Standard Disclaimers: Star Trek: Voyager and all related characters, trademarks, indicia, and whatnot are the intellectual property of Paramount. I am not making any profit off of this, this is just something I'm doing to indulge in some fantasy. Relax, lawyers.
I slammed my fist down on the desk.
"Son of a grease-nut-monkey-flyin-hooselfudge-bar!" As a Mormon, that's as colorful as my speech gets, even when dealing with my parents' stubborn internet connection. For the third time in an hour, the alert window came up.
Connection to Prodigy© Internet was reset! Reconnect?
After two minutes, an eternity when dealing with computers, I was back reading the story I had called up. "There we go... this is more like it." Leaning back in the office chair, one hand on the mouse, I stretched my legs as far as the desk would allow, bumping the "off" switch for the octopus holding the plugs for the computer and everything else with my foot. "D'ARGH!" It was not a good day. Having finally re-booted the computer and re-establishing my net connection again, I headed for The Official Star Trek Site, Completely Authorized by The Powers-That-Be At Paramount. On a lark, I decided to see if I could get myself a Star Trek mail account (like I don't have enough at Yahoo!, College Club, or even my rarely-used Hotmail account). Picking out a suitably-cool username to match one of the cooler domain names, I selected my password...and was asked for a credit card number. "What credit-card?" I muttered. "I barely have a decent job!" Angrily, I quickly scrambled my hands over the keyboard, resulting in a display similar to this: vpuin5hh3h4j899vh9 . Grinning at the absurdity, I deleted the alphabetic characters, then hit enter. " 'Stick that up yer computer'," I said, quoting a song about computer problems with early credit cards. Another alert window came up:
WARNING: INVALID ENTRY. UNABLE TO PROCESS. PLEASE HOLD ON.
My screen went white. And I mean the entire monitor: no task bars, no nothing. Then, came the bolts of energy radiating from the screen. "oh, freakout." I was quickly enveloped by a glowing energy field, which pulled me into cyberspace. Somehow or another, I got bounced from one conduit to another within the Star Trek site until I blacked out.
I woke up with the mother of all headaches, groaning as I struggled to sit up, when a familiar-looking bald guy in a familiar looking black jumpsuit with blue on the shoulders eased me back onto the bio-bed.
"Please lie down. You've suffered a severe concussion during your temporal excursion," he informed me.
"So I've wonked my head while traveling through time?" I asked, translating the technobabble. The man nodded.
"To use the common vernacular, yes. You need to recuperate, the chronometric distortion could have lethal effects on you."
"Look, I don't know what the gig is, but you need to relax. You're as uptight as the Voyager's EMH in the first season." The man's jaw dropped.
"I beg your pardon?!"
"Lighten up, man. Don't be such a herbert."
"Young man, I suggest you take a less cavalier approach to your health. Fortunately, I can help you. I have the medical knowledge of 47 of the best physicians of all time, plus my own practical experience." My vision had cleared by now, and I recognized the bald guy.
"I know, Shmullis. Kes did a lot for you." Doc's jaw dropped even further... if such a thing was possible.
"H-how do you know about Kes?! And where did you get that name?!" I waved my hand dismissively.
"Don't worry your shiny little head about it," I told him. "If y'don't mind, I'll just head over to the mess hall. 'sokay?" The Doctor stammered.
"Well, ah... well, yes, I suppose, if you feel well." I hopped off the bio-bed and strolled out the door.
"Hoopy, see ya on the tube, Doc."
This was weird. Me, The irrepressible Zordauch, on Voyager! Waitaminnit... this shouldn't be unexpected... I am The Trekker King! I belong here! Swaggering slightly, I went to the turbolift. "Computer, take this tube car to the mess hall!" I ordered, and the lift hummed into motion. Sweet....
