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E-mail

Dated: 08/07/2145

To: UAC Mars Research Facility, Combat Prep 

From: UAC Advanced Weapons

Subject: Series 3b Plasma Upgrade



In response to the recent media attention given to faulty 

containment fields in non-UAC-manufactured plasma cells, we at the 

Union Aerospace Corporation have decided to provide an interface 

upgrade chip for the recently released Series 3 plasma gun.  These 

upgrades, provided to our loyal customers and various off-world 

divisions free of charge, are guaranteed by UAC for the lifetime 

of the weapon itself ONLY if installed by a class E certified 

plasma technician.  Please refer to the diagram included with the 

chip itself for specific instructions.



This upgrade, the first of its kind, takes advantage of newly 

refined techniques in the field of advanced weapons technology.  

High-level energy sources such as those found in an improperly 

housed cell will produce fluctuations in the energy field of an 

active Series 3 plasma weapon.  By carefully monitoring the 

differences between input and output energy flow while the weapon 

is idling, the Series 3b chip allows not only detection of these 

potentially dangerous leaks, but can even locate the problem 

within a 30 meter, 170 degree cone in front of the device.



Please advise all security personnel to pay close attention to the 

modified display on the weapon itself.  Should a leaking energy 

source be detected within range, a small circle, or "blip", will 

appear indicating the distance and direction of the problem.  

Steps can then be taken to notify disposal teams and rectify the 

situation.



Note that while our science staff have speculated that several 

other forms of energy outside of the harmonic range of the plasma 

cells used by the Series 3 can be detected by the 3b chip, the 

average user is extremely unlikely to encounter these rare forms 

of emission.  Given the nature of these currently theoretical 

sources of energy, in the event that a non-plasma source produces 

a "blip" on the weapon, you almost certainly have a malfunctioning 

device.  Please return the full weapon (do not attempt to 

uninstall the chip) to UAC.  Allow 6-8 weeks for repair and return 

of your product.



We would like to reiterate that the cells mentioned in MSCNN's 

reports were NOT produced by a UAC facility.  In the future, we 

will be carefully reviewing our third-party partners in 

manufacturing and fulfillment.  We hope that these upgrades will 

keep you healthy, happy, and safe while using the latest in plasma 

weapon technology.  Please feel free to contact us with any 

questions or concerns.  You may visit us at http://www.ua-corp.com.



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E-mail

Dated: 10/20/2145

To: Bryce Rung

From: Ash Pascal

Subject: 3b upgrades



Bryce - 



We've been using the 3b upgrades for well over a month now with no 

problems, but just this morning the things have started to go nuts 

on us.  Four weeks without finding a single faulty plasma cell - 

the guys in maintenance are pissed, being deprived of a chance to 

try out their new toy - and now we're seeing blips everywhere.  

And not on the cells, either; the damn things seem to be picking 

up maintenance and security staff!



It started just yesterday.  A technician detail from Delta 1 came 

back from a job, and Steve's gun lights up like a Christmas tree.  

They weren't too pleased when he proudly proclaimed that the 

entire team was leaking plasma from a predictably (this is Steve, 

remember) vulgar place.  I think they would have decked him if I 

hadn't stepped in; the teams from Delta appear to be increasingly 

losing their senses of humor lately.  But I checked and sure 

enough, the gun reported them as plasma sources, down to the last 

sullen man.



And just this morning, another bunch from Delta - security forces 

this time - set off the thing.  I asked if they had been in the 

same area, but couldn't get much of an answer.  I tell ya, this 

whole damn place needs a vacation.  Did get one of 'em to uncork 

long enough to mention that they'd had a problem with the guns on 

site; they were apparently detecting stuff inside the walls and 

such.  Said something about the blips coinciding with "voices" of 

some kind.  Those boys have definitely been down there too long; I 

don't care HOW much hazard pay they pull in, you won't see me 

volunteering.



I'd say it's a problem with the guns, but what are the chances of 

them all crapping out in exactly the same way at exactly the same 

time?  I know I'm supposed to tell disposal so they can clean up 

the "leaks", but what the hell are they going to do when I tell 

them it's people?  Screw it, as long as no one is bleeding from 

the eyes or going green-glowing-Chernobyl on me, I'm not about to 

deal with the paperwork.



