes, master," Alema said, pulling herself to her feet. She stood rigid, but soon hit the wall as the Force lightning struck again.

"On your feet," the Oracle said. Alema struggled to get up while the Oracle wriggled her gnarled digits in anticipation.

"Enough," Lando said sharply. "You've made your point. You don't give a damn about them, fine. But I still won't do it. I can't do it."

"Lando," came a voice. It was weak, and filled with the tone of someone in agony and trying to keep the pain bottled away. "Lando..." Lando recognized it through the pain as Kira. "Take care of the girl," Kira choked.

"I will," Lando heard himself say.

"Promise me!" Kira said, letting some of the suffering out. "Don't- Don't let those bastards get her like they got Miles."

"I promise."

Lando shook his head. "No," he said in a quiet voice. "It won't work."

"Promise me!"

"Stop it!" Lando shouted at the Oracle.

"They're your memories, Calrissian," the Oracle said. "They sit so close to the surface..."

"Promise me!" "I promise."

"Crisis of conscience?" the Oracle asked. Lando stepped forward to strangle her, but without so much as a twitch by her he was picked up and hurled away. "She's so young... and it's been some time since I've absorbed the Force energy of another person."

"Promise me!" "I promise."

"Or I can hand her over to the Empire, if you like," the Oracle mused aloud. "She's already been tried, and convicted, and sentenced. All that is waiting is her execution, and you can be certain it will be handled quickly." Lando screwed his eyes shut, but that did nothing but allow him to see Kira in those last moment, tormented and weak from the years of degradation from the Imperial nerve gas. And in her pain, only one thing on her mind. "That would be fitting. Let the Imperials who murdered her father murder her as well. It bookends things nicely."

"Please..." Lando finally hissed.

"Or you can use this weapon against them," the Oracle said. "Which will it be, hand over Molly, lose your company and all you've worked for... again..."

"Promise me!"

"Or destroy the Empire that killed Kira."

Lando covered his eyes and nearly bit through his lip. Wherever card sharps, gamblers, and scoundrels talked about men with control, he was always on the list, usually near the top. Lando could smile while the sky fell around him and there wouldn't be so much as a hint on his face. But the pressure on his mind was getting to be too much, and old age had taken its toll on the body. It took that legendary self-control not to burst into tears right there on the deck. He'd give in, but he wouldn't give her that satisfaction. "All right," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm in."
--------------------------------------------------------------

There'd been a chase. The bioships must have detected the Borg's tactical cube and decided an engagement was too risky. Long-range sensor readings had given the Borg a few details, but mostly enough solely to whet the appetite. The processing power of the entire Collective was soon put to the task, and finally, after hundreds of light-years of pursuit, one bioship was caught in the range of an interdictor torpedo, one designed to interfere even with the faster-than-light capabilities of those without hyperdrive. It was trapped.

As was expected, a fight broke out.

The bioship lashed out with its heavy weaponry at the Borg. The cube dodged most of them as the approached, the rest striking its armored hull. There was damage, but the Borg lost no time in working to regenerate it. The tactical cube fired off a series of green energy blasts, then three missiles streaked out. Some of the blasts struck, knocking chunks out of the bone-like hull of the bioship. The rockets moved much slower, relatively speaking, but weaved to avoid enemy fire. Still, with time on the bioship's side, even the missiles couldn't evade the sheer amount of return fire. The first and second went up almost at the same time. The third, seconds later, also exploded, but before it actually was reached. Flying out of the debris was a humanoid shape clad in an armored spacesuit. Moments after clearing the wreckage, the jetpack fired and the figure accelerated towards the bioship. "Be aware of your velocity," Two of Six said over the comm. "If you strike at too great-"

"I know, I know," Sebastian said. "Like a bug on a windscreen."

"Remember that if you get too close, we won’t be able to transport you to safety," Two of Six said. "Caution is necessary for your survival."

"I know," Sebastian said. That was the whole reason for this, after all. The bioelectric field surrounding these ships interfered with the transporters. It was too dangerous to try to beam directly on board. Fortunately, Sebastian had experience in dealing with these kinds of situations, although never in a ship versus ship scenario. He'd originally volunteered for this reconnaissance mission, but as soon as he saw the Borg's modified missile he had second thoughts. Now, out in the void trying to dodge opposing weapons fire, he declared he was never going to do this again. Then he thought about it and added, even though I'll still be alive. There was no sense in drawing the attention of the irony gods.

The bioship was tracking the rapidly approaching Jedi and fired all weapons at him. He dodged and dipped and spun through space. The shots were all around him, but he moved through them like a witch dancing between raindrops. Still, his teeth were grit, and despite the efforts of the suit sweat saturated his body. "I can't keep this up, Two," he said.

