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antics-pedantic · 8 months ago

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In the not-too-distant-future of the 22nd century…

The Wishbone was an old ‘Bakshi-Class’ freighter, currently being refitted for service as part of a new INTERPLAN initiative (a shortening of the Interplanetary Alliance/Fleet/ETC). Truth be told, the construction of the starship looked closer to a tuning fork the size of a town, or a small city. Its scanners and research laboratory were state of the art for the sake of the work it was conducting. But besides the lab and some standard-issue particle projector banks, everything else came as is. Largely in the form of refurbished, industrial-strength mining equipment.

Next to the name on the side of the vessel were the letters U.F.V., signifying the initiative as a joint venture between INTERPLAN and colleges from its various member worlds as a University-Fleet Vessel. Of course, some preferred P.O.S. (Piece of Slag, and other unflattering four-letter words). Only a few ships were ordered into the service this way as surveyor-support craft, intended to conduct preliminary scouting for the exploration flagships…

It was a bright and early morning. A new batch of crew members were being taken up to the Wishbone while it was in orbital spacedock. One could go in aces high with the Officers' Academy where the cream of the crop got made (or so they say). Transfers could use their experience from working in local Solar System Self-Defense Network or bring in a sterling desk job resume from the uppermost suites of the corpo-colony atmoskyscrapers.

Of course, one could also do as the mutant Nougat Ntlor did, and get sloshed at a bar on the Ganymede strip. Stumble into a fleet recruitment center that hadn't met monthly quota yet, as the kind of grunt that was expected to carry boxes and barrels from one part of the ship across to another. There were also a number of prisoners from the corporations that seceded from Earth and other INTERPLAN member worlds put on a work-release program, many were just glad to be away from there. The off-world corpo-colonies were already overburdened before the secession. Now they were warring with one another and other cultures.

In terms of the turnout from the colleges, they had a mix of professors and students. That is, professors who had not seen a drop of grant funding in quite some time, whose magnum opus of scientific research was laughed out of every scholarly journal. And the students in question were either on academic probation, or were such overachievers they volunteered here of all places. Truly, it was a recipe for turbulence; but also, for those who remained after everything was said and done, it might very well have been the only place they could go if they wanted to touch the stars themselves, to be more than a mere tourist.

“—And I am telling you, as a chief medical officer I believe I should be accommodated with one of the deluxe penthouses.” said a woman in her forties, who couldn’t stop reminding everyone she held up in line behind herself, as well as the crew member acting as a customs officer, that she had her doctorate degree.

“Dr. Hwan, those are reserved for our VIP guests. All members of the crew manifest are to stick to their assigned quarters.”

“Preposterous!” spat Dr. Hwan. “How the devil am I going to be able to get any work done if I can’t be provided state-of-the-art quarters to relax in?”

“You would have your own personal quarters, just not penthouse suite quality, ma’am.”

“So, I could have a penthouse then?”

“You’d have to share. Optimize crew space.”

Dr. Hwan looked back at everyone in line. Naïve grinning and evil smirks painted these faces. She looked back at the customs official/crew member, and groaned.

“I’ll see you in the final dimension for this.”

There were service robots, referred to as the Buffers. These were the descendants of the humble Roomba, now equipped with hover-jets and an extendable armature with which to do tasks. An android crew member was taking inventory on one of the cargo bays: This was one of the J.E.V. series (Just Effectively Vacuums), named for the very first task they could ever perform. Since then, they had developed to perform a variety of other functions, eventually serving as crew members on starships. Some were even built to be the vaunted K.E.V.s (Kills Effectively & Victoriously), deployed into combat or security.

W4-114CE fit into the former category as a JEV. He used to work on Earth at a volcanic research station, built onto a cliffside overlooking a river of lava somewhere. And if he had not gone to space, he might have carted off to work on an undersea base. In the end, he opted for the space assignment. The organics would chafe, but W4 swore he would do fine through the power of superior robotics.

*THUD-THUMP*

W4 looked around. Something clearly hadn’t been sealed properly. He wondered if it was those damnable blue barrels again, or one of those big, new-fangled containers with seven or more different locking mechanisms that had to be activated in a certain order or the whole thing would explode. W4 approached the particular container that was making the offending rumbling noises, and sure enough it was one of those multi-lock nightmares. The service android proceeded to access the shipboard database, used authorization codes to acquire the access information, and promptly entered in a simple enough pin number of four digits.

