SKYTREK - CHAPTER 2 (standard:humor, 3876 words) [2/15] show all parts
Author: Danny Miami	Added: May 01 2010	Views/Reads: 2294/1630	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A comedy adventure novel based on the original Star Trek characters.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


The Captain turned back to the Platform. As the transporter beam grew
stronger the outline of two men began to take shape, the bright red of 
their uniform jumpers becoming visible. Moments later they had beamed 
up completely and he recognised two of the Engine Room crew. 

“Hey everybody – hamburgers!” one of them yelled, stepping off the
Platform and starting to hand out boxes. 

Unlike his friend, the second guy had seen the Captain. He shoved his
boxes down behind Butch Bradley's console then frantically tried to 
attract the first guy's attention, pulling at his jumper from the back. 


“Double cheeseburger – that's Lieutenant Youhoor's,” the first guy went
on, continuing to hand out boxes. “Hey, stop pulling buddy, you'll get 
yours,” he said to someone yanking at his jumper, unaware of who it 
was. “Double quarter pounder with relish, what greedy bastard ordered – 
look buddy, will you quit pulling?” he said angrily, turning round. 

A thumb jerked in the direction of the Captain told him what all the
pulling had been about. He turned back and saw Captain Kork staring at 
him. 

“Oh shit!” he muttered. He shifted about uncomfortably for a few moments
then tentatively held out a box. “Cheeseburger, sir?” he asked. 

The Captain shook his head and waved them away. He strolled over to one
of the bridge couches where Ricky was dubiously engrossed in a training 
manual. Helpfully the Captain turned the book the correct way up as he 
sat down beside him. 

“Ricky,” he said, putting a brotherly arm round his shoulder, “I realise
you're along on this mission to learn and I don't want to dampen your 
enthusiasm but don't use the Transporter Platform to beam people down 
to hamburger joints.” 

Ricky grinned and nodded. 

“Its junk food,” his elder brother went on. “It's not good for your
body. All those fats and carbohydrates. There are some great health 
food places dotted around space. In future if you're beaming people 
down I expect to see them coming back with yoghurts or nuts or fresh 
fruit. Understand?” 

“Okay Tadpole,” Ricky drawled. 

“Ssshhh!” the Captain hissed, glancing round to see if anybody had
heard. “Don't call me that.” 

“Why not?” Ricky asked. “It's your middle name.” 

“I know, I know but we don't use middle names on the ship.” 

Ricky grinned. “Especially when they're really silly ones, eh Taddy?” 

The Captain bit his lip then his hand reached up involuntarily to the
front of his jumper. “You haven't seen my Pendant by any chance, have 
you?” he asked. “That one I always wear?” 

“The one that's got something to do with the Evil Force?” 

Captain Kork shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, that's the one,” he admitted. 

“Evil Force!” Ricky said mockingly and sniggered. 

The Captain leaned back in the couch and stared thoughtfully out one of
the observation windows. “When you've travelled the Universe as much as 
I have,” he began, “when you've made contact with other life-forms and 
seen how some are good and some are evil, you get to thinking.” 

Ricky yawned and glanced round about the bridge. 

“Yes you get to thinking,” the Captain went on, standing up and gazing
out into the blackness of space. “You get to wondering – what does it 
all mean, where did we all come from, who created us in the first 
place?” 

A female Ensign had caught Ricky's eye. She smiled at him and after a
quick look at his brother who was still staring off into space, Ricky 
slipped over to her. 

“And if something did create us, it can only be described as a Force,”
the interstellar philosopher went on. “A Good Force. And since 
everything in the Universe has an opposite, there must be an opposite 
Force. An Evil Force.” 

Ricky and the Ensign were now strolling towards a side door, arm in arm.
All round the bridge the crew had gradually stopped what they were 
doing and were listening to the Captain. 

“I believe there is an Evil Force,” he continued, oblivious to the
attention he was receiving. “I've seen it. Felt it. Beaten it. But it's 
still there in other parts of the Universe. Malignant. Waiting. I 
believe we'll come into contact with it again and we must be strong. We 
must face it. We must overcome it. And with the help of the Good Force, 
we will overcome it!” 

The bridge crew nodded to each other and gave the Captain a warm round
of applause. Startled, he looked round then realised they'd all been 
listening to him. Slightly embarrassed he waved the applause away. 

“Resume stations everyone,” he ordered and strolled back to his chair,
grateful that the light tan on his face was concealing the light blush 
underneath. 

PART TWO 

Swivelling impatiently in his chair in front of the observation screen,
General Draygo waited for news from his attack ship. His red and black 
leather outfit identified him immediately as a General but apart from 
that he looked like any other Klinger. 

