Web Fed News Yearbooks - May 2000

AND OFF THEY GO
by Horatio

I've said it time and time again. I do not like teleporters. Sure they're fast, convenient, and fun, but only for the people who own them. For everybody else, they're annoying devices that serve but one purpose: to make you feel like dirt because you still have to walk. But look on the bright side! As Barons (and above) teleport all over the place, including the sun (all my dedicated readers, in unison please! "Sun bad!" Thank you.), the rest of us still remember how a spaceship works. Plus, we still have legs. That's one of the unfortunate side effects of teleporter dependence, folks. Their unused legs just atrophy. Very tragic.

However, as a service to you, my dear readers, I have enlisted the help of several of my beer-drinking friends to determine exactly how a teleporter works. It is these secrets I will share with you this week.

(Something just occurred to me. What with all these services I do for you folks, I should apply for non-profit organization status. Hey, it worked for the American Heart Association.)

Step 1: Activating the Device
Upon activation, the teleporter begins making several unhealthy sounds, particularly grinding, banging, and clunking noises. These are normal and are produced by the power supply (gerbils) running in unbalanced exercise wheels. Once full power has been achieved, we move on to...

Step 2: Dematerialization
This step is deceptively simple. While most people would think that the dematerialization of a sentient being would be a complicated procedure (you theoretically want to rematerialize them at some point), it really isn't. All that happens is that the machine throws a sack over the teleportee's head, drags them off, and folds them into a wallet-sized wad, which is then reduced in size further to an object approximately the size of a throat lozenge.

Step 3: Decision
Step three is the crucial one. This is where the machine decides whether it should send the user to its desired location, or if it should zip them off to limbo, along with all the left socks that disappear from laundromats across the universe. Usually, however, the gerbils vote in favor of sending the user along its way (they want to be fed, you know), and we move on to...

Step 4: Rematerialization
The machine, having calculated (more or less) where the user is going, fires the lozenge-sized teleportee at said location with the aid of a large slingshot. On impact, the force of landing unfolds the user rapidly, creating the well-recognized "shimmer of a teleportation effect."

So now you know! It's amazing how simple technology can really be, isn't it? Maybe next week we'll take an in-depth look at another form of vital technology, but in the meantime, let me offer some advice to all you teleporting people.

Feed the gerbils.

As always, if you want to tell me anything, you can e-mail it to me at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com and tell me pratically anything as long as you promise to be nice.

NATURAL SELECTION AND GREEK TRAGIC HEROES IN FED
An editorial by: Gavin

I realize I wanted to share the horror that is POdom this week, but I came up with this parallel between Fed and RL and thought it definitely deserved attention in the FedChron, but I decided not to wait until this topic becomes the past and makes it look like I’m beating a dead horse.

Now, that topic happens to be none other than the recent DDs by many Fedders. Just to establish something first, it is pretty safe to say that the DDs were caused by IBs new rule about Dukes/Duchesses (to be politically correct and not offend all the feminist groups out there) having the privilege of banning people from their duchies. There was talk about some derogatory comments, discrimination, favoritism, etc., but I was not witness to any of that and basically, it is common knowledge that this whole mess stemmed from the Duke/Duchess-banning rule.

First, for those who don’t know, a simplified version of Natural Selection (discovered by my good friend Chuck Darwin):

As the environment changes, the organisms who have adapted to those environmental changes will survive, while those who have not adapted will die off.

How does this apply to Fed, then?

Let’s take it piece by piece: "As the environment changes..." Our environment is Fed, and our change is a new rule that allows a Duke/Duchess to ban people from his or her duchy.

What can this change do, then?

If it prevents people from being in a specific duchy, then what have they done to lose that privilege? There are really only a couple of viable reasons for a banning:

1. You are being disruptive in the duchy. That can be invading people’s privacy when asked to leave them alone, being somewhere you are not supposed to be (i.e. a party for just the duchy-members), or something else that is obviously bothersome to the Duke/Duchess but is not so severe as to warrant action by IB Games.

2. Quite simply, you are dumping (many who practice this refer to it as ‘Free-trade,’ but in the final days of many dumpers, it was blatantly referred to as dumping by them on the bar boards, which only furthers the notion that the name of ‘Free-trade’ is simply a farce to make dumping seem less harmful or wrong than it really is) in the duchy and the Duke/Duchess wants you to stop.

