Fantasy Making of a Starship Captain

People were dropping like flies. Every two hours, Taylor called out over the comm and asked everyone at their station to report in.

The first time he did that, fourteen people reported in.

The second time, eight people responded.

The third time, three people did.

No one responded the fourth time.

He was all on his own.

Taylor tried to contain his feelings of panic.

"This is too much!" said Inadequacy. "Look at you, all alone! You're just a space cadet. You don't know what you're doing! This is too much, Mike, too much for you to handle."

Taylor blinked rapidly as all his fears came into full bloom.

"What if you're flying in the wrong direction? What if the ship breaks down? How are you going to take care of all these sick crewmembers? It's too big a job for one person!"

Taylor gritted his teeth as the anxiety in his head reached an all time high.

And then suddenly, there was a shudder, and the ship came to a crashing halt.

Ambition turned to Inadequacy and gave him a karate chop to the neck, sending Inadequacy slumping to the ground. "Sorry, fucker, there's work to be done! Now push your fears aside, Mike, and get to work!" said Ambition.

Suddenly Taylor was cool, calm and collected. He blinked. How had that happened? He checked the sensors. The ship hadn't hit anything. He checked the ship for damage. There was none.

The engines simply were... off-line.

Taylor activated the holocom. "Engineering... report!" There was no answer, nor was there likely to be. Chief Ashanti was probably lying incapacitated in her quarters, like all the rest. The sickness seemed to have two stages, first a period of delirium, and then intense weakness, though not all crewmembers went through the first stage, as Taylor had seen.

Taylor raced down to Engineering. When the doors snapped open, he nearly crashed head first into the force field which had been erected just inside the doorway.

"What's going on here?"

Chief Ashanti came into view, followed by Ensigns Johnson and Betts.

"Chief, lower the force field."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Michael," she said, in an odd voice.

"Why not?"

"Because Engineering is closed."

"Engineering is closed?"

"Engineering is closed. All white people must leave," said Ashanti firmly.

Taylor struggled to understand the words he was hearing.

"Engineering is closed. All white people must leave!" Ashanti repeated, more emphatically, with a blank expression on her face.

"Chief, we need those engines online! We have to rendezvous with the Indomitable."

"Uh uh," said Ashanti, shaking her head. "No justice, no engines."

"No justice, no engines?" said Taylor, frowning.

"No justice, no engines! No justice, no engines!" The two heavyset black Ensigns chanted.

"Until our demands are met, the engines will be silent," said Ashanti, with wide eyes, giving him a mocking side nod of her head.

"What... what are your demands?"

"Half the crew must be people of color," said Ashanti. "And I don't mean white! White ain't no color! And, let's see, what else... yes, all meat products must be jettisoned. Half the senior officers must be trigendered, or quadgendered. And... Velma, what was that last thing?"

One of the heavy black Ensigns said, "Captain. We all be Captain."

"Yes," said Ashanti. "All of us must be Captain! Equal ranks, all equal!"

"Fine," said Taylor, slapping his hands on his thighs. "You're all Captain."

"We are?" said Shannen Betts, the other heavyset Ensign.

"He's lying!" said Velma.

"You're lying," said Ashanti.

"Chief, we don't have time for this. Let me in!" said Taylor.

"Sorry! Only brothas and sistas! And you, my friend, ain't no brotha from a different motha!"

"But... I danced with you!"

"Chile, you gots the moves, but you shooo' don't gots da blooood," said Ashanti, cocking her head derisively to the side again as she smiled mockingly at him with wide eyes.

Taylor bit his lip and left. He had to get the ship moving! He thought rapidly. What could he do?

He was hungry. He couldn't think. He ran into the mess hall, into the kitchen.

....Where he heard a clatter.

He turned to see Mark Stratford, cowering behind a refrigeration unit.

"Mark?" said Taylor.

"Mike?" said Stratford. "Just stay calm, Mike."

"Mark, I'm not affected by the virus!"

"You aren't?" Stratford's shoulders slumped. "Then we're the only ones. I've had crazy people running in and out of here all day."

"I'm sure," said Taylor. He looked at Mark, and suddenly, he realized something. Something tremendous! Something wonderful!

