In Search of a Dramatic Ending

Ivan sits quietly outside Rover’s cell deep in the dungeons of the Royal Imperial Palace, Security Division, Adjunct Committee for the Detention of Evil-Doers in Grim and Nasty Iron Cage Places. Rover’s cell is on a small hall off a main corridor, where his cell is the last one of four in a row.

The other three cells are empty, providing a certain level of privacy for Rover and Ivan as they are back away from the constant turmoil and tumult in the corridors of the Detention Center.

Ivan tends to spend most of the day with Rover, for a couple of reasons. The Big Dude needs the company to keep his spirits up, and second, it takes an hour just to make your way through the labyrinthine corridors of the jail just to get where they have Rover incarcerated. Two hours a day wandering through the dimly lighted horrors of the Imperial Dungeons can get even an irrepressible spirit like Ivan down.

So they’re playing chess and drinking cafe mochas, Rover’s favorite. Rover reaches through the bars and makes his move with his trunk. Rover has provided some special challenges to the jailers, as he keeps picking the locks, or reaches between the bars and tickles the jailers when they come to feed him the slop they call food.

Ivan just laughs at their complaints, he knows how playful Rover can be, and it’s a good sign that Rover does not smash the jailers to itty bits when he sneaks up behind them after picking the locks on the cell. Rover promised Rochester to be a good boy, and not do anything that would get him in deeper trouble, but Ivan worries. Rover is typically playful, but these are not typical times.

Ivan has been smuggling in fresh hay for Rover to eat, in itself a Herculean effort that presses Ivan’s resourcefulness to its max. The fresh hay is sustenance for the body, but Rover needs exercise. It’s in his genes to wander and being caged up like some kind of Enemy of the State, has been more to overcome than our Wooly Mammoth can quite handle. Rover is obviously edgy, stressed, losing weight, and his hair is tangled, greasy, and missing its natural luster.

While the guys play chess, it’s just another quiet day in the dungeon, with horrifying screams of tortured evil-doers, and occasional bursts of old-fashioned gun fire as the jailers execute another miscreant. They do seem to like their muzzle loaders.

Experts in torture do tend to be somewhat conservative in their choice of weapons. Nothing like a good old fashioned knives and hot irons torturer. These newfangled guys with their electronics and psychological manipulations are just so old.

There is a sign over the desk of the jailer down the corridor, a nasty one-eyed brute with an eye-patch (who looks more than a little like Dick Cheney), who watches over this cell block, and the sign says, “A Man’s Best Friend is His Corkscrew” with a disgusting picture of a poor miscreant having terrifying things done to his eyes while the laughing torturers stand around drinking Starbucks and eating waffles.

Ivan contemplates his next move. Rover has once again made a careless blunder, one that Ivan knows that the Mammoth would not make under normal circumstances. Ivan doesn’t like to take advantage of him, and tries to choose a tactful move to give Rover a chance to realize his mistake.

Suddenly the normal placid serenity of suffering souls screaming for mercy is interrupted by a whoomp sound that is more felt then heard, the cell floor seems to rise up and roll, knocking all their pieces onto the floor. Ivan tries to catch the board, but it falls. A major shock wave follows rapidly and it throws Ivan off his stool onto the floor. Rover is tossed across the cell against the far wall.

Ivan lays on the floor slightly stunned, trying to sort out in his mind what could possibly have caused an event of this magnitude this deep in the dungeon. He crawls to his knees, and looks around through the dust and floating particles of mortar in the air.

Ivan picks hinself up and sets his fallen stool back up on its legs, and uses it to start to stand up. Now there is another explosion, this time much closer and the rear wall of Rover’s cell collapses outward. Ivan sees three women dressed in assault armor waving at Rover to “Come on!” They look oddly familiar.

“Rover!! No!!” Ivan shouts after the Wooly Mammoth as he runs off with the desparadoes breaking him out of the jail. His voice falls short as the Mammoth disappears into the darkness seen through the hole in the wall.

Ivan pulls his blaster and tries to chase after them, but is uncertain which way to go. He turns towards the corridor and is faced with Ivan. “Vat?”

“Vat?” Ivan says to him.

“But du not me, I am Me.” Ivan says.

“No time for existentialism,” Ivan says. He shoots himself with a stun gun, then catches his collapsing body.

Rochester watches all the proceeding on the Security tapes. Max stands tapping his foot impatiently.

“You can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with this, Max,” Rochester says.

“Of course not. You’re not a fool. But I am hard pressed for an explanation.”

“Still working on that, I’m afraid.”

Max paces back and forth. He’s a straightforward man and has a highly sophisticated tactical mind. He stops and looks at Rochester.

“You realize we have to go after them.” Max says matter-of-factly.

“That is exactly what I want you to do.”

“Me?” Max says suspiciously. “And you will be?”

“I’m putting the crew and resources of The Keystone State at your service, with the limitations that are obvious due to missing crew members.”

Max repeats his question. “And you will be?”

“I have no doubt that you will be able to bring the peripheral targets into custody, while I will be moving on the very core of the matter.”

Max knows Rochester well. Hey, it just happens that sometimes you get to know somebody really well, and you like them, and other times, well, you know, you’re just never going to get along. Which is exactly how most women feel about the Author. They’re on the same team, they don’t get along, but that doesn’t mean that Max doesn’t respect Rochester.

“Any assistance needed from me?” Max asks.

“Just do what you do so well.”

Max nods his understanding.

They head their separate ways, in pursuit of this cunning criminal band of Republicans, err, I mean Democrats, no, wait, desperadoes. You can feel the tension building in the air of the blog, as events move towards to what feels like their terrifying inevitable conclusion.

Rochester sits in his favorite reading chair off in the corner of the Rec Center , the lamp over his right shoulder turned down to its lowest setting. He quietly puffs on a cigar.

A three dimensional representation, a projection if you will, a modest caricature of the actual reality of the living breathing creature named Alice, hangs in the air motionless before him. The time is deep in the ship’s night, and the only creatures stirring are pretty much most of the Resident Aliens, all of whom seem intent upon ignoring the conventions of the human crew and just generally disregarding any sensible similarity to quiet diplomatic teams.

“Party Animals” just doesn’t quite suffice to describe. This is of course a topic for other blog postings, some time when less weighty matters hang over our heads. In any case, everyone on the ship knows not to bother Rochester during his reading time, so the Rec Center is quiet, with the smallest of hums coming from the refrigeration units in the Café.

Alice has recently taken to recording messages instead of calling him directly. No explanation was given, and Rochester, wise in the ways of warfare and strategy, but uncertain in the ways of the heart, asked for none. Yet puzzlement weighs upon him.

He finds that stopping the message and simply taking time to look at her, to memorize the high cheek bones, the sandy blonde hair pulled back in a bun, the rolling wave curling back around the side of her head, and then the gaunt lines of her face and the pale skin from too much time in the Attic of the Library. He lingers a long time in this quiet study mode.

She wears her typical conservative grey pants suit, with a navy blue blouse with wide collars and white polka dots. A gold lapel pin with the insignia of the Library occasionally catches a sparkling flash of light.

A small necklace, a brooch in the form of a golden heart and chain, hangs around her neck. Rochester bought that for her on an out-of-the-way planet deep in the Chaos Sector where they went for seafood and snorkeling.

Rochester finds that he likes just sitting and smoking and watching Alice. At first he was a little irritated with the recordings, he wanted to talk, to interact, but then he realized that Alice was having trouble slowing down her brain, that her raging intelligence and relentless curiosity far outpaced her ability to talk to him, to share what she was thinking.

In other words, Alice has found her groove.

So many things to do, so much creativity pouring out of her imagination, Alice is probably the leading intellectual of the last hundred years. She keeps a team of assistants running 24 hours a day. Rochester appreciates her challenges, her goals and dreams, and just exactly, frankly, from a deeply political point of view, what kind of resource Alice is to the Empire.

So she sends him these nonstop soliloquies, these inadequate attempts to share with him all that she is doing and what’s going on with her. Frequently, he has to stop and review what she says, and that’s when he lapses into these trances, smoking and just gazing into her blue eyes, mentally running his hand gently down her cheeks.

He worries about her, about how he finds himself unable to have the time to be there for her, about how his whole life has been oriented around taking determined and vigorous action. Rochester is no slouch in the talent categories, but there is no human remotely close to Alice’s intellectual capacities.

There are a handful of Resident Aliens on board The Keystone State who are Alice’s equal, in their strange Alien understandings, and they are always agitating to spend time with Alice. But they are, after all is said and done, not human.

And at the center of this raging storm of scientific, creative, historical, projects and programs and revolutionary studies and on and on, this hurricane of rationality and learning, there sits a human woman who likes purple nail polish, and keeps a small stuffed toy turtle on her desk.

