The Continuing Missions

Captain Christopher Olding shifted in his seat. It was another boring day aboard the Psycho. There had been too many boring days recently. And, more worryingly, there had been too many days when he’d bemoaned the number of boring days they’d had. They hadn’t had an interesting day for months.

The last bit of excitement they’d had was when Starfleet Command called them and the Enterprise crew together for a debriefing on the Borg. Olding and Picard were two out of the three officers Starfleet had who’d survived the Borg, and it was deemed necessary to find out exactly what it was like. The meeting had been uncomfortable, mostly because Starfleet was still releasing press information about the brave deeds of the Enterprise crew in tackling the Borg’s latest incursion, and part of the de-briefing had involved Picard asking Olding exactly what the brave deeds in question were. Olding had given him a brief outline of what the Psycho crew had got up to, and Picard had made notes.

Then, there had been all the other little distractions, like Barfoot trying to seduce Deanna Troi and failing, or Counsellor Hill challenging Commander Riker to a target-shooting competition, and beating him into the proverbial cocked hat. Bleep and Data had got on like a house on fire, though. Olding had got on reasonably well with Picard, despite their situation. Picard understood what Starfleet was doing to them, and had apologised to Olding afterwards. Olding had accepted the apology with a good grace, but had thought that using quotes from Shakespeare to illustrate the point was more than a little bit pretentious.

That meeting had been a long time ago, though, and Olding was wishing something interesting would happen. The Psycho had been on the Altair-Vulcan patrol line for eight weeks now, with nothing happening. Olding looked around the bridge. Amazing. The most advanced ship in the fleet, and they were on patrol duty. Everyone else seemed happy enough, though. Counsellor Hill was sitting at her station on Olding’s right, going through the department reports. When she’d originally suggested that she take over the duties of first officer, in addition to her other jobs as head of security and ship’s counsellor, Olding hadn’t liked the idea. But now he had to admit that it worked, although some of the crew had complained when she’d combined the evaluation interviews (first officer’s job) with the psychological profiles (counsellor’s job). Apparently, she’d been switching directly from one to the other, ending her hard-boiled, highly-critical evaluation of a person’s career with a sudden reassuring smile, and the words, “Now, how do you feel?” Apparently it had scared some of them half to death.

On his left, Doctor Jackson was sitting. Actually, slumped would be a better word. The doctor’s work-load hadn’t been as high as it used to be, and now there was a spare chair on the bridge Jackson had got into the habit of plonking himself in it and watching the bridge crew get on with their jobs. But, with all the dull days they’d been having, Jackson had also got into the habit of dozing off. At the moment, he was sliding half out of the seat, mouth open, snoring quietly. Olding had seen this before, and estimated that it would be approximately half an hour before the doctor slid bonelessly out of the seat and onto the floor. After that, it would very much depend on how uncomfortable his position on the floor was before he woke up again.

At the helm, Ensign Ingram did whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. Olding really hadn’t talked to Ingram all that much. It just didn’t seem to happen. Ingram turned up, did his shift, then cleared off again.

Next to him sat Damerell. Damerell had taken a long time to adjust to the crew transfers that had taken Commanders Hill and Wall away from them, and his performance had suffered. Even now, it was not quite back up to spec. Olding hated to admit it, but Wall and Damerell had operated as a team, to the point where they were able to anticipate each other’s actions. That ability had kept the Psycho out of trouble on several occasions.

Now, Damerell and Ingram, although they worked well together, just didn’t have the same empathy. On one level, Olding was glad that they hadn’t run into a serious enough problem that meant they needed to test just how well their new arrangements were, but on another, he wished they would, just so he could record a Captain’s log without running out of things to say after he’d recorded the stardate. Currently, Damerell was reading the Operations Manual. To give him credit, he’d been working hard to boost his skills with his console. On the debit side, however, was the indisputable fact that he’d not actually been able to improve one iota. But it was the thought that counted.

