The WC’s Halloween wine tale returns after a five-year absence: The USS Wine Curmudgeon must cross the three-tier zone to rescue a shipload of $10 wine from the clutches of the Imperial Distributor Empire
Captain’s log, Stardate 3554.1: Just six hours ago, the USS Wine Curmudgeon crew was enjoying some much deserved shore leave with Gascon whites and Spanish roses when a message from Admiral McMillan sent us to the edge of the three-tier zone.
“Captain, a New Orleanian trader named McNally claims he has a shipload of quality $10 California red and white wine, and he is willing to sell it to us. But we have to meet his ship on the Imperial Distributor Empire side of the three-tier zone to get it.”
“Admiral, with all due respect, and I understand that a shipload of quality $10 California red and white wine is among the rarest things in the Federation. But this sounds like a trap.”
“Agreed, Captain. But if we can bring that wine into the Federation, it will change the balance of power in the quadrant. So WineFleet has agreed to take the chance. Meet McNally and bring back that wine.”
•
“Captain, I know McNally has helped us out in the past,” said my first officer, Cmdr. Bratcher. “But cross the three-tier zone? That could start a war. And the Imperial Distributor Empire has enough lawyers to fight it – and to win it.”
“True, No. 1. But orders are orders.”
Dr. Marmon signaled from sick bay. “Captain, is it true? We’re crossing the three-tier zone?”
“Yes, Bones.”
“Well, Captain, I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m a physician, not a winemaker.”
The tension on the bridge was as thick as a 15.5 percent Aussie shiraz. Lt. Tish, at the helm, looked at me.
“Mr. Tish, set course for the rendezvous coordinates inside the three-tier zone. Lt. Carter, ready phasers and photon torpedoes. Mr. Bileti, engage – and let’s see if we can find some quality $10 wine.”
•
Three hours deep inside the three-tier zone, but no sign of McNally’s ship.
“What do you see on the sensors, Mr. Tish?”
“Not a thing, Captain.”
And then we didn’t need the sensors. Four Imperial Distributor Empire winebirds uncloaked around us, and we were surrounded.
“Lt. Carter, shields up. Go to red alert.” I signaled engineering: “Mr. McIntyre, we may need those warp engines at any second. Be ready.”
“Aye, Captain,” said Mac. “I can give you any second, and maybe a wee bit more.”
“We’re being hailed, Captain.”
“Put it on the screen, Lt. Carter.”
“Greetings, Captain. I am Chief Operating Officer Markup, commanding the Imperial Distributor Empire flagship Monopoly. It’s an honor to meet you – we’ve heard so much about the USS Wine Curmudgeon. May I ask what you’re doing so far inside the three-tier zone?”
“Thank you, Chief Operating Officer. We’re answering a distress call. … from a trader named McNally.”
“Ah,” said Markup. “Yes, poor McNally. I’m afraid you’re too late. He had a mishap with too much smoke-tainted Napa cabernet.” And then Markup smiled, but there was nothing pleasant in the way he did it.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” said Markup. “Captain, you will lower your shields and surrender. And the Imperial Distributor Empire will never have to put up with your foolishness again.”
I motioned Carter to cut the transmission.
“Options?” I asked.
“Fire the phasers and photon torpedoes,” said Carter. “They have no honor.”
“Maybe we can negotiate with them, Captain,” said Bileti. “That’s better than getting blasted.”
“True, Mr. Bileti. But I don’t relish the prospect of spending the rest of my life drinking $45 pinot noir that doesn’t have much pinot noir in it.”
Then Bratcher raised his eyebrows, and I knew we might have a way out. “Captain,” he said, “I seem to recall a similar situation on planet Lubbock, when we ran into a little trouble with the local authorities.”
“We did indeed, No. 1, we did indeed.” And then I grinned.
•
Markup was no longer smiling when we resumed the transmission. “Well, Captain?”
“I have a deal to offer you, Chief Operating Officer. We have a shipment of rare red Bordeaux, worth thousands of dollars a bottle, and rated 101 points – and by two critics. How about a trade? Our wine for McNally’s $10 wine? Who on your side of the three-tier zone is going miss a little $10 wine? And imagine how much you can inflate the margins on that Bordeaux – and how pleased the Imperial Distributor Empire will be.”
“101 points? Really? And from two critics?”
I named the critics – and Markup looked like he was going to drool through the screen.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t know. …”
“Then I guess you’ll just have to blow us up,” I said, and motioned to Carter to cut the transmission.
“Go ahead, No. 1, you know what to do.” And Bratcher headed off the bridge toward No. 2 transporter station.
Then I signaled Mac. “Commander, we’re not only going to need that extra second, but you’ll have to time a transporter exchange perfectly and then give us warp 7 faster than anyone has ever done it.”
“Aye, Captain,” he said. “Faster than anyone has done it, and maybe a wee bit more.”
•
“All right,” said Markup when we resumed transmission. “It’s a deal. But I want to see the goods first.”
“No. 1, transport a bottle of wine to the Monopoly.”
Markup was handed the wine. He took out a corkscrew, struggled a bit, pulled the cork, smelled the wine. “Is that a tobacco humidor? Is that savory red licorice? Is that – and I can’t believe this – is that barely ripe black currant?”
“It’s all yours,” I said. “We’ll drop shields at the same time, transport the wine at the same time, and each go on our way.”
“Done,” said Markup, and he made hand signals to several crew members on his bridge.
“Now, Mac,” I said. “Now, because if you don’t do it now, it’s too late.”
The transporter flashed, and then the ship seemed to lurch for a split second – but went to warp almost before the lurch ended. And as we headed out of the three-tier zone, there was a blink in the distance.
“Something on my sensors,” said Tish. “No, it’s not there anymore. And the Monopoly. … it’s not there anymore, either. It just vanished.”
“Indeed,” said Bratcher, who had returned to the bridge. “Captain, how could that happen?”
“Well, No. 1,” I said, “could there have been something wrong with the wine? Anything that scores 101 points isn’t going to be very stable, is it? And especially if some of it is laced with anti-matter that we’ve been saving since that incident on planet Lubbock. Try to transport it, and who knows how big the explosion will be?”
“That’s all well and good, Captain,” said Carter, “and I understand they would have destroyed us regardless, so you had to use the anti-matter. But how did you know Markup would go for the trade? The Imperial Distributor Empire is supposed to have the savviest business executives in the quadrant.”
“Well, Carter, it’s like you said earlier. Show them 101 points and inflated margins, and they forget about everything else. That’s when happens when you have no honor.”
Cue theme music
A tip o’ the Curmudgeon’s fedora to Star Trek and Gene Roddenberry — because, frankly, he knew what he was doing. How often do decades-old TV shows still matter? I had pretty much given up writing a Halloween parody for the blog when this came to me. And the names of the crew? Purely a coincidence if they sound like the names of anyone I know.
More Halloween wine tales
• A Halloween wine tale 2017: Dr. Who
• A Halloween wine tale 2016: Kolchak: The Wine Stalker
• A Halloween wine tale 2015: I am Legend
• A Halloween wine tale 2014: Frankenstein
• A Halloween wine tale 2013: Dracula
