Otherworld ~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright 1992 Bryce Koike ___________________________________________________________________ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There are those who believe that there are other realities. Some believe that those realities are the Could Be's and Might Have Been's. Where John F. Kennedy was not assassinated that fateful day. Where nuclear holocaust did engulf the planet. Others believe that those realities hold other people, aliens, perhaps, or beings just like us. Few of us realized that one of those realities was Otherworld, a metaphorical rest stop between realities. Few of us knew that it was there the demons were building their forces, preparing to invade the neighboring realities. (Authors Note) Welcome to Otherworld. This is an imaginary gaming world of mine which I've been "working" on for a little under a month now. The origins of Otherworld are many. So far as I can tell, it all started sometime when I was in high school. I was on a Boy Scouts camping trip and a friend wanted to do a role-playing session without dice. It was fun, but it was also late. What little I remember has been incorporated into Otherworld in one form or another. Inspiration also comes from Roger Zelazny's _A Dark Travelling_ and Stephen King's _The Stand_ (although much more from the former). The various multi-genre RPG's which are about have influenced this somewhat, but not much. The stories below are brainstorms of mine about Otherworld. The first is my attempt to convey the feeling I got that night on that camping trip. None of the below are "official" (Otherworld is subject to change...both from within and without) but they all are a portrayal of what I desire Otherworld to be. It's a combination of our hopes and our greatest fears (not to mention some really weird things). While a part of Otherworld is definitely the struggle between good and evil, the struggle is multi-faceted. The rebels must learn to cooperate or they will be destroyed. Most of the rebel groups are relatively new and have only begun to struggle against The Eternal Race (aka The Demons). Some of the battles are climactic while others are miniscule. This is the way it is. What is Otherworld? I hope that the stories below are a good enough encapsulation of what I think Otherworld is, but if not, here's a brief description: Otherworld is a land pitched on twilight, a shadow of our own Earth. San Francisco, Oklahoma, and New York are all still there. Each minus their entire population. There is no native race to Otherworld. It has never known the touch of human hands or feet upon its ground. Otherworld exists somewhere between the realities, a darkened mirror of our own world. And because it is not OUR reality, Otherworld follows the rules of something else. Magic can work in Otherworld (some say that Aleister Crowley walks the earth once more . . .) as can that mysterious force called psionics. But technology also works and has brought with it the incredible advancements available by it. But technology has its own inherent disadvantages . . . No one comes to Otherworld of their own free will. In the middle of the night they'd wake up only to find that they were not in familiar Anywhere, USA, but somewhere else: Otherworld. There are those who come in direct contact with the forces who seek to rule the realities. Some of them are disorganized. Those are hunted for sport. There are others who form an organized resistance against the forces of evil. Those are dealt with in a manner which is fitting of such a minor irritation. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- They had been wandering the city for a week now. There was no sign of a single living soul. At first they had been afraid to raid supermarkets and houses for food, but it became painfully obvious there wherever everyone in the city had gone, they weren't coming back. The rest was easy. The electricity had been turned off and some of the food was starting to go bad, but the canned goods were still fairly edible. Jan and Chris were starting to get nervous. "Do you think they people will ever come back?" asked Jan. "I don't know. In fact, who's to say that we aren't the ones who've left?" Chris continued trying to pick the lock on the car. The letter opener broke. "Shit." "What?" "I said what if we're the ones who've left?" He pulled the hammer out and reluctantly aimed it at the window. "But then where are we? What is this place?" "Christ, how the hell do I know?" Chris struck the window, but only managed to produce a nasty crack in it. Two swift blows later the window was busted and he was opening the door. Jan fidgeted. "Then what should we do?" He shoved the glass out with a rag and then tossed it all onto the sidewalk. "First thing we're