Five men in business suits pushed their way past the security guards and burst into the Oval Office. The President of the United States started to stand up in outrage, and more security agents went for their guns, but they all stopped when they saw who it was. The President slowly sat back down, turning a little pale.

The most prominent of the five men, a big man who looked like he should have been a bouncer at an exotic resort, gently but firmly placed his briefcase on the desk in front of the President. The remaining four men stood beside him, two on either side.

"Well." The President smiled hopefully, failing to conceal his nervousness. "What can I do for you?"

"Mr. President," the big man said, "we are here to talk to you about one of the most pressing problems in the world today. Maybe even the most pressing problem."

"You mean health care?" the President asked.

The man scowled contemptuously. "No, sir, I don't mean health care."

"Poverty? The homeless? The fact that our nation's high-schoolers can't name all 50 states?"

"No, Mr. President! Nothing so paltry would make us travel across the country to be here!"

"Uh, well." The President gulped. "What is it, then?"

The big man sighed, as if the entire world had just really disappointed him that afternoon, and said, "As you know, Mr. President, we are the most powerful men in Hollywood. And that makes us the most powerful men in the world. But we have recently become aware of a cultural force which severely threatens our position, and it must be dealt with, swiftly and irrevocably."

Confused, the President looked off to one side, repeating "swiftly and irrevocably" to himself, trying to work his way through that phrase.

"We are talking, Mr. President, about fan fiction authors. People – if such scum of the universe could be considered 'people' – who are taking fictional characters we have created and are perverting them to their own sick, evil, twisted purposes."

"Oh!" The President's face cleared, then clouded again in confusion. "That's the most pressing problem in the world today?"

One of the other Hollywood men spoke up. "These fanfic thieves have infested the entire world like cockroaches, Mr. President. They're all over the internet, corrupting America's youth, burning down churches, that sort of thing."

"Really?" the President asked.

"Really," the big man repeated. "These authors are endangering our hold on America because most of the general population is somehow becoming convinced that they are writing better stories than we do, and that can't be allowed to happen."

"It can't?" the President asked.

"No," the big man said. "It can't."

A third Hollywood man spoke up. "Of course, this rumor about fanfic authors writing good stories is an evil myth, seemingly coming from nowhere. We suspect a communist plot."

The President screwed up his face as he tried to think. "Aren't the communists our friends now?"

"Only if we say they are," the big man said.

"Oh. Well, it doesn't appear to be my problem." The President smiled, feeling like he'd finally come to a conclusion about whatever it was these people were talking about. He just wanted them to go away.

The big man just looked down at him for a second, then said, "Mr. President, we need you to help us."

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't do that," the President said with a smile. "You see, I've got my hands full with this scandal, then I have tea with the Queen, and the Canadian Prime Minister is coming down for golf later this evening."

"Mr. President," the big man said patiently, "from 20 years ago until about three years ago, it was fashionable for men in authority in the movies, especially the President of the United States, to be evil. It made the hero look better. Like in Aliens, when Sigourney Weaver goes up against the big bad corporation, or in Clear and Present Danger, in which the President is depicted as a slimy traitor.

"But in the last few years, the American public has again yearned for a leader who is good. Just look at Independence Day and Air Force One, both of which presented the President of the United States as a hero – a good, strong man who never flinched, and faced problems with courage and resolution and wisdom!"

The President was glowing, staring up at the ceiling, caught up in the vision. "Yeah!" he said with a smile.

The big man from Hollywood leaned in close and said, "But think about that, Mr. President. The American movie-going public will see you in the way that we depict you on screen. If we want to make you look like Harrison Ford, we can do that. If we want to make you look like PeeWee Herman, we can do that, too."

The big man sneered.

The President gulped.

He went on. "If we want to make you look like Billy Graham, we can do that. If we want to make you look like Carrot Top, we can do that."

The President had his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth, saying "No, please stop!"

The big man in the fancy suit leaned even closer and said quietly, "If we want to make you look like Warren Littlefield, we can even do that!"

"NOOOOOO!!!!" the President shrieked, aghast. "No! Not that! I'll do anything! Anything you want! You name it, it's done! Anything!"

The big man stood up again and smiled grandly. "We thought you'd see it our way, Mr. President. Now, what we want is for you to pick up the phone and get the United Nations Security Council to track down and eliminate these so-called fanfic authors."

"All of them?" The President quivered.

"No. We have something special in mind." He stretched out his hand. Smiling, one of the other men handed him a thick book.

"This is a list of all the fanfic authors we could find, in alphabetical order," he said. "We plan to choose one, for now, and make a complete example out of them. An example so harsh, so cruel, so painful that it will make every single one of the little buggers around the world scamper back into hiding and be afraid to come out for at least 50 years."

"Which one?" the President asked.

"It doesn't matter. We'll pick one at random."

