Title: The Ship Out of Time Author: Maureen S. O'Brien mobrien@dnaco.net Category: Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: Triangle Summary: If he wanted to save history, he came to the right fanne. Disclaimer: Situations and characters from The X-Files belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Twentieth Century Fox. Everything else belongs to me and the people of fandom. Author's Note: This is a work of fan fiction (see below). Therefore, spelling and slang in this story is my best attempt at 1939 and post-war fannish usage. (Except for Esperanto. I refuse to write in Esperanto for anyone.) I begin with part 2, mostly 'cause I don't feel like recapping an entire ep, and partly 'cause it amuses me to do so. (More like a zine.) When I began this story, Buck Coulson and Lan Laskowski, of the Hugo- winning fanzines Yandro and Lan's Lantern respectively, were still alive. I miss them. They were good friends to me and to many others. So, though they came from a "generation" of fandom long after the one in this story, "The Ship Out of Time" is dedicated to Buck and Lan. FAN FICTION (1) Sometimes meaning by fans in the manner of pros; that is, ordinary fantasy published in a fanzine. Properly, it means (2) fiction by fans about fans (or sometimes about pros) having no necessary connection with stfantasy. "Convention reports are a nice example of this", Bob Pavlat points out. It may refer to real fans by name: "Redd Boggs sipped his Nuclear Fizz in the Insurgent manner..." or it may be about types, especially Joe Fann. The background may be either fantastic, as "Joe Fann into Space", or mundane, as in "Murder at the ChiCon" (tho this would be fantasy under Speer's scheme, since it describes events we know didn't happen on our time line). Fictitious elements may be interspersed in accounts of fan activities, which may make them more interesting but is hell on truthseekers like your Thoukydides. A few special categories have been distinguished from time to time, like Ted Tubb's "Trufan fiction" (fiction about fans in fandom), and Larry Stark's Serconfanfiction for serious, and more or less mundane, fiction featuring fans. --- from Fancyclopedia II by Dick Eney, 1959. http://www.SFF.net/people/Diccon/CYINDEX.HTM sex - The great majority of fans are males. It has been asserted that a female cannot be the psychological type of the s-f fan, but there are several dyed-in-the-wool fannes to refute this. In addition, there are a lot of sweethearts, wives, daughters, sisters, etc. of the he-fans, who tag along at fan gatherings, make some appearance in the fanzines, and assist in dirty work such as mimeoing. --- from Fancyclopedia I, by John Bristol (aka Jack Speer) published by the Fantasy Foundation, 1944 http://fanac.org/Fannish_Reference_Works/Fancyclopedia/Fancyclopedia_I/ ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The Ship Out of Time Or, How You Gonna Keep a Girl Home on the Slan Shack After She's Been to The Farm? part 2 of my (no-fooling) time travel report by K Scully If this Mulder wanted to save the future, he came to the rite fan. But he seemed to have a bit of trouble saving himself--a situation not uncommon among world-savers. I threw him a life ring and peered down into the more-than-winedark sea. He didn't move. The sky _rippled_. Both he and the life ring were gone; so were my doubts about his story. (His sanity was still in question.) A periscope rose out of the water, and I backed away from the rail. Looked like our G-man's leap had attracted untersee attention. If I had to turn this ship around as well as rescue my charge, it was time to get off this exposed deck and collect some help. I slunk thru the corridors in my vampish gown and headed down into third class. There were Nazi guards down there, but they had their backs turned to the stairwell. The better to knock you out, mein liebchens! I took my heels off for silence. In a moment, they were snoring their way thru "Stille Nacht". Quietly, I knocked on the correct door. Got no answer of course. Who'd be stupid enough to answer the door with Nazis around? "It's me, Kay!" I hissed. "Lemme in, for Ghu's sake!" "That didn't work too well back in July at the First World Science Fiction Convention." "Don't bring up the ferschlugginer Exclusion Act now, Fitz! We've got worse problems. Just lemme in!" He let me in. As usual, he wore a neat bourgeois brown suit, brown shoes, and brown beard. You'd never take him for a fanarchist, which was the point. I thot my