Part 2: The Wrath of Cholmondely-Smythe

Olding was sat in his cabin, flicking bits of semolina at a particularly bad picture on the wall of the Psycho cruising past a nebula or something – Olding had never been able to figure out what. It was done by one of these Neo-Cubist-Pointillist artists who claimed to have a new perspective on reality. Whilst that may have been true, Olding seriously doubted the artists’ grip on reality. He had finished his dinner, and was ruminating as to what else could possibly go wrong on this mission. He was reflectively chewing on a fingernail when the comm signal sounded.

Olding bit his finger. “What is it?”

“Sir, we’ve picked up a ship, closing fast.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s one of ours sir. It’s the Disposable.”

“T’ Disposable? I’m on my way. Summon all officers to t’ bridge.” 

--

Olding reached the bridge deliberately late, for greater dramatic effect. His main bridge crew were all there, and obviously being ordered to the bridge during their down-time had not gone down well. Commander Hill was still in his blue and white striped pyjamas, with matching bobble hat. Lieutenant Wall had reached the bridge awake, but had promptly fallen asleep again at his station, clutching a teddy bear in one hand whilst the other acted as a pillow against the console. Damerell was busy spraying air-freshener all over himself, for reasons Olding didn’t even want to guess at. He was also clutching a hot water-bottle. Olding was secretly glad he didn’t have to see Graham just yet. The Chief Engineer got very cranky when he didn’t get his full eight hours shut-eye. The last time someone had had to awaken him during the night, Graham had attacked them with a double-headed axe. It was a painful memory for Olding, especially as he had been the one waking the engineer up.

Olding looked at the screen. The Disposable was in sight. It was a Miranda-class starship, more heavily armed and faster than the Psycho. Olding knew that he should have read the files to check up on who was commanding the Disposable, but the assignments Starfleet dished out to the Psycho meant that they didn’t often come into contact with other starships, presumably to save them from embarrassment, so Olding had had no reason to.

“Hail them.”

The random ensign manning the communications station nodded, pressed a few buttons, frowned, and replied, “I’m getting a voice-message. They say their Chambers coil is overloading their comm system.”

“Commander Hill?”

Hill looked up, bleary-eyed. “Yeah, alright, just a second.” He leaned forwards over his scanner, and rubbed his face while the scanner cast its blue glow.

“Their coil emissions are normal.”

Olding looked at the helm. “Lieutenant Wall!!” he barked.

People jumped all over the bridge, but Wall just lifted his head slowly, rubbing his eyes, and said “Uh-uh?”

“Lieutenant Wall, bring us to a stop.” Olding clutched the arms of his chair, thus saving himself from being thrown out of it when the Psycho stopped dead.

Damerell, aware that a contribution was expected of him, looked round at Olding, and said, “May I remind the Captain of General Order 12: On the approach on any vessel when communications have not been established…”

Hill cut in. “Lieutenant, the Captain is well aware of the regulations.”

Olding allowed himself a small smile. “No, go on Lieutenant, remind me.”

Damerell swallowed loudly. “Er, well, um, I can’t actually remember.” He blushed.

Olding, putting the incident aside, rubbed his chin. “This is a bit bluidy peculiar.”

Hill swung round, and struck a pose by his station. “Yellow Alert!” he shouted. The crew hurriedly began pressing buttons randomly, in the hope that it would trigger something.

Olding looked at Hill, and in a voice that dripped sarcasm, said, “Actually, MISTER Hill, I think that was my line.”

“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” Hill looked suitably embarrassed.

Olding looked round again just as Yellow Alert was sounded by dint of Damerell accidentally leaning on the appropriate key. The klaxons wailed, and Olding screwed his eyes up as the high-decibel sound washed the bridge. “Shut that bluidy racket off!!!” No-one heard him. He tried again, louder. “I SAID, SHUT THAT BLUIDY RACKET OFF!!!!!” The klaxons gurgled and died away. “Thank you.”

“Sir, their shields are going up!” Hill was all business as he called out the warning.

“Eh?”

“They’re locking phasers on target!!”

“Raise shields!”

The order came too late, as the phaser beams struck the engineering section. People were thrown around the bridge, screaming and shouting as they fought to maintain their balance. Behind Olding a console exploded and a brief fire started. Damerell kept his seat, but screamed anyway as he didn’t want to be left out. The Psycho lurched, and for once it wasn’t due to Lieutenant Wall’s lack of piloting ability.

The Disposable ceased firing, and the ensign at the comm station turned to Olding with a look of shock on his face. The bridge lights had gone to red emergency power, making everyone look even worse than they felt. “Sir, the commander of the Disposable wishes to discuss terms of our surrender.”

