“The Whine of the Worrier” by Walter Chmara

Everyone on board the station was in a state of alert. Even all of the
department heads were armed with phaser rifles, jumping and pointing them
at anything that looked the slightest bit suspicious. Which explained why the
station’s innards looked like Swiss cheese.
“This dingaling knows the station as well as we do,” announced Major Kikn
Nerear to no one in particular. “He could be anywhere. Or anything.”
“No sh*t, Sherlock,” answered her comm badge.
Kikn lowered her rifle momentarily. “All right, who said that? Come on,
‘fess up! I can wait here all day until…”
An orangey glob took that opportunity to shoot over her head and disappear
around the next corner by flapping its psuedopods like some kind of plucked
bird.
The blob blended into the face of a shop directory, and waited for a
hapless victim to blunder by. One did.
Dr. Julienne Butchir tiptoed in, crouching with his rifle, whistling the
James Bond theme to himself, when a large mallet formed behind him and bopped
him on the head. The doctor dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Operations Chief Mires O’Bligen popped in, pointing his rifle at the
dingaling, who was re-assuming his familiar humanoid form. “Bang! You’re dead!”
he cried.
“Wrong,” Security Chief Oddo corrected him. “I think I may have hit the
doctor too hard. Bang, *he’s* dead!”
Major Kikn charged into the scene, along with Captain Banjoman Simpo. The
major asked the computer for the time which elapsed since this hunt began.
“*Three days, twenty hours, four minutes,*” came the reply.
Simpo’s left hand grabbed his face. He allowed it to slowly slide down to
his chin. “Schedule another surprise drill. If the Domination tries to
infiltrate this station, I want to be ready for them!”
Oddo grumbled. “Hah! At this rate, you better hope my people don’t invade
for another year! Don’t you realize the Flounders are even better at
dingalinging than I am?”
“What about the doctor?” asked O’Bligen. “Shouldn’t somebody give him
mouth-to-mouth, or something?”
“Don’t look at me,” snapped Kikn, returning to her post. “He’s not my
type.”
“Too early for me,” added Simpo, heading back to his quarters.
“I did my bit,” said Oddo, liquifying and trickling away.
“Oh, that’s just great!” hollered O’Bligen after them. “Just leave it to
me, then, why don’t ya?”
Looking down at the unconscious doctor, O’Bligen’s expression changed to
one of utter distaste.
“Well, here goes.” He knelt down, putting his lips to the doctor’s.
Butchir’s eyes suddenly snapped open. “Why, Chief, I didn’t know you felt
this way!”
The chief’s angry glare was the last thing he saw before something knocked
him unconscious again.

Freighter pilot Crazidy Eights stepped into Simpo’s quarters, and noticed
the romantic dinner for two he had laid out on the table.
“Oooh,” she crooned, running a hand across his newly bald pate. “What
happened here?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “Just when I was promoted to captain, my hair
started falling out for no reason. It happens. They say Jerk wore a toup. And
then there’s Retard…”
“I got something for that,” she interrupted, handing him a baseball cap.
Simpo laughed at it. “Piker City Pioneers! They’re at the bottom of the
intergalactic league!”
“It’s my brother’s team,” she frowned.
“…Because all the other teams cheat like the devil,” he quickly added.
“I’ve got something for you, too.”
He handed her what appeared to be a scarf.
“Oh, Ban! It’s *gorgeous*,” she quickly started wrapping it around her
neck.
“Crazidy! No! It’s Tholian silk!”
It was too late. Like everything the Tholians weave, the scarf began to
contract. Eights’ eyes began to bulge, and her protruding tongue began to turn
purple.
Simpo had to grab a knife from the table and shred the scarf before it
strangled her. So much for that present.
“My brother said…” she gasped out, “if you’re ever…on Cestus
Three…he’ll get you seats…in the dugout.”
*Cestus Three?* he thought. *Home of the Gorn Flesheaters? Wow! That’s a game
I’ve got to see!*
The Gorn had a reputation for eating the losers alive. Or even the
winners, for that matter.
“If you ever decide to go,” she continued, “I’ll take you there myself. As
long as you don’t mind traveling by freighter.”
*As if.*
“I just might take you up on that,” he said to be polite. “Have a seat.
You know, my father always said the way to a woman’s heart is through her
stomach.”
Eights sat down with a puzzled expression. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just
go through her ribs?”
“Shut up and eat.”
Their meal was interrupted by the arrival of a swarm of Kinky
battlecruisers surrounding the station. The leader, General Mortalk, demanded
to meet with Simpo in his office. Simpo ordered Major Kikn to join them there.

“So, what brings you here, General?” asked Simpo, ignoring the stench that
Kinkies usually brought with them.
“My new battlecruiser, Captain! I thought you might have noticed it,”
answered the general. “I bring good news and bad news. But first, let us be
sure we are who we say we are!”
The general withdrew a very mean-looking knife and slit his palm with it.
He let the blood drip to the desktop.
“You think we’re dingalings?” protested Kikn.
“No sh*t, Sherlock,” said her comm badge again.
“I gotta find out who’s doing that,” she vowed.
“What I think doesn’t matter,” the general growled. “The blood will tell.”
Mortalk handed the knife to Simpo, who also opened a palm with it. Simpo’s
blood, too, dripped harmlessly to the desk.
Simpo then stoically passed the knife to Kikn. She wordlessly did as the
guys did, to show them she was no whimp, either.
“The good news is…none of us are dingalings,” concluded the general.
“What’s the bad news?” asked Simpo.
“The bad news is…now the two of you have Kinky AIDS, just like me!”
roared the general. “Ha! Ha! Ha!”
The captain and the major simply stared at the general while he had his
bellylaugh.
“Oh, lighten up,” complained the general as he sheathed his knife. “They
don’t call us Kinky *worriers* for nothing, you know!”
He got up, and began to pace the room, while his hand bled all over the
floor.
“We’ve been sent here to help our Federation allies fight against the
Domination,” he continued.
“We appreciate the gesture,” said Simpo, paying no mind to the red puddle
on his desk spewing from his own hand. “But I’m not sure it’s necessary.”
“The Kinky High Council thinks it is.”
“Our comm relay in the Gramma Quadrant hasn’t detected any signs of
Gem’Hoarder activity for quite some time,” Kikn took a step forward, slipped on
her own blood, and landed on her back with a yelp.
Mortalk ignored her. “They will come. And we’ll be ready for them.”

Oddo and Garbrack, the Hardassian tailor, were seated at a table near the
Foodarackacycle at that moment. Oddo appeared to be slurping a cup of coffee,
which was odd because the dingaling claimed he never ate or drank.
“Fascinating,” Garbrack was saying, “so both the cup and the coffee are
merely extensions of your own body?”
“That’s correct. And if I want to, I can even drink the coffee, reabsorb
it, and produce new coffee in the cup. This way I can give the illusion that
I’m sharing the dining experience.”
“In actuality, you are ingesting and secreting yourself?”
“Right.” Oddo demonstrated by gulping down the coffee, then refilling the
cup via the arm holding it.
Once Garbrack fully grasped the concept, the thought filled him with utter
revulsion.
“Ewwwww!” he sniffed. He got up and moved to another table.
“Snob!” cried Oddo after him, burping.

Kikn Nerear sat in a steam room, basically feeling miserable. The doctor
had healed her cut and gave her a quart of blood to replace what she lost, but
he told her that if she was foolish enough to cut herself with the same knife
that was used on a Kinky AIDS carrier, well, there wasn’t much he could do if
she tested positive.
“There you are!” Justinna Daze bounced over to her clad in a towel, with
her arms around two holographic men. “We’ve been looking all over for you! Alpo
here just gave me an amazing massage! If you ask nicely he’ll do the same for
you.”
“No, thanks.”
“Why?”
“Because Alpo isn’t real. He’s a puppet made of holographic light and
replicated matter.”
Upon hearing this, Alpo’s eyes widened. “Y-you mean I-I’m only a-a..?”
He suddenly burst into tears. The other man put his arm around him,
comforting him. “There, there, Alpo, don’t cry…”
The two of them walked out, with the one who wasn’t Alpo shooting dirty
looks at Kikn before they both disappeared behind a curtain.
“You really should try to get into the spirit of things,” reprimanded
Daze. “People from all over Thrill come to visit the Hoopishtinda Baths!”
“But we’ve not on Thrill, and this isn’t the Hoopishtinda Baths. It’s a
hollowsuite. Nothing here is real.”
“Can’t you just use your imagination?”
“I used to imagine all the Hardassians would drop dead. That didn’t help
much.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. You planned a fun evening for us and all I
can do is sit here and worry about Kinkies.”
“Well, they don’t call them Kinky worriers for nothing,” said Daze.
“No sh*t, Sherlock,” said that annoying voice, again.
“Who said that?” asked Daze.
“It’s that voice I keep hearing on my communicator,” explained Kikn. “Are
you wearing one?”
“No.”
“Neither am I. Strange.”

Garbrack’s stomach had settled down considerably since his encounter with
Oddo. He returned to his shop, reopening it. No sooner had he done this he was
visited by four Kinky worriers.
“I am Dreck, son of Mortalk,” their leader told him. “We are going to
thrash you within an inch of your life.”
“But why?”
The Kinkies looked at one another in bewilderment as the theme
from *Jeopardy* began to play in the background. When the music ended, each one
shrugged.
“We do what we like,” explained Dreck.
“Yeah! Yeah!” agreed the others.
Then they all beat him to within an inch of his life.

“Captain!” called Daze’s voice over Simpo’s communicator, “We’re getting a
distress call from the freighter *Bozo*, Crazidy Eight’s ship! She says she’s
being attacked by Kinkies!”
“Tell the crew of the *Defilant* to man their stations. I’m on my way,” was
his reply.

