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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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ALSATIAN AND THE MISSING PLANETS On Wednesdays my friend Ashkellion and I usually meet at CDs for a little biscuit and suds. We gossip about the new planets coming on line, toss back a few bowls of brew, and sometimes we'll shrink a minor industrial planet down to palm size and play a few games of fetch on the streets of Mars. I was a little late this week, and in my haste to make up lost time I neglected to do a preliminary sniff at the door before bounding into the bar. "I've been looking for you, doggy." Hazed scowled from her favorite barstool as soon as my nose cleared the door. I skidded to a stop just inside the entrance, nails scrabbling and front legs backpedaling to get a purchase on the slick floor. She always appropriates the seat right by the door so there's no chance of anyone slipping in unnoticed. "Sit." she commanded. I not only sat, I cowered. Her demi-goddessness was looking particularly peeved, and my friend Ashkellion was leaning on the bar, looking particularly distracted. I whined a few times in his direction but he didn't even toss me a smile or friendly wave. Hazed leaned down towards me and narrowed her eyes. "We have a little problem here. Ashkellion didn't receive his correspondence about the new planets that came online last week." Uh oh. I blinked a few times, feigning dumb innocence. She leaned closer. "What's even more disturbing, there didn't seem to be any new planets left. They came online, and a few hours later – poof, they disappeared." I half raised a back leg in a feeble attempt to scratch absently. Her intense gaze held mine, and the leg slowly settled back to the floor. She frowned and leaned even closer, bringing us nearly nose-to-snout. My eyes crossed from trying to focus that close. "Just what do you know about this?" she queried. For a few moments we were suspended in silence, immersed in our stare-off, wondering who would break first. Then, I burped. Right in her face, I burped. Not just any burp; it was one of those satisfying drawn out canine belches that meant my entire stomach contents had rolled over and rearranged into a more comfortable architecture. I'm proud to say I never blinked or withdrew an inch, though. "Ewww!" she gasped, waving a hand in front of her face and turning her head as far out of my line of fire as she could. "His breath is horrible!" she wailed. "Why it smells just like…" She narrowed her eyes again and turned to Ashkellion. "It smells just like a rock mini planet!" Ashkellion sputtered and began to fume. "It wasn't my fault!" I whined. Betrayed once again by my own bodily functions, I hastened to explain what had happened. "There's been a run lately on planets that haven't been quite thoroughly proofread lately, you know how bad those can taste!" I pleaded with Ashkellion and Hazed for their understanding. I had gotten hungry, driven to the point of starvation by the absence of a really tasty planet treat. In my desperation to find a world with complete sentences and good spelling, I had started chewing on the stock planets as soon as Slarti's pumped them out. "I didn't mean to eat all of them!" Hazed wasn't happy, but she bought the excuse. Ashkellion was a harder sell. "So, that takes care of why they disappeared, but there's still a mystery here." Ashkellion tapped his chin and pondered. "Why did I not get any notification from Slarti's that the planets came online? If you were chewing on them after they were finished, that still doesn't explain why I wasn't getting the announcements." There are some really good times for a beetle to scurry under your nose, a mouse to run up Hazed's leg, the Martian ruins to blow up underneath you, or a typhoon to carry the bar out to sea. This was one of those times, but it was my poor luck none of that happened. I confessed. "Er, knowing you'd get upset when you found all those new planets disappeared before getting a chance to check them out, I figured I'd just kind of make sure you didn't have to worry about it. What you didn't know wouldn't hurt you, right? I did it so my good buddy wouldn't get all bent out of shape, you see?" Hazed started getting those cute little blue spots again that seem to be the markings of a truly angry demi-goddess. "What did you do, cur?" she demanded. "Er, well, I dug this big hole, and uh, sort of dropped the galactic postman in it. Along with all the mail he was carrying. It wasn't important stuff, I promise! Just a few planet notices, some complaints from dukes, a pile of checks, a couple applications from newbies…" Hazed pressed a few buttons on her comm unit and issued an all-points bulletin for the postman's last resting place and his deliveries. I expected at least a resounding whap on the muzzle, but she just turned to Ashkellion and patted him on the shoulder. She said it was a good thing I'd be out of their hair for a few weeks. "Hey! That's right, I have that tutoring appointment coming up!" I jumped on that change of subject like a sweltering dog on a carton of Frosty Paws. I was looking forward to learning new things, expanding my horizons, exercising my intelligence. I didn't know what the subject of the tutoring would be, but it was really nice of Hazed to arrange it all for me. Ashkellion choked a bit on his drink. "You crazy mutt, you're not going to get tutored, you're going to get…" Hazed interrupted him with a whisper my sensitive hearing could just barely pick up. "No, Ash. If Alsatian thinks I said he is going to be tutored next week, then he's a little mistaken, but that's just fine. After all, what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right?" They chuckled, winked, and turned back to their drinks. I didn't know why I'd gotten off so light this time, but I took the opportunity to make my exit.
