SFSTORY: HMS Golden Lance #02 - The Exposition

A well-shielded, well-equipped, long-range research vessel slowly cruised some seventeen light-minutes away from the temporal, dimensional, and spacial anomaly. The battered remains of another ship, if one charitably wished to call it that, were in tow. The anomaly, is if pouting due to having lost its victim, fizzled out of existance in a shower of sparks.

"Fizzle," said the anomaly.

Onboard, Dr. Bing Von Spleen hummed his #1 hit tune "She Blinded me with Spam" as he programmed the navicomputer. Dr. Spleen, PhD, MD, and SoB. Dr. Spleen, the cleanest complexioned man in the known multiverse. Dr. Speen, known by many as the foremost spamologiest in the galaxy (because he had killed the other three-most). Dr. Spleen, his unruly shock of hair faded to a dull almost-white which would have shocked anyone who hadn't seen him lately. Come to think of it, his face, though still pre-puberty clean, was wizened with age.

Secure in the knowledge that his navicomputer was actually heading away from the location of the above-mentioned anomaly at a non-negative realspace velocity, Spleen left the bridge and headed down to the medical bay.

"Doctor Spleen to the medical bay. Doctor Spleen to the medical bay," droned an overhead speaker nearby.

"I'm already here, you silly machine," huffed Spleen huffily in his best old codger voice. "Now stop that infernal racket or I'll disable your voice circuits like I did for the ship's main computer. Why I ever thought it would be a good idea to give computers like you personalities..."

"I have finished the bioscans on the two patients," the voice said when Spleen finally ran down. "They do not appear to be human."

"Duh!" exclaimed Spleen, showing that in spite of his apparent age, he was still a kid at heart. And mind, for that matter. "What do you think those medical files I uploaded into you were? Poorly-written science fiction?"

"That would not have been outside your previously demonstrated range of destructive behavior," answered the voice. Sensing that Spleen was closing on the nearest speaker grill with a pair of wire cutters, the voice decided to change the subject. "I have the report ready if you'd like to read it."

Having proven that he who has the last laugh has the wire cutters, Spleen settled into a nearby chair equipped with a vidscreen. He then flipped the vidscreen down flat to use it as a tray for the drink he was pouring himself. "No thanks. Just tell me the highlights."

"Autoquack v1.4 Bioscan report," began the Autoquack 1.4 unit which belonged to the voice we've been hearing. "Subject 1 is a humanoid male. Name, Time Agent 357. Race, classified. Universe of origin, classified. Planet of origin, classified. Age, approximately 500 years. Subject's cells appear to be regenerating at an incredible rate and he will be conscious in approximately two (2) hours."

The Autoquack paused for a moment to see how Spleen would react to this report. Spleen reacted by belching quietly and pouring himself another drink. The Autoquack continued.

"Subject B is a humanoid male. Name, Omegas. Race, unknown. Universe of origin, unknown. Planet of origin, unknown. Age, unknown, but dirt under his fingernails checks out at over 10 million years old. Aside from some unusual residual energy readings, subject checks out as a more or less normal humanoid and not has the god-like immortal alien, or alien-like immortal god, of nearly omnipotent abilities that I was told to expect. He will be conscious in approximately one (1) hour."

Autoquack cleared its electronic throat before continuing. "Doctor Spleen, I can't properly treat my patients without full access to their medical histories. Much of Subject 1's medical file is classified, and most of Subject B's medical file reads as religious propoganda. Also, I am still unable to connect to the Medical Center computer to check on the latest treatment protocols and properly bill your insurace company."

"I'm afraid the ship's main electronic communication network is still offline due to solar storm activity in the area," lied Spleen as he tossed the ship's main electronic communication network fuse into the trashcan by the door. "Adjust treatment so that both 357 and Omegas will come around at about the same time."

"That would violate my medical ethics," stated Autoquack. Noting the wire cutters that Spleen was clicking menacingly in his general direction, it continued with "But I'll see what I can do."

Spleen spent the next two hours performing vital ship maintenance chores, such as cooking a large meal, having a large bowel movement, and taking a short nap. The ship's computer woke him up by accessing his bed's controls and dumping him onto the floor. Spleen rose, yawned, stretched, and staggered to the medical bay just in time to see the Autoquack do the same thing to its patients.

357 slowly climbed to his feet, moving each limb individually as if he wasn't quite sure each was still connected to his body. 357 was a good head taller than Spleen, more because the latter tended to hunch over in a "B" movie elderly mad scientist sort of way than because of any difference in their respective heights. 357's full head of dark hair was cut short, graying slightly at the temples. His well-tanned body was muscular without being overly so, well-fed looking without being fat, making his utilitarian jumpsuit look like some kind of a uniform. His cool gray eyes were both friendly and menacing. He placed his worn but comfortable captain's hat on his head at a rakish angle. The combination of worldly wisdom and still-youthful good looks made him irresistable to women of all ages. In short, 357 actually looked like what every middle-aged male being in any galaxy who buys the local equivalent of a sports car and tries to date female beings half his age only imagines that he looks like.

Omegas likewise slowly climbed to his feet. Omegas was a head taller than even 357. His untamed mane of dark hair cascaded down his shoulders. His dark skin would have made the average mahogany desk turn green with envy. His huge muscles were barely visible beneath the garish tropical paradise of the Hawaiian shirt he was wearing. His feet were clad in a pair of stylish sandals. His hands found a pair of sunglasses and he placed them over his eyes, which were faintly glowing with an unholy reddish color.

