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Sfstory Log 071
=========================================================================
Date: Tue, 21 Mar 1995 02:06:39 -0800
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: These hash browns are smart (rubicon at DRYCAS.CLUB.CC.CMU.EDU)
Subject: SF: InterPlanet #14 ("Wherein The Glorious Campaign is Launched")
On Penilus IV, the natives are kind. They are warm and loving, and
never seem to get angry. Indeed, their government (such as it is) seems to
consist of three or four Penilites who make creative suggestions to resolve
differences. These suggestions are always bright, witty, and if not
germaine to the problem at hand they certainly distract from it, so no one
cares. Thus, the suggestions are invariably followed, the problems go
away, and everyone goes back to casual disease free fornication.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out we're going to blow
Penilus IV up. If we were going to let it live, we wouldn't have wasted
all this time on setup, now would we?
In this particular case, the planet didn't expect any sort of doom.
In fact, it was a quiet, worry free sort of day. The Zagnut hunting had
gone well, so the Tribes would eat well. The Pestardos had made much
honey, so there was more than enough to flavor their porriage -- allowing
the remainder to go into massage cream bases. Death was the last thing on
their minds when the Vortex Bomb hit the surface and sucked the entire
planet into a singularity. This singularity channeled the combined tonnage
of planetary crust, plant life, Zagnuts wild and cooked, Pestardos, honey
and natives to the nearest black hole, where they were compressed into
Neo-Spam and ejected somewhere near Necomprendpas.
In what would have been the orbit of Penilus IV, had the planet still
existed, a sleek starship hovered. Inside, an almost implausably handsome
and well built man in a sleek, form-fitting Taupe jumpsuit turned on his
TransEther. "Binnison to Base," he intoned in a clear, commanding voice.
"Base here, Bimball," his TransEther replied, though of course it
wasn't the one doing the talking. "Report."
"By Fleegle's Ingrown Toenail, my Mission's complete," Bimball
announced. "Penilus IV will no longer flout morality and natural law with
their casual existence!"
"Excellent, Bimball! Did you make them see the error of their ways?"
"By Fleegle's itchy, flaking scalp, I was not able. They resisted to
the end, and I was forced to obliterate them for their own good!"
"Good work -- but come back to base. We have a Class A emergency, and
we'll need your help!"
"Right! Binnison out!" Bimball shut off the TransEther. "By
Fleegle's inflamed liver -- a Class A Emergency. I'd best hurry!"
InterPlanet #14
"Wherein The Glorious Campaign is Launched"
Another Saga of Sfstory
Writ by the Automatic Story Transcriber
and passed off as Sabre's
"`Go after, after, cousin Buckingham. The mayor towards Guildhall
hies him in all post. There, at your meetest vantage of the time, infer
the bastardy of Edward's children.'"
"She seems to weave a complex tale indeed," one peasant murmured to
the man sitting next to him. "Methinks this be a tale of heart and mind,
for as Richard's plotting gives way to his anger, so his doom is writ upon
him."
"Nay," Plod the Farmer interuppted. "Twas writ that Richard should
die from his opening monologue. He be twisted and unnatural, and the
Winter of his Discontent can only be eradicated by the rise of the true
King."
"What ye say then is Richard is a flawed ectype of the archtypal King
figure, as represented by the dead Henry the Sixth, of who Richard spake
false love to Anne of the corpse of," Tanner Squat tossed in.
"If ye get mythopoetic on me, I'll have out yer spleen!" Cutthroat
Able spat.
"All of you shut up and let the woman continue!" Basalard the Lead
Peasant (who had the pitchfork from last episode) commanded.
"Thank you," Radar said. "Where was I?"
"The Bastardy of Edward's children."
"Right. Richard continues. `Tell them how Richard put to death a
citizen only for saying he would make his son heir to the crown, meaning
indeed his house....'"
***
The Intern finished his fourth beer. It occurred to him Radar was
very late indeed, now. He wondered if he should look into it.
***
From the depths of the church, a pair of eyes stared at the woman
called Esmerelda. They could not hear her tale, because they were eyes and
therefore weren't wired for it. What was more, however, the person whose
ears were connected to the same brain as said eyes also could not hear her
tale.
It did not matter. He loved her. He loved her deeply and purely,
except of course for the strange longings he felt when he stared at the
gaps in her dress.
They would not burn her. He swore it.
*** NOTES FROM THE AUTOMATIC STORY TRANSCRIBER ***
The astute reader will note that the Twelveth Century, France sections
of this story have all been grouped together, whereas normally they'd be
broken up a bit more to give a feeling of fluidity and mosaic to the post
as a whole. No doubt said astute readers are wondering why that is.
Actually, said astute readers are actually probably bored out of their
minds, given that they're paying that much attention to the structure of
this post.
That, however, is neither here nor there. For those who *are*
wondering why, the answer is "money."
Robert A. Heinlein once wrote that whenever the question was "why,"
the answer invariably was "money." Obviously, this means that the answer
to "Why is the sky blue" is "Blue paint was on sale at Wal-Mart when it
came time to decorate." But in this case, Heinlein's quote is true.
The special effects budget for Sfstory used to be sky-high. We hired
and fired f/x techies like replacement baseball players. We blew up stars
and bad actors with equal regularity. We paid no attention to our color
scheme. Heck, you need to blow up a Galaxy Class Starship? Let's build a
real one and blow it up, for verisimilitude!
But then, William R. Dickson came on the scene and, with sneaky
chicanery and out and out graft, the Special Effects budget was redirected
to his little Superhero list, because the whiner needed "a Nuclear
Explosion at the Stomp of a Foot." As a result, Sfstory's budget came
under the Corporation for Public Science Fiction Stories, funded by
Congress and Readers like you.
Needless to say, we've had a few recent budget cuts. This explains
why most of our starships look like hubcaps, all of a sudden.
The Swede, of course, has Brazilian backers that help fund his story,
plus many obvious product placements (especially on the Planet of the
Supermarkets). InterPlanet, on the other hand, is kind of hand-to-mouth
right now. So huge temporal jumps really aren't within our budget at the
moment. Instead, we do all our filming in the Twelveth Century at once,
and then jump up to the present for the rest of our material.
If you would like to help us in this budgetary crisis, please call in
with your pledge. For five million dollars or more, we will throw in a
tasteful mug. For ten million dollars or more, we will throw in the
InterPlanet Ether Compilation. And remember, we aren't commercial
publishers -- so Sfstory worth reading is Sfstory worth paying for.
*** END TRANSMISSION ***
Bimball Binisson strode manfully into the command center of
Drearisia's Academy. The Academy was the nerve center of the Galactose
Patrol. The home of the brave, intolerent champions of morality and
civilization known throughout certain isolated parts of the galaxy.
"By Fleegle's infected eardrum, Bent-Orr," he said to the hideous
tentacled Brain thing that floated in the center of the room, "I've come as
ordered! What's the emergency?"
"We shall discuss that in a moment," the serene, hideously tentacled
mentor of the Galactose Patrol said, his juices percolating contentedly.
"I must admit, we're proud of you here. You've brought enlightenment and
civilization to another barbaric species through force. You do honor to
your uniform and Prism."
