🚀 go-pugleaf

   The Mages circled their motorcycles in an increasingly complex
pattern, waving their hands to work their peculiar form of magic.  Tom
tried to jump into their midst to disrupt the pattern, but his feet were
suddenly stuck in tar in the middle of the street.  The more he tried to
move around in the gooey liquid the deeper he sank, until the tar level
reached his armpits.
   "Need some help?"  Tom looked up, and there she was, hovering in the
air above him like an angel made of pure light.
   "Laurel?"
   "Call me Sunbeam," she told him.  Her body was composed of photons,
pinpoint stars swirling around in a human-shaped constellation.
   "You look so beautiful..."
   "Of course I do."  She took him by the hand and pulled him out of the
lake of tar.  Around them, the Mages waved white flags of surrender.
   "It's so good to see you again, Laurel," said Tom.  "I had the
strangest dream that you were dead."
   "How horrible!"
   "Yes, but it's over now; I'm awake and you're here with me!  And now
I'll have the chance to tell you how much I love you.  I never actually
said that to you, did I?"
   "It was fairly obvious."
   "It was?"
   She smiled brightly.  "I've always been able to read you like a book,
Tom.  And I love you as well; why else would I give you such a hard time?"
   She kissed him, and Tom had the sensation of floating, as if he were
leaving his body.  The light from her face flashed red against his closed
eyelids.  Then he opened his eyes and found himself looking into the
blinding sun coming in through his dorm window.
   Tom climbed out of bed crawled over to the window.  "Good morning,
sunbeam," he said to the shaft of light coming into the room.  Then he
pulled the blind and went back to his dreaming.


                                 @@@@
                                 @   @
                       @   @     @@@@     @@@@@ TM
                        @   @    @       @
                   @@@   @   @   @      @@@    @@@@
                  @       @   @        @      @   @
                   @@@@@   @@@  @@@@@ @@@@@  @@@@
                        @          @        @   @
                     @@@          @        @   @
                         DEAD AT @ 21 DAYS
                                 @

                          SUPER SEVEN #7
                        DEAD AT 21 DAYS #1
         Copyright 1994, Greg Fishbone, all rights reserved.

  Permission is hereby granted to disseminate or reproduce this
  work via electronic means only, for entertainment purposes only,
  and only if all attributions and headers remain in place and the
  text of the work (including attributions and headers) is not
  altered in any way.  Any reproduction of this work for profit of
  any form is strictly forbidden without the express written
  permission of Greg Fishbone.  Hard copy reproduction is limited
  to single copies printed for the use of the user only, and
  cannot be mass produced or disseminated in any way.  Implicit
  permission is granted to make reference to the characters and
  events of this work in the context of the Superguy Subtopic of
  the Superguy Mailing List only, and such use does not constitute
  an abridgement or relinquishment of any of Greg Fishbone's
  rights as they are expressed or implied herein.  All other
  rights not specifically referred to in this notice are reserved
  to Greg Fishbone.  "Super Seven", "Dillweed City", and all
  character names used in this story are trademarks belonging to
  Greg Fishbone, who reserves all rights to their use except in
  the context of explicit or implicit permission granted to
  Superguy authors.  (WHEW!)