WHEN
TOMORROW BECOMES… YESTERDAY? It's happened again, and I'm getting very, very sick of it. I know it's happened to you, too. It must have. It's impossible for it not to have. I bought a piece of computer hardware two days ago, and now it's already obsolete. Tomorrow becomes yesterday way too quickly for my bank account. And like I said, I'm sure you've gone through this trauma as well. However, as it was brought to my attention, this never happens in Fed. So far as I can figure, the reason is that we've finally decided that we've gone far enough in the technology department and have managed to beat the computer companies into submission over the concept of "upgrading" and made all the upgrades standard. After a little bit of digging (and a bit of breaking and entering) I was able to unravel the mystery surrounding the computers we encounter in Fed. As you know, there are seven different classes, and each is different from the others, sometimes in subtle ways. Class 1: This is an abacus. Class 2: While still an abacus, the class 2 has a performance upgrade - colored beads. Class 3: One word - Pong. Class 4: In a move of divergent thinking from the Class 3, this class was built with a far more reliable processor: a rhesus monkey. This simian processor can work at an amazing speed of six computations per banana, and revolutionized combat computer technology. The greatest complaint about the Class 4 was the smell it emitted while running. Class 5: The first system incorporating an autonomic processor platform, the Class 5 has been known to suffer a few errors. Among these errors is its tendency to confuse certain commands. One combination it has trouble with is "Fire Lasers" which somehow becomes "Decompress Ship." Class 6: Understanding that the Class 5's processor wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, designers gave the Class 6 surplus 1980's "Magic 8-balls" as their processor core. Consumer response regarding this change was overwhelmingly positive. Class 7: The absolute top of the line and undisputed king of the tactical computing world, the Class 7 boasts a floating-point processor based around logic so simple the engineers trusted a three-year-old to write the operating system. As a result, there are often many doodles on printouts from the system and the unit is known to crash from time to time. Specifically, about 83% of the time... give or take 7%. If you're anything like me, and I know we've been through this before, you're probably thinking, "Well that's just wonderful. And I care... why?" The honest answer to that is: I don't know. I thought you people might find something useful in this information because so far, ten software analysts and fifty-four systems engineers have been driven insane for the sake of completing this study. It also bears mentioning that I had a much better article written before I lost it. The monkey got confused and ate it. Should there be anything you want to tell me, feel free to write me at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com. Don't be shy. I don't often bite, and even if I do, I've had all my shots. Well, the important ones, anyway.
