Richard pressed a button on the console and an audio transmission began to play:
"Five standard hours ago a group of Reaper-class battlecruisers emerged out of hyperspace near Hopperion Prime. Outermost defense pickets relayed warnings before their destruction, and so the Grand Elder Council had already begun mobilizing the Humongous Warrior Elite when the first series of hostile orbital insertions were detected all over their passive skywatch screens.
"At least five divisions of Slaven urmatazzi made it down through the flak to the planet's surface. They are overstrength units, most likely high on metameth and synthmind. Highly mobile, riding APC and custom half-wing suits, accompanied by clusters of Slaven ripperdrones. Initial reports coming in suggest that they have split up their invasion forces to make themselves harder to pin down.
"Terror has spread through the countryside. Large numbers of unarmed non-com's have surrendered according to intergalactic custom, the Slaven would accept, and then the civilians would be killed systematically and fed to the ripperdrones."
The sounds of people freaking out in the speaker's audience.
"So... the Elders have dispatched couriers to all the major cities and bases of their allies, which means to just about every sector capital and starport in that part of the galactic arm. We ourselves are only five hours away by warp drive and will probably be the first to respond. A force will leave immediately, within the hour, taking the best ships we can spare."
The recording ending with a crackle. Richard turned to address his friends. "That was Force Admiral Nedding of the Wonderian Expeditionary Force, based out of their fortress at New Loam."
Devon nodded. Janet was pale and didn't say anything.
"Relativistically-speaking..." continued Richard, "with all other things being equal, we should get there about ten hours after Nedding's group."
Saturday, May 26, 2007
The Suggestions System
Three guys were sitting at a table having a late afternoon breakfast in the middle of the main clearing in the intergalactically famous Phrase Gardens of the eccentric, elliptical and quite artificial planetoid Phonohomio Prime. Their names were Richard, Devon and Mr. Alfred Andromedae and all but two of the three of them were Neomen -- and of the two that weren't it could most definitely be said of one of these two that he was once a Neoman too.
Mr. Andromedae was the official representative that the Phonohomonymians sent to meet with Richard that afternoon.
They apparently were very fond of having carbonated soda beverages for breakfast because the entire surface of the eccentric elliptical table before them was covered with cups and glasses and bowls full of various colors and flavors of caffeinated carbonated soda beverage liquids.
They were having a very animated conversation about something that had almost absolutely nothing to do with animation, but probably did have a lot to do with all the carbonated caffeine that they were taking in.
A musical boombox on the ground beneath the table played bebop in the background as they spoke.
They spoke about what they had all came there to speak about, and they really stuck to the topic, and so they were very very productive and they accomplished a great deal in the conversation information-wise ... for about five minutes before Richard succeeded in veering them into much more interesting topics involving Neomen and something called the Suggestions System and even a couple of other random tangents involving Dr. Bumwuggle, the GUST, and a small school of pirannha fish that happened to swim by their table at one point later on in his monologue that was cleverly disguised as a dialogue and occasional poly-logue by his forebrain as it hopped along from moment to moment -- all fueled by caffeine from his Diet Caffeine soda beverage, which was clasped tightly in his cold right hand as he shivered and twitched from hypercaffeination and tried very hard to not drool all over himself in the company of strangers like Mr. Andromedae and Devon Anwa.
Devon, for his part, made a quiet snorting sound and rested his head upon his hands, giving his friend Richard an annoyed look.
Mr. Andromedae had, however, just fallen out of a tree yesterday, and, so, of course, as would be expected, he still remembered in vivid detail what being in the tree was like, and, thus, kept asking Richard more and more questions.
"So it's illegal?" Mr. Andromedae asked either or both of them together.
"Mmmm... No," answered Devon, shaking his head.
"But it's wrong, right?" Mr. Andromedae asked again.
"Nope," said Devon again, quickly jumping in. "Well, ahh, maybe yes. Okay. Sure. You could use the word wrong to describe it, I guess," Devon replied.
"Uh, well, then I don't get it."
Devon started to explain. "It's because it's--"
"It's not really a Law, per se," interrupted Richard, "but, rather, more of a ... suggestion."
Richard stopped and grinned.
"Where I and Devon come from there are no Laws -- they've all been replaced with suggestions! A simple system of basic ethical suggestions called the Suggestions System," he explained.
"But, how the---" Mr. Andromedae started to ask, before being cut off by Richard.
"How the heck could this possibly be, is probably what you are wondering aloud, I'd imagine? Well, you see, this is how it all came about to be, in the land that Devon and I and others like us like to call home regardless of where we hapen to physically be any given day of the week." He stopped for a moment and smiled wide. "Originally, everybody just grunted -- way back when, in a time and place that existed, perhaps, a small fraction of an eon ago."
Silence.
"They grunted suggestions?" asked Mr. Andromedae.
"No, I think they just grunted," Richard replied.
"Oh."
"We haven't gotten to the suggestions yet. We're gonna start first with the grunting. So have patience and pay attention, please."
"Okay, sure."
"So... The grunting. People were good at it. They were each very good at all the grunting that they all did originally. They did it well and very efficiently. So their conversations were incredibly clear and incredibly concise -- which was an incredibly good thing and so everybody was incredibly happy."
Mr. Andromedae nodded, indicating that he understood.
Richard continued.
"But sadly... slowly... they kinda ever so slightly stopped knowing how to speak the language of grunting. And so they started to rely more and more instead on this other thing. This other thing that was a much newer and untested thing that was called talking."
