Title: Farce Contact

Author: Odon

Rating: NC-17

Fandom: Enterprise.  Pairing: Tucker/T'Pol.


Summary: Will the horny crew of NX-01 Enterprise ever get laid, or will they just get screwed by the Temporal Cold War?  Parody.

Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story.  "Enterprise" (sorry, that should be "Star Trek: Enterprise") is the property of Paramount (a Viacom company).

Warning: The following story contains sex scenes, homosexual references, and emotional human behaviour.  Do not read any further if you have pointed ears.

Feedback to odon05@hotmail.com.  Archiving is welcome, but please try and contact me first.  Thanks to SmuttyKitty, Gina and Dee for their beta work.

Captain Archer paced his cabin, his upper body swaying from side to side as if he paced the rolling deck of an ancient ship of sail.  For as the captains of old had the sea in their blood, so Archer had the infinity of space within his head.

"Captain Jonathan Archer, Enterprise Starlog...um...err..."

They were supposed to be using this newfangled 'Stardate' system, but no-one on Enterprise could make head or tail of it.  Rumor had it his crew were making up the first number that came into their heads (that would really stuff up any form of continuity).  And just what could he put in these logs anyway?  That an automated repair station had replaced Ensign Mayweather with a dead clone, and no-one noticed the difference?  That greedy snaggletoothed aliens with huge ears had looted his ship, but he'd forgotten to ask the name of their species?  That T'Pol's catsuit had destroyed 3000 years of emotional control in the monastery of P'Jem?

Archer scowled at his anachronistic computer, unaware that inhuman eyes filled with sinister purpose watched him from a dark corner.

Being a Starfleet captain was enough to make your hair fall out, he thought.  The Vulcan High Command was just looking for an excuse to get this mission cancelled.  Already they were claiming that humanity's disastrous First Contact with the Klingons would lead to decades of war.  All because the name of that Klingon captain had been Duras, not 'Dumbass'.  Well he could blame Hoshi for that one.  It was the biggest mistranslation since President Kennedy told the city of Berlin he was a donut.

"Captain's Starlog, err, supplemental.  Our entire crew is eager to make First Contact with the Deltans, whose culture is based on sexual intercourse.  Unfortunately Admiral Forrest has just informed me that the Vulcans want us to study the Dulthic Expanse, a vast region of space where nothing exists.  It is commonly regarded as the most boring phenomenon in the universe."

Clawed feet made no sound as they moved across the floor...

"There are times I think Forrest can't see the wood for the trees.  Starfleet Command has no idea of the pressures we're under.  Efficiency is down three percent due to a lack of sexual activity.  I'm already having wet dreams about T'Pol, Hoshi, and my dog in the decontamination chamber.  Hell, that's a combination not even depraved slashfic writers would ARRRRGH!"

Ever since he'd read A.E. van Vogt's The Voyage of the Space Beagle Archer had dreamed of taking his beloved Porthos on a mission of interstellar exploration.  But the canine-loving captain had failed to realise that taking a beagle several trillion kilometres from its nearest mating partner was not a good idea.

"Stay!  Stay!" yelled a wide-eyed Archer, as the manic mutt advanced with the firm intention of humping his leg.  He scrambled onto a table, knocking over his statue of Zephram Cochrane reaching for the stars (or a bottle of tequila on a high shelf) and jabbed at the com.  "Archer to Phlox!  Phlox!"

"Captain, I was just about to call you," said the alien doctor cheerfully.  Denobulans were well known for their sense of humor.  As a practical joke their entire species had genetically engineered a butt crack onto their forehead.  Reactions by First Contact species had provided much amusement.  "That last anomaly has caused Mr. Tucker's epidermis to flake.  I believe he is turning into a pecan-based lifeform."

"You're nuts!" said Archer, kicking away at his horny hound.

"No, but Mr. Tucker soon will be, ha-ha."

"Doctor, I don't have time for your jokes.  Right now I'm about to be screwed by my own dog!"

"Intriguing!  And do you wish me to observe this interspecies mating?"

"I want you to get the mongrel off me!"

"Are you sure?  When one person believes their sexual attraction toward another is inappropriate they often exhibit unexpected behavior, like asking their medical officer to sacrifice his last Calrissian chameleon to save the animal.  Your dog is undoubtedly just showing its gratitude."

Archer yanked open the arms locker and grabbed a pair of phase pistols.  Holding them in the two-gun stance he'd learnt at Enterprise Movie Nights, Archer fired a bright red stunning beam at each of the desperate dog's testicles.  Porthos gave a long howl and scampered under the bed.

"The crisis is over, Doctor.  You can go back to pruning your toenails."

"Actually Captain, I was in the process of purging my alimentary canal.  Denobulans must do this twice a month to prevent a build-up of rectal fluids__"

The Captain pushed another button before he was completely grossed out.  "Archer to the Bridge."

"Captain, do you realise the Deltans have over two hundred words for oral sex?  And I can't work out if the Groan of Greeting is 'Uhhh Uhhh Oh yes!' or 'Ohhhh yes-yes-YES!' "

"Forget it, Hoshi.  I'm afraid Starfleet has cancelled our trip to Delta IV.  Apparently the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the NX-01.  Ensign Mayweather, lay in a course for the Dulthic Expanse."

For a moment Archer thought they'd been hit by another anomaly as a loud moan echoed throughout Enterprise.  Honestly, some of his crew seemed to think that exploring strange new worlds was about getting cheap sexual thrills from alien chicks!

* * * * * *

"Is that sufficient pressure?" asked Sub-Commander T'Pol.

'Trip' Tucker could not restrain a groan of pleasure.  The voluptuous Vulcan was working her fingers down the length of his spine, her nipples caressing his back through her thin blue top.

"You could go a little harder," he said, feeling quite hard himself.

"Like this?" asked T'Pol, as she expertly massaged his prostate.

"Perfect," gasped Trip.  "Try that neck thing - the kummthukme posture.  Don't worry; I've been practicing my breathing."  He closed his eyes and recited the mantra she'd taught him: "Don't look at her tits, don't look at her tits, don't look at her tits..."

"You have been practicing," said T'Pol, a slight edge to her voice.  "With Corporal Amanda Cole?"

Trip hoped the Vulcan wasn't jealous over his neuropressure sessions with the busty space commando.  He didn't relish being caught between two women with the strength to mash his nuts into pecan pie.  "Ah, T'Pol..."

"Don't speak," she said, rubbing her pointed ears against his scrotum.  "Relax your jaw."

"That ain't easy," said a terse Trip, his erection trying to push its way through the deck plating.

In a single urbane movement T'Pol slipped off her top, exposing the best Vulcan peaks outside of Mount Seleya.  Trip's jaw dropped at the sight.

"Excellent," said T'Pol.  "Now the fans'jercoth technique."

"You know, ah really need to talk to you about something," said Trip when he'd recovered his powers of speech.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no but...people are talking.  About us, about me coming in your...to your quarters at night.  They think there's more going on, like this neuropressure's just an excuse for cheap titillation."

"It is illogical for them to assume there's anything sexual about our activities," said T'Pol, clasping his face in a Vulcan Cleavage Meld.  "We belong to two completely different species."

