The following were written by an avid fan. You should read Scott Gier's books first before reading the trashed versions by Dan Perkins. It should be noted that Dr. Perkins produced these on his own, without any encouragement or help from Scott Gier.
Chapter I: "My Mistake, Sir"
"Sir, did you really mean to throw your shovel into the firebox?" asked Dawdle. She paused at his blank stare, and then continued. "We've finished disconnecting the pulse-condenser from your home-made distillery, and Schwepper is decontaminating the micro-channel waveguides. I've jury-rigged the status panel to show a green light ... sure hope Quipp doesn't find out about this one."
"Thanks Dawdle, I owe you."
Schlitz stared deeply into the night as the dwindling flames spurted and leapt gracefully among the glowing embers. A wee weakness for Irish Whiskey now left him marooned one hundred and fifty million light-years from earth, a very strange person on an even stranger planet. He stood up from the warm log, stretched his small shoulders, and wandered off in the direction of the prismatic lake. Trailing wisps of sap-laden smoke followed him down to the water line, where he continued to reminisce. Quipp had not asked about the pulse-laser incident and he never would -- despite all his ham-fisted maneuvering and tactical ploys, Commander Quipp and the Harriet-One were now sucking water with the fish at the bottom of MacArthur's Swamp. Twenty-one survivors and two rats from the cargo hold huddled for warmth on a desolate planet orbiting an unstable sun designated RK3 -- Ralph Kramdom the Third as they called it. And they were not alone ...
A crackling branch announced the arrival of Bebop Schlitz. Baccardi turned quickly, too quickly, and lost her footing. Dragging herself to the shore, she grabbed her teeshirt and shook it at the intruder. "Schlitz you asshole, put your eyes back in their sockets and stand at attention." Struggling, she pulled the grayed shirt over her dripping torso and proceeded to kick Schlitz in the shorts. "I suppose that was you and Schwepper Goldbrick I've been listening to. Have fun little man? Well forget it Mister, I'd rather sleep with the swampthing." Baccardi turned and ascended the hill. Asshole. How could anyone be such an asshole?
The star-shot heavens filled the night sky. Towering clouds shrouded the mountains to the east and Sheela began to sense the change. Fall? Winter? Did this planet even have seasons? Too much for one night, too much for me, she returned to the hut and flopped onto an empty cot. Sleep. Why do we have to sleep?
Sharp clicks on the roof awoke everyone. First a few, then hundreds, then thousands. A cacophony of sound, taps and clicks and thunks, waves upon waves of them. The clouds! "It's hailing!" screamed Baccardi. Louder and louder, then came the winds. Odd winds, like splashes of paint on a canvas, indistinct by themselves, but together they formed a powerful image of great clarity. Thunder. Where was the thunder? Their gleeful fancy was soon rewarded with a roaring crash, but was it really thunder? Baccardi raced for the door, opened it wide, and stared into the darkness. Bebop steadied the flashlight on the ground.
"What's that, Lieutenant? Looks and smells like bat guano. And it's still coming down!" Bebop raised the beam into the night and revealed a blur of swarming shapes, a fluid mass of browns and blacks. A shrill cry sounded to their left and they instantly turned to face it -- bats! "Big ----ing bats with teeth!" He slammed the door shut and turned to Baccardi. No one spoke. No one moved.
Ensign Yo'gurt puzzled at the hyperlight statusboard. Nothing made sense. The power-angles drifted aimlessly, swaying to the deep harmonic oscillations in the grid. Shipmistress Flagella would have an absolute hissy-fit if she knew--she'd likely pop her q'ork or worse. The system stabilized, paused, and entered another cycle. Le'urpt, now he would have to intervene. Yo'gurt slid his hand nervously along the display's edge, feigned a yawn, and glanced over his shoulder.
Flagella was engaged with Doctress Fondle across the gateway, plotting their evening pleasures. His fingers traced the panel's sleek contour to the master keypad. He tensed his shoulders, shuffled in his tethers, and shifted the injector settings upward. The mains responded silently, injecting massive micropulsed currents into the primary reaction chambers.
The power-angles danced momentarily, then settled into a comfortable sleep. Pleased with the new settings, Yo'gurt withdrew his clammy hands and rubbed them on his apricot pants. Easing back he stole another glance across the gateway, only to find his view obscured by Flagella's trembling outline. "Mister Yo'gurt, " whispered Flagella, "is everything in order?" "Yes, Shipmistress. We're operating at peak efficiency. Hyperlight deceleration will commence in one hour." "Adequate ensign. Notify me when we enter the Oldfart System." "Yes sir."
