Spacebullies Two: The Search For More Parody

"..".."..".."..".." EveningStar, _THIS_ is the planned post about which I told you today by a telephone text. It's my earliest-imagined explicit crossover in this project; I invite you to imagine how characters under your control may hear about it.


As I described, Liam, Toshiro and Olias touch down in your territory. This to be filled in later, describing the characters' sensations _before_ they catch sight of Aslan.

The good-aligned Dungeons & Dragons- derived characters named above (first is a lion-like magical being, the others are men) are being put on temporary hold. I need to swerve laterally, to reproduce an _old_ story from 20th- century memory.

I was familiar with Narnia long before this forum existed. Back during my Navy career, I saw wild swans on the river where an Atlantic Fleet base was. My mind envisioned a connection between those regal waterfowl and Matthew Drain, my closest buddy from Great Lakes Naval Training Command. The Wood Between the Worlds offered itself as a crucial story element.

HERE GOES:

The Swans Beside The Submarine

Central Connecticut's winter was persistently lingering in late February. Nights definitely called for foul-weather gear. Petty Officer Matthew Durand felt as if he and the pier-head sentry Seaman Gary Hanes were the only Navy personnel seeing the nocturnal Thames River. At least Matthew and Gary knew that this "Thames" began with a sibilant "TH" instead of the "T" pronunciation used in the British London. Every sailor assigned at the nominally-New-London-actually-Groton-and -the-first "O" -in-Groton-is- a-short-O- as-in -"rock" Submarine School and Base quickly learned these points of dialect.... and never even tried to guess a correct associative word for people from Connecticut.

Matthew's hooded and insulated whole-body suit with a .45 pistol strode up the pier to the nominal guard shack where Gary's whole-body suit stood with a shotgun. Even an insignificant question was a boredom-breaker, and the seaman provided it:

"Why do the swans in the river swim up alongside the boat and rub their heads against the boat? I grew up in Iowa, never saw a living swan."

"Some kind of moss or seaweed grows against the hull. I don't know what the moss lives on; maybe plankton dissolved in seawater?"

Gary looked thoughtful. "So maybe it starts growing on the hull when we're underway at sea, and something in the fresh water sustains it. I never gave it much thought; I was too busy earning my scheduled skill-qualifications."

The Chief of the Boat, the highest-ranking enlisted man in the ship's company, maintained a policy that pier watch and gate watch were not relieved at the same time. Gary was glad to get below after giving passdown to Radioman's Mate Patrick Pierson.


The next hour saw more lights going out on either bank of the river, especially in the Navy housing on the Groton side of the river. Matthew didn't allow himself to talk at more length with Patrick than was reasonable. The Chief of the Boat would get on my case if my efforts to relieve boredom caused me to overlook something that needed reporting.

He strode toward the outer end of the pier, glancing as he went at the nearest other boats tied up in their own berths. One man on the downstream side waved across to him. Just as he waved back, a tenor voice came from upstream, from the port side of his boat.... and seemingly from water level.

"Pet Yossur Drann?"

So startled that he didn't think to call Gary, Matthew looked down the pressure hull-- and saw two swans. Of these, the nearer one was the male-- and was the one speaking. "Pet Yossur Drann?"

Regaining composure, Matthew asked: "How can you pronounce the letter 'P' when you don't have any lips?"

Something in Matt's brain tried to recall a book being read to him at night by his mother: something with animals who could speak. Maybe The Wind in the Willows? But it evaded him in the presence of a genuine supernatural phenomenon.
 
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SWAN, PAGE 2:

The male exchanged a glance with his mate, then looked back at the sailor.

"Have you ever seen a parrot? We know of them, but never met any of them in this region."

"Yes, often. One of my local friends--" Matthew paused to consider what he was about to say to a bird. Thinking before speaking had often spared him from trouble, in basic training and then in submarine school. "My friend has a parrot living with him. The parrot is free to come and go. Now, I guess you mentioned parrots because they don't use their beaks to talk. They make all of their vocal sounds down inside their throats."

The female nodded, which was an impressive gesture with such a long neck. "You're very smart. Smart enough that I guess you're not in a hurry about asking us why we're able to speak intelligently, to hold a freely flowing conversation. Still, you surely must be wondering how it is that we exist at all."

Matthew glanced over at Patrick, then turned back toward his visitors. "Wait a little while, and help yourselves to more seaweed." While they resumed eating, Matthew and Patrick strode opposite ways, looked up and down the river, paid no heed to the swans, talked sailor talk, and eventually eased back into plain routine.

"Is it safe to converse now?" asked the female swan, looking Matthew straight in the eyes now because Patrick wasn't showing any worrisome curiosity. Her husband henceforth left the dialogue to her, while he swam randomly around the vicinity: at once keeping a lookout for anything dangerous, and looking like a swan being a conventional swan.

"We see human machines flying above, moving faster than we could, but taking no interest in us. Do you feed them?"

Matthew smiled. "Actually, we do, but the kind of food they need is nothing you or we could ever digest."

"Do other humans have machines like those?"

"Yes, plenty."

At this point, the male swan was obliged to wing it shoreward when a Coast Guard motorboat roared into view, heading downstream. Both swans took their leave, saying nothing, though the male nodded toward Matthew as they went.
 
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During the next four days, any time he was neither away from the pier nor down in the interior of the boat, Matthew randomly glanced at the river. There were ducks, geese, and swans who showed no sign of recognizing him. The talking ones didn't approach the docked boat until Matthew was on a nocturnal exterior watch and the moon wasn't up yet.