In fact one of the things Klingers were so angry about and which
contributed to their aggressive natures was that they all looked pretty 
similar and pretty ugly at that. 

Straight black hair grew on their large heads and fell from a centre
parting to their shoulders. Beneath their heavily wrinkled foreheads 
large hairy eyebrows grew in an uninterrupted line, nearly obscuring 
their small piggy eyes. Various lumps and bumps adorned their cheeks 
and chins and it was the size and positioning of these which gave them 
their only facial individuality. 

However not only was your average Klinger pretty ugly, he was pretty
thick as well, as General Draygo was about to be painfully reminded. 

His plan to kill Captain Kork and wipe out the Orion had seemed simple
enough – the Mother Ship would deliberately enter the Orion's outer 
scanner limits, knowing it would change course to avoid them and head 
straight into the path of the already positioned small attack ship, 
lying in wait invisible under its Cloak. 

The General had waited patiently for the distant yellow flash on his
observation screen which would indicate the destruction of the Orion 
and the success of his mission but as time dragged on and the view of 
space remained unchanged, he grew tired of waiting and broke 
communication silence to contact the two-man attack ship. 

“Is the Orion approaching yet?” he asked them. 

On the attack ship, the puzzled Sergeant frowned at the Private sitting
next to him. “The Orion?” 

“Yes the Orion,” growled Draygo. “Is it approaching?” 

There was a lengthy pause. “Is it approaching what?” the Sergeant
eventually asked. 

“Is it approaching you!?” Draygo roared. 

The Sergeant sniggered. “Not unless it turns back,” he replied. 

It was Draygo's turn to pause. “What d'you mean, turns back?” he asked,
puzzled. 

“It passed us five minutes ago,” the Sergeant told him, grinning
confidently at the Private. 

“It passed you five minutes ago!? Why didn't you blow it up?” 

“Blow it up? Don't be daft, we're the diversion.” 

“We're the frigging diversion, you prick!!” roared Draygo, thumping his
desk in frustration. “You mean you let them go past!?” 

“Uh...well...I suppose we did.” 

The General paced around the bridge for a full minute, roaring and
cursing and taking his temper out on anything that got in his way. When 
he had calmed down a bit he spoke to the Sergeant again. “Listen 
carefully,” he said through gritted teeth. “Have you got your Cloak 
on?” 

“Nope, I forgot,” admitted the Sergeant. 

“Well put it on,” Draygo instructed. “Go after the Orion. When you get
close enough, blow it up. Understand?” 

“Yes sir,” said the Sergeant and flicked off the radio. 

He shook his head and left the small bridge, returning shortly
afterwards, carrying something. 

“What have you got that for?” asked the Private. “Feeling cold?” 

The Sergeant shook his head. “Not really,” he replied, “but Draygo says
that I‘ve to put my cloak on and we've to go after the Orion.” 

PART THREE 

With the bridge crew settled down and concentrating on their work after
Captain Kork's recent well-received monologue, the Orion continued on 
its course to respond to the distress call from the unknown ship. 
Something else however was about to distract their attention. 

As he glanced round the bridge, the Captain noticed that someone was
missing. Just as he was about to enquire after his whereabouts, a 
cigar-chewing Butch Bradley wandered over, goosing Crackers as he 
passed. 

“Acting First Officer Bradley reporting,” he announced casually then
leaned down and put an arm round the Captain's shoulder. “Queer Ears is 
sulking in his cabin again,” he told him. “Scared we all laugh at him. 
Haw haw haw!” 

The Captain wiped away small cigar shreds from the side of his head. “I
take it you are referring to First Officer Sprock?” he asked. 

“You got it,” agreed Butch. “Queer ears.” 

“Return to your station, Mr Bradley. I'll contact Mr Sprock and find out
what the problem is,” the Captain said. 

Butch strolled off, both hands up at his ears and flapping about,
causing some poorly suppressed sniggering amongst the crew. 

Catching the laughter the Captain sighed and wearily rubbed a hand
across his brow. Mr Sprock, his First Officer, was a damned fine man to 
have as his second in command. The only problem with him was that he 
was a Bulcan. Although Bulcans were reasonably similar to Earthlings 
they did have one striking difference, or rather two – their ears. 

Bulcans had strange ears. Very strange. They changed shape once or twice
a month but nobody knew what form the new ones were likely to take, not 
even the owner. Sometimes they were large and pointed, sometimes they 
were shaped like cabbages, sometimes they stuck out at floppy right 
angles like a dog's. 

Unfortunately for Mr Sprock the new ears were invariably ridiculous and
he took understandable offence at people laughing at him especially as 
he was a highly intelligent, dignified man and First Officer of the 
Orion, a position which should have commanded respect not hilarity. 

