SF/SG: Trail Boss #2 (1/2)
Eric Burns
eaburns at annotations.com
Mon Jul 25 14:22:07 PDT 2016
Altiverse 666HELLSDRYDOCKANDFISHMONGERS, local 1994-01-11 19:21 UTC
January 11, 1994
3:21 AM UST (Underworld Standard Time)
Engineering Deck 6 Forecastle (Inlet Manifold Array)/Spinal Mount Barrel
Satanic Star Ship -Yesj-
A full month before breaching the altiversal barriers at their weakest
point, destroying the Sage's Space Station and sweeping into Altiverse
000SUPERGUY with all the grace and delicacy of a tank being hurled through
Guernica, preparations were at a fever pitch on the SSS -Yesj._ Unlike the
rest of Satan's destructive fleet, which flew through 001SF and
666NASTYNASTYNASTY for the most part, the -Yesj- was being kept in an
Altiverse Satan and his minions had been grooming for aeons, shaping it from
the very Big Bang as it was expressed locally as a resupply and refit
drydock for the Hellsfleet. That it was also a Fishmonger's was perhaps
unexpected, but it made things easier at Fong's Happy Belly of Mongolian
Food Yurt. Some damned souls and demons were stupid enough to complain that
fish wasn't actually a staple of Mongolian cuisine. Those damned souls and
demons generally ended up on the next day's menu.
Argthor the Reaver was not stupid, at least most of the time. He was
twelve feet tall, with long, almost oddly thin arms and legs over a barrel
like body, with pinkish red skin, razor sharp horns and teeth, fiery yellow
eyes (literally, at some times) and a surprisingly good baritone singing
voice. He was clever and savvy, and had made a reputation for himself in the
engineering division of the various warships and dreadnought's of Satan's
battlefleet. This had led him -- along with several million of his coworkers
-- to be assigned to the refitting of the -Yesj.-
It had been more of a challenge than he had anticipated.
Oh, sure. The -Yesj- was absolutely huge, with eighty-five mile thick
armor on the conning tower, with a bulge towards the broad middle of the
-Yesj- that made the profile look two thousand miles thick, and the whole
thing was six thousand miles long. It had a drive train in excellent
condition designed to interface with almost any drive effect one wanted. It
had tens upon tens of thousands of hardpoints lining every exterior surface,
and a spinal mount that could potentially fire a weapon of unimaginable
power. If this ship were compensating for someone's genital size, said
genitals had to have enough negative mass to reinforce a stable wormhole.
And the hundreds of decks inside were huge and open and ready for almost any
purpose they'd want to put it to -- the other, similar warships they'd
fought against -- the -Boj- and the -Noj- -- had been much more utilitarian.
This ship was meant for any mission you set for it, from military to
exploration to colonization to evacuating whole populations of future slaves
for the fiery pits and engine rooms of 666NASTYNASTYNASTY.
Really, the only thing it had lacked was weapons of any kind, an actual
drive initiator to hook up to said drive train or any power systems beyond
simple systems reactors for internal electronics. Oh, and it lacked any
capacity to repair the blasted ship.
Most of Argthor the Reaver's supervisors and peers figured the lack of
repair facilities was a function of the sheer impregnability of the ship's
armor. And, since it wasn't damaged, they figured it wasn't worth putting a
lot of thought into it. Better, they figured, to work on the weapons,
engines and power, since those were actual problems.
Argthor the Reaver didn't buy it. Not for a second.
For one thing, the ship had clearly been flown before. Tens of
thousands of years ago? Maybe. But it *had* been flown. Argthor the Reaver
had to imagine it had been in battle more than once -- and as thick and
durable as the armor was (they still couldn't even figure out what the armor
or interior decks were *made* of), it wasn't indestructible. There were
small scratches on the hull from where micrometeors had hit it over the
thousands of years it had stood empty, waiting. Negligible? Sure! But if a
tiny bit of rock could cause a scratch, there's no way this thing had never
taken fire.
Argthor the Reaver hadn't exactly had time to investigate, however.
