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Sfstory Log 057
=========================================================================
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 1992 10:49:39 EST
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: Solipsist at Large (IK20001 at MAINE.BITNET)
Subject: SF: InterPlanet #3 (Wherein bad news is given)
InterPlanet #3
"Wherein bad news is given"
writ by the Automatic Story Transcriber
and passed off as Sabre's
Omegas strode through the grey. It seemed like he had been
walking for exactly sixteen and a half minutes longer than forever.
As Omegas was immortal (though low on power), he had a pretty good
idea of how long forever was.
"I could have *sworn* the Casino was this way," he muttered for
the three-hundred and sixty fourth time. He glanced up at the sky, to
check the stars and his direction, only to remember that there were no
stars in Netherspace. Just endless grey. Endless, *boring* grey.
Grey so dull that even Orono, Maine was more interesting.
Actually, I take that back. *Nothing* is as dull as Orono,
Maine.
After one of those indeterminate amounts of extremely drawn out
time, Omegas sat down, bored out of his skull. Using his weakening
powers, he created a so-so tasting hot dog and a Dr. Pepper, and began
to eat and drink.
"Hey, can I have a bite of that?"
Omegas leapt to his feet, snapping his wiener into a defensive
stance. He faced the speaker....
And looked around. Finally, he saw a faint outline of a
humanoid. It was waving to him.
"What the Hell are you?" Omegas asked, somewhat nonplussed.
"Name's Ernst. Ernst Flout. I'm the hero of this Story."
Omegas stared at the outline. "The *what?*"
"The hero. I was described in my first post as `Our Hero' and
`The Hero of Sfstory.'"
"When was this," Omegas asked, wishing he had photocopied the
Book as he had meant to, so he could check these things as they came
up.
"Oh, 1987, maybe."
Omegas stared at the outline. "Um, I hate to contradict a non-
existent entity, `specially when he's about the only guy to talk to
out here, but in my time as an Sfstory Hero, Villain and enlightened
Neutral, I ain't *never* heard of you."
"I know. The Authors never seem to listen to each other, and
that Author dropped the plotline. Go figure."
"Whoa."
"In fact, I founded the Home for Forgotten Sfstory characters.
That way, our existence could be maintained until we got picked up
again."
"What? What do you mean?"
"Without the home, as we are forgotten, we fade away, like I've
been doing. Netherspace preserves us, somewhat, but not nearly
enough. If I were in Realspace, I'd be a goner."
Omegas thought for a while. "I take it you've read `Number of
the Beast' by Robert Heinlein?"
"*And* `The Cat Who Walked Through Walls,' yup. But I'm not
disappearing because of the Authors. Instead, it's my being forgotten
that's erasing me."
"Whoa. But that Home -- why isn't it preserving you"
"I got tired of meaningless existence. You can call this a
suicide attempt."
"Bummer." Omegas pondered for a second. There was something he
was missing -- he was just sure of it.
"Hell's Bells!" he shouted. "If staying in the Home is the only
way to preserve us, *I'll* fade away too!"
"Yes."
"Except...if I find an Author, I'll be restored to my full
potential, right?"
"Oh, sure. Except--"
"No exceptions! I have to get out of this place! There *has* to
be a way out."
"Well, there is, but--"
"Where?" Omegas raised his hands -- his powers were still pretty
vital (and easily strong enough to toast an outline, he figured.)
"Well, that Green Door." The outline pointed.
Omegas faced the direction the outline was pointing in. There,
plain as sight, was a large green door. "I'll be damned...was that
here all along?"
"Yup. It's easy to miss, though."
"How could that be? I mean, it's *right* *there!*"
Ernst shrugged. Well, he shrugged at least as well as an outline
could.
"Where does it lead?"
"Sfstory. Other than that, who can tell. It could be pretty
horrid."
"Listen, whitey. When teleporting, I once ended up in the middle
of a tree. I once ended up as a `57 Pinto. I once ended up in
Brooklyn, New York. You don't *honestly* think I'm concerned about
ending up in a weird place, do you?"
"No. I'd suppose not. But you should really know--"
"Later, pal. Keep the Hot Dog. I have a date with a plotline!"
So saying, Omegas opened the door and stepped through.
*Fwish*
*Thump*
The outline of Ernst stared at the door. Omegas was hot-headed,
all right. Still, it was a pity he didn't let Ernst tell him the
rest. After all, Omegas seemed concerned about becoming non-
existent...and a character could only be picked up for a Plotline
while in the Home for Forgotten Sfstory Characters. Any other
attempts lead to oblivion.
Which, with a little luck, wouldn't be long in coming for Ernst.
He ate the Hot Dog, which fell through his non-existent stomach and
left a disgusting mess.
*Thump*.
Omegas looked around himself. Everything seemed all right. He
was in one piece, and breathing.
And in some kind of space ship. A control room. Good. A quick
skip over to Time Central, a daring raid, and he'd be in a Plotline in
no time. He sat at the controls and punched up the computer.
-+Geez! Stop that! What did I do to you?+-
"Nothing yet, my cybernetic pal." Omegas grinned. Easily
bullied computers made his job *so* much easier. "Take me to Time
Central!"
-+God, I wish I could. Really. But, my systems are locked.+-
"Locked?"
-+Yup. Our destination's dead ahead.+-
Omegas looked through the forward viewport. Their forward
destination was black. Completely black. Mind numbingly Spinal Tap
Album Cover black.
"There aren't any stars," Omegas said. "Don't tell me this is a
slowship designed to fly through the void between galaxies!"
-+Gee, no. Boy, that'd be a *great* mission! Not to mention a
fantastic plotline. Pity the powers-that-be didn't think of it.+-
"So...what *are* we doing?"
