"Help!" crackled softly out of the speaker imbedded in the bridge command chair where Mike Norell sat restlessly drumming his fingers on the armrests.

"Holy--!" Norell said, heart skipping a beat. "Stoker," he called over to the piloting console, "that's the boarding party! Time to do your thing for real, pal!"

Stoker gave Norell a panicked look, then turned back to the console. He whispered something to Scottie in the console's view screen, which Norell couldn't quite hear, then switched the controls from "simulation" to "active." Then he froze, fingers gripping the throttle so hard they turned white.

"Mike, you can do it," Norell said. "Piece of cake. Think of Big Red and those parking lot 360's. C'mon, buddy. They need us."

Stoker's head bobbed in acknowledgment; Norell heard him take a deep breath. Soon the blanched knuckles regained their color, and the hand moved.

Norell clutched the command chair to keep from being tossed to the deck; in the main view port, the image of the Feliniti ship loomed alarmingly closer. Stoker had gone into action.

* * *

Spot smoothed the silver coverlet around Dr. Bonaparte's unconscious form and sighed. "Did she have an opportunity to explain the operation of the life support equipment?" she asked the figure standing beside her.

"Basically," Marco said. "I know what everything does. And I know what all the warning buzzers mean, but I can't do anything if I hear one except turn it off."

"That will be sufficient," Spot sighed. "I would like you to remain here. Do what you can. Keep me informed."

Marco nodded mutely.

"C-Commander."

The hoarse whisper drew Spot's attention to a bed a few feet away. "Commander Scottie?"

Scottie's eyes were closed, and she lay absolutely still, as if speaking was the only movement she could manage. "M-my apt pupil on the bridge informs me the boarding party needs assistance," Scottie said. "He's gonna give it all he's got, so hold tight."

The moment Scottie finished her message, Sick Bay's deck pitched wildly. Spot gripped Bonaparte's gurney; a few devices tottered and fell.

"Make sure the patients are secure, and try to tie down the loose equipment," Spot ordered Lopez. "I am going to the bridge. Contact me there if you need me."

Not waiting for his reply, she ran toward the door. Despite the ship's violent motions, she kept her feet and scrambled into the hallway. Spot sprinted towards the transport chamber. As she rounded a corner, an awkward yaw toppled her sideways. She fought to regain balance, but the side of her head rammed full force into the bend's sharp metal edge. Blackness enveloped her before she even slid to the deck.

* * *

On the Feliniti vessel, the once dimly lit corridors pulsed with red light; a blaring claxon kept time with the throbbing illumination. The security team herding Tim and the Ditzy Dozen toward the brig hesitated, ears perked expectantly.

"Priority One. All personnel report to battle stations. Repeat, Priority One. Report to battle stations at once," rang out from speakers imbedded in the walls.

The massive brown Feliniti with the large blaster, whom Tim had gifted with a burgeoning lump on the jaw, bared his canines at Donnelly and growled. "You lucked out, Old-Timer. Priority One. Give 'em back their weapons!" he snapped over his shoulder to the team.

Someone slapped a rifle into Tim's mid-section. Donnelly grasped it to his stomach and stared dumbfounded at the hairy brute in front of him.

"You heard Captain Shere Con," the Feliniti snarled. "Get your team to their station."

Tim started to turn away. They were free! Stoker had done it! But before he could take two steps, the Feliniti clamped a hand to his shoulder and spun him around. He snatched Tim's vest in a furry fist, hoisted Donnelly off the floor, and pressed his nose to Tim's. "Don't think you're out of trouble yet, Old-Timer," the giant cat hissed through gritted teeth. "I will deal with you. Personally. Later." With a shove, he released his grip. Tim thudded to his backside onto the deck, rifle clattering from his fingers.

"Come on, Blue Team! Move it!" the Feliniti bellowed at his troop.

And with a rush of pounding booted feet, they were gone.

The Ditzy Dozen swarmed over Tim, helping him to his feet.

"Are you unharmed, Protector?"

"What are your orders, Protector?"

"Your rifle, Protector."

"I'm fine, thanks." Tim tugged down his vest, immensely grateful it had survived the "lifting" and still hid the gas canisters, then took his weapon. "And what we're gonna do next is head back to that ventilation room." A broad grin split his face. "Since our charming host so kindly showed us where it is."

"As you wish, O Protector," the ladies replied crisply, then they set off.

* * *

Kevin glanced uneasily at the blinking red light over his head. About fifteen minutes had passed since the claxon and "Priority One" order had ceased blasting from the room's speakers. But the bothersome red light still pulsed its warning, and the ship had begun making odd jerking movements. Something big was going on, and his gut told him Tim was the cause.

Tighe lifted a hand to the comlink in his collar, then hesitated. If he hailed Tim and a Feliniti overheard, it would blow Donnelly's cover.

The hand flopped back into his lap. With a sigh, he stared down at the data scrolling across the monitors in front of him. There wasn't anything he could do until the computer tap flagged a file, or Tim called him. Damn. This is taking too long.

Maybe there was no antidote. Maybe all their efforts were for nothing. Heck, he had no idea why he was even here, helping these...these dogs! What had made him take such a risk? Right now he could be safe and sound at the con, sipping a glass of wine, signing autographs...

The tapping device started softly bleeping. On its screen, a line of data flashed bright green. It'd found something.

Kevin sat bolt upright, rapidly scanning the highlighted information. A smile puffed his striped cheeks. There was a supply of antidote onboard--in sick bay! Tighe, you old codger, he told himself with an inward chuckle, you're here because you're a sucker for helping people. Even furry ones.

He sat back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. Okay, so he knew where the antidote was, but he had to get to it, and to do that, he really needed Tim's help. His fingertips hovered over the comlink once more. Indecisive, he bit his lip. Should he chance a call? A short one might be safe. He could whisper Tim's name and see what happened. He had to get a hold him, he decided.

He was about to depress the side of his collar when Tim's voice filled his ears. "Kev! Kev, you there? It's Tim."

Kevin almost laughed aloud with relief as he tapped his link. "Yeah, Tim, I'm here. What's going on?"

"I'm in the ventilation service room with the ladies. We just finished putting the gas into the air shafts, and we're gonna head up to the bridge. Hopefully, by the time we get there, the Bittenkitty will have done its job. How's it going on your end?"

"Hold on to your eye-patch. I found a stash of antidote. "

"Woo hoo! That's great! Do you need any help getting it?"

"Yeah, I do. I have to find sick bay, and somehow sneak in there and get the stuff out. Any suggestions?"

The link was silent for a moment, then Tim spoke again. "How about I send some of the ladies back to you with the map? You could fake being injured or ill, and they could pretend to escort you to sick bay."

"That could work, but what about you? Don't you need the map to find the bridge?"

"I'll give it a good study before I send it over, don't worry."

"Sold. And, Tim, did you by any chance have something to do with all the racket around this place?"

Tim's chuckle filled Kevin's ears. "Yeah, that was me. We ran into a little trouble, and I had to hail the Gumption. Stoker's doing something. What, I can't tell you, but it certainly got us out of a jam. Don't be surprised if this yarn-ball of a ship makes a few sudden moves."

"Thanks for the tipoff. I'll be waiting here for your ladies."

"They'll be there in a jiff." Tim's voice grew quiet, sober. "Kev, I have no idea if this gas will really work. Things could get ugly if it doesn't."

"Got that right," Tighe agreed, looking up at the flickering crimson light.

* * *

The seat of Mike Norell's chair buzzed and vibrated, then stopped.

"What the hell?" Norell said, jumping up and rubbing his backside. A moment later, it repeated the chair bizarre behavior. He stared, perplexed at the command basket. Then he noticed the light blinking on the armrest.

"I think you're being paged," Stoker said, making a fast peek over his shoulder.

"I think you're right." Norell leaned close and examined the flashing yellow button. "It's not the boarding party, 'cause we have a direct link to them. And it's not the ship's intercom, 'cause that's over here." He indicated controls on the opposite armrest. "So it's gotta be..." He looked at the Feliniti warship in the view port. "...them."

Stoker was currently making a tight strafing run. He squeezed the side of his throttle, sending streams of energy beams into the enemy vessel's convoluted underbelly. The beams impacted on the surface in an explosive, fiery display. Bits of metal debris spun off into space.

