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Sfstory Log 075

Date:         Sat, 20 Jan 1996 09:24:41 -0800
From:         Evil Author (a00076 at ACADEMIC.CSUBAK.EDU)
Subject:      SG/SF/MW: Analogs #2

        "So what's the Illuminati?" Mary asked. "Is it some world
spanning conspiracy that rules the world?"
        "Oh, God, no!" Paul laughed. "Do you know how impossible
that is? The Illuminati, ours at least, is a world spanning
conspiracy that promotes peaceful relations between paranormals
and mundanes. We give shelter to mages and other paranormals but
we don't normally tell the latter who we are."
        "So why am I here?" Mary asked, indicating the virtual
bar they were in.
        "Well, you're a mage trained by an Illuminati agent, me,"
Paul explained. "That means you automatically become a agent."
        "Funny, I don't recall volunteering..."
        "You really ought to read the fine print," Paul quipped.
"Seriously, though, it's not that bad."
        "You mean the Illuminati doesn't go around hiding UFO
evidence, running dangerous experiments, and all that junk?" Mary
        "No," Paul replied, "we don't. It does make great
material for shows like the X-Files, though."
        "Oh, so what exactly does the Illuminati do?"
        "Primarily, we give refuge to paranormals," Paul told
her. "We work to keep public oppinion of paranormals from dipping
too low; we don't want witch hunts. We try to keep paranormals
in line, though there are outsiders who do that, too. Hey, we
even do research into magic."
        "Where do you think that laptop I gave you comes from?"
Paul asked. "Or, for that matter, this bar?"
        "Oh, I get it," Mary said. She looked at the stage
performer. "Is that really Elvis?"
        "Hmm, probably not," Paul asked. "The MageWeb allows you
to dictate your appearance. For you, I set the laptop to display
your regular appearance." As if for emphasis, several guys
dressed like something out of Dungeons & Dragons entered the
virtual bar and ordered virtual drinks.
        "So, um, how do I get out of here?" Mary asked.

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                          Episode #2
                  "What's happenin', dude?"

                   by Nopporn Wongrassamee
                       the Evil Author

        "Hi, everyone, I'm Doctor Laura Chives," the young
looking woman who entered greeted. "And you're all my volunteer
experimental subjects, right? Oh, goody, come this way and I'll
tell you what we'll be doing today. Now, doesn't that sound like
        "Authors!" Mary said under her breath as she followed.
"Did she take speech classes from Barney the Dinosaur?"
        Paul shrugged. "Does it matter?"
        "Hmm, guess not."
        "Now here's what you're going to do, kiddies," Dr. Chives
said in that grating cutesy tone. "I have with me a cup of yummy
orange juice that I want you to drink all up."
        "You're paying us fifty dollars each just to drink some
OJ?" someone asked.
        "Well," Dr. Chives began, "some of these cups have a
special nutritional supplement we're testing. I'll want you all
to come in everyday for the next two weeks so we can check for
results. Now is that alright?"
        "It's not dangerous is it?" asked another voice.
        "Now, would we do that?" Chives asked. "Don't worry, boys
and girls, you'll be fine as long as you're not superguys. None
of you ARE superguys, right?"
        Mary kept her mouth shut. She wondered if taking magic
lessons from her mother qualified as being a superguy.
        There was a chorus of denials. Then the university
students began downing their drinks as Dr. Chives took careful
note of who drank from which cup.
        Mary drank her cup. Sunny Delight, she thought.

        There isn't alot to say about Overly-Hyped space. It's
flat gray and boring. Don't let popular entertainment fool you,
you'll never see anything interesting here. That's why it's
called Overly-Hyped.
        That doesn't mean there's nothing interesting at all,
here. There are currents, storms, and ships like the Century
Songbird flying through it. You just can't see them.
        Hank Soil, captain of the Century Songbird and smuggler
extraordinaire, was having a bad day. The slip of a girl he had
been hired to kidnap had beaten the stuffing out of him. The
medbot that treated his injuries was in dire need of an overhaul.
To top it off, there was no anasthetic on board.
        "Hey! Let me out!" came a muffled voice. There was also
some metallic banging as the girl presumably tried to break down
the door.
        Hank shuddered; she scared him. Normally, he didn't do
kidnappings, but he was deeply in debt and this job would go a
long way towards repaying that.
        He made his way to the cockpit and sat down next to his
partner, Chewgumma. The big, hairy Wonkie growled something
incoherent at him.
        "What's that?" Hank asked, wishing the hairy beast could
speak his own language. Then he spotted the light on the console.
"Oh, we're going to be exiting Overly-Hyped space soon."
        As it slipped back into regular space, the Songbird
shuddered. That can't be right, Hank thought as Chewgumma began
to maneuver the ship wildly. Chewgumma jabbered at him.
        "Quiet, Gummy," Hank told him as the Songbird shuddered
again. "I'm trying to figure out what the problem is." He was
checking the engine readout when something flashed past the
cockpit. "Hey, we're being shot at!" Hank concluded as a couple
more of his braincells gave out.
        Chewgumma sighed and turned on the radio. "Hey, whoever-
you-are," Hank called, "what d'you think yer doing?"
        "I'm Bobby Fetch!" came the reply. "And I think I'm gonna
collect the bounty on yer head."
        "Really, which bounty?" Hank asked. He had annoyed quite
a few governments in his time.
        "The one posted by Jawbreaker de Nut!" The Songbird
rocked again.
        "Jawbreaker?" Hank asked. "Hey, I'll have his money soon!
Tell him that,"
        "Now, if I did that and you made good, I couldn't collect
my bounty could I?" Fetch replied as he cut off communications.
        "Damn! Gummy, one of us will have to pilot and one of us
will have to get into the gun turret to shoot back. Which do you
want to do?"
        Chewgumma pulled the Songbird into a loop to evade the
flurry of shots from Fetch's ship. "Right," Hank said as got up,
"I'll take the gun turret."
        Hank turned to exit and found himself staring down the
barrel of a blaster. "I really don't know how to set this thing,"
Mary, the blaster's holder, told him, "so it just MIGHT be set
to kill. So, I want you to take me back to Earth, pronto."