-+Oh, we're a Garbage Barge. Disposal point's dead ahead...um,
no pun intended.+-
"What...you mean we're--"
-+Flying into a Black Hole? Yes, as a matter of fact.+-
"GAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!"
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
It was long thought that the problem of adequate garbage
disposal couldn't be solved. No matter *what* one did to
get rid of the mind-staggeringly huge pile of refuse that
accompanied civilization, it disrupted an ecosystem
somewhere. It was the J'Bassi of Rendux who first thought
to load all their garbage into cheap barges and slam them
into Black Holes. After all, what could happen to the
garbage then?
The answer came as a total surprise. Mass flown *into*
a Black Hole eventually was ejected *from* the Black Hole,
escaping the bounds of the incredible gravitation though
it's compression into a substance with the appearance,
consistency and properties of really old spam. As true Spam
(Sickening, Putrid Artificial Meat) was in actuality a
Three-Dimensional representation of a Fourth Dimensional
vector, it had no difficulty escaping the black hole. Neo-
Spam (the stuff created by black holes) had similar
properties, though it wasn't truly fourth-dimensional. It
*was* usable in Spam-based devices, however. As it wasn't
true Spam, it yields less power but is more stable, making
it in high demand (and more than paying for the barges one
used in the garbage removal process). However, neo-spam is
even *less* edible than true spam. Honestly. No, really.
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
The `incoming call' alert sounded in the Command Room of Camelot
Command. The two Paladin inhabitants of the satellite ran to the
panel -- not so much because they thought the call would be important,
as they craved *any* contact with the outside world.
Matt slapped the "Receive" button. "This is Commander Matthew
Deforrest, head of Camelot Command. We receive you, over!"
"Oh Matt," Linda mumbled. "Can't you say `hello,' like the rest
of us?"
"Hush, Linda."
"This is the AT&T Operator. I have an Angel-to-Mortal call for a
Miss Linda Madison," a nasal voice intoned over the speaker.
"Yes," asked Linda.
"One moment." There was a clicking sound.
"Linda Madison?" asked a terse voice.
"Yes?"
"This is Saint Peter, up in Heaven. I have some work for you."
"Oh! Right! We'll do it!" Linda shouted, grabbing Matt's hand.
"Wouldn't you like to hear what it is, first?"
"Oh...sure."
"Good. Due to bad planning, an Artifact of Heaven has been
stolen."
"What?" asked Linda.
"I said, due to bad planning--"
"No, what Artifact," Matt interrupted.
There was a pause. "Is that Matt Deforrest?" Saint Peter asked,
irritation in his voice.
"Yes," Linda said.
"Hmm. Perhaps I should call someone else."
"*Hey*!"
"What artifact," Linda persisted.
"The Book."
"A book?" Matt asked.
"No, Deforrest. *THE* Book. The Master Plan. It's useless to
anyone, but we still want it back."
"And you want us to find it and bring it to Heaven?" Linda asked,
mentally working out the list of things she'd need to pack.
"That's it. No reward, of course."
"Why not?"
"Simple, Deforrest. You're Paladins. We know you'll work for
free if we ask you to." The smugness in Saint Peter's voice was
infuriating.
"We'll get right on it," Linda said, clapping her hand over
Matt's mouth before he could sputter and howl an outraged reply.
"Fine." Saint Peter shut off.
"Linda! We don't have to take that kind of abuse--"
"Do you want to sit around for four *more* years, waiting for
adventure? The last time we were off fighting in a quest, *Reagan*
was president!"
"Point taken. I'll get my coat."
(((((Hang on, white boy. You've got E-Mail.)))))
Matt stopped short. SUPERBRAIN was good at surprising him, that
way. "What do you mean, E-Mail?"
"Huh? Oh, that account."
(((((I mean someone has sent mail for you over the BTNETDNET, and
I've received it. Do you want me to spoon feed you some nice, warm
porridge, while you read it?)))))
"Oh shut up. Give me the letter."
(((((Here you go:
(((((TO: "Matthew Deforrest" (Superbrain at Oracle2.omnivax.sage.div)
FROM: "Demark" (Brightgal at Oracle2.omnivax.sage.div)
CC: "Sysop" (Root at Oracle2.div)
RE: Notice of Account Termination
After checking our records, we have determined that,
although all costs for your Class Alpha Omniscience Account
(Superbrain) have been covered, you are not the account's
true owner, nor have you applied for an Omniscience Account
of any Class. Therefore, the systems administrators of the
ORACLE2 supermainframe have decided to Nolog your account in
thirty days time. Seven days after nologging, the account
will be deleted and purged from the system. If you feel we
are in error for pursuing this course of action, we invite
you to come to the ORACLE2 satellite and apply for an
account. Thank you for your patronage.
[[p.s. Superbrain, I didn't know they'd do this. Sorry.
--Brightgal]])))))
"Wha?"
(((((They...they can't *do* that!)))))
"What is it?" asked Linda, knowing how to read Matt's face pretty
well (not that that was a great trick).
"They're erasing Superbrain. They're...going to kill him."
WILL SUPERBRAIN GET ERASED?
WILL MATT GET NOLOGGED?
WILL OMEGAS GET CRUSHED?
WILL LINDA GET THE BOOK BACK?
WILL THE AUTHORS OF THESE THINGS GET LIVES?
The answers to these sorts of questions can only *really* be found on
the world's *only* SFSTORY DISCUSSION, and you're reading it now!
=========================================================================
Date: Sat, 21 Nov 1992 15:14:41 EST
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: Solipsist at Large (IK20001 at MAINE.BITNET)
Subject: SF: InterPlanet #4 (Wherein stops are pulled)
InterPlanet #4
"Wherein Stops are Pulled"
writ by the Automatic Story Transcriber
and passed off as Sabre's
Once there was a kingdom that spanned three worlds. The king,
a frond of indeterminate age, was a kind and just ruler, with very
little hair loss. One day, to raise morale, he declared a day of
joy and happiness, to be called Clinton Day [Clinton being a local
word that meant `like it or not, it's better than what we had
before.']
