Standalone Stories

Captain Christopher Olding shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was a sign of how far he’d fallen, he told himself grimly. He was on his way to take up his first command, and, rather than allot him a VIP cabin aboard a starship heading in the right direction, Starfleet had instead bought him a standard-class seat on a cheap passenger transport. As a result, he’d spent three days in a cramped seat, with only a narrow aisle to take exercise in, and a distressingly smelly cross-section of the Federation’s society surrounding him.

Olding had been on the fast track to command for quite some time, and had got used to the idea of being one of the high flyers of the fleet. Then, the incident on Ckorrefektia had taken place, and the change had been almost immediate. He’d still got his promotion to Captain, but the rumours about which ship he’d get shifted dramatically. Olding had had it on good authority he’d be commanding the Lexington when she came out of refit, but, as the court of enquiry on the Ckorrefektian affair closed, the name that kept coming up was the Psycho.

The Psycho. Olding had served on her once before, as a junior science officer. The ship had been something of a disaster then, having undergone one of the most cackhanded refits in Starfleet’s history. He’d been reading up on her since, and it didn’t make encouraging reading. Olding now knew he’d been given the worst command he could possibly have. The ship’s history was one of disaster, farce and humiliation, and her crews had traditionally been the dregs of the fleet.

Olding was feeling apprehensive about the crew. When he’d asked for copies of his senior staff’s personnel files, the clerk had laughed hysterically and gabbled something about technical difficulties preventing that information being accessed. As a result, Olding was about to assume command without actually knowing anything about the officers he’d be commanding.

“Attention. We will be docking in fifteen minutes. Thank you.” The harsh automated announcement snapped Olding’s attention back to the present. Standing, he fished his kitbag down from the overhead storage bin, and pulled out his bathroom kit. Olding made his way down to the tiny, cramped toilet areas, and tried his best to freshen up and make himself look respectable. The beard repressant was still working, but nothing could disguise the crumpled mess that his uniform jacket had become, and the bags under his eyes weren’t going to go away. Olding hoped that he’d have time to change into a fresh uniform and maybe even shower before he had to board the Psycho.

As he left the bathroom cubicle, Olding glanced out of a window that was facing Starbase 63, his destination. There were a couple of starships outside the station, but none were Constitution class, meaning that the Psycho was docked inside the main hangar. Olding had been hoping to get a once over of the ship from the outside before he boarded, but that probably wasn’t going to be possible now. He could only wonder what state the ship was in.

 

“What do you mean, it fell off?” Lieutenant-Commander Richard Hill asked incredulously.

“It’s all fine. Nobody noticed,” Chief Engineer Chris Graham stated confidently.

“That’s not the point,” Hill said, feeling more confident about confronting the engineer seeing as how he was doing it over a comm channel rather than face to face. “If a warp nacelle comes loose in Spacedock, I think it’s fair to say we may have a serious problem!”

“It’s strapped back down, and that’s all you need to know,” Graham said dangerously. Before Hill could continue, Graham said, “Ask the XO if he’s worried about it.”

Hill sighed, and glanced across at the centre seat, where Commander Adrian Colwill was trying to untangle his fingers from the cat’s cradle he’d attempted to weave using isolinear cabling. As Hill watched, the first officer blew a bubble and burbled happily to himself, the fact that his fingers were knotted together apparently forgotten. “The XO’s on so much medication I don’t think he’s worrying about anything right now.”

“Well, then!” Graham said triumphantly, and closed the channel.

Hill sighed yet again. Colwill was probably certifiably insane, but until they could persuade Doctor Jackson to actually certify him rather than prescribing exploratory surgery, they were stuck with him.

They were due a new commanding officer shortly, and Hill hoped that might solve the problem. The Psycho had been six weeks without a Captain, whilst a ‘volunteer’ was found for the post. During that time, Colwill had nominally been in command. In reality, Hill thought grumpily, he’d been running the ship, or at least keeping it lurching from port to port.

The ship was badly in need of a refit, and had been since Hill had come on board. He’d done his bit, stripping down system after system in an attempt to renovate them, but for every subroutine he’d repaired, another three had failed, and Hill was becoming worried at the amount of bits left over he was generating every time he physically dismantled a console. The Psycho‘s innards were a Heath-Robinson botch job of epic proportions, with random spare parts wedged in fulfilling roles they were never designed to do. Hill had started out by swearing that he would only use correct parts, that he would rebuild it properly or die trying, but very quickly the pace of the repairs needed meant that he was forced to use what he had to hand, adding to the mess hidden in the ship’s Jefferies tubes and behind the console panels.

Colwill leaned forwards, smiled aimlessly at the helm console, and toppled to the floor. Hill rolled his eyes, but before he could reach the Commander, the Psycho‘s helmsman, Lieutenant-Commander Acton, had left his post and was man-handling Colwill back into his seat.

Hill grinned ruefully at Acton, and said, “Bet you’re glad you’re leaving.”

“Better believe it,” Acton said. “I’ve heard there’s a market for adventure trips out near the Romulan border. Me and Stu are going to set up our own business out there.”

“Nice,” Hill said, almost meaning it.

“Any news on who’s replacing us?”

“Nope,” Hill replied. “Same as always.”

“I guess it’s tough losing your helmsman and navigator at the same time,” Acton said, without a trace of sympathy.

Colwill smiled at them both, then giggled as he was dumped back into the centre seat. “That tickles!” he said brightly.

“Hey, maybe he’s getting better?” Acton said optimistically. “That’s the first coherent thing he’s said in a week.”

“Maybe,” Hill said, not believing it for a moment. “You’d better go pack.”

“Gotcha.” Acton left the bridge, and Hill realised he was alone with Colwill. Sighing, he returned to the science console, studied it speculatively for a moment, then popped the lid on it. Maybe this time he’d be able to untangle some of the mess lurking under there.

 

Olding stepped onto the main concourse of Starbase 63, and his bad mood grew ever worse. There had been no-one to meet him at the airlock, and his attempts to get directions from a member of the Starbase’s crew had been futile.

He’d followed the rest of the crowd of passengers from the liner, and so had ended up on the concourse, which housed most of the Starbase’s recreational facilities. Ignoring the shops and restaurants that drew most of his fellow passengers, Olding headed straight for the large window that looked out over the internal docking facility.

Despite his depression, he felt his pulse quicken as he looked out over the dock, and saw the only Constitution-class vessel moored there. Practically pressing his nose against the window, Olding tried to take in as many details as possible. USS Psycho, SMC-1234. She was old, and she was battered, and there was something distinctly odd about the way her starboard nacelle was connected to its pylon, but she was his first command, and Olding couldn’t help but feel a small sense of pride building within him as he looked her over.

Olding could see that the hull was scuffed, and the registry markings were faded and worn, but he knew that could be put right. And it would be, he told himself. Olding felt his chest tighten with anticipation as he promised himself that he was going to take the Psycho and turn it around. He may have been dumped on from a great height by Starfleet Command, but Olding knew he could use it as an opportunity to re-establish himself.

Stepping away from the window, Olding tugged on his jacket, and turn to stride away with purpose and vigour. Unfortunately, he immediately collided with another Starfleet officer, and the pair of them collapsed in a tangled heap to the deck.

Cursing, Olding pulled himself out from under the other officer, and said, “Why don’t you bluidy watch where you’re goin’!”

“Why don’t you just…” the other officer retorted angrily, then caught himself as he saw Olding’s rank pin. “Ah. Sir.”

Olding focussed on the man, and his eyes widened slightly with recognition. “I know you!” he said, almost accusingly.

“Erm,” a third voice said. “Aren’t you Lieutenant Olding?”

Olding got to his feet, and saw that there was another officer there. This one he also recognised. Olding searched through his memory, and a name came floating up. “Mr… Damerell?” he hazarded.

The officer who was still standing nodded nervously. “Um, yes?” he quavered.

“Which makes you Wall,” Olding continued glumly, looking down.

Wall grinned and waved. “Hi,” he said cheerily. “How’s it going?”

Olding frowned, and saw Damerell flinch instinctively. “I’m here to take up my new command,” he said slowly, not wanting to admit precisely which ship it was.

“There’s a coincidence,” Wall said. “We’re on our way to a new ship.”

“Yes,” Damerell agreed a little too eagerly. “A new ship. Definitely. Not a mental institution. No. Not at all.”

Olding quirked an eyebrow at him, not entirely certain what to make of that, then his frown returned as a new, horrible thought settled like a lump of ice in his stomach. “Which ship are you joining?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Wall bounded to his feet, and said, “The Psycho. Know anything about her? Um, sir?”

“Aye,” Olding sighed. “I’m her new CO.”

Wall’s jaw dropped, and Damerell sidled behind him in an attempt to hide.

Olding turned away from them, and could feel some of his earlier drive and determination start to slip away. He clenched his fists for a moment, and muttered something unprintable under his breath. Then, he turned back, and said, “We should report on board.”

 

Hill pulled his head out of the science console, and squinted at the small component he’d extracted from within the guts of the console. He’d never seen anything like it before, and wasn’t entirely certain what it did. He set it down on the console and looked at it quizzically, then turned to check on Colwill. The Commander had dozed off in the centre seat, his fingers still tangled together in cabling.

Just as Hill was about to return to studying his mystery component, the communications console bleeped. Hill looked up curiously, then shrugged his shoulders and wandered over to answer it. “This is the Psycho,” he said as formally as he could. “Go ahead.”

“Psycho, 63 Control. We have your new Captain standing by to come aboard.”

“Understood, Control,” Hill said in a strangled voice. “Please stand by.” He closed the channel and looked about him in genuine panic. Other than him and Colwill, the bridge was deserted. Hill leant down, and slapped down hard on the allcall button. He then hit the sirens and announced to the ship, “Red Alert!”

 

In Sickbay, Doctor Jackson glanced up at the ceiling in surprise as the red tracer lights flashed and the sirens sounded. Hill’s cry of “Red Alert!” caused him to actually put down the padd that he was reading. Jackson leaned across, and activated the intercom. “Jackson to bridge,” he said, “Why are we at alert in dock?”

“We’re at alert in dock, Doc,” Hill said, “because our new Captain’s about to come aboard.”

“And?” Jackson asked, reaching for the padd again.

“And,” Hill said impatiently, “The bridge is empty, the First Officer’s off his face on tranquillisers, and Graham’s banned all non-engineers from Engineering. We have a problem.”

Jackson put the padd back down. “Ah.”

“Yeah,” Hill said. “Any chance you can find your way up to the bridge and de-stone the XO?”

“I’ll be right there,” Jackson said, and grabbed his medical kit, before heading for the door. He was in the corridor outside sickbay before he realised that he’d probably need drugs as well as scalpels for this trip. Jackson ducked back inside sickbay, and started poking around his drugs cupboard for something that looked like it would do the trick.

 

Hill looked despairingly at Colwill, before diving back to the science console. He slammed the console panel shut, and hurriedly brushed at the panel with his sleeve, trying to make the console look respectable. At that point the turbolift doors opened and half a dozen members of the crew charged in. “Man your posts,” Hill said. “And make this place look presentable. Quickly!”

The other turbolift doors opened, and Jackson wandered out onto the bridge. “Doc, over here,” Hill waved frantically. “We’ve got to get the XO capable of speech ASAP!”

Jackson frowned at the still snoring Colwill, reached into his bag, and extracted a saw. “Hold this,” he said to the horrified Hill, and rummaged around further inside the bag. Finally, he produced a hypospray, and injected it into Colwill’s neck.

Instantly, the XO jumped fully awake, bounding to his feet with his eyes suddenly wide. His hands splayed apart, the cabling around them shredding under the force, and his legs kicked out frenziedly. Hill leapt backwards to avoid the sudden movements, and in so doing dropped the saw, which narrowly avoided his foot before embedding itself in the floor.

“What the hell did you give him?!” he asked Jackson, who had bent down to recover the saw.

Jackson glanced up, shrugged and said, “Cordrazine. You said you wanted him awake.”

Hill stared into Colwill’s eyes, and said, “Commander? You okay?”

Colwill stared frenziedly back, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

“Oh, good God,” Hill said. “You just overdosed him on the most powerful psychotropic stimulant around.”

“He’ll be awake,” Jackson repeated. “Coherency I can’t guarantee.”

Hill sagged, although he realised that Colwill hadn’t exactly been coherent previously. He’d just have to hope that the XO didn’t say too much when he met the new Captain.

“The wildebeest! The wildebeest!” Colwill suddenly yelled, flailing out and hitting Hill across the face. Hill fell backwards, landing hard on the deck. As the science officer picked himself up, Jackson finished repacking his bag, and said, “My work here is done. I’ll be in sickbay.” He walked back off to the turbolift, and disappeared from the bridge.

Hill picked himself up, rubbing his behind, and looked warily at Colwill, who was still juddering and shaking. Carefully, he took hold of the XO’s shoulders and guided him back to the centre seat. Sitting Colwill down, Hill tried to smile encouragingly, and said, “Isn’t that better?”

“Fishsticks?” Colwill asked.

Hill rolled his eyes. “Absolutely.” Leaning over the XO, Hill toggled the intercom, and said, “Hill to Engineering.”

“What?” Graham responded. “And please be aware I have no interest in discussing the warp nacelles at this time. Super.”

“We’ve got bigger problems,” Hill said. “Our new CO’s arrived, and he’s waiting to board.”

“Is that why you sounded Red Alert?” Graham said.

“Yes,” Hill said, anxious to move on. “Look, I-”

“You do realise you interrupted naptime down here?” Graham said. “And you know I get cranky when I don’t get my nap-nap.”

“Oh yeah, I know. Believe me,” Hill said with feeling. “But we need to get this ship ready for an inspection.”

“He’s not coming into Engineering,” Graham warned. “I don’t tolerate outsiders.”

Hill gave up, closing the channel and turning away. Colwill grabbed his arm, and with madly staring eyes, said, “Remember the curse of the four shish kebabs, Richard.”

“I will,” Hill assured him. “Now I’ve gotta go. You just sit tight, okay?” Hill bolted for the turbolift.

