To seek out and exploit strange new worlds and civilizations. That was the line that captured
Captain John Dev's imagination and his life up
"What is that piece of s--- doing on my deck" Captain
Dev asked first officer Spok Iam. That would be ensign hrk, here for his first tour of duty, Iam replied. Dev took a closer look at the fecal-like material in front of him. Was this a sign of things to come? He waved at the finger salut the ensign offered and wondered.
The day had not begun well. The sonic shower was on the fritz. His skin felt like it had been bombarded by a thousand tiny pins. The coffee replicator couldn't tell the difference between fresh and day-old, and his chief engineer, Alky, was suffering a mid-life crisis. Dev wondered if the Woebegon's had similar problems
with relationships. These were a race of nomads
he had found in port recently. Their wandering around the galaxy in search of employment had a familiar ring.
He was employed to wander around the galaxy.
Alky's relational status had been in the red zone for weeks. Despite his success in applying warp field physics to the ships engines, despite his own problems with age and need for refit, in the field of romance, in the kindling of the unpredictable engines of love, he was a failure. Or maybe he just loved his engines more.
Dev loved his ship and the women in his life. The concept of being attached to a ship as powerful and
sleek as the Enterprise was not easy to replace. Sailing the uncharted waters of space was where he
belonged. The women in his life had to adjust to
his casualness or lack of commitment. Use them then leave port was a motto that had generally served him in good stead. There was only one life and only one girl destined to fill that life. And he was in her. I
wonder what Freud would say to that?
There was always the off-chance that every female on the crew would tire of his faint-hearted affections. Lately it seemed every female on the ship was carrying looks set to kill. Even his disarming smile had no effect.
While Dev was pondering his dilemma, ensign Frola Digita, began brushing his shoulder. Wanting him to look his best, he supposed,watching her rushing off to the garbage chute to dispose of his hairs.
Had the captain followed the ensign, he would have seen her exchanging the afore-mentioned hairs for credits chits, eagerly proferred by other females crew members. Had he pursued the matter further, he might have noticed each hair was then carefully grafted onto the head of a doll wearing a gold tunic. And upon further exploration, he might have noticed pins sticking into particular crevices of each doll, at angles that would have given any male pause to shudder. Fortunately, no malemember of the crew knew of, or dared mention anything of this daily
ritual to the captain, for fear of similar treatment.
All for now