Embedded Files
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 45673.23476. T’ Psycho, has resumed her mission to Camp Khitomer for t’ peace conference, although the Klingons have told us that after recent events, they would prefer it if their delegation travelled on one of their ships. Seems fair enough to me. We have had a few changes around here: a new Chief Engineer, Matthew Stark, has joined us to replace Mr Graham, as well as a new helmsman, Valerie. She’s Vulcan, although that hasn’t deterred Mr Damerell from trying to chat her up. The engineer I can understand, but we don’t really need a new helmsman. Well, it is nice not to suffer neck-strain every time t’ ship stops, but still… Well, ours not to reason why bureaucracy operates t’ way it does.
“Oh, by t’ way, Lieutenant-Commander Wall has been transferred to t’ shuttle bay. On t’ bright side, t’ transporters have been operational for a few weeks now. End log entry.”
--
Olding sat in his chair, watching the stars float slowly by the Psycho and the Klingon battlecruiser keeping station on her port bow. Once again, he had not told the entire truth in his log report. His new Chief Engineer was not an engineer by profession. He was, in fact, a chef. The confusion had come to light when Stark had arrived on board clutching a set of Sabatier knives and a cabbage. He had shown Olding the advert he had answered: ‘Wanted: A fully qualified Chef to serve on a starship. Own tools useful.’ A printing error. A bluidy printing error, and Olding was lumbered with yet another misfit in his crew. At least this particular misfit wasn’t a psychotic maniac.
Stark had began reading up all Graham’s engineering books, and was particularly enjoying ‘Janet and John fix a warp core’. He still wasn’t any good at fixing the warp core, but Olding was willing to overlook that, seeing that Stark’s Waldorf salads were the finest he had ever tasted.
The other new addition was a bit of a mystery. Valerie was a junior Lieutenant, and why she had been posted to one of the senior bridge stations over the head of an experienced Lieutenant-Commander made no sense at all to Olding, even if the Lieutenant-Commander in question was Wall. Olding watched as Damerell pseudo-casually leaned across to talk to Valerie. He was whispering, so Olding couldn’t hear.
Losing interest, Olding wandered over to where Hill was busy rebuilding the science console. Apparently the hard-copy generators were off-line again. Olding listened with interest to the wide variety of swearwords emanating from under the console.
Suddenly, he heard a significant cough. Looking around, he saw Valerie clutching Damerell’s wrist. Damerell’s eyes were watering with the pain. Then, she spoke.
“Mr Damerell, I appreciate that I am an emotionless being, and that you cannot resist your crude emotional urges, but, nevertheless, if you do not desist from placing your hand on my thigh I will be forced to break every bone in your wrist.”
Great, thought, Olding. He had a Vulcan with temper problems. A perfect addition to his crew. He realised there was something very important he had to do. He’d been putting it off for quite some time now, but he couldn’t put it off for any longer. He turned to the anonymous ensign sitting at communications, and said, “Open a channel to t’ Klingon vessel.”
“Channel open, sir.”
The screen changed to show Chancellor Gorkoff. He had joined the Klingon delegation recently, which showed how important this conference was.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” Gorkoff said.
“Would you care to dine aboard this vessel this evening as guests of the United Federation of Planets?”
“I shall look forward to that.”
“We’ll make arrangements to have you beamed aboard at nineteen-thirty hours. Screen off.”
Olding turned to the bridge crew. “I’ll expect all senior officers to attend this dinner this evening. Commander Hill, you have t’ conn. Inform Mr Stark of this meal, would you?”
Olding wandered off the bridge in search of a decent bath. Before he could reach the turbolift, Valerie stood up and addressed him.
“There is a supply of Romulan ale aboard. It might make the evening pass a little more… smoothly?”
“Don’t talk to me about it, talk to Commander Hill. He’s organising t’ do.” The turbolift closed.
--
Some time later, Olding was relaxing in a nice hot bath when the comm signal went.
“Bridge to Captain Olding.” It was Hill.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Sir, we have a problem. The galley has suffered a sudden systems failure. We are unable to cook food for the Klingons.”
“And the replicators?”
“They’re offline again. What do we do, sir?”
Olding was irritated by this. “Oh, send out for some pizzas, why don’t you?” he said sarcastically.
“Good idea, sir!” came the response.
Olding sighed. It seemed that the official dinner was to consist of Romulan ale and take-away pizzas. The Klingons would no doubt be really impressed. What else could go wrong?
--
That evening, Olding and the senior officers gathered in the transporter room to welcome the Klingon delegation aboard. Fidgeting in their full-dress uniform, they watched as the transporters hummed and the Klingons appeared. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to Chancellor Gorkoff in his kinky red leather outfit.
After recovering his composure, Olding cleared his throat and said, “Chancellor, welcome aboard.”
Gorkoff nodded. “Captain. May I present my daughter, Angie.”
Angie was the most monstrously ugly thing Olding had ever seen. Fighting down the urge to be sick, he said, “Madam.”
“My Chief of Staff, Brigadier Kurly.”
Olding nodded politely as the seven-foot Klingon stepped off the transporter pad.
“And my military advisor, General Ching.”
Ching was short for a Klingon, in fact he was five foot three. Olding resisted the urge to hunker down, and said, “Welcome aboard, General. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Ching appeared to be taking the mickey.
Olding said nothing else to him, but turned and said, “This way, gentlemen. I think you might enjoy a brief tour.”
--
After the brief tour (which had to be cut short to prevent embarrassment when they came across Stark’s attempts to rebuild Mr Bleep; apparently he had been using a whisk), they sat down in the officers’ dining room, and looked around.
Olding was surprised at the amount of neat cutlery and crockery there was. Perhaps this explained why he had been having to make do with plastic forks recently. Then, the illusion was shattered when the yeomen produced several cardboard boxes marked “Dial-a-Pizza”. Olding noticed that some concessions had been made to the Klingons, as four of them had Rekhtag sauce on them. The rest of them were pepperoni and anchovy, which annoyed Olding, as he was a vegetarian. The conversation got off to a slow start, as Olding slowly and pointedly removed the offending slices of meat from his slice. He also noticed that the Romulan ale was being drunk in prodigious quantities. It was only a matter of time until someone did something embarrassing. On cue, Damerell burst into tears. Everyone looked round.
Hill, who was sat closest to the navigator, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Er, what’s the matter?”
“I miss my mate!!!! Waaaaaaah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” A sudden silence descended over the room.
In an effort to cheer things up, Gorkoff said, “I give you a toast: The Undiscovered Country.” Everyone looked blank.
Damerell continued to whimper, “Don’t want my pizza. Want my mate!”
