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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate May 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate May 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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What was in May 2000's Inside Scoop:
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SCOUNDREL'S CORNER: FED UNDERCOVER, PART
III: DOGS MUST PAY The story so far… Two weeks ago, though now it seems like an eternity, I was approached by my longtime friend and smuggling partner Olias Focauld. Olias, now a reporter for the Fed Chronicle, explained to me at that time that he required my assistance for a Special Investigative Report. Olias found the high population of various breeds of dogs within Federation DataSpace to be rather odd, and odder still, he felt, was the fact that they had somehow achieved sentience and were walking around and talking like ordinary folk. He also suspected that something underhanded might be afoot, due to positions of power to which these canines were ascending. He believed that the stage was being set for some sort of uprising. Much to my ire, he had selected me as the 'perfect person for the job' because, according to him, I look like a dog, and would be able to secretly infiltrate this dog underground. Normally, when someone points out to me my resemblance to an Earth canine, it results in their immediate slaughter at my hands, but my life debt to Olias prevented such and, grudgingly, I took the job. My first stop was at a remote spinward system far from the galactic core, called simply 'The Landing.' There I spoke with an informant named Frank, a boxer dog in a nice hat. Frank, though himself a member of this offshoot breed of intelligent dogs, professed no knowledge of these events. He did, however, slip me a matchbook with the words 'Venus Clinic' hastily scrawled on the inside cover. I returned to the landing pad after my meeting with Frank only to find that my ship had been vandalized, that the dogs were on to me and were trying to thwart my little investigation. I found a spy flea on my arm who had been communicating my movements to Canine Central Command. In a fit of rage, I ended up destroying what was left of my desecrated control center. That was ten minutes ago.
I had my lead, but no way to pursue it. It would be some time before my ship, the Claw Of Vengeance, would again be spaceworthy. I was stranded on a backwater planet right in the middle of galactic nowhere. I reached for my comm unit and referenced the index for Imperial Spacelines. After navigating the menus of the annoying automated message system, I was finally connected to an actual living being. "Hello, Imperial Spacelines. How may I help you?" I could barely hear her through the static. "I need to book a flight," I responded. "When would you like to fly, sir?" "Right now," I responded. I grimaced. Without booking at least two weeks in advance, this little trip could easily cost as much as 10,000 IG. "Okay, sir, and what is your departure planet?" Her trained cheerfulness was giving me the urge to go out and kill something with my bare claws. "I am at a planet called The Landing, out in sector J-27." Hardly Imperial Spaclines' hub, but I figured something would be available - if at exorbitant expense to me. "The Landing? You mean Focauld's Landing? In the Caddo duchy?" Despite the static, I could hear raucous laughter from the other end. "The place with all the asteroids? You think we are going to send one of our luxury liners through THAT?" More laughter. The laughing abruptly died out and then a voice, a different voice, sounded from the other end. "Besides," it said, "our luxury liners are not equipped with doggy doors." Howling laughter again commenced from my comm unit. The laughter ceased as I smashed my comm unit against the wall in a fit of rage. The damn dogs evidently had seized control of Imperial Spacelines, now, too. And worse yet, they had spouted that hated insult. Oh yes, they were going to pay. I had to find a way off this planet. Now. Right now. A battered old service droid, as if on cue, approached. "Welcome to Focauld's Landing," it buzzed in a monotone. "Any ship repairs you require may be..." Two minutes later, I stood amidst a pile of scrap steel and wreckage that had been the service droid. My heaving chest rose and fell as I struggled to get a hold of