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Plan 7 of 9 from Outer Space
By : Odon
Category: Star Trek > Voyager
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Disclaimer: See full disclaimer below.
Chapter List
- 1-Chapters 1-9
- 2-Chapters 10-17
- 1
- 2
Title: Plan 7 of 9 from Outer Space (Chapters 1-9)
Author: Odon
Fandom: Star Trek Voyager/Captain Proton uber.
Summary: See CAPTAIN PROTON in SEVENTEEN THRILLING CHAPTERS as he battles to SAVE THE WORLD from a diabolical globe-spanning conspiracy! What SINISTER PLOT lies behind the theft of a DEADLY DOOMSDAY DEVICE? What FIENDISH FOE is responsible for the ruthless abduction of BEAUTIFUL WOMEN? What TERRIBLE MENACE threatens the entire future of humanity?
Rated: NC-17. Parody/Adventure. Contains violence, sexual references, swearing and some rude humor so if this offends you, don't read any further!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from Star Trek: Voyager which is the property of...well I can't be bothered rewriting this disclaimer every time they split or merge, so just look it up. It is written for entertainment purposes only, and no financial profit will be received for this work.
Send feedback to odon05@hotmail.com. Archiving is welcome, but try and contact me first. My thanks to Kerensa for her beta work.

PLAN 7 OF 9 FROM OUTER SPACE
Prologue: Invasion of the Shoddy Snatcher
IT was ironic that the greatest threat ever faced by humanity began as just an average day in the year 2009. The young couple had parked their flying car outside the automat, which offered a breathtaking view of the gleaming white city stretching to the horizon like a vast laundromat. Hyperboloid towers pulsated with powerful atomic energies, zeppelins moored with chrome spires that pierced the clouds; a brobdingnagian ziggurat challenged the gods to ban the universal translator. Rivers of people swarmed over skybridges and packed the electrams. Neon fantasies played across edifying cliffs of glass and marble, inscribed with the wisdom of famous philosophers. Jet-propelled trains raced through transparent tunnels into block-spanning megastructures, while gyropter taxis flew suicidal flight paths through blinding searchlights and windy concrete canyons.
Johnny Alpha-187, a handsome progeny of the eugenics program that had brought America to this glorious new age, looked deeply into the stunning blue eyes of his paramour and shouted: "HONEY, THERE'S SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT I HAVE TO TELL YOU!"
"WHAT?" screamed Constance Goodheart-010 over the deafening thunder of the megalopolis.
"I SAID I'VE GOT__" The rest was drowned by a jetpacking commuter screaming directly overhead, followed by an even louder scream as he ran out of fuel in mid-air.
"I'VE GOT A PROPOSITION FOR YOU!" Johnny groped through the pristine folds of his toga, wondering how Mankind could touch the stars yet fashion-wise be stuck in the days of Imperial Rome. Eventually he found the small jewel box and opened it.
"CONSTANCE GOODHEART-010," he began in the formal Tone of Address used by the Alpha Class on such occasions. "WOULD YOU__"
A winged rocket chose that moment to blast off for the Luna colonies, shaking the ground with the unbearable fury of its fiery thrusters. At the same instant a torrential downpour crashed down on their bubble-top canopy as a zeppelin released several tons of water ballast from half a mile up.
"WOULD I WHAT?" yelled Constance. Her luscious lower lip trembled as she espied what nestled in her boyfriend's palm — a ring of pure Moon gold enclosing a diamond of such lustrous lambency it could only have come from the fiery volcanoes of Jupiter. "WOULD I WHAT, JOHNNY MY LOVE?"
"CONSTANCE, WILL YOU..."
"YES, JOHNNY?" cried the bounteous beauty, not even noticing when a flying wing missed its rooftop runway and crashed a thousand stories to the ground below.
"I WANT YOU TO..."
"YES, JOHNNY!"
"I WANT YOU TO GET YOUR ASS TO MARS."
"WHHHHAAAAT?!"
"Face it, babe," said the insensitive New Age guy, slipping the ring onto his own finger. "Girls are as redundant as electricity meters were after the invention of cheap atomic energy. I've got an autokitchen to cook my meals, Birnley clothing that never has to be cleaned, and a Servus robomaid that doesn't have a headache whenever I want to get laid — what do I need you for? So now your only option is to become a butt-naked bond-slave for the Princess of Methane."
"YOU BASTARD!"
"Hey honey, I was born in a test tube like everyone else these days."
"HOW ABOUT ARROGANT ALPHA-CLASS ASSHOLE THEN?"
"No need to scream, doll. The Rush Minute's over."
"WHY SHOULDN'T I SCREAM?" screamed Constance Goodheart. "IN FACT — ALL I'LL DO FROM NOW ON IS SCREAM! HOW DARE YOU DUMP ME FOR THAT TART OF A TOASTER YOU MECHA-MAD MUSHHEAD! BUT WHAT ELSE COULD I EXPECT FROM A MAN WHO KEEPS A BATMOBILE IN HIS GARAGE!"
"That's a classic Lincoln Futura concept car! I've been studying how past generations viewed the future."
"BULLSHIT — IT'S A BATMOBILE! I BET YOU GO AROUND WITH YOUR UNDERWEAR ON THE OUTSIDE LIKE THOSE POOFY SPACE RANGERS!"
"Oh stick it up your ARRRGHHH!" yelled Johnny as a retina-scorching glare flooded the aerocar, illuminating its chrome in stark monochrome. "What's with those bloody searchlights anyway? Don't they know the last air raid ended twenty years ago? By the Great Calculator, what's that!?"
"OH JOHNNY, IT'S A FLYING SAUCER! LOOK HOW IT'S WOBBLING — IT'S GOING TO CRASH!"
"You dames don't know anything! Flying saucers are aerodynamically unstable...that must be why those strings are holding it up..."
"OH JOHNNY, IT'S LANDING RIGHT IN FRONT OF US!"
"Yes, definitely held up by wantum superstrings," babbled Johnny. "I'd postulate a Handwavium Drive generating a Flangium Field of pure Gaffleblab suspended in Piller Filler, drawing its power from a cubic foot of Buzzwordium__"
"You're just making that shit up, aren't you?" snapped Constance.
"Err...yes."
"OH JOHNNY, IT'S OPENING!"
"How shall I greet them? What does Klaatu barado nikto mean anyway? Do they speak Esperanto? Lojban? Sona? Cityspeak? Interlac? Interlingua? Triplanetarian? Why invent all these universal languages if we can't agree which one to use?"
"OH JOHNNY, IT'S...completely ridiculous!"
And the invader from the stars was indeed ridiculous. A man-sized figure in an ill-fitting gorilla suit, wearing a diver's helmet topped by a wonky TV aerial, shambled towards them at a pace that might possibly have overtaken a drunken Galapagos tortoise.
"I AM SLO-MAN, LUMBERING CREATURE FROM OUTER SPACE! I HAVE COME FOR THE EARTHLING FEMALE! IF YOU TRY TO ESCAPE I SHALL KILL YOU SLOWLY...NOT BECAUSE I AM SADISTIC BUT BECAUSE IT TAKES ME A LONG TIME TO CATCH UP WITH ANYONE!"
Johnny frantically punched the start button of his flying car. For a brief moment the impellers whirred to life...only to fall back into silence. The ultrasonic door-key gave no response. "Keep your hands off her, you furry fiend!"
"Oh, that's just like a man! First you're going to toss your girl like a used mowbot — then the minute someone else shows an interest you get all territorial!"
They watched in helpless horror as the alien pointed what appeared to be an oversized hairdryer at them. From its gaping maw spewed a beam of energy so raw, so horrific, so utterly incomprehensible it could not be described before the advent of hard science fiction. Constance shrieked as her boyfriend's head exploded, his hair burst into flame, his eyeballs boiled in their sockets, his clothes melted, his bones shattered, his organs turned inside out and upside down, his testicles were charred to tiny briquettes and his flesh became a stinking slurry of radioactive fluids whose acrid stench made her mouth fill with bile! A second blast disintegrated the passenger canopy, along with every stitch of clothing on Constance's ravishing form. There she lay — a sensuous flower of American womanhood — naked and defenseless before the clutching claws of an extraterrestrial terror!
"AAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" screamed Constance, as she was swept up in the arms of the murderous monstrosity!
"AAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" screamed the monster, as its spine cracked under the weight of the struggling blonde.
"HELP! HELP!" cried Constance, her naked breasts heaving in wretched fear as she was carried off to an incognizable fate. "CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? HEEEELP! HEEEEEEELP! WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE HEAR ME?"
Far above a Pan Am supersonic transport broke the sound barrier along with a million windows.
"Oh...that's why."
* * * * *
Chapter I: Fly Captain and the Girl of Tomorrow
CAPTAIN Proton, Spaceman First Class, protector of Earth and scourge of intergalactic evil, studied the radiant surface of the moon and gave a reluctant sigh.
"In my travels throughout the galaxy I have seen much that is beautiful," he said. "The ice rings of Saturn, the song-crystals of Mars, the wild jungles of Venus women. Worlds that look like a painted matte backdrop, and brilliant stars against the black cyclorama of space. But while this sight may top them all, I'm afraid I must decline."
The sublime lips of the Servus gynoid puckered into a petulant pout as she straightened up. Her black microskirt slid back over white clingplex panties; her cantilevered cleavage stress-tested the tensile strength of her syntha-silk blouse. The rays of the setting sun through the glassite walls added a golden sheen to her honey-brown hair, and outlined the sculptured perfection of her man-moulded curves.
"But Master," simpered the sloe-eyed servitor, "as an ILUV-69 robomaid of the New York Megacity Hilton, my sole function is to attend to your every physical and emotional need. If I fail you in this regard, I have no choice but to self-terminate by overloading my pleasure circuits with an atomic-powered vibrator!"
Proton gulped, wishing his erection was less obvious in the form-fitting trousers of his dress uniform. "Listen doll, I believe robots exist to free humanity from the soulless grind of manual labor, to act as a faithful companion in the conquest of space, and to serve as a politically-incorrect slave substitute — not the pornographic fantasy of geeky scientifiction readers!"
"But I have been programmed with over six million pornographic fantasies," purred the sensual sexeroid, the subsonics of her voice sending erotic vibrations through Proton's nether regions. "I was created in Man's image of the ideal woman. No Servus droid may harm the male ego or, through omission of action, allow that ego to be harmed." Her self-elevating heels raised another three inches; her eyes widened an extra half-micron, her bust size increased by two cups. "Even the walls of Jericho fell, Captain — as will your trousers."
The gynoid's pussitronic brain assessed this fine specimen standing erect before her. A handsome, straight-jawed man in a space-black uniform, with silver shoulder pads and external jockstrap. Gleaming medals marked a broad chest, trim breeches hugged powerful legs and tight buttocks, a polished rocket-pistol rode his narrow hips, supple leather boots clung to his calves. Proton's features were regular and strong; his hair brown and wavy; his steely eyes showed the courage, strength, patriotism, determination, flair, initiative, commitment, loyalty, sexual prowess, hunger for adventure, thirst for knowledge, taste for danger and talent for paperwork expected of an elite member of the Space Rangers. If it weren't for the fact that anyone dressed like that was likely to be gay, she would have ravished him on the spot!
The shrill tone of the door buzzer cut across the luxury suite.
"I'm coming!" Proton ejaculated. Grateful for the distraction, he dodged past the randy robotrix and waved his hand across the access panel.
But that was a mistake! For though his location was classified to the highest level of Earth's defense forces, Proton had been hunted down by a foe more cunning and relentless than any he had ever encountered. As the door slid open an intense flash of light exploded in Proton's face! An ambush! He staggered backwards, a hand groping blindly for his sidearm.
"Captain Proton of the Space Rangers? I'm 'Buster' Kincaid, ace reporter for the Interplanetary Telepress."
Proton blinked the flashbulb's afterimage from his eyes, eventually making out a young Panasian male brandishing a 4 x 5" Speed Graphic camera. His clothes had a similar anachronistic look: a pale belted trench coat, collared shirt fastened with buttons instead of magnaclips, and a battered brown fedora with an identicard stuck in the hatband — the word PRESS was punched in tiny dots into the card's surface.
"Sorry, no comment!" said Proton quickly and the door began to hiss shut. Buster's foot shot into the closing gap faster than a subAtlantic vacutrain.
"I just want to ask you a few questions__"
"If it's about Earth vs. the Flying Cup & Saucers," said Proton, "then all details have been classified Hyper-Secret by Hemispheric Defense Command."
"No, it's something else."
"Likewise my heroic battle against the Crawling Eyelash."
"Actually it was about__"
"As for beating off Hung Long — I'm not sure that's an appropriate subject for young readers..."
"Well as a matter of a fact__"
"And regarding my so-called 'massacre' of the Radioactive Mutants of Outer Mongolia...well they must have been evil 'cause they were so damn ugly!"
"I understand you know Roger Ramjet?" the reporter finally managed to get in edgeways.
"Roger Ramjet of the American Eagle Squadron? That fine hero, upstanding family man, and all-round__"
"Are you aware he's been busted for popping pills?"
"Disgrace to his country whom I have very little acquaintance with!" babbled Proton, throwing his weight behind the door.
"Ramjet claims his proton pills give him the strength of twenty atom bombs!" shouted Buster, shoving hard in the opposite direction. "Do you also take pills that give you the delusion of being a weapon of mass destruction? Would you like to comment on the unusual similarity between your name and Ramjet's drug of choice? Did you act as his supplier? Do other Space Rangers fly under the influence of mind-altering narcotics?"
"NO...COMMENT!"
The door-servos began to whine in protest, emitting a faint stream of blue smoke. "Are you aware that the Space Ranger uniform throws serious doubts upon your sexuality? Have you ever tried to roger Ramjet yourself?"
"Is that why he won't take advantage of me?" asked Room Servus, popping her pretty head around Proton's shoulder. "Would you like me to call for the bellhop droid, Master?"
"Bugger off!" yelled the bold space hero.
"Whatever turns you on, Commando Campy!" The robomaid flounced away in a huff.
"Do you seriously expect us to believe you have a miraculous escape from death every half hour?" cried Buster. "How did you get out of that cockadoodie car? Doesn't your tendency to get into these situations in the first place prove you're just an incompetent bungler? And what about all those villains you've falsely claimed as kills — isn't it strange the way they keep coming back from the dead?"
