Starbase!

Starbase Raging Stiffy Two, a forward base dedicated to brisk exploration of unread chapters and as yet unscripted episodes. Unlike the previous starbase, Raging Stiffy, this one was thoroughly protected against inclement space weather which had caused all sorts of embarrassment for the department of procurement of big things.

Matron, having been thoroughly decontaminated cornered the captain in the show room of ship upgrades. She wondered about the young woman with blue hair who was admiring the room of glowing things. "It's no good Captain. These new manspreader drives are too aubergine! They just can't zucchini like they mean it. The ribbing on the retro-neutralizers won't even get warm. It's like thrusting with an electrified eggplant when it should be pounding pineapple pleasure!"

Captain Seymour Dicklogic furrowed his knuckles, a new secret technique he had mastered while on holiday honing his manliness to new levels of chiseling. "So," he grunted so manfully that three nearby attendants swooned, "you don't like them."

"No, sir, I do not. They just don't crank my tractor." She pointed at her uniform miniskirt with a tractor on the front.

"Starfleet directive about fuel economy. They say our drives are too butch, they use too many parsecs per kessel and that we must replace our manspreader drives with these-"

"Emasculated," Matron injected.

"Things. Apparently our fuel economy is so bad we could be a battleship." The captain frowned, why did he have to command a science ship and not a fleet destined for glorious immolation.

"Never! But look at the graphs! Fifty percent less karmic impact on the whole thrusting range from foreplay to cruise. Rising to seventy percent less from flank to valiant."

"And beyond?" Captain Seymour Dicklogic grunted, he never used valiant, not when you had- "what about maximal thrusting?"

"There is no beyond. Valiant thrusting is the limit but it will save us nearly three parsecs per kessel."

"This does not sound good at all." The Captain grunted, four other attendants, two salesmen and a robot swooned from the sheer manliness. Strangely the blue-haired girl was completely unaffected, she was admiring the display of Not-Dude-Fawkes Drives.

"Like a worn out VHS sir." Not enough power for the space traction control to be needed at all."

"You mean-"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"This is terrible." The Captain realised the magnificence of the problem and immediately began formulating a victory plan.

"Indeed. No drifting."

"Fie this directive under F. Make sure the tanks are full with the Good Stuff Baby." The Captain decided the decision, and having decided, it was time to stop his main squeezy toy from doing anything really evil where she could get caught. "Vagendra, you can't eat the salesmen, they are robots."

"Che!" The blue-haired girl came back and hugged the chiseled hunk of raw manliness, honed to perfection in a thousand, twelve, epic space battles and a double-bed. "Have you seen their new thrustomatic drives?"

Matron actually felt a twinge of jealousy in her tractor, "trust me, you don't want thrustomatics. They don't even go to standard by four before going limp."

"Okay, forget it then." The blue-haired girl declared, she squeaked, "To the Love Shack!"