Sfstory Log 037

=========================================================================
Subject:     The creation of the multiverse {and later that same day}
From:        (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

In the beginning, there was nothing.

Zip.  Zilch.  Not a damn thing.

Then, there was something.  Not much of anything, mind you, but something.

This something wasn't much, but since it was all that there was, it was
enough.  Within a small span of a few billion years, the multiverse had been
created, major battles had been fought, SPAM was discovered, and
civilization rose from the depths of barbarity to the heights of splendor,
and then fell back to what we have today.

Makes you want to cry, doesn't it?

Some of the alterverses were special.  Some retained the splendor of their
earlier years, such as Heaven and Valhala.  Others never reached the
splendor, such as alterverse one, which contains such uninteresting planets
as Earth (Sol III, Galactic Chart number 4329173922.12319B, down in the left
corner, under your thumb), where the backwards inhabitants continue to
scrounge out their meager existance, confident that they are the only
intelligent creatures in the multiverse, while continually proving that they
are not.

Take for example, interdimensional travel.  The inhabitants of Earth sit
back and say "There is no such thing as alternate dimensions, therefore it
is impossible to travel to them."  While the very visionary people who
believe in the existance of said alterverses attempt in vain to gain funding
and equipment to prove this to the general population, those that have the
funding and equipment sit on their laurels and don't even make the attempt,
for they belong to the first group and will be in deep shit if they allow
themselves to be proven wrong.

Another example is the Superstring theory, the rudimentary theorum that
explains how the alterverses are held together and why Cheez Whiz is a
menace to society.  The theory has been held up for years while scientists,
unwilling to admit that they are wrong, continue to try to factor tachyons
out of the equations and ignore the advice of one Doctor Bing Von Spleen,
PhD, BS, and SoB, who advises that certain elemental processes can be
observed in a common slab of SPAM.

SPAM is another such area.  The inhabitants of Earth actually believe that
this substance is meant for human consumption.  We shall not go any farther
into this area, as we have absolutely no intention of offending the finer
sensabilities of the reading audience.

And, to top it all off, the inhabitants of this silly little planet have the
highly questionable policy of nailing to a tree anyone who suggests we be
nice to one another.

But I digress....

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Deep in the recesses of Netherspace, a meeting was taking place...  Let's
join them, already in progress...

"So what you're saying," continued Doctor Bing Von Spleen, "is that you
coated the reaction chamber of the ABPSARI with Cheez Whiz."

"Exactly," rumbled Omegas' deep voice as he shifted his Reeboks on the
table.  "Cheez Whiz is not biodegradable, recyclable, or edible.  It makes
perfect sheilding, allowing up to 100 SPAM-powered devices to operate within
the local reality."

"What exactly is the local reality?" asked Time Agent 357.

=Depending upon which alterverse you're in, from a few square micra to a few
square alterverses,= responded the cool, clear, feminine, and irritatingly
nasal voice of the VAL9000 computer.

"Aye," said Maldor, leader of Omegas's Hordez.  "Jus' as she says."

357 sloshed the backwash from his beer on the slide projector to clear away
the pretzels.  He activated it, and took out some ill-focused slides labeled
"Scenic Italy".  He projected the title screen onto the far wall.

"As you can see from these top secret documents, Time Central has recently
installed several SPAM-powered devices."  He cued the next slide, and
quickly adjusted the focus so it was as unreadable as the first.  "On the
surface, it would appear that Acting Time Chief Sean Landorian has ordered
these installations, but closer examination shows that it is in fact his
secretary, a Ms. Priscilla Tussbonnet, who is behind it."

Cueing the next slide, which could have been a certain leaning tower, he
continued.  "This particular device is powerful enough to transport the
whole of Time Central to any alterverse, and established techniques of time
travel make any time just as easy."

357 had just projected a beautiful waterfall, and was expounding upon the
virtues of ABPSARI shielding when Omegas broke in.  "It is obvious that Ms.
Fussbonnet is up to something.  Is it possible that she is behind the
fullscale censorship that is sweeping through various alterverses?"

Doctor Spleen looked up from his issue of Sex Illustrated and said, "Yeah,
what he said."

=Running a record check,= said Val.  =Lessee...  Previous jobs include
program director for CBN (Censor's Brainwashing Network), administration of
something called Umnews at Maine, and campaign chief for Walter Mondale.
Current affiliations include the Jehovah's Witnesses and the Fourth Bomber
Wing of the National Organization of Women.=

"I always wondered why she wore combat boots," mumbled 357.  "And that green
helmet always clashed with her blue hair."

Omegas stood, adjusted his underwear, and sat again.  "It is obvious that
this Fussbonnet is behind Time Central's recent streak of meddling.
Apparently this Landorian character isn't paying attention to what's going
on around him."

At just that moment the communications console beeped.  Maldor, being
closest, stopped polishing his armor which would have given Zark Flyby wet
dreams and activated the console.  Sean Landorians face appeared on the
screen, followed by his voice, 17 seconds behind, as Time Central was 17
seconds ahead of Netherspace in the Space/Time/Spam continuum.  "Hello, 357.
Heard you tried to call last week.  Sorry it took so long to get around to
answering.  Couldn't find my phone underneath all the paperwork."

Omegas stood, neatly blocking everyone else's view.  "Landorian, are you
aware of the new ABPSARI construction going on at Time Central?"

"Hmmm," said Landorian as he rifled through the pile of papers on his desk.
"Seems I remember Priscilla asking me to sign something like that...  oops,
the paperwork is clawing its way out of the closet again.  Gotta run!"  With
that, he signed off, although the sound of the overwhelming amount of paper
gushing from the closet continued for another 17 seconds, as explained above.

Time Agent 357 switched off the slide projector and carefully repacked the
slides, rinsing off the beer with Everclear.  "No doubt about it.  Ms.
Fussbonnet is our man.  Er, woman.  Doctor Spleen, how soon can the HMS
Golden Lance be fitted with Omegas' Cheez Whiz retrofit?"

"Snore," said Spleen, his capacity for intelligent conversation exhausted by
the intense discussion.