Olding was stunned. “Bluidy cheek!”

Lieutenant Wall muttered, “This is even worse than a hangover. No, no, I’ve had hangovers worse than this.” His right hand was making grasping motions, as if searching for a pint glass that his subconscious told him ought to be there.

Olding straightened his tunic. “Put him on screen.”

The screen switched from the view of the Disposable to the ship’s bridge. A man in Starfleet uniform stood there, an insufferably smug grin on his face. “So, Captain Olding.”

Olding looked grim. “Captain Cholmondely-Smythe.” He knew the other man well. They had been at the Academy together, and Cholmondely-Smythe had tormented Olding throughout their four-year stint. He was the sort of southern ponce who really got up Olding’s nose with his ‘terribly terribly sorry, old chap’ way of speaking, and pompous, superior attitude, by ‘eck. And now, it seemed, he was back.

“Terribly sorry, old bean, but I’m afraid I can’t let you go any further. You see, I’m not really all that struck on the idea of a peace treaty between the Federation and the Klingons, so I’m going to work jolly hard to stop it. Your little trip to protect said treaty is, therefore, not what I would call a good idea, okay?”

Olding’s fists clenched. He had an instinctive hatred of anyone who actually used the word ‘therefore’ when they spoke. “Look, lad, if it’s me that you want, I’ll beam aboard. Leave my crew alone.”

“Afraid I can’t do that, old fruit. You see, they could still reach the conference and save the day.”

Olding started to guffaw. In between gales of laughter, he managed to squeeze out, “This lot?!! You have to be kidding!!!”

Cholmondely-Smythe did not smile. “Because I’m a decent sort of chap, I’ll give you one minute to give me all the data concerning the conference and beam over here.”

“Right then.” Olding turned to the comm. “Mute.” He then walked over to the science station. “Keep nodding as though I’m still giving orders.” Hill started to nod frantically. “We have to find some way of fighting back.”

Hill was still nodding. “What about the prefix code?” he said, as his bobble swung maniacally.

“You know, that’s actually a very good idea!” Olding swung back to the navigation console. “And for goodness’ sake, stop nodding!”

He moved down so he was standing with his back to the main screen. Cholmondely-Smythe was picking his nose. Olding didn’t want to run the risk of him lip-reading and the whole plan being blown. “Damerell, I want you to bring up t’ charts of Disposable‘s command console.”

“Disposable‘s command?” Damerell looked at Olding blankly.

Olding groaned. “You should know why things work on a starship. Each ship has a security prefix code to prevent an enemy from doing what we’re attempting.”

“What exactly are we attempting, sir?”

Olding gritted his teeth. A filling broke. He ignored it. “We can order Disposable…” (dramatic pause) “… to lower her shields.”

Hill said, “Oh, right! Hey, that’s really clever!! I just thought maybe we could tell them to naff off or something.” He looked down and shuffled his feet as Olding glared at him.

On the viewscreen, Cholmondely-Smythe, who had realised that the connection had been muted, was holding up a sign which read, ‘In case anyone’s interested, 30 seconds until I will be forced to blow you to kingdom come. Ta-ta for now.’

Hill looked up and said, “Disposable‘s prefix code is 4587634.” Olding leaned over to press buttons on the navigation console, but Damerell stopped him.

“Sir, can I do it, please, huh, huh, can I?”

“Oh, all right then.” Olding turned to Wall. “Lieutenant Wall, lock phasers on target.”

“Yes!!! Phasers locked on, sir.”

Cholmondely-Smythe’s sign was now saying “Time’s up, old fruit.”

Olding turned to the comm station, and said, “Turn t’ mike back on.” He then turned to the screen and said, “We’ve got t’ data for you.”

“Jolly good, then. Send it across.”

“Right, lad. Here it comes. Now, Mr Hill.”

“Sorry, what? Oh, yeah, right.” He keyed in the prefix code, and sent it across to the Disposable.

“Now, Mr Damerell.”

“Er, you didn’t actually tell me what I had to do. Sir.”

Olding screamed, and frantically punched in the appropriate commands.

He was rewarded by a voice from off-screen saying, “Sir, our shields are dropping!”

Cholmondely-Smythe smiled his infuriating smile. “Now don’t be silly, there’s a good chap.”

Olding looked at the screen, and speaking very clearly, so that Cholmondely-Smythe knew exactly what he was saying, said, “Fire.”

“Yahoo!!!!” Wall slammed his fingers down on the phaser controls. The Psycho opened up with devastating force.

On the viewscreen, Cholmondely-Smythe screamed, “Dashed unsporting, that!”