Lemme know if you see any more malfunctioning equipment.  Drop by 

this afternoon; I'll play ya a round of STTP3.



Later,

 - Ash

http://crappypoetry1994.blogspot.com/

PLAYER 3: Oh, you'll get your wish some day, I'm sure of it. You'll be rid of me, having finally accomplished your goal of destroying me utterly. Emotionally at the very least, and possibly physically as well. But it won't be through any sort of daring or cleverness on your part. That's the horrible, horrible truth of our existence: I can see my doom at your hands--as clearly as I can see your simpering orcish slut standing in proximity to us--but the horrible truth is that when it finally happens, it'll be nothing but dumb luck on your part. Dumb, stupid, blind, random chance. Meaningless actions unguided by rational mentation.

PLAYER 2: ...

PLAYER 3: God. No wonder I'm hooked on dangerous, addictive drugs.

PLAYER 1: Whatever. I attack the orcs.

“Thieves Guild” was a rather grandiose title for a score of aging adventurers, shiftless grifters and brash young cut-purses lounging around the stained, scarred oaken table in the back room of the Saucy Sirine, but to Nikolai, it was home. Had been, anyway. This was to be his last night with the guild, his last time swapping friendly insults and outrageous lies in the company of his fellow thieves. The Strumpet’s Ambition made sail at dawn, just a few hours from now, in fact.

“Ay, Nikko,” proclaimed Andjan, raising his glass in a theatrical salute, “Veshlak won’t be the same without you. The larcenous lifestyle will have lost some of its–um–charm.”

Nikolai grinned.

“You’re a poet, Andjan. Not a very good one, but a poet all the same.”

“Never start business,” he declares in richly accented Common. “All you do is sign name, sign name, sign name.

“Once, I fight duel. Was very important matter of honor and propriety. Plus, we were drunk. Was very dramatic duel! Rapiers on rooftop. In thunderstorm! Thrust. Parry. Riposte. Finally, opponent slip on wet roofing tile. I lunge! Aim? Perfect. Timing? Impeccable. Form? Flawless. But do I pierce heart? No! I do not!

“My hand, you see. Is so used to sign name, sign name, sign name, that poor bastard end duel with ‘Joachim, S., Esq.’ carved into chest! Was for best, though. Healing spell cheaper than resurrection, no?

“Is true story...

“Is... mostly true story...

“Actually, is fanciful fabrication to drive home point. But! We are not here to discuss soul crushing mundanities of business, but to discuss Exciting! Adventure! Opportunity! So. Please. Introduce self. Have refreshment and take seat and I will tell you of dangerous quest to recover cursed sword!”

Kicking sticks, them clumsy shits

disturb mine neat leaf-pile.

Sorely pissed with shaking fist, my gorge is choked with bile.

Stumbling drunk, they reek of skunk

whilst stagrin to the church;

Grinning, gay, to meet AA, they fart and puke and lurch.

I watch them go, bright ember's glow

of wish for vengeance burns.

Useless chumps, I'll take a dump into your coffee urn!

I skulked inside and quickly tried

to crap into the joe.

Secure and hid, I lifted lid, but now I couldn't go!

I squat and strain and grunt in vain-

Ashiver like a dog.

I fart and poot, but still don't shoot: I just can't pass that log.

The lights come on, the urge has gone,

for now what can this be?

I'm caught, I'm known, and here I've shown my bung for all to see!

I arrived in Saint Paul, Minnesota about midmorning, riding in a big truck I'd boarded at a truck stop in Pennsylvania. I'd spent the last eighteen hours talking nonstop in an attempt to keep the truck's driver, also named Andy, awake: he'd been hauling for twenty-two hours previous to picking me up, but couldn't stop to rest before dropping his trailer in St. Paul. My eyes blurred with the rocking and swaying of the Freightliner's cab- when we passed by the famous Gateway Arch I thought it was an hallucination. We backed up to a big warehouse and I climbed down from the truck, retrieved my guitar and pack from the storage space behind the cab, and bid the driver goodbye.