Yes, the Potent Plot-Device Prism. The weapon and symbol of the
Galactose Patrol was bound up in the bejewelled chunk of rock their top
agents wore. The rock that was not only an ornament, not only a weapon,
not only a knick-knack... but indeed a symbol of all the Galactose held
dear! And it was a pretty damn cool conversation piece too.
If the Potent Plot-Device Prism symbolized the Patrol, then the brave
men, women and arthropods who wore it symbolized the Prism itself. The
Prism-People of the Galactose Patrol were all selected for their
unswavering intolerance of evil, bad manners, poor hygine, and National
Arts funding. No Prism-Person had ever fallen short of giving his all for
Drearisia. No Prism-Person had ever disgraced the admittedly drab uniforms
they wore.
And no uniform was more highly regarded than the somewhat brown,
somewhat tan, somewhat beige garb that adorned Prism-Person Bimball
Binnison. All Prism-People aspired to one goal -- to be Unendowed and to
wear the earthy tones made famous by the Taupe Prism-Person himself!
Bent-Orr gurgled contentedly. "Bimball," he said, "your exposition
generator is superb!"
"Thank you, Bent-Orr. I just upgraded it."
*** NOTES FROM THE AUTOMATIC STORY TRANSCRIBER ***
The forward crush of history requires a continuous reevaluation of the
methodology of every field. No matter how desperately some people cling to
the past -- the reliance on the way "it's always been done," the adoration
of architecture that hadn't fallen over, the existence of the Seventies
Preservation Society -- the future has a way of kicking aside those
unwilling to upgrade, adopt, or improve.
This trend is evident in all walk of life. It appears in all
disciplines. That includes, oddly enough, Space Heroism.
The Heroic Ideal has not wavered all that much since it was first
developed. When Professor Challenger took on the subterranian world or
escaped into the jungles of the incas, he was forging a certain esprit de
corps that the most modern of heroes must follow. However, no one can
claim that modern space heros still call each other "Rocky Jones" or
"Winky." Starships no longer look like bad Estes model rockets. Of all
active or semi-retired Space Heroes, only Doctor Space Commander Buzz
Williams still carries a Ray Gun.
In the past few years, the most important development in the field of
High Space Adventure was not a new weapon or drive, however. It was the
invention of the Backstory.
Buck Rogers didn't need much Backstory. He was accidentially frozen
on a space jaunt and woke up in the 24th century. And heck, now he could
fight aliens. Flash Gordon and Dale Arden were kidnapped -- we knew he was
an athlete and she, like all plucky females in the twenties, was a
reporter. They didn't need any other background to fight Ming the
Merciless.
Not so now. Angst and texture lend themselves to atmosphere. And, as
anyone who has actually attempted to *run* a game of Vampire: The
Masquerade knows, atmosphere is more important than practicality. As a
result, the Space Heroes who had dark, secret backgrounds or who were
inheritors of long standing traditions and secret societies discovered that
they were more popular than their more effective brethern. With popularity
came exposure. With exposure came movie deals. With movie deals came
money. With money came donations to Intersteller University, their old
Alma Mater.
Intersteller University, noting the trend, emphasized Backstory in
their advanced Space Heroism concentration. There were several courses
that were designed to enhance, shade, or even invent the background a
student came from, so that he could have dark secrets to let slip, or
tortured memories to overcome, or a proud family history to uphold, or the
like. The program worked well initially, except that with more and more
detailed Backstories appearing, it became harder and harder to keep track
of all the dark secrets.
It looked as though the movement to enhance Backstories would plateau
and fade -- lucrative endowments fading with it -- until an enterprising
and greedy Associate Professor of Pseudoscientific Endeavour at I.U. name
of Bagwan T. Culpepper, Ph.D. developed a new interactive cybernetic
information system. This system -- the exposition generator -- was
designed to carefully and selectively reveal elements of a Hero's
Backstory, giving the listener the feeling that they have a deep
understanding of the Hero's personal trauma as they try to keep secret the
very history the listener has just been told.
The exposition generator evolved from early footnoting and subtitling
systems into a complete multimedia, MTV-style montage of lights and pretty
colored mists. Nevertheless, the system's basic function remains the same
-- filling in gaps in the Hero's backstory in a relatively entertaining
way.
An exposition generator is available as a premium with a pledge of two
hundred million dollars to InterPlanet. We thank you for your support.
*** END TRANSMISSION ***
Matt and Linda stood by the primary airlock of the H.M.S. Condemned
Trout. They both had their Personal Nukers where they could get at them
quickly. Immediatly behind them, Omegas was bravely crouching behind a
crate of canned cod.
"All right, Tippy. Prepare to open the hatch. Let's see who smashed
into us." Matt's voice sounded resolute and concerned. Hours of practice
had finally paid off.
-+Okay, we're ready on your command. Mister Tall, Dark and Nordic's
seems pretty impatient to get inside.+-
"Be careful. We don't know what we're dealing with here." Matt
pursed his lips in an effort to look gravely concerned but calm. He
succeeded in looking like a guppy.
"Why don't we know what we're dealing with?" Omegas demanded. "Why
let him in before we know every God Damn thing about him?"
"Omegas," Linda said, "we don't know how long he can survive in vacuum
without--"
"I thought our *CAPTAIN* was Omniscient! Remember?"
(((((I was wondering when someone would think of that,)))))
SUPERBRAIN at Oracle2.omnivax.sage.div, Matt's Omniscient Computer Account,
said. (((((What I want to know is why we're bothing with this guy when I
only have two weeks to live! We have to get to the Oracle2 Satellite and
pronto!)))))
"All in due time," Matt said, trying to salvage the situation.
"Question: Who is the man outside the airlock and what are his
intentions?"
(((((His name's Brother Magenhard, and he intends to apologise and ask
if he can use the restroom.)))))
Matt stopped short. "What?"
(((((You heard me.)))))
"Ah. Open the hatch."
"Matt," Linda said, "what is--"
The hatch opened and an incredibly broad, tall and barrel-chested
godlike man strode in, his bearskin cloak thrown back manfully behind his
potent shoulders. His glasses gleamed like twin lenses of the gods as he
raised his Sacred Uru Hammer Frank high into the air and shouted, "Verily
am I glad that thou hast permitted my entry! Long are my apologies for--"
"Around the corner and to your left," Matt cut in.
Magenhard looked sheepish. "My thanks, squat ally. Methinks the cold
depths of space hath shrunk mine bladder." The demigod dashed off, mincing
like a little girl in his effort to keep his legs crossed as he ran.
Omegas stared. "Man, I *wanted* to be in a plotline," he said.
***
Christine Anderson slept peacefully, even as the probes and wires
connected to her body scanned her down to the cellular level.
"I told you," the giant mechanoid that had captured her said. "Not a
scratch on her."
"Indeed," the Vice President for Covert Operations and Cheese Dip for
the InterPlanet Corporation said. "Your retainer shall be honored, with a
certain bonus."
"You done with me, or should I hang around for a while."
"By all means, consider yourself retained for guard duty for the next
few days. Miss Anderson is no doubt going to be the center of some
undesirable attention soon enough."
"You've got it, Boss." The mechanoid leaned against a table and
sipped some coffee. "Mmm... French Roast," he said.
"I'm sure you don't need that any more."
"No, I don't. The parts of me that are still flesh have stimulants
pumped into them whenever I want. That doesn't mean I don't *like*
coffee."
"Of course. Keep an eye on her, would you?"
