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SG:The Tribe of Behn #5: Byron, Get One Free

     It was a strange night in the Authors Pit. Aphra and Milton had
learned that day they were married, Will 'da Bruiser' Shakespeare still
acted like he was going to be one of the team, and in four episodes the
most heroic thing they had done was fight a fire. Perhaps the various
members of the team could be excused for sullenness. Nervous energy needs
to be worked off, and so, each author was pursuing his or her goals.
Dickens was scratching away at his manuscript (still refusing to use a
word processor), Gaskell was working out in the gym, Milton was teaching
himself how to cook blindfolded (a very popular government funded
retraining course) and the rest were piled into the study, watching
AphraUs latest attempts at creation.
     "Computer...", she muttered. "That's what that reporter said we
needed. A computer. Everybody, stand back. I don't know what I'm going to
get."
    Aphra closed her eyes, and concentrated. Suddenly, in the middle of
the floor, was a pulsating, and quite alive (but not for long) human brain.
     Doyle broke the stunned silence by diplomatically vomiting loudly in
a corner. The others quickly displayed their solidarity by joining him.
Only Aphra was left, strangely unoffended by her creation.
     "Bloody miserable thing.", she muttered. It was always best to have
an idea of what you are creating. The problem was, Aphra knew nothing
about the creation of AI computer logic gate, heuristics, expert
software, or the importance of pork housings. "Let's try this again. I
want a computer (quickly picturing what she was to create as NOT A
BRAIN!). Mechanical. Capable of lots of things...". She was not able to
finish her request before the new computer appeared on the floor.
    The small Timex-Sinclair that had been culled into existence failed
to induce vomiting, but it also totally failed to impress anyone in the
room. Aphra scowled at it. "Maybe later...", she muttered. Just then
Dickens ran into the room.
     "Wow! I was just taking a writing break, and I heard something on
the radio!"
     "What's that?", asked Aphra.
     "Well, turns out that...oh my lord is that a brain on the *eughpha*"
     "Clean that up, will you Spence?"
     "I'm fine now. *heave* Really. Ugh. What I heard was...why the
bloody hell(tm) did you create a brain?"
     "Let's drop it, Chuck. Tell us the news."
     "Sure, fine. A plea went out on the radio a few minutes ago, from
Ottawa. There's some guy in front of the Parliament building blasting
everything in sight."
    "Great. Just great. Does he sound dangerous?"
    "I'll say. They interrupted Double Exposure for this!"
    "That IS serious! Get everyone together...you know, we should really
give our phone number out..."
***
     Cherri was enjoying the morning. She had met a very interesting man,
someone who's influence on Parliament Hill was well known, and Cherri was
determined to keep him. They had retired to 'his place', with little
chance of running into his wife. She had taken up in her own house months
ago. If marriage weren't such a great political asset, explained the man
who's name was Francis, he would have divorced her years ago. She didn't
understand him, Francis claimed. Cherri nodded, knowing instinctively
that such a response would be expected from her. Soon, they were in his
bedroom, engaging in a strange ritual known as kissing. Cherri discovered
that kissing was a very valuable asset, more so than even marriage. The
mouth was a perfect spot for Cherri, filled as it was with so much blood,
and blood so near to the surface. Why Francis didn't even feel the minute
prick of Cherri's tongue as it inserted itself into his own, drawing off
a single drop of his blood. Moments later, Cherri's body had analysed
Francis' entire genetic code, and was preparing a little gift for him.
Only seconds after her tongue had contacted Francis', Cherri's body had
prepared a complex DNA/RNA 'dreadnought', also inserted initially through
the tongue. However, there existed another ritual amongst these people:
sexual reproduction, which gave Cherri a much more effective venue for
transmitting the dreadnought. It coursed through his body, inserting
itself into every strand of DNA it could find, growing new internal
organs at greater than cancerous rates. His brain became nothing more
than a storehouse for memories, supplanted by a new brain housed in his
torso, which was an identical copy of Cherri's own. The new brain could
access Francis' knowledge and memories, but Francis no longer existed as
a conscious entity. A shame that Francis could not reproduce himself
either sexually or by overwriting...he was sterile. Only one in one
thousand of Cheri's kind could reproduce, unless surgically altered in a
laboratory. However, the only laboratory that could perform this
operation was speeding away from the Earth at several multiples of the
speed of light. Cherri smiled to herself. The invasion was progressing
very well. Her compatriots in their newly minted bodies were themselves
converting other important figures around the world. They avoided the
people with the power, having lost too many worlds where that person was
replaced. They concentrated upon the power behind the throne. Cherri
smiled, and allowed her brain to fire neurons randomly - a pleasant side
effect of transmitting the dreadnought.