Headed west, I walked for a few hours through the dreary industrial part of town before I reached the banks of the Mississippi River. I walked along them for awhile until I came to a big sandy park along the river, lined with trees and sandstone cliffs with rounded caves in them by: the wind? The Parks Department? I wondered. I took a short nap in one of the caves, but couldn't sleep well in there. It was far too cold. I moved on, and soon came to the bridge over the river going to the highway. Traffic was pretty heavy, and even though I thumbed for a little while, there was no room for anyone to stop in order to pick me up. There was no sidewalk over the bridge, which was very long: I didn't want to chance walking over it. I went around the side and passed under the bridge rather than cross the busy street. I was wondering how far I'd have to go before I found another way across the river. A narrow, rusty-gray cast iron catwalk depended from the bridge's underside.

The catwalk was about eight feet up, with a short ladder poking down from it that I could just barely jump and grab. I climbed up to it and found that it had a steel-mesh door with a lock on it. I tried the door. The lock was not closed, so I climbed inside. Now I was in a four-foot sqare steel-mesh tube running straight ahead as far as I could see. At this point I realized that I'd left my jacket rolled up in the cave where I had slept earlier. I emitted an eleven-syllable cussword and dropped back down to the river bank.

By the time I'd retrieved the jacket and made it back to the bridge I was a little winded. I'd had no physical activity to speak of in the last day-and-a-half except talking and trying to stay perched on a seat that jounced and rocked back and forth with every wrinkle of the road. I moved as quickly as I could despite the leaden drag of weariness in my muscles. When I reached the place underneath the catwalk's ladder I stowed the jacket into the pack and tossed it up into the hole. It took a few tries, but at last I got it to land on the iron grating floor. The guitar, of course, had been slung across my back since I'd begun walking away from Andy's truck. Now I reached back and pulled it in front of me, struck a loud, jangly G chord, and shouted, "La la! Here goes."

My sounds were drowned out by the heavy thrum of traffic overhead. I replaced the guitar on my back and climbed the ladder again. I wasn't sure how long the bridge was. Even at midday it was dim under there. I didn't want to climb back down so I started walking, hunched over in an uncomfortable crouch. The floor was of the same steel mesh as the rest of the catwalk, and I walked along, watching the ground drop away from me as I approached the river. The catwalk was attached to a series of outriggers that supported pipes and electrical conduits under the bridge. There were lots of birds' nests and spiderwebs and things on these, and quite a bit of web in the catwalk itself. I was hoping not to meet anything on my way across. The catwalk boomed and reverberated with the passage of the cars above, and shook, boomed, rocked and rolled. The shimmy shake, the vibrations under my feet, and my own fatigue made me wonder if it would shake loose and send me plunging to my watery grave. Sure thing, I thought, and about time too. I'm a strong swimmer anyhow.

Probably it didn't take more than six years of my life to cross that bridge. I think I might have been under there for two hours or so. About halfway across I saw a huge spider feeding on a dead pigeon out on the outriggers, its pale legs wrapped around the bird like a blue-veined zombie clutch. It scared me sideways. I had to look away, down a hundred and fifty feet to the grey river below, plied by tiny little boats. I was held up by three-quarters of an inch worth of rotten old cast iron. I kept moving, watching the river or looking straight ahead, hoping I wouldn't run into anything like that inside the catwalk. The pigeon's dead eyes followed me in my mind, a message I thought I understood and certainly didn't need reminding. I started to wonder if the crawl would ever end. I had a few bad moments when I wondered if the other end of the catwalk would be locked, but I realized there was nothing to do about it but wait and see. In my mind's eye a live spider pointed its faceted, blank eyes at the world. I wondered what it knew.

Eventually I reached the end. At first it looked as though it was capped off- I could see that the tunnel ended in a steel-mesh wall- and my heart sank. For a moment I wasn't sure what to do, but soon I decided that I'd better move forward and try to investigate the situation. After all, there wasn't room to turn around. The catwalk ended inside the last of the bridge's piers, in a sort of room about twenty-five feet or so high. There was a hole, like a trapdoor with no door, in the floor at my feet. Twenty feet down was a sandy floor. The room was open at the top, allowing fresh air and some sunlight to filter in from under the bridge, and I could see that the floor was surrounded by steel walls on two sides and by concrete on the other two. There was no obvious way out of there, but I could see the inevitable beer cans and other party debris scattered about. Surely, I thought, someone is coming in and out. There was a small ladder, about four feet long, protruding downwards from the rusty rim of the trapdoor. It was a hell of a long fall from there.

