[Y161 - KZINTI MILITARY INSTITUTE]

Starchaser slips quietly through the halls of the Kzinti Military Institute toward the vacant administrative section. His long orange tail twitches nervously as he nears his objective. He fidgets uncomfortably in the ill-fitting maroon coveralls he wears. Though cautious, he relaxes in the knowledge that the other cadets and most of the staff members are gathering at the central arena to hear a lecture from a visiting scientist on recent breakthroughs in weapons technologies.

The two-meter tall feline uses an access disc of his own manufacture to enter the office prominently marked Fleet Assignments. He locates the proper computer terminal and begins accessing the system using the archaic keyboard interface he has spent the last few weeks constructing, knowing it will eliminate any possibility of his actions being traced. He purrs softly as his claws tap out commands on the keyboard. When he is done, he returns the office to the exact state in which he found it and exits without a sound.

Moments later, secreted within his quarters, he removes the maroon maintenance coveralls he 'borrowed' and pulls his usual gray tunic over his bright orange fur. He scratches unconsciously at the white, star-shaped patch of fur around his left eye as he takes a seat at his personal computer terminal. He then runs the security program it has taken him most of the year to write.

Deep in the bowels of the one hundred ten story hexagonal skyscraper that houses most of the Institute, his program seeks out all references to his whereabouts since he left his room thirty minutes before. It replaces these records with his version of what transpired during the past half hour. When the program ends, as far as the computer surveillance records are concerned, he has been asleep in his quarters the entire time. The optical images of him roaming the hallways are also replaced with empty static corridors.

When done, he purrs softly, thinking, I hope you both enjoy your coming tour of duty. He cuts off the terminal and makes his way to the arena to catch the rest of the lecture.

***

"Well, don't keep me in suspense. What did you draw for your final evaluation tour?" Cadet Firemane asks his roommate, his bright red fur bristling in excitement.

Bristlewind scans the document a third time to confirm what it says. "Report at 0700 to shuttle terminal twelve for departure at 0845 to rendezvous with large freighter KLF-8162 for active . . . "

Bristlewind doesn't get to finish reading the letter as Firemane jumps on his shaggy grey friend, tussling with him excitedly. "They did it! We drew the same duty!"

After Firemane calms down, Bristlewind glances at the paper and shakes his head again. "It makes no sense. I don't know of any other roommates who drew the same ship, but who are we to argue with the military bureaucracy?"

"Why question it?" We ought to applaud it. They kept us together," Firemane laughs.

"But on a freighter? Most of the other cadets got duty on police ships, and a couple were even assigned to rear area frigates. We've been ranked one and two for the last year -- ever since we beat Starchaser at Cignus. A freighter seems like something of an insult," Bristlewind counters.

"I'm sure there's a good reason. Maybe it's one of those plush jobs commandeered from Pleasure Tours when the war began and it's meant to be a reward for a job well done," Firemane fairly drools.

Bristlewind eyes his red-furred friend skeptically.

Firemane continues, "It could be they figured we warranted more responsibility than we could get on a frigate or police ship, or maybe it's in a convoy headed for the perimeter and they wanted someone they could depend on in case it's attacked."

"Maybe," Bristlewind concedes reluctantly.

"Sure!" Firemane assures his roommate enthusiastically. "We'll probably end up running the whole show. I've worked on freighters before. It's going to be great. Trust me."

***

Firemane and Bristlewind gaze through the portal in the cramped confines of the supply shuttle taking them to freighter KLF-8162. As they near the ship, Bristlewind turns his head slowly, leans close to Firemane's ear and whispers, "Trust me?"

Firemane's eyes remain locked on the horrible sight before them. The freighter is by far the ugliest space vessel either has ever seen or imagined. The design is simple -- a rectangle, looking much like a large brick hanging motionless in space. The hull is pock marked and pitted from stem to stern. Different sections of plating are different shades of the dull gray freighters normally wear, giving the vessel the appearance of a patchwork quilt. From the all but invisible identification number stenciled on the top and side of the craft, it appears to the cadets she has never been cleaned or repainted in her forty years of service.

"Maybe it went through an ion storm recently," Firemane offers as a weak explanation for the awful appearance of their new home.

The pilot of the shuttle purrs softly and says, "Ion storm? No, that piece of junk couldn't survive a stiff solar wind. She's always looked like that. I feel sorry for you, if you've actually got to serve on the H.D. It's the worst freighter in the fleet. No, make that galaxy. You must have really screwed up to rate this kind of punishment."

"Trust me," Bristlewind says sarcastically.

Firemane ignores Bristlewind and asks the shuttle pilot, "Freighters don't have official names. What's H.D. stand for?"

"It depends. If you're within earshot of the Captain, it's Hammerclaw's Delight. Otherwise, it's Hell's Dungeon."

Bristlewind groans.

When the two cadets step on board the freighter, both have reason to groan. A foul stench assaults them, causing tears to form and bringing on a sneezing fit for Firemane. As they try to get accustomed to the rancid odor, a haggard looking cat ambles toward them.

"You must be the hotshots from the Institute. Follow me," he grunts, then turns and walks away.

Firemane and Bristlewind grab their small duffels and follow the stoop-shouldered beige cat through the corridors of the vessel, up two flights of stairs and a ten meter ladder, eventually reaching the command center of the freighter. During their short trip to the bridge, the sights, sounds and smells they encounter do nothing to allay their growing doubts about how spaceworthy the transport vessel is. Seeing the bridge only adds fuel to the fire of their fears.

Firemane immediately realizes that this bridge has been redesigned. Instead of four small consoles all facing the main viewer on the far wall with the Captain's chair behind everything, half the fixtures have been rotated ninety degrees. The Captain sits on the far side of the tiny room, a small computer console to his left. In the center of the room, two consoles have been rotated to face the viewer, now mounted on the same wall as the primary door through which they have just entered. The other pair of consoles faces the far left wall where the view screen would normally be located. The Captain presses a key on his terminal as they enter and waves them over.

The Captain is a strange sight, but somehow seems to fit in perfectly with the off-kilter design of the bridge. The calico pattern of his fur is interrupted by a long streak across his right cheek where no hair is present. His clothing is more than eccentric. A purple scarf is tied loosely around his neck, and a gold and green cape covers most of his sky blue jump suit. The effect is completed by a large, black, cylindrical hat, that rises almost a half meter.

To reach the Captain, Firemane and Bristlewind are forced to make their way through a maze of meter-high crates strewn haphazardly around the room. Both students notice markings on several containers, which indicate illegal, but valuable commodities are stored within.

"Cadet Firemane reporting . . . " Firemane is cut off in mid-sentence as the Captain howls, "What is that putrid smell?"

The beige cat the cadets followed answers, "These new kits just came from planetside. I believe it's a sterilizer odor from a sonic shower."

"Get them out of here until that foul stench dissipates. You can explain their duties, Yellowfang."

"Yes, sir," the beige cat responds and motions for the cadets to follow.

Dumbfounded, Firemane and Bristlewind comply, sneaking a look of disbelief at one another. As they move through the cluttered corridors, noticing the lack of paint and crumbling plastaform, Yellowfang gives them a brief description of their duties.

"Firemane, you'll be assisting our Chief Engineer, Highleaper. We've had some problems with the ventilation in the main engine room. If you can find a way to fix that, everyone on board will be grateful. It stinks to high heaven down in engineering. Bristlewing, according to your file, you're a good pilot, so you'll be working as helmsman/navigator."

