Anyway, we still binge-watch (or rather, binge-rewatch) the show. We continue to collect the Starship Uprising memorabilia, the uniforms of the crew or regalia of the various aliens; the mugs, the three-ring binders, the lunch boxes with their incredibly shiny cartoon boobs; the prosthetic silicone forehead of concentric crop circles that was worn by Faith Massey herself and we purchased at a bargain (in terms of what it’s really worth) on an auction site; the Commander Dinara Gorun action figurines and dolls, some of them adult dolls that are anatomically accurate, which we like very much. Our enthusiasm for the conventions is also steady. Donning our costumes, we are a rambunctious horde of spandex and leather, a crushing throng of selfie sticks that poke each other in the back. When the day is over, we descend upon the nearby overpriced bistros and trendy bars, where we order artisanal cocktails in character. But until we hit the town, we wait in line to meet Faith, to have her autograph her headshot for forty dollars or an item of the aforementioned memorabilia. If we’re one of the kookier types, we might present a sonogram of our unborn baby and proclaim, “We’re naming her Dinara!” To which Faith might blink a lot and mutter, touched, we’re sure, “I’m honored.” She’s smaller in person, and that brings out our protective side. Before parting, we clasp her hand between our sweaty palms and we demonstrate our appreciation with a sincere, “Thank you.” In heartfelt tones, we say, “Thank you for our childhoods.”

Often, we joke that the pageantry of the conventions is like that episode of Starship Uprising entitled, simply, “Surfaces.” In it, the Audacity is visiting Concupiscens after the successful delivery of a weapons cache into territory dominated by the Voydals. Concupiscens is a pleasure planet renowned not only for its flora and fauna, but also the orgies hosted by the Scensates, its native humanoids. Despite the paradise that surrounds her, Commander Dinara Gorun is unable to relax and participate in the sexcapades. A hunky waiter delivers gourmet replimat rations to her capsule quarters and strips, assuming she wants to mate, and she stops him to ask, “Where are the old people?” Turns out, the society of the Scensates is a hierarchy founded on beauty. Those who are most attractive get to procreate in the orgy pits and lead the government. Those who are least attractive, including the elderly—for what is more hideous than mortality?—are forbidden from producing offspring and forced to work far beneath the surface of the planet, to become invisible. Strangely, the rest of the crew isn’t that disturbed by the notion of banishing a homely faction of your population to be slaves. Everyone shrugs and admits they had a fun time. Are we any better than the Scensates? True, not that many of us could be considered particularly beautiful, but we parade around in our outfits with an air of superiority and rip on ensembles worse than ours. We vow to be better fans.