"I have the materials stored aboard the HMS Liberator," said Omegas as he
quietly vaporized Spleen's chair with a well placed blast from the middle
finger of his left hand.  "The Hordez should complete the retrofit in a few
days.  What are your plans?"

357 drew himseld up to his full height, leaving him a full head shorter than
Omegas and nearly 3 feet shorter than Maldor, but otherwise towering over
everyone else in the room, namely Doctor Spleen, who was horizontal in the
smouldering remains of his lazer-boy recliner.  "We're taking the Golden
Lance, the Liberator, and about 98 of your Hordez and launching an assault
on Time Central.  Since none of TC's new ABPSARI have the Cheez Whiz
Retrofit, it should be easy as cake."

=Pie,= corrected Val.

"Excuse me.  It should be a piece of pie."

=Cake,= corrected Val.

"Isn't that what I said?"

=Grrrr.=

NO SILLY QUESTIONS THIS TIME.  AREN'T YOU GLAD?

***** Received 20:33:18 on 02/27/89, Posting #   117 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Meanwhile, back at Time Central
From:        (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

"Augh!" screamed Captain Sean Landorian, currently  Time  Police  Chief  and  in
charge of all operations.  "I'll never catch up on this paperwork!   I  need  to
take a break."

He stood and strode to the closet, kicking contemptuously at the  various  piles
of paperwork.  He pulled out his favorite jacket, shook out the  various  scraps
of paper filling the pockets, and headed for the door.

"Landorian!" shouted a voice  every  reader  would  recognize  as  that  of  his
grandmother having a bad day.  "Just where do you think you are going?   There's
work to be done, alterverses to save, planets to investigate, and junk  mail  to
answer."

The breveted Time Chief paused at the door.  "Ms. Fussbonnet, I  grow  weary  of
this continual barrage of paperwork.  As my personal secretary, it is  your  job
to make my job easier, not continually inundate me with junk.  When I return (if
I return, he added silently) I expect every form, every report,  every  request,
every comic book, and every anything else we have laying around here picked  up,
sorted, labelled, and sent to the appropriate department."

Ms. Fussbonnet looked taken aback and made as if to speak, but Landorian cut her
off.  "I don't care if it takes the rest of the month.   Requisition  some  help
from other departments if necessary.  Call Security.  Those goons have been idle
since the last attack, and with the new ABPSARI defenses no force can  penetrate
our shields anyway.  Now get to work!"  He then stormed out the door, attempting
to slam it behind him.  Pneumatic doors don't slam, though, and he wrenched  his
shoulder finding this out.

After he left, Ms. Fussbonnet muttered to herself as she set out to clean up the
mess.  "Imagine him talking to me like I was his  employee  or  something,"  she
said under her breath, completely forgetting for the moment that she was exactly
that.  "I'll show him.  I'll show them all..."

Landorian wondered about Time Central, pausing from time to time to  contemplate
the new ABPSARI shields, weapons, and unknowns.  The unknowns bothered  him,  as
he didn't remember ordering anything like them, and Omegas and 357 had asked him
questions about them.  He decided to look up the orders once Ms. Fussbonnet  had
everything sorted and filed.  Having nothing to do at the  moment,  however,  he
ambled over to the Mess Hall.

Landorian opened the door carefully, so as not to wrench  his  already  wrenched
shoulder.  "Billy Dee Williams!" shouted several members of the Secretarial Pool
who were brunching inside.  It took Landorian the better part of an hour, as  it
always did, to explain that he was not Billy Dee Williams,  but  merely  bore  a
strong resemblance to him.  The crowd quickly dispersed, with the exception of a
petite, blue-eyed, hourglass-shaped blonde who still  eyed  him  with  interest.
Deciding it had been way too long since the last time he... well, in any case he
invited her to join him for lunch.

"Oh, wow!" she said, bouncing her head from side to side in a very cute  manner.
"I just can't believe I'm having lunch with the Chief of the Time Police."

"Only temporary," said Landorian, for the moment actually trying to be modest.

"Yeah, but even so... the power, the responsibility, the good parking  spaces...
It must be great."  She eased closer to him, noticing for  the  first  time  the
worn out jacket he wore.  "Surely  a  man  of  your  position  could  find  more
suitable clothing.  I like my man to be dressed nicely."

Landorian's eyebrow went up in a totally un-Spock-like manner at the phrase  "my
man", but otherwise did not react.  "Why my dear, this jacket means more  to  me
than life itself.  My father gave me this jacket just before I joined the force.
He wore it while he was fighting in the Krell Wars."   He  paused  dramatically,
waiting for her to be suitably impressed.

"Which wars?" she asked, toying with her food.

"Just a minor intergalactic struggle for freedom that caused  large  amounts  of
death and destruction.  Anyway, he made it back alive, the only volunteer to  do
so from our planet, and kept this jacket as a good luck charm."

"Did he wear it in the war?"

"No, he took it off a captured Krell warrior.  A midget by their  standards,  it
stood nearly seven feet tall and massed nearly 300  pounds.   My  father  was  a
rather large man, so it fit him much better than me."

Landorian paused to sip from his drink,  some  unknown  blue  substance  with  a
distinct yellowish taste, before continuing.  "Those Krell were something  else,
according to my father.  Most stood nearly 12 feet tall.  They had sharp  claws,
fangs, and were very tough to kill.  We only  beat  them  because  we  had  more
advanced weaponry and a 200 to 1 numerical superiority."

"What ever happened to them?"

"They were banished to another alterverse.  Most of their non-Krell allies  were
killed though, by members of their own planets when it was all over."

"How interesting," she yawned.

Oh no! thought Landorian.  Quick!  Think of something clever!

"This jacket has a very interesting history," he said quickly.   "See  this  rip
here?  I picked that up prospecting in the Altair Asteroid Belt for zarg."

Her eyes lit up at that.  Zarg was a worthless metal, with  its  sole  redeeming
quality being that ditzy blondes liked to hear about it.  "Really?"

"Yes, really.  And this stain over here was caused  by  engine  coolant  when  I
helped with emergency repairs during my training at North Point."   He  did  not
continue to say that his only help was that he cleaned up  afterwards,  and  got
the stain by tripping over a bucket.  But she didn't know that.