Bristlewind tries to correct Yellowfang regarding his name, but the exec ignores him, continuing to drone on as if it is a great effort. "It will be another twenty hours or so before we're fully loaded and ready to leave orbit. Use the time to familiarize yourselves with the ship's layout. Once we go to warp, though, your time will be pretty much your own. We run a pretty loose ship, but the Captain does expect you to ask permission before abandoning your posts."

"Abandoning?" They both inquire.

"You know, once you've made sure everything is running okay and the auto-alarms are on you can go do what you want, just as long as you're around when the next operator comes on duty. Oh, we've got an extensive entertainment library on the main computer. You can ask anyone how to access games or vids. If you have any trouble, talk to Digger. He's our computer wonk."

Yellowfang comes to a halt by an open doorway. "These are your quarters," he says, indicating the barren room within.

It takes only an instant for Firemane and Bristlewind to take in the scene -- because there is nothing to take in . . . or out. No chairs, no shelves, no video screen -- only a flickering glow sphere suspended by a tangle of twisted wires from the center of the checkerboard ceiling interrupts the emptiness.

"Where are our bunks?" Asks Bristlewind.

"Don't know."

"What about cabinets or desks?" Asks Firemane.

Yellowfang shrugs. "You'll have to see what you can scrounge up. Maybe you can talk someone into time-sharing a cot. Oh, I suggest you both go down to engineering and rub on some Ultragoo. It's the only thing strong enough to cover that sterilizer smell."

"Doesn't your sonic shower use a sterilizer spray?" Asks Bristlewind.

"Our sonic shower doesn't work. Hasn't in a couple of months."

"So you've been using a liquid spray cleaner?" Asks Bristlewind, not believing what he's hearing.

"No. That doesn't work either. I'm not sure if it ever did."

"Does anything on this tub work?" Asks Firemane sarcastically.

"Just the two of you," replies the beige cat with his first sign of a positive emotion, a mirthful flick of his ears. "You're both on duty in one hour. See ya." He walks away, leaving Firemane and Bristlewind to discuss their predicament.

"Now I understand why everyone else stinks," Bristlewind notes.

"Yeah. But I guess we'll have to get used to it. Come on. Let's find some Ultragoo."

"Are you really going to listen to that -- that moron?" Bristlewind asks.

"That moron happens to be right. Ultragoo will mask almost any smell. Besides, it will smell better than the other cats, and once you rub a bit into your fur you won't smell anything else for a couple of days."

"Trust me?" Bristlewind asks snidely.

Firemane glares silently in reply. Bristlewind sighs, tossing his small duffel into the empty room, followed immediately by Firemane's. The two cadets then make their way to engineering, and soon both cats smell as bad as the rest of those on board. While Bristlewind heads for the bridge, Firemane searches for the Chief Engineer.

***

Firemane comes to a door that he knows should be the entrance to the impulse engine control room. He is puzzled to see a large square box hanging from the opened doorway. He hears a slight buzz from the box, but does not recognize the device.

Though smaller than average, Firemane is forced to duck to pass under the object as he enters the control room. He feels a cool breeze against his fur once inside the room. A portable wind driver. How ingenious, he thinks, examining the fan briefly. Turning, he sees a lone cat relaxing in a hammock suspended between two instrument consoles.

"Come in, come in, kit," the frazzled cat beckons. Firemane pauses, thinking, And I thought the Captain was strange looking." He approaches the cat cautiously. The feline remains reclined, lapping something from a ceramic saucer. His coveralls, which would normally be maroon, are instead predominantly orange, though splashed with an assortment of psychedelic patterns of bright color, though the insignia of a Chief Engineer is displayed prominently on the breast pocket. The Chief's fur is electric blue with a bright red streak of hair combed high along the center of his head. Firemane guesses correctly the fur has been dyed to create this hideous pattern purposefully.

"Cadet Firemane reporting for duty."

"Great. Glad to have you. Pull up a seat."

Firemane glances around the room, but sees nothing to sit on.

The Chief continues to talk, "It's lonely back here with nothing to do but play Galactic Conquest and Starblaster. Though there is my poetry. Oh, and I do have those pesky logs to do occasionally. How much have you conquered?"

"Conquered? I'm not sure I understand the question, sir."

"In G.C. How far have you gotten, kit?"

"What's G.C., sir?"

"What's G.C.?" Highleaper asks incredulously. "Galactic Conquest, kit. Best vid-game ever written. Where have you been for the last four years?"

"I've been at the Institute for the last three."

"Oh. You must be that new kit Pinktongue was talking about. Here, let me show you about G.C. It's really easy to play, but almost impossible to win. Actually, I'm not sure if anyone ever has won. Maybe Tunneler knows. I'll have to ask him next time I see him. I bet it takes a long time, though. I've been playing for, hmmm, I guess it's three years now. Ever since Bluetooth got it. Or was it Greenfang? Now let's see . . . "

"Ummm, sir. I'm sure I would enjoy the game, but Yellowfang said something about the circulation system having problems. And I believe we'll be leaving orbit soon."

"Yellowfang, that's it. I always get his name mixed up for some reason. What was that about the circulation system?" The Chief asks with genuine concern. Sitting up, he leans toward the doorway and cocks an ear to listen to the hum of the fan. Relaxing back into his hammock, he says, "Circulation's fine, kit. Can't you see the rotary oscillator in the door?"

"Yes, sir. But with only one blower I would think its effectiveness is rather limited."

"Pah. I've got everything under control. And besides, I like the breeze and the soothing hum it makes." The Chief's eyes close and he purrs slightly, reveling in the sensations.

"I'm quite sure you've got everything under control, sir. Perhaps I should read the engineering log to bring myself up-to-date."

"Suit yourself, kit," the Chief snorts lying down again. "I'm about to wipe out the Dramifas homeworld. You're gonna miss a spectacular show."

"I'm sure I will, sir. Maybe you can show G.C. to me once we leave orbit."

"Uh huh," the Chief mutters as he clicks a couple of keys on the mini-console to the right of the hammock. "I'll recite my victory poems to you. My favorite conquest was when I beat the Iliadians. It was a battle of epic proportions."

Firemane realizes he must find out what he can by himself, so he exits quietly and begins hunting for an available terminal from which to call up the engineering log.

***

"So let me get this straight," Bristlewind asks Digger, the ship's computer expert. "When you ran out of storage space, you wrote a program that automatically deletes whatever file has not been used for the longest time?"

"Yeah. It runs whenever someone tries to save something that won't fit, so they don't have to come to me or try finding something old to get rid of. Ingenious, don't you think?"

Bristlewind eyes the calico cat nervously and nods, saying, "Well, I never would have thought of it. I don't suppose you put any parameters for files that shouldn't be deleted, did you?"

"Oh, sure."

Bristlewind exhales heavily, thanking The Fates that this cat is not a total moron.

Digger continues, "The Captain told me to make sure that all G.C. backup files were immune. He's really touchy about his G.C. backups."

"Uh huh," Bristlewind nods, knowing he was wrong and that Digger is a total moron. He also realizes he is serving on a flying time bomb.

"Anything else?" Digger asks cheerfully.

Bristlewind looks at the calico cat, thinking, Should I kill him or myself?

"There is one more thing," Bristlewind ventures. "Why is the bridge arranged like this?"

"Uncle, I mean, Captain Hammerclaw has his G.C. output routed to the main viewer, and a few years back we were in orbit, and some Vice Admiral or something walked in and caught him playing and ordered him to disconnect the thing. He didn't want to, so to keep from being caught again, he decided to rotate the bridge ninety degrees, so when someone walks onto the bridge they can't see the main viewer. He's got a hot key that suspends the game and displays the standard external view. That way when anyone enters, he hits the key and they're none the wiser."

"But not everything is rotated."

