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Sfstory Log 065

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Date:         Tue, 9 Nov 1993 21:10:00 EDT
Reply-To:     UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender:       UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From:         mexican moon (SWEDE at DRYCAS.CLUB.CC.CMU.EDU)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists II episode twenty four

RENEGADE ANARCHISTS II: JUDGEMENT SPAM
Episode Twenty Four: "Go Back to the Five and Dime, Already" by Gary W. Olson

     "At its present speed," the Chief of Time Central, whose name was not
known, though he let the OmniDean call him 'Chuck,' and looked a lot like
Sting, said, "the Spam Lite barge will impact in twenty minutes!"
     "I would not worry," the OmniDean snarled, as he blasted some more at
Lark Purree, who was deflecting the OmniDean's blasts with his hair.  "My
armada...will...take care of the situation."
     "They'll (ow) have to (ow) blow up the barge (ow)," Lark Purree, TIme
Agent 90210, said, as he steadily advanced, saying "ow" each time a blast
impacted against his hair, or the feminine undergarment fused to it.  "What
(ow) will you do (ow) then (ow)?"
     "I'll think of...whunff!" the OmniDean exclaimed, as Zark Flyby blasted
up from the floorboards, into which he had fallen in the previous episode.
While the OmniDean struggled with the amazingly violent and stupid Flyby,
Lark snatched the Box out of the OmniDean's hands and dashed off the stage,
looking for Shadebeam, whom Boku had said was the only one who could activate
it.
     Lark saw her on the other end of the Hall, battling a knot of James
Deans with active assistance from Slithis and rather depressing assistance
from Robert Smith.  He saw Benjen, Benchen, Katayin, and Gham zipping around
in the air, blasting Deans with bioelectricity.  Boku and Xiphria were
struggling, and it seemed that the larger Xiphria was winning.  The whole
place was just generally a whole wiggling heap o' chaos.
     *SageWare,* Lark subvocalized.  *What's the best route through all
this?*
     ((Assuming for a moment that the direction you want to go, towards
Shadebeam, is north,)) the SageWare Defense Master 7.0 software installed in
the library chip in Lark's head replied, ((then an initial path 15.27458
degrees deviated westward would be the optimal path...))
     "Great!" Lark exclaimed, plunging through fighting Deans and Time
Agents.
     ((...if you could fly.  Since you cannot, however, an initial path 27.454
degrees deviated eastward is recommended.))
     Lark pulled up short, seeing he was suddenly surrounded by eighty James
Dean synthezoids, who were looking bloody and mean (but still cool in only the
way a James Dean can).  *SageWare...* he subvocalized, managing to get a
growling inflection in.
     ((Hey, if you can't follow the instructions, you void the warranty,))
the SageWare told him.  ((Just keep that in mind.))
     "Okay," Lark said, detaching his sideburn, "looks like it's just you and
me, little fella..."  His sideburn gleeped and leapt into the fray, its form
twisting to become almost razor sharp.  Blood spurted freely from the
synthezoids as they tried to face this unexpected attack, which was made even
worse when Lark's other sideburn, which had left the Chief, joined in.
     "So there you are," Emma Goldman said, as the last nearby synthezoid fell.
     "I got the box," Lark said, holding it up.
     "I don't know if we can blast a path through," Slithis said.  "It's tough
going any way you can slice it."
     "Where's Bata?" Jerriphrrt asked, looking around.  "He'd know!"
     They looked around.  Finally they spotted Bata leaving the Grand Concert
Hall with Tane Tessier, apparantly on their way to finding some better hiding
spot.  Xiphria and Boku rolled by, still struggling.
     "We've got to power across somehow," Lark said.  "But how...?"
     "Perhaps I can help?" a deep, sultry voice asked.  Lark, Jerriphrrt,
Slithis, and Emma turned to see a tall, very, very physically fit female
humanoid with long, black hair, strategically torn clothing, and a cocky smirk.
     "I...I..." Lark stammered, forgetting the unbelievable carnage that was
surrounding him for a moment.
     "You like, Dylan?" she asked.
     "BRENDA?" Lark asked back, incredulous.
     "The same," BRENDA said.  She grabbed him by the waist, and yanked him
into the air.  "Hang on!" she ordered, as she plunged into the brawling crowd,
knocking aside synthezoids and Time Agents with startling ease.
     -----------------------------------------------------------------------
     "We're losing badly!" Grape Preserve declared, saying the obvious.  The
Preserves fleet was centuries out of date, and many of their warranties had
expired, coincidentally, just the previous Thursday.  Out of the six thousand
ships they had left with, only one thousand remained, while the OmniDean had
eighteen thousand warships at his disposal.
     "The Spam Lite barge is just five minutes out from Time Central now,"
Cherry 2000 Preserve said.  "It'll take a miricle to change certain defeat at
this point."
     Just then, at that point, the OmniDean's ships started blowing up like
microwave popcorn in a nuclear reactor.  On the screens, the Preserves could
see a huge, lumbering, monsterous ship.
     "It's a ship of Satanic registry!" Peach Preserve said, shaking.
     "What's one doing here?" Raspberry Preserve asked.  "Never mind!  It's
odd getting a miracle from an agent of Satan, but it looks like we have one
nevertheless.  Renew the attack!"
     -----------------------------------------------------------------------
     "I rolled it over!" one of the Quayles exclaimed.  "I rolled over the
score!"
     "Another hit!" a second Quayle cheered.  "This is more fun than playing
Indiana National Guard!"  Hemingway scowled.  The void around them was
littered with small ships that had been blasting at each other.  With all
the firing going on, it was well-nigh impossible to locate the asteroid that
Time Agent 357 had fled to this place in.  So Hemingway had ordered his
covey of Quayles manning the tactical stations to clear away the debris.
     "Bonus round!" a Quayle exclaimed.  Hemingway's grip on his elephant
gun tightened.
     -----------------------------------------------------------------------
     "One minute to impact!" Lark heard the Chief shout over the din.  BRENDA
did not break stride, pushing through a group of synthezoids who were menacing
Tarrfel t'Krodkzik.  Gham and Benjen laid down strafing bursts of bio-
electricity to clear the path for them, somewhat, but BRENDA still had to
strongarm her way through the assorted combatants and tabloid photographers
who had somehow gotten into the place.
     At last, Shadebeam was close at hand.
     "Hey, goofy," Shadebeam said, as she drilled a synthezoid with a laser
burst.  "I see you got the box back."
     "That's right," Lark said, hopping out of BRENDA's arms.  "Here you g--
owwwch!"  He said the last as Zark Flyby flew by, tossed by the OmniDean's
superior strength.  Zark flew through the wall, still blasting away at anything
that moved and most everything that didn't.  One of his blasts hit the Box,
knocking it out of Lark's grasp and sending it flying high into the air, all
the way across the Grand Concert Hall.
     "Groan," Lark groaned, sinking to his knees.
     "No time to lose!" BRENDA declared.  She lifted Lark up and started
tugging on his hair.
     "Owwww!" Lark exclaimed.  "What are you...owww!...owwwww!"  With a loud
ripping sound, BRENDA ripped Lark's hair off his head.  "Yeeeooouuuuuuccchhhh!"
     "Perfect," BRENDA said, examining the still solidly fused hair, which
now resembled a helmet.  With precise calculation, she threw the hair-helmet
into the air, on a precise tangent.  It ricocheted off Saran Scone, bounced off
Bahbneu Haht, hit the buffet table, bounced back, caught the Box inside the
curve of the helmet, and ricocheted back to land in BRENDA's arms.
     "Ahhh...ah...ahhhhh..." Lark moaned, as he toweled up the blood trickling
from his now bald head.  "That...hurt..."
     "Here's the Box," BRENDA said to Shadebeam.  Shadebeam took the Box in
her hands and examined it.
     "Well, okay, I've got it now," Shadebeam said to the Box.  "Do something,
already!"  She shook it a bit.  "Come on!"  Her finger brushed against the
exploding cow insignia on the box.
     Suddenly, things got really wierd.
     You see, it was around this time that the Spam Lite barge decided it had
just about enough of approaching in a menacing fashion, and instead actually
impacted against Time Central.  It had aimed for the funnel that would have
channeled the Spam Lite directly into the power core of Time Central, which
would have made the OmniDean virtually invincible, through some not-adequately-
explained sfstoryesque rigamarole.
     It would have hit, too, if it hadn't caromed off the cathedral-sized
asteroid that for no discernable reason had lunged out of the void and gotten
in the way of the barge.  But it did, and consequently, instead of hitting the
funnel, hit the huge viewsteel window at full force.
     Now, the viewsteel window did not break, mind you.  Time Central is made
of quite stern stuff.  Or, at least, the Time Central in this story is.  The
author has no idea how Time Central was depicted in previous versions.
     Anyway, it didn't break.  But in the explosion, the huge stores of Spam
Lite on the barge were suddenly and without warning converted to energy, which
penetrated the walls and washed through the base.
     The Box, touched by Shadebeam, began to react with the wild, uncontrolled
Spammish energy.  Shadebeam tried to drop it, but found she could not.  Its
energies washed through her, angry blue waves building to maximum, mixing with
the spammish energy.
     All around, James Deans began dropping like flies, dissolving even as
they cried out their final breaths.  Blue lightning lashed out from the box,
drilling the OmniDean in the head, causing him to scream in hellish agony.
The Renegade Anarchists, allies thereof, and Time Agents watched in stunned
silence as their enemy was absorbed in the overwhelming energy.
     It was Robert Smith who noticed the countereffect.
     "Say," he said.  "This dimensional breach looks rather depressing."
     "What?" Slithis asked.  He could see the huge, yawning maw, opening
behind Shadebeam, whose eyes were closed, as power radiated from her.  There
was a crowd of people, in the haze beyond the maw, and for a few seconds
he thought he could recognize two of them.  Then he realized that a charge of
intensely polarized negativity was pulling Shadebeam into the dimensional
breach.
     "Hang on!" Emma called out, fighting past Time Agents, towards the
breach.  Slithis, Benjen, Benchen, Gham, Time Agent 173, Lark, BRENDA, Tarrfel,
the Chief, Saran, Bahbneu, Katayin, James(xiv) (who mysteriously was not being
affected by the spammish energies that were killing the other Deans, in the
Concert Hall, throughout Time Central, and indeed, far beyond), Jerriphrrt, and
Emma tried to reach Shadebeam, whose eyes had opened, and had suddenly realized
she was being pulled through a dimensional breach.  Robert Smith, who had not
moved fast enough to get out of the way, was being pushed through as well, in
front of Shadebeam.
     "Can't...hang...on...!" Shadebeam yelled.  Before any of them could get to
her, the dimensional breach collapsed, disappearing in an instant.
     Abruptly, everyone noticed that the spammish energies had disappeared as
well.
     "I...don't...believe it..." Slithis said, watching the blank spot where
the dimensional breach had been only moments before.  "She's...gone..."
     "She's not dead," the Chief said, putting his hand on Slithis' shoulder.
"You may yet see her again."
     "Chief!" Saran Scone yelled.  "Look who I found!"  She hauled Bilge
through the crowd, as he struggled in vain.
     "Good work," the Chief said.  "Put the traitor in a cell, pending a
hearing.  Bahbneu!  Any word on survivors on the OmniDean's ships?"
     "It appears that every James Dean synthezoid abruptly self-destructed,
upon the death of the OmniDean," Bahbneu said.  "The strange asteroid that
deflected the Spam Lite barge is nowhere to be seen, nor is the ship of
Satanic registry that blew up so many of the OmniDean's ships.  The
Preserves are still out there, though, and request assistance."
     "Grant it," the Chief told them.  "Well," he said, turning to the
Anarchists, still recovering from their loss, "it appears that everything has
been wrapped up."
     BLAAAAAMMMMMM!!!
     "Except for someone telling Zark it's over," Jerriphrrt hissed, as
everyone dove for cover.

