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Sfstory Log 074

Date:         Tue, 5 Dec 1995 23:53:14 -0500
From:         jazz in the ravine (swede at SOJOURN1.SOJOURN.COM)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists IV, episode six

                            RENEGADE ANARCHISTS IV:
                                 IN WHICH CASE
                             (a Tale of Sfstory!)
                                   Episode 6
                                 Gary W. Olson


     "Are you *sure* this is the way to Logan?" Priscilla Fussbonnet asked.
     "Am I sure?" Zen Navigator asked back.  "Am I *sure*?"
     "Yes, are you?"
     "Of course!" Zen declared.  "ZEN NAVIGATOR always tracks down his
destination, no matter what or who it may be!"
     "And you think he's... underwater?" she asked.
     "No, I do not believe so," Zen said.  "But it is necessary for us to
pass through this body of water in order to reach our destination: Los
     Priscilla paused to take in this bit of information.
     "Zen," she said, finally.
     "We're in the Indian Ocean!"
     "I know!  I steered us into it!"
     "But that's nowhere *near* Los Angeles!"
     Just then, the ship burst from the water and flew over a Los Angeles
     "Er... nevermind."
     "Mother?" Greez Hyperiok interrupted.  "The red light is flashing."
     "Greez, there are a lot of red lights on this ship," Priscilla said,
condescendingly.  "We can't always take the time to look at every single
one of them that flashes, now can we?"
     "Um, no, but..."
     "No buts!"
     The ship cruised over the skyscrapers, as Zen steered it with
meticulous determination on a course that appeared, to all external
viewing, to be completely random.  Around the fifth time they passed over
Beverly Hills, both Greez and Priscilla were ready to take control of the
ship away and keep it away.
     The explosion from the turbolift doors distracted them from that
course of action.  The volley of ion blasts that followed further attracted
their considered attention.  The cluster bomb grenades that accompanied
couldn't really do much more than had already been done, in terms of
attention-getting, but they made very nice explosions.
     Zark Flyby stepped out of the wreckage of the turbolift, followed by
a somewhat intimidated Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver, who nevertheless managed to
say, "There!  It's our enemy, Zen Navigator!  Shoot him!  Faster, Zark!
Kill!  Kill!"
     This was not what Zark did.
     "Greez!" he shouted, instead.
     "Zark!" Greez Hyperiok bellowed, violently.
     Priscilla, ever the savvy soul, started running for the escape pods,
as did Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver.  Zen Navigator joined them, matching their
speed despite the fact that he was wearing leg irons.  Behind them, large,
gratuitous explosions wracked the bridge, and the ship tilted into a very
dangerous, very downward direction.


     Susan B. Anthony tapped the 'return' key on her PC and winced as the
Windoze '95 screen belched flames, disintegrated, and rebooted.  It was the
665th time she had tried to submit her report on her failed mission to
apprehend Pope Joe Don I, and the going was hellish.
     She started typing again, knowing, somehow, that the 666th try would
be the charm.  Then Satan T. Lucifer Jones would know she was back, if he
didn't already, and he'd call her up... or perhaps just obliterate her
where she was.
     Perhaps calling him first would work better.  He'd always taken news
better when it was delivered in person, frequently letting the deliverer of
bad tidings off with being dipped in a vat of Zima and summarily
decapitated instead of the *really* nasty punishments he administered to
those who sent their reports in by e-mail or fax.
     Susan finished her report and pressed the send button.  The computer
beeped at her once, informing her the message had been sent.  She checked
her appearance in the flaming mirror to be sure it was demure and infernal,
then headed for the door, knowing Satan was usually in his office at that


     Lark Purree, Time Agent 90210, activated his SageWare Defense Master
7.0 software with a mental command.  The Scout Ship Vestibule, under his
command, had left the H.M.S. Nothing Like The Sun half an hour ago,
heading towards the Nevada desert, where Sajanseel Boudoir had been
tracked.  His shuttle's sensors would be picking up the Vestibule soon,
no doubt, and Lark wanted to be ready.
     ((About time you remembered you had me planted in your head,)) the
SageWare spoke.  ((I could have saved you all that trouble with the body
switching you had in the last series, you realize.))
     *Listen--* he thought in response.
     ((I also could have told you exactly where Logan is, so you'd know
exactly where Boudoir was heading.  Plus, I could have gotten Streisand
tickets for you at a fraction of the cost.))
     *I don't have to listen to this.*
     ((Of course not.  You will anyway, because I'm so fascinating.))
     *All I want to know is--*
     ((Does Boudoir know your task force is coming?  No.))
     *Great.  Then...*
     ((All the same, I'd turn back now.))
     Suddenly and without warning, the Vestibule lost power and began
falling like a big fat rock towards the surface.  The sky's color shifted
into a really tacky mixture of burnt umber, ultra-bright green, and
stomach-lining pink.  The control cabin of the Vestibule was flooded with
the greatest hits of Kylie Minogue (all both of them, all at once) at
maximum volume.
     ((This is why.  Of course, I could have told you this if only you had
turned me on a few minutes before you did--))
     Lark deactivated the SageWare, remembering just why he so seldomly
turned it on.
     "We're being hit by an energy wave of incredible magnitude!" Slithis
stated the obvious.
     "What's its source?" Lark asked.
     "Hang on... doc, you're the one nearest the scanners.  I'd operate
them, but my arms seem to have been replaced by a small pig and a large
glass of bilgewater."
     "No problem," Dr. Cerulean Brazier responded.  "Um, lets see.  There
are lights, a bunch of letters moving too fast to be read... where's the...
ah!  the operator's manual!"
     "It's no use, Lark!" Tarrfel t'Krodkzik exclaimed, as Kylie was
suddenly and violently replaced with a French Opera.  "The controls are
dead!  We'll hit in two minutes!"
     "I knew this would happen," Bata said, smugly.
     "Doctor..." Slithis prompted.
     "'Congratulations on purchasing the Scan-o-rama Omni-Detect Model
XR8000,'" Dr. Brazier read from the manual.  "If used properly, this Fine
Scanner will give you years of trouble-free detection and early warning.
If you have never used the Scanner before, you will need to take the ten-
minute tutorial....'"
     "Okay, forget about figuring out what's doing this," Lark sighed.
"Just prepare for crash landing."
     Dr. Brazier dropped the book, whipped out his hypo-spray, put it up
to his neck, and administered massive amounts of hallucinogenic chemicals
to himself.  The rest of the crew were forced to cope in a sober state of
mind as the ship crashed in an extremely violent, extremely loud manner
that entirely failed to interrupt the opera music.


