Fix it Fred

Fred Farkas enters Captain Nigel Swift’s quarters, muttering to himself, “This isn’t fair. Why do I get all the gross and dangerous jobs?”

Wall-eyed, skinny, with stringy, greasy hair, and adult acne, Fred is unimpressive and unassuming. No one even notices that he wears a hammer on his hip instead of a laser pistol.

Captain Swift is speaking to his first officer, Boseman Thames.

Eternally youthful looking, dark-haired, and model handsome, forty-two-year-old Captain Swift has the confident, undaunted aura of a natural-born leader. He has been captain of the battle-tested space destroyer Daring since 2120 and is considered one of the most capable defenders of United Earth’s interplanetary colonies.

By comparison, balding First Officer Thames is slight of build and is usually apprehensive.

“We’ve received reports, sir, that a Reptillican ship is operating in the vicinity,” Thames says.

“I have heard about them. They once lured another destroyer into battle by faking a distress call in perfect English. They’re scavengers, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir. They board vessels, siphon off their fuel, and take whatever weapons they can.”

“I’ve also heard they’re cannibals.”

“Well, they don’t eat each other. But human bones have been found in the wreckage of their ships.”

“We have a hundred and forty-one men and women on this ship,” Captain Swift replies. “I swear they won’t touch any of them.”

Captain Swift finally notices Fred, who is standing nearby looking forlorn.

“Is there something I can do for you, crewman?”

“You sent for me, Captain. I’m with maintenance.”

“Oh, yes. My toilet seems to be clogged up.”

“I warned you about the burrito and bean dinner last night,” Thames jokes.

Fred continues to look at the floor.

“Feel free to do your thing, crewman. What’s your name?”

“Fred Farkas. Maintenance Worker Grade Three. They call me ‘Fix it Fred’.”

“Well, then, Fred, I hope you can live up to your nickname.”

Trudging toward the bathroom, Fred mutters, “This adds a new meaning to the phrase, ‘the captain’s log.’”

“What was that Farkas?”

“I said I’ll have it working again in a jiffy, sir.”

Commander Abaddon kicks a sobbing woman onto his ship, yelling after the guard, “If she continues to bleat like a wild beast, vaporize her!”

Like all Reptillicans, Commander Abaddon is nearly seven feet tall with blue, scaly skin, rapier-like teeth, seven fingers on each hand, and three large light-sensitive eyes. For the past seven years, the Reptillicans have been raiding and scavenging closer to United Earth’s trade lines, becoming elusive and deadly advisories.

Commander Abaddon’s ship, the Baphomet, stopped the unarmed freighter Gaspar without a fight by pointing his ship’s four laser cannons at it. Thirty men, women, and children, hoping for humane treatment, now face death.

A second, heavier woman is dragged down the hallway to Commander Abaddon. Smiling lasciviously, he says, “It will be a pleasure to have you for dinner.”

The woman spits in his third eye. “I’d rather die first.”

“You will.”

A man, his face bruised and bleeding, is the next human to be pushed in front of Commander Abaddon.

His eyes blinking sporadically, Azazel, Commander Abaddon’s equally malicious second in command, says, “This one insists he has something of value to say.”

“You know better than to bring one of these sniveling Terrans to me.”

“He is their leader, Commander. Perhaps, if you show him some kindness or decide otherwise, the other captives will be more compliant.”

“Speak, vermin.”

Duncan Durazzo, Captain of the freighter Gaspar, pleads, “This isn’t our war. We’re not soldiers, we’re civilians. All we want to do is transport our goods from Earth to Erde One.”

“And interesting goods they are,” Azazel says. “They have dogs, Commander. Three German Shepherds, two Dobermans, and four poodles.”

“They will make good appetizers,” Commander Abaddon replies.

Durazzo nervously plays his trump card. “We demand to be set free. The Geneva Space Convention protects civilians.”

Commander Abaddon bursts into laughter, chuckling so much he has to wipe his watering eyes.

“He demands! I have never been to Geneva, I cannot read Terran, and I hate conventions. Take him to the airlock, Azazel. He will have his freedom when you shoot him into space.”

A guard leads three young boys down the hallway toward Commander Abaddon.

“Ah, dessert.”

Packy Phillips, Fred’s supervisor, stops him in the hallway. Asthmatic, and with two years of service left before his retirement, slump-shouldered, sullen Packy has little patience for his team’s mistakes.

