Well Hello, Kids! Welcome to the SECOND RINGBONE GAZETTE RIPATHON! Yes, we're holding a fund-raising telethon to help all those poor and unfortunate Buccaneers of the Spaceways who have suffered so much over the past year.

Throughout this issue, we'll try to tug at your heartstrings and on your purse-strings as well. Anything else that needs to be tugged - go see the folks downstairs. We may be low-rent, but we're not that low. Give any of our eager volunteers a call. We'd love to be able to beat our total from the last Bone RIPathon of some ten years ago, namely, one hundred and one stellars. IF we do, I'll make a personal promise not to wear this burgundy-colored tux ever again. Or sing "You Light Up My Life". Or use the Ringbone Gazette to make fun of the Oggies' fascination with terrycloth.

Speaking of the Bone - we did it. The Bone managed to put out four issues this year. First time in, oh, five years or so. Despite serious illness, a new job, nearly terminal boredom with BSE, and, worst of all, an unexpected deterioration of the famed Hawaiian shirt collection.  Many thanks to those who contributed (willingly or otherwise) this year. Couldn't have done it without ya.

Our RIPathon today is being held in our makeshift digs above the strip joint. Oh, yeah - it's also our Holiday Issue. Father Larry managed to find the Christmas decorations, so the place now looks kinda festive. Drooling Lenny even got us a Christmas tree. He won't say where he got it, but I notice he doesn't seem to want to go to the starport's park to play frisbee anymore...

Something for the season:

A BSE GM Christmas Carol (no apologies to Neil)

Hey, are turns done?

Battles been run ?

While we're still young?

This is supposed to be fun?

Yes , Turns are done.

Battles' been won.

But you flew into the the sun.

Boy, that was dumb.

Oh, the Joys of Playing BSE!

(Where's my feasibility study?)

(Say, where's my stellar transfer?)

Are Turns really done?

Production's been run?

Pardon the pun,

Without Jacking-around anyone?

Yes, Turns are done

For everyone!

And also that cranky someone

who call himself Morgan.

Oh, the Joys of Playing BSE!

(Where's my feasibility study?)

(Where went my stellar transfer?)

Yes, turns are done,

Merry Christmas, Everyone.

Speaking of blowed-up. Or was it blow-out? Something my ever-vigilant and sometimes-sober staff reminded me about - we're two issues away from Number 75. That's not surprising, since the Bone has been around for over twenty years (that's all ten fingers and toes plus your fly open, for you human USS-types). Not sure yet if we'll do anything special. But right now, we're begging, yes, begging for you to open your wallets and help our eyepatch-wearing RIPpies.

Did you know that over the past two months, the RIP have lost at least ten ships? That's at least ten less ships providing jobs for willing, bloodthirsty pirates. Won't you please help these poor, unemployed buccaneers? And their parrots? So they won't be reduced to kidnapping attendees to "Starcaptain for a Week" camp?

Such a sad state of affairs a once-proud organisation once populated with the likes of Greybeard O'Brien has come to. So sad in fact, I feel like sniffling into the ruffled sleeve of my tuxedo shirt. But I'm a professional - I can control myself.

I know the Bone tends to ignore the farther reaches of Known Space, but we're working hard to correct that. From the Republic of Corona, Mr. Kantor was kind enough to send us this missive.

New Island Created by ROC KinStrife

From the Corona Information Service

The ROC Ship KinStrife has gone into the terraforming business, sort of! It accidentally created a new island on the planet 5th Column in Rebellion System, and very nearly destroyed itself in the process.

Late last year, during a routine planetary survey of 5th Column, basically a water world, the KinStrife picked up energy readings from the bottom of a sea sector. Initial readings indicated that something approximately 3-4 miles deep was broadcasting some sort of energy waves. When follow-up surface & orbital studies revealed nothing further, the ship's scientific section suggested using an explorerbot to check out the phenomena. But the 'bot imploded from the extreme pressure about half way down. At that time the KinStrife had to leave for other tasks. Meanwhile the ship's labs set about modifying another explorerbot for deep-sea exploration.