***
     "Okay.", stated Aphra to the assembled Tribe. "We're heading to
Ottawa. Here's the strategy, and you ARE expected to follow it." She
glared at Jonson.
     "We'll exit Arcadia close to the..guy we're supposed to stop, and
hide. Liz, you scout along ahead, take one of Milton's angels with you.
After that, we'll determine our further plans. No other actions are to be
taken until the report. Any questions?"
    "Yeah.", asked the grizzled marine. "Is this a fair fight, or just
another bug hunt?"
    "Wrong universe."
    "Wha? Oh, sorry...thought this was Ripley's movie. Believe it or not."
***
     The tribe walked through Spenser's glowing gateway, and into
Arcadia. Inside, they entered a mystic realm. The sun shone
brightly...pixies frolicked just outside of your vision...the true Briton
co-existed with the shelp we've got...and there's no such concept of
political correctness.
     "Ok-k-kay. This is a p-p-p-pretty long jump. So we'll need some
t-t-t-transportation."
     Spenser whistled. For a moment, nothing happened. Suddenly, a
gigantic dodo bird flapped clumsily down from the sky. It waited
patiently for the tribe to get on.
    "D-d-d-darn. Thought I'd get an eagle."
    With little coordination, the dodo leapt into the sky. Perhaps leapt
is misleading. In actual fact, the bird tripped itself. Having no arms to
keep itself steady, the bird spread its wings, hoping to catch enough air
to cushion its fall. The air ran smoothly under and over the wings,
causing the dodo to lurch into the sky. Not being ready for this
transition from ground to air, the dodo panicked, waving its wings
crazily, causing it to dart every which way. It proceeded like this for
almost five minutes, until it finally righted itself enough to proceed in
at most three directions at a time.
  Below, two pixies held a charmed eagle in thrall, and watched their pet
dodo spiral away. After the bird was out of earshot, they began giggling
uncontrollably. Humans were just so CUTE sometimes!
***
     After the dodo had lurched precisely 1/8th of the Earth distance
between Windsor and Ottawa, it was ordered to land. It did so, by folding
its wings back. The result was predictable.
     The tribe partook of healing herbs and not a little healing scotch.
Recuperated, they turned to Spenser, who was waiting to open the portal.
Time and space were funny things in Arcadia: all distances were fractions
of earth distances. Today, the distances were all 1/8th. Spenser pulled
open a connection between Arcadia and Earth, and the team stumbled
through, out into...Ottawa!
    Here, the sun didn't shine so brightly. Not much frolicked. However,
loud explosions were heard from around a corner of the building where the
team had put down. Gaskell, armed with an angel, pushed herself through
the wall, in the direction where she heard the explosion. She hoped that
nothing happened while she was inside the wall, for she could not speak
while inside something else. "Great.", she thought. "How do you talk to
an angel?" She reached the other side without incident, and poked her
head out, to see the most garishly dressed person in Ottawa! (And that's
saying something!) He wore a bright pink spandex costume, but over that
was a fur cape! A foil hung scabbarded on the man's waist, suspended from
a chartreuse belt. A purple domino mask covered his face, and a
nauseatingly orange-green cod piece completed the picture.
     Gaskell held onto her lunch. Barely. For a few moments, she wondered
if being tacky was this guy's schtick. No, that didn't warrant
interrupting Double Exposure. Not in Ottawa, where fashion sense took a
back seat to...just about everything else.
***
Let's go back in time a little while.
     "Ugh! Me take you for mate! *thunk*!"
No, not that far back in time. Try about six months ago. In a small hotel
room, downtown Toronto. A man, a hired killer by trade, known only to his
employers as Slate, had just finished a job which had taken him to
Canada. He was good. He never missed his mark. He had an advantage which
no one else had.
  He could take on the personality of anyone he chose.
     The problem was, he had no identity of his own: Slate was blank.
Like most people who have no personality of their own, Slate was watching
television late one night, and drinking beer. He did not think or process
any of the information which assaulted his senses. He just took in raw
data...until the rebroadcast came on.
