Lieutenant Commander Nyota Uhura sighed, as she plopped down into a large, comfortable, cornflower blue armchair. ‘Whaaaaat aaaaa shiffffffttttt. . .’ she thought, as dexterous fingers found their way to rolling papers and a jar of dried cannabis on a small, round, prismatic glass table next to her. She looked around the room momentarily, being present, being grateful, being charmed by her field of vision. . . .
So many plants. Beautiful. Verdant and glowing with prana, chi, fresh energy, whatever you’d wish to call life force. . . the plants were ~~~vibrating~~~ at her. The plants were. . . singing. . . at her! She couldn’t help herself. . . tired as she was, she got up to sing, sing, sing; sing to the plants! The way she would do to Spock, from time to time, or maybe to Christine if she could ever get her out of Sickbay. Sometimes she was allowed to sing in Sickbay—mantras, bija seed sounds, folk songs in various languages that she had studied—but she preferred her improvised singing to fall on ready, consensual ears! Not folks laid up in bed with no choice. . . and her plants, well, they were her absolute favorite audience. To them, she could warble non-stop absolute nonsense, singing and screeching and scatting and tweeting and chittering, twittering and tootling and having a grand old time. . . and they would just shine on at her! A captive audience. . . happily drinking in the love.
“Oh, Phyllis, Phyllis philodendron dendronite anchorite mighty mouse pussy cat. . .” she cooed, harmoniously, to a particularly hearty green leafy friend at the entry to her small kitchen. . . she had taken the time, recently, to tally all her plants, her beloved succulents and orchids and bromeliads and herbs, even some Meyer lemons and a gourd-like plant from Teegarden’s Star C that she had managed to keep alive in a full-spectrum light chamber. Sixty-one. Sixty one plants. Sixty one, she counted. And of course, they all had names.
Aaaaaah. . . she had kicked off her boots by the door of her quarters, but she still was in full Federation uniform. She went into the bathroom, and, layer by layer, stripped down to herself again. First, the dress and bloomers, her skin tingling as she peeled off the sleeves and felt the ambient quality, temperature, humidity, and life force of her plant-provided fresh air caress her. Prana. She got goosebumps from the electric feeling beginning to grow inside her. . . then the tights got peeled off carefully, her soft leg hair bristling and standing on end as the micro-xenylon ran down her legs. Fuck panties—she had learned that years ago: the ancient knowledge that a breathing pussy is a happy pussy—so she stood there, in her bra and wig, in the bathroom, just breathing deeply, decompressing. . . .
‘Oh yeah! That joint!’ Uhura smiled at herself as she gently padded into the sitting room again, back to the little round table, back to the papers and the jar of dried cannabis.
A note, or something in a small paper envelope, slid under her door. ‘Oh, hell yes,’ she thought to herself, ‘if this is what I think it might be. . .’
Smiling, she folded up one leaf of rolling paper to make a filter, folded another paper to hold the filter and cannabis (really great stuff she had picked up on their last visit to Jupiter—the floating weed farms just made the trippiest sativas), and deftly rolled herself a well-earned joint after that bogus shift.
Lighting up, inhaling, ashing the tip into a chunk of hollowed out moon rock her grandfather gave her, she reflected. Now, why was that shift so bogus? Well. . . first off, it was long. At usual shift change, Kirk had asked her to stay on the Bridge as they were in the middle of some pretty hairy communications with another ship that had flagged them down for. . . what? Something no one could figure out. Every time she got the ship on the communicator, they would become overwhelmed and stammer and swear up and down that they needed help. . . but couldn’t say exactly why. They wouldn’t identify where they were from; it all got very confusing. It wasn’t until Kirk finally threatened to beam onto their ship and check their fuel and living supplies, personally, that they came out and admitted it: it was an Andorian PlanetHopper, taken out by a gang of kids headed for Meridian, bored and lonely on their long space voyage. Oh yes. She got it. Space travel can be lonesome and tense if there aren’t enough of you. And there were only four of them, despite the ship’s capacity of sixteen. r32;
Seeing a big ship like the Enterprise, with a 950 person comfortable capacity (though she remembered some wild missions where they squeezed 1000, even 1100 people onto the ship—those were some raging off-duties and socials!), these kids couldn’t help themselves. She was pissed that they wasted the ship’s time, but she had been there. Space lonesome. The captain gave them some fuel booster and sent them on their way. ‘He’s too giving,’ she thought, taking another drag on the joint. ‘I wonder if that’s ever gotten him into real trouble. Probably. . . that’s how he learned his sense of boundary, I suppose. . .’ she mused. The captain. Yes, her dear love, Kirk. Jim. Not her greatest lover, but a great one, and a great friend. So. The note. How very him to deliver a paper note, in the age of digital everything. ‘Luddite’, she smiled to herself. He had mentioned he’d make it up to her, back on the Bridge, as she logged in those hours of overtime. . . .
She took a long, deep drag, smiled again, and took off her bra and wig, her gorgeous dark luminous breasts tumbling free and happy, her hair a short, close-cropped auburn afro, well-oiled and shining in the cabin’s gentle light. In exactly 90 seconds, make-up was wiped off with a warming, aromatic oil, a loose, sumptuous silk caftan sheathed her body, and Uhura was blitzed and peaceful on that Jupiter green (well, actually, it had an orange-ish tint to it. . . .)
Again, she smiled, with heavy-lidded eyes. The note.