The Plan of Action

It feels like months have passed as Doc ponders a thousand scenarios. He has always been prone to daydreaming, sometimes for days at a time. But only an hour has gone by when he returns to reality, such as it is.

He has a plan, and it's time to get to work.

The Chef had cleared the table while his mind had wandered. Thunderhorse had passed out under the table after finishing off the gobbit and emptying the bottle of wine. The Host is standing at the ready nearby.

"I need to speak to the captain," Doc tells the Host.

"Dr. Ritenrong is ships captain, sir. He is not currently responding to hails," the Host replies.

"Are there any other crew members aboard ship?"

"Unfortunately, no, sir. Dr. Ritenrong left space port without a full compliment, indeed without a crew at all. You, sir, are listed as both First Mate and Science-Medical officer with the unofficial rank of Commander. Thunderhorse," the Host looks almost disdainfully at the meat-bag passed out beneath the table. "...is your Lieutenant and Security officer. The Autopilot is currently filling the rolls of Pilot, Navigator, and Engineer, although his programming is stretched a bit thin. I will be serving as your Information and Communications officer."

"Stretched a bit thin?" Doc asks worriedly.

"He is programed to operate the ship at a basic level: station keeping, docking, routine maintenance, etcetera. He is ill-equipped to handle the ship in an emergency. Fortunately, we are at little risk at the moment. Dr. Ritenrong has plans to acquire a human pilot at a future date; specifically, July 3rd, 2299. I'm sure you can discuss it with him in detail later."

Doc digests this information for a moment. "Okay, what about ships resources? Do we have any weapons?"

"The ship its self is armed with civilian grade defense systems. The particle cannon is rated at one megaton, enough to deflect most small asteroids, and our shields can withstand a ten megaton impact. In comparison, a small military patrol vessel of the same era can withstand well over one hundred megatons and fire one hundred 50 megaton particle blasts in a second. We are also carrying 22 twenty-five megaton warheads and 136 unarmed torpedoes.

"Internally, we have two hover sentries armed with shock guns and tranquilizers. There are microwave emitters on every deck that can generate an immobilizing pain field. There are two pulse particle-laser pistols and one bull-pup railgun locked on the bridge for emergency defense. There is also, of course, your side arm, Thunderhorse's battleaxe, a plasma torch in the repair bay, and a number of vibro-knives in the galley."

"Can we get the laser pistols to take with us to the surface?" Doc asks.

"They are limited in ammunition and thus for emergency use only. Dr. Ritenrong has coded the locks and only he has access," replies the Host.

"What about explosives? I don't mean nuclear warheads but something like a grenade?"

"None, sir. Although we do have a chemistry lab and facilities to create them, I do not believe we have the appropriate materials to do so."

"Can the replicator make any weapons for us?"

"I don't know, sir. The replicator can only create materials and simple devices, and only those for which we have patterns. New patterns can be purchased and downloaded from Q-Net. Military-grade patterns, however, are often extremely expensive and require proper licensing and permits which we do not have. Skilled hackers, of course, can often find ways around this problem. I personally do not have the appropriate programming to do so as it would be illegal for me to be programmed in such a manner."

"What about information. Do we have maps of the target area? Any political information? Can we bring a computer? What about a printer to forge documents?"

"We have sattelite images of the area in question prior to Dr. Ritenrong's departure. As to political information, you will have to research that on your own. We only have information that is available to us through Q-Net.

"Your IBrowse will keep you connected to the ships computer. Translation services, maps, tracking, and GPS systems are available through it. We have no paper printing devices on board, as such things were made illegal fifty years prior to my activation date. You will have to create any documents either with the replicator or on the surface with materials you find there."

Doc acknowledges this. "Thank you. If I have more questions, I'll call."

"Of course, sir," bows the Host.

Doc makes his way back to the galley. The Chef is cheerfully sweeping up broken glass. He waves a greeting as Doc makes his way to the corner of the galley next to the bar. There are two machines here, one kind of looks like an old vinyl jukebox and the other is kind of like an oversized vending machine.

The jukebox is labeled "Banking Unification Network Services Automated Residual Savings Exchange." It has an electronic touchscreen like an ATM but fashioned to preserve the jukebox look-and-feel. After touching the screen once, it verifies Doc's fingerprints and displays his account information:

WELCOME, LUCAS SHAW. THANK YOU FOR USING ARSE.
PERSONAL SPENDING ACCOUNT BALANCE:$14,998.52 QNC
PERSONAL SAVINGS ACCOUNT BALANCE: $1.48
MISSION ACCOUNT BALANCE: $5,000 CE1835 ($112,870.06 QNC)
| WITHDRAW | DEPOSIT | TRANSFER |

He leaves it be for the time being.