C.U.J.O.,
Part II Obligatory re-cap for all those who have just discovered the wonder that is the Federation Chronicle this week and haven’t bothered to catch up on anything going on: My planet was half-destroyed, my girlfriend wanted me dead, I was in a rage over the actions of my colleague, some hate group wanted to murder me, and I ended up pushing over an old man. ‘Nuff said, I had a bad day. "So C.U.J.O. is after me. Now what do I do about it?" I asked myself out loud. "Well, sonny, you could start by helping me up," called out the old man meekly, still laid out on the floor, gripping his walker. "I could do that. But then while I was doing it, I very well may be killed in a freak library murder accident. So I think I will opt not to. Oh, and the Federation Chronicle humbly thanks you for letting me use this facility. You will be compensated for any inconvenience you suffered during this period... just kidding. I was lying about everything I said except that I won’t help you get up. Have a nice day!" I responded cheerfully as I left the Mercury Central Library. I began to stroll down the main north/south corridor of Mercury thinking about this newfound information. Once I reached The Hub, though, my peaceful thought session was destroyed by the sound of a pin being pulled, a small round object being rolled until it rested at my feet, and the sound of running feet. Thinking quick, I immediately decided it must be a grenade. Diving fast, I hit the rock ground hard to the west and rolled up to my feet. Strangely, a massive explosion did not follow. Rather, I heard a hissing sound and a black smoke began to rise from the round object. A gas grenade! The gas could be of a variety of forms: paralysis gas, knock-out gas, death gas, or even (and this thought made me shudder) sex change gas! As the gas slowly filled up the claustrophobic rock corridor, my feet began to move fast and I headed in a non-smoking direction. I reached a T-intersection and decided to head north, where I was greeted by the comforting glow of a holographic sign of a slowly rotating planet. I was at Slarti’s. Once inside, I was promptly booted back out. "We’ll TELL you when Mythose is fixed! We’re backlogged enough that we don’t need you pestering us every hour about your planet!" yelled Slarti as one of her more muscular workers escorted me out the door. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The comm ship next to Slarti’s would be no help so I ran down the corridor to the south and gave the T-intersection a quick glance and saw that the black smoke had almost entered this corridor. When I reached the end of this north/south axis. I saw three doors. I hadn’t explored Mercury in quite some time. I randomly chose a door and ended up in... a hydroponics plant. No good. Then I found out what was behind door #2: a dormitory. Also no help. Finally, I opened the last door and found myself inside a pleasantly air-conditioned office. It was a travel agency. This I could work with! "Hello and welcome to Imperial Travel Agency, we bring the universe to you!" greeted a smiling young travel agent, no doubt brainwashed by scripted lines and travel package quotas. "Hi there... I am interested in heading out on a vacation - now. Right this very instant," I stated. "That’s not a problem at Imperial Travel Agency, because we bring..." she mechanically replied until I cut her off. "I said NOW! Quick, give me a list of all the planets I can head off to," I ordered. Looking back through the window, I could see the black smoke curling and wisping ever closer. "Here are brochures that you may peruse for the possible planets that meet your criteria," said the travel agent in her nauseatingly perky voice. I had no time to chose the ideal vacation, I just grabbed the first one on the top without even looking on it and showed it to her. "I wanna go here!" I said, pointing at the cover which looked like a rock. "Certainly, sir. It will cost..." she began. "Here’s my Galactic Account number: <edited to prevent possible theft of Gavin’s precious few groats>, just deduct the necessary amount of groats, and hurry!" I yelled out. Sweat beads were forming on my forehead. The gas had begun to creep under the door. "Well then, that’s all taken care of," she confirmed after inputting my number into the computer. "Oh, wait! You’ve only got 9,997 groats in this account. You’re three groats short," she added regretfully. I stared at her in disbelief and then collapsed in the chair she had motioned me toward earlier and I had never sat down in. When I sat down, a piece of paper on the floor caught my eye. A long string of numbers was written on it. Twenty-four digits... the precise number of a Galactic Account! I picked up the piece of paper and hurriedly read off the numbers. "That’s my other account I forgot about. Just take the three groats and keep the rest for your tip," I told her in my best attempt at being nonchalant. She beamed when I allocated the rest as her tip, and then looked dismayed when she informed me that the account consisted of four groats. Then she came up with yet another hurdle I had to leap across. "It says here you still have a ship. Why do you need a cruise liner if you have a ship?" she asked with feigned curiosity. I didn’t have time to answer. I immediately grabbed my comm unit and spoke into it. Woodspring Ship Auctions replied and agreed to auction of my ship. Soon, I had 534,000 IG back in my account and no ship. Excellent. "Oh, strange. All of a sudden you don’t have a ship anymore," she remarked, then shrugged and handed me my ticket. I had the ticket to some nameless rock and an escape route from the gas! I grinned. "If you will, sir, please meet the cruise liner on the Mercury landing pad as soon as possible," she told