Star date Whatever
The blurb
An indecisive menopausal woman crews the first ever female interspecies ship. What could go wrong?
Captain’s personal diary
The crew aren’t taking me seriously.
So here we are, going where no menopausal woman has gone before. And I’m in charge of 430 interspecies females.
What was I thinking, Mother?
I can hear your warning tone: that I’m-trying-to-be-supportive voice, but … “All female? When this falls through don’t blame yourself, [name].”
Meaning that you’ve already predicted this whole voyage will be a farce because I’m in charge.
Or am I being paranoid?
“This is my dream?” I say, ask?
“I hear a question in that statement,” she replies. Nothing could ever get past those pointy ears since my adolescent days when I’d try to sneak out after curfew.
“This is my dream.” I put more oomph into the words this time.
I’ve been drumming up sponsorship for decades and I’m disappointed she isn’t more supportive. That’s what it’s like to have a former science officer for a mother, she hadn’t settled for ship’s councillor and had always pushed me to aim for more. She is wary of me being codependent on her parenting. I blame her constant concern on my inability to make a decision.
“If you’re sure, dear. Say for dinner, what would you like from the replicator?”
“I don’t know okay!” I practice my storm off mode, just for when onboard obviously. To show authority. Only, women don’t like playing along and I’ll have to control 430 of them. Oh blast, oh blast. Is it too late to back down? I’m sure one of the Rikers would be much better suited for this job.
I storm off to Father’s office a replica of Picard’s Ready Room with the requisite swivel chair, painfully tidy desk — my own Ready Room already looks like a waste receptacle in comparison — guest chairs, and a small couch beneath a painting of a nebula.
“Just like the Enterprise,” was Father’s reaction on hearing my crew numbers. “Once you’ve shown you can handle that tiny gene pool they’ll promote you anywhere.”
My bladder physically responds to his words. Why get promoted when I already have my first ship? Is my second in command planning something?
I may have peed myself a little, but that’s okay I’m wearing special knickers.
I’m now shit terrified.
The large pharma company funding this mission were right to be wary. This could be an infighting, epic hairpulling disaster. I’m talking about the mostly male mission control on the ground here.
Whilst onboard it’ll be a giant slumber party success. I’m already planning stay in your PJs Sundays, and we’ve ditched the official uniforms for vintage glamour.
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Whatever it takes to keep the crew entertained so they don’t turn on me.
Stardate 202500
Captain’s log
Launch a complete success, for which we thank our pharmaceutical sponsor HRT Healthcare.
Here is a brief word from our sponsor which I am legally obliged to include: If you want to find your new potential and you are a woman or identify as one, think HRT Healthcare.
HRT Healthcare opening the gateway to new horizons in your life.
Captain’s personal diary
There were grumblings amongst the crew, that, so typically, they’d chosen a white, human to captain the HRT Menopause. I suppose if I were green or purple they’d still find something to grumble about. The lack of beard perhaps? We have a healthy quota of allsorts aboard. Yum, liquorice. I wonder if anyone has smuggled any into their luggage …
We are supposed to rely on the ship’s replicators, which some bright spark programmed with a default to dark chocolate for sweet treats. I’m not against cocoa. Sometimes you just need a place of chocolate chip cookies, a tub of cookie dough, and a choccy flake or two.
My second in command is leading the complaints committee. Morganne fed back to me today, tossing her perfect purple curls and taking a selfie on her bridge chair, for her 6 billion followers on Planet Poopoon, something … wasn’t listening, to be honest. Aughu, her conjoined twin, rolled her three eyes. I wouldn’t have chosen her as a second, but then I didn’t choose the selfie duo in the first place.
“So my proposed solution is to something something.”
“I’m sure whatever solution you propose will be adequate,” I said, and returned to my game of minesweeper. I’m practicing in case we ever find ourselves in a space minefield.
I’m not listening on purpose, cause I can’t take any criticism right now after the bar incident. I thought a bit of pub quiz fun would be just what we needed to unite us as a team. Instead everyone divided into teams defined by species and I’ve created a rupture not even Tuesday night Karaoke will sort out. I assume her ideas are related to a crew bonding exercise.
I go to get my coffee from the rec room which is packed with women elbow to elbow gluing red and black balls together. “Why is everyone constructing genetic mutation models?”
“You weren’t listening to a word I was saying ealier,” said Morganne.
Fair enough comment.
“I set multispecies teams a task, team bonding, get it, glue … bonding.” she explained. “If they are the first to finish their genetic replia they win something something.”
I do a slow blink. “Have you been saying something something all this time?”
Anghu smirked. “I told you she wouldn’t notice straight away.”
This is going to be a loooooong voyage.
Captain’s log
Nothing to report other than some excellent and inventive team bonding exercises.
Here is a brief word from our sponsor which I am legally obliged to include: If you want to find your new potential and you are a woman or identify as one, think HRT Healthcare.
[Part 1 was first published on Insta. Part 2 added to it here for the first time]
