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SG:The Tribe of Behn #7:Gathering Point

     Night, in Windsor. Still nothing to recommend it. Come to think of
it, day in Windsor isn't all that exciting either. I mean, when you think
about it, most of the really good fun things to do have been torn down,
and replaced with cheap mass-market cookie-cutter industries which...
     Sorry about that. I took my sedatives. Let's start over.
     Night, in Windsor. The rain was falling softly while drunk forms
happily stumbled home (to who's home no one was sure). However, down
below the streets of Windsor slumbered several beings of great
power...the Tribe of Behn!
     The Author's Pit was dark and quiet. No one was suffering from
insomnia. For the first time the team seemed to be at peace, despite the
various predictions and predicaments of the past few weeks. Then the
phone rang.
     "Mmmm...", mumbled Aphra.
     "Mmmm?", murmured Milton.
    "Mmm.", replied Aphra.
    "Mm.", answered Milton.
     Finally, Aphra rose to answer the phone. She would have to delegate
that duty one day...Jonson perhaps? No, he slept like a log. Last week
during her ill-fated attempt to create nitroglycerine, Ben had been the
only one to remain sleeping! She could have sworn that she put the phone
next to the bed, but now it was across the room! (Remember, Murphy's Law
has been invoked by the team twice now. One of the corollaries of this
law is: Modern conveniences...aren't.).
     "Hello?"
     "Hello. Have I reached Aphra Behn?"
     "Yes, you have. Now, unless you would like this phone rudely hung
up, please tell me why you've called at two in the morning.", answered
Aphra sweetly.
     "I apologise. I was going to call earlier, but I just kept putting
it off...and putting it off...and you know how that goes."
     "Yes I do. But please tell me what you're going to say before I make
your end of the phone emit weird jelly-like substances."
     "Umm...certainly. I'm calling on behalf of the Right-Honourable John
Klaxon. He needs security, and he was hoping that you and your team would
be willing to provide it."
     "Slow down, slow down. Now, what is it that we would,
hypothetically, no-promises given, might, be protecting?"
     "Well...Jaques de Coure."
     Aphra snapped awake. "The Quebec separatist?"
    "That very one."
    "The one who's had roughly...", Aphra searched her uncooperative
memory. "...eight attempts on his life? Six while going for a newspaper?"
    "Yep."
    Aphra let out a puff of breath. "Well...how many of us do you think
you'd need?"
     "We'll let you decide that. I'll fax you the building layouts, and
the Normalguy security procedures. You do have a fax machine, don't you?"
     "Hold on a second." *poof* "We do now."
***
     Let's turn our attention to Kingston, about eight hours in the
future (say ten o'clock or so...). Kitchen: home to one of the finest
penitentiaries I've ever had the privilege to see. Out of all the pens
I've ever visited, I'd have to say I like this one the best. It has that
'kick-butt' air to it, while not really undercutting its savage beauty,
its fine architecture, and its pleasant exercise grounds. But enough
about that already!
     In the Kingston prison, languished one Slate - recently Lord Byron.
Without his gizmos, and his deactivated bionics, he had little chance of
escape. They had not been able to pin his other murders onto him, which
was the only reason that he had not been shipped down to the
ReallyHardToGetOutOfPlace. Currently, Slate was working hard on his
laundry duties, when a pair of pants spoke to him.
    "Psst!", said the pants.
    Slate, who could easily fit talking pants into his world view,
replied. "Yes?"
     "Ya wanna get out of this place?"
     Slate considered. On the one hand, the work here was very rewarding
(remember, this guy has no personality of his own!) On the other hand, he
had a score to settle with the Tribe of Behn. The gripping hand, he
decided, was if this pair of pants had a good escape plan, he would be
happy to follow it.
     "Yes I would."
     The pants smiled. For all those of you who are at home, wondering
about how a pair of pants smile...don't. The smile was all in Slate's
mind because the zipper had a vague 'smiley' shape to it. Its really NOT
worth troubling yourself over!
     "Great. I can get you out easy. Just put me on."
     Slate hesitated. "You're okay with that?"
     "I AM a pair of pants! Its sorta my job."
     "I'm just asking if you have a problem with having my abdomen in you."
     "Look, I try not to worry about it. I sorta lie back and think of
bleach. So put me on fer heaven's sake!"
     Slate did so, and was slightly surprised when he suddenly teleported
out of the pants. The pants, its job done, sank to the floor, inanimate.
***
     "I refuse to guard a separatist! Count me out!", yelled Jonson.
     "Okay, Ben's out", thought Aphra. "What about the rest of you?"