me, smiling. My grin disappeared immediately. The Landing Pad? How was I supposed to get there? The route was full of black smoke. Speaking of which, I had since moved toward the back of the office since the black smoke now veiled the door. Strangely, the travel agent didn’t seem to notice. "Just follow me this way through our direct tunnel to the Landing Pad and you will be there in no time," she also told me, smiling still. My smile returned immediately. I was safe! I hurried through the tunnel, boarded the Imperial Cruise Liner, settled down into my economy-class seat, and left that wretched travel agent to die from the black smoke, or, even worse, become a male from it. Eventually, I realized that I didn’t even know where I was headed. As a stewardess came by with our revolting meal, I asked her, "Excuse me, miss, where are we going?" At first all she gave me was a strange look. Then she replied, "We’re headed to Emancipation... Focauld’s Landing." "Thank you miss, and I’ll have the marsrat filet, please," I said. At first "Emancipation" and "Focauld’s Landing" didn’t register to me. After I was served, I decided the meal was uneatable, and put it to the side. I began to think about our destination. Something about "Emancipation" and "Focauld’s Landing" was bothering me. Then, it hit me. "No! It couldn’t be!" I said aloud in a hushed voice. I got up from my seat and hurried toward the nearest newsstand onboard. Grabbing a copy of the current issue of the Federation Chronicle, I scowled when I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Then, I grabbed an old copy from two weeks ago. Something ominous and menacing stared up at me:
I stared up at the ceiling and screamed, "Oliaaaaaaaaaaaas! Why?!?!" The man behind the newsstand simply tapped me on the shoulder, "Hey bud, you gonna pay for that?" I put both copies back and returned to my seat, pale white as a hospital floor. The duration of the journey was a blur to me, and I couldn’t even think about how I was going to get off Emancipation. Once we made planetfall, I doggedly collected my things and shuffled slowly off the cruise liner, dreading what was to come. At first, not much came to me. Just a circular pit dug out of natural rock. Then, what I had been dreading stood there in all its scoundrelish glory: Olias. "Hey Gavin, nice of you to drop by! I read the passenger list of the next inbound flight and there it was: Gavin, Squire of Mythose. Isn’t that something, huh?" he said, with a smile that didn’t do much to hide his evil intent. "Yeah, Olias. Hi. How ya doin’?" I replied halfheartedly. I was crestfallen to say the least. Surprising, since I knew it was going to happen some way or another. "Well, let’s not hang around here, eh Gavin? Follow me," he said, and began to head down the East Road. Eventually we came to the terminus and entered a building to the south, Farrendahl’s. The menacing Kitterian at the door, Farrendahl Redclaw, greeted Olias with a smile and showed him and myself to the nicest table. She wished us an enjoyable meal. "So, Gavin, what brings you to Focauld’s Landing?" he asked. "Oh, you know, just passing by," I said, grasping for words. "You paid a visit to Mythose, so I thought I’d return the favor." "If you were returning the favor, there wouldn’t be much left here, would there? You’re not one to let something like that slide though, are you Gavin? You’ve already returned the favor, seeing as I checked my Galactic Account a few days ago. Strangely enough, several hundred megs are missing. I was shown the ‘purchases’ that brought about the loss of those groats, and I think I know who made those purchases..." he trailed off. I blushed. "That’s what I thought, Gavin. No hard feelings though, I can understand your position. Now that we’ve reached this little understanding, how about a truce?" he asked. "A truce? Really?" I was shocked. I half-expected that Kitterian to come in on cue and blow my head off. "Sure, why not? A little something between NewsDroids, seeing as we have to work together," he said and extended his hand. I took it and we shook. I was now in a truce with Olias. Woe is me. "The food here is excellent. Just about everything on the menu is good. I know Farrendahl personally," remarked Olias. The conversation then sort of died, and I decided to revive it. "Ever heard of an organization called C.U.J.O.?" I queried. "Actually... just hold on a second," he told me and pulled out his wallet. "Hmm... ship-owner’s permit, no; trading permit, that’s not it; planet-owner’s permit, that’s not it either; Scoundrel’s Guild, still no; Snert Killers Anonymous, why can’t I find this thing? Dr. Fogg’s, wait, let’s not go there; ah yes, here it is, my C.U.J.O. card." "You belong to C.U.J.O.?! Let me see that!" I demanded. He handed over the card. It read: Compliments Undying for the Journalist Olias. President - Olias. "Not that C.U.J.O.," I told him. "You conceited bum, I can’t believe you created a club like that," I added under my breath. "What was that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at me. "Oh, nothing. The C.U.J.O. I was referring to was the Castigation of Unsavory Journalists Organization," I said in a low voice. "Oh yeah! I’m a member of them too. Here’s my card," he said, and procured yet another card for yet another C.U.J.O. This one read: Castigation of Unsavory Journalists Organization. Member: Olias Focauld, Baron of Emancipation. "Well I’ll be damned... you know chances are they’re out to kill you. If anyone ever fit the word unsavory, it was you," I told him. "Well, Hazed got it fixed up for me, actually. She sent me in to do an exposé on them," he explained. That’s when things started to click. If someone like Olias could manage to penetrate their organization, why couldn’t I?