In the mess hall, chaos reigned. Well, not exactly chaos, just the usual friendly disorder. Only Tuvok, sitting in his corner like a bad little schoolboy, wasn't making any noise. Well, correction: Tuvok was the only Starfleet crew member not making any noise. At another part of the mess hall, Seven of Nine was reading a PADD... undoubtedly more of the Doctor's lessons. This week: The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Forcing myself to breathe normally, I walked to her table, gently rapping it with my knuckles, and the borg looked up.
"May I be of some assistance, Mister..."
"Rail. Jonathan Rail," I tell her, extending my hand. "Also known as Zordauch--sometimes the irrepressible Zordauch-- TrekRail42, The Trekker King, Elvis Junior, The Trekker King, J. R. Spencer, the Freakoid, The Kid With Flags For Arms*, Chickenman Bob, Confetti Man, Carpenters Nut, and Carpentster." Seven's implant-covered eyebrow raised.
"It is unusual for a human to have so many designations," she responded. "I would be interested in hearing the reasons behind them." She checked herself. "Allow me to introduce myself," she said, standing up and finally clasping my offered hand. "I am--"
"Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero Zero One," I finished for her. "Your Borg designation was shortened by the crew of Voyager to Seven of Nine, casually called Seven. You've also been known as Annika Hansen, The Borg Babe, and, my personal favorite, Ten Out Of Ten." Both of Seven's eyebrows were raised as she ended the handshake.
"I'm sure you're aware that it's rude to interrupt," she stated firmly. "As for the aliases you've created for me, they are extremely disrespectful. If you were not a guest on this ship, your experience would not be pleasant." I bowed broadly, hamming it up in a way that even William Shatner couldn't approach.
"Forgive me, for I border on mental instability. Perhaps I could make it up to you with dinner."
"A date." It was not a question, she knew dang well what I meant.
"If you choose to think of it like that. Consider it an act of apology, repressing The irrepressible Zordauch," I finished with a grin.
"I shall consider that. However, it would be wise of you to consider how you will provide the meal, as you do not seem to have access to foodstuffs." I bowed again.
"Madam, I am a man of undiscovered resources." I turned, walking away from the table. As I headed for the door, I started singing in my rich (IMHO) baritone. "There's a somebody I'm longing to see, I hope that she turns out to be Someone to Watch Over Me...."
"Mr. Rail!" called Seven. All eyes in the mess hall turned to look--even Tuvok's. Grinning, I turned around.
"Yes?" I replied as sweetly as I could. "You are off-pitch. It would be advisable to improve on that if you choose to sing in public." I chuckled at Seven's frankness.
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a d*mn," I said, finishing my exit, wishing I had my black fedora so I could elegantly sweep it onto my head. As the mess hall doors closed, I remembered that I hadn't eaten for several hours before my accident. At that time, The Captain came down the hall, virtually gliding.
"Hello! You appear to be lost," she observed maternally.
"Not completely, Captain. Just a tad peckish, and I don't have any replicator credits." Putting her arm around my shoulders, she guided me into the mess hall.
"That can be resolved, Mister...?" I was about to answer, when Seven piped up.
"His name is Jonathan Rail, although he also goes by Zordauch--sometimes the irrepressible Zordauch-- TrekRail42, The Trekker King, Elvis Junior, The Trekker King, J. R. Spencer, the Freakoid, the Kid With Flags For Arms, Chickenman Bob, Confetti Man, Carpenters Nut, and Carpentster." Janeway hit the Borg with a severe Skunk Eye.
"It's all right, Captain," I said, averting her anger away from Seven. "I deserve it big-time... though if you value your sanity, you don't want to ask." Janeway raised an eyebrow.
"Is that so, Mister Rail?" Oh, crap.... "For your information, I'm the Captain of this vessel, and I decide whether or not I want to know something. Seven, what is it that Mister Rail here doesn't want me to know?" With that prompting, Seven explained what had just happened, up to the point of my quoting Rhett Butler as I left. Apprehensive, I peeked at the Captain's face to see her... smiling? "Seven of Nine, Jonathan Rail... I think we can call this thing even once the two of you shake hands. I'd like to see you start off on the right foot." Glad to be on the Captain's good side, I willingly obliged. Seven obliged with her usual cooperation: minimal.