"You gonna answer it?" Stoker pulled back hard on the bone, sending the Gumption into a tight curve up and away from the Feliniti ship. He spun the bone a little, adding a corkscrew twist to the Gumption's trajectory.

Norell stumbled against the command chair, gripping it for dear life. "Geez, Stoker. Warn a guy a next time!"

"Sorry," Stoker said, grinning.

"And, no, I'm not so sure I should answer it," Norell said. "Spot will probably want to deal with this herself. I mean, I don't even speak Feliniti! No one bothered to give me a B.A.B.E.L."

"Better call her up here, then," Stoker said.

"Yeah, like right now." Norell hit the ship's intercom button. "Commander Spot to the bridge."

A full minute passed, during which Norell was forced to sit in the quivering chair to keep from being thrown by Stoker's fly-like tactics. "What's the deal?" Norell wondered aloud, punching a fist on the intercom button a second time, "Commander Spot to the bridge, urgent!"

"Something must be keeping her," Stoker said.

"Or something happened to her," Norell realized.

Stoker gave Norell a brief startled glance. "Do you really think...?"

The persistent silence of the intercom answered the question.

"Mike, you're gonna have to handle this," Stoker said as he fired another barrage of energy beams, deflecting a charge sent their direction. "They're turning up the heat. Don't know how long I can keep this up."

"Damn." Norell frowned. He ran a hand through his mop of grey-brown hair, straining to think. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, "I wonder." He shot a fist under his seat cushion, rummaging for the nutrition injector Lassie had shown him earlier. His fingers found the slender implement and closed around it. He pulled it out, set it on his lap, then plunged back under the cushion. A shorter, stubbier object also rested beneath him. And as he raised the glass test tube to his eyes, he cringed. "Eww!"

"What?" Stoker said, startled.

"I think I found a B.A.B.E.L."

"Good. Stick it in your ear and get on with it."

Norell eyed the squirming blue insect skeptically, then popped the tube's cap and dumped the contents into his right ear.

"Spoon?" he questioned no one in particular.

"What's that?" Stoker said, eyes glued to the view port as he dodged another volley.

"Nothing, Stoker. Keep driving."

Norell's brow knit in concentration, trying to recall the proper operation of the port's hailing controls. He had a choice between two-way visuals where both parties could see each other, or one-way visuals, where he could see the hailing party, but the party couldn't see him. That was probably the way to go, he reasoned to himself. Best not to let on he was no Bas Seti. "I'm gonna answer the phone now. It'll come over the view port, so use your console screen to do your piloting."

"Got it," Stoker said, adjusting a control on his station.

"Toggle to the left," Norell muttered, pushing the shiny silver control with his index finger.

Instantly, the bridge of the Feliniti vessel appeared in the port, and in the center of this image stood an imposing humanoid. Vivid orange and black striped fur covered the creature's tall, muscular frame, with the exception of a swathe of white over its powerful chest. Here and there, scars marred the striking coat, telling of a life spent in battle. Eyes, rich gleaming emerald, burned out from a rugged countenance crowned by pointed ebony ears. "Cutting it rather close," the Feliniti captain snarled in a rumbling baritone. "If you'd delayed responding any longer, I would have ordered your complete annihilation sooner than I'd planned."

"Technical difficulties," Norell said. "My apologies."

"And afraid to show your face?" the captain derided. "Technical difficulties again? Or cowardice?"

Norell squirmed in his seat. "What is it you want?"

"What I want is to let you know exactly who it is who has beaten you." He grinned grotesquely, long white canines glittering. "And your entire race."

"What makes you think you've beaten us?"

"Ah ha ha ha! Don't be a fool. I know you are all dying. It is only a matter time. And your pitiful attempt to harm my magnificent battleship is laughable."

"We're not dead yet. We'll be the ones laughing in the end."

The captain arched a thick black brow. "My, my. Such admirable pluck. Yet I'm afraid it will do you no good. You will die. But first, I wish to hurt you." His sinister visage completely filled the viewport as he stepped forward. "And I wish to hurt you for a long, long, time."

Norell's jaw muscles corded; his fingers hovered over the view port controls.

"What's the matter?" the Feliniti taunted. "Run out of amusing things to say? Such a shame. I was finding our conversation immensely entertaining."

"I'll show you entertaining," Norell snapped. With a smack of his palm he cut the hailing frequency. "Stoker, give that bastard more fireworks to enjoy."

"You got it!" Stoker said, sending the Gumption into another spiraling attack.

* * *

The deck canted sharply, tossing Tim and his remaining six ladies hard against the corridor wall. Sparks and acrid smoke poured down on them from a broken overhead panel. "Keep moving!" Tim urged the women, silently exhorting Stoker to remember that good guys were still aboard this confounded bucket of spaghetti.

They resumed a bustling advance toward what he hoped was the bridge. The heavy tread of feet hammering in unison echoed down the passage--heading their way.

"More troops! Be careful!" Tim said. He gripped his rifle tighter, and tried to look like he knew where he was going.

A single file rank of Felinities came into view. Intent on some unknown destination, they shouldered past Tim's group without even a sideways glance.

"It's getting too crowded for comfort," Tim grumbled as the cats disappeared out of hearing range.

"How much farther, Protector?" one of the ladies asked, huffing with effort at their pace.

"Gotta be pretty close. Traffic's certainly picked up. Shh!"

A lone Feliniti dashed past on a full run.

"If the map was accurate, the next left should do the trick." He turned the corner and stopped. In front of them was a cul-de-sac. And from the look of the doorway at its terminal point, no bridge lay beyond. "Oops."

"What do we do now, Protector?"

"Catch your breath, ladies. Let me think a minute."

"You could ask for directions, Protector."

Tim shook his head. "That would seem fishy. We're supposed to know how to get around." And no red-blooded Donnelly male has ever asked for directions, Tim reflected with a wry smile. "Hmm." He smoothed his whiskers and pondered their predicament. A Bas Seti turned her head to check the main passage. As she moved, a glint of light from the tag on her neck caught Tim in the eye.

"Hey, I think I've got it!" He reached for the tag. "Take this off."

"What?" she gasped, eyes wide with alarm. "That would remove my disguise!"

"Trust me. Take it off, then we'll pretend we've captured you. Seeing how glory-hungry most of these Feliniti appear to be, it should be a piece of cake to get a little additional 'escort' to join us on a trip to the bridge to show off our 'prize.'"

The Bas Seti eyed Tim ambivalently for a fraction of a second longer, then inclined her head. "Forgive my impertinence. You are most wise, O Protector. I will do as you request." With a jerk, she pulled the tag from her collar, and her body immediately shimmered, evolving back into its native shape.

Tim blinked. He'd expected her to become a Dixie, forgetting that all of his Ditzy Dozen were, in reality, an alien race. "U-um, that will do nicely," he said, genuinely admiring the sleek brown and white markings of her hound-like body. "Okay, so here's what we do next."

Moments later, they were marching down the corridors again, rifles aimed at their compatriot. It didn't take long for their odd parade to attract attention.

"Well, well. Look what we have here."

Oh no! Tim groaned inwardly. Why did it have to be him?

"Where did you find it, Old-Timer?" The tall brown Feliniti grabbed Tim's lady by the chin, twisting her head to examine her face closely. "It's rather comely for one of its race, I must admit."

"Ah, we found her hanging around a computer station. Must've been trying to hack into a control system, is all I can guess."

"And you're taking it to the captain, I imagine?"

"Yeah. On our way now."

"Very wise. Captain Shere Con would most certainly wish to see it as soon as possible. Where is the rest of your team?"

"Other duties. Orders, you understand."

The Feliniti nodded, then a sly spark brightened its dark eyes. "It would not do for such a valuable prisoner to appear before the captain with less than an appropriate-sized guard, now would it?"

Before Tim could reply, the Feliniti shouted, "Blue Team! New orders! We will assist in delivering this prisoner to the bridge! Split up. Half of you take the lead, the other half bring up the rear."

"Yes, Lieutenant!" they acknowledged, stomping into position.

Grinning obscenely, the hairy nightmare of a Feliniti stationed himself beside Tim. "Move out!" he ordered with gusto, and the entourage tromped down the passageway to their destination.

As Tim stretched his short legs, struggling to keep pace, he glanced up at the big Feliniti's cold, greedy eyes. And too late he realized the price his lady friend would pay if the gas didn't reach the bridge in time.