Captain Kork sighed again then leaned forward and pressed a button on
his desk intercom, buzzing Sprock's cabin. 

“Yes Captain?” the familiar, slightly nasal voice answered immediately. 

“Not joining us on the bridge, Mr Sprock?” 

Sprock hesitated. “I have a bit of a headache, Captain.” 

“More like earache,” muttered Butch Bradley, causing more subdued
sniggering. 

“Come come, Mr Sprock,” the Captain chided. “I need you on the bridge.” 

Sprock sighed. “To be honest, Jim,” he said, “my ears have changed
again. I fear some of the more vulgar members of the crew might find 
them amusing and laugh at me.” 

This caused more muted giggling around the bridge. 

“I can understand your predicament and believe me I sympathise,” said
the Captain, “but I really do need you up here.” He leaned closer to 
his intercom and tried to whisper into it. “How bad are your ears 
anyway?” 

“Very bad, Jim. The worst they've been in a long time.” 

An uncontrollable snigger escaped from someone. The Captain glanced
round quickly but everyone appeared engrossed in their work. 

“I'll tell you what, Mr Sprock,” he went on, turning back to his
intercom, “I'll give the crew a good talking to before you come up. 
How's that?” 

“It won't work, Captain. As soon as they see these they'll
disintegrate.” 

“Christ, get him up, get him up!” Butch hissed. 

“Mr Sprock,” the Captain said more firmly. “I can assure you as
Commander of this ship that if I issue the crew with a direct order and 
they fail in their duties then the consequences for them would be 
extremely serious. They know that so if I say they won't laugh, they 
won't laugh.” 

Sprock considered this. “All right Captain,” he eventually agreed. “I
take your word. I'm on my way.” 

A buzz of excitement and expectation ran round the crew as Captain Kork
flicked off the intercom. He swivelled round in his chair, stood up and 
faced them. 

“No doubt most of you heard that conversation,” he announced. “It seems
my First Officer, Mr Sprock, has gone through another ear change. Now 
you are all aware of how sensitive he can be about this so I've assured 
him that there will be no laughing or derogatory remarks made. If 
anybody causes him any embarrassment or says anything stupid it will be 
treated as an act of direct insubordination and you all know how 
harshly Federation Command deals with that. Do I make myself clear?” 

The crew nodded respectfully. 

“Then carry on with your normal duties,” the Captain ordered. “And don't
let me hear one word out of place when Mr Sprock arrives.” He turned 
and resumed his seat. 

PART FOUR 

Zipping across space in their small attack ship, the fierce but dim
Klinger warriors eventually caught up with their prey. Maintaining 
their traditions of stupidity the Sergeant was wearing his cloak 
instead of activating their Cloak but it didn't really matter – the 
bridge crew aboard the Orion were only pretending to work as they 
awaited Mr Sprock's arrival so no-one noticed the scanner sweeps which 
showed the small yellow dot approaching from the rear. 

“There they are,” said the Sergeant as they picked up the Orion on their
observation screen. 

“So it is,” agreed the Private. “The Orion. Should we signal them?” 

The Sergeant laughed derisively and slapped him across his forehead.
“Don't be thick. We're going to blow them up.” 

The Private frowned. “Blow them up? I thought they were the diversion?” 

“Naaa,” said the Sergeant. “Draygo's the diversion.” 

“Oh is he?” muttered the Private, his frown deepening as he tried to
work out the complexities of modern warfare. 

“Right, line them up,” ordered the Sergeant. 

The Private gave up trying to fathom out the depths of their battle
tactics and busied himself with the controls and brought them in not 
far behind the Orion. “Enemy ship lined up,” he said. 

The Sergeant grunted and leaned forward to his console. He flicked some
switches and waited till the flashing red light became steady, 
indicating that the ship's lasers were ready for firing. “Weapons 
ready!” he announced, grinning and rubbing his hands together. 

“Oh go on, let me!” pleaded the Private. “I like the firing bit.” 

“All right,” the Sergeant agreed and leaned back in his seat. “Fire!” 

“Thanks Sarge,” said the Private. “You're a sport.” 

He flexed his thick fingers then stretched across to the Sergeant's
console and jabbed the green button. The two of them sat back and 
watched the observation screen expectantly, waiting for the Orion to 
erupt in a bright yellow ball but all they heard was the sound of the 
toilet flushing in the rear of the ship. 

The Sergeant turned and slapped the Private across the head again.
“Twat!  You pressed the wrong button!” he yelled. “You've flushed the 
toilet! Line the damn thing up again!” 

PART FIVE 

Unaware of how close they'd come to being flushed all over space,
tension continued to mount amongst the bridge crew as Mr Sprock's 
arrival grew near. 