"Sure thing."
The Vice President left the lab, leaving the giant cyborg (which
seemed to mostly be a robot -- and mostly looked like the terminator after
most of its flesh was seared off anyway) to watch the girl.
"I... never saw a robot drink coffee before."
"Cyborg, lady," The jaw seemed to smile. "I'm not completely metal.
I don't think. I have three veins and some bone marrow, I'm just sure."
Christine Anderson sat up. "Where am I an what are you doing to me?"
"Well, you know how you wanted to join N.A.S.A.?"
"How did you know that?"
"I read your rejection slip right after you fainted."
"Oh."
"Anyway -- you've sort of been breveted an Astronaut. You're on the
fourth planet of the Desternatus system, in a lab in the Corporate
Headquarters of the Intersteller Corporation called InterPlanet. You'll be
told why in a while."
"Oh. Who are you? You sound like you're from Earth." Christine's
calm nature wasn't so much due to her skill and nerve as it was the
astounding number of sedatives in her system.
"Actually, you'd be surprised how Earth-like most aliens sound. But I
am from Earth. The name's Wilhelm. Wilhelm Natchwald."
***
"Now, I know you're not used to being recalled, Bim. After all,
you're an Unadorned Taupe Prism-Person. You're capable of deciding how to
promote morality on your own."
"By Fleegle's itchy, flaky skin, Bent-Orr, you don't have to justify
yourself. Yours is the mind that made the Potent Plot-Device Prism
possible!"
"Indeed -- but it is the minds of you Prism-People which give the
jewel power and life. But that is meaningless exposition. Allow me to be
frank."
"Go ahead."
"One of the most violent and hideous crimes against Natural Law has
been proposed. We must stop it by any means necessary!"
Bimball looked concerned. "What? What could this horrible crime be?"
"I speak of nothing less than the coming of the darkness. The rending
of the gate! The mooning of the gods!"
"By Fleegle's lice-infested pubes -- WHAT?"
The huge, disgusting brain looked grim (though still disgusting).
"There is an attempt... to ressurect Lisa Bonet."
Outside, hideous thunder roared. Ten stars went nova. Baywatch was
renewed for another season. The Swede's room was toilet-papered.
"How... could this be? Who is responsible?!"
"These people." A Display appeared. "These soulless, hideous people
with the decency of a sloth and the manners of a Limbaugh fan! *They* have
done this to the Universe, and they must die!"
Bimball stared at the illegal video-tape recording. "Who are these
people?" he asked, his eyes hard and angry. "I'll see them all dead!"
"Various sorts. A report will be made, of course."
"And those two, up close in the image? Who are they?"
"Their names, respectively, are Kalvin Certain and Gham."
"Well then... I shall see Kalvin Certain and Gham dead -- I swear it
by Fleegle's muddled optic nerve!"
WILL THE TAUPE PRISM-PERSON KILL KALVIN AND GHAM?
DOES ANYONE REMEMBER WHO NATCHWALD WAS?
WILL MAGENHARD FEEL BETTER AFTER A COUPLE OF MAGAZINES IN THE LAVATORY?
WILL THE SWEDE RETALIATE AGAINST THE ROOM-TOILET-PAPERING?
WILL THE SWEDE TAKE OFFENSE TO MY CHARACTER MARKING HIS CHARCTERS FOR DEATH?
DOESN'T HE DESERVE IT FOR THREATENING TO RESSURECT LISA BONET?
CAN'T THE AUTOMATIC STORY TRANSCRIBER SPELL BETTER THAN THIS?
WILL RADAR ESCAPE?
WILL RADAR LOSE HER VOICE?
WHAT IS CHRISTINE NEEDED FOR?
AND WHAT ABOUT MARK HYPERTHRUST?
OR IAN LOCKHEED AND TRUDY TETWATERS?
DOES TRUDY KNOW HER HOMETOWN'S ABOUT TO PLOW INTO NEAR SPACE THREE?
AND JUST WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH PAT BUCHANAN? IS HE SCARY OR WHAT?
The answers to way too many of these questions can be found somewhere
murked up on the SFSTORY DISCUSSION! Kick it!
--
The Automatic Story Transcriber "We're not Lord Sabre"
Wasting your precious time and effort since 1987
=========================================================================
Date: Tue, 28 Mar 1995 00:22:42 -0500
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: they moved the moon (SWEDE at DRYCAS.CLUB.CC.CMU.EDU)
Subject: SF: Renegade Anarchists III, episode twenty-one
RENEGADE ANARCHISTS III:
THE POURING OF BEVERAGES
(a Tale of Sfstory!)
Episode 21
"Wherein"
by
Gary W. Olson
-~-_-
There are some things that no being, not even an Authorial Being, should
tamper with.
This is evident to most intelligent races in the universe, though it's
often very difficult to get these races to agree on exactly which things are
the non-tamperable things, which are the things that can be adjusted a wee
bit, which deserve wholesale changes, and which deserve to be taken down to the
docks and fed to the sharks. The Zanzabarians of Zanzabar Z will immediately
declare war on anyone who eats waffles without pouring at least three gallons
of barbeque sauce on said waffles first. The Paratroids of Parapants Major
don't care how you eat your waffles, but will revile your parentage and
your bank account if you so much as *think* of casting one in the lead role of
an epic play, such as 'Lassie Gets Neutered.' The Humans of Earth slay one
another in endless squabbles over fossil fuels and land rights, but think
nothing of letting Baywatch get renewed for another season. And trust me, you
*don't* want to know what uses they have for waffles.
But there are a few items that enjoy widespread agreement among most, if
not all, intelligent races in the universe. The fact that Spam is completely
inedible, for instance. The idea that it would be jolly good fun to see
Macauley Culkin meet the business end of a chainsaw, for another. The notion
that anyone even attempting to resurrect Lisa Bonet is asking for a trainload
of trouble, for still another.
Now, I know, because I'm a narrator, and thereby omniscient, in my own
special way, that some of you out there are thinking, 'Huh? Lisa Bonet's dead?'
Now, before you decide to throw a party, please note that this only holds for
altiverse 001SFSTORY, that is, the altiverse this story takes place in. She
is, for all that we know, alive and well in 000REALLIFE, even though her acting
career seems to be, thankfully, dead.
The story behind how Lisa Bonet met her demise in 001SFSTORY is not long.
Essentially, way back in the early days of sfstory, before the superguy list
even existed, a group of time travellers, among them The Intern, Muck-Luck,
Radar Vogel, Matthew DeForrest, and Linda Madison (all of whom can now be seen
on that great example of public largesse, Sabre's InterPlanet series), needed
to repair the Intern's TARDIS, which resembled a keg of Brador Malt Liquor on
the outside. One of the items they required was Lisa Bonet, who was rudely
taken from the set of 'A Different World' and was transduced into the TARDIS's
controls, which, in the words of Lord Sabre at the time, produced this result:
"...Lisa was completly digitized and quite irretrievably dead--I mean
it, this girl was dead and no person posting could possibly change that
cause she was just plain dead and that's final....
Sorry, I just don't like A Different World or Lisa Bonet."
Lisa later turned up in Heaven, and still later was sent to Hell, which
is where she has remained...
...until now.
Why now?
Well, even though most intelligent races in the universe agree that
resurrecting Lisa Bonet is a horrifying prospect, there are always exceptions.