He'd been put on armament duty, and had been overseeing the installation of
literally tens of thousands of brimstone projectors, defensive batteries and
so many other weapons it made his oversized, brick shaped head spin. (Though
head spinning was just one of the many advantages his demonic form had over
mortals -- he used a good headspin to impress goth chicks at parties
throughout the eighties.)
Still, he'd been put on the spinal mount team, and he'd found a strange
thing on the inside of the long barrel of the spinal mount. He had to work
hard on prepping the barrel to amplify and accelerate the expanding
brimstone payload -- compressed to eighteen miles in diameter as it was
fired but then bursting into a full sixty mile projectile going at a
shockingly high rate of speed after it left the barrel. The interior was
clearly designed for this sort of thing, but that didn't mean leaving things
to chance. Leaving things to chance led to mistakes, and mistakes led to
consequences -- which in this case involved flensing, soaking in lemon
afterward, being rolled in panko crumbs, and dropped into the rendered
boiling fat of fallen Priests until crispy, then being devoured by
Hellhounds. And Argthor the Reaver wasn't going through that again.
As he worked on the barrel, he noticed a series of channels and baffles
like nothing he'd seen before. They looked like some kind of exhaust
manifold -- admittedly with each sealed channel moving forward down the
barrel to the end, but that was more than a little nuts. Oh, and they were
each six miles high and four miles wide with a two mile gap in between them,
but at this point "monstrously oversized" was so much a given that it barely
registered in Argthor the Reaver's brain at this point. What would a
distributed manifold like this even be used for? Was it some means of
venting exhaust from certain types of spinal mount from aft to the front?
Using his long arms and legs like a spider's to cling and move, Argthor
the Reaver swept down to the end of the barrel, checking the channels as he
went. It was four hundred miles from his current position, but he was pretty
fast when he wanted to be. He could see ways in which the channels could be
pulled down flush with the barrel -- which made sense given some spinal
mount types the demon had seen before. Still, it was strange.
It was at the two hundred fifteen mile mark that Argthor the Reaver saw
something truly unexpected.
The channels at that point seemed to have a seam running around the
barrel, each along each channel. Shifting up into the depth of one of the
gaps between channels, Argthor the Reaver crawled up alongside, checking
both sides. The seams went along the six mile length of the sides, almost as
if...
Argthor the Reaver reached the edge of the barrel, with the wall of the
channel rising up in front of him, He examined the edge, and his eyes grew
wide. Looking down the barrel, he saw nothing blocking him from running full
bore down to the end, so he did this, head swiveling back to look up to the
top of the channel as he went, then back down. It seemed likely...
Yes. Yes. The channels were sloping downward now. The angle was very
slight, from his point of view, but it was there. He sped up now, eyes still
wider as he ran. On either side, the channel walls grew shorter and shorter
-- clearly less than five miles... then less than four....
By the time Argthor the Reaver had gotten within twenty miles of the
barrel's opening, the channels had reached the very bottom. Forward of this
the barrel was smooth right up to the lip.
Argthor the Reaver walked in front of the channel. Looking back, it
resembled nothing more than a four mile wide onramp -- only he knew that it
was a manifold -- it should have an opening to vent. Did it somehow vent
internally? What insanity was this?
He walked back, peering closely at the channel's slow rise. He leaned
down close, letting his fiery eyes illuminate -- he saved a fortune in
flashlights. It almost looked like...
Like the manifold's channels were designed to lift out of the barrel --
like the entire barrel could, with some setting somewhere being thrown, have
hundreds of open exhaust ports open up to vent out....
...unless... this wasn't an exhaust manifold. But given both the size
of the -Yesj- and the fact that... well, it was a *space ship* in *space,*
what kind of *intake* manifold could it possibly be?
Argthor the Reaver pulled out the hand computer he'd been issued. He
looked over the map on the puny display, looking for the nearest access
hatch. He needed to get inside, then take the nearest transmission station
to wherever these pipes led inside the -Yesj- engineering decks. Maybe no
one else cared about this, but whatever it was... it was something, it was
huge, and it was a mystery -- and those were three things that Argthor the
Reaver didn't like being in the dark over on a ship he'd be aboard in
combat.