Gorkoff tried again. “The future.” Still everyone looked blank. “Never mind.”
Ching turned to Olding. “Tell me, Captain, would you be willing to give up Starfleet?”
“Give it up for what?” Olding said. He was feeling a little odd. A distant voice in his head suggested that it might be the Romulan ale. He dismissed it, and tried to listen to the General.
Ching said, “Erm, well, you know, fabulous wealth, island full of women, that sort of thing.”
Olding gave it serious thought. “Yes. Why, are you offering?”
“Well, no. The thing is, Captain, we need living room!”
Olding knew this quote. “Earth, Hitler, 1938.”
“I beg your pardon?” Ching’s voice was dangerous.
Olding was suddenly aware he had committed a bit of a gaffe. He said nothing more, and another silence settled.
Hill, who had been studying the bottom of his wine glass, suddenly grabbed his slice of pizza and pushed it into Gorkoff’s face. “Foodfight!!!!!!!!!” he yelled.
It was as if a signal had been given. The Psycho crew started throwing bits of pizza and garlic bread around, yelling like lunatics, while the Klingons got steadily covered in cheese and tomato sauce, and Olding sat with his head in his hands. Once they ran out of pizza, they stopped, realised what they had done, and started to blush furiously.
Gorkoff mopped bits of cheese from his head-ridges. “Well,” he said. “I see we have a long way to go.”
“We must do this again sometime,” Olding said, with false jollity. They were standing in the transporter room, and the Klingons were all looking slightly annoyed. They stepped up on to the platform, and Ching gave a command into his communicator. A second later, they beamed off the Psycho. The crew relaxed. Olding rubbed at his forehead, trying to forestall the headache he knew was coming on.
“I’m going to sleep this off. Please let me know if there’s some other way we can screw up tonight.” He staggered off.
Jackson said, “I need to find a pot of black coffee.”
Damerell giggled for a second, then collapsed on to the transporter pad.
Stark stormed off. The garlic bread had been his home-made contribution to the evening, and he hadn’t really appreciated it being thrown around the room.
--
Olding was lying flat on his back on his bunk. Occasionally, and purely for effect, he would groan loudly. Finally, he decided to dictate a bit of his log. “Captain’s… urgh… log, Stardate 45432.3. The Psycho played host to t’ Klingon delegation last night. Our manners were… God my head hurts… not exactly brilliant. Note to t’ galley: Romulan ale no longer to be served at diplomatic functions. Ungh. I must say, I don’t exactly trust t’ Klingons. They’re a shifty bunch at t’ best o’ times. They…” Further ruminations were cut short by the door-chime.
“Yes, what is it?!”
It was Valerie. “Captain, would you please come to the bridge?”
--
Olding staggered out of the turbolift on to the bridge.
Hill looked round from his station, and said, “Good, you’re here.”
Olding frowned, and said, “Commander, I’m really tired.”
Hill indicated a monitor, and said, “Captain, we are reading an enormous amount of neutron radiation.”
“So?”
“It is quite serious, Captain.”
“I see.” Olding couldn’t honestly care less right at that moment, but he knew that certain things were expected of him.
“Lieutenant Valerie, do you know anything about a radiation surge?”
“Sir?” Valerie managed to convey surprise without actually succumbing to the emotion, a skill that at any other time Olding might have envied. Right now he didn’t really care. It was obvious that Valerie didn’t know anything about the radiation.
“Mr Damerell?”
Damerell’s head jerked around, and he clutched at it in agony. “Only the size of my head,” he answered in a ragged voice.
“I know what you mean,” Olding replied.
He was about to leave the bridge again when the hailing signal chirped, and the screen flicked on to reveal General Ching.
“Have you not a shred of decency in you, Olding?” he snarled.
“I don’t understand,” Olding responded.
“We come in peace, and you blatantly defy that peace?”
“Sorry, still not quite with you…” Olding prompted.
“Those… pizzas you made us eat! Chancellor Gorkoff’s was poisoned! He is dying even as we speak. And for that, I shall blow you out of the stars!”
The screen flicked back to the image of the Klingon battle cruiser swinging menacingly around to face them.
“Captain, they’re coming about!” Valerie said, her voice rising in an unVulcan manner.
Damerell, who was still feeling rough, merely said, “Shields up, Captain?”
Olding said nothing.
“Captain, our shields!” Valerie warned.
“Shields up, Captain?” Damerell repeated.
Olding watched as the battle cruiser levelled off and her torpedo tubes lit up, signifying her readiness to fire. He made his decision.
“Signal our surrender.”
The ensign at the comm station spun round, shocked. “Captain?”
“We surrender!!” Olding shouted. The battle cruiser was seconds away from firing.
Dimly, he heard the ensign repeating the call over the hailing frequencies: “We surrender. Repeat, Psycho surrenders!”
The Klingon ship grew larger and larger until she filled most of the screen.
Damerell began to mutter, “If she fires on us, without our shields up, we will not be able to respond!” He repeated that over and over again, apparently unable to get anything else out. Then, against all expectation, her torpedo tubes powered down.
Olding breathed a sigh of relief. That had stopped them from getting killed. Now all he had to do was repair the peace process, and then maybe he could get some sleep. He turned back to the communications station.
“Tell them we’re coming. And tell them, we’re unarmed!” He then activated the comm channel to sickbay. “Dr Jackson, meet me in t’ transporter room on t’ double.” Just before he entered the turbolift, Hill patted him on the shoulder. Olding bridled. “This is not t’ time to start getting affectionate, Commander!” He stormed into the lift.
--
He met Jackson in the transporter room. Jackson looked as bad as Olding felt. They staggered up onto the platform, and Olding said, “Energise.” They rematerialised in the transporter room of the battle cruiser, where a heavily-armed Klingon grabbed them.
Behind him, Brigadier Kurly snarled, “Have you lost your mind?”
“I give you my word I don’t understand what has happened here.”
Kurly looked unconvinced, but gestured at them. “Follow me.”
He led them into Gorkoff’s cabin, where Ching and Angie were kneeling by the groaning form of the Chancellor.
Jackson looked worried. “Aren’t you carrying a surgeon?”
Ching looked up. “We were until this disgrace!” He gestured to a body in the corner. “He too ate a slice of your pizza, and he has died!”
“Then for God’s sake, let me help!”
Olding and the others were elbowed aside by Jackson as he knelt by Gorkoff and examined him. “I’m going to need some light. Can we get him up on this table?”
Everybody gave a hand in lifting the Chancellor up onto the table. Jackson waved a tricorder over him, and frowned. Olding looked down at Gorkoff. The Chancellor looked very pale.
