Alpha Centauri 2

Community => Recreation Commons => Topic started by: Doc Nebula on August 03, 2013, 08:53:37 PM

Title: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 03, 2013, 08:53:37 PM

Been typing on WBY all day between calls.  (I won't call it 'writing', it's fan fic with all the names changed.  That's just typing.  But it's fun.)

Right now it's at around 18,000 words and I'd guess it's 75% done.  So it will probably come in around 25,000 words.  A nice little novella.  I'll put it up by itself and then probably include it in a new version of ZOMBIE RAY, too. 

Not that anyone cares.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 03, 2013, 08:55:44 PM

I care.  As much as you want me to, I cannot guarantee, but I love your stuff, and observe that we really do have a fiction folder.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 03, 2013, 09:02:47 PM

I tried to post chapter 1 here a little while ago, just for grins, and ran into the character count limit.  So I said fukkit.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 03, 2013, 09:10:57 PM

Gotta love that never-say-die persistence... ;)

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 03, 2013, 09:14:13 PM

Also, is this a story you've talked about here?  What are you pastiche-ing?

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 03, 2013, 09:49:25 PM

Yeah, I mentioned it in one of my early posts.  It's an Omniverse Tale.   Nazi supervillains learn that Glen Miller's trombone is actually an ancient mystic horn of power and divert his plane to Berlin so they can steal it.

The ghost of Amelia Earhart overhears their dastardly plans and rats them out to the Heap, because there are very few material beings she can talk to. 

Meanwhile, a bunch of Nazis are in the South American jungle looking for the Lost City of Gold.  Indiana Jones, Carter Hall, and Shiera Hall are sent down to stop them.  At the last minute, Doc Savage joins the party, advising that 'lost cities of gold are a particular interest of mine'. 

The Heap gets in touch with this foursome after they've taken out the Nazis they're after and tells them about the plan to kidnap Miller.  Then, magically, the Heap transports them all to England.

Meanwhile, in England, Cliff Secord is watching as Mandrake and Zatara trade insults on the airstrip outside the deHavilland Flamingo that is supposed to take them to a USO performance in France.  They hate each other.  Then Glen Miller comes up and they stop being jerks.  The three get aboard their plane, which is piloted by Commander Harry Bailey.  Cliff wanders off to the control tower as he's on duty in ten minutes.

Doc and the rest come running up too late to keep the deHavilland from taking off.  As the Hawks are about to fly after it, it disappears... cloaked by evil Nazi spells.  Doc sends Cliff off with his rocketpack to a private airfield 75 miles away to bring back an experimental rocket plane with a radar array in it. 

And, we're off to the races!

Obviously, I've changed all the names to protect the... er... well, me. 

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 03, 2013, 10:02:58 PM

O.M.G.  I had to think about Commander Harry Bailey for a second, and recognized the rest of those names instantly.  We gotta get ourselves lives, man.

Also?  That sounds like an awesome little yarn.  Clark Savage Jr. is da bomb.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 04, 2013, 01:18:53 AM

Quote from: BUncle on August 03, 2013, 09:10:57 PM

Gotta love that never-say-die persistence... ;)

I realize you're kidding, but I was at work all day, doing stuff here and on the story file between calls.  I had no time to figure out a work around. 

I will say I was surprised; I'm pretty sure that timeline I posted was more than 20,000 characters, too.  But, whatever.

Internet contact by me will be very sporadic next week for reasons I already mentioned to you. 

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 04, 2013, 01:34:11 AM

Have a good week, man.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 04, 2013, 03:39:50 AM

Chapter 1 
CHAPTER ONE
Earth And Air (part one)

Dr. Harold Johnson, Jr., - Montana, or even Monty, to his friends - was, by four years, senior member of the small expedition, and while normally he did not feel more than half his chronological age of 42, the Brazilian jungle stole vitality like a river leech sucked blood. If Johnson looked carefully, he could even see sweat on the neck of that bronze golem Raven - but only if he looked carefully; Raven's body language betrayed no slightest hint of discomfort.

Carson and Shiela, at least, both had the good grace to be sweating buckets, although if the truth were told, it didn't seem to bother them a whole lot, either. This was Montana's seventh expedition with the Harts; he'd known them since he'd asked Shiela - who at the time was nothing more to him than the prettiest redhead in the room - to dance at a museum fundraiser. She'd smiled and told him to check with her husband, and pointed to an intense looking, broad shouldered blond chap in an obviously seldom-worn suit who was across the room admiring a 12th century coat of arms on one of the walls.

Once all three of them had been introduced, they'd immediately recognized each other's names from professional journals and wound up retiring to a corner table to compare notes on various archaeological digs - and since then, they'd been friends and comrades on over half a dozen expeditions.