The vending machine is labeled "Q-MART REPLICATOR, ADVENTURE!" Inside the glass encased compartment is a series of nozzles, robotic arms, and laser devices. Next to the glass is a control panel. Doc activates it.

"WELCOME TO Q-MART!" buzzes an annoying electronic voice. "WHAT CAN WE MAKE FOR YOU TODAY?"

"A simple black suit from 1835 America for myself and some rough work clothes: overalls, flannel shirt, hat, and coat for Thunderhorse," he asks.

The control panel displays a range of styles and sizes of those things. Doc selects the ones he wants.

"THAT WILL BE $338.56 QNC. IS THIS A PERSONAL PURCHASE?"

"What? I thought this was free."

"NEGATIVE. THESE PATTERNS MUST BE DOWNLOADED. IS THIS A PERSONAL PURCHASE?"

"No, put this on mission credit."

"PURCHASE AUTHORIZED. TRANSACTION COMPLETE. REPLICATION WILL COMPLETE IN THIRTY TWO MINUTES."

The robotic arms within the glass case spring to life. Various nozzles spray some unknown chemicals while laser beams dance about and begin stitching molecules together.

"WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE SHOPPING?"

"Yes. I need a lockpick set, hydrochloric acid, four pairs of handcuffs, zip ties, binoculars, gloves, a pry-bar, and nude photos of women."

The machine does some calculations. It presents some options to Doc on the control panel. He is able to find some appropriately old-timey pictures of nude women with surprising ease.

"THAT WILL BE $10,472.93 QNC. IS THIS A PERSONAL PURCHASE?"

Doc hesitates. "Uh, mission credit." Those are some nice binoculars.

The machine whirs for a bit. "PURCHASE DENIED. SOME ITEMS ARE OUTSIDE MISSION PARAMETERS." The zip ties, the handcuffs he picked, and the binoculars are all from beyond 19th century Earth. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE THIS A PERSONAL PURCHASE?"

"No," replies Doc. He removes the offending items from the list and replaces the handcuffs with a less modern model. It comes to $512.46 and will take a further two and a half hours.

"WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE SHOPPING?"

"I need some weapons. Grenades, explosives, lasers, assault rifles, anything you've got."

The control screen delightfully displays a wide range of deadly futuristic weapons.

"Can I purchase these on mission credit?"

"NEGATIVE. FILTERING DISPLAY TO MISSION PARAMETERS."

The display reduces to the simple blades and firearms of the time. Doc picks out a good flintlock rifle and fifty rounds worth of flint, balls, and powder. He also gets some extra black powder. It comes to another $2,257.40.

"Can I purchase modern weapons with my personal account?"

The machine calculates a bit. "NEGATIVE. YOUR WEAPONS PERMIT ONLY ALLOWS FOR CLASS C PERSONAL BALLISTIC FIRE ARMS."

"Can I get a new permit?"

"THAT FUNCTION IS BEYOND THE SCOPE OF THE Q-MART REPLICATOR ADVENTURE!. APPLY FOR PERMITS AT Q-NET WEAPONS REGULATIONS COMMITTEE SITE FOR A BACKGROUND CHECK AND A TWO YEAR WAITING PERIOD."

"Okay. What about dynamite?"

"THAT ITEM IS BEYOND MISSION PARAMETERS. ONLY ITEMS AVAILABLE IN 1835 ARE WITHIN PARAMETERS. YOU MAY PURCHASE DYNAMITE WITH YOUR PERSONAL ACCOUNT."

Doc briefly considers getting some raw nitroglycerin instead, but if the ride down to Earth anything like the transit shuttles from his era, that would not be a wise thing to carry. Doc curses Nobel for not having invented the thing thirty years earlier as he shells out $467.83 of his own money to get only 10 sticks of dynamite and some blasting caps. The prices on this thing are almost random. In fact, they are up-to-date to the nanosecond with current Q-Net market value, as well as often being hijacked by hackers looking for an easy buck.

"Sleeping gas? Tranquilizers? Anything like that?"

The control panel on the replicator displays a selection of mission appropriate items. Doc picks out a bottle of Laudenum. The pattern is already in the system.