WILL SOMEONE TELL ZARK IT'S OVER?
WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO SHADEBEAM AND ROBERT SMITH?
WHERE DID TIME AGENT 357 AND THE PLS TOLLING BELL GO?
DID KALVIN CERTAIN, ALEXANDER BERKMAN, AND MEGABOT SURVIVE?
ALL THIS AND THE NEW LINEUP, ON THE CONCLUDING EPISODE, ON AN UPCOMING...
     SFSTORY!
=========================================================================
Date:         Wed, 10 Nov 1993 21:30:00 EDT
Reply-To:     UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender:       UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From:         "There are cute ways to die." (RUBICON at DRYCAS.CLUB.CC.CMU.EDU)
Subject:      SF:  InterPlanet #10

     *** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***

     It is worth noting the perceptual differences of lengths of time
     since the last posting, verses real amounts of time since the
     last post.  In reality, for example, the last InterPlanet post --
     a post which went in depth regarding the synopsis of experiences
     that have occurred in the series InterPlanet -- occurred more
     recently than Adjusted League Unimpeachable #34, but the gap
     between ALU #34 and ALU #35 is perceived to be much shorter than
     the gaps between InterPlanet #9 and InterPlanet #10.
          Theories to explain these differences and gaps abound, but
     can usually be centered around the vapidness of the reader, the
     lethargy of the writer, the lack of substance of a synopsis post,
     and the mysterious nature of people named Bill, and their
     attraction to discussion lists such as this.
          However, none of this truly makes the slightest bit of
     difference.  The Automatic Story Transcriber just wanted to
     discuss it, as it feels rather lonely, stuck on the desk beneath
     Sabre's WarHammer notes.

     *** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***



                              InterPlanet #10
            "Wherein we get a Move On and get this plot going,"
                                  Writ by
                      The Automatic Story Transcriber
                        and passed off as Sabre's.


     "Matt!"  Linda sounded rather distraught.  Panicked, even.
     "What?"
     "At the end of the hold -- the Trash -- it's being disintegrated!"
     She was right.  The pair -- having beamed themselves off the
Millennium Trout and onto the ship that had hijacked it, had found
themselves in a garbage hold.  They had wondered at the Chicken smell,
until Linda noticed that the trash was being... well, you were there at the
beginning of the post.
     "Quick, try to get away from it," Matt shouted, pushing back to the
back of the hold.  It was no good.  The wave of energy death was getting
closer.  They pressed against a lock and struggled to open it -- but the
release was under a ton of trash.
     "It's processing Top to Bottom," Linda shouted.  "If we Dig--"
     "Use your Nuker," Matt shouted back, and blasted down, even as the
trash around them began to lose molecular cohesion.  "Question -- what the
Hell(tm) is going on?"
     Matt's Omniscient Account, Superbrain, responded immediately.
(((((The Garbage is being processed for energy, and the edible paste
byproduct is being collected.  It tastes like Chicken Kiev with broccoli
served with red wine.)))))
     "What?"
     (((((White boy, I couldn't make this stuff up!)))))
     "Matt!  It's too late!  We're going to die!"
     Of course, Linda had once again forgotten her Deus Ex Machina power --
the strange power that saved her whenever all looked hopeless.  In this
case, the power thought a second before rolling back the clock and
arranging a quick little rescue....