On the second one - which had been into the Sahara in search of a mythical 'hidden oasis' said to contain the ruins of an Assyrian military outpost predating the Roman Republic - he had asked them how they dealt so easily with the heat. Carson had just smiled in that intent manner of his, but Shiela had laughed and said "Oh, the desert's in our blood." Carson had nodded at that, and then said something Monty had never forgotten, although he had no idea what it meant - "In our souls, actually."

But this was the jungle, not the desert and apparently, the Harts' genetic (spiritual?) immunity to warm weather did not extend to humid climates. At least, they were sweating as much as he was. Monty supposed it could be from fear; their small group had already confirmed that there were indeed Nazis in these jungles, who were indeed industriously searching for a mythical Lost City of Gold.

And the four of them, of course, were industriously searching for said Nazis. Said Nazis numbered in platoon strength and were armed with pistols, machine guns, grenades, at least one tracked vehicle that Montana was cynically certain had to be a tank, and, worst of all, radios with which to summon air support from the officially neutral Urtanzig airfield 65 miles away.

The good guys (as Monty thought of the four of them, with no cynicism whatsoever), to the best of Monty's knowledge, had exactly one firearm - his own Colt revolver. In addition, he had a bullwhip, the Harts had a crate that apparently weighed much less than it looked like it should, since they each took turns hauling it on their backs with little apparent effort, and Raven had a set of military fatigues festooned with bulging pockets. Monty figured there were probably some sort of weapons in those pockets somewhere, but he doubted Raven could have fit a machine gun in there.

And of course they had the burro, loaded down with steadily dwindling supplies of chocolate, raisins, hard baked trail bread and jerky, along with some basic medical equipment, toilet paper, water purification powder, rope, grappling hooks, machetes, lanterns, lantern oil, a couple of tarps... all the basics. Monty had named the burro Marion in honor of its intractable stubbornness. Fortunately, the mule Marion did not share the human Marion's tendency to make a great deal of noise whenever even momentarily dissatisfied with its lot in life; otherwise, they would have had no hope whatsoever of sneaking up on anything.

So, yes, all in all, fear would be a natural thing for any of them to feel - Montana certainly felt more than a twinge of it fluttering in his own belly - but the other three, at least, gave no more sign of being afraid than they did of being uncomfortable. Montana could only hope that his own poker face was at least as effective.

The situation was, of course, ridiculous. They were here because Hitler believed in an idiotic peasant myth - lost Cities of Gold, for the love of God - and the OSS wanted to make certain that if there was one out there, the Nazis didn't find it first. Unfortunately, the OSS suffered the same chronic manpower shortage as every other wartime organization except, apparently, the goddam Nazi Party, so, in the end, Monty and the Harts had been asked to take a quick run into the Brazilian brush to sort things out. Being idiots, they had agreed, and now, here they were, sweating to death in a South American jungle that was just about dangerous enough without a platoon of armed SS running around in it.

At the last minute - literally; he'd joined them from out of nowhere at the staging area in Rio de Janero - Dr. Kent Raven, Jr. had shoehorned himself on to the mission roster. Monty didn't much mind; Raven's reputation was worldwide and it was good to have such an unexpectedly competent fourth - but the last Monty had heard, Raven and his 'Ferocious Five' (or something like that) had been operating very successfully behind enemy lines in Europe. His sudden presence here was a nagging enigma. Johnson had asked him about it, but Raven's only response had been a dry "Lost cities of gold are a particular interest of mine".

Now, six days into the brush, Monty had seen no trace of any legendary auric metropoli - but twelve hours earlier, they had come across a beaten down swath through the undergrowth that could only have been made by a heavy tracked vehicle. It had made their task much easier, since all they had to do was follow it and feel reasonably sure that eventually, they'd run across the party they were searching for. The most conservative estimates the four of them could come up with, pooling their jungle experience, was that the track had been made between 12 and 24 hours before. They had followed slowly, alert for any sounds of a large party ahead of them, gradually piecing together, from stray bootprints and the amount of German army ration cans they found discarded in neat Teutonic piles, the number and nature of the group they were slowly closing with.

Now, after a day of trudging in the mechanized party's wake, they could all hear the faint sound of a heavy diesel engine coming from some distance ahead. Raven had held up his hand to signal a halt a few hundred yards back - he obviously had the best ears in the party - but a ten minute creep had brought them close enough for all of them to be aware of what was up there.

Monty stood up from where he had been examining the tracks and eased over into the brush where Raven and the Harts were already concealed.