"Are you requesting transport?" Two of Six asked, her voice as devoid of feeling as it always was. The pulverizing of Sebastian was no more an emotional matter than the rerouting of power to optimize the engine efficiency. Not that he wasn't more important, but the Borg felt nothing towards him. "There is still time."

"Can't you do something?" Sebastian asked.

"We have been firing on the bioship, and are beginning to cause significant damage," Two of Six said. "But the bioship seems to have prioritized you as a target."

"They're more interested in stopping me than in defending themselves?!"

"Perhaps stopping you is defending themselves," Two of Six observed. "Knowledge is often a primary element in achieving victory. If-" But she was cut off as, faced with all the blasts coming his way, Sebastian finally was overwhelmed and hit.

[darthdavid]

You wouldn't...

[Star Empire]

You are so good at writing these characters. I could feel for Lando. Now, what is going to happen Sebastin. I guess I'll have to wait and see. You better not have killed him (although the twist might be very good).

[Sonnenburg]

The Borg Collective (a limited liability company) was the brainchild of Sebastian Skywalker. Despite the old Federation propaganda on the subject, societies still wanted things. Maybe it wasn't material wealth and keeping up with the Joneses, but however enlightened a society is it needs things. Food, medicine, energy, metal, processed goods, raw materials, planets and systems, and that was just the physical items. There were rights of passage, defensive alliances, technological data, astrogation charts, and other kinds of information. A civilized government achieved these items themselves, or bartered for them from other governments. An exchange, X for Y, whether it was physical matter, intellectual matter, or legal matter, was what took place between them. The Borg's problem had always been that they only took. That was why people opposed them... they were, when all was said and done, pirates, except instead of stealing goods and money they stole systems and civilizations.

So, what's a pirate that goes straight? Sebastian told them: a merchant. And that had been the breakthrough they needed. You don't need to take any more; if you trade something with people, they'll give you the things you want anyway. All you had to do was find out what people wanted. And what was amazing was that the Borg really did have something people wanted: knowledge. The pharmaceuticals were growing so fast that centuries-old medical supply companies were getting nervous. The droids were taking off now that the anti-Borg prejudice had started to wear off, and people realized that someone who's spent tens of thousands of years perfecting artificial limbs, implants, and processors may know a thing or two about droids. With all that, the money rolled in, and the Borg learned that despite the hubris of some species, those that had "evolved" beyond the need for it were a small number.

The Borg bought all kinds of things. Some were to expand their economic muscle, since it was quickly deduced that currency seemed to defy the laws of thermodynamics by giving more out than was put in. They bought small companies that were facing ruin and turned them into a license to print credits. Jokes about the Borg's assimilation of companies abounded, but there was no arguing that they whatever faults they had, they weren't actually doing anything wrong. And that had been an outgrowth of the Borg's experience as outcasts; what people thought was no longer irrelevent. Yes, the Borg could swoop in and more efficiently run a business by replacing most of the employees with drones, but at the cost of alienating the population they wanted to deal with, and that was the whole point. The business, however much it was dwelled on by the Collective, was still secondary to their primary goal of biological and technological perfection. The Borg bought the rights to DNA from thousands of beings who were found biologically distinctive and cloned them in massive numbers. They had a running tab with salvage companies across both galaxies, legitimately purchasing the wreckage of all kinds of ships. They bought experimental technology from all corners of space. And then there was the assimilation.

It was the part of the entire venture that had drawn the most criticism. Romal had brought in top-line consultants from throughout the Empire while drawing up the contract because this was going to be big. Anyone who signed up and passed the rigorously high standards of the selection process would be assimilated for one year. At the end of that year, they would be released, all traces of the implants removed, and rich enough never to have to work again. Through them, the Borg gained knowledge and experience to add to their own. And it was just like Sebastian said; if you went into it voluntarily, knowing what was going on, it was actually a very positive experience. One or two even asked to extend their time at a fraction of the pay because they found the experience so tranquil.

The significance of all of this was how it all came together. The experimental technology, the diversified mental processing, the exotic materials, and the expanded knowledge of the collective had been responsible for Sebastian's suit. The skin-hugging forcefield, powered by a prototype fusion mini-reactor, flickered as the blast grazed Sebastian, but rather than reducing him to a high-speed lump of carbon, he was deflected off his course. Sebastian, his head scrambled by the impact, screwed his eyes shut, hit the thruster, and relied completely on his instincts. After a few seconds the shots stopped coming; he was too close for them to get a bead on him. He hit the reverse while the ship rushed towards him, so that he only hit with a bone-jarring impact.

"Landing successful," Two of Six said in his ear. Sebastian gurgled in reply.