Richard continued. "Then one day the grunting stopped. It stopped completely."
Shock.
Surprise.
Dismay.
Shock, surprise, dismay... and a predominately genetically Norwegian heritage. All of these uncontrollable feelings -- including especially the Norwegian heritage -- tried simultaneously to vie for control of Alfred's face at that moment. But it was his Norwegian heritage that won.
So Richard kept right on with his story, oblivious to everything but his audience's predominately Norwegian heritage.
"And from that point on all their conversations were held only in the language of talking."
"A lot. I mean, there was a lot of talking and they were very enthusiastic about this talking even if it wasn't exactly second nature like the original grunting was. They had had the grunting down pat. It was natural instinct."
"But with this talking thing, it wasn't as good. There was an inherent problem. And conflicts inevitably ensued."
He paused to take a breath.
"The conflicts arose because many of these things called words that they had built their talking with were being used so inaccurately and out-of-sync with what people really wanted to say -- partly because no one cared to spend the time to learn which words did what and partly because many of these words could each mean different things, based on this other awful thing they called the context of things, and since the context of things was so fond of overlapping with lots of other weird ethereal things like the speaker's emotional state or religion or profession -- that, well, this thing called context that they developed soon turned into what was in effect a big red KICK ME sign placed on these otherwise noble inventions called words."
Richard took a moment to take a sip from his cup of Diet Caffeine-brand carbonated beverage drink. Gave it a few moments to take hold, then continued where he left off.
"And another complicating factor, to be perfectly honest, was that almost everybody was hopelessly stupid and didn't know it. But since this is such a unyversally-present complicating factor to anything present in the Unyverse, it should perhaps always be taken into account."
At this point, he stopped temporarily to go get a refill of soda from the soda refill beverage dispenser near their table. Got it, came back, and sat down again with his friends in the garden.
"So, basically, conflicts arose and these conflicts led to fighting. There were violent ninja kicks and nasty slapping, and occasionally even projectile sneezing and biting improvisational satire.
"So they made Law. It cut down on the kicking and slapping and satire, and then even a lot more things, like humor and creativity and intelligence and personal responsibility and individual judgment.
"But no matter -- there was less slapping and satire, and that was the important thing. Years and years went by, and deep down perhaps deep down inside the DNA of each of these previously human beings there slowly grew the realization that perhaps things would be better if Law was gotten rid of in some way so that they could just let people Truly Be.
"So they got rid of all Laws, and only functionally superseded some of them in their new, friendlier paradigm with things they came to call the Suggestions System.
"And this new system of fundamental ethical suggestions -- it was really not much more than a small codified collection of best practice moral-genetic observations -- worked pretty good, it mostly worked completely better than the old system, except in certain cases where it worked much much worse. And they realized that the reason why this new system broke down in these certain specific situations was because the people involved in these imperfect situations -- whatever else might be said about them -- were just plain hopelessly stupid or evil."
"Of course!" contributed Mr. Andromedae.
Richard glared at him.
Mr. Andromedae decided to stop contributing.
"If they could just get rid of all the hopelessly stupid or evil people," continued Richard, "the Suggestions System would work perfectly, and answer once and for all the question of whether it was ever possible to design a method of mass governance that was better than the classic mix of capitalism, socialism and pseudo-representative democracy. Maybe even something that would be present in Paradise.
"So they set about to make a list of all the people and people types or professions that were noted for being evil, or stupid, or some annoying mixture of evil and stupid, and they would take that list and go around finding all the people on that list, and simply exile them from their civilization. Only problem was, was that these people, in exile, would turn out to just go and mess up other people's civilizations, and making these neighboring civilizations quite cranky with them.
"Either that, or sometimes the exiles would sneak back in, and take right back up where they left off mucking up things again. So simply booting them out merely delayed things, or shuffled about the ickiness. A better solution was needed.
Richard grinned at them all of a sudden.
"And that solution came when Dr. Bander Bumwuggle developed a formal Grand Unified Sporkishness Theory, replete with a wonderfully solid and widely-accepted proof, and with lots of neat diagrams and values out to the kinds of decimal places that pocket calculators can only dream about."
"Proof?!?! What proof, Richard?" asked Devon.
"Thus..." Richard continued, ignoring him. "The invention of the GUST perfectly complemented the Suggestions System because it fixed what was otherwise the only thing wrong with it. Which was the existance of all the stupid and evil people."
Devon sighed. He appeared to be unimpressed. As if he had heard it all before.
Mr. Andromedae just stood there, slack-jawed but not slack-minded, quietly attempting to absorb all that he had just heard from the man with a bizarre last name whom he had met only a few hours before.
"You know, Richard, you really ought to write that down one day," said Devon. "It'd make for a pretty good story, especially the part about Bumwuggle."
They grew silent. They were apparently waiting for something.
A school of mutated, liquid-paisley-colored fish swam by in the Phonohomonymic Stream of Consciousness that happened to be meandering by their breakfast table in the Phrase Garden that day.
Richard shrugged. "Yeah, maybe." He looked at the fish. He hoped they weren't pirannha. Phonohomonymic Pirannha were notoriously carnivorous predators and, additionally, they smelled really bad.
He looked at the stream. He hoped it wouldn't get him wet. He didn't like getting wet. Unless he was in the shower or a swimming pool.
He looked at his wristcom, then quickly stood up, gave a short bow to his companions and then hurried off to the exit, saying, "We have to leave by six past six p.m."
