Operation Pacifica: Mirage by Trooper Charcharadon, Doberman Empire [settheme = music from the film "Lawrence of Arabia"] Desert. A vast expanse of windswept sands, shimmering whitely in the heat. The light of the sun here was an actual physical force, a constant weight on the head, shoulders, and back which wore you down and you became part of the sand; bleached white and blown by the swirling wind. It was so hot here that even Perkins in the controlled atmosphere of her Nemesis battlearmor was sweating a bit. The other 29 members of the "FCC" patrol were not nearly as well off. Though they had managed to fabricate a couple working TARAVs from the jetsam of battle and these at least gave them some shade against the sun, everyone was still sweltering. Charcharadon forsook the shade of the interior of the lead TARAV to climb out onto its roof and take a look around. He slowly swept his binoculars around the circle of the horizon. Behind the patrol, the edge of the jungle was just a thin dark line, wavering and distorted by the heat-roiled atmosphere. Around him in the desert were signs of battles which had been fought here. Burned out vehicles, blasted craters, bodies of the slain desiccating(1) in the heat and serving as gathering spots for carrion-fowl. Ahead of him was a tortured wasteland of ash and dust, blasted rock, and random fissures in the earth which smoked intermittently. In the far distance, all alone at the highest point of the island of Pacifica, Charcharadon could see the Lyran Fortress, besieged by the Jihaddi forces. As his gaze lingered on this ominous destination, he could see signs of the battle currently raging there, the one that they had been sent to reinforce. Watching the curling spire of smoke rising from the fortress, underlit by random flashes and an unsettling constant green glow, Charcharadon frowned to himself. He was a soldier and scientist. He was trained to combat conventional enemies, with conventional weapons. Neither he nor his troops were equipped to deal with the powerful Lyran sorcerers which undoubtably awaited them. "This," he muttered to himself, "is a very Bad Thing[tm]." "Oh, I quite agree, my reflective rival," said a voice next to him. [settheme = "Girl from the Wadi Hammamat" The Pogues, Waiting for Herb] Charcharadon's head snapped around in the direction of the voice and was alarmed to see what appeared to be a large mauve Allosaurus wearing a pair of blocky black-rimmed glasses (with white tape at the bridge of the nose) and a pocket protector (which must have been glued to the scaly hide of its left chest) sitting next to him on top of the TARAV. (A MENSAn, part of his mind told him. The part that likes to interject information just so it can feel smug and superior to the rest of the mind, which is too preoccupied with survival to be bothered with accuracy.) The most alarming bit was that this creature had a battle rifle pointed at him, was accompanied by a large number of companions, and nobody had even noticed their appearance until now. Knocking on the roof above the driver's seat, Charcharadon ordered the patrol to stop. "It appears I have `gotten the drop on you', as you creatures of lower intelligence so often put it," the MENSAn chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so," Charcharadon muttered, thinking as fast as he could. The MENSAn raised his weapon to fire. At point blank range, Charcharadon figured that it would be hard to miss. "Hang on a moment my reptilian adversary," he began as the MENSAn's trigger finger began to contract. "We have to do this properly, don't we?" "How do you mean, oh being of much less intellectual depth?" the MENSAn asked. "Where's the fun, or even the dramatic irony, in simply gunning us down? Surely there must be a more sporting fashion of finishing us off." "Ahh, good point, old chap. A duel, perhaps? A bit of one on one to prove how inconceivably superior I am to you." Charcharadon smiled. "Yes, that would be perfect. As the challenged party, however, the format of the duel is mine to choose." "Err, um.." "Relax, I'm not going to choose Battlemovers as weapons. What I propose is this: we shall have a duel of logic. A random toss will determine which of us goes first. We will trade arguments, one stipulation and one counter-argument each. The looser of each exchange will be hit over the head with a spade. The one left conscious is the winner." The MENSAn thought for a moment, obviously taken aback that someone of such lower cognitive ability would even think of challenging his mighty intellect. Taking it as proof of his opponent's stupidity and the surety of his victory. The two of them hopped off of the TARAV and walked off a ways into the sand. Charcharadon took a spade from the back