        Mary elected to walk home. This would take some time, but
she estimated that she would still be home in time to meet her
mother's yuppy friends. She needed the time to think.
        Magic and other paranormal phenomena were virtually
unknown in this world. Not nonexistant, just hard to find. There
had been incidents over the years, but nothing major. Although
considering what little she knew about non-Illuminati
paranormals, she couldn't be quite sure how many their were or
what they were capable of.
        Something in an alley caught her eye, the magic one that
is. There was a paranormal in there, she judged. She debated with
herself, then decided to investigate.
        The alley was filthy, but she didn't notice. Her senses
alert for threats both mundane and paranormal, she moved
cautiously towards the... being. It wasn't at all human, but she
sensed it was injured. And the Illuminati was supposed to help,
        "Hello?" she called gently. "Don't be afraid, I won't
hurt... you?"
        It had been hiding behind a dumpster. Mary would have
said that it was a girl, except that the "girl" had missing and
ripped patches of skin that exposed not flesh, but mangled wires
and metal. Three of her limbs were nearly severed; she had
dragged herself here on the one functional arm.
        Her one good eye turned to Mary. "You're not one of
them," she said in a scratchy, metallic voice.
        "Who's 'them'?" Mary asked. The android or cyborg or
whatever-she-was had a strange feel to Mary's magical senses.
There was a definite sense of tech, which in a city is ptetty
much omnipresent, but this was far more concentrated and complex
than anything in Mary's experience.
        The girl ignored Mary's question. She reached behind, or
maybe into, the head and withdrew a shiny metallic sphere the
size of a marble. "Don't let them get this," she rasped, holding
it out.
        Mary took the sphere. The sense of tech was even far more
concentrated than the girl. She put it in her pocket to
examine later.
        The girl shut down, as if she had been holding on, just
to complete this task. As near as Mary could tell, she was dead.
        There was a crunch of gravel. Mary whirled around to
discover a man in a business suit and shades pointing a gun at
her. For some reason, he didn't quite register on her magical
        "Give me the sphere," he said.

        "I don't feel so good," Mary said. She was a leaning
against a wall in an alley entrance. She had the strangest
feeling of deja vu about this alley, yet she was sure she had
never been in it before.
        But it was her stomach that bothered her, not her head.
        "Hey, are you all right?" Paul asked, concerned.
        "Maybe it was something I drank," mused Mary aloud.
        "Well, what do we have here?" asked a punk who stepped
out of the shadows. He drew a gun. "Alright, you probably heard
a' the routine. Gimme all your cash and stuff."
        Mary didn't think, she just acted. Casting a Spell of
Severe Metal Fatigue, she leaped forward and swung a scything
kick. As the punk's gun disintegrated, he suddenly found his legs
swept out from under him. He hit his head in the fall and was
knocked out.
        "Wow," said Paul. "Remind me never to get on your bad
side, Mary."
        Mary nodded absently, bothered only by one thing. Her
mother had never taught Mary any Spell of Severe Metal Fatigue;
so where had it come from?
        And her stomach still bothered her.







Find out in the next episode of Analogs, only on...


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

Send feedback to:           | "Hey, guys, I'm high!" "You're not
 a00076 at | high! You're obnoxious!"
Date:         Sun, 21 Jan 1996 17:24:38 -0800
From:         Evil Author (a00076 at ACADEMIC.CSUBAK.EDU)
Subject:      SG/SF/MW: Analogs #3

        "Mary? Are you all right?"
        Mary started at the voice. For a moment there, she had
forgotten where she was. "Sorry, Mom," she said, "I just don't
feel very well."
        Mrs. Sinclair felt Mary's forehead. "Goddess!" she
exclaimed. "You're burning up, Mary!"
        "Ooh, thanks for the newsflash, Mom," Mary replied.
        Well, Mrs. Sinclair thought, she's still in high spirits.
That was a plus. She decided to cast a general healing spell on
her daughter and frowned when Mary showed no change. Then she
decided to try a general diagnosis spell. She gasped at what she
        An infection of the likes of which Mrs. Sinclair had
never seen before was raging through Mary's body. It was altering
her in some way.
        "Mary, we need to get you to a doctor or healer or
something right now!" cried Mrs. Sinclair.
        "Don't need a doctor," Mary said sleepily as she laid her
head down on the table. "Just some sleep."
        "Yes you do," insisted Mrs. Sinclair as she attempted to
get Mary to rise.
        "No, I don't."
        "Yes, you do."
        "No, I don't!" Mary replied banging her hand on the table
for emphasis. The hand cracked the table.
        Mother and daughter stared. "Maybe I do," Mary relented.

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                          Episode #3
                       "Headache City"

                   by Nopporn Wongrassamee
                       the Evil Author

        Mary stared down the gun barrel. "Give me the sphere,"
its wielder repeated.
        In an instant, Mary did three things. She cast a general
shielding spell to protect herself. She also cast the Spell of
Severe Metal Fatigue that Paul had taught her to disarm the man.
And, she also dove forward just in case.
        The gunman's magical shields flared a moment as the Spell
of Severe Metal Fatigue, which told Mary how he had snuck up on
her. He fired the gun. The bullet just brushed her own shields,
but that was enough to totaly collapse them. This told Mary that
the gunman had Spellbreakers, bullets enchanted to specifically
penetrate magical shields.
        She was in trouble.
        This all happened in an instant. As Mary assessed the
man, she was also diving forward. She tucked into a roll and
uncoiled right in front of him, using the full momentum to drive
her open palm into the his sternum. His shields were apparently
not set up to protect against purely physical attacks.
        The man gasped once and collapsed. Mary was sure she had
burst his heart. God, she had killed a man. And she had done it
like a martial arts expert; she had never taken a martial arts
class in her life.
        Something about the man caught her magical eye. Something
implanted in his... a bomb. A big one. And it was about to go
        Turning, Mary ran from the alley. The gunman's body
exploded an instant later, the fireball eliminating all physical
evidence of him and the mechanical girl-thing. It also collapsed
a few adjacent buildings.
        Touching the sphere in her pocket, Mary wondered what
made this thing so valuable.

