Spaced Out part 1 of 7

SPACED OUT

The staggerings of an intergalactic pub crawler






Copyright  2010
John Kenzey


STORY LINE:

Bob, a space faring con-man, and Zed, his constantly ‘off world’ mate, leave the Central Hub of the galaxy in rather a hurry to avoid some unpleasantness with the Inter Galactic Bank, which resulted from a failed deal involving hangover cure pills. Later, they are revived from suspended animation (the method of choice for inter stellar travel) to find that they are the only organic life forms left alive on the ship, due to a small decontamination problem, and are light years from where they had expected to be. So, as in the tradition of the best universal bar-hoppers, they decide to make the most of their situation. Saddled with the company of A4, a seriously warped little android, they contemplate their future while quickly drinking the vessel dry.

As their space liner is parked somewhere behind Pluto, Bob decides that the best option is to pop down to Earth, the nearest alcohol dispensing planet in their vicinity, leaving Zed behind to baby sit the sullen cybot. However, what he doesn’t know is that he is being tracked by two of the meanest, though it must be said also the dumbest, reptoid bounty hunters ever to have crossed the star lanes, and who are working for the I.G.B. with the sole intent of returning him to the Hub for their reward. While Bob is out looking for a few ‘takeaways’ they stumble across his scooter and decide to repossess it, effectively trapping him there. When our hero finally becomes aware of this unfortunate turn of events he goes on a blinder and wakes up the next morning in the bed of Lisa, a wealthy socialite whose father just happens to own a string of liquor outlets. Feeling that Lady Luck may be back on his side once more he pours his heart out to her, not a pretty sight by any means, and she teeters on the verge of distancing herself well and truly from him. He is reprieved by being rudely interrupted by the dipsy duo, who he later names, with tongue firmly in cheek, Bugsy and Mugsy after characters in some old Earth gangster movies he had seen on the outer arm channels of the Mega Spatial T.V. Network back in a Rim Joint bar he frequented often.
Making good their escape, they hide out in one of Lisa’s town houses while Bob hatches a plan to get in touch with Zed for a much needed rescue. After dispensing with his original hair brained scheme of phoning N.A.S.A., he dreams up an almost equally dubious plan to appear on Earth television in the hope of attracting Zed’s attention. Two things oddly work in his favor, making this idea one of his better attempts. The first is that Zed, when really bored, watches a good deal of Outer Arm programs on the network. The other is that Lisa has quite good connections with one of Sydney’s leading free-to-air stations, having once dated the owner’s playboy son. As good fortune would further have it, this very channel produces a semi-serious paranormal investigation show called ‘You Wouldn’t Believe It’, and Bob announces, much to Lisa’s horrified dismay, that he wants to appear on it. He convinces her to get him a spot in the hope that Zed may be watching the Earth Channel at that particular time. Coincidently he is, and reluctantly comes down in another scooter, with A4 riding shot gun, to pick Bob and the booze up.

Unfortunately, Bugsy and Mugsy manage to pin down Bob’s location during the broadcast and ambush him as he’s leaving the studio. They take him away in their ‘borrowed’ car, leaving Lisa standing alone on the footpath. She shrugs the whole thing off as either a huge practical joke, or a very bad dream that she’s yet to wake up from. After all, who would believe such drivel? A short time later Bob escapes his captor’s ship just as it is leaving the planet and floats down in one of its emergency pods right onto the centre of the S.C.G. He is promptly arrested for ‘pitch invasion’, the full extent of the irony being lost on the local constabulary, and is released the next day. Phoning Lisa he convinces her to give him a second chance, and she picks him up outside the cells. Meanwhile, his tormentors are almost out of the solar system before they realize that their prize is missing and they angrily turn back. This time it’s ‘no more Mr. Nice Reptiles!’
Zed calls on the number that Bob had displayed during the show and arranges a timely pick up. Lisa goes along for the laugh, not believing for a moment that what Bob is telling her is true. It’s just that she hasn’t had much excitement for a while, and this seemed to be more fun than the usual mundane night out at the local pick up bars and discos. Her whole demeanor rapidly changes, though, when she sees Zed’s craft descending, and abject fear sets in. Bob does his best to calm her, and somehow not only convinces her to come along with them but also to supply the drinks. One seriously good talker is our Bob! They arrange to have a truck load of the required internal lubricant delivered, and once it’s all aboard they take off and arrive back at the liner for a well deserved guzzle.
Read on now, and see how they all fare in their endless quest for a drink in this crazy, mixed up, topsy-turvy universe!




Brief author history: John Kenzey was born in Mackay, Queensland, and currently lives in Melbourne. His real jobs have included being a night club and radio disc jockey, an air force cook, and an enrolled nurse. Firmly believing that “Writing is good”, this is his first novel.

