A Call To Arms - The First Forever Knight War
 
 
Laurie M. Salopek,  Margaret A. Newman,  John E. Dencoff
 
 
 
  There it was on their readers blaring at them like a voice from hell. The
return address on the note said, "lacroix@toronto.freenet.edu". In separate
parts of the United States, the three cousins stared at their monitors in
disbelief each wondering what could "Uncle" want now? Cautiously, they read
the note cc'd to each.
 
     "It has been a long time since we have talked and an urgent matter
      has arisen in Toronto. I expect to see you tomorrow night at the
      usual place."
 
 
  Margaret blinked in dismay. "Toronto?! It's fricken cold up there!" But
she knew she had dare not defy Uncle. One didn't defy Uncle and live to tell
about it. Phone receiver in hand, she called the airport to make her
reservation. She could get as far as New York tonight, and could take a shuttle
the rest of the way tomorrow.
 
  She got up from her computer to retrieve the liquid refreshment that had been
warming in the microwave. The large picture window of her apartment looked out
over the city of Tucson. At night, it sparkled like a jewel in a crown. She
sipped her drink thinking, wondering what the meeting with Uncle would be
about. He was such a tense fellow, always making her nervous.
 
  Well, there was no question about going. She walked back to the computer to
send her reply.
 
 
  John looked over to the ancient VAX that kept beeping for attention.
He put aside his pH electrode, pulled off his sterile gloves, and settled
into the uncomfortable chair.  "It might be nice if the government actually
provided quality computers," he thought angrily for a moment.
 
  "At least it has UNIX," he mused, logging into his remote account.  But all
trace of humor vanished from his face when he saw the e-mail prompt.  It was
LaCroix.  He had no choice but to go...but it would take a long time to
get to Toronto from New Mexico.  His day hadn't gone well at all, and
he was working late to correct a problem from work rather than studying
with his friends.
 
  He logged out, and glanced over to his friends.  They started studying while
he was finishing up his work, but he wasn't anywhere close.  How was he going
to explain this to them, not to mention his co-workers?
 
  But LaCroix came first.  He never forgot that.  Quickly, he jotted a note
to his boss, something about being sick.  He tried to think of something to
tell his friends, but decided better and left out the back door so he
wouldn't disturb them.
 
  It was going to be a long night.
 
 
  Laurie reread the note again and again, with a habit of digesting her email
like junk food, she had to be sure of the words. "Tomorrow! Damn, I am out of
vacation days. How the hell does he expect me to get off work at this late
date?" She could see Uncle's face now sneering at her in contempt. There was
no question of vacations days, transportation or anything when Uncle wanted
something. If he wanted you to be somewhere, you had better be there.
 
  Her fingernails clicked on the top of her desk. "It would be easier if we all
just grabbed a channel on IRC and settled this." She had tried to suggest
something to that effect before. The resulting effect from Uncle was one she
was still trying to forget. The only problem being that her cousins took great
pride in *not* letting her forget. "Well, at least it isn't a long drive and I
can manage the loss of one day's pay." Laurie whipped out her Sprint card and
called a hotel in Toronto for a reservation.
 
  The moon was just peeking out from the horizon on its way across the sky as
Laurie pulled her car out onto the highway and headed north.
 
------
 
  He stood pensively staring out the murky window. The building was old,
and had been used as a slaughter house since the beginning. The scents
were old and fresh, fading and ambrosia-like. He had drank his fill upon
arriving. The others, his mortal toadies, would be here soon. If they
knew what was good for them.
 
  Over the centuries he had had many mortal servants. Most had ended
up, unceremoniously, becoming a snack. No doubt that would happen to
these as well. Yet for the time being they amused him, they did his
bidding, and they showed great potential. Laurie was a leader, and
could manipulate the others nearly as well as he could. John was the
brains, quiet and thoughtful. Margaret giggled too much but had an
uncanny knack for torment.
 
  LaCroix cocked his head, listening. In the distance, despite the
huge building and the storm outside, he heard a car pull up. Ah, the
first arrival. It would Laurie, he was certain. Good, he nodded to
no one but himself. Soon the three would be about their tasks, and
his bit of revenge would be well underway.
 
--------
 
   Laurie parked her car on the street and stood by the alleyway. The wind
howled as it raced between the old stone buildings. If she closed her eyes she
could swear it carried traces of Uncle's voice. He was there already, it wasn't
hard to tell. With her thick coat zipped up tight and her scarf coiled around
her neck, Laurie stepped into the alley.
 
  Each footstep was muffled by the newly fallen snow. Walking with her head
down, she noticed no marks in the snow before her. She was the first to arrive.
She imagined how Nick felt when he answered the same call from LaCroix, only
Nick had the strength to defy him; they did not. She continued on.
 
  As mortals all three cousins were slaves to LaCroix's whims and forced to
carry out his orders. It was a sad fate born from their blind admiration of
him, but for some unusual reason they never seemed to mind. In fact, Uncle's
little jobs were often quite fun and amusing. Laurie hoped that whatever he
had in store for them would be fun.
 
  She turned the corner of the alley and looked up the metal staircase to the
door. It was probably colder up there with the wind screaming around almost
as mean as Uncle when he got mad. Shoving her hands deeper into her pockets,
Laurie waited under the stairway for the others.
 
 
  Margaret sighed, and rubbed her forehead. She could feel her sinus'
starting up. She had taken a Dimetapp pill, but it hadn't taken effect
yet. Great! Just what she needed when facing Uncle. One needed clear
wits around him.
 
  What was this meeting about? It had been a long time since the last
meeting of the three with Uncle. He hadn't been in a good mood then.
Well, 'good mood' with Uncle was rather a contradiction in terms. The
only time he was in a 'good mood' was when he had a victim in his arms.
The willing or un part didn't matter. Not with Uncle.
 
  Driving in the snow with icy streets was not something she enjoyed
doing. Snow on television was fine. Snow butt deep and soaking into
one's Reeboks was another matter entirely. Grumbling, she peered through
the windshield at the large building looming up on her left. She saw
a car in the alley just before she pulled up in front of the building.
She turned off the car, and the wonderful heater, gathering herself
mentally. Alright, she steeled herself, let's go!
 
  It was terribly cold. The coat Margaret wore seemed paper thin. She
snuggled deeper, stumbled over nothing, and nearly fell. She paused,
trying to catch her breath but the freezing air burned her lungs.
Continuing, she turned the corner and went into the alley. Down past
the car she could see a lone figure standing under the metal stairwell.
It had to be Laurie. She was always first.
 
  "Mmmfffhi." Margaret bobbed her head to her Cousin. "Mmmmcold."
 
  "Missing the sunny weather in Tucson?" Laurie smiled, her eyes
sparkling maliciously.
 
  "Mmmmfkmmmmymmmyes." Margaret's blue eyes shot sparks, but Laurie
couldn't quite hear the retort clearly. She had a good imagination,
though. "MMMnnJohn?"
 
  "No, I haven't seen dear Cousin John yet." Laurie glanced up the
stairs above them in the direction of the door. "We'd better not make
*him* wait much longer. Just like Cousin John to be late, and slow
us down."
 
  "Hemmmmademmmusmmmlatemmmlasttttime." Margaret stammered. "Uncle
wwwasss pisssed!"
 
  "Yes, but it was enjoyable watching Uncle 'punish' John." Laurie
glanced down the alley beyond Margaret. "Well, here comes our dear
cousin now."
 
 
  John could hardly believe the cold when he'd stepped off the plane, but
by the time he neared the Slaughter House it seemed his body was numb.
"How can he stand the snow?" he thought.  It occurred to him then that LaCroix
was technically dead, and there wasn't much that was colder than death.
 
  He shuddered suddenly, realizing that the others would certainly be here
by now.  He was late, and they'd probably gang up on him for making them
wait in the cold.  He started to run toward the alley, his boots sloshing
in the mushy snow.
 
 "You're late!" they hissed in unison.
 
 "Who, me?" he replied innocently.  "It takes a long time to get here from
where I live!"
 
 "Like I live any closer." Margaret replied dryly.
 
  Laurie rolled her eyes. "What am I going to do with the two of you?"
 
 "Who...us?" they chimed.
 
 "Let's just go inside.  I may be used to this kind of weather, but that
doesn't mean that I like it." she said.
 
 
  The three cousins ascended the stairway and entered the Slaughter House.
Odors of decaying flesh and fresh blood fill the air and their lungs as they
walked along the catwalk and down the stairs to the floor. The mixture of
scents was not something any of them could appreciate, but it was easy to feel
how the entire atmosphere would excite any vampire-- especially LaCroix.
 
  Little bits of light from various sources illuminated the far corners of the
room. It was difficult for the three cousins to see, but LaCroix liked it
that way. He watched from the roof as Laurie and Margaret picked apart small
bits of John's personality like vultures descending on an carcass. They were
learning well and the fact that neither of them let up when John arrived
pleased him even more. These two females showed great potential. He watched
again as inside they worked their way down the metal catwalk, down the stairs
and onto the floor; Laurie and Margaret chiding John and John managing to hold
his own against the two women. LaCroix would have loved to toy with each of
them a little but pressing matters elsewhere commanded his immediate attention.
The meeting would have to be quick. He slowly stepped from a shadow and faced
his three servants.
 
  "I see you have all made it safely. Good. Now to business."
 
  A devious grin across his face, his arms loose by his sides and his tall
slim figure before them, the three huddled like scared kittens trying
desperately to hide their fear. They did not speak a word, they didn't dare
speak a word until they were addressed by LaCroix to do so. Slowly with
deliberate steps, LaCroix circled the group as he spoke.
 
  "Several, let's say-- 'friends' from the list, have placed their loyalties
with rather undesirable people. They need to be shown the error of their ways.
They need to be made an example of, so others will not follow."
 
  Completing his circular path, LaCroix was again in front of the group. They
watched as he reached inside his coat and withdrew a single sheet of paper.
 
  "Here are the names. I want each of you to choose two from the list. Give
the names you do not choose to the other cousins. My remaining instructions
are on the bottom. Do not disappoint me."
 
  Their focus on the long list of names, not one of three noticed the departure
of LaCroix.
 
  Laurie read over the list and thought to herself, "This could have all been
handled over the net." But past experience taught her to hold her tongue,
especially around Uncle's acute hearing.
 
  Margaret giggled a bit at the list. Three names caught her attention, two
could be dealt with in one blow.
 
  John poured over the list several times and smiled, he found three names on
the list that were to his liking.
 
  As usual, this would be fun.
 
 
 **********************************************************
 
 Allen Braunsdorf's Torment
 
 Laurie Salopek
 
 
   Allen's ski jacket hung loosely across his shoulders while he tapped
away at his keyboard. With the Siberian express bearing down on the
midwest, everything was too cold to move. His car wouldn't start and his
neighbor's car wouldn't start, so he figured he would just stay inside
and work on his Infocom presentation.
   Over the last several months interest in his Forever Knight computer
game was picking up enough so that six weeks ago Infocom contacted him
asking for an outline of the game. Allen was amazed when one week later
the head of development called him and asked if he could have a
presentation done by the middle of February. The gentleman felt that
if the game looked as good as it sounded, it could be what Infocom was
looking for to turn the company's fortunes around. Allen had managed to
stammer out a 'yes'.
   That was all weeks ago and no one counted on this weather to bring
life to such a screeching halt. Four more weeks and he would face a
a wall of dreary suits waiting for some miraculous transformation of
digital colors to appear before their eyes. He had to dazzle them.
It had to work. He was not about to spend the next several years stuck
at some dead-end university job. Even if it killed him, he was going to
make this work.
   He thought his one fingertip had just frozen on the F key when the
phone rang.
  "Hello?"
  "Allen, love, it has been too long. Anyway, I called to tell you
Merlin managed to pull a few strings and your, oh what was it, --
Atari? Should be arriving soon."
  The purr of Janette's voice could thaw a frozen body with a whisper.
  "Great, what do I owe you?"
  "Don't worry. I won't ask for your blood" Janette whipped off the remark
with her usual flair tinge with little hints of sarcasm. "Just
remember, you owe ME a favor."
  Allen didn't mind. Owing Janette a favor was a lot safer than owing
LaCroix a favor. "Thank You." he said, and hung up the phone.
  The cold return to his body. "Well, at least when the Atari arrives
I will be so wrapped in it, that my mind won't be on the blasted cold!"
  Allen returned to his computer. A few bugs to find and his
presentation would just about be ready for testing. But, he decided to
check his mail first. A good Forever Knight story would help take his
mind off of the falling temperatures.
  He scanned over the notes in his mailbox. One stood out a little from
the rest, 'lms5@psuvm.psu.edu'. "I wonder what Laurie wants now." He
mused as he command the system to display the note.
 
      'I just remembered about your presentation coming up and I
       wanted to wish you the best of luck. I know you will do fine.
 
       Cousin Laurie'
 
  Allen almost brushed the insignificant note aside until logic caught
up with him. Why was she sending him a good luck note now, when the
presentation wasn't for four more weeks? He thought, maybe she just
wanted to send it before she forgot. It wasn't important.
  There were no other notes on his reader that caught his attention.
 
 
  Laurie sat on her couch pouring over the latest crits of her story,
when the phone rang.
  "Hello?"
 
  "Hi Cuz, how goes? Are you done setting up for your two names?"
 
  "Margaret! Good to hear from you. Almost, One is done. I still am not
sure what to do about the other, so I emailed a few other cousins to see
if they had any suggestions. I am not going to worry about it yet. I will
bide my time, the last thing I want to have happen is for the person to
get wind of my intentions."
 
  "True. But still, you didn't pick the toughest name on the list."
 
  "Neither did you."
 
  "Yeah, but I picked one that was really good!"
 
  "Ahhh, that one ... yes, Uncle will be very pleased with that one."
Laurie glanced up at the clock on the wall, "hmmm, a few more hours and
it will be one down and one to go for me. Later Cuz!"
 
  "Hasta-la bye bye!!"
 
  Laurie smiled at her cousin's closing remark. It was true, no one had
picked a name of a 'Schankite'. There were still plenty of cousins who
had yet to choose.
 
 
  Allen stuck his arms through the sleeves of his coat and zipped it up
tight, "Damn drafts." He had sealed up most of the house but there was
always that one really nasty thermal leak that defied being located.
  He was just about to sit back down at her terminal when there was a
knock at the door. Carefully, he opened it just bit until he saw that it
was UPS. Janette had come through on her promise and managed to get him
one of the first Atari Jaguar prototypes off of the line. Allen signed
the receipt and closed the door. Today was his lucky day.
 
