WELLLLL, here we are again--God's answer to boredom. Speaking of God this morning I received a cable from Jim Bakker. Jim said that God appeared to him in a vision and told him that if the RG was published this month, then He would pull Jim's plug. Adios, Jim.
Actually--I am very gratified by the positive reactions to the RG. Father Larry called me on the carpet about the crossword and I had to say 48 'Hail Lizs'. We had a powwow afterward and decided that contributors to the Gazette would get the issue in which their submission appeared for free. We will also have to limit the size of the RG to 20 pages. Submissions will be printed on a first come, first lucky--I mean, first come, first served basis. Soooooo, wipe that white powder off your upper lip and get busy with the pens.
The videocom rang. What a mess I have here." shouted K'hotan. "No wonder Sir Arthur Curry left during the night. Who would have stayed around to clean up this mess? We should have tried to land in the daylight so I could have seen what I was getting into."
The image on the videocom was focused on the starport complex itself. Still smoking metal parts littered the landing pads. As the camera panned the area, there were several medics with support stretchers carrying the wounded and dead off to the sickbays.
"We were fairly lucky, Governor," the voice said. "It could have been much worse. Those DTNs were able to use only ten of their force on the colony. Our ground forces weren't able to stop them as they just plowed over each position. Three medium freighters have just been given clearance to land. They are bringing in replacement soldiers from SMS Comte. The Ring #3 forces report that ALL stockpiles have been removed. We have nothing left to use. Will there be anything else, sir?
"No, that is all," K'hotan said as he turned off the picture.
Since taking over the colony, it had been one thing after another. His main background was in shipping, not running a colony. He took SMS Eureka from Curry as a favor. Boy, this couldn't have come at a worse time. He had been looking for a place to open up the new Safari Lines shipping company. The only way he could do it was to take over SMS Eureka and allow Curry to leave for SMS Ilium Novum. He didn't bargain for a colony under attack from a force no one knew anything about.
The shipping lines ships were outfitted and calls were coming in for manifest runs The ships couldn't leave until the starport was cleaned up. The landing beacon had been stolen by the DTNs, and all stockpiles of ore were gone. K'hotan called in Miss Stevens.
"Wel l, Miss Stevens, send a message to the SMS Black Max and tell them that I need a load of Metals/Nonmetals. NOW. See if Lt. Ranger can also pick up some weaponry at the same time Two hundred MUs of M/Nm should be enough and tell him to use his judgment as to what weapons we need. He was sent a copy of the battle results So he should know what we need. Also, let me know the minute the starport is back to operating halfway normal. I need to get those freighters out of here and start the stellars coming in. Someone has to pay for this. I Just hope we can make enough runs to get back on our feet soon. I would hate to dig this out of my own pocket..
Miss Stevens left the room quietly and K'hotan spoke quietly to himself.
"Well, I asked for it and I got it. But we can make the best of a bad situation. I haven't ever backed out of anything, and I am not going to start now."
He turned and stared out of the window. The haze from the starport reminded him of a morning fog.
"Even with all this mess, it kind of looks pretty." He slowly closed the visor.
Madam'
Your publication heading is a bit mystifying. The object at the left appears to be a planet and the object at the right appears to be a high top tennis shoe. Shouldn't the verbiage on the side be changed from "SMS Y.J." to "SMS Nike"?
Respectfully,
Sebastion Sabre
Mr. Sabre' If I want your opinion, I'll give it to you.
Maddie, the Mystic
Early one morning Lori Jennings surveyed her small kingdom. There before her was the grand expanse of AFT Penda Uhura, which was an appropriate name for this jewel of the Detero System. The name is Swahili for 'she who loves freedom'.
Lori Jennings was the chief geologist aboard the AFT Knight-one before she was called upon to become the ruler of this mining and manufacturing colony. Her secret desire was to get Captain Consat of the AFT Uhuru's Guardian in a room with a whip and a stunner. Capt. Consat was the sucker who talked her into being governor of AFT P.U. This is one mean lady' don't make her mad. She stands just 5'7" from her curly black hair to her chocolate brown feet--llO pounds of determined wildcat.
Today she was to give a tour of her colony to dignitaries from the STC. (Read this to mean galactic slime worms of the Supergalactic Treasury Corporation.) The tour would start in the starport with a dress parade and an inspection of the security troops. Then, the dignitaries would inspect the other starport complexes and finish with dinner at the Hotel/Restaurant Complex. 'What a crashing bore, she thought. 'Lord, but I wish Renfield Dates of the AFT Allison Reilly (HF) were here. The days and nights just rush by in a warm sweet blur when he's here.'
After dinner, it was on to the zoo and CRL facilities. 'If only I had not authorized the purchase of 200 mass units of strion, we would not be in this financial nightmare,' she thought.
Next on the tour was interviews with randomly selected colonists and soldiers. She was truly sorry about the conduct of her soldiers, but the Lady Jessica of STC Finance did ask to see his gun. 'She acts as if she had never seen one before. What does she do with her nights anyway?'
After that, it was straight to their ship and back to AFT Hope. 'May they never return,' was Lori's thought.
I have in my hands a copy of the 187 Calendar & Planner which Father Larry gave me for learning my catechism. On the facing pages are the Imperial Laws. I thought, hey, I think I'll help everyone out by illustrating the laws. My model for this one is Nebo the Moodge.