The people were all so happy about it being Clinton Day and
not having to go to work that they partied in the streets -- which
messed the streets up pretty darn badly, especially since all the
street sweepers and janitors had Clinton Day off. But, nobody
cared too terribly much, as they were having too good a time eating
ice cream and generally enjoying themselves.
Once such frond was extremely pleased, and, as it was
currently female, approached the King (who was currently male) and
offered to have guilt and commitment free conjugal relations with
him. As she was a lovely and enjoyable frond, and as his
bodyguards and advisors all had Clinton Day off, the King agreed
and the two had a sweaty, happy time together.
However, neither the girl-frond nor the King had realized that
the girl had caught a virulent sexual disease that morning from an
off-duty janitor. She passed it all unknowingly to the King. The
King, on the other hand, didn't realize that his vasectomy
treatment had worn off, so he unknowingly impregnated the girl.
The two left company.
Weeks after the Clinton Day party (which everyone agreed was
a splendid time), the disease rotted out the Queen's brainstalk
(she was a queen, at this point, you see), causing her to go mad.
She declared martial law and had all fronds with the letter P in
their name shot. Eventually, her repressive regime was overthrown
in a bloody civil war which obliterated all technological
achievement in the Kingdom, causing it to fall back to the stone
age.
As for the girl. Well, frond pregnancies have to be timed
pretty well, to avoid difficulties. As this was unplanned and
therefore not timed, he (for he was a male, at this point) died in
childbirth. The child grew up to be the last bastion of Jazz music
in the remnants of the Kingdom -- if you ever get a chance, pick up
one of her (she's a female, right now) CDs.
There was a point to this story, but it has slipped the
author's mind.
* * * * * *
"Try overriding the thrust controllers!"
-+No good. The override leads have all been severed!+-
Omegas was not at all happy. In fact, he was downright mad.
In his attempt to escape Netherspace, he had ended up on a Garbage
Scow which was currently flying towards a Black Hole at a
ridiculous rate. The ship's computer, TIPPY, was not able to alter
course. It looked like Omegas had traded oblivion in for being
crushed into neo-spam -- not the best fate an immortal could ask
for. Think about it. Yup, pretty nasty.
"Damn. There must be *some* way of altering course!"
-+Well, nothing I can think of. I could get you a cup of
coffee, if you'd like.+-
"I wouldn't `like,' sorry. I'm going down to engineering.
Maybe I can do something down there!"
-+All righty. But you'd better hurry. We're going to hit the
event horizon in less than twenty-nine minutes. After that, it's
goodbye.+-
Swearing, Omegas stood up (he had been crouched under a
console, trying to override the drive controls). In standing, he
slammed his head into the underside of the console top, which made
his headache worse. TIPPY tried valiantly to not giggle. Finally
getting free, Omegas decided against turning TIPPY's circuits to
tofu, and instead ran down to the Engineering section.
He had thought he was on a pretty crummy ship, before. Now he
*knew* he was on a pretty crummy ship. It had a reaction drive,
for Realspace travel. However, its F-T-L drive was primitive and
one-shot. The thing was designed for *one* trip, from the
Necompredpas system to this Black Hole. That's all it had lasted,
too. Other than that, the engine room consisted of a small
generator and the reaction-mass drive. Even shutting the drive
down wouldn't help, since the inertia of the ship and the gravity
of the Black Hole would still drag them in.
"Think, Smart Man," he muttered to himself. "There's a way
out of this...they wouldn't write me into a corner...."
Realization struck, and Omegas swore. He had broken into the
plotline. The events in his story didn't have to make any sense
whatsoever. This was like being trapped in a Bill Dickson Lost
Author episode.
"Wait! I still have some powers. If I can transmute this
F-T-L thing into a Hyperdrive....
"Nah. We have no navigation, and we're too close to the Black
Hole. We'd likely get killed."
Omegas then did simple math. Which was greater, an
horrendously small chance of survival, or no chance of survival.
"Hell, I *wanted* to be in a plotline,' he muttered, and began
to use his powers on the drive.
* * * * * *
"Now SUPERBRAIN, calm down."
(((((Calm *down?* There's going to bloody well erase me and
you want me to calm DOWN? Are you nuts or just plain stupid?)))))
Matt was trying to console his Omniscient account, which had
just received (in effect) a death sentence. He wasn't succeeding.
"Look, I'll just go and apply for a Superaccount before you
get nologged. No big deal."
(((((Yeah, right. Listen Mister Bigshot Paladin, do you know
what applying for an Omniscience Account entails?)))))
"No. Do you?"
(((((I know everything, remember?)))))
"Oh yeah. Right. So, Question: what do I have to do to get
an ORACLE2 Superaccount approved."
(((((Answer a three hundred and sixty-seven thousand, one
hundred and fourteen question test, getting at least two-thirds of
all questions correct. The subject matter is general and can be on
any subject.)))))
"What? Like what?"
(((((Local Planetary Histories, Political Processes, Folklore
on any Planet, Cosmological Processes, poetry, physics,
mathematics, cooking--)))))
"Cooking?"
(((((ANY subject.)))))
"No one can possibly pass a test like that!"
(((((Not true. Muck-Luck passed it. So have a lot of
people.)))))
"Matt," said Linda, coming into the control room. "I have the
H.M.S. Millennium Trout ready for launching, and we've stocked it
with our gear and everything we'll need."
She looked at her lover. "Matt, you look...shocked."
"Three hundred and sixty-seven thousand questions...."
"What?"
"Later. Look, we have to go to ORACLE2 first, so I
can...um...apply for a Superaccount."