  The tall figure dressed in the brown uniform of UPS had no truck to
return to. Well, the truck was not his, but belonged to the UPS person
he had permanently borrowed the clothes from. Uncle smiled, Laurie did
manage to come up with some good plans, once in awhile.
 
  Impatiently, Allen hooked up the Atari with all its wires and cables,
to most of the electronic devices in his house. He knew this baby could
cook and he really wanted to see it perform.
  He turned it on and listened to the whirls and buzzes as the machine
came to life. Next he set up his presentation for Infocom on the Atari.
It was now time to see if all his efforts paid off. He started the
program.
 
  Loud snaps and crackles followed by puffs of black smoke filled the
room, just before a huge power surge generated by the machine blew
every fuse in the house and fried a few wires along the way.
  Coughing, Allen made his way to the kitchen for a candle and the
telephone. With the faint glow of the candle and the illumination of
the numbers on the phone, Allen found the number of the electric company
in the book.
 
  "Hello?"
  "I am sorry, all our lines are busy now. Please leave you name, number,
address and problem at the sound of the beep. A service rep will be able
visit you place sometime within the next five hours...Thank you...click."
 
  His lucky day had come crashing down around his frozen feet. His
presentation was fried, his Atari was fried, his other computer was
fried, he had no electricity and wouldn't for hours. His life was doomed.
There was no way he could recover his loses and finish the presentation
in time. There was no way he could afford a new Atari Jaquar. There
was no way he was ever getting out of the university. What had he
done to deserve all this? Maybe he could get Janette to do him another
favor, but he doubted it. If he wanted to finish his presentation in
time, there was only one immortal that could help him.. LaCroix.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 A Call To Arms: California Cousins (1)
 
 Karin Welss
 
 
Meanwhile, far away from the ice-swept Toronto streets...
 
The sun was just setting behind the wildflower-covered Dublin, California
hills as Cousin Karin's blue-splashed Honda Civic came screeching into the
confines of Kildara, also known as "Yuppie Hell."
 
Her black-leather jacketed form sprang lightly from the imported subcompact,
and she eagerly approached her mailbox. What unexpected delights awaited her
there? Another beautifully photographed vampire book sent by Susan Garrett?
A Geraint Wyn-Davies videotape lent to her by Sharon Scott? ("Damn!" exclaimed
Karin, as she remembered the birthday gift she'd promised Sharon during their
last telephone conversation. "I forgot to buy those fur-lined handcuffs for
Sharon's next FK con attendance!") An "inspirational" card featuring a
scantily-clad, beautifully proportioned young man, courtesy of Cousin Margaret?
 
Or maybe just a phone bill from hours of brainstorming and revisions with her
co-author Marian?
 
To Karin's delight, there was a Federal Express envelope awaiting her. She
grabbed it, and walked jauntily back to her tiny pink townhouse, throwing her
leather jacket over her black leather armchair, and absently booting up her
Macintosh with one hand while ripping open the FedEx package with her other
hand and her teeth (Those sharp, sharp teeth of hers...).
 
She was breathless with anticipation. Who could have possibly sent her the
package, she wondered as a small jewelry box tumbled out. She opened it eagerly,
and was mystified to find a single, beautifully crafted jewelled frog earring.
Mystified, she removed it from its backing in the box, and held it up to the
light, admiring the play of light over its sparkling surface.
 
Then, Karin saw the small slip of paper tucked into the cover of the jewel
box. She carefully unfolded it, and read the following message:
 
        Dearest Niece
 
        I have need of your services. Nicholas has seduced away the
        loyalty of followers who should rightfully be mine. By
        this earring you shall know your prey.
 
        Do not disappoint me.
 
                                LaCroix
 
Karin gasped, the frog earring dropping from fingers numbed by shock. The
infernal bargain she had struck with the master vampire in return for fame
and fortune as a writer had finally caught up with her. Now it was time to
pay the fiddler.
 
But Sharon... how could she betray Sharon...? How could she defy LaCroix?
 
Karin's mind raced with a dozen thoughts. Suddenly, she remembered her allies
-- Valery, her fearless co-editor; Marian, whose sick & twisted cunning was
more than a match for LaCroix, and of course, Rusty, the Chevalier du Brabant,
who had once pledged her his aid as a true knight.
 
She made her decision, picking up the phone, and dialling...
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 A Call To Arms: California Cousins (2)
 
 Karin Welss
 
 
    Karin waited impatiently while the phone rang three, four, five times.
Her booted foot tapped impatiently against the ivory and pink coloured
linoleum of her kitchen floor, while her free hand played idly with the
large garlic braid (a souvenir of the previous summer's Gilroy Garlic Festival)
hanging on her mauve-painted wall.
 
Finally the line picked up, and a sleepy voice on the other hand spoke: "Ummmmm
  ..hello.... what time is it? What day is it? What century is it?"
 
"Sorry to wake you up, Valery," Karin apologized, suddenly noticing the late
hour. Damn, but being in the software industry did funny things to your
work schedule! "But I've gotten orders... from you-know-who... and he wants
me to take out Sharon Scott."
 
Karin thought about her brief instant of defiance, the bright spark of
rebellion extinguished by the memory of what Uncle had done to her the last
time she... defied... his wishes. She must protect Marian and the Chevalier
du Brabant from the consequences of her ill-considered bargain...
 
"OH?" Valery's voice on the other end of the line was suddenly more interested.
"Well, you know I have my sources..."
 
"Yes," replied Karin eagerly. "That's why I thought of you. Remember what we
did to Sharon during the Labor Day party at my place... the party that lasted
for three or four days...?"
 
"Well," replied Valery, yawning. "I have to confess... the quality of your
infamous Blood Punch was such that I'm sure most of the attendees have really
vague memories of the event... but I *do* remember what we did to Sharon.
Cousin Margaret was in on it as well, wasn't she?"
 
"Yeah," confirmed Karin. "But you came up with the... goods. So I'm hoping
you can help me out now."
 
"Well, let's see..." Valery murmured. Karin could hear the faint click of a
bedside lamp being turned on, and the gentle riffle of catalogue pages. "Ah,
yes-- Ya know, "doing" Sharon would be real easy. We already know her deepest
fear We could send her a "gift certificate" to a new restaurant,
"The Frog and Peach" (do you know the old Dudley Moore-Peter Cook
routine? the restaurant has 2 specialties: Pe^che a la Frog  and Frog a
la Pe^che!) Or maybe a box of candy: "Crunchy Frog!" which has real
frogs wrapped in the finest chocolate (from a Monty Python routine!)
 
"Or: call her up in the middle of the night and sing "Froggy went
a-courtin'!"
 
"Or: send a donation in her name to an organization saving Amazon rain
forest frogs! They'll send her a beautiful 3-foot color poster of the
delightful little critters!
 
"Or: how about a videotape of Kermit singing "Bein' Green!"
 
" The possibilities are endless."
 
Karin shivered deliciously, and giggled. "Oh, cousin Valery," she said,
admiringly. "You're a twisted genius. I must mention that fact to Uncle.
Thanks!  I think I can handle it from here..."
 
Another yawn came through the long-distance line from Oregon. "'kay, then,"
said Valery. "I'll leave it up to you. Bye!"
 
"Bye," Karin rang off, and stood musing for a second. Well, the fur-lined
handcuffs *would* have been interesting... especially in the presence of a
certain male actor... but such a wealth of opportunity awaited her in complying
with Uncle's wishes...
 
She picked up the phone again, noticing how the glossy maroon plastic
matched the mauve decor of her tiny townhouse beautifully, and dialled
(518) 555-1212.
 
"Hello, Operator? I need the address for a Sharon S. Scott, in Waco..."
 
She scribbled down the information, and then went to fetch her VISA card.
Now, which catalogue should she call first. Ms. Scott was certainly going
to be surprised, come Monday morning!
 
<To be continued...>
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 A Call To Arms: California Cousins (3)
 
 Valery King
 
 
Valery hung up the phone, a bit troubled. She was so convinced that
LaCroix had forgotten her very existence, buried as she was in
Corvallis and figuring she was the only Forever Knight fan in the
entire state of Oregon.
 
But she had underestimated her co-editor, Karin. You could depend
on the woman, that was for sure, which was why she was such a good
production editor for the zine. But LaCroix could depend on her,
too, it seemed.
 
And it seemed a damn shame to do such nasty things to Sharon, too,
a fellow cataloger. Ah, well, I guess it takes one to know one,
Valery mused, which is why LaCroix wanted her in on this one. She
just hoped Nick never heard of her defection, but Nick better than
anyone knew how hard--and dangerous--it was to turn down LaCroix.
Or Karin.
 
Pushing the cat off her lap, she wearily pulled down her "Best of
British Comedy"...
 
        * * *
 
Sharon Scott returned home the next day, weary from eight hours
slaving over a hot OCLC terminal, to find a Federal Express package
on her doorstep. She had been getting so many little cards and
gifts from people she'd never met in person, since getting on the
Forever Knight lists, mostly very thoughtful and delightful. But
occasionally someone's sense of humor got out of hand (I _know_ I
should never have revealed the thing about the frogs, she berated
herself) so she opened the box very, very carefully.
 
Candy. It was a box of candy! It was hard to determine from just
the package if this was a nice or a naughty present, since she was
dieting, and then saw what was written on the box.
 
Crunchy Frog.
 
Just a joke, right? she told herself desperately. No one would
really ...
 
But the listing of ingredients made it very clear that it was not
a joke: "Chocolate ... caramel ... marshmallow ... dead frog ..."
 
Frantically now, she grabbed the box to look for the return
address. "Oregon. Oregon! I'll kill her! I'll--"
 
At that moment the phone rang. Sharon yanked the receiver up, to
hear banjo pickin' and a twangy tenor singing, "Froggy went a-courtin',
he did ride, hu-HUH!"
 
She slammed down the receiver and viciously pulled out the cord,
throwing the phone against the wall...
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Jennise Is Targeted
 
 Karin Welss
 
 
scene 1
 
Establishing Shot:
 
Exterior, a Yuppie condominium complex. A white Honda Civic, liberally
splashed with blue splatters, comes tearing around the corner, and enters
a garage.
 
A young woman, KARIN, wearing jeans and a large cable-knit green sweater,
emerges, yawning, from the interior of the CAR.
 
INTERIOR: Condominium garage.
 
KARIN:  <speaking to herself> Boy, these late nights are really killing me.
        At least I've made Uncle happy.
 
She leaves the garage.
 
 
scene 2:
 
EXTERIOR:  Landscaped ground of a condo complex. In the foreground, a large
           bank of mailboxes. KARIN walks over to #13, and opens it. Extracts
           a large Federal Express envelope.
 
KARIN:  <dismayed> Oh, no-- another package from Toronto! <beat> Haven't I
        done enough, already?
 
Her freckled nose wrinkles briefly in distaste, as she extracts the contents
of the envelope. It's a folio copy of a bound SCREENPLAY.
 
KARIN: Oh, no! <beat> I can't-- I won't-- not this time!
 
Flashback:  Sydney, Australia, 1989.
INTERIOR: ORACLE Systems office. LACROIX, dressed in the charcoal colored suit
of an ORACLE software sales manager, leans over the desk of a younger, thinner
KARIN, also dressed in a conservative suit.
 
LACROIX: <softly> So, I hear you didn't make your monthly sales quota, Karin.
        I'm disappointed in you... and you know what that means
 
DISSOLVE on Karin's stricken face.
 
END FLASHBACK
 
scene 3:
 
EXTERIOR SHOT: Kildara Condo Complex--
 
INTERIOR: Karin's townhome. A modestly furnished dwelling, distinguished by
          mauve carpets, several large skylights, and minimalist black furni-
          ture. Karin is standing in her kitchen, impatiently drumming her
          fingers on a large microwave. She's holding a phone to her ear.
 
KARIN: Hi, Jennise? Say, I've got some good news... that Canadian agent who's
       handling scripts for Marian and myself said that he wanted to see some
       of your stuff, too. Wanna come by for a ... bite... to eat after work?
 
<beat> Great. See you at seven pm!
 
 
Scene 5:
 
INTERIOR: Karin's townhouse. Karin is pacing impatiently back and forth in
          front of a merrily blazing fireplace. The doorbell rings.
 
KARIN:  Finally!
 
KARIN opens the front door, to reveal JENNISE, a pretty young woman with black
hair and amber eyes.
 
JENNISE <hugging Karin>: Hi!!! Thanks so much for the invitation! I want to
        hear EVERYTHING!!
 
KARIN <cheerfully>: Oh, yes. I've got a very interesting... proposition
      for you, from my Canadian... agent.
 
FADE on KARIN'S SMIRK
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Lisa Is Relatively Cautious
 
 Lisa McDavid
 
 
 To: Lisa McDavid>d020214@univscvm.csd.scarolina.edu
 From: president@whitehouse.gov
 Subject: It's done.
 
Sorry, Sis! Had to put somebody's address on the thing, and I
figured if this is intercepted, the Pres will think our fanged
friends are just a couple more press guys.
 
The program you asked for is safely installed. Anybody tampering
with your account or sending anything to your computer which
contains instructions for it to do anything, will find that his or
her sysop has been sent a detailed message from the Internet Board
of Trustees. This will state that whoever it is has been caught
circulating 17 different chain letters on the internet, all of them
pyramid schemes involving money or other valuables. As you pointed
out when we talked over those two chain letters on Vampyres, even
1 letter is grounds for cutting off the offender and/or his site
from net access. Commercial use is another no-no, and of course,
pyramid schemes are illegal in both the US and Canada.
 
Either way, the sysop will have to investigate, with the account
tied up meanwhile.
 
As for anyone who sends instructions to your computer (other than
you, of course :)), his or her local law enforcement authority will
receive an immediate fax of a warrant for his or her arrest in a
really grizzly ax murder in Toronto.  Don't worry, it's a genuine
warrant. I've just told the police mainframe to substitute our
wiseguy's name for the name on the original.
 
Btw, you were right that Det. Schanke would fall for the idea of
playing a little joke on Det. Knight by making him think he'd lost
the warrant. I didn't have to coerce Dr. Lambert at all, which is
nice because that cat of hers has really sharp claws.
 
Love,
Larry
 
Lisa burst out laughing. "Poor Larry!" she said aloud. Now that her
brother was a vampire, his allergies didn't bother him the way hers
did, but his general klutziness was still getting him clawed.
 
 
 To: Lisa>d020214@univscvm.csd.scarolina.edu
 From: Don>dbassing@epas.utoronto.ca
 Subject: Oh, Brother!
 
I thought you said you didn't have any family?
 