        "How did you get out of your room?" Hank Soil asked,
        "I picked the lock," Mary told him. Incidently, she also
happened to be holding a blaster pointing up his nose.
        "You, a native of a primitive backwater, managed to pick
a sophisticated lock built by an advanced starfaring race?" Hank
        "Hey," Mary shrugged, "I'm good with machinery."
        The Century Songbird shuddered again. "Maybe you haven't
noticed," Hank said, changing the subject to something more
urgent, "but we're being shot at! You've got to let me pass and
get to the gun turret!"
        "What, you don't have a remote terminal to control the
turret from?" Mary asked.
        Chewgumma. who happened to be piloting the Songbird
frantically to keep them out of harm's way,  moaned something
unintelligible and gestured at a panel labeled "Gun Turret
        "Heh heh, guess we do," Hank replied sheepishly.
        "Well, get on with it," Mary said gesturing with the
blaster. "And no funny business."
        Hank sat down at the controls. He grabbed the joystick
and immediately tried to aim the guns at Bobby Fetch, the bounty
hunter shooting at them. "It's not working," he told Mary. The
Songbird shuddered again.
        Exhasperated, Mary reached forward and hit the panel's
On switch. The panel immediately lit up. "Oh, right," Hank said
embarassed. He then oriented the crosshairs on a fuzzily defined
object and fired. "Got 'im!" Hank whooped as it exploded. The
Songbird shuddered again. "Or maybe not," he added. Chewgumma
added something.
        "You hit an asteroid, you twit," Mary told Hank. "Your
friend is flying us through an asteroid field."
        "How'd you know that?" Hank said as he shot at several of
the fuzzily defined objects on his screen.
        "Your friend said so."
        "You can understand him?" Hank asked surprised.

        "Oooooh..." Mary moaned.
        "Well, Rebecca?" Mrs. Sinclair asked. "Can you help her?"
        Rebecca Stanning was many things. She was the head of
Mrs. Sinclair's coven. She was a psychic healer by trade. She was
also a holder of a medical degree.
        "I don't know, Elaine," Dr. Stanning replied as she
examined Mary both conventionally and not. "Whatever this is,
it's not a bacteria or virus or anything. It seems to be
rebuilding Mary from the inside out; I don't think Mary could
survive without these things, now."
        "So you can't do anything?" Mrs. Sinclair asked.
        "No," the doctor replied. "My recommendation is to let
this thing run its course and hope it doesn't kill her. At least
she's not infectious."
        "Do you have any idea what this... thing is?"
        "It's not natural," Stanning oppined. "It's too
deliberate for that. But from the way it behaves, I have my
suspicions of what it might be."
        "What's that?"

        "Hi, Mom, I'm home," Mary called.
        "Mary, you're filthy!" Mrs. Sinclair exclaimed. "What
happened to you?"
        "I ran into a mugger with a three piece suit," Mary told
her mother.
        "My God! Are you all right?"
        "Yeah, I'm fine," Mary answered as she headed toward the
bathroom. "The mugger's, er, toast, though."
        After Mary stepping out of the shower, her mother
continued to press for details. But Mary didn't want to talk
about it, especially considering what her mother thought about
        "Look, Mom, I'm fine," Mary finally told her. She had a
slight headache and so was feeling irritable. She attributed it
to latent guilt. "Let's drop the subject, okay?"
        After that, there was a rather eerie silence between them
as they got dressed for Mrs. Sinclair's houseguests. Mary didn't
quite know what to make of her mother. Mary gathered that
sometime back before Mary was born, her mother had dabbled in
magic. It had been a traumatizing experience, apparently.
        And now that Mary herself had started practicing magic,
Mrs. Sinclair seemed to grow more protective of Mary. That was
the wrong parental attitude for a teenager on the verge of legal
adulthood. It tended to cause a kind of silent friction between
        Mrs. Sinclair's friends from the office arrived. Mary
didn't even bother to try to remember their names. They made alot
of small talk, but what got Mary's attention was the discussion
about paranormals.

        "Congratulations, Soil," Mary said. "You've managed to
hit everything in this asteroid field except whats-his-name's
ship." The blaster never wavered in her hand.
        The radio crackled. "The name's Bobby Fetch!"
        "Listen, babe," Hank snarled, "I could hit him if
Chewgumma here would hold the Songbird still."
        Chewgumma snarled something back as he put the ship
through another series of evasive maneuvers.
        "Chewgumma says that if he did that, we'd be toast," Mary
told him.
        "How is it that you can understand what he's saying,
anyway?" Hank asked, annoyed.
        "He's perfectly understandable," Mary replied, "as long
as you take in account that he's chewing gum."
        "He is?" Hank asked surprised.
        Maneuvering the Songbird with one hand, Chewgumma reached
into his mouth and extracted a well-chewed gum. "Crikey, mate,"
Chewgumma said, "ya've jist noticed?" With that, Chewgumma
reached into his utility belt, pulled a fresh stick of gum out,
and started chewing on it.
        The ship shuddered. "Well, what do we do about our pal
out there?" Hank asked, gesturing at the targeting screen. "I
can't hit him."
        Mary's patience snapped. She was developing a slight
headache, and it made her irritable. Grabbing the joystick with
her free hand, she centered the crosshairs on Fetch's ship and
pulled the trigger. Fetch was hit in the stabilizers, which sent
him careening away from the Songbird. Cursing could be heard over
the radio.
        "Now," Mary growled, "you're going to take me home." She
waved the gun in Hank's face for emphasis.
        "I don't think so," Hank said, looking past her.
        Mary whirled around just in time to see the stun bolt
from Chewgumma's blaster hit her. As she fell unconscious, she
heard Soil add, "You forgot to disarm Chewgumma."

        Mary sat up in bed. Her headache was receding and she was
starting to feel better. Her mother was asleep by the bed. Mary
elected not to disturb her.
        Odd, she could see perfectly well even though there were
no lights on, and it was night. Moving silently through the
apartment, she detected another presence in the apartment; she
heard him breathing. This was manifestly NOT what she should have
been able to do.
        He was dressed in black and had on a black ski mask. A
burglar, she decided. She was watching him start to rifle through
her mother's magical gear when she decided to speak.
        "What the Hell(tm) do you think you're doing?" Mary
        Startled, the burglar looked around and his eyes focused
on Mary. Mary felt the touch of magic and became concerned; this
was no ordinary burglar. When he raised his hand at her and
uttered a spell, things went from strange to bizarre.
        Time slowed. As the fireball began to form, Mary dived
forward with agonizing slowness. She tucked into a roll that
brought her to him even as the fireball streaked over her. She
had the nagging feeling of deja vu as she uncoiled and punched
him in the sternum with an open palm.
        Time returned to normal.
        The burglar, his chest caved in, was propelled into the
        The fireball blew up part of the couch.
        The lights came on. "Mary, what...?" her mother began.
        Mary freaked.