Behind him, and to the right, stood Bleep. Bleep too was a member of his crew whom Olding didn’t really talk to. But that was more because you had to wait for half an hour for Bleep to say anything intelligent. Despite all the best efforts to get Bleep’s speech patterns fixed, no-one had been able to lose that irritating “Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap…” nonsense that Bleep spouted every time he wanted to say something. Olding had compromised by giving Bleep the special privilege of not replying “Aye, sir,” when an order was given. Instead, he just, well, bleeped. It saved a lot of hassle in the long run.

The rest of the bridge crew were composed of the odds and ends of the crew who manned this shift. Olding, never a great one for faces, could never really remember his crew. But he had noticed that, over the months, the number of his original crew had dropped. Starfleet had forced new crew on them to man the bridge stations, and other vital posts, claiming it would give them the experience they needed. But it was also turning the ship into one of those anodyne crews that Starfleet seemed to love, and Olding detested. He had long known that most of his crew, especially the senior ones, were a few heat-shields short of a successful re-entry, but that didn’t bother him too much. You learned to work round it, and you got the job done. But, as time went by, he had found himself not only tolerating the general insanity, but coming to depend on it as well. That wasn’t to say that it still wasn’t bluidy annoying at times, though. But the essential fact was that he knew he could work with it, and didn’t want the faceless Starfleet bureaucrats altering it to suit themselves.

Just as Olding was in danger of getting maudlin, the yellow alert siren started.

Jackson jolted bolt upright, muttering, “Hmph? Wassat?”

Counsellor Hill, on the other hand, consulted her panel, and said, “Captain, I’m detecting an energy wave at two-sixty degrees mark four!”

“Range?”

“Ten thousand kilometres, and closing fast! Five thousand!”

“Helm, evasive action! Shields up!”

“Captain, which evasive pattern should I use?” It was Ingram, twisting around in his seat.

Before Olding could give an answer, the energy wave hit them. The ship spun sideways, and the gravity entirely failed to cope. People were flung from their positions as the deck attempted to become the wall. Olding, gripping the handles on the side of his chair and blessing the foresight he’d displayed, both when he’d had them fitted, and when he’d decided not to have them removed after Mr Wall’s transfer, watched as his ship tumbled out of control. Then, the wave had passed them, and the ship slowly recovered itself.

Olding wasted no time. “Sensor scan, Mr Damerell. What the bluidy hell was that, where did it come from, and is it going to damage anything else?”

Damerell went into shock at the thought of having to try and deal with three requests at once. Luckily for him, Olding then went round to the tactical position, and, leaning over Bleep’s shoulder, said, “Damage report.”

“Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… Unable to compile data, Captain. Ship’s computers have been overloaded.”

Damerell, seeing that he wasn’t going to get in trouble for not making his report, piped up, “Sensors offline, sir.”

Counsellor Hill nodded. “The ship’s systems are fried. We’re going to have difficulties making coffee for now, never mind doing anything else.”

Olding tapped his commbadge. With any luck, the comm grid would still be working. “Bridge to Engineering.”

The answer was faint, but readable. “Engineering, Stark here. What was that?”

“No idea, Mr Stark. Can you get the ship’s systems back online?”

“I’ve got my best men on it now, sir. Stark out.”

So, that was that, Olding thought. Ten seconds of excitement, then they just had to sit and wait. “Counsellor, you have the bridge. I’ll be in my ready room. Call me the moment we get power back.”

Olding made his way over to the doors to his ready room, and strode towards them, expecting them to slide apart when he approached. They didn’t. Rubbing his nose, Olding said, “On de udder hand, perhaps I’ll stay here.” He resumed his seat, and stared at the now blank viewscreen.

 

Time passed, punctuated only by occasional cheers or swearing as systems revived or failed. After eight hours, they had communications back up, although in a mangled state, some thruster power, and some short-range sensors. As the reports that the sensors were back online came through, Olding said, “Right. Let’s find out what on Earth caused that. Mr Damerell, find that wave again, and extrapolate its point of origin.”