     It was a rebroadcast of an interview, with a small group of
Superguys known as the Tribe of Behn. As Slate's eyes took in this
report, a small glimmering of his past life surfaced. He remembered a
childhood and adult love of literature. These characters, come to life,
were the conductors - the creators, of this love. And so, Slate knew what
he would do.
     He would kill them.
     Why? Well, maybe because its a standard Supervillain thing to do.
Also, Slate's mind, wiped years ago to make him a better insurance
salesman, was geared only towards killing. Every impulse he had related
to destruction (which made insurance sales QUITE problematic, prompting
his government sponsors to move him into assassinations), and so, he
would destroy these people...as one of them. He too would take on such an
identity to destroy these authors with. He picked his favourite: the most
flamboyant author he could picture - Lord Byron!
     (Origin #3742. Collect them all! Trade with your friends! Send in
$2.00 and 3 Origins to receive a complete Origins Behind the Origins
Collector's Book, absolutely free!)
***
     Gaskell called Aphra from the safety of the building, which was
nothing more sinister than a page's lounge.
     "<Ring> <Ring> <Rin...*>Hello?"
     "Aphra? Gaskell. One guy. He's got a sword and a bunch of gadgets.
They look like powers, but I could see the electrical cords. Dresses to
make the blind wince. Worst part is...he's reciting."
     "Reciting? Reciting what?"
     "I don't know, he's doing it under his breath. I'd get closer...but
he'd see me."
     "As long as he's not casting some eldrich spell or summoning Cthulu
I think we can let him recite. Hold position. We'll be down in a moment.
(*click*)"
     Elizabeth held her position, as ordered. For roughly seven seconds.
That was the time it took for Lord Byron to hear the phone go silent,
smash his way into the lounge, and advance menacingly towards Gaskell.
***
     "I've heard from Liz. Listen up. Doyle, you're coordination. Keep
guessing moves. Everyone, keep your 'hands-free' option on. Make sure
you've got call waiting set too, so Doyle can get through. Milton, I want
you to flank him from both sides. Make a lot of ruckus. When I yell go,
Jonson, cut lose with the satire. Dickens, see if you can keep him happy.
Spenser, carry Will with you randomly around. Will, I want you to get a
lot of stones, and just keep hurling them. Everyone got it?"
     "We've really got to get some codes established.", muttered Ben,
under his breath. The rest of the team nodded its readiness.
     "Let's do it!"
***
     Byron's fist would have connected with Gaskell's face, had her
natural nimbleness not saved her. She dove under a nearby table, while
the wall that she had been standing against shivered into a thousand
shards.  Fumbling, she pulled out some of her Aphra-approved Mace, and
triggered the environmentally friendly can to spray some into her
assailant's face. Little did she know that Byron's eyes had been
surgically altered - his tear ducts had been removed. Yet another bonus
when selling insurance.
***
"Heaven! Heaven! Heaven! Heaven! Get...where is he?"
     Milton, after summoning four pseudo-angels, suddenly stopped,
adrenaline surge beginning to drop off. Where was this guy? Hmm...
     "Doyle?"
     "Yes?"
     "Do you see anyone?"
     "No. But I have deduced that our adversary is inside that building."
     "Really?", Milton was impressed. "How?"
     "Simple, really. The gaping hole, not a normal occurrence in this
form of architecture, gave me my first clue. Then, the shouting and
hollering coming out of that hole gave me my second."
     "Bloody he...ck...Liz! Angels, attack the strangely dressed one...no
not me you idiots! Inside the building!"
***
     Gaskell was holding her own quite well. However, her powers didn't
seem to be of much use in combat. She had to rely on other assets, like
knowing how painful a good knee to the groin was.
     Too bad Slate had had that armour-plated. Getting kneed happens ALL
the time in door-to-door salesmanship.
     Slate advanced on Gaskell, as she rubbed her tender knee. For the
first time, she could hear what he was reciting. He had begun on a new piece.
     "She walks in beauty, like the night/ Of cloudless climes and starry
skies;"
     Slate began priming the capacitors on his Excessive-Taser...which
didn't stun the body so much as stop the heart.
     "And all that's best of dark and bright/ Meet in her aspect and her
eyes:"
     Gaskell attempted to deliver a devastating roundhouse kick to Byron.
Unfortunately, none of the Tribe had any sort of martial training, and
even if they had, Elizabeth's sneakers were not ideal weapons. Byron
caught her leg with one hand, and aimed the Excessive-Taser with the other.
