Instructions were basic. Start. Stop. Up. Down. Until recently it responded with a simple ‘OK’, but now, seemingly randomly, it responded with an unequivocal 'NO’.
Lights at the foot of the ship came on automatically. A thousand little things scrambled, rolled and hopped back into a perpetual, planetary darkness.
The rocks at the bottom were perfectly triangular, covered in a dark silver sheen. A plank was lowered, contacting with euphonic vibrato.
The expedition purchased specially designed undergarments at great expense. The benefits in that environment would be obvious, the professor claimed.
“The level below this one has all the good stuff – it’s time we took back what’s rightfully ours!” The mob stood in front of the Teleporter unaware that it went only to some random point in deep space.
Every sun in the system flickered. Complaints were handled by a terse, automated vacation notice.
At thirty degrees it was a flaming liquid. At ten degrees it was smooth and delicious. At zero degrees it evaporated with invective.
The docking procedure was completed with a harried desperation, the eagerness of which left the crew of both vessels slightly ashamed.
The fetus robots were designed by an interstellar slime mold that was acting purely out of spite.
The Resplendent Haflphlonk was dangerously cuddly–a two ton love muffin with a subsonic purr that melted rocket cores.
After the ship recovers from an infestation of spiders the Psychon tricks the Introvert into taking his mandated vacation on the Sex Planet.
A dozen glasses of wine later the captain explained that their mission had always been to get rid of the arms and legs.
A trough was placed in front of them, as long and as wide as their previous, beloved captain.
After one more arcsecond they pummeled the ejection mechanism, creating useless jets of steam and terse complaints by the onboard AI.
An exasperated yelp came from the bottom of the engine well, then glitter and warp power.