"And what's this over here?" she asked, pointing at a discoloration on his right
sleeve.

"Oh, that's where my buddy Ian Lockheed threw up on me when we were attacked  by
Greez Hyperiok, the renegade Time Agent."

"Oh wow!" she sighed, breasts heaving.  "You don't give a girl a chance do, you?
Let's go back to my place right now.  Please?"

"Sure thing," he said almost calmly as he stood, inadvertently sticking his left
elbow into his mashed potatoes and gravy and adding yet another blemish  to  his
jacket of honor.  He climbed into her hovercar and sat quietly as she drove  out
to the civilian housing just outside Time Central's main complex, yet still well
inside the defensive perimeter.

As they entered her apartment, decorated in early "oh wow!",  a  thought  struck
him.  "I just realized something," he said.  "I don't even know your name."

"My name," came the voice behind him, which swiftly changed from a squeaky  alto
to a vibrant tenor, "is Sylvester Fussbonnet."  Landorian whirled around in time
to see a large man holding a very large handgun throw a costume into  a  box  in
the corner.  The box contained a label:  "Ditzy blonde costume.   Guaranteed  to
fool horny Time Police Cheifs.  Avoid if inhibited."

Landorian was shocked.  Fooled by the oldest trick  in  the  book!  he  thought.
Then, he took a good look at Sylvester.  "I know you!  You're..."

"That's right!" the man laughed.  "I'm also known as Greez Hyperiok."

"But... But... But, you're dead!  Your ship exploded!" stuttered Landorian.

Hyperiok/Fussbonnet snorted.  "It takes more than a ship exploding to  do  in  a
Time Agent.  My mother was able to reconstruct my atoms from the debris.   Which
reminds me..."  He  walked  over  to  the  desk,  and  punched  a  few  buttons.
"Hyperiok to Time Central... Mission accomplished."

The voice of Priscilla Fussbonnet floated into the room.  "Very good, son.   Now
proceed to the spacedock, and commandeer the HMS Silver Bullet.  Stash Landorian
in the hold and await further orders."

Landorian was dumbfounded.  "You mean my secretary is your mother?"

"Yes," snarled Hyperiok.  "And incidentally, my father,  Irata  Fussbonnet,  was
one of the Krell allies your father helped butcher after the war."

"Gulp," said Landorian.  "I guess I'm in deep shit, then."  Without waiting  for
a reply, he lunged at Hyperiok, grabbing  at  the  gun  and  sending  them  both
crashing to the ground.  Hyperiok backhanded him and sent him flying across  the
room.  He landed in the aquarium, and Greez let him flop  around  a  bit  before
dragging him out.

"Yes," he told him.  "You certainly are."

COULD THINGS POSSIBLY GET ANY WORSE FOR OUR HERO?
WILL 357 AND OMEGAS ARRIVE IN TIME?
WHAT ARE PRISCILLA FUSSBONNET'S PLANS?
WILL MY POSTINGS EVER INTERSECT THOSE OF ANY OTHER AUTHOR?

***** Received 06:55:44 on 03/01/89, Posting #   118 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Attack of the killer subplots
From:        (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

In which The Cowboy, having no respected for his grade point average, diligently
works to keep you, the  reader,  entertained.   Donations  accepted  graciously.
Receipts upon request.

Deep in the recesses of Netherspace, just north of the  Nympho  Beach  and  just
south of Hotel Nympho, inside the establishment known as Club  Nympho,  the  war
council was still in session.   Time  Agent  357,  most  knowledgeable  of  Time
Central operations in the group, was leading the discussion.

357 paced back and forth in front of the small group.  "Now here's the plan," he
said in his most commanding voice.  "Omegas and I will take the HMS Golden Lance
and the HMS Liberator  and  make  a  direct  assault  on  Time  Central's  outer
defenses.  While we have them distracted, Maldor and the Horde  will  enter  the
area immediately surrounding TC via the surrounding alterverses."

Doctor Bing Von Spleen, the galaxy's foremost Spamologist,  spoke  out  at  this
point.  "The resulting interference between the ABPSARI in their battlesuits and
those of Time Central will  cause  massive  amounts  of  SPAM  radiation  to  be
emitted, shorting out any ABPSARI not equipped with Omegas' Cheez Whiz  upgrade.
Time Central's defenses will be down in minutes."

"Right," continued 357.  "Our only problem then will be any Time Police craft in
the area that aren't SPAM powered.  Val, how many will that be?"

The feminine and irritatingly nasal  voice  of  the  VAL9000  computer  filtered
through the speakers.  =Checking...  Two light cruisers of the Vann  class,  the
Gelis and the Halen, a dozen TRS-80 fighters, and three Time Agent ships.=

357's ears perked up at this.  He had hoped he would not have  to  fight  fellow
Time Agents.  "Give me a list, along with the Agents assigned to them."

=HMS Red Dawn, commanded by Zanxa Zillion, HMS Magenta Swan, commanded by  Lotza
Lucke, and the HMS Silver Bullet, recently constructed and currently unmanned.=

"I went to IU with Zanxa," said 357.  "I believe I can convince him to  help  us
out.  Lotza owes me a very large sum of money, so I think I can convince him."

"He may decide to cancel his debt by obliterating  you,"  chuckled  Omegas,  who
found such thoughts comical.  "That leaves  merely  two  cruisers  and  a  dozen
fighters.  The Liberator could take on that many by herself."

"Any discussion?" asked 357.  Doctor Spleen belched quietly, but  otherwise  the
room was quiet.  "Very well, let's get to our stations and get this show on  the
road.  Val, you will co-ordinate the attack."

=Just order me around like I'm some kind of slave, why don't you? (*sniff*)=

----------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile at Time Central, Greez Hyperiok was putting the finishing  touches  on
his prisoner's bumps and bruises.  "There you go, Landorian.  That  should  hold
you," he muttered as he dumped the acting Time Chief into the hold.  "Now to get
this ship ready for the upcoming battle."  He strolled casually  to  the  engine
room, and lovingly ran his hands along the contours of  the  recently  installed
ABPSARI.  Humming to himself, he pulled out  a  can  of  Cheez  Whiz  and  began
spraying the inside of the reaction compartment.