The female cruised up alongside. "Matthew? Petty Of-fi-cer Dur-and? We came to tell you that we're about to migrate south. We would have left sooner, if it hadn't been so interesting talking with you."

Matthew looked away from her. "You will be raising a brood of cygnets next year, I hope?"

"Almost certainly. The last two times, we nested upstream, on this bank of the river. Away from the walking path humans use, and with enough riverbank vegetation so their dogs, if getting loose from the humans, can't reach us easily."

Half an hour after the speech-capable swans took their leave, Lieutenant Weston Blake, the boat's communications officer, came topside to check on the watchstanders. "Petty Officer Durand, I believe you find the swans a pleasure to watch."

"Yes, sir, I do."

The Lieutenant nodded. "I only just lately visited the base library and looked up waterfowl. There are at least five species of swans. They differ in summer nesting areas and in winter habitats and in takeoff dates each way and in the number of stopover locations and in speed of travel."

It would have been a lapse in discipline for Matthew to act eager about sharing an interest with Lieutenant Blake, but he was glad that someone else was a birdwatcher. Until springtime, feathered friends.




Christmas leave came with off-duty duties, as Matthew took on being the designated driver for carloads of conspicuously intoxicated fellow sailors. One shore patrolman remarked to him, "This is why Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of sailors."

"I believe it now, shipmate!"

"Ho ho ho, Durand. You and I are Santa's busy elves, delivering these fellows the gift of not getting smeared over the pavement."

"Right you are. Same goes for New Year's Eve."

The specialized bird watcher was glad when the spring thaw brought his long-necked friends back to Connecticut.
 
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"Pet-ty Of-fi-cer Du-ran-duh!" the male Swan intoned. "Did you find a mate while we were away?"

"I wish I had. But my shoulders aren't broad enough. Too many of our females claim that they want a good man, but then they reverse course, full speed ahead in the wake of the exciting bad boys."

It seemed that swans could sigh after a fashion; anyway, the female seemed to be doing so. "Among our kind, non- talking just as much, the males don't seem to care if they're exciting. Daily survival is exciting enough."

Matthew nodded. "You know, I think it's high time you had names. I had time to think about this over the winter. It's dumb to think of you as The Male Swan and The Female Swan."

The male cocked his head. "All right, what did you come up with?"

"You are now Sidney Swooper. And your mate is Olivia Ondine."




Several days passed without Sidney and Olivia showing themselves. When there was next a nighttime pier watch for Matthew, they were more hesitant to address him than they had been on the first occasion last year. Sidney began:

"What were those treetrunk-looking things your flock-fellows brought inside your submarine? Were they containers for food?"

Matching their caution, the petty officer looked around before he replied: "Those are torpedoes. We use them to fight our enemies."

Olivia spoke next. "You mean you chase the enemies away, like we chase off ducks who come too close to our nest?"

"I'm afraid our enemies don't stay chased off. Sometimes we have to kill them."

"WHAT??" both swans gasped in unison. "You kill fellow humans dead??"

"When they leave us no other choice...." But Matthew Durand found himself talking to swans who were flying away headlong, as if he were the shark in "Jaws."
 
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SWAN, PAGE 5:

Nearly a month would pass before Matthew saw Sidney and Olivia again. He had more than enough to do, teaching the latest newbies from Basic Submarine School. (He tacitly sympathized with their complaints about having to march from one place to another, as if they would be expected to march inside their boats while underway.)

He definitely told nobody about the swan couple. Non-drinker though he was, indeed a perennial designated driver, he wasn't about to let anyone question his sobriety. Even a hint could set back his hopes of making E-7.

Around this time, in the civilians-allowed portion of the submarine base and school, Matthew received a visit by one Raymond Prokop, from the upriver town of Montville. Ray, any more than Matthew's bubblehead shipmates, knew nothing about the talking swans.

"Hi, Raymond, how's the community theater doing?"

"Looks good for the coming summer season. They're even planning to let Navy personnel who'll be free at that time audition for parts in whichever musical they decide to produce. Hey, Matt, can you sing?"

"Yes. But I'm just as likely to go on deployment then."

Raymond shrugged. "That's your call. But if you're staying close to base in the meantime, be careful walking along the east bank trails. Runaway dogs have been prowling that side; they've even grabbed unguarded cats right out of unfenced back yards."

"Thanks; I happen to own a solid hardwood hiking staff. It even qualifies as a shillelagh, according to the local Irish novelty shop that sold it to me."





Two days later, having breakfast in the onboard galley after a night shift, Matthew changed into civvies on board. Back in barracks, he had slept just over an hour (in his clothes except shoes) before a dream did a Reveille on him. Sidney and Olivia were being eaten alive by Dobermans, Rottweilers and Pitbulls. Matthew wasn't even fully awake before he tumbled out of the rack. He went to the head, ate a leftover doughnut, and grabbed his shillelagh on the way out the door. He didn't think to bring any water. Making for the north gate, he strode past the unemployed but self-righteous "No Nukes" protestor.

Eight or nine paces up the sloping gate-access drive, he picked out the shortest path to the hiking trail. It took his own lungs a couple of minutes to remind him of the distance toward where the swans' nest probably sat. He dropped into a fast-walk pace for distance. He prayed that no wild mongrels had gotten at the swans.
 
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Just short of passing one mile, Matthew's lungs informed him that he needed to slow to a walk.