The best Rochester can do with Alice is just listen, and try to understand. But it is hard on both of them. In truth, Alice is a freak, a genetic anomaly. While it is true most women feel that way at some time in their life, for Alice it is a living reality. She has a regular meeting at the Science Institute to give blood and other samples.

An entire team of scientists has dedicated the rest of their lives to studying the sudden emergence in the genetic pool of this highly unusual fem who just happens to be smarter than anybody ever has been, and likes to bake cookies for the kids who come to visit the Library.

And for Rochester, he follows the way of the Warrior, one who serves the citizens of the Galaxy, whose life is dedicated to following the highest standards of the Imperial Code. Sure, he can’t quite live up to it all the time. Hey, we all make mistakes.

But if there were any two whose paths most surely were not meant to coincide, it must be Alice and Rochester. He doesn’t feel sad, or sorry for himself. He just wonders at his Fate, the way that his strange journey through life has brought him to this moment. It is perfectly okay for a SuperGalactic Hero to take time once in a while and just muse over life.

The Julia Roberts Shrine, more than any living mere creature of the Galaxy, is tuned in to Rochester’s spirit. They go way back, Rochester and the Goddess. It was her oracular guidance that brought him to the Imperial Capital, when most young boys were simply studying to find some way to spend their familial inheritance on young females, of miscellaneous species.

But like so many things tonight, that’s a story for another blog posting.

The JRS has turned off all the blinking lights and the flashy colors. It shines with a soft purple light that blends into the yellow circle of the lamp. The color is meant to visually sooth Rochester. It plays soft music just above ambient level, just enough to reach him, without distracting him.

Destiny and Fate are the business of the Goddess but she does not forget her people, even though she seems distant some times. Sometimes a little bit of gentle encouragement from her goes a long way. The Goddess is subtle and wise.

So it is that the cigar seems especially good tonight, Alice seems even more beautiful than normal, and every breath that Rochester breathes reminds him of the richness of life.

Rochester indicates with his finger to turn the recording back on, the Computer immediately complies.

“I want to smell the ocean, to feel the sun on my shoulders, to wiggle my toes in the sand, to dodge the diving gulls. I love my work, I love the Library, but something aches inside me. I miss you terribly but I can’t leave, and you can’t come here. Isn’t there anyone else that can save the Galaxy? And I want to work on my Left Hook, and I haven’t had time to practice my piano, and damn, I forgot to water the pansies.”

Now he indicates off. Alice has walked over to the window of her office and the image freezes. The window in the display looks out up into the heavens. Rochester can see it is night, and he unconsciously lists the stars she can see from the window, and without thinking, calculates roughly where in the upper right quadrant of the sky in the window, he now sits onboard The Keystone State, just across the Galaxy, and a Universe away.

The cigar is running down, he slowly rubs it out.

“I know just the place. “ Rochester says to the projection. “Just let me clean up a few things first.”

Rochester adjusts the controls and examines the other messages he received today.

One confirms the information he got from Slip Bridgery. For the first time, Rochester has a plan to draw out his enemy.

And in the other, he watches a video as someone that looks a lot like the crew of The Keystone State breaks Rover out of jail.

Chief Inspector Six Maximilian Cromwell of the Royal Imperial SuperGalactic Mounted Police sent him this video message, with a request to come immediately to Galactic Prime Rib and pay him a courtesy call at the Imperial Prison at once.

Sometimes when you have to save the Galaxy you do it for fun, sometimes you do it out of duty, and sometimes you do it after it becomes personal.

This time, it’s just a nuisance. His instincts tell Rochester that things are happening. That events will being moving again.

He doesn’t worry about how it will turn out. All he knows is that there is someone he needs to walk down a lonely beach with, and he needs to get busy.

“Focus! Focus!”

“But I don’t wanna!”

“You have too much to do. You can’t just fiddle around like this.”

“But I wasn’t fiddling, I wasn’t even picking my banjo, I was just reading about Babylon 5 on the Internet.”

“Focus!”

“Babylon 5 is one of my favorite science fiction TV shows.”

“No one cares about old science fiction TV shows that aren’t on anymore. They only care about make-believe reality shows, which celebrity is doing which drugs, and scantily clad women. So get busy writing.”

“You’re depressing me, man.”

“Focus! You’re starting to act like a real loser!”

“I am a Ranger. We walk in the dark places no others will enter.
We stand on the bridge, and no one may pass.
We live for the One, we die for the One
– Anla’Shok credo”

“Enough with the quotes from Babylon 5 already.”

“Aw come one, just one more…”

Suddenly the door bursts open and Rochester rushes into the Author’s writing studio, grabs the Author’s office chair and spins it around. He grabs the arms as they spin past, just so that he comes face to with the Author, and slaps the Author, once, twice, three times, and then, just because he’s starting to enjoy it, Rochester slaps the Author one more time.

The Author holds up his hands. “Enough!”

Rochester holds back his hand, poised. “Say something!” Rochester commands.

“What happened? What’s going on? Why are you hitting me?” the Author asks quickly, blinking back tears. When a SuperGalactic Hero slaps you, it’s not like getting punched, but it still stings.

“You slipped into one of your fugue states. You were posting your inner dialog on the blog.”

“Whoa!” The Author says guiltily. “Did I say anything about scantily clad women?”

“Of course!” Rochester says. The whole crew has gathered in the Author’s writing studio, it’s starting to get a little crowded. You can see that the gang is not happy. Well, Rover’s not here, he’s still in jail, because we haven’t figured out where this story arc is going yet, and don’t know what to write to bust him out.

We were going to go with: Rover busted out of jail, but that’s pretty lame. Not that we have standards or anything, but even for this blog…

“Ahh,” the Author hesitates, “Did I say anything embarrassing?”

The DeeGees are standing with their arms crossed, just like their bandoliers of shotgun shells. All this talk of scantily clad women pisses them off. It’s a real distraction from serious stuff like ballroom dancing and skinny dipping in piles of whipped cream.

“Rochester!” the DeeGees shout. “He’s doing it again!”

Ivan rushes in with a bucket of cold water and throws it on the Author.
Splashes fly everywhere; everyone jumps back, the Author splutters and gasps.

“Nicely done, Ivan,” Rochester acknowledges Ivan’s quick thinking and anticipation. The DeeGees high-five him, Alice nods her approval. G5 looks a little discomfited. She doesn’t like getting water on her slacks made from the dispersed neural computer net wiring.

The Author struggles to regain his composure, which he spent the last two decades failing to accomplish. Alice starts arranging his papers on his desk, hoping maybe putting a little organization into his clutter will help.

“Sorry, Bozz,” G5 says. She has been working with her computer interface 3D displays that float in the air around her. “I am unable to pull it back. His posting hit the web and has already gone viral.”

Rochester stares at G5. “Nothing he posts ever goes viral. Nobody reads the blog at all.”

Everyone looks at the Author. He shrugs. “Hey, I’m pretty competent in my fugue states, you know that. Anything can happen.”

The DeeGees exhale with exasperation and disgust. They turn around and march off, making it clear what they think about the whole situation.

“We need to get to the bottom of this, Rochester,” Alice says with malice aforethought, glaring at the Author.

The Author cringes. Hey, if Alice ever glared at you, you would cringe too.

Rochester looks thoughtful. He looks at Ivan. He nods towards the Author’s desk. Ivan nods knowingly. The desk nods back. Ivan pulls open the top left drawer, looks into the drawer, shakes his head at what he sees, and then carefully reaches in and pulls out…

“Twinkies!” G5 says. “That’s where my Twinkies have been going!” G5 grabs the box of Twinkies out of Ivan’s hand and cuddles them protectively. She gives the Author a dirty look. Some people can handle Twinkies, some cannot. For G5, they are inspiration. For the Author, a strangely demented mental fugue state.

Rochester sighs deeply.

Ivan, G5, and Alice turn around and walk off without saying goodbye and you can hear them saying something about coffee.

“What am I going to do with you?” Rochester says to the Author.

The Author hangs his head with guilt, trepidation, and embarrassment, though he has trouble spelling the last two. Too many syllables.

“I tried the patch, it just doesn’t work,” the Author says.

“Carrots and apples. Carrots and apples,” Rochester says. “We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

Rochester sighs again.

“I’ll try.”

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” Rochester says reluctantly, “But you have forced my hand.”

A few days later the crew sits quietly in the Command Center and a sudden klaxon alarm sounds.

Not really needing to do so, but because it’s exciting and cool, Ivan jumps up and shouts, “Bozz! Tvinkie alarm!”

