"Oh, c'mon, Marco, just eat it," Tim chided the following morning. At least his stomach thought it was morning. Even though the ship's schedules had been set up to approximate a standard Earth day, the lack of visual cues for day and night disoriented him. Donnelly sat next to Lopez at the long wooden mess table--the same table that had tried so hard to smash him--and wolfed down his breakfast Spam.

Marco forked his own untasted processed meat aimlessly about his plate. "No. No, I can't." He shoved his dish away and stubbornly folded his arms over his chest.

"Well, you can't live on air molecules," Tim scolded through a stuffed mouth. The previous day's adventures had left him ravenous, and he didn't give a hoot what the fare was, so long as it was filling.

"Wanna see me try?" Lopez replied, dead serious.

Tim glanced heavenward, then scooped up another morsel.

"Swallow really fast and wash it down with some of this coffee stuff," Norell suggested from his seat across from Lopez. To demonstrate, Norell popped a large lump of Spam into his mouth and chased it down with a gulp from his mug. "See?" he said, eyes watering and a gagging look on his face. "You can hardly taste it."

Marco cocked a silver-brown eyebrow. "Hardly taste it, huh? You look as nauseated as those Dixies." He pointed toward a group of Bas Seti in a nearby basket cluster. Each Bas Seti held in her lap a metal bowl containing a partially-eaten serving of Spam.

Tim followed the direction of Marco's outstretched finger, and slowly lowered the laden fork he'd just raised to his mouth. The Dixies did look ill. Their skin had a decidedly greyish tinge. And, instead of their usual sparkling, exuberant carriage, they sagged listlessly in their baskets, poking half-heartedly at their food.

"Wow, they are out of it," Kevin remarked from his seat directly to Tim's left.

"Bet they're still shook up from my little joy ride yesterday," Stoker muttered from his chair on Norell's right. Eyes downcast, he formed the remnants of his Spam into geometric shapes.

"Hmm, I dunno," Kevin mused.

"Weird." Tim shook his head and resumed gorging.

"Speaking of weird," Kevin added, breaking his reverie and returning to his meal, "anyone know where Randy is?"

"Nope," Norell replied.

"Me neither." Stoker shrugged.

A wicked gleam in his eyes, Tim looked up from his plate. "My guess is he's with Commander Spot."

"Yeah, I bet that's where he is, Kev," Marco agreed. "He was really shaking last night. Maybe he went to find Spot to see if she could give him something to help, like you suggested."

Kevin nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right." He swallowed one last bit of Spam, finished the dregs of his coffee, then pushed back his chair. "Well, I'm off."

"Me, too," Stoker said. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then quickly rose from the table.

"And me," Norell announced. "Captain Lassie invited me up to the bridge as soon as I finished breakfast." He dropped his fork with a loud clink onto his empty metal plate. "Which I have. Catch you guys at lunch." Norell rose and followed Tighe and Stoker out into the Gumption's grey corridors.

"Lunch," Marco said miserably as he watched the three men leave. "Hmpf."

Donnelly elbowed his friend in the side. "You gonna eat that?" He gestured with his fork at the wreckage on Marco's plate.

"Be my guest." Marco slid his Spam over with unconcealed disgust. "I'm going to see if I can scrounge up some real food."

"Where're you gonna look?" Tim asked. He pushed aside his empty plate and settled Marco's in its place.

"Cargo holds," Marco answered. "If you found out where they are, that is."

Tim nodded. "Oh, I found 'em all right. Level 15, waaay back to the left when you get off the transport chamber. I'll join you as soon as I finish up."

Marco stood and clapped a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "I'm not as good at snooping around as you are." Lopez then sauntered off to the doorway, hands in his pockets, whistling, and otherwise trying to act casual in a very over-blown way.

Chuckling, Tim followed Marco with his eyes. "Got that right, pal," he mumbled to himself, then returned to his repast. Absorbed, it took a few moments for Tim to realize he had company again.

A nurse-shaped shadow fell across his back, framing his fresh dish of Spam. A second shadow joined the first, then a third, and a fourth, and--

Tim paused mid-chew, the hairs on his neck rising. Slowly, he turned around in his seat. A wall of grinning Dixies greeted him. From their mannerisms, he guessed they were the lot from last night. They'd brought friends. Seven more hovered right behind the original five.

Murmurs of "The Protector!" and "Ooooooo!" reached his ears as the Dixies crowded closer and closer till they jammed against his chair.

Tim's fork clattered to the tile floor; he scooted backward onto the table, scattering abandoned plates. Gaze riveted on the advancing groupies, he shouted over his shoulder, "H-hey, Marco!"

The Dixies swarmed over his chair, reaching, grasping.

"WAIT UP!" Tim vaulted from the table top and made a break for the door.

With a collective yip, the Dixies dashed after him.

* * *

"G-give it up, Commander," Randy said through chattering teeth. He sat perched on the edge of a sick bay exam table, trembling uncontrollably. "We've b-been at for ages."

"Patience, Randolph Mantooth as John Gage," Commander Spot said. "There are still over one hundred nineteen possible solutions to your malady that we have yet to explore. Do you not desire relief from your symptoms?" she asked as she sat at a computer console close to his table, searching data banks.

With a sigh, Randy glanced at his quivering body. "Yeah, I d-do."

Shortly after the other men had fallen asleep, a desperate Randy had sought out Spot. The commander immediately had escorted him to sick bay. There Spot received permission from the Dixie serving as the ship's doctor--"Dr. Bonaparte" as she asked to be called--to search for a remedy to Randy's nicotine withdrawal.

Commander Spot apparently was the Gumption's resident xeno-biologist and chief science officer. Dr. Bonaparte gladly allowed Spot access to whatever she needed. The doctor's only request was that Commander Spot record her results.

Hours later, though, Spot still had no solution for Randy, and no amount of mental determination to aid her guest could keep fatigue from drooping her shoulders.

Randy stared blankly at those sagging shoulders and frowned. In addition to shakes and chattering teeth, he'd now developed compulsive hand-wringing. Sleep was totally out of the question. And the next person who so much as said "hi" to him better duck. It was all he could do not to snap at Spot's level-headed comments.

Speaking of Spot, gorgeous Commander Spot...

He shifted his gaze from her shoulders to her intent deep brown eyes. A hint of bleariness dimmed their depths as she studied row upon row of data displayed on her monitor. Even the most perfect female Bas Seti in the entire universe couldn't work forever without rest or food, he discerned.

"H-how 'bout we take a short break and get something to eat?" he stammered out. "Bet you'll think better on a full stomach," he added with a grin. A large tic wrought havoc with his smile, however, making him look more like a mad scientist ogling potential prey than a guy trying to be decent to a girl. Embarrassed, he pressed a finger hard over the errant muscle in his face.

He needn't have bothered. Without glancing his way, Spot held up a silencing hand and leaned in closer to her display. "Ah-hah! There!" she said, jabbing a fuzzy digit at a particular row of Bas Seti gibberish. She paused to memorize this string of information, then dashed from her basket chair to a tall white dispensing machine set against the wall to their left.

A keyboard and a narrow display screen projected from this dispenser at waist-level, and a slot the size of a loaf of bread cut into the machine immediately above the display. Commander Spot tapped rapidly on the keyboard, entering the code she had memorized. A firm punch of an index finger submitted her request, then she stepped back to wait.

The machine whirred, buzzed, and vibrated. Roughly thirty seconds later, it dropped its handiwork with a soft plink into the slot. Spot reached in and carefully retrieved a slim rosy stick, three inches long and half an inch wide. Quickly returning to Randy's side at the exam table, she held out her prize. "Chew it," she instructed, "and tell me if it alleviates your discomforts."

Randy eyed the stick suspiciously. Spot's confident expression, however, soon allayed his doubts. With a shrug, he snatched up the stick and popped it into his mouth. He chewed once, twice. His eyes widened as he chewed again. "Something's happening!" Randy stared at his hands. They no longer trembled. He pressed a palm to his cheek. The tic was gone. Even his teeth had stopped rattling. With awe, he looked at Spot. "It works!"

Spot's canines gleamed as she smiled broadly. "Excellent! The medication imbedded in the chewing product--'gum' I believe you call it--will eliminate your symptoms for several of your hours. When discomfort returns, chew a fresh stick. Over approximately three Earth days, your craving will lessen until you are no longer addicted to nicotine. At that time, you may still desire to have something in your mouth or to hold something in your hands, but that will be habit rather than drug dependency."

Randy bobbed his head as he listened and chomped. The horrible spasms had completely evaporated, and looking at Commander Spot, he couldn't help but imagine lots of wonderful new things for his mouth and hands to do.

"I require a moment to replicate a three-day supply," Spot continued, gesturing toward the dispensing machine, "then I would be honored to share a meal with you." The commander bowed. A glint of excitement brightened Spot's eyes as her gaze swept downward to a brief contemplation of her furry spotted feet.

There was more to that glint than the thrill of victory, Randy thought.

Spot straightened, and eyes lingering almost unbearably on his, she turned to face the medicine dispenser.

Granted, it could've been an odd trick of the lighting, but it sure looked to him like the stiff and formal Commander Spot sashayed back to the keyboard.

As Randy chewed furiously, a wide grin split his face.

* * *

Mike Stoker peered cautiously into the crew's lounge and found the room empty. A glance backward into the corridor showed no one in sight. Privacy. Exactly what he needed after way too much attention the night before.

Hoping to relax with harmless entertainments, Stoker stepped into the cozy room and paused just inside the doorway. A brief look around showed all the game tables appeared pretty much the same, so he randomly chose one nestled under the room's only viewport and ambled over.

Several controls spotted the table's gleaming white surface. To his surprise, their positions closely resembled the layout of the piloting console in the auxiliary bridge. Stoker grinned, then quickly frowned. Aw, heck, he silently chided himself as he plopped his tall, husky body into a basket chair, can't feel guilty forever. The smile reappeared, and he pressed what he guessed was the "start" button.

A large square section in the center of the table instantly changed from pure white to a multitude of flickering hues. The colors performed an intricate geometric dance, then settled into a pulsing background framing a central narrow rectangle. A cursor point flashed steadily in the rectangle's far left side. Beneath the colorful screen display, a section of tabletop flipped over, exposing a compact keyboard covered with symbols.

"Access code, access code," Stoker muttered under his breath as he patted his pockets.

Ever attentive to Captain Lassie's decrees, Spot had given him directions to the lounge and an access code for the games shortly after they'd left yesterday's debriefing. She'd also explained that the game machines were labeled in Bas Seti, but with a little trial and error on his part, he should be able to get them to function. Having watched Commander Scottie activate and manipulate the piloting simulator, Stoker felt confident Spot was right.

"Ah, here we go!" He pulled a plastic strip the size of a business card from his shirt front pocket and laid it onto the table beneath the keyboard. One by one, he located the card's markings on the keyboard symbols and entered them into the little rectangle. When the final symbol appeared on the screen, he hit the "start" button again. "Okay, computer, let's see what you've--Commander Scottie?"

"It's about time ye logged in, laddie," Scottie's grinning grizzled visage replied from the center of the screen. "And ye'd better shut that maw of yours, or ye'll soon be catchin' a few bugs." She winked.