     "Thus mellow'd to that tender light/ Which heaven to gaudy day denies."
     Simultaneously, Byron fired the taser, Gaskell managed to 'push'
herself through Byron's grasp, and a choir of pseudo-angels burst into
the room, assaulting the Lord from all sides.  Jonson huffed his way in,
and began his acidic speech.
     "Apparel like that has but one function - to gain the world's
attention! And the world does recognise you, and call you...buffoon!"
     Lord Byron, firing his Excessive-Taser wildly at the pseudo-angels,
was suddenly thrown back by the weight of the insult. Spenser chose that
moment to appear. Will 'da Bruiser' Shakespeare stepped from Arcada, and
hurled a huge boulder at the mass of white, orange/green, etc, and
stepped back into Faerieland.
     The boulder was Byron's greatest worry. The pseudo-angels were
buffeting and upsetting him greatly, but they did not seem to be able to
inflict any actual harm upon him. The sarcasm was cutting, but Jonson
seemed stuck for a line. Byron reached up, servo-motors whining, and
caught the boulder with both hands. Then, he placed a small-but-powerful
explosive charge on the rock's surface, and prepared to hurl it himself.
     "A rock. Indeed it suits you well, for you have now found an
intellectual partner."
     Byron mused to himself that the sarcasm didn't have to be all that
good, provided the arrogance was there, while he flew against the wall.
He managed to retain his grip on the rock, however. This he threw towards
Jonson, just as Spenser and Shakespeare stepped out...right beside the
haughty playwright.
     There was a tremendous explosion, as the rock  blew apart! Ben and
Spenser were both rendered insensible by the flying stone! Only 'da
Bruiser', bruised and bleeding himself remained to take on Byron.
     And Gaskell. Byron was suddenly reminded of her when the heavy iron
bar impacted over the back of his (mercifully reinforced...but damn it
still smarts!) skull. He could not spare he any time, seeing the
muscle-bound renaissance writer as the greater threat.
     "Now youze gonna face da champ, big guy. And dat fancy stuff aint
gonna save ya!", Shakespeare bellowed, dropping into a 'scrappin' stance.
     "And even if by chance-and who can tell?/ The devil's so very sly-
she should discover/ That all within was not so very well...", quoted
Byron, as he boosted his servos to maximum levels, and pulled out his foil.
     "Oh, dats da way ya wanna play it, ist?"
     Will grabbed yet another iron bar which had been shaken loose during
the battle, and wielded it in a very ungraceful 'en garde' stance. Will,
however, had an asset up his sleeve, one which his teammates didn't known
about. He quickly shifted large amounts of his energy into speed and
reflexes, putting a cap on the amount of speed which could be used to
actually move (so he didn't tear his body apart during battle - which can
be so VERY embarrassing), and then boosted his strength to slightly above
human level. The remaining energy was dumped into making his skin
semi-puncture proof.
     Byron lunged at Will. Will, who saw Byron moving in slow motion,
countered with a deft Carte parry, and riposted with a *thunk* to the
skull. Byron was knocked back into Gaskell's sphere of influence,
whereupon she coshed him with the pipe again.
    "Ow!", quoted Byron, from far too many sources to name here.
     Byron lunged low, hoping to get under Will's guard. Will was ready
for this, and launched an attack of his own, this time to Byron's
less-heavily-armoured torso. There was the sound of air exhaled and the
wet snapping of ribs as the pipe made contact. Byron staggered for a
moment taking his post-12 a little early.
     "I didn't know you could fence!", shouted Gaskell, as she prepared
to biff Byron in the gut.
     "Just sompin I picked up in da Youth Centre!", replied Shakespeare,
with similar intent.
     *Biff!*
     "You're real strong, though. Why didn't you just overpower him?"
     *Biff*
     "Ummm....I ah...I wanned a challenge!"
     *Biff*
     "Oh."
     *Biff*
     "Still da Champ!"
     *Biff*
     *Biff*
     Pause
     *Biff*
     Pause
     *Biff*
     "Will, I think he's out."
     Suddenly, Gaskell's phone began to ring.
     "Hello?"
     "Hello! Would you be interested in a comprehensive insurance package?"