Imperial Law #1' It is illegal to own or transport slaves who are classified as sentient beings. "Sentiency" is defined as:
Aidan Mac Ric returned to his office in a thoughtful frame of mind. His kiss for his pretty new secretary (the last was on maternity leave), Miss Braswell, lacked a lot due to his lack of attention. Once in the office he paged his assistant and younger brother, Sean.
Sean soon appeared, wiping off lipstick. He was attempting to mimic his older brother in most things. Aidan nodded greeting and then immediately demanded, "Have you been to the port lately?
Sean considered. "Not in the last two hours.."
Aidan sighed "I had heard rumors of problems at the House of the Rising Sun, he said. "As I came out after my inspection, I noticed the crewmen from one of the affiliation ships in port. FET, I believe. Or IMP. Sean, those poor guys were in terrible shape."
"What happened?" Sean asked, visions of battles going through his mind.
"I'm not sure," Aidan admitted. ''Madam Hammerfist said they were in fine shape when they visited the House. And there weren't any fights or anything. They just spent an hour or so with one of the girls there."
"Oh," Sean said in relief, leaning back. "I understand now. You see, Aidan, our girls are used to the SMS men visiting and they get a little-energetic for those men of other affiliations sometimes."
"Really?" Aidan was amazed. "After visiting just one girl? Why, I visit a good six or eight. . . ah. . . why, the poor things. We must do something about it. We can't have ships shying away from our port because the men report back to the med unit."
"Well, I've tried to speak to the girls," Sean confessed. "But -` sometimes they forget or the crewman tells them he's SMS when he's not.'
"You aren't thinking," Aidan reproved. "We have to treat the cause of the problem and not the symptoms. No, we'll build a new rec complex."
"How will that work?" Sean asked in puzzlement.
''Don't you see?" Aidan explained patiently. "We'll put the. . . .ah. . . less energetic girls there. In fact, we'll import them from one of the other affiliation colonies so we'll be sure. Then those crewmen can Visit without being forced into recovery. Go check on what we need, Sean. I'll contact the Balrog and see about the girls."
. . . . continued.
Ms. Mallard
We at Graphics 'R' Us salute you for your basic efforts in illustration in the first issue of the Ringbone Gazette. We feel, however, that a professional magazine such as yours could use a professional graphics company.
You personally know the quality of our work as we won awards for our illustrations in your previous work "Ernestine Eats Eklas". We have been able to survive the litigation and hope to work with you again. We respect your reputation and know you will make a professional decision.
Just send us the balance you owe us, that we may begin right away.
Sincerely yours'
Sebastion Sabre, President
Graphics 'R' Us
Dear Fingerpaints 'R' Us' I have just two things to say to you: the check is in the mail and is it true that you're into mustard plaster and flea powder?
&~&~&*&*&*&~&*&*&*&*&*&~&*&~&*&*&~&*&~&*&~&*&*&~&~&*&~&~&*&~&~&*&
The fleet hung motionless; not in orbit, but still observing the surface of the moon Hoylex. There were all different classes, from smallest to largest, yacht to heavy cruiser. All of the ships and their crews had come to fight the alien menace which had ravaged their colonies below. They had raced from every corner of the Periphery with pride-and courage burning in their veins, to defend the survivors and avenge the fallen.
"They're gone?!" Commander Fist had an ugly, outraged look on his face. Charlie Davis, the Communications Officer on board the Rockhound II had a similar expression on his own face. It wasn't because the aliens were gone, it was because Fist's fingers were digging into his shoulder, threatening his collar bone.
"Yes, sir," said Davis as he politely pried the fingers from his body. "Reports from Avarice and Pittsburgh are confirmed by our own sensors. The Destructons are gone."
"Pittsburgh?" The fingers went back. "Those damn GoBots got ` Pittsburgh too?" Davis' reply was cut short. "Get me Hyp Rage on t' board the Hunter's Moon!"
Wasylenko was sitting at the console when the message came in. "Sir, message coming in from the Rockhound II. It's Cmdr. Fist. He wants to talk to you."
Hyp stooped down to the microphone. "Han, old buddy' What can I do for you? Over."
"You can tell me what happened. Where 'd the damn DTN GoBots get to? How did they hit Pittsburgh? How could they get past us? Over."
"It's looking like they got away before we arrived, and it appears our initial intelligence was wrong about them not hitting Pittsburgh. I'm going to be sorting through this mess for a while. It's still too soon to know exactly what happened. Over."
Looking through the bridge viewport, Hyp could see the Rockhound II come up along side, close enough to see a figure glaring out of the other viewport. Hyp knew that Hanover Fist liked to have eye contact when he was talking to somebody.
"You pressed me into service, into a fleet action, just so you could waste my time? You expect me to be satisfied with 'they were gone before we got here'? Well, I am not satisfied. This really pisses me off to no end' Over."
"Take it easy, Han. Nobody pressed you into anything," said Hyp.
"Except maybe that suit of battle armor full of Jell-O," snickered Davis on board the Rockhound, "back on Stormgate-4." Han raised his eyebrows without looking at him and Davis settled back into his seat--still smiling.
"If I recall correctly," continued Hyp, "when you found out about the attacks, you came rushing to me. Something about a break from exploration, a little excitement, and how 'They can't do that to us and get away with it'. Plus some expletives about watching nuts and bolts go flying through the air. Over."
"This was going to be my first space combat, Hyp. Of course I got excited. But I'm not going to let them get away with it. Over." Hyp could see him on the bridge, shaking his fist at the viewport.
