Episode Two:

"Okay," he said to himself outloud, "First things first."

Sitting down in the pilot’s seat, Will opened a darkened instrument panel in front of him and slid out a computer terminal and touchpad keyboard. The screen was flashing error and offline codes, so he knew the green glowing battery pack attached to the side had done its job, keeping the administrative console online in spite of the general electrical failure.

"What’s that?" asked Dr. Smith. "I don’t recall there being a terminal on that console."

"Dr. Smith," said Will, not taking his eyes off the screen as he continued his attempts to bring the ship’s central computer back online, "see that chair right there next to me?"

"Of course," replied Smith.

"Good. Sit your butt down in it, be quiet and don’t distract me," snapped Will. "Bringing you up-to-date right now is not a priority. If I don’t get power restored quickly, nothing will matter anyway."

Smith sat down silently, as instructed, and looked on as the young man worked.

Will breathed a sigh of relief he suddenly began to receive a response to his keyboard commands. "Okay, that’s better - - central computer’s back online. Score one for the good guys."

Will brought the power generators back online, bypassing the damaged conduit that caused them to shut down. He was careful to mute the exterior lighting and remotely close all the viewports as well. The last thing he wanted to do was to light up the ship like a beacon in the night and tip off the attackers that they’d missed a prisoner or two.

It took about ten seconds for the Jupiter’s administrative computer to run a complete diagnostic of the ship and display the status report on the main screen. Normally he’d print out a hard working copy, but didn’t see the point given the circumstances.

"Not quite as bad as I thought," mumbled Will as he finished scanning the diagnostics table and began entering commands to electronically "bandage" the ship by diverting power from or around damaged systems.

"Dr. Smith, do me a favor," he said, again without looking up from his work. "Go over to the main hatch and see if you can get it to close. According to this readout, some of the controls appear to be damaged, but I’ve patched in the EHC circuits, which should be operational now."

"But you told me to sit here," protested Smith. "My delicate back is a veritable disaster area and this chair is really quite comfortable. And besides, dear William, it’s been so very long, I’d probably just push the wrong button anyway. Remember what happened to the Robot that time when I…?"

"Now Smith! Move it!" ordered Will turning to the doctor with a look on his face that Smith remembered seeing many times before. The only difference being, the look used to come from Will’s father.

Smith reluctantly rose to his feet. "The nut certainly doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?" he grumbled under his breath as he made his way over to the hatch. Once there, he belligerently began pushing all of the buttons at once, causing the panel to twitter and chirp error bleeps.

"There! You see? It’s not working. I told you so," reported Smith with an air of superiority.

"You’re really not going to like it if I have to come over there. So stop messing around and close the hatch," answered Will, "…or maybe you like the idea of the alien attackers coming back to grab us too."

The hatch began to close and Smith dashed back to his seat.

"Alien attackers?!" he asked. "You mean to tell me all this damage is the result of something other than just one of the Major’s better attempts at landing this ship?"

"‘Fraid so, Dr. Smith," replied Will, staring at the computer screen and entering instructions to the ship’s main computer.

"Your family and the Major?" asked Smith.

"Gone," replied Will concentrating on the screen in front of him. "Okay… there. Yes! Force and stealth fields are activated and most offensive and defensive systems are back online. Well, if they come back now, at least we’re not sitting ducks."

That sounded confident, Will thought to himself. He was very troubled though, because these systems should have all been functioning in flight. If they were, the seemingly quick, hostile takeover of the Jupiter 2 was accomplished with state-of-the-art space technology the likes of which he’d never come in contact with before. Which meant, if they came back, he’d better have "Plan B" ready to execute, because all the fancy-ass improvements he’d made to the Jupiter 2 over the years apparently amount to diddly-squat against this adversary. His mind raced. Too many things to do. Too many questions. Where was his family? Were they all right? What the hell happened here? He knew his nerves were near the edge, so he had to rely on his H’rlaxian training now. Task management. Prioritize. One thing at a time.

"William!" barked Smith, shaking his shoulder slightly and interrupting his thoughts. "Aren’t you listening to me? I asked you who took them and how ever did you escape capture?"