"Very soon," he said to himself.  "Very soon the HMS Silver Bullet will  contain
the most powerful ABPSARI in existence, immune to the effects of SPAM  overload,
and powerful enough to destroy all of 357's pitiful attack force."

By a very strange coincidence, this rambling was carried via an airduct straight
to Sean Landorian, and roused him from his carefree slumber, or as  carefree  as
one can be when beaten senseless and  thrown  onto  a  metal  deck.   "How  does
Hyperiok, also known as Sylvester Mussbonnet, son of my secretary and soon to be
ruler of the multiverse Priscilla Mussbonnet, know that 357 is going to attack?"
Landorian waited a few moments for the author to explain, and when he  did  not,
got up and wandered about the hold.

***** Received 22:44:25 on 03/02/89, Posting #   119 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Preparing For The Assault on Time Central
From:        (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

The HMS Golden Lance and the HMS  Liberator  lifted  off  from  the  Netherspace
Nympho Beach, rockets flaring, shields glowing, and dorsal manipulators fondling
each other's aft sections.  The two  ships  were  followed  by  98  battlesuited
warriors who split off into several  groups  and  disappeared  from  view.   The
thousand or so warriors remaining behind began setting  up  local  defenses  and
making new friends among the resident Nymphos.

Onboard the Golden Lance, Time Agent 357 and Doctor Bing Von Spleen contemplated
the upcoming battle.  "I'm not sure I trust Omegas," said Spleen.

"Why, Doctor, what do you mean?" queried 357 as he looked for his underwear.

"Last time we teamed up with him and attacked Time Central, he stole  the  plans
to my ABPSARI."

357 sighed.  "Which he later made great improvements upon.   That  bothers  you,
doesn't it?"  Not finding his underwear, he went on to look for his socks.

"No, it does not bother me," answered Spleen testily.  "And what are you looking
for?"

"My clean underwear.  My mother always told me  to  wear  clean  underwear  when
going into battle."

"And mommy knows best?" asked Spleen in a sarcastic tone.

Locating his clean underwear, along with his lucky socks, 357 said,  "Well,  she
knows enough to have lived to age 1,892.  Which reminds me, I need to send her a
birthday card."  Leaving Doctor Spleen's bottom jaw to do pushups, he  went  aft
to check the engines.

=The Doctor is right, y'know,= said Val, the personality module  of  the  ship's
VAL9000 computer.  =We shouldn't trust Omegas.  Even Phred thinks so.=

"Who's Phred?" asked 357 as he changed the oil and checked the water.

=The Liberator's computer, which the author has not mentioned so  far  to  avoid
confusion amongst the readers.=

"Oh."

Onboard the Liberator, Omegas, powerful immortal on the run from St. Peter,  and
Maldor, leader of the Horde, were having a similar  discussion.   "I  tell  ye,"
said Maldor, "as soon as dey've secured Time Central dey'll start the censorship
and interference all ov'r agin."

Omegas cracked his knuckles, causing a sound that made even Maldor  flinch.   "I
think not.  I have a plan...  Phred!"

+Yes, Omegas?+ answered Phred, a computer of indeterminate type.

"Prepare for the jump to hyperspace on 357's mark.  Power up  defensive  screens
and bring the ABPSARI to full power as soon as possible.  Coordinate  everything
will VAL9000.  You are familiar with VAL9000, aren't you?"

+Very, Omegas,+ muttered Phred, in an almost embarrassed tone.

"Then get to work!" shouted Omegas.

"Yes, M'lord!"

"Not you, Maldor."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, onboard the HMS Silver Bullet, plans were being made...

"So, you know what to do?" asked the voice of Priscilla Gussbonnet.

"Yes," said her obedient son, Sylvester, also known as Greez Hyperiok.  "I shall
engage the HMS's Liberator and Golden Lance and keep them busy until  after  the
Horde has attacked Time Central.  The Time Agents there will take  care  of  the
Horde, and then come to help take care of 357 and company."

"You make me so proud," beamed Priscilla.  "I must go  now,  as  I  have  a  NOW
meeting to attend.  Go out and win the multiverse for me, and remember  to  wash
behind your ears."

"Yes, mother," said Greez as he shut off the communicator.  He quickly  set  his
coordinates and kicked in the ABPSARI, propelling him and his ship  through  the
SPAM-induced folds, spindles, and mutilations in Space, Time, and  the  American
Way.  He had completely forgot about his prisoner, one Time Chief (brevet)  Sean
Landorian, currently loose in the hold and preparing to break out.

Landorian, finding the SPAM-powered Death to All Killer  Combine  unusable,  had
managed to remove several of the blades and was  currently  in  the  process  of
cutting his way out of the hold.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Back in the Author's Alterverse, The Cowboy was enjoying a cold one and watching
the sun set.  Glancing over his  shoulder,  he  noticed  a  figure  approaching.
"Howdy, Andy!" he shouted.

"Howdy pilgrim!" came the reply.  "I was in the neighborhood  just  thought  I'd
drop by."

"You're always welcome to drop by any time.  Haven't seen you since the  party,"
said The Cowboy, who suddenly scowled.  "Which reminds me...  Did you  bring  an
electric razor to the party?"

Andy considered for a moment.  "Nope.  Why?"

"Somebody shaved my bearskin rug, and I'm still trying to figure out who."

"Who have you asked so far?"

Cowboy smiled.  "So far, only you.  I have this plan, you  see..."   He  stopped
talking as he noticed the air to his left take on a shimmering quality.  A  form
suddenly appeared, moving at right angles to reality.  "Howdy, Sabre!"

Sabre looked a bit out of breath.  "Hey, Cowboy.   Whew,  am  I  out  of  shape.
Shouldn't have gone so long between postings."

"You had good reason," said Andy.

Sabre took a seat and said "Cowboy, did  you  ever  find  out  who  shaved  your
bearskin rug?"