* * *

"Do you really think this will work?" Kevin asked one of his escorts as they neared the general location of sick bay. Tim's map had described the likely appearance of the entrance. Tighe's gaze swept the passing doors, searching for a red "X" surrounded by a black circle.

"The Protector believes the plan has merit," she said confidently.

"There it is!" About fifty feet ahead, he finally saw the well-marked doorway, and breathed a sigh--half of relief, half of nervousness. Kevin waved the ladies to a stop. "So what do you think I should do? Limp?" He demonstrated a hobble.

"Hmm. An infirmity sufficiently serious to require the assistance of six crew members should perhaps be something on the order of severe abdominal tenderness."

"You mean I should fake a stomach ache?"

"Yes."

"I can do that." Kevin closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth. "Unnngh!" He doubled over, face creased with pain, hand pressed hard to his lower right quadrant.

"Are you all right?" the women cried in alarm.

Kevin glanced up and winked. "Yeah, just practicing. Looks like I'm doing a good job. You ready to try this for real?" he said, rising from his crouch.

"Whenever you wish."

"Okay, here goes."

Groaning loudly, Kevin resumed his hunched position. The ladies put on a fair show of supporting and guiding him through sick bay's doors.

A slender grey male Feliniti rushed to Kevin's side. "Bring him over here," he instructed, indicating the closest exam table.

The ladies hoisted Kevin onto the table. As they did so, Tighe looked around the room. No other patients or medical staff were evident. So far, their luck was holding. The Priority One call seemed to have pulled personnel away from the area. He curled into a tight ball, moaning in misery.

"Were you knifed? Shot?" the doctor said, trying to inspect Tighe's abdomen. He tugged at Kevin's hands.

Resisting the doctor's efforts, Kevin shook his head. "No," he gasped through clenched teeth. "It's my gut. Hurts like hell."

"Probably indigestion from the looks of you." The doctor eyed Kevin's well-rounded girth with disgust. "Or a hairball. And I can't treat you if you don't let me examine you!"

"Cover him, ladies," Kevin said with utter calm.

The doctor's eyes grew saucer-wide; a ring of energy rifles surrounded his head.

Swiftly, Kevin sat up and reached into his sack. His rifle joined the display. "Y' know. I think I'm feeling much better." Kevin said, grinning.

* * *

Sweat beaded on Stoker's brow and dripped into his eyes, but he didn't dare pause to wipe it away. Another barrage at one o'clock, this time. He squeezed off a few rounds. Blinding light filled the view port. Squinting, he steered the Gumption through the explosion's fringe, temporarily masking her from the enemy. Hard to port, then to starboard. Up, over, spin-- He felt like an insect buzzing a giant. And sooner or later they were gonna get swatted.

"Damn!" Stoker said. A blast caught the stern; the Gumption dipped, quavered, and the port-side thrusters failed. He could only turn to the left now. The ship plunged into a dizzying counter-clockwise spiral. Stoker let it go, firing randomly, trying to at least sting the monster. Then the blow he'd been dreading came. It struck the underside of the ship, pushing him into his seat, then giving him a brief feeling of weightlessness as the upward motion ceased.

Several consoles erupted with sparks. The lights flickered, went out, then returned--dimmed. Smoke from overloaded wiring stung his nose. In the view port, he saw their spin had stopped. They were drifting. Stoker shook the throttle and jabbed the firing controls. "C'mon!"

Nothing.

Uh-oh, he thought.

Twisting around in his seat, he looked at Norell. Norell's expression told him. They both knew exactly where they now stood. In deep shit.

* * *

"Ohhhh," Spot moaned and flopped her head side-to-side. She reached a hand to the swelling lump over her left ear. Strangely, her entire body felt bruised. A faint odor tickled her nose. Smoke! Her eyes shot open, but she could barely see. The lights were dimmed, she realized. They were on emergency power! Which could only mean one thing. They'd been hit!

Grabbing the wall for support, Spot dragged herself to her feet. Staggering, she continued her interrupted journey to the transport chamber, and the bridge.

* * *

They'd actually been fairly close to the bridge, Tim discovered as they approached its entrance a short while later. Small comfort that his navigation skills had proven respectable. Not a whiff of the gas reached his nose. He glanced at his brave volunteer. Composed, dignified, she strode toward her fate. If there was anything he could do to live up to his "Protector" nickname, by golly he would.

Without skipping a beat, their Blue Team escort marched through the bridge doors, and Tim's heart jumped. He thought the Blue Team leader was massive, but Captain Shere Con was something else altogether. And there was no doubt in his mind this tiger-striped Feliniti was the captain. He was taller by a good six inches than the Lieutenant, broader by just as much, and dripping with an attitude of self-assurance and command that made Tim's bully look like a pussycat.

"What's all this, Mr. Grrribaldi?" the captain demanded in a baritone so rumbling Tim felt it in his bones. A small brown fur ball about the size of a grapefruit rolled against the captain's leg, purring loudly. He snatched it up with a clawed fist, crushed it, then tossed it aside.

"Your forgiveness for the intrusion, Captain, but we've found a spy." The Blue Team leader bowed low, then gestured toward the prize captive.

"I see," Shere Con hissed, stepping closer to the Bas Seti. "I wonder how it got onboard?" He leveled a burning gaze at his Lieutenant. "Your security protocols appear to be lacking, Mr. Grrribaldi."

Tim could see Grrribaldi's Adam's apple bob from a large gulp.

"We will speak of this later, but now--" The captain leered wickedly at Tim's lady friend. "--let us see what it can tell us. You!" He jabbed her in the chest with a forefinger. "What is your name? Why are you here?"

Eyes staring straight ahead, back straight, she remained mute.

"Such courage! Such pride!" He bent his face to hers, almost touching her nose. "It will do you no good, you know. We have several techniques for extracting information." He raised his index finger; a long claw popped from its tip. Lazily, he traced it beneath her chin. "Some much more pleasant than others, let me assure you."

She flinched, turning her head slightly to one side.

The hairs on Tim's neck stood on end. He clenched his rifle, wondering what he could possibly do to intervene.

Shere Con turned to a nearby crew member. "View screen up. Hail their vessel again." He turned back to the Bas Seti and grinned malevolently. "I have a present to share with our guest."

A portion of the bulkhead slid aside, and the scene it revealed made Tim's breath catch in his throat. A long slender ship with a bulbous stern and bow drifted before them. Char marks were evident on its sleek silver hull; crackling discharges sputtered and burned in several locations. It was the Gumption, and she appeared dead in space.

"Screen up. Hailing now. They are responding, Captain."

"Good. They've learned not to keep me waiting." He turned and addressed the Gumption's image. "Hello again, coward! Still not showing your face? Tsk. Tsk. So sorry to have damaged your vessel, by the way, but you were becoming rather annoying. I've got a little something to show you, coward." Shere Con grabbed the Bas Seti and dragged her in front of him. She winced from the pressure he exerted on her upper arms.

"Seems you've managed to sneak a spy onto my ship. Unexpectedly clever of you, I'll admit, but very pointless nonetheless. Are you observing? Watch closely, and I'll show you exactly how I deal with spies." With his left arm, he crushed her to his side. His right armed raised, fingers tensed, and a full set of deadly claws emerged.

"No!" Tim yelled. "Leave her alone!"

Hand frozen mid-swing, Shere Con spun his daunting gaze to Tim. Fury shifted to puzzlement on the captain's face as he failed to recognize this supposed crew member. He released the Bas Seti, shoving her roughly Grrribaldi's direction, and stalked over to Donnelly. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim could see the lieutenant grab his lady friend by the arms as Shere Con had done. But Shere Con himself soon had Tim's complete attention.

"Hmm." The captain rubbed his scarred chin. "I do not recognize you, yet you wear the insignia of a war hero." Shere Con glanced at Tim's collar, focusing on the shiny central medallion. "Are you an enemy sympathizer?" With long, slow strides, he began to pace around Tim. Donnelly could literally feel the intense scrutiny. "Perhaps an infiltrator from another clan?" After one complete circuit, Shere Con paused in front of Tim's face. He reached for the medallion, rubbing it lightly between thumb and index finger. "I wonder..."

If ever there was a time for that gas to appear, Tim begged inwardly, now would be it.

Shere Con's gaze locked onto Tim's, with utter malignity in its depths. "Perhaps you, too...are a spy!" He tore Tim's S.A.D. from his collar with one hand and the rifle from his grasp with the other.