     "Gham, wake up," Kalvin whispered.  Gham sighed, mumbled something
about apricots, and turned over.  Kalvin shook her shoulder, and reluctantly
she woke up.
     "What is it?" she managed to ask.
     "We've gone into Overly Hyped space," he told her.  "We should reach
Fredonia 5 in a few days."
     "Hmmm," she hmmmed.  For a few minutes, all was silent, then she sat
up in her bunk.  "Why haven't you gone to sleep yet?"
     "Can't," Kalvin told her.
     "Why not?" Gham asked.  "Are you worried that Meester will kill us?
Wondering why he thinks we can find the television actors that are being
smuggled out of the Para-Core studios through Fredonia 5?"
     "No," Kalvin said.  "Quooth, Machiavelli and Logan are occupying the
top bunk, and Logan is singing something about butterflies."  They were
quiet again, and the faint sound of singing from the top bunk could be
     "Ah," she replied, looking to the empty space on her bunk, next to
where she was sitting.  Kalvin, taking the hint, quickly sat down beside
her.  He noticed that she wasn't wearing her engagement ring anymore.
     "Look, what I said earlier about Jerriphrrt..." he started.
     "Forget him," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.  "Forget
everything else, just for a little while...."
     Kalvin couldn't think of a suitable reply.  He didn't need to.
     From the top bunk, Logan, who was occupying the body of Lisa Bonet,
stopped singing his quiet song upon hearing the faint sound of springs
from the bunk below.  Next to him, Machiavelli and Quooth slept.
     Logan raised his compu-pad and resumed his calculations, along with
his quiet little butterfly refrain.


     Ambassador B'Gosh was waiting, and seemed as though he had been
waiting for quite a while, when the doors finally opened to admit Security
Chief Chicobaldi and Lt. Zacko.  B'Gosh's eyehole pulsed once.
     "Ah, there'a you are," Chicobaldi said.  "Where'a you been?  We'a been
waiting for hours.  But nobody would'a give'a us ours, so we decided to'a
see if'a ours was in here."
     "Waiting is," B'Gosh replied.  Zacko, meanwhile, sidled up to the
Ambassador and peered at his thick, flowing purple robes.
     "Oh, so you'a like go fishing, too, eh?" Chicobaldi asked.  "When'a I
was on'a Earth, I'd go'a wading inna river and go fly fishing.  Never
caught any flies, though, just fish."
     "A pure moment," B'Gosh said, his arm extending.
     "Sorry, the boss'a don't let me drink'a when I'm'a working,"
Chicobaldi replied.  B'Gosh suddenly noticed that his hand was supporting
Zacko's leg, and let go of the leg quickly.  "We can'a go drinking after'a
we meet with Ambassador DePenn, though.  Say, you'a think she'd'a go for a
guy like'a me?"
     "The burning place will freeze before," B'Gosh said, as he moved
towards the door.  He found he was holding Zacko's leg, dropped it again,
and turned to face Zacko, who was looking away and smiling innocently.
"Stop that," B'Gosh instructed.  He then turned away again, and followed
Chicobaldi out.  Zacko frowned, pulled a pair of large scissors out of his
uniform, looked at B'Gosh's robe, smiled, and followed.


SFSTORY -- the Stock Market for the next 100 years.
Gary W. Olson    swede at    swede at
Date:         Mon, 11 Dec 1995 23:37:32 -0500
From:         jazz in the ravine (swede at SOJOURN1.SOJOURN.COM)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists IV, episode seven

                            RENEGADE ANARCHISTS IV:
                                 IN TOXICATED
                             (a Tale of Sfstory!)
                                   Episode 7
                                 Gary W. Olson


     Contrary to what you may have heard, space is not big.
     Oh, sure, it *looks* big.  After all, it contains all the stuff in the
universe, plus a bunch of assorted stuff that has fallen through altiversal
rifts and such.  What's more, all that stuff is so spread out you can't
see most of it from any given point within space, further contributing to
the illusion of hugeness.  To top it off, we've been continually assured
that space is really truly humongous.  Why, the Interstellar Copyright
Office estimates that writers of internet fiction have delivered this
message roughly eleven billion times during the course of ripping off
Douglas Adams' famous 'Space is really, really big...' bit.
     This is just what the universe *wants* you to think.  Just as some
animals will balloon up when being watched to avoid looking like a
defenseless, tasty snack, the universe does its darndest with n-dimensional
bafflement to seem impossibly big.  In truth, all of space could easily
fit within the glove compartment of a Yugo.
     But what about all the stuff space contains, you ask?
     Space may be small, but it's *extremely* good at organizing.
     This may or may not have anything to do with the story.  I just
thought you should know.


     "Hey, has anyone seen where my other shoe got to?" the Swede, in the
Author's Altiverse, asked.  Since it was a brief cameo scene, no one


     "Lark Purree, wake up," a voice ordered.
     Lark tried to explain that he was awake, alert, and that he'd give his
captor nothing except his name, rank, serial number, and perhaps a back
massage if that would help.  It came out as "mmmnh."
     An image shimmered before his bleary eyes, one that looked like
Sajanseel Boudoir, decked out in a black vinyl jumpsuit that looked as
though it was supposed to make him look evil but just made him look sweaty.
Next to Boudoir was Di'jon Mu'tard, wearing a Victorian-style hoop-dress
and looking very perturbed.  Even more perturbed, standing next to Mu'tard,
was Mapa Marbles, Time Agent 173, whom Lark noted was now bald.
     Those he had crash landed with -- Slithis, Tarrfel t'Krodkzik, Bata,
and Dr. Cerulean Brazier -- were nowhere in sight.  Boudoir saw him looking
around and sneered.
     "They're not here, Time Agent 90210," he noted, sinisterly.  "I wrote
them out of the plot!"
     "You... you what?"
     "It's true," Mapa said.  "He manipulated the laces on that tennis
shoe, and your four companions just... vanished."
     "This artifact is capable of manipulating space and time itself!"
Boudoir announced.  "Now, no being is capable of standing against me in my
quest to find Logan!"
     "Er, if you're so powerful," Lark said, as he sat painfully up, "why
don't you just take control of Time Central for yourself?"
     "Because I don't want to do all the paperwork."
     "Ah.  Makes sense.  I think."
     "Indeed!" Boudoir announced.  "And now that you are with us again, it
is time to make the final journey, and home in on Logan.  Through the
properties of 'the Plot,' I have determined that he is inhabiting the body
of one Lisa Bonet.  I shall take us to his current location now!"
     Lark wanted to ask why Boudoir was bothering with taking him along,
instead of writing him out like the other four, but didn't get the chance,
as the desert around him vanished, quickly replaced by a city landscape
that seemed to be in the midst of exploding.


