Psycho I

“Captain’s log, Stardate 43675428.32654. The Psycho is almost home. And yet I feel uneasy. And I wonder why. Perhaps it is the emptiness of this vessel, except it’s not empty. I wish most of our trainee crew had been re-assigned, but sadly it was not to be. The death of Hill hasn’t actually affected them that much. Funny that. It sometimes seems like I left a part of myself back there, until I remember that I didn’t, when I feel a whole lot better. The cakes Mr Graham served up at the wake for Mr Hill were quite good, actually. I noticed Doctor Jackson ate a fair few. End log entry.”

The wounded ship limped its way into the solar system, past Mars and the Moon, until finally it reached the Spacedock control zone. Olding straightened himself up in his chair, to begin the approach manoeuvres.

“I’ll need a pre-approach scan. Mr Damerell, take the science station.”

Damerell turned round nervously. “Er, do I have to, sir?”

“Yes, you do! Look, I know that maybe you don’t feel comfortable about it after Commander Hill’s death, but somebody has to do it. His ghost isn’t occupying that chair, you know. It’s perfectly safe.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t know how to do it.”

Olding groaned. “There’s a manual by the side of the console. Read that and get on wi’ it.”

Damerell reluctantly moved across.

“Communications, hail the control tower.”

“Aye, sir. Hailing frequencies open.”

“Control, this is the Psycho, requesting permission for docking procedures.”

“Psycho, this is Control, lock systems for automatic docking.”

“Confirmed, Control,” Olding said. “Right, Wall, transfer control to Spacedock.”

“Do I have to, sir? I’d much rather do it myself.”

“YES YOU DO!!!!! Hand over control now.”

“Alright,” said Wall, and pressed the button. The ship’s lighting went to a pale blue, signifying that they were under the control of a tractor beam. “Systems locked. Don’t go blaming me if we get piled up against the side of the dock.”

The control tower came back on the air. “Enjoy the ride, Psycho, and welcome home.”

“Psycho confirms.” Olding sat back and watched as the ship was pulled into the Spacedock. The viewscreen displayed some of the other ships in dock. There was a collective gasp as theExtreme passed through the shot. She was the newest ship in the fleet.

“She’s supposed to have superwarp drive,” Wall slobbered.

Graham was less impressed. “Yeah, and if my grandmother had wheels, she’d be a Ford Capri.”

Olding looked at Graham. “Just because they’re more talented than you, Mr Graham, is no reason to get huffy about it.”

The Psycho gently nudged up against a docking pylon. Olding prayed Wall would notice how it was possible to manoeuvre starships without hitting things.

At that moment, there was a sudden bleeping. Damerell swung round. “Captain, I’m detecting a life-form inside Commander Hill’s quarters!”

“Oh, no, not more looters!” Olding sighed. “I’m on my way.” He reached Hill’s quarters a few minutes later, wondering if this was more souvenir hunters. They had already had to kick out half a dozen crew members anxious for an authentic piece of Hill memorabilia. The door had been forced. He stepped inside. The room was dark, and he could dimly make out a figure in the centre of the room. It spoke. The voice was that of Hill.

“Chris, you left me on Genesis.”

“No I didn’t! I left you on Alpha Majoris III!”

“Oh yeah. Why did you do that?”

“You’re dead! It seemed like a good idea at the time!”

“Okay, fair enough.” The figure stepped forwards into the light. It was Jackson. “What do you think of my impression of Commander Hill?”

“Doctor, you are, without a doubt, sick.” Olding chose his words with care. “I’m confining you to quarters.”

 

Two hours later, they were the subject of an inspection by Admiral Dillard. Olding felt very uncomfortable in his full dress uniform, and even more uncomfortable at the Admiral’s words. It had started off well, with the words, “I’m transferring Mr Graham to the Extreme.”

It had then gone downhill, when Graham had requested to be left aboard the Psycho to oversee the refit. That had been scary enough, but when Dillard had informed him that there would be no refit, well, Olding just burst out in a sweat. If the Psycho was being decommissioned, Starfleet would surely take the opportunity to fire the crew, or at least re-assign them to naff jobs. Olding had a sudden, terrifying vision of himself cleaning toilets in Spacedock. He had tried to protest, but Dillard had cut him off bluntly. There would be no refit, period.

 

That night, the senior crew of the Psycho, minus Graham, gathered in Olding’s flat. While he was in the kitchen, opening bottles of wine, he could hear them fiddling with his stuff. There was a sudden crash as somebody dropped something. He rejoined them carrying a tray full of wine-glasses, and passed them out, trying very hard not to comment on the smashed Ming vase that Wall was trying to surreptitiously nudge under a chair. Each person took a glass, and Olding proposed the toast. “To absent friends.” They drank, each reflecting on recent events.

Then, the doorbell rang. Olding looked through the spyhole. It was Commander Hill’s father, the head of Starfleet’s accounts branch. Olding gasped. Had he found out about the er, creative accounting that the Psycho crew had been practising recently, in order to justify their exorbitant expenses claims after landing party missions? Or was it the bill for the two shuttlecraft unfortunately lost during their last mission? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

Reluctantly, Olding opened the door. Admiral Hill walked in, clutching a letter. It was printed on actual paper, something extremely rare in the Federation these days.

“Hello, Admiral,” said Olding, “What can I do for you?”

“I will speak with you alone, Olding,” the Admiral said. Olding made ‘shoo’ motions at the crew, and they left, glad to get away from the Admiral’s intimidating presence. Once they had gone, the Admiral held out the letter to Olding. Olding looked at the envelope as he took it. It was postmarked 22nd November 1996.

Olding frowned. “What is this, Admiral?”

“Read it and find out.” Olding gingerly opened the letter, and extracted the paper inside. It was old and yellowing, but still legible. It read:

Having a crap time. In London today on a school trip with my class at some museum devoted to the media.
Wish you were here (hint, hint).
Hugs’n’kisses,
Commander R. G. Hill, Starfleet.
PS. HELP ME!!!!! I’M TRAPPED IN SOMEBODY ELSE’S BODY!!!

Olding folded the paper back into the envelope. “What does this mean?”

“It means that my son is trapped on 20th century Earth due to your bungling! I’d really appreciate it if you could do something about it!”

Olding tried to look apologetic. “There is a slight problem. You see, we, er, ha ha, sort of left your son’s body behind on Alpha Majoris III, in t’ heart of t’ restricted zone. Getting him re-united with it could be a problem.”

The Admiral looked at him in a manner oddly similar to Hill. “That’s your problem. I want my son back. He hasn’t filled out his P128351279645 for this quarter.”

 

They had encountered great difficulties in getting access to the Psycho‘s library computer records. The people at Starfleet records were notoriously tetchy about letting anyone take a look at their archives, and it was only by a great deal of polite persuasion, bribery and threats that Olding and Admiral Hill were able to prise the discs from the sweaty hands of a reluctant archivist. Olding couldn’t figure out how on earth his first officer had been able to travel back in time in the state he had last seen him in without posing a major radiation risk to the population of the planet. He hoped the answers would be in the flight recorder.

They sat down in a cramped viewing booth, and Olding shuffled through the tape until he found the right section. It was a few seconds before the warp core came back on line. Hill had just seen the sign, and was banging frantically on the glass. Then came a flash, and his body slumped backwards.

“Re-run that bit again,” commanded Admiral Hill. “Slowly.”

Olding replayed the scene at one-quarter speed, and they watched as the drama unfolded once more. Olding fought down a pressing urge for popcorn, and concentrated. This time, as the flash came, they saw a ghostly image of Hill leave his body and get sucked down a tunnel feet-first. The image did not look very happy with this experience.

Olding turned the tape off. What he had just seen was bizarre, and probably technically impossible, but who was he to argue with the flight recorder? Funnily enough, no-one had ever carried out experiments into what happened to people who found themselves on the wrong side of the protective screen when the dilithium controls played up. He also realised that the Psycho crew was currently in Starfleet’s bad books, and this offered an opportunity to redeem themselves.

“We’ll find your son, I swear.”

 

Doctor Jackson wandered into the bar, giggling slightly. He had felt rather strange ever since the Psycho had held a wake for its dead crew, and Graham had supplied the food. Jackson had eaten several of the interesting-looking cupcakes, and had felt very ill afterwards. He was alright now, wasn’t he? He thought so, anyway, and anyone who thought different could go and take a running jump. Jackson looked around. He was due to meet someone about hiring a ship. Olding had entrusted him with this task. Well, actually Olding had told the entire crew to try and hire a ship, but Jackson felt important.
He found his contact and sat down. The alien, a green hairy chap with large teeth that made him very difficult to understand, seemed friendly enough as he sat down on the stool next to Jackson.

“Gweetingth, Earthling. I weceived your methage. Awailable thip thandth by. Where to, guvnor?”

Jackson was pleased by this. They were on their way! In his excitement, he didn’t notice that the alien had saturated his jacket during its short speech.

“I’d like to go to Alpha Majoris III… Oh heck.”

The last bit was caused by four burly guards with ‘Federation Security’ printed across their jackets jumping him. Jackson was surprised he hadn’t noticed them before. They dragged him out of the bar, and off to jail.

 

Olding sat at the bar in Spacedock, waiting for Admiral Dillard to meet him. He had received reports from his crew. None of them had met with success in hiring a ship. Jackson had been arrested, Damerell had sustained a black eye, and Wall had been misunderstood and dragged into a brothel. He was lucky by all accounts to have got out with his clothes intact. Olding’s thoughts were interrupted by Admiral Dillard.

“Right, Olding, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

“Ah, yes. Well, you see, um, it seems, that, er, my first officer is, ha ha, in fact aliveandwellontheearthofthepast. Ahem.”

Dillard laughed into his drink, sending spray everywhere. Mopping himself up, he tried not to laugh at Olding. He failed. “I see. And your point?”

“Well, I was thinking that maybe you could let me take t’ Psycho, and recover his body?”

“Good idea! No.”

“Well, it’s just that it would mean a lot to his father.”

“Yes, I understand. No.”

“Look, it’s important to me. He was, er, is, um, well, one of my best officers, well, one of my officers anyway. It wouldn’t hurt really, now would it?”

“Ha ha. No. Look, Olding, if you think that I would let you take an old and knackered ship like the Psycho into the restricted zone, an area of space currently filled with clandestine Romulan and Klingon research ships after your last little escapade, recover Hill’s body, then attempt time travel?! I’m sorry, but somehow I don’t think galactic war is an acceptable trade for the recovery of one officer.”

Olding stood up. “Oh, well, thanks for t’ drink.”

Dillard looked confused. “But, you paid.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Olding left the bar.

 

Outside, he met Wall and Damerell. It was the first time Olding had seen them in civilian clothes and, frankly, it was an experience he wished he hadn’t had. Wall was sporting a very loud Hawaiian shirt, rather daft shorts, and sandals, although he was still wearing his socks, whilst Damerell was wearing a dark blue anorak with fluffy trimming. He was also wearing waterproof trousers, and green wellingtons. The two of them made (how do you put this politely) an odd couple. Olding averted his eyes.

Wall, realising that Olding wanted to say something, asked, “The word, sir?”

Olding thought. “Ah yes, your word for the day, hmm. Today it’s, um, labyrinth.”

“Thanks sir. And the mission?”

“Oh, right. The word is no. We are therefore goin’ anyway.”

Damerell looked confused. “How are we going to manage that, then?”

Olding gave him a withering look. “We’re goin’ to break t’ law.” Damerell opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and closed it again. “And t’ first thing we have to do, is rescue Doctor Jackson.”

“Why?”

 

Graham was just walking into the engineering turbolift aboard the Extreme, when Captain H.E.M. Maroid saw him. “Ah, Mr Graham. Good evening. How are things going down here?”

Graham tried to act innocent. “Oh fine, fine. You know how it is.”

Maroid nodded. He was clearly in a good mood.

“Excellent! Well, goodnight, Mr Graham.”

Graham stepped into the turbolift, and ordered it to go to the transporter room. He didn’t have much time.

 

Olding marched into the cell-block. He presented his credentials to the guard on duty, and waited patiently while the guard checked them. Time was at a premium now. After what seemed an age, the guard let him into the cell containing Jackson. Olding crossed over to the bed. The Doctor was asleep. Olding kicked him.

“Ow! Whassat?” The Doctor groaned and rolled over. Olding pushed the Doctor off the bed. The Doctor yelled as he hit the floor. The guard stuck his head round the door.

 

Wall entered the cell-block, and asked the other guard on duty if he could see Captain Olding. He didn’t really understand his part in the plan, but he knew what he was supposed to do. While the guard went to fetch Olding, Wall placed the complicated-looking device that Graham had given him under the security panel. While he was under there, the guard returned, and dragged him out.

“What you doin’ down there?”

“Um… I’m interested in the construction of these type of panels. I, er, see that you have a Mark 15?”

“Sad ginger bastard,” the guard rumbled. “The Captain’s on his way out.”

At that point, the other guard appeared.

“The prisoner’s sick! Come quickly!”

The guard looked around, in time to see his colleague get slammed into the wall by an airborne Doctor Jackson. The guard looked back at Wall, who was grinning nervously. Then, inspiration hit Wall.

“What’s that?” he said, pointing over the guard’s shoulder.

“Eh?” said the guard looking round. “There’s nothing there you…”

Wall hit him with the chair he had picked up. The guard dropped noiselessly. Wall dropped the chair on his own foot, and jumped six feet into the air, screaming. Olding dragged the dazed Doctor out of the cell-block and into the turbo-lift. Wall followed. The device Wall had placed under the console set off a series of small explosions, destroying the console and its recorders, preventing anybody from discovering what had happened.

Olding flipped open his communicator. “Unit two, this is unit one. We have picked up t’ Kobayashi Maru and have set sail for t’ promised land.”

Damerell’s voice came back through the speaker. “Pardon? Do you have the right number?”

Olding gritted his teeth hard enough to draw blood. So much for the code. “Damerell, this Olding. We’ve got t’ Doctor and we’re on our way.”

“Well why didn’t you say so?”

Olding shut the communicator before Damerell could continue.