Immediately, Tim's body began to glow, blinding him for a moment to his surroundings. He was changing back to his dumpy old self, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. The glow soon dissipated, and Tim stood defenseless before Shere Con in his rumpled fireman's uniform.

Eyes wide in astonishment, Shere Con stared at Donnelly. Gradually, understanding spread across his features. "You're one of those 'seed' males those stupid bitches were hoping would rescue them, aren't you?"

"So what if I am?" Tim said.

"And you--" He spun and pointed to the other five women. "You're all Bas Seti curs, aren't you? Blue Team! Detain them!"

The ladies sprang into action, firing at the security team. Donnelly saw one Blue Team member go down, and another get singed on the shoulder. Several shots went wild and ricocheted around the room. Taking advantage of the chaos, Tim tried a dodge for the door, but too late. The Feliniti captain seized his arm and pulled him back, Donnelly's former rifle now aimed at his own head.

"Enough!" Shere Con howled above the commotion. "Drop your weapons, or I'll blow out your precious seed-male's brains."

Unhesitatingly, the ladies complied. Soon their S.A.D.s joined Tim's in Shere Con's palm. Disguises gone, a Blue Team member restraining each of them, they regarded Shere Con with expressions ranging from smoldering indignity to outright hatred.

The captain returned his full attention to Tim. He scanned him from head to foot, open revulsion on his face. "I believe I will make you the example for your mangy friends, both here and on their sorry excuse for a ship." Casually, he tossed Tim's weapon and the medallions to a security member. "And I'll give you a fighting chance. Although I'm rather confident the last thing they'll see before I return them to their Creator will be your lifeless corpse."

Shere Con grabbed Tim by the shirtfront, jerking him close. Teeth bared, he snarled, "Are you ready to die, runt?"

Tim thrust his knee hard into Shere Con's groin. A loud THUD resulted. Moisture sprung to the captain's eyes; his face pinched, but in a remarkable display of control, his features soon smoothed. Uh-oh, Tim thought.

With a roar, Shere Con threw Tim across the bridge, and sent him sprawling onto his back into a bulkhead. Dazed, Donnelly shook his head and propped himself up on his elbows.

The fuming Feliniti stomped over and reached once more for Tim's shirt. Tim rolled away and tried to scramble to his feet. Shere Con caught him in the ribs with a kick. Spots danced in front of Tim's eyes; the captain's foot drew back for another blow.

Tim flung his arms out and grabbed the booted foot as it swung downward. Doggedly, he clung to the captain's leg, Shere Con attempting to shake him loose. As an afterthought, Tim sunk his teeth into the meaty calf.

"ARRRRRRR!" Shere Con bellowed in outrage.

Claws caught Tim in the upper back, shredding both shirt and skin.

"Ahh!" Donnelly cried. He released his grip, hands reaching reflexively toward his wounds. Before he knew what was happening, a fist seized his collar and flung him again, this time into the bridge's command chair.

Stunned and panting, Tim struggled onto his knees, clinging to the chair's armrest for support. Shere Con swaggered over, obviously relishing Tim's discomfort. He wasn't going to last long like this, Tim concluded as the behemoth cat neared. And his saving grace--the gas--still hadn't arrived. He was doubtful it ever would. The ship was so massive, maybe they simply hadn't had enough to reach every corner. No, he told himself firmly. He couldn't think like that. The doc had said there would be enough, and he had to believe her. He just needed to be patient, to kill time. And to do that, he'd have to rely on his wits, because his body certainly wasn't up to the challenge.

"Gee, Shere Con," Tim said, "it's awfully brave of you to beat up on women and old men. What's the matter? Too out of shape to fight someone your own size?"

"Silence, runt," Shere Con warned. "I crush what I please."

"Like that little furry animal?" Tim pointed to the body of the pet-like creature the captain had senselessly destroyed. "Oh, that was real impressive. Bet my grandmother could have done that. How'd you get to be captain with such wimpy displays of intimidation? Buy your way to the top? "

"I do not have to explain myself to you, sub-creature. All you need to know is your death will be my distinct pleasure. And there is a certain glory for you in being killed by my esteemed bare hands. If your fellow creatures ever hear of your demise, that is."

This wasn't working very well, Tim thought ominously.

Shere Con had reached the command chair. Feet spread wide, hands on hips, he glowered down at Tim.

Donnelly glanced over to the Bas Seti. They were watching his losing battle with agonized expressions on their faces. He finally understood their desperate hope that the fabled "Protector" could save them. I'm so sorry, he thought guiltily, I'm not who you thought I was. I'm just a silly old man.

"Get up, runt."

Tim looked into Shere Con's heartless eyes. This was going to be it, he knew with complete certainty. But he wanted to go with dignity, not cowering on the floor. Numbly, he stretched a hand to the chair's back and started pulling himself to his feet. As he rose, his peripheral vision caught sight of a water glass tucked into a recess of the armrest. Maybe, just maybe, he pondered, a sliver of hope igniting within him. Feigning more fatigue then he felt, he leaned further over the chair, hiding the movement of his hand as it closed around the glass.

"Get up now!" Shere Con bellowed. "I tire of waiting!"

Mentally crossing his fingers, Tim whipped the glass out, spun around, and threw the liquid into Shere Con's surprised muzzle.

"Ahh!" The captain staggered back a step, panic-stricken at the unexpected dousing.

Following through after the water, Tim slammed a fist as hard as he could into Shere Con's stomach. The blow sent the captain back a few more paces. Tim went after him, throwing another punch.

By now, though, Shere Con had recovered. Enraged, he captured Tim's fist and twisted his arm. Tim gasped in pain, certain his arm was going to break. But instead of twisting harder, Shere Con closed his other hand around Tim's throat, and started to squeeze.

Futilely, Tim struggled with his one free hand to dislodge Shere Con's fingers. He couldn't breathe. His heart bounded in his chest. His ears began to ring. Awareness started to slip away. Tim's arm flopped limply to his side. He was falling, down, into blackness--and Shere Con was falling with him.

They struck the deck together, Tim crumpling over his knees, and the captain landing out cold on his back. Released from the stranglehold, Donnelly sucked air into his starved lungs with a wheezing inhalation--and smelled onions. A series of thudding sounds reached his still buzzing ears.

"Tim? Tim! You all right, pal?" a familiar voice called.

Disoriented, Tim looked for the source of the voice, eyes unfocused from lack of oxygen.

"Tim?"

The fog shrouding his brain slowly lifted; Donnelly turned. Mike Norell's anxious face filled the view screen behind him.

"Ah...," Donnelly tried to speak.

A soft hand touched his shoulder.

"Protector?"

He looked up. It was his brave volunteer. She was safe, no longer captive. Tim smiled.

"I'm okay," he rasped. "Just shaky. Give me a hand would ya?"

She wrapped her arms gently about him, and steadied him as he clambered to his feet. Leaning on her for support, he surveyed the bridge. All around him lay the unconscious bodies of every single Feliniti. The other five Bas Seti were already disarming them and binding them up. Drawing a deep draft of air through his nose, Tim gratefully savored the tingling scent of the Bittenkitty. He looked back to Mike's image, and Tim's mood abruptly switched to a alarm. "Mike, are you okay?" Smoke, sparks, and dangling debris surrounded Norell.

"The Gumption's a little worse for wear, but Stoker and I are pretty much in one piece. Can't speak for everyone on the ship yet. Where's Kevin?" Norell swayed his head, searching for the other man.

"Kevin! Oh, geez." Tim's hand flew to his comlink. "Kev?" he whispered. "It's Tim. How's it going?"

"Tim! I was just gonna call you! We found it! Got a whole sack full of the stuff! They were doing some sort of research on it, and had it stockpiled in sick bay."

"Woo hoo! Did ya hear that, Mike?" Tim said. "We did it! We really did it!" Laughing, he hugged the Bas Seti at his side, and the elated shouts of the other ladies filled the room like music.

* * *

Feet pounding in unison with the throbbing in her head, Spot raced down the corridor to the bridge. She neared the doorway. Screams reached her ears, sending an icy shiver down her spine. They were dying! She hadn't been fast enough! She'd failed them! Increasing her speed, she burst through the door--and skidded to a stop. The Acting First Officer and current Chief Pilot were screaming all right, but in triumph.

