That color doesn’t suit me, do you have anything in a soft blue?
It was cold and windy, reddish dust being kicked up by a brisk breeze painting a distant sun in an unnatural scarlet hue against the canvas sky. It was a foreign place covered with rock that looked like it was chiseled from a Paper Mache mold and painted a grayish tone with a can of primer. The first thing he noticed was how open and free it was, having spent months in a place that was so familiar he felt comfort no matter where he went, a domicile that traveled amongst the stars. Now here he was standing on the soil of a foreign land, but no matter where he stood it would feel foreign to him, even if it were his parents’ home in the forested northern regions of the state of Utah, a place he had not seen for ten years. The party moved forward through the whipping sand which stung his skin and and filled his lungs. He struggled to keep up, the others moving through the dust like silent ghostly apparitions disconnected from anything either real or imagined. Periodically the party would stop and the leader would talk, look at the ground or point at something off in the distance. He continued to move forward with a guarded caution, taking in the surreal landscape that spread before him. At any moment a local indigenous could appear, hostile or friendly, it was not known either way. Suddenly the party ahead of him stopped and so he looked around trying to see what it was that they were doing. They reached for their holstered weapons and pointed them at something that was coming out from behind a large boulder. He hastily fumbled for his weapon as adrenaline coursed through his body. The image appeared, large and foreboding and of a shape he couldn’t immediately recognize. The creature turned to him, raised a hair covered hand as an ominous glow appeared from its wrinkled palm. Suddenly the glowing mass shot towards him and he froze. Death was imminent now. He was going to die on this barren rock as so many had before him. The party was watching him in shock and he felt a dread and humiliation knowing he was going to perish in front of his comrades. But he saw the leader’s eyes peering at him through the dust. The eyes were speaking to him, you have done well and you have protected your captain and saved all. You are truly a great warrior, go in peace my friend. He felt the intense heat from the mass of energy and just moments before he knew he was going to be incinerated one last thought pervaded his mind, now gripped in the reality of an impending death. He quietly muttered his last words.
“Fuck you Kirk.”
And so it goes for those who bear the cross of the red shirt. A lonely, lost and melancholy band of security experts assigned to protecting the starship U.S.S Enterprise. A hulking mass of a starship that travels to strange new worlds, its mission statement, “To boldly go where no man has yadi yadi yaddah…”, whatever. It’s not important to these lonely misfits, chosen because of their lowly cultural status in the civilization, lured into military service by the promise of adventure, a pension and a good dental plan. In text book language they are titled “security detail” but amongst the crew and officers of the ship they are simply “the redshirt guys”. On any other starship they would have had more than a gamblers chance of making it through more than fifteen minutes of an episode. But not on the Enterprise. They meander through the complex level of decks alone or accompanied by other redshirt guys because no member of the ships more than four hundred officers and crew will be willing to get attached to them on any personal level. Even when off duty and not clad in their trademark uniform that has come to represent doom you can easily spot a redshirt guy. Chain smoker, bourbon drinker, somewhat jittery, drunkenly humming the tune of “swing low, sweet chariot” alone in a poorly lit recess of the bar. Their eyes are dark and sunken by lack of sleep and a relentless assault of nightmares, not a moment for repose. They are led by a brash and daring captain referred to as a legend, a brilliant tactician, and a hero of the Starfleet, endearing admiration from those who served under him. The redshirt guys simply refer to him as “The Reaper”. Whenever the word comes down to assemble a team it’s the Reaper that has come to collect. Every time they approach a new world they wait in utter dread for those foreboding words “Captain, there seem to be organic life forms present”. At which time the redshirt guys all seem to become stricken with a mysterious flu.
“Jones, Smith, Thomas and Evans, you’re going with the landing party down to Gorgon five. You are detailed to protect the Captain, Science Officer and they gay Asian helmsman. Good luck.” The master chief pats them on the back and then walks away, having completed the ritual of disconnecting himself emotionally from the redshirt guys who more than likely will meet some violent and disgusting death. But what they hear is “Jones, Smith, Thomas and Evans, you poor bastards drew the short straw and therefore are completely fucked. Leave your belongings on the table so we have something to send home to your mom.”
Red shirt guys don’t date. They don’t marry. When they try to strike up a conversation at the enlisted lounge the female always seems to suddenly have some important duty to attend to.
“Say there, ever been to Ajilon Prime?”
“No I haven’t but I think I need to get back to my quarters and watch Project Runway. It’s in its nine hundredth season you know.”
They are the emotional lepers of the crew. That asshole Kirk goes through redshirt guys faster than the sweatshop in Singapore can produce red shirts. It’s a running joke that when the Enterprise docks two requests go out. More dilithium crystals and a butt load of redshirt guys.
Redshirt guys are can never escape the wrath of the screen writer. Even on the ship they are not safe. Often the Reaper will announce that they are beaming up some alien delegation for some wining and dining who invariably have a taste for violently taking over starships. It’s great that the Reaper hates to lose but his taste for victory always seems to come at the expense of the redshirt guys and when the announcement comes over the intercom that a group of Klingon flunkies are boarding for turkey legs and booze the redshirt guys know that things are going to get bad real fast.
So they spend their nights drunk and their days in therapy, knowing that soon a fateful demise will await them, probably in the first fifteen minutes of the next episode. They silently pray for a stay of execution, an updated security detail training program and a soft blue shirt instead of the “hey I’m wearing the offensive red color despised by cultures throughout the galaxy.”
Then they say goodbye to their comrades and head for the transporter room. Heads hung low, hoping to all ends for a transporter malfunction or a last minute change of heart by their captain.
“You know guys, this planet sucks. Lets move on.” but alas the beaming begins and they leave their beloved Enterprise once and for all for some desolate, hostile planet in the middle of nowhere to be briefly remembered by the deck officers as the graceful starship departs without them.
I am a redshirt guy.
Next up… Are you a Kirk, Picard or a Redshirt guy?
