Spacebullies Two: The Search For More Parody

Manually setting up menu-code for scenes on Jersey Earth. The next three or more posts will feature the rugged Roger Tree Root, the Algonquin Indian magic-user. That's the fellow who can make up all sorts of spells, but only four per day (unless he sets up a "carry-over" in advance).

All right, we'll say that it's October-- yes, with snow already-- in Manitoba Province.

Six Canadian Mounted Police-- in this case, mounted on all-terrain four-wheelers-- were accompanying Mister Tree Root, who also rode a wilderness scooter, to save his magic for serious needs. They were bound for a section of woods from which animals had been fleeing frantically for the last two days. Numerous hunters of Native ethnicities were unwilling to investigate; and even the daring Mounties felt much better for having a good-aligned wizard on their side. The Indians were talking in low tones about the mythical Wendigo. (I haven't bothered altering this creature-name from Original Earth mythology).

One divination spell cast by Roger on the preceding day had indicated that the apparent Wendigo signs had somehow been caused or precipitated by the former disruptions wrought by Heart Sapphire Sisters. Roger had gotten the feeling that, even though the Sapphire Sisters had produced more harm than benefit, the mere fact that they had WANTED to do good was enough to irritate an evil boogeyman. And the fact that Heart Sapphire activity on Jersey Earth had never entirely ceased since then, prevented this potential cause from being dismissed as too far separated in time.

At a rest stop, Roger tried another fact-finding spell. "May I be able to perceive if the creature we seek is good, and is only feared because it is unknown; or if it is morally neutral, just a force of nature; or if is genuinely wicked, and a menace to the innocent."

The Algonquin tracker fell silent. After a minute, the Mountie standing nearest to Roger, a Constable Forrest LeGrand, asked him, "Well, DO you have an answer?" The older man frowned into the distance.

"What I got for a result was the strong feeling that our quarry was RESISTING my augury."

Forrest remarked like a lawman: "This feels like a case of, 'An honest man has nothing to hide.' If the creature is talented enough to feel your magic reaching out to it, it must be able to tell that YOU are not evil. So if it wants to thwart your scanning, IT must be evil."

Roger nodded solemnly. "Listen, everyone. I have one more spell -charge for today. I'd best use it now. For the duration of this emergency, let the weapons of my companions all enjoy the same power against evil as my rifle was given." Twenty seconds later: "Listen carefully, everyone, here's the extent to which my spell succeeded. Each firearm any of you possesses WILL work against weapon-resistant monsters-- but only for two shots per weapon. On the plus side, any enchanted shot NOT fired today will still be possible tomorrow.

"Meanwhile, bear in mind that in ancient lore, the Wendigo is vulnerable to burning."
 
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That night, having gone unassaulted in daylight, the hunters kept TWO men on watch at all times. Dry firewood ran out; but five seconds after midnight, Roger spell-spoke: "For the rest of the night, let our wet fuel burn as easily as if dry." So the fire stayed bright; and the last pair of watchstanders could have sworn that they heard the Wendigo howling in frustration, because a hot fire was deterring it from approaching. At sunrise, they radioed a report of not much to report.

Half an hour after breakfast, their radio was activated remotely, and a human voice came from it: "This is Tong Sao-Tu of Malaysia." This ethnically Chinese man was known as Jersey Earth's second-in-seniority Green Flashlight. Sao-Tu continued: "John Stewmeat still is off-world. But the Janitors of the Universe advise me that yes, the Wendigo exists, though often dormant; it is evil and is magical; it is indeed irritated by the presence on Earth of Heart Sapphires; and it will surely be aware that foes are stalking it who have power to harm it. But Green Flashlight energy is adequately quasi-magical that IT ALSO can hurt a Wendigo. I will be joining you very soon."

When everyone was up and about, Sao-Tu flew outward from the campsite, about thirty miles, then began to fly a narrowing spiral, circling his allies while slowly closing in toward them. All the way, his Flashlight prosthesis emitted the equivalent of ground-penetrating radar. He was about halfway finished when he suddenly calleda the Mounties.

"Everybody on full alert! There's a sizeable cavern about four hundred feet under this surface....... wait one....... I just accessed Canadian interior-service databases. They don't list any caves at your location. Wait one..... have any of you heard of Starhatches? The Flashlight Corps knows about them: a kind of wormhole technology."

"John Stewmeat may have said something about them," Roger Tree Root put in. "But as you know, our own Earth-variant has very little experience with instant-travel methods other than the kind shared by New Laziness and Awkwardlisp."

"Well, the Starhatches were in use long before Highfyver and Twerpseid were born. They were built by some of the super-duper everything-doing space aliens who claim to have invented all of human civilization. When Highfyver sent Slightray and other supers here in connection with the Anti-Strife Equation, they MUST HAVE known that at least one Starhatch was here; but I guess Highfyver figured he didn't need them."

The head of the Mountie contingent came on the channel. "Getting back to immediate business, does this discovery bear any connection with Wendigos?"

"I'd say it does. Best I can sense, at least four Wendigos have arrived in the cavern. Somebody else is there too: not a Wendigo, but not being attacked by them. The monsters appear to be waiting for him or her to do something. Could it be the monsters realize we're on their trail, and the stranger has offered to move them beyond our reach?"