Mouth open in shock, Spot switched her gaze to the viewport. Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly and half of the boarding party were in the middle of the Feliniti warship's bridge--embracing each other! Exultant! There was no dying going on here, she realized, joy building in her heart.

"Commander Spot!" Mike Norell as Hank Stanley greeted her, a broad smile on his face. "Glad to see you. We thought something had happened to you."

Her hand went to the bruise on her head. "I ran into some difficulties, yes, but I am sound. Please, tell me, what has happened?"

"They found the antidote! And the gas Doc Bonaparte whipped up did its job! They've got control of the whole ship now!"

"Wonderful!" Spot's smile widened to match Norell's. "I must speak with Kevin Tighe as Roy DeSoto," she said, already thinking ahead to the next step in their mission.

"Contact him on the comlink." Norell pointed to the appropriate switch on the command basket's arm. "He's in the battleship's sick bay right now."

Nodding, Spot reached her hand to the switch. "Kevin Tighe as Roy DeSoto, this is Spot. Do you read me?"

"Yeah, Commander, loud and clear."

"We need to beam you back aboard the Gumption as soon as possible. You must return to the original transfer location."

"Understood, but I'm a long way from there at the moment. Give me about fifteen minutes."

"Acknowledged. I will transfer you back onboard in approximately fifteen Earth minutes. Contact me if you have any delays."

"Will do."

Spot cut the link and turned to Norell. "I must go to the transfer beam room now. I will stop briefly at sick bay first, however, to check on the situation there. Hail me if you need me, and please continue your duties here."

Norell nodded, still grinning, and Spot headed back to the door, this time, at a brisk, yet less frantic pace.

* * *

"... And they were successful in their mission. Now we need to..."

How can this be? Gerkarr fumed silently. The bitch's words were unbelievable! He'd been expecting to hear of their capitulation, not their victory! Still, a niggling sense of foreboding had shadowed him ever since that damn fool Preeti had let herself get captured. Preeti--her very name set his teeth on edge! Why Shere Con saw fit to send that inexperienced, glory-seeking neophyte to deliver the poison, he'd never understand. Sexual favors, no doubt, knowing the captain's weakness for a comely face. Fools. Both of them.

Shere Con should've let him handle everything. His rank, Espionage Agent First Class, had been earned, not bought or bribed. Bah! Gerkarr snarled to himself. He was going to finish the mission his way. Shere Con be damned! Even if no one on Feliniti ever heard of his magnificent solution, he would know. He would take the honor of his last achievement to the grave with him, and those Bas Seti bitches would come along for the ride.

Commander Spot's continuing words to the alien male fading behind him, Gerkarr set off, padding stealthily toward the life support systems room, which he would destroy.

* * *

Randy drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. His right foot pattered incessantly on the dull grey corridor floor. Still vigilantly guarding the life support systems room, he sat alone, tense, waiting, wondering.

Sensing Stoker's handiwork, he'd recently endured a tremendous tossing and pitching session, then everything had gone dark. Well, almost.

Glancing up, he inspected the illumination panel over his head. Thank goodness, it'd finally stopped flickering. The pulsating light had given him a migraine. Now it offered a feeble but steady glow, barely enough to allow him to discern his surroundings. Then he recalled another possible explanation for his aching cranium.

He smacked his forehead with his palm, "The gum! It must be wearing off. Where'd I put those extras? Ah!" He pulled a small plastic-encased bundle from his shirt front pocket. Quickly, he broke the bundle's seal and pulled out a slim pink medicated stick. Before he popped it into his mouth, he paused to fish out the hardened remains of the first piece. His eyes darted left and right. With a shrug, Randy leaned forward and stuck the old wad to the underside of his chair.

A few chews on the fresh stick later, he sighed with relief. Hands and foot had stopped their staccato hammering, and his headache was fast becoming history. Now if someone could please tell him what was going on, the knot in his stomach might fade.

A soft padding sound reached his ears.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice ringing down the corridor.

The sound drew closer.

"Commander Spot? Is that you?" He frowned. It couldn't be. She didn't answer.

An indistinct figure emerged from a side passage, walking rapidly towards him. As it neared, the dim light revealed it to be a Dixie.

Skin prickling, he rose from his chair. He'd been dishing out supplies to Dixies all day, but something about this one wasn't quite right. Just like that other one.

She smiled.

Randy's hand hovered over the butt of his holstered weapon. He sneezed! That same instant the Dixie charged straight toward him, a set of deadly-looking claws popping out of her fingertips. Randy started to draw, but it was too late.

"Look out!" he heard someone yell as the false Dixie rammed him with her shoulder, slamming him into the locked door of the room he defended, and knocking the air from his lungs. His blaster skittered from his grasp, coming to rest out of reach. Randy slid to the floor. Trying desperately to take a breath, he could do no more than raise a forearm to protect his himself from the claws that now swept toward his face.

A pair of furry spotted arms clamped onto the Dixie's just as he heard his skin tear. It was Spot. "Run!" she puffed. With a powerful twist, Spot wrested the spy off him. "RUN!"

Claws lashed out again. Randy felt hot sticky drops splatter against his arms and face. Spot's blood, he realized, cold fear in his gut.

Breath returned in the form of a sneeze. He sneezed again, harder, uncontrollably. Fighting to contain his body's explosive reaction, Randy clambered to hands and knees and scuttled after his weapon. Fingers shaking, sweating, he closed them over the weapon's grip and swung around. Spot and the spy were now entangled on the floor.

He tried to train his weapon on the Dixie, but the combatants were simply too close together. He didn't dare shoot for fear of hitting Spot, especially with a torrent of sneezes souring his aim.

Teeth gritted, Spot managed a hooking punch at her attacker's jaw. A starched white nurse's cap sailed through the air. Iridescent radiance enveloped the spy, as, barely affected by the blow, it continued to grapple with the commander. The glow faded. Randy's heart leapt to his throat as he beheld his first undisguised Feliniti.

The Dixie had become a muscular, ginger-furred male humanoid, complete with pointed ears, tawny whiskers, and wide round eyes that shone like disks in the indistinct light.

Feliniti and Bas Seti rolled about, biting, slashing, kicking. Smears of blood stained the floor--and Spot's efforts grew weaker. Randy had to do something. Fast.

He took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose as hard as he could, and leveled the weapon at the struggling pair. There! The Feliniti had pinned Spot flat on her back. Straddling Spot's hips, he reared up on his knees and pulled back a razor-tipped hand, ready to inflict a fatal blow across her exposed throat. Randy fired. A beam of brilliant blue light drilled the Feliniti in the sternum. Roaring, back arched, the glow spread throughout his body. With a sickening shudder, he collapsed over Spot. He was dead.

Trembling violently, Randy stared at the Feliniti then at the weapon in his hand. I thought this was on stun, he said inwardly. "I thought this was on stun!" he shouted to the unhearing walls. A strong urge to vomit overwhelmed him, but a sneeze checked it.

Spot made a feeble groan as she tried to push the heavy corpse off her chest.

"Spot--omigod!" Self-revulsion forgotten, Randy dropped the blaster and rushed to her side. Intense dread replaced the nausea gripping his belly as he rolled the body away and saw the extent of Spot's wounds. Blood flowed from gashes on arms, torso, and shoulders, staining and matting her silken fur and coursing onto the floor.

"You...you okay?" she panted weakly.

"I-I'm fine." Gently, he smoothed her ruffled mane.

She eyed the bleeding gouge in the forearm that stroked her and gave him a dubious look.

"This? Aw, that's nuthin'--aaaaah-choo! Really, I'm okay. You--haaah-chooo!--you, on the other hand, look a complete mess." He sniffed then winked, endeavoring to hide his fear with levity.

Spot tried to laugh, but wound up coughing.

Randy sat her up, attempting to ease the fit. She cried out from the pain this movement caused, then suddenly fainted, turning to dead weight in his arms.

"Spot! Spot!" Randy shouted, shaking her shoulder lightly. "Oh, God."

He scooped up her limp body, staggered to his feet, and stumbled as fast as he could towards sickbay.

* * *

"Dr. Bonaparte!" Randy rasped as he lurched through sick bay's entrance with his burden.

"The doc's out cold, Randy," a startled Marco answered, hurrying over. "Put her down here. All the beds are full." He helped Randy ease the unconscious commander onto a vacant patch of floor. "Madre de Dios, what happened?" said Lopez, face paling at the sight of Spot's injuries.