Stoker snapped his gaping mouth shut, then quickly opened it again. "B-but, what...? How did...? I thought--"

Scottie tapped the side of her nose. "The Captain may have shortened my leash, but she didn't touch my clearances to game programs, nor to their access codes. Easy piece of work to program the game computer to flag me when your access code got punched in."

"But won't you get in trouble?" Stoker blurted, unconsciously rising from his seat in alarm.

"Trouble? Ach, laddie! I'm still in my quarters, and I'm nae muckin' with the auxiliary bridge controls, now am I?" Commander Scottie's face radiated mischief.

Slowly, Stoker settled back into his chair.

"Down to business," Scottie continued, eyes twinkling. "Ye are here to practice piloting, am I right?"

Stoker nodded, then blinked when he saw a familiar bone-shaped bar float out of a recess in his table.

"I've programmed a lovely mock battle into the guts of that otherwise boring game station ye be sittin' at." A similar throttle control appeared next to Scottie in the display screen. Scottie's image grinned wickedly and grasped the bone. Abruptly, her face vanished, replaced by a star-sprinkled black backdrop, and a tiny red, somewhat dumbbell-shaped space ship. "Ready for some real flyin' lessons?" asked the chief engineer's disembodied voice.

Stoker, grinning as wickedly as Scottie just had, reached for his own control. A miniature blue ship joined the view on the screen. "Oh, yeah."

* * *

No sooner did Stoker activate the game console than Kevin booted up the library computer. Nestled once more inside the basket chair facing the English language console in the Gumption's records room, Tighe retraced his path through the library's massive data banks. The room's dim lighting offered welcome relief from the stark brightness of the Gumption's typical decor, and the secluded location of this particular console made Kevin feel secure. Menu by submenu, he picked up the threads of his research.

He'd spent yesterday evening browsing Bas Seti history tomes, research papers, medical journals, even cartoon collections--all translated into English. Kevin had doubts as to the accuracy of these translations, however. He recalled a particularly odd file. Dissertation on the Effects of Herbaceous BittenKitty on Felinities--that was a good one! he thought with an inward chuckle. Bet it should have read: What Catnip Does to Cats.

A few keystrokes later, he'd reached the point where he'd left off. Kevin half rose from his chair and peered around his monitor. The records room was deserted except for himself. He sat back down and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

Confident he now possessed a rudimentary knowledge of Bas Seti history and culture, he had one last subject to study before making his decision. The words "Playdog Back Issues" glowed seductively from the center of his screen. A salacious grin curled his lips; his hands dropped to the keyboard. One last furtive sweep of the room with his gaze, then he pressed "Go."

* * *

"Mike Norell as Hank Stanley, I am curious," Lassie stated enigmatically from her command chair.

Norell stood at her side, hands clamped before him. He rocked slowly back and forth on the balls of his feet, alternately studying the buzz of bridge activity and the breathtaking star field displayed in the large viewport. At his hostess's remark, his gaze returned to hers.

"Um, about what?" Norell brushed his unruly grey-brown hair out of his eyes and prayed his manner seemed nonchalant. Truth be told, he felt uneasy. Something--he couldn't quite put a finger on what--was raising his hackles. Could be you're still shook up from last night, old boy, he reasoned to himself, scratching unconsciously at his arms. He raised an arm and examined his almost-healed cuts. Neat how they'd patched him up, though...

"I am curious," Lassie repeated, eyes sparkling. Then she added, "What do you think of the command methods I employed during last shift's incident?"

His brows rose; he lowered his arm. Crafty female, this one. Her every action had a hidden agenda, he was just now starting to realize.

Norell pursed his lips and considered Lassie's question. Last shift's "incident." Nice friendly term to describe that bit of utter chaos. So how had she done? She'd never frozen up helpless, that's for sure. And she'd kept good control over her crew. Well, over most of them. His thoughts drifted back to the debriefing. Scottie would be a handful for any captain, yet Lassie had managed her errant chief engineer firmly and fairly.

He glanced around at the Dixies staffing the consoles. During the frightening tumult, he'd witnessed first-hand how they'd stayed at their posts, determined to fulfill their orders. Respect. Respect and trust earned that kind of loyalty. Yeah, Lassie, he nodded slightly, you did all right by my book.

"Captain," he started to answer, looking down at her expectant face. His words caught in his throat--her face! The same grey tinge he'd seen on the Dixies in the galley during breakfast marred her complexion. Quickly, he looked again at the crew. Grey also colored their skin, but not as deeply. Maybe this was the "something" tickling his subconscious!

"Yes?" Lassie asked as his pause lengthened.

"Oh, uh, Captain, I think your methods were damn good. And I really mean that."

Pleased, she inclined her head in genteel acceptance. "Thank you."

He forced himself to smile. "You're welcome."

* * *

"Aw, c'mon! Just a teensy weensy taste?" Tim begged.

"Not on your life!" Lopez replied, crumbs flying from his lips. He twisted his body to one side, shielding a cereal box-shaped package from Donnelly's reaching fingers.

"Gee, the thanks I get for finding you something you can actually eat." Tim pouted.

"You've got a galley full of Spam dispensers! All I've got--" Marco held out the remnants of the hardtack-like biscuit he'd been munching on. "--is one little box of these!"

"Like I told you already, Marco, if there's one box, there's got to be more. Ships this size don't stock just one of something. We have to look a little harder, is all."

Marco shoved the last bit of biscuit into his mouth and fished around in the box for another. "I'm too hungwy to wook wight now!" he mumbled through a stuffed face.

"Okay, okay," Tim surrendered with a smile. "How 'bout we head back to the galley and get you a cup of that coffee stuff to wash down your wonderful meal?"

Marco grinned, revealing a set of biscuit-caked teeth. "Thounds gweat!" he agreed, then stepped through the cargo hold doorway and promptly turned left.

"Uh, the transport chamber's that way, partner." Tim smirked and pointed the other direction.

"Huh?" Marco spun around, then blushed. "Oops."

"Anyone ever tell you you've got a lousy sense of direction?" Tim teased.

"Hey, at least I can read directions," Marco defended as he retraced his steps and reached Tim's side. "That's why you're the snoop and I'm the chef," he said with a wink.

Chuckling, the two men proceeded on their way.

The transport chamber was at the far end of the corridor, and by the time they arrived, Marco had eaten two more biscuits and was reaching for yet another.

"Better save a few of those for later," Tim cautioned as he pressed his palm against the metal plate imbedded in the wall beside the chamber doors. "At least until we find some more." The doors whooshed open, and he and Lopez stepped inside.

"Yeah, you're right." Marco shut the box lid and hugged the sealed carton to his chest.

Tim, meanwhile, grasped the clear cylinder projecting downward out of one side of the curving wall. Carefully, he twisted it to the proper position for the galley level as Commander Spot had instructed him.

The chamber lurched into life, giving the men a feeling of diagonal upward travel.

"So, do you think your groupies will be waiting for you at the galley?" Marco asked, leaning sideways against the transport's movement.

"Gawds, I hope not! Barely escaped with the shirt on my back. If you hadn't held the chamber doors open for me..." Tim shuddered.

"I know. That was too funny." Marco chuckled.

"Funny? That's not what I'd call it. Marco, I've been in the business for years, and I've never had women swoon over me like that. Don't know how Randy puts up with it." Tim shook his head in wonder.

"Randy puts up with it because Randy's delicate ego needs all the stroking it can get," Marco pointed out. "You, my friend, have the ego of a horse."

"Oh, I do, do I?"

"Yeah, it's big, and full of--"

"Watch it, Lopez," Tim growled.

Marco assumed a cherubic expression.

Tim glared at him.

The transport chamber ceased its labors.

"Well, here we are," Marco announced, grinning devilishly.

"Yup," Tim agreed, releasing the handle. He turned his gaze to the doors and gulped. "Um, after you," he deferred to Marco.

"I insist." Lopez gestured graciously toward the polished metal doors. "After you."

Tim stood mute, rooted in place.

"Oh, go on, ya big chicken." Marco pushed Tim forward, and the doors immediately slid open.

"Oooooooooo!" came the greeting from the crowd of Dixies waiting at the threshold.

"Nooooooo!" screamed Tim.

* * *

"Please inform me at once if you feel any discomforts," Commander Spot warned Randy as they strolled side-by-side down the corridor leading toward the galley. "Although our metabolisms are similar, they are sufficiently different that the drug could create unexpected side effects."

Randy nodded. "Will do, but so far, so good."

"Good. And here are the additional sticks." She held out a small plastic-wrapped bundle. "If you require more, again, please inform me."

He took the bundle and tucked it into his shirt front pocket. "Three days' supply, huh?"

"That is correct," Spot said.

"You know, we may not be here in three days," Randy said quietly.

Spot clasped her hands behind her back and stared straight ahead. "Yes, I know."

A pair of Dixies approached them, and the commander stepped behind Randy to allow them clearance in the narrow hallway. When the pair had passed, Spot resumed her position at Randy's side. Her arm brushed against his in the process, causing a notable shiver to ripple her fur.

"You okay?" Randy said.

"Y-yes, of course!" she stammered, then smoothly regained composure. In her customary level voice she inquired, "Tell me, what pastimes do you engage in for relaxation purposes on your planet?"

A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. He knew now he wasn't imagining things. Spot's sturdy shields definitely wavered around him. And still not knowing quite what to make of it, her presence certainly made his own thick walls tremble. "Ah, I love to hike in the mountains, ride horses, go camping. Outdoors stuff, mostly."

"Mountains," she said wistfully. "I have not seen mountains in many, many cycles. Our journey to your solar system has been so long that I can barely recall what the scent of a fresh breeze is like."

"Maybe Captain Lassie will let you take a little vacation on Earth with me. I mean, after all this, this 'donation' stuff is over."

Spot stopped short and stared at him, longing etched on her face. "I would like that very much, Randolph Mantooth as John Gage. Have you made a decision yet regarding our mission?" she added, catching him off guard.

Randy blushed. A stampeding herd of Dixies, with Tim Donnelly in the lead, saved him from answering.

"Outta the way! Outta the waaaay!" Tim yelled. Arms and legs pumping fast, he shoved Spot into Randy and pelted ahead to a nearby side passage. He then banked sharply into the passage, the rush of Dixies close on his heels.

When the last pounding white shoe disappeared around the bend, Spot peered out from under the arm she'd thrown protectively over Randy's head. His back was flat against the wall, and her chest was pressed deliciously tight to his. "Curious," she commented.

"Um, Commander." Randy tapped her lightly on the shoulder as best he could in his squashed condition.

"Oh!" Spot gasped, backing hastily away. "My apologies!"

"No problem." Randy grinned crookedly.

Acting as if nothing indelicate had happened, Spot smoothed down her fur and resumed a lazy pace to the mess hall, shoulders square and firm.

Chuckling, Randy fell in beside her. "Um, where were we? Oh yeah. Mountains," he said, purposely directing the conversation away from her last loaded question. "Mount Tam is one of my favorites. It's just north of--"

She'd abruptly halted. He could see the hairs on her back rising. "Commander?" he said. Unease gripped his stomach. "What's wrong?"

Leaning close to his ear, she asked in a strained whisper, "Do you notice something odd about them?" She motioned with her head toward a scattering of Dixies farther up the corridor.

He and Spot were near the galley now. As lunch time was just starting, the number of Dixies had increased accordingly. At first glance, they looked like all the other bustling clones, although they weren't quite as energetic as the pack chasing Donnelly. Then he saw what Spot was talking about. Clustered near the mess hall entrance, a handful of Dixies leaned against the walls. One even sat on the floor. As Randy tried to make sense of this, a group of more typical Dixies shouldered their way past Spot and himself.