     At last, Satan T. Lucifer Jones thought.  The work of the day had been
completed, his secretary of the day had been fed to a pack of ravenous,
demon-eyed poodles, and his boiling beer was ready.  Now was the time to
sit back, relax, get into a quiet, contemplative frame of mind, and switch
     "Live from bustling downtown Hades, it's 'Lord Pluto's Gorgeous Ladies
of the Underworld Wrestling!'" his large-screen television set blared.
     It had been a long time since he'd indulged in this fashion, Satan
reflected.  There was always so much to do, so many plots to dominate
various altiverses to keep track of, so many forms to sign.  Plus, Susan,
when she'd been his secretary, was always barging in on him when the show
was on, demanding that he sign another wheelbarrow full of forms, not
caring that he was only wearing his flame-red boxer shorts.  Come to think
of it, that was why he stopped watching in the first place.
     But now that Susan was away, pursuing his latest plan to dominate
Sfstory, he could relax, and root for Persephone as she fought in the steel
cage against Delila the Demon Queen, without worrying about being
interrupted.  There was nothing to be concerned about....
     Predictably, Susan barged in at that moment.  Satan looked up at her,
blinked, frowned, looked down at his boxer shorts, looked back up, and
immediately leapt behind the chair.
     "Hi, boss," she said.
     "Er, hello," he replied.  "I wasn't... expecting you back here so
soon.  So... your trip was a success?"
     "Not exactly."
     "How close am I?"
     "You were 80% correct... the 'your trip was a' part was dead on.  The
'success' part was off."
     "I see," Satan replied.  Susan looked nervous, and Satan realized she
was probably expecting some excruciating torture to be ordered by him as
punishment for her failure.  "So... Joe Don I is still on the loose, and
could threaten our spam smuggling operation."
     "Then... I recommend you go to the key point in that operation and
wait.  He's bound to show up there sooner or later."
     "I'll do that," Susan said, as she turned to leave.
     "Um, Susan," Satan stopped her.  "You don't have to go right now.  I
mean, it's late, and you won't be able to requisition a new ship till
the 666th shift is on duty."
     "I guess I can stay a bit longer," Susan answered, tentatively.
     "Good, good," Satan replied.  He opened the portable broiler next to
his lounge chair and pulled out a red hot can of beer.  "Care for a drink?"


     Joe Don I looked at the exploding buildings and pondered what was
happening.  He looked down at the badge that identified him as a temporary
Time Agent under the command of Floyd Cobalt.  He looked at the can of
Schlitz in his hand, and drank the remainder of its contents.  He looked
at the exploding buildings again and belched in a papal manner.
     Most of the explosions seemed to be generated by either Greez Hyperiok
or Zark Flyby, who were engaged in a ferocious battle that completely
redefined the concepts of collateral damage and testosterone poisoning.
Floyd had somehow managed to set the H.M.S. Nothing Like The Sun down in
the middle of all the carnage, and now he, Joe Don I, Blob, Bin Shishkabob,
Jerriphrrt, and Thelona Wyndingrode were busily attempting to bring the
conflict to a halt.  Joe Don I's contribution to the effort had been
largely sidelined when a Schlitz truck had been holed by an anti-proton
grenade, which sent several cases of the alleged beer onto the streets.
     As Joe Don I set down his can and picked up another, Thelona rounded
the corner, running towards him.  Laser fire strafed the sidewalk behind
her.  Instinctively, Joe Don I moved to guard his beverage supply, a move
that proved to be unnecessary when, suddenly and without warning, the
air shimmered and four people appeared.  Joe Don I recognized one of them.
     "Lark!" he exclaimed.
     "Um, hi, Joe," Lark replied.  "Sorry, can't talk right now.  Being
held hostage, you know."
     "Logan!" Boudoir exclaimed, as he caught Thelona, who happened to look
exactly like Lisa Bonet, by the shoulders.  "At last, my long quest is
     "What are you talking about?" Thelona asked.
     "Ah, of course, your memory is off, I understand," Boudoir said,
nodding.  "Di'jon!  It's time for us to return to Time Central, to prepare
Logan for his... her homecoming!"
     "Why do you think I'm Logan?" she inquired.
     "Because you look like Lisa Bonet," Time Agent 173 noted.
     "Uh oh," Lark commented.
     "Uh oh?" Boudoir asked.
     "Do... not... compare... me... to... HER..." Thelona growled, swinging
her phase-pulse power rifle off her back and aiming it at Sajanseel.
     "Eep," Boudoir commented.  Thelona started firing at him and Boudoir
jumped out of the way.  A blast struck The Plot and knocked it out of his
hands, sending it flying in an uncontrolled arc through the air.
     Joe Don I caught it, and peered at it curiously.
     "Er," Mapa said, as Thelona chased Boudoir and Mu'tard down the
street.  "I don't think we want him playing with that, do you?"
     "Joe Don," Lark said, soothingly.  "Just hand the shoe over to me, and
I'll buy you a whole year's supply of Schlitz, 'kay?"  Joe Don I ignored
him, largely due to the fact that he was drunk off his papal ass, and
poured a full can of Schlitz into the shoe.
     This turned out to be a bad thing, as evidenced by the fact that the
entire west coast of North America slid into the ocean at that moment.  It
wasn't a slow, tumultuous slide, either, more like a sudden, belly-whomper
style plunge.


     Slithis woke up, and immediately wished he hadn't.
     "Ack," he groaned.  "Something smells like rotten fish in here."
     "That would be the rotten fish," Bata answered him.  "It was left on
the console in front of you roughly... um... a year ago."
     "Wouldn't it have dried out by then?" Tarrfel asked.
     "It was a very wet fish," Bata replied, quickly.
     "Where are we, anyway?" Slithis asked.  He looked around, and
instantly recognized his surroundings.  "The Red Emma!"  He leapt up and
ran to the control consoles.  Everything seemed to be fully operational.
The drive was operating, and they appeared to be moving through space at
a steady clip.  But there was nothing to indicate their destination.
     "Cylla?" Slithis asked, trying to invoke the Red Emma's on-board
computer.  No response.
     "Look at the pretty colors," Dr. Brazier gurgled, before sliding under
a moldering pile of pizza boxes.
     "How did we get here?" Slithis asked.  "Last I remember, we were crash
landing on Earth."
     "We were written out of The Plot," Bata noted.  "Apparently, this is
where we must wait until we find a way back into The Plot."
     "And our heading?"
     "I do not know," Bata admitted.
     "It could be anywhere," Tarrfel sighed.  "After all, space is very,
very big...."
     "No it isn't," Bata countered.  Tarrfel hit Bata over the head with
a pizza box.  So the bit at the beginning about space *did* figure into
the story, after all.