going to do is to get some transportation." He started to look for wires. Chris had never hot-wired a car before, but he'd seen it done enough times on the television. Surely it couldn't be too hard. Using the hammer he ripped away at the underside of the dashboard. There were wires there, alright, but which ones to cross? "And then?" "Then we grab a CB and get the hell outta here." He pulled out his knife and attempted to find which wires went where. Aiming the flashlight up into the wreckage he had created, Chris shook his head. "This is crazy," he muttered. "Chris." "What?" "Chris!" hissed Jan. "What the hell is it?" Chris got out of the car. "Listen!" For a moment he didn't notice anything. Then he realized what it was. The ominous silence of the world had been broken. The rumble of a car could be heard in the distance. "There. THERE!" screamed Jan. "Look, Chris, a car!" She started jumping. "Omigod, Chris, we're not alone!" Travelling up the 101 was a car, barely visible save for the moonlight which glinted off of its sleek exterior. Even though it had no headlights on, it was travelling swiftly. "Hey!" shouted Chris, snatching the flashlight from Jan's hand. "HEY!" He aimed it at the car as he ran down the street. "Hey, come back!" But as quickly as it had come it was gone, leaving no trace of its passing. Their shouting died down slowly, leaving a disappointed silence in its wake. Chris let his hand holding the flashlight drop, aiming down at the streets which had not been cleaned for over a week now. In the distance there was the howl of wolves. But they were wolves of the like that Jan and Chris had never heard before. "Chris . . . what was that?" Chris jumped in the car and started hitting the steering column with his hammer, busting the cheap plastic apart and revealing the skeleton inside. The car light gave his face a dim sickly look. "I don't know," he said as he starting jerked at the ignition. "I don't know what the hell that was, but I don't like it." Seconds later the car reluctantly came to life. "I don't like it one bit," he whispered. "Jan, get in the car." "But, Chris-" "GET IN THE CAR!" he roared and got out, shoving her in through the driver's side. Slamming the door, he kicked the vehicle into first gear and headed for the first freeway on-ramp. All the while a strange prickling feeling at the back of his mind made him absolutely, positively sure that there was something watching them. Watching and waiting. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- "What're we gonna do?" asked Billy. Their scoutmaster was dead after slipping down the side of the mountain. That had been before the weird storm, though, before everything had turned dark as night. Billy turned to their patrol leader, Luke. "I don't know," said Luke. "First we should probably set up tents. It's already dark and who knows when it'll be light again. Then I'll see to getting some dinner. Bill, you and Tim get Mr. Gissom's pack. We'll be setting camp up there." Luke pointed backward to the small clearings against the mountain. "There should be enough space to set up some tents." "Why do I have to get Mr. Gissom's pack!" whined Bill. "Shut up, Bill," said Tim. "He's dead. Not like he's going to grab you or anything." That started up the taunts before Luke shouted above their voices to quiet them down. "This isn't the time for acting like kids!" he shouted. "Something weird's goin' on and we're stuck out here in the wilderness." Luke sighed. "C'mon, Bill," urged Tim. "The sooner we get this done the better." Together they carefully made their way down the slope which had claimed their scoutmaster's life and started pulling the man's limp body away from his heavy backpack. "Okay, everyone, let's get those tents set up." Luke glanced at his watch. It said 7:00 pm. To him it looked like midnight or later. "Ok, guys," he said, "it got dark sometime around three. We'll go to sleep now. Wake up'll be around seven or eight tomorrow morning." "You think the sun'll come up tomorrow?" asked Randy. He stared toward the sky with a look of apprehension on his face. "I don't like this, man." Luke shook his head. "I dunno. Your guess is about as good as mine. I don't know what the hell is going on." Suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps made them all spin. Billy aimed his flashlight in the general direction of the noise and it lit upon a man. He was of a medium height with a bald head. His attire was the strangest thing about him -- a long, thick red robe that fell from his shoulders down to his ankles, covering a set of black leather boots. "Do you mind?" he murmured with a friendly smile on his face. "Didn't anyone ever tell you what bright lights do to a person's night vision?" Luke took Billy's flashlight and kept it on the man. "Who are