Argthor the Reaver also didn't like being in the dark about staff
birthday parties, since that meant he'd be caught without a present or card
and he'd just be standing in the corner, waiting, but that was less relevant
to his situation -- or so he thought until he arrived at aft engineering
transmission station 221b-eng-11c1 only to discover that Ioanthia, Balseraph
Demon of Bedwetting, was right in the middle of her two thousand, one
hundred and seventy-fourth birthday. That Ioanthia had nursed a barely
concealed crush on Argthor the Reaver didn't help matters. "Argie!" she
shouted, amidst the chaos, cake, and torment of thirty-four fallen souls
choir. "I knew you'd make it!"
Argthor the Reaver smiled as convincingly as he could -- fooling
Iaonthia Demon of Bedwetting because she was inclined to be fooled so as to
confirm her internal narrative like a good Balseraph but otherwise not
fooling anyone -- and lifted the comparatively tiny demoness in a friendly
hug while cheers and mockery filled the room. The manifold and its secrets
would just have to wait.
Sfstory Digest presents
Stetson Tyler: Space Cowboy
in
Trail Boss
Part 2
Based on the work, attitude and sheer willpower
of
Frank Orzechowicz
The Large Manly Nigel Savage in Wet Clothing
Written, sort of
by
Eric Burns-White
Lord Sabre
which is not actually a title I remember being given
by any kind of title giving authority, now that I think
about it.
Altiverse 000SUPERGUY, local 19940307 20:32 UTC
April 7, 1994
6:32 PM EDT
Conning Tower Level 958 (Launch Deck 4)
Pretty Damn Fine Ol' Hellacious Ship "Alamo's Revenge's Revenge"
Linda Madison looked dubious. It wasn't a natural state for Linda
Madison. Her face was really better suited to looking friendly, or
compassionate, or happy. Dubious was something that took effort. Dubious was
a strain.
Admittedly, Linda's last long term relationship had given her a *lot*
of opportunities to train those muscles up. "A job," she said.
"Yup!" Stetson Tyler said -- well, shouted, but Linda could tell he was
the sort of person for whom 'said' and 'shout' were much closer together
than most people would normally consider them. "A job!"
"You understand -- I literally had just landed my ship on Earth, with
no adventures or cosmic calamities or wars in Heaven or chicken kiev
processing garbage scows ahead of me. I was actually finally *going*
*home.*"
"Yeah, I had a hunch that was the case," Stetson said, grinning.
"And you kidnapped me. Across altiversal barriers, no less!"
"How'd you know that was an altiversal transport?" Shauna Campbell
asked, stepping up to the side of Stetson Tyler, her own hand on her own
sidearm -- which made sense, since Brother Maegenhard still had his sacred
uru hammer Frank out and ready for mayhem, and Linda herself was still
pointing a Waldorf and Statler Model 19 Heavy Death Really Kill'em Personal
Nuker at Stetson and -- by the very nature of a personal nuker -- everyone
on that side of the room.
"It's not my first rodeo," Linda said. "And also, I used my Space
Paladin healing abilities to keep Brother Maegenhard and I from being
incapacitated by uncontrollable vomiting." Which had largely drained them,
it was worth noting, but Linda saw absolutely no reason to mention that.
"Damn right it's not," Stetson said, grinning broadly at the use of the
rodeo metaphor. "And there's no damn reason it should be your last! Why're
you goin' home, anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean why're you goin' back to Earth! I can't imagine it was to check
out the rebuilt Manchester, New Hampshire!" For, you see, the author had
managed to forget that Manchester, New Hampshire had -- like so much of New
England -- been blown up back in 1988.
"Because it's been years! I just got out of a relationship! I need to
get my life back to... to..."
"Normal?" Shauna asked.
"Something like that."
"So you were gonna go see family?" Stetson asked.
"Actually, all my relatives are dead."
"Oh," Shauna said. "I'm sorry."
"Why?" Brother Maegenhard asked. "Did you kill them? Because if you
killed them I'm afraid I'll have to bring down the wrath of all the Star
Heavens upon thee!
"She didn't kill my parents, Brother Maegenhard," Linda said with the
tired sound of long practice at explaining situations. "No one here killed
my parents."
"Then... how did they die?"