A new voice came on the channel. "This is Green Flashlight Gramsuli, whom the readers will have seen as a sort of big female tortoise. I've just been redirected by Lord Katmatao to join you and intercept the--"

"Too late!" exclaimed Tong Sao-Tu. They've gotten through the Starhatch, and the stranger who assisted them went with them." The Chinese- Malaysian Green Flashlight then asked: "Roger, can you formulate a spell to determine where the monsters went?"

Six minutes later, the Algonquin mage reported, "They went almost half a galaxy-width from us, though not toward the galactic core where nothing can live; they jumped into the Frank Herbert-based sub-reality. But my augury reveals that they changed the setting so we can't follow them through."

"Too bad," said Gramsuli. "That's a very deep and wide zone. But the Janitors of the Universe can communicate with the most clairvoyant beings in that storyverse, namely the Naughtygators. Whatever evil somebody is planning, we'll hope that heroes IN the Dune-derivative reality can hold it in check until the Flashlight Corps can send aid."

READERS, YOU >WILL< EVENTUALLY FIND OUT WHERE THE WENDIGOS WERE SENT. BUT IT'S BEEN A >WAY< LONG TIME SINCE WE LOOKED AT MY LIBERTY-TAKING ADAPTATION OF THE "HALO" GAME PREMISE.
 
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CATCHING UP ON WHAT I DID WITH "HALO" CONCEPTS:

The sci-fi war game "Halo" is like "Star Trek," insomuch as it lavishly imagines ancient ultra-powerful everything-doing aliens having invented ultra-powerful everything-doing technology which, well, can do everything. Human characters, belonging to military forces rather like the Starship Troopers movies, must use mere bullet-guns in combat against evil aliens with rayguns, in order to capture ancient-alien inventions which can give humanity a chance to survive. The central human character in "Halo" is an enhanced Marine called The Master Chief. Because ground combat is the only type of warfare in which humans are superior to the hostile aliens, Master Chief and other good guys try to force their enemies to fight for surface facilities, or interiors of space stations, where the aliens will suffer heavy casualties. The game designers rival Frank Herbert for wanting everything to be doom and gloom.

SOME OF WHAT I'VE DONE WITH _MY_ PARODY CHARACTERS:

I imagine my "Heyho" storyverse as ONLY JUST COMING INTO EXISTENCE within the lifetimes of established "Spacebullies" characters. "Master Champ" and other game-derived characters have implanted memories of their supposed lives up to the time when they were made real. Note that they are not Matrix-type constructs; they are as much alive and free-willed as any other characters in my saga.

The game designers figured that bigger was better, so the Halo Rings in the game were over-powered end-the-universe thingies. I have made my "Heyho Rings" a bit less apocalyptic. And I'm allowing "outside" characters to meet Heyho characters. The Heyhoverse is being visited by characters based on Star Wars Expanded Universe, Babylon Five, and John Ringo's "Posleen War" novels.

The worst way in which the "343" designers emulated Frank Herbert's toxic pessimism was in their handling of A/I characters. I mainly mean the female hologram Cortana, named "Cortexa" in my parody. After making Cortana super-likeable, they chose to make her TURN BAD. This shall not stand in my parody; Cortexa WILL REJECT corruption, just as I've depicted Stillneater Ashtrayides refusing to become an evil God-Emperor.
 
STILL DRAFTING, BUT NOW GETTING AT NARRATIVE ===> I need to recap WHERE Snack Salad, Noherra Salad, Jacob Mossyhutch, Raquel Mossyhutch, Karbeena Owtfeeld, Zubdookree and Lodratrid have gotten to since I left them. Also see where I left things with Apishbox of the Juggernasty race. It was he who sent an air strike against the truce party which Highmaster Starterus sent to negotiate a settlement with the United Civilizations forces which are taking back Planet Stretch.
Zafnast is a male Skankbelly who was in the truce party and WASN'T hurt. Rhonda Pilsner, a Stretch resident who had survived in hiding ON Stretch during the worst, treated the casualties among the peacemakers.

Jacob Mossyhutch is around; he downed the Congregation attack aircraft.

Female Crackshot Shovorzi-802 is the one who uses a flamethrower. Prophet Julep'Drinka is Apishbox's "spiritual" mentor.

We previously saw some United Civilizations naval action affecting the Bonkalub race, lumpish but long-necked beings whose value to their allies lay in their scientific and industrial talents, not in combat prowess. (In Thregbonk's primitive era, before discovering fire, Bonkalubs had survived the threat of predators by various techniques of concealment, isolation and fortification.) I cannot seem to find where I wrote anything about their chain of command; but for purposes of what comes next, I can just run with what I seem to remember. And I seem to remember Planet Thregbonk being subordinated to the declining Introductories. On that basis----

A United Civilizations fleet of all-Plethmor warships, giving advance notice, assumed orbit around Thregbonk. There were two troop carriers, six cruisers. twenty destroyers, and three large multipurpose cargo ships. As nearly as possible, all Plethmor Crackshots were with this occupation force. At the expected time, on an agreed frequency, the Prime Executive of Thregbonk transmitted his message of compliance.