Mr. Andromedae waved at his retreating figure. "Goodbye, Mr. Amadeus!" he yelled out after him.
Devon grunted and picked up the pulse rifle that had been sitting on the ground beneath the table by the boombox the whole time. He checked it for charge and mumbled under his breath, frowning, "Oh, joy. Back to the war again."
Mr. Andromedae appeared startled by something Devon had just said.
"What war?" he asked him.
Devon just shrugged and sighed. "Ask Richard." Then he started polishing his weapon, slowly and methodically, until it shined. "I'm sure he'd just love to tell you about it."
Mr. Andromedae was the official representative that the Phonohomonymians sent to meet with Richard that afternoon.
They apparently were very fond of having carbonated soda beverages for breakfast because the entire surface of the eccentric elliptical table before them was covered with cups and glasses and bowls full of various colors and flavors of caffeinated carbonated soda beverage liquids.
They were having a very animated conversation about something that had almost absolutely nothing to do with animation, but probably did have a lot to do with all the carbonated caffeine that they were taking in.
A musical boombox on the ground beneath the table played bebop in the background as they spoke.
They spoke about what they had all came there to speak about, and they really stuck to the topic, and so they were very very productive and they accomplished a great deal in the conversation information-wise ... for about five minutes before Richard succeeded in veering them into much more interesting topics involving Neomen and something called the Suggestions System and even a couple of other random tangents involving Dr. Bumwuggle, the GUST, and a small school of pirannha fish that happened to swim by their table at one point later on in his monologue that was cleverly disguised as a dialogue and occasional poly-logue by his forebrain as it hopped along from moment to moment -- all fueled by caffeine from his Diet Caffeine soda beverage, which was clasped tightly in his cold right hand as he shivered and twitched from hypercaffeination and tried very hard to not drool all over himself in the company of strangers like Mr. Andromedae and Devon Anwa.
Devon, for his part, made a quiet snorting sound and rested his head upon his hands, giving his friend Richard an annoyed look.
Mr. Andromedae had, however, just fallen out of a tree yesterday, and, so, of course, as would be expected, he still remembered in vivid detail what being in the tree was like, and, thus, kept asking Richard more and more questions.
"So it's illegal?" Mr. Andromedae asked either or both of them together.
"Mmmm... No," answered Devon, shaking his head.
"But it's wrong, right?" Mr. Andromedae asked again.
"Nope," said Devon again, quickly jumping in. "Well, ahh, maybe yes. Okay. Sure. You could use the word wrong to describe it, I guess," Devon replied.
"Uh, well, then I don't get it."
Devon started to explain. "It's because it's--"
"It's not really a Law, per se," interrupted Richard, "but, rather, more of a ... suggestion."
Richard stopped and grinned.
"Where I and Devon come from there are no Laws -- they've all been replaced with suggestions! A simple system of basic ethical suggestions called the Suggestions System," he explained.
"But, how the---" Mr. Andromedae started to ask, before being cut off by Richard.
"How the heck could this possibly be, is probably what you are wondering aloud, I'd imagine? Well, you see, this is how it all came about to be, in the land that Devon and I and others like us like to call home regardless of where we hapen to physically be any given day of the week." He stopped for a moment and smiled wide. "Originally, everybody just grunted -- way back when, in a time and place that existed, perhaps, a small fraction of an eon ago."
Silence.
"They grunted suggestions?" asked Mr. Andromedae.
"No, I think they just grunted," Richard replied.
"Oh."
"We haven't gotten to the suggestions yet. We're gonna start first with the grunting. So have patience and pay attention, please."
"Okay, sure."
"So... The grunting. People were good at it. They were each very good at all the grunting that they all did originally. They did it well and very efficiently. So their conversations were incredibly clear and incredibly concise -- which was an incredibly good thing and so everybody was incredibly happy."
Mr. Andromedae nodded, indicating that he understood.
Richard continued.
"But sadly... slowly... they kinda ever so slightly stopped knowing how to speak the language of grunting. And so they started to rely more and more instead on this other thing. This other thing that was a much newer and untested thing that was called talking."
Richard continued. "Then one day the grunting stopped. It stopped completely."
Shock.
Surprise.
Dismay.
Shock, surprise, dismay... and a predominately genetically Norwegian heritage. All of these uncontrollable feelings -- including especially the Norwegian heritage -- tried simultaneously to vie for control of Alfred's face at that moment. But it was his Norwegian heritage that won.
So Richard kept right on with his story, oblivious to everything but his audience's predominately Norwegian heritage.
"And from that point on all their conversations were held only in the language of talking."
"A lot. I mean, there was a lot of talking and they were very enthusiastic about this talking even if it wasn't exactly second nature like the original grunting was. They had had the grunting down pat. It was natural instinct."
"But with this talking thing, it wasn't as good. There was an inherent problem. And conflicts inevitably ensued."
He paused to take a breath.
"The conflicts arose because many of these things called words that they had built their talking with were being used so inaccurately and out-of-sync with what people really wanted to say -- partly because no one cared to spend the time to learn which words did what and partly because many of these words could each mean different things, based on this other awful thing they called the context of things, and since the context of things was so fond of overlapping with lots of other weird ethereal things like the speaker's emotional state or religion or profession -- that, well, this thing called context that they developed soon turned into what was in effect a big red KICK ME sign placed on these otherwise noble inventions called words."
Richard took a moment to take a sip from his cup of Diet Caffeine-brand carbonated beverage drink. Gave it a few moments to take hold, then continued where he left off.