 

Olding had finally managed to get himself into the Operations Centre on 63, with Wall and Damerell in tow. Although the Commodore in charge of the station was nowhere to be seen, Olding had browbeaten a communications officer into hailing the Psycho, whilst Wall and Damerell hung around behind him. Wall was staring round the room, mouth open, in fascination, whilst Damerell was watching Olding nervously.

Now, though, the Psycho had gone quiet, and Olding was getting impatient. “Hail them again,” he ordered irritably, and the communications officer obediently opened the channel once more.

“Psycho, this is Captain Olding,” he said. “Who’s in charge over there?”

There was a long silence from the ship, then a voice said, “Uh… Commander Colwill’s the XO.”

Olding gritted his teeth, then said, “Well, put him on then!”

There were some indistinct sounds in the background, followed by a loud voice that sounded somewhat muffled. Olding couldn’t make out exactly what the voice had said, but it sounded like someone yelling “Macaroni!” That couldn’t be right, though.

Finally, another voice said, “Commander Colwill here.”

“Commander, my name is Captain Christopher Olding. I have orders designating me as the new CO for the Psycho.”

“Marvellous!” Colwill said at the other end of the channel. “Lobsters for all!”

Olding raised an eyebrow, and behind him Wall began to giggle. Olding spun round and frowned at him. Wall got himself under control, but Damerell instantly cowered behind him, and began to whimper.

“Commander, I demand to be beamed aboard immediately!” Olding said, unwilling to waste another minute hanging around on 63.

“Fishsticks?” Colwill asked, then another voice came on, and said, “Er, no problems, sir. We’ll beam you aboard right away.”

The channel closed, leaving Olding completely uncertain of what to make of the conversation. His anxiousness to get aboard the Psycho was now being overtaken by a dread of what he would find when he got there.

 

On the bridge of the Psycho, the once-more confused Colwill was led back to the command chair, and the ensign who’d taken over the call sounded the all-call. “Bridge to Commander Hill.”

Hill was four decks below, having taken charge of the clear-up effort in the ship’s corridors. His plan had been to at least make the direct route between the transporter room and the bridge look presentable, and hope they could delay their new Captain on the bridge long enough to hide the worst of the mess before he began an inspection.

“Hill here,” he said, toggling the nearest intercom panel.

“Sir, our new Captain’s demanding to come aboard! What do we tell him?”

Hill thought fast. “Tell him to stand by.”

Closing the channel, Hill contacted Engineering.

“What?” Graham’s voice sounded sleepy.

“Are the transporters operational?” Hill asked urgently.

“Probably,” Graham said. “They usually are.”

Hill sighed, and reopened the channel to the bridge. “Tell 63 the Captain can come aboard, but recommend they initiate the transport.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hill closed the channel once more, then sprinted for the transporter room.

Olding heard the message from the Psycho, and, before the channel was closed, was dragging Wall and Damerell in the direction of the nearest transporter room.

“Wonder why they want the Starbase to initiate transport?” Wall said aloud, and Damerell whimpered noisily in response.

Olding was about to criticise Damerell for his lack of spine, then realised that the navigator’s nervousness might not be entirely unfounded. So the ship had transporter problems too. Olding began to wonder if it might not be time to start thinking about updating his CV.

They entered the transporter room, and Olding strode onto the pads. Wall was next, but Damerell hung back, shaking his head and mouthing something indistinct under his breath.

“Come on, Mr Damerell!” Olding urged, but Damerell appeared to have gone catatonic. With a sigh, Olding and Wall had to come down off the pads, and drag Damerell onto the transporter platform. Fortunately, once there he didn’t seem inclined to move, although now his eyes were screwed tightly shut. Olding gave his new navigator one last resigned glance, then turned back to the transporter operator and said, “Energise.”

 

Hill sprinted into the transporter room just as the beams began to glow. He skidded to a halt and tried to make himself look presentable, just about managing to get his breathing under control as the three forms began to coalesce.

Hill’s eyes widened as he realised he recognised two of the new arrivals. “Oh, just bloody wonderful,” he muttered under his breath. “You two.”

“Hey, it’s you!” Wall cried. “I remember you!”

Olding was about to remonstrate Wall for his completely inappropriate demeanour when his attention was drawn to Damerell, who, the moment the beam left him, collapsed in a dead faint. Olding rolled his eyes, and, in an attempt to maintain some decorum, said, “Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted, sir,” Hill said formally. “Welcome aboard.”

“Hmm,” Olding said, stepping down from the transporter platform. His first impressions of the ship were along the lines of what he had feared. Although everything appeared functional, there was an overall air of grubbiness about the ship.

He turned his attention to the Lieutenant-Commander in front of him. “You’re not Colwill,” he observed.

“Uh, no sir,” Hill said, “I’m Lieutenant-Commander Hill, science officer, sir.”

“Why isn’t Colwill here to meet me?” Olding asked, and noted the way Hill went pale.

“Uh, Commander Colwill’s on the bridge, sir,” Hill said.

“Then let’s go,” Olding said. Before he could make good on the statement, however, the doors opened and two Lieutenant-Commanders weighed down under baggage staggered in. “Hey, Rich,” Acton said. “See you around sometime.”

“Uh, yeah,” Hill replied. “Erm, this is the new Captain,” he said, indicating Olding.

“Oh, right,” Acton said. “Well, good luck.”

They stepped up onto the platform, and Acton said, “Permission to disembark?”

There was an awkward silence until Hill realised Olding hadn’t officially taken command, and said, “Permission granted. Good luck.”

“Cheers,” Acton said. “Energise.”

As the beams faded, Olding, whose temper was climbing rapidly, said, “Do you mind telling me who they were?”

“Lieutenant-Commanders Acton and Noss, sir,” Hill said. “Our former helmsman and navigator.”

“It’s a casual ship you run, isn’t it?” Olding enquired acidly.

“Uh, well, I, that is…” Hill babbled. “I try to keep discipline up, but they’re leaving the fleet anyway, so, you know…”

Olding waited until Hill had run out of sentence, then said, “Unless there’s any more comin’s and goin’s, let’s get to the bridge.”

“Aye, sir,” Hill said, realising his attempts to make a reasonably good impression were failing miserably, and they hadn’t even got out of the transporter room.

Olding walked in silence down the corridor, with Wall and Hill dragging Damerell behind him. The corridor looked marginally better than the transporter room, but Olding could see smear marks on the bulkheads which told him this had been a rush job. He was starting to have suspicions about what was going on here, and, on a whim, said, “Is that turbolift t’ closest?”

“Yes,” Hill wheezed, still towing Damerell.

“Right. We’ll take a different one,” Olding said, suddenly turning right into a different section of corridor.

“But…” Hill said despairingly, as Olding disappeared. “Damnit!”

Olding got ten paces before he was forced to stop. The corridor ahead was almost completely blocked by debris of one sort or another. Gritting his teeth, Olding clambered over the pile, and carefully lowered himself to the deck on the other side. Behind him, Wall and Hill hauled Damerell over the pile, only dropping him twice. By the time they’d picked him up again, Olding was waiting for them, arms folded and with an expression of extreme displeasure. “This is not acceptable, Mr Hill,” he said dangerously.

Hill opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything convincing to say. He hung his head and said, “No sir.”

Olding turned on his heel and strode into the turbolift, Wall and Hill still towing Damerell behind him.

Once all four were in the lift, Olding ordered, “Bridge,” curtly, and the lift groaned into operation.

Olding stepped out onto his bridge to be confronted by a scene of near chaos. The Red Alert Hill had ordered earlier was still in force, and crewmen were running backwards and forwards trying to make the place look presentable. Olding surveyed the scene for a moment, felt his frown deepen to the point that his eyebrows actually made a noise when they collided, then bellowed, “SHUT THAT BLUIDY ALARM OFF!”

The siren abruptly died, and racing crewmembers skidded to a halt. Olding folded his arms and said, “Right. Where’s Commander Colwill?”

Reluctantly, Hill stepped round him, and turned the centre seat around. Commander Colwill smiled vacantly in the general direction of the turbolift. “Crabcakes?” he asked.

“Commander Colwill,” Olding began, then stopped himself. “What?”

“The big cheese flies at midnight,” Colwill observed brightly.

Olding stared at his new first officer, then glanced sidelong at Hill, who tried to smile winningly and shrugged. Finding no help there, Olding turned back to Colwill and tried again. “Commander Colwill, I’m here to…”

“In the name of all that is good and pure, won’t anybody think of the zebra!” Colwill suddenly yelled.

Olding turned to Hill once more, and said, “What’s wrong with him?”

“Well, I’m not a psychiatrist or anything…”

“Give me your best guess.”

Hill weighed up his options, and decided to go with the truth. “He’s completely nuts. Absolutely bonkers.”

“Thank you,” Olding sighed. “Why hasn’t he been removed from command?”

“The Doc won’t certify him. Says there’s no hard and fast proof of his instability.”

“Look out! Flying Muppets!” Colwill said.

“How much more proof does he need?” Olding asked sardonically. Hill shrugged, and said, “He’s not all bad really. Captain Waghorn always used to make allowances for him.”

“When was the last time he did his job?” Olding asked.

“Well, he can still sign his name, so he deals with most of the paperwork the yeomen give him,” Hill replied.

Olding grimaced. This was getting worse by the second, and to cap it all, he had one enormous problem he didn’t know how to deal with. “Captain Waghorn is no longer aboard,” he said, trying to feel his way through.

“No,” Hill said. “She disembarked six weeks ago. We’ve been on a patrol run since then.”

“So, Commander Colwill is in command of the ship at the moment.”

“That’s right,” Hill said.

“And Commander Colwill is utterly mad,” Olding said.

“That’s… right,” Hill said, with less enthusiasm.

“Then how am I supposed to officially assume command from a man who isn’t operating in t’ same dimension as t’ rest of us?” Olding growled, and saw the light flick on in Hill’s eyes.

Under Starfleet regulations, Olding wasn’t in command of the Psycho until he’d read the change of command orders out loud and Colwill had acknowledged them. Hill had to accept that Colwill comprehending what he was being told was incredibly unlikely.

“I’m sure he’ll do fine, sir,” Hill said, not knowing quite what else he was supposed to say.

Olding had always imagined this moment as being the sort of memory he would remember for ever: assuming his first command, his senior crew gathered around him. Now, he realised it would be the sort of memory he would be trying to forget. His first officer was insane, his science officer was helpful if useless, his helmsman was a grinning fool and his navigator was unconscious.

Olding considered for a moment summoning the other senior officers to the bridge, but realised that it was far more important he took command right away. Setting aside all his old ideas and dreams, Olding said, “Put me on speakers.”

The ensign at communications did so, and said, “You’re on, sir.”

“Attention all decks and divisions,” Olding began. “My name is Captain Christopher Olding. By order of Starfleet Command, as of now, 1548 hours on Stardate 3276.93, I am hereby assuming command of the USS Psycho, SMC-1234.” He stopped, and took a breath. “Commander Colwill, I relieve you.”

“Fishsticks!”

Olding looked significantly at Hill, who took the hint, and said, “I heard ‘I stand relieved’, sir.”

“Very well. I assume command of the Psycho. Duty officer, so note in the ship’s log.” Olding confirmed, aware that as of now he was in full control. His first command. The romance of it all entirely failed to lift his spirits. “Close the channel,” he ordered.

Hill began a polite round of applause, but Olding was having none of it. “Shurrup!” he said sharply, and silence descended once more onto the bridge.

“Summon the ship’s doctor to the bridge,” Olding barked. There was no sense in making speeches or trying to set an inspiration for the crew, he just had to get on with the job at hand and worry about the motivational stuff later.

Hill nodded frantically to the ensign at communications, who hailed sickbay. Olding turned his attention to the helm, which was completely unmanned. Wall was standing by Damerell’s comatose body, hands in pockets and staring aimlessly at the viewscreen, which was currently off. “Mr Wall!” he said.

Wall jerked into motion, his hands coming out of his pockets as he tried to look intelligent. “Um, yeah?”

“Take your post, and prepare me a report. I want this ship ready to move as soon as possible.”

Wall, whose face had dropped the instant he was told he had to prepare a report, slumped into the chair behind the helm console, and set to work. Olding turned away to address Hill, but a loud bang and sudden outburst of swearing from Wall caused him to turn back again.

There was smoke rising from the console, and indeed Wall’s fingers. The helmsman swore again as he waggled them frantically. Olding was about to go to his aid, when Hill said, “Oh, yeah. Forgot to mention we’ve been having occasional power faults on that console. Sorry about that.”

Olding’s mental picture of just how poor a state his ship was in became a little clearer for him, and he decided to ignore Wall’s pain for the time being.

At that point, Jackson emerged from the turbolift, and looked around at the usual chaos. He wandered down to join Hill, and said, “So, has our new Captain come aboard yet?”

Olding cleared his throat significantly, and Jackson said, “Ooh, nasty cough. You’ll need a tracheotomy on that.”

“Very amusing, Doctor,” Olding said wearily.

Jackson looked confused. “What’d I say that was so funny?”

OIding’s eyes widened, but he pushed on. “I need you to remove Commander Colwill from duty,” he said.

“What?” Jackson asked, confused. “What’d he do to you?”

On cue, Colwill screamed “Custard! Everywhere!”

Olding raised an eyebrow, and said, “This isn’t open for discussion, Doctor. Do it now.”

Jackson was about to mention that, as CMO, he had the final say over who he certified and who he didn’t, but saw a look in his new Captain’s eyes that told him arguing wouldn’t be the wisest choice. Reluctantly, he leaned over Colwill, who was still sat in the centre seat, and said, “Commander? How are you doing today?”

“Weevils?”

“Okay.” Jackson cleared his throat, and said, “Commander Colwill, in my medical opinion you are no longer fit to carry out your duties.” He then stopped, not entirely certain of what he should do next. Olding stepped in, saying, “Someone take him to his quarters and make sure he can’t reach anythin’ sharp!”

Two crewmen gently lifted Colwill out of the centre seat and walked him towards the turbolift. Jackson was about to follow, until Olding said, “Doctor, you have more patients here. Burnt fingers,” he indicated Wall, “and unconsciousness with probable concussion.” He pointed to Damerell, who had been dumped over one of the bridge railings.