Returning Week 7, the ship and crew set about solving the mystery of the undersea energy readings. The modified explorerbot, newly christened as "Nessie', was sent down to see what it could see.

When it got to the sea bottom, Nessie found an alien construct consisting of large box, about 1 mu in size, attached to two large panels. While the panels strongly resembled solar panels, obviously this couldn't be. However there were indications of energy waves emanating from them. Subsequent studies revealed that the device wasn't broadcasting energy waves, after all; that it was instead collecting and storing massive amounts of energy, apparently from the planet's tidal actions. The purpose of this could not be determined, but it was apparent that the device had been there a very long time, and probably had a considerable energy buildup. Over the next few weeks, it was determined that the construct was not connected to anything else; that it was just sitting on the sea bottom. And seemingly, there was nothing else on the planet, having to do with it either.

Finally Nessie discovered and opened a 6-inch panel on the side of the device. Inside the panel was a large red button. KinStrife's labs immediately backed off to consider further actions. The ship's Science Officer, Dr. Livingston I. Presume, later had this to say, "Obviously, activating the device wasn't a good idea, but we were determined to learn the nature of the construct." Consequently, week 10, Nessie was sent back down to investigate the possibilities of bringing the device up to the surface.

Then it happened! Contrary to its programming, Nessie somehow pushed the red button, and all hell broke loose! Upon activation, the device released all its stored energies in one massive explosion. The explosion immediately began a rapid process whereby the seawater in the four sectors surrounding it was converted into dry land. All the water was vaporised, and replaced with solid ground. The KinStrife, which was landed on a small islet above, fell through the void, to crash onto the rising new island.

Ensign Stanley Erik Krendsah was on the vidphone with his mother at the time. Krendsah said, "I was speaking to Ma when there was a large flash of light with a huge sonic boom; then the phone exploded in my face, and the bottom dropped out!"

Moments later, when he came to, Krendsah realized that most of the KinStrife's life supports had ceased to function, and that most of her crew and shipguard were badly injured. Despite multiple burns and lacerations, He immediately set about repairing and reengaging what remained of those systems. It was later determined that his swift actions probably saved the lives of most of his crewmates. Capt. Rickard Starkey, the ship's XO, stated "Krendsah's quick thinking saved the 'Strife from total disaster. He was most heroic. The Lad will get a medal for this!"

Starkey went on to report that damage to the KinStrife was most extensive, as almost all of her electronic gear was destroyed by the electrical feedback, as well as all her engines, both thrust and jump. Additionally, approximately 80% of her hulls had sustained damage.

Fortunately, the ship had been in contact with ROC Exploration HQ at the time of the explosion, and a rescue mission was immediately mounted. Assuming the worst, the ROC SistersTears, a cargo carrier, was dispatched to 5th Column, its cargo bays filled with new crew, life supports, engines and repairbots. After a transferral of crew & equipment and some onsite repairs, the KinStrife departed for ROC Nuevo San Francisco for refitting.

Presume stayed behind, with the SistersTears to investigate the results of the explosion. Presume said, "It's the damnedest thing I ever saw! Where there once was nothing but seawater, there's now a new large island. While I certainly regret the outcome of this episode, I wouldn't have missed it for all the sampoon in Werth! I will miss Nessie, tho!" Amazingly, the alien device was still intact, now sitting on dry land. It was subsequently loaded onto the Sisterstears and taken to Nuevo San Francisco for further studies.

After some thought, SAdm Pahl Kantner, the KinStrife's commanding officer, has named the new island, "Big Bang Island", though most of the ship's crew was advocating calling it "Kantner's Folly"!

Back to our RIPathon. You know, they're not just pirates. Did you know that the RIP has a community- service program? Yes, they roam the Periphery, removing derelict Imperial vessels from our space-ways. It's true, really. See if any other affiliation is so selfless and so concerned. Well, the SAM and the USS tried something similar, but that was years ago....