"Some interspecies relationships appear to be going well," said Trip in a muffled voice.  "Cutler and Phlox, for instance."

"That is because Denobulans have 16-inch tongues and breathe through the anus during oral sex.  It is unlikely our species could become intimate."

"Really?  Why's that?"

"For one thing, you all stink!"

It was well known that Vulcan females had a heightened sense of smell, as Trip had discovered after his last shore leave.  The moment he stepped off the shuttlepod T'Pol had been there, sniffing in disapproval.

"Commander, I sense that you've recently attempted sexual relations (sniff-sniff) with a Jhnarbi female in the third stage of her budding season.  This involved the use of (sniff-sniff) pecan-flavoured lubricant and a penis extension made of cyber-silicone.  Unfortunately (sniff-sniff) your lover was in the process of changing sex from female to male.  Thus unsatisfied by the encounter (sniff-sniff) you relieved yourself by masturbating (sniff-sniff) in the shuttlepod (sniff-sniff) by means of the vacuum toilet (sniff-sniff) and a rubber barf bag."

What was not well known was the real reason Vulcan women found sweaty humans offensive.  The truth was that their odour matched the scent a rutting Vulcan male emitted every seven years to attract a mate.  It could be smelt for vast distances by the females' sensitive noses, and was therefore known as the Pong Farr.

"Trip," crackled Archer's voice over the com.  "I want you and T'Pol to report to the usual docking port.  There's a cup-shaped vessel that wants to land on our saucer section.  We told him to get forked but he insists on making spoons with us.  Says he wants to see the tightest Vulcan robes in history."

"Ah'm coming, Captain."

"I don't care if you're shooting over my science officer's face!  I want you both there ASAP!"  The com shut off with an irritated beep.

"But I just meant...Oh Gawd, that's exactly what I was talking about!"

T'Pol gave one of those Vulcan smirks that can only be perceived on a subliminal level, and began to get dressed in her carpet-coloured catsuit.

"It's Movie Night tonight," said Trip, while he waited for his erection to subside so he could finish zipping up his jumpsuit.  "You can experience the highlights of human culture."

"Such as Big Brother Decontamination?" asked T'Pol, clinching her waist so tight her chest stuck out like a warp nacelle.

"Well, how about a sci-fi film?  Uneventful Horizon (Infinite space, infinite boredom).  Sounds like a Vulcan star chart.  2001: A Space Odyssey (The ultimate trip).  It must be about me!  Earth Versus the Flying Saucers.  What happened to their nacelles?  It Came From Out'a Cradle...nah, that's just Terra Prime propaganda about our kid.  Day of the Tribbles (a Klingon horror story).  Emotion! (a Vulcan horror story).  The Bermanator (an executive producer goes back in time to destroy a science fiction franchise).  Queen Without A Face...sorry, that's Queen of Outer SpaceCaptain Proton and the Coffee of ArachniaGodzilla versus Ambassador Soval, hmm.  Hey, why not see that movie Crewman Daniels got for us?"

"That may be difficult," replied T'Pol, pushing the button to open the door.  "According to the Vulcan Science Directorate, the mere existence of Star Trek: First Contact constitutes a gross temporal anomaly."  She frowned at the program in her hand.  "Is Debbie Does Dallas a suitable example of your culture?"

* * * * * *

Perhaps 'Free Enterprise' would've been a more appropriate name, thought Archer.  They were waiting by the starboard docking port (for reasons of verbal simplicity, no-one ever docked at the port docking port) modeling the ship's range of promo products.  Trip and Reed wore NX-01 baseball caps.  Enterprise jumpsuits showed off the latest zipper technology.  Mayweather wore a permanent grin to promote Starfleet's excellent dental plan.

The Captain made a quick inventory of his pockets.  "Communicator, phase pistol, Vulcan air freshener, Get Out of Jail Free card, Mayweather mute control, the gizmo that sends an 'I told you so' message to the Vulcan Science Directorate whenever I travel in time..."

T'Pol peered over her breasts at her padd.  "According to the Vulcan database, the Z'Turi are a highly-developed species of methane-breathers.  In appearance they follow the usual humanoid pattern, except for their thermo-conducting forehead bumps and a 12-foot sexual organ."

"A 12-foot penis!" exclaimed Reed.  "Sir, request permission to fetch a bigger gun!"

"Well, she did say they were highly developed."

"Keep yer shirt on, Lieutenant," said Trip.  "Taking it off is my job."

"Make sure you avoid intimate contact," warned T'Pol.  "Remember what happened when Mr. Tucker put his hands in that female Xyrillian's box."

"Yeah; Trip had a baby, T'Pol had a cow and the crew had kittens.  How's the translation coming along, Hoshi?  We don't want a repeat of last week's episode."

"That's right.  Especially if it's Precious Cargo."

"Shut up Travis.  When I want you to speak you'll get a character development scene."

Hoshi's eyes were flickering madly across the screen of her Universal Translator.  It was one thing to interpret strange new words, it was another to understand them in the context of a totally alien culture.  Not to mention a body language that could involve ten eyes or several dozen limbs.  Only last week she'd mistaken an octopoid's "I grip your tentacle in farewell" for "So-long, suckers!"

"Don't smile at a Z'Turi," Hoshi advised.  "Baring one's teeth is regarded as a threat."

"Quick Travis, get the hell out of here!"

"And don't thrust out your chest either; that's a sign of arrogance."

"Sub-Commander, maybe you'd better leave as well."

"As I recall," said T'Pol icily, "Zephram Cochrane made First Contact with the immortal words: Who's the elf?  I had better stay."

"The first Vulcans on the Z'Turi Homeworld were met with an intricate dance of greeting," said Hoshi, "which included the repetitious use of corrupted language and a ceremonial purging of bodily poisons.  Personally, I think the Z'Turi were just pissed out of their brains.  Captain, I'd like to run a quick test of the UT.  The damned thing was built by Paramount, so it can't even translate Klingon properly."

"Err...I am Captain Archer of the starship Enterprise.  We come in peace from the planet Earth."

"Mistake...Organ used for sight is the leading bowman of the prime vessel undertaking," chirped the translator.  "We ejaculate in portion from the world of dirt."

"I think it's going to be one of those days."

The airlock hatch slid aside like a Starfleet Admiral before the Vulcan High Command, and their alien visitor eased his formidable organ through the opening.  He wore a transparent methane-mask, baggy silver space pants, and a T-shirt advertising Z'Turi Mega-Condoms (available in Large, Medium, or Alien-size).

"Errrchtchmmm-tch tch errrup!" said the Z'Turi, thrusting his pelvis in greeting.

"What did he say, Hoshi?"

Hoshi was banging the UT against the side of her head.  "Err, I am a donut?"

"He was merely clearing his throat," explained T'Pol, each eyebrow raised 2.0 millimetres in disapproval.

"There is no need for your interpretation device," said the Z'Turi.  "I am Captain Benervas, and I greet you with testicles forward in the proud manner of my race."

"Ah believe that translates as 'Mine's bigger than yours'," said Trip.

"I am Captain Jonathan Archer, and I bring you greetings from the planet Earth.  Here is a pulsar grid that will help you locate our star system, should you wish to invade it."