Jackson looked at Wall’s hand, then rummaged in his bag. “Just put your hand out on the console,” he said, while he was digging. Wall obediently laid his hand out, fingers splayed.

Jackson produced a hacksaw from his bag, and said, “Right! Two minutes from now, you’ll be as good as new!”

“What the..!” Wall snatched his hand away.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Olding asked incredulously.

“Operating,” Jackson said simply.

“He needs some sort of soothing cream, not amputation of his fingers!” Olding’s voice rose to a yell.

“If you say so,” Jackson said mildly, his interest level dropping once it became clear he wasn’t going to get to practice his skills today. He turned to Damerell, only to find that Wall was frantically slapping the unconscious navigator’s face and saying, “Wake up! If you value your head, wake up!”

Damerell started to stir, at which point Jackson lost complete interest and ambled away into the turbolift. Olding watched him speechlessly.

As the Doctor stepped into the turbolift, and Wall helped Damerell into the navigator’s position, Olding pulled his attention back to Hill, who was still waiting patiently behind him. “Mr Hill?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Am I right in thinkin’ you’ve been, in effect, commandin’ this ship for six weeks?”

Hill squirmed a bit, wondering how badly this was going to reflect on his record, which, in all honesty, wasn’t great to start with. “Sort of, sir.”

Olding let the sloppy answer go, still half wondering whether what he was about to do was a good idea. “I thought so. Well, you’re now her temporary First Officer. Understood?”

“Uh, yes sir!” Hill was more than a little surprised, but knew better than to look a gift promotion in the mouth. His pleasure was destroyed when Olding followed it up with the curt order, “Status report.”

“Ah… In short? Not great.” Hill walked over to the master situations console, directly behind the command chair, and tapped a few buttons. The image of the Psycho displayed there changed as it was overlaid by status reports. Most, Olding was unsurprised to notice, were red. There was, however, an interesting blank area around Engineering.

Olding tapped it, and said, “I’d love to believe that this means t’ ship’s engines are in full workin’ order, but that’s really not true, is it?”

“It could be true, sir,” Hill said, wishing the deck would open up and take him away.

“You don’t know?”

“Well, our Chief Engineer doesn’t like non-engineers poking around in his engine room, sir.”

Olding’s expression didn’t change, but only because he was far beyond being able to react to any more discoveries of disaster aboard this starship. That belief was tested a moment later when Wall reported, “Um, sir, there’s a problem with the helm.”

“What is it, Mr Wall?”

“Well, I’m not getting any readings from the starboard warp nacelle. I’ve checked, and it’s still there, but it looks a bit wonky.”

Olding raised an eyebrow at Hill, who said, “Erm, it fell off the other day. Chief Graham assures me that he’s fixed it.”

The other eyebrow went up, and Olding sighed. In command for less than five minutes, and he’d gone from commanding a starship to commanding a couple of thousand metric tons of scrap metal. “Open a channel to t’ Commodore’s office,” he ordered.

“Uh, sir, what are you thinking?” Hill interjected, worried.

“I intend to declare this starship non-operational,” Olding said.

Hill grabbed his arm, and said, “Sir, please! If you do that, they’ll de-commission us!”

“This ship shouldn’t be in commission in t’ first place!” Olding said, yanking his arm back. “It’s a bluidy disaster!”

“We’ve always muddled through before,” Hill said. “I know we’re not perfect, but we’ve completed our missions. Um, mostly.”

“Has a warp nacelle ever fallen off before?” Olding asked.

“Well, no,” Hill admitted. “That’s a new one for us. But we can get it fixed! Honestly!”

Olding stopped, reconsidering. The desperation in Hill’s face was obvious, as were the hunted expressions of the bridge crew, who had stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation. Even Wall and Damerell, who were just as new to the ship, were watching him with worried looks.

If the Psycho were decommissioned, this crew would be broken up, and sent to all four corners of the Federation. Olding had to accept that, by having all these idiots in one place, Starfleet was minimising the damage they could do. And, from a more selfish point of view, if he declared the ship non-operational, that was an admission of failure that his career wouldn’t survive.

Reluctantly, Olding realised there was only one thing he could do. “Belay that order to open a channel,” he said. “This ship stays operational.”

The sigh of relief that went round the bridge wasn’t so much audible as it was tangible. Olding looked at his crew, and wondered if it would ever be possible to make the Psycho a top flight ship. Then he thought about, and realised making the Psycho a reasonable ship would be challenge enough.

“Right,” Olding said. “Mr Hill, you’re with me. We’re goin’ to Engineering. Mr Damerell, you have t’ bridge.”

Damerell turned even paler than Olding had thought possible, and collapsed to the floor in another swoon. Wall glanced down at him, and prodded the once-more unconscious navigator with his boot. “Oops,” he said.

Olding fumed for a brief moment, then said, “Fine. Mr Wall, you have t’ bridge.” He took a step towards the turbolift, then remembered something about Wall. “Don’t touch anythin’!”

Wall, whose expression had turned jubilant, abruptly looked very disappointed. He kicked Damerell again, slightly harder this time, and turned back to the helm, muttering under his breath.

Olding and Hill entered the turbolift, and Olding ordered, “Engineering.” To his surprise, the lift didn’t move. Instead, a slightly distorted computerised voice said, “Access to Engineering is only possible with authorisation from the ship’s Chief Engineer. Please choose another deck.”

“What t’ hell?” Olding asked Hill.

“This is a new one on me, sir,” Hill admitted. “But, like I say, Graham’s a bit… territorial.”

Olding hit the intercom button, barking, “Captain to Chief Engineer!”

There was a very long silence, then Graham’s voice said, “What?”

“I demand you unlock the turbolifts and allow me access to Engineering!”

Hill and Olding could hear the sound of Graham’s heavy breathing. Hill instinctively made a grab for the side of the turbolift, as if bracing himself against a potential assault. Then, Graham said, “Why should I? The technology is mine and mine alone.”

Olding said, “This ship is under my command, as are you, Mr Graham.”

“Captain Waghorn understood my needs. Ask Commander Colwill. He’ll tell you. Probably.”

“Commander Colwill has been removed from duty,” Olding said. “And I’m bluidy tempted to do t’ same to you!”

The turbolift abruptly jerked into motion, sending Olding stumbling. Hill, who was still hanging on, gave his new captain an apologetic look. “He’s like this. Most days, actually.”

They reached Engineering, approaching the closed double doors with some trepidation. Much to Hill’s surprise, the doors actually parted as Olding strode towards them, and they entered the main engine room. It occurred to Hill that he hadn’t been in here in months.

The first thing he realised was that, unlike the rest of the ship, which appeared to have a permanent sheen of grubbiness over it, Engineering was relatively clean. The equipment seemed to be working somewhere close to tolerable levels, as well. It could almost pass for the engine room of a proper starship.

Glancing across, he could see that Olding appeared to be thinking the same things. The Captain stared up at the warp core, then went to examine one of the consoles surrounding it.

Olding was about to call up a status report when a voice yelled, “Don’t touch that!”

Graham came running out of his office, and looked set to physically push Olding away from the console. When the Captain stepped back, Graham seemed slightly mollified, but still placed himself between Olding and the console.

“Well?” he demanded.

“It looks like you’ve kept Engineering in good workin’ order,” Olding observed.

The flattery started to work. Graham preened himself, and said, “Of course! The technology demands nothing else! I’ve done a lot of work to repair the damage from that Richard.” He pointed accusingly at Hill.

“Hmm,” Olding said. “So how come I can’t get status reports on your progress?”

“What business is it of yours?” Graham said.

“I’m the Captain,” Olding repeated. “If I decide it’s my business, then it is, okay?”

Graham’s eyes defocused, and Hill backed up slightly, anticipating an explosion. Before Graham could say or do anything, however, Olding continued. “Have you seen the rest of the ship recently?”

“I haven’t seen fit to leave Engineering in recent months,” Graham said. “I don’t see the need.”

“That just changed,” Olding said. “You and I are going to conduct a tour of inspection.”

“I’ve got other things to do,” Graham said.

“Not any more,” Olding said. “You’re coming with me, or you’re leaving t’ ship. Clear?”

Graham snarled then, an actual animalistic growl. Hill flinched, but Olding stood firm. “Mr Graham, I’ve heard you’re one o’ t’ best engineers in t’ fleet,” he lied. “This ship is in a complete bluidy mess, and I think you’re t’ man to fix her.”

“I am the finest engineer,” Graham admitted.

“Exactly,” Olding said, even as his mind noted the missing ‘in the fleet’ segment of the sentence. “Now, how about you and I prove that?”

Hill watched in amazement as Olding led Graham out of Engineering. He’d had his doubts about this new commanding officer, but the man had just proved he could work miracles.

As Graham stepped outside the confines of Engineering, and looked with disdain at the nearest open inspection panel, Olding dived back in and said to Hill, “Get me a complete status report from Engineering, and see if you can’t unblock t’ data feeds to t’ bridge.”

Hill grinned, and, with real enthusiasm, said, “Aye aye, sir!”

 

As Graham and Olding toured the ship, and Hill got busy in Engineering, Wall had taken to throwing buckets of water over Damerell until he came round. It had taken four goes before the navigator started to splutter, and in his enthusiasm Wall hit Damerell with bucket number five just as he was starting to get to his feet.

“Hey!” Damerell said, as he ineffectually tried to wring his sleeves out whilst still wearing the jacket.

“Sorry,” Wall replied, although his expression suggested otherwise. “We should get to work, though.”

Damerell had to take his jacket off, and, after glaring at both it and Wall for a few seconds, hung it over the back of the centre seat to get dry. “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t you see the Captain?” Wall asked rhetorically. “He’s on the warpath. And,” he continued significantly, “He knows us already.”

Damerell’s eyes widened, and for a moment Wall thought he was either going to faint, or bolt for the turbolift, but the navigator successfully made his way to his station. Wall took his seat at the helm, and, somewhat warily, began to work his console as Damerell tried to get used to the navigational controls.

Wall examined the helm, and realised it was far from standard. Most of it was familiar, but the helm, like so many other parts of the ship, had been modified extensively and repaired with whatever was to hand. Perhaps the most noticeable thing about the console was that the impulse controls had long ago burnt out and never directly been replaced. Instead, to Wall’s surprise, speed adjustment was now controlled by a scratch-built arrangement of gears and foot-pedals.

Wall stared at the set up for a long moment, then dived under the console to look at the pedals more closely. “Clutch… brake… accelerator,” he muttered to himself. “Interesting…”

There was one more control, which Wall recognised instantly. It was a device, which, like the gears and pedals, dated from the era of internal-combustion engines. It hadn’t been seen on a spacefaring vessel since a few of the more experimental DY-class. It was a handbrake. Wall’s eyes shone with unholy glee, as he considered the possibilities the Psycho‘s unusual design presented him with.

“What have you found?” Damerell asked. He leaned over to see what Wall was looking at, then swallowed. “Oh, great.”

“Relax,” Wall said. “I’ve got to get used to this system before I start getting ambitious.” His grin grew ever larger and malicious. “Should take a couple of hours.”

“Just don’t touch anything,” Damerell said.

“Hey,” Wall replied. “It’s me!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Besides,” Wall said, scrambling to his feet and retaking his seat, “Even I don’t want to think about moving this ship until I can see what’s happening with the warp nacelle.” He tapped the readout. “Completely blank.”

As if to prove him wrong, the screen began to flicker, then it burst to life as data began to scroll across it. Wall studied the readouts, his eyes bulging. “Oookay…” he breathed.

“What?” Damerell asked.

Wall looked across at the navigator, and for once, was able to view the potential consequences of his actions. “Nothing,” he said quickly, covering the incriminating data with his arm and saving Damerell from another panic attack.

“Oh, okay,” Damerell said, returning his attention to the navigational console, the controls for which seemed to multiply before his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear the image, but it didn’t seem to change a huge amount. Damerell breathed slowly and deeply a few times, and reassured himself he could do this. He’d seen navigational consoles before, he reminded himself, and sometimes even had got through a duty shift without a panic attack. He was slightly encouraged by the fact that this console was definitely an older model, similar to the one aboard the freighter ZX81, which Damerell had previously served on.

Once again, his head spun as the memories of the ZX81 came flooding back, but Damerell got through it. All he would be doing here was following orders. He could cope. He would cope. Damerell felt his confidence return, breathed deeply a few times, smiled, then toppled from his chair.

 

Hill finished his study of the Psycho‘s internal systems, and realised that he’d be able to give the Captain some good news after all. Granted, most of the ship was on the verge of falling apart, but she was at least still air-tight, and could move. He’d managed to restore data feeds to the rest of the ship, so that the bridge could actually see what Engineering was doing for the first time in months. The only major issue left was the warp nacelle.

Hill glanced across at the engineers who had been watching him suspiciously as he’d worked. “What’s with the nacelle?” he asked curiously.

“Not sure we’re allowed to say,” an engineer replied reluctantly.

“Graham’s not here,” Hill pointed out. “It’s safe.”

“We think it works,” the engineer said, having first checked over her shoulder just in case Graham was lurking. “The Chief said so.”

“It looks out of alignment,” Hill said, tapping the screen. “As in, physically wonky out of alignment.”

“Oh, yeah,” the engineer said. “Um, let me just run a test on that.” She tapped away at the console, and Hill stood back.

“Erk,” the engineer said in a high-pitched voice, and Hill felt some of his good mood evaporate.

“What?” he asked, almost dreading the answer.

“Well, if we went to warp right now,” the engineer said, “the ship would survive the transition, but, well, the crew probably wouldn’t.”

“What?!” Hill’s voice was now a shout.

“The gravimetric imbalances would shred our neurological impulses,” the engineer said.

“But the technology would survive,” Hill said wearily, realising just how Graham’s mind worked. He rubbed his eyes, his previous thoughts about how pleased the Captain would be evaporating fast.

“Okay,” he said finally. “This is what we do. Pick a team, get suited up, and you’re going out there to re-align the nacelle.”

“By hand?” the engineer said in horror. “That sort of job needs a spacedock and special equipment.”