“Jackson, can you…?”
“Captain, I don’t even know his anatomy!” Jackson desperately passed a protoplaser over Gorkoff, but there was no change. The Klingons watched with deep suspicion. Suddenly, Gorkoff sighed and slumped back. “He’s gone into some kind of damned arrest!” Jackson climbed up onto the table, and began cardio-pulmonary massage. “Come on, damn it! Come on!” he grunted.
Finally, Gorkoff’s eyes flickered open. “Don’t let it end this way, Captain…” he sighed, before his eyes closed and he died.
Jackson slid off the table, eyes glum. Olding, too, was overwhelmed by a sense of despondency. He knew that they had just watched the Federation-Klingon peace process die. This would not look good in his report to Starfleet.
Then, Ching clapped his hands, and two guards stepped forwards. They were carrying handcuffs, Olding realised. Before Olding could protest, he and Jackson had their hands fastened securely behind their backs.
Ching looked oddly triumphant as he said, “Under article number 184 of Interstellar law, I am placing you under arrest. You are charged with assassinating the Chancellor of the Klingon High Council. Take them away!”
--
“They’ve been arrested!” said the ensign-of-the-week at communications.
“Oh shit!” Hill thought fast. That meant he was now the senior officer aboard the Psycho. A grin slowly spread across his face as he realised the possible ramifications. Clamping down on the grin as he realised people thought he was mad, he said, “As of now, 0230 hours, I am assuming command of this vessel. Call Starfleet and request instructions.”
“What do we do now, sir?” Damerell wanted to know.
“We have to uncover what happened here tonight. We can’t rescue the Captain and Doctor Jackson, so we’ll have to prove their innocence.” He struck his best Sherlock Holmes pose. “There was skulduggery afoot here tonight. This ship will be searched from bow to stern. Lieutenant Valerie, you’re in charge.”
“What happens if we can’t uncover anything, sir?”
“Then, Mr Damerell, it resides in the purview of the diplomats.” Hill was quite chuffed with that. He’d been dying to get the word ‘purview’ into a sentence for ages.
--
Some hours later, Olding and Jackson were stood in the dock of a Klingon court. Ching, acting for the prosecution, was giving his opening speech, accusing the Psycho officers of conspiring to poison the Chancellor. The defence counsel, Colonel Woggle, stood to one side of the dock.
Ching advanced on Jackson. “Dr Jackson, would you be so good as to tell the court your medical condition?”
“Well, apart from a touch of incontinence, and of course, the ringworm, and not forgetting the athletes foot, I’d say, pretty good.”
Ching grimaced. Jackson realised that that was not the correct answer. “For seven years, I have been ship’s surgeon aboard the USS Psycho.”
“Would I be right in assuming that you are close to retirement?”
“No.”
“Oh. Ah. Could I ask, do your hands shake?”
Jackson held one of his hands up. It was rock-steady. “No.”
Ching looked a bit at a loss. “I believe that you consumed rather a generous quantity of alcohol on the night in question.”
“Do you know, I really can’t remember. It’s a bit hazy.”
“Doctor, I put it to you, that you are an incompetent!” Ching’s voice rose into a scream. “Whether deliberately, or as a result of drink, this court will have to determine.”
Jackson shook his head. “It’s got nothing to do with drink. I’m just a bit clumsy.”
Ching gave up on Jackson. His voice became louder as he turned to Olding. “And now, we come to the architect of this tragic affair. Christopher James Thomas Olding. What would your favourite author say, Captain Olding?”
“He’d say, ‘bollocks to t’ lot of ye!’, I should think.”
“What happened that night, Olding? Tell us that you planned to assassinate the Chancellor!”
“No.”
“I offer into the record, this excerpt from the Captain’s personal log:” The speakers came alive. “I don’t exactly trust Klingons.” The courtroom burst into riot. Olding realised he was stuffed.
“Were those your words?!!” Ching shouted.
Olding had no choice. “Those words were spoken by me.”
“Captain Olding’s political views are not on trial here!” It was Woggle.
“On the contrary, Captain Olding’s political views are at the heart of the matter. The record shows that this officer is a career-minded opportunist with a history of violating regulations whenever it suited him. Indeed, Captain Olding was once Admiral Olding, and Admiral Olding was demoted on charges of insubordination!!!! Do you deny being demoted on these charges?!!”
Olding thought for a while, and said, “Yes. I’ve never even been an Admiral. And as for disobeying orders, it’s only happened once.”
“I see. Damn. And were you obeying or disobeying orders the night that you arranged the assassination of Chancellor Gorkoff?!!”
“We didn’t kill t’ Chancellor!”
“Then how do you explain the fact that the poison known as 1-2-3 dibromomethenolic pentasulphate was found in the Chancellor’s bloodstream. As Doctor Jackson is no doubt aware, this poison is a fast acting chemical that affects both Klingons and humans. Therefore, is it not logical to assume that, seeing as none of your officers were taken ill, it was you who planted the poison?!!”
Olding tried to stall. “I cannot confirm or deny actions which I did not witness.”
“I see. Are you aware, that as Captain of a starship, you are responsible for the conduct of crew under your command?”
“I am.”
“So, if it should be proved that crewmembers from your ship did in fact poison the Chancellor, will you accept the responsibility?”
Olding realised that he had been backed into a corner. “I will.”
“Thank you, Captain Olding. Your honour, the state rests.”
Olding and Jackson turned to face the judge. The judge cleared his throat, a ghastly sound that made Olding’s stomach curdle, and spoke.
“Captain Christopher Olding, Doctor Daniel Jackson, it is the judgement of this court that you are guilty of the charges against you. However, in the interests of fostering amity for the upcoming peace talks, the sentence of death is commuted. You will be taken from this place to the penal asteroid of Rura Penthe, there to spend the rest of your unnatural lives.” He banged his gavel. Sparks flew, and one caught the judge’s sleeve, which started to smoulder.
--
On the Psycho, the crew had been watching the court proceedings with shock.
As the verdict was announced, Valerie whispered, “Rura Penthe!”
Damerell was grim. “Known throughout the galaxy as the Alien’s Graveyard.”
Stark was equally cheery. “Better to kill them now, and get it over with.”
Hill was, unusually, deep in thought. Something wasn’t quite right here. He climbed out of the centre seat, and moved over to his science station. “Computer, display file on 1-2-3 dibromomethenolic pentasulphate.” The computer hummed for a few seconds, then displayed the relevant file on screen. Hill quickly scanned through it, then shouted, “Ah-hah!” Everybody clustered round him. “It says here that the poison needs at least twenty minutes to soak into its surroundings.”