The Plethmors encountered no resistance, and behaved reasonably toward all Bonkalubs they met. The Bonkalubs realized by now that joining the U.C was a better deal than riding the Introductory civilization down in flames. Also better than going over to the Congregation and being treated MORE harshly than the Introductories had treated them. As for the Plethmors, overseeing this regime change gave them the satisfaction of being trusted by their Human allies.

As icing on the cake, President Jackman Hughes of Earth sent a subspace-radio message, inviting the Bonkalubs to send an ambassador, and requesting information on what would be needed for the well-being of Bonkalub diplomatic personnel.

Since the Halo game says that "The Covenant" did eventually attack Earth itself, I'm pretty sure I intended to have that happen here as well. So, as in canonical Halo, I'll say that "The Congregation" also attacked Earth, but didn't succeed in exterminating everyone there. This being so, the Bonkalubs get invited to come to Earth and help rebuild human cities.

One female Bonkalub named Shilkovim, an information-tech specialist, was part of the advance party which came to Australia to set up the Thregbonker Embassy. Ten days into her time on Earth, Shilkovim spoke with a certain Kuo Pai-Mong, a man who had once worked with Carolyn Fallacy. The subject of artificial intelligences came up, since the Congregation side of the war had at least a little knowledge about sentient AI's like Flyboy and Whistlebell on the human side.

It came to pass one day that Shilkovim said to Mister Kuo, "If I'm not crossing any lines by asking this, is it REALLY true that you design your sentient A/I's to become SENILE after only a few years? I find it hard to believe! Any race possessing computer technology at all, should have methods of rebooting systems and purging corrupted files! If you bestow genuine personalities on your holograms, letting them interact with people in a people kind of way, how could you consign them to a fate of terribly short life?"

"I honestly don't know why it is. Doctor Fallacy was always evasive on the subject."

Kuo Pai-Mong, naturally, knew nothing about Hopecrusher Central, much less Tyrone Glass Neilsen and Sorceress Ickylinn. People in the Heyho sub-reality were familiar enough with grief and fear, that they felt no need for stories which artificially made everything unhappy.
 
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Next we pick up Johnny-747, Avery Thompson, Terence Forsythe, two squads of Space Marines, and Cortexa on Planet Dustoff. Just as the genuine Halo game piles up changes atop changes within less than a decade as the characters experience time, I've had "The Friendless" pop up to compete with "The Varnished" and "The Splash" for up-and-coming-evil-menace honors, before the Varnished have even had time to become dominant in the evil-badness business.

Gutchpisho, a sasquatch-like Juggernasty "woman," is on Dustoff as an agent of the Friendless. Somewhere on the way, she joined forces with a race of multi-limbed (but vertebrate, not arthropod) sapients called Zidmorigs. Swibsep, a male Zidmorig, has a measure of authority to draw his people into the Friendless camp. One way or another, they have gained possession of a portable super-ancient artifact created by The Preliminaries (corresponding to "Precursors" in Halo continuity). From here, we restart regular narration......

AWARE NOW THAT HUMAN FIGHTERS WERE HUNTING THEM, Swibsep and Gutchpisho retreated, joining up with a mob of Zidmorigs. These were armed with projectile weapons which resembled the "fuel-rod guns" in Halo. (I think that this weapon in Halo is supposed to fire projectiles made of something like depleted uranium.) Being pursued by any human party led by the far-feared Master Champ was an intimidation factor; but Swibsep's lot might have opted to retreat anyway, since they didn't want to risk losing the valuable artifact.

"All right, so the Woowoogheggu--" (a roughly applicable word in Swibsep's native language) "--can transmute inert matter into digestible food on a modest scale, or enrich soil for agriculture on a grand scale. Obviously a good thing to have, but is there a military application?"

"Indeed there is. If you're under siege and have the device, the enemy can't starve you out. If I'm not mistaken, it can even provide pure water, and refresh the air if you're in a sealed environment."
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The flanking movement mentioned in my last "Heyho" post had brought the good guys to where they could find a clue regarding what the "Woowoogheggu" did. Just in case they might be slain or captured, Cortexa transmitted what they knew so far to a volleyball- sized satellite covertly orbiting the planet. Any Space Navy ship following up on the expedition would be able to find and retrieve the satellite.

Master Champ Johnny resumed leadership of his squad, then divided it into two fire teams. The team not under Johnny's direct orders would be led by the next- ranking Marine after Terence, a Corporal Tavisha Ellicott. The second squad likewise divided itself, with Avery and Terence leading the fire teams. Johnny and Avery took the flanks, keeping the teams with lower-experience leaders sheltered between them.

As they advanced, all of these were under hostile surveillance, but not by The Friendless. This was a magical surveillance, which they had no means of detecting or hiding from.

It was magical observation: the work of Sorceress Ickylinn, a native of Mighty Male's homeworld Alwaysurnia. While not equal in power (OR in beauty) to the good- aligned Sorcery Lass of Castle Greyhair, Ickylinn was full of cruel tricks, the crueler the better in her view. Anything she lacked in imagination for her spell-casting was compensated for by her lover, Professor Tyrone Glass Neilsen. Since they began interfering with the new "Heyho" sub- reality, Tyrone had offered many tips on how to make bad things worse. For instance, he had coached Ickylinn on how to stimulate excessive rivalry between groups who should be on the same side, e.g. Space Marines versus Crackshots , or both of these against space- going personnel.