employers would be happier not knowing his object in traveling to England, so I hadn't enquired. "I need to hide some bodies," I said, pointing to the goons. "Have you got any rope around here?" "But of course." "Tools?" "Konechno." "Radio?" "Only a crystal set." "Damn." "But I do have a radioman. Come on out, Ringer." A tall blond wearing specs and a crewman's uniform poked his head out of the closet like a turtle out of its shell. He bobbed his head awkwardly. Nothing less Aryan could be imagined. "Ringer Langly," he introduced himself. "Pleased to meet you, miss." "Just call me Kay. Everyone does." "I know. Fitz here loaned me some...fanzines...including yours. I thot your articles were most interesting." He hesitated. "I never knew there was anybody else in the world like me. And suddenly I find out there are so many of us...even girls like you!" I sympathized. The first contact with other fans is something you never forget. But a lot of new fans tend to confuse enthusiasm for fandom with enthusiasm for fans of the opposite sex. I didn't feel the need to be kissed by anyone else tonite, even if I did feel time's Unterseeboot hurrying near. "Pleased to meet you, Ringer," said I. "We have to get this ship turned around. The captain and most of the officers are dead or in custody. It'd be suicide to continue across the Atlantic as the Germans want us to do, so the engine room people turned the ship toward Jamaica. We'll escort you down there; see if you can persuade them to turn back toward Miami. We would be too easy to catch in Caribbean waters." "Let me find our position, then," the young Brit offered. "There's no telling where we are, especially with the men navigating blind down there." "I should have thought of that," I admitted. "My brother in the Navy would never let me hear the end of it. Back up top first, then down to the engine room. And after that, Fitz, I think you and I should go hunt Germans." And rescue a scientist, but Ringer had no need to know that. "Good," Fitz said quietly. "I lost friends to them in Spain." He glanced down involuntarily at the ring on his hand, and I felt like a heel. But how could I have known? "Then let's get moving," I said gruffly. "Time flies, and we don't." "Why aren't you using the ship's compass?" "I don't know as I trust it, miss." Then Ringer explained. "I heard the compass was acting up earlier -- spinning around and such. So I thought I'd just check it against my own pocket compass to make sure there was no mechanical error." He compared the needle in his hand to the ship's compass. "Well, whatever it was doing earlier, it seems to be champion now." "These Germans came aboard from a U-boat," I commented. "Could they have something that magnetic on board?" Byers looked up. "That would mean navigating a submarine without a usable compass." "Then we're in Charlie Fort's territory," I said resignedly. "And Ringer will have to tell us just where." Ringer took a sighting on a star, since we finally had clear skies again. Then he checked the ship's chronometer and his own watch, did some calculations, checked them again, and plotted our position on the map. "This can't be right!" He looked up. "I'm sorry, miss. I must have done it wrong. We can't be going this slow or this far off course." We looked where he was pointing. According to his reckoning, we were further _west_ than the ship's last position, taken several hours ago. "The engine room crew must have turned her back to Miami," I said incredulously. "I guess that Mulder fella persuaded them and saved us the trouble." "Then hunting Germans is next on our agenda," said Byers. But when we returned to the ballroom, what greeted our eyes but a crowd of passengers and crew surrounding some much-worse-for-wear Germans. The normal social constraints had been turned over as abruptly as the tables and chairs. Dowagers in ripped gowns retold their epic purse swipes to men from Liverpool, who told them in turn the story of their black eyes. They'd been untrained, but when they worked together, their furious brawling had been more than sufficient to knock out most of the German invaders. But not all. "Where's the German commander? And that translator, and the scientist?" "Your charge, you mean?" "I don't know what you're talking about," I said stiffly. "Where are they?" "They slipped out a few minutes ago, right before the fight ended. But don't worry. We'll be searching the ship. There's nowhere else to go." "Where's that crazy friend of yours?" one of the