And one of those exceptions is currently retaliating over the toilet-papering
of his abode by changing the denominations of all the contributions Sabre's
raised from dollars to pesos.
-~-_-
"Well, this is...interesting," Kalvin Certain said, as the townsfolk of
Resurrection, Kansas, all of whom made the inhabitants of H.P. Lovecraft's
Innsmouth look like folks in a Norman Rockwell painting, guided him and Gham
down a sharply descending set of stone steps. From the looks of things, they
were entering a large, ceremonial ampitheatre, which had long rows of flat-
surfaced rock carved out for seating. The stage was not rock -- rather, it
was a large, smouldering black pit, in front of a sacraficial alter that had
obviously just been cleaned with an industrial strength oven cleaner.
"Ah'm glad you think so," the Rev'rnd said. "Now why don't you nice
out-of-town folks sit right in the front row -- those are the best seats,
dont'cha know."
"You don't say," Gham said, uncomfortably.
They descended the rest of the way, and took their seats, between two
huge, misshapen townspeople who smiled at them, as best as they could guess.
Kalvin took Gham's hand as they sat, and she squeezed his hand for a second,
crossing her fingers with her other hand. The ampitheatre was filling up
quickly, as they could see in the pale moonlight.
"G'devenin'," the Rev'rnd told his parishoners. "Now don't crowd, there's
room 'nuff for everybody." He waited until everyone had shambled to their
seats before striding around to stand behind the sacraficial altar.
"Whew," Kalvin said. "It's sure hot. I could sure go for a Diet Coke."
"Me too," Gham agreed, in a stiff voice. "Oh, my, here's some right
here." She lifted two cans up from where they had been placed, next to her
feet, opened them, and handed one to Kalvin. Kalvin started drinking, but
stopped when Gham took hold of his can and turned it around slightly so that
the label would be easily visible to the readers.
After finishing their tasty beverages, and ensuring that continued
corporate sponsorship would keep the special effects budget of the series up,
they turned their attention to the Rev'rnd.
"Thank you and a good evening to all of you," the Rev'rnd told them.
"Tonight is a special night for a number of reasons. First, we have our first
out-of-town spectators here to witness tonight's resurrection. Please, make
them feel welcome!" There was a thin trickle of clapping, which ended when
the Rev'rnd ran his finger over his throat.
"Secondly, this will be the first time we've resurrected an actual teevee
star!" the Rev'rnd said. "Now I'm all sure you see the Pit of Hell(tm) there
in front of the altar..."
"Pit of Hell(tm)?" Gham whispered.
"There's probably a spatial trans-gate hidden just beyond view," Kalvin
whispered back, "connecting that patch of ground to some warship of Hell
far off in space."
"First, of course, before the resurrection can take place," the Rev'rnd
continued, "we must make the human sacrafice. Bubba, why don't you tell us
who tonight's sacrafice will be?"
"Rev'rnd," a deep voiced being who Kalvin assumed answered to the name of
Bubba said, "tonight's human sacrafice is none other than...Macauley Culkin!"
"Hurrah!" the townsfolk exclaimed, as the star of some of the most
annoying movies ever made was carried out and strapped onto the sacraficial
altar. Despite his earlier misgivings, Kalvin felt a growing excitement.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" Culkin screamed, in his best 'Home
Alone' manner. This time, however, it would not save him.
"RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!" said the Rev'rnd's chainsaw, as it roared to life.
-~-_-
"Oh, yoo hoo!" Nelburg Kayak, Time Agent 904, called out. "Lark! We've
got some nice juicy souls for youuuu!"
"I think we've lost him," Jerriphrrt purred. "By now, he's had ample
opportunity to feed, or get shot by mall cops, or feed on mall cops and shoot
himself."
"We can't give up," Nelburg said. "We owe it to him to keep searching
until we find him. Plus, if this gets out, the paperwork will be enormous."
"We haven't checked out level 11 yet," Jerriphrrt pointed out. "The food
court." Shrugging, Nelburg started towards an escalator, and was followed by
Jerriphrrt.
On Level 11, they found some clues, in the form of dead mall cops and
the fact that everyone who wasn't dead was fleeing at great velocities away
from Level 11. Cautiously, laser weapons drawn, the feline anarchist and the
Jaye-Davidson-lookalike-Time-Agent advanced on the Taco Bell counter, from
which strange noises were emanating.
"Lark?" Jerriphrrt asked. "That you?"
Just as they reached the counter, Lark, whose succubic body had reverted
to it's usual attractive form, rose unsteadily from the floor, three trainee
hats on his head, one atop another. She lurched unsteadily, and slumped onto
the counter, catching herself just in time.
"May I...take your order?" Lark asked, his voice sounding spaced-out.
Jerriphrrt and Nelburg peered beyond Lark, into the spacious confines of
the Taco Bell kitchen, seeing a number of bodies sprawled on the floor.
"Oh, Lark," Jerriphrrt sighed. "You didn't."
"I did," Lark confirmed.
"You seduced an entire Taco Bell?" Nelburg asked, shocked.
"I'm so ashamed," Lark groaned. "I've betrayed my heroic principles...
I've taken innocent life, I've proven unequal to the task of restraining the
base desires of my new body..."
A loud, ripping sound, akin to a very loud whoopee cushion, filled the
air, as did a less than pleasant smell.
"Plus, I've got the *worst* case of gas," Lark added, unnecessarily.
"Whew," Nelburg groaned, pinching his nose. "I never thought the
question of whether we, as sentient beings, possess souls could be answered
so...fragrantly."
"It's a little-examined angle of metaphysics," Jerriphrrt said. "But we
can debate it later. We've got to get Lark to Time Central. Lark, can you
make it back with us?"
"Yeah," Lark said, after a moment. "I'm sated for at least a month."
Nelburg and Jerriphrrt helped Lark over the counter, and started carrying
her back to Nelburg's ship.
-~-_-
Meanwhile, *at* Time Central, things were going from bad to worse for
Sajanseel Boudoir, one of the organization's important commanding figures
(though his exact rank and function are still unknown) as well as it's only
John Saxon lookalike, who was reviewing the security holograms to determine
what had happened to Logan.
They had found Logan's body, slumped against the Mind Transfer Console,
the hairdryer-like headset blinking blandly until they removed it from him.
There was no evidence that anyone else had been in the room at the time Logan
had been there, but Sajanseel had difficulty believing that Logan had figured
out how to operate the Mind Transfer Controls all by himself, particularly
due to the number of lobotomies that he (Logan) had received while in Hell.
"This is terrible," Boudoir grumbled. "How could he have gotten in here,
anyway? This place is supposed to be locked at all times."
"No idea," Mapa Marbles, Time Agent 173, replied. "I...wait, I've found
where Logan enters. I'm going to play the hologram now."
The room shimmered, and a hologram of Logan entered, chasing something
that only he seemed to be able to see. He ran in circles for several moments,
then stood there, nibbling on his thumb and gurgling.
"Pretty," Logan commented, brightly.
He then noticed the Mind Transfer equipment, and wandered over to it,
apparently enthralled by the lights. Logan reached out and pressed several
buttons, calling up the Mind Access Controls and the Mind Projection Subroutine.
"You mean...he projected his mind somewhere?" Boudoir asked, startled.