"Well, there's no backstabbing competition here," the sexy magic-user grumbled. "And I still can't bring Cortexa any closer to the tragic deterioration which makes the Original Earth game scenario so pessimistic. Any suggestions, darling?"

"You bet, gorgeous. Sort of like jujitsu, where you move WITH your adversary's motions."

"Meaning what, in the terms of a fantasy villainess who's less at home in such a materialistic scenario?"

"Meaning that, on every Earth-variant which consistently favors technology over any supernatural ideas at all, ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE exerts a seductive allure upon people. It lets them dabble in something which feels like magic, but isn't. I have a measure of knowledge about five Earth-variants, counting my own (if we also include Heyho Earth); and of these, only Earth-Whichever is backward enough that it ISN'T yet addicted to an A/I obsession. And it should be a comfort to you to realize that A/I authorship of stories rings false."

Ickylinn kissed him hard. "If I understand you, you're saying I should be able to CHEAPEN the heroics of this Master Champ goon, by giving an aura of shallowness to his adventures. It is not in our power just to kill off these heroes; but we can ruin their inspiring image by making it look utterly superficial."

Now Tyrone kissed her. "Maybe it's best if you begin with a supporting character. For practice."
 
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Tavisha Ellicott existed in the enigmatic borderland between martial fortitude and luxuriant femininity. Her life had been lived with one foot in the comprehensible world of affection, marriage, family and stability, and her other foot in a technical career which would have been baffling to her great-grandparents. Tavisha's father had been a spacer, flinging his bravery and resolve against the merciless cold of space, and the mind-stretching enigma of hyperspace. When Lieutenant- Commander Ellicott perished in the line of duty, battling the Introductories, Tavisha had attempted the behavioral paradox of being more feminine when comforting her widowed mother, yet more mannish in carrying her father's noble journey further.

Serving in the Space Marines, Tavisha had poured her intellect, her passions, her skill, her ability to learn, and every muscle in her wondrously- proportioned body, into the mastering of her duty, the mastering of her fears, and the-- discipline, rather than dismissal, of her need for justice.

Legendary heroes like Stone Wolf and Aristocrat Six had inspired her, challenged her spirit, and made her wish that-- if she could manage it without failing in her duty-- she might find love with a man like them. Part of her wanted to outperform and embarrass men like them, because Ickylinn could not bear to omit this element completely; but a larger part of her spirit wanted-- if not to submit to any man-- still, to respect and support each valiant male comrade.

Tavisha had seen some unremarkable action against revolutionaries on human- colonized worlds, but in her brain there lingered a memory of the ambiguities in this human-against-human strife. Two years later, she had undergone her true baptism by fire when she barely survived the unsuccessful defense of Planet Stretch. On one hand, it was agony to know that humanity had lost a vitally important world; but it still was good not to be battling fellow human beings. When the United Civilizations retook Stretch, though Tavisha had not been on that battlefield, she had exulted as all humans and human-friendly sapients exulted; and she liked to believe that her own Marine battalion fighting the Congregation on other fronts had weakened them on Stretch.

She had served a tour in the Black Bayonets, but the Corps had eventually needed her to help stiffen the spine of a mostly-green company. This was where she had risen to corporal's rank. The newest paradox washing over her had consisted in her being "The Old Lady" to some cosmic leathernecks, although the youngest of them had been less than five years her junior......
Tyrone shook his head. "That's amazing, sweet-mouth! You made me FEEL the rambling of my own descriptive narration! And yet it says nothing about what Tavisha Ellicott is doing LATELY."

Ickylinn came happily into his arms. Later, she remarked to him, "If this 'Heyho' civilization survives, and begins telling its own sagas of how it survived, this kind of lavish, colorful prose may help us to ensure that THE WRONG PEOPLE get the credit."

= = = = = = = = = = = =

Ickylinn's simulation of Tyrone's imitation of A/I fiction writing leaked into the brain of a sleeping Tavisha Ellicott. She woke up jabbering a random imitation of the colorful but pointless description of herself. It took another female Marine a quarter-hour to bring the corporal back to coherence.

Ickylinn's confusion effect did not extend so far as to interfere with the task force led by Rear Admiral Jane Kathrynway, whose flagship was the carrier Audacity. Landing forces on "Zipper Heyho," they had collected the very first intel about The Varnished. This, a short while before Varnished forces were identified on Stretch. The good guys on the reclaimed U.C. planet would eventually hear the report from the Zipper operation, though it did not immediately affect them. {THIS ACTIVITY PARTLY DUPLICATES AN EARLIER POST.}

One of Kathrynway's light combatants, the frigate Spearmint-61, was diverted to Dustoff as reinforcement for the Master Champ's detachment. The squad riding on the frigate was led by one of the most unusual Crackshots: Corporal Zoshrid-18, the only member of his race to become a Crackshot so far. Humanoid in shape though hairless, Doladags were nearly eight feet tall, yet weaker than Earthlings because their homeworld had lower gravity. Muledeer armor for Zoshrid had needed to incorporate greater bionic strength and cardiac support, so he could slug it out with Juggernasties and Skankbellies. Doladags in the United Civilizations military mostly joined the Space Navy., where brains mattered far more than brawn.

