“Sir, if the symptoms you described are accurate, this man is in a world of trouble. I really must attend to him as soon as possible.”
“Of course, of course, doctor,” said the grand super marshal, leading him away from the shuttle airlock. “This way.”
Dr. Porniviriyakul and Grand Super Marshal Steelballs walked quickly through the winding corridors of the Federation space station, making their way toward the medical wing.
“The patient,” said the doctor, “what’s his name?”
“Feces, doctor. Commodore Mark Feces.”
“Feces? Is that... French?”
“Russian, I thought.”
The doctor shrugged. “I hope your medical wing is well supplied, Marshal. I brought what I could, but most of my equipment is large and more than a little ungainly.”
“Your wife must be thrilled!”
“I’m sorry?”
“Wordplay, doctor, wordplay.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t appreciate it fully.”
“I’ll try.”
“I suppose you want me to have this Feces cured of his... madness by tomorrow?” continued the doctor, hurrying down another hallway.
“If you could, yeah, that’d be great,” replied Grand Super Marshal Steelballs. “We’ve poured a shitload of money into this spaceship and it’s launching tomorrow, one way or another. We promoted another officer in Feces’s stead, you know, as a precaution, but, honestly, the commodore is one of the greatest – if not THE greatest – mind this Federation has ever known. And the Zdravo is by far the greatest ship I’ve ever seen. They were made for one another.”
The doctor grunted his assent, then said, “I’ll have to operate fast then. Tell me, Marshal –”
“It’s Grand Super Marshal, actually.”
“Oh, uh, okay... Grand Super Marshal... tell me, how –”
It was at that moment that Dr. Porniviriyakul was struck in the back of the head with a paintball. It appeared to have escaped from the conference room he had just passed.
“Hey, look at that,” said a man peeking from the conference room’s doorway. “We’ve got our new veterinarian!”
“I’m a neurosurgeon,” said Dr. Porniviriyakul, attempting to wipe the surprisingly permanent red paint from his hair.
“Universe-renowned,” added Grand Super Marshal Steelballs.
“Well, that’s great,” said the man, who appeared to be tucking a slingshot into the waistband of his battle shorts, “but you just got hit with a paintball and the Zdravo needs a vet.”
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, furrowing his brow. “I’m not following.”
“Interviews too much for him, Orr?” said the grand super marshal to the other man.
“He didn’t like the whole ‘having to listen to people’ part. To his credit,” said the man, removing the slingshot from his shorts again, “this really is a lot more fun.”
He fired another paintball into the conference room and shouted, “Congratulations! You’re an engineer!”
“Look,” said Dr. Porniviriyakul, “I’m not sure what you two are talking about, but there’s a man on the verge of permanent and potentially terminal psychosis that I need to tend to. Now, if you don’t mind...”
“No, I’m afraid not, doctor...” said Steelballs, before turning to the other man. “Vets are still doctors, right?”
The man with the slingshot, Space Marshal Phil Orr, nodded.
“Okay, then. As I was saying, doctor, Feces is going to have to wait. And probably die, I guess. We’ve got to get you processed and aboard the Zdravo.”
“You... you must be joking,” said Dr. Porniviriyakul. “I have several doctorate degrees in various fields of –”
“Yes, that’s all fine and peachy,” said Marshal Orr, “but that was a legally-binding, fully-contractual paintball you got clobbered with. You are now a veterinarian for the Federation.”
“But... Feces... You called me halfway across the galaxy to help him!”
“Yeah, well, we tried, right?” said Grand Super Marshal Steelballs with a shrug. “Anyway, there’s a lot of paperwork, and several rectal exams, so –”
“That man is going to die unless I help him! I have to go to the medical wing and –”
“No!” shouted Space Marshal Orr. “Vets are animal doctors! Feces isn’t having kittens, he’s got a serious neurological problem. His brain’s all... fucked up and stuff. It’s over your head.”
A vein in Dr. Porniviriyakul’s forehead was throbbing spectacularly.
“That’s the spirit!” said Grand Super Marshal Steelballs, throwing his arm around the former neurosurgeon. “Welcome to the Federation!”
Save the Brains
Mission 58008 - 006
The Zdravo was getting hammered. She was on a routine escort mission, bringing the Neptunian Devil Bear’s union president, Wally Glagrik, to Federation headquarters for a public and universally broadcast apology from Captain Oswald Van Vanderhoort Van Tyler – again – when she was suddenly attacked by a roving band of deep-space space pirates.
“All hands to stations!” called out First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts.