The President nodded. He picked up the phone, and for the next five minutes, he spoke with executives at the United Nations and the Pentagon. By the time he'd finished, his own personal crack commando squad had assembled in his office, awaiting his word.

The President hung up the phone. "I've got four aircraft carriers waiting off either coast, plus one in the Gulf of Mexico and one just west of Hawaii. Every Army and Air Force Base in the country has been alerted, and NASA has all satellite tracking systems on line and ready to go."

The big man smiled, and nodded to one of his cohorts. The second man picked up the list of authors and opened it up to a point as close to the middle as he could. He closed his eyes and stabbed his finger onto the page randomly.

He opened his eyes to read which name he'd picked.

"Douglas Neman, Dallas, Texas," he said.

"GO!" the sergeant yelled. Immediately, the troops ran to the helicopters. Satellite tracking systems swung across the North American continent to focus on the target. Stealth bombers silently split the night overhead, ready to give support at a moment's notice.

"Dallas!" one of the Hollywood men said with a sneer. "The city where Kennedy was assassinated. A communist plot. I knew it!"

The big man just nodded in agreement. It all did seem to make sense.

 

And that's how it happened.

All this I learned later, of course. At the time, I had no clue.

There I was, sitting in my shorts and T-shirt, eating a bowl of cereal and proofreading my latest story, when suddenly the porch doors blew in, the front door was kicked open, and four men clad in black from head to toe burst into my apartment with submachine guns. They threw me on the floor, held a gun to my head, and swarmed all over the apartment.

"Greyhound to Trap One," I heard one of them say. "Target secure, no casualties. Encountered heavy resistance, but my men dealt with the threat according to their training."

"Is there any signs of terrorist activity?" came a voice over the radio.

I couldn't see what was happening. My face was full of the living room carpet. I realized it needed vacuuming, now that I was up close and personal to it. I found myself wishing I'd cleaned the place up for my new guests.

"No signs of terrorist activity or affiliation," their leader said.

"Wait a moment!" another voice said. "I'm detecting a radiation leak in the kitchen!"

"Greyhound to Trap One, stand by for EP Delta Zero Four!"

"Oh, sorry," the second voice said again. "The radiation detector was just picking up some really old milk in the refrigerator."

"Greyhound to Trap One, stand down EP Delta Zero Four," the commander said. He sounded disappointed that he would not now be able to run EP Delta Zero Four – whatever it was.

"Trap One to Greyhound," the voice at the other end of the radio crackled. "Is the target area clean and secure?"

"Target area is secure..." The commando leader looked around at the papers strewn all over the place and the dishes piled up in the sink. "But I don't think it's really all that clean."

More soldiers were still rifling through all my possessions. I heard a couple of hoots as they discovered the Playboys in the back closet. I didn't care if they read them, but if there were any missing, there'd be hell to pay.

One of the men looking through my video tapes said, "Hey! He's got a complete run of Earth 2! You got good taste, there, pal!"

"Thanks!" I spoke up. "I think-"

"Quiet!" the gun in my neck ground in even harder. "Only speak if you're spoken to!"

I held up a finger. "But I was spoken to! He started it!"

"Only speak if you're spoken to!" my guard yelled again.

"But you're speaking to me now!" I yelled back.

"I AM NOT SPEAKING TO YOU! NOW SHUT UP!"

Then I was hauled to my feet to face the commando leader. "Is there anything you'd like to confess now?" he asked.

My guard was holding a gun to my face, and he looked really angry. I whispered to him, "Can I talk now?"

"NO! YES! JUST SHUT UP AND ANSWER THE QUESTION!!!"

I shrugged, and asked the commander, "He's new, isn't he?"

The commander looked confused. "Yes, he is. How did you know that?"

"Look," I said, switching tactics, "are you sure you don't have me confused with someone else? The guy downstairs smokes pot sometimes. Maybe you got us mixed up or something."

Another soldier came up and saluted. "Place is clear, sir. Nothing suspicious, except for these!" He held up some of my stories.

"All right. Bring him."

They handcuffed me and took me outside, where a helicopter had landed in the parking lot. At least five of my neighbors were out in their underclothes, or wrapped in robes or blankets, videotaping the entire event. Several of the soldiers mugged for the cameras.

They bundled me into the helicopter and away we went. Several hours later, I was face to face with the five most powerful men in the world. Oh, and the President of the United States was there, too, as well as the top man at the United Nations, whose name I could never remember. I'm really bad about names. I hoped I wouldn't have to introduce myself.

I was sitting in a chair facing all these men, who just leaned on desks or against the walls. There was no table in front of me. I found myself staring up the nostrils of the big man from Hollywood, who just seemed to ooze power. In my mind, I called him Mr. Hollywood.

"Mr. Neman," he said smoothly, "you have caused us a great deal of trouble."

