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SG:The Tribe of Behn #1 - "In The Beginning"

The Tribe of Behn, and all characters within are Trademarked under the
name of Christopher Angelini. All resemblance to the living is usually
unintentional. All resemblance to the dead is usually intentional. These
characters (although not their historical counterparts) are not to be
used without the author's permission. Contact with the author can be had
at email: cangelin@uoguelph.ca

***WARNING:This episode contains graphic literary references. Those who
have weak stomachs for such things, you are wise to skip to episode 2,
which has fewer literary references and lots more funny stuff. There is a
short summary of the characters involved at the end of the episode. You
have been warned***

 Late night, in Windsor, Canada. The night is not cut by sirens or
screams. But every now and again, sounds punctuate the darkness. People
move about the night comfortably, but with some fear...a very justified
fear. The evil that men do is not overt, but the rot lies below the
surface. Erie street is silent tonight...and dark, lit only by flickering
lamps and the occasional discarded cigarette butt. Suddenly, the silence
is broken...
    "too high!", yelled the woman as she suddenly...existed. She didn't
suddenly pop, appear, aport or decloak. Between the seconds she and six
others suddenly were.
     The speaking woman looked around. Confusion crossed her brow. "Does
anyone know where we are?"
     One of the others, a short man in his thirties looked around, also
confused. "A better question, madam, would be: 'Who are we?', and more to
the point, 'Who are you?'"
     The rest began to murmur assent. The woman spoke again. "I can't
remember anything! Can anyone else?"
   The consensus was negative. Yet another of the group spoke. "Do we
have amnesia or something?"
    The woman shook her head. "No. No I don't think so. It feels
like...Damn! This is so annoying! Its like I've got tones of information
in my brain, but no history!"
    There was a general milling about, as other began to investigate this
phenomenon. "Hey! I can remember who won last year's Major League
playoffs!" "Really?" "Yeah, but I hate sports!" "Is our premiere really a
socialist who acts like a conservative and makes cuts like a monster
movie madman?" "Yep." "Damn! I was hoping that wasn't true!"
     Eventually the group tired of experimenting with their memories, and
began to take stock. "Where are we?", stated the woman. "We're on a
street.", stated the short man matter-of-factly. "I know that! Does
anyone know where this street is?" "In a city?" "Idiots. I'm with
Idiots!" "Hey, that rings a bell! I think you've called me an idiot before!"
     Rubbing her temples, the woman sat on a bench. She was just getting
comfortable, when a thought suddenly struck her. "Milton."
     One of the men looked from a jewellery store window to her. "Yes?
Good lord! That's my name! I hadn't known it before!"
    The man in question was tall, in his late 40s, and had greying hair.
He wore, like the rest, a strange body-tight jumpsuit, purpose unknown.
     "Yes Milton. That rings a very distinct bell. But...I have a
different name....its on the tip of my tongue....no. I've lost it. Call
me Milton for now, Aphra." Milton suddenly looked surprised. "Aphra!
That's your name!"
     The woman looked shocked. "Yes! But...it seems right and archaic at
the same time!"
  "Well, wait until you hear your last name!"
  "What is it?"
  "Behn!"
   The woman began to laugh. "You mean, like the playwright?"
  "I know its weird, but that's it!"
  The others, began staring at each other. After a moment, Aphra pointed
at a younger man. "Dickens!"
  The man looked at her in wonder. "Yes?...Oh no! I'm Dickens, Charles
Dickens!" And turning to the other woman, stated. "You'll love this one!"
  She looked at Charles in panic. "Quick, who am I?"
  "You're Elizabeth Gaskell!"
  "No!"
  One of the unnamed men suddenly laughed, and turned to another. "I
don't wish to alarm you my good fellow, but you are...Della Crusca!"
  "Say you're joking!"
  "I am...just a bit of wit. You are in fact Edmund. Edmund Spenser."
  "Thanks Ben."
  "What?", asked Aphra, turning around.
  "No. This guy. His name's Ben. Ben Jonson."
  "The steroid abuser?"
  "No, the playwright you dork!"
  They all looked at the last, unidentified man. "Just who are you?",
asked Spenser.
  "I don't know. I can't remember much. Let me search my memories. I have
memories of...Scotland. And London. But not as distinctive as London. And
I remember...Watson?"
  "Maybe you're Bell?", suggested Dickens.
  "Use your head!", suggested the unknown man, "So far, you've all been
named for people in the literary field. There is no fixed time, you are
all anachronistic, often with each other. Therefore, I am forced to
conclude, that I am a famous literary writer of unknown time, but who's
origins lie in Scotland."
  "Wait a moment chap.", said Johnson. "You've triggered a memory. That
pedantic logic...it can only belong to Arthur. Arthur Conan Doyle."
  "I suppose we've all taken on aspects of our characters.", suggested
Milton.
  "Think for a moment.", said Doyle. "We cannot be who we claim to be. I,
for instance, have very clear memories of hansoms and horses, and
gentlemen...yet I also recall the cola machine!"
  "Well...whoever we are, we need to do something.", mentioned Milton.
  "What's that?", asked Gaskell.
  "Get the hell (tm) out of here!", shouted Milton.
   At his utterance, there was a low rumble. A discordant note was rung
on a brass gong - a death knell. A wide crack opened in space...and
strange, brimstone smelling creatures came wafting out.
  "Whew what a stench!", yelled Dickens.
  "Heaven help us!", shouted Milton.
  Predictably, there was a sound on high. A trumpet blew a clear note,
and a brilliant aura formed! Angelic creatures winged their ways out of
the aura. Like the demons, they were still, facing Milton.
  "Do we have to remember names for these guys too?", asked Gaskell.
***
  Still on the park bench...
  "Okay. So we've figured out that you conjured those things up Milton.",
stated Behn. Unconsciously, she had been assuming more and more authority
with the group, and the other 'authors' seemed to take this as natural.
All except for Jonson.