Then everything immediately went to ruin, as W4 was then made to work with some kind of glorified rhythm toy: including pressable buttons, pull handles, twisting cranks, spinnable wheels, and flickable switches. Following the patterns set forth by the device was difficult enough for an organic, but it even managed to tax W4’s robotic dexterity. At least, he thought-computed, that it would be over after this. It had to. Until a screen offered an unforgiving message:

“PLEASE CREATE A 52 INPUT PASSWORD FOR FUTURE USAGE.”

W4 looked at the input device. It offered no sound, no lights. Nothing charming. And then the locking mechanism activated a self-destruct with a 2-second window to escape, W4 only able to hop away just far enough that the explosion would only send him flying through the air, with small flames all over his jumpsuit. And then there before him, emerged some kind of hostile mutated alien animal.

And just when there were no organic lifeforms around, one crew member strolled right into the cargo bay with audio-cubes over their square, ear-like structures. This meant that W4-114CE had to adhere to the Asimov subroutines and make sure the organic wasn’t killed. To that end the android put up his fists, and started swinging at the creature. This eventually resulted in an arm being torn off by a claw that could vibrate at high-frequencies to enhance its cutting power. With W4-114CE’s remaining arm, he grabbed onto the creature, and dragged it towards the next nearest holding container. A fool’s gambit, as the creature’s thagomizer-equipped tail started smashing boxes marked with warning stickers for explosive hazards—and eventually, opened the nearest airlock.

Sounds were muffled in the void, as the service android and mutated alien animal went at it. W4 kicking the creature repeatedly in the hopes of hitting some sensitive area that would have earned a serious foul from the referee of a Dysonball game. Likewise, the creature tried everything it had: acid spit announced by head-frills flaring, the aforementioned high-frequency claws, and some kind of egg-based missile. The egg of course was the creature’s undoing, as W4 caught the projectile and used it to bash the creature over the head, encasing it within an amber-like yolk while W4 was brought back aboard by a slew of loyal buffers.

“WHAT-A DA HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!”

It was one of the galley cooks. The human looked like they were about to explode while W4-114CE was trying to reattach his arm.

“That-a creature was gonna be the crew’s dinner! It was gifted to us by one-a the Dagarian Kingdoms!”

W4 looked back. The amber-yolk encased creature was probably long gone by now. It was at times like these an intrepid INTERPLAN crew member had to think fast.

“Let’s check the uh… the star charts. There’s gotta be some place we can rustle up some ingredients.”

The galley cook stared at W4-114CE for the longest time before pulling out a portable teledex screen, with which he began to press buttons and turn dials. Examining nearby planets, moons, and other places for potential replacements.

There was no time to argue.

On a ship like the UFV Wishbone, there should have been a captain. In lieu of that, was an administrative adjutant. Tasked with all the responsibilities of the captaincy, but minus its perks. Respect was not guaranteed whatsoever. And worst of all it was a title conferred to someone already working. In this case, the inimitable technician second-class Nero Pathan was selected for the duty.

The personal terminal at the desk of his quarters hummed to life with the gradual start-up. Immediately, a communication program activated before any other. On-screen were coordinates for a distant star system, followed by the frog-like face of a politician. The amphibious one’s camera was zoomed in too closely, rather than keeping his face in frame.

“Is this thing on?” asked the frog-like politician.

“Mayor L-Mes, on behalf of the INTERPLAN fleet, I’m honored that you would invite our humble ship and crew to—”

Just then, Nero had to cover his ears. A horrible sound began to fill his room as Governor L-Mes fiddled needlessly with his microphone of choice—which resembled one of Earth’s early telephones of the 1890s, as L-Mes held up a stand with a speaker and held up a wired receiver to the side of his head.

“Is this ruddy thing on?” sputtered L-Mes. “Hallew. Hallew~? Is that the correct word? Grief upon grief, is my universal translator working? Is yours?!”

“More than well.” said Nero, through grit teeth, turning some dials to focus the image and an attempt to soften the audio. “If you wouldn’t mind going easy on the mic, maybe knock down outgoing volume a bit?”

“Ah, but of course. It is our honor to be the first stop on your latest mission, Captain Rickles! The USS Hebe is welcome here, along with that delegation from the Minoazoans, and the roller coaster people to survey for a new amusement park—”

Nero cut off L-Mes with a teeth-sucking sound that went ‘Tssss!’, to preface some unfortunate development.

