It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of unexpected liberty on a starbase must be in want of something to fiddle with. And so it was that I, Hugh Minogue, found myself after a particularly boozy Vulcan reception, wobbling through the arboretum of Starbase 72 like a philosopher in search of a thought.

The evening had begun innocuously enough. There were drinks. There were tiny hors d’oeuvres impaled on toothpicks sharper than Joe Piscopo’s wit. Ambassador Thalvek, the host and noted Vulcan of rigid demeanour and a head like a granite statue, had spared no expense. Nor, I suspected, any patience for humanity.

After an hour of diplomatic small talk (“Yes, fascinating red deserts on your homeworld”), I had slipped away, as is my custom when diplomacy begins to resemble a game of strategema.

And there it stood.

Amid a bed of luminescent tulips and vibrating ferns: a squat, stone figure about yay high, with glowing green eyes and a hat that could only be described as pointy.

“Gnome,” I declared, nodding, “Welcome home”

In hindsight, perhaps I should have stopped at the declaration. Instead, I picked the little blighter up, tucked him under one arm, and staggered off with the satisfaction of a man who thinks he’s found a neighbour for his horga’hn.

Act II

Morning arrived with the subtlety of a photon torpedo.

“Chief!” came the shriek of Ensign Pritchard, my friend and moral conscience, entering my quarters without the decency of buzzing.

I looked up from my coffee (black, regretful) and followed his gaze. There, by the sofa, stood the gnome. Still squat, still smug, and now blinking in slow pulses of green. Morse code, it turned out, for “RETURN ME OR PERISH”.

“Do you know what that is!” Pritchard spluttered.

“An avant-garde lamp?”

“That’s the G’hal’tek! A sacred Vulcan symbol of peace, balance, and – I cannot stress this enough – perfectly cooked tevmel”

I took a sip of coffee. “Tevmel, you say”

Pritchard nearly bit his tongue.

Meanwhile, the station was buzzing. Alerts were issued. Security officers muttered darkly. Ambassador Thalvek had reportedly gone as angry as a Vulcan ever does, which is to say, he blinked twice in rapid succession.

Act III

Enter Ozag.

Ozag was a Ferengi ‘cultural liaison’ which meant he didn’t have a real job but managed to make himself simultaneously useful and unbearable. He slid into my quarters like a tax audit with ears.

“Heard you got yourself a garden ornament with diplomatic immunity,” he grinned, teeth dazzling enough to power a shuttle.

“What do you want, Ozag?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, rubbing one of his ears, “Except, perhaps, to inform you that I’ve accidentally forwarded the security footage of your midnight horticultural heist to several Vulcan news feeds. For cultural transparency, of course”

I was still processing this betrayal when the door whooshed open again, and in floated Kippa-3, the arboretum’s resident exocomp. Kippa lived and loved to prune, water, and occasionally offer affirmations to sensitive shrubs.

She floated to a halt, her nozzles trembling with emotion.

“You stole the G’hal’tek, for love”

“I assure you, that wasn’t the motiv-”

“A rebel! A rogue of the heart! I shall follow you forever!”

She then watered my boots in what I think was meant to be a romantic gesture.

Act IV

A plan was hatched, as most of my plans are, in a haze of desperation and poorly thought-out optimism. The gala that evening – Death and Romance on Rubicun III: A Wesley Saga – was the perfect cover for returning the G’hal’tek to its rightful bed of tulips.

Step 1: Pritchard would create a distraction by pretending to be allergic to the trees.

Step 2: Kippa-3 would stage a ‘floral liberation protest’ and occupy the western garden.

Step 3: I, dressed in borrowed Vulcan gardening robes, would sneak the relic back into position and exit with the grace of a diplomat and the stealth of a mission to Celtris III.

Naturally, things went wrong immediately. Pritchard’s allergic reaction was too convincing. He sneezed himself unconscious and was dragged away by medics.

Kippa-3, high on rebellion, uprooted a prized, centuries-old bonsai and declared it ‘free’.

And I – I was intercepted by a Vulcan delegate who mistook me for Thalvek’s long-lost cousin. Before I could object, I was thrust onto a platform, handed a glass, and invited to give a toast.

“To… balance,” I began, “And peace. And, if I may be so bold, to the finest tevmel outside of Vulcan”

The Vulcans applauded, unenthusiastically, curious no doubt as to why my pointed ears were falling off. I considered fainting.

Act V

Just when doom seemed inevitable, the G’hal’tek began to pulse violently and emitted a burst of holographic light. An ancient Vulcan figure materialized.

“Greetings,” he intoned, “I am Garden-Priest Val-Ru. The G’hal’tek must be occasionally borrowed or it gets irritable. This is known”

Ambassador Thalvek blinked twice. Then once more for good measure, “You have… fulfilled the ritual,” he said.

Kippa-3 squealed with joy and began composing a binary poem entitled ‘Ode to the Rogue Who Stole Me’.

Ozag, discovering that the G’hal’tek was not, in fact, the centrepiece of a scandal, retreated to leak something else.

I was declared ‘Accidental Steward of Galactic Harmony’ (mostly by myself).

Pritchard, once conscious, suggested a lengthy leave of absence.

Kippa-3 proposed. Twice.

And now, as I sit sipping a lukewarm raktajino beside the G’hal’tek (who has taken to humming), serenaded by a lovesick watering robot, I reflect on the affair.

All in all, I dare say it went rather well.