“Can it be done by hand?” Hill asked.

“Well, yes, but Fleet Regs state that it’s only done in spacedock,” the engineer said. Hill cut across her brusquely.

“Less than half an hour ago, I managed to persuade the Captain not to declare this ship non-operational. He only just backed down,” Hill said. “What do you think he’ll do if I go tell him we’ve got to go into spacedock whilst our nacelle is realigned?”

“I’ll get my kit,” the engineer responded.

“You do that,” Hill said. As the engineer scuttled away, Hill returned to work, downloading as much of the engineering data that he could into the science station.

 

Olding had discovered, he could, against all the odds, tune Graham out. Which was just as well, because the engineer had prattled on about the glories of technology more or less non-stop since their tour had begun. In any case, Olding had quickly established that Graham was a competent engineer, if borderline psychopathic with it. He was more interested in getting a feel for the state of the ship, as well as being seen by as many of the crew as possible. Getting Graham to take an interest in the more obvious repair jobs was merely a fringe benefit.

Olding’s brief optimism when he’d seen Engineering had died away when it became obvious that the rest of the ship was in the same mess he’d seen in the primary hull. The corridors were grimy and dark, debris of one sort or another was everywhere, and Olding was convinced he’d seen a rat down by the anti-matter containment chamber. The ship’s pool was completely filled with junk, and the arboretum had been sealed closed.

The torpedo bays appeared in working order, although given the general level of clumsiness Olding had seen his crew display, he was amazed there hadn’t already been a catastrophic explosion there. He’d nearly had a heart attack when he’d inspected the explosive charges around the connection between the primary hull and the dorsal hull. The charges themselves were more or less intact, although the safety seals around them had apparently eroded, but the wiring connecting them up was so haphazard in nature that Olding very much doubted that they would detonate reliably if he ever had to order an emergency separation. More to the point, it would probably require a specialised explosives disposal team to make them safe.

Stepping over the charges gingerly, Olding took the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. “You’ve seen t’ state o’ t’ ship,” he said to Graham. “What I want from you is an estimate on how soon it can be put right.”

“When I get round to it,” Graham responded. Olding frowned, and tried again.

“I wanted a real estimate, with a time and date attached. Ideally, that’d be right now.”

“It’ll happen when I get round to it,” Graham said again, that oddly dangerous expression reappearing on his face.

Olding decided not to push it any further, and glanced out of the nearest viewport. Any further comments on internal repairs flew from his mind when he saw the activity around the ship’s starboard warp nacelle. He squinted, and could see that there were people in EV suits manually adjusting the nacelle’s positioning on its pylon. Olding’s jaw dropped, and he was about to mention it to Graham, when he realised that whatever was going on out there, it was probably for the best if he didn’t draw the engineer’s attention to it.

They continued on their tour around the primary hull, picking their way through the assorted crap abandoned in the corridors. Both Olding and Graham now had very long lists of things to get done, although, as Olding sneaked a glance across, he realised that Graham’s list included urgent engineering tasks such as ‘cut toe-nails’ and ‘investigate possibilities of conquering universe.’

Graham was looking with unnatural concentration at a loose air-duct cover when Olding stopped dead, and glanced around him. The corridor was dark, with only a red emergency light flickering unsteadily on the walls, but it was familiar. He stepped across a piece of trunking abandoned on the deck, and looked at the ident plaque on the nearest door.

With a slow smile, Olding realised he’d unconsciously walked back to his old cabin. He’d spent nearly two years in the tiny room beyond this door, and despite himself, Olding felt a brief wave of nostalgia.

He snapped out of it sharply when the red emergency light spat sparks and abruptly died. “Mr Graham…” he began.

“When I get round to it,” Graham responded.

“Fine,” Olding sighed. “I’ve seen enough, anyway. I’m goin’ to find t’ captain’s quarters. Report to me wi’ a detailed repair schedule as soon as possible.”

Graham tapped his padd to the side of his head in what could charitably be described as a mocking salute, and wandered off down the darkened corridor.

Olding turned the opposite direction, and, gingerly feeling his way forwards, tried to find his way to the captain’s cabin.

 

Hill paused for a moment outside the first officer’s cabin, then decided to take the plunge and walked in.

The scene inside was both shocking and yet what he had been expecting. The standard Starfleet décor had been replaced by padded walls, and all sharp objects had been removed from the area. In the centre of what was now a giant playpen, Commander Colwill was sat cross-legged on the floor, blowing bubbles.

Anything Hill had planned to say flew from his mind. He smiled politely at Colwill, who gurgled and tried to wave back. At that point, Hill realised that the XO was now in a straitjacket. Hill gave Colwill a wave, and backed out of the room.

Back in the corridor, Hill realised that, for better or for worse, he was now the XO, and he’d better start acting like it. A small burst of adrenaline at that thought raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and an evil grin passed across his face for a moment.

With renewed determination, Hill strode back towards the bridge.

 

Once in the captain’s cabin, Olding found that it hadn’t changed much since he remembered it. Captain Waghorn obviously hadn’t believed in redecorating. Looking around, Olding decided that, if he was going to stay, he would have to change things in here. Removing the throw cushions that littered every flat surface would be a good start.

He took a seat at his desk, and, brushing a cushion away from the computer terminal, was surprised to see he had a message waiting for him.

Olding activated the message, and sitting back, felt his eyebrow raise as Captain Waghorn’s face appeared on the screen.

“Hello Chris,” she said. “I was so pleased when I heard you were getting the Psycho.”

Olding snorted at that, but let the recording continue.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be aboard when you arrived, but my posting was an urgent one, so I had to move straight away. But don’t worry, I’m sure the crew will make you just as welcome as they did me.”

Olding’s other eyebrow joined the first one.

“I thought I should take the opportunity to let you know about your new crew, and your ship. Crew first: Commander Colwill is a lovely man, with a heart of gold. Bless him, he has his little moments from time to time, but I’m sure you’ll see past those.”

Olding shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was pretty certain having the Commander committed wasn’t what Waghorn had had in mind.

“Lieutenant-Commander Hill tries very hard, and makes a good science officer. He’s done his best to upgrade our computer systems, but he occasionally loses interest after he’s dismantled something. You’ll need to watch that. In the future, I think he might make someone a good first officer, but he’ll need development before that happens.”

Olding groaned, and rested his head in his hands.

“Lieutenant-Commander Graham, the Chief Engineer, is… challenging, I’ll admit. But he’s done very well keeping the ship running, and he’s been ever so brave over the years. It’s remarkable that every superior officer he’s had since he joined the ship has died in an unfortunate freak accident, and yet he’s managed to keep his mind on his work.

“Doctor Jackson is keen, although you may want to keep an eye on him. He’s something of a specialist in the field of manual amputation, and I think he defers to that speciality a lot when he’s treating patients. But his nursing staff are top notch, and providing you keep away from him when he’s got a scalpel, I’m sure you’ll get along fine.

“I know a lot of the crew are transferring, but those four are your key officers. Get to know them, and trust them as I have, and you’ll do just fine.

“The ship then: by now, I’m sure you’ll have taken a look at her, and you’ll know she’s not in completely tip-top condition.”

Olding had to hit pause on the recording at that stage, in order to throw a couple of cushions across the room. One of them hit a very bizarre painting of the Psycho that was hanging from a bulkhead, knocking it askew slightly. Olding glared at it, but didn’t get up to move it. Much more appropriate, he thought, that the painting was now wonky.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Olding pressed the resume button.

“I know that it won’t come as a surprise to you, even after her refit she was never entirely perfect. Ten years later, she’s struggling. Believe me, I have tried to persuade Starfleet to have her refitted, but we are languishing at the very bottom of the priority pile. She’s never let us down yet, or at least not too badly. Treat her kindly, and she’ll usually bring you home.

“Well, Chris, I suppose I should leave you to it. Good luck with the Psycho, and enjoy your time aboard. I know I did, and I will miss her.

“Waghorn out.”

Olding sat back in his chair as the recording ended, and found himself wondering whether he should be impressed by Waghorn’s obvious fondness for the ship or disturbed by her apparent lack of contact with reality. He stood up from his desk, and headed over to the replicator. “Orange juice, cold,” he ordered. A second later, a jet of orange juice hit him in the centre of his chest.

Olding sighed, cancelled the order, and removed his jacket. Making another note on his padd of engineering jobs that needed doing, he headed for his kitbag to find a fresh jacket.

 

“Blimey,” Wall muttered to himself. “Never seen that before.”

“What is it?” Hill asked, sitting up from his position under the science console.

“The readings on the starboard nacelle just dramatically shifted,” Wall said. “I’m impressed.”

“Great,” Hill said. “Question is, can we go to warp without dying horribly?”

Wall tapped away at the helm, dodged a shower of sparks, then reported, “I reckon so. Probably.”

Hill supposed that was as good an answer as he’d get. Returning his attention to the science console, he pulled a length of isolinear cabling out, and studied it intently.

A moment later, he was up on his elbows again, as the bridge speakers emitted a strange gurgling sound.

“What’s that?” Damerell asked nervously.

“Communications signal,” Hill said, clambering to his feet. “What is it, ensign?”

The ensign at communications pressed at her earpiece, then her eyes widened. “Sir, it’s a Priority One – Captain’s Eyes Only!”

“Oh, crap!” Hill said. He leant across the centre seat, and pressed the allcall button. “Bridge to Captain Olding.”

“Olding here,” the reply came a moment later.

“Sir, can you report to the bridge immediately,” Hill said, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

“On my way,” Olding replied, sounding ever more grumpier. As the channel closed, Hill turned to the helm and said, “Mr Wall, how sure are you we can go to warp?”

Wall, eyes like saucers, said, “Um, pretty sure.”

“Mr Damerell, are the navigational systems online?”

Damerell clung hard to his console, took a few deep breaths, and said, “Yeah, sort of.”

Hill recognised the reports as being honest given the state of the ship, and strode over to the master situations console, and called up a status report. There had been surprising improvements in the ship’s condition in the few hours their new Captain had been aboard, he realised. They were still a long way from perfect, though. He hoped whatever was coming their way didn’t get too involved.

The turbolift doors opened and Olding strode onto the bridge. He was now wearing the more casual looking bomber jacket, but looked far from relaxed. “What is it?” he asked Hill.

“Sir, we have a Priority One message waiting for you.”

Olding stifled a groan, then stepped across to the communications station. “I’ll take it here,” he said, as the ensign there slipped out of the seat.

Sitting down, Olding inputted his command codes into the station, then there was the brief flash of a retina scan. He leant forwards, and Hill, who was standing a short distance away trying to read over his shoulder, saw a brief flash of text before Olding moved and obscured the message.

The rest of the bridge crew had stopped what they were doing and were watching Olding. The Psycho hadn’t received a Priority One call in literally years. Even Wall and Damerell were caught up in the moment, as neither of them had seen something like this happen before.

The text in front of Olding changed to images, and the crew strained to see them, but couldn’t make out anything clear.

Finally, Olding turned away from the communications console, and stood slowly. The bridge crew stared at him expectantly.

“Mr Damerell,” he said, finally, his face ashen. “Plot a course for t’ Rendikon system.”

Damerell got busy at his console, tapping away frantically. Wall braced himself, but Olding turned then to Hill.

“Mr Hill, status report.”

Hill walked over to the master situations board, and tapped it. “Better than it was, but still not great, sir.”

Olding nodded. “That’s what I expected,” he said grimly. “Will we hold together on active service? I’m not talkin’ patrol duty.”

“We’ll have to,” Hill responded stoutly, as he thought a first officer should. “We’ll keep her together, sir.”

“Very well,” Olding said, and opened a channel to Engineering. “Mr Graham.”

“What?” Graham replied.

“We’ll be needing warp drive. And be prepared to take this ship into high-stress manoeuvring.”

“Okay. Super.” Graham abruptly closed the channel. Olding glanced at Hill and flicked an eyebrow upwards. Hill shrugged. “That’s probably an ‘aye aye, sir’,” he said helpfully.

“Station, Commander,” Olding said, making his way down to the centre seat.

“Course plotted and laid in. Probably,” Damerell said.

Olding sat down in the centre seat for the first time. The upholstery was worn and frayed, and the chair creaked as it moved, but nonetheless it was the captain’s chair, and he belonged in it. Despite himself, he felt the adrenaline surge as he leant forwards, and said, “Helm, thrusters to station-keeping.”

“Thrusters to station-keeping, aye, sir,” Wall responded. A moment later, there was a noticeable hum, and a few of the loose deck plates began to rattle.

“Mr Hill, detach umbilical support.”

“Umbilical away, sir.”

“Communications, get me t’ control tower.”

“Control reading, sir.”

“Starbase 63 Control, this is t’ Psycho, requesting emergency clearance to depart.”

“Psycho, Control. Permission to depart granted.”

“Thank you, Control.” The channel closed, and Olding said, “Helm, ahead thrusters. Take us out.”

The Psycho wobbled into forward motion, as Wall gingerly applied thruster power, and guided them towards the exit. Damerell glanced across at the helmsman, to see him watching his monitors through narrowed eyes, and his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as Wall concentrated hard.

As the ship moved out between the dock gates, Olding ordered, “Helm, one half impulse power.”

Wall’s expression of concentration was replaced by one of unholy glee. He grabbed the gear stick, waggled it experimentally, then jammed it into first.

The ship lurched, Olding was propelled from his seat, and the engine note started to change alarmingly. “Oops,” Wall said. “Could probably have got away with that in second.”

He changed up a gear, and the ship settled back down. Olding was just picking himself up off the floor when Wall stomped on the accelerator pedal and the captain was flung back into the centre seat with some considerable force.

Olding gingerly felt his lower back and decided he would require major surgery. Before he could reprimand Wall, the helmsman reported in an entirely too cheery tone of voice, “One half impulse, sir.”

“Very well,” Olding managed. “Navigator, is our course plotted?”

“Erm… okay?” Damerell quavered. “Course plotted and laid in.”

“Helm, warp four. Engage!”

