By Gregg Pearlman
Dear Diary:
Here we are in orbit around 38th-century Earth, having been catapulted here by an incredible magnetic field while trying to determine whether or not there really is a Shapley Center.
It's been more than a bit trying, what with first officer Spock going around grabbing and pinching female crew members -- except, much to her dismay, Nurse Chapel. "Pon Farr, Captain," he says. Suuurre. Give me a break. (But I do sympathize: Chris has incredibly bad breath -- quite an assault on Spock's highly sensitive Vulcan nostrils.)
Actually, there is historical precedence. I cite, obviously, the famous Vulcan ambassador to Twerdspi VII, Sprick, who also used the pon farr as his rather flimsy defense for sneaking up behind T'Flonn, Vulcan Logic Queen, and giving her a melvin. Sprick, of course, was sentenced to 100 years of Vulcan grammar lessons.
But I wish that our problems with Spock were our biggest problems, but alas, that's not the case.
Since this is my first chance to update my log in five days, I'll start from the beginning, reading from notes I scribbled in code and hid in my clothing.
Lucky we arrived, because the Klingons will have conquered Earth early in the 38th century. They've seized the airways, which is normal enough, I guess. But it's bad enough that they've made cockfights mandatory. Worse, their deliberate, foul flatulence has cast an unbearable pall over the entire planet. But I feel I must protest over their imprudent and insistent airing of Klingon male strip-shows and poorly written situation comedies. That's where I draw the line.
It became imperative for the Enterprise and its crew to wantonly violate the Prime Directive -- whatever that is, I forget -- and save the Earth from this terrible fate.
So, naturally, I have tabbed Spock, McCoy and myself as the ones to do it.
The computer, with copious help from various Star Fleet seamstresses, whipped up some costumes consistent with those worn by the unfortunate people of Earth. When I explained that none of the Earth men we saw in the Klingon broadcasts wore dresses, the seamstresses grudgingly conjured up some strange kilt-like garments with codpieces -- and I don't mind saying I look pretty damned good in mine. Spock (of course) gets the most raves.
We were beamed right into the middle of what would be the equivalent of a Klingon men's room -- or at least that's what the stench told us. With little ado, we were stunned by Klingon "Earther prods" and whisked away to what could only be called a breeding camp somewhere in Iowa.
Our disguises are such that Spock is indistinguishable from any full-blooded human -- he's wearing a stocking cap with a tassel. Bones hasn't let on that he's a doctor, but he appears to have taken more than a medical interest in a couple of the young battle slaves being bred for the Klingons' vile purposes.
Before I continue, I had better point out that both males and females are bred for battle, and McCoy has taken quite a shine to what could best be descrbed, in terms of my own era, as a roller derby queen (although he saves his "urges" for a sort of beach bunny named Heather.)
The "trusty" in this particular camp is a bold, ruthless bitch named Rexine -- boy, welcome to "Women Who Spit," I tell you. She's a toughie: about six-foot even, a full mane of chestnut hair (or at least it appears to be that color when washed), strong teeth, not an ounce of fat on her, and startlingly large breasts.
Well, I made what she called a "mistake" in trying to establish a small spot in the barracks as my own: Rexine rushed in and literally threw me against a wall, snarling, "Listen, asshole, bedspace is cleared through me." We've clashed a number of times over such trivial things as passing the salt at mealtimes and talking in line.
Obviously Rexine is going to be trouble. Born a battle slave about 26 years ago, she's a dyed-in-the-wool Klingon fan. She doesn't know what shits they actually are.
The really annoying thing is that she will not get off my case. She's pretty much ignored Spock, who skitters around the camp doing "research," and I don't think she's noticed Bones yet. But I swear to you, she's always giving me grief about one thing or another, and she's lifted me bodily on a number of occasions.
Lord, my loins ache for her.
There aren't any Klingon ships within this solar system, and there are only abut 100 actual Klingons here, along with roughly 1,000 Earth slaves. A few Klingon/Earther hybrids are among us, but it appears that such matings result in nothing but recessive genes, so the Klingons basically use them for medical experiments. Disgusting.
