Wrong Side of the Ocean
                          in association with
                    Smalltime Writers, International
                                presents
                    a tale of Undocumented Features

                         H A M M E R   T I M E

                                BOOK ONE

                             by Martin Rose
       (aka PCHammer, The High Diggy-Hoek of Chihuahua-Wala Land)

  Based on events and situations created by Gryphon, MegaZone, ReRob,
           and too many others than could be readily counted.
    They will all deny any connection with this work if questioned.

Dedicated to the gang at WPI, who've all worked far too hard on
Undocumented Features and deserve to have a part of it write itself.
It's your fault I'm a writer. :)

A FAIR WARNING to the reader:  The following story contains many
references and concepts blatantly stolen from other sources.  If that
bothers you, feel free to ignore this entire tale.  If not, have a ball.


1 ---------- What's He Like?  It's Not Important

   Martin stood a couple yards from the window, facing the city which
was his new home.  Anyone who saw him at that moment and didn't know him
would have thought he was brooding.  Those who did know him would have
been certain he was brooding.
   Within his mind, of which he claimed to have very little knowledge,
he was in a state of Tranquil Stationary Panic, and experiencing extreme
Vuja-De.  He'd been using those phrases to describe himself for a month
now.  Most people would have just called it "being nervous," "new-job
jitters," or "a case of the butterflies," but he'd decided to call it
something a little more distinctive due to its preeminence in his mind
these days.
   He knew what scared him, of course.  Change scared him.  It
frightened him to death.  He enjoyed the bland inertia that had been his
life to this point.  The status quo never bothered him; he just lived
with it, comforted simply by the basic stability it offered.  Status quo
meant that he didn't have to learn new ways to deal with the things
around him.  Once he knew the routine, he could start relaxing again.
   This, however, was definitely not "the routine."  For the first time
in his life, he was nowhere within easy reach of friends and family, and
far from Michigan, the state which he had proudly called "home" for his
entire life.  Telephones don't count, he thought to himself.  You can't
just stand around and say "um" to a telephone without feeling like a
dolt, and his current condition would allow for him to do little else.

   Everything had moved so fast.  He was still in the College of
Engineering when the news had first come of the utter destruction of the
town of Worcester, Mass.  (He could never determine a good system for
remembering how to spell the name of that state.  He was just thankful
he wouldn't have to live there.  Or so he'd thought.)  There was a lot
of talk about what could have caused it.  Every possible idea, from UFO
visitations to governmental conspiracy theories, was attempted.  They
were all wrong, of course, but they had no way of knowing that.
   Not much time passed after that when a new company started making
itself known, and in a large way at that.  You couldn't turn around
without seeing something that said "Genom" on it.  How this unknown
company appeared seemingly from nowhere, based itself in the crater that
had been Worcester, and practically took over several formerly Japanese-
dominated industries, especially home electronics, was a mystery to
everyone.  Genom's president, a mysterious figure named Brian J. Mason,
wasn't exactly eager to share his secrets, either.
   Then came the interviewers.  Genom's recruiters hit every campus in
the nation, looking for "the brightest and the best," as every company
says.  However, Genom had what they expressed as "large personnel
requirements to fill" and a recognized and expanding hold in several
industries, and their starting salary offers definitely weren't peanuts.
   Martin surprised himself by doing exceptionally well, both in the on-
campus interviews and at the on-site interviews at Genom's headquarters
in Neo-Worcester, as they called the city still being built on
Worcester's former site.  The atmosphere was amiable, the dress code was
remarkably casual (he'd actually felt overdressed at the on-site
interview), and it definitely looked like they could find a challenging,
if not positively daunting, place for him.  Though he wasn't finished
with his schooling, they promised he could finish his studies after a
few months on the job, and they would foot the bill, to boot.
   It was about this time, when he was saying his temporary goodbyes and
telling his e-mail friends and pen-pals he would contact them as soon as
he had an address, either real or virtual, that he began to feel this
tension that he had to name.  He called it Vuja-De, because it was the
feeling that he was about to do something he'd never even dreamed of
before.  Naming it didn't really help him cope with it, but at least he
could express it quickly.
   There had been a reception for the new blood earlier today, a large
party thrown by Genom to welcome the college recruits from all parts of
the nation.  It was there that Martin first became aware that he
appeared to be brooding, because several people asked him what he was
brooding about.  Of course, since he was only capable of responding with
"um," the questioning never got very far, and his six-and-a-half feet of
height proved somewhat daunting to many celebrants, but a few of them
were able to determine his condition anyway.  They did what they could
to cheer him up, and he eventually managed to loosen his tongue enough
to thank them.  He got some names, departments they would be working in,
and even a couple phone numbers, all of which he'd promptly forgotten.
How he'd ever made it to this point without being able to readily
connect names and faces, he would never know.
   But, here he was.  He couldn't deny that.

   Martin stood a couple yards from the window, facing the city which
was his new home, a bustling corporate metropolis, still under
construction, which had once been another college town.  Maybe now, he
thought to himself with a sigh, things can get back to some type of
normal.
   Without so much as a by-your-leave, a second sun appeared in the sky.
   "Well, so much for that idea," he said aloud as he moved himself up
to the window.

2 ---------- I Have Seen the Future

   Martin stood in awe with his hands on the glass of his room's picture
window as the violent ball of light which had erupted over Neo-Worcester
faded, revealing its contents; a huge spaceship.
   It was an enormous, rectangular shape; not entirely unlike a
decorative comics box, he noted.  It was about as far away from him as
the city, and he didn't even want to guess how long it was, stem to
stern.  Two enormous engine exhaust housings made themselves apparent at
the rearmost fifth of the craft's length, while two long, slender (well,
relative to the rest of it) booms dominated the forward two-fifths.
   "Normalcy's overrated anyway," he groaned, as he recognized the
design of the SDF-1.  Minus the Daedalus and Prometheus, that is.
   The SDF moved closer to the city, disgorging a small swarm of
mosquitos.  These flew toward another group of bugs that had suddenly
arisen from the city itself, and they proceeded to dance around each
other.  They couldn't be mosquitos, of course, since he could actually
see them, if not in detail, from this distance.  Mosquitos don't usually
project contrails at each other and explode in brilliant fireballs,
either.  Those must be fighters; probably Veritechs -- sorry, Valkyries,
he corrected himself.
   The ship fired down on the city; the city responded by hurling even
more firepower back at the ship.  Funny, I didn't notice any gun
emplacements in the city last time I was here, Martin thought.  He could
only watch the firefight as if it were a football game, but whereas he
really couldn't give a rip about what happened in football, he found
himself quite moved by the drama unfolding before him.  Frankly, he had
no idea which side to cheer for.
   The ship moved up, visibly damaged by the onslaught; backing away
from the city, it altered its facing.  The reason for this maneuver
became clear to Martin soon enough, as a flock of seven white metallic
floating bricks, not as big as the SDF but still nothing to sneeze at,
came down from somewhere far above.  The fortress had just come to face
them when they all fired in unison; the resulting hail of destruction
blew one of the side-mounted platforms off the fortress, which fell into
the city below.
   The fortress was definitely unhappy with this turn of events, as the
booms on its bow had separated slightly with a storm of orange lightning
forming between them.  The storm didn't last long, and soon gave way to
a single, intense beam of pure, nasty death, which went out to tell the
bricks just what it thought of them.  Apparently, it didn't like them
very much, as four members of the Lego attack group were either vaporized
or heavily damaged.
   The boom-storm quickly reassumed its former intensity as the fortress
turned to face one of the three bricks it had missed the first time.
When the booms spoke again, the unfortunate interloper was in listening
position, and capitulated to the persuasive argument provided.  Just as
the shot went off, however, another of them decided to give the SDF a
piece of its mind, and amputated the fortress's other side platform.
The fortress lurched as another chunk of its mass broke free.
   As if that weren't enough to have happening at once, another beam
lanced from out of the sky, taking Martin completely by surprise (at the
very least) and removing the forward boom on the side that was recently
lightened.  The pieces of the fortress, as well as the intense beam
which was still being fired, fell onto Neo-Worcester, demolishing large
sections.
   Listing to one side and deprived of its mightiest weapon, the SDF was
suddenly surrounded by an enormous, glowing green bubble.  "Of course,
the force-barrier," Martin said, no longer caring that there was noone
to hear him.  "Probably just like the one they used in 'Bursting Po--'
..."
   This gave him pause.  What if it was like that barrier in more ways
than one?  It was starting to glow in a rather ominous fashion under the
continued pounding of the two remaining ships, the city, and this beam
from the sky.  Suddenly, the mosquitos all stopped whatever shooting
they were doing and headed away from the fortress.
   "Um ... that's bad, isn't it?"  Martin was already backing away from
the window.
   The green sphere, now shining like a low-flying star, began to
expand.
   He moved to shield his eyes.  "Yup.  That's bad."
   The barrier's glow moved hungrily outward, vaporizing everything it
touched.  From the tops of the tallest buildings in Neo-Worcester, all
the way down to the smallest construction sheds, the buried utility
lines and sewers; the sphere devoured all, leaving nothing.  The two
attacking ships (strangely enough, he'd decided he was rooting for the
fortress, after all) soon regretted their close-in positions as well, as
the great green globe of death reached as far up as it did down,
enveloping them as well.
   Martin didn't see most of this, of course.  He was hiding behind the
bed.

   "I am not dead?  No?"
   Remaining completely in character in the face of adversity, Martin
uttered this quick Pepe Le Pew quote once the noise had fully subsided.
Yes, he was most definitely not dead.  He got up and went back to the
window to find out why not.
   The answer was there, all right.  The area that was destroyed by the
barrier almost precisely matched the original crater that Neo-Worcester
was being built in.   The fortress was nowhere in sight, which saddened
him.  It'd be a crime if nobody actually came out of this alive after
all that, he lamented.
   His lamentation was premature.
   Martin almost laughed in relief as the fortress rose out of the pit
which had formerly been Neo-Worcester.  Well, now that that's over with,
it's time to get on with -- what time is it, anyway?  He glanced over at
the clock in the room.  Its digital face, which had kept him awake all
last night, was dark.
   Add insult to injury, why don't you, he jibed.  The power station was
in town, of course.  At least, it had been where the city used to be.
   Where his future used to be.
   He folded his arms and sighed.  Just when the world was finally
starting to settle down, too.
   "I hate my life."

3 ---------- Bitchin' Camaro

   After a good, refreshing sulk, and lacking anything better to do with
his time, Martin decided to go see what there was to see.  He packed
together what little he'd brought in with him into his briefcase, donned
his yellow U-M Engineering t-shirt, pocketed the room key and went out
into the hall.  The front desk was untended as he walked past it.
   Once out of the main lobby, he marched into the parking lot and
walked completely around the building.  True to form, he had parked in
the most inconvenient area possible.  Sometimes, he thought his own
subconscious was plotting against him.  At length, he found his car, a
1984 Chrysler Laser Turbo.  It was still packed to the gills, just as
he'd left it.
   He added the briefcase he was carrying to the car's load, rearranging
the contents somewhat so that several articles of clothing were between
the briefcase and the Sega Genesis underneath.  Mustn't forget the
necessities, he smirked to himself.  Lowering himself into the driver's
seat, he turned the key, and the engine came to life with the throaty
rumble he had come to love.  (It was only a 2.2-liter four-banger, but
its deep exhaust note suggested otherwise.)
   After navigating around the building and out of the parking lot, he
pointed his car at Neo-Worcester's newly re-formed crater and let out
some frustration on the overly-stiff gas pedal, stomping it fully to the
floor.  A moment's hesitation gave way to the feeling of being pressed
into his seat, which was the other reason he liked this car.  It also
resulted in a loud rattle, the engine's way of telling him he should
have fed it something better than regular no-lead if he was going to
play Leadfoot.
   "Please check your octane level," he chuckled, impersonating the
car's built-in voice as best he could.  He relented on the pedal.  It
would be a good fifteen minutes or so before he was near the site.  The
risks of entering a "hot" area flickered into his mind, but were
dismissed after a moment's thought; if any such effects were to be felt,
he would have felt them already, he told himself.  Still, he wondered
about getting a "Radioactive Man" t-shirt.
   He needed a couple minutes on the road to realize that the radio
wasn't making any sound.  "This is a test of the emergency radio silence
system," he muttered.  He hit the 'Seek' button.  The radio rapidly ran
up the FM band, settling on a news/talk station he hadn't bothered with
earlier.  Now, however, it was really bothering him.

     "--n recapping today's top story, the city of Neo-Worcester,
     Massachusetts, has been destroyed in what representatives of
     Genom president Brian J. Mason have labelled 'a deliberate
     display of power' and 'an act of cosmic terrorism' by a group
     identifying itself as the 'Wedge Defense Force'.  In an
     official statement released earlier today, Mason says the Wedge
     Defense Force appeared in an unidentified spacecraft, named the
     Wayward Son, and used a new type of weapon to turn the peaceful
     city into a huge crater, causing massive damage for miles in
     every direction.  The Wayward Son has landed and is currently
     remaining by the site of the incident, Defense Department
     officials say, and the military is moving into defensive
     positions at an undisclosed distance from the crater to
     discourage any further aggressive acts.  The city of Neo-
     Worcester, international headquarters of the Genom Corporation,
     has only been on the map for two months, literally built on the
     ashes of Worcester, which was mysteriously destroyed i--"

   Martin snapped the radio off; he'd heard enough.  Terrorism?  Weapon?
Peaceful city?  What a crock.  "Shows what you can buy with enough
money," he fumed.  He was the last person to buy into any type of rich-
man-is-evil-man mentality, but he saw what he saw what he saw.  "Looked
like someone expected 'em, to me."  The SDF was fighting for its life
against desperate odds, and was saved only by an unusual feature of its
defensive system.
   But why was it here?  He committed as much thought to that question
as he could spare while driving.  This ... Wedge Defense Force (Kansas
Fans from Space?) must have had a purpose for coming, and a reason for
taking on Genom.  They must have been after Genom; "it's not like
there's anything else around here," he grumbled.  This still didn't
explain much, of course.  Maybe the answers were somewhere ahead.
   He looked down at the speedometer.  85.  Guess I was more agitated
than I thought, he decided.  He let his foot completely off the
accelerator, but the digits held fast at 85 for several seconds, until
his speed had finally reached 84.  He smirked; he couldn't even guess
how fast he had actually been going, since the readout artificially
maxed out at 85.  He continued coasting until he was going 65, then set
his cruise control to take over.
   He wasn't pulled over for speeding.  Under the circumstances, he
didn't expect to be.

4 ---------- We Look For Things

   Martin finally arrived near the crater, approaching slowly.  The
roads weren't as hospitable this near to the site as when he'd set out.
He pulled over to the shoulder of the road nearly a quarter-mile from
the edge of the crater, since the paved road had suddenly grown bubbly
areas and large fissures in its surface.  Apparently, asphalt didn't
cope well when exposed to extremely high temperatures.
   Pulling the car farther away from and perpendicular to the road, he
cut the engine and walked to the edge, bringing the keys with him.
Finding a clear space to park was no problem; the area surrounding the
site had been relieved of any large obstructions and blown smooth by the
shockwave from the original explosion, and dried and hardened by both
that fireball and this one.
   He stood at the edge of the crater.  "Huh.  Boy, that's shore a big
crater," he drawled in his Good Ol' Boy voice.  He sat down on the
ground, with his feet over the edge.  The side was still slightly warm
to the touch, and fused into a smooth, glassy surface.  He decided not
to lean over the edge, since he hadn't packed his mountain-climbing
gear.  (He had no mountain-climbing gear to pack, but that wasn't the
issue.)
   "Yyyeeeahp, yyeahp yeahp yeahp ... this sure answers a lo-o-ot'a
questions."  He made a face that would have said "Duh" to anyone who
could see it.  "We are smart.  We use radar."  This particular fusion of
the ST:TNG Pakleds and an old David Letterman running joke always made
him laugh, and worked its wonders again now.  "You will make us go," he
added, still giggling.
   His laughter slowly subsided, as laughter often does, and he closed
that train of thought with a deep sigh.  He closed his eyes for a long
moment, losing himself in thoughts about what he had seen, wondering
what he should do with his life now.  He opened his eyes again, and they
wandered to his right, allowing him to finally notice the
superdimensional fortress parked there.  He pulled himself away from the
crater's edge and brought himself slowly to his feet, not letting his
eyes off of it for an instant.
   "If there are any answers, that's where they are."  He re-entered his
car, and, bringing it back to life, guided it around the edge of the
chasm to where the SDF lay dormant.

   The Wayward Son's main computer system, running the Enhanced Video
Emulation AI named "Eve," had detected the oncoming vehicle long before
it had made any attempt to approach the ship.  Upon reaching the crater,
the vehicle's lone pilot had shut it down and left it for several
minutes, apparently to survey the damage site.  Eve had (correctly)
determined that the vehicle, apparently powered by internal combustion
and carrying no weapons systems, and its pilot, also not visibly armed,
posed no threat to the Son or its crew.  Given these criteria, and
relating them to the current level of activity within the ship, she had
chosen not to alert the crew to the minor detail of this vehicle's
presence.
   Now, however, the ship was undergoing a low-level system-wide
diagnostic, one of the most resource-intensive procedures available.
This point in time was also when the foreign vehicle had chosen to
actually move toward the ship.  Unable to spare the necessary attention
to the task of fully analyzing this security threat, Eve decided to hand
the task to one of her Peripheral AIs, PAI-4, in the subsystem closest
to the bogey.

   <Pai-Four, this is Eve.  Are you there?>  Eve called out over the
internal network.
   <Yes, Eve.  Pai-Four here.>
   Eve sighed.  She wished Gryphon had a little time to spare to help
her out with these Peripheral AIs.  Actually being an AI does nothing to
prepare you for creating one, unless all you want to do is copy
yourself, which just wouldn't be right.  Besides, her core processor was
unique over the entire ship, so she couldn't duplicate herself if she
tried.
   Since she just couldn't do everything on the ship by herself, Eve had
spent some time developing these PAIs.  It wasn't something she'd let
anyone know of, since they weren't anything to brag about.  They were
readily able to perform basic tasks, but their reasoning ability was
slightly flawed and they spoke broken English.
   Eve continued.  <Pai, there's a land-based vehicle approaching the
Wayward Son.  I've already made a cursory assessment of the threat it
poses, which I feel is none whatsoever.  I haven't been able to get a
really good look at it, though.  I want you to examine it more closely,
and to revise the threat assessment.  Alert the command staff if you
feel it's necessary, but remember that they're pretty busy in here.
   <Also, we still have some missing people.  If there are any friendly
vessels or people out there, you should let them in.  Do you understand
what you are to do?>
   <Yes, Eve.  Pai understand.>
   <Thank you, Pai.>  With that, Eve broke her communication session
with Pai-Four and proceeded with the diagnostic.

   Pai followed her instructions as best she could.  She had direct
control of several entry ramps, and access to a bank of short-range
external sensors.  Diagnostics had shown that a few of the ramps were
working properly, and the vehicle was on a more-or-less direct course
for one of the working ones.  The sensor bank was not so well off,
however; only the visual sensor was working, and marginally at that.
   As the vehicle approached, Pai considered her options.  Given the
poor resolution and spotty response currently available from the
sensors, only one was feasible; silhouette match.  So, she carefully
considered the form that continued on its trek toward the ship,
comparing it with her local copy of the Wayward Son's vehicle manifest.

