- .
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.
- .
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.
- .
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."
- .
