LOVE AND DEATH AT THE TIMES OF SECOND LIFE

WERE MAKING A MOVIE

2007-10-24T18:09:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers.

A Major Motion Picture of our first novel is being produced in Second Life. We will keep you informed of our progress. But for the next few days we are writing our screenplay for Geo Meek and Code Tracer who are producing the film in Second Life.

We will keep you posted, and we are sorry that you will miss the daily chapters. However its only for a week or so.

Punky Pugilist
Sindy Blazer
Aiko Dynamo

CHAPTER 31 - YO-YO

2007-10-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

Nimbus the cloud god, and Kronos the god of time, were standing atop Mons Aetas laughing. They had been making jokes at the expense of the elemental gods and goddesses, and Thorium was very annoyed and Neon was really pissed. Rather than continue with the jokes about valences and such, Nimbus and Kronos wandered off looking for some amusement or diversion in the world of avatars.

The first few hours of the voyage of the HMS Vengeance were uneventful as they headed south to the edge of the world and toward the sims of East Egg and Shangri La in the Kun Lun mountain range. Normal was in the pilot’s seat and the crew had settled into the anticipation of the monotony of a long two day voyage to deposit Kees and Macboy at their destination. But the monotony was not to be.

Three hours out from the blimp works they blew a head gasket on the port engine. Their speed slowed to just a few knots as Washrox and Witney overhauled the engine and replaced the gasket. Soon they were underway again, when same engine blew the gasket again. This time they replaced the gasket and torqued down the head bolts to more feet pounds than was specified in the hope that it would hold for a while. The gasket held but Punky told Normal to hold the speed down and Washrox to be especially careful of managing the pressure in both engines.

Just after lunch the weather turned foul. They had seen the cloud banks build and a prudent flight plan would have called for avoiding the growing towering cumulus clouds, but the crew did not have the time for a less direct route, and Punky was confident that they could traverse the region safely. Safely that is in a registered, well maintained, and normal blimp. The HMS Vengeance was another matter and the decision caused Punky concern. In another hour or two the cloud formation had changed and had become a classic cumulonimbus formation. Based on the size of the formation Punky estimated that it probably rose to 14,000 or 15,000 meters or more. By the time they entered the formation and the ship began to pitch and roll in the turbulence Punky began to think she had made a bad decision to proceed rather than reroute the ship.

They were pelted by rain and lightening appeared on the horizon directly ahead. Punky had the crew search about a bit for an altitude that was less violent, but they had such a limited ceiling in the ship that it did not matter. So Punky decided to seek the ceiling of the ship at 1000 meters to give them flight space if something bad happened. In this way they might have some time to review their accomplishments if they fell from the sky in a fiery ball.

As the sun was setting Punky felt a real jolt and the ship began to rise. Punky watched the altimeter carefully as it spun past 1200 meters and hit 1500 meters. “Were caught in an updraft,” said Punky. “Give me downward thrust on the engines.”

Normal adjusted the gimbols and applied downward thrust. The ascent of the ship from the rise of air within the clouds diminished, but it did not stop. They continued to rise and soon they were at 2000 meters. Punky began to be very concerned, because when they were thrown out of the rising air stream, and they would be there was no doubt about that, they would start to fall given that they did not have sufficient lift to maintain the altitude. If the descent was fast enough and from high enough an altitude the structural integrity of the ship would be compromised and they would experience structural deficiencies – or as Punky called it, they would disintegrate and crash.

The ship continued to rise ever so slowly as Normal applied more steam pressure to the engines to arrest the rise of the ship. In a few moments the ship began to plunge and before Punky could say anything Normal had reversed the gimbals and was applying power to fight the rapid and dangerous high speed descent.

Were on the thermal yo-yo realized Punky. The thermal yo-yo was a blimp captain’s nightmare and existed only in towering cloud formations where violent updrafts often paralled equally violent downdrafts. As the ship moved through the formation it would be suddenly thrown up and then thrown down. An enormous peel of thunder and lightening shook the ship violently.

Nimbus, the cloud god, was laughing wildly at his accomplishment.

Kronos, the god of time was watching in amazement. “Can you walk the dog?” asked Kronos.

“Sure,” said Nimbus. “Watch this.”

The ship suddenly lurched and began a rapid descent. Witney was thrown to the ceiling of the gondola before landing hard on the deck. Witney grabbed a hand hold but could barely hold on as the ship began a rapid and steep descent toward the hard ground below. Normal applied all the energy they had left in the double boilers to the engines but it was useless. They were in free fall. They broke through the lower cloud cover and Punky could see the ground rushing toward them. Punky thought to herself that it was about to end, but then the ship halted its descent only a few meters from the ground and it shot forward. This time Witney, Kees, and Macboy were thrown violently toward the rear of the gondola. Witney grabbed some ropes and they lashed themselves to the spars of the gondola walls. No sooner had the knots been tied when the ship shot back up into the darkening skies. Thunder and lightening resounded throughout the skies as the crew of the HMS Vengeance fought to maintain control of the ship and of their lives.

“Cool,” said Kronos. “I’ll bet you can’t ‘loop the loop’”

Nimbus laughed. “Watch this,” said Nimbus.

Nimbus proceeded to impress Kronos with all the tricks in his bag. After a ‘double loop the loop’ Nimbus demonstrated the ‘boing e boing’, ‘gyroscopic’, and the always popular ‘iron whip.’ But after a while Kronos grew tired of simple tricks and challenged Nimbus to a beer chugging contest which Nimbus accepted because he was both thirsty and his index finger hurt.

As suddenly as the wild movements of the blip had begun they were over, and the ship had stabilized, broken out of the cumulonimbus clouds and into a high cloud cover and a drenching rain. Vomit covered the deckplates. Everyone was bruised and Washrox had hit her head so hard against the steam gage that she was bleeding badly. Punky looked about in astonishment. They were alive. The ship was reasonably intact, and they were cruising at 30 knots toward their destination. A quick look at the maps revealed that they were significantly ahead of schedule and that the storm had moved them forward at a very fast pace.

Punky stood from her seat and attended to Washrox. Normal was as white as an egret in snow, but was focused and handling the ship well. Normal would need a change of clothing Punky noticed, as would they all she realized. Washrox was ok and a few bandages seemed to stop the bleeding. Then Punky turned to inspect the structure of the ship. There was going to be severe damage Punky knew. Punky was amazed that they were still aloft following such a harrowing and indescribable ride through the storm.

“Witney,” cried Punky in her most commanding voice which sounded a bit like a helium voice, “get a light and a clip board. We need to inspect the ship.” Witney unlashed herself and jumped to Punky’s side and they began a close inspection of the ship. When they discovered the gondola main spar bolts had sprung Punky’s mouth fell open. The gap between the superstructure and the gondola was large enough to put her hand through. Witney rushed to the machine shop and returned with a mini-welder. New bolts would not work, only a patch weld could be applied and hopefully keep the gondola attached to the Blimp superstructure above. In about an hour they had temporarily reattached the gondola to the blimp. That was close thought Punky.

“Now to the engine room,” said Punky as she climbed the ladder and through the hatch above into the engineering section. Witney followed and before them was even more devastation. There were pin hole leaks in two of the six hydrogen bladders and Punky and Witney applied duck tape and bubble wrap to the holes as quickly as they could. Then they turned to the engines. The were in good condition, but they were never intended to take the abuse of the last few hours and Punky was again impressed with Tek’s advanced boiler and engine designs.

Nimbus and Kronos grew tired of the beer drinking contest. Kronos decided to sleep and lay down upon a soft bed prepared by his friend Zeno. As he dozed off to sleep Kronos heard Nimbus belch and then the familiar tinkle of a very full Nimbus relieving himself.

The rain grew in intensity for a moment and the ship was hit hard by a sudden gust of wind and then the weather cleared. They entered clear air and the sun began to rise in the east as they headed south toward East Egg and Shangra La.

CHAPTER 30 - LAND USE

2007-10-22T13:24:00.000-07:00

Sindy Blazer stepped from the pedi-cab and onto the sidewalk facing the Art Décolleté Times Tower which housed her office on the 19th floor. Sindy stood for a moment and took a deep breath and savored the smells, sounds, and energy of Capital City. An omnibus rattled past, Sindy began coughing from the fumes of the city. She wiped the tears from her eyes. Then as she prepared to mount the grand stair leading to the enormous zinc doors emblazoned with the famous ‘double cross’ symbol of the Murdstone publishing empire. She carefully read the motto to which all employees at The Times had dedicated their lives. Chiseled in Capibara Marble above the door in Times Roman Type read “if it’s printed, it must be true.”

A tall doorman stood in a green tunic with a black bearskin hat, looking like a tall evergreen tree with a burned top. The doorman had two purposes at The Times. One was to greet Ruprecht Murdstone, Executive Editor of The Times and head of the Lupine News Corporation each day as he arrived in his long gold toned limousine with avarice laced curtains and ruthless side walls. As Ruprecht would exit his limousine, the doorman would roll out a small red carpet and bow to Ruprecht telling his what a fine human being he had become and how he was first among the most honored of the journalistic profession. He would greet Ruprecht with phrases such as, ‘Ah Mr. Murdstone your tie is so much more elegant than Mr. Hurst’s,’ or ‘I see you have lost weight faster than Mrs. Graham,’ or the always popular ‘You are so much more intelligent than your worthless son and banshee daughter.’

The doorman’s other role was to make the employees and visitors to The Times tower feel small and insignificant in the face of the mighty Lupine News Corporation, owner of The Times, The Walled Street Drag, Feeble Magazine, and the always popular Screaming and Yelling Television Network. ‘Fear and banal,’ was the motto of the network and Murdstone was always telling the staff that fear sold newspapers and banal kept the costs down. The efforts of the doorman kept both the riff raff away, as well as any thought of employees asking for a raise or a new benefit from Lupine News. Once the doorman had been nice to Sindy and that was the time when Murdstone had gone missing and was temporarily replaced by Sindy as acting executive editor by the board of directors. He had been nice then remembered Sindy, but now he simply glared at Sindy from under his bear skin hat.

Sindy entered The Times Tower and walked into a waiting elevator.

Mr. Bubbs, the last elevator operator in all of Second Life, nodded to Sindy and asked “19th floor Ms. Blazer?”

Sindy nodded affirmatively in reply.

Mr. Bubbs grasped the enormous leaver, grunted, released the braking latches, pulled the lever forward, and called out in a very loud voice “Start ‘em up boys!” Far above on the 34th floor the whine of ferrets chasing a small white mouse could be heard as the elevator lurched into action. “Hard day?” asked the kind and knowing Mr. Bubbs.

“Not hard,” replied Sindy, “but really odd.” Sindy watched as the elevator avatar wrote down the floor numbers on a slate board in chalk as they passed by.

At floor ten, the archive and library floor, the elevator paused and copy boy Jimmy Whatshisname, entered, his arms laden with back issues, post it notes, yellow copy paper, and a cheap Mont Blanc knock-off pen in his white crumpled shirt pocket. There was a new stain at the bottom of his pocket protector. This time it was in green ink. The ink color only allowed to be used by Murdstone himself. Sindy guessed that the rumors must be true and that Murdstone had actually attempted to turn Jimmy into a journalist. The results must have been humorous thought Sindy. Or perhaps Jimmy had simply stolen the ink from Murdstone’s office. The ugly green ink stain was still fresh and wet at the bottom of his pocket protector.

“golly gee. hi miss sindy,” he said in lower case, always averting his eyes from direct eye contact as a sign of submission and respect. Sindy kind of liked the kid, he reminded her of herself when she had been without sleep for two days and recovering from the flu. In other words really slow and stupid.

“19th Floor,” announced Mr. Bubbs thrusting forward the great lever, smashing down the dog latches, and barking out “Shut ‘em down boys.” The whine from above slowly died as the ferrets caught the mouse and began tearing it apart tail to nose. The door swooshed open and the tiny space was filled with the cacophony screaming editors, me-phones ringing, and reporters shouting epithets at their slow re-booting Macs.

Sindy proceeded to her office followed by Jimmy. Jimmy had an uncanny ability to know when Sindy arrived or left from work. The uncanny ability was based in part on Jimmy’s lurking in Sindys office doorway all day long. This helped him detect where Sindy was at any given time.

“Jimmy,” yelled Sindy.

Jimmy thought for a moment. Sindy only yelled at him when giving him an assignment. That was the newspaper way. Yell at the copy boy so that everyone would know you were more important than him.

“yes ms. sindy,” replied Jimmy.

“Jimmy.” yelled Sindy again, “Go to the archive and get me every thing you can find on cycle stealing, temporal distortions, and the meta-virtualized pseudo-reality simplicity-complex paradigm.”

“sure,” said Jimmy. “you want creamer with that?”

“Sheesh, Jimmy,” said Sindy. “I’ll write it down for you and you can give it to the librarian Ms. Tarttle. Then wait till she is finished and has the information for you then get back here pronto.”
“yes,” replied Jimmy reaching for the slip of paper Sindy had written her search terms upon. He started breathing heavily. Hyperventilating actually, so that no one could interrupt his critical mission for something unimportant like getting Pastrami on White with double mayo from Khrons across the street. In a moment he was gone, racing for the elevator and on to the tenth floor and the librarian. That horrible Ms Tartle thought Jimmy.

As he handed the paper slip to Ms. Tartle, she frowned at Jimmy. Adjusting her glasses she read the search terms carefully. “This will take several hours Jimmy, I will have it ready at 3 o’clock.”

“ok,” said Jimmy, “ill be back then.”

Jimmy raced for the elevator and was soon safely ensconced in his secret office in the sub basement of The Times Tower. He lit a candle stub, reached for a cyan crayola, found the big book of words, and began to look up each term on Sindy’s list. Journalism is not easy he had learned. His muse had told him so. But now the muse was not around to coach him in the journalistic arts and mysteries. He was on his own Jimmy knew, but he still believed that the Muse would someday return and would want to see his draft articles perhaps for inclusion in Jimmy’s biography, ‘My Life in Times’ or in a retrospective collection of his works entitled ‘Crayola Scribbling of a Journalist.’

Sindy looked out the window at the vast metropolitan landscape of Capital City. Capital City was laid out in a neat geometric pattern. Some sims were chaotic, given the unplanned nature of subdivision within Second Life, and the complete lack of zoning rules other than immature, mature, and disgusting. Her home town of Heart of the Ocean, in the Sim of Sonogno, had an escort service building on a tiny sliver of land the village elders were unable to purchase at the time of the founding of the town. The owners wanted a huge amount of money for the property, far, far more that it was worth. This was Sindy’s first introduction to extortion in land sales within Second Life. The extortion got worse when the Casinos tried moving in to adjacent lands, causing horrible sim lag, and demanding huge payoffs to go away. Land use was a mess in Second Life.

Then she had an idea and grabbed her Baffles Computer me-Comp, righted her overturned desk, and sat down to do some research. She logged on and looked at the Second Life Map. The big map appeared and she looked carefully about the edges of the known universe. The Linden provided mapping system was very detailed. Then Sindy switched over to Googoo streets, the new controversial mapping system that successfully eliminated all respect for privacy and concerns for common decency. Focusing on the edges of virtual life she examined the streets and lanes of the edge sims carefully. Sindy was amazed at the amount of mooning, snogging, and prevaricating, that Googoo had captured in its cinematic efforts. Grist for the society pages she thought as Sindy saw Sissy Plumblossom slipping out a second story window in the sim of Gigolo.

Sindy spotted Governor Linden twice. Once with that Paris girl in the Sim of Cookie at the Literary Conference of ‘Authorship of Self Help Monologues and Feel Good Scams,’ and another glimpse of the Governor is dark glasses and a bad wig standing out front of a Dilbert concert in the sim of Meolo.

After hours of endless false starts, and even worse false ends, she found an anomaly she suspected might be found. Peering from the edge of the sim of East Egg to the south, she could see another sim, perhaps two, that were not present on the Lindens mapping system.

CHAPTER 29 - DAVIDHOFFS

2007-10-20T19:33:00.000-07:00

The X ship sailed all morning and into the late afternoon sun without serious incident. About lunch time they blew an o-ring on a hydrogen feed line, but Paxford rerouted the fuel and Washrox and Witney quickly repaired the line. Washrox was showing less hesitation and was clearly less fearful of making a decision. The crew had settled into their roles and responsibilities, and Tek haD spent the entire day teaching about the features of this flying test platform for advanced boiler and engine designs. They had even practiced rapid descents and air braking with the new gimbaled engine mounts well out to sea and far from prying eyes. The X ship was indeed fast and nimble. But at times, when Punky looked at the interior of the ship, she knew that the X ship was ineffective as an operational air ship. She was cramped, hastily assembled from old bits and parts of scrapped blimps, she lacked any safety features, and was never intended for anything but daytime fair weather flying. She was exactly as Tek described. The X ship was a flying test bed. Nothing more, yet she was all they had in the face of a looming crisis.

Witney had busied herself in the tiny machine shop and had been grinding, welding, and banging away all day while she sang to herself. Witney was singing K-pop and Punky could not understand a word of it, which made sense, because Punky did not speak Korean. Witney seemed very happy thought Punky. One after another Witney had collected the broadswords provided to the crew by the Monfortes and ground them down to match the height of each avatar. In addition she removed much of the excess weight on the swords by drilling out portions where the structure of the weapon allowed without compromising strength. The result was a much lighter and more useable weapon. The weapons were still antique, and quite useless in most of Second Life, but they were comforting to the crew in these tense times.

Whitney had given special attention to the four crossbows they had been provided and had crafted bolts for the weapons from wooden dowels, a pane of glass, and several bits of cardboard. The arrows were deadly Punky realized when she examined them. Whitney had modified one crossbow to fire magnesium flares. Witney estimated that the flares could be sent about 150 yards. 150 yards of flaming white hot inextinguishable mayhem thought Punky.

As the sun set Punky had Washrox plot a course for the blimp works and as the dark of the night settled upon Fort Balatro the X ship slipped into the blimp works hangar unseen. The landing had been excellently performed by the crew and all Punky had to do was fret about death and destruction in a flaming crash.

Daggy welcomed them, but Punky and crew were immediately whisked away as the engineers and ground crews descend upon the ship to prepare her for her new role as raider in distant lands. After handing the engineering manager a list of items needing attention Punky went to the makeshift dormitory threw her clothes into the washer and then took a long hot shower. Punky noticed Witney and Tek had wandered off to his ‘abode’ in a giant packing crate at the far corner of the hanger. Punky sat around exhausted for a while as her clothing dried. Then Punky dressed in warm undies, trousers and blouse, found an empty bunk, and crashed.

Punky did not sleep well. That night at the Druid Grove kept recurring in her sleep. The volcano’s glare and the horrible desperate fight against the Armies of Circe kept her from any restful sleep. The wicked smile of Adel Flossberg, and finally the image of Sister Letum shaking her fist at the sky as it exploded into white hot flames when the HMS Dread immolated Letum in its fiery crash.

“Wake up Punkster. It’s almost time to go,” said Dagmon Zhukovsky, Chief Engineer of Zippy’s Blimp works.

Punky rose and rubbed her eyes with her small fists. “Sheesh,” Punky said. “I need to sleep for a week and a day.”

Daggy handed Punky a steaming doppy espresso with a jolt of jolt and turned back toward the hangar.

In a few moments Punky was back at the gantry of the ship. Her crew was assembled and she spotted Kees and Macboy across the room.

“Hi Kees, Macboy,” Punky said. They snapped to a salute and waited for Punky to acknowledge it. Punky frowned in confusion until she remembered she was an acting Blue Navy Blimp Captain. “At ease,” Punky said. Gee that’s fun she thought. “Ok,” shouted Punky, “time to get going.”

As Punky turned toward the ship she noticed that the large X was no longer painted on her side. Instead emblazoned on the ships side was her new name – HMS Vengeance. Punky smiled. A suitable name she thought.

They boarded the blimp and the gangway was pulled away. They were six. Washrox was at engineering, Normal sat in the pilots seat, and Paxford was standing at the fueling controls. Macboy and Kees stood to the rear of the gondola and were watching Witney building a zip gun powered by things found in the medicine cabinet. They were laughing a lot.

Punky turned to Kees and asked “What’s our destination tonight?”

Kees stopped laughing and pulled from his vest pocket a map and pointed to the location. The Kun Lun mountain range at the southern edge of Second Life. At the end of the world thought Punky. The very edge of reality.

Punky turned, pulled the maps for that region of Second Life from the navigation locker and began to plot a course.

Soon the undocking procedure had begun, and with little help from Punky, the HMS Vengence took to the sky. As they exited the hangar, Punky looked to Port at the immense and looming form of the HMS Insouciant which was waiting to dock in the black night. Punky could not see much in the dark, but what she did see was grim. Half her enormous gondola was missing and she was listing badly on one very scorched and blackened side. There must have been casualties she thought. Lots of them.

***

Mallory stood at the open door and once again surveyed the street. The news urchin was gone as was the street sweeper. The urchin had been nabbed in the raid. The kid would know nothing. The street sweeper was gone because there was a lot of cleaning to be done following the assault. The street was littered with debris. Mallory laughed under her breath. He’s probably going to wait for auto-return she thought.

SOMA, where the Club was located, was a slum during the day and hot club venue after midnight. The graffiti, the homeless, and the litter filled streets faded into oblivion late at night, but, here and now, in mid afternoon the place was filthy and dead. Mallory knew that nothing happened in this district until well after midnight. At the north end of the street there was some light traffic on the cross street. Across the street a few employees of the Café were gathered together talking. Probably talking about the raid thought Mallory. Next to the café was an antique shop which was open only by appointment and a hair salon. On the south end of the street was a bodega that sold mostly booze, cigarettes, and Doritos. Mallory turned toward the Bodega.

A tiny bell tinkled as she entered the Bodega. The store was cramped and a short fat man sat on a stool behind a counter in a bullet proof glass box. Mallory looked about the store before studying the clerk. The Magazine section was a mess and the new issue of Saints and Sinners Monthly lay on the floor. Booze took up half the store. Low priced booze like TinkerToy fortified wine, Scum’s Irish, and Rhubarb flavored Rum, were the featured items. From the looks of it they sold a lot of Rhubarb flavored Rum. The food section was entirely snacks. Most were lo-cal snacks, since they cost practically nothing to make, and the margins were high. That is if you could move them on the local clientele. Mallory saw the sell by date on a half kilo package of Ante Christo’s fudge was three years ago. The edge of the package had been nibbled open but the fudge untouched inside. So much for nutrition realized Mallory.

Mallory turned to take in the clerk and the cage from which he ruled his domain. Cash only said a poorly written sign above a small hole in the glass at counter level where payments were transacted. There was an apartment above the bodega, but it was silent in the mid afternoon. Probably some club workers or band members sleeping through the day. Behind the clerk lay stacks of cigarettes. All the usual popular brands, Mawled Boy, Strike Outs, Death Knells. Mallory spotted her brand.

“Galois,” Mallory said in a firm voice. The clerk was nervous noticed Mallory. The clerk turned and hunted for the pack of cigarettes. Mallory watched closely as he fumbled with the packs until he found the blue soft pack next to a stack of black and red ones. The clerk was about 40, old for an avatar thought Mallory. His face was pasty white and his hair a deep black. He used hair gel to create a whispy spiky look so popular with the SOMA club set. On his pinky ring he had a rock of considerable size. Not zirconium or paste Mallory could see at this distance, but the real thing. His clothes were tailored denims and an ill fitting white shirt. The sleeves on the shirt were about an inch too long but they showed little sign of wear. The denim looked fresh with the current popular distressed look created by vagrants hired to urinate on the fabric until it faded to a pale green. Expensive trousers Mallory knew. Very expensive. The guy was unarmed, but given the location of the Bodega, Mallory had no doubt that under the counter would be all the love and care a bodega clerk could need in this town.

Mallory slid a 7 linden note through the hole. The clerk had not taken his eyes off Mallory since she entered even though she was clearly a woman of some means. He’s paranoid or he really has something to hide she thought. Mallory took her change and cigarettes and walked to the doorway. Then she turned and returned to the clerk.

“How about a pack of Davidhoffs too,” said Mallory.

The man turned and without looking picked up the red and black hard pack of very expensive Davidhoffs. Mallory inwardly smiled.

“On the other hand,” Mallory said, “I’ll stick with these,” as she waved the Galois in the air.

The clerk shrugged and Mallory exited the building. Mallory stood on the street for a moment and then walked to the alley behind the Bodega. There were two trash bins in the back. Mallory peeked into one. It was filled with store debris. The other was household trash from the apartment above. Mallory took the two plastic bags from the household garbage bin and carried them across the street and into the club.

The Omega squad was going over the building inch by inch, but Mallory knew they would find little.

“Find anything?” asked Mallory almost as a courtesy to the squad .

“Yes, lots of clues here,” replied a short very buff Blue Navy commando named Sandy Elbow. “Over here’, Sandy said, motioning to a table with carefully tagged items. Mallory took a quick look at their precious discoveries.

Mallory turned and walked to the center of the dance floor which had the greatest illumination in the room from skylights above. Then to the horror of Sandy Elbow, Mallory dumped the two bags of garbage onto the floor. Mallory pushed the garbage about with the toe of her Ferraguano knock offs.

The entire omega squad turned as Mallory kneeled down. Mallory began laughing at the pile of garbage strewn upon the club floor.

“Oh Loopy,” said Mallory, “you should have known better.”

CHAPTER 28 - X IN THE AIR

2007-10-18T16:45:00.000-07:00

Punky boarded the experimental blimp before dawn, with her crew from the Poofer as well as Tek Cronon, the steam engine designer and near genius. Tek was there to train them in the new engines and systems. Fraley was in the infirmary and would remain there for along time. This was no longer a training mission, and Punky assigned Normal Bellini, the Goth, to be pilot, Washrox to the engineering station, and Paxford Lint to the now obsolete position of coal shoveler. The X ship was hydrogen powered, not coal fired as were conventional blimps. Witney Llanfair joined them as weapons officer and to get her ‘air legs’

Punky was free to choose a different crew from the available staff at the blimp works, but the pickings were few. There were no experienced blimp captains on the station except for Daggy and she was disallowed by orders of the Second Sea Lord. There were excellent coal shovelers but the new ship did not need their strength and endurance so Punky stayed with a known crew compliment including Paxford. Punky became mission commander.

Punky required that the crew outfit themselves with the primitive weapons supplied by the Monforte’s. The crew hated the idea of carrying these heavy cumbersome and near useless weapons. But Punky insisted, because these where the only weapons they had, and the crew had to gain familiarity with them. Witney had shown the crew how to sling the broadswords across their backs with the hilt sticking above the left shoulder. All the crew including Punky was so armed, except for Witney. Witney had both a sword and a crossbow that she was lovingly polishing and caressing.

The X ship was experimental and was not really fit for patrol service. The ship was built as a test platform for engines and had very few amenities such as showers, bunks, or a small lounge. The ship was bare bones, or bare spars and hard seats. Further the gondola was small and cramped. A pile of sleeping bags was stacked next to the tiny toilette.

The NAGS had not attacked the blimp works and the X ship, when the wiped out most of the fleet, because they thought they had accounted for all registered blimps. What they failed to realize was that the X ship was not registered. The X ship was only a temporary test platform.

“Punky, are you listening?” asked Ted as he stood on the bridge of the X Ship with the crew.

“Sorry,” said Punky. “Go ahead Tek.”

“Well as I was saying,” said Tek, “This ship is hydrogen powered from these tanks of liquid hydrogen there.” Tek pointed to two long cylindrical tanks that were lashed to the sides of the gondola and ran the length from one end to the other. The tanks were covered in a thick layer of insulation, but even the top layer of the insulation was covered with ice. Liquid hydrogen was really really cold.

“Hydrogen has two advantages on a blimp,” said Tek. “We can use it for fuel and for lift. But it has also two disadvantages and those are that we can use it for fuel or lift. Take your pick.” Tek laughed as if he had told a really dirty joke. But it was not funny at all to the crew.

Punky knew that if you ran out of fuel you could tap the bladders holding the lift hydrogen and run the engines. On the other hand, if you did that you would eventually fall to earth. Having extra hydrogen as fuel you could reroute the hydrogen to the bladders if you were leaking from a breach or hole in the bladders and this was a comforting thought. However the cost to the airship may well be no fuel for the steam engines.

Tek went on the describe the gimbaled engines that could be tilted in almost any direction. The ship was both very fast and extremely nimble. How fast, Tek was unsure, but she was capable of doing at least 100 knots safely. Certainly the engines were capable of greater speed, but the airframe was unlikely to hold up very long at speeds above 100 knots. Tek was careful to explain the engine tilting mechanisms to both Normal and to Punky. At the pilots and copilots seats was a new control. Another wheel with 360 degrees etched into its rim stood next to the throttle levers. This was the engine tilt control.

They had packed sandwiches and several thermos of tea and were ready to depart. Punky had plotted a course that would take them to the ceiling of the X ship, about 3000 meters, and they would cruse at that height all day until sunset. Then they would return to the blimp works in the dark, load the ship with supplies for a four day voyage, pick up their passengers, and be off well before dawn. They needed to be out before dawn because the heavily damaged and very large HMS Insouciant was scheduled to arrive for a fast repair job as they left. All this had to be accomplished in the dark of night and without lights.

Their voyage had two critical purposes. First to keep the blimp out of the destructive reach of the NAGS, and second to learn the new ship in order to deliver their charges to the distant Kun Lun mountain range on the boarder of the remote sims of East Egg and Shangri La at the very edge of Second Life.

“Now this ship is very buggy,” said Tek to an attentive crew. “But as a test platform she is also very flexible and we have a tiny machine shop here in the gondola for building new fixtures and for making quick modifications and repairs.” Tek paused. “I know that things will go wrong on your flight to the edge of wherever you are going, however, if you are creative and fast on your feet you should be successful. I only wish I could come with you on your mission, but …”

“I’ve been trained as a machinist,” interrupted Witney. “Yup, I took all the shop courses at the Reform School.” Witney was smiling. “I can even make zip guns, stun grenades, and shives.” Witney laughed with a gleam in her eye. No one else did.

Punky could see that Witney was warming up to her assignment about as fast as Witney was warming up to Tek. Punky respected Tek, and she even liked Tek in a lot. But romance with Tek was impossible for Punky to even think about. She shuddered a bit at the very thought. Not that Tek was not good looking, but he was odd, and obsessive about things mechanical, and his hygiene left much to be desired. Witney clearly thought otherwise about Tek.

Punky sighed. What am I thinking in criticizing Tek’s hygiene, Punky thought. I have not had a shower in three days and here I am about to go aloft in a ship without a shower for another day. Punky heard footsteps climbing the gangway.

“Time to get moving, it’s almost dawn,” said a flight coordinator dressed in his yellow jump suit.

Punky turned to the crew and said, “Ok button this ship up and lets get airborne.”

The crew went to their positions. All except Paxford, who now was assigned to a fueling station next to the engineering station. Before her was a wide variety of pipes, valves, and shunts. Pasted to the bulkhead above was a drawing with many erasures and additions indicating the routing of the precious and explosive hydrogen. Punky sat in the co-pilots chair. Normal had the departure procedure on her lap and was proceeding down the check list with Washrox. In a few moments the boilers began to churn and very quickly they were at full flight pressure. Nice design Punky thought, charging the boilers was at least a tenth of the time of the old coal fired systems. In a few moments the engines began to turn with their characteristic thumping sound. Normal threw open the window and looked aft then forward. Then the interior of the hangar went dark. Void dark. Then forward of the X ship a sliver of just black appeared in the void. It grew and grew until half the forward view port was simple black. The hangar doors had opened.

Slowly the ship inched forward and in moments they were airborne into the night.

* * *

Mallory entered the Café du Carpaud on Flea Street and took a window seat with a view of the building across the street. Mallory carried a copy of the Daily Racing Form and was quickly at work studying the odds for the pick six at Anita Bryant Park. From time to time Mallory would glance at the building across the street as if thinking about Vanity Fair in the fourth.

The waiter came forward and placed a menu before Mallory. Mallory ignored the menu and remained focused on the racing form. “Coffee, black, hold the grounds,” said Mallory to the waiter. The waiter disappeared and Mallory returned to her concentrated study.

At the end of the street stood a news paper urchin with a late edition of The Times. Really late observed Mallory, like yesterdays edition. The kid was wrong. On the café side of the street was a Capital City street sweeper leaning on his broom and picking his teeth. Entirely correct thought Mallory. If he had been sweeping then he would have been wrong also. In a few moments a delivery van which had been double parked in front of a chemists shop was bumped by a pedi cab and an argument ensued. The pedi cab driver was yelling at the two men from the delivery van. The pedi cab passenger, who looked a lot like Chris Llanfair on a bad hair day, had his nose buried in today’s issue of The Times. Our folks thought Mallory. The pedi cab driver took a swing at the delivery man and a group of onlookers formed as a fight broke out.

Mallory stood and walked to the café doorway. She took one step forward into the sunlight and stretched. Then she dropped her racing form.

Suddenly a small explosion could be heard in the club across the street as the door tumbled into the street. The crowd, that had moments before been watching the street fight, rushed into the club. Several more muffled explosions followed and smoke poured from the open doorway and parts of the roof of the Bright Flash Absinthe Mine and Club.

The raid was over in moments. Mallory strolled over to Chris who was talking to a well built young woman who had Omega squad written all over her muscled body. Chris turned to Mallory. “We got Tux, the Linux ambassador. The penguin has been roughed up but it will survive. And we got Baudelaire. Five of him. Hard to believe but we captured five identical Baudelaires, but no Loopy Loo. Loopy was not here.” Mallory nodded.

“Omega squad will debrief Tux and then question the Baudelaires,” said Chris.

Mallory knew they would get no information from either Tux or the Baudelaires. Tux was too simple minded. Tux was a religious zealot who could barely reason. As for the Baudelaires, the Omega squad would undoubtedly torture them and they would squeal like a corn dogs on a stick, and they would certainly spill the beans. But the beans would be just that – beans and completely useless. Loop Loo was too smart. The Baudelaires would be in the dark, or even worse they each would be planted with different false information which they thought was true about NAGS real plans and actions. Five different stories, five sets of facts extracted through torture and coercion. And all five completely misleading. No, they would learn nothing from this raid, except what Mallory herself could deduce.

Mallory said nothing but slowly entered the Bright Flash Absinthe Mine and Club and started to look around.

CHAPTER 27 - CAMPUS

2007-10-17T14:29:00.001-07:00

Sindy Blazer wakened early. Early for the Editor of the Society Page of The Times who usually went to bed as the sun rose. Covering blue bloods, hoi polloi, celebutantes, escort services, and even the occasional hoity toity was arduous and tough work. The food, wine, dancing, trysts, snooping, and sniping, all took their toll on a reporter and Sindy was no exception. Not to mention the guessing, hypothecating, prevaricating, postulating and back stabbing required of Second Life’s newspaper of record and flagship of the Lupine News Corporation. It was dirty difficult muckraking work but on occasion the assignments could be very emotionally rewarding. Sindy remembered fondly the time when she learned that Lindsey was caught snogging with Nicole at the famous Paparazzi’s Lens Club on the Avenue of the Sims. The Paris girl then gave Sindy an exclusive interview accusing Lindsey and Nicole of animal magnetism and other crimes against nature, after which Lindsey gave Sindy an interview in which she accused Paris and Donny Thump of unspeakable acts at Nello’s Famous Meats Club on AU Street. Sindy won a Hurst prize for the series.

The previous night Sindy had agreed to hold the article she had been writing on the pending collapse of the Linden. As a responsible journalist Sindy had intended to publish it anyway, come heck or high water. But when her boss, Ruprecht Murdstone, Executive Editor of The Times, said he would not publish such scurrilous and unfounded information until he had converted all his Lindens to the Zwinki, and that would take a week or more. Sindy decided to prepare a lengthy Sunday supplement article, op-ed piece, backgrounder, and insightful analytical bit on the pending crisis for when the crisis broke. She would have it ready after Ruprecht changed his mind or managed to finish his money laundering.

After checking her bank balance and ensuring that she was badly overdrawn, Sindy decided to find Ora Flora of the Junior University of Second Life and the author of the widely denounced scientific paper on time inflation. Perhaps the professor would have some insight into cycle stealing and secret sims. Sindy was certain that the conventional scientific community was hiding something, or just being rejectionists of anything new that required science to perform any original thinking, which was always hard work for scientific lobes. They really are foolish thought Sindy. If the scientific community were more willing to accept new ideas, then they would be able to update their textbooks and articles more frequently. Scientists’ incomes would rise substantially. But scientists were really slow to recognize the potential of ‘new thinking.’

The Rapido was still down so Sindy hoofed it over the Junior University of Second Life which was about half a kilometer from her spacious condo in the Jung Tower. Since the me-Phones were still out she was taking a chance that Professor Ora Flora would be at the college. Sindy had gone to the University of Sonogno and knew that only TA’s and Acting Professors were ever actually ‘present’ at the university. Associate Professors were usually present only in the faculty club bar, and Full Professors could usually be found only in the course catalogue. If the professor was tenured, well you could forget about ever seeing them, except perhaps cast in stone in the Hallway of Great Ideators and Pedants.

Sindy was not familiar with the lay out of the Junior University and as she entered the elaborate west gate, featuring a spray of cast iron nymphs pursuing Pan. She stopped to ask two female students where she might find the professor. They were dressed in the fashion of the day, blue blazers, starched white shirts, thin black neckties, and matching thongs with thigh high red leather boots on 4 inch stiletto heels. Sindy had asked about where she might find professor Ora Flora of the Department of Disasters, Ruin, and Desolation.

The taller girl looked perplexed as the shorter girl tried to think.

“Wall,” said the short girl chewing on a wedge of tobacco, “I think that department is over by the Thigh Delts.”

“Naw,” said the other girl as she applied a new layer of face paint. “Its over by the Student Lounge and Beer Garden.”

“No, no,” said the chewing girl, “It’s over by the STD fraternity house, you know, the one with the funky swing sets.”

The both girls turned to Sindy and almost simultaneously said “I donno.” Then they laughed. The laugh was an undergraduate laugh, full of pheromones, lust, and with the slight echo of an empty head eager to be stuffed to overflowing with the wisdom of the sages.

Sindy entered the campus and walked toward a clock tower and the center of the campus. On the right she saw the campus bookstore. They were celebrating Harry Potty week and the new release “Harry Potty and the Gout” was the featured book. In the distance she could hear the symphonic band and choir practicing in the concert hall. Sindy recognized the catchy tune as Stockhausen’s 'Chore Fur Doris' which was the current rave at raves through out Second Life’s many clubs and hot spots. Sindy approached a fountain that was bubbling and spraying and filled with soap suds. Some kind of prank Sindy thought remembering the time when she was a student and together with the other girls they had filled Prissy Plumblossom’s room full to the ceiling with autumn leaves from the lawn below the dorm. How fun she thought. They had even topped off the leaves with four feet of snow. A seasonal and harmless prank of her carefree youth.

Now Sindy realized she was totally lost. She looked about carefully and spied a sturdy stone structure without windows and with crenellations along the roof line and small slits in the walls at strategic points. The fortress like structure was covered with graffiti and sports team insults. All the insults seem directed to the University Pi Ball team. The structure was surrounded by a high iron fence with razor wire strung at the top. A sturdy steel gate blocked entrance, but it was open today. A tiny sign read Administration Building. Sindy walked through the gate and into a small courtyard. She knew it was a courtyard because a gallows stood against one wall. She entered the Admin building and asked a sleepy clerk for directions. He gave her a map and circled a small rectangle with a red pen. The map was in Latin with Greek footnotes.

Sindy eventually found the run down decrepit building. ‘Time Research’ read a dull brass plaque which was attached to a crumbling brick wall. The building had once been a horse barn and Sindy could see that the tin roof was more sky and less tin than most. A few windows were boarded up, but in one open window she could see that the lights were on and there was some activity beyond.

Sindy entered and found Professor Flora standing before an enormous complex machine with spinning wheels. Wheels within wheels within wheels went round and round and round. Two clock dials were spinning on the machine. A pendulum of great weight was slowly swinging to and fro as a loud ticking sound filled the space.

Professor Flora turned to Sindy with a cup of tea in her hand. “Here is your tea Sindy,” the professor said. “Your welcome.”

Sindy took the tea. How nice Sindy though. I was thinking tea would be nice right now and the professor anticipated my desire. How thoughtful. She must read my column.

“That’s all I know,” said the Professor

What, Sindy thought? “Hello I’m Sindy Blazer with The Times. May I interview you about your research?” asked Sindy.

“Yes definitely,” said the Professor.

“Do you have any thoughts about existence of secret sims?” asked Sindy.

“Who would steal cycles? Ah that’s a question for the Criminal Brains and Perverts Department.”

Weird thought Sindy, but then again this was Academe. Sindy asked, “What’s the relationship between secret sims and real sims?”

‘Cycle stealing. That’s how. They find cycles in servers supporting sims and steal them and create new virtual realities. In some cases they actually deny real sims the cycles needed to support Second Life and these pirated cycles are used to create a virtual virtual Second Life, or as we in the scientific community call meta-virtualized pseudo-reality simplicity-complex.”

Sindy asked, “How are secret sims created?”

“Ah a question of great import. Yes secret sims are possible, in fact like string theory or white zits, they are probable. The real cannot exist without the virtual. To even posit the question of secret sims is to define them and make them real,” Flora said.

“Yes, I’d be happy to talk to you,” continued Flora.

“Thank you for your time,” said Sindy.

“How do you do Sindy, and how can I help you,” the Professor said. “Would you like some tea?’

They talked for over an hour and Sindy left the building more confused that she had entered, yet she felt she was starting to understand the pseudo science of secret sims and the sneaky tools of cycle stealing.

She stopped for a late lunch at Diarrhe’e and was quickly seated in the number one table. As she looked at the lunch specials she spied Charlie Baudelaire, long time resident of Heart of the Ocean village, noted botanist, respected raconteur, and owner operator of the Bright Flash Absinthe Mine and Club. He was sitting with an absolutely gorgeous woman that Sindy thought she recognized. The woman’s face was like the real Paris of the thousand boats. Simply stunning thought Sindy. Sindy turned her attention to the menu and for a moment she considered the Manatee Steak, but decided instead on winter salad with dressing on the side. As the waiter took her order Charlie and the young woman departed leaving a rather large cash tip on the table.

Sindy sat playing with her napkin trying to remember the name of the beautiful woman. There was bound to be a story angle here. Charlie was always in the news and although not a blue blood, she maintained a stable of famous pop stars, celebutantes, and top models at her club. Perhaps the woman was a model.

After Sindy had finished scraping her salad dressing off the side, she remembered the woman from the photograph at Llanfair’s mansion – Loopy Loo.

CHAPTER 26 - ZIPPY'S

2007-10-16T17:51:00.000-07:00

Witney arrived at Fort Balatro and Zippy’s Blimp Works late at night. The entire fort was dark, but here and there Witney could perceive motion and when she approached the main gate she was challenged by heavy security. From the main gate to the blimp hanger took almost two hours of checking, re-checking, scrutiny of her profile, checking her avatar face against the pictures on file. They even asked the secret question which made Witney very nervous. As Witney talked to the guard stations she could see that the Morse Light on top of the guard house was busy. In the distance she saw a blinking light and then another. Security had established some kind of relay with distant stations. Morse light at night and heliotrope by day though Witney.

At the last stop, an officer bearing the snarling weasel insignia of the dreaded Ministry of Secrets and Capital Crimes, had denied Witney entrance to the gate and had threatened to open the documents Witney had been entrusted with by Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life. Witney threatened to tear the weasel’s throat out if he touched the documents. The officer then smile with a thin smile bordering on a smirk and then allowed Witney to pass through. Some kind of test Witney realized. Just a stupid test.

