Planets don’t normally explode—unless something really drastic happens—but in the Nicholas Meyer offerings to the Star Trek mythos, exploding planets are a fairly common occurrence. Even Klingon moons aren’t immune to the Meyer Effect, though the Klingon moon in question—Praxis—was the victim of over-industrialization and poor safeguards. Klingons, as we all know, aren’t too big on safety. Glorious (usually spectacular) deaths are more of their thing. This isn’t about Klingons, really. It isn’t about the Meyer Effect on various planets within the Star Trek universe, and yet one must reference the Meyer Effect in regard to…well…Ceti Alpha V, a planet driven to the brink of ecological collapse by the un-explained explosion of its companion, Ceti Alpha VI. As a writer, I suspect that the only reason for the explosion of Ceti Alpha VI was to give the bad guy, Khan, something to be miffed about. Khan was seriously miffed, because: Ceti Alpha Six, exploded…the shock shifted the orbit of this planet, and everything was laid waste. Admiral Kirk never bothered to check on our progress. It is near this bit of choice dialogue that we are introduced to a rather hearty, heart-wrenchingly nasty critter that is never named on-screen. Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan is a brilliant piece of cinematic art, but it’s a bit scant on various details…like how planets just randomly explode, or just how a single “Genesis Torpedo” can terraform an entire planetary body. But never mind. It all looks pretty on screen, and it goes well with an early James Horner score (before he started stealing from himself.) So anyway, according to Memory Alpha, Ceti eels (never actually named on-screen) are burrowing desert creatures that also happen to be the only life form to survive the Meyer Effect inflicted upon Ceti Alpha VI. Such creatures are parasitic: they enter through the ear and wrap themselves around the cerebral cortex (through an unexplained mechanism that probably includes some biting and chewing and other forms of general pain-inducing mastication, and once they enter the brain, more chewing, biting, and tissue-damaging activity is probably required before reaching the cerebral cortex, all of which assumes that Ceti eels know their way around the inner cockles of the human head.) So anyway, they enter the ear, wrap themselves around the cerebral cortex, and—as a side effect—render the victim susceptible to suggestion, before driving them insane and killing them. And so now, we come to the point in this essay in which you learn that the image accompanying this text is not a Ceti eel. Not even close. But the resemblance is startling. This is the image of a very young ladybug. This is the image of a very active, very busy infant ladybug. The rather-pretty insect nymph photographed here is a member of the species that probably inspired the Ceti eels of Star Trek lore. And, aside from color differences, size, and ear-entering habits, the resemblance is uncanny. Ladybug nymphs are, however, a lot prettier: indeed, they’re flagrantly overdressed, in comparison to the drab, brown desert dwelling critters known to exist only in cinematic science fiction. As you can guess, I thought of Ceti eels when looking at this little beauty. I rather like this critter better than its science fictional counterpart. Ladybug nymphs don’t enter ears and aren’t interested in human brains. They wear strange appendages on their bodies, and have a really hard time standing still long enough to photograph. Ah, but they’re pretty little things, which is why I like photographing them, and that’s why this photo exists. I can’t resist pretty, predatory critters ambling across front porches. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.