I shook my head. "You know, I'm quite certain you wanted the guy downstairs. He smokes pot and plays his stereo too loud. I've never met you before in my life."

"And you will never want to meet me again," he said with a smile.

"Good. Can I go?"

"Not until you've paid the full price for your crimes!" he snapped.

"Good. That's done. Now can I go?"

One of the other Hollywood men spoke up. "Were you responsible for killing Kennedy?"

"Um...no."

"Can you prove that?"

"Yes. I wasn't born until 1969. Now can I go?"

"Mr. Neman, you are an author of fan fiction, is that correct?" Mr. Hollywood asked.

"You betcha."

"So you are guilty of writing stories which consist of characters you did not create?"

"Absitively posolutely."

"And you have no shame about that whatsoever?"

"Nnnnnnnnnnope."

"Can you possibly justify such evil behavior?"

"Sure can. The question is, can you justify yours?"

"I don't have to."

"Then neither do I." I smiled.

It was at times like these that I was glad my hero was a Time Lord. Doing what he would do often gave me answers.

"All right," Mr. Hollywood said. "Let's say for the sake of argument I will deign to debate the issue with you. Justify yourself."

"Glad to. I'm using characters that others have thrown away into the trash pile, and one man's trash is another man's treasure."

"That's no excuse."

"Sure it is. If you saw someone drive down the road and toss something out of the window and into the gutter which they thought was worthless, but you thought was priceless, is there any law which says you can't pick it up and save it for yourself, in your own way? Especially if it's something you need?"

The President's eyes widened. For a moment, I thought he was impressed with my supreme logic and debating skill, but then I realized he was just ogling a cute blonde who had walked by in the hallway outside.

I turned to get a look at her myself. Yeah, she was pretty cute. I wondered briefly if she might have a thing for wrongly-accused felons. I decided not to press my luck.

Mr. Hollywood just gave a thin smile. "Your analogy is weak. The characters you are using have not been thrown on the trash pile, they have simply been stored away in a warehouse. They aren't trash, even if they'll never be used again. Like old photographs one hardly ever looks at, they're sitting in storage. And to use them without permission is equivalent to breaking and entering."

"Like Robin Hood," I countered, "I'm just taking from the stingy and giving to the needy."

"That's still no excuse."

Damn, he had me there.

"Well, they're my heroes," I said. It was all I could think to say. Rather than giving up this tiny advantage, I kept my mouth motoring on, saying whatever came next.

"The characters I write about are ones which have touched my life, touched my heart. Sure, someone else created them. And the creators should be proud of them. Damn proud. But when they become my heroes, they become something more than fictional characters. They become cultural icons, or even personal icons. They become family. They become people I care about, and through which I connect with other real people I care about, people whom I would never have met otherwise. And once such icons have been set in motion, they cannot be stopped.

"Works of fiction and characters are like all other living things – if they're not growing, they're dead. There is no in-between state of limbo, such as you describe."

For a few seconds, no one spoke. The only sound was one of the Hollywood men crying openly. "That was beautiful, man!" he blubbered, and blew his nose. Honnnnnk! "That was just beautiful!"

"Thanks," I said.

Still silence.

"Mr. President, are we ready to pronounce sentence?" asked Mr. Hollywood.

"You know," the President said, pointing at me, "I think he's got a point. I think this young man has a fine brain, and upstanding moral character."

If only he knew, I thought. But I didn't want to burst his bubble. "I was an Eagle Scout, Mr. President," I said, encouraging the only man who could possibly get me out of this jam.

"Well, there you are!" the President exclaimed. "I think he's okay!"

"I thought we had a deal, Mr. President," Mr. Hollywood said softly.

"What deal?" I asked. I needed to find out what was going on or I couldn't fight it – and I needed to know pronto. I asked Mr. Hollywood, "Did you promise him women in exchange for backing you?"

"I'm not that cheap!" the President yelled. "He promised me power!"

"Oh," I said, pretending to understand. "In that case, I would have thought you'd want to be on the winning side."

"You mean, your side?" the President asked me.

"Sure," I answered. "Look – I had just finished one of my stories when all this came crashing down on me. Let me read you that story! Let me show you what we can do!" I looked at Mr. Hollywood. "Unless you're afraid."

He glowered and sat down. "All right," he said. "We'll take you up on that. Read us your story. Prove to me that you know what you're doing."

One of the security agents stepped forward and placed the latest story I'd written, confiscated from my apartment when I'd been arrested, on my lap. Oddly enough, it was called "Heroes." I'd been hoping to release it on April 19, the one-year anniversary of EvacPod Con. Perhaps I still could, if I made it through this night alive.

They uncuffed my hands. Rubbing my wrists because they were sore, I asked for a drink of water. While one of the agents went to get it, I idly leafed through my story, and prepared to read for my life.

This is what I told them.

To be concluded when the story is over.