When the *Defilant* reached the *Bozo*, the crew saw a Kinky Bird-of-Paradise
dragging the freighter via a tractor beam.
“Fire a warning shot across their bow,” ordered Simpo.
Kikn’s finger slipped on the smooth control panel causing the horribly
beweaponed battleship to unleash a pounding which blew off the Kinky ship’s
tractor beam emitter. That brought an angry Kinky to the screen.
“Captain, this is outrageous!”
“I agree,” agreed Simpo. “So is detaining my girlfriend’s ship.”
The Kinky swallowed hard. He mumbled something in Kinky which the
universal translator translated as “whoops.”
“I have my orders to search all vessels leaving the station for
dingalings!” he protested.
“Well, I’m not going to let you,” stated Simpo.
The Kinky stamped his foot. “You just wait! I’m telling Growlon on you!
He’ll get you good! He’ll punch your president in the nose! He’ll…”
“Screen off,” ordered Simpo. *Geez! I thought only the legendary Fran
Drescher could hit such annoying vocal frequencies!*”Let’s go home.”

Back inside his office — which had been cleaned up from all the blood —
Simpo was having a private conversation with Daze, when General Mortalk burst
in on them and slapped a knife down on the desk.
“Oh, no, not again!” complained Simpo. “I just had everything cleaned from
the last time!”
The Kinky barked something in his own language which sounded like “suck
that” before storming out.
“What was *that* all about?” wondered Simpo.
Daze looked the knife over. “This belonged to the captain of the
Bird-of-Paradise. Mortalk is telling you he executed him.”
Simpo grinned. “Well, I suppose *somebody* had to, sooner or later! God,
that guy could whine.”
“This Kinky problem is getting a little out of hand, Banjoman,” said Daze.
“Cursin once told me the only people who can handle Kinkies are other
Kinkies,” said Simpo. “Get me Starfleet Command…”

Commander Wort took a step into the space station’s interior through the
airlock. A familiar face greeted him.
“Chief O’Bligen,” responded Wort. “It has been a long time.”
“Too long,” grinned O’Bligen. “Say, did you know that Commander Spiker
stopped in here, once? I tried to be nice to him and the bloody jerk nearly
bites my head off!”
“I was led to believe that the man was *Thomas* Spiker, in reality.”
“If you’re gonna try to sell me that `evil twin’ nonsense, don’t bother;
I’m not buying it. The next time he comes to this station, well, he just better
look twice before he uses the officer’s latrine, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
The two of them walked past the bar as they conversed. The Earringi
working there stopped in his tracks as he noticed an unmistakable odor.
“Just what this station needs,” muttered Quirk. “Another Kinky worrier!”

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Wort,” greeted Simpo.
Wort stood at attention before the captain inside his office. “Thank you,
sir.”
Simpo grinned at him. “At ease, Commander. I was sorry to hear about the
*Interloper*. She was a good ship.”
“Yes, sir. I worried about that for days. I’m *still* worrying about it.”
“Well, they don’t call you guys Kinky worriers for nothing.”
“True, sir. But you should know I am different from most others. Kinky
worriers usually worry others. I worry myself.”
“Not so,” contradicted Simpo. “You’re beginning to worry *me*. But beggars
can’t be choosers. I assume you’ve read my situation report?”
A puzzled look crossed Wort’s face. “Actually no, sir.”
Simpo’s brows went up. “Play along with me, then. I’m not about to bore
the reader with a rehash of everything up to this point.”
“Understood, sir.”
“I can’t help feeling that General Mortalk hasn’t told me the whole truth
about the Kinky task force. There are too many unanswered questions.”
“Then I will attempt to find you the answers,” Wort turned to leave.
“Commander, before you go, I just wanted to say I thought about resigning
from Starfleet once, too. If I had, I know now I would have regretted it. I
guess what I’m saying is…don’t make any hasty decisions.”
Another puzzled look crossed Wort’s face. “But, sir, I never said anything
about resigning!”
“You didn’t?” Simpo scratched his head.
Wort shook his head.
“Hmm,” Simpo rubbed his chin. “Walt must’ve left that subplot out. Never
mind.”
Wort left the office a little more worried than when he came in.

He sat down at the bar. Quirk came over to take his order.
“Let me guess,” said the Earringi. “Kinky targ urine wine?”
“No.”
“Kinky porga sweat brandy?”
“No.”
“Kinky drool beer?”
“No.”
“Okay, I give up. What’ll ya have?”
“Metamucil. And put it in a dirty glass.”
The Earringi was impressed. “Man! You are one hell of a regular guy!
While Quirk shuffled off to get the drink, the doctor and O’Bligen waddled
over with darts in their hands.
“I do not play games,” Wort told them.
“It’s like poker with pointy tips,” prompted O’Bligen.
“You must think me a fool!” roared Wort. “How does one deal a dart face
down?”
“All right. Think of it as target practice,” Butchir explained, offerring
him a dart.
Wort took it and threw before anyone could tell him to aim for the
dartboard. A bar patron squeeled. It was Norm. Norm stood up with the dart
buried in his nose, spun around in place, and hit the floor.
“I can’t believe you did that!”
That came from one of a pair of women who were exiting from one of Quirk’s
hollowsuites dressed in fairy-tale princess gowns, complete with pointed hats
and veils.
“He didn’t leave me any choice!” complained the other in her own defense.
“What did she do?” asked the doctor of them.
“She knocked out Prince Charming,” explained the Thrill.
“He *kissed* me!” claimed the Badgeran.
“Well, how else was he supposed to wake you?” inquired the Thrill.
The Badgeran folded her arms, cynically. “If that’s his cure for sleep,
imagine what he might’ve pulled if he thought I was in a coma! The pervert.”
The doctor grinned at Wort. “This is Justinna Daze and our first officer,
Major Kikn Nerear.”
Wort figured he’d better give the major a compliment. “Nice hat.”
The major pulled the dunce cap off her head and handed it to him. “I don’t
want you should think I always dress like this. We just came out of the
hollowsuite…”
Wort saw a pattern here, so he decided to take a chance. “Nice shoes.”
She quickly pulled her shoes off and handed them to him, too.
*Yes!* thought Wort, pulling an imaginary lever with his right fist and
sneaking the shoes into his uniform when no one was looking.
“You used to be Cursin Daze,” he observed of the Thrill. “Cursin’s name is
an honored one among my people.”
When Daze answered him, it was in the Kinky tongue: *”Yes. Jock itch is
such a pain, ain’t it?”*
Wort’s eyebrows went up. “I suppose so. Excuse me.”
He spotted a few Kinkys he needed to have a serious word with, so he moved
toward them.
“This targ urine wine is cold!” whined Dreck to an Earringi waiter. “I
want another! Body temperature!”
Wort stepped forward. “You are Dreck, son of Mortalk.”
“Why, yes. I am,” smiled Dreck.
Wort hauled off and flattened him with one punch. He took Dreck’s dagger
and walked out with it.

An enraged Mortalk stormed into Wort’s quarters, later.
“I have come for my son’s *falik s’mbol*. Give it to me or I will take it
from you!”
Wort slapped the handle into the other’s palm. “Now that you are here, I
have no further need of it.”
“You robbed my son of his honor just to get my attention?”
“You cannot take away what someone does not have.”
“Are you saying my son is without honor?”
“No sh*t, Sherlock,” said that strange voice, again.
“Show yourself!” demanded Mortalk. “By the beard of Kluless, I will slay
you!”
Wort ignored the voice, addressing Mortalk. “I am saying your son is a
coward and a liar.”
Mortalk looked at Wort. “What have we done to earn your disrespect?”
“Your son beat up a Hardassian tailor. You ordered your men to detain and
search ships in neutral space. You executed one of your own officers for
whining too much.”
“Hey, you never heard him! That guy could hit the precise whine frequency
that makes your teeth vibrate in your head! But that’s beside the point.
Whatever we’ve done has been in the best interest of the Alfalfa Quadrant!”
“You must take me for a fool to make your lies so transparent!”
“Of course! So what’s your point?”
Wort sighed. “I need to know why you are here.”
“I am here under the authority of Growlon himself. That should be all the
explanation a Kinky worrier needs.”

Wort needed to work out his frustrations in the hollowsuite. As another
imaginary monster whipped him in a fair fight, Justinna Daze, still in her
fairy-princess outfit, couldn’t resist commenting.
“You shouldn’t drop your left arm like that.”
“I do not recall asking you for your advice.”
“That’s a relief! I don’t recall you asking, either. At least I can
corroborate your story. So, how do you like my program?”
“It’s only adequate.”
Daze picked up a spare *bat’lax*. “So fight me.”
Wort burst out laughing. “It would not be a fair match!”
“Okay, so a groin kick to me is less effective than it once was, so what?
Are you chicken?”
Wort assumed the battle stance. “Defend yourself!”
They clanged their weapons together repeatedly, but after several minutes
of combat, neither one of them was able to get the upper hand.
“If it helps,” panted Daze, “think of me as a man. I’ve been one several
times.”
“How can I? In that getup, you look like Maid Marion!”
No sooner did he say that, Wort spotted his opportunity and pounced on it.
Daze landed painfully on her back. She began screaming and crying.
Dr. Butchir burst into the suite. “What’s going on? Daze! What happened?”
“Wort beat me up with his *bat’lax*!” cried Daze.
Butchir shot an angry look at Wort. “Oh, big man! On a station full of
Kinky worriers, all you could find to fight is a woman!”
Wort dropped his weapon. “B-But she asked for it!”
“Right, blame the victim. Real honorable, Wort!”
“I can’t feel my legs!” screamed Daze.
Butchir ran a scanner over her legs. “Bad news, I’m afraid. You might
never walk again!”
Wort turned and fled from the suite in terror. As soon as they were sure
he was gone, Butchir and Daze high-fived each other and laughed themselves
silly.