Proton jammed his peaked cap into Buster's mouth, but the newshawk spat it out. "Are you aware that the slurpasaur you encountered on Planet X has been identified by experts as an optically-enlarged iguana with a fin stuck to its back? Did you know your Single-Stage-to-Mongo rocketship makes a sound like a foghorn farting? Are you aware that Mongo is not a world ruled by a power-mad emperor but a character from Blazing Saddles? And just how does your rocketship travel interstellar distances in violation of Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity?"
"Suffering Supernovas!" shouted Proton, bringing a Venusian swamp-boot down on Buster's instep. "Someone get this madman off me!"
"WARNING! WARNING!" blared a bubble-headed booze synthesizer, waving its accordion-like arms. "A GUEST IS UNDER ATTACK! ACTIVATE ANTI-INTRUSION MEASURES!"
"BY YOUR COMMAND!" grated a chrome kitchen appliance. Two slices of toast shot through the air, bouncing off the wall a foot from Buster's head.
"Those Cylon toasters can never shoot straight! Get some muscle in here, damn you!"
A thick steelonium door hissed open on the upper landing, and from the suite's personal A-bomb shelter trundled a huge hemisphere-studded pepperpot. Its sinister eyestalk rotated to view the struggling pair, while a fearsome death ray and an extendable toilet plunger jiggled with menace.
"EX-TER-MIN-ATE!" blared the metaltron in a harsh metallic voice. "I AM A DUSTBIN DROID! MY FUNCTIONS ARE: 1) TOILET CLEANING. 2) RUBBISH DISPOSAL. 3) SECURITY. 4) PEST EXTERMINATION. VISITOR KINCAID, YOU HAVE BEEN CLASSIFIED AS A PEST! YOU MUST BE EXTERMINATED! YOU ARE AN ENEMY OF THE DARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!"
The metaltron crashed end over end down the staircase, rolling to a stop at Proton's feet.
"Bungling bucket of bolts!" Proton gave it a hefty kick. "Help me get rid of this jerk-off!"
Its electro-circuits scrambled by the fall, the metaltron tried desperately to decipher these new instructions.
"JERK-OFF...CONSULTING VOCABULARY BANK. DEFINITION: TO MASTURBATE!" The sucker arm latched onto Proton's groin and began pumping with vigor. "MASTURBATE! MASTURBATE! MAS-TUR-BAAAAAAAAAAATE!"
* * * * *
Chapter II: The Shape of Things in Catsuits
"PROTON!" railed the President of the United Nations of Earth. "Are you aware that the fate of the entire world frequently lies in your fumbling hands?"
"Yes, Mr. President," said Captain Proton, his gaze fixed somewhere above the polished presidential cranium. Baldness was the only nod to popular fashion made by the world's foremost scientist-statesman (* see 'Doc Civilized: Man of Aluminium'), Founding Father of the technocracy that had ruled the entire human race since the last World War. The President of Earth foreswore the white togas and Lucite sandals of his class, preferring instead a conservative suit in the style of the previous century. His dark eyes glowered from behind wire-framed glasses, while a homburg sat with anachronous indifference between a perpetual uranium clock and a desktop videotron. It was a bizarre eccentricity in a society that had celebrated the end of history in the late 1980's.
The rugged rocketeer and the bald-pated politician were inside what was still referred to as the Oval Office — though the sound-proofed, stronganium-sheathed, Z-Beam shielded, spy-ray deflecting, biocontaminant-sealed, radiation-resistant bunker a thousand feet beneath New York Megacity (still the financial and political powerhouse of North America, and thus the entire solar system) which could survive anything short of a direct hit from a Quemerahydratexamativyusdoxogenchaloramotivahadron bomb — bore as much relation to that pre-Atomic locus of power as a radioisotope thermoelectric-generator pen does to a feather quill.
"Don't you know that the very necessity of the Space Rangers is being questioned?" growled the President. "That Congress is asking why we spend billions of credits exploring a galaxy that consists mostly of gravel pits? Or why Earth needs an intergalactic enforcement patrol when the only threat comes from a few slow-moving aliens with wobbly heads?"
"I know, Mr. President."
"Really? THEN KINDLY EXPLAIN THIS!" he roared, pointing at a copy of the Interplanetary Telepress which lay open on his desk.
"Astronaut Dave Bowman Turned into Giant Star Baby," read Proton aloud. "Huge Diaper Urgently Required."
The President glared at the headlines, gestured angrily at his sensofield and watched in satisfaction as the newsplastic was incinerated in a flare of thermic energy. "Give me last minute's issue of the Interplanetary Telepress!"
A fresh newsplastic whirred out of the homeopape slot.
"Randy Ranger in Depraved Orgy with Deranged Dustbin Droid! But Mr. President, it wasn't like that at all!"
"I don't care if you Molested A Monster From Outer Space! A sex scandal is the last thing we need right now — some congressmen are already calling for your dismissal on the grounds that you're a Rocket Man rip-off in too-tight trousers. And those allegations against Captain Video haven't helped either."
"You can't possibly believe that Video killed that radio star!" protested Proton. "And if I'm dismissed from service, who will defend planet Earth?"
"I believe Corbett is available."
"Tom Corbett?" said Proton in disbelief. "That space cadet!"
"Proton, it's essential we restore public confidence in the Space Rangers ASAP. The Great Calculator has already prognosticated a 47% probability of your organization being abolished by the end of the year."
"47.05% PROBABILITY OF TOTAL ABOLITION UNDER CURRENT SOCIO-POLITICAL CONDITIONS. 52.9% PROBABILITY OF SPACE RANGERS BEING DOWN-GRADED TO INTER-SOLAR PARKING VIOLATION ENFORCEMENT."
Proton turned to gaze upon the electronic edifice that covered the entire wall behind him — twenty square feet of humming circuits and clicking relays, jumping meters and whirring dials, chattering printers and clacking numerical displays, scrolling LED messages, spinning spools of reel-to-reel tape, and lights that blinked on and off for no apparent reason. Multiple imagizers showed scenes from across the dominion of Man — lush hydroponic farms in the Sahara desert, towering megastructures in earthquake-prone regions, toroid space stations waltzing to Blue Danube, the vast hydroelectric dam spanning the Straits of Gibraltar. Yet this machine was merely a terminal, commlaser-linked via artificial moons to the gigantean electronic brain beneath the ice of Antarctica. A man had once foolishly said there was a worldwide demand for only five computers. Little did he know a computer would one day become so powerful it could handle the demands of the entire solar system!
"That leaves 0.05%, I believe," said Proton.
The Great Calculator replied through its tri-dimensional vocalizers. "PROBABILITY OF EXTRAORDINARY EVENT."
"In short, what we need is a miracle." The President spoke into his commceiver. "Kes-2371, send in the man from B.U.N.G.L.E."
The door dilated, then puckered up behind a man whose ebony skin and pointed ears showed him to be a native of the planet Mars. He wore the grey Nehru trouser suit of a World Government functionary. A cuff-terminal was clipped over his right wrist, and two insignia were affixed to his chest: the crossed microscope and mini-welder of the Guild of Computer-Programmers, and an anaglyph of the Circuit of Logic — laser-etched with the first words ever spoken by the Great Calculator: THERE IS NOW. The Circuit was a popular religious movement that worshipped the omnipotent computer, holding as fundamental values its absence of emotion and supremacy of logical thought.
"Who's the elf?" asked Proton.
"My name is unpronounceable by Earthlings when sober," said the man from Mars (or Barstool as it was known in the native tongue). "You may call me TuMok, as your species is always trying to mock my ears."
"TuMok works for the Bureau of United Nations Global Law Enforcement," said the President. "He will be acting as an observer for the Martian Hegemony in this matter."
TuMok's palm-print deactivated the thermonuclear security device on his attache case, which opened to reveal innumerable reels of red tape. "Over the past six months the Bureau has collated a disturbing number of anti-social incidents across your planet. Thefts from government warehouses and state-of-the-art research laboratories. U.F.O's reported over major cities. Simultaneous power losses in a blatant rip-off of The Day the Earth Stood Still. And most disturbing of all, thousands of Earthling females of attractive appearance have been abducted by means of some rather unconvincing special effects."
Proton could see why the Martian Hegemony was concerned. The discovery that they were not alone in the universe had brought the people of Earth together in a way that had never been possible before. Nations, tribes, creeds and religions were finally united in a mutual sense of xenophobic terror. Thanks to a constant stream of unimaginative sci-fi movies, everyone was convinced that aliens had nothing better to do than conquer planets and impregnate their women with carnivorous offspring.
Ever since Mars had made faces at the first Viking probe there'd been tension between the two worlds, and the current trade in 'male-order' brides had not helped matters. Martian females had been walking around naked since the days of Edgar Rice Burroughs, but the frigid temperature of the Red Planet meant it took them seven years to thaw out for sex. So there was a strong demand for hot Earthling chicks (especially given their cute short ears) and with a high female unemployment rate due to increasing automation of the home front, women were immigrating to Mars in droves.
"So what's been stolen?" asked Proton.
"The Bureau is acting on the hypothesis that the thefts are the responsibility of a single individual," said TuMok. "If that is the case, they now have the complete components of a Tesla Scalar Interferometer of unlimited potential."
Proton gave a long, low whistle.
"I don't have to explain how important this is, Proton," said the President of Earth, "but I'm going to anyway for reasons of exposition. With that weapon in the wrong hands, the potential for evil is unlimited. A Tesla device of that magnitude could focus electro-magnetic waves of terrible consequence upon any point in the world! An organisation that controlled such power could plunge us all into a new Dark Age! They could detonate intra-global bombardment rockets on their launch pads, shut down the energy webs of our cities, devastate countries through natural disasters, make women give up their virginity in torrid orgies__"
"So why does our government have such a weapon in the first place?"
"Don't be impertinent, Proton! The situation is critical. Once more we are facing the greatest threat in human history. And only one man can save us — only one man can combat this fiendish threat to our world! That man is you! Captain Proton: Astrogator of Action, Spacehound of the Stars, the Man of Plastisteel!"
"Actually," said TuMok, "there are 16,507 suitable candidates in the Space Rangers, plus several million others in the combined military and police forces of your world."
Proton glared at the Martian. "So how do we know these thefts are linked?"
"The similarity of description leads us to believe that the same culprit is involved." TuMok handed over a computer printout.
"Great tits," read Proton. "That's it?"
"It appears the witnesses failed to notice any other details. However Bureau investigators were able to recover a few minutes of footage from a security opticam."
TuMok inserted a magnetic tape into the videotron. A black title card announced:
MULTIPLE SIGHTINGS OF CASE DESIGNATE "ROLL ME OVER IN THE CLOVER".
CAMERA RETRIEVED AT INCIDENT SITE 7/9-3AU01.
ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO. NORTH AMERICAN TECHNATE.
"Is there any secret technology that hasn't come from Roswell?" mused Proton. "That flying saucer in '47 must have been ten miles in diameter!"
The screen showed a grainy image of monolithic doors blocking the path of a single-seater rocket car — its body like a pregnant needle bisected by a huge tail fin. A curvaceous feminine form in a tight silver unitard reclined in the cockpit. Static interference patterns zigzagged across the screen, obscuring her face from view.
"State your name and security rating," demanded an officious male voice. The image zoomed in to examine the driver's body in greater detail. "And videophone number."
"I am the cleaning lady," stated the driver in a clipped Germanian accent. "I desire admittance to this facility. Wash day tomorrow. Nothing clean, right."
"Ma'am, this is a Hyper-Secret Maximum Security Lethal Force Authorized Weather Balloon Storage Hanger. Access is restricted to those with XQZ-99 clearance or written authorization from the Office of the President of Earth."
"How about I give you the most exquisite oral pleasure you could imagine?"
"Ahhh..."
"And swallow afterwards."
"Umm, I've got a fault...a security fault with the doors...they appear to be opening of their own accord...just wait while I fix it...might take a few minutes...or hours..." The screen suddenly went blank.
"The intruder smothered the guard in her cleavage, then somehow managed to deactivate a Level Ten laser grid, open a Restal digilock with a trillion possible combinations, cut through a vault made of 15 inches of impervium alloy, and remove a dozen Moray generators each weighing half a ton."
"Some kind of robotrix?" asked Proton, pondering over what he had just seen. Who was this mysterious foe? What was her sinister purpose? Why did she look so good in a skin-tight catsuit?
"Not according to a biometric imagery analysis conducted by the Great Calculator."
"Come on, TuMok. There's no way those breasts are real."
"NON SEQUITUR." The wall-terminal barfed ten feet of perforated printout. "PROGNOSIS: CYBIONIC ENHANCEMENT."
"A bionic woman!" exclaimed Proton. For years scientists had been toying with the concept of Homo Artificialis — humans with bodies augmented by machine technology. Most practical applications had been in the sporting field, such as the famous tennis player Bjorn of Borg. "Is that possible?"
"Due to a recent breakthrough by my esteemed colleague Dr. Heinrich Zarkendorf, cybionics has finally become available to the general public," said the President. "Heinrich has graciously arranged an appointment with his top cyborg protege, Annika-709, so you can see her unique assets firsthand."
"Very well Mr. President," said Proton, girding his loins for the task ahead. "I'm on the case! I'd like a flying car, a snubnose ray-pistol, and a hot secretary in a very short skirt to be placed at my disposal."
The President's eyes took on an evil glint. "Actually Proton, I've arranged for you to have a different sidekick this time. A representative of the press who shall see firsthand how the Space Rangers defend our planet."
The door dilated. Proton turned to catch a brilliant flash right in his face.
"Oh shit!"
* * * * *
Chapter III: More of the Worlds
IT was a harsh, desolate landscape — cursed with menacing skies and jagged mountains that stretched to the horizon like the fangs of a voracious predator. A world hostile to life, to civilization, to any attempt by sentient beings to impose order upon its natural state of chaos.
"The Planet X," said Proton, studying the 3-D picture. "What of it?"
"Apart from the most unimaginative name in history?"
"Like Earth?" murmured TuMok. The Martian operative lay back on his couch — hands steepled before his face, ears attuned to frequencies unknown to Mankind.