you?" he asked. "Are you the one in charge here?" asked the man. "Yeah," said Luke in defiance. The man carefully bowed. "My name is Aleister," he said. "Who might you be?" "What's your last name, mister?" demanded Luke. Aleister raised an eyebrow in mock shock. "I gave you my name, young sir. Perhaps you would be kind enough to give me yours?" "Name's Luke, mister. Now it's your turn." The man sighed. "My last name is . . . Crow." "Mathews." Crow crossed his arms. "It seems that now we're at an impasse." "What're you doing wandering around at night, Mr. Crow?" He shrugged. "I could just as well ask you why you've chosen to camp next to this trail. There are rules against that, you know?" "It got dark." "Isn't there an adult here?" asked Crow. "Surely you're not all here alone." "He had to go check something out," said Luke. "Stay back!" Crow stopped. "I was only going to sit down," he kindly replied, "take a seat by your nice warm fire, and rest my feet. I meant no harm." "You just stay right there, buddy." "Strange that your parental supervisor would . . . just leave like that, don't you think, Luke? Or . . . maybe he didn't leave. At least not of his own accord." "I don't like what you're suggesting, Mr. Crow," warned Luke. "You saying we did something to him?" "Oh, no. I think he tripped and fell down the slope I just passed. That was his body, wasn't it?" Silence. Aleister smiled. "That fire looks so nice," he crooned, "I think I'll get comfy. You mind?" Luke twitched. Crow's smile widened. "No, no, of course not, Mr. Crow. Why don't you sit down and make yourself comfortable?" Randy flashed an alarmed look at Luke. What the hell? "Why thank you, Luke Mathews. How nice. How about if all of us sit around this fire? And then we can tell each other nice campfire stories and spooky ghost stories." "You know ghost stories, Mr. Crow?" asked Billy. "I don't like ghost stories." Crow flashed his smile at Billy. "Oh, I think you'll like mine. Come. Let's all gather together. Luke, why don't you sit at my left?" They all crowded around the fire. A few of them looked uneasy, but the others didn't seem to really care. He was a harmless old man anyway. Randy sat as far away as he could from the man without it becoming too obvious. And he didn't like the way Luke was giving in to everything the man said. "This ghost story takes place long ago," said Crow with his wide smile. "Long before men walked this earth . . ." And so he talked. Even when the horror had become unimaginable, Randy found himself unable to move, unable to scream. Every piece of himself felt ready to shatter as Crow's lurid descriptions of the strange demons which once walked the earth grew in detail. Finally, blissful darkness crept in on him. Aleister crouched next to the plump one they called Billy. A single wrinkled finger tenderly ran down his face. "Ah, the innocence of youth," he muttered, his fingernail tracing a line of red blood. "How foolish." That night his energies were merged with those of the boys. A sweet sort of candy, he admitted to himself. He threw his hands to the air and laughed, the blood still tingling on his lips. Earth, beware! Ye who cursed me and hurled me from thy numbers! Aleister Crowley walks this planet once more! -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Somewhere along the Louisiana cost a trader was talking to a member of the New Louisiana Commons. "Hey, I'm not joking, man," said the black man. "The stuff's real. Check them out. I got 'em all. You want Playboy? Penthouse? I got dirtier ones too, but they cost extra." "I dunno . . . it's a little expensive." "Hey, you know of a better deal? These ladies'll be there for you anytime you want, whenever you want. You won't find nothin' like that here in Otherworld." "Ok, ok, I'll take you up on your deal. Two Playboys." "That'll be one bottle of your finest whiskey." The goods traded hands leaving both men the happier. Thompson broke the seal on the bottle and took a swig. Then he opened up one of the magazines. "Oh yeah," he said, "this is a great business." -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- "Last sip, anyone?" asked Isu. He held it out, but there were no takers. He shrugged and downed it. "Damn," he said, "that's nice." "Isu, go get drunk somewhere else," muttered Stacey. She leaned against her battered AR-15 like a close friend. "I don't want to be responsible if anything happens to you." "You gunna do something about it, sister?" Isu stood up and swayed a little bit. "Fuck, I'm drunk." "Guys. Cut it out," said Rick. "They're coming. Mishu, you ready?" The war wizard nodded, and closed his eyes. The sounds of the truck got louder. "Now!" shouted Rick. Mishu let loose the Fear. Rick had played his cards right. They weren't shielded. Their forces were spread too thin