"I don't make it any different from what we've been saying all along," he murmured as he dropped down beside the other three. "Platoon strength at least, Waffen SS from the bootprints and the ration cans – run of the mill German Army mutts don't get those rations. If the track is a personnel carrier, then we may be talking two platoons, but I think it's a King Tiger - probably with some kind of plow on the front, to break trail with. "

Raven's eyes never seemed to move from a disinterested gaze straight ahead; nonetheless, Monty felt he was preternaturally aware of the slightest movement in the brush for several dozen yards around them. "I concur with your assessment, Dr. Johnson," Doc said calmly. "Waffen SS means each man will be armed with an MP43 Sturmgewehr assault rifle and 3 stick grenades, and will have at least 150 rounds of ammunution. Each platoon will have a heavy machine gun, and there will be cannon mounted on the vehicle, whether it's an APC or a King Tiger, as you believe. The SS are elite troops; despite the privations of their current environment, their morale will be high and discipline will be strict. And we cannot know, at this point, whether or not they have metahuman support.  Or a field portable Siegfried unit with them."

Carson Hart frowned; his wife spoke tersely. "Two platoons or one won't matter; we're still outnumbered enough to make a frontal attack suicidal.  And a Siegfried unit won't bother any of us, obviously."

"Wait,"Monty said. "Hold on.  'Siegfried unit'?  I've had a few run ins with Nazis before, but I  never heard of a 'Siegfried unit'."

Carson shook his head.  "Nothing that concerns us, Monty."

Seeing Johnson's eyebrows come together in a scowl, Shiela took pity on him.  "Several years ago the Nazis fielded a metahuman operative codenamed Siegfried.  His power was rather unique -- he could somehow radiate a localized field that shut down all other metahuman powers.  Sort of a 'quantum level zero' field, I suppose... it kept any significant variations from the quantum norm from occurring.  Meaning that everything from the Sea-Lord's natural super strength and flight abilities to the Lamplighter's green lamp, would not function."

Carson took up the tale, in terse whispers.  "Of course, it was just one jamoke, so it really didn't crimp the Allied Justice Society's style too much... and within a couple of months, an Allied operative known as Paladin took Siegfried out.  But turns out, the SS Science Bureau had been studying the ability and had figured out how to duplicate it.  So the Axis has a few stationary installments with big Siegfried field generators, and a few more mobile Siegfried ray cannons.  But, as Shiela said... it won't affect us."

"I've heard of Paladin," Monty said, rubbing his unshaven chin thoughtfully.  "Playboy adventurer sort named Templeton Simonson.  Not much good in the rough, I'm told."

Shiela giggled.  "The playboy adventurer reputation is largely a smoke screen," she said.  "We've met Templeton.  He's very good.  Not a team player, though, and doesn't much like to take orders."

"Who does?" Monty chuckled.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 04, 2013, 03:40:44 AM

WBY Chapter 1 part 2

Doc Raven said, his voice as dry as it always was: "I can add my own piece to the Siegfried narrative, Dr. Johnson.  A year or so ago I clashed with a fellow the Germans were billing as the Aryan version of... well... me, embarrassingly enough.  Kho-Sun, he called  himself.  Said he was a Lord of lost Atlantis sent forward in time to ensure the inevitable triumph of the Atlantean master race... a claim I suspect Sea-Lord would have taken umbrage with."  Doc smiled.  "But he had quite a good mind, for a Nazi.  He was a member of the Science Bureau and he was one of those working on duplicating the Siegfried effect.  I'm afraid that at the resolution of our... disagreement... he and his secret laboratory got rather... er... blown up.  But prior to that I did see a prototype Siegfried ray cannon tested successfully on an Axis metahuman operative named Donar.  They really have them... and they are the reason why so many of our own metahumans stay well clear of Axis territory."

Carson and Shiela were shaking their heads.  "Sorry, Doc," Carson murmured, "but it's not the Siegfried cannons we... I mean, the AJS... is worried about.  It's the Spear of Destiny."

Monty's eyebrows unscrunched.  "The Spear of Destiny?"

Doc Raven looked amused.  "You've heard of it, Doctor?"

Monty shook his head. "Sure. One of my father's favorite fairy tales. According to some apocryphal accounts, a Roman centurion stabbed Christ in the side with a spear, as either an act of mercy - to hurry up his death on the cross - or to torment him, depending on which source material you're reading at the time. Supposedly, that spear had great mystic powers invested in it by its exposure to the blood of the Messiah, or something along those lines."

Carson had been drinking from his canteen; he put it down, wiped his forehead with a bright red handkerchief, and stared flatly at Monty. "You sound skeptical," he said quietly. "I must say that surprises me, coming from the man who kept both the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail itself from falling into Axis hands."