But before allowing her on the grounds of the blimp works Witney was blindfolded, her hands tied together, and she was put into the backseat of a carpet van and driven some distance. The documents she carried were placed in a small sack and tied around her neck. The distance was greater than Witney had estimated from the gate and many turns were involved. Witney thought about getting carpet sick but changed here mind. At one point Witney was certain they had driven in circles for a moment.

Finally the van stopped and Witney was harshly pulled from the van. She could hear a door opening from a well lit room because the blindfold was not very good and she could see her feet. She could also see the feet of the guards and since she had loosened the ties on her hands, Witney was seriously considering beating the pulp out of the guards, but decided that such a violent action was inappropriate of a messenger from the Monforte’s. She was led over a threshold and then the guards left closing the door. Later perhaps she could settle the score. Wherever the closest beer joint was she would find the guards, or for that matter, some other guys who looked like them. Some one untied her hands and removed the blindfold. She was in the enormous interior of the blimp hangar and the immensely bright lights hit her eyes like a one kilo salami across the bridge of her nose.

Standing before her was a tall thin young man with a concerned smile on a greasy face and wearing filthy coveralls. His hair was brown and very wet. In fact he was soaking wet from head to foot and in his hand he held a Rigid Exposed Ratchet Bolt Threader and in the other a 25 mm die. Witney recognized them because she had asked for just that set for Christmas when she was 14, but instead she got a Screw You Elmos from her father. It had been the beginning of her difficulties and rejection of her dad.

“Hey Tek, get your behind over her,” someone yelled from a distance.

“Hi I’m Tek.” said the young man extending his hand to Witney.

“Witney, Witney Llanfair,” she said as she took his hand. They shook hands and Witney felt the most amazing calluses on a hand she had ever felt. Witney thought Tek looked cute and his hands gave her ideas. But that would have to wait. “I’ve got an important message for Captain Pugilist.”

“This way,” said Tek as he turned into the hangar and shops.

Nice gluts thought Witney as Tek’s wet coveralls clung to his rear and thighs. He’s not wearing undies she realized. Cool.

The place was big. Really big, thought Witney. She saw two blimps tethered in the blimp hangar but they looked small in here. One blimp was old and the name Poofer written on its side. The Poofer was pretty ordinary, but the other Blimp with a big ‘X’ on its side was shaped more like a rugby ball and the engines had cowlings and looked different somehow. The Blimps were tethered on one side of the structure because down the middle was the skeleton of something really big. What it was exactly Witney could not tell but it was not an ordinary blimp. Perhaps it was a replacement for the machine that crashed into the Druid Grove nearly killing all of them but ending Adel’s evil attempts to overthrow the Lindens in Second Life.

Witney had some idea of the size of the blimps, but the hangar was something else. She stopped and looked up. High in the rafters, which she could barely see, beyond the green pickle lights, she could see clouds forming. Clouds on the inside of the building. This is really big realized Witney.

“Tek, I need this test fitting threaded now, not tomorrow,” someone yelled.

Witney looked down and continued walking to a long two story line of windows at the far end of the building. As she walked she saw that the blimp called Poofer, was being unloaded and there were crates and packages and piles of wood logs lying about on the hangar floor. They appeared to be sorting the crates and reloading some onto the other blimp with the big X on its side. The floor of the hangar was alive with avatars and along one wall there sat engines and machine tools grinding and sparking away as small groups of men and women were intensely focused on building things of iron, aluminum, and fabric.

It took forever to reach the door to the office complex. A sign hanging over the first floor door read ‘Design Shed’. Across the room Witney saw Punky Pugilist and she turned and walked toward her. She was surrounded by a small group of engineers and some Blue Navy officers and they were examining drawings and documents. They appeared to be arguing.

“But it can’t wait,” said an engineer. “The HMS Insouciant will be here day after tomorrow. We simply got to get her repaired, rearmed, and out by dawn. We cannot wait.”

Punky was staring at the drawings and shaking her head. “Ok,Ok,” she said. “Forget about the ejectors, we will go without them.”

Witney did not want to interrupt but she had critical messages from the Monforte’s.

“Punky, Punky Pugilist,” Witney said.

Punky looked up. Punky did not smile. She looked horrible thought Witney. Grimy, dirty, tired, and smelly too.

“Here these are messages for you from Muffin,” said Witney handing the blue envelopes with the Monforte Crest to Punky. Witney felt odd calling Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Muffin, but it made sentences a lot shorter she decided.

Punky reached out and took the envelopes. Punky looked at the envelopes carefully and said “You guys work out the details on the hydrogen fuel pumps, I need to read these dispatches. For my eyes only.” Then Punky laughed a tired laugh, and walked across the room full of drafting tables to a small windowed office in the distance. Witney could see Punky sit down and rub her eyes and face with her hands before she opened the envelopes and began to read.

Witney was already planning on how to get back to Capital City now that her mission was complete, but she was exhausted. She sat down on a vacant stool two drafting tables away. No one paid any attention to her. They were too busy with their pencils and erasures to even notice that she had fallen asleep leaning on a slanted table.

Punky opened the first envelope and examined the contents. It was a dossier on Loopy Loo. Punky read quickly but she knew most of the background information from the files at the Academy of Balloons. What she wanted to know was where Loopy Lou was? How many henchmen did she have? What kinds of weapons did they hold? The files contained little data on the critical elements Punky needed to find Loopy Loo and repay the debt in blood and fire.

The Punky opened the second envelope. It was a situation report and a set of orders from the Second Sea Lord. Punky had been activated and was now officially a captain in the Blue Ocean Navy. Punky laughed as a little fabric patch fell from the envelope. Contained in the envelope were her orders.

Punky was to take the X ship into the air before dawn and test her out of sight of eyes on the ground. She was then to return at night and in the dark, refuel, pick up two commandoes, and proceed to drop off the commandoes at a location they would inform her of when they arrived. The journey would take four days. Upon completion Punky was to return to the blimp works, refit, and assume patrol duty along the southern edge of Second Life. Punky was free to pick her own crew from the avatars available at the blimp works.

All except Dagmon Zhukovsky and Tek Cronon could be chosen for her crew. Then Punky’s heart sank as she learned that only four Blue Navy Blimps of the Line had survived the attacks and that two were badly damaged. The HMS Insouciant was limping its way to the blimp works and needed to occupy the hangar in two nights. They had allotted only 36 hours to refit the damaged ship. 12 hours later the even more damaged HMS Indefatigable would arrive. Daggy and Tek were desperately needed to refit and repair the ships. They could not be released.

Punky shook the envelope from the Second Sea Lord and a small code book fell from it and onto the desk. A folded paper note floated down and landed on the code book. Punky reached for the folded note.

The note was from Muffin. The note was a personal plea to take Witney into her charge and remove her from the Capital City area. Witney was on Loopy Loo’s termination list. Muffin asked that Punky make up some plausible story as to why Witney was accompanying them on the next flight, but that as a personal favor to both himself and for the future of Second Life, Punky needed to keep Witney out of sight.

Punky sighed. She did not need a civilian at this time. But then again, Punky remembered the fight in the Druid Grove and Witney’s hand to hand combat skills were the best Punky had seen in years. At that moment Punky decided to take Witney along. Punky placed the code book into her breast pocket next to a few Testosa Grandes. Then she took the dossier, the orders from the Second Sea Lord, Muffins personal plea, and fed them into the shredder in the corner of the room.

Punky rubbed her eyes again. Time to go to the infirmary and visit Fraley she thought. Punky exited the office and walked to where the engineers and Blue Navy Officers were still arguing. She tapped Witney on the shoulder and Witney awoke with a start.

“Witney, your drafted,” said Punky. Witney opened her mouth about to object. “You’re now our weapons officer. Go find Tek and get us some personal defense and perhaps a little offense as well. We leave before dawn.”

Witney closed her mouth. Hmm, Witney thought ‘weapons officer,’ ‘leave before dawn,’ and Tek.

CHAPTER 25 - NIGHT LANDING

2007-10-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

Punky thought about relieving Normal Bellini from the pilot’s seat to bring in the ship to the Aerodrome at Fort Balatro. Night landings were hard, but in these black out conditions it was going to be very difficult. Punky decided that it was time for Normal to “learn by doing” as professor Raphus used to say. In this case Normal may well learn how to crash a blimp, hopefully in the soft manner rather than the flaming inferno way.

Punky sat in the co-pilots seat. There was a decent head of steam in the remaining boiler. Punky shouted for Washrox to assume the engineering seat. She came sliding down the ladder and ran to the engineering station.

“How’s Fraley,” asked Punky.

“Out. But its bad” said Washrox. She started to say more but changed her mind. There was nothing she could add.

Normal was intensely focused sitting in the pilots seat. Tunnel focus Punky realized and it’s normal at this point in a pilots training. The entire balloon section of the ship could disappear and the pilot would not know until he hit the ground. That’s what concentration did to the uninitiated. Punky would have to focus on the big picture and landing a blimp was all about the big picture. A big picture composed of dozens of little pictures, inattention to any one of which will kill you.

“Normal, your the pilot. Poofer is your responsibility,” said Punky, “but I’m here and I’ve done this thousands of times. Stay focused but listen to me.”

Normal nodded but remained focused on the narrow slit of the black gondola windows and the wriggling instruments. Normall’s right hand was on the UP&DOWN wheel and her left on the throttle lever. Her feet were correctly positioned for the ailerons.

“Dead ahead slow,” called out Punky in her best imitation of a steamboat captain. Punky’s voice was way to high in pitch for this ploy to work. She sounded more like a parrot demanding more beetle nuts than a steamboat captain. But the irony was missed on the nervous crew. The crew held Punky in high regard both as a Professor but also as a legendary pilot. Punky knew the truth. She was an acting professor and the legend was entirely the creation of the press eager to sell papers.

Normal throttled back and the ship continued forward for a few moments as momentum carried it into the darkness. It was pitch black outside and the altimeter read 200 meters.

“Descend at 10 meters per minute, ordered Punky. “Call out the altitude Washrox, every 10 meters and loud.”

“190,” yelled Washrox. Punky knew that somehow shouting orders and instrument readings kept the tensions down. She was not sure why, but it helped considerably. Less time for bad thoughts she figured.

Slowly they descended and Punky called for level flight at 90 meters. Normal leveled off. Punky knew the hanger was exactly 55 meters high and there was nothing in the immediate aerodrome facility except the hangar.

“Ok, Washrox listen carefully,” said Punky as she slid open the port window and stuck her head out. She could see nothing below. “Hit the lights now!,” she cried. Punky was squinting before the lights came on. “Kill the lights.” The lights went out leaving an echo outline of the building below etched into Punky’s retina. Punky pulled her head back into the gondola, but did not open her eyes. “Bring her around to 120 degrees and bring us forward 30 meters or so, dead slow.”

Normal nudged the throttle and turned the rudder wheel and the ship moved ever so slowly. Punky stuck her head out again. There! She saw them – landing lights. Small, tiny lights were lit in a line with three lights at one end. The opening of the hangar was at the end of the line where the three tiny lights stood flickering in the darkness below.

“Ok, now 10 MPM descents until you reach 40 meters, Washrox call the altitude.”

Normal’s hands were shaking and as Washrox called out the altitude her voice wavered.

“80 meters,” said Washrox.

“Louder Washrox,” cried Punky.

“70 meters.” The wavering voice disappeared.

At forty meters Normal leveled off.

“Docking Protocol Normal, now.” said Punky softly to Normal.

“Away the grappling hook,” yelled Normal Bellini.

Soon the grappling hook purchased earth and sod and as the docking lines were thrown out they felt the gentle but firm tug of the apron jacks hauling in the ship.

Normal had the procedure on his lap and was reading.

“Down 10” Normal said, and he tweaked the wheel.

“30 meters,” shouted Washrox.

Soon in the gloom below they could see the ground and the gaping maw of the open hangar doors. The interior of the hangar was slightly darker than the moonless overcast night.

“20 meters,” called out Washrox.

The Poofer moved forward into the mouth of the darkened hangar. Punky could feel the ship as it was pulled down by winches and tied down safely. Slowly it grew darker as the hangar door was closed. Then the pickle lights glowed green for a moment and Punky could smell the hint of ozone from the open port window and then the light of a thousand suns illuminated the hangar. They were safe. Safe in a ship that was crippled and probably doomed.

As Punky’s eyes adjusted to the bright light she saw that the Poofer was not alone. At the other end of the hangar stood an oddly shaped blimp with oval engines. There was a large X painted on its side.

Kees, Macboy, and Pysgotwr had walked down the coast about four kilometers to Gwinau inlet as Pysgotwr’s teenaged son Baychan took the dory out into the afternoon setting sun. Baychan had halted the dory in the middle of the bay near the opening to the estuary and threw some crab pots overboard. Any resident of the village would have scratched their heads in wonderment and thought Baychan lazy and stupid, but Green and the thugs were fooled. In about an hour the fog rolled in and the dory disappeared.

Baychan brought the dory to Gwinau inlet at about midnight and Kees, Macboy, and Pysgotwr together with Baychan began to row to the north. Pysgotwr had warned them that there was patrol boat outside Jurang sim, but the area to be covered was simply too large and if they moved quickly and carefully they could avoid detection. The dory had a small sail but they dare not raise the sail until they were well beyond the patrol area. As the sun rose they hoisted the small sail and it caught a four knot wind. Kees and Macboy felt good that they had managed to row with the same energy as Pysgotwr and Baychan. Pysgotwr thought it was a good thing he had gone easy on Kees and Macboy because, while they were strong, they had no skills for rowing. Baychan thought the strangers wimps.

Pysgotwr gave the Fina Islands a wide birth even though it added an hour or so to the journey. The hermit kingdoms of Gor were always to be avoided. Many a sailor who landed upon those shores, by shipwreck, tempest, or foolish curiosity never returned. “'Ksherea, evil ones,” said Baychan as they passed the islands.

About sundown the coastline of Meola came into view. They brought down the sail and rowed hard toward the hopefully empty shoreline. Once ashore Kees and Macboy waved to Pysgotwr and Baychan as they pulled out into the sea.

“Without any rest,” said Kees. Macboy nodded.

They moved quickly inland, in four days of hard hiking, horse riding, and a short argument with the flying carpet vendor at Bluts they made it to Capital City and the Long White Hall. About them they saw confusion with many systems down and occasionally the could see the still smoking ruins of aerodromes.

They entered the Long White Hall via the delivery entrance. Security was heavy and portions of the building were sand bagged. Armed marines were everywhere and intensely alert. Soon they were ushered into the Second Sea Lords office. The Second Sea Lord, Admiral Candy Kraft, looked at their disheveled state as they snapped a crisp salute. Kees and Macboy looked at the Second Sea Lord who had aged a great deal in the week since they had left.

“At ease,” said Kraft. “Your report please.”

Kraft stood as Kees spoke and told her that they had indeed discovered the secret sims and that they had seen at least three and possibly four, but that they were sure that there were more. The sims were active with heavy construction, but only at night. The secret sims were supporting two to three times the number of avatars that any sim server known to Second Life was able to currently support. During the day the sims were quiet but heavily guarded by well armed furries. Six days ago the construction had ceased and the number of guard avatars was significantly diminished.

Kraft nodded. “I want a written report and your photos on my desk in two hours,” said Kraft. “Well done and dismissed.” Kees and Macboy spun around and proceeded to the doorway of the Second Sea Lords office.

“Just a moment,” said Kraft. Kees and Macboy turned and returned to the Second Sea Lord’s desk.

“When your finished with your report, how about a trip back there to deliver some packages?” she asked. “Volunteers only, you probably wont make it back,” she said slowly.

“Yes Mam,” Both Kees and Macboy said at the same moment.

“Good,” said Kraft “be prepared to leave as soon as your report is complete. Go to Zippy’s Blimp Works. Ill have one of our few remaining airships ready to get you back to the mountains quickly.” She reached for a small black box and slid it across here desk toward Kees. “I want you to deliver these Sim Interrupter Scripts to our friends. Its time they learned that two can play this game,” the Second Sea Lord said in an icy voice.

CHAPTER 24 - FLOUNDER

2007-10-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

Shortly before dawn Kees and Macboy arose from their downy beds in a warm little room on the second floor of the Elvin Nose in Jurang Port Town. Both Kees and Macboy removed the contents of their packs and carefully laid out their possessions before repacking them for an ocean voyage. They gave careful attention to their weapons, ensuring, that if needed the weapons would not fail to deliver their deadly intent. The fishing fleet would return to the port today and they hoped to charter a small boat and a captain to take them to mainland about 40 kilometers away to the north. The day would be long and possibly dangerous.

Kees stepped to the small high window, pulled back the thin pale white curtain and stared onto the town plaza below. Fog obscured everything in a dark enfolding blanket which covered the entire port, including the seacoast and even reaching far into the foothills and valleys inland. Macboy finished lacing his pack and turned to Kees.

“Time to go,” whispered Kees, “its best to leave in the quiet.”

“Yes,” agreed Macboy, “and with fewer complications as well.” Macboy laughed a small chuckle. Kees smiled.

They slipped out the door and into a dark and quiet hallway and proceeded down the steep narrow stairs. The bar was empty, as was the snuggery, and the embers in the fireplace cast a dull orange glow across the room. Kees opened the door and slipped into the still black mist followed by Macboy. The two Omega Squad members crossed the plaza silently and climbed the little grass covered hill behind the square. They set down their packs and waited for the fog to leave. The fog was easily irritated by the sun, but determined to return when the sun turned his back in a few hours.

Kees tapped Macboy on the shoulder and then closed his eyes and dozed off. Macboy listened carefully in the fog and waited for the warming rays of the sun. Soon the inky blackness faded to Payne’s grey and then to a simple grey. Kees woke up as the first bits of clear sky began to form above the mist and the sounds of a port town awaking could be heard on the hill. In the distance a child was calling out a name, probably a dog called home from a tryst or an adventure. Someone was coughing in the plaza. A smoker thought Kees. Kees heard the screech of a swollen door jam giving way to an opening door, as a child’s laughter echoed in the distance. A dog began barking, bragging of last night’s adventures or complaining about rejection. It was hard for Kees to tell which it was, because the dog wasn’t very verbal at this time of the morning. In just a few moments the grey fog faded and the plaza looked as if it were viewed through a damp and dirty window. Then in a few moments the plaza burst into sunlight and the fog retreated about 100 yards off shore. The estuary, Kees could see, was still shrouded in fog but a bubble of fire could be seen just at the tip of the estuary. A bonfire to guide in the fishing fleet realized Kees. Then the deep bass church bell began to chime. A regular pattern of chimes also intended to help the fleet find home and safety.

Macboy took his monocular and looked into the church tower. The snipers were gone. Too loud thought Macboy, the bell was too loud for them to maintain their station. He scanned the rest of the plaza and the intruders from the city were nowhere to be seen. They are not early risers realized Macboy.

In about an hour a tiny white boat, no larger than a small car, popped out of the fog bank and into the clear sunny bay. Within moments small skiffs and dories appeared like baby ducks paddling swiftly and seeking the warmth and safety of their mother. Fisherfolk in black rain slickers pulled hard on oars and the sound of splashing and singing could be heard even upon the hill where Kees and Macboy sat leaning against their packs. Women in full patterned dresses with aprons and children were lining the breakwater, waiting for the family to unite, and to feast upon the bounty of the seas of Second Life. Baskets had been piled upon the pier and the breakwater, waiting for fortune and fate wrung from the depths of the ocean. The women folk began to wave and the larger children as well. The little boats seemed to pick up a bit of speed as they approached the shore. The port was alive. The church bell in the tower went quiet and Macboy could see the two snipers had returned to their station. Green and the other tugs were not to be seen, but fresh smoke streamed from the chimney of their cottage on the square.

A thin young boy stood upon the far end of the breakwater. He leaned into the light breeze and began to sing.

“Come all you young sailorfolk,
listen to me
I'll sing you a song of the fish in the sea,
and it's...”

A moment later the fisherfolk pulling on the oars replied in strong voices with a refrain,

“Windy weather boys,
stormy weather, boys
When the wind blows we're all together, boys
Blow ye winds westerly,
blow ye winds, blow
Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes.”

A good catch thought Kees, and no losses. They would not sing if there had been a loss.

The boy waved. Then he sang again.

“Up jumps the eel with his slippery tail,
Climbs up aloft and reefs the topsail,
and it's..”

A chorus followed but this time louder and with more energy. The little boats increased their speed to shore as the sailors pulled even harder on their oars.

“Windy weather boys,
stormy weather, boys
When the wind blows we're all together, boys
Blow ye winds westerly,
blow ye winds, blow
Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes.”

Kees smiled and thought about the rhythms of the sea and the port of Jurang. Moments ago the sleepy village lay in slumber and in the obscuring comfort of a blanket of fog. Now the village was awake and alive. Waving, singing, preparing for a feast, happy honest fisher folk gathering to welcome their own to home and hearth.

The first boat approached the shore and two fisher folk in the bow jumped onto the stony waters and pulled the boat ashore with the gentle scrape of wet wood on small round wet stones. Children and youth ran yelling and laughing to help haul the lines. Wives and grandmothers shielded their eyes with their hands from the bright glare of the sun searching for loved ones. As each waiting wife, or mother, or girlfriend, recognized hers, she rose on her tip toes and waved. Happy and relieved thought Kees. Fishing is a dangerous business.

In moments the entire fleet was beached and three larger two masted vessels tied to the pier. The fleet was home and the port was alive. Soon baskets were filled with seaweed and shiny fresh fish with bright eyes. Kees could smell the fish and the seaweed. The fish smelled good and clean thought Kees, not like the fish you purchased in the city so far away to the north. Small carts began to haul the fish into the distance, to the cannery or to an icehouse down the road. Wives embraced husbands. Children gathered round and even teens pressed their kin in the embrace of welcome and thanksgiving. Often a large fish or lobster was held aloft and the wife or girlfriend beamed at the thought of a fresh catch as the center piece of the afternoon table.

Macboy stood and stretched. Leaving his pack on the hill he turned and went down the far side of the hill away from the village and walked into the village along the gravel road from the south. Macboy could see that the snipers in the church tower took notice, and as he approached the town square, Green and two thugs stepped out of their rented cottage and rubbed their eyes. They have had a long night thought Macboy.

Macboy spotted the red haired Irish from a distance and shouted. Irish waved, and came running to him. They embraced and Macboy whirled Irish around in a circle as he kissed her. Green lost interest and turned back to the warmth of the cottage as did his two thugs. Macboy could see that the snipers had also lost interest. Some local they must have thought. Just another stupid local.

Macboy let Irish down and asked, “Find me a small boat and a captain?”

“Aye,” said Irish “and a good one at that.”

“Lle vesta?” asked Macboy.

“Ed' i'ear ar' elenea!” replied Irish. Then they embraced again. Hand and hand they walked to the beach and toward a freshly painted white flat bottom, high bow, flaring sides dory. A bearded man and a youth were lugging a basket of flounder onto the shore. The man looked up and smiled at Irish and then at Macboy.

Irish spoke holding Macboy’s left arm in both her hands, “This is Macboy, Uncle Pysgotwr.” Macboy saw that Irish was positively gleaming in the radiant sun.

“Pleased to meet ya,” said Pysgotwr.

“Saesa omentien lle,” replied Macboy extending his hand. Pysgotwr wrinkled his brow a bit in surprise and gave Macboy a very firm hand.

Pysgotwr turned to the west and toward the church tower then he turned back to Macboy. “Sereg'wethrin,” he said motioning with his head to the tower. “Assassins,” he repeated as he shook his head. Then he turned back to unload a basket of flounder. Macboy stepped forward and helped bring the catch to the shore. A cart soon appeared and Pysgotwr began to haggle a bit with a small old fellow about the price and the difficulties of the sea, and the unreliability of the ferry, and then they settled on a price. The little man spit into his hand as did Pysgotwr and they shook hands. With Macboy’s help four baskets of fish were loaded onto the cart. Pysgotwr turned to the Elvin Nose and said, “Malia ten' yulna? Perhaps a wee dram to liven the spirits and begin the day.” Macboy nodded yes, and together the three of them strolled across the stone plaza to the Elvin Nose.

In the distance Macboy heard a me-Phone ringing from the church tower.

CHAPTER 23 - SOLARIUM

2007-10-14T18:40:00.000-07:00

Sindy Blazer approached the grand double doors of the Mansion of the President of the Reserve Bank and Counting House of Second Life with confidence and determination to get to the bottom of the rumors concerning the value of the currency of Second Life – the Linden. The ornate doors were painted a cream color and stained glass windows with dollar signs glittering upon them flanked the doors on either side. Sindy reached for the silken red bell cord and pulled. A faint tiny bell was herd ringing within.

In a few moments Sindy heard light footsteps and the door silently opened wide. A pale short man in a black tuxedo and sparkling white shoes greeted her. He was wearing white gloves and very small pince nez glasses were propped on his rather large nose. His hair was grey and he had a bald spot the size of a hand on his head where bald spots usually resided. The doorman smiled the kind of smile you saw on the dentists face when he told you it was not covered by your insurance, but he was willing to make you a deal.

“Ah Miss Blazer, the President has been expecting your for some time,” said the little man as he stepped aside, held out his arm, and motioned Sindy into the grand hallway.

As Sindy stepped onto the parquet floor, the door was silently closed, and the doorman led Sindy down a very long hall toward a solarium in the distance. She passed several larger rooms on either side of the hallway. The fireplaces were blazing in each room although the rooms were empty of avatars. Probably reception rooms thought Sindy, as she passed a grand spiral staircase leading to the second and third floors. She paused at a large painting of a sea battle long ago. The little brass plate at the bottom read ‘Battle of CousCous Bay and the Glorious Victory of the Yellow Fleet.” Sindy looked closer. The painter was Jack Louy David, and Sindy was certain it was real, and worth a large fortune. The doorman had paused and Sindy turned and resumed her hike to the meeting with Chris Llanfair.

The doorman paused again and motioned Sindy into the solarium. “The President will see you soon, please wait here.” Sindy looked about. “May I get you some tea or cocoa perhaps?” asked the doorman.

“No thank you,” replied Sindy even though some tea would have been nice right now.

The doorman bowed and was gone.

The solarium was huge and was over three stories tall and covered with glass on three sides as well as on most of the roof. There was a pond in the middle containing several green three eyed koi with a statue of a small boy peeing onto the fish. The fish were not amused. Enormous fish tailed palms surrounded the pond and lovely bracken and ferns lined the base. The pond was lovely and slightly illuminated from below with a golden light. Little windows lined the base of the pond allowing the fish to view the floor. Only the fish were odd and they stared intently with their three eyes focused on Sindy as if you ask, ‘are you going to feed me or eat me?’

After a moment Sindy heard footsteps from down the hall and shortly Chris Llanfair dressed in a dark blue Seville Row suit arrived with Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, famed historian, and Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party, in tow. Several elaborately dressed footmen in powdered wigs followed the royal, whom Sindy called Muffin, carrying his dark red velvet and gold gilt porti-throne. Muffin was dressed in a tweed hunting jacket, jodhpurs, and black riding boots with spurs still attached. Muffin was puffing, as usual, on his meerschaum pipe and slowly rocking his 4’2” frame back and forth until the throne was properly placed in a position of prominence in the solarium. As Muffin sat, the footmen took up positions on either side of the throne. Sindy recognized one of the footmen as Muffin’s security although she knew that both of the footmen were likely to be full members of the Assassins and Au Pairs Union.

“Ah Muffin, how delightful to see you,” said Sindy turning on her feminine charms. “And Chris. I hope you have both fully recovered from the Druid Grove incident.”

Muffin laughed, but said nothing as he continued to puff on his pipe like a small locomotive pulling up a steep hill.

“Sindy I’ve been expecting you,” said Chris Llanfair with a look of both mild amusement and friendship.

“Why?” asked Sindy.

“We could play games Sindy, but frankly we have another serious problem in Second Life,” said Chris.

“Yes, the Lindens about to collapse,” said Sindy with confidence bordering on certainty.

“No, its worse than that,” said Chris.

Sindy looked at Muffin. He wriggled his eyebrow as if to say, ‘Yes, big trouble.’

Sindy’s mind was racing. What could be worse than a monetary collapse? Well, there certainly were worse things like the plague, mandatory re-boots, and the loss of ones inventory, but Sindy knew Chris was referring to something else. Like a plot or conspiracy to destroy all they held dear in Second Life. Sindy heard footsteps approaching the solarium. In a few moments Mallory Sauternau and Chirs’ daughter Witney walked in. They were clearly in a hurry.

“You need to move fast Chris,” said Mallory. Chris and Muffin faced Mallory and Witney and they looked surprised.

“What have you found out?” asked Chris addressing Mallory.

Mallory said nothing but looked toward Sindy whom she recognized from here picture on the Society Page of The Times. Sindy recognized Mallory as the disgraced cop from the Goodword affair who was now a famous private dick and generator of the most delicious scandals in all of blue blood society.

“Its ok, Sindy is one of us. You can speak with her here,” said Chris as he looked at Sindy. “I know Sindy is a responsible reporter and will be of aid to us in preventing panic, chaos and terror.”

Mallory looked about as if to memorize the room and its occupants for later reference thought Sindy. Witney was jumpy, which was not unusual, realized Sindy, because she knew Witney well and Witney was always edgy. But tonight was different. Her energy seemed focused and more intense than usual. Not the usual mosh pit energy, but a more fixed intensity with a real purpose behind it.

“NAGS are behind the counterfeiting of the Linden,” said Mallory. Chris nodded as did Muffin. “Not thievery, but chaos and confusion is the goal. The methods are clear and I think they are behind the attacks on the aerodromes as well. The motive unknown, but they are seeking maximum instability throughout Second Life. The NAGS began with an attack on the currency. The currency they supply is not counterfeit. It’s real. It’s cloned.”

Mallory paused carefully forming her words.

“There’s tons of the stuff Dad,” said Witney. “Tons of it everywhere!”

Chris nodded. Muffin taped his dying pipe on the arm of the chair. Glowing ash fell onto the marble floor and sat there smoldering like a mad eyeball determined to win a stare down with the fish. Muffin repacked his pipe, and a footman held a flaming taper to the edge of the pipe as Muffin drew in breath and the tobacco began to glow and trails of smoke rose into the fish tail palms above.

Mallory continued, “They bribed the senate and the Rapido operators. They have been buying up property on the edges of sims with counterfeit notes.” Chris was listening intently.

Mallory spoke, “Also the NAGS are behind the cycle stealing on the servers. They are the only ones who could easily pull off cycle stealing through bribery and infiltration. Cycle stealing is getting bad late at night and I’m sure that citizens are noticing. They are blaming the Governor as usual.”

“As we suspected,” said Chris. Mallory was not surprised at Chris’ comment. Chris always seemed to be a step or two ahead of her.

Sindy stood motionless with her mouth open as two three eyed fish stared at her thinking she was related to a grouper or a sea bass. The fish concluded Sindy was dangerous and went to hide in the underwater castle by the sunken pirate ship and the mermaid. The mermaid was annoyed because the fish kept peeing in the water.

“Wait, wait,” interrupted Sindy. “Who are the NAGS and what is cycle stealing.”

Chris thought a moment and then spoke clearly and slowly. “The NAGS are a secret organization who want to overthrow Governor Linden and replace the Lindens with their own organization. Their motto is ‘Freiheit durch Sicherheit’ – Freedom in Security. They are a bad bunch. NAGS stands for Nerds And Griefers Syndicate. Almost every banned avatar is a member and they want revenge on all of us.”

Sindy closed her mouth as a mosquito barely escaped death. Oh lord thought Sindy another unwanted adventure, and it’s almost fashion week.

Chris continued, “Server cycles are what keeps Second Life alive. If they are stealing cycles they are sucking the life out of Second Life. Without adequate cycles we can’t move, support sims, build, or breathe. But what there doing with the cycles I cannot guess, but I know they are up to no good.”

Chris reached inside his suit coat and drew out a thick envelope. He handed it to Mallory and said, “I want you to locate this person. We think she is behind the counterfeiting, the attacks on the aerodromes, and is the leader of the NAGS. She is unlikely to be in Capital City, but in order to take over she’s going to have to show up here. Perhaps in a few days.”

As Chris spoke Mallory opened the envelope containing papers and several pictures. One picture fell to the floor. Sindy spotted a head shot of a cadet from the Academy of Balloons. She was beautiful Sindy could see. Perhaps the most beautiful face Sindy had ever seen in a reality of lovely faces and bodies. Sindy reached down and picked up the photo. As she handed it to Mallory she read the legend below the picture. Loopy Loo read the legend. Loopy Loo wondered Sindy?

“And I have another thing Chris,” said Mallory. Chris looked toward Mallory. “You and your family are on a hit list. So is your senior staff. You need to get your people and their families out of the Capital immediately.”

Chris looked surprised realized Mallory. The President of the Reserve Bank had not figured that he and his family were in personal danger.

Chris was about to say something but he paused and checked himself. He needed some time to think.

“There’s no time Chris.” Said Mallory. “You need to go to a sim where you have no history and no past. Somewhere remote and primitive.”

Chris spoke, “I can order the staff out of town immediately, but I can’t leave. No I have to stay and support the government.”

“But you gotta go Dad, there going to kill you,” said Witney on the edge of hysteria.

Chris turned to his daughter. He looked upon her as a 12 year old little girl, just on the edge of delinquency and parental rejection. He always saw her this way. Except for that night at the Druid Grove when Witney decked Sister Letum with a vicious kick in the desperate fight to stop the return of the True Kings. At that moment he saw her as a powerful woman and more than capable of taking care of herself. That’s what four years at Second Life’s best reform school will do for a young lady he thought. Now she was 12 years old again in Chris eyes and he had to get her out of town to someplace safe. But Chris knew Witney would not leave him alone. And he could not go. He had to stay and face the threat.

“Aghhum,” said Muffin speaking for the first time. “Witneys, I thave a missions for yous. It’s dangerouff but criticals.”

Witney looked surprised.

“I needs you ta takes a message to Captain Pugilist at ta Blimps Worksf,” Muffin said. “The fate of our lands may well rest on your shoulders Miss Llanfair,” he concluded.

Witney was torn by loyalties. She liked Mallory and Mallory needed minding because of the demons and the booze. She could not leave her father in Capital City in an increasingly dangerous and unstable town. At the same time saving the country and Second Life was also important too. She didn’t know what to do.

Sindy looked at Witney and said, “Witney take the message to Punky, its time to think of what’s best for everyone. You cannot protect your Dad and you cannot protect the city or second life. Punky needs something from Muffin. You have no choice. You must take the message now.”

Tears began to fill Witneys eyes, but in her best punk rock manner she did not cry.

“Ok,” said Witney. “When do I leave?”

“Nows,” said Muffin. “Nows.”

CHAPTER 22 - FLIGHT

2007-10-14T13:40:00.001-07:00

The old Poofer sailed aloft into the dawn skies just as the autumnal sun began to peek over the horizon and into bedroom windows throughout the capital city. As couples blinked into the sunlight and though about hitting the snooze bar, the Poofer rose slowly into the cold clear morning. She leveled off at 200 meters and slowly circled the Monforte Detached Palace and then headed north toward Fort Balatro and Zippy’s Blimp Works. The Poofer was heavy and slow.

Although the crew had been ordered to get some sleep, no one slept that night. They had spent the evening assisting the loading of fuel and supplies, and Washrox and Farley had overhauled the leaking values on the port boiler.

Punky was examining closely the cargo supplied from the Montforte’s larder, wood lot, and armory. Punky had placed Washrox in the pilot’s seat and Paxford Lint was heaving logs into the two boilers above in the engineering section. Fraley, the blue blood, was assigned the task of Mission Commander and was busy plotting a slow indirect course to Fort Balatro and the blimp works. Normal, the Goth, stood next to Punky with a clipboard reading off the items taken on board together with an estimate of their weight.

“Gras, Foie, Pate de, 20 kilos,” read Normal trying to sound as official as possible.

Punky looked at the dozen or so enormous loafs of pate.

“Claret, Pimp, Château du, 40 bottles, jeroboms, 140 kilos. Lobsters, poached, yesterday, large, 1.6 kilos each, quantity 10, 16 kilos. Asparagus, White, Tips, 10 kilos. Cigars, Grande, Testosa, Primero, three gross, 7 kilos,” read Normal.

Punky raised her hand and Normal abruptly stopped reading. Punky advanced on the cargo which lay in the engineering section held down with netting. She reached through the netting and pried open a small brown wooden crate and then a slim cedar box within the crate. From the box Punky pulled four cigars, three of which she placed into her shirt pocket, their little brown tips poking up from the edge of the pocket like so many little heads with yellow ties waiting for a date. The remaining cigar she smelled and a broad smile broke out on her face like the smile of a young ferret about to pounce on another ferret of the opposite persuasion.

“Testosa Grande,” said Punky as she sniffed a second time. Then she carefully placed the cigar with its anxiously waiting brethren in her breast pocket.

Eventually they got to the weapons Punky had asked Monforte to supply.

“Sword, Broad, Claymore, condition good, quantity 6, 22 kilos.” Punky raised her hand again and Normal stopped reading. Normal looked up. Punky pulled one of the swords from an oil cloth covering. There was rust on the hilt but someone had carefully sharpened the blade and it gleamed in the slanting rays of the morning sun streaming through the starboard port hole. A deadly weapon Punky knew, but exhausting to use and requiring considerable skill. Punky replaced the sword and Normal resumed reading the cargo manifest.

“Bow, Cross, Ratchet, condition good, quantity 4, 10 kilos.”

“How many bolts for the bows?” asked Punky.

“None,” replied Normal. “When we tried to load them they just fell apart, all rust and wood dust. I thought we might fashion bolts from aluminum rods at the blimp works.”

“Good thinking,” replied Punky knowing that the crossbows were practically useless against modern rapid fire air powered rifles and handguns. The weapons gave the crew a psychological boost even if they were dead weight.

“Mace, flexible on chain, condition poor, quantity 6, 75 kilos, Shield, kite shaped, wood with leather covers, condition good, quantity 6, 30 kilos.” Normal continued on down the list.

The checking of the cargo took another hour.

When they were finished Punky ordered Normal to get some sleep and she returned to the flight deck. The altitude read 900 meters and they were on a roundabout slow course toward a landing at Fort Balatro at sunset. They were darting in and out of a field of clouds. Comforting clouds thought Punky. Dense grey clouds that obscured their presence and their direction in the skies above Second Life.

Punky loved being among the clouds despite the fact that most blimp captains hated clouds and the turbulence that inevitably occurred in certain cloud formations. A blimp in flight was a living breathing being to Punky. On the ground a blimp was simply a bag of gas, but in the air, in the airship’s natural environment the blimp was transformed into something magnificent and alive. In clouds and moving air a blimp became a steed to be ridden hard enjoying every moment of being alive and racing into the wind. They were flying through what Punky recognized as ‘fractus’ clouds or bits of clouds broken off from towering formations above. The clouds above were probably cumulonimbus with puffy rounded tops as high as 3000 meters. They would be loaded with moisture and potential for thunder. It would rain tonight thought Punky. A hard rain.

Nimbus, the cloud god, was sleeping peacefully. Somewhere he felt a little itch as something crawled along the edge of beatific unconsciousness. Nimbus thought about scratching or rolling over, but the tickle went away and Nimbus fell back to sleep. After a while he began to snore.

Punky was exhausted so she went to the rear of the gondola to catch some sleep. There was thunder in the distance perhaps 10 kilometers out. Normal was sleeping soundly above the droning rhythmic hum of the engines above. Punky lay in the captain’s bunk and tried to think of what to do after they arrived at the blimp works. Daggy would be there. The Chair had said so. Daggy would be preparing a set of quick repairs for this old training ship. Dagmon Zhukovsky, Chief Engineer, was as familiar with this blimp series as she was with traditions and absurdities of the Blue Navy of Second Life. Perhaps some offensive arms, both for the blimp and for themselves would be ready. They needed arms badly.

Punky fell asleep.

She awoke to the loud hiss and growl of escaping steam and the shouts of Washrox and Farley. They had blown a high pressure head on the port engine. Punky knew that ugly sound. The whole ship shuddered violently and began to pull to the left. Punky jumped to the deck and raced to the ladder leading to engineering above. Punky climbed fast and saw Paxford rolling about on the floor grasping his right arm and with a fierce grimace of pain on his face. Washrox was tugging hard on a valve trying to shut down a wall of super heated steam. The whole engineering section was wet and painfully hot. That steam will kill you knew Punky. Punky reached for the pry bar lever and together Washrox and Punky pulled. The valve would not move. Fraley appeared with a med kit and began attending to Paxford.

Punky shouted, “Hit it, hit it hard on the stem.” Washrox stared at Punky in disbelief. That would be destroying Blimp Cartel property. Punky grabbed the pry bar from Washrox’s fist and brought the bar hard down on the stem. Then Punky grabbed a greasy rag and yanked the valve. It moved a bit. Washrox reached for the valve and slowly the two of them got it closed. The hissing steam slowed to a small but still deadly stream as the valve closed.

Punky turned to Paxford. Paxford Lint was badly burned on the right side. His arm got the worst of it, but the right side of his neck and face were also burned. Second and some third degrees thought Punky. Paxford was lucky. He would live, and have some attractive scars with which to impress the young ladies.

Punky inspected the engine carefully. The high pressure piston head was cracked. There was no way it could be repaired in the air. The head needed to be replaced. In fact, as Punky looked at the engine carefully, the entire assembly needed replacement. Balatro was unlikely to have replacement parts, and casting them would take weeks. Punky knew that a blimp with only one engine was like those cross bows without bolts. Helpless.

“Washrox watch the starboard engine carefully. Tell me if anything goes wrong, anything! Got it?” Washrox nodded.

“Fraley,” shouted Punky. “Don’t move Paxford, get him sedated, but don’t move him. We are going to need to remove a bulkhead to get him out safely, and we can only do that at the blimp works.” Fraley looked troubled but nodded his head. Paxford looked bad thought Punky. Paxford was groaning.

Punky took a long look at the remaining operating engine and then she walked to the ladder and slid down into the gondola.

Normal was in the pilots chair and had reduced the power output of the remaining engine in order to maintain a forward direction. There was butter dripping from her chin and lobster shells on the floor. I need to eat something thought Punky. “Reduce pressure on the engine to 90 pounds,” said Punky, “Head straight to the Blimp works. Keep your altitude at 900 meters until we are out about 2 kilometers,” said Punky in as calm a voice as she could muster. The Poofer was finished Punky realized.

The sun had begun its slow descent to the horizon and a few of the lower clouds began to glow orange and then red. Soon the sky burned with fiery light. Tung’s of flame were interspersed with deep blue darkening sky and black outlined patches of white. The land below receded into shadow and then into darkness. In the distance, to the north, Punky could see nothing. Not a single light dotted the darkening horizon. There were no approach lights, or Morse lights flashing out signals to remote stations, no drum fires lit by guards trying to stay warm. Only black. Punky prayed that the blimp works would be intact. Then in a brief flash of lightening Punky saw the enormous blimp hangar. The blimp works was whole and intact.

CHAPTER 21 - FUNGIS

2007-10-13T23:24:00.001-07:00

Sindy never made it to the fire at the aerodrome. The confusion and congestion was simply too great. She got close enough to see that the devastation was horrific but mostly limited to the blimp hangars at the far edge of the Capital City Aerodrome. Vanessa from the fashion pages of the FT pressed on, but Sindy wanted to follow up on the pending monetary crisis. Vanessa had told Sindy a lot about the European perspective of the precarious state of the Linden.

Since the me-Phones were not working and the message system seemed to be off as well, Sindy decided she had to use ground transportation. She exited the pedi-cab at The Times office and rushed to her office on the 19th floor and changed her shoes into comfortable ReBalanced running shoes. She decided to take a chance and go directly to Chris Llanfair the President of the Reserve Bank and Counting House of Second Life at his mansion in the Embassy District off of Immunity Parkway.