of the TARAV and stuck it into the ground between himself and his opponent. The other MENSAns gathered around in a circle to watch. One of them stepped forward to act as an impartial judge. A coin was tossed, and the reptilian competitor won the right of first rant. "Ahem. Hypothesis: Jihaddi are weak-minded, conformist imbeciles. Point one: All display a mindless, unthinking devotion to their "Cause". This is evidence of their inability to think for themselves. Point two: focusing so much energy on a minor ill such as Barney is wasteful of intellectual faculties, which could be turned to more profitable pursuits or larger problems. This is evidence of their small-minded intellectual scope and inability to grasp larger concepts. Point three: Any dissension in the ranks is suppressed, all Jihaddi are conditioned to think that Barney is the ultimate evil. Hypothesis proven, QED." The surrounding MENSAns murmured their approval. "Rebuttal: anyone who judges by the group is a pea-wit. Point one: Any group formed around an idea will attract members who agree with that idea. Subpoint A: People who agree with the Cause of the Jihad would obviously wish to join the Jihad. Subpoint B: People who disagree with the Cause would obviously not wish to join the Jihad. Subpoint C: Many people who agree with the Cause do not join the Jihad, but still fight against the influence of Barney in their own way. Not being part of the Jihad, they can not be blindly following the Cause. Therefore while Point one may apply to certain individuals the majority have made a rational decision and followed it. Point two: The war against Barney is a war for the minds of children. Subpoint A: Children are the resource of the future. Subpoint B: The creative mind is the body's most important resource. Therefore the battle against Barney is not a pointless exercise but a necessary part of the struggle for survival. Point three: Dissension in the ranks is proof of individual thought in and of itself. Hypothesis refuted." A murmur of concern arose from the assembled reptiles as the judge nodded to Charcharadon, who picked up the spade and dealt his opponent a blow which stretched him out on the desert sands. Before the dazed lizard could regain his feet, Charcharadon launched into his own argument. "Hypothesis: MENSAns are hypocrites. Point one: They profess ultimate intellectual superiority. Subpoint A: Advanced reasoning skills are one hallmark of developed intellect. Subpoint B: Creativity and expression are another hallmark. Therefore MENSAns value both reasoning ability and creativity. Point two: The minions of Barney evidence a disintegration of cognitive ability. Subpoint A: They are unable to process stimuli into appropriate actions, displaying inability to reason at any level. Subpoint B: They require the assistance of Barney to imagine anything. Therefore Barney represents the antithesis of all the MENSAns hold important. Point three: The MENSAns have allied themselves with Barney and are assisting him in the spread of stupidity and intellectual decay. Ergo, they are hypocrites. Hypothesis proven, QED." Without waiting for a rebuttal, Charcharadon applied the spade again. His opponent went down with a groan, which he expected. What he had not expected was the giggle from the impartial judge. Glancing that direction in surprise, Charcharadon saw not a mauve dinosaur but a girl with multicolored hair. The remaining MENSAns had disappeared as well. "Wh..who are you?" Charcharadon stuttered. "They used to call me Delight. Ask J-Rock some time, he's met some of my older siblings. Or you could just blame it all on the heat." She dissolved into a school of goldfish which swam away into the air and vanished from sight. Charcharadon stared at the empty air for a while, blinking in confusion. "Sir, are you OK?" asked a concerned Parker at his elbow. "You've just been standing here for the past ten minutes. You'd better get in some shade." Charcharadon looked at the sand where his opponent had fallen, to find nothing. There was no spade here either. And yet.... Snatching up his sidearm, he emptied the clip at an empty patch of sand. He was rewarded by the sudden appearance of a figure in a crimson robe and mask, who twitched in a rictus of agony as the heavy slugs ended his life. "How... you..too..weak.... why..." gurgled the dying Lyran before his spirit and body decided to separate. A puzzled and annoyed Charcharadon climbed back into the TARAV and took a drink. His head hurt. A lot. What the hell had just happened? "Damned Lyrans..." The patrol continued across the wastes to the final showdown. Notes on Obscure Stuff: (1) Desiccate: verb intransitive; to dry up. (As one would expect something left lying about the desert would do.)