As he was getting his second wind, three short-shorts-clad girls came into sight from the north. While their ponytails bobbed in unison, their eye-lined eyes proclaimed, You are commanded to look at our halter tops because we need to be able to tell all of New London County that you're a creep; and if you don't look, we'll make something up.

Not giving the twits the satisfaction of seeing him looking back, Matthew took some solace from the fact that they hadn't mentioned wild dogs. As he rebuilt his pace, he swung his head port and starboard as if manning the scope. He swapped his shillelagh between hands, realizing that he had never wielded it in anger. Swing first from the left? From the right? Not overarm from above, that would be begging them to mob me. As for that, I'll need a position where they can't get behind me.

He was well into the third mile when he heard the snarling and yapping. Whatever the mutts might be ganging up on, it could be non-talking swans, geese, ducks, even rabbits or squirrels. Not people, or there'd be screams.

Two minutes later, voices! Two voices. He'd heard that ordinary swans didn't have loud voices; it had to be Sidney and Ondine, both alive so far. He wanted to shout that help was coming, but his throat had become so dry that he could not form words if his life depended on it. Slowing, he grabbed his water bottle, drank faster than the running coach would have recommended, pulled in air, drank again, and hailed: "IT'S ME, DURAND! I'M COMING!!" Still no proof of his friends being the ones up ahead, but on he went.

He was at a walk, emptying his water and wishing he'd brought a second bottle, when at last what must be Ondine replied: "Matthew! Help if you can! Six of them, one big!" No more words. The sub sailor pressed on, still unsure of his exact stick technique.

There they were! Both swans were flapping and bounding, jabbing and slapping, seeming unhurt; their nest could be glimpsed between the attacking mutts. Almost certain all the eggs were intact. "No eggs broken!" Sidney shouted. "The brown one moves quickest!"

Matthew responded in well-absorbed Navy fashion: "Brown dog fastest, aye!"

Closing in, he took his target of opportunity, neither the largest nor the fastest. By luck or skill, his first blow forced the nearest dog down onto its belly, legs crazily splayed. The sailor pulled his weapon back, to thrust forward at another target. The next dog was only put off balance a bit, but then Sidney put it the rest of the way off balance with a wing strike.
.
Seconds later, through a throat already drying out again, Matthew squawked, "I think if I ....drop my.... stick, I can get ....all your.... eggs into my.... hat, and step ....into the, into the water...... Then you can.... move around.... faster!"

"Understood! And it's shallow enough here!" Ondine replied, while Sidney was pressing his own counterattack on the biggest wild dog. One mutt snagged Matthew's shirt, but failed to reach flesh. A moment later he was chest deep, keeping his hat with its pre-born passengers above water. And the swans did their part with a vengeance. It took barely half a minute before the battered wolf-wannabe's took off north in search of easier prey.

Once he regained his third or fourth wind, Matthew leaned forward far enough to set his inverted hat where the eggs wouldn't be in anticlimactic peril of rolling back into the river. A fragment of a song about rolling on the river echoed in his memory, till thirst supplanted it. Not caring squat that this water wasn't pristine, he drank until his throat was adequately re-hydrated.

Ondine contritely stroked the submariner's temple with her bill. "I'm so sorry, we're so sorry that we thought badly of you."

"I'm.... glad.... to help. Never.... even heard.... of any.... birds.... talking.... actually knowing what.... they're saying. Except maybe in fantasy books."

"What's a book?" asked Sidney.

"It's a way of putting words in a place where other people can find out what you said. But we'd better talk about this later. You don't want unfriendly people poking around. What say I help you relocate your nest, then you contact me when your cygnets are swimming?"

Weeks would pass uneventfully. Between the dramatic victory and the presentation of babies who showed signs of attempting speech, Matthew searched the base library for books, adult or juvenile, about animals who could speak. The first such book he found was The Wind in the Willows. Even after what he had experienced with Sidney and Ondine, the notion of a man-sized toad driving an antique automobile was a bit much.

When the family next visited him, the younglings peeped "Pet Yossur Dran!" in adorable unison.
 
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"Since you last saw us," Ondine began, "my husband had a dream in which a fair-haired woman spoke to him. She said that she had much knowledge of the world where it's natural for animals to talk. Soon after this, we all got the chance to sneak up near a people-nest. The humans inside were looking at that tellabisshun thing. It showed a woman called Heather Thomas, who Sidney said looked like the woman who talked in his dream."

Sidney nodded. "Yes, and she added that when the time came, she could introduce us to creatures who are familiar with the Creator in His aspect AsaLion. One, she said, would be a male bluejay."

During his next interval of onshore time, Durand went to the base library, and checked out "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader." Coming as this did in the middle of the series, he had to ask the nice-looking librarian about the overall plotline. She was able to give him a gist; at least now he had the idea of Earth-dwelling people being able to walk into a different world.




The time came too soon. The bluejay showed up immediately after Matthew started back to barracks after supper at the chow hall. Looking down from a branch, he demonstrated that he had no pronunciation problem.

"Petty Officer Matthew Durand, submarine qualified sixteen months ago: I'm Flakefeather, your short-term guide, a servant of Aslan."

Matthew reflexively glanced around. No passers-by were paying him any mind; for sure, a man speaking with a perched bluejay was considerably less obvious than a man speaking with swans in the open. "Um, I was told to expect you. But-- Aslan? The Lion-God in those books by Clive Staples Lewis? The man who described two children and two teenyboppers going into a parallel world and coming back through a clothes closet?" His brain momentarily played back a Moody Blues song, "The Story In Your Eyes." Looking again at Flakefeather: "All right, in for a nickel, in for a dollar. Lead on, Flakefeather; but I hope this good witch has a younger sister I can date."