3. Finally, perhaps the Duke/Duchess is just a total snert and bans you for no apparent reason. In that case, you probably want to avoid the duchy anyway.

Now, our focus is definitely #2, but in all fairness there are other reasons for bannings. The intent of the rule was obviously to prevent dumpers. To quickly define dumping for anyone who doesn’t know: Essentially, it is usually POs who have the resources, hauling space, and intent to sell a minimal amount of goods to an exchange paying a high price, at which point they stop as soon as the price drops even the least bit and move on to the next highest price. It is very profitable to those who do it, while detrimental to anyone on the receiving end because they pay out maximum money and receive the minimum amount of goods in return.

I remember dumpers being a problem back on AOL Fed, and if the issue has been a problem for 3+ years, than it certainly requires attention from IB Games. They did something about it in the form of the rule, and it created a rash of controversy immediately afterwards. Which brings us to the second part of Natural Selection, "... the organisms who have adapted to those environmental changes will survive, while those who have not adapted will die off."

We as Fedders are those organisms, and can be mostly divided into two groups: anti-dumpers and pro-dumpers. The anti-dumpers adapted to this change by utilizing it effectively and to their advantage. Most of the anti-dumpers ‘survived’ the rule and did not DD. The pro-dumpers, however, did not adapt to this rule and ending up mostly dying off. Scads of Fedders disappeared within the two weeks of the rule being instated and this editorial being written.

(At this point, it needs to be said that anything I say about the pro-dumpers is purely based on a dislike for their economical and gameplay standpoints. Personality-wise, I have nothing against most of them (after all, who didn’t love Pintomike?), and I understand the fact that many Fedders are very distraught because they lost good friends, Fed-Significant Others, etc. I happen to be fortunate enough to not have lost any close friends in this mass-suicide, but I do not wish to be inconsiderate to those who did and make them think I am belittling their friends as people).

What does that then say about the pro-dumpers?

They often claimed that those who complained about dumping need to learn how to run an exchange. But perhaps it is the other way around. They needed to earn groats not by honest trading, but instead through a harsh system of macro-dumping that razed the exchanges of many innocent planets in the process.

When it came time for them to have to stop this practice in most duchies where it was not accepted, they saw no other alternative and ended their own Fed lives. Now here is where what I said a paragraph or so above about everything being based on their economic and gameplay standpoints: they were weak. Something came along that ended their main way of money-making, and instead of gritting their teeth and continuing on, they just ended it right there. Instead of receding into a more honest style of trading, they had to quit.

That, then, brings me to my second parallel. A Greek tragic hero is (this is a textbook definition) one who is of high social rank or of noble purpose who invites death or humiliation through a defect in his or her character; this defect is called hubris, or excessive pride. Greek tragic heroes were often found in Greek drama and literature, and perhaps the most famous example of this is in Sophocles’s Theban Plays (Oedipus the King, Oedpus at Colonus, and Antigone). I could go off on quite a tangent here about this stuff, but I’m forcing myself to continue on.

So you see, a Greek tragic hero is not really a good thing to be. The regular connotation of the word hero is virtually not there at all. Again, however, I wish to dissect the definition piece by piece and show its relationship to Fed. "One who is of high social rank or of noble purpose..." Almost all of the pro-dumpers were POs (with a healthy number of Dukes/Duchesses thrown in there for good measure), which is, in Fed, technically a high social rank and at the higher end of the ranking ladder. Their purpose was to make money, and to us Americans (most Fedders are), and generally to capitalists in general, life is the quest for the almighty dollar. I have nothing particularly wrong with making money, and that is a decent-enough reason for our purposes.

The next part, "...invites death or humiliation..." definitely holds true. The DDs that ran rampant throughout Fed were a result of the Duke/Duchess-banning rule, which was a result of dumping in the first place. Indirectly, then, the pro-dumpers did bring this down upon themselves.

This proves more true, however, with the final part, "through a defect in his or her character; this defect is called hubris, or excessive pride." The pro-dumpers were indeed proud of their accomplishments. Making exorbitant amounts of money, writing complex macro programs, and finding a way to get around most of the defenses Dukes/Duchesses put up, inflated their egos and they grew increasingly boastful with what they could do on their self-righteous quest to make money. When everything they were able to do with this was taken right out from under them, however, it was simply too much at once. Their hubris told them they couldn’t play Fed without dumping and they DDed.