"They were visiting friends in Houston when some kind of giant starship
launched and destroyed the state."
"Ah -- that will do it, yes," the Star Warpriest said, nodding
comfortingly.
Meanwhile, Shauna, Bill Tog, and Captain Majors all looked deeply
uncomfortable. The Sage didn't, but then the Sage knew everything. Zelda
looked like she didn't care about the subject.
Stetson, of course, did not look uncomfortable in the least. "So what
you're sayin' is you're goin' back to Earth to... what? Report back to
NASA?"
"...well, no. I'm pretty sure I'm out, there."
"So what in Tarnation' and all the Tarnatites who live there did you
plan to do when you got there?!"
"I... was going to live out of the -Unmitigated Trout- and find a job
somewhere."
Stetson nodded. "And here you are. Here's the -Unmitigated Trout.- And
I'm offerin' you a job. So the only difference is you're here instead of on
Earth."
"Well... yes."
"What if I told you that you could have it both ways?"
Shauna blinked, looking at Stetson. "She can? What do you mean?"
Linda blinked, looking at Stetson. "She can? What do you mean?"
Bill Tog blinked, looking at Stetson. "She can? What do you mean?"
Captain Majors blinked, looking at the Sage. "Why are they all saying
the same thing in the same tone of voice with the same inflection?"
The Sage blinked, looking at Captain Majors. "It'll cost you twenty
bucks to find out."
Captain Majors blinked, looking at the Sage. "Forget it.
Far, far away, in a private bungalow nestled on planet Mitchell II in
Altiverse 223DON'TTRYITAUTHORSONLY, Sabre blinked as well. He then smacked
the side of the Automatic Story Transcriber, getting it out of the logical
loop it had found itself in. You try going decades without a service patch
and see how you do with it.
*** NOTES FROM THE AUTOMATIC STORY TRANSCRIBER ***
It may come as some surprise to long time readers that the wanton
destruction of so many places on planet Earth in 001SF have had
consequences. After all, there has been so much devestation with so little
mention over such a long time that it practically seems like Sfstory's theme
song should be "Consequence Free" by Great Big Sea.
But then, everything's theme song should be "Consequence Free" by Great
Big Sea.
Still, there have been many consequences resulting from the destruction
of so many places on Earth. For example, the destruction of the Greater
Metropolitan Boston Area meant that Licensed Space Paladin Matt DeForrest
had lost his position as President of Danielson Hall at Boston University,
causing him significant heartache. It also meant that both Matthew DeForrest
and Radar Vogel couldn't get their actual degrees from B.U. -- Matthew's
being a Bachelor of Arts and Radar's being a Masters of Science in
Spamology. It further meant that the Trident Booksellers and Cafe on Newbury
Street no longer sold those really good watercress and tuna bagel sandwiches
or indeed existed any more. And it meant that the MIT pranks levied against
Yale had become boring due to nonexistence.
The destruction of Portland, Maine had led to a massive shift in the
lobster fisheries, greatly increasing the price of tortured sea bug
nationwide. The destruction of Freeport, Maine had led to the loss of L.L.
Beans, which meant expensive leather and rubber boots were suddenly much
harder to come by and flannel was suddenly considered vintage. The
destruction of the original Manchester, New Hampshire had led to a major
public works initiative to rebuild the city as a fortress of Living Free or
Dying, except of course that pot was still criminalized because of a reason.
And of course, the destruction of Fort Kent, Maine...
...actually, the destruction of Fort Kent, Maine had no impact on
anything whatsoever. Only the residents of Clair, New Brunswick --
miraculously unharmed during the space invasion that had destroyed Fort
Kent, despite being on the other side of a river -- had even noticed it had
been destroyed, and that only because it meant they had to drive to
Edmundston and cross over into Madawaska if they wanted to buy American
snack foods. So I suppose that would count as a consequence, except of
course that the residents of Clair, New Brunswick, with a of population 857
hardy souls, pretty much acted as the dictionary definition of
inconsequential. In fact, the New Brunswick Premier's office in Fredericton
had taken a break from the staff screaming in existential despair at living
in Fredericton and demanding an accounting from an unfeeling universe to
archive and then shred all records relating to Clair under the excuse that
keeping them in the first place was stupid.
