Psycho I

“Captain’s log, Stardate 41235.87. T’Psycho is in orbit around Throid IX, awaiting t’ arrival of Admiral Cooper, who is presently on t’ planet’s surface. Due to t’ high levels of sub-quarticle particles, transporters are unavailable, so I must reluctantly sanction the use of shuttlecraft. I say reluctantly, because I have just learned something very worrying about my helmsman and chief shuttle pilot, Lieutenant-Commander Gavin Wall. I recently handed round a questionnaire which included t’ question, “What would you most like to be remembered for?” Lieutenant Wall’s response was: ‘To be the first guy to pull off a handbrake turn in a starship.’

“Some of t’ other crewmembers’ responses were equally worrying: Navigator Lieutenant-Commander Philip Damerell’s response was ‘To get from A to B without getting lost at C.’  Commander Richard Hill, my first/science officer, said ‘To hack into the Starfleet Command Database using my new Netware Hacking Faq without anybody realising!!’ This is worrying, because, as a senior officer aboard a starship, he has access to t’ database anyway.  Chief Engineer Chris Graham’s response was ‘I seek not glory, only understanding.’ Hmm.  Doctor Daniel Jackson’s answer was ‘To get the hang of operating without anaesthetic.’

“So you see, I have problems. Big problems. Eeee. Oh, before I forget, we are also due to receive a new crew member. Starfleet has sent us their new android communications officer, Mr. Bleep, for operational testing. He also is due aboard on t’ shuttle which will bring Admiral Cooper for his inspection. I can hardly wait. End log entry.”

 

Down on the planet, the shuttle Lecter was preparing for takeoff. Admiral Cooper was sat next to Mr. Bleep, in unusual silence. He had tried telling the android a funny story, but that had backfired when the android had looked at him blankly, then began a spirited attempt at analysing the joke syllable by syllable, until the Admiral told him to shut up. Bleep, a large, rectangular android, immediately shut down all higher functions.

In the pilot’s seat, Lieutenant Wall flexed his fingers. Here was his chance to impress the Admiral with his amazing piloting skills. He wondered if the Admiral appreciated the finer art of spinning a shuttle through 360 degrees. Perhaps he should demonstrate. He fired up the main engines, and was about to lift off, when he remembered the niceties of shuttle procedures.

“Er… Lecter to Control Tower, requesting permission to depart.”

“Permission granted, Lecter. Have a nice trip.”

Lieutenant Wall thought he heard a muffled snigger as the channel closed. He dismissed the thought from his mind. He had more important things to do. He pressed down on the thruster control panel, and the shuttle leapt off the pad, pinning the passengers to their seats, until Lieutenant Wall remembered to activate the inertial dampeners.

 

On the bridge of the Psycho, Commander Richard Hill spun round gently in the command chair. He was glad that Captain Olding was one of those commanding officers who did not like spending much time on the bridge. It was far more fun that way. How could you possibly hope to dismantle the science station with your commanding officer standing over your shoulder, making unhelpful comments like, “Are you sure that’s going to work once you’ve done fiddlin’?”

He looked around the bridge. He had to clear things away round here.  The Psycho was the last of the Constitution refits, and her age was showing.  It was getting a bit too messy now.  The worst offender was undoubtedly Wall, but no-one in the bridge crew could actually be called tidy. The problem with Wall was, he actively worked to make the bridge look untidy. He had no proof, but Hill strongly suspected the helmsman of being responsible for the large pair of fluffy dice that now hung from the bridge ceiling, as well as the lime green fur trim that adorned the helm console. And as for the commissioning plaque…

Someone had stolen the commissioning plaque, and in its place had roughly scrawled a copy on the back of a beer-mat. The thing was a damn disgrace. Hill wandered over to take a look at it. The plaque, as he supposed he had to call it, was complete in every detail, even down to the ship’s motto: “To boldly go where no Yorkshireman has gone before”. The handwriting, however, was terrible, and the spelling was not great – ‘boldly’ became ‘blodly’, for example – and it reflected badly on the rest of the ship. Hill thought about that for a moment, then corrected himself: it fitted in exactly with the rest of the ship.