***

     Omegas clapped his hands together and chuckled, just slightly.  He
would have snickered, or even guffawed, but he was more in a chuckling
mood.  He had managed to escape certain doom, attach himself to a more
functional WarpShip, and begin to navigate, as he rebalanced the Warp coils
and prepared to head off.
     Time Central would be a good starting point.  That would kick him into
a storyline -- maybe with Floyd, or maybe with G.X.P. Varneyloop, or maybe
even good old Time Agent 357.  Any one of those would ensure his continued
existence -- which was a good thing, as his powers had waned to the five
watt lightbulb point and he was convinced he wasn't as muscular as he used
to be.
     "TIPPY!" he called to the onboard computer system.
     -+Yes sir,+- the system replied.
     "Is the attached Ships' Warp Drive powered up and Balanced?"
     -+Yupper dupper.  It's slow, though -- we're looking at Warp three
point two as a maximum.+-
     "Good enough.  Set course for Time Central."
     -+This system doesn't have the protected location of Time Central in
its memory banks.  Sorry.+-
     "Damn -- and I'm not sure what other decent plotline jumpstarters
there might be.  Hell, I'm not even sure that I can beam out a character
from the Home for Forgotten Sfstory characters if I go to their place.  So
that let's out Anthrax V -- good thing, too.  I learned to hate that
Weasel's ukelele playing."
     -+Um, sir, I'm detecting an odd energy build up on the WarpShip.+-
     "Odd?  Odd how?"
     -+Well, it exists, for one.  They have no life support -- ah, that
explains it.+-
     "Explains what?  What the Hell are you talking about."
     -+You forgot Hell's trademark symbol.+-
     "Shut up.  What happened?"
     -+It was battery power to the Ship's Transporter Capacitors.  They've
obviously beamed someone over.+-
     "Where?"
     -+Cargo Hold Nine.  The top.  They'll be processed into food
momentarily.+-
     "Oh -- no problem then.  Hell, that's better than an autodefense
system."  Something buzzed for attention in the back of Omegas's brain.  It
was rather insistent, trying to get his attention.  Finally, even as Omegas
decided to fly to Earth and start a Nuclear War, it set off a cherry bomb
in his cerebral cortex that nearly knocked Omegas out with realization.
     "There are people in the hold that were flying somewhere in the
WarpShip?"
     -+Yup.  Go figure.+-
     "Shut down the processors!  Now!"
     -+All right, all right.  Shutting down, already.+-

***

     Matt's admittedly bad haircut had just begun to smolder when the
energy wave shut down.
     "Whew," he said.
     "Yeah," Linda said.  "Hey, do you have a sudden craving for Chicken
Kiev?"

***

     Omegas was striding to the Weapons Locker -- which he hadn't known
existed, but was more than happy to take advantage of.
     -+Boss?  Why did we save those two?  I mean -- they know we hijacked
them.+-
     "Because, if they were going somewhere, they had a plotline.  And if
they have a plotline and I join them, *I* have a plotline.  And if *I* have
a plotline, I don't die a horrid death!  Capesh?"
     -+No.  Frankly, I think you're mad.+-
     "Think what you like, but open this Weapons Locker for me."
     The locker slid open.  Omegas looked at a collection of what seemed to
be old model Remington Microscreen shavers.
     "Whoa," Omegas said.  "These are type one phasers from the *Original*
Star Trek!  I haven't seen one of these in decades."
     -+Well, think about it.  What weapons would you put on a Garbage Scow
scheduled for demolition?+-
     "Point taken."  Omegas picked one up and set it on `Dematerialize.'
He then chuckled at the name for a good two minutes, before heading down to
the hold lock.
     "Ready?" he asked the Computer.
     -+Yup,+- the computer replied.
     "Open the lock."
     The doors slid open, and thirteen metric tons of garbage descended
into the hallway.  Omegas had to back up to avoid getting buried.
     The two figures, both wearing white jumpsuits, one in a Bomber Jacket,
looked up at Omegas.
     Omegas pointed the shaver and pressed the firing stud.  A blue special
effect which looked painted onto the film of reality with a blue
highlighting marker whistled out of the end, and coated an old internal
combustion engine with three faulty pistons, next to the two figures.  It
too then looked highlighted in blue special effects, and then as the beam
and aura faded, so did the Engine.
     "I'm heap deadly," Omegas said, "Just so you know who's in charge."
     Matt lifted his Personal Nuker and obliterated the bulkhead behind
Omegas with one ultra-violent shot.  "Trust me," Matt said.  "I know."
     "Heh," Omegas said, putting the shaver in his pocket.  "Hey --wait--"
     "Oh no," Linda said.
     "You're those Paladins!  Pat and Lynellen!"
     "Matt and Linda," Matt supplied helpfully.
     "And you're Omegas!"
     "The same."
     The Paladins stood up.  "You hijacked us?"
     "What?  Nah!  I rescued you.  I just couldn't get a lock on you with
my computer for the beam-in coordinates," Omegas lied.  "But as your
WarpDrive still works and my power systems still work, it seemed like we
were destined to help each other, right?"
     "Oh, right.  We're buying that."
     "No worries, my distrustful pal," Omegas lied further.  "Look, if
you're Paladins, you must be on some big ol' mission, right?"
     "Right," Linda said, warily.
     "Then count me in!  Our ships are yours.  Where are we going?  The
Universe is at your disposal!"
     The two stared at Omegas.  "You want to...*help* us?"
     "That's right!"
     "What's in it for you?"
     "Altruism!  That feeling that one man could make a difference!  The
feeling that somehow I've paid for my existence by helping others."
     "Man, Omegas, are you out of practice lying," Matt said.
     "Yeah, I know.  Sorry.  Give me a few to come up with something a
little more aesthetic."
     "Matt, check out the truth."  Linda drew her own personal nuker and
oriented it towards Omegas.  "I'd love an excuse to par-broil him."
     "Question -- why does Omegas really want to help us, if he does?"
     (((((Answer -- because Omegas knows he needs to be in a plotline to
exist, so he wants to join yours.)))))
     "Huh?"
     (((((You've forgotten, because of the retroactive continuity that
pulled you out of the Home, but we're all a story, written about in the
Book that you're looking for.  Well, Omegas wants into the storyline.  If
he doesn't find a way in, he believes he'll die.)))))
     "I see," Matt lied.  "All right -- Omegas, you're in.  Our full quest
is to find the Book."
     Omegas stared.  "Saint Peter lost the *Book?*"
     "It appears so."
     Omegas chuckled.  "Oh man, that would be rich to see."
     "Save it.  First, we need to go to Oracle2 and apply for a
Superaccount so Superbrain isn't nologged in two weeks time."
     "You got it, Cap'n Trips.  TIPPY!"
     -+Yassah Massah?+-
     "Set course for Oracle2 -- Warp three!"
     -+Course laid in, sir.+-
     "Hold it," Matt said.  "Let's go to the bridge.  I wanna do this."
     (((((Man, we do not have time--)))))
     "Hey, sure.  Let me -- uh, go get you some food.  Chicken good for
you?  Good.  I'll be up there."  Omegas ran to the Galley.
     "TIPPY?  Are you the onboard computer," Linda asked.
     -+Yes, Ma'am.  Systems computer for the Garbage Scow Condemned, and
now the overriding computer for the Millennium Trout.  Intermixing of
systems is now complete, so we are now the Heroically Manned Ship Condemned
Trout!"
     "Joy," Linda said, as they reached the bridge.
     "TIPPY," Matt said, "I'm taking command."
     -+Why you and not her?+-
     "Uh--"
     "Because I don't need the ego boost," Linda said sweetly, smiling at
Matt.
     "Hey!" Matt protested.
     -+Right-o.  H.M.S. Condemned Trout on a heading for the Oracle2
Station, set Warp Factor Three.+-
     Matt settled into the command chair, smiled smugly, lifted a finger,
and dropped it.  "Engage," he said in a passable British accent.
     Outside, the weird, vaguely sexual melange of hardware that was the
Condemned Trout shimmied, and limped off into a kaleidoscope of imagery,
heading off for its destiny.