As the Captain was staring at the forward observation screen, deep in
thought, Butch Bradley took the opportunity to add to the suppressed 
excitement by parading up and down with two large paper plates held 
against the side of his head, causing an outbreak of muted sniggering 
amongst the crew. One of the Ensigns lost control completely and hand 
clapped over his mouth, he had to leave before the main event began. 

A couple of minutes later the bridge door swished open and breaths were
held collectively as Mr Sprock took a hesitant step in. 

As he had stated earlier, his ears were bad. Very bad. They were the
same shape, texture and colour as an adult pig's and they stuck out at 
right angles to his head, pink and hairy. 

A strangled, tortured gurgle escaped from Lieutenant Youhoor and had him
quickly turning in her direction, eyebrows raised, ears twitching but 
with a magnificent effort she managed to turn the gurgle into a cough 
and nodded pleasantly at him. 

He glanced in the opposite direction but the crew all had their heads
down mainly because after having had the briefest of looks at him they 
realised it was either pretend they were working or surrender to 
bladder-emptying convulsions. 

Satisfied for the time being that there was no collective outburst of
laughter but aware that it could still happen, Sprock made his way 
tentatively across the bridge, pausing here and there to investigate 
and eliminate any suspicious sounds that remotely resembled sniggering. 


In his wake he left a devastated crew : Lieutenant Youhoor, in her
continuing fight not to laugh, was biting hard on her lower lip and had 
her legs tightly crossed; Butch Bradley was silently thumping his fist 
against the soft rubber surround of his console; Ensign Cool had fallen 
off his chair and lay behind a desk, his legs kicking in the air and a 
couple of the women were huddled next to each other, their slim 
shoulders shaking in fits of silent giggling. 

The entire bridge had become a tinderbox of suppressed laughter and one
carelessly tossed aside remark was liable to set it alight. 

Ignoring the large, hairy, pink ears, the Captain rose from his seat and
smiled warmly at Sprock as he approached. “You see,” he said proudly, 
his hand sweeping round the bridge, “nothing to worry about. Not even a 
titter.” 

At the mention of the word ‘titter', Mr Zulu nearly lost control and
fought desperately to stifle a snigger. Quickly he ducked under his 
console and pretended to search through his bone box. Sprock watched 
him closely, an eyebrow arched in suspicion. 

“Relax,” the Captain told him. “It's nothing. Mr Zulu's just sorting
through his bones.” 

“Dem bones, dem bones, dem ear bones!” Butch Bradley hissed and
Lieutenant Youhoor nearly bit through her lip. 

Sprock twitched his ears and nodded. A full two minutes had elapsed
since his entrance and no-one had laughed and no derogatory remarks had 
been hurled at him. Obviously he had underestimated the Captain's 
authority over the crew. 

“I was unwise to doubt your word, Jim,” he said apologetically. 

Captain Kork smiled at him. “Think nothing of it,” he replied. 

After a final glance round Mr Sprock relaxed completely. Putting all his
premonitions aside he began to concentrate on his work. He studied the 
observation screen for a few moments then turned to the Captain. 

“From the constellations on display I see we are in the Avalon System,”
he remarked. “What is our purpose here?” 

“Oh we're responding to a distress call from your ears,” the Captain
replied. 

As one, the crew disintegrated. Laughter which had so far been denied
release suddenly sensed freedom and escaped from every possible orifice 
in a gigantic, sniggering, giggling, hee-hawing, boisterous roar that 
threatened to lift the ceiling off the bridge. 

Lieutenant Youhoor fell off her seat and joined Ensign Cool on the floor
who was now doubled up in uncontrollable spasms. Mr Zulu had put his 
bone box over his head and was shrieking wildly. 

Crackers was reeling about on top of his desk, his elbows bumping his
instruments, sending them zigzagging through space. This was 
exceptionally fortunate because the Klinger attack ship had just fired 
on them and the Orion's unexpected course change caused them to miss. 

Butch Bradley had his eyes screwed shut and was thumping his console
with both fists. Without realising what he was doing his left hand 
banged down on the ‘Fire' button and he released a rear heat-seeking 
missile which scored a direct hit on the Klingers. 

The attack ship disintegrated in a ball of yellow flame but its
destruction went completely unnoticed by everyone on the Orion. 

Realising what he'd said, Captain Kork's head sank into his hands as Mr
Sprock ear flapped and squeaked his way from the bridge. 

When the door swished shut the Captain glanced up. He looked round at
the roaring, screaming, thigh-slapping, giggling mass that was the 
bridge crew then slowly his shoulders began to shake. 

Laughter welled up in him and he tried to hold it back but it burst out
and he sprawled back in his chair slapping the arms, tears running down 
his face, his stomach heaving so much that it threatened to split his 
Tummy Trimmer Corset. 


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