“About that: The USS Hebe is conducting field research in… some nebula some ways away from here. They’ll only arrive after we’ve scouted in advance for them.”

“… Who’s we, exactly?” asked L-Mes, taking on a sour tone.

“That would be our University-Fleet joint Vessel—UFV Wishbone. We’re part of the preliminary survey and reconnaissance initiative with a few other ships.”

Silence at first. Then, L-Mes consulted with one of his advisors.

“So. You mean to say we don’t have to roll out the red carpet? Or really, use any of our exceptional preparations for you lot? It costed us a considerable amount.”

“They would be nice—”

“Ha! But unnecessary, understood. We shall receive you shortly.”

The screen shut off. Nero stared at the screen for a good minute, and his reflection within it before sauntering out of his quarters and onto the bridge of the ship. Watching as others in INTERPLAN fleet uniforms, prison jumpsuits, lab coats, and casual clothing all attempted to find their appropriate stations. He’d have to take a shuttlecraft down to the planet soon, the tele-pad array onboard the Wishbone was unreliable right now.

The shuttle itself was given the unofficial designation ‘Hodgson-class,’ meaning it was potentially going to be a screaming metal deathtrap, or *somehow* the arrangement of miscellaneous spare parts would work together well enough to safely transport people from ship-to-planetary surface. He stared long and hard at the captain’s chair, before traveling to the appropriate launch bay and boarding. Here he would take attendance of the crew members he buzzed.

“Jenndy Klortho?”

“Here!” exclaimed a chipper woman’s voice. “You think we’re gonna shoot at anybody, sir?!”

“With that attitude, I’m sure someone will want to hurt us.” said Nero, offering a thumbs up. “Next up, we’ve got… Bolso Torbiton?”

“Spare me the zapcrap and drive the ship, tek-boy.”

Nero looked around the shuttle interior, offended. Jenndy was just bouncing in her seat. Nero resumed checking his attendance datapad. No one would support him here.

“Okay. Lint Corpuscule? Is there a Lint Corpuscule here?”

No response.

“There’s like two other people here instead.” Said Nero “Who are you two?”

“I’m Gurt,” said a mutant, before gesturing at another mutant. “And he’s Gort.”

“Alright. Awesome, very flavorblasted.” said Nero, kicking the shuttlecraft into gear languidly. “And awaaaaay we go.”

Lint Corpuscule rose from his cabin bed in a fright, bashing his quadruple forehead alien cranium against the empty top bunk of an only slightly more dutiful crewmate that had already left the room to begin on ship duties five minutes ago. There was no possible way he could spin this in such a way that he wasn’t disregarding his responsibilities.

Unless.

Lint Corpuscule raced to a certain room, one of a few aboard the UFV Wishbone. Doing so in spite of the fact there was an ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign in large, intimidating red ink and given a marker outline for better readability, in as much as a crew member trying not to put too much effort in all at once could provide. For this was the room where an array of telepad platforms were located. Lint would start slapping buttons and levers, before diving onto a platform that began to glow and hum. He was certain he could make it to the planet in advance of the shuttlecraft.

Trouble is, he was telepunted.

Teleporting was an apt description for successfully transporting every little iota of matter from one position to another safely. Telepunting on the other hand, was more like something, or someone on another plane of existence kicked a person in the pants in such a horrendously forceful manner that they were quantum-propelled somewhere. Maybe not even the target destination. To Lint Corpuscule’s credit, he at least landed on L-Mes’s planet. Simply erring due to the fact that he manifested with grazed asscheeks in some random part of the desert, on the outskirts of L-Mes’s settlement if coordinates from the mission briefing were to be trusted.

Well. This was what INTERPLAN was all about, wasn’t it? Exploring the cosmos.

Lint Corpuscule marched for a time across the arid land, as purple clouds rolled in, thunder and lightning cracks occurring in shades of brilliant, unsettling red. The Wishbone crewmate could spot a village in the distance.

Immediately after landing, the Wishbone’s Away Team was almost immediately ambushed by L-Mes’s security forces. The group was beaten soundly about the sensitive areas and got tossed into the settlement sheriff’s jail.

“What is the MEANING of this?!” demanded Nero, rattling the bars with a tin cup. “I demand to speak with Mayor L-Mes at once! We’re INTERPLAN!”