myself. Glancing down at the destruction I had wrought, an idea popped into my head, and moments later I was rushing headlong down the road to the Landing's only clinic. I skidded to a halt in front of a desk stationed by a bored-looking receptionist. "You have a cloning center here?" I huffed, out of breath. She resumed filing her fingernails as she blandly replied, "Of course, sir. We have full cloning facilities whose standards meet or exceed galactic health-" Her voice faltered as an explosion from the adjoining laboratory shook the dirty reception room and a bloodcurdling scream emitted from within. Moments later, a creature born of nightmares lurched into the reception area. Its face looked vaguely human, but the rest of its body was horrifically misshapen. It reached out its third hand towards me from the arm that was growing from the center of its chest and gurgled, "Please, kill me." It then shambled forward on its four legs, seized a chair, and proceeded to beat the chair over its own head, which was growing out of its shoulder. The receptionist shrugged and returned to her nail filing as the thing emitted its death rattle and slumped to the floor. "Actually, sir, it looks like the cloning center is experiencing technical difficulties and is temporarily closed," she said. Temporarily closed. Which meant death on the Landing at this time would result in the shipping of one's corpse back to Sol. I nodded at her, smiled, drew my blaster, and without a word shot myself in the chest. Darkness. Oblivion. More Darkness. Yet more oblivion. Then, a sound. Voices. I was wakening. I was not dead. Nor had I expected to be. "Subject two-thirty-nine. Species unknown, resembles bipedal dog. Male. Blaster wound to chest. Self-inflicted. One witness," came a voice to my left. I kept my eyes scrunched shut and waited, listening, taking in my surroundings. I was laying on something hard, flat, and cold. A voice to my right spoke. "Suicide, then? Oh, good! Suicide means we can quadruple his insurance premium! Tag the subject's body for disposal, we have a recent DNA sample in storage." My chest hurt like blazes but I struggled to remain still, to utter no noise. I heard the sound of someone scribbling on a clipboard. Their footsteps receded as they moved away. "Subject two-forty. Human female. Markings consistent with mastication from large grizzle bear..." The voices came again, but from a distance. I waited, continuing to feign death, as the insurance adjusters went about their duties. "Subject two-forty-one. Human male. Asphyxiated on whippie cream…" Most folks are never aware of all the procedure involved after their death. They are alive one minute, dead the next, and when they are next aware they are waking up refreshed and unscathed in a hospital room, a clone of their former self. The cloning itself is the quick and easy part. The long and painstaking part takes place here, in the adjustment clinic of the Venus branch of the DDD Death Insurance agency. When a corpse is shipped in, it undergoes inspection by 'doctors' like these two, whose sole purpose is to determine why 'No-fault' death insurance claims were, in fact, the client's fault. Once fault is established – or fabricated – the doctors can then turn in their findings to the accounting department. The accounting department, based on these findings, will then jack up the client's insurance premium through the roof. "Subject two-forty-two. Unidentifiable ashes. Flew into Sol sun…" So why was I here, and aware of it? Simple. Kitterians are hard to kill. Our physiological makeup resembles that of humans, but that is where the resemblance ends. Unlike humans, our internal organs have the ability to function in more than one way – our liver can function as a kidney, and so forth. A Kitterian can take an amazing amount of bodily damage and come back for more as undamaged organs assume the functions of those that failed. Upon sustaining such punishment, however, a Kitterian will enter the Kol N'Kar – 'death sleep', a physical state so resembling death that no examination can prove otherwise. I had been presumed dead, and brought here for examination prior to cloning. "Subject two-forty-three. Human male. Died from… Aw, the hell with it. Let's go get a bite to eat, Bob…" The footsteps receded, and were gone. After a few minutes, when I was satisfied that they weren't coming back, I opened my eyes and sat up. My wounded