Biathlon fans (there must be some) from Altiverse 000REALLIFE may
question the inconsequential nature of Fort Kent given that the 000REALLIFE
version is the home to the U.S. Olympic Biathlon training center.
Unfortunately, said center hadn't been constructed yet in 1988, when the
town was destroyed in 001SF. So, Fort Kent in that altiverse did not go on
to proudly train absolutely zero Olympic medalists from 1999 onwards, the
way it did in 000REALLIFE.
In the summer, the training center offers rollerblading. Sorry, 001SF.
Sorry you didn't get to go rollerblading in Fort Kent, Maine.
*** END TRANSMISSION ***
April 7, 1994
6:32 PM EDT
DefenseCo Headquarters
New York City
The twin trails of Xolchipaliax radiation burned the sky red as the two
officers flew through the atmosphere towards the target their Xolchaholo
displays were routing them towards. As with all officers of the Xolchipalian
Defense Forces the two wore oddly stylish red and silver uniforms and
carried one of the most powerful standardized weapons and multitools ever
created -- the Tihorn.
The Tihorn was the pinnacle of Xolchipalian engineering -- which, given
that the Xolchipalians were the oldest and most advanced civilization in the
entirety of Altiverse 000SUPERGUY and very possibly the oldest and most
advanced civilization anywhere in the multiverse was saying something.
Compact and nearly indestructible, the Tihorn was a rod-like device made of
red metal with small silver receptors placed along its body. It was
pentagonal along the main shaft which itself was somewhat less than an inch
in diameter. The metal was smooth and straight until approximately three and
a half inches from the end, whereupon it bent smoothly to a 20 degree angle,
forming a hooklike end, while the shaft itself flattened and widened, with
an emitter notch opening partway down and creating a split effect at the
very end. The other end of the twenty four inch shaft flattened into a very
slight angle, forming more of a broad wedge. From the crook a variety of
advanced Xolchipaliax radiation effects could be generated, from tractor and
pressor beams to Xolchaprobes to extremely powerful and focused Xolchipaliax
lasers burning from the notch. The other end was more utilitarian, able to
focus the power of the Tihorn out into potent Xolchapulses and Xolchipaliax
concussion bursts, as well as projecting Xolchipaliax shields of various
forms. Officers of the Xolchipalian Defense Forces could use their Tihorns
in innovative and broad ways, and the Tihorn had become recognized as one of
the most powerful weapons and tools in the galaxy.
Unfortunately, the thing looked *exactly* like a red crowbar with some
silver bits of paint and a few flashing lights. And, as every culture that
had evolved opposable digits had also developed crowbars at some point in
their history -- more often, oddly enough, than the wheel or the harnessing
of fire, which makes one wonder how they forged those crowbars in the first
place -- absolutely no one ever looked at a Tihorn and thought
'sophisticated weapon of power' so much as 'I bet I could get a crate open
with that.'
The flight mode of the Xolchipalian Defense Forces came from a blending
of the Tihorn's abilities and the uniform's defensive properties. Officers
could fly through space for days without discomfort (and the uniforms were
much better at hygienic than, say, Brother Maegenhard's scale maile),
survive in climates ranging from 'hot enough to melt lead' to 'cold enough
to make you want to pour hot lead on your body,' and move with speed and
precision to their destinations.
Of course, Officers of the Xolchipalian Defense Forces, though
ostensibly military, were effectively cops on the beat most of the time, so
it comes as no surprise that their attitude reflects this.
"I hate these stupid make-work missions," Officer Jerry Doyle
(coincidence) groused.
"Hey, it's flight time, which means flight pay," Officer Claudia
Christian (coincidence) said. "And besides, I kind of like Earth. It reminds
me of my home province."
"Really?" Doyle (coincidence) asked.
"Yeah. My home province is depressing, too."
The pair landed in a plaza before the towering world headquarters of
DefenseCo, the international corporation that had been formed by the heroic
Defense Squad when they suddenly and without warning went ultra-corporate,
with their leader Smartman devoting all his energies to building his
corporate portfolio and providing excellent quality and corporate synergy
across multiple boundaries with a global perspective and innovative
infrastructure -- a mission which neither XDF Officer's Xolchatranslation
Matrix could derive any actual meaning from whatsoever.