Spearmint-61 assumed orbit above Dustoff at whatever time fits the plotline. <[ I just decided I'll give Doladags a compensating advantage to offset their musculo- skeletal inferiority; it is almost impossible to POISON them. ]> This frigate had been chosen to deliver Zoshrid's squad to Dustoff because four of its crewmen were also Doladags. Their tight-beam encrypted signal to the surface was acknowledged by First Sergeant Thompson. By this time, the on-world platoon had chased Swibsep and Gutchpisho for eighty miles.

Cortexa never needed to sleep, so she spoke on Johnny-747's behalf when Spearmint-61 opened comms. Giving the friendly ship the estimated location and march-route of Gutchpisho's mob, she requested: "Please deploy the reinforcements to intercept surface hostiles. Somebody needs to capture the plotline-convenient artifact, if this can be done without foolish risk to friendly personnel. If the hostiles disperse, use your planetary-strike ordnance to herd them back to the middle."

When Johnny awoke and was updated in a flash by Cortexa, he and Avery divided their force again: this time, so that they and Zoshrid's squad would become the points of a triangle. Then they could fire on the bad guys without hitting each other.

Gutchpisho had pressed her luck too far now. In the firefight which ensued when she and Swibsep refused to surrender, four U.C. personnel were fatally punctured by fuel-rod shots, two of these losses being suffered by Zoshrid's squad. But all of the evildoers perished, except for a few Zidmorigs who discarded their guns and escaped by burrowing. (Swibsep was the quickest to save himself.)

The ghost of Gutchpisho found herself being offered the chance to be saved in eternity, since the Never-Stopping Story had compelled her and others like her to be villains in the plot action. Most of the evil-side casualties chose salvation, and Gutchpisho had the chance to apologize to the Juggernasty husband she had murdered.

Back in mortal existence, the Woowoogheggu was captured intact. It would soon be studied by human scientists, to assess how effective it would be in eliminating famine on some deserving colony planet which had suffered harm to its agriculture. |

And yes, of course, Zoshrid-18 does get the chance to serve as a test subject, eating various food-types concocted by the Woowoogheggu. His race's metabolic advantage enabled him to sense if what he ate might be harmful to races NOT enjoying his poison-resistance.
 
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Change of scene, still in the Heyho continuity:

Gustaf Everett, whose Marines had previously collected priceless information about the Congregation arising to supplant the Introductories, had survived to rise to the rank of major. Preserving the nickname of Everett's Endrunners, his command had grown to a two-company battalion. His longtime right-hand man, Yung Po-Chao, rose to captain's rank to lead the second company, while an experienced first lieutenant named Laverne Dryden was billeted to lead the first company in case of Everett's incapacity, or if he needed to exercise wider operational command. A special-weapons company was in the works to enlarge the Endrunners further, but was not yet operational. It was planned that the new company's arsenal would include five or more new Tuning Forks of Death, larger and more potent than the man-portable versions which had already seen use.

Also joining the enlarged force, and slated for the special-weapons company because she was already acquainted with Tuning Forks of Death, was Private Zulinta George, whose father had died in the line of duty on board the warship Spurting Flame.

= = = = = = = = =

"Miss Hayes, have you ever used, or watched others using, a grappling-hook launcher?"

"No, Miss Owtfeeld, I can't say that I have."

"I've used them a lot; and like other bits of basic technology, they can be put to unconventional uses. In some situations, for instance, the cable can cause a short-out in electrical circuits. Now that I know your civilizations possess nanotechnology, my infiltration experience suggests a new hazard in my mind. A grappling-hook launcher, which emits no energy field of its own, could possibly serve to deliver interfering nanobots to a technical installation."

On a safe-so-far world named Zantron Six, where Major Everett was posted at the moment, Karbeena Owtfeeld from Philm-Nwarr was being allowed to view security measures and recommend improvements. Escorting her was a red-haired civilian computer programmer named Mary Hayes, who looked exactly like Copperfox's first wife who is now in Aslan's Country.

Mary nodded at the former burglar's latest words. "I see: bypassing high tech with low tech. Something our surface troops do as much as possible in combat against evil-alien infantry and armor."

Another part of the planet's military reservation was where the Endrunners were shaking down the newest troops on practice ranges. Wandering among the United Civilizations' defenders on this and other planets, Karbeena had seen the best and the worst of United Civilizations governance. Representing the best was Lieutenant-General Amos Judd, stationed on Planet Bigspoke. Weeks ago, intrigued by meeting someone from a galactic region beyond his knowledge, Judd had recorded all information the near-human tough-chick would give him about the sub-reality based on "Babylon Five."

For the worst, there was Acting Planetary Governor Yvette Nidlovu, snobbish head of the short-term administration which had tried to take the credit after United Civilizations warriors had bled to retake Planet Stretch from The Congregation.

Karbeena was looking forward to the next set of Heyho posts Copperfox would write, hoping it would contain more shoot-'em-up Crackshot action than this one had.
 