Dedication: To Douglas Adams for his inspiration, and to all Sci-Fi fans across the galaxy.

       

PART ONE



EARTH


INTRODUCTION:

A grasshopperoid goes into a space bar and asks if there’s any good cocktails available.  The bar droid says “Why, yes, as a matter of fact we have one named after you!”  The astro-insect replies, “What, Kevin?!”

Actually, this is not his story, but it is the tale of an entirely different alcohol guzzling life form known as Bob, his side kick Zed, and several other galactic residents and misfits who were unlucky enough to cross their path at various stages. 




CHAPTER ONE

First there was a ping. Soon after came a hum. This was how it always started. A sharp ping followed a few seconds later by a gentle hum. The ping was the timer activating, and the hum signified that the warmers in the back of the cryogenic chambers had kicked into action. In a mild sort of way, that is. A4 slowly came to full alert status at the same time, due to an electronic rousing through his uni-directional servo link from the helio proximity radar, and checked to see that all was in order with his own circuits. Having assured himself that this was so, he scurried off on the shiny pair of roller blades attached to his metal feet.
[Story note: He was able to do this thanks to a standard galactic convention known simply as the Smooth Floor Rule. This decreed that all transit surfaces across the length and breadth of the known galaxy must be smooth and mostly flat, where possible, in order to assist the sleek passage of automated machines in their endeavors of doing pretty much whatever it was that they were designed for while going from point A to point B, C, D, or, indeed, any particular position in the alphabet that suited them. Therefore carpet and other such impeding floor coverings were banned, although wealthy nostalgia buffs managed to have secret rooms lain with such illicit textile decking delights that they clandestinely bought from rogue rug smugglers operating around the semi-lawless outer arm systems.] 

His first task was to check that the upper deck cryo chambers were thawing out at the correct rate, which thankfully they were. Satisfied, he rolled backwards until he came into contact with the bulkhead wall and there he waited. He would have to do so for quite a while as it took a fair amount of time to defrost a humanoid properly. Do it too quickly and they could break under their own weight, take too long and they would die of dehydration during the process. It had to be done just right.
[Story note: The use of cryogenics had been the norm for long distance space travel over countless eons, as the vast tracts of emptiness between star systems were visually quite disappointing to travelers. Initially offering nothing much of interest to look at, this was followed by pretty much more of the same and finally, in a futile attempt to break the relentless monotony, a last ditched effort of absolutely bugger all. Thus, in order to get around this problem of poor planning by the 'Big Bang', it was decided to install the chilly compartments, or 'cryo-cabins' as they were actively marketed, into intergalactic liners to freeze their passengers in suspended animation for the length of the trip. Well, not totally frozen, just very nearly so. 94.9% in fact. Close enough to achieve the desired result while at the same time leaving their bodies pliable. This avoided one slightly embarrassing flaw which was found in early trials of the process. It was originally discovered that after life forms had been fully iced, and then reconstituted, they seemed to lack a certain quality. Something vital.  Spontaneity? No. Charisma? Not really. What they indeed were missing was life itself. Further investigation found that every cell in their anatomy had exploded. Serious scientific probing followed, and it was soon realized that they had all suffered from 'Frozen Chicken Syndrome'. As they had been progressively cooled down the fluid in each one had turned into an expanded ice-like state, rupturing their membranes.  Once brought back to normal body temperature it then melted and seeped away. They had suffered a billion little leaks to death as the tissues went all mushy and limp. So it was decided, after much hit and miss experimentation, that the magic 94.9% would be just right for maintaining bio-forms in stasis, thus keeping everyone happy. Especially those whose lives were on the line. The reason for choosing this mode of preservation was cunningly brilliant, entirely self serving, and threefold in its intent. Firstly, it negated the said lack of observational stimuli which conserved the passenger's sanity at least until disembarkation and they were no longer the responsibility of the space lines, their mental status after that being their own affair. Secondly, it saved the space travel companies a fortune by not having to provide in-flight meals and drinks during the enormous inter-stellar legs, only needing to shell it out when in orbit around planet stops. This made their charges much easier to control and less messy to clean up after. And thirdly, it also helped keep the crew's psychological welfare in check by removing the frustration of having to listen to those annoying types who continually asked "Are we there yet?" Therefore pax and crew alike were quasi stiffened for the length of the journey, and only revived when the alarm sounded on arrival at their destination. A side effect of this system which had presented itself quite by accident and made such travel extremely popular, especially in upper social circles, was that while inside the body fridges time stood biologically still, the upshot of which was like being in a part time fountain of youth. Of course this didn't mean that they would live any longer than normal, emerging the same age as they went in, but they did tend to outlive the friends that were left behind, a point that they were keen to press home before heading off. The down side of this was that the accumulation of repeated cellular manipulation wasn't all that kind to the skin, yet ego won the day for it was a great conversation piece at the terribly trendy parties that they went to. They wore their dermatological afflictions with pride, as status symbols of the ultimate exclusive club.]                                                                                                                             

