After their ordeal in Engineering Buddy suggested going to the bridge, which only succeeded in filling Lance Armstrong with an even greater dread. If this was what the lower decks were like, what horrors would be waiting on the command deck? "The captain runs a tight ship," Buddy insisted, although given what Armstrong had seen of the captain he wasn't optimistic.

The ride up included Three, whose real name was actually Smitty. His chemically-enhanced stare made the silence even more uncomfortable, particularly the one crooked eye. "Lifts sure are slow," he remarked, and meant it. Smitty's eyes suddenly danced all over the inside of the lift, but at least his attention was elsewhere, allowing Armstrong and Buddy a moment to relax before exiting onto the bridge. He was almost frightened to look, but was relieved to see the room was exactly the way it was supposed to look. He allowed himself a brief moment to relax. "I suppose I should meet the second officer," he remarked.

Before Buddy could speak a voice said, "I'm glad you could find the time to get around to it." It was an artificial voice, but somehow managed to be saturated with sarcasm. Armstrong looked over and found the source, the ship's science officer and third in command, who at the moment consisted of a brain in a floating jar. It was more off-putting than he had originally thought, but he refused to let appearances get in the way. After all, he would need to work side by side with this... entity, for years to come. "Welcome to USS Arr," the second officer said with a tone that showed he obviously didn't mean it, and wanted Armstrong to know it.

This was going to be the hard part. The second officer's people had a language that was based on movement and odors, so the translation of their language into English had been less than stellar. "I look forward to serving with you, Lt. Comm..." He took a breath. "QQQQ'LD'GLG-!NONEK." He had practiced it several times.

The jar emitted an overly exhausted sigh. "Excuse me," he asked as if Armstrong had just slapped him in the face several times, "do I look like a three-stomached marsupial on the planet Beltid 7? Hmm?"

"Er, no," Armstrong said with complete honesty.

"Then please don't call me one." If a brain could bristle, this one was. "After all, it's not hard for me to remember your name. Of course, it's probably because I'm infinitely smarter than you. It's just that you'd think you could learn to pronounce the name of one of your own colleagues."

"I'll try to get it right next time," Armstrong said. "I promise."

"Yeah sure you will."

"Perhaps you'd like to meet our weapons and security officer?" Buddy offered, seeing that the situation was going nowhere.

Grateful for the save, Armstrong turned and looked to the first person since he got on board that didn't put him on edge. He was at his post eyeing all his controls with rapt attention. When they walked up he finally noticed the new first officer walking over and pulled himself up to attention. "At ease," Armstrong said with satisfaction. "And you are..."

"Lt. Johnny Riprock, sir," he replied, his voice so crisp it could have been starched. "Weapons, tactics, and security."

"Yes, I know," Armstrong said. "I read your file; you've had a rich history Lt. Riprock."

"Oh sure, you can remember his name," the second officer called from behind. "I suppose if I made my name something simple like 'chair' you could remember it." Armstrong didn't reply, but that didn't stop the tirade. "Is that one still too hard? Maybe you could do word association, like 'ass?'"

"I understand that you've been in over one hundred combat situations," Armstrong continued.

"Yes sir," Riprock replied.

"Amazing. You know I saw front-line duty in the Great Klinkon War. I have to admire anyone who could last that long without cracking up."

"Thank you, sir." Riprock never allowed himself to relax.

"I expect good things from you," Armstrong finished. As he turned to walk away he noticed the tactical console, and paused. The normal panel had been replaced with a series of large, color-coded buttons, each of which had the word "KILL!" printed across its surface. Deciding that he didn't want to probe further he stepped over to the first officer's chair, allowing himself a brief moment to adjust to life on this new ship.

"Sir," Buddy said, "if you won't be needing me I'll resume my station." Armstrong nodded and the helmsman slipped into his chair and checked the controls. Yes, despite the minor problems this ship would do all right. Maybe things were a little quirky, but it would work out. He was nodding to himself with satisfaction at his new assignment as he watched a sixty-year old woman in a bathrobe walk out of the lift, a pot of coffee in her hand. If anyone else noticed, they didn't show it.