Mark was black!

"Come on, let me in," said Stratford, standing on the other side of the force field in engineering.

"I don't know," said Ashanti, looking at him suspiciously. "You got da fuzz with you?"

"No, babe, it's just me. I'm as black as you. Even blacker, look!" He held out a hand. It was true; whereas Ashanti's skin was the color of coffee, Mark Stratford's skin was the color of rich dark chocolate.

"All right," said Ashanti. She lowered the force field.

"Thanks," said Stratford, stepping forward. "I really appreciate it." He reached behind his back, and drew a compression pistol.

"Did they give you any trouble?" Taylor asked, as he walked over the slumped bodies in Engineering.

"None at all," Stratford reassured him.

"I have to find where she shut off the engines to get them restarted," said Taylor, rapidly glancing from console to console. Then he nearly tripped over the problem. "No. Oh no. No no no."

"What is it?" Stratford asked.

Taylor bent down, and saw circuit panels strewn all over the floor. "It looked like they ripped pieces of the control circuits out at random." He eyed them. "And some of them are damaged."

"What does that mean?"

"We're not going anywhere."

Taylor's heart was pounding as he returned to the bridge. He activated the holocomm. "Bridge to Captain Hauslohner. Bridge to Captain Hauslohner."

The Captain might be delusional, but Taylor had no choice. Taylor had briefly considered going to the Captain's quarters, but had decided against it, fearing the very likely possibility that the Captain might be bottomless again, studying the new object of his obsession.

There was no answer. Taylor tried again.

"Bridge to Captain Hauslohner. Bridge to Captain Hauslohner. This is urgent, please respond!"

"What... what is it?" came the Captain's voice.

"Sir, it's Taylor. The engines are damaged. We can't move."

There was no response.

"We're not going to be able to make our rendezvous with the Indomitable."

There was a long pause. Then, "Taylor?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Send out a general distress call."

Taylor considered. "Sir, we are near the edges of Ramadhan space. Should we really do that?"

"Taylor, our crew is incapacitated, and our engines are down. Send out the distress call!"

"Yes sir," said Taylor. He terminated the connection. Then he stared at the comm panel for a long moment. He went over to it, and activated it.....

Taylor and Mark Stratford were the only ones left. And to be honest, even Mark Stratford was beginning to show signs of the infection. He started giggling at odd times. Taylor had to bark at him to focus.

They went around to each crew quarters, all 56 of them, twice a day, seeing to the crew and taking care of their needs. It took up an inordinate period of time. When they weren't doing that, Taylor had Mark Stratford take a bridge watch while he tried to repair the control circuits in engineering.

Stratford wasn't qualified to be a bridge officer, but at least he could call Taylor if there were any incoming messages.

The first thing he had done, though, was to contact the Indomitable.

"There's only two of you left?" said Captain Tom Willowby, squinting with disbelief.

"Yes sir, and the engines have been heavily damaged," said Taylor.

"Just a moment." Willowby consulted with an officer, who whispered back and forth with him. "We were supposed to rendezvous with you in five days, but that presumed you were coming towards us as we were coming towards you."

"I realize that, sir," said Taylor, swallowing heavily.

"Son... I know you're just an acting Ensign, but can you and your crewman hold out for ten days?"

"I guess we'll have to, sir," said Taylor.

Willowby nodded slowly. "I'm sure you will. We'll accelerate to get every extra bit of speed we can. Maybe we can shave a few hours off of our arrival time."

"Thank you, sir. Much appreciated."

Willowby nodded, and signed off.

Taylor turned to Stratford, and saw the fear in his eyes. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be all right," he said.

And the funny thing was, Taylor believed it.

Somehow, when he was in charge, when he was in command, when he was continually busy, all his fear was gone. He found that when he had to work, when he had to do things to keep the crew alive, all his fears evaporated. He was calm, thoughtful, and efficient, just like he had been on the Moon, years ago.

Taylor tried to piece things together in engineering. The circuit boards that hadn't been damaged were finally reinserted in the proper positions in a few hours. But four of the boards were damaged, two of them significantly. He found himself reading complex technical manuals trying to figure out how they could be repaired or, preferably, bypassed.