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Crackshot Warrant Officer Sinchoodi-939 had a forward operating base within sight of the area through which a tunnel connected the two Congregation enclaves on Planet Stretch. Helicopter-equivalents belonging to the United Civilizations Army (a dedicated ground-ops force, unlike the Space Marines) made frequent overflights. Jacob Mossyhutch, a native of "Ringjonn Earth" which had once been invaded by reptilian Postalfiends, was using his talent for stealth to patrol independently in case of Congregation treachery-- or interference by the new "Varnished" faction. Despite his not having superhuman strength, his great cunning and gift of good luck, plus his fearsome gravity gun, were making his new nickname of "Major Chief" an accomplished fact.

Sinchoodi had a male Efrachiktu comms officer named Quistolo, no relation to the previously-seen Quidproko. She also had an A/I named Buffalo Brad. In the midst of routine activity, Brad said to the squirrel-shaped technician: "Quistolo, please monitor the channel I will now download into your communicator. It has highly unusual, and sophisticated, encryption, with a rapid pattern of sideband changes, not recognizable as anything used by the Congregation."

"Will this need to be shared with Doctor Fallacy?" asked Sinchoodi.

Buffalo Brad, being equally sentient as Cortexa, looked dubious. "She does have as much unofficial authority as official, even if all sorts of people heartily dislike her."

"Quidproko can be a go-between," Quistolo offered. "We don't want intramural conflicts tripping us up at this time, what with Apishbox and his lot upsetting things just when we had achieved an agreement with Congregation holdouts."

= = = = = = = = =

We will next join Jacob Mossyhutch, many miles away. Rhonda Pilsner the civilian surgeon, having heard that the Ringjonn Earthman was a master of low-tech stealth methods, told him, in substance: "Twenty or so teenagers living north of here, from families who just immigrated after Stretch was retaken, were talking about wanting to have a church to attend. Since we live in a sub-reality which favors atheism, their elders began scolding them for 'wishful thinking,' nagging them to 'live in the here and now.' This only made matters worse. The kids left their homes without warning..... and we're afraid that they've slipped through the Sodpile Forest to avoid discovery......"

"And then--?" the veteran slayer of Postalfiends prompted.

"Satellite recon reveals that some alien holdouts with stealth technology are operating over that way. Signal characteristics indicate that these aliens are a separate force from the Congregation personnel who are making peace with us."

Jacob nodded. "Which argues for them being Apishbox's crowd."

"And since it wasn't the Varnished who devastated Stretch, those kids may believe the old 'enemy of my enemy' thing."

In short, with good-guy forces distributed thinly on the planet, Jacob sets out to locate the runaways. Assume he gets air transport to the late-settlers' community if he needs it. Don't worry, I won't let them get killed or anything before we get back to their story arc.
 
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===== THIS IS COPPERFOX, borrowing Wood Nymph's laptop. Reason being, MINE is awaiting a new charging unit which is taking FOREVER to be delivered. I have told some real-world acquaintances about this forum, and about my Never-Stopping Story. So in case they look here before going to the start (and for anyone else's benefit), I shall review some of the alterations I have made in the published/ filmed franchises which I parody.

THE BIGGEST OVERALL CHANGE consists in undoing the nasty, depressing inclinations of some authors, who hate happy endings. The very worst offender to receive my attention is Frank Herbert, creator of the six "main" books in the "Dune" series. He was desperately resolved to spread cynical pessimism among his readers; therefore, he tried to convince us that a representative constitutional government COULD NOT WORK. His imagined "cure" for the alleged illness was to claim that having A MONSTER TYRANNIZING ALL HUMANITY FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS would be an improvement!

In defiance to that idiot, I arranged that, when picking up my versions of "Spaceballs" characters, I would have them be connected with a version of the "Dune" franchise. This enabled me to stomp on the absurd argument that the remedy for evil is to impose far worse evil. It was also my springboard for more crossovers. My versions of Lone Starr and his companions went on to meet versions of cartoon heroes, including Batman and Captain America. Expanding the premise, I've had The Mandalorian meet Sailor Moon, Starship Troopers meet characters from Edgar Rice Burroughs, She-Hulk meet characters from Babylon Five, and so on. And my version of Anakin Skywalker never turns bad at all-- because no, fearing to lose a loved one DOES NOT have to turn you into someone who would murder children.

Along the way, I discard the ridiculous notion that every choice creates whole new universes. I mean, come on now, does my eating pretzels on Tuesday mean that another complete cosmos has to spring into existence in order for another Copperfox to eat potato chips? Nope. In "Spacebullies," characters can go from one Earth-variant to another (as well as going to unrelated worlds) in "ordinary" starships. Or via "ordinary" Stargates.

Touching on the combined He-Man and She-Ra franchises, I have some villains there get redeemed. I also have TWO separate versions of Harley Quinn join the side of good. And I don't mean like in the "Birds of Prey" movie, where we are expected to admire an UNREPENTANT Harley Quinn. My Harleys reject evil completely.

In a special sub-thread, I'm putting down the existential pessimism of Stephen King, by creating "Punksteema", an extremely loose takeoff (like, Mr. King would scarcely realize it) of the "Dark Tower" novels and movie.

Roleplaying games can also promote a dreary, hopeless Frank Herbert-esque view of the universe. The Halo game, notably, allows NO GOD to exist, but countless devils run loose unchecked. Well, my version of The Master Chief has better things to look for than endless uphill struggles, and seeing his hologram girlfriend turn evil.
 
