NEW: Infinity 1/1 [TNG]
Wildsong
This is my first fanfic. Obviously. Some of you will no doubt
spot the blatant lifting of a number of passages word for word
from the Hitchhiker's Guide series. That's because Douglas
Adams wrote them, and I don't think I could do a better job
than he. (and it _is_ his character, after all.) Besides,
that's kinda the point.
Obligatory Disclaimer: Paramount owns the entire Universe
and everything in it, except for the parts that Douglas Adams
owns.
I'm not going to make some stupid demand that if you want (for
any reason) to redistribute this that you attach my message.
All I ask is that when this gets MiSTed, as I'm sure it will,
the MiSTer send me a copy. :)
-Wildsong
wild...@netbistro.com
Infinity
An alien ship was thundering through the appalling void which
separates the very few things there are in the Universe from
each other. It's occupant was alien, very alien. It had a
peculiar alien tallness, a peculiar alien flattened head,
peculiar slitty little eyes, extravagantly draped golden robes
with a peculiarly alien collar design, and pale grey-green alien
skin which had about it that lustrous sheen which most grey-green
faces can only aquire with plenty of exercise and very expensive
soap. His name was Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged. He was a
man with a purpose. Not a very good purpose, he would have been
the first to admit, but it was at least a purpose and it did at
least keep him on the move.
Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged was - indeed, is - one of the
Universe's very small number of immortal beings.
Those who are born immortal instinctively know how to cope with it,
but Wowbagger was not one of them. Indeed, he had come to hate
them, the load of serene bastards. He had had his immortality
inadvertently thrust upon him by an unfortunate accident with an
irrational particle accelerator, a liquid lunch, and a pair of
rubber bands. The precise details of the accident are not important
because no one has ever managed to duplicate the exact circumstances
under which it happened, and many people have ended up looking very
silly, or dead, or both.
Wowbagger closed his eyes in a grim and weary expression, put some
light jazz on the ship's stereo, and reflected that he could have made
it if it hadn't been for Sunday afternoons, he really could have done.
To begin with it was fun, he had a ball living dangerously, taking
risks,
cleaning up on high-yield long-term investments and just generally
outliving the hell out of everybody.
In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with,
and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about
2.55, when you know that you've had all the baths that you can
usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given
paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use
the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as
you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four
o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.
So things began to pall for him. The merry smiles he used to wear
at other people's funerals began to fade. He began to despise the
Universe in general, and everybody in it in particular.
This was the point at which he conceived his purpose, the thing
which would drive him on, and which, as far as he could see, would
drive him on forever. It was this.
He would insult the universe.
That is, he would insult everybody in it. Individually, personally,
one by one, and (this was the thing he really decided to grit his
teeth over) in alphabetical order.
When people protested to him, as they sometimes had done, that the
plan was not merely misguided but actually impossible because of
the number of people being born and dying all the time, he would
merely fix them with a steely look and say, "A man can dream, can't he?"
And so he had started out. He equipped a spaceship that was built to
last with a computer capable of handling all the data processing
involved in keeping track of the entire population of the known
Universe and working out the horrifically complicated routes involved.
His ship fled through the inner orbits of the star system, preparing
to slingshot around the sun and fling itself out into interstellar
space.
"Computer," he said.
"Here," yipped the computer.
"Where next?"
"Computing that."
Wowbagger gazed for a moment at the fantastic jewellery of the night,
the billions of tiny diamond worlds that dusted the infinite darkness
with light. Every one, every single one, was on his itinerary.
Most of them he would be going to millions of times over.
He imagined for a moment his itinerary connecting up all the dots in
the sky like a child's numbered dots puzzle. He hoped that from some
vantage point in the Universe it might be seen to spell a very, very
rude word.
The computer beeped tunelessly to indicate that it had finished its
calculations.
"Folfanga," it said. It beeped.
"Fourth world of the Folfanga system," it continued. It beeped again.
"Estimated journey time, three weeks," it continued further. It beeped
again.
"There to meet with a small slug," it beeped, "of the genus
A-Rth-Urp-Hil-Ipdenu."
"I believe," it added, after a slight pause during which it beeped,
"that you had decided to call it a brainless prat."
Wowbagger grunted. He watched the majesty of creation outside his
window for a moment or two.
"I think I'll take a nap," he said, and then added, "what network
areas are we going to be passing through in the next few hours?"