"The planet Earth?  But I'm told your world is two-thirds water!  How terracentric of you."

"And I'm told your people are methane breathers," said Archer.  "In that case, I present this gift."  He let rip with a tremendous fart.  "As my father used to say, you can't be afraid of the wind."

T'Pol separated her fingers in the Vulcan salute and stuck them up her nose.  "Our intentions are peaceful..." she began in a nasal tone.

"We intend to make small bits of you," chirped the translator.  Reed tore the device from Hoshi's hand and slammed it against the nearest bulkhead.

"I welcome you in the manner of my species," said T'Pol.  "Live long and prosper."

"Ah yes," said Benervas.  "It is clear from your skintight attire that you are the ship's masseuse.  Our many crew are willing to ejaculate under your skilled hands."

"That had better be a mistranslation or our species are going to war."

"Perhaps by ejaculate he meant 'come in peace'?" said Hoshi innocently.

T'Pol's eyebrows began to twitch erratically between the 2.0 and 9.5 millimetre range.  "I am Sub-Commander T'Pol, science officer of this vessel, a Vulcan from the planet Vulcan."

"And I'm Doctor Phlox.  A Denobulan from the planet Denobula."

"So the rest of you are Earthons," said Benervas.  "From the planet Earth."

"Err...no, we're humans."

"With a small 'h'," muttered T'Pol.

"Captain Archer, it stirs my enormous organ to make First Contract__"

"Shouldn't that be 'First Contact'?" asked Archer.

"Apologies," said Benervas.  "I recently met a species called the Ferengi."

"Never heard of them."

"And therefore I wish to present a traditional greeting among Z'Turi starship captains."

"Which is?" asked Archer suspiciously.  For the majority of aliens they'd encountered, the traditional greeting for strangers involved beating up their captain.

"An exchange of concubines," said Benervas.  He stepped aside to reveal a beautiful, scantily-dressed blonde waiting in the airlock.  "Her name is Rajiin, because she gives men a ragin' hard-on."

And indeed Archer felt his penis growing to Z'Turi proportions as the girl's X-ray eyes examined him down to the colour of his underwear.  Drawn by years of sexual frustration caused by forced proximity to his shrink-wrapped science officer, Archer stepped into the airlock and found himself in the future.

He was standing on the upper gallery of a vast conference chamber, crammed with humans and aliens babbling away in a thousand languages.  Outside the windows massive skyscrapers towered into the familiar blue sky of Earth.

"Captain Archer," said Daniels, walking towards him.  "This is a very important__"

"SEND ME BACK YOU BASTARD!" screamed Archer, throttling the time agent with his bare hands.

"I...can't!" gasped Daniels.  "Unstoppable chain...of consequences...if you...entered...airlock!"


"Z'Turi concubines...evolved from tribbles...spread humanoids...throughout galaxy...no more...bumpy foreheads...cultural...contamination!"

"UNRESOLVED...SEXUAL TENSION...CREATES...PISSED OFF CAPTAIN...DOES THINGS...WITH CHAINSAW!"  He hurled Daniels aside and glared into the conference chamber.  "What's going on down there?"

"Captain, I'm a temporal agent.  I'm forbidden to reveal any details about the future, except through vague allusions or sudden information dumps when the plot requires it."

"Yes, and I could open the seal on cabin E-14 and read all the information in your fancy holographic database, not to mention sharing it with Starfleet Command so anyone in the future would know what an idiot a certain time agent was to leave it behind..."

"All right!  But you mustn't let that data be seen by anyone.  A single piece of anachronistic technology can have drastic effects on the timeline.  For example, do you realise what would've happened if you'd taken that replicator from the automatic repair station?"

"Yes, we could've stopped recycling our plots.  Now what's happening?"

"See the fellow in the blue jacket, near the left end of the dais?  That's you, a little more than seven years from now...from then...the time you came from...whatever.  You're about to make history, Jonathan.  A United Federation of Planets.  Vulcans, Andorians, Tellarites, hundreds of species all united in one goal."

"Which is?"

A hush fell over the assembly, as the first President of the Federation stepped forward to the rostrum.

"And now," he announced, "I'm sure you all wish to acknowledge the man responsible for ensuring that your diplomatic, defense, ethical, and exploration policies are dictated by humans for centuries: Jonathan Archer!"

And so hundreds of alien delegates surged onto the dais, intent on greeting Archer in the traditional manner...by beating the bastard up!

* * * * * *

"The Vulcan Science Directorate has determined that Daniels has constructed this elaborate fantasy in order to escape his obligations as your steward," said T'Pol.  "And while we're on the subject, no-one has seen Chef in years."

"Not since he volunteered to test that Suliban cloaking device," said Trip.  "You know, that cloak would sure come in handy...if only we could find it again.  I mean, it's not like some stupid treaty would forbid us from__DON'T TOUCH THAT BUTTON!"

Archer snatched his hand away from the bright red button.  "Why not?"

"Because we've got to leave something for Mayweather to do."

"I know that Trip, but what does the button do?"

"It violates continuity, like everything else on this ship," muttered Mayweather.

"That's one of Phlox's ideas," said Trip.  "Next time you get beaten up it reclines the backrest, sends soothing vibrations throughout your body, pipes in some niiiice relaxing music...then drops 500 kilos of osmotic eel on your head.  So what did Daniels want this time?"

"He said that Enterprise was the focal point of a Temporal Cold War," said Archer, "in which the sexist exploitation of the 1960's conflicts with the political correctness of the 1990's, which in turn struggles against the militarism of the post-9/11 era."

"How does the Vulcan Science Directorate explain the gross inconsistencies in the timeline?" Daniels had asked.  "Why is Enterprise remarkably similar to an Akira-class vessel built two hundred years from now?  Why does your medical officer look like a Cardassian?  How come no-one in the future mentions the Xindi or the Suliban, or a Starfleet captain integral to the establishment of the Federation?  And last but not least, where have all the homosexuals gone?"

"Captain Benervas was rather insulted at your disappearance," said T'Pol, "even when our scans revealed his concubine had sixteen different venereal diseases, some of which had evolved into sentient forms of life.  However we were able to soothe him with a lengthy decontamination session with Crewman Cutler.  His resulting ejaculation took out two decks.  Crewman Rostov went into shock when he saw the mess; he thought the Vox Sola alien had come back to get him."

"Phlox was happy though," said Trip.  "Apparently if a Denobulan smiles too widely his head falls off.  Z'Turi semen can be used as a medicinal glue__"

"I don't want to know!" growled Archer.  "What else is there?"

"Well sir, I've been reviewing our encounters with alien species," said Reed.  "And I've discovered something.  They all hate us."

"I take it you're going to recommend yet another change to our security protocols?"

"With all due respect Captain," said Reed without respect, "next time you risk your backside on a strange new world, take a member of my security team!  In order to divert attention from you he'll wear a bright red shirt.  And if that doesn't work, I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit.  It's the only way to be sure."

"While we're on the subject of your backside," said Trip, "my design for a captain's chair with interactive status displays, secondary helm control, inertial micro-dampers and cup holder (as Admiral Forrest would say: we're making history with every light beer) was rejected by Jupiter Station.  But they liked the idea of installing seatbelts.  They'll get started as soon as they've approval from the Starfleet bureaucracy.  That might take some time though."