Monty spread his hands. "Well, that was different," he protested. "And how did you find out about either of those?" His eyes narrowed. "Hey, wait a minute... you two don't actually have a higher security clearance than I do, do you?" He stopped and went over in his head exactly how Shiera had first replied to him. "Sonofagun. You do have higher security clearances than I do. How the hell do two museum curators rate higher security clearances than me?"

Shiela smiled. "Montana, if I told you some of the things that we two 'museum curators' have been involved in... Let it suffice to say that it can be a more adventurous profession than someone like, oh, Martin Borden could imagine. But, anyway... the Spear of Destiny is a very powerful mystic artifact, and it's one - one of the few - that has fallen into Hitler's hands. And he and Himmler's Occult Bureau - some very nasty customers - "

"Anson Arcanus, Myron Moulton , a fellow calling himself 'Diabolico', and some scientific/occult whiz kid named Van Dammerung, among others," Carson interjected with a frown.

Shiela gave him a quick smile. "Yes, them. They have used its power to create a sort of 'mental domination zone' over Axis territory that targets beings of mystic power, or beings of superhuman power with special vulnerabilities to the supernatural."

Raven interjected,  "My own sources tell me that the Spear of Destiny story is Nazi disinformation. This whole concept - that nearly all of the most powerful Allied metahumans are vulnerable to some strange mystic mental dominance - has always seemed rather gratuitous to me."

Raven rose up on one elbow and adjusted the buckle on his Sam Browne belt before settling back down again.  "Now, it's not flattering to the Allied metahumans that they prefer to avoid areas of conflict where their super-advantages might be negated... where they might be reduced to the same level as the hundreds of thousands of merely mortal soldiers, who fight this war every day.  But flattering or not, that is the simple truth.  Our most powerful metahumans disdain to engage in a theater where they cannot be certain of maintaining their powers."

Now it was Shiela's turn to shake her head.  “Doctor Raven, I'm not going to say that every super powered member of the AJS was champing at the bit to get out there in the field and suddenly find that, in the middle of some kind of murderous combat with, say, an entire tank battalion, all of a sudden... whoops!  Sorry!  Your superspeed is gone, now die.  Your cosmic control rod suddenly doesn't work -- oh, you're dead.  You and the entire village you were trying to protect.  No, Doctor, I am in no way saying that every super powered member of the AJS, who go into action without any of the training or equipment or weaponry of a normal soldier, and who generally engage much more formidable enemy forces than the average soldier, by themselves, without back up, was really looking forward to suddenly having their powers removed right when they needed them most."

Doc Raven's eyes glinted, perhaps in appreciation for Mrs. Hart's finely honed irony.

"But," she went on, "we... they... were going to do it anyway.  Because, screw it, in the end, we're all trying to do the same job and we're all taking the same risks.  But..."  And here she lowered her voice even further than it already had been, "all of that was before the Spear of Destiny."

She swiped a swatch of sweat soaked hair back from her forehead, and went on, her voice barely audible even a few inches away: “The Spear is rule.  Its power is real.  I've seen its effect on some of the most powerful mystery men currently alive, and believe me, it's terrifying. It doesn't remove metapowers, like Siegfried did.  It simply... possesses metahumans. Any metahuman that draws power from a mystical source, or that has a particular vulnerability to the supernatural... they venture into Axis controlled territory and they are immediately possessed. Taken over by demonic forces. And it's ugly, Doctor. Very ugly.”

Carson nodded. “This is of the very highest classification... but our side found out about the Spear of Destiny the hard way. The AJS was on a mission to end the war by invading Berlin with some of their most powerful members and kidnapping Hitler and the whole High Command. And... they turned. Not the entire group, but the most powerful ones... Futureman. Dr. Sage. The Green Ghost. The Lamplighter.”

Carson went on: “Lamplighter had used his mystic lamp to whip up a sort of giant hand. He was carrying an entire platoon of commandoes... experts in infiltration and other dirty work, real inglorious bastards every one. When the Spear's curse took him over, he just... clenched that hand into a fist.”

Shiela had her eyes closed now. “Sea-Lord wasn't affected. Neither was Nightmaster. Both were piloting their own aircraft. Futureman turned his thermal vision on both crafts. Sea-Lord managed to get out and grab Nightmaster from the falling wreckage of his Nightplane. And w... Falconman and Falcongirl managed to grab Captain Liberty and his kid partner Lucky. And they all got the hell out of dodge, because there was no way they could face up to that kind of power. If the Green Ghost hadn't managed to throw off the Nazi possession, just for a moment, and mystically warp himself, Futureman, the Lamplighter and Dr. Sage back to England... the war would be over now.” She paused.  “Lamplighter still has nightmares about closing that giant hand on all those good men. Hell, I... I'm sure Falcongirl, at least, does too.”