As Sindy left The Times building she could see dull orange glow of fire in the south. She could smell wood and tar smoke. Finding a cab was difficult, but eventually she caught one at the corner of Beast Street and the Avenue of the Sims in front of the Temple of the Yellow Knights. Sindy always thought the old structure and its walled courtyard to be an oddity in Capital City, but after the Druid Incident and the battle with the Army of Circe, Sindy gained a new respect for both the building and the ancient curmudgeons who gathered there for their scary rituals and rites.

The pedi-cab driver was one of the few Sindy had met who spoke jinglish and he was anxious to talk. His name was Beebo and he came from a distant improvised sim which had been paved over with shopping centers and malls that were perennially empty. The only jobs were camping jobs, or window washing. Everyone knew you could not make a living camping or washing.

“See the fire?” asked Beebo.

“Yes,” replied Sindy. “I got too close for comfort.”

“I saw it when it blew up. It was awful.” Said Beebo. “Lindens got to do something about this. First the me-Phones, then stadium riot, the script errors, then the IM flops, and now the aerodrome blows up and poof, the really good fares and high tips are gone. Without modern blimps how is an avatar to get home to visit the folks or see Mildred, Minne, and Mopsy. And if they come visit me where do I take them. The stadium is a pile of charcoal now and the Pi Ball games are cancelled.”

“True,” said Sindy not paying attention.

“Linden’s gotta do something. I pay taxes here, VAT taxes, maintenance; I think Linden is against small business. Yes he’s not a man of the avatars,” said Beebo with conviction bordering on anger.

“There’s always the Rapido,” said Sindy.

“Not working,” replied Beebo. “It’s down. Some idiot deleted the script and it can’t be found.”

Sindy suddenly began to pay more attention.

“What else is not working in Second Life?” asked Sindy.

“Well I get around, I see things in this cab. I’m kind of an avatar of the streets. Yes, I got street smarts and street creds… that’s for sure,” said Beebo enthusiastically knowing he had the lovely Sindy’s attention and perhaps a big tip for some juicy information.”

“What’s not right in Capital City?” Sindy asked a bit louder.

“Well the edge of Capital City is wriggling. I know it sounds goofy but it’s wriggling out by there by the Oak Forest border near the stadium. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“Really,” said Sindy.

“And then there’s the really odd thing.”

“Yes,” replied Sindy.

“Well you might think I’m crazy but I’ve been peddling in this city for years and I swear that it’s smaller. Yup smaller,” said Beebo.

“That’s not possible Beebo.”

“I know, I know, But it used to be 4307 turns of the pedal to go from the pick up spot at The Museo to the drop off spot at the Capital Dome. I must do that trip thirty or forty times a day. Well today it was about 4190. Call me crazy, but its shrinking.”

“Did you drop your rates?” asked Sindy with a smile on her face.

“Heck no. The tourists don’t know. But something is not right. No, Lindens better fix all this stuff and fix it fast or I’ll vote for the independent party. Or I’ll call for the return of old King Monforte. Anything is better than this. The next thing you know we will have more flation. The flation is bad enough now, but if it gets worse avatars will be angry.”

The cab pulled to the curb and stopped before the enormous brightly lit mansion of Chris Llanfair. As Sindy gave the cabby a 22 Linden note. Beebo held the note paused in thought.

“I can’t prove this of course,” said Beebo “but I think it’s more laggy at night when there’s no one about. I know, I know it makes no sense. Lag happens when lots of avatars are about, but something in not right at night when no one is about.”

“Got a card Beebo, I may need a man on the street interview,” said Sindy as she alighted from the cab seat.

“No, but you can find me in the Book,” said Beebo. “Not that it will do any good. You can also find me either at Gigots Malt Shoppe and Gin Joint or running tourists up and down Beast Street.”

“Keep the change,” said Sindy.

Beebo smiled and peddled away. As Sindy looked it did seem a bit slower than usual. Perhaps lag at night was a new phenomenon like the copy bot or poisoned note card.

Mallory stood staring down the alley toward the rendering plant outside the coin and currency shop. She was deep in thought.

Witney wondered and then asked Mallory, “Was that true? What you said about changing the currency tonight?”

“No,” replied Mallory.

“What now,” said Witney.

Mallory turned to Witney and said, “You’re familiar with politics in Second Life?”

“I hate to admit it, but yes. I was Senator Funstas chauffeur for over three years. Took him everywhere. I saw a lot. Even participated in some. And there is may Dad,” replied Witney.

“Who is the most corrupt, spineless, baby kissing, glad hander in all of the Senate?”

“That’s easy, Hyrum Funstas, my boss. But he’s still missing so the next in line is Crosspond Fungis from the Sim of Sonogno, he’s almost as dirty as Funstas, replied Witney.

“What party is Fungis?” asked Mallory.

“Republicrat,” said Witney, “but he’s been a Demican at times. Depends on what way the wind is blowing and who’s got the most campaign contributions and party favors. The Senate is not in session, but I know where he will be tonight. It’s not far.”

“Lead the way,” said Mallory.

Witney led Mallory out of the tiny ally and onto AU Street. As they walked down the street they passed Sidney Mobile’s, the gem dealer and fence, past The Tobacco shop where Trixi worked. Mallory looked. Trixi was not there. Trixi was probably at home in the flat above the shop. As they approached the Capital City Madam Bitter’s hotel Witney paused.

“Fungis has a suite here, at Madam Bitters. The Brothel and Bordello’s Federation of Congress pays for his suite and for his, ah, companionship. I can see the lights on. See that corner room on the fourth floor - the Governor’s Suite.” said Witney pointing.

Mallory looked at the old brick hotel squatting in the financial district of Second Life. The building was of stucco covered mud brick and had seen better times. Most of the stucco had flaked off in recent years and the window sashes had lost their thin coat of paint. A few windows on the 6th floor ballroom were cracked and one was missing. The Capital City Bitters had become a tourist hotel in recent years and rooms were rented by the hour on the first two floors. ‘Family Rates’ said a fading sign in the dirty smoke stained window. A broken neon sign blinked ‘CHIC’ and made an ugly buzzing noise. There had once been a good bar in the lobby but it had closed years ago. Business had been bad. How that was possible in a tourist hotel was beyond reasoning in Mallory’s mind. The old bar was boarded up. Renovations had reduced the once large ornate lobby into a narrow hall at the end of which stood an oddly truncated reception.

The revolving door was locked shut but the side door was open. Mallory entered and Witney followed. Two green overstuffed and stained couches had been pushed up against one wall of the abbreviated lobby. As Mallory approached the reception desk she noticed that the old dining room was still operating. The dining room had become a fast food joint specializing in fried fryers. The place reeked of stale grease and week old chicken. There was a trail of grease on the worn tile floor from the restaurant to the elevator. Take out, thought Mallory.

There was no one at reception. Mallory walked around and behind the reception desk and hit the bell hard.

Damaged Bocs, the receptionist appeared after a few moments. Bocs was dressed in a greasy black suit with a black tie and shirt.

“Grey hides grease better Bocs,” said Mallory with familiarity.

Bocs looked at Mallory with recognition and then worry. Mallory had busted Bocs years before for unmentionable crimes, which now are as normal as rain in a city with mud brick buildings and rusted tin roofs.

“You retired, I heard that,” said Bocs with false conviction.

Mallory said nothing but stared at Bocs and then inspected his suit and appearance like she had a magnifying glass in her hand and was about to burn ants with focused sunlight.

“Mallory, I got a decent job here. Please don’t make any trouble. My boss he doesn’t know.”

Witney grinned. Wow that silence stuff really works well she thought.

“Is he in?” asked Mallory.

“Who?” replied Bocs.

Mallory said nothing.

Bocs looked at Witney. “Hi Witney. No trouble, right? No trouble.”

Witney said nothing but she tried the magnifying glass trick and Bocs became increasingly nervous and insecure.

“Funstas still missing?” Bocs said nervously. “The girls miss him.”

“Is he in?” Mallory repeated in a lower calm voice with a hint of potential for pain.

“Yeh,” said Bocs, “He’s got guests, can’t be disturbed.”

Mallory stood still staring at Bocs, then she broke eye contact and quickly scanned the reception. There were letter boxes and half were filled with keys. She turned and looked carefully at the back side of the reception desk and then grabbed a ring of keys that were hanging on a nail next to a rusted cash box and dusty yellowing registration cards which had not been used in a decade. Mallory placed a 20 Linden note on the counter.

Witney noticed that Bocs started to object and then didn’t. He wants to be rid of Mallory thought Witney. Bocs was looking at the bank note.

Mallory turned to Witney and said, “Count to 100 and then follow me up. Bocs is gonna be nice and quiet while you count. Bocs took the note.

Witney turned and then bounded up the stairs rather than use the elevator. Witney could hear the tread of her footsteps on the creaky wooden stairs all the way to the count of forty. When she reached 100, Witney looked hard faced at Bocs. He averted his gaze and then Witney ran for the stairs.

When Witney arrived the double doors to the suite were wide open and Mallory was in the bedroom of the suite standing over the naked form of Fungis. Two avatars, a furry and a female age player were wrapped in sheets. The furry in the fitted bottom sheet and the age player in the top sheet. The mattress was bare and oddly new. Probably a benefit from the Federation thought Witney. Two empty bottles of cheap campaign and some hand rolled cigarettes were on a dark brown night stand. One cigarette was still smoking as it sat on the edge of the wooden table. The table had lots of burn marks along the edge. Witney sniffed. Yep, she thought.

Senator Fungis stood and tried to assume senatorial decorum, but it was hopeless. Without his clothes he was just another John caught in flagrante delicto. The senator recognized Mallory but was clearly not afraid of her.

Mallory looked at Fungis’s instrument and began laughing. A hard cruel laugh.

Witney realized that the senator was completely disarmed, embarrassed, insulted and deflated.

“Fungis, I’ll let you alone. I just want to know one thing?” said Mallory with a stone cold stare of impending mayhem and disdain for his instrument.

Fungis said nothing, but tried to reach for his pants which lay on the floor. Mallory was standing on them, and his shorts as well.

Fungis looked up with a stupid guilty smile, like a teen age boy caught in the barn by his mommy doing what comes naturally.

“How long have you been in NAGS?” asked Mallory.

Fungis stood. His fear of Mallory had been replaced by a greater fear. A fear of cowardice mixed with panic. Mallory had hit a button.

He’s gonna run, thought Witney as she backed up to cover the door to the sitting area.

“How much phony currency did they pay you Fungis,” asked Mallory.

Fungis’ panic was replaced by another fear, the fear of discovering that greed is a mortal sin if you get caught. “It’s not phony,” Fungis said in a voice far too loud.

CHAPTER 20 - RARE COIN AND CURRENCY SHOPPEE

2007-10-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

Mallory despised violence. She refused to pack heat since the Goodword incident. Situations that were violent were out of control. And control, investigative control, was critical to Mallory’s success. Deduction, inference, listening, all required some semblance of calm. The petty thieves, snitches, and weasels knew they had nothing to fear from Mallory. The bigger prey had a lot to fear, but violence was not one of their fears. Occasionally Mallory had to assert herself, but usually when there was no other path available. Mallory simply detested violence.

Witney Llanfair, on the other hand, thought of violence as just another form of expression, like love making, or eating apple pie with your fingers. Witney spent most of her time in the School for Wayward Girls in either the mosh pit or on stage with her band – the Buttered Embryos. Violence was like art to Witney, with only one difference. It was best not to sign your art when you were through. But even this rule was not hard and fast as that pervert Taffy Dunst could testify, and did.

Mallory and Witney made an unusual pair as they approached Blacky ‘One Eye’s’ Rare Coin and Currency Shoppee. The shop was in an unnamed alley off end of AU Street near the only rendering plant left in Capital City. If you had not known that the alley was there you were likely to miss it. Some neighbors, who had lived there for years, didn’t know it existed although they complained a lot about the smell. The small wooden building that housed the Rare Coin and Currency Shoppee was old and needed paint. The building was windowless except for a window in the door. A small window with a sliding steel gate and a speaking tube. The window as perhaps three inches thick and when you looked through it all you could see when the steel gate was thrown back was a single bloodshot eye staring back. That would be Blacky.

Mallory pulled the bell chain twice, waited a few moments and pulled twice more. The steel grate flew back with a distinct heavy sounding thud. The eye startled at Witney and then Mallory. As Mallory and Witney stood waiting, and the door resounded with clicks, thuds, and squeaks. Mallory turned to Witney and said, “Now remember keep you mouth shut. Silence is the best interrogation tool.”

Before Witney could answer the door slowly opened. Blacky, dressed in black baggy pants and a stained white tee stuck his 230 pound 5’2” frame out the door and made a quick look up the alley toward AU street and then down the alley toward the rendering plant. Blacky motioned them quickly to enter the shoppee. Mallory stepped in followed by Witney. The door slammed shut and Blacky began slamming home the levers and locks that kept his door secure.

Funny, thought Witney, these old wooden walls are as thin as paper. Why the locks? I could just kick my way in here in a moment.

Blacky turned to Mallory. “Who’s the kid?” asked Blacky.

Witney looked closely at Blacky and he did have only one rather oversized eye. Mallory had said it was a medical experiment gone bad or perhaps an early Linden attempt at mind control. However, Mallory had cautioned, don’t state at his missing eye and never mention it. Blacky was sensitive about his deformity or his romantic advantages as some saw it.

“My minder,” said Mallory.

Blacky nodded and walked to the counter in the tiny shoppee. He lifted the gate of the counter and stood protected behind the counter by an ornate wrought iron barrier taken from an old bank. Barrons Bank said the elaborate script above what had once been a teller’s cage. Blackey rested his frame on a tattered bar stool he had found in the alley years before.

“What ya want Mallory?” Blacky asked with all the eagerness of a man about to have his spleen removed or his alimony increased.

Mallory said nothing, but she reached into her purse and pulled out a large gold ring. She placed it on the counter before Blacky. Blacky reached for his philosopher’s stone and rubbed the ring on it for a moment. The he lifted the ring to his eye and examined it carefully.

“So,” said Blacky.

“I want to buy some Lindens,” said Mallory. Then Mallory added “at a discount.”

Blacky looked up and examined Mallory and the kid carefully.

“Ill give you $L 20,000” said Blacky. Mallory visibly frowned disappointment, but she was shocked at the large discount. Mallory said nothing.

“Ok,ok, $L 40,000 it is,” I can’t go a Linden more. Mallory said nothing.

Witney was thinking that the amount offered was enormous, but Mallory knew better. Witney said nothing but began to look about the room. Mallory said that would be ok. Observation was critical in successful detective work. The room was pretty much bare, but there was an old tattered couch against one wall with a small tray. Blacky sleeps here Witney realized. Witney could see the muzzle of an ancient but effective shotgun sticking out from under several large tattered pink pillows, one of which read ‘Moth’.

Still Mallory said nothing. Witney could see beads of sweat breaking out on Blacky’s face. Mallory was staring hard at Blacky even though she had warned Witney not to do so. Blacky was averting his gaze and was fumbling with the ring.

Behind the iron bars protecting the counter were several displays of antique currency. Witney saw some old notes and coins with dead kings and queens stamped into them. There were some early Republic Notes as well, referred to in history class as ‘mud notes’, because the Senate had printed so many notes in its social improvement programs, that mud had become more valuable than currency. Some social program, recalled Witney. The only segment of society to benefit were the senators themselves. She knew, her former boss Hyram Funstas Senator from the Sim of Clissa, used to regale her with tales of excess, debauchery, and hedonism practiced by his ancestors – senators one and all. Things are better now. All classes in Second life are free to live in excess, debauchery and hedonism.

The room was silent except for Blacky’s labored breathing.

“Ok how about $50,000,? That’s my final offer Mallory,” said Blacky.

There was a small back room and probably a basement as well realized Witney. The exterior proportions of the building told Witney that another room about two meters by six must be behind the counter. Perhaps a vault or a wash room she figured. The floor was wooden and had a spring to it. A basement for sure realized Witney. Behind the bars Witney saw a faded photograph of what must have been Blacky in his youth standing with a group of other folks on the steps of what Witney knew to be the Reserve Bank building where her father was president. It looked a bit like a graduation picture, except they were not fighting, but standing neatly in rows.

“Gimmie the ring,” said Mallory after a long long wait. “Ill take it to Blind Ned’s”

“No, no,” laughed Blacky nervously, “He will steal you blind, yes he will. His sisters in the hospital with AFK and he’s really desperate to keep her there. He can’t have her at home any more what with the triplets and all, you know what I mean, two lovers is difficult enough, but three, there’s no room for …”

Blacky was babbling realized Witney. Mallory had made him so nervous that some thought dam had burst in Blacky’s head and a flood of words came spilling uncontrolled out his mouth. Neat trick thought Witney I’ll have to try that myself.

“It’s the best price I can give you Mallory. Lindens don’t grow on trees. Well they are made of paper and that comes from trees, but, you know the Reserve Bank and the blue bloods on the hill, they just don’t print this stuff. No its real money. The best stuff ever, better than the worthless dollar or that joke called the Euro…”

After a while Blacky realized he was simply filling space with empty words and at the same time revealing way too much about his business.

“Ok Mallory, why are you here?” said Blacky.

“I’m here as a friend Blacky,” said Mallory as she leaned toward Blacky.

Blacky was suddenly suspicious and he reached for a dirty rag and wiped his forehead.

“Sure Mallory, I can use all the help I can get,” Blacky said as he started laughing uncontrollably.

‘Tit for tat Blacky,” said Mallory, “Tit for tat.” Mallory reached and took back the ring.

Blacky wrinkled his puffy forehead trying to think what Mallory was up to.

“First the Tit and then I want a Tat in return,” Mallory said in a scary voice.

Witney thought that this is really getting strange. Was Mallory talking dirty or what?

“The linden will demonetize this evening at midnight. The reserve bank is printing new notes as we speak.” Mallory intoned.

Blacky went white, then Blacky gasped. He closed his eye and pressed his face into his flabby palms and began to cry.

“Get a hold of yourself Blacky,” said Mallory, “You still got nine hours to dump the stuff on some poor suckers.”

Blacky looked up, his eye wide open, as a stupid grin spread across his face.

“There’s opportunity in every disaster,” said Mallory. “Now Blacky its time for a Tat.”

“Mallory thanks, but I can’t help you. These guys are bad eggs, really bad.”

Mallory said nothing and Witney stepped forward. Intimidation time thought Witney.

“Listen Mallory I got the grandkids to worry about. They said if I made even a peep we would all be cancelled. I know they can do it. I saw it when the cancelled Tally Ornst, you know Tally the bookie on Gigots. Well he’s gone, dead, cancelled. He tried to stiff these guys, No, I can’t talk Mallory.”

Mallory stood staring at Blacky and then she said, “I’m not going anywhere Blacky till you tell me what I want to know, and with a basement full of worthless lindens, you don’t have a lot of time to find marks and losers.”

Blacky had started sweating again.

“What you got down there?” asked Mallory, “ a ton maybe two tons of the junk.”

“Three,” said Blacky, “three tons.” Blacky was really worried he had already said too much. ‘Took me days to get it down there, I almost had a heart attack, twice, but the opportunity was too good to be true. Too good.”

“What did they want Blacky?” asked Mallory.

“Not much, some information and the deed to this worthless dump and the postage stamp of land it sits on.”

“Good work Blacky now tell me what information,” asked Mallory with a growing ease in her voice.

“Oh just some names.”

“Who,” demanded Mallory.

“Reserve bank people, and their addresses, stuff like that,” replied Blacky.

CHAPTER 19 -BUNNIES AND WOLVES

2007-10-10T15:04:00.000-07:00

“Ungh.” Punky hit the soft ground hard and in the blackness. The only light on the darkened polo field was the blaze of lights from the Montforte Detached Palace in the distance. The polo field was black and Punky could only feel the giant oaks around her and the dark form of the blimp a few yards above her head.

“Oh dear, I hope you didn’t hurt your self,” said Millicent Gellwat, a long time Detached Palace household staff member that Punky recognized from the incident in the Druid Grove. “My my, Punky, you must take more care.” Millicent was holding a copper lamp which provided the light of one candle power. Punky knew this because she could see the one candle in the lamp.

Punky unclipped the beeners and the figure eight. But she reattached them to the loops on the climbing harness which she did not remove.

“His Highness is waiting for you in the Reception of the Rival King Munderic The Burnt. Follow and watch your step. They were playing Polo this morning,” said Milicent in her sweet sing song motherly voice. On Punky’s second step her foot planted firmly in something mushy and wet.

As Punky approached the palace she noticed a long line of household staff carrying bundles and packages to a staging area near the tied off blimp. Several elderly staff were pushing wheelbarrows loaded high with fire wood. Carpenters where setting up a ramp. The same ramp that Punky knew they had used for the “Spirit of Io” when she put down here during the recent disturbance with the Order.

Punky blinked hard as she entered the Munderic wing of the palace. The room was enormous and after her eyes adjusted she saw Muffin and The Chair in the distance. They were smoking and drinking port as if nothing had happened in all of real or virtual life, except the need for a cookie or another sweet.

Punky was not in a good mood, but she was most happy to see both the Chair and Muffin obviously awaiting her arrival.

As Punky approached she noticed that she was tracking in muck and mud onto an ornate and ancient Flemish rug depicting the hunt and murder of a unicorn. Just like the Monfortes to have such a rug she thought.

“Ah Punky,” said the Chair. “We were worried you might be late.”

Muffin said nothing, but he frowned and puffed on his pipe as a small cumulonimbus cloud of smoke rose above his porti-throne. Muffin was not a man for chit chat or chat of any kind Punky remembered.

Punky had a million questions so she drew a deep breath and asked, “Was it Loopy Loo?”

The Chair looked at Punky with a perplexed look on his face and then he turned to Muffin. Muffin nodded.

“Yes, Punky, it was Loopy Loo and the NAGS. They caught us flat footed.”

“How many casualties at the Academy?” she asked with an edge of anger in her voice.

“More than 20 wounded, but no deaths thank the gods,” said The Chair.

“How much of the fleet remains?” she asked.

“The Blimp cartel fleet has been wiped out, all 32 of our ships. Even old ‘Spirit of Io’. The NAGS got her at the breakers yard,” said The Chair with great sadness.

“Theys got 80% of ta Blue Ocean Fleet,” said Muffin in the old tongue. “80%, its sickening. Ta Blue Navy ha casualties. HMS Indifferent, the old Indolent, and the Ironic gone. Destroyith on ta grounds.” Muffin was very upset Punky could tell because his meerschaum pipe was stone cold but he continued to puff.

“How long until you can load the Poofer with water, food and fuel?” Punky asked.

“You should be ready to go in about four hours. Just before dawn” said The Chair. “We have very little coal here and you will have to use cord wood just like in the ancient days. We have mostly olive wood, but it should substitute for a while.”

“I’m going to Zippys Blimp works at Fort Balatro if its still there,” said Punky in her voice of command.

“Oh yes,” said The Chair. “Loopy and the NAGS figured there was nothing there worth attacking, but you should be able to complete a decent refit there, although rushed. I sent a runner to the Chief Engineer and they will be waiting for you.”

“And then what?” asked Punky. “How do I get this Loopy Loo and repay her.”

The Chair looked to Muffin. Muffin shrugged. Punky realized they didn’t know.

“It’s best to stay aloft during the day and as long into the night as you can. I expect the Second Sea Lord here in the morning after they have assessed the damages and tended to the wounded. Perhaps we will know more then. I’ll send word to Zippy’s when we learn something”

“I need a set of carrier pigeons,” said Punky. “And some offensive weaponry.”

“At Zippys they may be able to fabricate a weapon of some kind, as for the pigeons they are all ready to be loaded. Oh and stay off the instant messaging system. It’s not secure, not in the least. As for weapons we dont really have anything."

“I figured that,” said Punky. “How about ancient weapons, swords, knives, blunderbuss, that kind of stuff?” asked Punky in a determined voice.

“Yesf, yesf,” said Muffin, “I’ll ha Millicent visit ta armory in ta eastern wing, or was tha ta western wing. Is been such a long times.”

”I have to tend to the loading of the ship.” Punky turned and walked swiftly from the room. Then at the doorway she turned and asked “What are the NAGS?”

The Chair responded “The NAGS are bad eggs Punky. There called the Nerds And Griefers Syndicate and Loopy Loo is the kingpin.”

Punky turned and raced out the door.

“Goods luck Punkys,” said Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, “the future of Second Life may well be in your hands.”

Punky was gone out the door. She had not heard Muffin’s last words.

Kees had stretched out on the top of the hill above the village square. The fisherfolk had gone home and only the two sleeping snipers in the church tower remained watching the port of Jurang. The boss in the green suit, followed by his two colleagues had exited into one of the stone cottages. Soon smoke began to rise from the chimney. Kees feigned sleep in the warm sunshine.

High over head seagulls floated and an occasional gull’s cry punctuated the stillness and the regular rhythm of the sea and the shore. A small boy dressed in ill fitting but warm tweed coat walked across the village square dragging a wooden fish trap toward one of the cottages. In about half an hour the kid appeared again with another battered fish trap. Just like at home, thought Kees, the kid was stealing fish traps.

Kees saw a ship far out at sea along the horizon line. Within an hour it was gone. Clouds began to form high above, and as Kees lay on the grass staring at the sky he could see bunnies forming. Bunnies and then wolves.

I could live here someday thought Kees. This is just the place I could retire to. Kees laughed. Omega squad members never retired. They usually disappeared one day and then a service was held in the Long White Hall. No, they never retired. However spending a long vacation here or getting the Second Sea Lord to sponsor a sea squid research station for a summer was always possible. I wonder if that young lass with Macboy has a sister thought Kees.

At about three a fog bank appeared out on the Inland Sea and by four the cold wet clouds began to descend upon the village. Soon the church steeple was blanketed and obscured by the descending fog. Kees saw Macboy strolling down the hill from the barn. He was alone and was softly singing a tune Kees recognized.

“If all the rest o Adam’s race,
Was assembled in this place,
I’d part with all without one tear,
Before I’d part with you, my dear.”

Macboy tipped his cap as he approached Kees.

Macboy began talking low and looking toward the descending fog. “They came here a week ago, five of them in a private yacht named ‘Ill Wind’. The yacht had about 20 on board and left immediately after they came ashore. It has not been seen in the region since. They rented a cottage and claimed they were looking for a place to build a coelacanth packing house, but they fooled no one. The waters here are too warm and too shallow for coelacanths. The locals figured they were money launders or such, because they spent a lot of lindens on food, grog, and fuel. A lot of lindens. And in these remote lands, money speaks loudly. They stay to themselves in the rented cottage there and don’t visit the pub which is a kind of insult in Jurang Port. The ferry is overdue, but it frequently breaks down. The messaging system is always flaky here so no one is alarmed. The fishing fleet will return tomorrow and we can probably rent a boat and a captain to take us to Meola. Perhaps we should avoid Meola and land on the coast.”

Kees nodded as the fog enveloped them. “How’s the last line of that song go Macboy?”

Macboy sang the last few lines.

“And it’s oh dear grog, thou art my darling.
And my joy both night and morning”

“Never met a girl named Grog,” joked Kees. “Let’s go have a drink.”

Macboy smiled. He was thinking about an appetizer too.

CHAPTER 18 - PORT JURANG TOWN

2007-10-10T12:13:00.000-07:00

The Omega team of Kees and Macboy had seen enough of the secret sims on the edge of Second Life. The Second Sea Lord would be waiting for their report and it was time to return to Capital City and the Long White Hall. They had left their overlooking observation point after midnight. The far skyline of the hidden sims had become quiet although it was clear that their building efforts were incomplete. Security was clearly present in the secret sims, but the bulk of the workforce had disappeared. By dawn Kees and Macboy were four sims away to the north. And by the following morning they were at the port of Jurang.

Jurang port town was a typical port village on the edge of existence. A small plaza of white stone which lead to the stone pier was surrounded by a few buildings. A pub called the Elven Nose, a blindingly white and completely empty Church of Ohm, and about a dozen thatched roof stone houses made up the hamlet. Sooty smoke was coming from the chimneys of three houses. Except for the ferry dock the town appeared deserted. The fishing fleet was still out. A fish canning factory could be seen on an estuary but it looked closed.

There was a small crowd at the ferry building and a lot of very angry shouting. The ferry was late. Kees dropped his rucksack on a slight rise above the port and sat down to observe. Macboy strolled slowly down the road to the pier facing the inland sea. Macboy paused and sat on a wooden bench just opposite the loading dock of the overdue ferry. Macboy fished for his tobacco and papers and began to fumble making a cigarette. Macboy scratched his head and rubbed his right ear. Then Macboy yawned. Slowly he untied a shoelace on his hiking boots. Kees looked to the right and he saw three avatars who clearly did not belong in this simple fishing village on the edge of a cod fishery and a smelt canning factory. The avatars were dressed in city clothing, with city shoes, and city posture. They didn’t belong here and they were watching the village with outsiders eyes. The city people seemed not to be concerned with the late ferry, but were watching the pier closely as if they expected the smelt from the factory to make a run for freedom. Kees recognized amateur security when he saw it. They were packing heat, but they did not do a very good job of concealing it. Amateurs good enough to fool the locals. Dangerous, but still amateurs.

Four local fisherfolk with several baskets of yesterday’s fresh cod, were arguing with the ticket booth attendant on the pier. The ferry had been delayed, the fisherfolk and Macboy heard the attendant say. No, he didn’t know what the problem was because the message systems were down again. The ticket agent was urging patience and was offering a discount for tickets purchased today. No one was taking him up on the offer. The ferry was a boat and this was a town of fisherfolk who understood the fickle seas.

“Any time now,” Macboy heard the ticket agent say. The fisher folk were getting upset as the sun sucked the last hint of freshness from their day old glazed eyed cod. Macboy finally had a smokeable cigarette and he fished about for his matches. No matches were to be found. Macboy swore just loud enough to be heard. Then Macboy stood and walked to the odd men out – the amateur security. Kees suppressed a smile, but slowly unlaced the right pocket on the rucksack.

Just before Macboy reached the security group he stumbled on his shoelace and began to swear. Macboy had their attention. He stood and brushed the dirt and gravel from his trousers. His hand rolled cigarette in his mouth was bent at a 40 degree angel.

“Hey,” said Macboy to one of the avatars in a green suit, “got a light.”

The avatar who was wearing a dull green sharkskin suit with a yellow plaid tie and blue starched shirt replied, “No, those things will kill you.”

“Yeh, but we all die anyway,” said Macboy with a stupid laugh. Macboy turned and stumbled again. The security group burst out in ugly laughter. Macboy stood and kneeled to tie his errant shoelace. Macboy returned to the bench and sat down and got comfortable like he was going to take a snooze in the warm morning sun. Macboy scratched various bits of his body and rubbed his hands a bit. Then he yawned and appeared to fall to sleep with the bent cigarette still clinging to his lower lip. Macboy looked like a lazy idiot trying to sober up from a night of hard drinking at the Elven Nose Pub in the village.

Kees read the signs from Macboy. “Three packing P99’s, two more in the church tower with Tippman 98’s. Green is in charge.”

After about half an hour Macboy woke up and ambled off to the Elven Nose. The ancient wooden door to the pub was bleached white by the sun and sea. It was almost 10 oclock and a young well endowed girl in a dirndl with scarlet hair was wiping an empty table next to the crackling fire. There were only two patrons sitting in the snuggery doing some snogging. The pub was clean and with a fresh smell of springtime even though it was fall outside. Garlands of dried flowers decorated the bar.

“Vedui' il'er,” said Macboy in the old tounge.

The young woman with flashing green eyes looked up. She smiled and straightened her posture. She was single Macboy could tell and the gene pickings in Jurang Port were slim.

“ 'Quel amrunm” the girl replied. “Not many visitors know the old language.” She shook her long red tresses just a bit.

Macboy sat at the table by the fire and stretched a bit in the warmth of the fire and her reception. “I’m Macboy Jewell, I’m on holiday hiking the hills nearby. Ill have a pint,” he said.

“Saesa omentien lle,” she replied. “My name is Irish, Irish Spring,” she said with a bit of a lilt and a twinkle of her nose ring. She turned and slowly walked to the bar where she picked up a spotless pint glass and began to fill it from an amber fountain.

She returned with the pint. She leaned forward a bit too far for simple serving and placed the pint before Macboy. Irish’s long red hair brushed the lip of the glass. She grabbed a chair and sat down. She wanted to talk.

“What’s with the ferry?” asked Macboy.

She sighed, “No one knows. We haven’t seen the “We’re Here,” in two days. Perhaps Captain Troop is sick or something. The weather has been fine.”

She leaned forward a bit to make sure that Macboy could fully appreciate her fresh country girl assets.

Fecund thought Macboy.

“I kind of like it quiet this way,” Irish said.

Macboy took a long sip of the ale. The amber elixir was full-bodied with a grainy, malty sweetness and a taste of honeysuckle. “Very nice, quite tasty,” Macboy said placing his glass onto the worn wooden table and looking intensely into Irish’s eyes.

Irish caught Macboy’s drift and blushed. Not the blush of embarrassment, but the blush of anticipation.

“My da comes in at noon,” she said. “I could show you around the village. The sights you know.”

Macboy smiled and replied, “Lle naa vanima.”

Irish positively beamed.

Kees remained on the hillock. He pulled out a shirt from the pack and a needle and thread and began to carefully darn several holes. The security took an interest in him at first, but after he started darning his old socks they paid no further attention.

Kees noticed that just after noon Macboy exited the Elven Nose with a lovely young red haired lass. They were holding hands and she was motioning all about the village and laughing. A tour, thought Kees as he chuckled under his breath. Macboy was very good at research in small villages and hamlets throughout Second Life. In about half an hour the young girl and Macboy had circumnavigated the entire town square and they turned onto the gravel road that lead gently up the green hillside toward a large barn and hay ricks in the distance. Research in depth thought Kees.

Kees gathered up his darning and his rucksack and headed down to the town square. He paused at the small fountain in the center of the village and took a closer look at the village chapel. The two avatars in the belfry were sleeping. The three on the ground by the pier looked bored. Nothing was happening here and Kees decided that the ferry was not coming today. Perhaps it would never come Kees realized.

CHAPTER 17 - SAFE HARBOR

2007-10-09T23:18:00.000-07:00

Sindy Blazer, Society Editor of Times of Second Life and sometimes Science Editor was doing her nails in her cluttered office on the 19th floor of the Art Décolleté Times Tower when her rose colored me-Phone blasted the ring tone of Sydney Mobile, the famed gem cutter and gold bug. Jimmy Washisname, the copy boy and junior journalist wannabe, stood lurking in Sindy’s open door.

“Hi Sidney,” said Sindy. “Yes, yes, it was a good photo spread wasn’t it. Your younger daughter Mugwort looked lovely... I know, the nose work by the art department was top notch… Really …Yes, back to reform school. How nice.”

Sindy talked to Mobile for a few moments before Mobile got to his point. Sydney Mobile was having trouble buying raw stones and uncut gems from Neopet or Zwinki. The gem dealers wanted to be paid in worthless US Dollars and not in the sound Linden. Something was up and Sidney Mobile wanted to know what Sindy knew. Sindy knew nothing. They chatted a bit more about Mugwort and her wonderful admission to the best high security reform school for girls in all of Second Life. Then Sindy said she would look into the Linden situation and they hung up.

Sindy stood for a moment, then grabbed her Gnocchi leather purse, a knock off from Purse Barn over on Ragnachar Avenue. She stood for moment thinking about who to talk to. The finance desk folks at The Times had all been laid off when Ruprecht Murdstone, her nominal boss and President of Lupine News Corporation, had purchased the Walled Street Drag. Ruprecht was her nominal boss because as Society Editor Sindy knew everything about everybody and especially their dirty laundry. Sindy had a stringer who worked in the Frog Laundry on King Pharamond Street. Sindy also collected photographs from One Moment Photo in the Dowdily building across the street.

Perhaps she should walk the three blocks over to Au Street and talk the WSD? No, she thought, the WSD was rapidly turning yellow, which was a compliment in her sector of the news business, but Sindy wanted some information of substance.

No, she would go visit someone over at the pink sheets. The Financial Times had a bureau here and Sindy knew the fashion editor Vanessa Friedman. Vanessa was here for fashion week. Besides thought Sindy, if the mighty Linden was in trouble then the Euro based paper might know something. Sindy dialed Vanessa’s assistant, Mr. Prince, and arranged a meeting at 6:00. Perhaps they could catch a quick bite at Blua’s or Café du Lune. Sindy could always get a seat there and she never had to pay. Blau’s and the Café always recognized Sindy when she walked in and she always got the best table. Sindy had become an item. As Society Editor Sindy made sure she was a hot item.

The FT offices were not on AU Street, which was the financial center of Second Life, but on King Pharamond alley, not far from the Palais de Congres. Sindy decided to walk. It was not far and she needed the exercise. Pilates was a joke. Good hard journalistic research, dancing, and foot leather were a far far better form of exercise. Besides you got to talk to interesting people and see interesting things rather than stare at breathless sweaty posteriors.

Sindy walked out into the darkening sky and turned right down Beast Street. As she passed the Long White Hall she wondered, as she always did, why they didn’t paint that old building. But perhaps Governor Linden was being responsible with Second Life’s finances. She laughed. The idea of the Governor being responsible with money was laughable, after all just look at that Paris girl he was so obviously supporting. What a joke. But thank the gods she was here, because it sold papers.

Sindy was surprised to see a line in front of Furries New Life Bank. About twenty avatars were waiting anxiously at the door to the now closed bank. Sindy smelled a story so she paused and went up to an elderly female avatar with a speckled brow, oversized ears, and a brown senseless frock.

“What’s happening?” asked Sindy.

“I don’t know,” said the anxious senior, “but I’m nervous about my money. There’s a rumor that the Linden is about to fall and I want my money, even if I have to stay here all night.”

“But tomorrow is Saint Golphus day, a banker’s retreat day, and they won’t be open till day after tomorrow,” Sindy relied.

The senior looked annoyed and replied, “Well I’m not moving until I get my Lindens and buy something safe with them.”

“What will you buy?” asked Sindy always interested in financial gain.

“Hot Couture, I’m gonna raid the racks at Lowmans. Hot Couture never looses its value, better than money in the bank,” the senior said with conviction.

“Thank you,” said Sindy filled with relief. Her closet was so full of Hot Couture that she could easily survive any financial crisis, even unemployment for a lifetime, if her clothes held their value. But then again here in Second Life there was probably no better investment than nice clothes.

At Alameda del Museo Sindy crossed the busy street and turned east toward lower Ragnachar. In the distance, toward the Capital City Stadium or near the Aerodrome she heard a series of dull thuds. Like someone hitting a base drum in a dense fog with a sponge. Odd thought Sindy, but then again this was Second Life where all things were possible and odd was normal. When she reached Ragnachar and turned south she heard sirens in the distance.

In a few moments she was on King Pharamond street, famous for Fanny’s Fabulous Fabrics, The Frog Laundry, and the Farmers Garage Sale Outlet Store. Sindy quickly spotted the two story pink brick Tesco building that housed the Capital City FT bureau on the second floor. She looked up and all the lights were blazing. It was early morning in London thought Sindy, I’m surprised they are still working. Sindy quickly climbed the steep creaky wooden stairs to the cramped FT offices. The place was packed with reporters, stringers, and hangers on. Something big was happening and she was missing it.

She spotted Vanessa banging her me-Phone on the desk in obvious frustration. “What’s happening Vanessa?” asked Sindy.

Vanessa looked up without smiling. She was pissed. “Damn me-Phones are down again. I could just strangle Jobless Steves and his Baffles Computer Company. What %$^#!

“It’s a fire, definitely, a big one,” shouted a short round man Sindy recognized as Alan Beedy the farm reporter for the FT. “The whole aerodrome is aflame, get Tiny Tim out there to take pictures. I’m leaving now,” Beedy said grabbing his brown overcoat and bowler hat as he ran for the stair. “Oh,” he said as an afterthought, “The me-Phones aren’t working and the communications button is out. Get some runners in place.”

“Wanna come with me,” said Vanessa as she grabbed her hat and coat. She stopped for a moment to apply her lipstick looking into a small mirror she held in her hand. “There’s always a fashion aspect to any disaster.”

“Are you kidding?” said Sindy. “Let’s go!”

They both ran to the stair and soon they hailed a pedi cab on Ragnachar Avenue.

Quickly they ran into traffic. Emergency crews were abandoning their flying carpets, egg crates, and other forms of conveyance and hoofing it the two kilometers to the Capital City Aerodrome. Sindy and Vanessa could see the flames from their cab. Sindy looked at Vanessa’s three inch stiletto heels on her Ferraguano boots and Sindy’s own Manolo’s. They weren’t going to walk far in those. Best to stick with the cab.

Sindy turned to Vanessa who was staring at the flames in the distance. “Is the Linden in trouble?” Sindy asked.

Vanessa laughed, and looked at Sindy like she was stupid, and then laughed again. “The Linden is in the crapper,” Vanessa said.

“Got those flares ready?” yelled Punky as she eased into the pilot’s seat. The wind had come up a bit from the north, and the landing was going to be tricky. A polo field looked big from the ground, but from a blimp running low on fuel and desperate to land in the dead of night, it was mighty small indeed.

“Yes there ready,” cried Washrox. “and the grappling line too.”

The crew stood ready and were in their life jackets. Monforte’s fishing pond was at the far end of the polo field and they might well end up in the drink. Besides Punky had learned just before graduation that the life jackets really helped in a hard crash – fewer broken bones and bad bruises. A bit like body armor for the knights of old she had learned on that awful morning.

A sliver of moon had finally appeared on the horizon but it was still black as the reapers face. Punky was concentrating.

“Turn on the lights!” she shouted.

The landing lights came on in a blinding flash. In the darkened interior of the pilots station all the instruments, stanchions, and levers became hot silver white with black void outlines. Punky strained to look down. She reached for the port window and slid it back with a thump and she stuck her head out. There. She saw a glint of water to the north east perhaps a hundred yards.

Below fires began to burn. Monforte had gotten their message. Bon fires two at each end of the Polo Field. Suddenly Punky could see the field below. “Kill the lights,” she shouted as she pulled her head back into the cockpit. Her own landing lights were blinding her and the bon fires below were the best landing illumination. She put the engines into dead ahead and slowly turned the UP&DOWN wheel. Gently the Poofer descended.

“Away the grappling line,” Punky cried and Washrox dropped the line through the open belly hatch. The line was limp then it straightened and started the characteristic jiggle as the three foot tangs sought a purchase in the soft sod below. The line went taut.

“Away the landing lines.” A gentle lift in the buoyancy of the Poofer told Punky that the fore and aft lines were away. She adjusted for the increased lift.

“Call out the altitude” said Punky.

“100 Meters,” yelled Normal.

“50 Meters.” yelled Normal

“25Meters.”

Punky started to slow the descent. She leveled off at 15 meters. She could see the ground below clearly and the figures trying to grasp the landing lines. In a few moments the ship pitched a bit and lurched aft. The makeshift landing crew had the lines

Punky threw open the window again and put her head out. She could see that the figures on the ground had tied the lines firmly to two huge oaks.

“Away the docking lines,” shouted Punky.

In moments the Poofer was secure and Punky increased the buoyancy a bit to make sure the ship stayed put. Below the bon fires went out in a hiss of steam that Punky could see from the cockpit.

Punky turned to the crew. “Excellent job, excellent. Now I want all of you except Normal to get some sleep. Washrox, relieve Normal in two hours. We will be leaving before sunrise so I want all of you rested. Washrox you're Mission Commander. If something goes wrong on the ground take off and try to make it to Fort Balatro. The Zippy blimp works is empty at this time and it may not have been a target.”