     "He's got a right to his opinion.", said Milton. "I'm in."
     "I'll stay here with Ben.", replied Gaskell, trying hard not to
glare at Milton. "Besides, the city might need someone one duty."
     "I think my skills would be best served here.", replied Doyle.
"After I've set up your security arrangements that is."
     "I'm in.", grinned Shakespeare. "I might getta bust some skull!"
     "I'll stay behind.", smiled Dickens. "I'm right in the middle of a
chapter."
     "I'll g-g-go.", stated Spenser. "B-b-b-besides. I can g-g-g-get back
pretty e-e-easily if anyone n-n-needs me."
     Aphra grimaced. Herself, Milton, Shakespeare and Spenser. A pretty
good group, but a little too combat intensive. She would have preferred
Dickens to come along. Most of the problems which could come up might be
best dealt with via his Be-glad power.  However, Aphra preferred to be as
democratic as she could (which is sort of like giving six whinging
children the vote...), and it was Chuck's decision to remain at home.
     "Okay Doyle.", sighted Aphra. "There's just us. Let's see your plans."
***
     Aewan slowly squirted himself from its three-space to our
five-space. Aewan's form slowly underwent a changing process, by which
its composition of mind and energy would be supported by length, breadth,
width, time and that other one. Soon, Aewan resembled no resident of
Earth whatsoever. It was invisible, intangible and nearly insensible to
anyone without basic psionic assensment. Aewan began to construct a
personae for itself, so that it could manifest itself physically. It
would keep its true seat of power and consciousness separate, in its
energy form. And if the personae were disrupted or destroyed, Aewan could
always create a new one.
***
     "Knock knock."
     The speaker was Dickens, on Gaskell's door. The security team had
left an hour earlier, to set up in Ottawa.
     Liz herself was lying on her bed, hands under head, looking
miserable. Without turning her head to look at Dickens, she replied: "Go
away."
     Dickens smiled wryly. "Liz. You need to talk. I think I remember one
important thing about you: you'll never ask for help. Not when you really
need it."
     Gaskell turned her head slightly. "I don't need help. I'm fine."
     Dickens chuckled slightly. "Don't need help? Fine? What happened to
the woman that I used to know? The one who didn't mope around the Pit all
day? The one who gave polysyllabic answers? If you're fine then my memory
is worse than I thought!"
     Liz sat up on her bed. "Chuck, I really don't want to talk about it.
Its personal."
     Dickens sat down next to her. "I think you do need to talk. And if
you don't, I'm going to sing every song in 'Evita' until you crack. You
know my singing voice."
     The young author was able to manage a small smile. "Anything but
that. But I really don't know what you want to talk about."
     Dickens sighed. "I seem to remember that you always made it this
difficult. How obvious do you want me to get. You and Milton were
starting to build something. Then, like a bolt from above, Milton is
suddenly married. Now he's fine, he's got a wife whom he loves, and
you're left holding the bag. Am I on track so far?"
     Liz sighed. "Was it that obvious?"
     "I'm afraid so."
     "The thing is, I'm not usually into romance. Its just not an
important part of my life. But...I really felt something...with John. It
was the first time I'd ever felt that way about anyone. And he seemed to
feel it too!"
     Dickens noticed the tears beginning to form in Gaskell's eyes. He
seemed to remember himself in similar situations, and the best thing to
do was always give in to the tears. He just patted her on the back, and
repeated "There, there..." over and over, as the tears began.
***
     The team set themselves up carefully. Fortunately, the hall where
Jaques would be speaking was fairly simple: a long square about 25 meters
long by 20 meters. Seats were set up in rows before the stage. The stage
was a raised platform in front of the first row of chairs. There were
almost no nooks and crannies: just the coat check, the three entrances
and backstage. The four authors set themselves up in a rotational
formation, so they would always be at an entrance and the coat check, but
never in any one area for too long. Fortunately, one of the entrances was
kitty-corner to the stage, so the author there could keep a careful eye
on de Coure.
     Two or so hours later, the crowd began to trundle in. Most of the
speech was French, but there was a little dialogue in English. Every
author but Shakespeare knew French, but paid little attention to
conversation. They had a job to do.
     Finally, after another half-hour, Jaques himself walked out onto
stage, to rousing applause, and a few boos. The authors were on their
toes, looking out for any sources of riot or violence.
***
     Gggthxtsth was not a happy entity. His lead Minion-demon had been
taken captive by a human! Entire dimensions trembled at the thought of a
minion-demon invasion, and Earth treated them like party favours!