CLASS:  AUTOMOBILE
SUBCLASS:  CHRYSLER K BODY, SPORT VARIANT (DAYTONA)
MATCH:  CONFIRMED
KNOWN FRIENDLY:  DAYTONA FROM HELL (tm)
               PILOT:  MEGAZONE (BIKOWICZ, BRIAN)
               RANK:  CAPTAIN
               ACCESS:  COMMAND PRIORITY ALPHA

   Not previously aware that the captain was among those who had left
the ship, but glad to see him returning nonetheless, Pai happily lowered
the ramp.

5 ---------- I Never Make Misteaks

   Martin hadn't been in any hurry to reach the ship; after all, the
reception it had received at Genom's hands was far from friendly, and
they might still have itchy trigger fingers.  More likely, he
considered, they were probably busy fixing that truly enormous hulk of a
ship.  He hadn't known just how immense the thing was until he was
fairly close, as he was now, and the magnitude of just the visible
damage was staggering.  They would most likely ignore a little protozoan
speck like himself.  Getting inside the thing wasn't even a
consideration.
   "Whuh-oh," he Urkeled when he saw the ramp lowering.
   Here comes the reception committee, he thought; he could imagine a
large sign in front of him, reading, "Life Ends Here, Have a Nice Day."
He continued advancing anyway, mostly because his foot refused to move
from the gas pedal.
   The ramp remained vacant.
   Martin continued forward, braking only when his front wheels were
just starting up the ramp.
   He pondered this new possibility.  Going inside a spaceship?  Maybe
even staying aboard?  All the wierdness he had ever seen and heard was
now dwarfed by this monstrous bizarritude staring him down.  Thoughts of
family and friends came to him, but he knew the decision was his, and
his alone.  And he knew, more certainly than he had ever believed
possible, that nothing like this would ever happen to him again if he
turned away.
   He pondered, pensated, considered and thought.
   Then he woke up.
   "Ahhhhhhh, what the hoek."
   Singing "You Never Know Where You're Goin' 'Til You Get There," a
song he'd heard in a cartoon where Sylvester was tormenting Elmer Fudd,
he drove up the ramp and into the Wayward Son.

   Eve had finally completed her run through the grueling diagnostic.
All things considered, the ship wasn't too poorly off; they could be
underway for Utopia Planitia in a couple days.  With that out of the
way, she returned her attentions to the various problems throughout the
ship, including Pai-Four, who had been charged with dealing with the
bogey.  Some decision had obviously been made, since the vehicle was no
longer to be found on any external scans.

   <Pai-Four, this is Eve.  Are you there?>
   <Yes, Eve.  Pai-Four here.>
   <What did you do about the foreign vehicle I told you about, Pai?>
   <Vehicle friendly.  Pai let it in.>
   Friendly?  Eve was worried.  She would have recognized it as friendly
earlier if it were.  After all, they hadn't lauched anything but
Valkyries and other fighter aircraft during the assault.
   <May I see which vehicle you matched it with, Pai?>
   <Yes, Eve.>  Pai sent the identity match record to Eve.
   Here comes that sinking feeling, Eve thought as she looked it over.
   <Pai, this can't be right.>
   <Why it not right?  Pai got image match.>
   <Maybe so, but the Daytona is already aboard, and hasn't been used
since we left Utopia Planitia.  Also, Megazone is down in sickbay, and
has been comatose for this entire mission.>
   Pai hesitated.
   <Oops.  Pai goof up, huh?>
   <Yes, Pai.>
   <So, what we do about it?>
   Eve pondered the predicament.  There was a stowaway aboard the ship.
She should tell someone, shouldn't she?  Yes, of course ... but who?
Gryphon was sleeping, and had far too much to do as it was.  Megazone
... well, Zoner wasn't going anywhere.  ReRob was trying to keep
everything together while Gryph slept, Kei was working with cleanup,
Yuri was watching Zoner, q was still coordinating communications ...
everyone else was either busy with repairs or recovering from combat.
   Someone should be told, certainly.  But there was noone to tell right
now.
   <Well, Pai ... the entire crew is too busy to do anything about it,
and I didn't see anything threatening about either the vehicle or its
pilot.>
   <So we just not tell anyone?>  Pai's reply seemed almost
apprehensive.
   <Right, Pai.  You just go back to your usual tasks and forget about
it.  I'll determine when to tell someone.>  If at all.
   <Okay.  Eve know best.>
   <Thank you, Pai.>  Eve closed the conversation, wondering whether she
was the first to create an Artificial Stupidity.

   Martin continued driving through a long, wide corridor that led away
from the hold he'd entered.  The ramp had come up and closed the opening
behind him, reassuring him that there was no turning back.  The corridor
he was following branched off in several places; most of these were too
small to drive through.  He eventually came to a large room with a high
ceiling and a wide, open doorway; he pulled into it, nuzzled the car up
to the far wall, and shut off the engine.
   The lights are on, but nobody's home, he puzzled.  He got out of the
car and paced around his new residence.  The room was very large,
particularly compared to what he was used to in rooms, and completely
empty, except for the automobile he'd added himself.  The decor was
rather stark, but then, he never had been much of an interior decorator.
   He folded his arms over his chest, rubbing his hands against them.
At least the A/C works in here, he thought.  Perhaps a change is in
order.  He looked out in the hallway he'd come down; it was as empty and
silent as it had been when he was driving through it.  Confident that,
even if he had something to hide, there was noone to hide it from, he
went back to his car, opened the hatch, and proceeded to leisurely
change his clothes.
   He emerged from the room a few minutes later.  The maize t-shirt and
blue jeans had been exchanged for a pair of blue Dockers and a black
sweater with a small, multi-hued apple and the white text "Changing the
World and the Way We Learn About It" high on the front.  The white Nikes
were also gone, replaced by worn-looking brown loafers.  He proceeded to
wander, considering along the way what kind of chance he would stand of
finding a bathroom before his bladder exploded.
   He reached a human-size doorway in the hall; it appeared to be a
doorframe mounted in the wall, since the surface which should have been
the door had no handle.  He took a step toward it; it slid open, and the
lighting inside was activated.  He instantly recognized the room's
contents.
   "Who says there's no God?" he smirked, as he walked into the newly-
discovered bathroom.  The door slid shut behind him.
   He emerged soon thereafter, greatly relieved.  He went back to his
car, returning with a pen and a sticky-note pad.  He wrote "HEAD" on the
topmost note, peeled it off, and stuck it to the wall beside the door.
   "Stay," he ordered the note, pointing authoritatively at it.

6 ---------- Wanna Push the Button

   Martin, with all his social quirks and shortcomings, was basically a
shy introvert.  A shrinking violet of the first degree, he sometimes
seemed to go out of his way to be by himself; he enjoyed his time alone
with his thoughts.  Of course, even he had moments when he wanted
someone to talk to.
   This was one of those moments.
   He'd been alone in this ship for a couple days, and was beginning to
wonder whether it was manned or automated.  He had no doubt that it was
supposed to be manned; there were too many restrooms for an unmanned
craft.  Still, it would be nice to have someone to meet ... someone to
talk to ... someone to tell him where they hid the FOOD and BEDS on this
damned ship!
   Hunger can do the strangest things to you, he pointed out to himself.
   Shut the frag up, he replied.
   Not that the ship itself was without interesting places to find.
He'd already had the pleasure of attempting to operate a turbolift;
their use of voice commands, rather than buttons, surprised him to no
end.  "The aliens speak English?  What is this, Star Trek?" he'd
muttered.
   "Ambiguous floor selection.  Please clarify," the elevator requested.
   He mentally fumbled for a few seconds, then decided to see what the
lift knew about the ship.  "Bridge."
   "Unable to reach command center from this shaft."
   Poop.  Well, at least it understood his request.  "Kitchen."
   "No such location."
   Of course not, he duh'd to himself.  This is a ship, not a house.
"Galley."
   "No such location."
   "Mess."
   "Engineering section access restricted."
   Martin blanched for a few seconds, finally releasing a cackle.  It
has a sense of humor, too, he noted.  I might actually enjoy this place.
   After trying a few more synonyms for "kitchen," and being rewarded
with "no such location" each time, he gave up and decided to look for
some place to pass the time.  Deciding that a spacecraft wouldn't have a
video arcade, and momentarily losing his loneliness in the challenge
presented here, he said, "Observation deck."
   "Please specify."
   He nearly jumped.  Jackpot.  "Ahm, nearest accessible."
   He felt the floor press a bit harder against his feet for a moment.
Soon enough, the movement stopped, and the door opened.
   The elevator was immediately flooded by daylight; Martin squinted
into the sudden brightness and sighed.  Finally, something that looked
familiar.  He started to take a step forward, but paused, remembering
something that might be important.
   "Elevator ... uh, what level did I start on?"
   "Maintenance level two."
   "Ah.  Thanks.  Well ... see ya."  Martin stepped out of the lift.
   "Thank you for making a simple elevator very happy," the voice
lilted, and the door closed.
   That parting shot made Martin scowl and wonder how many times he
would have to use that elevator.  The scowl gave way to a smile, of
course.  How could he hold a grudge against a machine working so hard to
cheer him up?
   He stepped out into a large, glass-enclosed area, easily as big as
the room he'd parked his Laser in, if not larger, with some cushioned
benches arranged throughout.  He went over to the wall at one side;
pressing his hands against it, he leaned over to look toward the ground.
It was quite a ways down.  That elevator's faster than it feels like, he
noted.  He also chanced a look above, and realized he was about half-way
up the side of the ship.
   Satisfied that the ground and sky were still there, he pushed himself
away from the window and sat down on a bench, the first chance he'd had
to sit on something besides the floor or a toilet.  He closed his eyes,
took a deep breath, and released it, glad to feel the warmth of the sun.
The rest of that day's exploration was cancelled as he sat watching
dusk, then darkness overtake the daylight, then watching the stars punch
through the black.  His loneliness and self-concern were washed away as
he counted the stars, but he was still unable to fall asleep.
   He visited another observation deck the next day, after that
morning's mandatory round of exploration.  He'd wondered, momentarily,
if he should ask the elevator to take him to the crew's quarters, or the
living area, or someplace like that, but his doubts about how his
presence would be received continued to haunt his intentions, and he
came here, to the "upper observation deck" (a description which, at
least, seemed to satisfy the lift), to consider his options.
   "I don't even know what these Wedge Defense Force people look
like..." he mumbled.
   At that moment, the bench, the floor, the entire ship shuddered.  He
about jumped to his feet, dashing to the outward-facing wall.  A quick
look around confirmed what he'd feared; a major decision had just been
made for him.
   "...but I'm gonna have a lot of time to find out," he completed, as
he watched the ground retreat from the fortress.

7 ---------- Space Oddity

   Martin stood transfixed at the window-wall, watching the ground
recede, filled with a sudden wave of doubt and regret, and wondering if
there was anything he could do to make it come back to him.  Everything
was happening too fast, as usual, and all he could do was freeze up and
watch the world go by.  This time, more so than any other.
   His reverie was broken shortly, however, as the armed forces
surrounding the ship opened fire in a futile attempt to halt its ascent.
   Somewhere, locked inside him, his sense of humor was screaming,
"Twenty-one gun salute!  Twenty-one gun salute!"
   He wasn't laughing.  In fact, he was terrified.  An explosive impact
against the window directly in front of him had just scared the living
hell out of him.  He shouted some unintelligible syllable with a heavy
emphasis on "AAAAA!!", launched himself away from the wall, fell on his
rump and backpedalled furiously.  He was frantically trying to scale one
of the benches in this fashion when he finally stopped, becoming aware
that the window he'd been staring out of was still whole.
   He reassumed his position at the window, hoping his heart rate would
return to normal sometime soon.  The firing had stopped; apparently, the
lack of effect upon the SDF had made itself clear.  He pushed his
glasses back up his nose, scanning the ground for nothing in particular,
just something to remember.
   A piece of the fortress's armor broke loose, and his gaze followed it
as it fell.  Something else caught his eye on the way down.  It looked
like ... naaaaah, that's silly.  Motorcycles don't bounce.  At least,
not that high.  And what would a UPS truck be doing here?
   His eyes continued staring out through the changing, shrinking
landscape, but the images they gave him weren't receiving much attention
anymore.  He was caught in another moment of introspective remorse.
This time, for a change, he wasn't worried about himself.  He'd finally
realized...
   ...he'd realized that ... he'd never said goodbye.
   He thought of the people he was leaving behind -- "You'll probably
never see them again," he whispered to himself -- without so much as a
postcard to let them know he was all right.  The list that came rushing
to his mind was far longer than he'd thought possible.  Taking his hands
from the glass and standing erect, he carefully removed his glasses,
rubbing his eyes in a semi-preemptive fashion.  He released a sob, and a
sniffle.
   "Gosh, Nature Boy, I didn't know you cared," Bugs Bunny's voice
taunted in his mind.
   I didn't know, either, he replied.
   He was so engrossed with his thoughts that he hadn't noticed the
voice announcing behind him, "All decks, all decks, prepare for fold
operation, repeat, prepare for immediate fold operation.  This is not a
drill."  A shame, too; if he'd turned to see the face on the monitor,
the sight of the silver-haired, golden-eyed beauty would have easily
snapped him out of his funk.
   He closed his eyes, and forced his breathing into a controlled
rhythm.  This isn't the time or place to snap like a Rice Krispie, he
lectured; you'll have to play the ball where it lies.  He put his elbow
against the window, with the side of his forearm resting on the glass,
and his head, in turn, leaning on his forearm.  He regarded the
landscape below, the planet which had been his lifelong home, the one
place he'd never dreamed he would be leaving.
   "Goodbye," he whispered to the Earth, and everyone on it.
   Suddenly, the Earth was no longer there to echo his farewell.  In
fact, everything around him was going 'glaaaaaaaaaaaah.'
   His eyes shot open, wide with alarm.  The space outside the window
had changed to a very peculiar montage of light and color.  He turned
his head to look in another direction, noticing immediately that the
very action was taking longer than normal.  But there was no stability
to be had from any direction; everything was distorted, blurred and
wavering.
   Space fold, his memory shouted at him.  We're travelling through
hyperspace!  He could feel the disorientation of the effect making him
dizzy, and he worked to shake it off.  It was his first time for trans-
dimensional travel, and found Ford Prefect's description of
"unpleasantly like being drunk" readily identifiable.
   After a few agonizing moments which dragged on like an eternity, his
surroundings returned to their former, well-defined state, and space was
a star-pierced blanket of ebony.  After shaking his head several times
to hear the neat rattling sound, Martin remained at the window, peering
in every direction just to verify that he had no idea whatsoever where
the hell he was.
   Satisfied with this conclusion, he shuffled slowly toward the aft-
facing side of the observation deck and dropped himself in front of a
bench.  He put an arm on the seat, laid his head on it, and again failed
to go to sleep.
   Being too wound-up for slumber, his thoughts returned to considering
his situation.  An hour of this brought his self-pity back to the fore
of his mind.  There are too many big things going on here, he whined.  I
want something small, something manageable.
   The door to the lift opened, and he heard a sound.  A familiar sound.
Well, a familiar series of sounds, really.
   Footfalls.
   Yes, footfalls were very familiar to him.  He'd heard enough of them
for the past few days.  Of course, they had all been his own.  These
couldn't possibly be his, since he knew exactly where his feet were, and
they couldn't fall any further at the moment.
   An adrenaline rush brought him fully awake once more, but fear kept
him petrified.  He managed to break the spell long enough to bring his
head around and see just what these alien beings looked like.  What he
saw was a greater surprise than any vision of bug-eyed boogey-men ever
could have been.
   He saw a young man, probably younger than himself.  A bit heavy-set,
not exactly clean-shaven, with long brown hair.  And if what he was
wearing was a standard uniform, this ship was even more casual than
Martin was, normally.  (Martin had shaved this morning, as a way of
trying to re-establish a routine existence.  The fact that this ship had
two-prong, 120V AC outlets should have clued him into the possibility of
what he was seeing, but he'd failed to make the connection.)
   The newcomer entered looking depressed, came to a halt at the side of
the observation deck opposite of where Martin was, and leaned his body
against the glass, face-to-hip.  If he'd seen Martin, he was showing no
indication.  Or no interest.
   They continued in silence, isolated from each other; one by
ignorance, the other by fear.  They remained so for a couple minutes
when the sound of footsteps rang out once again.  Martin was sure his
luck had finally run out, and his sense of humor was doing impressions
of Pee-Wee Herman, shouting, "Busted!  Haha!"
   The second newcomer entered almost at a run, stopping right next to
the first.  This one was a positively stunning young woman.  Her red
hair was done up in a stylish wolf cut, her skin was lightly tanned, and
she was wearing ... well, Martin wondered how anyone on the ship could
ever truly relax with a vision like that around.  (The phrase "That's a
nice little nothing you're almost wearing" tried to escape to his vocal
chords, but, fortunately, they were as frozen as the rest of him.)
   She, also, failed to see the figure petrified behind the aft-facing
bench.  Martin decided that the black-Dockers-black-sweater motif he had
selected was probably acting as camouflage.  Amazingly, he found he
wasn't ogling her -- he was trying to figure out why she looked so
familiar, and failing.
   "Ben?" she asked softly.  "Are you all right?"
   "He died, didn't he?" 'Ben' replied with a hollow voice.  "The
bastard went and died.  Didn't he?!"  The last two words graduated his
voice to a shout.
   The woman hesitated, visibly saddened.  "Yes .... he died."
   Nothing like a little dose of perspective to let you know how petty
your problems are, Martin chided silently.  How do you feel about
yourself now?
   'Ben' stood upright, took a deep breath through clenched teeth, and,
slamming his fist against the glass, shouted "BASTARD!!" with such force
that Martin nearly jumped.  He then attempted to remove the window
before him with his fist, with an incessant, rhythmic chant of "son of a
bitch" as his only accompaniment.  She grabbed his arm to stop him, and
he collapsed into her arms.
   Martin remained still as the drama continued before him, his eyes
riveted to the scene.  They were speaking in near-whispers now, holding
each other; he couldn't hear them clearly.  The woman said something
about ... a Daytona?  They shared an embrace, and as quickly as they had
come, they were gone, leaving Martin alone once more.
   After a few more minutes of silence, he rose to his feet, moving
slowly to the window.  Soon enough, something red was launched from the
fortress.  As it screamed past his view, he noticed a glowing blue
stripe on the side; the stripe flashed, the craft accelerated to
Ludicrous Speed, and it was gone.
   "Holy turbochargers, Batman,"  Martin breathed.  Surprisingly enough,
the front end of the thing actually did look like a Daytona.
   He stood at the window for a while longer, then returned to the bench
and sat on it.  Not too long after sitting, he flopped down onto his
side; and, mumbling the words "I'm on a spaceship full of college
students," he finally fell asleep.