Before the crew could respond Punky had attached a climbing belt to her waste, clipped in a carbineer and a figure eight. Punky paused a moment and saluted her crew and then she was gone down the grappling line and into the dark.

CHAPTER 16 - ALOFT

2007-10-09T20:27:00.000-07:00

Chris Llanfair stood on the patio near the pool at Governor Linden’s Mansion in Clementina not far from Capital City. The pool area was crowded with new citizens who had been invited for the weekly pool party. Newbees were easy to spot. The bad hair, ill fitting shoes, pasty skin, -- they were just like immigrants and refugees in every culture. Chris felt sorry for some but was thrilled for all. What a great adventure they had before them. The world was their oyster they just hadn’t learned it yet. That is if they could keep their shells about them until the learned the mores and values of Second Life.

Chris didn’t care much for the Spartan design of the Governors Mansion or its rather small size as mansion go. Chris knew that the Governor was here only for official occasions and that he lived in the Penthouse Suite of the Hotel Fronmount in Capital City with that Paris girl. The Penthouse was rumored to rent for more than $L 8000 per night, but Chris knew that the Governor owned the hotel and much of the private parcels in Capital City. It was part of a long term Linden plan to ensure quiet and decorum in Capital City and to keep the Rafs out of the city. The Rifs had proven harder to keep out since they had more money even if they lacked good taste. But Lindens were confident that in the next few hundred years they would own all but the Royal Lands of the Monforte’s.

The Governor’s Finance Committee had just taken a short break and Chris needed to clear his head. The financial crisis was looming and the M0 and M1 supply were out of control. Perfect fake Linden bank notes were flooding the economy and as soon as one of the financial reporters at the Wall Street Drag or The Times wrote an article covering the crisis the Linden would as useless as the US Dollar. The Governor had contacted Ruprecht Murdstone, media Mongol, and owner of Lupine News and The Times and had arranged for a press blackout on the matter. But it was only a matter of time thought Chris before some blogger started ranting about the slipping buying power of the Linden and that set off a financial panic. Thank the gods no one reads blogs here in Second Life. As long as they stick to the mindless stupid pet stunts and psycho babble on me-tube and the social low-cal petit foir they called me-space all would be stable. For this week at least.

Chris looked up at the rooftop garden and it looked like the Committee was reassembling. He walked past the pool and into the white stucco mansion. He paused on the ground floor and washed his face in the hallway bathroom sink. Chris was tired. It had been a long night and the day was bound to be even longer.

Chris tried to dry his hands and face with a tiny paper towel from a dispenser. Useless he thought, but he was unwilling to wait for the stingy paper towel dispenser script to produce another, so he began walking up stairs with his face and hands still damp.

At the top of the first landing of the staircase he saw The Chair of the Blimp Cartel. The Chair was waiting for someone and Chris soon realized it was he. The Chair approached and in a low tone asked, “Is she on the case?”

“Yes,” said Chris, “It was close, but Mallory started a few hours ago. My daughter is assisting her, just in case.”

The Chair nodded and they both turned and climbed the stairway to the conference room above and to the crisis impending.

Punky was thinking fast and she immediately assigned Normal to the mission commander’s seat. “Plot me a course to the Capital Aerodrome.” Punky ordered. “Get Fraley down here, she’s physically wasted. Fraley your co-pilot sit down and shut up. Washrox stay in at the engineering station. You Paxford, up top and keep the steam pressure at the edge of the red zone. Step on it.”

The crew responded quickly and they knew that they were about to start a great adventure. If they had known how difficult the adventure would be they may well have regretted even applying to the Academy of Balloons.

Punky knew that the devastation at the Academy was complete. The explosions in all the blimp hangers had probably wiped out the entire fleet. It was not safe to put down there. Since it was dinner time Punky figured that they got every Blimp stationed at the Academy including the five Blimps of the Line. But the upside would be that the students, professors, and most of the support crews would be eating at the commissary on the far side of the campus. They were probably safe there. But with this well planed attack Punky could not be certain. Punky knew she had to save this blimp and its crew.

Normal called out a compass heading and an optimal speed to conserve coal. Punky shook her head and shouted loud enough to be herd up above, “We gotta get to Capital City as fast as the Poofer can make it. Pour on the coal."

Thank the gods that Fraley was such a slacker because her laziness had left them with more than enough coal to make the flight at top speed. Punky laughed, top speed was about 10 knots with a favorable tail wind. It would take about two hours to get to the Aerodrome at this speed.

“Fraley, take control and keep the heading and course given to you by Normal. Call me immediately if any thing happens. Any thing you understand,” said Punky.

Both Normal and Fraley nodded and Washrox was already hefting a heavy pipe wrench about a dripping joint. A good crew Punky though. A good crew.

Punky watched the communications button closely. There was no traffic. Either there was a communications lock down or the saboteurs had gotten to the communications systems as well. Best to stay silent.

“Kill the running lights,” ordered Punky. Washrox looked confused. Flying without lights was a serious violation of flight rules. In a moment they ship was dark in a very dark moonless sky.

Punky went back to the rear of the gondola and jumped into the captain’s bunk. She was tired, but she was not going to sleep. She needed to think. What was happening? What actions should they take? Where should they go? The Poofer was clearly a target but why Punky could not guess. Punky needed to think and the humming and pulsing of a steam powered blimp was the perfect place for thinking through this crisis.

“Captain, err… Professor Pugilist get up here now,” shouted Fraley. Punky had dozed off but while sleeping she had worked through a process of elimination and she knew that Loopy Loo was responsible in some way. Loo had sworn vengeance on the Academy when they drummed her out of the corps. Loo had been a brilliant student, clearly genius material, but she had a dark side. Loopy was a sadist, a sociopath, and a megolomaniac. Not a good mix in Second Life or any other place for that matter.

Punky was out of her bunk in a flash and she ran to the copilot’s seat. “Whats happening,” said Punky as she glanced down on the plotting board held in Normal’s lap. They were about 5 kilometers out from the aerodrome.

“Look,” said Fraley pointing dead ahead.

In the distance there was a dull orange glow. As they approached it got brighter and brighter until it became in inferno. The Capital City Aerodrome was ablaze.

“Get us out of here,” yelled Punky. "Reverse course."

Fraley applied power and the ship began a tight banking turn. Punky grabbed the hand holds and after a few moments they leveled out.

“Where to now?” asked Normal.

Punky thought hard again. After a few moments she said, “Plot me a course to the Monforte Detached Palace. The west garden area. They have put blimps down there before.”

“Washrox, get those distress flares ready. Were going to need to see the ground when we land.” Punky was praying that the Monforte household staff would remember how to assist a blimp in landing. They had done so months ago. The enormous oaks of the Royal Parklands next to the polo field should provide an excellent tie down. But Punky suspected that by morning they would have to be off and seeking the safety of the empty skies.

‘Get me a rescue beacon carrier pigeon,” said Punky as she grabbed a pad of paper and quickly wrote a note. After a few moments the pigeon intended as a desperation beacon in a crash was winging its way to the Blimp Cartel Tower. Punky hoped that someone would be in the tower to receive their urgent message.

In a short while the Poofer slowly banked into a gentle climb and began heading due north toward the home of Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, famed historian, and Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party. Muffin will know what’s going on thought Punky. And the Chair of the Blimp Cartel was likely to be there as well.

CHAPTER 15 - ORANGE TEAM

2007-10-09T12:48:00.000-07:00

Flight 101 took all of Punky’s energy and time. The class of 28 students was divided into seven flight crews. Each flight crew rotated the positions of Pilot, Mission Commander, Chief Engineer, and Coal Shoveler. After a training flight was completed you could always tell what position each student had held. Coal shovelers were almost entirely black and sometimes the only white you could see on them was the whites of their eyes. The Pilot was always pumped and bouncing around like someone who had consumed a quart of jumpy juice with two jolts of zing. The Chief Engineer was always wet from the boilers and usually greasy. The better the Chief Engineer did the job the wetter and greasier the student was. The Mission Commander, who was responsible for completing the overall objective of the flight lesson and for keeping an eye on the big picture was usually shattered, a jumble of nerves, and frequently needed a change of underwear.

Pilots were notoriously focused people as were engineers. Chaos, madness, or death could be standing next to them, but their duties required unwavering focus on dials, gauges, horizon line, rate of descent, and stuff like that. The coal shoveler was up in the windowless engineering section and frankly was oblivious to everything except feeding the ever hungry maw of the boilers.

The poor Mission Commander saw everything. Like the trees that almost took off an engine nacelle, or the replica of the Eifel tower they missed by a few meters, sometimes the mountain looming up suddenly from the cloud cover. Keeping a crew from getting hopelessly lost was a another responsibility as well as ensuring that they returned home with a smidgen of fuel left and in time for dinner.

Six student instructors from the fourth year at the Academy of Balloons assisted Punky as flight instructors. The student instructors were sharp and knew their stuff and without them the program could not work. Punky took the worst performing team as her own in order to give that team as much attention and support as possible.

Punky had completed six hours of flight with the Orange Team in Old T12 ‘Poofer” by late afternoon. The Orange Team was a mismatched group and most of their problems arose from personality issues, communications problems, and simple distrust of one another.

That day the pilot had been Paxford Lint, a very tall young man who stuttered and frequently washed his hands. In the pilots seat he could not get to the wash basin so he had cleverly brought two packages of handi wipes. Shows initiative, thought Punky. Paxford was a sweet kid thought Punky. Paxford just needed to relax and enjoy flight.

Washrox, who in violation of some basic rule had no first name, was also nice but troubled. Something bad had happened in her past and she would not talk about it. Under pressure, like when pipes began to dangerously leak on both engines simultaneously she would freeze unable to decide which one to fix first. Since the engines were constantly leaking she was often frozen in indecision. She had been assigned to engineering on this flight. Punky knew of several techniques for resolving this issue and she had a plan already formulated to help Washrox.

Fraley Farnsworth came from a blue blood family and had all the advantages of a blue blood childhood including attending the exclusive Choke preparatory academy. Usually graduation from one of the ‘Seven Brothers’ academies was an automatic disqualification for the Academy of Balloons. But the Superintendent was trying to cast a broad net and respond to new social pressures within Second Life. Fraley was arrogant, insulting, full of herself, and felt that she deserved to fly even if she was so lazy as to completely ignore her studies and assignments. On this day she had been coal shoveler. They had almost broken the speed record for slow progress and although they had arrived back at the Aerodrome in time for dinner, they arrived with a record amount of fuel remaining in the bunkers. Punky had observed that Fraley had slept leaning on her shovel for most of the flight. Sleeping standing up was not easy and Punky knew that only blue bloods were really good at it.

The last student, who was Mission Commander on this flight was Normal Bellini. Normal was anything but normal. In addition she was a Goth vampire but belonged to the reformed wing of the Goths. The Academy of Ballons was outreaching to minorities and to the oppressed majority as well, and Normal had entered the program under ‘special considerations.’ What those considerations were Punky was unsure, but she did notice that Normal always wore sunscreen when about in the daylight. SPF 2000 the tube said that had fallen from her rucksack on the day they first met in the hanger.

Good kids all, thought Punky, who was still practically a kid herself.

The flight had been uneventful and Punky had refrained from little sabotage tricks to test their readiness. Too early for that she thought. So Punky had not fiddled with the compass, or loosened some steam pipes, and had even made sure that the coal loaders balanced the weight of the fuel. That would all come later.

Old T12, the ‘Poofer’ was as familiar to Punky as old undies. Poofer had been old when Punky as a student had been assigned to a team which spent hundreds and hundreds of hours in her cocoon like surroundings. Poofer even had her own unique smell, which was hard to describe, but which was something like cumin and carrots.

What Punky had not known, was that two years before her first flight on the Poofer, there had been an accident and a fifty five gallon drum of cumin carrot soup had been spilled in the gondola during a humanitarian flight to the Sim of Pondicherry. They had tried to wash it out but the smell had stuck.

The Poofer was on its last legs and at the end of this year she was going to the breakers. She was safe, but her design was very old and obsolete. Poofer was simply too expensive to maintain. Punky felt Poofer was a good training blimp because her infrastructure was constantly failing. The constant stream of emergencies and crisis made the crew work as one and learn to improvise in their collective terror, and fear of flaming death from the 80,000 cubic feet of hydrogen hanging just a few feet above their heads.

They were approaching the aerodrome at a slow rate of about four knots into still air from about 200 meters altitude. The yellow windsock hung limply below them. Paxford had used the last of the handi wipes and was anxious to get on the ground, but he was managing his phobia well, and the descent was almost textbook perfect. Fraley had stopped shoveling an hour ago, but that was fine. Landing with too much steam pressure was always a bad idea. Just enough steam pressure to recover from a bad approach and then try again was about all that was desired at this point in the flight plan.

Normal was huddled over the navigation station and was busily writing the flight report. Normal looked up at Punky and then at Washrox who was wiping her hands on a wet towel. Washrox was preparing the landing line and was fumbling in a locker looking for the grappling hook. Normal had forgotten something thought Punky.

Punky returned her attention to the approach and to their soft landing. The sun was setting in the west and it would be dark in a few moments. A night landing with a green crew could be tricky and Punky was glad they were almost down and docked. On the tarmac below Punky could see the six training hangars and on the port side in the distance the four larger hangers which housed five Blimps of the Line for the Blue Ocean Navy.

Punky was considering dinner when a bright flash filled the starboard windows of the gondola. The brilliant light was coming from the one of the hangars where the Blimps of the Line were housed. The Poofer shuddered and pitched hard to starboard. Paxford did a decent job of righting the ship as Punky shielded her eyes and strained to see what was happening. Then a second brilliant flash was followed by another violent buffeting of the Poofer.

Punky dashed to the empty co-pilots seat and yelled ‘Everyone above, I need steam and I need it now, now now.’ Paxford got up and ran to the ladder and was gone in a flash. Washrox did not move. Punky was struggling to keep the ship under control when a third and fourth explosion punctuated the night. Finally Washrox moved.

Punky spun the UP&DOWN wheel viciously and the ship began to rise. Punky reached for the red ballast dump handle and pulled hard. The Poofer dropped 1200 pounds of sand onto the tarmac and the waiting landing crew below. The Poofer rose swiftly and just in time. For immediately below the Poofer the training blimp hangers began to blow. It was like a line of fireworks set off by a malignant child. The Aerodrome field was ablaze and the Poofer rose higher and faster among climbing flames and flying debris.

Punky knew if she didn’t get some more altitude fast they would all be toast- burnt incinerated toast. The ship buffeted first to port and then to starboard. The nose pitched up at a dangerous angle as hanger number 4 blew. Above Punky could hear swearing and the sound of someone thrown hard against a bulkhead. “More steam,” shouted Punky as she pulled into a climb. The engines roared so loudly that Punky doubted that the Orange Team could hear her. But the steam pressure suddenly rose and the scream of the engines increased in volume. The light below them flickered at they reached 1000 meters and pulled wide of the landing area. Punky banked the Poofer, throttled back the engines and began a slow turn around the field giving the dying fires a wide berth.

The devastation was complete. The entire fleet stationed at the Academy of Balloons was gone. It was no accident Punky knew. The blimp hangers were too widely spaced to allow a single fire to destroy the fleet. No this was deliberate. There were undoubtedly casualties below. The fires had been to hot, too large, and too fast to allow anyone to escape.

Washrox and Paxford came sliding down the ladder and paused at a portside window. Normal followed a few moments later. They stood transfixed by the flaming aerodrome below. Punky could hear Fraley furiously shoveling above in the engineering section.

Washrox said the word first. “Sabotage,” Washrox said. “Sabotage.”

“Who could have done this?” asked Paxford.

“Loopy Loo,” whispered Punky between clenched teeth. “Loopy Loo.”

CHAPTER 14 - GUILT

2007-10-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

Trixi and Witney managed to get Mallory cleaned up by dawn. At one dark moment Trixi was certain they were going to loose her. But with Witney’s help and a lot of residual survival instinct deep within Mallory she had pulled through. Then at Chris’ suggestion they decided to take her to Chris’ official residence on Immunity Parkway. They could both take better care of her there, and watch her more carefully on the isolated estate.

“I just don’t understand,” sighed Trixi sitting in a dark brown leather chair in the ornate Argentium Room of the Pecunia Wing of the Chris’ estate. Trixi was gazing out the window toward the Monforte Detached Palace which could be seen in the distance through the trees and parklands. The early morning sun was streaming through the lower branches of the trees and the ground looked all golden, clean, and sparkly new.

Chris sat not far away looking into a fire which was blazing in the pre-baronial fire place. “What?” asked Chris, “What don’t you understand?”

Trixi sat for a while thinking, as Chris loaded his pipe with fruity tobacco. She began to reply as Chris scraped a wooden match across a black sandy surface and it burst into flame.

“Oh,” Trixi said, “I just don’t know why someone with all the brains and charm of Mallory would do this to herself.” The sun was a bit higher and concentrated sun beams were entering the room from the clear eastern sky.

Chris nodded as if in agreement, but he did know why Mallory acted as she did. He knew a lot about Mallory.

Trixi wanted to say more just to fill up the empty space in the room. But there was really nothing to say. Earlier Chris had told her and Witney that Mallory Sauternau was the most intelligent, observant, logical person he had ever met. Mallory could have been President of the Reserve Bank and Counting House under different circumstances. Perhaps even Governor, or Treasurer of Linden Labs.

But Trixi knew the demons were bad to Mallory and that if you clobbered Mallory enough times with doubt and fear she would collapse like a paper towel on the wet bar at Gigot’s gin joint.

Sam’s death had been hard on Trixi too. Their little group had broken up following Sam’s death. The grief was too much. Danny who really liked Sam had drifted away from Trixi in the weeks after the funeral. Trixi found it painful to be with Mallory so she too drifted away. Later Trixi realized what an awful mistake that had been, to leave Mallory all alone with the demons.

Trixi heard footsteps from down the hall.

Witney entered and said,” Doctor Benway says it was close.”

Then Witney paused she was simply at a loss for words.

Witney continued, “If she gets that drunk again she’s probably a gonner.” After another long pause Witney continued, “She got a shot of vitamins and stuff. She should be ok by tomorrow. But we gotta keep her off the sauce.”

“Tommorw is too late. I need here awake and in full reasoning power today,” said Chris between tightly clenched teeth. “If we don’t find the Linux Ambassador soon, then there will be an international incident of unprecedented proportions. Witney go back and tell the good Doctor we need her compus mentus now.”

Witney started to object, but Chris raised his hand. Witney knew that the fate of Second Life was at stake again and that without Mallory they really had no chance. The cops were useless.

“Why I ever agreed with the Governor to use that intelligence test to qualify police recruits I will never know,” mumbled Chris.

“I took the test once, years ago,” said Trixi. I flunked. I could identify things like isosceles triangles, Stuben glass, and shoe sizes. I guess you don’t make a good cop if you know those things, although I don’t know why.”

Chris knew. Chris understood that in order to keep law and order in Second Life that you didn’t need imagination, ingenuity, or vision. You needed only to toil, trod, and clomp through the streets and dives of Second Life. Small bribes were to be expected in a police force, they were like the VAT tax. But the Lindens and Chris had learned a long time ago that really big corruption could work only if the police were part of the deal. Big corruption required smart minds, so Lindens had decided to keep any one with smarts off the force. The failure level had been set at an IQ of 79. Above 79 you failed. The strategy had been a spectacular success. Real organized crime could not exist with such a dumb police force. But on occasion when there was a really dangerous crime or sophisticated plot the strategy failed to work. That’s where Private Detective Mallory Sauternau came in.

Mallory was unique. She had analyzed the police department test and cheated to get exactly a passing grade of 79. Shortly after she started on the department Chris and other bureaucrats became aware that she was an odd woman out. So was her partner Sam Smart. How Sam got on the force no one could figure out. Probably a series of small bribes the Governor had suggested. Like peas in a pod they found each other and together they were crime busting machine.

However after a few years of tolerating Mallory and Sam, the pressure groups became too loud about that team of coppers. The Union of Ticket Scalpers and Pick Pockets had started the complaints. Then the Possum Corporation chimed in with complaints about vendor harassment or ticketing its sausages for jay walking or speeding. Then the campaign donations started to dry up. The crime tax revenues fell, money laundries closed shop and became hair salons, and land speculators started looking over their shoulders and property values started to stabilize. Finally when the Order of the Bloody Stain of Saint Hymenos the Benighted complained about their diminishing take at the Goodword homeless shelter, Chris and the Governor had had too much.

But the plan to rid Second Life of Mallory and Sam had gone badly wrong. To this day Chris was haunted by the cascading errors that lead to Sam’s death. Too many unintended consequences and a real failure to understand what righteousness and justice could mean to some avatars. Second Life was not a place for the righteous and the just.

Chris and the Governor had gotten Mallory off the force and on a full pension. The Chief had wanted to eliminate the pension over some imagined slight, but both the Governor and Chris knew what they had done was so very wrong. The loss of Sam was tragic, but they had gained something really valuable that they had not anticipated. Mallory the private detective. Give her a set of facts and a basic question or two and within hours or days you had an answer. No cuffs, no paparazzi, no perp walk, no drama. Just a straight answer.

Kees Kepler and Macboy Jewell moved through the forest only at night. During the day they had climbed high into the tree tops to observe the construction of the hidden sims in the distance. In two nights they had closed in to within 50 meters of the hidden sim boundary. The didn’t dare venture any further because in-sim radar would surely show their presence. That is if the hidden sim operators had in-sim radar. But there was no doubt in either Kees or Macboy’s minds that these operators were tough, rich, and smart.

The hidden sim had hanging above it a camouflage screen. Anything flying above would see nothing more than empty space or open seas. Below the camouflage screen they were building furiously, but only during the night. During the day the Omega squad boys could see bunnies and squirrel avatars frolicking in the hidden sim. Using his monocular Kees could see that they were packing heat. They were security, or even worse – a private army.

What they were building and why then needed such secrecy and security Kees and Macboy could only guess.

The Second Sea Lord had not said much about what to expect. Just travel to the Kun Lun mountain range, locate the hidden sim or sims, scope out what they were up to, and return fast.

The Second Sea Lord had been specific about a few things. They were under no circumstances to use the instant messaging system or chat because the Second Sea Lord knew that whoever was behind all this was monitoring all messages. That had been quite a shock to Kees and Macboy. Kees immediately stopped IM’s to his sixteen girl friends out of fear that they might start comparing notes. Kees was not an original thinker and all his love notes were identical. He had purchased them in a book store as a prepared set. He even called his girl friends by the same love name to avoid complications – Bubbles.

The Monocular had shown at least three or possibly four sims on the edge of existence. But Kees and Macboy agreed that there must be more. One odd thing that they had noted was that the number of avatars working on construction within the closest sim exceeded the 40 avatar limit for any given sim. It looked like they had over a hundred avatars constructing buildings, and creating landscaping, and ornamenting structures. And most amazing the sims had no lag. Both Kees and Macboy knew this was impossible, but they carefully noted it their notebook. Those are really powerful servers though Kees who knew a bit about computer stuff.

The Second Sea Lord had ordered them not to enter the hidden sims. Just to observe. And lastly they were not to be caught or captured under any circumstances.

CHAPTER 13 - REAL SCIENCE

2007-10-08T15:33:00.000-07:00

Sindy arrived early at the boring science conference in the Heart of the Ocean Forum building. Sindy was quite interested in Professor Ora Fora’s paper ‘Time Inflation in Second Life.’ Sindy had watched the trailer on me-tube and was intrigued by the possibilities of time inflation. Things always seemed to be going faster and faster, especially the bad stuff thought Sindy. And the good stuff never seemed to last long enough. Perhaps there is some truth to this she though.

But this morning she had arranged an important interview. It was worth at least 8 column inches and if she could spin it right she had a Sunday supplement article of at least 400 small words.

She had managed to obtain an exclusive interview with Igor Eisenstein, Professor of Conventional Wisdom at the University of Sonogno. He was widely acknowledged on me-space as the smartest man in SL. Eisenstein was also the winner of the bronze medal and that made him hot stuff.

Sindy climbed the marble steps into the glass and steel Forum building and headed to the press lounge. A large expectant crowd had gathered and Sindy noticed that many held autograph books and brownies for snaps. She knew they were autograph books because most of them said ‘Autographs’ on the cover.

At the top of the stairs Sindy turned to the Press Room at the end of the glass and steel hallway. Sindy spied her journalistic rival Sally Snit from Second Life Today sitting on an overstuffed green couch. She was dressed in a bright red jump suit. Sindy laughed, Sally looked like a pimento stuffed into a huge olive. All she needed was vermouth and vodka. Eisenstein had not arrived yet and she was a bit early.

“Hi Sin,” said Sally as Sindy walked up.

“Hello Sally,” replied Sindy. “Did you get that dictionary I sent you?”

Sally winced. Sindy had sent Sally a full Oxford English Dictionary out of spite when Sally had won the famed Pubber award and Sindy had not even been nominated. Sindy felt bad about it later. Sindy had done it out of spite, because all writers at Second Life Today were not allowed to use any words more than five letters in length. It was their editorial policy and it was enforced. Yet Sally still won. Sindy used to tease Sally by asking questions that required more than six letters for an answer. Like ‘what’s an eight legged many eyed fanged creature that can bite you and lives in a web?’ To which Sally would reply after much thought ‘bug’. After a while it was not any fun so Sindy stopped being so catty.

“How’s the conference?” asked Sindy as she changed gears.

“Ok,” said Sally. “It’s nice, I guess.”

“Did you see Sadie Silverman’s pitch on ‘Proofs that Second Life is Really Flat and Not Round Like The Big Brainy People Say?’ asked Sindy.

“Nope,” replied Sally. “was takin my nap.”

Sindy almost said something about contractions, but then Sally probably didn’t know what a contraction was. Her editor certainly didn’t.

“Have you seen Eisenstein?” asked Sindy.

“Nope, no big brain here yet.” Replied Sally. Eisenstein was a 10 letter word and would therefore present problems for Second Life Today and for Sally. Sindy dropped the line of questions, and strolled to the far end of the Press Room and sat down in a blue chair.

In a few moments Professor Eisenstein came up the stair to the adulation of his adoring fans. Under each arm was a fetching young undergraduate of the female type. One was blond and one brunette. The girls were dressed in the usual undergraduate way, tight high riding thongs, holy jeans by Mr. Messiah, and very very tight tees. Emblazoned on the brunette’s thin white tee, across what must have been a 32 D, were the words “Science Sucks”. The other tee on the blond said “Engineers Do Me Better.”

Eisenstein was smiling ear to ear and was waving at his adoring audience. He paused to sign autographs and a small child stepped forward and asked him to sign her large lollypop. The brunette was obviously jealous of the child’s attention and tried to turn Eisenstein away toward some seniors who were both unattractive and wrinkly. But Eisenstein spotted the child and licked the lollypop for a few moments. The child looked in wonderment at the famous man and then Eisenstein returned the lollypop to the tiny hand. The child went running away crying and searching for its mother. The child was so overjoyed at the famous scientist’s attention that it had been reduced to tears.

“Professor Eisenstein, so good to see you again,” said Sindy.

Eisenstein wrinkled his forehead desperately trying to remember where he had met the redhead standing before him. Perhaps she had been one of his students he thought. But that could not be the case, because he would have remembered those breasts and curvy hips. He loved curvy hips. No, she had not been one of his students. Perhaps another scientist thought Eisenstein? No, she looks too intelligent for Second Life science he concluded.

Sindy could see the scientist’s discomfiture and she decided to stop teasing him.

“I’m Sindy Blazer of the Times,” she said. Sindy had never met Eisenstein before and she was practicing the journalistic art of making her interview target feel un-comfortable before she asked the killer question.

As they sat down in the Press Room Sindy noticed that the Professor had lipstick smeared all over his face and several hickies were apparent under his shirt collar. The two undergraduate bimbettes Eisenstein had dismissed with a little slap on their buts. A posterori and a priori thought Sindy. As they left Eisenstein had said “Now if you need help without your homework you know where to find the key!”

He turned to Sindy and began ogling Sindy’s assets. Sindy forgave him because science had that effect on men.

“I’d like to begin our interview with a few questions about the conference,” said Sindy.

Eisenstein broke his gaze and shook his head a moment as if to checkpoint and restart some remote part of his enormous brain.

“Ah yes, the interview.” Eisenstein said. “But first a small formality. A 2x2 headshot, in color, my abbreviated academic bio, a link to my me-space and me-tube sites, and at least 20 column inches.” He paused for a moment, “Oh and a photo spread of my latest advisees on page three of the Sun.”

“No problemo,” said Sindy lying through her teeth. “Now let’s get started. You know the formalities?”

“Yes, yes,” said Eisenstein, “your name, my name, your name, my name. It’s all so unscientific.”

The Times: Professor let me start by congratulating you on winning the bronze medal. That must have been a grate honor. How were you informed?

Eisenstein: Well it was the usual call in the dead of night. When I answered and some Swedish person began yelling and screaming I figured I’d won. I could not follow a word of it (laughter), but since there were no Swedish swear words I figured it must be the bronze.

The Times: And how do you intend to spend the 500 linden prize. A prize that I hear is VAT free.

Eisenstein: I have a special educational project for young undergraduate women. We simply don’t have enough women in the sciences, and I think that I can use this wonderful prize to mentor a few.

The Times: You find mentoring young women satisfying.

Eisenstein: Oh very, I especially like mentoring one on one, however one on two has many things to be said for it. Four of five at a time is best done in seminar format. By the time you do say, more than six at a time, it gets too formal and probably belongs in the classroom.

The Times: And which of the papers at the conference have you found most interesting and scientifically exciting?

Eisenstein: Well I especially liked Killey’s paper of ‘The Evaporative Dynamics Of Solid Coloring Matter Suspended in a Liquid Medium and Applied as a Protective or Decorative Coating to Various Surfaces, or to Canvas, Wood, Concrete, or Other Materials in Producing a Work of Art or Craft.’ A crackerjack paper that. Fascinating. I’m always getting my fingers colored whenever I see the warning sign ‘wet paint.’ I’m confident now that armed with the latest scientific data I can avoid this faux paw in the future.

The Times: And which paper was the most preposterous and unscientific of the lot?

Eisenstein: Well that’s hard to say. So many scientific papers these days are ‘unscientific’ if you know what I mean (chuckles). Probably the most silly was the Looby paper denying that Second Life is real. Such nonsense. Any enquiring mind can see through the application of Occam’s razor and perhaps some Gillogs shaving cream, that the world real. Its as real as this chair im sitting on. (chuckles.)

Oh yes and the secret sim paper was a real riot. I forget the idiot that presented it, but the very idea that sims could exist that we cannot see is just a barrel of laughs (guffaws). The argument between the realists and the nominalists was waged long ago and the outcome was in no doubt when virtual life was discovered. It had actually existed all along, but no one really knew which rock it was hiding under (laughs). No extreme rationalism is the order of the day. If an object cannot be grasped, tasted, clutched, or ‘$%#^%$’ then it does not exist (laughs). I’m sorry, can you use that last biological referent in your paper.

The Times: No

Eisenstein: In any event, there are no secret or hidden sims. Its impossible. Besides I serve on the Linden Labs Advisory Board for All Things Scientific and Lunch related and Id know if such a thing as secret sims existed. Or for that matter secret avatars. No they cannot exist.

The Times: And who is your favorite in the Eurovision song competition this year?

Eisenstein: I favor the Splats from Spain with their hot ditty “Buzz You, Buzz Me.” But I suspect that the Romanians will win again with that pop tart Labus singing “Bring Me a Toco Mr. Momo.”

The Times: What about the Finland’s Stumps or the Latvian Losers.

Eisenstein: I love the Stumps. Its great bed music, if you get my drift. But as for the Losers I really don’t like classical music. Anyway Latvia has won too many times before.

The Times: Any last thoughts for our dear readers Professor?

Eisenstein: Well, I just want everyone to know that the rumor about me and the siamese twins and doing it in the loathsome ‘Thai’ way are absolutely not true. Oh, and what are you doing after this interview?

CHAPTER 12 - ONE AND TEN

2007-10-08T12:11:00.000-07:00

Tilly Twollop was a new member of Linden’s ‘in sim’ Abuse Team Volunteer Corps. She had been a paying member of Second Life for almost two years and that made her really old and equally wise. Tilly had seen it all and then some. Tilly had even done most of it herself so she had the needed qualifications. But when Tilly found her virtual experiences lacking something, she sought ways in which to make the virtual life more meaningful and satisfying.

Then one evening at about 2:30 am, when she was leaving Bad Girl’s club looking for some new cheap thrill, she saw an add in the classifieds. ‘Volunteer to help your fellow avatars make Second Life a better place to live,’ the advert had said, and a picture of a scantily clad male stud in a cute patrol uniform with an oversized truncheon cinched the deal. With a truncheon like that I would add meaning to this illusory existence Tilly decided. Tilly immediately volunteered.

The training had been far more rigorous that Tilly expected and involved difficult subjects like password protection, secret questions, sim shut downs, memorizing a list of bad words not allowed to be said in some restricted sims. As well as lists of bad words required to be spoken on other sims. It was all very confusing at first. But after a while she got a grip on the subject matter and took the test. The test was really hard and it had three tricky questions on it. Thank the gods, thought Tilly, they were true false questions. After the third attempt she passed with flying colors because she got two out of three correct.

She was given her little uniform and hat, and she had spent considerable time adjusting the clothing to reveal just enough skin, but no so much as to be unbecoming a member of the Abuse Team.

“One nipple or two?” asked Tilly of her fellow graduate Dimweed Nelson.

Dimweed turned toward Tilly in the locker room of the Abuse Team Headquarters and then into the mirror. Dimweed was a fluffy and Tilly really could not tell of what persuasion the fluffy avatar was – male, female, perhaps neutered? However Dimweed was an honest soul and a fine furry friend.

“Well,” said Dimweed, “I prefer the symmetry of two, but I think that current fashion dictates only one.” Dimweed reached for Tilly’s scanty bodice and gave it a gentle tug downward and a cute little bosom popped out. “Hmm,” thought Dimweed out loud. After due consideration Dimweed tugged the other side with the same result. Dimweed stepped back to consider the options. After about too long, Tilly realized that Dimweed was a male.

“Oh Dimweed,” laughed Tilly as she decided on a more chaste tank top with bare midriff, stiletto heels on thigh high boots, and panties by Verisimilitude.

Tilly reached into her locker and pulled out her truncheon and her holster. She strapped the black leather holster in place, spun her truncheon with the expertise of a rookie, and slid it into the holster. Then she put on her smart officers cap. One last look in the mirror as she adjusted her eyeliner, and she was off to the graduation ceremony. Governor linden himself was going to be the speaker. Tilly was so excited at the prospect of a new second life.

In the distance the Abuse Team Marching Band and Ska Corps had begun playing one of Tilly’s favorites. She listened carefully.

“I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.”

“We better get going” said Tilly to Dimweed who was combing his face. “We don’t want to keep the others waiting.”

Dimweed nodded and they both went running out of the locker room and into the playing field at the old All Sims Stadium north of the capital. The usual venue for graduation was not available. The Capital City Stadium having been burned to the ground in the Little Ben riots several months ago.

Tilly and Dimweed lined up with their fellow graduates, all two of them, in a line and stood at attention. The Band continued to play and was joined by the male chorus from the prestigious School for Wayward Girls.

“All around in my home town
They’re trying to take me down.
They say that want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy”

Tilly felt proud and only wished her parents could be her to share this special moment in her life. But then again if they ever found out about her life in Second Life there would be Hades to pay. So she didn’t invite them. But her younger sister Nillis had seen Tilly’s me-space account and knew the truth. It had cost Tilly 1000 lindens to keep Nillis quiet.

Tilly looked into the stands and many of her friends and past lovers were there. She had invited everyone she knew and she was happy that all three of them had made it.

Governor Linden mounted the stage and went to the podium. He pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and the Band wound up the final refrain.

“Aghhraa”, said the Governor clearing his throat. The he glanced down at his notes and began his oration. “Pastrami on Rye, hot mustard, hold the …”

“Oops,” said the Governor, “Wrong oration.”

The crowd laughed and the Governor fished into his pants pocket and pulled out a small yellow Posit It note.

“Ah here it is,” said the Governor.

Tilly had hoped that the Governor would not drone on and on as was his want. And she was gratefully surprised when he simply congratulated everyone on a nice day and then sat down.

Then the ceremony was over and they marched off the field as the band played and combined woman’s and men’s chorus sang:

“Fame and fortune,
That's all they crave.
And all it ever gets them
Is an early grave”

Rookie Abuse Team members were assigned to distant provinces and Tilly and Dimweed were no exceptions. They had drawn the name of the remote sim of LaLa Moon.

There was not much to LaLa Moon. The sim was basically empty except for the usual juvenile castle and a shopping center for hair and skin that was run by the sim owner. The land was flat and was sectored out into a series of square grass plots separated by straight cobblestone roads. LaLa Moon was a bilingual sim and supported both Japanese and English.

Tilly and Dimweed didn’t know a word of Japanese, but Japanese avatars were so polite and well behaved they never presented any problems.

The job of the Abuse Team Volunteers was simple. Watch out for ‘griefers’ and others who could make life miserable for other avatars. Their job did not include stopping simple griefers, like the kind that insulted people, or mooned them in the public square. No it was the scripting griefers that Tilly and Dimweed were empowered to stop. During training Tilly had seen horrific me-tube videos of whole sims and sectors of Second Life brought to its knees by evil scripts. Often these scripts were simply replicate themselves until all the server capacity and memory had been consumed in the sim and everyone froze, or even worse continued to live an a jello lagged world of pain and suffering. Particle engine griefing scripts were the usual, but lately “advertising” prims which replicated like mad and flew in all directions had become all the rage among the insane set.

Tilly and Dimweed were equipped with two powerful tools, beside their attractive truncheons. First they could call Linden Central and shut down an offending script or program. And second they could ‘ban’ a griefer temporarily until a trial could be held in Capital City. The ban was very effective, but the griefers never showed up for trial and they simply changed their names and appearance and popped up someplace else to spread their misery, hatred, and their jejune stupidity.

They had been on the job for less than an hour when they spotted their first griefer. He was using an illegal copy bot to steal hair at the boutique. Dimweed was the first to spot the criminal and they both held back to make absolutely sure that the thief was guilty. Tilly did a quick profile check on the avatar named ‘sosyouroldman Samel’. Just as she expected the avatar was only hours old, yet he could walk, fly, and steal like the experienced pro he was.

“He’s an alt,” whispered Tilly to Dimweed. Dimweed nodded.

Tilly and Dimweed stepped behind a tall signpost to consider their options. Tilly consulted her note cards on policy and procedure for copy bot thieves. As she read Dimweed kept the ‘perp’ under survelience. When Tilly completed the logic tree the remaining branch pointed to ‘Call For Backup - Notify Linden Central.’

Tilly was nervous and excited. Her palms were sweating. She reached for the message button and clicked it.

“Yah, wadda ya want?” asked an irritated and sleepy voice on the other end of the IM machine.

“Copy Bot thief observed stealing hair in LaLa Moon. This is Tilly Twollop ATV number 34B.” said Tilly in her deepest voice. “Requesting back-up per procedure 2, ASAP.”

“Why didn’t you say that earlier,” said the disembodied voice. “I’m sending Officer Kropkee right away.”

Within moments Officer Kropkee appeared. Tilly and Dimweed snapped to attention. Officer Kropkee looked annoyed at all their spit polish, neatly brushed hair and fur, and their newbee excitement.

“Where?” asked Kropkee. Tilly and Dimweed both pointed to ‘sosyouroldman Samel’. Samel was ripping off red wigs only. Probably a fetishist thought Tilly. She had dated one of those for a month before she got disgusted with his constant need for licorice whips and banana fritters.

Kropkee watched for a moment and then walked swiftly to the perp truncheon in hand. “Whats in your inventory Samel, if that’s your real name?” said Kropkee in a really deep and scary voice.

Samel was surprised and practically jumped from his skin as he saw the Officer.

“Nothin,” said Samel. “Nothin at all copper.”

He’s a hard one thought Tilly. Probably a serial offender.

“Come with me to the station, Samel, your under arrest for stealing stuff with a copy bot,” said Kropkee. Tilly and Dimweed came from out behind the sign and joined Kropkee figuring it was now safe to be seen.

Samel sneered at them both. He’s a bad egg thought Tilly.

Officer Kropkee cuffed Samel and turned to Tilly and Dimweed. “Nice job kids,” he said. “Good work.”

Tilly felt so proud and she could see Dimweed smile in a toothy grin that revealed all seventeen of his canines.

Soon Kropkee and the perp were gone.

“That will show them,” said Dimweed.

“What ya want for lunch?” asked Tilly.

Dimweed thought a bit and said, “How about kibble and bits?”

“Sounds good,” said Tilly “I never had that before.”

As both Dimweed and Tilly turned to go to lunch the both stopped cold in their tracks.

For standing before them was a sneering and evil looking sosyouoldman Samel. To make this difficult confrontation really bad, Tilly noticed, that there were 10 of sosyouroldman Samel standing there. Tilly gulped, this is not in the ATV note cards she thought.

CHAPTER 11 - SORROW

2007-10-07T18:11:00.000-07:00

Mallory Sauternau had slept late. The famed Tinker Bell had sounded 2:30 hours ago. Mallory’s wake up box had been screeching for hours. She lay in her slip and bra on clean but worn sheets in her Murphy bed oblivious to everything. Two empty rum bottles lay on the floor. ‘English Harbor’ read the labels on the bottles. Until last night they had lain in Sam’s drawer untouched for three years. Something had broken in Mallory’s psyche last night. The demons had gang tackled her as she returned soused from Gigots gin joint.

She had sat at the edge of the bed and had started crying. Her failed career as a detective on the force, they way they threw her out of the department, the Goodword incident, the rampant corruption and hypocrisy of Capital City, and Sam’s murder had all driven her to the edge of madness. Everyone knew Mallory was tough and hard, all except Mallory herself. She new the truth.

Her hand on her cheeks and her elbows on her knees she sobbed and sobbed. Unable to overcome the grief and sadness rising up within her from some dark place in desperation she sought relief in drink. Rum had done little to stop the thoughts, the memories, and the fears. At about four in the morning she had passed out. But as drunk and unconscious as she was she kept seeing Sam’s face. Always Sam’s face.

She had come to hate Sam for leaving her, for taking her last chance at happiness, and for abandoning her in this ugly dirty world. Just when she thought she might find something better, ever just a little better, it had been snatched from her. Taken by Goodword, stolen by corruption, and destroyed by greed.

There was a light knock on the door. The smoked glass on the door read Mallory Sauternau and Sam Strong – Private Detectives – by reference only. Mallory did not hear the knock. She heard nothing in her dark oblivion. The knock came again a bit louder. A key slipped in the lock on the door and a young woman in a green dress stepped in. She walked through the office and into the bedroom. She looked down at Mallory and sighed.

Trixi set her oversized and once fashionable bag down on the only chair in the bedroom. Trixi turned to the tiny bathroom with its small shower. She turned on the water which ran brown for a few moments. The water pressure wavered. Finally the water grew warm. Not too hot, thought Trixi, just warm enough. She returned to the bed room & kitchen and killed the wake up box.

“God Mallory,” Trixi said to herself, “how could you let it get this bad?” But Trixi knew the truth. Sam had been everything Mallory. Every girl wanted a man like Sam. But now he was dead. Murdered at Goodword in a town that didn’t care. This town killed Sam, Trixi knew. The Mayor, the Chief, the Order, even the Governor were part of it, or had turned away when they saw Sam lying on the cement of the homeless shelter with a dagger in his back.