His thoughts were interrupted by a call from the navigator, Lieutenant Damerell.

“Shuttle en route!”

Commander Hill’s reflexes jumped into top gear. “On screen,” he ordered. The picture changed from the colour-bars that had been up as a test, to a shuttle heading towards the ship at an unhealthy speed.

“Yellow Alert! Captain to the bridge!!”

Hill rushed to his science station, and hurriedly replugged the console which he had been fiddling with earlier.

Captain Olding came running onto the bridge still fastening his wraparound tunic. “Is it here yet?” he asked, looking at the screen.

The shuttle had grown quite significantly. Already, Hill could make out the scrape marks down the side, showing where either tractor operators or gormless pilots (Mr Wall) had got too close to the side of the ship when docking or undocking.

“Quick,” shouted Olding, “Bring t’ tractor beam online!! Grab that shuttle!!!”

Damerell’s face took on an expression of extreme concentration. “Hang on, don’t tell me, I know how to do this one…” His fingers fluttered frantically over the console as he thought fast.

“Come on, get on wi’ it!!!” Olding’s voice reached a crescendo.

Damerell, panic kicking in, quickly slammed down on the first button he saw.
The first phaser blast narrowly missed the shuttle, with only residual energy hitting it, jolting the craft.

 

Lieutenant Wall went into panic mode, and slammed the shuttle into full emergency speed. “We’re under attack!” he shouted, completely failing to notice that the shots had, in fact, come from thePsycho. He slewed the shuttle around, screaming past the ship, in an attempt to reach its shuttle bay.

“What are you doing?!! Stop and let them bring us in!!” The Admiral screamed above the roar of the shuttle’s straining engines.

“No time!” Wall shouted back. “I’m going to have to take us in manually!”

“You’re going to do what?!!”

“It worked for Commander Sulu aboard the Enterprise, why not me?!!!!!” Wall flashed Admiral Cooper his most encouraging smile.

“Have you done this before?” The Admiral’s strained expression clearly indicated he hoped for a reply in the affirmative.

“Actually, this is my first attempt.”

The Admiral went pale.

 

On the bridge, the crew had not had time to react as the Lecter went to full speed and shot round behind them. Lieutenant Damerell’s renewed attempts to activate the tractor beam had resulted in a further three phaser blasts being fired, and he had been ordered to ensure that his fingers did not make contact with his console until further orders.

Olding looked round at Hill. “Where are they?”

“They’ve gone round behind us, sir!”

Olding’s brow furrowed. “What are they trying to…” The answer hit him. “Close t’ bay doors NOW!!!”

“Too late!!” Hill replied.

Olding slumped into his command chair. He wondered if he could get his resignation in before the Admiral sacked him.

 

The Lecter shot into the shuttle bay a fraction of a second before the doors closed behind them. Wall, reacting instantly, threw the shuttle into a steep bank, and fired the braking thrusters. The manoeuvre was intended to be a clever way of stopping the craft without damaging anything, but, as it was, all it succeeded in achieving was in slamming the shuttle, base-first, into the bay’s back wall. It hung there for a second, before gravity caught up with it and it plunged to the deck. As the shuttle transformed itself from a highly complicated and expensive flying machine to a highly complicated and expensive piece of toast, Wall said to himself, “That wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I’m sure that wasn’t supposed to hap…”

 

Olding pressed the communications button on his command chair. “Bridge to Sickbay! Get a trauma team to t’ shuttle bay now!”

A bored voice called back. “Sickbay here. Can it wait? I’m rather busy just now.”

“No it can’t!!! Stop faffin’ abou’ and get on wi’ it!!!”

“Oh, alright then. If you insist.”

Olding sat back in his chair, then thought better of it. “Mr. Hill, you have t’ bridge.” He turned and entered the turbolift.

