LETHAL FORCE

Lethal Force

Lets cut to the the chase. The Force is many things, Midi-chlorians, a cosmic energy field, the light and dark side, Sith and Jedi etc. But this essay will be focused on the Abilities that a creature strong in the force can manifest and whether or not they can make anyone completely invincible. This is written using only the live action films as reference and contains no non-canon work.

ESP (extra sensory perception). Force Users can sense any nearby life-forms and the emotions radiating from them. Feeling hostile intent can help avoid surprise attacks.

Reaching out with the Force, the user can anticipate attacks even if blind.

User's often focus on allowing the Force to guide their actions, allowing them to navigate to a location that they could not find normally, a very useful ability.

Physical Enhancment; A Force user can access highly enhanced reflexes. This allows them to wield a lightsaber without cutting their own limbs off, attacking faster than most opponents can react and deflecting subsonic blaster bolts with ease. They can also leap hundreds of feet, safely fall long distances and temporarily increase speed to a blur. 

Mind Tricks; Practiced users of the Force can manipulate the minds of others, particularly the "weak minded". This technique is ineffective against Toydarians and Hutts. The target is placed into a suggestible state similar to hypnotism and follows the user's directions.  The Force can also be used to calm animals enough for them to be ridden.

Sith Lightning; This is often seen as the most powerful Force technique that requires focused hatred to work at full potential. Death by electrocution is not quick or painless. It can be used one-handed for saber duelists, used with telekinesis to throw people around while electrocuting them or bounced off of surfaces. This ability can lock down a target or group and disable them for a few minutes. However effective it may be, there are still ways to stop lightning. It can be absorbed by a lightsaber. The most experienced Force users can absorb or even redirect it with their bare hands.

Telekinesis; This is the most versatile ability Force Users can tap. They can "Push" a target a considerable distance, "choke" a creature by constricting its throat or lift multiple objects. Using this power requires mental focus. Distance is no object. Anything the user can see or envision accuratly can be moved. The size of the object to be moved is also not an issue. Darth Vader is the pioneer in this area, able to snatch the blaster out of someone's hand and stop blaster bolts with his bare hand.

Disintegrate Self; Just as Sith lightning is the ultimate manifestation of Dark side power, the ultimate ability of the Jedi school of learning is to phase the User's body completely out of the physical world and become a "Force Ghost" essentially becoming immortal. Yoda, the greatest Jedi ever to live. Was able to hit someone in the physical world with his stick and cause lightning to strike a tree while in ghost form. It seems appropriate that the greatest Sith goal is being able to shoot lightning, while Jedi aim for more long-term and non-violent goals.

Precognition; Force users will sometimes see visions of the past or future. Future visions are unreliable, reflecting possible events based on the current state of the galaxy, but the future is always in flux, nothing is nailed down.

Lightsabers; The laser sword is a perfect weapon for a force user. It can be thrown accuratley with the force and return to the user. They come in Green, Blue, Red and Purple. Single hilt, double-bladed, dual wielded and crossblade models exist. Each lightsaber is customized to fit a specific user. Every User has a prefered fighting style. Fast blows blurring together, strong, unstoppable attacks and everything inbetween can be used.

New age Force Powers; Recent films have revealed new and extremely powerful Force abilities that greatly expand the potential of force users. Force telekinesis that can freeze a person in place or stop a blaster bolt in its tracks. Forcibly accessing someone's memories or knocking them unconcious with a wave of the hand. Projecting a image of the User across the galaxy. As more films come out the nature of the Force will no doubt be explored more fully and this essay will be rendered obsolete.

Epilogue: How to destroy a Force-User

No telling when a powerful Force-User will threaten your life, liberty or sanity. So here are some valid ways to turn an ordinary guy into a Sith-Killer.

Flamethrowers, toxic darts and slug rifles cannot be deflected by lightsabers. Concentrated high-power blaster fire can overwhelm saber defences. Rockets and other explosives are effective. In general throw everything you have at them from range.