Resuming the following morning:
Just before lights out last night, Rexine marched up, pointed at me and bellowed, "You!" I figured I had KP duty or something -- I had no idea that she had chosen me for something far more pleasant. Far more pleasant. I mean, you wouldn't believe the things women have learned to do in 1,500 years or so. My body's still shaking, and I can hardly walk. Wow!
But every silver lining has its cloud: she expects me to do this every night. I mean, I have quite a reputation aboard ship -- if there are two things that are legendary, they're Jim Kirk's endurance and Jim Kirk's ardor -- but Rexine taxes the hell out of me. (I was certainly prophetic in saying how my loins ached earlier.) Spock gave me the fish-eye when I crawled back to my own wooden bed in the barracks. "Your kilt's wrinkled, sir," he said. He thinks he's being subtle.
Oh, shit, that's the wakeup call. I got no sleep, and I'll have to bug McCoy for one of those pills that simulates eight restful hours.
Spock, McCoy, and I have discovered something interesting, if not surprising: the battle slaves want out. What's surprising in itself is that the idea of showing initiative and staging various acts of sabotage and revolution had not occurred to them. (You wouldn't believe what you hear in the pre-breakfast fistfights they make us have every morning.)
Another Rexine session has probably finshed me for about two weeks, and if we don't successfully pull off this revolt, she might kill me with kindness, as it were. "Animal" doesn't begin to describe this woman, as the teethmarks in my shoulders will attest. She keeps giving me this horrible green liquid -- it tastes like broccoli wine. I didn't understand why she kept pouring it down my throat (as it's not at all intoxicating) until I noticed no particular fatigue after one six-hour session in the rack. This morning, when I said, "Criminy, what is that green stuff?" she said, "Haven't you ever had "Lovin' Time" before?" Evidently a popular soft drink or something. I'm having Spock analyze the formula from an ounce or so that I deliberately spilled on my codpiece.
Resuming: I think Rexine's in love. "I've never had one like you, " she said. Well, she can thank Dr. Leonard McCoy for that: a combination of rest pills, uppers (ha-ha), green stuff, and a pinch of heminevrin have an alarmingly positive effect on endurance. Hoo-ha!
The importance of this is that I have managed to convince Rexine to spearhead, as it were, an attack on the Earth-based Klingons. "For you, anything," she said.
More later.
It's the next evening, and victory has been swift, sweet and complete. Years of inbreeding had produced a passive bunch of Klingon assholes. Now, Spock, Bones, and I were perfectly content to phaser these geeks into nothingness (once we'd retrieved our phasers from the Ancient Earth Weapons museum), but Rexine and the gang would have none of that: "Decapitate!" she'd cry, and gleefully do so, first lopping off their heads with a double-edged battle-ax, then cheerfully opening them up from end to end like a potato chip bag and watching their bowels explode upon contact with the nitrogen in Earth's atmosphere. It was disgustifying -- but not just a bit gratifying.
There are no living Klingons on Earth anymore, and we've saved the planet once again. I don't think my body can take much more of Rexine, who celebrated by impaling herself upon various parts of me until I passed out. Luckily I slipped away while she was sleeping -- and if it weren't for Bones' help, I damn well would have "slipped away" -- and the three of us beamed up. Whew.
Of course, upon our return to the ship it was pointed out that hordes of Klingon fighters were headed our way. Lucky thing we'd picked up Cyrano Jones at Starbase 11 (or whatever, I can't remember), who had spent years picking up every single tribble in the space station, and Scotty beamed millions of them into the Klingon engine rooms, where the goo of the cuddly, furry -- but now engine-mutilated -- bodies knocked those enemy ships out of action for good. Scotty used his "no tribble at all" joke again, but nobody laughed this time.
Spock later calculated the formula for mixing matter, anti-matter, and some of the ship's leftover minestrone, causing an implosion that whisked us back to our own time. I won't see Rexine again, if ever, for about 1,500 years. Dr. McCoy has prescribed plenty of solo bed-rest.
But the great thing is, now we've saved the universe, too.
Copyright ©1988 by Gregg Pearlman
Last updated 7/6/96