"Freeze," he ordered the suit and jumped to his feet.
"An exclusion field has been active for the last 250 seconds," the suit told him primly. No time-travel, no tricks like stopping time or recursion hops.
"How long was I out?"
"Local reference clock signal comparison indicates that internal sensors were out of operation for 364 seconds," the suit said. It seemed almost contrite. It was time to destroy its higher functions again, Warty only mentally noted. You never want to live inside anything that could develop a sense of humor.
Warty took stock of his appearance in a giant mirror. The majestic cape was in tatters; it was made to billow and the time on the floor motionless had destroyed it. He ripped it off and threw it in a waste bin. Whoever knocked him out had taken a knife to his cuttleshark pants and his shirt smelled of piss. He stripped it all off. He let the timesuit substantiate into local space.
"The exclusion field has doubled in area of effect," the suit said. That meant the power supply for must have peaked. Warty glared at the moving dot that represented his penis as it sped away.
"Calculate a jump for when the field goes down. Put me in front of the idiot that thought it was a good idea to steal my penis."
"Acknowledged. Solution in… Hold… Your penis has vanished. Sensors read that the thief generated a jump once outside the exclusion field."
"Motherfucker!" Warty yelled. He slammed his massive fist on the counter beside the sink, spraying resin-bonded regolith shards in all directions.
The absence of his mighty multi-headed miracle manhood was a dull ache. At least they hadn't cut out the attachment ring or taken his magnificent ballsack. He was born with those spectacular jewels and remained quite attached to them. His long, thick, veiny and thoroughly original love sausage was floating in liquid nitrogen, waiting for him to tire of Futurecock technological replacements.
"The exclusion field is degrading," the suit murmured. "Time jump facility available concurrent with current field collapse estimate."
"First things first, suit." Warty subvocalized a set of coordinates.
Warty Hugeman materialized outside the Research and Development laboratories of Futurecock Industries, still needing to take a piss. He had been the face of the company for so long in the current frame of reference that the security guards let him into the facility immediately and escorted him to the Director of Male Genitalia (Nominal) and Crotch-Based Energy Weapons' office. He was a small and obsequious little man, oily in his manner, but he knew combat-model cocks like no one else.
"Mr. Hugeman. What a pleasure to see you," he purred, holding out his hand.
"No time for pleasantries, Dr. Weissblut. I need a replacement for my Hydra."
"Hydra? It is damaged? Were the power cells breached?" The little man's eyes were wide with terror.
"No, Doctor. It was stolen after someone used an EMP on my suit."
"Stolen? Why there's no telling how much destruction and pleasure could occur if that fell into the wrong hands!"
"Exactly, Doctor. I need you to re-equip me."
"But you have the only Hydra."
"I need something better than the Hydra in order to beat someone with a Hydra, Doctor."
"Of course. Give me a year, Mr. Hugeman. I'll have something for you."
Warty nodded and mouthed the coordinates. The room blinked out of existence for a fraction of a second. Dr. Weissblut stood before him as before, but the left side of his face had been burned down the bone and was covered with a clear mask.
"Mr. Hugdemaan," the doctor slurred. "On time ash uzuall."
"Doctor? What happened?"
"A small assident, sir. My assistant will help yoo; I mush retire."
The doctor left the room and younger version of him came back in. Whether child or clone, Warty didn't ask.
"Come with me, Mr. Hugeman. We will have to go to the fitting armory."
They walked together down a hallway that featured all the successful product lines from the century Futurecock Industries had dominated the recreational and military replacement cock market. There was the Mark 1, little more than a urethra drilled though the center of a white plastic dildo. It didn't even have vibration until the Mark 2. It was hanging up there as well, in all available colors: greasy pink, sterile white, and gleaming pitch black. So many memories. There was The Dominator, with counter-rotating rings, and The Sploosh, a knobby monstrosity that used sub-sonics to induce rapid overproduction of vaginal lubrication. Running along the top of the wainscoting were examples of the evolution of crotchal weaponry, from the simple penis bayonet to a scrotum-deployed MIRVmine. It wasn't until the two companies merged that the hybrid forms--meant for both sexual overpleasure and hands-free destruction of your enemies--began to be manufactured.
"After you, sir," the assistant said, when they reached the doors at the end of the hallway.
"Here is my father's final design, Mr. Hugeman."
In the small, colorless room, it waited for him on a clear pedestal. It was a triumph in black chrome, with a well-defined glans and circumcised expertly. As long as a forearm, as thick as a soup can, and even while switched off it seemed to hum with sex and devastation.
"It's enormous!" Warty exclaimed.
"That's what she will have said, Mr. Hugeman."