The Cowboy smiled even wider and threw  an  meaningful  glance  at  Andy.   Andy
caught the glance and threw it towards Sabre.  "I believe  he  just  did,"  said
Andy, as Cowboy reached for his gun.

WILL GREEZ HYPERIOK STOP 357 AND OMEGAS?
WILL OMEGAS TRY TO TAKE OVER AGAIN?
DOES PI REPEAT AFTER 2^4142232 -1 DECIMAL PLACES?

For the answers to these, and other, intriuging questions, tune in  next  month.
Same Sftime.  Same Sfchannel.

***** Received 20:15:32 on 03/05/89, Posting #   120 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     THREE WEEKS LATE
From:        (LEWIS at ITHACA)

          Donald Trump is a Deadhead in disguise
          Dan Quayle is Richard Nixon in (a lot of) disguise
          Pat Sajak is being paid by Jay Leno
          Einstein was a square and Heisenberg wasn't too sure about him
            Another Suburban Family Morning with Ian Lockheed

        "Hello folks.  Just a friendly reminder to put the garbage out on
the curb every Wednesday and try not to slam your car door on your fingers.
Also watch out for any signs of homosexuality in your firstborn son and try
to keep a close watch on your daughter; she may decide to run away.  And
all you housewives out there, please don't burn the scrambled eggs...Ouch!
Down fido!"

_____________________________________________________________________________
|   Wherein Ian and Janice are taken to Zynchrony Beta and more of the      |
|   nature of the mindinvaders is revealed.                                 |
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

    That was another day as seen in Ian's now posessed mind.  But the image
soon changed, twisted...
    Ian began to frown.  "No children on the bridge!  Dr. Crusher, please
remove the boy immeadiately!  Number one, warp six and seperate the saucer
at once!  Make it so! Engage!" he barked out in a suddenly deepened and more
theatrical voice.  Janice stared at him in shock.
    "Oh no, he's been taken over..." she whispered.  The mindinvaders had
attacked at last!
    "Merde.  Engage, Lieutenant!"  Ian insisted, looking determined and
commanding (hardly typical behavior).  His facial mannerisms had changed from
his usual slightly androgenous but devilish charm to a stern, almost pompous
but iron-willed countenance.
    Janice was unfamiliar with the style of the mindinvader posessing Ian, but
she knew how to exorcize it.  She pulled out a complex but portable device
from her belt, aimed it carefully at Ian, and emphatically pushed a button
with her thumb.  Ian's head slumped back in the seat, and moments later, he
regained awareness and his former self.
    "...what happened?" he asked.  "Did I pass out..."
    "No, a mindinvader!" Janice said, still shocked.  "I used my channel-
switcher to drive it out of you," she held up her RC unit.  "Infrared beam,
standard VHF/UHF calibration, short range."
    "What did I say?" Ian asked with concern.  He knew from his previous
attacks that the mindinvader made its prey assume a standard personality
carried somehow by the individual invader, and the afflicted person was
forced to act in that guise while carrying out the mindinvader's wishes.
    "Something about 'Engage' and getting a 'boy off my bridge', total
gibberish to me!" she said.
    Ian was stunned.  "My God, they've come to that," he whispered.
    "To what?"
    "The next generation of invaders. They're here!"
    Meanwhile, the small armada of green ships surrounding The Sun got
tired with waiting and blasted the ship with a stun beam.  Ian and Janice
passed out quickly.

    The Author was hard at work.  Between furious recording/channel switching/
knob twiddling activities, reading four different textbooks at the same time,
juggling three lacrosse balls and an orange, and praticing single stroke
rolls, things were rather busy.  Finally he dropped everything (the four
objects hit the ground and bounced/splatted) and sat down at the terminal.
He began typing again.

    Ian slowly regained awareness.  He wasn't really aware of this [ :) ]
until he realized that he was realizing he was in pain.  "Ow..." he said,
rubbing the back of his aching head.  He opened his eyes, and regretted it.
Too much bright light...
    "Okay intruder, identify yourself!" a voice yelled.
    "Ian Lockheed, who are you?" Ian responded.  Always tell them want they
want to know, he thought.  Interrogations are usually painful and besides few
people are smart enough or informed enough to know what the Time Police lingo
means.
    "All right, the judgement of this court is that the defendant is to be
excecuted.  Next!" Ian was hauled out of his chair (which he realized just
as it was happening that he was sitting in) and pushed out of the small room.
    "Wait!  I appeal!" he shouted back.  That wasn't supposed to happen!
    "Appeal considered and rejected.  Next!!!"
    Next was Janice, although neither she nor Ian knew where they were or that
they were dragged past each other outside the 'courtroom' as they were both
still temporary blind.  She was thrown into the chair and her trial began.
    "Name?"
    "Media Police Captain Janice P.   Your name?" she responded.
    The 'judge' was appalled.  He turned to the bailiff.  "You aren't supposed
to arrest the MP's!" he said.
    "Sorry Sir!" the bailiff barked, snapping a salute and staring straight
ahead.
    The judge turned back to Janice.  "What were you doing in this system?  We
didn't schedule any MP activity for another two weeks!"
    "Behind the scenes, investigative work," she replied, thinking fast.  "We
wanted to see what Zynchrony Beta was like without a guided tour."
    "I'm sorry but that is a capital offense.  My judgement is that you be
lobotomized and shipped back to the Media Police as an example.  Next!!"
    Janice was grabbed and dragged out of the room after Ian.

    The Author had given up drumming and juggling but was still studying
mercilessly from several texts.  In addition, he was now waiting in a long
line outside of a door with a sign saying "Izzards".  He was surrounded by
people shivering in the early morning cold, listening to an abused radio
churn out "Stand" by REM.  The line refused to move faster than about a foot
per minute, and word was that most of the seats were gone by now.  He sighed
and resumed typing on his portable (fictional) terminal.