The computer beeped.
"Cosmovid, Thinkpix and Home Brain Box," it said, and beeped.
"Any movies I haven't seen thirty thousand times already?"
"No."
"Uh."
"There's _Angst In Space_. You've only seen that thirty-three thousand
five hundred and seventeen times."
"Wake me for the second reel."
The computer beeped.
"Sleep well, " it said.
The ship fled on through the night.
------------------
Lieutenant Timothy Pasteur of Starfleet wandered aimlessly down the
street of New Providence Colony. He hated shoreleave, since he
never actually had anything to do. He wanted to get back to duty,
but Dr. McKinlay, the Chief Medical Officer on the Yorktown, said that
he was overworked. Well, only two days to go before he could get back
to duty. Stellar Cartography must be falling apart without him.
He stood at the edge of the colony, gazing out at the wasteland outside
the borders. Dull, he thought, but no more dull than the Yorktown's
permanent patrol route. Still, at least aboard the ship there was
always SOMETHING to do. He shrugged. He was still bored.
He looked around at the other people who had wandered out to the
perimeter, and noticed that most of them were staring at something
in the sky. Glancing up, he became aware of lights flashing eerily
through the clouds. An unauthorized landing! Something interesting
was happening! As he watched, as he stared in wonder and excitement,
a long silver ship descended through the warm evening air, quietly,
without fuss, it's long legs unlocking in a smooth ballet of technology.
It alighted gently on the ground, and what little hum it had generated
died away, as if lulled by the evening calm.
A ramp extended itself.
Light streamed out.
A tall figure appeared silhouetted in the hatchway. It walked down
the ramp and stood in front of Tim.
"Pasteur?" it asked. Tim nodded.
"_Timothy_ Pasteur?" the creature pressed. Tim nodded again.
"Pasteur, you're a useless, hopeless waste of space," the creature
said.
It nodded to itself and made a peculiar alien tick on what appeared to
be some species of PADD it was holding in its thin and spindly alien
hand. It turned to leave.
Just then the whole colony was unexpectedly scooped off the face of
the planet.
------------------
Deep in the heart of the massive ship, activity had increased. With
the collection of New Providence Colony, their numbers were increasing.
New minds had been added, bringing new knowledge and experience.
------------------
The Klingon growled. "Sir, the vessel has already changed course
to intercept us."
"On screen."
An unidentifiable speck appeared on the main view screen, streaking
toward The Enterprise.
"Magnify."
The image that leaped onto the viewer struck fear into the heart of
every officer on the bridge. Picard's heart rate accelerated as he
regarded the cube shaped terror, and then turned to face his tactical
officer.
"Dispatch a subspace message to Admiral Hansen. We have engaged the
Borg."
------------------
The addition of the units from New Providence Colony was almost
complete. Only one now remained.
Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged lay on the table watching the Borg
swarm around him. Some ran devices over his head, some grafted implants
onto him. One fitted a prosthetic limb over his long, spindly hand.
A flashing device was passed over his face, and a long, thin,
needle like probe began its slow journey into his skull.
His mind began to submerge within the collective.
"Fuck," he said.
------------------
"Open a channel."
"Channel open."
"This is Captain Jea-"
"Jean-Luc Picard Captain of the starship Enterprise
registry N C C one seven zero one D," came the sound of a hundred
thousand voices with a single mind, each word synchronized, each
purpose unified.
"Yes? To whom am I-"
"Picard, you're a jerk. A complete asshole."
The transmission terminated.
"Sir, the Borg ship is moving away," The Klingon growled.
------------------
The Borg ship fled on through the night.
Patrik Hulten
On Thu, 28 May 1998, Wildsong wrote:
> "Open a channel."
> "Channel open."
> "This is Captain Jea-"
> "Jean-Luc Picard Captain of the starship Enterprise
> registry N C C one seven zero one D," came the sound of a hundred
> thousand voices with a single mind, each word synchronized, each
> purpose unified.
>
> "Yes? To whom am I-"
>
> "Picard, you're a jerk. A complete asshole."
>
> The transmission terminated.
>
> "Sir, the Borg ship is moving away," The Klingon growled.
>
::LOL:: Gawd I love this. Its so funny. I guess thats the only thing that
I miss in THHGTTG. This was *the* thing to make Wowbagger the Infinetly
prolonged even more funny than Douglas Adams created him.
/Patrik aka Blaren