Eventually Sebastian managed to pull himself up; his suit anchored him to the surface, helping diminish the spinning in his head. Sebastian hit the release, and a hiss rumbled in his suit while a compartment slid open, revealing his lightsaber. He took it, lit it, and sliced open the bony hull. Red-orange fluid sprayed out into space. "Ick," he commented. He was surprised when he looked back and saw the seal had covered itself over with a dried substance like the fluid. "It grew a scab."

"It is a biological ship," Two of Six reminded him. "Such capabilities are hardly surprising."

"Yeah, but this is..." Sebastian floundered. "This is gross."

"Irrelevent."

"Easy for you to say, I'm the one climbing through this crap." More quickly this time, Sebastian made three cuts. He scurried through the opening before it could seal behind him. Inside was nothing but more of the fluid. "Can you still read me?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure what this is," Sebastian said. "But hopefully I can find my way through to some kind of hallway or something."

"Are you able to detect any Vong?"

"No, but this stuff is playing hell with my readings. I can't sense any crew, but then if they were Vong I wouldn't expect to." He crawled/swam through the liquid. "But there is something. Can't put my finger on it." Sebastian felt a membrane before him and slit through it, crawling through. The only illuminating was from his suit lights. "There's fluid in here too," he said. "Clear, possibly water. What kind of ship is this?" Particulates floated around him. Sebastian stepped closer and looked at them closely while his HUD presented some information. "None of this makes any-" He was thrown off his feet as the fluid suddenly rushed sideways. He reached down and dug into the membrane with his suit's servo-enhanced grip and managed to stop, but it was like clinging to a rock in a whirlpool. Then, just as suddenly, everything stopped. "Any idea what just happened?" he asked.

"That fluid is not water," Two of Six replied. "It's a very complex organic fluid." Sebastian pulled himself back to his feet. "We are working on a theory. Advise us of what precisely occurs... now." Sebastian was thrown onto his back and dragged along the membrane before he managed to get another grip.

"What precisely happened," he shouted as he tried to get a better hold in the current, "is that I got knocked on my ass!"

"It appears the fluid is the fuel supply for the bioship's heavy weaponry."

Sebastian relaxed as the fluid stopped a moment. "What, this stuff?"

"Affirmative," Two of Six said.

"But," Sebastian floundered, in more ways than one. "These are just chemicals. How can a chemical have enough of a punch to get through an armored hull?"

"It's an organic chemical, but the energy appears to be stored as nuclear, not electrical, bonds."

"That's stupid," Sebastian commented. This time he was braced and didn't budge as the fluid rushed.

"If one makes a bioship," Two of Six said, "one is forgoing the use of machinery. One cannot simply divert reactor output to weaponry, a new energy supply of adequate output must be found."

The fluid stopped moving; Sebastian pulled out his saber. "And one's getting one's butt out of this tube." He slid through the wall and more of the red-orange liquid flooded in. Sebastian quickly crawled through.

"This is why bioships are such a rare phenomenon," Two of Six informed him. "Despite irrational romantic attraction, purely biological starships are inherently flawed. They are structurally weak and lack a means of large-scale energy production necessary for running such a vessel, nevermind defending it."

"This seems to be disproving your point, Two," Sebasian said as he continued cutting and crawling through the bioship.

"The statement is true," Two of Six said. "In order for a bioship to become this effective it requires extremely advanced biological elements. To put it simply, bioships begin with such a disadvantage that even greater technological advances must be made simply to catch up with their mechanical counterparts. That is the reason effective bioships are almost non-existent."

"Not to mention the fact they're absolutely disgusting," Sebastian said. "I don't get it. This is less likely a boarding than an autopsy."

"You have found no evidence of the Vong?"

"I've found no evidence of anything," Sebastian said. "Every chamber I enter is filled with something more grotesque than the last. I can't see Vong getting around in here without a Scuba suit." There was a huge jar that knocked Sebastian over. "Now what?" he demanded.

"That was us," Two of Six advised.

"Well thanks," Sebastian said irritably.

"We've locked on with a tractor beam," Two of Six explained. "The torpedo's effect is dissipating; we don't wish the ship to escape with you on board."

"Oh," Sebastian said. "Sorry. Thanks. You going to be all right?"

"We have adapted to the bioship's weaponry. It still penetrates our shields but it is causing minimal damage to our armored hull. Danger is minimal. Drones have been relocated from vulnerable areas to concentrate on repairs."

Sebastian nodded. The Borg were rather organic in their own way. People liked to compare them to an insect hive, like bees or ants, and in some ways they are. The Borg may have been mechanical, but their approach wasn't to shun the biological, it was to embrace both equally, the organic shoring up the weaknesses of the mechanical, and vice versa. It was just the logical conclusion of the entire approach: optimizing the interaction between human and machine. But still, as advanced as even they were, you couldn't take the human element out of that equation. However good the technology was, it still wasn't advanced enough that you could count on it to run itself with people there.