Rochester sits in his Big Honking Command Chair which is basically right behind Ivan, and within arm’s reach of the Julia Roberts Shrine. Rochester smiles at Ivan’s enthusiasm. “Okay! You know the drill.”

The drill consists of busting down the Author’s door and swooping in wearing full combat attack team armor, grabbing the Twinkies, ransacking the Author’s quarters just for the heck of it, firing off bursts of gunfire using old-fashioned bullets which make lots of smoke and noise, and then running away and having a coffee break.

Ivan and the DeeGees take this on with quite a degree of enthusiasm. G5 chooses not to participate as she is kind of in a huff about the Author stealing her Twinkies, and these things take time to work out.

Alice is back where she was prior to the Author writing her into the blog on The Keystone state (thank heavens for the power of narrative) so she doesn’t get to have any of the fun.

Rochester simply returns to his planning. Somehow, someone (but who?) has to figure out how the rest of the story will move forward.

“Just when was the last time you were in this part of the ship?” G5 inquires. They already know the answer, but G5, ever the data analyst, just needs to make sure.

The crew wanders through a vast catacombs-like section of the ship. Each wears a white hard hat with a light on the top and the Arch and Key emblem of The Keystone State on its side.

“Well,” Rochester hesitates. “It’s been a while. I don’t quite recognize quite where we are. This dismal place will give gloom a good name.”

“What’s he got to do with it?” ask the DeeGees. They’re thinking of Billy Bob Gloom, famous Romance author and rapper, several of whose books the DeeGees modeled for the cover, and whose music videos they danced in.

Rochester has wandered off into the murky shadows and doesn’t answer, apparently not hearing the question. The DeeGees look around, headlamps casting triangular shapes into the dank murk. No one is visible.

Music from the Julia Roberts Shrine can be heard in the distance.

“Where’d everybody go?” the littlest Dancing Girl says. Their simul-speak has broken down. A sound of water dripping echoes around them.

A sound of something skipping across the floor and the Biggest Dancing girl jumps back. “Ow! I kicked something.”

The three of them start looking around on the floor, their lights crossing and uncrossing.

“Look at this.” The Middle Sized Dancing Girl holds up a round cylinder as she stands from kneeling down. The cylinder is about two inches in diameter and a foot long. It is embossed with strange flowing script and Golden Runes. They stand in a huddle staring at it. The Middle Sized Girl looks it over, and grasps one end.

“I think it unscrews,” she says and starts to twist the end.

“Don’t open that!” comes a sudden commanding voice, filled with dark undertones of ancient arcane knowledge.

The DeeGees jump in shock in unison and turn towards the voice. “Who’s there?” they ask, simul-speak returning with a hint of breathless anxiety.

A light flashes in the distance, as if a door opening and closing. They look around and suddenly their lights are filled with the horrific countenance of Grundebar, the ancient vampire turned vegetarian. He’s looking a little lean, but creepy as always.

The DeeGees try to maintain their ultra-cool DeeGeeNess, that hip and with-it urbanity that has brought them such renown. But their lights start to show a slight shakiness, and they all step back as one when Grundebar steps forward.

“Perhaps you better give me that,” Grundebar says, gently offering his hand, and gesturing for the cylinder. “One never knows what strange mischief one may encounter.”

The Middle Sized Dancing Girl slowly reaches out her hand and cautiously drops the cylinder into Grunderbar’s hand.

There’s a sudden clang, as if someone has dropped a large wrench onto a metal plate. They all look around.

“Hey, where’d he go?” the Littlest Dancing Girl says.

“Where’d who go?”

The DeeGees jump in the air at the sound of a voice behind them and turn around whipping out a wide variety of deadly weapons.

“Whoa, there,” Rochester says. “It’s just me.”

“Where have you been? We found a Secret Manuscript! Grundebar acted like it was his.” This was not simul-speak, but each of the three says something different all at the same time. They stop and look suspiciously at each other. This is highly unusual behavior for the DeeGees.

A large white rabbit hops across the scene in between the DeeGees and Rochester. They watch it hop off into the creepy murkiness.

Rochester stares after the rabbit, a vague disquiet forming in his gut, but asks about what the Girls said. “I haven’t been anywhere, been here the whole time, what Secret Manuscript? Grundebar was here?”

“Grundebar was ver?” Ivan says. They all turn to him.

“Where have you been?” Rochester says. “I’ve been looking all over for you and G5.”

G5 walks around from behind Ivan. “Right here, Bozz. Been here all along.”

“Well, I was just discussing with the DeeGees,” Rochester says and turns back to the girls, but they are gone. A small tangle of blond hair floats to the ground in the light of his headlamp.

“Nobody move!” Rochester says and signals to everyone to stay in one place. Too late he realizes that there is nobody around to hear him.

Loud cackling laughter echoes around Rochester, circling him like some kind of dark malevolent Fiend from Hell, or a Republican candidate for President.

It suddenly strikes Rochester with brilliant realization that he is trapped in the theoretical sub-blog space, that often predicted but never proven sub-dimensional space where good writers become hacks, facts become speculation, opinions become viral, cliche is SOP, and any posting written at any time can suddenly without warning overlap into one from the future or the past or the present. This strange void underlying the reality of the SuperGalactic Internet is the Holy Grail of bloggers for the implied power it opens up.

“No, I didn’t,” Rochester says, suddenly realizing that he answered a voice that was describing his situation. “I didn’t realize it until you explained it.”

Rochester doesn’t appear to realize that sub-blog non-dimensional space violates all the rules of physics, literature, common sense and manners and that he is suddenly conversing with the Omniscient Narrator of the blog.

“No, need to be condescending,” Rochester says. “I’m standing right here, and I understand very well what sub-blog space is all about, I know just who I’m talking to, though I have some doubts about your manners.”

Don’t blame me, I’m not actually a person, I’m a point of view.

“Okay, so let’s discuss this like gentlemen,” Rochester suggests.

I’m listening.

“Straighten this mess out or I will kick your ass from here to Brooklyn,” Rochester says with his eyes narrowed.

There is a long pause, as if reality itself were realigning. Rochester rolls his eyes and shakes his head with dismay.

Suddenly the entire team, except for Rover, reappears, talking amongst themselves about the other blog postings to which they were so suddenly transported. Rover doesn’t get broken out of jail until the next blog posting.

The whole team turns quiet, and turns to Rochester. “Ahh, Dear, who is that voice?” Alice asks. Everybody else nods, they want to know also, but let Alice speak for them.

“Well, let’s just talk about that later.” Rochester extemporizes hoping that in the excitement he doesn’t actually have to explain who he was talking to.

This comment brings a great many strange looks over the team members, and Alice especially gives a narrowed glare to Rochester. Rochester realizes that as long as they are trapped in sub-blog space, the Omniscient Narrator is suddenly someone to be taken seriously indeed.

The crew looks at each other realizing the nature of their situation and a wild variety of thoughts cascade through their heads and odd looks cross their faces as the Omniscient Narrator considers whose mental state to discuss next. Heh, heh, heh.

“Okay, let’s just quietly walk backwards the same way we came in,” Rochester says, and they all follow his lead, walking back the way they came, which the DeeGees handily marked with a trail of bread crumbs. Which is normally Rover’s job, but he’s in jail.

There is a loud popping bubble breaking sound, and they reappear in the Rec Center.

“Well, this is not exactly where we started from, but close enough,” Rochester says.

“Speak for yourself, Big Guy, I’m half-way across the Galaxy from the Library,” Alice says a wee bit ticked.

“Me too,” Ivan says.

“As long as you’re here, let’s have dinner,” Rochester says to Alice.

They all stand for a moment waiting for some Omniscient Narrative summary but hearing nothing, return to whatever highly important stuff they were doing before being sucked into the sub-blog void.

Everyone nods knowingly. This sounds like they’re making progress at last. Heh, heh, heh…

You could describe the tavern as rat-infested if you could find any rats so down on their luck and lacking in their self-esteem that they would lower themselves to infesting this stinking mess of spilled booze, sour grapes, and moldy, half-alive piles of crap swept into the corners. It’s the kind of place that working class sentients populate when they run out of luck, out of money, and out of friends.
 
Even the voice of the omniscient narrator (that’s me) starts to tighten and snarl at the litany of lowlifers, miscreants, and malefactors crowding around gambling tables, smoking a wild variety of malodorous plants, swigging on mugs of gut scorching distillates, gabbling in a wide assortment of languages, and engaging in activities both cliché, vulgar, and immoral. The Julia Roberts Shrine, found in all corners of modern civilization, is just a decrepit, broken-down mess, barely holding itself together in the corner.
 