"I don't understand this virus," said Mark Stratford, as they prepared lunch. "Two other expeditions went down to the planet. They didn't get sick."

"I remember my lecture on first contact at the Academy," said Taylor. "Colonel Calle told us that planets are big places with complex ecosystems. If you explore one part of it, or five landing zones or even a dozen landing zones you still can't get a good read on the ecology. Planets are simply too big."

"But both expeditions landed in the same exact spot as you did, didn't they?"

"True. I can't explain it. Maybe there was a seasonal variation," said Taylor, remembering the yellow flowers giving off spores.

"And why didn't you get sick?" Stratford asked.

"Maybe I'm naturally immune, like you," said Taylor. "Or maybe staying on the planet as long as I did somehow immunized me. Perhaps if Ensign Goldstein had stayed with me on the planet, perhaps he wouldn't have become contagious." He sighed. "I'm not a doctor. I don't know."

And right now, the only doctor on the ship thought he was God.

It was often derisively said that egotistical doctors thought they were gods because of the importance of their work. Perhaps there was something in the virus that peeled back inner thoughts and feelings and brought them to the surface, because when Taylor went to deliver lunch to Doctor McCrae, he still thought he was God.

"I created this," said McCrae, waving his hands dramatically at the bulkhead in his quarters. "I created all of this!"

"And a good job you did too. I've never seen a bulkhead looking nicer," said Taylor, trying to humor him as he unpacked a sandwich.

"And well you should! I am the creator of all!" said McCrae, his eyes wide. "I created the heavens! I created the Earth! Does it not amaze you?"

"The Earth? Yeah, it's really good. You made it nice and round, that's my favorite part," said Taylor.

McCrae was so far gone that he wasn't aware that Taylor was mocking him. "I did it so well. There were only a few flaws. Florida was one."

"Florida?" said Taylor, looking for a cup.

"Yes. It looks too much like a limp penis. It was supposed to be meatier, thicker, straighter. But I was distracted when I created it."

"Distracted how?"

McCrae grinned. "An angel was pleasuring me orally while I was creating the Earth, and my hand slipped."

"Well, I can see how that could happen. Quite understandable," said Taylor, pouring him a drink.

"Atlantis was my other big mistake," said McCrae.

"Atlantis?"

"It had a bad foundation. Termites got into the work, and it sunk before I could fix it."

"Well, there's not much you can do about that," said Taylor.

Taylor had many odd encounters like these. When he went to deliver food to Captain Hauslohner, he found him still obsessed about his favorite subject.

"Did you know that the uniforms weren't always black on the bottom and colorful on top? They used to be reversed. Do you know why?" Hauslohner asked.

"I have a feeling I'm about to find out," said Taylor, as he rummaged through his container of sandwiches.

"It was all about our bellies, you see," said Hauslohner. "Originally, the Survey Service chose dark colors so our bellies wouldn't stick out in such an obvious way. But then they realized it was a two edged sword. While our bellies were no longer showing, we could no longer see women's breasts sticking out."

"That is an unexpected drawback," Taylor admitted.

"It was terrible for morale. Even worse after they switched to those dreadful unisex uniforms. No more miniskirts and pantyhose and high heeled boots! And so the Service decided to swallow their pride and switch to bright colors, so bellies are now very, very visible...but at least we get to see women's breasts sticking out! I mean come on, we have to look at Kinneret's big belly, but on the other hand, we get to see every contour of Ensign Gonzalez's giant titties. Worth it?"

"It's a price well worth paying," said Taylor absentmindedly, as he did a count of his sandwiches.

"My thoughts exactly! And it has an added benefit--we can see asses sticking out as well. Those of us who are well endowed down there can show our own badges of authority."

"It's like rank insignia... for the bottom half," said Taylor.

"Exactly!" said Hauslohner, grinning widely.

"I want corned beef," Commander Kinneret whined, as he lay in his bed.

"I don't have corned beef. Only ham," said Taylor, rummaging through his sandwiches.

"I only want corned beef!" said Kinneret.