Find out in future episodes of Analogs, only available on...


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

Send feedback to:           | "Hey, guys, I'm high!" "You're not
 a00076 at | high! You're obnoxious!"
Date:         Mon, 22 Jan 1996 18:31:08 -0500
From:         jazz in the ravine (swede at SOJOURN1.SOJOURN.COM)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists IV, episode ten

                            RENEGADE ANARCHISTS IV:
                                IN CAN DESCENT
                             (a Tale of Sfstory!)
                                  Episode 10
                                 Gary W. Olson


     Ronald Hastings, Admiral, Captain, Command Staff and Helmsman of the
AOEDWOSTWHARSUSPWKSS High_Spock_Is_A_Weenie (the Pinto that he and his
crew, Norman Sasafrass, were rebuilding into a warp-capable ship), was not
one to panic at the prospect of meeting alien beings.  Indeed, the many
hours he had spent watching the various incarnations of Star Trek had given
him an awareness, nay, a foundation, a bedrock of knowledge on how to
handle such encounters, even if they happened in the driveway of one's
parents' house.
     So, when six such beings materialized out of nowhere and landed in his
driveway, he was able to call upon his strong will and iron constitution
and resolutely forced himself to not announce to the world that he had
soiled himself, which he had in fact done.
     Introductions had already been facilitated by one of the six beings,
namely the one who called himself Pope Joe Don I.  Ronald doubted this
person was actually the Pope, since it was known that the Vatican had
exploded into nothingness a while ago, taking the Pope with it.  Possibly
he was a Romulan clone; Ronald made a mental note to discuss the matter
with Norman at some point.  The other five were Thelona Wyndingrode (a
Romulan clone of Lisa Bonet, obviously, though why anyone would want to
clone Lisa Bonet was a mystery that baffled Ronald), Lark Purree (a Romulan
clone of Luke Perry, eliciting similar bafflement), Mapa Marbles (Anjelica
Huston), Sajanseel Boudoir (John Saxon) and Greez Hyperiok (a clone of
Ronald Reagan, though this one the Romulans had obviously bolluxed, as he
had the dimensions of Fat Albert).
     "No, no, no," Lark said, as he looked at the Pinto's engines.  "You've
got the wiring hooked up all wrong."
     "Oh, I suppose you're an engineer, then?" Norman asked.  "How many
years of Starfleet Academy training did *you* take?"
     "I didn't go to Star--"
     "Then how would you know about the wiring?"
     "Look, I just know, okay?"
     "Now, about that beer," Joe Don I said, "I...hey, what's that smell?"
     "Nothing," Ronald said, quickly.  "So you can help us get off the
     "Sure," Thelona said.  "We've got to take these two back to Time
Central."  She indicated Sajanseel and Greez with her Model 9000 Gobz-O-
Deth Blaster Rifle.  "If you'll help us, we can arrange for you to visit
Interstellar University--"
     "What about Starfleet Academy?"
     "It's roughly equivalent," Thelona replied.
     "Though you'll probably get beat up if you show up in those velour
shirts," Mapa added.
     "Oh, we're used to that," Norman said.
     "Well, then--"
     Suddenly and without warning, a hole opened up in the side of Ronald's
parents' house and two figures, one tall, male and black-coated, the other
less tall, female and wearing a light windbreaker stepped through.
     "Hi," the male said, reaching for the black shoe that Joe Don I was
holding.  "Sorry to barge into the story like this, but I need that."  Joe
Don I pulled away and the male, who you readers at home have probably
guessed is the Swede, lunged after him.  Sajanseel caused him to trip and
ended up getting slugged by the female, who you readers at home have
probably guessed to be Janice Hoffiser.  Boudoir hit Joe Don I, sending
The Plot flying into the air.  It landed on the dilithium regulator that
had earlier been plugged into the Pinto's cigarette lighter.
     In a flash of light, the Swede and Janice Hoffiser vanished.
     Boudoir, the first to recover, dove through the open passenger-side
window and retrieved The Plot.  With a bit of deft manipulation, he wrote
Thelona and Lark's weapons out of the plot, and wrote his own back in.
(Wisely, he didn't write in any for Greez at this point).


     In the docking bay of the W.S. Murray was a small ship, the H.M.S.
Shannon II.  It had been there ever since the last episode of Renegade
Anarchists III, when the Murray had decloaked and brought the Shannon II
aboard.  The Shannon II's crew disembarked to find out what was going on,
and had not returned.
     On the Shannon II, the ship's AI, BRENDA, seethed.
     Sure, she had access to the ship's newsfeeds, and was aware that the
Murray had docked with Fredonia 5.  She was aware that the crew was alive
and was cavorting on the station with the crew and other occupants.  She
was aware that not one single needlewarping one of them had bothered to
inquire, even once, about her.  Just a 'how are you, BRENDA' would have
been fine.  Or a 'whassup, BRENDie,' or 'hey, AI.'  That would have been
     After some more seething, she noticed that something had entered the
bay and was hovering at the closed gangway of the Shannon II.  It was small
and boxlike, and looked like a cheap, windup plastic toy.  A designation,
TH1K1, was printed on the front.
     It emitted a sound that was rather a lot like a speeded up tape
recording of someone talking.  BRENDA recognized what the robot (for that's
what it was) was saying, and instantly lowered the gangway to let it in.