Rochester takes in the scene from a dark corner, back in the back, away from the tables, where the smoke thins out, and he is two steps away from the hall that leads to the rear exit. Rochester’s been around the galaxy once or twice, and blends in easily, wearing an old grey hoodie (he borrowed from G5) smoking a cheap brand of cigars, not his usual fine Cuban seed tobacco. He sits in a booth, leaning up against the back wall, legs crossed feet up on the bench, watching the tavern.
 
He’s drinking a bottle of some nondescript beer into which he casually dropped a powerful anti-everything powder to counteract the alcohol and whatever other nasty bits and scraps might be floating or otherwise contaminating the drink. Now if they could just do something about the taste.
 
The hoodie is a high-tech special that G5 has been working on, a combination of moth-eaten old rag and hi-tech composite materials that are both shielding for the mobile nano-electronics interlaced within the threading, and high-velocity impact resistant, and strongly anti-blackware. There is nothing like it in the KNOWN GALAXY and when Rochester heard G5 talking about it to Ivan, Rochester immediately suggested a field test.
 
Rochester carries a small dart launcher as his only weapon, other than his Martial Arts skills, which is something easily hidden and effective in a wide variety of situations. Even the 4 armed alien thug at the door was unable to find the launcher when he patted Rochester down after he paid his outrageous cover charge.
 
Rochester keeps the hoodie up, not just because it keeps his face in shadow, and that’s how most of the crowd looks, but because the HVAC is broken and runs all-out hot or freezing cold. Right now small puffs of condensation mix into the smoke from his cigar as he breathes out into the frigid air.
 
There’s something kind of stimulating about hanging out with a bunch of low-lifers in a bleak forsaken and dismal dive in the middle of a space station at the edges of the Empire, kind of like visiting Omaha. Rochester blends in and could be taken for just another off-duty spacer, though slightly taller and more athletic of build.

He’s relaxed and alert, calm, and in other circumstances, he would be enjoying himself. He waits patiently for his contact to show up, not at all sure if this meeting was a good idea, but willing to take the risk to gather whatever information he can on recent events.
 
Some sentients sell other sentients, some sell contraband of one kind or another, and some, like this fellow, commit a wide variety of criminal activities, including one of which he is the best at, which is selling information. Of the various types, the information brokers are far away the most expensive, the most secretive, and typically jumpy and nervous.
 
Their lives are nothing for the many who suffer from the information that they sell into the hands of the many that use it for evil. Theirs is a precarious existence, even here, where all lives are short, brutish, and generally lacking in good bodily hygiene, manners and vocabulary. The best brokers make an exorbitant living, and the worst, well, let’s just say their scattered body parts are difficult to discover, were one so inclined to seek them out.
 
Rochester’s good spirits help him review in his mind all the recent mishaps and misfortunes. Rover remains incarcerated, they are no closer to identifying the attacker on the ship, and peace remains running rampant around the Galaxy, like an old geezer who doesn’t know when it’s time to head off to the retirement home.
 
G5 and the DeeGees are just down the block in an abandoned warehouse, passively monitoring the situation. Ivan remains at the jail keeping Rover company, as Rover’s ordeal begins to wear him down.

The DeeGees stand ready to shift into assault team mode on any signal from Rochester. Today is serious business and they wear full assault team armor, though we have to admit even in full black body armor and helmets with shields, they still cut a stylish path. But trust me when I say this, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of a DeeGees assault team attack, stylish though it may be.
 
The tavern is ramshackle, and that’s being generous, but it does have a decent set of security monitors, nothing really that would even slow down G5, but Rochester is cautious. If the information broker has anything good to sell, and that’s a long if, Rochester wants to make sure that he doesn’t get spooked and depart the scene, or worse, destroy what evidence he may have. They are keeping a low security profile.
 
A scantily clad 4 armed silver blue alien waitress stomps up to his table, with speckles of gray shiny sequins glued on her body in various interesting places, and she picks up Rochester’s mug, and slams it down, splashing out some liquids onto the tabletop. Just her way of asking if he wants anything else.

Rochester tosses her some coinage, which she catches with her two lower hands, while holding a tray with one of the uppers over her shoulder. She signals okay with her remaining hand, and winks with two of her four eyes.
 
Rochester is uncertain if that is an alien come-on or not, but she doesn’t hang around to pursue the matter, whirling away into the crowd, to be replaced by none other than Rochester’s old nemesis, Slip Bridgery.
 
Slip slides onto the bench opposite Rochester, holding a mug that emits a slow fizzling mist of some kind, and carefully places it on the table. Slip smiles. Rochester moves to drop his feet onto the floor, facing across to the other bench.

Rochester has worked for years to get this close to Bridgery, and now here he is at last, and he has to honor his word to take no action. Rochester struggles with throwing a roundhouse haymaker at Bridgery, and manages to hold back his understandable compulsion.
 
“Well, Rochester, not in all my years would I have guessed that you would come to me for help.” Slip doesn’t attempt pleasantries. He smiles under his derby, his red hair tucked back in a ponytail. He wears an old country gentleman’s tweed suit, with a scarf nattily tied around his neck.
 
“You’re a man of many talents, Bridgery, all of them anti-social, but I’m willing to admit that sometimes your talents may show their worth. Depends on the quality of your information.” Rochester manages to get this out without too much growling.
 
“Well, tentative compliments from the SuperGalactic Hero Known Around the Galaxy. Impressive.” Slip holds his hands together at the knuckles and taps his thumbs together. An old habit.

“Well, I suppose this pains you no end, though it amuses me, so I am of two minds whether we should get down to business or drink and swap old war stories. We have, after all, been playing the game for many years, you and I. We should take advantage of this truce to compare notes.”
 
Rochester snorts. “Let’s get down to business. I don’t want to get warm and fuzzy. I want to get to the bottom of things.”
 
“I have to admit that for once I am in complete agreement, Rochester.” Slip says this casually while sliding a piece of paper onto the table, while ostensibly picking up a napkin to wipe his mouth. “This whole affair you are enduring has given me cause for worry.”

“If, just for the sake of argument,” Slip continues, “This unknown assailant were to best you, whatever would become of the way things are? I like the way things are, and I am afraid that having someone of such obvious talents, someone who can best you in a game of wit and strategy, something that even I have not been able to do, could make life difficult for me.”
 
Rochester has the paper in his hand and glances at it quickly. “Yes, it could produce a radical restructuring in the politics and economy of the Galaxy, but how would that be more difficult for you?”
 
“Competition, Rochester, competition. I have worked hard to be number One. I don’t take to rivals kindly.” And the last was spoken with some vehemence, for Slip is known for a nasty temper and doesn’t take kindly to someone moving in on his turf.
 
Rochester snorts again. “This is twice what we agreed upon.” The paper goes up in a small puff of smoke in Rochester’s hand. Oddly enough, this seems completely commonplace in this tavern.
 
Slip merely smiles. “You’re good for it, and I have a reputation to maintain after all.”
 
Slip slides off the bench and stands up.
 
“What about our deal?” Rochester says about to grab him before he gets away.
 
Slip nods towards Rochester’s hand. “In the ash. I’m waiting for notification of transfer of funds.”
 
Rochester doesn’t even move. Slip has some kind of advanced communications, and so does Rochester, but neither is willing to give anything away.

Rochester knows that G5 received the go ahead that Rochester just sent via elbow pressure on the appropriate spot in the fabric he wears. The microdot of information media left in the ash in Rochester’s hand, starts downloading through the hoodie.
 
Rochester gets a small red beacon in the side of his vision, an acknowledgement that G5 has the data and it looks good, and that funds have been transferred securely.
 
Slip nods. “Nice doing business with you, Rochester. Perhaps we can meet again under different circumstances, and share a decent cold beer.”

He taps the brim of his derby with a two finger salute. “Be seeing you,” and without another word disappears into the crowd, true to his name and faster than Rochester can keep track.
 
Rochester puts out his cigar on the tabletop, just another burn scar amongst many, leaves an extravagant tip, and heads out. It’s time to see if the new info will lead them somehow to the Secret Dark Nemesis.

The Keystone State is a BIG Ship. Some chroniclers have described it as a Space City, or even its own sub-directorate in the Bureaucracy of the Empire. Attempts to map or itemize or catalog the ship fail simply because it is dynamic, constantly changing, in shape, function, crew and vast cornucopia of stuff. Not unlike the typical suburbanite’s two car garage.

This afternoon, Rochester strolls the aisles, showrooms, and exhibits in the Royal SuperGalactic SpaceFlight Institute and Museum that takes up one large section of the ship. He enjoys meandering through the vast collection of spacecraft from races from all over the KNOWN GALAXY. It’s a place for Rochester to let his imagination wander, a place where he goes to think about problems, to work over those things that a SuperGalactic Hero has to work through on his own. He faces a terrible situation.