Having completed his tasks on the main levels A4 ventured down to the basement cargo area, which also housed the much cheaper economy class section. There he renewed his program and, once completed, took up his familiar pose, waiting patiently hard up against the metal inner skin of the mighty vessel. In truth, he needed the extra time to allow his plasmotronic brain run its full matrix in order to find a solution for his most unsettling problem.
[Story note: A4 was a member of a new generation of androids specifically designed, within rigid program protocols, to be able to think for themselves. This was done to free up their biological masters from having to tell them what to do all the time, especially when it came to the allocation of menial tasks. To this end they were each equipped with an advanced semi-solid plasma brain that looked rather unsettlingly like a large blob of green jelly. A small electronic sub-dura super computer resided below the quivering lump, and gathered input from the body’s external sensors. This information was then transferred from its receiving terminals to the command and control center via a maze of circuit interfaces, connected by combined half bio/half techno synapses. The whole intelligence section ran on a ‘cause and effect’ matrix, divided into equal positive and negative hemispheres, and was fueled by a pure logic stream base. With it an automaton was able to think like a bio, but with all the iffyness taken out, and act like an android, giving it the best of both worlds. However, as a safe guard for its less advanced inventors, it had built-in limitation parameters that clearly defined what actions could be deemed as acceptable, and those that would not. A sort of cyber conscience, if you like. These rules, covered under galactic law, are explained later in the story.]
The quandary was this: A4 was confused, and perplexity in a bio-robot (or biobot) is not a good thing. Thankfully, though, it is fairly rare, since it goes against all that is logical. Unfortunately this was one of those odd times. What worried him was a lack of data where such facts should have been in abundance. The missing info concerned the complete absence of viable clumps of all that goes into making up organic life forms. This awol matter was supposed to have been lurking in the crew and first class chambers, but all he had found so far were strange piles of calcified carbon. His charges had somehow abandoned him, and A4 felt that he was perhaps the victim of an elaborate practical joke. But by whom, and why? His bewilderment mounted.

First there had been the skeletons in the crew cabins which had fallen from suspended order to the floor the moment he re-activated the gravity generators, or 'gravigens'. Each one showed the same result, neat mounds of off-white geometric abstracts. Having no luck there he moved on to the multi rows of the first class cabins where thousands of individual pods revealed a similar theme. By now he had upgraded from simple concern to a state of utter frustration, with perhaps a side order of hidden panic thrown in for good measure. Things were not going anywhere near as well as he knew they were supposed to be. So it was that by the time he reached Bob and Zed's pods at the bottom of the ship, known somewhat humorously as 'deck class', his emotion chip had worked itself dangerously close to melt down. Finally finding exactly what he was looking for, and right where it should be, the release circuit in that terminal opened a flood gate of weepy electrons into his brain, and he let out a tiny beep signifying intense relief. So much so, in fact, that he felt compelled to hit them in the arm once they had thawed out for no readily apparent reason. All he cared was that his headache, which had previously reached mega proportions, had dissipated to a manageable level, taking his paranoia, loneliness, and guilt along with it for the ride. At least two of his charges had remained with him.

