III

"At this rate we might as well choose from the default options," Tank said seriously. "We had, what, four?"
"Had." Aurora fingerscrolled down the beeping holopage. "Right now only 'Ravishing Sow' is up for grabs." She frowned. "Command is sending curiously angry-looking signals."
Marshall slammed his fists on the table again. "This is ridiculous. I am going to make an executive decision."

--

Crush stepped into Chef's shoes to prepare dinner for the crew. The table was awash with talk. In the background grooved the sounds of jazz music from Tank's Elevator Tunes record.
"Well, under high-pressure situations, you can't have really high expectations," Aurora was saying with a note of sympathy. "And really, I mean, kings and queens name things after themselves."
"Besides," Flash inserted between mouthfuls of purple mush, "Even if this dish doesn't taste..." He paused, reflected, and went on decisively. "'The Crush Spectacular' sounds cool."
"It's like week-old sewer," said Glen. "Fresher than month-old," he clarified.
Crush grinned and nodded amiably, shoveling it.
"Tracey, eat your stuff," said X-Ray, "I'm not bailing you out this time."
Tracey stuck her tongue out. Her purple mush jiggled.
"I think she did," Tank noted to X-Ray with meaning.
Tracey tittered.
Marshall, in the meantime, poked at his food, sullen. He was suddenly no longer eager for a mission to come along. Only his wife noticed; Aurora patted his arm with the absent-minded care of experience.
The rest of the crew of Blackstarstarcraft was ignorant to the sounds of jazz.

--

Operative X ran fingers through choppy, impeccably styled jet-black hair and scowled attractively.
"Your modelling days will be over if you do not heed your master when he beckons!" bellowed a voice.
Operative X turned sharply from the mirror. "Sorry, Bessa."
The slim fur-clad woman scowled attractively. The Raven patted her hand, and raspily said, "X!"
"Yes, Your Lordship." X stuck out an embarrassed chin with false pride.
"It is time to ravage another small planet." The Raven sat in a chrome-coated throne and looked angry. Vinyl, jet-black wings hung loosely from a suit once-skin-tight drooping over a hunched back. "The people have begun to doubt my evil power."
"Impossible," X said.
"There is more!" The Raven coughed a cough of pure evil. "You recall the team known as Blackstar?"
"Our archnemeses," boomed Bessa.
X dimmed, then brightened. "The ones with the unnamed starcraft."
"Yes." The Raven's eye gleamed. "It is unnamed no longer."
"Formidable," X said.
"They will try to stop us." The Raven gestured with long, shrunken fingers. "You must stop them. You and the New Ones."
"Dandy," X said. "When?"
"Now," Bessa broadcasted. At the same time, The Raven said, "In about a week's time."
"Fantastic," X said. He left the room looking macho.
The Raven cackled.