Electrostaffs, shock rods and riot batons made of lightsaber-resistant alloys if the target closes in to melee range. Be sure to train intensley before combat. Saber-resistant armor would be a good asset as well.

 Jetpacks, grapnel guns etc can help you match the supernatural agility of a Force-User

In the end fighting someone who can always predict your next move is risky at best.

Thats it folks! Thanks for reading my post. Please comment below and tell me if I missed anything important.

Trucker Santa

Santa Trucker

Elias Prost was stuck. The snow soaked through his Oxford slacks as he knelt in the snow. The freezing tire iron bit his bare hand. Elias stood and swayed on his feet before letting out a yell and punching the half of sedan that was not sunk in a snowbank. Elias dropped his tire iron and clutched his hand, howling up at the vast, merciless Alaskan sky. Then, his fury spent, he staggered up the steep grade to the highway. Icy asphalt stretched before him straight to the horizon in both directions. Not a soul was to be seen on the road, just like the last twenty times Elias Checked.

The chattering lawyer turned again at last and slid back down to his car, slipping on slick rock, his pants torn and muddied. At the bottom Elias reached into his pocket reflexively and pulled out his cell phone. He slid his hand over the screen, but all he got in response was the blinking red low power button. Elias resisted the urge to hurtle it away and put it back in his pocket instead, muttering to himself. “Yeah, cell phones, always your best friend for 9.99$ a month. Except for when you don’t charge ‘em and leave your charger back at the hotel. Ah, who am I kidding, probably wouldn’t get service out here anyways.”

The winter sun hung in the sky, cold and distant. That was one comfort, at least it would not get much darker outside, at least not for another two weeks. But it was still as cold as an insurance salesman’s heart. He should know.

Elias had lost feeling in his hands, unless he touched something, sending shocks of pain across his raw skin. He fumbled with his car door, wrenching it open at last and piling inside. He felt tired now, very tired. All that digging away the snow to expose his hood and sliding around the hillside had worn him out. If he hadn’t swerved off of the road to avoid hitting that reindeer he would still be on his way to Fairbanks. Now he was piled at the bottom of a ditch, half buried In snow and frozen mud. Elias pulled the door closed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine whined and sputtered, then died. He pulled his designer jacket close around him and laid down across the seats. He would not rest long. He needed to do something soon, not sure what, something. Elias Prost closed his eyes and laid down to die.

The drawn-out honk of a truck horn dragged Elias to the edge of sleep. He blinked once, then sat bolt upright as his foggy mind quickened The cold had drained all the strength out of his body. His thought were racing a mile a minute but he still seemed to move in slow motion as he reached for the door. One push, but the door didn’t move. Elias tried twice more, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest. Then it hit him. The door was frozen shut.

The truck horn sounded again, unbearably loud, the most welcome sound in the world. Elias hit his own horn in reply. The sedan let out an annoying bray in protest. The truck horn was silent. Desperation wrapped it’s icy talons across Elias’s chest. He leaned back and slammed his patent leather shoes into the driver seat window. They slapped against the slick glass. He kicked out again...with no impression. Bitterly he wished that he had not left the tire iron outside. His legs ached with cold. It would be so easy to lay down and give up. Once more the truck horn sounded its call to action. Once more Elias kicked and this time a spider web of cracks spread across the window. Another kick and glass tinkled onto the rocks outside. He had his opening. One push and he was hanging out of his window, glass cutting threads from his jacket. Another push and he flopped out onto the cold hard ground, breath driven from him in a puff of white frost.

Up on the highway a bright red semi-truck blew black smoke into the frigid air. The trailer said X-press. Elias flipped over and began scrambling up the hill. He missed his footing and slid backwards, then looked up to see the truck door opening. Again he pulled himself upwards and at last reached the top of the slope. A large hand reached down into his view and hauled him to his feet. The hand was connected to a heavily muscled arm, which led to a large man with a fluffy white beard. The guy was shorter than Elias, but bristled with an aura of confidence. He wore a thick woolen jacket over a red flannel sweater and denim overalls tucked into his boots.