FED
OP-ED: SOL MOBILES, PART II Again, I went off on my journey to poll the "regulars" in Fed… Let's see the outcome. A grizzle approaches you ponderously... >ex grizzle Q: Hi there! How are you? Would you like to participate in a quick poll? A: How am I? Hungry… ::growls:: Mmm… jelly… Say, would you like to stay for dinner? Q: Oh boy… WOW! Look at the time… It just flies, doesn't it? I must really be off… ::begins running::
>ex spaceman Q: If I were a new person to Sol, where would you recommend to go? A: Well, frankly, NOWHERE if you are dressing like THAT. ::scoffs:: Q: Why, I never!
>ex officer Q: Would you say that Sol is a safe place to live? A: Well… being that I have been in this office without leaving for years now, I would have to say that the level of crime is quite low. I just wish someone would tell me when my shift is over…
>ex hobo Q: What is the best part of living in Sol? A: ::blinks twice:: Best part?!? LOOK AT ME! Sheesh… that's almost as bad as asking me what my favorite restaurant to eat in is! Q: Oh, I'm sorry. Er… ::scratches the next question off her list:: Well, that's all I had to ask. Have a nice day.
>ex Krystal Q: Hi, would you like to… say, what are you whispering into that recorder? A: ::looks at Jelly and giggles knowingly:: Q: ::gets paranoid:: Would you mind if I looked at that recorder for a second… please? A: No way! Q: GIVE ME THAT RECORDER! I mean, can I have the… A: ::runs away::
>ex tourist Q: Hi! Nice running into you again. How is your vacation going? A: Did I really get put into the news?!? Huh? Huh? Did I? Did I? Wait 'till the folks back at home hear this! I'm famous! Q: ::backs away slowly::
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: PLANET REVIEW? First of all, friends, let me extend an apology for the absence of an article last week. Some rather urgent planetary matters arose which required my immediate attention. It would seem that a certain member of the News Team – I will not be so petty as to mention any names, such as Gavin – was holding a grudge over some rather unfortunate events that transpired when I paid his planet a visit last week. I had gone to this planet – which I will not specify as Mythose - to benevolently welcome him to the News Team. This sadly misguided lad – whom I have already stated I will not identify as Gavin of Mythose – appears to have taken offense at the rampant destruction I... accidentally... caused to his planet, which I have already expressly stated was in no way my fault. This person – who I will refer to as 'Fred' for the purpose of anonymity rather than by his real name, in this case Gavin of Mythose – even went so far as to try to bill me for this accidental damage. Perhaps Fred's largest mistake was naming himself the 'Anti-Scoundrel' in his article's byline. Such a foolish label can only serve to scare off the overabundant supply of seedy underworld types to be found in Dataspace, who are only too happy to serve as spies and informants for the right price. Some might say only the most depraved and vile of criminal types would make use of such an intelligence network, and all I can say is that I resemble that remark. The benefits of having such contacts speaks for itself: Ring. Ring. "Hello? Slarti's Planetary Design Workshop. How may I help you?" Khajjika intercepted the comm signal from Mythose. "Yes, I need approximately one-third of Mythose's landmass restored and as soon as possible, a planet tug to pull Mythose back into her proper orbit," the caller said. "Certainly, Mr. Gavin," Khajjika smiled, "shall we add that to your bill?" "No, no," came the response, "you see, Olias of Emancipation had a little accident, and has nicely enough volunteered to pay for all of this." "Olias? The scoundrel? The one who writes those awful articles for the FedChron?" Khajjika feigned disbelief as he winked across the desk at Olias, who was listening on a separate line. Olias glared at Khajjika. "That would be the one," Gavin responded on the line. "Very well then. If you say so, Mr. Gavin. After all, a TALENTED writer like you wouldn't lie," Khajjika closed the channel. Olias snickered as he signaled Slarti's. "Hello, I am Gavin of Mythose. I would like my existing planet replaced with one entirely made up of Jello. Please expedite this job. What's that? It will cost three times the normal amount to expedite? No problem, and add a few gig to the bill as a little something for yourself." Ring. Ring. "Smerg's Building and Repair... you break 'em, we fix 'em, Smerg speaking," Khajjika answered. "Hello, this is... Nivag, I work for the scoundrel, Olias," Gavin's voice came over the line. You get the idea. Suffice it to say the day was starting out grandly and Khajj and I were having a hell of a good time. We were seated around my spy equipment in the back room of the Spacer's Rest Bar and Grill, located on my planet, Focauld's Landing. We watched with amusement as Gavin tried to book passage off his planet on an Imperial Spacelines luxury liner. I had contacted Imperial Spacelines earlier that day and booked all the remaining flights. Over popcorn and