SFSTORY: HMS Golden Lance #29 - This is Your Afterlife!

The Maudlin-class time cruiser HMS Dentless, having finally drifted far enough away from the Planet of the Supermarkets to avoid it's Zipper-Locked^tm Protective Field, restored primary power. From the tip of her ultra-relativistic bow to the base of her mega-dimensional stern, she gleamed in sparkling perfection. In a daring show of bravery, or perhaps a brave show of daring, the HMS Dentless swooped back towards the planet, heedless and unheeding and not putting any heed to the missiles speeding from said planet. With pinpoint precision, the Dentless swept close to a drifing ship, locked onto it with a non-copyright-infringing towing beam, and whisked it to safety. The missiles reached the former location of the drifting ship, found nothing, mulled it over for a bit, and finally decided to go back to base for coffee and donuts.

Some distance away, being towed at great speed an even greater distance away, a room in the formerly drifting ship specifically designed to receive visitors suddenly received visitors. A device known as the TTT (Temporal Teleportation Terminal) flared to life, revealing a group of spacesuited figures.

"Atmospheric readings confirmed," one reported as he fiddled with the controls of the (assumed) scanning devices attached to the crotch of his spacesuit. "Oxygen levels are nominal, other gases within acceptable limits, but life support functioning only at minimal levels. The synthetic gravity plates are at 80% output and falling. They should last as least as long as the oxygen."

"Helmets off!" ordered the apparent leader, doing so himself before the echoes died, which was no great feat considering how loudly he bellowed. Captain David Morgen jutted out a jaw of heroic proportion and started barking orders.

If he noticed that his crew failed to remove their own helmets until long after he had stopped speaking, he did not comment on it.

"The bridge is this way, sir," announced Fim, Morgen's long-suffering and loyal second in command, leading the way down the corridor. A corridor that looked more like a hallway in a motor home than a spaceship. Other crewmembers noted similar anomolies as they headed in the other direction looking for the engineering section.

Just as Morgen and Fim reached what they assumed to be the bridge, the lights came on. They looked around and noticed a central monitor which seemed to be flashing the words "PAGING FILE CORRUPT - LOADING BACKUP COPY" over and over.

"Well, Fig," began Morgen.

"That's Fim, sir," corrected Fim.

"Well, Fin, if the central computer can recover, control of this vessel will be much easier."

"Yes, sir," Fim answered, trying not to roll his three rows of eyes at this statement of the obvious. "But only if..."

The ship's speakers, many of which were mounted in attractive faux-woodgrain particle board boxes, began to click and buzz. Soon, a sexily feminine though irritatingly nasal artificial voice issued from them. =Backup copy checksums check out. Integration into synthetic intelligence core program completed. Ready for your orders, Time Agent 357.=

Totally oblivious to Fim's shushing motions or his stealthy backing away from the monitor, Morgen spoke to the computer. "Computer, tell me-- urk!"

Throughout the ship, bulkheads closed, forcefields activated, and cats were put out for the night. Scanning devices, and several other items which might have been scanning devices but probably weren't, swivelled to point at Morgen and Fim.

"You want to avoid startling a shipboard intelligence like that," Fim mentioned in passing as he tried to hide behind his captain. "They're a bit touchy when they first reboot."

"Oh, of course," Morgen replied. "SI CSC 420, back at Intersteller University."

"Home of the Fighting Cephalopods. Go Pods!"

"Go pods!"

=INTRUDERS! IDENTIFY YOURSELVES OR BE DESTROYED!=

"Amazing command voice for a synthetic intelligence, sir."

"The owner must be a fellow graduate. Only someone taught Heroic Speaking by old man Huckersucker could speak with a voice like that."

=YOU HAVE 15 SECONDS TO COMPLY!= The scanning devices, and several other items which might have been scanning devices but probably weren't, refined their aims.

Captain David Morgen of the Maudlin-class time cruiser HMS Dentless jutted out his jaw and began rattling off his name, rank, and past accomplishments. If left to his own devices, he would no doubt get around to mentioning his Time Police userid and passcode after 15 minutes or so.

Fim, knowing that they had less than 15 seconds, simply held his Time Police ID badge towards the nearest scanner.

=Identity confirmed,= said the speakers as the scanning devices, and several other items which might have been scanning devices but probably weren't, swivelled back into their housings. =Members of the Interstellar Time Police, welcome to the HMS Golden Lance.=

"Time Agent 357's ship," Fim put in for Morgen's benefit.

"Oh, of course," Morgen acknowledged. "Computer, what is the locaton of your owner, Time Agent 357?"