“You need a lift son.” The trucker said and gestured to the semi cab door. “Hop in and tell me about it on the way, it’s hard to breath out here.” Elias lost no time scrambling into the truck. Inside he slammed the door shut and basked in the heat radiating from the dashboard. His hands began to sting as warmth returned to them.

The trucker hopped into the cab and reached for the thermos of hot chocolate steaming in a cupholder before turning his bright blue eyes on Elias. The lawyer clenched his hands, unable to close them fully. “T-thanks for picking me up.” The trucker chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to shake his whole body. “No problem. People get stuck on this stretch all the time. Glad I could help.” Elias was silent for a moment, steam rising from his sodden clothes. “And you are?” The trucker threw his vehicle into gear and accelerated onto the highway proper. “I am Santa Claus.” With his strength returned some of Elias’s natural belligerency. He smiled. “What, so the “Ho ho ho, merry Christmas” kind of Santa?” Santa turned and scratched his beard. “That’s right. This is my job, trucking. The giving presents to kids and elves and workshops, that is all kind of my hobby.”  

The CB radio crackled to life. “Hey Reindeer this is Breaker 1 7 what’s your 20?” Santa picked up the mike. “Hey Breaker 1 7 I’m 30 miles south of Fairbanks. Stopped to pick up a Frosty.” The voice came back fuzzy. “Another one? That black ice is sure doing a number on them. Gotta swing man, I just hit the Elk Ridge rest-stop. Breaker 1 7 over and out.”

Elias glanced out at the highway slipping by. Steam still rose from his soggy pants but he had stopped shivering. Now a great weariness settled over him. His head nodded once, then slid against the window, the heater ruffling his damp hair.

Elias Prost was free. The honk of a truck horn jerked him out of deep sleep and he looked around, blinking before remembering where he was. The trucker with the white beard handed him his wallet, which had been drying on the dashboard. Outside snow was falling slowly on the roofs of Fairfield. Elias hopped out of the truck into the cutting breeze. He turned in time to catch a thick wool overcoat the trucker tossed after him. He looked up at the trucker. “Thanks a lot for everything, um, Santa.” Elias opened his wallet. “Here, let me give you...” Santa scratched his beard. “No thanks pal, its just what I do.” Santa fired up his truck and shifted into gear and pulled away. “Hey Elias, thanks for not turning Comet into roadkill. I’ll need him in a couple months. Merry Christmas.”

Discovering the north Poll

If you were creating a poll for the first time on Pollcode.com would you...

Sit for hours wondering what to make it about?

Customize it too look just right?

Impulsively make a couple polls on random subjects?

finish eating your lunch first?

pollcode.com free polls Haven't gotten the coding part figured out yet.

Chevylier

I am not officially restarting my blog. But my work is slowing down at last, so here is a little story I wrote. I may be writing full-time again soon.

Chevylier

Sir Track of Houston rumbled across the open plains of the Kingdom of Texas. His armored silver truck ripping over low bushes and hills, the suspension absorbing every jolt.

Track glanced at the passenger seat where his squire leaned on the dashboard, eyes closed. He turned back to the faint road, little more than a shallow trail. There was still plenty of biodiesel in the tank and it was five hours ride to Grease-pit village. Above the noonday sun glared down on canyons rising like scissors to pinch the silver truck. Sir Track narrowed his eyes and turned to punch his squire in the shoulder. The youth recoiled and instinctively reached for his combat knife. Sir Track grabbed his arm. “Steady Rigs.”

The knight pointed through the dirty windshield at the narrow pass that led through the canyon, the only pass to Grease-pit village within two hundred miles. “I need you awake here Rigs. Perfect place for an ambush. A squad of knaves with fire bombs could give us serious hurt from atop yon rocks. Look alive.”

Two thousand yards away in a cave tucked into the canyon wall a man named Barker stared at the silver truck through rusty binoculars. His practiced eye evaluated the target. This truck was no merchant or freewheeling mechanic. From its spiked bumper to the iron cattle pusher soldered to its grill it was a war rig. Barker did not recognize the pic of arms painted on the side. Doubtless this was some knight of Clothholm or Stockbarn. Or perhaps it was a marauder like himself. But no…this truck was well maintained. Certainly a knight on the road.