"Damn it, Smith! I told you…" snapped Will, then catching himself. "Okay. Very quickly: I don’t know who took them. I don’t know what happened -- exactly. We were in flight, something happened and we crashed here. I wasn’t captured because I was unconscious for a period of time and trapped behind a broken hatch door down in the Power Core."

"What about the Robot?" asked Smith.

"As far as I can tell, in about a million pieces down below," answered Will as he began to stand up. "But now that I’ve secure the ship, I want to…owwww!" Will clutched his bad leg as it buckled underneath him, and he fell down to his knee.

"Good heavens, you’re injured!" gasped Smith as he caught hold of Will’s right arm to steady him. "Let me have a look…."

"Back off!" snapped Will, forcefully shaking off Smith’s grip. "Don’t touch me. I don’t need your help. I just need to get below to the Med-dem."

"‘Get below to the madam?’" repeated Smith incredulously. "I don’t believe my ears. Has everything gone to hell in a handbasket in my absence?"

"Med-dem," enunciated Will deliberately as he used the arm of the pilot’s seat to raise himself up on to his good leg. "Short for ‘medical-demitter.’ It’s a piece of equipment we, um… acquired several years ago. Kind of like a ‘cosmic first-aid kit.’ Come on, you’ll see."

Arriving on the ship’s lower level, Smith soon saw that the medical-demitter was actually a bit more than just a mere "piece of equipment." It actually occupied an entire room. His old cabin, to be precise, he noted sardonically.

"Sit there - - and don’t touch anything," ordered Will as he disappeared behind a screen, emerging a few moments later, having shed his ravaged uniform, and zipping up what looked like a standard-issue poly-aluminene Alpha Control spacesuit.

He got up on the exam table and began attaching several cables and wires into receptacles on the silver jumpsuit. Will then reached over and flipped a few switches on the console beside him and the Med-dem came to life.

Several scanning matrices lowered from above and hovered over Will, practically cocooning his body while diagnosing the nature and severity of his injuries. Moments later, the scanners rose and the Med-dem "spoke."

"Analysis complete," stated the machine’s mechanized voice synthesizer. "Waiting for instructions."

"Report Level 1 injuries only," replied Will to the machine.

"Bone dislocation and internal hemorrhaging in right femur. Incomplete micro-fractures in the right tibia and fibula. Fibrous ligaments of right ankle swollen, indicating mild sprain. Muscle tissue surrounding 4^th vertebrae strained. End report of Level 1 injuries," said the machine.

"Good heavens!" gasped Smith.

"Quiet!" snapped Will.

"State treatment option, if desired," droned the Med-dem.

"Non-traditional Med-dem treatment only, with secondary supplemental emergency triage alternatives," replied Will.

"Med-dem micro-cyberwave and ultrasonic regeneration treatment will restore 67% of Level 1 leg and ankle injuries. Vertebrae muscle strain will be only 15% effective utilizing Med-dem non-traditional treatment. If traditional treatment is not an option, supplementary alternatives are, in order of acceptability, inactivity for period of 72 hours or emergency triage Rx consisting of 25 cc dosage of benzrythium-ethelate with thelamine every 24 hours not to exceed a period of five days," stated the computer.

"Benzrythium-ethelate?" gasped Smith. "This machine is a veritable quack, William! Do you know how dangerous that substance is?"

"Not when it’s taken with thelamine," replied Will matter-of-factly.

"I’ve never heard of that," said Smith.

"I’m sure you haven’t. It’s a Ghelan compound," answered Will. "Used primarily in mobile combat triage when bed rest is not an option. Called "BET" for short."

"Med-dem will proceed with non-traditional treatment upon command," interrupted the machine.

"I think it’s telling us to shut up," said Will to Smith.

Directing his next comment to the machine, he continued, "Okay, the procedure’s approved. But, how long’s it gonna take?"

"Error. Voiceprint authorization parameter Dr. Maureen Robinson missing," scolded the Med-dem.

"Emergency override authorization William Robinson, Hatfield Four Corners," responded Will.

"Initiating emergency override authorization program. Please wait," chimed the Med-dem’s mechanical voice. "Override authorization William Robinson, Hatfield Four Corners confirmed and accepted. Please re-state approval and query."

"Procedure approved," responded Will, slightly exasperated. "State length of time for treatment in minutes."

