The model of a modern rear admiral

spork“Captain on the deck!” the yeoman’s voice shrilled, but I took no notice of it.  I think it’s her only job anyway, and that gets confirmed when she shrinks back into her cubby and sits quietly with her hands in her lap until the next time I depart and then return.

I ask my first officer for a status report, but he along with the rest of the bridge crew are standing there with their mouths hanging open.

“We… thought you abandoned us!” he gasped.  “We’ve been floating out here in space for months, literally months, without any leadership!  Where did you go?”

I rolled my eyes.  No initiative, these goonies.  “A little Guild Wars 2, some Secret World, what’s it to you?  Now status report before I airlock the lot of you.”

They catch me up to speed.  We’re still in some sort of crisis with the Romulans, although apparently that whole society put the crisis on hold until I came back.  That’s stupidly considerate.  I refamiliarize myself with the complex controls of this multi-billion credit starship, which is to say that I locate the “F” key to pick up crap and the spacebar to shoot crap.  We lay in a course and go to warp.

On the way, one of the bigshots from Earth Spacedock hails me and says that there’s some sort of big crisis and would I be attending?  I would not be, I tell him back, realizing that as a rear admiral, I don’t have to take this kind of order nonsense any longer, and besides, what kind of military organization are they running when captains get a choice in what missions they will and won’t accept?

I’ve long since abandoned wearing any semblance of Starfleet uniform, preferring my mercenary duds.  I only keep the logo on the ship because I get a discount at Space GAP when I present my service card.  All around me in stellar space, ships with such daunting names like Iwannaseeyounekkid and the U.S.S. Nose Picker show me how far this organization’s sunk.  That’s okay.  I was thinking of cutting a deal with the Borg and carving out a slice of my own space empire where we will use actual currency, act like normal people, and once in a while use a toilet.

We arrive at our destination and I assemble my away team.  They’re a little rusty, but they’ve kept that mean edge I do so love about them.  At my side in the transporter room is an ex-Borg commando, a Reman superhero-wannabe, and a dour Jem’Hadar.  As you might expect, the talent show night on the ship is just a hoot and a holler with this crowd.

We beam down and a wheedly faced man comes running up to us.  “Oh thank goodness, it’s Starfleet!  We need help with the…”

I push a rifle barrel up his left nostril.  “Can it.  Where’s the gold-pressed latinum, and quickly, chump.”

He blinks.  “You’re robbing us?”

I shrug.  “Gotta pay for that 2500 Cryptic Point starship somehow.  Starfleet pays replicator peanuts.  You ever work for an outfit that has some sort of weird moral compunction against using money?  We’re just supposed to do all this for the nobility of it all.  Now look in my eyes and ask me if I’m an interstellar Santa Claus or if I actually care about a retirement plan.”

Our treasure in tow and a large portion of the base burning from the exploding insectoid race rampaging through its halls behind us, we depart for our next conquest.

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