 From: Lisa>d020214@univscvm.csd.scarolina.edu
 To: Don>dbassing@epas.utoronto.ca
 Subject: Re: Oh, Brother!
 
I said I didn't have any *living* immediate family. Think about it.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Barb's Unfortunate Torment
 
 John E. Dencoff
 
 
  "She won't be able to undo this easily, will she?" he asked.  Steve was
practically a genius with computer programming, and John's best friend since
middle school.
 
  "It depends upon how good of a programmer she is...or how good her friends
might be," Steve replied.  "Are you sure you want to do this, John?  I mean,
it's really pretty cruel!"
 
  John narrowed his eyes, and his mouth started to form a wicked grin.
"Of course!  It's hysterical!"  A thought occurred to him suddenly, and he
lost his smile. "Unless you think that she'll be able to prove that I did
the dirty deed!"
 
  Steve rolled his eyes. "This is ME you're talking to, remember?  The
Supreme Programmer!"
 
  John relaxed and started to enjoy himself again as his friend's fingers
flashed across the keyboard.  "You know, she should have a little clue
that I'm involved.  Just nothing traceable..."
 
  "Hmmm...Ah! I know just the thing!" Steve said.
 
  "What?"
 
  "Oh, you'll see!  It'll be good!"
 
        *               *               *
 
  Barb settled her mug down next to her terminal.  "Nothing like caffeine
to getcha going in the morning!" she thought drowsily.  Moments later,
her programs were up-and-running, and she started thinking about her work
for the day.
 
  "Hi, Barb!" Karin said as she walked in.  "What's up?"
 
  "Oh, not much.  I'm not really in the mood for work today.  If I get the
chance, I may work a bit on some fanfic that I've been mulling over for
the past few days.  It's Friday, after all." she smiled.
 
  "Let me know if you want some editing help, like with spelling or
whatever." Karin offered sweetly, casting a malicious grin to Barb.
 
  Barb didn't say anything.
 
  "This is a strange question, Barb, but do you have a strange feeling?
Like something strange might happen today?  I have had the oddest feeling
all this morning that something was about to go wrong...I just can't
put my finger on it!"
 
  "No, not really.  Why?"
 
  "Hmmm...it's just like I feel something big is about to happen, or like
we're being watched or something."
 
  "You didn't watch that Forever Knight episode with the Enforcers again
last night, did you?"
 
  Karin rolled her eyes.  "Humpfh! *No* I didn't!" she lied.
 
  "It's probably too much coffee, then.  People get all jittery when they
either have had too much or too little coffee.  Since you're on your
third cup o' java, I'd say you've had more than necessary."
 
  "No one can have too much caffeine, Barb." she replied.
 
  Barb settled into her story, since their supervisor was obviously late
coming in this morning.  "This is going to be *good*" she thought.  "All I
need to do is to figure out a way to get..."
 
  Suddenly the computer screen went dark.  "Hey!" she yelled, whacking the
monitor.  "That was an hours worth of work!  You are *not* going to eat
my story!"  She whacked the monitor again.
 
  The screen flashed on, and the sound chip activated.  Really awful
harpsichord music (since it was only a sound chip, after all) started playing,
almost like the piano music from the Lawrence Welk show.
 
  The story she had been working on was still there, thank goodness, but
the music!  There was no way of telling why it was playing the music.
"If this can be called music," Barb thought.  "Why can't it play Heavy Metal
or something sensible?"
 
  Karin walked back over. "What's going on?"
 
  "I don't know!  If this is one of your practical jokes!" she said venomously.
 
  "Not me!  Hey, look what it's doing now!  How cute!"
 
  As they watched, a little computer-generated vampire danced onto the screen,
over Barb's fanfic.  The harpsichord music quieted a little, and they heard
a little voice come over the sound chip:
 
  "How many spelling mistakes can we COUNT?  Nine!  Nine spelling mistakes!
AH-HAH-Ha!"  And his computer-laughter was punctuated by a tiny lightning
storm on the screen.
 
  The little vampire spelling checker enumerated the spelling errors in her
text, one by one.  Each time, a tiny lightning fork would destroy the
mis-spelled word and the vampire would laugh maniacally.
 
  Karin stifled a laugh.  "You know, as much as you...I mean, this could
really get annoying!"
 
  "AARGH!  There's no way to shut it off either!" Barb yelled in frustration.
"It's locked in, somehow!  If I find out you did this, you're in for it!!"
 
  "Not me!" Karin said innocently.
 
  "Even if I turn it off, and re-boot the entire thing, he's still up in
the corner, waiting for me to make a mistake!  See...watch!"
She purposely mis-spelled another word.
 
  The vampire danced down to the mistake and shot a little bolt of lightning
at the word.  "You have mis-spelled 'Natalie' " it said. "AH-HAH-Hah!"
 
  "See?!  It's evil!" Barb choked. "Who did this?!"
 
  "Hang on, hang on..." Karin said.  "Harpsichord music? Vampires? Who else
could it possibly be?"
 
  Fire began to dance in Barb's eyes.  "Ooh, I am going to get him back
for this!  He doesn't know the *meaning* of torment, until he's seen me
at work!  Just you wait, John!  Just you wait!"
 
  Meanwhile, the little vampire happily accessed all of her other files,
busily fixing her spelling and punctuation.  With each correction, the
lightning flashed and his count went higher.  Barb futilely checked her
other systems, but they were all corrupted by the little virus.
 
  "Yep!  You'll get yours soon enough!...As soon as I can turn the bloody
thing off!!"
 
        *               *               *
 
  This was too rich!  She'd never figure it out before it drove her bananas!
John leaned back in his chair, laughing.
 
  "You are too cruel, John." said Steve.  "I thought...hmm...this is odd.
Take a look at this..."
 
  They were still remotely hacked into molecular.com's central mainframe.
It looked as if Cousin Karin was having extensive e-mail conversations with
*Knighties* of all people!
 
  John thought for a moment.  "Could we look into that, Steve?"
 
  "Sure, hang on a sec...okay, there..." and the first flashed up onto
the monitor.
 
  "Hmmm...nothing really incriminating, but...it is sorta suspicious.
I hope she's not thinking of trying Uncle's patience or anything!"
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 The Empress Strikes Back: Part 1
 
 Barbara Reid
 
 
   It was a cold and unusually non-sunny day on the Californian West Coast.
Barb was frantically typing away on her computer, wrapping up the last
small details of her completed big project.
   This had been a good day, and it looked like the feature team committee
was accepting her project proposal without much alteration of the
specifications.  Well, there were still a few small details involved.
Like whether the ISOMER searches would be handled with a view-time box
MENU on the WINDOWS interface, or whether the user's atom-pair data would
be available to be saved in the same table file as the similarity
co-efficient values.  But these were minor points, and the bottom line
was that the writing was almost over, and she would be able to continue
with the programming now.
   Not that it had been easy.  Nothing is ever as easy as it looks.
And this research round had been rendered especially rank by the unasked
for presence of John's evil, horrendous spelling checker on her system.
   At first it had seemed only a minor hazard.  It would run around
blithfully correcting her memos and documents, hardly affecting her
project and schedule at all.  Then, when she went to do prototypeing,
suddenly she found all her her variables and function names being corrected!
   A good subroutine with a healthy name like ASAMOL ( atom save molecule )
would get corrupted into ASAFETIDA.
   "Yuck," she said to herself.  "I didn't even know that was a word."
   She tried another one.  SAVISO became SAVIOFAIRE.  "Chripes!", she
muttered.  "Should I ask Karin how to pronounce that?"  She though hard.
"No, better not."
   Not only were the new words wrong, as code they weren't even portable
to other platforms.  Assuming you were following the ANSI Standards.
Which they did at her job.  Doom loomed.
   "How about this!"  Carefully she typed in KILJON.  The spelling checker
laughed that insane crackle again.  KILOWAT greeted her eyes.
   "Ok," she growled.  "That's is.  I'm not putting up with this any longer!"
Peering around her cube and checking that the office work area was empty of
co-workers and management, she expertly killed her hard disk drive.
 
      *****
 
   Three days later she was back on line.  Oh, it hadn't been easy, and it
hadn't been fast.  She'd been forced to make a number of later night calls
to the Raven in Toronto.  Jeanette, of course, had been completely supportive.
This project was more important than any old FK List War!
   "After all, Jeanette, you never, NEVER know when a Chemical Searching
program will come in handy.  If you get my drift."
   Jeanette had agreed.  Though not an expect in the biotechnology field
by any means, she understood enough research to realize the importance
of any tool that could bring the Ravenites closer to understanding their
condition.  The 'condition' that some of them had lived under for
_hundreds_ of years.
   It was a pipe dream between the two of them, but one strong enough to
have encouraged Jeanette to pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into
backing the obscure little Silicon Valley startup company.
   "Just what if," Barb had once asked Jeanette, "WHAT IF! _We_ could isolate
the factor that keeps you from walking out in daylight!"
   Jeanette had gently coughed at the idea, and proceeded to rebuke her.
   "I believe that one of us has been trying to make that cross over
for ... several hundred years now."
   "No, no!"  Barb had corrected.  "I don't mean crossing over, I meant
staying the way you are, but knowing why you can't walk at noon, why
the dawn burns your skin, and the sun renders you to dust!  Correcting that!
It has to be scientifically based!  If we could change just that, without
altering the other effects, you'd still have eternity at your fingertips.
And I think we have just the TOOL to find out RIGHT HERE!"
   The next week their stock on the NASDAQ list had soared.
   'Yes,' Barb thought, 'Jeanette wouldn't mind if she stayed out of the
FK Wars.'
 
      *****
 
    As it turned out, Jeanette practically ordered her to stay out
completely!  And then the next day, it had been no surprise, no surprise
at all for Barb when the hardware supervisor walked in with the
requisition order to replace her failed workstation with a new
Silicon Graphics machine with the Indigo hard drive.  Oh, joy!  Oh, life!
( Or unlife, whaterever ).
   "With a full COLOR MONITOR, MULTIMEDIA software, CD players,
and sound speakers!"
   Which lasted two days before they moved off it to the Quality Assurance
department, and gave her a black and white ( still with an INDIGO drive ),
but then you can't have everything.
 
      *****
 
   A few days later another message came through the system.
   "FK War Rules"  Barb muttered to herself.  "Ok, I'll print it off.
Sure hope I have time to read it!"
   A few more days went by.  "Toronto, Toronto.  What's all this about
a meeting in Toronto.  Never mind."
   Things were going well now.  Still, sometimes, the spelling checker
came to her in her dreams, spelling words like DEMAGOGUERY and MALADROITNESS
and IMPERTINENT and PREPONDERATING and robbing her of her sleep.  She
started coming to work with dark circles under her eyes.
   Walking into her office she almost always tripped over the old
workstation.  It was piled by the side of her cube, waiting for
hardware group to decide whether to try to sell it or try to fix it.
   "Getting rid of a virus by changing your hardware is so bogue."
She brightened.  "Though I did get a better system in return."
   And the FK War messages still came in fast and furious.
 
   "I wonder," she said to herself, "I wonder."
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 The Empress Strikes Back: Part 2
 
 Barbara Reid
 
 
   It was his last day in Toronto, and as John expertly maneuvered around
the international crowd in the airport, he was glad that he had a few
of hours to himself ahead, even if it meant sitting with a couple dozen
strangers in a small waiting area.  Passing carefully down the terminal
concourse to the security check point, he had time to reflect on the
events of the last week.
   So occupied was he that at first he didn't notice the warning
sign to travelers posted at the entrance to all the gates.
   "Warning!  Airport is not responsible for loss of personal property!"
   "Interesting", he thought in an aside to himself.  "In Washington, D.C.,
the signs read 'Beware of Pick Pockets.'  All big cities have the same
problems these days."  Automatically, he checked that the ticket was still
in his hand, and that his bag was still over his shoulder.
   Stretching his legs, he placed his bag onto the floor next to him,
and gently slung the soft black leather coat onto the empty seat on his
left.  He smiled looking at it, and gently touched it with a long slim
fingertip.  It had been a gift from a friend in California,
a woman with a pink condo, who had a coat just like it, and who had wanted
to repay him for his help, _ALL_ his help.  'Help' which had been - too
delicate and too explicit to be directly addressed on the list.
   "And too delicious!", he said running a finger along a silken seam.
   It had been a useful gift, too, because the weather in Toronto was
a lot colder than anything he's expected, even with the constant weather
reports about the record breaking temperatures in the northern country.
In those brief episodes of exposure running from building to taxi and
taxi to building, the coat had practically saved his life.
   As he waited he spent time writing briskly in his journal.
 
      *****
 
   He looked up.  A slim young woman in dark glasses with long blonde hair
was talking rapidly to him in French.
   "What?  What?"  He spoke quickly in English, and suddenly she repeated
her question this time also speaking English, all before he could remember
the French phrases that he did know.
   "This is United airlines?  Yes?  Going to San Francisco?  Yes?
This is gate 12?"
   "Yes," he said, this is gate 12, but it's going to Texas.  You want"
He stood up.  He pointed into the distance.  "You want gate 21, and
it's that way."
   "No, no, gate 12, gate 12."  She held up her ticket and pointed to where
the agent had written in red felt tip the letter 12.
   He peered over at the display of departing flights.  San Francisco was
entered as boarding at gate 21.  "There, over there, see on the board."
   He pointed.  She stepped around him.  He pointed again.  She peered.
They studied her ticket folder again.
   Then she started to walk away.  She stopped, and turned to him.
Her eyes were lovely.  Large.
   "Merci, merci."  She smiled.  "Thank you," she translated.
   And then she was gone.
   "Anytime!", he said gallantlyto her back.  "Toujours!"  He wondered she
heard and liked his accent, but now he was speaking to air.
   He looked around.  Someone was walking away from his bench, someone he
hadn't even noticed come up close to them.  A thread of panic hit him,
and he quickly looked down.
   His bag was there, and the coat was there, though it was almost sliding
off the chair.  Curious.
   He picked up the coat, assuring himself by it's weight that it was still
his property.
   "Boarding for Gate 12, boarding for gate 12, last call."
   'Last call?  How could I have missed the earlier calls, I just got here,'
he said to himself.  Entering the plane he found his seat easily.  It was
overheated and warm, so he tucked the coat in an overhead compartment and
securely closed the latch.  Settling down into the chair he pulled out
his note book and a pen.
   Making entries he cast one last look out the window at the frigid
air of Toronto.  He shivered.  It would be a while before he was in
weather that cold again.  He shivered again.  It would be longer before
he was in a place like the Raven again.
 