"I like to start off on the right foot, too," I told Janeway, "except for when I'm marching. Then I prefer to start off on the left foot." Paris groaned audibly. "Band geek humor aside, I didn't mean to cheese off Seven... I don't know what I was thinking... must've been the trumpet player in my trying to show off." Janeway smiled sympathetically.
"It's all right, Mister Rail. Just consider yourself glad that you didn't do that with our chief engineer. She probably would've broken your nose."
"Don't I know it," I said with a grin, "especially when she hears what §evilians call her."
"I'd like to hear more about these so-called '§evilians', maybe find out what their nickname is for me. And maybe you can tell me how you heard about any of us, since you're from the twentieth century, and we're in the twenty-fourth century," she remarked, guiding me to the galley.
"Be careful what you wish for," I admonished. "When you deal with The Irrepressible Zordauch, you put your sanity at risk."
To make an already-long story slightly shorter, Janeway was able to recommend a couple of Neelix's creations... they weren't too bad... but then, I'm comparing them to my own cooking skills, so that's not saying much. To her credit, she didn't ask too much about how I knew so much about the crew so far... mostly because I was sharing some of my musical experiences. Ah, those wonderful days of band camp. Eventually, the time came when Janeway showed me where my quarters would be. Which is where I'll pick up this story...
As I entered, I cast a cursory glance around the room. Small, sparse, spartan... in short Standard Guest Quarters. The bunk was barely long enough for my six-foot height, and there was only one pillow. I'm a two-pillow kinda guy! With a sigh, I read over the PADD Janeway gave me. Replicator rations, off-limits areas (basically, I couldn't just wander into anyone's quarters... duh), shifts of the senior staff...all that wonderful chozzerai. Kicking off my shoes--I NEVER bother with the laces--I plopped down on the bunk, crossed one leg over the other knee, and tried to figure out what I could get with my limited rations. Shortly, my door chimed. "Enter," I called, not bothering to look up. The door hissed open.
"Mister Rail--Jonathan." I'd recognize that lush alto anywhere!... on the ship. Dropping my PADD, I stood up to greet The Borg Babe.
"Seven of Nine. To what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked with my friendliest smile.
"Captain Janeway informs me that you play several musical instruments. Would I be correct in assuming you would be interested in a duet?" Would I be interested?! Was Brigham Young married?! I managed to contain myself... how, I don't know.
"Madam, with a voice like yours, I would be honored," I informed her, bowing with more subtlety than I had in the mess hall. "When would you like to get together to practice?"
"I am currently off-duty. Now would be the best time." Containing my excitement, I reach for my shoes.
"No time like the present," I spout, yanking my shoes on. Seven notices my slight ineffeciency.
"Those shoes are equipped with laces designed to expand the entry. Would it not be more efficient to employ them?" My struggles over, I stand, clasping Seven on the shoulder. She doesn't threaten to rip off my arm.
"Trust me, it would've taken longer if I'd bothered with the laces. Besides, one of the first things people learn about me is I do things my own way." She merely raises her eyebrow.
"If you insist. Now remove your hand from my shoulder." Okay, so she's not touchy-feely. Cooperating, I gesture to the door.
"Lead the way, Sev." She casts a glance back at me, undoubtedly wondering what the heck she's gotten herself into. Little does she know....
On the holodeck an hour later, I've finished writing out the lead vocal to one of the few songs I remember... and probably the only one we're both familiar with. I hand the PADD to her, and her eyebrows raise (yet again). "'Someone to Watch Over Me'?" she scans the lyrics. "This song expresses an extreme desire for romantic affiliation, bordering on co-dependence." I don't believe it. I'm actually getting a headache. If she could only see some of the other music I listen to.