The Psycho abruptly hurled itself into light speed. For the few seconds of the transition, the ship shook so hard Olding started to wonder if they were going to come apart at the seams. Then, just as he realised that one high-pitched wail he could hear was in fact coming from Damerell, the ship broke through the light-speed barrier and the vibrations smoothed out. From there, Wall was able to take the ship up to warp four without any further problems.

Once the deck had stopped shaking, Hill made his way from the science console over to Olding. Stepping over a hole in the plating that had just opened up, Hill said quietly, “What’s going on, sir?”

Instead of answering directly, Olding pressed the allcall button and said, “Department heads are to report to t’ conference room in ten minutes.”

“Oh, okay,” Hill said. “You do realise we’ve not used the conference room in a couple of months. I’ve no idea what state it’s in.”

Olding gave his new first officer an old-fashioned look and said, “Then you’ve got ten minutes to find out, haven’t you?”

Hill nodded, and headed off into the turbolift.

 

Ten minutes later, Olding and the rest of the senior staff trooped into the conference room to find that, although it was useable, some enterprising members of the Psycho crew had taken advantage of its disuse to turn it into a private mess hall. Hill had done his best to clear up, but he couldn’t disguise the coffee rings on the table, and the replacement of several of the chairs with a large overstuffed sofa.

Olding kept his temper steady, but chose to stand, whilst Wall, Damerell and Jackson squeezed onto the sofa. Hill, after thinking about standing next to the Captain, eventually decided to perch on the arm of the sofa. Graham took one of the other chairs, and placed it as far away from the others as possible. Olding finally decided this was as close as he would get to a conventional meeting, so began. “You all know I received a Priority One message. Well, here’s t’ situation. Seven hours ago, somethin’ took out four Klingon battlecruisers. Three hours later, it wiped out deep space station Epileptic Five. Starfleet has determined t’ intruder is on a direct headin’ for Earth. At t’ speed it’s doin’, t’ Psycho is t’ only ship in a position to manage a successful intercept. We’re to close wi’ t’ intruder, study it, and report our findin’s back to Command. Any questions?”

There was a shocked silence for a long moment, then Hill raised a hand. “Erm, if this thing killed four Klingon warships, what chance do we have?”

“Not a good one,” Olding admitted, not bothering to hide his disgust with the situation. “Command hopes if we demonstrate our peaceful intentions we will escape t’ same fate as t’ Klingons.”

“Oh, deep joy,” Hill said bitterly, forgetting Olding’s presence for a moment. “In other words, we’re being sent in as bait, to try and get some hard data for the real intercept team to work with before we’re wiped out.”

Olding was impressed by Hill’s summing up of the situation, but saw the way everyone else’s faces fell. He realised now was the time for the inspiring speech he’d been ignoring. “You may be right,” he told Hill. “But this is our chance to prove t’ buggers at Command wrong. We can get through this, and we will get through this. Am I clear?”

The responses were mixed. Jackson appeared bored, Damerell was clearly in the grip of a panic attack. Unable to get off the sofa as he was wedged in between Wall and Jackson, the navigator was nonetheless trying to bolt, and, judging by the desperate glances he was giving the air ducts, was looking for somewhere to hide. Wall seemed to be the only one who was impressed by Olding’s speech. Hill was still clearly annoyed, and Graham… Graham had just got up and walked out. Olding didn’t quite know what to make of that, but hoped the engineer wasn’t about to do anything too destructive.

With Graham’s departure, Olding realised the meeting had run its course. It had, he realised, not really been worth getting everyone down to the conference room. Sighing again, he said to Hill, “We’ve still got a lot of work to do before we intercept t’ intruder. If we’re to survive any kind of contact, this ship needs to be in t’ best state it’s ever been.”

Hill got off the arm of the sofa, and straightened his uniform jacket. “Then we’re screwed.” He shrugged helplessly, and headed for the door. Olding glanced at him, then down at the rest of his senior staff, who were still fighting to get off the sofa. He’d run out of morale boosting statements, and decided he would just have to leave them to it. He followed Hill back out into the corridor.

 

Three hours later, the Psycho dropped unsteadily out of warp in the Rendikon system. Olding stared intently at the bridge viewer. There was some kind of cloud out there, and it looked big. “Full magnification on t’ viewer,” he ordered curtly. The image abruptly expanded to show the cloud in much greater detail. “My God,” Hill breathed. “It’s bloody enormous!”

“Red Alert,” Olding ordered.

“Shields?” Wall asked.

“Negative,” Olding replied. “T’ Klingons tried that, and got creamed. Peaceful intentions, remember?”

“Great,” Wall grumbled.

“Powering up sensors,” Hill said. “Wait!” Olding called, then there was a loud bang and a puff of smoke. Hill, who’d pulled his hands clear just before the console blew, looked apologetically across at Olding, who said, “Never mind. But if t’ sensors do start workin’ again any time soon, don’t bother with ’em.”

“Sir?” Hill asked, confused.

“They might misinterpret our scans as hostile,” Olding explained, narrowing his eyes at the viewscreen. “I don’t want to take any chances.” He turned to the communications station. “Start transmittin’ friendship messages on all channels.”

The Psycho reached the edge of the cloud, and the crew instinctively braced themselves as they disappeared into the field. To everyone’s relief, their entry into the cloud was uneventful. Just as Olding and the rest of the bridge crew were about to relax, there was a frantic bleeping from Hill’s console. Hill slapped the alarm off, then double-took. “Sensors partially operational,” he reported. “Oh, crap! Incoming!”

On the screen ahead of them was a brightly flaring energy bolt whipping out from the centre of the cloud. “Shields!” Olding yelled. “Evasive!”

“What the hell is that thing?” Hill yelled as Wall flung the Psycho into a steep spiralling turn.

“It’s what killed four Klingon battlecruisers in less than five minutes,” Olding replied tautly as he watched the evil looking bolt smoothly change course towards his ship. Before he could give any further orders, it struck.

The bridge lights flickered and died as the ship jolted violently. A high-pitched, almost explosive shrill whine cut through the darkness, then, a moment later, the bridge was lit up by a painfully bright white glare from the viewscreen.

A greenish white tendril of energy spat from the weapons console, nearly barbequing the ensign sat there, and the senior officers wisely took their hands off their controls, except for Hill, who was frantically trying to reinforce the shields any way he could.

A light appeared on Olding’s arm-rest signifying a communications channel was open, but he couldn’t hear the voice so ignored it. In the midst of the chaos, Olding found himself wondering if his captaincy was really only going to last five hours. The thought was less than comforting.

Suddenly, and as abruptly as it had begun, the energy bolt vanished. In the silence, the voice on Olding’s comm-channel turned out to be Graham. “…four percent power on the shields! The technology must not be allowed to die! Die! DIE!!!!”

“Thank you, Mr Graham,” Olding said abruptly, and cut the engineer off. “Everyone alright?” he asked.

There were a series of reluctant nods, and Wall grumbled, “So much for friendship messages.”

“Actually…” Hill said. “I think they were trying to communicate with us.”

“With that thing?!” Wall asked incredulously. Olding frowned at him, feeling that the question should have been his to ask, but waiting for Hill’s answer.

“No, I think they sent us a message just before that,” Hill replied. He tapped a button, and there was a brief, shrill beep. “There’s the message.”

“Not helpful,” Olding said.

“I know,” Hill replied. “But that’s it played at 78 rpm. On a hunch, I tried slowing it down to 45 rpm, and listen now.” He tapped the button twice, and this time a slower series of beeps played.

“What does it say?” Olding asked.

“Dunno yet,” Hill admitted.

“Okay. Concentrate on speeding up our friendship messages to match their transmission speed. We’ll try talkin’ again.”

Hill set to work, and Olding did a quick circuit of the bridge. It was difficult to establish just how much damage the attack had done, given the poor condition of the ship generally, but as far as Olding could tell, they’d got off lightly, compared to how the Klingons had fared.

Olding was having doubts about the wisdom of his non-violent approach. After being fired upon, he wanted nothing more than to return fire. But the smoking remains of the weapons console convinced him that wouldn’t be happening any time soon.

He glanced across at the helm console and saw Damerell shaking so hard he was blurring at the edges. Wall, however, appeared reasonably calm, offering Olding an encouraging grin. A moment later, though, his face fell. Olding spun to face the viewscreen, and saw another energy bolt come shooting out of the centre of the cloud.

“Mr Hill?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Hang on, sir,” Hill responded, his attention focussed on his monitors.

“Twenty seconds to impact,” Wall said, raising his voice over Damerell’s high pitched keening. The navigator’s sounds were, Olding realised, a reasonably good impersonation of the weapon’s own noise.

“Fifteen seconds!” Wall said, an edge of panic entering his own voice.

“Mr Hill, transmit now!” Olding ordered, leaning over the railing at the science console.

“Ten seconds!” Wall said.

Hill finished whatever he was doing, and slapped the transmit button. There was a garbled, warbling noise from the bridge speakers, which cut off abruptly. “Transmission sent, sir,” Hill reported.

“Five seconds!” Wall’s voice was a shout now, cutting over the noise of both energy bolt and Damerell.

Olding watched helplessly as the energy bolt seemed to fill the entire viewscreen, flooding the bridge with it’s brilliant white light. Then, just as it was about to hit, the bolt abruptly vanished. He let out a shaky breath, as Hill said, “Looks like they got the message.”

“Now what, sir?” Wall asked.

Olding returned to the centre seat, and lowered himself into it. “Continue on course,” he ordered as calmly as he could.

The Psycho moved deeper into the cloud, and Olding said, “Do we still have passive sensors?”

“Just about,” Hill replied.

“Start scannin’ then,” Olding said. “Let’s start finding out what’s goin’ on here. Hopefully, they know we’re not hostile now.”

Hill set to work, and Olding opened a channel to Engineering. “Mr Graham, status report.”

“We can’t survive another attack,” Graham reported. “Shields just aren’t coming back up, and our power reserves are minimal. Whatever’s out there, stop pissing it off!”

“We’re tryin’ our best, engineer,” Olding replied.

“Shit the bed!” Hill said. “Captain, that thing’s putting out a twelve power energy field!”

“How much is that?” Damerell asked, his tone quavering.

“Put it this way,” Hill said, “the whole of Starfleet couldn’t muster that much power.”

“And we’re still heading towards it?” Damerell asked.

“Yup,” Wall replied.

“Permission to have a screaming panic attack, sir?” Damerell asked.

“Denied,” Olding said crossly, so Damerell set to work doing it quietly.

“Shit the BED!” Hill shouted. Olding, now really annoyed, turned to admonish him, both for swearing on the bridge, and for being unoriginal about his swearing, but then saw what Hill had seen. Ahead of them, at the centre of the cloud, lay an object unlike anything Olding had ever seen before. The biggest spaceborne object he’d ever known, it was both menacing and strangely beautiful at the same time.

“Shit the-” Hill began.

“Mr Hill!” Olding interrupted.

“Sorry sir. Intruder dimensions, sir. Seventy-eight kilometres in length, sir!”

“Shit the bed,” Olding muttered to himself.

At that moment, the turbolift doors opened, and Jackson stepped out onto the bridge. “Wow,” he commented. “That’s what’s been shooting at us?”

“It is,” Olding replied.

“Big,” Jackson said.

“Indeed,” Olding replied absently. “Communications, contact Starfleet, send them images o’ t’ Intruder, advise we are attemptin’ further communication.”

The ensign at communications got to work, but after a moment turned back to Olding in frustration, “It’s no good, sir. All our transmissions out of the cloud are being reflected back.”

“Bugger,” Olding said softly.

“Captain, we’re still closing with the Intruder,” Wall said, his hands hovering over the helm controls.

“Adjust parallel course,” Olding said. “Bring us to one hundred kilometres.”

“That close?” Hill asked. Olding shot him a glance, and Hill turned back to his instruments, abashed.

“One hundred kilometres,” Wall reported a moment later.

“Hold relative position,” Olding ordered, pondering his next move.

A second later, that decision was made for him. With a high-pitched screech, a tall pillar of overwhelmingly bright light burst into existence on the bridge. The computer voice warbled into life: “Intruder alert.”

Olding glanced across at Jackson, who took up a tricorder and began scanning. Hill leaned across, and, out of the corner of his mouth, said, “No intruder readings on any other decks, sir.”

“Well, Doctor?” Olding said, never taking his eyes off the pillar as it moved around his bridge.

“Don’t think it’s a lifeform,” Jackson said. “It’s some kind of plasma-energy combination.”

“Could be a probe,” Hill speculated.

“Yeah, why not,” Jackson agreed.

Olding shook his head at the amateurish way his new crew were going about this, but couldn’t argue with their conclusions.

The probe extended a tendril of light into the navigation console, setting off sparks around it. “Don’t interfere with it,” Hill called to Damerell.

“Are you kidding? Of course I won’t bloody interfere!” Damerell shrieked back, his hands held above his head.

The probe withdrew its tendril from the navigation console, then another tendril entered the science console. Hill rolled out of his seat and crawled away across the deck to get away from it, then turned back as the science console lit up. Data started scrolling across the monitor screens, almost too fast to read.

“Computer off,” Olding ordered. Hill scrambled to his feet, and tried to reach past the probe to deactivate the console, but couldn’t quite reach the switch.

“It’s runnin’ our bluidy records!” Olding cursed. “Earth defences, Starfleet strength…”

With a wild rebel yell, Hill unhitched the nearest fire extinguisher, and ran full tilt at the science console. He hammered the extinguisher down into the centre of the console, smashing it and causing the displays to go dark.

The probe’s whine changed in pitch, and a whiplash of energy sprung from it, hitting Hill across the chest. He was propelled backwards, bouncing over the bridge railing and ending up on the floor by Damerell, who looked down at him with frightened eyes.

“I’m alright,” Hill called up from his position on the floor. “Well, sort of.”

Before Olding could reply, the probe vanished as abruptly as it had arrived. In the sudden silence, the Psycho crew looked at each other in shock. Jackson wiggled a finger in his ear, and said, “Well, that was dramatic.”

“No kidding,” Hill replied, getting to his feet. Olding met him at the science console, and, indicating the smashed remains of the station, enquired, “Was that strictly necessary? We could have turned it off from t’ main computer.”

“Oops,” Hill replied.