Renegade Anarchists IV is going on hiatus for the holidays, but will return
in four weeks!  Until then... needlewarp!  Er... happy holidays.
Gary W. Olson    swede at    swede at
Date:         Mon, 8 Jan 1996 21:06:01 -0500
From:         jazz in the ravine (swede at SOJOURN1.SOJOURN.COM)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists IV, episode eight

                            RENEGADE ANARCHISTS IV:
                                 IN TRA VENUS
                             (a Tale of Sfstory!)
                                   Episode 8
                                 Gary W. Olson


     In the Author's Altiverse, things were weird.
     This isn't a particularly new state of being, as far as that haven of
decadence and literary malfeasance is concerned.  In fact, it's fairly
typical, and is often greeted with lighthearted amusement by the
altiverse's most powerful residents (the Authors), with resigned acceptance
by some of its less powerful residents (the Musae, the Authorial Revenue
Service, and so on), and with constant wariness by everyone else (the
nameless extras who get squashed by Authorial whim).
     Even within the personal residence of an Author, things can get pretty
hectic.  In the Swede's abode, for example, walls were flying apart and
coalescing and doing sprightly little jigs that would send Carl Sagan
running pell mell down the street to sign up for the beginner's course in
Finding the Inner Light of the Mystical Unknown Through Repeated Hitting of
Oneself With Blunt Objects (After Paying The Large Entrance Fee Up Front)
if he were present.  Admittedly, this was an unusual thing for the walls,
even in an Author's residence, to do, but there was a reason for it.
     The Swede was trying to find something, and wasn't having much luck.
     "Needlewarp," he mumbled.  "Where is that blasted shoe?"
     "Did you check in the laundry hamper?" Janice Hoffiser, the Swede's
muse, who was also a former law officer, asked.
     "Twice!" the Swede replied.  "The danged varmint didn't have any shoe
parts in its stomach."
     "I said hamper, dear," Janice corrected, "not hamster."
     "Oh.  Checked that too.  Nothing."
     "Well, when did you last remember seeing it?"
     "Um... about a year or two ago... right around when Renegade
Anarchists III started up.  I was doing a bit of fall cleaning and stuffed
it into a pocket dimension while I was vacuuming..."
     "Did you *check* that pocket dimension?"
     "Yeah.  It wasn't there.  But I did find a hole in the pocket
dimension, so I assumed it fell out into here."
     "But it hasn't."
     "So it fell somewhere else."
     "Um... yeah."
     "Why do you need it now, if you haven't needed it in years?" Janice
asked as she walked into the room in a formfitting blue jumpsuit.
     "My Authorial License expired a while ago, remember?" the Swede said.
"I've got to go down and get it renewed, as well as my license for my
Sfstory plot generator (which is the shoe in question)."
     "Has your omniscience been affected?"
     "Um... no.  Not yet, anyway."
     "So instead of tearing your abode apart, you could simply use your
omniscience to locate it."
     "Um... yeah."  Grumpily, the Swede set about doing so, mildly
perturbed that he hadn't thought of it first.  Instantaneously, he located
it.  "Hurm," he said, upon realizing just where it was.
     "Hurm what?"
     "It's fallen into the main Sfstory altiverse, 001SFSTORY."
     "Isn't 000SFSTORY the main Sfstory altiverse?"
     The Swede looked up at Janice and shook her head.  "That's a common
misperception.  But never mind that for now.  We've got to go in, get the
generator, and get back out again."
     "Can't you just get a new one when you renew?"
     "Of course not," the Swede said.  "Those buggers are expensive.
'Sides, it should just be a quick trip, there and back, five minutes tops.
HAL, please set up the transporter to take us to the current position of
the Plot Generator."
     ((It is done, Dave,)) HAL replied.  ((Should I notify your temporal
duplicates of your trip?))
     "Nah, we'll only be gone a bit," the Swede said.  "Ready, Janice?"
     "As I'll ever be," Janice told him.  He took her hand and together
they stepped through the altiversal transporter, leaving


     Scenes can open in many ways.  Some, like the last scene, open slowly
and subtlely, with a couple paragraphs of general exposition as a way of
introducing a particular situation or set of characters.  Some open
quickly, in order to get you readers out swept up in the action or possibly
distract you from the fact that your English paper is due in six hours.
Some open with two or more characters whining about the fact that their
life is about as enjoyable at that moment as getting blindsided by a pair
of elephant testicles that were thrown with the force of a Nolan Ryan
fastball.  It all depends on the story.
     In this particular story, one of the most all-time popular openings
is the awakening.  That is, the slow, creeping return to consciousness that
follows a particularly rambunctious night of drinking, consuming weird
chemicals, brawling, sex, or any combination thereof.  The main characters
in this scene, much to their regret, have experienced none of the above as
an excuse for waking so groggily and so painfully.
     "Hrrrgh," Jerriphrrt hrrrghd, woozily, as he tried valiantly to open
his eyes.  "I feel like someone dropped a continent on me."
     "Someone *did*," a voice to his left, which Jerriphrrt quickly
identified as belonging to Floyd Cobalt.  "The west coast of North America,
I believe."
     "Is that why it's so dark?"
     "No," Floyd answered.  "It's dark because your eyes are closed.  Well,
that and we seem to have been transported to a rather shadowy planet."
     With effort, Jerriphrrt opened his eyes and looked about.  There were
lots of shadowy cliffs, lots of shadowy sky, and not a few shadowy shadows,
which tended to confirm Floyd's outlook on the planet.  There was also a
blue turtle in view, which turned out to be Floyd himself, looking down
with concern at Jerriphrrt.
     Floyd helped Jerriphrrt into a sitting position, where the felinoid
waged a brief, ultimately successful battle with the concept of
equilibrium.  It was then that he saw Zark Flyby's prone form, sprawled out
ten feet to his right.
     "Er?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "He's alive," Floyd noted.  "Been like that since I woke up.  Weird
part is there's not a single weapon on him.  Someone must have been by
before we woke up."
     "So why'd they leave us here?"
     "They probably had their hands full carrying back all Zark's we--get
down!"  Floyd ducked behind a nearby shadowy boulder and peered around it,
looking in a concerned manner at some nearby shadows.  Jerriphrrt's legs,
which had not yet caught on to the equilibrium fad that his upper torso was
in the midst of, failed to lift him into a standing position, though they
did help him trip over near where Floyd had moved.  Floyd helped him to his
feet and Jerriphrrt clung to the boulder, hoping his legs soon got the idea
of what he wanted them to do.
     "There's three of them out there," Floyd whispered.  "They must have
come back to finish us off."
     "Great," Jerriphrrt sighed.  "How are we going to defend ourselves?"
     Before Floyd could answer, a pair of elephant testicles whipped out of
the darkness and beaned both of them with the force of a Nolan Ryan
fastball, sending them slumping back into unconsciousness.
     "Good work," a shadowy voice in the darkness hissed.  "Here is your
payment, Mr. Ryan."
     "Thanks," Nolan Ryan responded.