 

When he reached the shuttle bay, he realised the full extent of the disaster that had befallen his ship during what should have been a routine operation. The Lecter had been written off, and the shuttle bay itself needed a major overhaul. There was a massive gouge taken out of the back wall where the shuttle had hit it, and it was difficult to tell where the floor ended and the shuttle began.

The Admiral was lifted none-too-gently out of the wreckage, and hauled out of the bay on a stretcher. In the corner, Lieutenant Wall sat, giggling inanely.

“Is he alright?” asked Olding.

“Hmm, what?” Doctor Jackson replied. “Oh, well, yes, no amputation necessary.” He sounded vaguely disappointed.

“Where’s Mr Bleep?” Olding glanced around, trying to locate his new communications officer.
Chief Engineer Graham looked up from where he was rooting around in the remains of the shuttle.

“He’s, uh, here and there, sir.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Er, well, we’ve found his legs, and most of his torso, but his head and arms are giving us a bit of trouble.”

Olding scowled. “Can you fix him?”

Graham stared at him. “Can I fix him?! Of course I can fix him! Bloody cheek!!”

Olding stomped out of the shuttle bay, leaving Graham and his team of engineers to sweep away the wreckage.

 

He took the turbolift up to Sickbay, and stuck his head round the door. Inside, there was the sort of organised chaos that Olding associated with a sickbay. On the walls, however, were the sort of sharp cutting implements that Olding did not normally associate with a sickbay. He wasn’t experienced with this sort of thing, but he was pretty sure that having knives etc on the wall didn’t help patients to relax. He walked through to the isolation ward, where Admiral Cooper was under heavy sedation (namely, a mallet-blow to the head).

“How is he, Doctor?”

“He’s fine. A few cuts and bruises. Nothing more. He’ll have a bit of a headache when he comes round, though.”

“Hmm. How’s Lieutenant Wall?”

“Who?”

“Lieutenant Wall, t’ helmsman. He was involved in t’ crash too.” Or, to be more accurate, Olding thought grimly, he caused the crash.

“Oh, him. I left him down in the shuttle bay.”

“Did you examine him?”

“Yes. He’s got a broken nose, arm and leg, but otherwise he’ll be fine. Do you want me to bring him up here?”

Olding gritted his teeth. “Yes, please.” He decided to go down to Engineering to see how Mr Graham was getting along.

 

Back on the bridge, Commander Hill had started to rebuild the science station for lack of anything better to do. Lieutenant Damerell was playing Pacman on the main screen, and the rest of the crew were trying to look busy, in most cases failing. The Psycho was still in orbit, much to the consternation of the Bolian freighter that had been scheduled to take her place two hours previously.

 

Olding reached Engineering, and went straight into the Chief Engineer’s office. Graham wasn’t there, but a note on his desk read “Back in five minutes”, so he hung around. To while away the time, he glanced at the engineer’s bookshelf. It was filled with standard titles, ‘Engineering Monthly’ (Free binder with issue 1), Planck’s Law of Partial Relativity, Janet and John Fix a Warp Core…

Olding was horrified. Unable to stop himself, he picked the book off the shelf, and began to read. ‘Page 1: Here is Janet. Page 2: Here is John. Page 3: Look at Janet. Page 4: Look at John…’

Engineer Graham walked in, and Olding hurriedly replaced the book on the shelf. In his hurry, he missed and knocked the collectors edition of ‘Which: Impulse Drives Special Report’ off the shelf onto the floor, where it spread outwards in a fan-shape.

“What can I do you for, Captain?” said Graham.

“How’s the repair work on Mr Bleep coming along?”

“Oh, it’s absolutely super! Come and see.”

Olding followed Graham out into Main Engineering, and back in to one of the little workshops that seemed to be everywhere down here. It was at times like these that Olding had to admit that he didn’t really know the layout of this area of his ship that well. He consoled himself with the thought that he didn’t really care either. They entered this particular workshop, and Graham waved grandly at the table set in the middle of the room. It was piled high with bits of wreckage, some of which was still smoking gently.