Letters to the Editor

[Editor:]

"Cin of Brody is a former Ataman of the Flagritz Empire. Cin was executed by the AIS-dominated Transhole Alliance when they invaded and captured his colony. Den's head was taken in secret to the Foelians (FOE), where it was joined with a new body and reanimated in a Dark ceremony. Cin of Brody currently holds a high position in the FOE hierarchy."

Getting closer. One more iteration might do it. Or it may be an infinite loop...

Anonymous

And people complained because I sent Duckbutt to camp.

Hedd:

When are you going to cover BSE's greatest frontier: the Nexus?

Mister "N"

Dear N: That is a good question. Part of it is that we're not out in the Nexus, and most of the folks who are out there don't really want the place advertised. But we're always open to submissions.

[Editor:]

Well, I thought it [Bone Issue 72] was highly deficient--especially the FET-COM story. The babies were sucked into the intakes of COM troop carriers at Clove--NOT run over with treads! Also, Zealom's head is currently located in a mayonnaise jar at Hypso, not Messalina. I should know, I separated his head from his shoulders-- another fact left out.

Ghost of Morgan

Dear Ghost: Yeah, but what have you done for me lately?

[Editor:]

We are still contemplating our reaction the [BSE Trading] Card #6.

Where did you say your offices are?

A. Harmlesslittle Node

Dear Harmless: At USA Philadelphia. Why do you ask?

We're back. And the phones are still quiet! What's wrong with you people! You should be donating!! Another margarita - I mean, glass of water, Duckbutt. Ah, much better.

Where were we? Oh yeah - the pirates. We were trying to find touching pictures of sad-eyed pirates to trigger your emotions. Y'know like all those other charitable appeals. But, unlike all those other guys,  we didn't have much luck. All we could find were pictures of pirates:

a) grinning like a serial killer on stimulants

b) trying to look sufficiently bloodthirsty so they could get into the Pirate's Club,

c) wearing a goofy-surprised grin like they'd just won the Grand Prize on the "Treasure Show" and,

d) sexy pirates (or pirates trying to look sexy....)

Next time we decide to do a telethon, it'll be for all the  players waiting for THE to start. We know those guys are bummed....

This next one courtesy of  somebody "lost somewhere in the Periphery":

Mister Somebody obviously has too much time on his hands. Speaking of too much time (and space left in this rag), here's a feeble attempt at fiction.

Outpost 4491

The EEM liner Countess Anne entered the system from its Jump, made a sharp turn to port and straightened out for the long dash to the far side of the system.

Maynard DeKalb, EEM Vice Manager (Transport) stood up from his observer-seat on the bridge and stretched. He looked over his shoulder and smiled sourly. In the Captain's lounge off the bridge (normally reserved for VIPs), EEM Assistant PD Lars vanGruden was still lecturing on his favorite subject: cost-control.

"I'm not against spending money," vanGruden was saying to his entourage, "I'm against spending money on wasteful efforts. Like this little side-trip we're making. There's a freighter scheduled to visit that outpost in a few weeks." He fixed his sharp blue eyes on DeKalb.

"I observed that it was your signature on the request, Maynard." VanGruden brushed off an imaginary bit of lint from his Prussian-style suit that, even years after the Kriegers had left, was still the unofficial uniform of EEM executives. "Surely you of all our junior managers would have exercised better judgment."

DeKalb poured himself some water and said nothing. He'd long learned that when it came to Lars vanGruden, it was better to simply let things slide. He took a sip and looked over at vanGruden's assistant and daughter, Jasmine. He felt sorry for her; one of the last graduates of the Krieger School of Business, she probably expected better things than than being a flunky for her old man, "Herr Cost-Meister". DeKalb also felt a bit sorry for himself, too.

He'd visited Outpost 4991 long ago, to pick up stockpiled ore. It was an anomaly: a facility that ended up in enemy territory during the Great War, had remained in enemy territory, but was now protected by the treaty that ended the war. That the jacium it mined was valuable to EEM business in that region was all that had kept the little outpost going and in the Company fold.

Twice in the past year, somebody had re-programmed the outpost. The 'host' affiliation denied interference, blaming it on an unspecified party. The EEM, after much deliberation, dispatched a ground party to provide security. Once there the forces requested installation of the new security system; Assistant PD vanGruden had vetoed it on a cost-benefit ratio. He also dismissed the force's reports of unease among the natives as 'unwarranted military paranoia'.