“So?” Stark said.
“Well, I only took my eyes off those pizzas for three minutes! Mr Valerie, what has our search of the ship turned up?”
“Nothing, sir. Nobody knows exactly what it is that they’re looking for.”
“Ah. Well, if we didn’t poison those pizzas, someone else did.”
“I don’t understand!” Damerell whined.
Hill explained. “If the pizzas we bought weren’t poisoned, then somebody bought some extra and poisoned them! Mr Stark, come with me. We’re going to have to count the petty cash fund.”
--
It was cold. Very cold. Even with the furs that the Klingons had given them, Olding still felt like he was going to freeze up completely. They had been marching across a frozen plain for three hours now, ever since they had left the transport ship that had brought them to Rura Penthe. Finally, they were halted in the middle of nowhere. One of their guards held out a small wand, and a periscope popped up out of the snow. It flashed a couple of times, then a massive hatch rumbled open, exposing a large hole in the ground. A large Klingon climbed up out of the hatch, with a couple of lackeys carrying a soapbox. They dumped it down, and he climbed up onto it.
“This is the gulag Rura Penthe. There is no guard tower, no stockade, no electronic frontier. Only a shield prevents beaming. Punishment means exile to the surface. On the surface, nothing can survive.”
A prisoner was dragged out of the entrance. To Olding’s shock, the prisoner was dressed only in a small loincloth. The guards threw him into the snow, and the new arrivals watched, horrified, as the unfortunate prisoner froze to death.
Then, they were led down below into a nightmare world of icy caverns. The Klingon guards were stood on bridges overlooking the central cave, where the prisoners milled about aimlessly. Olding and Jackson wandered about, trying not look too conspicuous.
They had almost reached the other side of the main cave, where there were fires lit to provide heat, when a very large alien stood in front of them, and grabbed Olding, lifting him several feet off the ground.
“Qoug wok na pushnat!!!” it growled.
Olding tried to shrug. “Sorry, I’m afraid you’re talking gibberish.”
“Qoug wok na pushnat!!!!”
“Sorry…”
“Qoug wok no pushnat!!!!!”
“He wants your obedience to the Brotherhood of Aliens.” The voice came from a young, dark-skinned, woman.
Olding looked down. The ground seemed an awfully long way away. “He’s got it!” he said, anxious to please.
“And your coat.”
“No bluidy way!!” Olding responded.
The alien snarled.
Olding backtracked hurriedly. “Ahahahaha. I’m afraid not. It, er, wouldn’t fit.”
“Crandock erenty.”
The alien growled.
“Crandock!!!”, the woman shouted.
The alien dumped Olding back down onto the ground again. His knees buckled and he fell the rest of the way to a prone position on the floor.
“Fendo pomsky.”
The alien shuffled off.
Olding scrambled back up off the floor. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” the woman replied. “My name’s Marlene. And you must be Olding and Jackson.”
“How did you know that?”
“We don’t get many presidential assassins in here.”
“We didn’t kill Gorkoff!”
“Yeah, right.”
--
Hill had a very large headache. He and Stark had just finished their count of the ship’s petty cash fund. It had taken them hours, not least because they were both feeling hung over, and also because they had kept knocking over the piles they had already counted, forcing them to start the count all over again. So their tempers weren’t improved when Valerie slid down a pole into the room and knocked over the money as they were trying to put it away.
Ignoring their unfriendly stares, she said, “Angie has been named Chancellor in place of her father. It was on the news.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Starfleet has called for us to return to port.”
“Oh, darn!”
“It is alright, sir. Communications is experiencing… technical difficulties.”
“Oh good. They’re endangering their careers if they start deliberately ignoring Starfleet, though.”
“No, sir. They are experiencing technical difficulties, and are currently unable to receive calls from anywhere.”
“Oh. Come on, we’d better get back to the bridge.”
--
Back on the bridge, Hill got the senior officers together, and briefed them. “Basically, we’ve discovered that somebody took money from the fund to buy pizzas.”
“Yes, we know you did.”
“Not me, you idiot!!! Somebody else took money from the fund.”
Damerell looked puzzled, as was his wont. “But the receipt only says we bought eight pizzas.”
Hill was ready for that. “The receipt has been faked. And, seeing as there were no extra fingerprints on the cash, the money was beamed out.” Suddenly aware he was on the brink of figuring out the solution to this problem, Hill thought hard for a few seconds. “Eureka!!!”
“Eh?”
“The neutron radiation!!! It must have been from another ship! Neutron radiation is generated by ships with cloaking devices!! Usually, the device contains the radiation surge, but… they must have reduced power to their cloaking field to transport!! Well, at least now we know what we’re looking for.”
“What are we looking for, sir?” Damerell asked.
Hill sighed. “Tell him, Lieutenant.”
Valerie straightened. “Four spare pizzas.”
--
The search was not going well. The search teams had gone through all the living quarters in a search for the missing pizzas, after it had been established that Rekhtag sauce had very nasty digestive effects on humans, so it was unlikely that anyone would have eaten them. Most of the lavatories had been blocked for the last three weeks, so that ruled out the pizzas being flushed away. They had reached the engineering section, but had had to pause at the chief engineer’s office. Stark, true to his training as a chef, had appropriated a very large fridge, and filled it full of various foods. It was taking the searchers quite a while to go through the garlic bread layer, which was at least four foot deep. Damerell, seeing that Valerie was caught up in this search, decided to take a few meaty security guards and continue towards the stern of the ship.
The shuttle bay was empty of all intelligent life. Lieutenant-Commander Wall, ex-helmsman of the Psycho, now relegated to shuttle pilot, was in there by himself. His time away from the bridge had not been kind to him. He had not shaved in at least a week, and his uniform was creased and dirty. He was currently mooching around by the side of the von Bulow, the current duty shuttlecraft. Well, actually, it was the only shuttle currently operational. He was aimlessly kicking the side of the shuttle, when he found that one of the storage lockers was unlocked. Opening it, he found a large pile of pizzas stacked inside, still in their cardboard boxes. Wall brightened up a bit. Fishing the uppermost box out, he opened it up, and inhaled deeply.
The smell was amazing. Wall couldn’t think of any sauce he’d ever had on a pizza that smelt quite like this one did. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He was salivating like crazy now, and his hands were trembling as he lifted the first slice out of the box. Cold cheese strings stretched from the slice to the rest of the pizza. Closing his eyes in anticipation, Wall opened his mouth wide and slowly brought the slice towards his mouth. He was just about to bite down when…
“Freeze!!”
He opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by seven-foot security guards pointing phasers at his head. One of them said, “Put the pizza down, sir! It’s going to be okay!!”
Wall’s eyes swivelled, but he didn’t move. A sudden paralysis had overcome him, induced by the close proximity of at least fifteen phasers, which from his perspective appeared to take on the dimensions of field artillery.
From behind the security guards a voice came, saying, “Excuse me! Coming through!! Sorry, my fault!!!” Damerell’s head appeared under the arm of one of the security guards.
Wall’s eyes bulged.
Damerell grinned encouragingly. “Would you mind awfully if we just took that pizza you have there? Thanks very much,” as one of the guards carefully removed the slice from Wall’s unresisting hands, placed it back in the box, and took it, and the other three, away to the bridge.
Once the guards had gone, Wall snapped his mouth shut, looked around him, glared at Damerell, took a deep breath, then screamed, “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Damerell hung on for dear life to a fitting until Wall had finished. Then, he carefully explained about the significance of the pizzas in the cause of saving the Captain and Doctor Jackson.
When he had finished, Wall looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean, saving the Captain and Doctor Jackson?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Damerell was momentarily puzzled, until he realised that the shuttle bay probably wasn’t exactly the best place to catch up on the latest news. So Damerell had to fill Wall in on all the events that had occurred since he had been kicked off the bridge. Half an hour later, he finished, and left for the bridge, leaving Wall behind scratching his chin and fiddling with his uniform collar.
--
The pizzas were piled up by the science station, with the bridge crew clustered round them. Hill had just run a tricorder scan on the pizzas, and proved that they were in fact the original Rekhtag and cheese that had been ordered by him.
Damerell had just arrived on the bridge. “Now we go to Starfleet.”
“No. This proves one thing. Somebody aboard this ship is a traitor!”
“How d’you figure that out?”
“Simple. We now have proof that there were twelve pizzas on board. The computers state that the petty cash fund only paid for eight. But we know that there’s enough money been spent for twelve. So somebody altered a databank entry.” He opened each of the boxes, and glanced at the pizzas. On the last one, he shouted “Ahah!” He pointed at the pizza, and everybody stared at it.
--
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Damerell said.
“Simple. It’s been smeared! So now we expand our search to uniforms.”
“All uniforms?” Damerell asked.
“Yup!” Hill replied.
Damerell hadn’t quite caught up with everything, though. “The only thing is, how does this help the Captain? We don’t even know where they are.”
“We will.”
“How did you pull that one off, sir?”
“Time is of the essence now. If I know the Captain, by this time he will be deep into planning his escape.”
--
Olding was certainly deep into something, but it certainly wasn’t escape. Their day had been going reasonably well, when another large alien had approached them and pushed Olding into a wall. Olding had tried reasoning with the alien, but found it useless as the alien clearly couldn’t understand a word he was saying. So then he had tried the intimidating stare. That hadn’t worked either. So now he had had to fall back on his physical combat training, which was a bit of a problem, as that was the one set of Academy lessons he had slacked off from. So he was having to make it up as he went along.
Current score = alien 35, Olding nil.
So far he had managed to get in one good jab to the face, but that had backfired as the alien had an armour-plated face and Olding’s hands were in fact weaker than the alien’s nose. So while he clutched at his hand in agony, the alien whacked him into a fire. Hurriedly beating out the flames, although he was grateful for the warmth, Olding turned to face his tormentor. The alien slammed his fists into Olding’s shoulders, and Olding fell onto his knees. Another blow, and he was on his back. The alien advanced for the killing blow, and Olding swung his legs out in desperation. They caught the alien right on his knees. To everyone’s surprise, the alien stopped trying to kill Olding in favour of falling over and screaming. Olding got up and brushed himself down, trying to act as if he knew that was going to happen all the time.
“I was lucky that thing had knees,” he remarked to Jackson, who had just turned up.
Marlene was also there. “That was not his knee. Not everyone keeps their genitals in the same place, Captain.”
“Oh, right.” He turned to Jackson. “See if you can help him out. Let him know we’re not holding a grudge.”
“Suppose he’s holding a grudge?” Jackson asked as he walked away.
Privately, Olding thought that whatever it was that the alien was holding right now, it probably wasn’t a grudge. The alien’s moans could be clearly heard, then suddenly there came the sound of sawing, and the moans became very high-pitched screams.
Marlene grinned maliciously, and said to Olding, “Do you want to get out of here?”
Olding looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “There’s got to be a way.”
Marlene nodded. “I’ll see you later.”
--
That night, Jackson was depressed. “That’s it. One day, one night… POW! Kobayashi Maru.”
Olding knew better. “We’re not finished yet.”
“Oh yeah? Sez who?”
“Just trust me.” They lay in silence for a little while, fervently wishing that the temperature was forty degrees higher.
Even then, it would still be pretty damn cold.
Just as Olding was about to drop off, Marlene appeared from out of nowhere. She grabbed him, and said, “Are you sure you want to get out of here?”
“Bluidy right, lass!”
“Good. I can help you get out of this hellhole, but I can’t get us off the planet. Can you do that?”
Olding thought. Chances were, even given the precautions he and Hill had taken, the Psycho crew would find it nigh-on impossible to find them, much less rescue them. “Yes.”
“Wonderful. You’re the likeliest candidate to come here for months.” Olding was puzzled.
“Candidate for what?” And then she snogged him.
Jackson started to snigger. After a few minutes of struggling, Olding finally dispatched her with a sharp blow to the ear. Catching his breath, he said, “Git away from me, woman!” Jackson’s sniggers turned into guffaws. When she had finally left, Olding said, “Still think we’re finished?”
“More than ever.”
--
The next morning, they followed the rest of the miners down into the lift-shaft, collecting their helmets and drilling gear as they went. Olding looked around him, but there was no sign of Marlene. There was only another seven-foot alien standing in the corner of the lift. After his previous experiences with tall aliens, Olding felt a certain amount of trepidation when the alien approached him. That was nothing, however, compared to the shock he got when the alien spoke in Marlene’s voice.
“Hi, handsome. Follow me.”
Jackson looked at Olding, stifling a snigger. “What on earth is going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” Olding’s voice made it clear he wasn’t interested in pursuing the conversation.
As they reached the mine, the alien gestured, and Jackson and Olding followed it. They reached a ventilation shaft, and watched speechlessly as the alien metamorphosed into a young child. She then pried the hatch off, and crawled into it. The two of them followed. Somewhere halfway up the tunnel, the child changed back to the alien. Olding was starting to feel sick. Finally, they emerged out onto the frozen wastes of Rura Penthe. The alien produced some extra furs, and Olding and Jackson gratefully wrapped themselves in them. They then set out across the icy plain.