Okay, I'm back on MY restored laptop! The unfinished Heyho action above is now complete, setting us free to join Street Bat on Bat-Earth.

Deuce Wayans' henchmen, the Chinese-American Chang-Shi Kirby and the British Air Force veteran Alvin Springbuck, had completed their alternating stints posing as the caped crimefighter. They had kept it going _after_ the real Street-Bat returned to his world and his timeline, so that Mister Wayans' hero-identity would be kept obscure. Now they were at the property owned by the Wayans family in Kentucky, where the non-human Green Flashlights Fojadosh and Zuza-Zuhob came to brief them before departing this Earth-variant.

Zuza-Zuhob, the more extremely non-human of the two Flashlight Corps members, reported, "I'm downloading to your data devices the locations of reserve hideouts I've created for Deuce in frigid regions: two in Antarctica, one in Patagonia, one in Greenland, one in Norway, two on the Arctic coastline of the Union of Cooperative Collective Republics, and one in the upper islands of Canada." The warm-blooded, hairy Fojadosh followed: "My setups are in western and eastern Brazil, the Darien Gap of Panama, Tunisia, Zaire, Senegal, Tajikistan, Burma, Fiji, and Death Valley." Deuce's friends already knew that his recently-bestowed Flashlight prosthesis would enable him to survive without distress in extreme temperatures.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Figuratively holding his nose while mingling with spoiled, luxury-loving members of the American social elite on Bat-Earth, Deuce Wayans reached a decision about what to do with the non-lethal plastic-bullet-using pistol he had acquired in his off-world adventures. Even possessing Green Flashlight powers now, the mercy-gun could still have been useful to him. But he decided that the _best_ use for it would be as a sort of misdirection, reinforcing his easygoing public image. At a high-society function, he approached Beatrice Wayans, who had scarcely noticed his frequent absences.

"Mother, one of the men on staff at the Paris townhouse offered me this--" (showing her the subdual weapon) "--to give to you. He figured that, without forsaking our belief in peace at any price, it would provide you an extra defense against patriarchal fascist men who oppress women and hate everyone that's different."

Beatrice was gratifyingly pleased with her son's gift. Of course, she would need to be discreet about getting someone to teach her how to shoot, since she was on record as insisting that all women were automatically better than all men at any skill you could name.

Mere minutes after Beatrice accepted the pistol, a doorman announced a new arrival, who came far closer than Beatrice ever would to actually being better than all men at everything. She was no older than early twenties, her hair and her dress jet-black. She was beautiful-- and would have been a ten if she had _ever_ smiled. Her height was average, but her aura of cold self-assurance made her seem taller than she was.

"Miss Washday Anagram, of the Chicago Anagrams."

The expressionless young woman strode up to Wayans. Coming within two feet of him, she raised only her eyes to look into his face. The covert crimefighter got the impression that by raising only her eyes instead of tilting her head, she was trying to demonstrate that she was unimpressed by his greater stature. Nodding, he said, "Miss Anagram."

Without preamble, and seemingly without emotions, Washday queried: "Why do you glorify mass genocide?"
 
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Deuce purposely made his expression more startled than the weird question warranted.

"Miss Anagram, do you mind clarifying what _kind_ of genocide you refer to?"

The rich young woman's face persisted in showing nothing, but she allowed her tone to become a bit more emphatic. "Of _course,_ I mean all of the white people who crossed the Atlantic with advance plans to slaughter every Native tribe for the fun of it!"

"Supposing this view of history to be accurate, how am I glorifying the genocide?"

"The last two Novembers, _you_ were the master of ceremonies at major Thanksgiving celebrations, putting your seal of approval on the premeditated mass murder of indigenous tribes in Massachusetts and beyond."

As her face remained blank, his face grinned enough for both of them. "All right, and here I thought the Anagram family could come up with something more intelligent. In the real world, the Pilgrims made a friendship treaty with Massasoit, chief of the Wampanoag. Massasoit promised the English that he would be their friend, provided that they supported him if other Native tribes waged war against the Wampanoag. That's right, Native Americans were _already_ fighting each other, long _before_ any white people came west. How do you suppose the Incas and Aztecs built their empires? But to keep the discussion on the northeastern United States, many of the Europeans who 'stole' Indian land came from an agricultural tradition, and they honestly _believed_ that the land where they settled was unused. So you should rethink your proud virtue signaling."

Washday Anagram had beaten up many dopey teenage boys and out-of- shape middle-aged men in her time, but she had never taken on a _real_ fighter in earnest. Deuce had already noticed that her long skirt was wide and loose enough not only to allow kicking, but to make it unclear where she was aiming. He also, however, had a deep understanding of arrogant would-be goddesses; and meeting warrior women in the Frank Herbert- based sub-reality had enriched his understanding. He sensed that, while not enjoying the benefit of Jalapeno powers, she had received pretty good training.