"Just what do you intend to do? Over."
"Is it the same story as what they did at Eureka? Ground forces trashed, landing beacon gone, mineral stockpiles cleaned out? Over. "
"Yes, yes and yes, Han. No other damage done, nothing else taken except some dead bodies. But wouldn't we like one of their dead units to help us figure out what we're up against? Over."
"Well then, I'm going to go find some. I have a pretty good idea where to look now. Over."
"You mean you've been tracking them? But how? EEM In Harm's Way was here long before us and they didn't scan anything. No DTN, no mothership, nothing. Over.'
'Take it easy, Hyp. I haven't scanned squat, except you. I don't know where they're going, but I think I know where they've been. I'm leaving the fleet to go do what I do best, a little exploring. Over."
"Best of luck, Han. Thanks for lending your ship to the fleet. I'm just sorry we didn't use it like we wanted to. I can tell you're in one of your moods again. Hunter's Moon, over and out.
As the Rockhound II started to pull away, Wasylenko piped up. "Sir, he's broadcasting again on every frequency' He's trying to hail the DTN Mom..
Hyp sighed. "Hanover Fist has a bad temper, Wasylenko, and no regard for his own security when he gets like this. Might as well let us hear what he has to say. I don't think the DTN are going to hear him."
The shipboard speakers crackled to life. "Never again, DTN. You made your first and last mistake when you hit the SMS. I'll find you and take the battle to your doorstep! See how you like that' And if you're anywhere near, train your sensors on the bridge of the Rockhound II. I've got a visual for you'"
Regardless of whether the DTN was still close enough to do it, the rest of the SMS fleet turned their electronic eyes towards Hanover's ship.
"Full magnification," requested Hyp Rage.
Staring back from the screen was the viewport of the Rockhound II. There stood Cmdr. Fist, trousers around his ankles, and his buttocks pressed firmly against the transparent steel of the port.
"You tell 'em, Han,. said Hyp, grinning.
(Last episode' David landed at Yumoth, possibly the most boring place in the Periphery (with the exception of Vodkynville), met the notorious Harry Flashman, rebel leader. When he got back to the ship he discovered that it had been surrounded by a force field, which was generated by the alien ship landed next to the Edain.)
"What the blazes??!!" demanded David. Not only was he trapped on a planet where the highest achievement of after hours culture was an ice cream parlor, he was being kept on the planet by some weird alien ship. Enough was enough, decided David, and started up the walkway toward the two vessels. The braver crew members followed,
As he got closer to the ship, David began to feel a resistance, as if he was walking in Jell-O (remember New Athens). Then suddenly the resistance fell off and he was standing next to the alien ship. The huge sheer side loomed far above him. Closer examination revealed that it was not one smooth surface, but was actually made of smaller, interlocking blocks, each about the size of David. David began to walk around the ship, looking for an entrance. Suddenly, he found himself unable to move and rising into the air. 'Tractor beam' he thought, and for once he was right. An aperture opened and he was whisked inside, much to the dismay of the rest of the crew.
David found himself in a small room, alone except for his ego. Just as he was beginning to regain his composure, a voice spoke.
"Greetings, humanoid. We mean you no harm. We come in peace. Do you have any cocktail peanuts?"
As David struggled to make sense of this apparently random set of sentences, the room's lights came up, revealing a viewscreen set in the far wall. It flickered, and cleared to reveal a giant olive. At least, that's what it looked like to David. As he was shaking his head for the fifth or sixth time, trying to assure himself that it was an hallucination brought on by overconsumption of ice cream, it spoke again.
"Say, dude, what's happening? Do you come here often? What's your sign? My name is Cliff. What's yours?"
"David Addison," said David slowly, not daring to believe the improbability of giant talking olives in the Periphery.
"Well, David Addison," said Cliff. "Do you have any cocktail peanuts? "
"Not on me, but maybe back at the ship," David responded.
Cliff turned and spoke to someone offscreen. "Bubba' Rocco! Go check out Mr. Addison's ship for munchies"'
"What are you?" asked David numbly, putting one of the lessons he learned at the Space Academy to good use--know thy enemy,
"I am
a member of a very old race' at least as old as your Race measures time.
We have travelled the galaxy far and wide and are known, feared, welcomed
and sometimes even respected. Our name for our race is unpronounceable by
types such as you, who do not have the proper equipment. As such, we have
developed an alias, a nom de guerre a 'cover' if you will.
"What is it?" asked David, violating another Space Academy lesson--be polite to aliens.
"You can call us . . . the Partytrons," said Cliff, and David felt an eerie sensation start at the bottom of his spine and work its way upward.
The Party trons!
Fabled, feared and sometimes revered, these creatures had not been seen in the Periphery before, although some explorers in the Transhole had discovered remnants of their civilization -- empty beer casks, carpeted planets with dip-and-chip mixture ground into the fibers, and discarded glasses all over the place.
"Well, it's good to have you around, guys," said David. "What do you plan on doing while you're here?"
"We won't be staying here long," said Cliff "Just long enough to refuel and stock up on vital ship stores."
"Like cocktail peanuts?" interrupted David.
"Like cocktail peanuts," agreed Cliff. "Then we'll probably cruise around for a while and sample the nightlife. Got any ideas on where we should go for a really swinging good time? Y'know, a happening place?"