"I picked this song out because, one, I thought you might recognize it, two, it fits the alto range, and three, it's because of my knowledge of your social lessons with Doc that I started learning this song in the first place!" Seven barely reacts, if at all. I sigh. "Look, just humor me here. This is one of the few songs where I can remember the accompaniment." Seven agrees to try this song, but lets me know that if she doesn't like it, she wants me to find another one. "Donkey shins," I say, corrupting the German language in my expression of thanks. "Now, just bear with me... I don't have the most graceful fingers, so I might miss a chord or two."
"We shall see." And on that encouraging note, I hold my hands over the holodeck piano, nodding that I'm ready to begin. Seven's lush alto mingles with my plunking.
There's a saying old, says that love is blind Still, we're often told, seek and ye shall find So I'm going to seek a certain man I've had In mind Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet He's the big affair I cannot forget Only man I ever think of with regret I'd like to add his initial to my monogram Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb ....
Half an hour later, my forehead was getting intimately acquainted with the holographic ivory. Seven looked down at me.
"When I told you that you did not have the chord right, I was thinking that you might want to access the manuscript file, not attempt to play all possible chords with your forehead." I looked up at her, and smiled.
"Seven, my dear, I do believe that you made a joke." Seven merely raised her eyebrow.
"If you choose to interpret my remarks as such, that is your decision. If you wish to continue our musical association, I would advise that you look up the proper chord before attempting to play again."
"Everyone's a critic," I mutter, shaking my head. "Tell you what: this isn't my best song anyway. How 'bouts we try a different one... more of my style, and less of Holo-Doc's."
"As you wish," remarked Seven. "What song would you prefer instead?" Grinning, I picked up a PADD and scribbled a few lines of words on it, then had the computer transcribe it to standard StarFleet script. Seven took the PADD, raising her eyebrow curiously. "We've Only Just Begun. Music by Roger Nichols, Lyrics by Paul Williams. Performed by The Carpenters." She looked over at me. "Who are the Carpenters?" I bang my head on the piano keyboard so hard that for the rest of the evening, I have raised lines on my forehead.
"Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero-Zero-One, The Carpenters are only THE most influential force in Adult Contemporary music in the late twentieth century!"
"That would explain why I never heard of them. Twentieth-century Earth is Ensign Paris' field of expertise." I shake my head. "Mid-twentieth century, unfortunately. Thirties to Sixties. Carpenters didn't hit until 1970, and even then, Tom's more Rock'n'Roll than Adult Contemporary." Seven was now clearly puzzled, with no hope of understanding WHAT the heck I was saying. "Fuhgeddaboudit," I say, shaking my head again. "Suffice it to say, this ISN'T in Helm-boy's area of expertise."
"I see," Seven says simply. "How shall we begin? You have neglected to include notes with your text."
"Simple," I inform her. "Lwaxana--er, Computer, search popular music archives of Earth, 1970. Specifically, a record titled "Close to You", recorded by the Carpenters, released by A&M records." After a few minutes, the computer beeped and indicated that it had found what I was looking for. "Display individual songs from the record on my PADD," I ordered, and the list came up. Selecting "We've Only Just Begun", I instructed the computer to play the selection I highlighted. Within seconds, Karen's lush alto was filling the holodeck. Seven seemed transfixed as the song played.
Once the track was over, I addressed The Borg Babe again. "Now. You have an idea of how the melody goes?" Seven nodded, murmuring yes. "Good... now, let's see if you can adapt it for a simplified piano arrangement in a different key. Ready?" Seven nodded, and my hands glided over the keys a little more smoothly than they did with "Someone to Watch Over Me"... but then again, that's STILL not saying much. I still had a couple missed chords and rhythms, but nothing that Seven couldn't adapt to. Within five minutes, we had managed to get through the entire song. Satisfied, I leaned back. "Well, whaddaya think? Not bad for a mere human with only six months of piano lessons, eh?" Seven pursed her lips slightly.