They have made no progress on their search for the Evil Perpetrator (Rochester has started thinking of the phrase in Capital letters) of the Rec Room attack. They believe but haven’t been able to prove that the same person is behind the frame-up of Rover. Rover languishes in jail, behind bars, his spirit withering, longing to roam the open prairies, not to mention to cruise the InterGalactic Spaceways kicking bad guy butt.

Ivan does his best to console the wooly mammoth, and the DeeGees have exhausted themselves doing cheers, but the shock of the arrest and accusations wears on Rover. He barely eats six bales of hay a day, and his hair is starting to fall out.

Rochester is left with one last unofficial channel of investigation. There is one person in the KNOWN GALAXY that is even more connected than the Julia Roberts Shrine. But Rochester hesitates, unwilling to step over that final line, the line that desperation drives even a SuperGalactic Hero to cross. But the sheer depth of compromised integrity that it means, makes Rochester face a tough call.

So he walks the Space Museum and considers all the races that have braved the heavens, seeking the dangers and finding the inspirations that come with space travel. He hopes for some kind of way to resolve his internal conflict.

He hears soft footfalls come up behind him.

He chuckles. “I know those footsteps anywhere,” he says and turns around.

Now the sight that greets Rochester would be one to make a commonplace powerful fighting man cringe and bend over to protect his vital parts, but for Rochester it’s just another day at the office.

In front of him is the 8 legged body of a gigantic hairy spider like lifeform with a face-like end of the body pointing towards Rochester. This is creature is Michelangelo, the Curator of the Museum. His anthropomorphic “face” has 8 eyes and a one foot mouth with a pair of crunching mandibles on each side.

Michelangelo’s race populates a solar system at the outskirts of the Empire around a dim red star called Z-alpha-WS, which is an old Human Mining Corporation designation, which the spider dudes never bothered to change. The Zalphaws are one of the few races to fail to embrace the Julia Roberts Shrine. When pressed on the issue, they just shrug and mumble something about the predator / prey instinct.

Otherwise the Zalphaws are entirely friendly and have become one of the most highly regarded races in all the Empire’s diplomatic circles. They just don’t get invited to very many parties.

Michelangelo’s private collection of spacecraft that he collected over many centuries (they live a really long time) forms the core of the Museum. He has made a special study of the history of spaceflight across the KNOWN GALAXY and made a name in scholarly circles for his numerous historical writings. He has become semi-retired and curating the museum has made him a happy spider.

Michelangelo and Rochester have a standing agreement. Rochester is allowed to visit the Museum any time he wants without an appointment, and Michelangelo is allowed to try and sneak up on Rochester and jump him.

One might think that a spider that stands 4 feet off the ground at the shoulders (and chroniclers disagree over just where the “shoulder” on a Zalphaws actually is) would make some kind of noise when moving but the members of his species have an innate ability for stealth. The only real noise they make is when they drop onto their unsuspecting prey from the ceiling to suck out its bodily fluids. Sort of like Newt Gingrich.

Rochester insists that he can hear the footfalls of a Zalphaws and so far Michelangelo has not been able to prove him wrong. But he keeps trying.

Michelangelo laughs along with Rochester. “Cigar?” Rochester asks.

The somewhat incongruous sight of a giant spider smoking a cigar and talking to a SuperGalactic Hero is not something that everyone gets to see and you readers of the blog should consider yourself lucky.

They smoke in socialable silence for a while, softly strolling through the exhibits. Rochester stop s in front of an ancient five-legged lander, a historical oddity that was found on an asteroid in the old Earth System but no one has ever been able to determine who it belongs to.

Michelangelo is a patient creature and quietly waits, a cloud of smoke wafting upwards.

“As you have already surmised, I have a bit of problem,” Rochester says.

Michelangelo is an avid follower of everything that happens on the ship, and simply bobs his fronting section of his body, in a congenial imitation of a human nod.

“It is difficult to imagine that in this day and age that our biggest problem remains getting accurate information. We have exhausted all our resources, save for one, and I loathe following that path, regardless of the situation.” Rochester returns to silence.

Michelangelo says, “You know that all my resources are yours, and I know that they too have been insufficient. For this I provide you my humblest apologies.”

Rochester nods his understanding.

“But,” Michelangelo goes on, “I do know something about intelligence gathering, and while it may be distasteful, no one will judge you harshly, as long as you take appropriate precautions to avoid making the situation worse.”

“You know that I am a careful man,” Rochester says quietly.

“Indeed, but in this case, perhaps too much so. I presume you are concerned about becoming ensnared in some kind of diabolical side track?”

Rochester nods grimly.

“Based upon my experience over the years, I will venture a guess, that in this one situation, you will find that an old saying has much truth to it.”

Rochester turns to the spider curiously. Michelangelo, while talking to Rochester has been polishing the legs of the lander with his front two legs, which have opposing claws and are quite versatile gripping hands. In fact, Zalphaws are surprisingly ambidextrous.

“What saying is that, Mike?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I believe that similar sayings are found in a number of races’ history including your own.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Rochester says, a new light coming into his eyes. “Thanks for the insight.”

“Always available for consultation,” Michelangelo bows slightly.

“I’ll be back,” Rochester says.

“Next time I will catch you,” Michelangelo promises.

They enjoy a laugh, Rochester strides off and waves over his shoulder. Michelangelo strolls down the aisles, enjoying his cigar and the museum, an endless source of delight to the old Curator.

As Rochester leaves the Museum, Alice walks up and joins him, apparently just coming to find him.

“Rochester, I’m heading back to the Library,” Alice says without preface or transition.

Rochester keeps walking even though these words are unexpected and make him unhappy. “I can use your help here.”

“Actually, I can be of more value at the Library. Yes, it’s true. The Keystone State is unsurpassed for data processing capabilities, but you have to remember that the ship is just one part of the web that the Library sits at the center of.”

Rochester likes the imagery of the web having just spent time talking with Michelangelo and suspects that Alice doesn’t realize what she just said, but he needs to discuss something else. “That’s not at all what I meant.”

Alice stops walking, forcing Rochester to stop and step back to her. “What in the world do you mean?”

“Go to the Library and do what you do as you only can do it. But remember this, the Galaxy may need you at the Library, but I need you here.”

Alice and Rochester share a deep look of understanding. It is a long moment.

“I think I may be able to arrange for some time off when this is all done,” Alice says, glancing away from Rochester while smiling sadly.

“So with that said, you must be off, and I have someone I must go see,” Rochester says.

Alice nods. They walk off into the ship together for now but soon to go their separate ways again.

The crew has gathered in the Briefing Room in the Computer Center. They’re reviewing the evidence collected against Rover. There is a feeling of gloom and emptiness, if the looks on their faces is any indicator. You might be surprised how much room a Wooly Mammoth takes up in your heart, not to mention the safety zone necessary around his wide swinging tusks.

No one sits in the rows of seats looking down into the display tank. They all stand, shoulder to shoulder; reaching into the display tank and moving documents around and reviewing security monitor recordings.

“It’s damn well about time we got this data. It’s just like Max to drag his feet, if only to frustrate me,” Rochester says grumpily.

No one replies. They know better than to try and interact with Rochester when he’s like this. Alice sighs lightly, she’s not one to sit idly by, and yet the current circumstances seem untenable. The mysteries only seem to deepen and what to do about Rochester? How do you console a Man of Action, a SuperGalactic Hero, when every action seems to lead to dead-ends, or more confusion?

Ivan starts to summarize the conclusions.

“The creature in question,” Ivan refuses even to acknowledge that it might even possibly be a Wooly Mammoth, as Rover is the only known living specimen in the Galaxy. “The creature is constantly leaving half empty cups of Caffee Mocha around the scenes of the crimes. “

“Yep, that sounds like Rover all right.” Rochester says without looking up from the security video he examines. “I can’t count the number of his cold and forgotten Caffee Mocha’s that I’ve picked up and tossed into the recycler.”

A look of consternation passes over Ivan’s face, but he continues. “At least once at each scene of the crime, the creature turns without looking, causing his confederates and cohorts to duck to avoid being smacked by its tusks.”

“Yep, that sounds like Rover all right,” Rochester says. This actually gets a few nods from G5 and the DeeGees. They have all developed highly sensitive tusk avoidance reflexes.

Ivan looks yet more perplexed but continues. “The creature communicates mostly with a grouping of well-modulated grunts and groans with an occasional lengthy soliloquy quoting one of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes.”

“Yep, that sounds like Rover all right,” Rochester says. This one even gets a nod from Alice. How many times has she had to look up the citations that Rover quotes so Rochester can understand the context that Rover refers to?