"A spy, Marco. There was another spy. It attacked us. And...and it's dead. Christ, we've gotta do something! She's gonna bleed to death!" Randy struggled to contain his panic.

"Hang on, I know where the first aid kits are." Marco dashed off to a cabinet, leaving Randy alone with Spot.

Get a grip, man! Randy berated himself as he waited for Marco to return. You played a paramedic for seven years! He looked down at the shiny badge pinned to his soiled uniform shirt, and to the simple white tag declaring him "John Gage, Paramedic, Los Angeles County Fire Department." Some of that stuff had to have rubbed off. There was no one else who could help her.

Mantooth took a deep breath, blew it out, then scrutinized Spot's face. Her mouth was slightly open; breath flowed rapidly, shallowly between her lips; her chest rose and fell. Okay, ABC's--airway and breathing are still working. That left circulation.

He placed two fingers to one side of her trachea. A rapid, faint pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips. Randy frowned. He had to stop the bleeding. If those claws had hit anything major, an artery, an organ...

Marco reappeared carrying a large white case. He knelt beside Randy and opened it.

"Here're some dressings." Marco passed Randy a bulky package of white gauze squares.

Mantooth tore open the package and pressed the thick gauze to the worst of the wounds. A minute or two of steady pressure seemed to make no difference, and he shook his head. "It's no good. She's still bleeding too much. Hold these down. I want to see what else is in that kit."

Marco hand's replaced Randy's on the bandages. Randy turned the case to face himself, and starting rummaging inside. After examining and discarding several implements, he pulled out a small wand about the size of a toothbrush. "I wonder what this is?" he mused aloud. Randy found a button on the wand's handle and tapped it with his thumb. A tiny spark crackled on the wand's tip. "Hmm. A cautery, maybe? It might be what they used on Mike's arms."

"Be careful," Marco said. "You don't really know what that does. You could make things worse."

Looking down at the soaked dressings, Randy frowned. "Yeah, you're right, but still..." Suddenly, an idea brightened his face. "Hey! I can test it on me first!" He held up his injured forearm.

"Randy, wait!" Marco said, but Mantooth had already placed the wand against his skin.

A faint sizzling sound filled the air. Randy crinkled his nose at the slight odor of burning flesh. But as he traced the jagged tear, its edges painlessly sealed, leaving a snaking pink welt. "It's working, Marco. See? It's working! Take off those dressings."

Marco looked skeptical, but did as Randy had asked. Randy then poised the wand above a particularly deep gouge in Spot's side. "Here goes." He depressed the button and ran the instrument slowly down the length of the wound. The wound's edges gradually pulled together, forming a vivid scar. And to his immense relief, the bleeding stopped. Randy released the button and inspected the results.

"Wow. That thing really did the trick," Marco said.

"I'll say," Randy agreed. "Now for the rest of them."

One by one, he closed all the gashes. When he finished, he and Marco began to clean up the blood, and Spot started to come around. She tossed her head, moaning, then abruptly sat up, eyes semi-focused. "I have to--aaaahh!" She clutched her stomach, grimacing.

"Easy!" Randy gently pushed her flat. "You don't have to 'anything' but rest."

"No, you do not understand," Spot said, still trying to rise. "I--" She gave a frustrated sigh and flopped back, this time without being forced. Breathing heavily, she shut her eyes. When her panting lessened, she spoke slowly, deliberately. "I have to go to the transfer beam room...and beam Kevin Tighe as Roy DeSoto back on board. He...he has the antidote, and should be ready for me to return him to the Gumption by now."

It took a second for Spot's words to register, then Randy blurted, "He has the antidote?" He turned to Lopez. "Did ya hear that, Marco? That means Tim and Kev did it!"

"Yeah, I know," Marco said, beaming. "She told me before--"

"Please!" Spot's eyes flew open; agitation pinched her features. "We are running out of time...to administer it--unng!" Another twinge doubled her up; her knees bumped against the first aid kit. Noticing the kit for the first time, she reached for it. "There should be an injector in there containing pain medication."

"I'll get it. I know what they look like," Marco said. He retrieved an injector from the depths of the case and held it out to Spot's waiting hand.

She squinted at the controls in the injector's grip, made an adjustment, then pressed the device to her shoulder. Instantly, her discomfort eased, and she sighed with relief. "Thank you," she huffed gratefully to Marco. "And thank you both for your aid. I do believe you have saved my life."

"Thank Randy," Marco said. "He's the one who figured out how to patch you up."

"Yeah, but I'd feel a whole lot better if Dr. Bonaparte could check you out," Randy said less enthusiastically. "Some of those cuts were deep. You could still have internal injuries. That was quite a beating you went through." A brutal beating, he recalled vividly, and all to save him.

"She will examine me soon enough. As soon as I get--" Spot pushed herself to a sitting position once more. "--Kevin Tighe as Roy DeSoto-oooh...." She swayed.

Randy gripped her tightly, leaning her body against his to steady her. "Spot, you can't. You've lost too much blood. Maybe I can."

Rubbing her temple, she shook her head. "No. The beam is too tricky to use, too complex. A mistake would kill your compatriot. It has to be me."

"Well, there's no way you're gonna walk to the transfer beam room," Randy said. "I guess Marco and I could carry you."

"Hold on, I've got a better idea," Marco said. "That chair over there." He pointed to a corner of the room. Mingled in with an assortment of portable monitors and other mobile medical equipment was a well-padded, self-levitating chair. It hovered serenely amidst the clutter, about two feet above the floor. "Dr. Bonaparte said it worked like a grav stretcher. Said we could use if necessary for moving patients."

"A lift chair would serve my purposed excellently," Spot wearily agreed.

"Comin' right up," Marco said as he climbed to this feet.

While Marco dug the chair clear, Randy studied Spot's face. Still leaning against his chest, she continued to massage her temple. It felt so good to hold her. Belatedly, he realized how bold it had been of him to caress her mane. Yet even now he yearned to place his fingers beside hers and help ease the throbbing in her head. The ordeal they'd just gone through, all she had done for him, it was making him realize just how special this alien--this woman--really was.

"Spot, I want to thank you for saving my life," he whispered. " If you hadn't shown up when you did, I...I don't know what would've happened. Why were you there? Did you know he was coming?"

A warm smile brightening her face, Spot lowered her hand and looked up into his eyes. "I merely had a free moment to tell you the good news of our success in person," she said. "It was a fortunate coincidence. And thank you, also, for...for eliminating the spy."

The disgust Randy felt when he'd killed the Feliniti seized him anew. Eliminating. Such a tidy way of saying murdered.

Marco's timely reappearance with the chair distracted Randy from further self-recrimination. "Your chariot awaits," Marco pronounced, flourishing a hand toward the conveyance.

With exaggerated chivalry, Randy helped a chuckling Spot to her feet, and into the deep white cushions of the chair. "Your wish is my command," he stated grandly, joining Marco in the game. "Which way?"

She pointed at the sick bay's doors, a grin playing on her lips. "I believe the correct human expression is 'that-a-way,' please."

* * *

"Uhura...hail...the...Gumption...now...AT ALL COSTS!"

"Tim!"

"Sorry, sorry--always wanted to do that. Hi, Mike!"

Norell ran a hand down his face while shaking his head. "Hi, pal. Whatsup?"

The Gumption's view port showed Donnelly's seated image leaning forward in the Feliniti ship's command chair, one hand resting on his knee, the other on his waist. Norell would like to believe the pose was because of Tim's sore back, but these endless corn-ball impersonations were making him think otherwise. The previous Mr. Chekov bit had been particularly painful.

"Just wanted to give you another update," Tim said. "We're getting there, but it's slow going rounding up the prisoners. Gonna be at least a couple more hours. And, Mike." His voice grew quiet, serious. "We're worried that gas won't keep them out long enough. You guys have a plan or something?"

"Dr. Bonaparte started synthesizing more gas," Norell said. "Spot tells me they'll keep the battleship's air infused with the stuff. It'll put the Felinities in a state similar to hibernation. Eventually, the Gumption will tow the whole kit and caboodle back to Bas Seti."

"Wonder what'll happen to them once they get there."

Norell shrugged. "Prison? Not sure I wanna ask."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Well." Tim rose, stiffly. "Gotta get back to it. I'll check in with you in about an hour."

