The tableau on the bridge was….interesting. Johnson smiling oddly with blood oozing from one ear, a pool of gelatinous slime crawling up the console towards the main controls, and what appeared to be a comfy pillow attempting to cover the ventilation grille. I felt right at home with my mop.

“Resistance is futile,” rasped Johnson, drooling slightly, “as my master has compelled me to disable the reactor restraints.”

“No! Victory is mine,” cried the pillow, “as I now control the environmental system.”

“You forget that I have disabled the engines,” said the mop. “And I suggest you reopen that vent, lest I be angered by the lack of air.”

“Ha! I have no need of air!” burbled the goo, “and I claim this ship in the name of the Protoplasmic Collective!”

“Did you say ‘reactor restraints’? Didn’t you mean ‘reactor activators’?”

Johnson looked puzzled. “The large red control, as my master commanded.”

I winced. “Idiot, you’re color-blind, remember? I’d say we all have about two minutes to live.”