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All characters are property of their respective authors, and this story is
copyrighted 1993 by Dave Van Domelen.  Permission is granted for the
distribution of this story via SUPERGUY and for archival, but all other
rights, including repost, are reserved to the author(s).

This story was written by Dave Van Domelen,
dvandom@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu.  It is to him that all praise,
death-threats, invitations to join Superguy, etc. should be directed.



Constellation #16 - "Bad Forms - Bottom or Deep Sheet" - copyright 1993
          by Dave Van Domelen for Coherent Comics UnInc.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

     In the little-known and badly propagated (in fact, it only existed on one
machine) alt.fan.PAD, a young man sat comfortably on his recliner.  He sat with
the mein of an adult, although he looked maybe ten years old, give or take a
few.  He was listening on headphones to a copy of Clannad's _Pastpresent_ and
humming along.
     Eventually, he got a bit hungry and decided to order out for pizza.
Digging in the cushions behind him, he pulled out the cellular phone and
flipped it open.  Giving it a glance, the smiled as it autodialed Pagliai's
Pizza.  Even if there was no one to show off for, he enjoyed the off bit of the
Art.
     The connection was made.
     "Hello, Pagliai's Pizza.  May I have your...."
     "Yeah, I'd like two original Ronzas, hold the onions, for pickup?"
     "Er, may I have your Italian Food Consumption Health Waiver Registration
Number?"
     The young man swore and snapped the phone closed.  Someone got at a
Universal Office again, and this time they'd managed to infiltrate other
PluRealities with it.  He leaned over and scooped the remote for the TV off the
shag carpeting and clicked on the set.
     As he flipped through channels, he gestured with one hand and a steaming
Ronza [ed. note: like a Calzone, but baked to a crisp shell instead of being
fried or whatnot] appeared.  At least his private pocket news.group was safe
for now.
     Finally he got to the channel he wanted.  On the screen was Sig.Lad,
skulking about the Pocket Bureaucracy he was trapped in.  "Crud.  My champion
let himself get boxed into a corner.  I guess I'll have to go give him a hand
or something.  Now where did I toss that other Air Jameel...?"

               *              *              *              *

     Unaware that he was the subject of a rather odd cable program, Sig.Lad
continued to wend his way around the hallways of the Pocket Bureaucracy.  Right
now he was trying to home in on the sound he'd heard, a sort of whining then an
explosion.  Ten to one it was a fellow LNHer being destructive.  He considered
trying a form better suited to investigation, like maybe Sig.lock Holmes, but
decided stealth was more important.
     Ah, scorch marks!  He didn't need powers to tell him this was a clue.
     A door was blown out into the hallway, reduced to splinters and then
flashfried by some sort of electrical arc.  Looking into the room, he saw
pretty massive devastation.  Desks and computer terminals scattered at the
outer walls, lights blown out...general chaos.
     Just then a terminal gave up the ghost and its screen popped, startling
Sig.Lad.  He hoped nothing important had been on it.  Well, important to him,
anyway.
     Who could have caused this?  Particle Man tended not to cause major
damage, EDM and Lite didn't have that kind of power, and Constellation tended
not to leave this much behind.  Must have been Anarky's Claymore.  Damn.  The
Office must have been ready for him after last time, and had something waiting
for him.  Sig.Lad cursed himself for bringing Anarky here against his will.
     "Oh, Sig.Lad...finally, a living being."
     Sig.Lad turned to face the far door.  It was Kid Anarky, looking a little
bedraggled, but otherwise whole.  "What happened here?"
     "They tried to memo me out of existence.  I think I blew up alot of stuff.
I've been wandering about for a few minutes, but kept hitting dead ends.
People here seem to keep avoiding me, except for that one memo bit."
     "There are no people.  Just mannequins.  I wonder why they'd avoid you?
Maybe it has something to do with why Tsar Chasm doesn't like you.  Any idea
where the others are?"
     POP
     "Whoa!  Hey, Consty.  Where were you?"
     "Around.  This office thing has infected other universes, guys.  I just
went to one that looks like a version of my home universe, one where someone
destroyed the world a few years ago.  Anyway, I was accosted by a robot
demanding I show permits to exist in an 'officially destroyed' world.  This is
crazy, man!  And it gets weirder...I didn't go sidewaysout to get here.  I just
sort of got...pulled.  Dot says it smelled like magic."
     Sig.Lad cocked his head.  "Dvandom Stranger kibitzing again?"
     ++No, he smells different.  I know him, and this wasn't the Stranger.  It
was some...older power.++
     "In any case, someone's helping us get together, either to help us, or to
herd us to slaughter," noted Kid Anarky.
     "Whee-ouw...what happened here?" asked Particle Man as he came in.
     "I happened.  How'd you find us?" asked Kid Anarky.
     "Well, Blue said he could sense Dot and we started homing in on her."
     Constellation frowned.  "How long ago?"
     "Oh, about ten minutes I'd guess."
     "Another mysterious push...Particle Man, we only just got here.  You
couldn't have been homing in on us."
     "Well, what then?"
     "Me."
     Everyone turned to see a young man, dressed in a Cerebus/Hepcats Jam
T-shirt, Air Jameel sneakers, ripped jeans and a "Soulsearchers and Company"
baseball cap standing in front of them.