"According to Daniels, at least a couple of centuries.  Anything else?"

"The stars are going the wrong way," said Hoshi.

"Wrong way?"

"In the captain's mess, sir.  When we first left Earth, your mess was on the bow of the ship.  Now from the way the stars are going, I think it's moved to the starboard side."

"It's those damned anomalies, Captain.  Ah'll have it shifted back."

"And the subspace mailbag has arrived," continued Hoshi.  "T'Pol's mother is demanding to know what 'Vulcan neuropressure' is, as no Vulcan's ever heard of it before.  Captain Hernandez is challenging you to a fight to the death over who gets Trip as Chief Engineer.  Commander Shran says that an attempt to create Augmented Andorians has led to a virus that makes their antennae stiff.  There's also a news broadcast that Admiral Forrest wants us to look at, and uh...another complaint from the Kreetassans."

Archer leaned back in his belt-free chair and sighed.  "What is it this time?"

"Apparently your handshake was interpreted as an offer of hand relief."


"Yes sir.  The Kreetassan ambassador is demanding a ritual Act of Contrition.  You must stick out your tongue, spit on the floor, bare your buttocks, and raise the Middle Finger of Apology while shouting: Uh-pyors!"

"Oh...well in that case I'm looking forward to it!  Put the news segment up on the viewscreen, Hoshi.  Might as well know what the folks back home are saying about us."

"...but when asked to confirm whether their forehead ridges were disappearing, the Klingon media relations officer cut off our correspondent's head, defecated in his skull and fed the body to his pet targs."

"Meanwhile, the latest transmission from Enterprise has cast serious doubts on their mission of exploration (Note: All phase pistols in the following clip have been digitally replaced by communicators, to avoid exposing children to such weapons)."

Like a sculptor's concept of incongruity, the black monolith stood on the harsh untamed sands of an alien desert.  An eerie choral humming filled the air, a discordant yet strangely familiar sound, buried in the millennial depths of race memory.  Was this the sentinel of a God-like species, who had guided humanity since the Dawn of Time?  Was Mankind about to take its true place amongst the stars?  Trembling with awe and anticipation, Hoshi reached out to initiate the next stage in her evolution.

The monolith toppled over, smashing down on the Captain's toes.

"YEEEEOW!" cried Archer, hopping around on one foot.  Porthos gave a high-pitched yelp, then promptly repaid the injury to his master by cocking a leg and pissing on a billion years of alien technology...

"The incident has led Ambassador Soval to again criticise Starfleet's choice of captain.  'Archer's motto appears to be seek out new life and get beaten up by it,' said the sour-faced Vulcan.  'Now that crime has been eliminated on Earth, he spends more time in jail than any other human.  And most of all, I object to him calling me Ambassador Pointy!' "

"Admiral Forrest defended Archer's record.  'It's true that Enterprise has run into a few bumps,' he said.  'But most of them have been on alien foreheads.' "

"However the Vulcan ambassador said he feared the consequences if humanity expanded into space too quickly.  'You are a highly judgmental species who have yet to embrace logic,' he said.  'But I expect nothing else from such smelly impulsive carnivores.' "

"When asked if the relationship between Commander Tucker and Sub-Commander T'Pol meant there was at least one human embracing logic (or at least the more enticing bits) Soval made some peculiar noises our Universal Translator could not interpret."

"We contacted Captain Archer via subspace for his own comment."

"'When I was in my early twenties on a trip to East Africa I saw a gazelle giving birth,' he said.  'It was truly amazing.  Within minutes the baby was standing up on its own.  A few more minutes and it was walking and before I knew it, it was being stuffed down the throat of a hungry lion.  The moral of this story is that shit happens, and Ambassador Pointy had better get used to it!' "

"In further news: Crisis on Vulcan (teachings of Surak reveal that logic is illogical).  Invention of the quantum infinitive splitter enables Starfleet to boldly go where no man has gone before.  Xindi Council reduces Earth's status to 'mostly harmless'.  Reports of an 11,000 mile wide amoeba blamed on space-happy boomers.  Suliban detainees tortured with the theme song from 'Barney the Purple Gorn'.  Destruction of P'Jem sensor array ascribed to Andorian 'antennae envy'.  Starfleet accused of contaminating Vulcans with lewd decontamination techniques (is the Trip/T'Pol romance just an anomaly of the Expanse?)."

Archer switched the screen back to normal view so Mayweather could see where the hell they were going.  "You Vulcans think we can't flush a toilet without your help!"

"Thirty-eight astronauts were sucked into space before your species perfected the vacuum toilet," said T'Pol.  "You have yet to prove yourselves ready to look beyond your provincial attitudes and volatile nature."

"Volatile?  You have no idea how much I'm restraining myself from grabbing your ass."

"What about war?  Disease?  Hunger?" said Trip.  "Pretty much wiped them out in two generations."

"You did that by wiping out anyone who was hungry, diseased or warlike.  It remains to be seen whether humanity will revert to its baser instincts.  Do you deny that Starfleet is planning to have all female personnel wear miniskirts and knee-high boots?"

"That's just so more people will pay attention to what's happening on Enterprise," said Archer.  "It's a basic principle that any space program can't exist without public support and media interest.  Starfleet is calling it the Prime Time Directive."

"Well I wouldn't mind," said Trip, "if I didn't know that Starfleet boots were made of recycled poop.  No wonder Klaang was complaining about stinky boots."

Reed frowned at his sensor display, which for some reason only showed a 2-dimensional view of 3-dimensional space.  "That's funny.  I'm picking up some kind of spatial disturbance."

T'Pol bent over to examine his readings, only to topple forward thanks to her high heels and impressive chest.  Her tits struck the panel and a photon torpedo burst from its launch tube, exploding a supposedly empty part of space.

Mayweather's grin vanished as twenty cell ships decloaked around them.  "Spaceballs!  Oh shit!"

"No, they're Taliban...I mean Suliban vessels," said Archer, gripping the arms of his chair.  "Tactical Alert!  Load torpedoes, charge the phase cannons, polarise the hull plating, find out what Malcolm's favourite food is, and get Major Hayes up here!  I bet you ten to one it's that slick bastard...I mean that bastard Silik.  Hoshi, patch the translation matrix directly into the com system.  I want the smug sod to know exactly what I think of him."

Reed eased T'Pol's tits off his panel and entered a flurry of instructions.  A colossal pair of Polaroid sunglasses slid over the hull, protecting it from the Sulibans' deadly particle beams (and making their ship look a lot cooler).

A noise like a hundred robots farting in repetition filled the air.

"Malcolm, you said you were going to change that alert signal!"

"Sorry Captain," said Reed, pressing another button.  "How's this?"


"We're being hailed," said Hoshi, twiddling her knobs.  "Translator's active."

"Main screen turn on," ordered Archer.

The smirking features of Silik, leader of the Cabal, filled the viewscreen.  The Cabal were allies of the shadowy Future Guy, Daniels' opponent in the Temporal Cold War.  They were genetically engineered terrorist metaphors, impatient with an evolutionary process that had given them a complexion like someone's puke.

"It's you!" said Archer furiously.