Wall blew a raspberry at him, and took his hands off the phaser controls for long enough to stick two fingers up. Then the screen went blank.

Hill glanced at his monitors, and said, “Sir, they’re moving away.”

“We did it!!” The exuberant comment came, unsurprisingly, from Wall.

“We did nothing, except get caught with our trousers down.”

Damerell looked down guiltily.

“Figure of speech, Lieutenant.” Olding looked round the bridge. Strangely, it now seemed neater than it had been before, presumably because most of the trash had been burnt up in the brief fire that had swept the bridge. He knew, however, that the ship would have taken a fair bit of damage. “Let’s see how badly we’ve been hurt.”

The turbolift doors opened, revealing Graham carrying the body of a junior engineer. “I found this in Engineering. There’s a load more where this one came from.” So saying, he dropped the unfortunate engineer onto the deck. With some difficulty, Olding managed to persuade him to pick the body up again and come with him down to Sickbay. Graham seemed unperturbed by the bleeding engineer in his arms, and looked oddly at Olding when the captain backed against the turbolift wall, anxious not to get blood all over his tunic, or hands.

 --

Sickbay was like a vision from hell. There were bodies piled up all over the place. Most of them, Olding couldn’t help noticing, were missing a limb or two. From the isolation room, he could hear screams mingled with the sound of sawing. He decided not to go in.

One of the nurses on duty ran by, and grabbed the engineer Graham was carrying. “We’re doing everything we can, sir,” she told Olding. “We’re trying to keep the patients out of the Doctor’s way.” She then staggered off, carrying the engineer.

Olding left hurriedly, suddenly feeling very glad he had chosen not to eat the semolina.

--

He returned to the bridge. Commander Hill was waiting for him. “Sir, they’ve left the system, and are heading for the Irregula system.”

“That’s the Starfleet weapons testing facility! Follow them at best possible speed!”

Hill looked sideways at Wall, who shrugged his shoulders.

Damerell got out his atlas again, and started looking under ‘I’ in the index. With one hand clutching the atlas, he began tapping the co-ordinates one-fingered into the computer.

--

Wall fished out the bridge dustbuster from its recharging mount that had been soldered onto one of the railings, and hoovered up the dirt and bits of ship from the helm console. “Ready, sir,” he announced. He wiped the green furry trim clean, smearing his hands on his uniform tunic to clean them, and looked up at the fluffy dice, which miraculously were still hanging from the ceiling. Relieved, he flashed a confident grin at Olding.

Olding nodded, and said, “Follow that ship!”

--

A few hours later, they stopped next to the Irregula 1 Starfleet Official Weapons Testing Facility, or ISOWTeF, as it was known to the people who worked there and the sad weapons groupies that regularly read ‘Fighting, Killing and Maiming Monthly’. The station looked unharmed, but Olding knew that appearances could be deceptive. He felt vaguely uneasy at arriving at the station, as he knew one of the scientists aboard. He had met Wilhelmina Gates MCMXXI many years before while he was at the Academy. They had had a brief but very enjoyable relationship, and then they had parted, never to meet again.

Olding snapped himself out of his reverie, and started giving orders. He would have to go over there and have a look. “Lieutenant Damerell, you’re with me.” He pressed down the appropriate button on his armrest to put him through to Sickbay. “Doctor Jackson, please meet me in the transporter room. Commander Hill, the bridge is yours.” He left the bridge, followed by Damerell. Wall looked crushed that he hadn’t been asked to go along. Hill sat down in the Captain’s chair, and started to dismantle one of the armrests. 

--

The landing party changed into heavy-duty coats with plenty of pockets for equipment and whatnot, then they beamed over to the station, and were immediately confronted by a scene of desolation. They had chosen the hub of the station as their arrival point, to maximise their chances of finding somebody, but the usually bustling corridors were empty, and, ominously, the heating had been turned off. They shivered. Olding looked around him. They were at a crossroads.

“Phasers on stun. We’ll split up.”

The three of them set off down the corridors. Olding looked warily around him as he walked, ready for the slightest movement to tell him that they were not alone. There was no sound, though, other than the bleeping of computers and the occasional muffled swearword as Lieutenant Damerell tripped over an unexpected lump in the floor.

Further down, Jackson wandered along, swinging his tricorder and humming merrily. He was rather enjoying this. There was something about dark corridors and spooky atmospheres that really cheered the doctor up. Why, a few weeks ago, he had had great fun when there had been a power blackout on the ship, grabbing a sheet, throwing it over his head and running around the corridors shouting “Boo!” at anyone he saw. And the really entertaining thing about it all was that many of them made their way to Sickbay after being scared out of their wits, giving him the opportunity to do it all again. It would be a while before he finally forgot the faces of the big, brawny Security team he had jumped out on and said, “Boo!” to as they had clustered nervously by a biobed.

