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sterile environment.”
     
    Dr. Porniviriyakul shrugged.
     
    “Why are you even in here?”
     
    “There’s nothing on TV,” said Dr. Porniviriyakul. “And I hate Captain Tyler for giving me that stupid nickname. Watching you fail to revive his inanimate corpse is fun.”
     
    “You think I’m gonna fail?”
     
    “Yeah, little bit.”
     
    “Nurses are just as qualified as doctors! We just choose to focus on the patients!”
     
    “Uh huh, sure,” he replied. “How exactly are you going to bring him back without a brain? It’s not like we have extras lying around.”
     
    “Yes we do,” said Nurse Sidemanner, “in the brain freezer.”
     
    “Not anymore we don’t. Duknerts and Redshirt got in there. You don’t want to know what they’re doing.”
     
    “I don’t follow.”
     
    “Oh, well, I don’t want to be the one to explain it to you. The lunchlady-bot is streaming it. You can probably get a copy when you’re done. Or, you know, you could just watch it now and let Captain Asshat die.”
     
    “Never!”
     
    “Then we’re back to the brain situation.”
     
    “I’ve got an idea,” said Nurse Sidemanner. “As I’m sure you know, the body can continue living and performing complicated procedures for a solid ten minutes after a brain is removed.”
     
    “I’m not sure I follow.”
     
    Nurse Poorbed Sidemanner began running a medical-grade disposable plastic razor along her scalp.
     
    “Hand me that scalpel.”
     

     
    Private Heather Naughtyplaces ran into the lunchroom to find Private Redshirt sans shirt and elbow deep in her commanding officer, First Lieutenant Duknerts. That’s right. Redshirt’s a freak and the lieutenant’s very open-minded.
     
    Private Naughtyplaces had been the only person on the ship not aware of the lewd acts taking place in the cafeteria, largely due to her destroying her laptop after finding out Captain Tyler had filled her hard drive with naked pictures of himself. His enlarged member was even her desktop wallpaper. She had promptly vomited on the laptop, shorting it out. As such she had not seen the streaming live feed of the event, the multiple warnings and bets e-mailed by other crew members, nor the request for privacy Private Redshirt had sent from her iPhone with her free hand.
     
    “Oh, Jesus...” stuttered Private Naughtyplaces. “Oh, holy...”
     
    “What?” asked Private Redshirt.
     
    “I... it’s...” was as far as she got before vomiting.
     
    “Way to kill the mood, Heather,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.
     
    “I don’t know about that,” replied Private Redshirt, shifting her arm.
     
    “Oh, hey, okay. Crisis averted.”
     
    Private Naughtyplaces vomited again.
     
    “Why are you even here?” asked First Lieutenant Duknerts. “Can you go?”
     
    “Or, you know, join us?” asked Private Redshirt.
     
    “Or that, yeah.”
     
    Private Naughtyplaces began to vomit again, but found she was out of vomitable material. She cried a little instead.
     
    “I... I was looking for you, First Lieutenant,” she explained. “The captain is still dead and the bridge is on fire and I tried to ask Commodore Feces what to do but he... he trained a monkey to fling poo at people and it flung it at me and it got in my ear and I... I didn’t know what else to do and I think you’re technically in charge now, at least according to the monkey, and I... I... oh God...”
     
    “Right, well, you did the right thing, Private Naughtyplaces. Meet me at the bridge in five minutes.”
     
    Private Redshirt moved her arm again.
     
    “Make that thirty.”
     

     
    Two hours later, a winded First Lieutenant Duknerts arrived at the bridge, only to find an alive and ever more lecherous Captain Tyler sitting in his decidedly not-on-fire captain’s chair.
     
    “Duknerts!” said the captain. “Fancy a shag?”
     
    The captain was also British now.
     
    “Sir!” replied the first lieutenant. “You’re alive? Good?”
     
    The