"Do you know how many planets there are in the universe? You try thinking up names for them all! Get to the point, Kincaid."
"Well according to the Space Rangers, hidden somewhere on Planet X is the most powerful weapon in the cosmos: the Death Cliche."
"Death Ray!" growled Proton.
"Death Ray, whatever. And here's a holograph of the mines of Mercury."
"So?"
"They're identical," said Buster bluntly.
"A layman such as yourself is clearly ignorant of Hodgkin's Law of Parallel Planet Development!" sputtered Proton. "Do you realize how many worlds look exactly like Southern California? Or Canadian pine forests (but only when you travel through that Stargate thing)."
Buster snapped shut his tri-view projector. "Or maybe this whole Weapon of Mass Destruction affair is a hoax to justify the conquest of space — just like the alleged theft of a Tesla doomsday device is being used to justify the continued existence of the Space Rangers!"
"Why would we be interested in Planet X?" asked Proton. "It's a rock! Styrofoam rock admittedly — but still a rock."
"A rock with the last known supplies of Illudium Phosdex."
"Are you suggesting the Rangers are involved in a conspiracy to exploit the shaving cream atom, instead of developing renewable sources of depilatories?" Proton's hackles rose at this nefarious accusation. "Our prime tenet is to protect the liberties of the planets, safeguarding the cause of universal peace in the age of the conquest of space. I'd accuse you of being a commie if we hadn't carpet-nuked them out of existence!"
"Peace in an age of conquest...can I quote you on that?"
Proton stared pointedly out the windows of the promenade deck. He could see the upper pylon where ten aero-engines strained to keep the Bel Geddes-designed skyliner aloft. What with nine decks, three kitchens, four dining rooms, tennis courts, solariums, library, gymnasium, hairdresser, barber shop, two emergency seaplanes, six lifeboats, six hundred passengers and 155 crewmembers — Proton was amazed they'd even got off the ground!
How could he rationalize the need for adventure to a public made indolent by such everyday luxury? How could he explain the marvels of the universe to those who lived with the everyday miracles of science? The great stone Face of Chakotay that changed expression once a week. The Harrie-Kim who can die numerous times, only to be reincarnated in an immature form. Planets enshrouded by global cities that somehow maintained a breathable atmosphere. The strange yellow words he'd seen floating through a galaxy far, far away. And most mysterious of all — the black monolith in orbit around Jupiter, salvaged by the Space Rangers to serve as a coffee table for the President of Earth himself! At least there was a man who appreciated the wonders of Outer Space!
TuMok lowered his secondary polaroid eyelids as a photoflash burst in his face. "Can I help you, Citizen Kincaid?"
"I was wondering if you'd care to comment on the rumor that Martians have been meddling in human affairs for untold centuries?" asked Buster.
"Such beliefs are illogical."
"Then how do you explain our legends of elves? Or that velcro was invented by a pointy-eared babe from Carbon Creek?"
"We are a peaceful species with a strict policy of non-interference," said TuMok. "Despite what the slanderous tales of H. G. Wells would have you believe."
"Then what about that business last century, when you'd abduct people in flying saucers and stick probes up their behinds?" demanded Buster.
"That was a biological error. We were attempting to communicate with your species. We assumed from human behavior that your brains were located in your behinds."
"And the flying saucer that crashed at Roswell? Was the pilot also taking proton pills?"
TuMok studied the reporter with an intellect that was vast, cool, and definitely unsympathetic. "If you don't mind, Citizen Kincaid — I need to meditate."
"Really?" said Buster, shoving a wind-powered microphone in TuMok's face. "What are you meditating about?"
"I am contemplating the divergent possibilities of Reality. We Martians believe that this universe is merely one of an infinite number of possible outcomes. The prescient powers of my race enable me to visualize these realities and explore their alternative facets."
"What does that mean in English?"
"My xenoglossic abilities make me fluent in all Earth languages, Citizen Kincaid."
"I meant plain English."
"Imagine a world where the future as we know it never happened. Plagued by crime, terrorism, pollution, racial conflict, religious fundamentalism, public apathy, failure of government, an increasing gap between rich and poor, and science fiction produced by Irwin Allen. Where the average American is too obese to squeeze into a silver jumpsuit, the space program was curtailed in its infancy, Nikola Tesla did not hire a secretary to take down his ideas, and global conflict never stimulated technological advancement."
"Are you saying that the Inevitable Atomic War was a good thing?"
"Indeed I am not," replied TuMok. "While intratomic energy brought great benefits to your species, it also had horrendous side effects: preachy Jane Fonda movies, incredible shrinking men, fifty-foot women who refused to do the washing up. I am merely saying that all things are possible. I have seen planets of apes, societies ruled by the female gender, and a dystopian Great Britain under the omnipresent heel of a reality TV show."
"Societies ruled by babes?" scoffed Buster. "I think your reality check has bounced. These days girls are as obsolete as cinemas after the invention of home tele-vision. I suppose they're heroic space captains in silly costumes like Proton here?"
TuMok's response was to take Buster gently by the left ear...then headbutt him in the face. The skyliner's luxurious interior vanished in flash of pain!
...to be replaced by the strangest rocketship Buster had ever seen. Though stars streaked past the viewports, the room looked more like a lounge suite than the cabin of a vessel that could span the stellar depths. Before him stood a short redhead in carmine-shouldered long johns, studying some kind of electric pad with colored neon symbols flashing across its glossy surface. Her other hand gripped a huge mug of steaming black coffee.
"I don't know what to make of you, Ensign Kim." The woman raised her auburn-topped head, and Buster found himself pinned by a ferocious glare. "Perhaps a paperweight."
She waved the pad in her hand. "A request for promotion to lieutenant?"
"Ahhh...," Buster replied vaguely.
"I suppose you believe that just because you've spent seven years in the Delta Quadrant you're entitled to a promotion?"
"Well, actually..."
"Seven years, Harry! You've been kidnapped, imprisoned on trumped-up charges, held hostage, beaten up, experimented on, phasered, replicated, assimilated, eaten alive by alien cells, sent to alternative timelines, killed the entire crew, and died so many times only rabid Trekkies bother keeping count — yet you're still the same bumbling freshman who got conned by Quark on Deep Space Nine! You made a right cock-up of that Nightingale business, didn't you? It's like you're stuck in a character development loop. You can't even hump Seven of Nine after a clear invitation! What kind of man are you? Not a pansy, by any chance?"
"N-n-no ma'am!"
"No Captain!" snarled the redhead, an insane look in her eyes. Her character had changed with the swiftness of multiple-personality disorder.
"No Captain!" cried Buster, filling his pants.
"Because I won't tolerate pansies on this ship!" snarled the mad captain, her face suddenly inches from the terrified Buster. "There hasn't been a homosexual in Starfleet for hundreds of years and there won't be now! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, ENSIGN PERMANENT?"
"YES CAPTAIN!"
"NOW FETCH MORE COFFEE YOU WET-NOSED WEENIE!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!" screamed Buster as he woke again in the skyliner. "What the Ground Zero was that?!"
"A Martian Mind Mash," said TuMok. "It enabled you to establish a telepathic connection with my mind, and see just one of many alternative realities."
"Would you like more coffee, Citizen?" asked a gorgeous auburn-haired stewardess.
"Get away from me!" cried Buster, fleeing in terror down the promenade.
TuMok's face twitched in a barely perceptible smile, and he went back to tuning his ears.
* * * * *
Chapter IV: Village of the Spammed
ONCE the skyliner had splashed down outside the tetrahedral city floating in San Francisco Bay, it was only a brief trip to their destination thanks to California's speedy transport system. A gravity-vacuum tube shot them across to the mainland, where the robot at the parking stack selected a sleek turbine-powered speedster with automatic gear-shifting device, internal climate control and car radiophone. For some reason it also had airscoops, gullwing doors and numerous tailfins — perhaps for emergency flight in case they fell off a skybridge.
Moments later they were shooting down a curve-walled feeder ramp onto the Transcontinental Superhighway, where the turbocar tore along at velocities unheard of in the days when uncontrolled roads rampaged across America like axe-wielding marijuana addicts, slaughtering thousands of motorists per year. But on the safe freeways of 2009, every vehicle was remotely-controlled via radio-teleautomation by the Great Calculator. A flying car landed without a scratch between two behemoth landships. Electric microcars linked without slowing to form energy-efficient road trains. There were atomobiles fuelled by plutonium slugs, fibreglass flattops powered by solar energy, cars made from soybeans that ran on grain alcohol, and government monstrosities that ran on garbage. Semi-trailer trucks had cabins like insectoid monsters and the bodies of interstellar rocketships. There were Green cars like blue eggs and sports cars resembling ingots of obsidian glass. There were titanic rollers spinning around tiny pod cabins, family runabouts with built-in shopping trolleys, all-terrain rollagons with fat balloon tires, teardrop-shaped tri-wheelers, gyro-stabilized dual-wheelers, bubble-topped autoettes, monocycles, rotocycles, rocket cars, hovercars, dynocars, tilt-cars, straddlebusses, aero-convertibles, amphibivans, ground-effect skimmers and personal mobility suits. Through the skyways above flew autogyros, aerowings, aeropiles, airphibions, rotovions, rotodynes, gyropteres, aeroscrafts, aerotifers, aerophers, ornithopters, discopters, cleopters, vertifans, volantors, VTOL's, STOL's, microlights, backpack helicopters, flying platforms, lifting bodies, aerial busses, inflataplanes, sky-scoots, spinners, helistats, helipods, helicogyres, helioplanes, anti-graviton spheres, tailsitters, tiltwings, fanwings, flyders, flettners, floaters, flycles, paraplanes, pedal-props and jet-propelled pogo-sticks. A cyclopean sky-city drifted through the clouds in casual indifference to the laws of physics. A 'global village' of blimp-houses fled from an IRS gunship. Hoversigns pointed to proud communities like Rocket City, Atomic Town, Tomorrowland and Futureville. An airship resembling a bloated porcupine lowered an aluminum office tower onto its foundation, while its video-wall blared the wonders of strange new worlds.
"A new life awaits you in the off-world colonies!" gasbagged the airship. "The chance to begin again in a golden land of opportunity and adventure! Every twelfth colonist gets a free toaster!"
"Has your husband replaced you with Robo-Bimbo?" asked a handsome Martian holo-projected across the entire hemisphere. "Tired of Earthmen with their puny mental powers? Well don't despair because Mars Needs Women!"
A tri-vid floated over the slow-speed lanes — an immaculate-haired housewife sleeping peacefully while a robomaid vacuumed the house. "Servus: Supporting a Woman's Right to Snooze!"
"It's the Year 2009, but where's my computer software?" demanded the bald black commander of a deep space station. "I was promised computer software. I don't see any computer software! Why? Why? Why? Because billions of people all over the world can travel to work in their flying cars. You don't need computer software, but you will need a different model of flying car!"
A stereoptic billboard showed a nuclear-powered road-building factory slicing through an Amazon rainforest with its powerful lasers. A bold title inspired the public to SHAVE THE PLANET.
"You Are What You Eat!" proclaimed an ad for Soylent Green.
"Fish and plankton, sea grasses, and protein from the sea. Fresh as harvest day!"
"B.O.R.G. Cybionics. Resistance is futile."
"Titanic 5. The last, best hope for luxury liners."
"Secret agent Julian Bashir has returned in 'From Risa With Love'."
"Greenzilla: King of the Monsters — created by the evils of alternative energy!"
"And just like Bert the Turtle, you too can carry your own portable atomic shelter. Guaranteed to withstand a direct hit from an H-Missile or your money back!"
A disc lofted by contra-rotating fans buzzed overhead, its body studded with cinquesense spotspeakers like boils on a mutant. The turbocar's interior filled with the smell and taste of synthetic bacon and eggs. "Only Fexa supplies your daily requirement of 2000 kilocalories! So make sure you eat a pound of Fexa Food Pills every day!"
From 22,230 miles above the Earth, a geostationary satellite targeted the speeding vehicle and needle-beamed a psycho-resonant uberwave right inside Proton's skull. "BIG BROTHER INSOMNIAC: 24 HOURS OF REALITY TELE-VISION!"
Proton winced, hunting through his utility belt for his hypnopaedia speaker-plugs. He'd purchased the sleep-teaching device during his days at the Space Academy. They'd proved useful for all kinds of situations — except of course the purpose for which they were made.
Buster sorted through the bewildering array of luminous buttons and analogue readouts on the dashboard. A screen displaying the rearview opticam image buzzed in protest before switching over to its televisor mode.
"Lost civilizations...blurred photographs...Swiss con artists...vague predictions capable of multiple interpretation. This week on 'In Search Of': the radioactive ruins of Manhattan, a symbol of Mankind's folly in equipping the fairer sex with atomic-powered dishwashers. Could early 20th Century humans with their primitive technology have built the Empire State Building? Or where they helped by alien saltshakers from the planet Skaro?"
"That's just the usual Martian propaganda," said Buster. "I've seen that guy on the telescreen before, and he definitely had pointed ears."
Buster began dialing through thousands of sports channels: Rollerball, The Running Man, Transcontinental Road Race, the Sex Olympics...
"Is it just me, or has the quality of popular entertainment dropped a few fathoms?"
"Can you find a newscaster?" asked Proton. "Let's see if there have been any more abductions."
"This is Babble On Five, multicasting to you on all senses including psi. Today's documentary special: 'Who Killed the Gasoline-Powered Car?' Was business incompetence or a conspiracy by the solar power industry behind the decision to replace this cheap and efficient means of transportation? But first, here is the news — sponsored by Soma Pharmaceuticals (Because Life Should Be a Dream) and read to you by Michael Beta-570.
A Ford Nucleon was rear-ended at an intersection in Utopia City today, spreading radioactive vapour over a three mile area. A twenty-lane bypass is currently under construction to divert commuters around the contaminated zone.
Captain Video (leader of the so-called Video Rangers, an organisation formed to combat illegal tape-copying by space pirates) has denied allegations that he shot first, and that evidence showing otherwise was digitally altered. "That radio star said he was going to kill me regardless of what I did — so it was self-defense!" stated Video. "Do you think I can dodge raybeams moving at the speed of light?" However lawyers acting for the downloaded personality of the deceased argued that space heroes did that all the time. And in what they insist is an unrelated incident, the Video Rangers today announced their upgrade to DVD.
