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.”