Jackson rounded a corner to find a body hanging from the ceiling, its arms and legs missing. His first thought was how sloppily the job had been done. Then he noticed the science uniform the body was wearing, and decided that he should report it. 

--

Olding stood looking down at a pile of fifteen bodies that they had found around the station and dragged back to the central lab. None of them belonged to Gates. He wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or not. There was nothing else on the station that explained what they had been looking for here. On a sudden impulse he headed off to the transporter room, dragging Damerell, who was in advanced shock due to the presence of several dead bodies, and Jackson, who didn’t really want to leave the dead bodies as they reminded him of home.

They found the transporter unit humming gently. Its last transport was still set into the computer. The co-ordinates were located deep inside the planet beyond the station. Olding frowned. This was getting weirder and weirder. He flipped open his communicator to update the Psycho on their progress, and to find out how the repairs were going. “Olding to Psycho, what’s your status over there?” The sound of bits of paper being rustled and people moving around and bumping into each other came over the channel. Olding winced inwardly. He just knew that his crew were about to attempt subtlety again.

Finally Hill’s voice could be heard. “I know, I know, I’ve got the bit of paper, just shut up for a minute will you? Ahem. Hill to Captain . Sir, if we behave like Lieutenant Damerell…”

Wall’s voice cut in. “We’re all buggered. Ha ha ha!”

“For God’s sake shut up! As I was saying, if we behave like Lieutenant Damerell, things will take forever. No, no, that’s not right. Hang on a sec, sir.” Olding rubbed his forehead. He wished his crew would stop reading those blasted adventure stories. This code they had come up with was so transparent, a child of four could crack it. Oh well, better play along.

“I read you, Commander. Let’s have it.”

“You do? It worked!!! See, I told you this would work!!! Sorry. Anyway, hours will seem like days, right? Hours and days, you get it?”

“Yes, Commander.” Olding sighed. Cholmondely-Smythe, if he was anywhere near here, was undoubtedly getting it as well.

“Main power will not be restored for four days. We will have auxiliary power back in two days. Did you get all that?”

“Yes, yes, I got all that. Your orders are, if you don’t hear from us in one hour, get out and find Starfleet.”

“Er, is that an hour hour, or a day hour?”

“An hour hour, Commander.”

“Oh, right, yeah.” The channel shut off.

Olding stepped forwards, and waved at the transporter pad. “C’mon then, you two. We’re going for a little trip.”

“Um, sir, where are we going?” The lack of blood in Damerell’s face indicated that he already had a pretty good idea.

“Where they went.”

“Oh, great.” Damerell stepped up onto the platform, looking decidedly unhappy about all this. Jackson, however, seemed unconcerned by the flow of events. Olding hit the energise button, then hopped up on the platform just in time for the beam to take them beneath the surface of the lifeless Irregulan planetoid that lay beyond ISOWTeF. 

--

When they reached the transporter site, the place was apparently deserted. In the corner, however, was a large device that exuded an air of menace. This was partially achieved by its long, sleek body with a tapering nose, and partially by the big sign saying ‘Starfleet MegaDeath Device. Do not touch. This way up.’

The three looked around.

Olding was about to sit down to consider the situation when he was jumped on from behind. He stumbled from side to side, with his attacker shouting obscenities in his ear, while Damerell and Jackson just watched open-mouthed. Finally, he was able to shake his attacker off, by falling forwards and allowing the assailant to fall off him. Dusting himself down, Olding asked, “Where’s Doctor Gates?”

“I’m Doctor Gates!” was the angry response. Olding’s eyebrow arched. He didn’t like where this was leading. On cue, Wilhelmina Gates ran into the room. “Chris!” she gasped.

“Mornin’, lass,” replied Olding, trying not let himself be rattled. Nonetheless, he could feel his pulse rising, and he felt definitely light-headed. That could be the only reason why he had started with a corny opening line like that.

Wilhelmina looked at him, then at his assailant, took a deep breath, and said, “Chris, I’d like to introduce you to Herbert Gates, your son.”

“Your son?!!” Damerell gasped. Olding said nothing, preferring instead to topple backwards in a dead faint. Damerell stepped forwards to catch him, but missed. Olding hit the floor with a dull thud.

After a quick bit of prompting from Damerell, Doctor Jackson stepped forwards to conduct a cursory examination. “He’s fine,” he said, straightening up. “No major injuries.” He almost succeeded in keeping the disappointment out of his voice.

More scientists entered the room, clustering together at the back. Olding slowly sat up, rubbing his head. “I must have heard you wrong. Did you say he was my son?”