While Damerell got to work on his console, Bleep’s console bleeped. “Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… We are receiving a communication from Starfleet, sir.”

“On screen.”

A stream of data appeared on the viewscreen. In places it was fractured, and in others unclear, but there was one section that appeared clear. It read:

“What on Earth is all that?” Olding thundered.

“I don’t know,” said a voice, “But I suggest that we look into it. Let’s repair to the conference lounge.”

Olding spun round. It was Jackson.

“Now wait just a minute, Doctor,” Olding said, “I think I should be the one to make those sorts of decisions.”

“According to that readout, you’re wrong, Lieutenant.”

 

The senior bridge crew made their way into the conference lounge. There was a brief scuffle as both Olding and Jackson tried to sit in the captain’s chair. Jackson won, and sat down, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Well, I suppose we should all get used to our new positions. Commander Ingram?”

“Um, yes, Doc… er, Captain?”

“I want a full departments report in front of me inside an hour. Dismissed.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ingram stood up and was about to leave when Olding growled, “Sit down!” Ingram did so.

“Now, Doctor, I appreciate that you’re enjoying this, but can we please talk seriously?”

“I am. That’s an official Starfleet communique, and it clearly states…”

“It clearly states bugger-all! That’s the only part of the data we can read!”

“How else would you interpret it?”

“Well…” For the first time in ages, Olding was lost for words.

“Exactly.” Jackson looked triumphant. “So, we have to assume that it’s official.”

“In which case… Captain Jackson, may I suggest a course of action?” Olding’s words were slightly unclear, as was to be expected of someone speaking through gritted teeth.

“You may, Lieutenant Olding.”

“We should double-check with Starfleet on that signal, and we should find out what that energy wave was and where it came from.”

Jackson frowned, clearly unhappy at the possibility of losing his newly-gained promotion. “Mr Bleep, what are our chances of getting through to Starfleet at this time?”

“Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… Problematic at best, sir.”

“Very well. Then we’ll wait until our comms systems are repaired before we try and contact Starfleet. Lieutenant Hill, you’ll be in charge of co-ordinating repairs. Concentrate your efforts on getting the main systems back online first. I want sensor, shields, engines and weapons before you worry about anything else. Bleep, make your way down to Engineering and take over. Send Stark and Barfoot up here, will you? Doctor Damerell, I suggest you go down to sickbay and deal with the casualties we must have taken. Dismissed.”

Jackson stood, and tugged down on his tunic.

Olding fought the urge to rip his chair out of the floor and throw it at the Doctor.

 

As they returned to the bridge, Olding unwillingly made his way to the helm console, and Jackson took the centre seat.

He stroked its arms affectionately. He was going to enjoy this. Stark and Barfoot walked onto the bridge, looking confused.

“Ah, Counsellor. Take a seat.” Jackson waved to the vacant seat to his left.

Stark, looking even more confused than before, sat down and glanced around nervously.

“Mr Barfoot, take tactical.”

Barfoot did as he was told.

Jackson drummed his hands on the arm-rests of his chair for a second as he waited for something to happen. Then, it occurred to him that, as Captain, he had to make something happen. “Mr Barfoot, take over the search for the energy wave’s point of origin.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Barfoot struggled to carry out his orders, Jackson began to pace the bridge in what was intended to be an awe-inspiring manner. Unfortunately, his lack of familiarity with the bridge layout told against him, as his foot caught behind a strut, and he toppled forwards. Picking himself up again, and ignoring the crew’s pointed attempts not to notice what had just happened, Jackson went carefully back to his seat.

Just as the silence was starting to get oppressive, Barfoot said, “I have the course of the energy wave plotted, sir.”

“Good. Helm, take the co-ordinates from tactical, and engage at maximum speed.”

For the first time ever, Olding began to have an inkling of why Wall was such a bad pilot. The buttons and displays on the helm console seemed to multiply before his eyes, and for a few seconds, he had no idea what to do. He gingerly worked his way through the process of laying in a course, ignoring Counsellor Hill’s wide grins from next to him, then tentatively activated the impulse engines. The maximum speed currently available was warp 0.58. All too slowly, the Psycho lumbered about and headed off retracing the course the energy wave had followed.