Ivan can’t stand it any longer. “BOZZ!! YOU NO HELP!!!”

Rochester turns at this outburst. “Just saying, that’s all.”

“I think what Rochester is saying,” G5 begins, “Is that for somebody who is analyzing the evidence without bias that they must admit that that it does seem to point to Rover.”

“But for someone like us,” Alice adds, “Who presumes Rover’s innocence, the evidence points to a well-designed and executed attempt to frame Rover, and probably indirectly cast a shadow not only on Rochester’s reputation but on the rest of us, as well.”

This comment makes the DeeGees start to pout. It’s been several days since they’ve been able to think of anything to cheer about, and the whole thing is just becoming persnickety.

“Well, shoot,” says the littlest Dancing Girl.

“Gosh, darn it,” says the middle sized Dancing Girl.

“Those no good **#*(@Y&%(#*)# bastards,” exclaims the biggest Dancing Girl.

This outburst makes everyone freeze, glance sideways at the DeeGees, and look at each other with great uncertainty. Then they all laugh.

“I believe that summarizes it nicely, my Dear,” Rochester says to the girl.

So the DeeGees do backflips and cartwheels and start cheering and repeating what the biggest Dancing Girl said in a raucous and profane cheer, with some special emphasis on the wrong places, or rather the right places.

Everyone laughs and applauds. Rochester pats the DeeGees on the back, one at a time.

“Dear,” Alice has been waiting for a good time to interrupt. “G5 and I have been running a detailed analysis, and, well.” Alice doesn’t know what to say exactly.

“Bozz,” G5 explains. “Our analysis tried to correlate the recent events with the capabilities and known methodology of all your current and past enemies.”

“It’s quite a list,” Alice says. It actually impressed her, in an intimidating sort of way.

“Well, yes, of course,” Rochester says modestly.

“Hah! Hi get it!” Ivan says looking over the summaries. “Bozz, ve have somevon new.”

Rochester considers this. He walks over to the viewscreen on the sidewall, currently showing random scenes of Julia Roberts Shrines across the KNOWN GALAXY. He considers quietly and slowly.

“Isn’t it interesting how peace and tranquility breaks out at the same time as this apparently new Dark Nemesis appears? Is it coincidence or part of a Grand Scheme?”

Everyone listens, each considering Rochester’s words and starting to realize the depths of the situation they face.

For the first time in his career, Rochester for a few moments thinks that his team might just actually need some help this time.

“Team, I would appreciate if you would continue to examine the evidence. G5, Alice, good analysis, keep it going. DeeGees, I know you’ve already done this, but given our new understanding, perhaps you could inquire…” Rochester doesn’t finish.

The DeeGees stand at attention and salute. “Da, Bozz!! We are on the job!!”

The DeeGees network of Dancing Girls contacts had turned up no information, but a requery is obviously appropriate.

“I’m going to take a walk, and do a little thinking.” Rochester strides up the stairs in the middle of the Briefing Room and leaves.

The crew stands around and looks at each other. He didn’t say it, but they all know what he is considering.

And soon enough so will you…

The Keystone State has received an unexpected and highly unusual communique from the Royal Imperial SuperGalactic Mounted Police. It was cryptic and concise, with simply a request to pull it over and wait for a duly appointed representative of the Crown to rendezvous.

Rochester just shrugs and says in the same manner as the message: “Park it. Wait. I’ll be in my Ready Room.”

An odd mood of expectation and suspense settles over the Command Center. With Rochester reviewing something or other in his Official Boss Hideout Place (his “Ready Room”, a fairly unadorned office just off the Command Center that is typically used by visiting officials), the Command Center seems just less lively and now this mysterious communication from the Mounties.

Not to mention the unresolved stress from the ongoing investigations of the Rec Room visitation and takeover of the ship.

The DeeGees whisper amongst themselves, while Rover, G5 and Ivan scan through recent SuperGalactic News events seeking some clue that might account for a visit by the Criminal Investigation Division of the Empire.

Alice, having returned from the Royal Library due to the incident of the possessed juggler, busies herself with research projects and her own private investigations using methods that only the Royal Librarian has access to.

The lights of the Julia Roberts Shrine seem to have lost their luster as it pours processing power into data gathering and processing, communicating with distant terminals across the KNOWN GALAXY, seeking leads for the events unfolding on the ship.

Immediate answers have to wait until the crew assembles in Docking Bay 3, waiting for the shuttle from the Mounties’ Long Distance Interceptor to settle into the handling cradles. The shuttle hatch rolls back but no one is seen. Everybody leans forward peeking into the craft. Shadows of men talking move back and forth.

6 Mounties in full dress uniform start climbing down the ladder and take up security positions on each side. Then a man wearing a dark brown aviator jacket and a Red Beret, climbs down, steps onto the deck, turns around scanning his surroundings, spots the crew waiting, stands up straight, evens out his jacket, which was slightly pulled up from climbing backwards down the ladder.

The man has a thin very regulation mustache and bushy brown eyebrows. He wears a dark black turtleneck sweater under the aviator jacket, and wears polished black riding boots. He begins striding forward towards the Gang.

Everyone straightens, more from nervousness than anything else. The protocols are unclear in a situation like this. The Mounties are not military, they are Royal Police, and the Crew, in a somewhat circuitous detached assignment mode, are Royal Imperial Guards. The man strides up to in front of Rochester, stops and makes a small nod of recognition and acknowledgement.

“Sir Rochester,” the man says rigidly.

“Well, well, Inspector Maximilian Cromwell,” Rochester says. “It’s been a long time.”

Ivan takes a deep inhale when Rochester says the Inspector’s name. G5, Alice, the DeeGees, and Rover all exchange puzzled looks. Who hasn’t heard of Inspector Cromwell and his vast investigations, breaking up Criminal Gangs across the KNOWN GALAXY engaged in activities widely ranging from drug and gun smuggling, to political bribery cases, and an occasional Chess Club scandal.

The temperature in the Docking Bay appears to have dropped a few degrees. And it has nothing to do with the fact that thousands of years of civilization and progress have still not produced an HVAC system that can keep all HVAC zones at a comfortable temperature at the same time.

You don’t have to be an omniscient narrator to see that the Inspector and Rochester have a history and it’s not a good one.

“Years, Sir Rochester, and you haven’t called or written.” The Inspector says this with a certain disdain, making it clear that he is perfectly happy that Rochester has not bothered to communicate with him.

“So, Max, what can we do for you? We’re not exactly busy right now, the Galaxy is not in need of saving currently, but this is still an unprecedented breach of protocols, however unclear they might be regarding the relationships between our two services. And we do have a certain pressing issue of our own that we are working on.”

“Right to business, which is just as well, Rochester,” Max says. “Well, I hate to add to your current problems,” making it very clear that is just exactly the opposite of what he feels, obviously enjoying the moment. He looks back to the Mounties standing security and makes a very mild gesture with his finger, waving them forward.

The Mounties rush forward and surround Rover with Blasters drawn and aimed at the Wooly Mammoth, covering him from six different directions. And then two technicians in black fatigues emerge from the shuttle with a large chain with hooks and rings and rush forward towards Rover. Rover rears back as the technicians move in on his front legs.

Rochester, fearing a confrontation, waves Ivan forward to Rover’s side to calm the Mammoth, and turns on the Inspector. “What the hell is the meaning of this behavior, Max?” Rochester demands.

“In the Name of the Crown I present you with this warrant for the arrest of Rover, one Wooly Mammoth serving in the capacity of Crewman of the Royal Imperial Guard Ship, The Keystone State, said special service craft under the Command of Sir Rochester, Knight Excelsior of the Empire, and herewith charge said Wooly Mammoth Rover,” Max pauses to take a breath and wipe the look of distaste off his face.

“The warrant charges said Animal Crew Member,” you can tell Rover’s sheer existence bothers the Inspector, “with the recent robbery of the Royal Imperial Bank Branches on Hyperion, Planet Hiserdapplus, and the Imperial Shipping Colony of Greater Lackawanna, plus the destruction of numerous Imperial vehicles and flying crafts, and in addition the crimes of sedition, plagiarism, subversion, failure to obey the speed limit in a school zone, and committing crimes originally written up in obscure science fiction magazines.”

With each crime called out the DeeGees gasp, G5’s face turns darker and darker and angry, and Ivan is moving close to tears. Alice’s eyebrows move close together in a puzzled and clear eyed look of determination.

“Your Rover has been a busy little Wooly Mammoth, Rochester,” Max says with a certain tone of pleasure and satisfaction, knowing how shocking this must be. “Put the irons on him, Men,” Max commands.