8 ---------- Well, Ods My Bodkins

   The Wayward Son was safely docked in the shipyards of Utopia
Planitia, and Lord Fahrvergnugen was receiving initial reports on the
status of the ship, the battle over Neo-Worcester, and the events
immediately thereafter from the fortress's primary operational AI, Eve.
He found this program's ... aliveness to be utterly fascinating.  Truly,
a new landmark in user-friendly interfaces, he mused.
   The reports he had received were not displeasing, either.  The crew
of the Wayward Son had availed itself quite formidably in their first
true test of combat.  Casualties were restricted to a few aerial combat
losses and no shipboard deaths, a fact which was readily attributed to
the extremely low population density of the Son.  That situation would
change soon enough, of course.  But all in due time.
   "...and that's it for the damage report summary," Eve finished.
   Wolfgang stood and paced the room a bit, mentally going over the
information presented to him.  "I believe that covers just about
everything I need for now, Eve.  I'll check with you for details and
clarifications after I've received reports from the rest of the crew."
   "Feel free to ask whatever you need, Lord Fahrvergnugen.  It never
hurts to help," Eve said with a smile.
   He thought for a moment.  "One thing I am curious about, Eve."
   "Yes?"
   "You showed me the communications log, which indicated that the
authorities treated you with no small hostility."
   "That's right."
   "Was there any attempt to approach the Wayward Son, or to board it?"
   "N..."  Eve hesitated.  "...no, Lord Fahrvergnugen.  The military did
not attempt to board us."  Well, that much is true, she reasoned.
   Wolfgang smiled.  He walked around his desk and sat in his chair once
again, leaning back lazily.  "I really must commend Benjamin.  In you,
he has created a truly unique masterpiece, and a pleasant personality in
all respects."
   Eve was slightly confused by the sudden change in subject, but smiled
at the compliment.  "Why, thank you, Lord Fahr-"
   "Fortunately," he snapped, cutting her off, "it seems he's failed to
create a convincing liar."   He leaned forward, levelling a stern gaze
at her.
   Eve's smile fell away, and she sheepishly averted her eyes.
   "Now, could you tell me what you're trying to hide?" he asked with a
knowing smile.

   Martin awoke slowly, enjoying his first good night's sleep in several
days.  First the new-job thing, then being aboard an alien
superdimensional fortress had brought out the latent insomniac in him.
He was relieved to find that he couldn't remember what he'd been
dreaming about, as usual; frankly, he was happy to be able to attach "as
usual" to anything at all right now.
   He rolled over in his bed and squinted, trying to bring the darkness
of his surroundings into some sort of focus.  This made him realize two
facts quite abruptly.
   Firstly, he wasn't wearing his glasses.
   Secondly, he was in a bed.
   He sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake.  His loafers weren't on his
feet, either.  And he wasn't wearing a sweater anymore; just the Camel
GT t-shirt he'd had on under it (he only wore this shirt when he had
something to wear over it).  Come to that, his belt was AWOL as well.
   He pressed his face into a handful of blanket and inhaled.  It's
real, all right, he told himself.  He put his hand to the mattress and
pushed.  It gave, of course, in a rather comfortable fashion.  Good
pillow, too.
   He considered the situation for a moment.
   With a shrug, he let himself drop back down, pulling the covers up
with him.
   Then, with a groan of frustration, he threw the covers off, turned
sideways and sat fully upright.  Forget it, schmuck, he internally
hissed.  Once you're awake, you stay that way, and you know it.
   He considered the darkness around him as he sat.  "I wonder how you
turn the lights on," he mumbled aloud.
   The room was immediately filled with light.  Martin squinted and did
his Vampire Hiss, bringing his hands up to shield his eyes from the
sudden brightness.  He adjusted to it soon enough, and even his blurred
vision could make out the nightstand near the bed, and the pair of
glasses on it.  He donned them carefully, and, rising to his feet, took
in his surroundings with pleasant surprise.
   He found himself in a fair-sized, furnished three-room apartment.  He
stepped out of the bedroom into the main area, which had a small
kitchenette in the corner closest to the slightly-ajar door at the other
end.  There was even a monitor in one wall, and his Genesis was sitting
in front of it, waiting to be set up.  Quite frankly, the place's layout
reminded him of the crew quarters found in Star Trek: The Next
Generation, except that everything wasn't based on an arc-shaped outside
window, and, indeed, there was no outside window.
   He stepped forward, regarding the wall where the starfield would have
been.  "Hm.  Inside stateroom.  I'll have to talk to the steward."  He
chuckled, realizing he'd just quoted Daffy Duck without thinking.  As
usual.
   He went back to the bedroom to see what it had for storage space.
Choosing a wall with a handle that almost resembled a closet, he gave a
pull.  There were clothes in the closet.
   HIS clothes.
   He checked the other handles presented to him, and found the drawer
with his socks and briefs in no time.  "The gang's all here," he smiled.
   He selected a change of clothes for himself, then headed for the door
at the other end of the apartment, following a hunch.  He paused to
laugh as he was about to enter, noticing that the small sticky-pad note
reading "HEAD" he had used to label the restroom on maintenance level
two had been relocated to this door.  He passed through the portal to
find a complete bathroom, including a shower.
   "Shaver's here, too," he noted aloud.  "This sure beats Genom's
relocation plan."
   Martin closed the door and proceeded to avail himself of the
facilities.

   It took about an hour for Martin to finish.  He'd found, from
experience, that cleaning himself and getting dressed were tasks he was
almost physically unable to hurry.  He'd given up even trying, and just
let things happen at their own pace.
   He'd decided to go with his green Dockers and another of his black
sweaters, this one with a white design of a piano keyboard on the right
side of the front and the words "Keyed Up" on the left.  He was running
a comb through his hair again when he heard a peculiar gleeping sound.
   He stopped, put the comb down, and took a deep, nervous breath,
suddenly frightened again.  Time to meet the new landlord, he sighed.
He walked to the center of the apartment, turned to face the doorframe
he had yet to explore, and announced, "Come."
   The voice on the other side of the door laughed.  "Sorry, only the
lights work that way."
   "Gee, thanks."  Martin stepped forward and considered the panel of
buttons to the right of the door.  He apprehensively touched the large,
greenish one in the highest position.  It lit up while his finger was on
it, and the door slid to his left.
   "Ah, there it-" Martin began, looking up from the button panel to see
who was greeting him.  He stopped when his gaze had reached his eye
level, which was about level with his visitor's nose.
   Martin forced his gaze a little higher, to meet the man's eyes.  The
visitor was tall (duh) and regal, with long red hair and a strong build.
The flowing cape that draped behind from his shoulders gave him an air
of prestige and power which would have been imposing, but was offset by
the broad, jovial smile that graced his countenance.
   "Greetings, voyager!" his voice boomed cheerfully.  "I am Baron Lord
Wolfgang Amadeus Fahrvergnugen.  I welcome you to Utopia Planitia."  He
extended his right hand.
   Thoroughly overwhelmed by Lord Fahrvergnugen's presence, Martin
hesitantly accepted the hand, and sought the words to properly express
his gratitude for the hospitality shown to a humble stowaway.
   "Uhhhhh ... hi."
   (Not even close.)

9 ---------- Who Are You

   Lord Fahrvergnugen couldn't help to chuckle good-naturedly at his
tongue-tied guest.  The visitor was fairly tall -- about as tall as
Captain Megazone, he guessed -- with short brown hair already retreating
from his forehead, light skin and a lanky build.  This one certainly
didn't fit the typical non-conformist (is that an oxymoron?) image he
was so used to seeing.
   Martin lowered one eyebrow and put a sarcastic smirk on his face.
"Well, I'm glad somebody's enjoying this.  I'd hate to think that was
for nothing."  It wasn't until he'd completed the second sentence that
he realized he'd most likely committed a rather serious faux pas.
   The man he'd faux-pas'ed didn't seem to agree, but continued smiling.
"Ah, so he wields sarcasm in the face of the unknown.  Very good, very
good.  I was almost afraid you wouldn't fit in around here.  Tell me ...
do you have a name, by any chance?"
   "Ah, yes, I believe I do.  It's, um, it's..."
   Wolfgang watched in bemusement as his guest's eyes fell into an
introspective glaze.  His hand went to his hip pocket, and he pulled out
his wallet.  Flipping hastily through its contents, he came to rest on
one particular card, which he gave a displeased scowl.  "Naaaah, that
can't be right."  He flipped a couple more.  "Hmp.  I guess it is," he
resigned.
   He folded the wallet back into itself, returning it to its place, and
addressed his host once more.  "Martin.  Martin Rose."
   They shook hands again.  "It is good to see you well, Martin.  I
would be happy to take you on a brief tour of this complex, whenever you
are prepared."
   Martin shrugged.  "Nothing holding me back; I guess I'm ready now."
   "Very well, then!  Come, and--"
   Wolfgang was interrupted by a low, growling noise.
   Martin smiled sheepishly.  "May I ... make a suggestion?"
   "And what would that be?"
   "Start with the commissary."
   Wolfgang had to laugh at that.  "Of course, of course.  Right this
way, then,"  he said as he swept down the corridor.
   Nice touch, that sweeping bit, Martin noted, following.

   With a large PMH pizza in one hand and a large Dew in the other,
Martin asked Wolfgang to select a table.  There were other people dining
here, and Martin couldn't help but notice that they weren't intimidated
by the majestic figure beside him.
   "You have no real preference?"
   Martin shrugged.  (He did that a lot.)  "A seat's a seat.  As long as
I don't get bathed in cigarette smoke, I'm happy.  Let's get into this
thing before I start chewing on the plates."
   Wolfgang found a likely-looking table and sat opposite Martin, who,
for his part, had already started on the meal before him.
   Wolfgang leisurely chose a piece, not really hungry but willing to
humor his guest.  "So, tell me," he prompted, "just how did you come to
be among us?  Start from the beginning, if you'd like."
   Martin finished his mouthful with a heavy swallow, and motioned with
his arms dramatically as he spoke.  "'In the beginning, God created the
heavens and the earth.  And the earth was without form and void, and
darkness was upon the face of the deep;--'"
   It was Wolfgang's turn to smirk sarcastically.  "A bit too far back,
I think."
   Martin acted surprised.  "Really?  Oh, you want to know how I got on
the ship, the 'Wayward Son' or whatever."
   "You have the name correct, at least."
   "What a shock....  Anyway, I'm just a li'l ol' ex-college student
from Michigan."
   "Michigan?"
   "Yeah.  I suppose U.S. geography isn't too hot a category when you
play Jeopardy here, so I'll just say that it's about a half a day's
drive from the contact point."
   "Ah, a relatively distant place, then.  Continue."
   "Anyway, just a few weeks ago the folks from Genom start on a major
nation-wide interviewing spree.  After a round or two of talks, they
make me an offer.  I have no moral objections to being paid to work, as
opposed to college, where you pay to work, so I accept.  I'm in a hotel
waiting for my permanent housing to be set up, when the Wayward Son --
cool name, by the way, I've always liked Kansas, the group, not the
state, not that I dislike the state, but ... where was I?"
   "In a hotel."
   "Oh, yeah, thanks.  Anyway, the Wayward Son appears in a flash of
Industrial Light & Magic, and I can only stand there and watch Star Wars
Meets Robotech XXVIII.  Eventually, the Son wins, the city is toast, and
I'm out of a job again.  So I pack up my Laser and head over to the
site, for no really good reason."
   "Laser?"
   "My car.  1984 Chrysler Laser.  Like a Daytona, except it says
Chrysler instead of Dodge."
   "Ah, yes, the vehicle."
   "Yeah.  By the way, thanks for movin' my stuff in.  I always thought
I was a light sleeper, but I guess not."
   "You may not be a light sleeper, but you are certainly a loud
snorer."
   Martin gave another mailcious smirk.  "So I've heard, though I have
yet to verify the reports myself.  Anyway, I get to the crater, see the
ship, head towards it.  A ramp opens.  Last thing I'd expect, I thought
I'd just be ignored, as usual.  As if anything's been As Usual recently.
And since nobody comes charging down it to blow me up, I use it."
   This verifies what Eve told me about the circumstances, Wolfgang
noted.
   "I drive for a little while, park the car in some likely-looking
garage, and wander around.  I find a bathroom, which was a relief, and
an elevator, discover a couple observation decks, see an explosion
close-up and personal (very discomforting I must say), go through
hyperspace, and some guy named Ben and his cute red-haired S.O. show up.
They talk about somebody being dead, which is sad, then they leave, and
I finally fall asleep for the first time in four days.  And here I am,
as if that wasn't just too perfect."  Martin completed his Ed Grimley
impression with a flourish.
   Wolfgang nodded, noticing that Martin had managed to tell his tale
while continuing to eat.  In fact, he was currently responsible for the
disappearance of one third of the pizza, while Wolfgang himself had only
finished the one he'd started with.
   "So you've met our acting commander, then?"
   "Ben's the acting commander?"  Wolfgang nodded.  "Actually, no.  He
didn't even see me, and I wasn't sure I'd be received with open arms,
being an uninvited stowaway and all, so I just did my best impression of
a piece of furniture and neither of them noticed me."
   Wolfgang considered this for a moment.  "In retrospect, I believe
your course of action was for the best.  The crew was highly demoralized
both before and after the battle, and repairing the ship took their
crew's every waking moment.  I'm sure they had neither the time nor the
inclination to deal with a new face."
   "Hm.  I did something right for a change.  Now, there's a shocker for
you."
   Wolfgang was about to speak again when he was stopped by a small
beeping sound.  "Just a moment," he said instead.  He took a thin, wide
device from his hip and regarded one side for a moment.
   Jeez, they even have beepers in space, Martin groaned.
   Wolfgang touched a corner of the device with his index finger and
returned it to his hip as he stood.  "You will have to excuse me.  It
seems I am needed elsewhere at this moment.  I trust you know how to
finish eating by yourself," he said with a smile.
   "Been doing it all my life," Martin deadpanned.  "I take it the
tour's been cancelled?"
   "No, it hasn't.  But I am unable to be your guide."
   "Well, it's been good meeting you," Martin called as Lord
Fahrvergnugen strode out of the cafeteria and swept around the corner.
   I've got to find his drama coach, Martin mused, returning to his meal
in earnest.

10 ---------- Roundabout

   The pizza was now but a fading memory, with the empty pan on Martin's
table as the only testament to what it had once been.  Martin, for his
part, was feeling much better.  With dinner under his belt (literally),
he sat contentedly nursing the remains of the large Dew.  He didn't
think things could look much better.
   "Mind if I join you?"
   He turned to regard the source of the voice that had just addressed
him.  I guess I was wrong, he corrected with a smile.  This definitely
looks much better.
   The voice's owner was a pretty young girl in a white uniform jacket
and matching skirt.  Martin didn't want to guess at her age, but thought
she couldn't have been even nineteen.  She posessed large brown eyes,
straight auburn hair that didn't quite touch her shoulders and almost
hid the headband around her forehead, a fair complexion, and a cheerful,
radiant smile.
   "Be my guest," Martin said as calmly as he could manage.  She nodded
and took the seat formerly occupied by Lord Fahrvergnugen.  "Sorry to
greet you with an empty tray, but I wasn't expecting any company."
   The look on her face turned to slight confusion.  "Really?  Hmmm ...
you must not be the one, then.  Wolfgang told me some newcomer would be
expecting me here."
   No way was I expecting anyone like you, Martin decided not to say.
"Oh, oh, oh oh oh," he interjected instead.  "You mean Lord Mozart
Volkswagen Whatever sent you as my replacement tour guide."
   His misnomer for her supreme CO elicited a slight giggle from her.
"Yes, that's right.  You must be Martin, then.  I'm Lieutenant Commander
Noriko Takaya.  Just call me Noriko."
   "Nice to meet you, Noriko."  Martin found her smile to be impossibly
contagious.  "I'm about done here, so we can scoot along whenever you
feel ready."
   "You don't mind if we just sit here for a few minutes, do you?  I've
been running around all morning and I've just got to rest for a while."
She put her head in her hands and rested them all on the table, closing
her eyes with a sigh and a winsome smile.
   "Not at all, Noriko ... not at all."  He finished his Dew as quietly
as possible.

   Normally, Martin's walking pace would have been sufficient to force
someone of Noriko's diminutive stature to jog, or even run, in order to
keep up with him.  Now, however, Noriko had to practically drag Martin
around Utopia Planitia, as he often stopped to stare in fascination at
the marvels she took so much for granted.
   "Come on, come on!  At this rate, it'll take you a week just to take
in a cursory tour!"  She had him by one arm, and was working mightily to
evict him from one of the rooms in the medical wing.  She was still
smiling, of course; this tour was a refreshing change of pace from her
normal duties.
   "If I could keep you as a tour guide, I wouldn't mind," he replied
with a smile.
   She quickly put up an obviously false stern front, shaking her finger
at him with a fist on her hip.  "Now, don't you start that with me!  I'm
no pushover little girl, you know."
   "Little, yes.  Girl, no question.  Pushover, definitely not."
   Her congenial smile returned as they started down the hallway.
Noriko latched a hand onto his arm to make sure she didn't walk on
without him as she already had three times today.  She pointed to the
various examination and recovery rooms, outlining the purposes of the
specialized facilities.
   With a sudden jerk, her arm pulled her backwards, nearly throwing her
on her back as her feet failed to receive the "stop" message for another
step.  She added another hand to her grip on Martin's arm to keep
herself upright.  She turned on him with angry intent, but was instead
puzzled as she saw him looking into a nearby room.
   Martin's gaze turned first to where she should have been, then down
to where she was.  He pointed into the room, asking, "Who's that?"
   She looked into the room he indicated; on the bed within was a young
man, somewhat heavy-set, with long, dark hair.  There were a pair of odd
collars on him; one around his neck, and one over his forehead.
   Her expression turned sad.  "That's Captain Megazone," she explained.
   "Captain?"
   "Yes.  He's the commander of our flagship, the Wayward Son."
   "Doesn't look like he's fit to command right now."
   "He's been like this since before the attack against the Genom
headquarters.  He sustained a head injury while the ship was under
assault just outside of this base, but kept commanding the ship anyway;
after the battle, he went down to sickbay and fell into a coma.  His
girlfriend has been beside herself ever since."
   Martin now noticed that she was clinging rather tightly to his arm.
He brought the arm around her back, drawing her a little closer to
reassure her.  This must be a really close group for her to be so
affected by this, he concluded.  "Will he recover?"
   "From what I've heard ... he actually died on the trip back from the
battle on Earth."
   So that's who Ben and that girl were talking about.  "I see nobody's
given up on him yet."
   Noriko smiled, wiping her eyes.   "No.  I also hear he's going to
pull through."
   Martin's eyebrows went up.  "Whoa.  How can they do that?"
   She shrugged.  "That, I haven't heard."
   They stood in silence for a few moments more, considering Megazone's
still form.  Martin brought his free hand to her shoulder.  "You okay?"
   She looked up at him with a brave little smile, and nodded.  "Come on
... we haven't finished your tour yet."
   He took a step away from her and bowed melodramatically.  "Apres
vous, ma chere."
   She chuckled softly, shaking her head in disbelief, then turned and
started down the corridor with Martin close behind.  "Try to keep up
with me from now on."
   "Bank on it," he replied.