      *****
 
   Myra excitedly punched in the phone number.  ( Spike kept grabbing
the calling card away from her, but she finally got it long enough to
run in through the magnetic stripe reader.)  It rang.
   "Hello, hello, yes, it's me, Myra.  You're all set.  We did it,
we made the switch.  He _never even noticed_."  A distance voice cheered
with glee over the receiver.  "Everything went fine.  We even checked the
pockets while he was going though the crowd.  They were empty."
   There was a significant pause on both ends of the phone line.
   Spike yelled into the speaker end.  "They're having a heat spell.  He
might not notice for weeks!"
   In California at her desk, Barb listened with complete bliss.
Nudgeing the old workstation with her toe, being careful not to disturb
the empty Taiwaneese Leather Coat Company box that now lived on top of
it, Barb had only a few comments to make.  The first was, "Ok, you can
go ahead and tell Janette now.  Yes, I _know_ it's a long, drawnout
story."  The second was, "Spelling checkers, HA!"  Then she remembered!
   "Thanks!  And, hey!  I've got another package in the mail to you.
Let me know what you think.  I'll be in touch."
 
      *****
      Several weeks much later...
      *****
 
   It was a cold spell like the kind that ends up in the record books.
It made it easier to study because the heavy heat was gone, but their
electricity bill was going to be up, way up, this winter.
   The house was quiet except for the sounds of someone pushing hangers
around in a closet.  John was going to be late for his meeting and it was
freezing outside.  Best wear the coat, which he hadn't touched since
arriving back from that trip out of the states.
   There it was, way in the back.  Why had he put it there?  He couldn't
remember, anymore than he could remember why he's put off wearing it
until now.  The leather was lovely to caress.
   Casually he put it on.  What's this?  Were the arms a little tight?
He moved to snap it closed.  The snaps, they did meet didn't they?
Why couldn't he close the front?  He took it off.  He checked the inside.
   "To John.  For everything."  The beautiful label which he was so
proud of showing everyone.  The coat looked as intact as before.
But ... now it wouldn't fit!
   Problem.  Did he wear the coat anyway, holding the front closed
with his hands?
   Or did he put it back into his closet, and live on bread and water
and tuna until he fit back into it?
   He didn't look any different, but the coat said the opposite.  Back
into the closet with it.
   He sighed.  He wouldn't say anything about this to his friends,
especially not the ones in California.  No, especially not the ones
in California.
 
      *****
 
   Barb walked around her office.  The top of the dead workstation now
rested a fern plant, the old leather coat factory box long since gone.
She paused in her phone call.
 
   "Glad you liked them.  Sorry I'm always so slow here, but I've finally
got my mits on those other CD's.  You should get them really soon, I'm
calling to let you know I've sent them already.  Oh, and this time I've
got a bootleg copy of Black Leather Garters ( the early LA all girl band),
a set of cuts by JockStRapp, the cheaters complete set of lyrics and riffs
to the first three Asbestos albums, and ( last but not least ) four
holigram Michael Jackson photos for your collection.  Yes, you still owe
me money.  _I_ can't afford any of this!  HEY, I'm kidding!  This is great,
thanks again for the help!"
   "By the by, want a spelling checker program, too?  I once got one from
John in the mail.  He still wants me to put this _right_ on my system.  HA,
I DON'T THINK SO."
   Deftly she tossed the untouched floppy disk into her vertical filing
system.  Also called the waste basket.
   She smiled.
 
 
                           ( CURTAIN )
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 A Call To Arms: Laurie
 
 Laurie Salopek
 
 
   Laurie paced around her apartment with the nervous gestures of her
cat Trouble. Word had gotten out about Uncle's plan and now things were
getting difficult. Well, at least she had taken care of Allan. If he
ever hope to sell his game now he would have to turn to LaCroix for
help. But the next name she picked, that was going to be tough, even for
a cousin. What was it that she said she hated? Oh yeah, right. Hmmm,
that might not be too hard.
   The carpet was matted down in a path from her balcony doors to the
edge of her aquarium. Even if it would take her a lot time to plan her next
move, she still had to make sure all the other cousins understood what
Uncle wanted. She hoped he would appreciate the end result of her last
torment. That is IF Allan decided to approach Uncle about a new Atari.
Who knows, maybe Janette would bail him out again, but she doubted it.
   She turned on her stereo and tried to find inspiration among the
five CDs loaded onto the carousel. With the sound as background for her next
adventure, Laurie turn on her computer. She had to warn the other cousins
that the Knighties were gathering forces and the Raven regulars were
beginning to count their masses. She had to think of something quick.
Uncle would never forgive her if his plan was not carried out fully.
  "Two down, too many to go. Let's see, Karin is taking care of Scott and
Allan doesn't have much of a choice. Sandye is pretty much all set with
her torments and Cousin Margaret and John now what they have to do."
   She almost wanted to scream, "Oh why didn't I follow Nick! Just because
he reminded me of 'What's-His-Face' is no reason!" But she had cast her lot and
a demanding one it was.
   One more to go and then what? The list was too long and the cousins too few
she was going to have to pick up the slack. "No problemo, as long as no one--
egad, I don't want to think about those things! I left them behind me a long
time ago and I never want to see another one again as long as I live!"
   She would worry about that later, right now she had one more name to take
care of....
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 This Little Schanke Went to Market
 
 Don Bassingthwaite
 
 
"Ah!!"  thought Don, bracing himself as he leaned into the biting
wind, "Minus eight degrees Celsius!  Or seventeen degrees Farenheit!
Either way, it's a beautiful day!  And tomorrow is supposed to get up
to minus two.  I must check to see if I have any suntan lotion left at
home."
 
The wind followed him into the grocery store, ruffling the leaves of a
pile of flyers near the door.  Don lunged to prevent them from
scattering across the floor, but a side-burned figure coming the other
way caught them first.  The figure smiled at him.  "Days like this are
enough to make me want to join my mother-in-law in Florida."
 
Don smiled back.  "Evening, Detective Schanke.  Remember me?"
 
"Umm..."  Don Schanke wrinkled his brow in concentration and snapped
his fingers.  "Tom.. John.."
 
"Don.  The intern from the police museum.  We met briefly last
summer."
 
"Right!"  Schanke shifted a package of sugar doughnuts into his other
hand and shook hands with the young man.  "Listen, I'd love to stay
and talk, but I gotta run.  My partner's waiting for me - he's acting
funnier than usual tonight."
 
"Say hi to him for me."  Don turned and continued on into the grocery
store.  This was only the first of his stops tonight and he had a
number of things to pick up.  He stopped in the produce section,
scanning the shelves.  Finally his eyes lit up and he reached out to
take several bulbs of garlic...
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Janet Joins In
 
 Janet(te) Dornhoff
 
 
     Janet scanned through the message of the day.  The NeXT computer
was busily printing out the last few Highla-L Digests, in 6.5 point
font, double-columns, for her to read back in the dorm, but her uxa
account was nestled in its own little window, its network connection
undisturbed by the rest of the system.  Keeping an eye on the site
manager, in case she noticed how many pages the laser printer was
collecting on its little tray, she called up the old 'mail' program.
Not as versatile as 'elm', nor as easy to use as the NeXT's mailbox
window, but comfortable and familiar nonetheless.
     Tara had finally started posting her next crossover story - Yay!
And there were amusing discussions of blood candy, Nick and Nat, and
other Forever Topics.   Even a few messages personally directed to
her, amongst all the mailing-list traffic.
     Then one message, at the bottom of the list, caught her eye.
 
      From: lacroix@toronto.freenet.edu
 
     Was it a joke?  She read it, her blood chilling as she realized
that, no, this was no joke.  She started to compose a reply but, wary
of drawing attention to herself too soon, put off sending it until
she'd finished with her printouts.
     Janet slipped the stack of pages off the printer's tray, even as
another page reeled out, and hid them between notebooks in her bag.
Just in time, as the site manager began a slow patrol.  She clicked
on the NeXT mail window to hide her note, and began scanning.
 
      From: janette@raven.toronto.com
 
     Janet did a double-take.  Calling up the message, she realized
it was, indeed, her namesake who sent it.  As she read, a corner of
her mouth quirked upwards.  This could get interesting...
 
     When a new message appeared, Janet never even doubted that the
sender calling himself "nick" was the genuine article.  The other
side of her mouth rose even with the first.  As she read the message,
a burst of giggling laughter escaped, earning her several stares and
curious glances from other patrons of the lab.  For once, she was
glad she'd never made up her mind about declaring an allegiance.
     "This will _definitely_ be fun," she muttered to herself, as she
opened up three separate Compose boxes and began writing.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Torontotex
 
 Sharon Scott
 
 
Toronto, Jan. 21, 1993
 
"Nick, wake up. Answer the phone."
 
The detective came awake with a start at the sound of that
nasal twang.
 
"NICK! Get your buns out of bed and pick up the phone. DO IT
NOW!"
 
"Okay, okay, I'm coming. Give me a chance, wouldja? I'm not
Superman." He mumbled to himself as he threw back the covers
and started down the stairs. He ran a hand through his hair
and yawned as he picked up the phone.
 
"Yeah, I'm here."
 
"Are you awake? Nick? Are you listening to me?"
 
"Hey, I'm up, I'm awake. What?" He hated being awakened by
the phone, and it showed in his voice.
 
"Well, while you've been getting your beauty sleep, it's
been a bad day at Black Rock here in the real world. And
it's liable to get a lot worse if we don't get busy."
 
Now he was awake. She wasn't the sort to panic without good
reason.
 
"What's up?"
 
"Oh, nothing much. LaCroix's on the rampage again. And this
time he's enlisted a couple of members of a computer list to
help him. You know how he is--never do anything yourself if
you can get some fool to do it for you."
 
"Yeah, I know. What's he up to?"
 
"They're calling it a war."
 
"Yeah, right. And you woke me up for this?"
 
"I'm not kidding, Nick. That's what Laurie's calling it."
 
"Who's Laurie?"
 
She sighed in exasperation. "Laurie, Nick, Laurie Salopek.
You remember? The Christmas card? The SWAT team? Go take a
 
 
long drink from one of those bottles in your frig. Maybe
it'll help your memory."
 
"Oh, *that* Laurie."
 
"Yeah, that Laurie. And now Karin of Kildara and the Tucson
Terrorist are in it, too. Not to mention Valery, and John,
and Lisa, and Don, and God knows who else. And you *know*
who gave the ringleaders the idea."
 
"LaCroix." He spat out the name with the venom of 800 years.
 
"You got it in one."
 
"Okay, tell me what's been happening."
 
"Oh, let's see--threats, innuendoes, insinuations, mental
torture ... you know, the usual things."
 
"Yeah, I know. I know his methods very well indeed. Sounds
like he's playing the same old games."
 
"Well, his latest little move in this game made my Mac
crash."
 
"Did you lose any data?"
 
The venom of several hours of reloading software was
apparent in *her* voice this time. "Yeah. I got this cute
little picture on my monitor screen of a bomb going off. I
am not a happy camper."
 
"But it's working okay now?"
 
"Yeah, and while I was re-installing everything from the
system files to Stuffit, I had some time to think about
revenge."
 
"That's a harsh word."
 
"Yes, it is, isn't it? But don't you just love it? It has
such a lovely sound tripping off the tongue."
 
He smiled at the thought of wreaking some havoc upon the
master and his minions. "Sounds good to me. Got a plan?"
 
"I'm workin' on it. For starters, I've sent a tape to Karin-
-it's just the one word "wedding" over and over again, with
the sound of Pachelbel's Canon in the background. It'll
 
 
drive her crazy. Oh, and I've arranged to substitute Brazos
River water for the champagne at her sister's wedding.
That'll teach her to spout off about fur-lined handcuffs."
 
"Fur-lined WHAT?"
 
"Never mind. I'll tell you all about it later, in detail,
while I'm practicing on your buttons." She cut him off
before he could ask any more questions on that particular
topic. "And I've zapped all her files at work, and ..."
 
"And what about Laurie? On second thought, I don't think I
want to know."
 
"Sure you do, you just won't admit it. Laurie's scanner will
replace every image she tries to scan in with full-color
photos of Roseanne Arnold in the nude. It'll never be summer
where she is--she'll be shoveling snow in the middle of
July. Her cat Trouble will refuse to eat any known brand of
cat food and will meow incessantly and sharpen its claws on
all her pantyhose. Her car won't go over 30 mph no matter
how hard she stomps on the accelerator."
 
"But does any of this have a bearing on the larger problem?"
 
"It does if we can slow LaCroix's errand boys and girls down
for a while--and maybe give us a chance to figure out what's
going on."
 
"You've got a point. Okay, I'll do what I can from this end.
Keep in contact. I'll get Larry Merlin to monitor the list.
What's the address again?"
 
"It's fkfic-l@psuvm.psu.edu. Larry knows about the Internet-
-I think he's one of the concealed subscribers."
 
"He might be. You never know about Larry. He's something of
a mystery man."
 
"Okay, then, adios, Kemo Sabe."
 
"What? Sharon? Are you there? Sharon?"
 
She wasn't there any longer. The phone was dead.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Oh, Dear Sweet Darling Don
 
 Valerie Meachum
 
 
Valerie had never *wanted* this week.  Valerie really wanted to send
this week back for a refund.  The temperature had hovered around 10 or
fifteen below for several days, and the valiant Angelique the Wonder
Metro had finally demanded a rest after providing a jump for some poor
schmo in the supermarket parking lot who didn't have a hat, and
apparently getting some water under her shiny red hood which proceeded
to freeze somewhere important and render her immobile.  This meant
Valerie had been forced to beg rides to work, which had panned out on
Thursday, but Wednesday and Friday had been spent sitting impatiently
at home, earning no money and logging in entirely too much.  Diablo
had still not come home, and with visions of frozen yellow tabbies
dancing in her poor grief-stricken head, she was just preparing to
start calling animal shelters when a new message appeared in her
just-emptied mbox.
 
From <lacroix@freenet.utoronto.ca>. Oh, dear.  Her beloved adopted
Cousin, Laurie, had alerted her that some new deviltry was afoot; but
she had hoped fervently to be spared a place in it this time.  She
should have known better; as an adoptee, she had found she had to prove
her place among the Cousins and in Uncle's favour twice as hard as the
rest of them.
 
Just as she was beginning to wonder if her choice of adoptive family
had been rash--but darn it, there were just so *many* of those
Ravenettes when they asked, and at the time the Cousins had been so
pitifully few...though of course that hadn't lasted long--she opened
the message and read her assignment.
 