chest protested with a sharp stab of pain as I took in my surroundings. I was in a large room lined with metal examination tables. Corpses in various states of ruination were laid out for inspection all around me, each bearing an identification tag on an intact appendage. I reached down and removed the one that was tied to my toe. With a grunt, I shoved myself upright into a standing position. I staggered a bit as I struggled to maintain balance, my legs weak and rubbery after my long comatose sleep. Instantly, my mind was at work. I couldn't fathom what use the dogs would have for such a place as this, a stopover for the dead on their way to the grave. The question of canine sentience may have had its answer here on Venus, but not in this room of the departed. I stumbled out through the doorway the adjusters had taken, into a brightly-lit hallway. There was a directory sign mounted on the wall directly before me. I found the way to the cloning center and took off at a brisk rate down the hall on my strengthening legs. At the sound of approaching footsteps, I ducked into a doorway marked 'Storage Closet.' Amongst the rest of the junk lining the shelves inside, I found a folded lab coat and a flashlight. I donned the lab coat and hefted the flashlight. It was one of those metal numbers that took like twelve batteries and weighed a ton. Not exactly an Electroaxe, but better then nothing. I waited for the footfalls to pass by and once again took to the corridor on my way to the cloning center. I entered a long room. The walls on both sides of the room were lined with vertical-standing glass cylinders, at least eight feet in height and half again as wide. In the middle of the room, running its length, was an unbroken line of computer monitoring terminals. The wall at the far end of the chamber was made entirely of glass, with a doorway leading out on to some sort of balcony. A sign above the doorway read, 'Testing Area'. The room I stood in was empty. Upon closer inspection, I could see dark forms swaying in some sort of murky green liquid inside the cylinders. While some appeared to be fully formed beings, others were little more than skeletons with a light covering of tendon and muscle. These were clones, in various states of growth. It was a gruesome sight, really, but most people were spared it. After being run through a series of tests, these clones would be sent to a comfortable room in the Earth hospital for awakening. "Hey you! Who are you? You're not supposed to be in this area!" I spun around. A technician had entered the room behind me, similarly attired in a white lab coat. He was peering at me suspiciously as he stood with his hands on his hips awaiting my answer. "I… uh… am Cloning Technician Redclaw. I am new here," I stammered. "Well, 'Technician' Redclaw, I cannot help but notice that you have no ID tag. I cannot let you in here without proper identification. I am afraid I am going to have to call security." I waved a claw in front of his face as I looked him intently in the eye and said, "You don't need to see my identification." Old Kitterian Mind Trick. Ancient Kitterian medicine men, thousands of years ago, believed that through the force of one's will alone, one could influence others by planting a 'suggestion' into their mind. They believed that such power could override a being's own intellect and force it to the Shaman's bidding. They were of course wrong and many medicine men suffered a horrible death as the Slavering Foojani Fangbeast before them was utterly unconvinced that they should not, in fact, eat them. Though the Old Kitterian Mind Trick was largely a failure against the Slavering Foojani Fangbeast, it was later discovered by more resourceful medicine men to have other uses. It could, for example, give a person a moment of pause in which they tried to piece together the inane response they had just been given, a pause that was an ideal time to clobber them over the head with a large bludgeoning instrument. "Well what do you mean I don't need to see your identifica…" Thunk. Batteries clattered over the floor as I split the flashlight over his head. He slumped to the floor, unconscious. I turned and headed towards the balcony over the test chamber. I didn't think the dogs would have any use for the clones in this room, these would be missed. From my vantage point, I could see a cavernous chamber below, where scores of technicians