"They've been peaceful for the ten years the outpost was there," vanGruden was fond of saying, "that wouldn't change overnight."

Things had been relatively quiet until a month ago. Then the nearest EEM colony received a distress call from the 4991's security force. The planet's natives had attacked several times, taking heavy losses, but chipping away at the EEM troops. Then came a series of reports from the outpost that "everything was quiet". The colony governor wasn't so sure and used his influence with the Periphery Director to override objections. So the Countess Anne, the only ship nearby, had been diverted from its planned route to take on combat equipment and fresh soldiers.  No doubt the Cost-Meister was factoring everything into his future arguments for selling the outpost.

"Captain, how much farther to our destination?" vanGruden's voice broke into DeKalb's thoughts.

"About 27 TUs," came the reply. The Assistant PD sighed. As if they had heard, the Anne's engines seemed to sound a bit faster than before.

*       *       *      *       *

The false-dawn was just coming over the brush-covered ridge. Brevet-Sergeant O'Toole put down the grinder and grunted in satisfaction. Supposedly parts of the MEK were interchangeable with each other, but 'interchangeable' and 'working flawlessly' were two different things. The combat-exoskeletons seemed to each have a different personality.

O'Toole caught a glimpse of himself in his MEK's viewplate and grimaced. He certainly wouldn't be on any recruiting poster . He was a large, pale man with a shock of red hair and an oft-broken nose. Now, week-old stubble covered the lower half of his face and red-rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes glared from above. What could be called a uniform was stained with grease, sweat and blood. Some of it was from his mates he'd pulled from the wreckage of their suits. A lot of it was his own.

The natives (somebody long ago had called the knobby-jointed sentients 'Gnarlies' and the name stuck) didn't attack at night; that gave him a chance to cannibalize and repair the dwindling stock of suits and equipment. But the Gnarlies were out there now. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there.

The ground party had landed with a hundred MEK troops, fifty robotic defense bunkers, and a handful of ground-attack fighters. After three weeks of fighting, it was down to four RDB's, twelve wounded, and Brevet-Sergeant O'Toole. He squinted at the lightening sky. He had time to visit the Four Horsemen.

Moving along the trenches, O'Toole visited and checked each of the four RDB's in turn. He'd named them War, Pestilence, Famine and Death, a bit of  humor dredged up from his Academy days. That they were squat, immovable robots only made the humor darker.  

He buttoned up the last unit and crawled along the trenches. A laser bolt melted the dirt near his head as he headed back to the armory. He couldn't see any movement.

O'Toole knew the Gnarlies were waiting for something. It might be for him to fall into a deep sleep - a week of stim-tabs and cat-naps would catch up with him sooner or later. But more likely they were waiting for the EEM reinforcements to arrive.

He had no doubt the Gnarlies were getting support from somebody. They knew the MEK weak-spots, when the fighters would take off and attack. Their discipline and shooting were better than any militia should have been; when it tapered off, he suspected their 'advisors' had eventually been killed or withdrawn. But O'Toole had the feeling the Gnarlies were still getting help. He'd seen the fake messages supposedly coming from his unit, saying "all quiet". He'd also gotten the message that help was on the way and he figured the natives knew it as well. He couldn't respond, what with the communications shack blown to bits in the first attack and his receiver cobbled from the leftover bits. Any ship or shuttle landing would be vulnerable.

After changing his bandages and dosing with antibiotics, he powered up his MEK and gave the systems a quick check. The replacement forearm/gun pod assembly seemed to be working. It had come from Corporal Brukowski's MEK and still wore the quirky camouflage-scheme she'd sprayed on it. "Disco-Camo", she'd called it. Poor kid. There hadn't been time to paint over it, nor over the dozen other replacement parts. He groaned in pain as he eased himself into the exoskeleton.