“Get to the commissary, pronto, Freddy. Food processor number four just went offline.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Fred asks naively.

“It’s not producing food, nimrod. And don’t forget to empty the sewage system. It’s gettin’ deep.”

When Fred enters the commissary, he finds Modack Carlson and Maz Outerline, two of the ship’s gung-ho gunnery crew, staring ruefully at food processor number four.

Carlson bangs on number four with his fist.

“Infernal computerized crap,” he grumbles.

“Second time it’s died this week,” Outerline notes.

Fred drops his tool bag next to the food processor.

“You tryin’ to jump the line?” Carlson asks angrily.

“No, I’m here to fix it.”

Outerline eyes Fred closely. “You don’t look too qualified to me. You sure you can even see it with those wide eyes of yours?”

“I’m a Grade Three Maintenance Worker.”

Outerline lets out a mocking gasp. “Grade Three? Hey, Mo, isn’t that the lowest possible rank?”

“Yep. Amateur hour,” Carlson replies.

“Look fellas, you wanna eat or make fun of me?”

“Don’t see why we can’t do both,” Outerline says.

Fred examines number four, looking behind the unit.

“Looks like the hoses are clogged.”

Carlson and Outerline watch as Fred laboriously flushes out number four’s processing system.

“It should work now,” Fred soon declares.

Pressing the keypad, he orders green pea soup.

Number four’s gears grind and squeak, but nothing, not even a bowl, appears.

Flustered, Fred bangs his fist against the machine.

“I don’t get it. It should be working.”

Carlson and Outerline exchange questioning looks.

A bowl drops into position.

“There it goes.”

A panel opens, spraying Fred with lukewarm green pea soup.

“Yeah, he’s a grade three all right,” Outerline says.

Fred goes back to his locker to change clothes, passing Packy on his way to the dressing room.

“What the hell happened to you? You kill a Martian?”

“Food processor number four went rogue on me.”

“Did you fix it?”

“I put a sign on it saying it’s out of order.”

Packy grumbles. “I’ll have Grace Michael look at it. She’s used to fixing your screw-ups. Did you empty the sewage system?”

“Not yet.”

“Well stop playin’ Julia Child and get to it. But first I need you to change the screens in the carbon dioxide vents.”

“Where are they at?”

“Outside.”

The door leading into space opens.

“It’s not fair,” Fred says as he screws on his space helmet.

Fred steps out into space, taking a moment to stare in awe at the thousands of stars surrounding him.

He trudges toward the carbon dioxide vents. He is only a few feet away from them when he realizes his lifeline attached to the ship is taut.

“This could only happen to me,” Fred moans, yanking at the line in frustration.

The line retracts, slamming Fred against the hull. He yanks at it, walking away until the line goes slack again. The two extra steps he needs to get to the vents pulls the line taut again. The line snaps back, slamming Fred against the hull.

Packy looks out of the airlock window, watching Fred get yanked back and forth like a human yo-yo.

Still feeling the dizzying effects of being smashed against the side of the ship, Fred wobbles down the hallway toward his quarters.

Captain Swift approaches him.

Fred salutes. Captain Swift passes, turning to look back at him.

“What’s your name, crewman?”

“Fred Farkas.”

“Right, ‘Fix It Fred.’ You’re the guy who repaired my toilet. Flushes like a champ now. Have you got a few minutes to look at my overhead lights? They’re flashing.”

“Let me get a ladder and I’ll be right there, sir.”

Captain Swift turns on the lights. They blink in random, annoying patterns.

“Could be just a burned-out bulb. When one goes, they all act funny because they’re part of a sequence,” Fred says confidently, climbing the ladder.

“I’ll put in a new bulb. You should be good as new.”

Fred tries popping out the bulb, but it breaks.

“Lots of juice in that array, eh?” Captain Swift asks.

“Yeah, all the light fixtures in the living quarters pretty much feed off of the same line.”

Fred tries prying out the broken bulb with a screwdriver. He’s able to get most of the broken glass out, but the filament remains in the socket.

Intent on getting the filament out, Fred jams the screwdriver in the fixture.

A loud pop is followed by a puff of white smoke and the smell of burning flesh.

Fred’s body jerks wildly. His greasy hair stands on end and his wide eyes bulge as the current flows through his body.

He falls from the ladder, losing consciousness.

Fred wakes up on Doctor Bender’s examining table. Packy is standing nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, wheezing heavily.

The fatherly, white-haired physician smiles at Fred.