“They all do,” Carson said quietly. “Listen, Raven... The fact is, evil sorcery exists, it works, and the Nazis are using it every day. But the idea of real black magic scares the hell out of everyone - so Churchill and Roosevelt say 'oh, it's not magic, it's a secret Nazi super weapon' - and that makes it okay. If it's technological, we can deal with it."

Monty closed one eye and stroked his upper lip thoughtfully.   "But," he said, "Sea-Lord, and the Human Fireball, and Captain Liberty. And those Brits in the Crusaders - the Flying Knight, and Jolly Roger, and that little fella Mighty Mite... they're immune?"

Carson nodded. "Apparently. But we found that out the hard way... they were all on missions in Axis territory when the Spear's curse went up, and weren't effected. But you can see how FDR and Churchill aren't anxious to send any metahumans into Axis territory who haven't been exposed... because, honestly, who can tell who might draw power from an occult source, or have a special vulnerability to the occult? There's no patch test for it."

Monty glared at Carson. "I don't care what your security clearance is," he'd said. "How can you possibly know something like that?"

Carson and Shiela shared another odd look. Then Shiera looked up and said, "Oh... little birds tell us." Carson obviously suppressed a smirk as she said it.

"Fascinating," Raven intoned. "I believe you honestly believe what you're saying."

Carson looked even angrier than before; before he could reply, Shiela put a hand on his shoulder again.

Raven looked around at the three of them for a long silent moment, and then went on. "To me, there is one compelling reason to refuse to accept this 'Spear of Destiny' story, above and beyond the fact that I myself witnessed Koh-sun's laboratory, and saw a Siegfried projector in action. To wit," he had said evenly, "the Siegfried effect, whatever else it may be, is scientific.  It can be studied.  It can be reproduced.  It does not involve mysticism or the supernatural."

He stood up, and once again Monty was slightly startled to realize just how huge the man actually was. His body was so perfectly proportioned that it was only when seeing him suddenly resume his full stature after being seated or crouched that one truly grasped just how gargantuan he was.

On reaching his feet, Doc Raven continued calmly, "I have seen many strange things in my time, Dr. Johnson... Professor Hart, Mrs. Hart. And many, many times I have encountered what was supposed, by others, to be the 'supernatural'. And in all that time and on all those occasions, I have never yet seen anything that did not, upon investigation, turn out to have a natural, reasonable, scientific explanation."

"The supernatural," Raven stated firmly, as he effortlessly shouldered a backpack that probably weighed as much as Shiela Hart, "is a confidence game perpetrated on the gullible by the fraudulent, generally for nefarious purposes." He had paused and looked down at the three of them, still sitting on the leafmold covered jungle floor. "If you are attempting to explain to Dr. Johnson, as I think you may be, that the reason Futureman or the Lamplighter or the Blur could not be dispatched to quickly accomplish this surveillance is that they might fall under the mystical influence of Hitler's Spear of Destiny - well. We are Americans, and I respect your right to believe as you like. However, your beliefs do not make any of this superstitious nonsense any more true."

The three of them glanced at each other ruefully, and while Monty had no idea what the Halls were each thinking, he himself was recalling a very similar speech he had once given to Martin Borden, just before setting out to find the Ark of the Covenant - something about not believing in a lot of mumbo jumbo, as best he recalled. It was petty, but still, Monty felt heartened to know that Raven, for all his reputation and undeniable competence, could be wrong... and totally, hugely wrong at that.

The three of them got to their feet and shouldered their own packs. As they did so, Monty shook his head and turned to Raven. "Look, Doc," he'd said, "As you say, we're all Americans and you can believe whatever you want - but if you want to keep believing there's no such thing as the boogeyman, you're hanging around with the wrong mob. We've all seen stuff that would set your hair on end - even with a crewcut."

Shiela and Carson both smiled. Then Carson had said, "Well, perhaps Doc's predispositions will keep us from encountering anything too out of the ordinary on this trip. Gods know that Shiela and I, at least, could use a break."

Doc raised one eyebrow, then smiled; a mere twitch of his lips, but there nonetheless. "As a scientist, I suppose I should try to keep an open mind," he said. "And I certainly don't want to sow any discord before we go into action together. Please accept my apologies if I seemed overly zealous or biased."

Then he gestured towards the jungle, in the general direction they had been travelling. "Evening has fallen during our so-enjoyable debate, colleagues. Shall we see what we can do to foil the dastardly schemes of the Hun?"