Sean O'Toole was in his mid-forties. Most of his life hadn't been easy, and for most of his life he hadn't been 'Sean O'Toole'. He'd used the name and ID of a dead gambler when he first joined the Imperials. No one asked questions back then during the CPR Rebellion. He'd been content to be a private, then a corporal when it was offered to him. He even took a field promotion when Sergeant Lhuen got it in the first battle. But he turned down a battlefield commission when the Ensign bought it. He'd been there once before, years ago.

His MEK moved quietly out of the armory building . O'Toole had spent a lot of time on his unit and was proud of its stealth. When the Gnarlies saw it, they yelled out "TakerSkath". The translation AI had converted to "Dark Killer": a two-legged legendary beast that hunted the planet's sentients. He idly thought about painting the name on the MEK, but dismissed the idea. He was too old and too cynical to do such a juvenile act.

O'Toole set up a position in the shadow of a blasted mine, took a drink of water and a bite from an energy bar. An hour passed. He saw what looked like a foot protruding from under a bush and fired. He was rewarded with a scream, shouting, and a volley of laser fire that chewed up the already-wrecked machinery around him. The RDB's added to the all the shooting, then there was silence. O'Toole grinned to himself, moved to a new position and settled in again to wait.

*      *      *      *       *

Another day dawned. O'Toole had managed to get some real sleep. The supplies were holding out, his wounds were healing okay, and his injured compatriots were still alive. The Four Horsemen were still operational. He'd managed to even do a bit of maintenance on Death, who was the 'iffiest' of the four. There had even been a message from the EEM ship, saying they were thirteen TUs out and closing fast.

But O'Toole had climbed onto the roof of the outpost's highest structure just before dawn. The infrared binoculars showed a lot more heat indications out in the brush than yesterday. The Gnarlies were gathering. Thousands of them. Far too many for both the Horsemen and him to take on. They, or more likely, their handlers, knew it wouldn't be long now. He thought about jury-rigging one of the salvaged comm-units to emit a powerful one-shot broadcast to alert the ship, maybe even get the Four Horsemen to fire warning bursts to scare it away. Maybe the ship could break away, maybe not. He suspected the Gnarlies had been prepared for such a thing. Either way, he was finished.

Suddenly O'Toole had an idea. He suited up and raced for the pile of salvaged materiel near the armory. There were ten blaster power units intact and charged. Gathering them in the arms of his MEK, he headed for the farthest trench. Keeping himself below the lip of the trench, he laid them out at ten-meter intervals along the trench floor. When he was done, he crept back to the point nearest the edge of the outpost's perimeter and waited.

The natives, as the cliché went, were getting restless. Somebody had set up a mortar and was firing a few erratically-spaced shots into the outpost. Some of them were getting close to the bunker-field hospital. O'Toole dug out a couple of grenades, fixed the location, armed them and let fly. The resulting shouts and screams were satisfying . A couple of Gnarlies crested the embankment, weapons firing. He shot one; Pestilence vaporised the other. The mortar stopped; there were no further would-be heroes.

A TU passed, then another. O'Toole managed a quick cat-nap there in the trench. He woke up, startled for a second. He'd been dreaming, the same old dream he got when things were going rough. The same girl, the same smile, the same blonde hair. But that had been twenty years ago, back on Dogleg. Twenty years since she had told him it was over, then left for some up-and-coming colony governor. He joined the Imperial Marines not long after. Twenty years and countless battles later, it still hurt.

Something up in the sky caught his attention. He flicked the MEKs vision to maximum. A light, getting brighter by the second. It was time. He raced down the trench toward the first power unit.

Somebody once joked that O'Toole could floss his teeth in an MEK. Another wag suggested a more ribald, basic activity. O'Toole grinned coldly as he opened a power unit and fiddled with its guts. In this case, it would be somebody else who would be screwed. When power unit's alarm began to warble, he counted to five and heaved it over a high embankment, where he remembered the greatest concentration of heat-indicators had been earlier.