"Probably not. Sorcery Lass has a date with destiny, and it's going to be in the Gamma Sateri Galaxy."

"So she'll bring someone a higher love?" The Steve Winwood reference went over everybody else's head.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Her place of power is at Castle Greyhair, on Planet Alwaysurnia. The man she's sweet on, the man who's holding the fort for her there, is Dickon Docker, known as Weapons-Man. In the official chain of command, Weapons-Man answers to King Andy, alias Mighty Male. That's about all I know, but presumably Sorcery Lass keeps track of how long she can be away before she has to blink back and recharge at home base."

The goodbyes were going to be sad in any case. Into the trees they went. Eleven or twelve paces in, Matthew and the swans felt as if they stepped through a glass wall without it shattering. There were trees here, but a different species. By now it was no surprise that Connecticut was gone. DEE-dee-dee-dee, DEE-dee-dee-dee, next stop, The Twilight Zone, thought Matthew. At least this isn't changing into "Night Gallery."

Happily, nothing scary ran up to them, just two modest-sized mammals walking erect on their hind feet. Flakefeather greeted them, calling back to the Connecticut residents, "These are my flightless friends, the Narnians." No time remained for conversation; the impossibly beautiful, eleven-on-a-scale-of-ten Sorcery Lass now captured all eyes.

Matthew fumbled for words. "You really dolook like Heather Thomas."

"Thank you for the presumably sincere intent in your words. Well done, Flakefeather. We must away, my seafaring gentleman, but I guarantee that you will be able to get back to Kon-nek-kut-tee-kut. It is the will of the Emperor-Over-Sea that we all will meet again someday in Aslan's Country."'

There was never any way that this parting could have been without sadness. Matthew hugged the long necks of Sidney and Ondine; they wing-hugged him in return, while their cygnets crowded around and bill-kissed him from both sides. The sailor fleetingly thought of a Tolkien excerpt: Gandalf telling Frodo's friends, "I will not say 'Do not weep,' for not all tears are an evil."

As Matthew Durand headed back to Adam's World, his mental mixtape called up the majestic farewell music from "E.T., the Extraterrestrial." Then he was on the Submarine Base again. Resolving to read the best- known stories of both Professor Lewis and Professor Tolkien, he soon sought out the base librarian.... furthered his acquaintance with her.... discovered that she had been hoping he would shoot his shot.... and ended up getting married to her.

I'm pretty sure I never named Matthew's love interest, so I retroactively name her Stephanie. Matthew deferred to her when it came to naming their eventual children. And their later adventures .......are a story for another time.

Think now of the ending- credits song from "The Never-Ending Story."
 
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I insert this note after completing the adventure Matthew Durand shared with swans and the Heather Thomas look-alike. What was already in this post before tonight's editing remains relevant, now that Sorcery Lass is free to pursue her Aslan-approved project. She is bound for Planet Churn, to prevent my version of Jadis from ever killing the whole planet with a word.

@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@U@

UNDERSTAND: "THE SWANS BESIDE THE SUBMARINE" WAS INSERTED IN THE SPACEBULLIES MULTIVERSE BECAUSE IT HAD TO GO IN SOMEWHERE. IT BEING DONE , I RETURN YOU TO THE LEFT-HANGING EVENTS ON DYSTOPIAN EARTH.

NOTE THAT PLOT ARCS INDEPENDENT FROM DYSTOPIAN EARTH MAY >HAPPEN< CONCURRENTLY WITH MY MAD-MAX-TYPE AND COWBOY-TYPE STORYLINES, BUT NOT BE >DEPICTED< UNTIL WEEKS LATER IN REAL-WORLD CONTINUITY.

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

FURTHER NOTE: IF SOMEHOW SOME CHARACTERS _AREN'T_ ON EITHER HEMISPHERE OF DYSTOPIAN EARTH WHEN THEY _SHOULD_ BE THERE, JUST ASSUME THAT THEY WERE NEEDED ELSEWHERE, SO EITHER THE JANITORS OF THE UNIVERSE OR CAPTAIN RIGHTAWRONG TELEPORTED THEM ACCORDINGLY.


Our scene is now transported to the NORTH hemisphere of Dystopian Earth, which is worse off overall than the South Hemisphere. Note that, as with "Punksteema," the geography resembles Earth MUCH LESS than the cultures and languages resemble those of Earth. For example, there are actual Apaches and Comanches in the South, and there was a Civil War of East against West rather than South against North. The good-guy parties deployed to the Northern Hemisphere are completely independent from whoever is in "Wild Wild South." I've had more than one demigod-sort providing their intergalactic transportation. Just so they're together now, don't worry about who got magically propelled by whom.

Stuff like a version of Calamity Jane getting together with a version of Kit Carson is on hold for later.


The dreary broken pillars from the long-past war looked like a place adventurers might choose for a camp-- which was why the good-aligned adventurers hailing from diverse worlds weren't using it. Liam Lammasu, the magical being whose form was like a lion except having a human face in front of the mane and having wings to fly, numbered invisibility and seeing in the dark among his talents; also the power to detect evil. He was keeping watch all around, especially toward the not-campsite which enemies might try to sneak up on in the dark.