    Ian and Janice were dragged down interminable corridors and finally
arrived at their cell.  They were dumped inside and the door shut and locked
behind them.  A force field covering the door was switched on.  Their guards
then left.
    Ian blinked.  He thought that he could now see dark gray instead of black,
but wasn't sure.  "Can you see?" he asked Janice.
    "Getting there, I closed my eyes so the flash didn't have much effect," she
said.  "Now we have to get out of here fast!"
    "Yes, the mindinvaders must be about ready to attack TC if they are strong
enough to chase me into this alterverse!" Ian said worriedly.
    "No!  We have to stop the Zyncrhonians from messing with my spaceship!" she
replied in disbelief.
    Ian groaned to himself (although he was sore enough that his groan was real
as well).  "Janice, please try to think of this situation in terms of the danger
to Time Central instead of your bloody spaceship!" he said.
    "Well, of course, yes..." Janice trailed off.  Silence for a brief moment.
"We have to get out of here."
    "Yes."
    "Very soon before they decide to excecute us."
    "They already have,"
    "Before they actually *do* it!"
    "Agreed..."
    "Then what?"
    Ian paused.  So many things were going wrong it was hard to prioritize.
"Well, your revolution isn't going anywhere is it?" he asked.
    "Ian!  Well, no it isn't," Janice replied, "but it will only be harder to
quell as the two month deadline gets closer."
    "Well I think we should get to Time Central where you can coordinate
the defense and counterattack against the mindinvaders, as soon as possible.
I'm an optomist; I am confident that you can wrap that up soon enough to make
it back here to instigate the slave revolt and stop the Time/Space exploitation
here within the deadline," Ian reasoned.
    Before Janice could reply, the force shield on the door switched off, and
the door opened.  Two heavily armored and armed guards stood in the doorway.
"Follow us to your excecutions!" one of them barked.

HAS IT BEEN TOO LONG SINCE THE POSTINGS WHICH THIS ONE REFERS TO FOR COHERENCE?
WHO ARE THE MEDIA POLICE?  WHY IS ALMOST EVERYONE SO AFRAID OF THEM?
WHAT'S THE HARM IN HAVING A FEW PEOPLE ACT LIKE CAPTAIN PICARD ANYWAY?
WHAT OTHER PERSONALITIES DO THE MINDINVADERS IMPOSE?
WHEN IS THE AUTHOR'S BEACH PARTY?

Some questions will be answered in my next posting to SfStory; but then, most
of them won't be the questions above.

***** Received 08:34:29 on 03/06/89, Posting #   121 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     The rat, the insect and the bemused turtle
From:        (C465904 at UMCVMB)

     The snivelling, ratlike creature faced Lieutenant Floyd Cobalt and
Quooth, cowering, repeating over and over "It's a mistake, a horrible
mistake, I'm sorry you got involved," and so on.  Although Quooth was
a passive, docile creature by nature, phis patience did have its limits.
Phe took phis portion of the copy of The Book (anyone remember this?)
and dropped it on the hapless creature's head.  It fell to the floor
of the control room with a "thud" and a shower of pages.

     Quooth picked up the pages, calm as ever, as Floyd looked on.
"Thanks, Quooth!"

     "Do not mention it.  Now what are we to do?  Our ship is stuck in
orange jell-O residue, locked in the hold of this ship that we don't
know destination or even location of."  Phe placed the pages into a
pocket in phis abdomen.  Although phe didn't have a heart as we
think of it, phe liked to think that the pages, delivered by a demon,
held a special place in whatever phe had instead of one.

     "I don't know.  I'm sure the author will think of something."
(author's note:  you can never be sure about such things, Floyd....)
Within moments, the rat-creature groaned and sat up, ending a long
moment of silence that had occurred while Floyd and Quooth tried
to think.

     "I'm sorry, it was all a mistake, ack," the creature said as
Floyd, in a fit of uncharacteristic temper, hauled it up by the collar
of its blue coverall and stood it on its feet.

     "Excuse me, creature, what was your name again?

     "My name?  Well, I can't rightly remember.  Hold on."  It
fumbled in the left chest pocket of its coverall, withdrawing a
battered, peanut-butter stained identification.  "Now if only I could
remember to read too!"  it sighed.

     "May I?"  Floyd took the id from the creature's hand.  "Zeke
Parankis Mortin, slave underbeing, Corpcorporation."  Corpcorporation?
He'd never heard of it.  He gave Quooth a look, but all Quooth did was
whistle "The Locomotion," and dance on three legs.  He assumed Quooth
was expressing non-knowledge as well.  Floyd remembered what he was
going to ask:  "What is this big mistake that you keep talking about?"

     Before Zeke could start another barrage of apologies, Quooth gave
him phis best bug-eyed stare.  He cleared his throat, shuffled from
back paw to back paw, and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to arrange his
thoughts.  Now considering Zeke had at most four thoughts to arrange,
this shouldn't take very long.  But the snivelling, grovelling
mode of communication Zeke used eliminated the need to use any of these
thoughts most of the time.  Floyd and Quooth were considering dragging
out the cribbage board again when Zeke spoke.

     "We were just going to dump some waste.  We were going to take
the orange jell-O residue to the nearest empty planet and drop
it there.  Nebulat V was close, so that was where we were going.  We
being me and my bosses, up there," Zeke explained, pointing a paw
upward to what must be the bridge of the ship.  This speech was
straining Zeke's communicative faculties, Floyd could tell.  He had to
pause after every few words, trying to remember how exactly the
language was put together.

     "Here's where the mistake comes in.  You were waiting for
that part, huh?  Anyway, we were swinging around Nebulat, and the
hatch of the waste hold flies open!  I guess somebody didn't lock it
too good.  Come to think of it, I was the one who locked it."  He
squirmed uncomfortably.  He could be more open about his mistakes
with Floyd and Quooth, after all they were strangers and weren't
likely to care too much.  It was part of the whiner's art to misdirect
blame or, even better, place it squarely on someone else.  "The stuff
goes flying out into outer space on centrifickal force.... I called
up to the bridge pronto, and we caught it just a few minutes later.
Wow, it must have been a billion to one that you got caught in it."

     "We got lucky, I guess," Floyd snapped.  Zeke cringed.  Just then
a voice boomed from a speaker on the wall:

     "Slave, have you taken care of the problem yet?"