whiskey Khajj and I watched a frustrated Gavin make his way to the shipyard on Mythose, forced to buy a ship. We chuckled and clapped each other on the back as the man we planted, an old smuggling buddy of mine named Lemuel Jackson, explained from the shipyard order desk that he didn't care who Gavin was, he was going to pay full price. We shared grins as Gavin eventually grudgingly agreed and boarded the ship we had also planted, an old derelict shipwreck I had found floating through space. As expected, the fresh application of some manky-grey paint tricked Gavin into thinking the ship was new. We watched merrily as the dilapidated old tub veered to one side on a take-off, and later went into an uncontrollable spiral in space. It was soon set upon and destroyed by a hostile ship. I reset the spybeam as Gavin's clone woke up groggy and confused on some planet and Khajj played 'Taps' on a Kitterian Kazoo. Khajjika and I were wiping the tears of laughter from our eyes when Kristoph Holloway, the Landing's security chief, appeared in the doorway. Holloway saluted and stepped forward. "Sir, I just came by to tell you that Senator Alsatian is here to do the planet review you requested." My laughter died. "Alsatian! He's here? You let him land? Planet review? What are you talking about?" Holloway fidgeted, evidently not expecting my sharp response. "Well... er... yes sir, we let him land. He claimed he had a copy of a Planet Review Request Form, with your signature, which he presented on arrival. Looked official to me, so I authorized his presence here." Holloway handed me a letter.
I looked up at Holloway in disbelief. "Blast it, Kris, does this look authentic to you? I never requested any planet review, I don't spell quite THIS bad, and when have you ever known me to put a PAW PRINT under my name?" Holloway fidgeted under my glower. "Er... well sir, I thought maybe Wolfyn... you know, I thought maybe it was her... well, you know how she kind of tells you how to run the planet since you sort of suck at planetary manageme..." "Thank you. That will be all. Dismissed," I interrupted, through clenched teeth. I turned to Khajjika. "Blast it. Khajj, you're with me. We'll find the good senator and get rid of him." I grabbed my blaster pistol and exited to the street with Khajj at my side. This represented a serious security risk. My little fringe colony is one great front for a secret project. The entire colony was designed to resemble a backwater outpost in a dangerous system, the purpose being to keep the curious away – specifically, curious Imperial forces. Inside a massive man-made asteroid located in the dense asteroid belt surrounding the system, a ship is being built. The ISS Emancipation. To many people throughout the galaxy, the Emancipation Project represents a hope for freedom from Imperial tyranny. Her eventual mission will be to liberate oppressed worlds caught in the fist of the Imperials. The whole project is coordinated by a command base located hundreds of feet below the surface of the Focauld's Landing colony. Khajj and I had to find Alsatian quickly. All it would take was a single tight beam from an Imperial Senator who saw too much to send millions of man-hours of work down the drain. We took off at a fast pace down the road leading to the landing pad. Sure enough, Alsatian's ship had been berthed there, a ship that was - by any standard - distinctly odd in shape and color. It was shaped vaguely like a large bone. And it had spots. I stood perplexed as Khajj produced a portable scanner and directed it at the vessel. "Highly-modified Dragon-Class," Khajj reported. "Some sort of strange device in the bow. Appears to be some sort of molecular modification unit that can pattern, replicate and reconstitute atomic structures on the quantum level." Khajj frowned in concentration. "In English, Khajj." I curtly replied. He always was the technical one. "It's called an 'Atom-Reducer'. You can point this thing at any sort of object, and upon energizing, the object can be reformed to a smaller mass according to the user's specifications." I felt the blood starting to drain from my face. "How much smaller? What kind of scale are we talking here?" Khajj picked up a rock. "If they have worked out the gravitational problems inherent to the law of conservation of mass, this rock could very well be someone's planet." Khajjika and I shared a look of apprehension, a look interrupted by the sound of a dog's bark. We swung around together. There are times when the human (and Kitterian) brain is exposed to combinations of stimuli that are so incongruous that the brain will not only fail to grasp their significance, it will flatly refuse the attempt without, at least, a nice stiff drink. For example:
Khajjika and I had tanked up on whiskey while watching Gavin's demise. We nevertheless stood dumbfounded, our mouths agape. It should therefore be noted that if the human (and Kitterian) brain is then forced to deal with stimuli originating from the already incongruous combination, further requirements may need to be met before comprehension is attempted.