“Glad to see you’re still with us. I’m going to write a paper on you. You just broke the record for the highest amount of current that can pass through a human body. How do you feel?”

“Stupid instead of famous.”

“You ought to,” Packy wheezes. “You embarrassed me in front of Captain Swift and embarrassed the department –  once again.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“As far as I’m concerned, the only record you’ve set is for the number of screw-ups in a week. You make another mistake and you’re gonna wish you really were electrocuted.”

The Baphomet sits inside an ion cloud, undetected by the Daring.

Azazel turns to Commander Abaddon. “The Terrans have all the fuel we need. We detect five to six laser cannons we can salvage.”

“They outgun us,” Commander Abaddon notes. “It will be a difficult battle, but we will prevail.”

“Why not use the new weapon, Commander?”

“It is untested.”

“Then perhaps this is a good time to test it.”

“Fire the ultra-sound pulsar!” Commander Abaddon bellows.

Fred is on the bridge, polishing the brass railings, listening to music through his noise-canceling headphones as Packy performs maintenance on the ship’s weapon systems.

“We’ll have you back online in a few ticks, Captain,” Packy says confidently.

“Good. Nothing worse than getting caught naked,” Captain Swift replies.

Everyone on the bridge collapses, falling into a deep sleep.

Frightened and surprised, Fred removes his headphones.

“I’m all alone. It’s not fair… I’m all alone!”

Azazel is astonished. “One Terran remains!”

“Show me.”

The Daring’s navigation screen activates.

Fred’s heart skips as a blue-skinned, lizard-like creature with three eyes appears before him.

His voice harsh and angry, Commander Abaddon asks, “Who are you?”

“I…I’m Captain Frederick Farkas.”

“You will surrender, Farkas, or we will board your ship. Instead of your crew being in a temporary sleep, those we do not eat will be permanently asleep.”

“It’s you who's gonna surrender, you three-eyed gecko,” Fred answers boldly.

A second Reptillican slips into view, his three eyes blinking sporadically as he tries to contain himself.

“I told you they are impudent creatures, Commander.”

“Prepare to be boarded, Captain Farkas.”

“I’m warning you. Don’t force me to use our excrement equalizer.”

Commander Abaddon turns to Azazel. “You have studied these deceitful creatures. What is this weapon?”

“I have not heard of such a weapon.”

“It’s top secret,” Fred replies. “And it’s comin’ after you, sucker. You have thirty seconds to surrender.”

Azazel whispers to Commander Abaddon, “We must board their ship now before the effect of the sound pulsar wears off.”

“Fire it again.”

“We have to wait for the power to regenerate.”

“How long?”

“Twenty movements.”

“That is too long.” Commander Abaddon looks back toward the screen, his three eyes narrowing. “We will have your ship, and we will feast on your meager meat. Prepare to die. Open the airlocks for the boarding party, Azazel.”

Groggy, Captain Swift and Packy slowly rise to their feet. Disoriented, the rest of the bridge crew sit up, rubbing their heads.

“What happened?” Captain Swift asks.

“The Reptillicans zapped the crew with a sound pulsar. They’re going to board the ship.”

“Fire the lazar cannons!” Captain Swift commands.

“They’re still offline,” Packy replies meekly.

“How long before you can get them back online?”

Wheezing, Packy reaches in his pocket for his inhaler. “Ten minutes.”

“We don’t have ten minutes.”

“I have an idea, Captain,” Fred says.

“Who are you again?”

“Frederick Farkas, Maintenance Worker, Grade Three. ‘Fix it Fred.’”

“More like ‘Fix it Again, Fred.’ You’re the guy who nearly electrocuted himself changing a light bulb. Whatever you have in mind had better be good, or we’re all going to feel like we’re sticking our fingers in a light socket.”

Fred goes to the control panel.

“What are you doing?” Captain Swift asks.

“Firing the excrement equalizer.”

“The what?”

Accessing the ship’s sewage system, Fred empties the toilets, sending a wave of waste at the Reptillican ship.

The massive wave covers the Baphomet’s outer hull. The sewage seeps into the ship through its vents and open airlocks. It quickly spread through the ship’s defense and propulsion grids, paralyzing it.

The Reptillican’s bridge goes dark.

Commander Abaddon appears on the Daring’s navigation screen.

“We surrender, Captain Farkas.”

“Nice work, ‘Captain’ Farkas,” Captain Swift says.

Fred turns to Packy. “Well, I finally got around to emptying the sewage system.”