The power unit disappeared, then (just like he'd been warned about back in Armorers' School) exploded a few seconds later. Bodies and parts of bodies flew into the air, followed by screams and shouts. O'Toole ran down the trench and did the same with the other nine, aiming at spots he'd mentally marked out earlier. Screaming Gnarlies began charging pell-mell toward the outpost. He followed up by nearly emptying his weapons into the melee. The Four Horsemen joined the fun, shooting at the attacking, and then retreating, natives. Death was the only casualty. Whatever internal fault it had finally manifested itself; the RDB simply stopped working.

Then there was nothing but silence and the occasional ping from the RDBs' cooling cannons. Two long TUs later, the Countess Anne made a dusty but uneventful landing in a clearing on the opposite side of the battlefield.

*      *      *      *       *

"We got here as soon as we could, Sergeant." Commodore Brandt, leader of the relief unit, said from around his cigar.

"No problem, Sir." O'Toole replied, trying not to let fatigue get the better of him, "I'm just glad you made it."

"You can make your report as soon as you get cleaned up, and gotten some sleep. Make sure you go to Sick Bay. I'll add my remarks, of course, but it'll go in to Hypso as is. By the way, you're eligible for a field commission. Hell, I'll even sign the papers making you a Lieutenant."

"Thanks, Commodore. But I think I like being a Sergeant. Even a breveted one"

"Consider it a permanent promotion. Anything I can do for you?"

"Are my wounded okay?"

"We've loaded all twelve aboard already. Another day or two and it'd have been dicey. Anything else?"

"Did you folks bring a defense system for this dump?"

"No. Assistant PD vanGruden turned it down. All I heard on the way out was how much of a waste of stellars it was in "this time of peace" to have to keep tanks and missiles and stuff around."

"Lars vanGruden?"

"Yeah, the Cost-Meister himself."

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Fire away, O'Toole."

"Your ground party is going to face the same fate as mine, unless you take some aggressive steps. Clear a free-fire zone a klick around the outpost. Do some hard negotiations with the locals. Best thing would be to either press the EEM PD for a defense system, or nuke the crap out of this star-system's landlords."

'Good ideas, Sergeant. Though the last two might be a bit difficult to get approval for." The Commodore stood up and looked out the window. "I'll have a talk with the Assistant PD. That's him out there now."

The two went outside and saw that vanGruden and his assistant were standing in the shade of the ship, not far from its ramp. The young woman somehow looked familiar.

"Are you this outpost's security leader ?" vanGruden demanded.

"I was, and nearly the whole farking team for a week as well," O'Toole replied evenly. He looked out the corner of his eye. Jasmine vanGruden had left the shade, and was wandering about.

"Don't you curse in front of me!" vanGruden's face colored.

"Ah, blow it out your ass," O'Toole said wearily.

"Commodore! I want this man court-martialed!"

"Now Sir," the Commodore raised a hand, "this man has been through a lot-" He was interrupted by a scream. The trio hurried over to where Jasmine was standing on top of an embankment, hands in front of her face.

"I was just walking about," she said through her fingers, "and I saw… I saw this! There must be hundreds of them there!"

"Yeah, I was a bit busy this morning," O'Toole replied as he gestured toward the dead Gnarlies, "I didn't get a chance to count them all, what with trying to make the landing zone safe."

The Assistant PD's face went pale as he realized what would've happened had they landed with all those natives waiting for them - if they had ever landed.

*      *      *      *     *

The Countess Anne was preparing for its final jump, the one that would take it straight to Hypso. Vice-Manager DeKalb wearily strapped himself into a chair and waited for the all-clear signal.

He had been busy on the return trip. Another ship was enroute to Outpost 4491, carrying more ground combat equipment, a diplomatic team, and the latest outpost-defense system. Lars vanGruden had wasted no time in signing all the requests.

At last the ship had jumped into Capellan and made its way to its destination. DeKalb headed for the dining area and came across Sergeant O'Toole coming the other way. The soldier, silent and morose on the journey out, greeted DeKalb warmly and went down the passageway whistling.

"What happened to the Sergeant"" he asked as he entered the compartment, "somebody spike his stim-brew, or something?"

"I don't know," Jasmine replied, "but he's been that way ever since I talked to him last night after dinner."