The Dishonorable Senator Alsatian, decked out in Senatorial Robes, stood in the entrance to the landing area wagging his tail happily. "Hiya," Alsatian said, his voice somewhat muffled by a chew toy resembling a spacecraft. The Senator put down the chew toy, barked once, and scampered off down the road. Khajj and I flatly refused to make sense of it. For the next thirty minutes, we continued to fail to make sense of it. With nary a word, I strode over and picked up the slobber-covered chew toy. It looked like a toy version of the Emancipation. I held it a little closer to my face to better examine it. A tiny voice called out, "Help us!" "ACK!" I was so startled I dropped the thing. Flung it, really. It hit the stone floor of the landing area and shattered in a distinctly un-dog-toy-like fashion. The corner of my mouth twitched and my left hand moved around of its own accord as my still-muddled brain fought to make the connection. Emancipation. Atom-reducer. Emancipation. Atom-reducer. EMANCIPATION? ATOM-REDUCER! OH NO!! DOG MUST PAY!! I flew into a rage. Drawing my blaster, I took off down the road at a dead run, in search of the mutt. Khajjika took off after me, and for his part, was keeping his cool. I vaguely remember him telling me that everything would be okay; That we would find Alsatian; That we would reverse the atom-reducer and, with the help of a little duct tape, restore the Emancipation; That I should think about my blood pressure. I followed the trail of muddy dog prints eastward. At the end of the road, the tracks took an abrupt right turn and disappeared through the entrance of Farrendahl's Café. I tore through the entrance with Khajj on my heels. Farrendahl Redclaw – Khajjika's Kitterian Life-Mate – was reclining back in a chair at one of the tables in her café. Her rumpled shirt had paw prints on it, was buttoned incorrectly, and appeared to be turned inside-out. She held a smoldering cigarette in her claw, and there was a vacant, dreamy expression on her face. She didn't seem to see us at all. Alsatian was nowhere in sight. Beside me, Khajjika was turning a funny shade of crimson under his fur. His eyes held a murderous glint, and he was slowly advancing on Farrendahl. Seeing what was about to happen, I jumped in front of Khajj and put my hands against his fuzzy chest. "Now, wait a minute, Khajj! I'm sure it's not what it looks like!" From behind me, Farrendahl shuddered with ecstasy, lost in bliss. "Oh, Alsatian!" She murmured. "That mushy black nose! That foofy tail!" She purred with the pleasure of the memory. "Oh, Al!" Khajjika bared his fangs and produced a savage weapon from his belt, but before he could mercilessly butcher his Life-Mate (and probably me and everyone else on the planet), the swinging doors leading to the kitchen flew open with a bang and we were being trampled by hundreds of paws. The Dishonorable Senator Alsatian bounded forward from the opening, closely followed by Hound and a pack of dogs, once known as the 121st Hole-Diggers, a division of rebels from a recent war. Alsatian stopped just long enough to lick Farrendahl once across the snout – at which her eyes fluttered and she moaned with longing – and as a group they all scampered out the door. Hound's voice trailed off in the distance, "Aroo-hoo! Hep is sent!" I grabbed Khajj by the scruff and bodily hauled him outside, giving pursuit. Already, the dogs were nowhere in sight. Looking up and down the street, I became slowly aware of a strange sound. It was some sort of faint hissing noise, and it seemed to be getting louder. I glanced at Khajjika, and by the way his ears were perked, I could tell it wasn't just my imagination. As the sound grew from a low hiss to a load roar, I could tell it was coming from the general direction of the landing pad. Once again, I set off at a dead run, dragging Khajjika along by a fuzzy ear. We arrived too late. The last tail was disappearing up the ramp of Alsatian's ship, and the ramp was raising even as we skidded to a halt. Khajj and I shielded our eyes as the ship lifted off in a storm of dust and disappeared into the distance. The roar was deafening now, and a quick glance around was all it took to see that something was dreadfully wrong. The 121st Hole-Diggers had done their job well. Life is possible on Focauld's Landing only through the use of an