crewmen asked me. "We caught that German spy, and we were wondering if he wanted to help soften the spy up a bit, like." "I doubt it," I said, truthfully enough. And then I proceeded to say something stupid, but which had to be said. "Look, if we beat up prisoners, we're not any better than the Germans." "'Course we are," said the crewman defiantly. "We didn't get onto their ship." "Maybe we should," I realized with horror. "They're going to signal the same U-boat that brought them here. Once they get away, there's nothing to stop them from torpedoing the Queen Anne. Dead men cause no diplomatic incidents." Fitz, Ringer and I sprang to the stairs, while behind us we heard folks forming a posse. We had no time to wait for them. By the time we got back up on deck, the Germans had gone over the side with their prize. Their attention was all focused on the ladder and the prisoner. Time to change that. I fired off a warning shot. The Germans stopped. Hearing a bullet whine close to your head tends to have this effect. "Alten sie!" sez I, for good measure. Ringer and Langly stood beside me and let their guns be seen. The head German muttered something -- I couldn't make out what he said against the noise of the engines and ocean -- and his young stooge called up to us. "We have a boat waiting for us." Which they did, snugged to our side. "You cannot stop us." "We can shoot you," offers Byers. "That will make a difference to you personally." "I am willing to die for the Fatherland!" he says, not waiting for his boss' reply. "We are not cowards!" "Of course not," I say hastily. "Why don't we make a deal? You give us the scientist, you go on your way." Then a U-boat slowly rose beside us, water cascading from its conning tower and washing down its now-exposed deck.It was maybe a hundred yards away. I wished devoutly for my dad's hunting rifle, but there was a lot of ocean between it and me. What to do? The head German said something again. His tone of voice sounded more than a little smug. The stooge laughed. "We have considered your kind offer," he translated, "and we are sorry that we must refuse. Surely you do not want to kill our prisoner by mistake." They started moving again. I wanted to fire again, but the Germans were so bunched up that I really couldn't get a target without chancing a hit on Thor's Hammer or the big America-blessing guy. "Well, if we can't afford to let this guy fall into Nazi hands...." Fitz raised his gun to fire. "Fitz, no!" "Why not?" "Because we're not Nazis. And because I have another plan. Ringer, we need a lifeboat!" Ringer grinned. "Your wish is my command." He loped off to the side and showed us what to do. Within seconds, we looked like we were filming some historical epic about the Titanic as produced by the Three Stooges. Well, somehow we managed to get the Ghublasted thing in the water without ending up in the water, but I decided to leave boats to my naval brother from now on. Fortunately, the Nazis hadn't been rowing too fast. They looked back at us when they heard the splash, though, and sent us some bullets that came uncomfortably close. This was bad. I turned to Fitz. "Still got those infernal devices of yours?" "In the bag." "Then why don't we try a little demonstration of air power on our friends' little boat? Just try not to hit the scientist or the other guy I told you about." They were sitting one in front of the other, luckily. Fitz frowned and pulled a bottle of rotgut out of aforesaid bag. "I was hoping for something more worthy of my mettle." He twisted off the cap and stuffed a hankie into its neck until cloth touched liquor. "This is just too easy." He pulled out a Zippo, lit the cloth, and threw the bottle. Whoosh! It hit the boat right next to the leutnant who'd been translating. Fitz looked disappointed. I think he was aiming for the chain-smoking officer in charge. I would rather not describe what happened then. My teachers at the Farm had taught us how to use the things and described their effects, but it really didn't prepare me. Ringer threw up. Fitz didn't, but then, he was in Spain. I didn't. I wish I could have; it might have been easier in the end. Fewer nightmares. But while the Nazis were trying to figure out how to deal with the mess, our America-blessing friend leaned over and whispered something in the ear of my scientific charge. As the big guy straightened up again, our eyes met. He nodded to me and then began going forward to help with the fire. As simply as that, I knew my plans for the