And there it was, right in front of him. "Son of a bitch," he whispered.

"Is there a problem?" Two of Six asked.

"I know why I haven't found the crew," Sebastian said. "Because there is no crew. Because this isn't a ship."

"A gigantic, synthetic, organic creature designed for stellar confrontations?" Two of Six asked.

Sebastian sighed. "The problem with dealing with Borg is you don't appreciate a good breakthrough, you know? Yeah, this ship must be alive, completely alive, designed to run itself. Like you said, making up for the biological deficiencies requires so much advancement to catch up, they could certainly have it function just fine without a crew on board. In fact, it'd be better. Absolutely no wasted space, because all of it is used to run the ship, because there's nothing but ship to run!"

"If it is a living thing," Two of Six said, "autonomous, then logically it must have a functioning brain."

"Exactly," Sebastian said. Then he got it. "You want me to speak to it?"

"We wish to know if it will pose a threat to us."

"Well they're our enemies, I think they mean... oh, wait a minute. Wait, you mean to assimilate this thing."

"It is our purpose," Two of Six pointed out. "It is in the service of an enemy of the Empire; we are entitled."

"But it's alive," Sebastian said. "That kind of falls in the grey area."

"We will consult with Romal the Attorney, if necessary."

Sebastian sighed. Still, he should see what they were dealing with. He closed his eyes, focused and reached out...

Something reached back.

Sebastian discovered he was screaming when his mind finally managed to break the grip that had been on him. There was a rumble and a huge laser beam sliced through the membrane wall nearby and kept going, then twisted to cut a large hole in it. "Sebastian," Two of Six said. "You must leave, now." Sebastian didn't ask questions, he ran over the cut section of the "floor" and felt the jolt as the Borg's tractor beam latched onto the cut segment. It was quickly dragged out like a grisly elevator system, various bodily fluids oozing around the opening as they rocketed pass. "You were out of contact for several minutes," Two of Six explained. "The organic fuel looks to be destabilizing."

"They're self-destructing," Sebastian said as he was finally pulled clear of the ship. "I'm sorry, they must have learned your intent while I was connected. They don't want you assimilating this bioship."

"Stand by," Two of Six said. Sebastian peered through the blue glitter-field of the tractor beam and saw the ship rapidly receding. Moments later it vanished, replaced by the interior of the tactical cube.

"Exterior view," he demanded. Four spiky protrusions jutted out from the wall nearby. Energy arced between them, forming a diamond, then the air within flickered and presented a semi-transparent view of the now rapidly receding bioship. There was a flash and the ship was replaced by an expanding cloud of vapor. Bony fragments that managed to survive peppered the area with relativistic-speed shrapnel. Fortunately, while the kinetic energy of the fragments wouldn't diminish in space with nothing to slow it down, the extra distance meant that fewer fragments struck the cube. The armor looked like the top of a pepper shaker in some places, but the damage was little to the Borg's regenerative skills.

Two of Six transported beside him. "They're smaller and weaker than other warships," she said. "But their numerical advantage makes them a dangerous adversary."

"And that's not the worst of it," Sebastian said, turning from the view of the debris to her. "The mind of that bioship, it's just instinct; no higher thoughts whatsoever."

"Your reaction indicated there was something wrong in there," Two of Six said.

Sebastian nodded. "It was being controlled by an outside force, something capable of handling the detailed functions of not just that ship, but every single one of them simultaneously. And I'd know that kind of mind anywhere."

"A yammosk?"

"We should be so lucky. It's more powerful than any yammosk I've ever encountered; just a brush with a link to its mind almost overwhelmed me. But I can tell you one thing for certain." Sebastian shook his head slowly as if unwilling to believe it himself. "They're Vong."

[2000AD]

Oooohhh..... Vong+ .

And details of the Borg's business dealings.

Nice

[Star Empire]

Thanks for the chapter. I especially enjoyed reading about all the activities the Borg Colective (a limited liability company) was up to.

[LordShaithis]

More!

[Crayz9000]

The "be assimilated for a year, risk-free" sounds a lot like space tourism as it currently is. Funny thing is, yes, it'd be wildly popular

[Chris OFarrell]

You know, Garak better make bloody sure his 'holdout pistol' makes the first shot a good one. Given that the Empire is IIRC still pumping out replacement Eclipse class SSD's with their own Superlasers. Cause if he doesn't make it a good one, I have a feeling the Imperial Navy will return the favour by making it their job to make the Cardasian race extinct....