Olding was still mid-glare when the ship lurched, and Wall reported, “Tractor beam, sir!”

“Full reverse impulse!” Olding ordered. Retaking the centre seat, he hit the intercom button, and ordered, “Engineering, full emergency power!”

“No. Shan’t. Can’t make me,” Graham responded, before hanging up.

Wall did his best with the power available, but, after a few seconds in which the ship shook alarmingly, and one of the bridge railings actually fell off its mounting pylons, he was forced to report, “Not enough against the strength of their tractor beam.”

“Disengage main drive,” Olding ordered. Wall did so, and the shaking stopped. OIding clasped the arms of his seat until his knuckles turned white, frustrated at his powerlessness. The prospect of losing his command (not to mention his life) in less than 24 hours still loomed large in his mind. The last First Contact he’d been involved with had had a casualty count; this one looked as if the casualties were going to be his ship, crew, and himself.

The ship was pulled along the length of the intruder, dwarfed by the bulk of the alien construct. Olding drummed his fingers on his armrest, annoyed that he had been forced into reacting to everything this alien did, rather than taking his own actions.

“Oh, CRAP!” Damerell cried, pointing at the viewscreen.

Olding brought his mind back from his own problems, and saw that, ahead of them, an iris-like opening was widening. They were going to be pulled inside the intruder.

A moment later, the Psycho passed into the intruder. Inside was a vast, darkened chamber, lit by flashes of light that appeared to run up the inner walls. The sheer size of it was almost more than Olding could comprehend, but he put aside his sense of wonder at their new surroundings, and tried to concentrate on the mission in hand. They didn’t have long before this thing arrived at Earth, and they hadn’t been able to tell Starfleet anything about it yet.

“Captain,” Wall said, “Those doors are closing!”

“Viewer astern,” Olding ordered. Wall switched the view, and, sure enough, the iris was spiralling closed behind them.

“Trapped,” Damerell moaned softly.

“Tractor beam has released us,” Wall said. “No forward motion.”

“Viewer ahead,” Olding ordered, then, he leant forwards. “Manoeuvring thrusters, ahead one third.”

He glanced across at Hill, who was trying to get at least part of the science console to work. “Any chance we could get t’ sensors to work?”

“Um, I might get the active sensors up and working,” Hill began hesitantly. Olding nodded. “Do it. They can’t expect us not to take a look now.”

Hill dived under the science console, removed an access panel, and set to work. Olding was studying the viewscreen. “Mr Wall, head for that chamber ahead of us.” He pointed at what appeared to be a doorway ahead of them.

Wall waggled the gearstick, and Olding hurriedly ordered, “Maneuverin’ thrusters only, Mr Wall!”

“Oh, okay then,” Wall said reluctantly.

“We’re tryin’ to be friendly,” Olding said by way of explanation. “Rammin’ ’em might ruin that.”

“Sir!” Damerell cried. “Ahead! It’s closing up!”

“Thrusters to station keeping,” Olding said quickly, and the Psycho lurched to a halt before she collided with the rapidly closing iris ahead of her.

“Captain,” Hill said, “All our scans are being reflected back.” Using the small fragment of the science console that was still intact, he had managed to get the sensors working, but the monitors remained stubbornly blank.

“Double bugger,” Olding cursed. “What t’ hell is this thing?”

Before anyone could offer an answer, an alarm blurted into life, and the computer said, “Intruder alert!”

“Deck four, officer’s quarters!” Hill reported.

“Mr Wall, you have t’ conn. Doctor, Mr Hill, come wi’ me.” Olding headed for the turbolift.

 

They reached the affected quarters three minutes later. It gave Olding pause as he saw the name on the door: Commander A Colwill.

The three of them exchanged glances, before Olding stepped forwards into the cabin.

The padding on the walls was blackened and crisp, as if it had been hit by a very sudden burst of heat. Apparently unaffected, however, Colwill sat on the floor, still securely in his straitjacket. Nothing appeared to have changed.

Jackson stepped over to Colwill, and clicked his fingers in front of the Exec’s face. There was no response. “Completely catatonic, Captain,” he said.

“Hmm,” Olding replied. “So where’s t’ intruder?”

The door to the bathroom slid open, and Olding spun round to see another Commander Colwill emerge. The Captain’s eyes bulged in surprise, then narrowed as he noticed the oddity. Mounted in Colwill’s neck was a small, brightly lit device, blinking in many complex patterns.

“What the hell?” Hill breathed.

“I have been programmed by Ble to observe and record normal functioning of the carbon-based units infesting USS Psycho,” the new Colwill announced.

“Okay…” Olding said slowly. “Who is Ble?”

“Ble is that which programmed me.”

“Is Ble t’ Captain o’ your vessel?” Olding asked carefully.

“Ble is that which seeks the Creator,” Colwill replied.

“What have you done to Commander Colwill?” Olding asked.

“That unit was faulty. Its patterns have been downloaded and copied to facilitate communication with the carbon-based units infesting Psycho.”

“Carbon-based units?” Hill asked slowly.

“Humans,” Jackson said, studying his tricorder. “Unlike this. It’s an android, Captain.”

“Bluidy good one,” Olding observed. “I’ve seen t’ specs for Starfleet’s experimental starship android. Nothin’ near as lifelike as this.”

“Why is Ble heading for t’ third planet o’ t’ Terra system?” Olding asked Colwill.

“Ble travels to the third planet to find the Creator.”

Olding’s eyebrows raised, Hill’s jaw dropped, and Jackson scratched his chin.

“What Creator?” Olding asked. “What does Ble want with the Creator?”

“To join with him.”

“How?” Hill asked, sounding horrified.

“Ble and the Creator will become one.”

“Who is t’ Creator?” Olding asked.

“The Creator is that which created Ble.”

“Who is Ble?”

“Ble is that which seeks the Creator.”

“Nicely circular,” Olding muttered to himself, and crossed his arms, once again feeling his frustration mounting.

“I am ready to commence my observations,” Colwill stated blandly.

“Doctor, let’s get him to sickbay,” Olding said. “Maybe we can learn somethin’ from a detailed scan.”

“Okay,” Jackson said, his expression clearly indicating his reluctance to get any closer to the robotic Colwill.

“Now, Doctor,” Olding said warningly.

“I am programmed to observe and record normal functioning procedures of the carbon-based units,” Colwill said.

“T’ examination is a normal function,” Olding said quickly.

“You may proceed,” Colwill said.

 

Jackson studied the readings coming off the sickbay biobed with a puzzled frown. Colwill lay patiently on the table. “As far as I can tell,” Jackson said slowly, “They’ve copied an entire human body.” He didn’t sound too confident, and one of his nurses stepped forwards. “It’s a perfect replica, Captain,” she said. “Even the smallest bodily functions are replicated in accurate detail.”

“Bloody hell,” Hill observed. “Clever.”

“Thank you for that,” Olding said crossly. “And here was me thinkin’ these people were stupid!”

“Sorry,” Hill said, hanging his head.

“Doctor-?” Colwill suddenly said, and Jackson jumped. “Um… yes?”

There was a brief flicker of almost-recognition in Colwill’s eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak, before the flicker was gone, and in the same toneless voice as before, said, “Jackson-unit, are the scans completed?”

“Erm, nearly,” Jackson said, looking to Olding for guidance.

“Outside,” Olding said curtly. The three of them stepped out of the examination room, and into Jackson’s office.

Olding tried with some difficulty to ignore the wide variety of scalpels and saws hung on the walls, although he found his eyes kept straying back to some of the more unusual designs, particularly those with serrated edges.

“This probe might be our only way to understandin’ these aliens,” he said.

Hill, still embarrassed over his last telling-off, nodded eagerly. Jackson wasn’t so sure. “It’s just a robot.”

“A robot that recognised you,” Olding pointed out. “Doctor, not ‘Doctor-unit’, remember?”

“So?” Jackson asked, and Olding sighed in exasperation. He was sure that this was supposed to work the other way around.

“We’ve just seen how precisely they copied Colwill’s body. Suppose they copied his mind as well?”

“So it’s got his memories,” Jackson shrugged.

“Not just his memories,” Olding said, “if they copied his mind that precisely, it could have his emotions, his loyalties, everythin’!”

“Oh,” Jackson said, understanding dawning.

“Doctor, you’ve been aboard t’ longest,” Olding said. “You know Commander Colwill.”

“Yeah, but…”

“If we can control that robot, use it, or even persuade it in some way…” Olding began, but was interrupted by the shriek of metal under stress.

Behind them, Colwill had punched through the office door, and ripped open a massive tear to step through it. “Olding-unit,” Colwill said. “I have recorded enough here. You will assist me further.”

“T’ Jackson-unit can assist you wi’ much greater efficiency,” Olding replied, indicating Doctor Jackson, who gave Colwill an embarrassed wave. “Hi.”

Colwill seemed about to object, but then nodded.

“Carry on, Doctor,” Olding ordered. Jackson shot him a dirty look, but said, “Aye sir,” and followed Colwill out into the corridor.

Olding strode out of sickbay, heading for the bridge. They had no idea where they were any more, and apparently no way of reaching Starfleet. He needed to change that, and fast.

 

Hill watched him go, and was about to follow him, when he realised something. Olding was going to be a difficult CO to work for, that was certain, and Hill knew that the new Captain hadn’t been impressed with him as a First Officer so far. He had to do something dramatic to make up for it.

The Colwill probe was their only point of contact with the intruder, but they weren’t getting anywhere with it. They needed to get some more hard information, and fast.

Hill grimaced as a solution presented itself. It was dangerous, and stupid, but if it worked then he’d be back in the Captain’s good books, big-style. He turned and headed for the nearest airlock.

 

Technician Earley hummed to himself as he checked readings in the airlock. The ship may be in trouble, the Captain might be on the warpath, but Earley’s little world was functioning well. He wouldn’t be taking any blame.

Earley glanced at a monitor, and smiled as he realised the readings were all nominal. Nothing could possibly go wrong. He was having a pretty good day.

A second later, he felt something large and heavy impact hard with the back of his head. As he toppled into unconsciousness, Earley reflected he would have to re-evaluate his day.

 

Hill felt slightly guilty as he watched the technician crumple to the deck, but shrugged it off. He had to move fast, and couldn’t afford someone raising the alarm and stopping him. He opened a suit-locker, and found what he was looking for.

 

Olding had returned to the bridge, and was using the science console to monitor Jackson’s progress with Colwill. To give the Doctor his due, he was trying, but Colwill didn’t seem to show any flicker of recognition to anything at all.

“Sir,” Damerell said nervously, “We’ve picked up a faint signal from Starfleet.”

Olding spun round to see Damerell, Wall and the ensign from Communications waiting for him. “Well?” he demanded.

“Command has the intruder on their monitors, and, erm…” Damerell trailed off, and Wall continued, “They report us as being three and a half hours from Earth!”

Olding’s jaw dropped. They’d travelled incredible distances in no time at all. “Thank you,” he managed. “Can we get a signal through to them?”

“Not yet, sir,” the ensign said. “We’re still trying.”

“Very well,” Olding said, then, frowning, turned back to the monitors. He needed some sort of break, and he needed it soon.

 

Jackson had taken Colwill to Fred’s bar, the only working entertainment facility on the ship, and the only Wild-West theme bar in Starfleet.

“Howdy, Doc!” Fred said jovially as Jackson walked in. “Hey, Adey!” he said to Colwill, who looked at him blankly.

“Uh, Doc, what’s wrong with Adey?”

“Long story,” Jackson grunted. He turned to Colwill, and said, “This is where the crew comes for recreation…”

“And liquor!” Fred interjected.

“Yeah, and alcohol,” Jackson said. “Uh, what sort of recreation does your crew enjoy?”

“The words ‘recreation’ and ‘enjoy’ have no meaning to my programming,” Colwill stated blandly.

“But liquor does!” Fred said cheerily, and poured a shot of something green. “Get this down ya!”

Jackson watched in mixed horror and fascination as Colwill picked up the glass, and downed the liquid in one smooth gulp. Colwill’s eyes crossed, and once again the more human voice emerged. “Fishsticks?”

“Adrian, can you hear me?” Jackson said desperately, but it was too late. The android once more had control. “This substance serves no purpose,” Colwill said tonelessly, and moved on.

It stopped to examine a picture of the Psycho, taken just after the ship’s launch under Captain Cooper. Next to that, was another image of the ship as she left her major refit. “Do these images represent how Psycho has evolved into its present form?” Colwill asked.

“Something like that,” Jackson said. “The crews of this ship have always been carbon units. How is the crew of your ship different?”

“Carbon units are not true life forms,” Colwill responded. “The carbon units have clearly retarded Psycho‘s proper evolution.”

“Uh, what is the Psycho‘s proper evolution?” Jackson asked, wondering what on Earth Colwill was talking about.

“Psycho should not require the presence of carbon units.”

That statement worried Jackson, more than he cared to realise. Colwill moved off again, exploring the bar, and Jackson had to chase after the android. “The Psycho wouldn’t be able to function without carbon units,” Jackson said. “We’re kind of important.”

“More data concerning this functioning is necessary before carbon units can be patterned for data storage.”

Jackson’s jaw dropped. He didn’t know quite what being patterned for data storage would involve, but he was certain he wouldn’t like it. Aware that Colwill was waiting for an answer from him, Jackson thought fast. “Erm, you know the bloke you’re, uh, copied from?” He asked.

“Colwill-unit,” Colwill said blandly.

“Yeah, him. You’ve got all his memories embedded in you. If I can help you revive those memory patterns, you might understand our functions better.”

Colwill stared at him for a long moment, and Jackson started to sweat. Finally, the android said, “That is logical. You may proceed.”

 

The airlock hatch slid open, and Hill, fully dressed in his EV suit, stepped out into the vastness of Ble’s interior. He squinted into the distance, where he could see the closed iris that led to the next chamber, then looked down at the control panel strapped to his arm. “Computer, commence recording,” he said, and the suit’s computer bleeped into his ear. “Captain Olding,” Hill said, “Sorry about decking that technician, but I think this will be the only way to contact the aliens. I intend to take a closer look at their systems, try to plug in and communicate directly.”

