A Starship Free Enterprise Story

The Cymbalta were a species of moon jelly-fish, which as a result of an improbable series of mutations were now the best metallurgists in the Alpha Quadrant. The USS Free Enterprise was sailing to the Cymbalta home world, Quaalude Prime. Our mission was to purchase a rare tungsten-valium alloy which could be used to secure our engines. We had been pushing Warp 8 a lot recently, and both our fore and aft Effexors had become unstable, causing endless repairs to the Reuptake Inhibitors.

Tensions were high in the AQ. There had been widespread reports of patent infringements. The vaporizing of a Lipitor arms dealer who had been trading in contraband Tri-Lithium Crystals had made tensions worse. The Lipitor’s arch-enemies, the Crestor, had been infringing on Lipitor trade monopolies, adding economic friction to the political and military mess.

“Yeoman Beehive, get me some Zyprexa-Chai.”

“Aye aye S…”

“Captain I have an incoming communication!”

“Transfer to main audio visual.”

A medium sized container ship appeared on the main vid screen, with little red circles where the ship had been targeted by the Free Enterprise’s weapons systems.

“Its a Crestor trading ship. Probably an arms dealer.”

“Awe. For Chrissakes …” The last thing Captain Bush wanted was to get messed up in some quasi-legal trade dispute.

“Should I blast it to atoms?” Ensign Ubiquitous-Ethnicity asked with a jocular Scottish-Nigerian-Korean lilt to his voice.

“Stop this, now!” the Flucasone Ambassador shouted. Or at least tried to shout. Unfortunately his voice was thin and nasal and he did not have the crew’s respect.

Captain Bush replied, “Chill out, Ambassador. Its just Bridge humor.” He turned to the Ensign and said, “Fire up the Prednisone torpedoes, just in case.”

…

The Cymbalta were aquatic creatures so preferred to focus their pollution on land. Their main city was Albuterol. It was grey and polluted, which was a pity, because the landscape had the potential to be stunning.

. which was more or less one large ex-pat bar for traders waiting for the Cymbalta to finish their repairs, or produce custom made metal work.

…

… lands on planet

is suddenly in an amphitheater with his Chief Science Officer facing a Minotaur.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I think so, Sir. Let me telepathically verify …”

“Stop that!”

“You were saying, Captain.”

…

Captain, the quad-corder readings suggest the creature is made predominantly of papier mâché and painted styrofoam.”

“I think I can take it out.”

“I concur. If I may speak idiomatically, ‘Go for it George'”.

Captain George Bush 44th leapt at the monster. “I’m going to take this fucker down” he thought to himself as he rushed the papier mâché and styrofoam Minotaur.

The moment before he slammed into it, he hit a force field.

“Fuck!” He bruised his head against it, but did not pass out.

Captain Bush looked up. He was on a tiled floor in a domed room far under the sea. He was surrounded by Cymbalta, who were all swimming in place.

Bush whispered to his medical officer, “Bones, I think …”

“Do not use that word here!”

The Science Officer said, sub voce, “They’re not vertebrates. References to internal skeletal structures are considered obscene.”

“Right, right.” The Captain rubbed his bruised head as he rose. “They seem very orderly. What’s going on?”

“Its the Cetrizine Guard. Its the personal militia of Quaalude Prime’s Levo-Cetrizine.”

The Guard was lined up in 12 near squares of 12×12 an artifact of the Cymbalta’s twelve tendrils. It was difficult to gauge the area they covered because it was in water.

In the center was the Levo-Cetrizine. It spoke, “You have proved yourself worthy of us in matters of war, Captain George Bush the 44th. But what about matters of Love?”

“How do you know my name?” …

Suddenly he was back again in a landscape of spray painted styrofoam rocks and a flat grey painted backdrop which was periodically illuminated by flashes of lightening.

A woman appeared before him. It was Yeoman Cute-Tush. She had been expelled from the Academy because of her refusal to wear mini-skirts. Or perhaps her insistence on blunt cuts instead of Beehive hair-dos. It was a particularly scandalous at the time to be insubordinate, given how Starfleet was focusing on being combat ready given tensions with the Klingon Empire.

Her copper red hair was cut in a bob and she was wearing slacks.

Slacks.

…

“I don’t think I can … can … control myself much longer. Do you think we can … can .. convince her to change into something less sensual, like a mini-skirt?”

“Captain, come to your senses. Taste this. Is it familiar?”

“Of course. Its Haldol. Woooo! Would you look at that ass. I mean the one that’s buried under those slacks and scarred by that pantyline.”

The Science Officer bloodlessly slapped his superior officer twice. “Captain, you’ve got to listen to me. Your only partially liberated sexual sensibilities are no match for her feminine wiles.”

“Haldol. Of course. Vulcan B52 … ”

The Science Officer gently placed the Captain onto a moulded styrofoam rock-bench.

“

… She chases them, they notice all of the ingredients of a B52 and knock her out. The Cymbalta deem the Federation worthy of monopoly trade practices.

The End.