Logan gurgled some more, and put on the headset. He pushed more buttons,
apparently in the order of which were brightest. The headset glowed, and
Logan slumped forward in his seat. The hologram disappeared, but Logan's
inert body remained.
"I'm detecting no brain activity," Mapa said.
"How can you be sure?" Boudoir asked.
"If he showed even an infinitesimal amount, he'd be smarter than Zark."
Nearby, Zark frowned, trying to figure out what infinitesimal meant.
"Good point," Boudoir said. "Can we determine where he projected himself,
from the data in the system?"
"Yes," Mapa told him. "It looks like he instructed the computer to
select a suitable host, that is, one without a mind that is receptive to
receiving one. And, according to the data, he's projected his mind to..."
-~-_-
"Yeah," the demon in the red jumpsuit said, unenthusiastically, as he
poked his head out of the Pit of Hell(tm). "We got one of dose. Hang on a
sec." He ducked back down into Hell(tm) and yelled something. The Rev'rnd
and the townsfolk waited, too excited to do much besides whisper and
crack their own spines.
Gham was on the edge of her seat. Kalvin, next to her, seemed more
relaxed. The Rev'rnd walked around the sacraficial altar and waited, until
the demon rose out of the Pit and landed next to him, a slate in his hand.
"Okay," the demon said. "This is just our standard rent-a-soul-to-own
contract. You got the usual legalisms here...don't mind that bit about boiling
tar, that's just a legal phrase...and sign here and here. Your sacrafice of
MacCauley Culkin should cover your security deposit and your first three
months of use." The Rev'rnd nodded, and signed where the demon indicated he
should sign. "Right. Okay, just kick those body parts over the edge of the
Pit there. Somebody'll pick 'em up and take 'em to Processing later." The
Rev'rnd nodded and kicked the bag containing most of Macauley Culkin over
the edge and into Hell(tm). There was more spontaneous cheering from the
audience.
"Everything looks to be in order," the demon said. "Alright, boys, raise
her up."
There was a humming sound, and a body, clad in a red jumpsuit, rose from
the Pit. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn't emitting complaints or threats
to tell Cosby about something, but all present recognized her as being Lisa
Bonet. After her body cleared the rim of the Pit, she hovered to the left a
bit, until she was over solid ground again, at which point she was lowered to
the ground.
The demon looked her over with a tricorder.
"Life signs are normal -- her body is alive," he announced. The audience
cheered, except for Kalvin and Gham. "Now all I got to do is upload her soul,
and you'll have yourself a resurrected television star. Personally, I woulda
gone with Jackie Gleason, but hey, it's not for me to judge..."
Gham felt herself tense, as the demon pressed some buttons on his slate.
"Damn," the demon grumbled. "Cheap crap. I'm getting an error."
"What is it?" Gham asked, standing up and heading towards the demon, the
Rev'rnd, and the resurrected body before Kalvin could stop her.
"It says 'Restricted Soul -- Authorial Locks in Place,' the demon
grumbled. "First time I ever seen something like that. There's gotta be
a mistake somewhere in the system. Probably Babbage playing one of his
practical jokes or something. Hang on, lemme see if I can get around it..."
The demon continued pressing buttons, and continued growing more and
more frustrated, while the audience grew more and more restless.
Suddenly and without warning...
You just *knew* something would happen like this, didn't you?
Suddenly and without warning, an ethereal blue beam sliced down from the
sky and hit Lisa Bonet's forehead. Her body shuddered for several moments,
until the beam dissipated. The demon gulped. The Rev'rnd looked concerned.
Gham looked amazed. The townsfolk gaped. Kalvin glanced around for good
exits.
Lisa Bonet's eyes opened, and she took a step forward, toward Gham. Her
mouth opened, and everyone present prepared to hear her first words in a long,
long time.
"Pretty," she gurgled, happily.
DOES THIS MEAN WHAT IT APPEARS TO MEAN?
IF IT DOES, WILL IT BE AN IMPROVEMENT?
CAN ALKA-SELTZER RELIEVE METAPHYSICAL GAS?
HAS SABRE'S FUNDING CAMPAIGN SUFFERED AN IRREVERSIBLE SETBACK?
JUST WHAT *IS* THE SPECIAL EFFECTS BUDGET OF THIS FEATURE, ANYWAY? JUDGING
FROM THIS EPISODE, I'D SAY SOMEBODY'S DOING SOME SKIMMING OFF THE TOP...
OH! AHEM. JUST...UM...IGNORE THAT LAST QUESTION. FORGOT THE MIKE WAS ON,
THAT'S ALL.
UM...
More sub-plot du jour, the fate of Near Space Three, and more, in an upcoming
episode of SFSTORY!, where two authors make for twice the fun.
--
Gary W. Olson swede at drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu swede at drycas.bitnet
=========================================================================
Date: Mon, 3 Apr 1995 21:48:46 -0500
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: they moved the moon (SWEDE at DRYCAS.BITNET)
Subject: SF: Renegade Anarchists III, episode twenty-two
RENEGADE ANARCHISTS III:
THE LOBBING OF EGGROLLS
(a Tale of Sfstory!)
Episode 22
"Porcine"
by
Gary W. Olson
-~-_-
"Oog," Benjen managed to say, after having spent a half hour trying to
get his jaw to work. The sound seemed to hang in the air, as though Benjen's
ears were taking their time in processing the noise.
In ten more minutes, he told himself he'd try to turn his head again. In
the meantime, he contemplated the ceiling some more, and wondered if he was
dead.
He hoped not. He didn't want to spend any time in an afterlife where the
ceiling was painted dull lime green.
"Are you awake?" he heard Kissy Hitowers ask, from somewhere beyond his
line of sight -- from another continent, as far as he could determine. Then,
suddenly and without warning, she leaned over him.
He tried to say "aaaaaaaahhh!!!" but it just came out as "eh."
"Just hold still," she instructed him, as she sat him up in what Benjen
realized was a bed. "This will hurt a bit." She was behind him now, and
reaching around him, under his arms, and clasping her hands together over
his chest.
"Wh," he asked.
Violently, she pulled forward, and Benjen heard something crack, loudly.
"Eyyyyyyooowwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!" he yelled, suddenly finding his voice. He
flew upwards, turning over when he reached the ceiling and glaring down at
Kissy. "What was that for?"
"I'm minoring in Freelance Chiropractics," Kissy informed him. "After the
events of the last twenty-four hours, I had to wait a while to let the neuro-
stim that Dr. Brazier gave you before I did that. How do you feel?"
"In pain, but I think I can move everything," Benjen said. "I..." His
words trailed off, as he realized he was hovering in midair sans clothing.
"Eep!" he commented, as he plucked a bedsheet from his foot and wrapped it
around himself. "What happened to me, anyway?"
"Oh, that," Kissy said. "We had sex."
Stunned, Benjen fell back down, missing the bed and hitting the oak
floor.
"You see, we were both completely high, due to the chemicals Dr. Brazier
administered to us with his hypo-spray," Kissy explained. "And, in the heat
of the moment, I practiced some random chiropractic techniques on you."
"Oog," Benjen commented.
"Not that it makes up your electrocuting me multiple times, but it
helped."
"I'm somewhat glad I can't remember it now," Benjen said. "Um, where
are we? This doesn't look like Near Space Three."
"It's not," Kissy said. "It's Freeport, Maine."
