Far Trek: Too Young To Di-Lithium

Limitations: Since this is a flash fiction contest, I am implementing a word count rule. You should note, this word count is flexible, but the more you are over or under it the better your story must be. My word preference will be set at 200-1000 words. Like I said this is flexible, but only to the extent of your story’s quality. Uh-oh!

Rules: 1. Words: between 200 and 1000. 2. genre: anything fantasy/ sci-fi. 3.Submitted between February 17th and March 17th. 4. Three flash entries allowed per person or four micro fiction per person (also up to four stories of mixed micro and flash lenghts). 5. Content rating must be between E and GC.

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Far Trek: Too Young to Di-Lithium

By Indelibleink

Captain’s Log Star Date 2010-03-16: The ship’s navigator, Mr. Booboo, has placed the Drawingflies in grave danger. Our “dyslexic driver” punched in the coordinates for our destination, Earth, backwards, which sent us far out of our galaxy and into an unknown system. One would have thought our Chief Engineer, Mr. Scotch, might have noticed the obviously idiotic coordinates - particularly for our own freaking planet - but that was not the case. Of course, I also would have thought that “Mr. Logic” himself, Mr. Spook, would have picked up on the “illogicalness” – if there is such a word – of the plotted course and said something. But, my first officer said nothing, which leaves us dangerously low on our supply of di-lithium crystals, which are essential to powering the ship. My communications officer, Lt. Imnotshura, is feverishly trying to contact Starfleet Command to send a tanker full of di-lithium crystals, or at least a big-ass tow-truck-type ship. Jeez…I hate it when this happens! The guys at the officers club will razz me for weeks on end - again!

Captain Krok leaned back in his – well - ‘Captain’s chair’, and surveyed the activity of Lt. Imnotshura. “Any luck yet, Lieutenant, in trying to raise Starfleet Command?”

“I’m not sure, uh, Captain,” replied Imnotshura, “but do you really think Starfleet Command can receive our signal when we’re, like, fifty billion light years off course?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure, Imnotshura. It’s a clear night, and any idiot knows that reception is just better on a clear night. And of course, you did raise the new “Signal Booster 151” antenna I got last week on sale from the Radio Shack on planet Armageddon, right?”

“Well, yes, I did, sir, but it doesn’t seem to be responding to the ‘Antenna Up’ button. Plus, the “Check Battery” light is on.”

Captain Krok threw his arms in the air. “Well, now I guess we know why it’s on sale, right? I sure hope I saved the receipt for that hunk of junk. We’ll have to remember to swing back there and…hey…wait a minute.” Krok picked up his communicator and flipped up the cover. “Mr. Scotch, are you there? Come in Mr. Scotch…”

A few seconds later, a fairly inebriated voice was heard from Krok’s communicator. “Ish that chew, Chimmy? I wash feeling a bit under the (hic) weather, show right now I’m a wee bit medicinated, Chimmy. Wait, now I forgot what I called you for…”

“You didn’t call me, Scotchy, I called you. You’d better ease up on the ‘medication’, Mr. Scotch. I’d say you’re feeling much better, by the sound of things. Anyway, did you ever put the batteries in the Signal Booster 151 like I had asked you to do before it was installed?”

“Well, I gotta be honesht, Chimmy my boy. I wash playing a video game and – poof – the batteriesh jush died – jush ash I wash about to kill all them shtinkin’ Klingonsh, show I ushed thosh batteriesh chew gave me. You want ‘em back, Chimmy?”

“Forget it, Mr. Scotch! It’s a little late now. I suggest you ease up on the medication and get some rest, okay?”

Apparently, Mr. Scotch was one step ahead of Captain Krok, as all Krok could hear from his communicator was heavy snoring. Krok stared up and out through the humongous windshield of the Drawingflies, at the vast emptiness of space. “Somewhere…” mumbled Krok, “somewhere there’s a planet out there just like ours – one that will support our breathing and dietary requirements – not to mention also hopefully have some good strip clubs.”

“Boo!” Krok was startled, then quickly realized that he had just been spooked by Spook, his first officer.

“Jeez, Spook, would you cut that out? Don’t you realize that we all could die out here if Starfleet  doesn’t find us or we don’t find a convenient planet to inhabit temporarily. Besides, since when do Vulcans – even ones named ‘Spook’ – go around startling people?”

“Sorry, Captain… Dr. McAnnoy put me up to it. He offered to pay me fifty dollars in our space currency, Starbucks, if I could startle you.”

“Spook, I know exactly what our space currency is. Why did you say it as if I didn’t know what ‘Starbucks’ were?”

“That was for the benefit of our readers, Captain, so that they would get the ‘Starbucks’ play-on-words.”

“You went to all that trouble for what - five, maybe six – readers?”

“Well, if you put it that way, Captain…”

“Dammit Jim! When is somebody going to die on this mission? I mean, when do I get the chance to kneel down to assist someone who appeared to have sustained only minor injuries but realize he or she has gone ‘bye-bye’, allowing me to say my famous ‘He’s dead, Jim'? I’m getting tired of waiting, and so is our audience.”

“So, that means we’ll go from five readers down to, like, four?”

“Dammit Jim! Sure, to you, maybe we’ve lost just one reader. But to the advertisers – who pay our salaries I might add – that one reader represents a twenty percent drop in readership! Dammit Jim! Do the math!”

“Oh, for the love of Pete! That has to be the most ridiculous stretch of logic I’ve ever heard, Stones…” Suddenly, Jim was distracted by something he saw up through the windshield in deep space. He reached under his captain’s chair and pulled a girlie magazine – oops! That’s not what he wanted (at least not right at this moment, anyway)! Let’s try again – he pulled out a pair of really good binoculars and focused on one particular distant planet.

“Hmmm…yes, yes, it looks like, yes! Mr. Booboo: Set a course for the Golf Galaxy; more specifically, the Digestive System. The fourth planet on the left looks like it can support humans.”

Mr. Booboo looked back over his shoulder at Krok. “Wow, Captain, that’s amazing! How can you tell by looking through binoculars that the atmosphere supports humans.”

“Elementary, dear Booboo. Above the planet, there was an intergalactic billboard that said, “We cater to humans!”

Spook came over to Krok with a worried expression on his face. “Captain, we have a rather serious situation at the moment.”

“Don’t tell me, Spook, that we’re almost out of di-lithium crystals. That would be - by far - the worst news you could bring me.”

“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that, Captain. It appears that we’re out of words for this episode. We have a 200-1000 range that we’re limited to. Actually, we’re allowed to go over if the story is any good, but…”

“Yeah. In other words, we’re screwed.”

“Well, not necessarily, Captain. You do have this option.” Spook leaned over and whispered into Krok’s ear.

At that point, whatever Spook had said must have sounded good to Captain Krok. Because Krok then imitated the noise his communicator makes when being contacted, and then 'responded' with, “Krok here. What! That’s wonderful! Yes! Carry on!” Krok stood and addressed the bridge. “I have just been informed by a nondescript pretend crew member that a huge cache of di-lithium has been located in Yeoman Randy's quarters! Everything is cool. We're saved. As you were.”

Krok looked at his navigator. “Booboo, plot a course for home. Spook – for God’s sake - check Booboo’s freaking numbers this time. Mr. Scotch – sober up and give me Warp 8! Let’s go home, people!”

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Words: 1228