Hmmm.  Maybe this responsibility wouldn't be so onerous after all.  And
the last paragraph truly warmed her heart...  "I know you are the best
choice to handle this particular thorn in my side.  They say blood
will tell, but you have proven that the bonds of an adoptive family
can be just as strong.  You've developed a talent for temptation that
rivals my dear wayward Janette; use it well and make me proud. --Uncle"
 
In truth, those talents had already been brought to bear on her chosen
target, dangling nigh-irresistible carrots before him to draw him to
the upcoming Boston gathering.  Now it was time to truly test her
abilities, her worthiness to be counted among the Cousins...
 
     *     *     *
 
 To: dbassing@epas.utoronto.ca
 From: vmeachum@freenet.fsu.edu
 Subj: A little bird told me...
 
Don, I think you might be in serious trouble.  Y'know that story White
Wolf published, "Smoke"?  Well, I got word that there's a *real*
you-know-what named Brahms up in your neck of the woods, and it looks
like somebody blew the whistle on you.  Yeah, *them*.  My source (I
can't name him; he's afraid of getting the stake himself) says they'll
probably go after Mark Rein-Hagen et al first--it's the last straw
after that "Justicar" close shave--but you are *definitely* on the
list.
 
I called in a favour (*please* don't ask!), and Janette is
(reluctantly, mind you) willing to let you hole up in a place she has
set aside for such emergencies, find this "Brahms" character, and
convince him to tell the heat that he's never laid eyes on you, you've
never laid eyes on him, and they have no reason to take you out
'cause it was just fiction, dammit, and you have no clue!  (Okay, not
*entirely* true, at least not that last part; but he doesn't have to
know that.)  *I* know you have no intention of telling the world our
friends are in it, and I'm sure you really *haven't* ever met this
guy, right?  Right.
 
Now, *don't* go to the Raven, whatever you do.  She doesn't want *any*
of this bouncing back on her and her haven if it doesn't pan out.
You're to meet her representative--he or she will know who you are,
don't worry--at the bottom of the escalator in the mall area under the
Royal York.  Try to look inconspicuous.
 
And *please* let me know when it's all clear!  We'd kinda like to keep
you around...
 
     *     *     *
 
"Look inconspicuous."  Don muttered the reminder to himself, but it
didn't help much.  He really didn't know what to think of all this;
after all, vampires *were* just fiction, so he was very unclear on the
concept of just why he was in trouble.  Still, the notion of someone
who *thought* he was one claiming to be the basis for Don's story
character didn't sit well.  He was just a poverty-stricken grad
student, after all; the pittance White Wolf had paid him for the story
was already spent.  He simply couldn't afford to be sued.  So if
Valerie's weird friends wanted to help him out, get the guy to simmer
down, he wasn't going to argue.
 
Of course, meeting some stranger under the Royal York Hotel in the
middle of the night seemed like an odd way to avoid a lawsuit.  He
hoped Valerie knew what she was doing...uneasily he recalled the
attempted 'group hi' from last year's Toronto Trek, when she had
returned home from a draining performance and a long drive from Denver
to find an enigmatic portion of that missing "Love You to Death" scene
on her answering machine.  She had forgiven him his VCR-operating part
in that--after all, it wasn't their fault the machine had hung up on
them before they could finish the message.  It really had been
intended as a nice wish-you-were-here kind of thing.  And besides, he
had mentioned those blackmail pictures of Amy waking up Saturday
morning...oh dear, that had never been arranged, had it?
 
Suddenly looking inconspicuous became considerably more difficult;
Don concentrated on looking anything but nervous.  Maybe Valerie
really was out to get him...after all, he had only the word of Amy and
a few other netfolk that she really was the nice person she seemed
online.  Even Lora Haines had worked with her for almost a year
without ever meeting more than a phone voice...and hadn't there been
that nasty rumour about her being somehow involved with the mysterious
"Cousins" who claimed to be related to the big LC himself?
 
Just as he was about to decide the whole thing was a setup and that
maybe home was the safest place after all...or maybe even the
Raven...a tall young man with curly blond hair and a nervous
grin walked up to him.  "You're Don, right?"  At Don's wary nod, the
stranger went on, "Oh, good.  The picture I got has sideburns and a
Hawaiian shirt, and it was kind of hard to tell...Anyway, I'm Chris
Lewellen, and I'm supposed to give you this."
 
Don hesitantly accepted the heavy parchment envelope, addressed in a
large looping hand to Mr. Donald Bassingthwaite.  "Uh, thanks.  What
is it?"
 
"Beats me." the courier shrugged.  "Val just asked me to give it to
you.  I was kind of surprised, actually; she used to go to MSU with
me, but I hadn't heard from her in a while.  Listen, I gotta go.
Tickets to _Phantom_."  Chris grinned good-naturedly, and for a
split-second resembled a certain detective who really could not
possibly be French.
 
"Must be a Welsh thing," Don muttered to himself as the young man
vanished into the crowd.
 
He tore open the envelope to find an elegant gilt-embossed parchment
card with a short message:  "Your difficulties have been averted.
Remember...your souvlakivorous hero could not have aided you thus.
Choose your loyalties wisely."  It was signed, "A friend...or if you
earn it, an Uncle."
 
     *     *     *
 
 To: dbassing@epas.utoronto.ca
 From: vmeachum@freenet.fsu.edu
 Subj: Your message
 
I'm innocent.  I just held the pause button.
 
     *     *     *
 
Valerie felt a pang of guilt...after all, there was no Toronto vampire
named Brahms, and the Enforcers could care less if some mortal wrote
short stories about one.  Still, it never hurt to keep Don on his
toes; when someone wrote stuff like that, they *could* easily find
themselves in trouble.  It was just too bad she hadn't been able to
really get Janette involved, since that certainly would have sweetened
the pot for dear sweet darling Don; but a Cousin had to remember that
she was the enemy in this little operation, blood or no.  And her
followers, too, had to be brought back into the fold...
 
With something like dread, she settled back into the routine of
cat-searching and car-start-attempting, awaiting the next fateful set
of instructions and wondering whether she had really chosen the right
family...
 
(With apologies to Chris, whom I really haven't written in ages, who
really does look a bit like Ger, and who drives up to TO from Michigan
to see _Phantom_ on a pretty regular basis and thus makes a perfect
messenger.)
--
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 This Little FOD Stayed Home
 
 Don Bassingthwaite
 
 
Don settled back in his chair and considered the elegant parchment
carefully.  "An Uncle".  A sneaking suspicion had begun to grow in
him as soon as he had read the note.  There had been rumours that the
Cousins were up to something no good, and if this note did indeed have
its ultimate source in their Uncle, then something was truly rotten in
the state of Denmark.
 
But was it truly the Cousins' fault?  He knew the way LaCroix worked.
Unless he missed his guess, they were somehow being scared into doing
all this (which didn't, of course, explain their rather extraordinary
zeal in carrying out LaCroix's wishes, but no theory is perfect).
There was obviously only going to be one way to get around this.  He
was outnumbered by the Cousins, but there was only one Uncle.
 
And LaCroix had never experienced the awesome wrath of a FOD when his
fiction had been threatened!
 
He examined the parchment closely, then sniffed it.  Aha!  He knew
where LaCroix was now!  But LaCroix couldn't know where he was... he
would have to keep moving until this was over, confusing LaCroix and
the Cousins with the randomness of his actions.  He scurried around the
room, picking up the things he would need and chuckling evilly to
himself.  LaCroix might be stronger than him and far more ruthless,
but he knew that there was one thing no vampire could stand up to...
 
He paused before the phone, then picked it up.  "Directory Assistance?
This is going to be tricky, but I need the number for a auto shop..."
 
********
 
Valerie shrieked with delight at the news.  The garage had found the
parts for Angelique in stock after all!  She had wheels again, she had
mobility!
 
She was down at the garage in no time at all, patting Angelique's hood
lovingly.  She smiled up at the mechanic.  "Where did you find the
parts?" she asked as she climbed in.
 
"Oh, it was easy once Jack phoned and told us about the modifications."
 
"Modifications?  Jack phoned here??"  The thought crossed Valerie's
mind that perhaps this was some sort of trick, but it was too late.
She already had the key in the ignition and was turning the engine
over.  Angelique roared to life...
 
... then coughed and spat black smoke like a dragon with bad gas.
Valerie stumbled out of the door, her own face blackened with soot.
Behind her, the radio, somehow still active, belted out a merry polka.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 The Best Defense
 
 Sharon Himmanen
 
 
Nat looked up from the reports she was filing as Nick walked in.   The
smile on her lips faded as she saw his strained and dark look.
 
"What?" she asked.  "What's wrong?"
 
Nick looked up at her quickly.  She knew him too well he thought as
he leaned against the edge of her desk and said, "Have you ever heard
of the Internet?"
 
"As a matter of fact, *I* have Internet access," she said.  "I only use it
for email."  Nick shot her a quick, fearful look.  "What is it?"
 
"Are you on any mailing lists?"
 
"Morgue-l.  It's . . . well . . . you can probably guess what it is."
 
Nick wrinkled his nose and decided not to think too hard about that.
"You're not on a list called fkfic?"
 
"Nope, never even heard of it.  But you know, I have a friend who
lives for the Internet.  It's kind of sad really, but she might know
about it.  Want me to ask her?"
 
"It might be a good idea.  Sharon Scott called me earlier."
 
Nat fought down a quick stab of jealousy.  Nick had mentioned Sharon
Scott before and Nat had never been able to determine just what their
relationship was, but there was something in his voice when he said
her name.  She wasn't sure if Sharon was an "old" friend or not.  The
only thing that satisfied Nat was that whatever their relationship was,
Nick was here in Toronto and this Sharon Scott was somewhere far, far
away, in the southwest U.S. somewhere.
 
"What did she say?"
 
"There's some kind of . . . war . . . going on.  Apparently a couple list
members are targeting others."
 
"And?"
 
"And, tormenting them.  They find out personal information about the
victim and use it against them.  So far no one has been seriously hurt,
but it's only a matter of time.  They've only recently branched out to
others, but they've been harassing Sharon for quite some time now."
 
"Nick, this is terrible.  Who would do such a thing?  And why?"
 
Nick didn't answer her question.  Instead, he said, "Call your friend.  If
she's on the list, tell her to get off it.  And tell her to warn as many
people as she can."
 
"I will," Nat said.  "I'll call her right now."
 
"Good.  I'm going to speak to Janette."  He squeezed her hand, then left
to start his shift.  Nat knew him well enough to know that he wasn't
telling her everything, but then, he never really did.  This time,
however, she sensed he was holding back something big.  She moved
around her desk and picked up the phone, then set it back down
quickly.  If she wanted to reach her friend quickly, the best way
would be through email.
 
She turned on the computer and dialed up the mainframe.  At the
ready prompt she began to type.
 
 mail shihc@cunyvm.cuny.edu
 Your name (Optional)?
 Natalie Lambert
 Name for shihc@cunyvm.cuny.edu (Optional?)
 Sharon Himmanen
 Subject (Optional)?
 
After a brief debate, Nat typed URGENT!!! in the subject line.  It wasn't
like it would really matter.  In the text of her message Nat typed a
brief note asking if Sharon was on a list called FKFIC and if so to call
her immediately.  Nat sent it off, then sat back to wait.  Chances were
Sharon would get the note and call within the next few minutes.
 
When the phone rang five minutes later, Nat sprang up and snatched
it up quickly.  "Hello, Sharon?" she asked.
 
There was a brief pause.  "Ah, this is Officer Jones with the 23rd.  I'm
trying to reach Dr. Lambert."
 
Nat sighed.  It figured.  "Speaking."
 
* * * * *
 
Two hours later Sharon finally called.  Nat breathed a small prayer of
thanks when she heard her friend's voice on the phone.
 
"Hi Nat!  Your message said urgent.  Hope nothing's wrong."
 
"Well, maybe," Nat said.  "Are you still hanging around on the Internet
a lot?"
 
"Yeah, I just discovered how to use gopher.  Did you know you can get
the text of all kinds of books from various sites?  Shakespeare, the
bible, Dracula, the Canteb--"
 
Nat quickly cut off Sharon's enthusiastic rambling.  "Are you on a
mailing list called FKFIC?"
 
"Yeah, I am.   Why?  You want to join or something?"
 
"No, I want *you* to get off it!"
 
There was a pause at the other end.  "Get off it?  Why?"
 
"Has anything strange happened to you or anyone on it lately?"
 
"Nat, will you please tell me what's going on!"
 
Nat bit her lip.  "OK, a friend of mine has another friend who's on the
list.  Her name is Sharon Scott.  He says that someone from the list has
been harassing her, and that they're going to start harassing other
people.  He didn't go into specifics, but it sounds like it could get
really ugly."
 
"I see," Sharon said, thoughtfully.  "Did he say who's doing it?"
 
"No."
 
"Hmmm.  Sharon Scott, you said."
 
Nat didn't like the tone in her friend's voice.  "Sharon, what're you
thinking?"
 
"Nothing," Sharon answered quickly.
 
"I know that pseudo-innocent tone too well.  Spill it!"
 
"It's just that I don't much like the idea of being a sitting duck."
 
Nat definitely didn't like the sound of that.  "Just get off the list, and
warn as many people as you can.  You don't want these people coming
after you."
 
"That's right, and it seems to me that the best defense--"
 
"No!"  Nat interrupted.
 
Sharon continued on as if she hadn't heard.  "is a good offense.  Or something
like that."
 
"No!" Nat repeated.
 
"Look, I'm not really going to do anything . . ."
 
"Good!"
 
". . . necessarily."  Nat sighed and rolled her eyes.  "I'm just going to do
some checking around.  I think I have Sharon's email address around
here somewhere.  I do seem to remember someone bothering her with
frogs because she's afraid of 'em, although why anyone would be
afraid of cute little froggies I'll never know.  Anyway, Nat, I'll keep
you posted, OK."
 
Before Nat could protest further, Sharon broke the connection.  Nat
immediately dialed her home number, determined to talk her out of
whatever plans she might be hatching.  The line was busy and Nat
slammed the phone down in exasperation.  Sharon was probably
already online and composing email to Sharon Scott.  Somehow Nat
didn't think Nick was going to like the fact that they just might have
inadvertently made the playing field in this war a little larger.
 