"Yeah, they do look odd," he whispered back as soon as the Dixies were clear. "They look exhausted. I wonder if, if--haaaaah aah-CHOO!"

Spot stared at him, one brow raised.

"Haaaah aaaaah, aah-CHOO!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the sneezing fit.

"Why," she asked, completely puzzled, "are you making that sound?"

"Dunno," he wheezed. Eyes starting to water, he pinched his nose harder. It didn't work. "HAAAAAH-CHOO!" Randy released his nose long enough to wipe it on the shoulder of his shirt sleeve. "I usually only sneeze like thissss--aaaah-CHOO! When I'm, when I'm..." He untucked a shirt tail and blew his nose loudly into it. "When I'm around cats. I'm allergic to them. Aaaah-CHOOO! Oh, crud."

"Cats?" Spot repeated, eyes wide and glittering.

The commander took a last grim look at the ailing Dixies, then grabbed Randy so solidly by the upper arm it hurt. "Come. We must return to the transport chamber at once." She tugged him back the way they had just come.

"Where--aaaaah-CHOO!--where are we going?" Randy asked, stumbling after her.

"To the bridge," she answered, pulling him into a run.

* * *

"...And this switch activates the viewport." Lassie lightly touched a bump in the arm of her chair. "Pressing it opens and closes the bulkhead. Toggling it to the right--" She gestured the appropriate direction. "--makes the port a two-way communications screen, allowing us to see whomever hails the ship and vice versa. Toggling it to the left--" She pointed the other way. "--hides the bridge from the hailing vessel's view."

Mike Norell tried to concentrate as Lassie explained the controls imbedded in the twining wicker of her command basket, but it was now obvious something was seriously wrong. He found his gaze constantly pulled to her face. The grey of her skin had deepened to a dusky clay; tiny beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Even more alarming, she seemed determined to inform him of the chair's every function, as if her very life depended upon it.

"Oh, and the B.A.B.E.L. nutrition injector!" Lassie pulled a slender wand from a concealed pocket in the chair's white cushion. "But I forget myself." A sheepish smile brightened her face. "You do not have a B.A.B.E.L." With an embarrassed shrug, she returned the wand to its cubby. "Come," she said, rising shakily. "Let me show you the functions of the bridge consoles. W-we will start with..." Lassie took a faltering step, then sagged back against the arm of her chair. She pressed a thumb hard to her right temple. "With the--ahh!"

"Captain!" Norell shouted, rushing to grab her before she collapsed. A pair of furry spotted hands assisted him. Startled, he looked up to see Commander Spot at his side. Next to her stood a disheveled and breathless Randy Mantooth.

"Gently, now," Commander Spot coached him, snapping his attention back to Lassie.

Together they eased the captain flat on her back onto the cold metal floor, then knelt at her side.

By this time most of the other Dixies huddled anxiously about, momentarily abandoning their duties. Some of them looked like they, too, were about to crumble, Norell noticed. He glanced down at Lassie. Her complexion had grown ashen; her breathing, shallow and rapid.

"Spot--" she gasped.

"Captain," Spot interrupted, "they are here."

Despair infused Lassie's face. "It is as we feared, my friend," she said softly.

Solemnly, Spot nodded. "I know."

The Gumption's first officer reached a hand up to the command basket and punched what Norell could now recognize as the ship's intercom button. "Bridge to Sick Bay."

"Sick bay. Bonaparte here," came the prompt reply.

"Commander Spot here, Doctor. The captain has fallen ill. And I suspect the majority of the bridge crew will shortly require medical attention," Spot reported. "Please dispatch a grav stretcher and a med team to the bridge at once."

"Spot, can you describe the captain's symptoms?" the doctor's anxious voice inquired.

"Marked coloration changes, extreme fatigue, labored breathing..." She paused to lay the back of her hand over Lassie's forehead. "And elevated temperature."

"Right after you left sick bay, over a dozen crew members stumbled in here with exactly those symptoms," Bonaparte stated in a frazzled tone. "Several others also called for assistance. Do you recognize what those symptoms might mean, Commander?"

"Only too well, Doctor," Spot answered grimly.

"We must remember, however, not to jump to premature conclusions. I need to perform further tests," the doctor added, though she sounded less than optimistic. "Your stretcher and med team will arrive shortly, Commander."

"Thank you, Doctor. Spot out." Commander Spot tapped the com button again, cutting the connection to sick bay.

"Will somebody please tell me," Randy demanded, panic rising in his voice, "what is happening?" He gestured toward the ill Bas Seti.

"They think this is the same plague that killed off their males," Norell said. He glanced at Spot. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"I told you, Commander," Lassie panted, drawing her first officer's attention. "He is...a special one." She managed a weak smile.

Returning her gaze to Norell, Spot replied with chilling calm. "Yes, you are correct."

A clammy hand locked itself onto his battered arm--the captain was tugging him down toward her face.

"Mike Norell as Hank Stanley, I wish you to...to assume the duties of the Gumption's first officer."

"What?" Norell blurted. "But Commander Spot--"

"Commander Spot," Lassie cut in, "will be serving as acting captain. Until...until..."

"Until you are well," Spot said.

"B-but I don't know anything about--"

"You know enough," Lassie said.

"And you are not Bas Seti," Spot added.

"What's that got to do with anything?" he asked, bewildered.

"If this is indeed the plague," Spot explained, "and if I should become ill--"

"Then I would become captain 'cause whatever this bug is doesn't affect humans," he said, answering his own question. Suddenly, Norell felt dizzy, disconnected. Shaking his head, he sprang to his feet. "This is all crazy. I don't know a damn thing about running a spaceship! I'm a screenwriter, fer cryin' out loud! A has-been actor!"

"Remember," Lassie said in a fading voice, "remember what you acknowledged in the crew's lounge?"

Barely restraining his hysteria, he thought back to the night before. He'd admitted his secret passion to lead, his desire to face the challenge of a real captain's job. And Lassie had told him he had what it takes--the pheromone only amplified what was already there. Omigod, he thought, looking down at Lassie. She knew this might happen! That clever hidden agenda again.

The captain smiled at him. "The talent is within you, Mike Norell as Hank Stanley," she said. "Use it, trust it."

His gaze panned the faces encircling him. Man and Bas Seti alike held the same expression: expectant, hopeful. They wanted him to say yes! And not a whiff of that damn perfume in the air. What the hell? he giddily decided. Can't buck my karma forever, now can I? "All right, Captain, I'll do it." He held up his hands to quell the murmurs of approval. "But don't expect perfection. I have a lot of on-the-job training to go through." He turned to Spot. "Oh, and Commander, what did you mean when you told the Captain 'they are here'?"

Spot and Lassie exchanged uneasy glances. Only after Lassie nodded, did Spot reply.

"'They' are the Felinities, and for generation upon generation, our two races have been at odds. We have strong reason to suspect that the plague which decimated our male population was genetically engineered by the Felinities in an attempt to completely destroy us. Since we females obviously lived--" She motioned toward herself and her crew mates. "--we feared they might some day seek us out to finish what they started."

"But how do you know they're here?"

"Because I sneezed," Randy answered.

"Huh?" Norell pivoted to look at Mantooth.

"That is correct," Spot confirmed. "You informed me your allergic reaction was only triggered by the presence of cats. The Felinities are a cat-like race."

"But maybe I've developed a new allergy, Commander!" Randy protested. "You said so yourself the medicine might--"

"Look!" a Dixie shouted, subverting everyone's attention.

Norell followed the direction of her outstretched arm; his stomach turned to lead at what he saw. Shimmering into existence in the viewport was a spherical object. As it solidified, he could detect a strange tubular maze covering its surface, giving the impression of a metallic ball of yarn. With no reference to compare it to, he could only image its true size was enormous as it now filled the entire screen.

"No, you are not allergic to the medication," Spot said. "They are here."

"And we're in big trouble," Norell concluded as the med team arrived with the stretcher to take away the Gumption's captain.

* * *

As soon as Dr. Bonaparte had something solid to report, she contacted Spot on the bridge. Acting Captain Spot then ordered the Men of Station 51 and all healthy Dixies to a conference room near the one Lassie had used the night before. A short while later, most of Spot's audience had assembled at a central table. Generous seating in the form of bleacher-type steps also lined the walls, but these remained conspicuously empty. Spot paced around the meager collection of souls. Herself included, only thirteen Bas Seti out of a complement of two hundred had responded to her summons. Dr. Bonaparte still had not shown up, though. Perhaps she would have others in tow.

When Bonaparte finally arrived, however, Spot realized the scant number would not increase. "Sorry it took me so long, Commander," the doctor puffed as she rushed, unaccompanied, into the room. "Sick bay is a bit chaotic at the moment." She nodded an amiable greeting to those already seated, then quickly found a chair.

"Quite understandable," Spot said as the doctor settled herself.

"Whew." Bonaparte plucked a wrinkled white handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and daubed at the sweat on her brow. "Give me one moment, then I will get right to it."

Tense and silent, Spot took a seat at the doctor's side and waited. She didn't have to wait long. Bonaparte's breathing soon calmed, and she stowed her hanky. "This is what I know so far. The source of the illness appears to be the Spam, which I believe was purposely contaminated. I have tested samples from the dispensers in the galley, and my results bear this out."

The humans shifted uncomfortably.

Tim eyed his paunch. "Uh-oh."

"Calm yourselves, Men of Station 51." Bonaparte held up a hand. "The illness will not affect you. It is a strain of the genetically engineered epidemic that claimed our males."

"Are you certain?" Spot inquired tersely.

"Unfortunately, yes. One of the reasons we sought you out," Bonaparte explained further to the men, "was your bodies have a built-in defense against this illness, or genetic poison, to be more precise. We had hoped to merge that defense into our own gene structure. But now..." She shrugged. "Still," the doctor continued, thoughtful, "I may be able to find a counter-agent or antidote. This strain is a bit different, after all."

"Yes, it affects us now," Spot said bitterly. "Will the entire crew eventually succumb?"

"Hopefully not," Bonaparte said. "Only those who ate breakfast and/or lunch have become ill. As long as no one else eats the Spam, or has intimate contact with those already infected, I believe some may be spared."

With an ironic smile at Randy, Spot replied, "I may count myself among the lucky ones, then. I have yet to break my fast today. Doctor, are the crew members you see before you the only ones who skipped their meal shifts?"

"Yes, I am afraid so. These twelve have informed me they were so occupied with our guest, Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly, they did not realize they had not eaten since dinner yesterday."

Tim squirmed under Spot's quizzical stare.

"Unfortunately, I have had a meal today." The doctor smiled wanly. "It will only be a matter of time before I am of little service to you, Commander."

Spot studied the doctor's face. Tell-tale hints of grey rimmed her eyes and mouth. Experience had taught Spot that grey would soon spread. "Understood, Doctor," she accepted with a weary sigh. "I know you will serve faithfully as long as you are able. Even though we are few--" She motioned toward herself and the other Bas Seti. "--please call on us for any assistance you require."

"Thank you, Spot," a grateful Bonaparte replied. "As a matter of fact, I could use a great deal of assistance right now. Sick bay is full to bursting. I have the sickest patients there. I sent everyone else to the mess hall. They are doing what they can to equip the room on their own and watch out for each other, but some strong healthy arms would sure help."