"How are you gentlemen!" said Silik, his lips out of sync with his words.  "All your base are belong to us.  You are on the way to destruction."

"What you say?" asked Archer, a puzzled look on his face.

"You have no chance to survive make your time," replied a perplexed Silik.

Archer scowled at Hoshi.  "What happen?"

"Someone set up us the bomb," suggested Reed.

"For great justice!" cried Major Hayes as he charged onto the bridge.

"Take off every ZIG!" said Archer, storming over to Hoshi's console and thumping a few buttons.  "For God's sake, I sound like a Japanese computer game!"

"There's no need to trouble your incompetent ensign," said Silik.  "Our temporal benefactor has given us a proper Universal Translator."

"What do you want Silik, you Temporal Cold Whore?"

"I want Enterprise to resume its course to Delta IV," said the Suliban smoothly.  "You do realise that Daniels is lying to you?  He claims that your mission is a bold new venture that will one day lead to a great Federation, when it is actually the butt-end of an overworked franchise."

Archer turned to Major Hayes, the leader of the MACHO's (Mean-Ass Commandos with Heavy Ordnance).  "Major, it's possible that xenomorphs have infiltrated Enterprise."

"Xenomorphs?" asked Hayes, brandishing his formidable plasma rifle.

"It's a bug hunt," explained Reed, hiding his inadequate phase pistol.

"No, they're Suliban, not Xindi insectoids.  So you won't need that," said Archer, pointing at an enormous flyswatter hanging off Hayes' belt.  "They might have transported on board without us noticing.  In space no-one can hear you beam."

"Then they've got bigger balls than I have," said Reed.  Whenever he used the transporter it felt like every subatomic particle in his body was violating Heisenburg's Principle of Uncertainty.

"Sir, my female MACHO's have bigger balls than you," said Hayes.

"Tell me Major, don't you think it's time you cleaned that birdshit off your uniform?"

"It's camouflage!  How was I to know the avian Xindi were extinct?"

"Excuse me, is everyone all right up there?" came Phlox's voice over the com.  "My medical sensors are detecting high levels of testosterone on the bridge."

"Reed, Hayes, knock it off before people start writing gay fanfiction about you.  I want you to sweep Enterprise deck by deck.  You hear me talkin', Silik?  We're gonna get pre-First Contact on your ass!"

"It won't make any difference, Jon," said Silik.  "My squishy soldiers are too formidable.  Our bodies have been genetically engineered to violate the laws of physics."

"Big deal.  My people do that every week!"

Tension mounted on the bridge as they listened to the MACHO's conduct their search.

"We're on the express elevator to hell, going down!"

"No, it's the turbolift to G-Deck.  OK men, set your plasma rifles to Fuck The Bastards Up.  Remember, short controlled explosions."

"I say we nuke the entire ship.  It's the only way to be sure."

"Say Major, have you heard Reed's latest brainwave?  He wants us to wear red shirts!  The Suliban have biomimetic camouflage suits, while we're going to stick out like Porthos' balls!"

"Shut it, soldier.  I don't talk want you talking about the Captain's boyfriend in that tone."

"Do you mean Reed or the dog?"

"Sir, I've got movement!  I've got multiple signals!"

"Talk to me, Hudson."

"You just told me to shut up!"

"Where are they, man?  I don't see shit!"

"I'm telling you, there's something moving and it ain't us!"

"Oh God, I didn't sign up for this," gasped Hoshi, her eyes so wide she could have starred in her own shoujo manga.  "Take me back to Brazil.  I'm no Amazon!"

"Close your eyes," said T'Pol, taking the ensign's hand.  "Think of yourself on a turbulent ocean.  You have the power to control the waves.  The waves are subsiding.  The water is growing still, gleaming on your nubile body in the bright moonlight, lapping against your intimate regions as I caress your erect nipples with my tongue..."

"Sub-Commander, what are you doing?" asked Archer, as Hoshi began to writhe and moan in her chair.

"My apologies, Captain.  It appears I am telepathically receiving the lewd thoughts of several crewmembers."

The high-pitched pulse of plasma rifles erupted from the com speakers.

"They're crawling over the walls!  They're crawling over the goddamned walls!"

"Look!  There's one of the pukeheads!"

"No, that's where Rostov threw up his lunch.  You, soldier!  Why are you hanging back?"

"Sir, there's no way I'm searching this ship for a pack of killer invisible aliens unless I'm given a name."

"Fine, we'll call you Ensign Deadmeat!"

"Corporal Cole, they're in league with silicone-based lifeforms!  I can see two of them right now!"

"Those are my tits, you moron!"

"Hey, which one of you idiots punctured the hull?  The entire deck's depressurising!"

"Well where CAN we shoot safely, sir?  It's a bloody SPACESHIP!  LET'S ROCK!"

'Faith of the Heart' blared from the com system.

"That's not rock, that's some 70's pop tune by Diane Warren!"

"But it's working, sir.  The Suliban are fleeing in terror."

"Hayes to Captain Archer.  The intruders have fled the ship, but they've stolen every item of female apparel they could lay their hands on."

Archer frowned.  "You mean this was just a panty raid?"  He turned to his communications officer.  "Hoshiiiiiit!"

A red-faced Hoshi was sitting at her console, dressed in black lace panties and a T-shirt with 'I went to Risa and was the only one to get laid' printed on it.

The only thing T'Pol wore was an annoyed expression.

"Very funny, Silik.  Now kindly beam back their clothes!"

* * * * * *

"As they say on Earth," said Phlox, as he finished the weekly pruning of his nasal hairs, "every cloud has a silver lining.  Thanks to Silik Starfleet now has an opportunity to model its proposed uniform for female personnel."  He stuffed two Edosian slugs up his nose to give it a thorough clean-out.

"Why did you want me to report to Sickbay?" asked T'Pol.

"Certain crewmembers seem to believe you're suffering a fever.  They said you looked rather hot."

T'Pol looked down at her new outfit, a light blue bodysuit that hugged her curves and exposed her cleavage to the entire universe.

"I have no idea why."

Phlox padded over to the nearest cage and sprinkled in his nasal clippings.  There was a loud rustle within and a tiny voice cried: "We want flesh!  You promised us the crew!"

Phlox quickly slammed the lid.  "Well in that case, how are you coping with your Trellium-D withdrawal?"

T'Pol seized the Denobulan's 16-inch tongue and yanked him right into her face.


The Sickbay doors slid apart to reveal Captain Archer holding a cylindrical device.  T'Pol quickly let go of Phlox's tongue, which snapped back into his mouth like a rubber band.

"Your concern is unfounded Doctor," she said, radiating Vulcan serenity.  "I merely ingest carefully-controlled doses of Trellium in order to get close to certain members of the crew."

"Why, does it free your emotions?" asked Archer.

"No, it cuts off my sense of smell.  Did you wish to see me, Captain?"

"Well who wouldn't in that tightass...I mean yes, yes!  I want you to examine this dildo...device! that Silik's people left on your cute behind...I mean behind on the ship!  I was wondering whether you could make out...err make anything of it as I know you've been keeping your breasts...abreast of the latest Suliban technology."

