infinity Ok, Paramount owns everything except the things that Douglas Adams's estate owns (or the BBC, whoever actually owns HHGTTG). This is a shameless crossover, with lots of material taken directly from HHGTTG and ST:TNG. I didn't so much write it as orchestrate it, and fill in the bits that were missing with my own characters, etc. However, the feedback has been outstandingly good, so read on, and tell me what you think. It takes the place of The Best Of Both Worlds, detailing the first encounter with the Borg since the Delta quadrant. -wildsong 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 inadvertantly 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 to the collective, bringing new knowledge and experience. The assimilation of The United Federation Of Planets would continue. 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 accellerated 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 into 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 synchronised, each purpose unified. "Yes? To whom am I-" "Picard, you're a jerk. A complete asshole." The screen dimmed to inactivity. "Sir, the Borg ship is moving away," The Klingon growled. ... The Borg ship fled on through the night. What did you think? Let me know.