Squire Vindictive and kung-fu man Jet Yi, from Urth where the Justified League was based, had their bedrolls placed several paces north-by-northeast from where Liam reclined. Olias the illusionist, mountain warrior Stone Juggler Dao, several women of the Righteous Warriors, and the samurai Toshiro Bufune whose katana bore the status of a Holy Sword, were sleeping in the nearest cover southwest of Liam. Due east of Liam lay the only other non-humans in this little platoon, of whom one was also the only female among them. They were shaped like baboons, and wore artifacts of anti-evil-badness power.

These virtuous do-gooders had been briefed about this Earth-variant having suffered a nuclear war generations ago, mostly affecting the northern half. As a mercy, the warheads used had mostly had been precision munitions, or neutron bombs which didn't leave a deadly residue. But since this hemisphere had been developing interstellar spacecraft, colony starships had set out for two stars found suitable. Civilization here had survived...... sort of. High-grade powers obedient to the Actual God, including the good-aligned wizard Hector von Bootblack, had compiled information about worlds in the Southern Pinwheel Galaxy.

Other galactic societies, notably the more-decent governments based on the Warhammer game, had rendered some aid here, but had kept it inconspicuous, lest evil aliens like the Termiterites be attracted this way.

But the Star Trek-emulating alliance in this galaxy had something special to offer: the combination of Buck Rogers, James Bond, Sir Galahad and a luck- bringing leprechaun known as Jamm Retrief.




The two baboonoids, Jamsorvad and his, wife Wistamu, sat up as one. Wistamu hissed to Liam: "A signal came to our prosthetic artifacts from a human transmitter. The sender already knows about us!"

Jamsorvad awakened Jet Yi, Olias and Squire Vindictive; then Jet Yi roused the other martial artists. Everybody quietly conferred about what they might expect from Agent Retrief.

What showed up was a three-wheeled motorcycle. It was large enough to have been considered a car, but virtually all Earth- type worlds preferred still to class this type as a bike, and would license it accordingly. One of the mountain- warrior women, Diving Otter Shuei, remarked to Olias, "See how the two wheels are in front, while the propelling wheel is at the rear? That's best for stability. It can't back up in any event, and if the driver has to hit the brakes hard, the wide-set front wheels will prevent the equivalent of a runner being forced into a shoulder roll."

Olias nodded approvingly. "Good point. I'm aware that you kung-fu heroes haven't had much time to catch up with modern technology since you came out of hibernation on Bat-Earth. I'm impressed."

Jamm Retrief hopped out of the stopped bike. "Thanks for waiting. This is my driver, Waldon March. He came recommended by the U.S. Marshals' Service, and he has clearance to be in on any discussion we have."
 
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Completely unconcerned with Squire Vindictive's disfigured face, Waldon said, "I hear that you and Master Yi work as a team; he relies on his kung fu and melee weapons, while you use a chain plus daggers. No offense intended, but aren't you concerned about somebody just standing back and shooting you before you can close in?"

Squire and Jet exchanged a glance before the former torture victim answered:

"Jet routinely carries a gun; he isn't stupid." I I I I I I I
 
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FOR THE SAKE OF THE LATELY-MENTIONED WOMAN I LOVE, WHO HAS CANCER, I'M GOING TO HER PREFERRED NEW SETTING, DIRECTLY TO HER PREFERRED NEW SETTING, WILL NOT PASS DYSTOPIAN EARTH, WILL NOT COLLECT ANY DUNGEONS & DRAGONS CHARACTERS FOR THE PRESENT. STAR TREK-DERIVED STUFF BEGINS ====>> _NOW!!_

On board the A.E.S. Bettersize: "Captain!" exclaimed Lieutenant Futura. "I'm picking up an exchange between Commander Pickacard and what seems to be a Fakefurengi cruiser."

Captain James Dean Dirk uttered a half-sigh, half-groan. "Is Jean-Duc trying to give away the store again?"

"Sounds like it, sir. He's lost four crewmembers, and still is asking to negotiate."

"Put it on bridge audio."

Life Science Officer Jeralyn Dodger and Ship's Biologist Roland Cavett, the two eldest crewmembers on the starship, unobtrusively clasped hands as they heard Pickacard. Younger than Captain Dirk, Jean-Duc was descended from Frenchmen who, on their closely-modeled version of Earth, had surrendered to Englishmen in the Hundred Years' War, had surrendered to Englishmen in the Seven Years' War, had surrendered to Englishmen and Germans at Waterloo, had been expelled from Mexico in the Franco-Mexican War by the Juaristas, had surrendered to Germans in the Franco-Prussian War, had surrendered to Germans in World War One, had surrendered to Germans in World War Two, and had manned the ranks of their Foreign Legion with Germans whose ancestors had accepted French surrenders.

A simpering voice came from the monitoring speakers: "Fakefurengi vessel, this is Lieutenant Commander Pickacard of the A.E.S. Sniffnoser. You are not negotiating in good faith. When I commanded A.E.S. Compliant, the Romcomulans settled for a ransom, plus all of us wearing T-shirts that said I was a poo-poo head. When I had my first command on the scout frigate A.E.S. Submissive, the Backdorians were satisfied with our painting ourselves blue. If you continue killing my crewmembers, the Affiliation of Planets will send a strongly- worded protest to your nearest consulate."

Intra-ship comms bore a call to the science station on the bridge. It was from a sturdy man called Jamm Retrief, a diplomatic emissary-at-large for the Affiliation. "Roland? Jeralyn? Can you join me at the shuttle bay?" Jeralyn took off at once for their friend's location. Roland hastily told Futura where they were going, then followed his true love. Retrief, qualified on assorted spacecraft, was already gearing up.