"When we are finished here, you will have those healthy arms."

"Oh, and Spot--this is just a theory," Bonaparte added, "but I suspect the food replicators had been purposely damaged so we would be forced to rely on one source of nourishment. Which, as we now know, was later contaminated. In other words, it is likely a spy has been on board for some time. Probably disguised with a S.A.D."

Spot nodded gravely. "I suspect as much, too, Doctor, And so here we now stand--a Feliniti warship de-cloaked before us, The Creator knows how many spies in our midst, most of the crew ill, and no trustworthy food supply. A pretty picture, is it not?"

Marco's eyes brightened. "But we found some food this morning!" He pointed to Tim and himself.

"Yeah, in the holds--some biscuit stuff!" Tim said.

Marco fished a crumbling sample out of his pants pocket. "Here." He held it out to Spot.

"Field rations. I had forgotten about these." A smile momentarily lit Spot's features. She passed the sample to Bonaparte. "You should test this to be sure, but I believe one of our problems has just been solved."

Bonaparte flipped the biscuit side-to-side. "Wonderful! I will have results for you shortly, Commander."

"We'd be glad to round up more of these," Marco volunteered.

"Yeah, anything we can do to help," Tim seconded.

Spot shook her head. "Kind guests, I must decline your offer of assistance. You do not understand the situation in its entirety."

Dark and sober, her gaze swept over the men's faces. "The Feliniti are a powerful and barbarous race; they love to toy with their prey. Most likely their vessel de-cloaked to taunt us--to gloat over the unfolding of their treachery. The spies onboard the Gumption will now seek to report on the slow extermination of the crew to their leaders. Those leaders will savor every gruesome detail. And should they tire of the game, they will destroy the Gumption and be done with it."

Eyes widened and faces paled.

"Men of Station 51, for your safety--for your very lives--we must return you to your planet at once, and face our destiny alone."

Silence followed, bowing Spot's head with its weight.

Suddenly, incredibly, Mike Norell as Hank Stanley's quiet words filled her ears. "Well, I would rather stay."

Surely she had misheard. Then the others spoke.

"Me, too," Randolph Mantooth as John Gage said firmly.

"And me!" chimed Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly.

One by one, against all logic, every man from Station 51 refused to leave. Hope sparked within Spot's heart. Lifting her gaze, the spark grew to a reserved flame as she searched their earnest faces. The Wise One's chosen saviors were indeed a breed apart, she realized. And who was she to decline their aid? Maybe the true destiny of the Bas Seti still lay with these men--on a path she had not dared to consider. With a nod, Spot allowed their brave gift. "Let it be so."

"Now can we help get those biscuits?" Tim winked.

"Yes, you may." Spot chuckled. "After they are procured, they must be closely guarded. Spies could attempt to poison the rations, or worse, the air and water recycling equipment."

"I could help guard." Randy tapped the side of his nose and grinned through a mouthful of gum.

"Thank you, Randolph Mantooth as John Gage. Your allergy has already proven quite useful in that respect. We can move essential supplies to the life support systems room where you can guard both them and the room. Still, we need a plan of action, something that will buy time for Dr. Bonaparte to find an antidote. Or better yet--rid us of the Felinities. But what to do?" As if movement would inspire her, Spot rose and started pacing.

"The Gumption has only basic defensive weaponry. She was designed for interstellar travel, not for battle," she said, more to herself than to the others. "A vessel-against-vessel fight would inevitably result in a Feliniti victory. But we could certainly give them a good bite or two."

"What about a raiding party?" Stoker suggested. "Get onboard the Feliniti ship, look around, see what we can do?"

Spot paused her march. "A possibility, but extremely dangerous. And there are so few of us in any condition to attempt such a venture."

"I-I'd be willing to help out there." Tim Donnelly raised a hand haltingly. "I'm, ahem, good at snooping around. Just tell me what to do, and I'll give it my best shot."

Spot lifted a brow. This human was courageous, indeed. She looked to the band of Bas Seti surrounding him, their bearing a strange mix of protectiveness for and utter confidence in this guest. With these Bas Seti at his side, perhaps Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly could affect a successful mission. "Very well. If you crew members would also be willing to volunteer?" She gestured toward Tim's stalwart dozen.

"Yes, Commander!" came the resounding reply.

Her other brow lifted. Such puppy-like eagerness for what could very well be a suicide mission. Still, even "safe" aboard the Gumption they all could suffer a horrible end.

She resumed striding around the conference table. "If the vessel's shields are down, it should be relatively simple to board her using the transfer beam. With a little reprogramming, Shape-Altering Devices will allow the team to blend in with the Feliniti crew. B.A.B.E.L.s will handle the language. But what is the goal of this raid?"

"Maybe they could tap into a computer and look for an antidote," Kevin offered. "With some sort of code-cracker to bust passwords, and a translator." He shrugged. "Just a thought."

"And a very clever one, Kevin Tighe as Roy DeSoto." Spot narrowed her eye and studied his face. Exactly what kind of research was this one doing in the ship's library? she wondered. "With modifications, the program imbedded in the English language console could easily translate Feliniti to English or Bas Seti. Combine it with a stealth search program, and we might get results."

"Oh, and one more thing," Kevin said. "When I was, ah, doing my reading yesterday, I came across an article on a plant called 'Bittenkitty'. Is this something we could use here? The article called it a narcotic to Felinities, I believe."

"Bittenkitty is a narcotic to them," Spot confirmed, heart racing as she realized he may be on to something truly useful, "and not to Bas Seti or humans. We may have some on board as the author of that dissertation is a crew member. Dr. Bonaparte." She whirled to face her chief medical officer.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Is it possible to create a weapon out of this herb? Something we could use inside the Feliniti vessel?"

Bonaparte slumped back in her chair, forehead knitted in thought. "Hmm. Well, for the narcotic to have any significant impact, it would have to be deployed throughout their ship fairly rapidly. I could make a concentrated extract, combine it with a compressed gas, introduce the gas into their ventilation system..." She leaned forward, beaming. "I think it could work. If we can locate some Bittenkitty, that is."

"What's this Bittenkitty stuff look like?" Marco said.

"Slender green fronds," Bonaparte said. "And its odor is rather pungent, almost like that of an Earth onion."

"My chives," Marco murmured to Donnelly. He and Tim looked at each other and grinned.

"Pardon?" Spot cut in, puzzled.

"Ah, I found some of that stuff, too," Tim admitted, running a finger under his collar. "When I was, um, well, snooping." He blushed.

Spot did not know whether to be amused or alarmed. Another surprising human. Albeit he did divulge that "snooping," as he called it, was his talent. He must have used that talent to locate the field rations. What other as yet unnoticed mischief had he engaged in? With an inward chuckle, she shook her head. Ah well, The Wise One had chosen. At least the Felinities were now the target of this man's unique ability. "Could you retrieve the Bittenkitty when you secure the field rations?" Spot asked, an imperious expression on her face.

"Yes, sir! Ah, Commander--ma'am."

The corners of Spot's mouth twitched. Turning her gaze from Donnelly's, she looked at Marco. "And could you assist him in procuring the supplies?"

"Sure!" Lopez said.

"Good. Now to other issues." Spot returned to her pacing. "Board the Feliniti ship, tap into their computers, contaminate their air supply--it all sounds so simple. Too simple, in fact. We must also plan for complications if we truly wish to succeed. Hand weapons." Spot paused, noting Mike Stoker as Mike Stoker's start out of the corner of her eye. "I believe you are familiar with those." She stopped beside his chair.

Looking decidedly pale, he nodded.

"We have few of these, as we are a peaceful race, but we are not naive to the dangers of the universe." She leaned close and whispered, "They were set on stun, and we would not have used them on you unless direly provoked."

His color improved slightly as Spot straightened and continued. "Every member of the boarding team will receive a weapon, as will Randolph Mantooth as John Gage. And speaking of the boarding team." She reached Kevin Tighe as Roy DeSoto. "Would you be willing to join them? Your task would be to infiltrate the computers, leaving the others free to work their sabotage on the air system. Your talents in this area appear great, and my instincts tell me you would perform this duty well. However, I understand if you are reluctant. I will honor whatever decision you make."

Tighe's face registered surprise, then deep thought, and finally, a smile. "Yeah, I'd be willing to join the team."

"Thank you," Spot said, sincerely pleased. "As soon as I have the tapping device programmed, I will demonstrate its operation to you. On to other contingency arrangements."

She walked toward Tim Donnelly. "The Gumption has weapons, too, much more powerful than hand weapons. Unfortunately, as I have already mentioned, they are no match for the fire power of a Feliniti battleship. They are, however, strong enough to draw their fire, inflict damage..." She halted at Tim's side. "And provide you a diversion, directing attention away from the team should your activities be noted. I will equip every team member with a personal communicator. Use it to contact each other or the Gumption. And should the need arise, call for that diversion."

"Yes, ma'am," Tim said, nervous sweat on his brow.

"Commander," Bonaparte interrupted, "all the pilots are in sick bay. It takes skill to engage in a fight, as you well know. Who will fly the Gumption if a diversion is necessary?"

"Um, I could," Stoker said.

Astonished, Spot spun to face him. Had he and Commander Scottie done more piloting exercises against Captain Lassie's orders? From his guilty expression, she surmised they had. Maybe this flagrant disobedience was a boon, though. As first officer, she possessed the expertise to pilot the ship, and would normally be expected to do so in an emergency. But her title was now "Acting Captain." Her responsibilities had changed. She could not be glued to a piloting console. She had to be everywhere, overseeing, guiding, making preparations. Yes, this could be a boon. "Dr. Bonaparte, what is Commander Scottie's condition?"

"Marginal, Commander. She is still coherent and able to talk, but too weak to fly the Gumption, if that is what you are thinking."

"Actually, I was thinking she might be well enough to coach Mike Stoker as Mike Stoker at the helm via a comlink." Spot smiled at Stoker's barely-suppressed excitement and disbelief.

"That she could do. At least for the immediate future," Bonaparte said. "I could set up a vid-comlink at her bedside."

"Please do, Doctor," Spot said. "And Mike Stoker as Mike Stoker, I will take you to the bridge shortly and familiarize you with its piloting console. But first, I have one last issue to address." She walked to the chair next to Stoker's. "The duties of the Gumption's First Officer."

Mike Norell as Hank Stanley looked up at her.

"Your task will be to maintain communications between the ship and the boarding party, and also within the Gumption herself. You will be my eyes and ears, as I will be spread rather thin handling security, Dr. Bonaparte's needs, and the needs of the boarding party. I entrust you to direct matters of importance to my attention that you yourself are unable to manage. It is a considerable assignment."

"Do my best," he replied.

The firm set of his jaw and the level gaze of his eyes told Spot his best would be very good, indeed. Captain Lassie's trust appeared well-placed. Spot sighed--Lassie. She hoped her own efforts would be half as good as the Gumption's true captain. "Doctor, h-how is--" Spot cleared her throat to hide her lapse. "How is the captain?"

"Unconscious and on life-support." Bonaparte's heartsick expression said more than her brief words.

"Understood. Please contact me if..." She trailed off.

"You know I will."

There is still hope, Spot told herself firmly, and the sooner they started, the better the captain's chances.