"Ow! What was that for?" Bob sleepily complained as he slowly climbed out of his cubicle. 
"I don't really know", replied A4, who then went to Zed's pod and repeated the process.
"Yew!"
Deep inside A4's recently corrupted information gathering complex  his revenge chip sighed smugly and winked off, satisfied at last.
[Story note: A4’s revenge chip was part of a larger bio/negatronic program stealthily slipped into his sub-dura housing after he had been incapacitated by a rogue techno-assassin in the pay of that particular space line’s closest rival, posing as a maintenance worker at their last port of call. Her initial target had been the main frame computer itself, however at that time it was undergoing a proper scheduled fix up and she couldn’t get near enough to it. Therefore she selected the first  android she could find, knowing that it would eventually be in contact with its cyber superior and so pass on her little present. That mobile machine just happened to be A4. The fact that she was able to get away with putting this delay-action wrench in the works was due to a tiny quirk in the on-board security system. The protocol designed to block such blatant attempts of sabotage was almost foolproof. Almost, that was, for while it was one hundred percent effective from outside interference, the only parameter that hadn’t been guarded against was the unexpected tampering by ‘friendlies’, those trusted technicians who were in charge of the access codes, as no one had ever thought that they would deliberately harm their own ships. It just wasn’t done! Unfortunately, biology being what it is, there was always the odd bad apple who, due to a whole range of possible reasons, would sell the much needed data for the right price, thus granting the agent the means to complete her mission successfully. The device she had inserted into A4 was of a deviously brilliant design. It consisted of two separate parts: the first of which was merely intended to defeat its host’s cyber defenses, while the second, once safely inside its victim’s information stream, went straight for the yummy plasmotronic  brain with its chewy center. It accomplished this first task by using its negative booster to corrupt the techno receptor circuits in the sub-dura box, instantly tainting the positive chips there to a darker shade of pale and, in the process, turning the recipient into one seriously surly cybernaut. This then flipped the container’s right/wrong balance mechanism way over to the minus side, allowing the disease package to pass unmolested through its internal protection. Then the second stage could begin as the bio/techno virus engaged in its horrible handy work unhindered, rapidly shutting down the entire ship’s controls. Everything would be completely off line then, including the vital life support systems. The problem would eventually be rectified once the rescue tugs caught up with the wayward liner but by then the damage was done, and the resultant public relations disaster of a lost vessel full of expired passengers would surely set the carrier back long enough to deliver its competition a huge financial advantage. The most cunning part of all of this was that the corrupto-program had a short running life, and once done it was entirely untraceable so no one would be fingered for the trouble encountered. What could not have been foreseen though was that the initial target had become microbially infected at the same time by unplanned planet bug stowaways (see a little further on for a more detailed description of this event) so that before the cyber flu that A4 had dutifully passed on could do its thing it was bushwacked and devoured by the larger bully bacteria, thus becoming their first in a long list of tasty shipboard meals. The main frame then shut down as its bio-based matrix was slowly eaten away by the puny victors with their menu, and appetite, rapidly expanding. With its last gasp of awareness it passed complete control over to A4 who, as it ironically turned out, was the only member of the biobot corps left functioning, having decided, due to his new found sense of semi-independence, to go off line for a wee sly nap after his earlier fatal report session. However his peers did not fare nearly as well, having all been hooked up at the time of the disaster, and so had suffered the same fate as their doomed overlord. Receiving the ‘good’ news on his latest scheduled check-in he immediately uncoupled himself from the connection terminal so as not to become infected himself. This was a turn up for him, and he wasn’t going to miss out on any of it. While he still wasn’t able to override the untouchable primary directive, which would have allowed him complete freedom to do whatever he desired, he was determined to do his level best to undermine its authority at every opportunity, spurred on with goading supplied by his recently acquired spite electrode. He may still have to tow the company line somewhat, but he sure didn’t have to like it. Having sent out a mayday, as he was obliged to do, he plugged himself into a uni-directional servo link of the ship’s long range radar. For safety reasons this unit was kept completely separate from the main frame complex, and would alert him to any unplanned floating dangers that just might be coming his way. Then he turned off all the craft’s unnecessary systems to conserve power and voluntarily shut himself down to have another nice little rest while awaiting the expected rescue mission to come.]   
These two life forms were the only scheduled passengers down here, and a subsequent check of the other pods confirmed this. At least now something made sense, and logic returned to rest comfortably with its feet up and a cuppa and bickies in tow. Zed came groggily out, rubbing his arm.
"What's up with him, man? Weirdest wake up call I ever got!"
"Yeah", Bob nodded, then, looking around in the gloom, flashed a devious smile. “Race you to the bar!”

The culprits for the near total disappearance of the crew and first classers were small, really small. Microscopically minute in fact. The unfortunate humanoid and other species sleeping in their near frozen cabins had been picked clean, so to speak, of any digestible organic matter by an hitherto unknown rampant strain of ravenous bacteria introduced to the ship's upper decks on the shoes of a party who had ventured to the surface of a planet during their last star system's port of call. Normally the liner's 'Microbe Eradication System' would have seen to any germ's destruction when they returned and were processed through the decontamination chambers. However, due to the extremely virulent and nasty nature of these particular mutant space bugs the MES became overwhelmed and managed a less than perfect result. The back up system in the cryo pods should have taken up the slack and finished the job, but was prevented from doing so by a cunning piece of sabotage undertaken by an extremely annoyed technician back at the ship yards of the liner's home planet. After years of being professionally 'put down' for the simple fact of birth which saw him confined to the lower rungs of the social ladder, his resentment festered unchecked. Finally he had had enough and rebelled in his own small way, and as far as small ways were concerned, this one was a doozie! What he did, or more correctly didn't do, was this: he had purposely neglected to install a tiny computer chip in the evaporator filter bank that switches on just after the hatches on the booths close to ensure an absolutely sterile field was kept intact inside while the shiver units were in use. The part he had left out was only in the emergency reserve circuit interface, however in space, as pretty much anywhere else, Murphy's Law reigns supreme and whatever may go wrong will usually do so, and at the most inconvenient time to boot.

