Are You Game?

Gray awoke to a buzzing in his brain, and lingered, half-asleep, relishing the sensation.  Fresh images in his mind revealed a grove, thick with riotous growth of purple and red vegetation; he struggled his way through, from a dense treeline to a clearing.  A man he didn't know stood in front of a house, at the edge of the clearing, which turned out to be a road.  Some woman went away, down that road, walking, driving, Gray couldn't tell.  It was a beautiful, sunny day.  A white building, a warehouse or factory, rose in the distance, beyond the trees, where lots of people worked.  So did Gray.  He had a job there.  He had been having trouble punching in and out for work, and might have said so to the man, as they conversed.  Later, he would forget what they talked about.

He sat up in his chair.  The ready room's soft beige walls surrounded him.  The holographic display, deactivated the moment he fell asleep, returned with the last report he had been viewing — a communiqué, bearing words no Starfleet officer ever hoped to see:

Budget cuts.

The recent civil war proved costly.  The Federation experienced a massive economic recession.  Splitting into a league of autonomous mini-Federations stretched resources.  Energy supplies were limited.  Arcadia could not afford to leave everything on, running around the clock.  Personnel transfers reduced the ship's complement to less than 100, compared to 300 months before.  The Federation Council was slashing exploration programs again, affecting assignments and patrol patterns.

It was as if all the progress of the last 200 years was slowly being peeled back, bit by bit.  If this kept up, they might go back to the old days of tricorders, handheld communicators, and shuttles instead of transporters.

Gray touched his com-pin.

"Bridge, what's our position?"

They were nearing Earth, the watch officer informed him.  Thank God for slipstream.  It would take months to reach at warp, from the Corician border.

Slipstream wouldn't be an option forever.  The quantum drive used self-sustaining energy, but required adjustments in other departments, which couldn't be infinitely afforded.  Wormholes, of course, were out of the question, reserved for emergencies.

Gray went to his quarters, showered (quickly), changed into a spare uniform (rather than use the replicator), then headed to the bridge.

"Civilian vessel.  Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded."

On the bridge, Arcadia's crew watched the fleeing ship's backside, hightailing at warp out of the sector.  Sensors identified it as the Roger.

"Inspections," Gray sighed.  "I hate inspections."

"Roger that," said Dante Winters.

Gray eyed the first officer.  "I'm supposed to be the joker, here."

"Sorry, sir."

Border runs, the illegal kind, were increasingly common in the post-civil war Federation.  What should have been a routine inspection turned into a desperate run, as someone thought, not for the first time, that they could escape Starfleet.

"Captain Shawn, this is your only warning," Gray sent over the intercom.  "Drop out of warp or we'll open fire."  He glanced behind him.  The tactical officer gave a head-shake.  They weren't stopping.  "Okay, target their engines."  He waited to see if that would make a difference.  It didn't.  "Fire."

Phasers shot out.  Contact.  A burst erupted from the Roger's nacelles.

"They're slowing," said the tac officer.

"Bring us out of warp, alongside."  Gray looked to the first officer.  "Mr. Thinks-He-Can-Take-My-Job?"

On cue, Winters tapped his com-badge.  "Boarding party, stand by."  Moments later, the team was away.  Transporters were rationed for such applications.

It didn't take long to sort.  The crew had gotten used to the process.  As usual: Contraband.  Half an hour later, Arcadia had Roger in tow, en route to the nearest starbase, the civilian crew in the brig.  Gray ignored protests from Roger's captain, Felicia Shawn, claiming to operate for the Crucian League.  Since the war, redrawn borders and revised jurisdictions changed almost weekly.  No one could decide who wanted to be allied with whom.  It seemed pointless to keep up.

Carpetbaggers.  Gray learned that term from Shuzo Nakencha's studies of the American civil war, compared to the modern equivalent.  Across the quadrant, smuggling, profiteering, and other shady ventures were on the rise, exploiting the aftermath.  Inspections became a necessary evil.  Starships, pioneers in the pursuit of knowledge and new resources, were increasingly given mundane assignments in known space, as Starfleet focused less on exploration and more on peacekeeping, damage control, criminal apprehension....  An entire division of Starfleet had been appropriated for, basically, police work.  Unfortunately, that included Gray and company.  Since returning from Coricia, this was all the UFS Arcadia had been doing.

Gray meant what he said: He hated inspections.  He would have done anything for a break.

Almost.

"A game show?"

"It's a Starfleet special," explained the producer, a Mr. Moss Athertone.  Gray had retired to his quarters.  The producer communicated holographically from his studio.  Apparently they didn't suffer cutbacks.  "Officers of all ranks and fields are welcome to participate."

"A game show."

"Once quite the craze on Earth," Athertone claimed, in a tone that said this wasn't his first time defending it.

"Centuries ago."

Athertone shrugged.  "We're reviving it."

Gray heard.  It was an ancient form of entertainment.  He couldn't fathom the interest in watching strangers running or standing around, doing weird things or answering trivial questions, for no purpose whatsoever.  In old times, they did it to win money or material goods.  That seemed doubly pointless in the Federation, where neither mattered.

Except, considering the state of the economy, Gray saw how this might be used to certain advantages.  "What sort of game?"

"It's called Beat the Masters."  Gray wondered who the 'masters' were.  Athertone didn't bother to explain that part, but went on to say, "Contestants compete in alternating rounds of physical and mental challenge, combining games of chance, skill and knowledge, for a shot at the final prize."

"And, uh... that prize would be...?"

"What would you win?" Athertone said.  "Well, that depends on our sponsors.  I think they're open to negotiation.  Bear in mind, Captain Gray, few people make it to the end.  But, we've only been running a year now."

"Then what's the point?"

"The experience, man!  Viewers root for the contestants!  It's all very exciting, and great fun."

"Not to mention, exposure for your sponsors."

"Of course."

"Do any have Starfleet contracts?"

Athertone smiled.  "You're not the first to ask.  We're taking applicants on a ship-by-ship basis.  That means, anyone from your crew is welcome to apply.  Only one applicant from each ship gets approved to be a contestant.  After that, it depends on their knowledge, skill, and luck to make it to the final round, in a process of elimination.  So... are you game?"

"Send the application form," Gray said.  If no one else deigned to go for it, he might.