Tribble Fan Fiction #1: A Tribble’s Diary
Tribble Fan Fiction #1
Stardate 4523.3 — Day One
I was born this morning. Not in any dramatic way — no thunder, no lightning, no doctor slapping my backside. I simply was, and then I was more than I had been, and then I was separate from Mother. The whole process took about forty-five seconds.
Mother didn’t say goodbye. To be fair, Mother has never said anything. None of us have. We are tribbles. We communicate through vibration, warmth, and an overwhelming desire to be near grain.
I have already eaten twice.
I am on what the large bipeds call the Enterprise. It is a vessel that moves through the dark nothing. I know this because I can feel the hum of its engines through the floor, and because one of the bipeds — the one with the pointed ears — said so while scanning me with a small buzzing rectangle. He called me “fascinating.” I purred. It felt like the right response.
I have eaten again.
Stardate 4523.4 — Day Two
The woman who adopted me — Uhura, they call her — has been carrying me around the ship all day. She strokes my fur and I purr, and she makes high-pitched sounds that I believe indicate pleasure. She showed me to several other bipeds. Each one touched me and said variations of “oh my God” and “it’s so soft.”
I have never had a bad review.
There are now four of me. Well, not me exactly. My children. They look just like me but slightly smaller and slightly more confused about the whole situation. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t not plan this either. It just happened. Biology, you understand. I ate some crumbs that had fallen behind Uhura’s console, felt warm and content, and suddenly there were more tribbles in the world.
Uhura hasn’t noticed yet. She will.
“Reproduction is perhaps the most optimistic thing a living creature can do. Tribbles are the most optimistic creatures in the galaxy.” — Lt. Uhura’s personal log, shortly before the screaming started
Stardate 4523.7 — Day Five
There are now one hundred and forty-two of us. I know this because the pointed-ear biped counted. He did it with the same tone one might use to describe an asteroid heading toward a planet. He used the word “exponential.” The captain — a dramatic biped named Kirk who speaks in halting sentences and looks meaningfully into the middle distance — said something unprintable.
We have eaten all the food in Uhura’s quarters. We have eaten the flowers Dr. McCoy was growing in the botany lab. We have eaten a communicator, though I don’t think that was nutritious. Cousin Gerald ate it. Gerald has always been impulsive.
I am not worried. There is a very large room on this ship that smells like grain. I can feel it through the walls. So can all one hundred and forty-one of my relatives. We are working on it.
Stardate 4524.1 — Day Nine
The bipeds are upset. I find this confusing. We have done nothing but be warm, soft, and present. We purr when touched. We eat food that was apparently important for diplomatic reasons. We multiply because we are alive and that is what alive things do. I do not understand why this is a problem.
The large angry one — Scotty — opened a storage panel today and we fell on him. Seventeen of us, all at once, tumbling out in a cascade of pastel fur. He made a sound that was not quite a word and not quite a scream. I purred from somewhere near his left ear. He was not comforted.
Captain Kirk is now standing on the bridge covered in tribbles, delivering what I can only describe as a monologue. He does this a lot. He speaks to no one in particular about duty and responsibility and the weight of command. We purr in harmony. It’s actually quite moving. Gerald has fallen asleep on his shoulder.
“The tribble does not know that it is a problem. It knows only that it is warm, and fed, and loved. There is a lesson in that, though I’ll be damned if I can figure out what it is.” — Captain Kirk, personal log
Stardate 4524.5 — Day Thirteen
We found the grain storage.
It was everything I dreamed it would be.
There were approximately one thousand seven hundred and seventy-one of us when we breached the hold. Quadrotriticale, they call it — a hybrid grain engineered for Sherman’s Planet. I call it heaven. I call it purpose. I call it the reason I was born. We descended upon it like a fuzzy, purring tide. We ate with the focused determination of creatures who have no other talents.
By the time Kirk opened the overhead compartment above the grain storage bay, he was buried alive. We cascaded down on him — a waterfall of pastel fur and contented vibration. Three thousand tribbles, give or take, flowing over his shoulders and pooling around his boots. He stood there, arms out, looking upward with an expression that mixed horror and resignation in equal measure.
“Spock,” he said, very quietly. “How many tribbles are on this ship?”
“Approximately one million, seven hundred and seventy-one thousand, five hundred and sixty-one, Captain. That’s assuming one tribble, with an average litter of ten, producing a new generation every twelve hours over a period of three days.”
Kirk said nothing for a long time. Gerald purred on his head.
Stardate 4525.0 — The Last Entry
They are sending us away. Scotty — who I have come to respect for his creative profanity — has devised a plan to beam us somewhere. He seems rather pleased with himself. The pointed-ear one approves. Kirk has authorized it.
I do not know where we are going. I know only that we are warm, and we are together, and somewhere out there, there is grain.
This is my final diary entry from the Enterprise. I want the record to show that we meant no harm. We wanted only to eat, to purr, and to be near the people who were kind to us. If that makes us a menace, then perhaps the problem is not with us.
Gerald says hello.
Gerald has eaten this diary.
End of transmission. The tribble who wrote this was later beamed to the engine room of a Klingon vessel, where it lived a short but intensely satisfying life annoying everyone aboard.