Oh and I LOVE the new Borg. The Vong are seriously going to have problems with these guys. They have huge resources, are a Limited Liability Company, have smart leadership, have technology from all over the place comprable to that of the Empire...

And of course they represent complete evil as far as the Vong are concerned

[LordShaithis]

Starting with Worlds Without End and going forwards, this is the longest and greatest fanfic ever.

[CERC]

everytime I read the line "consult rommel the attorney" it cracks me up. Good chapters!

Pax,
CERC

[Sonnenburg]

Kilana had come into the world, and everything was wrong. The memories were incomplete; the galaxy was not what the implanted memories in her cloned brain -the basic programming of her Vorta mind- said they should be. No Founder waited to greet her, instead there were lesser creatures, with lies. And they tricked her into serving as entertainment in a Ferengi pit, where she was an unwitting slave. In that hellhole, she saw the worst in people.

Now she was in a firefight with Vong, and she saw the worst in people. They were the yellow, pink, and green tubules that jiggle about when the body splits open.

Built into the Vorta form the Founders had developed from her monkey ancestors was the same desire for order that they so desired. The Vorta believed in the chain of command, and their place in it. Kilana was attracted towards Han Solo because of this; not physically attracted, but a natural gravitation. He was at times a disorganized, improvising rogue, but he led people when the moment struck more naturally than most people Kilana had ever met. As Han shouted over the sound of battle for her and the shrinking group of Alliance agents to hold the advancing Vong warriors off while he diverted the civilians out of harm's way, no one questioned him, least of all Kilana. She took up position behind a duracrete barrier, snapped off a two quick shots, then examined the situation. It was a quick yet orderly look, because that was how a Vorta thought. They needed a distraction. She stepped out around the barrier and made one.

Kilana had seen this same thing in Sebastian; actually, it went beyond. It was a difficult thing to describe. When it came to dangerous situations, a natural leader like Han knew how to organize people and make it happen. Sebastian had done that. But more than that, when he told you his orders, there was like an undertone to it. It said, "This has to be done, and you have to do it. We're all counting on you to do it, but it's all right because I know you can." It spoke to the best in people. There was no confusion as to why a surly revolutionary Klingon would give it up to fight beside him; despite her genetic programming to serve the Founders, it had even overcome her in the end.

A quick intake of air, deep concentration, and the kinetic energy rose up out of her chest, then shot forward, slamming into Vong and knocking several off their feet. Kilana ducked back behind the shield as thud bugs peppered the air where she'd been.

Sebastian hadn't been the best of Jedi; even Kilana knew this. He was the best when it came to going against Vong, but that was mostly due to experience with their fighting techniques from when he'd been brainwashed. But in a match-up against another Jedi or a Sith, there was no guarantee that he could come out on top. Even if that telepathic attack hadn't incapacitated him, Sebastian wouldn't have had any more success against the Sith warrior than Gorren had. And that was the amazing thing.

The Alliance forces took advantage of the distraction, putting blaster bolts into exposed areas of flesh, thinning the Vong numbers. But they were still coming; they were losing to Borda's actual army, but those here were willing to take as many of the "inferior" beings here with them before they died.

The odds that, of all the women in that Ferengi club, it would be Kilana in that room that Sebastian broke into were so low it scarcely bore thinking about. Yet, Kilana knew that of them all, she was probably the only one who could make something of herself. That wasn't egoticism; she knew the girls, and even the slaves had succumbed to drugs as a mental escape from the daily indignities of service. If any of them escaped, it wouldn't even be a month before they'd wind up back in some other club doing the same thing, just to get their next fix. Sebastian had told her, though, that things don't happen by accident. They were meant to find that room, with her in it, and free her from the life of degradation she'd been tricked into. Kilana had liked that idea; it appealed to her desire for order to think that there was something out there that worked things out.

"Han," Kilana shouted, "there's too many of them! We can't hold them off!"

But it wasn't until later that Kilana had allowed herself to look at this with open eyes. Sure, a positive result had come of it, but how many negative events had been necessary to bring it about? The Borg turned the tide of the war, but there was so much that had conspired to make it happen. The Lythian attack that had impaired Sebastian's mind. The Klingon stepping in to face the Sith -and certain death- just to buy them a few minutes. The murder of Sebastian's wife and unborn child. The infection that threatened Annika Hansen Skywalker and millions of others. The murder of that Jedi and that same Annika's capture by the Sith (whom Han and Kilana still hadn't been able to track down). It seemed the success was built on a pile of broken bodies and tragedies. No doubt things would have been far worse if the Borg had not been there to intervene; the Empire would have suffered a mortal blow and it was doubtful anyone could stop the Vong from rolling through the galaxies. But it seemed those victories were coming only with a bitter price.

