The Kruton Interface by John Dechancie

Darvona’s turn for shock. “Catamite!” Another slap.
    “Hussy!” And another.
    “Buttboy!” And still another.
    “What the devil is this?” the captain wanted to know. “An officer does not strike another officer!”
    “He started it,” Darvona said hotly.
    “I want both of you—”
    “Sir! Excuse me, Captain?”
    “This is a disgrace—What, Navigator?”
    “Sir, that was an error.”
    “What was an error?”
    “Our position. We’re not where I said.”
    “Where are we?”
    “Okay. See those sounding markers in the middle of the screen?”
    “What sounding markers?”
    “Those little numbers there, the ones that tell you the density of the interstellar medium in that region? We’re right about in there, somewhere.”
    “Oh, those numbers. Is that what they are?”
    “Yeah, it tells you the density of gas and dust and that stuff.”
    “Okay, what about—?” The captain whirled in his seat. “Will you two stop slapping each other?”  
    Hooker!” Slap!
    “Fairy!” Slap!
    “Doxy!” Slap!
    “Faggot!” Slap!
    “Sir, if you’ll just look at the map—”
    “Wait just a minute, Navigator!”
    Rhodes said, “Lieutenant, please indicate our position by using coordinates.”
    “That function is, uh, nonfunctional, sir.”
    “The coordinate-plotter is down?”
    “Yes, sir. And I can’t get the flashing indicator to work either. But if you’ll just go to the right of those sounding markers—I’m sorry, to the left.”
    “Where, where?” the captain wailed. “For God’s sake, where the hell are we?”
    “Flit!”
    “Whore!”
    “Pansy!”
    “Harlot!”
    “Will you two—? Navigator, for God’s sake, please, will you tell me, without any equivocation whatsoever, what the position of this ship is in relation to the Kruton Interface?”
    Warner-Hillary made a vague gesture. “It’s off in that direction.”
    “Thank you so much. That is truly a big help.”
    “Well, sir, nothing is really working right.”
    “We just pulled out of a graving dock after five days of refitting!”
    “Sir, the crew was gone during that time, and they didn’t come back. The computer tech people are all enlisted personnel, and they’re responsible for fixing the ship’s computers.”
    Wanker raised his arms in resignation. “You’re right of course, Lieutenant, not your fault. But we really have to know where that verboten territory is.”
    “Don’t worry, sir, we’re really nowhere near it.”
    Wanker looked relieved. “Well, that’s comforting.” He turned around. “What’s happening now?”
    Darvona and Sven had stopped exchanging blows and were now embracing, both blubbering apologies.
    They’re making up, sir,” Rhodes told him.
    “How nice. How lovely. All stop!”
    Darvona and Sven separated and stared at the captain.
    “Sir, what’s wrong with a little hugging and kissing?” Darvona asked.
    “I meant stop the engines, you twit.”
    “All electrogravitic thrusters’re shet doon,” Sadowski said.
    “I sleep better at night,” Wanker averred, “knowing that the electrogravitic thrusters are shet doon.”
    “What do we do now, sir?” Rhodes wanted to know.
    “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We hand over the ship to Dr. Whatshisface and stand back. Mr. Rhodes, you have the conn. I’m going to my cabin to surgically excise my liver with a butter knife. I need a little relaxation.”
    “Have a good time, sir,” Darvona said.
    “Oh, I will. It’s a rusty butter knife.”
    “Captain,” Rhodes put in. “Don’t you think you’re spending a little too much time in your quarters, sir?”
    Wanker glowered at him. “Are you questioning the actions of a superior officer?”
    “Frankly, yes, sir. We need you here on the bridge.”
    “For what? There’s nothing to do. I’m going back to my cabin.”
    As Wanker neared the blow tube, he stopped and asked over his shoulder, “Navigator, you’re sure about the Interface being far enough away?”
    “Yes, sir. Don’t