  As always, feedback to fishbone@astro.ocis.temple.edu


   Number Six attracted a lot of attention as she entered the pizzeria in
the basement of the Dillweed City Motor Lodge and Syphilis Clinic.  She
certainly had a good figure, complimented by a skin-tight spandex outfit,
but that alone was not nearly enough to account for all of the sideways
glances she received, especially in the center of the city's red light
district.  She had a pretty face too, even though it was partially hidden
behind a wrap-around mask, but there were others around who were at least
as beautiful.  There was, however, one quality that she possessed that
none of the other women in the room had in even the smallest amount: pure
innocence.
   Her smile, her expression, her every tiny movement broadcast a
complete lack of life experience for all to see.  As she stood in line
she studied the floor, fascinated by the random pattern of stains on the
tiles.  After ordering, she watched in amazement as the pizza chef
flattened slabs of dough, tossed them into the air, and added various
toppings.  When her three slices arrived, she marvelled at the smell and
seemingly perfect placement of every mushroom and anchovy.  The other
patrons of the restaurant watched with interest, and when she sat down
one of the men decided to make his move.
   "Are you all by yourself, little girl?"
   "No, I've got a pizza."
   "Do you mind if I sit down?"
   "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she whispered.
   "I'll bet," he said, slinking into the seat across from her.  Leaning
across the table, he examined her closely, his thoughts full of
lascivious desire.  She had the eyes of a small child with the body of a
teenager, in clothing that left little to the imagination.  She began to
eat her pizza, totally oblivious to his staring.  "So... how much?" he
asked, adding emphasis so that no one could possibly mistake his intent.
   "A buck-fifty," she said.  The man lost all composure, hitting his
chin hard on the table as he fell over in shock.  "Per slice, of course,"
she added.  "Plus tax.  I got twenty-seven cents back from a five-dollar
bill, see?  A shiny quarter and two copper pennies!"
   "I wasn't asking about the pizza."
   "You weren't?  Then why were you drooling like that?"
   The man shook his head in disbelief.  "How old are you?"
   "Three," she answered, proudly.
   "Three?  Three years old?"
   "No, of course not!" she exclaimed, as if she were completely stunned
at the thought.  "Three days.  I can't even imagine somebody living for
*years*!"
   "Okay.  If you don't mind my saying so, you seem very... *well
developed* for three days old."
   "Thanks."
   "Where did you come from?"
   "Oh, I'm a clone.  The boss made me from the remains of some superhero
named Sunbeam."
   "The boss?"
   "Nobody Important.  He says he's the greatest criminal genius on the
planet.  Isn't that cool?"
   The man felt a tap on his shoulder.  Turning, he found himself looking
up at a woman wearing a black uniform, red gloves and boots, and a black
ninja mask.  "Are you bothering my little sister?" she asked.
   "Number Two!" exclaimed Number Six, happily.  "Would you like some
pizza?  I don't think I can finish this all."
   "I, uh, didn't mean any harm," said the man, as Number Two grabbed him
roughly by the collar.
   "Of course not," she said, smiling sweetly.  Then she pulled him out
of his seat and dragged him toward the door.  "I'll be back in a minute,
Number Six -- don't move a muscle!"
   Number Six sat frozen, trying not to even breathe, as she listened to
the thumping, crashing, and screaming taking place just outside the
pizzeria.  The other customers remained at their booths, pretending that
nothing unusual was happening.  Two women sat down on either side of
Number Six and examined her with some concern.
   "She seems to be turning blue," said the one on her right.
   "Number Six, you can breathe now," said the other.
   "Wsssshew!  Thanks, Number Three!"
   "We've been looking everywhere for you," said Number Three.  "Why did
you leave the room?"
   "I'm sorry."  She lowered her head in shame.  "I was hungry."
   "They do deliver, you know," said Number One.  "It's a good thing we
found you before the boss realized you were missing."
   "Why?  What would he have done?"
   "He would have come up with a Cunning Plan to find you, of course."
Number One and Number Three both shuddered at the thought.
   "But what's so bad about that?"
   "His plans are brilliant," said Number Three, "and we always carry
them out to the letter, but they're usually just a little bit more
elaborate than necessary."
   "Like the time we had to take over the Iolani Palace and fill it with
bean dip as part of his plan to change a flat tire on the van."
   "Or the time we had to chip off a three-ounce piece of Stonehenge as
part of his plan to mail the phone bill."
   "Or the time we had to forge a weekend parole for Willie Horton as
part of his plan to get George Bush and Dan Quayle into the White
House."  Number Six gave her a questioning look.  "The boss had a five
dollar bet on the outcome of the election," Number One explained.
   "Okay, I'm back," said Number Two, sitting down across from the others.
   "That was fast," said Number One.
   "Yeah.  It turns out that he really didn't mean any harm after all, so
I let him off easy -- I only broke *half* of his bones."
   "You didn't have to do that!"
   "Don't worry about it, Number Six.  You're one of us now, and the
Serially Numbered Underlings always stick up for each other!  If anyone
ever gives you a hard time, just say the word and we'll wipe out their
entire family."
   "Thanks," said Number Six, tears of gratitude welling up in her eyes.
"You guys are the best sisters anyone could ever ask for!"
   "No problem," said Number Three.  "Come on, we'll get you some ice
cream for dessert."