"And another complicating factor, to be perfectly honest, was that almost everybody was hopelessly stupid and didn't know it. But since this is such a unyversally-present complicating factor to anything present in the Unyverse, it should perhaps always be taken into account."
At this point, he stopped temporarily to go get a refill of soda from the soda refill beverage dispenser near their table. Got it, came back, and sat down again with his friends in the garden.
"So, basically, conflicts arose and these conflicts led to fighting. There were violent ninja kicks and nasty slapping, and occasionally even projectile sneezing and biting improvisational satire.
"So they made Law. It cut down on the kicking and slapping and satire, and then even a lot more things, like humor and creativity and intelligence and personal responsibility and individual judgment.
"But no matter -- there was less slapping and satire, and that was the important thing. Years and years went by, and deep down perhaps deep down inside the DNA of each of these previously human beings there slowly grew the realization that perhaps things would be better if Law was gotten rid of in some way so that they could just let people Truly Be.
"So they got rid of all Laws, and only functionally superseded some of them in their new, friendlier paradigm with things they came to call the Suggestions System.
"And this new system of fundamental ethical suggestions -- it was really not much more than a small codified collection of best practice moral-genetic observations -- worked pretty good, it mostly worked completely better than the old system, except in certain cases where it worked much much worse. And they realized that the reason why this new system broke down in these certain specific situations was because the people involved in these imperfect situations -- whatever else might be said about them -- were just plain hopelessly stupid or evil."
"Of course!" contributed Mr. Andromedae.
Richard glared at him.
Mr. Andromedae decided to stop contributing.
"If they could just get rid of all the hopelessly stupid or evil people," continued Richard, "the Suggestions System would work perfectly, and answer once and for all the question of whether it was ever possible to design a method of mass governance that was better than the classic mix of capitalism, socialism and pseudo-representative democracy. Maybe even something that would be present in Paradise.
"So they set about to make a list of all the people and people types or professions that were noted for being evil, or stupid, or some annoying mixture of evil and stupid, and they would take that list and go around finding all the people on that list, and simply exile them from their civilization. Only problem was, was that these people, in exile, would turn out to just go and mess up other people's civilizations, and making these neighboring civilizations quite cranky with them.
"Either that, or sometimes the exiles would sneak back in, and take right back up where they left off mucking up things again. So simply booting them out merely delayed things, or shuffled about the ickiness. A better solution was needed.
Richard grinned at them all of a sudden.
"And that solution came when Dr. Bander Bumwuggle developed a formal Grand Unified Sporkishness Theory, replete with a wonderfully solid and widely-accepted proof, and with lots of neat diagrams and values out to the kinds of decimal places that pocket calculators can only dream about."
"Proof?!?! What proof, Richard?" asked Devon.
"Thus..." Richard continued, ignoring him. "The invention of the GUST perfectly complemented the Suggestions System because it fixed what was otherwise the only thing wrong with it. Which was the existance of all the stupid and evil people."
Devon sighed. He appeared to be unimpressed. As if he had heard it all before.
Mr. Andromedae just stood there, slack-jawed but not slack-minded, quietly attempting to absorb all that he had just heard from the man with a bizarre last name whom he had met only a few hours before.
"You know, Richard, you really ought to write that down one day," said Devon. "It'd make for a pretty good story, especially the part about Bumwuggle."
They grew silent. They were apparently waiting for something.
A school of mutated, liquid-paisley-colored fish swam by in the Phonohomonymic Stream of Consciousness that happened to be meandering by their breakfast table in the Phrase Garden that day.
Richard shrugged. "Yeah, maybe." He looked at the fish. He hoped they weren't pirannha. Phonohomonymic Pirannha were notoriously carnivorous predators and, additionally, they smelled really bad.
He looked at the stream. He hoped it wouldn't get him wet. He didn't like getting wet. Unless he was in the shower or a swimming pool.
He looked at his wristcom, then quickly stood up, gave a short bow to his companions and then hurried off to the exit, saying, "We have to leave by six past six p.m."
Mr. Andromedae waved at his retreating figure. "Goodbye, Mr. Amadeus!" he yelled out after him.
Devon grunted and picked up the pulse rifle that had been sitting on the ground beneath the table by the boombox the whole time. He checked it for charge and mumbled under his breath, frowning, "Oh, joy. Back to the war again."
Mr. Andromedae appeared startled by something Devon had just said.
"What war?" he asked him.
Devon just shrugged and sighed. "Ask Richard." Then he started polishing his weapon, slowly and methodically, until it shined. "I'm sure he'd just love to tell you about it."
The Wallomen
It was in an abandoned Silent City-brand ship's store that was far, far below the surface of the mysterious planet Murloch -- covered mostly with marshes and forests and swamps, on a Tuesday, with a slight fog setting in and the pleasantly annoying aftertaste of cinnamon candy in her mouth -- that Susan Meerson of the Jethromundanian OOBMSDP happened to run into some Wallomen for the very first time.
They were strange wallowing creatures, always seeming to be in all sorts of hurries and things. They lived inside a lost section of the wrecked Superperverticon battleship because that was where they were born and had not moved or evolved within very much in the millennium since.
They had been trapped in this section of the Superperverticon for perhaps a full one thousand years all alone and by themselves except for each other and some plastic furniture for warmth and emotional support.
Which may have explained why they had become so incredibly normal and insane.