Normally a marauder would let the knight pass and wait for a weaker target. But Barker hated knights. He still carried the scars of a beating from a knight who caught him stealing food, years ago. The Barker stroked his beard and stowed the binoculars in the web gear that crisscrossed his ceramic body armor. He turned into the cave where his battle van sat parked, painted and stained black as midnight. Barker opened the driver’s door and kicked the teenager sleeping by his feet. “Razor, wake up.” He ground out at the grimy lad scrambling out of reach. “Wake up and pile in. We’re gonna bust up some wheels.”

Barker pulled the keys from the chain around his neck and jammed them into the ignition. No good driver went anywhere without his keys. Razor crawled into the turret welded onto the top of the van and loaded the heavy machine gun, snapping back the cocking handle with glee. He lived for hunting.

Sir Track flinched as a black van roared out of a cave seven hundred yards away. The knight yanked on the wheel and brought his vehicle to face the stranger. No pic of arms on the van, just a crudely spray-painted red sign. “Black Night.” Sir Track stuffed his head into his old riot police helmet. Rigs sat up straight next to him and loaded the knights assault rifle. “Sir, can we outrun them in the canyon?” Track turned to his squire. “Outrun them? Should we be afraid of some bandits in a battered rig?” Rigs turned red. “No Sire, I mean…” Track held up a gloved hand. “I know that you are brave, little Rigs. But we don’t know if this knave has planned a trap further into the pass. Here we will wait for him to make his play.”

Barker skidded the van to a stop and cursed at the fuel tank meter. He would have to siphon some biodiesel from this truck after he killed the knight. Above Razor bounced up and down with excitement. Barker accelerated. “O.K. Razor, let it rip.”

Razor opened up, the machine gun’s thumping beat shaking the whole van. Track saw the tracer rounds arcing towards him. Instinctively he yelled “Slits” and hauled on the chain hanging in the cab. A great slab of steel swung overhead and slammed down over the front windows of the truck. The machine gun rounds came dancing along the dry dirt, throwing up clouds of dust and slammed into the steel, ramming great dents in it. Track hit the gas and the truck surged forwards in a storm of spraying rocks and gravel.

The van lurched towards its target as Razor’s machine gun pounded the truck. Less than fifty yards separated the speeding vehicles. Barker bent his eyebrows in concentration. The knight’s truck was more maneuverable. He would try to ram the van. Barker decided that he would drive straight until the last moment and veer around the truck to hit its weak back area. It would take careful timing.

Staring through slits in the steel slab, Sir Track studied the approaching van, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes. Rigs saw the look in his master’s eyes and braced himself for impact. Twenty yards between the two vehicles, now ten, now five and Barker made his play. The van twisted to the left. At the same moment Sir Track threw the truck on an intercept course.

Metal crunched and spun off in little pieces as the truck rammed the van right behind its right wheel. The cattle pusher crumpled its armored body like tin. The van skidded a dozen yards on two wheels and flipped on its side in an explosion of dirt. Razor was thrown clear of the gun turret and collapsed in a pile nearby.

The truck slowed down and turned about, dragging its cattle pusher. Rigs relaxed and released the breath he had been holding. Sir Track sat for a moment, then grabbed his assault rifle and opened the door. A wave of hot air flooded into the fan-cooled cabin. Track grabbed Rigs by the shoulder. “Stay in the truck, I will call you in a minute. Find that towing cable.” Rigs scowled and pulled his compact shotgun from a compartment. “I want to come. I am not a coward.” Sir Track’s voice got quiet. “But can you follow an order?” Rigs stopped short and the fire in his eyes faded. “Already have I lost two squires in combat, you will not be the third. By the code of chevilry I must not ride a rig against an unrigged enemy. Stay here.”

Barker felt his pounding forehead gingerly and coughed. Smoke seeped into his inverted cabin, something in the engine must have caught fire. He disentangled himself from his seatbelt and crawled through a window. Peeking around his hammered van he saw the truck parked close by. The knight had just stepped out of the cabin and was approaching. Barker reached inside the window and pulled out a compact submachine gun with one hand while brushing sparks out of his beard with the other.