T'Pol raised her left eyebrow exactly 6.5 millimetres in exasperation.  The Captain's Freudian slips were notorious.  The worst occasion had been in that Old West colony in the Expanse, when Archer had told her to 'head them off at the ass'.

"Intriguing," said Phlox, keeping well out of tongue range.  "Technology of a most advanced level.  Mind trawler, continuity disrupter, photonic projector (do be careful Captain, those Tellosian Fang Beetles consume ten times their weight in pubic hair), psiconverb, chronoshift application, and what looks like a vocal synthesiser."

"Fascinating," agreed T'Pol.  She leant forward to scan the device, giving Archer a view right down her cantilevered cleavage.  Normally Vulcans wore loose-fitting robes, but T'Pol's skintight outfits were a secret experiment by the Vulcan Science Directorate.  They would know humans had achieved true sentience when they stopped talking to her chest.

"Tell me Captain," said Phlox.  "What is your opinion of Starfleet's new dress code?  I hear pictures of Hoshi bending over in her miniskirt are quite popular on Earth.  The Japanese have even begun an anime series: Star Sailor Moons."

"Well it is rather...distracting," Archer replied to T'Pol's chest.  That someone tried to destroy Enterprise every week or so made the crew horny enough.  Now he had women in fuck-me boots flashing their panties every time they went up a ladder.  After two near reactor breaches Trip had banned all female personnel from the catwalks of Engineering.

"Mmmmm," said Archer, as his sexy science officer bent to activate the Suliban device.

T'Pol straightened with abrupt speed.  "Captain, I was unaware that you spoke fluent Vulcan."


"And it is inappropriate for a superior officer to praise a subordinate's breasts."

"But Sub-Commander, I didn't say anything!"

T'Pol's right brow rose a full centimetre.  "Loosely translated, what you said in Vulcan was: 'Nice tits'."

"I didn't say that!" spluttered Archer.  "The only words I've learnt to say in Vulcan are: 'Ambassador Pointy, you're a sour-faced git!'"

T'Pol's eyebrow rose another centimetre.  "Captain, you're speaking Vulcan now."

"No I'm not!"

The eyebrow reached full apogee.  "Yes, you are."

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you are!"

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you ARRGH!" cried T'Pol, as her eyebrow tore under the strain.

"But you're both speaking Denobulan!" said Phlox, placing a small osmotic eel on the injury.  "How can you speak my language with such tiny tongues?  Do you realise what this means?  The Suliban device is the first true Universal Translator!"

"It appears you are correct," said T'Pol, raising her eel a careful millimetre.  "When the Captain made a vague noise of appreciation in response to my breasts, the device scanned his mind, interpreted the context and psi-cast the equivalent meaning in Vulcan while simultaneously (using chronoton sideshift to avoid time-loss) refracting the light waves around his mouth so his lips appeared to be saying those words."

"But that's just a load of...technobabble!" said Archer, once more making history through this new word.

"Then I'd get used to technobabble if I were you," said Phlox.  "It's the only way anyone can be incomprehensible from now on."

"Tucker to the Captain.  I've finished repairing the 50,347,001 holes the MACHO's shot in the hull.  We can resume our journey to the Dulthic Expanse."

Afterwards, Archer was sure he'd merely given a grunt of annoyance over having to explore the dullest piece of real estate in history.  But what everyone on the bridge heard in his or her native language was: "Stuff that Trip!  Let's go to Delta IV.  I want to get laid!"

* * * * * *

It was Movie Night in the mess hall.  Tonight's showing was Alien, a classic example of pre-Contact humanity's xenophobic fear of the unknown.  The crew watched with bated breath as the flamethrower-toting heroine stalked the slime-dripping monster through the dank depths of her spaceship.  Suddenly from the darkness emerged a row of gleaming teeth fixed in a permanent grin.

"AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHH!" screamed the audience in mortal terror.

"Why are you yelling at me?" asked Mayweather.  "I've just come to tell you the Deltans are about to dock."

Next moment the hapless helmsman was trampled underfoot as every crewmember rushed to the door nearest the starboard docking port.  Archer and his senior officers clung to their seats in terror until the crush had abated.

Then, after Mayweather had been helped to Sickbay, they quietly sneaked off to the port side of the ship.

* * * * * *

"The information in the Vulcan database is rather limited," said Archer.  "For some reason their ambassador only visits Delta IV every seven years."

"Vulcans and Deltans tend to be incompatible," explained T'Pol.  "Deltan culture values sensuality in all its forms.  Sexual expression is integral to every aspect of their society.  You should know that Deltans secrete pheromones which have a powerful effect on humanoid lifeforms.  I suggest you exercise restraint."

"Well I don't know," said Trip.  "As Phlox would say: If you're going to embrace new worlds, you must try to embrace new women."

"The Deltans are a highly-civilised species with an inherent aptitude for mathematics and geometry," T'Pol said coldly.  "Not the Bald Space Bimbos of Planet XXX."

"All right Sub-Commander, we get the point," said Archer.  "We're the cream of Starfleet, not horny astronauts on some kind of bar trek.  I'll have you know that humanity has evolved a great deal__"

He was interrupted by the grinding of seldom-used gears as the port docking hatch slid aside.  Every man bowed in unison, not out of respect but to conceal their instant erections.  Thousands of years of evolved humanity were swept aside by a savage inner voice grunting: "Must fuck...before eaten...by saber-toothed tiger!"

The Deltan ambassador wore a single pearl-white garment, a high-collared robe that ceased a fraction below the union of her long sensual legs.  She was totally hairless but for the delicate curves of her eyebrows and lashes, which framed dark eyes of incredible beauty.  Bra-less breasts stood in erotic defiance of the ship's gravity plating.  An astral Aphrodite, she brought into focus the vast light years between this moment and their last ejaculation.  Even Hoshi Sato, a committed heterosexual her entire life, had the intense urge to drop to her knees and show just how cunning a linguist she was.

T'Pol naturally was unaffected.  It is well known that Vulcans do not eat meat.

"I am Ly Wyth-eny-One," said the Deltan, the Universal Translator barely concealing her exotic accent, a siren's call from her lips to their own.  "Designated First Love to your species.  I greet you on behalf of all my people."

"My pleasure," said Trip.

"I must regretfully decline.  Diplomatic protocol requires I have sex with your captain first."

Something, probably a telepathic smack over the head from T'Pol, got Archer's brain working.

"Err, I am Captain Lecher of Starfuck...Starfleet!  I come all over your face ARRGH!  I come in peace and umm, look forward to an exchange of bodily fluids...err ideas and culture.  These are my officers Commander Fucker...sorry Tucker, Hotty Sucko...SATO!, the weed is Reed and the chick with the big tits is Tentpole, I mean T'Pol...she certainly gives me a tentpole..."

T'Pol decided to intervene before the Trellium-D boiled up behind her eyeballs.  "Our two species, human and Vulcan, are united in a five year...four year mission to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilisations, and boldly go...go boldly (whatever) where no-one has gone before."

It was fortunate that everyone was too horny to pay attention to this speech, because what actually came out via the Universal Translator was: "We intend to use these reckless, aggressive humans as phaser fodder to build an interstellar federation.  If we left things solely up to them they'd screw your women, plunder your resources, destroy your culture with their materialistic values, and pollute the airways with cheap exploitative crap!"