The technicians move to obey and Rover starts to tense up. The technicians hesitate, not sure exactly how to do what they have been commanded and not wanting to be turned into mashed mincemeat technicians.

“Rover!” Rochester calls out in a commanding voice. “Down Boy! Just Relax! Do your deep breathing exercises, and work on the calming routine I’ve been teaching you.”

You can see Rover start to relax and a certain focus into the distance gets into his eyes, his chest going up and down evenly. The technicians see this and seeing an opportunity to do their job without getting stomped into Wooly Mammoth debris, rush in and snap the chains and clamps around all four of Rover’s legs until he is thoroughly enchained. Rover clearly is managing his mental state but Ivan shakes and waves his arms around aimlessly.

Rochester sees this and makes a gesture with his head to G5 and the DeeGees to go over and get Ivan away from the Mounties and Rover before he makes a fool of himself or does something stupid like interfering. Alice steps up beside Rochester. Both are calm and focused, though angry.

The women surround Ivan, G5 puts her arms around him and shepherds him away, the DeeGees all pet Rover on the tusks as they walk by, trying to add some reassurance to his meditation.

Rochester turns angrily upon Max, clearly close to coming to blows. Alice places a hand of restraint on his arm.

“No doubt you’re enjoying this, Max. In the interest of congenial relations between the Branches of the Empire, I will let this insult stand unchallenged and will accept the warrant at face value until such time as further official proceedings occur.”

Rochester grabs the paperwork from the hands of the Inspector, who lets it go with something of a huff. He waves to the Mounties.

“Move it, Scumbag!” one of the Mounties shouts at Rover. The Wooly Mammoth begins shuffling forward in his chains, head hung low, quietly breathing and chanting, making an immense effort to maintain his demeanor.

The Mounties march Rover back around to the read of the shuttle, where a ramp has lowered, and then they march up into the craft, Rover, the six Mounties with their weapons still aimed at the Mammoth, and the two Technicians bring up the tail.

The ramp raises and closes with a thump.

Ivan collapses onto his knees groaning as if some bad guy just hit him in the gut, or the Author once again overdoes it on the literary cliches.

The DeeGees gather around, G5 drops to one knee and takes Ivan’s head in her two hands and talks to him quietly.

Rochester’s anger is growing colder and he turns once more to the Inspector. “I expect, no, I demand as an acknowledged representative of the Crown, full access to all evidence available in this indictment.”

“Already being transferred into your computer systems,” Max says with a smirk.

Rochester glances at G5, who has already checked Max’s claim. She nods that they have received the information.

“Looks like you win this one, Max,” Rochester. “I expect you can find you own way out.”

“Until we meet again, Rochester,” the Inspector reaches up with his right hand and touches two fingers to his Beret in a somewhat disrespectful salute. He turns around smartly, marches to the shuttle and climbs agilely up into the craft, the ladder ascending right behind him, and the hatch closing, the craft launches from its cradle and heads towards the Docking Bay doors all in one smooth motion.

Rochester, Alice, G5, the DeeGees, and Ivan still on his knees, stare glumly at the now closed Docking Bay doors, stunned and speechless.

Rochester takes a deep breath. He looks over at the Gang, all of whom are looking at him. “Team, this will not stand,” Rochester asserts. “I promise you that.”

This rouses everyone. This is just another of those moments they always run into, when they confront an unexpected crisis. Their training and experience kick in, and even Ivan rises to his feet. The look of determination on his face is reflected on everyone.

“Bozz, Rover not bank wobber,” Ivan states gravely.

“I trust you are correct, Ivan, and it’s up to us to find out just what is going on. I know everyone is tired, and now we face another crisis. But let’s get after it.”

Rochester leads the crew out of the Docking Bay and into the ship.

Is Rover the leader of a notorious team of bank robbers, social misfits, and bloggers? The answer to that question and others will have to wait as this tale of intrigue, betrayals and dark mischief reveals itself.

“Well, Rochester, how does it feel? Hmmm?? How does it feel to be trapped like a rat, your life support slowly slipping away, your options for escape dwindling, and the future looking hopeless? How does it feel?” The Rec Center echoes and reverberates with the dark undertones of a strangely melodramatic voice asking this question, one of those voices that rise from the darkest zones of dread in your nightmares. It sounds nothing like Vin Diesel

Rochester looks around puzzled. They’re all standing in the Rec Center, in the semidarkness, trying to solve this nettlesome issue of being trapped in the Rec Center. “Ivan? Was that you asking the strangely melodramatic though cliché personally challenging rhetorical question in a manner that implies we have some kind of longstanding intimate relationship? But that sounds nothing like Vin Diesel?”

“No. Bozz.”

“G5, was that you?”

“No. Bozz.”

“DeeGees?”

They just shrug.

“JRS?” The Julia Roberts Shrine indicates it was not the source.

Rochester notices Rover trying to catch his attention while making a motion directing Rochester’s attention over to the left. Rochester follows his lead.

One of the traveling troupers lightly stands with her hands on her hips. She’s one of the jugglers, and holds a machete in each hand. She wears a red tanktop and blue and white striped slacks, barefoot, her auburn hair is tied back in a bun, and she is rather diminutive.

It seems incongruous that the deeply resonating voice could be coming from her. The voice was challenging and peremptory, and she seems pretty much like the girl next door, though in this day and age that could mean anything and is a topic for another blog posting.

“Was that you, my Dear?” Rochester asks the girl, stepping closer and he sees a frightened look in her eyes.

“She can’t answer you,” the voice says. “I have taken control of her body, and now speak for her.” The voice emanates from the girl’s open mouth but she is unable to move. She looks at Rochester with panic in her eyes. A mute plea for help.

The DeeGees gasp and a murmur of display and shock runs through the troupe of entertainers. Several start to step forward but stop when the DeeGees hold them up gently. They know that they should follow Rochester’s lead on this, and silently steer the troupers, advising them to hold their concerns for the moment, using only their empathy and martial art coolness to control the crowd and avoid a panic.

Rochester glances around hearing all this, and then looks back at the woman, barely more than a girl really. “And just who exactly are you? And what have you done to my ship?”

“Soon enough, Rochester, soon enough. All your questions will be answered. I simply wanted to provide you with a demonstration of my power. Setting the stage, so to speak, for the game to come. Consider yourself warned, and prepare yourself. We will speak again. And understand this: only one of us will survive this game with our minds intact.”

There is a sound of sizzling electronics and the girl slumps as she passes out, the lights come back on, and everyone thumps to the ground on their heels as the gravity comes back up to normal. Rochester deftly scoots in and catches the girl, slowly dropping to one knee and lowering her to the ground. Her friends and family rush forward to her side along with the DeeGees.

Rochester does a quick vital sign check, and says, “I’ll get her to Sick Bay.” He looks up and checks with the Brothers / Sons of Simon, who stand at the front of a crowd of deeply worried troupers. They nod without hesitation, granting Rochester the approval he sought. He picks her up effortlessly and rushes through the now properly operating door hatch.

After a barrage of tests, Rochester walks out to the gathered clan of troupers waiting in the main area of the Sick Bay. Rochester smiles and quickly says, “She’s fine. A touch worse for wear, but nothing that a good night’s rest and a mild sedative, not to mention a shot of wide spectrum antibiotics and vitamins, won’t clear right up.”

Everyone sighs deeply with relief. Grins and smiles spread around and they all start to talk at once.

“Well, apparently there was some kind of advanced electronics implanted into her spinal column which allowed our unknown attacker to control her, and provided the source of the excessively melodramatic villainous voice.”

Rochester explains that they haven’t been able to track down the bad guy, that they are probably under no immediate threat, and that the troupers are welcome to stay on The Keystone State as long as they want. For several reasons.

One, Rochester wants to keep an eye on them to see if any of the others have been implanted.

Second, Rochester feels chagrined that innocent bystanders were used to attack him, and feels a level of obligation to the troupers. And last, but not least, is the simple fact that The Keystone State could probably use a team of entertainers to help keep the Resident Aliens in line, as they are quite often camping out at Rochester’s office complaining about being bored, and when are they going to get back to kicking bad guys’ butts?

The troupers decide to take some time to consider the idea of staying permanently, which makes all parties happy. The girl, her name is Missie, recovers quickly as does the entrepreneurial spirit of the troupe.

The Resident Aliens embrace the mystery villain incident with great enthusiasm, and numerous committees spring up to study the incident and speculate on motive, means and perpetrator. There are presentations, lectures, and debates.