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 11, 2013, 01:42:04 AM

Okay, I feel bad about not replying yet, but this week has been beyond crazy, with a million things requiring immediate attention popping up, and what very little time I'm not running around putting out (or lighting, depending) fires, with all the stress of events wearing at me, I'm having trouble working up the energy to give this story the kind of involved comment it deserves.

Preliminary short version: I'm loving it so far.  Details to follow as soon as I can manage.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: JarlWolf on August 11, 2013, 01:47:24 AM

I have been reading this, I haven't found anything proper to reply with. I need to thoroughly read an entire story before I can give a proper opinion on it.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 11, 2013, 05:47:45 PM

Ess no problema.  I'm just back from vacation myself, and still have unpacking to do.

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 11, 2013, 05:53:30 PM

:D

How was vacation?

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 11, 2013, 06:07:59 PM

My vacation was such a conflicting morass of sensation and emotion that I would need to write a novel about it.  Now I'm back and dealing with other stresses, like my very first piece of [poop] car, which is an experience most of us po' folk go through much earlier in life than I am going through it.  Plus unpacking.  Plus work tomorrow.  Which could be worse, I could have come back and had to go to work the very next day. 

But, while I'm grateful and pleased that I do not have to get up at 4:30 AM tomorrow to catch a bus at 5:30 am to get me to work at 6:50 a.m. to start my shift at 8 a.m., which I've been doing for the last 18 months since I started this job... tomorrow I will get up, go out back, climb into my piece of [poop] $1900 car and drive myself to work at the other end of this sprawling [poop] heap of a city, for the very first time.  After driving this car home from the mechanic an hour ago, which was the first time I've driven a car in months.

So, I'm stressed about that, too.

At least I have Tuesday off, if I survive to see it.   And under the same presumption, I get to run my RPG this Sunday. 

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Buster's Uncle on August 11, 2013, 06:13:37 PM

Yeah, I hear you; life, alas, carries (too much) suffering and annoyance as the price of doing business.  [shrugs]

If the POS actually RUNS reliably, I'm confident that this will save you a lot of your finite time, likely save you piles of money in the long run, and disperse much more stress and annoyance than it brings.  IF it's reliable, which is admittedly a pretty big if.  So a sincere good luck with that. I think it's the smart play. ;b;

Title: Re: WILD BLUE YONDER
Post by: Doc Nebula on August 12, 2013, 11:39:08 AM

The POS was in our price range, and being sold by a friend who desperately needed the money.  She told us she hadn't driven it very much and seemed unable to answer most questions about it, even simple things like "How do we get to the windshield wipers to turn on?"

She was up front about there being some issue where she had to use a wire on the battery to get the engine fan to run.  But we took a mechanic with us to see the car and he told us he could fix that, no problem.

Turns out the fix was for him to install a little switch down under the steering wheel.  I start the car and flick the switch, which starts up the fan. When I turn off the car, I flick the switch again to turn off the fan.

He says the problem is a short in the wiring going to the fan, and to fix it so it runs the way it's supposed to would be a $500 repair  Which nobody knew or could have warned us about when we bought this thing. 

So now I have a car where, if I forget to flip this switch when I start it up, I'll burn out the engine.  If I forget to flip the switch when I shut the car down, I'll drain the battery.  No pressure.  And to get it fixed properly will cost half a grand. 

Plus, I'm not sure at this point how to turn the windshield wipers on.

Also, the gas tank is on the passenger side, whereas every other vehicle I've ever fueled, it was on the driver's side.

Anyway, I'm just nervous about this whole thing. 

So here's the prologue to the story this thread is supposed to be about:


Prologue
Signs And Portents

The tower was known as Wulfram, and was commonly believed to have been originally erected by the Romans, in the second or third centuries A.D. That belief was erroneous, although a decade later, in the autumn of 1955, carbon 14 testing would seem to confirm it.

In point of fact, the long ago thaumaturge who had overseen the tower's construction had placed spells of preservation on the stones designed to slow the tower's natural rate of decay by a factor of one hundred. The tower was not, as believed, nearly 2,000 years of age; in actual fact, it was closer to 200 millenia since its first foundation blocks had been laid side by side.

The original thaumaturge himself, the Empress whose patronage he enjoyed, the Empire that Empress had somewhat lackadaisically ruled, and the very peoples who comprised that Empire had all long since lapsed back into forgotten dust, and those few surviving ruins of that Empire not scattered about the floors of various oceans were not known for what they were... for the simple reason that Greco-Roman architecture had closely aped Atlantaean.