     The Red Emma raced along, introducing readers to the action with
breathtaking speed.
     "Hey, I'm bored," Slithis said.  "Want to listen to Benjen's John
Tesh collection again?"
     "No thanks," Tarrfel t'Krodkzik replied.  "I'll just continue lying
comatose on this couch."
     "The air," Bata mumbled, "the air is everywhere."
     "Whee!" Dr. Brazier chirruped stonily from under some pizza boxes.
     Okay, it introduced the readers to the actionlessness with
breathtaking speed.  Let's not be picky, shall we?
     "Maybe one of us should try to get control of the ship," Slithis
     "We tried that," Tarrfel reminded him.  "Controls are stuck, and we
can't access the ship's AI, or get down into the engine room to take manual
     "We could try going through the door this time."
     "Oh, yeah, I guess we could... no, wait, we can't."
     "Why not?"
     "Back on Barbados, before all this started, Jerri, Benjen and I
replaced the door with a sheet metal commemoration of the 1,001 Startling
Poses of Rosa the Spanking Nun.  It's welded tight, and our weapons are
     "Yeah... the poses really aren't all that startling, now that I'm
     "If we had more people in here, we could play some cards," Bata
     "We've got four," Tarrfel noted.
     "Flying elves!" Dr. Brazier cheered.
     "Okay, for all practical purposes, three."
     Just then, space did a sort of warping thing, and Blob, Bin
Shishkabob, Priscilla Fussbonnet and Dijon Mu'tard appeared in the control
cabin/rec room/cafeteria of the Red Emma.  They all looked rather wet, and
one of them, Mu'tard, was wearing a Victorian-style hoop dress.
     "Er, hello," Shishkabob said.  "What just happened?"
     "Oh captain, my captain!" Dr. Brazier slurred.
     "It would appear," Slithis said, "that you, like we, have been written
out of the plot, at least temporarily.  Care for a game of cards?"


     "I think the dilithium regulator is supposed to be plugged into the
cigarette lighter, Norman," Ronald said as he adjusted his gold command
shirt.  Norman, who was wearing a blue shirt, scowled at Ronald.
     "Look, I'm sciences, right?  And tactical, and engineering, and crew,
right?  So I know where the dilithium regulator is supposed to go, right?"
     "Now that I've told you where it goes, yes," Ronald said.  "I...
     "How did this scene open?"
     "Dialogue, I believe."
     "So we're trying to get the readers in on the action?"
     "What action?"
     "Okay, so it's not that kind.  And we haven't woken up from being
unconscious, and the photon torpedo launcher we mounted on the hood can
take care of any renegade elephantine body parts that happen by.  So that
means we should do some general exposition."
     "Hurm," Norman hurmed.  "It's been a while.  Where should we start?"
     "Well," Ronald said, "we could discuss the fact that we are both
members of the Association of Extremely Dedicated Watchers of Star Trek
Who Have a Real Ship, Unlike Some People We Know (AOEDWOSTWHARSUSPWK), a
splinter faction of the Association of Extremely Dedicated Watchers of
Star Trek Who Dress Up Like Crew and Pretend We Have Phasers
(AOEDWOSTWDULCAPWHP), an association dedicating to locating an alternate
reality where Star Trek is real so we can join Starfleet and become
socially acceptable while wearing these velour shirts."
     "Should we mention the fact that both of those acronyms, while being
completely unpronouncable, make sense in the Vulcan language?"
     "Possibly.  I was thinking we could reflect on our history in Sfstory,
which largely consists of us getting kicked out of the AOEDWOSTWDULCAPWHP
by the High Spock, building a spaceship out of a '78 Pinto with the help of
instructions given to us by Ian Lockheed and the Pinto itself, which for
a brief time referred to itself as Omegas.  We could maybe gloss over the
part where Omegas abandoned us after we actually got into orbit and we
spent several months up there until we figured out the Pinto could still
work and were able to make it back down, causing the Pinto to crash into
and destroy some miscellaneous North Dakota city."
     "We'd finish by mentioning that we've spent the past several years
rebuilding said Pinto, which survived the crash because it hit the ground
with its front bumper, instead of its rear bumper, and that we're ready to
head back into space," Norman added.
     "Well, of course we'd finish it like that," Ronald replied, testily.
"How else would--"
     Just then, the air shimmered, and six figures dropped out of the sky
and landed in Ronald's parents' driveway.  Ronald and Norman looked at one
another and frowned.
     "I thought you said you hadn't gotten the transporter to work yet,"
Ronald finally said.
     "Well, I *thought* I hadn't," Norman replied.  "Guess I must be a
better engineer than I thought."
     "Hey, any of you guys got any Schlitz?" one of the figures asked.


Beats me.  Read SFSTORY.
Gary W. Olson    swede at    swede at
Date:         Mon, 15 Jan 1996 23:41:16 -0500
From:         jazz in the ravine (swede at SOJOURN1.SOJOURN.COM)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists IV, episode nine

                            RENEGADE ANARCHISTS IV:
                           IN A GOTTA DA VIDA, BABY
                             (a Tale of Sfstory!)
                                   Episode 9
                                 Gary W. Olson