Something must be done. But what? Gggthxtsth sat back to ponder his
predicament. He had the resources of incredibly powerful magic at his
disposal. What could he do. He knew that confronting the Grey Lupine
directly would fail. Gggthxtsth was powerful, but he had a terrible
secret: to leave his home dimension meant complete disempowerment. Only
fragments of himself: the minion-demons were capable of leaving.
Minion-demons...perhaps there was a plan there? He reached out to the
next most promising minion-demon: Twenty-second, and enhanced his mind.
Perhaps Twenty-second could succeed where Nineteenth had failed.
***
     "Chuck, thanks for stopping by...I really needing to...say something."
     "Hey, its nothing you wouldn't do for me."
     "Well, I ohh!!!"
      Suddenly, Gaskell began to lose colour! She began to sink into the
floor, unable to keep her molecules together!
     "Liz!", shouted Dickens. "You've got to get to the TV room! Liz!
Ben! Doyle! Help!"
     Dickens concentrated, focusing his power on Liz's mind. If she could
only move herself, she would be safe. She calmed down, but seemed to be
in a daze still. Dickens was cursing when Ben and Arthur ran into the room.
     "Good lord!", yelled Ben. He turned to Doyle. "Well?"
     "I'm thinking, my good man!"
     Dickens turned on Doyle. "Well think faster! She's slipping away!"
     Doyle's face was screwed up in concentration. "Ben! Blast some of
the TV room's floor away! Bring it here!"
     Ben ran out, and could be heard to yell loud abuses at the floor. He
quickly reappeared with several large chunks of the black floor.
     "Can you blast the floor here?"
     Again, Jonson hurled insult after insult at the floor. He flushed a
bright red, obviously humiliated at his choice of victim. Doyle and
Dickens both grabbed a chunk of floor, and waited. The second the Jonson
blasted below Gaskell's level, they thrust the black floor home, under
her. To their relief...it held her.
***
"See anything?", phoned Aphra to the team.
     "Not yet" "Nothing" "Zilch" replied the team.
     Aphra murmured a reply. She was increasingly uncomfortable. de Coure
was halfway through his speech, and nothing had happened. If only someone
would snap their gum, or hurl abuses at him, she would feel so much
better! It was just TOO quiet!
     *Ring*
     "Aphra."
     "Spenser. I think I-I-I've spotted t-t-t-trouble."
     Finally! "Where?"
     "There's a g-g-g-guy in the third row. He's got a briefcase."
     "So?"
     "A-a-a-as I walked by the r-r-r-row, it started ticking."
     "Oh."
     Aphra decided that this was best handled discreetly. By her. She
walked up to the third row. Sure enough, a tall man with moustache was
sitting on the end, ticking briefcase in hand. What an amateur. She
looked over at the briefcase, which was half open, and saw some wires.
Aphra smirked.
     "Not today, you don't.", she whispered to the startled man, and
reached into his briefcase. She pulled out a block of C-4 with timer setup.
     The man stood up, quickly drawing his gun and pointing it at her.
The crowd nearby gasped! Soon everyone was looking in their direction.
Even de Coure was staring!
     "Damn. The gun! Always check for a gun!"
***
     The Grey Lupine was in a rare mood. What would he do first? He had
immense power, he always had. But up until a few days ago, he had been
using it passively. A few Magister-controlled senators here, a Superguy
there. But now...he'd had his first big taste of power. He knew power,
and wanted to use it. He wanted EVERYTHING! He didn't even need the
aliens he's captured, although they made things a lot simpler. He had
commanded a fleet to arrive at Earth, so that he could integrate the
planet into the galactic empire which he had suddenly inherited. But what
to do in the meantime? Perhaps...perhaps it was time to start building an
army. When the aliens arrived, he would have a massive armada, but for
now, he needed troops for some short-ranged plans he was brewing up. The
Grey Lupine could have used Cherri's template to create beings loyal to
the aliens, but he preferred them to be aligned to himself. He buzzed for
his secretary, whom he knew to be an avid fencer, brown belt and jogger.
"Oh Miss Lyndecker? Could you please come in here for a moment?"
     He quickly flipped his office's internal rules system into Vampyre;
felt the fangs grow in his mouth. When Angela Lyndecker walked in, he
smiled to himself. The first of his army...the lieutenant...
***
     Aewan was appalled. It sensed a change in reality...somewhere.
Personae creation abandoned for the moment, it reached out a fraction of
its incorporeal form, and analysed a random example of this changed
reality, not realising that through his analysis, he was undoing its very
existence...
***
     "Okay. Let's talk this over rationally.", began Aphra, as the gunman
gestured with his gun for her to be silent.