     On a dark, shadowy planet, Zark Flyby awoke.  At first, Zark was
extremely confused about his surroundings, what he was doing there, what
his purpose in life was, and things of that nature.  He sat up, which did
nothing to lessen his confusion.
     It should be mentioned, at this point, that being confused is nothing
new for Zark.  He'd get confused if you asked him what his name was.  Then,
he'd get violent, and you'd get reduced to tapioca.
     Predictably, Zark resorted to violence to solve his problems.  His
confusion was only compounded, however, when he discovered that all his
weapons had been removed from his person.  Thus, all he could do was beat
up some plants and a small woodland mammal or two.
     There was a trail leading toward what looked to be a dark, shadowy
city, on the far side of a dark, shadowy plain.  Zark somehow realized
that, if he was going to get his hands on any weapons, that was where they
would be, and if that's where they were, that was where he had to be.  But
there was a problem; namely the fact that a horking huge plain was in the
way.  Zark usually solved problems by shooting at them until they were
atomized, but he had no guns with which to shoot at the plain.
     Fortune, however, was smiling on Zark that day.  Fortune often smiled
on Zark, because Fortune liked seeing things get blown up into little bits,
since Fortune is a big-time sadist.  Fortune manifested itself, at this
particular time, as a man on a scooter.
     The man had a beard and long hair, and was wearing glasses.  He was
carrying a Newton.  The scooter was a 1978 Vespa P2000E.  He had been on
Earth, in Seattle, when Joe Don I's mistreatment of The Plot caused the
west coast of North America to plunge into the Pacific, and had been
transported, via a spatial rift thing, to the shadowy world.  He was not
aware of this fact, as his mind was entirely occupied by his comfortable
footwear and his scooter.
     Zark charged into the man's path and pushed him off the scooter.  He
then jumped on the scooter and sneered.
     "Hey, you can't do this to me," the man protested.
     "Sure I can," Zark replied.
     "I'll stop you," the man vowed.
     "No you won't," Zark said.  "You don't read Sfstory."
     "Oh yeah," the man said.  "Damn."
     Zark laughed a violent, stupid laugh and roared off on the scooter
in the direction of the shadowy city.


     "I wonder if the Cardinals are done yet," Chatsia Slacks mused.
     "Who cares?" Quirk, the Feren Guy ex-bartender asked.  "This place is
loaded with shops!  I bet I can get a job here, you know.  In a few months,
I'll be able to open my bar again."
     "I'm sure you will," Chatsia replied, in a 'yeah, whatever' tone.
"Meanwhile, let's get something to eat.  I'm famished."
     "Hmmm," Quirk hmmmd.  "There's a place."
     "The Bagelon Ship?" Chatsia asked, reading the sign.  "I could do with
some bagels and latte, I guess.  Sounds good."
     At the Bagelon Ship's counter, they waited for service.  Presently,
a man in red and black robes, who wore a gold helmet that exposed his
bearded humanoid face, looked over at them.  Quirk's attention was
immediately taken by the red emerald that was held in place over the man's
right eye, so Chatsia had to order.
     "We'd like four garlic bagels with cream cheese, Mr..."
     "I am Bagelos!" the man exclaimed, causing them both to jump.  "Ruler
of the Cosmos!  Terror of the Starways!  Master of the Universal Power!"
     "Bagelos, then," Chatsia said, undaunted and unimpressed.  "And two
double lattes."
     "It's just that, well, it's hard to amass enough money to buy a giant
armada, or even fuel my own ship, when all the capital I have in the world
is tied up in this shop...."
     "Right, right, four bagels.  Sajon!"
     A man wearing a blinking collar walked out from around a back counter
and looked somewhat defiantly at Sajon.  Chatsia decided he looked like
Harrison Ford in Star Wars would have if Harrison Ford were replaced by
someone much wimpier.
     "Your command, Master Bagelos?"
     "Bring me four garlic bagels, Sajon!  Now!  I, Bagelos, command it!"
     Sajon cowered, then slunk away to get the bagels.  Bagelos laughed
a deeply evil laugh, then nipped off to the supply room.  Sajon returned
with the bagels and looked around for his master.
     "He went to the supply room," Quirk said, helpfully.
     "You've got to help me," Sajon whispered.  "He's holding me prisoner!
Please, if you can just get a message to Professor Parsasentence at Coffee
     "Where's that?" Chatsia asked.  Sajon pointed to a shop down a ways
from the Bagelon ship.  Above the shop's entrance, someone had spray
painted 'Coffee Command' in crude letters over the 'Starbux' sign that
had been originally put there.
     Just then, Bagelos emerged from the supply room.  Sajon handed him
the bagels and slunk away.  Bagelos set the bagels down on the counter and
stood back.  A laser beam leapt from the jewel in his right eye and toasted
the bagels perfectly.  He then applied a good quantity of cream cheese
and put the bagels on the tray.  Sajon returned with the lattes, and
Chatsia paid for the meal.
     "So, what do you think?" Chatsia asked, when they took their seats in
the Food Court.  "Should we deliver the message?"
     "Yeah, I think so," Quirk said.  Chatsia blinked.
     "Altruism?" she asked.  "That's rather unlike you."
     "Who's being altruistic?" Quirk asked.  "I've just decided a coffee
shop could be more profitable than a bar, if the right person was around to
run things."  He leaned forward.  "I'm going to take over Coffee Command,
and you're going to help me."


SFSTORY.  We make it happen for you.
Gary W. Olson    swede at    swede at
Date:         Tue, 23 Jan 1996 12:20:59 -0800
From:         Evil Author (a00076 at ACADEMIC.CSUBAK.EDU)
Subject:      SG/SF/MW: Analogs #4

        Paul Baines had just finished wiring the Deep Space
Sensor. Without Mary's expertise, it had been hard going. She had
designed half of its systems. He wondered where she had gone to.
It wasn't like her to just up and disappear.
        Oh well, the DSS was ready for its first test run. Paul
hoped he had wired it right; Mary's diagrams could be rather...
esoteric. He initiated the test sequence.
        [Running...] printed the computer monitor.
        [Running... call incoming from foreign hosts...]
        [Running... FTP between foreign hosts initiated...]
        What the Hell(tm)? The DSS wasn't hooked up to a network.

        Paul Baines had just finished his coffee. When the FTP
started up, he didn't particularly worry. Someone was apparently
downloading one of his game AIs. A game AI was a computerized non
player character (NPC) used in magical MUDs, MUCKs, and the like.
They could be anything from a bartender to a dark god.
        Idly, Paul called up info on the FTP.

        Source: pbane at at 000.METAWORLD
        Destination: pbane at at 000.SUPERGUY
        File: c:\AI.villain.Grand_Master_Bane

        Paul reread the destination address. For some bizarre
reason, someone in another altiverse was downloading a game AI
from his system. He had heard of some mages managing to go into
other altiverses, but never so far.