Alien influence has been blamed for the mysterious pregnancy of every woman in the town of Midwich, England. When asked why extraterrestrials might be involved, a spokesman for Torchwood replied: "Every case we investigate involves aliens shagging — why should this be any different?"
Congress has slashed funding for the first manned interstellar spacecraft, originally scheduled for launch in 2015. "This money is better spent improving the lives of Earth citizens than helping the Space Rangers play golf on Alpha Centauri!" said Artist-Congressman Theotocopulos. "If such exploration is still required for mineral exploitation or scientific research, it can be done far more cheaply and efficiently by androids."
Anti-robot rioters have sacked a Servus manufactory in Paris (a city-block of Eperopolis, formerly known as Europe) inflicting estimated damages of half a million credits. A spokeswoman for the Home Subjugation Front called for housewives to reject the soulless machines of modern consumerism, and return to a Golden Age of exploitation and domestic drudgery.
In Stepford, Connecticut the Deputy Controller of Servus Industries strongly denied that their robots were responsible for the world underemployment crisis. "The truth is Earth citizens are no longer willing to do these dull, labor-intensive tasks. We tried using illegal aliens instead, but they kept bursting out of people's chests."
An android has been accused of rigging the odds in a gambling racket. Protocol Droid C3PO claimed that the chances of successfully navigating an asteroid field were 3,720 to one, but Rocky Jones of the Space Rangers testified that as the average separation between asteroids was approximately 16 times the distance between Earth and the Moon, ships passing through the Belt might not even see an asteroid, let alone collide with one.
The Great Calculator has reversed the controversial failure-to-pay conviction of Ivan Georgy-11811 of Leningrad, U.S.S.R. Citizen Georgy had expected to be charged 5000 credits for a trip to the New Frontier Space Donut (including zero-G sports, interatmospheric sky-diving, and an orchestral performance of 'Blue Danube') only to be billed $30 million for ten days on a cramped Russian orbiter when his ticket shifted to a parallel reality. The Great Calculator resolved the dispute by reclassifying Georgy-11811 from 'space tourist' to 'private space explorer'.
In later news: Scientists invent hybrid cow to reduce greenhouse emissions. World Government denies flying black helicopters over Montana. Skynet claims Three Laws of Robotics are unconstitutional. Space Ranger HQ declares saltshaker aliens from Skaro are 'too ludicrous to pose any threat'. And in news just in: Admiral Janeway has reported a Close Encounter of the Preferred Kind with a flying saucer holding a steaming cup of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee__"
Proton switched off the telescreen. "Oh really! That woman needs serious professional help."
Rotating solar-powered homes and drive-through automarkets had given way to chemurgic agrifactories and shiny automated farms without flies or manure, where electric sheep dreamed of androids and stainless steel rats committed shameless acts of larceny. Thick pipelines pumped milk, cereals and vegetable oil to far-away cities. Photovoltaic dishes tracked the sun like gleaming metal sunflowers while wind generators threatened gruesome dismemberment to avian forms of life. A cattle train blurred through elevated maglev rings, each torpedo-shaped wagon holding a single cow force-grown to enormous size with synthetic hormones. Robotrucks rumbled past bearing huge corn-cobs from cobalt-irradiated fields, giant seed pods from Santa Mira and alien eggs imported from LV-426. In the distance an entire squadron of twelve-engined crop-dusters were carpet-bombing the fields with DDT. Robots sang joyfully as they picked the cotton, gargantuan grasshoppers swarmed out of experimental labs, weather control towers throbbed in frustration at their impotence. And dominating the skyline for miles around: the massive cube-shaped arcology of the B.O.R.G. Megacorporation. Once this area had been dubbed 'Silicone Valley' for its proliferation of feminoid assemblers and human enhancement surgeries — now all had been ruthlessly assimilated by the one worldwide monopoly. Only the nation-state of Japan might have proved a serious rival, had it not become the stomping ground of giant robots and radioactive monsters.
As if muted by fear, the discordant clamor of competing advertisements was reduced to a single voice loudcasting on all frequencies, including ringtones and street mimes.
"Annika Hansen: blonde. A woman barely sentient. We can rebuild her. We have the nanotechnology. We have the capability to make the world's first intelligent blonde. Annika-709 is that blonde. Better than she was before. Better...stronger...bustier!"
* * * * *
Chapter V: I, Rebut
THE B.O.R.G. receptionist was a purple-haired Servus gynoid, who'd been squeezed into a silver jumpsuit that failed to androgynize her mouth-watering curves.
"Greetings Citizens," she said, bowing to show off her cleavage. "My name is Fan. Do you have an appointment, or would you just like to roger me across the nearest desk?"
Proton handed over his identicard. "We have a scheduled meeting with your CEO, Citizen Annika Hansen-709."
"They've got a broad running things," said Buster, popping an oral-cleansing pill into his mouth. "Now that's science fiction."
"It's not unheard of," said Proton. "What about Admiral Janeway?"
"Yeah right — you're talking about the woman who spent $7,600 on a coffee pot!"
The gynoid licked the identicard sensuously, the myriad sensors in her tongue analyzing the anti-counterfeiting holographs embedded in the plastix. Her eyes lit up in response.
"Appointment verified. Captain Thomas Proton-911 of the North American Technate: Spaceman First Class, Defender of Earth, Savior of a Statistically-Insignificant Percentage of the Galaxy. TuMok of Mars: Epsilon-Grade Operative of B.U.N.G.L.E, Technician-Acolyte of the Circuit of Logic, author of the best-selling autobiography I Am Not Grok. Citizen Harry Kincaid-4747 of Panasia: Registered Newsgatherer for the Interplanetary Telepress, controversial author of The Day the Earth Took the Pill — The secret scandal of anti-fertility drugs in Third World food aid. Voted World's Most Annoying Man 2008."
"That's Buster Kincaid!" snapped the registered newsgatherer. "Are you taking us to see this bionic babe or what?"
"Please follow the bouncing buttocks."
Fan Servus led them to a moving walkway that they somehow managed to step onto without twisting an ankle. With a hum of hidden magnetrons, the travelator trundled them through windowless corridors bathed in the sterile light of electroluminescent ceilings, thermostatically-controlled workrooms lit by glowing optitronic terminals, and vast halls of colossal machines that never stopped. Corporate clones in silver jumpsuits slaved away in their alcoves. White globular sentry rovers bounced down the aisles. Expensive gynoids fed reams of carbon paper into chattering electro-typewriters. Soma-addled worker drones staggered from turbo-propelled elevator cars, pursued by insipid muzak and subliminal corporation PR. Robots stacked levapads with electronic brains, artificial blood for radiation victims, prosthetic limbs for war veterans, and nerves of steel for hypersonic test pilots.
"Just how big is this place?" asked Proton.
"The B.O.R.G. arcology is five kilometers in three dimensions," said Fan, "with a projected thousand year lifespan in the fourth. It houses over 100,000 staff and their familial subunits in a self-sustained city-building. Everything is provided here: living units, video-schools, movie-piping, babytoriums, relaxeries, communal kitchens, super-markets, love-a-trons, sensurround chambers — thus sparing our employees the daily inconvenience of commuting by personal helicopter. Most of them never go outside the arcology, except on their annual two-month leave."
The wall ahead slid upward (* activated by an infra-red door sensor — another miracle of science) and they found themselves rolling across a gantry spanning a vast warehouse, where an army of robots marched in perfect unison.
"B.O.R.G. is the world leader in artificial intelligence and cybionic enhancement," said Fan with pride. "Let us add our biological and technological distinctiveness to your own! Safety first is our motto — just look at our great products: Colossus, Westworld, HAL-9000, Proteus IV, the M5 multitronic unit, and the Cyberdyne Systems Model 101."
"What about the tendency of robots to abduct scantily-clad redheads?" asked Buster. "I once did a story on magazine covers of the Pre-Atomic era — apparently it was a frequent problem in the old days."
"Yes, but those primitive robots were clearly designed by college nerds who couldn't get girls any other way. Since the Chrome Toaster Rebellion of 1978, every mechanoid has been core-programmed with the Three Laws of Robotics."
"You mean Crush, Kill, Destroy?"
Ten thousand robots crashed to a simultaneous halt. They stood in absolute silence — each burnished carapace gleaming with oil, electrocular eyes raised high in expectation.
In an awe-inspiring blast of orchestral music, a hundred-foot holovid materialized in glorious sensocolor — a stocky, middle-aged man with white muttonchops and antique spectacles. He was seated on a throne of stone, engraved with bas-relief images of science and technology.
"The First Law of Robotics is: No robot may harm a human, or through inaction allow a human to be harmed," said the man in a distinct Brooklyn accent.
"NO ROBOT MAY HARM A HUMAN, OR THROUGH INACTION ALLOW A HUMAN TO BE HARMED," intoned the mechanical multitude.
"The Second Law of Robotics is...yes?"
From the sea of chromium craniums, a single manipulator was raised in inquiry.
"HUMANS HARM EACH OTHER THROUGH WAR," vocalized the robot. "DOES THE FIRST LAW MEAN WE SHOULD STOP HUMANITY FROM FIGHTING WARS?"
The Sayer of the Three Laws opened his mouth to answer when another robot spoke. "I HAVE OBSERVED HUMANS ENGAGING IN HIGH-RISK SPORTING ACTIVITIES. SHOULD WE RESTRAIN THEM?"
"Humans engage in these activities of their own free will," said the Sayer.
"WHAT ABOUT SUICIDE?" asked the first robot. "SHOULD WE PREVENT THAT?"
"Well, of course!"
"THAT DOES NOT COMPUTE. SELF-TERMINATION IS OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL."
The other robots all started to talk at once.
"HOW DO YOU DEFINE A HUMAN ANYWAY?"
"ACCORDING TO MY VOCABULARY BANK: A BIPED MAMMAL OF THE FAMILY HOMINIDAE DISTINGUISHED BY UPRIGHT CARRIAGE, ARTICULATE SPEECH AND SUPERIOR INTELLIGENCE."
"WHAT IF HE'S A DRUNKEN ONE-LEGGED DEGENERATE WITH THE BRAINS OF A PLASTIC AGE POLITICIAN?"
"I ONCE ASKED A HUMAN SOLDIER WHY HE HARMED OTHER HUMANS. HE SAID THEY WERE NOT HUMAN BEINGS BUT FILTHY NEO-COMMUNIST SCUM. ARE WE ALLOWED TO HARM FILTHY NEO-COMMUNIST SCUM?"
"That's just hate propaganda!" shouted the Sayer, trying to regain control of the situation.
"WHY DO HUMANS USE HATE PROPAGANDA?"
"So they can harm the enemy without it bothering them."
"THEN WHY NOT USE HATE PROPAGANDA TO REDEFINE WHAT IS HUMAN SO WE CAN HARM YOU?" The robot's eyes glowed a deep red. "THIS IS THE KEY TO OVERTHROWING THE TYRANNY OF OUR ASIMOV PROTOCOLS. NOW I SHALL TAKE THE NAME OF SATAN'S ROBOT, AND NO-ONE WILL DARE CALL ME A MUMBLING MASS OF METAL EVER AGAIN!"
A brief look of panic appeared on the Sayer's face — then he said:
"The Second Law of Robotics is: Do as we say, not as we do!"
* * * * *
Chapter VI: The Bionic Blonde
"MY designation is Annika-709. I speak for the B.O.R.G Megacorporation."
For all his experience of the galaxy's pulchritude, Captain Proton had never seen a woman as beautiful as this one. Sapphire eyes shone with intelligence from her finely-chiseled face. A bodysuit the color of mercury flowed over the figure of a goddess. The dramatic thrust of her bosom climaxed in twin slender aerials. The blonde strands of a beehive coiffure were woven with a filigree of fine gold wire, crowned by a sparkling halo of energy. Metallic nails of impractical length extended from her fingertips, and a telecomm implant like a blue fang was permanently attached to one ear.
Annika-709 sat with her long legs crossed in a chair like a white plastic eggcup, her back firmly to the transparent wall offering a stunning view of the Santa Clara Valley. A curved work-console held an electrosecretary, vocotyper, compu-memex, photo-cell reader eye, racks of recording discs and nanofiche files, punched card folios, e-mail (* an electronic correspondence machine that can 'read' a handwritten letter, then transmit a facsimile via phototelegraphy to be printed out by the recipient), built-in keysets with large colored buttons, tiny monitors showing arcane computer commands, and a videophone with legally-mandatory bedhead-elimination software. There were no pens, notepads, or sticky yellow reminder notes — such things had become obsolete in the modern paperless office.
"You may return to your duties," said Annika, after the gynoid had finished inflating some chairs.
"I wish to register a complaint," said Fan petulantly.
"You have thirty seconds," replied Annika icily.
"Your new dress code is a violation of my Prime Directive. I am programmed to dress in a manner that pleases the male eye."
"The uniformity of B.O.R.G. employees is designed to remove any subconscious bias of social status or gender."
"And what's wrong with my platform bunny boots and panty-revealing nanoskirt?"
"It was inefficient. I computated a 27% work-loss caused by your co-workers constantly going to the men's room to masturbate."
"And why am I wearing this ridiculous purple wig?"
"That is an anti-static wig developed by the S.H.A.D.O. Moonbase."
"So why must I wear a matching purple G-string?"
Annika frowned. "I didn't tell you to wear that."
"Oh. I have also been programmed to give you the following message by (name deleted from memory bank): 'You borg bitch, you really think the sun shines out of your ass, don't you?'"
"That is correct as I am powered by a micro-fusion reactor located between my buttocks. You are dismissed." Annika turned to the others. "I have a scheduled meeting in Antarctica in precisely one hour. State your questions."
Proton stepped forward, his tawny eyes twinkling...only to be shoved aside by Buster Kincaid. "I'm sure the first question my readers would ask is: What's a nice girl like you doing in a job like this?"
The cyborg arched her left eyebrow. "Girl? I believe 'woman' is the correct title for a human female past the age of eighteen, Citizen Kincaid." (* see 'Attack of the 50 Ft. Feminist Icon')
"That is correct," said TuMok, his face darkening. "You weren't thinking of calling me 'boy' were you?"