What is the result of this then?

Something many people have been clamoring for for quite some time now: a new era of Fed. The game truly does evolve around the players, and this drastic change in the players will permanently change Fed. This new Fed will be one where you don’t have to be paranoid that dumpers will come and bleed your exchange dry, you can work at your own pace trading and promoting, and perhaps spend more time enjoying yourself partying and socializing (many pro-dumpers claimed that Fed was becoming one big chat room that you pay for monthly, but I assure everyone that there is a higher quality of players to converse with in Fed than any chat room on the Internet).

In summary (and I know this is necessary because my organizational skills while writing are not the best), Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection came into Fed with the Duke/Duchess-banning rule and created a new Fed that filtered out the pro-dumpers who have been harming Fed for so long. Also, many of the pro-dumpers who left were Greek tragic heros, whose hubris led them to their eventual downfall and death as Fedders.

I know this is going to make a lot of people very angry, but as a writer I accept all constructive criticism (random insults just make you look shallow and clutter my mailbox), and appreciations as well at Gavin_of_Mythose@yahoo.com.

SCOUNDREL'S CORNER: FED UNDERCOVER, PART I
by Khajjika Redclaw, on Special Assignment for Olias Focauld

First of all let me give you a piece of advice. The next time you find yourself standing before the Slavering Foojani FangBeast exhibit at the Zebulon Zoo - and decide to tease the Slavering Foojani FangBeast despite the warning printed in large friendly letters admonishing you Not To Tease The Slavering Foojani Fangbeast With A Squeak Toy You Idiot – let it eat you after it rends the bars to scrap metal with its aforementioned slavering fangs.

There I stood smiling placidly at the Slavering Foojani FangBeast as I held up a rubber squeak toy shaped like a chicken in my claw. I gave the rubber chicken a squeeze, and it emitted a squeak. The Slavering Foojani FangBeast, who had been taking an early afternoon nap, roused itself from its slumber, stretched languidly with a yawn, put on a pot of coffee, and proceeded to tear the bars to shreds with its Slavering Fangs.

When eight hundred pounds of slavering death leaped through the air towards me, I knew it was All Over. I scrunched my eyes shut and waited for the slavering fangs to do things to my furry body wholly inappropriate to good health.

Suddenly a voice rang out. "Hey, you idiot, you shouldn't be teasing that Slavering Foojani FangBeast with a squeak toy!" The air was knocked from my lungs as I was propelled headlong to the ground.

Struggling for breath, I looked up. A rather unsavory-looking human male was standing in the place I had just occupied, squaring off with the Slavering Foojani FangBeast. The FangBeast had been given pause by this unexpected turn of events, but was recovering quickly and regarding the human with baleful yellow eyes.

As quick as lightning, the human produced – of all things – a musical instrument. The human pressed his lips to the mouthpiece and the instrument produced a series of blats that sounded like nothing so much as a pack of marsrats attempting to claw their way out of a metal barrel.

The FangBeast visibly calmed upon hearing the horrible bleating of the Official Fed Ceremonial Tuba and after a moment even began to sway back and forth to the music. It began to emit a purling gurgle from between its fearsome jaws, evidently the Foojani FangBeast's attempt at singing.

"Wen Daa Santtzzz Goh Marchinggg En..." it gurgled, in time with the music.

After the musical number was over, the FangBeast clapped the human on the back, offered him a cup of coffee with a toothy smile, waved a fearsome claw, and returned to its slumber through the mangled bars of its cage.

The human then approached. "What, are you some sort of idiot? You should NEVER tease a Slavering Foojani Fangbeast with a squeak toy!"

My people value honor above all else. According to our customs, if a Kitterian's life is saved by another, that Kitterian is then bonded to that person, his life now belonging to he that saved him.

As I said, let the FangBeast eat you. Death by slavering fang would be a gift compared to the indignities one must suffer to fulfill a life bond. Indignities such as the incredibly stupid assignment Olias sent me on this week.

The Assignment

There I was, as usual, underneath Olias' ship, The Wild Rover, attempting to repair the starboard stabilizer. Another burden of my life bond to Olias is constantly having to repair the scrap heap he tools about the galaxy in. It would be easier to build a brand new ship out of kitchen garbage and duct tape than to keep the Rover spaceworthy.