"We ran out of parts and cabling before we finished and he decided the Science and Engineer's consoles didn't need to face the screen anyway."

Bristlewind lets this sink in a moment and wonders if the Empire would have been better off if they had conscripted the freighter into their enemies' fleet.

"Anything else?" Digger asks again.

"No. I think I've learned as much as I can deal with for now."

As Digger retakes his post at the science console, Bristlewind starts scanning the computer directories to see how many important files have been erased. Before he can get far, the Captain curses loudly, and Bristlewind looks up in time to see a message on the forward display informing 'Admiral' Hammerclaw that the BattleCruiser Envious has been destroyed and a key sector has been lost to the Klingons. He suspends the game of Galactic Conquest and a view of the planet below replaces the game on the large bridge viewscreen.

"Take us out of orbit, helmsman," he barks irritably.

Bristlewind pauses for a moment, wondering if the Captain is going to contact Engineering to inform them of this or should he. He also wonders why they are leaving ten hours ahead of schedule.

Hammerclaw taps a sharp claw impatiently on his armrest, glares at his new helmsman and asks, "Well?"

"Course, sir?" Bristlewind inquires as he activates the navigation controls on his console and dons his navigator's headset.

"The Motumbo System."

Bristlewind realizes quickly that the freighter is on the wrong side of the planet to leave orbit toward the Motumbo System, so he increases speed slightly and begins arcing over the northern pole. He immediately discovers the ship is not responding as it should, and begins making a series of rapid course corrections that have little effect.

A quick glance at the viewscreen confirms his fear that they are on a collision course with the space station hanging motionless above the planet. The rest of the bridge crew are unconcerned, assuming correctly that the new hotshot cadet piloting the ship is a better helmsman than anyone on board. However, Bristlewind's expertise is based on an assumption the equipment works as intended.

Unable to raise the nose of the freighter to go over the base and unwilling to point the nose down, lest they plunge into the atmosphere and burn, Bristlewind chooses to take a somewhat drastic action. He rolls the freighter onto its back and then points the nose "down."

The result takes the freighter over the base while performing a leisurely barrel roll. He ignores the screaming voice of the space traffic controller buzzing incessantly in his navigator's earpiece.

The freighter clears the base by less than two hundred meters, and once clear, Bristlewind settles the ship into level flight in the general direction of the Motumbo System. Once he locks the ship on course, he exhales sharply. It is only then he notices the howling adulation of the others on the bridge, all markedly impressed by his piloting skill.

"I'm impressed, Cadet . . . er . . . Bristlemane, was it?" Hammerclaw notes, absent-mindedly adjusting his scarf.

"Bristlewind, sir," he responds to the Captain.

"Oh, yes. Bristlewind. Great show there. You really showed those base inmates a thing or two."

"I . . . er . . . thought you might like the . . . demonstration, Captain," Bristlewind stammers.

"Indeed I did. I think you'll fit in nicely around here, Cadet."

Bristlewind pauses at the implications of the Captain's assessment before saying, "Sir, we're locked on course now and I still have some things to take care of as far as moving in . . ."

"By all means, kit. Not much piloting to do for the next month or so, anyway. You're dismissed."

Bristlewind exits the bridge, and quickly makes his way to the nearest waste disposal unit where he unceremoniously disposes of his lunch.

***

"He did what?!" Firemane asks in disbelief, making the last adjustment on the glow-sphere now properly suspended from the center of the ceiling in their quarters.

"You heard right. After we settled on course, I spent the rest of my shift browsing the computer records to see how many critical files have been trashed."

"And?"

"It's worse than you can imagine."

"After listening to Hammerclaw's Engineering Log entries I can imagine an awful lot," Firemane replies.

"You think so? Let's ignore the obvious programs erased like Intruder Control, Weapons Targeting, Auto-Destruct, etc. There are pieces of other things that are gone that are much, much more important."

"Pieces? Pieces of what?"

"Navigational charts for one. They've been ferrying garbage to the western colonies for some time, and as near as I can tell anything past sector five-one-two doesn't exist in computer memory."

"Wait a minute. That includes the Motumbo System."

"Now you're catching on," Bristlewind states cheerfully.

"How are we supposed to navigate without star charts?" Firemane snaps irritably.

"Good question."

"Bristlewind, you plotted our course. How did you do that without star charts? Are we on course? Are we going to run into a star?" Firemane demands, his tone becoming increasingly aggitated.

"Slow down, red. We're going in the right direction, more or less."

"How much is more or less?"

"I figure we couldn't be off by more than a dozen light years or so."

Firemane's tail droops.

"As to how I navigated. You know Motumbo is a major system in the middle of the Grewlthan Constellation. When I didn't find the reference immediately on the nav-com I figured it was just a minor glitch, so I pointed us at the constellation and made sure no planets were directly in our path. There aren't any major bodies between K'traal and Motumbo. Any first quarter kitten knows that from initial exploration history, so we don't have to worry about running into anything for, oh, at least a week," Bristlewind explains confidently.

"Great. Maybe we can call for some star charts via the subspace."

"If we try to use subspace communications, the Captain is going to want to know why. Do you want to tell the Captain we're flying blind? Or that his beloved nephew's fantastic computer system is in such rotten shape that his ship could blow up any minute? And do you honestly think he'd believe you, if you did?"

Firemane considers this momentarily as the vision of the Captain in his green and gold cape, purple scarf, and stove pipe hat flashes through his mind. "No. I see your point."

"So, do you have any good news from engineering?"

Firemane replies softly with laughter, "Sure. Our Chief Engineer makes the Captain look normal. Almost nothing works and what does work doesn't operate properly. The planetary drive control room is being ventilated by portable wind drivers. The . . . hey, that might explain it."

"Huh?" Bristlewind asks.

"The engineering log I've been scanning. Chief Highleaper sounded fairly normal until several months ago. Then his log entries began getting, how should I put it . . . less formal. He started skipping reports occasionally, and his last entry included a poem entitled "The Quirks of Quarks."

"I see," Bristlewind says, not seeing anything.

"His entries started changing after the air circulation pump in the impulse control room went down."

"Don't unfiltered impulse fumes cause brain damage?" Asks Bristlewind.

"They can with extended exposure. The immediate effect is that of a mild narcotic."

"Great," Bristlewind utters, "Our Captain thinks he's a Galactic Conqueror, our Chief Engineer has brain damage, the computer system is a disaster waiting to happen, and everything on this tub is falling apart."

"You left out, it smells. Otherwise, I'd say that pretty well sums up our situation," Firemane notes.

"I think I'm going to throw up again," Bristlewind moans, leaning heavily on the wall of their barren quarters.

***

During the next few days, the Cadets spend their on-duty and off-duty hours trying to repair some of the damage done by Digger's unwitting computer virus, and the neglect of their stoned Chief Engineer.

Firemane discovers the reason the ventilation system is no longer functioning on the impulse deck. An overload in the circuitry (cause unknown) stopped the fans months before. The hardware had been fixed and remains in perfect operating condition. However, the computer program for starting and stopping the fans has long ago been deleted, so when they had tried previously, they could not get the computer to restart the blower. After considerable rewiring Firemane manages to jump-start the blower and is much relieved that he will not meet with Highleaper's fate.

He encounters similar circumstances surrounding the broken sonic shower, several doors to storage areas that must now be operated manually, several areas of the ship where the lights were turned off too long (making the glowplates in those areas useless), and a plethora of other minor inconveniences caused by the loss of computer commands to control simple functions.

Firemane does what he can to fix the problems, by-passing the computer. For dormant glowplates, he strings a complex set of wires to a primitive manually operated on/off switch placed next to the door. With the unresponsive storage doors, he affixes metal brackets to their face, enabling access to the closets manually.