        Paul Baines finished writing his paper when he was
alerted that a file was being downloaded from the net. Curious,
he opened the file to see what was in it.
        It might be pertinent to note that magical computer files
aren't meant to be open on nonmagical computers. Since Paul
didn't know this, he was understandably surprised when
electricity leapt from the monitor and hit him hard enough to
throw him across the room.
        When he got up, he grinned evilly. Paul was no longer the
old Paul Baines; he was now the Grand Master Bane, too.

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   /\    ##  ## ## ### ##  ## ##    ##  ## ##  ##     ##   /\
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                          Episode #4
                  "Curiouser and curiouser"

                   by Nopporn Wongrassamee
                       the Evil Author

        "Say, did you guys hear about the explosion downtown
today?" one of Mrs. Sinclair's friends asked.
        "Yeah, I did," replied another. "I heard that paranormals
were involved."
        Mary almost choked on her drink.
        "Paranormals?" asked the third. "Geez, that's all we
need; these freaks blowing up everything."
        "Was anybody hurt?" Mrs. Sinclair asked.
        "Yeah," the second said. "lots of people with minor
injuries. Could of been worse, if it were night when families
are home. Two apartment buildings collapsed. I saw it on the
        There were gasps all around.
        Mary and her mother traded looks. Her mother's was
questioning. Mary's seemed to be pleading with a hint of guilt.
        "You, know," began the first, "I have a friend who knows
some people who really want to deal with the paranormal problem."
        "Really?" asked Mary, speaking for the first time. "Who
are they?"
        "They call themselves the Revolution or something like

        Inside a canister of Cheez, one mass of Cheez tried to
reduce the other into an even more inedible substance.

        The police carted the body away. Mrs. Sinclair was
telling them what little she knew of what happened for the nth
time. Mary had killed a burglar in self defense. No, she didn't
know who the intruder was. She didn't know what he was after.
She wasn't even quite sure how Mary had killed the man.
        The results were rather obvious; the man's chest was
caved in.
        Mary was a complete loss. She seemed to have retreated
inside herself. She just stared blankly ahead.
        This was what Bane found when he arrived.
        "Excuse me," he said to the nearest officer. "I'm a
friend. Perhaps I can help." Paul casted a small spell that would
get the officer to let him pass.
        "Sure, okay," the officer replied.
        After brushing off inquiring officers, he made sure that
Mrs. Sinclair was too busy to notice any spells he would cast.
Then he casted a spell that would get him a peak inside Mary's
        Unnoticed, a tiny silver sphere materialized on the table
the now dead thief had been searching.

{The Dreamscape}
        Mary walked down a hall of mirrors, memories of the
waking world gone. Bane followed, fully aware of what was
happening. He was accompanied by a chrome figure not unlike the
T1000 from Terminator 2. Unlike Mary, they cast no reflection.
        Voices called to Mary, voices that matched Mary's own.
"This way, Mary." "Come on, Mary." "Here, Mary."
        "Who are you?" Mary finally asked.
        A reflection that had Mary's familiar waist long hair and
was clothed identically to the waking Mary stepped out of a
mirror. "I am you," it seemed to sing.
        Another reflection stepped out of another mirror. This
one had short hair and was clad in a jumpsuit with various tools
hanging from its belt. "I am you," it chimed at a slightly higher
        A third reflection stepped out. Its hair was shoulder
length, and it wore a conservative business outfit. "I am you,"
it intoned at an even higher pitch.
        "We are yooouuuu!" the reflections chorused in tune.
        Bane recalled that Mary loved the Three Stooges.
        "We have much to discuss," said the first.
        "But only in private," added the second.
        "You two do not belong here," the third told Bane and the
T1000. It cast a spell that threw Paul out of Mary's dream, back
into his own body.

        Mary woke up, the dream fading from memory faster than
she could grasp it. She forgot the dream when she discovered that
she was trussed up with enough rope to scale Mount Everest from
the ocean bottom.
        "Ah, you're awake."
        Mary turned her head, the only thing she could move. A
wimpy reddish man in a business suit with two small horns
sprouting from his forehead leered at her. He was accompanied by
two potbellied demons carrying rifles of some kind, and Hank
        "Who are you?" Mary asked as she tested her bindings.
        "My dear," began the business demon (she assumed he was
a demon), "I am Sissyphus U. Lucky Jones, director of Heck."
        "Heck?" Mary inquired. There seemed to be a few loose
folds here...
        "We're a subsidiary of Hell(tm) Inc," Jones explained.
"I've been trying to get Heck tradmarked, but not having much
luck. Big Brother always gets the best stuff, paople..." he
        "Who's Big Brother?" Mary felt ropes start to come loose.
The sheer mass of ropes on her masked her escape attempts.
        "Satan T. Lucifer Jones," Jones told her. "The Duke of
Smelly Feet himself."
        "What does he want with me?" Mary felt a few more
bindings come loose. Idly, she wondered where she had learned to
do this.
        "He doesn't," Jones explained. "This is my operation.
Heck, it's been so long since last we spoke, I suspect that he's
forgotten I and Heck exist. Uhh..."
        This last bit of incoherency was added because the ropes
binding Mary had suddenly fallen to the floor. She lashed out and
hit Jones in the... in a really sensitive spot. As he doubled
over, she struck Soil in the face, knocking the smuggler on his
back. Then she saw the potbellied guards leveling their rifles at
        Reacting instinctively, she dove under the stream of
Heckfire (Heck gets secondhand equipment, remember?) and rolled
to a guard's feet. Uncoiling, she was about to drive her open
palm into the guard's sternum when she froze; if she completed
the maneuver, she was sure that, somehow, something bad would
        As it was, Mary had hesitated long enough for the
lethargic guard to smack her in the head with his rifle. As she
fell unconscious, the other guard - who was slow to react to the
constantly changing situation - accidently blew away his

        The Revolution.
        That word seemed to strike a chord within Mary. Somehow,
she knew what it represented everything the Illuminati fought
against. She had no real evidence, just a feeling.
        Idly, she wondered if the sphere was involved. Mages tend
to distrust coincidence; they used it too much.
        After her mother's friends had left last night, Mary had
tried to analyze the sphere. Using the database in the magic
laptop, she figured out what the sphere was, but that had only
deepened the mystery. The sphere was packed with quantum
circuitry. It was something that was only theory in pure tech,
but possible though extremely dificult to make with magic. The
silver sphere was pure tech as far as Mary could determine.
        No wonder mages are willing to kill for it. And judging
from the spell breakers the strange mage had used, they were
Illuminati mages.
        Consulting the laptop's database again, she had found a
spell useful for hiding objects. Apparently, the caster sends the
object into a far away, random altiverse where it would await
retrieval. Last night, Mary had cast the spell; the sphere was
now safely in the hands of one of her altiversal counterparts.
Hopefully, it was safe.
        But today, Mary thought as she brushed her shoulder
length hair, she had to deal with the Revolution.