this far out from Los Angeles and they couldn't afford their own magic wielder this far from the war front. The truck swerved and slammed into a clothing store. "Go!" They poured out from the building and let loose a staggering fire. In under a minute it was over. Stacey laughed. "Ugly bastards. Check 'em out!" "What the hell are all those feelers on their face for?" "Rick! You better come here!" shouted Eric. Rick saw the strangely-robed demon and cursed. "Damn. They had a telepath. That means that he had time to get a message off. Anyone want to bet that they'll have reinforcements here in under an hour?" "Less," replied Pritchard, "if they really did get their hands on Air Force equipment." "You mean fighter jets?" asked Stacey. "You mean shit like heat-seeking missiles and cluster bombs? Oh god!" Ron slammed a fist into the side of the truck. "Ok, guys, get what we came for and then we get the hell outta here. Get an alert signal out so anyone in the vicinity knows to scatter. I want to be at least fifteen klicks out of the area before they can get a strike team here." Two jeeps and a minivan were backed up to the fallen truck. The members of the resistance group rapidly took the supplies they needed and disappeared into the night. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Excerpts from the Journals of David Tsushiko March 18, 1990 I don't know what the real date is here. I do know what day I came here, though, and so I'm using that as the basis for the date. It's been two weeks now and so far we haven't been able to find a single living person. The phone lines are as dead as the electricity here. We managed to get a car working and a CB unit installed. Remind me to thank Mr. Lund in electronics sometime. We haven't heard anything just yet, but we keep hoping. March 30, 1990 Success! We've made contact with a group near Barstow! They know much more about this world than I could have ever guessed. My first impression was correct, though: this is not Earth, at least not the Earth we know. They called this place Otherworld, although I think perhaps that this is just because they lack any better name for this place. They have told us haunting tales of something they call The Hunt. Wolves, they say, but not just wolves. Something else. They're a larger group than us, maybe some eight people compared to our four. They've told us to raid the first gun store we can find and take all the weapons and ammunition we can find. Personally I think that's a bit alarmist. After all, they're only wolves. Fire is supposed to scare wolves away. April 2, 1990 Whoever is reading this journal know this now: The Hunt is to be feared! They have stalked us for the past three days now. Our original group of twelve has now become nine. We don't know how they travel or how they're able to track us, but no matter what roads we take or how fast we travel, the Hunt is always at our heels! There is a man who leads the hunt. I should not call him a man, for instead of a head he sports a rabid dog's head. He is not a beast, though, for he has shown the ability for great intelligence. His sled is pulled by the wolf-beasts which hunt us. I have never seen more vicious or blood-thirsty beasts. Their thirst for blood cannot be slacked. I am afraid. April 4, 1990 I want to turn back, head toward San Jose. The Quunan Mur are there. Priest tells us they they're some sort of alien race, androids or cyborgs. They've been fighting off the demons for two years now and there's no sign of them weakening. Perhaps it's a misnomer to calls the beasts demons. They certainly looked like demons, but the Quunan Mur believe that they are simply a vicious alien race who have made their way to Otherworld in a way similar to the rest of us. They are not technologically advanced, but they are quick to adapt. They do seem to dabble in what we would call the mystic arts -- magic. I've been told that their wizards can call lightning from the sky and hurl fireballs from their outstretched fists. Their leaders wield enchanted weapons that slice through armor and flesh as if it was the air itself. Priest was also telling us about the Slool. They're what the Quunan Mur calls a scientific warrior race. They are the ones responsible for the Hunt's beasts for their skills are in the realm of genetic engineering. Others have also joined the ranks of the demons, the forces of evil. Priest will not let us turn back. He refuses to give us reason as to why he does not like or approve of the Quunan Mur beyond the fact that they are "alien." He demands that if we make it to Texas we'll be free of the Hunt. His stories of Texas are wilder than those of California! Yet, I am afraid to split our group away from his. Only because of our firepower are we able to turn back the Hunt and then only barely. If us three were to leave, what hope would we have to survival? I am sad to say, though, that I do not believe we will make it to Texas. The car ran out of gas at the Nevada border and since then we've been forced to make our way on foot until we reach the next city or find an unmanned car. It seems unlikely any time in the near future. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- The old saying just kept going around in his mind. It was an ancient one, centuries old, and yet it had a peculiar ring to it. "Dulce et decorum est," he muttered to himself and then turned to view the work behind him. A flick of his mind activated the communications channels. "This is our final stand," he said in a clear voice. "Remember who we are and what we stand for. There is no nobler force than the marines. Fight well, my soldiers." It was an imperfect speech before such inevitable tragedy, but the brigadier could find nothing in him to bring any great meaning to his words. They were the smallest of regiments, Her Majesty's finest Jupiter space marines, the armor division. Stranded here after falling through only what one could call a hole in spacetime. Their magnificent troop transport had been stripped for parts to repair the few powered suits that had any hope left in them. In the distance lay a vast army of demons. Who or what they were no one could tell. This was Otherworld, as refugees from other realities had told him. A stopping point between realities. It was here that the demons grouped their forces for a great strike into the heart of the realities. On that horizon eldritch blades glistened in the setting sun. Howls and horns could be heard from their encampments, signs of the demons gearing to do battle. Brigadier-General Colin Martique checked his snub-nosed rifle again and cradled it close to his breast. This, in the end, would be his one last, true friend. That and the military blade which was slung along his back. The standard-issue marine saber was meant for show, not war, but it was well-designed enough to be usable against the demons. A horn sounded in the distance and through his powered armor's magnification equipment the brigadier could watch the demons and their leaders mounting their steeds -- hell-bred beasts that were as vicious and blood-thirsty as their masters. Martique turned to his lieutenant. "Mathews." "Sir?" "Mathews, gather together our forces. I will lead the attack." "Sir?" Shock was apparent in the lieutenant's face. "We will meet them in the battlefield. We will meet them there with pride." "But . . . sir, that's suicide!" Martique lifted away his helmet. "Mathews, would you prefer to die here, in the trenches, like a rat, or upon the plain in front of us, as men?" He slammed his helmet down and turned to address his men. "Soldiers of the Queen!" he shouted over the network. "Those who are with me form a front! We will rush this scourge and show them what it means to fight her majesty's soldiers! Those who are cowards may stay back in the trenches to die!" The brigadier threw himself from the trench and pulled up their flag. "Who will carry Her flag?" he shouted. "Sir!" cried a private. "Allow me the duty!" Martique nodded solemnly and handed the flag over. Then he turned toward the enemy. Their ranks shifted uneasily, not certain of what to expect. Martique slung his rifle and pulled his sword free of its scabbard. "Long live the Queen!" he shouted. The voices of the 23rd regiment joined with his and like a wave they surged forward. This the demons understood well. They dug their heels deep into their warbeasts and plunged forward, their swords blazing in hellish fury. Brigadier-General Colin Martique slashed at the eyes of a mount and it went down screaming. His second slash ran its demon rider through. When his own blade refused to come free, he took the demon's sword for his own. The British powered armor worn by the Queen's Imperial Jupiter Space Marines were state of the art. Mounted to their augmenting exoskeleton were incredibly tough armor plates which were light enough to give the suits great mobility. A single soldier in a medium-powered suit could take on a 20th Century tank squad with his wide range of weapons. The armor sported by the powered suit is strong enough to withstand several hits from the best of hand- held weaponry and even offered significant protection from beam weapons and fragmentation. The exoskeleton itself increased both the speed and the strength of the soldier, not to mention the vast array of sensor equipment mounted on the suit to give the user an inhuman awareness. The designers of the British powered armor did not take into account magic, though. They did not comprehend the ability for there to be simple enchanted swords which were capable of ignoring military armor as if it