 

They followed that course for the best part of a day, enough time for Olding to discover that he wasn’t even entitled to take the conn for a watch anymore. Every so often, he would feel his collar, which felt strangely light without the extra two pips on it. Jackson had requisitioned them saying that he needed them more now. Finally, Bleep reported that the mains were back online, and the senior crew took their revised places.

Jackson, feeling the thrill of the chase, ordered, “Helm, warp four, engage!”

Olding, who’d been swatting up on this, activated the warp engines, and the Psycho went to warp speed.

At that point, Counsellor Stark said, “Um, I don’t want to worry anybody, but, where are we going?”

“We’re going after that energy wave,” Jackson replied.

“Yes, I know that, but, where are we actually going? I mean, what part of space are we heading towards?”

Olding consulted his computers, and said, “In approximately twenty minutes, we will pass into Gorn space.”

“Ah. Oh. Um, is that good?” For the first time, Jackson looked unsure of himself. Recovering quickly, he said, “Commander Ingram, what are the chances of a hostile encounter with the Gorn?”

“Uh….”

“Very high if we go in there! You could get us killed!” Olding stalked over to the centre seat. “Give command of the ship back to me!”

“Absolutely not! Starfleet has ordered me to assume command of this ship, and I’m not about to ignore a direct order from them. Now, do you want to stay, or should I send you below?”

Olding was tempted to stalk off the bridge, but backed down. If things did get tricky, it would be better if he remained on the bridge. He returned to the helm.

Lieutenant Hill suddenly said, “Communications systems are clear.”

Olding spun round to look at Jackson again. “May I advise the Captain…”

“Yes, yes alright. Mr Barfoot, how long will it take to communicate with the nearest Starfleet outpost?”

“Um… any reply to a message from us wouldn’t reach us for 2.45 hours.”

“Right… send a message asking for clarification of their last message to us.”

Jackson looked distinctly unhappy as he said it, and Olding swung back to the helm satisfied. In a little under three hours, this charade would be over. Then, an ugly thought occurred to him. What if it wasn’t all a mistake? What if he was doomed to spend the rest of his life at a helm console? Suppressing a shudder, Olding carried on with his work.

 

As the Psycho crossed into Gorn space, tracking the source of the energy wave, Jackson got more tense. He was starting to feel uncomfortable with the whole situation. “Yellow alert!” he called, and the sirens went off, lights flashed, and a third of the crew sat up in their bunks and muttered “Eh? Wassup?”

Back on the bridge, Jackson was starting to sweat. “Any sign of Gorn activity?”

“No, sir.” Barfoot was starting to get the hang of his console. “We’re closing on the source of the energy wave. We’ll be within visual range in another fifteen minutes.”

Jackson wanted to pace around, but daren’t. His shins were still sore from the last time. “Shields up,” he said. He wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

Just then, the comm system bleeped. “Bridge here,” Jackson said.

Damerell’s voice warbled through the speakers. “Erm, I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“How do you work an anabolic proto-thingy?”

“Press the big red button on the top.”

“Ah, right. Cheers.”

In the background, Jackson heard a sizzling sound, and a voice saying “You idiot! You’ve just burnt through the bulkhead!!”

Damerell, sounding a bit miffed, replied, “Don’t call me an idiot! I’m your superior officer, I am!”

Jackson then remembered to add, “Just remember to turn it down first. I usually leave them at full intensity for charging.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.”

The comm channel closed again, and Jackson resumed his command duties, namely, biting his fingernails down to the wrist.

 

Finally, they reached the source of the energy wave, and Jackson ordered them out of warp. As the Psycho coasted in on impulse power, Jackson ordered a full sensor scan.

Barfoot reported, “There’s the remains of an asteroid directly ahead.”

“On screen.”