Razor opened his eyes and groaned, his leg was broken. Rising from the dust on one arm he pulled out his pistol from a leg holster. He saw the knight advancing towards the van, ignoring him. Razor fired seven wild shots with one hand. Sir Track dropped to one knee as pistol bullets kicked up dust around him. Reflexes honed by years of training he brought up his rifle and shot Razor through the chest. The dusty squire collapsed and Track was already moving again, weapon trained on the van.

Barker saw the knight coming. The cunning marauder pulled a grenade from his web gear, armed it and flipped it over the van. Sir Track saw the object land, a second later he knew what it was. Track threw himself on the ground. A loud bang as the bomb threw a thousand invisible pieces of hot shrapnel over his head and a shockwave through his heart.

Rigs watched the fight through a gun slit, gripping his shotgun tight. He was torn between his desire to fight with his master and earn the trust of this noble knight by staying put.

Barker stepped from behind the van, gun leveled. As Sir Track rose shakily to his feet Barker shot him in the back plate armor with a burst of bullets. Track pitched forwards and went down. Barker advanced, firing a stream of rounds into the knight. Track writhed as the stinging copper bolts pounded him into the ground. The SMG’s magazine ran dry and Barker slapped another magazine in with practiced ease. Rigs watched the knave deliberately shoot Sir Track in the unarmored leg, that was the last straw. Track might not want to lose another squire, but Rigs was not going to lose a knight on his watch. He cocked his shotgun and twisted the door open.

Barker savagely kicked the knight and wiped his bloody nose. “Not so tough now, are yeh? This is what you get for ‘reckin my rig. I’m gonna tie you to my grill and watch you dry out.” He fired just next to his victim’s head. Sir Track rolled over and Barker was staring into the muzzle of a handgun. Track fired, missing Barker’s head by millimeters. Barker kicked the handgun away and stomped down on Track’s arm.

Rigs ran forwards and yelled. “Hey knave, have at thee.” Barker looked up, just in time to catch a handful of buckshot in the chest plates. The impact threw him into a complete backflip. Barker slammed into the ground, gasping, empty of air and fully surprised. Rigs ran up close and holstered his shotgun before whipping out his combat knife. Barker’s watery eyes cleared and he saw a young face above him, felt himself being flipped over. Leather gloves searched him, snatching away his backup pistol and machete. He was vaguely aware of a knife pressing into the soft skin of his throat and a voice echoing through his aching ears. “Yield villain or I will end you. Yield. I will not waste a bullet on thee.” And Barker was afraid. He strove to get some air in his lungs, to do anything but gasp and flail around. Rigs stared down on him with cold brown eyes. Finally, it came out. “I yield.” Barker said.

Rigs of Houston cruised across the plains of the Kingdom of Texas in a crumpled silver truck. He was towing a still-smoking black van. A marauder named Barker lay chained in his truck bed. Miles behind him in a shallow grave lay Razor, his final resting place marked by a twisted machine gun bent into a cross.

Rigs glanced at the passenger seat where Sir Track reclined, tossing in an uneasy sleep, wounded leg wrapped in bandages. The bleeding had stopped but only at Castle Houston could he get the treatment he needed. Rigs took a deep breath, turned up the fan and sat back. Five hours ride to Castle Houston. Might as well relax while he could.  

Please comment and tell me what you think!

Farewell for now

So Long Everybody

So, because of circumstances beyond my control I will have to post less, or indeed no more articles on my blog for the foreseeable future. I will miss sharing all of my little stories with you and I sincerely hope to recommence blogging in the future some time. Thank you all for reading my articles and all your constructive comments. I am going now. I do not know how long it will be, but 

I Will Return !!!

And here is some really cool artwork from Deviantart.

So long everybody.