               *              *              *              *

     Something was very wrong.  Every time Acton Lord tried to access the
Pocket Bureaucracy to check on his guests, he only got past the login screen
before being booted off unceremoniously.  He bent his will to the Office, but
it was soon apparent the Office was not the cause of the trouble.
Unfortunately, he had chosen to exclude Netlurker from this project...the help
of that mercenary consultant would have been invaluable right now.  He finally
got in via a VAX account, but the screen output was hashed up and most of his
commands didn't work.  He was able to determine that none of them had left the
Pocket Bureaucracy, but not where they were.  Still, as long as they were
there, they really couldn't do much to him.
     But he must work quickly.  He was so tired from the long days of working
in the Office.  If he'd had a mirror, he would have been appalled at his sallow
appearance, the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks.  The Office was feeding on him,
and it was taking its toll.  But he knew he had to complete one more task and
the endgame would be ready, and he could release Sig.Lad for the Final Battle
before assuming his place as the power behind the throne of all reality.

               *              *              *              *

     Acton Lord checked the readings.  The GIF had perhaps a few hours of
energy left in it, enough to finish the preparations...he hoped.  He felt a
twinge of guilt at dooming a copy of himself to certain and painful death, but
what's the point of having duplicates if you don't use them to save yourself
risk and energy?
     Acton Lord now knew how flawed his quest for the Source Code had been.  In
seeking ultimate power, he was doomed from the start.  He sighed...for all his
posturing, he was still vulnerable to the very forces he professed to control.
He could be corrupted, and he now knew it.  Hence, working by intermediaries,
or from behind the scenes, was the only route left to him.  Why take over the
Source Code when manipulation of the structure lying between it and reality
could gain the same ends?  Rules existed to delegate power, to take
responsibility away from people.  Rules depowered.  Yet, in an apparent
contradiction, they could corrupt as surely as empowering could.  For those in
the position to enforce the rules could easily fall into the trap of thinking
they had power, even though the reality was that they were mere pawns.  This
illusion of power corrupted as well as the reality of power, for is it not what
one perceives that shapes one's spirit?
     Thus, the Office.  Through it he could increase the number of rules, and
the number of petty autocrats who enforced them.  He could corrupt all of
existence into his image without risking corruption himself.  The Source Code
might have let him rule the net.universes.  The Multiversal Office Building
gave him reign over the whole of creation.  Even the cosmic beings would not
interfere...those such as Master Workload would be distracted by the increase
in apparent order, while beings like Lord MUDD would simply be hemmed in.  By
the time they realized what the score was, the game would be over.  He would
have won.
     As he checked the seals on his latest acquisition, a small thought nagged
at the back of his head.  "What then?"