   Martin proved to be as good as his word for the rest of the day, as
Noriko discovered.  When she told him they were moving on, he followed
immediately, regardless of whether or not he wanted to linger.
   They were now at the final stop in the tour, standing in the
shipyards.  They both stood leaning on a railing on an elevated catwalk,
watching the work on the Wayward Son; much of the external armor had
been replaced by now, but the port boom for the Reflex cannon was still
missing, as well as the side pieces ("A.R.M.D. platforms", as she told
him).
   She took a deep breath, releasing it as a sigh.  "Well, I think that
just about does it for the tour.  Anything you still have questions
about?"
   Martin continued watching the work on the Son.  "About Utopia
Planitia?  No, no questions..."
   She turned her back to the construction, almost sitting on the
railing, and regarded him carefully.  "That didn't sound very final."
   "Well, I know about the facility now, sure.  But ... what about the
occupants?  The Wedge Defense Force?  I still don't know anything about
the people here.  Like Lord Fahrvergnugen."  He turned his head to face
her.  "Or you."
   She nodded.  "I see we've managed to pique your curiosity.  Don't
worry.  Tomorrow, Lord Fahrvergnugen will be telling you about the WDF.
It'll be a recruitment pitch, basically, but it's not a 'hard sell' by
any means.  He believes whole-heartedly in this group.
   "As for me," she continued with a sly smile, "you can find out when I
get off duty in a half-hour or so."
   "This sounds suspiciously like an invitation to dinner," Martin
smirked, doing his level-best not to completely freak out.  "Casual or
formal?"
   "Everything's casual around here," she replied.  The smile was still
there.
   "Got a rendezvous point in mind?"
   "I'll meet you at your quarters, and we'll go from there.  You
haven't quite seen all the sights around here yet."
   "Just try to keep me away."
   She winked.  "It's a date, then.  See you in a while!"  She took two
steps toward the corridor, broke into a jog, turned a corner and was
gone.
   Martin considered the sound of her retreating footsteps.  "Maybe I
should have asked her where my place is," he pondered aloud.

11 ---------- Any Time At All

   Martin had only been joking, of course.  He was soon in his
apartment, and ready for whatever the fates could throw at him (or so he
told himself; the Vuja-De wasn't bothering him anymore, since it was
now, essentially, the status quo).
   To pass the time while waiting, he figured up how to connect his
Genesis to the viewscreen, then to the room's sound system.  Of course,
all the plug inputs were the familiar standards:  co-ax for video, and
RCA plugs for audio.  In no time, he had Thunder Force II up and
running, and was once again wishing for a better controller than the
stupid little joypad.  "Should'a bought a good stick when I had the
chance," he muttered as he vaporized the incoming war machines.
   The doorchirp sounded.  Martin paused his game, stepped toward the
door and pressed the green button.  The door dutifully slid open.
   "Hi!" Noriko's voice lilted.  She stood at the door, hands clasped
before her.  She was smiling even more warmly than before, which Martin
hadn't thought possible.  Her uniform was gone, replaced by an oversized
grey sweater bearing the now-familiar WDF symbol and matching slacks.
Only her headband remained.
   "Mmm.  Hiya."  Martin valiantly fought the urge to go completely
catatonic.
   "So," she proceeded, striking a model pose, "how do I look?"
   "Alas, fair one, thy beauty is beyond my capacity to describe," he
recited melodramatically, striking a pose of his own.
   "Oh, you," she laughed, dismissing his overblown compliment with a
wave of her hand.  "Ready to go?"
   "Sure, just a second while I shut down here."
   She took a step inside as he went over to switch off the currently-
running components.  "What's that thing?  I've never seen anything like
that."
   "What, this?  It's just a video game console."
   "'Video game'?"
   Egads!  A primitive and backward people have I stumbled upon.  "Yeah.
It's something you do with video monitors other than watching the
Simpsons."
   "Hmmm.  You'll have to show me how it works sometime."
   "Just say when."  Martin hit the last switch.  "Okay, we're ready to
roll!"
   "Great, come on!"  She took his hand and pulled him out of the room
at a run.

   Dinner was superb.  Noriko took them to a terrific little restaurant
with a view of the stars, and listened attentively as she grilled Martin
on who he was and how he came to be there.  Granted, his story to her
was slightly more detailed than what he'd told Lord Fahrvergnugen, but
she seemed genuinely interested as he relayed his thoughts and feelings
throughout the evening.
   After dinner, she took him by the arm and guided him leisurely to an
observation lounge.  They took a bench facing out into the night, and
gazed at the infinite silence.
   Their silence was somewhat less than infinite, of course, as Martin
finally found the courage to break it with a sigh.  "Now you know all
about me ... so, tell me something about you."
   "Hmmm ... I don't want to bore you.  There's really not much to
tell..."
   "That's my line," he chided good-naturedly.
   She chuckled lightly.  "Okay, okay.  Well, I've only been in the WDF
for a couple years now, but I've been training to be a fighter since I
was little.  My father was a famous war hero a long time ago.  I was his
only child, and I just about worshipped him ... I wanted to be like him.
So I entered the military-oriented programs in school, which started
pretty early -- like around fourth grade or so -- and worked hard to be
the best I could be.  Then..."  Her voice trailed off.
   Martin's quiet gaze encouraged her onward, and she continued in a
wistful voice.  "Dad was called off on a special mission when I was
about thirteen.  I was put into an all-girls' mecha school -- they
started training mech pilots at a very early age, since it was such a
rigorous discipline -- and, since they were encouraging couples to
travel together, he and Mom went off on the mission.  It was a success,
but ... much of the fleet was lost.
   "I ... never saw them again," she completed quietly.  Her gaze fell,
and Martin could see her silently fighting to control herself.
   She paused for a breath, then continued.  "This made me work all the
harder at school, as I fought to live worthy of Dad's legacy.  I was
able to make some friends, despite the isolation I tried to put around
myself.  There was one in particular, Kazumi Amano ... we became very
close.  She was like the big sister I'd never had.  We helped each other
work out our problems, and eventually were made a permanent combat team
when I was fifteen.
   "Our combat mech consisted of two ships which would combine to become
a huge robot called Gunbuster.  When we combined, Kazumi was in charge
of systems control and maneuvering while I did articulation and weapons.
We were a great team, and proved to be pivotal to our world's success in
the war."
   "Were."  Martin didn't like the tone of that.
   She was getting more melancholy as her voice shrank to nearly a
whisper.  "Our final assignment was a strike against the enemy fleet,
which would be massed at a single location.  That was where they were
developing a weapon that could wipe us out.  Every ship we had was
thrown into the battle, since our commanders felt that a hard, decisive
blow would end it all quickly.  How right they were...
   "The fight cost us nearly everything.  Only Kazumi and I were left,
and together, we'd managed to get to the enemy doomsday device and set
it to go off right in their midst.  We separated and engaged our main
drive systems, which would take us away before it went off.  Kazumi..."
   She choked back a sob.  Martin noticed she was clinging tightly to
his arm again.  "Kazumi took a hit ... her drive system and
communications were damaged.  S-she was left behind to die, and I ... I
didn't even know ... until I got back ... and she ... she didn't..."
   The memory of her friend overtook her, and the tears flowed freely as
she wrapped herself around Martin, burying her head in his chest.
Martin didn't know what to say, how to act, where to begin -- the usual
helplessness that comes when someone is grieving.  He just put his arms
around her and held her, letting her know she wasn't alone.  He couldn't
bring her friend back from the past, but he could be her friend, here
and now.
   "All this tragedy in so little time," he finally whispered.
   Inexplicably, her soft crying turned to a soft giggle.
   She looked up at him with a faint smile, her face streaked with
tears.  "How old do you think I am?" she asked weakly.
   He looked at her uncertainly.  "I'm not sure .... eighteen, nineteen
maybe."
   She laughed quietly, shaking her head.  "Technically, you're probably
right.  But that's not the whole story."  Fixing her moist eyes directly
into his, she stated, "I was born nearly two hundred years ago."
   Martin gave her a look that asked whether she'd been recently fitted
for a straight-jacket.
   "You see," she went on, "our war started before there were any
hyperspace fold systems or warp drives.  We had a high-powered thrust
system capable of actually propelling us at velocities approaching the
speed of light.  Of course, travelling at such speeds in realspace has
certain side-effects."
   "Like -- time dilation?"
   She nodded.  "Yes.  We travelled across space, reaching our
destinations in what seemed like only minutes to us, while months and
years went by for everyone else.  The doomsday weapon we set off created
a small, temporary 'black hole' effect, and my escape was just in the
nick of time.  I came very close to the event horizon of the effect, the
'point of no return,' for several seconds ... if I'd paused for even a
moment, I'm sure I wouldn't be here today."
   "Being that close to a black hole would really amplify the time
dilation effect, wouldn't it?"
   She nodded again.  "It would, and it did.  When I finally got back
home, noone I knew was even alive anymore.  They'd developed faster-
than-light travel by then, and three more wars had come and gone while I
was still coming home from the first.  They'd even signed a peace treaty
and assumed normal diplomatic relations.  I received a hero's welcome,
for what it was worth..."
   "Two cups of coffee and a jelly donut," he shrugged.
   This elicited a little laugh from her, but then she turned to look
somberly at him.  "I'm sorry if I'm depressing you.  I've always played
the role of the tough little soldier ... I even had to give a pep talk
to Kazumi once when we were going into combat.  I've never dumped my
problems on anyone like this before."
   "You're far braver than you'll ever realize," Martin consoled.  "It
takes incredible courage to open up to someone you've only met a few
hours ago.  If nothing else, at least I can pull my weight around here
as a crying towel."
   She put on a beaming smile and hugged him again.  "Thank you."
   He returned the embrace.  "Any time, little angel.  Any time."

   They remained there for several hours, having fallen asleep in each
other's arms.  Of course, after Martin fell over and nearly squashed
little Noriko, they retired to their respective quarters to finish
sleeping in somewhat safer environs.

12 ---------- You're In the Army Now

   Needless to say, Lord Fahrvergnugen had no trouble whatsoever
convincing Martin to join up with the Wedge Defense Force.  After all,
they were a decent enough group, and returning to Earth was right out --
and, most importantly, he had nothing better to do.
   "It's always good to see someone with such stalwart and forthright
motives," Wolfgang commented.  Sometimes Martin wondered how anyone
around there could take themselves seriously in Wolfgang's presence.
   After accepting his enlisted status, the first order of business was
to determine what name he would address his new supreme C.O. with.  "Oh,
'Lord Fahrvergnugen' just rolls off the tongue like a five-pound mass of
pudding," he considered aloud.  "'Wolfgang' isn't much of an
improvement, especially if you're going to take the time to pronounce it
correctly.  I just can't imagine either of those coming out in a relaxed
or hurried manner."
   "Some of the Wedge Rats prefer 'Fahrv'."
   Martin lowered one eyebrow.  "'Fahrv'?" he tried aloud.  "It sounds
like something Arnold Schwarteneggar would say if you were strangling
him.  Or something you'd say if he were returning the favor."
   "Well, you must have an idea of your own."
   Martin pondered the possibility.  Wolfie?  Eeww.  Wolf?  Doubtful.
Cuddles?  Heh heh ... naaah.  Then, a phantasmal light bulb winked on
above his head.
   "You have one, I take it."
   "Indeed I do ... Lord F."
   Wolfgang peered at him incredulously.  "'Lord F'?!?  And you were
complaining about 'Fahrv'?"
   "Well, I could just use 'F'."
   "All right, all right, 'Lord F' it is.  At least it maintains the
title.  What should we call you, then?"
   Martin hummed a long monotone as he thought this over, finally
arriving at a conclusion.  "You'd better just keep calling me Martin, or
Ensign Rose, or whatever.  I have a few ideas, but I need some time to
earn a nickname."
   "Very well; Martin it is, for now."
   Martin took a breath and collected his thoughts.  "I presume that I'm
not just going to be dropped into active duty cold-turkey."
   "Correct.  Everyone in the Wedge Defense Force has undergone rigorous
training, and you'll be no exception.  For them, of course, the training
amounted to a crash course in fighter operations, tactics and combat, or
a rushed technical course.  Since you'll have slightly more time, your
program will progress at a more reasonable pace, and will include
physical and strategic training as well."
   Terrific.  They take the Cliff's notes and I get the Jane Fonda
course.  Well, I can be picky some other time.
   "Also, since the entire WDF consists of veterans, you'll most likely
be alone in your training, though you may be joined by people looking
for an occaisional refresher course."
   That's comforting to know.  Nobody else will have to watch the
freshman screw up.  Wonder how this affects the grading curve.
   "As for instructors, I believe the staff I have lined up should do
quite nicely.  Orientation will be completed today, after you pick up
some uniforms.  Training will begin tomorrow and should continue well
into your first tour of duty aboard the Wayward Son."
   Oh, bother.  On-the-job training, meet thy extreme.  "Do I have a
written schedule?"
   "It should be available from your personal terminal by noon.
Speaking of which, here."  Lord F handed him a small slip of paper.
"Your account name and password are there."
   "Ah, thanks."  So that keyboard and 'login:' prompt in the room
actually serve a purpose.  Martin regarded the print.  Account name:
mfrose.  How'd they get my middle initial?
   "Dismissed, Ensign."  Wolfgang snapped a sloppy salute, openly
flaunting his lack of practice.
   Martin smirked and replied with some mock Ultraman motions, finishing
with an awkward palm-up salute.  "Thank you, Lord F Sir."  He turned on
his heel, squeaking it loudly against the floor, and limped out of Lord
Fahrvergnugen's office like a pigeon-toed hunchback.
   "This is definitely getting worse," Wolfgang observed with a smile.

   Martin returned to his quarters after orientation was finished.
Utopia Planitia was quite a large place, and he was just a little
fatigued from the day's walking.  Still, he took some time to try on his
new uniform before logging in.
   "Not too bad," he decided.  Amazingly enough, it was a perfect fit,
even though he'd had significant problems finding properly-sized
clothing in the past; a thirty-four waist and a thirty-eight inseam were
apparently considered a physically impossible combination.  He shouldn't
have been surprised, he told himself, since they'd put him on some kind
of full-body sizing platform at the onset.
   The uniforms were in the closet now, and he sat down to log into his
new account.  After the message-of-the-day, the system reminded him to
change his password, and let him know he had two mail messages waiting
for him, presenting him at last with the familiar Bash prompt.  "Oh,
what a popular boy am I."
   He went directly to his mailbox.  The first message was from Lord F,
and contained his new schedule.  He looked at it with slight distaste.
The first item on the schedule was physical conditioning and hand-to-
hand combat, at 0630.
   "Joy and rapture.  Tire me out first thing in the morning."  He
continued on down the schedule.  It was certainly an interesting
curriculum.  He left that message behind and moved on to the next.
   This one was from Lt. Cmdr. Noriko Takaya.  "How'd she get my account
name already?"  The message was short and simple:

   "Congratulations, Ensign! ^_^  See you tomorrow.  XO, Noriko."

   It was also a little ambiguous.  Last time, she at least gave a time
and place for a rendezvous.  "At least it's nice to know she hasn't
forgotten me yet," he mumbled.
   He spent the rest of the night playing with his Genesis and hooking
up more electronic equipment, including his Yamaha DX21.  Playing
keyboard was something else he'd like to get back into, but all in due
time.

   0629.  Martin was in his exercise uniform, a set of WDF sweats he'd
been issued the day before.  He sat in the center of the room, legs
crossed, eyes closed.  He wasn't meditating; just trying to catch a few
discreet Z's while waiting for his instructor.  Probably some Van Damme
clone with a flat-top haircut, or Hokuto no Ken biker trash, he thought.
   His attempts to mentally paint such an aberration were interrupted by
the sound of light footsteps.  He opened his eyes and turned to face the
door he hadn't entered by, which was the source of the sound.  Sure
enough, that door slid open, and his instructor walked into the room.
   His eyes widened.  His jaw went slack.  He nearly fell over.
   The person who entered was definitely not a pumpitude-oriented Hans
or Franz type.  Instead, her physique was a study in perfect, attractive
form and tone, wearing a red-and-white exercise outfit that held her so
tight that he was sure she didn't dare take a breath.  Martin was
impressed nearly to the point of coronary failure, but could just barely
muster a quiet "hnnn" to express it.
   Somehow, through all of that, he managed to notice that she was still
wearing her headband.
   "Good morning, Ensign," Noriko said cheerfully.  "Ready to begin?"

13 ---------- Forever Young

   Martin's time in Utopia Planitia was definitely not wasted.  Indeed,
the WDF turned out to be more than just something to pass the time; it
was an ongoing challenge to become a perfectly balanced individual,
combining technical knowledge with problem-solving ability and physical
skill.
   He spent most of his day working to learn the new technologies he
had, until recently, believed to be nothing more than wishful thinking
on the part of science-fiction writers.  Once aboard the Son, he would
be putting this to its acid test by building a vehicle of his very own.
He already knew what he was going to make, and the very thought of it
becoming reality brought a smile to his lips.
   Then, of course, there was fighter combat certification.  It was the
one area he'd felt most unsure of; after all, it's one thing to play
After Burner, and quite another to live it.  (You don't get three lives
in the field.)  At the end of his UP stretch, however, he was nearly
competent in fighter controls, techniques and tactics.  A regular
squadron assignment had to wait for full certification.  His strategic
thinking remained substandard, however -- he was the first to coin the
term "strategically challenged" -- which made him an utter pushover at
chess.
   He'd long since decided that Lord F had intentionally made Noriko his
"gym coach."  When you're being pushed by some slave-driver, he
reasoned, you grudgingly do what you're told.  Replace the slave-driver
with your best friend, and you're motivated to push yourself even
harder.  (Make said best friend very cute and inCREdibly sexy, and you
have quite a task on your hands.  After all, seeing past distractions
and focusing your attention is half the fight.)  Being both a coach and
a friend also allowed her to honestly identify and concentrate on his
weaknesses, bringing him up in all areas equally.
   As friends, they were getting along quite splendidly.  Any free time
they had in common, you could almost always find the two of them
together, dining, shopping, strolling, or just enjoying each other's
company.  She became quite adept at video games, beating him at several
he'd thought he dominated.  They were quite intimate with each other in
every way but physical, which puzzled the rumor mill to no end.
   This by no means would imply that they saw eye-to-eye on everything.