“Yes, sir,” said the computer, before repeating the order over the ship’s PA system.
“But what about Private Parts?” asked Captain Tyler.
“This is no time to talk about your testicles, Captain,” replied the lieutenant.
“No, not my balls,” Tyler responded, “Private Peter Parts. He lost his hands during the last scheduled maintenance of the Zdravo’s plumbing.”
“How... What?”
“He doesn’t have hands is what I’m saying. He can’t bring his hands to stations.”
“We have him in the engine room. Marshal Orr assigned him to a stationary bike. He thinks he’s powering the ship.”
“Oh,” said Captain Tyler. “Well, okay then.”
The ship shook as she was blasted by Proton Disaster Beams.
“Sweet baby corn, that’s unsettling,” said the captain. “I think I need someone to hold me tight.”
“Yeah, I’m... I’m busy,” replied First Lieutenant Duknerts, simultaneously coordinating all targeting and defense systems and managing all officers and space seamen in a valiant effort to not die violently.
“Right. Then get me Private Quarters!”
“Private Quarters isn’t here, sir,” replied Private Yvette Redshirt, working two computer screens at once. “You sent him out for ice cream several hours ago. I’ve been doing his job and mine since.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. He went to the cafeteria, returned with several pints in an assortment of flavors, then you shouted at him, then you shoved him into an escape pod and launched it.”
“That does sound like something I would do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what about Private Naughtyplaces? Is she still on board?”
“Yes,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts, “but that would be in violation of the restraining order she has against you.”
“Oh, right. The Jell-O wrestling incident. Well, what about Private Beef?”
“Available,” said the computer.
“But hates you,” added the first lieutenant.
“Why – No, wait! Banged his mom a couple of years back,” replied the captain. “What about Dr. Sodomy? He’s always so warm.”
“Not here,” blurted Engineer Lawrence Poopypants, running through the bridge with a half dozen schematics, three screwdrivers, a wrench, and a puppy.
“Oh, right. He was running five minutes late so I left without him.”
“Permission to question one of your decisions, sir,” asked Private Redshirt, spinning in her chair to face the captain.
“Granted.”
“Was it wise to leave the space station without a doctor?”
“I left him cab fare.”
“How does that... What?”
The Zdravo reverberated from nose to tail as
several more Proton Disaster Beams smacked her in vulnerable areas.
“Doctors are useless in battle situations anyway,” said Captain Tyler, leaning back and scratching his balls. “Isn’t that right, Private Bloodredshirt?”
Private Miranda Bloodredshirt looked up, a confused expression on her face. This was the first time since taking a paintball to the inner thigh during new hire orientation that anyone had addressed her. And even then she was only addressed as “You there.”
“I gue—”
“See, we’ll be fine,” continued Captain Tyler. “Besides we’ve got Nurse Sidemanner. And if she can’t figure something out there’s always Dr. Porn.”
“The vet?” asked First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“Sure, we’re just like animals, right? Lemurs or something like that.”
“I don’t think –” began Private Bloodredshirt, before taking a Proton Disaster Beam squarely in the face and exploding in a horrendous spray of blood and brains.
“Holy shit,” said Captain Tyler.
“Computer! Seal the holes in the ship!” commanded the first lieutenant. The computer did as told.
“Private Anthony Darkpinkshirt, status update!”
“Captain, it seems like we’re taking a lot of punishment. Our shields are almost gone, Private Bloodredshirt’s face is missing and I think there’s a chance I’ve wet myself.”
“Not the ship, you idiot! My Facebook status! Has anyone commented?”
“Oh, uh… No. Hank ‘Liked’ it, though.”
“The janitor-robot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he doing on Facebook?! Shouldn’t he be cleaning something?”
Another Proton Disaster Beam pummeled into the Zdravo, taking with it the bridge’s side window and most of Private Reginald Titmouse’s skull.
“Anyone else notice that the pirates keep getting headshots? From outside the space ship?” asked Private Eustace W. Fluffernutter. “How is that even possible?”
Private Fluffernutter’s face then exploded.
“That’s an excellent question,” said Private Marvin Pantyliner.
His face exploded too.
“Okay,” said Captain Tyler, “this is getting gross. Computer?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Run a scan of the Zdravo. See if anyone is sending the pirates e-mails or text messages or something.”
“Running scan…”
The captain scratched his balls again. Deeply. Thoroughly.
“A transmitter is being broadcast from the sub-basement,” continued the computer. “It does not appear to be Federation issue.”
