Space Captain Flight enlists the help of some Imperial Russian equipment...

(In the Space Captain Flight universe the Russians didn't become involved in WWII, and as a result the economy stagnated, Communism fell much sooner and after a series of revolutions, the Tsarist Empire was re-established under Tsar Rodney, a former plumer from Islington who had the vaguest of connections to Nicholas II. When the war went galactic, the Russians traded resources and technology with both sides to build their own space empire. In this scene, Flight is arranging a secret purchase of some Russian military equipment on behalf of the Royal Space Navy.)

"Is Kliment Voroshilov - KV-Two Thousand," the burly Russian patted the side of the armoured monster proudly. "Is good tenk. Stronk tenk. Stronk armour. Stronk gun, make big boom."
Flight craned his neck to see the top of the massive box-shaped turret, some twenty feet from the ground. "It's certainly impressive."
"Da! Not like Nazzi vit their Pansy-camp-wagens! Stronk tenk viz stronk gun always better than Nazzi vit Pansy-camp-wagens."
"One issue I have with it Sergei," Flight was trying to mentally calculate the exact dimensions and weight of the thing, "how exactly are we supposed to get one of these down to the ground in a shuttle?"
"Ha!" Sergei folded his arms across his chest with a smirk. "In Imperial Russia, you don't get tank to ground. Tank gets you to ground!"
"So you push it out of an open airlock and hope it lands right-side up?"
"Da!"
"...and if it doesn't?"
Sergei spat on the floor. "Then that is ground's problem."

Space Captain Duncan Flight orders from the Paradox Pizza Company.

There was a knock on the door. Flight opened it. A young fellow in green overalls with a luminous orange high-visibility vest and a scooter helmet stood there, presenting a large insulated bag.

"Pizza." The man said.

Flight was confused. "Sorry, I didn't order pizza."

"No, but you will. Paradox Pizza Company." He shifted the box slightly to rest on his arm and reached into a pocket, producing a receipt. "You order two twelve-inch chicken allons-y with a side of dalek bread in about..." he squinted, "an hour from now."

"Oh." Flight took the three boxes from the bag. "So, how much do I...?"

"You paid by credit card. All sorted mate."

"Ah, thanks very much." He fumbled for some small change and deposited a few coins in the man's hand. "So, Paradox Pizza eh? Is the paradox if I don't place the order?"

"Nope, you will certainly place the order in approximately..." he checked his watch. "...fifty eight minutes' time."

"How do you know?"

"You're British. You'll place the order."

"So what's the paradox?"

The man smiled. "The paradox is how you get hold of our number. It's on the menu there." He pointed out a folded sheet of paper taped to the top of the box. 

"I see. Well, thanks very much, I'll place the order later." Flight closed the door and turned round, barely making out the sound of the delivery driver counting the coins and muttering the words "tight git."

Excerpt from Chapter 16 - The Death Moon!

The bridge door hissed open, admitting Lieutenant Church, who took up a dramatic pose behind Flight's right shoulder. "Sorry to spoil the party Captain, but that ain't no moon. It's a space station."
Flight gave a small huff. "Isn't."
"What?"
"There's no such word as 'ain't'. I'll overlook the gratuitous use of a double negative, but the phrase you're looking for is 'that isn't a moon, it's a space station'." He then realised what he had just said. "Oh..."

Scene for Men of Iron! - Flight meets Professor Hoker's second-latest creation.

Professor Hoker took a step back as the hydraulic door hissed open. "Let me introduce you to..." he paused for effect as a six-foot tall metal machine glided through, a pepper-pot shaped body topped with a domed head, from which a single electronic eye swept the room intently. "The Dedicated Anti-Lifeform Electro-plasmic Killotron!"
Flight's jaw dropped. "Oh my god!" He swallowed hard. "I am so sorry."
Hoker was taken ever-so-slightly aback. "Pardon?"
"I honestly didn't realise it was a prototype robot killing machine," Flight confessed with the air of a guilty schoolchild, "I thought it was some new kind of portable lavatory. I mean, I was really quite desperate - you know, touching cloth almost. I saw it was following me around back there and saw the little button on the front..."
"What? You're not even supposed to be able to see the maintenance hatch button!"
"Well, it was the obvious place for one - I pressed it and the lid just sort of popped open. So, you know, needs must when the Devil drives and all that. I just..."
The professor stood in stunned silence as the Dedicated Anti-Lifeform Electroplasmic Killotron stumbled forward in a way only something that hovered two inches above the floor could stumble. "If it's any help I did happen to lose one of my best ties."
"Oh dear," Marcus frowned, "the bottle-green Paisley?"
"I'd just finished when I realised there was no paper."

Space Captain Duncan Flight, R.S.N. in Death! On The Planet Of Death!

Space...The ultimate borderland... These are the voyages of the H.M.S.S. Victory II, her five-year mission; to defend the civilised galaxy, to seek out new life-forms, new cultures – to Go Boldly where no person has yet Gone!

Space Captain Duncan Flight steadied himself as he and his companion, the ever-charismatic Doctor Marcus Burkenhare materialised in the middle of the main reception area of the Centre for Disease Control, Prevention and Cure on planet Malaria. The outpost had been silent for several days, so he and his crew had been dispatched with all due speed to investigate.