--
On the Psycho, Damerell had just found another problem. A big one. “It’s like this, sir. The Universal translator’s putting out gibberish. We can’t get any Klingon out of it. Listen.” He pressed a button, and the translator played a garbled nonsense message at him.
Hill, who was sat next to him, looked puzzled, and said, “Isn’t that what Klingon’s supposed to sound like?”
“No, sir. That was English.”
“Oh bugger. Anyone got a Klingon dictionary?”
--
They had been walking for several hours now, and Olding’s feet were killing him. Jackson wasn’t doing much better.
Finally, the alien, who was well ahead of them, turned round and said, “Come on!! We’re in the clear!!”
Jackson slipped over. When Olding bent down to pick him up, he said, “Leave me!! I’m finished.”
Olding slapped him. “Get up you lazy berk! Commander Hill planted a viridium patch on my back before we boarded Gorkoff’s ship. Now that we’re outside t’ shield, they’ll be able to locate us two sectors away!”
“If they’re even looking for us!” Jackson wailed.
Olding had to concede that point. Nonetheless, they had to keep going, so he dragged Jackson onwards.
--
The bleeping from the science station made heads turn all over the bridge. Hill leaned over to check it. It was the signal he had been waiting for. “They’re outside the shield! Mr Stark, start your engines!!”
Stark assumed an expression of extreme concentration. “Hang on, don’t rush me!” After a few false starts, he fired up the warp engines, and Valerie took them into Klingon space.
Damerell was glad that the viridium patch was guiding them in, as Collin’s Atlas didn’t quite reach that deeply into Klingon space. “Right, now we all pray that the Klingons don’t find us!”
--
The Klingon listening post picked them up about four seconds later. The Klingon on duty lazily leaned over the console and asked the unidentified contact what they were doing.
There was a long silence, then a hesitant voice said, in barely recognisable Klingon, “Um… We am thy… dustbin… no… starship… um… Lada…. We is.. ah… carrying… dead… artichokes, pears and admirals… to Rura Penthe.”
The Klingon fell off his seat laughing. His companion joined him. “What’s going on?” he said.
“Oh, just another Federation starship trying to sneak across the border.” He turned back to the speaker. “Bugger off, we’re trying to get some sleep down here!”
Damerell was very surprised by the response to his flawless Klingon. The Klingon had answered in English! He looked round to Hill.
“What do we do now, sir?”
Hill thought for a moment. “Are we being fired upon?”
“No.”
“Then I guess we just carry on as we are.”
“Oh. Right.”
--
They had reached a hollow in the ice half an hour before. The alien had produced a flare, and cracked it open to generate some heat. Then, it metamorphosed back into Marlene. Olding grunted. “Shapeshifter. I thought so.”
“Well done, Captain.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, we’re outside the shield. Now it’s your turn.”
“If you say so.” Olding whacked Marlene across the jaw. She fell over.
Jackson stood up in alarm. “Sir, what are you doing?!”
“Doing my bit. Isn’t it enormously convenient that she manages to produce useful clothes, and a flare?!! This is a set-up!!!”
Jackson was horrified. “So we’re not going to escape?”
“Only if t’ Psycho reaches us in time.”
“We’re not going to escape.” Jackson seemed certain of that.
“Why were we set up?” Olding asked Marlene.
She seemed willing enough to reply, “Somebody wants you out of the way. An accident would have been suitable for one only. Killed while attempting escape, now that’s convincing for both.” As she said it, her voice became deeper, as she metamorphosed into a perfect copy of Olding. She stood up and faced Olding, who was a little disturbed at finding a perfect copy of himself right in front of him.
“I can’t believe I kissed you!” he said.
Marlene leered at him. “Looking like this, I can’t believe I kissed you!”
Olding thumped her. This seemed to be the cue for a general fistfight between the two Oldings. Jackson tried to keep his eye on the original, but failed miserably.
Finally, it seemed as though Marlene was gaining the upper hand. As she pushed Olding back into the snow, he realised that he had run out of techniques. He had tried all the possible variations on the “Look behind you!” routine, but she hadn’t fallen for it. He was just trying to get his breath back, when he suddenly felt someone else’s hot breath on the back of his neck. Twisting around, he saw a very large Klingon dog right behind him. He scrambled up, and realised that they were surrounded. So the escape was over. Marlene was a little quicker in her thinking.
“Kill him, he’s the one!” she said.
Olding realised she hadn’t been able to change back yet. “Not me, you bluidy fool!! Him!!” He gestured at Marlene.
The Klingon commandant raised his disruptor, aimed it at Olding… then swivelled and fired at Marlene. Olding breathed a sigh of relief.
“No witnesses!” the Klingon snarled.
“Before you kill us,” Olding said, “Can I just ask one question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Who wanted us killed?” Olding felt he might at least be told before he died.
“Why not tell you? His name is…”
And Olding and Jackson suddenly disappeared into a transporter beam.
--
They arrived in the Psycho, and Olding stamped off the transporter pad.
Hill was waiting for him, smiling smugly.
He was very surprised, therefore, when Olding erupted with, “YOU STUPID BLUIDY PRAT!!!! WE WERE ABOUT TO FIND OUT WHO WAS DOIN’ ALL THIS!!! I DEMAND THAT YOU SEND US BACK DOWN RIGHT NOW!!!!”
Jackson tapped him on the shoulder. “We were about to get shot, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Well, given that, I’ll let you off. This time. Well, come on then!!” And he stormed out of the transporter, with Hill and Jackson following meekly behind.
--
Stark was sat in the briefing room, examining a map of the ship and absently rolling a bit of filo pastry between his fingers. With his free hand, he pulled at his collar. It was a bit hot in here. He was about to call Engineering when he realised that this was an ideal opportunity to learn a bit about the ventilation system. He prised the vent cover open, then reached inside to remove the offending material that was blocking the system. Much to his surprise, it was a uniform. He was about to throw it away when he noticed the deep red stain along the front. Gathering it under his arm, he hurried out into the corridor in search of Commander Hill.
He caught up with Olding, Hill and Jackson halfway down one of the corridors. “Sir! Sir!” he shouted. “I’ve found the missing uniform with the Rekhtag sauce on it!! Oh, hello, Captain.” He held up the uniform for Hill’s inspection.
“Well done, Chief!”
Olding frowned. “What’s all this?”
Hill explained about the pizzas. “The only thing we haven’t been able to figure out yet is who the conspirators are.”