"Excuse me," Armstrong said as the woman walked past.

"No talk. Coffee," was her only reply as she shuffled past.

"What are-" Armstrong stopped as she held up her hand, then put her finger to lips. Too puzzled to reply he watched her pour a large mugful and take a seat on the bridge.

Buddy must have noticed Armstrong's reaction. "That's our communications officer," he whispered. "Bambi Hyde."

"Stop - TALKING!" she roared at Buddy, who straightened up and faced front like a naughty boy in a Catholic School.

Before anything more could happen the captain walked onto the bridge, now dressed in his uniform. He didn't speak to anyone until he'd taken his command chair. "We've got work to do."

"Oh, what pray-tell, oh wise and noble leader?" the sarcastic voice of the second officer echoed across the bridge.

"Good question, No Neck," the captain replied. Somehow the brain managed to look even more surly. "We've lost communications with planet Halusted III. Might be some trouble brewing. Riprock!" Johnny Riprock lurched and hit one of the buttons, and a laser blasted out into space, tearing through the nacelle of a passing freighter. "Damn fine shooting!" the captain said with admiration. "Get your team prepped for any hostiles we might encounter."

"Sir, yes sir!" Riprock vanished into the lift.

"Bambi," the captain said, turning to the communications officer.

"What?!" she practically screamed at him as she lit up a cigarette.

Captain Random smiled. "God your beautiful," he whispered, then sighed. "Send a message to command that we're in route to Halusted III."

Bambi blew him a kiss, then pulled a plug out of one slot and slid it into another. "This is us, we're leaving," she spoke into the microphone, then took a long drink of coffee.

The bridge was tense as they waited, wondering if they were flying straight into an armada. Fortunately there were no signs of enemy ships as they pulled into orbit around Halusted III. "Skies are clear, sir," Buddy said. "And there are no messages being broadcast. It looks like the planet's totally deserted.

Captain Random nodded. "Riprock!" he called into the communicator. There was the sound of a plasma charger firing and a mute scream, followed by someone crying "Man down! Man down!"

"Yes sir," Lt. Riprock replied, unphased by the screaming.

"Deploy your peace keepers," Random ordered. "Just in case."

There was a jolt as ten shuttles dropped from the bottom of the Arr and roared into the atmosphere. The image of the planet was replaced by an interior shot of one of the shuttles. The screen jerked as the shuttle touched down, the doors bursting open on Lt. Riprock's orders. The peace keepers rushed out of the shuttle onto the planet, weapons drawn and ready to mow down any hostiles. Armstrong could hear the faint sound of people saying "hut hut hut hut" as they ran down the ramps and spread out. After some time had passed Riprock reported back. "No sign of any hostiles." There was no mistaking the sound of disappointment in his voice.

"Cowards," Captain Random said. "Not brave enough to wait around for the real warriors. Riprock, get your people back up here so we can take off."

"What?" Armstrong said with dismay. "You're leaving?"

"Not much point in staying," Captain Random said. "The planet's empty and the invaders are gone."

"Yes," Armstrong said. "But, maybe we could figure out who was responsible."

Captain Random opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. "And if we knew who it was," he said slowly, "we could find them!" He smiled and nodded. "I like it! Armstrong, go down there immediately and investigate!"

"Uh, excuse me?" Armstrong replied. "You want me to do reconaissance?"

"Absolutely," Captain Random replied. "It's your plan, I want to make sure it's done right."

"Sir," Armstrong said, "with all due respect, isn't the place of your first officer on the ship?"

"Commander, quit wasting time and get down there. Oh, and take Buddy here with you."

"The pilot?" Armstrong replied. "Why in God's name would you send your first officer and your pilot down to the planet to do reconaissance?"

"Hmm, you've got a point," Captain Random said. "Take Bracks with you." He looked at Armstrong with annoyance when he didn't move. "Now."

Fuming, Armstrong got up and walked to the lift, Buddy close behind. He noticed Buddy's nervousness as they travelled down to the lower decks, which only managed to make him more annoyed. "Who's Bracks anyway?" he asked Buddy. "Probably the ship's cook."

"No, not the cook," Buddy said, his voice cluing Armstrong in that he wasn't too far off. He wilted under the first officer's stare. "He's the comic relief officer," he said finally.

"Halt," Armstrong said, then came around and gave Buddy a look like a grand inquisitor with a heretic. "Comic relief officer?"

Buddy swallowed and immediately broke into a sweat. "The captain designates people to that position in the hopes of improving the ship's moral. Of course, it doesn't, but no one dares to tell the captain."

Armstrong took a few deep, relaxing breaths. "Have Bracks meet us in the Teleportation Room," he said as the lift continued.

"Um, I wouldn't advise that," Buddy said. He cringed as Armstrong gave him a look that could freeze helium. "Just a suggestion."

"What foul fate awaits us there?" Armstrong asked with barely restrained frustration.

"Well, you see," Buddy said, flustered. "Eddie Reese, the teleportation chief, isn't exactly... motivated. He's been known to cause some accidents by not being overly careful."

"Such as," Armstrong said.

"It's best not to say," Buddy said, swallowing to keep the bile down. "We've just basically agreed to use shuttles instead of bothering Eddie."

"You know," Armstrong said with anger, "I don't see how Random can allow this on his ship."

"Oh, Eddie knows to be careful with the captain," Buddy said. "But with the rest of us he doesn't really care. And as we've established..."

"...the captain doesn't like it when people complain," Armstrong finished. "Fine. Have Bracks meet us in the shuttle bay."

Bracks was almost as nervous as Buddy was, if that were possible. He was talking to the Shuttle Chief while the shuttle was prepped for launch. "Now let me tell you a little about this here," he said with a low, gruff voice. "This shuttles got an armor set up to withstand more heat than you'd care to think about. This sucker'll cook ya like a thanksgiving turkey but the paint won't even peel." Somehow this didn't set Bracks at ease.

Armstrong shook hands with the chief, Frank Pike, and then with Bracks. "I understand you'll be serving as our comic relief officer," he said, unable to hide the sarcasm.

Bracks sighed. "Yes sir."

Armstrong stepped past him into the tiny ship, then Buddy and Bracks followed. As they strapped in Bracks filled him in on the post of comic relief officer. "I was actually an interstellar archaeologist," he said. "The captain isn't really picky about who he has fill in this particular position." An alarm beeped and Bracks sighed, then began making farting noises by sticking his hand in his armpit. "Ha-ha," he said without a hint of sincerity, "flatulence is funny. Ha-ha. Laugh at my merriment." He stopped and looked even more dejected. "I know four hundred languages," he said dismally. "I've grown to hate my life."

"Now remember," Chief Pike said through the comm, "there's going to be quite a drop. On the count of three. One..." The ship dropped out of the bottom of the shuttlebay, the three men screaming in shock. "Oops, that wasn't supposed to happen," Pike said over the radio. "Gonna need to take a look at that..."

"Buddy," Armstrong said, trying to remain calm, "the engines aren't firing."

"I know, I know!" Buddy said in panic. "Something's wrong with the timing systems. I can't understand it. It's as if the circuits weren't even there!"

Deep in the bowels of engineering, the quintet gathered around the consoles and watched the ship change from red to orange. "Yes!" Two screamed, high-fiving One. "I told you those timing circuits would work!"

"Arr, this is Shuttle ID-10-T," Armstrong said. "Shuttle is out of control. Emergency tractor beams."

"Negative, shuttle, you are outside of tractor range."

Armstrong took a deep breath. "Okay, emergency teleportation."

"No!" Buddy and Bracks said together.

"We'll die otherwise," Armstrong said. "Chief Reese, come in."

Eddie Reese was relaxing in the Teleportation Room, feet propped up one of the displays. Actually he was working... on eating a donut. He let out a satisfied noised as he took a large bite of a jelly-filled and went back to reading the playmate magazine he had propped up on the console. The main controls for the teleporter began beeping, and in annoyance he threw the jelly donut at it to flip the switch. "What do you want?" he asked with irritation.

"Chief," came a frantic voice, "we need an emergency beam-out!"

"I'm busy," Reese replied, selecting a pretty plump-looking custard filled from the tray.

"Reese!" the person ordered, "we need a beam-out now!"

He made a frustrated noise. "I hope four's your lucky number," he mumbled as he pitched the custard at the console.

The teleportation had several effects. One was that two naked crewmates were beamed into engineering. The fact that they were women had a profoundly confusing effect on the rattled engineers. Nonek was sent into the middle of the lift shaft, where he was hit by a passing lift seconds later. And the crew of the doomed shuttle found themselves back on board the Starship Arr.

"Where are we?" Armstrong asked as he tried to adjust to his suddenly new surroundings. The place smelled awful, like manure mixed with industrial chemicals.

"Oh no," Buddy said with horror.

"What?"

"Exobiology," he whispered, too frightened to move.

"HI!" an exuberant voice called. "Nice to see you again!" Armstrong looked around until he saw the man he'd bumped into in the hallway earlier that day. "Whatchoo doing in here?"

"Well-"

"Interesting!" he said with enthusiasm. "But if I were you, I'd get out of there right away. It's not safe."

"Mick," Buddy called, "what's in here with us?"

"A Maldoovian Yellow-backed Spider," Mick replied.

"Let me guess," Armstrong said. "It's six feet tall and deathly poisonous."

"No, no," Mick replied. "Nothing like that. But it's mating season, see."

"Ah," Armstrong said, looking around carefully for anything dangerous, "what exactly will she do?"

"You see," Mick said, "they reproduce by eye contact."

"What?" Armstrong asked, but before he could get any further he heard Bracks scream. He turned and watched in horror as the man's face started distorting, his eyes locked on the eyes of a small spider on the other side of the room. Lumps began to form and slide around under his skin as he continued screaming.

"Aw crap," Mick said. "Get him to the doc, quick."

Despite Buddy's protests Armstrong carried Bracks through the ship to the sickbay. The lumps continued to grow as they rushed him to one of the beds and tried to read the diagnostic equipment.

"Is somebody unhappy?" a familiar voice asked.

"Scabs," Armstrong called, "get over here and help us out."

"Okee-dokey," Dr. Scabs said with cheerfulness. "Hmm, this looks bad," he said as he watched a lump the size of an orange roll under Bracks eye. He spun a hypospray in one hand, then pressed it to Bracks' neck, sending him into merciful unconsciousness. "I wonder if we should amputate before this spreads."

"It's his head!" Armstrong shouted.

"That's okay, I'll get him an artificial head." Before anything more could be said on the subject, Bracks' head split open like an overripe melon, and four tarantula-sized spiders crawled out. "Uh-oh, looks like we've got a problem now," Dr. Scabs said as the spider climbed onto Bracks' chest and hissed at him. "That doesn't look healthy." His hand whipped out and he pressed the hypospray to it, causing the tiny arachnid to have a seizure and a very tiny heart attack.

"Engaging biohazard containment procedures," the computer announced, sealing the doors. "Begin sterilization protocols."

"Okee-dokey," Dr. Scabs said. "I've gots a counter-agent right here," he said, rumaging through the drawer. "Ah, here it is." He pulled out a Smith & Wesson and began firing it at the spiders. "This'll fix them pesky biohazardsis." The spiders exploded as the bullets tore them apart, only to be sucked into the intakes to be reprocessed. When the last was blown apart and sucked away Dr. Scabs tossed the gun back into the drawer.

"Biohazards neutralized," the computer said as the room unsealed. Armstrong and Buddy looked back up over the biobed they had taken refuge behind during the sterilization.

"Are you ready for your physical?" Dr. Scabs asked Armstrong.

"N-no," Armstrong said. "Thanks anyway."

"Okee-dokey." Dr. Scabs pulled out a large saw. "Time to start the autopsy." He pulled the cord several times to get the engine started while Buddy and Armstrong snuck out.

Go To Part III
Back to Arr Chronicles

Main Page

Everything

The Motion Picture

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

The Final Frontier

Part I

Part II