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Star date 1997.2008
   On the bridge of the C.S.S. Anarchy, Admiral Tim contemplated the screen in front of him. His gifted mind envisioned the glorious and inevitable triumph as his proud fleet brought all the galaxy within his sway. Soon enlightened Peterson philosophy would demonstrate it’s inarguable benefits to all known sentient species. His name would become legend, revered by grateful generations as long as civilisation endured. It only remained to overcome the final alliance arrayed against his Celtic Federation battle fleet and all would be within his grasp. A sudden and impertinent shaking of his shoulder ended his reverie.
   “Wake up Lieutenant! Try to stay conscious while on the bridge and save your daydreams for the holodeck.”
   Commander Richard Silker watched despairingly as Lieutenant Tim gradually woke up and realised his watch had ended fifteen minutes previously. Muttering words of self justification, Lieutenant Tim shambled towards the turbo lift.
   “I’ve told you before about wearing twentieth century boots.” The Commander called after him. “Try to maintain proper uniform while on duty.”
   The Petersons were an enigmatic race. Despite a long history of Federation membership and a profusion of the species serving in starfleet, their thought processes were still completely alien and beyond understanding to most non Petersons.
   Shaking his head, Commander Silker went back to reviewing the personnel files. Calling up the list of young female Ensigns he began to examine the details which would be vital to their promotional prospects, such as bust size, hair colour and marital status.

   A message from starfleet command came in for the Captain. Handing over the conn the legendary Jean-luc Nash (who wasn’t going bald) retired to his ready room to receive it. The C.S.S. Anarchy was ordered to make best speed to the Normulan frontier. There were diplomatic manoeuvrings afoot in which Captain Nash (who wasn’t going bald) was closely involved and a meeting of the galactic council was to be held to decide senior political appointments. Captain Nash (who wasn’t going bald) returned to the bridge.
   “Prepare a new course Mr Will.” He began, striking a bold pose for the benefit of any passing observers. “We’re bound for planet Rochester.”
   “Course laid in sir” stated the almost human operations officer. “I have prepared a list of shuttle craft assignments for transfer of military and diplomatic personnel to the surface.” He began to search through his files for appropriate forms for fuel appropriations, confidently carrying out his task as it didn’t require much actual talking to people.
   “Now remember men,” Nash continued “I’m hoping to be made an admiral and placed in charge of the academy after this mission. I’m sure I can count on your support.”
   “Of course sir. Sorry to lose you.” Silker replied, surreptitiously polishing the extra stud he had ready to go on his collar.
   The evil Ensign Kate plotted evilly in the background, preparing yet another evil plan against the heroic Captain.
   Lieutenant Hughff, the massive Vikon security officer was seated at the weapons console digesting his three breakfasts and casually devouring a platter of small cakes while he waited for lunch. He was reading the latest report from Ensign ‘mad Joe' Peterson who had arrested yet another cleaning technician for being a Saxadassian spy.
   “Shield status Mr Hughff?” The captain asked.
   “Hmmm, looks fine to me.” replied Hughff, proudly raising what looked like an enormous green coffee table from behind the weapons console. He gave the central boss a quick polish with a paper napkin and went back to picking crumbs out of his beard.

   The new diplomatic envoy strode onto the bridge and announced himself to Captain Nash in an unconvincing east European accent. Ambassador Squishy Malaria was dressed up in his usual fashion with a long richly decorated coat that seemed more appropriate to the 18th century. Despite the fine clothing he somehow still managed to look scruffy. He stopped to adjust the pillow he wore under his shirt in a vain attempt to make his stick like figure look fat. Lieutenant Hughff looked at him with distrust. He had ambassadorial clearance but somehow he didn’t quite fit in. Many of the crew secretly suspected that he had walked onto the wrong set by mistake and didn’t know how to get home.
   “Ahhh, yess. Et iz a fine ship.” He announced. “Ve made pretty good ships ourselves in our day. I remember one great battle, ve came out of varp. Thouzandz of shipz!”
   “Enough to eclipse the sun.” Chorused the crew tiredly. Hughff toyed with his knife.
   “Can I help you ambassador?” asked the Captain quickly, before Malaria could re-launch himself into another series of endless stories.
   “Vell I was having trouble getting my portable stereo to vork. Ze power system in my quarters does not seem compatible.”
   “I’ll put my chief engineer on it right away.” Nash assured him. Reasoning that any excuse to get Beaker Le Forge out of the engine room had to increase their survival chances.