was mere skin. As such most soldiers had given up on the armor plating in favor of greater maneuverability and speed. Their rifles with their expendable ammunition were quickly traded for the demons' swords or the marines' own sabers. The demons were not prepared for this sort of battle. In previous skirmishes the warriors had hugged close to their trenches, making them easy prey for magic. They were capable of keeping up a steady fire from their beam weapons, though, so the demons had to call in Slool warriors armed with weapons looted from the local gun stores. Soon, though, the demons regained their lost ground. Methodically they took on their armored foes. Even as Brigadier- General Colin Martique slashed his way through the demon forces, no thought of his own survival on his mind, he watched as their flag- bearer fell to be trampled by the warbeasts. One by one they were slain, to feed the thirsty ground with their own blood. Martique watched as soldiers routed, fleeing back to the trenches. He found himself trapped in the demon's numbers and even as he hacked his way back to his men, Martique felt a numbing pain in his left arm. The servos there went dead. Any number of things could have happened, but he did not have time to assess the damage. Soon, he would only have the time to die. And over the cries of the battlefield came a different scream like that of an avenging angel. The demon's warbeasts panicked and threw riders. Others desperately tried to keep control of their mounts. Martique saw his escape and fled, his sword flashing to the left and right. Looking up he saw a sight that he knew he would not soon forget. Turning in perfect synchronization dove a pair of ancient 20th Century war jets, heavily armed with missiles and bombs. Just as Martique broke free of the battlefield the jets exploded overhead, dropping their bombs with deadly accuracy. Napalm exploded across the war field, bouncing across the ground and sticking with lethal stubbornness to skin of both demon and mount. As Martique reached the first trench the first plasma barrage burst forth cutting into the demon ranks. The two jets rose to gain altitude as a second pair came roaring overhead, dropping a series of cluster bombs. Demon limbs flew amid the explosions. The second plasma barrage hit and the demons turned and ran, trampling over their companions. Martique looked up and watched the jets dip their wings and then turn west to disappear along the horizon. Amid the cheering and screams of victory Martique felt himself pass out. Brigadier-General Colin Martique awoke in one of their makeshift hospitals. A stranger sat by his bed. Martique curiously examined the man who was busy talking to an aid. Then Martique sat up in shock. The man was Asian! How dare they let this traitor into the medical area, much less- Pain hit Martique then and moaning, he fell back down to the bed. "Brigadier, sir!" cried out the aid. "Please, sir, you've been injured, you must rest." "Who . . . who is that man," gasped Martique as the pain slowly faded. "Mr. Martique," said the man in a perfectly accentless voice, "my name is Hatsuo Minfune. I represent the group who managed to save your force from utter destruction earlier. I have been made aware as to the conflicts in your world between the Asians and Europeans. Please, you must understand that I am not a member of your reality. I have come from 20th Century Earth." Martique nodded. Of course. It was foolish of him to assume that any human he met would be from his own timeline. "Where are you from?" he asked. "San Jose. There's a very powerful coalition there that's held the city for about a year now. You're a very lucky man, actually. Had it not been for the output of your troop carrier's power plant, we would not have noticed your minor skirmish here." In anger, Martique tried to raise himself up, but failed. "Skirmish?" he cried. "We're a regiment of Jupiter marines, mister! There were hundreds of those demons out there." Minfune nodded. "Yes, of course. But you see, Mr. Martique, our southernmost outposts were overrun only yesterday by a battle group of over two thousand. What you were fighting here was not an army but a small scout formation that happened upon your group and decided to eliminate you for sport." "Sport?" gasped Martique. He sank to the bed and shook his head. "So we have you . . . Asians to thank for this?" Minjune laughed. "No, no, Mr. Martique. Not Asians. You have the Quunan Mur to thank for your salvation." "The what?" "Ah, here comes Durak now." Through the door of the building came a tall, sleek individual. He moved with an uncanny grace that seemed to clash directly with the wicked blade strapped to his waist and the deadly weapon strapped down his back. What shocked Martique the most, though, was that