The RA’s love a good committee dedicated to speculating, where they get to argue and call each other names and just have a rollicking good time getting themselves worked up over stuff that couldn’t possibly even remotely have anything to do with Reality, and we’ll leave it to you to decide who we’re REALLY talking about…

The same cannot be said for the crew of the ship. This was a major incursion and breach of defensives. G5, Rover and Ivan have been laboring to the point of exhaustion trying to determine how the bad guy pulled off the whole caper. Rochester has been making discreet calls to a number of contacts throughout the KNOWN GALAXY, calling in a few favors and asking questions, sometimes blunt and sometimes circumspect. The DeeGees have sent out an All-Points Bulletin to their vast network of dancing girl contacts.

Alice, upon hearing of the incident, drops all her duties at the Royal SuperGalactic Library and takes a fast personal cruiser to rendezvous with The Keystone State.

The Team is in full crisis mode, and you know what that means. What do you mean, you don’t? Haven’t you been paying attention?

You’ll just have to find out next time.

“Call her! Call her! Call her!” the DeeGees chant. The crew is hanging out at the Rec Center.

“I can’t call her again. She’ll think I’m some kind of whiney, nasal-voiced, needy, old creep, like the Author,” Rochester says. He’s kind of been moping around lately. The only time he gets to see Alice is when they rescue her from Alien Kidnappers. Then it’s back to work for her.

The DeeGees sigh, and roll their eyes. “Men!” they say with exasperation in their simul-speak.

Rochester ignores this last comment, not really following the logic (all you male readers understand) and wary of the implications. This long distance relationship thing is a tentative venture, and requires a certain finesse. Unfortunately, finesse is not Rochester’s long suit. He’s a direct action kind of guy. (All you women readers know what that means.)

“Ivan? Are you sure there’s no sign of any kidnappers?” Rochester asks hopefully for the third time this hour.

“Sowwy, Bozz. Alice still at vork.” Ivan sits playing fish with G5. He doesn’t even bother checking the readouts. They would have gotten a loud and very annoying “Alice-Kidnapped” klaxon sounding off if anything untoward were to happen.

G5 and Ivan sit surrounded by the 3D holographic projections of their command stations. This is a special mobile trial rig that G5 threw together in a fit of boredom. We’ll see how it works out. G5 holds her cards with one hand, while manipulating a multidimensional space-time-fuel-speed-distance matrix the Computer uses in the space drive calibrations. She adjusts the hydrogen mix in order to prevent The Keystone State from being vaporized in a thermonuclear burst.

“Got any 3’s?” she asks Ivan.

The Galaxy has been a quiet place lately, with a minimum of killing, destruction, mayhem and social madness and paranoia. Unfortunately, these periods occur periodically, these times when peace, tranquility, and goodwill break out all across the KNOWN UNIVERSE.

Fortunately these times don’t last, but while they do, it’s a pretty dull life for SuperGalactic Heroes. Being away from Alice wouldn’t be so bad, if Rochester was out fighting horrible battles and kicking alien monster butts.

But there’s only so many times he can play chess with the Computer before the Computer gets tired of letting him win all the time and starts checkmating him with three moves. Even the Central Computer finds these outbreaks of Peace and Harmony a little on the exasperating side.

The rest of the crew seems to be taking it better than Rochester. Ivan and G5 have a number of collaborative projects (hacking projects, new servers to build, you know, cool geeky stuff) other than card games (always popular), and have been spending a lot of time catching up with the SuperGalactic Interstellar Winds of War role-playing games on the net.

The Julia Roberts Shrine is constantly busy dealing with the spiritual needs of her many billions of acolytes spread across the KNOWN GALAXY and just hanging around being cool and relevant.

The DeeGees have so many projects going on at once, that they have to have a once a week meeting just to organize all their activities, what with their Cable Show “Ballroom Dancing with Vinnie”, their Cheerleading Competitions, their Doctorate studies, and recently they took up speedboat racing and dueling banjos.

Rover has taken to studying the wide varieties of poker, and is working on getting rid of his tells. (He tends to get narrow eyed and start looking around suspiciously to see if anyone is peeking at his cards, whenever he gets a good hand.)

Rochester, adapting poorly, tends to spend long hours sitting in the corner smoking cigars and tapping his fingers on the arm of his favorite reading chair. He has even given up his work on reading all the classic authors he favors.

And this may be a case of “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”, but we haven’t heard from the Author for a while. It almost looks like he has written himself out of the story. This by itself should cheer up Rochester, but the fact that it doesn’t, indicates the depths of his despondency.

This is quite a pickle. Not to mention the fact that it kind of makes for dull blog posts. Finally, the Gang has had enough of it, and commits unanimously for intervention.

They hire a traveling troupe of players and manage to sneak them on board The Keystone State without Rochester’s knowledge, which frankly wasn’t all that hard given the circumstances. They’re the “The Interplanetarial Sons of Simon’s Traveling Troupe of Players, Poets, Athletes and Musicians.”

Together, they all sneak up on Rochester and try to surprise him. The DeeGees run out and do cartwheels, Rover runs in playing his base drum (he’s getting better, he’s been practicing and can actually approximate a beat), G5 has programmed three robots made out of spare parts and they run out, take up positions, and start taking themselves apart and putting themselves back together again, and while that is happening, G5 and Ivan come ballroom dancing out into the room wearing balloon animal hats, while the traveling players run out juggling knifes, singing melodious folk songs, dancing wild and flying acrobatics.

Rochester is unfazed and simply puffs his cigar.

Everyone tries even harder but nothing works. Rochester’s melancholy is implacable.

Rochester sighs deeply. He appreciates the efforts, but when your girlfriend is the hottest and smartest babe in the KNOWN GALAXY, what’s a troupe of vastly entertaining and talented entertainers?

Suddenly all the lights on the ship go out, you can feel the engines start to wind down. No lights are seen except for the glowing red lights in the hairdos of the DeeGees, the white and blue rope lights hanging on the Julia Roberts Shrine, and the orange coal at the end of Rochester’s cigar.

“Okay,” Rochester says. “Now you have my interest.”

Everyone looks at each other in the dim light given off by the DeeGees’ accessorizing and the JRS. They shrug.

“Uh, Bozz. Ve no do.” Ivan confesses.

“The power outage is not part of the show?” Rochester asks for clarification.

Everyone shares their heads, even the juggling monkeys on the unicycles.

Rochester sits forward in his chair, leans over and puts out his cigar with a vigorous circular motion in the ash tray.

“G5?” he commands.

“Bozz!” G5 responds with gusto. This is the old Rochester they all know and love.

“Any communications with the Computer? Or the ship?”

G5 doesn’t answer right away. She’s consulting her internal retinal displays, the 3D holographic displays won’t work with no power. “No external communications. My internal functions are all operational but nothing external responds.”

G5 gets a funny look on her face, and then looks down at the floor. She bounces on her toes and pops up into the air and settles back down. “And it looks like we’re losing the artificial gravity.”

Rover puts down his drum and with a smooth motion rolls it across the floor and into the corner and then starts walking towards the entrance gateway. Rover is typically, how shall we say this, not the lightest tread on the ship, something that the Julia Roberts Shrine is always complaining about how it shakes her circuitry loose.

In the lessening gravity Rover moves with a smooth deceptively slow gracefulness that for a few moments lulls the entire assembly, watching a gently moving Wooly Mammoth leisurely strolling through the semi-darkness like something out of a dream or a primordial nightmare.

Rover has anticipated Rochester’s orders and pops open the command panel alongside the entrance gateway and works to find some live power. Ivan glissades over next to him and starts to work alongside.

The Troupers are long time spacers across many generations and while the situation is somewhat puzzling there is no sense of trepidation. The partial gravity causes a minor shift in their postures. Two of the older men, the actual Sons of Simon (a renowned Multimedia artist) approach Rochester and offer their services, however they might be able.

Rochester listens to them while watching Ivan and Rover struggle inside the control panel. Ivan looks up, sees Rochester watching, and shakes his head no.

G5 continues to work her Internal Command Landscape, and Rochester expresses his greater concern for the safety of the guests, appreciating the offer of help from the Troupe Leaders. He waves to the DeeGees, to gather up the Troupe and see what they can do about making them comfortable in the Rec Center for the time being.

Rochester glides over to the boys working at the hatch. After a slightly non-verbal conference, they abandon their efforts and move over to the hatch itself to try the old-fashioned method.

Ivan, Rochester and Rover brace themselves against the hatch, putting their collective shoulders into it, one, two, three tries and cannot budge the hatch.

After moments of intense effort, Rochester speaks. “Okay, boys, that’s enough. Something is way out of place here. Emergency exit procedures are not working.”

The Gang stands quietly for a moment. Under no immediate threat, they are sorting out their options and trying to decide what to do next.

And we won’t find out what they decide until next time.