“Tadaa!” Graham announced.

Olding moved over to the table and gingerly picked up a bit of metal. “Is this all of him?”

“Oh yes. We think so, anyway. There might be a bit of shuttle here and there, but I’m sure that we’ll root them out as we go along.”

Olding held out the piece he had picked up. “Here’s one to start you off.”

“How do you know?” Graham’s voice took on the hostile tone he reserved for people he thought were encroaching on his territory.

Olding pointed at the metal. “It’s got USS PSYCHO SMC-1234 printed across it.”

Graham looked annoyed. “Yes, yes, yes, alright.”

Olding walked out. He could not believe this. It was supposed to be a simple mission. Show an Admiral round the ship, give him a quick trip round the sector, drop him off again and go back on patrol. Instead, the Admiral he was supposed to show round was currently receiving an in-depth look at Sickbay, he couldn’t go anywhere as his helmsman was also out for the count, and he couldn’t talk to anyone as his communications officer was in bits all over a table.

He was wandering through the corridors of Engineering, trying to memorise them for future use, and wondering if those large holes in the deckplates were meant to be there, when the intership speakers whistled, and a voice said, “Sickbay to Captain Olding. Please come immediately.” Olding groaned inwardly. Knowing his luck, the Admiral had died.

 

When he reached Sickbay, he found that the entire place was filled with an agonising high pitched scream. Doctor Jackson was sharpening his knives again. As Olding walked in, he found Lieutenant Wall reading a medical textbook, and clutching an anabolic protoplaser nervously. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. The Doctor says the only cure for my broken limbs is amputation. I er… I don’t really like that idea, sir. I’m trying to figure out how you use one of these things.” He waved the instrument around vaguely.

“Er, well, carry on.” Olding walked on, shaken. He found the Admiral still in the isolation ward, and was grateful for its sound-proof doors. The Admiral was sitting up, and apart from a monster bruise on his skull, seemed okay.

“Hiiiii,” he said.

“Hello, Admiral.” Captain Olding hid his relief. The Admiral didn’t sound like someone about to fire somebody else.

“I was just wondering, er, what exactly happened to me? It’s all a bit hazy.”

Olding thought fast. “It was an unavoidable accident, sir. T’ crew acted fast to prevent a much bigger tragedy.”

“Oh, okay. Once I’m allowed out of here, I would very much like to see your botanical gardens. I’m a bit of a nature person really.”

“Certainly, sir!” Olding left Sickbay with a spring in his step. That wasn’t so bad after all. He was halfway to the bridge when he suddenly realised that no-one had even seen the botanical gardens for about six months. He had better send someone down to check them over.

 

He reached the bridge, and walked out onto chaos. Commander Hill, not satisfied with dismantling merely the science station, had begun to systematically remove the vital components of each bridge station, mix them up, and put them back again as a test to himself. He wasn’t doing very well so far. Lieutenant Damerell was sitting on his hands, having been ordered again not to touch anything.

Olding picked his way over carefully arranged piles of computer chips, and approached Damerell. As he did so, he noticed that the screen displayed stars moving past. “I didn’t order the ship to be taken out of orbit!”

“Er, no, sir. It’s the screen-saver, sir.” Damerell touched a button and the picture returned to one of the planet below.

“Okay, right. Look, I want you to go and clean up the botanical gardens. Fetch a strimmer from the labs and nip along, there’s a good chap.”

“Yes, sir.” Damerell left.

As no-one except Olding and Hill was on the bridge, and Hill was currently muttering to himself somewhere under the master situations board, Olding was free to indulge his curiosity. For some time now, he had noticed that Damerell had been hiding something under the navigation console, and that he looked at it quite regularly when the ship was under way. Olding had resolved to find out what it was. Gingerly, he slid his hands under the console. The last time he had done this under Lieutenant Wall’s console, he had found innumerable pieces of secondhand chewing gum. He cringed as he thought of the four-hour decontamination session he had had to put his hands through after that little discovery.