Once again I considered turning back. If I took off my pack and the guitar, then climbed partway down the ladder, I thought I could probably turn around. I thought maybe I could take the fall, if the floor was really loose sand. I really, really, really didn't want to turn back now, go through that scary crossing again, and waste another day looking around for another way across the river. I debated with myself for a few minutes, then shrugged off the pack. I rearranged its contents carefully, with my clothes at the bottom, notebook and my tattered copy of Stranger in a Strange Land in the middle, foodstuffs and other delicate items on top. Then I dropped it down the hole. It fell to the floor below with a muffled thud. I didn't see it tumble or hear anything break, so I was pleased. Next I unslung the guitar and dropped it on top of the pack. It bounced off and landed in the dirt with a jangling sound. I hoped it wasn't broken but there'd be no way to tell until I was down there with it. I climbed down the ladder and looked down from the bottom rung, looking for a likely spot to land on. The floor, I guessed, was probably either concrete or bare dirt. From the sound of my pack and ax dropping it sounded as though any concrete there must be covered with enough dirt to soften the impact. In the dim light I could see that the surface down there was sloped and uneven, and there seemed to be several patches of grass. I might even luck out- the dirt could still be loose and soft from the construction however many years ago.

Well, no point in dithering any further. I climbed down the ladder as far as I could, dangling my feet off the bottom. I lowered myself down to the bottom rung on my hands and hung there in space for a second, peering down, trying to find a nice soft flat spot. Then I let go.

The fall, though it seemed to last several seconds, was anticlimactic. I landed on the side of a small grassy hummock, then folded and rolled about ten feet. I hopped to my feet again. I had thought I'd felt a slight twinge in my left ankle on landing, but it seemed to be gone now. I walked over to the little pile of pack and guitar and picked them up. Before slinging the guitar across my back I struck three notes from it: E A B. then I rolled it onto my back, picked up the pack, and got moving.

Now to find a way out. The steel pier uphill from me had several oval dimples in it that looked to me like submarine bulkheads but without valves or seams. From above I'd thought to find an opening there but now it just looked like those were part of the wall. Looking around me I saw dim daylight shining through what appeared to be a seam between the uphill pier and the side wall. I moved toward it- perhaps there was a crack large enough for me to squeeze through. Only a few steps towards it revealed that the light I'd seen was only a reflection in the corner of daylight from the opening above. There was no way out in that direction. Now I was sure that there was no way out at all. Doubtless the catwalk I'd walked across had been used by the construction workers, then abandoned when this end of the bridge had been sealed off at the bottom. I was trapped and would die here in this dark, stinking cell.

Well, to be fair it didn't smell so bad in here. The air circulated a slight breeze, scented of bare dirt and grass. I turned my face back to the uphill wall and from this angle I could now see that the center oval was in fact an opening; it was slightly brighter than the others. The difference in lighting was so subtle that I approached it somewhat uncertainly. Was it really an opening in the wall or just another trick of the dim light? Not until I was nearly on top of it could I tell for certain. I stuck my head through the opening and was looking through a gap of about eighteen inches between the steel pier and a concrete wall behind it. To my right I saw daylight- the outside. To my surprise it was still mid-afternoon. I had thought I'd been in there quite a bit longer. Well, I wasn't out yet.

I squeezed into the gap, holding my pack out in front of me, or rather to my left. The path was narrow enough that I had to shuffle into it sideways. There was barely room for my feet to face forward, and only a few inches clearance between my back and the concrete wall. I held my pack in one hand and the guitar in the other and shuffled slowly crablike towards the light. I came to an I-beam protruding into the space and crushed myself painfully past it. It took two buttons off my shirt. For a bad moment I thought I wasn't going to be able to get my guitar past it. It clunked and clanged loudly against the beam and the wall. I thought I must be scratching the hell out of it, and possibly it would crack, but after carrying it so far I wasn't about to leave it behind now. I jockeyed it around for a few minutes and finally passed it through.

The two beams after that were a little bit easier to get through. Finally, battered and scraped up, I emerged blinking into the light of day. The sky was overcast but it was still bright enough that I took a minute or so for my eyes to adjust before looking the guitar over. There was some dirt on it but, miraculously, no visible damage. I wiped the dirt off it and slung it over one shoulder, the pack over the other. I trudged up the steep hill to the level, then climbed over the guardrail and back onto the road.