David thought furiously. The Partytrons represented a grave threat to the economy of the Periphery. If encouraged to stay, they would slowly shift production capability from needed items, such as life support and colony structures, to luxury items, such as whoopie cushions and goofy string. Entire planets would be strip-mined for their natural resources, which would be devoted to satisfying the Partytrons urge for the good life (at someone else's expense). Entire planets turned into lemon groves for those little wedges you throw away when you get your drink. Oceans composed of gin, with a slight flavor of vermouth, in which giant olives cavorted. He shook his head. It couldn't happen here. The creatures had to be stopped. And he, David-Addison, the only man in the history of the Space Academy to graduate on probation, was the only force that stood between the Partytrons and their evil goal.
So David implemented another Space Academy rule--lie to save the Universe.
"There is nothing in this group of systems that would interest you," he said. "Why don't you just turn around and go home?" He then said the three words that you should never say to a Partytron. "The party's over."
Cliff shook which is a sign of extreme anger among his kind.
"I will not grant you the favor of hand-to-hand combat--.
"Gee, thanks."
"--as we are not a warlike race.
"Ain't that the truth."
"Instead, as a measure of our obvious cultural superiority, before I have you killed, we will engage in a contest of skill."
"What kind of contest?"
"I don't really know," admitted Cliff. "I have never had the occasion to see one of your kind up close before. There are obviously some differences in our shapes. I did not think of this." The ~ olive's color darkened, a sign of deep thought. "Go to your ship. Wait for my summons. Do not attempt to escape, as the force field is still on. I will call you when I have devised a suitable contest for us to participate in."
David felt himself in the grip of the tractor beam once more, and was deposited unceremoniously on the ground outside the ship. The crew ran up to him, full of questions and concern. David waved them away.
"It's okay," he said, brushing himself off. "Let's go back to the ship. I've got some work to do.
(What will be the challenge of the Partytrons? Can David beat Cliff and save the Periphery from perpetual Party Hour?)
WHOA'' Controversy rears its square head as the second edition of the RG
goes to press. I am truly astonished at all you filthy minded people out
there. Everyone EVERYONE knows that a
four
letter word for intercourse is 'talk'. It never dawned on me that anyone
would think otherwise. I am so embarrassed for you guys. Jeez. I hope you're
happy--Father Larry has been recalled to Rome II, and it's dark in this
confessional booth.
Lt. Hyperion Rage strode through the starport of RIP Effluvium, taking close note of the ships refueling and outfitting' the RIP Slayer, SSL Terminator, FET Chris Keeler, FET Mote, GTT Starfox II, CAP Valaskialf . . . Hyp stopped beside the last ship. He remembered reading in the CPT three years ago how the Valaskjalf had busted Capt. Ramadan out of ISP Coupeville. From the number of modifications made to the battered and dirty starship, it was hard to tell that originally it had been an AFT war galley. On the hull by the entry port the old AFT codes had been blasted away and replaced with the O'Brien family insignias a grinning skull wearing a fiery Imperial Marine helmet.
Hyp waited in the maintenance complex for the pilots' briefing. There was a rec complex at the far side of the starport, but as just a green lieutenant, Hyp had no intentions of testing the good nature of O'Brien's Deathguards. Best not to drink with men that wore finger necklaces until you had had a few combat actions.
Sitting in the maintenance complex, Hyp puffed on his last stick of Nor-weed. He looked at the heavenherb box before he tossed it. "Grown, Cut, Dried and Distributed by the Pleasure Slaves of **SSL Romp**."
Hyp sucked on the weed as he watched a pit crew overhaul the weapons system on the RIP Nimrod. A medium freighter, the RIP Buxom Wench, lay in the next bay. The last Hyp had heard, the Nimrod had been a posted FET fast freighter. The pilot of the ship, Corsair Summers, and a half dozen FET starcaptains had gotten caught chasing Imperial ships over Carl-Leigh in the Viscon System. Their declaration of their Rebel Strike Force forced the FET coordinators to heave them out of the company. Summers and his band seemed like naturals for the RIP.
Through the bay doors, Hyp watched the bustling activity of the starport. A new ship was landing every thirty minutes. It appeared that O'Brien had connections in all of the affiliations GTT SMS, FET, SSL, and the USS. 'Hmmm, where was the lovely lady of the AFT?'
Hyp stood as he noted Big Mike's fact freighter hovering over the landing bays. He stepped outside and looked up, but the IND FireCarrier was not in sight.
The briefing was quicker than those given by the companies. As the pilots walked outside to their ships, Big Mike muttered to Hyp, "Didn't tell us much, did they?"
"O'Brien spent more time screaming about the FireCarrier," Hyp replied. John FirstWord had refused to come into Effluvium, but had remained orbiting Lerner's Drift. "Geezes, you don't think they'll ice us, do you?"
"Don't worry. We'll be okay."
As the RIP fleet gunned up its engines and one by one lifted off in formation, Hyp noted on his computers that Tiger was now in a new location. The T-Snit had pulled the asteroid into the orbit of Lerner's Drift. As the SMS Hunter's Moon rose over the starport, Hyp spotted row upon row of shuttles lined up in the third ring. As a dozen RIP and company warships sped out in a sweep around the planet, the shuttles moved out behind them--destined for AFT Rils.
The crew spent a harrowing 140 TUs orbiting Lerner's Drift, waiting for the IMP fleet. True to form, the cavalry was not to arrive until the RIP were through picking the bones of the colonies below. While the fleet was on the far side of the planet, the AFT Brown Dragon, AFT Kamelot and AFT Wilmington wandered into orbit, but CAP Riis dusted them. the pirates rounded Lerner's Drift to see the T-Snit sitting before them like a black moon and the derelict AFT warships burn like meteors through the atmosphere.
During the stand the warships did not fire a shot, but a lot happened. Though the fleet was ordered to radio silence, the SMS Hunter's Moon communicated with Big Mike via comlink. Hyp learned that FirstWord had a falling out with O'Brien and the IND FireCarrier -' left orbit before the RIP fleet arrived. To the dismay of the pirates, FirstWord went on to hijack the FET Resistence without giving O'Brien his due. FirstWord's exec, Franklin Beeser, took over the IND Resistence and in several months would have a *25,000 bounty on his head (offered by the FET KriegerGruppe) and be RIP posted.
Hyp sweated, wondering if the pirates would decide to vent their anger on First Word's friends . .
On week 40 the fleet landed at Effluvium and T-Snit began lugging Tiger away from orbit. The shuttles had done their work efficiently. Over 50,000 MUs of loot were tossed into the RIP coffers--all without the loss of one ship.
Effluvium was overflowing with chained lines of naked women bound for sale on the blackmarkets. Male prisoners were marked for electronic re-configuring and sale as work slaves. An entire warehouse was filled with children marked for sale to infertile families in the Inner Empire. (Not surprisingly, ISP JAX, IAN Loy and IAN Carl-Leigh maintained the largest markets for purchasing babies.)
Once the pirates were out of the Zamm system, tensions eased, and the party began. With the Hunter's Moon safe at Effluvium, Hyp let the crew wander the starport. During the next week several of the ship's mercenaries came back with missing teeth and broken ribs, and different tidbits of memorabilia from the sacked colonies. The ship's electronic tech, O'Dwyer, hung a captured AFT flag in the bridge and even young James Curry began sporting a cutlass.
Two days out of 2amm, O'Brien and Lord Merde du Rouge highlighted the victory by announcing a bash would be held at Effluvium's rec complex, the "Hole in the Wall."
(to BE CONTINUED. NEXT time: HUNTED BY THE RIP)
Dear Maddie' So, like I'm sitting at my favorite bar at Romp, you know? It's real boring so far, right? So, these guys come in and I think all right, but they're just interested in their hot fudge. They have noooo imagination, you know, all they want to do is drink it. Well, anyway, I cruise over to their table and talk with them anyway cause the place is real dead and it turns out they think they're toads or something like I guess it's a secret group or something. So they seem to have a good time, so I invite them over to my place but they want more ice cream but later they get thrown out anyway for singing off key to St. Aretha Franklin songs so I get them over to my place but they all just do their limp dishrag impersonations and I have to use my Rio Krieger Special so what I want to know is' Is it something I did or are these guys just like that? I mean DUH guys! Signed, Rompin' Randi, SSL Romp
Dear You-Win-the-Award-For-The-Longest-Run-On-Sentence' Have you changed underwear lately?
The Cryoprobe pulled away from the half G pull of the moon, Drumm. Lt. Cmdr. Crystal Blue noted in the starcaptains' logs "Morale high, no damage, no one on sick call and cargo secure." The medium freighter was leaving SMS Succubus with a low priority shipment of colony structures and a farm destined for SMS Gargoyle on the other side of the known Periphery.
'How boring,' Crystal thought. Playing Laser Tag with the crew for the entire tu consuming journey could not be any more fun than watching reruns of a filibuster of the SMS Council. If there was at least a Tagmata on board as cargo then there would be something to do. Crystal found it character building to attempt a break-in of the security system on the Comdata lock of the Tagmata WITHOUT getting caught. On the last haul run with a Tagmata in the main section Crystal wroked on a theory that the Tagmata's secret was linked to the genesis of the universe and the code for entry was similarly linked. That idea did not pan out before delivery however Crystal did discover that the current theory of the universe creation was called the "Big Pop" instead of the "Big Bang". Another hypothesis was a code connection to the universe's end. The idea hit like a ship upgrade out of the blue. One does not need a Tagmata on board to work on the theory--only a computer and the ship had one of those.
Crystal stalked to the McPC2.5X10 25Jr., which the crew affectionately called Amiga. Scanning the console for a place to start, Crystal chose to probe the memory banks for starcaptain IDs on record. The next task was to figure out how to ask the question so that Amiga knew what information to retrieve.
Crystal slipped on the digital sensor to input into Amiga. Wishing that P.D. Fores had sprung for the optical scanner (an easier method to input questions than the antique digital sensor) Crystal concentrated, "When will the universe end and how will it end?"
Amiga responded in a user friendly monotone' "The SMS file scanned demonstrates a clear consensus of the majority of the starcaptains that the universe will end upon simultaneous suicide of all starcaptains due to unwanted intervention by Pop (as the creation of the universe followed the "Big Pop" theory, it follows that the cre ator of the universe is also known as "Pop") or Pop would grow tired of the universe he created and disappear taking the universe with him."
(Actually, this question was asked of the SMS starcaptains in a recent survey as part of the essay section. Seventy-five percent of them answered that the game would come to an illogical end.
Crystal mused, 'Well, that is better than space herpes or death by poor David Addison jokes.' It was evident to Crystal that there were no clues to the Tagmata code in this line of thought and that the answer given could not possibly be the end of the universe. It looked like the only way to get the answer was to talk to Pop Dire and as Crystal was not religious, a problem was at hand. Being a good starcaptain who improvises in a crunch, Crystal concentrated on the pulses sent to the digital sensor, "Pray." This starcaptain actually picked up the phone and called Mike Pop. at Adventures by Mail and asked for his comments on the essay question responses.
As if Crystal had been placed in a padded cell, the walls echoed with an eerie voice that said, "Hello, this is Mike. . . You are correct as the universe I created could never end this way because I I have taken precautions. First, there are SIX being trained to run the universe without me."
'Heaven help us,' Crystal thought. 'One is bad enough but six, each with their own interpretations of fairness, imagination, responsivness, and who knows what sexual preference
"Second," Pop continued, "the universe is continuing to expand rapidly (positive proof of the "Big Pop" theory). State of the art equipment and technology upgrades used to deliver the expanded universe should be evidence of commitment that the universe will be here for a long time.
Finally, I want to dispel another rumor -- I have never meddled in the happenings of the universe except in the form of the P.D.s. I pride myself upon answering the prayers of starcaptains to ensure that individual goals are accommodated. Now go and enlighten the Periphery."
Audience over. No stone tablets with 13 Imperial Laws. No clue to the Tagmata code. How anticlimactic! At least SMS Gargoyle could now be contacted from orbit. Crystal reflected upon how the new title "Prophet" Blue or perhaps "Messiah" Blue would appeal.
The reality of the situation struck Crystal. The governor at Gargoyle would indite this starcaptain for emptying a vat at the SMS Eklas distillery. Crystal chose a course of action that would mandate silence yet spread the words of Pop. Crystal would start a rumor, "There is no gravity, the universe just sucks."
IND Yert's Bane, Week 30 (PIP)--The Super-Hyper Interstellar Transit Award is up for grabs again. Lt. Dick Dauntless first won this coveted trophy in Year 185 when his matchless garbarge (sp intentional) scow, GTT Diaper Service (hulls 2-50-2) vacuumed four worlds in two adjacent systems with only one 70-TU turnsheet. David Addison's SMS Edain (MF) easily surpassed Diaper Service with her 140-TU jaunt, GTT Bome/IMP Fairtrade/IMP Carl-Leigh in Year 186. Challenger this year? That's right' the COM.
IND Grraaa, Week 31 (PIP)--Lord and Lady Retief talk so much on Compuserve, it makes me wonder what else they have time for? Only about 40 of the 800 starcaptains in the Periphery bother to subscribe to CIS, so it looks like the largely ignored Emir of Hormuz is up to his familiar elitist maneuvers again, behind out backs. Like when he nuked out Mirrarf access to Transhole.
IND Lefter, Week 27 (PIP)--All you planetographers trying to figure out where the Destructons came from ought to ask your Favorite GM why ABM decided it wouldn't open the Draconian cluster in Year 185.
PDC Gondolin, Week 27 (PIP)--Inner Empire semi-soft drink Baroness Fifi La Rue persuaded the STC to enfranchise dispenser outlets for her New Classic LIZNICKOLA at their offices in all colonies. Even though this threatens the Periphery work ethic, nobody cares. Why not? Because there is no STC Periphery Director
FET Kiss, Week 25 (PIP)--Petite ax-Viennese Hannah Glowarie ("Bubbles" as she is known to her admirers for deployment of champagne jeroboams in lieu of auxiliary thrusters aboard her engine section in FET Fledermaus) needs whipped cream (the real stuff, not Kool Whip) for her hot tub. Why? Because . . . well, just because. And the native Terot of Teran-Zei don't whip cream the way they do at ISS Secudus.
W.X. Horn, SMS Pittsburgh Dockmaster:
I have been hearing many rumors about myself being "an asshole". Well, to set the record straight, I AM! I take pride in it. Remember, half of the job of the dockmaster is to force people to do things "by the book". Just because I take pride in my work, and then become a bit fanatical in my performance of my duties, is no reason to get mad at me'
Take for instance the totally uncouth action of landing a starship upside down on the environmental dome of SMS Pittsburgh. Besides being almost impossible to do, the blast of the jets completely dirtied the inside of the dome, requiring a thorough cleaning. Because I complained to the ship captain, he had the audacity to spread rumors about me.
Then there was the ex-SMS Shipping Coordinator, CDR Titus Lengo. This person DARED to order me, yes, DARED to try to tell me my job!!! Imagine that. For the information of all the people reading this, I don't care if the EMPEROR himself came to me and ordered the release of goods from my starport. EYERYONE must have proper authorization, either a load form from the Governor, or else the cold, hard stellars. Anyway, needless to say, I kicked the fool out of my office. To add insult to injury, the man then came and abducted me while I was sitting down in the men's room. Now, most people expect privacy when performing basic bodily functions. However, he literally broke the door down, yanked me up, punched me until I was almost senseless, and then stuck my face in the commode and flushed it" Sir' If you EVER show your face in Pittsburgh again, I WILL be ready'
I come to wonder about the quality of personnel that the SMS is putting in our shipping coordinator position. The current fool (yes, fool) thought that he could walk into the Tagmata complex. I laughed until I was rolling on the ground while the Tagmata "questioned" him.
Needless to say, he won't go in there again. but. . it was worth the laugh.