The asteroid was indeed remains. One side of it appeared to have been completely burnt out, leaving a huge hollow crater.

“What happened to that?” Jackson asked.

“I have no idea,” Barfoot replied.

Jackson was nonplussed. “Any chance of you figuring out what happened to it?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

“Well try!”

“Okay.”

While Barfoot fiddled with the tactical console, Jackson looked at the viewscreen blankly and Olding fumed, Lieutenant Hill was looking at the asteroid.

“It’s been blasted,” she announced.

“Eh?”

“It’s been blasted. Look. You can see the burn marks round the edge of the crater.”

Jackson glanced back at Barfoot, who said, “Yeah, that could be right.”

Olding’s head banged against the helm.

Then Barfoot’s console began to light up and bleep frantically. “Um, Captain…”

“What now?”

“We’ve got company.”

The disruptor blast rocked the Psycho as it passed her bow.

“Hah! They missed!” Jackson said triumphantly.

“That was just a warning shot,” Olding said.

“Red Alert!” More klaxons, and the red emergency lights flicked on.

“Hail them,” Jackson said to Barfoot. He stood, and approached the viewscreen.

“Hailing frequencies open.”

“Attention, Gorn vessel. This is Captain Daniel Jackson of the Federation Starship Psycho. We come in peace. We were investigating…”

“Captain Jackson, you have invaded Gorn space without provocation. You will leave immediately or be destroyed.” The voice was harsh.

Jackson gulped. “But we were only trying to find the cause of an energy wave that hit us,” he quavered.

The reply was a disruptor burst impacting directly on the Psycho‘s forward shields.

“I think you hit a sore spot,” Lieutenant Hill offered.

Jackson turned to Stark. “What do you think?”

“I think they’re hiding something.” Another hit shook the ship.

“And?!”

“I think we should maybe leave.”

“Um, yes. Helm, evasive manoeuvres!”

Olding yanked the Psycho round into a tight turn, out of the Gorn ship’s fire.

“Permission to return fire, Captain?” Barfoot asked. This was great, he thought. My first ever bridge shift, and I get to actually shoot things!

“Hang on, I’m thinking,” Jackson said. The ship was pounded again.

“There’s another two of them out there!” Barfoot called.

“Just wait a minute,” Jackson said. “Asteroids don’t usually do that, do they?”

“Do what?” Hill said.

“Blow up that violently.”

“No, that’s true.”

“So, what did they have in that asteroid to make it go up like that?” Jackson was pensive for a moment, seeming not to hear Barfoot’s cry of “Shields down to thirty percent!”

“Open hailing frequencies again.”

“Frequencies open. Can’t we shoot back?”

“No! Hang on. Attention all Starfleet vessels in this area, this is the USS Psycho. We have discovered evidence of hostile Gorn activity close to the border. Request assistance.” Jackson looked round at Barfoot. “Close the channel again, count to twenty, then open it again.”

“Eh?”

“Trust me!”

Olding, still working hard to keep the Psycho from being pounded to dust, began to see a light at the end of the tunnel. If the Doctor was doing what he thought he was, then maybe they had a chance.

“Frequencies open again, sir.”

“Thank you, Lobotomy. Your assistance will be appreciated. Please pass on that message to the Appendectomy and the Disposable.”

Jackson made the traditional throat-cutting gesture, and Barfoot closed the channel. He then collapsed back into his seat, and muttered, “I don’t know what to do next!”

“Gorn vessels moving away, sir!” Barfoot sounded pleased.

“They won’t stay there for long,” Hill warned. “They’ll soon guess that you’re bullshitting.”

“So what do I do? I’m no good at combat!” Jackson looked utterly lost.

Olding saw his chance. “Captain Jackson?”

“Yeah?”

“Request permission to take the conn.”

Jackson looked stunned for a second, then said, “Yes, I think you should.”

Olding bounded out of his seat at the helm, and practically ran back to the centre seat. Jackson had barely enough time to get out of the way as Olding threw himself down.