“That’s right.” Olding looked straight at Herbert, giggled faintly, and toppled back again.

Damerell shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry about him. He’s not usually that emotional.” Everyone looked around, and there was a general embarrassed silence, with much shuffling of feet and looking at fingernails, as people tried to fill time. Herbert and his mother held a private conversation in the corner, with Damerell trying surreptitiously to eavesdrop.

The excitement began again when two of the scientists stepped forwards, clutching phasers.

“Nobody move!” they shouted. One of them fished out a communicator. “Captain Cholmondely-Smythe, you have the co-ordinates of the MegaDeath.”

A tinny, yet unmistakable voice issued from the comm grille. “I have indeed. Thanks awfully.” With that, the distinctive sound of a transporter beam chimed around the MegaDeath, and it shimmered out of existence.

“Er, was that supposed to happen?” asked Damerell. Gates looked at him. Damerell decided shutting up would be a sensible option at this time.

It was at this crucial stage that Olding sat up again, and looked around him blankly.

“Whassup?” he asked. Gates filled him in. Olding’s eyes cleared, and he motioned to Jackson.

“Give me your communicator,” he said. Jackson did so. Olding flipped it open and spoke into it. “Cholmondely-Smythe, I know you can hear this. Okay, so you’ve got a weapon that can destroy whole planets, but, it’s me you want. You’re going to have to come down here to get me. So what’re you waiting for?”

The reply was mocking. “I don’t care about you, Olding. I can do what I like, now. And with this weapon, I can destroy Khitomer without any effort whatsoever. Toodle-pip, old fruit.”

The two scientists, who were actually members of Cholmondely-Smythe’s crew in disguise, were then beamed up.

Damerell, who hadn’t really followed the events of the last few minutes, was scratching his head and generally looking puzzled.

Jackson, who, despite his other tendencies, was marginally quicker, asked Olding, “What now, sir?”

Olding tried to look enigmatic. “Now, we wait.” And so they waited. And waited. And waited. They tried to pass the time by organising a sing-along, but Damerell was the only one who was really interested in taking part, and he couldn’t sing anyway, so the others very quickly told him to shut up. After a few abortive attempts at I-spy, they just sat and waited.

After a while, Damerell decided to start a conversation. “Sir, I was thinking. You know the Kobayashi Maru test?”

“Yeeees.” Olding knew the test only too well. Every Starfleet cadet knew of the test. Damerell’s question was therefore one of his usual pointless ones, but Olding was content to let the navigator follow up his line of thought, however long that might take, seeing as they had nothing better to do.

“Well, will you tell me what you did? I’d really like to know. Please?”

Jackson grinned. “Lieutenant, you are looking at only the second Starfleet cadet ever to beat the no-win scenario.”

Olding looked embarrassed. “I just found the flaw in the test, and exploited it.”

“You did what?!!! You found the flaw in the flawless test?!!!” Damerell was incredulous. His Kobayashi Maru test had been an utter disaster, and he couldn’t comprehend anyone actually solving it. He had taken his command, the USS Navelgazer, into the Neutral Zone, fought his way through the Klingon defence forces, only to collide with the Kobayashi Maru.

“It was simple really. The program revolves around you respondin’ to this distress call by rescuing the ship, yes?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Well, no-one had thought to write a subroutine to cover you just talkin’ to the ship. I just stayed outside the Neutral Zone, and relayed instructions on how to repair themselves to the ship by a secure comm channel. They did all t’ hard graft, and I got an award for…” At this point, Olding began to squirm as he recalled the exact wording on the citation, “… for t’ most boring solution to a Kobayashi Maru test ever. I believe t’ record is still unbroken.”

Damerell’s jaw dropped. “Wow! My hero!!!” Olding looked at him. Damerell closed his mouth.

Just then, Olding’s communicator bleeped. Olding flipped it open, and said, “Olding.”

“Commander Hill here, sir.”

“Ah, Commander. It’s been one hour. Are you ready?”

“Eh, what? Oh, yeah, right. Just give us your co-ordinates and we’ll beam you aboard.”

“Good.” Olding looked smug. “I always thought t’ no-win scenario was a complete load o’ bunkum.” He stood up. “Energise.”

-- 

They re-materialised in the transporter room of the Psycho. On hand were a few yeomen clutching their uniform jackets, ready to swap them for the heavy-duty outdoor jackets they had worn aboard the station. For Olding and Jackson, it was only a formality as the yeomen held out the jackets and they donned them. Damerell, however, had difficulties with the wraparound jackets, and the yeomen had to help him quite a bit to get into it. Wilhelmina and Herbert watched with no little amusement as the two of them struggled to get the navigator into his uniform. Then one of the other yeomen showed them to a safe place in one of the abandoned science labs.

