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part four

“I’m Splendar Divine III,” the image continued, “CEO of LGM,”
“and an SOB” muttered Sara
“You have probably worked out what our plan is. Therefore it makes sense to simply kill you, build another crappy ship and try again. By now, all but six of you will have deserted the ‘Comatose’. Those of you that remain are going to die because I was paid bribes by various organisations and individuals to make sure of that. As soon as the explosion occurs, in about three minutes from now, it will be detected by the scanners on RDS 27A. The laser 52D will switch off and that will be that.”

The man leaned forward and smirked greasily,
“If you hadn’t been such bloody awkward sods then maybe you might have lived. Try to learn from this in time for your next life, ta-ta.” He giggled as his image faded out.
Sara Jones’ face was wet with tears. As Smith approached her, she held up a hand,
“Don’t, I’m only upset because it’s gonna be ages before I can rip that bastard’s throat out.”

They felt a shudder, presumably from an explosion. Logg unhooked his battle-whip and began to furiously beat the Chair. After the fifth stroke, he stopped, turned his head to the others. They were staring at him,
“What the hell are you doing?” Blight grated, he frowned as something else caught his attention, “and why aren’t we dead yet?”
The Shoggan rumbled,
“If Logg to get to Granghar, he must die with battle-whip or similar weapon in hand. Chair nearest thing to an enemy, so Logg beat crap out of it.”

Fiona drawled,
“And very heroic you looked too, lambikins. But totally unnecessary.”

Blight said with forced composure,

“Will somebody please tell me what the FUCK IS GOING ON?”

“Now, now daahling stay calm, you might strain or stretch something. Y’see it’s perfectly simple. Sara and I are both in the Handcuff Sisterhood. The handcuff being symbolic of strength in unity. So take that look off your face, you naughty Shoggan you.”
Sara took up the story,

“Fiona contacted me shortly after we received our new assignment orders a month ago. She’d erm obtained a copy of that video message.”
Fiona continued,

“So, Logg stop doing that! So while Sara sneaked aboard the ‘Comatose’ to disarm the devices. I arranged the pot-noodle deliveries. Strangely enough very few of the boxes marked ‘pot noodles’ actually contained any of the foul concoctions. Some kind of mix-up at the supply depot meant that food, drink and other useful items were accidentally diverted. Terrible inefficiency really, quite dreadful.”
She grinned wickedly and raised one eyebrow.

“What about that explosion just then?” demanded Blight,
“Sorry.” muttered Logg, “too much fruit.”
“Not that one, the other one.”
“Decoy,” explained Sara, “While I helped Tok to suit up, I brought him up to speed on the situation and told him to access cargo bay one from the outside and take out a large container. A bomb was attached to it and Tok set its timer for a ten minute delay then shoved it off to the side. Then he disconnected the radio transmitter dish so that Chair couldn’t signal anybody.”
Logg was actually smiling,
“Container packed with junk to make it look like something was blown up?”
“Hmm, mostly pot-noodles.” Sara replied, “LGM will no doubt grease a few palms to make sure the explosion is only given a cursory investigation. They won’t want anyone to suspect foul play, which works in our favour too.”
“Okay,” said Smith, “But now what do we do? The pulse laser’s off, so that buggers our propulsion. The solar sails will only work at about one per cent effectiveness.”
Tok Jacoby re-entered the bridge, nodded to Sara,
“Sails are seen to, just needs for you to hook them up to manual controls.”

Blight asked,

“The mix-up in supplies didn’t happen to include delivering parts that might make a small pulse laser would it?”

“Oh well done, sweetie. Frightfully clever of you to guess.”

“I think we need to decide what’s to be done about the Chair.” said Smith.

“What indeed?” murmured Sara, “It has the only serviceable computer on the damn ship. We will need that computer. It’s up to you, sir.”

end of part four

In five hundred years time, most of us will be forgotten dust. But Hitler will still be remembered, God loves irony.

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by Ogg

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