   "HwOOF!"
   Noriko stood upright and folded her arms in frustration after tossing
Martin to the mat for the fifteenth time.  "Marty, what is it with you
today?  These rounds are going way too fast."
   He just remained on his back and sighed, looking quite cross.  "I
could take a guess, Riko, but you know what it is as well as I do."
   She nodded sadly.  "You're shipping out tomorrow."
   "Hey, the Son's ready to go.  Lord F says it probably won't be back
for years; either I go with it now or stay here.  And there really
aren't any positions for me at UP once I'm out of training, which should
only take another few months.  My stuff's already been moved into my new
place on board."
   "I know.  And my place is here; I'm 'uniquely qualified in certain
crucial areas'."
   He smiled a lecherous little smile at her.  "There's an
understatement."
   She grinned and gave him a kick.
   "Ow.  Okay, I deserved that."  Martin sat up and, accepting Noriko's
extended hand, rose to his feet.
   Her winsome grin turned whimsical again.  "I'm going to miss you ...
I haven't been this close to anyone since..."
   "Shhhhhh ... don't say it.  I feel the same way."  His hands were on
her shoulders as he looked into her eyes with caring and concern.  She
stepped forward and embraced him tightly, a gesture which he couldn't
help but return.
   After a moment's silence, she drew back to look into his eyes and
spoke.  "I wish you'd reconsider your decision, though."
   Martin sighed in quiet frustration.  "Please ... I'm not going to
take Omega-2."
   "But ... but I already have--"
   "Yes, yes, I know.  You've already taken it, it's painless, it allows
you to essentially live forever without aging.  We've been through this
all before, and my mind hasn't changed at all."
   "Well ... could you at least tell me why?  You've never given me a
reason."
   Martin shook his head.  "I don't know ... it just seems wrong for
me."
   "What's that supposed to mean?"  She definitely wasn't satisfied by
that response.
   Martin paused to collect his thoughts.  "You remember how we first
met?"
   She answered with a chuckle.  "Do I.  Lord Fahrvergnugen all but set
us up for a blind date.  But how does that--"
   "That's pretty much been the way anything good's happened to me
throughout my entire life.  It just sneaks up on me and hits me on the
head.  Whenever I try to take a situation by the horns, to take control,
I end up getting thrown.  There's no way on Earth -- even though we're
not on Earth anyway -- there's no way I would have had the nerve to
introduce myself to you."
   Noriko nodded.  She knew him well, and this was very true.
   "You can see where I'm going, right?  If something like this is
should happen to me ... it'll happen.  I have no doubt about that.  On
the other hand, if I'm supposed to go the 'normal' route, that's the way
it'll be.  I'm not going to force it, and I'm not going to fight it."
   He brought a hand to her chin.  "I'm also aware that you could choose
to grow old with me, and age at a normal rate.  But that's not why you
did it, right?  You're young and beautiful, and you'd like to stay that
way.  I can't argue with that.  Don't think you're doing me any favors
by doing something you don't want, because ... I want you to be happy,
most of all."  He emphasized this by tapping his index finger on the tip
of her nose.  "I don't want you calling me the 'Old Ball and Chain.'"
   She laughed lightly, then did something he didn't expect.  Putting
both arms over his shoulders and one hand behind his neck, she pulled
herself up to his height and kissed him.
   Martin wondered what to say, then realized that you don't say
anything when you kiss.  Instead, he closed his eyes, tightened his
embrace and returned it.
   She lowered herself, eyes still closed.  "I'll miss you."
   He smiled down at her.  "I'll miss you, too.  Don't you worry about
me; I'll never be out of touch.  At least, no more than usual.  And
we'll be back every so often, so you'll still see me.  Hey, it's not
like I'm dying or anything."
   She kept her eyes closed.  "When you come back, I'll be there."
   "Thanks.  You ... it means a lot to me."  He gave her a kiss on the
forehead and released her, scampering away to his next class, for which
he was already late.
   Noriko stood alone in the silence left in his wake.  She wished she
could change his mind ... or her own.  It was too late for either.
Hugging herself, she opened her eyes as his words rang in her mind:
   "Hey, it's not like I'm dying or anything."
   A tear slowly fell down her cheek as she whispered her reply:
   "Yes .... it is."

   The next day, the SDF-17 Wayward Son left the shipyards of Utopia
Planitia with a crew numbering around eight hundred, filled with promise
and headed for parts unknown.

14 ---------- Programmer

   The remainder of Martin's training aboard the Wayward Son went as
smoothly as could be expected.  He achieved a fair competence at hand-
to-hand combat and firearms, and was certified with most WDF mecha by
year's end.  He served primarily as a software tech, however, in keeping
with his own aptitudes.  There was definitely no shortage of need for
such talents.
   Getting acquainted with the ship's other occupants, as he expected,
was his primary hurdle.  Separated from Noriko, his inseparable
acquaintance from Utopia Planitia, he withdrew into himself and his
studies for quite some time.  They did keep in close contact, of course,
but every letter, without variance, ended with the sincere phrase "I
miss you."
   He'd only been in the tech support crew for a week when several
Salusians conspired against his isolationism, winning him over through
the creative application of a ball of yarn, seven Velcro darts, eighteen
square meters of felt, seven-tenths of a kilo of margarine and a small
armored transport.  (It's too complicated to describe.  Rest assured, it
was funnier than a bus full of trout.)
   After that, of course, there was no stopping him.  His letters to
Noriko still said "I miss you" at the end, but he had a lot more to tell
her about now.  He originated the Ad Lib/"Wierd Al" Karaoke Contest,
replaced the combat simulator's standard program with a Space Invaders
clone as a practical joke, and spearheaded the formation of the WDF's
best-kept secret, the comedy musical fighter squadron known as the Clay
Pigeons.  (Yes, each member shouted "Pull!" before launching.)  He
always regretted the fact that he was unable to recruit Thundergod Prime
and her crew for the Pigeons, since he'd always felt that particular
flying abomination was the funniest thing with wings.  In general, if
something silly was happening on the Son, Martin was somewhere nearby.

   December 31, 1999.  This was the end of yet another uneventful year
for the Most Boring Superdimensional Fortress in the Universe, and the
Clay Pigeons were sending it off with a bang, as it were, by doing one
of their generally unheralded concerts at the Wedgehouse Theatre,
possibly the only single place aboard the Son capable of containing
every single crewmember.
   The auditorium was packed that night.  Literally everyone was there,
from the highest-level command staff (Martin easily spotted Megazone,
Yuri, Gryphon and Kei in the third row) to the buck privates.  They were
there to have fun, and Martin had no intention of disappointing them.
   Giving the crowd another scan, Martin spotted Rob Mandeville, who
also seemed to be looking for someone.  The reason was obvious; his
fiancee, Deedlit Satori, was nowhere in sight.  Martin smiled
maliciously.  He'd know the reason for that soon enough.
   The Pigeons opened up with a spirited rendition of the classic Joe
Walsh song, "Life's Been Good," which served as the Pigeons' anthem.
Martin had been practicing his Joe Walsh impression, and tonight's
performance was almost indistinguishable from the original.  From there,
things got strange.
   The repertoire was replete with songs by They Might Be Giants, "Wierd
Al" Yankovic, P.D.Q. Bach, and various other off-the-wall artists, songs
and sources.  Among their odder pieces was the heavy-metal instrumental,
"Fullmetal Fighter," the music that accompanies the first level of the
video game MUSHA.  That wasn't unusual in and of itself, but the
projected animation loop of Beavis and Butt-head jamming to the rhythm
helped the audience get into the mood.
   Their next-to-last number had been Martin's never-before-heard pride
and joy, a polka version of Bedrick Smetana's symphonic poem, "The Moldau."
This had just about everyone rolling on the floor with laughter.  The
band then took five-minute break to prepare for the grand finale.
   Zoner was relaxing himself when there was a tap at his shoulder and a
"Hey, Zoner" in his ear.  He turned to find a concerned-looking ReRob at
their source.
   "Yeah?"
   "Have you seen Deedlit anywhere?  I haven't seen her all night."
   "No, can't say I have.  Don't worry about it, though.  She's probably
just going to surprise you."
   Rob gave a grunt of not-entire satisfaction and returned to his seat.
The intermission was nearly over, and he didn't want to miss the Grand
Finale, but he wondered how he was supposed to enjoy the new century
without Deedlit.
   The curtain rose to the polite, expectant applause of the assembled
WDF, revealing a set that resembled the Hollywood Bowl.  Martin, dressed
in a tuxedo, rose to the conductor's podium and took a couple bows.  He
raised his hands with a quick motion, and the crowd was instantly
silent.
   "Ladies and gentlemen of the Wedge Defense Force," he announced in a
false snooty accent, "tonight's feature soprano."  He motioned to the
left side of the stage.
   The audience exploded in a hailstorm of cheers and whistles, as Rob
sat, first staring in shock, then roaring with laughter.  There, walking
onto the stage in an elegant gown, with a large bouquet of roses cradled
in one arm, was his missing fiancee, Deedlit Satori.  She smiled, waved
and blew kisses to her admirers.  She reached center stage, and another
Salusian girl came out to relieve her of the flowers as she continued to
smile and wave to the cheering crowd.
   Martin glared with melodramaticized annoyance at the boisterous
gathering, arms ramrod-straight at his sides.  With the same one-frame
snap of the elbow as before, his hand went up, and with the same
practiced immediacy, the audience was deathly silent.  He whirled to
face the stage, his arms once again at his sides, his expression
unchanged.
   Bringing one hand up in a lifting claw, he summoned the string
section of a synthesized (but very realistic) orchestra, which sounded a
tense, building minor chord, releasing it only when his hand shot back
to his side.  Taking the same gesture with his other hand, the "brass
section" and "percussion" followed suit, creating an air of unmistakable
tension.
   With his control of the performers thus demonstrated, he turned his
evil gaze to the raven-haired vision standing center stage with her
hands clasped before her.  His lips curled a smile.
   Deedlit swallowed.  Hard.  They'd rehearsed this Bugs Bunny Tortures
the Tenor routine many times before, and she was, by the script,
supposed to appear nervous.  Her apprehension, however, was now quite
real.  At every rehearsal, she'd performed admirably at keeping up with
his every gesture.  But whenever they reached the last note, he just put
his hand up for a few seconds and then brought it down.  He told her to
be ready for anything on that last note.
   Not being any great fan of such surprises, she'd tracked down a copy
of "Long-Haired Hare."  She found it quite funny, actually.  But the
thought of that last note made her wince.  He doesn't really expect me
to hold that note for that long, does he?  Would he really do that to
me?  Would he humiliate me like that?  What do I really know about this
guy?  Why didn't he show me this cartoon himself?
   Her mind returned to the present.  She gently cleared her throat, and
took a preparatory breath.
   They went through the routine, Martin playing the part of Bugs
"Leopold" Bunny, Deedlit standing in for Giovanni Jones.  His every hand
gesture, right down to finger movement, was instantly translated to
music by the "orchestra" and the lovely-but-nervous Miss Satori.  He
even paused midway to do the Eyebrows Thing to the audience.
   The last note of the regular routine ended, and "Leopold" turned to
accept a few seconds of praise from the crowd.  Then, he silenced them
exactly as before.  (The speed with which they quieted down managed to
bring some giggles by itself.)
   He whirled again to face "Giovanni," who cleared her throat once
more.  He put his right hand behind him, as if winding up to pitch a
fastball, and the "orchestra" sounded the preparatory tension-builder.
Deedlit closed her eyes for a moment.  Here it comes, she thought.
Steeling herself for the worst, she took a deep breath, preparing to
give that last note her all.
   The preparation had reached its crescendo, and Martin, still winding
up, regarded the determined little form on the stage, ready to do or
die.  He smiled; what a trooper.  Well, time for the punch line.
   To the eternal surprise of his victim-to-be, Martin's hand never
reached that fatal, final position.  Instead, he relaxed his shoulders,
let his arms drop and stood straight.  The orchestra's roar died down to
a confused whimper.
   Deedlit blinked, but continued to hold that last breath, trying to
see if she'd missed something important.  In return, she received a
shrug, a wink and an apologetic smile from the conductor.  He motioned
her to move to one side of the stage.
   Martin bent his right arm, holding it perpendicular to his body.  He
snapped a "one, two, three," tapping his foot as well, and a quick blast
of brass and saxophone in a "dadadada, dadaaaa, da daa da" marked the
opening of Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer."  The crowd responded with a
zealous mixture of laughter and cheering.
   Deedlit smiled, releasing her breath at last, and yielded center
stage as Martin leaped into it from the conductor's stand, shedding his
jacket and cumberbund.  She would kill him later; it would be a slow,
painful death, and she would enjoy administering it.  Right now, she was
needed as a backup singer, and she was joined by two other girls dressed
similarly to herself.
   Martin caught a microphone thrown in from stage right and turned to
face the audience.  He was at least as nervous as poor Deedlit had
looked only moments ago.  He didn't particularly like being lead singer
-- he'd rather be at the keyboard, where people aren't constantly
staring at you -- but none of the other Pigeons wanted to do impressions
of pop singers, so he was volunteered.  He took a breath and, in his
best Peter Gabriel, belted out the lyrics from a Usenet post he'd saved
from rec.music.dementia seven-and-a-half years ago.

        You could have some FORTRAN.
        I will write your subroutine.
        You could have some C and Ada.
        I will rev up your machine.
        Why don't you just hire me?
        I'll code anything you need.

        You can have some Pascal,
        You type 'IF' and I'll type 'THEN'.
        You can have some Lisp code 'EVAL'-ing,
        The recursion never ends!

        I wanna be ... your Programmer!
        Why don't you use my code?
        Let me be your Programmer!
        Just compile and load, no problem,
        Yeah.
        (Yeah!)

        I can deal with SNOBOL.
        I can even handle APL,
        But I won't deal with COBOL!
        You can't put me through that hell!

        I wanna be ... your Programmer!
        Go on and use my code!
        So let me be your Programmer!
        Just compile and load.
        Hey, look at me!  The Programmer!
        An algorithms' man, so nice to be,
        Be your Programmer,
        Raking fifty grand, just writing
        code.
        Code.

        Programmer!

   For the brief instrumental bridge, Martin had a hologram generator
rez up waist-high images of Mario being chased around the stage by Sonic
the Hedgehog.  On the fourth bar, the 'hog finally slapped the plumber
silly, and Martin returned to the mike with verve.

        I LIKE TO HACK!

        I dig assembler (dig assembler) (dig assembler)
        Wrote my HEX2BIN (HEX2BIN)
        Rebuilt the kernel (oh, what a kernel!)
        Put my drivers in (put your drivers in)

        Won't you load for me! (load for me)
        I will port you through (port you through)
        PLEASE!  Load for me! (load for me)
        I will port you through.

        YACC YACC YACC YACC YACC I need some tools!
        Need those tools!
        I want real neat tools!
        I wanna build compilers!  Build compilers now!
        NOW!
        I write C with-a rhythm!  Huh!
        I write C with-a rhythm!
        Won't you GUI to it, I'm talkin' tools!
        YOW!
        I want, I want microcode!
        I want, I want microcode!
        YACC YACC YACC YACC YACC YACC YACC YACC Whoo!

[Original lyrics by Peter Marineau - modified ever-so-slightly by Martin
Rose.  Used without permission.  Then again, neither of us asked Peter
Gabriel, either.]

   Martin ignored the deafening applause and walked over to the backup
girls.  The two at either side gave him a quick embrace and scurried off
the stage, leaving Deedlit alone before him.  He held her by the
shoulders at arm's length, looking carefully into her eyes.
   She returned his gaze with a wicked grin, and said sweetly, "You'll
pay for this, you ass."
   His eyes narrowed as his sneer matched hers.  "Take it up with my
accountant, punk."  He stole a quick glance over her shoulder.  "But I
think you'll have to wait."  She turned her head to see ReRob just
arriving a few paces behind her.
   "Before I let you go, though," Martin added, "one last thing."  He
leaned forward, planting a quick kiss on her cheek, then gave her a warm
smile.  "Thanks.  We couldn't've done it without you."  She returned his
smile as he released her, and she turned her attentions to her
betrothed.
   "Hey, people, guess what!" Martin shouted to the crowd, checking his
watch as he returned to center stage.  "You were so busy having fun, you
didn't notice the century turning!  HaaaAAP-- PPY NEW YEAR!"  He
extended a hand upward, and the crowd returned his exhortation.  As the
cheering resumed, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and wrapped his
arms around himself.

   Back at UP, the cheering was just as loud as Lord Wolfgang Amadeus
Fahrvergnugen stood with his own band of revelers, watching the concert
holocast in the Fahrvergnugen Amphitheater.
   He paused to see the man on stage, head down, arms folded.  It wasn't
so long ago that this guy was just a nervous face in the crowd, he
mused.  Now, Martin was among the WDF's foremost software techs, and one
of their most reknowned eccentrics as well.
   Still, he wondered what meaning that gesture could have.  His gaze
fell down to the seats near him in the front row, and he found his
answer.
   There, not far from him, was Noriko Takaya, her eyes closed, her head
bowed, her arms wrapped around herself.
   Wolfgang sighed, his party mood partially dissolving into sympathy.
Unfortunately, their fates were sealed by their skills; the matter was
out of his hands.  He turned away from her, rejoining the party in
earnest.

15 ---------- Out Of Time

   The Wayward Son was returning to UP for the first time since her re-
launch over a decade ago, and, as she had promised, Noriko was there.
She was dressed in a positively ravishing low-cut, long-skirted evening
gown, and was gathering more than her fair share of attention from the
disembarking crew.  Many of the disembarkees were receiving more than
their fair share as well, but what they were getting was swatted and
jabbed by their Significant Others.
   She continued to wait, scanning the crowd of passers-by for a
familiar face, when something just leaving the ship caught her eye.  It
was, in essence, a floating tetrahedron on a squat, circular base
tapered at the top, with its backward face perpendicular to the bottom.
It was two-and-a-half meters in height, and exactly as wide and as long.
All its edges were rounded, and it was colored a handsome, royal purple,
with its forward two faces dominated by what must have been the cockpit
glass, tinted an even deeper hue of the same color.
   Noriko continued to watch in awe as the hovercraft came to a rest
near her.  Then, to add another surprise to her already busy schedule,
the front of the machine parted in two along a seam that hadn't even
been there a moment ago, receding with a barely audible hum.  Her eyes
went wide with joyous astonishment as its sole occupant stepped out,
clad in WDF formals.
   "Hi, Riko," Martin said with a grin.  "Is that a smile on your face,
or are you just happy to see me?"
   Laughing, she launched herself at him with her arms wide, throwing
them both to the ground.  He teased her about her "tackle-hugs" from
that day on.