The Vong were up close and personal now. Amphistafs swung, severing limbs and heads or slashing deep. Screams filled the area as Kilana backed away, firing her pistol in the hopes of putting them down. Han came back around the corner, blaster at the ready. A Vong saw him and swung. Old instincts must have kicked in, because despite the fact it was at heart-height Han managed to drop underneath it. As the swing passed overhead he quickly straightened, shoved his blaster into the scarred face of the Vong, and pulled the trigger; the towering alien crumpled. Han assessed the situation and cursed under his breath as he grabbed Kilana's arm. "It's too late; let's go." Kilana knew it had to be true; even if it was a long shot of saving even one of the Alliance agents, Han would have gone for it, would at least have tried to get his people out. But he knew, just like Kilana did, those people didn't have a chance... but the civilians that had been rushed off did. Their lives could be saved, by standing on the bodies of the fallen.

It had been a mental leap for Kilana. For her, "order" was by definition "good." The absence of order was chaos, and in chaos was the potential for harm, for the unpredictable that threatened life and limb. But over time, of reading about some of the things the Empire, the Borg, even the Dominion had done to impose order, it had finally sunk in that that which is done to further order does not, in fact, become good. And if that was so, then maybe the guiding influence of the Force was flawed as well. How can there be good if it requires evil things to happen?

"Where are the others?" one of the huddled masses asked. Terror was written on every feature, some more than others, but those that tried to hide it weren't able to fully disguise it.

"We're going in the sub-levels," Han said without answering. "Move it!"

"They're dead, aren't they?" someone said before wailing went up.

"No," Han lied, but his voice was full of command, so that even Kilana wasn't sure he wasn't telling the truth. "But if they do, it's to save you, so make those lives count for something and go! We've got the entrance; we'll protect you." And when Han said it, it was impossible not to believe it. Still despairing but at least somewhat trusting, the people herded down the stairs of the interior; Han sealed the door behind him. "Don't make a liar out of me, Kilana," he said.

Sebastian had explained once about a Klingon's relationship with fear, in an effort to get her to understand his companion better. Even a Klingon, who would charge head-first into certain death, held fear. It was necessary, something they recognized. Because, he said, there cannot be courage without it. A person without fear isn't brave, he's a machine. Kilana had taken that view to its natural conclusions. Absolute order without chaos wouldn't be right, it would just be everyone following pre-programmed rules. And good without the ability to choose to do evil has no moral basis, any more than a machine dispensing medicines is morally good. So maybe the Force wasn't choosing evil to happen to people... maybe it was pitting the evils off against each other so that good would come of it despite their best efforts? Anything more would be taking away that will, taking away that ability to choose to be good rather than being-

Rather than being programmed to?

Han and Kilana took up stations around the exposed doorway of the building. It would provide cover enough for the thud bugs, but whether they could stop the Vong completely was another matter. But they'd try, they had to... no, they wanted to. Fortunately, as the Vong came into the clearing approaching the building, there was the scream of an Alliance gunship. Its weapons blazed at the Vong warriors even as Alliance soldiers rappelled down to the ground. Most were engaging the withdrawing Vong forces, although a handful trotted towards their momentary shelter. The leader gave Han a salute. "The bulk of the Vong force has been routed," he said. "We're here to help with the mop-up."

"Glad to hear it," Han said, shaking his hand. "If you've got things in hand, I've got a lot of frightened people to deal with." The leader turned to give out orders while Han turned back to unseal the door. Kilana couldn't believe it; a few minutes sooner, and those Alliance agents could have been saved. But then again, the few minutes their lives bought had made the difference. Was what happened right or wrong? Kilana gave up. It was easier to deal with life if she stopped trying to guess at these things and just did her part to make the right choices.
--------------------------------------------------------------

Alema Rar settled the shuttle to come in for the landing. The Oracle had meditated ever since they'd left Calrissian and Garak behind, leaving her effectively alone. Now her master sat in the co-pilot chair, observing the approaching planet. "It upset you that I used you as an example against Calrissian."

There were no secrets from the Oracle. "Yes, master."

"There were three lessons involved in that affair, only one of which was for our penny-counting friend. Do you know what they are?"

"To know my place," Alema said, although it chafed her to say the words.

"Yes," the Oracle said. "And the other?"

"I do not know, master."

"Pain, child. Pain leads to anger and hatred. These are powerful tools. You can use them to become stronger, or you can let them blind you. You could direct your anger at your pain and humiliation at me, or you can let it stew within you, letting you grasp more and more of the powers the dark side has to offer you. It's the important balance the Sith must strike. Passion is our strength, but slavery to our passions is slavery nonetheless. We must exercise patience, so that we do not do anything before it is time."

"Yes, master," Alema said. She gently dropped the ship into the docking bay.