"Oh, I see...huh?"
"C'mon, I'll show you," she told him. Still clutching the bedspread
around him, Benjen followed Kissy out the bedroom door, down a short hallway,
through a rather uninspired living room, and out a front door. They stopped
on the porch. Benjen leaned over the railing and gasped.
It was a nice summer day, warm but not too hot, and not a cloud in the
sky. He heard the laughter of children, somewhere in the distance, and
smelled charcoal from a nearby barbeque. A light breeze wafted in his
direction, and the scene that confronted him looked to be cut out of New
England's country charm.
Of course, the enormous space station that was jutting out of the ground
all around the house, and the town itself, was out of place, but hey, you can't
have everything.
"What happened?" Benjen asked.
"A very weird thing," the man sitting in a rocking chair next to him
said. Benjen jumped, having assumed the man was decorative, like the
flamingoes in the yard. "Y'see, I had just opened up the morning paper -- which
was the same morning paper we'd received in the last seven years -- and I was
looking out at the yard, when, all of a sudden, that big thing fell outta the
sky and crushed half the houses."
"You don't say," Benjen replied.
"Yep," the man said. "Dang peculiar, I think. My name's Morris Tanner,
by the way."
"Benjen," Benjen replied, shaking the man's offered hand.
"Ah, Benjen, there you are!" a familiar voice exclaimed. Benjen, Kissy,
and Morris turned to see G.X.P. Varneyloop (the person who had called to
Benjen), Major Leer-a, and Dr. Cerulean Brazier advancing up the walk. "I
see you've recovered. Excellent!"
"Varneyloop," Benjen said, slowly. "What's going on?"
"A very weird thing," Varneyloop said.
"I was just telling him that," Morris added.
"The way it looks," Varneyloop continued, ignoring Morris, "is that when
Freeport collided with Near Space Three, instead of demolishing the space
station, the Pseudoscience Bubble surrounding this city opened up and...
consumed the station. The landing cracked the station open in several places,
and the townsfolk took the survivors in, despite the fact that we were, for
the most part, higher than kites at the time. And so, here we are."
"Where's Tarrfel and Bata?" Kissy asked.
"They're still inside the station, I think," Varneyloop said. "They're
trying to find some way to get their ship freed from it's moorings so they
can take off. Won't do them any good -- passing through the Pseudoscience
Bubble drained all the fuel in all the ships."
"So we're stuck here?" Benjen asked.
"Yes," Dr. Brazier told him. "What's more, from what we can tell, the
new combination space station/new england city is now travelling at warp
four, away from Bore-an space."
"That's twice as fast as we were travelling before, isn't it?" Morris
asked.
"Right," Major Leer-a said. "For some reason, the added mass has doubled
our speed."
"Weird," Benjen commented.
"He's right, you know," Morris said.
-~-_-
Many billions of billions of miles away, Quooth also felt phimself
struggling back to consciousness, after several hours of massive hallucinations.
Unlike Benjen, Quooth was not in any amount of pain, nor was he having trouble
moving, although he had a tremendous, unaccountable desire to write an epic
poem in praise of Quinn Martin (a phenomenon quite common among Wzaxtils
recovering from massive water-induced hallucinations, surprisingly).
Phe looked at the controls in front of phim, and realized phe was on a
spaceship. A rather small spaceship at that. Quooth tried to remember how
phe had gotten aboard, but could not, so phe instead started reaching for phis
Holy Harmonica, intent on using it to summon answers...
...only to discover phis Harmonica missing.
"Ah, you are awake," the voice, which sounded oddly distorted and musical,
said. "No sudden moves, please, or your Harmonica gets it."
"You fiend," Quooth cursed, turning slowly towards the sound of the voice.
"Give my Holy Harmonica back, or, by the Sacred Gortil Legs of Vugovani's Last
Fleegleworm, I shall make you pay!"
"Somehow, I don't think so," the figure said. It stepped out of the shadow
and revealed itself, in all its headless glory. Quooth gasped, when phe saw
what the being had done to phis Harmonica.
The being was Governor Schlub's body, and Quooth's Harmonica was strapped
to where Schlub's neck would have been, if he still had a neck. Makeshift
pipes extended from the mouthpiece of the Harmonica and seemed to penetrate
Schlub's flesh, sinking down into his body. When he spoke, the sound came
through the Harmonica as a distorted, musical, and oddly sinister voice.
"All I have to do to destroy your precious Harmonica forever is to send
a telepathic command to the transciever I installed on the Mr. Melto-Metal
Bug I taped to the top of the Harmonica," the voice continued. "Your Harmonica
would melt in seconds, and I would only suffer minor burns, which I wouldn't
feel anyway since my nerve clusters don't trasmit much anymore."
"Why did you take my Harmonica?" Quooth asked. "Why not a portable radio,
or a fry-o-lator?"
"Because I needed the special metaquantum properties your Harmonica
possesses," the voice said, in a painfully out-of-key note. "Considering the
places I've been, it seemed appropriate."
"Then you're not Governor Schlub?" Quooth asked.
"Dear, no," the voice said. "My name is Niccolo Machiavelli. Why?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing..." Quooth said.
"Good!" Machiavelli exclaimed. "Now, set a course for Earth, pronto!
I'm late for my guest star spot on 'SeaQuest.'"
"Um, yes sir," Quooth said, turning towards the controls. He punched a
few likely buttons, and the odd switch or two, and felt the lurch of the Space
Toaster entering overly-hyped space.
-~-_-
"Fire all zee weapons!" Ayn Rand ordered.
"We just did!" Lenin protested. "They didn't work, and they're draining
our fuel reserves!"
"Zo?" Rand asked. "Deed I ask you, zocializt baldie?"
"Hey, at least *I* don't speak with a cheesy accent!" Lenin countered.
"Quiet, all of you," Ragnuruk ordered. "We have to do something to escape
the PLS Tell-Tale Heart."
"I thought we did, when we sabotaged her overly-hyped engines," Viol
suggested.
"Yes, but we have too little fuel to make it to the nearest planet," Marx
pointed out. "We'll run out before we get clear of the Tell-Tale Heart's
long range scanners, even."
"Fools!" Rand ordered. "I vill not zurrender! Never!"
"What do you recommend, then?" BRENDA asked.
"I already zaid!" Rand told her. "Fire all zee weapons!"
"That won't work," BRENDA replied. "But it gives me an idea. Go over
to the comm station and send out a message on all frequencies, directed at the
PLS Tell-Tale Heart."
"We're not surrendering, are we?" Trotsky asked.
"I hope not," Cardinal Van Cleef said. Beside him, Cardinal Hagen nodded.
"No," BRENDA said. "Ayn...I can call you Ayn, right?"
"Ja," Rand replied to the AI.
"Why not read out selected passages from your new work, 'Zeus Tangoed,'
at them?" BRENDA suggested. "It should give them some pause, I think."
"An excellent idea!" Rand exclaimed. "Open ze frequenzies of hailing!"
"Are you sure this is going to work?" Hagen whispered.
"No," BRENDA answered. "But it will keep her busy for a while. And
if...dammit..."
"Hey, watch it," Van Cleef warned.
"The number two fuel line just ruptured," BRENDA noted. "Odd, there was
no indication that it was damaged before."
"What does it mean?" Van Cleef asked.
"It means that one of the persons aboard is a saboteur," BRENDA said.
