As many of you are aware, I have been on sabbatical for some time attending a religious pilgrimage in Puxatawnee, PA. I traveled with my fellow Groundhoggians to witness the symbolic rebirth of our deity, Phil the All Knowing. Yet, while enjoying the post-shadow festivities (which incidentally consists of a four day kegger and kielbasa eating contest), I felt a great tremor in the Hooch. Not the Dark Hooch, like Sky Marshal Wincus wields, but the soft and fuzzy Hooch of goodness, which left me literally flailing my arms in an effort to keep from falling into the emotional chasm that yawned menacingly before me.

When I finally regained my balance, and apologized to the bruised and agitated people around me, I found myself yearning to return to the one
true jewel of my mediocre career, in an effort to right the heinous wrongs of the Powers-That-Be. Thus, once again, we embark down the twisting road of possibilities known as the Commander Reed Saga. The Wyzenhymer Drones sped toward Spam Squadron, yet still the Commander refused to give the order to attack.

"Steady boys. Just a few more seconds", Ghostrider assured the edgy young men under his command.

"Bridge to Ghostrider", Schultz's irritating nasal voice echoed through the cockpit.

"I copy, we are authorized to engage, Escort", Jennings hoped.

There was a brief pause. "Negative. The Commander just wanted to address the crew."

"What? Now?!?" Ghostrider exclaimed

"No better time than the present, Lieutenant", the Science Officer quipped with a chuckle.

Jennings could see vague outlines of the approaching threat in the distance and unconsciously allowed his thumb to drift toward the weapons controls.

"Good day, crew of the USS Escort", Reed began. "It has been a long and odorous mission...what, Mr. Schultz? Oh right, 'arduous mission'. In any case, we have survived many brushes with death and destruction in the past few months, and have received very little reward for our efforts."

Ghostrider looked out at his squadron, wondering at the purpose of the Commander's untimely speech.

"That is, until now", Reed continued. "We have just received word from Fleet Headquarters that, during our perilous race through time, several of the crew received promotions."

Jennings groaned quietly, knowing well what this type of information could do to morale. He keyed his mike.  "Sir, I believe the Drones are within our range of fire."

"Be that as it may, Lieutenant", Reed resumed, undeterred, "there are those whose contributions to Space Fleet must to be recognized. The
promotions are as follows: Lt. Scott, you have been promoted to Lieutenant Commander, and have once again received the Congressional Medal of Fashion."

Applause could be heard in the background, but Ghostrider registered none of it, his attention fully on the vessels winking into existence in the distance.

"Private Nation has been assigned as Chief Detention Officer of the USS Escort. Sgt. Stauch has been promoted to Sergeant, and...", a long pause followed. "This can't be right, but it says VanTedly is now a Lieutenant. Until we're sure though, we'll just assume there was an error in the relay on that last one."

More applause and cheering rose from the bridge of the Escort as Ghostrider watched the Wyzenhymer menace race toward them. He said a quick prayer to the gods of fate and released a volley from his plasma cannon that turned two Drones into fireballs. The rest of Spam squadron followed suit.

Reed smiled and clapped Lt. Commander Scott on the back. "Nice work, Number Two."

"Thank you, sir", his protégé managed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I owe it all to you."

"Yes", Reed replied, turning to Mr. Schultz. "Give Spam Squadron orders to engage."

Schultz paused, watching the explosive battle on the the main tele-viewer. "Uh...aye-aye, sir."

Reed turned back to find Number Two gone, replaced by a sullen Security Officer. "Were there any other promotions, sir?"

The Commander shook his head, his spirits dampening considerably. "No, Mr. Proteau. I'm afraid not." He placed a hand around the dejected alien's shoulder.

"Do you think it's because I'm not human?"

Reed considered the possibility momentarily. "I doubt it, Mr. Proteau. Space Fleet has a mandate from the Universal Coalition to promote as many off-worlders as possible, regardless of their ability, evolutionary progress, or brain activity. Therefore, it must be that other thing."

The Security Officer eyed him curiously. "What other thing?"

Reed seemed uncomfortable. "You know. That thing."

"I don't quite follow, sir. Is it that I'm a shape shifter?"

"No, worse than that."

"That my brother tried to sabotage the ship?"

The Commander chuckled at the suggestion. "Definitely not, Mr. Proteau." He looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. "If you must know, it's your handedness."

"What?!?"

"You're left-handed, right?"

Proteau looked confused. "Right. I mean 'correct'. I am left-handed."

Reed smiled, having cleared up that particular enigma. "Well, there you have it."

"So, I wasn't promoted because I'm left-handed?"

"Precisely", the Commander confirmed, releasing the Security Officer. "Well, since that's settled."

Proteau watched in shocked betrayal as Reed hastened away, followed closely by a highly animated Lieutenant VanTedly.