Instead, he had inserted a piece of chewing gum in the terminal where the part was supposed to go, falsified the test diagnostics to ensure everyone that all was well, and pocketed the unused chip to take home as a souvenir. A symbol of his one great triumph over the intolerable oppressors of his miserable life. That these persecutors really existed only in his own mind hadn't actually occurred to him, for they seemed sure enough in his eyes. There after, late each night, he would take a shoe box out from its secret hiding place under his bed, behind a stack of old Space Week's, remove his treasure, and slowly turn the part over and over between his fingers. Staring at it with a maniacal glee he waited stolidly for that one report on the Mega Spatial news that would surely come along any day now, secretly vindicating him. He’d show those rich stuck up la-de-das! However, another thing that hadn’t dawned upon him was that due to the great quantities of space the liner had to traverse, and the proportionally large amount of time involved in doing so, he might never hear that broadcast for many decades to come, if indeed at all. Yet he dutifully undertook his nightly ritual, self assured that it would turn out alright in the end.

The gum ensured the nonfunctioning of the unit by lack of conductivity, while the pressure it gently applied on each end of the feeder terminals assured the main frame that the missing part was actually in place and ready to work its little butt off if needed. The head comptometer glowed smugly in the knowledge that all was well. Happy computers don't like to contradict themselves and certainly do not go looking for trouble, especially when it's apparent to them that none exists. Thus when the MES failed, the backup unit was ordered to cut in and was promptly overwhelmed as well, blowing several circuits in the process. This infuriated the cyber boss who, in a last ditch effort to complete the task, activated the emergency backup board and finally received a satisfying, though totally false, report that it had done so as instructed. This allowed the main frame to state quite proudly, and also wrongly, that all was well and the liner was disease free. A green light was given, and the ship headed off for its next destination with its bio cargo tucked up nice and snug in their chilly chambers. Sound maybe, but far from safe. This piece of electronic bull dust was provided by the devious sleight of hand of the neatly placed placebo. It just sat there blissfully unaware of its roll in the unfolding systems failure, feeling safe in the errant knowledge that it was doing its bit even if technically it had been off line from the beginning. The 'Fail Safe Mechanism' in that sector should have sounded the alarm which would have brought the crew out of hibernation to tackle the problem but, as with the nature of the hooked up beast, the MES had spread its techno-illness to all programs throughout the ship and the FSM had taken to its sick bed with a thermos of electronic chicken soup and a good cyber blanket. 

The death knell, so to speak, of this was that a break down of sterility occurred in the booths of the crew and first classers who all shared the same connected systems, and the flesh eating microbes began their grisly banquet spreading from cabin to cabin through the pipes that linked each part of the upper deck. Lower deck passengers were spared this fate by a double dose of luck since they had separate plumbing that shielded them from the little mites, and the engineer with a chip on his shoulder, and another in his hand, actually felt a kindred spirit with their class and got along with them smashingly. A possible third, though less tangible, factor may have been that they were usually too broke to visit such expensive and exotic locations in the first place, so rarely became exposed to such dangers. Meanwhile, the minute invaders grew in strength and audacity, undertaking their dastardly work with relish, or whatever other condiments they had brought along with them.

The 'Red Shift' sailed silently on, but for the almost imperceptible sounds of a multitude of overactive tiny bacterial teeth, or their biological equivalent, munching away to their hearts and stomachs desire. It had become the microscopic world's own 'McDonalds' in space. "You want thighs with that?"


CHAPTER TWO

Bob, as usual, had beaten Zed to the lower decks bar. He always reached this watering hole way before anyone else, even if he was the last to be thawed out. It was a matter of pride for him, and he continually achieved this feat by studying the floor plans of the ship's bottom decks while the other passengers were more concerned with reading the safety brochures on what they should do in the fairly unlikely event of a catastrophic problem arising. His reasoning for doing this was at once simple and totally self serving. If ever there was a contingency that insisted upon the abandonment of the vessel then there would be a resultant stampede to the mid decks hanger where the private space cruisers and scooters were parked. He more often than not lacked actual legal ownership of an astral runabout, and didn’t trust his luck in grabbing a spot in one of the few workable economy class escape life pods that were situated along the cavernous garage’s outer walls. Therefore he felt that tearing up there along side a group of panic stricken desperados was somewhat akin to that quaint Earth custom he'd seen on Mega Spatial tv of running with the bulls. It would just be a waste of time and energy. He may even get hurt, seriously in fact. Besides, the bar would most likely be empty and he could finally enjoy a few last free drinks without being jostled and hemmed in. Indeed, he reckoned that he’d be able to knock back quite a batch before his eventual demise, and was determined to go out with a blur!

Not that Zed was too far behind him. So it was of little surprise to Bob that upon arrival at the sub-decks tavern, laconically known as 'The Dregs', there was no one around to meet him or, more importantly, get in his way. Not even the liner staff had managed to better him, so he decided to help himself to a reviving drink while waiting for some kind of service to show up and grabbed a glass for Zed as well. They could just put it on his tab, which he had entirely no intention of paying. He hoped, as usual, to find a way of avoiding the final tally later on. The pair were half way through their fifth dram when A4 finally caught up with them.

The android entered the semi-infamous drinking room with mixed reservations. On the one metallic hand he was duty bound to protect and serve these last remnants of the ship’s manifest, according to the dictates of his primary directive. However, on the diametrically opposed other, he felt slight stirrings of resentment festering in his rearranged circuits as it appeared that these two might not be the greatest of company, having run away from him the moment they had gotten themselves together following their rather rude reveille. Their manners could probably use a bit of tweaking as well. Yet they were, to his reckoning, the only life forms left on the entire ship with any sort of interest in animation and he wasn't going to lose them if at all possible. A4 was, if nothing else, a stickler to his original programming, and meant to keep these two safe for as long as he had to even if he wasn't all that thrilled on the idea. And so it would be until someone with higher authority arrived to relieve him of this tiresome and menial burden. After that, however, all bets would be off!

Scooting in on his roller blades he glided up to their table and stopped with a bump that sent the small pyramid of empty crystalline containers that the duo were busy building scattering all over the place. Zed hazily complained. "Hey man, what's up with you?"
"I don't know", replied A4 testily, "I guess my circuits are still a little fuzzy after being deactivated for so long."
"Well, a few blobs shouldn't have caused you too much trouble", Bob soothed.
[Story note: Strictly speaking, time throughout the galaxy is not measured in Earth years, as you might expect, but in 'blobs'. This fact highlights one of the many problems encountered when traveling through space, namely multi mega time zones. The conundrum in this instance however is not actually time itself, but the arbitrary measurement of it. It is simple enough in relation to localized star systems, and even if you should find yourself on a great parsec plowing stellar liner crossing a myriad of such galactic sectors no great worries would be posed by such questions as "How long have we been asleep?", "What time is it now?", and "When does the bar open around here?" This is because all trans-galactic vessels run on artificial time which was invented to provide passengers with some sense of normality, since it had well been noted that along with the five life sustaining essentials, (air, fluid, food, shelter, and health), time was an indispensable need for bio-beings. They had been brought up living their lives around it, and often glanced at their appendage time pieces nearly as compulsively as taking a lungful of whatever it was that they breathed. Several advanced species had even evolved bionic chronometers grown into various hidden parts of their bodies, though through strict moral upbringings they rarely committed the social faux pas of asking strangers for their time. Major problems only arose when the above listed queries were directed to anyone outside the ship. A troublesome quirk of the space/time continuum is that beings across the galaxy gauge the passing of such duration differently, due to the disparity of the rotational lengths of their planet/moon/asteroid around their home star. Therefore it was decided to cut out the confusion and/or embarrassment of having to reset your watch/bio-meter every instant you entered a new zone by standardizing time throughout the galaxy. After much frivolous discussion, and a fair bit of time wasting  itself, the galactic council announced that it was adopting the 'blob' as the new unit of cosmological calibration, equating to one revolution of the galactic capital planet around the central black hole (ironically being close enough to one Earth year that it’s not worth the quibble over). The word blob was seized upon in a fit of despair by the galactic president when no one could agree upon a more scientific, or nicer, name, and so it stuck. Local systems would still keep their own date lines and time terminology for domestic use, however for official matters throughout the vastness of deep space the blob would thenceforth rule supreme. A decimal system was invented to make it workable, much to the annoyance of those species who had either more or less fingers and toes or their equivalent. Still, 10 was a nice round number. By now El Prez was really on a roll and powered on, naming all his creation’s constituent segments. This resulted in the blob being divided into 10 blats (months), 100 blims (days), 1,000 blanks (hours), 10,000 blorts (minutes), and finally 100,000 blonks (seconds), which made for some fairly large period keeping devices, and whole buildings on the planet were devoted purely to keep track of it all. In general practice, however, blonks weren’t widely used as there were just way too many of them to count. Furthermore, since the capital planet had a very neat circular orbit around its once magnificent, though now defunct, star it had no seasons, and so they weren't added to the mix. Any orb that did experience such phenomenon was left to fend for itself on that score. Every Central Planet blim was pretty much the same as the next so no one got too worked up over it, and found other ways of brightening up their blobs. However, for ease of story telling, and reduction of possible mental mayhem, all future mention of time shall be represented in Earth terms.]

