That's Not My Name

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“Hmm.” The captain thought for a moment. The brunette in front of him was hot, hotter than hot. It was afterwards and they were still touching each other, still kind of picking at each other’s bodies. His woman – the official Captain’s Woman – wouldn’t be back in quarters for hours. 

“Well?” asked the smoking hot Science department lieutenant. Her hand reached down, and long, slightly curved fingernails with scarlet polish threatened to do a little damage to a rather sensitive area. 

“What will you give me if I get it right?” asked the captain. 

“I’ll think it over,” she said, with a toss of her hair. 

There was a communications chime. They both ignored it. 



“No, no, no,” said the captain, “that’s just a description of you. With a slight accent.” 

“You’re funny,” she said, eyes narrowing to almost slits. “Guess again.” 

“Huh.” She was short and curvy – a far cry from the official Captain’s Woman, who was a willowy blonde. 

“C’mon,” she beckoned invitingly, arms at her sides, pressing in and making everything look even perkier. “Guess again.” 

“Enough guessing,” He said, “time for action.” 

He was more than ready to go again. She looked past him as they coupled, straight at the picture of Terra with a sword through it, painted on the doors of his quarters. The doors swished open and the captain’s Vulcan first officer walked in on them. He stroked his goateed chin once and then walked out. 

This did not faze the captain, who continued what he was doing anyway. When he was done, he rolled to the side. “That was good,” he praised her, “Meghan.” 

“Not even close,” she said. 


“A lovely name, but, alas, not mine.” 


“What am I, a Rottweiler?” 

“Just a thought,” he said. He got up and donned his clothes, resheathing a dagger. “I’ve got to get back to the Bridge.” 

“How do you know that?” she asked, lying back, naked. 

“He wouldn’t have come in if I wasn’t needed. You’ll need to clear out.” 

She just nodded. He departed. 

She grabbed her clothes and then thought better of things. She opened a closet and found the official Captain’s Woman’s things. There was, oddly, a jumpsuit; much like had been worn on the old NX-01 however many decades before. She took it out. “I bet this makes you look like a garage mechanic. Still, it is useful.” 

She put it on and got her dagger. The jumpsuit was far too long so she rolled the pant legs in order to avoid tripping. She had to be able to move easily. 

The doors swished open, and it was the official Captain’s Woman. “Marlena Moreau!” she exclaimed, and that was the last thing that Janice Rand ever said. 

Moreau was swift and certain with the dagger. She then defaced the dead woman. She dragged the body onto the bed, all the better for Kirk to find it. 

She peeled off the bloodied jumpsuit and stuffed it into the disposer, and then set the device to incinerate the incriminating garment. She wiped off her dagger with one of the dead woman’s dresses and then it, too, was incinerated in the disposer. A quick shower eliminated any remaining evidence. She got her own clothes on and resheathed her own dagger. She hightailed it out of there. 

Marlena had risen through the ranks, giving her favors to John Kyle, the transporter chief, and then Ensign Pavel Chekhov – he had been a wild one. And then she’d dallied with Montgomery Scott, the Chief Engineer. Every move was calculated. Every act was designed to get her exactly where she knew she would be in, perhaps, a week. 

Kirk would find the ruined body. He would torture one or two of his crew members – there was always someone nearby who could be pushed to take the fall. The Agony Booth would have a few customers. She would hang back and spend her time with Doctor McCoy. A quickie would make the old fellow lie and say that she’d been in a Sick Bay lab while the deed was done. Her alibi could be readily secured.  

And then, once Kirk was ready to go again – for Marlena knew that lust never failed James T. Kirk, she would be there. And she would take her rightful place as the Enterprise’s Captain’s Woman.

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