"Khajj? Hey, Khajj?" I heard him call out.

With a grumble, I slid out from underneath the fuselage.

"What is it?" I growled.

"Ah, there you are," he said. "I need you to help me with an investigation for the Fed Chronicle. You have... um... pertinent attributes that make you the ideal alien for the job."

I scratched in annoyance at my fuzzy ear as I asked, "And what attributes would those be?"

"Well, you see..." he stammered. "You... er... well, you look like a dog."

I could feel my lips pull back from my fangs as I hissed, "A dog." I cannot count the number of times I have been mistaken for an Earth canine. I cannot count the number of people now residing in the spirit world who made the mistake of uttering that particular observation to me.

Olias retreated a step from my withering glare. "Er... when I say you look like a dog, I of course mean that in the nicest possible way," he stuttered, and offered a placating smile.

"What is this assignment?" I managed, through clenched fangs.

"Well, I've been noticing some strange things in DataSpace lately, and you're the perfect person to investigate," he said, beginning his tale.

"I was on my way to the Cantina today, following my usual routine. There, in the terminus, my eyes fell on a rather grisly scene. Some sort of canine resembling a jackal was hunched over a sprawled-out human, holding a lunar croquet mallet in his dead hand. I must have uttered an exclamation of shock, for the jackal looked up, its muzzle dripping with gore.

"To my profound shock,' he continued, "the thing looked me dead in the eye and spoke. It said to me, 'Hiya. The carrion is fresh today. Want a leg?'"

Olias continued. "Perplexed at this thing's ability to speak, I excused myself and beat a hasty retreat to the Cantina entrance. I stepped inside, and found the place empty, save for another canine with rather large fangs. This one spoke as well! 'Hello there,' it said to me. As I stood dumbfounded, I watched this canine trot over to the message board, grab a stylus in its teeth, and by deft movement of its head, scrawl, 'Arfy arf arf.' It then turned and wagged its tail at me.

"I was so shocked, Khajj, that I just stood there, gaping. After a few minutes had passed, the canine cocked its head at me, produced a rather official-looking hat seemingly from out of nowhere, put the hat on its head and said, 'Going AFK in a bar is considered room disruption.' I was suddenly booted from the cantina, teleported back to my planet."

Olias shook his head. "I figured that maybe I had been in the Leestian Evil Juice a bit too much that day and decided that maybe it was best if I just called it a night. I headed over to Caddo, peeled off my vac suit, and climbed into bed. The bed was warm and inviting, my girlfriend had already turned in for the night and was slumbering peacefully. I snuggled up to her back and reached across her side to take her hand in mine."

His eyes widened as he went on. "What I got was a handful of paw. I sat upright, flipped on the light switch, and looked down. To my horror and revulsion, I realized that I had been cuddling up to a wolf. She stirred a bit, muttered, 'honey, turn the light off,' and rolled over. I fled, screaming, leaving her and her fleas behind. I may not be the most observant person in the world, but how could I have missed the fact that my girlfriend was a dog?"

Olias looked sternly at me, his eyes full of purpose. "We need someone to go deep undercover, find out just how these dogs became sentient, and what they are up to. That they are ascending to positions of power – a duchess, a navigator, even the planet reviewer is purportedly some sort of shepherd – implies to me that something is afoot, some scheme, some sort of master plan.

"We need you to take this assignment, Khajj. The very security of DataSpace and the fate of all mankind may even now be hanging in the balance."

I stared at Olias and waited. I waited for him to break into one of his wry grins and say, "I'm just messing with you, buddy." He did not. He continued to level his solemn gaze at me.

Dear ancestral spirits, he was serious about all this. Dogs. Ugh.

I clamped my teeth down on the end of my tail to choke off a vile curse and with a sigh of resignation stomped off to start my investigation.

To be continued...

If you are hanging by the edge of your seat in suspense let the idiot that sent me on this task know at Olias7@aol.com. If you are not hanging on the edge of your seat in suspense I don't blame you.