"All right. Here's corned beef," said Taylor, handing him a ham sandwich.

"Thanks!" Kinneret grinned. He bit into it and chewed noisily. "Ummm..... This isn't bad. The only thing is, you forgot to use the rye bread with those little seeds in it."

"Sorry, I'll remember next time."

"See that you do. And where's the schmear?" Kinneret asked.

"What?"

"The cottage cheese? The butta? The schmear?"

"Oh, sorry, I forgot that too," said Taylor.

"What kind of a deli are you running here?" Kinneret demanded, his bald head glistening with sweat. His head looked like a giant egg. "No schmear... no pickle... this is the worst deli I've ever been to! How do you expect to stay in business without any schmear?"

"We generate high profit margins on our bagels and bialys," said Taylor, packing up his tote bag.

"You're my half brother, aren't you?" Ashanti grinned, as Taylor came in with sandwiches.

"Sure," said Taylor.

"I knew it from the moment I saw you dance," said Ashanti. "Dad always liked white women. He always looked at them in that special kind of way, you know? One time I tapped into his database, and I saw pictures of all kinds of naked white women. I showed it to Momma and she was so enraged! She confronted Dad. He said it was nothing. 'Sure, Thelma, I looks at the white meat on the menu, but when I sit down to dinner, I'm always chowing down on the legs and thighs, not the breasts.' I could tell Momma was angry at him, really angry. And then there was Mrs. Anderson. She was the pretty white lady next door. When her husband was killed by that undocumented but highly virtuous drunk driver from Guatemala who drove on both sides of the road, the wife suddenly got pregnant eight months after his death. Momma asked suspiciously 'How dis happen?', knowing full well that Daddy was all over her place, offering to be helpful to her and shit like that. Mrs. Anderson moved away before she gave birth, but we all knew. You're that baby, aren't you? You're my brotha from another motha."

"That's right," said Taylor. "That's my name, Michael Anderson, remember?"

"I knew it!" said Ashanti, her eyes wide. "You're right, I should have recognized it from the name!" She looked admiringly at him. "But you're light, bro! Real light!"

Taylor puzzled for a moment before answering, as he strategically packed up his bag of food. "I guess you could say I have some coffee in the cup, but Daddy forgot to stir."

Ashanti laughed hysterically, slapping her thigh as Taylor left. He had never seen her this friendly before. He realized he would miss it when she was no longer out of her mind.

"I feel so awful," Missy Burns groaned, as Taylor cleared away her used dishes and wrappers.

"That's because you are sick," said Taylor, rummaging in his bag for a sandwich.

"I feel weak. As bad as the time I got space herpes."

That earned her a shocked look from Taylor.

"Oh, don't worry, that was years ago," said Missy. "I was kind of wild as a teenager. I slept with anything that had a penis. That was bad enough. But then I got involved with that exchange student from Aldebaron. My Mom always said, 'Dear, try to stay with respectable boys. But if you can't do that, at least stick to penises. Avoid the sticky tentacles!' But did I listen? No. I was young and 17 and my hormones were burning up. So I did it and got a bad case of the space herpes. Doctor Flox said that they were colonizing my uterus, like an alien species that was taking me over. I had to get sterilized, totally, to get rid of them. Afterwards, he told me to have sex with humans only, and like a boy scout, I've always kept my word."

"I'm glad to hear it worked out for you," said Taylor, packing up his bag quickly so he could get out of there.

And to think he had actually had sex with Missy! Even thinking about it turned his stomach.

Taylor puzzled over one of the four broken circuit boards, and managed to repair it after a solid day of effort. But the other three were hopeless. Irreparable. He didn't know what to do.

And then someone answered their distress call.

"This is the free trader Al-Jahar, along with our sister ship Al-Bukarin."

Ramadhans.

That didn't necessarily mean trouble. Some Ramadhan ships were legitimate traders. But some were also Jihadis, or Corsairs.

Taylor didn't get a good feeling about them. He scanned both ships, and saw they were armed with lasers. The arming of Ramadhan ships was strictly prohibited under the Treaty of Nantes, which ended the third Ramadhan war, but violations were common. The ships could be armed for self defense... or they could be Corsairs.