While unable to get the sonic shower working, he does manage to get the liquid cleaner units working with the installation of a complex array of knobs and dials to regulate the flow of the water. Unfortunately, he cannot convince any of the crew to take advantage of this particular repair.

Bristlewind, during this time is busy trying to effect repairs on the computer system. He runs into several obstacles. The first is Digger, who is unwilling to relinquish enough space in memory for him to work, lest any of the entertainment software get destroyed. Bristlewind discovers the computer cannot save anything to portable hard crystal format anymore, (it having been years since anyone attempted to take something off the system). However, it is still capable of reading in new files and programs from crystal discs because Digger has made it a point to supplement the entertainment library at every opportunity. Digger also forbids Bristlewind from messing with his Auto-Delete program.

While not pulling his fur out from dealing with the computer, Bristlewind vigilantly attempts to keep them on course, or as close as he can approximate. After several days he is certain of only one thing. It is impossible to navigate in warp space without a decent computer.

***

Bristlewind is surprised when he enters their quarters to find Firemane lounging on what appears to be a soft mattress. He is pleased to see a similar mattress on the opposite side of the room.

Plopping down on his new bed, Bristlewind exclaims, "Hey, this feels pretty good. Where'd you get 'em?"

"You don't want to know."

"Well then, what type of stuffing do they have? It feels strange. Nice, but unusual."

"You don't want to know," Firemane repeats, just a little more forcefully.

"Come on, tell."

"You really don't want to know," Firemane pauses and leans forward ever so slightly to stress his next words. "Trust me."

Bristlewind eyes his mattress nervously, whispering, "I don't think I want to know."

"Any more good news from topside?" Firemane asks casually.

"My final report on the computer system, sir," Bristlewind snaps crisply, coming to mock attention while lying on the mattress. "It's hopeless. Upon close inspection, I've discovered that many key portions of the computer's central logic unit have been so long unused they've been wiped. That means even if we could get copies of the software needed to make this disaster safe, they probably wouldn't work."

"What if we get a fresh Central Logic Controller program?"

"Oh, that'll have to be done eventually, but it will take a ninth level computer wonk to reinitialize this mess, and I suspect they would want to study the results of this farce for a couple of months before they started. That cat may have written the most effective, subtle, and devious computer virus ever conceived, and he thinks it's great. He wants a medal for ingenuity."

"So now what? Do we just wait for the ship to blow up?"

"I figure our only option is to try and adapt some of the current software to replace what we really should have. Not that we have a lot to work with."

"Adapt?" Firemane asks skeptically.

"It'll be easy. Trust me." Bristlewind purrs evily.

Firemane moans and buries his face in his mattress.

"One more thing," Bristlewind continues.

"There's more?" Firemane asks in disbelief.

"Digger won't let me at his Auto-Delete program, so it's still running."

"You mean more stuff might disappear?"

"Unless you've got an idea that'll get rid of the damn gremlin."

"If we could only make it the file not used for the longest time," Firemane mumbles.

"That's it! You're brilliant."

"Huh?"

"All we have to do is write a small program to access every file on the system in rapid succession except the Auto-Delete and then try to add something too big to fit. It'll erase itself."

"But when it runs, won't that make the Auto-Delete the most recent file used?"

"I can't be certain with this mess, but I think by the time the system updates the last access marker, the file will already be gone. Even if it doesn't kill the Auto-Delete program we can still make our access routine check all the remaining safety files and ship ops commands last to guard against their deletion."

"I suppose. But as I recall, there are safeguards to prevent a program from deleting itself if it's in operation."

"On any normal system, yes. On this monstrosity, I seriously doubt it."

"Point well taken. Anything I can do to help?"

"No. I'll handle the software. You just keep trying to keep the mechanical going. Of course, it would be nice if I had a computer link here, so I could work without Digger looking over my shoulder. That cat is paranoid about his computer system, and is convinced we're out to ruin it, and him."

"Actually, in a way, he's right. We are out to ruin his system, and replace it with one that works," Firemane notes.

"Yeah, but he's still paranoid."

Firemane purrs.

"What's so funny?"

"My father once told me, "You're not paranoid if everyone really is out to get you."

Bristlewind purrs in agreement, then rolls over, quickly falling into a fitful sleep. Firemane dozes off eventually with the sounds and images of Highleaper playing Galactic Conquest swirling in his mind. "Galactic Conquest is the only thing on this entire ship that works right," he thinks as unconsciousness engulfs him.

***

"Bristlewind, wake up."

The shaggy gray cat squints up at his roommate, wondering how Firemane managed to wake up first. "What gives?"

"I think I've figured out how we can restore some of the computer controlled functions."

Bristlewind, now intrigued, sits up and gives Firemane his full attention. "How?"

"There's one program on this ship that runs perfectly -- Galactic Conquest."

"So?"

"Have you looked at it closely?"

"I haven't had any time to play games! I've been too busy trying to ferret out a star chart to navigate with," Bristlewind protests, his confusion over where Firemane is leading showing clearly on his face.

"It's got some fantastic space combat sequences," Firemane explains, getting more excited with each word.

"So?" Bristlewind repeats, impatiently.

"To be as realistic as it is, the software almost has to be close to what runs our targeting computer. Or rather, what used to run it."

Bristlewind finally sees where Firemane is going. "But the normal targeting program relies on input from the external sensors and scanners," the grey cat shrugs.

"It won't be too difficult to wire things up so the sensor data can be routed to the gaming library."

"Hmmm, you may have something there. We'll need to create a filter program to translate the input into something the game can understand, but it just might work. But how much do you think that game can really handle?"

"I don't know for sure, but I can tell you it's got hundreds of layers. At the top is the entire galaxy and general commands for restructuring areas you control. But the incredible thing is you can change levels to more and more specific scenarios, from commanding a fleet of starships down to being a shop keeper on a perimeter planet."

"Huh? How is a shop keeper supposed to conquer the galaxy?"

"I think it treats your play in any particular occupation or scenario as an average for that sector or maybe your entire domain. So, if you can run a shop efficiently, the entire economy of your empire improves. If you do lousy in a single frigate duel entire fleets can suffer losses."

"Sounds like you're really into this."

"No. Highleaper is, and he talks incessantly about it," Firemane moans.

"You say it represents a galaxy?"

"It represents our galaxy. The Chief asked me where I was from and then checked out Ffaesarrr to see how it was faring in his campaign."

"I wonder . . . " Bristlewind mutters, his mind racing with the implications of what Firemane has told him.

"What?"

"You don't suppose it uses actual star charts, do you?"

Firemane flicks his ears at the suggestion. "It could. And that might solve your navigation problems."

"I'll work on the program and see if I can find those charts I need. You go ahead and see to that rewiring."

"Okay. Oh, while you're at it, if you notice other parts of the game we might use, note them for future reference. If this works, we just might survive this cruise."

***

Firemane trudges back to the liquid cleaning unit near his quarters. His red fur is completely covered with a soot black powder used for insulation of power cables. He spins some dials and water gushes into a large silver hemisphere. "I hate wet baths," he grumbles as he climbs in.

With his rewiring completed and Bristlewind's alterations of the G.C. program done, he tries to clean the graphite out of his fur before meeting with his roommate to test their new fire control system. He closes his eyes but continues scrubbing absent-mindedly. The thought of lying down for some rest crosses his mind and he purrs unconsciously. In moments he is fast asleep lying half-in/half-out of the tub.

***

". . . ency! Emergency! Everybody do what you're supposed to during emergencies!"

