Gigi Sinclair

"Let me see if I've got this straight." Jonathan Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're telling me that these people, the Martesians, come from a planet thousands of light years from Earth and yet they speak…"

"French," Hoshi replied amiably. "That's right, sir."

"Should I ask why?"

"Apparently, a pinhole in the space-time continuum means they've been exposed to the movies of Gerard Depardieu for generations."

"Imagine that." Jonathan suppressed a sigh. He'd been hoping for a nice, quiet day, so maybe spend some time in the gym, catch up on a little paperwork. "I guess the UT will come in handy, then."

Hoshi looked embarrassed. "Actually, sir…" Jonathan couldn't wait to hear this one. "The UT doesn't translate Earth languages. They didn't think there would be any need for it."

"Not really universal then, is it?" Jonathan snapped, then reminded himself it wasn't Hoshi's fault. He gave her a reassuring smile, and turned to his bridge staff. "OK, who apart from Hoshi speaks French?"

He glanced at Trip, but didn't bother asking. The only thing French about Trip was that time they'd gone to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Jonathan had gone to the bathroom and come back to find Trip festooned with a dozen strings of beads. He'd never asked where they'd come from, and Trip had never volunteered the information.

Jonathan looked at the other side of the bridge. "Malcolm?"

"I speak Esperanto, sir," Malcolm replied helpfully.

"Esperanto?"

"I learned it at grammar school. Mr. Rimmer was very keen on it."

"I see." Jonathan wondered, not for the first time, why he hadn't applied for the open position in the Stargate Program. The benefits were much better, and according to an article he'd read before leaving Earth, they were more popular than Starfleet, even though they'd been around for nearly two hundred years and no one was supposed to know they existed. "So, Hoshi is the only person who speaks French. And we're going to meet with these people in, what, ten minutes?"

"They will arrive in eight point four minutes, Captain," T'Pol corrected.

"Great."

"I'll write you some phonetic sentences, Captain."

***

It was undeniably strange to see half a dozen five-foot-tall, virulent green aliens speaking French to Hoshi. If not for the marked lack of drag queens, Jonathan would have felt like he'd stepped into the French Quarter after a few too many daiquiris.

Eventually, one of the aliens turned to Jonathan. Hoshi said something, then turned to him. "This is Captain…" She made a sound like an elephant clearing its throat. Jonathan was about to ask if she was ill when she added: "But you can call him Jean-Paul."

"OK." Jonathan smiled at the little alien, who looked back with large, expectant orange eyes. Jonathan glanced at the PADD Hoshi had given him, took a deep breath, and said: "Byenvenoo ah 'Enterprise' Jean-Paul." He took a break and continued: "Cest un grand play-seer de vouz acuh…acul…" He squinted at the PADD. "Aculler?"

Hoshi smiled brightly at the aliens, who were looking at him like he was speaking gibberish. Jonathan sighed.

"Ce que le capitaine veut dire, monsieur, est que nous sommes honorés de vous acceuillir dans notre vaisseau spatial."

Jonathan turned around to see Trip standing behind him, smiling benevolently at the Martesians. They exclaimed: "Ah!" And threw up their hands, greeting Trip like a long lost brother. Jonathan's eyebrows challenged T'Pol's for the vertical-distance record, but Trip just smiled smugly and accompanied Hoshi and the Martesians out of the shuttle bay.

By the time the night was over, Jonathan was ready to put both Hoshi and Trip in for commendations. The Martesians loved them, to the point where Hoshi had to forcibly remove her hand from Jean-Paul, who kissed it repeatedly as they stood in the shuttle bay, trying to say good-bye.

Finally, the Martesian shuttle left. Hoshi informed Jonathan that they'd promised to have a basket of Martesian cheeses couriered over as soon as they got back to their planet.

"Are they going to be able to find us?" Jonathan asked, a little worried. The Martesians were a pleasant enough species, considering, but they did nothing for Jonathan's self-esteem.

"They told me beauty such as mine would shine like a beacon throughout a dozen galaxies," Hoshi said, smiling. Jonathan clapped her on the shoulder.

"Isn't that what I've always said, Ensign?"

He collapsed onto his bed as soon as he arrived in his quarters. Immediately, Porthos jumped up beside him, licking at his face.

"Not tonight, dear." Jonathan pushed him away. "I have a headache."

More of a migraine, actually. He sat up, rubbing ineffectually at his temples. He was rummaging in his medicine cabinet for one of Phlox's special painkillers, to be used only in Suliban-class emergencies (as opposed to Klingon-class, Andorian-class, and mere Vulcan-class) when the door chimed.

Immediately, Porthos ran up, yipping, which did nothing to help the headache.

"Shut up, Porthos." He snapped, and opened the door to find Trip standing in his doorway.

"You OK there, Captain?"

"No." Trip came in, shutting the door behind him, and Jonathan pushed the hypospray into his own neck. "And since when do you speak French?"

"Since I was in high school."

"I never knew that."

"You never asked." The painkiller worked, all right. The headache dissipating, Jonathan sat on his bed.

"That's not an answer." Trip sat beside him, reaching over to rub his shoulders. Against his will, Jonathan relaxed. "You know, Trip, if you wanted to, you could speak it a little more often. You know, when we're alone."

Trip smiled. "It's not that hard, Jon. I could teach you."

"I only know one sentence." And it wasn't one you could whip out in company. Especially extra-terrestrial company with a crush on Hoshi and an undetermined amount of firepower.

"What's that?"

"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

Trip laughed and pushed him down onto the bed. "I think you can use the 'tu' form, Jon. We've known each other long enough. Just don't use it in front of the Martesians."

"Why not?"

"Because to them, it'd be the verbal equivalent of your hand on my ass."

"Oh. Did I…" Jonathan racked his brains, trying to remember all the mangled phrases he'd produced during the evening.

"No. Hoshi looked out for you."

"Good. Did they…"

"They tried it with Hoshi."

"What did she say?"

"That she wasn't that kind of girl."

Jonathan smiled. "And you?"

Trip shrugged. "I am that kind of boy."

"Then get down here and prove it, tu."

Trip rolled his eyes. "Jawohl, mein Herr."