"Okay," Norell said, watching Tim's image hobble off-screen. "And take it easy, pal! Let the ladies do most of the work!"

He heard Tim chuckle, then the link terminated. Norell settled back in his basket chair with a sigh. It was good to hear Tim was making progress, but he'd feel a whole lot better if Donnelly would take a break and get himself checked out by Bonaparte. Stubborn. The whole lot of them, Norell reflected, thinking of his fellow actors and their new-found friends. Kevin and Marco were currently helping Dr. Bonaparte finish administering the antidote. Stoker was working with Scottie, outlining a repair plan for the Gumption. Randy and Spot were getting started on those repairs. Although Spot, like Tim, should be resting. Bonaparte had been very hesitant to let her keep working. At least Captain Lassie knew her job was to simply get better.

Yup. Stubborn. Norell smiled. But in a good way.

His contemplations drifted to the original reason he and the other guys were brought here. He'd been rather stubborn himself, he realized.

* * *

"Hydro-spanner," Spot said, holding her palm up behind her.

"Huh? Oh! Here." Randy fumbled the tool out of the kit and into Spot's hand.

A concerned expression on her face, Spot glanced over her shoulder at him. Instead of applying the hydro-spanner to the wiring dangling from the access panel, she returned it to him with a sigh. "Let us stop for a moment. Come. Leave the tools."

Randy shrugged and tossed the spanner back into its case. "Okay," he said. Eyes downcast, he shuffled along beside her. Normally, he would've enjoyed conversing with Spot, but he didn't feel like it right now. The only thing he felt was numb.

"After you," he heard Spot say a while later.

Looking up, he realized she'd taken him to the observation deck. Spot stood in the doorway, holding it open for him. He stepped inside and stared at the blanket of stars in the hemispherical dome over his head. The awesome view demonstrated irrefutably how insignificant he was. Yet his troubled conscience insisted he was some monster, larger even than the universe.

Spot's arm slipped through his, and she guided him to a padded circular bench in the center of the room. "Sit," she said.

He plopped onto the overstuffed cushioning. While he commenced examining his palms and fingernails, Spot settled more gracefully beside him. After several minutes of tense silence, he felt her tap his shoulder. Okay, he was being rude, he recognized. And she, as usual, was being nothing but polite. He turned, and for the first time in hours, looked directly into her eyes.

"Randolph Mantooth as John Gage, what is wrong?" Spot said. Her intense scrutiny of his face was almost palpable. "Is it the nicotine craving? Some other worry? Please, talk to me. It disturbs me to see you--" Uncharacteristically demure, she averted her eyes. "To see my friend in such distress." She took a slow breath, then looked back at him. Somehow, her eyes now reflected more than the ambient starlight. As if a filter had been consciously removed, they revealed her soul.

Randy was stunned. He had never seen such profound affection--for him! Charlene, whom he'd so recently entertained the notion of asking to marry him, had never looked at him like that. Sadder yet, neither had his ex-wife. What was going on here? Could it be, Spot loved him? He didn't think he was worth that depth of emotion. Stoker had said it brutally well the day this adventure had started. He was just an old spoiled brat who'd never grown up.

"No, it's not the nicotine. It's--" He cleared his throat and forced his gaze away from those amazing eyes. "Hell, how can I explain?" After a lengthy pause, he quietly answered, "Spot, I've never felt very good about myself, and I've got a bad habit of covering that up with all sorts of bravado. Usually, it makes me come off as a jerk, which I'm pretty sure I am. My old girl friends, my ex-wife, they'd certainly agree. And today, killing that spy, it...it really added to it, to my insecurity, my...self-loathing."

Spot's expression softened into compassion. "The spy you killed, if your weapon had been on stun, most likely it would not have incapacitated him. His size, the adrenaline in his system...we could be dead right now. As for the rest, without thought for yourself, you saved my life. Though I could recount more, that alone speaks of your character." With a gentle caress, she turned his face to hers. "Randolph Mantooth as John Gage, you only have to believe in yourself, and you, too, will see how truly special you are."

At her earnestness, the horrible ache inside him eased slightly. Maybe it was that simple. Maybe. "Spot..." Randy's eyes brimmed with tears, his fingers feathered through her silky mane. Then, tenderly cupping the back of her head, he drew her close. "...my friend, call me Randy," he whispered, then his lips found hers.

* * *

Norell shambled over to his bunk behind the brick half-wall and flopped onto the edge of his squeaky mattress. Things had finally settled down to the point where he could leave the bridge, and the only thing on his mind was sleep. Well, not the only thing. He turned and craned his head, double-checking that the bunks beyond the wall were indeed empty, then stuck a hand under his pillow.

The day before, when Dr. Bonaparte had patched up his arms, he'd managed to sneak a small jar out of sick bay--just in case. So he could look at it and think, he'd rationalized at the time. And as he pulled it out now, he chuckled to himself at his quirkiness. Sneaking it out was easy enough, but turning it back in...

Maybe the guys won't find out. Yet even if they did, he still owed Lassie this special thanks for helping him dare to dream big again. And that was nothing to be embarrassed about.

* * *

The unabashed grin on Dr. Bonaparte's face had been a little...unnerving, Stoker reflected as he settled into a seat in the crew's lounge. Still, he couldn't blame her.

He reached into his trouser pocket and closed his hand around the specimen jar the doctor had obliging provided. Carefully, he set it near the edge of the table. One last look around, and Stoker pressed the button which activated the games. A few keystrokes later, the bone-shaped throttle popped out. And with a sidelong glance at the jar, he began. "Vroom! Vroom!"

* * *

Lounging back in his chair, Kevin studied the jar resting atop the library monitor. He could think of a million reasons not to do what he was about to do, but when it came down to it, he liked these people. And he knew the antidote alone wasn't enough to save them.

The computer beeped softly, its boot-up finished. Tighe leaned forward, and with a promiscuous grin on his face, typed in a request to load Playdog.

* * *

Marco peered left, then right, verifying his solitude. Then he scurried over to the service pantry, a small transparent jar clutched tightly in his right hand.

* * *

Tim hobbled out of the Gumption's Sick Bay, his Ditzy Dozen escorting him protectively. "Man, I think I pulled every muscle in my body! Damaged myself pretty good in that fight with Shere Con, but rounding up all those unconscious prisoners didn't help, either." He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness where the Feliniti captain's claws had tagged him. Dr. Bonaparte had just sealed the wounds, but the resulting scars itched and ached something fierce.

"We should have insisted that you return to the Gumption sooner, Protector," one of his ladies lamented guiltily.

"It is our fault, Protector. Forgive us," said another, eyes wide and forlorn.

"Ladies, please!" Tim held up his hands, and cringed from the resulting twinge in his back. "If anyone's to blame, it's me." He lowered his hands and rubbed his bruised ribs. "Geez, I'm exhausted, but I don't think I can sleep," he grumped.

The Ditzy Dozen stopped in their tracks and exchanged glances Tim could only describe as dangerous.

"Um, ladies?"

One cleared her throat. "Protector, if...if you would permit, we are all highly skilled in the art of...massage." She donned a virtuous expression.

Tim's eyes popped. "Massage?"

They nodded in unison.

"Ah, you mean, like, of everything?"

Smiling mischievously, they nodded again.

"It would greatly reduce your discomfort," one explained logically.

"And help you rest soundly," a second added with a wink.

"I-I don't know." Tim shook his head.

They stared at him for a long, hushed moment, eager, hopeful. Slowly, the shock left his face. Indecision curled his mouth. Y'know, Tim ol' boy, you'll never get a better offer in your life, he mused as he looked at each of them. Yowsa, but they were gorgeous, and smart, and brave, and kind, and...and...aw, hell! Eyes scanning the corridor, Tim motioned them closer, and whispered, "Where?"

* * *

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Captain Lassie greeted the men seated about her at the briefing room table. She hovered at the table's head in a lift chair. Spot stood to her right, looking relieved to be in her usual role. "And I apologize for interrupting your well-earned rest," Lassie continued. "But the news I have to share this morning is so important I did not wish to delay."

"The Felinities didn't wake up or anything like that, did they?" Tim asked nervously.