Honest Obi-One

Honest Obi-One

Luke Skywalker shook his head and smiled. "No, my father didn't fight in the clone wars, he was a navigator on a spice freighter." Old grey-haired Obi-Wan was unfazed. "That's what your uncle told you. He didn't hold with your father's ideals and thought he should have stayed here and not gotten involved." 

Luke grew grave. "How did my father die?" 

Obi-Wans Kenobi took a deep breath. "Sit down young Luke. It is time you knew the truth. C-3PO, pour a Jawa Juice. Luke will need a stiff drink after this." Kenobi turned back to Luke. "Originally I was going to conceal this information for your own good. But a Jedi does not lie just because he does not like to face reality." Luke cocked his head sideways. "Jedi?" Kenobi shifted in his seat and rearranged his tan robe.

"Your father did not die, Luke. He was my apprentice. I taught him everything I knew. He was the best starfighter pilot I had ever seen and a cunning warrior." Luke smiled. "So my father is still alive?" Kenobi continued. "Unfortunately he also grew up to be a spoiled, selfish and overconfident  young man. Apparently he also had anger problems. And he got married without telling me, or inviting me to the wedding.  He befriended the Emperor, the worst mass murderer in the history of the Galaxy. He ended up murdering all of the Jedi. Also he broke your mother's heart and helped found the Empire. He did try to kill me, so I cut off his limbs and left him in a pool of lava to die. But he was saved by the Emperor and now he walks around in a cybernetic suit and has a very deep voice." His name is Darth Vader.

Luke sat very still with his mouth hanging open. Obi-One continued. "Also Princess Leia, that girl from the hologram, is your sister." Luke managed to blurt. "So I am actually Prince Luke?" Kenobi smiled. "No, it's complicated. She was adopted." Luke grabbed for the Jawa Juice and missed, his eyes fixed on the old man. "How in the stars do you know all of this?" Kenobi glanced away. "Well. I have been watching you for your whole life. Also you can control a mystical energy called the Force. I lied earlier and I do recognize your droids. I know them well. I wonder what happened to R2-D2's jetpack rockets."

Luke staggered to his feet, knocking over the Jawa Juice. "My uncle Ben was right. You are just a crazy old man. I'm going back to the moisture farm." Obi-Wan jumped up, knocking C3-PO off balance. "Wait Luke, I need your help to rescue your sister." Luke yelled over his shoulder as he dashed out the door. "She is not my sister. You are crazy." Kenobi stood for a minute staring at the door, then turned to C3-PO. "Perhaps I should have broken it to him more slowly."

Luke raced across the vast dune sea in his landspeeder, forgetting the droids in his haste. He was so earger to get home he failed to notice the imperial dropship parked in his front yard. Luke skidded the speeder to a stop in front of his home and marched into the dining room. "Uncle Ben, I met Obi-One and he cooked up the kookiest story you ever heard..." Inside his Uncle Ben and Aunt Beru cowered at the table where a towering black robed figure sat, staring at Luke from behind the souless visor of a gleaming helmet. "Greetings. I was on my way to recover the droids and destroy my old master once and for all. But I thought that I would stop by the old homestead and visit my son." 

Colonist Competition

Colonist Competition

The massive colony ship Fragrance drifted through the vast emptiness of space. Built around a electrochemical artificial inertia gravity well it spun slowly, gleaming energy panels capturing every spare electron from the ambient energy swirling around it. Aboard one of its biome pods an ancient man sat in his hoverchair, gazing around at the artificial forest around him.

Three small children scrambled onto his lap. They were wiry and strong from constant exercise in the Biome Scouts program to counteract the weightlessness of space. One of them tossed the 40-lb iron weight she had been using as a toy to the forest floor and tugged on the old man's arm. "Gwandpa, tell us again where we came from." The old man adjusted his hearing aid with his connector pad. "Well, it is a planet called Earth. I was just a child that day, 204 years ago, when we blasted off for another planet, one our scientists said could support human life." The child was not satisfied. "But why Gwandpa? Why did we leave?" The old man shuddered. "Well, um, you see some bad people messed up Earth with garbage and wars, we don't have those things here." The child slipped off of his lap and tossed the iron toy to one of it's playmates. "Where are we going again?" The old man looked up at the artificial sky as if he could see the space beyond. "It is 20,000 years away. They call it E2. You will never see it, or your family, or theirs. But one day we will reach it and have a real home."