atmospheric containment dome. Prior to their hasty departure, the Hole-Diggers had burrowed small holes under the dome in several places, leaving the dome's interior pressure to finish the job. The holes were steadily widening as the rapidly escaping air took tons of dirt with it. I grabbed Khajj and screamed over the din, "C'mon! We have to get to the Rover!" Fighting against the gale-force winds, we clawed our way up the entrance ramp of my ship. Skipping the pre-flight checklist, we cranked up the thrusters and roared up to the relative safety of orbit. I sighed, hours later, as I surveyed the wreckage of the colony below. The Emancipation was lost. Focauld's Landing lay in ruins. There had been extensive human casualties, though some had made it out in time. Workthingies had been killed by the thous... well, who cares about the workthingies. One question: Why? Was it simply a rescue operation of the 121st Hole-Diggers? Could it be related to the newly discovered organization called C.U.J.O.? Was it simply retribution? Only time will tell, I suppose. Only Alsatian knows the answer. I set about the long and arduous process of finding a new world to colonize, a new home for the expensive rebuilding of the ISS Emancipation. After two weeks of exploration by thousands of deep space probes, a new colony was founded, the project begun again. Naturally, I charged it all to Gavin.
Two planets came up for review this week – Cloudnine and Emancipation. This was rather unusual; one planet with a decent number of locations to investigate can seriously cut into my naptime. For a lazy hound, two requires a staggering effort. I received both requests several weeks ago. Teenangel's invitation to check out Cloudnine was the usual nice letter – come see my planet, try not to track mud, etcetera. I happily added the planet to the queue. In contrast the request from Olias left me somewhat queasy; if this note was a preview of what the planet was like, then munching on Emancipation was going to result in a bad case of indigestion.
Olias's participation in the Dog Wars, along with his canine wannabe companion Khajjika, is whispered about behind trees and in grooming parlors everywhere. They had managed to thwart our attempts to reclaim Sol and sent the dog troops, along with my comrade Hound, into hiding. I stared at the note in disbelief - didn't he realize this was an open invitation to publicly trash his planet? And what kind of fool would invite a planet reviewer to his mudball and not even spell check his letter! And why was his signature followed by a paw print? I reluctantly added Emancipation to the end of the cyoo, er... I mean queue. I'd have to be very careful when I explored this planet. Meanwhile, Cloudnine awaited my attention. There is one location on Cloudnine that I purposely didn't include in my review. I would never reveal that in this location, called Alsatian's Animal Comfort Area (porter location 89), there is a fire hydrant. I also wouldn't spill the secret of fire hydrants, that is; they are not only used by certain animals as relief stations, but they are also the canine equivalent of a galactic notice board. I sauntered up to the fire hydrant in the Comfort Area and checked my mail. There was a chatty little message from the German shepherd on Earth (the flea crop looks excellent this year!), an alert from Fang about the upcoming Cujo project, a complaint about the new leash laws from Bigbigdog, and a coded message that smelled like it might be from my missing comrade, Hound. I sniffed at the hydrant until I could make out the entire text. "Hiddin on Emanshipashun. Yous my lettr. Breeng hep." I pulled the Olias's planet review request from my pack. Of course! The paw print, the scent, the goddess-awful speeling, er... I mean spelling! Hound was hiding on Emancipation, trapped right under the nose of the scoundrel Olias, but had somehow smuggled out this forged request. It was my ticket to his rescue. I'd have to temporarily suspend my exploration of Cloudnine and rush the hep to Emancipation. Quickly I lifted my leg and broadcast a general query out on the canine notice board. Within minutes I had my answer. Hep was the Hostage Extrication Patrol.
Emancipation used to be a nice planet but it's kind of wrecked looking now.
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