The Captain’s Chair

My name is Zebulon Orion Megatroid, Master of the Bridge. It is I who am behind every successful mission of the Starship Enterprise. Not only do I provide a place for Captain Kirk to rest his butt—which, to be perfectly honest, has grown quite a bit over the years—I also provide him with controls to activate ship-wide alarms or open the escape pods. And, of course, I give him advice. He often ignores my advice—that’s why the crew get into so many scrapes—but he generally comes around.

Okay, alright, I’ll admit it. I have no name. That self-important Lothario didn’t even give me a name. He named his phaser—Colt, if you must know; he named his computer—Brandon, for some reason; and according to the armchair in his quarters, he even named his penis—Thor, predictably enough. But me? His trusty advisor? Nothing.

I’ll admit one more thing. I’m not even on the bridge of the Enterprise anymore. Apparently, I’m not good enough for the new captain, a pretentious bald guy who can’t stop tugging at his uniform. Instead, I sit in the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle, Washington, being gawked at by tourists. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were allowed to sit in me and operate my controls—after all, most of them would be more likely to heed my advice than Captain Kirk was—but alas, all they are allowed to do is stare at me and read about my adventures from the other side of a low barrier.

One day, Manny, one of the curators here at the museum, dusts off my control panels and then sits down in me. But he doesn’t adjust my controls. Instead, he sighs. He sounds sad.

 Five minutes later, Manny gets up and turns to face me. “Chester, old boy,” he says. “It’s time for you to go. They’re sending you to the Science Center in Los Angeles for a special exhibit. But don’t worry, you’ll be back here in two months.”

What did he call me? Chester?

Chester is hardly a name I’d choose for myself, but what does it matter? The important thing is I have a name. Someone knows I am important enough to give me a name.

Tomorrow morning, I will head off to Los Angeles—to sit in a museum being gawked at by sun-tanned tourists, no doubt—but soon I shall return. When I do, I, Chester Orion Megatroid, Master of the Museum, will give my guidance and wise counsel to Captain Manny, who will heed my warnings and not run into nearly as many scrapes as Captain Kirk.



By day, Jenna Hanan Moore is a mild-mannered appellate research attorney who writes and edits legal opinions. By night, she’s a sci-fi junkie who writes science fiction, fantasy, and humor. She lives in southern Illinois with her husband and dog.

Categories: Fiction, TV

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Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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