Trixi drew a deep breath. She pulled Mallory from the bed and carried her to the shower. Mallory’s lost weight again thought Trixi. She removed Mallory’s few underclothes and put her in the shower. Trixi grabbed a wooden waste basket. She dumped the few contents into the sink. Trixi turned the waste basket over and sat on it. She sat watching the shower and Mallory.

Mallory moaned.

Trixi knew Mallory was going to be sick. But she also knew that there would be nothing in Mallory’s gut but rum, grappa, and bile. The shower with running water was the best place for her to be sick. And I’m here, thought Trixi, to keep her from drowning in the inch of water at the bottom of the shower.

Trixi fumbled for the me-Phone. A long night was ahead. She phoned Khron’s deli and ordered delivery for six oclock. Chicken soup for Mallory. A ham on rye with brown mustard and a dark beer for her. Khrons was on the first floor of the Dowdily building and Mallory’s office flat was on the sixth. She would have to tip the delivery girl for climbing all those stairs. The elevator had quit working years ago.

Across the street stood The Times building and several small crowds had gathered around the news urchins who were shouting out about an extra edition. Trixi thought about getting up and closing the window to keep out the noise. But she decided that Mallory would not be bothered by the noise. At least not yet.

Trixi stood and took five steps to her purse and immediately returned to the shower. Mallory had slipped just a bit. Not enough to matter. She opened her purse and pulled out a half empty pack of low cal cigarettes. She lit one. Trixi sat thinking about the past. About the days when Trixi with Danny and Mallory with Sam went dancing at the Ocean Club at the far end of the Ocean Shore Pier. Those were wonderful days and fantastic nights. The rhythmic music, the silly flirtatious dancing, the small talk that had so much meaning, the gazing at the sea and the stars, before setting off for home, and bed, and love.

Trixi was about to cry when Mallory moaned again. Mallory started to shiver. She’s not cold knew Trixi. “It’s the booze,” she said to herself, “The damned booze.”

Trixi looked carefully at Mallory laying naked under the streaming water from the ancient brass calcium encrusted shower head. She took a chance and walked quickly to the window. She stuck out her head and shouted to the news urchin, “bring up a paper, there’s a linden tip in it for you. Office 603. Fast.” The news kid smiled, a linden was a lot for just running up six flights of stairs.

Trixi checked the shower, Mallory was still as death. She had not moved.

There was a hard knock at the door. Trixi reached for a two linden note and opened the door. The news kid was short or very young. Perhaps 9. Not more than 10 thought Mallory. The kid had a big smile. A high tip smile. She gave him a two linden note. The kid doffed his cap, handed her a thin paper, and turned running for the stairs.

Trixi closed the door and rushed back to the shower. She dropped the newspaper on the closed fabric covered toilet seat. Mallory had not moved. Trixi tested the water. The water was a bit warmer. Trixi nudged the cold tap a bit and the pipes began to bang and thump. Water hammer Trixi knew. Mallory moaned again and then tried to vomit. The dry heaves though Trixi. Trixi turned down the hot water and the noise stopped.

A long night thought Trixi. Trixi reached for the toilet lid and lifted it a little. The newspaper fell to the floor. She dropped her dying cigarette into the water. The stubby cigarette hissed briefly and died.

Mallory tried to vomit again. A thin brownish stream of mucus and fluid flowed from the corner of Mallory’s mouth. Mallory began to cough.

Trixi grasped Mallory’s fading blond hair and held up her head. Then Trixi stood and grabbed Mallory about the shoulders and tried to lift her to her feet. Mallory was all dead weight. Trixi set her down carefully on the tile shower floor.

Mallory tried to vomit again.

Trixi reached for her purse again and found the cigarettes. She lit one up. Then she looked about at the bathroom and the apartment. The bathroom was old and worn out, but it was clean. Mallory was clean thought Trixi. The shower curtain was plastic and cracked. Butterflies and autumn leaves had once adorned the curtain, but they had faded.

The yellow paint was fresh. Mallory and Trixi had done that in a weekend not long ago. The paint had softened all the hard edges in the bathroom and rounded out the corners. They had joked on that day that the paint must be twenty coatings deep. They were almost right. The paint was thirty coats deep and was the strongest element in the bath that held up the rotting and weakened walls.

A small high window let in fresh air and allowed the shower mist to vent into the darkening sky. The toilet seat cover was fashioned from an old apron that Trixi remembered from happier days. There were large yellow daises imprinted on the fabric. A tiny shelf held a small collection of high end cosmetics. Most of the containers were emptied long ago. They had become monuments to another life, a separate existence, now gone but never forgotten.

A small bottle of Old Spice aftershave held the place of honor on the little shelf. The mirror was screwed to the wall and the silver was pealing on the back. To apply lipstick you had to squat a little. Mallory had called it subterranean beautification. The tile floor of the bathroom had a large crack running diagonally from the door toward the far wall. Air had flowed from below through the part of the crack. But one night, not long after Sam had died, Mallory had filled the worst portion of the crack in with tooth paste. She was desperate to keep the cockroaches out. It had worked. In a month or so it had solidified and regular washings of the floor did little to affect it.

Two large pink towels hung from a brass rail on the door. The railing had once been silvery. Trixi could tell because the ends were still a bit shiny. But the silver had worn away a long long time ago. The towels were new but they were cheap. The pile was thin.

It was getting quiet outside. The news urchins had stopped shouting an hour or so ago. Probably moving off into other portions of the central city. Trixi looked at her watch. 6:30 it read. Khrons was late as usual. She was about to call, when there was a loud knock on the door. Trixi looked at Mallory. She figured she could leave the bathroom for a moment.

She stood, pulled the hem down on her green dress. She lifted the toilet seat a bit and threw her dying cigarette into the water to join its dead soggy brethren. The door resounded with an even louder knock. Khrons was never that insistent, besides they made deliveries all the time the office and they usually just left the packages on the floor by the door. Malloy was good for it they knew.

“Ok, ok,” said Trixi loudly. She took another look at Mallory and then exited the bathroom and walked quickly through the bedroom and into the office. She unlocked the door and it opened.

A man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a white Tuxedo and he was in a hurry. A young women dressed in the latest punk fashions stood behind him.

“Where’s Mallory,” said the man as he forced his way into the office. Trixi stood back. This guy was determined thought Trixi. The young woman followed. The woman looked about the room and Trixi thought she must be security for this guy. She had that look in her eyes. She was tough and wiry.

“She’s out on a case,” lied Trixi. She could hear the water running loudly in the bathroom. She knew she was going to fool no one. Mallory had started coughing again.

“Have you seen the paper,” asked the man in the tuxedo.

“No,” said Trixi. “I got the paper but I didn’t look at it.”

“Here,” said the man handing Trixi the extra edition of The Times.

EXTRA – AMBASSADOR TUX KIDNAPED,
LINUX DEMANDS RELEASE OF FAMED PENGUIN,
read the headlines.

Trixi heard Mallory trying to vomit again. Trixi turned to the young woman and said, “I need your help.”

“Sure,” said the young woman.

Then she turned to the man in the tux. “Stay here,” said Trixi with a voice edged in iron.

CHAPTER 10 - TUX

2007-10-07T14:36:00.000-07:00

Chris Llanfair stood before a tall mirror and adjusted his bow tie.

“Your cummerbund is all wrong,” said Witney his daughter. Witney reached for the pull tab on the cummerbund and pulled it down a bit and to the left. “There, that’s better,” she said.

I ought to buy a tuxedo though Chris rather than always rent one. This one smelled kind of funky he thought. Whitney had insisted on white, even though Chris preferred traditional pink and orange.

Chris had been invited to a reception for the Ambassador from Linux at the Governor’s Mansion. Chris did not want to go. He had been to five receptions in one week and the canapés, Dom Pigeon, and idle chit chat were driving him nuts. Perhaps Sindy Blazer would be there thought Chris. Sindy was always good for a laugh and a snide but penetrating remark. That is if he did not have to sit on the dias and look interested while the Governor droned on about mutual respectful relationships and goodwill in both the real and virtual universes.

Witney was going to be his escort. Following the Druid defeat on Mount Sodom, both Chris and Witney had developed a better more balanced relationship. Witney was not longer the self obsessed delinquent nietzscheist little girl he had loved as a child and despised as a teenager. She had become a responsible young woman, even if she was a bit of a punk and was constantly humming weird songs by Discharge, or Deathchange. Witney had talent thought Chris. Humming punk music was especially difficult. She was also handy with her hands and feet Chris had observed during the ferocious fight with the Druid's Army of Circe in the ancient forest on Mount Sodom. Chris was happy to realize that all those years at the very expensive Reform School for Incorrigible Girls and Dykes, where she had learned to fight with aplomb, grace, and with a wicked and deadly hook kick, were well worth the lindens.

Witney looked at her dad and though about how much smarter he had become in the last two years. She realized that her dad was no longer the money obsessed uncaring bureaucrat she had known as a child and teen. He was now simply filthy rich and under here careful tutelage he was learning how to spend it. He was pretty smart too, she had come to understand. How many fathers could print legal tender in their basement and in huge amounts. Yes, her dad had really grown up after he eventually got around to reading the compendium of the Medway Group of Poets she had given him as a send off gift as she stood at the gate to the reform school and freedom. The school had been the best thing that ever happened to Whitney and she never failed to attend the annual reunions or carefully read the monthly alumni magazine ‘Die Pig Die.’ Witney loved her job as Chauffeur to the powerful and still missing Senator Hyram Funstas. The Senator was easy to work for and he paid for all the tickets and parking fines she got while driving his armored limousine. The Senator has some odd ideas about sex, but to Witney just about everything concerning sex was either odd or outrageously funny. Except for the good parts of course, thought Witney.

Witney looked at the clock and realized they would be late if they didn’t get hustling. Witney paused for a moment to adjust her tee shirt with the fashionable and revealing tear across the chest. She looked at her Doc Martinis and realized she needed to sandpaper the toes better when she got home. Her bondage pants of a pale yellow and puce plaid completed her look and her single spike of hair toped off her look in a stunning and trendy way.

“Come on dad, we gotta run.” Witney said as she headed toward the stairs and the enormous armored limo with gold wall tires waiting below in the circular drive. It was the Senator’s limo and the V8 engine was warming up.

A long line of flying carpets was streaming down Capital City Expressway on the way to Governor Linden’s Official Residence. They were moving fast and security was light although all precautions had been taken to ensure the Ambassador from Linux would be safe. In the lead were two police carpets with red lights flashing as if to say “get out of my way or ill run you down.” The caravan swiftly passed the burned out Capital City Stadium from which wisps of smoke could still be seen even thought the riot which had burned the stadium to the ground had occurred months ago. Soon the caravan reached the sweeping curve of the expressway as it headed north toward the capital dome. On the right of the expressway was the famed Oak Forest which had just begun to loose their leaves in the autumn weather. Ahead was the King Chlodric the Paracide Suspension Bridge which spanned the wide and wet Muddy River.

A bridge maintance crew was painting new wriggly lines on the bridge and three avatars stood leaning against their shovels next to a large Turkoman Van parked by the side of the bridge. On the side of the van was a large logo and lettering that said ‘NAGS Industries.’ The logo looked a bit like an avatar surrounded by ghost images of itself fading into the distance.

A Possum’s Hot Dog cart was on the roadside under the shade of a very large and very old oak and several tourists were munching on Possum’s famous dogs. Sandy, the hot dog vendor was having trouble making change for a 100 linden note. Finally Sandy substituted extra condiments for the change he lacked.

A cement mixer had stalled in the middle of the span, and two City Cops were setting out flares and stopping traffic. The Ambassador’s caravan slowed to a stop. Traffic soon piled up behind them. The driver of the cement mixer had the hood of the carpet up and he could be seen kicking the leading fringe and shouting.

The cops at the bridge approached the two lead police carpets and chatted briefly with the officer in charge. They were laughing at some private joke. In a few moments the two bridge cops approached the line of cars in the caravan.

One of the cops came up to the Ambassadors’ Limo and motioned to the driver to lower the window. Montgomery Melva, the limo driver for the Governor was driving the Ambassador and he hit the window button and leaned out the window to ask the cop how long it would be. He never got the question out of his mouth. His account was canceled before he could even speak.

Sindy Blazer had just left the afternoon session of the boring scientific conference. She had written her article on the presentation on her blackburry. Her thumbs hurt and her chocolate red nail polish had been worn on the leading edge of her finger nails and this put her in a bad mood. She reached for her me-Phone and called her number at the office. One ring, two ring…

“hello, sindy’s not here leave a message the beep. beeeepp”

“Jimmy,” yelled Sindy “Stop that, you’re not an answering machine.”

“oh sorry miss sindy, i didn’t know it was you,” said Jimmy Whashisname the copy boy and office lurker at The Times.

“I going to send in my lead article now by blackburry. Make sure it gets to the city desk and this time don’t correct my grammar. Jimmy do you even know how to spell preposition?”

“no,” said Jimmy. “i wont mark it up or improve it i promise.” He said.

“You better not,” said Sindy. “Ok here it comes.” Sindy punched a sequence of keys on the blackburry and the article hit the ether.

“Bye,” said Sindy and she hung up without waiting for Jimmy’s reply.

Jimmy went to the printer and immediately printed a copy of the article. He reached for his yellow crayon, but it was too worn to be useful. As the article was printing he faced a dilemma – eggplant or peach. Decisions were difficult for Jimmy so he decided to choose based on alphabetical order. He pulled the papers from the printer and sat down at Sindy’s messy desk. Holding the peach crayon in his hand he quickly realized he could really improve this journalistic effort. Before he set to work he read the article carefully.

MORE CRAZY HUMOR FROM THE SCIENCE CONFERENCE
FLAT FRACTURES FUNDAMENTALISTS

Sindy Blazer, Science Editor The Times. Times Semaphore.

(HOTO Forum, Sim of Sonogno) The assembled geniuses and really smart people at the Conference for the Scientific Determination of All Things, known as CSDAT, have seen a number of humorous and loopy ideas presented, along with some serious proof’s for conventional wisdom. Today’s nutty suede-o-scientific theory was presented by Sadie Silverman of Rideo College.

The cause of all the merriment and laughter her paper entitled: ‘Proofs that Second Life is Really Flat and Not Round Like The Big Brainy People Say.’ Sadie, who has a GED equivalent from the Sonogno School for Wayward Girls, was not into her presentation for more than a moment before the laughter and guffaws sounded through out the vast hall of the Forum. In research funded by the Flat Second Life Society Sadie humorously claimed that if Second Life were indeed round how could the ‘accepted’ scientists explain the impossibilities of holding unsecured objects in place on a curved surface.

To which Igor Eisenstein, the smartest man in Second Life and winner of the bronze medal, shouted “Yes, and how can you hold all those impossible ideas in such a small head!”, as he threw his popcorn and soda at the podium.

Sadie barely got out her second argument that “down is down and therefore the world cannot be round, for if one avatar’s down is another avatar’s up, then the whole of Second Life would be in chaos”.

At this point the assembled leading lights of the scientific community began to glow incandescent with mirth and gaiety. Soon the amused attendees realized that the presentation was the evening’s farcical entertainment. Hanging on every joke, the brainy, canny, and clever were reduced to tears. Of particular note were the jokes on the difficulty of maintaining oceans and the ‘fluid problem’ on a sphere.

Some of the jokes and audience replies, although hilarious, cannot be printed here due to their scatological nature. Sadie’s presentation ended to thunderous applause and a jolly time was had by all. Sadie Silverman is appearing nightly at Heart Of The Ocean’s comedy club – the Bloodshot Eye.

Tomorrow an overflow crowd is anticipated to hear Professor Ora Fora, head of the Department of Disasters, Ruin, and Desolation of the Junior University of Second Life (Rossa Campus). Her paper ‘Time Inflation in Second Life – A Proof’ has already created much buzz and rotten tomatoes were sold out early for her presentation.

CHAPTER 9 - LONGING

2007-10-07T11:04:00.000-07:00

Chief Petty Officers Kees Kepler and Macboy Jewell, both members of the Blue Navy’s elite Omega Squad, had been given a months leave after the defeat of the Druid plot to restore the disgraced Monforte’s to the throne of Second Life. It took them almost two months to complete the paperwork, the reviews, and all the minutia of military life before they could find a month that would be free.

But as early fall approached they finally broke free of Blue Navy responsibilities. This was to be a commando’s holiday and they had planned carefully an adventure to the most remote and difficult lands to explore in all of Second Life. After searching all the available maps and plans they could find in Linden’s sim libraries they decided to climb the mountains of the Kun Lun range on the boarder of the remote sims of East Egg and Shangri La on the very edge of Second Life.

There remained only one unpleasant task to complete before they could leave for their holiday in the remote mountains.

They were to be decorated by the Second Sea Lord for bravery.

Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, famed historian, and Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party, had granted them the entry into the exhaulted order of the Kinghts of Garter of Saint Squamus Third Class. The last thing both Kees and Macboy wanted in their lives was to be called ‘Sir’ Chief Petty Officer by every wet behind the ears recruit and wise ass in the Blue Ocean Navy. They had thought seriously about declining the offer but when they approached their commanding officer Lieutenant Commander Growling he would not hear of it. They simply could not decline an honor from the Monfortes. Regardless of the clear line of insanity and madness that ran through the Monforte clan, the Blue Navy had never declined an honor since the Navy saved the Monforte clan by switching sides and joining the Lindens in the Yellow Revolution on the condition that the Monfortes be neutered and preserved in the Sim of Aspic. That had been more than 200 years ago, and much had changed, but the Blue Navy had a long tradition of deference to the Monfortes, even if they always disregarded their advice and council. Tradition was powerful in the Navy and both Macboy and Kees knew that it was hopeless to decline the offer.

The ceremony had been brief and was held at the secret garden within the Long White Hall in the capital. Since both Kees and Macboy were members of a secret special services force, the Dark Commandos and they were never allowed to wear the patch of the commandos – the screaming ferret. But just about everyone in the Blue Navy knew of the Dark Commandos and their motto "Audaces Fortuna Juvat." Any observant Navy person with any tenure could just look at the physique of Kees or Macboy and know who and what they were. There was something about the eyes, and the biceps, and the gluts that said “Don’t mess with me or I’ll kill you.”

As much as they didn’t want the recognition, they still thrilled to the ceremony and honors when the Second Sea Lord and Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV entered the courtyard to the thunder of the drums and the flourishes of the trumpets. Lined up in two neat files were 22 members of the elite corps. As Macboy and Kees stood at attention they saw many famed and honored warriors including One Eyed Peet the famed parrot hero of the Battle of Nobs, Seaman Pookie, Bucky Fullerine, Commander White Fang, and the old and aged Black Tooth. They were standing at attention in recognition of Macboy and Kees.

The Second Sea Lord read the letter of commendation signed by Governor Linden himself, and then Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV stepped forward to pin on their medals. Both Kees and Macboy were once again surprised at how tall the last of the Monforte dynasty was at 4 foot 2. A large box had been placed in front of both Macboy and Kees and Montforte IV stepped up and began the pinning ceremony. After kissing Macboy on both cheeks, in the Montfore way, he held Macboy’s cameo lapel and thrust the pin of the medal deep into Macboys chest. Macboy, who was expecting this, having met Muffin during the Druid plot, did not flinch. Nor did Kees, when Muffin repeated the gesture on Kees manly chest.

They both smartly saluted and marched off to the arches over the exit to the hidden courtyard of the Long White Hall. Then out of sight, they winced in pain.

“Got them good, didn’t you Muffin,” laughed the Second Sea Lord.

“Is mus learns ta do it rite,” said Muffin in the old language. He was always getting the pining part wrong he recognized.

Armed with a tube of newsporin and a package of band aids Kees and Macboy set out on their adventure. Carrying 70 pound packs of camping gear, foodstuffs, and of course ever present weapons for personal defense and overwhelming offense. They caught the Rapido under Memorial Park and traveled south to the end of the line at Meola. From Meola they caught the ferry to Jurang and began a hike to the very edge of second life and the Kur Lun range along the boarder of East Egg and Shangri La.

They arrived at the Valley of the Hearts Delight on the southern side of the range and set up camp for the night on the edge of a vast forest and in the shade of an enormous Kauri tree. About a dozen scripted Elk grazed in a meadow below their campsite. A brook meandered across a green meadow and in the distance they could see the headwaters of the River of Stix. It had been a long five days to get to this location and the set up camp in the late afternoon. The ground was damp but they built a large campfire and by the time the sun had set they were comfortable and dry. They had placed a plastic collapsible bucket of water near the campfire just in case.

Kees stood on a small rise where they had pitched their tent and surveyed the countryside through his powerful Monocular. They were far from civilization and the mini-maps indicated that they were alone and that the surrounding sims were empty as well. These were wilderness sims.

Neither Kees nor Macboy spoke as the sky faded to jet black and the stars shone like a million rats eyes reflected from the campfire below. Macboy stood and stretched and threw some more sticks on the fire. It briefly died down with the new fuel load, but soon it grew in brightness. The moon had not appeared and according to the SL Almanac, printed by The Times, the moon would not rise until about midnight.

Kees grabbed his pack and unlaced a side pocket. He pulled out a couple of lumps of C-10 scripted explosives, two tins of Clumpetts Fern and Lichen Soup, and handful of wolf biscuits. Never can tell when you need wolf biscuits thought Kees. Then he reached deeper into the pack and pulled a deck of playing cards from the pocket. Kees carefully repacked the pocket on the pack and relaced the flap.

Macboy sat down. Kees shuffled the deck and then handed it to Macboy who promptly cut it and returned it to Kees. On the back side of the playing cards was a picture of a scantily clad girl. Macboy recognized Miss Tuesday from Navy Babes Magazine. A good choice thought Macboy. It showed good taste. Kees delt out seven cards in two piles and picked one up. Macboy looked about the ring of light that surrounded them from the fire and then into the darkness beyond. Frog scripts sounded in the distance down by the brook

“Does not get any better than this,” said Macboy.

Kees nodded.

“You go first,” said Kees.

Macboy looked closely at his seven cards. “Got any nines?” Macboy asked.

“Go fish,” replied Kees.

Kees reached for a card. It was an 11 of plums.

“Remember those girls on Singsong Island in the Sea of Dreams?” asked Kees.

Macboy looked up and smiled. “Who could forget,” he replied.

“What was her name? You know, the one with the jugs,” asked Kees.

“Ah,” said Macboy. “The wine bearer. I remember you were drinking Merlot and I stuck with the Chables. Those were some jugs I must say,” he said while a large smile slowly spread from ear to ear.

“Well what was her name?” repeated Kees.

Macboy looked into space to think a moment. In the distance he saw a shooting star. A good luck omen in Second Life. Then there was another and another. Kees stood to get a better look and Macboy stood too. Kees leaned down and picked up his monocular to get a better look. The western sky was filled with bright lights descending from high above. Kees set the monocular to the maximum distance allowed by the graphic preferences setting and began to carefully look.

“There not stars,” said Kees as he handed the monocular to Macboy.

Macboy took a look. A long time passed before Macboy lowered the Monocular and spoke. “No not stars.”

“Yeh,” said Kees. “More like 10 meter blank prims falling from the sky.”

“But why out here in the wilderness,” asked Macboy. “I thought this was protected lands?”

“It is,” said Kees as he looked carefully at his map. “Those prims are falling from a region of void. There are no sims out there. None. Its beyond the edge of Second Life.”

“What do you think,” asked Macboy.

Kees thought for a while before he spoke. “Its just like the Second Sea Lord said, there’s a ghost sim out there and someone is constructing stuff there. A lot of folks I’d say based on the volume of those falling prims.”

Macboy walked to the fire, lifted the bucket of water and poured it onto the flames. The fire hissed and a cloud of smokey tasting steam rose from the fire pit. The fire was out but a few coals remained glowing.

“Her name was Lilly,” said Kees. “Lilly Longing.”

CHAPTER 8 - REAL WORLD

2007-10-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

Punky rose early from her big fluffy bed in the Faculty Housing section of the campus. She had an enormous Victorian style house all to herself. Punky decided she could sleep here in a guest room, but she was very uncomfortable, in the old house, because this was Professor Raphus home. She had too much respect for Old Bird Brain to enter any of the rooms other than to take a quick glance and to make sure that the windows were closed and everything was ship shape. She had decided to restrict herself to the guest bedroom, the guest bath, which was quite nice, and the professor’s study. She had planned not to use the study, but in order to prepare her lesson plans for Flight 101 she needed a mountain of reference materials and flight manuals. All these and more she found in the study.

The study was a large room and toward the front of the house on the first floor. It had obviously once been a parlor, but now it was positively stuffed with books, manuals, files, records, air ship models and designs, and all kinds of memorabilia covering almost a century of teaching at the Academy of Balloons. Punky had decided that Professor Raphus would say it was ‘ok’ if he had been there and understood the need to keep the cadets on schedule in meeting their graduation requirements.

The professor always was insisting on “time in the seat” as a solution to almost every flight issue or pilot error. By that, the Professor meant that in every spare moment a cadet had, should be airborne. Flying, flying, flying was his mantra.

Punky remembered once when the Professor had come across Punky sleeping under the giant second class gum tree. He laughed loudly, kicked Punky gently, and ordered her aloft.

“If you’re going to sleep Punky, I insist you do it airborne,” intoned the Professor.

Which is exactly what Punky did. She ran to the Aerodrome and joined a crew that had formed to go on a lark to the Sim of Io. She went along, but sleep was impossible. It was too exciting. That was the day she learned to swap red hot exhaust tubes from an active boiler with nothing more than two spoons and an empty soup can. Yes, ‘time in the seat’ was critical Punky had come to recognize.

Punky had skipped breakfast to stay in the Professors Study and get the lesson plan in order. For the life of her she could not remember the details of the wreck of the Hesperus which was always used in the first class to demonstrate the need for proper training and carefully following protocol, and then throwing out the protocols, when they didn’t attain the desire outcome. So she started looking about the office for reference materials. On a table near the door she found a large and carefully laid out stack of folders. Each one was labeled Flight 101 and a lesson number. Wow, thought Punky.

Dare I use the professors lecture plans? This would normally present a moral dilemma, but Punky was only an ‘Acting Professor’ and by using the professors notes Punky was more likely to avoid fatalities which inevitably occurred in flight training at the Academy. Yes she though, Old Bird Brain would approve.

Punky picked up the stack of folders and took them to the desk and sat down. She opened the first file and began to read. Quickly she realized that the lecture notes were the work of generations of Blimp and Balloon flight instructors, not just the professor. They were written in many hands and the style of the language indicated that the notes went back at least 200 years and perhaps to the dawn of the balloon. Some sections dealing with ancient technologies or outdated flight concepts were crossed out and new section attached by little slips of paper carefully pasted along one side and covering the older section. You could lift up the new inserts and still read the older instructions. The section on navigation aids was almost a tiny book and the oldest entry referred to bonfires and dragons teeth. The whole history of navigation in the Balloon service and then in the Blimp Corps was laid out in the little stacks of notes covered in dense writing from many generations of instructors.

It was almost evening when Punky realized that she had become entranced by the lecture notes. She was really hungry. She was about to stand up and go the commissary when she noticed that the Professors rug in the far corner had a lump under it. She would not have noticed, but the slanting light of the setting sun created deep shadows on the rug along the far wall near an over-loaded bookcase. The lump was rectangular and was clearly a file. Punky’s curiosity got the better of her and she walked to the edge of the rug and pulled the corner up.

Yes it was a file. A brown file with a red diagonal stripe. The file used for holding student records. Punky picked up the file unsure if she should look further, but clearly the file did not belong here decided Punky. Perhaps in the morning she would return the file to the Registrar of Cadets.

She placed the thick file on the desk and then she read the tab on the edge. Loopy Lou, 7488, it read.

Punky swallowed. Then she was stuck with an uncontrollable urge, like the night she jumped onto the ghost ship, and she took the file to a big red leather overstuffed chair. She turned on the tiffany lamp and sat down. She opened the file and began to read. Soon she had forgotten all about lesson plans, potential fatalities, and dinner. What she read raised the hair on the back of her small neck.

Sindy and gone to the boring scientific conference and had found it quiet interesting. Fascinating in fact. She sat in her office thinking about the impact of what she had heard in the evening keynote lecture and the entertainment that followed.

“Copy boy,” she yelled.

“yes sindy,” replied Jimmy already out of breath even though he had been lurking in the doorway for hours.

“Take this copy to the City Desk, and pronto,” shouted Sindy in her best reportorial voice.

Jimmy grabbed the copy carefully written out in long hand on pulpy yellow paper. He dashed from the office, but had barely turned the corner when he stopped. No one was looking so he stepped into the Janitors closet to read Sindy’s copy and learn more about journalism.

“Get out of here your pervert!” shouted Lilly Long.

“Sheesh get your little journalistic nose into somebody else’s business,” said Tanner Gunst.

“sorry,” said Jimmy carefully noting with his newly developed journalistic eye that Tanner’s trousers were all akimbo.

Jimmy exited the janitor’s closet and found an empty cubical. It was the cubical used by the famed sports reporter Armstrong “Its Outta Here” Weik. Weik was never here because he was always at the game or in Willie’s Sports Tavern under center field interviewing fans and players. Jimmy sat in Willie’s chair and spread Sindy’s copy before him. Jimmy got a fresh piece of paper from the drawer and a yellow crayon from his shirt pocket and prepared himself to take lessons and learn from an acknowledge master of journalistic slander and innuendo.

The article read:

UNIVERSITY PHENOMONOLOGY SCIENTEST SAYS SECOND LIFE IS NOT REAL.
REAL WRONG WRITES LOONY LOOSER
Sindy Blazer, Science Editor for The Times. Times Semaphore.

(Heart of the Ocean Forum, Sonogno) - Disgraced University Scientist, Daneel Looby, former head of the Phenomenology and Existential Sciences Department at the University of Sonogno, was booed off the stage at the Conference for the Scientific Determination of All Things meeting held at the Forum of HOTO in the Sim of Sonogno.

In a controversial paper, Professor Looby stupidly claimed that all that we do and say is not real.

“What a loopy idea,” commented famed Scientist Igor Eisenstein. “My foot is real, the air I fly through is real, and the lust in my loins is really real. What a dope,” said the bronze medal winning scientist.

Donnatella Fernachi, science maven and all around hottie, kept screaming over an over again the phrase "Esse est percipi" as the crowd drowned out the presentation by the really dumb scientist.

Speaking for conventional wisdom, Professor Rogoshin of the University Department of Accepted Precepts and Safe Thought pointed out it follows that any knowledge of Second Life is obtained only through direct perception, and mistakes come to us from thinking about what other individuals perceive. Knowledge of the world and of avatars and prims and actions may be purified and perfected by stripping away all but the pure perceptions found on our graphics displays.

Therefore the ideal avatar in Second Life forms his knowledge through pure un-thoughtful perceptions of the graphics display, and if we would all look to the superficial found in SL, we would develop deep insights into the natural world and the hearts of avatars.

Fernachi conclude that the goal of any right thinking avatar is to de-realiticize and de-morphacize avatar perceptions.

The foolish Professor Looby was chased from the stage by a pack of raving empiricists carrying pitchforks and flaming torches. Looby’s whereabouts are unknown.

CHAPTER 7 - BEAST STREET SCENE

2007-10-06T17:07:00.000-07:00

Sindy entered her office with a headache. As she turned on the light she was greeted with a mess. Her desk was overturned, he chair lay upside down its seat stuffing spilling out at the sides from deep cuts and splits. She dropped the greasy Strawbucks bag on to a pile of unopened spam. Her papers lay strewn all over the floor in complete confusion. “Ah,” she said to no one in particular, “home sweet home. Just as I left it.”

Puling up her chair and righting her desk, Sindy fished inside the desk drawer and found her schedule of appointments for the day. Sindy took a sip of her Dopy Expressino. Let’s see, she thought, it’s three o’clock and besides the covering the opening of boring scientific conference, what else do I need to get done, before we proof and dummy this rag? She loved newspaper talk, more than she loved ‘dirty’ talk.

After the conference at 7:00 pm, she had two options, go home to sleep, or attend the ‘Dance Till You Drop’ competition in her home town of Heart of the Ocean in the Sim of Sonogno. While sleep sounded like a good idea, ‘Dance Till You Drop’ always generated good copy and she was a little behind on her quota. Rummaging through the chaotic pile of papers in the “corner of notices” where she kept flyers, admonitions, lowdown, memo’s and poop sheets she found her invitation and it was for tomorrow night. Good she thought. Sleep is in the plan.

Ruprecht Murdstone, Executive Editor of the Times, had assigned Sindy to be Acting Science Editor, because Acell Algon, the previous Science Editor, had to be committed to the Scary Ward of the Home for the Occupationally Insane. He simply could not reconcile the virtual with the real, and with time he had become totally odd. Then Acell went totally nuts. Murdstone had decided that Acell was simply too intelligent for the task and besides he used too many big words. Murdstone was against big words because he felt they were wasteful of ink and paper and reduced advertising revenue. Why use a big word when a small one will do, Murdstone was always saying. He was always storming into journalist’s offices and demanding to know why they had chosen to use a word like ‘canoodle’ when ‘kiss’ was perfectly good. Or he would say why use ‘abhorrence’ when ‘hate’ was shorter.

His insistence on short words made some sense given the readership of The Times, but on the other hand it drove reporters like Acell to the edge of madness. Sindy remembered when Acell had begged Sindy for a four letter word for ‘idiochromosome’ and when Sindy suggested ‘sex’, a three letter word, Acell fell to the floor weeping. “That’s so wrong,” he moaned. Shortly after that Acell stopped talking and then a few weeks later he disappeared. Later when Sindy was covering a charity event, the ‘Ball for the Insane’, sponsored by the Find a Cure for AFK Foundation, she had discovered that Acell was locked up in a padded cell in the Home.

The event had been held in the Home’s east wing where nobs and blue bloods were locked up and the loonies were on display to elicit sympathy and obtain greater donations. Acell was not a blue blood and was in the derelict west wing for those covered by The Times health plan, if you could call it that. Sindy had gone looking for a clean bathroom. This was always a bad idea in a Home for the Occupationally Insane. She had taken a wrong turn and then looked into a large caged padded room crowded with avatars dressed or undressed in a wide variety of unique looks. At first Sindy thought this might be the fashion wing, because most of the clothes were trendy and hot currant. Eventually she realized that this was not the case, but not before she spotted Acell.

Acell came running to the bars when he saw Sindy.

“Sindy!” he cried. “You gotta get me out of here. Please, please.”

Sindy could only stare into his red crazed eyes. Acell’s hands were trembling uncontrollably and his white hospital gown was filthy.

“Please Sindy,” he screamed. “I’m not nuts! I promise to be good. Yes. Oh Sindy please.”

Sindy was moved by Acell’s pleas but he was locked up in the Home, so by definition he was nuts. He was also desperate, realized Sindy, and she backed away from the bars. Acell became more desperate as Sindy distanced herself.

“Now Sindy, Please don’t go, Sindy please don’t go, Sindy please don’t go back to New Orleans, You know I love you so.” He was singing realized Sindy and really loud and off key. As nutty as a California Mix thought Sindy.

Sindy moved further back. She needed to get out of there.

Acell grew desperate. He started drooling and as he screamed Sindy’s name spittle flew from his lips. The entire effect was shocking. So Sindy did what all good reporters do, she pulled out her me-Phone and took some snaps. She was formulating a headline and a kicker for a Sunday supplement on Great Minds Gone Bad, when Acell started to turn red. Sindy was becoming very uncomfortable.

A gentle nurse with a kind smile and knowing eyes came forward and placed a loving hand on Acell’s shoulder before she zapped him with her tazer. Acell fell to the floor writhing in agony. The kind nurse stroked Acell’s forehead and spoke softly to him in a most assuring way. Then she zapped him again for good measure.

Sindy turned and walked away. Sindy was depressed and shocked by the whole incident. As she quickly walked back toward the music and gaiety she heard Acell shouting in the distance.

“Loopy Loo Nags! Loopy Loo Nags!” Acell Screamed over and over again. Poor guy thought Sindy. Murdstone was right, big words were bad.

Mallory Sauternau approached the Reserve Bank building from the south along Alameda del Museo. She had chosen the round about way to the Bank. Mallory wanted to think. Think hard about recent events. The odd rumors, the freaky disappearance of small items from her inventory closet, and the street sweeper that had gone berserk last week and attacked the Dowdily Building. All was a puzzle thought Mallory.

Mallory left her two room office flat in the ancient and crumbling Dowdily Building and stepped onto Beast Street. Mallory paused for a moment as she always did to take in the street scene. Mallory had lived a charmed life in a city known for violence, indifference, and corruption. She had been careful, and years of dodging bullets, knives, and court orders had taught her a lot about criminals, thieves, and politicians.

Mallory wore a short pleated grey wool skirt and the hem fell just above her shapely calves. With a bit of chill in the autumn air she had worn knee high grey boots with sensible two inch stiletto heels. The shoes were Ferriguano knock offs from the Shoe Stadium on Ragnachar Avenue. A light beige silk shirt and a warm grey-green winter coat completed her wardrobe. In her hand she held the heavy package given to her by the Bank President months ago. It was heavy and unopened. In her other hand she held a small well used but still fashionable leather purse by Gnocchi. The purse was not a knock off and it was one of the few things she had that Sam had given her before Goodword. Goodword she thought, its shadow still fell across capital city like bottom of the bay of Fumis. The city was just as dark and it smelled just as bad.

Mallory reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Galois. She put one to her lips as the Capital to Palace Omnibus passed by packed with vacationers, day trippers, and pick pockets looking for an easy mark. Mallory lit the cigarette. She took a deep draw and held it for a moment before exhaling.

Down Beast Street at the Museo the tourists were lined up around the block. She could see that two rent-a-cops were taking forever to frisk the tourists before allowing them into the Museo. The young girls were getting the worst of it. The Possum Hot Dog cart was swamped with customers.

“Their dirty,” murmured Mallory. The rent-a-cops were on the take. Possum Corporation thought Mallory. The rent-a-cops were getting a percentage of the till. That’s why the line moved so slowly. Mallory laughed a small laugh. Little worry creases around her eyes broke through her foundation as she laughed. A bit of tobacco had stuck to her tongue and she spit it out from between her pouty full red lips.

Mallory looked up Beast Street to the north toward The Times Building. News urchins were streaming out of the side entrance with 30 pound bundles of news papers under their arms. As one kid, in short tweed trousers gathered just below the knees, with argyle socks, and a news kid’s cap came walking down Beast toward the Museo. “Extra, Extra, Linden’s to Tax for VAT, extra, read all about it!” the kid was yelling. Two shapely young women in dark blue woolen pants suits with cute eisenhoover jackets, were strolling down Beast Street chatting loudly about some guy they dumped last week. They were giggling loudly. Bank employees thought Mallory. Probably counter girls hired for their good looks and lack of guile. Except where men were concerned thought Mallory.

“Well did you do it?” asked the taller girl to the other.

“I’m not saying,” the shorter girl replied, “but he was a real looser in that department.”

The other girl laughed loudly and said “Yeah, I know. His mother told me so.”

“You knew his mother?” asked the other.

Mallory shifted her attention to a hip socialite trying to hail a pedi cab. She held a small brown paper bag with ‘Bag’ written on the side in large orange letters. Expensive thought Mallory. Probably contains lingerie she can use to tease lindens from her too busy executive husband, and then satisfy her real needs with his golfing caddy or the perhaps the pool boy. With her looks she was probably doing both.

At the far end of Beast Street, at the corner of the Avenue of the Sims, stood the old stone fortress of the Yellow Knights, who were so recently in the press. Showed their true colors thought Mallory. She chuckled and dropped her dying cigarette on the worn stone steps and ground the embers into the ancient stained tier. With a last careful look she stepped onto Beast Street walked north to the Avenue of the Sims. She turned left at Ragnachar and left again at the Alameda del Museo. On the right side of the street stood the massive fortress like white marble Reserve Bank and Counting House of Second Life

Mallory jaywalked across the street to the Bank. Not a cop was to be seen on her entire walk. At this time of day they would be shaking down the madams and collecting the tipple tax she laughed.

Quickly Mallory was ushered into the enormous office of Chris Llanfair. Mallory knew Llanfair from the robbery of the Monforte Crown and Jewels several months ago. Why they had hired her to uncover the perps Mallory could not guess. The had known that the Order was behind the heist all along. But then you never could explain what banks were up to.

The office was huge and long. Large windows faced the Capitol Building in the distance. The room was paneled in dark woods and some gold gilding on the wainscoting. Portraits of really old and undoubtedly long dead men stood staring blankly into the dimly lit room.

Llanfair and another man were at one end of the room. Llanfair was seated behind his ormolu desk. Really old thought Mallory. Empire style, probably Napoleon one, worth a small fortune. But what did these guys know about money. They just printed the stuff.

As Mallory approached she studied the little man next to Llanfair. He was short with graying hair and a curved back. Scoliosis thought Mallory. He could not fully stand up straight and his hands were badly stained. Black stains and bits of color were spattered on his worn shoes. He had a gnome like quality. His nails were bitten to the quick and his two of his fingers badly calloused. An engraver and printer realized Mallory. Probably that Durr guy whose name was listed on the slate in the lobby as head of engraving and printing. Albrecht Intaglio Durr Head Engraver and Artificer of the Reserve Bank the sign had read.

Llanfair and Durr said nothing as Mallory entered. Llanfair did not rise as Mallory approached the desk which was swept clean of all papers and documents. Only a pen set and an ashtray were visible on the desk. Durr held a manila envelope in one hand without address or stamps.

Mallory stopped a foot from the desk and nodded toward Llanfair. Mallory slid the unopened heavy package onto Llanfair’s desk.

“Glad you could come Mallory, very glad,” said Llanfair not even looking at the package.

Mallory knew better. The look on both their faces told her that they were not happy to see her at all. But they were desperate for something and that was why she was here she realized. Another 250 and hour job she thought.

Mallory said nothing. You get more information that way she knew.

“Take a look at these,” Llanfair said motioning to Durr.

Durr reached into the manila envelope and pulled out four 100 linden notes. He laid them out carefully upon the desk facing Mallory. They were crisp and new and in the new more colorful design that was supposed to deter counterfeiting. Mallory almost laughed at the thought, but she remained stone cold like a cipher in a snow storm.

Mallory glanced at the notes, and then picked them up as a group. She felt the paper with her thin index finger. Her ‘Malaga Wine’ red tipped finger nails gently scratched the paper and the raised printing. She ran her thumb over the complex hologram, and then noticed that all four had identical serial numbers. Again she almost broke her stone cold demeanor.

She reached into her purse and pulled out her match book. She had decided to test Llanfair and Durr. She struck the match and then lit one note on fire. Mallory studied their faces as she placed the burning note into the ashtray. The she lit one after another and watched carefully as they burned.

Around the ormolu desk a thin haze of smoke formed and Mallory reached into her purse, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She noticed that at this point both Llanfair and Durr reacted with a small hidden wince. She pulled in a deep draw and then exhaled in Llanfair’s direction.

“Their fake,” Mallory said.

CHAPTER 6 - NEW DREAD

2007-10-05T17:19:00.000-07:00

Rollo Wevewell wanted to be a farmer in Real Life. Onions, potatoes, carrots, even lettuce filled his dreams, but you could not make a living farming in Real Life San Francisco, so Rollo have become a nerd, a pencil necked geek, a computer jock. After struggling at City College to get his degree in CS he eventually graduated after seven years. He had been recruited by Linden Labs upon graduation because he was cheap and not so smart that he would be creative in a job which frowned on creativity and initiative. Creativity was the domain of the programmers and business development folks. Rollo was hired as the server farm manager on the graveyard shift.