   With the ship only a few hours short of it’s destination, Lieutenant Smith seated at the helm, idly wondered quando his watch would end so he could return to his environmentally controlled quarters and sleep in a special chemical bath. Subconsciously he checked the tubes supplying continuous Diet Coke and Nicotine to his body, without which he could not live for long in a standard atmosphere. He was suddenly (over a mere few minutes) brought almost to wakefulness by the emergency lights flashing on his control panel. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” he muttered automatically a couple of times and tried to focus on the control panel. He jumped back with alarm as the panel started to glow red hot.
   “What’s happening!” demanded Commander Silker.
   “The main power systems are overloading.” Smith replied, pulling himself together. “It’s feeding power to all active systems.” The helm station dissolved into a molten puddle.
   “Activate all systems to divert power from the ones that are overloading. Route as much power as possible to the engines.” Ordered the Captain baldly. Oops boldly I mean.
   “We don’t have helm control.” Warned Will.
   “We’ve got no choice. Get down to the engine room and help Beaker Le Forge.”
   The ship shuddered as power fed in uneven surges to the twin warp nacelles. The lights flashed on and off rhythmically as the ship danced back and forth, throwing the crew around. Will could not avoid the observation that this was more characteristic of an earlier generation of Celt Trek and for the 651st time wondered why several centuries of continuously improving starship design had failed to develop seat belts. Meanwhile the phasers were burning an intricate knot work pattern on a nearby asteroid.
   In main engineering Beaker Le Forge was busily connecting wires as Will was flung out of the turbo lift. He looked up as the computer stated flatly “Ninety seconds to warp core breach.” Beaker began to hurriedly pull out wires as the computer counted down. At 70 seconds the countdown stopped.
   “You have averted the disaster?” Will enquired.
   “Well no.” Beaker admitted. “I shut off the computer voice. It gets on my nerves.”
   “Perhaps if we concentrate on finding the cause of the power surge. It seems to follow a rhythmic pattern, we should analyse the wave form and identify it’s nature.”
   “If you like. I was just going to connect wires at random, it normally works” Beaker set up a display on the monitor to sample the surges. A complicated pattern appeared on the screen and they stared at it intently.
   “It seem to be some sort of musical signal.” Will decided. He output the signal to the speakers. “Latin American dance music I believe. Where could it be coming From?”
   “Ah!” said Beaker, sounding embarrassed and reaching for his communicator “Beaker Le Forge to Ambassador Malaria. Could you turn off your stereo please.”

   The ship had stopped it’s Salsa through space and Beaker disconnected Malaria’s sound system from the main power controls. Senior officers prepared their reports (for some minutes before going to the bar). Captain Nash sat in his ready room enjoying his half a shandy, feeling content with the days events. Fortunately he was only halfway through his drink and still fairly coherent quando he received a call from Doctor Heather Prosser.
   “Could you come to the sick bay right now, there’s a problem with the crew.”
   “What, right now?” The legendary Captain asked, briefly considering the consequences of refusing. “I’ll be right there!” He continued swiftly, as he ran towards the door.” Hastily he made his way to sickbay and activated the door. “What seems to be the troub... Oww!” His query was cut short as a wall of phaser rifles collapsed on him.”
   “They’ve all been leaving their weapons here Captain.” The doctor began. “They say it’s too far to walk back to the weapons locker after training.”
   “Well it is a long distance quando the crew are tired from exercise.” Said Will, who was lying underneath one of the medical tables with the access panels in his head open to reveal the usual array of flashing lights. “Remember that they have to walk past the bar.”
   “What happened to you Will?” The Captain asked as the doctor looked on impatiently.
   “Unfortunately my quarters are next to the ambassador. His incessant snoring is creating sonic disruption of my neural net. I needed somewhere dark and quiet to recover.”
   Realising that this was obviously one of Ensign Kate’s evil plans the Captain and doctor said no more. A long report could be written later laying proper blame at her door.”