Bearing confident, voice steady, Acting Captain Spot spoke to the assembly. "Crew members, revered guests, the time has come to act."

* * *

"I think you will find this console very similar to the one on the auxiliary bridge." Spot gestured toward a particular area amidst the sweeping array of controls.

As he settled into the pilot's chair, Stoker eyed the indicated console and agreed. Everything did look similar: throttle to the right, position indicators in the middle, weaponry on the left. The only difference he could discern was the communications panel above the displays. Instead of the simple speaker and button arrangement of the auxiliary bridge, these controls also included a small six-by-six-inch monitor, imbedded flat into the console's surface. He touched the monitor's currently blank screen. "Yeah, it's pretty much the same except for this here. Reminds me of the game tables in the lounge."

"It is of the same type," Spot said, "only this screen is smaller because its main function is for in-ship communications. For observing your piloting technique, either simulated or real, you could use it, but it is best to use the main view port." She lifted her gaze to the star field displayed before them, and the looming image of the Feliniti ship.

Stoker's heart sank. How could he possibly hope to outmaneuver or outgun something as massive as that? His few hours of practice seemed woefully inadequate. He glanced at Norell, who stood quiet and intense to Spot's left. Norell had almost no training at all for his new duties. Still, he looked determined, if not confident. Stoker stared down at his trembling hands, hands on which so much depended. If only he could feel the same.

Reaching in front of him to depress a button on the com panel, Spot snapped Stoker out of his anxious musings. "Dr. Bonaparte, this is Spot."

"Bonaparte, here," came over the speaker.

"Doctor, is Commander Scottie's vid-comlink ready?"

"Almost, Commander. Working on it right now."

A speckled, snowy burst filled the tiny screen, accompanied by crackling static. Then Scottie's image materialized. Her real image. Stoker's jaw dropped. An exhausted-looking Commander Scottie lay propped up on a sick bay gurney, sans her nurse's cap and its imbedded Shape-Altering Device. Like Spot's, fur covered Scottie's undisguised body, or at least Stoker assumed it did, as a silvery sheet hid her from the chest down. What he could see of this fur was coarse, grey, wiry, and stood out in tufts across her brow and around her mouth and nose; a matching grey ruff topped her head. She looked nothing like the eccentric Dixie clone he'd come to know. Yet her brown eyes held a familiar glint of daring impishness. This was Scottie, all right.

"I'm sure ye find my, ahem, state of undress a wee bit unsettlin', laddie." Scottie fussed with her sheet, snugging it closer to her fuzzy chin. "It was bonnie Bonie's idea--" She jerked a thumb toward the doctor, who hovered beside the gurney. "--to take off my S.A.D. Said it'd make me easier to deal with, if ye'd ever believe that possible. So, when ye are done catchin' bugs, let me know, and we'll get started," Scottie finished with a wink.

Stoker's mouth shifted to a grin; he found himself chuckling. "Ready when you are, Commander."

Spot placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing his gaze from the comlink to her. "I must instruct Mike Norell as Hank Stanley now," she said gently, "then attend to other duties. Good luck." She squeezed his shoulder and turned away.

He watched her a moment as she approached Norell, and the two headed off to other consoles, then Scottie's voice called him back to the task at hand. "When I'm done with ye, laddie, it'll be the Felinities needing the luck." Scottie tapped the side of her dark round nose with a grey-furred finger.

Nerves returning, Stoker looked up at the imposing vessel in the main view port...and really wanted to believe her.

* * *

"That's the last of 'em," Tim announced with a grunt as he dropped the final crate of Bas Seti field rations onto the floor of the life support systems room.

After the strategy meeting, Acting Captain Spot had shown the Men of Station 51 and her few hale crew members to this room. There she gave Randy strict instructions to stay put until she returned, then left with Stoker and Norell for the bridge.

Everyone else--Tim, Marco, Kevin, and the dozen Dixies--went off to look for supplies. A short while later, Tim managed to locate more field rations, deep in the hold where he and Marco had found the lone box. In this same area, they'd also discovered a cache of what the Dixies pointed out was survival provisions: tools, shelter kits, spare space suits and breathing apparatus, even water purification gear. Thinking this equipment useful, they decided to cart it all back to the life support systems, where it would be close at hand, and where Randy could guard it.

"Easy, Tim!" Marco said. "You'll turn 'em all into crumbs." Lopez retrieved the crate and carefully positioned it atop a collection of similar containers.

"Naw, they're pretty well protected in those boxes," Tim said. "Besides, bet they still taste okay in pieces. Want another one?" He'd fished a biscuit out of his pants pocket and held it out to Marco.

"No, thanks. Believe it or not, I'm actually full." Marco patted his stomach and puffed out his cheeks.

Tim chuckled, then started to nibble on the biscuit himself. "Y'know, these aren't half bad."

Marco rolled his eyes.

"Guys, ladies, can you think of anything else we should round up?" Kevin asked the group.

"Yeah, Kev, the Bittenkitty," Tim said. He tucked the half-eaten biscuit back into his pants pocket and strode over. "C'mon." He motioned with a hand toward the exit. "You and me can handle that. I'll show you where I found it."

As he approached the doorway, the band of Dixies started to follow.

Tim stopped mid-step, then slowly turned around. "Ladies, Kev and I really can take care of this. Why don't you help Randy set up his little home-away-from-home?"

Randy glanced up from the box contents he was examining. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I could use a little help sorting all this stuff." He looked around, rather bewildered, at the piles mounded amidst the room's complex and humming equipment.

A Dixie stepped forward and bowed to Tim. "As you wish, O Protector." With a crisp about face, she led the other Dixies over to the supplies, and immediately set to work.

"Protector?" questioned Kevin.

Marco snorted; Tim groaned.

"Don't ask!" Donnelly grabbed Tighe's upper arm, and pulled him through the doorway.

The others could hear Kevin continue to prod Tim as the two men disappeared down the corridor.

The life support systems room was starting to resemble an organized supply depot by the time Spot returned. She was alone, and carrying a black briefcase.

Kevin and Tim arrived shortly afterward. In Tighe's hands was a potted plant, its copious slender stems tall enough to tickle his nose. Donnelly held a couple of clear sealed bags filled with cuttings of the same herb.

"You found the Bittenkitty!" Spot exclaimed as they entered the room. "Excellent! And I am pleased with the provisions you all have gathered." She surveyed the collection of rations and gear, gaze lingering in particular on the shelter kits and tools.

With a satisfied nod, she said, "It is time to proceed with the next steps in our preparations." Spot walked over to a workstation set against a wall, and laid the black case on top of it. A moment's manipulation with a lock on the case's edge, and it opened. She reached in and pulled out a hand weapon, which had been nestled inside.

The muzzle of the flat-black weapon was almost as long as her forearm, yet the weight of the butt balanced the muzzle's length. Spot held the deadly-looking gun effortlessly, and examined the power supply readout, then the firing mechanism and the safety catch. Assured that all was in order, she stepped over to Randy and presented the weapon to him, butt first. "This is your blaster. Take it, and I will detail its operation to you."

Randy stared at the gun, an expression of aversion on his face.

Spot sighed. "Please. You must. If I could think of a better way, I would use it, but I cannot."

Wincing, Randy closed his fingers around the grip, taking the cold hard weight from Spot's hand. With much less ease than Spot had shown, he looked the gun over.

"This weapon fires an energy beam," Spot said. "The intensity of the beam can be adjusted to one of two levels: stun or destroy. The controls for the beam intensity, as well as the power level indicator, are on the underside of the butt."

Randy flipped the gun over and studied the revealed lights.

"The lit yellow button indicates your weapon is currently on stun. Pressing the red button switches the level to destroy. The slender band of green light tells you the weapon is fully charged. As the band becomes shorter, the power level will be correspondingly lower. When it disappears, the weapon will need to be recharged, and you must contact me. Hopefully, that circumstance will not occur. The only way the weapon will deplete its energy is if it has been fired continuously for some time. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"One last thing: the safety catch. This is on the left side of the muzzle, immediately above the trigger area. The safety is currently engaged, and is blinking green. To disengage it, simply depress it with your thumb. It will turn red, and you may fire." She paused to retrieve another item from her case. "Here is the holster. It is designed for a right-handed draw, which my observations have determined would be appropriate for you."

"Yeah, I'm right-handed." Randy passed the weapon to Spot so he could secure the holster about his waist and upper thigh, then he took back the gun and settled it into the holster.

Spot stepped away from Randy and spoke to the entire group. "In a moment, I will position Randolph Mantooth as John Gage as guard outside the door to this room, and the room will be locked. Only he and myself will have the security clearance to open it. As for the duties of the rest of you..." She looked at Marco. "I would like you, Marco Lopez as Marco Lopez, to act as a liaison between Dr. Bonaparte and this supply center, transferring whatever the doctor requires wherever she needs it."

When Marco had acknowledged his assignment, Spot continued. "Crew members, you will assist him. As a reminder, the doctor requested aid in setting up the temporary sick bay in the mess hall. Equipment and beds need to be anchored down in anticipation of possible combat maneuvers; food and additional medical supplies need to be brought there. I believe you will find anchoring devices in the shelter kits, and adequate tools in the survival gear. Dr. Bonaparte will give you further instructions."

"Yes, Commander," the Dixies said.

"Kevin Tighe as Roy DeSoto, I would like you to also meet with Dr. Bonaparte and help her develop the narcotic weapon. Take all the Bittenkitty with you."

As Kevin's hands were busy holding the large pot, Tim helpfully stuffed the additional sealed packets into Tighe's pockets for him.

"Thanks, Tim," Kevin said through the foliage covering his face.

"No problem." Tim grinned, then turned to Spot as she mentioned his name.

"Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly, you will accompany me. I have information on the basic layout of Feliniti vessels which I want you to study. While you are doing that, I will be creating the computer tap, and also reprogramming the S.A.D.s."

"Okie dokie," Tim said.

"Come, everyone. Time is pressing." Spot reclaimed the weapon's case and headed for the door, the volunteers behind her.

As she reached the corridor, Spot stepped to one side--Donnelly shadowing her--to let the others pass. Eventually, she and Tim were alone with Randy.

Mantooth hovered near the still-open doorway, treating the holster like a bear-cub clamped to his leg that he'd like to shake off.

A half-smile on her lips, Spot said, "Let us find you a chair."

She passed her case to Tim and disappeared into the room, quickly returning with a simple white work station seat. Spot positioned this seat beneath a palm-plate just outside the door--the room's locking device. Spot placed her hand on the plate, and the door whooshed shut. "Your hand, please." She gestured for Randy to come closer.

Randy shuffled over and held out his right hand.

She took it and gently pressed it against the plate's metal surface. Her fingers then tapped out a complex pattern on a tiny symbol pad beneath the plate; the door slid open. She lifted his hand, and the door slammed shut again.

"You and I are now the only two people who can operate this door. If anyone suspicious tries to get past you, or if you start to sneeze, call me." She pointed to the intercom panel to the right of the lock. "And if necessary...." She glanced down at the holster.

Soberly, Randy nodded his comprehension.

"Please, Randolph Mantooth as John Gage, try to relax. You will do well." She smiled encouragingly.

"Y-yeah, okay," Randy stammered through a forced grin. "I'll try."

Spot bobbed her head once, then retrieved her briefcase from Tim. "I will be in the science station, which is not far from here."