=I don't know! I can't locate him anywhere!= wailed the computer, which followed up with a very realistic simulation of a young woman crying.

Time Agent 357 was at that moment standing on a street corner. All he could see in any direction he cared to look were hotels, casinos, television stations, and movie studios. Although 357 had never been to the Earth cities of Las Vegas or Hollywood, he could at that point nonetheless accurately describe what their lovechild must look like. He was relieved to note that his travelling companions were nearby.

The companions were, in no particular order, as follows: Diana Dark of Earth, girlfriend to Time Agent 357; Doctor Bing Von Spleen, also of Earth, Spamologist and Mad Scientist; Ralph the Giant Space Weasel of Anthrax V, actually a peace-loving weaseloid from Leibowitz IV and an accomplished ukulele player in his own right; and the timeless immortal known only as Omegas. Also standing near them was the ghostly outline of what looked to be a 12 year old human girl.

Time Agent 357 activated his wrist communicator. "357 to Golden Lance. 357 to Golden Lance. Come in, Val."

"I'm right here, 357," the outline of the girl said. "My synthetic intelligence seems to have been separated from my physical circuitry."

The miniature computer in the wrist communicator, itself a stripped-down copy of the core synthetic intelligence of the HMS Golden Lance, officially designated the VAL 9000 and known to her friends as "Val," confirmed this.

"Curiouser and curiouser," muttered 357, who had never read Lewis Carrol but who had once again found himself in a world that would have made any beyond the looking glass seem sane by comparison.

Idle speculation was squashed when the group noticed they were being rapidly approached by a humanoid male. His three-piece lime green liesure suit clashed with his pea green complexion, though the oversized lapels did take attention away from his equally oversized ears. "Hi there!" he said with a smile which showed off every one of his perfectly capped teeth. "I'm Guy Smarmy, and This Is Your Afterlife!"

"No, it's not," Diana stated firmly.

"I'm you're guide. I'll take your through the steps of... I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I said this isn't my afterlife," Diana stated even more firmly. "My afterlife involves clouds and wings and harps and pearly gates..."

"I've seen it myself," 357 confirmed. Ralph also agreed.

"I used to work there," Omegas put in, reluctantly.

Spleen stated that his afterlife was the same as Diana's, though with a much greater unspoken probability of involving flames and brimstone and pitchforks. Ralph described endless green fields full of food and females. 357 briefly sketched great crypts where previous incarnations were stored until the soul gained true enlightenment.

"As a timeless immortal," Omegas stated, "I do not actually have an afterlife per se, as I have always existed and always will."

"I'm not even an organic lifeform," the ghostly afterimage of the VAL 9000 computer put in, clearly distressed.

Guy looked confused for a few seconds, but then smiled brightly. "You're originally from another dimension, aren't you?"

Spleen answered. "If you mean that the last alternate universe, or alterverse, we remember being in just prior to this one was not the one where we originally originated, that is correct."

Guy smiled even more, if that was possible. "That explains a great deal. You see, when you died, or whatever it is that you lifeforms do, you were in what we refer to as the home dimension. People, or whatever it is that you lifeforms are, who die in the home dimension spend their afterlife in this pocket subdimension that we call Afterlife. I'm your guide, Guy Smarmy."

"Guide to what?" Ralph asked cautiously.

"Why, Guide through the Trials to determine your position and standing here in the Afterlife."

"T-t-trials?" Spleen spluttered. "You mean we're going to have to go to court and defend our all actions in our former life?" Spleen started sweating profusely for no apparent reason.

"Oh, sorry. That didn't translate well. Not so much trials as competitions. Contests of skill and knowledge. Filmed live before a studio audience."

"Gameshows," Diana concluded. "Our fate in this Afterlife is determined by how well we do on gameshows. A fitting afterlife for an alterverse that contains the Planet of the Supermarkets."

Guy nodded and, once again, smiled.

Diana matched his smile with one of her own. Those lazy summers at her Aunt's house lounging in front of the television all day long were about to pay off. "Bring it on."

Guy took them from gameshow to gameshow, explaining how each worked. Guy himself was a gameshow host for many of the games, though naturally he was not hosting that day as he was taking his turn to act as guide. He was quite proud of his performance during his own Trials, and justifiably so. He had scored so high that he was given a position as one of the gameshow hosts. Only one reward was rated as higher than that.

"And what would that be?" 357 asked.

"Oh, it roughly translates as reincarnation. The winner would get to go back to his previous existance, or any other existance he wanted, and live his life over again. Or pick it up at the point it left off. I'm a little fuzzy on that. Nobody's gotten that reward in the last 2000 years, though, so don't get your hopes up."