Firemane is startled to consciousness by the nervous shouts of Yellowfang over the P/A system. Having no idea how long he has slept, Firemane leaps out of the tub, grabs his clean coveralls, and races to his post in engineering, dripping blackish water all the way.

He is surprised to find Highleaper standing at a console, rapidly flipping switches and spinning dials. It's the first time he recalls that the Chief Engineer has not been lounging in his hammock writing poetry or playing G.C. since he came aboard.

"There you are Icebiter."

Firemane ignores the misnomer, having become accustomed to the engineer's inability to remember his name. "What's up?"

"They're not up."

"What's not up?"

"The shields, Windbender. What do you think?"

"What do we need shields for?" Firemane asks incredulously, wondering if there truly is an emergency.

"To protect the ship, Dirtwhiskers. Don't they teach you anything at the Institute?"

"What, precisely, are we trying to protect the ship from?"

"We can't survive a meteor shower without deflectors. Don't you know anything?"

At the mention of a meteor shower, Firemane takes two steps and activates the small viewscreen on the far wall. A tactical display appears, depicting the freighter as a small rectangle near the bottom of the screen. At the top of the screen, a hazy blue irregular line appears and begins moving slowly down the display toward the ship. Red dots, indicating large meteors begin to appear occasionally, and as the ship nears the cloud their frequency increases.

"Nothing," the Chief mutters, moving to another console, and rapidly keying instructions into the small terminal. The computer only bleeps annoyingly in response to each command he enters. Frustrated at his inability to activate the shields, Highleaper gives the main console a hard kick. "Yeowww, that hurt!" He limps over to his hammock and sits, rubbing his bruised paw.

Firemane takes over, realizing quickly the computer control for the shields is gone. He moves to the large panel of switches, dials, and displays, filling up the bulk of the rear wall of the room. He flips a series of switches in rapid succession and pulls a magneto-sealer out of a nearby tool storage bin, quickly removing a plate from the large panel. After cutting and splicing several cables with lightning speed, he replaces the panel, says a quick prayer and flips a switch. The lights in engineering go out.

***

On the bridge of Hell's Dungeon, Hammerclaw stands astride a crate of Delusiean apples, resplendent in a maroon cape, rainbow striped scarf, and his ever-present stove pipe hat, exhorting his crew on. "Great cats, we have a great challenge before us -- a challenge that must be met bravely, so we can wrap ourselves in the death-blanket of glory, as is the right of all the brave souls who serve or at one time served our glorious Kzinti Hegemony in the quest for . . . "

Bristlewind ignores the Captain, working feverishly to alter their course or slow their approach, but meets with little success. Most of the minor changes in course he can affect only seem to point the ship on a more direct course through the heart of the space hazard. In frustration he pounds the navigation console. Every light on the bridge goes out.

While the rest of the bridge crew shout curses to The Fates for this new development, Bristlewind realizes his console is still operational. He also notices a slight change in the display on the viewscreen.

"Yellowfang, do you show shields up now?" He asks hopefully.

Yellowfang examines his instruments and exclaims, "Yes! Minimum shielding is now active!"

Hammerclaw, seemingly oblivious to the loss of lighting, continues his speech. He turns slowly on his pedestal and gestures as if to a huge audience. ". . . and go where all must go before returning to the physical universe we know as reality, courageously and without hesitation, never straying from their chosen course of action, so they may . . . "

Bristlewind concedes he cannot prevent the ship from entering the asteroid field. He knows he has no choice but to test the newly installed phaser targeting program.

"Who are the best two gunners on the G.C. combat simulator?" Bristlewind asks loudly to no one in particular.

Yellowfang's tail flicks in consternation as he responds, "This is not the best time you could have chosen to ask about G.C."

"Just tell me," Bristlewind snaps.

"The Captain and Digger," Yellowfang says after a short pause. "Why do you . . . "

"The phaser controls are tied into the G.C. targeting program. The helm is frozen, so we're going to have to blast our way through. Captain, can you activate the G.C. gunner's display?" Bristlewind asks hopefully.

At the mention of playing G.C., the Captain suspends his monologue. "Certainly," he responds and the targeting overlay appears on the main viewer almost immediately. A red set of crosshairs is positioned on the right center of the display. A green "X" on the left center.

Bristlewind's claws dance across his console as he speaks, "Yellowfang, power up the guns and keep them cycling. Okay, Captain. You're the red gunner. Digger, you're green. Yellowfang will keep the phasers charged, so just use the standard G.C. commands and you should hit whatever the crosshairs are on." Bristlewind takes a deep breath and whispers, "I hope."

Digger, not believing Bristlewind's statement, stabs the fire button, and is startled when he hears the distinct sound of a real ship's phaser discharging. His crosshairs are positioned well short of the approaching meteors and no change is apparent on the screen, except a momentary thin green line running from the computer generated nose of the ship to the position of his targeting crosshairs.

The Captain scoffs at Digger's clean miss and quickly moves his "X" just ahead of the nearest large asteroid. The three-dimensional graphic imaging is impressively realistic. As the large, irregularly-shaped rock moves across the target, Hammerclaw fires. Again, the familiar sound of a phaser discharge can be heard throughout the ship. The asteroid explodes into thousands of tiny pebbles, quickly dispersing in all directions, leaving a relatively clear space ahead. The Captain cheers his shot and begins targeting the next large rock.

Digger then begins targeting another large asteroid closing from the left and the two gunners begin blasting their way through the meteor shower. Bristlewind shakes his head in disbelief when he notices the rapidly rising game scores being displayed at the bottom of the viewscreen.

The Captain also notices the scores and realizes that despite his head start, Digger has now pulled ahead and is quickly outdistancing him. It is also clear that the computer operator is enjoying himself immensely. Hammerclaw, refusing to be beaten by an inferior officer, presses a button activating the manual remote device on his console. A small half sphere rises out of an opening on his console. With lightning speed Hammerclaw begins using the ball to jump around the screen, occasionally beating Digger to a particularly inviting target. Both curse when they are forced to wait for the phasers to be recharged before firing. Gradually, the Captain's score closes on Digger's.

Bristlewind is the only one on the bridge not fully enraptured by the contest. Everyone else seems to have forgotten they are traveling through a real meteor shower, but Bristlewind notices that despite the huge success of the two gunners, the dust alone is wearing down the forward deflector. Knowing it is well out of his authority, but unwilling to interrupt the Captain, Bristlewind types in a message to Firemane and unnoticed, sends it to the engineering console, praying his friend responds, and fast.

***

"I remember a time on Vlaesssian Two, or was it three? Anyway, I had to mix some Everhold bonding agent in pitch darkness. Mixed it to perfection without a hitch, believe you me, but when I went to apply it . . . "

Firemane tunes the Chief's rambling out when he notices the message on his console reading, "We need more power to the forward deflector." Firemane suspects it is Bristlewind's message and begins rerouting power to comply. When finished with the task he sends the simple reply, "Done," back to his friend.

He returns his attention to the small monitor tied into the main viewscreen on the bridge. He continues to shake his tail in disbelief that their plan is actually working. Occasionally, he stifles a purr at the humor of the situation.

" . . . suffice it to say, the Admiral's daughter was caught in a sticky situation," Chief Highleaper concludes.

Firemane wonders for a moment if he has missed a good story -- decides this unlikely -- and returns his attention to the monitor. The Chief continues to rub his foot and ramble on in the near darkness of engineering.

***

With the forward deflector all but gone, Bristlewind breathes a sigh of relief as the far edge of the shower appears. When the ship finally clears the asteroid field, the forward shield is gone and the phaser circuits are nearly burnt out. Bristlewind returns to his task of attempting to pilot the ship and doesn't notice the flashing score in red on the viewscreen, indicating the Captain has won the contest.