ran newly-grown clones through series of cognitive tests. I focused on one such pair below. A technician was standing next to an attractive, naked female human. The technician was holding a clipboard in one hand, watching the woman intently. The woman was holding a vial of acid, a coin, and a diamond. Before her stood a cardboard likeness of Diesel, a lever encased in crystal, and a vending machine. The technician visibly sighed and shook his head as the woman poured the acid over the cardboard standup, attempted to stuff the diamond into the vending machine's coin slot, and tried to eat the coin. He threw his hands up, marked something on his clipboard, and led the woman by the hand to a doorway marked, 'Reject Room'. I threw off the lab coat, bounded down the stairs, and headed for the spot the two had just occupied. The technician, who was just returning, saw me. "Who are you?" He asked. "Duh. Uh duh," I intelligently responded. He led me by the hand to the doorway marked, 'Reject Room.' I was dumped unceremoniously inside, the door sealed behind me. All around me were clones that had developed some defect in their growth and were kept here until they could be recycled. Cloning is not an exact science, and stark-raving lunacy was not uncommon to the process. These lunatics had all been given a standard comm unit, an attempt to keep them occupied and docile. As I expected, the comm units were all locked on channel nine. To my left, a man was steadily and repeatedly beating his head against the metal wall. In the corner sat a clone of a woman from Checkmate screaming, "No! Please! No more whippie cream!" An Onyxian clone to my right was busy lecturing a Stage denizen on why dumping was bad. A sister of Darkshadow leaning against the far wall was vowing to become a nun. Worst of all, I saw a defective clone of Olias. He passed by, said, "Hiya Khajj. Can't stop to chitchat. I'm sick of the Cantina and feeling a powerful urge to do some work. And I think I'll turn in this week's article several days early! Yes! That's what I'll do!" Defective indeed. I was so dumbfounded I had nearly forgotten my purpose for coming here. I was forcibly reminded a moment later, when a shimmer of teleportation effect lit the room in sparkling light. In a heartbeat, three dark-clad figures descended upon the clones. I could not see their faces, as they wore black ski masks, but they ran on all fours and had tails protruding from their black jumpsuits. Each carried some sort of device loosely resembling a portable shop-vac. Terrible sucking sounds could be heard as the invaders pressed the devices to the clones' heads. When the gurgling wet sound ceased, the clone would slump to the ground and the invader would rush to the next victim. Being a warrior, I did the courageous thing: I grabbed the clone of Olias and held it in front of me. In blink of an eye, his defective brain had been sucked out and the intruders escaped in another shimmer of light. I expected all the clones in the room, after having had their grey matter viciously stolen, to be dead. To my surprise, they instead rose from where they had fallen, and as a group, began to talk into their comm units on channel nine. To clarify: that they were not dead was surprising. That they were talking on nine was not surprising. So, I had my answer. It was not evolution, nor mutation, that was giving these evil critters their sentience. It was brain stealing. Defective brains, taken from insane clones. I now knew the how of it. I still had to find out the why. I suspected I wasn't going to like the why.
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: FED UNDERCOVER, PART IV
"Lieutenant Colonel Talbot, reporting as ordered, sir." Fleet Admiral Tobias Bragencourt glanced up from the report he had been reading. He stood up, returned the salute, and gestured for the man before him to be seated. "Let's dispense with the formalities, Colonel, and get down to business," he said, as they both took a seat. He set aside the papers and leaned back in his chair. "What do you have to report?" Talbot cleared his throat nervously. The man seated at the desk before him was the commander-in-chief of the Imperial Armed Forces, second only to the Galactic Overlord in military authority. "I am sorry to report, sir, that the Sol system has been savaged by a series of brutal terrorists attacks. We believe a renegade band of intelligent canines to