     "Hello, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fredonia 5," Capt. J. Michael
Spaulding said, in between puffs on his cigar.  "How was your trip?
Scenic?  Thrilling?  Oddly enrapturing?  Why didn't you invite me, then?"
     "We were being held captive," Emma Goldman told him.
     "Captive!" Spaulding exclaimed, turning to Ambassador DePenn.
"Captive?  Madam ambassador, this is an outrage!  I'm afraid I must
officially request that you come back to my place for drinks."
     "What?" Ambassador DePenn asked.
     "Okay, I'll go over to your place for drinks."
     "Captain, I've come to help your battle against the forces of
     "And what better way to start than with liquor?" Spaulding asked.  "In
a few hours we'll feel so lightheaded that those Za'ha'tra'la'la'la'la'-
etc'etcans won't know what hit 'em.  In fact, we won't know what hit 'em
either, unless we eat first.  Speaking of discourses, have you talked to
Ambassador B'Gosh yet?"
     "He signaled that he'd meet me here," DePenn replied.
     "Great," Spaulding said.  "In the meantime, why don't you introduce me
to your lovely entourage, and when you're done with that you can introduce
me to the people who came down the gangway with you."
     "Captain, this is Emma Goldman," DePenn said, "an escaped soul from
     "I'm charmed and delighted, madam," Spaulding told Emma.  "And so are
you, of course.  My Security Chief, Chicobaldi, told me you're a knockist."
     "An anarchist, actually," Emma said.
     "An anarchist, a knockist, it's all the same, once you've kissed me."
     "Ahem," James Dean said, stepping in between Emma and Spaulding.
     "Who are you?" Spaulding asked.
     "James Dean, sir," James replied.  "Her boyfriend."
     "Boyfriend, eh?  Well, just remember that I won't be watching every
move you make, unless you're on the make, in which case I'll make my move
on your girl."
     "Come on, introduce me to the rest of the people here," Spaulding
ordered.  "If the scene keeps going like this we'll be running into the
teaser questions, and if there's anything I don't like, it's a tease.  I
prefer coffee."
     "I'm Benjen, sir," Benjen volunteered.  "This guy is Lenin..."
     "Ah, the father of the communist revolution!"
     "That's right..." Lenin started.
     "Too bad you didn't have a vasectomy," Spaulding interrupted him.
     "The guys in the robes are Cardinals Van Cleef and Hagen," Benjen
continued.  "Next to them are Lt. Chatsia Slacks and Quirk, formerly of
Near Space Three, and next to them is..."
     "...Kissy Hitowers."
     "What did you say?" Spaulding asked.  "My ears are ringing so badly my
brain wants to hang up and go to bed."  Kissy pointed behind Spaulding and
opened her mouth to start screaming again.  Benjen, thinking quickly,
stuffed a donut into the opening.
     "Hey, boss, there you are," Security Chief Chicobaldi said as he
entered the docking bay, followed by Lt. Zacko, Ambassador B'Gosh, and
Spaulding's Duck.  "We'a been lookin' all over for'a you."
     "I told you I was going to the dock," Spaulding responded.
     "And I'a went to th' doc, too, but he'a say you'a no getta sick.  So'a
we had'a to look for'a you.  Hey, why'sa girl have'a donut inna her mouth?"
     "Probably because her eyes tried to glaze over when she saw you,"
Spaulding noted.  "Only they missed.  Ambassador DePenn, this is Ambassador
     "Greetings, Ambassador," DePenn said.
     The Ambassador wheezed a bit, then emitted a short reply.
     "Enough!" Spaulding declared.  "You're both too long winded.  Stop
shooting the breeze and hurricane over to the secret briefing room.  That
goes for the rest of you, too."
     "Even us?" Cardinal Hagen asked.  "Ambassador DePenn said she didn't
need Cardinal Van Cleef, Lt. Slacks, Quirk or myself."
     "I could have told you that just by looking at you," Spaulding
replied.  "Go ahead, then, feel free to roam around Fredonia 5, but stay in
the PG sector of the station."
     "What's outside of that?" Cardinal Van Cleef inquired.
     "Gambling, depravity, cheap booze and criminal activity," Spaulding
noted.  "And that's just inside my quarters.  In the hallway outside, it's
     "We'll keep that in mind," Lt. Slacks told him, as she escorted the
Cardinals and Quirk out of the bay.  Emma leaned over to whisper to Benjen.
     "Is that a real Vorloon?" she asked, indicating B'Gosh.
     "It sure is," Benjen replied.  "I wonder what he looks like, under
that enviro-suit?"
     "Raymond Burr would be my guess," James whispered.  B'Gosh turned
around to follow Spaulding and DePenn out of the docking bay, and everyone
got a view of the square foot of cloth that had been cut out of the rear of
the robes, most likely by Lt. Zacko, who was hiding scissors behind his
back and whistling innocently.  Later, when the matter could be discussed
at length, everyone would agree that the tuckus that was revealed would put
Kathy Ireland, Pamela Anderson and Cindy Crawford out of business if they
had to compete with it.


     "Name?" the Security Officer asked.
     "Susan B. Anthony," Susan B. Anthony told him.
     "Yeah, right.  Try again, lady."
     Susan's arm lashed out with unholy speed and grabbed the officer by
the throat.  The officer began changing shape underneath his uniform,
scales appearing over his once perfect-complexioned face.
     "You will *not* address me in that tone, lowly demon-spawn!" Susan
growled.  She dropped the now-demonic officer to the floor.
     "Sir!" the officer exclaimed, scrambling to his feet and saluting.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't expect... I mean, I didn't realize..."
     "Shut up," Susan instructed him, curtly.  "When is Meester's ship due
to arrive?"
     The demon sort of fidgeted.
     "Well?  Answer me!"
     The demon wrote something on a pad and handed it to her.  She looked
at it and sighed.
     "Okay, you can stop shutting up."
     "Meester's ship arrives tomorrow, sir," the demon officer said.  "My
men are ready to put a new load in the instant it arrives."
     "Any sign of Pope Joe Don I or his pesky friends on the station?"
     "Negative, sir."
     "Keep watching.  He'll show up sooner or later.  And arrange quarters
for me."
     "Yes, sir!" the officer exclaimed, and rushed off to carry out the
orders, barely remembering to shift back to human form.  Susan watched him
go and sighed.
     "It looks like I'll be on Fredonia 5 for a while."