*Asian toffee deja E,
Asian soap talk ghosts vas scrote biting!
En bo chacha la poosh,
Chacha Kluless Moldor me hork chew roo!*

Wort had fled to the bar, where he met an old Kinky family friend to get
drunk with and sing ancient Kinky worrier ballads, like that one. To them, it
was a very honorable song, but to anyone who spoke Standard, it sounded quite
strange indeed.
CLUNK!
The traditional way to end such a song was to knock heads with your
singing partner. Unfortunately, both Wort and his friend were quite inebriated
and unable to align their skull ridges properly. They knocked each other out.
When they both grogily came to, hours later, Wort’s friend swayed in his
seat, looking as if his digestive system had every intention of suddenly
slamming into reverse.
“Your father and I used to sing that song when you were just a small boy.
Then your mother would brain us both with the targ tenderizer for singing it in
front of you. Did I ever tell you how your father saved my family’s honor
during our blood feud with the House of Duracell?”
“Many times,” groaned Wort. “You’re no doubt going to tell me, again,
aren’t you?” *That’ll make seven times, tonight. Please don’t throw up on me.*
“It is a good story!” roared the other fellow, almost agitating himself
into hurling. He leaned forward, right into Wort’s face, moaning.
Wort quickly ducked left. But the old Kinky also leaned that way, keeping
Wort in his sights, as his lips formed the pre-spewing spout. Wort ducked
right. The old fellow zeroed in on him, again.
Wort spent the next minute or so bobbing and weaving, but it turned out to
be a false alarm. The old fellow settled back down into his seat.
“Your father was a great worrier,” continued the elder. “My family owes
him everything that we have. Naturally, however, if you try to take any of it,
I will have to kill you. If only there was some way I could repay him.”
“There is,” said Wort. “Tell me the real reason the task force is here,
not that B.S. Mortalk gave the Federation!”
“I suppose you have a right to know. You are a Kinky worrier, and it would
be wrong to keep you from the biggest worry this part of the galaxy is every
likely to see. Come closer, I must whisper it into your ear.”
Wort leaned forward. Then he was unexpectedly covered with vomit.

Wort needed a place to clean himself off. He passed a door marked “Women.”
Then he passed a door marked “Men.” Then he passed a door marked “J’naii.” Then
he spotted a door marked “Kinkies,” and went in.

Later, he reported his findings to Simpo in his office.
“Hardassia!” bellowed Simpo. “Why would the Kinkies want to invade
Hardassia!”
“According to my source, their central command has been overthrown and
power has been transferred to civilian authorities,” explained Wort.
“This source of yours is reliable? No substance abuse problems?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Hmm. Even if your source is correct, what does that have to do with
Kinkies?”
“Growlon and the High Council believe that the coup was engineered by the
Domination.”
“Do they have any proof?”
“None that I am aware of. They are convinced that the civilians could not
have overthrown the central command without help.”
“So by attacking Hardassia, the Kinkies think they are protecting the
Alfalfa Quadrant from the Domination?”
“No sh*t, Sherlock!”
Simpo, stunned, stared at Wort.
“That wasn’t me, sir,” Wort protested.

Simpo called General Mortalk over to meet with him and Wort. The general
sat down beside the briefing room table, making himself comfortable. When he
withdrew his knife and attempted to reopen his palm with it, the captain drew
his phaser and made the general put his knife away.
“General, I want you to call off your planned attack on Hardassia,”
demanded Simpo.
“And what do you propose we do instead?” argued the general. “Sit on our
fannies while the Domination takes over the quadrant?”
“You have no proof that there are any Flounders on Hardassia,” insisted
Simpo.
“The change in government is all the proof we need,” was the general’s
reply.
“And what if you are wrong?” asked Wort.
“We are not barbarians. We will issue a formal appology for levelling
their cities, murdering their people, and poisoning their planet. Hardassians
don’t hold grudges.”
“Be that as it may,” said Simpo, “I will advise you to reconsider. The
Federation Council has informed Growlon that if the attack goes forward, it
will jeopardize our treaty with the Kinky Empire!”
Mortalk lit up like a kid in a candy store. “I will consult with Growlon.
You will have his decision within the hour.”

The general returned to his battlecruiser. Inside of two minutes, Daze
summoned Simpo to Ops. She drew his attention to the viewscreen, which showed
all of the Kinky ships moving off and cloaking.
“Report!” ordered Simpo.
“As soon as Mortalk beamed back to his ship, he sent a message to the
Kinky fleet,” reported Daze. “It was just one word. *En-chu*.”
“Was there a reply, Old Bag?” asked Simpo.
Daze shook her head.
“Get me General Mortalk on priority channel!” Simpo ordered.
When the general’s rather peeved face appeared on the screen, Simpo smiled
at him.
“*Gesundheit*,” said Simpo, pleasantly.

Later, Simpo called a meeting of all senior staffers in the wardroom to
discuss this turn of events.
“The Kinkies are still our allies,” Daze reminded everyone. “If we warn
Hardassia about what’s heading for them, we would be betraying them.”
“Besides, what if the Kinkies are right?” added O’Bligen. “What if the
Domination *has* taken over the Hardassian government?”
“Who’d notice any difference?” grumbled Oddo. “If anything, I think they’d
become a better people for it!”
Major Kikn couldn’t agree more. “Forgive me if I sound insensitive, but
after all the Hardassians put *my* people through, I feel like celebrating!
Champagne’s on me!”
Wort gave her a really dirty look. “The true issue is not if there are any
Flounders on Hardassia. There are many Kinkies who worry that we have been at
peace for too long, that the empire must expand in order to survive.”
“So, if I were you,” said Daze to Kikn, “I’d be worried about Badger.
You’ll be next.”
Major Kikn gulped.
“Why are we just sitting around, people?” she suddenly demanded.
“We’re in a crisis here! We need some answers!”
“Well, the way I see it,” said O’Bligen, “we only have two choices, both
of them bad. If we stand by and do nothing, we’ll be next. If we warn the
Hardies, we may end up starting a war.”
Simpo had that same look on his face that he had whenever an unorthodox
idea hit him. “Which means we need a third option…”

Garbrack was summoned to the wardroom, and advised to bring his tailor’s
kit.

When he entered the wardroom, Simpo told him to take his measurements.
“But, Captain, I already *have* your measurements!”
“Take them again,” instructed Simpo, giving him a very overacted stage
wink. “I believe I’ve put on a little weight.”
Garbrack shrugged and went to work with his tape measure.
Daze spoke up. “Altogether, we’re talking about well over a hundred
ships.”
“Did you get that, Garbrack?” asked Simpo, while the tailor measured his
sleeve.
“Absolutely! Sleeve length — no change.”
Simpo’s jaw dropped. “You were saying, Old Bag?”
Daze continued. “I was saying that between ground forces and warships, the
Kinkies have commited almost a third of their military to this invasion.”
“Did you get *that*?” Simpo nudged the tailor, who was now measuring the
captain’s waist.
“Yes, Captain! You *have* gained a little weight, but it’s nothing the
elastic in your pants can’t handle. Yet.”
Simpo slapped his forehead. “How long before they reach their target,
Mr. Wort?”
“The task force should enter Hardassian space within the hour!” answered
Wort loudly enough for the furniture to hear.
Garbrack had been taking Simpo’s inseam measurement when Wort replied,
causing the tailor’s fist to involuntarily jerk upwards into the captain’s
crotch.
“Eeep!” yelled Simpo, in a high-pitched voice.
“I believe I have everything I need,” Garbrack said quickly, dashing out
of the room.

Back inside his shop, Garbrack locked the doors and opened a secret
compartment which contained an illegal subspace transceiver. Activating it, he
made contact with his home planet.
The former Hardassian governor of the station, Gold Ducat, appeared on the
screen. Garbrack informed him of what he overheard in the wardroom.
“The Kinkies?” Ducat was outraged. “Why would the Kinkies want to
invade *us*?”
“They probably think Hardassia has been taken over by the Flounders,”
postulated Garbrack.
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it?”
“You have to talk to Simpo! Tell him he has got to find a way to stop
them! We have enough problems right now!”
“Having trouble keeping the civilians in line?”
Ducat’s eyes narrowed. “How would *you* know about that?”
“I’m afraid that since the fall of the Obscenian Order, Hardassian
security is not what it used to be.”
“Yes,” Ducat shook his head in mock pity. “Shame about the Order. I
suppose there won’t be much demand for your services, anymore. Looks like
you’ll be hemming women’s dresses for the rest of your life. Big fat alien
women. With elephantitis.”
Garbrack shuddered. “We could stand here all day reminding ourselves how
much we hate each other, but you don’t have the time. The Kinky fleet will
reach Hardassian territory in less than an hour. I suggest you prepare for
them.”
Garbrack turned the transceiver off, grabbed a bottle of Hardassian booze,
and guzzled it down.

Based on Kinky transmissions intercepted by the station, the outlying
Hardassian colonies were overrun almost immediately. While some Kinkies quickly
divided themselves into teams and began to play squash with severed Hardassian
heads, the rest continued on to Hardassia Prime. But once the Hardassian fleet
was mobilized, the Kinkies met stronger resistance. It was almost as if
somebody finally got his butt in gear and heeded the warning he got almost an
hour ago.
Captain Simpo grimly stepped outside of his office to address everyone in
Ops. “Bad news, people. The Federation has decided to condemn the Kinky
invasion. In response, Growlon has expelled all Federation citizens and
representatives from the empire. Even Shirley Temple. Then, he recalled his own
ambassadors and has withdrawn the empire from the Snitnomore accords. The peace
treaty between the Federation and the Kinky Empire has ended.”
There was a moment of silence.
Suddenly, the air was shattered with balloons, confetti, noisemakers,
horns, and those rolled-up party favors that unroll when you blow into them.
The band struck up the theme from ST-TNG, and everyone began to dance.
Chief O’Bligen cut the festivities short. “Hold it! You’re not going to
believe this! A Kinky ship is decloaking off of upper pylon three, requesting
permission to dock! They claim to have Chancellor Growlon on board! And he’s
demanding to speak with Mr. Wort!”