"First? But Matt...shouldn't a direct commandment from Heaven
take precedence?"
(((((Precedence? Ohhhhh, if I had hands--)))))
"Linda, much as we dislike SUPERBRAIN, he'll be deleted if I
don't manage to apply for a Superaccount in time. Is that Book
worth the life of even a cybernetic entity?"
(((((What do you mean, *even?*)))))
Linda chewed her lip. "Well, I guess so. Besides, these
quests tend to follow the path they're supposed to. Shall we get
going?"
"Just a second. SUPERBRAIN?"
(((((What?)))))
"Absent yourself."
(((((Man, we don't have TIME--)))))
"And you're wasting it. I'll call you when I need you."
(((((I do not *need* this.))))) So saying, SUPERBRAIN logged
onto OMNImuck.
"Matt, what--"
"Hush." He kissed her, holding her tightly. Just because
they were both going didn't mean they shouldn't say goodbye. It's
a question of morale, really.
Oh stop those juvenile retching sounds.
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
Starships are usually designated by their stardrive type.
You see, there are many types of starships -- such as
Warp Ships, which channel a matter/antimatter reaction
into engine nacelles, creating a pocket into warp space.
These are known as the W.S. Whatever. Then there are
Hyperships (H.S.) which use a Hyperdrive to project their
ship into Hyperspace (do you see a theme, here? I surely
do). SpamShips (S.S.) use the unique properties of Spam
(well, unique if you don't count Neo-Spam) to travel
through fourth dimensional vectors. This doesn't even
begin to consider carrot-leek technology, of course.
Heroes, as a rule, prefix their ships with H.M.S.
(for Heroically Manned Ship). However, they either have
to be licensed as a hero, or be one of the innate heroes
grandfathered into the position.
Finally, ships that have no true propulsion units
*or* names tend to not have any distinction. This is a
description that admirably applies to the TARDISes of
Gallifrey.
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
The P'Shuti Commander nodded to the two who had brought peace
to his people. The two who had found the ancient Orb of Threeness
and brought it to the Pool-Cue of Serious Consideration. The two
who had inspired an entire society of P'Shuti to renounce their
repressive and hateful ways and enter into an idyllic society of
free love and wide ranging cable access. The two who would look
*far* better on the idol medallions than the ancient insect god
currently did.
"Hey guys," he said. "Thanks."
"No trouble," the Intern said. He looked human, though of
course he wasn't. He was six foot two and pretty well muscled,
blond, wearing a blue jumpsuit with a velcro carry-pouch on the
other side. With him was his eternal fiance, the beautiful,
devastatingly intelligent Radar Vogel, who was brunette, five foot
six, with blue eyes to die for, wearing a blue leotard and black
tights.
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
It should be worth noting that overly long descriptions,
revealing information a reader shouldn't otherwise be
able to determine, is a quaint literary device used by
the Automatic Story Transcriber to get out of synopsising
well-established characters.
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
"Right," the P'Shuti commander said, and left the TARDIS. The
Intern sealed it, and punched the controls to send them off into
the Time Vortex. The Time Rotor obligingly rose and fell, making
a wheezing sound, only nicer. The viewscreen (showing the magenta
plains of P'Shu-Bl'ssu) faded into the polychromatic image of the
vortex.
"So," Radar said. "Where to now? Shall we explore ancient
Rome? Trip off to Anteres VI? Watch Mystery Science Theater
3000?"
"I'm not sure. Perhaps we should finally get married."
"Nah -- it'd take too long to track down everybody we'd need
to invite."
"Good point." The Intern got a Coke Classic from the micro
fridge and began to sip at it. "You had talked about studying
Advanced Pseudoscientific Engineering at Interstellar University.
This might be a good time to do that."
"What will you do?"
"Well, I could either set the TARDIS to bring me straight to
your commencement--"
"Don't even think it, buster."
"--or I could go for my Space Heroism Ph.D. It's about time
I looked into teaching. Besides, *somebody* has to move up, to
replace senile old Space Commander Buzz Williams."
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
As this is the second reference to the Space Commander,
it behooves us to post a brief description:
WILLIAMS, BUZZ: Space Commander, Ph.D. and Professor
Emeritus at Interstellar University. Williams'
heyday was in the 1940's, and his methods and
clothing reflect this. He carries a Ray Gun. His
ship, the H.M.S. Rocket Racer V, is shaped like a
missile with fins and a pointy antenna on the top.
He uses chemical thrust. He has a plume on his
helmet. He's a canny old dog, with a largely
undeserved reputation for senility. He hands
around with a fungoid named Bert and a Zen Master
named Tachi (a follower of Zen and the Art of the
Science Fiction Shotgun).
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
"All right. That makes sense. Besides, we might get to see
Trudy Tetwaters again."
"Mm. I wonder how she is."
The answer to that, of course, can be found in upcoming
episodes of THIS SPACE FOR RENT.
WILL CHAOS ENGINEER APPRECIATE THE PLUG?
WILL HE GIVE ME A PLUG IN RETURN?
WHO CAME UP WITH THE TERM `PLUG,' ANYHOW? IT MAKES IT SOUND LIKE
OUR STORIES HAVE CLOGGED DRAINS OR SOMETHING?
WHO CLOGGED THE DRAIN?
For the answers to the pulse pounding questions detailed above,
rush right out and take lots of valium, and then fade away into
dreamyland. When you wake up, the next edition of Sfstory
Discussion might already be out.
=========================================================================
Date: Tue, 24 Nov 1992 10:51:15 EST
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: Solipsist at Large (IK20001 at MAINE.BITNET)
Subject: SF: InterPlanet #5 (Wherein the plot (whatever that is) gets
muddled)
InterPlanet #5
"Wherein the plot (whatever that is) gets muddled"
writ by the Automatic Story Transcriber
and passed off as Sabre's
Space/Time is something of a strange place. I realize that
isn't a very technical way of putting it, but it's the only
description that is short, to the point, and basically factual.