     The cell was quiet and dark.  Kalvin Certain slipped from the lower
bunk, where he and Gham had been sleeping, and put his trousers back on.
He peered into the bunk above, and saw that Logan/Bonet, Machiavelli/Schlub
and Quooth were all sleeping soundly.
     Stealthily, he advanced to the cell door and withdrew a credit card
from his wallet.  In seconds, he managed to defeat the ultra-complicated
security lock and had the door open.  Without a whisper of sound, he crept
down the darkened, guardless corridor.
     Things had gone too far, he reasoned.  He'd originally been hired, and
named Supremely Suave and Stealthy Master Smuggler by G.X.P. Varneyloop, in
order to deliver a package to Eroticon III, a package that had turned out
to be batteries to get the G.X.P. drone in Kissy's home that controlled the
matterswing technology back to functioning.  The drone paid him back by
matterswinging him to Earth and a series of unwieldy misadventures that
Kalvin was determined to end.  Varneyloop owed him lots of money, and
Kalvin was determined to charge him plenty of interest for all he'd had to
go through.
     All he had to do was find either the bridge or an escape capsule.  If
he found the former, great -- he'd take control of the ship and fly it back
to the Planet of Supermarkets, and further if Varneyloop had left that
planet.  If he found the latter, he'd go to the nearest passage and hitch a
ride.  Regrettably, he wouldn't be able to bring Gham along with him if he
did that, but such were the perils of the smuggling life.
     The ship felt a lot larger than his mind insisted it had to be.  A big
ship couldn't be successfully hidden on Earth, even in Hollywood.  But,
with every mile he walked without turning, Kalvin had to admit it was
possible he was wrong.
     Eventually, he encountered a hatch, set into the side of the wall.
Hoping he wasn't opening a hole in the side of the ship's engines, or,
worse, the ship's commode, Kalvin grabbed the hatch's handle and tugged.
Reluctantly, the hatch cover opened, swinging back on rusty hinges.  A
disgusting smell assaulted Kalvin's nostrils, and for a moment he thought
he had, indeed, found the commode.  But no, the smell was even worse than
     "Spam," Kalvin whispered, shaken to the depths of his amoral soul.
"This is a spam smuggling ship!"
     Suddenly and without warning, someone hit him in the back of the head,
sending him sprawling in the direction of the hatch.  As he fell, he
twisted around and saw the identity of his assailant.
     "Logan!" he exclaimed, as the light of the hatchway retreated in the
direction of what was now the ceiling.
     "Sayonara, sucker," Logan told him before sauntering off.  Kalvin
managed to get a few choice curses out before hitting bottom with a
sickening splut.


     "Okay, stay together, everybody," Chatsia instructed.  "We've only got
what money we had on Near Space Three before all the weird stuff started
happening, so we can't spend it recklessly."
     "I don't suppose anyone here takes Vatican Express," Cardinal Van
Cleef surmised.
     "Doubtful.  You can try, though."
     "Try over there," Quirk suggested, pointing to a booth occupied by
various humanoids in monks' robes.
     "Ah, men of the cloth!" Cardinal Hagen exclaimed.  "Let's go talk to
them, Cardinal Van Cleef."
     "Er, I don't think--" Chatsia started.
     "What could happen?" Cardinal Hagen asked.  He and Van Cleef headed
over to the booth, followed by a reluctant Chatsia and Quirk.  One of the
monks, a slightly effeminate one, looked up as they approached.
     "Ah!" he exclaimed.  "Welcome, brothers.  What might you be interested
in today?"
     "Well, Brother... Brother... er..."
     "Vogel," the monk identified himself.  "Steve Vogel."
     "Odd name for a monk, isn't it?" Hagen whispered to Van Cleef.
     "Hsst!" Van Cleef replied.  "Brother Vogel, we are far away from home,
and it has been a long time since we have had opportunity to converse with
religious men such as yourself.  What items do you sell in this quaint
     "Oh, this and that," Brother Vogel answered.  "For instance, right
now we're having a two-for-one sale on all of Radar Vogel's movies.  We've
got 'Radar Vogel Takes It Off On Mars,' 'Radar Vogel Does The Horsehead
Nebula,' 'Radar Vogel Seduces....'"
     "Er, those are rather... odd... names, aren't they?" Hagen asked.
     "We don't name them," Vogel responded.  "We've put them on sale to
clear out the stock, since sis...I mean, Radar... isn't making any more.
The proceeds will go to supporting our research to learn the nine billion
e-mail addresses of God."
     "Hmmm," Van Cleef hmmmd.  "I'm not sure it would be proper..."
     "St. Peter gave his personal endorsement to the films," Vogel noted.
"You can come back to the viewing booths and watch if you like."
     "We'll pass," Chatsia said.  "Quirk and I will be headed back to the
food court.  We'll meet you there."
     "We will?" Quirk asked.  Chatsia grabbed his ear and pulled him away.
Vogel, meanwhile, led the Cardinals back to their spacious viewing booths
and closed the curtain.  He then walked up to the counter and pushed a
hidden button.  Two screams came from the booths, and the curtains swung
open to reveal empty seats.


The answers to all these questions can only be found right here on
S    F    S    T    O    R    Y    !    !    !    !    !    !    !
(and don't you forget it!)
Gary W. Olson    swede at    swede at
Date:         Fri, 19 Jan 1996 10:20:25 -0800
From:         Evil Author (a00076 at ACADEMIC.CSUBAK.EDU)
Subject:      SG/SF/MW: Analogs #1

        "Mom," Mary called. "I'm going out."
        "Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Sinclair.
        "I've got a Martial Arts class to attend," her daughter
replied. "Then I'm heading over to UCLA to meet Paul. We're
going to volunteer for one of those student experiment things."
        "Now, Mary," Mrs. Sinclair chided, "You know I don't
approve of that Paul Baines. Are these 'experiments' safe?"
        "Of sure they are," Mary reassured her. "They wouldn't do
anything to purposely harm us, y'know. Besides, I'll be back in
plenty of time for the midevening ceremony."
        "Well, alright. I love you. See you, tonight."
        "Sure, bye Mom."
        Mrs. Sinclair turned back to her work and began making a
shopping list for the ingredients of tonight's magic ceremony.

        "Mom," Mary called. "I'm going out."
        "Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Sinclair.
        "I'm heading over to UCLA to meet Paul," her daughter
replied. "We're going to check some data on the new deep space
sensors we designed."
        "Now, Mary," Mrs. Sinclair chided, "You know I don't
approve of that Paul Baines. Are these sensors of yours safe?"
        "Of course they are," Mary reassured her. "They're aimed
at deep space, not at us. Besides, I'll be back in plenty of time
for target practice."
        "Well, alright. I love you. See you, tonight."
        "Sure, bye Mom."
        Mrs. Sinclair turned back to cleaning her assault rifle
in her home/bomb shelter. When aliens visited your planet on a
regular basis, it paid to be prepared.