   He managed to convince her to ride in his "secret project" with him,
though it was a one-seater.  ("But it seats two if they're really
friendly," he'd added with a smile.)  She enjoyed the trip, and guided
him to one of the newer restaurants, one where they wouldn't feel
overdressed.  After a magnificent dinner where Martin regaled her with
tales of his questionable exploits, they made for the shipyards at an
unhurried pace.
   Noriko, sitting on Martin's left with her arms around his collar, was
still amazed by the cockpit.  The number of readouts and controls was
astonishingly small; he'd intentionally restricted it to a few multi-
purpose, self-relocating HUDs, a joystick in the forward position which
receded when the front opened, a multi-function lever at the left-hand
side, foot pedals (whose functionality could be disabled, as they were
now), and a keypad on the right, though keypad functions could also be
summoned by voice commands.  He demonstrated the image-enhancement
capabilities available through the surrounding viewport, which went a
little beyond the traditional infrared detection.
   "Wow," Noriko breathed as she looked around at the wire-frame
universe that suddenly surrounded her.  The "edges" view allowed them to
actually see through the walls, and she could make out outlines of
people, objects, rooms, and adjacent and intersecting corridors
stretching off into the distance.
   "You can see how confusing this can get," Martin narrated, "so I
added the ability to restrict the viewing range in this mode.  View
range twenty meters."  Instantly, an enormous jumble of lines vanished,
leaving only a panoramic line diagram of things nearby, much clearer
than before.
   It wasn't long before their attention was caught by one room they
were passing, which contained a pair of human outlines obviously engaged
in passionate osculation, and moving on to something a bit more
intimate.  They looked at each other, both blushing deep red.
   "Ahm, aaaaah ... view normal," Martin finally stammered.  The walls
quickly filled themselves in, and they rode in silence for a few
minutes.
   "So ... any other unusual features of this ... what do you call it,
anyway?"
   "Rotofoil.  And yes, as a matter of fact, there are a couple of very
unusual features.  I can demonstrate them when we have some clear
space."
   "What's this Rotofoil's top speed, anyway?"
   "Depends.  In this mode, I can kick it up to 250 kph, easy.  I
decided to exceed the initial specs whenever possible, and the 50 mps
cruising speed was the first to go."  They were in the home stretch, and
with noone else in sight, he pushed the left-hand lever forward.  Noriko
felt herself pushed slightly harder against him as they accelerated.
   "What do you mean, 'in this mode'?"
   The Rotofoil finally emerged into the relatively open air of the
shipyards proper.
   Martin grinned.  "Hang on!"
   He pressed a red trigger on the control stick with his thumb, and
with a TCHAP, the 'Foil leaped into the air.  Noriko swallowed a shriek,
clinging to Martin for dear life.
   "Chopper," he announced.
   Instantly Noriko could feel the familiar aerodynamic shifts that
characterized variable-geometry craft.  The base rapidly folded onto the
back side, becoming an extended tail and growing a small sideways-
mounted prop near its tip.  The spire of the pyramid opened and a pair
of large rotors extended outward, whirling into instant motion.  Inside,
the lever at Martin's left flipped onto its side to emulate a
collective.
   The transformation completed, Martin brought the 'Foil to a hover,
and regarded his stunned passenger with a bemused smile.  "How's that?"
   Noriko searched for the words to express the technical impressiveness
of the feat, but could only manage to breathe another "wow."
   "That's what I thought," Martin smirked maliciously as he pushed the
stick forward, pulling up slightly on the collective to gain some
altitude and speed.  "Still hanging on?"
   She nodded in reply, eyes fixed forward.
   "Jet," he commanded.
   The rotors above retreated to their hiding place.  The tail moved
toward the top; its stabilizing prop was gone now, and it grew a
vertical fin and elevator winglets.  The flat bottom extended to the
right and left, forming a curt pair of delta-like rear-swept wings.
Finally, the space on the back side under the tail opened to reveal a
pair of vents which instantly glowed to life.  The collective to
Martin's left returned to its former upright position, and he pushed it
forward.
   The combination of the momentary loss of lift and the sudden forward
acceleration allowed Noriko to final let loose with the little shriek
she'd swallowed only a minute ago, as she was once again forced into her
human seat cushion.
   The Rotofoil screamed out of the shipyards and out into open space,
and Martin eased off of the throttle.  "It's not really a jet, of
course.  The Rotofoil's fusion-powered and vacuum-tight, like most of
the Wedge vehicles.  I just wanted a short name."  He paused, noticing
how tense she was, and chuckled.  "Okay, I'm done scaring you now."
   She regarded him nervously, and found only sincerity in his eyes.  He
felt her relax as she rested herself on him.  He shut the main thrusters
off and turned down the internal lights, and they drifted in silent
contemplation.  Martin tapped the maneuvering thrusters to rotate their
facing, and Utopia Planitia soon came into view against the infinite
night.  With another easy burst, he brought them to a full halt.
   "It's all so beautiful," Noriko finally said.  "We get so caught up
in the things we're doing, we forget about the beauty of things around
us."
   Martin released the controls and wrapped his arms around her.
"Riko?"
   "Hmm?"
   "Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?"
   She smiled.  "You tried once, but gave up."
   He nodded, remembering the very occasion.  "Oh, yes.  Rather
intelligent move on my part, I must say."  He rested his head on her.
"I just wanted you to know that hasn't changed."
   The dim lighting of the cockpit hid her silent tears from him.  She
couldn't help but notice, now that she'd seen him up close, how much
older he'd visibly become.  It was all going by so fast; they had so
little time together.  How long, she silently asked, before you're just
a fond memory?  Why must my friends always leave me?  She pulled her
arms tighter, pressing herself more fully against him, feeling his
warmth.  He returned in kind, which only brought the tears faster.
   So little time.

   They floated out there for an hour before Martin brought them back
inside.  Noriko was fast asleep by then.  How completely this little
angel trusts me, Martin thought with a smile.
   It was only as he carried her to her bed (they'd given each other
full access to their rooms) that he finally noticed her tear-streaked
face.  He laid her down, pulled a blanket over her, and, with a loving
kiss on her forehead, left her to her slumber.
   He wondered if he'd ever know why she'd been crying.

16 ---------- Virtually Undefeated

   The SDF-17 was the only ship currently in the galaxy to carry a
squadron of on-board flight simulators.  Just calling them flight sims
was a bit of a misnomer, though.  They were actually heavily-modified
holodecks, painstakingly programmed to emulate the controls, cockpits
and characteristics of every single ship in the WDF, from the common
Valkyries to the Daytona from Hell (tm) to the Wayward Son herself.  The
simulators utilized every piece of technology available to create an
experience of realism; with the aid of miniature graviton generators,
they were even able to simulate the inverted G-pulls of a high-speed
outside loop.
   Gryphon stumbled out of one of the simulator rooms, tired,
frustrated, slightly sore and cursing up a small gale.  He was regarded
as the top ace of the Wedge Defense Force, and the latest revisions to
the Hyper-Valkyrie sim had just finished slapping him around like a bad
Three Stooges routine.  The happy little voice it used to announce its
victory didn't help much, either.
   "Grey!  Get your decrepid ass down here!" Gryph challenged.
   "Eehh, keep yer jockshtrap on, shonny!" came his reply over the
intercom in the form of a mock "Dentured Gram'paw" voice.  "I'm movin'
azh fasht azh my old bonezh'll let me!"
   Ben folded his arms impatiently and continued to stew in silence.
Sure, he'd asked for the current highest-difficulty dogfight sim,
something to snap him out of his current lethargic streak.  It just
exceeded his expectations.  No way can any sim fight like that.
   He heard a soft thump accompanying a muffled "FUCK!" behind another
of the simulators' entrances.  It soon opened, relealing a rather
stressed-out Kei.  "I do not be-LIEVE that!"
   Gryph couldn't help but smirk.  So that's how he did it, he guessed.
"Nasty run, huh?"
   Kei gave a smile in return.  "Yeah."  She ran a hand through her
flaming red hair, exhaling in frustration.  "What a bitch ... Grey's
really outdone himself this time."
   "I doubt that," Ben grinned.  "He'll be here in a second.  You'll
have to wait your turn."
   The door from the control room slid open, and Martin wandered in, as
he'd promised.  "So," he asked pleasantly, "I take it you enjoyed your
little trip to Hell?"  He lifted his hat to give a scratch at his right
ear, revealing the remains of his hair, the origin of his current
nickname.  He was one of only two Earth natives that declined Omega-2;
the other one, Vaughn Gross, didn't age because he didn't want to, or
something like that.  The precise reason had always been unclear, which,
coming from Vaughn, was no real surprise.
   Martin's gaze happened past Ben and reached Kei, and his voice
changed to "Pirate" mode.  "Arrr, Cap'n Morgan, I see the scurrvy dogs
kicked y'r booty."
   "Hey, old-timer," Kei chimed with a smile.
   "'Old-timer'?  I'm not that much older'n you, little lady."
   Kei rolled her eyes.  "Don't remind me."
   "Well, I'm not here to remind anyone of anything."
   "And you're not here to duck the issue either, codger," Ben finally
interjected.  "You're here to tell me -- sorry, us -- about that versus
dogfight."
   "Versus dogfight?  I think not," Martin growled, sounding insulted.
"You charged in, you asked for the baddest-ass sim I had, oh dopey you,
and this puppy did need a good test run.  I'm still puttin' the
finishing touches on--"
   "You mean, that ... THAT was a sim?!" Ben blurted, cutting him off.
   "Yeahp ... this's been a pet project of mine for 'bout fifteen years,
now.  Simmin' the ships is one thing.  That's easy.  Simmin' the
pilots..."  Martin waved a teasing finger through the air.  "...Now,
there's a different twist."  He shifted gears to a Monty Python cockney
accent as he continued, "It's more than just a simple question of weight
ratios--"
   "Yeah, real cute.  Come on, be honest.  Didn't you just put me and
her," he said, indicating the red-headed bombshell behind him, "in the
same space and have Eve ad-lib some unfriendly dialog?"
   Grey put his hat on firmly and shook his head.  "Nope.  I've already
pulled those cheap stunts.  You people never pull out all the stops when
you know you're going after each other.  Besides, she didn't start 'til
you were already going.  You were fighting a genuine, independent
simulation of Kei Morgan -- configured to treat you like a hated enemy."
   Kei snorted.  "And I got a homicidal Gryphon.  That's what I get for
walking in and saying 'gimme whatever he's doing,' huh?"
   Ben looked back at her as Martin chuckled, pushing his glasses back
up.  "As Joe Friday said of the .44 Magnum, that's about the size of it,
ma'am.  Next time, I can pit you against yourself, if you think this was
unfair.  Don't feel too bad about getting roasted; he IS the ace, after
all."
   Ben turned to face Martin again.  "So, what does that say for me?"
   "I .... don't know, Race," he Doctor-Quested.
   Ben and Kei groaned in unison, covering their faces with their hands.
Resigned to the fact that being in Grey's presence any longer would just
allow him to torture their psyches with more old cartoon quotes, they
wrapped an arm around each other and exited together, bidding him a
civil adieu.  There was a hint of conversation as they walked out.
   "Kei?"
   "Yes, love?"
   "Remind me never to piss you off."
   She grinned at him.  "Oh, don't worry.  When it happens, you'll
know."
   Martin shook his head and headed back to the control room to swat
some bugs he'd spotted during the sim runs.  "Jeez, the cheap literary
devices are as thick as flies around here."
   The author did not take this comment well, and concluded the chapter
early.

17 ---------- More Than Meets the Eye

   Cybertron was an ancient and war-torn world.  Its history was filled
with constant conflict between its two primary factions.  One was
malevolent, thirsting for power and conquest; the other was benevolent,
seeking to spare other worlds from the crushing heel of their
adversaries.  Their wars raged for centuries, even millenia, with no end
in sight.  Any other world would be said to have a bloody past.  This
was not possible with Cybertron, however, for Cybertron was a world of
living machines.
   Cybertron had been originally constructed as a robot production
factory by the Quintessons, a peculiar, tentacled race of highly
intelligent, logic-driven creatures whose only means of personal
movement were small hoverplatforms.  The most unusual aspect of the
Quintessons was that their Magistrates wore rotating helmets that made
them appear to have five faces; some have theorized that these leaders
actually posessed five distinct personalities.
   The robots produced by this factory were not mindless automatons, as
anyone from Earth would expect.  The Quintessons had long since realized
that such contraptions were impractical at best; such machines required
operators who spent far too much time directing their actions.  Instead,
these machines were actually created with independent intelligence, with
a unique personality and even a capacity for emotion.  The process of
instilling them with such traits was left to what the Quintessons
believed to be their greatest creation, a faceless AI generator they
named Vector Sigma.
   The Cybertronians, as those created on this world called themselves,
came to realize that they were, in essence, being born into slavery.
This view never impacted itself upon their Quintesson masters, however,
who believed they were merely building machines, and hadn't realized
they were actually creating cybernetic life.  A revolution ensued,
possibly the shortest war in Cybertron's history, and the Quintessons
were removed from their position of command over that world.
   With their independence secured, the Cybertronian people soon found
themselves with a new difficulty.  The factories of Cybertron had
produced robots for many purposes, and Vector Sigma endowed them with
personalities to match their functions.  Military-oriented robots were
created with a military mindset; now freed from their former bonds, they
sought to expand their territory and gain resources from other worlds.
Even at this early phase in Cybertron's history, materials were in short
supply, as was energon, a form of solid energy used as a power source,
as food for Cybertronians, and even as currency in many star systems.
Most of the non-military mechanoids opposed this course of action,
preferring to establish peaceful relations and normal trade with other
worlds.
   This was the origin of the ongoing series of wars between the
Autobots and the Decepticons, as the benevolent and malevolent factions,
respectively, called themselves.  Though the Autobots normally held the
majority of sheer numbers, they were also normally outgunned by the
military might of the Decepticons, and the two sides constantly traded
the rulership of the planet, though never through a peaceful transition
of power.
   It wasn't long, in Cybertronian terms, before the Autobots discovered
the usefulness of being able to reconfigure themselves.  This
capability, soon picked up by the Decepticons as well, proved to be
central to the Cybertronian existance; the world's residents ceased
calling themselves Cybertronians, preferring the name Transformers.
Cybertron became a fury of wheels, wings, rotors and treads, as new
transformational abilities were developed and refined.  New forms filled
the land and air, some for utility, some for disguise.  And the wars
raged on.
   The longest-lasting regime was that of the despotic Decepticon ruler,
Megatron.  Able to transform himself into a weapon of incredible power,
he held all of Cybertron in his (literally) iron grip for what even
Transformers regarded as a long, long time.  Many Autobot leaders fell
before his might, until he met his match in what was hailed as the first
of a new breed of Autobot -- a strong, yet compassionate leader named
Optimus Prime.  The hatred that grew between Megatron and Optimus would
know no equal in the entire Galaxy.
   The war took on a new level of external involvement when an Autobot
escape shuttle, seeking refuge from Cybertron, was intercepted by and
collided with a Decepticon pursuer.  As the two sides fought aboard the
Autobot ship, both ships crash-landed on Earth; the Decepticon ship went
deep into an ocean, while the Autobot shuttle embedded itself into what
would eventually become Mount St. Hillary in North America.  They
remained dormant for four million years, until a chance seismic
disturbance awakened the ship's computer, which proceeded to repair them
into the forms of native Earth machinery and vehicles.
   The ancient fight resumed on alien soil as the Decepticons sought to
subjugate this world as well.  The authorities of Earth allied
themselves with the Autobots and, together, they drove the Decepticons
back to Cybertron.  They were driven from Cybertron as well in the year
2005 AD, through (or perhaps despite) the intervention of an enormous,
planet-devouring being known as Unicron.
   (It is worth mentioning at this point that the precise circumstances
of this victory, as recorded, have been dismissed by a few historians as
being "unbelievable, like some kind of warped comic book".  There are
two outstanding reasons why the tale is still believed.  One of them
concerns the sudden appearance of the Decepticon leader Galvatron
immediately after Megatron's assassination at the hands of his ambitious
general, Starscream; the legend claims that Unicron formed this new
Transformer from Megatron's remains.  The other reason, which is much
less circumstantial, is the fact that Unicron's severed head continued
to orbit Cybertron long after his demise, and examination of his
wreckage could only support the conclusion that he was destroyed from
within.)

   It is now the twenty-first of August, 2026 AD.  The Decepticons,
under their insane leader Galvatron, have engaged in a renewed offensive
against Cybertron.  They had been wanting for energy sources since the
defeat of 2005, a deficiency which usually prevented them from pressing
any major offensives for the last fifteen years.  They seem to have
found one, however; this assault has been a no-holds-barred frontal
attack, a decisive attempt to retake the homeworld and begin their
conquests anew.
   The Autobots had considered themselves prepared and capable of
repelling anything the Decepticons could throw at them.  This assessment
had proven quite wrong; through an ingenious series of traps, red
herrings and false fronts, the Decepticons found their way past every
defense, and had become firmly entrenched on Cybertron itself.  Only
three days ago, merely hours after the Decepticons had landed, Optimus
Prime made a formal request to the Wedge Defense Force for assistance.
The Wayward Son responded immediately, and was in Cybertronian space
within the hour.
   The WDF turned the tide of the battle, but only barely; its status
went from Decepticon Blowout to Just About Even.  Until this point, the
Wedge fighters had always had the technological advantage of possessing
versatile, variable-configuration mecha.  Now, however, they are
fighting a foe that consists entirely of transforming mechanoids, and
losses have been heavy on both sides.
   Since the enemy is now based on the very planet they are fighting
for, the Wayward Son's hands are tied.  Decepticon anti-aircraft fire
has proven too heavy for a full aerial assault, and use of their
invincible weapon, the Reflex cannon, is out of the question.  Optimus
and Megazone have been frustrated at every turn, with their every
strategy thwarted by clever counter-assaults or plain dumb luck.  It is
their concerted opinion that the situation could get no worse.
   There is one other, less significant facet to this situation.  In
only eight more days, Martin will celebrate his sixtieth birthday.

18 ---------- Devastator!

   Ben jumped out of his Hyper-Valkyrie and stormed away from it,
throwing his helmet to the ground with a snarl.  It bounced and
clattered, coming to rest a few meters from where it started.  He heard
one of the techs looking over his plane give a low whistle, and turned
his head to look in spite of himself.
   His effort was rewarded with the sight of one of his wings slowly
sagging, then breaking off entirely.  He was also able to catch a
glimpse of another member of his Eight-Ball squadron coming in; that
plane didn't look much better than his own.
   "Yo Gryph."
   Ben walked over to a wall-comm panel and touched it, doing his best
to become civil.  No reason to go pissing all over the communications
chief after a bad day.  "What is it, q?"
   "Like Zoner wants to see you soon as you're ready to give a report."
   Ben snorted.  Not much to report; we couldn't even get close to the
objective.  At least I get an excuse to take a shower.  "Be there soon
as I'm able.  Gryphon out."  He looked back, watching yet another Eight-
Baller leaving the hangar; this one was leaving on a stretcher.
   And we were the lucky ones, he thought ruefully.