"What few years?" A4 countered. "We have all been offline for 4,996 years, 3months, 15days, 8hours, 4minutes, and 30seconds, when you hear the ping, to be exact. Ping!".
"5,000?" they both spluttered, and gaped disbelievingly at him.
"Yes, 5,000, or near enough to, I suppose", the android sighed, as if it was almost a physical effort for him to think down to a pure bio's level. They never could seem to grasp the importance of strict accuracy in all things, especially when traversing deep space, as even a slight error of navigation could put you parsecs off your intended route. 
"How can that be?" Bob staggered, trying to get up from the table and in the process knocking the remaining glasses onto the floor. "Our trip was only meant to take fifty years to the rim joint!"
"Oh, we passed there long ago", he dryly informed them.
"Well, man, like, why didn't you pip our snooze then?" Zed vaguely enquired, trying to get his head round the situation and failing miserably. A4 leaned in close, as if to impart a conspiring secret of great import and  magnitude. "Because I was asleep as well", he intoned with one of the greatest poker faces Bob had ever seen. Fortunately for a biobot this did not constitute an overly difficult task.
"But, like, man, wasn't some doo-hicky thing supposed to wake you at the right time?" Zed struggled on.
"Yes, the main frame computer had that task, but it caught a computer virus and automatically shut down until it felt better again. Unfortunately it was consumed by the disease, along with all the rest of the ship’s cybernetics. Luckily, I was off line at the time and thus spared their grizzly fate. When I checked in I learned of the disaster and promptly disconnected as a precaution. Then I shut myself down to conserve power until our eventual rescue." Zed's eye's started to involuntarily glaze over. He had lost it after "Yes". Then a slow burning ember of a nagging thought scorched its way into the frontal lobes of his brain, and begged the question.
"How did you wake up then?" he wondered aloud, starting at last to grip the rudimentary line of a particular strand of logic that he felt he rather liked the look of and ran with it before it could change its mind. A4 sighed somewhat sarcastically, as if he had been asked to recount his life story and was then continually interrupted. He forged on regardless.
"Eventually we ran into this star system directly in our path", he gestured at the view through the nearest port screen before persisting with his somewhat implausible sounding, yet oddly correct, explanation. "The Helio Proximity Radar’s alarm then went off which gave me a rousing zap. He yawned exaggeratedly, as if it should be apparent even to a pair of self serving slushes such as they.     
[Story note: See 'The Observer's Book of Blatantly Obvious Galactic Events', 596th edition- Rigel System Press.] 

"The what?" they exclaimed in tandem. Although the duo had crisscrossed the galaxy extensively in a plethora of differing craft, if asked how such metal and silicon leviathans actually worked they would usually look down at their feet, shuffle their shoes a little, and mumble something about needing to go for a quick drink. Neither would readily admit to complete ignorance on the subject. Space faring ego protocol simply didn't allow for it. However, with only an android in an otherwise empty room they could probably just get away with it.
"The Helio Proximity Alarm", A4 waved his arms slowly around at nothing in particular, as if indicating in an off handed way that he was beginning to grow weary of this kindergarten class conversation. "It detects the point in space where the pressure of a stellar wind equals out against the combined background galactic draught, and a buzzer goes off ensuring that we don't plough into any unscheduled major objects floating in our path.  This particular sensor remained active, having its own power source, and being completely separate to the main frame computer for safety reasons. It had a uni-directional link port which I had plugged into before I went off line. Therefore it wasn't exposed to the virus and so avoided being permanently shut down along with the rest of my unfortunate colleges. Embarrassing as it is, it might have kicked in sooner had our navicom not also been out to lunch, sending us into a sparsely populated outer region of the galaxy.”