And so, Wulfram was falsely thought to have been raised by Romans, although it should be noted that the unmortal wizard currently residing there knew nothing of any of this, and would not have cared if he had.

The pentacle was drawn, as prescribed, in the menstrual blood of a human virgin - not at all easy to find in Germany late in the year these absurd so-called Christians labelled as 1944. The Jewish girls, of course, had all been futtered to a fare-thee-well, and as for the little blond frauleins - well, there was a saying about rape and the willing. Had been, actually, since the time of the Druids.

The ageless sorceror sniggered to himself as he recalled just what young German girls were willing to do for a man in uniform these days. His SS trousers might be borrowed, but the equipment inside was all his... and still functioned more than adequately after three thousand years, oh yes.

But concentrate, concentrate... when one returned to physical existence after five millenia of unchosen exile to a nether dimension, physical sensation was very distracting... and being easily distracted was an unwise trait in a wizard, oh yes.

The ageless sorcerer reached with blood-daubed fingers into a pouch slung from his broad black leather belt and brought out a shining handful of finely ground powder. Methodically, then, he sprinkled the silver nitrate in the carefully wrought lines of blood. The blood itself, properly shaped, would confine the demon and its magics, but many sorcerers overlooked psionics, which was another matter entirely, and required other materials.

All done then? The ageless sorceror glared around the subterranean chamber one more time, seeking aught amiss. The floor was frost-heaved pavingstones, laid down by the bloody Romans, doubtless; it had that look of old mathematics to it, in the way the identical squares all fit in once-exact symmetry.

The walls were honest brick, equally ancient, with gnarly roots protruding from rotted mortar. The ceiling was rock, cut crosswise by torch-blackened oak beams, supported by near-petrified wooden pillars reaching down to the stone floor at canted angles. The pentacle was drawn in the floor's central clear space. Intact skulls, carefully gathered by strutting Hitler Youth brats from disemboweled Jewish cemeteries, stood sentry at each cardinal compass point, the swastikas he'd carved on their foreheads glowing dimly in the smoky candlelight. All was ready, oh yes.

One was tempted, after enough time, to begin to be careless, to take things for granted, to allow habit and rote repetition to dull one's faculties - in short, to cease to pay attention. He'd performed this very same ceremony twice already tonight; Asphaetock Rast and Brimanus Ghath had both verified his information. But three was a mystic number, and moreover, Himmler, that cold prissy accountant, would want three confirmations before he'd authorize a bare pfennig to the project, so the pentacle must be drawn yet again, and the preparations must once more be gone through step by painstaking step, and now...

The chant of summoning came easily to him, of course, although he forced himself with unflinching discipline to pay the most exquisite attention to each and every syllable. Then came the timeless pause, when, even as many times as he had done this, he could not help but worry that something had gone wrong. Millions of so called mages over thousands of years had performed these or similar rites and received no response at all - which was, if truth be told, greatly preferable to receiving many of the possible responses, but still... when the day came that the Neverborn ignored his summonses, he might as well cut his own heart out beneath the nearest standing stone...

With a rattling bang and a bellowing roar, a tower of brilliant blue flame appeared at the center of his pentacle and hovered there, hissing. The sorceror kept silent; he knew the demon - which styled itself Zarkanish, Lord of the Blue Flame, or something equally adolescent - was carefully inspecting the pentacle for flaws, just as he was very aware that he himself was betting his unending life that there were none to be found.

"I was busy," Zarkanish said, finally, in a voice like a crackling bonfire.

"That's life in hell," the ageless sorceror cackled. "I doubt whoever you were doing will go very far in your absence."

"You're ignorant," the column of azure fire spat. "This one had a particularly musical quality to its screams, and its spiritual orifi were pleasantly unpolluted. Helpenis will have made off with it by now, or Sodomius..."

The sorceror didn't bother to note those names; he'd done business with both in the past. "Well, the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you're back home again with your little diversions," he said briskly. "Here, now," he held up a black and white photograph showing a famous American bandleader playing a trombone, "tell me what you know of this."

A column of blue flame does not have expressions that most humans would be capable of interpreting, but the sorceror carefully noted the various patterns rippling across the demon's surface. Interest - even greed. "It is a crude image," the demon sputtered slowly. "Without substance... but it holds some of the essence of the true object. Very well. The form is unfamiliar to me, but nonetheless, I discern that it is a likeness of the current visage of Yodiab, the Horn of Power, forged by Michael at the Great Throne's command, given in to the charge of Gabriel, lost to Earth in the Dawn Times..."

"Used by Joshua at the battle of Jericho, yes, yes, yes," the sorceror interrupted. "Very well." He began the chant of release; was somewhat surprised when the demon interrupted him.