“Oh, I damn well know you’re with INTERPLAN.” said the Sheriff, some kind of a mutated lifeform with craggy stone-like calcium protrusions all over his body, one of which was shaped like a handlebar mustache, just over what was probably his nose. The only clothing he could wear was a pair of swim trunks and a sash for his badge.

“Then let us go?”

“Shut up, Gort.”

“I’m Gurt.” said Gort, trying to play mindgames on Sheriff Cragg. “He’s Gort.”

Gurt mischievously waved hello with fingers wiggling. Sheriff Cragg scowled at them and looked to Jenndy.

“And what’s your game? Huh?”

Jenndy sashayed over from her bench-cot. After a delicate twirl, she proceeded to reach through the bars to try and strangle Sheriff Cragg. Nero halfhartedly tried to pull her away, weakly saying things like ‘nooo stop, please,’ and ‘don’t kill him, pleeeaaase’ among inaudible murmurs. Sheriff Cragg eventually broke free of Jenndy’s grasp, with the help of the only member of the crew not in jail: Bolso Torbiton!

“Bolso! Bolso, let us outta here and I’ll promote you to lieutenant!” exclaimed Nero.

“You won’t.” said Bolso.

“Okay, okay, lieutenant-COMMANDER!”

“You don’t have that power, idiot!” said Bolso. “You’re just an administrative adjutant, not a real captain. But with L-Mes’s recommendation I’ll bet I could jump up the INTERPLAN ranks. Or I could take my talents to some other space faction.”

“Jenndy, go for the jugular!”

Jenndy Klortho reached through the bars again. But Bolso, devious fiend that he was, was standing just out of her reach. She grasped at air and nothing more. Just then, Mayor L-Mes arrived.

“L-Mes! What is this zapcrap?!” hissed Nero.

“I ought to be askin’ you that exact question, boy!” hissed L-Mes. “Sheriff, chain these chumps. We’re gonna show ‘em our evidence.”

The Wishbone Away Team each got tazed, and then once too weak to fight back, they were shackled to one another. At first, they were transported through the desert aboard a hover-skiff, but once there was a quarter of the distance left to go, the group was forced to march the rest of the way there, where they found a more rural village, accompanied by local specialists in anthropology and paleontology.

“We’ve also contacted your ship’s chief medical officer to confirm.” said Sheriff Cragg, offering up a portable viewscreen, on-call with the disheveled Dr. Hwan.

“Not that you really needed it, but I have a DNA match with one of our crew members, sir.” said Dr. Hwan. “A Lint Corpuscule?”

“That dipstick was supposed to be part of our Away Team!” exclaimed Gurt.

“He was plotting some kind of a SCHEME!” screamed Jenndy. Though less in terror, more in gleeful delight that there was a conspiracy.

“Now hold on a minute—” said Nero, pointing a finger. “Let’s not jump to conclusions until AFTER we’ve seen the remains.”

L-Mes and Sheriff Cragg waved to one of the archaeologists on-site. Lo and behold they found one of many skeletons, only this one wore an INTERPLAN uniform shirt. Tattered now, but still bearing a legible name tag. No uniform pants, however: Lint Corpuscule insisted that only one article of clothing was necessary for himself. ‘If only,’ thought Nero. ‘If only he chose to wear only pants instead of uniform shirts,’ and perhaps they would not have been in this mess.

“Wait. How did he get there? Lint Corpuscule is a present-day member of the INTERPLAN fleet.” said Nero, probing for answers. “I literally have him marked on my crew manifest with birthday and everything.”

“We detected tachyons, among other curious particles.” said one of the archaeologists. “Don’t look at me funny, you’ve seen some weird, anomalous bullshit out there too. We have reason to believe Lint time-traveled.”

“How in the blue blazes—” hummed Nero, before realizing what they were getting at. “You think we sent him to—to what, plant some kind of a trap? Sabotage your settlement? Are you daft? Have you been in contact with mind-bending moon rocks? Or both??”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, ass-tronaut.”

Nero looked over at the rest of his Away Team, trying to garner some sympathy and support against these accusations, but no one leaped to dispute any of this.

“Now listen, if you just contacted Captain Rickles already, I’m sure we can hash this out minus any retribution—”

“Tell it to the judge, INTERPLAN man.” said L-Mes.