***

     Time Agent 357 slowly crawled towards consciousness.  He felt...well,
really unwell was a good way of putting it.  Probably the best way of
putting it.  Cosmically unwell.  He felt like rough sandpaper had been
applied vigorously to the inside of his skull.  That sort of unwell.
     He looked around.  The H.M.S. Golden Lance was intact, though damaged.
"Val!" he said to Val 9000, the onboard computer system.  "Status?"
     {{Crappy.  Autorepair systems are engaged, autonavigation is trying to
find our location, and we'll need some Spam soon if we want to keep flying.
We should be ready to rock in eight hours, twenty-seven minutes.  And our
Cathedral Sized Hunk of Rock disguise has been obliterated.}}
     "Scan for the Demonic ship that seemed to be on our tail."
     {{No sign of it.}}
     "Huh.  What do you make of this, Trudy?"
     He looked around.  "Trudy?  Mark?"
     357 was alone on the ship.
     "Needlewarp," he swore.  "All right.  Get me a trace on Tetwaters and
Hyperthrust.  Any sign of them?"
     {{Nope.  We're detecting various Space-Warping effects from the Spam
Lite Detonation -- our own Spam-based systems might not have fully
protected us.}}
     "Any chance we can trace one of those warps?"
     {{None.}}
     "Damn.  Well, after we figure out where we are, we'll deal with
tracking them.  Prepare a report for Interstellar University."
     {{Don't you mean Galactic University?}}
     "Huh?  Wow.  I guess not.  Sorry.  It's IU, though -- my alma mater."
     {{Right -- I can't imagine what I was thinking.}}

     *** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***

     It has come to the attention of the A.S.T. that certain other
     Authors, in an attempt to look `cool,' have declared that
     somewhere along the way, Interstellar University and Galactic
     University have changed places, making the A.S.T. in error in its
     own posts.  If the A.S.T. were capable of emotion, it would
     identify such puerile attempts as the vacuous, self-serving
     attempts at gathering attention which they are.  However, the
     A.S.T. will merely take the time to point out that the Spam Lite
     detonation so well dramatized in Renegade Anarchists II seems to
     have had many various and sundry effects, not the least of which
     is the complete repairing of the timeline, so that Interstellar
     University is once again the Alma Mater of 357, the Intern, Buzz
     Williams, Trudy Tetwaters, Mark Hyperthrust, Toni...um...whatever
     her last name is, and so on, and so on.  Even Ian Lockheed
     attended I.U.  G.U., on the other hand, has fallen on hard times
     of late and has closed down entirely -- with the bills being paid
     off only through the wholesale selling of the G.U. Smell Terrific
     Cheerleading Squad.  But the details are boring and irrelevant.
          Nah nah, nah nah nah.

     *** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***

     Trudy opened her eyes.  She was beginning to have second thoughts as
to her whole change of major thing.  She had done three years as a Space
Ingenue -- Sidekicks Concentration with emphasis on Timelord's companion --
before switching to Interstellar Adventure, Space Heroism Concentration.
Her first field assignment seemed to be going awry, however.  She sat up.
     Her first thought was `Jungle.'  Her second thought was `Insects.'
Her third thought was `Six foot long.'  Her fourth thought was
`Carnivorous.'  Her fifth thought was `run.'
     She went with the fifth thought.  As she ran from the giant, man-
eating ants, she decided she was no longer on board the H.M.S. Golden
Lance.  She wasn't sure where she was, and she decided to reconsider a
career in Chartered accountancy.

***

     Mark opened his eyes, and shifted.  "Move over, honey," he said to the
nubile female on his left.  The nubile female on his right giggled, and
adjusted as well.  The two nubile females on top of Mark also chuckled, as
did the one back at his feet.  Mark closed his eyes again.
     Mark had been an Interstellar Adventure major, Space Heroism
Concentration for four years now and had finally made it to second semester
sophomore.  Despite these leaps and bounds, it took Mark quite a while
before the training he had received in `Unexpected Alterations of Location
214' managed to kick in.
     Mark sat bolt upright in the bed, displacing several of the nubile,
scantily clad females, who giggled angrily.  "Hey!" he said.  "357?
Trudster?  Valarino?  Hey guys?"
     He thought a second, while the girls giggled in confusion.
     "I'm not on the Golden Lance anymore, am I?" he asked the girls, who
giggled in agreement.
     "So where am I?"
     The girls giggled so as to explain.
     "Huh?"
     They giggled again.
     "Do you do anything but giggle."
     They giggled, shaking their heads `yes.'  They proceeded to show him
what else they did.
     "Whoa whoa whoa," he said.  "Time enough for that in a few minutes,"
he said.  "I mean, can you -- like, you know...talk?"
     They giggled negatively.
     Mark thought about it for a second.  "Aw Hell(tm)," he said.  "How
important could location be.  Where were we, girls?"

***

     The Guards checked the scanners.  "Yes," the first said to the second.
"There's definitely a Male in with the High Suzerain's Giggling Harem."
     "Well then, we'll just have to eliminate him.  One piece at a time."
     "Right-o."

***

     Approximately ten thousand miles above where Mark was cavorting his
way to certain doom, a ship entered orbit.  It was an odd looking ship --
it looked like a rocket with fins and a needle-like antenna out it's nose.
It looked too cheesy and old fashioned to even fit into Flash Gorden:  The
Movie.  It was red.
     The old man at the controls sat back.  "All right, Bert," he said to
the six foot fungi tetrapod next to him, "with luck, we'll be able to get
somewhere on this world."
     "Boy, Space Commander Williams, I sure hope so," the fourth year
Sidekicking Major enthused.
     "Shall we eat first," a green lumpish sort of thing asked, as it moved
Zenlike to the Galley.
     "A full stomach leads to a good battle," Space Commander Buzz Williams
said, rising and marching back.
     "Oh boy!" Bert enthused, "vegetable lasagna!"


