When Franchises Collide

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 8/22/08.

For the moment, all was dark. Kelley Four could hear his reluctant volunteer work his way blindly up the concrete steps, across the creaking catwalk, and into the control room. A door closed. The former sandman was wrapped in a shroud of near-total sensory deprivation. Although it made no difference, he closed his eyes, as if to block out the darkness. He could have easily engaged the infrared enhancer on the side of head, but to do that would be to give in.

Kelley had no idea how many minutes passed before his mind began to play tricks, but the vision came in bright, vivid color. It was an echo from the past. His own voice recalled the scene from deep inside his head, as if he were writing a journal entry.

Logan Five and Jessica Six had brought us all out of the safety of the Domed City, into the god-forsaken vine-covered wilderness that had once been the capital of a vast--what was the word?-- country. Logan had never been the type to think things through. Most of us sandmen weren't.

Before, it had been the Lifeclocks that had limited the human lifespan to thirty years. Later, it would be starvation, hypothermia, and disease. That fool old man had been able to survive Outside only as a scavenger. There was no way thousands of young, computer-nurtured sheep-people were going to make it in such a place, at least not for long. The first Winter alone killed nearly three quarters of us.

Then the Borg came.

"The freakin' Borg!" Kelley Four shouted involuntarily. His voice echoed back to him five times from the darkness.

We had had barely begun to comprehend what the Earth was when we were visited from the night sky. One by one, as a gamer might take down his opponent in Chess, my brothers and sisters were eliminated by the black mechanical ghosts until scarcely two hundred remained.

The female called Seven of Nine had chosen--no, not chosen--been assigned to me by the hive. The Borg queen had special things in mind for me, she had said. We made love. It had seemed impossible that something so mechanical, something that could appear and disappear at will should feel so human. And that an act that felt so good could make me feel so traitorously inhuman. The cold steel of her body had burrowed into my flesh. We are many. No... no, I am one.

Because of his name, Gary Seven had lived among us for for months before we realized that he wasn't a Domer. One of the old man's cats had taken a liking to him; she seemed to follow him everywhere. When I first met Gary Seven, he asked a lot of questions about where we had come from and why there were so few of us. One time I overheard him talking to himself, or perhaps it was the cat. I didn't see anyone else near. I'll always remember what he said, although it made no sense to me.

"This time line must be broken, Isis." Kelley quoted the man aloud. "We can't allow this to happen."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kelley registered that the others had begun to file into the dark room. The grunting of humans combined with the whirring of servo-motors.

Gary Seven had demanded that Seven of Nine take him to the queen. The Borg tried to--we, no they, they called it assimilation. I don't know why, but I helped him escape. The queen declared my assimilation a failure and scheduled me for recycling. Gary Seven fled Old Washington. No one has heard from him since.

A low buzzing sound vibrated the floors and walls as the generators were brought online. When the light surged overhead, it was a blinding white blossom. Kelley Four squinted and looked around at the last of the human race. Along with himself, twelve white-clad human figures stood in a circle.

The speakers crackled from high overhead has as the buffers struggled to clear a year's worth of old sampled data.

"Las-Las-Last Day." a disembodied woman's voice stated coldly. "Year of the ci-ci-ci-city 2274."

"We are not assimilated!" Kelley shouted from behind his white mask, and his voice thundered back five times.

A murmur of agreement rose among the twelve half-Borg.

"Identify," said the voice. All raised their left hand, palms outward to show the crystal embedded there. The Borg had wired into them to help charge their implants. But the crystals were clear. The Lifeclocks no longer had power over them. The sacrifice was theirs.

Slowly, the carousel began to rotate as the buzzing sound increased in pitch. One by one, like pieces taken from a Chess board the last humans were lifted into the open space of the arena toward the light. For this ultimate Last Day, there was no crowd to cheer the spectacle, no family to anticipate their renewal.

A lightening bolt came from the ceiling and struck the first person to float too close to the domed ceiling. The white robed figure erupted into a shower of sparks and went limp.

A second half-Borg was hit in the head. His robes burst in blue flames as the circuitry underneath overloaded and ignited.

Then, it was Kelley's turn. There is no sanctuary.


Gary Seven, picked up his cat and stepped into the time portal, destination: Earth, 1968. There might be a way to stop what he had seen, to avert the Catastrophe that the Domers had told him about. If the plan he and Isis had drawn up worked, he could interrupt the missile launch that afternoon.

He felt a moment of vertigo as the energy of his thoughts rushed through time and space. He'd arrive on the U.S Air Force base with just enough time to slip unseen into the control room and then make it to the tower.

There was just one problem. When he materialized, he found himself standing in a strange room, staring back at a pointy-eared alien, a Scottish engineer, and a smug, over-acting starship captain.

A wizard, an elf, and a dwarf walk into a tavern. The elf says...

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 8/15/08 which this week, is a chance to participate in one of the challenges I missed . Share and enjoy.


A wizard, an elf, and a dwarf walk into a tavern. The elf says, "Good barkeep, my parched tongue would celebrate one of your fine ales. Furthermore, my coin purse stands open for my thirsty companions."

The round-faced barkeep frowned and humphed at such flowery prose, but grabbed three wooden tankards from a shelf and went to work filling them with a suspicious brown liquid.

"Sandy is the name," the elf extended a thin hand across the bar. "Pecan Sandy. And I thank thee for allowing us shelter from the tempest brewing outside. What might thee be called, my good man?"

The barkeep didn't look up from from his work. "Wilford," he mumbled through ample lips.

"Wilford! 'Tis a perfect name for a man of class such as thyself." He turned and gestured toward his two companions. "Allow me to introduce my noble party of adventurers. The clever looking wizard is called Guff. He hails from the village of Rove. And this short, but powerful fighter was named Skont by his parents, they--"

"Shut it, elf!" the barkeep put eyes on him for the first time. "Drink your ale and then get your friends out of my tavern. It's not safe."

"Not safe?" Sandy glanced around and was startled to notice a particularly ugly orc sitting in the dark corner to his left. She seemed to be in some sort of distress. The sound of sliding metal from behind said that Skont had also spotted her. He turned back to Wilford.

"Good sir, you allow monsters of this sort refuge in your establishment? T'is no secret that orcs are unclean!"

"I don't have no choice in the matter." Wilford growled. "Law says I had to let them in."

"Them?" Sandy drew his own short sword and stepped away from the bar. "Perhaps t'will take a brave band of adventurers to deal with the intrusion, since thou doth seem to lack the courage."

"Don't do it," Wilford warned.

Heedless of the danger, Sandy, Guff, and Skont swaggered to the far end of the bar, ready, nay, anticipating confrontation. The dwarf growled deeply and stepped to the front of the party. The wizard intoned words to himself which caused a fireball to wink into existence. It hovered over his wiry hand, awaiting his command.

"Far be it for me to harm a female," Skont said, sword raised high, "But you have no place in this tavern, foul beast."

Suddenly, the orc let out a terrible scream and collapsed onto the bar. That, and the sound of liquid splashing onto the floor caused the party to take an involuntary step backward. The fireball vanished along with the wizard's courage. The three adventurers glanced at one another nervously.

A moment later, the head of a lizard man appeared from underneath the bar. He stood, dripping in a thick orangish ooze, and let out a deafening screech. Then he threw back his head and laughed triumphantly.

"It is done!" he shouted in a gleeful, but shrill tone. "The old wizard said that an orc and a lizard man could never produce an offspring. We have proved him wrong! Behold my daughter!" The lizard man lifted a small, naked orange creature over his head. The offspring had its mother's figure and its father's teeth.

"I shall teach her the ways of sword. And one day, 'though it take a thousand years, she shall rule the quasi-free world! And I shall call her...(wait for it)... HILLARY!"

With the first known utterance of the name, lightning flashed outside, setting afire the thatch roof of the tavern. The patrons screamed and scattered as a deafening thunder shook the structure to its foundation. The barkeep tried in vain to extinguish the flames with the tankards of brown ale. By the time the rains came, it was too late.

The elf, the wizard, and the dwarf stood shocked in the drenching downpour as they stared at the ruin of the tavern. The elf says, "I got a bad feeling about this."

Attack of the Minidroidz

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 7/25/08.

RESTRICTED INFORMATION
Official transcript
Subject: David Leland, Software Tester III
Case #: 20220707-02
Viral code found in consciousness transfers
Interviewer: Rainer Schtupp, Investigator XI

---- WARNING: This document has been tagged for deletion ----

---- Transcript Begins ----

Schtupp: The law says I have to record this.

Leland: [sighs] Whatever. I save all your asses and this is the thanks I get.

Schtupp: Why don't you start from the beginning? What happened on the afternoon of July 7, 2022?

[Wooden chair sliding. Footsteps]

Leland: Ok. We'd been working on an upgrade to the old Model 2 CTR's. I was coming back from lunch--

Schtupp: Excuse me. CTR's?

Leland: I believe you know what a CTR is, Agent Schtupp.

Schtupp: That is irrelevant, Mr. Leland. Our audience won't know. We must be thorough.

[Papers rustling]

Leland: Fine. It stands for Consciousness Transfer Receptacle. It's the storage module that houses the subject's memories and sense of presence. It connects onto the back of a Minidroid.

Schtupp: Thank you. You were returning from lunch?

Leland: Yeah. I found my boss and three other engineers-- it was Xing, Ericsson, and Wu--they were crowded around the workbench in the back of the lab. I asked them what was going on. They told me that one of the Minidroidz had gone berserk and was staggering around San Antonio, bumping into things. It was speaking gibberish, stringing random words into nonsensical phrases.

[Scribbling on paper]

Schtupp: And did you contact the Archives Center for the identity associated with the serial number?

Leland: I did. Fellow named Hasim Al Bhand from Detroit. He was a recent transfer, just reached mandatory age this past May.

Schtupp: Was his family notified?

Leland: Of course not. We followed federal protocol, down to the freaking letter. Lot of BS if you ask me.

Schtupp: I didn't. Please go on.

[Chair creaks]

Leland: The next day, it was my turn on Tech Support. I got a call that it was happening to two more of the Minidroidz, this time both were in Houston. And both were new transfers, within the last couple of months. By day number three, there were malfunctions all over Texas, in every Minidroid cell. We couldn't even log all the calls.

Schtupp: Yes, well, I do have a record of those calls if you'd like to see them.

[Sarcastic laugh]

Leland: Of course you do. Mama hears all. It wasn't long after that, the malfunctioning Minidroidz turned violent and started wandering outside of the Texas borders. [pause] which I'm sure you realize is illegal.

Schtupp: Mr. Leland, what, in your opinion, happened to the Minidroidz?

Leland: I used Google Earth Now to locate the first one that had gone all wacky. Then I forced a WIFI core dump onto one of our main servers here in Dallas. Long story short, someone introduced a virus into the code.

Schtupp: And I assume that it would take a certain special skill set to do something like that? Someone with intimate knowledge of the Minidroidz systems?

Leland: I don't much like where you're going with this. But yes. They'd have to be present at the time of transfer. [pause] ..and not distracted by the sounds of protest against the mandatory transfers.

Schtupp: Mr. Leland, I appreciate that you do not approve of your government's solution to the crisis of overpopulation, but...

Leland: Solution? Is that what we're calling it? Agent Schtupp, sir, every day, all over the world, tens of thousands of 42 year-old men and women have their bodies harvested for parts and their brains x-copied into a 24-inch tall white robot with a black Daewoo-Hyundai logo on the chest. And if that ain't enough, they get shipped--exiled, actually--to the newly created puppet nation of Texas. If it weren't for the millions of digitized facial images on the LCD's, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart.

Schtupp: We are not here to debate the morality of what happens in this lab. If you're so opposed to it, then why do you participate? This new race of beings is running on an OS you helped to troubleshoot. And it was you who spotted the virus. Convenient.

Leland: You think I did it?

Schtupp: Until I know better, all five living residents of Texas are suspects. Now, please continue with the story.

Leland: Where was I? Oh yeah, Minidroidz going all Chuckie on everyone. I never would have guessed they could wield a knife like that. Once they broke through the containment field---

Schtupp: And the containment field is?

Leland: Right. The containment field is a long line of receivers that detect a Minidroid's RFID tags and shuts it down if it tries to cross.

Schtupp: Go on.

Leland: Well, you know the rest. It was all over the news sites. The hordes of Minidroids hacked and slashed their way across to the East Coast, then headed north. They were well on their way to the Pentagon. Your Mama's military couldn't stop them. There were just too damned many. That was when I found the virus in the core dump and was able to work with the other engineers to patch it. We forced a WIFI OS security update and did a reboot on everyone.

Schtupp: Right, you rebooted 12 million people.

Leland: They didn't notice. I can put the code back in if you like.

Schtupp: Always the smart-arse. You asked me earlier if I thought you did it. The truth is, I know you didn't. You see, we've cross-reference the rest of the serial numbers. It wasn't all the Minidroidz who went berserk, just a select percentage. And here are the names.

[Paper rustles]

Leland: These are all Muslim names.

Schtupp: You noticed.

Leland: It was another terrorist attack.

Schtupp: Yes. The first on American soil since 9/11.

Leland: Why are you interrogating me, then?

Schtupp: I'm interviewing you because we can't afford to offend the three billion Muslims on the planet. You, Mr. Leland, are going to take the blame, the next Timothy McVeigh. We couldn't hope for a better scapegoat. You're on record with your endless anti-government dronings--always the malcontent. And with the help of Patriot Act IV, you'll simply disappear into any number of cages set up around the world. Don't worry, you won't be tortured. At least, not officially.

[Pistol cocking]

Leland: Son of a bitch. Don't shoot me!

[Door crashes]

Unidentified synthetic voice: ALLAH ACKBAR!!

[Explosion]


---- Transcript Ends ----
---- WARNING: This document has been tagged for deletion ----

Global Crisis Alert!

Time. There never seems to be enough of it to spend with our friends, family and children. Time is our most precious commodity. But its in danger.

Hi, I'm Don Henley.

You may be aware that a cow's flatulence contributes to the global warming crisis by increasing the levels of poisonous greenhouse gases in the atmosphere, but did you know that these animals steal precious seconds of your time every day? And that the problem is getting worse every year?

You may ask, "How can they do that? Bessie would never do anything to harm us." You'd be wrong. You see, it's a little-known fact that 89% (some experts say more) of bovines have a preference to face East before passing wind.

Every single day, literally millions of cows release seven stomachs' worth of pent-up gas to the West which slightly, but detectably increases the speed of the Earth's rotation. Just in the last twenty-four hours, you have lost .002 seconds of your day because you insist on eating a Whopper in your air-conditioned SUV.

Don't believe me? They say a picture's worth a thousand words.

This diagram shows the ugly truth about Bovine Global Rotation Acceleration and it's grave consequences for our planet and our children.

As you can see, time is short, and getting shorter. So, come on, Desperado, come down from your fences before it's too late. Meat is murder. Stop killing time. Peace.

Author's note: The choice of Don Henley to deliver this global crisis news parody was not an arbitrary one. Rather, it is in retaliation for his using the long-awaited new Eagles album as yet another platform for his lefty politics. I'd tell Don not to choke on my sixteen bucks, but he has probably already donated it to PETA.

Billboard Widget

Giving it a try.

Friday Challenge 6/27/08

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 6/27/08.


Even after all these years, they've never been able to make it rain often enough on the Martian farms. Fortunately for us, the fine entrepreneurs of Waltonsville (named after the founder of it's largest investor, Sam Walton) saw to it that irrigation brought enough water to sustain the few genetically altered crops that would grow in the red-brown soil. John Harley had promised the the land owner that his enterprise would take great pains to avoid trampling the still-tender seedlings, but I had my doubts.

As I pulled my sandhopper through the open gates, I spotted the surprise that John had mentioned to me on the TXTer. At the far end of the gravel road I could see the lights of a ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and numerous snack booths, no doubt offering such tempting delicacies as fried wirerat on a stick and pickled cactus wedges.

A carnival? It would be frowned upon by the Peacekeepers as a lawsuit magnet, but hardly a good reason for swearing me to secrecy.

Still a couple of hundred meters out, I pulled the sandhopper to the side of the road and stepped into the painfully dry Martian air. Calliope music drifted over the dunes and echoed among the rocks. I may have caught a whiff of cotton candy, but then, I have a good imagination.

"Joe Essex, you've seen my secret. Now you must die."

I suppose the voice over the loudspeaker was meant to startle me, but John had been my friend for a lot of years. Nothing surprised me any more. I just shook my head and made my way toward the festivities at a trot.

As I neared the ticket gate, John greeted me with a smile and a jarring handshake.

"How the hell are ya, Joe? Haven't seen you in while."

"Yeah, shop keeps me busy as hell. Sand and gears don't mix, ya know."

He shook his head. "Nah, I wouldn't know about such things."

I nodded toward the gate. "So this is your big secret? The one that would have you shoveling shit if they knew?"

John grinned again. "Yeah. And no. Come on inside."

We strolled through the gate, past the empty ticket booth and onto the main grounds. As we made our way past the merry-go-round and on toward a small rollercoaster, something began to strike me as odd.

"What the hell, John? Everything looks kind of flimsy." I grabbed the handrail on the rollercoaster walkway and shook it for emphasis. "This place seems a little dangerous."

"I was wondering how long it would take you to pick up on that." He paused, somewhat triumphantly, then slapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward a large tent at the center of the grounds. "The carnival ain't real. It's a front!"

"You sellin' drugs?"

John laughed at that. "You know me better than that, hoss. Take a look." He gestured to the tent, then crossed his arms, obviously quite pleased with himself.

As I neared the structure, I could hear noises inside, growling and slamming. Then there were voices. Someone sounded pissed. I hesitated for just a moment, but I could feel John's eyes on me. I dared not wait too long. It took just a second to steel myself and reach for the tent flap.

The inside of the tent seemed dark at first. But when my eyes adjusted, I could see what looked like a boxing ring at the center of a huge set of bleachers. Two huge men circled one another inside with a look of undiluted hatred. Then one picked up the other and slammed him hard. Not boxing, I thought.

"Pro Wrestling." For the first time in years, John Harley startled me. "Pro wrestling on Mars."

I turned and looked hard at him. "And right under the nose of the United Nations."

"Nah." He slapped me on the shoulder again. "Right up their nose."

Friday Challenge for 6/6/08

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 6/6/08.

He's just a young boy out of school
Livin' his world like he wants to
They're makin' laws, but they don't understand
Turns a boy in to a fightin' man
They won't take me
They won't break me
--Journey, Escape, 1981

"Schools Out"
by snowdog

"Uh, excuse me. Could you tell me where..." the skinny kid fumbled with his books and class schedule. "Do you know where Room C315 is?"

Confusion. My brain struggled to make sense of the situation. A lost freshman on campus was nothing new, not on the first day of school. The thing is, today was supposed to be the first day of Summer break. What was I doing here? The nervous newbie squirmed under my senior stare.

"That's C-hall, it's that way," I said, pointing absently in some random direction.

"Thanks!"

The kid rushed down the main hall in hopes of making his remedial English class in time. I knew he wouldn't. Mrs. Eland would give him The Look.

I couldn't understand it. Yesterday the hallways had been buzzing with students and teachers looking forward to two and half months of sun and sand. A Coke and smile. Summer always seems too short, but usually I remember at least some of it.

The bell rang, announcing that I and about two hundred or so freshmen were late for class. I had no idea where I was supposed to be. Wait. There was a schedule in my hand. Phys Ed? First hour? Aww, man. It was going to be a long Winter.

As I made my way toward the gym, something stirred in my mind, a dream of sorts. No, a memory. I was on the bus, on the way home from the last day of school. It was a rowdy trip, as they all were. Our bus driver wasn't exactly a strict disciplinarian.

"Hey, ya'll calm down back there." Merv mumbled into the mirror with a poorly-executed look of concern. We paused our mischief briefly until his gaze returned to the sun-heated road ahead, toward that reflective pond in the distance that you never reach.

"Okay," I said, dropping my voice a little this time. "Go for it!"

The kid I had in a headlock--Greg was his name--squirmed helplessly as the huge black football player across the aisle grabbed his Fruit-of-the-Looms® and yanked hard. I put my hand over the kid's mouth to stifle the scream. Merv didn't look up, so Anthony gave one more hard pull, nearly wrenching him out of my grip.

It was mirth all around.


Except now I was standing in the gym with a group of fellow Seniors on the first day of school. By this point in our careers, we all knew the drill. Coach would appear from his office nestled in the locker room and remind us who's boss. Buzz cut. Closely-trimmed beard. A five foot seven inch leader of men named Coach Branch. He ordered us to take a seat.

My friend Joey flopped next to me on the bleachers as we pretended to listen about how things would be different this year. Nonsense would not be tolerated. Lawsuits were pending.

"Something weird's going on," I muttered.

"Yeah?" Joey leaned back and carefully slipped the can of Skoal® from his permanently ring-impressed back pocket. He offered me some and laughed at my morning-sick expression. "Branch doesn't look any weirder than last year."

"No, not that. Look..." I glanced around cautiously. "Summer Break just started yesterday. Why are we here?"

Joey nearly lost his dip he when blurted out "WHAT?"

"Hey! Mullins!" Coach shouted irritably. "Anything you want to share?"

"No sir."

Coach Branch rolled his eyes. "Joe, what's in your mouth?"

"Nuttin, sir!"

"Get down here, now!"


And then I was on the bus again, in the back seats that the football player and I owned. From the few times that my parents had let me drive to school, I knew that the trip down the winding country road took eight minutes at seventy miles per hour. Even with stops, Merv could come damned close to that time. I grabbed the seat as a left-hand curve nearly put me into the window.

"Man, I can't wait," Anthony smiled. "Last day on this freakin' death trap. Ever!"

"Lucky bastard! I wish I was a Senior."

Anthony looked at his watch. "You will be in about five minutes."

"YEAH!" I agreed. To celebrate, I twisted my class ring around backward in my hand and slapped Greg on the back of the head one more time as a Junior.



"Man, that f***in' hurt!" Joey said, rubbing his ass. "Five swats! And he took the can! A full can!"

He was standing on my toes as I did sit-ups. This was to see how badly we had all gotten out of shape over the Summer. Coach didn't laugh when I told him that you have to be in shape to get out of it. Not a problem that I had.

"Not...exactly...a first.... offense." I spouted between reps.

"Nineteen... Twenty..." Joey laughed as I collapsed into a panting heap of sweaty gray cotton.

"No, I'm serious, Joey," I gasped staring up at the pulleys and cables that controlled the basketball goals. "I don't remember Summer Break. It's like I was just here yesterday."

"That's gotta suck," he drawled. "I was at the lake almost every day. Caught this huge-ass bass. Must'a been ten pounds."

"Liar."

"Hey, Jeannie took pictures this time!"

In an effort worthy of Atlas himself, I squeezed out another sit-up before the whistle blew. Then I got to my feet so we could swap positions.

"You don't remember anything, huh? Hope it don't have anything to do with this." He poked me hard in forehead.

"OWW!" It hurt a lot more than it should have.


Greg grabbed the back of his head and gave me a nasty look. He was a nice kid and he knew my bullying was good-natured, so he usually just laughed it off. Not this time. He scowled and moved to another seat.

No matter. My stop was next. Merv banked the bus around the last 's' curve and brought the big yellow sardine can to an abrupt halt.

I gathered my notebooks, textbooks, and yearbook. Home at last! Nothing but two and a half months of loafing bliss ahead! I stood and worked my way toward the front, gathering speed as I went.

"Have a nice Summer," Merv mumbled as I neared the first row.

"Woo HOO!" I shouted in glee as I grabbed the pole and swung down to the door. As it turns out, I jumped just a tad too high and slammed my forehead into the upper door frame.

Next thing I recall, I was staggering on the ground, books and papers scattered at my feet, holding my forehead. Merv laughed and closed the doors. Then he was gone.


Now I was back in the gym, still touching my head where Joey had poked me. My fingers came to rest on the adhesive bandage.

"Oh, yeah."

Update: Fix some typos with Bane's help.