"Also, it means we're dead in the water. The PLS Tell-Tale Heart will be here
in ten minutes."
"Oog," Hagen and Van Cleef agreed.
OOG?
IS THAT A MOTIF OR SOMETHING?
WILL THE GALLANT CREW OF THE H.M.S. SHANNON II BE RECAPTURED?
WILL RAND'S NARRATIVE STYLE DRIVE THEM AWAY INSTEAD?
WHY HAS MACHIAVELLI TAKEN OVER GOVERNOR SCHLUB'S BODY?
HOW DID HE GET THERE, ANYWAY?
WOULD HE REALLY DESTROY QUOOTH'S HOLY HARMONICA?
WHERE IS NEAR SPACE FREEPORT DESTINED TO GO?
WHY IS IT GOING THERE AT WARP FOUR?
IS A SPACE INGENUE MAJOR AND A FREELANCE CHIROPRACTICS MINOR A DANGEROUS
COMBINATION?
DID BENJEN EVER GO TO COLLEGE?
DO THESE SUB-PLOTS HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH LISA BONET?
Think SFSTORY, act SFSTORY.
--
Gary W. Olson swede at drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu swede at drycas.bitnet
=========================================================================
Date: Tue, 11 Apr 1995 00:13:37 -0500
Reply-To: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
Sender: UCF SUPERGUY List (SUPERGUY at UCF1VM.BITNET)
From: why don't they look? (SWEDE at DRYCAS.CLUB.CC.CMU.EDU)
Subject: SF: Renegade Anarchists III, episode twenty-three
RENEGADE ANARCHISTS III:
THE ADJUDICATING OF CLAIMS
(a Tale of Sfstory!)
Episode 23
"Banderillero"
by
Gary W. Olson
-~-_-
"Er, hello?" Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver asked.
"Hi!" Zen Navigator replied.
"I wasn't saying hello to you!" Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver growled. "I was
saying hello to the Time Central personnel who were going to greet us here,
but are mysteriously absent."
"Oh," Zen said. "And what would they have said, if they had been here?"
"They would have said, 'Hello, Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver! We see you have
brought in Zen Navigator, whom we have long sought due to his ability to
completely ignore the effects of the multiple time paradoxes he causes. Here
is a large bag of money, jewels, negotiable Aldebaron bonds, and two free passes
to the Gemeni Twins Double Your Pleasure Show on Barbados, Planet of Physical
Delights. Have fun!'"
"But they didn't," Zen noted.
"Because they're not here."
"Right."
The door on the opposite end of the small hangar opened, and three people,
two moderately armed, the last armed to the teeth, entered.
"Er, hello?" Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver asked.
"Hi!" Zen Navigator replied. Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver glared at him.
"Greetings," one of the moderately armed beings, the one that looked oddly
like John Saxon, said. "I'm Sajanseel Boudoir. With me are Mapa Marbles and
Zark Flyby. Do you have Zen Navigator?"
"Right here!" Zen said, waving.
"Yes, I have him," Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver. He then held out his hand and
waited.
Boudoir looked at the hand and suddenly started fishing through the pockets
in his jumpsuit. He pulled out a small notebook and flipped through it, until
he reached a heavily highlighted page.
"Ahem," he said. "Hello, Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver! We see you have brought
in Zen Navigator, whom we have long sought due to his ability blah blah blah.
Here are the fists of Zark Flyby, which will shake you down for the keys to your
Ninja Taxi. Hold still!"
"Why thank you, I...er, could you repeat that last part?"
Suddenly, Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver noticed the world turning upside down, as
two strong arms held him upside down. He found himself staring at some of the
most heavily armed ankles the galaxy has ever witnessed, and realized that if
he was ever going to do something ninja-like, now was the time. Then, the
arms started shaking him violently, and he immediately was forced to call upon
the ancient ninja secret of not losing one's lunch when one is being shaken
down for car keys.
Boudoir and Marbles stood by as Zark shook down Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver.
After several minutes, they were forced to move back, as the throwing stars,
sword blades, smoke bomb pellets, fare meters, and other ninja-like implements
started piling up around Zark and Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver.
After several minutes more, the keys *finally* fell out of one of the
inner pockets of Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver's robe. Boudoir picked up the keys
as Zark tossed Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver aside.
"Good!" Boudoir exclaimed. "Mapa, get Zen into Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver's
Ninja Taxi. We're getting out of here."
"Where are we going?" Mapa asked.
"I can't reveal that now," Boudoir said. "Suffice it to say I have other
allies, outside of Time Central, who are more than adequate to replace those
allies I thought I had within Time Central. Once we rendezvouz with them,
the Search for Logan will begin!"
"And where do I fit in?" Zen asked.
"You're going to help us find him," Boudoir said.
"Ah," Zen said, nodding.
"Not so fast!" Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver exclaimed, as he wobbled in an un-
ninjalike fashion in front of them, brandishing a sword and an empty paper
towel roll that his battered mind had mistaken for a numchuck. "You now
face the wrath of...Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver!"
"Oh dear," Boudoir yawned. "Zark, you're going to stay behind and keep
this Ninja fellow from stopping us from stealing his car."
"Okay," Zark said. He frowned. "How do I do that?"
"You can start by shooting him," Boudoir said.
"Yeah!" Zark exclaimed, drawing his Subatomic Death Blaster Cannon and
shooting it in Ninja Taxi-Cab Driver's general direction. Ninja Taxi-Cab
Driver, using his excellent Ninja reflexes, passed out and fell down, thus
avoiding the destructive beams. Zark, nevertheless, continued shooting.
"Oh, and Zark..." Boudoir continued. "Zark...ZARK!"
"Yes, sir?" Zark asked, as his finger trembled on the trigger.
"Keep anyone else who shows up to stop us from stopping us."
"Okay!" (pause) "How do I do that?"
"Shoot them!" Boudoir instructed.
"Yeah!" Zark exclaimed. He paused. "How will I know if they're here to
stop you or not?"
"Just shoot at anything that moves," Boudoir told him.
"Got it."
Boudoir started for the Ninja Taxi, then froze as a Death Cannon shot
zapped past him, missing him by millimeters.
"Um, Zark...why'd you do that?" he asked.
"You said to shoot at anything that moved."
"So?"
"You moved."
"Ah. Well, then, let me revise my previous utterance. Shoot at anything
that moves other than myself, Mapa Marbles, Zen Navigator, or the Ninja Taxi."
"Okay," Zark said. "Um."
"Um what?" Boudoir asked, not moving an inch.
"What was that list again?" Zark asked.
"Look, over there!" Boudoir exclaimed. "The cast of 'Roadhouse!'"
Death-cannon-fire filled the air, and Boudoir dived into the open door
of the passenger side of the front seat of the Ninja Taxi. He slid over to
the driver's seat, started up the engine, and stomped on the gas pedal. The
Ninja Taxi shot out of the hangar bay and into space.
Zark continued firing at random well into the night.
-~-_-
"Pretty," Lisa Bonet gurgled, as she staggered around aimlessly.
"Are you *sure* this is Lisa Bonet?" the Rev'rnd asked.
"Look, it's too late to complain now, you signed the contract," the
demon told him. "If you think the merchandise is defective, call our
service department, and maybe we'll send someone out. Maybe not. We have
to get a service department first."