When Wort stepped inside Growlon’s ship, the chancellor looked so happy to
see him that Wort had to ask him if the bulge in his trousers was actually his
disruptor.
“No! It is not!” cried Growlon, bear-hugging him. “I always said that
tight Starfleet uniform you wear would get you into trouble one day!”
Wort’s eyes widened.
“It seems you were right,” he said, quickly slipping out from the
chancellor’s grasp. “But I do not appologize for my actions!”
Growlon threw his arms up in a grand shrug. “Yes. You did what you thought
was right. Though you may have made some enemies, let me assure you I am not
one of them!”
*Darn!* thought Wort. “I’m glad. Your friendship means much to me.” *It
means, if we are ever showering together, I am not bending over to pick up the
soap.*
Growlon put a too friendly arm around Wort. “It has been too long since
you last fought at my side. I must tell you, it gets very lonely in those
trenches…if you catch my drift.”
“You want me to go with you,” surmized Wort, gloomily.
“Yes! Glory awaits us on Hardassia!”
“If there is any glory to be won, Growlon, it will have to be yours alone.
I will not go with you.”
Growlon grabbed one of Wort’s buttocks. “Wort, you are not looking at the
big picture. A Kinky with your…qualifications…could go far in the empire.
Hey, we’re talking about your career, here!”
“No!” Wort slapped Growlon’s hand away. “We are talking sexual harrassment
here! And I don’t have to take it!”
Growlon became enraged. “So be it! For as long as you live, you will no
longer be welcome in the empire! Your family will be removed from the High
Council! Your land will be seized! And your House will be stripped of its
titles! You will be left with nothing!”
Wort thought it over. He bent over, and began to undo his buckle.
“Too late!” growled the chancellor, booting him back through the airlock.

Wort returned to the bar to get drunk, again. Presently, he was joined by
Mires O’Bligen.
“You look like you could use some company,” noticed O’Bligen, putting his
own drink beside Wort’s on the table, and sitting down.
“Chief, do you remember the time we rescued Captain Retard from the
Bored?” asked Wort.
At the time, the starship *Interloper* had encountered a cube-shaped vessel
which housed thousands of humanoids who were all dressed alike in three piece
suits and carrying briefcases. The Bored travelled the galaxy committing
corporate take-overs and making their new employees dress as they did. When
they got hold of Retard, they made him Chairman of the Bored, and forced him to
serenade his former crew with his rendition of “I Did It My Way,” until
Commander Spiker was left no choice but to blast the cube into smithereens.
Fortunately, the captain survived without a scratch. Unfortunately, Spiker was
served with a subpoena from the Bored homeworld, which Spiker had yet to honor.
“How could I forget?” replied O’Bligen. “There were a few moments when I
thought we were all going to wind up working for the Bored.”
“Yes. We worried like the worriers from the ancient sagas,” agreed Wort,
nostalgically. “But those days are gone. I have decided to resign from
Starfleet.”
“Resign? Where will you go?”
“I suppose I could get a berth on a Neighborite Alliance cruiser. I hear
they take all kinds, even Kinkies.”
“That’s a long way. What about your son?”
“He is happier torturing his Earth grandparents than he ever was staying
with me. They have begged me countless times to take him back, but I don’t want
him any more than they do. The suckers.”
“So, you’ve decided to run away from *all* your troubles, eh?”
Wort nodded emphatically. “Sometimes I think if just one more little thing
happens to me, I’m just going to scream.”
Quirk chose this moment to show up. “Seventy-two decibels! Now *that’s* what
Quirk’s should really sound like!”
“I think I liked it better when it was quiet,” muttered O’Bligen, picking
up the wrong drink and taking a sip.
“You want quiet, go to the Foodarackacycle! And am I glad to finally be
rid of all of those smelly Kinkies!”
Wort stood up, grabbed one of Quirk’s ears, and screamed full volume into
it, before storming off in a huff. Quirk’s eyes bulged even more than Growlon’s
were capable of doing.
“I think you lost a customer,” mentioned O’Bligen, looking oddly at what
he was drinking. Oddly enough, the drink was looking right back at him.
“What?” said Quirk.
“I said — oh, never mind.”
“What?” said Quirk.
“When you go to relieve yourself, Chief, I would appreciate it if you
would kindly hold off on flushing,” came Oddo’s voice from the glass. “I think
you drank my left leg.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wort,” said Simpo, inside his office. “I cannot accept
your resignation at this time.”
“I do not understand. What further use could I be here?”
“I’m not sure yet. As long as the fighting continues, I need you here.”
Major Kikn burst in on them. “Captain, we just got word from Badgeran
intelligence that the Kinkies have broken through the Hardassian fleet!”
“How long before they reach Hardassia Prime?” asked Simpo.
“Fifty-two hours,” she answered.
“I think it’s about time to have a talk with the Hardassians,” he
surmised.

Simpo was surprised to find Gold Ducat on the screen. He had been trying
to reach someone in the civilian government. Ducat, it seems, was now the chief
military advisor to the new Untoppled Council.
“Ducat, you’ve got to get those council members to safety before the
Kinkies reach Hardassia Prime!”
“I’m open to suggestions, Captain.”
“If you can get a ship and meet me at…” Simpo tapped some figures into
his CALCULATOR and showed the results to Ducat. “…these co-ordinates…I’ll
do what I can to escort you through the war zone.”
“That is a very generous offer. I must say I’m touched. By saving the –”
“Forget the speech. Just meet me at the rendezvous point.”

Simpo took his place at the center seat of the *Defilant’s* bridge. Everyone
was at their stations. Then he noticed Wort with a worried look on his face.
“Something wrong, Mr. Wort?”
“No, sir. It’s just that I’ve never been on a Federation starship that had
a cloaking device. It’s a little strange.”
“LIAR ALERT! LIAR ALERT! LIAR ALERT! LIAR ALERT!” screamed the computer.
“Turn that racket off!” ordered Simpo.
Daze silenced the alarm with a single touch. “According to this readout,
Wort, you were on board the *Interloper* when she had the *Peggy Sue’s*
interfazing cloak installed.”
“Oh, yes. I had forgotten about that,” mumbled Wort.
“LIAR ALERT! LIAR AL-ur-r-rk!”
Daze turned to Simpo and shrugged appologetically.
Dr. Butchir — who, for the moment, was standing around doing nothing —
said, “I hate to bring this up, but our treaty with the Ramalamadingdongs
expressly forbids the use of cloaking devices in the Alfalfa Quadrant.”
“So what do you want me to do?” snarled Simpo. “Go into a war zone fully
visible? Or maybe you’d like me to confess my sin to the Ramalamadingdongs? Who
do I look like…Captain Retard?”
Butchir’s eyes strayed to the top of Simpo’s bald head.
“Don’t answer that,” Simpo quickly added.

Once the ship was underway, the trip to the rendezvous point was
uneventful until Wort spotted something on his scanners ahead.
“Weapons fire, Captain! Sensors say three Kinky vessels are attacking a
single Hardassian vessel!”
“I’m getting a distress signal from Gold Ducat,” reported Daze.
“Put it on,” ordered Simpo.
“…shields failing…engines dead,” came Ducat’s voice. “Coke machine
taking money, but no Coke…”
“Drop cloak and raise shields,” ordered Simpo. “And set phasers to `open
Coke machine.’ We’ll teach those big corporations to cheat the little guy! Take
us in!”

Meanwhile, back at the station, Garbrack sat down at the bar and ordered a
Hardassian beverage. Quirk gave him the whole bottle on the house.
“I’ve got a supply room full of the stuff,” he explained. “The way things
are going, I’ll never unload it. Except to you, maybe?”
“I’m not *that* crazy about this stuff,” said Garbrack, downing it in a
swallow.
“Nobody is! That’s my problem! Hey, I want you to try something for me…”
Quirk produced a bottle of dark carbonated liquid, pouring some into
Garbrack’s glass.
“What is it?” the Hardassian asked, suspiciously.
“Just try it,” Quirk prompted.
Garbrack drank it. He smiled.
“Amazing!” he said. “A pause that refreshes!”
“One might say it’s the real thing,” added Quirk.
“That is it!”
“Always.”

Meanwhile, back at the scene of the rescue…

“Battle stations!” hollered Simpo.
The *Defilant* disabled one Kinky battlecruiser, beamed aboard Ducat and the
council members, and high-tailed it away from the Hardassian ship as it blew
up. On the journey back, they each enjoyed a thirst-quenching bottle of Coke.
Nothing like it after a hard rescue mission. Why not pick up some today? (Paid
for by the people who bottle Coke.)
Two Kinky ships pursued the *Defilant* all the way back to the station,
where they were joined by dozens more.
Most of the civilians on the station had been removed to Badger. The rest
huddled in an emergency shelter to wait out the Kinky assault, leaving the
command staff to do all the fighting.
When Simpo returned to Ops, Growlon and Mortalk came on the screen to have
a few words with him.
“Hand over the Hardassians!” demanded Growlon. “Or suffer the
consequences!”
“Nothing doing,” said Simpo. “We tested them all for dingalingness, and
they all tested negative.”
“Who cares?” said Mortalk. “We just want their heads for a decent game of
Kinky squash. Is that asking too much?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Simpo. “If you attack us, we’ll have to hurt
you.”
Growlon’s bulgey eyes widened some more. “Oooh! I’m sooo scared!”
Mortalk and Growlon erupted into Kinky guffaws.
“All weapons!” barked Simpo. “Fire at will!”
O’Bligen opened his mouth to ask which one was Will, but changed his mind.
It wasn’t that funny in *Degenerations*.
The Kinky fleet pounded the station. The station pounded the Kinky fleet.
In the midst of the battle, no one noticed the wormhole opening up and
admitting a very familiar-looking *Insipid*-class Federation ship back into the
Alfalfa Quadrant, from which it had been missing for years.
“The one in a million chance maneuver worked, Captain,” reported
Lt. Toospock on the bridge of that ship. “We have somehow emerged on the
Alfalfa side of the Badgeran wormhole.”
“You mean we’re actually *home*?” gasped the captain.
“Yes, Captain. We are home.”
The crew began to cheer. Tears of gratitude formed in the captain’s eyes.
She had managed to bring them home! Everyone would be reunited with their
friends and loved ones! Starfleet would probably pin a medal to her chest!
Sadly, what prevented all that from actually happening, however, was a
nearby crippled Kinky battlecruiser. It suddenly exploded, sending a shock wave
against the Federation ship, pushing it back into the wormhole, which closed
back up.
“Two of our shield generators have just been disabled!” warned Daze.
Wave after wave of Kinkies armed with *bat’laxes* began to materialize all
over the station.
Major Kikn — who, for some unknown reason, was wearing a fedora with a
coiled-up whip at her side — turned to behold a large Kinky worrier,
laughingly demonstrating his prowess with his *bat’lax* by deftly swooshing it
through the air before him in an intimidating fashion. Tilting her head almost
in pity, she disintegrated him with her phaser.
This was how, pretty much, all the boarding Kinkies were defeated.