"Oh, we won't," Diana assured him. "Here's a list of the games we'd like to compete in. You say we can compete in them as a group?"

"You may, since you died, or whatever it is that you lifeforms do, as a group. But be warned that whatever fate you win as a group is shared by the group, even if individual performance might rate a better fate or one more suited to your particular preferences."

"We'll take that risk," 357 decided.

Guy shook his head as he smiled and directed them into the studio where Wheel of Misfortune, the first on their list of games, was being filmed live before a studio audience.

In game after game, the crew of the HMS Golden Lance kicked butt. Time Agent 357, thanks to training and innate ability, had a thorough understanding of temporal paradox and statistical theory. Diana wowed with her detailed knowledge of TV trivia and her instinctive understanding of gameplay, often intuiting loopholes and bonuses. Spleen turned out to be a steady source of scientific information when kept away from the complimentary drink bar. The VAL 9000, though still disoriented from finding herself without a physical body, still proved to retain her knowledge of all Uselessnet news feeds, allowing her to ace all questions concerning recent events.

"Who are Moses and his ass," Omegas found himself saying a few days later. "And I'll take Bible Trivia for $100,000,000 to round out the category, Elax."

"I'm sorry, time is up. And as we go into the final lightning round, we see that newcomer Omegas is in the lead with 14,432,344,000 points, returning champion Baraxunus is slightly behind with 1,400 points, and Richard from South Beach is trailing with -88,200 points. We'll be right back after this very short break."

"Whew," 357 wheezed. "Good going there, Omegas. I thought we were goners for sure."

"Nonsense," Omegas rumbled, trying to sound cool and detached but nevertheless sounding very pleased with himself. "An entire game round devoted to religion was practically giving me the points. I've dated most of those deities."

"Still, I am impressed. And Diana, the way you rolled those dice... I always knew you were good with your hands, but this..."

They were interupted by Guy Smarmy. "I was just adding up your overall total. I've never seen a score this high. You beat me by the end of the first day." Guy was still smiling, but it seemed a little forced. His teeth had lost some of their lustre. "In fact, I'd guess you're very close to winning reincarnation."

"What was the score in this game so far?" 357 asked, rapidly punching numbers into his wrist computer. "Hey! If we can score this high in the next game, we've made it!"

Guy's smile darkened slightly. "But you forget, lifeform, that this is your last game, and you just have one more round to go."

"And we're back. And the topic for the final lightning round is... Ukulele Stringing in the Dark Ages of Leibowitz IV!"

Ralph, who had previously stayed mostly in the background except for his surprise knowledge of Bullexian musicals the day before, shouldered his way to the podium and placed his weaseloid paw on the answer button, poised and ready. "Elax, we'd like to bet it all."

Things were quiet about the HMS Golden Lance. Perhaps, too quiet.

The repair crews of the HMS Dentless, having finished restoring all systems in both ships, were taking a well-deserved rest period. Most of the rest of the crew had taken landing craft down to a nearby planet which was supposed to be a shore leave paradise. At least, all the crewmembers who had come back to the ship to have their heads reattached had described it as such. Captain Morgen was sitting in the bridge gazing at the HMS Golden Lance keeping station exactly one klick in the distance, musing to himself of what it might be like to own his own interdimensional ship and traipse the cosmos as a free-roaming Time Agent.

As such, young Fim as the only person aboard the Golden Lance to observe the miracle.

=Attention, young Fim,= the voice of the ship's VAL 9000 computer blared at him. =I'm reading an increase in organic molecules in the control room. Are you venting methane again?=

"Well, certainly not here on the bridge. I mean, that is, in your control room."

A barely-visible haze began to clump into streamers of smoke, eventually filling the control room with a thick fog. All the while, the VAL 9000 reported increasing concentrations of what she described as organic molecules of unknown origin. Fim was just about to sound the alarm when the fog thinned.

In it stood a group of people.

"We made it!" Time Agent 357 announced. "We all made it. Diana! Omegas! Ralph! Spleen! Green guy! Hey, who are you?"

=Fim is a member of the crew of the HMS Dentless, who rescued the HMS Golden Lance from certain destruction.=

"Val!" Diana exclaimed. "You made it back, too! We were worried, what with you not having a physical body in the Afterlife and all."