* * * * *
 
 From: Sharon Himmanen <SHIHC@CUNYVM>
 To: Sharon Scott <scotts@baylor.ccis.baylor.edu>
 Subj: Friends of friends
 Date: January 22, 1994
 
--------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Dear Sharon,
 
A friend of mine in Toronto, who is a friend of a friend of yours
reports that you've been having some difficulties with certain
members of FKFIC.  I think we should talk . . .
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Tara's Torment
 
 John E. Dencoff
 
 
  A wicked grin spread across John's face as he read the latest forkni-L
message.  It was from Lady Johanna Constantine, also known more personally
as Tara.  She was requesting submissions from budding authors on the list
for a new fanzine that she was starting.
 
  "This has numerous possibilities!" he thought.  "So many ways, so little
time!  And..." checking Uncle's list quickly, "...she appears to be on our
list of potential victims!"
 
  Thousands of devious thoughts raced through his mind.  He could intercept
the mail, implant destructive little commands in her computer, or even
send her fiction written by his own hand!  That'd certainly throw her for
a loop!  Really bad poetry...thousands of really bad poems arriving by mail!
 
  Then again, LaCroix and the others often told him that the best torments
were unique, subtle, and deeply underhanded.
 
  Wisdom from an ancient _Star Trek_ episode then jumped into his brain:
"Social occasions are merely warfare concealed."  Or it went something like
that.  Yes...perhaps it was time for a PARTY!
 
        *               *               *
 
The e-mail message arrived only moments earlier:
 
   To: johanna@hydra.unm.edu
   From: jdencoff@polaris.unm.edu
 
  Hey, Tara!  I'm having a party this sunday.  It'll be a video party--
  we'll be watching _Amazon Women on the Moon_ among other things!
  Let me know if you'd like to come.  Your friend Monica is coming.
  You can also bring one or two guests if you like!
 
  Cousin John
  Emperor of Harpsichords
 
 
Tara didn't know what to think, exactly.  It could be fun, but she had been
warned that these 'Cousins' were *weird*...maybe even dangerous!  Still,
she thought it might be fun.  She hadn't seen that movie, and Monica was
going after all.  She made her decision, and phoned up Monica.
 
  "Hey, Monica!  Did you get that invitation for John's party?"
 
  "Yeah, sounds like it could be fun." Monica replied.
 
  "Maybe, but he is a 'cousin,' and some pretty strange things have been
happening on the internet list.  Do you think he could be up to something?"
 
  "I dunno.  Maybe.  Maybe it's just a party.  After all, I haven't been
attacked by any of these cousins yet.  Maybe they're just targeting the
Knighties, or something.  So far, that's what it seems like."
 
  "Okay, I'll go then."
 
  The party turned out to be fairly normal, with about six of John's other
friends.  Nothing really weird happened, and it was sorta fun.  John's
friend Kathy had a lot of tapes for old programs, and she might even get
to borrow some of them later.
 
  "See..." Monica said later, "It was just a normal party.  I think they're
just targeting the Knighties."
 
  "Hmmm...well, if all of my fanzine stuff is ripped to shreds when I get
home, then I'll know who to blame.  Maybe the party was a decoy to get me out
of the house while the other cousins descended on my stuff."
 
  When she got home, she went through all of her things.  Hmmm...she thought,
nothing seems amiss with the fanzine stuff...Unless!  Quickly she logged
into her PC, scanning through all the files.
 
  Breathless, she checked each file, then ran a virus-checker through her
software.  Momentarily satisfied, she logged into hydra, her remote account
at UNM.  Hours later, it seemed nothing was wrong.  All of her files were
as she had left them, in perfect order.
 
  "This is going to make me paranoid," she thought.  "What on Earth could
he have done?  Not the computer files, not hydra,...not even the fanzine
material."
 
        *               *               *
 
The following morning:
 
  Tara quickly gulped down her thirty-seventh cup of coffee.  As she sat
looking around the house, trying to think of things that might go wrong,
Monica popped in.
 
  "Hey, Tara!  Geez, you look awful!  Did you get *any* sleep at all last
night?"  As she surveyed the room, noting the overturned cushions and strewn
papers, she said, "...Hmmm...I guess not."
 
  "Not a wink.  I am convinced that the Cousins are out to get me!  I mean,
even the title of this episode is about me!  Look: _Tara's Torment_!!"
 
  Monica looked over the printout for several minutes.  "I don't think you've
read this all the way through yet, have you?"
 
  Suddenly, Tara dove behind the couch.  Monica looked around for explosives.
Then she saw the mailman on the front porch.  Smiling, she went to collect
the mail.
 
  "No!" Tara said weakly. "It's a *letter-bomb*!  I just know it!!"  She
peeked over the couch.
 
  "Look, Tara!  It's a letter from John!"
 
  "AAIGH!  Leave it outside!!  I just read that John gave Barb a spell-
checker from HELL!  I don't wanna know what he has in mind for me!"
 
  Monica opened the letter.  "Dear Tara, I just found out that you were
looking for submissions material for your new fanzine..."
 
  "Urk!" not the Fanzine, she thought!  It was only a baby!
 
  Monica continued, "...anyway, I thought that I might try my hand at some
poetry, so please find my first one enclosed.  Let me know what you think."
 
 
        HEROES
 
        Nick and Duncan,
        alike in so many ways,
        they're both good actors
        who'll live lotsa days.
 
        Each is a human,
        well, sorta, that is
        a vampire and an immie
        fightin' bad guys: their biz.
 
        Cousin John
 
 
  "Well, it's not Wordsworth..." Monica commented.
 
  "...I said explicitly, 'no poetry'..." Tara gasped.  =CLONK=
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 This Little War: Part 1
 
 Tara
 
 
        Tara logged out, feeling much better.  After all, if this was
a war, that was no reason a lady had to be rude.
        Now they were all warned.
        After spending hours shredding the last of John's little
"prank", she was finally beginning to realize that if it was a war
they wanted, she was ready to take on their precious "uncle" any time.
        Okay, so she had a deathwish.  It never stopped her before.
Not when a giant office almost ate Chicago up in a bureaucracy, not
when she had dealt with John Constantine, Cerebus the Net Aardvark, the
Dvandom Stranger, and evil the likes of which these mailing list
friends of hers could never had dreamt of.
        We were talking about old hat to a rec.arts.comics.misc
vet.  But first, she had to have a little discussion.
        With her sister.
 
                              * * *
 
        "Well, Mo called me this morning.  She told me not to tell.
It's just email."  Deirdre shrugged off her elder sister's anger.
        "Yeah, right.  Just email."  Tara sighed.  "So what did you
tell her?"
        "Well, she asked about any phobias."
        "And?"
        "And I told her you were really excited about your zine."
        "But you didn't mention... you know."
        "What?"
        "Wide open spaces."
        "No."
        "At least I have some secrets left."
        "You're paranoid.  And stupid."
        "Thank's sibling.  I love you too."  She closed her sister's dorm-
room door behind her, and made her way back to Devargas Hall.  She logged
straight in.
 
                                 * * *
 To: janette@raven.toronto.freenet
 From: johanna@hydra.unm.edu (L J Constantine)
 Subject: This little "war"
 
One of your master's "pets" just took a shot at me.
Having a little fun with family members?  I'm a mite far
from Toronto at the moment, and I know College doesn't
mean much to you, but I'd like to graduate sometime this
century, if you don't mind, and unless you're going to
spot me some plane fare....
 
So any idea what's going on?  Ask Alma, she always
has her ear to the door anyway.
 
I've got my stock of holy water, stakes, and
the usual, but I seriously doubt I've to fear
your kind.  Not unless Uncle dear wants to bother
with a simple little helpless mortal like me, so
how about a hand?
 
 
LJC
--
johanna@hydra.unm.edu    * "Bring your mittens."
Lady Johanna Constantine *            - "Spooky" Muldar to
or just plain Tara       *               Dana Scully, "Ice"
Disclaimer: I dare someone at unm to read what I write.  I dare 'em :)
 
                               * * *
 
 To: johanna@hydra.unm.edu (L J Constantine)
 From: janette@raven.toronto.freenet
 Subject: Re: This little "war"
 
> with a simple little helpless mortal like me, so
 
helpless?
 
Ha.
 
Deal with it, darling.
 
 
j
 
 
                              * * *
 
        "Wonderful."  Tara scowled at the computer. "So much for help
from 'old friends'.  Looks like we corbies are going to have to take care
of this one ourselves."  She started typing out a post to a long list
of like-minded fans.  "They want a war?  Let's just see how many slings
and arrows they can stand from this end.  Starting with John and Monica,
I should think...."
        She smiled coldly, and waited for the replys.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 This Little War: Part 2
 
 Tara
 
 
        "Stabbed in the back by one of my own.  I winder what
Mo was thinking?  After all, who would have thought a ravenette would
side with a cousin?"  Tara paced back and forth in her dorm room.  She
allowed her alter ego, LJC to pop in beside her.  After all, LJ served
her in good stead during the Wrath of the Administrator last spring.
She always was better at this sort of thing.
        "How about some sweet and sour from Panda Express?"  Jo
took a long drag off her Silk Cut, eyes sparkling.
        "Pineapple?  I don't want to kill her, just find out where
her loyalties lie."
        "Fine, take the easy way out."
        "Killing you partner is no way to finish a script, and
besides, she's my friend."
        "She inflicted bad poetry on you.  Some friend."
        "Hey, who are you to talk?  All of your friend's end up dead."
Tara snapped, continuing to pace, wracking her brain for an answer.
Jo stuck her tongue out in a very un-Constantine like gesture, turning
sharply in a swirl of grey trenchcoat and smoke.
        "Let Janette deal with her?"
        "Darling won't be bother with all this, at least, that was
the impression I received."
        "Okay, if you're not going to play on her allergies, even though
I personally think a little Death by Chocolate, or ice-cream would be
fitting."
        "Hey, I'm the one who had to clean up after the last time we
decided to go get ice-cream.  I'm looking for a bit of revenge on Mo,
not more work for me."
        "Okay, why don't we hit her where it hurts?"
        "Namely?"
        "Think she's read all that fanfic she's archived?"
        "Oh, you're evil."
        "So are you, my dear." Johanna faded away, the smell of her
cigarettes lingering.
        "So I am."
 
                              * * *
 
        "Is this it?"  Mo stared at the disk, eyes bright.  They only
had a few moments before Tara had to run to her class.
        "Yep, all of 'Til Time and Times Are Done', complete with
formatting.  You have to tell me what you think."
        "Cool."
        "You want to work on the script this weekend?"
        "If I have time, yeah.  And I need to borrow your tape of the
X-files from Friday night."
        "Only if I get my plant, cd, and video tape back."  Since she had
come back from Chicago, she had been missing her plant, which had gone
to live at Monica's for four weeks.
        "Deal."  Mo grinned, and jumped back into her car.  "You're not
really mad about John, are you?"
        "Oh, I am just getting into the spirit of things.  I seriously
doubt anyone would try anything truly horrible to me."
        "Ha."
        "Okay, so maybe I underestimate people.  Call me tonight."
 
                              * * *
        Mo popped the diskette into her 486, glancing around to make
sure her brother Danny wasn't around to usurp the computer until she
was done.  She watched the virus scan work its magic, and she brought up
WP 6.0.
        Then the craziest thing happened.  Words scrawled across her screen
faster than she could read, and then everything went...
        Blank.
        She rebooted, praying.  All her father's fortran programs seemed
just fine, thank gods, and Danny's stupid video games were still there.
        However, she seemed to be locked out of her directories.  She tried
everything she could think of, and after that failed, started swearing.
She started in Italian, segued into Czech, and finally wound it up with
some truly gutter Welsh.
        "I'll kill her."
 
IT'S NOT PERMANENT.  JUST UNTIL YOU TELL ME EXACTLY WHERE YOUR LOYALTIES
LIE.  I KNOW IT'S NOT TOO HARD TO GET THE FANFIC FROM THE AUTHORS, BUT
I'M SURE YOU'RE MORE WORRIED ABOUT YOUR SCRIPTS AND SO ON.
 
OH, THE FANFIC IS ALL OUT OF YOUR ACCOUNT TOO.  MAYBE IT WASN'T SO SMART
LETTING ME KNOW YOUR PASSWORD.
 
YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU DEARLY, BUT ALL'S FAIR AS THEY SAY.
 
TARA
 
                                 * * *
 
        Tara leaned back, deciding it was time to turn her attention
to John.  So he had LaCroix pulling his strings... That was no excuse, not
really.
        Well, maybe it was.  But still, one good turn deserved another.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 The Patron Saint of Mediocrity
 
 Valerie Meachum
 
 
A new starter.  Grumble grip groan.  And since the Firestone place
couldn't get parts from anywhere until Monday, Angelique the Wonder
Metro would remain a motionless red bauble and Valerie would have to
find some other means of getting to rehearsal Sunday and work Monday.
Grumble gripe groan.
 
Reading her e-mail was usually a nice escape from the little trials of
daily life, but this particular day she rather dreaded it.  Would
there be further instructions from Cousin Laurie, or even from Uncle
himself?
 
Sure enough, message #7 was from <lacroix@freenet.utoronto.ca>.
"Better read it first," Valerie sighed.  She had added an annoying
helping of guilt over what she had done to dear sweet darling Don to
her worries about car and cat, and wasn't really up to adding more.
But duty called...
 
"Oh, great.  Never let it be said Uncle doesn't have a sense of
humour."  She didn't even know this one's real name; for that matter,
she wasn't entirely certain of gender, though she had in the past
hazarded a guess that it was in fact a woman masquerading as a dead
composer.  "Decomposer?" she muttered, but as she suspected it wasn't
at all funny.  Bother.  She had briefly considering petitioning the
Nat faction for sanctuary--after all, that was where her sympathies if
not her official loyalties had always lain...hopefully Uncle wouldn't
send her after any of *them*--but now even her nurse's-kid equivalent
of coroner humour was failing her.
 
She had ideas, of course; but how could she carry them out without a
name, phone number, or even a car?  And she lacked the impressive
hacker resources and skills that the other Cousins had been employing
so effectively...wait a minute, they hadn't managed it all themselves,
had they?  A devious smile spread slowly across Valerie's deceptively
apple-cheeked little ingenue face, and she began tapping in an urgent
message for reinforcements...
 
     *     *     *
 
 To: Salieri <AUVERS@DRYCAS.CLUB.CC.CMU.EDU>
 From: Caterina Cavalieri <songbird@juilliard.edu>
 
Caught your handle on the mailing lists, and thought you might be
interested in a very rare recording I found in the archives...
 
     *     *     *
 
A knock at the door--surely that was the FedEx guy!  Caterina had come
through.  Salieri had been observing the war on fkfic-l with no little
dread, and this was just the thing to lighten things up.
 
Cassette into the stereo, the leader cleared and the real tape
threaded past the play heads, and a clear light soprano emerged from
the speakers: "Ach, ich ful's es ist verschwunden..."
 
"AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!  MOZAAAARRRRTTT!"  In agony, Salieri reached
for the stereo, but didn't quite make it to the stop button before
collapsing.
 
     *     *     *
 
 To: vmeachum@freenet.fsu.edu
 From: Larry <merlin@!@&^#$@#&$#@>
 
Mission accomplished, kiddo.  Remember, you owe me.  :-)
 
Tape wasn't bad, BTW.  Ever consider doing it for a living?
 
     *     *     *
 
"Consider?!"  Grrr.  This adventure had *not* left a good taste in her
mouth as it was...and now she owed Merlin a future unspecified favour,
and he had to go tweaking her ambitions into the bargain.  Grrr.
 
Was this really worth it any more?
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 No Innocent Bystanders
 
 Linda Roth
 
 
   I thought I *would* be spared though: I am a newbie.  I felt
sure I would escape the notice of "Uncle" and the cousins.  (I even
thought--at the first mention I saw of "Uncle" on the lists--that
somehow Napoleon and Illya had become part of a cross-over plot.
NOT!)  It seems that this particular Uncle can hunt in the
daydreams of innocent, (up 'til now) undeclared, list-lurkers.
     There I was conscientiously plotting my own original (I hoped)
"Nick & Natalie Get It On" story on my computer.  I carefully set
the situation up; maneuvering my way around the various obstacles-
--emotional, vampiric and logistical--to their inevitable union.
But then I had to get up and leave my computer, just at their
climactic (!) scene.  When I returned this is what I found:
 
--------------------------------------------------------------------
 
     Recently discarded clothes littered the floor around Nick's
black, satin-clad, kingsize bed.  The fluorescent nightlight cast
cold blue illumination with long, dark shadows on the couple.  Nick
rolled on top of Nat, searching for her mouth and capturing it in
a long hungry kiss.
     Natalie's hand ran up and down Nick long, hard
flank.  She felt his smooth, cold skin.  That firmness under her
hand was more that just excellent muscle-tone.  The warmth of her
body was being sucked away from her just as her blood might soon
be, if Nick were to loosen his iron control.
     Suddenly, Natalie began to shudder, and a strange glow started
to grow in _her_ eyes.  In a burst of unexpected strength, Natalie
up and heaved Nick off of herself.  He landed in a stunned heap on the
floor.
    "Alright.  Cut!" she said.  "Don't you think I have had enough
of this.  All through training,  don't you think I had to put up
with all those stupid, snide, jokes about 'lady' coroners and the
stiffs!
    "Hey, Nick, you are great guy and I want to help you out.  You know,
try to make you human again and all that.  Yeah, you've got a great
sense of humor.  And that smile of yours is a killer...(heh, heh).
But get real, honey.  Don't you remember--you're DEAD.  'Have been for
800 years!  If I was sick enough to want to do it with a corpse I
could, anytime. And without risking my blood volume or (im)mortal
soul!
   Uh-uh, this "lady" does not take her work home with her..."
   And with that she picked up her clothes and walked out of the
room.
   Nick got up from his undignified position on the floor.  His eyes
glowed yellow, his fangs were barred.  He rubbed his bum and snarled...
 
--------------------------------------------------------------------
     The way I figure it, Uncle must have gotten to my story.
Knighties, help me!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Lisa's Torment
 
 Sandye Chisholm
 
 
     It was almost morning when the sun rose over her shoulders, warming up
the car seat on which she sat lost in thought.
     "Now, don't forget what I taught you, little one...anticipation can be
the best part of the meal!"
     Sandye's grin turned mercenary as she remembered Uncle's sage advice.
But how long could she make Lisa wait?  How much could Lisa endure?  Well,
it was all part of the plan.  Uncle wanted Lisa to suffer; after all, had
she not given refuge, support, and might I say it, "comfort" to that traitor
Nicholas?  Yes, it was all true.  But then so many of these misdirected
fools had dared to harbour Uncle's enemies: yet, this one was different,
more dangerous perhaps.  At any rate, Uncle's instructions were clear and
cruel:
     "Lisa must learn the penalties of challenging my authority.  Slowly,
little one; make her torment last.  But be sure not to damage her too much;
I have a feeling that she could be of some use later on."
     Sandye had no idea what Uncle was thinking now, but then, did any of
the cousins *really* know just what went on behind those ancient eyes?  But
enough of this, she thought; there's Lisa on her way to work.  Time and
action must sometime meet face to face, just as one day, Lisa would stand
looking into those ancient eyes, and face what even Nicholas shied away
from: the terrifying visage of Uncle.
     Once inside the library, Lisa made her way to the secret place that
was her sanctuary.  Off-limits to most everyone, this part of the archives
was where she worked on her stories.  Neat and orderly, her files remained
locked inside an old cabinet; files of hundreds of papers on which she wrote
her plans to help Nick return to the world of light.  Quickly, she checked
some research she had done last night, and discovered that the journal she
needed was just as she left it.  Pulling out her note-pad, she re-read the
article in the latest, NEW ENGLAND JOURNAL OF MEDICINE, that had yesterday
caught not only her attention, but had sent her hopes soaring.  Voraciously,
she read each word as if it was the answer to all her dreams, and perhaps
maybe it was.
     "This time," she whispered to herself, "this time, I've really found
the cure for you Nick.  Between this new immunology discovery, and the
material I found last night in the rare-books room, Natalie and I can give
you just what you always wanted."  Lisa, reading and musing, was the very
picture of happiness.  How happy Nick would be, and how grateful: perhaps
she would finally get that surprise he was always promising her.  Lisa
grinned.  Something akin to love radiated from her eyes, bathing the room
in a silent glow that danced on the air and drifted into the quiet corridor.
     Sandye stood motionless, the stolen key almost falling from her
suddenly cold hands.  Her mission had been to steal all of Lisa's notes:
without her stories and research, Lisa would be unable to cause Uncle any
problems for some time, at least until his other plans for her unfolded.
But now, what would Uncle say?  She had to do something fast; Natalie might
be able to get the information from the medical journal, but that other book
could not fall into the wrong hands, whatever secrets it held. This was
serious. Uncle had been right, Lisa was dangerous.  Muted footsteps echoed
down the hall, as Sandye hastily made her way back to her car and her phone.
     The library began to hum with the hustle and bustle of a typical winter
evening.  Those who were not working were studying; those who were not
studying, were hiding out from the uncaring wind, unwanted by a happy
southern town. Lisa could barely hear herself think: making her way past the
lobby where students sat and chatted in what was supposed to be whispers,
she realized that it was the unrelenting wind that echoed in her ears.
     Climbing the last stair, she reached the floor that housed the musty
rare-books room.  Passing its public reading room, she put her
identification card in the security slot and entered the private archive
rooms where the most special collections were kept.  As the door closed
behind her, she sighed in supreme satisfaction.
     "Soon it will be all over for you, LaCroix.  With this, once and for
all, you will have been beaten."  Lisa knew that she held the key to his
demise, and as she clutched the book to her breast, Lisa smiled the smile of
the wicked.  Cold hands slid across her warm, inviting neck.
     "I knew you were clever, my precious one, but I didn't know you could
be so deliciously evil.  That makes it all the more fun, doesn't it?"
Without hesitation, LaCroix grabbed her, and faced her with those terrible
ancient eyes.
     "How did you get in here?"
     Looking towards the back of the room, Uncle motioned to the darkened
figure to step into the light.  Lisa could only stare in horror as she
watched Sandye move around the table to stand beside LaCroix.
     "Sorry, Lisa.  We all answer to a higher authority, now don't we?"
Gently, she removed the book from Lisa's shaking hands and glanced down at
the antediluvian tomb that was so important to Uncle's continued existence.
     "Oh, my.  Now this would be a problem.  Look Uncle, this is the real
thing." Holding it out for LaCroix to see, Sandye watched his eyes change
from gold to a sinister red.  This was even more important than he had
guessed.
     "I am disappointed in you, Lisa.  If it isn't bad enough that you aid
that failure Nicholas, now you try your hands at extermination.  No.  I'm
afraid I can't let this go un-punished.  What would happen then?  The others
are already plotting their petty schemes. I think an example would do
nicely, right about now; something to make them re-think their alliances.
What do you think, little one? "
     "I think that she'd be more of a reminder, if you let her live, but in a
much less threatening way.  I think she has far too much on her mind, if you
get my meaning!"  What else could Sandye do?  Lisa was going to suffer,
better to do it alive, at least.
     "Yes, and a very mean, meaning at that."  Uncle turned back to Lisa,
his arms still holding her fast, his mouth inches away from her neck.
     "Well, my precious one. So you want to be with that traitor.  Perhaps I
can arrange that for you."  Lisa gasped: there were no words to give voice
to her fears.
     "Then again," LaCroix said, "perhaps all you need is a very long
vacation.  Nothing on your mind but happy little thoughts, nothing on your
mind about vampyres or death...nothing on your mind at all."  Lisa watched
helplessly as Uncle gazed into her frightened eyes.  A single tear slipped
down her cheek and in her muddied mind, she tried to hold on to her
memories, however bravely, however much in vain.
     "Nick," she whispered.  Then all was silence.
     Sandye stood by the door of her rented car, and watched the pale moon
rise over a chilly southern night sky.  LaCroix came up behind her, a sad
but satisfied look on his face.
     "Now, don't tell me you are getting squeamish on me.  You know it had
to be done."  Uncle could see the wheels turning behind her all too human
eyes.
     "But what's going to happen to her?"
     "They'll find her in the morning.  And she'll be just the same."
Uncle's wicked grin filled the night.
     "Well, not quite the same.  But think of all the problems she will no
longer have.  Without any memory of Nicholas, or Janette, or of me, Lisa
will have more time for more important things.  We did her a favour really,"
     Sandye looked at the golden moon, then back at Uncle.
     "If she ever gets her memory back, I get the feeling the favour is
going to be returned."
     "Let's not worry about that.  You have another mission, or have you
forgotten." Sandye almost laughed at him.
     "Bloody unlikely, I should say."
     In a flash, he was gone, and Sandye started off on her long journey
west.  As the sun rose over her shoulder, she wondered about Lisa.
     Back at the library, Lisa was, as usual, working at her desk in happy
silence.  She glanced over at the empty file cabinet, and wondered what she
was going to do with it.
     "I might as well get rid of it."  She called maintenance and asked
them to come up sometime today and pick it up.
     "Funny, I can't remember what used to be stored in there.  Oh well, I
guess it must not have been important.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Bostonites Watch
 
 Beth Marchese
 
 
All you folks in the Boston area, we need to do something to stop this bloody
war. Join in with me.
Beth Marchese lizbeth258@aol.com
 
Trapped in her apartment by New Hampshire's week of bitter cold and freezing
snow, Beth had spent a lot of time on-line. More than she liked, in fact. It
was costing her money and eating her credit card, but in her boredom, she
didn't care.
 
She noticed that that the postings on the fkfic had taken a mysterious turn.
Veiled messages across the depths of cyberspace. Nothing was being said
directly and she got the distinct impression that the usually heavy traffic
was being concealed in private e-mail messages on the Internet.
 
Her reporter's instinct that had carried her through seven years and five
newspapers rang loudly in her head. Something was wrong, something was
terribly wrong. The normally cheerful little list discussing theories of the
FK universe had taken on an undertone of nastiness. Again, more assumed than
actually read, but the feeling would not go away.
 
She had come across the mysterious groups calling themselves the "Cousins"
the "Ravenettes" and the "Sluvakians" (the last group kept changing their
name in an effort to express their admiration for Donut Don.) While the
various groups seemed to co-inhabit the net peacefully, often intermingling
with obvious glee, there was a sense of group-think present on the net now.
Beth tapped her desk top, drumming a devil's tattoo that sent her house
rabbit, Hazel, off the deep end. The poor bunny hopped on her unshod foot
repeatedly to get her to stop, but the rabbit's pleas were ignored.
 
What to do, what to do.
 
She should stay out of this. She wasn't even sure yet if she was going to the
con slated for Boston. She was a good little lurker, preferring to read rather
than to get involved. It was an ingrained habit from her reporter
personality. Get the story by any means and write it, but for God's sake,
don't become the news.
 
Still, she just couldn't leave it.
 
She tried hard to think. There were several others in the Boston area on the
FK net, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember who they were. One was
in Cambridge, MIT she thought. Another she remembered reading was somewhere
else. She hit the desk in frustration, cursing herself for not paying more
attention.
 
If there was something going on, she was going to make herself a target by
posting a general request for what was going on. But she just couldn't let it
be.
 
She carefully typed:
 
 To: fkfic-l@psuvm.psu.edu
 Subj: What's happening?
 
Message: All of those in the Boston area, we need to talk. Something strange
is going on and I need information and/or help. E-mail me at
lizbeth258@aol.com. Something is happening and maybe we can stop this before
it starts.
 
Liz
 
 
Beth stared at the message for a long time before she hit the send button.
She prayed any messages she got back were not too long since AOL had very
limited mail space.
 
I hope this works and I hope whoever is behind whatever's happening doesn't
notice my post. Please, I hope I'm insignificant enough that it doesn't
matter.
She also prayed to get answers back. Maybe someone knows what's happening.
Maybe we can find out.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Watch Your Flanks (Or Souvlaki)
 
 Laurie Salopek
 
 
   Laurie checked the list again, she had two more non-cousins to take
care of; both FODs. "Hmmmm, I could lace their souvlaki with elax. Nah,
I think I want to be creative with these two." She picked up her phone
and dialed long distance to Toronto.
 
   A female voice greeted her on the other end. "Toronto Metro Police
Department."
 
   "Hello? Could I please talk to Detective Schanke?"
 
   "I'm sorry he is with the Captain now, would you like to talk to his
partner? Hold on while I put Detective Knight on   "
 
   "No..WAIT!" It was too late.
 
   "Nick Knight here."
 
   She had to think of something fast. "Ahh, this is Beth Marchese. I am
a freelance reporter in the Boston area and I was just wondering if
Detective Schanke was available for an interview?"
 
   "Schanke would love to talk to you. What is this for?"
 
   "I am putting together an article on Detectives that have left the
US to work in Canada and how it has effected family and friends. You know
living in a new country and all."
 
   "Hang on, he's right here." Nick cupped his hand over the end of the
phone. "It's for you. A young lady from Boston with this deep sexy voice.
Is there something you are not telling me about?" Nick finished with a
wink and a little twinkle in his eye as he handed the phone over to
Schanke.
 
   Donut Don just glared over at his metabolically challenged partner.
"You wish."
 
