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.

Sort of an Author biography type of thingy doo-dah.

At the age of seven, I was told by my primary school teacher Mrs. Hughes, that I would have to 'pull my socks up'. Not understanding metaphor in those days, I wondered what the elevation of my soft foot coverings had to do with achievement. To this day I still wear my socks defiantly at half-mast.

Thank you Mrs. Hughes, you may never know what you unleashed upon the world.

Space Captain Flight, R.S.N. In Perils Of The Death Moon! Chapter Two: The Trouble With Malaria.

Space Captain Flight, R.S.N. In Perils Of The Death Moon!

Chapter Two:

The Trouble With Malaria.

The planet which later became known as Malaria was fraught with trouble from the very beginning. As soon as British explorers set foot upon the surface, out of two dozen colonists three dozen of them came down with various illnesses, diseases and ailments. It seemed that every possible malaise existed on this otherwise green and pleasant planet, hence it was considered the perfect place for the Royal Science Corps' Institute for Disease Control, Prevention and Cure. The only people who did not think so were the seventy-six poor souls who were given the task of running the place.

-Encyclopaedia Galactic, 3rd Edition

Fleet Admiral the Right Honourable Sir Audley Bearable swirled the remnants of his tea round in the cup, watching the tiny flakes of leaf dance over one another in the amber liquid. He had once heard of people using tea leaves to read the future, or had he imagined it? Didn't matter, the cup was virtually empty anyway. Must be time for another one. He set the tiny bone china cup down on his desk and started searching for his teapot. Not an easy task as it turned out, as almost everything on the desk was covered in a knitted cosy, thanks to Mrs. Bearable and her recent knitting obsession. He uncovered a typewriter, a pen holder and a desk lamp before he could locate the teapot. With a triumphant cry, he hoisted the heavy brown ceramic pot, giving it a good swish before he poured.

As he poured, a succession of rapid squeaks and trundling noises heralded the arrival of the Admiral's aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Roland Tumbledown. Once a promising young officer, Roland's active career was cut tragically short due to an accident with a space torpedo loading mechanism, as were both his legs. Not one to let something as petty as a double amputation get him down, he opted for a series of groundbreaking new operations to have the very latest in high-tech prosthetic replacement limbs fitted. Unfortunately, the very latest in high-tech prosthetic replacement limbs had been designed by a man who had (for reasons best known to himself, his psychiatrist and a number of orderlies) scored an unprecedented nine-point-six on the Guano scale of insanity. So instead of a pair of shock-absorbent fully articulate feet at the end of his plastic and high-tensile alloy legs, Roland was lumbered with a pair of wheels. Which, to be honest wasn't too bad most of the time, as long as he remembered to keep both legs in the correct alignment. Currently, with other things on his mind he was a little out, so careened across the office in three slightly different directions before coming to a screeching halt just in front of Admiral Bearable's desk, his head whipping forward and coming in contact, fortunately with a pile of knitted single-page document covers. "Admiral, Admiral!" His cries muffled through the expanse of wool.

Bearable jumped, splashing tea all over his lap. "Oh blast it you rolling idiot! What?!"

Composing himself, Roland straightened up, smoothing down his uniform. "It would appear Captain Flight has varied from his mission parameters."

"What what?" The Admiral started mopping at the spilt tea with the typewriter cosy. "Must you always talk in doublespeak? Try English you bloody buffoon!"

"He's headed off in the wrong direction." He spat a few stray fibres nervously. "To make matters worse, he didn't even pick up his cargo."

"His cargo? But they were vital supplies!"

"I know Admiral. We have a cargo bay here with two hundred and fifty thousand toilet rolls waiting to get to Planet Malaria!"

"Dash it!" Bearable roared. He hated to be interrupted whilst taking tea, but this was so much worse. "Get me Flight immediately!"

"We've tried, sir. But the Victory II's communicators seem to be inoperative at the moment. They must be travelling at maximum continuum-warp speed."

"Blast it!" Bearable snarled. He knew Captain Flight could be a little impulsive at times, but this had really taken the biscuit. Speaking of which, he was sure there had been a plate of hobnobs on the desk somewhere. Now if only he could work out which cosy it was under...

They weren't kidding when they named this planet, Chief Epidimiologist Brian Sturgeon thought as he staggered from the reeking confines of the lavatory. Malaria? Diptheria more like. He groaned, clutching the tattered remains of what had once been a book to his aching stomach. His skin had taken on a noticeably green hue since he had been assigned to the Centre for Disease Control, Prevention and Cure and he had lost almost half his body weight. Moving with the deliberate slowness of someone who knew exactly how disastrous a sudden move could be on the laundry bill, he made his way to his office. He paused at the water cooler, contemplating trying to rehydrate himself a little then thought better of it, remembering what had happened the last time. Trying to suppress a shudder, he continued on his way.

"Hello Brian," Head Scatologist Darwin Squiers approached from the other nearby lavatory, mopping sweat from his brow with his tie.

"Darwin," Sturgeon replied, trying not to walk too fast.

"Just been eh?" He managed a weak smile.

"For the record, same as it's been for the past six months."

"Thought so. Mine too. I've given up on taking samples."

"Can be quite tiresome can't it?" Sturgeon opened the door to his office and waddled in, dropping the book on his desk and gingerly sitting in his chair.

"Any news on the supplies?" Squiers was hopeful; but then he had always counted himself as an optimist. At least, he had until he came here.

"Nothing. Not a..." he lifted a buttock and emitted a distinctly wet sound, "squeak."

"It is getting rather hard."

"Well if it were there wouldn't be so much of a problem." Noticing Squiers' puzzled expression, Sturgeon gave him a little smile. "Get it? Getting hard - solid as opposed to getting hard - difficult?"

Squiers chanced a little laugh. "We've almost completely run out of everything. Every possible substitute for toilet paper has been and gone. All the papers, the research documents, textbooks, requisition forms, even the sandpaper from the caretakers closet."

"Now that was a weekend to forget..." Sturgeon winced at the memory.

"Even this..." Squiers picked up the remnants of the book Sturgeon had deposited on the desk.

"Yes, my first edition signed copy of Biggles Flies South. It was a heartbreak to let it go, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

"Hm," Squiers opened the book, squinting at the front page. It was also the only page left. "I don't think when he wrote it the author quite intended for Biggles to fly quite that far south."

"Do you suppose they're coming anytime soon?"

"You should know, you sent the urgent request yourself what was it? Two weeks ago?"

"Two weeks, one day nine hours and fifteen minutes ago. Not that I've been counting, but that was when we were down to the last eight rolls. You any closer to finding any sort of cure?"

"For what? We're all suffering from so many dashed illnesses I don't know where to start. I've isolated over two thousand different strains of Escherichia Coli alone. I've not even been able to sort the good from the bad."

Sturgeon opened the box on his desk. "Care for a cigar?"

"Not for me, thanks. God only knows what would happen if I coughed." Sturgeon considered his partners words for a moment, then closed the box without a word.