As the orange haze of the matter-transporter beam faded, Flight switched on his hazard suit's headlights, sweeping the twin beams over the darkness. The facility's power generators had cut out, that much was obvious. Raising his left hand, he flicked his wrist, activating the communicator.

“We're down safe,” he reported back to the Victory II. “Looks like the housekeeper packed bags and left.”

“It's a right rotten state, I'll say that much.” The Doctor looked round, scanning with his medical sci-corder. “Traces of pretty much every virus, bacteria and microbe you can think of. Can see why they put the outpost here old Dear.”

Flight nodded, drawing his lazer-Webley. Marcus was the only person ever allowed to call Flight that, and he wouldn't have it any other way. The two had been close comrades for some years now, the staunch professionalism of Captain Flight a calming counter-measure to doctor Burkenhare's more whimsical nature. “See if you can find the generators.”

The generators, as it turned out, had been sabotaged, their wiry entrails torn out and spilling halfway across the generator room floor. But with a little work, some of Space Captain Flight's famed ingenuity and a couple of well-placed kicks from the Doctor, they sputtered into life, coughing and wheezing erratically as the lights flickered, blinked, then glowed. “Right, biblical analogies aside, I think we have something.”

“Still nothing larger than a bacterium showing up on the old look-see box,” Burkenhare shook his sci-corder a moment, flicked a couple of switches and swept again. “Cytotoxins abound.” He murmured under his breath.

“Try again. There were nearly a hundred souls here, there must be some trace of them.” Flight frowned.

Moving back into the main reception area, the two Royal Space Navy officers decided to interrogate the Centre's main computer via the terminal on the large semi-circular desk. Powering it up, Captain Flight looked at the swivel chair behind it. The seat was covered in the same green-grey powdery residue that covered much of the rest of the place. With a disgusted look, he nudged the chair to one side and crouched in front of the computer screen.

“Computer, request location of all surviving staff members, starting with chief epidimiologist Brian Sturgeon.” Flight had known Sturgeon for a while during his Space Academy days, when Sturgeon had supplemented his professorial income by teaching the clarinet.

The computer whirred and clicked before replying in a bored tone. “Unable to process request. Data incomplete or invalid.”

“Let me try old Dear,” Burkenhare shooed Captain Flight aside, standing in front of the computer with his fists bunched tightly on his hips in what he liked to think of as a 'heroic' pose. “Computer, where is Professor Sturgeon?”

“Professor Sturgeon is in the main laboratory area.”

Marcus smiled. “See? You just need to know what to ask.”

Entering the laboratories, Captain Flight and Doctor Burkenhare came across a scene of total desolation. Tables had been upturned, hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of precious instrumentation scattered and smashed strewn across the floor, and what was worse – all the teacups had been broken. Flight gasped. “My God!”

Doctor Burkenhare choked back a tear. “Oh the humanity!”

“Come on Marcus, we need to find out what happened.”

Without warning, an explosion of movement came from behind one of the tables. Two undead monstrosities, mobile cadavers with jellified flesh clinging to their bones in rotted strings lurched forward, clawed hands outstretched. “BRAIIIINS!” One of them bellowed.

Without pause for thought, Marcus drew his lazer-Webley and fired in one smooth motion. The beam lanced through the humid air, punching a hole clean through the screaming creature's forehead. The other beast stopped dead in it's tracks, an expression which could only be described as surprise etched on it's failing features.

“Bloody hell!” It said. “You shot Simon!” It looked down at the de-animated re-animated corpse. “Mind you, bloody good shot though.”

After a few moments to settle their nerves, the question of an explanation reared its head. The still-standing undead creature righted one of the tables and a couple of chairs, dusted them off and gestured at the two Space Navy officers to sit, which they did. “Sorry about that. It was Simon's idea of a practical joke. We've not had visitors here since... well, since this happened.”

Duncan re-checked the seals on his hazard suit. “Is that you Brian?”

“In the flesh, what's left of it.”

“What exactly happened?”

“Funny thing, this place. There are so many disease pathogens in the atmosphere, we just didn't stand a chance. Once we'd run out of toilet roll, and substitutes thereof, things sort of went downhill quite quickly. Well, long story short and all that, within a month we were all dead.”

“...and yet here you are, telling us this...” Marcus was staring intently at the micro-screen of his sci-corder, trying to make sense of the readings.

“Exactly. Every last man-Jack of us died, then we all sort of... got better. Must say, it was a bit of a relief really. We were never particularly happy here when we were alive, but at least now we don't have to deal with crippling diarrhoea for breakfast, dysentery for lunch and a nice case of beri-beri for elevenses. I've not had to... you know... spend a penny for nearly a month now.” He smiled, at least that's what it looked like. It was hard to tell as one of his cheeks insisted on falling off at that moment.. “Only thing is, we've completely run out of tea. You wouldn't happen to have any going spare would you?”

“Is that why the place looks like a bomb's hit it?”

“Yes, I'm sorry about that. Tend to get a bit crotchety when I've not had a morning brew.”

Flight flicked open his communicator. “Flight to Victory II. We've found the crew. They're all dead, but they're ok... Yes, I know that's a contradiction in terms, but it's tr... don't worry about it. I'll explain it all when I get back. Beam down a crate of tea from the stores and...” he glanced at the broken crockery, “some cups. Yes, cups... No, not those ones. Just get some of the spare ones from the mess hall... ”

After a quick round of the new super-vaccination that Brian had developed (cures everything; and I do mean everything!) Captain Flight found that he had plucked up enough courage to pop the seals on his hazard suit and indulge Brian in a cup of steaming hot tea. The indigenous contaminants, all boiled unto death gave the tea a uniquely refreshing tang, though Doctor Burkenhare still refused to remove his helmet and merely poured his tea into the water tank on his suit's hip. A little polite conversation, a mumbled apology from the Doctor for Simon's fate accompanied by Brian's admission that it was probably what the cheeky blighter deserved, and Space Captain Flight made his excuses to leave. “I'm afraid we really must get going my dear fellow. We have erm... other stuff to do and all that.”

“Oh, don't let me stop you by all means. Good luck and god speed; and don't forget there's always a warm welcome for you here should you ever decide to drop by again.”

“Will do, Brian.” Flight activated his communicator again. “Beam us up, Taffy.”

An orange glow encapsulated the two men, and they vanished into the void.

Swirling the dregs round in his cup, Brian settled down in a comfy chair with a contented smile.

“My head hurts.” A voice from the ground spoke. Brian looked down.

“Oh shut up Simon.”

From the personal journal of Space Captain Damien Drake.

Captain’s Blog, Stardate 12…29…add 6, carry the three…take away the first…erm… Tuesday.
Space Captain Damien Drake here, I know you’re probably expecting something from that Flight fellow, but never mind. It’s my show right now, not his.
Right, where was I? Ah yes, Stardate Tuesday… and a bit. Headed off to the Epistule Diem system to do a bit of morale boosting amongst the peoples, thought we’d drop by and give them a show they’d never forget. So we arrived in system, deployed our escorts (give ‘em a bit of show of force to show ‘em how well protected they are) and headed straight for the system’s capital, New Lymington, ignoring (as was our wont) the usual calls for identification – for heaven’s sake, we’re Royal Space Navy! We shouldn’t even have to identify ourselves!
Anyway, thought we’d start off our visit with a bang, so sent out a squadron of stealth Spacefires to drop pyrotechnic charges in the upper atmosphere: nothing like a good old fireworks show to get the ball rolling. I was watching from my unusually comfy command chair on the bridge, by Jupiter you should have seen those locals down in the city centre; running round cheering and jumping for joy, diving into the air-raid shelters (presumably to drag out the bunting and decorations in honour of our arrival), screaming like maniacs they were. Well, after about half an hour of this, they decided to join in, firing their old anti-spacecraft guns in celebration. Must say though, they really ought to watch where they’re pointing those things, nearly hit us a couple of times.
After a couple of hours of fireworks, I beamed down to the planet’s surface to talk face-to-face with the Mayor of New Lymington and present him with a memento of our visit; so I got our entire Marine contingent, all dressed up in their new uniforms (ones I’d designed myself. I was particularly proud of the new H.M.S.S. Pelican Mobile Ground Force insignia – a red armband with a bold black swastika on it, with a big black cross through the swastika – shows everyone what we think of the damned space Nazis.
We beamed down, all two hundred and fifty of us at once. I can tell you, the Mayor was so pleased to see me I swear he actually lost control of his bladder and genuinely wet himself. And he kept on gibbering in some strange sort of language that our universal translators couldn’t understand. At first I thought he was talking in Italian – something about ‘Viva Zrendra’ or something.  Fortunately mister Savage, my number One took him to one side and gave him a little help and he returned after an hour or so in a much more coherent state.
Quick cup of tea with the Mayor and his councillors later and we left for the stars once more, with the praises of the locals still ringing  in our ears – I was particularly fond of their cries of “Don’t Come Back!”, obviously wanting us to refrain from wasting time on such small trivialities until we’ve actually won the war. Ah, the simple lives of simple folk. There’s nothing quite like it.
(This log was recovered from the databanks of the H.M.S.S. Pelican,  June 15th 2016. It has been unaltered in any way. Copyright is held by Her Majesty’s Royal Space Navy. Any views and opinions in this log are those of Captain Drake and do not represent those of the Royal Space Navy or any associated organisations.)

Preamble to Chapter 3.

You there! Just been to the lavatory have you? Did you go for a wee or were you dropping the boys off at the pool? Well? Which was it? Number ones or number twos? Then for heaven's sake don't flush it! Are you clinically retarded? Do you belong in a home for simple people? Every time you flush a non-solid waste down the toilet, you're using precious reserves of water that can be better used supporting our troops! That's better; now don't forget to wash your hands.

Remember: Every time you waste a flush, you may as well pour it in a can and hand it straight to the Fuhrer himself!

- From a failed Ministry of War short propaganda film first shown in 1977. The film, whilst getting its point across succinctly enough, with the final line actually encouraged people to waste water.