EPISODE CCXXVIII - CAPTAIN COLONIC AND THE FECAL FOUR




Seated on the table was the dead trooper, his gaping eye socket blinking vacantly in confusion.  "Where the hell am I!!", Marx demanded, wispy tendrils of sleep still clinging to his mind.  He focused his cycloptic glare on the screaming pilot.  "And what are your cryin' about, boy?!?"

With some effort, Schrader clamped his mouth shut, silencing the fear induced siren.  He pointed into the hall where the errant eyeball rolled eerily along the grooves of the tile.

"Well, don't just sit there!", Marx shouted, "pick it up!'  He slid slowly from the table mumbling about the younger generations' lack of respect for prosthetics.

Shaken from his initial shock, the lieutenant stood and scrambled after the small, wayward sphere, closing the distance easily.  Using the tip of one toe, he halted its progress, spawning a renewed wave of revulsion that swept through his entire being.

Marx came up behind him, shouldering him out of the way as he reached down to retrieve the wily, optic fugitive.  "What kind of soldier are you, son?", he inquired, jamming the eye back into the socket with a satisfying, wet pop.

Schrader swallowed hard as the contents of his stomach began to revolt.  "I'm a pilot, sir", he managed as a reply.

"A pilot, huh", Marx remarked rubbing absently at his eye.  "Well, why don't you pilot your way down to the mess hall and scrounge me up a cup of go juice?!"


"All systems are go, Commander", Schultz relayed from his station.  "Awaiting your orders."

Reed stood and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, smoothing out the Space Fleet emblem that adorned it.  "Very well, Mr. Schultz", he remarked dramatically as he hopped down from the slightly elevated command dais.  "Let's go, people", he continued.  "I want to get out of this place...er, time...uhh...well, just let's go."

Light applause drifted up from where Lt. Scott was seated, but quickly faltered and faded when no one else joined in.

"Thanks anyway, Number Two", Reed commented, keying his comm-link.  "Attention crew of the USS Escort", he called into the device.  "We've been through a lot during the last few weeks, but now it's time to put that all behind us."  He placed a clenched fist on his hip triumphantly.  "General quarters people", he proclaimed, "we're going back."

Though no applause were forthcoming, he scanned the trusting, determined faces that peered up at him from their duty stations and made a solemn oath to do whatever he could to ensure their survival. Or at the very least, his own.