     "Not quite yet, boss, sir," Zeke answered, immediately falling
into abasement mode.  "It looks like we picked up a ship by accident,
along with the jell-O, sir."

     "Well, give them a merchandise package and send them on their way.
We're not going to get much commission for this, you know, and you
know whose food allowance is going to get cut, don't you?"

     "Yes sir, of course I do, sir."  He leaned over and whispered to
Floyd, "Mine."  He pulled at the coverall, which hung loosely
over a malnourished frame.  He turned back to the speaker.  "I'll take
care of it right away, sir."

     "Do it within five minutes, slave.  Out."  The speaker fizzed into
silence.

     "I guess it's time for you guys to go.  Go on ahead back out to
your ship.  I'll work the winch and put your package on board
right away."

     "Merchandise package?" Quooth asked.  Phe wasn't well-versed in
the ways of the modern universe.  Phe had tried again and again to
understand words such as "environment," "propaganda," and
"politics" with little success.  Maybe it just wasn't built into
phis genes.

     "Don't ask," Floyd mumbled, pointing to Quooth's holy harmonica
to indicate phe should play it so Floyd could drag phim back to the
A.S. Terrapin II.  Quooth, immersed in confusion up to the bases of
phis antennae, acquiesced happily enough.

     They got back onto the ship and prepared to be ejected, sans
orange jell-O residue, back on course to Wzaxtil.  The winch loaded
several huge cartons and lumpy packages into the hold, which shut with
a satisfying "CLANG."  The hold of the toxic waste vessel opened just
wide enough for the Terrapin II to get out with a minimum of residue
seepage, and the two were on their way again.

     Quooth and Floyd shucked their radiation suits and disposed of
them in the waste bin.  Floyd looked on the viewscreen to get a
visual bearing and stopped short.  "Quooth, do you see anything
unusual out there?"

     Quooth peered out.  "The front end of the ship seems to be emitting
some sort of photon radiation," phe remarked.

     "Oh no, you're kidding.  I can't believe it," groaned Floyd.  "The
Terrapin II is contaminated from that jell-O residue.  We should have
demanded to be decontaminated before we left.  I wonder...no, they're
long gone."  The long range scanner revealed no craft within whatever
distance long range scanners cover.  Disgruntled, he flopped down into
his console chair.  "Great, perfect, just marvelous.  Now we're glowing
as a beacon to any hostile force that could be nearby."

     Just then, someone knocked quietly on the door between the hold
and the bridge (this is a very small ship, remember).  Unthinking,
lost in his thoughts, Floyd opened the door.  Zeke stood there, looking
for all the world like he was defending himself against an imaginary
blow.

     "Excuse me, could I come in?  I'll stay in there if it's too
much of a problem for you."

NO QUESTIONS, NO TAG LINES....I HOPE YOU'RE NOT TOO DISAPPOINTED!
I hope that'll hold y'all off for another ten days....Happy break!

***** Received 07:57:50 on 03/09/89, Posting #   122 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Part one of the mighty Sabre plotlines update!!!!!
From:        Eric, Lord Sabre (B45J at CORNELLA)

     Let us pause for a moment and reflect upon the current
situation, for those who are not longterm Sfstory readers, and
for those who are but have just forgotten, since it has been so
long since we last met the young, foolish but terminally heroic
adventurers in Sabre's postings.  We shall give a simple
character breakdown, and let the reader beware....

     MATT DEFORREST:   Ex-President of Danielson Hall at Boston
University (this job becoming somewhat irrelevant with the
destruction of Danielson Hall, Boston University, and Boston
itself.)  Matthew is a nice enough fellow, but he has a tendency
to get embarrassed at nearly any opportunity.  Matt accidentally
had the omniscient computer account Superbrain at Oracle2
electrochemically transferred to his brain in an accident
involving Muck-Luck, a TARDIS, and the death of Lisa Bonet.
Furthermore, in a rather bizarre adventure involving God and lots
of Spam, Matt discovered he was Lord Matthew the cute, Displaced
Paladin and Patron of Hot Chocolate and Other Nice Hot Tasty
Drinks.  As a Paladin, Matt has shown some rudimentary healing
powers, and isarrmed with a rlllly neat leather bomber jack--))it
possesses the power of infinite pocket space, and it seems
whenever he looks around in its pockets, he finds amazingly
appropriate items.  Matt is armed with a personal nuker.  He has
been romantically linked to Linda, but cannot seem to vocalize
his feelings without stuttering and causing his blush to achieve
critical temperatures.  It is also worth noting Matt seems to be
incapable of dealing with sentient computers without a certain
amount of belligerence on both sides.

     THE INTERN:  Mysterious Timelord of Gallifrey.  The Intern
is lucky enough to be one of the few characters in this story who
has little to no psychosis and actually is competent and knows
what he's doing.  The Intern is a licensed Space Hero, and has
both a Bh.D and an Mh.D. in High Space Adventure, Timelord
Emphasis, from Interstellar University.  The Intern is a master
of the martial art Hyper-Belcho.  He also owns a TARDIS model 69.
The TARDIS's chameleon circuit has been accidently locked into
the image of a large beer keg, however.  The Intern is armed with
a lightsabre shaped flashlight, which has a series of attachments
that do really seriously gnarley things.  The Intern is both in
love with and engaged to Radar.

     STEVE VOGEL: Captain in the USAF, and slightly effeminente,
Steve was the commander of the Challenger II mission, the first
attempt of an Earth Government to launch a Faster Than Light
ship.  Needless to say, the mission has not gone as planned, and
the StarShuttle Challenger II has been remodeled using the Time
Piston out of an archaic and broken down model 3 TARDIS into a
TimeShuttle, with a Faster Than Time Drive.  Steve currently
commands said TimeShuttle, and really wishes he were at home with
a large chocolate sundae.  He has no known weapon, nor any known
romantic involvements.