it was no man who was walking toward him. It was a living machine. Durak gave a slow, solemn bow. "Greetings," he said in a perfect voice. "I am Durak bn Qual of the Quunan Mur, commander of our third army. I come bringing salutations and a treaty, to you, leader of the Jupiter Space Marines." "Treaty? What treaty?" Durak's face was unable to betray emotion, though his voice did. "Why, sir, for you to join us against the forces of evil which now threaten Otherworld and soon, all the realities." Martique nodded. "So then it's not over," he murmured. "Of course not! Why, it has just begun." -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Slool-leader Laurel Zhansat nodded in pleasure. The treaty had been a good one. In return for prizes and power, they were to produce for the demonic beings weapons and warbeasts and, if necessary, fight. Unlike their slavish beginnings on their homeworld, here, in Otherworld, the Slool would rule. Zhansat completed his work on the rifle and passed it on for inspection and later, replication. They had already been able to duplicate much of their own technology. This Otherworld contained within it a great store of technological possibilities and when exploited properly, would be able to produce great weapons of ruin. That was not what Zhansat drooled over, though. Instead it was the knowledge of the weapons of mass destruction -- the nuclear weapon -- that brought the saliva to his thick lips. His manipulators quivered tenderly at that thought. Other weapons would soon be available -- the Otherworld attack jet, their powerful assault tank, the flamethrower, and others, soon. Zhansat looked forward to the day that Slool warriors could once again stalk through the war zones armed with the mighty plasma blaster. It was only a matter of time now before they had developed the equipment necessary to make one a possibility. And the mass driver weapons the Americans had worked on so hard may also soon be in the hands of the Slool. Their designs had certain flaws, but the Slool engineer-warriors would quickly have those defects worked out. Soon, very soon, the threat from the city known as San Jose, would be removed. Permanently. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- "Processes," muttered the lord, slowly picking through the gibbering English language. "Parameters..." So slow, they were, too slow. Would their race be doomed to extinction like the Fullami, death by techno-shock as the Slool would call it? They were reluctant to leave the ways of old behind, but if the Eternal Race was to enter the other realities with any hope of success, they would certainly have to learn the ways of technology. "Too different!" muttered the Eternal Lord in primal, conveying his displeasure and frustration in his writhing antennae. It had been much different in the days of old. The realities were young and not much of a match against the great magics of the Eternals. But the nuclear weapons! The Eternal Lord had recoiled in terror when shown how such weapons operate. Dropped by huge flying craft or the weapon itself could fly, like an arrow, and intelligently determine the correct place for it to activate its evil properties. The Eternal Lord shuddered. Were the rebel groups to gain access to such a weapons base . . . What fools the Slool were! Did they not understand how useful the power of this electricity could be to the rebels?! With electricity would come all the technologies that laid dormant here in Otherworld. With electricity would come the nuclear missile and the hail of death. But they needed it for their creations, their weapons, their geneetic monsters which the Eternals used in the Hunt. The Eternal Lord clenched his thick barb-littered fists. "Trapped," he moaned in a husky voice. "Trapped to die here!" Their only hope was to collect enough Presence, to feed that to their Movers, and create a vortex through the realities and escape. But Presence required life! That the Eternal race would degrade itself to soul deprivation was nearly unthinkable. It was cannibalism! But even now the other realities were utilizing their ROX machines (cursed technology!) and ripping inhabitants from other realities and dooming them here to Otherworld! And as this happened the rebel forces grew. Soul deprivation was the only answer! The Movers HAD to have the Presence they required! It had been the ROX, that damnable weapon, weilded by the Quunan Mur, which had stranded the Eternals on Otherworld. The detonation of the ROX's reality transmitters and the subsequent warping explosion lost a large group of the Eternals to Otherworld. A non-reality. The Eternal Lord slammed his fist down on the makeshift desk and tightened his fists until his ichor flowed from the wounds. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --