Psycho I

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 45331.56. It has been two months since we left DS13. But, (and it’s a big but) nobody’s complainin’. And why is this? Because we’ve been given a Starship. But not just any starship. Oh no. It is… t’ Sovereign-class USS Psycho, SMC-1234-B. T’most advanced ship in t’ fleet. I’m still having difficulty believin’ it, and apparently, so are t’ crew. They keep comin’ up to me in t’ corridors, and sayin’ “This is the most advanced ship in the fleet” in a really stupid voice, and Doctor Jackson keeps complainin’ of people turning up in sickbay with pinch-wounds (As in, “pinch me, I think I’m dreaming”). Eeee. Oh, and t’ best thing about t’ new ship? It’s got nice wide corridors so Mr Bleep can walk about wi’ ou’ ripping chunks out o’ t’ bulkheads. End log entry.”

Olding finished recording his log entry, and looked around the new bridge. It was a totally new configuration to any other bridge Olding had ever seen, and he was still having difficulties getting used to it. Because there was no longer a navigation station, it had been replaced by an Ops station, which had taken the helm console’s old place. The helm was now in the navigation spot, an arrangement which had not only confused Olding, but Wall and Damerell as well. There had been a few embarrassing occasions early in the commission when they had sat down at the wrong seats, but they were now getting used to it.

Damerell had got a bit of yellow furry trim to go along with Wall’s green furry trim, and now the two consoles looked ‘orrible in two colours, rather than just one. During one of the late-night watches, the fluffy dice, which Olding had thought destroyed during the Ooze‘s crash-landing, had made their reappearance. They were now a bit singed, and also a bit smaller, as Wall had put them through the wash to clean off a bit of the grime, and had accidentally shrunk them.
There had been a touching moment a few weeks back when Damerell had realised he no longer needed his copy of ‘Collins Guide to Federation Space and its Environs’. In a short ceremony, he had handed it over to Wall, who now needed to be able to navigate as well as pilot. Wall, quite touched by that act of faith, had obtained a copy of the complete operations console manual, and had handed it to Damerell. So the both of them now had huge great books stashed by their consoles.

Olding shifted in his chair. The worst thing about the new bridge was that he now had both Commander Hill and Counsellor Hill sat on either side of him. He couldn’t make a move without the Commander shifting just in case, or the counsellor writing something down on that damn padd she carried at all times. Mr Bleep stood at the tactical console towards the back, but what the rest of the damn stations were, Olding didn’t know, or care, in all honesty. They had been cruising around for a few weeks, getting used to things, and Olding was thankful for the break from excitement and all that.

He was really pissed off, then, when the message from Starfleet came through. It was Admiral Lofty.

“Captain Olding. I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Olding stifled the groan. “You are to proceed to the Ponce IV colony. We haven’t heard from them for some time. We suspect Borg involvement. You will rendezvous with the starship Jellystone to pick up Commander Eggby from Starfleet tactical.”

The screen blinked off, and Olding felt a sudden urge to kick something. Luckily for him, he had such an outlet.

“Commander Hill, you have t’ bridge. I’ll be in my ready room.”

Once inside the ready room, he took the opportunity of the privacy to kick hell out of the panel nearest the door. There was already quite a sizeable dent in the panel, and Olding had a feeling it would get worse before it got better, on this mission.

Hill gave the relevant orders, and the Psycho came about on a heading towards Ponce IV. He shared a look with the counsellor. They all knew abut the Borg, and, quite frankly, the prospect of going up against them wasn’t a fun one.

 

Some hours later, they arrived for their rendezvous with the Jellystone. It was brief, with the two ships stopping long enough for Commander Eggby to beam over before the Psycho continued on her way to Ponce IV. Olding had sent Hill down to Transporter Room 3 to meet the Commander. Hill, who had expected Eggby to be an elderly bloke who had been passed over for starship service and thus ended up in Starfleet Tactical, was pleasantly surprised to find that Eggby was in fact an attractive blonde. Woman.

“Erm… Hahahahaha Welcome ablurd…. ablard… aboard!”

“Hello, Commander,” Eggby said.

She passed a disinterested eye over him. Hill tried to inflate his chest, and pretended that there was real muscle tone under his tunic.

“May I see the Captain?”

“Certainly. This way.”

There then followed a moment of confusion as both Eggby and Hill tried to walk behind each other, Eggby because she didn’t know the way, and Hill because he was anxious to see if she wiggled her hips when she walked. In the end, Eggby won. Hill then spent his time trying to see her reflection in the blank screens along the corridor walls. This resulted in at least two collisions with crew going the other way.

Finally, they reached the bridge and Olding’s ready room. Hill pressed the button on the door, and the chimes sounded. The chimes, however, were not the standard beep-beep-boop-boop Starfleet programmed into its doors. These chimes had suffered from Stark’s attentions. He was trying to learn basic starship operations again, and had decided to start on doors. This had resulted in five trapped crew in turbolifts, and Olding’s door-chimes playing the opening bars of ‘Colonel Bogey.’ At seventy-five decibels.

Once they had peeled themselves off the far wall, Hill and Eggby realised that Olding was shouting, “Well bluidy well come in then! It’s not Mr Wall ringing then running away again is it?!!”

They walked in, Hill assuming his standard cringe pose. Olding was sat behind his desk, arms folded. Only a few dried coffee stains betrayed the image of the super-human captain Olding had been trying to create.

“Mornin’, Commander,” he said. “So, what’s all this about t’ Borg then?”

“Well, Captain, we don’t know that the Borg are responsible for the silence from Ponce IV, but it certainly fits their pattern.”

“Oh? And what pattern’s that?”

“Um… well, a remote planet suddenly stops transmitting.”

“That’s a pattern?”

“Well… yes.”

“I see.” Olding saw only too well. Starfleet Tactical were pulling their legs big-time. “Mr Hill, you will organise a landing party… no, damn, they’re Away Teams now.”

“Sir.”

 

The next morning, Hill and Stark arrived in the transporter room, to find that Eggby and Bleep, the other two members of the land… Away Team, were not there. Barfoot, who was manning the console, said, “Aren’t you a bit late?”

“No, we’re exactly on time.”

“Oh. Well, Commander Eggby and Mr Bleep beamed down an hour ago.”

“Bloody cheek!” Hill said. “Beam us down.”

They beamed down by the rim of an absolutely bloody massive crater in the ground. A few metres away, Eggby and Bleep were studying tricorder readings and looking serious. Hill was fuming that he had been overruled, and so was barely able to appreciate the pleasing sight of Eggby bending over.

“Commander Eggby!” he yelled. “Would you mind coming here?!”

Eggby joined him. “I’m afraid it’s serious, sir. The readings we have taken this morning bear out my theory that the Borg are behind this attack.”

“What attack?”

“The attack that destroyed the once thriving city of Clary.” Eggby indicated the crater behind her.

“Oh, right, that attack. Look, Commander, what I’m really interested in is the fact that you beamed down here without my permission.”

“But Captain Olding said…”

“Captain Olding said that I was to lead the Away Team, not you! Just remember that!”

“Yes sir.” Eggby was obviously annoyed, but Hill, feeling smug that he had just managed to beat her, didn’t notice it.

“Now,” he said, “What do we need to do?”

“Er, nothing, actually. Mr Bleep and I have got all the information we need.”

“Oh.” Hill looked around, then tapped his comm badge, and said, “Hill to Psycho. Four to beam up.”

 

Olding leaned back slightly in his ready room chair as Hill and Eggby tried to give him a report. Unfortunately, the two of them were too busy trying to say it before the other one did that he couldn’t make head nor tail of what they were actually saying. Eventually, he held up his hand for silence.

“Mr Hill, are we to understand that this was a Borg attack?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr Eggby…”

“Ms Eggby, sir.”

“Hmm. Ms Eggby, are they likely to come back?”

“It is my estimate that this is the beginning of an invasion of Federation space, Captain.”

“Right. In which case…” Olding was interrupted by a comm chime. Pressing a button on his desk, he said wearily, “Yes, what is it?”

Damerell’s voice replied, “Sir, it’s a signal from Starfleet. Long range sensors in the Garibaldi sector have detected a Borg craft.”

“Bollocks. Yellow Alert! Helm, new course. Take us to t’ Garibaldi system.”

Damerell began to whimper. Olding cut the comm channel off. The Psycho sped off towards the Borg.

 

Several hours later, they dropped out of warp, and immediately Olding ordered a full, continuous scan on all frequencies. Damerell, whose responsibility it now was, managed to completely screw it up, eventually triumphantly reporting that there were twenty Starships in the system, when it was patently obvious that the Psycho was the only ship there. Olding crossed his legs, tried to look cool, calm and collected, and said, “Red Alert! Hands to Battle Stations!!” A few seconds later, a dark mass appeared at the centre of the screen.

“Magnify that image,” Olding said. The picture zoomed in, revealing the sight that nobody had wanted to see. A Borg cube was moving purposefully towards them. Olding tensed himself. Their duty was to slow the Borg down until Starfleet could mount an organised defence. That could well mean losing the ship, less than two months after they got it. Olding didn’t particularly want that to happen. Nonetheless, they had to do something, and they had better do it soon.

“Divert all available power to the weapons systems. Lock phasers and photons on target.” He thought for a few seconds. They couldn’t possibly hope to do any appreciable damage to the Borg from the outside. That meant…
“Commander Hill, form an Away Team. You’re going to board the Borg and see if you can do a bit of damage.”

Hill stood up, and said, “Counsellor, Mr Damerell…” An expression of extreme reluctance passed across his face, and he said, “Ms Eggby, come with me.” The four of them left the bridge, and Olding, suddenly freed from having Hills surrounding him, relaxed a little.

 

The transporter beam dumped them in a corridor on the Borg ship. The counsellor had set their phasers to operate on different frequencies, but that wouldn’t make much of an impact. A couple of Borg lurched past them, taking no notice. Damerell couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking nervously from side to side as the Borg walked past. His movements became more and more agitated until the counsellor put an arm on his shoulder and said, “They don’t think we’re a threat. It’s alright.”

Damerell didn’t respond, so she slapped him a couple of times and told him to pull himself together. Damerell clutched his phaser so tightly he practically broke the stock.

Hill looked carefully around. They were here to find something important-looking to blow up, then leave sharpish. Something caught his eye. Everywhere he looked, he could see triangular structures hanging off the ceiling. They glowed periodically, and flashed when a Borg walked by.

Eggby had been watching them too. “I think they’re some sort of command system. They seem to be transmitting orders to the Borg crew. If we take a few of them out…”

Hill pointed his phaser at the ceiling, checked the safety-catch was off, and fired. Eggby did the same at a different section. The counsellor had a phaser rifle in each hand, and was blasting away merrily, while Damerell missed and fried an inoffensive-looking wall mounting. Pretty soon, there were an awful lot of Borg surrounding them. The large spiky bits on the end of their arms seemed to be whirring in an agitated manner.

“Ahem,” Hill said, “Perhaps we should consider a, er, retrograde advance?”

“A what?” said the counsellor, whilst joyously blowing away a Borg with designs on her.

“Lets get out of here!!! Like, now!!!!!!!”

“Do we have to?” the counsellor whined.

“Yes!” Damerell said.

Hill slapped his comm-badge, and said, “Get us out of here!!”

 

When he arrived on the bridge, Olding had just finished giving the orders to pull them away from the Borg ship. They were now doing Warp 9 and a bit, and the Borg were in hot pursuit.

As Hill took his seat, Olding said, “What did you do over there?”

Hill explained.

At the end of his explanation, Olding said, “Well, for a few minutes there, we were reading sudden huge power losses on t’ Borg ship. We’ll have to remember that, if we’re to go into battle again.”

“Are we going to have to go into battle again?” Damerell asked.

“Afraid so. Starfleet is assembling a fleet at Poodle 248, straddling t’ Borg ship’s course towards Sector 001.”

“Where’s that, sir?” asked Damerell, ex-navigator.

“Earth, Mr Damerell.”

 

Several hours later, the Psycho had entered a nebula, as part of Olding’s strategy to slow the Borg down a bit. With only a few tantalising glimpses of the Psycho to work on, the Borg ship was hovering about outside the nebula. In the few hour’s breathing space the detour had given them, Stark had had time to learn a little more about damage control, Damerell had suffered four separate panic attacks, and Olding was touring the ship. After trying not to scream in Engineering (Stark’s idea of efficient preparation was to place fire buckets full of sand around the warp core) he had slowly made his way up through the hull until he found himself outside the deserted Fred’s Bar.

Technically, it wasn’t Fred’s Bar, as Fred had been lost to the Jem’Hadar some months before, but no-one had been willing to rename it, so Fred’s Bar was fitted with all the old touches to make it look like the dilapidated Western saloon the old Bar had been. Given that, Olding mused, it was probably quite suitable that there were cobwebs all over the place. Hang on a minute, he thought, how t’ bluidy ‘ell did spiders get aboard?

“Evening, Captain,” said a voice. Olding looked round. It was the counsellor. She was sat on a stool by the bar.

“Evenin’, lass.”

“Ready for the battle, Captain?”

“Aye, I think so.”

“What have you been doing?”

“I’ve been takin’ a trip around t’ ship, checking ‘er over. It’s an old tradition. Nelson did it before Trafalgar, tha knows.”

“Didn’t Nelson die?”

“Yes… but he was a prat. He stood on deck in full uniform, complete with medals, and then wondered why he got shot. Bluidy stupid, if you ask me. That was my conclusion in t’ essay I had to do on him at t’ Academy.”

“Oh. Okay.” The counsellor remained quiet for a while. Olding moved to stand by the windows. Leaning against a beam, he looked out at the gases of the nebula. It all looked so peaceful. Suddenly, the gases dissipated, and were replaced by a massive wall of… something. Olding swore he could see R2-D2 in there somewhere. Stepping back from the window, he realised it was the Borg ship.

“Okay,” he said, hyperventilating (purely for effect, he assured himself) then punched his comm badge, and shouted, “Red Alert!”

 

He arrived on the bridge a few minutes later. The crew were already there, and in the advanced stages of trauma. Olding sat down, and, wasting no time, said, “Open fire!” The Psycho‘s first shots were, as Olding had feared, largely useless. Then the Borg returned fire. The Psycho heaved as the immense power of the Borg weapons hit it.

“Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… Shields down to thirty percent and falling, Captain.”

Olding shifted uncomfortably. He had rather hoped that they would have been able to put up a slightly better fight than this.

Then, Hill called, “Forward shields have failed, sir!” And three Borg appeared on the bridge.

Damerell instinctively dived under the Ops console, while Wall tried to be clever and rugby-tackle a Borg. He just bounced off and fell to the floor, moaning slightly. The counsellor pulled a phaser and blew away one of the Borg, but the other two kept coming. Olding stood up in an attempt to distract it. At that moment, however, another Borg appeared behind him and injected him with something that rendered him unconscious. Before anyone could react, the Borg beamed out again, taking Olding with them. Hill stood up from his chair, and looked around him. It suddenly occurred to him that he was now in command of the Psycho. Before the evil grin had quite finished crossing his face, the Borg ship broke off the fight and headed away from the Psycho.

Hill sat down again, and rubbed his hands together. “Helm, follow that Borg!”

Wall, rubbing his now-broken shoulder, manipulated the controls with one hand. The Psycho lurched even more unsteadily than usual into high warp in hot pursuit of the Borg ship.

 

“Commander Hill, we have decided, in view of the severity of the situation, to grant you a provisional promotion to Captain, and put you in command of the Psycho. We need every ship we can get.”

Admiral Lofty’s words were grim, and everyone in the Psycho briefing room looked grim. Everyone, that is, except Captain Hill. He was grinning like a maniac.

“Alright!!! No problemo, Admiral!!! You can rely on us!!!”

The Admiral hurriedly closed the connection. As Hill turned back to the senior staff, the counsellor pushed a padd across the table. It said, ‘No problemo?’ Ignoring it, Hill addressed the crew. Eggby had been allowed to join them, and it was to her he first directed his attention.

“We now have a vacancy aboard the ship. We need a first officer. And, I’ve given it careful thought, and, despite the fact that I can’t stand her (even if she does have a nice butt), I have decided to ask Commander Eggby to become the new first officer, because, let’s face it, the rest of you are bad enough at your normal posts without giving you higher responsibility.” Eggby blushed, while there was a discontented murmur around the room.

Before anybody could say anything, Hill continued, “We need some sort of scheme to attack the Borg ship, and preferably destroy it in one go. Anybody got any ideas?”

There was a long silence. Finally, Wall, who had taken the crack about competence to heart, said, “Shouldn’t we be thinking about rescuing the Captain?”

“I am the Captain,” Hill said.

“I meant, Captain Olding, sir.”

“Oh, him. Nah.”

“But…”

“Look, what do we need with him? I’m your Captain now.” The crew looked uncomfortable, and Hill realised he had overstepped the mark.

Damerell spoke up. “The thing is, you see, um, Captain Olding is, well, THE Captain, if you, uh, see what I mean.”

Hill frowned, then, realising he couldn’t get out of this one, said, “Alright then, somebody come up with a scheme to rescue him.” He entirely failed in keeping the reluctance out of his voice. There was then another long silence.

Finally, Stark said something. “Um, let me get this straight. I mean, stop me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the problem we’ve got, the fact that none of our weapons are powerful enough to stop the Borg?” The rest of the crew gave him a polite round of applause. “Thanks. So, all we have to do is, um, well, build a more powerful weapon?” Stark looked around expectantly for more applause. None was forthcoming.

“Thank you, Mr Stark.” Hill looked around. “Has anyone got any ideas on how to implement this breathtakingly clever idea of our chief engineer’s?” The sarcasm fell a little flat.

Barfoot put his hand up. “Sir…”

“Yes?”

“It strikes me that the most powerful bit of equipment we’ve got on the ship is the main deflector dish.”

Hill frowned. Anything not directly connected with actual isolinear chips and such-like usually went over his head.

“Carry on, Mr Barfoot.”

“If we could modify the main deflector dish to fire a pulse of energy at the Borg ship, it might be enough to stall them for long enough for us to beam aboard and rescue Captain Olding.”

“Can we do it?”

Stark shrugged, and Barfoot looked at his feet. Eventually, he muttered, “I think so.”

“Right. Well, can you get on with it?”

Stark and Barfoot left. As they exited, Hill just caught Stark saying, “How exactly are we going to…”

Hill looked at the rest of the staff. The counsellor had been making notes again, Jackson was polishing a saw, Wall was nursing his shoulder, and Damerell was carving a picture of a Borg cube on the side of the briefing room table with a key.

He sighed. For the first time ever, he had some insight into how Olding felt.

 

Right now, Olding was feeling uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He had been brought into a very large room by several Borg, who seemed disinclined to let him go.

“Look, I get t’ hint. You can bluidy well let go now!!” The answer was short and to the point.

“Letting go is irrelevant.”

“Hmm.” Olding was dragged to a halt in front of a glowing screen. The voice, which seemed to come from nowhere, continued.

“Resistance is futile. You and your fellow biological life-forms will be assimilated.”

“Bollocks to t’ lot o’ ye!”

“Bollocks are irrelevant.”

“I’d sooner die than get assimilated by you.”

“Death is irrelevant. Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.”

Olding sighed. Hardly a stimulating conversation.

 

The Psycho plunged through warp space close behind the Borg cube. In the engineering section, the activity was reaching fever pitch. Barfoot and Stark had rebuilt the deflector dish to fire its energy in a tight-focus beam. Now, all they had to do was figure out how to get the energy to the dish in the first place. On the bridge, Hill was having trouble trying to stick on his fourth pip. It had shot across the bridge three times now, narrowly missing Wall’s head. As Hill stooped to pick it up from where it had fallen by the main screen, the comm signal sounded.

“Engineering to bridge,” Stark said. “We think we’re ready. But I’ve got to warn you. You’ll only be able to use it once, and it’ll probably fry half the computers aboard.”

Hill stopped trying to put the pip on, and said, “Stand by. We’ll have to take that risk. Lock one photon torpedo onto the Borg ship and fire.”

The single photon hit the Borg ship squarely in the middle, doing no damage at all. The Borg ship dropped abruptly out of warp, and everyone felt themselves pulled forwards as the inertial dampeners fought to compensate as Wall matched the sudden deceleration. Then, the screen changed. It was Olding, but not as they remembered him. He had been… Borgified.

“I am Linctus of Borg. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be assimilated and combined into a greater whole. Resistance is futile.”

Hill, realising that what he was seeing was no longer his commanding officer, replied, “Shut up, you northern git!!! I don’t have to sit here and take this!!! Mr Stark, fire!!!!!!!!!”

Down in Engineering, Stark flicked the switch, and stepped back to watch the effects on the warp-core. As he did so, he stepped on a lead snaking out from the side of the console. It popped out of its socket, but nobody noticed.

The lights dimmed all over the ship as the power build-up reached critical level. Then, the deflector dish began to glow. The lead on the floor in Engineering was smoking. The ship began to vibrate badly. Hill had to struggle to prevent his teeth from chattering themselves into oblivion. Then, Stark activated the power surge that would hopefully disable the Borg ship. It flowed through the cable, halting only at the point where the cable stopped being connected to anything. As the masses of power built up in a few square centimetres of space, the cable end began to melt. The deflector dish stopped glowing.

Stark looked down to see the puddled remains of the lead melding with the floor, put two and two together making incredible trouble if he was found out, tapped his comm badge, and improvised, “Engineering to bridge. I’m afraid it’s not going to work, sir. Um… The deflector dish simply isn’t up to it.”

On the bridge, Hill felt an urge to hit something. Damerell didn’t move fast enough, so he took a blow to the back of the head. Whilst the Operations Officer rubbed his head and said “Ow!” Hill stalked around the bridge clenching and unclenching his fists.

When he felt it was safe to speak again, he said, “Do we have warp power?”

Wall, keeping his head low in case of further outbursts, said, “Just.”

“Then we’d better get underway.” The Psycho lumbered back into luke-warm pursuit of the Borg.

 

Several hours later, as the bridge crew were in danger of flooding the bridge from sweat, the comm signal sounded.

Hill ordered, “Put the signal through!” There was a few seconds of crackling, then an audio signal came through the speakers.

“This is Admiral Kowalewski aboard the USS Lobotomy. We are engaging the Borg at Poodle 248. Captain Hill, where are you?”

Hill took a deep breath, then said, “We’ll be there, Admiral, but we’ll be a little late. We’ve had… technical difficulties.”

“Very well, Captain. But hurry. We need every ship we can get.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Eggby joined Hill by the helm console, and said, “You realise of course that the Borg will have studied Captain Olding’s mind. They’ll know everything we know.”

“Damn! Good point, well made.” Hill was thoughtful. “Then, we’ll have to come up with some method of fooling him.”

 

At Poodle 248, Admiral Kowalewski shifted uncomfortably in the command chair of the Lobotomy. He had 40 ships around him, and still he felt nervous. The Borg had a reputation for destroying anything they met, regardless of the size. But he had to fight. This force was the only thing standing between the Borg and Sector 001 – Earth. On the screen, the Borg ship appeared as a tiny square in the centre of the display.

“Red Alert!!” Kowalewski said, knowing that his words were being broadcast to the entire fleet. The only other ship they could muster was the Psycho, and she was somewhere behind the Borg vessel. The Admiral could only hope they would be enough.

 

Hill paced up and down in front of the command chair as Eggby and the counsellor watched him. He was now more than a little bit nervous. Whilst he had always wanted a command, and being put in charge of Starfleet’s newest ship was one hell of a boost for his ego, going into battle against the Borg was enough to make him want to change his trousers.

The counsellor was reading the emotions of the crew, and she was disturbed by what she was picking up. It wasn’t that they were afraid. In fact, the opposite was true. Most of the crew seemed completely unconcerned by the fact they were about to engage the most terrifying enemy the Federation had ever seen. But it seemed as if Damerell was putting out enough nervousness to compensate for the whole crew. She looked at where he was sitting. He was shaking like a leaf in a storm.

 

The Borg ship dropped out of warp as it approached the fleet. Admiral Kowalewski tensed.

“Arm phasers and photon torpedoes, and prepare to fire on my mark!”

Then, the screen changed, and a Borg appeared on the screen. Kowalewski frowned as he stared more closely at the screen. Although covered in the usual Borg paraphernalia, it was unmistakably… Christopher Olding! The Borg spoke in a northern accent, confirming the Admiral’s fears.

“I am Linctus of Borg. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Resistance is futile.”

The Admiral attempted to stare Linctus out, but the red laser beam emanating from the side of the Borg’s head meant the contest was a little one-sided. Also, Linctus seemed to have preserved the infamous Olding stare.

Blinking rapidly and wiping his watering eyes, Kowalewski said, “Fire!”

The fleet let rip with everything they had.

 

The Psycho raced at high warp towards Poodle 248. Hill, exhausted by his constant pacing, had collapsed back into the centre seat while Eggby and the counsellor sat on either side of him. Damerell, having just about accepted that he couldn’t plead a prior engagement and leave, was busy practising adjusting phaser modulation (and failing every time).

Wall was bored, as the ship was locked on course, so he had nothing to do except surreptitiously play Doom13 on the status monitor on his panel. Not being able to turn the sound off, he was frantically trying to lean on the small integral speakers every time he shot somebody, or, as happened more frequently, he died.

Finally, they reached Poodle 248. Hill, leaning forwards in his chair, said, “Take us out of warp, Mr Wall. Mr Damerell, begin full sensor scan.”

As the ship abruptly dropped back to sublight speed, Damerell fiddled frantically with the short-range scanners. However, his fruitless attempts to pick anything up at all were rendered even more pointless as the main viewscreen showed the aftermath of the battle. There were bits of starships everywhere. Damerell began to count them on the screen, hoping that he could pretend it was a sensor report.

“My God!” Hill breathed. “How many ships are out there?”

“Erm, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, no, counted that one already, aha! Thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Thirty-nine ships, all told, sir.”

Hill frowned at Damerell. “That didn’t sound like a sensor scan, Mister.”

“Ah. Well, you see, the scale of the destruction was just so big that the sensors couldn’t absorb all the information at once. Haha.”

Hill deployed his eyebrow in the traditional Olding uprising manoeuvre. Damerell swivelled back to his console, hoping that someone else would do something to attract attention. Just then, his sensors came on-line, and he realised with extreme reluctance that he would have to say something.

“Sir, sensors detect the Borg ship exiting the system.”

Eggby was at Hill’s side in a flash. “You can’t let them get any further! Starfleet can’t regroup in time unless we slow them down enough!!”

Hill thought rapidly. “Hail the Borg,” he said.

Damerell leapt out of his seat, slapped his chest and shouted “All hail the Borg!!”

A sudden silence descended over the bridge. Damerell looked around, blushing furiously, and sat down again, saying, “Ahem. Sorry about that. Don’t know what came over me.”

Mr Bleep, standing at tactical, slapped the console, making it tremble, and said, “Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… Hailing frequencies open.”

Hill looked at the screen, where he could just about make out the shape of the Borg cube. “This is Captain (heh heh) Richard Hill of the Federation Starship Psycho. As a representative of the United Federation of Planets, I am authorised to tell you…” Hill took a deep breath. The standard bullshit had carried him this far into the message. Now he had to actually think about what he was going to say. “… that we surrender, totally and without condition. I thank you.”

The Borg ship screamed to a halt. The inertial dampeners whined as Wall brought the Psycho to a corresponding halt.
The screen changed to reveal Linctus. The Borg spoke.

“This is Linctus of Borg. Prepare to be boarded. Resistance is futile.”

Hill licked his lips. It had suddenly occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he should have asked for conditions of surrender. “Uh… give me a minute to inform my crew.”

“You have your minute.” The screen blinked off again.

Eggby joined Hill, and said, “What on earth are you going to do now? You realise that the Borg know everything we know. They’ll have milked Captain Olding’s brain for all our tactics!!!”

“So, what you’re saying is that we have to come up with tactics that Captain Olding won’t be able to think up.”

“Exactly!!! We don’t stand a chance!!!!”

Hill was inclined to agree. Then, just as all seemed lost, he hit upon the answer.

“Mr Wall, Mr Damerell, it’s up to you. You can use what you want, do what you like, how you like. Just make it quick!!!”

Wall and Damerell looked at each other, giggled nervously in perfect synch, and passed out.

At that moment, Linctus appeared again on the screen. “One minute has ended. Prepare to be boarded.”

“Ahahaha. Erm… We’re having a few problems at this end. Could you just hang on for a couple of minutes?”

Linctus’ eyebrow raised in a very Olding-like fashion. Hill squirmed instinctively.

“Very well. You have a further three minutes.” The screen flicked off again, and the ship lurched.

Bleep reported, “Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… we have been caught by a tractor beam, sir.”

Hill started to frantically kick his comatose helmsman. Damerell, by far the more experienced fainter, was already getting up. Wall, brought back to semi-consciousness with a jerk by a boot in the kidneys, sat up and rubbed his head.

“Sir,” he managed weakly, “are you serious about letting us do this?”

“Yes, I am. Now get on with it!!”

Wall and Damerell staggered off the bridge. Hill returned to his seat. The counsellor, who had picked up the emotions from everyone on the bridge, leant over to him and said, “Do you really think it’s a good idea to let those two have a free hand in rescuing the Captain? I mean, they’re not exactly God’s gift to Starfleet.”

Hill tried to keep a straight face as he replied, “Counsellor, if you were Captain Olding, who would be the last people you’d ask to carry out a dangerous mission?” The counsellor thought for a second, then nodded, understanding. “This way, the Borg will never guess what we’re doing.”

 

Two minutes later, a shuttlecraft departed the Psycho‘s shuttle-bay. It was the von Bulow, one of the new generation of shuttles that had been provided to the ship. A few seconds later, just as the time limit was about to give out, the Psycho began to let off phasers, torpedoes, fireworks, anything in fact to distract the Borg. They even had a group of cheerleaders in Fred’s Bar doing a routine out of the windows. The Borg, uncertain how to respond to this behaviour, scanned the shuttlecraft, and compared the life-form readings with Olding’s memory. The result was the synaptic equivalent of hysterical laughter.

Aboard the von Bulow, Wall and Damerell were struggling with the cellophane wrapping around the box they had brought with them. Their master-plan, dreamt up as they ran towards the shuttle-bay, was very simple. They planned to flood the Borg system with useless information: to wit, Macrosoft Windoze 2063TM. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to afford the isolinear chip version, so they had had to plump for the old-fashioned compact disk version. All forty-five disks of it. As Damerell accessed the Borg central computer, Wall fed the first disk into the hastily-improvised disk drive.

A message scrolled across one of the shuttle’s monitors. ‘Welcome to the Windoze 2063 Installation programme. We hope installing Windoze 2063 will be a pleasant experience. While you install this programme, we will play you some light music. Have a nice day. Press ‘Okay’ to continue.’

Wall pressed okay, and the screen disappeared, to be replaced by a status bar and the message ‘Where do you want to go today, and, more importantly, how much do you want to spend?’ Jolly music emerged from the speakers, and a jolly graphic of paper fluttering from one folder to another appeared on the screen.

And so they sat there, scared out of their tiny twisted minds, while the Borg ship towered over them and the jolly Microsoft Windoze 2063TM installation music filled the shuttle’s cabin. Every so often, the programme would halt, and ask for another disk, which Wall would hurriedly push into the drive. Slightly more frequently than that, Hill would call them to ask how much longer it was going to take, as they couldn’t keep the insanity up for much longer. On the latest call, Wall simply said, “Keep your hair on! We’re up to disk number 26. Only another 19 to go.”

As the same tune repeated itself for the nth time, Damerell said, “Erm, why exactly are we doing this?”

Wall grinned, and said, “You remember that time I crashed the helm computer on the original Psycho?”

“Oh, yeah! When the system ran out of memory in about five minutes!!”

“Yeah. Well, that was because I had installed this so I could run my copy of Command & Conquer (Mauve Alert). I reckon, if it worked for us, why not for the Borg?”

“Great plan!!!” Damerell looked quite encouraged. At that point, the system asked for the next disk, and they returned to their routine of feeding in disks and sweating profusely.

 

Eggby was starting to hassle Hill over their plan. “We’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes now!! We’ve managed to avoid major damage so far, but it’s only a matter of time!!!” As she spoke, the ship lurched violently as a Borg disruptor hit it. “You see?”

But Hill stood firm. “I have put my trust in Lieutenant-Commanders Wall and Damerell, and I am not about to break that trust!!!!”

Eggby stalked away, and the counsellor sidled up to him. “You haven’t got the faintest idea what else to do, have you?”

“No,” said Hill absentmindedly, then realised what he had just said, and frowned. “Of course I know what else to do! I simply have great confidence in my helmsman and operations officer.” The counsellor snorted and sat down again.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact only about half that, the installation programme finished. But the agony was not over for Wall and Damerell. A new menu screen appeared, saying, ‘Windoze is now detecting what hardware you have on your system and adjusting files to compensate. Please wait.’ They sat there as a list of Borg systems scrolled down the screen, turning from red to green as Windoze adapted to it. It reached the last one, and then paused.

Yet another message appeared: ‘Windoze disruptor manager has detected a fault in your auxiliary disruptor system. This may affect the performance of your disruptors, or cause Windoze to hang. Do you wish to proceed (y/n)?’ There was a scuffle to press the ‘y’ key. Now, when the Borg attempted to fire, the system would shut down. Wall looked expectantly out of the cockpit. Unfortunately, the Borg ship had ceased to fire.

Damerell looked despondent. “What do we do now?”

Wall looked around in desperation. “I know!! Quick, fill in the registration card!!!”

“What does that do?”

“I don’t know!!! But it looks important, so it’s gotta be worth a try!!!!!” They scribbled in relevant details, and Wall licked the back of a stamp before realising they needed a Borg to sign it. “Well, we had to go and rescue the Captain anyway…” Wall dragged Damerell over to the emergency transporter platform, and punched in co-ordinates for the Borg ship. Just as the transporter prepared to beam them over, the Borg ship attempted to fire.

Deep inside the bowels of the Borg central computer, the fire command flashed down electric synapses at the speed of light. It slowed down somewhat as it hit the unfamiliar software layer that was the newly-installed Windoze 2063TM.

Grinding to a virtual halt, the instruction passed through the several layers of useless graphics and other ‘user-friendly’ touches that had got the system banned on 90% of Federation worlds, until it reached the disruptor manager. There was an ominous clunking noise as the disruptor manager attempted to direct the fire command to the appropriate outlet.

After a great deal of time (at least 77 nanoseconds), a message flashed up on monitors all over the Borg ship: ‘Warning! Unsupported device or device does not exist. You will need to re-boot your system.’ All over the Borg ship, Borg suddenly stopped moving as the CPU shut down. With all the Borg in a catatonic state, there was no-one to select the ‘re-boot’ function on the options screen. The Borg ship’s forward motion died away, and Hill stared at the Psycho screen in shock. “Bugger me! They actually pulled it off!!!!!”

 

Wall and Damerell materialised in a corridor, phasers drawn. They soon discovered there was no real need, as the Borg were at a standstill. Hurrying along through the corridors, shouting, “Yoohoo!! Captain Olding!!!!!” they discarded the registration card as useless, concentrating on recovering Olding. After quite some time, they found Olding slumped against a console. Grabbing him, Wall tapped his comm-badge, and said, “Wall to von Bulow. Activate emergency beam-out!” The transporter beam promptly removed the three of them from the Borg ship.

On the bridge, Bleep spoke up. “Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… I am reading an energy surge aboard the Borg ship, sir.”

“What?” Eggby was at Bleep’s side in a flash. “Bleep… wzrftgl… Mind the gap… They appear to be about to self-destruct.”

“How come?” Hill asked.

“Bleep… wzrtfgl… Stand clear of the doors please… I do not know.”

“Oh well. The moment the von Bulow gets back aboard, get us out of here!” he shouted at the helm. A second later, he realised that there was no-one actually sitting at the helm console. “Erm… Counsellor, would you mind taking the helm?”

The Counsellor moved into the helmsman’s seat, and tapped in appropriate instructions.

In a few seconds, Wall, who had also seen the energy build-up and being appropriately panicked by it, got the von Bulow inside the Psycho‘s shuttle bay, breaking all records (ie getting it in without crashing). A second or two after that, the Psycho vanished into warp space. Half a second after that, the Borg ship blew apart, little bits of Borg scattering over a wide area.

 

Now was Doctor Jackson’s moment. Wall and Damerell had dragged the unconscious Borgified Olding into Sickbay, and dumped him on an examination table. “Stand well back, gentlemen,” he said. “Let the master do his work.”

Wall and Damerell hurriedly scuttled out of the room, glad they didn’t have to stay and watch.

Jackson drew a particularly large and blunt saw, selected a pipe extending from Olding’s shoulder to the side of his head, grabbed hold and began to cut. The shrieking sound of metal meeting metal echoed throughout the corridors around Sickbay. After a while, the pipe gave way at the head end, leaving only a small stump. Jackson then selected a pair of pliers, grabbed hold of a ragged end, and began to pull. Thankfully, Olding was still out for the count.

Three large pipes later, Jackson had used up most of his Elastoplast supplies covering the large gaping holes, and felt confident enough to tackle the big chest panel. Putting the by now blood-covered and very hot saw down, the Doctor went over to his ‘delicate instruments’ cupboard and pulled out a No. 3 crowbar. Sliding a piece of chipboard in between the panel and Olding’s chest, Jackson then inserted the crowbar, and, straining slightly, began to tug backwards. “God, I love experimental surgery!!!” he groaned as he pulled down with all his strength.

After what seemed like an age, he felt some give. Then, with a disgusting slurping pop sound, the chest panel ripped clear of Olding and bounced off the ceiling. Jackson sighed in satisfaction. That was most of the main bits. Now all he had left to do was the large chunk around Olding’s right eye, and the large attachment around his groin. Even Jackson, consumed by blood-lust as he was, realised that there would be trouble if he made a mess when it came to detaching the groin attachment.

 

Up on the bridge, Hill had ordered the ship back to Poodle 248 to try and find any survivors. This was taxing Damerell’s abilities to the limit. As they hunted through the debris, the operations officer was frantically attempting to remember just how you carried out a scan for life-forms. He was getting nowhere fast, when Hill said in exasperation, “Would you really mind checking for life-forms, or is it against your religion?”

“Uh… no, not at all, sir. I just love checking for life-forms.” Damerell was starting to panic. He randomly slapped buttons in the hope that people would think he was doing the right thing. Beside him, Wall began to snigger.

Damerell realised that his random button-thumping was attracting attention. In an attempt to cover it, he began to sing. “Life-forms…” he frantically pounded the console, “You precious little life-forms…” more frantic pounding, “You lovely little life-forms…” still more pounding, “Where are you?” A final flourish on the panel, which, amazingly, initiated a life-form scan. “Ahem. Scanning for life-forms, sir. None as yet.”

 

Jackson had been pondering the situation for quite some time. He had to be reasonably gentle, as the Captain wouldn’t thank him for ruining half his face. So that ruled out the crowbar. But it was obvious that a similar method needed to be adopted. Rummaging in his tool-kit, Jackson produced a hammer and chisel. Inserting the chisel under the face-plate, Jackson began to hammer, gently at first, then faster as he began to enjoy himself. When it was halfway off, Jackson grabbed the loose edge and tugged mightily. The plate gave way with a sickening ripping sound. Now, all he had left to do was remove the groin attachment. He picked up a hedge trimmer, and started it up. At that moment, Olding came to, and jerked upright on the bed. Jackson jumped back, clutching the hedge trimmer defensively in front of him.

“Oh, bluidy hell.” Olding was holding his head, and moaning to himself.

Jackson, safely behind his trimmer, said, “Who are you?”

“Who t’ bluidy ‘ell do ye think I am?!!!”

“Welcome back, Captain!!! Now, if you’ll just hold still…”

Olding divined the Doctor’s intentions immediately, and, jumping out of the way, pointed out that the groinal attachment had a lock on it. Carefully disengaging it himself, he waited while Jackson dug out a spare uniform.

 

The Psycho was reporting the results of her life-forms scan at Poodle 248. None. Hill was squirming in front of yet another Admiral.

Admiral Brennan squinted at him. “I’m afraid we’ve got another mission for you.”

Hill opened his mouth to answer, but another voice said, “We’d be happy to oblige.” Everyone on the bridge swung round to look at the turbolift door. Olding stood there, swathed in bandages and wearing a uniform four sizes too big for him, but, nonetheless, unmistakably Olding.

“I believe that’s my chair, Commander,” he said as he moved to the captain’s chair. Hill hurriedly vacated it, and made shooing motions to Eggby to shift out of the way. Olding sat down. “What’s t’ mission, Admiral?”

“Just before the Borg ship appeared, we had received a report that a Marquis vessel had disappeared in the Badlands. The circumstances surrounding its disappearance are unusual, to say the least.”

“What are t’ circumstances?”

“We have no idea, but there are the remnants of some sort of massive energy field in the area.”

“Hmph. That is unusual. We’re on our way. Olding out.”