His hands suddenly bumped into something solid. Grabbing it, he pulled it out, and glanced down. It was a copy of ‘Collins Guide to Federation Space and its Environs’. Olding put it back. He should have guessed. He supposed that at least Damerell was showing initiative. Of a sort. He sat back, and sighed reflectively. What else could go wrong?

At that point, a shower of sparks burst from the master situations board, and there was an outbreak of muffled swearing. Commander Hill re-appeared, clutching his fingers, which appeared to be smoking. “Permission to go to Sickbay, sir?”

“Yes, yes, yes all right. The rest of t’ bridge crew’s down there, why not you?”

“Thank you, sir.” Apparently unaware of the hefty dose of sarcasm he had just been dealt, Hill left, whimpering gently.

 

Damerell arrived outside the botanical gardens clutching a strimmer. He had picked it up in the equipment locker, next to the spare photon torpedoes. To amuse himself, he had moved down the ship’s corridors commando-style, waving the strimmer from side to side in a menacing fashion. He had given it up when he had thrust the strimmer round a corner and hit something hard. He had been shocked to find a crewman lying unconscious, and after that had decided to stop being a commando, covering the rest of the way with the strimmer held sedately over his shoulder.

The doors seemed jammed shut. Damerell set to work on the control panel. After a while, the doors creaked open. He stepped inside. The garden had changed a bit since he had last been there. He didn’t realise that you needed insulation in here. Also, the plants seemed rather small, and they were arranged very neatly, in long lines. Damerell waved a tricorder at the room, as he didn’t even recognize the plants involved. The tricorder bleeped, and Damerell glanced at the screen. The readout said: “THIS IS CANNABIS. I SHOULD REPORT THIS RIGHT NOW IF I WERE YOU.”

Damerell backed out slowly, mouth gaping. He only just remembered to lock the doors again before he returned to the bridge, still clutching the strimmer.

 

He arrived on the bridge to discover that Olding had rounded up the bridge crew from Sickbay and mustered them. Commander Hill’s hands were swathed in what appeared to be twenty feet of bandage, and Lieutenant Wall was dressed in shorts. His legs were seemingly very badly sunburned, and he kept muttering to himself. It sounded like “Ouchouchouchouch. In future, I’m going to leave doctoring to the doctors. Ouchouchouchouchouch.”

Admiral Cooper was leaning against the bridge rail, most of his head covered in what looked like a gigantic turban. Olding was sat in his command chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. Unbeknownst to him, he was driving the transporter operator crazy as he kept turning the comm channel on and off with his drumming. Damerell tried to hide the strimmer behind his back, and shuffled towards his station. He leant the implement up against the central podium of the helm console, and sat down.

“Good morning all,” said Admiral Cooper.

“Right,” said Olding. “Let’s get under way.”

The bridge crew went tense. This was going to be difficult.

“Engage all systems.”

“Aye, engaged.”

“Port and starboard thrusters to station-keeping, aft thrusters one-quarter ahead.”

“Um, right, yeah.” There was a rapid discussion at the helm console, involving much waving of arms and rude gestures. Finally, the Psycho jerked forwards. Admiral Cooper fell over.

“Navigator, plot a course out of the system.”

“Oh, shit. Er, aye, sir.”

“Science officer, perform an all-decks scan, please.”

“Why?”

“Because… Because I said so, that’s why, sunshine!”

“Hmm. Whatever.” Hill pulled on a pair of asbestos gloves, and hammered at his console.

Just then, the drone of the engines rose in tone, then suddenly stopped. Lieutenant Wall turned round. “Ah, er, engines are… engines have stalled, sir.” Olding’s hands ripped chunks out of his chair.

On cue, the channel from Engineering bleeped. “Hello up there? Is there anyone actually on the bridge, or am I just speaking to jelly-moulds, peanuts or other such beings?”

“Actually, we’re all here. We seem to have stalled. Would you mind restarting t’ engines, please?”