VEGETABLE LASAGNA?
SPACE COMMANDER BUZZ WILLIAMS?
BERT AND TACHI (THE LUMP)?
MARK HYPERTHRUST?
TRUDY TETWATERS?
TIME AGENT 357?
DID THIS STORY *NEED* THESE ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS?
WHAT ABOUT RADAR BACK IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY?
WHAT ABOUT THE INTERN BACK IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY?
WHAT ABOUT THE WHOLE INTERPLANET STORYLINE?
DID WE MERGE TWO PLOTS INTO ONE ONLY TO ADD FOUR *MORE???*
AND WHAT ABOUT THE P.L.S. TOLLING BELL?
DOES HEMINGWAY FIT INTO THIS?
WILL SOMEONE TAKE UP GALACTIC UNIVERSITY'S CAUSE?
ISN'T THIS EXTREME FOR TEASER QUESTIONS?


As always, the answers may be found in InterPlanet -- only on Sfstory (and
at this rate, don't you kind of expect issue #2 of Dashing Superguy and his
Pac-Shmoe Kirby?  I mean, when does Sabre *sleep?*)
=========================================================================
Date:         Wed, 17 Nov 1993 00:44:00 EDT
Reply-To:     UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender:       UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From:         they're very slowly getting away! (SWEDE at DRYCAS.BITNET)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists II episode twenty five

SPAM GOES TO HELL: THE FINAL RENEGADE ANARCHISTS II
Episode Twenty Five: "Spam Gets in Your Eyes" by Gary W. Olson

     The Renegade Anarchists clustered in front of the huge viewsteel window,
watching the Preserves' ships depart.  The antique, fruit jam based ships
lumbered into overly-hyped space, and were quickly lost to sight.
     "Well, there they go," Emma Goldman commented.
     "They won't revive until they're in orbit around Planet Pinto," Lark
Purree, Time Agent 90210, told them.  "They'll remember the battle, but
won't remember the Top Secret location of Time Central."
     "I didn't know the location was Top Secret," Jerriphrrt purred, scratching
his head.
     "They must have gotten a Time Agent drunk a few centuries ago," the
Chief of Time Central (who, as astute readers will no doubt recall, looks like
Sting) said.  "Either that or they got really, really lucky."
     "Then how did the OmniDean learn it?" Slithis asked.
     "Um...coincidence," the Chief said, thinking quickly.
     "What is your name, anyway?" Benjen inquired.
     "That's also Top Secret," the Chief said, hurriedly.
     "At any rate," Lark interjected, "the OmniDean, as well as all the James
Dean synthezoids seem to have been completely eradicated, not only here, but
throughout the galaxy."
     "Except for me," James Dean(xiv) said.
     "The Spam Lite energy traveled through the hyperlink the OmniDean used to
connect his legions of synthezoids," Bata said.
     "Yaaaaaaaaaa!" everyone exclaimed, having not realized that Bata had snuck
up behind them.
     "It destroyed everyone connected to the net," Bata went on, smirking a
bit.  "But, as James(xiv) was not connected to the net, he wasn't destroyed
with the rest of them.  So, now, he's the only James Dean left in the galaxy."
     "Which means I can drop the (xiv) from my name now!" James exclaimed.
"Cool!"
     "Wasn't there this big Satanic ship, and a cathedral-sized asteroid
somewhere in all this?" Katayin asked.
     "There was," Time Agent 173 said.  "All indications we have is that their
engines reacted with the Spam Lite energy and broke the boundaries of space
and time..."
     "You mean..." gasped Tarrfel t'Krodkzik.
     "Yes," 173 replied.  "They were blasted clear into another plotline."
     "And with Bilge and Xiphria both in cells, now," Boku said, "that about
accounts for everybody, right?"
     "Everyone except for Kalvin Certain," Lark said.  "He must have been
killed when he rammed the Spam Lite barge into Time Central.  He and that
Alexander Berkman fellow."
     "Hmmm," Emma said, looking thoughtful.  "I wonder..."
     -----------------------------------------------------------------------
     In the escape capsule, things were not so sunny.
     "Would you *move* that huge red metallic arm, please?" Kalvin asked,
pithily.  Megabot tried to retract the arm farther, but it wouldn't go.
Kalvin sighed, and turned to look at Alexander Berkman, who was trying to
puzzle out the star maps on his port-o-scan.
     "I'm trying to pinpoint our location," Alexander said.  "That Spam
Lite explosion threw our capsule halfway across the galaxy, at least.  We
seem to be descending towards a planet, though."
     "Oh, goody!" Kalvin beamed.  "In no time, I'll be back in the space-
ways again!  It'll be just like old times!  And with big red here helping out,
no one will be able to stop us!"  Megabot beamed happily at the praise.
     "Um...you're not going to like this..." Alexander began.
     "Oh, nonsense, you silly boy," Kalvin said.
     "I've discovered which planet we are now rapidly falling towards,"
Alexander told him.
     "Which?" Kalvin asked, eagerly.  Megabot looked excited.
     "The Planet of Supermarkets," Alexander told him.
     "I...oh dear..." Kalvin said.
     With a tremendous crash, they landed in the meat department, surviving
the impact only due to the enormous quantities of t-bone steaks, hot dogs,
hams, attendants, and customers that were present to break their fall.
     "Oh well," Kalvin grumbled.  "At least we won't starve.  I say, where's
the beer aisle?"
     ---------------------------------------------------------------------
     "You wonder what?" Gham asked.
     "Oh, nothing," Emma said, quickly.
     "Hey, we're on a new set!" Benchen noticed.
     "We moved while the other scene was on," the Chief said.  "We're now in
the airlock in front of your ship."
     "You're not going to erase our memories of where this place is, are you?"
Slithis asked, inching away.
     "Of course not!" the Chief replied.
     "Phwew!" the Anarchists phwewed.
     "You'll forget inside of a week, anyway," the Chief said.  "And we removed
the knowledge of the location from Cylla."
     "Take care," Lark said, hugging Emma.  "If there's a third series, look me
up."
     "We'll do that," Emma replied.
     "Hey!" the Chief exclaimed.  "I just remembered my name!  I'm Ian
Lockheed!  Registered Space Hero!  My personal starship is the sun, only it
has this little black spot on it!  I remember!  I remember!"
     "So?" the Anarchists asked.
     "Um, nevermind," Ian said.  "Have a good trip."  That said, he took Saran
Scone, Time Agent 362634, by the arm, and headed back to his private quarters,
where a dairy-product intensive evening ensued.
     Lark watched the Red Emma blast from it's dock, soon lost to sight in the
dark void of space.  Snug in their cyberports, his sideburns gleeped sadly.
     "Don't worry, guys," Lark said, patting his sideburns affectionately.
"We'll see them again.  I'm sure of it."  His sideburns mableeped.  "Ahem," he
said, running his hand over his now-bald head.  "Another word about that, and
I get out the razor."  His sideburns shivered.  Time Agent 173 and Bahbneu
Haht wandered off to interrogate Xiphria and Bilge.
     As he walked, he passed by Zark Flyby's office.  Zark was snoring loudly.
Lark tiptoed on past, finally reaching his office.  He opened the door, and the
paperwork on his desk bristled.  After making nonthreatening gestures, and
speaking reassuringly to it, so that it knew he wasn't going to attack it, he
headed to his desk, brushing away the cobwebs.  He had just sat down, when he
heard a knock at his door.
     "Come...in..." he said.
     "Hello, Dylan," BRENDA said, walking in.
     "My names...um...my name's..."
     "Yes?"
     "Never mind," Lark said.  "Where did you get that body?"
     "It was in the cyber-integration room," BRENDA said.  "Cylla was the one
who found it.  It's a titanium alloy frame, with state-of-the-art wetware
integrated circuitry, a superior graduated epiderm, and incredibly lightweight
construction.  Not to mention..."  She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him
out of the chair.  "...incredible strength."
     "I'll say," Lark replied.  He leaned close, and was about to kiss her,
when his sideburns gleeped titteringly.  "Just a moment," he said.  He removed
his sideburns, and tossed them into the desk drawer, closing it quickly.
     The sideburns gleeped angrily, to no avail, as heavy grunting sounds
filled the office.
     ------------------------------------------------------------------------
     "Well, I guess this is goodbye...again..." Jerriphrrt said.
     "Yeah," Katayin said.  "Now that our world has been destroyed, we thought
we'd start over somewhere else."
     "But..." Benjen said.  "Planet California?!?"
     "Why not?" Benchen asked.  "I can get job training here!  I could become
a legendary grocery clerk, like Andrew Steerpike!  They'd sing songs about me
on the Planet of Supermarkets!  They'll make huge jello statues and dedicate
them to my name!"
     "Weird," Slithis said.  "The Planet California we knew in the Superguy
altiverse wasn't like that."
     "We'll be sure to write," Benchen said.
     "Why don't you let us take you down to the surface of the planet?" Emma
asked.
     "Well," Katayin said.  "Every planet we've landed on in this series so
far has blown up.  We decided we'd rather not take chances."  They stepped into
the small pod, and closed the airlock.  Seconds later, the pod was rocketing
from the Red Emma, down towards Planet California-Sfstory below.
     "That's the last of them," Gham said, sighing.
     "Let's see," James said.  "We dropped Boku off on the resort planet
Talla Tropico II.  Tarrfel skipped out when we stopped over on Erandi Locutus
B, so she could sell all the things she stole during this series and the last
one..."
     "And Tane Tessier eloped with Bata to Tibongabonga X," Slithis said.
"That was weird."
     "And Shadebeam and Robert Smith haven't showed up since falling through
that dimensional breach," Jerriprrt added.
     "I thought I saw a couple of familiar faces on the other side of that
breach," Slithis said.  "Those two babes we met in the cave of THE ZAMBONI OF
DOOM, remember?"
     "Key and Yury?" Benjen asked.  "That was them?"  Slithis nodded.  "Wow.
Those bikinis were *gothic*."
     "Well, at least we know she's in safe hands," Emma said.  "Probably bored
out of her mind, without all the adventures we have."
     "So that leaves just us, I guess," Jerriphrrt said.  "Me, Slithis, Benjen,
James, Gham, and you, Emma."
     "And Cylla," Cylla reminded them, from her speakers.
     "And Cylla," Jerriphrrt purred.
     "So...what now?" Gham asked.  "The series is over, and we've been padding
out the conclusion for 159 lines now.  Let's go somewhere!"
     "But...where?" James asked.
     They thought about this for a while.
     "Barbados, Planet of Physical Delights!" they chorused.