“I had a thought about that. Can I have a word wi’ you?” He motioned Hill to one side of the corridor. Stark bustled off down the corridor, but didn’t get far, as he tripped over the dead bodies of two yeomen.
“Er, Captain,” he shouted.
Olding came running, with Hill hot on his heels. “I think we’ve solved the mystery of the uniform. It belongs to this man, Berk, and the other guy is his friend, Sammy.” Stark said.
“First rule of assassination: assassinate the assassin.”
“Everything makes sense now! Berk and Sammy were the yeomen on duty that night! They must have swapped the pizzas around! So you were wrong about…”
“Hmm. We’ll see about that.”
--
The chimes echoed through the ship. “Court recorder to sickbay. Code Blue urgent. Statements to be taken from Yeomen Berk and Sammy.”
The conspirator heard them, and realised there was still work to be done.
--
Sickbay was dark. Two of the beds were occupied, and so there were blinking lights above them, but otherwise that was it. Footsteps sounded on the deckplates, as the conspirator approached the nearer of the two beds. At the last moment, the light above the bed flicked on, revealing Hill. Valerie contained her surprise, just.
Hill sat up. “You have to shoot. If you are logical, you have to shoot.”
Olding climbed out of the other bed. “I’d just as soon you didn’t.”
Hill grabbed the phaser from her hand, and Jackson appeared from behind a panel. “The operation is over. And I didn’t even have to cut anything off.”
“I have not left any evidence. You cannot prove anything.” Valerie was calm in the face of the senior officers all glaring at her. She was stood in front of the viewscreen, facing the rest of the bridge.
“Oh yes I bluidy can. At my trial, my personal log was used against me. How long were you outside my quarters before you rang t’ bell, Lieutenant?”
Valerie refused to reply. Instead, she turned to face the viewscreen. “My comrades will ensure that your ship-to-shore transmissions are blocked.”
“And who are your comrades, Lieutenant?”
“I do not remember.”
Olding had had enough of this. He nodded to Hill, who slowly advanced on Valerie. He pulled her around to face him, then extended his left hand in the Vulcan mind-meld. She frowned, uncertain of his intentions. Surely he could not know the Vulcan mind-technique?
While her attention was occupied with his left hand, his right hand shot upwards, grabbed her arm, and twisted it behind her back, spinning her around.
Olding barked, “Names, Lieutenant!”
She gritted her teeth. Hill dug his knuckles into her back. She could not take it any longer.
“Admiral Forster,” she yelled. “From Starfleet.”
Damerell was shocked.
“Who else?” Olding asked.
“General Ching.”
“That’ll do. That’s quite enough t’ be goin’ along wi’.” Olding sat down in the centre seat. The odds against them were great.
“Captain, if I may…?” Valerie was looking at him with a pitying stare. “How will you reach Khitomer now that you no longer have a helmsman?”
She had a point, Olding had to concede. There was only one answer. Olding didn’t want to do it, but… He depressed a button on his seat arm, and said, “Bridge to Lieutenant-Commander Wall. Will you please report to the bridge?”
A second later, the turbolift doors slid open, and Wall strode out onto the bridge and took his seat at the helm. He had washed, shaved and put on a new uniform.
Damerell, who had left the intercom channel open so that Wall could hear what was going on, pressed another button, and the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ erupted from the bridge speakers.
Olding made eye contact with Valerie. Unfortunately, she obviously still felt superior. It didn’t stop him from taking malicious pleasure at giving the order, “Take her away!” As Valerie was dragged off the bridge, Olding turned to Wall and Damerell.
“Mr Damerell, lay in a course for Khitomer.”
Damerell fished out his atlas and hurriedly flicked through it. Tapping the course in, he said, “Course plotted and laid in, sir.”
“Mr Wall, if you would…?” Wall cracked his knuckles, and tapped in the instructions with exaggerated flair.
“Helm ready, sir!”
“In that case… Engage!!!” The Psycho shot into warp speed. “Now, for God’s sake, turn off that bluidy racket!!!!”
--
After a wash, brush-up and short nap, Olding got Hill to brief him on events aboard the Psycho since his arrest. Hill finished by explaining about the cloaked vessel that had lurked beneath the ship that fateful evening.
“I see. So that’s how they got the money out, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
At that point, Damerell swivelled round in his chair. “We’ve entered the Khitomer system.”
“Go to impulse for Khitomer orbit.”
“Of course, there is one good thing about all this,” Hill said.
“What’s that?” Olding asked.
“If they’re here, they’ll have to decloak if they want to attack us.”
“Incoming!!!” Wall screamed.
Hill looked at his monitors. There was nothing there, apart from a torpedo accelerating towards them. “Okay, so I was wrong.” Two seconds later, the Psycho jolted violently as the torpedo hit.
Before anybody could recover, the speakers came on, and a well-remembered voice spoke, “I can see you, Olding. Can you see me?”
“Bluidy Ching,” Olding said.
“Oh, now be honest, Captain. This is what you really want. No peace in our time.”
Another torpedo rushed towards the ship.
“Shields up!!” Olding shouted. They came up just in time. The Psycho was not too badly damaged this time. “All engines full astern. Back off!!! Back off!!!” The ship shot backwards as Wall redirected her motive energy. There was a pause in the firing.
Olding said, “What’s she playing at?”
“She’s probably wondering why we reversed.” The wondering didn’t last long. The next torpedo was quickly launched.
“Full ahead,” Olding ordered, and, apart from whiplash, no serious damage was sustained. This couldn’t go on indefinitely, Olding realised. They had to find a way of defeating this cloaked ship, whatever she was.
“There’s a divinity that hews our ends, Olding, rough-hew them how we may.”
Bluidy Ching again, Olding thought. Poncey bugger. Quoting Shakespeare was the final straw.
As if reading his mind, Hill said, “Gas, Captain.”
“Pardon?”
“Gas. Under impulse power, she expends fuel like any other ship.”
“So?”
“Ah. Well, you’ve got me there. Um…”
“What about all that equipment we’re carrying to catalogue gaseous anomalies?” It was Jackson. “Well, the damn thing’s got to have an exhaust.”
Hill clicked his fingers. He had a plan. “Doctor, would you care to assist me in performing surgery on a torpedo?”
“Damn right I would!!!!” Hill and Jackson left the bridge. Another torpedo struck the ship, and Olding got back to the business of keeping his ship intact.
--
Hill and Jackson reached the torpedo bay in a hurry. Much to their disgust, Ching’s ghastly attempts at Shakespeare could be heard all over the ship. “Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!!!!!!!!!”
His voice echoed throughout the bay. Hill ignored it, but Jackson started to grumble under his breath. “I am as constant as the Northern Star!”
