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Reviews:

Archangel Protocol

Fallen Host

Messiah Node

Apocalypse Array

 

After Archangel Protocol
Mouse[2]
Dee[1]
Mouse[3]

Dee [vignette]

Mouse[4]
Mouse[5]
Mouse[6]

 

"Missing" from Fallen Host
Em and Morningstar

 

"Missing" from Apocalypse Array (in .PDF format)

Mouse[1]
Mouse[2]
Mouse[3]
Mouse[4]
Mouse[5]
Mouse[6]
Mouse[7]

 

Non-Mouse Fiction:

Alternate Beginning of Fallen Host

To Catch A Gene Thief

 

FAN FICTION:

FanFic
slash

het slash

Star Tribune reports on the Pope's alleged self-injury

 

March 21, 2079

Dear Dee,

Sadly, the white noise treatments theyíre trying arenít helping my infojones. Plus, now I have a splitting headache when I try to settle down to read the latest news about you in the printeds. I tell them that if I were allowed to read on-screen, my eyes wouldnít hurt so much. I donít think they believe me. Donít they know straining to read those tiny little words hurts? Itís how people end up with glasses, for crying out loud. Of course, if I complain too much theyíll take away my papers. So never mind. Forget I said anything.

So, it seems that Allah only knows where youíre hiding yourself these days. Myself, Iíve got money on Uganda. Thatís totally your kind of place. Although to their credit, I hear LINK access is flash in Uganda. All over Africa itís all new, totally upgraded nodes. Fastest download on the planet. Heard all about it from this technopunk who just got busted for cloning. Heíll be out in six months. If he lives that long. Weíve kind of formed a team. Two little prissies against the mean muthafuckas. My money is on the muthafuckas.

Speaking of bets, the real credits say youíre in the kibbutz. You and Rebeckah were always too tight for my tastes, honestly. And, what with the Malachim helping you bust out of Dodge, wellÖ seems like a gimme.

And, wow, what up with the Pope? A cattle prod to the olí noggin. Thatís got to eff-up the LINK node. Seems extreme. Of course, I canít imagine anyone wanting to waste their LINK connection. Like you, Iíd hack my way back into the LINK with a sledgehammer if I had the opportunity. Not that Iím going to get any such opportunities around here. They barely let me use this penóit is after all, mechanical. God forbid, I might find some way to remove the working parts and build a space ship. Who do they think I am? Mr. Spock?

Well, time for dinner. My life is all about eating, sleeping, and staying alive these days. Hmmm, not much different from life on the street in Cairo, come to think of it.

Kisses, your pal,

Mouse

P.S. Just one question, Dee: Space baby or Second Coming? Inquiring minds want to know!

The St. Peter Herald Reports on Dee's continued evasion of the police force

 

The Redwood Gazette Reports that the Search for Dee has been called off.

 

Dear Dee,

Sadly, I am writing to you from a new facility. My stay at Sing-Sing got cut short by a rather, shall we say, explosive mishap. My counselor, Iím informed, remains disappointed in me. Iíd made such progress, after all. Theyíd even let me work in the kitchen. I told Bob (thatís my counselor) that he should really be grateful. I mean, how else would they have discovered all of the volatile substances they just had lying around that place? I canít have been the first to think to use them in such a way. Think of the lives I saved! And, come on. No one was seriously hurt. A bit toasted around the edges and a little cut up is all, and, really, a stay in the infirmary is a vacation from that place.

I should know.

But score one for the Geek Squad, you know what I mean? I think those big fellows in Sing-Sing are going to be a little more hesitant about pushing around the little guys with horn-rimmed glasses and pocket-protectors. Smart people can be dangerous, too. Kind of a theme in my life, that.

I am a little bit disappointed in myself that I didnít even manage to last a month in Sing-Sing. The place has a rep. I got sent up to Sing-Sing, I mean, thatís kind of cool. You know, tough. And, I was just starting to get a handle on how to form unions and such. I was even starting to enjoy strategizing the next move for the Geek Squad. I think I could have been a great ringleader. Maybe thatís why they bounced me. ĎCuz of my potential.