 

They reached the Starfleet Command transporter station a few minutes later. Wall had in fact been due on duty there a few hours earlier, having requested the posting there on Olding’s orders. As they entered, a bored ensign stood up.

“Say, Lieutenant, where were you?”

Wall looked at him. “I was doing something really important. Something very hush-hush. So, I’m afraid, you’re going to have to sit in the cupboard.”

The ensign began to laugh. “The cupboard?! I’m not sitting in the cupboard! Have you lost all sense of reality?”

Wall gestured to the cupboard. “This isn’t reality. This is fantasy!” He pointed his index fingers at the ensign. “And if you don’t get in the cupboard now, I’ll… I’ll…” Wall’s sudden burst of inventiveness began to lose its momentum. “I’ll, oh heck, I’ll turn you into a frog!! Got it?!!”

The ensign misread the desperation in his face as determination, and climbed into the cupboard. Wall sighed with relief.

“After you, sir.”

Olding stepped up on to the platform, then thought about the possible consequences of allowing Wall to operate a sensitive piece of equipment such as the transporter. He motioned to Wall.

“I’ll do it, Lieutenant. Get up here.”

The two of them swapped places, and Olding set the transporter to beam them to the Psycho.

 

They arrived on the bridge a few minutes later. Damerell and Graham were already there. Graham was just putting the finishing touches to the automation system.

“She’s all ready, sir. A chimpanzee, and two trainees could run her.” Under his breath, Graham added, “You might have problems though.” He sat back.

Olding looked around at the bridge crew. For the first time ever, he felt an emotion that was not loathing towards them.

“Lads, I can’t ask you to go any further. I have to do this, and you do not.”

The crew looked at one another, then Wall sat down at the helm console.

“What course please, Captain?”

Olding was surprised. Damerell was grinning. “Captain, we’re losing precious time.”

Olding looked at Graham.

The engineer looked at him, and said, “I’d be grateful, Captain, if you’d give the word.”

Olding looked at them. “Gentlemen, may t’ wind be on our backs. Stations please.”

The rest of the crew looked at each other. Obviously the Captain had gone quite mad. Sure, they knew it was dangerous, but it was probably going to be their last chance to have some real fun without paying for it. All of them had realised that the decommissioning of the Psycho was Starfleet’s method of ensuring that the crew could no longer cause them problems. Consequently, each member of the crew, with the possible exception of Graham who had come because the Psycho crew was the only crew he trusted (well, distrusted less than anybody else), had decided to go with Olding for one last mission together. And what was all this about the wind anyway?

“Engage auto-systems,” Olding ordered.

“Aye, engaged.”

“Clear all moorings.”

“Moorings cleared.”

“One-quarter impulse power.”

The Psycho lurched into life, as Wall crashed the gears and put the ship in reverse, and she cleared the slip.

Damerell, at the communications station, swung round to face Olding. “Sir, I have Admiral Dillard on the emergency channel. He orders you to surrender his vessel.”

“No reply, Mr Damerell.”

The Psycho moved on. They moved past the Extreme, and watched as her running lights came on, and a glow appeared in her warp nacelles.

“Sir, Extreme powering up with orders to pursue. Two Big Macs and a Coke.” Damerell frowned, and tapped his ear-piece. “Sorry, must have been a crossed line.”

Olding watched as the viewer changed to display the massive space-doors. They were closed, and did not look as if they would open in the foreseeable future.

Wall called out, “One minute to space-doors.”

Olding walked forward to where Graham was sitting at Damerell’s usual spot. “And… now Mr Graham.”

Graham looked round. “Sir?”

“T’ doors, Mr Graham!”

“What doors?” Graham asked.

Olding gestured at the screen. “Those very big, solid, hazardous-to-your-health-type doors!! Open them!!”

“Oh. You didn’t tell me you wanted me to open them!” Graham began to tap at his panel.

Jackson looked up from where he had been deposited by the science station, giggled, then passed out again.

 

In the control room on Spacedock, the duty controllers looked at each other. “They’re gonna hit those doors!!!”

“I know!!! Whadda we do?!!!!!”

“Open the doors!! There’s no way that the Psycho can outrun the Extreme!!!”

“Okay then.”

 

“Ten seconds to space doors,” Wall said, with just a hint of a question in his voice. He, like the rest of them, was wondering if the doors were going to open at all.

Just as they were about to shorten the Psycho‘s length by a fair few metres, the doors slowly parted, and Graham concealed his surprise long enough to say, “You see? I told you I could do it!”

The Psycho scraped through with inches to spare.

Wall, who up until this moment had not realised he was holding his breath, let it go and allowed his face to return to its normal colour from its current shade of purple. “We are free and clear to navigate.”

At that moment, the hailing frequencies were opened, and Maroid’s voice came through. “Olding, you do this, and you’ll never sit in the captain’s chair again!”