               *              *              *              *

     "Wait, you're the kid who was there when I got the Sword of Sig!"
     "Guilty as charged.  But don't call me a kid.  I may be a recently
generated incarnation, but I'm a facet of a being rather older than any of
you."
     Constellation looked askance at the young man.  "You reek of magic.  And
what should we call you?"
     "You smell nice too, bubbeleh.  Call me M.A. for now.  Names are not a
good thing to spread around in this kind of place."
     "So what now?  I assume you're helping Easily Discovered Man and Lite find
us now too, right?" asked Sig.Lad.
     "Wrong.  Your original plan was a good one.  Those two will make a good
diversion.  And we need one.  I'm doing my best to scramble the lines out of
this place, so whoever's controlling the Office can't see us, but the internal
defenses are still fine.  And with so much of my magic tied up in paperwork
right now, I'll need time to get us out of here and clear.  No, your powers
won't work, the Office already has a trace on them, we'd be sucked right back
in.  If those two can keep the heat off us long enough, we can get into the
Office without leaving a paper trail."
     Particle Man spoke up.  "Why don't we just get out like Kid Anarky and the
other Trenchcoaters got out last time?"
     Kid Anarky said, "Well, we didn't *get* out.  We were let out when the
Office was destroyed.  So that's kinda like waiting for another tornado to
take us back to Kansas."
     M.A. pushed up his sleeves.  "Good thing I bring a tornado or two with me
for clearing out unwanted trailer parks.  I'm essentially going to make this
Pocket Bureaucracy vomit us out by making us indigestible.  It will refuse to
acknowledge our existence and force us to leave.  By the time it realizes we're
gone, the second part of the spell will have cleaned up our tracks.  Now,
gather round."
     "Don't we need to be in some kind of magic circle or something?" asked
Sig.Lad.
     "Nope.  Just within about three meters.  Oh, okay, carve a circle of that
radius in the floor, so no one wanders out of it."  Sig.Lad complied and turned
his Sword of Sig into a giant compass to draw a neat circle of three meters
radius.
     M.A. thought to himself, <Damn.  That Kid Anarky is messing up the
vibrations around here...he's gonna make the spell harder.  Huh?  Oh crap.
He's not in his proper time either.  This is gonna give me *such* a hangover.>
     M.A. started to chant, low and soft.  The air seemed to glow faintly
around him, out to the radius he'd mentioned.  Unfortunately, the Task Force
chose that moment to bypass normal parliamentary procedures and go straight to
a vote and action.
     The Task Force for Nullification, Negation and/or Removal of Chaos-
Inducing Agents had been formed shortly after the Pocket Bureaucracy had
disgorged Chicago several months ago.  Its purpose was to find ways to blunt
the effects of some of the more chaotic NTBers on the nice orderly paperwork,
especially Elric's Runecoat.  Armed with collaters, pocket executives,
leatherette-bound organizer/datebooks, nice sharp pencils and copies of the
Operations Manual v23.43 patch3 they swarmed into the devastated room and homed
in like car salesmen on Kid Anarky.
     Kid Anarky, for his part, took only a fraction of a second to evaluate the
situation.  He was Officially Screwed.  And he knew it.  Rather than risk
blowing the whole mission, he dove into the fray, a snarl on his lips an his
claymore in his hand.
     This had several effects, some desired, some not.
     The first was that the other heroes left instantly.  M.A.'s spell had been
slowed significantly by Kid Anarky, and when he left the area of effect it
finished in a twinkling.
     The second was that Kid Anarky's Useless Power (tm) flared as he left the
area and mixed with the main spell to scramble the Pocket Bureaucracy's
equivalents of time and space.  Several different time indexes mixed and filled
the room.
     And here's where it gets really hairy.
     One of the times mixed in was a few minutes ago, when Kid Anarky had been
using his Claymore to devastating effect.  This energy bled over into all other
times and spaces of the Pocket Bureaucracy, effectively destroying it.  The
other heroes were out by this time, although EDM and Lite only barely beat the
wave of devastation [See their own title for more].
     This left Kid Anarky in a dimension that no longer existed, which as most
will agree is not a terribly great nonplace to unbe.  A riptide of his own
power flared back at him and vaporized the sword and his replacement
trenchcoat, but for some odd reason didn't affect his skin tight costume.
     Kid Anarky was carried a great deal of undistance over a long nontime,
battered and confused.  As he passed into oblivion, he passed into Nil Space
once more, only to mysteriously disappear once more from there [see Vertical
Plain #5 - Ed.].

(Continued in part two, following...)