Digger grumbles softly, "I would've won if I had had a control ball."

"Great show, Captain!" Yellowfang cheers, and is echoed by the others present on the bridge, except Digger and Bristlewind.

The Captain accepts the praise of the other crew members, bowing graciously on his pedestal and continuing his speech. "Yes, thank you all. Thank you all. But I was just doing my duty. The duty we are all sworn to do, and the banner of our leaders we are sworn to follow, be it for the thrill of victory or the agony of . . . "

Bristlewind returns his attention to his console and on a whim, accesses the G.C. navigational program and pulls up their current sector. He is startled to find that not only does the program coincide with his sensor readings, but a large area listed as "navigational hazard" lies just behind them. With this new revelation about the complexity and authenticity of G.C., Bristlewind quickly gets the program to plot a course to the Motumbo System. After several hours of fighting the controls, he finally manages to get enough response from the helm to return the freighter to its intended course.

When his shift ends, he happily returns to his quarters. He is surprised to find the door operating when he arrives. He is also surprised to find Firemane sitting on a small crate typing rapidly at a small computer console, also on a small crate.

"Hey, where'd you get that?"

"You don't want to know, "Firemane responds dryly, his claws continuing to dance at a furious pace over the keyboard.

"Come on, tell me," Bristlewind insists.

"You really don't want to know," Firemane assures his friend.

"Yeah I do," Bristlewind responds, beginning to get agitated.

Firemane pauses, turns and looks Bristlewind straight in the eyes and says, "You don't want to know. Trust me."

Bristlewind backs up a step and says softly, "I don't think I really want to know."

Firemane presses another key, then shuts off the machine. "I just finished installing some security, so no one can access our stuff. Also, the door sensor only opens for you and me."

"Paranoid, aren't we?"

"You're not paranoid . . . " Firemane begins.

" . . . if everyone really is out to get you," they finish in unison.

"Oh, we're back on course thanks to the G.C. navigational computer. But helm control is still a nightmare," Bristlewind notes.

"Really? There's a fighter pilot subroutine that might be useful in that regard."

"You're kidding. Is there anything not in that game?"

"As far as I can tell, there's no food synthesizer capacity built in," Firemane sighs.

"So what you're saying is this game comes with everything but the kitchen sink."

"Uh huh."

"So what's our next Galactic Conquest?" Asks Bristlewind.

"Definitely helm control. I'll start rewiring after we eat."

Okay. I'll tackle the software end of it. Then what? Do we wire the entire ship through that game?"

"Why not?

Other than the whole process seeming ridiculous, Bristlewind cannot give Firemane a good answer. "At least it will keep us busy. It's still a long way to the Motumbo system, Red." The two exit their quarters and head for the galley, albeit reluctantly.

***

During the next two weeks, the cadets work around the clock repairing the freighter and restoring long dormant capabilities. When not tieing ship's functions into the G.C. game program, they spend time cleaning and repainting many areas of the ship. As the vessel slowly begins to regain some of the austere, sterile atmosphere usually found on spacecraft, some other crew members assist in the efforts to improve their environment. This is not out of good will, but rather, because the few cats who join them have grown bored with G.C., mainly because they aren't winning.

Firemane even finds a moderately effective remedy for the harmful effects of prolonged exposure to the toxic engine fumes, after consulting the G.C. medical library. Though the antidote is not 100% effective, the Chief does begin helping Firemane with some of his modifications, though he makes no effort to change the electric blue fur and red mohawk he has become accustomed to.

With less than a day to go before reaching the Motumbo system and delivering their cargo, Firemane and Bristlewind discuss their tour as they spend their final night on board Hell's Dungeon.

"It seems we may survive after all," Firemane says.

Bristlewind is busy trying to clean his fur, occasionally licking at spots his claws cannot remove dirt from. He eyes his reflection in the small mirror Firemane has procured, totally unsatisfied with his appearance. "We may be alive, but we both look like death warmed over."

Firemane flicks his tail in consent.

"I wish we could have figured a way to get everyone to bathe," Bristlewind continues, licking at a particularly stubborn stain on his right shoulder. "Yechh. How did our ancestors stand licking themselves clean?"

"You can always use my . . . "

Bristlewind cuts Firemane off with a low growl. "I hate wet baths. I'd rather go this route."

Firemane stands to Bristlewind's side to evaluate his own appearance. "I don't know. But you'd have to get everyone on board to bathe simultaneously to prevent a riot. It's weird how it's so hard to get used to the smell of sterilizer after you're accustomed to smelling foul for so long. The worst thing, though, is how we're going to be reviewed when our Evaluation Officer comes aboard. We may get demoted for the stench alone."

"Too bad we can't dunk the entire ship into a vat of rosemilk right before we dock," Bristlewind sighs as he gives up trying to improve his appearance.

Firemane stops grooming himself and his tail rises in thought.

"Red, you've got that conspiratorial gleam in your eye. What is it this time?"

"We don't have rosemilk, but we do have the capacity to create some scent neutralizer."

"So?"

"So, what if we fill the intruder suppression system with no-scent, then set it off?"

"That stuff only lasts a couple of hours, though, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, but that's all we should need to pass inspection."

"I don't know," Bristlewind responds. "I haven't finished tying in the intruder control program with the G.C. ground combat simulator. I still haven't figured out exactly how G.C. keeps track of friend or foe, since on the net version the computer can be directed to switch sides."

"You'll figure it out. Everything else has gone like clock work. You'll get it done in time. I'll go manufacture some no-scent and fill the intruder control gas canisters with it. We don't have long, so we better get to it."

"I'm still not sure about this."

"Come on Windi, the worst that can happen is it doesn't work. In which case, we're no worse off than we are right now. What could go wrong?"

***

The cadets work feverishly to complete their tasks prior to entering orbit of Motumbo III. Only an hour before the inspector is scheduled to arrive, they finish and Firemane performs a limited test of the no-scent in engineering as Bristlewind guides the ship into a standard orbit. The test works flawlessly and Firemane is overjoyed at the sudden absence of the stench he has grown accustomed to during the past two months.

Engineering is in proper condition for inspection, and Firemane waits impatiently to be delivered from the purgatory of Hell's Dungeon. When the word comes that the inspector is preparing to come aboard, Firemane activates the control to release the aroma neutralizer throughout the ship, and then makes his way to the shuttle bay, a short way down the corridor.

Bristlewind and Hammerclaw are waiting when Firemane enters. He skirts the six, five-meter-long, empty drone casings stacked neatly to the right side of the bay, and quickly moves beside his friend as the shuttlecraft glides silently to a halt on the otherwise vacant deck.

"Do you smell something odd," Captain Hammerclaw asks Bristlewind as the shuttle powers down and lowers its ramp.

"I smell nothing at all, sir," Bristlewind responds quietly.

Two cats emerge from the shuttle and Firemane and Bristlewind both blink when they recognize who their inspector is.

Two tall, tiger-striped cats step down from the shuttle. The first off is slightly taller, powerfully built, sporting a large sidearm that his left claw rests on nervously. His insignia indicates he is an Adjutant. The second feline wears the platinum choker given only to the four Senior Admirals in the fleet.

"Welcome aboard Admiral Quicksilver," Hammerclaw stutters.

"Return to the bridge, you sniveling, lying, dog-headed pig! I'll speak to the cadets alone," the Admiral spits contemptuously.

Hammerclaw might have killed anyone else who had insulted him so, but for this cat he shrinks back, his tail drooping in fear.

"NOW!" The Admiral shouts, and Hammerclaw fairly flies out of the room. It is all Bristlewind and Firemane can do to keep from bolting after him. Both wonder why such a high ranking officer is before them.