be behind the attacks, sir." "Go on." The Fleet Admiral said. "Yes sir. We have reports of over thirty such attacks, sir, ranging from mildy annoying to devastating in scope. Among the worst were a catastrophic explosion at a zero-g basket ball game at the Lunar Gym when somebody inserted a packet of TDX explosive into the ball, and a malicious reprogramming of the intersteller link's navigation beacon, causing forty-two starships to crash into the planet Saturn, killing all aboard. "We had expected better support from the Sol System's local defense forces-" Fleet Commander Bragancourt interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Ah, you mean the volunteer militias, eh? Fedizens?" He swiveled his chair around and pressed a button next to his office's only viewport. The plastic shade over the viewport slid up into a compartment, revealing local space around Star Base One. Talbot gasped. Through the viewport could be seen a horde of starships. They floated motionless in the space surrounding Star Base One. Each ship that was visible was carrying an individual message, some on signs mounted to the nose, others painted directly on the hull, still others on banners. They all had the same theme: protest. Talbot read some of the signs before him. "DOWN WITH THE DUCHY BAN!" one read. "Save the dumpers! DataSpace's only endangered species!" said another. "REPENT, FOR THE END OF FED IS AT HAND! REJECT THE NEW RULE!" Talbot shook his head. They all said the same thing, and they all had another thing in common: they were local defense ships, ships that should have been helping curb the terrorist attacks. Fleet Commander Bragencourt swiveled back to face him. He picked up a stack of papers and handed them to Talbot. "Sir?" Talbot asked, puzzled. "You know what that is, son?" asked Bragencourt, gesturing. "Well, sir, it looks like last week's Fed Chronicle." "That's right. Do you read it regularly, Colonel?" "Yes sir – well mostly. I usually skip Scoundrel's Corner, as that is always a bunch of rot, but-" Bragencourt waved a hand, interrupting. "Check out last week's planet review, Colonel." Talbot flipped a few pages. "Well, sir, there isn't one. With all respect, Admiral, what does this have to do with anything?" "The planet review is done by Senator Alsatian, Colonel. Do you know what an Alsatian is?" "Er, well, no sir. I would assume it's the guy's name." Bragencourt snorted. "Hardly. An Alsatian is a fancy schmansy name for a German Shepherd, Colonel. A dog." He continued. "We have recently been informed that the new rule the Senate passed regarding Duchal Sovereignty was proposed by this very same Senator Alsatian. At the time, he called it the 'In The Doghouse' bill. Now he's gone missing. You following me, son?" Talbot blinked. "Er... no sir, I'm not." "What I'm driving at, Colonel, is that I highly doubt that these terrorist attacks coming at the very same time that the general populace is otherwise distracted with protests and outrage is in any way mere coincidence. I think this was all a carefully planned diversionary tactic. I also believe this to be a precursor to an outright invasion." The Admiral stood, so Talbot did the same. "As of right now, Colonel, Sol is under martial law. You will mobilize the fleet and establish marine garrisons on each of the planets in Sol for their defense. I may be wrong about this, but I'd rather be wrong than conquered. Dismissed." Talbot snapped a crisp salute and turned for the door. "Oh, and Colonel..." Talbot spun around. "Yessir?" Bragencourt asked, "Has there been any reports as to the status of the two investigators in our employ?" "I'm sorry, sir," Talbot responded. "There have been no reports as to the whereabouts of Khajjika Redclaw or Olias Focauld." "Those men are to found and taken into custody immediately, Colonel." "Sir?" Talbot asked, his brow furrowing. "I thought they were working for us." "They were, Colonel, and the Empire is in their debt. They must be found at once. It is absolutely imperative that we keep a tight lid on this, or we could have a galactic panic on our hands. Those men are to be found and taken into custody. If they resist, well... I am sure you are familiar with the phrase, 'by any means necessary,' Colonel?" "Yes, sir." "Good. Make it a priority. Dismissed." As Talbot headed for the door, he heard the Admiral sigh, "the last thing we need is for the press to get a hold of this."