"67% restoration to Level 1 injuries will require 19.25 minutes," replied the Med-dem.

"Shit! 19 minutes! Man, I hope we’ve got that long," Will looked pensively at Smith, who merely shrugged. "What the hell…, I guess I don’t have a choice. Okay, let’s get this over with," he sighed in a resigned tone and laid back.

"I suppose you’re going to inform me you’ve got to kill me now that I know your little secret password," speculated Smith sarcastically.

"Don’t give me any ideas," replied Will. "Actually, it doesn’t really matter. The Med-dem’s programmed with 10-syllable voiceprint recognition technology. Since you’re not in the program as a valid user, it wouldn’t listen to you anyway."

"Charming," replied Smith in a bored tone.

For the next 19.25 minutes, while the Med-dem did its work, Will tried to bring Smith up to date on the highlights of the decade and a half he’d spent in suspended animation. Smith seemed calm enough, listening intently and asking questions. And better yet, since calming down from his original outburst on the upper deck, he displayed no subsequent signs of aggression or agitation. All the same, Will never released his grip on the Atomizer he had pointing directly at the good doctor as they spoke.

Treatment completed, Will dispensed the prescribed BET dosage and administered it ultrasonically with a subcutaneous permeator. He prepared two more doses of the drug combination, placing the two sonic injectors in a small case.

"How do you feel?" asked Smith.

"I’ve felt better. The leg is still a little sore, but I’ll live," replied Will. "In the meantime we’ve got work to do. Stay put, I’ll be right back."

Will went to his cabin and quickly changed into a spare uniform. Returning, he found Smith examining the door of the Robot Bay.

"Lose something, doctor?" asked Will suspiciously. "I thought I told you stay in there."

"Where does this door go?" queried Smith.

"Like the sign says," answered Will, pointing to the nameplate on the wall next to it, ‘Robot Bay.’ Curious you’d be attracted to it."

"Suspicion and paranoia really do not become you, young man," replied Smith.

"Tell me it’s not justified historically, old man," said Will contemptuously.

"Touché, dear William. You’ve made your point," resigned Smith. "I was just rather surprised to see you’d given that nickel-plated nincompoop his own ‘bedroom,’ that’s all. Not a very neat housekeeper either, by the looks of it," continued Smith noting the ashes and scorch-marks protruding from the opening at the bottom of the hatch.

"Actually, you’ve just given me an idea here," said Will. "But we’ve got to get this hatch opened."

Will examined hatch controls, which seemed functional. The lock couldn’t be engaged because the hatch was actually open a few inches at the bottom. He thought about using the Atomizer, but feared it might disintegrate some of the nearby Robot parts along with the hatch.

"Something’s got to be jamming it from the other side," grunted Will as he laid down on the deck and put his arm up through the opening. He could feel that the interior walls were covered with soot and residue of chemical fire suppressant. There’d obviously been some sort of fire or explosion in there. He tried to feel upwardly along the side seams for something, anything that might be lodged in place, disabling the opening mechanism.

"Perhaps closing and opening repeatedly will dislodge the object," interjected Smith, promptly pushing the "close" button.

Before Will could react, the hatch door slid downward, pinning his arm to the deck. Fortunately, the safety features Alpha Control built into its spaceship hatches made it impossible to completely lock down a hatch door with a foreign object (like a body part) blocking its deck sensors. Normally, the hatch would automatically reopen. This one being jammed however, the door had just enough downward pressure to keep his arm pinned.

"What the hell are you doing, Smith?" shouted Will. "Open the hatch - - now!"

"All in good time, my dear boy," said Smith coolly, eyes narrowing as he reached over and snatched up the Atomizer Will dropped when the hatch door descended on his other arm.

Will cursed himself for being so stupidly lame. In spite of all of his experience and training, it was like he was 12 years old all over again. Some things never change. Once again, the clever old fart had played him like a fiddle, and was just biding his time the past few minutes, waiting for the right moment to carry out his Aeolian programming. The mindwash was still as strong as the day they froze him.

"Now then, I think I shall have to make this look like an accident," continued Smith. "What is this little plaything you’ve been toting around?" he asked, carefully examining the Atomizer up and down.

"What it isn’t," answered Will, "is any good to you. See, it’s rigged to respond only to my DNA pattern on the grip."

