In regarding The Hive Collective... from a great distance, while wearing spandex.

Captain Seymour DickLogic surveyed his fleet. Furrowing his brow as it became clear that this time his Cocknowledge manoeuvre would not work and something new was called for. The enemy was smart, hive mind or no, they were smart. Perhaps too smart, maybe even smarties smart. Could he use their own smartness against them. Would they fall for something so apparently dumb that he could use their own smartness against them?

"Captain sir! It is time to get out of the bath." Ensign Lovelyjugs stood to attention, holding out the official captain and above fluffy towel of drying. Eyes firmly closed because Doctor Firm-Posterior had warned her about the unpleasant side-effects of her Space Rabies shot. Specifically the one about going into heat. "You said to call you if the bridge indicated anything above puce level."

"Indeed, ensign." Captain Seymour DickLogic grunted as he put his fleet back on the shelf and got out, accepting the towel and admiring the straining material of the ensign's red shirt. "What level?" Why did she have her eyes closed, was she afraid to feast her eyes on his chiseled perfection?

"Pinky-russet, captain sir!" Ensign Lovelyjugs had accidentally opened one eye and seen it, in a reflection off the mirror of the shaving mirror off the wall. Now all she had to do was hold it in until she could...

"How long ago?" Captain Seymour DickLogic grunted, with a single muscular clench of his perfectly hardened gluteus maximus, all the water still clinging to his magnificently chiseled body leapt off, completely outclassed by such magnificence. He returned the towel after a perfunctory wipe of his fabulously furrowed brow and wondered if this redshirt had that disease they had picked up on Planet Frogbottom, the one that made everyone have spontaneous orgasms until they collapsed from too much excitement. He made a mental note to ask Doctor Firm-Posterior and just as immediately forgot it. Red shirts explode everyday.

Dressed in his Captains space battle undershorts, because only red shirts wore underpants, he adjusted his Captains' space onesie and looked in the mirror and thought guttorally at it. Hair. Instantly his hair was perfect and correctly chiseled as befitted a captain.

"Captain sir?" The ensign wibbled, quivvering dangerously.

"Yes, ensign." He glanced throatily, then glanced curiously, then got it right and turned around to look at the red shirt, for some reason she was holding the towel and facing the wall, her space onesie was clearly several sizes too small as it was quite easy to make out her ensign nappies bulging as they strained to keep the poor creature's firm buttocks protected from horrible accidents that plagued the nubile when faced with people of his stature. "Dismissed, don't forget to let the bath go."

The door hissed happily as he left, heading for the bridge. Pinky-russet meant uglies. Possibly smart uglies. How he longed for a huge space battle just like the good old days. These border skirmishes were not him, a mere twenty ship fleet was but a pimple of the buttocks of Space Navy, especially to a man so manly that they sang songs about his masculinity. Why, in his most famous moment, over six hundred ships had participated in that most glorious battle.

Behind him, Ensign Lovelyjugs was a bulging pile on the floor of the space bathroom, quivering from uncontrollable wibbles. She had seen it and she had a towel to sniff and she was locked in the captain's cabin. It was hopeless, she would be dead by the end of the episode, but what a way to go! she sniffed the towel and squealed.

"Captain on deck!" An ensign squeaked as her voice refused to behave. Seconds later she swooned as his manliness wafted past. Fortunately her corner for making pointless announcements also included a swooning harness that would keep her standing no matter how manly the situation became. Almost. The safety warning declared it was not to be used for any situation beyond tool steel and that prolonged usage at bronze or even brass monkey was not recommended.

"It's Uglies sir, a whole fleet of them. They might be the Longwangless Fleet." The first officer read from his screen, thankful for Comic Sans being sufficiently large that he did not need glasses. Glasses focussed stuff and seeing that much chiseled awesome was bad for his heart.

"Longwangless? Out here in these Cromulent waters?" Captain Seymour DickLogic grunted, clenching his fists. They may be Cromulent, but to lose them to the Hive Collective would be an admission of inadequacy. One does not simply give a metric inch, one fights until there is nothing left and then some. "Open channel D, see if they have come for a clandestine surrender." He looked at the red shirt dangling near the door in the swooning corner of pointless announcements. that planet Frogbottom needed upgrading to dangerous. "Get the announcer fixed."