Full Scale War Erupts in the
Heart of the Empire What began on Monday as isolated terrorist attacks erupted today into a full-scale invasion of the Sol System, the Imperial seat of power. Attacks were conducted simultaneously against the planets Titan and Castillo by forces unknown. After a series of pitched battles incurring devastating losses to personnel and equipment of the Imperial Defense Forces, both planets were lost. While the attacks have for the moment ceased, there is every reason to believe this unknown invasion force will be coming to your planet next, most probably to sack, pillage, and burn the cities, brutally slaughter the males, plunder the women, and sell the children into slavery. If, by some miraculous stroke of unbelievable luck any of you reading this from the Sol system are alive tomorrow, be sure to pick up a copy of the news. We will have further updates coming to you from our warm, safe, plush, cushy office way out here in the Caddo system. Only .35ig at your local newsstand. Have a nice day. Oh, yeah: try not to panic. Copyright © The Assorted Press
"Wild Rover, this is the Imperial Navy Cutter Cerebus. You are hereby ordered to shut down your main drive, lower your shields, heave to, and prepare to be boarded. If you fail to follow-" Olias scowled and jabbed at the comm switch on the panel, cutting off the channel. "Khajj, see if you can squeeze another ten percent out of the engines. We gotta give these guys the shake before they open-" The cabin lurched wildly as the Rover was hit by a barrage of cannon fire. Khajjika's claws played over the controls on the panel before him. He turned to Olias from the co-pilot's seat. "Reactor is already fifteen per cent over safe output levels." Olias surveyed his instruments as another hail of blaster fire shook the Rover. "It's not enough. They're gaining." He glared across at Khajjika accusingly. "We should be able to leave that garbage scow in our wake! I thought you said you fixed the engines!" Khajj snarled and leveled a claw an inch from Olias' nose. "I DID fix the engines. If you'd buy genuine parts for this scrap heap from Jarrow's instead of that cheap second-hand garbage-" Khajjika's words were lost as the shields screamed in protest from another direct hit. Olias seized the controls. "Can't take another hit like that." He winked at Khajj. "Time to do something desperate-like." Khajjika rolled his eyes as Olias rolled the ship around on a course heading directly back toward the Navy Cutter. "Khajj, prepare to jettison cargo on my mark." "Aye, preparing to... what?" "Just do it, Khajj! On my mark!" The Wild Rover jumped and lurched as Olias brought her in, performing crazy maneuvers to dodge the torrent of cannon fire the Naval Cutter was bringing to bear. "Not yet... not yet..." "Now!" Khajjika shook his head and hit the button as Olias veered off at the last possible second. The entire forward section of the Navy Cutter Cerebus was torn to a crumpled mass of scrap metal as six hundred tons of surprised livestock impacted the hull at tremendous velocity. "Bad enough all the damn dogs shooting at us without the Navy, as well. Bunch of ingrates." Olias studied his scopes as the Wild Rover sped away from the crippled cutter. "I guess we hit 'em pretty bad, Khajj. They're not circling around. Or maybe..." Olias directed a wry grin at his co-pilot, "...maybe they were so cowed by our attack that they don't want any more." Khajjika groaned as Olias' grin widened. He waggled a finger at Khajj. "Eh? You see what I did there? Eh? COWED?" "Eh?" he nudged Khajj with his elbow. Khajjika slapped a claw to his face as Olias punched in a new course. "Guess I better steer for safer space. Eh? STEER?" "Eh?" A grin as he poked Khajj in the ribs. Khajjika cursed.
There was a brief knock and the door slid open to reveal Lieutenant Colonel Talbot. "Report," said Fleet Admiral Bragencourt. Talbot stepped forward, into the office Bragencourt had appropriated in the Earth Barracks. He had wanted to be here, closer to the action, to better direct his troops. "I am sorry to report, sir, that by an expertly-coordinated dual attack, the dogs have seized control of Venus and Mercury. The surviving troops, as few as they were, have fallen back to the Moon and Earth." He stood stone still as he offered his report, eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Bragencourt slammed his fist down on the desk. "But how! How can the mongrels be coordinating their offensive with such efficiency! I ordered all communications in the Sol system to be jammed! Did you carry out those orders, Colonel?" He stabbed a finger in the air in the direction of Talbot. Talbot swallowed. "Yessir. All communications in this sector have been jammed, sir. We have no idea how the mutts are coordinating their troop movements, nor do we have any clue as to where their base of operations is." He bowed his head slightly. "I'm sorry, sir." Bragencourt let his tone calm somewhat. "It's not your fault, son. I'm just frustrated over these losses, particularly after losing Mars yesterday. If only we knew where they had their base, or could shut down their communications, we might have a chance. The comm jamming should have worked, blast it!" He slammed his hand down on the table again. Talbot met his eyes for the first time. "If I may speak candidly, sir, you and I both know that any criminal underworld slimebag with an ounce of skill and a thirty-gigawatt frequency booster can rig up a transmitter to punch through a communications jam." Bragencourt nodded absently.