The Admiral moves to the cadets, looks quizzically at them, then cocks his head and nods subtly. "I'm impressed. I smell no fear from either of you. I've seen other cadets faint after one of my tirades. Take me to engineering."

Firemane takes the lead, and once his back is turned, licks his nose three times in dread. As they walk, the Admiral continues talking, his Adjutant shadowing them silently. "I'm sure you're both wondering why I have chosen to judge your space acclimation performance."

The cadets remain silent, knowing they should not respond unless specifically instructed to.

"I'm not here to evaluate you. I'll go through the motions to quell any suspicions, but I'm here because a spy apparently changed your orders to have you both assigned to this . . . disaster."

The foursome halts at the door to engineering, which fails to open.

Bristlewind sneaks a sideward glance at Firemane with a 'this-figures' look in his eyes.

Firemane tries to manually open the portal with no success. He then pounds hard on it, knowing Chief Highleaper is waiting inside. The door opens almost immediately and they enter.

Chief Highleaper immediately backs up, coming to full attention.

"Do all of your door sensors work as well as this one?" The Admiral roars, doing a masterful job of suppressing his urge to laugh at the Engineer's comical color scheme.

"No, sir," Highleaper stammers.

"I suggest you go and overhaul them, then, if they're in even worse shape. I'll call for you if I need any assistance, which I seriously doubt. Now MOVE!"

Highleaper scrambles out of engineering in a blur. The Admiral motions for his Adjutant to remain on guard outside while he talks privately with the cadets. As the door swishes shut behind him, Firemane notices the auto-lock indicator come on. That's odd, he thinks.

"Professor Rushwind discovered the discrepancy in your orders shortly after you were under way. Frankly, I'm surprised to find you both alive. We tried to contact Hammerclaw, but could not raise this pitiful excuse for a space vessel, and when we sent a vessel along your presumed heading, we failed to find you. I'm truly amazed that this . . . death trap is still intact."

As he speaks, the Admiral slowly circles the room, examining control panels and dials in at best a cursory manner. "It is not common knowledge, though it is easy to deduce, that we have a policy to prevent the top cadets in a class from serving together. It lessens the chance of losing multiple prodigies at once. Someone deliberately changed your orders, put you together and put you on a ship everyone in the Empire knows should have blown up three years ago. I aim to find out who. Does either of you have any idea or suspicion of who may have been behind this?" He asks, reaching for a switch on the main engineering console.

Before either cadet can respond, the Admiral screams and is thrown away from the console, a long blue streak of electricity arcing between his claw and the control panel. He lands hard on his back, but scrambles quickly to his feet, enraged.

"What in Nova's light . . . "

The small room is plunged into darkness.

" . . . is going on?" The Admiral finishes.

This can't be happening, Bristlewind moans silently, fearing his career is ending before it begins. Then he has a frightful revelation regarding the rash of malfunctions.

"Admiral," Bristlewind starts, "I think I . . . "

The Admiral, having a revelation of his own, cuts him off by placing a firm stranglehold on him. He whispers ever so softly into Bristlewind's ear, "Make no sound. We're under attack."

Bristlewind swallows the urge to say, "But," for fear the Admiral may break his neck. Knowing Quicksilver's reputation only too well, only an order from God Himself could pry Bristlewind's lips open.

Firemane, meanwhile, is furious. The Admiral clamps a paw over his mouth when he begins cursing The Fates for the series of mechanical failures. I work myself to death for two months to get things working and the ship decides to fall apart during our inspection. And it would have to be Admiral Quicksilver himself who shows up to walk into this mechanical ambush, Firemane fumes silently, obeying the Admiral's directive.

After silencing the cadets, Quicksilver draws his sidearm and uses his free hand and tail to direct the cadets in the darkness. The Admiral approaches the door to engineering cautiously, phaser drawn and ready, but discovers the power to the door is off. The door firmly locked, blocking that escape route.

All three sense the thinning of the air at the same moment. The Admiral activates his wrist communicator, but receives only static. "Well, two can play that game," he mutters twisting a dial on the device.

"We're being jammed, so I've set my wrist-com to jam any local listening devices. We can speak freely now. They're evacuating the atmosphere, so we must act quickly."

"Maybe your Adjutant can . . . "

Quicksilver cuts Bristlewind off, saying, "He may be behind this. Only Five knew I was coming here and he was one of them. I trust no one."

The Admiral moves slowly toward the main console when Firemane activates a portable glowplate he has retrieved from a nearby storage locker.

"Good thinking, cadet. Get me something to lock my energy pistol down with, so I can point it at the door. Hopefully, by using the slicer setting against the door, we may keep the attention of whoever it is trying to kill us long enough to escape," he explains, answering the unspoken question in Firemane's eyes.

Firemane responds instantly, knowing they have no more than a minute of atmosphere left.

"Sir?" Bristlewind begins.

"You can get the grating off the ventilation duct, Cadet Bristlewind. Move!" The Admiral commands, not giving the young grey cat a chance to speak.

Bristlewind complies, cursing his choice to enter the military. The Admiral activates his weapon in a narrow beam, aimed at the center of the door to their cell. "Quickly, into the air works."

Admiral Quicksilver leaps up to the opening and slams hard into the ceiling, as the gravity control chooses this instant to cut off. After shaking his head clear, he crawls into the tunnel with Firemane on his tail and Bristlewind pulling up the rear.

At the first junction, the Admiral bears right and a welcome breath of fresh air surrounds the party. The Admiral pauses for only a moment to let them all catch their breath, then continues forward at an incredible pace for such a large cat in such a small space. As they crawl through the cramped ventilation ducts, the air begins getting warmer -- much warmer.

"They must be onto us. We've got to get out ASAP." He spits angrily.

"Take a right, sir. I believe there's an outlet below," Firemane suggests, thankful his recent rewiring has given him a thorough knowledge of the ductwork of the ship.

The Admiral takes the turn and plummets head first twenty meters. His bulk easily tears through the grate at the bottom of the passageway, landing him on a heap of garbage, consisting mostly of a soft, sticky, yellow goo. Firemane lands just behind him and Bristlewind plops down across them both before they can move.

"I hate this ship," Firemane screams at the top of his lungs, spitting yellow goo, while trying to stand on the unstable mass of refuse.

"I had heard you were bright," the Admiral deadpans as he rights himself and looks for an exit to the cargo hold. He slogs through the muck, headed for the nearest wall without waiting for the cadets.

Firemane and Bristlewind exchange a quick look of disbelief as they begin following the Admiral toward the nearest access door. As they begin moving, the lights, which had been activated by their movement, chose to shut themselves off again, plunging them into darkness once more. Firemane realizes his portable glowplate is lost somewhere in the yellow muck, and knows that any search will be futile, so they are forced to make their way to the exit without visual assistance.

Luckily, the hatch they find can be manually operated, and they quickly exit the cargo hold. They spill onto a narrow catwalk, normally used for maintenance work, which encircles the cargo bays. The Admiral takes the point and begins leading them toward the shuttle bay.

As they grope along, still in darkness, Bristlewind manages to whisper in Firemane's ear, "Red, I think the G.C. Intruder Control Program is responsible for this mess."

The Admiral opens a small door and steps onto a platform overlooking the shuttle bay just as Firemane screams, "WHAT?"

Firemane's shout causes the Admiral to duck reflexively, which is all that prevents a powerful energy beam from knocking him into the middle of next week.