Olding ignored it. “Warp speed,” he ordered. The Psycho collected herself, and vanished into warp space.

 

On the Extreme, Maroid sat back in his command chair. “Prepare warp speed, standby superwarp drive!” Dramatic music flooded the bridge from carefully concealed speakers as the crew prepared themselves.

“Superwarp drive, at your command, sir!”

Maroid leaned forwards in his chair. This was to be the crowning moment of his career. Hunting down the criminal Olding would go down well on his file, and ensure he made Admiral before very long.

“Execute.”

The engines began to hum, their tone slowly increasing.

Then, the computers began to gurgle, and the voice, instead of counting down to the ignition, began to say, “Mind the gap… Mind the gap… Stand clear of the doors please… I’m afraid I can’t do that Dave…” before shutting down completely.

On the main screen, a message popped up: “Hahahahahahaha!!! Jellymoulds to you, Maroid!!!!! Hugs’n’kisses from the crew of the Psycho.”

 

On the Psycho, Jackson had regained consciousness in time to see the Extreme stop dead in space. “How’d that happen?” he asked. “I don’t get it.”

Olding looked round. “That’s what you get for missing staff meetings, Doctor.” Jackson frowned, then passed out again.

Graham produced some chips from his pocket. “These are the control chips for the Extreme‘s superwarp drive. I switched them with bits of Mr Bleep. I didn’t think he’d mind.”

Olding turned back to Damerell. “What’s the current status at Alpha Majoris III?”

Damerell moved across to the library computer station, and consulted a few files. “There’s only one ship in the area that we know of. The Griswold. She’s a science vessel, there to conduct tests on the new variant of the MegaDeath. No threat to us. I think.”

Olding relaxed a little. “Lads, I think I’m goin’ to have to recommend you all for promotion. In whatever fleet we end up serving.”

Wall looked round. “Er, isn’t that Starfleet, sir?”

 

Several hours later, they arrived in the Alpha Majoris system. As they got in closer, Damerell suddenly swung round. “Sir, for an instant, I just saw something. A Scout-class vessel.”

Olding thought for a second. “Could be t’ Griswold. Open hailing frequencies.” Damerell did so.

“Griswold, this is t’ Psycho, do you read?”

There was nothing.

Olding tried again. “Griswold, this is t’ Psycho, Captain Chris Olding commanding. Do you copy?”

Still nothing.

“Oh well, never mind,” Olding said. “They’ve obviously left.”

Damerell looked at him. “Sir, I was just looking at the crew manifest. Your son’s on board.” Olding fainted.

When he came to, it was to find Lieutenant Wall leaning over him. Olding resisted the urge to faint again, and stood up.

“Has anything happened?” he said weakly.

“No, no,” the crew chorused.

Olding looked at the viewscreen. It seemed blank. No, wait, there was something there, something very insubstantial…

“That distortion, d’you see it?” Olding gestured to the blob on the screen which appeared to be moving very slightly.

Wall squinted. “No, sorry.”

Olding pointed frenziedly. “There!! Do you see it?!!”

Wall looked again. “Erm, no.”

Olding walked up to the screen, and rubbed at the offending patch with his sleeve. “Right there!!” he said. “You’re not telling me you can’t see that?!”

Wall’s face broke out into a grin. “Oh, that. I can see that, yeah. It seems to be growing larger as we close in.”

“Opinion.”

“Um, well, I think it’s an energy field? Or it could be just a fault.”

“But, if it is an energy field, is it enough energy to hide a ship, would you say?”

“No, no, I don’t… Hang on!! A cloaking device!!”

“Red Alert, Mr Graham!” Olding went back to his seat, stumbling slightly as the ships lighting went to deep red.

Jackson had recovered enough to stand up and say, “Shouldn’t you raise shields?”

“If my guess is right they’ll have to decloak before they can fire.”

“May all your guesses be right.” Jackson did not look pleased. Suddenly, the space ahead of them began to change.

“Klingon Bird of Prey, sir! She’s arming torpedoes!!” Wall’s shout was several octaves above his normal voice.

“Fire, Mr Graham!!”

Graham looked round. “Pardon?”

“Fire!!!!!!!” Olding too was screaming now.

“Oh, okay. You know, I don’t think violence is the way to solve your problems, but if you say so…”

Two torpedoes streaked away. They caught the Klingon ship as it was just solidifying, and sent it reeling.

“Good shooting, Mr Graham! Precautionary, Mr Damerell. Shields up.”

Olding looked at the screen. The Bird of Prey was listing to port in a wide circle.

“Well, come on, Mr Damerell, get the shields up!”

Damerell was pressing buttons frantically, and, Olding suspected, randomly.

“Don’t worry!” he said, trying to look cheerful, and failing miserably. “It can’t be that difficult! I’ll remember how you do it in a second!”