                               * * *

   It was an unspoken agreement, after Laurel died, that the Super Seven
would disband and that the surviving members would go their separate
ways.  Then came their adventure aboard the orbiting Hotel LaGrange,
bringing the six of them together again, and another unspoken agreement
was formed.  Now the team sat around a table in the dormitory lounge,
planning for the future.
   "We could call ourselves Sunbeam's Six," Kyle suggested.  "Sort of
like Blake's Seven."
   "No--" said Tracy.
   "--we need a complete break from the past, hon," Stacy finished.
   "Hon?" asked Tracy.  Her twin shrugged her shoulders.  "This is
definitely going to take some getting used to..."  Kyle smiled and took
Stacy by the hand.
   Tom cleared his throat to get their attention.  "Need I remind
everybody that we still have six boxes of Super Seven business cards that
we haven't given away yet?"
   "So you think we should keep calling ourselves the Super Seven?" asked
Mark.  "Even though there's only six of us?"
   "We could always add another member later."
   "Or Laurel could come back," said Nick.  The others glared at him.
"All right, maybe I *am* still in denial, but I still have the strangest
feeling that she's playing a really tasteless practical joke on all of us."
   "Okay, so we're still the Super Seven," said Kyle.  "What now?"
   "Now we start working on our new secret base," said Nick.
   "What?" the twins demanded in unison.
   "Nick, where are six college sophomores supposed to get the money to
build a secret superhero base?" asked Mark.
   "We could rob a bank," Tom suggested.  "No, really, think about it.
They have insurance, and we'd be using the money to help people..."
   "I have a perfect place in mind, and it won't cost us a thing," Nick
told them.  "I just want you to all keep an open mind about this --
especially you, Tom."
   "Why especially me?  Unless you're planning--"  Tom studied Nick's
face.  "You are, aren't you?  You bastard!"
   "What?" asked Kyle.  "What are you talking about?"
   "The room is available; we should use it," said Nick, his hands up in
a defensive position as Tom approached him.  "And with the vacancy rate
on campus, we can be pretty sure that nobody will be moving in during the
year."
   "You don't mean *that* room?" asked Tracy and Stacy together.
   "What room?" asked Kyle.  "Am I missing something?"
   "We don't have the key," said the twins.
   "We'll make a couple of new entrances, right from our rooms," said
Nick.  "It will be very convenient."
   "And then we can seal the main door shut so that maintenance doesn't
come in and discover us by accident!"  Mark exclaimed.  "I like it!"
   "Will somebody please tell me what room we're talking about?" asked
Kyle.  Stacy gave him a comforting pat on the head.
   "And what about all her stuff?" asked Tom.
   "I've, uh, already moved it into storage."  Nick winced, preparing to
teleport away if Tom became too violent.
   "You've what?!!"  Tom pounded his fist on the table, cracking it clear
down the center with his plasma-powered punch.  "I don't believe this!"
   "It's not a shrine, Tom!" Nick shouted, as Tom stormed out of the room.
   "What if she comes back, like you keep saying?" asked Mark.
   "What if who comes back?" Kyle demanded.  Then it finally dawned on
him.  "Oh.  Oh!  Laurel!"
   "If she comes back, she just won't have a room to live in," said
Nick.  "Serves her right!"

                              * * *

   "Come Pinky, we must prepare for tomorrow night."
   "Why, Brain?  What are we doing tomorrow night?"
   "The same thing we do every night, Pinky--"  The television blinked
off as Nobody Important hit the power switch on the remote control.
   "What?  What?" asked Number Six, leaning forward on the edge of her
seat.  "Oooo, now I'll *never* know what he was going to say!"
   Nobody Important, the criminal mastermind who was Number Six's boss
and creator, very seldom smiled, but never in her five days had she seen
him quite so serious.  "'The same thing we do every night, Pinky -- try
to take over the world!'  It's a rerun."
   "Oh, okay."  A questioning wrinkle crossed her brow.  "What's a rerun?"
   "Number Six, I have something very important to discuss with you."
   "Sure, boss!  You want to send me on a mission, right?"
   "Not quite yet.  No, I want to talk to you about these lab results."
He held up a ream of computer printouts.  "As you know, you were cloned
from a particle of energy from a deceased hero named Sunbeam.  It took me
most of the summer to decode Sunbeam's genetic material from this sample,
in order to create you, and some of the gene sequences could not be
reproduced as accurately as I would have liked..."  He trailed off and
looked down at his boots.  "I'm so sorry."
   "Why?"
   "I'm afraid I have some rather bad news.  These tests show that your
DNA is degenerating at a significant rate.  I estimate that within
sixteen days it will become completely unstable."
   "Really?" she asked.  "And what's the bad news?"
   He stared at her in disbelief.  "Don't you understand, Number Six?  In
sixteen days you will die, and there's nothing anyone can do to prolong
your life!"
   "Sixteen days is a long time, boss.  I'm five days old today, which
means that I still have a good three quarters of my life ahead of me --
what's so bad about that?"
   "I'm impressed," he told her.  "That's a very mature outlook -- you've
certainly come a long way in the past few days."
   "And a good thing too, if I've got to compress an entire lifetime into
three weeks!  So, are you going to send me on a mission now?"
   "Soon, Number Six.  Very, very soon..."


WILL SUNBEAM EVER COME BACK?

HOW WILL THE SUPER SEVEN TURN LAUREL'S DORM ROOM INTO A SECRET
  BASE?

WILL NUMBER SIX GET A JOB TO DO BEFORE HER TIME RUNS OUT?

SHOULDN'T THIS EPISODE BE #13, COUNTING THE "WORLDS APART"
  MINISERIES AS EPISODES?

Find out on *SUPERGUY*, and nowhere else!

---
Greg Fishbone                                  fishbone@astro.ocis.temple.edu

   "As you can see, Your Honor, I have no eyebrows."
           --Defendant on "The People's Court" responding to Judge Wopner's
             question: "What seems to be the problem, ma'am?"