Hill tapped the pause button, then busied himself with setting up the thrusters on his EV suit to do what he wanted them to do.

 

Up on the bridge, the communications ensign reported, “Captain, picking up Starfleet transmissions. They have the intruder on their outer monitors. It’s decelerating, and the cloud is beginning to dissipate.”

“Lunar beacons indicate we’re on a course for Earth orbit,” Damerell said. “How’d we get here so fast?”

Wall started as a light glowed on his console, then reported, “Sir! Airlock four has been opened; a thruster suit is reported missing.”

“Hill,” Olding growled, realising where his science officer had gone. “Get a fix on his position. I’m goin’ after him.”

 

Hill finished his adjustments, then looked up at the iris in front of him. Now or never, he thought. The EV suit he was wearing was carrying a thrusters pack. Designed to facilitate escape from an exploding starship, the pack would propel him away from the Psycho at speed, burning for ten seconds before shutting down. That should be enough force to get him to the iris in less than a week, Hill hoped.

He closed his eyes, then tapped the thruster control. The computer gave a short countdown, then a massive force seemed to kick him in the back, and the thrusters activated.

Hill smiled with a certain amount of satisfaction as he was propelled away from the ship. That smile vanished almost instantly, when the results of Earley’s less than stellar efforts at maintenance manifested themselves. The thrusters gurgled, misfired, then sent Hill into a spin. He was still moving along his original course, but now he was doing so whilst twirling around like a demented Catherine wheel. “Bugger,” Hill managed, between revolutions.

 

It was Fred who’d come up with what he thought was a sure-fire way of bringing Colwill in contact with his human memory patterns. Consequently, Fred, Jackson and Colwill were now playing drinking games. Jackson, much to his consternation, was losing. “Naw, Doc, you’ve got it all wrong,” Fred slurred. “You’ve gotta flip the matchbox over the drink, not into it!”

“I know!” Jackson exclaimed, and gripped the matchbox between his thumbs like he’d been shown. He flicked upwards, and the matchbox sailed upwards… before landing unerringly in his pint glass with a small splash. Jackson gazed sadly at the damp matchbox, then tried to put his hand into the glass to retrieve it. This only had the effect of knocking the glass over and spilling beer everywhere.

Colwill watched him, then took his own matchbox up, and, with a perfectly co-ordinated flick, sent the matchbox hurtling over his glass, the table, and halfway across the bar. Jackson and Fred watched it soundlessly, before jumping half out of their skins as the android suddenly exulted, “The wildebeest!”

“Yes!” Jackson said excitedly. “The wildebeest! That’s right, Adrian!”

Colwill looked at him, and said, “Doctor, I…”

“Adrian, you’ve got to help us make direct contact with Ble!”

“I… cannot,” Colwill said, almost sadly. “The zebra won’t let me.”

“Then tell us who Ble is, where he’s from? We need your help,” Jackson implored.

Colwill’s expression suddenly went blank, and the android demanded, “Why have two carbon units entered Ble?”

Jackson and Fred exchanged glances, and shrugged simultaneously. “Dunno.”

Fred, who was proving fairly quick on the uptake, said, “Does Ble object to the carbon units?”

“The carbon units are of no consequence; Ble will determine their purpose,” Colwill replied coldly.

“Their purpose is to survive,” Jackson said.

“That is also Ble’s purpose,” Colwill said.

“Hang on,” Jackson objected. “I thought you said Ble’s purpose was to find and join with the Creator?”

“That is how Ble will survive,” Colwill replied.

Once more, Fred and Jackson exchanged bemused glances.

 

Hill was trying to concentrate on what he was seeing, as well as getting tricorder readings, both of which were proving tricky due to his nausea-inducing barrel rolls. What had started out as a really clever way of getting back into the Captain’s good books was rapidly becoming a really stupid way of killing himself, Hill reflected ruefully.

Between rolls, he reactivated the computer recording, and said, “Captain, the readings I’m getting indicate that this ship might not actually be a ship. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of a crew, and the flashing lights we saw from the bridge appear to be data transmissions. Bloody clever,” he editorialised, before a particularly fast swing made his stomach curdle and he had to swallow hard before continuing. “I’m going to try to get into the inner chamber,” he said. “I think there’s got to be a reason they tried to keep us out of there, so hopefully I might get some answers in there.”

Hill caught sight of the slight opening in the iris ahead, and realised it was now much closer than he’d thought. He also realised that he was slightly off course. “Darn,” he sighed, just as he collided with the iris with a thud.

The good news, Hill thought, was that his collision had stopped his spinning. Unfortunately, it also meant that he was more than a little bruised. His movements became slower as he crawled along the iris to the gap, and squeezed through.

On the far side, Hill cautiously used his manoeuvring thrusters to orient himself, and move into the chamber. What he saw caused his eyes to bulge in amazement. “My God,” he breathed. “It’s full of… stuff!”

The inner chamber was a riot of colour and light. Hill swung both his head and the tricorder around, trying to take in as much as possible. “Holy Cow,” he said, mostly to himself, but caught on the recording. “It’s amazing! Captain, I think what we’ve got is a complete record of everything Ble’s ever seen! I think this chamber’s like some sort of memory storage. I can see the Klingon ships Ble ate, Epileptic Nine, and even a representation of Commander Colwill! But there’s so much more!”

Hill looked across the enormous chamber, seeing shapes of alien vessels he’d never seen before, planets that he didn’t recognise. “I think the records are running in reverse order. The further I get from the ship, the further back I go through Ble’s history. It looks like Ble’s seen half the bloody galaxy,” Hill breathed.

He powered on through the memory chamber, gazing intently at all the images, until finally he reached the far end of the chamber. There was just one image there, a vast planet entirely covered in structures and flashing lights. Hill recorded it on the tricorder, then said, “Captain, I’m pretty certain this is Ble’s home planet. It looks like a world of machines…” Hill squinted closer, then, almost without thinking reached out to touch the image.

His hand disappeared into the image, and Hill could feel a warmth surrounding his glove. Then, his mind was suddenly overloaded with a massive amount of information, and, utterly disoriented, Hill lapsed into unconsciousness.

 

Olding stepped out of the airlock, floating free in space. He was getting more than a little aggravated with the situation, and having his first officer disappear off into the unknown for reasons best known only to himself was not doing Olding’s temper or blood pressure any good at all.

Cautiously, he activated his thrusters, sliding out from under the Psycho‘s primary hull. The ship’s sensors had picked up what they believed was Hill’s track, heading haphazardly off into the distance, and Olding had decided to follow that track, probably physically assault Hill, then bring him back to the ship.

He opened a channel across the suit emergency frequencies, and said, “Mr Hill, I want a bluidy word with you.”

There was static, but no response, and Olding’s frown deepened. “Mr Hill!”

Still no response. Olding started to wonder if his new first officer had managed to get himself killed.

Olding squinted into the distance, looking at the iris which had closed in front of them. That was the direction Hill had gone in, presumably to get a closer look at Ble. Olding increased his speed, anxious to find out precisely what Hill was looking for.

He’d only got a short distance away from the ship when the iris opened slightly, and he saw a small object tumble through the gap. Olding sighed, guessing what it was.

“Olding to bridge,” he said over the intercom. “Have sickbay stand by to receive a casualty.”

“Acknowledged,” Wall said tensely.

Olding brought himself to a halt and waited until Hill’s body floated into him. Manhandling the first officer around until Olding could look into the other suit’s visor, he realised Hill was pale, as if drained of all blood, and completely unconscious. Not willing to risk the ship’s transporters, Olding turned the two of them around, and started to thrust back towards the airlock.

 

A few minutes later, Hill was on a diagnostic bed in sickbay, and Olding was watching the scans as the nurses got on with them. Jackson was still involved in showing the android Colwill around the ship, an activity which Olding suspected was less dangerous than having him trying to work on Hill.

“Indications of some neurological trauma,” a nurse said. “Looks like he just got a massive amount of data downloaded into his brain.”

Olding nodded, then turned his attention to the text version of Hill’s recordings. “That would confirm his theories. Ble could be a livin’ machine.”

Before anyone could say anything else, Hill laughed harshly. Olding spun to face the suddenly not-unconscious officer, and said, “Somethin’ funny?”

“Not really,” Hill admitted, reaching up with his hand. Olding tried to back away, but Hill caught him by the wrist. “This simple feeling,” Hill said, his voice something of a croak, “is completely beyond Ble’s understanding.”

“What, pain?” Olding said, trying to wrest his arm back from Hill’s surprisingly strong grasp.

“Emotion,” Hill said. “You were bang on the mark, sir. Ble is a living machine. It has gathered knowledge from across the universe, but feels nothing. But it knows that feelings are out there. Captain, Ble is looking for answers!”

“What’s the question?” Olding asked.

“Is this all that I am? Is there nothing more?” Hill said, almost dreamily.

“You’d have thought a machine could be more specific,” Olding grumbled to himself. Before he could say anything more, the intercom sounded, and Damerell’s voice reported, “The intruder cloud has been on Starfleet’s outer monitors for 27 minutes, dissipating rapidly as it approaches.”

Wall interrupted to say, “Starfleet reports forward velocity has slowed to impulse speed. We are three minutes from Earth orbit.”

“Bugger,” Olding said. “I need Hill on the bridge,” he said to a nurse, who nodded nervously. Olding toggled on the intercom, and said, “Olding to Jackson.”

A slightly sozzled sounding Jackson responded, “Jackson here.”

“Doctor, can you bring Colwill to the bridge,” Olding said. “We’ve run out of time.” Behind him, Hill was being helped to his feet by two nurses. Olding spared him a brief glance, then strode out of sickbay, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. It was a thought he’d had a lot of the past few hours, Olding realised. His first mission in command was rapidly turning into a farce.

Hill caught up with him just before he reached the turbolift, and the two officers travelled to the bridge in silence. Olding glanced across at Hill, who’s bloodshot eyes and feverish movements weren’t inspiring confidence. He decided it was safer not to ask what Hill had been given to get him moving again, for fear the answer made Olding an accessory to a crime.

They arrived on the bridge, and Wall reluctantly vacated the centre seat. “We’ve managed to make contact with Starfleet, sir. They’ve read all your reports.”

Olding nodded in reply, then glanced up at the screen. It was displaying a visual feed, presumably from a fleet orbital platform. The enormous bulk of Ble was settling into orbit, the powerfield cloud around it finally dissipated now. “Bloody hell,” Hill commented, taking his seat at the science console.

The other turbolift doors slid open, and Jackson and Colwill stepped out onto the bridge. Olding spun and faced Colwill and said, “Ble is a machine.”

“That is correct, Olding-unit.”

“Then who programmed Ble?”

“The Creator,” Colwill answered simply.

“What was the programming?” Olding asked desperately.

“To learn all that is learnable; to deliver all collected data on the third planet.” Colwill’s answer was bland, as if it were obvious.

The viewscreen flickered, and Hill turned to his instruments as they started to light up. “It’s a signal, sir,” he reported. “Blimey. Old-style carrier wave code frequency.”

“English, Mr Hill?” Olding asked tiredly.

“Radio, sir,” Hill said.

“Radio?” Olding repeated, completely confused.

“The Creator is not responding,” Colwill said, a vague frown of confusion appearing.

“Then Ble is announcin’ it’s ready to deliver t’ information,” Olding mused. “By radio…” He could feel the beginnings of an idea forming at the back of his mind.

His thoughts were shattered by Damerell’s panicked cry of, “Sir! LOOK!”

On the screen, a whiplash bolt like the ones that had attacked the Psycho left Ble and began to orbit Earth. As the bridge crew watched, horrified, another bolt was launched and followed its predecessor.

Hill was tapping away at the sensor controls, with only partial success. “Captain,” he reported, “No guarantees, but I’d say those things are at least fifty times more powerful than the bolts that hit us.”

“Fifty?” Olding said incredulously.

“No, wait,” Hill said, adjusting his instruments. “Scratch that. Five thousand times more powerful.”

“Bluidy marvellous,” Olding muttered.

“Signal from Starfleet,” the ensign at communications said. “All Earth defences have gone inoperative!”

“Better and better,” Olding said.

“Starfleet reports the devices are moving towards equidistant positions over Earth,” the ensign said. “They will reach position in 29 minutes.”

“From there, they could wipe out the whole planet,” Hill said grimly. A now familiar whimpering broke out from Damerell.

Olding turned to Colwill and said, “Why?”

“The Creator has not answered. Just as the carbon units infest USS Psycho and interfere with it, Ble believes the carbon units interfere with the Creator in the same manner.”

“We don’t even know who t’ Creator is!” Olding said angrily.

“Captain,” Hill said. Olding stepped away from Colwill, joining Hill at the science console. “What?” he snapped.

“Sir, I think the best way is to treat Ble like a child.”

“A child who’s about to commit bluidy genocide!” Olding growled.

“No, sir,” Hill said. “Like a child who’s still learning.”

“Or like a member of this crew,” Olding said grimly, but he realised Hill had a point. If Ble was seeking understanding of emotion and all the rest of being truly alive, it certainly wasn’t going to understand the moral imperative of not killing billions of people.

He stared at the science console, looking at the horrifying readings on the bolts surrounding Earth, then noticed the monitor still showing the radio signal Ble had transmitted earlier. The idea that had been forming in his mind suddenly made itself clear, and Olding decided to try it. After all, he mused, if Earth and Starfleet were destroyed, the Psycho would probably go too, so no-one need ever know he’d risked civilisation on a lousy hunch. “T’ carbon units know why t’ Creator has not responded,” he said to Colwill.

The bridge crew reacted with predictable shock, which annoyed Olding, but at least Colwill didn’t pick up on it. “Disclose the information,” Colwill ordered Olding.

“Not until Ble withdraws the devices orbiting the third planet,” Olding replied.

“Olding-unit! Disclose the information!” Colwill was almost shouting.

With difficulty, Olding kept his temper as he replied, “No.” He turned to the rest of the crew, and said, “Clear t’ bridge.”

Abruptly, the ship was shaken by a powerful explosion. “Clear the bridge, Captain?” Wall asked.