SCOUNDREL'S CORNER: FED UNDERCOVER, PART II - THE CANINE MENACE
by Khajjika Redclaw, Still on this Stupid Assignment for Olias Focauld and Not Liking It One Bit

Highlights from last week's Fed Undercover:

There I stood smiling placidly at the Slavering Foojani FangBeast as I held up a rubber squeak toy shaped like a chicken in my claw…

"Hey, you idiot, you shouldn't be teasing that Slavering Foojani FangBeast with a squeak toy!" yelled Olias…

"I need you to help me with an investigation for the Fed Chronicle. You have... um... pertinent attributes that make you the ideal alien for the job," Olias said…

I cannot count the number of times I have been mistaken for an Earth canine. I cannot count the number of people now residing in the spirit world who made the mistake of uttering that particular observation to me…

"The very security of DataSpace and the fate of all mankind may even now be hanging in the balance…"

And now, the story continues…

Fed Undercover: The Canine Menace

So there I was, having grudgingly accepted the mission of finding out how these various canines had achieved sentience. I was also to find out if Olias' suspicions were true, that these mongrels were up to something shady, some dark agenda of their own.

I decided to tackle the sentience question first. It seemed to me that understanding the change these dogs had undergone to achieve their higher thinking might shed some light onto whatever evil scheme that same higher thinking may have spawned.

It seemed a daunting task, but I had a pretty good idea of where to start looking. I headed down to the landing pad and boarded my ship, the Claw Of Vengeance. Dust clouds billowed across the landing pad as the Claw's powerful thrusters roared to life. Arriving at the Sol Interstellar Link, I keyed coordinates into the nav computer and engaged the autopilot for a long hyperspace flight to a spinward backwater system.

The Claw slipped smoothly into hyperspace, her i-space jump drive emitting its characteristic deep thrum, which could be felt more than heard. Satisfied that all systems were operating within acceptable tolerances, I unbuckled my restraint and headed aft, to the ship's stores.

The 37th precept of Kirekka Gol Tar'na – The Kitterian Code of the Warrior – is 'Give not your enemies easy victory. Be you ever prepared for their attack.' Though I was not expecting this assignment to lead me into battle, the planet to which I was headed was notorious for leading battle to you. I had not seen my 138th Kar Nalla – 'Life Gift' – celebration by being one who stumbled blindly forward into the unknown.

I armed myself well. I slid my Kitterian Steelclaw home into its sheath at my belt, strapped a double-bladed electroaxe across my back, and checked the charge on my HiBeam TR-14 assault blaster. I also loaded a hip pack with several items I thought might be useful to my mission, attempting to cover any need that might arise.

That done, I headed back to the control cabin and strapped myself in. It would be several hours yet before I gained my destination, so I set the audible warning alarm system to maximum volume and settled in for some much-needed rest.

I awoke hours later to a proximity alert siren and a spoken announcement from the nav computer that I had reached my destination and the Claw Of Vengeance had dropped out of hyperspace at the preset coordinates. I verified with the scanners that the Claw had indeed performed an accurate jump, with a margin of error less than 100 kilometers. I felt a sense of pride at my calibration work - factory standards set the margin of error at over 2,000 kilometers.

Switching the directional controls over to manual, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for what lay ahead. This system was classified by GalactiNav Central as one of the most dangerous navigational hazards in known space. The sickly yellow star ahead and its only natural satellite were surrounded and orbited by a deadly asteroid field, a thousand times denser than the belt surrounding the Sol system. This system – called simply 'The Landing' by its inhabitants – had proven the final resting place for many brave or foolish pilots and their ships.

I kicked the thrusters to maximum and the Claw leapt forward. I was pressed back into my seat as the acceleration dampers struggled to compensate for the thrust of the twin SolarFlare engines. It was a mistake – often a fatal mistake – to attempt to navigate this belt slowly and carefully. The rock maelstrom of the belt cared nothing for careful. It was best to trust to your instincts and to luck, shove the throttle forward, and make the trek through the belt as brief as possible.

My shields sparked and crackled as the hail of dust and micrometeorites impacted against them, but through a bit of deft maneuvering I managed to avoid the larger asteroids that would have spelled instant destruction of the Claw. I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Warrior God Kazzitoth as I emerged from the belt and made course for the planet.