The Oracle nodded. "Inform the students that I want them to be present outside my laboratory for an announcement," she said. "Oh, and bring Seven, I'm sure she'd like to see this."

Alema left to carry out her tasks. The Oracle took a moment before exiting the ship. She found Ben looking over records. "Come with me," she ordered, and began leading him through the facility.

"I assume all went as you foresaw," Ben said.

"Our work with Garak should soon bear fruit. Despite the setbacks we should be able to bring the Empire to its knees."

"Very good, master."

"Anything to report?"

"No, master," Ben said. "It's quiet."

"Only for those who refuse to listen," she said, leading the way into her lab. "Things seem just as I left them," the Oracle remarked, her back towards Ben. Without any warning, he felt like someone had slipped a noose around his throat and was crushing him. "But things are not what they seem." Ben was choking for air as he was hoisted off the floor by his neck, grasping feebly at the nothing. "I have just one question for you, my former apprentice," the Oracle said as she slowly turned. Her eyes were gone, replaced by emptiness, with lightning crackling around and through them. "Did you actually think that I could be deceived?"
--------------------------------------------------------------

Annika didn't say anything when Alema grabbed her and pulled her amongst the Sith. Was this it, then? Had the captain finally decided she was of no further use? All such thoughts vanished at the sound of fierce pounding against the metallic wall of the Oracle's lab. There was only a moment to speculate on the cause before the wall ruptured under the impact of Ben's body. He continued his shallow arc until he hit the rock wall, bounced off, and dropped to the floor in a heap.

The Oracle was gliding through the opening, slowly, like the approach of a storm. All eyes, even Annika's, were glued to her hovering form. "I tire of your petty jealousy," she said, her voice echoing far more than the cave should have allowed. "Your glory is behind you, Skywalker; your deeds of late are peppered with one failure after another. And yet your arrogance persists." She touched down on the cavern floor. "I would have thought that you'd learn some humility by now."

Ben pulled himself to his feet. There was blood on his lips; he touched it, looked at the crimson fluid, then up at the Oracle. Annika didn't have to have Force powers to see the rumblings under the surface. Ben had had enough. When a Sith got this way they would charge into a meat grinder without thought of the consequences; the rage was all that mattered. With deliberate movements he reached to his belt and pulled out two lightsabers; their red beams offered a chilling tint to the hatred on his face.

The Oracle reached deep into her cloak and pulled out- Annika blinked. It was a sword. It was almost a meter long, polished black, with a slightly curved edge in front and nasty looking arcs on the back. There was no elegance to it, but somehow just the sight of it sent shivers up Annika's spine. The Oracle held it as if it were light as a feather, then spun the sword once and plunged it tip-first into the floor before her as if the rock had been replaced by foam. The sword rocked slightly as she reached up with both hands, undid the clasp of her cloak, and dropped it off her shoulders. She was clad in a red and black suit underneath that had the vaguest bit of familiarity to it for Annika, until she pieced it together. It wasn't exact, wasn’t even close, but if you looked at it with a skewed perspective it was clear that this was some sickening morph of a Starfleet uniform. The red was the color of spilled blood, the black that of the darkest corner of the human soul. Like the Oracle, it was unrecognizable in the wake of its transformation.

Time was written across her features, but as she stood there, she looked as strong and lithe as Ben did on his best day. Her hair was pure white, draped down her back in five long, thick braids, bound in metal clasps. Her face was lined, but it only seemed to give her an expression of granite. Her hands, far from being the brittle digits expected, instead looked capable of choking the life from her adversary without need of the Force.

The Oracle grabbed the sword handle and yanked it from the rock without effort. Ancient technology, tempered with dark Force energies to give it almost supernatural abilities of hardness and sharpness. It could stop a lightsaber just like an amphistaf, except the connection to its maker, its master, was far greater than that primitive symbiosis.

The Oracle held her head high. "You want to usurp me, Skywalker? Then try. But if you raise that weapon against me it won't end until one of us is dead."

Ben took a deep breath, but he seemed to be trembling with the pent of anger of his many humiliations. "Good," was all he said, and then attacked.

[LordShaithis]

Uh-oh, Ben's in deep shit now.

PS: MORE!

[Star Empire]

You know Chuck, I really admire your ability to turn everything we're used to upside down. You have Palpatine's body serving good (although granted the mind was Sisko's). You give us an Empire that the Jedi serve. You have the Borg be the heros, saving the day when all seems lost. You have Janeway make one great villian. You have the Empire fighting the equivalant of the rebellion, but the rebellion is the one with the Death Star.

[Crazedwraith]

Sweet. Can't wait to see how this fight pans out, even if the oracle just wipes the floor with Ben in a couple of paragraphs.