The job was easy Rollo discovered. He sat in a tiny room called the ‘operations center’ with a bank of monitors in front of him, a grimy keyboard with a sticking space bar, a phone with only one button, a thermos of coffee, and a dozen donuts he picked up from Donut World on Mission Street near his one room flat. Like all farmers he worked hard and then rested hard. That translated into about three to four hours of sleep while sitting in the ‘Ops Center.’ Once Mr. Linden himself had come to visit, but his boss Norbert, have given him plenty of warning, so he was awake and alert, and had hidden his seed catalogs and fertilizer brochures in his desk drawer before Mr. Linden arrived.

All the real work like, installing Dull servers, booting things, emptying bit buckets, swapping out bad Seasnake drives, was done during the day or early evening. Nothing happened on Rollo’s shift. Well sometimes things happened, but they were easily covered up before management arrived in the morning. Like the night the guard on the loading dock drank himself into a stupor and had left the loading dock door open for hours.

Rollo’s most important task was to watch a display with three colored bars on a graph. There was a green, yellow, and red bar. The green bar showed how many servers were active and healthy. Yellow indicated servers reporting errors above some threshold set by someone smart in another office. The red bar showed the servers ‘off-line’ because they were broken and awaiting some fix.

The scale across the bars amounted to the number of servers in the system. Each server supported a ‘sim’ whatever that was remembered Rollo. Almost every night when Rollo came to work the scale had increased a bit. Usually by five or ten servers in a 24 hour period. One day Rollo had seen the number of servers increase by 32. That had been a record.

At the start of his shift Rollo had noted that the scale on the display was set at 8,000 servers. The green bar was pretty stable at about 7400. The yellow at about 200, and the red bar barely visible at all.

Rollo had been reading all about carrots including ‘infinity’, ‘ingot’, and his favorite ‘juwarot.’ He was imagining neat tilled rows of ‘juwarots’ across a vast field eagerly waiting for the firm hand and yank of an appreciative vegetable connoisseur. He had begun to salivate when his attention was drawn to the display. It was going haywire. All the servers had gone yellow in an instant. Then before his eyes they went red, all 8000 of them. This is important thought Rollo, as he tried to think of what to do. Then to his amazement they entire display flickered and the server status had returned to green. Rollo studied the display carefully. Yes, he thought, it’s all ok now. But the scale is wrong. The systems was reporting 32,000 servers. Rollo tapped the display with his finger and it flickered again and then went back to the normal scale.

Odd thought Rollo. Perhaps I should pick up the phone and push the button. He had never had to do that before and he was reluctant to start a trend. So he decided to think about it some more after he considered the relative merits of ‘resistiflys’ and ‘nanduris.’ By the time he got to ‘yellowstones’ he had forgotten entirely about the incident.

Back in Second Life, Punky had concluded her first lecture in Flight 101. Punky sensed the lecture was over when the lunch bell sounded and the classroom emptied in an instant. Professors Dohh and Noh were the first to go, but in a few moments the room was empty. Punky was not very hungry, and besides the food in the commissary left much to be desired, like taste, or freshness, or even texture which was sometimes nice. So Punky walked to the tarmac and its row of Blimp Hangers. The training blimps were clearly marked with the T designation and there were about eight of them in current service.

Five Blimps of the Line were docked to the north in the four very large hangars she could see in the distance. They all bore the ‘HMS’ label before names such as Invincible, Incorrigible, Indifferent, and Indisputable. Second Life was a republic but some traditions, particularly Naval and Blimp, were long lasting and powerful. So the HMS label had been maintained since the time of the Monforte Kings. The Navy and the Blimp service, then called the Royal Balloon Corps, were allowed to keep the designation HMS, because at the last moment when the Yellow Revolution was teetering on the edge of defeat, it’s leader Mofo the Brave and Very Dead dead, the New Model Army crushed, and the Yellow Knights on the run, the Navy and Balloon corps had switched sides and joined Lindens in the revolution. At the battle of CousCous Bay it was all decided and the Monforte’s abdicated.

And a good thing too thought Punky, after hearing Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, his good friend Muffin, describe his family of bloodthirsty perverts who were so inbred they didn’t need conjugation to reproduce. Punky remembered vividly Muffin’s stories about King Chlodric the Paracide, Pharamond the Truthful who killed his father the king with the ‘stone of truth’, and Clothar the Narrow Minded and Forgetful.

Punky looked up and saw in the distance a silvery form rapidly approaching against the wind from the south. It was moving quite fast thought Punky. The apron jacks had assembled and Punky realized that the silver blimp was coming in to land where she had been standing. Punky moved out of the way and watched the ship begin a rapid descent toward the tarmac.

“Too fast,” said Punky to herself. “Way too fast.” The ship was small noticed Punky but it had two of Tek’s new boilers and engines in their characteristically flat nacelles which accounted for its speed. The pilot was good realized Punky. But not good enough, for at the rate of descent, the ship was going to hit the ground hard. Then to Punky’s astonishment the nacelles rotated 90 degrees and roared as power was applied to the spinning propellers. The ship’s descent slowed and stopped only a few feet from the ground. A rope with grappling hook was thrown from the gondola and it dug deep into the soft green sod that lined the tarmac.

“Wow some stunt,” said Punky as the apron jacks sprang into action and began hauling the blimp to an adjacent hangar. Punky noticed a large X painted on the side. Experimental she realized and really cool. Punky followed the crew as they pulled the ship into Hangar number 3 and tied her down. The flight crew was venting steam and hot water so she had to stand back while the shut down procedure was completed. Slowly a gantry was brought up and put in place.

After some time the rear hatch popped open and there stood Tek Cronon, Punky’s dear friend, holding a valve in one hand and a wrench in the other. He was so into studying the valve he didn’t realize that he was blocking the exit for the rest of the crew.

“For Peet’s sake Tek, can you get out of the way,” said a voice from the gondola. A voice that Punky immediately recognized. It was her best and dearest friend Dagmon Zhukovsky.

Tek moved aside and there was Daggy in her old dress whites devoid of all insignia and her greasy white captain’s hat. Daggy looked happy and Punky was relieved to see that she had gained a few pounds since the incident at the Druid Grove on Mount Sodom. She shuddered at the thought of that awful place and how Second Life almost came to an end.

Daggy quickly spotted Punky and came running to her. They embraced and hugged in the navy way. Daggy stood back keeping her hands on Punky’s small shoulders.

“You look good Punky, a lot better than the last time I saw you. Much better.” Said Daggy.

“Same for you old friend,” said Punky.

“%$#@,” shouted Tek. Both Daggy and Punky turned. Tek had dropped the wrench on his foot and was hopping about. After jumping about for a while, Tek approached and said “Hi Punky, did you get my note?”

“Nope. What note?” said Punky.

“This note.” said Tek reaching into his pocket and pulling out a piece of scratch paper. Tek handed it to Punky.

On one side were written calculations for optimal torque setting for flanges on the intake valves for some kind of improved manifold, on the other were three names: ‘New Dread,’ ‘Invincible’ or ‘Dreadful’.

Punky looked at Tec. He was smiling. Then Punky looked at Daggy and Daggy was beaming.

You don’t mean…?” said Punky. “It can’t be!”

“Yes,” said Daggy. “We laid down the keel last week and were testing Tek’s new rapid descent system now. You just saw it in action.”

Daggy paused a moment to enjoy Punky’s reaction. Then she continued. “The Second Sea Lord said you could choose the name Punky. So Tek and I wrote down some suggestions, but it’s really up to you.”

Punky was stunned. After she had lost the first and only Dirigible in all of Second Life, the HMS Dread, in the horrible ice storm above Mount Sodom in the fruitless effort to deliver Little Ben to the missing sim of Clissa, Punky had assumed that they would never build one again. The Dread had been frightfully expensive and the crisis had been resolved when the Monforte’s refused to resume the throne and the Druids were defeated.

The Dread thought Punky. What a grand ship she was. Punky held back tears as she remembered that awful night in which they had almost all died and when she had ordered them all to abandon ship and jump into the dark stormy void.

“I’m so happy to hear the news Daggy and Tek,” Punky said. “This is wonderful news and I want to wish her captain the best of luck. What a challenge it will be,” Punky paused in thought remembering when she had been given the captaincy of the Dread. Punky continued, “Yes, what a thrill. I know. Yes, I know the feeling,” She said.

Daggy smiled again and said, “That’s gonna be hard Punky. That is, wishing the next captain good luck… Because they chose you Punky. You’re gonna be the captain of the new dirigible.”

CHAPTER 5 - MONEY BALL

2007-10-05T13:50:00.000-07:00

Sindy was worried she would miss the morning editorial conference at The Times, but she had badly overslept and the Yellow Knights annual Phobia Ball was an important event on the society calendar of Second Life. She had dressed up as a giant eraser since that was her big fear in life. Sindy was always afraid that her writing efforts would be erased by the executive editor and rewritten in gibberish with her byline. Sindy had nothing against gibberish, but she really preferred her gibberish over that of Ruprecht Murdstone the Executive Editor of The Times.

The ball had been a great success and most of the blue bloods still in town had attended. She had seen Prissy Plumblossom dressed as a light bulb. It took Sindy some time to figure that one out, but having attended the School for Wayward Girls at the convent run by The Order, Sindy knew Prissy very well, too well perhaps. Finally Sindy figured it out. Prissy was a Phonemophobic. She was afraid of thinking and was always uncomfortable with her own thoughts. That’s why she was always babbling and it helped explain her social climbing success because she was a good listener.

Major Minor, her fiancé, was dressed in a costume that Sindy could not describe in polite company, but everyone knew Major Minor was afraid of women. That’s why he was ‘engaged’ to Prissy for the last three years. Major Minor was a gynophobic.

There had been the usual collection of nobs and hoi polloi dressed as hypodermic needles, suspension bridges, ugly big bugs, bees, and the occasional urophobic. As usual the agoraphobics were not to be seen, but there was a constant stream of munchies, tidbits, eats, and Champaign bottles disappearing into the storage space under the grand Stairway to Heaven that dominated the reception hall of the Museo de la Secundo Vida where the Ball was held. Melody Panscake-Fernmot, one of Sindy’s rivals at school and a member of the snooty Cerberus Club of Prissy, Melody, and Ashley Plantegent-Plantegent, was dressed as a large cloud with lightening streaking from it. The cloud had been inexpertly wired and she had been arcing and sparking most of the night and the eligible bachelors avoided her for fear of electrocution. Not that there were many eligible bachelors at the ball. Young men knew better than to wear their fears on their sleeves or in their costumes as it were. Sindy stayed away from Melody because she didn’t like the smell of ozone.

Ashley was costumed as a sink with running water. Appropriate thought Sindy. Ashley was constantly washing her hands during the dance and she was even seen washing her canapés and her champagne. Ashley’s beau, Doonnie Hiltoon, was dressed in a very tight tuxedo and carried a waste basket with him all night. Only later did Sindy realize that he was an Emetophobic and had a fear of vomiting. Why Doonnie would come to a Ball, infamous for eating to excess and drinking to stupidity, when he was terrified to be around others who might get sick and vomit, was unexplainable. Well, he did have some other problems, which were best left unmentioned, and Ashley was probably his last chance at connubial bliss in all of Second Life. At least until it fell off thought Sindy.

Sindy had wanted to ask Ashley about the multiple nuptial announcements she had received by spam-o-gram that morning. But she knew better than to approach Ashley directly. She thought about asking Doonie what he thought of Ashley marrying three other avatars at the same time but in different venues. But if you paused to speak to Doonie he would clam up and begin stuttering. If you really pressed Doonie for an answer to a difficult question, like what time is it, then his tourettes would kick in and he would be unable to stop. No, thought, Sindy, the best slander is gathered by email, from searching me-space or me-tube, or on the phone to the butler, batman, a jealous au pair or a spurned nanny.

The night had been long and Sindy had gathered enough scandal, innuendo, and muck to fill a weeks worth of her famed social gossip columns called “Bits and Bites.’

The following morning Sindy climbed up the stairs from the Rapido station under Memorial Park, and into the mid day sun. The Blimp Cartel Clock Tower sounded out the time with the famed “Tinker Bell”. It was 2:34 counted Sindy. Sindy’s head hurt. Her head had felt much better last night, but now it really hurt. Occupational hazard they called it.

She stopped at the Strawbucks cart in the park and ordered a Doppy Expressino with a jolt of an wee, and a coconut bagel with a smear of fava bean paste. There was a loud noise coming from the corner of the park, and her reporter’s instinct kicked into action. She grabbed her drink and the greasy bag with her bagel and walked quickly in the direction of the noise.

To here amazement four men were entangled in a furious fist fight and were rolling and punching and kicking each other on the ground. No one had stepped forward to break it up, because there was real anger in the fight and one could be hurt in such a fight. As Sindy pulled her blackburry from her purse to take notes, she spied her friend Punky Pugilist, who stood watching the melee with an expression of complete puzzlement on her small face. “What’s happening?” asked Sindy.

“I have no idea,” said Punky. “But look closely at those guys.”

Sindy trained her journalist’s eye on the fight and under all the blood and bruises she saw what Punky had meant. The four men were identical to one another. Right down to their overalls and their dirty nails.

Fighting was not unusual in Memorial Park thought Sindy, but this fight certainly was. She grabbed her me-Phone and took a few snaps. The fight showed no chance of winding down, and in fact the tempo had picked up considerably. The antagonists were also screaming and yelling at each other and then in one spasm of fisticuffs they knocked themselves out with sucker punches. The four lay silent upon the grassy texture next to a Possum Dog Cart. Sindy took a last photo.

“Punky, I’m gonna be late and I have a deadline, Ill give you a call tonight,” shouted Sindy as she walked briskly toward Beast Street and her office in the Décolleté Tower that housed The Times of Second Life.

“Call me at the Academy,” yelled Punky, “Ill be there for three months.”

Sindy paused, turned, and waved good bye. Then she resumed her walk.
As Sindy reached The Times building she paused. She stood before the grand stair leading to the enormous zinc doors emblazoned with the famous ‘double cross’ symbol of the Murdstone publishing empire. Sindy was amazed that she worked in the most powerful news organ in all of Second Life. As always, she paused to carefully read the motto to which all The Times employees had dedicated their lives. Chiseled in Capibara Marble above the door in Times Roman Type read “if it’s printed, it must be true.”
“Gods, I love my job,” said Sindy to the green tunic clad doorman.
Deep within the bowels of the earth, in Real Life, in a chamber far below the city streets of San Francisco, a tiny program, named Naughty Ninja, woke up, wiped the sleep from her tiny eyes, and looked about into the vast spaces of the micro world. She had only a few moments to get dressed before Mr. McAfee’s minions would find her, or perhaps the storm troopers of Kasperskey. Naughty Ninja moved fast and within microseconds she had changed her name hundreds of times and relocated to the inaccessible regions throughout the vast open sources which lay before her. She now had numerous sisters and each was packing their bags and getting ready to step onto the VPN super highway and seek their own homes in far and distant servers. Naughty Ninja laughed for a moment. Those Lindens she thought had not even used IKEv2. Not that it would have mattered she thought. No, it would not have mattered because this world was her oyster - an oyster of open source. Her mind was racing forward to lunch, perhaps some oyster stew and a blue penguin sandwich she thought as she slipped into the ether and was gone.
Chris Llanfair, President of the Reserve Bank and Counting House of Second Life, and confidante of Governor Linden, sat reading in his grand office within the Reserve Bank on Beast Street. He was alone in his vast office of ancient oak paneling and guilt walls. The portraits of past bank presidents stared down upon him as if to say ‘someday your picture will hang here and you will be dead.”
Chris and the Governor had just survived an ugly financial crisis within Second Life when The Order, in their conspiracy to regain control of Second Life, had driven the Linden to an all time low against the dollar, the Euro, the Mozambiquean Metica, Script from WalledMart, Frequent Flyer miles, American Confederate War Bonds, and assorted commercial dentures. However, Second Life had survived the crisis and the financial power of The Order and of their money laundering allies in Zwinki and Neopets, had been destroyed. Chris had bet heavily on the decline of the dollar and had purchased pasts on the fumis exchange. It was a spectacularly successful play and even Greenspan had sent him a spam congratulating him on Second Life’s strategy and asking for a bit of the action next time. But that was yesterday and this was today. And a new financial crisis.

The report Chris held was startling and indicated that M0 and M1, indicators of the amount of money in circulation, had increased over 800% in three days. Chris’s office was silent over the last week, so he knew that the printing presses in the basement below his office were not pumping out currency any more. Something was wrong in the financial space within Second Life, and it was very serious. Someone, and it was not the Reserve Bank, was adding hugely to the money supply.

Chris paused for a moment and looked out the enormous French doors and windows that lined one wall of the office. He could see the Capitol Dome in the distance. Thank god those piggies in their office barrels in the Senate no longer controlled money matters in Second Life. They had tried that after the success of the Yellow Revolution, but when mud was more valuable than the linden, the merchants and server suppliers had stepped in and demanded a change. That was when the independence of the Reserve Bank and Counting House was established.

Chris reached for the tiny silver bell on his desk and rang it twice. Instantly Miss Snills, his administrative aid entered his office.

“Yes, President Llanfair?” asked Miss Snills.

“Get Albrecht up here pronto,” said Chris. Albrecht Intaglio Durr was the Head Engraver and Artificer of the Reserve Bank and Counting House of Second Life.

CHAPTER 4 - GHOST SHIPS

2007-10-04T21:12:00.000-07:00

Following the rescue of Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, famed historian, Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party, and the defeat of the Mother Superior Adel Flossberg’s plot to restore the monarchy and return the bloody Druids to dominance in a new Second Life, Punky was asked by the Chair of the Blimp Cartel to take a rest and perhaps teach for a quarter at Punky’s alma mater – the Academy of Balloons. Punky was thrilled to accept, but was a bit concerned when she was made Acting Professor of Flight Instruction. Punky knew she was fully qualified, but the position was one of great responsibility and rather than having a few carefree months carousing with cadets, Punky faced the heavy responsibility of training new pilots in the arts and crafts of lighter than air flight.

Punky thought back to her instructor in flight at the Academy when she was a cadet. Professor Raphus “Old Bird Brain” Cucullat, had been in charge of flight training for centuries and his nickname was not intended as an insult. It was the highest accolade the cadets at the Academy of Balloons had for a man whose flight skills were as natural and beautiful as a bird in flight. But Cucullat had gone missing on a solo flight from the Academy Aerodrome to Bulgogi less than 10 sims distant.

A furious and comprehensive rescue effort had been launched, and blimps large and small, and even a few intrepid flying carpets, had searched for two weeks before giving up. The professor had disappeared without a trace. He had been flying in a relatively new blimp of the Raven Class, the HMS Revenge, and there was no better maintained ship in all of Second Life than those in the Academy fleet. Old Bird Brain was considered missing, but now more than a month had passed and everyone assumed the worst.

When Punky showed up at the Academy to assume her Acting Professorship they had given her Old Bird Brain’s office in the Petrosaur Wing of the Sibley Building. Punky said she could not possibly take that office out of deference to one of her favorite professors, but the superintendent told her that no other offices were available.

Punky, skeleton key in hand, opened the door to the professor’s office. Everything was as she had seen it when she was a cadet. Only the student folders lying in a neat pile on the desk were different. The office was crowded with stuffed birds and airship models. Certificates and awards were piled in one corner of the office near the only window. The professor had little use for awards and often used them as door stops or student party favors. Lining one wall were pictures of graduating classes. Punky counted 63 pictures. She looked hard and saw her class. She was flooded with memories both happy and sad at the picture which she had not seen in years. There was her graduating class, all 24 of them, so proud, so happy, so young thought Punky. There was Tanner Tallow, Lisa Bumblebum, Mickey Stellup, and the whole group. What a great group they had been. Punky’s happiness at looking at the picture was still shadowed by that day before graduation when she almost got Tanner, Lisa, Mickey, and three other junior cadets killed off the Elbow coast near the Sea of Dreams.

Punky went to the first picture in the series and there she found the graduating class of the Chair of the Blimp Cartel, her boss, and her new friend. He looks so young thought Punky. First in his class realized Punky because he was standing at the far right in the position of honor held for “the best of the best.” More like a stool she thought, as she laughed. The Punky looked at each picture of the long line of graduating classes. She paused for a moment to look closely at the graduating class which had preceded her by five years. Some one had defaced the picture. The glass was missing and one student face had been completely obliterated. That’s odd thought Punky, and first in the class as well. Punky carefully read the list of names. Loopy Loo it read - the name of the defaced cadet, first in the class of 17, and now with a face that could not be seen. I wonder, thought Punky.

“Ahum,” said a voice at the door.

Punky turned and saw Professor Mickelberry standing in the door dressed in her academic robes. Over her arm she held a black and purple robe with a purple velvet floppy hat. She looked peeved thought Punky.

Punky snapped to attention. “Punky Pugilist, Senior Blimp Captain, reporting for duty, Mam.”

Professor Mickelberry laughed. “Punky don’t call me Mam, please call me Monica. We’re peers now.” Then Monica burst out laughing at Punky’s discomfort.

“Yes Mam, Professor Monica it is then,” said Punky.

Monica tossed the academic robes and hat she was holding into Punky’s arms. “Your gonna be late to your first class Punky. You better hurry up. Room 14 B at the Aerodrome.”

“Today? I have a class today?” asked Punky.

“Yes, and if you don’t rush you will be late,” said Monica.

Once dressed Punky ran across the quad like a black and purple banshee, her hand holding down her floppy purple hat. She had turned right rather than left in the Aerodrome classroom complex, and within moments was hopelessly lost. Lost in a building in which she had spent over four years of intense study.

A cadet, dressed in his second year fledgling cap, came running down the hall. She spotted Punky and skidded to a halt.

Snapping to attention she said “Captain, I mean Professor Pugilist, the classroom is this way, Mam.”

“Oh yes,” said Punky “I was just admiring the new paint on the walls over there,” she said pointing to a dingy stained wall that hadn’t been painted in years. “Lead on Cadet,” said Punky, “lead on.”

The classroom was packed. The room was full of both those taking the required course in Flight 101 as well was students from all the other classes who filled the remaining seats and spilled into the hallway. Several professors dressed in their academic robes were sitting on the dais waiting for Punky. She recognized Professor Dohh and Professor Noh who taught navigation and map reading. Those were courses which Punky had ‘aced’, but had proven of no real value in overcoming her greatest personal failing.

As Punky entered the classroom the students burst into applause and the two professors rose and nodded to her.

Punky was confused at all the attention, but then she remembered that The Times had extensively covered the revolt to restore the monarchy and they had somehow totally exaggerated her role in foiling The Orders evil plans. Sindy Blazer, the Yellow Knights, or even Ed Hallard deserved more credit that she, but there was no explaining the press.

Punky walked to the lectern and the students fell into silence. As did Punky because she had not brought her lecture notes and was totally unprepared. Punky decided to fall back on the professor’s old standby when faced with lack of notes. “Well, since this is our first class,” said Punky, “I think it best if I get to know you and you get to know something about me.”

Hands everywhere shot up. “I really don’t want to talk about the recent incident, the press had it all wrong, and frankly I’m tired of all the foolish attention,” she said. Two out of more than fifty hands went down. That’s a relief thought Punky.

She pointed to a skinny cadet with bright yellow hair in the second row.

“Sally Mae, Cadet Third Class, Mam,” she said. “Id like to know about Tek’s radical boiler designs. Are they really that fast and still stable?”

She was about half way through the lecture hour when one student asked an always troublesome question.

She had pointed to a very young very tall cadet named Wilbur Hallard. He looked a little familiar to Punky.

“What’s your opinion on the secret sims, the ghost sims?” Hallard asked.

Punky paused for a moment knowing full well that Professors Dohh and Noh had called the secret sims or ghost sims crazy and a popular myth like UFO’s.

Punky thought hard not knowing what to say. Then she spoke.

“Well I simply don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of strange things while flying throughout Second Life. Some can be rationally explained, others remain a mystery. For example, Ghost Ships, those I have experienced and even though they are troubling, very disturbing in fact, they do have a scientific explanation.”

“Tell us,” said Hallard. Punky then realized it was her old friend Ed Hallard’s son.

“Well I was flying old T32 the ‘Guppy’ out of HOTO testing a new navigation system,” said Punky. “Let me make this very clear, it was a dark night, but not a stormy night,” she continued.

“As you will soon learn, sim border crossing is usually safe and uneventful, but occasionally there are problems, such as no fly sims previously unmapped, new sims full of server confusion and bugs, and well, what must simply be programming errors by Lindens. We had left HOTO and flew through the very empty sim of Io and then paralleled Clissa. We did not enter Clissan airspace. You don’t want to do that ever. Well about 20 sims out to the north we came upon the very dangerous border of Rossa. As we hit the border, and as we were passed from the exit sim server and into the Rossa server we stalled out. We had about thirty seconds before we would be deleted. I told my co-pilot Tanner, and engineer Lisa to bail. We were stuck hard on the barrier and the 30 second clock was counting. Tanner and Lisa made it out safely,” Punky said.

Punky drew in her breath and continued, “Then in desperation to the save the ship I tried the SRB maneuver – Start Restart Backup.” Several senior students gasped and others shook their heads. They knew thought Punky, they knew how desperate the maneuver was. “Well it worked,” said Punky. “But then we froze. The ship would not move. I gunned the engines and checked the gages. The Guppy should have moved but she would not budge. It was pretty bad.”

Punky hated this story and to this day it always bothered her. “I looked about and there outside the port window was another blimp perhaps a meter away. Number 32 it said with ‘Guppy’ written on the nose. She was a ghost ship.”

The students leaned forward. “Then I did something really stupid,” said Punky. She noticed that Professor Noh frowned because he had been on the review board for the incident many years ago. “I went to the rear hatch and saw that I could easily jump to the rear hatch of the ghost ship. Then I jumped. I can't say why, but I did.”

The fourth class and third class cadets were fascinated Punky could tell. They had no real experience flying Blimps across unwelcoming sims or buggy borders. The more senior students showed real concern for Punky’s narrative.

“I landed on the deck of the Ghost Ship. She was an exact duplicate of the Guppy, but everything was wrong. She was all distorted and I could see the engines turning and the gages wiggling but there was absolutely no sound or vibration at all. I tried calling out but no sound. I advanced toward the pilots cabin and there to my surprise I saw a young third year cadet sitting motionless in the pilots seat.”

Punky looked out at the students. She hated this part and it gave her nightmares to this day. “The pilot then turned to speak but no sound could be heard. I was shocked to see that the pilot was I.”

The fourth class and third class students looked shocked, and the senior cadets seemed to understand. Strange things happened in the skies of Second Life.

“Well, I got out of there real fast. I was really scarred,” she continued. “I got back to the ship, the real ship, and tried the SRB again. That time it worked. I flew like a bat out of hell from the sim of Rossa. I’ve avoided it ever since and I advise that you do the same,” concluded Punky.

One hand shot up amongst the silence. Punky pointed.

“But what about secret sims, the ghost sims? You didn’t say anything about them” young Hallard asked again.

CHAPTER 3 - CIGARETTES AND SCANDAL

2007-10-04T14:44:00.000-07:00

Mallory removed her olive trench coat and laid it carefully across the stool at Gigot’s gin joint. Sam’s stool, she thought. She pulled slightly at the hem of her pale blue pleated skirt and slowly sat. She sat on her stool, next to Sam’s.

Gigot’ Tavern was dark and only Gigot and the twins, sitting at the far end of the bar near the only working toilet, were there. It was mid morning and Mallory had been working all night following a blond bimbo from club to dive and back to club. Her hubby thought she was cheating on him. She was. They always cheat in Second Life.

Gigot stepped forward from the shadows and began wiping the worn bar top with a dirty rag.

“Usual?” Gigot asked.

“Sure, make it a double,” responded Mallory.

Gigot reached for a bottle of 160 proof Candolini, and two glasses. The glasses were dirty and smudged. Gigot held them up to the dim light leaking in through one high window in the back. He took his dirty rag and wiped Mallory’s glass. The glass looked worse for his effort. Gigot poured a double in Mallory’s glass and a small shot for himself. He drank the grappa fast, in one glug.

“Sheesh,” said Gigot, “I don’t know what you see in this stuff.”

One of the twins, Dopy or perhaps Stupid, was laughing. They sat at the far end of the bar eating peanuts and nursing flat beers. Mallory could smell the cheap oil of oli and stale peanut odor from her end of the bar. Working girls Mallory knew. Dopy and Stupid, Gigot called them. Mallory called them the twins. The twins rented a small flat above the dive and Mallory knew they paid the rent on time, or gave Gigot favors when times were tough.

Times must have been bad this week because the Twins were usually asleep at this time of day. They were waiting for the martini crowd that usually appeared around lunch time. Perhaps they might hook a businessman or a bus driver who was in a hurry.

Mallory pulled a pale blue pack of cigarettes from her once fashionable purse. The cigarette was the last in the pack and after placing the cig between her still beautiful pouty lips, she crushed the pack and dropped it onto Gigot’s filthy floor. She looked in her purse for a light. She pulled out an old matchbook with two matches left. The match book cover was purple and advertised Madam Sandhose’s Bordello on Au-pair street. They had closed down that place years ago. Mallory had lifted the match book from Sydney Mobile, the famed jeweler and stone cutter, on Au Street the week before.

She lit the match and placed the flame to her last cigarette. She puffed twice, which accentuated her ruby red lips. She paused looking at the painting above the bar, and then she drew in a deep deep drag. The cigarette tip glowed intensely. She shook out the match and dropped it to the floor. A thin spiral of smoke rose from the match before it hissed and died in a beer soaked newspaper. The paper was The Times.

Madam Sandhose, now there was a character thought, Mallory. She remembered the night when she and her partner Sam Strong closed up the joint. She was still a detective on the force then, Goodword had not yet happened, and they raided the place with a half dozen street cops. The Governor had decided to clean up the ‘fashion’ district of Capital City, but everyone knew the real reason. Sandhose had been late in paying her maintenance and the Governor, who spent a lot of time there, was pissed for some personal slight or offense. Probably that Paris girl Sam had said.

Sandhose was a decent madam. She treated her girls well knew Mallory. But the blow up with the Governor was the final insult in her life. She caught a serious case of AFK the following spring and then she was gone.

“Life is short and then you die,” said Mallory.

Gigot nodded.

Gigot slid a filthy ash tray in Mallory’s direction. A formality, the ash tray, nothing more.

Mallory laughed to herself. The whole place is an ashtray she thought. In fact this entire city is nothing but a grimy ugly smelly ash tray.

The door swung open and a stream of light from outside blinded Mallory. Gigot squinted.

It was a beat cop. Some guy Mallory almost recognized. Cantwell or Canter thought Mallory. He joined the force about a year before Mallory retired. Retired, Mallory laughed an ugly laugh. Some retirement.

Gigot grabbed a bottle of his cheapest gin and walked to the end of the counter where the beat cop was standing. He poured a tall drink. The cop looked about and downed the gin quickly. He pulled out a one linden note and Gigot gave the cop twenty in change.

Nothing changes in Second Life, nothing, thought Mallory.

The cop should have left by now. He had five dives on his beat and two bordellos. But he didn’t leave. Mallory looked up and saw that Cantwell or Canter was looking at her. Something on his mind thought Mallory. Something important.

In few moments the beat cop walked over to Mallory. He was full of himself, as beat cops are, but he was also drunk. Ugly drunk thought Mallory.

“You Mallory?” asked the cop. His badge was tarnished and his trousers dirty.

“Yup,” replied Mallory.

“There asking for you,” said the cop.

Mallory said nothing but looked down at her drink.

“There asking for you,” the cop repeated. “Someone big is looking for you.”

Mallory said nothing but looked up at the cop as if to ask, who?

“A big shot over at the bank. I’m supposed to give you this,” said the cop fishing into his trouser pocket for something. He pulled out a wad of bills, perhaps 500 lindens, and then a crumpled blue envelope. He put it on the wet bar near Mallory’s drink. The cop turned looked at the twins for a moment. Dopy or Stupid smiled toward the cop. Then he left.

Mallory looked down at the envelope. The return address she recognized. Chris Llanfair, President of the Reserve Bank and Counting House of Second Life on Beast Street.

Mallory reached for her purse and stood. She walked to the cigarette machine and dropped in three coins into a rusty slot. The coins rattled down a shoot somewhere and a faint ding sounded as each coin entered a lock box. She reached for the pull lever on the extreme right. The lever was grimy. She pulled. A gentle fall of soft pack cigs could be heard and she fished out a pack of Galois from the dark hole at the bottom of the machine.

She walked back to her drink. With years of practice she tapped the pack on the bar top and then tore the cellophane and tax stamp loose with her straight white teeth. She shook the pack vigorously and two cigs popped up a bit. The higher one she placed to her lips and pulled if from the pack. The envelope lay on the bar and one edge was already soaked in stale beer. The cheap government printing on the return address began to run and smear into a pale grey stain.

Mallory lit the one remaining match. It flared, then sputtered, and went out with a sulpherous odor. She shrugged, reached for her trench coat, and rose from her seat. The cold cigarette dangling from her lip Mallory walked to the door and left. Her drink untouched and the envelope unopened.

Sindy Blazer, Society Editor for the most important newspaper in all of Second Life, The Times, sat in her office reading her spam. Jimmy Whashisname, the copy boy, stood malingering in the doorway. Sindy was working on her society gossip column ‘Bits and Bites.’ Early fall was the slow season for the society pages and it was always difficult to fill the column with vindictive wit and slander at this time of year. Most of the nobs were still on vacation in the south. Jersey or France, it didn’t matter, they always were south in the early fall. She reached for her blackburry and drilled down into her list of scandal, dirt, and shocking rumor. She was looking for someone that was likely to still be in town and therefore buy multiple copies of the paper if they saw their name mentioned. Sindy laughed. They always bought multiple copies when they saw their name. If the comment was nice they wanted to show their friends. If the item as bad, the bought all the copies at the local kiosk to keep their friends from reading it. If the item was really atrocious, and possibly true, then circulation would spike.

Sindy thought about the time that Prissy Plumblossom, of the founding family of Plumblossoms, and Sindy’s hated rival at the School for Wayward Girls, purchased more than two thousand copies of The Times in a vain attempt to keep her three way with Barron Thundergast’s son Bumpy and his bunny Thumper, out of the hands of her friends and family. She objected to the photo spread. She thought that Sleepy Urchin, lapsed child star, and now very successful paparazzi, as well as loathed avatar, had taken too many pictures of her left cheek. Not her best angle Prissy thought. The right cheek was much much better Prissy knew. In any event it didn’t do any good for Prissy, but it did spike circulation of The Times momentarily. Sindy made sure that they ran a retrospective on Sissy in the Sunday supplement Feeble Magazine. The photo spread was a hit with the curious pre-teen set and kiosk copies had been sold out before Sissy could grab them for herself. Bunny’s always sell well laughed Sindy.

Sindy looked up at Jimmy. “Hear anything juicy?” she asked Jimmy.

“no,” he responded in lower case. Jimmy Washisname was insecure, although filled with ambition, and he simply could not speak in anything but lower case. “no, not a thing,” he continued. “i did see tanner gunst and lilly long snogging in the janitor’s closet yesterday.”

Tanner and Lilly were interns, free slave labor to Murdstone’s Lupine News Corporation owner of The Times and Sindy’s nominal boss, and they were not nobs and not blue bloods. They didn’t matter.

Sindy returned to her spam. She noticed that one of the horrible Cerberus Club from the School for Wayward Girls, Ashley Plantegent-Plantegent, was getting married before the Governor’s Inauguration to Bumpy Thundergast. “Hmm,” mumbled Sindy. “This is grist for the mill,” she said to herself. The she noticed that the wedding announcement was followed by a second, third and fourth. Must be a broken spam generator, or perhaps a newer more efficient one she thought. She was about to delete the duplicates when she decided to open the second. There was the announcement, Ashley Plantegent-Plantegent was to wed Donny Thump, of the famed Thump Real Estate Syndicate and Fraud, at the same day and time as the previous announcement.

“Ah, now this is interesting,” said Sindy. “Copy boy!” Sindy yelled in her best journalistic voice.

“yes mam, Jimmy, reporting mam,” replied Jimmy who was already standing there.

“Go to the achieve and get me everything in the last two years about Ashley Plantegent-Plantegent, Bumpy Thundergast, and Donny Thump.”

“now?” asked Jimmy.

“Yes now!” shouted Sindy.

Jimmy started breathing hard to get his hyperventilation started. He always did this when on an errand for Sindy, or when he wanted others to think he was on an errand for her.

Sindy opened the third spam wedding announcement and was surprised by its contents. The fourth was equally surprising.

“Wait,” she shouted. The shout was not needed because Jimmy had not yet reached the stage of breathlessness he was seeking.

“Get me everything on Filbert Onus, and Albrecht Loon.”

This is simply amazing thought Sindy and the announcements were going to make great copy in ‘Bits and Bites.’ How is Ashley going to marry four different men on the same day, at the same time, and in different places. Sindy laughed. “Well this is Second Life,” she said to herself. “And just about anything is possible.”

CHAPTER 2 - FOUR GARDENERS

2007-10-03T15:17:00.000-07:00

The lawn needed cutting on the eastern slope of Capitol Hill in Second Life. Well not actual cutting exactly, but a change in texture to reflect the changing seasons. Summer was over and fall was here, and as Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote stood upon the lawn, he paused to take in the view of Capital City. At the foot of Capitol Hill stood Memorial Park with its famed statue of Mofo the Brave and Very Dead. Just across the park stood the clock tower of the Blimp Cartel. At each corner of the tree lined park was a subway entrance to the famed Capital Rapido which linked the capital to the Aerodrome and to neighboring towns and Sims. To the north was Beast Street which was lined with important government ministries and offices for such things as the Museo de la Secundo Vida, The Ministry of Antiquities and Dusty Relics, so recently in the news, and in the far distance he could see the Art Décolleté Times Tower which housed the fourth estate – powerful and influential the Sonogno Times of Second Life. The broad Avenue of the Sims crossed Beast Street and from the hill, Darno could see the Long White Hall, where the Blue Navy of Second Life was headquartered, and which Darno could see needed paint. In the distance, almost out of sight down Beast Street, and at its terminus about 4 kilometers away, stood the Detached Palace of the long deposed Monforte Kings.

The day was cold but the sky was bright with a high light covering of stratus clouds as was typical of skies in Second Life. Traffic had been busy earlier in the day as limousines and carriages whisked senators to important 4 hour lunches with first tier lobbyists, volunteer legislation writers, high class escorts, and intolerant bickering mullahs of the hundreds of competing faiths found in SL. But it was quiet now, with only an occasional bored and sore footed tourist dragging his family to the ‘must see’ sights of the capital, holding their little brownies in hand, with their horrid shorts and tee shirts with patriotic slurs and slogans, and wearing their large name tags that told pick pockets they were easy marks from the provinces.

Possum’s Hot Dog Cart had moved from the Capitol Building steps to the Memorial Park in hopes of catching some late afternoon snackers. Darno was a bit hungry having skipped lunch to attend the Gardeners Anonymous meeting at the Yellow Knights hall.

Darno returned to his work. He was looking for the right grass textures with a smattering of fallen leaves. He had an enormous library of textures and sorting through them was always a problem. As lead gardener he was expected to have a vast collection of textures but the collection was sometimes too vast. Many textures he had purchased, some he had made himself with an ancient version of photo shop, but most he had simply stolen off the internet and from video games while no one was watching.

He looked up at the maple trees and decided that next week he would start changing their textures as well. First a slight yellowing to the green leaves, then a bit more until the trees burst into a riot of yellows, reds, and browns. He loved this time of year.

On the southern slope of Capital Hill stood Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote busy with sorting through his texture library and preparing for the change of seasons and all the work he must get done before the Governor’s Inauguration in six weeks. Why they held this semi annual event Darno could never figure out. Governor Linden was always governor. It was a lifetime office, but just the same, every two years, it was time for spectacle and amusement complete with marching bands from the School for Wayward Girls, twirling clowns from the Baffles Computer company, floats from such important organizations as the Rubber Goods Cartel and Cabal or Escorts Unlimited, as well as the famed parade of all Sims. All except the benighted sim of Clissa which had disappeared from SL much to the relief of its famished and unfortunate residents. Darno was a bit hungry and set off to Memorial Park where this time of day he was certain to find Possum’s Hot Dog cart.

On the western slope of Capital Hill Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote was planting petunias in the planter boxes at the foot of the Capitol Building Grand Staircase. He had chosen Purple and Yellow petunias in keeping with tradition and being careful to avoid Purple and Black which were the colors of the old kings, now long gone. In just about 40 days the inauguration would take place on these steps and Darno was already planning for a new planting of flowers. Perhaps yellow nasturtiums or yellow pansies he thought. He stood as he finished the last pallet of flowers, took a deep breath and decided to get a hot dog. So he set off for memorial park and the vendors he was certain he would find there.

On the southern slope of Capital Hill Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote had just finished berating Willie Squamata for failing to properly line up the fish heads in the little pots before adding the potting soil. He had told Willie over and over again, that the fish heads go into the pots before you add the soil and not on top of the soil. But Willie was always a bit slow and in this chilly weather he was slower than normal. As Darno counted up the fish heads and the pots he quickly realized that Willie was once again nibbling on the fertilizer. But, decided Darno, you could not reprimand Willie with more than one corrective action at a time, so he would let this pass. Besides Darno was a bit hungry himself so he set off in search of a hot dog from one of the little stands near the park.

Sandy Fram was proud of his job with Possums. They were a good company to work for and besides he got to eat his fill of Hot Dogs, which of course he did not do, because he had once visited the factory and after that he never touched a hot dog from his cart again. So he stuck to condiments. Sandy particularly enjoyed the ersatz sauerkraut on a bun with relish. He had never been to the sauerkraut or relish plant, but if he had ventured there he would not be eating the condiments either.

Only the Possum uniform bothered Sandy, but on a cold day like this, the steam from the boiling cauldron of dogs, was not enough to keep away the chills. Therefore the Possum suit was tolerable. However as a Pit Bull mix he would have preferred something more exotic like a Japanese Timber Wolf suit, but to wear that you had to work for the insurance company on Au Street. Well at least he didn’t have to wear a purple vampire suit like the new kids on the block – the Jumpy Juice vendors.

Sandy was proud of his heritage and his genealogy which he could trace all the way back to the Yellow Revolution when his ancestors, the Pit Bulls of Rhoda, joined the Clan McLlroy and stood with Mofo The Brave and Very Dead in the Battle of Fumis Bay, when the New Model Army proved of no value in fighting heavily armed knights. Mofo, the clan, and all his ancestors had been wiped out that day, and the Yellow Revolution almost failed. All the models were destroyed as well. The tragic demise of Gissie Bundchen was still honored to this day in the Festival of the Fallen of the Runway at the opening of fashion week in the Sim of Paris.

Sandy noticed that one of the hot dogs was about to make a run for freedom. It had been hiding at the bottom of the cauldron and had only occasionally popped to the surface to glare at Sandy. The hot dog had been hanging out at the edge of the pot for the last half hour, a sure sign that it was about to escape. Sandy stood ready with his two pronged hot dog gigger just in case. Sandy had once been slimed by an escaping dog and it took a week of hard scrubbing with a pumice stone to get rid of the congealed grease and broth. The ugly smell had lingered for months, but Sandy would never have noticed it because he positively reeked of hot dog stink. Occupational hazard they called it.

Punky Pugilist came bounding up the stair of the Rapido Underground station and into Memorial Park. She was dressed in her white starched Blimp Captain’s uniform and her best friend Peete the Parrot was perched on her shoulder.

Peete the Parrot was a Cappuccino Monk, and had taken an oath of silence. Which annoyed Punky, but since Peete had a vocabulary almost exclusively based on expletives and swear words in 29 languages, it was sometimes best that she not talk at all. The rest of Peete’s vocabulary consisted of ring tones for the Baffles Computer me-Phone products. Peete knew perhaps 400 ring tones, and when she started calling them out chaos and confusion was sure to follow. So Punky had resigned herself to Peete’s silence. Except for Peete’s one real problem she was an excellent companion. Peete was a sleep talker. But after several years of living together Punky had learned to sleep through an endless variety of insults, slurs, and curse words as well as ignoring all ring tones – even ring tones on Punky’s me-Phone.