In minutes, Growlon and Mortalk were back on the screen in Ops.
“Had enough?” Simpo asked them.
Growlon held up a finger. “You think you have won, but you haven’t. The
battle is yours, but the war will be ours. I’ll be back to menace you again!
You will be vanquished! I will punch your president in the nose! I’ll –”
“Screen off,” sighed Simpo.
Daze switched off the screen. “Looks like the Kinkies are here to stay,
Banjoman.”
“So are we, Old Bag. So are we,” said Simpo. “Unless we get cancelled.”
“No sh*t, Sherlock,” said Gilbert Gottfried, walking onto the set.
After a quick vote, they dumped him out an airlock.

From WChmara@gnn.com Fri Oct 18 18:02:40 1996
Date: Thu, 17 Oct 1996 08:16:56
From: Walter Chmara
To: djtst18+@pitt.edu
Subject: First submission

“Encounter at Farfetch” by Walt Chmara

Captain’s Log, stardate 41150.7. Pot-luc Retard continuing the tradition of baldly going where no personage of no particular gender, color, or species has gone before, at least to our current knowledge, so as not to offend any one or thing. I am new to commanding these Gargantua-class starships, so I still am in awe of its size and complexity. My last command was the old Constipation-class vessel, the U.S.S. Annoyance, which I lost in a battle with the mysterious Earringi, so, naturally, Starfleet has given me a larger, more heavily populated ship, with children aboard, no less. My current assignment is to pick up the remaining portion of my crew at Farfetch Station, and in the process, figure out how those Bundi shmucks built that damned thing.

“We have an extremely difficult task ahead of us, eh, Mr. Doodad?” Retard said, as he sat down in the command seat on the bridge.
The goofy-looking robotroid buzzed and hummed its way out of one of the two recliners near the viewscreen, and assumed an “at-ease” stance before the captain.
“Difficult?” it repeated. “My memory banks have no such term listed.”
The captain’s mouth dropped open. “Mr. Doodad, how can you be programmed as a virtual encyclopedia of human knowledge, and not know a simple word like `difficult’?”
The robotroid considered for half a mo’, then said, “Encyclopedia, sir?”
“Never mind. Just plot a course for Farfetch Station.”
“Course?”
“Just do it!” barked Retard.
When everyone else on the bridge gave him a worried look, Retard cleared his throat and grinned at them, slightly embarrassed at the loss of his cool.
“Farfetch Station. Even the name sounds mysterious.”
That made Retard jump out of his seat. Somehow, a woman in a cheerleading outfit had sneaked onto the bridge and sat down beside him, without him noticing! He was getting old.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
She leaped up, swinging her arms wildly. “Gimme an “H”, gimme an “E”, gimme an “L”, gimme an “E”, gimme an “N”, gimme an “A”, gimme a “T”, gimme an “R”, gimme an “O” and a “Y”! Helenaaaa TROY, yaaay!”
She sat back down.
Retard gulped. Oh, boy. “Say, you’re the ship’s shrink, right? That pathetic Betamax?”
“That’s empathic Betamax, sir,” she corrected sweetly.
“Quite so. I’ve been hoping to meet you for some time, now, but your schedule seems to be booked quite solid.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” she complained. “Ever since I settled on this look, it seems the entire male population of this ship has developed a need to see me. Go figure!”
She suddenly stood up, did a cartwheel into a wall, grasped her head with both hands, then broke into a Curly circular floor run while hollering, “Whoopwhoopwhoopwhoopwhoop! Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!”
“What is it?” demanded Retard.
Troy sat up on the floor.
“I’m sensing a powerful presence! Powerful, and incredibly stupid!”
She hopped back into her seat, and started to fiddle with a gadget there.
On the viewscreen, a colorful wall began to form in space, right in the path of the ship!
“Sensors say it could be solid or a powerful forcefield,” she warned. “But if we collide with either, it could be — ”
Retard needed a few seconds to think, and he couldn’t think with all that Red Alert noise going on. He ordered his security chief, Lt. Sucha Yarn to turn it off. Bad move. When you travel at hyperlight speeds toward an obstacle, you don’t have the luxury of time. The ship slammed into the anomaly, causing practically everybody on board to suddenly fly into a forward bulkhead.
“Full stop,” ordered Retard, with his head jammed into the back of Doodad’s recliner.
Doodad extricated his jaws from his console.
“Full thtop, thir,” he reported, spitting out a tooth.
There was a flash of light in the center of the bridge, then in its place appeared Gavin MacLeod.
“You are hearby notified that you people have gone too far, already!” snarled MacLeod. “I present myself to you as a fellow ship captain, so that you might better understand me. Go back to your own solar system, right now, or I won’t be responsible for what happens next!”
“That is quite a directive,” said Retard, straightening up, adjusting his uniform by tugging at it here and there, and finally by pulling a bit of his underwear out from his butt crack. “What gives you the right to make this demand?”
MacLeod marched over to a better vantage point. “We call ourselves ` the Y’. Or you can call me that, it’s all the same to me.”
“Who?” asked Lt. Wort.
“What?” asked Yarn.
“I don’t know,” answered Doodad.
“He’s on third,” offered Retard.
“No, no, no! Y! My name is Y!”
“I don’t know!” shrugged Retard.
“Shut up! Don’t start that, again!” Y told him, while changing into Barbara Eden. “Just turn this heap around and leave!”
A Hispanic extra slowly crept up behind Y with a phaser. Unfortunately, Y caught him in the act. Y folded her arms and blinked, causing the poor guy to turn into a goat.
Retard picked up the fallen phaser and showed it to Y, while Yarn called the medics. “This only would have put you to sleep!”
“Sure. And let you have your way with me? You men are all alike!”
Y then changed into Phil Donahue. “Actually, what’s at stake here is patriotism. You must go back and put an end to the conservative menace. If you don’t, my ratings’ll drop even lower, and I’ll be doing my show on PBS with grants from the NEA!”
Retard’s eyebrows went up. “Ooooh! Turn the ship around! We’ve got to get back to…wait a minute! You’re not going to get us that easily, Y!”
Y snapped his fingers in the “Oh, darn!” gesture. Simultaneously, he changed into Sammy Davis, Jr. in judge’s robes and a white wig.
“There are preparations to make, but when we next meet, we are going to prosecute and judge you! Here go da judge! Here go da judge! Here go da…”
Y danced his way out through a bulkhead.
As everyone stood around with their jaws hanging open, two medics came out of the turbolift, immediately went over to the goat, and began examining it.
“Muttonosis,” muttered one to the other.
“Advanced case,” agreed the other.
“Hold it!” interrupted Retard. “You’ve seen something like this, before?”
“Oh, sure,” said one medic, as they both led the goat into the turbolift. “Just last week, we had somebody in sickbay who was a little hoarse.”
Luckily for him, the doors closed before Retard could hit him with a phaser shot. Unluckily for Wort, the shot glanced off the closed doors, and burned the seat of his pants.
Retard faced the robotroid. “Mr. Doodad, search your banks for any
information about doing the starship split at warp speed!”
“Split?” asked Doodad.
Retard rolled his eyes upward and sighed.

The starship Interloper-D peeled off in a stomach-churning sharp left turn, then flashed off at warp nine point two! The janitorial staff had their work cut out for them!
“Hostile is giving chase, sir!” Yarn announced, noting the ball of Jell-O on the screen that was pursuing them. “Accelerating rapidly!”
“Engineering!” called Retard. “We need more power!”
“Och, ah canna do it, Cap’n, muh engines’ll melt into puddles o’ lead!”
Everyone on the bridge gasped.
Naw, it couldn’t be…thought Retard, shaking his head in disbelief.
Doodad, with his gift of mimicry, just sat at the front of the bridge, and quietly chuckled to himself.
“It is time,” Retard rose from his chair. “Lt. Wort, you will command the main bridge.”
Everyone on the bridge gasped, again.
“Sir!” Wort stepped forward. “I’m a Kinky worrier! For me to have that much responsibility is…”
“You are a Starfleet officer, Lieutenant!” Retard reminded him.
“Aye, sir. But you see my point. I was afraid I might forget something like that…”
That was all Retard managed to hear before the turbolift doors closed behind him, on his way to the battle bridge.

“Start firing photon torpedoes at the hostile,” ordered Retard, when he made himself comfortable on the battle bridge command chair. He liked this one better, so any excuse to sit down in it was fine by him. “I want Y to be blinded to what we are about to do.”
“He’d have to be deaf and dumb, too, for this tactic to work,” Yarn mumbled under her breath, as she executed the order.
As the torpedoes exploded in front of the ball of Jell-O, Retard ordered the split sequence to begin.
This startled Doodad into dropping the manual he was scanning in order to figure out just how to do that. “Aye, sir. Beginning starship split.”
He entered the command into the console with one hand, while crossing his fingers on the other.
At the front of the ship, where the windows of the Ten Forward lounge were, a vertical crack appeared. The crack reached up past the numbers on the hull to the top of the main bridge, then went down the other side of the saucer where the shuttlebays were. It proceeded down to the impulse unit of the stardrive section, then went on to the rear torpedo tube.
The next instant, the port side of the ship was slowly veering to the left, while the starboard side was veering right.
Retard watched this with an ever-reddening face.
“It’s a shame we blinded Y to this,” noted Yarn. “If he saw this, he’d be laughing so hard that some of us might’ve escaped!”
Before Retard could respond to that, the Jell-O ball overtook them.

He found himself, Yarn, Troy, and Doodad, now sitting in a very convincing recreation of a mid twenty-first century courtroom. A small Oriental fellow was blithely ringing a small type of gong.
“Hear ye! Hear ye!” he was calling out. “And welcome all to the people’s court. Judge Wapner will soon be here to try the Case of the Silly Humans!”
“So he’s really going to do it,” Retard whispered to Doodad, who was seated beside him. “We are going to stand trial in his court!”
“What do you mean by `we,’ human?” asked Doodad.
Three spotlights illuminated the judge, Y, who floated in on a hovering bench, to the cheers of all of the spectators.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Y, “I took the liberty of ordering a little Chinese for everyone.”
Upon hearing that, the small Oriental fellow threw his gong down, and stormed out in a huff.
Yarn jumped up. “What an insensitive and politically incorrect thing to say! You should be –”
That was as much as she had been allowed to say. With a slight gesture, Y froze her solid right where she stood.
Cool, thought Retard.
Y handed a notepad to a soldier, who marched over to Retard, and handed it to him. “You will read the charges, criminal.”
Retard glanced over the list:
1) Impersonating Kirok.
2) Making Trelane and Charlie Evans cry.
3) Making Nomad sterilize itself.
4) Harassing Hortas.
5) Devaluing the quatloo.
6) Killing giant amoebas out of season.
“I see no charges against us, your Honor,” stated Retard smugly.

Suddenly, the air filled with rapid clicking noises. Everyone in the chamber produced guns, shoving the business ends in Retard’s face.
“We plead insanity to the first charge…” he quickly amended.
“Enough!” proclaimed Y. “You stand here accused of being a grievously silly race. Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t pull those triggers!”
“Uh…B-because we might have changed since those acts. Why not test us to see if that is so?”
“So be it, fool!” laughed Y. “This Farfetch mission will be an excellent test! We shall see if you are no longer a silly race!”
The judge’s bench rose up into the air. The last thing the crew saw was Y bumping his head against the ceiling and exclaiming, “Ow!”

Commander Will Spiker was standing on a corner, watching all the girls go by. The corner was in the mall at Farfetch Station. He jumped at the chance to fill the first officer position on the new Interloper, because rumor had it that the counselor on board was a real babe. So he was basically just wasting time here until the ship picked him up.
It was here he spotted the new CMO, Doctor Barely Crucial and her brilliant son, Vastly.
“Dr. Crucial!” he called out.
Vastly Crucial tugged on his mother’s coat and pointed to the man. “Mom! It’s Commander Spiker!”
When the commander joined them, Dr. Crucial didn’t smile or look at him.
“If you’re wondering about Mom, sir,” piped up Vastly, “she’s not really unfriendly. It’s just that she already heard about your reputation, and doesn’t exactly approve.”
“Vastly!” she snapped.
“Oh, I don’t approve of it, either, Doctor,” Spiker quickly explained. “See? We already have one thing in common!”
Crucial gave him a look that could kill, grasped her son’s shoulder firmly and herded him away from the commander with all speed.
Spiker watched them go, shrugging his shoulders. Then he turned and ran into a guy with a woman’s barrette on his face. He would have asked what the hell that was supposed to be, but he figured it was just one of those racial things. So he kept his mouth shut.
“Oh, excuse me, Commander,” the fellow apologized, “but the Interloper has arrived, however –”
“Is this an official report, Lieutenant?” barked Spiker.
The lieutenant snapped to attention. “Sir, Lt. Georgie La Porgie reporting that the Interloper has arrived, but it’s in two pieces, sir!”
“Two pieces? You mean the saucer is split from the stardrive?”
“Nnnnot exactly, sir.”

When Spiker materialized in one of the transporter rooms, the first thing he noticed was the woman who beamed him up (big surprise).
She stood behind the console covered in ice and frost. She didn’t say anything.
He figured it was some kind of a cultural thing, so he didn’t want to call any undue attention to it. He stepped down from the platform and addressed her.
“I take it with the ship being in two distinct halves, that something interesting happened on your way here?”
She continued to stare at him. Her eyes could jiggle a little, and she tried to move her blue lips, but she clearly was in no position to form words yet, though she tried.
“Mmphm. Mph meeph mph mphm!”
He backed away from her, out the door. “Why don’t I just go talk to the captain? I’ll do that. It’s…it’s been nice…chatting…with you.”

“First, I want to bring you up to date on a little adventure we had on our way here,” Retard told him when he found the battle bridge. “Then we’ll talk.”
He motioned Spiker to sit beside a small viewscreen, which he activated. A badly edited jumble of scenes quickly flashed by. The captain, meanwhile, ducked inside his ready room. When this strange presentation was over, Spiker turned to face the empty command chair. The look on his face said it all. That’s supposed to make some kind of sense to me?
Retard was looking quizzically through the starship split manual at his desk, when Spiker entered.
“Not your average run-of-the-mill happening, Captain.”
“It seems we’re alive only because we are on probation. A very serious kind of probation.”
“Did you know you have a crewwoman on board who seems to be, uh, frozen?”
“You mean Lt. Yarn? She mouthed off to a god, and that’s what she got. Since we don’t yet have a doctor on board, she will just have to thaw out on her own. I gather her fingers must have loosened up enough to beam you up. I must remind Doodad to slide her back up to the main bridge after we’re reconnected.”
An intercom chime sounded. “Doodad here, sir. Both halves of the ship have been tractor beamed together.”
“Acknowledged. Commander Spiker will conduct a manual reconnection.”
“Sir?” Spiker’s eyebrows went up.
“You’ve reported in, haven’t you? You are qualified, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but…”
“Then I mean now, Commander.”
Spiker shot him a dirty look, before leaving.
He schlepped to the nearest airlock, put on a spacesuit, grabbed a welding torch, and went outside, grumbling bad words to himself the whole time.

“A fairly routine maneuver, but you handled it well,” Retard complimented him two weeks later.
“Thank you, sir. I hope I show some promise.”
“There is an unsightly seam around the ship, but you can fix that later. Now, I want to discuss your file. It seems Captain Edsel thinks very highly of you. I respect his opinion. One thing interests me, however. You refused to let him beam down to Altair Four.”
“Well, that Krell monster from the Id could still be down there, sir.”
Retard took a sip of his tea. “Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m convinced. You’re the right man for this job, all right. Just one more thing…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Starfleet has seen fit to give me a ship with a load of brats on board. I don’t like brats. They’re so yicky. Just keep them away from me. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Very good. Because if I ever have to deal with one, you will suffer the consequences.”

Spiker went out onto the main bridge and looked around. Lt. Wort worried that the new exec seemed to be looking for something.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Where might I find Lt. Com. Doodad?”
“He is on a special assignment, sir. He’s using one of our shuttlecraft to ferry an admiral to the Bullwinkle.
“Oh, the admiral,” Spiker nodded his head in understanding.
“Yes, sir. The admiral is a real…I mean…he’s…well…remarkable.”

“Is there some reason y’all want my atoms scattered all over space, bwah?” hollered the decrepit old man at Doodad.
“No, sir. I merely thought that at your age you should not –”
“Now y’all hold it right there, bwah! What about my age?”
“I am sorry, sir. If that subject troubles you –”
“Troubles me?” roared the old man. “What’s so danged troublesome about not having died! Don’t be so gol-darned quick to shove me into that Great Beyond, just yet, bwah! How old do you think I am, anyway?”
“One hundred thirty-seven years, five months, four days, ten hours, forty-seven minutes, Admiral.”
The admiral’s mouth dropped. Unfortunately, so did his dentures, which clattered to the deck. “Dang nab it!”
They both bent down to retrieve them, smacking their heads together.
“Just let me get ’em!” cursed the old man. “Tain’t that feeble, yet!”
But as he grabbed the stray dental work, there was an audible cracking sound emanating from the admiral’s spine.
“Uhoh,” said the old man.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“I’ve thrown m’back out again. I’ll need your help to straighten back up.”
“Certainly, sir,” Doodad grasped the old man’s shoulders and gave them a yank.
The old man straightened up screaming.
“Confound it! Is there some reason y’all trying to kill me?”
“No, sir. I was merely…”
“Never mind! Explain how you know my age so exactly!”
“I am a robotroid.”
“Robotroid, eh? Well listen here. This is a new ship, but she’s got the right name. You remember that, y’hear? You treat her like a lady, and she’ll always bring you home.”
Doodad considered that a moment. “While I am constructed as a fully functional male, and the ship is often referred to as `she,’ I do not think — ”
The old man kicked him, only succeeding in hurting his own toe. “That’s not what I meant you infernal clanking bucket of…”

Dr. Crucial finished her exam of Lt. La Porgie.
“You’ve been blind all of your life?”
“Mostly,” he answered. “There was a time when I was very young when I had normal vision. But then I accidentally caught my grandmother naked and it was lights out — permanently.”
“And you’ve felt pain all the years you’ve been using this?” Crucial put the ISORE (Instrument of Sight Organ Replacement Emulator) into the lieutenant’s waiting hands.
“Yeah. But I got used to it,” La Porgie snapped it back on his face.
“Hmm,” said the doctor, taking a good close look at it. “So this thing works without any obvious kind of lenses. Just these little wrinkly chambers. You must see exactly like a bug does.”
“Now that you mention it, I always did have this overwhelming urge to flee from slippers, rolled up magazines, and fly swatters.”
The lieutenant excused himself and exited the sickbay. Presently, the captain entered.
“Hello, Doctor! I just stopped by to let you know I’m working on a transfer for you. As soon as it’s approved — off you go!”
She stared at him. “Do you feel I’m unqualified?”
“Not at all! Your record is outstanding.”
“Then you must have something against me personally.”
“I’m only thinking of your feelings, Doctor! To serve with a commanding officer who would constantly remind you of your husband’s death…”
Barely smiled. “If I had any objections, I wouldn’t’ve requested this assignment.”
“Really? It doesn’t bother you that he died under my command?”
“No!”
“That I was the one who ordered him to retrieve my teacup from the antimatter flow chamber?”
“No!”
“And forgot to tell him that the antimatter was flowing?”
“Of course not!”
“You are a saint, Barely. What a tragedy that was. I still miss that teacup. Oh, well, life goes on. I’ll be seeing you around, then!” The captain turned and left, whistling a happy tune.
She watched him go, thinking, I’m gonna make your life Hell, Chrome Dome!

Retard was still whistling when he popped out of the turbolift onto the main bridge. Until he smacked into Lt. Yarn, slowly melting by her post. He could get used to her being this way.
“Did you signal the Bullwinkle, Number One?”
“Yes, sir,” said Spiker. “Your exact message. `Kees mah derri
re, you smelly piece of fromage!'”
Retard chuckled to himself. “And what was the reply, computer?”
Y appeared on the main viewer. “You are being dilatory, Captain! Did you think I’ve forgotten about you?”
Lt. Wort dug out his phaser and blasted a hole in the viewer.
“Neutrogena T’Gel!” Wort cursed in his native tongue. “I was afraid I’d do something like that, someday.”
Retard gave the lieutenant a wry look. “Nice going, Lumphead. What do you do for an encore? Commit ritual suicide?”
Wort turned the phaser on himself. “If you would like, sir.”
Retard waved him off. “Belay that for the time being. Number One, you are qualified to repair viewscreens?”
Spiker’s eyebrows went up “Yes, sir. But…”
“Then hop to it, Commander.”
Grumbling, Spiker went into the turbolift to go down to Engineering and get a viewscreen repair kit. Retard joined him.
During the ride, Retard stopped the lift on deck six.
“There’s someone who’s going to join us here I want you to meet,” he explained.
The doors swished open, allowing Helena Troy to step in.
Spiker’s heart sank.
“Counselor, I’d like you to meet our new first officer –”
“We’ve met,” interrupted Spiker.
“Excellent!” continued Retard. “It’s nice to know my key officers are aware of each other’s abilities.”
Troy just smiled and sent her thoughts to Spiker. Well, this certainly is a surprise, eh, upyurzi? Get anybody else pregnant, lately?

Once the viewscreen had been repaired, Retard ordered Troy to accompany Spiker and himself to the planet’s surface, specifically, the office of Grovelor Al, the leader of the Bundi.
“I am puzzled,” said Grovelor Al. “You have brought a Betamax to this meeting. If her purpose here is to probe my thoughts…”
“Feelings,” corrected Troy. “Nothing more than feelings. Trying to forget my dad was VHS.”
“VHS?”
“Very human, sir.”
“Oh,” said Al, while Troy broke into song. “I have nothing to hide, of course.”
“Wo, wo, wo, feeeeelings,” sang Troy.
“We admire how fast your people have built this station,” said Retard, nodding to Spiker, who grabbed Troy and covered her mouth with his hand. “We may want you to build more on other planets.”
“We are not interested, Captain,” said Al, shaking his head. “We are basically a society of sedentary shoe salesmen, who want nothing more than to make nice Federation people, like you, happy. I’m sorry, but if you can’t accept that, we will be forced to offer this station to someone else. The Earringi, for instance.”
Retard’s eyebrows went up. “Grovelor, my people are bound by what we call the Prime Directive, which means I am not permitted to use any means of coercion on your people, even when it means losing something very nice. But it doesn’t mean I can’t give you some friendly information about the Earringi. They are ten foot tall carnivores with sixteen inch fangs who have a particular fondness for shoe salesmen. We’ll let them know you’re interested. Bye!”
He touched his insignia. “Three to beam up. Energize.”

“What did you sense from him?” asked Retard, as the three of them stepped down from the transporter platform.
“He’s only slightly concerned by what you told him about the Earringi,” reported Troy. “If you really wanted to scare him, you should have told him about the Peggi, the tall redheaded amazons from the planet Wangker, who hunt for husbands and bon-bons.”
“Hmm. I may use that one, later. Number One, did you notice anything unusual while you were down there?”
“You mean aside from the signs that kept popping out of the wall behind the Grovelor, saying, `Help me!’ and `I’m being held prisoner by these shmucks!’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, no, sir, I didn’t.”
“A shame. I have this uneasy feeling that we’re missing a valuable clue to this mystery, somewhere. I want you to go back there, but this time take Mr. Doodad with you.”
“Why him?”
“If he breaks anything else, you’ll be there to fix it.”
“Oh.”

Retard didn’t tell him where to find Doodad, and there were no Kinky worriers around to ask. Spiker wandered around lost from deck to deck, poking his nose into cabins he shouldn’t have. He bumped into a crewman who looked like a lizard man from Sirius.
“Hello, Commander!” greeted the lizard man, with a voice that sounded like two voices. “My name is Willy. You look just.”
Spiker looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Just? Just what?”
“Yes,” nodded Willy. “Very just indeed. May I help you?”
“Oh!” Spiker suddenly understood. “You mean lost!”
“Lost!” repeated Willy. “Forgive. I not English so good speak. Learned Japanese for to be in Godzilla movie.”
“Could you tell me where I may find Lt. Com. Doodad?”
“Forgive. You are Commander in Starfleet, but not know how to ask computer for directions to find officer?”
Spiker turned red. “Yes, that’s right.”
Willy showed him how. The computer even switched on a row of lights in the corridor for him to follow. Idiot-proof. Almost.
Spiker thanked Willy and started on his way.
“Asshole,” muttered Willy.
Spiker froze and turned around. “What did you say?”
“I said, `Ah. So.'” Willy bowed, backing back into his cabin.

“If you would care to enter, Commander?” asked the computer, when it led him to a pair of bulky doors.
“No. I just thought I’d stand here and find a way to grow old gracefully,” said Spiker, sarcastically. “Of course I want to enter!”
The bulky doors separated. Spiker stepped through them, then they closed after him.
“Asshole,” said the computer.

Inside, Spiker found a paradise of trees, grass, chirping birds, and a babbling brook.
“Pardon me,” asked Spiker. “Could you show me where Doodad is?”
Brooke stopped babbling for a moment to point at a tree across the stream, then she resumed babbling.
“Thank you.” Spiker walked across the stream via some wobbly stepping stones.
He got within earshot of the tree, and heard someone whistling the beginning of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” very badly.
As he got nearer, he saw Doodad perched in the tree, repeating a sour note that he had reached in the melody.
Spiker couldn’t take it, anymore. It was driving him crazy. He completed the tune properly for the robotroid.
The top of Doodad’s head popped open, and his positronic brain leaped out, bobbing up and down on the end of a spring.
“Marvelous,” said Doodad, pushing his brain back in and closing his head. “How easily you humans can do that to me. I have yet to do it to myself.”
He jumped out of the tree and landed beside Spiker in slow motion, to the accompaniment of a noise which sounded like old-fashioned bionic limbs at work.
“There are some puzzles down on the planet which the captain would like answered,” Spiker told him. “He wants me to take you on the away team I’ll be leading.”
“I understand, sir. In case I break anything, you will be right there to fix it.”
Spiker looked at him askance. “I took the liberty of looking up your record.”
“A wise procedure, sir, always.”
“Your rank of lieutenant commander is honorary?”
“No, sir. Starfleet Academy. Class of ’78. Honors in probability mechanics and exobiology.”
“Really?”
“No, sir. Not really. It is a story my professors concocted to assuage the doubts of robophobes like yourself.”
“Now that troubles me. Do you consider yourself superior to us?”
“I know I am superior in many ways, sir. But it is my fondest wish to someday become a real boy.”
Was it Spiker’s imagination, or was the robotroid’s nose a little longer than it had been a minute ago?
“Pleased to meet you, Pinocchio. Now let’s get outta here.”
Doodad followed the commander back to the stream, reminding himself to look up that word when he had the chance.
Spiker admired the scenery once more. “Hard to believe this isn’t real.”
“Much of it is real, sir. Beamed in. You know, like the transporter?”
“Yes, of course!” cried Spiker. “So this bush over here is actually real!”
“No, sir. That is a projection on a wall.” Doodad picked up a hefty stone and hurled it at the bush in illustration. For an instant, the image broke up, revealing a gaping hole in the wall (along with someone screaming beyond it), before the image repatterned itself.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell the captain about this until after we come back from the mission,” cautioned Spiker.
“Understood, sir.”
At the edge of the stream, Spiker and Doodad saw young Vastly Crucial hopping over the stones to reach them. One was loose, though, and the lad went into the drink.
Doodad sprang into action. He dashed over to where the boy had fallen, grabbed his left arm, and yanked.
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Vastly, standing. “It’s only ankle-deep.”
Doodad sheepishly returned the boy’s arm to him. “Take this to your mother, Vastly, and tell her you would like to have it reattached.”
“Okay,” the boy grinned, accepting the limb. “Wow!”

Boys will be boys smiled Barely, as she finished reattaching her son’s arm.
“Mom, could you get me a look at the bridge?” he asked, with a puppy dog look on his face.
“That’s against standing orders, Vastly.”
“Okay, I won’t stand. I’ll sit.”
She scratched him behind his ears, while his left leg began thumping the floor. It was as good a way as any to start getting on Old Baldy’s nerves. “All right. Let’s do it!”