"Thanks." Randy tossed Spot and Tim a wave as they headed off.

He was just starting to sit when Spot called back over her shoulder, "Turn off the safety catch!"

The words jolted him upright, and in the now empty corridor, he hesitantly pulled out his weapon. Hands shaking, Randy pressed the tiny blinking green light, changing it to red.

* * *

Preeti flattened her back more firmly against the corridor wall. She'd been quietly observing the comings and goings of the mess hall for a while now, and her neck in particular was starting to complain.

Glancing behind her down the narrow side passage she'd chosen for cover, she could see no one, so she dared to massage out a crick.

The action made her grimace, not from pain, but from the unpleasant sensation of this false body's fur-less hand touching its equally fur-less neck. How these aliens the Bas Seti chose to ally themselves with endured such a barbaric body-type, she'd never understand. With a longing sigh, she thought of her own luxurious black coat, and of the supple black ship's leathers she typically wore. Naked skin and this starched white dress were poor substitutes.

Still, the sacrifices she made were worth it.

As planned, the infection introduced into the food supply had spread rapidly. With great delight, she reported the utter chaos that had followed to her superiors. Now, the Gumption appeared deserted, virtually unmanned, most of its crew huddled in common misery in the room before her.

Most, but not all, and that was the reason for her current vigil. Some of the Bas Seti had managed to avoid the poison. She needed to determine how best to deal with them, and with their new alien friends.

Ironically, the Bas Seti themselves had provided her the perfect means to accomplish this. With a sardonic grin, she adjusted the cap atop her head. The raid on the hastily-abandoned research facility on the Bas Seti home planet had proven most fruitful. Preeti's particular "appropriated" S.A.D. offered three disguises, and with a little manipulation, could offer more. For now, though, this uncomfortable body would serve nicely.

The sound of approaching voices and footsteps snapped her attention back to the mess hall entrance, which lay about four good paces from her cover. A line of Bas Seti--healthy-looking ones--were following one of the alien males into the room. Each Bas Seti carried a box or crate, while the male held a large bundle of what looked like medical supplies. The opportunity she'd anticipated had arrived.

Donning an air of purpose, she glided to the end of the line, the hall's buzzing confusion hiding her maneuver. Once inside the galley, Preeti found an unmanned box and pretended to probe its contents. In truth, she was listening intently to the alien male.

"Okay, I think we have enough stuff to start anchoring things," he said to the group huddled loosely about him. "I'm gonna figure out who to give this to." He gestured with his head toward the supplies in his hands. "Then help you out."

The Bas Seti females mouthed their understanding, and the alien male abruptly turned, bumping into Preeti.

"Oops, sorry!" he said with an embarrassed smile.

Preeti smiled graciously back. The fur on this alien's face--specifically on his upper lip--almost made him look handsome. "No harm done," she said smoothly.

"Sick Bay to Marco Lopez as Marco Lopez," rang out from apparently nowhere, startling the male.

He looked around, confused.

Preeti pointed over the man's shoulder. "Ship's intercom. It is to the right of the entrance."

"Thanks," he replied. The tawny flesh of his face deepened into a blush.

Preeti smiled again, and inclined her head.

The alien, this "Marco Lopez," stumbled through the throng and back to the door. Hands still holding his burden, he glanced around helplessly for a moment, then with a shrug, dumped the supplies on the floor. He then stared at the com box protruding from the wall, obviously uncertain how to operate the device.

Preeti, chuckling inwardly, sauntered over to assist. "Depress the red button. It will connect you directly to Sick Bay."

"Huh? Oh, ah, thanks again."

"You are welcome."

Preeti maintained a position at his elbow while he reached out a fur-less finger to poke the appropriate button.

He cleared his throat and spoke into the box. "Ah, this is Marco."

"Dr. Bonaparte here. I have finally synthesized enough of the pain medication to dose everyone in the mess hall. Could you please return to pick it up?"

"Sure. Be right there."

"And have one of the crew members come with you. I also located more heat dissipating blankets. You will need an extra pair of hands to carry all this."

"Gotcha, Doc. I'll find someone."

"Thank you," the doctor replied, then the sharp click of the intercom link being cut could be heard.

"Would you like me to accompany you?" Preeti offered sweetly.

"Yeah, thanks! That'd be great! Let me just hand these supplies off to someone real quick." He stooped to retrieve his bundle.

Things were progressing, Preeti mused. She'd been pondering how to infiltrate Sick Bay, the place she felt could best provide her with additional means of sabotage. Now a solution was literally being handed to her. All she had to do was palm a potential poison or two, then use it on the ones who escaped her first trap. Even better, if she got rid of this "Marco" alien, she could poison the pain medication, making her first victims even more wretched.

Preeti could already hear the glowing praise of her superiors.

Calmly, despite the thrill of anticipation racing through her, she knelt beside the man and helped collect his provisions. In short order, they found a Bas Seti who knew what to do with the medical gear, then Preeti and the male headed off to Sick Bay.

Throughout the walk down the corridor to the transport chamber, the alien maintained an awkward silence, though Preeti continued to smile at his bashful glances. When they reached the chamber and its metal doors parted, Marco Lopez broke the hush with a chivalrous, "After you."

A quiet ride in the chamber, another, "After you," as they reached Level 9, then they were in the Sick Bay corridor.

Willing her tingling body into casual indifference, Preeti waited for the alien to press his palm to an entry plate, and usher her through a pair of simple grey doors. But Preeti couldn't quite suppress a slight gloating grin as she stepped inside and viewed Sick Bay's occupants. Here the success of her handiwork was brutally apparent, even more so than in the mess hall. Every Bas Seti, save a small handful treating the victims, was bed-ridden. The majority of those bed-ridden were so ill, they'd been forced to remove their S.A.D.s.

And the sickest of them all appeared to be the famous Captain Lassie herself. Unconscious, eyes sunken, the once dynamic and bothersome Bas Seti leader resembled a bedraggled golden brown carpet, grotesquely spiked with equipment. A tube in her mouth forced oxygen into failing lungs. A regulator secured to her chest controlled a faltering heart. Still more tubes snaked about, dealing with bodily wastes. A silver blanket draped her limp form, and a med-cuff on her upper arm futilely pumped drugs to her failing systems. Soon, Preeti thought victoriously. Very soon.

Marco Lopez spoke to Dr. Bonaparte, drawing Preeti's attention back to her mission.

"Hi, Doc," he greeted. "Where's the stuff you wanted me to pick up?"

"Right here." Bonaparte indicated two large boxes set on the edge of her workstation. The doctor rose--unsteadily, Preeti noted smugly--and walked to one of the boxes.

As the doctor explained to Marco Lopez how to use the pre-metered med injectors in the one box, Preeti glanced behind the two at a dispensing unit set against a wall. Next to the unit, a silver cabinet with a transparent door held a store of already replicated medicines. If she could only inch over there unnoticed....

Her eyes observed the puffy-faced alien sitting farther along the wall at another workstation just as her nose detected the heady odor of the plant in front of him. No! It cannot be! she thought in stunned terror. A swirling fog enveloped her mind; her body swayed.

"You okay?" she heard Marco Lopez ask as he tried to press a heavy box into her unresponsive hands.

The physical contact snapped her out of her daze. "Yes, I am fine. A little tired, perhaps," she forced herself to answer.

"You sure?"

"Of course." She smiled, taking the proffered container of blankets firmly into her hands.

Marco shrugged. "Okay. Let's get this stuff back to the mess hall, then. Doc--" he called out as he turned to retrieved the box of medicine from Bonaparte's desk. "I'll be in the galley helping bolt things down if you need me."

"Thank you. I do not expect I will need your assistance for a little while, however," the doctor said from the far workstation where she'd joined the other alien. Bonaparte, intently studying a monitor, didn't look at Marco Lopez or Preeti as she spoke.

A small blessing. No one but the Marco alien had witnessed her lapse. She had to get out of here before it happened again.

Thankfully, the alien male already held the door open for her, and she slipped into the clean air of the corridor. She politely waited for the male to join her, then allowed him to lead them back to the transport chamber.

Head still buzzing from the effects of the narcotic, she reworked her strategy. After she'd delivered the load of blankets to the mess hall, she'd slip away somehow and get to her transponder. Her superiors needed to know about the Bittenkitty. This was a most unexpected--and very dangerous--turn of events.

"Randy?" her escort blurted, then chuckled. "Oh, geez, I did it again. Took a wrong turn."

Preeti blinked. In front of her was yet another of the alien males. This one sat in a chair in front of a locked door--with an armed energy weapon holstered to his thigh! She glanced frantically about, belatedly realizing she'd been too absorbed to notice Marco Lopez had indeed gone the wrong way. They were outside the life support systems room. This situation, too, must be reported!

"Hi, Marco," the alien named Randy said. "The transport chamber's that way, pal." He winked and pointed back down the corridor Maroc Lopez and Preeti had just traveled. "Want a quick snack while you're here?" he offered teasingly.

Marco laughed. "Naw, gotta get this stuff to the mess hall."

Randy chuckle along with him, then suddenly made a bizarre, convulsive noise, startling both men and Preeti. They turned and looked at her with shocked expressions. She stared back, completely puzzled, then, unease rising in her gut, she started to inch backward.

Randy sprang from his seat and drew his weapon. "Grab her, Marco!" he shouted.

Damn! Preeti shoved her box hard into Marco's, knocking him away from her. Before she could run clear, however, he dropped the carton of med injectors, grabbed her arms from behind, and wrenched them upward. "Arrrrgh! What are you doing?" She howled, kicked, and twisted, trying to break his grip. Then she felt the cold muzzle of the energy weapon brush the underside of her chin.

"Don't move," Randy said, eyes watering, nose sniffing furiously.

She froze. As horribly wrong as things had gone, she was not yet prepared to die.

"I do not understand! We have to return to the mess hall--the medications!" she pleaded, hoping her cover might still be valid.

"Hold her there, Marco, " Randy ordered, untouched.

Weapon still trained on her, he backed up to the com panel. After a couple of stifled snorts, Randy punched a button. "Life Support to Commander Spot."

Almost instantly, "Spot here," blasted out the speaker.

"Commander, we've caught our spy."

Preeti gulped. So much for her disguise. Still, how had they known? Her S.A.D. was working perfectly, as was her B.A.B.E.L.

Preeti's arms were cramping painfully by the time Acting Captain Spot arrived at a run, blaster in hand. "Randolph Mantooth as John Gage, please remain here and continue your duties," Spot commanded through panting breaths. "Marco Lopez as Marco Lopez, please assist me in escorting our guest to the brig." She pressed her weapon hard to Preeti's temple.

They started to move.

Whatever her fate may be, Preeti decided to face it nobly, as befitted a member of her proud and infinitely superior race. Chin high, back straight, she marched to her destiny, the odd explosive sounds of the "Randy" male fading into the distance behind her.

* * *

"What is your name?" Spot asked for the third time.

She stood outside Preeti's cell in the Gumption's brig. This cell was a stark, featureless cube, containing only a bench seat, which was anchored securely to the grey metal walls. An energy field served as the cell's door, allowing security personnel full view of any prisoners. As the Gumption's security team was incapacitated, and Marco Lopez had left to deliver the medicine to the mess hall, Spot and Preeti were the brig's sole occupants.