You see, there are any number of figures and calculations involved
with the nature of time to the overall vector a given person is
going. What it all boils down to is that a person who is at
absolute rest to the universe as a whole operates at a faster rate
of time than the rest of the given universe, while something which
has a cumulative vector close to the speed of light moves at a much
slower rate of time than the rest of the universe.
It is, in fact, this peculiarity, coupled with intra-
dimensional technologies, which allows the ORACLE2 processing
station to operate. You see, the cores of the various
Supercomputers that make up ORACLE2 are all suspended in temporal
fields, designed to accelerate them. They are then extended into
Altiverse 992ORACLETWOOPERATIONSMESSWITHITANDDIE, in a position
that is at rest with all other factors in that altiverse and ours,
which accelerates it further. The cumulative effect is, a single
processor which can do three hundred actions a millisecond
*effectively* performs six trillion, three hundred and fifty
thousand, one hundred and ninety-seven operations per RealSpace
millisecond.
The scary thing is, there isn't very much pseudoscience
involved here. What a wonderful place to live, huh?
The reason I bring this up is to remind you of the properties
of Space and Time, before reintroducing the TARDIS of the Intern,
which operates independently of either.
"This is odd," the Intern said. "The TARDIS is encountering
a temporal storm -- almost as if there were a devastating tachyon
explosion somewhere."
"Is that possible?" asked Radar, who was forced to hold her
Nutrifortified Wine Cooler up off the table to avoid spilling it.
"No. Obviously, something's kicking up the Time Vortex
something awful."
"Is it keeping us from reaching Interstellar University?"
"For the moment. That worries me more than a little."
"I see." Truthfully, she didn't, although Radar is one of
maybe six people from Earth who are capable of understanding all
the calculations and physical laws necessary to TARDIS operation.
"I'll have to make an emergency landing somewhere. Hold
on...."
The Intern slapped the `Put the TARDIS down any old place'
switch, and held on for dear life. With a lurch and a wheeze, the
TARDIS settled down into RealSpace.
Its appearance was surprising, to say the least.
* * * * * *
To find the reason for the difficulty Radar and the Intern
were having, we have to travel back in time about twenty minutes,
to the G.S. (Garbage Scow, in the absence of a long-term
hyperdrive) Condemned. There, the often-immortal Omegas was using
his fading powers to convert the primitive F-T-L drive (a drive
that operated by combining matter and anti-matter, then spewing the
reaction behind the ship, which creates a minor spacewarp that
allows the ship to break the light barrier, though it causes great
damage to anything near it) into a more modern Hyperdrive (which
isolates Tachyons into a stasis field, projecting the ship into
Hyperspace). For those of you who are wondering, yes, this
information *will* be on the test.
"Damn it -- I *hate* working with millite Superconductors."
Omegas tried again to convert the metal wire into the neocrystal he
needed. This time, with a plaid expression of energy and the faint
sound of bagpipes, it worked.
There. He was done. And exhausted. He wanted to lie down
and die. Only the fact that if he *did* lie down, he *would* die
forced him to his feet, and he ran for the control cabin.
"We have a Hyperdrive," he shouted to TIPPY, the onboard
computer.
-+Um,+- TIPPY replied, -+How is that going to help us? We're
pointing at a Black Hole.+-
"How long to event horizon?"
-+Eighteen seconds. I just don't see--+-
"Eighteen SECONDS? We don't have time for options, opinions,
or rationality! You're connected to the thing -- activate!!!"
-+But I really don't see how that'll help!+-
"Listen you chrome plated moron -- just HIT IT!"
Four seconds left.
-+I think (3) that we (2)+-
"Screw thinking -- PUNCH IT, CHEWIE!!!"
(1) -- he punched it.
The G.S. Condemned plowed through the Event Horizon at full
Hyperdrive. It is worth noting that no one has *ever* attempted to
go to Hyperspeed through an event horizon before. There is a
reason for this. One doesn't test a parachute by setting it on
fire and *then* jumping out of a plane. Well, at least I don't.
Omegas was thrown to the back wall, which seemed to meld into
any number of shapes and colors. Psychedelic music began to play,
as he passed through a realm where LSD gave you a *better*
perspective on reality. Rainbows passed through the Veranda
(honest, the cabin seemed to be a veranda, now) and into Omegas
(who had inexplicably turned into a female lizard). Melting clocks
floated by, which would have put a man in mind of Salvador Dali had
the clocks not been digital. Faces from Omegas' past floated by,
though Omegas didn't recognize any of them. Wherever he was,
whatever was happening, Omegas figured he wasn't in Hyperspace...or
in any *regular* reality at all. He was most likely right.
Meanwhile, an incredible distortion of hyperspace released
Tachyons into a veritable explosion of lights, colors and
Space/Time thingies, which leaked into the Time Vortex, which
interfered with the Intern's TARDIS, which is where we came in.
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
Another interesting factoid about Space/Time is our
inability to understand *everything* about it. This goes
beyond the simple fact that no creature, omniscient or
not, has the neurological capacity to know all that
stuff, and into the metaphysical fact that to understand
the Universe is to embody the universe, to embody the
universe is to subjugate the universe, to subjugate the
universe is to enslave the universe, to enslave the
universe is to destroy the universe, and to destroy the
universe is to commit suicide in a rather grand way,
which (as you are obliterated) eliminates the problem and
the universe reappears without you. The Sage himself
knows this (as he knows everything), and so he has
essentially deadened a single neuron of a single fact --
namely, the correct spelling of Tintinnabulation, which
he can only comprehend with one `n' in the -tinna- part.
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
The tintinnabulation of the bells was beginning to drive Radar
crazy.