I made planetfall moments later and exited the landing area onto the main road. I kept my clawed hands close to my weapons as I made my way east amongst the neglected buildings and hostile faces. The forsaken colony through which I walked was bathed in a hellish yellow light, the result of sunlight passing through the thick transparisteel of the atmospheric containment dome overhead. It put the colonists that dwelled there in a perpetually jumpy and ugly mood, a mood which I myself was feeling after only a few minutes here.

At the end of the east-bound road I found my destination: 'The Spacer's Rest Bar and Grill'. Two Thiraxxians hissed at me from the entrance, their combined total of sixteen eyes glaring at me balefully. I returned the glare, bared my fangs, and drew my electroaxe. The Thiraxxians thought better of their hostile advances upon seeing my unexpected lack of fear at their ghastly appearance. With a final hiss, the insectoids slunk off into the shadows, in search of easier prey. The 24^th Precept of Kirekka Gol Tar'na: 'No home to fear, should the warrior's heart be. Return that which your enemy would give you, and the battle will be won before combat is ever joined.'

Once inside the bar, I took a moment to survey my surroundings, giving my eyes time to adjust to the low light. The Spacer's Rest was just the same as I remembered it, filled to the brim with the dregs of the galaxy. At the bar, at the tables, in the corners, and all around, 'business' was being conducted by people who could smile in your face and engage you in pleasant conversation while at the same time level a blaster at you under the table and plot your demise.

I scanned the room briefly, directing a few harsh glares where needed. I spied what I was looking for and made my way to a table situated in one of the shady corners of the bar. I took a chair and sat down, not bothering to announce myself to the person seated across, who in turn was not bothering to acknowledge my presence.

The person seated across from me at the table was a dog, of a variety I believe humans refer to as 'boxer'. This one was tan in color, wore a small hat, and seemed intent on the bowl resting on the table before him, containing a Margarita. In his left paw he held an unlit cigar.

I leaned in. "So what's the word on the street, Frank?" I asked in a low voice.

Frank's eyes never left his bowl. He didn't miss a beat as he replied, almost automatically, "Ain't nobody heard nothin'."

I unzipped the hip pack that I had loaded inside the Claw and reached in. I set a Milk Bone dog biscuit on the table, and with one clawed finger, slid it across the table.

Frank's eyes came up for the first time. He eyed the dog biscuit, then looked up at me. I held his gaze. After a moment Frank cast a furtive glance to the left and right. Satisfied that no one was looking, he thrust his head forward, snatching up the morsel in his jaws.

"What is it you want to know?" He crunched.

I pressed one clawed finger against a line on his forehead, a seam in his flesh where the fur would no longer grow. "I want you to tell me how you got that scar," I replied.

He looked away. "Ain't nobody heard nothing about that."

I reached into my pack and produced another Milk Bone.

Frank looked away, as if uninterested, but his paw shot out and covered the biscuit on the table. He slid it along the table towards himself, underneath his fuzzy paw.

Still not looking me in the eye, he fished out a matchbook from the folds of his neck, stuck his cigar in his mouth, and in a rare display of doggy dexterity, managed to tear off a match and light his cigar without the benefit of thumbs.

He gazed off into the crowed as he repeated, "Like I said, ain't nobody heard nothing about that." Almost absently, he managed to take up the dog biscuit in his right paw and, using the Milk Bone like a piece of chalk, he quickly scrawled something on the inside cover of the matchbook. He removed his left paw from where he had been holding the matchbook still so he could write on it, and made a show of absently scratching at a flea.

I nonchalantly reached across the table and palmed the matchbook. Holding it out of sight under the table, I flipped it open. On the inside cover, scrawled in green Milk Bone, were two words. 'VeeNiss KliNiK'.

Frank popped the Milk Bone into his mouth between puffs of his cigar. I flashed him a quick grin and stood up. "Thanks Frank."

He looked me in the eye again. "Sorry I couldn't be any help to ya," he said, as our gazes briefly locked. He once more gazed absently off into the crowd as he raised his cigar to his black rim things that are a dog's excuse for lips.

The Venus Clinic. I had had my suspicions about that place, and thanks to Frank, they had been confirmed. I had my lead.

I headed back to the Claw at a brisk pace, not even bothering to stop for a moment to mercilessly slaughter the two Thiraxxians who had returned to their job of harassing passerby at the door.

The very moment I set foot in the landing area, I knew something was wrong. The entrance ramp of the Claw was lowered, the hatch standing wide open.