“Mind? MIND? Of course I mind!! It’s all in the mind, you know. Super.”

“Yeeeees.” Olding said, waiting patiently. “Bighead,” he muttered. He could hear Graham faffin’ abou’ in Engineering. After a few seconds, the ship jerked forwards again.

“Right, helm. Little bit of gas, ease up on t’ clutch, and put us into first.”

There came from the helm the distinctive crashing sound of gears being inexpertly changed.

“Oops. Sorry.”

The communications board bleeped. The bridge crew looked round.

“Will somebody please answer that?” Olding asked. Nobody moved.

Olding stood up and operated the console himself, muttering about bluidy lazy buggers getting everywhere. The screen flickered, and changed to a Starfleet Command symbol.

A voice spoke, “This is a priority one message. Open a visual channel.”

Olding looked round the bridge. Half the crew were in bandages, and the Admiral was telling a funny story to a turbolift. He didn’t think that letting Starfleet see them would be a good idea.

“Sorry, visual communications are temporarily off-line.” He switched the feed to the speakers, and sat down in his command chair.

“This is Starfleet Command. We have a mission for you of the utmost importance.”

There was a derisive snort from the helm console. Olding ignored it.

“You are to proceed to Limbo III to collect delegates from the Klingon and Romulan Empires and Federation then continue to Camp Khitomer at full speed. There is a new Federation-Klingon Empire peace conference in progress. You are required to provide security for the conference. This message will self-destruct in five seconds. Only kidding!!! Ha ha ha ha hee hee ho ho…”

Olding cut the channel off.  “I’m very sorry, Admiral,” he said. “I’m afraid we won’t have time for your tour. We’ll turn around and drop you off.”

Olding only realised what this would involve after he had said it. He could see Wall rubbing his hands together in glee at the thought of another shuttle trip.

“Bring us around,” Olding ordered, clutching his chair arms in anticipation. Lieutenant Wall reached for the handbrake. “No you don’t, Lieutenant!!!” Wall reluctantly took his hand away, and the Psycho came around in space in a more conventional manner.

They jerkily went back to the planet, entering orbit again with no little difficulty. The sweat was standing out on Damerell’s face as he frantically tried to prevent the ship from flying into the Throidian star. Olding watched the screen carefully, praying they could manage an orbital insertion without hitting anything.

 

Finally, when they were back in orbit, Olding escorted Wall and Admiral Cooper to the shuttle bay. The shuttle Bates was parked next to the wreckage of the Lecter, still remaining, Olding noticed, despite his instructions to the contrary. The gouge in the back wall had been papered over, not very well. The wallpaper was the tacky Starfleet kiddies standard-issue paper, with Starfleet symbols and bunnies in uniform mixed together in what some bored designer fondly imagined was a cheery way. The fact that two of them appeared to be carrying out a ritualistic execution of a Klingon bunny made Olding wonder about the sanity of some of the people at Starfleet.

Olding watched as the two got into the Bates, then left the bay as they began to depressurise for launch. He only just got out in time. “Some people,” he thought, “need their heads banging together. Like the whole of this crew.” He watched on a monitor as the shuttle flew towards the planet, then ran for the bridge. He had to prevent Damerell from touching the tractor controls.

 

He reached the bridge in plenty of time. He stood by Damerell, and said in a conversational tone, “If you touch those controls, I’ll rip your bluidy head off. Is that clear?”

Damerell gulped.

“Er, sir, could I have a quick word?”

“Go on.” Olding looked at him.

“It’s, ah, it’s about the botanical gardens.”

“What?”

“It seems to be, er, it seems to be… full of cannabis plants. Sir.”

“IT’S WHAT?!!!” Olding’s shout made heads turn all over the bridge. “It’s what?” he repeated, in a more normal tone.

“Somebody is growing cannabis in the botanical gardens, sir.” Damerell looked at Olding with an expression which he hoped conveyed a sense of innocence. Olding didn’t even notice.