"Not bad... for a 'mere human'. However, I am sure you will be better with practice." I nodded at that.
"No doubt about it, Ten out of Ten. But what this song REALLY needs is some more instrumentation." I quickly checked the time. "Look, it's almost 2000 hours. Whaddaya say I get some rest, you... regenerate, and next time you're off, we can try to orchestrate something." Seven nodded.
"A wise course of action. I will contact you tomorrow when I have finished my duties." She extended her hand. "Goodnight, Mister Rail." I took the offered hand, shaking it.
"Good-night, Mademoiselle de Neuf. May the Great Nerd of the Galaxy bless your server." With that, I walk out of the holodeck, not giving Seven a chance to ask what the heck I meant by that
Morning found me in a T-shirt, twisted up in Starfleet sheets, when the door chimed. After blinking and roaring out a yawn, I asked who it was.
"It's Ensign Paris," called a voice from the other side of the bulkhead. "Mind if I come in?" Untying myself from the sheets, I swing my legs out of bed.
"Just a minute, Helmboy," I toss out, struggling into my pants. "I ain't decent." Running my fingers through my hair, to give it some semblance of order, I add "Of course, some might argue that I'm NEVER decent, but at least I'm dressed." The doors open, letting Paris in. He casts his eyes around my room, then gives a low whistle.
"One NIGHT here, and already you've got these quarters looking worse than my Academy dorm. How do you do it?" I allow a smug smile to form on my face.
"Now, that would be telling, wouldn't it? What can I do ya for, Turkey Platter?" Tom winces.
"I over heard you mention something about being in marching band when you were in the mess hall. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't marching bands in your time perform a lot of Rock'n'roll from the fifties and sixties, right?"
"You are CORRECT, sir!" I exclaim in a low goofy voice. "My band did The Beatles my freshman year," I continue in my normal voice, "and they were planning another Beatles show for the year after I granulated," I finish, using a substitution I absorbed from my US History teacher. "Your point?"
"I thought maybe you could fill me in on some Rock'n'roll, compare favorite songs, that sort of thing." Shrugging, I throw a button-up shirt on over my T-shirt. "Groovy enough. Lead the way, Top Pilot." Paris heads out into the corridor, occasionally glancing back at me. Is he making sure I'm following him, or is he wondering if it's too late to drop me like a lead balloon?
I slid along the concrete past the 1969 Camaro, snapping a chamois cloth across the hood. The convertible top came down, and Paris stood up from inside the car.
Go grease lightning you're burning up the quarter mile Go grease lightning you're coasting through the heat lap trial You are supreme the chicks'll cream for grease lightning Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go
I started the next verse, and we alternated lines.
Me: Purple french tail lights and thirty inch fins, oh yeah Paris: A Palomino dashboard and duel muffler twins, oh yeah Me: With new pistons, plugs, and shocks Paris: I can get off my rocks Me: You know that I ain't bragging Paris: she's a real pussy wagon
We sang "Greased Lightning!" together, then went on to the chorus, singing classic rock'n'roll praise to the Great American Status Symbol. When the song was over, Paris clapped me on the back.
"Oh, man, that was a blast! No one else on board understands what it's like to work on a car!"
"I got news for you, Grease Monkey," I confess. "I'm a mechanical klutz. I just like that old-time rock'n'roll sound." Paris is obviously disappointed. "Hey, c'mon, Turkey Platter, it don't mean we can't sing together! Maybe I could help you find a good song for Bacon Lettuce Tomato." Tom glares at me.
"I don't care what you call me, but I don't want to hear you talking about B'Elanna with disrespect like that. Understood, Rail?" I blink, surprised at the polar change in attitude.
"Easy, Tommy boy. I don't use ridiculous nicknames for anyone unless I like them, okay?" Tom nods in grudging assent. "Groovy. Now, let's get some music!" Paris accepts his fate for the time being, and I have the computer list the most popular songs recorded by The Beach Boys and Jan & Dean.