"Are you a betting man, my young friend?" answered Smith gravely. "I hope not, because I say you’re bluffing."

"No! Don’t!" shouted Will too late.

Smith aimed the weapon at Will and pulled the trigger. The Atomizer made a humming noise as it powered up and released a small electric charge, effectively "backfiring" and stunning Smith.

"Cursed atrocity!" shouted Smith, dropping the weapon and losing all self-control. "Well, we’ll just have to find where you store the more conventional weapons these days!" he proclaimed as he began frantically looking about the deck.

In his muddled mindset, the doctor had obviously forgotten about the disrupter he’d discarded on the upper deck, thought Will with a modicum of relief, as he knew for a fact there were no other weapons stored on this deck - - at least where Smith would find them.

His thoughts were cut short as the hair on the back of his neck suddenly raised. Will Robinson felt something touch the palm of his hand which was trapped inside the Robot Bay. It was something vaguely familiar. The object began to move rhythmically, almost like methodical tapping.

"Morse code?" thought Will to himself. Yes, it was Morse code. Will concentrated on the tactile message as Smith continued to ransack the lower deck, finally locating a small kitchen laser-knife in the galley.

"Ah, this should do nicely. A bit messier than a rifle, but no matter," he congratulated himself as he walked back over to where Will lay helpless.

"Any last words, my boy?" asked Smith coldly as he leaned over the helplessly pinned young man. "Pity I have to do away with you. We used to have such fine times together, you and I."

"Wait a minute," interjected Will. "What if I help you. You’re gonna to need me anyway to get the ship operational. You can’t do it alone."

"Oh, I won’t have to," hissed Smith, eyes glazed and glassy. "You see, my masters will be coming for me. I don’t need you… or any of your kind."

Will knew it was now or never. He had to distract Smith - - quickly.

"Is that one of your "masters" over there?" asked Will in an excited tone, pointing behind Smith with his free hand. He knew it was the lamest trick in the book, but in Smith’s state of mind, anything was possible.

Instinctively Smith turned around. As he did, Will shouted "Now!" and the hatch that had him pinned to the deck was heaved open by an mighty mechanical arm. Will rolled into the bay and out of the way as a battle-ravaged form from within propelled itself forward, barreling into Dr. Smith and knocking him over.

Smith instinctively reached for the Robot’s power pack, but was stopped short as the mechanical man placed his huge claws on either side Smith’s head and began sending rapid and repeated discharges of ultra high-voltage electricity through the man’s rigid body.

Will could see that the Robot was obviously damaged, but definitely not in pieces as he had believed earlier.

"Robot! That’s enough! You’re gonna kill him!" shouted Will, wondering why he suddenly felt compassion for a man who mere moments ago was preparing to dissect him with a kitchen knife.

"Negative, Will Robinson. On the contrary, this is precisely what should have been done 15 years ago," replied the B-9 behemoth as he continued sending bolt after bolt of electricity through his now unconscious victim. A few more blasts seemed to satisfy the vengeful Robot’s apparent bloodlust as he let Smith’s inanimate form drop lifelessly to the floor.

"I don’t understand," said Will. "You disobeyed a direct order. I didn’t think you were capable of that."

"My memory banks do not recall being issued an order, Will Robinson" replied the Robot. "You said, ‘that’s enough’ - - a subjective value judgement. My sensors indicated otherwise."

"You knew what I meant," answered Will.

"Human speech patterns are very often open to interpretation," argued the Robot. "Now, if you will assist me in moving Dr. Smith into the Med-dem, I would like to see if my actions have been successful."

It suddenly dawned on Will what the Robot had done. Prior to Smith being put into suspended animation, the mechanical man had come up with a theory of alternative treatment he calculated had a 30-70 chance of eradicating the alien mindwash. The odds being as bad as they were, coupled with the very distinct possibility that the patient wouldn’t survive the rather crude "cure," the archaic Earth procedure of electro-cerebral shock therapy was ruled out by the Robinsons and vehemently refused by Smith himself.

"Your ‘shock therapy’ theory? You actually went through with it," exclaimed Will. "What the hell makes you think…."

"Desperate times call for desperate actions, Will Robinson" interrupted the Robot.