"Um, okay..." the Rev'rnd said, uncertainly.
"Righto, I'm off," the demon said. He hopped into the 'pit of Hell,'
which fizzled and vanished behind (or above) him.
"Butterfly!" Lisa exclaimed.
"Something's wrong," Gham said. "The lifeforce in her body doesn't
belong there."
"I'm sure a lot of people have said that during the course of her
career," Kalvin said. "Now, okay, um, Rev'rnd, can we go back to our hotel
now? It's been a big day, and we were really impressed by your resurrection,
but we've got three billion miles to cover tomorrow, and we'd like to get
an early start, so..."
"I don't think so," the Rev'rnd said. "You see, we need some sacrafices
for after the two months rental on Lisa Bonet runs out..."
"Hurm," Kalvin said. "Gham, dear, do you think now would be a good
time to initiate the escape plan we've been working on?"
"You've been working on an escape plan?" the Rev'rnd asked.
"We have?" Gham asked. Kalvin winked at her. "Oh, we have!"
"Here, let's just walk through it, okay?" Kalvin asked. "Basically,
the plan is for us to dash madly up the stairs in the direction of the
diner..."
"But the townspeople would stop you in an instant," the Rev'rnd protested.
"He's right," one of them said.
"Just bear with me a moment," Kalvin said, as he guided the Rev'rnd up the
steps. Gham followed, leading Lisa by the hand. "Now, I'm counting on surprise
and the slothlike speed of your flock to get me through this stage. Let's
just assume, for a moment, that it works..."
"Alright," the Rev'rnd said.
"Now, it's a footrace to our car," Kalvin said. "We should be able to
outrun you there, right?"
"No contest," the Rev'rnd agreed. The group, followed by the rest of
the townsfolk, followed Kalvin and Gham to their car.
"From here, it's easy," Kalvin said. "We toss Lisa in the back..." Gham
opened the door and pushed Lisa in. "...get in..." Gham got in behind the
driver's seat, and Kalvin took the passenger's side. "...and then take off.
We'll be out of Resurrection before you can so much as get to the road."
"All assuming you can get past us back at the sacrafice site," the
Rev'rnd pointed out. "That seems to be the weak point of your plan, you know."
"Yes, I see that," Kalvin said. "Well, we've had our walk through. Why
don't we go back to the site and try it for real?"
"Good idea," the Rev'rnd said. "Come on, folks, it's time for the action
sequence!"
"An action sequence! An action sequence!" the townsfolk cheered, as they
followed the Rev'rnd back to the sacrafice site.
"Okay, Slime-Jim, Mutant Molly, flank the east exit," the Rev'rnd
instructed. "If they try dashing up that way, don't try to outrun them, lash
out with your tentacles. You folks over there cover the other steps, same
instructions. The rest of you stand around and expose your various fascinating
skin conditions."
"Um, Rev'rnd," one of the townsfolk said.
"What?" the Rev'rnd asked, patiently.
"The sacrafices to be didn't follow us back to the site."
The Rev'rnd looked around, and frowned.
"Hmmm," he mused. "That seems vaguely dishonest."
They heard a car starting up and roaring off into the distance.
"Damn," the Rev'rnd commented. "Suggestions, people?"
"Er," one of them said.
"We could go after them," another said.
"In what?" the Rev'rnd asked.
"The twenty heavily armed hovertanks we have stored in the warehouse on
the edge of town?" someone asked.
"Of course!" the Rev'rnd exclaimed, slapping himself on the heavily-
scarred forehead. "Thank you, Sylvia, I keep forgetting we have those. Okay,
everyone...to the hovertanks!"
"Hurrah!" the mutated folk exclaimed.
-~-_-
"Und Harry Ze Objektivist Veasel told ze gathered gods und demons, 'No,
you do not haff to liff like a newt; eet ees an act of moral choice. But
you cannot liff as anythink else - and ze alternative zat is zee state of
liffing dith vhich you now see vithin you und around you und in zee sky und
in your deoderant, ze state of a zing unfit for existance, even as a zinger,
no longer human und less zan un used car salesbeink, a zing that knows nothink
but pain und drags himzelf zhru its zpan of years in ze agony of unzinking
zelf-destruction und vatching of teevee game zhows..."
"Stop the madness," Cardinal Van Cleef groaned, as Ayn Rand continued
reading from her newest, posthumus work, Zeus Tangoed. "It hurts! It hurts!"
"She's only on page two," BRENDA pointed out. The occupants of the
HMS Shannon II looked at the book Ayn was holding, which, despite having micro-
thin pages, was the size of a filing cabinet, and immediately, in unison,
started throwing heavy objects at her.
"No, you do not haff to...ow!" Ayn exclaimed. "Zink; eet ees...ow! I'm
reading over here, do you mind? Eet ees a moral ch-ow!" The last item, a
microwave burrito that had last touched living hands sometime during the
Truman administration, knocked Ayn out
"Whew," Cardinal Hagen sighed. "And I thought chili peppers burned my
gut."
"So now what?" Lenin asked.
The ship was rocked with laser fire.
"Now we get recaptured," BRENDA told them, helpfully.
"Is there no way out of this?" Ragnuruk asked.
"Well, if an extremely large thing travelling at Warp Four were to hit
the PLS Tell-Tale Heart, it would surely save us," Marx pointed out. "Although
we'd still have to get another ship to help us, seeing as we're out of fuel..."
"This is Susan B. Anthony, of the PLS Tell-Tale Heart," the communicator
crackled. "Prepare to be boarded! Any resistance will be met with torture,
repeated pounding, vivisection, etcetera, etcetera."
"Are we going to surrender?" Cardinal Van Cleef asked.
"Looks that way," Nootgingitch commented.
"Hmmm," BRENDA said. "I'm picking up something on the monitors..."
"What is it?" Trotsky asked.
"It appears to be a Bore-an space station and a New England town,
travelling at Warp Four, encircled by a very powerful Pseudoscience Bubble."
"So?" Ragnuruk asked.
BRENDA put the image of the PLS Tell-Tale Heart up on the video monitor.
Moments later, there was a doppler flash, and the Satanic battlecruiser was
gone.
"Whoah," Lenin commented.
"The combination space station and town hit the Tell-Tale Heart at Warp
Four," BRENDA reported. "I can't tell if the Tell-Tale Heart was destroyed or
not, but the entire mass has accelerated to Warp Eight. It is already out of
range of my scanners."
The entire bridge was silent, as its occupants absorbed the news (except
for Ayn, who was inhaling the floor polish on the floor of the bridge).
"Does this mean we won't be surrendering?" Cardinal Van Cleef asked.
WILL BRENDA AND THE CREW OF THE SHANNON II MAKE IT TO THE NEAREST PLANET?
WHERE WILL FREEPORT, MAINE STRIKE NEXT?
WHERE DID THE PEOPLE OF RESURRECTION, KANSAS, GET ALL THOSE HOVERTANKS?
DOES IT MATTER?
WHO ARE SAJANSEEL BOUDOIR'S OTHER ALLIES?
WILL ZEN NAVIGATOR HELP THEM FIND LOGAN?
WILL ZARK FLYBY STOP SHOOTING BY MORNING?
DOES IT MATTER?
SFSTORY. There when you need it.
--
Gary W. Olson swede at drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu swede at drycas.bitnet
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