  "Yes.", remarked Gaskell. "I remember something now. He's always
claimed to be able to summon creatures from a Pseudo-heaven, and a
Pseudo-Hell (pseudo-tm)."
  "I didn't really like it when I brought out the demons. I don't think
I'll be doing it again any time soon."
  Doyle stood up. "Shall we see if we can summon our own creations?" He
concentrated. His face turned purple. He let out his breath. "If at first
you don't succeed...Holmes!" Nothing. "Watson!" Nothing. "Damn!"
  "Maybe Milton's the only one who can do that?", stated Spenser.
  "Hmm...perhaps it has to do with what we have written. As I recall,
Milton wrote about the forces of Heaven and the forces of Hell (tm). Thus
he summons them. But not any of the central characters: Lucifer, Adam,
Eve, etc. Perhaps we can do things related to our characters..."
  Behn smiled. "Like deduce?"
  "Precisely...oh, I see." Doyle turned beet red.
  "Mmm...Milton and Doyle wrote about extraordinary beings. I wonder if
we have the abilities of ordinary beings?"
  Suddenly, the rain began to fall. Not much, but it was a cold rain.
  "I really wish I had an umbrella."
  Suddenly, Aphra was holding one.
  Gaskell winked at Aphra. "Creator of Worlds?"
  "Oh."
  "You know", began Dickens, "we are in real trouble. I don't have any
money, we don't have anywhere to go, no identification, nothing. And its
raining. Does anyone have the power to pull deeds out of thin air?"
  There was a slight trembling, and a few cracks appeared in the
pavement. A mugger lurking nearby, seeing seven prats without guns,
suddenly ran off as cracks opened at his feet.
     "What's happening?", yelled Gaskell.
     "I think I'm doing it!", yelled Behn. "You-you-want-t-t-t-e-d a
place to l-l-live...I think I've done it!"
     Behn gestured, and a small section of pavement moved aside. A gothic
spiral staircase...spiralled...down into the darkness. A few bats flew up
from the depths, and totally failed to inspire any origins. The group
mutely walked down the staircase. As the pavement moved back into place,
a single voice was heard in the darkness.
"I'm afraid of the dark."
***
     The group stood in their new sanctum sanctorum, which was a strange
blend of the modern and the anachronistic. There was a large cave, lit by
gas lamps. A bright chandelier hung overhead, spreading even more light.
Victorian writing tables and 17th century writing equipment was scattered
everywhere. Several tunnels ran off to what could only be sleeping areas
and kitchens.
  "I guess I'll add stuff when we need it.", stated Behn. "So, now that
we've got a place to hang our bonnets, let's find out what the rest of us
can do." There was a slight rumbling. "We've got a gym now."
  "Can you do that with gold?", asked Doyle. Aphra shot him a wry look,
and led the group into their new gymnasium.
   "This is your show, Doyle.", stated Aphra. "I figure you're the best
one to point the others in the right direction. Assuming our assumption
about your ability is correct."
     Doyle smiled slightly. "Okay, let's run through these characters.
Chuck, let's see. Now, you wrote about a lot of children. Are you able to
change your age?"
     Dickens looked stricken. "Lord, I hope not!"
     "All right, let's focus on how we found out about our abilities.
They seem to respond to desires. Focus some desires on the rest of us."
     Dickens concentrated. He frowned. He grimaced. He emitted weird
noised like someone who was frantically trying to make noises with his
armpits(1).
     "This is ridiculous! Why are we wasting time on this foolishness?",
bellowed Jonson directly at Doyle. Suddenly, the focused totality of his
arrogance gathered in that one statement...and blew the supposed author
of Holmes across the cavern!
    "I suppose...we've...figured out...your...ability...Ben..."
     "Why did you do that?", asked Chuck, confused. "He was just trying
to help!"
     "You're right. I'm very sorry for what I did. I feel as giddy as a
schoolboy, as...damnation man! Dare you ever do that again, and I'll slit
your gizzard!"
     From the floor, the still unmoving Doyle commented.
"Okay...Charles...you seem...to have...a 'Be Glad'...ability"
     "Umm..guys?"
    "Yes...Edmund?"
    "I've been taking Arthur's suggestion, and um, I think I've figured
out mine."
    "What...is..it?"
    "Um..well, that is, I can...you see, well watch!"
    Just then, the author spread his arms wide, and was surrounded by a
bright light. The light parted, to reveal a pastoral scene.
    "I've always, um, wanted to go to, well, Arcadia. And, like, there it
is!"
    The group gazed upon it. Beyond the light there was a large stone
Tor, and pixies danced around it. Edmund stepped in, and it was gone!
    "Did we lose him?", asked Gaskell.
    Then, there was a flash of light from the other side of the room, and
Spenser stepped out again. "Wow!" was his only comment.
     "So, what can I do?", asked Gaskell. "I just can't figure it out!"
     "Hmm...I think...I have...an idea....I've been watching you...touch
the wall..."
     Gaskell did as she was bid.
     "Wow, I can feel rock. Wild."
     "No...push...harder..."
     Gaskell pushed, and was rewarded with the sight of her hand passing
through the rock!
     "Holy...but I never wrote anything about people moving through walls!"
     "Maybe the author is making some obscure literary reference?",
suggested Dickens.
     "I don't know. I guess this is okay. I just don't understand it!"
     "But what do we do not?", asked Spenser nervously.
     "I don't know.", said Behn. "Figure out what's going on? Who we are?
What's up with these powers? I guess we'll have to take things one step
at a time."
***
     Epilogue (actually a teaser, but who's counting)?
  In the depths of space, a flat cruiser sped through space. It emitted
no communication beam, no sensor sweeps. Eventually, it reached the
planet of Gonnar. Silently, methodically, atmospheric-reentry suited
individuals dropped down to the planet, suits protecting them from
detection from the surface, as the cruiser sped off. Years later, it
would return. And below it would be a world captured...not from attack,
but from infiltration...geared to producing more cruisers and beings
dedicated to infiltrating other worlds. Who are they? You'll have to wait
to find out....