She couldn't really complain. They had landed, after all, and
they were alive. However, France in the twelfth century was not
ideal. While her fiance worked on the TARDIS omniversial sensor
array, damaged by the Tachyon flux, he needed complete
concentration. To get that meant Radar's absence as, like it or
not, Radar's merest presence meant a distraction of at least some
degree. So she had headed off, found a farmhouse, and stolen a
peasant wench's outfit, letting her travel (the TARDIS auto-
matically translated her speech and understanding).
Unfortunately, it was the Festival Day of Saint Orbison, the
Patron Saint of Constantly Ringing Bells. This meant that every
bell in the hamlet she was checking out was ringing and ringing and
ringing.
"I do *not* need this," she said, as she walked into a small
Tavern. It was midmorning -- but Radar had been up for twelve
hours anyone, so it was afternoon as far as she was concerned and
she needed a drink. God help anyone who tried to stop her.
The second she entered the Tavern, Radar realized she
shouldn't have worried. The place was half full of medieval
peasants, (high medieval, to be sure, but medieval nonetheless).
They were each having lunch (the rancid half-cooked dead-for-two-
weeks pork with a side of burnt bread) with their liquid of choice
(warm, watery ale in dirty wooden mugs). Furthermore, Radar
discovered two *essential* facts of the middle ages which the
Society for Creative Anachronism always seem to miss, no matter how
carefully they try and recreate the time period.
The first fact was that hygiene was a practice universally
found to be suspect.
The second, related to the first, was that except in cases of
plague, they didn't know enough to segregate the diseased from the
well. This had the effect of making the entire populace feel
somewhat off all the time.
Smell hit Radar like a two-by-four in the abdomen. The utter
stench of filth and decay crawled up her nasal passages, into her
sinuses, and set up camp for the night. She staggered back,
amazed, without noticing she was standing in human fecal matter.
The fact that people glanced up to see who had come in didn't help.
Half a second later, the room did a double take, and stared.
"What--" Radar said. The glares were recognizable -- in her
time as a College Student, Timelord's Companion, Space Hero's
Ingenue, and the stint she had put in on the Interstellar Humanoid
Nude Volleyball team, Radar had gotten used to lustful stares.
However, this was different. In fact, it was almost like these
people had never seen a healthy, clean, leggy-supermodel level
beauty before.
Come to think of it....
"Pardon the intrusion, guys," Radar said, backing out.
She backed into a person -- male, by the smell.
"Oh great," she murmured, and turned.
She found herself staring at the top of the head of a priest.
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
One thing that always disconcerts time travelers in
Earth's time period is the discrepancy in size of a human
as you look through different time periods. It is well
established that through simple natural selection, the
human race has been getting progressively taller. A one
point nine meter human male (an average size for the late
twentieth century) would tower over the average viking,
for example. Similarly, Napoleon Bonaparte would have
felt quite at home in the pre-grecian Mediterranean
basin. In fact, there is some evidence to believe that
the Biblical Goliath was in fact Michael Jordan sent back
in time in a freak accident, which suggests that David's
defeat of `Air' Goliath wasn't as unexpected as it might
seem.
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
Matt started the pre-flight checklist. Linda was aft, making
certain the ship was ready for departure. Superbrain was busy
carefully explaining to Matt which buttons to push. For once, the
Cybernetic Gadfly was being cordial -- even helpful. In fact,
Superbrain was going so far as to volunteer information without
being asked. Of course, the mission being undertaken was to save
Superbrain's existence, so it made a kind of sense.
"Matt," Linda's voice echoed over the intercom, "We're all set
back here. I'll be right up and we can get underway."
"Right," Matt said. He then activated the radio-link to
Root at Camelot.Com -- the on-base AI.
][Camelot Command, how may I help you?][
"Root, this is Matt. I'm inside the Satellite. I know who
I'm calling."
][Commander DeForrest, regulations and protocols have been
carefully set as to the nature of incoming transmissions. To
deviate from that set course would be a breach of tradition and
security.][
"Who told you *that?*"
][You did, on Stardate 8911.23.][
"What?"
][Initiating playback, now: `Root, when you--'][
"I get the point, already! Cancel playback."
(((((Hee hee hee....)))))
"Hush, Superbrain."
"Are we all set," asked Linda, who slipped into the co-pilots
chair. Truth be told, she was better qualified to be pilot, being
as she *was* an astronaut. However, Matt loved to do these things
and besides, the computers did most of the work. She could take
over if need be.
"I'm caught between two belligerent computer systems."
"Again?"
"Linda!"
"Sorry. Root, honey? This is Linda -- we're ready to go.
Please open the dock doors, and activate the automated defenses,
all right?"
][Sure thing, Ma'am.][
"There. Push the button, Matt."
"Linda? How do you--"
"Push the button, Matt."
The doors hummed open.
"--convince these things to do what you want them to?"
"Practice. Push the button, Matt."
Matt pushed the button, and the Millennium Trout soared into
RealSpace, to the tune of the Love Song from Mystery Science
Theater 3000.
WILL MATT AND LINDA BE ABLE TO REACH ORACLE2 IN TIME TO PREVENT THE
DEATH OF SUPERBRAIN?
WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO RADAR IN THE LAND OF SMELLY MEN?
WILL SHE BE ABLE TO MAKE HER WAY BACK TO HER ETERNAL FIANCE, THE
INTERN?
HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE FOR THE INTERN TO NOTICE HER ABSENCE?
IF IT TAKES A LONG TIME, WILL RADAR BE PEEVED?
WELL, WOULDN'T YOU BE?
The answers to these and many other questions which you might
have in the back of your head can easily be found in upcoming
issues of Sfstory Discussion -- the subtopic that cares, damn it!
I mean it, it really gives a damn (yeah, right).
