As the intercom cut off, the ship seemed to shudder, knocking the mop out of my hands. I watched in growing horror as it righted itself, splinters separating themselves from the handle at top and bottom like Salvadore Dali’s coat rack. The upper splinters ended in something sparkly and menacing.

“This tool serves me in many ways, but for now you need only know it can make holes at a distance,” it said in a reedy voice. It demonstrated by shooting a bolt of lightning into the corner, incinerating what appeared to be a discarded pair of Johnson’s socks. The pig.

The ship shuddered again, and then fell silent.

“I have disabled your engines,” the mop continued, “Now let us proceed to the bridge.” The sparkly bits gestured me ahead, as the inner airlock door slid open.