Susan, however, at this point, wasn't aware of either their incredible normality, or, of course, of their incredible insanity -- and instead decided to get a good long look at them for a bit before speaking because it did appear on the surface that they were incredibly interesting.
So she stared at them for a few seconds without saying anything.
And this is all that she saw:
The first Walloman was big and round and obviously on good terms with the ship's robotic cafeteria staff.
The second Walloman was not as round and not as big as the first Walloman but far more obsessed with the cafeteria's artificial cheesecake and casually strewn-about fanatical religious pamphlets.
In turn, the two weird Wallomen looked back at her as well. However, Susan wasn't sure how she herself looked to them from their point-of-view situated on the outside of her body -- which was perhaps a fortunate thing.
She shook her head and decided to stop thinking and do something.
She stepped forward confidently to greet them with a friendly, "Hi, there!" and then extended her hand for a shake.
The two Wallomen looked at her hand, and then looked at each other, and then at her hand again, and then back at each other until they were soon gazing very deeply into each other's souls. Since there wasn't much to see there they quickly stopped doing that and instead started grinning wildly and then turned back to face Susan again.
They opened their mouths as if to speak -- but Susan cut them off before they even had a chance.
"Why hello there. Can I, uh, help you?" she asked.
"--Ack-thpff!!!" exclaimed the first Walloman.
And "--Slppppbbbttt!!!" the other Walloman calmly declared, in loose accordance with all relevant multi-galactic customs concerning polite public oral intercourse. The spoken kind.
"We're looking for the Meaning of the Unyverse," said the first.
"Is it orange?" asked the other. "Does it walk? Will it fly? Can it talk?"
"These things and more are ways in which we wish to know much more of," said the first.
"After all -- ideas are just words with wings," said the second.
"And words are cheap," said the first.
"You know they make the best building materials," said the other.
"Yes, I ... see," said Susan, flabbergasted. And this was coming from a lady who wasn't often gasted -- flabber or otherwise -- until the weekend.
"Do you really?" they both asked simultaneously.
"Well, ah, maybe sometimes I do," she replied.
"Doubtful!" said the first.
"Highly improbable-istic!" said the other.
"Especially if it's sometimes five-times or more!" said the first.
"How?!?!" yelped Susan, blushing. Then she shook her head slowly and narrowed her eyes at them inquisitively. She immediately worried and thought, "How could they know it sometimes happens to me five-times or more on the weekends?"
She shook her head from side to side for a bit and decided not to worry about it.
The second Walloman started to explain anyway.
"It's because--"
"--Oh. Fine, fine," interjected Susan, cutting him off before he could really begin. "Soooo, why, ah, exactly are you, uh, are you looking for the meaning of the Unyverse?" asked Susan. "Are you bored? Are you going for your Ph.D's?"
The two Wallomen looked at each other for a moment. Staring deep into each other's eyes, unblinking, ungrinning, quietly, for a few seconds. Then they turned back to look at Susan directly.
"Answers!" said the first.
"Answers, we need answers!" said the second.
"Answers, you see, taste better, they do, which means that no matter how many and no matter how few that they will always taste much better with gravy than any maybes do! So answers it is and answers it will be, for if it was and if it is, and if it sometimes soon just might possibly be, then the only end to every question is the answer to this trick question: which is... what is the essence of those guessed-at phrases known as the one or more supposed Meanings of the Unyverse?!?!" said the first.
"It is no more -- and neither is it last! -- or less than this ethereal sense of that which the most thoughtful thinkers of things among us seek and wish to know with utter certainty in perpetuity!!!" exclaimed the second.
"Ahhhh... I get it... you're post-docs," said Susan.
The first Walloman nodded but the second shook his head.
"And now we must depart..." said the first.
"Yes, that's true!" said the second.
"Our neck is in the noose but, alas, our prey is on the loose," said the first. And then he bowed low and said, "Good-day!"
"Goodnight!" said the second before spinning around on his and Susan's feet.
"Goodbye," Susan said, pushing him back and grabbing her foot. "Ouch," she mumbled softly to herself.
And then the Wallomen ran off with hardly a huff or a wham: they ran out of the store and down the corridor and around a corner and promptly disappeared from view.
Susan herself snooped around and in between the mostly empty shelves for a few minutes afterward without finding where the interesting-looking shoes had went but then began to wonder more and more if Richard had any more cinnamon sticks left.
So she headed back to camp and promptly forgot all about the shoes and the two weird Wallomen of the Silent City-brand store.
They were strange wallowing creatures, always seeming to be in all sorts of hurries and things. They lived inside a lost section of the wrecked Superperverticon battleship because that was where they were born and had not moved or evolved within very much in the millennium since.
They had been trapped in this section of the Superperverticon for perhaps a full one thousand years all alone and by themselves except for each other and some plastic furniture for warmth and emotional support.
Which may have explained why they had become so incredibly normal and insane.
Susan, however, at this point, wasn't aware of either their incredible normality, or, of course, of their incredible insanity -- and instead decided to get a good long look at them for a bit before speaking because it did appear on the surface that they were incredibly interesting.
So she stared at them for a few seconds without saying anything.
And this is all that she saw:
The first Walloman was big and round and obviously on good terms with the ship's robotic cafeteria staff.
The second Walloman was not as round and not as big as the first Walloman but far more obsessed with the cafeteria's artificial cheesecake and casually strewn-about fanatical religious pamphlets.
In turn, the two weird Wallomen looked back at her as well. However, Susan wasn't sure how she herself looked to them from their point-of-view situated on the outside of her body -- which was perhaps a fortunate thing.