    They established a parking orbit over planet Rochester and began beaming diplomatic personnel to the conference. A large and diverse fleet of ships had gathered in the system and conflict seemed inevitable. Lines of Saxadassian and Vikon warships were arrayed in tight formation with several blocks of the divided Normulan fleet deployed in distinctive boar-snout array. Then, a giant De Borg Kite ship moved into striking distance of the planet and the Celtic federation task force advanced to intercept. Soon both the combined fleets were embroiled in a savage and confusing battle in which friendly fire was not a rare occurrence. Though many of the other ships on their side were heavily damaged the first engagement went well for the Celtic force. Sustaining only light losses they rapidly redeployed to cover the weak points in their sides line and pressed the attack. The beaten enemy fleet retreated in disorder to regroup around a neutral space station (where the beer was cheap).
   Another triumph followed next day and the Celtic troops were in good spirits. Nash received his promotion to Admiral and had transferred with the doctor to his new flagship. Silker assumed command of the Anarchy (as far as possible) and prepared to take the ship into what should be the final battle of the campaign. The crew began to sing a battle song (about gold) and advanced into position on the right flank of the battle line. Confident of victory they launched their attack. Political manoeuvring had placed overall command of the fleet in the hands of the Normulan officer, Commander Doyle. As the two fleets closed he unleashed his cunning surprise plan. The heavy ships on the left flank suddenly powered full ahead to engage the centre. At the same moment the enemy fleet launched an assault on the now undefended flank enveloping half the allied fleet and pouring fire into it from all sides. Ships collided as they desperately strove to manoeuvre into position to fight back. Within 30 seconds more than half the fleet had been destroyed, and Commander Doyle had convincingly snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Hughff and Beaker Le Forge transferred to the left flank and fought a delaying action in a runabout (they ran about a lot) but soon the Outnumbered Celtic task force was trapped against the roped off neutral zone. Only through daring and luck did Nash and Silker managed to break out and escape with their heavily battered ships.
   “I blame Kate.” Admiral Nash commented as they disengaged at high warp. “It must be one of her evil plans.” Kate had left the area early that morning which seemed ample evidence to confirm her treachery.

   Months later Captain Silker was becoming less and less happy with sitting in the command chair. Lieutenant Tim Peterson had been violating the prime directive on authenticity. Ensign Kate was plotting (evilly) to withdraw planet Swansea from the Federation. Admiral Nash wanted both of them executed for treason and told Silker so on a regular basis. Just to make matters worse, the ambassador was still on board. At least there was the upcoming battle in the Yorvic system to look forward to.
   Will was sitting at his station, looking thoughtfully at the communications console. His programming had two main deficiencies, a complete lack of understanding of human social interaction and a curious inability converse effectively over a comm link. Generally he spent some time planning his communications so that everything could be answered yes or no as far as possible. He could still be thrown by an unanticipated question or request. This time however he was merely reviewing a transcript of Ensign Kate’s latest evil communication. He turned to Silker to present his analysis.
   “There seem to be two main issues here. Firstly an error in a report of equipment transfer between the Admiral’s staff and some of our officers. This is falsely reported as a direct loan from starfleet stores. Secondly in their request for independence the Swanseaites have made references to our history, attributing this vessels success largely to their contribution. This antagonised not only Admiral Nash but also our previous Captain Rhys.”
   “Annoying but hardly a capital offence.” Silker responded. “Frankly I’ll be glad to approve their independence. At least they won’t be my problem any more.” He turned to the other officers. “I’m fed up of Nash’s interference, I say that after we’ve won the battle we open fire on his ship.”
   The assembled officers looked at each other nervously. “Um, do you think that might be overreacting a little?” Suggested Beaker La Forge.

