Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
It would not be true those aboard Spaceship 1 had no fun. They had fun. They just kept it hidden. Especially from Captain Rollhagen.
“There will be no Valentine cards allowed,” the captain stated in his weekly address. This over the PA system, at lunch. “I don’t want any of this ‘You’re the One’. None of that ‘You Are My True Love’. There is only one true love. The Space Corps, and don’t forget it. Do your duty. Remain vigilant. Remember to bus your trays. This isn’t a restaurant. Over and out.”
The crew ate large baby spinach salads with avocado dressing. They looked at one another and smirked. Well, just because he was single…
Kenneth Kern, working a toothpick, sat across from Ensign Tate. He stared at her insolently. She wasn’t offended. He stared at everyone like that. “Why don’t you do something, Tate.”
“What do you mean?” She felt the eyes of others upon her.
“You know what I mean. The Captain. Get him to loosen up.”
Tate was breathless. She was usually breathless. “What makes you think I have any influence over…”
“Oh, come off it. We know he likes you. And you like him.”
“Really, Mr. Kern! I won’t have this. My appreciation for the Captain is entirely professional. He’s a fine officer. And one of the most able men in the Corps.”
Looking at the ceiling, Kern threw down his toothpick. It was hopeless.
He sat in his quarters that night. On Kern’s desk were half a dozen Valentines. He was not especially well-liked. It was best to take the shotgun approach. “Dear Lt. Boughton,” he wrote. “You are dear to me.” Not too good, especially from the ship’s communications officer. He signed his name just the same.
The next was for Melissa Lockwright. He considered Melissa. She was slender and dark, and always had her nose in some book. Perhaps the unhappiest woman he ever met, she frowned continuously. She was Kern’s favorite.
Let me see, he thought. Only the most persuasive note would do. He took a deep breath and began writing:
Your eyes are like butterflies,
Your hands are like palms.
If I admire you completely,
I carry no qualms.
It wasn’t much. But considering most of the poets, not bad. He had taken a class in modern poetry, in college. Almost as an accident. It was brutal.
Only one left. Kern experienced a sudden inspiration. If Captain Rollhagen received a Valentine, he couldn’t very well turn it down. And once in his hand, he might lighten up on the rest of the crew. He brought the pen down with a flourish. “Dear Captain,” he wrote. “You send my heart to the stars.” Perfect. Only one thing more to add.
“Love, Ensign Tate.”
The next few days saw a flurry of envelopes changing hands. Some were pushed under doors. Others slipped beneath plates. Kern handed his out like playing cards. He wasn’t much of a lady’s man. Plus, he was anxious to get up to the bridge before quitting time, with the most important envelope of all.
“Hello Captain,” he said, walking in.
“Hello Kern.” Captain Rollhagen just finished a call on his video disk. He put it down. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to see how things were going. By the way, I found this on my way in. It’s addressed to you.”
Rollhagen took the aqua envelope. He noted his name in elaborate cursive. “You know, I have expressly forbidden Valentines.”
“Of course. But you understand how the crew is. They have their own minds.”
“Indeed they do, Lieutenant.” In spite of himself, he tore the envelope open with some enthusiasm. Kern looked on smugly.
“Why Kern!” the captain said. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“What?”
“How charming. Thank you!”
Kern grabbed the card. “Wait a minute.” In an instant he saw what happened. He had given Rollhagen the wrong Valentine!
The captain took it back. He examined the card again. “Tell me, Kern. Are my eyes really like butterflies?”
Lt. Cmdr. Kern straightened up. “More like lasers. Sir!”
Smiling, the captain dropped the Valentine on the table. “We’ll just keep that to ourselves. As you were, Kern. As you were.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com