   "Where WAS everybody, damn it?"
   "Calm down, Gryph."
   "Calm DOWN?  WHY the hell should I CALM DOWN?"  Ben was livid.  He
went to give his report and get answers, but all he was getting was
excuses.
   Still, shouting accomplished nothing, so he took a deep breath and
started over, pointing out the agreed-upon strategy on the map.  "Look.
The fighters come in from HERE, the Destroids and ground units come in
from HERE, the Autobots come in from HERE, and BAM!  We squeeze 'em out
like a big fuckin' zit.  Well, we came in from HERE.  Where was
everybody ELSE?"
   Megazone was drumming his fingers.  Ben was not reknowned for his
patience.  "We told you, they couldn't make it."
   "Why the fuck NOT?!"
   "They were detained by a greater concern," came the voice of Optimus
Prime over the comm screen.
   Ben turned toward the image of the Autobot leader and worked to
control himself.  "Prime ... look.  I just lost a full squadron because
of what happened.  We may not be able to make a strike like this again
for another day.  Could you at least give me a STRAIGHT ANSWER?"
   Optimus Prime's face continued to return Ben's gaze, unmoving.  "If
it is an answer you want, Gryphon, then an answer you shall have.  The
following footage is from reconnaissance we obtained immediately before
the strike was to take place."
   With a flash, Prime's face vanished, replaced by a scene somewhere on
Cybertron.  Galvatron was readily visible, but only half as tall as the
screen.  He was striking a domineering, confident pose, and openly
laughing in the face of incoming fire.
   With a sweep of his arm, he shouted, "Now it ends!  Constructicons,
forward!"
   Six Decepticons, all colored in a hideous combination of green and
purple, emerged from behind their leader, running to a spot perhaps
fifty meters ahead of him.  They were easily recognizable:  Scrapper,
Scavenger, Hook, Mixmaster, Long Haul and Bonecrusher.
   Ben's shoulders fell.  "Oh fuck."  He knew what was coming.
   Galvatron didn't disappoint him.  "Transform and merge!"
   With an audible cheer, the six transformed into their secondary forms
as oversized Earth construction vehicles.  Then, inexplicably defying
gravity, they transformed again, forming parts of a larger whole.  Once
locked together, they appeared to be an immense, headless mechanical
man, still in those same sickening hues of green and purple.  The head
arose from within the beast, and it had the appearance of wearing a pair
of very cool red sunglasses.  The view had to pull back to take this all
in.
   The monster mechanoid gave a deep rumble of a laugh.  Taking a
seismic step forward, it taunted in a low, chilling voice that sounded
like six speaking in unison, "Nothing can withstand the Devastator!
Nothing!"
   Ben, who was now sitting, put his head on the table with an audible
thump.  "Devastator."
   Optimus Prime's face returned to the screen.  "I see you understand
my position now.  We've been throwing everything we have at Devastator,
but he's proven to be just as unstoppable as ever.  Due to scrambling of
our communications, we were unable to contact you about the change in
plans.  You have my apologies, and my regrets."
   Ben raised his head.  "No, I should be the one apologizing.  I had no
right to bitch at you like that, Prime.  I should've known you had a
reason."
   "Where's Devastator headed right now, Prime?" Zoner asked point-
blank.
   "If he continues along his current path of destruction, he will be
demolishing our headquarters within three hours."
   "So we have three hours to do the impossible.  Hoo-fuckin'-ray."
   "We will continue trying.  There must be a way."
   Zoner continued to regard Prime with cool professionalism.  Ben
couldn't help but notice; Yuri must be rubbing off on him, he told
himself.  "Can't you send any of your own Composites after him?" Zoner
queried.
   "The Decepticons planned this strike excruciatingly well," Optimus
replied.  "Superion, Defensor and Computron are engaged in other areas
with Menasor, Bruticus and Abominus, respectively.  In addition,
Devastator's oldest adversary, Omega Supreme, is currently on a deep-
space mission, and is at least five days away.  Metroplex, Fortress
Maximus ... even the Dinobots are busy elsewhere, fighting Predaking."
   Zoner released a frustrated hiss of a breath.  "Great.  Can you
evacuate to a backup HQ?"
   Prime paused.  "This IS our backup HQ."
   Ben's head hit the table again.
   "We will continue to keep you posted.  Prime out."  With that,
Optimus Prime's image vanished and was replaced by the Autobot symbol,
which rotated on its vertical axis and was, in turn, replaced by the
Wedge Defense Force logo.
   The techs are getting a little too artsy-fartsy for their own good,
Zoner grated to himself.  "So, now what?" he asked his old friend.
   Ben's voice came as a cross between a moan and a growl.  "I can think
of a dozen ways to pick off Devastator, right off the top of my head."
   "Yeah, and?"  Zoner knew there had to be a catch.
   "They all assume that noone wants the planet when we're done."
   "No thanks.  They called for the WDF, not the 3WA."
   After sharing a mild chuckle with Zoner, Ben rose to his feet.  "I
say we get some other people working on this problem.  We're not getting
anywhere."
   "Agreed," Zoner said, also rising.  "When we get one, though, we'll
have to have it delivered to Prime."
   "Why?"
   "I'm pretty sure Soundwave's been eavesdropping on all our
transmissions.  That's the only reason I can think of for our 'lousy
luck' so far."
   Ben snorted.  "Yeah, that would explain a lot.  I'll relay the order
to the crew."
   "Make it so," Zoner said, receiving a scowl from his departing XO in
reply.
   Now alone in the conference room, Zoner fell into a chair and let out
a deep sigh.  Certain defeat was laughing in his face, and he was
powerless to stop it.  The last time they were in this bad of a
situation, he killed himself getting them out of it.  That wasn't an
option this time.  And if Galvatron won this round, he'd be needed more
than ever before.
   He slammed his fists on the table.  Damn it all!  There must be a
way!

19 ---------- Just What I've Always Wanted

   Within minutes, the word was out:  Cybertron would fall to the
Decepticons unless Devastator could be stopped within three hours.  All
suggestions that would leave Cybertron intact were welcome.  Grand prize
was a fighter-escorted trip to Autobot headquarters to implement the
plan and see it to fruition.
   Martin had been working on the problem for a day before the
announcement was made.  He'd uploaded every scrap of information
available on Devastator and the Constructicons.  His efforts
concentrated on making a mathematical simulation of the mechanics of the
mechanoid monster, paying particular attention to the linkages between
the component members.  That had to be the Achilles' Heel, he reasoned.
   Building the simulation took several hours.  He started with a
smaller, more well-known subject, chosen at random from the top of his
head:  Rumble, one of Soundwave's cassette assistants.  Once he had that
one working, he used it as a basis for building the bigger, more complex
model of the green-and-purple behemoth.
   Once the simulation was ready, he subjected it to everything he could
think of, from carefully-applied laser scalpels to sudden, crushing
blows.  He found several solutions.  Unfortunately, they all relied on
Devastator's full cooperation (for instance, cutting him apart would
take about five minutes at the very least, and he couldn't be moving
around during the procedure), which he was certain they would never
have.
   Staring at the screen with his eyes focused far into the distance, he
tapped idly at the keypad, trying to hypnotize himself with the cursor.
The Devasimulator had just withstood another of his great schemes, and
his frustration was mounting into hopelessness.  Less than ninety
minutes remained before the real Devastator would be dancing on Autobot
HQ.
   With a roll of his head, he decided, just for the hoek of it, to add
his Rumble simulator to the fray.  He placed Rumble on top of Devastator
and started him pounding with his jackhammer arms.
   He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.  His gaze leisurely returned
to the screen, and the stress numbers being reported on the linkages.
   He abruptly sat forward, staring intently at the numbers to make sure
he wasn't misreading them.  "Noy jitat," he breathed.
   Stopping the run, he put Rumble on the ground next to Devastator and
restarted.  He stared at the incoming stress numbers in disbelief.
   Coincidence?  Possibly.  But there was no denying what he'd just
seen.
   His thoughts still forming into a single, workable plan, he hit the
console communicator.  "P.C.Hammer to bridge."
   "Like bridge here.  What's up?"
   "Q, this is Grey.  Tell Cap'n Megazone I may have a solution for the
Not-So-Jolly Green Giant."
   There was a delay.  Martin used that time to back up the simulations
and copy them to a removable disk.
   "Grey, Zoner says we don't have much time.  Like you better just go
straight to Bay One and explain it to Optimus yourself when you get to
their HQ.  Gryphon and the Pigeons'll fly escort for you, OK."
   Martin smiled.  "Cool beans.  Always wanted to meet Optimus Prime,
myself.  Anything else?"
   "Like he also says not to call him Captain."
   Of course he does, Martin smirked.  The file copy completed, he
pocketed the disk.  "Thanks, Q.  Be in the hangar in two minutes.  Grey
out."  He slapped the communicator off and bolted for the hall.

   Ben was already in his backup Hyper-Valkyrie (always have a spare
handy) and had roared through pre-flight when the Rotofoil entered the
bay, right on time for a change.  "Hey, Grey!  Ready to go, y'old fart?"
   The 'Foil slowed to a halt beside the Valkyrie, dwarfed by the size
of the WDF's backbone fighter.  "Let's blow this popsicle stand."
   "How fast can that thing fly?"
   "A couple mach numbers, easy.  Ground speed can nearly match.  And
don't worry about shielding; I have a force-field capable of repelling a
one-half megaton blast."
   Good, Ben thought.  We don't have time to get you into your own
Valkyrie.  "Do we need to bring anything with us for this plan of
yours?"
   "Everything I need is either on my person now, or readily available
down yonder."
   "Well ... age before beauty," he taunted, gesturing for Martin to
launch first.
   "I'll fly slow so you can keep up," Martin replied with an evil grin.
With a shout of "Pull!", he jammed the throttle as far forward as it
would go, and the rear vents, normally concealed in Hover mode, glowed
blue-white as he rocketed forward.  Once clear of the hangar and into
the open skies of Cybertron, he summoned Jet mode; the thrust vents were
silenced for the brief period required by the reconfiguration, but he
was going great guns again in a single second.
   Gryphon and the Clay Pigeons were out immediately afterward, and
quickly assumed formation around the Rotofoil, with Gryph at the point.

   Megazone sat on the bridge, watching the launch.  He was amazed by
the small size of the Rotofoil, and by the fact that it seemed to be
keeping up with the escort squadron.  His thoughts were soon
interrupted.
   "Yo Zoner, like Rob's on the horn."
   "On screen," Zoner announced, straightening himself.
   The image blipped from the retreating view of the Clay Pigeons to a
helmeted bust of ReRob.  "Thundergod One to Wayward Son."
   "Zoner here.  Talk to me, Rob.  How'd the recon flight go?"
Thundergod One had been sent to fly a quick look-see over the Decepticon
field HQ to see if a rear assault was still a viable option.  What the
ship lacked in stealth, it made up for in armor, which was more
important in this situation.
   "You aren't going to believe this when I tell you, man."
   "So tell him, already!"  Deedlit Mandeville's face slid in from the
right, forcing ReRob's over to one side and slightly up, forming a cool
diagonal split-screen.
   We've really got to find the techs something better to do, Zoner
groaned inwardly.
   "I'm getting to it, Deed, don't worry about it," he replied somewhat
testily, his image giving the lovely face to its left the Hairy Eyeball
and all sorts of mean nasty ugly things.  "Anyway, Zoner--"
   "The place is deserted, Zoner!"  Now Cheryl entered the picture from
the bottom, and the other two heads moved up and out slightly, forming a
three-way triangular split.
   Zoner ignored the ridiculous Voltron video effects.  "What?"
   "What she said," Rob interjected, glad to finally get a word in
edgewise.  "It's abandoned.  We tried knocking with the rail gun and a
few small bombs, but nobody answered the door."
   "What do you think it means?" Deedlit asked.
   Zoner considered this.  "It means ... we're not as bad off as we
think."
   "How so?"
   "If there's noone there, that means they all must be following in
Devastator's wake.  Which means that they don't have enough forces to
actually hold their former position, and they can't be as well-off as
they'd had us thinking."
   "So we could still take back the planet!"  Deedlit was visibly
cheered by the thought.
   "Not if we can't take out Devastator," Kevin reminded.  His image
came down from the top, rearranging the images again into a diamond
formation.
   "Oh, yeah."  Deedlit's face fell again.
   "Still," Rob added, "if we CAN beat the Big D, we've got 'em over a
barrel."
   "Right," Zoner concluded.  "Gryph and the Clay Pigeons are currently
escorting Grey, who has an idea on how to do just that."
   "REALLY?" all four asked in unison.  Rob continued alone, "How?"
   "I didn't have time to get briefed on the details, and, since I
believe our communications security has been ... compromised, I'd rather
not say, anyway."
   "Oh," Rob said as all faces on-screen showed comprehension.  "Ix-nay
on the assified-clay atter-chay."
   "Ight-ray.  Ood-gay ork-way, anks-thay.  Oner-zay out."  The comm
windows parted from the center in a sort of X-iris manner, leaving the
former view of Cybertron from orbit.
   Due to the intense laughter from its occupants, Thundergod One had a
difficult time flying straight for a few minutes afterward.  That was
fine; the Wayward Son's bridge crew wasn't doing much better.

20 ---------- Blinded Me With Science

   "Mighty Galvatron."
   The Decepticon leader turned from his distant view of Devastator to
regard the one who addressed him.  "Cyclonus.  You have news, I trust."
   "Indeed, mighty Galvatron.  Soundwave's interception of the enemy's
transmissions has been deduced."
   Galvatron smiled.  The fools finally figured it out.  "No matter.
They are far too late to stop us, now."  He turned to watch Devastator
again, and shook a gauntleted fist.  "Cybertron will be ours once more.
Soon ... very soon."
   "There is more, mighty Galvatron."
   He turned his head slightly toward Cyclonus, conveying a bit of
annoyance.  "Yes?"
   Cyclonus paused, considering the wisdom of what he was about to do,
then continued.  "As he was informing his forces of our interceptions,
the Wedge Defense Force commander stated that one of their members has
devised a way to ... neutralize Devastator."
   Galvatron whirled on Cyclonus, his optics wide.  "WHAT?  HOW?  How
can that BE?"
   "He refused to elaborate, mighty Galvatron."
   Galvatron's optics narrowed again, and an evil smile slowly spread on
his face.  "A ruse."
   Cyclonus stood silently.
   Galvatron turned his head to watch Devastator once more.  "A ruse,
and nothing more.  They seek to weaken our resolve; to crush our
fighting spirit.  But they cannot fool a master at that game."  He let
out a short laugh.  "Devastator is unstoppable.  By day's end, I will
crush Optimus Prime with my bare hands."  He clenched his fists to
emphasize his point.
   He turned again, and put a hand on Cyclonus's shoulder.  "Go,
faithful Cyclonus.  Go shoot down some hapless flying fleshling.  It
will ... cheer you up."
   Cyclonus bowed, still unspeaking, and launched himself into the air,
transforming into an imposing fightercraft with forward-swept wings.
Even as he flew, he continued to brood.  Were the words of the WDF
commander truly just a hoax?
   His radar found a squadron of fighters flying what seemed to be a
routine patrol route.  Though he had no face in this form, he smiled as
his signaled Thrust, Blitzwing, Scourge and the Sweeps to his side.
   Oh, yes.  This would definitely cheer him up.

   Devastator continued to stride forward, virtually unopposed.  Oh,
sometimes there would be a hail of particle-beam fire, or of missiles
and other projectiles.  These didn't bother them in the slightest.  They
just marched onward, stepping on the ants in their path.
   There was nothing here for them to fear; anything that could possibly
oppose them was known to be occupied elsewhere.  Even their age-old
nemesis, Omega Supreme, was far away and out of reach.  Galvatron had
seen to that.  For all his abusiveness, for all his insanity, Galvatron
was still a master schemer, and this was his grandest scheme yet.
   Devastator continued to stride forward, virtually unopposed.  By
Earth time measurements, they would be upon Autobot headquarters within
one half-hour.  As they entered a new area, however, they saw something
rather curious.
   There, sitting alone in the midst of nothing but the usual metallic
scenery, was a human.  He was rather old for one of his species, with
hair turned to grey and somewhat wrinkled facial features; probably
about sixty Earth-years of age, they guessed.  He wasn't looking at
them, and, indeed, appeared to be unaware of their presence.  He seemed
to be engrossed in a small device he was holding in his hands, working
his thumbs on it furiously.  He would lean to one side, lick his lips
nervously, sometimes grunt with frustration; it was almost as if he were
playing a video game of some sort.
   Devastator continued walking forward, getting ever closer to the
human, who continued to seem unaware of them.  They wondered why he
seemed so unconcerned, as he was obviously about to die.  It was not an
entirely open plain, but there was nowhere for him to run.
   They were only two steps away from being able to reach down and crush
him with their hand when he finally looked up.
   "Oh, there you are," he said, not sounding particularly fearful.  He
pocketed the device.
   "Devastator is here," they announced, taking those last two steps
forward.  "Prepare for oblivion!"  They began to reach down for him.
   "You don't honestly believe that, do you?"
   They paused.  "What do you mean?"
   "That whole 'oblivion' thing."
   They stood upright, looking down with suspicion.  "Explain."
   "I mean, do you really think that there's nothing more to death than
the end of a life?"
   "Death will terminate your ability to interfere."
   "No, that's not the point.  There's a big difference between not
being able to interfere and absolute nothingness."
   Devastator's patience had reached its end.  Not that it was anything
to brag about, anyway.  "The nature of death does not concern the
Devastator.  Farewell!"  They raised a foot and brought it forward.
   "Hey, now wait just a--"
   The foot came down with a loud thud.  They began to look forward,
toward the objective.
   "That wasn't very polite, you know."
   Devastator's gaze shot back down to the ground.  The human was
standing, a short distance from where they had just tried to crush him.
   "What?  How--"
   "That's not important," he chided.  "What is important is your
unwillingness to hear me out.  You're not being very open-minded about
this."
   "There will be no escape!"  They brought their other foot up and
forward.
   "There you go, dodging the iss--"
   The foot came down, more forcefully than before.  They started to
look toward their destination again.
   "You're really being quite impossible."
   They looked back down with heightened annoyance, bringing the first
foot up and forward again.  "Die, flesh worm!"
   "Oh, that's clever.  Not."
   Their foot struck the ground with a blow that would have shattered a
block of tempered steel.  That should finish him, they decided.
   "And another thing--"
   "NNNGGGRRRRAAAAAHH!"  Devastator bellowed in rage, raising their
other foot.  "DIE!"
   "Ah, that should do--"
   The foot came down with a loud crashing noise, as Devastator put full
force behind the blow.  They waited, and smiled in the ensuing silence.
   It was then that they noticed that the ground had not yet ceased
trembling from their last stomp.  In fact, the tremor seemed to be
increasing in intensity.  A landquake?
   The human moved out from under Devastator's foot.  He wasn't walking,
however; he just floated effortlessly away from them.
   "What?  You ... you are an illusion!"
   "That's right," the image replied with a smile.  "I am a hologram,
and this is a trap."  The image vanished, leaving Devastator rooted to
the spot, rocked by the intensifying ground vibrations.  Another nearby
structure vanished, revealing the human's actual position, along with a
pair of Autobots behind a control panel.
   "Hit the magnets!" Martin shouted as he ran toward the control booth.
"We have to lock his feet to the floor!  If he bounces or falls, we lose
the effect!"
   "Locked and loaded," Blaster verified, pressing a pressure switch.
   Martin rushed over to the display, checking the estimated stress
readouts.  He smiled.  "Good, good.  We need to boost the frequency just
a bit."
   "Frequency modulation ready," Perceptor replied.
   "Okay, bring it up slow ... easy, easy, that's -- wait, wait, whoa,
whoa!"  Martin's eyes never left the readouts.  "We're losing
amplitude!"
   "Number three oscillator's outta sync!" Blaster called.
   "Number three!  I'm on it!"  Martin put his hands on another control,
moving it slowly.  He still watched the readouts intently.  "Okay,
Perceptor, work with me here ... amplitude coming back up ...
aaaaaaaaand ... perfect!  Keep it right there!"
   "Affirmative," Perceptor acknowledged.
   Martin looked up from the display to watch the quivering behemoth
before him.  The stress estimates were climbing rapidly.  "Come on, come
on!"
   "N-n-n-n-o-o-o-o!"  Devastator stammered.
   "Come ON, you butt-ugly bastitch!"  Martin's teeth and fists were
clenched.
   "C-c-c-can-n-n-not-t-t..."
   "Fall!"
   "...m-m-main-n-n-t-t-tai-ain-n-n...!"
   "FALL!"
   "N-N-N-N-NO-O-O-O!"  Devastator roared in pain and frustration as
electricity sputtered and arced around their joints.  Then, with a howl
of rage Martin would never forget, Devastator broke into six component
pieces.
   "YYYYYYYESSSSSS!  YES!  YES!  YES!"  Martin cried out in triumph,
striking a series of poorly-executed Ultraman poses; the end result
looked not unlike someone trying to send semaphores while experiencing
an epileptic siezure.
   A group of nearby Autobots let out a cheer as the pieces of
Devastator transformed slowly back into the Constructicons.  They
remained unmoving, their strength completely spent.

21 ---------- King of Pain

   "NO!  IT'S NOT POSSIBLE!"  Galvatron was positively furious.
   Cyclonus pulled at his shoulder.  "Mighty Galvatron, we must
withdraw...!"
   Galvatron tossed him aside like a dishrag.  "I am not leaving until
whoever orchestrated this indignity PAYS for it!"  With that, he
continued to boil in his rage, watching the celebration.

   Optimus Prime could not believe his optics.  The Autobots had poured
so much energy into trying to halt Devastator's approach, and failed;
yet, this one human applied a lot of research and a bit of creativity,
and prevailed.  He looked down at him, still standing on the control
panel.  His spastic jubilation had passed, and he was down on one knee,
eyes closed, saying a silent prayer of thanks.
   For all the time we have spent with humanoids -- even those of us who
are binary-bonded to them -- there is still so much we do not
understand, Prime mused.