     Aphra cursed, and saw the other authors waiting, tense. Milton and
Shakespeare were powerless to act, as the former would draw too much
attention summoning help, and the latter would be noticed advancing on
the gunman. But Spenser...hmmm...
     "Oh, so you don't want to play FAIR, do you? What do you want,
something for your LAND?" Oh dear God, please don't let that sound as
lame as I think it does, Aphra prayed.
     The man smirked. "All I want is for this man to be silenced. He
threatens much, and delivers little."
     Oh boy, an Anti-Separitist  terrorist? What was this world coming
to? The Separatist ones were bad enough!
     "Don't you realise that he'll be a martyr?", asked Aphra, watching
Spenser drop to his knees, to crawl through the tiny portal he had opened.
     Again, the man smirked. "Martyr are highly overrated. When was the
last time a martyr got preferred treatment at a bank?"
     Not only an Anti-Separitist terrorist, but a total loonie, too! "You
do realise that you don't have anything now, do you? de Coure must have
been taken kilometres away by now! And you don't even have the bomb!"
     "de Coure would never allow himself to be taken away! He believes in
being a martyr! Besides, I still have the gun. So give me back the bomb."
     Aphra strained her peripheral vision to its limit, and saw Spenser
emerge near Shakespeare, who climbed into the portal. Spenser repeated
this for Milton. Aphra wished she could simple create a lead sheath over
the gun, but any sort of gesture (like pointing at the man) would
probably force him to fire.
     "Sorry, I can't do that."
     "Oh, you'll be sorry all right."
     Suddenly, the gun discharged!
     The crowd was shocked into immobility. Aphra felt more surprise and
embarrassment than pain, as the bullet passed through her lung. The
gunman turned his gun on an innocent bystander, just as a pseudo-angel
emerged from a rift, followed closely by an enraged Shakespeare.
     The angel quickly dismantled the gun, as per its instructions, while
Will 'da Bruiser' Shakespeare (powers discreetly shifted into quickness
and strength) leapt at the assailant. "You kilt Aphra!" he bellowed, and
made contact with the gunman's chin.
     Spenser ran out of the portal, and checked Aphra's vital signs.
"She's st-st-st-still breathing! H-h-h damn it! Help me lift her!"
     Milton didn't need any more encouragement. Together, he and Spenser
were able to shift Aphra into Arcadia, leaving Shakespeare to guard the
speech. de Coure emerged onto the stage, prepared to continue exactly
where he had left off.
***
     "It doesn't look good.", diagnosed the leech.
     Milton looked tearfully up at the healer. "You CAN save her, though,
can't you? You can! I know it!"
     The leecher bent over Aphra. "I'll do my best." He pulled out a jar
of leeches.
     Milton nearly took his head off, but Spenser restrained him.
"J-j-j-john no! That sort of c-c-c-cure works here!"
     Moaning, Aphra achieved lucidity for a moment. "Jooohhn."
     "Shush, don't speak. Try to save your strength..."
     "John, don't be an idiot...quoting...old movies...you have to...get
out...there...there's another...gunman..."
     "She's delirious.", whispered Spenser.
     "N...ot...delirious....too easy...doesn't make sense...supposed to
find bomb..."
     Understanding crossed Milton's face. "Oh no. Oh no! Of course! That
twit out there was just to put us off our guard!"
     With that, Milton jumped out of Arcadia.
***
     Two character sheets disintegrated, and were replaced by two
more-or-less human bodies: Cherri and Nineteenth. Released by the
entitie's probing, they were just a bit groggy, as those of you who have
been reduced to paper can understand.
     Nineteenth stood first, and looked over at Cherri. She was writhing!
He bent over his potential ally, trying to figure out what was wrong.
    "Cut off...", she gasped.
"I'm..not...part...of...the...mind...anymore..."
     Realising she would be useless, Nineteenth stood, and concentrated,
preparing to teleport to a safe location
***
     The Grey Lupine surveyed his first creation with pride. Angela
Lyndecker's prone body lay across his office floor, two tiny holes in her
neck the only indication of what had happened. Soon she would awaken,
spread his gift to those he designated. The Grey Lupine smiled, suddenly
understanding the alien race he now controlled. This was the first time
that he'd used the Vampyre rules...and he found that he liked it.
***
     Milton emerged into the real world, and summoned another
pseudo-angel. "Find any explosive device that you can." he instructed it.
He had little hope that this would work, however, as the pseudo-angel
began to isolate the hydrogen in the atmosphere. He had to narrow the
scope. "Find all human made explosives." Still no good, there were far
too many objects which could explode under very contrived, but still
theoretically possible circumstances.