The Charleston's engines were hopeless, in Taylor's view, but he didn't want to risk asking for help from these unknowns.

He opened a channel, audio only. "This is the Survey Service Ship Charleston. We are no longer in need of assistance, thank you."

There was a pause.

"Why are you only transmitting audio, Charleston?" came the response.

Because I don't want you to see that I am alone on the bridge, and I also don't want you to see that a lowly cadet is in charge of this ship. "A minor malfunction."

"You seem to have many of those. Let us send an engineering team aboard and we will see to your needs."

"We have a dangerous virus on board. I would not want you to catch it," said Taylor.

"Describe it."

Taylor paused. "It induces delusions, and weakness."

"We know this well. It is called the Waticki disease. It comes from the spores of the Waticki flower. We are all naturally immune to it. We are in no danger. Let us come aboard."

Taylor paused.

"Your ship is helpless. We will grapple it and tow it back to a place of safety."

"No!' Taylor cried.

"Then let us come aboard."

Taylor drummed his fingers frantically on his armrest. "Agreed. But just a minimal engineering team. No more than three people. Unarmed."

"Agreed," said the Captain. "Prepare to receive us, Charleston."

Taylor pulled on his Survey Service day shirt nervously as he watched the Ramadhan shuttle arrive in the landing bay. Taylor never noticed it before, but his slight belly was rather prominent in the bright blue colors of his uniform. He looked behind him and saw his ass was equally visible.

But this was not the time to think about such things. He glanced back at a row of large crates behind him, and then stepped forward to receive his guests.

The shuttle hatch opened, and a man stepped out. And another and then several more, until there were six. And all of them had blaster pistols. Taylor had a compression pistol strapped to his waist, but he was more than a little outnumbered.

"I am Shultan of Angmar," said the leader, a bearded man with long hair.

"I am Ensign Michael Taylor of the United Survey Service," said Taylor.

"Ensign?" said Shultan. "Where is your Captain?"

"Indisposed," said Taylor.

"You mean sick?"

"Yes," said Taylor reluctantly.

"And what of your first officer? Second officer?"

"All busy, making repairs," said Taylor.

As Shultan's grin grew wider and wider, Taylor grew more and more uneasy. "They are all sick, aren't they? You are the only one left, aren't you?"

Taylor took a step back, and drew his compression gun. "Get back in your ship."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," said Shultan, and he and all six of his men drew their weapons. "Now drop your weapon." When he saw Taylor wasn't complying, he barked. "Drop it!"

Taylor reluctantly let it go. His pistol clattered to the deck.

"Good. Amir?"

One of his men scooped up Taylor's weapon.

Shultan walked closer, and studied Taylor. "I guess you are naturally immune to the effects of the Waticki flower."

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"We should, seeing as we brought it to the planet you just came from," said Shultan. "We noticed invaders from the Survey Service trying to occupy one of our planets."

"That wasn't one of your planets."

"When we saw you come, and leave your weather station there, we knew it was only the first step. So we brought the Waticki flower there. A delightful flower, isn't it? So yellow and beautiful. And its spores are even better." He smiled at Taylor. "It's ideal because it's highly infectious, and yet has an incubation time of several hours, so it spreads before it can be detected."

"You planned all of this."

"Yes. And look at our reward!" He stretched his arms out. "New slaves to be sold on the market at Al Sa-Naa. And a state of the art Survey Service ship. I wonder what price that will fetch on the open market?"

Taylor bit his lip. "I think you're being a little... ambitious."

"How so?" Shultan asked.

"I'm a Survey Service officer. I will not allow you to take this ship."

Shultan's men started chuckling. "And how do you propose to stop us, Mister brave Survey Service officer?"

"Like this," said Taylor, and he lunged at one of the men, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The sounds of rapidfire compression shots rang out. Taylor, who was rapidly beating one of the pirates in the face, felt the sting of a graze in his shoulder, but kept punching. The other Ramadhans were bewildered, unsure where the firing was coming from, and they fell one by one. In seconds all were unconscious, except their leader, who was half stunned, on his knees.