I COULD have warned him.....
Signed,
W.X. Horn
SMS Pittsburgh Dockmaster
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxXXXX
Well, I'm sure that by now you all are wondering why I dedicated the outstanding graphics in this issue to Mike Noyola. Mike answered the survey from the first issue and therein is this comment' "I liked the graphics--so exciting--so sensual." So, that's why I dedicated these graphics to Mike Noyola, He of the Smart Mouth.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxx
Here it is, the thirty-first. Time to trot down to the mailbox and see if there are any last minute entries. Just as soon as I get this door open. (Grunt.) "Father Larry!'"' Damn. He said he'd be right back. "Father Larry!!! Help!!! The door is stuck''"' I never realized how tiny these confessionals were. Kinda claustrophobic in here. "Father Larry''' Anybody''" Dog shit. Well, there's only one thing left to do. I promised I would tell the tale of the Ringbone Tribe. It begins in a system that connects with the Periphery but is undiscovered by those in the Periphery. It starts with the mother of the tribe, and it starts in a prison, very much like my little prison. Listen close while I tell you the part of the mother from memory. I tell it with the mother's voice.
I sit in this tiny room, sans air conditioning. It is 95° out but I sit, sweating out my body's juices in order to set this tale down as it correctly happened for you nippy little bureaucrats who do such a neat job of running this solar system. The trial you sponsored for me was a ludicrous sham. Yes, I am guilty. I screamed it over and over until my throat was bloody and my mind raw with the force of that admission exploding in my brain. I killed. I did it. I would do it again' but, if I had a second chance the act would be committed only in that part of the brain that originally housed the motive, the wherewithal, the drive that moved the blaster from my side, recumbent, latent, female, to the firing position and that male violence. The fait accompli would not be as rewarding (watching her face and head ((HER brain)) disintegrating into shabby tatters of flesh, though messy, was satisfying to my soul) but I would not be here perspiring, agonizing over the defense that you will surely ignore, just as you ignore the cosmic-wide rotteness that is turning the worlds into an anarchy with all the symptoms of a boom-town. And it is a revolt-a revolution by the people against being government-committeed to death. Have all your committees to watch the committees folded? Gone the way of the great white dormaloop?
I shall tell of my own experience within the experience of this wonderful thing called government because in my fall into the toilet bowl of frustration and insanity, you will see where you are headed. I will proceed my prophecy with a small bit of background information. So you will know who I am.
I was born on Legab, the second planet from the binary star called Prufrock system. I am not of humble parentage. My folks were rich (very rich) (HA' You think you have found the root of my problem already, don't you?) and they enjoyed their money very much. They particularly enjoyed flaunting it. At least once a month they banged out ungodly intemperate cocktail soirees that put the bright twins to shame with their uncontrolled brilliance. Enough liquor and drugs were channeled through one such party to finance placing a Tupperware planet in orbit (Tupperware planets were the rage in my youth) and enough games and various amusements to keep a pre-pube in ecstasy until the post-blossom era when he discovered something better. It was at one of these parties that I met Benj. Or, rather, he met me--quickly professed an indecently incessant love, and demanded my hand in marriage. (In the final analysis, is Benj and his passion to blame for this?) Dear papa, who was never one for cold calculation, immediately went for my suitcase. My screeching stopped him.
You see, although Benj was the prize catch of the century, he was also a very successful planet baron who handled planets and people with a firm, demanding and undeniable grip. My father, who was the lax sort (should I say relaxed and Hedonistic?) could not handle my independence and forthrightness. He felt that Benj could if anyone could. Which he probably could--but I did not want to give him the chance. The thought of being ruled by anyone (especially male) reddened my brain. But, I dearly loved Daddy (I can see your hands, grimey with digging for roots and you think you have discovered another one) and so after a few days, the idea grew on me and I gave in. After all, Benj wan well known, well respected, and well set up.
When the final contracts had been signed, Benj sent one of his spacers for me. I was to meet him on his newest acquisition, a small planetoid with a viable physicality that he had named for me in his pre-connubial bliss. But, I was not to reach my namesake as appointed' the wretched spacer who was hired to convey my virgin body to my groom decided he wanted a nip of the bud, so to speak. He was the most disgusting ogre imaginable. One could not look at him without longing for a can of Lysol. I managed to avoid him for several days--but then the inevitable happened : he nailed me in the passageway between our cabins, his cratered face hovering above me, his doughy paws pawing my shoulders, his ruby eyes half closed in a travesty of humanity. He offered me Betelgeuse. Chuckling, embarrassed, unsure, I jokingly told him I would settle for Legab. But just that quick, the joke was over. He stopped smiling and the danger in those red, beady, beastly eyes sparkled like shouldering coals. And, just that quick, I answered that danger in the only route open to me--scheming.
"I tell you what, handsome. You go into your cabin, coyly shut the door, and I will quickly come to you, sans morals." Oh, how I wanted to say, 'Sans gorge'.
Like the dumb brute that he was, he obeyed. Fool. I quickly suited up and depressurized the tiny ship. I never went back to the cabin to survey what was left of him.