rest of my life. Well, assuming there was a rest of my life. You see, as soon as the big guy went forward, my scientist slipped into the water and started swimming back to our boat. Nobody even noticed he was gone until he'd swum a pretty fair part of the way toward us. As soon as we'd noticed, we'd started rowing toward them -- so when bullets started flying toward us again, we were even easier targets than before! Lucky for us it ain't easy to hit a target while sailing on the ocean blue, as my brother told me when he got put in charge of gunnery practice for his ship. We got both fellows into the boat and started back to the Queen Anne as fast as we could row. The submarine crew got on the stick and sent the Nazis (and the big guy) a boat. Some bright boy on their conning tower got out a rifle and started shooting at us, but his aim stunk too. Back on the Queen Anne, a bunch of passengers had come out on deck and were cheering us on like it was the 1940 Olympiad. I remember thinking how stupid that was, since they were well within rifle range. But just about then, the spaceship showed up. (It could have been some odd kind of airplane, I suppose. But most airplanes don't look like a discus from a track and field newsreel.) The idiot with the rifle started banging away at the spaceship, as did one of the Nazis. (Which answered my next question -- not that I really thought the Germans were that far ahead of us!) It ignored them. A blue-white light streamed down from the spaceship, illuminating the Queen Anne until it looked like its own X-ray. The passengers on deck began to float up into the air towards the spaceship. I'm not ashamed to say that we were in the water by then, treading water and hanging onto the boat but trying to stay out of the spaceship's sight. Maybe the spaceship was being friendly when it took those people, but we weren't betting on it. Not when we saw everybody on the ship, from the engine room crew to the dogs in the kennel, float up into the air and disappear into that strange disk. The Germans must have agreed with us, as the surviving Nazis got on board the submarine and submerged as fast as they could. (And this fan was just about ready to knock on their hatch and ask to join them.) When the spaceship was done, we ducked the heck underwater and tried not to breathe. When we surfaced again, the spaceship was gone -- and so was the Queen Anne! I looked around at the stars shining brightly on an empty ocean, and breathed, "Insert appropriate profanities here." "Gott in Himmel!" Well, I didn't mean German ones, but that was what I got. "Did you see that?" someone demanded in a Viennese accent. "Unglaublich!" "We saw it," I called back. "Who are you?" "Klement Frohike at your service, nightingale of the waves!" "Were you left behind by your ship?" "No!" he shouted. "A submariner doesn't have much opportunity to jump ship. I took mine!" "What do you want?" "I am a gentleman, so I will not answer that, nightingale." I rolled my eyes as he continued, "Permission to come aboard!" Fitz looked at me hopefully while his hand strayed toward his bundle of tricks. I rolled my eyes again. "Law of the sea, Fitz." Well, I still don't know quite how we got home. But between us, we managed to figure out our position and aim for Florida. When the sun came up, Fitz recognized my charge and began to ask about atomic research. Naturally Ringer joined in; every science fiction magazine was full of stories about atomic weaponry or atomic power. Fortunately, I was able to divert the conversation to model rocketry. Since Herr Frohike turned out to have been an avid rocket club member in his (slightly) younger days, I was able to save my scientist and national security. Later, Ringer improvised a fishing line. We ate a lot of fish, but we finally arrived safely. At which point we nearly got shot by the landowner. I made a telephone call as soon as we found a telephone. A few hours later, we were headed toward my employers in Washington, who found our story a bit difficult to believe. But since we were the only survivors of the Queen Anne, they had to listen. After that...Ringer went home on the same plane that took my scientist to London, along with freshly copied out versions of his notes. I suspect Fitz was offered a job by my employers, and I suspect he took it. All I know is that I saw him at cons after the war, still the outwardly mild fanarchist he'd always been, but using a different last name. I lost track of him after he got married and