Stripped of her Shape-Altering Device, hands cuffed behind her, Preeti sat haughtily silent on the far end of the cell's bench. The truth drug hadn't quite taken control of her yet. She knew complete resistance wasn't possible, but she found that if she concentrated hard on something, she could elude the drug's grip for a while at least. She focused on the satiny feel of her fur and on the spicy, musky scent of her ship's leathers...

"What is your name?"

"P-preeti," she stuttered. Oh well, her name told the enemy nothing. She studied a ceiling panel, counting the ventilation holes in its surface...

"What is your rank? What is your rank?"

"Essspionage Agent, S-second Class," her mouth hissed against her will. Stop it! she told her tongue firmly. ...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen....

"Did you poison my crew?"

This one she wanted to answer. "Yes," Preeti purred with smug pride.

"Is there an antidote for this poison?"

Preeti's eyes widened; her heart skipped a beat. "Yes," her traitorous voice revealed, though her mind screamed, say nothing! She counted the rivets securing the bench to the walls...

"What is this antidote? Where is this antidote?" her tormentor persisted, nose almost touching the energy barrier in her earnestness.

Preeti finally felt true panic. She mustn't confide this! If she did, her mission would be a complete failure. And her superiors--she clenched her jaw muscles, fought down the expulsion of air threatening to part her lips--her superiors would see her demoted, humiliatingly, in front of the entire crew.

"Grrrrrrrrragh!" Preeti roared and hurled herself headfirst into the barrier. A crackling charge enveloped her body; she slid to the floor and rolled limply to her back. She centered desperately on the intense pain, clearing the dangerous questions from her mind.

"Answer me! What is the antidote. Where is the antidote?"

The questions returned, more insistent. They reverberated inside Preeti's skull, hammering, throbbing, over and over. She had to answer or she'd explode! Yet to answer, to give the prey the means to cure themselves...worse than demotion, she'd be relegated to the lowest stratum of Feliniti society--a nameless outcast, unworthy of even an acknowledging glance. This she could not live with, so she wouldn't. Just as her mouth was about to open, Preeti clicked her teeth together hard, breaking the hidden capsule in her molar. "Ahh!" she gasped, back arching grotesquely.

"What did you take? Tell me!" Spot yelled.

"A poison," Preeti responded woozily. The warm, leaden sensation she'd been taught to expect already flowed up her limbs. Soon, it would reach for heart. "And before you ask," she added with a final brash gesture, "there is no a-antidote--Unngh!"

Preeti doubled up. Her fading vision registered, as if looking through a tunnel, the commander's frantic jabs at the barrier controls. Hands reached for her, grabbed her body, but she could not feel them. The warmth enfolded her mind now; her heart boomed erratically, distantly in her ears. Preeti's last conscious sensation was her captor's single lamenting word: "Damn!" Preeti herself couldn't agree more.

* * *

An uneasy Tim Donnelly waited in the center of a circular room, his "Ditzy Dozen" as he'd started calling them in his mind, clustered about him. To his left lay a raised platform, almost like a stage; to his right, a control console bristling with knobs and levers. Between these features--where he and the Dixies were standing--ran a clear strip of decking, maybe ten feet wide. He couldn't pull his gaze from the control console. It looked way too complicated, too easy to screw up. Volunteering to raid that ship suddenly felt like a really bad decision.

Spot had just explained how a "transfer beam" worked. He'd be disassembled on the platform and reassembled on the Feliniti ship. Tim shuddered. He did not like the thought of this baffling contraption scrambling and unscrambling his atoms like some...some...sinister Veg-O-matic! Cole slaw, that's what it'll turn me into, he thought dourly. The kind with those icky bits of purple cabbage.

Spot's voice broke him out of his dire ruminations. "Your comlink is imbedded in this collar, and your Shape-Altering Device is the medallion," she said, handing him a black leather choker fitted with a small silver tag.

He clasped the collar between index finger and thumb and stared at it warily. He was still staring at it when Spot finished distributing collars to the "Ditzy Dozen".

She returned to his side, an amused look on her face. "Collars and medallions such as these are typical Feliniti adornments, and the S.A.D. and comlink are very safe to use. Here, allow me." She took the collar from Tim's grasp and fastened it about his neck.

"Wait!" Tim protested, but too late. The room began to spin and brighten. He squinted and tried to focus on his hands, which wavered and glowed hot white. Through the glow, hair started to sprout--short glossy grey with flecks of black. Alarmed, he tensed, and was even more astonished when a set of razor-sharp claws emerged from his fingertips. His stocky torso thinned, shoulders and thighs assuming the weight in the form of solid muscle. Recalling Commander Spot's appearance, he glanced downward. Whew! he thought upon seeing tight black leather pants instead of just furry skin. A wide leather belt with a gleaming silver buckle held up these pants. Further down, tall cuffed black boots protected his feet.

His transformation complete, the radiance faded. Tim braved a timid peek at his reflection in the burnished metal of the transfer room door. A swarthy grey-furred face with tattered black pointed ears gawked back. Reaching up a hand, he touched his right eye. Curiously, the device had covered it with an eyepatch. His left remained its usual sparkling blue, though the pupil had become a vertical slit. The collar with the attached S.A.D. still girded his neck; large silver studs now decorated the collar's surface. All combined, pants, boots--and a sculpted, cap-sleeved black vest, which he presently fingered--he looked like a seasoned feline pirate ready to swash any buckle. "Whoa," he breathed.

"That was not so unpleasant, now was it?" Spot said.

"Um." He shrugged, then jumped. Motion caused his newly-formed fur to tickle under his leathers. That would take some getting used to. "G-guess not." With a gulp, he shifted his gaze to the platform.

"Trust me, the transfer beam will be no worse."

Looking back to Spot, he offered her a wan smile, then did a double take. Surrounding him and the commander, the Ditzy Dozen had just finished their transmutations. Twelve alluring, leather-clad cat-women, with fur colors ranging from mahogany to mottled calico, smiled saucily at him. "Brrrrrrrrow!" rumbled loudly from Tim's chest. He started. Did that sound really come from him? He hadn't even opened his mouth! Abashed, Donnelly scratched at his bulging pectorals. Ticklish fur, built-in thought-activated lawn mower. Not so sure I like this get-up, he grumbled to himself.

"A few more details, and you will be ready for the mission," Spot said. "First, this is how the comlink functions." She touched the right side of his collar. "Tapping this area opens a link between you and the other team members. Tapping the opposite side opens a link to the Gumption's bridge. Press to talk, release to listen. Use the link to the Gumption sparingly. It could possibly be traced."

"Gotcha," Tim said.

"And here is a portable version of the Feliniti battleship layout you studied." Spot handed him a small monitor about three inches square and half an inch thick. "You can scroll through the layout using the controls on the bottom of the device. Remember, the layout may not exactly match this particular vessel. It should be good enough to give you approximations, though."

Tim tested out the controls, then tucked the viewer into an inside pocket of his vest, which sent another ticklish shiver rippling through him. He sighed. "Okay, anything else?"

"Your B.A.B.E.L."

She raised a glass test tube to his eyes. Inside the tube, a tiny bulbous blue creature with eight spiked legs scuttled about. Tirelessly, it tried to scale the walls of its cage, only to find no grip on the smooth surface, and plunge repeatedly downward, making audible plinks.

"That is a B.A.B.E.L.?" Tim pointed at the ugly little arachnid. "It looks like a tick."

"It is a Bio-engineered Aural Barrier Eliminating Lifeform. I had the honor of assisting in its development. It is exceptionally effective at language translation, and," she supplied proudly, "nigh-invulnerable."

"Oh, that's very reassuring," Tim muttered under his breath.

"Please tilt your head so I may insert it into your ear," Spot instructed.

"What? You ain't sticking that thing in my--"

Spot gave him an imploring look.

"All right, all right," Tim sighed. He tipped his head. Eyes squeezed shut, shoulders tensed, he felt the cool glass of the tube touch his ear, then a pricking sensation as the tube's occupant scurried down his ear canal. His eyes flew open. He thought he heard a high-pitched "Spoon!" as the creature settled into place.

"Can you understand my words?" Spot said. "I am speaking to you in Bas Seti."

"Ah, yeah, p-perfectly."

"Excellent." She smiled.

"We did it! I've got it!" Kevin Tighe said as he rushed into the room. He held before him two silver thermos-sized canisters.

"Splendid!" Spot strode over and took the canisters from his hands. She examined them closely. "Do you know how to deploy the gas?"

"Yes, and Dr. Bonaparte said to tell you, there should be enough to do the job." Tighe's eyes widened as he belated noted the cats around him. "Is that you, Tim?"

Tim chuckled. "Yeah, can you believe it? I can't wait to see what you turn in to."

"Me?" Kevin pointed to his chest.

Spot pressed the canisters back into Kevin's hands. "Hold these, and I will get your S.A.D. and B.A.B.E.L."

"Oh, boy." Kevin clutched the canisters and watched Spot retrieve a black collar. "Forgot about this bit."

"Don't worry," Tim said, "it doesn't hurt too much."

"Hurt?" Kevin blurted, then the collar was around his neck.

Tim watched, fascinated, as Kevin's body began to shine and oscillate. The shine disappeared, and Tim choked down a snort. "Kev, you look, ah... interesting."

Unlike Tim's, Kevin's bulk didn't solidify into rippling muscle. Instead, his mid-section swelled, his face grew even puffier. Vivid orange and white striped fur covered him from head to foot; a large round white patch on his stomach accentuated his new girth. Long white whiskers blossomed to either side of his nose, and two perfectly triangular, perky ears topped his head. His clothing consisted of a loose brown leather vest, matching baggy brown pants and soft moccasins.

Kevin chuckled as he looked himself over. "Interesting isn't the word I'd use."

"Hold still," Spot interrupted as she emptied a test tube into Kevin's ear.

"Eww!" Kevin quivered. "What was that?"

"Your B.A.B.E.L.," Spot said, a slight smile on her lips. She then walked to the control console and picked up a roomy brown leather pouch. Returning, she slipped the pouch's strap bandoleer-style around Kevin's shoulders. "The computer tap is in this bag. Please take it out, and I will demonstrate how to operate it."

The tapping device opened like a card. One page was a monitor, the other a keyboard. The pouch also contained a bundle of assorted cables and adaptors, which Spot explained would hopefully fit into the computers on the Feliniti ship.

"I have shown Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly several possible locations that may contain an isolated computer terminal. When you successfully reach one of these terminals, turn on your machine and the ship's computer, and connect them together with the appropriate cable. The program in your equipment should do the rest."

She then had all the team members practice using the comlinks. Next, they reviewed the details of their plan. And last, she handed out the energy weapons. These were rifles, and larger and longer than Randy's blaster.

Tim and Kevin traded nervous looks.

Tighe slipped his rifle into his pouch, the exposed barrel pointing upward behind him, then snugged up his sagging pants.

Tim, however, had no convenient place to deposit his weapon. Self-consciously, he gripped it with two hands, sensing his biceps inflate as he did so. I feel like Danny DeVito in Arnold Schwarzenegger's body, he brooded, and poor Kev looks like Garfield.

"Our preparations are complete," Spot announced, stepping behind the control console. "We must start at once, as time is of the essence. Please." She gestured across the room to the elevated stage. "Step onto the transfer beam platform."

Here goes nuthin', Tim thought as he took his place beside the others.