“With your luck you’ll be put on the cerebral scrambler.” said Bolso.

And then Nero and his cohorts were clubbed about the head, or similarly disorienting bodily regions until rendered unconscious.

A fog machine filled the stone-like chamber. Really, all the large stone bricks were actually purely cosmetic, like a 20th century recreational laser tag facility’s approximation of an even more ancient culture. Strange iconography adorned the place, from truly alien designs to the familiar, such as a “SIGN ON FOR PRODUCT LAYAWAY TODAY!” sign, or a spinning blue light, used in the ancient commerce temples to indicate a clearance sale on discounted items. Devout followers traveled the aisles and corridors in the sacred vestments. Which in this case were single color vests adorned with at least one pin to indicate the retailer of goods they were employed by. But these practitioners did not serve any surviving company: Instead, they mourned for the demise of others, and the quality they guaranteed. Even if it was only marginally better than anything they had today in the near future of the 22nd century.

It was in the great council conference room that the Prime Mall Santa, Vice Councilor Easter Bunny, and other gaudy figures addressed their muscular visitor.

“Hark, and be readied: Are you prepared for the undertaking upon which ye shall have to embark?” asked Prime Mall Santa. “Are you tired of waiting for your greatest quest of all? Do you find yourself possessed of superior skill and dedication? Could you benefit from exploring the greater cosmos?”

“Aye, Prime Mall Santa.” said the muscular visitor.

“But that’s not all: It may also throw in an exceptionally long time away from here.” said an arcade mascot themed after a narwhal. “But don’t delay: If you do not order transportation now, the sabbatical may be tripled for the price of one altercation.”

The muscular visitor did not hesitate, and began entering the sacred numbers—made even more sacred through the use of a device modeled after an old Earth-style cash register combined with a home telephone. He felt a brief comfort as his fingers pressed each button, which yielded an equally satisfying *BEEP!*, *BOOP*, or the rarely heard *BUP!* followed by the ‘hum of establishment,’ in which everyone opened their mouths to offer the sacred Dial-Up Cry.

“He is ready.”

“They will need him soon.”

“Go now!”

The muscular visitor turned to see something. It was like the edges of a public swimming pool, as the archaic symphony behind him wordlessly foretold of mystery, great danger, and opportunities for storied heroism. The swimming pool archway began to glow, as chlorinated water gushed outwardly, then back in, after a device blew a giant lifeguard’s whistle to regulate the poolwater flow. With no further hesitation, he kept a steady grip on his lacrosse stick and plasma grenades.

The muscular visitor burst from a strikingly similar portal arch on L-Mes’s planet. He proceeded to pummel the tar out of a couple of Sheriff Cragg’s deputies, and sprayed their resting place with air freshener. In the distance, the settlement was not far off. A bell had begun to ring out as the Wishbone’s Away Team was being carted off to the courthouse with burlap sacks over their heads. This, the muscular visitor saw with a pair of binoculars he ordered from a ‘wun-ayt-hundred-numb-barr,’ in the short span of time afforded to him by a vid-screen commercial.

He could only hope he wasn’t too late to intervene.

L-Mes activated the town’s robot judge. It seemed to just be a figurehead for his orders. But by the looks of things even the jury had some idea what to expect, if their scowls and obscene hand gestures were any indication. The Wishbone Away Team huddled up together to figure out a plan of attack.

“Alright. Any idea why they might be doing this to us?” said Nero.

“Maybe it’s a secret AN-XR scheme to subtly conquer this sector?” said Gurt.

“No no, it’s a scheme alright. But it’s clearly being perpetrated by some kind of semi or fully technological culture that absorbs anything and anyone it comes into contact with.”

Nero just stared at everyone, exasperated.

“Lint used the telepads, didn’t he.”

“Wow! You must be some kind of detective, boss!” said Jenndy. “Alright, we’ll just show our telepad records to Mayor L-Mes and that should clear things right up.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea--” said Nero, raising an index finger. The trial began, and everyone urged Nero to start tapping at his wristcomm to get the telepad data as the others insisted. The robot judge seemed to nod and offer an approving *DING!* sound.

“This just proves you achieved a form of time travel!” bellowed L-Mes. “And even if you didn’t order your crew member, they might have gone AWOL, or started acting on orders from higher up at INTERPLAN command. Can you honestly say that’s not possible?!”

