Every once in a while I like to go back and read some of my old high school English projects and whenever I do, I realize just how much of the talent in the field I've lost in the past 1-2 years, rotting my brains with video games and comic books and internets. Yes, somewhere beneath this blog-scribbling exterior lies the soul of a true literary artist, who was tragically avalanched sometime between British Literature and the discovery of Homestar Runner.
Anywhosit, I love Terry Pratchett and I love Star Trek, so when I was given an English assignment that would hopefully remind me (but, considering the general ignorance of kids-these-days, was more likely to introduce me) to the concept of satire, I decided to mix these two loves to create something that was completely unoriginal, but has continued to amuse me every time I reread it. So without much more ado about nothing, I give you the heavily Discworld-influenced satire blatantly titled:
Satire Trek: Yet Another Parody of the Star Trek Universe
===
Imagine time and space. Imagine that the two are woven together, like two materials that together make one thick fabric; a universal fabric. Now imagine a tiny tear appearing in that fabric. Imagine it growing bigger and bigger, ripping longer and longer, until the universe just can’t ignore it. Imagine, now, an omnipotent voice muttering embarrassedly, “Oh damn. I knew these pants were too small.”
Imagine the tear in time and space now being sewn up. Imagine the mended fabric now, appearing as if the rip had never even existed. However, there are still hints that it did; stitches can still be seen if one looks close enough ...
***
Ivan Tore picked himself off the floor and stared flatly at the assembled group of individuals watching him. They were spread across the room, mostly standing before desks and walls that glowed and blinked with hundreds of little lights, looking much like broken disco globes. Dull gray and taupe walls, reminding Ivan of the wallpaper of his late grandmother’s abode, surrounded the sizable room. The large, black monitor that was set in the long, bare wall on one side of the room invoked only one thought into Ivan’s mind: “I bet football’d look awesome on that.”
One of the aforementioned individuals, a man, stepped forward. “Greetings ... Ivan Tore. I am ... Captain James E. Church.”
“Yo,” replied Ivan, and as a perplexed expression flashed across the man’s face, Ivan got a better chance to observe him. The captain wore a tight jumpsuit consisting of black and red. On it was a pin that looked more or less triangular. The man himself had wavy blonde hair and an expression that triggered Ivan’s mind to label him as a supermodel. The overall effect was like a sixties sci-fi creator’s idea of what a spaceman should look like. It was rather sad.
The captain seemed to recover from his surprise and said, “We ... don’twishto-frightenyou. Wewillnot ... harm you.”
Ivan continued to stare at him flatly. “Lemme guess,” he said. “This is a starship.”
The man gave a glance to his companions then turned back to Ivan and replied, “Yes, actually, it is. The starship ... Entrepreneur. I get the feeling, Mr. Tore, that you are not ... assurprisedaswe ... expectedyoutobe.”
“Excuse me, Captain.” Another man, dressed in the same type of uniform and obviously an alien because of his pointy nose, stepped forward. His face was strangely expressionless, like that of a man who has just has diarrhea in a public restroom and is trying not to look suspicious. “During the era that we acquired Mr. Tore from, fiction and media had so many science fictional elements that humans had become accustomed to the idea of space travel and extraterrestrial life. It is probable that this phenomenon has also manifested itself unto our visitor, explaining his lack of astonishment.”
The captain was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m afraid, Mr. T’t’ock, that I ... tunedoutafter ... ‘Captain.’”
“I’m not surprised ‘cause I’m used to alien stories,” said Ivan impatiently. “That’s what he said, pretty much. But you also said you got me from an ‘era.’ That mean that this is the future, too?”
“Yes,” said the pointy-nosed T’t’ock. “This is the year 2253 A.D. in your Earth years.”
“Okay, that explains why I just suddenly turned up on your floor.” Ivan was a astoundingly acceptant person. “Now, why me?” He was also the type to get straight to the point.
The captain replied, “We have a situation with the ... somethingorother. Honestly, I‘d forget my own head sometimes. What was the ...” He froze in his erratic pause.
Ivan looked at the alien for an explanation.
“Speech impediment,” T’t’ock said.
Ivan nodded.
They waited a few seconds.
“... problemagain,Mr.T’t’ock?”
“There is something wrong with the gnarl drive in our engine room,” said T’t’ock. “Because of this difficulty, our ship is currently lacking the ability to perform even the most menial mode of movement, whether the slow 1/4 thrust or the standard gnarly speed. We are stranded, and in a remote section of space, no less, too far for assistance to arrive before our provisions are diminished. Thus, we were forced to proceed with the most logical course of action: distort space and time and risk damaging the universe in a dangerous and improbable attempt to bring you here to save our one, unimportant ship from devastation by rebuilding our gnarl core, enabling us to travel back to our space headquarters before we die of starvation.”
“That’s what I meant to say,” said the captain.
“I see,” Ivan replied to T’t’ock. “Too bad that I don’t know what a gnarl drive is or how to build one.”
“What? But you have to! You’re Ivan Tore!” blurted out a human woman sitting at one of the lighted desks. “With your permission, Captain?”
“Aw, come on over here, then,” said the captain and the woman walked over to Ivan. “Mr. Tore, this is . . . ourChiefEngineer, Lieutenant Sol la Tido.”
“Sorry, darling,” said Ivan, “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don‘t know about any gnarl drive. At home, I‘m just a mechanic.”
“But you’re my hero,” said la Tido. “Our history records say that you invented the gnarl drive and that you were the first man to travel at the speed of cruelty!”
“Sorry. Don‘t know anything about all that.”