***
     Intercontinental Salvage had come and left, repairing the damage
done by the battle even before Liz could leave the building (at least
they LOOKED like I.S....but those glowing red eyes...nahhh...doesn't mean
anything). They had repaired the door too, but no one had a key for it,
so Spenser had to retrieve Gaskell from her Parliamentary prison. Aphra
had sent a message to the Prime Minister via a page who had been hiding
in the broom closet (discovered when Liz was searching for a key) with
their name and phone number on it. Hopefully he wouldn't lose it...but
you never know with politicians...Suddenly she had an idea! Aphra quickly
wrote "BRIBE" across the front of the note. Now the PM would give it his
full attention, if only to find out who it was for...
***
     Nineteenth, a minion-demon of the highest order, surveyed the bar.
He had chosen the form of an attractive young man whom he had absorbed
earlier that day. Nineteenth now sought someone attractive of the
opposite gender. Having bodies on both sides made the absorption of the
powerful so much the easier.
     His eyes lighted on a brunette at the end of the bar. Getting up,
Nineteenth walked over to the lithe beauty with a swagger learned from
his victim's mind.
     "Excuse me.", he began, searching the mind of his 'host' for a
suitable introduction. Absorption is a long process during which the
brain is chemically dissolved and integrated with the minion-demon's own.
Then, the body's form is collapsed into a series of chemical strings,
which can be reorganised at a moment's notice. The process (as mentioned)
takes a long time, and requires constant contact with the victim-to-be.
Thus, the need for a good opening line and an invitation to a complex
ritual that humans call sex, which is the perfect venue for absorption.
     "Pardon me, but aren't your feet tired?"
      "No, why?"
      "Well, you have been running through my mind all day."
     If Cherri had been human, she would have belted the man then and
there. As it was, nearby patrons had been adversely affected by the
fallout from the tired, lame and over-used pickup line - several were
excusing themselves into the washrooms. Even men with pony-tails,
Hawaiian shirts opened down to the naval and heavy medallions were
shaking their heads at such a horrible way to begin an assignation.
     Cherri smiled at Nineteenth. Nineteenth smiled back at Cherri. It
couldn't hurt to integrate this human. Besides...she found the process to
be...fun.
     Back at Nineteenth's place (his unfortunate body-donor's place to be
exact), the two wasted no time with formalities, but proceeded directly
to the kissing. Nineteenth began to send microscopic organisms into
Cherri's body, while Cherri sampled a drop of Nineteenth's blood.
     At that moment, both knew the other for what s/he was.
***
     "Gggthxtsth."
     "What?", asked all the authors simultaneously. They were sitting in
the Author's pit, enjoying a good bowl of popcorn after a hard day's
fight. Actually, Byron had been an easy opponent...but everyone has to
begin somewhere!
     Aphra repeated herself. "Gggthxtsth. Shakespeare, when we found you,
you said that I sent you back to warn us about something called a
Gggthxtsth. Then there was the excitement about Spenser's...and then the
fire, the interview... I can't believe that we forgot about it!"
     "Dat's right. Gggthxtsth. Now I 'member."
     "Well?"
     "You told me ta give you a message. Iz supposed to deliver it exact,
like. You said 'Beware Gggthxtsth, who corrupts from witin. Within the
Tribe you gots one who is corrupted already. Watch 'im, and do not
hesitate to strike 'im dead when he turns on you...as I failed to do.'
     Shakespeare fell silent. The tribe was also plunged into silence,
stunned by the announced betrayal. The group stared at each other,
wondering who could be carrying the seeds of destruction within them.
     Finally, Gaskell broke the silence. "What, what is Gggthxtsth?"
     "Sorry. Aphra tol' me not ta tell youze anytin about da future, and
'specially Gggthxtsth. But I'll give ya sumptin fer free. If we don't do
sumptin different dis time...dere ain't gonna be a future fer us ta live in."
     Again, the silence was total.
     "bbbbrrrrrraaaaggghgghhgh."
     Everyone looked at Dickens.
     "Well sorry, but I"m hungry! I...I guess I'll just...go...and
get...some...rice pudding?"
     *Biff!*
As usual, this story is trademarked, all rights reserved 1994 to Chris
Angelini (email:cangelin@uoguelph.ca). Everything alluded to is intended
as satire, and no trademark infringement is intended nor implied. All
rights reserved. And...no! Don't believe this! The author! He's a servant
of Gggthxtsth! No! Stop him before its too late! You've got
to...arrghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghhg....*gasp* *wheeze* *croak*