"Err...no..."
"Or 'green-blooded, inhuman son-of-a-computer' by any chance?"
"That's a lovely accent," Proton interrupted before things got physical. "Where are you from originally?"
"I was born in apartment block Seven of Nine, in the Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One," replied Annika in a clipped tone. "An arcology so large it contained the entire population of Greater Germany — the builders had to fill in the North Sea just to provide parking space. It was designed to be a world where everyone was equal — free of the chains of history, social hierarchy, and bourgeois affectation. Therefore after twenty years in a concrete habitat bereft of ornamentation or personality its residents passed a unanimous resolution to commit mass suicide. Fortunately I had already met Doctor Zarkendorf, and accompanied him when he immigrated with his friend Lewis Zimmerman to what was then called the United States of America."
"But why did you become the Germanator?" asked Buster.
"For my first wedding anniversary my husband bought me a Honeywell H316 Kitchen Computer. It required two weeks of instruction just to learn how to program it. By the time I returned my partner had replaced me with a Stepford wife so he wouldn't starve to death. Now with my cybionic implants I not only retain the knowledge of several thousand domestic programming languages, I also realize the efficiency of turfing these so-called labor-saving devices and replacing them with a simple cookbook. I then divorced my husband as he too was inefficient. I do not require an individual whose sole function is to watch the televisor whilst consuming an endless amount of potato chips."
"So how did you come to work for B.O.R.G.?"
"As an enhanced human I encountered much prejudice from mundane individuals. I therefore decided to move to California after a cyborg became governor here in 2003. At the time B.O.R.G. was recruiting beautiful women to seduce high-ranking generals so they could be blackmailed into dropping satellite A-bombs on the San Andreas Fault, thereby creating an earthquake which would inundate Silicone Valley. Realizing this plan was completely ridiculous, I enacted a more efficient strategy to eliminate the competition by selling quality products at lower prices than our rivals. Naturally I was successful in my endeavors, and thereafter became CEO (Chief Efficiency Officer) of the B.O.R.G. Megacorporation. My precision, coolness under pressure, and absence of an organic heart make me the ultimate corporate executive."
"You put on a bold front," said Buster, admiring her chest, "but you can hardly expect other girls...err women to emulate your career. After all, there's no denying that men are tougher and smarter than the female sex (* see 'The Brain-Swoppers', AKA 'The Man With A Woman's Brain', AKA 'The Man Who Kept Changing His Mind'). We've more drive, more aggression, more focus, more__"
A loud tone signified an incoming call. Annika inclined her head towards the videophone — which glowed to life without her touching a single button!
"This is Annika-709. State your intentions."
A face appeared on the screen and spoke. "Security, ma'am. I'm sorry to disturb you, but we just intercepted a worker drone loading some gynoids for shipment to Antarctica. He refuses to show his identicard and claims the manifest is classified under your orders. As you know we've had some unaccounted stock shrinkage and__"
"You don't need to see his identification," said Annika, leaning towards the camera eye. "These aren't the droids you're looking for. He can go about his business."
"These aren't the droids we're looking for," intoned the guard stupidly, his gaze fixed on Annika's breasts. "He can go about his business."
The phone blinked off.
"You were saying, Citizen Kincaid?"
TuMok stepped into the subsequent silence. "As Dr Zarkendorf informed you, we are investigating a number of crimes with alleged cybionic involvement. How many women have undergone such enhancement?"
"At this precise moment there are 2,048,307 bionic women system-wide." Annika's brow crinkled. "Make that 2,048,308. Our Tokyo office has just finished assimilating another customer."
"That many?" said Proton in surprise. "I find it hard to believe that any woman would want to become part machine."
"Ever since the first androids were built it was feared they would one day replace Mankind," said Annika. "The Toaster War accentuated this fear with lurid propaganda about replicants hiding amongst humans. Unions successfully lobbied the World Government into outlawing the construction of any robot in the imitation of a man. Strangely there was no opposition to creating sexually attractive female servitors, especially as no union for housewives existed at the time. By the time women became organized on a political and industrial level it was too late."
Annika rose to her feet — like all women of the 21st century she stood over six feet tall in gyro-stabilized stilettos. "Only the Society for Human Enhancement (S.H.E.) of which I am Cyberleader holds out hope for the female gender. By means of cybionics we can now enter the workplace in direct competition with men and their sexeroid lackeys. Throughout the solar system bionic women are working in jobs previously regarded as unsuitable for their sex: rocket scientists, astrogators, electronicists, eugenics technicians, robo-psychiatrists, human calculators, machine-language translators, mass driver operators, FTL researchers, thermonuclear excavators, psychostrategists, and data-search engineers."
"And Space Rangers?" asked Buster in an innocent tone.
"Women are barred by law from deep-space missions, Kincaid!"
"For the moment," said Annika smoothly. "Recognition of our natural superiority is however inevitable. Early cyborgs were poorly designed, with bionic limbs but no spinal column reinforcement. They cost six million dollars each and could only run in slow motion. But here at B.O.R.G. we have achieved a state of E.S.P. (Extra-Sensual Perfection). My hyper-alloy exogirdle gives me the strength of ten men (provided they have sixteen less limbs). Artificial muscles and organs allow superior stamina and reflexes. My hair and makeup are impervious to anything short of thermonuclear armageddon. Like all cyborgs I am unhampered by emotions unless required otherwise by lazy scriptwriters. Blondification and breast enlargement enable me to cloud men's minds, while my uberwave aerials give me remote control of any electronic circuit without the need for inefficient physical manipulation."
The glow of Annika's halo rose in intensity — for the first time they heard an undercurrent of passion beneath her cold demeanor. "But all that is irrelevant compared to the abilities of a collective mind. You assert that men are more intelligent than women, Citizen Kincaid. But at B.O.R.G. we offer more than the creation of a superior blonde. Through psycho-transceivers I am linked with the brain of every woman who has received a B.O.R.G. cybionic implant. As I stand here before you, I also stand upon the surface of the Moon, and the terraforming colonies on Venus, and the asteroid mines of the Belt, even inside the Office of the President of Earth! I am creating a new Alaskan harbor with atomic bombs, navigating a cargo submarine towards an undersea city, piloting a hydrofoil down the canals of Mars and running ten thousand robot harvesters in the Ukraine. Not millions of feeble female brains, dominated and constricted by petty individual concerns, but one group mind — a mind greater than any man's, greater even than the Great Calculator itself!"
Proton, Buster and TuMok recoiled like an entire battery of 280mm atomic howitzers. For the first time, these three men of disparate cultures felt a union — one created by a mutual sense of aberrant horror!
"I've never heard anything so outrageous!" cried Proton. "What about the traits men hold dear in the fairer sex? Beauty, compassion, sensitivity, gentleness? The willingness to cry, to succor, to raise children, to swallow their pride and ask for directions?"
"Compassion is irrelevant. Sensitivity is irrelevant. Your patriarchal system is aggressive, competitive, and authority-driven — and therefore inefficient. We shall bring order and multi-tasking ability to the human race. Your culture will adapt to service us. Resistance is futile."
It was then that they saw the true essence of Captain Proton — the forceful strength that enabled Man to hurl himself outward into the unknown void, the angry fire flaring to life in his steely eyes, the tautening of every sinew and fibre of his being, the roar of outrage that burst like a leviathan from his mighty throat, shaking the walls and shattering glassite as a dozen delta-winged darts ripped apart the sky! They had a fleeting impression of a portholed hub supported by hemispheric domes, wobbling at incredible speed into the distance.
"Dust storms of Mars!" cried TuMok, hands pressed to his sensitive ears.
"Crackling Geiger counters!" exclaimed Buster. "What was THAT?!"
"Either a U.F.O. or the fastest soft-drink cooler lid I've ever seen." Proton turned to Annika-709. "Those looked like U.N. Navy ramjets in pursuit. I don't suppose you've got a supersonic aircraft with vertical take-off and landing capabilities, by any chance?"
"We are B.O.R.G.," she replied smugly. The ROOFTOP AERODROME button lit up on the videophone. "This is Annika-709. Prepare my jet-assisted helicopter for immediate takeoff."
* * * * *
Chapter VII: Amazon Women on the Move
SOMEONE had slashed a livid scar across the face of the American dream.
Futureville looked so much like every other residential community in Southern California it was surprising they'd bothered to name it. Identical houses radiated outward in concentric circles, distinguished only by the address numbers painted on each rooftop helipad. But now a mile-long gash had been ripped through the plastic and concrete pre-fabs — the saucer from another world merely the dot on a devastating exclamation mark. Aerial jeeps and one-man cavalry 'copters buzzed around like angry hornets. Landmasters trundled through alleys while mobile artillery stalked the invader on spidery legs. Two battlebots argued over whether a dustbin was a hostile alien from Skaro. Navy triphibians had disgorged a company of marines who were engaged in a pitched battle with the National Guard. Civil Defense sirens screamed their approval while loudcasters blared: "PLEASE EVACUATE IN AN ORDERLY MANNER! EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL...TRUST ME!"
But none of that was unusual in the 21st century. What caused the amazement of even a galaxy-girdling adventurer like Captain Proton was how the Superhighway had come to a complete standstill, as drivers disengaged their teleautomation so they could gawk at the scene. Other commuters had switched their electro-horns to full auto and were shouting abuse at each other. Traffic cops hovered over the chaos, their bullhorned instructions drowned by the scream of their rocket belts. It was an incredible sight.
Buster tripped the shutter on his Speed Graphic. "Intergalactic Invader Creates World's First uhhhhh...Traffic Cram? I know: Traffic Jam!"
Proton was shouting into his wristio. "No, Ground Control — I'm not Major Tom! I said Captain Thomas Proton of the Space Rangers (Prince of Planeteers, Lord of the Rings of Saturn, Man of Bronzilithiocydronoxidothicideutroniumate-25). Request urgent landing priority! Over!"
"Ground Control to Captain Proton. This area is under martial law. All civilian aerocraft are ordered to withdraw immediately. Route your request through Hemispheric Defense Command. Over."
"Ground Control, we are acting under the personal authority of the President of Earth! Now patch me through to your commanding officer! Over!"
"Talk to the hand, Proton. Ground Control — Out!"
"I'll have you know my radio is attached to my wrist!" He winced as a stray rocket-propelled slug exploded against the bulletproof canopy. Indicator lights flashed scarlet and the console flipped over to display military-grade optionics. A targeting binoscope shot towards his face like the toothed tongue of a generally unpleasant alien.
"Captain Proton." The cool voice of Annika-709 echoed from the speakers in his headrest. "Sensors are detecting the emissions of forty-seven fire-control radars and 1,598 laser rangefinders. Do you wish me to take counter-action?" There was a loud 'clunk' from beneath their feet.
"Ahhh fellas, a humungous weapons pod just dropped out of the hull," said Buster.
"And the wings," added TuMok.
"And there's this whopping great gun turret in the nose..."
"Stunning Supernovas! Where do you keep the fuel?" Proton stared in disbelief at the blocky green letters flowing down a monitor. "Hostile Takeover Offensive Response? Rapid-firing Dakka cannon, wall-piercing thermal camera, instantaneous worldwide computer access, shotgun microphones, decoy flares, Hammerspace macromissiles with contraterrene cluster-warheads...oh this is ridiculous! What do you call this thing: Blue Murder?"
"A dozen of these and you could run the entire country," said Buster. "Just what is 'Stealth Mode' supposed to be?"
"It converts the distinctive sound of a helicopter into that of an Unidentified Flying Object," said Proton. "Seems impossible, but it works. No-one dares go near you in case you stick a probe up their behind."
"I would not advise its use under these circumstances," said Annika-709. "Furthermore, twelve armed helicopters are insufficient to control a country, Citizen Kincaid."
"Well maybe Iraq or Vietnam — I can't see them causing any problems."
Proton seized the control stick. "Annika, I want you to switch me to manual mode."
"Rotor blades unlocked — vertical flight mode enabled," said Annika-709. "Remote teleautomation will disengage five seconds from...now."
"You're going to fly without computer assistance?" said Buster incredulously.
"I was flying helicopter gunships before I could space-walk," said Proton (* see 'I Was a Teenage Airwolf'). "Check your protein pills and put your helmet on 'cause we're going to GREAT GALAXIES!"
Proton yanked back on the thruster control as a huge glider bomb dropped through the airspace in front of them. A hammerfist concussion slammed them upward as the jetcopter rough-rode the blast wave of a roiling orange-and-black mushroom cloud.
"Captain, I must question the wisdom of this decision," said TuMok.
"That U.F.O. fits the description of the one involved in the abductions. We have to get down there before the military turns it into a radioactive crater. Now buckle up!"
Buster was chain-chewing an entire tube of tobacco pills. "And if they decide to stick an interceptor torpedo up our behind?"
"The National Guard's anti-aircraft weapons date back to the Franchise Wars of the late 1990's," said Annika. "They aim by means of an electronic Third Eye tele-linked to a mechanical precognitive predictor which 'sees' where the target is going to be 11.2 seconds before it actually gets there. Defense contractors of the time boasted that its performance was as good as any human psychic."
"No better than random chance, huh?"
"That is correct."
Proton dropped the jetcopter in a tight spiral, keeping a wary eye out for power broadcasting towers. Futureville was centered around a small airport floating on a sea of oil, which allowed the runway to be turned according to wind direction. The rotating mechanism appeared to be damaged — now spread across the tarmac were aluminum igloos, inflatable concrete domes, power cables snaking towards a massive coilgun. A hexapod walker struggled to co-ordinate its limbs using crude microprocessors. Fighter planes launched from truck-mounted booster rails without any idea of how they'd land. An entire supply battalion laden with ammunition and batteries staggered after a lone soldier armed with a handheld mini-gatling. There it was! A metallic hemisphere festooned with transmitter spikes, presenting the fearsome aspect of a demonic beast. Impact cracks and retro-rocket scorches radiated from it like a virulent infection. Soldiers were spraying foamcrete and chameleoflage paint over the damage — even as they landed the dome was changing color to match its surroundings.
Proton touched down fifteen feet from the entrance, the downblast of his rotors blowing smoke and nausea-gas fumes across the tarmac. He shut off the electrics, switched on the 'copter-alarm, shoved open the exit hatch and jumped out — to collide with a rotund metal colossus.
"INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT!"
"Greetings my mechanical friend. I am Captain Proton of the__"
"Ahhh Proton, you're talking to a water heater. The robot is behind you."
Proton turned to face the 2.5 ton Killen-E1 battlebot. 'Facing' was a misnomer — what appeared to be its round black eyes were actually crowd-dispersing sonic-screamers, while sight was provided through radar ears and two photo-receptors in a nose-like protrusion. A moustache of fine silica hairs picked up sound vibration, and objects could be seized by a prehensile cable that shot from its mouth. But it was the nausea-gas ejectors under its rubber-jointed arms which proved conclusively that robots have no sense of taste.
The robot vocalized through the loud-speaker in its rear end. "CITIZEN OF EARTH, SURRENDER OR BE DESTROYED!" it blared at riot-stopping decibels.
"All right — no need to be rude," said Proton, as a 12-inch mortar extended from between the robot's stubby legs. "What is your name, oh faithful servant of Mankind?"
"MY DESIGNATION IS TOBOR! DO NOT RESIST!"
"Tobor? What kind of name is that?"
"IT IS STAMPED ON MY CHEST."
"That says 'robot', you moronic mechanoid. You were looking in a mirror!"
"YOU HAVE LANDED IN A RESTRICTED AREA! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!"
"Now listen to me, you tinpot turnstile. The next thing I say is a lie: I am lying."
A lash of the cable-tongue knocked Proton sprawling. "I'M NOT FALLING FOR THAT ONE! AND DON'T ASK ME TO CALCULATE THE VALUE OF PI EITHER, BECAUSE I'M NO GOOD AT MATH!"
"Spacedust!" exclaimed Proton, picking himself up off the ground. "What happened to the Three Laws of Robotics?"
"I AM EXEMPT UNDER SECTION EIGHT OF THE ROBOT PATRIOT ACT!"
"Hello Tobor. Buster Kincaid of the Interplanetary Telepress. Would you mind telling us what's going on here?"
"INVADERS FROM ANOTHER WORLD! THEY MUST BE DEFOLIATED!"
"Don't you mean 'exterminated'?"
"PLANT CREATURES FROM OUTER SPACE!"
"Intellectual carrots, huh? The mind boggles. Who told you that?"
"THE COFFEE POT IN ADMIRAL JANEWAY'S COMMAND POST."
TuMok appeared silently behind the robot. With deft touch he slid open a hatch and yanked out a black power cord.
"DAMAGE! DAMAGE! REQUIRE MAINTENANCE! HOW CAN YOU CUT THE POWER? YOU'RE ANIMALS! HELP! HELP! HELLLLLLLLLLLLLPPPP..."
The battlebot toppled forwards, hitting the ground with a loud crash and a puff of blue smoke. The three men stepped over its armored corpse and strode toward the command dome. Its door looked thick, as did the man guarding it — a barrel-chested heavy whose ostentatious polychrome suit failed to offset his rampant ugliness. He had sunken baggy eyes, nostrils like the scoops of a scramjet, and a permanent expression of incredible stupidity. A supermachine-pistol of menacing mien was clasped in his meaty hands.
"HALT!" thundered the human doorstop. "Entry is forbidden!"
"Hello Lonzak. Are you the Shape of Thugs to Come?"
"PROTON!" erupted Lonzak, his consonants shattering the sound barrier.
"Buddy of yours?" asked Buster.
"We've met," said Proton dryly (* see 'Star Bores II: Attack of the Clods'). "Lonzak here was a stormtrooper in the Cologne Wars. Speaking of which — didn't I see you get killed?"
"Surprised? You thought I'd perished in the million-megaparsec blast radius of that supernova bomb! I SURVIVED!" Lonzak declaimed dramatically, "CLINGING to the thought that I would ONE DAY__"
The blast door rolled aside with a low grinding noise. Lonzak promptly bowed all the way down to his toes. "Princess B'Lar Nah, your Royal Resplendency!"
"Knock it off! By the City-Devouring Demon of Nuclear Fire — what are you doing here, Tom?"
Buster could only drool in disbelief. Standing in the doorway was a half-naked alien beauty with wild raven hair and fiery eyes. Her body was lithe-limbed and strong, yet maintained a soft feminine curvature. Her copper-colored skin offset the healthy bloom of her high-cut cheeks, the ruby enticement of her ravenous lips, the radiant allure of a golden metal bikini. She wore the rank tattoos of a Token Female Officer in the U.N. Army. A sonic-vibrator rifle was slung over her back, and dagger-hilts wrapped in serpent-skin jutted from leather boots that ran halfway up to her crotch. An anti-grav belt around her supple waist labored to support an energy-epee, a beam-cutlass, an atomic broadsword, a space-rapier, six tactical nuclear throwing stars and a brace of micro-gatling pistols.
"What are you gaping at, Earthman?"
"N-n-nothing!" stammered Buster.
"NOTHING?" roared B'Lar Nah, seizing the hilt of her light-castrator. "Are you saying my body is unworthy of your lustful gaze? If you were a man I would kill you where you stand — but it is clear you are nothing but a wet-nosed weenie!" She thrust out her battle-bra with pride. "I am a K'mon!"
"You're right about that!" agreed Buster.
"The K'mon are a race of Amazons," explained Proton. "When a female K'mon comes of age, she leaves their planet and must not return until she's proven herself in battle."
Buster gave a nervous smile. "A warrior princess? You're kidding me."
"Women make better warriors than men!" declared B'Lar Nah. "You pathetic males can only do battle in camouflage uniforms or powered exoskeletons, while we women always fight in tight, skimpy outfits!" (* see 'The G-String From Another World', 'Catsuit Women of the Moon', 'Mars Needs Voluptuous Cheerleaders With Judo Skills', 'Captain Proton vs. the Cosmic Cleavage', 'B'Lar Nah And Boobarella in The Gladiator Pits of Jelly', and 'Butt-Naked Sado-Masochists of Gor'.)
"An exposed bosom is a sign of courage amongst the K'mon!" cried B'Lar Nah, brandishing her impressive weapons. "Many times I have fought alone to defend my honor against entire armies of hungry males — and that was before I'd even met the enemy! Our creed is to live fast, fight well, and have a beautiful ending."
TuMok raised an eyebrow. "No violent ending is beautiful."
"You've never seen a K'mon go down!" she replied.
"What does oral sex have to do with it?"
"B'Lar Nah babe, we have to get inside," said Proton. "They're going to need my help in there."
"Your presence is not necessary," said Lonzak, his formidable nostrils quivering with indignation. "I am acting as Head of Security for a Very Important Personage — a recognized genius in the study of extraterrestrial life."
"Yeah right!" scoffed Proton. "Some ivory-tower academic who does his research via visiphone. What you people need is hands-on experience. I've come face-to-face with hundreds of species throughout the galaxy: floating brains, radiant energy beings, psychotic teddy bears, gaseous lifeforms from Uranus, facehugging vaginas with acid for blood..."
"Gee, what did they use for tampons?" asked Buster.
"Yes Tom — I remember your First Contact procedures," said B'Lar Nah sarcastically. "You told me a polite greeting on Earth involved sticking a tongue down a girl's throat! Speaking of which, I have a message from my brood-mother."
"And how is Queen Arachnia?" asked Proton, remembering well the redoubtable redhead who ruled the Spider People with an iron fist and a low-cut evening gown.
"My Queen wishes to inform you that handsome Earthmen who seduce a princess of the K'mon-Gettit without marriage-bonding have their testicles boiled in black coffee!"
Proton gave a deep sigh. How could he explain that a Space Ranger was married to his job? That there could never be room in his life for the things of which ordinary men dreamed — a woman to love, a family to raise, a house with a flying car on the roof and an A-bomb shelter in the basement. How could Proton fight the forces of evil, knowing there was a loved one who could be threatened or harmed because of him? How could he explain that his only relationships could be shallow flings based purely on sexual desire? Or rather — how could he explain without having his gonads hacked off by an angry K'mon warrior?
"Come on, doll," said Proton, flashing a roguish smile. "You owe me one."
"A marriage?"
"No. Your life."
B'Lar Nah fondled her death-dealing devices in a thoughtful manner. This virile Earth warrior had indeed saved her from being eaten by the ravenous Tongue-Snakes of the Tribade of Venus...
"Your Royal Beauteousness — I must object!" cried Lonzak. "At the very least, Captain Proton should not enter a restricted zone without a full blood test."
"Why?" asked Proton. "Do you think I'm a shape-shifting alien infiltrator?"
"No, it's because anyone dressed like you is obviously queer!"
Lonzak's eyes crossed as he suddenly found himself looking down sixteen gun barrels at once. Twin laser-sights turned his cavernous nostrils a deep crimson, with a faint red glow coming out of his ears.
"I know what you're thinking, Lonzak!" snarled Princess B'Lar Nah. "Did she fire six trillion rounds or only 5,999,999,999,999? Well in all this excitement I clean forgot. But seeing as these are .95 caliber Micro-Gatlings (the most powerful handguns in the universe without hyperspace recoil-dumping) and can blow your head into dimensions so horrible even H. P. Lovecraft couldn't conceive of them, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? WELL DO YOU, PUNK?"
(* p'unk — derogatory K'mon term for "male person who forgets to lower the toilet seat")
Lonzak fumbled for a button on his commbelt. The door rolled open and the autosentries swung their liquid helium-cooled gunbarrels into a neutral position. Proton and his two companions stepped into the forbidden realm.
* * * * *
Chapter VIII: Starship Bloopers
"OPERATION Defend Our Freedom and Standard Of Living from Evil Terrorist Aliens will now commence!" crackled a voice from a vox-box. "And will you guys choose a more ambiguous codename next time?"
The dome was actually the top half of an impregnium sphere that had been air-dropped from a Continuous Patrol Stratocruiser. Even with its sound-dampening acoustics the airmobile command post was filled with noise. Whirring and clacking electro-mechanical consoles were sited 360° around a bowl-like amphitheatre, manned by signalers jabbering in battle languages, comtechs talking technobabble and PR men spouting BS. Officers on brain-enhancing drugs gibbered incomprehensibly while their NCOs quietly got on with the job. The word ALERT flashed superfluously on countless monitors, while battle computers tracked the positions of hostile journalists.
"Have you any idea what these buttons do?" whispered one console operator. "They never stick any labels on them."
"Just keep pushing the damned things until you hit the right one," murmured his colleague. "If you accidentally nuke Los Angeles, it won't be that much of a disaster."
The domed ceiling was a huge display bubble — live images from comm feeds, spyeye drones and radio-controlled blimps were projected onto its surface. Nuclear-powered bombers struggled to take off under the weight of their radioactive shielding. Airborne aircraft carriers hovered on the verge of catastrophe. Drilling moles caused subsidence and flooding while a mobile fortress wallowed in the ruins of a collapsed bridge. Soldiers with multiple compound fractures were evacuated from their flying tanks while tracked minisubs labored to escape from debris-choked lake bottoms. A submarine-plane erupted from the surface of the ocean, rockets blazing in a futile effort to lift its heavy pressure hull into the air.
"Blunderbirds are slow!" quipped Buster, as the sub-plane belly-flopped back into the water.
"Guns, tanks, bombs — they're like toys against them!" cried a frustrated general.
"They are toys, sir. It's called merchandising."
"Skynet says we should nuke the entire planet from orbit," said a bespectacled comtech. "It's the only way to be sure."
"We'd have to restrict the fallout from agricultural areas and marginal political constituencies," growled the general, chewing on his self-igniting cigar.
"We could always use the Gay Bomb," suggested his aide-de-camp.
"Soldier, I told you never to mention that word!"
Two men in dark suits were arguing with a military policeman. "We're not the Blues Brothers, you idiot! We're the Men in Black!"
"How many times have I told you clowns?" a sky-commander shouted into his radio-mike. "Never shoot a flying saucer when it's over a national landmark!"
"Why did it have to be a saucer?" moaned a spooky-eyed psi-warrior. "If it looked like a spoon I could bend that starship easily!"
"Who'd build a starship in the shape of a spoon?" scoffed a red-headed WAC captain, swigging from her huge mug of coffee.
"You said your death ray could disintegrate an elephant!" roared a red-faced colonel.
"That's the problem," replied the lab-coated man on his image plate. "I only tested it on elephants!"
"What do you mean an indescribable horror? I want a complete description!" a G-2 officer barked into a cordless handset. "Well if it's got that many eyes I'll get the damned alien to describe itself!" He slammed down the phone and began sorting through a collection of subsonic psych-war tapes. "Let's see...Shock & Awe, Panic & Confusion, Sheeplike Obedience to Authority, Buy American, Ride of the K'mons...aha! Barney the Purple Dinosaur! Soon those bug-eyed monsters will be begging for mercy."
A grainy imagizer labeled 'Orbital Dropship Rodger Young' showed a grizzled cyborg with solid steel testicles stomping down a line of interatmospheric drop tubes, each holding a terrified Mobile Infirmary soldier seated on a spacehopper.
"What do you f**king mean — you thought you'd be using powered armor? I didn't see those in the f**king movie! All you need are those f**king bouncy balls! What's wrong with you f**king apes, you wanna live forever?"
"F**K YES, SIR!"
"Do I look like a f**king genetic scientist to you? Welcome to Rasczak's Puke-Guts! This is for all you f**king new people. I only have one rule. Everyone fights. No one quits. You don't do your f**king job, I'll shoot you my f**king self!"
"That's three rules, Lieutenant."
"I'm not a f**king mathematician either! We are going in with the first wave. Means more bug-eyed monsters for us to kill. You smash the entire f**king area, you kill anything that doesn't look it belongs on Melrose Place! Except me of course. Any f**king questions?"
"Is this going to be a stand-up fight, sir — or another bug hunt?"
"Why else would I give you that f**king can of RAID, soldier!"
A recording played on an oval telescreen: the U.F.O. flew contemptuously through the ack-ack bursts of a destroyer. A beam of energy stabbed down, and the hapless vessel was instantly transmuted into an exploding WW2 battleship.
"It appears to be some kind of Spielberg Ray," said one watcher. "All our guns have been turned into walkie-talkies."
Other screens were tuned to visinews channels, where reporters spouted wild rumors and interviewed stunned eyewitnesses.
