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Parallels

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Parallels

Lt Paul Stamets activated the transporter controls tentatively. ‘Mirror’ Lorca vanished from the room.

‘If I am correct,’ Stamets said, ‘The Lorca from our universe should now materialise’.

Sure enough, a Starfleet uniform appeared on the transporter pad, and formed the image of a familiar, but different, Starfleet Officer.

‘Captain Lorca!’

Saru stepped forward to introduce himself.

‘Who the fuck are you calling Lorca?’ the figure replied. ‘You can call me Field Marshall Zhukov or Sir, or …. ‘He turned to face Cadet Tilly, ‘well, you can call me Daddy’.

Tilly blushed. And then blushed at the thought of blushing.

It was then that they noticed that the Starfleet uniform was smothered in medals. Plus bits of stuffing was leaking out of the neck and arms which it much larger than the skin tight spandex usually looked. Culber stepped forward and appeared concerned until he realised that it was Angorian camel wool and not, he concluded, any medical emergency. It was doubtlessly placed there to make Zhukov look more macho and sexy. It worked, Culber thought.

Similarly, Tilly had noticed a bulge and slight movement in Zhukov’s groin.

‘Is that a tribble in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see us?’ she gushed.

Zhukov eyed her gravely. ‘It’s a tribble’ he replied.

‘I wish I could stay in one fucking place, ‘Zhukov grumbled. ‘There I was, standing on the bridge of the Buran, about to single handedly wipe out all these pointy eared bastards, when you twatting cunts brought me here!’

‘You had better have a fucking good reason, or I’ll report you to the Federation Soviet High Command, or that sexy Emperor with those nice relaxation booths.’

Saru stepped forward quickly: ‘Captain … err… Field Marshall, Sir. We need your urgent help in defeating a fleet of Klingon battleships heading this way’.

Zhukov peered at Saru: ‘Didn’t I eat your mother?’ He looked Saru up and down whilst licking his lips and mumbling something about a red army buffet.

‘Sir? The Klingons?’ Saru prompted.

‘Why didn’t you fucking say so, you sexy, ganglion endowed beast! Lead on!’

Saru turned and guided Zhukov towards the Bridge. Tilly blushed as Zhukov reached into his pants and handed her his tribble.

 

Once on the Bridge, Saru commanded the computer to display the image of the incoming Klingon vessels. Zhukov looked unimpressed: ‘Call them fucking battleships?’ In my day we defeated an entire army of 50,000 weaponised tankers . . .’

‘They are hailing us, sir’, Saru interrupted.

A Klingon face appeared, glowering on the screen.

‘Captain’ the Klingon snarled.

‘Fucking hell!’ Zhukov remarked. ‘Has Mr Whippy shat on your fucking ‘ed?’ ‘And it’s Field Marshall to you son.’

‘This is Ken ... ummm, I mean Kolath ... or one of his relatives....’ stammered Saru, before composing himself. ‘He is leader of the united Klingon houses, sir!’

‘He’s a fucking talking dildo.’ Zhukov replied, turning his back on the screen.

‘How dare you defile the names of the great houses of the Empire!’ Koloth spat at the screen. ‘By the way, your uniform does really accentuate your blue eyes’, he added. B

‘They are firing up their weapons, sir’ Saru told the Field Marshall. ‘Raise shields! Red alert!’

‘Today is a good day to die, Captain!’ Snarled Kolath.

‘Yeah. Today is an even better day for Leeds United to win the fucking league but sure as fuck that won’t ‘appen’.

Suddenly, Sirens screamed and a voice announced that Discovery was entering Black Alert. The Klingon ships were replaced on screen by a constellation of planets.

‘Lt Stamets?’ Saru called through the intercom.

‘Fuck me!’ Zhukov exclaimed. ‘That reminds me of a night in Bolton I once ‘ad with 3 exotic dancers and a Viennese waiter.’

‘Spore drive activated, Commander’, came the voice of Paul Stamets. ‘We are in the Tarsisian Quandrant and safe of any incoming enemy ships.’

‘Good job, Lieutenant.’

‘Commander . . .’ Stamets began. ‘We think we might have been able to fix our other problem, too. Cadet Tilly has been reconfiguring the transporter corresponders to link in with the Mycelial Network’s spore transponders to enable us to create an anomaly . . . ‘

‘Just do it Cadet,’ Saru commanded.

The figure of Field Marshall Zhukov shimmered and disappeared, to be replaced by a male with identical features.

‘Captain?’ Saru’s relieved voice asked.

‘Jackson Brodie, private investigator’, came the reply. ‘As anyone seen a cat?’