Olding looked back at the screen. The Bird of Prey was almost facing them again, and its forward torpedo tube was glowing red.

“Now please, Mr Damerell!” Olding’s voice was strained.

“Just a second, I’ll get it in a minute!”

“Too late!” Wall called out, as the Klingon ship returned fire. The torpedo hit the Psycho just abaft the bridge, sending the crew flying.

“Emergency lights!” Olding called, struggling to maintain his seat.

The lights flicked back on, to reveal a scene from one of those particularly graphic horror novels Lieutenant Wall had taken to reading aloud on the bridge a few months back. With a shudder, Olding remembered the gruesome nightmares he had suffered for weeks after that. This was not much better.

“Mr Wall, can we manoeuvre?”

“No, sir.” Wall’s voice was grim, as he sat back from his burnt-out console.

“Mr Graham?”

“What?”

“Can you get t’ systems working again?”

“Oh yes.”

“Great! Do it!”

“Well, I could if I had a full engineering staff and three weeks in Spacedock. Under current conditions, not a chance.”

Olding straightened his tunic. He was going to have to rely on bullshit to get them out of this situation. Again. “Mr Damerell, open a channel to t’ Klingon vessel.”

The screen flickered, then revealed the smoky, badly-lit bridge of the Klingon ship. At first Olding felt a ray of hope as he thought that they had inflicted serious damage on the Klingon ship, then had it crushed again as he realised that Klingon ships normally looked like that. He cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“Klingon commander, this is Captain Christopher Olding of t’ Federation Starship Psycho. Your presence here is an act of war. Leave immediately, or I will be forced to destroy you.”

Damerell started to laugh. Olding ignored it and hoped that the Klingon commander would do the same. No such luck.

The Klingon spoke. “Why is he laughing? I do not think this is a laughing matter.”

Before Olding could answer, Damerell staggered up to the screen, and, still clutching his sides, said, “It’s just that we couldn’t destroy you if we tried, hahahahahaha! We’re practically destroyed ourselves over here, hohohohohohoho… oh shit.” Damerell flushed crimson as he realised the monumental gaffe he had just committed.

The Klingon’s smile grew broader.

“In that case, it is not I who will surrender, it is you.”

Olding swore under his breath. He had just run out of options.

“I need a minute to inform my crew.”

The Klingon bowed magnanimously. “I give two minutes for you and your gallant crew.”

Olding couldn’t believe his luck. The poncy southern git (yes, Olding has just classified a really large, dangerous, animal-like Klingon as a poncy southern git) had just given away his last advantage.

“Prepare to board us on my next signal.”

The screen blinked off.

“What now, sir?” Wall looked concerned.

Olding saw only one solution. “Mr Graham, Mr Damerell, you’re with me. The rest of you, to the transporter room. The opera ain’t over ’til t’ fat whippet sings.”

The others left, whilst Olding, Damerell and Graham clustered around the science console. They looked at Olding expectantly.

Olding took a deep breath, and said, “Computer, this is Captain Christopher Olding. Activate Destruct sequence.”
The computer screen cleared, and displayed a message:
VOICE PRINT IDENTIFIED: OLDING, C. CAPTAIN

“Computer, Destruct sequence 1. Code 1…1A.” Olding looked expectantly at Graham.

“Computer, this is Commander Christopher Graham, Chief Engineering Officer, and hunk extraordinary. Destruct sequence 2. Code 1…1A…2B.”

They looked at Damerell. He gulped.

“Why do I always have to do the difficult bits?!”

Olding whispered something in his ear, then slapped him round the back of the head.

“Oh, right, thanks sir. Ahem. Computer, this is Lieutenant-Commander Philip Damerell, er, what position am I holding at the moment sir?”

Olding whispered something more. This time the spit flooded Damerell’s ear canal.

“Okay, yeah, er, Lieutenant-Commander Philip Damerell, acting science officer. Destruct sequence 3. Code 1B2B3.”

The computer spoke. “Destruct sequence activated. Enter final code for one-minute countdown.” Olding’s face was set as he uttered the words that would finally, irrevocably wipe out his no-claims bonus. “0…0…0… Destruct 0.”.

The computer spoke for the last time. “Destruct sequence engaged. Have a nice day. 60… 59… 58… 57… 56…”

Olding looked at the other two.

“Run?” he suggested.

They did so.

 

Meanwhile, Jackson had been halfway to the transporter room, trying desperately to convince Wall that there was not sufficient time to rescue his priceless collection of bumper stickers, and that he would have to make do with his teddy-bear.

“What?!! Not even my all-time fave, the ‘Starfleet officers do it on impulse’ one?”

“No!!”

They had continued on, when Wall had spoken again. “What about Mr Bleep?”