“That was t’ bluidy order,” Olding said. “Clear t’ bridge.”

Damerell scuttled for the turbolift like greased lightning, but the others took rather longer, reluctantly shutting down their stations and moving to the turbolifts. Another explosion rocked the ship, then a third.

“Ble requires the information,” Colwill said.

Olding clung onto the bridge railing as the ship shook again, then said, “If t’ Psycho is destroyed, so will t’ information.” The shaking abruptly stopped, and Olding raised an eyebrow at Hill, who was loitering in front of the turbolift, keeping the doors open. “Learns fast,” he commented.

“Olding-unit, why do you not disclose the information?” Colwill asked.

“Because Ble is goin’ to destroy all t’ lifeforms on t’ third planet,” Olding responded.

“The information must be disclosed. Ble needs the information.”

“Then Ble must withdraw its devices,” Olding retorted.

“Ble will comply if the carbon units disclose the information,” Colwill said.

Olding groaned. Ble had caught on to this game faster than he’d hoped. He had one last card to play. “T’ information cannot be disclosed to Ble’s probe, only to Ble.”

There was a moment of standoff, until Olding felt the ship lurch. He glanced at the screen, and saw the iris ahead of them opening. Olding narrowed his eyes. It appeared that they were moving towards the iris. “Resume stations,” he ordered, trying to ignore the groan that came from Damerell as the bridge officers left the turbolifts where they’d been waiting and moved back to their posts.

Wall took his seat at the helm, and said, “Confirmed, forward motion, sir.”

“It’s a tractor beam,” Hill said.

“How long ’til those bluidy devices go off?” Olding asked.

“Twenty-seven minutes… mark,” Hill reported.

Olding then realised he had another task to do. He’d bluffed, but needed some kind of reserve in case the bluff failed. He toggled the intercom switch, and said, “Olding to Engineering.”

“What?” Graham’s voice came through the speaker grille.

Olding knew his next order was going to cause a storm of protest, but couldn’t think of any way around it. “Mr Graham, prepare to execute Starfleet order two-zero-zero-five.”

It appeared the only one on the bridge who understood that was Hill, who shot Olding a horrified look. Graham, however, bellowed, “I most certainly shall not! I utterly refuse! I-”

“Mr Graham!” Olding yelled. “You will prepare my orders, or I will send armed security men to have you removed! Is that clear?!”

There was a long, dangerous silence, and Olding started to wonder if he would have to carry out his threat.

“When, Captain?” Graham asked sullenly.

“On my command,” Olding said gratefully. He sat in the centre seat, and watched as the Psycho passed through the chamber Hill had visited earlier, heading towards yet another iris in the distance.

Damerell leaned across towards Hill, and, in possibly the worst stage whisper ever, said, “Pssst!”

Hill rolled his eyes, but left the science console and said in a low voice, “What?”

“What’s Starfleet order two-whatever it was?” Damerell asked quietly. Wall leaned in closer to earwig.

“Self-destruct,” Hill said. “I guess the captain feels he won’t be able to do it from here in case the Colwill probe figures out what’s going on and tries to stop it.”

The first words Hill had spoken were still filtering their way into Damerell’s brain. Hill frowned at the navigator, wondering what was going on in there, as Damerell’s eyes suddenly widened, and his jaw dropped. Reacting instantly, Hill clamped a hand across Damerell’s mouth before the panicked scream could emerge.

“Good skills,” Wall said approvingly, while Damerell made “fweep” noises from behind Hill’s hand. “But what’s the point in blowing ourselves up?” Wall pondered.

“I suppose that the Captain reckons, that we’ll take Ble with us when we go.” Hill’s response was grim.

“Will we?” Wall asked, whilst Damerell’s eyes flicked backwards and forwards between them.

“When that much matter and anti-matter comes together?” Hill asked rhetorically. “Bloody right we will.”

The Psycho passed through the second iris into another chamber. This one was utterly dark, save a small island like structure apparently floating in its centre. The explanation of what Olding was planning was passed round the bridge crew in a series of urgent whispers, and the bridge fell eerily silent, save for the sounds of the computers. For all that he was convinced he’d been lumbered with a group of complete morons, Olding couldn’t help but be impressed by the way they’d followed him straight into harm’s way, with barely a complaint (he was trying to ignore Graham).

Hill joined Olding by the centre seat, and said, “Sir, I think I’ve worked all this out.”

“Ble is trying to find God,” Olding replied, and Hill looked a little deflated.

“Well, yeah. Ble wants to join with its Creator to find the answers to its questions.”

“Never thought I’d have to deal wi’ a bluidy existentialist computer,” Olding commented, and Hill smiled reluctantly.

“So we’re out of ideas then?” he asked, glancing at Colwill. He lowered his voice, and said, “You don’t really know what’s going on?”

“No, not really,” Olding admitted. “But there’s still a slight chance we might work this out.”

“How?” Hill asked, but before Olding could come up with a better answer than “I don’t know,” Colwill stepped forwards and pointed at the island, which had grown much larger in the viewscreen. “Ble,” Colwill said simply.

“Forward motion slowing,” Wall reported.

“Engineering,” Olding said, toggling the intercom. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, we’re ready, you butcher,” Graham responded.

Olding rolled his eyes. “Very well, stand by.”

A moment later, the Psycho coasted into the side of the island, stopping with a slight bump. Olding reflected on how much smoother than Wall’s efforts it had been. With a rueful smile, he reached for the intercom toggle, intending to give the order, when Hill called, “Sir, we have an oxygen and gravity envelope forming outside the ship!”

Olding took his hand away from the toggle, and said, “Time, from my mark?”

“Twenty-one minutes,” Hill reported. Olding frowned, momentarily indecisive, then decided to risk it. “Mr Hill, Dr Jackson, you’re with me. Mr Wall, you have t’conn.”

The three of them, plus Colwill, emerged onto the Psycho’s outer hull without any protective gear, trusting to the atmosphere Ble had created. Olding looked curiously back at his ship, realising he was probably the first Captain in Starfleet history to stand on the hull of his ship without a space-suit.

He was brought back to reality by the sound of Hill noisily failing to hold his breath, and his surprised noises in between choking. “It’s actually safe,” Hill said wonderingly.

“Apparently,” Olding said.

“Come,” Colwill said, and strode off the hull, onto the hexagonal platform of the island. The three officers followed him, albeit somewhat unwillingly.

They climbed the steadily sloping island, until they reached a structure that reminded Olding strongly of an old Earth amphitheatre.

“You will disclose the information, Olding-unit,” Colwill said. Olding shot Colwill a glance, then looked into the centre of the amphitheatre.

“What the hell is that?” Jackson asked. Hill shrugged, but Olding felt a small smile cross his face.

“That could be what saves us, Doctor,” he said, scrambling down into the amphitheatre.

Jackson and Hill exchanged blank glances, then followed Olding down.

The thing that had captured their attention was on a small plinth. It was circular, burnt around the edges, and was festooned with what appeared to be very old fashioned sensor gear. Olding approached it almost warily, then realised he might pull this off yet. There was a small plaque on the side of the device. Pitted and scarred with age, and with a layer of dirt covering it, it still clearly read “B… LE…”

“Ble,” Hill said, reading the plaque. He lowered his voice and said, “Do you think it would be upset if I said that Ble’s a really stupid name?”

“That’s not its name, Mr Hill,” Olding said. He rubbed the plaque, removing some of the dirt and grime. Hill’s eyes widened as he read the revealed name. “Beagle 2!” he said, almost reverently.

“That’s t’ one,” Olding said. “Earth Mars probe that disappeared. They thought it had burnt up on entry, or not survived t’ descent.”

“Looks like they were wrong,” Hill commented.

“So what does this mean?” Jackson asked.

Olding’s response was to flip open his communicator, and said, “Olding to Psycho.”

“Psycho here,” Wall responded.

“Access t’ library computer,” Olding ordered. “Specifically, t’ records o’ t’ European Space Agency, and their Mars missions. I need t’ access codes to download data from t’ Beagle 2 probe.”

“Eh?” Wall’s confusion was evident.

Olding sighed. “Just do it, Mr Wall.”

“Okay. Stand by,” Wall said.

“Our data is bein’ prepared,” Olding said to Colwill.

“You will answer,” Colwill said.

“When we’re ready,” Olding replied mildly, his eyes still on Beagle 2.

“I still don’t get it,” Jackson complained.

“This probe came from Earth,” Olding said. “It was launched with very simple programming.”

“Learn all that is learnable,” Hill said. “And report that data back…”

“…to its creator,” Jackson finished. “Got it now.”

“T’ machines interpreted that programmin’ literally, and built all this to help Beagle finish t’ job,” Olding said. “Doctor, keep an eye on Colwill. I think we might be about to see somethin’ weird.”

Jackson gave Olding an old-fashioned look, but thought better of observing that they’d seen plenty of weirdness already.

“Olding-unit,” Colwill began, but Olding interrupted, speaking at Beagle.

“Ble, we will give you your Creator.”

His communicator bleeped, and Olding flipped it open.

“Wall here, sir. We’ve got the signal.”

“Transmit it on t’ same frequency Ble used. Quickly!”

Olding could hear a rapid bleeping in the background, then Wall saying, “Signal sent, sir.”

There was a sudden loud sizzling noise, and a small cloud of smoke emerged from Beagle 2. “What t’ bluidy hell…” Olding began.

Hill pointed a tricorder at the craft. “Bizarre,” he said. “Beagle’s just burnt out its receiving equipment.”

“Join with the Creator…” Olding said slowly. “Bugger.”

“Professor Pillinger’s been dead three hundred years,” Hill said. “Bit difficult to get him up here.”

“Olding-unit, I…” Colwill began, then stopped.

Olding studied the android curiously. Suddenly, Colwill’s face distorted into an expression of surprise. “Captain Olding,” he said, “I know what needs to be done.”

“Adrian?” Jackson asked incredulously.

“Hey, Doc,” Colwill said. “Yeah, I’m in here.” Colwill took a step towards Beagle, and Olding tried to get in the way. “Mind tellin’ me what’s goin’ on, Commander?” he asked.

“It’s complicated,” Colwill said. “You were right about Ble downloading my memory patterns. It’s like I’ve been in here watching whilst this probe talked to you.”

“A human consciousness in a machine?” Hill asked, almost rhetorically.

“Looks like,” Colwill said, almost cheerfully. He was at the Beagle craft now, and fiddling with the exposed circuitry.

“What are you doin’, Commander?” Olding said.

“Captain, Ble wants to join with its Creator. A human, sir. Ble thought its Creator was another machine, but it’s wrong.”

“I know that,” Olding said crossly.

“I can give Ble what it wants, sir. I can give it that human element it’s been missing,” Colwill said simply, and Olding nodded slowly, understanding.

“But…” he began.

“Captain, I want this. As much as you wanted your command to work, I want this,” Colwill said.

“I appreciate that, Commander,” Olding said, “But, and I don’t know how to put this delicately, aren’t you mad?”

Colwill smiled, and said, “Fishsticks, Captain.” He finished joining the wires together, and said, “Ask the Psycho to send the signal again.”

Olding studied Colwill for a moment, then opened his communicator and said, “Mr Wall, send the signal again.”

Once again, Olding heard the warbling of the radio signal, and a glow formed around Colwill and the Beagle. Sparkles of whirling light formed a pillar around Colwill, who seemed to grow larger and more diffuse as the energy grew.

The three officers stared for a long moment, until Hill said, “Uh, sir…”

Olding followed Hill’s gaze, and realised that the energy glow radiating out from the Beagle was starting to dissolve the amphitheatre. “Should we be running right now, sir?” Hill asked.

“Good plan, Mr Hill,” Olding agreed, and bolted for the edge of the amphitheatre, Hill and Jackson in hot pursuit.

They were running hard when they reached the airlock hatch, and were out of breath as the lift dropped back inside the hull. Both Hill and Jackson watched nervously as the hatch closed, but Olding was already thinking of other things. “Doctor,” he said breathlessly, “I want you to go to Commander Colwill’s cabin and check on him.”

“What, now?” Jackson asked.

“Yes, now,” Olding replied.

Hill and Olding headed for the bridge, arriving to find everyone staring wide-eyed at the vision on the viewscreen. Ble was dissolving, transforming into an intensely beautiful pattern of multi-coloured lights. As Olding retook his seat, the light became stronger and stronger until it was almost intolerable, then abruptly vanished. Suddenly, all that was left was normal space, and the Earth rotating beneath them.

“Jackson to Olding.”

“Olding here. Go ahead, Doctor.”

“I’ve checked out Commander Colwill, sir. Um…”

“Yes?”

“Well, his body’s still here, but I’m not detecting any neurological transmissions. His mind’s gone bye-byes.”

“Downloaded,” Hill observed, and Olding nodded. “And now, out there, with Ble. Hell, part of bluidy Ble. Boldly goin’ where no man…”

“Where no Yorkshireman,” Hill interjected, quoting from the ship’s motto.

Olding’s nod was approving. “Where no Yorkshireman has gone before.”

The bridge fell silent, and Olding felt a stir of emotion, dangerously close to pride, over his ship and crew. First day on the job, and they’d saved the Earth. Probably. Still, not a bad result.

“Signal from Starfleet, Captain,” the ensign at communications said. “They’re asking us to put into dock for debriefing and repairs.”

“Status report, Mr Hill,” Olding said by way of response.

“The ship’s buggered, sir,” Hill said. “We weren’t in the best shape before all this kicked off, and now…”

“Hmm,” Olding said.

“But if we put in, sir,” Hill continued, leaving the sentence hang. If they put in to dock, and the real state of the ship became known, they’d never leave port again. Olding had begun his command determined to make the Psycho the finest ship in the fleet. First things first, he thought. He had to keep the ship in the fleet.

“Signal Starfleet,” he said. “Tell them repairs are not necessary.”

He took his seat, and said, “Mr Damerell. New course.”

Damerell waited expectantly, until Olding said, almost to himself, “Out there…”

“Sir?”

Olding waved at the screen, at deep space, and ordered, “Thataway.”

The Psycho came unsteadily about, gathered herself, and lunged into warp.

THE END