“Perhaps,” said T’t’ock, “we transported a younger version of Ivan Tore, before he had invented the gnarl drive.”
Ivan looked at the alien. “In that case, isn’t it illogical to tell a person what their future holds in case it changes their future?”
T’t’ock shrugged. “Yes. It is also in opposition to our Prime Directive, upon which our entire inter-planetary society has prospered for over one hundred years. But I have learned not to fight human illogicalities. It is too much trouble for too little positive outcome. Moreover, it gives me a headache.”
“Well, if I don’t know how to make this ‘gnarl drive,’ then can I go back to my time now?”
“Um,” said la Tido, “I’m afraid we can’t do that. Y’see, we used up all of our tacky-on particles, which is the name sci-fi script writers came up with for time particles, when we transported you here. We have to get back to base to get more to send you home.”
“What?” exclaimed Ivan. “You mean you brought me hundreds of years into the future without any way of getting me home?”
“Sorry.”
Ivan sighed. “Look, are you sure? Because I’m pretty upset about the lousy way you guys are treating me--”
“He’s going to attack! Everybody down!” screamed the captain. From the holster attached to his belt he pulled a slick, handheld object, aimed it at Ivan, and pressed a button on it. There was a sound like a faucet turning on and a red beam of light emitted from the object and hit Ivan directly in the chest. He stared at his body as it burst into flames. Then it crumbled and he shattered into a pile of ashes. There was silence for a couple of seconds, then the pile made a noise like a hoarse cough and it belched a depressing wisp of smoke that evaporated in the air.
Interstellar crickets chirruped.
Then la Tido said to the captain, “He’s dead, Jim.”
“Um. Are ... yousure?”
“Dammit, Jim, I’m an engineer, not a doctor!” La Tido shifted uneasily as the crew took their eyes off the ashes to stare at her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It just seemed the right thing to say.”
“Captain,” said T’t’ock, calmly. “Why did you incinerate Mr. Tore?”
“I ... I ... didn’tmeanto. It’s a phaser, right? It’s supposed to . . . phasepeople,notkill-them!”
“I believe, Captain, that you are thinking of the word ‘faze,’ as in ‘to startle,’ said T’t’ock with the voice of one teaching a child. “What you are holding in your hand is a phaser, much like a blaster, which, despite having a ‘stun’ setting, is currently on the ‘deep fry’ setting.”
“Oh.”
“This does not, however, explain why you attacked our only means of escape from our current predicament, whether you meant to ready him for his funeral urn or not.”
“I ... thoughthewasgoingtoattackinhis ... madness.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think he was the mad one.”
“With all due respect, sir,” piped up la Tido, “you are an ass.” She earned another stare. “I’m sorry! It just seemed like the right thing again.
“Anyway,” she said, quickly, “now that we’ve killed the inventor of our standard method of travel before he could invent that method, what does that mean is going to happen next?”
“The logical outcome is that history and the universe will unravel and we will cease to exist, or rather, will never have existed in the first place,” said T’t’ock. “It is also possible that we will be thrust into an alternate reality, wherein Earth will have encountered different events in its history without Ivan Tore. I cannot say for sure.”
“Captain,” said one of the other crew members, “there is another starship hailing us.”
“Oh, goodie!” said the captain. “They can sort this all out for us.”
“But, sir, I thought we were too far from any ships to request assistance?” said la Tido.
The captain ignored her. “Put the hail onscreen, please.”
The giant monitor flickered and the face of a bald human man appeared. He wore a uniform extremely similar to that of the captain’s, but in a red plaid. He also wore a red beret. It had a pom-pom on it.
The bald man spoke, “Come een, U.S.S.S. Entrepreneur.”
“Yes, we ... arehere,” said the captain. “MayIaskwhom ... I am talking to?”
“I am Captin Sali-Forth MacCard of le starship U.S.S.S. ...” He seemed especially amused as he said the name of the ship in his thick French accent. “Entrepreneur.”
“The Entrepreneur?” said Captain Church, redundantly. “But that’s our ship!”
“Indeed. Apparentlee, you have traveled to our time from the past, for just as you appeared, our sensors regeestered a great number of tacky-on parteecles.”
“Just a moment,” said T’t’ock to the screen. “You mean to say that we traveled into the future?”
“Oui. Theez eez le year 2346. Our records show that your sheep disappeared during 2253. You have been missing for a century.”
Lieutenant la Tido seemed taken aback, but the news did not seem to shock the captain or T’t’ock. In fact, the captain seemed more intent on his next question: “Why does your ship have the same name as ours?”
“The name eez actually Entrepreneur Gamma,” said MacCard. “It eez a remake of your sheep.”
“But remakes of lost ships are always followed by an English alphabet character, such as A, B, or C, depending on how many ships are lost and how many remakes are created. Why is yours followed by a Greek character?” asked T’t’ock.
MacCard looked embarrassed. “We ran out of English characters a few months ago.”
La Tido didn’t look satisfied. “But, Captain, none of this explains why you are a Scotsman with a French accent, how we were transported into the future, or why Mark Twain and Leonard Nimoy are on the ship with you.”
MacCard smiled while Mark Twain and Leonard Nimoy waved. “Who cares why or how? Theez eez satire!”
***
Imagine another tear appearing in the fabric of time and space. Imagine the omnipotent voice saying, “That’s it, I’ve had enough of this,” and throwing the pants into the garbage bucket.
===
By the way, I got an A-, which is good considering that I spent half a day writing it and my teacher didn't get half the jokes.
No comments:
Post a Comment