   "Detective Schanke here. How can I help you?"
 
   "Hi, my name is Beth Marchese and I was wondering if you have time to
answer a few questions for an article I am writing?" Laurie kept her
fingers crossed. If anyone could help her find weakness in her next two
victims, their good friend could.
 
   "Sure shoot!" Just then Nick smiled and formed his fingers into a gun
and shot Schanke. "Will you get out of here. Don't you have paper work
to do?"
 
   "Excuse me?"
 
   "Sorry, I just have a partner with a weird sense of humor and even
weirder habits."
 
   "I know."
 
   "You know?"
 
   "No, I meant, I'll throw some out.. ah, questions. I'll THROW some
questions out. I am doing an article on computer networks and I
understand you have a few friends with access....?" Laurie smiled. This
was going to be too easy.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 A Strange Call
 
 Beth Marchese
 
 
Several days went by, but the fkfic list was ominously silent. Beth had
received several mysterious e-mail messages whispering rumors about a war
that had been started by the dark group known as the Cousins who were
connected to LaCroix.
 
But LaCroix isn't real, Beth thought. Is this some sort of role-playing game
that got out of hand?
 
The e-mail used false names. When Beth tried to call up profiles, she got a
message burped back to her saying there was no such person.
 
She shrugged. If there was a war, it didn't concern her.
 
Then the phone rang. It was her business line. Sighing the sigh of a reporter
who had been called out to cover one too many midnight fires, Beth picked up
the phone. She almost dropped it when she heard the voice at the other end.
 
"This is Det. Schanke of the Toronto Police Department."
 
"Who?" Beth was shaken. He was a fictional character. Wasn't he? "How did you
get my number?" she angrily demanded. "Who are you really?"
 
"I'll tell you something lady, you are smart, really smart. You didn't even
identify what paper you were representing. It took a little leg work, but I
happen to have friends in New Hampshire who recognized your name when I asked
them about you. Union-Leader in Manchester, is it? I've put in a complaint to
your boss and..."
 
"What are you talking about?" she practically shouted into the telephone. "Is
this a prank?"
 
"First you tell my partner..."
 
"Please don't tell me his name is Nick Knight," Beth groaned.
 
"It is," the mythical Donut Don responded. "You tell my partner that you are
doing a story about relocated police officers and then you pump me for
information about computer nets. I think it's especially strange that you
changed your story in the space of a few seconds."
 
"I DID NOT CALL YOU!" Beth shouted into the phone.
 
"Now why don't I believe that?"
 
She hung up the phone, shaken.
 
It rang again.
 
With no small amount of trepidation, she picked up the receiver, her usual
clipped "Marchese" was reduced to an unsure "Hello?"
 
It was Buzz, her editor. "Beth," he barked. "I got a most interesting call
from the Toronto Police. What is your game?"
 
"Buzz, you know me. I didn't call the Toronto Police. I'm not working on any
story that would take me into Canada. I'm in the southern tier of New
Hampshire for God's sake."
 
Buzz sighed. "We will continue to pay you, but we must investigate this call.
We will call you in within the next week to question you about this
incident."
 
"What are you..." she began, but Buzz had hung up on her and she was left
staring at the receiver in consternation.
 
She hung up. There was only one person who could help her now. She signed
on-line at sent an e-mail message to Romana, praying her occasional chat
person knew what was happening.
 
Beth hoped she'd get some help before it was too late. It was beginning to
look like she was in the middle of a war that she knew nothing about and that
she just might become a casualty.
 
She wasn't sure whether or not to be happy that she wasn't so insignificant
after all.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Cal's Torment
 
 Laurie Salopek
 
 
   Laurie looked over her notes from her conversation with Schanke. It
was all there. Everything she needed to take care of the last of her
victims. "Let's see, who do I know that works in the Alexandria
post office. Oh yeah, how could I forget and he does owe me a favor." She
dialed long distance again. This was going to be one phone bill that she
didn't want to see, but it would be worth it.
 
 *                          *                          *
 
   Cal sat down to sort out her mail. She pulled out all the envelopes
addressed to the Fan Club she ran. "Good grief, this club is really
starting to pick up members. Wow, this is great! There has to be about
twenty letters here." Cal opened the first letter and a check for six
dollars fell out. She made a note of the name and opened the next letter.
 
   Dear Cal,
 
      This is to inform you that I have forwarded your name and address
   to your local postmaster. I think it is highly unprofessional of you
   to solicit membership in a non-existant Fan Club.
      At first, I was pleased with your quick response to my membership
   request. However, I was dismayed to find that the enclosed folder was
   empty! Initially, I thought it was a mistake, but when I contacted
   other friends of mine that had recently joined the Fan Club, we
   discovered that each of us had received only an empty folder.
      I have also forwarded copies of this letter and other letters to
   celebrity you claim to represent.
                                            Beth Marchese
 
   Cal stared at the letter in disbelief. She knew all those folders
were complete when she sent them out. It had to be a mistake. Cal opened
the next letter. Another note with the same complaint. She opened another
and another, they were all the same. She leaned back, her reputation was
ruined.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 A Problem Is Addressed
 
 Lisa McDavid
 
 
Natalie Lambert almost choked on her slightly stale egg salad on
rye. There, among the other messages listed on her screen as
waiting in her mailbox, was one from Lacroix@freenet.toronto.edu.
She moved the cursor to the line and pressed the proper key with an
unsteady hand.
 
 From: Lacroix@freenet.toronto.edu
 To: Lambert@coroner.toronto.gov.ca
 
It's only me -- sorry to scare you, but Larry found a hole in
LaCroix's tap on your account.  He didn't have the program divert
copies from his own account of messages originated from his
account. Larry thinks he probably didn't know how to do it without
creating a loop. In fact, Larry claims it was a challenge even for
him. So, Larry's given me a handy little routine that lets me
specify any address I want on my messages, and suggested I just use
LaCroix's address any time I want to contact you.
 
Before I get down to business, tell Nick not to worry about Larry's
loyalty. I've made it perfectly clear to him that if I get caught
out and LaCroix kills me or brings me over, it will be Larry who
suffers.  Either way, as a vampire or as a ghost, I'll be able to
follow him anywhere he goes, and he won't be able to run away from
me the way he can as long as I'm mortal. Larry says that he doesn't
know if Nick was ever little brother to an angry big sister, but
that if he was, he'll understand why just the thought is the stuff
nightmares are made of.
 
LaCroix was down here last night with Sandye. He assigned her to me
as a cover, since it would look odd if nobody attacked me. He came
himself because he was afraid she might hurt me. Poor man, he
thinks he's so tough, and he's really quite soft if you know how to
manage him -- there are times when I almost feel sorry for him!
Anyway, she thinks she helped him hypnotize me into disposing of my
notes and sources. What I actually had maintenance remove in an old
cabinet was a duplicate collection of the sermons of one of the
early university presidents, but of course I have the real ones
safe, beside having the data backed up elsewhere.
 
Expect a fax from me tomorrow night, with LaCroix's address on it.
I think you'll find it interesting and I hope useful.
 
My best to Nick, and scratch Sidney's neck for me.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Fact Finding
 
 Sharon Himmanen
 
 
Sharon had wandered around her apartment for most of the day, putting
off the work she had to do, mindlessly channel surfing, and occasionally
logging onto her email account.  Still no word from Sharon Scott.
 
"I think they got her," Sharon muttered to herself as she quickly
scanned the messages in her mailbox looking for an ID that read
scotts@baylor.edu.  Nothing.
 
From the volume of mail that had been in her box all day she saw
that the nefarious list members had been busy with their dark
schemes.
 
Then, a message caught her eye.
 
 To:      fkfic-l@psuvm.psu.edu
 From:    Beth Marchese <lizbeth258@aol.com>
 Subj:    Bostonwatchwar (BETH:  Hope I got the subj. line right)
 Date:    January 23, 1994
 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
 
All of those in the Boston area, we need to talk.  Something strange is
going on and I need information and/or help.  E-mail me at lizbeth258
@aol.com.  Something is happening and maybe we can stop this before
it starts.
 
Liz
 
 
 
Sharon read and re-read the note several times.  Was this a legitimate
call for help and information, or another would-be tormenter looking
for a victim?
 
All of her instincts were screaming that she should trust no one,
but maybe a vague message might shed a little light.  So far her
fact finding had failed abysmally.  Maybe Beth was the answer.  She had to
be careful, though.  With the theme to Mission:  IMPOSSIBLE echoing
in her head, Sharon started her reply.
 
 To:      Beth Marchese <lizbeth258@aol.com>
 From:    Sharon Himmanen <SHIHC@CUNYVM.BITNET>
 Subj:    Fact finding
 Date:    January 23, 1993
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Dear Beth,
 
I'm not from Boston, but perhaps we can help each other out.  Two heads
are better than one.  We should discuss this situation further.
 
Sharon
 
 
 
All right.  Either she was gaining an ally or setting herself up.  The
only way to know would be to send this message off now.  She hit the
SEND key twice, then logged off.
 
 
**********************************************************
 
 Monica's Torment
 
 Sandye Chisholm
 
 
       One down, one to go, thought Sandye. Uncle's plan certainly was
coming together; the problem was where it would all going to end.  Lisa,
effectively diffused, believed that Uncle had conspired against one of
his own, and if that wasn't amusing enough, she actually thought that
he had been looking out for her. Without realizing it, Sandye was laughing
out loud with such gusto, that the other passengers in first class were
staring at her, wondering how much longer she would continue.  Even
Monica had laughed herself right out of her traction, and that was
saying something.
    "Hey there, I'm not paying for a long distance call to hear you
chuckle.  I've got a bone to pick with you, and I want answers. I want
them now!"  Monica could hear the steam coming out of Sandye's ears,
and it was so loud, it drowned out her brother, quite a feat: he was
playing with a buzz-saw at the time.  She calmed herself down, and
tried to sound like nothing was up.
   "I'm sorry.  Its just so ridiculous; how could LaCroix ever do
anything as nice as trying to save Lisa...and how could she believe
that he'd turn on you?  With what you know about..."
   "With every passing minute, I further regret telling you anything
about it.  And you almost told that other cousin what was going on?
What are you, the bloody National Enquirer?  I can only do so much to
protect you before Uncle loses what little patience he has left."
Sandye *sounded* so concerned; little did Monica know that her time was
close at hand. Very close indeed. It was all too bad, thought Sandye: she
thought this one would be different, but no, it appeared that Moncia could
turn as easily as Nick. "Forgetting" that she had given Tara her password
was one thing; Sandye finding out by way of public postings was another.
Monica must have been up to something all along: and Uncle thought she was
a problem before? If there was one thing Sandye hated more than anything,
it was someone trying to take her for a fool.  Well, if the fates wouldn't
step in, then surely, Uncle and his happy little minion would.
    "I still don't know what all the fuss is about, I mean, let LaCroix
come and get me...I've got my own friends you know."
    "Yes, I know...and it would appear that you don't choose them very well.
You'll be sorry that you didn't listen to me." Was Monica losing her mind?
Sandye had really gone too far.  Maybe it was time to end this friendship,
thought Monica; anger and sadness battling for control of her better
judgement.  Unfortunately for Monica, her anger won.
    "Well I don't need you anymore.  Why don't you and Uncle just blow
yourselves to the nether-regions and get out of my life?!!!"  Monica slammed
down the receiver, the sudden shock sending tremors through her arm.  She
saw the small scar that stretched over her arm, and suddenly realized she
needed to make another pot of coffee.  This was going to be a long night.
     Waiting for the small oven fire to burn itself out, Monica searched
for her special blend of java so she could brew what would have been
her 12th pot of the day. Reaching for the tin, she discovered that
someone had replaced her hidden cache with dry yeast!  Ugh!  What kind
of joke was this?
      "Okay, don't panic I'll just have some tea, that'll do the trick."
But when she looked for the tea, none could be found.  This was a
serious problem, she had to have caffeine, or else, she could not be
responsible for the consequences of her actions.  Maybe some diet coke
was left over from her brothers popcorn extravaganza; yes she *hated*
it, but these were desperate times.  It was not until she failed to
find the soda, that she realized *just* how desperate.
     "What is going on?!  Mom, Dad, where's my coffee?  Simone, did
you and your friends drink up all the soda?  Answer me, or I'm coming
to get you!" Echoes of Monica's multi-lingual swearing could be heard all
the way up to the ranch...even the druggies down at the Frontier diner
would have been shocked to hear such a parade of gutter language...and that
was saying something.  But Monica's bombastic curses fell on absent ears.
There was no response.  There was no sound.  Silence. Obviously her family
had gone out and forgotten to tell her.  Well, that was great.  No coffee,
no tea, no soda, and looking out the window she discovered, no car.
It was then that Monica truly lost control.
     "Where in the name of God is my car?"  Stomping around her house like a
mad-bull, Monica looked everywhere for her keys. She did not find them.
Beaten, weary, and just a bit insane, she stood Thor-like in the middle of
room, and exhaled a thunderous roar.
    "Can this get any worse?"  Monica screamed at the top of her lungs, her
soprano voice vibrating off of the living room windows.  It was then that
the darkened figure stepped into sight and stared back at Monica through the
now shattered window-pane.
    "I think things just did."  Sandye stood there, her eyes less than
friendly, her grin more than wicked.  Monica could only watch, as she
broke off the rest of the window and stepped through into the house.
    "Nice ventilation system.  Is this how they do it in New Mexico; it
gives a new twist to the term 'open floor-plan'."  Suddenly, it was all to
clear.  The coffee, the tea, the car....it must have been Sandye. Monica
was speechless--yes, that's right, speechless--no cunning plan would save
her now.
     "What's that, no quick retort, no smart-ass remark...slipping aren't
we my dear?  Well, I can understand.  If I was you right now, I'd be a
little shaky too." Sandye circled Monica, never letting her out of arms
reach.  Monica knew that this was not good.  Not good at all.
      "What are you doing out here?  I just talked to you, how
could...why... what's going on?"  Maybe she could get away...just a few
good Karate moves and it would be all over.  Monica braced herself for
the moment, and...
     "Calm down, pet.  Let's not be hasty.  It seems you've been a bad
little ravenette, my petite chou-chou.  What ever made you think you could
out-fox the fox?  Come now, tell Janette the truth, it will go much easier
on you."
      Monica was stunned...a true feat indeed. Nothing much startled her;
she was as jaded and cynical as they came. But this hit her like a shot out
of the blue.  Janette, here, and with, Sandye?  But she was a follower of
LaCroix, a dreaded cousin...what the hell was going on here?
      "I