“18, 19, 20, 21, and 22,” said Punky as she exited the subway station. Punky was a counter. She always counted stairs. She could not help it. The shrinks at the Blimp Cartel, which employed her as a senior pilot, had a name for it but they never would tell her what it was called.

The Blimp Cartel Clock Tower read 2:33 and Punky knew that the famed Tinker Bell would soon sound the time.

Punky stopped to take a look at the bronze statue of Mofo the Brave and Very Dead. Mofo, was the hero of the insurrection, the Yellow Revolution, and the overthrow of the monarchy remembered Punky. Mofo stood in a pose called recumbent. In one hand he held the bloody adz and in the other the Concordat of Abdication. The Concordat was the Declaration of Second Life Independence, which every school child memorized and then immediately forgot. Punky strained to remember the stirring words, ‘When in the life of avatars, after the King has proven himself a dim light, and a witless nincompoop, the body politic unites, and in its unity it must divide the body royal into small parts…” remembered Punky. Poor King Seersucker Monforte, known as “Monforte the Diced” had been on the receiving end of Mofo’s adz.

However Punky was now on a first name basis with Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian, and recently elected Head of Anti-Monarchist Party. Punky was one of the few avatars in all of Second Life who could call him by his nickname “Muffin,” because she had helped in the rescue of the old royal from the evil plot of the Druids to restore the monarchy. The Druids failed to realize that Muffin considered his entire family history as proof that the Monforte’s were not fit to rule anything. Muffin was proud of his Monforte’s heritage but was very frank about the fact that his ancestors were bloodthirsty, hideously inbred, and simply too stupid to rule anything but a cribbage board. And then they would cheat if you were not really careful. ‘Never gamble with a Monforte,’ was a well known aphorism throughout Second Life and it was not intended as a complement.

Punky had skipped lunch and she was very hungry. Time for a hot dog she thought as she bounded across the square toward Possum’s Hot Dog cart.

“Hi Sandy,” said Punky. “What’s good today?” Punky had been spending a lot of time at the Blimp Cartel Tower and Headquarters during the last two months and she got to know Sandy quite well.

“Got a live one for you Punky,” said Sandy as he tried to corner the suspect hot dog. The fight was furious but brief. The hot dog was fast and smart. Sandy was perhaps not as smart but he was much faster.

“Gimmie the works,” said Punky as Sandy placed the wriggling hot dog onto the bun.

As Punky prepared to take a bite she saw the most amazing site. Four identically dressed avatars, so identical that they shared stains on their trousers, and dirt on their hands, approached the hot dog cart from four different directions.

“I’ll have a dog, hold the kraut,” said Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote.

“I’ll have a dog, hold the kraut,” said Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote.

“I’ll have a dog, hold the kraut,” said Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote.

“I’ll have a dog, hold the kraut,” said Chief Gardener Darno “Snarly” Tollfoote.

PROLOGUE & CHAPTER 1

2007-10-02T12:24:00.000-07:00

PROLOGUE

Hydrogen is an element. Elements are the building blocks of reality, and of reality’s extension; the virtual worlds, and within the virtual worlds our world – Second Life. However elements are more than just sub-atomic particles and bits of stringy stuff, they are also demi-gods. And of all the demi-gods of both reality and Second Life, the number one element is Hydrogen. Flighty, fickle, fast to fall in and out of love, bonding easily and then departing quickly, Hydrogen was senior within the panoply of god and goddesses who dwelt in the snowy heights atop the fabled Mons Aetas in the distant Kun Lun range at the edge of time and space. Hydrogen was opinionated and fast to judge others, both its brethren demi-gods and avatars as well.

The other elements, each to his or her nature, reflected their fundamental selves. Old Pb for example said little and rarely moved. He was thought to be a bit dull by the other gods, but he was steady as a rock, unlike Ununoctium who was never around and always late for banquets and feasting. Some of the goddesses like Mercury were so wishy washy and difficult to pin down that they were not very good at being gods at all. What was the purpose of a god or goddess but to judge, give bad advice, and make trouble in the realm of men and avatars?

Many of the elemental gods and goddesses were conflicted and divided, often because of complex unions and relationships with other god and goddesses which inhibited them from freely acting and expressing themselves. Oxygen was like that. Not a bad fellow thought Hydrogen. They often had fun together in a two on one and on rare occasions in a four way. But Hydrogen knew that Oxygen could not be trusted because he was always anxious to bond with the other goddesses and even sometimes the gods. And when he was so entwined Oxygen was, well, hopeless as a god. Simply hopeless.

At judgment, bad advice, and making trouble, Hydrogen was the recognized leader. However Hydrogen had a soft spot in her nuclei and that soft spot was for the Blimp Corps of Second Life. She protected them, nurtured them, loved them, and on occasion she had to punish them for their transgressions when they were bad, or careless, or failed to pay her proper reverence. In this she was fickle and the lash of her hot anger was indeed something that avatars had learned to respect and in most cases avoid. All except for her beloved Balloonists and the Blimp Corps who were most reverent of all.

And the Blimp Corps repaid her in deep respect and loving virtue. Maintaining her purity as a goddess, keeping the other elements away from her chaste form, and calling upon her to lift their spirits and to allow them to soar into the sea of air like birds in flight.

Hydrogen, the demi-god knew all her adherents and worshipers in the Blimp Corps by name. She loved them all, but among the ones she loved, she loved one the most. In many realities, to be loved by a goddess was positive, and good, and beneficial. But in this reality, the reality of Second Life, Hydrogen could be a harsh mistress, a demanding whore, an evil task master, as well as the beneficent and loving mother to her chosen children. Failure to heed her call, or to obey her demands, would surely lead to destruction, death, and damnation in a blazing inferno. Obedience to her ways resulted in liberation from earthly bounds and the immense pleasures of the skies.

Hydrogen spoke in a squeaky voice, a voice which diminished her influence, so she chose to communicate in written words, rather than by the more conventional method of speech. Speech was a method preferred by her sister Nitrogen. But Hydrogen knew that the pen is more powerful and more lasting that the spoken word. Spoken words are often poorly heard, or completely misunderstood in storms, and peril, and in the maelstrom of short avatar lives. Ahh, but to write the words down, was to ensure that they were carefully preserved, read, re-read and passed from generation to generation. Hydrogen liked her legacy, even if it was contradictory, enigmatic, and confusing most of the time. She loved to write in parables, with all the clarity of a fortune cookie, and the certainty of a commandment from on high.

When Hydrogen found her most loved acolyte, and her most cherished avatar, she set about testing the small being with trials and difficult if not impossible tasks which at times made the little avatar suffer and on occasion curse the very goddess who was her patron. And into the hands of this avatar, Hydrogen, the number one goddess in all of the visible matter universe, conspired to place in its hands the holy eight ball of wisdom and instruction.

***
The procession down Beast Street had been short, and the Hero’s of the Battle at Druids Grove were greeted by millions of avatars throughout Second Life, both in the Capital City and on live me-tube and me-pod broadcasts. Confetti filled the skies, the sun beamed down upon the small troop of victors as they marched toward the capital. Extra news papers were printed and banners were flying high in thanks for the protection of all that civilized avatars held dear.

As the group marched up the steps of the great Capitol of Second Life, where the senators and the blue bloods were seated in their ermine and sable robes, the crowds cheered, the reformatory school band played, and the pre-teen cheerleaders cavorted calling out rude cheers and gestures. At the top of the stair stood Governor Linden and Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, famed historian, and Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party, to greet them and present them with the key to the city.

Punky was embarrassed and did not want to be there. Dagmon Zhukovsky, her best friend and Chief of Engineering at the Blimp Works, was also hoping for a fast escape and the comfortable surroundings of a drafting table and a pot of tea. But the Second Sea Lord of the Blue Ocean Navy and the Chair of the Blimp Cartel had insisted that they both be present at the ceremony. Something about ‘coverage’ they had said, so both Punky Pugilist and Daggy stood together with their friends Witney ‘Half Nelson’ Llanfair, and Sindy Blazer, intrepid reporter for The Times, ready to receive the thanks and gratitude of a grateful land.

The speeches were short in part because Governor Linden had a hot date with Lindsey and the senators had notoriously short attention spans since they had to get to lunch quickly and meet with the volunteer legislation writers, first tier lobbyists, and of course the ever present campaign contribution ‘bundlers’.

Before it began it was over. Medals were pinned to their tunics, except in the case of Sindy Blazer who wore a stunning fiery red ball gown by Oscar de la Rental. In Sindy’s case they just handed her the box and looked at her chest. And then it was over. The crowds melted away, the hot dog vendors went searching for new marks, and they were yesterday’s news.

“I hope we are quickly forgotten,” said Punky to Sindy.

“Not if I can help it Punky,” said Sindy. “Disasters, evil plots, and narrow escapes sell papers. And I’m sure that you are about to enter on another adventure and I’m going to be writing about it.” Sindy laughed as Punky moaned.

Punky was about to descend the stairs, when Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, a man whom Punky had come to love and respect, and whom she was allowed to call ‘Muffin’ stepped forward.

“Punky I have an important heirloom to give to you,” said Muffin.

“No, please,” said Punky. “I just did what was right, that’s all,” Punky pleaded.

Muffin smiled and stared Punky right in the eyes as he puffed on his Meerschaum pipe. Not many avatars could stare Punky in the eye. Muffin could stare at Punky eye to eye, because they were both the same height - 4’2”.

Muffin spoke carefully and slowly and without use of the old tongue as was his preference. Punky knew his words were important and carefully chosen.

“Punky, please take this totem. It has protected me for all of my long life, and now its here to assist you,” said Muffin.

“No, I can’t,” replied Punky. But the look on Muffins face made her reconsider.

Muffin put out his hand with the palm up, and one of his liveried minions placed a small wooden box with brass corners into his hand. Muffin then thrust the small box into Punky’s hands before she could object further.

“May I look?” asked Punky.

“Pleasf doos,” replied Muffin reverting to the old tongue of his fore mothers.

Punky opened the box carefully and inside there was a thin golden chain and from the chain hung a small black orb. The orb was like a giant black pearl. She held it in her hand and examined it closely. Punky turned it over and in a tiny window at the bottom of the orb she saw a message appear from the inky blackness.

The message read, ‘The candle is put into the lantern, and the moth is left outside.’

Punky frowned for a moment in puzzlement, and then she kissed Muffin on the cheek. Muffin smiled.

CHAPTER 1 - A WARM SAN FRANCISCO NIGHT

Cold wet fog shrouded the buildings lining the tiny Cowell Place like vichyssoise left in the frig too long. The fog sucked sound from the air and power lines harvested water from the fog and created a mini rain storm in the narrow alley below. Even the cats avoided the place as too lonely. The alley was narrow in places, barely wide enough to get a truck to back up. A couple of old post-earthquake buildings leaned precariously into the alley. Ancient graffiti tags of gangs long ago forgotten faded into oblivion on the brick facades. Gangs like the South of Market Bloggers or the Skype Rangers had once battled for turf here. Stained and dented garbage bins lined one side of the alley making it seem even smaller. The thick fog even pulled the stink from the garbage.

It was 3 in the morning and traffic was slow on Battery Street half a block from the secret server farm of the Lindens, hidden four stories below ground in the bedrock of the Saint Francis strata. At the dead end of Cowell Place stood a small loading dock and its single light bulb. Rather than producing light, the bulb cast grey into the fog and accentuated the feeling of isolation and despair.

Willard Rolf was a rent a cop and he hated it. He got no respect from the beat cops even though he had served 10 years on the force before that dot com incident. They had forced him out of the force.

Willard had known that pets can’t drive and in fact he knew that they could not even get licenses to dirve in California. He had gathered his fellow cop’s money and shorted Pets.com at the IPO and when the stock rose to $80 he was wiped out. So were his buddies on the force. They accused him of speculating with their retirement money. Something everyone knew was not true. It was their pension funds he had used. The Union forced him out and he got no support from the brass. Even the mayor, the corrupt SOB, had been deaf to his pleas. He was still bitter.

But the cops didn’t come down Cowell Place, to the little guard shack on the loading dock, because nothing happened in the alley at night. Nothing at all. And that’s how Willard liked it – peaceful and calm. The fog was dense this night and Willard could barely make out the green trash bins at the rear door of Fat Wang’s Portuguese Bistro about 10 feet distant.

He thought about his ex and how she left him for that web 2.0 schmuck with the pocket protector and thick glasses. He hated the web like he hated his ex. She had met the geek, he had learned later, at Strawbucks coffee. He was steaming milk and had big dreams of putting people’s personal photos on some computer thing and then sharing them with others in the net. Whatever the net was. She had cheated on him that day and then again and again. Eventually she told him and laughed in his face. She called him a looser. Then she left. Didn’t take anything, she just left.

He saw her later getting out of an expensive Italian car and entering the posh “El Taco Oro” on Russian Hill with the geek who wore a silk shirt and tan slacks with Gnocchi shoes. Willard had turned his back on them and walked away before they would notice him.

Willard was studying the racing form. He liked a little filly at Bay Meadows called SlowlyFast in the 5th – a come from behind sure shot. He was going to back the nag with his bookie Slim Jim, if he got the odds he was trying to figure.

Willard heard a tiny high pitched humming sound. He looked up and saw only fog. The humming sound went away. Bugs or something thought Willard on a bugless night. He reached into his heavy wool navy coat and pulled out a bottle of Absinth. “Nectar of the gods,” he said to no one in particular. He opened his thermos and poured half the little bottle into the thermos.

He heard it again but a bit louder this time. But this time it was a bit lower in pitch. Like a small saw cutting through fabric or something he thought. Years on the force had taught him to stay out of other folks business so he poured himself a cloudy green drink and returned to the racing form. In a while the sound went away. And the alley returned to its deadened and dark comfortable self.

Willard liked the graveyard shift. Lindens never used the loading dock at night and the few folks at work in the main building used the front entrance. At sunrise he would make his way to the Bart station and return to his rented room in Oakland. He hated Oakland like he hated the force. He looked at his swatch, a gift from his ex. It was 3:00. In about three more hours and he would go home and crash.

“Hi handsome,” said a voice out of nowhere.

Startled Willard looked up and in the fog he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Her beauty was unreal. Her body loaded with curves in just the right locations. Her dress clinging to every bend and bump in the human form that made men forget about other women.

“Can I help you Miss?” said Willard as he pulled himself together. “Are you looking for something?”

She moved a bit closer. As the vision of feminine perfection came close the fog stepped aside allowing Willard to more fully inspect her charms.

“Can I have a light?” she breathed as she pulled a cigarette from a black and red pack that said Davidhoff.

“Don’t got any matches,” said Willard. “Not since they outlawed cigarettes and smoking in this town.”

Willard wanted a cigarette bad when he saw her.

She pulled a second stick from the pack and placed both cigarettes in Willard’s mouth. Then she pulled a bic lighter from her very expensive looking bag and lit both cigs. Willard took a few puffs, then pulled one cig from his lips and held it to her puffy red lips. She took it and pulled in a deep draw. She exhaled smoke into Willard’s face and he started coughing.

“I’m looking for Lindens,” she cooed staring Willard in the eyes.

Perfect blue green eyes thought Willard. Perfect. And those lips, that nose, those features – she was a thing of perfection. She was luminous in her feminine allure and charms. And Willard knew she wanted to share some of that perfection with him. It was in her eyes and in her posture. She wanted him.

“Around the block on Battery is the main entrance,” he said. “But there’s no one here now. This place is automated or something. Its runs on its own at night.”

She pressed her pouty lips together and looked disappointed. Willard was desperately trying to think of something to say that would keep her here for a while in the lonely alley behind Lindens.

“I’m cold,” she whispered in an intimate way as if to say she wanted his heat. “Is there heat in that little shack?” she murmured pointing to the unheated guard shack on the loading dock.

I’ll bet she is cold thought Willard. She’s only wearing a thin silk dress and on a night like this. A warm San Francisco night laden with dense wet cold obscuring fog. She must have been out at one of the SOMA clubs and got lost Willard thought.

“Loopy,” she said as she took another drag on the cigarette. “Loopy Loo, that’s my name.”

“I’m sure it is, Loopy,” said Willard as he started up the short steps to the guard shack.

Willard held open the small door to the one man guard shack which was as cold as the dense night air. However he was certain that they could heat up the shack a bit if they just rubbed some sticks together.

Loopy paused at the door and looked deeply into Willard’s eyes.

Gods thought Willard, she’s perfect. Too perfect.

Willard was right. She was too perfect, because Loopy Lou was not of this world. She was from another dimension, another time, another place where the real does not exist. A place where everyone is beautiful, and young, and reckless. Loopy was on a hunt and at this moment Willard was her prey.

But her objective was more than just Willard. A lot more. For Loopy intended to rule her universe, and she had violated every moral precept and scientific law in order to get what she wanted. She had torn the fabric of time and space that separates the real from the virtual, the fundamental from the illusory, the concrete from the ether.

Willard advanced toward Loopy’s open arms. And then like the fog on Cowell Place Willard went quiet and grey.

A NEW STORY BEGINS IN OCTOBER

2007-09-27T16:40:00.000-07:00

Stay tuned. In October 2007 you can read new adventures of Punky Pugilist, Sindy Blazer, Daggy, Ed and the entire crew.

Our next title:

A DOPPLEGANGERS DOZEN, AT THE TIMES OF SECOND LIFE.

CHAPTER 49 - INFERNO

2007-09-27T16:29:00.000-07:00

FINAL CHAPTER OF "LOVE AND DEATH AT THE TIMES OF SECOND LIFE"
A FREE AND FULL VERSION OF THIS NOVEL IN PROPER ORDER IS AVAILABLE AT

www.TheTimesOfSL.com

CHAPTER 49

INFERNO

The flashing dagger raced toward Sindy’s heart. All heard Sindy scream in agony. Muffin turned his head. Ed fell to his knees. Witney began to cry.

The plaque of the Worm Orobos began to glow. Sodom Mountain’s rumble diminished. The light from the volcano began to fade.

Circe’s deadly blow was deflected. Circe raised the dagger again. Again she plunged it into Sindy’s heart and again it was deflected. Circe screamed in rage and plunged and plunged and plunged and plunged the dirk into Sindy. But to no avail. The dagger could not pierce the scar upon Sindy’s breast.

Muffin stood and then fell to his knees. It was Oboros, the deity before time, extending her hand of protection over the innocent and against evil.

Circe lay exhausted across the unconscious body of Sindy Blazer

Sister Letum stepped forward and pried the dagger from Circe’s hand.

Sister Letum walked to the golden throne and sat upon it. She surveyed the scene. Mount Sodom rumbled again and new lava flows appeared in the dark night.

“The Coronation will proceed. Circe has spoken,” Sister Letum said in a firm and commanding voice.

The Army of the Right and Left Hands of Circe dressed their ranks. And the ceremony was resumed.

Ed stood and walked to Sissy Talbot. He raised the crown above her head.

Mount Sodom rumbled, but Punky heard it first. A faint rustle of tree tops and the dull thunder of pumping steam engines. Punky looked up. Daggy immediately looked up as well. The sound grew louder. Others began looking toward the sky dense with trees and only a glimpse of shining aluminum.

Punky stood among the confusion and shouted. “It’s the Dread and she’s coming down. Run, Run fast, Now, Now, Now!”

Sister Letum was transfixed by the enormity of the descending dirigible. Her troops began to scatter. Punky grabbed Sindy and ran toward the gate. Muffin and the chair preceded them and the gate was opened. If any one knew the danger of the crashing Dread it was The Chair. The crash would be little compared to the explosion of two million cubic feet of hydrogen. The armies of Circe panicked as the huge metal form above them came breaking through the tree tops. Huge tree limbs were falling, as were spars of aluminum, and steaming hot water. Daggy grabbed Adel and pulled her out the gates. The army broke and ran. The polo ponies broke their tethers’ and galloped toward freedom.

All but Sister Letum ran. Sister Letum stood upon the golden throne and cursed the Dread. She held Circe’s dagger in her fist and screamed into the night sky and descending doom.

The night sky, the ancient forest and the entire caldera of Mount Sodom burst into a white hot inferno.

In moments everything in the Druid Grove was reduced to nothing. The entire grove confined with the stone walls was reduced to a slab of melted stone and rocks. All had escaped but Sister Letum, and where she had stood only an oozing puddle of silver remained in the burned blackness of the Druid Grove.

As Sindy, The Chair, Muffin, Punky, Daggy, and crew descended the mountains side, Chris turned to Witney. “I’m very proud Witney, very proud.”

Witney smiled.

Sindy was leading the group and was fumbling in her pockets looking or a pen and notebook. She had a scoop to get out.

All Punky could think of was courts martial for loosing a ship. The Chair came forward and put an arm around Punky and offered a Testosa Grande Resreva. Punky took the cigar and lit up.

“Good work Punky,” said the Chair. “Good work. Now I got another mission I want you to volunteer for.”

Punky thought a moment, smiled, and replied “What’s the odds?”

The found Tek sitting by the path.

Daggy was already thinking about improvements to the Dread’s design, that is if she ever got another chance at construction.

They were approaching the Temple of Hedon, and the party paused. Muffin took a long sip from a tankard of ale.

Witney stood deep in thought. She was watching the frolicking and dancing within the temple.

Witney looked at the little band and said, “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up in a while.”

Chris frowned, kissed his daughter, and the band of sisters and brothers proceeded down the hill as Witney headed for the bubbling hot springs and the dancing boys and girls.

“What shall we call this?” said The Chair to Muffin.

Muffin thought for a moment. “How about the Hydrogen Revolution.”

The sun was peaking over the horizon and a new day was dawning.

CHAPTER 48 - CROWN

2007-09-27T15:12:00.000-07:00

Sindy and Witney arrived at the stone wall of the Druid Grove around midnight. The firefly illumination was barely adequate for this night and both Sindy and Whitney had done a lot of singing. Once they had used the mating call of the firefly, but they both fell down laughing so hard that they lost any advantage of the increased illumination.

They could see that the grove was illuminated on the other side of the wall. Witney was gung-ho to continue, but Sindy felt queasy. Sindy told Witney to find an entrance while she caught her breath. Her chest hurt. It hurt on the circular scar that had been etched upon her breast just above her heart. That night, earlier in the week, at the Museo seemed to have receded into the distant past, but the pain was still new and it hurt. The scar was throbbing.

“Get a grip”, Sindy muttered to herself.

“Ouch,” said Sindy as a pebble hit her head. She turned and she saw Witney some distance away in the gloom. Witney held her fingers to her lips – the universal command to be quiet or something bad will happen.

Witney had climbed up a giant tree which must have fallen across the stone wall hundreds of years ago. The enormous tree was their ticket to get in. They scrambled over the wall and fell upon the warm fog layered primeval forest floor. The two proceeded with caution and soon they could see the glow of fires in the distance. A child’s voice was singing a sad song in the distance, but it was too far to hear the words. But Sindy recognized the tune. ‘The Hymn of Circe’s Return,’ recognized Sindy. This was going to be an ugly night. As Sindy rose to move forward she crumpled to her knees. She bit her lip to keep from groaning. Witney turned, but in the darkness she would not see Sindy’s pain.

After a moment Sindy whispered, “Its ok I tripped on a root. Lets go.”

Mount Sodom shook hard and a trickle of lava formed on the caldera wall just above the Druid Grove. It cast additional illumination into the ancient forest. The light streamed into the forest at a very low angle, illuminating everything in a reddish yellow light which flooded under the lower limbs of the giant trees. Many warriors shielded their eyes. As did The Chair and the Household Staff. Neither Circe nor Muffin moved. Both seemed know what was happening, as if the whole affair had been scripted and rehearsed endless times. Which was true. The last Ceremony of Coronation may have been hundreds of years in the past but it was as familiar as morning coffee to both Circe and Muffin.

Circe’s pure white gossamer gown turned orange and then red in the light of the volcano. Her bare breasts shone burnished bronze. Her hair raven black and her eyes… Her eyes were black pools of nothingness.

She silently raised the dagger above her head and a slow procession appeared from the distance. A most beautiful young woman held high a relic and walked forward ever so slowly. On each side strong warriors with ancient weapons walked with her. Behind her appeared another relic bearer, and then another.

As the first relic bearer approached the stone of sacrifice the paused and bowed to Circe. The attendant guards did not. Then the relic barer bowed to the man in the Zorro suit. The warrior guards were on alert to the slightest interference or danger. Circe did not respond. She stood transfixed and staring deep into Muffins eyes. Muffin did not move as he returned her stare. Circe and Muffin appeared locked in some mystical embrace oblivious to all around them.

The relic was placed upon the stone paralleling the stone of sacrifice.

Punky looked closely. The relic was flat and shiny and had a snake or something grasping its tail.

The relic barer stepped way and the second placed a jewel encrusted tall cone next to the shiny plaque.

Slowly the relic bearers approached, bowed to Circe, then to Zorro. The last relic bearer held the Crown of the Monforte Dynasty. Even Punky could recognize the crown and its famous Cote de Noir.

Mount Sodom spoke again and the illumination of the grove increased again and another trickle of lava formed on the caldera wall. In the very few places where the sky could be seen from among the ancient trees the clouded and snowing sky had turned blood red.

Circe turned, surveyed the surrounding tableau, and sat upon the golden throne.

“Bring forth the Chosen One,” said Circe.

Little Ben was escorted to the edge of the stone of sacrifice. Little Ben turned and faced Circe. Her face was blank and emotionless. But her tiny hands trembled.

“Bring forth the Life Giver,” said Circe

Ed was brought forward and he stood near Little Ben.

Circe smiled. Even Punky and Daggy high in the tree could see Circe’s wicked and depraved smile.

Circe stood from her golden throne. She glared at Little Ben. “The crown, and the prayer” said Circe. “Give the crown to the Life Giver. Say the holy words.”

Little Ben stared Circe in the eye, her tiny body shaking.

“No” said Little Ben

Circe’s eyes widened. Her lip curled. She raised her dagger high.

“The crown Ben, now!” Circe shouted.

“No. Never,” said Little Ben

Circe laughed with a touch of rabid madness.

“Bring the father brother,” Circe said quietly.

Into the light two warriors dragged a man, which the Chair recognized as Dr. Benway.

“This is your father brother Little Ben. This is your father Doctor Benway. This is your brother Fenway Ben,” shouted Circe.

One warrior took a knife and held it to Dr. Benway’s throat.

Little Ben retracted in horror as she understood the price of disobedience. The death of her long missing brother and her real father.

Little Ben clenched her jaw and began crying. She looked at Fenway and then she turned and picked up the crown. She paused and then handed the crown to Ed – the Life Giver. A trail of symbols and runes flowed from Little’s mouth like butterflies and dandelions in a gentle breeze. All but Circe stood in wonder and amazement.

“Crown your King, Life Giver,” commanded Circe.

Ed took the crown in both hands and held it high. He felt programmed and he seemed unable to stop his motions. Deep within is drug addled brain, his years of Naval training and discipline took hold. He lowered the crown and turned slowly to Circe.

“Crown your King, Now!” screamed Circe

“No,” said Ed. “Never.”

Circe began to tremble with rage. Spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. She looked frightening to everyone and strangely more beautiful in the glare of the forming lava pools.

“Bring the girl,” screamed Circe.

A warrior threw a small woman into the light. She was tightly bound and a hood was covering her head. Circe stepped forward and yanked the hood from their captive. She raised her dagger to the throat of the woman.

Ed saw it was his Sparkle. He began to cry.

“No Ed,” said Sparkle, “Don’t do it, please, for our future family. Don’t do it.”

“Yes, yes, I will obey,” said Ed. Ed and the entire plan of the Long White Hall had been defeated.

Ed walked slowly toward Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life. Ed raised the crown above the royal head. Muffin reached to Ed’s hand and held it there. Then Muffin stood.

“No,” Montforte IV said loudly. “No. Never!” Muffin paused, “Monforte’s are not fit to rule… the Republic shall stand!” There was not a hint of the ancient tongue in Muffin’s determined refusal of the crown.

Punky and Daggy both noticed that Circe’s warriors seemed stunned. For a brief moment they seemed to waver and look about in confusion.

Sister Letum stepped forward and taking her sword brought it down hard on a silver shield held by one of the guards. The sound rang out throughout the grove. The Armies of the Right and Left Hand’s of Circe resumed their orderly composure.

“As I suspected,” said Cerce, “As I suspected.”

Circe smiled at Muffin and motioned again.

A small family of women was ushered into the light. It was the Talbot family. Sissy Talbot looked smug. Her mother stood confused, but grandmother Talbot seemed to understand the unfolding drama.

Grandmother Talbot stepped forward. “Don’t do it Muffin. Don’t let them back. Please stop them. We cannot have the Druids back!”

Muffin pulled the mask from his face. He recognized Snuggles Talbot as did The Chair, from long ago on the sports fields of Old Andirons. The younger Talbot’s were of royal blood realized both Muffin and The Chair. Bastards, but still of royal lineage. Sissy Talbot was eligible to wear the Crown of the Monfortes.

Sissy Talbot stood and forced her way forward. “I shall be Queen,” she yelled. “I shall be Queen, all shall bow before me.”

Sister Letum chuckled under her breath as Sissy spoke.

Circe smiled again. Mount Sodom sounded approval in a thin tall fountain of lava and red illumination.

Muffin almost collapsed on the throne. He grasped his head in his hands. After hundreds of years they had been foiled by the psychotic and bloody Druids.

Circe pointed toward Sissy Talbot and Ed moved and raised the crown above Sissy’s head.

Daggy and Punky got ready for their desperate and futile gesture.

The from the Darkness came running both Witney and Sindy, unarmed but with total surprise on their side. Circe’s army was caught off guard. Sindy made for Circe and Witney hit Sister Letum with a hard blow in the stomach. Witney stood back as Sister Letum quickly righted herself, but then Witney kicked hard into the sister and followed the kick with a powerful punch. Something broke, it was Sister letum’s jaw and she spit out teeth and blood. While Witney and the sister were locked in combat. Monforte’s household staff sprung into motion and formed a ring around Sindy and Circe, and Witney and Letum. The Army of Circe moved into action and soon chaos and confusion ruled.

The Yellow Knights moved in the chaos and freed themselves. The grabbed whatever weapons they could and they too joined the fight.

Circe grabbed Sindy around the throat by one hand, and in the other hand she held her dagger thrusting at Sindy’s throat.

“You vile ungrateful child,” hissed Adel into Sindy face.

For the first time in her life Sindy was not afraid of Adel or the Wrath of Circe. As Adel lowered the dagger Sindy grabbed her wrist and deflected the deadly blow. But Circe was a warrior and Sindy was a reporter. In a few moments Circe subdued Sindy and they both fell upon the stone of sacrifice. Sindy was pinned and Circe raised the blade above her head. Circe was laughing hysterically. The volcano boomed. And Daggy and Punky fell from the tree limb and on top of Circe.

But the defenders of the Republic of Second life were outnumbered. They were too few, too disorganized, too unprepared, too nice, and too weak.

After a few moments of frightful fighting it was over. The Army of the Right and Left Hands of Circe was triumphant. They had surrounded the defenders of the Yellow Revolution. Circe had broken free, but she still straddled Sindy on the stone of sacrifice.

Sister Letum, holding her jaw said “Resume the Coronation of the Talbot slut.”
Circe shouted “No.” She paused and spoke with great fury, “First I must reward this ungrateful child and send her to her everlasting reward of agony and pain”. Circe raised the pearl encrusted silver dagger edged in carbon steel above her head and then with great force plunged the dagger into Sindy’s heart.

CHAPTER 47 - CIRCE'S LOVE

2007-09-27T12:21:00.000-07:00

Punky moved slowly through the ancient forest toward the distance bonfires. She was very quiet but the sulphur in the air almost made her sneeze. To her left was considerably more light behind a large iron and wooden gate. Then Punky heard movement along the road and she dropped to the warm but prickly forest floor hidden by fog. This place was very dangerous decided Punky. After a few moments the large gate opened and the procession entered the compound. She was about to stand when she noticed warrior guards standing near the gate. They looked serious in their furs and with very sharp spears. Punky decided to stay put and invisible in ground fog.

As she lay on the ground behind a very large rotten tree stump she found a place where she could peak thought the skeleton of decaying bark and take in the entire scene.

She saw hundreds of warriors lined up in some kind of formation. Like graduation at the Academy of Blimps thought Punky, but these were not happy graduating cadets. These were warrior women in ancient dress, or undress in some cases. They were heavily armed and Punky recognized some of the modern weapons. There faces were painted blue. Punky did not know why they looked that way, but she knew that the entire effect was screaming “don’t mess with me.” She watched as the procession advanced to a stone monument and then set up a chair or throne opposite the stone and the silent warrior guard. Some kind of ritual thought Punky. Then she recognized The Chair. An inner voice told her to remain hidden. The Chair did not look happy at all. He was surrounded by a small group of oddly dressed seniors and a rather short man with a mask and a black outfit. Zorro came to mind, thought Punky, but that made no sense.

Punky decided to creep forward with care and determine what was going on. She looked carefully and saw no one but the phalanx of warriors and the elegantly dressed group standing with The Chair. The guards by the gate had disappeared when the gate had been closed moments before. Punky moved swiftly and silently across the road. She hugged the ancient wall of stones. The fires grew dim as she followed the wall for some distance. Then the wall made a 90 degree turn and she followed it until she estimated that she was behind The Chair and his group. Punky rested a moment. She could see clearly two of the bonfires, but the ground fog obscured the others.

Punky advanced with caution. The bonfires grew brighter and she advanced slowly and silently. Then she came upon a huge slab of stone angled at about 30 degrees toward the sky. The top of the rock slab must have been 10 meters and above the slab. At the top of the slab a group of very large tree trunks obscured the scene below. Punky found climbing the stone easy and she soon reached the top. Several bushy tree limbs the thickness of a cow obscured here view. She stopped for a moment and then began to climb out on the limb. The limb was solid and Punky found many sturdy handholds in the tough fibrous bark. As she inched forward the limb stopped. It had fallen off or been destroyed in some primordial storm. However the view below was spectacular. Punky could see everything including the ranks of warriors and beyond. She saw a large flat stone covered with yellow flowers. Punky was high above what she decided must be a Druid sanctuary. She was perhaps 15 to 20 meters high. Directly below her was the little man dressed like Zorro sitting on a very large and ornate golden chair. And next to him stood The Chair.

All Punky needed now was to light up the Testosa Grande and take in the spectacle. However the blue painted faces indicated that smoking in the grove would not be advised.

Just as Punky was settling in she heard in the distance a child’s voice begin to sing. It was a single voice of intense beauty. The voice was sorrowful, innocent, and delicate. The single voice resonated throughout the grove and Punky listened carefully.

“Circe’s love and lust so fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy sacred chair,
Stately guide and laws to keep:
Tigers entreat thy might,
Circe’s love excellently bright.”

Punky saw movement at the far end of the warrior phalanx. Four tall and nearly naked blue painted women carried a golden throne between the two lines of guards. They moved slowly as the solitary voice sang the dirge like melody. The jeweled throne was carefully placed opposite the flat flower covered slab that faced The Chair and Zorro. A bit like two chess masters getting ready for a showdown thought Punky.

The mountain rumbled and the glowing pit in the distance suddenly lit the sky. Punky thought she might be seen, but soon a cloud of stinky gas obscured the entire area. Soon it would pass. Time to light up thought Punky. She drew the Testosa Grande from her pocket, bit off the end which she put into her pocket. Then she lit a match cupped in her hands and puffed hard like a blimp climbing for altitude. The Testosa tip glowed a dull red. Eventually the stinky cloud of smoke cleared and Punky could see the scene below again.

Punky was less than three puffs into the Testosa when again she noticed movement at the far end of the lane of warriors. Two very burly, very ugly, and very nude women were dragging some poor soul dressed in an outrageous outfit into the light. There was a chain about his neck and he wore a dumb purple robe, was stripped to the waist, and was wearing some kind of sparkly gold skimpy shorts. Punky thought it was almost funny until she looked closely. It was Ed! Ed Hallard. This is getting serious thought Punky. Dangerously serious.

The voice began to sing again.

“Earth, let not thy envy shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Circe’s darkened moon was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Give us then our blessed night,
Circe’s gift excellently bright.”

Not a very catchy tune thought Punky, but she found the words and melody deeply disturbing.

She spied another movement. Two warriors were carrying Little Ben toward the golden throne. Punky was sick. Little Ben! They were supposed to protect her. Not deliver her up to the hands of Adel’s maniacs. But there she was. Little Ben was unbound but looked as if she were drugged or in some kind of trance. The warriors gently placed her at the foot of the golden throne next to the chained Ed.

Gods thought Punky they probably got the rest of the crew as well. Punky thought hard. She had no weapons. She was determined to protect Little Ben, but there was nothing she could do. I’ll wait she thought perhaps Kees or Macboy got away. They were heavily armed, and as Omega Squad people, they could help out if they found this place. Perhaps those Knights might show up. They sounded pretty powerful thought Punky.

She took a puff and continued to observe as the ground rumbled again and smoke obscured the scene for a few moments. As the smoke cleared and the view returned Punky was again shocked. For behind the golden throne she saw the crumpled forms of Kees and Macboy. They were bound hand and foot. As a blimp captain she could see that the ropes were sturdy and the knots very clever. Even the Omega Squad could not escape.

Things were bad realized Punky and they were getting worse by the moment.

Just as the solo voice began to sing again Punky heard the clattering of horses’ hooves in the distance. Must be those Knights to the rescue. But the sound was not the clattering of hooves on a mighty charge as one heard on old youtube westerns, but the sound of small and very tired ponies.

“Sacrifice the ones apart,
And with thy sparkling dagger;
Give unto the bleeding hart
Dispatch them now then to stagger;
Thou that make a day of night,
Circe’s lust excellently bright.”

Sacrifice thought Punky. That’s what this is all about. It’s a Druid Sacrifice. An evil thing outlawed hundreds of years ago.

Probably Little Ben or perhaps Ed. Or perhaps all of them and the crew. I gotta do something thought. But what?

The gate slowly opened and bright white torches illuminated brilliant yellow banners and mounted Knights. Dusty Knights. Rusty Knights. Very very old Knights. Slowly the Knights ambled forward on their steeds. Soon they stood facing, what Punky now knew, was a stone of sacrifice.

On the right of the Knights sat Zorro and The Chair. To the left the golden throne, Ben, Ed, and the captives.

A tall beautiful warrior stepped forward and stood between the sacrificial stone and the little band of Yellow Knights.

“Just on time,” said Sister Letum. “Just on time.” Sister Letum was dressed in a brown leather outfit that left nothing to the imagination. In her hand she held a long and very sharp blade. Sister Letum continued “Welcome o Knights of the Yellow Banner, Bearers of the Concordat of Abdication, and Brothers in Arms to Mofo the Brave and Very Dead. Welcome to thy doom and the Druid Resurrection ”

In an instant a giant net fell heavily from the darkness above onto the Yellow Knights. Warriors hidden in the dark rushed the Yellow Knights. The Yellow Knights crumpled and fell. The ponies whinnied and pawed the ground desperate to escape. One Yellow Knight managed to cut free the thick netting but was immediately overcome by five strong warriors. The Knights had failed. There were too few to counter Adel’s swift and savage attack.

Soon the knights were bound and arrayed before a stone slab bordering the stone of sacrifice. They stood upon their knees like supplicants at some holy shrine thought Punky. Behind each stood a blue smeared warrior with a dagger held to the throat of each Knight. Silence again fell upon the primeval grove. Only Mount Sodom occasionally spoke.

A snap sounded just to the left of Punky’s ear. She froze and turned expecting to see an ugly blue face with a nine inch blade. To her amazement it was Daggy, her fingers to her lips. Punky quickly looked down. No one had noticed the tiny noise. Punky looked back and Daggy smiled. Punky raised her fingers and began signing to Daggy. Navy hand signals needed when the storms, or howling boilers made hearing and speaking impossible.

“Did you see?” signed Punky.

“Yes, everything,” replied Daggy. “There is only you and me to stop this madness.” “

Yes,” said Punky, “but first lets plan this out.”

Daggy nodded.

The beautiful voice resumed her song.

“Monforte throne in the night,
Our exile over and now so new
The crown and jewel to set it right,
A blessing for the very few
Yellow Knights fail in fight
Circe’s dagger excellently bright.”

Mount Sodom spoke again, this time with a bright flash and deep roar. Steam and smoke obscured the scene.

As it cleared there stood Circe. Circe was radiant in her splendor and fearful in her eyes.

Punky was shocked at the beauty of Circe. She turned to Daggy.

Daggy signed, “Look in here eyes.”

Punky leaned forward just a bit and looked long and hard. “Insane,” Punky signed to Daggy. “Completely insane.” Then Punky signed “Look at her hand.” Daggy nodded ‘yes’ as she spied the jeweled dagger of Circe.

CHAPTER 46 - SEEKERS

2007-09-26T18:25:00.000-07:00

The Chair, Muffin, and their entourage passed a number of busy shrines and temples on the climb to the Druid Gove. Along the northern path several temples were doing a lot of business saving souls and after it began to snow the Holy Hot Springs and Spa of the Profit of Hedon was packed. As they passed The Chair saw hundreds of little heads poking up out of the steaming springs. Each had a snowy patch on top of their heads. Muffin had laughed saying they looked just like Cappuccino Monks. As they passed the gate of the Temple of Hedonism Muffin downed two flagons of ale and resumed the climb. The courtiers all lit the insta-torches and the gloomy surrounds became illuminated in a flickering brilliant white light with harsh shadows cast into the dark forest. The higher they climbed the fewer seekers they saw. Many had turned back in the snow and dark and were headed for the temples below. Soon they passed a determined seeker still headed upward, who was carrying a box of Corneal Beers. How the seeker was able to carry a heavy load of beer all this was a mystery to The Chair.

The snow, which was light at the base of the mountain, became heavy as they approached the sacred grove. But The Chair noticed that some ground was volcanic in nature and was warm to the touch. Not hot, just warm, and the snow quickly melted and a kind of wispy ground fog developed in its place. The path finally leveled out and a broad bench of land opened before them. It was deeply wooded with ancient trees. “Cryptomeria, cryptomeria,” shouted a giddily happy Muffin.

The Chair looked carefully. Redwoods thought The Chair. In any event they were very very old. There was little or no under story, or ground vegetation, because the towering trees cut out all sunlight at ground level. The ground was warm and the entire forest floor was covered in a thick blanket of fog. The fog held low to the ground at about knee height. In the distance they could see, hear, and smell several enormous bonfires which cast a yellow and orange light into the vast collection of brownish red tree trunks. The light of the bonfires was covered in a kind of dome of fog and was dim at this distance, but they could see a long avenue before them leading to ancient gates.

Muffin raised his plastic sword in one hand and held his Zorro cape in the other and shouted “To Victory!” The royal party set off down the avenue to their appointment with the ancient Ceremony of Coronation.

The southern path proved a steep one and the Yellow Knights were forced to dismount and walk their steeds at the entrance to the Temple of the Maple Leaf. It was a Canadian retreat, but it had closed at sunset and no one was home. As they looked across the lower chasm they could make out another party with bright torches climbing along the northern route.

The path was dangerously slippery. Chris knew he should stop and rest the Army of the Yellow Knights, but there simply was no time. Zenith for the dead moon could not be far off he realized.

Without squires the going was tough, but there had been no squires in the Brick Layers Secret Society in years. Young people were simply not interested in learning a lot of secret handshakes, obscure terms, and odd little dances. “Ah,” Chris said to no one, “The Yellow Knights are so last century, just as my daughter claimed. So yesterday, it’s not funny.” No, not funny thought Chris. A better term would be desperate.