She shook her head and decided to stop thinking and do something.
She stepped forward confidently to greet them with a friendly, "Hi, there!" and then extended her hand for a shake.
The two Wallomen looked at her hand, and then looked at each other, and then at her hand again, and then back at each other until they were soon gazing very deeply into each other's souls. Since there wasn't much to see there they quickly stopped doing that and instead started grinning wildly and then turned back to face Susan again.
They opened their mouths as if to speak -- but Susan cut them off before they even had a chance.
"Why hello there. Can I, uh, help you?" she asked.
"--Ack-thpff!!!" exclaimed the first Walloman.
And "--Slppppbbbttt!!!" the other Walloman calmly declared, in loose accordance with all relevant multi-galactic customs concerning polite public oral intercourse. The spoken kind.
"We're looking for the Meaning of the Unyverse," said the first.
"Is it orange?" asked the other. "Does it walk? Will it fly? Can it talk?"
"These things and more are ways in which we wish to know much more of," said the first.
"After all -- ideas are just words with wings," said the second.
"And words are cheap," said the first.
"You know they make the best building materials," said the other.
"Yes, I ... see," said Susan, flabbergasted. And this was coming from a lady who wasn't often gasted -- flabber or otherwise -- until the weekend.
"Do you really?" they both asked simultaneously.
"Well, ah, maybe sometimes I do," she replied.
"Doubtful!" said the first.
"Highly improbable-istic!" said the other.
"Especially if it's sometimes five-times or more!" said the first.
"How?!?!" yelped Susan, blushing. Then she shook her head slowly and narrowed her eyes at them inquisitively. She immediately worried and thought, "How could they know it sometimes happens to me five-times or more on the weekends?"
She shook her head from side to side for a bit and decided not to worry about it.
The second Walloman started to explain anyway.
"It's because--"
"--Oh. Fine, fine," interjected Susan, cutting him off before he could really begin. "Soooo, why, ah, exactly are you, uh, are you looking for the meaning of the Unyverse?" asked Susan. "Are you bored? Are you going for your Ph.D's?"
The two Wallomen looked at each other for a moment. Staring deep into each other's eyes, unblinking, ungrinning, quietly, for a few seconds. Then they turned back to look at Susan directly.
"Answers!" said the first.
"Answers, we need answers!" said the second.
"Answers, you see, taste better, they do, which means that no matter how many and no matter how few that they will always taste much better with gravy than any maybes do! So answers it is and answers it will be, for if it was and if it is, and if it sometimes soon just might possibly be, then the only end to every question is the answer to this trick question: which is... what is the essence of those guessed-at phrases known as the one or more supposed Meanings of the Unyverse?!?!" said the first.
"It is no more -- and neither is it last! -- or less than this ethereal sense of that which the most thoughtful thinkers of things among us seek and wish to know with utter certainty in perpetuity!!!" exclaimed the second.
"Ahhhh... I get it... you're post-docs," said Susan.
The first Walloman nodded but the second shook his head.
"And now we must depart..." said the first.
"Yes, that's true!" said the second.
"Our neck is in the noose but, alas, our prey is on the loose," said the first. And then he bowed low and said, "Good-day!"
"Goodnight!" said the second before spinning around on his and Susan's feet.
"Goodbye," Susan said, pushing him back and grabbing her foot. "Ouch," she mumbled softly to herself.
And then the Wallomen ran off with hardly a huff or a wham: they ran out of the store and down the corridor and around a corner and promptly disappeared from view.
Susan herself snooped around and in between the mostly empty shelves for a few minutes afterward without finding where the interesting-looking shoes had went but then began to wonder more and more if Richard had any more cinnamon sticks left.
So she headed back to camp and promptly forgot all about the shoes and the two weird Wallomen of the Silent City-brand store.
Strange Encounters
"This place is boring," said Richard.
"Too drab," said Susan.
"Their interior designer should be fired," said Janet.
"It sucks," said Devon.
As they stood there they were suddenly startled by the appearance of an unexpected inhabitant of the place. They had been alone for a long time, all by themselves. They had not seen any actual inhabitants of Murloch at any time so far in their trip.
A huge, spherical, grossly overweight humanoid cyborg waddled up to them and spoke:
"Your pants. May I have them? Would you remove them for me please?"
The fat cyborg looked at each of their faces. Sensed that they would not be soon complying. Or that perhaps they didn't understand him. He frowned. Tried again to communicate with them.
"Either that or your skirts or slacks. Would you find yourself taken aback a bit if I or someone else we authorize were to take the opportunity to add them to our large and growing collection?"
Then the incredibly fat, highly-spherical humanoid cyborg thing quickly turned around and ran off down the corridor and around a corner.
As they got used to his sudden disappearance, somebody (or something) else appeared.
An incredibly tall and thin android, painted all white with thin red pinstripes running vertically along his shell. He ran up to them and addressed them as a group.
"Slack. I'm looking for slack because I need it, see. So do you know of where I could get it, please? Could you point me in the proper direction at this particular moment in time? Are there places where one could rent it temporarily or even extemporaneously?"
Richard shrugged. "Uh, maybe?"
The incredibly tall, thin android-man frowned, paused for a second, and then quickly turned around and ran off down the corridor and around a corner.
"Too drab," said Susan.
"Their interior designer should be fired," said Janet.
"It sucks," said Devon.