Nero was about to speak. Usually in these situations an experienced leader like Captain Rickles would read aloud a legal disclaimer and be absolved near instantly. Trouble was, Nero had no such disclaimer. Just workplace culture (and stacks of over-exacting rulebooks, more composed by HR to absolve the organization than adhere to moral tidings with clarity) whose only guarantee that INTERPLAN recognized self-determination as an inherent right to all lifeforms, was all sentiment and assumed standard operating procedure. Claiming to operate purely on vibes would not hold up in court whatsoever and would in fact cause an uproar.

“Errm. Well…”

Where was a definite answer he could cite when he needed one?

The worst part, was that Bolso Torbiton was approaching to testify on that very point, in his swanky new five-piece suit made from megarachnoid silk as he walked through the halls. Or he would have made it, if the muscular visitor hadn’t arrived, accompanied by a handful of the planet’s native inhabitants.

“… The hell?”

“I have witnessed infomercial visions foretelling of secret actions,” said the muscular visitor. “If you or your loved ones have gone back on your oath to the Interplanetary Fleet, you may be entitled to a sound beating.”

“Dude,” said Bolso Torbiton. “Eat a piece.”

Bolso swung a fist at the muscular visitor, who rolled from weathering the blow, to kneeing Bolso Torbiton in the groin, and tossing him through the doors into the courtroom, where he would use his lacrosse stick to lob plasma grenades, forcing Sheriff Cragg and L-Mes away.

“What is the meaning of this?!” spat L-Mes. “Sherriff, call the marines!”

“We don’t have marines, sir. But we could wheel in the cannon from Fort Gordie.”

“You will do no such thing,” said the muscular visitor, pointing his lacrosse stick. “Not while Bowflex draws breath. I bring with me the rightful population of this planet to protest this farce you call a fair trial. Mayor L-Mes seeks to extort INTERPLAN.”

“That’s right.” said one of the local aliens, who resembled a classic style little grey-greenish humanoid with bulbous black eyes and a large head on a short, gangling body. “We have been here since time immemorial, with artifacts held by the local museum putting us within hundreds of thousands of years, minimum. L-Mes’s settlement is barely thirty years old. He’s been trying to build all sorts of tourist traps around here in all that time after we allowed him to build this township. The one called Lint Corpuscule was killed by birds before he could even meet our ancestors. All they could do was bury him.”

“Indeed.” said Bowflex. “And as a potential INTERPLAN member world, you must treat other lifeforms with a certain modicum of respect and dignity. The crew of this visiting ship would not be remiss to pummel you about the sensitive areas for your works against the Muuldarian Greys, L-Mes.”

Nero looked to Bowflex, who nodded back. Just as Lint Corpuscule chose to use the malfunctioning telepads and L-Mes set about his scheme, so too did other lifeforms retain the power of choice, and the potential to use it for purposes beyond harm, greed, or snitching on each other over emulating rare old video games. Maybe, just maybe, not everything in this universe sucked after all.

“Hey, he got away! And funny thing, I remember seeing Bolso’s new suit in a store display on the way over—for fifteen thousand credits.”

Jenndy pointed at the recently departed Sheriff Cragg and Mayor L-Mes, who hopped aboard a hover-skiff and raced for the Star Portal that Bowflex entered the planet through. Bolso was still writhing in pain when he dropped a receipt that indicated the credit utilized was under L-Mes’s bank account.

“We’ll sort out things here in town in case they come back.” said another member of the local alien group—Seftar. “If you wish for the planet Muuldar to join your coalition, then bring Mayor L-Mes to us.”

Nero pointed and nodded to Seftar.

“You got it. Let’s move it, people!”

On the way out, everyone each took a turn kicking Bolso in the ribs.

L-Mes and Cragg were fiddling with the cash register/telephone styled interface that activated the Star Portal. They had just emerged on one of their neighboring planet’s moons, where a disgruntled chef and an android were hunting for some big game in the form of the wild ‘Dodecapus,’ that with just one body’s meats, could feed many.

“Hey.” said the chef. “Aren’t you-a that mayor our adjutant was-a supposed to meet?”

“It is.” said W4-114CE, before taking out a handheld device. “Oop. Just got a long-range, subspace communique. Shoot this guy. I repeat—eighty-six this toad.”