Then the question arose as to what to do with myself. I was in a pretty good situation (or so it seemed at the time). I did not want to go back home and face a loving, albeit disappointed father. I did not want to go on to Banj because the attraction of his offer was fast paling when faced with the promise of a grand adventure. I was also experiencing severe doubts about my reckless dispatch of the spacer captain. True, it was self defense, but who was a witness? Who was to say, yes, she led him on. Who was to say, yes, she could have avoided and discouraged him. Who was to say, no, there was no other way out of the situation? There was no other judge but myself. So, I moved the charges be dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence. (We had been after all a tiny unevidential spot in the uncountable mass of humanity peopling the skies.) So, with a freshened conscience, I sailed on to Liberty.
(I rethought the last sentence and I find the description of my conscience as "freshened", very telling. Is there a child pant the age of five without a guilty conscience? Or, are they all the little angels so frequently portrayed and I so different? Is this one of the roots for which you so diligently search? Why should I, a spoiled child of the aristocracy who had never done anything more serious than pummel siblings, who had the responsibility of a recumbent escargot, whose voyeurism was limited to antique literature, whose grand theft amounted to a bag of lemon dollops clutched by a slow cousin, and whose love of pranks found their victims only in those who were able to retaliate, why, why, why should I have a culpable conscience? Why did my adrenalin rampage when my name was called in an authoritative tone? Why did I fear and loathe those in command of my life? Was this quirk of my soul instilled in me by generations of people who sought independence as the ideal of livings Was the "tabula rasa" a little smutty at my birth?)
Thus my mind trammeled and raged in endless geometric patterns until I cruised into Liberty. -By this time my old zest for life was waning. I was~between philosophies and my mind existed in a state known as "Elsewhere".
When the adult human mind finds itself in such a situation, it naturally turns to an outlet. My answer is those cute little green pills with the blue X on them You say (I say "you" meaning you uptight moralists) "Pills never solved any problem." Well, my theory is that when the mind is presented -with a problem or some baffling information, it naturally recoils and rolls itself into a ball like a franoose. It has just been attacked and seeks to defend itself. Now, if one with a similarly assaulted mind, turns to pills, gets oneself really gassed, then the problem seems to float away and hover nearby, out of sight. And, when one sobers up, it is later (hopefully the next day) and one's mind is better able to cope with the problem. The problem has aged, as it were, and we all know that like wine, perplexities get better with age. We find that the very thing that almost did us in the day before isn't nearly as bad as when we viewed it in the first light of bafflement.
So, on reaching Liberty, I sought the nearest club. Seeking to blend in with the local fauna I doffed the wedding garb and donned jeans and a blaster (rather butchly displayed at my hip). I thought I was so cool.
Liberty was a pretty savage place' the acknowledged murder capital of the galaxies. Liberty boasted more murder and mayhem per square foot than all the registered 900 worlds put together. In fact, local legend had it that New Year's Eve of 2477 was so rambunctious that if you laid the corpses end to end, you could walk to Vega. (And like the government, you could do it stepping on mangled heads all the way.) I purposely sought out the most notorious of the lot--the Plaster Blaster. The Blaster vaunted at least 20 murders per holiday--slowing down to five during holy festivals. Here, I must admit that the statistics of actual, downright, cold-blooded murder was a trifle diluted by people killed in brawls, for which the Blaster : is known throughout the galaxies. So, it was this type of place I looked for. I found more than I had bargained for.
Next issue 'Alice in Blasterland', and What she found there.
Getting settled in as new governor of a colony isn't fun. Fione Mac Ric decided as she looked over her crowded desk. But at least she was here' Her own colony' And Hydrothora wasn't a bad start. It did have a nice Thorlium mine and Thorlium was needed badly in the SMS.
She sighed and straightened her small frame. Not for the first time she envied her tall brothers. The intercom buzzed and she answered it automatically.
We just received docking permission from the SMS Balrog," her secretary, Kanda, informed her. "They have a load of warbots for us."
Immediately she felt a sense of both relief and trepidation. ''Well, it looks like Cousin Sagan had a fast trip to Eklas and back," she said. "Land him in #1 slot. We can certainly use those warbots."'
But Kanda didn't immediately hang up. "Ah. . .Miss Ric. . .is it true he has pleasure slaves aboard the Balrog?'
"Sort of," Fione agreed with a sigh. She had journeyed from Comte to here aboard the Balrog and still wasn't sure of the trip. "Sagan bought one for every crewman awhile back but he freed them. They do have some wild parties aboard' Except for a visit to a restaurant and bar while in port, they pretty well stay aboard "
Kanda sighed in envy. "Do you think I can meet him while he's here?" she asked.
"Certainly," Fione assured her. "Sagan likes to...ah...meet ladies.
Fione turned back to her reports with a sigh. She wondered how Aidan managed considering the amount of time he spent "investigating" the House of the Rising Sun and consuming the output of his new distillery. She supposed she'd have to install one herself if she ever expected any visits from any of her brothers. At least her brother, Bas, had come to command the colony's soldiers. Now, if she could just talk Aidan out of some factories. .
WOW'" BEST ISSUE EVER "' You bet your honkies--and bound to get only better.
I am really impressed with the pieces I received this time, and look forward
to plenty more. Remember, you guys send the greens and I toss the salad.
MORE' MORE' MORE' Now, will someone please find Father Larry and ask him
to let me out of
here?
The Ringbone Gazette is a BSE role-playing/literary (and I use the term loosely) magazine which will be printed monthly by the SMS Information Department. All submissions should be send to the Editor 'Vickie Lloyd' Rt. 1, Box 275' Hohenwald, TN 38462. The deadline will be the first of every month. For subscription information, please contact Father Larry, at the address below.