SFSTORY: HMS Golden Lance #06 - Down on the Planet

Time Agent 357, Champion of Truth, Justice, and the Ability to Consume Large Amounts of Alcoholic Beverages (retired), materialized in a flash of rainbow colors. He was accompanied by Omegas the Immortal (former) and Ralph the Giant Space Weasel of Anthrax V (really). They had tracked two fighter craft from an attacking ship to this planet after the battle was over. They were looking for answers as to why they had been attacked regularly ever since returning to the storyline. They were not happy.

Well, 357 was not happy. Omegas was slightly happy at the thought of torturing the pilots of the fighter craft for information. Ralph was downright cheerful, but hey, that's just Ralph.

357, in full military mode, attempted to move stealthily through the woods, closing in on the clearing where the fighter craft had been spotted. His movements were not as stealthy as he would have liked due to three factors:

1) Ralph was humming a happy tune as he walked. As weaseloid lips are not exactly designed for humming, this sounded more like a trumpet.

2) Omegas was amusing himself by taking potshots at any small furry woodland creatures they happened to run across.

and 3) The trees had a disturbing habit of picking themselves up and walking away whenever he tried to hide behind one.

"All this seems somehow familiar," said 357, stepping around some dogs which appeared to be firmly rooted to the ground and providing the first dialog in this chapter.

"It should," answered Ralph. "It's Latigid. I'm pretty sure we've all been here before. I was dumped here many times by Authors who couldn't think of any place better to strand me. Luckily, most of them forgot about this place eventually and took to returning me to the Netherspace Nympho Beach when I wasn't needed."

Omegas, discomforted by the look of wistful homesickness on Ralph's face, covered his discomfort by acting cool and aloof. This was, however, the way he always tried to look, so nobody noticed. He then pouted and decided to kick at one of the dogs. This turned out to not be a very good idea because, as mentioned before, the dog appeared to be rooted to the ground.

"Ouch," muttered Omegas, finding that the dog was made out of some substance much harder than his foot. He raised one hand and made a complicated gesture which ended with an extended finger pointed at the offending canine. The animal did not burst into flames, confirming to Omegas that his near-infinite powers had not yet returned. Sigh.

357 returned from scouting the area. "There are two humanoids in the clearing up ahead. They're cooking something over a fire. I can't find any sign of sentries, sensors, automated defenses, or anything else to keep us from walking right in and taking them by surprise."

"Yeah," hmphed Omegas. "Like that ever works."

"Quite right," answered 357. "We need a diversion."

Omegas was turning to give 357 a suitably sarcastic remark when he felt himself being shoved from behind. Omegas stumbled out into the clearing, tripped over a dog, and landed in the middle of the cooking fire. As the two humanoids rushed to rescue him, 357 came around from behind and got the drop on them.

Omegas shook off the humanoids and prepared to rend 357 limb from limb when he realized that he had not been hurt by his exposure to the flames. He looked down and noticed a small device attached to his belt, which seemed to be emitting a golden glow. "A miniature shield emitter of some kind?"

"Just a little gizmo that Val and I have been working on. I had Ralph slip it on you when you weren't looking. You might want to remove it now. They have a nasty habit of blowing up after a couple of minutes. We're still working the bugs out."

Omegas chucked the shield emitter back into the woods, relieved but slightly disappointed that it did not explode as advertised. He joined 357 in hulking menacingly over their two captives. Ralph, in the mean time, occupied himself by salvaging their dinner.

357 waved his pistol in the general direction of where he assumed his captives' gonads would be located. Omegas, not to be outdone, did the same. They did not notice that they were aiming nowhere near the same general direction.

357 lowered his already low, gravelly voice, and said "Which one of you wants to explain to me exactly what is going on?"

One captive looked at the other. The first said something like "Svb, yfwwb. Dszg hzb dv hkvzp lmob rm gsrh lyhxfiv wrzovxg gszg gsvb xzm'g klhhryob fmwvihgzmw?"

"Hlfmwh tllw!" the other one answered. "Nzbyv gsvb'oo tvg ylivw zmw tl zdzb."

This roughly translated as "Hey, buddy. What say we speak only in this obscure dialect that they can't possibly understand?" with the reply being "Sounds good! Maybe they'll get bored and go away."

357, Omegas, and Ralph looked at each other in confusion, as whatever usual technological, natural, or supernatural means they normally used to understand any form of spoken or written communication suddenly appeared to have failed them. 357, however, was undaunted. He strode forward and grabbed the shorter captive by his collar, pulling him up to eye level. Not to be outdone, Omegas tried to do the same. His captive, however, was almost as tall as he was, so the effect was not quite the same.

Looking his captive straight in the eye, 357 clearly said "Qfhg sld hgfkrw wl blf gsrmp R zn?"

The captive's eyes got quite big. "I'm sorry. I must have reverted to my childhood teachings during a moment of stress. Is this better?"

"Much," replied 357, setting the captive back down.

"I am Brnie," said the shorter, round, orange one. "This is my partner, Eert. We owe you a debt of gratitude for destroying the ship were were serving on."

"Gratitude?" queried Omegas.

"Yes," answered Eert, the taller, angular, yellow one. "We were conscripted some time ago. We never figured out who exactly was behind it. We were just ordered around by other prisoners."

"We were forced to fight or be killed ourselves," put in Brnie.