        Bane woke up to see Mary's face over him. "Are you all
right?" she asked, concerned.
        "Yeah, I think so," he replied slowly. What a strange
dream Mary had. Next time, he would know to put up defenses.
        "Oh, good." Mary looked at him oddly. "Your aura's
changed," she commented. "When did you learn magic? Not that I'm
complaining. Whatever you did seems to have helped me alot."
        "I learned in a great hurry," Bane responded, which was
something of the truth. But he hadn't really done _anything_ to
help Mary; he hadn't learned what he wanted either from her
        "Well, thank you," Mary said. She bent to kiss him on the
cheek, but Paul turned his head, and they liplocked. This lasted
for an indeterminable amount of time. Then Mary drew back.
        "Why, Paul," she said shyly, "I had no idea you cared so
        "Yes, well, tonight's events..."
        "Last night's," Mary corrected. "It's morning now."
        "Right, last night's events made me realize my true
feelings for you." This was half true. The old Paul had secretly
had a crush on Mary. The new Paul felt something a bit more
        Mary smiled and bent down for another kiss, her waist-
length hair falling forward, brushing Bane enticingly.
        Of course, they were interupted.
        "Hey, you two. Break it up," Mrs. Sinclair scolded. There
was a hint of approval in her voice.


"Don't call me Sissy!!!"






Find out in the next episode of Analogs, only on...


Wait a minute...

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

Send feedback to:           | "Hey, guys, I'm high!" "You're not
 a00076 at | high! You're obnoxious!"

Date:         Mon, 29 Jan 1996 23:29:25 -0500
From:         jazz in the ravine (swede at SOJOURN1.SOJOURN.COM)
Subject:      SF: Renegade Anarchists IV, episode eleven

                            RENEGADE ANARCHISTS IV:
                                IN A PIG'S EYE
                             (a Tale of Sfstory!)
                                  Episode 11
                                 Gary W. Olson


     "Step lively, everyone," Captain J. Michael Spaulding instructed.
"We're almost at the secret meeting room.  And if that doesn't make you
step lively, I could spread some thumbtacks on the floor."
     "It'sa that door uppa there, right, boss?" Chicobaldi asked,
indicating a door marked with a bright neon 'secret meeting room (package
liquor available).'
     "Yes, it is," Spaulding replied.  "How'd you find that out?"
     "I'ma security chief," Chicobaldi noted.  "It'sa my job to'a know."
     "I appointed you security chief so I could keep my secrets secure from
you," Spaulding said.  "I ought to fire you and hire him."  He pointed to
Lt. Zacko, who honked his horn and smiled.  "Or maybe I should fire you
both and hire a masseuse.  I'd still be giving away secrets but I'd feel
very relaxed about it."
     "Hey, if'a you want a good massage, there'sa some monks onna Mall
level that can'a take alla kinks outta you back."
     "Can they put some in?" Benjen asked, reading from a card handed to
him by Zacko.
     "Yeah, but that'a costsa you extra."
     Benjen tossed the card away and sighed.  Spaulding pressed a button
next to the door to the secret meeting room.
     "This is Captain Spaulding," he said.
     "Input secret security code," the door's computer told him.
     "This is Captain Spaulding," Spaulding repeated.
     "Code accepted," the computer said.  "Password required to gain
     "Password?" Spaulding asked.  "I don't remember programming you to ask
for a password.  In fact, I don't remember programming you at all.  If
you're not careful, I'll ship you off to join CBS's fall programming, and
that'll be the last anyone sees of you!"
     "Password required," the computer repeated.
     "Light," DePenn said into the speaker.
     "Dark," James Dean ventured.
     "Red?" Lenin guessed.
     "As if," Spaulding said.
     "Now listen, you..."
     "I wasn't giving a passwor--"
     "That does i--"
     "I can't get a word in ed--"
     "Password accepted."
     As the door opened, everyone looked about to see who had guessed the
password.  Finally, Emma looked down and saw a duck wearing a tiny uniform
waddling in.  The door shut behind it.
     "That was... odd," Kissy commented.
     "I wasn't saying--"
     "Oh, all right... quack!"
     "Password accepted."
     The door opened and Kissy walked through.
     "Quack," Spaulding said, to keep the door open.  "That reminds me, I
have to go see the doc soon."
     "We just'a came from the dock," Chicobaldi reminded him.
     "Just go in," Benjen grumbled.  "Quack!"