"We have heard many stories of humans," said Ly Wyth-eny-One.  "Your decontamination chamber is famous on our world, and the Vulcans tell us you eat pussy six times a day and mate year-round with any woman you choose...is there something wrong, Captain?"

Archer's hands were grabbing frantically at his crotch, not through an urge to commit a public obscenity but because his steel-hard cock was exerting unbearable pressure on his jumpsuit.

"What idiot put all these zippers on our uniforms?" he groaned, struggling to find the right one.  "I've got more flies than Alice Springs!  Trip, give me a hand!"

"Captain, that's one strange new world ah ain't exploring."

"I can stop your pain," said Ly huskily, her experienced hands releasing him in seconds.  "According to the traditional greeting of my people, I shall beat you off instead of beating you up."

"Mmmmm," moaned Archer, as delicate fingers stroked the full length of his penis.  Seems he was about to boldly blow where everyone had come before...

Ly reeled back, her beautiful eyes wide in shock.

"Captain!" gasped Hoshi.  "You just called the Deltan ambassador a Whore of the Worlds!"

"WHAT?!  Oh shit, the Universal Translator!"

"You are clearly a sexually immature species," snapped a livid Ly.  "My people were willing to help you cum in peace for all mankind; instead you deride us for enjoying the pleasure that you yourself lust after.  We will not forget this insult, Captain!  I inflict you with the Curse of Delta IV.  For now and for generations to come, all male captains in Starfleet will be bald and horny just like us."

Her breasts held high in indignation, the Deltan ambassador stormed into the airlock.  At the last moment she spun to face them again.

"And by the way, your boots smell like shit!"

The airlock hatch slammed with an echoing crash.


"Don't worry Captain," said Trip, placing a hand on his shoulder.  "We'll lay in a course for Risa, maximum warp.  Ah'm sure we can get laid there."

"It's not that!" yelled Archer.  "The bitch shut the door on my dick!"

* * * * * *

"The others are clean but I'm afraid you two have been exposed to a pornographic spore," said Phlox, the window fogging from his breath.  "You'll find the appropriate gooey stuff in Compartment B."

T'Pol's pouty lips pursed in suspicion.  "Why am I always the one who ends up in decontamination?"

"Well when you think about it, it's quite logical," said Phlox, as the sexy Vulcan peeled off her catsuit with molecular tweezers.  "I'll just start the cameras...I mean my medical report."

"How's the Captain?" asked Trip, stripping off his singlet to reveal his firm muscular body.  "Will he be all right?"

"I'm treating his wound," answered Phlox, all sixteen inches hanging out of his mouth.

Crewman Cutler appeared behind him, her brow furrowed like Phlox's forehead.  She reached over and shut the metal slat with a loud bang.

"I was only looking!" they heard the doctor protest.  "Why are you bugging me?"

"Well Phlox, bugging is what happens when you date an entomologist."

T'Pol hit the button on the com.  "Tell Mr. Mayweather to prepare to leave orbit.  I'm taking command of Enterprise."

"Who died and made you captain?" asked Trip, smearing decon gel over his bulging pecs.

"My Vulcan rank supersedes yours," replied T'Pol, smearing decon gel over her bulging breasts.

"Sub-Commander?" scoffed Trip, rubbing the nipples on his chest.  "You've never commanded a submarine in your life.  There are no oceans on Vulcan."

"Sub is short for Subway," said T'Pol, rubbing the nipples on his wrist.  "I ran a franchise in downtown San Francisco in order to study subspace.  That makes me qualified for anything.  Turn around."

"Hell, you people have wanted to scrub this since day one!" said Trip, as the Vulcan scrubbed his back.

"Humans lack the mental discipline necessary for the confines of space travel.  As a telepath I do not enjoy being the subject of 82 wet dreams every night."

In truth that was only the start of the matter.  If just hanging around humans wasn't enough to have T'Pol eating popcorn with her fingers and sharpening her ears before battle, there was that traumatic exposure to jazz music in San Francisco, the Pa'nar Syndrome turning her synaptic pathways into plomeek soup, repressed memories of getting provincial and volatile on a Vulcan fugitive's ass, the unnerving knowledge that a single microbe could turn her into a sweaty space-slut from a porn farr video, and last but not least the way Trellium-D gave her the constant urge to lurch through corridors growling "MUST EAT BRAINS!"

"The Captain once thought I'd been assigned to Enterprise to gather intelligence," continued T'Pol.  "He need not have worried.  I have found little sign of intelligence amongst humans."

"Let's say you're right then," said Trip, dropping his pants and bending over.  "Let's say we screwed up just like you always knew we would."

"Thanks to Captain Archer's actions he is unable to screw anyone.  That was our shortest First Contact since we encountered the Kreetassans."

The notoriously fussy Kreetassans had stormed off Enterprise complaining that humans 'eat like they mate'.  T'Pol had given Cutler a stern warning never to commit such acts with a cucumber in public again.

"You don't really believe that 'Curse of Delta IV', do you?" asked Trip, as the Vulcan sterilised his anus.

"Deltans also have telepathic abilities," said T'Pol, pumping the probe with vigor.  "It's possible a subconscious suggestion could lead to psychosomatic hair loss and constant arousal.  Fortunately, of course, I am immune to its effect."

She got down on all fours and stuck her ass in the air, giving Trip a perfect view of her hairless pussy.

"That's right," said Trip, as he poured an entire jar of Decon Gel X over his massive hard-on.  "You Vulcans are real unemotional."

T'Pol's eyes narrowed (by 0.35 millimetres).  "What do you mean by that?"

"Every Vulcan I've met has shown arrogance, aggravation, anger or annoyance," said Trip, maneuvering into position.  "So y'all just let me know when you're ready to move on to B."

Trip plunged inside her with a single vigorous thrust, causing T'Pol's eyebrows to shoot up to their maximum height.

Of course there was nothing sexual about this, as T'Pol had repeatedly assured the Vulcan High Command.  It was entirely logical that her vagina be decontaminated by the organ designed to penetrate it, but sometimes she felt that Trip did not take the procedure seriously.  After all, was it really necessary to use her pointed ears as handholds while shouting "YEEEEHAAAAAAAAAW!"

* * * * * *

There was a large sign printed on the door of the vacuum toilet.


Archer gingerly eased his regulation blue underwear over his sensitive groin, then settled onto the toilet seat with a sigh of relief.  It would be a while before he risked any more away missions.  When he and T'Pol had been kidnapped by the rebels on Coridan, he'd escaped by pushing his face into the Vulcan's breasts until the resulting hard-on snapped his bonds.  It was not something he'd care to try now.

"Continue playback," he said.  The water polo finals resumed on the tiny screen of his padd.

"Ahhh, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Reed?" grunted Archer.  Things weren't going well for the Stanford team.  Half their horses had drowned in the pool...

"I realise you want to go where no man has gone before, but I didn't think that meant taking a dump in your captain's chair."

Captain Archer looked up and found himself facing the astonished gazes of the Alpha shift.  His jaw dropped.  A moment before he'd been in a toilet cubicle on E-deck, now he was sitting on the bridge with his underpants around his ankles.