"How?" said Shultan.

"You missed one," said Taylor loudly.

Another shot rang out, and Shultan fell, sprawled forward.

There was the sound of giggling, from behind the crates thirty feet away, and then Mark Stratford stood up, holding a smoking compression rifle. "How was that, Mike?"

"You shot me," said Taylor, rubbing his sore shoulder.

"Sorry. I'll do better next time," said Stratford. "What should I do with these guys?"

"Toss them in the brig," said Taylor. He retrieved his pistol and went back to the bridge. He knew the danger was not over. There were still two Ramadhan ships out there, and it wouldn't take long for them to become suspicious.

Taylor looked at the two ships. Technically, they hadn't fired on him. But he knew if he did nothing, they would fire on him. Also, his ship couldn't move, and would make a very easy target.

So he locked weapons on the first ship, Shultan's ship. He aimed for their engines. Taylor felt tension building within him. This was no Mitsuyaki Maru simulation. This was the real thing.

"We can't do it!" said Inadequacy. "This isn't a game, Michael! If we don't do this right, we'll die!"

"What other choice is there?"

"We have their leader. We'll use him as a human shield."

"That won't stop the Ramadhans. The people on the second ship might not have any allegiance to him. This isn't a sheik or an irlan; it's a pirate," said Ambition.

"Then we should surrender."

"Fuck that," said Ambition. "We're a Survey Service officer, in command of a frigate. A frigate can take two corsairs."

"Under normal circumstances. We're all alone here, and totally inexperienced in space combat."

"Do it, Mike. You can do it," said Ambition.

Taylor carefully prepared the order of things. Step one: fire on the first Ramadhan ship. Step two: raise the force screens. Step three, quickly retrain weapons on the second ship, and open fire.

He prepared himself mentally, over and over, to do the three steps as quickly as possible. His hands tensed with nervousness and anticipation. When he was ready, his hand quivered over the trigger. "It begins," he whispered, pressing the button.

Beams from two forward megajoulers and two plasma cannons ripped into the first Ramadhan ship. The Ramadhan ship's force screens were down, and it was totally unprepared for the attack. The blasts ripped into the ship's engines, and the ship exploded, bursting into pieces.

Taylor rapidly raised force screens. Then he targeted the second ship, even as sensors showed it was powering up. His plasma cannons hadn't recharged yet, but his forward megajoulers had. He opened fire, and-

The blast hit their forward force screens, and bounced off.

In any another circumstance, a single frigate would be more than a match for a single Corsair. But these were hardly normal circumstances. There was no one to maneuver the ship on ion drive. There was no one to tend to the force screens, and no one to do the countless other tasks that needed to be attended to during battle.

There was only Taylor.

Taylor felt the ship rock as the force screens absorbed the results of the laser hit. He fired back. In moments, the plasma cannons had recharged, and he fired those too.

It became a slugging match. Even during the height of battle, Taylor remembered the words of his gunnery officer, Lieutenant Speisma.

"Ideally, you want to hit the enemy at vital points, such as their engines, power plants or weapons arrays. But if their screens are up, the best thing you can do is to focus all your offensive energies on their weakest point."

Taylor quickly checked the sensors readings, and found that weakest point. Then he opened fire with everything he had.

A combination of plasma cannons and megajouler energy shot into the Corsair, cutting a big chunk out of its hull. Its weapons went silent.

Taylor realized he was breathing heavily. He willed himself to calm down. He checked for damage. There was none, though the force screens were almost depleted. Then sensors picked up a distress signal, from the remaining pirate ship.

Taylor paused for only a few seconds. Then he opened fire again, obliterating the second ship.

Taylor was in the engine room. He had to get the engines working again.

"It won't work."

Taylor looked up, and saw himself.

"You can't do it," said the new Taylor. "It's too badly damaged. We've tried, remember?"

"We're near Ramadhan space," said Taylor. "Their distress signal may have been intercepted before I destroyed them. We have to get out of here."

"How?" said the new Taylor. "You can't do the impossible."

"No. But you can do a lot better than this," said a new voice.

Taylor turned to see Sarah Blade standing there.