“Mr Ingram!” he barked. “Take t’ helm!”

Ingram, who’d been quite comfortable in the first officer’s seat, looked at Jackson for confirmation. The Psycho bounced as another blow hit her.

“I think they’ve just worked out you were lying,” Hill observed.

“Shields at ten percent!” Olding was already trying to formulate a plan in his head. “Helm, impulse engines full reverse! Tactical, lock phasers onto the lead ship, and prepare to fire!”

The Psycho backed away from her Gorn attackers, who wheeled around to form up into a loose formation, before bearing down on the starship again.

“Fire!” Olding ordered.

The phaser blasts slammed into the lead Gorn ship. It broke off, leaving only two approaching the Psycho.

“Helm, warp one! Engage!”

Her nacelles glowed blue, and the Psycho leapt into warp space.

Immediately, Olding said, “Bring us out of warp. Rear torpedo tube, fire!”

The torpedo hit the port-side Gorn ship.

“Right, that’s enough o’ that. Helm, plot a course for the Federation border, and engage at maximum warp.”

As the ship swung round again, Olding took the opportunity to fire a few more phaser bursts at the Gorn ships before the Psycho went to warp once more.

“Crank it up as far as it can go, Mr Ingram,” Olding said.

The Psycho, her warp engines straining, hit warp 9.95, and very soon Barfoot reported, “They’ve dropped behind us, sir.”

With that, Jackson, who’d been sitting almost catatonic in the first officer’s chair, came to life again and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant. Return to your post.”

Olding almost bit through his lip, but managed to get “Aye, sir,” out before trudging back to the helm.

 

When the Psycho crossed back into Federation space, Jackson breathed a sigh of relief, and said, “Cancel red alert.” The lighting returned to normal, and Jackson said, “Damage report.”

Hill reported smartly. “No hull damage. Ten casualties, all minor injuries.” An indicator changed on her board, and she said, “Correction, someone’s just been dropped off a bio-bed. One serious injury.”

Barfoot then said, “Shields back at full strength, sir.”

Jackson smiled weakly, and said, “Well, that’s not so bad, is it? I’ll be in my ready room. Mr Ingram, you have the bridge.”
Ingram, trying hard not to meet Olding’s eyes, sat down in the centre seat. When he joined Starfleet, he’d hoped for rapid promotion, but nothing like this.

 

Jackson sat down behind the desk, spun round in the chair once or twice, felt slightly dizzy and thought better of it. Then, looking around the ready room, he decided something would have to be done with the decor. “Computer, one pot of paint, fuchsia, and a paint-brush.” The replicator obligingly synthesised the objects, and Jackson, removing his outer tunic, set to work, cheerful again now it appeared that he wasn’t going to be killed by unfriendly alien species.

 

Out on the bridge, an uncomfortable silence reigned. Everyone was acutely conscious of Olding sitting at the helm, and more eyes were fixed on the clock, waiting for the message from Starfleet to get through. Ingram considered running a drill or two, but then thought better of it. If this did all turn out to be a mistake, then he didn’t want to be in Captain Olding’s bad books afterwards. From the Captain’s ready room came the sound of cheerful singing. Obviously Jackson was having a good time.

Stark, who as counsellor now had responsibility for the crew’s morale, decided he should do something. “Erm, how does everybody feel?” The crew turned as one to stare at him like he’d grown an extra head. Stark shrank back into his seat. “Sorry.”

The air on the bridge appeared to get thicker as they waited. When the comm signal went, Barfoot immediately contacted the ready room.

“Er, sir, that clarification you requested has arrived.”

There was a long pause before Jackson replied, “Has it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What does it say?”

“Um, well…”

“Never mind, I’m coming out. Put it on the main viewscreen.”

A few seconds later, Jackson appeared, doing up his tunic. Olding could have sworn he saw an odd-coloured stain on Jackson’s brand-new red shirt.

The data appeared on the screen, and Olding began to scan-read, until he found the line he was looking for: Olding, CJ: Captain CO. He abruptly stood up, and said, “I think I’ll have my pips back now.”