Aboard the Fragrance's bridge captain Harold Wipe stared out at the stars, ignoring the instruments before him. His first officer had reported an uncharted meteor from the Earth's solar system that would pass by them in moments. He stared as another ship instead rumbled past the colony ship. A video in crisp HD popped up on his screen.

Metal faceplate inscrutable, a robot peered at captain Harold Wipe and spoke in flat tones. "Greetings captain. I am 953, captain of the United Earth ship Touchdown. I command a retrofitted freighter containing five million human colonists frozen in state-of-the-art suspended animation, along with their pets and slaves. We have been in transit for 187 years 2 months three Earth-days. I find this encounter noteworthy because your vessel is so hopelessly antiquated. Without our metal-nanoparticle alloys and Ionic Fusion engines you cannot hope to reach E2 before your ship falls apart, or you are hit by a meteor, or suffer an internal war. I will recommend that a ship be sent after you to save you. It would be a great pity to have such a historical treasure be lost to space. Have a good day captain Harold Wipe, and fly safely."

Shining and swift, the Touchdown streaked by the Fragrance as the colony ship's human captain stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend that his voyage was now obsolete.

Six million miles later the Touchdown encountered an anomaly. It seemed that a beam of Zeta-particles, born in the heart of a Phlebotinum reactor field, was rippling past the freighter stacked with frozen humans and robots. As the ribbon of gamma particles glowed and bent past a subspace transmission beamed from it into the circuit brain of 953. The robot received an impression, a fuzzy image of a teenager with curly purple hair lounging on a dashboard pushing random buttons. The mind-message came through. "Hey clanker, this is chief Dude Boowap Uggie of the spacesurfer Dunno. We were just cruisin' over on a ten-minute ride to E2 when we saw your old barge driftin' along. By the way we fixed up Earth while you were gone. Tell captain Harold Wipe if you see him that his dad just came out of cryosleep for his 800th birthday and says hi. Id stop ta chat but Iv'e got six instant TV channels transmitting directly to me brain and a load of tourists who want to see that planet we were gonna colonize. Gotta go, stay golden metal dude."

The freighter Touchdown trudged stolidly along towards E2. But it's robotic captain stared after the ribbon of energy, it's circuits unable to cope with what it had just seen.

Greasy and liberally spraypainted, the spacesurfer Dunno slammed to a stop in front of the planet E2. Chief dude Boowap slapped deputy dude Jiggup on the back and flew towards the drop pods with his personal jetpack. "Hey Jiggup. Fly this thing while I be the first dude to ever step on E2."

Hot and spraypainted, the pod hit the rolling green hills of E2 and unfolded like a flower, revealing the tattooed face and gold-suited figure of Boowap. The kid threw a dozen spheres into the air, which deployed into quantum drones beaming footage live back to Earth. He raised his voice, high and squeaky in the helium-rich atmosphere of E2. "Hey everybody. That's right, it's your favorite space-bender, da big Uggie. Watch this. Boowap turned and raised his foot dramatically. "This is one big step for me, and you is all cool with that."

Before Boowap's eyes the air shimmered and three figures appeared before him. Dressed in sensible green robes, with shining eyes and high forheads, the figures stepped forwards. The formost figure sent a telepathic broadcast to his companions. "Brothers, the teleporter works. Let us next transport the Fragrance and Touchdown here, for those pioneers deserve to witness this historic moment.
Boowap blinked as Harold Wipe and 953 appeared besides him in beams of light and quantum fallout. He smiled sheepishly and slapped them each on the back. "Hey dudes, glad ya could make it."

The three captains noticed the three teleporting scientists standing on the crest of the nearest hill and walked towards them over the alien meadow of waving solar fronds. They reached the top and saw what drew the admiration of the scientists. There, on the distant horizon bloomed a gleam of purple splendor. The sun was rising. And the six humans felt at home.