"You're not really here, any more than he is," said Taylor, pointing to the other Taylor.

"I guess not," said Sarah. "Fine. Go back to your circuit boards. Ignore me." As she spoke she pulled off her shirt. Taylor saw her heavy breasts encased in her Survey Service bra, as she started to slip off her pants.

"What are you doing?" Taylor asked. Suddenly, he noticed the other Taylor had vanished. It was just him and Sarah Blade.

"Nothing!" said Sarah defensively, as she took off her trousers. "I'm not even here, remember? Don't even bother looking, nothing to see here! " she said, taking off her bra. Her beautiful round melons snapped out in front of her. Her areolas were as red as Taylor had remembered them. "No, really, just get back to work. Pretend I'm not even here, like you said."

But Taylor couldn't pretend she wasn't there, as she slipped off her Survey Service panties. Suddenly he saw her rich, dark brown triangle of pubic hair. As she widened her stance he saw her glistening lips, nestled snugly in her loving brown forest. She smiled as she playfully rubbed her hands along her inner thighs.

"Sarah, what are you doing to me?" Taylor groaned.

"Trying to help you," said Sarah.

"But this isn't the kind of help I need," Taylor argued. He was acutely aware of Sarah coming over to him, and rubbing her hands over his shoulders. She felt real. The effect of having a gorgeous naked woman touching him, even just on the shoulders, triggered an effect, and Mike felt something like a small snake, starting to uncoil in his pants.

"You're wrong, Mike, This is exactly the kind of help you need," Sarah declared. And suddenly her body was pressed against his, her naked breasts hard and firm against his chest, her right hand snaking between his legs, squeezing and smiling wickedly. "Don't you remember? My lessons were always paired together, Mike," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Shipboard Mechanics, and sex. When we were together, the two became intertwined, didn't they?"

"They did," Taylor admitted, looking at her ruby red lips. Suddenly he found himself actually leaning forward, and kissing her. Her lips were warm and firm. Sarah made sexy "Mmmmm" sounds as she grinded her lips against his,. Her breasts pushed against him warmly, insistently. And then she pulled back with a smile, with her arms still wrapped around his neck.

"Sarah, I can't fix those circuit boards," Taylor said.

"Then don't try, dear boy," she said, fondling his face. "Do a bypass."

"I can't. The Ion Drive control circuits are even in worse shape."

She looked into his eyes and said in a sexy, soft, yet emphatic voice as she tapped his nose with a dainty finger, one word at a time. "Then... find... other... control... circuits..."

"Other control circuits?" Taylor made a face. "But... they weren't made for propulsion."

"Adapt them," said Sarah. "You just need circuits that can handle a lot of power, right?"

"Yes!" said Taylor, thinking furiously. "The force screens. No, even better, the weapons. But... they also have a lot of protocols not needed for engines, don't they?"

Sarah shrugged a naked shoulder. "Bypass them."

Taylor looked up at her. "I love you," he said fervently.

"I know," said Sarah. She gave him a warm kiss. "Knock'm dead, Michael."

Taylor feverishly worked on the control boards. Once or twice Mark Stratford, who for the moment had the burden of feeding the entire crew on himself, came over to check on his progress. "Do you think you can do it, Mike?"

Taylor said, "I hope so," as he worked, not even looking up. He tried to remember every scrap of information Sarah had every taught him. He was really being tested now. "We're still near Ramadhan space. Another raider could show up at any time."

"The prisoners are complaining about being locked up in the brig," said Stratford.

"Are they?" Taylor said, as he used a microfuser on a circuit panel.

"Yeah. They're getting really unruly. What should I do?"

"Ask them to be more polite."

"Sir?"

"Stop feeding them until they become more polite. You'd be amazed what hunger can do."

"Sir?"

Taylor looked up at Mark. "I have work to do."

Finally, it was ready. It was with great nervousness that Taylor went to the navigation console on the bridge. The completely empty bridge. All the officers were bedridden. Commander Kinneret was whining about slow deli service in his quarters. Captain Hauslohner was designing a new Survey Service uniform which would highlight breasts but not bellies. They were all mentally out of it.​