When she tried a kick at the most predictable target, Deuce just caught her foot and yanked. Both her feet came out from under her, and she slammed the floor with her head, back, hindquarters and heels. Washday did recover her breath soon, and performed a kip-up to regain her feet. "Good move," Deuce told her. He had no fear of his own ability uncovering him as this world's Batman-variant, because (1) His father had always encouraged him to build physical strength and agility; (2) he was known to have Chang-Shi Kirby and Alvin Springbuck around to hone his combat skills; and (3) those two men, plus Face Twister Maskoflage, had made enough distracter appearances as Street Bat that no outsider had any clue that the cape and cowl might really belong to the young billionaire. It was even less likely that any stranger would guess that he was now _also_ a member of the Green Flashlight Corps.

When Washday tried to surprise him by closing in with her fists, he effortlessly caught her by both wrists. Before she could bring a knee into play, his right hand forced her left arm up and to her right over her head, while his left hand yanked her right arm straight down. Falling on her side took the rest of her wind out of her.

As she groaned, unable to rise quickly this time, Deuce used the stunned silence in the room to say nonchalantly but very audibly: "Where was I? Ah, right. Ask a Navajo about the Apache. Ask an Apache about the Comanche. Ask a Pawnee about the Lakota. Your superiority routine will be more convincing if you take account of what's _really_ in the history that you invoke to promote the 'White Males Bad' game."
 
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The expressionless face was the one vestige of her cold smugness that Washday could retain. "You're a.... misogynistic.... patriarch," she panted. "My father....is capable of.... breaking Mother's.... neck, if.... he wanted to. But he.... _lets_ her hit him.... at parties.... then bounces back as if.... it were nothing."

Deuce looked around at the horrified partygoers. "Anybody else want to take a swing at me without cause? If you need an excuse, just pretend to believe that I'm 'harassing' Miss Anagram when I help her to her feet." Turning his right side toward the supine young woman, he half- squatted and extended a hand to her. Frowning, she rolled away from him and then hoisted herself upright. Once the humiliated would-be goddess had stalked out of the ballroom, a more conventional beauty, dressed a lot less modestly than Washday, approached Deuce and broke the hush.

"Mister Wayans, have we met? I'm Yulia Kessler."

Deuce accepted her outstretched hand. "Niece to President Hegel, through his wife Polenta, whose brother is your father. You're eighteen months away from earning your PhD in Abstract Painting."

Yulia beamed, sliding nearer to Deuce. "Tough as nails, yet also a connoisseur of the arts. How about the art of social dancing? When the orchestra starts up, would you be interested in a partner who _doesn't_ try to put you in a hospital?"

Deuce, who definitely owed Washday Anagram nothing, proceeded to have a splendid evening.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"The _nerve_ of that suit-wearing caveman!" exclaimed Tyrone Glass Nielsen. "You know I monitor the entertainment media of Original Earth, and a recent online video there _clearly_ depicts Wednesday Addams easily humbling Batman by casting a magic spell on him."

Ickylinn tenderly play-bit her tame philosopher's ear. "Don't take it too hard, darling. Any Batman-variant is small potatoes to us. What we're doing in the Heyho sub-reality is more important."
 
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I remind the readers that this Earth's version of Colorado has the same town of Limon as on Original Earth.

In _this_ Limon, the largest single retail store was Farm, Road and Ranch, owned by Franz Schiller, who in his prime had been an ambulance driver specializing in fetching patients from remote spots on the high plains. We see Franz now being visited by Deuce Wayans' local relatives: brother Benjamin, his wife Isobel, eight-year-old Mateo, ten-year-old Esmeralda, and their adult sibling Bartolomeo, who did much of the work at the Audacious Angus Ranch.

"Howdy, Ben! Are the ultrasonic emitters working?"

"They are." Ben had been quietly provided with animal-repelling ultrasound equipment, paid for by Mr. Springbuck acting on Deuce Wayans' behalf. Ben, his sons, and four full-time ranch hands had carefully deployed around the perimeter of the Double-A. He wasn't permitted to kill the wolves, coyotes and cougars which had been released all over the ranching lands of the U.S.A. by the minions of Mark S. Hegel, but nobody had _specified_ that a cattleman couldn't use non-lethal deterrents. The acreage thus protected was large enough that Ben could and did allow all the adjoining spreads to relocate some of their breeding stock onto the Double-A.

The Wayans' truck had brought four portable freezers, full of ground beef taken from the "cheap cuts"-- mostly shanks and neck. Some hearts, as well; there were people who would gladly eat those. The aristocracy had been looking the other way where this modest rejection of mandatory veganism was concerned; thus, a few thousand working-class Westerners who _weren't_ stuck inside Life Avenues would get _just_ enough complete protein in their diets to avoid malnutrition.

When business had been concluded, Franz took Bartolomeo aside. The young cowboy had not come to the store expecting to hear any kind of secret; still less that the secret would involve the shapely, auburn-haired Governor of Minnesota, who was an agent for the socialist policies of Mark S. Hegel (and who looked like Gretchen Whitmer, of the Original-Earth state of Michigan, in her prime).

"I'm telling you this first, because on the off-chance that your father is under any sort of surveillance, he's more likely than you to be the target of snooping. Just wait until you're home, and then tell him, so no one will see his reaction.

"Ladora Greeley is playing the long game in her political career. She knows that sometime after her fortieth birthday, her attractiveness will begin to fade, if only slightly at first. So after she's made her mark in Minnesota, she wants to move on to a position she doesn't need to _campaign_ for. She wants to be a future U.S. Secretary of the Interior
 
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