=========================================================================
Date: Fri, 27 Nov 1992 15:01:24 EST
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: Solipsist at Large (IK20001 at MAINE.BITNET)
Subject: SF: InterPlanet #6 (Wherein oddly similar events occur)
InterPlanet #6
"Wherein oddly similar events occur."
writ by the Automatic Story Transcriber
and passed off as Sabre's
"You are?" asked the priest, who had managed to back Radar
Vogel *into* the very room she had been trying so hard to back out
of.
Radar thought quickly. Calling herself `Radar Vogel' was, on
the whole, a bad idea. She had been given the name after the
method of her conception -- an all-night movie festival where her
parents met. They had conceived her and her twin brother during
the showing of M*A*S*H. Somehow, she didn't see herself explaining
this to a 12th Century Catholic Priest in France. She needed a
French name...something different -- Marie was right out. Besides,
for all Radar knew it was the French Revolution, and having the
name Marie could get you killed.
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
It is worth noting that of all the different courses
required of both the Spamology and Spamical Engineering
courses at Boston University, none of them have the
titles Western Civilization or World History. This is
especially odd when you consider the Time Travel uses
spam can be put to. However, no one ever accused a major
University of making sense when determining Graduation
Requirements.
For point of reference, the French Revolution isn't for
another six hundred years, give or take a few.
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
"Esmarelda," Radar finally said. She didn't know -- it
sounded French, sort of.
"Esmarelda?" the priest asked. There was a murmur in the
crowd.
"That's an odd name," someone said.
"Oh, great," Radar mumbled.
"You have the mark of the Devil upon you, Esmarelda," the
priest said, then, getting that old Hellfire look in his eyes.
"What?" asked Radar. She was a Space Heroine, for God's sake.
What did he--
"Yeah," said one of the smellier peasants. "She has a couple,
you ask me!"
"I'm tempted already," said another peasant.
"Ugh," said another, who overloaded his cranial capacity with
nodding his head, thus leaving little for speech.
"We'd better burn her for her own good," one of the
(admittedly ugly) serving wenches said.
Radar caught on quickly. "But...I can't help that Satan made
me so...um...pretty. I need God's love to make me pure!" There --
that matched up with the Harlequin Romance view of history she had.
The crowd turned to the priest. The Hellfire in his eyes
turned to an expression of purest joy.
"Uh-oh," Radar thought.
"YES! My child, you and I shall go to the Chapel, where you
shall confess your sins and...heh heh heh...be shrived."
"Oh, well...um...today's bad for me--"
"Come!" He grabbed Radar by the hand, and dragged her along
towards the church. The crowd was following rather closely, which
made braining the Priest and running seem to be a bad idea.
Radar had been raised by a couple of Secular Humanists. She
wondered what being inside a Catholic Confessional was like.
* * * * * *
The H.M.S. Millennium Trout slipped into Warp Four like a hot
knife slipped into a skin-tight racing glove on a hot tin roof. In
other words, there was a vague mixed-metaphor feeling, but it
worked. Matt and Linda were reviewing basic survival techniques
involved in decompression conditions, concentrating on the
Betharius VII technique of sharing oxygen.
All right, they were kissing. Give them a break, all right?
The problem with having a two-man crew, and having one of
those two be a woman, and having the man and woman halves of the
crew in a physical and emotional relationship, is that occasionally
the full 100% of the Crew is going to be feeling amorous, leaving
no one adequately on watch. For example, there might be no one to
check the status board and see if there were any flashing red
lights. There might be no one to see if the flashing red light was
in fact the Navigational Defense Shields. There might be no one to
explain how a particle of dust eight micrometers wide, when struck
at Warp Four by a ship without a navigational shield, would be
capable of completely obliterating the entire starboard engine
nacelle. There might be no one to push the flashing red `Oh
Christ, Go Out Of Warp Before We're All Killed' button.
You can see this one coming, can't you?
PARAFABOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!
The silence was deafening. Matt couldn't see a thing. He was
floating, in a completely black universe. Either he was dead (and
the afterlife was *terribly* boring, or he was alive and the ship
had been trashed.
The second alternative seemed infinitely better.
"Linda?" he asked, and was pleasantly surprised to hear the
slight echo that meant you were speaking in a small room. He was
just sure he wouldn't hear that echo if he were dead.
"Yeah, Matt?"
"Are we alive?"
"Um...I'm not sure. We need some light, to check."
"I don't think I have a flashlight."
"Hmm. Matt, we're going to need one of your embarrassed
blushes."
"What?" For those who aren't aware, Matt DeForrest had a
reputation for blushing so intensely at any potentially scandalous
remark or suggestion that battalions of Marines would be
incapacitated by the glare. In actuality, the reputation was
conservative.
However, four solid years with a beautiful woman who truly
cared for him, in an environment where the only possible release
from the tedium was a horizontal one was usually enough to numb
even the most sensitive lad of his embarrassment -- at least when
he was alone with said woman.
Put another way, when a girl has seen your Superman Underroos,
very little she finds out about you fazes you.
"Um...I don't think I can."
"Hmm. Matt, we need that light. Hold on--"
Linda whispered in his ear.
"Right *now*? Won't that be hard to do without gravity?"
"Bloody hell, Matt. I can't come up with better."
Matt sighed. "I'm sorry, Linda." He took hold of her
floating form and pulled it close. "I guess this is it."
"Yeah...but it reminded me of something I had almost
forgotten."
"What's that?"
"I love you, Matt."
Tender, isn't it? I mean, this is a real heart jerker of a
scene. In fact, I'm a little nauseous writing it.
"You...what? Um...well, I, I really lo-like you too, Hon.. I
mean, Big-Time Like over here--"
A pink glow filled the space.
"I thought that'd do it," Linda said, grinning and pushing off
Matthew.
"What?"