357 and Omegas eyed each other uneasily, as if each considered the other a particularly nasty bug which he wanted to step on, but did wish to ruin a perfectly good pair of shoes by doing so.

"So," said 357, glancing from Omegas to Spleen.

"So," said Omegas, glancing from Spleen to 357.

"So," said Spleen, glancing from 357 to Omegas.

"So what?" said the Autoquack, glancing from nobody to nobody because its design did not include video monitoring equipment.

"SHUT UP!" screamed everyone else who, for all their differences, were all agreed that most electronic devices served no useful purpose and should be seen and not heard in any event. Pausing only to rip a few handfulls of electronics from the Autoquack's innards, they filed out of the medical bay and into a briefing room located nearby.

"It's been a long time, Time Agent 357. Longer for you than for me, I think," began Spleen. He offered 357 a beer.

"Seeing as I've spent the last 150 years subjective time trapped in an anomaly of some sort, I'd have to agree with you," replied 357. He accepted the beer.

"An anomaly that you'd still be trapped in, dude, had I not drained my almost limitless power getting us out of it," put in Omegas. He took a beer for himself and proceeded to chug it down.

357 sipped a small sip of his favorite beverage. "An anomaly which wouldn't even exist if it hadn't been for you. My memories are a little vague, but I'm sure this is somehow all your fault."

"Oh, sure, blame the has-been immortal. It couldn't possibly have been a Time Agent screw-up, could it? Not that I remember, either..."

"Ahem," interrupted Spleen. "All that aside, I rescued you because I need your help, 357. I have two major problems, and you're one of the few people I think can pull my chestnuts out of this fire."

"I supposed you rescued me because you need my incredible knowledge and power." Omegas chuckled in his deep voice. "What's to keep me from just killing you and cutting out of here instead?"

Spleen chuckled as well, though with a slight squeak which rather ruined the effect. "Actually, the Autoquack kind of picked you up by accident. I wasn't expecting you. In fact, my records show that you should be in another author's storyline altogether at this point in space/time/spam. Besides, I wouldn't expect you to help if it was the end of the world. Which, incidentally, it might just be. And, in case you hadn't noticed, all of this ship's internal defense systems are currently dedicated to tracking you and blasting you to ions at the first hint of you manifesting any superhuman abilities."

Omegas briefly managed to look concerned, but only in an extremely hip, devil-may-care kind of way. He went back to his beer.

Spleen turned back to 357. "In my personal timeline, it's only been a few months since I sold you the HMS Golden Lance, which you planned to take on an extended road trip to celebrate your retiring from the Time Police. In your timeline, you've had many grand adventures since then, which apparently ended with you and Omegas here getting trapped in that anomaly. But in mine, I've continued my Spam research and made an important advancement in the realm of quasi-food power sources: the ABPSARII, or Automatic Beet Peeler and Sub-Atomic Reintegrator Mark II!" He paused for applause. There was none. "The ABPSARII has all the benefits of the original ABPSARI (ABPSAR Mark I), very few of the faults, and incorporates both temporal and dimensional travel as well as advanced search functions."

"Search functions?" asked 357.

"Yes!!!" said Spleen calmly. "Specify a particular type of object you want, and the ABPSARII can search through all timelines in all alterverses until it finds that object for you. Likewise, specify a certain situation you want to be a part of, and the ABPSARII can find it somewhere, somewhen in the multiverse and transport you there."

"So what?" snickered Omegas. "I've done that myself a few times. I searched out an alterverse full of powerful demonic warriors who were willing to follow me into battle against Time Central."

"You did give me the idea," admitted Spleen. "However, you method involved a mini-ABPSARI, an experimental time travel device devised by then-Time Chief Logan, and your own then-not-inconsiderable power. The ABPSARII will allow that kind of wish fulfillment by anybody. Indeed, everybody could soon have everything they could ever want. No more hunger. No more war. And huge profits for me!"

357 finished his beer. "Sounds like Heaven, Nirvana, and Paradise all rolled into one. How is this a problem?"

Spleen bowed his head in shame. "The prototype has been stolen. I need your skills to track it down. You know more about travel between the alterverses and temporal zones than anybody else."

Omegas considered all this, and decided that tagging along would be good for a few laughs, and that access to Dr. Spleen's advanced research equipment would be his best chance to regain his powers and immortality. He decided to stifle his boredom and contribute to the conversation. "You said there were two problems, doc. What would be the second?"

"Bloop! Bloop! Bloop!" the Red Alert klaxons blooped bloopedly.

The well-shielded, well-equipped, long-range research vessel, now some twenty light-minutes away from the former location of a temporal, dimensional, and spacial anomaly, shuddered under the sustained blaster fire of several larger ships. The remains of the rescued ship, outside the protection of the shields, exploded seconds later. The research ship went spinning ass over teakettle.

"Um, that," answered Spleen, hiding under the briefing room table. 357 jumped up and went looking for the ship's control room. Omegas helped himself to another beer.

Who are these mysterious attackers?
Why are they attacking our heroes?
Why doesn't the research ship have a name?
Why is there so much boring exposition?

Find out the answers in the next exciting episode of SFSTORY!

Copyright 2006 by Troy H. Cheek. Free to read, but please reprint only with permission.