"No, Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly, my announcement is not of a dire nature," Lassie said. "I have gathered you here to inform you The Wise One's computations have proven accurate. It appears our mission will be successful, thanks to your efforts, and to your endowments." She reached for her first officer's arm, and Spot helped her to her feet. "Men of Station 51," Lassie stated solemnly, "you have saved our race, and we are eternally grateful." With one hand gripping the arm of her chair, Lassie executed a full bow. Beside her, Spot duplicated the gesture with an eye on her captain should she need a assistance.

"My--I mean, our--pleasure, Captain," Tim said. "Oh, geez, that didn't come out right." He blushed as the men around him chuckled.

Lassie and Spot straightened, and the captain resumed her seat. "Now we must discuss returning you to your planet," Lassie said.

"Already?" Randy said, looking at Spot.

Lassie nodded. "You have been gone three of your days. I expect you are being missed, plus you have an obligation to honor. It would distress us greatly to learn our intervention marred your reputations--or worse, grieved your loved ones. However." She smiled at Randy. "I am pleased you found our company so pleasant."

Slumping into his seat, Randy smiled half-heartedly in reply.

"We also need to discuss your promised payment," Lassie added.

"Payment?" Norell said. "I can't speak for the others, but I'm not interested in any payment."

"Me neither," Stoker said. "Save your money for fixing up the Gumption."

"Yeah," Tim, Marco, and Kevin all agreed.

"You're our friends," Randy muttered. "I consider anything we did for you a gift."

"Gentlemen, this is quite generous of you," Lassie said, visibly touched. "We will use your remuneration for something appropriately distinctive, and I thank you deeply." She inclined her head. "Back to returning you to Earth. Commander Spot will transfer you to the location where we first met in a few hours. Please use the intervening time to rest further from yesterday's strains, or to complete other tasks if you so desire. Do you have any questions?"

"I do, Captain," Spot said.

"Commander?" Lassie twisted to view her first officer.

"Captain, I--" Spot paused and bit her lip. "I wish to go with them."

"You are welcome to serve as their escort."

"No, Captain, you do not understand. I...I wish to stay with them."

Lassie's brow rose. "Are you sure, my friend? It could be decades before we return here."

Spot looked out at Randy's hopeful face, and nodded. "Yes, my friend, I am sure."

"Then let it be so," Lassie sighed.

* * *

Randy, Spot, Kevin, Norell, Stoker, Marco, and Tim huddled around the tiny black and white television set in the Hilton's cramped dressing room.

"Jiggle the coat hanger a little more, Stoker," Norell said. "The picture still looks like a cow in a snowstorm."

"Hey, Randy!" Marco said. "Found your smokes!" Lopez held out the battered pack of Marlboro Lights he'd sighted on the make-up table.

"Oh, I don't do that any more, Marco," Randy said. He winked at Stoker. "It's a nasty habit."

Stoker grinned back. "How's that?" he asked Norell, giving the wire a final tweak.

"Much better. Hey, look!" Norell pointed to the set. "That's us!"

On the screen, an impeccably coiffured anchorman sat behind a desk, copy in hand. Superimposed over the background behind him were six familiar smiling faces.

"Topping today's headlines," he recounted, "it's been well over three days since the disappearance of actors Randy Mantooth, Kevin Tighe, Mike Norell, Marco Lopez, Tim Donnelly, and Mike Stoker from the Burbank Airport Hilton where they'd been attending a convention honoring their ground-breaking 1970s series, Emergency!, and police still have no new information. The only lead--a statement given by the hotel bartender claiming the men literally vanished with several female fans dressed in nurses' costumes--has been discounted by experts as an alcohol-induced fantasy. As anxious family members await even the slightest word, so, too, do the fans of these veteran stars, thousands of whom have been holding vigil in the Hilton ballroom ever since the fateful night. We're going to take you live to Helen Back to hear their side of this puzzling story. Helen."

"That's the snazzy chick I saw when we snuck in here!" Tim said. "You know, the one with the big hair and even bigger--"

"Shh! I wanna hear this," Marco said.

"Thank you, Bob. This is Helen Back reporting live from the Burbank Airport Hilton ballroom stage on this, the final day of the Emergency! convention. Surrounding me are thousands of stunned and worried fans, who have literally camped out here since the night of the convention's masquerade when the six guests-of-honor failed to appear. These stalwart fans will have to leave in the morning, and from what police are telling us, they will remain as confused and worried as the rest of the world about what happened to these wonderful men."

"Aw, did ya hear that?" Norell sniffed. "She called us wonderful."

"We should go out there soon, guys, or Norell's gonna start bawling on us," Lopez said.

"Marco!"

"Just kidding." Lopez laughed.

"Marco's right, though, I mean, about us going out there," Kevin said seriously. "I think we've kept everyone worrying long enough."

"Yeah, Kev, you've got a point," Norell concurred, rising from his folding chair. "C'mon, gentlemen--and lady." He smiled at Spot. "Let's go!" He clapped his hands together and headed for the door. Stoker, Tighe, Lopez, and Donnelly followed on his heels.

"Be right with ya, Cap!" Randy called out. "Are you ready?" he asked Spot, who stood next to him disguised as an older-looking "Julie London as Dixie McCall."

"I believe so," Spot said.

Treating her to his best crooked grin, he grabbed her hand, and they jogged to the stage after the others.

"...And--omigod! It's Randy Mantooth!" Helen shouted over the thunderous applause and raucous cheering that started with the reappearance of the other men. "And, Bob, he's got famed singer/actress Julie London on his arm! Wow, what a surprise! Randy." She shoved the microphone into Mantooth's face. "The world wants to know, what happened?"

"Ah..." Randy cleared his throat. "Let's just say Station 51 had to respond to...an unusual emergency." He winked at Spot. And in her Dixie-mode, he could see for certain he'd made her blush. Gotcha again! he chuckled inwardly. And gotcha forever, he knew with a warm fuzzy feeling in his heart.

* * *

Epilogue

"How was work today, Dad?" Tim Donnelly's daughter asked her father as he entered the front door of their small home.

"Oh, the usual. Slinging paint onto sets and plotting various mischief," Tim said. He removed his stained baseball cap and shook out his sweat-matted grey curls. "How'd your classes go? Learn anything useful at that outrageously-expensive college I'm sending you to?" he asked teasingly.

"As a matter of fact, I learned how to make water shoot out of a toilet. Great prank. You should try it sometime."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Why you had to inherit that particular talent from me, I'll never know."

His daughter chuckled, then pecked his check and disappeared through the door he'd just entered.

She returned a moment later with an armload of mail. "Ever since the convention your mail has practically tripled," she said. "Good sign, you know, Dad. Your career's gonna get a second wind, I can see it coming." As she started sifting through the stack, she added: "Dinner's all set. Help yourself."

"Thanks," Tim said.

Soon the two of them were sitting at their kitchen table, Tim with a heaping plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and his daughter with a more modest serving and the pile of mail.

"I've been meaning to ask you, why did you decide to grow back your mustache?" she said, tossing several junk flyers in the trash bin she'd set beside her chair. "Did all your adoring fans convince you you looked better with it? You do, you know." She winked.

With a grin, Tim shrugged, then forked some mash potatoes into his mouth. "Guess you could say that."

She came across a perfumed pink envelope. Arching an eyebrow questioningly, she gave it a good long sniff. "Saaay, do you have a new girl friend you didn't tell me about?" she taunted, then read the address out loud. "Tim Donnelly as Chet Kelly, Los Angeles, California, United States of America, Earth--Earth?"

Tim's fork clattered to his plate."Gimme that!" He flushed in an instant to his hairline, and snatched the envelope from her hands.

"Oh my, she sounds interesting," she continued mercilessly. "What did she say? Can I peek?" She craned her head his direction.

Tim shielded the now open letter from her view with his body and pulled out a white card.

"C'mon! Lemme see!" She jumped up from her chair and darted to his side of the table.

"No!" He held the card high over his head, twisting his body like a pretzel to escape her grasping fingers. "It's just some junk mail."

"Then let me toss it in the garbage for you," she offered, leaping up and finally snatching the card away.

"Angel!" he shouted futilely.

"You said it was junk." She grinned devilishly, then opened the card. Inside was a picture, and one brief sentence. "Thank you for your generous donation?" she read, completely bewildered. "Dad, what's this all about?"

Tim took the card back from her now unresisting fingers. With a nostalgic mist in his blue eyes and a tender smile on his lips, he contemplated the image inside. "It's a long, long, story, Angel. A long, long story."

The End?

Thank you for your generous donation.