“We’re on it,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“We have a basement?” said Captain Tyler.
Private Redshirt stood in front of the sub-basement door and waited for the go ahead from Captain Tyler. Tyler, for his part, was cowering behind First Lieutenant Duknerts.
The captain, pulling Duknerts close, took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
Private Yvette Redshirt slowly turned the knob.
Then she opened the door.
The private, the first lieutenant, and the captain all gasped.
Then they realized they were staring into a pitch black stairwell and couldn’t see anything. Private Redshirt felt around for a light switch and flipped it. Then they all gasped again.
They were now looking at a well lit stairwell.
“We should probably hold our gasping for an appropriate moment,” said Private Redshirt.
“Probably, yeah,” said the captain.
“Or do away with it all together,” replied Lieutenant Duknerts.
“What?! Are you mad, man?!”
“Hey,” said a deep, gravelly voice, “who’s up there?”
“We are,” replied First Lieutenant Duknerts. “Who are you?”
“I’m me.”
The trio couldn’t see anyone. Whoever was speaking was not standing directly at the bottom of the stairs. He was off to the side somewhere, just out of sight. That bastard.
“Are you a pirate?” asked Private Redshirt.
“Yes,” said the voice. “I mean, no. No, I’m not a pirate.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Maybe I don’t believe you!”
“This is dumb,” said Captain Tyler. “Violence!”
He pulled his laser pistol and ran down the stairs. First Lieutenant Duknerts followed after him. It was in his contract to make sure Tyler remained among the living. Granted, if he let Tyler die, it would only be a slight fine, but Commodore Feces was second-in-command and, aside from being completely insane and chained to a bed in the psych ward of the ship, he was kind of a dick.
Private Redshirt sighed. Her contract didn’t specify that anyone had to survive, so she simply plopped her butt down and waited for her witless commanding officers to return. That is, until she heard Captain Tyler’s horrified little girly-scream from deep within the parts of the basement she couldn’t see.
That’s when she decided she wanted ice cream.
“Large cone please. Chocolate and vanilla swirl.”
“Sure thing,” said the lunchlady-bot.
Private Percival Q. Purplepants got in line behind Private Redshirt and said hello.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” replied Private Redshirt.
“So, how about that continuing pirate assault, huh?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Sucks to be us.”
“Only if you’re one of the ones to get your head exploded.”
“That’s why I wear this helmet.”
“No, it’s not.”
Meanwhile, back in the basement, First Lieutenant Duknerts had his hands full. Literally. Captain Tyler had run face first into an exposed pipe and cracked his skull open. During the ensuing screaming and thrashing, he had managed to shake his brain loose. Conveniently, it had landed in Duknerts’ open hands.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Wally Glagrik, Neptunian Devil Bear union president and owner of the mysterious voice from moments earlier. “You’re holding his brain!”
“Holy shit!” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.
Tyler’s body didn’t say anything.
Private Redshirt walked down the cellar stairs and found her crewmates in a state of panic and death, respectively. She looked beyond them because, to be frank, she wasn’t all that concerned, and that’s when she noticed Wally standing against the wall with a walkie-talkie.
“You’re the pirate?” she asked, simultaneously pointing over at the Neptunian Devil Bear’s union president and licking her ice cream cone.
“I told you I’m not a pirate.”
“But then why are those pirates outside attacking us?”
First Lieutenant Duknerts turned and faced Private Redshirt.
“Brain! Dead! Tyler! Feces! NOOOOOOO!”
“Yeah, okay, fine,” she replied. “I think the pirate question is more pressing.”
“You should probably ask that guy, then,” said Wally Glagrik, pointing his walkie-talkie at an unwashed man with a bandana, an eye patch and a wooden leg, in a corner and trying to hide behind his own arm.
“Yeah, probably,” said Private Redshirt.
Pointing her ice cream at the man she asked, “You a pirate?”
“Arr.”
“And you’re the reason we’re being attacked?”
“Arr.”
“Can you stop?”
“Arr,” he said. “I mean, no. Fuck you. And your Federation!”
“What?!” roared Wally. “No one says an unkind thing about the Federation! Ever!”
The Neptunian Devil Bear bounded across the basement in a single... uh, bound. He mercilessly mauled the space pirate, tearing him into a dozen bite-size pieces. Well, bite-size for a Neptunian Devil Bear. Even the smallest devil bear is the size of a mid-sized sedan. And Wally Glagrik was not a small devil bear. Which is why he was able to eat the pirate so quickl
y.
Screw the Universe Page 3