"You're both qualified with medkits; I have two each for you. Captain Dirk's not holding back because he doesn't care what happens to Pickacard, he noticed that the Fakefurengi are attacking at close range, weaving around Sniffnoser to attack every angle. Dirk doesn't want to hit the ship he's trying to save-- so he's letting US pull a surgical strike, no pun intended."



On board Sniffnoser, Medical Officer Beverly Muldaur had her hands full trying to keep Sniffnoser's casualties alive. She had been the only person available to extract shipmates from a compartment which had been penetrated, before the space had been sealed off. The emissary's frequency- agile comm unit reached the doctor's link.

"Bev! Cavalry's coming! Which access hatch can we use? I have two folks who can help you, and I'll help out MY way."

With controlled haste, after Jamm had offloaded his friends, they joined the dutiful physician in rendering battlefield care to the casualties. The relatively-old couple and the beautiful saver of lives remained on task. Artificial gravity failed, but all three were able to manage zero-gravity procedure. Their first intimation of the external outcome was the fact that Sniffnoser quit shuddering. Jeralyn, Roland and Beverly continued stabilizing the casualties, until Pickacard-- himself unhurt-- joined them, with a scowl very different from his appeasing manner toward the enemy.

"Are you two friends of Retrief? Are you aware that he has wrecked my peaceful outreach?"

"We know that he saved your command from total obliteration," Jeralyn snapped. "He probably targeted all the weak spots on the Fakefurengi ship. Now that they've been stomped, the mercenary basketball-heads will finally be in a mood for gentle diplomacy. Especially after Navigator Checklist finds the best path to get Bettersize past the local asteroids, and the Fakefurengi are looking down the barrels of Captain Dirk's neutron beams."

Less than two standard days later, after James Dirk thumbed his nose at Fakefurengi leaders via subspace radio, he turned his contempt upon the lower-ranking Jean-Duc Pickacard. Meanwhile, having been reminded of the fragility of life, Roland and Jeralyn availed themselves of quarters provided by Captain Dirk, and surprised each other with just how much passion they still were capable of.
 
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COPPERFOX HOPES THAT THE REAL-WORLD LADY GERALYN ROGERS, WRONGED BY LIFE IN MULTIPLE WAYS, WILL SEE THIS PLOT ARC FROM HER HOME IN FLORIDA. EVENING STAR AND PHOLUS THE CENTAUR, WHO KNOW ABOUT GERALYN AND CAN EMPATHIZE, HAVE BOTH BEEN PRAYING ABOUT THAT GOOD WOMAN'S NEEDS.

{{ Having given the young-at-heart lovers a good introduction to my readers, I shall now begin providing said readers with story-facts about this new story-reality. In particular, for anyone who has read the collaborative military sci-fi of David Weber and Eric Flint, I will start my not-always- charitable spoofing of the Honor Harrington series. Old hands with space opera should note that Honor Harrington's universe has very different rules for faster-than -light ships than the rules known to James Kirk. This functional contrast will eventually become relevant.