The Oldfart System! An ugly blemish on the a'Yergian hyperlight corridor requiring conventional travel through Oldfart's extreme magnetic moment. A hypergalactic detour. Yo'gurt daydreamed of running the system in full transit--creating a gravatonic shockwave and shattering the wobbling star. A fitting end to Oldfart, mused Yo'gurt, that would be felt in your bones no matter where you stood in the universe.
A smile broke on his leathery face amidst the quiet chirping of the power-angle alarm. Le'urpt, not again. Agitated and absent Flagella's lingering presence, Yo'gurt gave to injector controls a playful slap. The mains sprang to life, coursing another microburst as before. Yo'gurt commanded a sea of hyperplasma with childish gleečthe sole pleasure of his meager ship's station.
"You look ill Ensign, " said Doctress Fondle as she pressed her icy chest armor against his shaved head. "Report to my quarters for an examination in ten minutes Mister," said Fondle as she cinched her pleasure tethers and stepped into a turbine shaft. Le'urpt, not again.
Fondle disembarked on the officer's deck directly above the antiseptic confines of hyperspace engineering. She seized a long-handled torch from the forewall and crossed into an infinite corridor. Azure reflections danced wildly on the titanium-irridium deckplates. She stopped to examine a newly hung hologram outside the Deckwench's quarters. It was a stark relief of an uncooperative deckmale, set in a brilliant beryllium frame with a hand-written notation: "NEVER QUESTION AUTHORITY."
The Deckwench's door was ajar and Fondle peered through the soft mist. Torchlights danced on the interior plating amidst lurid screams and the stench of burnt flesh. This deckmale would surly make ensign, if he survived.
Fondle continued down the corridor to her personal quarters. A battered bonecart stood sentry at her door with a crudely erected sign that read: "FONDLE THIS--LOVE WINFRIED." Veins welled up in her neck as Fondle grabbed her crotch and screamed her a'Yergian g'ort. Down the corridor, the Deckwench snapped to attention and inadvertently strangled her consort. On the bridge, Yo'gurt grinned, twiddled the injector settings, and hummed his favorite tune: "la-de-de-da-da--dum-dum."
Fondle shoved the cart aside, stomped through the bloody ooze, and keyed-in her security code. The planetary diversity program would be the morning's first casualty--that little man would be the second. The doors flashed open and a dozen beady eyes glared in the torchlight as their startled owners darted for cover, whipping their long tails against a myriad of baffles and deckhinges.
Fondle hissed, lofted the torch to its lanyard, and walked over to the huge viewing portal that framed her massive nocturne. The starshot heavens were a subdued blur, distorted by the ship's extreme speed. She unbuckled her armor, collapsed on the bed, and gazed upward at the hyperflight vortices unfurling above her. Still livid, Fondle closed her eyes and adjusted the white-noise levels to block the muffled screams--the ship lurched gently as she drifted into oblivion.
Hyperlight travel is not inherently dangerous, it's just terribly unforgiving. The pulsing hyperplasma held no allegiance to Yo'gort, it's orders were timelessly proscribed by the laws of physics, not some galactic moron at the controls. And at this moment the laws of physics were never more firm: exceed the quantum burst rate and risk polar dispersion.
The event lasted a microsecond and barely registered with the computers. Two cycles later, virtual photon production halted and the core temperatures raced to thirty-million degrees. Eight cubic meters of hyperplasma was about to decay into a deadly soup of intensely radioactive matter. The port injector tripped first, and with it went half the hyperspace grid. By design, automatic circuits energized four parallel magnetic rails to jettison the failing injector from the ship. Subjected to maximum torque, the massive injector accelerated rapidly, which was regrettable since the rails had been installed upside-down!
The plasma gave chase and easily overtook the bulky injector. Directly above, Fondle watched in amazement as her four bedposts were replaced by glistening electron streams. It was never so good (or brief). The injector raced through eight more decks before tearing into the hyperspace envelope. In an instant the ship pivoted wickedly and stretched to eternity. The seconds that followed gave birth to the first hyperspace comet--a brilliant streak of disintegrating p-flux arcing gracefully over Oldfart. The universe paused and stared in awe and Yo'gurt would have been pleased beyond his Fondle's dream.
Please send any lampoon comments to: firstname.lastname@example.org