"Okay, computer. One last round. I need a horse-cart, bolts of cloth, barrels of alcohol, and some mixers."

"ERROR, SOME OBJECTS AND QUANTITIES ARE TOO LARGE TO BE REPLICATED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO UPGRADE TO Q-MART REPLICATOR INDUSTRIOUS!?"

"Not right now, thanks. " Doc is upset. Acquiring the key elements of his plan will be more difficult than he thought. He goes ahead and orders a few bolts of cloth; some simple white linens, drab canvas, and floral patterns that are already downloaded to the system.

The current queue of items will take about six hours to produce. Doc checks his account status.

WELCOME, LUCAS SHAW. THANK YOU FOR USING ARSE.
PERSONAL SPENDING ACCOUNT BALANCE:$14530.69 QNC
PERSONAL SAVINGS ACCOUNT BALANCE: $1.48
MISSION ACCOUNT BALANCE: $4,862.30 CE1835 ($109,761.64 QNC)
| WITHDRAW | DEPOSIT | TRANSFER |

Doc withdraws the mission account balance. The jukebox looking device begins spitting out masses of official US bank notes and coins from 1835 onto the floor like a slot machine. Doc begins collecting it onto the table before giving up and going to bed.

Eight hours later Doc awakens. He wanders into the galley and orders some coffee and steak and eggs from the Chef. His replicated items and the mission money is all neatly stacked and arrayed on a galley table. Thunderhorse is already up and having a breakfast ale.

"Good morning, friend," says Thunderhorse in a peculiarly cheerful mood. "The strangest thing happened last night. Well, just as strange as anything around here, but much more fun. I woke up under the table in the field above us. I was still sleepy, so I found my way down here to get into that soft bed again. When I got here, I saw this amazingly beautiful wench goddess cleaning up the shit falling out of that magic box in the corner. Suddenly, she stopped. She walked right over to that bed room over there, took off her frock and lay there legs up! She began writhing and moaning as if she was fucking a ghost! I followed her in and looked around. If there was a ghost there, I couldn't see it. So I got on and fucked her rotten! It was wonderful, I tell you, my friend. When I was done she was still going! I got off her when it started to hurt, but she kept it up. It was amazing. Just as suddenly as she started, she stopped again, got her frock back on and went on cleaning up the magic box shit."

The Chef chimes in. "The Maid has a programming burn. One of the previous crew members used her as his personal 'service' droid. He did it so regularly that it was scarred into her systems. Every night at the same time she goes into his room and goes through all the motions automatically whether anyone is there or not. It is not good for her processors or servos, but no one has tried to clear out the bad programming for some reason."

"Horseshit!" yells Thunderhorse, confused. "She loves me!"

Doc briefly considers trying to explain, but his mind is focused on other things. Like how to get a horse drawn cart to appear from thin air. "Computer, what's in the cargo bays?" he asks.

A quick inventory appears on the view screen. It reads like an archaeological inventory. Urns, vases, pots, barrels, bottles, cups, jars, bowls, various items of art and clothing, etc, all from different Earth eras and cultures. It turns out his Jeep is in the main cargo hold on deck six. There's some barrels of rum, wine, and whiskey in the Po's cargo bay. No horse carts, chariots, or even a wheelbarrow, however. The only thing that comes close is a palette jack. He'll just have to find something on the surface.

The Host walks in with another android beside him, presumably the Autopilot. The Autopilot is dressed like a World War 1 fighter ace complete with goggles and scarf.

"Gentlemen, this is the Autopilot," introduces the Host. "He will be delivering you to the surface."

"Howdy!" He's got a drawl and swagger much like Slim Pickins in Dr. Strangelove.

The Host continues. "Dr. Ritenrong has called again this morning requesting an update on your preparations. Are you ready to go?"

Any last minute preparations or changes?

Doc regains 1 Chi

Items aquired:
1835 Men's Suit, Medium
1835 Work Clothes, Large
2 pair leather work gloves
Simple Lockpick kit
Pry Bar
3 Bolts Cloth
4 Iron Shackles
Flintlock Rifle, 50 rounds balls & powder
16 oz. Black powder
10 Sticks Dynamite & blasting caps
8 oz. Hydrochloric acid
12 oz. Mojito mix
8 oz. Laudenum
4 Pictures Nude Women

Cash Aquired: $4,862.30 CE1835

A feller'd have a real good time in Vegas with all that stuff.