As they stood there they were suddenly startled by the appearance of an unexpected inhabitant of the place. They had been alone for a long time, all by themselves. They had not seen any actual inhabitants of Murloch at any time so far in their trip.
A huge, spherical, grossly overweight humanoid cyborg waddled up to them and spoke:
"Your pants. May I have them? Would you remove them for me please?"
The fat cyborg looked at each of their faces. Sensed that they would not be soon complying. Or that perhaps they didn't understand him. He frowned. Tried again to communicate with them.
"Either that or your skirts or slacks. Would you find yourself taken aback a bit if I or someone else we authorize were to take the opportunity to add them to our large and growing collection?"
Then the incredibly fat, highly-spherical humanoid cyborg thing quickly turned around and ran off down the corridor and around a corner.
As they got used to his sudden disappearance, somebody (or something) else appeared.
An incredibly tall and thin android, painted all white with thin red pinstripes running vertically along his shell. He ran up to them and addressed them as a group.
"Slack. I'm looking for slack because I need it, see. So do you know of where I could get it, please? Could you point me in the proper direction at this particular moment in time? Are there places where one could rent it temporarily or even extemporaneously?"
Richard shrugged. "Uh, maybe?"
The incredibly tall, thin android-man frowned, paused for a second, and then quickly turned around and ran off down the corridor and around a corner.
Clowns Don't Belong in the Forest
Clowns don't belong in the forest
And they don't belong in my pants
They don't belong in my pockets
They don't belong in any boxes or even space rockets
Clowns don't belong in McTronic's restaurants
and they don't belong in France,
now long non-existent
Except for my pants
And possibly your pants as well
They don't belong on this planet
and I suspect that they'd be
out-of-place outside of space and time
additionally too
Clowns don't belong most places
Because clowns don't belong, at all, any way.
And they don't belong in my pants
They don't belong in my pockets
They don't belong in any boxes or even space rockets
Clowns don't belong in McTronic's restaurants
and they don't belong in France,
now long non-existent
Except for my pants
And possibly your pants as well
They don't belong on this planet
and I suspect that they'd be
out-of-place outside of space and time
additionally too
Clowns don't belong most places
Because clowns don't belong, at all, any way.
Civilization Summarized
Civilization began when some guy banged two rocks together, saw a spark, and figured out how he could use this fact to start a fire. It got better and better after that. Then, things took a turn for the worse, and started heading downhill. Civilization ended with a bang when a runaway nano-biomechanical plague was let loose in Kansas one morning, and it spread so fast and quickly, and was so unstoppable, that it wiped out all lifeforms on the planet in under a week, leaving nothing living except itself. After it wiped out it's only fuel source it died too. All that was left, aside from the occasional skyscraper or shopping mall or interstate highway system, was a sort of metaphorical monument to mankind's hubris. It had no specific shape or location -- it wasn't a specific artifact, in other words -- but it existed nonetheless. Upon this monument was inscribed the words of a poet who had been dead for many centuries past, that read, in effect:
"Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair."
"Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair."
Monday, May 7, 2007
Micropolis - Arrival
A janitorial closet.
It is small and cramped and full of numerous boxes and shelves and weirdly-shaped gadgets and tools. And a broom jammed down into a bucket that's far too small for it.
A strange whirring, grinding sound is coming from somewhere unknown.
Suddenly, a faint image of a British police call box appears in a clear spot on the floor of the closet.
The TARDIS.
An acronym which stands for Time and the Relative Dimensions in Space.
Because this out-of-place telephone booth is actually a time machine. A Gallifreyan model type-40 time machine, to be precise.
And there's barely enough room for it inside this packed closet that's literally packed to the walls with old boxes and buckets and brooms.
But the ghostly image grows slowly stronger and stronger and the peculiar humming sound continues until the machine has completed it's out-of-space-and-time manifestation process.
A moment when nothing happens.
Then--
A door on the front of the TARDIS opens and a tall, frazzled-looking middle-aged man steps out. He's wearing a long brown overcoat, a striped scarf colored every color of the rainbow, and a wide-brimmed hat. His hair is brown and curly. His eyes are wide and bulging. And he has a mischievous grin that makes anyone that sees him wonder what it is that he is thinking about.
A moment later a younger woman emerges after him. She's wearing a white dress as if she's planning on going to a fancy ballroom dance. Her hair is straight and long and dark blonde, though her face is very plain her eyes are bright and she moves with a regal air and intelligent purpose.
"Oh not again, Doctor," she said to him, in a weary tone. "We've been in transit for barely an hour of subjective time and already you want to stop and have a look around. You say you're not looking for anything but I suspect you're looking for trouble outright!"
The man grinned a grin that was even more mischievous than the one he had on a moment before. Then he turned to look into her eyes directly before speaking.
"Romana, my dear, I'm afraid you have it all backwards and inside out. Or maybe it's frontwards and rightside in, or upside down and facing away in embarrassment at the feel of clammy hands where they shouldn't be at all. Whichever it is I can't say for sure." He paused for a moment. "Either way," he continued, "it's not trouble I'm looking for I'm looking for a man. A being. A masculine entity whose name is Dalen Rax. He's a prince and a rascal and once he was the ruler of this city."
"What city?" she asked.
"Why the city that surrounds this very closet that we're in, of course."
"I see."
"There's an urgent matter I must discuss with him before it's too late. Before time runs out."
"That's two cliche phrases in one sentence, Doctor! Shame on you."
"Yes, shame-shame on me I agree but sometimes cliches are true and it is true that I must speak with him before it's too late."
"Too late for what?"