[Sonnenburg]

No, it's not a new chapter, I've just got to get this off my chest.

There are times when you're writing when you are doing the job. You are putting your best into it to make it something. But there are other times when a piece forms in your mind so completely, that it's almost as if it's already been told, and you've got to get it down on paper before it gets away. When you get to work and it stops being work, when you can glance at the clock and be shocked that it's been four hours since you last looked at it, because it feels like only minutes. When the dialogue is witty and natural, when the narrative is strong and driving, when the characters are already developing into real people within seconds of knowing them, when you've got a scene that drives the story and ratchets up the tension and it's got just the right mix of emotion and drama that you know even changing one word will only make it poorer. When you feel like the term "artist" actually applies to you.

There is practically no comparison to the elation you feel at that time. And let me tell you, there's practically no comparison to the horror and depression when you find out that everything was accidentally overwritten! I have had files lost before, it's nothing new. But when you're that involved with a piece like it had been with this one, it feels like you had a great and wonderful and fragile life in your hands, and then clumsily killed it. You can do it again, but this time, it's going to be work, and it's just not going to be the same. It's like stitching the dead parts back together again; maybe the bits are all there, but the soul is gone.

I am so fucking depressed I can taste it in my balls.

However, there will still be a new chapter of Dawn of Forever posted tomorrow. I always write one chapter ahead in case of a problem. But after that, well, all bets are now off. The story will be finished, I promise that... but whether it'll pick up in another week or in three months, I really can't say yet. I had something, and I think as a growing writer despite this I need to go and find it again.

**************************************
And if you like slowing down for a car wreck, here's what happened:
When an idea like this hits, I usually make up a three column spreadsheet. First is a note of what approximately happens in that part, second is what chapter it goes in, third is just a running number series starting with 1. If something new gets shoved in there, then there might be a 12a, 12b, etc... thrown in. This way while everything's moving and clicking I can skip around in the story to write was I need to write at that moment while I have it, then stitch it together like Frankenstein later to complete the first draft. So I want to work on 13, and make a 13 file and get to it, spilling it out. Plain text file; fuck the formatting, it'll just slow things down! Get the words, dress them up later, 'cause it's taking too long! There's still so much to say, got to go faster. Even making the text files is a fucking pain in the ass, it slows me down! So here's an old trick I found works great. In Excel go into the Visual Basic code and write a short program to make them for you. Simply, For...Next with an open file write close file system. Voila, a pile of files. Well, that's the easy way. I could make it a little more involved, and just tell it to create the files that I don't already have, but that defeats the whole purpose! Things aren't going fast enough! Run the program, check the output folder, and the damn things empty. WTF?

Yup, in my haste, I forgot to include the system path. So the code defaults to the current folder, which means it casually opened everything I'd done, erased it, saved it, and closed it.

I'm trying all kinds of recovery stuff in case there's some wizardry that can help save this stillborn from electronic oblivion. I keep my drives partitioned, so if it's possible to save it I have a good chance. But so far things look bleak. If anyone threw me a life belt, I'd probably let my wife give them a blow job. Who am I kidding, I'd probably be willing to do it myself.

At least I'm in good company

[LordShaithis]

In the words of Lord Vader...

NOOOOOOOO!!!

[Chris OFarrell]

In the words of Data.

Ohhhhh shit.

Dude, that really really sucks. But I know your pain, it's happened to me.

[LordShaithis]

Get some sleep. Drink some coffee. Pork your wife. Eat a sandwich. Relax.

Then come back and make us more story! Or ELSE!

[Crayz9000]

Damn, Chuck, I feel for you. I've had that happen to me before. Lost most of an entire chapter in one shot. After that I started getting very paranoid with how and where I saved it, not that it couldn't happen again though...



My solution to organizing my thoughts is to have a bunch of different text files in my directory. I don't use anything automatic on it because I don't trust scripts to handle anything I wouldn't do myself. But basically I have two files: one, the main story file (in OpenOffice SXW format, which is basically a zip file with XML inside, very easy to recover), and a plot outline in rich text.

When I get an idea, I start writing the dialogue and scenes as they come to me in a separate scratch file. Then I hunt through the plot file to find an appropriate place to use it, if I don't already know. I put a brief summary in the plot, and then I copy the dialogue and scenes from my scratch file into the main file in the appropriate place and continue from there. (Sometimes the scratch file takes the form of a restaurant napkin )

I have a whole directory filled with different excerpts of various scenes that I either am going to use or was going to use but they didn't work out in the context of the plot. Some are good and some are bad.

[2000AD]

Damn that sucks.

As long as you keep turning out the goodness though i don't mind how long it takes. Keep up the good work and don't feel pressured into rushing just to please your fans. It's your story, take as long as you want.