From: fjohnson@remus.rutgers.edu (Floyd Johnson)
Subject: STORY FROM HELL-part 6
Date: 23 Mar 92 05:00:16 GMT

(Damn, you mean I got seven parts and still ain't finished?) Okay,
folks, here's another installment; this time, the adversaries meet in
broad daylight. Up till now, the fighting's been either on or around
motorcycles and/or at night--this was threatening to turn into either
a mechanical "Batman" or a straight "Darkwing Duck". As you saw in my
last post, I figured out how to account for him falling in love:he's
just that good (BTW, did you think that was crass?).

Anyway, somehow I managed to write this in the same weekend as I did
Part 5, but the quality is lacking; comments desired.
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The Infiltrator tracks Darrin down, and smuggles itself into one of his
classes. Unfortunately, the task of doing so required more brainpower
than the machine has, so the General Staff has to figure it out,
resulting in the disappearance of one of Darrin's professors. (Apparently,
they didn't kill the chap, as he was black.)
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	He was thinking of *her* while waiting for his Sociology
professor to show up. It impressed him, the way she'd made him tingle
that first night, the way she made him hot two days ago, and the
fact that she made him come during that evening. It was perhaps as
much a testament to himself as it was to her.
	A tall, stocky figure took the podium, bringing him back to
the business at hand.
	<What>, Darrin thought, <Doc Jacobs is out?>
	The ebon giant spoke. "I am Professor Mustafa, and I will be
filling in for your regular instructor." He leaned on the podium, eyes
darting about the room. "It's about time for a change from the
usual--proper education, if you will."
	It bugged Darrin that Mustafa's eyes seemed to gravitate
toward him. The speaker continued. "Brothers and sisters, have you
considered your state, and why it is?"
	The hundred and twenty students looked at each other blankly,
then turned to the front.
	"The answer, of course, is the Man-"
	"Excuse me," Darrin interrupted, "what exactly is this status
quo?"
	Predictably, Mustafa gave him a withering glance. "Look how
few of us there are in this very room. You are pawns of the
White-induced society. The self-serving Asians have joined the
Caucasian conspiracy." He began to pound the podium. "You have learned
*their* history, *their* culture-"
	"In addition to our own", Darrin protested.
	"Only through the Order," Mustafa retorted, "has that been
possible."
	Darrin held his breath, forming a heartfelt diatribe in his
mind.<Up your ass>, he thought. <Even without my onboard libraries, I know and
can prove material exists even from 1975 on African-American history.>
	A dark hand shot up in the back of the hall. "Professor," its
owner, a slender, track-type woman, asked, "what *is* the Order?"
	Mustafa smiled at this, a Saddam Husseinesque,
guess-what-I'm-thinking smile. "We are the liberators of the Black
Nation. We are those who will bring you victory over the White man's
'science', his 'art', his 'language'-everything by which he has kept
us down." He adjusted his bow tie. "We are the future."
	Darrin realized that Mustafa was the driver of the pimpmobile
he had seen. "Bullshit, Doc", he interjected.
	At this, every eye in the room was drawn to him. "Science,
art, language, the works-yes, the kitchen sink, too-are all *human*
concepts; these aren't 'Black' or 'White', or whatever."
	"Say what?", quizzed Mustafa.
	"As this world stands, all of us-African, Irish, Chinese,
Indian, what have you-granted, have our differences, but we have the
opportunity to accept, understand, and if you're really adventurous,
celebrate them." Darrin could feel the passions with which he
spoke-was a tear forming in his eye?-these having been shown in
activists decades before he, let alone his inventors, drew breath.
"You who would call yourselves well-rounded--that *is* why we're
here, isn't it?--would take advantage of said."
	Ten miles away, the General Staff had just witnessed his
harangue. The Chief had heard enough, snarling "Fuck the Tom up!" into
the monitor.
	As Darrin finished, he realized he'd do well to pull a couple
of scans on Mustafa--preaching 'positivity' had been known to get
people killed--and found the Street Sweeper.
	"Get down--he's fucking armed!"
	The speckled mass of college students ducked under the blue of
their chairs as Darrin leapt at Mustafa. The latter drew on him,
succeeding, however, in getting knocked ass over teakettle.
	Mustafa rolled to his feet, breaking out a switchblade, having lost his
firearm to a heel strike. He lunged into the receiving end of Darrin's
uppercut.
	Darrin tried to disarm him, but his adversary's grip was too
strong. The blade separated from its housing, sending both tumbling.
"Fuck this", he muttered, summoning the cannon from the Weapons
menu. It deployed, already loaded with nitrous oxide cartridges. He popped off
the shot easily, but much to his amazement--and somewhat to his
chagrin--Mustafa seemed nowhere near unconsciousness as he bounded
toward him.
	<Aw shit, it's another damn android.>
	The android landed just short of where Darrin had been
standing--a zipline had spared him the fix of getting sat on by a
walking steamroller. Perched on one of the sound deflectors in the
ceiling, he set the cannon for antipersonnel grenade launching (again
via his internal GUI), and let fly against the massive malefactor,
rendering it inert.
	The explosion subsided, and faces began emerging from under
the furniture. "Oh shit, man", someone said, "I thought I was gonna
die in here."
	A tiny, bespectacled mouse of a woman, eyeing the android,
squealed, "What did you *do* to him?!"
	Darrin turned to the recoiling figure. "He was an android,
apparently sent out to wreak destruction on us all. If you will,
examine this thing. I've chanced into a couple of them before--kicked the
crap out of 'em."
	He could discern a fairly simple radio transmitter amidst the
wreckage, and was making a note to try to trace its signals when he
heard a repetietive THUMP.
	<At least this SOB only kayoed him>, he thought, confirming
via IR that Professor Jacobs lay bound inside a broom closet. A single
hook kick freed him.
	"I thought I heard shooting," the slender, nut-brown gent
gasped. I really thought the worst."
	"It damn almost did, Doc; damn almost."