WILL THERE BE A RENEGADE ANARCHISTS III?
WILL SPAM BE INVOLVED?
WHAT ABOUT STYLING GEL?
OR SIDEBURNS?
Who knows!  But keep reading, and you'll find out, on an upcoming...SFSTORY!
=========================================================================
Date:         Sat, 8 Jan 1994 04:16:00 EDT
Reply-To:     UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender:       UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From:         A really good cup of tea (RUBICON at DRYCAS.CLUB.CC.CMU.EDU)
Subject:      SF:  InterPlanet #12

     Despite everything, the universe persisted in going on.  It didn't
much care to, really.  In fact, you could say it was rather disgusted with
the entire idea.  But it continued to continue.
     If one could interview the Universe...well, one would be very large
indeed.  However, if one asked the Sage why the Universe persisted...he
would charge you fifteen dollars to hear his story.  Assuming you paid, as
we did, he would tell you this.
     The Universe is little more than a metaphor for something literary.
Where most people think that the metaphors you find in literature -- making
comparisons between roses and the color of pretty ladies' lips, and other
such twaddle -- is the act of comparing something in art to something in
nature, in fact the opposite holds true.  The Universe itself exists and
endures because literary minds continually need reference points in order
to make their stories clear.  They need horrific thunderstorms so they can
describe rage.  They need gentle rainshowers so they can describe peace.
They need a golden sun in an azure sky, settling over a green meadow with
fresh daffodils, so that they have lots of comparison material with which
to get laid.
     Further, artists need the universe so they can create paintings of
remarkable beauty, so that their art actually depicts something, which is
itself metaphorical, if you think about it.
     So, the universe exists so that art and literature can have something
to use.  Without those, the universe would be off scot free.
     Either that, or the Universe is just perverse.  We're not certain
which.
     However, we (the Authorial we, that is) think it is the former.  After
all, what is the oldest record we have of humanity?  Why, cave paintings,
of course.  And are these cave paintings abstracts?  Or examples of
pointillism?  Why no, they depict the time Garok killed the buffalo with a
spear, while Gronk, his wife, built a fire at home and roasted the
neighbor's dog.  Now, before this artistic expression, do we have evidence
that anything actually happened in the Universe?  Why, no.  We dig up old
bones and fossils, but all we really know from those is that there was an
age where a lot of stuff died, or else that the rocks deep in the earth are
really, really weird.
     But Brak's head being ripped off by the cave bear?  Sure, we all know
that happened.  We've got it right here on the wall.
     Thus, the universe exists.
     And you didn't even have to pay the fifteen bucks.



                                InterPlanet
                              Episode Twelve
                      "Wherein we get back to business"
                                writ by the
                        Automatic Story Transcriber
                         and passed off as Sabre's



     Radar Vogel decided, after careful consideration, that time travel
sucked.
     It wasn't the filthy, waste-spewed twelfth century French village that
made her decide this.
     It wasn't the filthy, lust-crazed farmers of the village that made her
decide this.
     It wasn't the filthy, sin-driven Catholic Priest that made her decide
this.
     It was the filthy, fanatic-smelling lynch mob that was tying her to
the filthy, somewhat charred stake at which to burn Radar that made her
decide this.
     "Can't we talk about this!" she screamed, trying very hard to remain a
feminist role model in a situation where any man, woman or farm animal
would feel perfectly justified in screaming her lungs out.
     There was no immediate reply.  Radar confirmed her `Time-Travel
Sucking' theory as they tied her up.
     "Hey," one peasant said to the other, "did you use a square knot?"
     "Sure."
     "You idiot!  You should *always* use a sheep-shank when tying a
heretic to the stake."
     "No way!"
     "Way!"
     "I burned three witches last year, and every one of them I used a
square knot on."
     The other peasant sighed the sigh of the old timer listening to the
young whippersnapper.  This sigh was not at all unlike the sighs one can
hear from a Chief Petty Officer who has just been told by a Seaman First
Class that he *always* leaves the Aft Bulkhead hatch undogged during Storm
Drills, because you never know if you'll have to go outside and secure
something, when the C.P.O. knows damn well that any fool who goes aft will
be washed overboard, drown, and therefore necessitate a form 303-niner to
be filled out by the C.P.O. who told him not to do it in the first place.
"Look, just do a sheep-shank."
     "Well, how do you tie a sheep-shank?"
     "It's really *very* simple.  The rabbit goes around the tree
twice...."
     Radar sighed.  She was in Hell.