I hadn't left it open, that much was certain. To leave your ship open in a place like this was a sure invitation for disaster.

In a blink of an eye, my blaster was in my hand. I slowly circled around the ship, inspecting it warily for any other signs that intruders might have been about. The forward landing gear strut bore several deep gouges, a sure indication that something had been gnawing on it. Someone had lodged rawhide bones into both engine exhaust ports, a condition which, had I not caught it, could cause critical thruster failure. A veritable death sentence if they were to fail in the dreaded asteroid belt.

Having completed a circle around the ship, I approached the entrance ramp. The security keypad located under the fuselage that raised and lowered the ramp bore strange smudge marks - smudge marks consistent with the paw prints that tracked up the ramp. The hatch entry keypad bore similar marks.

To my dismay, the interior of the Claw was a wreck. I bellowed in rage at the damage that had been done. Paw prints tracked all over the deck plates. The ship's stores had been ransacked, even the refuse canister had been tipped over and rummaged through. In the head, it was evident by the water all over the deck that something had been drinking out of the toilet. The toilet paper had been snagged by something, and trails of it ran all over the ship, leading to the control cabin.

The control cabin was worse yet. Something had chewed a hole in the command chair and pulled out the stuffing, which was strewn all over the floor. The safety harness had likewise been chewed through and lay in a heap on the deck, next to a puddle which told a story of its own. Wires had been forcibly pulled from the nav computer, and the control stick had been chewed down to an unrecognizable nub of shredded plastic.

Through a fog of rage, I noticed something that had been placed in conspicuous view on the center of the command console. Picking it up, my blood turned to fire as I saw what it was.

It was a rubber squeak toy. It was shaped like a cute little dog. One of its black rubber ears was perked up and it held a white rubber bone in its cute little gray mouth. It appeared to be smiling at me. On its cute little rubber stomach someone had written in black ink: 'Khajjika Redclaw, KiteeRyan WaReeoR.'

Everything was a blur after that. I remember howling in rage. I remember the electroaxe in my hands. I remember the sharp clang of steel against steel. I remember thinking that everything seemed to have turned red.

When I came to my senses, I was seated on the floor in the middle of a pile of wreckage. A pile of wreckage that was once the control center of my vessel. A discarded electroaxe lay nearby, its blade chipped and pitted from impacts it had suffered. On the floor before me were the shredded remains of something that had been cute and rubber.

The dogs were on to my little investigation. Somehow they had known where I was going, who I was going to see. Somehow they had known the precise moments that I would be away from my ship, had known when to act. I hadn't been in the Spacer's Rest for very long.

Somehow they had known the security codes to key in to enter my ship. How could they have known these things?

There was a sharp jab of pain from my arm. Looking down, I saw a little black spot amidst the fur of my forearm. I brought my arm closer to my face and as I inspected the little black spot closer, suddenly I had my answer.

It was a flea on my arm. A flea that had no doubt been in constant communication with the canine central command. I had been bugged.

I set my blaster to low power and shot it, point-blank, at my arm. Where the flea with its communication equipment had been there was now nothing but a slowly bleeding wound.

I swore on that blood that the dogs would pay. Oh yes, they would pay.

This started off as just a stupid assignment. I surveyed the wreckage of my bridge with a glare.

Now it was personal.

To be continued…

If you are hanging by the edge of your seat in suspense let the idiot that sent me on this task know at Olias7@aol.com. If you are not hanging on the edge of your seat in suspense, I don't blame you.

ALSATIAN GETS A BATH

Did you know that deities, unlike most of the human population, do not turn red when they are angry? Not quite a simple enraged purple either; it's more of a fuchsia color. With little blue spots. Very very becoming.

Hazed looked a little perplexed at first when she confronted me after I published my last article. "Alsatian," she said when she teleported in to interrupt my fourth afternoon snooze, "I was checking back on the system records, and they show you haven't left Sol in over eight weeks. How can that be?"

Knowing my best defense was in feigning canine stupidity, I absently scratched and mumbled, "Dunno."

"Alsatian, I know you've been producing these reviews. Your paw writing is pitiful and I'd recognize it anywhere. But how can you review a planet if you've never left Sol?"

I developed an absorbing interest in a non-existent beetle crawling on the floor.