"Sir, it is illogical for the Longwangless Fleet to even consider the possibility of thinking about surrender. Our intelligence says that they are commanded by Admiral Thora Thighgap and that her entire fleet sprang from her loins fully formed in The Parthenogenesis Incident."

"I missed that episode," Captain Seymour DickLogic admitted, for being a real man required some minor foibles. Minor insignificant ones that were well below the level of potential plot device.

"Sir! Their fleet is taking up the breast formation!" The orange shirt womanning the galactispace combined scanner, radar and makeup station reported. No one asked her about her space onesie being an unusual colour as this was an NTSC fault, besides, she had nipples that could and would cut glass. The first officer had learned that lesson the hard way and still had the bruises to prove it. Besides, orange perfectly set off her bright purple skin.

"On screen." Captain Seymour DickLogic commanded firmly in his most firmly captainly voice. The announcer red shirt swooned again, dangling in her safety harness.

"Captain," the science officer stared at the scanny thing to see what his lucky colour was today, it was red. That was a really bad sign, so he pressed the reset button. "They have enough ships for a double-D formation." Something went "boop" and when he looked again, it told him that his tarot card for today was "The Spanking Rhinoceros." and that he should avoid, buttons the ships cat and the number buttocks. Sorry, the number three.

The breast formation was one of the hive collectives most formidable battle stances. It involved a central circular core of the hardest ships, then a sweeping umbrella of forward armed cruisers and the likes protecting the softer tanker cockships and catering ships inside. It was so called because to the uninitiated, it looked like an awful lot of fire power could squirt at you.

"Helm, tell engineering we're going to need Testosterone speed. Weaponry, ready the wangsplitter torpedoes all of them." Captain Seymour DickLogic brooded. He did not have to say what sort of torpedoes, or how many, but he did anyway because everyone needed to fear the wangsplitter torpedoes. This crew already knew that their beloved captain was all or nothing. Fire all the torpedoes until we have nothing left.

"Captain, they answered our hailing beam." The orange shirted communications officer announced in her husky voice of husking, which caused the science officer to nearly have an accident in his space onesie.

Captain Seymour Dicklogic glowered at the screen and his opposing number. The first officer and science officer frantically holding up cue cards. This was one of the most brutal captains ever. Theora Thighgap had nothing on this spawn from her loins by parthenogensis in the episode that the captain had missed! This was nightmare fuel. This was Admiral Manko Maramuncher. Five feet two metric inches of flat chested blonde with a frilly pink uniform, cat ears a distinctly unphallic magic wand and the attitude of a mentally disturbed honey badger. I will accept your surrender at my convenience, not yours." He told her in his best gravelly voice. Oozing manliness so manly that even an angle grinder would have difficulty. "Didn't your dad tell you not to talk to strangers."

Things went to pieces so fast that the swooning corner safety harness disintegrated. Brass monkey came and went in a flash as the indicator slammed right into Unobtanium Cojones. The announcer crumpled in a bulging pile, completely outclassed, no amount of training had prepared her for such manliness! Her ensign nappies strained to contain the disaster.

Meanwhile, back in the captains cabin, Ensign Lovelyjugs had just made the mistake of sniffing the towel and was now attempting to mindmeld with the bed.

The science officer's jaw flapped uselessly, cue cards falling forgotten on the floor. Their beloved captain had just mortally insulted an entire fleet. He had visions of himself wearing a red shirt and ordered to beam down to the surface of a methane planet while smoking a cigar.

"Close channel D. I don't have time to listen to screaming kids in training bras." Captain Seymour DickLogic needed to survey his fleet broodingly. The screeching stopped as the forward screen became space and a plot of the enemy fleet. He needed a new maneuver to...

Like a white hot laser blast to face, it came to him. Captain Seymour DickLogic would once again win through against impossible odds. "Split the fleet into two. Half around the FireSchlong, half around the DampSchlong. We shall then form a pincer movement and attack the bulging nipple and the capital ships there from within their own fleet! My beloved crew, we will clamp their nipple and we will clamp it hard!" he ejaculated with such profound masculinity that even the communications officer noticed. But many suspected she was a man with boobs anyway.

The engines zubbed mightily as the great ships thrust deeper into space, heading for the enemy's breast. Fleet, fleet shaped breast. No wait, breast shaped fleet.

Next episode: Operation Nipple Piercer 2.