“I want you to take a look round, Lieutenant. Find out who it is, and let me know.” Damerell started to rise. “Not now, idiot! When you’re off shift.”

“Okay, sir.” He sat down again. Olding waited by the helm console, determined to bring the Bates aboard himself.

 

After a little while, the shuttle was picked up by the ship’s long-range sensors. Olding turned on the tractor beam controls, and allowed himself a small smile as the unit powered up smoothly. The smile faded as a shower of sparks flew out of the console, accompanied by a loud bang and the slightly pointless computer message, “The tractor beam is off-line.”

Olding could see the Bates on the screen, growing ominously larger as it got closer. His mind raced as he tried desperately to come up with an acceptable solution to the problem. There was no way he was allowing Wall to attempt another manual landing. A solution presented itself, but he rejected it as being too insane. Unfortunately, he could come up with nothing better. Sighing to himself, he turned and left the bridge. “Commander Hill, you have the conn.”

“Pardon?”

 

Olding reached the ship’s saloon bar a few minutes later. He could hear the loud country and western music emanating from inside. They were playing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” again. That had to be the 4,376,583,459,843rd time this month. Bracing himself, Olding pushed hard against the swinging panels. They refused to budge. He pushed harder. They still didn’t move. He put all his strength onto the offending panels. They swung open smoothly, and Olding fell to the floor. Picking himself up, he threaded his way through the debris of beer bottles, crisp packets, and unidentified rotting meat, until he reached the bar.

Behind the bar was Fred, the bartender. All that could be seen of him was a Starfleet uniform jacket under a very large Texan hat. As he lifted his arms, Olding saw that Fred had sewn on strands of leather which hung off the arms and looked, to Olding’s eyes, really stupid. “Hiya, Cap’n,” said Fred, “Whaddya wanna drink?”

“Nothing, thanks, Fred,” said Olding. “I need a favour from you.”

“Sure! Anything for you, Cap’n!”

“Good. I need you to pick up that rope, and come with me.” Olding indicated a rope hanging behind the bar.

“Okay. What’s all this about, then?” said Fred, as they hurried out of the saloon.

“We have a problem,” Olding replied. “A shuttle is due to arrive, and t’ tractor beam’s out of use. We need you to…”

“Woah there, why not just let the pilot bring ‘er in manually?”

“It’s Lieutenant Wall flying t’ shuttle.”

“Okay, fair enough. Carry on.”

“I want you to lasso the shuttle so we can haul it in.”

“You want me to do WHAT? Ah’m just a bartender, Cap’n. Ah’m not qualified for this sort of thing.”

“No-one is qualified for this sort of thing!!! It’s never been done before!! But we haven’t got time to do anything about t’ tractor beam, so we’re just going to have to get on wi’ it an’ no complainin’, right lad?!!!”

Fred wiped the flecks of spit off his face and nodded, realising that it would not be safe to put forward any more arguments.

 

They arrived in the shuttle bay, and Fred stood in the centre of the bay, swinging his lasso experimentally. Olding had gone up to the control room to explain to Lieutenant Wall exactly what was going on. “… so all you have to do is wait while we bring you in.”

Wall sounded disappointed as he replied, “Couldn’t I just go in really slowly? I promise not to hit anything.”

Olding could imagine Wall’s fingers crossing, and replied, “NO.” He turned on the bay speakers, and said, “Okay, Fred, do your stuff!”

Fred swung the lasso round his head until it became a blur, then threw it out into space. There was a brief flash as it passed through the protective field holding the atmosphere in, and it gently swung out and hooked onto the front of the shuttle. Olding, amazed that this insane plan had worked, made a mental note to get tow-hooks fitted to all the shuttles aboard.

 

A team of junior engineers ran out to take hold of the rope, and they began to pull, with Fred shouting, “Heave!!” and “C’mon boys, you can do it!!” The Bates slid forwards into the bay.

Olding realised a few seconds before the others did what was about to happen, and covered his eyes in anticipation. As soon as the shuttle was inside the ship, the artificial gravity took hold and it slammed into the floor.