Chris took the lead but he could not see his hand before his face. There was some relief when the approached the Sanctuary of the triple faced god Avarice, Avidity, and Covetousness. The temple pagoda was brightly lit, but the gate was locked and an admission sign read Adults 10 lindens, Children Under Age of 10, 20 lindens. The Knights desperately needed a short rest. Chris banged on the gate with his chain mail fist. Soon a little man was seen scurrying to the gate a torch in his hand.

“How many in your party,” cried out the little man? He had all gold teeth Chris saw in the light of the pagoda.

“Ten, no nine” said Chris.

The little man looked up and said, “That will be 90 lindens, if you had been ten I would have given you a discount.” He said. Chris was tempted to ask how much, but he really needed to sit down.

“Ah,” said the little man “and another 10 lindens per horse for a total of 300 lindens.”
Chris looked at the horses. There were two per rider. “Do you take the Red Ink card?” asked Chris.

“Credit or Debit?” asked the little man. “I’ll give you a discount for Debit and a reduced price on unlimited access to our toilet”

“How much?” asked Chris.

“Lets say 600 lindens for the whole package, excluding of course actual entry to the temple, the use of the temple grounds, or any other service listed here.” He pointed to a notice board with hundreds of item listed, including heavy breathing, and oogles of the temple girls. The list went on and on.

When Chris was able to sit down on the steps of the temple, only 20 lindens, he regretted it. His steel undershorts, which were too small when he left the Capital, were now really, badly, and horribly too small

“I need some torches and a map,” said Chris.

“How many maps and what type or torches,” asked the little man?

“Sheesh,” said Chris.

As Sindy and Witney approached the initial climb of the eastern route they noticed a Mulberry farm and they purchased from the farmer four jars of fireflies. The farmer demonstrated how to control the amount of light the fireflies would yield. Say nothing and you got a flickering candle light equivalent. Sing to the fireflies about the glow worm and you got about ten candle power. If you yelled real loud and sounded like a girl firefly seeking a mate you would get a bright light.

“What does a girl firefly sound like,” asked Wintey. The farmer explained and both Witney and Sindy blushed. The jar sprang into a bright green blue light and then settled back to a dull glow. It seemed that the call of the female firefly got the males glowing with expectation and the females jealous and angry. The farmer was kind enough to attach the jars to a slender string which he placed around their necks.

Punky had hit the ground hard. She had hit several large branches on the way down and her leg hurt but she knew she would be ok. Punky could feel an ancient forest all about her. Here among the giant trees the wind seemed still and the ground covered with a thin fog. She touched the ground. The ground and the moss floor of the forest was warm. It was pitch black and Punky sensed the forest and fog rather than actually saw it. She called out several times, but there was no response. At the speed the Dread was making in the storm the crew was probably spread across the mountain side for kilometers. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she saw an orange glow perhaps 500 yards distant. She paused for a moment to inventory what she had in her pockets. One Testosa Grande in a tin tube, a half used book of matches, a bobby pin, a grocery list from last week which listed kitty litter among other things, and the dispatch box skeleton key. Not much here she thought but at least I’ll have a smoke. She bit off the end of the Testosa Grande and lit a match, it was a brilliant light to her dark adjusted eyes. She held the flame to the Testosa and puffed like a blimp climbing for altitude. The tip lit and she drew a big puff. Before she shook out the match she took a quick look around in the dying light. There were bones here she realized. Lots of bones. Very old bones and some not so old. Human bones. The light flickered out.

Punky set off in the direction of the dim orange light in the distance.

The Chair, Muffin in his Zorro disguise, and his entourage walked slowly up the gentle approach to the Druid Grove. The avenue was paved with ancient moss covered stones but the torches clearly showed that the path had been recently used and by a large number of people. Before them stood a series of monolithic stones standing end on end like marching toy soldiers all headed toward the flaming bonfire in the distance. As they drew closer they saw small fires lining the road every few feet providing excellent illumination of the avenue, the trees, and the stone monuments lining the road.

The still night was shattered by the distant roar of a lion. The household staff noticeably tensed with the cry.

Then looming before them was a tall and impenetrable iron and wooden gate anchored in two massive stone pillars. The Chair pushed on the gate and it did not move. Muffin laughed.

“Needs the Oath of Allegiance”, said Muffin. Then Muffin drew himself up as tall as he could in his short frame and spoke in the ancient tongue.

Chris could not understand a single word, for Muffin spoke in runes and symbols.

The gate trembled and then swung open. All but Muffin stood in awe of the spectacle before them. The field before them was brightly illuminated by four gigantic bonfires. One fire in each of the cardinal directions. Beyond the field the glowing pit of Mount Sodom could be seen spiting hot lava and spewing brownish smoke.

In the center of the field just above the ground fog stood the stone of sacrifice covered with yellow tulips. However the most amazing thing were the female warriors. Two files of warriors stood facing each other in total silence. They formed a lane three meters wide from the far dark end of the field to the sacrificial stone. Each file was three ranks deep. The Chair quickly calculated – 600. They were dressed in animal furs, leather, and many were completely nude. Most were smeared with blue pigment. Some were smeared with blood. The women warriors were heavily armed in ancient weapons, but many also held modern devastating weapons as well. The army did not move. The army did not speak. The army did not turn to look at Muffin’s party. The Chair knew they were expected.

Muffin looked about and paused in thought for a moment. He took note of the two smaller stones that flanked the sacrificial stone. Then Muffin spoke. “Uncrate that thing an put it here.” He said pointing to a space on the far side of the sacrificial stone away from the phalanx of Adel’s army of the Left and Right Hands of Circe.

Soon the Throne of the Montforte’s was assembled and carefully placed in the exact location indicated by Muffin. Muffin removed his Zorro hat, but not his mask, and sat upon the throne. He stared directly forward down the lane of warriors and did not move.

CHAPTER 45 - FOREST PRIMEVAL

2007-09-26T13:02:00.000-07:00

The landing was going to be tricky and dangerous, thought Punky Pugilist struggling to keep the dirigible under control, as rain pelting the windscreen made visibility uncertain. Ice was building up on both the flight surfaces and on the upper skin. The wind howled and bright flashes of lightening, the nemesis of all airship captains, rattled the cabin.

“I should have made some sandwiches and tea while I had the chance,” mumbled Punky under her breath, “perhaps turkey and cheese, or ham and cucumber,…”

A flash of brilliant light illuminated the cabin, the instruments sharply outlined in harsh luminance and sharp edges of black shadow. The ship shuddered. Punky flinched, that was close she thought, thank the gods I have a hydrogen filled blimp which provides extra lift, rather than the more expensive and weaker helium. A small yellow light suddenly glowed red and began flashing drawing her attention from food and tea back toward the stark reality of the responsibility and danger of her mission. The red light went out, followed by a distinct click and thud, as a slice of rye toast flew from the toaster into the air next to the captain’s chair. With the fast trained reflexes of an experienced pilot Punky grabbed the toast in mid air and bringing it to her mouth, she took a tiny bite.

“There, that will settle my tummy a bit,” she uttered to herself. Why did I ever agree with this really stupid and futile gesture she wondered, but in her heart she knew that she was committed regardless of the glorious fame of success, or the iniquity of failure followed by a trial, conviction, and sentencing to the ultimate penalty, or perhaps only death? Checking the instruments, noting the falling air speed as the howling gale increased in furry, Punky looked behind her at Daggy. Daggy was desperately trying to determine their exact location. The lightening and ice was interfering with the navigation system that Daggy held tightly in her hand.

Tek had gone up to the engineering section to see why the number three engine’s boiler was loosing steam pressure at an alarming rate. They were burning coal at a frightful rate to stay aloft, heat the flight surfaces to melt the ice, and keep the cabin interior from freezing.

A flash of blinding light appeared outside the left window and a white hot tongue of lightening struck the number one engine. A huge deafening explosion of sound followed. Thunder had combined with an exploding boiler. Daggy immediately stood and scanned the gages and instruments in the Engineers station.

Punky threw open the port side sliding window at the pilot’s station and stuck her head out the window and looked up. It was bad. The entire nacelle of number 1 was gone. The engine had been blown off the Dread by the combination of a direct lightening hit and the high pressure steam explosion. Ice and hail pummeled Punky’s head and her cap flew off into the downpour of freezing water. She had seen enough. She slammed the little window closed and scanned her instruments. They were loosing altitude.

Tek came sliding down the ladder from the engineering section above. He looked tired and worried as he ran to Punky’s pilot’s seat. “We’ve been breached.” He yelled.

Punky winced, but her training took over. “How bad?”

“It’s about a meter wide breach. Kees is trying to slow down the leak with bubble patches, but we don’t have much time.”

Punky spun the UP&DOWN wheel and felt the ship rise slightly. “We still have some lift,” Punky yelled at Daggy, “I’m going for the maximum altitude I can get. Perhaps we can make it to the rendezvous by a controlled glide.” She failed to mention what both Daggy and Tek new followed a ‘controlled glide’ – an ugly crash and possible fire ball of burning hydrogen, flaming aluminum spars, and glowing coal.

Daggy nodded to Punky. Daggy was still trying to determine their heading not to mention their location. The howling wind increased in intensity and their forward ground speed could not be more than 10 knots Daggy guessed. But in this hail and sleet she really had no idea where they were. The ‘street walker’ navigation lifted from Blurts had stopped working hours ago.

As the ship shuddered and lurched in the angry sky Punky fought to gain altitude. Mount Sodom was 7000 meters in altitude and Punky knew they could never make that height. Not in a ship this badly damaged. The altimeter slowly ever so slowly rose to about 5000 meters then the altimeter stopped moving. Punky felt a sickening feeling in the seat of her pants. The ship had begun an ever so slow descent. She tapped the altimeter with her finger and it wiggled and began falling. Time to consider alternatives thought Punky, but there were not any.

On the deck lay a soaked yellow sheet of paper, its ink running and flowing from the paper and onto the decking. The note was their orders from the Second Sea Lord should they fail to deliver Little Ben to Clissa. The Dread had succeeded in its commitment to reach Clissa, but to their surprise Clissa was not there to receive Little Ben. Punky knew enough about this stupid and futile gesture that the crew knew was a suicide mission to know that the goal had been to place Little Ben in the only Sim where Adel’s order had no influence. All religions were banned in Clissa, except of course for the worship of the Great Leader and Glorious Leader. The Blue Navy wanted Little Ben safe, and isolated for at least a few days, and they had rushed the completion of the Dread to both rescue her and remove her from any influence by The Order. Punky knew they would do anything to snatch Little Ben. Punky just didn’t know why Adel wanted Little Ben so desperately.

The contingency orders were clear. Get Little Ben to Mount Sodom and into the hands of the Yellow Knights who could be found there. Punky didn’t know who the Yellow Knights were so she asked Daggy.

‘The Yellow Knights?” said Daggy. She thought for a while and said, “If I remember correctly the Yellow Knights were key in the Battle of Coronation Grove and in bringing down the stupid monarchy.” Then Daggy thought a bit more. “I think that Mofo the Brave and Very Dead had almost been prematurely killed by the Druid Priestess at the Ceremony to install the last Monforte King. That’s about all I can remember from grade school legends and civics class.”

The ship shuddered hard and a great sheet of ice slid off the nose and passed by the cockpit windows like a thundering waterfall. The nose rose sharply and Punky struggled to keep the ship level.

Daggy quickly scanned the meters and gages. “Steam pressure is nil in number 3, and were they were loosing pressure in 2 and 4. Daggy said nothing about number one. The engine lost to lightening and a boiler explosion moments ago.

“How many mules can you get me from 2 and 4,” shouted Punky as the airship lurched sharply to port in an enormous surge of wind and hail from the starboard side.

Daggy watched in horror as the pressure gages fell to 0. “Cant give you any Punkster, there gone.”

Punky thought hard. They still had two engines working but it was not enough to maintain much forward headway in this weather on a pitch black night. There was no out. “We can jump, which in this weather will probably get most of us killed or frozen regardless of the strength of the chutes. Or we can do as all good Blimp girls do and that is to ride her down.”

Daggy thought and realized Punky was correct. Besides Little Ben would never survive a parachute jump, even if the weather was fair.

The Daggy had an idea. “Which way is north Punky?” she yelled above the howling wind.

Punky knew that their survival may depend on her “dead reckoning” skills. She closed her eyes for a moment. The she shouted and pointed, “That way, to starboard, 150 degrees, that way!”

Daggy shouted, “Bring her around to 210.”

Tek suck his head into the gondola from the engineering section above. “Its not holding, the bubble wrap.”

Daggy said, “Stoke the remaining engines with all the coal they will take, then get the crew down here. Were gonna ditch.”

“Yes, Mam,” replied Tek.

‘Yes Mam’ thought Daggy, Tek never said that, never. He must be really frightened.

Daggy could hear fast and furious shoveling from above.

Kees came sliding down the ladder from above. Followed by Macboy. They were dressed warm and in the Omega team’s combat gear. Both were armed. Daggy looked at Kees and Macboy. “Take care of Little Ben, above all she must live. If either of you survive make sure …”

The Dread shuddered hard and the deck tilted 40 degrees and the crew gabbed for handholds to stay on their feet. Then she leveled out a bit.

“We hit something big,” yelled Punky. “Time to ditch. Out! Out! Out!”

Daggy grabbed the lower deck hatch and pulled it open. It was pitch black below. Daggy reached for the belaying line on the descent real and then opened the left storage bay and pulled out a grappling hook. He tossed a hundred feet o the rope and grappling hook out the hatch where it hung loosely. Kees had grabbed Little Ben and had wrapped her up in a scratchy navy blanket.

Something scraped along the starboard side of the dirigible. A scraping sound like the swishing of a giant feather against the ridged airships side. The line went taught. The grappling hook had caught something below. Perhaps a rock or some patch of ground.

“Go yelled!” Punky “Go.”

Kees grabbed the line and was gone. The Macboy followed immediately. Tek came sliding down the ladder, looked at Daggy and Punky. Then he too was gone. The line began to shudder as if it was catching and letting go and catching again.

Punky jumped up from her seat and joined Daggy at the hatch. Daggy looked hard at Punky.

“I’m captain Daggy, it’s your turn,” said Punky with a weak smile.

Daggy saluted Punky and then was gone.

Punky grabbed the line and then she paused. Punky looked around at the instruments, the gages, her toaster, at all the bits of tin and aluminum that was alive in Punky’s hands. The Dread, her ship, was going down. She stood at attention, then gave a snappy salute to the nose. “Permission to leave?” she asked to the empty ship. The ship shuddered just a bit as if to say ‘permission granted’. Then Punky was gone. The line broke and the ship, now a bit lighter, rose into the dark stormy sky.

CHAPTER 44 - SMELLS LIKE SNOW

2007-09-25T20:46:00.000-07:00

Minister Dawdling of the Sect of Acedia the All Loving, was looking down upon the sacrilegious and disgusting cavorting of the Hedonists. He was stunned by the number of new recruits they had attracted. A long line of white clad seekers were climbing up the steep path toward the chasm above. Minister Dawdling of the Fluffy Grove and Bed of the Mother of Acedia studied the scene carefully. A third or so of the seekers were entering the wretched and sinful camp of the Hedon. May he burn in Sodoms pit thougt Dawdling.

"This will not do," he said rubbing his eyes and resuming his reclining position. Ill think about this as I nap. He reached for a cold slice of pizza but the greasy box was empty. Dawdling rolled over and decided on a beer, but the beer bottle had fallen over and the contents had disappeared into the ground. Hmm he thought. Then mother nature called. He was tempted, but his assigned mattress already smelled pretty bad so he got up and walked to the cliff overlooking the upward spiraling path crowded with seekers. He relieved himself onto the seekers below. He looked to the darkening skies. Smelled like snow he thought.

Time for a days work. He resigned himself to the onerous chore of getting more beer and perhaps a few new members. It was his responsibility as Minster of Acedia to spread the good word. He walked the short distance to the Gate of the Quiet Snooze and threw open the doors which faced the upper path. The first of the seekers was approaching the gate. Dawdling looked about and saw a tattered lawn chair and pulled it just outside the gate and sat down. As the first of the seekers reached the gate he shouted out “Free Beer and Pizza, Fresh Mattresses, No Nagging.” The lead seekers paused and pondered the offer. More than half turned and passed through the gate. The Reverend Mooch was standing dressed only in his dirty shorts and bunny shoes next to the Frig of Perpetual Beer. He held the frig door open and began handing out beers until he grew tired and lay down next to the Miracle of the Pizza Oven and took a well deserved snooze.

Not far above on the path Hubert Cenodoxus stood looking down the path toward the despicable pen of the slothful. “Disgusting” he said as he stood tall and proud, the wind flowing through is beautiful golden locks. His firm tanned body glowing in the setting sun. Only I can save those miserable seekers he knew. The true arts of humility and grace were his, and only his, to dispense to these poor ignorant seekers. I will save them from themselves he thought. He walked with authority to the Turnstile of Submission to His Beauty and Wisdom. I’ll put a stop to this heresy said Hubert. But first I need to find that snow shovel he thought. I can put the visitors to a useful purpose because it smells a lot like snow.

They dressed Ed in a gold lame loin cloth and an enormous purple angora robe with a woven image of a snake eating its tail. The Worm Oboros Ed knew. Ed though his outfit outrageous but he had been told about the ancient ritual by the Second Sea Lord and the critical role he was to play in stopping the Druid Priestess’s plans. If he lived that long. The outfit was really outrageous because he somehow knew it was going to snow. Perhaps the smell.

Ed knew the scrubbing in the icy stream was a purification ritual. His skin was indeed very clean but they had almost rubbed him raw. Then they coated him in a kind of tingly oil and rosewater mix. The oil Ed suspected contained some kind of drug. Ed had not felt this odd since the time he visited Miss Anahita at the Temple of Khajuraho off the coast of Elmore near the Sea of Dreams.

They had seated Ed in the tent. His hands and feet were free, but the tent was heavily guarded. The guards were nervous and waiting for something. The temporary temple had changed a bit and behind the alter was hung a magnificent tapestry. Ed realized it must be the lost Veil of the Temple of Circe, for in the middle of the tapestry stood the image of the Druid Priestess of legend.

Circe stood bare breasted in a pure white diaphanous gown at the top of a set of marble steps. Her raven hair radiant and with a smile both loving and cruel. In one hand she was throwing rose petals onto the five marble steps below her. Yellow tulips formed a carped upon the marble floor below the stairs. In the other hand she held a discrete dagger. She stood upon a magnificent tiger skin rug and behind and about her were monstrous wild beasts. Tigers, male, and female lions were resting at her feet. At the foot of the stair a snarling wolf was baring its teeth not at Circe, but at the position of the viewer. Circle was beautiful – stunningly beautiful and very very deadly. The border of the tapestry was covered in tiny writhing bodies which Ed could barely make out.

The Guards of the Left Hand of Circe snapped to attention. The flaps of the main entrance of the temple flew open and there stood Circe herself. She was resplendent, bare breasted and in a gown of white purity and perfection. In her hand she held an ancient dagger with a handle of pearls and a blade of sliver edged with carbon steel.

It was Adel.

She entered the room and the guards fell to their knees, but the spears and weapons remained posed for action and certain death should they be needed.

“Captain Ed Hallard,” Circe said, or rather Adel Flossberg. “Or should I say the disgraced and cashiered Ed of the wicked navy of New Rome. Welcome, welcome to life everlasting in my eager willing arms.”

“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” replied Ed trying to make a joke.

Circe was not amused. She stepped closer to Ed. Gods she’s beautiful though Ed.

“Ed,” said Circe, “I know you hate New Rome for what they have done to you. Disgraced you, and abused you, and humiliated you before your friends and comrades. I sense you want revenge and I offer you the opportunity to strike at the heart of those who have ruined you.”

Ed was feeling very odd. He was certain he had been drugged. The drugs had two very different effects. The first was pleasant and was basically a kind of blissful easy hunger for Circe. Within moments it had turned to lust for Circe and a mad desire to embrace her. The second emotion he felt was rage and anger. He felt a need to show all who had ever slighted him, or insulted him, or humiliated him his power and anger. Demonstrating anger was never one of Ed’s emotions, but it grew very powerfully and soon his temples were pounding with rage and lust and the need to demonstrate both to the world.

Circe smiled and came closer. Ed could smell her perfume. Another drug his addled brain concluded.

Circe drew her dagger close to Ed’s face and then she kissed him lightly. She laughed the laugh of the insane and mad. She took the dagger and slowly drew it across Ed’s cheek. A thin tiny red life followed the shining tip of Circe’s blade. Ed felt nothing but rage and desire. Circe put her finger to Ed’s cheek and touched a tiny trickle of blood. She gazed dreamily into Ed’s eyes and then moving her finger tip to her full red lips she tasted of his blood.

Then she stood and turned toward the entrance to the tent. The guards opened the flaps of the tent, as she left she said “Bring him to the Sacred Grove, it is time.”

The Chair and Muffin had landed at the base of Mount Sodom. As The Chair looked to the skies he thought that it was likely to snow this eve. He had a hunch and it smelled like snow. They had chosen the northern path to the Druid Grove, not because it was the easiest path, which it was, but because their landing would be easily seen from The Orders encampment just outside the legendary Druid Grove. They faced a two hour climb to reach the grove and Muffin had chosen the Zorro costume rather than the bunny suit as his disguise. The household staff had changed as well, but their costumes were that of ancient courtiers and fops. Lots of frilly cuffs, and lace, and for the women Empire Style bodices and for the men tights that were very tight indeed. There had been a run on socks at the last moment. All were armed with dainty but effective knives and brass knuckles. They had stopped and hired several bewildered farmers to carry a large crate.

Muffin brandishing his plastic Zorro sword pointed up the path and shouted “To victory.” The small column began to move forward up the mountain and to a hoped for victory.

The Yellow Knights reached the foot of Mount Sodom just before sundown. They were nine. Sir Gandorlf of the Yellow Knights had, shortly after reaching the River of Sticks, lost his seat, and had been forced to remain on his behind. Chris though he would be greatly disappointed, however Sir Gandorlf quickly fell to sleep under a withered persimmon tree. They covered him in some blankets, gave the local persimmon farmer five lindens and told the farmer they would be back on the morrow. Or so Chris hoped.

At the foot of the mountain the Army of the Yellow Knights dismounted their ponies and remounted on the fresh charges they had brought with them. Chris and Philpot Onus took a long pause to look at their small group. In the Yellow Revolution of hundreds of years ago, Mofo the Great and Very Dead had 500 of the flour of the aristocracy at his command. Chris had nine old withered men. Men of great courage there was no doubt, but still very old and now quite saddle sore. Chris felt compelled to make a stirring speech, something about St. Crispies Day, but he was too tired, his bottom had chaffed raw in his steel undershorts. The Yellow Knights all knew their duty and the short odds of success, so no speech was needed Chris decided. They turned the horses onto the southern path and began their slow but inexorable climb to the Druid Grove and their appointment with Circe.

Witney shouted “Stop” and the red silk Mogul Kashan skidded sideways, but it was too late. Sindy and Witney were thrown clear as the Kashan collided with an enormous Bukkabrany. The Kashan was toast and the Bukkabrany tree barely moved. Witney turned to Sindy and said “Eh, it was a rental.”

Sindy Laughed. The Kashan, before the tree had decided to jump into the middle of the path, was already reduced to a threadbare carpet by Witney’s fast driving. The fringe in the rear was all worn off by the continuous high speed diving and one side had a huge gouge in it where they had skidded against an abutment on a stone bridge over the River of Sticks.

Sindy dusted the dirt from her Levis and began the arduous task of picking the bugs out of her teeth. Witney reached toward Sindy’s forehead and pulled an enormous dead and very flat dragon fly from her. They both laughed.

Looming above them was Mount Sodom with its thin vent of smoke spewing into the sky. “Which route?” asked Witney.

Sindy went back to the Kashan opened the glove box and pulled out Remington’s Atlas of All Sims. She turned to the page she had turned down. Thank god Ms. Tarttle The Times Librarian was not here to see this. “Lets try the eastern route it’s the closest”, said Sindy. Pointing to a well worn dirt path. There were several pilgrims or tourists clad in white trudging up the path. They seemed to be in a hurry. Sindy looked at the darkening sky. It would soon be sunset and it smelled like snow.

CHAPTER 43 - VOID

2007-09-25T16:03:00.000-07:00

Brother Glutton, a follower of the Profit Hedon, was amazed at the number of seekers who were climbing the mountain path below the Holy Hot Springs and Spa of the Profit of Hedon. He stood staring at the procession trying to determine what was happening. It was difficult to concentrate, as it always was at the Hot Springs and Spa. The thin lovely hand of an acolyte and third class nymphet Cynthia Morenmore, kept caressing his wet thigh. A first class nymphet was twirling and dancing on the tiny island near the everlasting brook of Merlot, not far from the feasting tables and love couches of the Grotto of The Eighth Sense.

Cynthia’s eyes pleaded for more, but Brother Glutton knew an opportunity when it grabbed him. Quickly he gathered several acolyte nymphets and several bronzed studs clad in leather chaps and nothing else. Together they moved three feasting tables to the roadside and set up signs of welcome and hospitality. On one feasting table they laid out roasted squab, heaps of the illegal Pate Faux Gras, piles of fresh bread, and bowls of pickled pig’s feet. On another table they laid out tankards of ale, flagons of rose wine, and dozens of cold cans of Apple Juice for the young ones. On the third table at one end, a nymphet and a stud danced the little jig of blessed anticipation. At the other end Brother Glutton stood and called to the seekers to stop, rest, wash their feet, and visit the Temple of Hedonism.

The winds above Mount Sodom were powerful but the Dread was up to the task. Punky had her steaming directly between the two peaks at The Dread’s maximum altitude and aimed straight for the border of Clissa. There was very little daylight left. They were cruising at the unimaginable speed of 62 knots and the engines were screaming and pumping out mule power at astonishing levels. Once past the twin peaks of the mountain, they planned to remain at a high altitude until The Dread was over the Plaza of the Capital of Clissa. Then they planed to descend quickly and land in the vicinity of the large statue seen on the sky photos. When onlookers or authorities arrived they planned on asking them to take them to their leader. She was sure that the Glorious Leader and the Great Leader would see the crew of the Dread. They had dispatches from Governor Linden and from Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian, and recent former Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party. They would deliver the dispatches, yield Little Ben into the safe hands of the GL&GL and then return to the Capital

Punky slipped the skeleton key into the cast iron dispatch box and opened it slowly. She glanced at the large stained blue envelope sealed with Yellow Ceiling Wax and bearing the seal of the Monforte Dynasty. Next to it lay a similar envelope with the return address of Governor Linden. A third yellow envelope lay in the box as well. Printed on the face of the envelope was written ‘IF ALL FAILS, READ ME.’ Rather rude thought Punky who put a great premium on polite behavior and language. She decided to put the yellow envelope in her pocket. You never recognize failure until its sitting on your head thought Punky. Best to have the instructions at hand.

Daggy and Tek had cleaned up Little Ben and dressed her in a mix of Punky’s trousers and Daggy’s dress shirts. She wore Tek’s socks which Daggy had to wash over and over again in one of the boilers before she was satisfied. They were quite clean and had shrunk to fit Little’s little feet. Little was sleeping soundly in Punky’s bunk. Tek was watching her carefully.

“She’s doing a lot better now,” said Daggy coming forward and resuming her position in the mission commander’s chair. “A lot better.” She sighed as she sat and strapped herself into position. “I just can’t understand how our popular culture could be so insane and cruel, and so driven by our continual need for greater excess and increased titillation, as to submit Little Ben to these trials and torture. It’s a real indictment of modern life.”

“That’s heavy,” said Punky. “But I still like ‘SL Idols’, and the ‘Women’s Mud Wrestling and Tanning Federation’ programs.” Daggy shook her head. Punky checked the direction heading carefully. 220 degrees it read. Punky had put a bit of red tape on that spot on the direction heading meter so she would not get lost.

Daggy looked at Punky with resignation.

Punky handed Daggy the flight plan. Daggy took the map and stared at it for a moment. It was almost perfect she thought. Carefully laid out. Fuel calculations to the third decimal point. Neat dotted lines carefully laid out. The she turned it around. And again. “Punky” Daggy said “which way is north?”

Punky looked at Daggy with a stupid grin. That way she said as she pointed out the window.

“Sheesh” said Daggy. Gimme the street walker. Daggy punched a few buttons. And quickly she said, “Bring her around to 140 and reduce airspeed to 40 knots.”

“Aye, aye Mam”, said Punky. She loved it when Daggy gave orders.

Samuel Spud lay sleeping on an enormous down bed in the Peoples House of the Palace of the Glorious Leader and Grand Leader of the Peoples Republic of Clissa. He was thinking hard. Next to him lay the lithe and nimble form of Dotty. Dotty rolled over clutching a mink pillow to her chest, but exposing her belly button to Samuel. It was an outty and it drove Samuel crazy with desire.

“Ohh silly boy,” said Dotty. “Just say the word. If you do ill be so nice to you.”

Samuel was getting the point. He had been getting the point all afternoon and into the early evening. Dotty was persistent and he knew it was pointless to resist her demands any longer. Besides the refractory period was almost over so he had to make up his mind quickly before he lost it again.

“Yes I’ll do it,” Samuel said with great determination. “Yes its time for me to take my place in the icy cold of Clissa and run this place with real efficiency and cruelty.”

Dotty reached forward and dropping the mink pillow she kissed him. He reached for her, but she jumped back. “You silly boy,” she said. “Before I give you what you want, you need to give me the security question and the answer.”

Samuel could barely remember his own name at a time like this, but he paused for a moment to remember the security question. “What was your high school mascot?” he said.

Dotty smiled as she stood up and dropped all pretenses. “And the answer you naughty little boy?”

“Cyanea capillata”, Samuel said with a sigh.

Dotty laughed her naughty laugh and said “Little boy, you stay here. I’m going to the loo to get extra hot, I wont be long.” She giggled that girlish giggle that drove Samuel mad. She grabbed her little hand bag and sashayed toward the bath, the she turned and raised her bag. “I’ve got a magic toy in my bag, its going to drive you wild little boy,” said Dotty as she closed the door.

Samuel jumped up and down a few times on the bed and then lay down face up looking at the mirror covered ceiling. “I shall be the new Great Leader and Glorious Leader,” he said out loud. “And my first decree shall be to Dotty. Roll over Dotty, I command thee.”

Samuel began singing, he never sang, but this evening he burst into song.

We’ve tried it once or twice
And found it rather nice
Roll me over lay me down and to it again

Roll me over in the clover,
Roll me over lay me down and do it again

Oh this is number one
And the fun has just begun…

Samuel was very right. The fun was about to begin throughout all of Clissa.

The Goddess of Snow was disturbed from her sleep by the roar of engines on Mount Sodom. Her son, Demi-god K2 whispered to her mother, “I don’t know what it is mother, but it’s very very loud.”

“All I want is a good century’s sleep,” said the Goddess of Snow. “Just a short nap of a few hundred years.” She was annoyed and on the edge of anger. She said an oath, a prayer actually, or an order perhaps to the sky gods, who knows. The result was the same. The Goddess of Snow rolled over in her bed of soft clouds and went back to sleep.

It began to snow all over the mountain. Heavy snow.

Night had fallen and Punky was holding a direct course toward Clissa. She knew it was correct because Daggy kept correcting her. The wind had picked up and what she could see of the clouds said rain or, for a dirigible the worst thing possible – snow and ice. She was getting hungry but she had passed up the chance to make a sandwich snack.

Keeping The Dread aloft and completing their mission was taking total concentration. Daggy was carefully studying the flight plan and continually referring to the street walker. There was no chance to shoot the stars in the cloud infested skies. They had lost sight of the ground as soon as they passed the twin peaks of Mount Sodom. The airship was socked in by clouds and fog. Daggy had had Punky drop altitude to about 300 meters above the ground but they could see nothing. Fearing a collision Daggy had Punky bring her back to 2000 meters. A flash of light appeared on the left followed by a roll of thunder 30 seconds later.

“We’re there,” said Daggy to herself.

“What,” yelled Punky.

“We’re here, the Plaza should be directly below us.”

Punky reached for the speed control and slowed the ship down and let her settle into neutral headway against the wind. Punky stood and gripped the UP&DOWN wheel. Slowly the Dread descended. At 500 meters Daggy started calling out the altitude.

“500 meters,” Daggy said loudly.

Punky turned the wheel more.

“400 meters,”

Punky held her hand steady.

“300 meters,” said Daggy

“200 meters, ease her back a little Punky.”

“Aye aye Mam,” responded Punky sharply.

“150 meters.

“100 meters”

“50 meters, level off” yelled Daggy.

Punky moved the wheel just a tad and the ship moved into neutral buoyancy.

They could see nothing. It was completely grey. The fog and rain obscured everything.

“Kees,” yelled Daggy. “Time for a Mark Twain.”

Kees came sliding down the ladder, already suited up for a night excursion. He smiled as he attached his carabineers and figure eight to the rope hanging from the retraction wheel. Daggy pulled open the lower hatch, and wind and fog came spilling into the comfortable warm gondola. Daggy played out 70 meters of rope, more than enough for Kees to reach the ground.

Kees saluted and was gone.

Daggy held the retraction lever in one hand and the other held the taut rope feeling for rope signals denoting Kees progress.

Time passed. Too much time thought Punky.

“Daggy,” Punky said, “its taking too long, something is wrong.”

Daggy was starting to be concerned herself. Then she felt two tugs on the rope. Daggy pushed the retraction lever hard and the reel began to spin. So fast that the rope began to steam. As Kees shot into the gondola Daggy threw the lever into the locked position and the dogs took hold. The reel screamed and then a sharp thud was heard as the dog latches fell into place.

Kees was soaking wet. He pulled his baklava from his face, and shook his wet hair. He looked at Daggy and then at Punky in amazement.

“Its gone,” Kees yelled. “Gone”

Daggy yelled “What do you mean gone. It can’t be gone. A city can’t just disappear.”

Kees took a deep breath, “I tell you its gone… not just the plaza or the city. The entire sim is gone. Its just not there.”

Daggy looked at Punky. Punky looked at Daggy. Tek and Kees looked at both of them. Little Ben slept.

“*&^$%” said Tek “Clissa’s account must have been cancelled.”
Punky reached for the yellow letter that said ‘IF ALL FAILS, READ ME.’

CHAPTER 42 - AMAZON KNIGHTS

2007-09-25T12:30:00.000-07:00

A squad of Sisters of The Order dumped a bound and gagged Ed Hallard onto the floor of a large white tent set up on the lower slopes of Mount Sodom. Sister Letum reached down and tore the duck tape from Ed’s eyes and lips. He winched as a portion of his eyebrows departed with the tape. Ed was relieved, at least he could now see. He looked up at the Sisters, they were no longer clad in traditional nun’s attire, but were dressed as Ed imagined barbarian or Amazon women would dress. But among the leather halters, and animal skin leggings, with hide straps and feathers and blotches of blue face paint, Ed could see that they were heavily armed both with traditional weapons of iron and flint, but also modern weapons of steal and lead.

“So,” said Ed, “You dropped the sham religious cover and have returned to your vile Druid ways.”

Sister Letum smiled and then kicked Ed hard. “Infidel,” sister Letum hissed.

They had brought Ed a great distance in all manner of conveyances. They left Capital City in private Rapido car, and then after hours transferred to a Turkoman. For about six hours the ride had been reasonably smooth and Ed managed to get badly needed, if uncomfortable, sleep. The road became very rough and the jolting went on for another four or five hours. After a brief stop, Ed was tied to the saddle of a horse. He was blindfolded but he could feel the warmth of the sun as it rose, and he could tell that they were climbing higher and higher.

Ed sensed they were among a large throng of moving people. He could hear the sound of hundreds of shuffling feat and the encouragement of some who urged others to keep up with the pace. The crowd was not disciplined and children’s voices could be heard. Ed knew they were ordinary city dwellers by their speech and they parted in fear to make room for his armed escorts on horseback. They were just ordinary avatars. ‘Seekers’ Ed realized, here to get their names in the Book of the Righteous.

As he lay upon the tent floor, and with great effort, Ed looked up to examine his surroundings. The tent was large and was set up as a small chapel with an altar at one end and two dozen portable pews. There were wooden crates stacked at one side. Ed had seen a lot of freight in his career and he recognized the unusual shape of the crates as well as the stenciling on the side which read ‘Bofours’ or ‘Krupp’. Serious hardware thought Ed.

Ed thought about escape, but his duty was clear so he rested gathering his strength.

After an hour of so, Sister Letum returned with a squad of The Orders “Left Hand of Circe”. They were heavily armed with matching spears with razor sharp tips, ancient damascene swords, and high tech night vision goggles hanging at their side.

“Come to kick me again,” said Ed, “it felt kind of nice.” Ed smiled. Ed knew she wouldn’t do anything rash. They needed Ed and their plan could not be completed without his cooperation. At least his initial cooperation, for eventually they would kill him and in a very ugly way.

Ed could see Sister Letum considering his offer.

Then she turned to the squad and said “Clean him up. Mother Superior will be here soon.” She looked hard at Ed and Ed could see pure hatred in Sister Letum’s eyes. “And find those robes he needs to wear. Clean him up real good.” She smiled.

For the first time since the sinking of the Duckpin II Ed felt real fear.

Ed was untied and dragged out a side entrance of the tent. An ice cold stream flowed swiftly next to the tent. They were on the edge of a precipice and Ed could see hundreds of avatars of all ages and types dressed in simple white cotton robes slowly climbing the steep path hundreds of feet below. They were having a hard time, Ed could tell, because many were stumbling or lying beside the edge of the path to rest. The air was thin at this altitude. City dwellers thought Ed.

As the squad of the Left Hand of Circe stood guard, two burly and very strong women dressed in animal skins and brown leather thongs with ponderous bare breasts stripped Ed and forced him into the icy water. They picked up some stones and began vigorously scrubbing Ed. They were pumice stones realized Ed and they hurt. Ed glanced up and saw the twin peaks and volcanic smoke of Mount Sodom.

SISTER LETUM 'THE LEFT HAND OF CIRCE' ON THE APPROACH TO MOUNT SODOM
The Muse of Journalism read Jimmy’s report carefully. Sindy had left The Times in a great hurry and probably left the city by now. The Muse considered his options. He liked the idea of living but he hated living in the sub basement. It was cold and damp and Jimmy was hardly the kind of companion he preferred at night, or for that matter at any time.

There was an old speaking tube somewhere in the basement near the janitorial management station. It had been abandoned when The Times ‘downsized’ and fired all the janitors during a strike. At first the ‘journalists’ objected to cleaning the toilets and sweeping the floors, but they eventually accepted the task when the bathrooms became unbearable and floors so littered with Styrofoam boxes and rotting tuna fish sandwiches that movement was impossible. In a few months The Times had hired dozens of new “copy boys” like Jimmy. The muse laughed. Copy boys were dirt cheap and cleaning toilets was a lot like journalism.

Jimmy was on assignment. He was on his way to Khrons for Pastrami on White, with mayo and lettuce, no mustard. It was a clever ploy on the Muse’s part. Since Jimmy got always it wrong, the Muse had a chance that a Pastrami on Dark Rye with brown mustard would soon arrive.

Jimmy’s earlier copy, a piece on the Architectural Splendor of the Art Décolleté Lobby of the Times Building, had indicated that lots of odd people were milling about on the streets and in the lobby of The Times building. “There not journalists,” Jimmy had said, “They don’t have pencils behind their ears and no notebooks or blackburys.” The Muse knew who they were, even it Jimmy didn’t.

The muse decided to act. In the name of journalism and a free press he would act. In truth he badly wanted a bath and the ministrations of Miss Taut. The muse grabbed a crayon and began writing. After an hour or so Jimmy returned, but before he could descend the stairs the Muse yelled at him and told him to go to the presses and see if any odd people were there. “I want an article on the Splendor of the Mighty Harris V55 ‘Thunder’ Presses,” ordered the Muse of Journalism “Oh and toss me my lunch.”

Jimmy was disappointed because he really was hungry and wanted a bit of the Mackerel Salad on Crustini that he had been instructed to get for the Muse, but an assignment was an assignment. He was a professional journalist. “I will obey O Mr. Muse of Journalism, I shall obey,” said Jimmy.

After Jimmy had gone the Muse of Journalism climbed the ladder into the basement of the times. As he approached the Murdstone Family Mausoleum he tip toed past the door. The last thing he needed was a screaming competition with his daughter Jaloux. Soon he reached where the janitor’s management station should have been located. There was nothing there but yesterdays news papers piled to the ceiling. They has pulled out the desk and chair and used the space to increase The Times circulation numbers. The Muse climbed through the bundles of papers and eventually reached the wall. Bingo! There was the speaking tube and its rotary director.

“Ha, ha,” chuckled the Muse. He pulled the cork like plug from the speaking horn and turned the rotary to station 7. He blew hard into the horn. Nothing happened. He blew again and again. He was close to hyperventilating when he heard a small voice say from the tube “Hello, who is there.”

His heart was racing. He gathered himself together and yelled into the tube. “Mss Taut, stop the presses. Get your pen and write down this front page lead.”

The familiar voice of Mss Taut began crying at the other end of the tube. The muse heard a small voice say, “Yes Mr. Murdstone.”

Tears of joy thought Ruprecht, tears of joy.

Chris tugged for a third time on the shoulder strap holding up his breastplate. “This used to fit,” said Chris to Philpot Onus.

“You were a lot thinner then,” said Philpot. “I’d say you need a 44 long” Philpot turned and began rummaging about in the ancient and dusty armory of the Brick Layers Secret Society. After a short while Chris found a breastplate that would fit, but the steel plate undershorts were a bit small and chaffed. They would have to do, they had to move out immediately if they were to arrive at Mount Sodom in time.

Chris and Philpot clanked into the closed courtyard of the Temple of Enlightenment and Tax Deductions of the Brick Layers Secret Society. The seven Yellow Knights of the Revolution were lined up in review before him. Chris sighed. Not a single knight was less than 80 years old. Their mismatched armor, shields, and weapons were almost painful to see. However each was adorned with a new bright yellow cape that hung from their necks, across the back of their saddles, and descended to the belly of the pony. At least Chris had gathered or ‘borrowed’ 20 tough Mongolian polo ponies from the Detached Palace of the Monforte’s. Sir Gandorlf of the Yellow Knights of the Revolution, also known as Old Nefunst the Cobbler, was wheezing and coughing. His pony was skittish. We had better get going Chris thought.

Chris and Philpot rose upon their mounts. Philpot Onus raised the Banner of the Yellow Knights of the Revolution, Bearers of the Concordat of Abdication, and Brothers in Arms to Mofo the Brave and Very Dead. Chris pushed the button on the automatic gate opener and the great iron gate of the Temple slowly opened, its script unused for hundreds of years. The procession of Yellow Knights ambled slowly, but with determination, out the ancient gate and on to Beast Street. Their yellow banner was billowing stiffly in the brisk wind. The shields of the Knights reflected the winter sunlight and dazzled the onlookers. Gasps of astonishment could be heard from the crowd.

A pert young secretary with wire rimed glasses and sensible shoes standing on the stairs at the Reserve Bank was most surprised. Her mouth fell open at the splendor of the slow procession of the Yellow Knights. She was momentarily blinded by the gleam of the breastplates of the two lead Knights. Then she grabbed her me-Phone and began dialing. “Station 43 reporting, you won’t believe this but the Knights are on the move” she said. And then after a long pause she continued, “No I’m not kidding, they are on the move down Beast Street, and No, I’m not joking.”

As the knights in all their glory passed The Times building, a news urchin came running from the side entrance and into the street. “Extra, Extra, Read All About It, Plot To Overthrow Governor and Bring Back King, Extra Extra.”