"Wait," the Lord of the Blue Flame cried out, "I would have further speech with thee, o mortal mage."

The sorceror's eyes narrowed. "Without specific malice, nor secret ploy, nor vicious strategem, sworn by thy Creator Adonai and the true name thou wert never born to?"

The demon quickly repeated the ancient oath, in hisses and sputters, stumbling only slightly at one of the Great Names in such context.

"Speak, then," the sorceror said, reassured.

"Twas I who stole Yodiab from Gabriel in the War of Dawn," the Neverborn spat. The sorceror made no reply; demons, of course, were always making ridiculous claims. "I lost it in a capricious gamble to the Renegade in a time long gone, and I greatly wish to recover it."

The sorcerer smoothed a hand over his raspy face. "This does not coincide with my desires," he replied. "Those I currently deal with wish to use the Horn of Power against their enemies, and will not happily surrender it to imps of dubious lineage like yourself."

The pillar of fire whirled furiously. "I hear your mother's spirit has been offered for auction by Asydsemyn, o necromancer," it hissed viciously. "Perhaps I will trade something for a few millenia of her time."

The ageless sorceror snorted. "You won't enjoy it, she never was good for much," he replied earnestly. "But then, she has been dead for three thousand years; perhaps she's learned something by now."

The demon shuddered with rage; then the fires of its person visibly calmed. "I will lend you some power to aid your undertaking," it roared finally. "In return, you will deed the Horn to me, once you and those mortals you serve need it no further."

The sorceror's visage darkened. "I do not serve," he said loftily. "These people pay me for my abilities but in truth, they are far from my equals. And we will need the Horn for a lengthy period, I don't doubt."

"Mortal time?" the demon hissed scornfully. "Even you, who count yourself ancient in that measuring, have barely begun to ripen by the measures of the Neverborn. The Horn will come to my hand soon enough."

At the top of the worn stone stairway leading up out of the tower's cellars, the wizard pounded heavily on the iron-reinforced wooden door. There was a muted clatter of wood on stone - that would be the guard's stool falling to the floor as he scrambled to his feet - and then, the rasping scrape of a heavy iron bolt being drawn back from on the other side of the door. The ponderous slab of ancient, smoke-stained oak swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, and the SS guard on the other side snapped a razor-perfect military salute to the sorceror as he walked out into the hall.

The wizard could not help but smirk at that. The guard, and his entire unit, had all done concentration camp duty prior to this assignment. All considered themselves to be hard, tough ubermenschen; elite soldiers, capable of dealing with anything or anyone... and all of them, to a man, had treated him with thinly veiled contempt when they had first seen him in his 'honorary' SS uniform with its equally 'honorary' obersturmfuhrer rank insignia.

Although they had saluted him, they had punctiliously avoided military salutes, using the extended arm salute of the Nazi party instead.

Over his first few days he had cycled all of them through the downstairs chamber two at a time, 'standing guard' over the various sacrifices and summonses he had performed to properly consecrate the tower and its environs to his usages. Their contempt had long since been replaced by more gratifying responses.

Now the sorceror studiously ignored the salute, contemptuously turning his back on this tall, broad-shouldered specimen of Aryan masculinity.

"Send a girl up to my quarters," he said casually as he strode away. "One of the younger ones, Fritz; you know what I like."

The guard's name was doubtless not Fritz - none of the SS guards names were Fritz, which was why the wizard always called them that. He was sure it annoyed them, just as it would annoy this current one to have to hike down to the small mountainside hamlet two or three miles away and get him a girl, no older than 13, for his use tonight. But they were very careful not to display that annoyance in any way, oh yes.

"Jawohl, herr oberst," the guard replied crisply, closing the door behind the wizard and throwing its bolt efficiently enough to keep his hands from trembling overmuch. At least the hellish fellow hadn't asked him to bring the girl down to the cellar, as Olaf had been ordered to do that morning. The guard had done many things to people - boys and girls, men and women - but those had been Jews and other subhumans, enemies of the state... and even at his most drunkenly creative, the guard had never imagined doing to someone what Olaf had described their current commander doing with the little blond madchen that morning.

Another young girl for tonight... but she wouldn't have to be a virgin, which would make it much easier. And tomorrow, when the fiendish weiskopf was done with her, the guard would take the girl back to the barracks for a while. She'd probably welcome the embraces of a few dozen normal men, however rough, after spending the night with the magus.

Despite such occasional fringe benefits, though, the soldier thought, he would never be more relieved than when this assignment was finally over. And if he lived to be a thousand, he never wanted to lay eyes on Herr Myron Moulton again...