Damerell was still confused. “I don’t get it. Commander Hill said we’d be immobilised for two days.”

Olding sighed. “It was a code. General Order 15. When transmissions are being monitored during battle…” he looked at Damerell expectantly.

Damerell’s face took on an expression of extreme concentration. “No, no, I remember it… it’s… it’s… no, it’s gone, sorry.”

Olding groaned. “…no uncoded messages on an open channel.”

“Oh, yeah!! I remember now!”

“Hours instead of days. Now minutes instead of hours.” The crew looked blank. “Oh, never mind. Come on.”

They ran for the nearest turbolift. As they reached it, Olding ran towards it, expecting it to open for him. It didn’t, and he bounced off it, reeling.

“Er, they’re inoperative below C deck,” a passing lieutenant said.

Olding cursed. “Great. What is working round here?”

“Not much. Best we could do in an hour.” 

--

Jackson had headed back to Sickbay, where he found that his staff had been working like crazy to clear Sickbay before his return. But, like a good doctor, he dug out his knives, ready for the next batch of casualties that were no doubt going to come through that door, and said to no-one in particular, “I just love combat! So many bodies, and so little time!”

--

Eventually, Olding and Damerell reached the bridge, after having taken at least three detours due to corridors being blocked up with debris, machinery, or, in one bizarre case, cream cakes. When they got there, Olding found things much the same. Lieutenant Wall was still asleep at the helm, Graham was standing by the command chair, watching Hill warily.

Commander Hill was unplugging the engineering board.

“Right!” Olding rubbed his hands together. “What’s our condition?”

“Weeeeell…” Graham flapped his hands about vaguely. “The energisers are bypassed like, well, something that’s been bypassed an awful lot. It’s all that evil Hill’s fault, so, can we keep the speed down?”

Olding grinned. The sudden rush of blood to the head caused by the multiple shocks of the last few hours had made him quite light-headed. “We’ll do our best.”

Graham left the bridge, trailing several feet of cabling attached to his belt behind him, all the while keeping his eyes pinned on Hill, who was starting to pull the engineering console apart. At least one of the cable ends was sparking, and it was that end that got caught in the door. Olding watched fascinated, as the cable slid down the crack between the turbolift doors.

There was a muffled scream as the cable stopped suddenly.

Olding sat down in his chair, and looked at Damerell, now back at his post. “Set a course, Lieutenant. 205 Mark 42.”

Damerell pressed a few buttons, and said, “Course plotted and laid in, sir.”

A warning bell went off in the back of Olding’s mind. Things weren’t supposed to go this well. In the heat of the moment, however, he put the thought aside. From now on, things should get easier.

“Where are we going, sir?” Hill asked.

“We’re headin’ for t’ Starfleet annual exercises. Forty vessels all practicin’ battle scenarios. Cholmondely-Smythe won’t know what hit him.”

The Psycho limped along, the crew waiting patiently and nervously. Even Wall managed to stay awake, clutching his teddy bear tightly to his chest. After a while, a purple haze appeared in the centre of the viewscreen.

“What’s that?” asked Olding.

Hill consulted his monitors. “It’s the Mutated Nebula, sir.”

Olding’s good humour suffered a catastrophic failure. “Lieutenant, what course are we following?”

Damerell looked down. “305 Mark 42.”

Olding slapped his head. He should have known. “I ordered a heading of 205 Mark 42!”

“Oops.”

Olding started to think fast. He had to make the best of this situation. “There is one useful thing about t’ nebula. All that static discharge of gas clouds our tactical display. Visual won’t function, and shields will be useless.”

“Bugger,” said Wall.

They entered the nebula with the Disposable in hot pursuit. Once inside, Olding ordered the ship to pivot around. He had to act fast.

“Phaser lock inoperative, sir,” Wall reported.

“Best guess, Mr Wall. Fire when ready.”

Wall crossed his fingers, and squinted at the vague image on the screen. He fired. The Disposable juddered on the screen.

“Good shot,” Olding said. Then, the flaw in his plan became obvious, as the Disposable’s photon torpedo tubes glowed red.

“Evasive starboard!” Olding called out.

Wall complied, but not quickly enough. The torpedoes slammed into the Psycho, causing havoc in the engineering hull.  The ship turned away, out of control.

“We’ve lost them, sir!” Hill called out above the noise.

“Keep scanning!” Olding replied, as Wall fought to regain control. Finally, the ship steadied, and they resumed their original heading.

“Where are they?” Olding asked no-one in particular.