Fear not, the Spacebullies alter-egos of Geralyn and myself will be back. }}
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My longtime readers know that I have often allowed female characters to possess more power than their male companions, but the guys _aren't_ useless. For instance, Bunkem Isotope is less mighty than Trala-Lalia, but he still brings value to the table. Gleaming Knight has much less power than Stellar Sapphire, but he carries his end. Kirk Slippage has less power than his magic-using wife Zoorama, but his medical skills and wisdom are well worth having. This type of not-so-lopsided -after-all pairing will be seen in my take on David Weber.

~~~~~~~~ Here shall we make it >possible< to comprehend a parody of David Weber, who is a male feminist. In his main series, all the way back to "On Basilisk Station," every woman is always better than every man at everything. This much being said, let me outline the story- plan as such. >Without< you knowing the setup, the connection WITH MY PARODY will never make sense to you. This is even more true because what I call "Wild Wild South," an all-out Cowboys & Indians environment, is on the >same< planet which leads to the David Weber model of space opera. So, for now, forget my versions of Annie Oakley, Jim Bowie, Kit Carson, etc.

NORTH hemisphere, north north north!! \\ Only, don't think about the Dungeons & Dragons characters who are also there.

This next part is deliberately similar to David Weber's foundation-laying for HIS far- future narrative.

All of Dystopian Earth used to have a technological level about equal to what I imagine for the generation in which my superhero Grey Eagle has his own adventures-- which is to say, interstellar travel can be done, but only if the galactic pioneers are placed in hibernation for decades. In imitation of Mister Weber's work, the reason WHY anyone did this was because there was a short-of-total extinction war on Earth. Separate near-light-speed expeditions headed for two separate habitable worlds. In Weber's canonical timeline, one ship went to a planet called Haven, soon after which another ship went to a planet called Manticore. Once achieving FASTER-than-light flight, Manticore (which I call "Magmacore") and Haven (which I call "Dayzinn") initially enjoyed cordial relations. Only later did an evil tyranny seize control of Haven, which resulted in many years of war.

This brings us back to the "male feminist" element. Mister Weber shows the Manticorans defeating the Havenites PRECISELY BECAUSE the Manticorans are dominated by the women. When I get down to satirizing this, my depiction of the Manticoran Mary Sues will BARELY EVEN BE any parody at all.

I estimate that I'll commence actively writing this parody sub-sub-thread some time around the end of April.


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>>>>>>>>>> Update, 19 July 2026: It is a great pleasure, both for myself and for the lady about whom I've been worrying, to report the following. Like Tiny Tim, Geralyn Rogers DID NOT die. Her condition is far milder than she or I had ventured to hope. She still is unable to visit The Dancing Lawn, but only as a matter of weariness. Accordingly, I am sending her letters by mail, delivering summaries in particular about characters based on my notions of how of how characters based on us would act. Most of all, characters based on the historical Kit Carson and the historical Calamity Jane Canary.
 
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Here is a backwards trail through the career of the well-established character Clara "Superhottie" Klint, cousin to Corky "Superdude" Klint.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ These two have a history similar to the super-cousins in comic books. Their single most obvious difference from comic books is that there is no Kryptonite in this parody- universe. Instead, their crucial weakness ((besides _magic_ having power against them)) is that a strong degree of RED LIGHT, in any exposure longer than a few seconds at a time, reduces their strength and makes them vulnerable to ordinary violence.

=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=\=

THE MOST RECENT ONSTAGE ACTIVITY BY THE TWO TONKRYPIAN COUSINS was on a Third Galaxy supra-terrestroid planet called Redundantworld. The roughly humanoid natives of this world, with technology similar to our late nineteenth century, was being robbed of its valuable minerals by _four_ competing super -alien races. Other good-aligned beings joining the Tonkrypians against the exploitation included the super-DUPER human hero "Black Admiral," his demi-human wife Shibwazushu, the Amazon-type warrior princess Walloper Woman, and the snouted near- human Thor- variant called Bakerstray Bill. A _very_ super super-villain called Lowblow, practically unkillable, was killed as he deserved by a _large_ gang-up of major heroes. At last report, the united superheroes had forced the intrusive super- aliens to make restitution for minerals already taken, and to pay for any future extraction.

As a wild card in the game, an eccentric legalistic semi-villain called The Living Appeals Court obsessively made up accusations against everybody in sight, until an expert lawyer named Mason Perry persuaded him to quit it. A scientist- turned-chaotic- monster called Doctor Handmitten, far more evil than the three-faced prosecutor, killed Mister Perry and badly hurt Appeals Court. But three Green Flashlights. with other good guys as backup. forced Handmitten to flee the planet.

At last report, Redundantworld was in good shape.

THE SUMMARY NOW JUMPS BACK SIGNIFICANTLY, TO MUCH-EARLIER EXPLOITS OF SUPERHOTTIE.........
 
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For Geralyn, remotely assuming the role of Clara "Superhottie" Klint, it should be sufficient if we can say she remembers the Earth-variant called U-R-T-H, where she has served as a member of The Justified League. In this capacity, she saw the merits of not-really- super-powered heroes, like Vigilant Cowboy, Clean Hornet, and Squire Vindictive. She also remembers high-level monsters, such as The Space Amoeba, which was able to generate so much red light as to render her or her cousin Corky utterly defenseless.

In this environment in our Andromeda Galaxy, there's a counterpart of the evil Star Wars regime, here known as The Empire of Evil Badness. Its military leader, Admiral Thuglyfe Skrawn, was able to persuade the Space Amoeba and other major monsters to serve in war against the good guys. Much of the action Skrawn directed against the Justified League had revolved around a planet called Zazdub World.

GERALYN, SWEETHEART, are you looking at this? I'm pretty sure I told you that Squire Vindictive gets deployed to the cowboy- environment world I've described. Your alter-ego "Catastrophe Jane" will meet him. Not right away, though; they start out in separate hemispheres.

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_______________ Real-world concerns, notably attention directed at Wood Nymph and Geralyn, validates my taking a narrative shortcut.

It has worked well for years of T.D.L. authoring when I allow the woman in a love relationship to be mostly more powerful than her man, but the man does have some specialty which makes him worthwhile. For instance, Jimmy Strum the Unfindable Man with his wife the Exquisite She-Hunk; or Street-Bat allowing his bride Symphony Britt to acquire Green Flashlight powers instead of him.