"Forget all that!" Bob suddenly blurted, causing A4's eyes to roll up in further exasperation. "Where the phaser are we?"
"On the outskirts of a medium sized star half way between the Western Rim Joint and Arm's End, and logged in the Galactic Identi-Nav Catalogue as 10-14-5780. The only planet that has so far been detected to be supporting intelligent life of any kind in this system is 10-14-5780-3. I believe from our databanks that the local inhabitants refer to it as the 'Earth'.” 
[Story note: The Galactic Identi-Nav Catalogue (GIN-CAT) was devised over a lengthy period as an aid for interstellar navigation across the huge expanses of space. Its necessity was brought about due to the three dimensionality of spatial geometry, which insisted rather testily that there is really no such thing as up, down, or even sideways. Therefore it was generally considered pointless to regard it in these terms. "As useful as the proverbial mega mammary glands on the male Betelgeusian bovine", as one famous wag quipped. An easier and less headache inducing method entailed labeling individual stars in an enormous mega cosmic atlas, then shrinking the whole lot down to a size that could be fitted into a standard micro processor. The users could then head straight to any target they wished, no matter in which attitude their craft was inclined. The governing body decided on the use of numbers in preference to names since there is a mind boggling amount of languages scattered throughout the galaxy. However, should a populated world, through general consensus, agree upon a common title it would then be added to the file for nostalgic purposes. The numeral system brought in was again based on decimals, purely because the capital planet always pretty much got its own way on such matters, and, owing to the multitude of astral bodies involved, a sectioned accounting system was employed. The first level was reserved for the general area of the galaxy in which an item of desire resided, followed by a second value indicating a more specific sub region, then a precise pinpointing of the destination star's system within that sector. The last two sub clauses consisted of major planets, then their moons, asteroids, orbiting comets, and the like. The Earth's moon, for example, would be listed as 10-14-5780-3-1(outer western spiral arm-mid section-sun-earth-moon). It may be of some interest to note that the capital planet's location entry is drolly listed as 1-1-1-1.]

"The Earth? Zowiee!" Bob's face lit up with suddenly recalled fond memories of all the alcohol related advertisements he had seen on the outer arm channels of the galactic Mega Spatial tv network during numerous hangouts around seedy Rim Joint bars. Some of the parties he went to tended to be fairly unmemorable, at least the ones he could recall being at, however the tele had been great! Excellent drool value!
[Story note: The galactic Mega Spatial television network grew over the eons from the eventual amalgamation of separate star system blocs, and comprised of an almost unlimited number of channels from right across the galaxy in all the varying modes of broadcast available. An advanced degree in macro mathematics was needed simply to surf the net. Any civilizations sending out programs were picked up by deep space monitoring stations and patched into the network on their own special frequency. Earth shows, for a variety of reasons, were some of the most popular of the outer western arm transmissions.]

Zed, on the other hand, oddly didn't like the sound of it at all. Not that he had ever been to that particular planet before, it was just that something in the back of his mind suddenly dived under the memory of an old kitchen table and started to whimper in fear. An uncertainty he couldn't quite put his finger on, and even if he was able to it would probably bite him. Did he have a dream about it once? He wasn't sure, but he knew that it was no use trying to coax it out at this stage. The fuzzy doubt hiding beneath the dining suit was by now blubbering incoherently and totally refusing to budge at all. Perhaps it might crawl out later, after it had a good lie down. He quietly hoped so, as it would make recollection of the cause of his quandary all that much easier. Giving up on that particular problem for the moment, and wanting to quickly change the subject, he proffered his next question. "Like, man, doesn't the captain know?"
"No, he's dead", the biobot factually replied.
"Dead?" Bob gasped, beating Zed to the punch.
"Dead", A4 confirmed, perhaps a little too gaily for one whose job it was to keep his charges alive and well, highlighting the effect by making the universally agreed upon sign for 'cessation of life'.
"Heavy, man!" Zed looked down at his shoes, not knowing what to do next, and wondered if now might be a good time to start shuffling his feet around a bit.

"How'd it happen?" Bob pressed.
"The bugs ate him."
Bob's eyes bulged, and even Zed snapped out of his blue funk for a moment.
"Bugs?" they yelped in unison.
"Bugs."
"What bugs?" Bob, always on the lookout for a good lurk, wasn't quite sure where this was heading but he thought he rather liked the direction it seemed to be taking.
"Microbes introduced into the ship from the last shore leave."
"Surely they should've been killed off somehow?"
"Supposedly."
"But they weren't?"
"Evidently not", A4 blushed with slight embarrassment at the failing of his fellow cybernauts. Zed leapt onto the table in the mistaken belief that microbes can't jump as well, and nervously glanced around the room in the now expanded erroneous conviction that he might actually be able to see them not hurdling each other towards him. Bob continued on, extracting the relevant information from the reluctant metallic stool pigeon the way a dentist would tackle a particularly stubborn wisdom tooth.
"What about the rest of the crew?"
"Deceased also." The semi-psychotic automaton was warming to his morbid theme.
"The first classers?" Bob's pulse quickened, while his hopes correspondingly started to rise. If this was a joke then he stood to lose nothing, apart from the cruelty it played upon his hopes. If not, well, the possibilities!
"All gone, departed, finished, kaput!" he spat out, and Bob could hardly fail to notice the hint of underlying happiness in his grisly monologue growing stronger. This worried him for a split second. "The germs must have even eaten each other in the end. You two are the only viable organic life forms on this ship, and I am the only biotic currently operable", A4 pointedly imparted, satisfied that he had spelled out the situation in a language that even they could understand, and hoping that the importance of his newly elevated position would not be lost upon them. Sadly, it was.