"This? This is the place where we're going to pick up the package?"
"The package is a sentient being, Doyle (coincidence). And yes. Yes it
is. Yes... it certainly is."
Doyle (coincidence) rolled his eyes. "Why are we even doing fetch and
carry work for Stetson Tyler and his little band of primates, anyway?"
"Because Captain Vaughn (coincidence) and Field Commander O'Hare
(Coincidence) both want to stay on the good side of the owner of a ship that
killed thousands of Xolchipalians?"
"Couldn't we do that by throwing the -Yesj---"
"-Alamo's Revenge's Revenge,-" Christian (coincidence) corrected.
"--whatever into the sun? Hell<tm>, it was almost there in the first
place before it pulled out at the last second -- burned off a huge amount of
its outer armor and hull, so we know that would destroy it."
"We can't. Apparently there'd be some problems with the Xolchipalian
Steller Protection Agency if we did. We have to research safe disposal
methods before we can throw it into a star."
"Of course we do. Because the piddling G type star this planet orbits
matters in the long run and because six thousand miles of *anything* will
make a difference."
"All things are connected, Officer. And all actions make a difference.
The world is best served by prudence, and the universe is an extension of
the world, is it not?"
The questions were being asked by a six foot tall golden scaled
fish-man wearing a cape and rather elaborate clothing. He had a sense of
inner peace and nobility few could ignore, and almost anyone who saw him
instantly felt respect for this being, who was so integral to the natural
order of the universe.
Officer Doyle (coincidence) happened to be one of those rare exceptions
in both cases. "What world?" he asked, skeptically.
"Any world. Your world. My world. Glum's world. Loko's world. All
worlds are the world."
Officer Doyle (coincidence) snorted. "Riiiiight."
"Are you... Wonder Grunion?" Officer Christian (coincidence) asked,
with a hint of the reverence and respect Doyle (coincidence) completely
lacked.
"I am he. Wonder Grunion. Scaly Sorcerer Supreme. And I understand I am
needed on the -Yesj.-"
"-Alamo's Revenge's Revenge-," Doyle (coincidence) muttered, almost
unwillingly.
"Whatever." The fish smiled, which was disturbing as fuck.
"That's right, sir," Officer Christian (coincidence) said.
"Very well. Where is your ship."
The officers looked at each other. "We don't... actually have one,"
Christian (coincidence) said.
"Yeah -- we're running at a deficit after a few thousand scouts and
gunboats and ships of the line got obliterated saving your planet." Officer
Doyle (coincidence) may have been the slightest bit bitter.
"Dangerousman saved our planet. You merely made it possible for him to
do so, at a horrible cost of life and resources."
"We were told you had a vehicle--" Officer Christian (coincidence)
said.
"We do. But the Squad Car is in use and we do not have any other
vehicles currently available which can bring us to an Earth-Sun Trojan
Point," Wonder Grunion answered. "And due to the nature of the -Yesj---"
"-Alamo's Revenge's Revenge.-" the two officers said in unison.
"--whatever, teleportation spells cannot effectively be used. This is
something of a quandary."
Christian (coincidence) and Doyle (coincidence) looked at each other.
"Well... there is another alternative," Christian (coincidence) said.
"Yeah," Doyle (coincidence) said. "But given we don't have a spare
uniform with us, you may want to... you know... hit the latrine before we
go."
Wonder Grunion paused. "There is wisdom in your words, officer. I shall
be right back." The fish that walked like a man turned and headed back into
the lobby of DefenseCo.
"So," Doyle (coincidence) said, idly. "Let's do our best to not think
about the logistics and visuals of a six foot tall anthropomorphic fish
using a bathroom."
There was a pause.
"Damn you to Hell<tm>," Christian (coincidence) said.
Doyle merely smirked.
(This is the end of Side One. Please turn the tape over and listen to Side
Two.)
--
Eric Burns-White
Provider of Ridiculous Online Prose
for No Discernable Reason
Since 1986.
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