For some while, I have actively wanted my Urthian journalist character Jimmy Ulcer to get it on with Superhottie. Therefore I shall give Jimmy a green light. I don't believe that Geralyn will have any problem with it. With a little boost from Professor Crazier, Jimmy receives a gift of borderline telepathy. He can't outright read minds, but he can {1} locate people, {2} detect evil, and {3} know any language that is needed. These contributions make Jimmy a contributing partner, not merely a cheerleader.

GERALYN MY DARLING, IN CASE THIS REACHES YOU BEFORE A PHONE TEXT DOES, I THINK YOU'LL BE COOL WITH JIMMY BEING SUPERHOTTIE'S MAIN SQUEEZE. OF COURSE, SHE WON'T EVER SQUEEZE HIM FATALLY.
 
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Oh, the jokes which become possible when Dancing Lawn management permits me to coexist with myself! \\\\
In both my identities, I'm thinking about where I can stake out a sector of the Southern Pinwheel Galaxy. What seems best is to set up shop CLOSE TO my Copperfox-written posts, without wrecking what I've already set up AS Copperfox.

Dystopian Earth is being visited, especially its NORTHERN hemisphere which was less devastated by a past war, chiefly by characters STILL ON this Earth-variant. Some of the Copperfox-canon heroes in the North are magical, but they are focused on doing good for people ON Dystopia. No "player character" of mine has yet actually traveled to the story- territory based on David Weber's pandering male- feminist fiction.

Let me consult with myself-- while also checking if and how I can best change type fonts as I go along here.

Testing, testing; in worst case, I'll format the NEXT post in a more flexible way.

---- Hey, looks good! (-:
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Pick up good guys probably including "Jimmy Ulcer."
 
While combing out the tangles, I hereby restate that the EXTREMELY POWERFUL AND VERSATILE neutral-good dragon Equivvalentor is the default super-duper character to wait in the narrative ready-room for insertion of heroes into the Southern Pinwheel Galaxy, in which Dystopian Earth is the least industrialized of the prominent worlds, but has most of the action.

At the moment, however, I'm poking around in search of Narnia-related settings where I can insert a Talking Bird character. Flakefeather the Bluejay hasn't aged a day since he was a prominent cast member in "With Swords, Claws and Teeth Bared."


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"If my migration instinct isn't failing me," said Flakefeather to himself, "I'm approaching a time-space location in which holdouts from the White Witch's following are long deceased."

>>>>>> Right here, I extend an invitation to EveningStar to take Flakefeather on board. I loosely recommend that the Bluejay be given something to do in Byron-on-Wells. He's all yours, John. Your decision will have NO effect on my next move.

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THIS POST BEING WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN I HAD NOT YET FINISHED THE SWAN BESIDE THE SUBMARINE, READERS ARE ADVISED THAT PETTY OFFICER MATTHEW DURAND COMPLETED HIS NARNIA-RELATED ADVENTURE IN CONNECTICUT. THAT THE PARENT SWANS WITH CYGNETS ALL ARE ALIVE AND WELL ATTESTS THAT MATTHEW SUCCESSFULLY AIDED THEM AGAINST PERIL. FAIR WINDS AND FOLLOWING SEAS, SHIPMATE.

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Mother and Father Swan instinctively walked on opposite sides of their brood, but there was no danger here. Amid the intermingling trees and ponds, the only concern was determining which pond would lead into Narnia proper, or at least into a non-hostile region of the Narnian world. When Flakefeather the Bluejay perched on a low branch and hailed them, all of the swans looked up at him. As if they had always known him, they told him their names, then asked whether he knew the way to their Aslan- ruled goal. He nodded, and carefully guided them to a set-aside pool on which extra light shone.

"This, my long-necked friends, is the entrance. Dive in when you feel ready; understand that no one can drown in this water. Once you emerge at your destination, the Breath will come to meet you; He will tell you what comes next."

One of the girl cygnets ruffled her wings and said, "You called breath 'he'. Can breath have breath?" Her siblings all echoed her bafflement. Flakefeather answered matter-of-factly:

"This is part of the three-dimensional nature of the All-Maker. Aslan, properly speaking, is God the Son; the Emperor-Over-Sea is God the Father, and the conscious, thinking Breath proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son He is worshiped and glorified. A created being might happen to perceive any one of these before perceiving the others; but each of the Three Persons will gladly tell you about the other two."

The swans bade Flakefeather farewell; he then proceeded to follow his own ordained route.

Presently, without even feeling particularly startled, the Bluejay beheld a gigantic snake (NOT anything like the serpent in Eden), whose body was translucent, and who had feathered wings.

"Greetings in the Lion's name," said the Colorless Quetzalcoatl. "I've been detailed to escort you to your next adventure, after which I shall return to my primary duties."
 
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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's been exactly one thread in "Spacebullies" which both should and can finally get wrapped up in a hurry.

All this time, I've had one and only one storyline existing in our own world, on Adam's Earth. It's a personal-relationship story, set in the literal actual Chicago, centered on an inner-city Catholic rescue mission. Supervising this mission are Monsignor Aquinas and Reverend Mother Elizabeth. A childless Hispanic electrician, Perdido Carranza, had been betrayed by his wife Brandy. When the bad boys grew tired of her, Brandy came back begging for another chance. Perdido did want to restore the marriage-- but "Once burned, twice shy." So, as the pro-bono electrician for the Monsignor's shelter, he set Brandy up as a resident on probation.

Two adolescent orphans already there, Saffron Freeburg and Willie Ekubo, befriended Brandy and hoped for the best. I have actually depicted Willie as BEING a Dancing Lawn member, thus able to comment on my own stories there. We are now caught up, SO..........

The Monsignor conducted the renewal of marriage vows. In the absence of any parent, the Reverend Mother accompanied Brandy down the aisle. Willie and Saffron preceded them to the altar as best man and maid of honor. Other nuns did the singing. The rejoined Carranzas immediately adopted both orphans-- and were destined also to have their own genetic children. Yep, happy ending for everybody!

ALL RIGHT, WE WISH THEM ALL A VAYA CON DIOS, AND RESUME BEING A SCI-FI AND FANTASY PREMISE.
 
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NOTE TO SELF: I'm positive that Theda Kirby of Bat-Earth was meant to marry Alabama Jones. Therefore, if somehow I never depicted such a wedding, it must be RETCONNED as happening. That is intended to enable the couple to have a separately- narrated adventure in the Southern Pinwheel Galaxy. This, either in the northern hemisphere of Dystopian Earth, or on an entirely separate world of the same Galaxy...

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(((((((((((((( Here's another check-in on my spinning narrative plates. Thanks to Flakefeather's longevity, I can without self-contradiction include him in a Narnia-related adventure without contradicting the story where Sorcery Lass acts to prevent Princess Jordash on Planet Churn from ever becoming the evil White Witch and depopulating her planet.

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