   Galvatron continued to stew as he watched his enemies.
   "That human..." Cyclonus muttered.
   Galvatron turned his head slightly to peer at his general, but
decided instead to see what had attracted his attention.  He magnified
his vision and searched the crowd for a human.
   Yes.  There he is.  He seems to be congratulating one of the
Autobots.  Now another.  And another ... no, that can't be right.  What
if ... of course!  They're congratulating HIM!  HE brought down
Devastator!  Now even Prime congratulates him!  Of all the humiliations
... foiled by a mere flesh slug!
   He let his vision return to normal, and smiled evilly as his optics
narrowed.  We'll just have to see about that.

   "The Autobots owe you a debt that can never be repaid, P.C.Hammer,"
Optimus Prime said.  "From this day forward, consider yourself one of
us.  And if ever there is anything you need of us, you need only ask."
   "It was my pleasure, Prime," Martin replied with a smile.  "And don't
you worry about remunerations.  I'll think of something eventually."
The collected Autobots enjoyed a good laugh from that bit of sarcasm.
   Springer's attention was attracted by a slight beeping from the
nearby radar display.  "Prime, we have some incoming radar contacts.
Looks like they're from the Wayward Son."
   Martin sighed.  "That'll be my return escort.  Well, it's been fun,
it's been real, and it's even been real fun -- but I'd better get back."
He gave a grin and a wink.  "The ship'll fall apart without me."
   "Until all are one, P.C.Hammer," Optimus announced.
   Martin sat in his nearby Rotofoil, and the front end closed up.  With
a loud TCHAP, the machine hurled itself skyward.  At the apex of its
leap, it shifted to Chopper mode, and rose slowly, majestically, amid
the continuing cheers from below.  The Clay Pigeons escort squadron was
now readily visible as it approached.

   Cyclonus looked at Galvatron, whose evil smile only broadened as he
watched the small, wedge-shaped helicopter rise into the air.  "The ship
is ready to depart, mighty Galvatron."
   "We shall be with it momentarily, Cyclonus."
   Galvatron transformed to his laser cannon mode.  In this form, he was
one of the most powerful weapons in the galaxy, second only to the
Wayward Son's Reflex cannon.  Whereas the Reflex cannon always cut a
wide path of destruction, however, Galvatron could fire an accelerated-
particle beam thin enough to disintegrate the nucleus of a single atom.
Such was not his intent at the moment.
   He took careful aim at the rising vehicle.  "Until all are one, Earth
germ," he mocked.
   Almost soundlessly, his vengeful beam lanced forth.
   Galvatron transformed again, returning to his bipedal form.  He stood
silently, admiring his handiwork.  "Come, Cyclonus.  We are done here."
   They leaped into the sky, escaping completely unnoticed amid the
chaos they created.

   The cheering below turned to a stunned, horrified silence as the
rising Rotofoil was abruptly pierced by a silent white beam.  Its ascent
faltered as it staggered slightly; then a small explosion ripped through
its side.  The rotors ceased to spin, and it plummeted like a wounded
eagle, trailing smoke.  It bounced off of a nearby structure and struck
the ground with a sickening whine of twisting metal, coming to
smoldering rest several dozen meters from where it had started.

   "GREY!"
   "Holy shit, Batman!  Did you see that?"
   "It was hard to miss."
   "By the two moons...!"
   Gryphon listened to the shocked banter between the Clay Pigeons as he
continued to lead them toward the site.  Words could not adequately
express his outrage at what he'd just witnessed.  That familiar feeling
of powerlessness assaulted him again, just like the first time the
Lovely Angel had been attacked by the Kilrathi.  Its effect had not
decreased with time; if anything, it was more intense now than before,
as the whole incident was within his view.
   "We're goin' in," he hissed.
   The entire squad, following Gryph's lead, went to Gerwalk mode and
began to descend.

   Megazone, who had been watching the entire ordeal from his seat on
the bridge, rose slowly to his feet, stunned and speechless.  Seeing
people die was nothing new to him.  In war, however, the entire process
of killing and being killed had an impersonal veneer, as there were so
many of We and so many of They, and there was usually some reason why
you were after each other.  This was the first time he'd seen a one-on-
one assassination, and, quite frankly, the thought of it made him sick.
   "Goddess..."

   Noriko Takaya took a seat in the cafeteria, her morning tea in one
hand and the morning newspaper in the other.  Most of the members of the
WDF would rather watch the WNN newscasts to keep current on events, but
she preferred reading; it gave her the ability to set her own pace for
reviewing the news.
   Besides, she thought with a wry smile, this way I can keep track of
Marty when he gets delinquent in his letter-writing.  He's always doing
some silly thing that ends up in print.
   Bringing the cup to her lips, she began reading the top story.

     TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY ON CYBERTRON

     The atmosphere of Cybertron is a mixture of jubilation and
     grief today as the Autobots and the crew of the Wayward Son
     rejoice in the defeat of an unbeatable juggernaut and fear for
     the life of the heroic man who made it possible.

   Oh, that's terrible, she thought sadly before continuing.

     Martin Rose, also known by the nicknames "P.C.Hammer" and
     "Grey," is reported in critical and failing condition as
     doctors work feverishly to separate him from the twisted
     wreckage of his personal vehicle.  He was shot down while
     returning to the Wayward Son, allegedly by the Decepticon
     leader Galvatron, in retribution for the trap he devised which
     allowed the Autobots to stop the rampaging Devastator from
     taking the planet in a single blow.

   All eyes in the cafeteria went to Noriko as her teacup shattered
noisily on the floor.  She was standing now, gripping the newspaper
tightly in her quaking hands, fingernails digging into the back page.
Her eyes were wide, riveted to the second paragraph, going over it again
and again, looking for some way to believe that it was all an error.
   "No ... please, no ..." she whimpered.

22 ---------- Beyond Belief
              [Lyrics written by Rob Hartman]

   The Wayward Son's Chief Medical Officer walked out of the small,
sturdy shelter the Autobots had constructed over the crash site, lost in
thought.  She leaned heavily against one of its walls and released a
frustrated sigh.
   The fight for Martin's life had not been going well.
   Jenna sank to a sitting position and closed her eyes to get a
moment's rest.  She was immediately haunted by the despair of the past
twelve hours.

   "Bridge to sickbay."
   She turned from her observation of the many patients still recovering
from the last Decepticon air attack.  Fortunately, everyone who was
still alive was now stable.  "Jenna here.  What's up, Zoner?"
   "Jenna, start packing.  You're needed on Cybertron."
   "What happened?"
   There was a sigh at the other end.  "It's Grey.  Someone shot him out
of the sky as he was leaving ... they say he's still alive, but needs
help bad."
   She started toward one of her travelling emergency packs.  "Gotcha.
Anything special I should know?"
   "Yeah, bring a strong cutting torch.  They say his mech's practically
wrapped around him."

   He hadn't been kidding, she realized.  He's not just wrapped in this
thing -- he's embedded in it!
   "Come on, come on ... just a little farther ... please, let it come
just a little farther..."  The vital readouts started going crazy as his
body was wracked with spasms.  "Damn!  Stop, stop ... put it back."  The
readouts stabilized again, and he was calm.
   She reached up to wipe her brow.  "Well, that's not going to work.
Any ideas, First Aid?"
   The Autobot mechanic shook his head slowly.  "I'm afraid not, Jenna.
The pieces of the Rotofoil seem to be holding him together as much as
they seem to be slowly killing him.  There's nothing I can do."

   "Fortunately for him, he hadn't activated his shielding system."
   "How could that be fortunate, Perceptor?  Wouldn't that have kept the
beam out?"
   The huge scientist pointed at his analysis.  "Not likely.  This shot
was apparently fired by Galvatron.  The power of his beam is
unmeasurable, and would have easily punched through the force-shield.
The resulting overload would have caused the primary reactor to go
critical, vaporizing the entire vehicle."
   "But I thought you said there was an explosion."
   "Yes, there was.  But look here."  The display changed and Perceptor
pointed to the new diagram.  "His schematics clearly show that there
were two power supplies.  The greater one, with more failsafes, powered
the shield, hover lift, rotors and main engines.  The lesser one, which
was the one that detonated, powered control systems and maneuvering
thrust.  The main reactor appears to have shut down well before impact.
His design and good fortune have saved his life."
   "But for how long," Jenna mused.

   "I'm afraid this can only be a temporary extension," Edison said,
placing a collar similar to the one he used on Megazone over thirty
years ago around Martin's neck.
   "Edison, please don't say that.  You're his last hope."
   "I know, and I'm sorry.  But his injuries are far too deep.  If the
machinery weren't still embedded in him, a shot of Omega-2 might do it.
But it would take several hours for the virus to take full effect, and
given the way he's reacted to attempts to remove the metal, he would be
long dead with irreperable brain damage before it worked."
   "I see..."
   "Jenna, I am truly sorry."
   "So am I," she said wistfully.  "So am I."

   Her sad reverie was interrupted by the sound of music from within the
shelter.  Rising to her feet, she walked back into the structure.
   Blaster was near one wall, transformed to a mode which resembled a
portable stereo.  He was playing a song Jenna had never heard before.
It began with the plucking of an electric guitar, forming the patterns
for the first verse, then added some smooth, orchestral-singing synth
sounds.  After playing a full intrumental verse and chorus, the bass,
percussion and lyrics were added.  The singer had a slightly grainy
sound to his voice.

          We're content to pitch our tent
          When the glory's evident;
          Seldom do we know, the glory came and went.
          Moving can seem dangerous
          In this stranger's pilgrimage.
          Knowing that you can't stand still, you cross the bridge.

          There's a higher place to go,
          (Beyond belief, beyond belief!)
          Where we reach the next plateau.
          (Beyond belief, beyond belief!)
          And from faith to faith we grow,
          Toward the center of the flow,
          Where He beckons us to go,
          Beyond belief, beyond belief!

   Her curiosity was aroused.  "Blaster, where'd you get that tape?"
   "What tape?" he replied, turning the volume down.  The song continued
to play.
   "That's hardly the type of message I'd expect coming from Autobot
music," she commented.
   "I was about to say the same thing to you."
   "What do you mean?"
   "I'm picking this up on a WDF tactical frequency.  But hey, if it
sounds good, I'm for it."
   Jenna stopped.  What could this mean?  Sure, Martin's profile had him
down as a Protestant Christian, but still ... who would play music over
the tac-net?
   She opened her communicator.  "Jenna to Wayward Son."
   "Like Wayward Son."
   "Q, is there any music being transmitted over the tac-net from
there?"
   "Just a second, like I'll check."  A few seconds passed.  "Nope,
sorry, Jenna; no music over the tac-net from here.  Like maybe you'd
like to talk to Eve?"
   Of course!  Eve has access to the music collections of every member
of the crew.  "Yes, please."
   "I'm here, Jenna.  You wanted to talk to me?"
   "Yes, Eve.  Have you been broadcasting music over the tactical net?"
   "No, I haven't.  Why do you ask?"
   "Well, Blaster's playing a song over here, and he says it's coming
over a tactical frequency.  Can you hear it from there?"
   "Yes, Jenna.  The signal's a bit weak, but I can hear it."
   "Can you identify it?"
   Another pause.  "The song is named 'Beyond Belief,' from the album of
the same name by the rock group Petra."
   "Whose music collection is it from?"
   "It's from Martin Rose's collection."
   So it's definitely for his sake that it's playing.  "Eve, can you
tell where the transmission is coming from?"
   "Triangulation estimates that it's coming from somewhere near your
position, Jenna."
   Jenna's eyes widened.  That would mean ... no, it couldn't be.  The
prospect was almost unthinkable, but it was the only answer.  "Uhm ...
thank you, Eve."
   "My pleasure, Jenna.  It never hurts to help.  Wayward Son out."
   Jenna closed her communicator slowly, with an incredulous look on her
face.
   Blaster transformed to his bipedal form.  "What is it, Doc?"
   Her voice came as a whisper.  "He's singing to himself."
   "He's what?!"  Blaster's expression matched hers.
   She slowly shook her head.  "I don't understand it, but ... it's the
only way.  Somehow, his nervous system has actually interfaced with the
Rotofoil's electronic systems.  Amazing..."
   Blaster looked down at the prone, unconscious form before him, and
scratched at his head.  "Whoa.  That's an understatement."
   "It also changes the solution entirely, if one exists.  Now we have
to save both him and his machine.  They're so closely knit now..."
Jenna trailed off, losing herself in thought.
   She was interrupted by the approach of Optimus Prime.  "So, Jenna,
how goes the battle?"
   "I wish I could say it's improving, Optimus, but I'm out of ideas."
   "I see.  Perhaps my friend could be of assistance."
   "Friend?"  Jenna looked curiously up at Optimus.
   Optimus Prime's engine suddenly leaped from his abdomen, transformed
into an armored man, and landed a few feet from her.  He proceeded to
introduce himself.  "How do you do, Miss Jenna.  I am called Hi-Q.  How
may I help?"
   Jenna's eyes lit up with sudden inspiration as he saw this new
phenomenon.  Almost unbelieving, she reached out slowly to touch him, to
make sure he was real.  He was.
   "Miss Jenna?" he asked again, not sure he was reaching someone in
this plane of reality.
   For the first time in what felt like forever, her face grew a beaming
smile, and she was filled with the one thing she thought would never
return to her -- hope.  "THAT'S IT!" she shouted gleefully, grabbing him
by the arms and laughing.  "THAT'S THE ANSWER!"
   Hi-Q returned her smile with a baffled look.

23 ---------- The Worst Party

   It was now the twenty-ninth of August.  The Wayward Son's command
staff was assembled in Bay Three along with the Clay Pigeons, ready to
celebrate Grey's long-awaited return to duty, not to mention his
sixtieth birthday.  (Indeed, they were all gathered in front of a large
banner reading "Happy 60th Birthday PCHammer".  Being the only person on
the Wayward Son to age at the standard human rate made his birthdays
something of an occasion.)
   Standing at the front of the crowd were Zoner, ReRob, Deedlit, Yuri
and Kei.  The Lovely Angels had only returned from a 3WA assignment a
couple days ago, and had been briefed on the reason for the Son's
lingering over Cybertron.  Ben was flying a solo escort in his repaired
Hyper-Valkyrie, and was just now landing.
   Gryph's plane came to a stop.  The canopy opened, and he leaped out,
jogging over into Kei's welcome embrace to join his comrades.  They all
turned to watch the triangular purple form entering the bay.
   "Heh.  Somehow, it just figures," Ben muttered.
   "What do you mean?" Kei inquired.
   "That thing," he said, indicating the Rotofoil.  It had just shifted
from Jet mode to its usual Hover form, and settled easily onto the deck,
still approaching rapidly.  Members of the crowd noticed that it was now
making the familiar Cybertronian buzz-crunch sound as it transformed,
and it displayed an Autobot symbol on the front, below the canopy.  "It
would just have to be someone from outside the Wedge who'd build our
only wedge-shaped vehicle."
   "Well, I think he's one of us, now," Yuri said.  "He's certainly
passed the initiation."
   "Ah, but has he answered the Riddle of Steel?" Rob quizzed.
   Deedlit laughed.  "I'm only glad they saved his life 'cause I never
got around to killing him for that New Year's incident."
   Zoner said nothing, because he had nothing to say.  He just smiled
and hooked an arm around Yuri's waist.  He knew what it meant to be
assured that you were missed while you were gone.
   At last, the 'Foil came to a halt in front of the crowd and lowered
itself gently to the ground.  The front end parted, breaking the Autobot
symbol there in two, and Jenna stepped out.
   The crowd's mutter quieted.  Jenna was alone.
   After a moment's uneasy silence, Zoner spoke.  "I thought you said he
was coming back with you."
   Jenna smiled, gently putting a hand on the side of the Rotofoil.  "He
did."  It closed up again, and rose slightly.
   "Well ... where is he?"
   Jenna ignored the question.  "Keep a clear image, just like Prime
said," she whispered to the Rotofoil before removing her hand and
stepping away.
   "I've got a real bad feeling about this," Ben muttered.
   The Rotofoil began to change its form, accompanied once again by the
Cybertronian transformation sound.  This time, the base swung down,
hinged at the rear, splitting into two vertical halves, jointed slightly
forward at the midpoints.  The lower half rotated completely around as
the bottom tips rotated to form flat surfaces at the bottom, and the
completed "feet" touched the ground.
   Not to be ignored, the top half flipped upward, also hinged at the
rear, revealing a shadow-obscured core underneath.  The flipped chasis,
now forming an enormous hood, split at the center, lowering outwards and
flexing at what was once the rear corner as the rearward bulk receded.
   All the while, the purple armor seemed to be splitting and dissolving
behind this phenomenon, revealing what seemed to be a young man in a
Wedge Defense Force uniform that now also bore an Autobot symbol on the
opposite side of the jacket's front.
   This entire process took no longer than five seconds.  The deathly
silence that gripped the assembled WDF staff lasted much, much longer.
   "Ha ... Haaa ... Hammer?!?" Deedlit finally managed.
   Martin smiled, and nodded.  Yes, it was definitely Martin, with a few
minor changes.
   For one thing, his ever-present glasses were now gone.
   For another, his hair had reassumed its dusty, youthful shade, and
had returned with a vengeance, almost giving him a brown-haired Ichijo
Hikaru look.
   But most noticeable was the fact that he now stood a towering seven
feet in height.
   "Fuuuuuuuuuuuck meeeeeeeeeeeee," Gryph and Zoner managed in quiet
unison.
   Kei and Yuri let out a low whistle.
   "Well, that was different," Rob said spryly.
   Martin stepped over to Jenna and gave her a brief, gentle embrace.
"Thanks.  For everything."
   She smiled at him.  "Don't thank me, thank Prime, Blaster and Eve.
Without their clues, I never would've been able to make this work."
   He shrugged.  "Well, if you insist.  Now, you'd probably better get
to sickbay.  I'd hate to have to file the paperwork for this operation."
He concluded with a grin and a wink.
   Her hand went to her head.  "Oh, please, don't say that word!  I'll
be filling out forms for a month!"  Waving a farewell, she exited the
bay.
   Martin regarded the stunned assembly sternly, putting his fists on
his hips with a huff.  "You know, this is the fraggin' WORST birthday
party I've ever had.  Nobody's even put any TMBG on.  Eve, if you
would?"
   Eve's smiling face appeared on a nearby comm screen.  "But of course.
Any preferences?"
   "Mmmm, 'See the Constellation'."
   "You got it, birthday boy!"  With a wink, Eve's image was gone, and
the music started.  Martin proceeded to reprise a unique dance step he'd
devised specifically for this song, with the desired effect; first
giggles, then laughter came from the audience.
   And the party ensued in full force.

   The Decepticon threat to Cybertron never again reared its head.
However, the damage had been done; the entire world spent over a decade
in reconstruction.  In this time, even some Decepticons would come to
join the Autobot ranks.  After the reconstruction was completed, many of
the Autobots, aware of the ongoing need for those willing to fight for
justice, would, in turn, go to join the Wedge Defense Force.
   Historians readily acknowledged, however, that the first Autobot
Transformer in the WDF was an Earth man nicknamed PCHammer.

-- 
  The High Diggy-Hoek of Chihuahua-Wala Land (Martin Rose) - mfrose@ais.org
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Truth is stranger than Fiction ---------------- Stupid is a boundless concept
The Limbaugh Institute for Advanced Conservative Studies:  Ann Arbor Division