“Oh, shit!!” Jackson and Wall diverted to Engineering. After a frantic search, they found a box full of arms, legs and bits of body that could only be from Mr Bleep. They grabbed it and legged it for the transporter room. When they were still halfway there, they heard the computer voice start its countdown. That spurred them on.

 

The crew reached the transporter room practically simultaneously. They all drew weapons from the locker, and took their positions.

Olding flipped open his communicator. “Prepare to energise.”

He didn’t hear the Klingon commander respond, as the transporter took him away from his ship for the last time. Two seconds later, the pads glowed again, and there were Klingons aboard the Psycho.

They made their way to the bridge in a defensive movement, periodically shooting at fittings for the hell of it. When they reached the bridge, they were enormously surprised to find that there was absolutely no-one there. The leader opened his communicator.

“There appears to be no-one at home.”

“What?” The commander did not sound happy.

“The only thing speaking is the computer.”

“What is it saying?” The leader held the communicator to the speaker.

The computer droned on: “12…11..10…9…8…7…”

The voice from the communicator was full of panic.

“Get out!!!! Get out of there!!!!!!”

The leader looked up. Panic didn’t have a chance to set in before his world suddenly filled with large, unfriendly chunks of flying hot metal.

 

On the planet’s surface, the crew looked up at the bright point of moving light that was their ship. The point suddenly expanded outwards in a fiery arc. They watched silently as the ship fell into the atmosphere, leaving a trail of black smoke behind it. They could just about make out bits of the hull breaking off and burning up. Olding reflected on all the times he had had as captain of the Psycho. This abruptly brought on a fit of depression.

“My God, Doc, what have I done?”

“Sorry? Oh, well, I think you’ve just blown your ship up.”

“Thank you. I meant in the wider sense.”

“Well, you’ve just kissed your promotion goodbye.”

“Never mind.”

At this point Wall, who had been studying his tricorder, looked up.

“Captain, I’m picking up five life-signs, very close!! No, sorry, I’m holding the tricorder the wrong way round.” He turned the device round. “Four life-signs, two Klingon, two human.”

“Now we’ll never know who was growing the cannabis in the botanical gardens,” Damerell sighed.

“Oh, that was me!” Graham said brightly. “I use them to make cakes!”

“Would these be those cakes you got me to eat the other day?” Jackson sounded worried.

“How many did you have?” Olding said, dreading the answer.

“Fifteen,” replied Jackson.

“Oh, marvellous. Come on, let’s go.”

They moved on through the thick undergrowth. As they did so, Wall kept scanning.

“I seem to be picking up an energy reading. It’s the MegaDeath. It’s just gently ticking over at present, but it could go off at any time.”

“Bluidy marvellous.”

They squeezed their way past a rocky outcrop. Ahead, they could make out the two humans kneeling, while the Klingons held disruptors to their heads.

“Right, lads, we have to do this very carefully,” Olding cautioned.

He was too late.

Wall had already drawn his phaser, and with a shout of, “Oy!! Cornish-pasty head!!!” had run into the clearing.

The first Klingon swung round, bringing his disruptor to bear, but Olding dropped him with a phaser burst before he could get a shot off. The other one drew his knife and grabbed the scientist next to him. It was, Olding realised with a shock, his illegitimate son, Herbert Gates.

“Don’t worry, sir!” Wall shouted. “I’ll get him!” He fired at the Klingon. His shot hit the Klingon directly in the head. The Klingon dropped backwards. As he did so, he pulled the knife with him, cutting Herbert’s throat quite neatly.

Wall put his phaser away and tried to act innocent. “Ahem. Sorry about that, sir. It was an accident.”

Olding harrumphed. Trying to restrain himself, he stepped past his hapless helmsman without shooting him, and knelt down by the body of his illegitimate son. Herbert was without a doubt, dead. “Oh well, at least I won’t have to pay patrimony now.”

He brought his mind back from these tender thoughts of his son and back to business.

“Where’s Commander Hill’s body?” The crew looked at each other. “Spread out and try and locate his tube.”

They moved off, leaving Olding surrounded by dead people.

The other scientist stepped forwards. “And you are?”

Olding smoothed his jumper, wishing he was in uniform.

“Captain Olding of the Federation Starship Psycho.”

The scientist stifled a snigger. “Yeah, right. Philip Walsh, astrophysicist about town. Any chance of a lift?”

“Ah. There’s a problem there.” Before he could elaborate any further, his crew reappeared, dragging Hill’s body along. Olding winced as it was roughly pulled over a tree stump.

“How is he?”

Jackson cleared his throat. This was his moment. “It’s very strange. His bodily functions are all operational, except for the brain, which has no activity whatsoever.”

“No change there then,” Olding muttered under his breath. He was about to say something else, when the distinctive chime of a transporter beam filled the air.

A Klingon appeared out of the ether, clutching a very large disruptor. He waved it to cover the group.