     Cardinals Van Cleef and Hagen awoke slowly, unsure whether they were
dead and in Heaven (not likely; had they been, the Pearly Gates effect
would have jolted them awake so they could say 'wow'), dead and in Hell(tm)
(not likely; their shorts were not chafing and creating strange burning
sensations), or just slightly disoriented in New Jersey (possible, but not
probable).  They looked around -- the decor was not anything they would
expect of the retreat for a group of monks, nor was it anything like in the
Radar Vogel videos they had been shown.
     It was rather like a studio apartment that had had its walls replaced
with several large fish.
     The Cardinals, who had never experienced the wonders, or the smells,
of U-Gro-Organo building materials, developed a sudden and quite compelling
desire for fish and chips, or at least chips, seeing as fish seemed to be
in plentiful supply.  Occasionally their thoughts expanded into the realm
of tartar sauce and marination techniques, but before they could set out to
search for a deep fryer, a door in one of the fishy walls opened and
several monks stepped into the room.
     "Cardinals," Brother Steve Vogel said, pulling back his hood.  "I'm
sorry for our method of bringing you here, but it was important to get you
out of public as quick as--"
     "I'll have the broiled catfish, please," Cardinal Van Cleef said.
"With a side of onion rings."
     "Lobster thermador for me," Cardinal Hagen said, a bit of drool
gathering on his lower lip.  "No chili peppers, though.  They burn my--"
     "Ahem," Vogel said.  "Brothers?  They need screening."  Two monks
stepped past Vogel and affixed two high-tech items that greatly resembled
clothespins to the noses of the Cardinals.  They stepped back and watched
the results.
     "I say," Van Cleef said.  "For a moment there, I was ready to... oh
     "Hello?" Hagen asked.  "What's all this?"
     "Sorry about that," Vogel said.  "Our enemies are very clever -- we
set up these rooms to keep them away.  On the outside, they smell truly
terrible -- we have to wear these nano-plugs just to get in."
     "Nano-plugs?" Van Cleef asked.
     "What you're wearing," Vogel noted.  "By infusing these ordinary,
computerized clothespins with the latest in nanotechnology, we've been able
to create a clothespin that can *instantly* adjust to any size nose!"
     "Have you," Hagen said, in a somewhat less than impressed tone.
     "That's not all!" Vogel enthused.  "They also... hang clothes!  You
can... clip papers with them!  And if you stick one up your nose, the
nanites go out and clear it!  Why pick your nose yourself when a colony of
nanites can do it for you?"
     Van Cleef and Hagen looked at each other, bewildered.
     "Okay, okay," Vogel sighed.  "Earth technology is so utterly primitive
compared to the rest of the universe that this is the only application we
could find for it.  Still, you gotta admit, they do help you breathe
     "Can't you do that just with a little plastic strip?" Hagen asked.
     "Er," Vogel replied.
     "I think this discussion has digressed some," Van Cleef said.  "You
were saying something about it being important that we get out of public
view as quickly as possible."
     "Ah, yes, yes," Vogel said, clearly pleased to be moving on.  "We had
to get you out of view."
     "We've established that."
     "Yes, we have," Vogel replied.  "How much are you two aware of...
the Spam trade?"


     "Hello?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "It's no use," Floyd Cobalt told him.  "They'll talk to us when
they're ready.  Whoever 'they' are.  Did you see them?"
     "Me?  No, I was busy being unconsciousness."
     Jerriphrrt looked around the shadowy cell.  The walls were curved and
appeared solid; Jerriphrrt decided to wait until his strength returned
before he tested that appearance.  There weren't any bars over the cell's
only entrance.  Rather, a thin white strip of light indicated the presence
of a force shield.
     Just then, a harsh white light was projected into the cell.  It left
room for Jerriphrrt and Floyd to get out of the way, which they promptly
did.  The light caused the far wall of the cell to glow luminously white.
Presently, a shadow that distinctly resembled a dog loomed into the light.
     "Greetings," it said.  Jerriphrrt noted that the sound was indeed
coming from the shadow, and not whatever was presumably casting it.
"Welcome to your final resting place."
     "Who are you?" Floyd asked.  "What are you going to--"
     "We are the Shadow Puppets," another shadow, which resembled a hawk,
said as it loomed into the scene.  "Agents of the dark evil that resides on
     "Za'ha'tra'la'la'la'la'etc'etc?!?" Jerriphrrt and Floyd asked.
     "Yes!" the Shadow Puppets exclaimed.  "What about it?"
     "Oh, nothing," Floyd said.
     "Rather a lot of apostrophes, aren't there?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     Indeed, there were a lot of apostrophes, and for a very good reason.
Namely, to indicate just how alien a world Za'ha'tra'la'la'la'la'etc'etc
is.  Scientists, philosophers, and other people with entirely too much time
on their hands have long noted that one could judge just how non-human-like
a place or being was by how many apostrophes it had in its name.  Worlds
that are only slightly alien tend to have only one or two apostrophes
(worlds like Zut'kor, where the stop lights are red, yellow, and flaming
blue, or Wango'ze'tango, where every single form of life, even sea algae,
is capable of operating and maintaining a large motorcycle).  Worlds that
are very alien tend to have large numbers of apostrophes.
     Very few worlds have *more* apostrophes than Za'ha'tra'la'la'la'la'-
etc'etc, and for good reason.  Too many apostrophes can cause the world to
lurch beyond the Punctuation Event Horizon.  And when that happens, let's
just say the consequences are... apostrophic.
     "Are we still in this scene?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "I think so," Floyd said.  "I wish I wasn't, though.  Hey, Shadow
Puppets, can you cause the scene to end?"
     "Why, sure!" the hawk-shadow replied.  "I think it is now time for us
to reveal... our Master Plan!"


     Far off in space...
     "Wow, that was quick," Jerriphrrt said.
     "Ssh!" Floyd hissed.
     Far off in space...
     "Sorry," Jerriphrrt interrupted.
     FAR... OFF... IN... SPACE... (pause)... a Pinto flew at dangerous
speeds away from Earth.  Norman and Ronald were scrunched in the front seat
with Sajanseel Boudoir, while Thelona Wyndingrode, Greez Hyperiok, Lark
Purree, and Mapa Marbles were forced to share the back.  (By almost
unanimous vote, Joe Don I had been relegated to the trunk.)
     "It's working!" Norman exclaimed.  "It's really working!"
     "You haven't tried the warp drive yet, have you?" Thelona asked.
     "How can it fail?" Ronald asked.  "We followed the specs we purchased
at the con precisely!"
     "Oh dear," Lark sighed.
     "Not to worry," Boudoir said, smiling a John Saxon-ish smile.  "With
the Plot in my hands, we're in no danger!"
     "Your handling of it earlier was less than stellar," Lark noted,
     "Shut up!" Boudoir commanded.  "I'll show you just how well I control
this now!  With this, I shall make a change to the Sfstory altiverses so
profound, *everyone* shall know how much power I now possess!"
     "I thought you wanted to keep your role secret," Mapa noted.
     "Quiet," Boudoir grumped.  He twisted at the shoelaces of the plot
generator.  Hair reappeared on Mapa's head again, though it looked like it
belonged to a sorority pledge, since it could easily house a family of
five.  Boudoir grunted and twisted the shoelaces again.
     Space heaved and twisted, and everyone (even Greez) gasped in horror,
when they realized just what was being done....


Find out next time only on...SFSTORY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  The topic that deserves
lots of exclamation points.
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