After that they ran like cowards, and tried dialing a random sequence, which briefly deposited them on a world conquered by the AN-XR empire, with its chrome-brutalist architecture. Regal-uniformed commandants led troops in armor-vests with an abundance of extra pouches as they interrogated pedestrians in an attempt to root out anything they deemed seditious.

Sure enough, being chased by imperialists with electri-knives and particle projectors in the form of pistols and rifles wasn’t their idea of a good time. Cragg and L-Mes’s attempt to dial for a pleasure planet of some sort had also failed, and landed them in the middle of a battle between two Dagarian Kingdoms, part of a larger feudalistic structure that yearned so much for the clash of blades, like their isosceles swords with two grips at the center of the awkward triangular sword. Harrowed by the failed Star Portal attempts and currently pursued by several goose-stepping stormtroopers and chainmail chic honor-lusted warriors, they returned to planet Muuldar, where the Wishbone Away Team was waiting for them. Gurt and Gort both simultaneously attacked a Dagarian warrior by pinching two exposed areas on his body, causing some kind of electrical overload within the nervous system, using some esoteric technique. Jenndy Klortho was having a standoff with an AN-XR commandant, twisting his arm so that the electri-knife went around her—coincidentally stabbing L-Mess in the gut, or some other organ.

Bowflex was lobbing plasma grenades and throwing an Olympic discus to prevent anyone else from entering through the Star Portal. Nero was trading punches with Sheriff Cragg, before remembering he could also use at least one of his legs at a time to kick, sending the Sheriff backwards through the Star Portal with an unforgiving boot sole back to the Dagarian battlefield he thought he’d escaped. It was at that point that Nero was tired, yet bitter enough that he produced his particle pistol from his side holster and fired. On the other side, Sherriff Cragg was mostly vaporized, stray chunks of himself flying out in every direction, unintentionally slaughtering a dozen warriors via high velocity shrapnel.

In any case, the mortally wounded L-Mes was apprehended.

Back aboard the Wishbone…

Dr. Hwan was not an engineer. She was a doctor. But in a pinch, she proved she could fill in on other tasks. Like when she saw Lint Corpuscule—who had been the INTERPLAN officer in charge of boarding and customs checks the morning of departure—racing towards a telepad room. Without hesitating to consider the Hippocratic oath, she tore a panel off the corridor wall and tampered. Mostly in the hopes that he would explode right then and there. But using the longe-range scanners aboard the UFV Wishbone to confirm he’d died during planet Muuldar’s distant past would suffice.

As Dr. Hwan poured herself another light blue liquid—some manner of ale, Technician-Adjutant Nero, the newcomer Bowflex, and Jenndy Klortho were all seated together for a dinner meeting with her. Jenndy was burning an effigy of Bolso Torbiton, the poppet seated within a diorama of L-Mes’s courtroom back on the non-grey Muuldar settlement. She really wanted Bolso harmed further, maybe more chaos erupting as a general thing. Bowflex took to his protein shake, having joined the crew as evidenced by the badge he wore over his regular garb. Gurt and Gort were fidgeting in their seats.

“… So, wait. You didn’t know I interfered with Lint’s telepad?” said Dr. Hwan, incredulously. “I could have kept that a secret?”

“No, I didn’t know.” said Nero, not waiting a moment to respond. “Yes, you could have literally gone the rest of your life without having told anyone that. Under anyone else’s command you’d be court-martialed.”

“And I’d take you bastards down with me. Every. Time.” said Dr. Hwan, raising up her ale. “Cheers. And here’s to honor among thieves.”

“Technician-Adjutant Nero, I believe this is not entirely unsatisfactory.” said Bowflex, leaning in to address the INTERPLAN crewman. “Lint still made his choice. As did Dr. Hwan when she attempted to slay him. I would dare even say this is cause for celebration, along with the fact that your Away Team was not disembowled, disintegrated, or stretched out over a—”

“THANK you, Bowflex.”

“Indeed.”

W4-114CE had personally offered to wheel in the grilled Dodecapus, and after delivery plugged himself into the room’s audio system to start playing some fast-paced techno. Bowflex took up a barbell and started doing an intricate dance he picked up at the gym back on Adworld. Jenndy just rested her elbows on the table, and put her hands on the cheek as the colors of the diorama fire deepened. And at last, Gurt and Gort just played patty cake.

Nero just slumped in his seat.

This was going to be a long journey. Maybe not *completely* insufferable. But still, it would be very, very grating.

#web fiction #Quick On It

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