As the dust settled, Olding opened his eyes to see the shuttle descend through to the deck below without using the lift. He groaned. The engineers and Fred were staggering around, apparently dazed by the crash, and Lieutenant Wall, who seemed to have been able to get out before the shuttle’s impromptu descent through the floor, was looking up at the control room apologetically. Olding made ‘follow me’ motions through the window, and, after a few misunderstandings and rude signals back, Lieutenant Wall did so.

 

They reached the bridge with Wall rubbing a bruise on the side of his head. It hadn’t been sustained during the landing, but rather when Olding had whacked him round the head during a shouting session in the turbolift. At least, Olding had been doing the shouting, Wall preferring instead to cower on the floor.

They resumed their stations, and once more Olding prepared to take the Psycho out of orbit. This time, he didn’t want to go through all the machinations of getting the starship a legal separation distance from the planet before they engaged their warp drive. He was fed up of watching his bridge crew make a complete pig’s-ear of a simple operation. “Navigator, do you still have t’ heading for Khitomer laid in?” Damerell looked at his board, and after a few panicked seconds while he frantically hunted for the correct screen, he looked up, and, trying to hide his surprise, replied, “Aye, sir.”

“In that case, engage.” The Psycho shot out of orbit into warp speed, leaving behind them an enraged traffic controller and a very surprised Bolian freighter.

 

Time passed, and the shifts changed. Olding left the bridge to look in on Chief Engineer Graham and his ongoing repairs of Mr Bleep. He found the android communications officer still in pieces, although not as many pieces as previously. Graham had piled up various components of Bleep next to the android’s body. Many of them had Post-It notes attached, with cryptic messages scribbled on, such as “Useful?” or “Unknown part – dispose of later.” Olding saw Graham bustling round by the engine core, and wandered over to talk to him.

“How’s things with Mr Bleep going?”

“Hmm? Oh, that. Well, it’s looking promising, I have to say. I think I’ve found a couple of useful bits.” He fished out two computer chips and waved them under Olding’s nose. Olding raised his eyebrow.

“Jolly good, then. Carry on.”

As Olding left, Graham turned back to the bits of Mr Bleep. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle, he decided, except somebody had lost the lid with the picture on it. He experimentally pushed a likely-looking leg into a slot in the now-partially rebuilt torso, and stood back. It suddenly became clear the leg had been mounted in Bleep’s neck. Frowning slightly, he pulled it out again, unbent the connections that had been bent when he shoved the leg in, and tried again. This time, the leg looked as if it was in the right place.

“Oh, that’s absolutely super,” Graham said to himself, as he twiddled the controls on Bleep’s front panel. The leg began to jerk backwards and forwards in what could charitably be called a walking movement. Turning it off, Graham turned back to the smaller bits of Bleep. This was the tricky bit. Legs and things were easy: anyone could find a slot for them, but isolinear chips could go anywhere. But Graham was confident he would solve the problem in time.

 

Meanwhile, Damerell had returned to the botanical gardens, armed with all the surveillance equipment in the ship’s cupboard. He took the assignment Olding had given him very seriously, as he (mistakenly) saw it as a chance of promotion. He tiptoed between the rows of plants, with the bugs under one arm and a stepladder under the other. Setting the ladder up carefully, he climbed up and began to glue the miniature cameras and microphones to the ceiling. He finished the last one, and leant back to admire his work. Unfortunately, he neglected to get off the ladder before he did so, so he and the ladder fell backwards into a row of plants, squashing them. Damerell stood up, and brushed himself down. Unusually for him, the full consequences of his actions were foremost in his mind. He had just wiped out a sizeable proportion of the crop, and left an obvious trail for whoever it was who was behind this operation.

Damerell considered his options, and, grabbing one of the other plants, hurried off towards the hydroponics lab. The irony of the situation, for once, was not lost on him. In order to discover who it was who was growing illegal drugs aboard ship, he was now going to have to grow some himself.