These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise; its continuing mission, to boldly go where no one has gone before – on a budget.

The young Captain James T Kirk felt the tension as he settled into the command chair. A tension emanating from within him, rather than from the bridge crew, even though he knew that they were watching him surreptitiously. His command would be a test of the skills that he had learnt at the Academy – astral navigation, exploratory science, space artillery; his leadership but, most of all, housekeeping on a budget.

The command chair was not quite what he had expected. Initially, the idea had been something more imposing, befitting the status of a superior officer. The second-hand wicker chair, found at a pawnshop near Starfleet Academy and bought as part of a job lot, retrofitted with a garden hose as a shipwide speaking tube, was evidence of just how hard the United Federation of Planets was being hit by the credit crunch that had been precipitated by rash Ferengi investments in mortgage futures on Omicron Theti III.

From there, the financial contagion had spread throughout the galaxy and even Klingons, the word was, were scrimping on their previously lavish bloodworm platters at warrior feasts.

"Warp three, Mr Sulu," said Kirk, and felt the pulse as the mighty rubber bands that would propel the Enterprise into hyperspace unleashed their fearsome energy. You could not get dilithium crystals for love or money, these days, or at least, you could not get the money to buy them. The tightening of rubber bands had given the word "warp" new meaning.

Kirk turned to Dr McCoy, who as ever was standing somewhat redundantly on the bridge. Although the chief medical officer might as well, given that budget cutbacks had reduced sickbay supplies to discount bags of aspirin and bulk supplies of sacks of plaster of paris. It was life, but not as they had known it.

"Do you have the medical budget ready, yet, Bones?" Kirk said.
Exasperated, McCoy shot back, "I’m a doctor, not an accountant, dammit Jim".

From the science station, Spock turned from his viewing monitor. "I have the analysis ready, Captain".
"Go ahead, Spock."
"It was three parts water, 10g of potato peels and a thin gruel captured in a recent raid on a Romulan prison colony."

So that was it, thought Kirk, that was how Starfleet thought fit to feed its crews lunch. It was fortunate that there were fewer people to complain, now that personnel cutbacks had reduced the complement from 400 to six people on the bridge and an ancient 22nd century PC named Charles.
Uhura cut in: "Sir, there are Klingons on the starboard bow!"

"Red alert!" ordered Kirk, springing up from the wicker chair – which in any case was playing hell with the trim of his trousers – and heading to the main viewscreen.
A Klingon warbird was decloaking. It took some time because the warrior empire was now powering its vessels with tribbles in hamster wheels.

"We are being hailed, sir," Uhura said. Kirk nodded, and image on the screen was replaced by the fearsome features of a Klingon commander.
"I am Kung," growled the Klingon, "am I addressing the human Kirk?"
"You are," Kirk replied.
"Very well," said Kung, and with evident distaste continued, "I am here as an emissary of the Klingon Empire High Council Division of Accounting and People Management…to discuss a merger."

Kirk’s mind raced. It would mean a fundamental change to galactic geopolitics, the times of war, to human destiny. Still, he noted, Kung did have a rather nice chair.