settled down. Herr Frohike was thoroughly debriefed by our submarine people and declined the chance to be repatriated. He joined our navy instead, and became an instructor for them. I let my family know I wasn't dead, and then I went back overseas "to take my new job." As far as they knew, I was a secretary in London during the entire war. And of _course_ I met the big guy again after the war. How else did I end up marrying some German colonel and going to Texas to live with his daughter and her husband Tom Skinner? (And my hekto, and my zine collection, and....) It certainly wasn't for the large number of nearby cons! But I wonder. What was Mulder? How did he know so much about me? Was he a loon, a man from the future, or a loony man from the future? Only time will tell. ====================================================================== End notes: The links for the Fancyclopedias are a good beginning for the study of fannish history. Also try Forrest J. Ackerman's site. Not only is he the founder of Famous Monsters and the owner of the Ackermansion, he was the youngest member of the first Worldcon and came all the way from California to see it. FLYING SAUCERS (Arnold) Tho the books of Charles Fort are full of reports of mysterious flying objects, the flying saucers or flying discs sailed into the headlines in June 1947 when Kenneth Arnold reported seeing some over Mt Rainier, Wash. Shortly, they were seen all over the US and in many other countries, as well; public interest grew to such a point that the Air Force made a full-scale investigation, finding no support for the existence of "genuine" saucers. (Saucer fans promptly accused the AF of "covering up".) Numerous fanzine articles and a good deal of writing in prozines and mundane publications have assumed the saucers to be interplanetary vehicles, other conclusions being beneath the dignity of our consideration, and of course all fictional treatment of the things, as Sturgeon's "Saucer of Loneliness", assumes that the flying saucers are "real", i.e. interplanetary vehicles. Such quasi-fan organizations as ETRO have been organized to investigate them, and Fantastic Universe ran a "Civilian Saucer Intelligence" column for reports on the things. Not exactly of this sort was the collaboration visualized by the Flying Saucer Master Plan, a scheme to use the existence of fans all over the world in a timed series of sighting reports that would create the biggest saucer scare ever. (Happily for our public relations this didn't pan out.) Many "saucer" sightings were laid to "skyhooks" -- high-altitude balloons -- airplane lights, bright stars and planets, reflections of all sorts, kites, and odd-looking planes. --- from Fancyclopedia II. CHARLES FORT An iconoclastic individual whose delight was in the flaw of the horde, meaning clots like us who believed what we were taught in school about the world. Fort, boasting [!!] that he believed what he read in the papers, culled from them and the rubbish heaps of the sciences (especially astronomy) a considerable mass of reports on unexplained occurrences, such as the well-known mystery of the Marie Celeste. In arranging and commenting on them, he seemed to be maintaining, among other theories, that the Earth is visited and considered as property by superior beings (a notion Eric Frank Russell developed into his novel Sinister Barrier); that there is a power of matter-transmission which he calls teleportation being evidenced from time to time, as by showers of objects from within a room near its ceiling; and that the Earth is surrounded by a shell not far away, the planets and stars being eruptions on the shell similar to volcanoes. Forteanism is not necessarily these beliefs themselves, but the iconoclastically anti-orthodox attitude associated with them; the main idea being that modern science is a tissue of outworn saws, holes continually appearing in it and being patched up or glossed over by new explanations. (It has been suggested that Fort himself didn't believe the theories mentioned above, but advanced them as being no more ridiculous than the suggestions of science.) The Fortean Society, founded 1931, publish an OO, Doubt, devoted to reporting of Fortean incidents, and claim to seek the company of all who want a belly laugh at the powers that be; a number of fans are members. A strictly fannish organization with the same purpose, the Frontier Society, was founded by Donn Brazier in 1940 and died when the US entered the war. -- from Fancyclopedia II.