“Unknown, sir,” Hill replied. He swung around in his chair. “There is one flaw in Cholmondely-Smythe’s thinking.”

Olding faced him. “What?”

“He isn’t thinking three-dimensionally. He’s only been operating on one plane of movement. He doesn’t go up or down.”

“Yes, yes, all right, I understood you t’ first time,” Olding replied testily. “Okay, then. Helm, full stop. Zee minus ten thousand metres. Standby photon torpedoes.”

The Psycho descended rapidly through layers of purple haze. As they reached the ten-thousand metre mark, Wall stopped them with a sudden jerk. Olding rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he was imagining the whiplash or not.

“Do you think we could possibly go a little more gently in t’ future, hmm?”

“Sorry, sir.”

They waited. Olding started to drum his fingers on his arm-rest again. The oddly truncated cries of the by-now demented transporter chief filled the bridge.

Then, Hill swung round, eyes gleaming. “Sporadic energy readings! Disposable just passing overhead!”

“Right! Helm, take us back up!”

Wall pressed buttons, and the Psycho shot upwards, pinning everyone back into their chairs until the inertial dampeners kicked in. He just managed to stop them as they reached their original height. The viewscreen suddenly cleared, and for an instant, they saw the Disposable ahead of them.

“Fire!” Olding said.

A barrage of phaser bolts and photon torpedoes bracketed the Disposable, blowing off its port warp nacelle. Wall laughed maniacally, revelling in the chance to be a total maniac and get away with it on the bridge.

“Cease fire,” Olding ordered. Wall reluctantly did so.

“Signal t’ commander of t’ Disposable: surrender and prepare to be boarded.” He heard his replacement comm officer begin transmitting.

Then, Hill, turned round. “Sir, I’m picking up an energy build-up. A pattern I have never seen before.”

He picked up his copy of ‘Boy’s Own 101 Interesting Subspace Energy Waves’, and flicked through it. A sudden burst of intuition prompted him to have a look under ‘M’.

“It’s the MegaDeath, sir. They’re on a build-up to detonation!”

“How soon?” Olding jumped out of his chair.

“Four minutes, sir.” Hill wasn’t smiling any more, and his bobble hat even managed to look serious.

Olding pressed the toggle for Engineering, and said, “Graham, we need warp speed in three minutes or we’re all dead.”

The reply was quick in coming. “Do you know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to experience death. Perhaps this is the time to find out.”

Olding and Hill shared a look.

“I’ll go down and sort him out,” Hill volunteered.

Olding nodded. “Good luck.”

Hill left the bridge.

Olding returned to his seat, and looked at the viewscreen. In front of them, the Disposable was lying dead in space, apparently harmless. Olding knew just how harmful the ship was, now.

“Helm, get us out of here. Best possible speed.”

They had to put some distance between themselves and that bomb. Slowly, too slowly, the Psycho began to limp away.

--

Down in Engineering, Hill found Graham sitting cross-legged on the floor, humming to himself. Over by the auxiliary controls, Jackson was carrying out emergency amputations on the wounded who were unfortunate enough not to get out of the way. He glanced at one of the status monitors. The dilithium crystals were out of alignment. Should be easy enough to sort out. He couldn’t understand why no-one was in the dilithium control room sorting it out. Hill strode in.

--

On the bridge, Olding crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Time, from my mark?”

“Two minutes, ten seconds.”

“Distance from Disposable?”

“Four thousand kilometres.”

“We’re not going to make it, are we?” Olding asked.

Wall shrugged.

--

In Engineering, Hill was busy dismantling the dilithium control pod. He could hear people shouting at him from outside, but he didn’t have the time to listen to them. Hill was in his element. Here was his chance to dismantle something and put it back together again without incurring the wrath of Olding. He hurriedly shoved computer chips back into their appropriate slots, and beamed as the warning lights blinked green. A few more seconds, and the system would be working again. He turned and was about to open the door when he noticed that the engineering staff were piling chairs, tables, desks, etc under the handle. Hill frowned. It was almost as if they were trying to keep him in.

Then, one of them held up a sign, saying, “You can’t come out! The radiation levels in there are lethal. You’d flood the whole compartment!!”

Hill read the notice twice, its meaning slowly sinking in.

Then he started hammering in the glass of the control room wall, and screaming, “Let me out!!!!”

Jackson, disturbed by all the noise, stuck his head round the crowd to see what was going on. Quickly realising that Hill wasn’t going to be available to be operated on in the immediate future, he immediately lost interest and returned to his sawing. He had left a hacksaw embedded half-way through someone’s leg. The engineer in question had watched in extreme pain, biting on his lower lip until Jackson returned and carried on. Hill was still hammering when he felt an extremely high wind blow up around him. Then there was a massive flash, and his body slumped forwards.