"ARGH!" cried Hoshi, showing that she was a screamer as well as a moaner.  "What's that thing between the Captain's legs?"

Reed smirked.  "Really ensign, if you haven't seen a man's ARGH!" he yelled at the sight of the horrible pulsating creature attached to Archer's groin.  "Let go of him you bitch...thing...what the hell is that?"

"It's a 12-inch Xytari genital-regenerating slug," muttered Archer.

There was a long silence from the bridge crew.

"Err, what?"


"And that?" asked T'Pol, pointing with her ears.  On top of Archer's balding head, a small fluffy alien was cooing pleasantly.

"It's a tribble!" shouted Archer, his face going bright red.  "Phlox has got eels that cure injuries, marsupials that crap regenerative enzymes, a larvae that can clone Trip down to his Southern accent, medicinal leeches that have been used since the Middle Ages - why not a wang-healing worm and tribble toupee?"

"Captain, don't you think it's far more likely the doctor is playing an amusing practical joke on you?"

"Noooo," said Archer through gritted teeth.  "But I know someone who is.  DANIELS!"

Sure enough, a chair normally occupied by a nondescript ensign who hadn't said a word in years turned to face them.  It was Daniels, and he didn't look very happy.

"Sorry Jonathan," he said, not looking sorry at all.  "But as toilets don't appear on the plans of any Starfleet vessel they're in a state of temporal non-existence__"

"Stop calling me by my first name!" snapped Archer.  "Was I your steward in another timeline or something?"

"Actually Jon, your official title in one parallel universe is 'Porthos' Bitch'.  I've brought Enterprise into the future so your entire crew can see how their cockless captain has cocked things up!"

"Captain," said Reed.  "There's a vessel 10,000 metres off our port bow.  It's got a hull configuration similar to ours, but looks like something out of a model kit."

"They're hailing us," said Hoshi.

"Let's see them."

While the uniform and interior designers of Enterprise apparently had the blues, those of the other vessel had clearly done a little too much LDS.  Everything from the handrails to the bright panties of the female yeomen was a psychedelic display of primary colours.  Instead of plasma screens there were lights that blinked on and off for no apparent reason, while scanner images were just paintings of starfields and nebulae.

"This...is Captain James T. Kirk of the starship WOOAAH!" exclaimed the vessel's handsome captain.  "Spock, you didn't tell me Vulcan women had such great hooters!"

"Dammit Jim, they're more pointy than her ears," said a crotchety Southern doctor.

The com wolf-whistled.  "Captain, she's packin' quite a wallop!" said a Scottish voice.  "One helluva set o' torrpedoes, and I don't mean the Vulcan lass."

"He's right, Captain," said a scrutible Asian helmsman.  "That design is a hundred years old, but instead of primitive atomic missiles and lasers, our scans show photon torpedoes and phased energy weapons.  They also have real-time subspace communication, a matter transporter, ship-to-ship visual, uncensored swearwords, and a galley that doesn't serve coloured cubes as food."

"Holy [censored], Jim!  If they're from the past, how come their technology is more advanced than ours?"

"Zat's 'cause Starvleet spends half our budget fighting paternity suits against ze Keptin."

"Chekov, your accent sounds as authentic as vodka that's been bottled in Taiwan.  Are you sure you're not a temporal agent?"

A sexy black chick whose miniskirt showed more leg than a Xindi insectoid looked at Mayweather in sympathy.  "I bet those white folks don't allow you to do much either."

Mayweather just nodded, his teeth fixed in a silent grin.

"Keptin," said Chekov, staring at Archer's groin.  "I'm not sure I know vot zat is."

"It's medicine Jim, but not as we know it."

"Analysis, Mr. Spock?"

"Unable to comply, Captain," said Spock, his eyebrows twitching right off the scale.  "That Vulcan female's catsuit is disrupting my control of emotions.  I could attempt a mind meld, but it is only practised by a despised subculture of Vulcan thought-fags."

"Mr. Sulu, energise the...phaser banks," said Kirk.  "I won't tolerate a captain whose...dick is bigger than mine, no matter how...ugly it is."

"We're not afraid of your cheap special effects!" shouted Daniels.  "We've got CGI."

"Daniels," said Kirk with a smirk.  "I might have...known.  How's the...timeline going, ha-ha."

"You're the Future Guy!" exclaimed Archer.

"Yes, I was using temporal technology to...allow my voice...to catch up with itself...and not have so many...pauses.  But all I got was this strange...reverse echo.  It was because this...politically-correct dweeb...was disfiguring the timeline...with his Temporal Cold Sore."

"DANIELS is the one trying to change history?"

"And it's all ruined!  RUINED!" cried Daniels.  "Thanks to the Curse of Delta IV, the bastard offspring of randy captains will spread across the galaxy until all aliens look like humans with lots of makeup.  Archer's tribble toupee will lead to decades of war with the Klingon Empire.  With the Universal Translator that Silik 'accidentally' left on Enterprise, there'll be no need for an alien liaison officer or an exo-linguist.  The only purpose T'Pol and Hoshi will have is to serve as the ship's eye candy.  And the female MACHO's will get bumped off because they're wearing red 'shoot-me' shirts."

"That's right," said Kirk, flipping him the Great Bird of the Galaxy.  "Things are a lot better...with my timeline.  Here when someone tries to...beat up a captain they get their...butt kicked.  And why should women become starship captains?  How can she...seek out new strife in new civilisations...if she keeps stopping to ask for directions?"

"You haven't won yet, He Who Must Be Toupeed!" said Daniels.  "I can still put an end to this shaggin' train to the stars.  I'll get Enterprise cancelled!"

"That isn't open for debate!" growled Archer for the umpteenth time.  "I admit we were boring the first couple of years, but now things are much more interesting.  Energetic music scores, weapons of mass destruction, MACHO's with cool guns, T'Pol on drugs, TOS homages, mini-arcs, Mayweather smiling less..."

"He's right, Daniels you've...lost!  I'm sniggering at the...superior intellect."

"That's what you think!" said the temporal tamperer.  "But I've one weapon left in my arsenal, something that'll drive away even the most geeky Star Trek fan."

"Captain, I'm picking up a transmission," said Uhura, fiddling with the thing-a-me-bob in her ear.

"Sounds like a Diane Warren tune," said Hoshi, doing likewise.

Kirk's eyes bulged in a fit of over-acting.  "No Daniels, not even you'd do something so terrible!  Stop him Archer!  I WANT TO LIVE!  I WANT TO LIVE!"

But it was too late; on every screen on Enterprise a montage was playing.  The crew watched in horror as Yuri Gagarin was erased from history, the costs of the International Space Station grew at an exponential rate, and Zefram Cochrane invented a vessel that could outrun any Random Breath Testing squad on Earth.  But worst of all was the song...

It's been a long road
Though we've never seen a single queer
It's been a long time
But Trek's end is finally near
And I have seen Gene's dream fail to strive
It will quietly die
And they're not gonna hold me to the show no more
No not even with Trip's behind.

This is where Trek and I part
Neuropressure scenes won't sate me
I've lost faith in B & B
They can't do anything
Dressing T'Pol like a moll
Or blowing up some Xindi
I just reach for the remote
I've lost faith
I've lost faith
Faith in this farce.



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