The blast hits the edge of the access door, causing a shower of sparks and sending an electric surge through the metal catwalk. Firemane and Bristlewind jump back, screaming from the mild shock. The Admiral dives over the railing of the platform, dropping eight meters to the deck of the shuttle bay. He lands rolling and barely evades a second blast before finding cover behind the nearest large solid object he sees. Only the light given by the very beam that is attempting to kill him allows him to see anything.

As he crouches behind the large horizontal cylinders, he realizes what they are -- metallic, high velocity, explosive warhead drones. He curses in four dialects his dreadful luck, though in actuality it is his proximity to the missiles that prevents the auto-defense system from firing the pulse rifle again.

"Admiral," Firemane yells from the platform, trying to locate the Admiral in the darkness. "You need to surrender."

"Are you out of your mind, cadet?" The Admiral roars.

"No. I think the computer is, though. The Intruder Suppression System has gone haywire, and I believe if you surrender the program will terminate."

"Terminate me or itself?" The Admiral responds unconvinced.

Firemane leaps down to the deck, having homed in on the Admiral's voice with Bristlewind right behind. I'm in the room now, sir. It's not firing at me."

"I'm here too," Bristlewind announces.

"I cannot believe this is happening," Quicksilver moans.

"Throw me your wrist-comm, sir, and say you surrender," Firemane requests. "The computer is obviously not too bright. Hopefully, it will assume you're surrendering your weapon to us. It knows we're part of the crew.

After a pause, Admiral Quicksilver responds, "Okay, I surrender." The sound of metal skittering across the deck follows. As Firemane bends to find the device, the lights come on.

The Admiral, seeing the open doors to his shuttle only a few meters away, rushes out from behind the drones and is struck square in the chest by a bolt from the pulse rifle. It knocks him back five meters and renders him unconscious.

Blobs of yellow goo speckle the deck between the access door and the drone stack. Admiral Quicksilver is a comical sight, lying sprawled on his back, covered in the yellow ooze, though Firemane and Bristlewind are equally dishevelled.

"I'll go unplug G.C.," Bristlewind whispers and crosses to the nearest computer console.

Firemane notices the metal object at his feet is not the communicator, but the Admiral's platinum insignia. He picks it up and moves to the comatose Admiral to see how badly the officer is hurt. A quick perusal of the tiger-striped cat shows him to still be breathing.

Firemane takes the Admiral's wrist and deactivates the signal scrambler. The irate voice of Captain Hammerclaw assaults his ears. ". . . care how much damage you do. We've got to get through the auto-bulkheads and the computer is not responding. Now get some phsaers and slice a hole through the damned doors if you have to, but get through!"

"Yes, sir," the familiar voice of Chief Engineer Highleaper responds.

The bleep of the communicator switching frequencies startles Firemane, and Hammerclaw's continued tirade doesn't make him feel any easier. "Doctor, I'm still waiting for the Adjutant's status! Did you order your certification out of a catalog or do you have something to tell me?"

"Er . . . the . . . er . . . Adjutant is resting nicely. I expect he'll be unconscious for another hour or so. He received quite a jolt from the auto-defense pulse rifle, sir, but . . . "

Firemane turns off the wrist-comm and lets the Admiral's arm drop. "Windi, we're in a heap of trouble."

"I know. The auto-defense program isn't terminating."

"What!?"

"The security overrides are denying me access, and I was in such a rush to get the program hooked up, I didn't have time to install a backdoor password," explains irritably.

"And that means?" Firemane asks, dreading the response.

"That Captain Hammerclaw is probably the only one on the entire ship who can shut the thing off as long as anyone other than official ships' crew are on board. You want to call and ask him to?"

Firemane bows his head with his eyes closed, and locks his paws together on top of his head, as if this will prevent the bad news from effecting him. "That wouldn't be my first choice, no."

"Then what do you suggest? You want to stay around for the court martial or make a break for it now?" Bristlewind asks sarcastically.

Firemane's ears twitch, which causes Bristlewind to moan. "Oh no. Not another bright idea, Red. We're in too deep this time."

"Listen. The auto-defense system is still active. When the Admiral wakes up what do you think it will do?"

"Probably take another pot shot at him."

"So why don't we just put him on the shuttle and get him off the ship before it has the opportunity. We'll be rescuing him."

"You've got a strange concept of what the term 'rescue' means, 'Mane, but you do have a point, and I don't have a better suggestion."

Moments later the Admiral and cadets are on the shuttle, heading for the planet below, leaving the Admiral's assistant and Hell's Dungeon behind. As the shuttle glides toward the planet the Admiral regains consciousness.

"What . . . where . . . how?"

While Bristlewind pilots the shuttle Firemane starts to explain what has transpired, but is interrupted by the fuming voice of Captain Hammerclaw screaming over the shuttle's comm system. "I demand that you return that shuttle to my ship immediately! That is Admiral Quicksilver's shuttle, and if you do not respond in five seconds you will be blasted from the sky without hesitation!"

The Admiral waves Firemane away from the communication console and activates his wrist-comm. "Captain Hammerclaw, this is Admiral Quicksilver. I am on the shuttle, and if unless you want to become a vegetable farmer on a perimeter world I would suggest you clear this channel and tend to your ship. Quicksilver out."

Deactivating his wrist-comm, the Admiral asks, "Would the two of you mind explaining exactly what just occurred aboard your ship, and why you're kitnapping me?"

As the shuttle descends through the atmosphere, the two cadets explain what happened during their two months on Hell's Dungeon.

The Admiral directs Bristlewind to land at the number four shuttle concourse, and when they touch down, he stops and assesses the two young and ambitious cadets before him. "Your tale is extremely hard for me to swallow, but I will concede, even if it's not true, it is certainly the most imaginative, creative, and unbelievable piece of fiction I've heard in years. If, on the other hand, what you tell me is true, I'd have to say it is the most imaginative, creative, unbelievable solution to a problem I've heard in years. I'm not sure if I should commend you or strap you in irons and feed you green leaves."

The cadets shudder visibly in response to the last suggestion.

"Still, you never answered my question regarding the spy who changed your orders. Do you have any idea who might have had reason to kill the both of you?"

The cadets look at each other knowingly and in unison say, "Starchaser."

The Admiral nods. "Professor Rushwind also suggested your classmate. However, to this point we have been able to find no evidence to support the accusation. We will continue to investigate, though." The Admiral's tone lightens, "My search for clues to who sabotaged your orders aside, I do need to rate your cruise, also. All things considered, after subjecting me to your auto-defense program, I should have you both tossed summarily out of the service."

"What?!" Both cry desperately.

"Silence! I'm not finished. I cannot afford to let it become common knowledge that a garbage scow, run by a video game program and two wet-behind-the-ears cadets nearly killed me. Therefore, I will grant you both your commissions on the sole condition that not one word of what transpired today ever be revealed. Understood?"

Firemane and Bristlewind eye each other for a moment, then return their attention to the Admiral with a string of affirmations of their loyalty to him and that no soul shall ever get wind of what transpired aboard Hell's Dungeon.

"Good," the Admiral purrs. "Report to the Imperial Fleet Concourse at 0800 tomorrow for your assignments. I'll transmit your evaluations and your final standings will be posted then. I'll send someone for the shuttle later." The Admiral moves to the rear of the cramped cabin and takes a seat on a small transporter pad the cadets had not noticed. He presses a switch on his wrist-comm and moments later disappears in the golden shimmer of transporter effect.

After the Admiral is gone, both cadets slump into their seats, relieved that their ordeal is over and their careers still intact.

Firemane looks at Bristlewind seriously and says, "I wonder what our fleet assignments will be like."

Bristlewind thinks a moment, looks Firemane straight in the eye and says, "They'll be great, Red . . . trust me."

Firemane moans.

***