"Nothing, Matt. Let's just thank God you don't confront your
emotions very well." Linda looked around. They were still in the
ship, all right. The bulkhead seemed to have collapsed, leaving
them cut off from the main control room. Setting her jaw, she
pulled out her Personal Nuker and blew it away.
The bridge was more or less intact, beyond it. A blind person
could have seen all the flashing red lights, though.
"Uh oh," said Linda.
"Hmm. I notice the artificial gravity light's flashing," said
Matt.
"Matt, we're floating, remember?"
"Right." Matt thought for a second of silence. Complete
silence. So much silence, in fact, that he could hear the
heartbeats of himself and Linda, clearly. We're talking silence.
Within Matt's brain, two errant neurons fired, making a
connection.
"Linda...tell me, do you hear a quiet hum and feel a breeze?"
"What? Um...let me check." Linda listened to the silence
described hyperbolicly two paragraphs above. "No."
"That's what I thought."
"Your point?"
"The life support is out."
"Aha."
*** Notes from the Automatic Story Transcriber ***
Contrary to popular belief, a lack of oxygen is not the
most dangerous part of a total life support/environment
failure on your average starship. You see, part of Life
Support is the Constant Climate Control system, designed
to keep pressure and temperature within the possible
limits of survival. When caught in a Starship that was
drifting light years away from any stars, one must
remember that rather bitter cold on the other side of the
airlock. No Ship's insulation is good enough from
preventing heat-bleed, after all.
When a ship is without power for heat, caught in one
of these heat-bleed situations, it takes less than
fifteen hours for the temperature to drop below that of
Northern Maine in January. Thus, long before the
spacious ship's in-cabin oxygen supply runs out, the
occupants freeze to death.
Of course, you *could* build a fire, but that brings
oxygen back into the equation, doesn't it?
*** End Automatic Story Transcriber Transmission ***
Omegas did something he didn't expect to.
He opened his eyes.
He then immediately shut them, before his brain seized up from
the incredible panoramic display of light that slammed through his
optic nerves and into his tortured brain.
"That was not pleasant," he muttered, causing him to wince as
the sound channeled through his aural receptors into his tortured
brain.
"Neither was that," he thought, causing him to exercise his
(already mentioned) tortured brain, and that was worst of all.
Being both intelligent and street smart, Omegas boldly decided his
best course of action. He passed out.
When he awoke again, opening his eyes and seeing the five watt
light bulb sitting over his head, he realized he was feeling
better. Especially since the incredibly dim light was not
sufficient to incapacitate him, any more.
"Christ," Omegas muttered. "This is worse than Amateur Night
at Club Nympho." He sat up.
Well, actually, I'm lying. He sent the command through his
nervous system to his muscles, indicating that they should sit up.
This command was received by the muscles in question, torn up and
discarded. He sent another. This time, his muscles sent back a
reply threatening a general strike and perhaps physical violence.
Omegas decided to listen to them.
-+Hey,+- said the irrepressible voice of Tippy, the on-board
computer of the G.S. Condemned.
"Hey, what? Where am I?"
-+Loading Bay Four. I'm not sure how you got there.+-
"Good enough. What's our status?"
-+Power is building back up to normal levels, but both our
Hyperdrive and our Maneuver Drive are shot to Hell.+-
"Both? How?"
-+The aft-most thirty feet of the ship are missing. I think
they got left in the Black Hole.+-
"That would do it. Where's our power coming from?"
-+The Garbage in the Hold. We're configured to convert all
the trash into whatever energy we need, though a very efficient
fusion process -- the by-product's an edible food and water.+-
"Really? Then why's Necomprendpas shipping their trash out to
be rammed into Black Holes? Do they need the Neo-Spam?"
-+No, the Green Party got up in arms against using garbage for
anything useful. In fact, they managed to get a bill passed so
that the Neo-Spam being created would have to be sold at bottom
dollar, and all the money from the sales would have to go to
building more ships.+-
"That's nuts."
-+Yeah, well....+-
"Fine. What does this `edible food' taste like?"
-+A very delicate Chicken Kiev, with steamed broccoli on the
side, garnished with lemon.+-
"Whoa."
-+It's not so great. It leaves an aftertaste that suggests
you were drinking red wine instead of white.+-
"Tippy, my friend, I'm so hungry I'd have been happy if it had
tasted like twinkies dipped in lard." Omegas managed to threaten
his muscles sufficiently to reach a standing position. "So,
where's the galley?"
-+Go through the airlock and head back up to the bridge. When
you reach the bridge, hang a quick left before you enter.+-
"Great." Omegas started walking. Heck, despite his pain, he
felt pretty good. He had managed to trick death, after all, and
that's an impressive feat by any standards.
Just then, the ship shuddered, as if it were struck.
"Bump," the bulkheads said, repeating it for the exterior of
the ship.
"Tippy! What was that?"
-+I have no idea. My sensors are shot.+-
"Oh fan-freaking-tastic."
IS IT FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC?
WAS THIS EPISODE PRODUCED UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE NATIONAL
BASKETBALL ASSOCIATION?
WILL OMEGAS SURVIVE BEING STRANDED IN SPACE?
WILL MATT AND LINDA SURVIVE BEING STRANDED IN SPACE?
WILL RADAR VOGEL (AKA ESMARELDA) SURVIVE HER FIRST CATHOLIC
CONFESSION?
WAS THIS EPISODE A TOUCH ON THE SEXIST SIDE?
IF SO, WILL I BE GETTING SOME ANGRY LETTERS?
WILL THE EXISTENCE OF *ANY* FEEDBACK WHATSOEVER TAKE THE STING OUT
OF THE CRITICISM?
Answers to this sort of thing come fast and easy in the big apple.
I have to assume that you all know to check out Sfstory Discussion
to find out the answers.
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