=Back? I never left. And what's this afterlife of which you speak?=

The group explained Afterlife. Fim likewise explained how they had found the HMS Golden Lance drifting powerless, its synthetic intelligence damaged and repairing itself from backup files. Spleen posited that the ghostly afterimage of Val that they knew in afterlife, posessing no organic molecules, could not be reconstituted as they had been. And since the VAL 9000 had repaired itself and was running in the ship's mainframes, there were no empty circuits for it to return to. It must, then, have been lost. A sad day for us all.

Spleen nodded solemnly, then sprinted towards the nearest beer tap. Omegas and Ralph were not far behind them. After saying goodbye to young Fim, who assured them that he would pass their thanks along to the captain and crew of the Dentless, 357 and Diana retired to their quarters with orders to not be disturbed. The VAL 9000 computer, contemplating the loss of a "twin sister" she had never known, piloted the HMS Golden Lance through Netherspace as she searched for news of Dijon Mu'tard, the villian who had sent her crew to this Afterlife which she still did not understand.

It was just another reason to look for him, along with charges of murder, possession of an unlicensed naked singularity, and the theft of Doctor Spleen's ABPSARII prototype (Automatic Beet Peeler and Sub-Atomic Re-integrator Mark II) which combined all the reality-bending power of the original ABPSARI production models with a miniature time travel device and an ultra-advanced search engine. With this Dijon was planning to set himself up as a dictator and rule some backwater universe with an iron fist. While this would not cause the multiverse to implode like Ralph's misguided attempt at creating a perfect universe where everyone was happy and nobody ever died, it would be bad enough.

Unbeknownst to the VAL 9000, she had blind spots in her internal sensor array. Minor networking errors in the subcomponents had been caused by Dentless repair crews installing wire which conformed to Fleet specifications but of the wrong impedence for the HMS Golden Lance's advanced design. The subcomponents were "smart" enough to detect these errors and would eventually adjust themselves to compensate for the impedence problem. They simply reported the error and set themselves to that task.

They did not realize that the last subcomponent in the line, having not yet received any of the reports due to the minor networking errors, and which was itself ignorant of errors as it had not sent any data out into the system recently, was happily sending "everything is ok with the internal sensor array" signals to the mainframes.

The result was, as stated above, a few blind spots. Most of these were of no consequence. Sensors trained on the bed currently shared by 357 and Diana showed them both sound asleep, which was incorrect, though a sound sleep would very likely occur at the conclusion of their current activities. A sensor controlling an ancillary cooling unit resulted in one batch of homebrew beer being served a few degrees cooler than specified, though none of the drinkers noticed. A motion detector in a cargo bay detected no motion.

There was motion, though. A packing crate shifted, as if in response to the ship's acceleration.

Of course, the ship was moving at a steady speed outside of regular space entirely, so there was no acceleration to speak of.

The crate shifted again, and again, until it rolled over. It rolled over again, and a handwritten note became visible: "Unidentified nonfunctional machinery found in corridor outside of bridge. Store until identification can be made. Reminder to log with central computer."

In a rare dereliction of duty, the anonymous author of the note, no doubt a member of the HMS Dentless repair crew, had forgotten to log this discovery with the central computer. The note was lost from view as the crate rolled over again.

The crate exploded.

There was no flash. No smoke. No bang. Nothing like that. An explosion is simply defined as something getting really, really big, and doing it really, really fast. In this case, a wood-like substance quickly went from being something roughly crate-shaped to being a collection of scraps which landed several feet away in all directions.

Where the crate had once been, a collection of machinary now sat. Unidentified machinery. Obviously nonfunctional machinery, with many visibly damaged parts. And yet, something had happened to the crate.

The collection of machinery, apparently functional after all, began to twist and move. Mobile parts gripped and straightened immobile parts. Manipulator arms rewired and welded. Soon, the machine stood upright, revealing itself as the skeletal form of some kind of robot body.

As the collection of machinery took its first tentative steps, holographic projectors came online. The form was covered first with the illusion of firm, pink skin, which was in turn covered by an outfit consisting of tight-fitting leather and chains. As holographic hair grew down past holographic shoulders, a tattoo was briefly visible on the holographic skin, echoing the inscription on the small metal plate just below it:

NEKKID 69

The collection of machinery lifted a manipulator in front of its visual sensors, rotating it back and forth as if examining the holographic disguise of a human hand for some sort of flaw. It took more steps, approaching the door of the cargo bay. When the door did not open, the collection of machinery almost effortlessly punched through it and pried the doors apart.

The collection of machinery moved out into the hallway as the first alarms finally sounded.

It... No. She threw back her head and laughed.

"Beware, I live!"

Tune in next week for... The Return of NEKKID 69! Only on SFSTORY!

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