"Khajj, hand me that thirty-gigawatt frequency booster." The Wild Rover was floating lazily along, hidden amidst the rock and ice of Saturn's ring. Olias turned some dials and pressed a button. "There, try it." Khajjika held one side of a radio headset up to his fuzzy ear as he flipped channels on the communications board. He stared off as he spoke, concentrating on what he was hearing. "A lot of static. Increase by point-two. No, wait, it's worse. Decrease by point-four. There, it's better-" Khajjika jerked the headset away from his ear. He adjusted the volume down and listened again. "What is it, Khajj? What do you hear?" Khajjika frowned as he listened. "I appear to be receiving a tight-beam message..." Khajjika listened intently, his eyes shifting from left to right. After a few minutes, he turned the set off and turned to Olias. "That was my informant friend Frank, the dog from The Landing," Khajj said, his expression bewildered. "Go on," Olias urged impatiently. "He said he was just calling to let me know that he hadn't heard anything about the war going on. He then went on to say that he also knew nothing at all about the location of the Dog's base on Earth. He emphasized the fact that since he didn't of course know that the base was on Earth, he certainly wouldn't know that it's specific location was the Cantina. He also professed to know nothing about the strategy of the best hiding place being the one right under your enemy's nose. What he did know was that I owed him a whole box of Milk Bones for telling me all this nothing." Olias smiled slyly. "The Cantina. Brilliant. Fire up the engines, buddy. I think it's time for a little drink."
There was a brief scratch and the door slid open to reveal Beta First-Class Fang. "Report," barked the Commander Alpha. Fang trotted forward, into the office the Alpha had appropriated as the Canine Central Command. She had wanted to be here, closer to the action, to better direct her troops. "I am pleased to report, ma'am, that the Moon is now ours. Through your expert planning, Operation Bite-The-Hand has achieved another decisive victory." She smiled and rolled over to face him. "The details, Beta. Give me the details, that I might wallow in our victory like a dead fish on the beach." Fang folded his ears back in salute. "Yes, Ma'am!" "We met the enemy on the field, with the 182nd Grass-Thatcher division at the van. While the humans were still formed in lines before us, the 182nd did what they do best – digging. "In a matter of moments, the air was filled with dust from their burrowing, reducing visibility to zero. Through the blanketing haze, we dispatched the 88th Crotch-Sniffer division along with the 357th Food-Beggars. "Their attack was crippling to the humans. As expected, fully two-thirds of the human army were rendered weaponless, their combat assault rifles clattering to the ground as they cried out, 'Hey! Quit that!' and tried to bat away the offending noses. "The other one-third of the army was rendered complacent by the loving puppy-dog-eyes gaze of the 357th. Having completed their missions, the 88th and 357th withdrew as fast as they had struck, the damage done. "At that moment we unleashed the 403rd and 162nd Rabid Divisions. They tore into the enemy brutally, and in mere moments the humans were pulling back into a frenzied rout. "The 72nd Ankle-Biters did a marvelous job of tripping up the fleeing enemy troops, at which point the 123rd Un-Housebrokens... well... you have an idea what they did." He smiled. "It was a glorious battle. It has been my honor to serve you, Commander Alpha. Now all that remains is Earth." She jerked upright and growled. Waving a paw at him she, hissed. "No, it is not I you serve. It is the Many. It is the Many we all serve. Never forget, Beta!" Fang swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