Later on that afternoon, I stroll into the mess hall, my attention held by a PADD showing a list of duties I could perform. Once inside, I become intimately acquainted with Ms. Fist. "Good-night, mommy," I say in a falsetto as I drop to the deck like an anvil on Wile E. Coyote.
I wake up to see Doc again. This time, he's running a scanner over my head, which feels like it's throbbing like a Talosians. At the foot of the biobed, Janeway stands arms akimbo, hitting me with her strongest Skunk Eye. I wince, and not just from the headache. Doc closes his tricorder and moves away, leaving Janeway an opening to hover over my head.
"Congratulations, Mister Rail. You're the first person to provoke B'Elanna to violence in a long time. Perhaps you'd care to explain how you did it." Nervously, I force a smile.
"I really can't say what cheesed her off. I'm an easy-going guy, and try to be mellow around everyone."
"Maybe a little too mellow," she suggests in a disconcertingly quiet voice. Despite having read as many of Jim's reviews as I have, nothing has prepared me for The Red-Head Wrath. She continues. "Some of the crew have commented on the nicknames you've used for them. Shall I list them?" I gulp nervously, which she takes as a sign to continue. "Chuckles. Tattoo Dude. Chocolatay. Two Socks. Two Blocks. BLT. Bologna Torrid. Turkey Platter. Top Pilot. Helm Boy. Tomb Parasite. Hot Kimchi. Hairy Chin. Borg Babe. Sev. Ten out of Ten." She glares at me. "Would you like to explain those names?" I sigh in defeat.
"All right... but I doubt you'll like the answer."
"I don't like my senior staff treated disrespectfully," she replies, her eyes boring into mine.
"Good point," I concede. "Here's the deal: I'm an easy-going guy, so I use ridiculous nicknames if I think I can get along with somebody... even if they don't like the nickname. So far, I've done okay with the people I know... Jock-boy, Flipperette, Snuffers, Cheese-boy, Slug, Cow-boy, Jello-boy, fElam, Julie Bell, Skippy, and the like." Janeway struggles not to crack a smile at the nicknames I use, but it's difficult. "Now, half of them gave the nicknames to themselves, or other people used them first. Point is, I'm just a weirdo."
"I see. So I could throw you in the brig until we find a way to get you back to your own time, but you'd still use these stupid nicknames," she confirms, managing to look serious.
"That's about the size of it, Cap'n."
"Very well. I'll just tell Lieutenant Torres to try and control her temper." Janeway leaves sickbay, and Doc approaches the biobed.
"Well, Mister Rail, it seems that you're no worse for the wear. Your nose wasn't broken, so it was no great feat to repair the damage. You can return to your quarters." Sitting up, I give him a chummy pat on the shoulder.
"Thanks, Doc. I don't suppose I could ask you for a favor?"
"What sort of favor?" He eyes me warily.
"Well, Seven and I are working on a piece from the twentieth century, and I wanted some live instrumentation." Doc's eyebrows raise.
"Go on," he goads.
"I understand you've got a certain grace with the ivories, so I'd appreciate it if you'd do that."
"I would be honored! It's nice to know that someone appreciates my talents."
"Hey, I play a little myself. Musicians never get the respect they deserve." Doc preens, and I press for my second favor. "Who else plays on board? I know about Kim and Bernowski, but I could use something like a guitar or a string bass, preferably both."
"I'll see what I can do," Doc volunteers heartily. "When are rehearsals?" I frown slightly.
"Dunno. We'll have to see what everyone's schedule is like."
"Excellent! While we're on the subject, would you be wanting me to sing, too?"
"Backup." Doc's face falls. "At least for this particular number," I continue. "However, I might be able to find something for you. What do you think of the Eagles?"
"The... Eagles? What do birds-of-prey have to do with music?" I shake my head.
"I'll get back to you on that. Later, Doc." With that, I stroll out of sickbay, carefully side-stepping Paris as he comes in for his shift.