“Drop all weapons!” he shouted.

The crew did so. It took quite some time, as Damerell and Wall were unsure of his exact definition of weapons, so they completely emptied their pockets of phasers, tricorders, pens, apple-cores, fluff and other sundry objects. Once they had finished, the Klingon waved his disruptor again.

“Over there, all but Olding!”

The crew jostled each other as they moved to the side, Wall carrying the box of bits that comprised Mr Bleep as well as his teddy-bear, whom he refused to discard, even when the Klingon commander prodded him with the disruptor. When they got there, the Klingon raised his communicator, and said something that sounded suspiciously like he was gargling rubber bands. The crew disappeared. Olding was alone with the Klingon commander and Hill’s body.

The Klingon stepped forwards. “You will give me the secrets of the MegaDeath device!” He snarled.

Olding ran this back through his head. “But, you’ve got it already! It’s right over there!!” He pointed at where the device was sitting, humming slightly.

The Klingon blushed slightly. “We just turned it on. We don’t know how it works!”

Olding decided that laughter was probably not a good idea.

The Klingon commander stalked towards Olding, looking decidedly unhappy. “You will give me the secret of the MegaDeath or die here!”

Just then, there was a roar and the pile of tricorders at Olding’s feet started to bleep frantically. He picked one up, and looked at the readings. “You’re about to find out exactly what the damn thing does! It’s goin’ t’ blow!!!”

“Then we shall both die here!!!!” The Klingon threw himself towards Olding, intent on killing him, purely for the sport of it.

Olding stepped smartly back, and pointed at him. “Oy, sunshine!!! Calm down!!” he cried above the increasing background noise.

They now had four minutes to get off this planet. The Klingon advanced purposefully, his hunting knife in his hand. Olding kept his finger outstretched.

“I said, calm down sunshine!”

The Klingon came right up to Olding’s finger, and snarled. Olding stood his ground, eyebrow raised and finger extended. Confronted with the infamous Olding stare, the Klingon backed off again. He kept backing up until he walked off the edge of the cliff-face behind him.

“Stupid man,” Olding thought.

He now faced the problem of getting himself off the planet. He ran over to where the Klingon had conveniently dropped his communicator, and opened it. The next problem to be surmounted was, he couldn’t speak Klingon. Olding compromised by putting his watch in his mouth and saying, “Argle Argle urgh urgh.” He then picked up Hill’s body and clung on to it. Much to his surprise, he felt himself gathered up in the transporter beam and lifted away from the planet.

 

He arrived in the transporter room of the Bird of Prey. It was dark, damp and smelly and, overall, it reminded Olding of Wall’s cabin on a bad day. He still had his phaser with him, and, dumping Hill’s body on the transporter pad, he marched towards the bridge. Unfortunately, he had no idea of where the bridge was in a Bird of Prey, and so he ended up in Engineering.

Luckily, there was a wall plan of the ship there with a label that seemed to be the Klingon equivalent of a ‘you are here’ sticker. He set out again, and finally reached the bridge. The doors slid open, and he held his phaser out in front of him. The only Klingon on the bridge swung round, saw the phaser, and was just starting to put his hands up when he was jumped by Wall. The helmsman wrestled him to the deck and pinned his arms behind his back.

“Mr Wall, let him go.” The helmsman reluctantly got up.

“You, help us or die.” Olding said.

The Klingon brushed himself down, and said, “I do not deserve to live.”

“Okay,” said Damerell, and shot him.

“Thank you, Mr Damerell, and how exactly are we going to leave orbit now that you’ve just bumped off t’ only person who knows how to run this blasted ship?”

Lieutenant Wall said, “I’ll have a go! It can’t be that difficult, can it?”

Olding covered his eyes. At this stage, they didn’t have much of an option.

“Take us out, Mr Wall.”

He clambered up into the command chair, feeling faintly ridiculous as he sat there, legs dangling in mid-air.

The rest of the crew clustered around the front console. Graham was scratching his head.

“Where’s the damn anti-matter inducer?”

“The what?” Wall looked confused.

“The thing that makes it go, numbskull!”

“Oh yeah. Well. Eenie meenie miny mo…”

“Any time now would be good, lads,” Olding interjected, as he watched the planet start to glow and vibrate on the viewscreen.

Damerell leant on the control panel to see what the others were doing. A button bleeped beneath his elbow, and the engines began to hum. Wall and Graham looked at him in surprise.

“Ahem. If I read this right sir, we have full power.”

“Well for Christ’s sake go then!!!” Olding didn’t think there was time for the usual pleasantries. Wall slapped all the buttons in front of him, and the Bird of Prey lurched out of orbit and screamed away from Alpha Majoris III three seconds before the planet erupted.

Olding sat back in his chair. “Doctor, go to t’ transporter room. I left Commander Hill there. Look after him, will you?”