The new place is number-one boring. I know I canít be the only person here, but so far I havenít seen a soul. The walls are white. The floor is white. There are not even any light fixtures (probably a good thing since light bulbs played a rather large role in my Sing-Sing escapades). The whole place seems to be lit by weird bioluminescent paint. Iíve been trying to grok how thatís done. Iím thinking the glow is so greenish that itís got to be from something from the bottom of the sea, but Iím too short to scrape any paint off the ceiling. Besides, last time I tried, I got a nice shock to the feet. Yowch.

Sleeping is tough. The lights are always on, and thereís no bed in this room to speak of. Iíve been curling up in the corner whenever I feel sleepy. My sense of time is completely messed up. Note the distinct lack of date on this letter.

I am, however, allowed to writeóalthough Iím back to dictating. Apparently, Bob, the aforementioned counselor, told these new people that the letters were part of my therapy. Every so often, a part of the wall morphs into a screen and, if I start talking, text appears. Weirdest damn thing. I just hope youíre still getting these. Iím not entirely sure this isnít some kind of conspiracy. You know, get me talking and see what I spillÖ.

Anyway, being my usual curious self, I tried to investigate said wall, but more zapping. It kind of makes me jumpy, that. I never quite know when Iím going to experience a little High Voltage.

And the papers have stopped. These folks donít seem to think that my illness is real. Despite the fact that I have a signed, official note from the docs at Sing-Sing proving that I exhibit all the symptoms of a wacked-out infojunkie. Who, I might add, is spiraling quickly into massive depression without his daily dose of Dee news. If I croak, itíll be your fault. Someone will sue your white-coated little butthocks, Iím certain. Page could. Heís my beneficiary.

But, Iím getting off-track here.

You know that last bit wasnít about you, right, Dee? I was talking to the nut-jobs in charge of this place.

What was I saying? Oh, yeah. So, the new digs arenít as nice as Sing-Sing, if you can believe that. I find Iím actually missing little things, like say, a cotÖ and a toilet. This might be a little rude for you, Dee--but, there doesnít seem to be any place to go to the bathroom. So, I started going in the corneródifferent from the one I sleep inÖ at least, I hope so. Anyway, it stays there for a little while, but if I close my eyes or turn awayÖ even for a secondÖ my waste disappears. At least Iím not living in filth, but, Merciful Allah, thatís not right. I mean, thereís got to be a law.

Food is another strange event. A door just opens out of nothing and I go through white room after white room until I find one where the door doesnít open and thereís food on the floor, spread out, like an effing picnic. This seems to be a regular enough occurrence that I could probably figure out how many days have passed. But breakfast food doesnít seem that much different from lunch or dinner, you know? Itís a lot of fruit and bread and cheese. Much healthier than Sing-Sing, but a boy could use the occasional cup of bad prison coffee or a special sundae night, for a little spice, dig?

So, here I am--no one to talk to, nothing to read, and no LINK. How long until you think Iím going to go stark raving bananas?

You know Iíve always been kind of a people person, Dee. This silent thing is creeping me out. I mean, here I am. I must have been talking for a good ten-minutes, and I donít want to stop just because at least the sound of my own voice is something, anything, to fill this blankness.

This has got to be against the law. I mean, Iíd expect something like this in Turkey, but this is the United States, home of the free and all that jazz. What happened to prisonerís rights? Whereís the effing ACLU when you really need them? Anyway, if you get this note, please contact my solicitor, lawyer, whatever. His name is Davydko Chistyakov. You can contact him through the Russian Embassy. Heís a big, old cyborg, though, so watch yourself. Still has hardware on the outside, if you know what Iím saying. Old. Mean. But, legal to practice law in New York and most states America, actually. Smart as a whip. Wouldnít want to cross him though. Or have him surprise me in a dark alley, what, with a face like that. So, you know, try not to stare when you talk to him. He gets kind of touchy about the external hardware or wetwear or whatever you call that mess.

Eek. The little teletypy-thing here just told me Iíve got one minute left before it packages up this note and ships it off. Jeez, I wonder if I need to tell it to make a print out and mail the note. I suppose in this high-tech place, everyone thinks the whole world is on the LINK. Oh, but wait, maybe you are on the LINK. I canít remember. Seems to me, you surprised me by getting connected again somehow. Man, if you ever come here, I want to know how you did that. Iím going to need a little reconnect myself if I everÖ.

END TRANSMISSION

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