"You mangy cur, WHO HAS BEEN EXPORING THESE PLANETS!" she shouted.

"Fleas!" I yelped, startled by her explosion into blurting out the truth.

"Fleas?" she asked, taken aback by my confession. "As in blood sucking little parasites? You've been sending out fleas to explore the planets?"

I smirked and replied, "Sure. I send them on important 'missions', they turn in their reports, and I get to snooze. Great little scam, huh?"

That's when I had the opportunity to observe the color scheme of a deity gone apoplectic. I would have complimented her on how well it suited her hair color, but she chose that moment to grab my collar with one hand and cut off my air supply while wrapping the other around my chest. Without so much as a grimace of discomfort she lifted me off the ground and propelled me towards the door. Now, I am a Big Dog with significant body mass, but believe me; Hazed is a Strong Demi-Goddess.

"No more fleas!" she screamed as she carried me towards the exit. "No sir, from now on you'll do your own work. It's BATH time for you!"

We had nearly reached the door when she uttered that savage word. Bath: the terror of every self-respecting filthy canine in DataSpace. Bath: that thing where you stand in abject humility while people make little suds hats on your head and giggle. Bath: that place that would mark the final resting spot for nearly 90% of my flea population. Reacting solely on instinct I flung out my four legs, planting two on the right side of the portal and two on the left. I stiffened my legs and straightened my spine. Flinging back my head I turned into 130 pounds of square peg that wasn't going to fit in a round hole. I wasn't going out that door.

"Oof!" I heard from behind me when she discovered I'd become an immovable object. She pushed. I kept my legs stiff and resisted. She cursed. I held my resolve. She put her shoulders to mine and shoved with all her demi-goddess might. Though my legs trembled a bit, I held fast, flung back my head again, and smacked her on the nose with my hard skull.

She started muttering phrases that came right out of the 'Unconditionally Bad Words' section of the Federation House Rules manual. Still keeping one hand around my chest she loosened her grip on my collar and pressed some keys on her comm unit, whispered a few words into it, and then held me firm while waiting reinforcements. I'd caught the words 'Askhellion' and 'food'. Hazed was planning on fighting dirty.

I didn't care who she sent, I wasn't going anywhere. My paws were glued to the doorjamb. Roasted grizzle wouldn't lure me away.

As I suspected, it was my (former) good friend and frisbee teammate Askhellion that showed up with the bribe. But instead of trying to coax me into laying down my arms – or legs in this case – he did the last thing I expected; he walked right up and popped the treat into my open and panting mouth. I immediately started chewing. The taste was delicious.

They were a wicked team and that was an especially dirty deed. Askhellion had slipped into my open maw one of those small little snack crackers with what had to be a full tablespoon of peanut butter on it. My entire focus narrowed down to trying to smack the sticky substance off the roof of my mouth. No longer was I thinking of fleas or baths or planet reviews. I was had.

A few hours later the fountain at CDs had been reduced to a mess of pinkish suds and dead flea carcasses. As she shooed me out the door she smiled and said, "It's a good thing you got that bath, you need to write up Darklight and Xslaught specifically requested that you not leave any fleas on her space station. And do see if you can find a toothbrush somewhere, that smacking is getting annoying."

I'd like to see that smile get wiped off her face when she finds out the other 10% of my fleas were away on assignment as she scrubbed my ears. They'll be back.

ALSATIAN FAILS TO PRODUCE THE GOODS

I realize you probably turned to this page eagerly anticipating another stunning planet review done by yours truly.

It didn't happen. And it wasn't my fault.

See, it was like this. Um, give me a minute…

>act heads to the library on Venus for a little research.
>act trots down the rows of books, scanning and searching, until he finds the one titled '101 Easy Excuses For Not Finishing A Planet Review'.
>act flips through the text. He mutters some selections out loud, ponders them a moment, and discards each one.
>say Not Enough Stats For The Diamond... nope. Hospitalized For Cat Scratches… nope. Had To Save Universe From Fate Worse Than Death… nope.
>act turns back to the index and looks under the heading 'Canines'.
>act slams the book shut, chokes a moment on the dust explosion, and smiles.

Sorry, folks. My Owner Ate My Homework!

MORE MAY INSIDE SCOOP
AND EVEN MORE MAY INSIDE SCOOP