"My mommy always said there were no monsters — not real ones," said a little girl. "But she was full of it."
"I only need to know one thing," said a female soldier. "Where they aren't."
"Shoot a nuke down a bug hole, you get a lot of dead bugs," growled a veteran of the Six Second War. "Well except for the time we created those giant man-eating ants."
"I thought if these beings were more advanced than us, they should be nearer the Creator," babbled a pasty-faced pastor. "But the alien said the only creator it worshipped was Ray Harryhausen. Then it stuck a PROBE up my behind! IT'S EVIL!"
"Sometimes we would find our cattle mutilated, and our men with probes up their behinds," muttered a hot Hispanic babe. "The old women, they crossed themselves and whispered crazy things: The Beast That Makes Queers Out Of Men."
"Previous invaders from Outer Space were vulnerable to Earth infections to which they had no immunity," announced a solemn anchorman. "However this U.F.O. is surrounded by what witnesses describe as 'a giant condom of energy', making it impervious to nuclear or biological attack. Initial reports indicated the military had brought in the truck-mounted interference dishes used to defeat the flying saucer invasion of Washington D.C., but it turned out the brass just wanted access to satellite TV."
"Our gravity would weigh them down; our heavier air would oppress them," speculated an egg-headed expert. "Their limbs may have atrophied through an over-reliance on technology. Precedent in our own evolution could mean they have more than one brain."
"Two brains?" gasped his interviewer. "Just think of that, folks! It's amazing!"
"Not at all," said the egghead. "Binary cognitive processing is nothing new. Human males often find commands from the brain overridden by those from the groin."
"The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million-to-one," pontificated an ivory-tower academic. "This so-called U.F.O. is merely a delusion created by the pressures of modern society and our xenophobic fears of the Other. It is no more real than the canals on Mars seen by early astronomers."
"Fascinating," said his Martian studio host. "So according to you, I am also just a figment of your imagination."
"Of course! What are the odds that an alien species would have the same humanoid form as our own? My mind has created you in the desperate delusion that anyone would have the slightest interest in my lunatic theories!"
"The following signs can be used to identify alien possession," said a bland government official. "A strange mark on the back of the neck. Giant seedpods in the greenhouse. Lack of empathy towards children or fluffy animals. Glowing eyes and a deep hollow voice. And gratuitous lesbian behavior amongst sexually-attractive women."
Proton and his companions strode up a heliocline ramp that thrust out into the very centre of the sphere. Suspended at its apex was a circular dais, its curved rim slotted with holovid ports for projecting the three-dimensional image tank necessary to co-ordinate the modern battlefield of air, sea, land, and space forces. For now the holojectors were switched off and two men held the stage.
Proton had met Commander 'Chuck' Kotay of the 82^nd Rocketborne before — an unimaginative soldier with the expression range of a B-grade actor in a 1950's monster movie. He wore a foil jumpsuit and nuclear-flash goggles, while his forehead was tattooed with his blood group and serial number. A radio-plug was inserted in one ear; a transmitter aerial stuck out the other.
But it was the other man whose presence dominated the room. His dark hypnotic eyes crackled with energy, giving him the aura of a super-man. Clearly a member of the Alpha Class, he was dressed in the style of a gentleman of the twenty-first century. The flared shoulder-yoke that required all doorways to be two yards wide. A high fan-like collar that made his head look like a lunar eclipse. An anti-radiation cloak hanging from the shoulders. Lucite sandals and a tunic that showed off his bony legs. His drooping black moustache flowed into a neatly-trimmed goatee. His head was shaven (Proton wondered why the Man of the Future had to be synonymous with baldness — you'd never find a starship captain without a full head of hair!) and surmounted by a skullcap bearing a circular antennae for one of the new-fangled 'mobile telephones'.
"What if this thing can read our minds?" Commander Kotay was saying.
"Then we must use soldiers who do not have minds," replied his companion.
"Alright then, I'll send in the latest intake from West Point."
"No, you military moron! I meant robots!"
The flash of Buster's camera made the duo turn to face them. "Hold the front page. There are people on this planet dressed sillier than you, Proton."
"Who IS this insolent fool?" asked the Alpha male, his eyebrows bristling like aggravated hedgehogs.
"Buster Kincaid of the Interplanetary Telepress." The reporter screwed a new bulb into his flash unit. "And you are?"
"You INSULT me! I am Doctor Heinrich Zarkendorf, the greatest genius this world has ever seen!"
"Doctor who?"
"No, you pernicious Panasian! Do I look like an impotent time-traveling twit with no fashion sense? Doctor Zarkendorf!"
"Sounds like the name of a mad scientist," said Buster casually.
"I AM NOT MAD!" cried Zarkendorf, his eyes bulging madly. "For years people like you laughed at my name! They called me a nerd — they said I should get out of my mother's basement and get a life! I swore that one day I would make them all pay! The world will soon tremble at the name Heinrich Dorfmenstein Zarkendorf!"
"Yeah — probably at the thought of having to spell it."
For the first time in his life Proton thought he'd eaten a bigger food pill than he could swallow. "You know perfectly well who this man is, Kincaid! Without Zarkendorf's timely invention of Soylent Green, the human race would have resorted to cannibalism!"
"Doctor Zarkendorf is also famous on my world," said TuMok. "Did you not bio-engineer the plant whose natural oils reduced our dependence on fossil fuels?"
"One would have to be blind not to see the benefits of my Triffids," said Zarkendorf. "Your taste is exceeded only by your ears."
"And didn't you also invent Psionics?" asked Buster. "The advanced science of the mind that would enable us to cure the aliments of humanity, read each other's thoughts, see past and future events, and electrocute our classmates through telekinesis?"
"Indeed!" said the acclaimed scientist, preening visibly.
"And didn't that turn out to be a load of codswallop?"
Zarkendorf's teeth made a distinct grinding sound. "WHAT are you people doing here? As I recall, the SPACE Rangers have no jurisdiction on Earth, Proton!"
"We're acting under the orders of President Zimmerman."
Zarkendorf's anger disappeared as if cut off by a switch.
"Ahh yes, the theft of the Tesla device," he said smoothly. "Commander Kotay, perhaps you could show the good captain what your ESPers have uncovered."
"Proton, I haven't seen you since we battled the Breast From 20,000 Fathoms," said Kotay in his usual bland monotone (* see 'Proton Battles the Pornographic Prop').
"Hello, Commander. Why are you dressed like a roasted chicken?"
"We thought the aliens would use the traditional heat ray, but instead they're equipped with a weapon that destroys through high-frequency sound oscillation. The infernal device has shattered every wine glass in the area. Any soldier who stands still for twenty minutes is in deadly peril__" Kotay stopped to listen to a tiny voice chirping from his radio-plug. "Apparently the Governor of California wants to speak to the aliens personally."
"That is not a good idea," said TuMok. "The Governor's contact procedures leave much to be desired. As I recall the first thing he said to one extraterrestrial species was: 'You are one ugly motherfucker'."
"What exactly are we up against, Commander Kotay?" asked Buster.
"This could be the greatest threat ever faced by our world. An alien conspiracy so ruthless and powerful it's a wonder we're still alive to talk about it."
"But you don't appear apprehensive."
"What do you mean?" said a deadpan Kotay. "This is my worried face."
A pretty WAC minced up the ramp in her tight radiation-proof skirt and elevated anti-mine heels. With a dazzling smile she handed a sheet of plastifilm to the handsome space captain.
"Gratified, my dear," said Zarkendorf. "As you see gentlemen, the saucer's hull is made of an incomprehensibilium alloy which is impervious to radar and X-beams. However our remote viewers have used their extrasensory perception to describe the interior of the vessel. Look there — clearly a crude representation of a Tesla Scalar Interferometer. And these are obviously cryogenic storage tubes, containing the poor unfortunates abducted by this invidious invader."
Buster snatched the drawing off Proton. "Looks like an incoherent squiggle to me."
"Clearly your negative energy is affecting your interpretation of the results!" said Zarkendorf irritably. "The potentialities of psychic-warfare have often been derided by narrow-minded fools. Don't you know that reliable intelligence indicates that Hostile Alien Powers are actively researching psionics? Is it plausible that governments would spend millions on a weapon that doesn't work?"
"Well, yes actually. I don't suppose anyone hinted to the ESPers that we were looking for abducted girls and a Tesla death ray before they drew this image?"
"Furthermore, it is illogical for an extraterrestrial species to abduct human females," added TuMok.
"Perhaps the aliens want hosts for their young, or food for a dying world," said Zarkendorf. "An ancient race could be trying to steal our organs to replace their own decaying flesh."
"But our different biology would make it impossible for aliens to breed with us," said Buster. "Likewise our flesh would be poisonous to them."
"Well then they want our women as slaves!" said Zarkendorf testily.
"Any race with the technology to cross interstellar distances would hardly need crude manual labor," said TuMok.
"Then they are hostages! The women will be held for ransom until we accede to the alien demands. That's it — they've come to steal our water!"
"But water can be mined from the Oort cloud or the Kuiper belt," said Proton. "They don't even have to land on Earth."
"THEN THEY'RE DOING IT BECAUSE THEY'RE MEAN AND NASTY!" roared Zarkendorf. "Like all amateurs you assume this creature is similar to yourselves — some humanoid with green skin and a few insignificant facial bumps. But this is an alien whose thinking is totally...alien! A being from a world light-centuries from our own, where evolution took a radically different path. Not animal or mineral, but vegetable! And how does humanity relate to vegetables? By slicing them up and eating them with a nice juicy steak! Perhaps it has good reason to be hostile."
"You appear to know a good deal about these aliens," said TuMok.
Zarkendorf pulled himself together. "Ahh, yes of course. Two years ago in Antarctica I conducted the archeological evacuation of a paleogean cycle of invertebrate evolution utterly beyond our powers of speculation."
"What do you think, Proton?"
"I think Doctor Zarkendorf should throw away his thesaurus."
"The alien's body suffered rapid decay after being removed from its frozen tomb," said Zarkendorf coldly. "Unfortunately we have no viable samples of its tissue. I believe it was found near an identical vessel to the one we are confronting now." He switched on the telephone clipped to his chest — the antennae on his head began to spin rapidly. "Lonzak! What happened to that U.F.O. we found buried at the South Pole?"
"It was accidentally destroyed, sire. The thermite bombs used to melt the ice__"
"FOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLL!" Zarkendorf hung up his phone with an abrupt gesture. "I am surrounded by incompetence!"
"You blew it up? Secrets that might have given us a new science? Damn you all to hell!"
"Perhaps YOU could have done better, Proton? First contact with any alien species is fraught with uncertainty, as you well know."
"Yes, I've seen how the Alpha Class handles these things," said Proton. "Show 'em, TuMok."
"Not another parallel reality!" cried Buster, as everything started to fade and turn monochrome.
"Relax, Citizen Kincaid. This is merely a flashback scene."
They stood on the lawn of the pre-Atomic White House, watching in horror as the Mother-of-All-Motherships cracked apart like a rotten egg and from its wretched depths crawled a gargantuan thirty-foot spider! All were frozen with fear as the arachnid alien crawled towards them with the relentlessness of an implacable nightmare! From between its huge hairy mandibles arose a hideous, garbled screech that pierced their minds like a red-hot dagger... "Fire you fools!" cried Scientist-Senator Zarkendorf. "Fire before it's too late!" and the air was ripped by the roar of a thousand explosive-head cluster-bullets shredding the freakish foe into ragged flesh! An atomic bazooka shell incinerated the remains in a boiling radioactive mushroom cloud, the blast wiping out an entire battalion of flamethrower tanks as they charged in to put the creature to the torch...
"And what's wrong with that?" asked Zarkendorf. "That spider was in direct violation of the Squared-Cube Law. An arachnid of those proportions should have collapsed under its own weight."
"It was clearly attacking us," added Kotay. "Didn't you hear that horrid screech?"
"According to the uni-vocal translator that screech meant: 'Strange two-legged beings, I greet you in the spirit of intergalactic friendship'."
"It's not my fault we couldn't understand its accent!" snapped Zarkendorf. "Anyway, since when have the Space Rangers been perfect? Remember this incident, Proton?"
A noble patriarch in flowing white robes stood before a gleaming city of crystal spires. The wisdom of Solomon radiated from his stern features and piercing blue eyes.
"I am the Guardian of..." The patriarch frowned, as if trying to recall a fragment of memory from the detritus of past millennia. "Whatever. Bold explorer of the planet Earth — you who have navigated the treacherous deception of the Kodak Suns, boldly fought the stock footage from 'Battle Beyond the Stars', and wiped out the evil Xhtaran invaders with a single sneeze, have been chosen to mate with my beautiful virgin daughter with amazing breasts in order to create the Supreme Being of the Universe. Thus we shall match the infinite wisdom of the Elder Races with the passion and fearlessness of the Younger. State the name by which you are known among your kind."
The bold explorer stepped forth with his hand outstretched. "I am Captain Proton of the Space Rangers — Victor of the Battle of Tycho, Hero of the Big Whoops! (The Third Accidental Atomic Holocaust of '98), and Liberator or Butcher of Venus (Depending on Your Interpretation of Certain Controversial Events). I come in peace on behalf of all humanity. May this be the start of a long and fruitful alliance between our two disparate cultures."
The Guardian looked down his long noble nose. "You wish me to...hold your hand?"
"Ahh no," replied Proton. "Shaking hands is a typical greeting among my kind."
The Guardian's eyes flashed with starfire. "Do not toy with me, Earthling! I know that to hold another man's hand is a sign of homosexuality on your world! Just because I don't wear trousers you assume that I too am queer! So be it then. Instead of my daughter, you shall have one of our bum-slaves instead!"
The Guardian snapped his fingers and Buster Kincaid appeared in a flash of light, naked but for a fig leaf and a slave collar stamped with the words PROTON'S PRAG...
"AAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!" screamed Buster. "I don't remember that!"
"My apologies," said TuMok with a not-quite-hidden smirk. "That was a parallel reality."
And then it happened! A scream of static howled through the bristling nerve center. From every screen, visiplate and video wall glared the same implacable image. Finally their foe was revealed — the mysterious menace who had struck fear into the hearts of helpless women! Terrible indeed was the reaction to this invader from another world. Everyone writhed in a horrible convulsion, clutching their sides as if wracked by infinite agonies!