   Meanwhile aboard the Admiral’s flagship. “Who does Silker think he is, allowing Swansea independence. I say we change sides during the battle and open fire on their ship.”
   “Don’t you think that might be excessive?” Captain Rhys commented.

   After the battle the crews mingled normally but with obvious tension in the air. Nash and Rhys approached Silker and Will. “As you no longer seem willing to support us I see no reason to maintain an alliance.” Nash began. “We are expelling you from the Federation along with planet Swansea.” They left the officers of the Anarchy to consider this.
   Twelve hours later Commander Will was still trying to fit the events together in a way his limited social software could make sense of, simultaneously analysing supply and expense reports while the rest of the crew were sleeping. No man had ever said anything that he found as deeply disturbing to his picture of the universe as the Admirals words. Conflicting loyalties and ethical routines refused to resolve the matter in a satisfactory manner. Captain Silker had responded angrily and wanted to declare war on their former allies. Will along with most of the crew was uncertain and preferred to adopt a purely defensive posture.

   Silker walked onto the bridge and addressed the somewhat dispirited crew. Many of them already knew of the announcement he was preparing to make. “I’ve tried to lead this crew in the way I think is right. I can’t continue in this post without your support so I’ve decided to quit and spend my weekends polishing boots wearing a sailor suit instead.” He left again, heading for the shuttle bay and the crew dispersed.
   Commander Will surveyed the desolate bridge and the Captains chair which the other officers had conspicuously avoided in there rush for the exit. “I see.” He thought to himself.

   Captain Will sat at the conn of the Anarchy. A few junior Ensigns operated the key stations while the ambassador prowled around talking to anybody careless enough to look in his direction. The ship was operating at the fringes of known space, vainly trying to keep out of the conflict between Nash and the Swanseaites, being polite to all sides (apart from the occasional rumour that Nash was a Saxadassian spy).
   “Sensors are picking up a large unidentified ship on an intercept course sir.” Reported one of the Ensigns, knocking over his stack of beer mats (hoarded for the next duel) as he transfered the image to the main view-screen. At maximum magnification the unmistakable shape of a De-Borg Kite became apparent, bearing down on them at speed.
   “Battle stations.” Ordered the Captain. “Communications, Inform Starfleet we have engaged the De-Borg.”
   “What? Were getting engaged to the De-Borg?”
   “No Ensign, were just friends. Oh never mind, what have starfleet done for us lately?”
   The vessels closed in, lighting up space with the intense luminosity of energy beams from the ships weapons, somehow visible in all directions despite of the lack of any intervening matter to diffuse the light. The Anarchy shuddered from another hit and various officers flew back and forth across the bridge. Will wondered for the 652nd time why several centuries of continuously improving starship design had failed to develop seat belts.
   “Shield are failing Captain.”
   “I’d better order a thicker ply next time.”
   A group of De-Borg drones transported onto the bridge and advanced on the crew, the first few fell but soon a large unit had formed. A drone stepped forward aggressively and was hit repeatedly to no apparent effect.
   “They’ve adapted to our weapons!” Yelled Hughff.
   “No that’s Tin Man. He hasn’t noticed he’s been hit yet, just keep shooting.”
   Malaria threw himself furiously into the fray attempting a dramatic move he’d seen in a film. Two drones picked him up off the floor, restrained him, then beamed out with their prisoner. The remaining drones followed rapidly, leaving the bridge suddenly quiet.
   “Quickly, take us out of here, maximum warp.” Ordered the Captain.
   “Before they take more of us you mean?” Said Commander Smith, Emerging from under his station from where he’d been shooting drones in the back.
   “No, before they realise their error and give Malaria back.”

   As they headed home towards ‘Deep Space Cardiff’ an image of Malaria appeared on the main view-screen. A rusty helmet obscured the top of his head and he’d put his red contact lenses in. His familiar irritating voice boomed out loudly. “I am Rolf of Borg. Can yer tell if yer assimilated yet? Inge Unge Inge Unge.”