--

Back on the bridge, Olding was still waiting, his blood pressure rising rapidly.

Then, a junior officer turned round, and shouted, “Sir, the mains are back on-line!!”

The relief flooded through him.

“Go, Wall!” he shouted.

“Sorry, pardon?” Wall said.

“Warp speed, now!!!!” Olding screamed.

“Oh, alright, no need to shout,” Wall grumbled, and the Psycho unsteadily lurched into warp space, her badly damaged hull creaking and groaning like an old-fashioned sailing ship’s. The explosion reached them a few seconds later. The hull shrieked as the terrific forces of the MegaDeath bomb ran past them.

--

Then, it was all over, and Olding, with more than a sense of relief, ordered, “Set course for Alpha Majoris III.”

He needed somewhere out of the way to check over the damage the ship had sustained, and Alpha Majoris III, in the heart of the maximum security zone the Psycho had entered on this awful mission, was perfect.

Then, the call came through from Engineering. “Captain, you’d better get down here. Quickly.”

Olding realised, with a dark feeling of foreboding, what had happened. Somebody had died. He hoped it was nobody important, as it was really difficult to find volunteers for the Psycho.

“Damerell, take the bridge.”

Damerell passed out.

--

Olding ran all the way down to Engineering, and saw the situation straight away. Hill’s body was lying on the floor of the dilithium control room, and there were a lot of junior engineers staring through the glass walls, making sounds like, “Urgh!” and, “That’s really disgusting.” One of them was taking pictures. Olding stood by the glass and stared down at the body of his first officer. Was it really worth the sacrifice? he asked himself.

Then Olding realised, he was still alive. Yup, it was worth it.

--

The ship’s company assembled in torpedo room three, to honour their late comrade. Four rows of them fidgeted as Olding sorted out the final preparations. They had decided to bury Hill over Alpha Majoris III for the same reasons as Olding had originally picked it for the Psycho; it was off-limits to everybody bar none. There he could rest in peace. Olding straightened up.

“Company, attention!” he ordered.

The crew straightened up rather sloppily. Graham started playing his comb and paper. The horrible sound grated against Olding’s ears, but he let it pass, assuming that this was Graham’s way of mourning. He couldn’t quite see how the wide grin fitted in, though. The torpedo started to trundle down the rails towards the launcher. Olding began to speak, but had to raise his voice to be heard over the din generated by Graham’s godforsaken howls.

“I HAVE MET MANY FINE OFFICERS DURING MY TIME IN STARFLEET,” he bellowed, “BUT OF ALL THE SOULS I HAVE ENCOUNTERED IN MY TRAVELS, COMMANDER HILL’S WAS THE MOST…” he searched for a suitable phrase, “… UM, INTERESTED IN COMPUTERS. AHEM.”

He nodded to the officer standing by the launch controls, and the officer pressed the button. The torpedo fired, and everybody was forced to hang on for dear life as the expelled gases rushed back through the chamber.

--

Later, they were back on the bridge, and Olding was gazing reflectively at the stars, when he was joined by Doctor Jackson.

“You know, he’s really not dead, as long as we remember him.”

“Who?” Olding said. “Oh, yes of course. Very touching, Doctor.

The Psycho flew on, an empty chair on her bridge.

--

In the confusion after the battle, Damerell was able to return to the hydroponics lab to check on the state of his cannabis plants. He couldn’t help but think that it was slightly ironic that, in order to prevent someone from growing cannabis plants in the botanical gardens, he was having to grow them himself. He found that all had survived, and carefully picked them up and tottered off to the botanical gardens. On his way, he bounced off two walls, three doors and fifteen crewmen, so by the time he actually got there the plants were a bit dented. Damerell didn’t think whoever it was would notice.

He carefully placed them in the gaps caused by his earlier accident, and stood back. Perfect. Unfortunately, he had misplaced his surveillance gear, and the ship’s cupboard had been annihilated during the Disposable‘s final attack, so he would have to wait to find out who was the ship’s junkie.

--

Olding visited Engineering to see how the repairs on Mr Bleep were going. It was difficult to come here, after Hill’s death, but Olding maintained his stoicism. Mr Bleep was a ship’s officer, whose life, er, um, existence, could be saved, and so merited a bit of attention. He found Graham standing over the android shaking his head sadly.

“What’s happened?” Olding asked.

“He got a bit knocked about during that battle thing we had. I’m trying to find the pieces, but at least two vital components have slipped under the warp core and it’s going to be absolute hell to fish them out again.”

Olding grunted. “Keep at it, then.”