Spiker, Doodad, Troy, La Porgie, and Yarn beamed down to the entrance to some caverns which led somewhere underneath Farfetch Station. Yarn was now almost completely thawed, though she was still hugging herself, shivering and sneezing.
Inside the caverns, La Porgie went over the walls with his ISORE. “I’m scanning in every possible way — microscopically, thermally, electromagnetically — none of it looks familiar!”
“Well, I can see bringing you along was a waste,” said Spiker, dryly. “Troy, how about you?”
Troy suddenly doubled over. “Pain! Agony! Terrible dispair!”
Spiker was by her side in an instant. “Close your mind to the pain. Are you sensing another being? A being in torment?”
“No, sir. I think I ate too much chocolate,” she explained. “Pardon me, while I go over there and puke my guts out.”
Everyone tried their best to ignore her as she barfed beside the wall.

The turbolift doors snapped open on the main bridge.
“Permission to report to the captain,” Barely said, stepping out.
Retard was more interested in what was inside the lift. “What? Children are not allowed on the bridge!”
“Sir, my son is not on the bridge, he’s in the lift.”
Retard faced her. “But the lift is now on the bridge!”
“It is not! The lift is in the shaft, so you can’t touch him,” Barely stuck her tongue out at him.
Retard reminded himself to give Will Spiker a demotion for this.
He cleared his throat. “Oh, he’s your son? As well as the son of the man who died under my command, which you have no problem with me reminding you of?”
“Yes,” Barely said through her clenched teeth.
“Well, that’s different, then. Come on, boy, come out of there! Don’t be shy!”
“His name is Vastly, sir,” said Barely. “You last saw him when…”
Retard snapped his fingers. “…When I brought your husband’s remains to you! Of course! Wasn’t much left of him, was there? A pair of boots with feet still in them, I recall. Come on, boy, don’t dawdle. Get out here!”
Vastly poked his head in, first. He looked curiously at everything as he made his way to Retard. The captain was reminded of a snail with its eyes popped out on stalks.
Retard motioned him to the command chair. “Make yourself comfortable, Vastly. I knew your late father, as your mother no doubt told you…”
The split second the boy’s butt touched the chair, the lowjack alarm went off. Vastly jumped to his feet.
“Hah!” cried Retard. “I got you! You’re standing on my bridge in clear violation of my standing orders! Security! Take him to the brig!”
Two burly men grabbed the lad and hustled him back into the turbolift. Barely screamed, jumping in with them before the doors slid shut.
Retard smugly reclaimed his seat, turning off the alarm.
Wort said, “Sir! There is an intruder vessel approaching. It’s ignoring our hails. I was afraid something like this was going to happen…”
“On screen.”
Something really big was heading right to them. It looked like a pregnant pog. Retard gripped his armrests.
“Raise shields! Get me Grovelor Al on the blower!”
“Yes, Captain?” inquired the Grovelor’s voice.
“It looks as though your Earringi friends have arrived.”
Al’s voice began to blubber. “All right, I confess! We don’t want them here! Please save our sorry butts! I’m too young to be an hors d’oeuvre!”
The intruder ship began to throw massive energy bolts at the planet’s surface.
“Captain, this is Spiker, cutting in.”
“Go ahead, Number One.”
“The Bundi city is taking an awful pounding, sir. Oh, the humanity!”
“What do you see?”
“Total devastation, sir! Boxes and boxes of women’s shoes scattered all over the place!”
“What about the station?”
“Not a scratch, sir.”
Well! thought Retard, grinning. When all this is over, we may just end up with a free starbase here!
At that moment there was a flash of light on the bridge. Y appeared.

Spiker and Doodad dashed through the city, dodging the energy bolts, ducking the flying shrapnel, and gingerly stepping over some stray animal droppings. When they finally reached the doors to Grovelor Al’s office, Spiker found them to be closed and locked.
“Break it open,” ordered Spiker.
Doodad hurled himself at the doors, bounced off, and crashed through a nearby wall.
Spiker sped over to him. “Are you all right?”
Doodad sat up like a stepped-on rake. “All systems operating.”
He got up and charged at the doors, again, this time kicking and pounding on them. Five minutes of this yeilded no results, so Spiker ordered him to stop and back off.
Withdrawing his phaser and shooting off the lock, Spiker turned to him and said, “The only time you can’t break anything is when you’re ordered to, hmm?”
“Ah. So,” said Doodad.
Spiker gave him a double take, before proceeding into the office.
Inside, they found the Grovelor cowering under his desk.
“Make it stop,” he wailed. The next moment, something beamed him away.

Retard glared at Y. Y made a kissy-face right back.
“First officer to Interloper,” said Spiker’s voice.
“Go ahead, Number One,” said Retard.
“We’ve lost the Grovelor, sir. Something like the transporter took most of him away.”
“Most of him?”
“The smell under the table suggests he had time for a pit stop. Question, sir. Could it have been this Y creature?”
Y, who currently looked like Rumplestiltskin, clapped his hands and danced an odd little dance. “None of you knows who transported him! Ho! Ho! Ho!”
Troy, who had beamed back with La Porgie, said, “Captain! I’m sensing satisfaction. Pure chewing satisfaction!”
Spiker was able to hear that down on the planet. “Chew on this,” he grumbled, grabbing himself.
“Y is up here on the bridge, making fun of us,” answered Retard. “Both of you beam up, now. I need you here in case we get into an I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I? contest.”
Spiker and Doodad emerged from the turbolift, minutes later.
“Excellent!” cried Y. “Perhaps more of these little minds might help.”
“What is it you want?” asked Spiker.
“Beam over there with your… What do you call it? Your landing party?”
“Away team!” corrected Retard.
Y stuck an angry finger in his face. “Don’t ever correct me! I’m infullible!”
With that, Y departed in a blinding flash. It took a few minutes of eye-rubbing and blinking before everyone could see straight, again. Even La Porgie was massaging his ISORE.
“You can say that again,” mumbled Retard.
“I’m infullible!” repeated Y’s disembodied head, with a noticeably receding hairline. “Gordon Bennett, another cock-up!” it said before it vanished again.
“I’ll take the away team over, right now, sir,” said Spiker. “If he’s not open to evidence in our favor, what then?”
Retard held his head up high. “I’ll be attending to my duties.”
“To the bitter end?”
“Yes. And speaking of bitter ends, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
“Oh?”
“While you were down on the planet, I was accosted by Vastly Crucial. I’m demoting you for that.”
“Sir?”
“From now on, you are Number Two on this ship.” Retard got up and went into one of the turbolifts, ordering it to sickbay.
“I always suspected I was,” shrugged Spiker.

“Is there something I can do for you, Captain?” asked Barely Crucial, inside her office.
Retard cleared his throat and stepped in. “I, uh, I didn’t want you thinking me harsh. Cold blooded.”
Her eyebrow went up. “Why oh why would I think that?”
“For not welcoming you aboard properly. For reminding you of your husband’s demise. For having your son arrested. For..”
“All right, already!”
He offered her his hand. “Welcome aboard, Doctor. I hope we can be friends.”
She looked at his hand, then back to his face. “A good start would be to release my son.”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, no.” He withdrew his hand and left her office.

“You’re not going to puke again, are you?” asked Spiker, when the away team materialized inside some caverns on board the intruder which looked exactly like the ones they found on the planet. He had noticed Troy was making faces.
“No, this is…different. Anger. Hate.”
She suddenly kneed him in the groin.
“Chew on that,” she told him.
While the color drained from Spiker’s face, the rest of them could hear someone screaming a few yards ahead.

They broke into a run (Spiker kind of hobbled). Upon reaching the source of the commotion, they discovered Grovelor Al being beset by a giant set of molars. He was already gooey with spit, and the teeth were treating him like a wad of gum.
“Help me!” he cried.
They grabbed him and tried to pull him out, but a large tongue wrapped around his leg and dragged him back in, along with the away team.
After tasting them, the large mouth spat them back out.
“Yuck!” it said.

Back on the Interloper bridge, Retard didn’t like what he was hearing from the away team. Plus the intruder was outwardly appearing to be changing into something else. He tried contacting the transporter room to tell the chief to beam them back.
“He can’t hear you,” explained Y, who was suddenly in Retard’s chair and wearing the same uniform as he was.
“Y,” said Retard patiently, “I have people in trouble over there. Let me help them. I’ll do whatever you say.”
Suddenly, Spiker, Doodad, Yarn, Troy, and the Grovelor, all popped onto the bridge before the viewscreen, though they all looked very drooly and disgusting.
“Take off your clothes and dance the Charleston!” Y said quickly.
Retard sighed. Then did as he was told.
“Sir, what are you doing?” asked Spiker.
“I made a bargain with him,” panted Retard. “To save you.”
“But Y didn’t save us,” explained Troy, pointing to the intruder on the screen, which finished its transformation into a huge jellyfish. “That thing over there spat us out.”
Retard froze upon hearing that. Y was in hysterics.
Then he lunged for Y’s throat. During the scuffle, somebody’s elbow accidentally touched a control panel, causing an energy beam to shower down upon Farfetch Station. It, too, changed into a jellyfish, which slowly rose up into the sky.
Y was still in hysterics, when Retard released his throat. Everyone watched the viewscreen in silent awe, as the two creatures met in space, taking gentle hold of each other’s tendrils. Then one climbed on top of the other and started making little up and down movements. In this position, they both floated away to parts unknown.
Retard slipped his uniform back on and glared at Y. “Get off my ship!”
“April Fool!” cried Y, before vanishing.
For a while, there was silence on the bridge.
“I hope this isn’t the usual way our missions will go, sir,” said Spiker.
“Oh, no, Number Two,” answered Retard. “Something tells me the rest are going to be even sillier.”