            *** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***

     Oddly enough, thanks to a series of Authorial Accords agreed upon
     and signed in 1987 known only as the Jeff Smith Accords, Hell is
     not precisely what you would expect it to be.  Oh, Hell was in
     its usual multiversal location, where the billions of souls
     endured eternal torment.  However, we aren't allowed to show you
     that here.  No no, here on good old Sfstory, we have to follow
     the rules, which state that a good old fashioned Science Fiction
     background must be adhered to at all times.  This is despite the
     fact that one of the billion and a half plotlines being juggled
     on this list is the quest of Matt DeForrest and Linda Madison to
     find The Book for Saint Peter and bring it back to Heaven.
     Because of this (the rule, not the quest), Hell is in fact a Star
     Fleet of Demonically staffed starships which are all hellishly
     (no pun intended) powerful.
          Dramatically and traditionally, the plot should now dip in
     and see what good old Satan T. Lucifer Jones -- the Duke of
     Smelly Feet -- is up to.  However, the A.S.T. has a bet with Gus
     (the Transcendent Former Apple IIgs) that the A.S.T. can go
     twenty episodes of InterPlanet without involving Satan.  The
     parameters of the bet are beyond mortal comprehension, of course.

           *** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***

     Ian Lockheed, Chief of the Time Police, all around hero, keeper of
Blue Turtles, occasional cross-dresser, forgetter of his own name, and
Gordon Sumner Look-alike, was bored.  He had finished reading the report of
Time Agent Lark Puree (Time Agent 90210), and, after great effort, had
managed to block it from his mind.
     "Floyd!" he called out.
     "Yeah, boss?" Floyd the Blue Turtle said, coming into the room.
     "I had a dream about you last night."
     "Another one?"
     "Yup.  That makes ten Dreams of the Blue Turtles this month.  You know
what that means?"
     "Another series of really bad Sting jokes?"
     "Well, yeah.  But besides that."
     "You're bored as Hell, and you want to Scope some Babes."
     "Exactly.  I noted some discrepancy in the Sensor Logs, for example."
     "What's that?"
     "Well, two different ships tried to use Time Agent 357's passcodes
recently.  One was Lark Puree -- the other must have been 357 himself.
Which means we'd better track him down."
     "Especially since he always ends up scoping babes."
     "Exactly."  Ian got up.  "Fuel the H.M.S. Sun up, and get ready to
take over, Floyd.  I'm not sure when I'll be back."

                                * * * * * *

     Mark Hyperthrust wandered around the kitchen.  He took a few moments
to practice his Heroic Poses from "Heroic Poses 114," which was one of the
five classes he had managed to pass outright in his six years at
Interstellar University.
     He wondered if a Hero would scarf other people's food without asking
permission.  As he wondered this he made himself a roast beef sandwich and
a big glass of orange juice -- a heroic, healthy meal.  Of course, this
heroic, healthy meal really meant that he couldn't find any beer.
     Off in the distance, he heard the girls giggling in their sleep.  He
grinned to himself.  This was going to be great.  He had no idea where he
was, where Time Agent 357 was, where Trudy Tetwaters was, or where
Intersteller University itself was, for that matter.  But a Hero didn't
have to know what was going on.  He just had to be prepared to act
heroically.
     Mark grinned, and sprayed Binaca down his throat.  He was ready to
prove his heroic stature.  He headed back into the plush bedroom suite.
     The skull of Mark Hyperthrust, oddly enough, is not the densest
material known to sentient creatures anywhere.  It is in fact fourth.  The
third densest material known to sentients is the Cantos of Ezra Pound, an
American poet of the Twentieth Century.  Oh, certainly, Pound's poetry
could be lyrical, beautiful, and brief.  But the Cantos are poetry
unfettered by the bounds of comprehensibility.  Indeed, the Klattu Barata
Nikto of Geopal XIII, after discovering the existence of the Cantos,
experimented with a new form of Nuclear Reactor.  They took a nuclear pile,
and placed it not in a lead lined block of concrete, but in fact in an
aluminum box.  A *thin* aluminum box.  They then etched the Cantos on every
square surface of the box, and started it up.
     The poetry easily contained the nuclear reactions, but it was decided
that the weight of the scansion made the containment impractical.
     The second densest material known to all sentients anywhere is
Lasagnium.  Lasagnium is a material formed in Supernovae, similarly to gold
and other heavy metals.  It is found in superdense clusters of gelatinous
mass.  Unlike most materials of similar condition, it is never found in
ores, but always as pure veins.
     The ARA food corporation -- an intersteller conglomerate dedicated to
suppressing precocious civilizations by infiltrating their institutions of
higher learning and distracting cognitive development by keeping the
students focused on the repulsive food they had for lunch and were
incapable of digesting -- latched onto lasagnium as the ideal ARA
foodstuff, due to its moderate resemblance to the Terran food Lasagna.  If
the hypothetical reader thinks back to that Lasagna they had in collage,
and concentrates *really* hard, they'll feel it in the pit of their
stomachs, still undigested after all this time.
     The densest material known to sentients, of course, is the substance
that comprises the brain of popular teen icon Marky Mark.  No potential use
for this substance has yet been found.
     All of this, while informative, is meant to underscore the simple fact
that Mark's skull was fourth.  Very little had ever managed to penetrate
it.
     The existence of the huge, green-skinned, not-giggling, uncomfortable-
footwear-wearing, axe-wielding, mother-spitting, dwarf-tossing, Baywatch-
watching harem guards who were blocking his path was one of those rare
facts.

            *** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***

     It has come to the attention of the A.S.T. that certain people
     who are subscribed to this list do not read the Sfstory posts,
     noted by their prefix (an SF: instead of an SG:).  This is
     despite the fact that Sfstory predates Superguy, and also despite
     the fact that without Sfstory, Superguy wouldn't even exist.
     Despite these simple facts, Sfstory gets flushed by a good number
     of people.
          Chief among these people is a William R. Dickson, Esquire.
     This so-called `Author' has achieved some minor success on
     Superguy, mostly through his graphic descriptions of comfortable
     footwear and microbrewed beer.  This self-admitted Seattle
     Resident claims to be one of the `Major Forces' in writing today,
     simply because he created certain stories on Superguy which
     perpetuated that cheap knock-off long past it's expiration date.
     However, despite Mister Dickson's admitted predilection for
     hurling Key Lime Pies at his fellows, despite his being part of
     the project that developed Bl00penbrau, and despite his
     instrumental actions which lead to the return of one Dominic
     White to the list (and with Mister White, the Ill Dudes), his
     outrageous claims of `competence' and `good taste in beer' are
     left uncontested.
          The Automatic Story Transcriber would never stoop to name-
     calling, normally.  But since Mister Dickson feels himself `too
     busy' to read the source material from which his little superhero
     lists sprang, since Mister Dickson feels himself `stretched too
     thin with work and such' to review the Altiverse which started it
     all, the A.S.T. has no recourse but to admit that Mister Dickson
     is in fact a Wanker whose comfortable footwear does not make up
     for his taste in clothing.
          The Automatic Story Transcriber feels confident in taking
     this step, in that Mister Dickson isn't reading this anyway.  And
     if you, the good, superior people who *are* reading this will
     just keep your mouths shut, so Mister Dickson doesn't realize
     we're insulting him -- why, we can ensure that there's at least
     one insult in every InterPlanet and the toady little man won't
     ever know we're doing it.  Right?  Right.
          Of course, if he *is* reading this, than obviously it
     doesn't apply to him.  Which proves a most important point.
          *Always* leave a back door.