     RADAR VOGEL: Twin sister of Steve Vogel, and knock down dragout
gorgeous.  Radar is the star of over thirty intersteller pornographic
Holotapes, and formerly a real b*tch.  She also is one of the
greatest Spamologists in the known multiverse, having gained
access to the briefcase of Dr. Bing Von Spleen.  (For more
information on Dr. Von Spleen, please see the Cowboy's postings.)
However, due to the same adventure with God and spam mentioned
above, Radar has fallen in love completely and totally with the
Intern, given up her naked modeling career, and has devoted
herself totally to Spamology for peace, Hyperdimensional
engineering, and adventure on the side of good.  She has also
quit the naked Volleyball team, and restricts her rather bizarre
sexual habits to the Intern.  She is armed with a Star Trek:The
Next Generation Type Two Dustbuster Phaser.

     LINDA MADISEN: Formerly a lieutenant in the Air Force, a
former member of the above S.S. Challenger II mission, and a
lovely girl.  Linda has a largely deserved reputation for not
being the brightest, but she also isn't the stupidest (see Mark
Hyperthrust and Kitty Hitowers.)  Linda has always been a kind
soul, always willing to help others.  These tendencies lost her
virginity at fourteen and got her in fifteen different nude
magazines.  However, all that has changed now.  She had become
Lady Linda the Confused, Duchess of Innocent Looks, Patron of
Lacy Underwear and Nice, Warm, Snuggly Blankets.  As a Paladin,
Linda also has shown some semisuccessful healing powers.  She
also possess the incredible power of Deus Ex Machina, meaning
should she be in a horribly life threatening situation, one of
the Sfstory Authors will make certain it all works out in the
end.  She loves Matt, and is willing to admit it, but is waiting
until this admission wouldn't kill the poor boy.  She is armed
with a personal nuker.

     WILHELM NATCHWALD:  Another former member of the Challenger
II mission, Natch was temporarily in the service of Satan (about
whom the less said, the better.)  Satan had Natch altered into a
Cybernetic Bionoid of incredible power, power so incredible, in
fact, that the simple entry given here can hardly do it justice.
Suffice it to say, his experience with Satan has sort of
ramboized the former chicken, but he's willing to putt along at
half speed if he needs to.  No, I'm not going to explain that
metaphor, so don't ask again.

     RALPH THE GIANT SPACE WEASEL FROM ANTHRAX V: Ralph is a
basically peaceful weaseloid from Anthrax V, as his title
suggests.  His name was given to him by G.X.P. Varneyloop, whom
I've personally lost track of in the mess that is Sfstory.  Ralph
is an accomplished Ukulele player, and has little to no combat
skills.  He *REALLY* wishes he were back on Anthrax V eating a
chocolate sundae.

     MARK HYPERTHRUST: Current High Space Adventure major at
Interstellar University, Mark is on probation.  You see, while
practicing emergency hyperspace jumps in the HMS (Heroically
Manned Ship) Goodguy, Mark decided to move onto his next assignment
(locate at least one Damsel In Distress, and help her complete a
a Quest) without first asking the instructors or signing out
the ship.  In common argot, this is called stealing a ship.
Well, Mark failed utterly in this and got the Goodguy destroyed
to boot, and has been forced to retake freshman year, WITHOUT
field assignments.
     Needless to say, Mark has ignored this, and in a mad effort
to bring his GPA up has stolen the HMS White Hat, a Hypership of
inconsequential power, along with Kitty Hitowers, in an attempt
to save Earth.  The White Hat was so slow, however, others saved
Earth without him.  He has just gotten a flat trying to follow
the Challenger II.
     Mark is stupid, large, idiotic, and arrogant.  He's really
not the sort of person you'd let date a turnip.  He *is*
handsome, but the sex appeal wears off sometime after he says his
first polysyllabic word (like "Hello.")  He's armed with an
Original Star Trek type II Phaser

     LAMEDUCK:  Senile Timelord of Gallifrey.  Lameduck is twelve
thousand years old and spent about the last three thousand of
them in a haze.  While he certainly is intelligent, and could
take apart and put back together a TARDIS if he needed to, he's
also incapable of remembering what he's doing in the middle of
putting on his pants.  Unreliable in the extreme, but a loveable
old coot. He is not in any way, shape, or form armed, as no one
will let him touch a weapon, much less use one!

     TRUDY TETWATERS: A Space Sidekick major at Interstellar
University, Timelord Companion emphasis.  Trudy is an incredibly
devoted Dr. Who fan, to the point where she has past and present
Doctors' pictures embossed on her underwear.  Trudy is a relative
innocent, and something of a fluff)brain.  A recent bad
experience fighting a renegade Time Police Agent has caused Trudy
to decide to become a High Space Adventure Major, with very good
results (see below.)  Trudy is head)over)heels in lust with the
Intern, and is cute enough to give Radar heartburn.  She is
unarmed, and is currently sleeping off several sedatives in the
Zero Room of the Intern's TARDIS--specifically so she will not
meet....

     TIME POLICE MAJOR TRUDY TETWATERS: Trudy's future self, from
ten years in the future.  Trudy has (will, is going to, the
tenses of Time Travel are always interesting) grown up to be one
of the most effective members of the Time Police, and a highly
competent, fully licensed Space Heroine.  This lady could take on
Darth Vader and have him rolling over on command.  No, really!
Anyway, she cannot meet her younger self without the both of them
going completely insane, therefore young Trudy's dreaming the
dreams that never make sense.  Major Tetwaters is armed with a
GODAWFUL, a weapon from the future.  Its letters stand for
Ghostbusters Original Dire Apocalyptic Whirlwind Flux
Unidirectional Lotsodeath, and the best description of it ever
given was that of a silver manportable antipersonnel multicountry
depopulator.  Trudy retains the infatuation for the Intern that she had
in her youth.  However, she is now armed with a fully adult and mature
body, a mature mind, and an omnidesirable computer account,
Massage at eroticavm3.  This gives poor Radar TERMINAL heartburn,
but Trudy is also more mature and understands that the mission
MUST come first.
     Of course, AFTER the mission....

     The remaining populace of Sabre's Sf_story postings will
be sent along as soon as possible, so do try and stay happy....

***** Received 23:49:05 on 03/09/89, Posting #   123 *****