"If the Feliniti vessel is shielded, you will automatically return to this room. If it is not..." She engaged the beam, "May luck be with you!"

An acute itching sensation shot up his legs. "Aaaaahhhh!" he gasped as the itch burned its way to the tips of his ragged ears. Spot's image faded into black and white specs, then into nothingness.

He was no longer on the Gumption.

* * *

"May luck be with you," Spot repeated softly when the boarding party did not reappear. She sighed. "And now to wait."

Leaning a hand on the console, Spot closed her eyes and rubbed her neck. The day's strain had knotted muscle and stomach alike. She had to return to the bridge now. If the team should need assistance--

The ship's intercom halted her meditations. "Sick Bay to Commander Spot."

Wearily, Spot punched a button on the console. "Spot here."

"Spot, this is Bonaparte. I...I am...unable to continue my duties." The doctor's voice sounded weak, breathy.

"Understood, Doctor. On my way."

She hurried out the door, heading for the nearest transport chamber. As she jogged down the empty corridors, Spot prayed Norell and Stoker could manage on their own a little while longer.

* * *

"Tim," Kevin whispered, "which way do we go?" Tighe glanced around, clutching the strap of his satchel with two hands.

The boarding team had successfully transferred into a dimly lit, empty, and very convoluted corridor. A myriad of side passages intersected this corridor, giving the unsettling impression that "company" could be coming from anywhere at any moment.

"Hang on." Tim awkwardly crammed his rifle under an armpit so he could get the map viewer from inside his vest.

"This place is a maze, an absolute tangle," Kevin said in an edgy hush. "Hope that map of yours works."

"Relax, Kev, it'll do its job." Tim activated the map's "current location" indicator, causing a blur of action on the view screen.

"It says here...ah, ahem." He squirmed. The Ditzy Dozen had crowded around, looming over him to get a peek. They were all taller than him, giving him a distracting eye-level, leather-covered vista. He raised the map a little higher, blocking the view. "Ah, it's says we're in a service corridor for the cargo hold area. And let's see, the nearest computer terminal would be..." He tapped in a search request. "It says there's a terminal used for checking manifests, tracking inventory, yada, yada, close to this position. It's a good bet no one's using it right now, what with the, um..." He peered over the top of the screen. "...entertainment the Gumption's givin' 'em. Follow me." Donnelly promptly turned right and marched off down the corridor, shivering with each step. Dang fur.

After a few brisk strides, he banked left down a narrow passage, then right down another. Belatedly, he slowed his pace, realizing he might plow headlong into a Feliniti if he wasn't careful.

Something tapped his shoulder. He jumped and spun about, almost smacking Kevin with his rifle, which was still crammed under his armpit. "Geez, Kev! Don't do that!"

"Sorry!" Kevin apologized, hands raised. "Just wanted to know what exactly we're looking for, and how much farther it is."

"It's a small room, about, oh, ten feet square. And we should be coming up on it--" He doubled-checked his map, lifting his eyepatch for a better look. "--on the right past the next intersection." He pointed ahead to a junction about twenty feet away.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Tim had taken only two more steps when he felt another tap on his shoulder.

"Now what?" he hissed, spinning around again.

"Are we there yet?" Kevin said, a wide toothy grin on his tabby cat face.

"Cute, Tighe, cute." Donnelly rolled his eyes, then minced his way along the passage once more.

They crossed the intersection, and walked a good twenty yards beyond with still no sign of the room. Tim was beginning to think he'd screwed up somehow when he finally spotted their destination. He held up a hand to halt the entourage, then raised a shushing finger to his lips. Back pressed to the corridor wall, map stowed, and rifle at the ready, he inched closer to the room's closed door. Think like Arnold, think like Arnold, ran though his head in the style of "The Little Engine That Could." He took a deep breath, clenched his rifle tightly, then sprung at the door. It whooshed open; he leapt inside, aiming his weapon wildly in all directions. Tim took a bead on a shadowy hulk looming before the computer terminal--

"Tim! Tim! It's an empty chair!" Tighe grabbed the rifle barrel, pushing it upward.

"Huh?! Wha--?" Slowly, Kevin's words registered. "Oh, geez, sorry!" Hastily, he lowered the rifle.

"That's okay. Let's see if this computer will talk to mine." Tighe seated himself in the rescued chair.

Donnelly instructed the Ditzy Dozen to keep an eye on the door, then stood vigil next to Kevin, rubbernecking over his shoulder. Kevin, mouth twisted in thought, studied the terminal. "I think this is the start button," he said. He leaned forward and tapped a control. Immediately, the terminal hummed into life.

"That looks promising," Tim said.

"Yeah, but now for the big test." Kevin retrieved the computer tap from his bag. After turning the device on, he set it on the workstation beside the Feliniti machine, then rummaged in his bag for connecting cables and adaptors. One by one, he placed the entire assortment beside his computer tap. "Tim, give me a hand. I have to figure out how to connect these two. Do you see any sockets on this thing?" he said, craning his head to look at every surface on the terminal.

Tim raised his patch and inspected the machine. "How 'bout this one?" He pointed to a hole in the back.

Kevin eyed the hole, then examined his adaptors. He found a likely candidate, attached it to a cable, then connected the computers together. "So far so good. Let's see if they'll talk to each other."

Tighe's fingers flew over his keyboard; data started scrolling rapidly across both monitors. "We're in business! This could take a while, though. Why don't you and your lady friends get started on installing that gas, and I'll call you if something comes up?" Kevin paused his typing and reached into his sack for the two canisters. "Twist the caps counter-clockwise to open them. That's all there is to it." He held out the shiny cylinders to Tim.

As his hands were full of rifle, Tim had to shove his weapon under his armpit again before taking the canisters. This left no hands available to operate his map. "Kev, can I borrow your bag?"

"No way. I need that for my computer stuff, and more importantly, for the antidote, if I can find any."

"Okay, um..." Tim surveyed his outfit. His pants were not only pocket-less, but much too tight to offer any place for the canisters to ride. He looked to his ladies. Tight was an understatement for their attire. And he wanted them all to have both hands for their weapons. Recalling the chair that almost wasn't, he certainly didn't trust his ability to use a gun properly. That left his vest. He stuffed the canisters inside, creating a rather novel silhouette. He fished out his map and activated it. "Ladies, our next stop is a service room for the ventilation shafts. Says here we need to turn right when leave this room for starters. You ready?"

"Yes, O Protector!"

Kevin's shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.

Tim huffed a resigned sigh, then headed for the door, the Ditzy Dozen close behind.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they still hadn't found the service room. Eyepatch shoved haphazardly atop his shaggy head, Tim flipped the map about and scrutinized its displayed labyrinth from every angle. Half of the Ditzy Dozen kept a wary watch down both directions of the corridor they had paused in. The other half huddled around him, trying to help.

"Perhaps if we turn left at the next passage--"

"I would propose a right turn--"

"If we go back to the last intersection--"

Tim spun the map with every suggestion.

"Slow down! Let me think!" he implored.

"Shhh!!" one of the lookouts warned. "Someone approaches."

"Uh-oh," Tim muttered. He hastily hid his map and pulled down his patch. "Start moving, nice and easy. Act like we belong here. And don't hold those rifles so...so menacingly," he added, noting their bristling postures. "We're Felinities, remember?"

Silently, they complied, and started walking slowly, yet with convincing purpose, down the corridor.

Tim allowed himself a smile. His Ditzy Dozen could pull off that casual-look much better than Marco could. His smile evaporated, however, when the Feliniti caught up with them. His broad shoulders, masculine features, and close-fitting leathers left no doubt as to his strength. And the dour expression on his chiseled, brown-furred face--not to mention the large blaster aimed directly at them--left no doubt about his mood, either.

"You there!" he bellowed, striding over to Tim. "What are you doing in this area? All security teams are to report to D-deck for new orders. Didn't you know that?" The alien loomed over Donnelly like an enraged walking carpet on steroids.

"Um, no, actually. We, ah, we missed that," Tim dissembled. "D-deck. Got it. On our way now, um, Sir."

"See to it, Sergeant," the male replied icily. "Saaay." He leaned closer to Donnelly, eyeing Tim's distorted vest. "What have we here?" He prodded the garment with his weapon's barrel. "Wine? Spirits?" The Feliniti's expression shifted to sly amusement. "So that's what you were up to." He scanned the ladies, a baritone purr vibrating in his chest. "And with the whole lot of them?" He scowled down at Tim. "But you're so pathetically scruffy-looking. I cannot imagine such fine women as these going for a battered Old-Timer like you."

"Oh, we go for him, all right," one of the Dozen murmured seductively, snuggling against Tim's side. Lazily, she twined her fingers through the fur on his shoulder.

"Mrrrrow!" said another as she cuddled up to Donnelly's other side.

Blood rushed to Tim's face. Oh, lordy, he thought, forcing himself to remain calm. He had to play along. "Can't judge a book by its cover," he replied with a saucy grin.

"I can see that, Sergeant," the Feliniti said, smirking. "Hmm. Maybe--just maybe, you understand--I can forget to report this little incident if you include me in your..." The smirk broadened. "...'maneuvers,'"

Shit! He couldn't! There was no way!

The Feliniti touched Tim's vest with his blaster barrel again, counting the lumps. "Two bottles should be enough. Shall we? Not that you really have any choice in the matter." He snatched Tim's rifle away, then pressed the blaster between Donnelly's eyes.

With a gulp, Tim answered, "Sure. We were just heading for a nice, private--"

"That little closet of a ventilation service room?" the Feliniti cut in with a knowing leer.

Tim nodded.

"Don't let me stop you, then." He motioned with the blaster for Tim to continue down the hallway.

In his mind's eye, Tim struggled to recall the details on the map, desperately hoping he could figure out where they needed to go. Straight ahead to the next left, he told himself as they marched along, then a right, then, then--

"Wake up, Old-Timer!"

Tim felt the blaster poke him between the shoulder blades.

"Almost missed your turn."

"Sorry." Tim shrugged. "Only have one good eye."

His captor chuckled.

Tim veered right, and gave a mental sigh of relief. The passage ended in a doorway. And from the continuing prod of the blaster against his back, this door must lead to their intended destination. If the Ditzy Dozen were half as sharp as Tim thought they were, and if he could only get out of reach of the Feliniti, the Dozen could get rid of this crazy cat. After all, the ladies were still armed. Being loyal, lusty crew members, the big male had obviously seen no reason to relieve them of their rifles. He'd make a dodge to the right as soon as he--

"Hold up," the Feliniti ordered as Tim was about to step into the room. "I've changed my mind. The girls and I won't need your company. Hand over the booze and get your sorry carcass down to D-deck."

Slowly, Tim turned around. With a resigned smile, he reached into his vest and started to extract one of the heavy silver canisters. "Whatever you say." He whipped the canister out, smashing it against the male's jaw. "RUN!" Tim yelled as the Feliniti sagged to the floor, dazed.

Tim reclaimed his rifle and dashed back down the passage with the Dozen--and ran straight into a large, well-armed security team.

"S-stop them!" Tim's captor growled, stumbling groggily to his feet.

Tim stared wide-eyed at the row of weapons aimed directly at them. He and the ladies quickly dropped their rifles. As Tim raised his hands above his head, he faked a nervous scratch at his neck, activating his collar. "Help!" he whispered, praying someone onboard the Gumption would hear.

* * *

End of Part Two

Part Three