        "Mom," Mary called. "I'm going out."
        "Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Sinclair.
        "I'm going over to Paul's," her daughter replied. "He's
gonna teach me more of that magic stuff. Said he had a surprise
for me."
        "Now, Mary," Mrs. Sinclair chided, "You know I don't
approve of that Paul Baines. That magic stuff isn't safe."
        "Of course they are," Mary reassured her. "Just because
you had a bad experience doesn't mean it's evil or anything.
Besides, I'll be back in plenty of time for me to meet your
business friends."
        "Well, alright. I love you. See you, tonight."
        "Sure, bye Mom."
        Mrs. Sinclair turned back to her books and files. Life as
a business executive didn't stop just because you left the

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                          Episode #1
                  "The Three Faces of Mary"

                   by Nopporn Wongrassamee
                       the Evil Author

        "Stop!" the man ordered, clapping his hands once. "Mary,
can I see you for a moment?"
        "Is something wrong with my technique, Master Hohiro?"
Mary asked when they were out of earshot of the rest of the
        "No, it was very good," the sensei replied. "You have
learned your lessons well, Mary. So well, in fact, that putting
down three of your fellow students marks you incontestably at the
top of the class."
        "Thank you, Master," Mary thanked him.
        "Yes," he mused, "one wonders what you intend to do with
these skills. Become a vigilante perhaps?"
        "I have no plans to do so at this time," Mary told him
        "Perhaps not. But you have learned all I can teach you,
your prowess at the Arts is amazing, and I sense great potential
in you," Hohiro said. "The Authors may decide that you become a
superguy, Mary. All the signs are present."
        "I cannot answer for the Authors, master," Mary said,
"but would you care to test his student's progress?"
        "You would challenge an feeble old man?" he asked amused.
        "The 'feeble old man' disarmed a criminal in a 7-11 just
last night," she answered smoothly.
        "Then I accept your challenge," Hohiro replied.
        The class quickly cleared the mat. Master Hohiro and Mary
bowed to each other and started sparring. The next ten minutes
were spent jabbing, flipping, sweeping, blocking, and so on.
Finally, Mary landed on her back and stayed there.
        "Very good, (pant) Mary," Hohiro panted. "I (pant)
haven't had (pant) this good a work out (pant) in some time."
        "Best two (pant) out of (pant) three?" Mary asked.

        There was a trend the people of Earth had noticed over
the years. When aliens came to visit, large tracks of real estate
would get blown up. No, really, it's true. New England, Texas,
and Alaska are only smoking craters in the ground now, testimony
to this little piece of wisdom.
        Hell(tm), her mother lived in a reinforced bunker as a
        Enter the Deep Space Sensor Net Project. While others
tried to keep aliens at a distance by establishing distant
outposts such as Fredonia 5, Mary was working on a revolutionary
new sensor suite that would allow Earth to detect incoming ships,
thus allowing Earth to prepare a greeting of some sort. As one of
the DSSNP founders, she was considered a technical genius,
smarter than most of her elders in the scientific community
(which, considering her youth, was the WHOLE scientific
        She was still surprised when a spaceship pulled up to her
and landed. It looked something like a giant horseshoe with a
satelite dish stuck on top. A ramp lowered, and a man walked out.
        "Hi!" he said.
        "Um, hello," Mary replied. "Can I help you?"
        "Yeah, I'm looking for a Mary Sinclair?"
        "That's me."
        "Great! I'm Hank Soil," the man said as he drew a strange
looking gun. "I've been hired to kidnap you."
        "Oh, really?" Mary replied. "I don't think so." With
that, she knocked the gun out of Soil's hand and proceeded to
beat the crap out of him using Martial Arts moves. This somewhat
surprised her. She had never taken any Martial Arts classes
except for the basic self defense her mother had taught her.
        She was even more surprised when she was shot by an
energy beam an instant later.
        A bruised and battered Hank Soil got up and stared at the
furry being who just came down the ramp. It carried a gun like
Soil's. "I really hoped that was set to stun, Chewgumma," Soil
told it.

        Paul Baines opened the door to admit Mary into his
apartment. "Hi, Mary..." he began, but was cut off when she
turned and kissed him full on the lips, hard.
        "W-what was that all about?" he asked when they came up
for breath.
        "Oh, nothing," Mary replied. "For a moment there, I
thought that it might be a while before we ever saw each other
        "Not a premonition, I hope?"
        "No, just a feeling. It's gone now."
        "Hmm, if it persisted, I might have worried," Paul mused.
"Mary, you're very talented at magic."
        "I know," Mary laughed, "you told me that a million
        "Well, you've learned everything I can teach you," Paul
        Mary frowned; she had heard that phrase somewhere
        "Anyway, I have a gift and one last lesson," Paul said.
He presented her with a laptop computer and raybans. "These are
magical," he explained. "The laptop has been enchanted so that it
has the processing power and memory of a Cray. The Raybans are
virtual reality googles atuned to the laptop. Try them out."
        Mary put on the Raybans and turned on her laptop. "Okay,
now what?" she asked.
        "Run the file marked 'MageWeb'." Mary tapped the icon on
the screen marked "MageWeb". It flashed...
        ...and Mary wasn't in Paul's apartment anymore. She was
in what appeared to be the bar scene from Star Wars. Only, the
performer was Elvis and the patrons looked mostly human or near
human. On one wall was a familiar eye and pyramid icon.
        As she gawked like a tourist, she bumped into a bar
patron. "Hey, watch it!" the patron complained.
        Mary whirled around. "I'm sorry..." she began. She was
brought up short when she recognized the patron. "Aren't you..."
        "Yeah, yeah, yeah," the woman replied. "I'm Akane
Moroboshi. But I am NOT Radian or Shadebeam. My handle's Empress,
got that? Geez, get your face in the comicbooks..."
        Before Mary could embarrass herself further, Paul
appeared at her side. "Oh, hi, Empress. Don't mind, Mary, here.
She's new." Paul steered Mary to a private booth.
        "Paul, what is this?" Mary asked.
        "It's Virtual Reality brought to its full potential with
magic," Paul replied. "Mundanes never see this place, mostly
because you need a magical PC to get on the MageWeb."
        "The magical equivalent of the internet," Paul explained.
"It's also limited to a little exclusive organization of mages
that we happen to be a part of."
        "What's this 'we' white man?"
        "When I taught you magic and gave you the magic laptop, I
also inducted you into our organization." Paul indicated the
icon on the wall. "Mary, welcome to the Illuminati."

        "Yes, Mary?"
        "You wouldn't happen to be a member of any worldspanning
conspiracies, would you?"
        "Of course not. What gave you that idea?"
        "I don't know. Just a flash of intuition I guess."




Find out in the next episode of Analogs, only on... SFStory? No.
        MetaWorld? That's not it. I got it! Only on...


Copy Right Notice:
This story is (C)opyright by Nopporn Wongrassamee in 1996. All
rights reserved.
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