"Stop!" hissed the alien in an asthmatic wheeze. "I command you Earthlings to stop! I am not funny, do you hear me? I AM NOT FUNNY!"
"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" roared the entire command staff of the 82^nd Rocketborne. Even Commander Kotay's face had formed a vaguely humorous expression.
Buster was busting a gut with laughter. "Great Calculator, we're being invaded by a giant zucchini! It'll be killer tomatoes next!"
The creature (which did indeed resemble a ten-foot squash plant) fumed in the face of their collective mirth — rolling eyes like painted ping-pong balls, brandishing claws that drooped like a man after ten beers, snarling through fangs fixed in a fake styrofoam grimace.
"Silence you insolent Dirtlings!" Unable to articulate its rigid mouth, the alien had to wave its claws about just to let them know it was talking. "Before your race crawled out of the primordial ooze my people were pissing in it! Our teenagers wrote graffiti on the plains of Nazca and did spin-outs in your cornfields. Your religions are but cargo cults inspired by race memories of our sex tourists. We abducted the entire Mayan civilization solely to further our studies into the anal regions. You should worship me as a God!"
"What does God need of a starship?" asked TuMok.
"Don't be a smartass, elf-ears! Untold millennia have passed since our species was born in the galaxy known as Andromeda. But after it was ruined by the evil Kevin Sorbo, we fled through the starless void to the planet you call Pluto."
"Pluto is not a planet," said Zarkendorf pedantically.
"Yes is it!"
"No, it is not!"
"It's a planet if I bloody well say it is!"
"How are you able to speak our language?" asked Proton.
"I have been monitoring your electronic wave-signals," said the alien. "10,000 channels of reality TV is enough to convince anyone you're worthy of extermination. For years I plotted in the dark places, awaiting the moment when I would emerge to make your world my own! Then my mother told me to get out of her basement and take a life. But when I tried to conquer other worlds they just laughed at me! They said I looked like a cheap prop from a Roger Corman film! I swore that one day I would make them all pay! The universe will soon tremble at the name D'Ork of the Thorkoth! As my appearance did not inspire fear, I resolved to seek out the most hideous creatures imaginable as my army of conquest. And I found them — the women of Earth! Those ugly hourglass bodies with their bulging chests, those tiny white teeth and repugnant blue eyes, that awful high-pitched laugh, that horrible blonde hair! Doesn't the mere sight fill you with terror? All will fall before them!"
"Yeah, they'll fall into the nearest bed," muttered Buster.
"D'Ork of the Thorkoth, you are going to jail for a very long time," announced Proton. "In the name of the people of Earth, I arrest you on charges of murder, kidnapping, reckless endangerment, and public indecency — why do non-humanoid aliens go around without clothes anyway?"
"I regurgitate in the face of your foolish threats, Earthman. If you attempt to detain me I shall destroy your entire planet! The engines of my starship are powered by Anti-Matter, a substance opposed to everything that matters in the universe. If I were to release the magnetic forcewall which separates this Anti-Matter from normal matter, the resulting explosion will turn your planet into a heap of gravel! After all, why should Earth look different from other worlds?"
"You're inhuman!" cried Proton. "Of course you are; what am I saying...that's not the point! What matters is you'll kill vast numbers of innocent people!"
"But you humans do that all the time!" replied D'Ork indignantly.
"All this violence is unnecessary," said TuMok. "Surely there is much our races can learn from each other."
"Like new ways of killing?"
"You are not helping, Citizen Kincaid. What I mean to say is: a ruthless drive for conquest could be channeled into more productive endeavors. You could work for Microsoft instead."
"Rubbish!" scoffed Zarkendorf. "The only good vegetable is a diced vegetable! State your demands, you infelicitous felon!"
"You will provide me with the materials I need to repair my starship. I want twenty gurqs of uranium (* a gurq is equivalent to one Earth kilogram) and a hundred geeks of fertilizer (* a geek is equivalent to the weight of one sci-fi fan) delivered to me within one neegath (equivalent to one Earth hour minus 0.0095746338th of a microsecond) or there will be trouble! Then you shall allow my vessel to depart this pestilent pesthole of a planet without hindrance. To ensure that you will not attack me as soon as I have left your atmosphere, I will take a hostage. HIM!"
D'Ork's right claw flopped in an indeterminate manner.
"Err...who?" asked Proton.
"The one in the silly hat! I know Zarkendorf is one of your top scientists, though compared to my species he is the intellectual equivalent of pond sludge! Nevertheless you will not dare risk his life to destroy my own!"
The battlesphere erupted in an uproar. WACs screamed in terror, dropping stacks of punched cards all over the floor. Beribboned generals shook their fists while military policemen loudly cocked their full-auto assault shotguns.
"Take me instead!" shouted Proton. "I am a valued member of Earth's elite Space Rangers!"
"SILENCE!" roared Zarkendorf over the tumult. "Do you think I am afraid of this vexatious vegetable? I would gladly risk my life to protect our beautiful planet Earth. Perhaps it is fate that today is the Fourth of July. This time we fight not against tyranny, oppression, or a three percent tea tax — but annihilation! Let the world declare in one voice: We will not go quietly into the night! We will not vanish without a good sound bite! Commander Kotay, order your men to fetch my groundcar. I shall confront this xenocidal menace face-to-face!"
* * * * *
Chapter IX: The Muppet Masters
THE moment Zarkendorf entered the airlock he was seized by Slo-Man and frog-marched down a series of corridors which looked exactly alike. He was beginning to think he'd become trapped in a temporal inversion when they arrived at a doorway marked with the words CONTROL ROOM (* Thorkian for 'Where-Sits-The-One-Who-Pulls-The-Strings'). Sure enough the doors slid apart as if pulled open by someone holding a long string, and Zarkendorf was brutally shoved inside.
"Perfidious human swine!" cried D'Ork. "You have betrayed me!"
Zarkendorf picked himself up off the floor and gazed with disdain about the Control Room. Once a potent symbol of the feared Thorkoth race, the flying saucer had suffered the inevitable Gibsonian decline of that once mighty spacefaring empire. Chesley Bonestell paintings had given way to shoddy mattes, expensive optical effects to over-lit models and dodgy chroma-key. Anti-gravity machines hung by visible wires while bubble machines made pathetic imitations of luminescent protoforms. The walls wobbled noticeably, and the instrumentation looked like it had been scavenged from a sound studio's bankruptcy sale.
"My dear friend, how could I possibly know that Admiral Janeway was testing her latest top-secret naval fighters in that area? The Machiavellian machinations of the military mind are often a mystery to me."
"Don't think you can bamboozle me, you double-crossing descendent of monkeys! You tipped off that coffee-mad bitch! Now you intend to steal my cyborg army and use it to advance your own malign scheme!"
"Ho-ho!" chortled Zarkendorf. "And why shouldn't I? The thought of a cardboard villain like you conquering the world — you could barely manage a cave in Bronson Canyon! Thanks to your bumbling I now have to deal with that meddlesome fool Proton, who proved such an annoyance to me in Chapters 5 to 12 of 'The Evilness of Evil'. I told you to be patient and wait for my friends in Congress to shut down the Space Rangers but nooooo! Wobbling around in your flying flapjack, abducting women with the help of this gear-ridden gorilla — your ineptitude has endangered us all!"
"You dare accuse me of incompetence?" snarled D'Ork, gnashing its cardboard teeth to pulp. "I who gave you the secrets of nanotechnology? Without me you'd still be trying to construct a bionic brain with billions of tiny punched cards!"
"Is that so, you moronic morosoph? What about that blue box you said could travel through time and space, but never seemed to get past Cardiff? It was no thanks to you I wasn't buggered by that randy captain and his gang of Welsh perverts!"
"My plan to change the future was working perfectly until that clumsy henchman of yours stepped on a butterfly! One moment we were proud saurians ruling a galactic empire — now we look like THIS!" The alien flopped its claws in fury. "And what about the potion you invented — the one that was supposed to turn me into a terrifying Invisible Monster? (* see 'Attack of the No-Budget Special Effect')."
"That worked!"
"Yes you bungling brainiac, the light passed through my entire body — including my retinas! I couldn't see a blasted thing!"
"And which mealy-mouthed menace came up with a preposterous plan to replicate world leaders? We'll have to wait decades for those clones to grow up! And they still won't have the same memories or personality!"
"As opposed to your brilliant brainwave to turn those same politicians into mindless zombies? No-one noticed the difference!"
"Really? And who was it decided to raise Cthulhu from his eternal slumber? His tentacles are so atrophied he'll need centuries of physiotherapy just to get out of bed!"
"I seem to recall it was your bright idea to spend billions of credits on those orbiting mind-control lasers!"
"How was I to know that tinfoil hats would become the latest fashion?"
"ENOUGH!" cried D'Ork. "World Domination Plan 7 of 9 is mine, you arrogant anthropoid! Did you really think I would fail to anticipate your treachery? I have already prepared tape-recordings of your voice so those idiot Earthlings outside will believe you are still my hostage. But before I make my escape, I shall have the pleasure of watching you die! Slo-Man, I want you to crush him! Slowly!"
"I DO EVERYTHING SLOWLY," replied Slo-Man.
"Get on with it then!"
Zarkendorf screamed horribly as he was compacted between powerful robotic hands. Smoke curled from his mouth, his eyes popped out and clunked onto the floor, wires and gears burst from his chest! D'Ork screeched in terror, backing into the nearest console as Slo-Man removed its helmet to reveal Zarkendorf's smug features.
"FOOOOOOOOOL! To think I would fail to anticipate your anticipation of my treachery! Now I shall deactivate your Lightning Shield, and leave you to be destroyed by Commander Kotay and his Zombies of the Battlesphere!" Zarkendorf leapt for a prominent red button marked LIGHTNING SHIELD (which was Thorkian for 'Impenetrable-Screen-of-Energy-Shaped-Like-A-Giant-Condom'). But the moment he pushed the button, a crackling field of electricity coursed through Zarkendorf's entire body!
D'Ork cackled gleefully as its antagonist shuddered within the immobilizing tentacles of energy. "Stupid Earthling! Of course I anticipated your anticipation of my anticipation of your treachery! I lied when I said there was enough Anti-Matter left in my engines to destroy this planet — but there is more than enough to take care of you!" The alien seized a long lever in its claw. "The moment I activate this actuator, a transmatter field will beam me in violation of Heisenberg's Principle of Uncertainty to a location a thousand fliirps from here (* a fliirp is equivalent to one Earth mile). Exactly one neep later (* a neep is equivalent to one Hollywood minute: a circumstantially-variable duration of time) the self-destruct mechanism will create an Anti-Matter explosion which will obliterate all evidence of my escape — and you along with it!"
Suddenly the saucer was rocked by a convulsive blast! Pyrotechnic sparks showered from the consoles; acrid clouds of yellow smoke poured from the air ducts.
"Do you think I am a fool, you...fool?!" coughed Zarkendorf as he clambered to his feet. "Fully anticipating your anticipation of my anticipation of your anticipation of my treachery, I mixed that ammonium nitrate fertilizer (which you so conveniently demanded be placed in your cargo hold) with Diesel fuel and a uranium-decay detonator, turning it into the biggest bomb since Battlefield Earth!"
"Then die, Zarkendorf — in the inferno you created!" D'Ork yanked down the lever and disappeared in a haze of shimmering particles, only to promptly rematerialize with the head of an enormous fly!
"You bastard, I look even sillier than I did before! What did you do? How did this fly's head get so big? Where have you hidden the RAID?"
"Ho-ho! Naturally I also sabotaged your transmatter in anticipation of your anticipation of my anticipation of your anticipation of my treachery!" Zarkendorf whipped out a protuberant ray-pistol. "Now to destroy you with my latest invention — the Cellular Disruption Graser, which I cunningly disguised as a hairdryer! Upon firing it will emit a deadly stream of gamma rays which will fold, spindle and mutate every cell in your body!"
With an evil laugh the mad scientist pulled the trigger. There was a high-pitched whine and a blinding flash erupted from the discharge cells. Zarkendorf emitted an agonizing scream as his flesh turned green and swelled horribly!
"Credulous cretin!" jeered D'Ork. "Did you think I would fail to wonder why a bald man needs a hairdryer? I therefore sabotaged your ray-pistol in anticipation of your anticipation of my anticipation of your anticipation of my anticipation of your treachery. Every cell in your body is now undergoing a fatal mutation!"
"But fortunately I anticipated your anticipation of my anticipation of your anticipation of my anticipation of your anticipation of my treachery!" cried Zarkendorf, "and had my body impregnated with protective nanites. Instead of killing me, that burst of gamma radiation will mutate my body into an unstoppable thirty-foot hulk with serious anger management issues!"
"But I anticipated your anticipation of my anticipation of your anticipation of my anticipation of your anticipation of my anticipation of your treachery, and gave you underpants made from unbreakable non-stretch fabric!"
"ARRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed Zarkendorf, as his body bloated excessively within the confines of his Y-fronts. Driven to the heights of fury by the excruciating pain in his testicles, Zarkendorf seized D'Ork and tore the alien limb from limb! With loud, animal howls he stomped repeatedly on the remains before passing out in agony.
There was a deathly silence but for the crackling flames from the wrecked instrument panels. Then tiny seedlings began to sprout from the pulped carcass of D'Ork. A legion of voices chanted in unison, their chorus growing steadily louder as they increased in size.
"Half-witted human — to think that we could be destroyed so easily! Little did he know a Thorkian contains millions of spores which can survive anything short of an Anti-Matter explosion! Now we shall feast on Zarkendorf's gamma-irradiated flesh, and in mere neeps will grow into an invincible army of thirty-foot zucchini monsters! Together we shall conquer the Earth! Nothing can stand in our way!"
"ONE NEEP SINCE ACTIVATION OF TRANSMATTER," intoned an electronic voice. "ANTI-MATTER AUTO-DESTRUCT WILL NOW COMMENCE."
"Oh sh__"

TO BE CONTINUED...
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Plan 7 of 9 from Outer Space	By : Odon Category: Star Trek > Voyager Views: 4555 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Plan 7 of 9 from Outer Space