“I’d give real money if he’d shut up!” Hill had opened the torpedo and was looking inside. Then he fished around in his toolbag to find the appropriate chip to perform the modification.
“Oh sod. Where the hell is it? I wish I’d put labels on these damn chips!!” he muttered as he checked through stacks and stacks of computer chips.
“Ahah!!” He fished the chip out, then swore as he dropped it inside the torpedo casing. Rolling a sleeve up, he fished around inside for the chip. Pulling it out again, he looked up to see Jackson sawing away at the casing.
“Not yet Doctor!!! We haven’t removed the warhead!!”
Jackson stopped sawing very quickly.
Hill looked up. The torpedo had been rolling towards the launch tube all the while they had been mucking around. They had about ten metres left before it entered the tube and was ready to launch. Hill worked very fast.
“Alter circuit A.”
“What?”
“Circuit A!!! Alter it!!!! There, like that!!!!!!”
“Oh, right. Sensor!”
“Plate.”
“Ready!”
“Key, please Doctor.”
There was a long pause. They had three metres to go. The warhead was still not reattached to the modified body, which could cause problems when they launched. “Well, come on then!!!” Hill was getting a little stressed.
Jackson blushed. “Ah, well, you see… I, er, haha, dropped it in the turbolift. I didn’t think it would be that important.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!!!!” Hill screamed, and frantically fished around for the spare, while Jackson hung on to the torpedo, trying to prevent it from entering the launch tube. Creaking sounds began to emanate from the conveyor belt beneath the torpedo.
Hill couldn’t find the key, but during his hunt in his tool-bag he found a big roll of Sellotape(TM). Giving up on the key, he frantically wound metres and metres of tape around the warhead, until it was entirely swathed in the stuff. It was only then that Hill felt the hull rumbling and shaking. It built up to a crescendo before dying back a bit.
As soon as he stopped seeing double, Hill said, “The hull has been compromised.”
“No! Has it really?!!” Sarcasm wasn’t really called for right now, Hill felt.
At that point, Olding’s voice came over the comm channel. “Where’s ma bluidy torpedo?!!”
It was now or never. Hill nodded to Jackson, who let go of the torpedo, which shot into the launch tube. The hatch slammed shut, and Hill called out, “She’s ready, sir!! Lock and load!!!!!”
“Fire!!!!” Olding found to his embarrassment that he was standing up and punching the air.
He sat down again just as Damerell pressed the button that launched the homing torpedo. They all watched as the torpedo wobbled its way into space, before chasing its own tail for a while. Finally, just as Olding had given up on it, the torpedo shot off at a tangent. Two seconds later, there was a large explosion, and the shadow of a Bird of Prey appeared in front of the flames.
“Target that explosion and fire!!” Olding ordered, and the Psycho launched a barrage of photon torpedoes that eradicated the Bird of Prey. Olding relaxed, then remembered the conference. There was bound to be an assassin there as well.
“Take us into orbit. Quickly!”
--
Olding, Hill, Wall, Damerell, Jackson and Stark materialised in an annex to the conference room a minute later. Glancing quickly around, Olding saw that President Tracey was speaking at the podium. “Commander Hill, sick ‘im!!!” he said, pointing at the President.
There was a general rush towards the podium as everyone in the crew tried to be the first to reach the President. Only Stark was not amongst those, as Olding held him back and ordered him upstairs to try and find the assassin.
The rush to the podium was not going well. Wall got out in front, but tripped over his shoelaces and got trampled. Damerell was next in the lead, but took a wrong turning and ended up chasing the Vulcan ambassador. Jackson was almost there when Hill thumped him in the back. He went down. So it was Hill who was left to charge headlong for the President.
--
Stark was exhausted. He had climbed three flights of very steep stairs, and still had not found the assassin. All this searching of rooms was tiring him out. He flung open yet another door. There was a thump and a scream, and Stark looked inside the room to see a broken window with traces of pink blood round the edges. Craning out of the gap, he saw a Klingon lying flat on his back, with a bunch of people staring at him.
--
Hill mounted the steps to the podium three at a time. Reaching his arms out, he shouted “Mr President!! Mr President!!!” He threw himself at the President, who ducked, and Hill flew clean over the top. Picking himself out of the wreckage of what once had been a rather smart display, he straightened his uniform and said, “Hill. Psycho.”
“I don’t doubt it,” the President said shakily.
Once the dust had settled, Olding walked slowly down the aisle towards the podium. All around him were stunned diplomats trying to make sense of what had just happened. Chancellor Angie scrambled out from behind the solid wall of guards who had surrounded her at the first sign of trouble.
“What’s the meaning of all of this?” she asked.
“It’s about t’ future, lass. Some people think t’ future means t’ end of history. Well, we haven’t run out of history quite just yet.”
“Pardon?” she replied.
Olding scratched his head. “I don’t actually know. Something funny just came over me. Well, anyway, all clear now.”
“You’ve restored my father’s faith!” Angie proclaimed. The assembled diplomats began to clap and cheer. Olding shuffled his feet uncomfortably.
“Aye, well, don’t know about that.”
The audience just clapped and cheered the louder.
--
Some hours later, Olding was stood in the conference hall, surrounded by diplomats clapping him on the back. He was the hero of the hour, despite the fact that they hadn’t actually caught Admiral Forster. Wall had had a go, but had ended up jamming his phaser up Admiral Dillard’s nose. The Admiral was not impressed, and Wall had been lucky to get away without being court-martialled.
Olding had sent the rest of the crew back up to the ship, as he had got used to the idea of all this hero-worship. He was a little uncomfortable, then, when the speakers mounted around the walls came alive with the sound of Hill’s voice shouting,
“Take us out of orbit!!”
Olding crossed to a comm unit and said, “What’s going on up there?”
Hill replied promptly, although his voice was strained. “We’ve sighted Admiral Forster’s personal ship, sir!! Don’t worry, we’ll get him!!!”
Everybody strained to hear as Hill’s voice gave them a running commentary on the chase.
“Right, take us in closer. Standby tractor beam… damn! They’ve raised their shields!! Okay, power up the phasers… Woah!! What the hell is that?!!!! Yes, I know it’s pretty, Mr Damerell, but what is it?!! Er, Mr Wall, perhaps we should avoid that… no. I said avoid it, not fly straight into it!!!! Oh shi…” The channel dissolved into static.
There was a long silence, eventually broken by an ensign rushing into the room to report, “Sir, we’ve lost the Psycho!!”
The ambassadors drifted away, leaving a stunned Olding alone in the massive conference hall.
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