"No time for that now, Romana." He glanced around the closet that was around them in turn. "And if we wait any longer it looks like there will be no space for it either!"
He pushed his way through the boxes towards the door and grabbed the handle -- managing to clear enough space to open it partway. Then he stepped through it and turned his head to look back over his shoulder. "Well are you coming or going, Romana? You know it would please me greatly to have the pleasure of your company. As usual."
She thought for a bit.
Sighed.
Shrugged her shoulders.
"No more adventures, Doctor. I'm so tired of having adventures. No one wants so many unexpected surprises all in one day."
"Well, having the other kind of surprises wouldn't make much sense, now would it?" he replied.
She pushed her way towards the door and they both left, Romana pulling the door closed behind them.
It is small and cramped and full of numerous boxes and shelves and weirdly-shaped gadgets and tools. And a broom jammed down into a bucket that's far too small for it.
A strange whirring, grinding sound is coming from somewhere unknown.
Suddenly, a faint image of a British police call box appears in a clear spot on the floor of the closet.
The TARDIS.
An acronym which stands for Time and the Relative Dimensions in Space.
Because this out-of-place telephone booth is actually a time machine. A Gallifreyan model type-40 time machine, to be precise.
And there's barely enough room for it inside this packed closet that's literally packed to the walls with old boxes and buckets and brooms.
But the ghostly image grows slowly stronger and stronger and the peculiar humming sound continues until the machine has completed it's out-of-space-and-time manifestation process.
A moment when nothing happens.
Then--
A door on the front of the TARDIS opens and a tall, frazzled-looking middle-aged man steps out. He's wearing a long brown overcoat, a striped scarf colored every color of the rainbow, and a wide-brimmed hat. His hair is brown and curly. His eyes are wide and bulging. And he has a mischievous grin that makes anyone that sees him wonder what it is that he is thinking about.
A moment later a younger woman emerges after him. She's wearing a white dress as if she's planning on going to a fancy ballroom dance. Her hair is straight and long and dark blonde, though her face is very plain her eyes are bright and she moves with a regal air and intelligent purpose.
"Oh not again, Doctor," she said to him, in a weary tone. "We've been in transit for barely an hour of subjective time and already you want to stop and have a look around. You say you're not looking for anything but I suspect you're looking for trouble outright!"
The man grinned a grin that was even more mischievous than the one he had on a moment before. Then he turned to look into her eyes directly before speaking.
"Romana, my dear, I'm afraid you have it all backwards and inside out. Or maybe it's frontwards and rightside in, or upside down and facing away in embarrassment at the feel of clammy hands where they shouldn't be at all. Whichever it is I can't say for sure." He paused for a moment. "Either way," he continued, "it's not trouble I'm looking for I'm looking for a man. A being. A masculine entity whose name is Dalen Rax. He's a prince and a rascal and once he was the ruler of this city."
"What city?" she asked.
"Why the city that surrounds this very closet that we're in, of course."
"I see."
"There's an urgent matter I must discuss with him before it's too late. Before time runs out."
"That's two cliche phrases in one sentence, Doctor! Shame on you."
"Yes, shame-shame on me I agree but sometimes cliches are true and it is true that I must speak with him before it's too late."
"Too late for what?"
"No time for that now, Romana." He glanced around the closet that was around them in turn. "And if we wait any longer it looks like there will be no space for it either!"
He pushed his way through the boxes towards the door and grabbed the handle -- managing to clear enough space to open it partway. Then he stepped through it and turned his head to look back over his shoulder. "Well are you coming or going, Romana? You know it would please me greatly to have the pleasure of your company. As usual."
She thought for a bit.
Sighed.
Shrugged her shoulders.
"No more adventures, Doctor. I'm so tired of having adventures. No one wants so many unexpected surprises all in one day."
"Well, having the other kind of surprises wouldn't make much sense, now would it?" he replied.
She pushed her way towards the door and they both left, Romana pulling the door closed behind them.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Ghost Machine and Man
The machine materialized with a faint whir or buzz that suggested spinning blades. A flashing, twirling light filled the room with an eerie glow. When the machine had materialized completely the sound also stopped. A moment later the front of it opened inward like a door into the interior. A man stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. He looked around with a puzzled expression. "Oh, this isn't right. Not at all," he said. He suddenly crouched down, then leaned over and planted his ear on the ground, as if to listen to it. "Mmmhmmmm. Yes. As I expected." He leaped back to his feet, brushing his hands off as he did so. "But this will have to do. At least until I can make repairs." He turned toward the machine. "I've got a task for you, K-9. Please come outside." A moment later, a disembodied, mechanical voice replied, seemingly from a speaker on the outside hull of the machine. "Coming, master."
Purple, Fast and Far Away
She had a little purple starship. Sleek and built for speed. Just last week she made a run with it to the Dachyon system, carrying a load of contraband. The pay was good, more than enough to offset the risk of entanglements with friendly neighborhood law enforcement types.
She had a secret hideaway on the far side of the moon of Tyrel V. Buried underground, it had a private hanger with a camouflaged entrance that was invisible to all but the closest inspection. Packed full of comforts and homey things, it was where she Kept Her Stuff and kicked back in between jobs and vacations.
She had a secret hideaway on the far side of the moon of Tyrel V. Buried underground, it had a private hanger with a camouflaged entrance that was invisible to all but the closest inspection. Packed full of comforts and homey things, it was where she Kept Her Stuff and kicked back in between jobs and vacations.
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