Jackson stared open-mouth at the screen. “What is it?”

“It’s a crew inventory form, sir,” Barfoot said. “They just wanted to check on our crew appointments. The data must have got garbled.”

“Right. No more faffin’ abou’! Give me my pips back, and my ship!”

Jackson maintained a stoic expression as he removed the two pips and handed them back to Olding. He then dug out his own pip, and replaced it on his collar.

“I’ll just go and get Damerell out of sickbay, then, shall I?”

“That’s a good idea,” Olding replied. “That goes for t’ rest o’ you. Get back to where you should be.”

Stark immediately scuttled off the bridge, eager to get back to Engineering, where at least he knew how to give the orders, even if he didn’t know what those orders meant. Barfoot took a little longer, as he’d been enjoying being at tactical, even if it did mean he had to stand an awful lot. Hill returned to her seat on the captain’s right, and began a departmental check-up. Ingram, regretfully removing the two extra pips he’d been given, sat back down again at the helm.

 

A few minutes later, Damerell re-appeared on the bridge. He was still wearing the blue sciences uniform he’d been forced to wear, and both his hands were wrapped in bandages.

“What t’ bluidy ‘ell happened to you?” Olding asked incredulously.

“Nasty accident with some of the medical tools, sir,” Damerell replied reluctantly.

He sat down, and began trying to tap out instructions through the bandages. He rapidly gave up when he discovered that he couldn’t actually touch individual keys any more.

 

“Captain’s log, Stardate 5474632.7. T’ Gorn government has been forced to admit to testing a new weapon on that asteroid. Apparently, it penetrates objects up to four kilometres thick, then destroys them from t’ inside out. Because they tested it so close to the border, and the shock-wave passed across into Federation space, it has been decided to forget the whole border-violation incident. Which is just as well, really. End log entry.”

Jackson was stood next to Olding as he finished recording the log entry, and, as Olding finished, he said, “Aren’t you going to mention me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Well, no, not really, but I thought you’d have to. I mean, I nearly got us killed!”

Olding relaxed in his command chair for a few seconds, and said, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you did what anyone would have done under the circumstances. I would have gone to investigate too.”

“But then, in combat, I nearly got us destroyed!”

“Aye, but you also came up wi’ a grand tactic to get us out o’ trouble again. There was nowt wrong wi’ your instincts, Doctor. It was just your experience that was a little lacking. And a few hours o’ simulator time will soon solve that.”

“Really?”

“Aye. I can always use another trained bridge officer. In fact, your training starts now. You have t’ bridge, Doctor. I’ll be in my ready room.”

As Olding vacated the command chair, Jackson settled into it.

“Try not to start any fights this time.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

All was sweetness and light on the bridge as Olding went into his ready room, in a good humour again.

That good humour vanished as soon as he saw the inside of his ready room. The walls had been repainted some reet vile colour, badly, so that there were air-bubbles in the paint-work everywhere, as well as splashes of paint on the carpet where paint had dribbled. There were brush marks along the edge of the desk, presumably where Jackson had wiped his brush clean, and the brush itself had been abandoned on the floor. As Olding stood, incredulously, he felt something drip onto his head. Looking up, he found that Jackson had also tried his hand at Artexing the roof, something else which he’d failed at. That single drop of plaster acted as the catalyst. Olding charged out of his ready room, face purple with rage.

The bridge crew were shocked to see Olding charge across the bridge, grab Jackson by the throat, lift him bodily out of his seat, and yell, “I’M GOIN’ TO KILL YOU!!! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MY READY ROOM?!!!!!!”

It took the combined efforts of Hill, Ingram, and a couple of security crewmen to peel Olding off the unfortunate Jackson. Damerell could only watch helplessly as Olding throttled Jackson, his bandaged hands preventing him from intervening in any way.

“Take it easy, sir,” Hill said, “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

Olding could only growl in response.

Jackson decided that he didn’t want to be a bridge officer after all.