"What did you two talk about?" vanGruden asked.

"Not much, Papa," she replied. "He mentioned that I reminded him of someone. We talked for a while and I showed him some of our family holos. Suddenly he looked at one, stopped, then started laughing. He was still laughing when he left."

"Which one did you show him?" She reached for her data-pad, scrolled for a bit, then handed it to vanGruden. It was a family picture. A stolid-looking Prussian man, a young blonde girl, and an angry-looking heavyset blonde woman, double-chinned with piggy eyes in a face that once might have been beautiful.

"That's when we were at Tami Krieger's wedding, remember?" Jasmine said, then giggled. "Mama had a devil of time finding a gown that fit." Even her father smiled at the memory, albeit ruefully.

*     *     *     *     *

In the cargo hold, O'Toole was lovingly washing down his battered MEK. Every so often he'd pause, laugh, and shake his head.

"I might've gotten Outpost 4491," he said to no one in particular, "but vanGruden, I'd take ten of those to the fate you ended up with!"

That whole, long story, and only one phone call during it. It was a wrong number to boot - somebody got our number confused with a sex-chat line. Kinki took care of it, though. Bad news: she did it gratis. Oh, well. More news from the ROC front:

Dumpster Joins the ROC

IND Colony Dumpster, in AUDREY-178, has joined the Republic of Corona. Upon the advice of their retiring governor, Minister Deevah (of the Dumpster Deevahs), the colonists voted overwhelmingly to become part of the Republic. The administration of the colony will be taken under the wing of the Clan o'the Rock, and the colony will be renamed ROC Lost Angeles, in honor of one of the Clan's homelands. The new governor, Lady Chyna Kantner, oldest daughter of SAdm Kantner and Lady Grey, will shortly arrive in the colony with a CC/full of much needed materials.

"Dumpster Deevahs?" Wonder if they're a remote relation to the Daisy Chane and her family?  Maybe it's me, but I kinda miss the double-entendre days. Computer geeks and programmers just don't have that kind of dirty-mindedness.

But Lost Angeles -that's a great colony name. If I ever set one up myself, I might consider calling it IND Hotel Californya. Maybe IND Lost Wages Then again, it may be safer just to go with a post-office box number. Less chance of getting targeted, ya know...

And speaking of targeting, the RIP could really use your help. 204 wasn't a good year for RIP gunners. Oh, they had plenty of guns, and they could hit parked targets. It was the moving ones and the ones that shot back that caused trouble. Please give generously so RIP gunners can get more schooling.

Rumor and Innuendo

by Kinki Dewins

* Leaping Lizards! Actually, flying lizards. There's rumors that somebody came across a colony of Swinettian refugees out in the Nexus. Rumor also has it that they were also packing up and moving again after having been discovered.

* Lastly, remember this name: Franco DePanko. Why? Because he asked me to, silly!

Ads & Stuff

FOR SALE: One Terraforming Alien Artifact. Will transform sea water into dry land. Guaranteed to work. Field tested. Scientific study of proper utilization included. Asking $5,000,000, or OBO! Will consider trade for advanced techs. Transportation negotiable. Interested parties should contact Dr. Feelgood, Kanterrocs@webbwireless.net. FOE & IND need not bother!

Wow, did this issue go by fast or what?

Well, we doubled our last RIPathon total. Two stellars.Unfortunately the courier taking it to the STC office for deposit got mugged by - you guessed it - a pirate. Ironic, huh?

I promised Duckbutt he could edit Issue 74. Ben and Don sez they'll work up something, we've been told we'll have an interview, and Pouting Bruce promised a fashion article so he can earn the exorbitant paycheck he gets. See you next year. Until then....

The Ringbone Gazette would like to thank the following:

Silver Cascade (IND Thunderlance)

Neil, the BSE Gamemaster

Ben Thar and Don Thatt

Rolling Thunder Games

Slow Motion Games

The Upsie-Daisie Club

Vickie Lloyd (wherever you are)

Capellan Periphery Times

Viewpoint G.C., Mesa AZ

Water Canyon Coffee Co., Yucca Valley CA