Ralph, deciding the Brnie and Eert could be trusted, brought over several plates of the food they had been preparing. Over dinner, the two former fighter pilots told their tale of woe. Kidnapped at an early age. Brainwashed, but their brains were luckily resistant to the particular techniques used. Forced to go on raid after raid. Always looking for a way to escape.

"It didn't get really bad," finished Brnie, "until the group started taking outside contracts. The latest client really gave me the creeps. He's a total psycho."

"That's why we ditched," put in Eert. "That guy said he'd kill all of us if we didn't bring back Time Agent 357's head."

357, who had survived more attempts on his head than most people had survived days of their lives, didn't seem too concerned about this. "Did the guy have a name?"

Eert and Brnie consulted briefly. "Yes. Hyperiok. The guy's name was Greez Hyperiok."

Meanwhile, back aboard the HMS Golden Lance, Doctor Bing Von Spleen had set the ship's computer to searching the Galactic News Archives, deciding that he needed to catch up on what was going on at this particular point in space and time. He stood ready to review the results once they came in.

"Snore," he said quietly in his trembling readiness.

The VAL 9000 computer, recognizing that Spleen was taking advantage of the lull in the action to get some much-needed downtime, not surprising considering his advanced age, took it upon herself to answer the comm signal from the planet below.

"Honey, I'm home," shouted 357 with false cheer as he stepped off the TTT platform, followed by Omegas and Ralph.

"I'm not sure it was wise to leave those two down on that planet," Omegas opined in a rumbling bass voice.

"Oh, they're harmless," answered Ralph in a voice which was somewhere between a tenor and a squeaking door hinge. "Besides, I think they make a lovely couple and will no doubt soon be blessed with the pitter patter of little feet."

Omegas felt his eyebrows climb. "A lovely couple?"

"They were male and female of their species, weren't they?" said Ralph in a faintly distressed tone. "I have such a hard time distinguishing between all you hominids."

357, in the mean time, had reached the control room. He saw that the VAL 9000 computer was already searching GalNews. "Val, see if you can track down the current whereabouts of one Greez Hyperiok."

=Greez Hyperiok?= came her startled reply. =The renegade Time Agent who almost killed us all on multiple occasions?=

"The same."

=Working.=

"Did someone say Hyperiok?" Spleen said, coming slowly awake.

"He did," answered Omegas as he and Ralph joined the others in the control room. Several minutes were wasted as they moved around, each finding his seat, logging into a console, checking his email, etc. Then several more minutes were wasted when they discovered that vital plot information was about to be revealed, requiring that they retire to the nearest briefing room to hear it, taking a lengthy detour through the engineering and cargo areas of the ship to get there.

"Stupid 'show every set in every episode' rule," muttered Omegas.

=I've checked GalNews and, adjusting for our relative time and space, it seems that Greez Hyperiok is currently in the SuperMaxi Security wing of Time Central,= reported VAL 9000.

"Well, Eert and Brnie seemed honestly convinced that Hyperiok was behind this, so I think we should check it out," said 357. "Val, move the ship to some reality where we can contact Time Central. And check to see who's currently stationed there who is both competent and owes us a favor."

Firing up the Cheez-Whiz Interdimensional Drive, VAL 9000 kicked the HMS Golden Lance into another dimension where the ship's primary fuel, Spam (Sickening, Putrid, Artificial Meat), had its full power. From there, it was a short jump to a major communications network.

=Checking for current Time Police assignments. Let's see... Most Time Central personnel appear to be on leave. Ian Lockheed and Sean Landorian are even taking a break from trying to catch up on the paperwork you dumped on them, though Lockheed has logged a request to go searching for you, 357.=

"I'm not sure I count them among the 'competent' contigent, anyway," Spleen muttered to himself.

=Hmm. Omegas, according to this, you're hanging around with Matt and Linda in another storyline.=

"Looks like I'm right here," stated Omegas simply.

=There must be some transmission errors. It shows 357 currently on the Batelguinn station. Have we ever even been to Batelguinn?=

"I don't think so."

=Floyd Cobalt?= As nobody had any objections to this suggestion, VAL 9000 sent a priority message. =Live feed coming in,= she announced almost immediately.

"My, but that was quick," said Ralph.

"One of the benefits of time technology," explained 357. "Floyd probably took hours, days, or even weeks to get around to reading the message and checking it out for us, then simply sent the answer back in time to get to us here and now. The only time it's a problem is when you get the reply before you decide to send the message. Why, I remember one time..."

"357, let's get to something remotely resembling a plot point while we're all still breathing," said Spleen crotchedly.

"Oh, sorry. Val, play back the message."

=Perhaps you didn't hear me. It's a live feed.=

"Live feed? At this distance? Floyd must have vitally important information. Put him through!"

The image of Floyd Cobalt appeared on the screen. True to his name, he was a lovely shade of blue. He otherwise resembled a cross between the spokesman for a major car wax company and that turtle you have to draw to prove you have artistic talent. He was rather worse for wear, having a bad black eye and his left arm in a sling. Describing how a basically horizontal quadraped with no shoulders to speak of can wear his left arm in a sling is left as an exercise for the reader.

"357, am I glad to hear from you!" said Floyd Cobalt's image. "Greez Hyperiok has escaped!"

Who is Greez Hyperiok?
How has he escaped?
Is he really behind the attacks our characters have been under?
Exactly how is Floyd wearing that sling, anyway?

None of the answers to the above questions will not be appearing in future non-postings to what may or may not be Sfstory, the story where we really, really care about our readers.

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