A Quick Cover-My-Posterior Note: If I spelled any of the author's names
wrong, or the capsule descriptions below wrong, or I stepped on anybody's
toes continuity-wise, please write and tell me. In the nicest possible
tones. A candy-gram would be nice.

Short Summary Of Authors
-Aphra Behn: 17th Century Playwright, worked her fingers to the bone and
never gave up her integrity. Her strength in the face of  hardship is to
be admired.
-John Milton: Author of Paradise Lost
-Charles Dickens: 19th century writer. Come on, everyone's heard about him!
-Elizabeth Gaskell: 19th century writer. Works attempted to educate the
upper classes about the conditions of the lower classes.
-Edmund Spenser: Author of the Faerie Queen, devoted to examining the
public virtues
-Ben Jonson (is that how you spell it? If I'm wrong, please let me know):
Playwright who was known for his arrogance and his use of the Wits vs the
Fools in his plays.
-Arthur Conan Doyle: 19th Century writer. He wrote Sherlock Holmes.
Everyone knows Sherlock. Doyle wrote his first few stories, set in
London, without even having seen the place
-Della Crusca (honourable mention, I almost included him): A really
horrible romantic poet. His style is referred to as Posey. As was the
style of his little circle: the Della Cruscans.

(1) Thanks to Scott for this quotable quote...