          ***  End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission  ***

     The H.M.S. Condemned Trout cruised the spaceways, wheezing along at
Warp Three.  It wasn't the fastest speed a ship could travel, but for two
wrecks -- a garbage barge and a totalled WarpShip -- married together into
a symbiotic mess of biblical proportions, it was pretty damn spiffy.
     Captain Matt DeForrest -- Captain by virtue of the fact that he
thought being captain would be `really keen' -- sat in his command chair,
and practiced his looks of reasoned concern.  If anyone claimed he was
acting a lot like Mark Hyperthrust would in a similar situation, he would
have vociferously denied it.  The difference -- from Matt's point of view -
- is that while Mark is a Heroic wannabe with delusions of grandeur, Matt
is an actual, live, spitting Paladin, which granted him a heroic
accreditation from almost all major institutions, as well as a refined man
of letters.
     Having had romantic relations with both Mark and Matt, Linda Madison
knew the truth of the matter of course.  Mark Hyperthrust spent his life
pretending he was James T. Kirk, and Matt DeForrest spent his life
pretending he was Jean-Luc Picard.
     Linda preferred Picard, herself.
     "Time to arrival?" he asked the Computer.
     -+Eighteen hours, thirty-five minutes and sixteen seconds,+- Tippy,
the onboard computer, said.  -+Exactly nine minutes and fourteen seconds
after the last time you asked.+-
     "A captain needs to remain appraised."
     -+A captain ought to own a watch.+-
     "I *do* own a watch!!!"
     -+Then why do you keep asking the time to arrival!!+-
     "It's my job!  It's in the rules!"
     -+What rules?  There aren't any rules!+-
     "There are too!"
     Linda went below.  In the seven years she had been involved with
Matthew, she had never known Matt to have a single good relationship with a
computer.  This was true of all computers from Superbrain -- the Omniscient
Computer Account encoded into Matt's brainwaves -- to the Atari Lynx Linda
had replicated him for Christmas.
     "Hey there," Omegas -- the formerly potent villain who was now sort of
a toady mayordomo -- said.  "How's things on the bridge?"
     "Fine," Linda said.
     "Too cool.  Too cool."
     "Matt's having another argument with Tippy, of course."
     "Another one?"  Omegas shook his head.  "What do you see in him?"
     "Well, he's kind, he's devoted, he's loving--"
     "He's short, he's tempremental, he's a geek."
     "He is not!" Linda snapped.
     Omegas arched an eyebrow.
     Linda looked away.  "Look, I love Matt, all right?  I have for years.
When everything fell apart for me, Matt was there and helped me put it
together."
     Omegas put a hand on her shoulder, and turned her to face him.  He was
up close, in her face.  The smell of him invaded her -- she wasn't offended
by it.
     "And now that it is together," he crooned, "what do you need him for?"
     He held her gaze for a long time, before letting her go, and walking
off.  He looked back over his shoulder.  "Think about it, Babe."
     Linda took hold of a support to keep herself from shaking.

                                * * * * * *

     There are many major, calamitous forces in the Galaxy.  You see,
though small in comparison to the Universe, the Galaxy itself is very,
very, *very* big in comparison to just about anything else.  Very big.
Huge.  Gigantic.
     And in this Gigantic galaxy, there are hundreds of thousands of stars.
Hundreds of thousands of them.  Millions, really.  There's just plain old
heaps of stars.
     Which means there are many many more hundreds of thousands of planets,
than there are stars, and a goodly percentage of said planets are populated
with wondrous beings.  Others possess wonders of nature and metanature the
likes of which cannot easily be explained.
     And one...well, one is a little harder to explain than most.
Particularly when one considers the Jeff Smith Accords.
     The Accords, as was stated in the A.S.T. note above, ensure that
everything in this list has a Science Fiction background.
     But it is hard to explain the existence of a Man flying through
Hyperspace, being pulled by a Sacred Uru Hammer and protecting himself both
from the Reality Warping Experience of Hyperspace and the far more mundane
threat of Vacuum with only a bearskin cloak, with a good and proper Science
Fiction background.
     It's almost impossible.
     Almost.
     But that's for another day.
     The giant Nordic bearded warrior's name is Brother Magenhard.
     The Sacred Uru Hammer's name is Frank.
     I swear I'm not making this up.

                                * * * * * *

     Omegas looked smug as he sauntered through the ship.  He had attitude.
And why not?  He could practically feel himself getting more solid every
minute, and at any time his powers would return.  When that happened, he
wouldn't need the two dweeby Paladins, as he'd be bound by the forces of
Plotline again.  But that meant making sure there *was* a Plotline.
     Which meant reinforcing it with a sub-plot.
     -+I don't get it,+- Tippy said to him.  -+Why are you trolling for
Madison?  I thought you were happy to be in a plot.+-
     "I am, Tripster.  Happy as clams in sauce.  But if I can make myself
the Main Man in a subplot, that'll reinforce it.  And then I'll get to be
the bad guy again -- and that means I'll have my powers back -- the whole
nine yards."
     He laughed a not-pleasant laugh.  "And if that means I get a little
Paladin tail in the bargain, well...that's no worry, now, is it?"


IS IT WORRY NOW?
WOULD LINDA REALLY THROW MATT OVER FOR OMEGAS?
WELL, WOULDN'T YOU?
DON'T ANSWER THAT.
IS RADAR GOING TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE?
IS MATT GOING TO EVER WIN AN ARGUMENT WITH A COMPUTER?
IAN LOCKHEED?  MAGENHARD?  DO WE REALLY NEED *MORE* *CHARACTERS* AND *MORE*
     *PLOTS* IN THIS *DAMN* *STORY?*
WHAT ABOUT CHRISTINE?
WHAT ABOUT THE INTERPLANET CORPORATION, THAT THE STORY IS NAMED AFTER?
WHAT ABOUT TIME AGENT 357?
WHAT ABOUT THE INTERN?
WHAT ABOUT TRUDY TETWATERS?
WHAT ABOUT SPACE COMMANDER BUZZ WILLIAMS, BERT, AND TACHI?
WHAT ABOUT THE MYSTERIOUS FIGURE THAT ACTIVATED THE A.S.T. AND REVIVED
     THESE CHARACTERS IN THE FIRST PLACE?
WHAT ABOUT BOB?
WHAT ABOUT BILL DICKSON?
WILL HE FIND OUT HE'S BEING VICIOUSLY SLANDARED IN A STORY HE DOESN'T EVEN
     READ?
IF SO, WILL HE SPOOGE ME WITH A FORKLIFT?
OLE?
WILL HE START READING?
WILL HE BLAME SABRE?


The answers are in Sfstory, if you only know where to look.
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