     "Okay...let's see...I know! Find all explosive devices that are
connected to a timing device!"
     Suddenly, the pseudo-angel darted towards a nondescript man in the
second last row, and gestured to his briefcase. Milton smiled. "Grab the
briefcase." He instructed the little helpmate. The pseudo-angel did as it
was told, and took the valise in hand, flipping it to Milton.
     The man stood up, looking shocked. "Sacre mere, I've failed the
movement."
     "Youze shur did!", remarked Shakespeare, charging out of Arcadia,
and landing a strong right on the revolutanary's chin.
***
     "So you see Mr de Coure, his plan was to make you into a martyr.
Then, he could blame the bombing on Anti-Separitist partisans.",
explained Milton, after the conference had FINALLY finished.
     "Oui, and it would have worked too, if it hadn't been for those
meddling kids!"
     "Merci.", spoke de Coure. "I owe you my life."
     "Think nothing of it. Its our job."
     "Mmm...so you Behnnies, you agree with my policies, no?"
     "Its not my job to believe the philosophies of the people I save!"
     "That is...unfortunate. I would very much like to have you on my side."
     "Sorry. I like Canada the way it is: together."
     "You don't realise how colonial minded you are, do you?"
     "I didn't say that...oh never mind! You'll just twist my words
around to fit your needs."
     de Coure reached out his hand, placed it on Milton's shoulder. "You
needn't treat me as the enemy. Certainlement, we are on opposite sides of
this issue. But that doesn't make me a monster? I fight for what I
believe is right. I feel that this cause is right. And so do you. Let us
agree to disagree on this today, oui?"
     "Fine. I...Aphra!"
     Milton, with the speed of the person who just remembered that his
anniversary was two hours ago or that he had left his wife in critical
condition, ran to Spenser's portal, and through.
     The leech looked up at Milton. "She'll pull through. But don't let
her get out of bed for a few days. And give her plenty of yoghourt."
     Milton's relief was tinged with disgust. "Great.", he thought, "Even
in Faerieland...doctors STILL prescribe yoghourt for everything!"
***
     "You understand your instructions, Ms Lyndecker?"
     The newborn Vampyre nodded. "I am to convert my three fittest
friends, and report back to you."
     "Excellent." remarked The Grey Lupine, stroking Angela's long, blond
hair. "You will make a wonderful leader in my army."
***
     Aewan readied himself for an assault on
reality-that-was-not-reality. He had pinpointed a large source of this
corruption of the actual, pledging himself to eradicate it completely.
***
     "You understand?"
     "Yes master.", replied Twenty Second. "Absorb my way up the ranks at
Grey Lupine Games, until I can absorb the President himself."
     "Excellent. Soon, I will have total power simply handed to me. Never
has conquest been so...simple. I could grow to enjoy it."
***
     Cherri writhed on the ground for a while longer, until she realised
that she was still alive. She stood, and experienced the confusion, but
also the power, that came from individuality. She was the first of her
race ever to achieve this. And her first desire as an individual...was
revenge.
***
     Nineteenth prepared to report to Gggthxtsth, but stopped himself. He
had never thought past returning to his 'host's' apartment. But he knew
exactly what would have happened in his absence, Gggthxtsth never
deviated. As soon as his master had lost contact with him, he would have
empowered another. Then, fearing Nineteenth would be used against him,
Gggthxtsth would put out the order to destroy Nineteenth on sight. A
minor loss, but with his newly gained sentience, it was one which
Nineteenth was not prepared to suffer! He fell back onto an overstuffed
bean-bag chair, and pondered his next move.
***
    A galaxy away, ten billion hastily constructed ships glid through the
dark of space, each carrying billions of beings, all absorbed into the
alien collective. Although their master had summoned a mere thousand
ships, every being in the collective knew that Earth was the only place
in the Universe where they could slake their thirst for Magister
cards...their only concern now. And so, billions upon billions of these
beings headed for a Blue-green mud ball which had trouble keeping
Magister cards in stock for its significantly smaller population of five
billion...of which less than 1% had even heard of the cards.
     Behind, empty planets stood as mute testimony to the Grey Lupine's
RBM (Really Big Mistake).
***
     Slate was unaware of all this.
***
     So was a guy in Yellow-Knife.
***
     In fact, everyone on Earth was more or less unaware of what was
about to happen!
***
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. Hey,
wonders the author, are any other Superguys out there addicted to
Magister cards, or were they all sensible enough to throw their money
away on less necessary things...like food, water, shelter...