"This flak is so thick I could walk back to Kitteria on it." The Rover pitched and jerked violently to the left, as Olias fought to dodge a burst of anti-spacecraft fire. "I know, I know, but we have to make it," Olias said. "It's down to Earth now. We're the only ones that can make a difference, now." For the last several hours the two had been trying unsuccessfully to find a path through the canine's blockade around Earth and land. The invasion would commence at any second, Olias knew, and it was now or never. He threw caution to the wind and plunged the Wild Rover straight in. "There's not much time left, Khajj, I can feel it. I'm gonna have to hit the ground running. You stay behind and guard the ship in case we need to make a quick exit." Khajjika nodded as the Rover shook violently from a flak burst. They had passed through the worst of it and were preparing for atmospheric penetration. "Khajj, reach under your seat. There should be a bag there." Khajj reached down and came up with a small sack. "What is it?" "It's the Scoundrel's Corner fan mail bag." Khajjika shook the bag. "It's empty." Olias took his attention off their descent long enough to direct a glare at Khajjika. "It's not empty. Reach inside. At the very bottom." Khajjika did so. "Ah. Here's a letter. It reads, 'What does OOC mean?' I can't read the signature." Olias shook his head. "No! Not that one! There should be a package in there!" The Wild Rover, at Olias' usual graceful touch, smacked the ground like a meteorite. He unbuckled, snatched the package from Khajjika's hand, and took off for the hatch at a dead run. "Stay here!" Moments later, he entered the Starship Cantina. The Commander Alpha of the Canine Fanged Forces stirred at the intrusion. Her eyes widened when she saw him. "You...!" Olias nodded. He held a hand up as he took a tentative step forward. "Yes. It's me, dear. You have to stop this. Please, Wolfyn. Stop this madness and come home." Wolfyn snarled. "Not another step. I warn you: get out of here while you still can." Olias shook his head. "No. Not without you. I love you." Wolfyn shook her head, as if to clear it. For a brief moment, her snarl relaxed. "You don't understand. I serve the Many now. I hear their voice in my head. I must do their bidding. I must. Please," she implored, "get away from here." "I will not." Wolfyn's eyes glazed over once more. "Then... die!" She bared her fangs and advanced. Olias whipped the package out from behind his back, reached inside, and produced the Sacred Super Poofy Extra Wide Fuzzy Ball, an award bestowed upon him by Febby, Squire of Fuzzyworld, for his journalism skills. Wolfyn halted in her tracks. Her eyes lit with greed as she stared at the Fuzzy Ball. A great battle raged across her features as she fought between the need of doing the bidding of the Many, and her naked desire for the Fuzzy Ball. His words were what put her over the edge. "Fetch, doggy?" he cooed, and tossed the Fuzzy ball into the swimming pool. Yes, swimming pool. The most devout cantina dwellers are well aware of the existence of the fabled cantina swimming pool. They also know that the fabled cantina swimming pool is treated at least eight times daily with gallons of chlorine, bleach, iodine, and pesticide due to the fabled things that occur in the fabled cantina swimming pool. As soon as Wolfyn hit the water, there was a wail of voices, thousands of voices. They cried out in agony as the chemical-ridden water set to work on their disgusting insect bodies. After a few moments, all was silent. Wolfyn emerged, wet and sodden, hanging her head. She looked up at Olias with guilt in her cleared eyes and muttered, "By the Great Bone, what have I done?" Olias scooped her up in his arms. "Nothing, dear, you did nothing. It was the fleas. It was the fleas all along. They had you set up base here and were communicating battle plans over the bar message boards." "But... but all those people that... that died..." she sobbed. Olias patted her head. "Don't sweat it, babe. They were probably jerks anyway." She cocked her head. "Jerks?" Olias looked at her. "Yes, jerks. I could give you some long-winded eloquent answer as to why it wasn't your fault and how you are now redeemed and blah blah blah, but this article is already WAY too long and Hazed is gonna kill me. So, suffice it to say, they were jerks, and you did Fed a great service. Now let's go home. You look kinda sexy with your hair all wet like that."
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DOGS MUST PAY