Title: The Mad Mods' Musical Mayhem
Author: Dave Rogers
Series: VOY
Part: 1/1
Date: 27th August 1999
Rating: PG
Codes: C, P, T, Tu, N
Summary: Chakotay takes a look at Tom's contribution to the
Captain's birthday concert. A story in Suz Voy's Auditions series,
following Audition #2.
Acknowledgements: It's Suz Voy's series, but she let me put this in.
Disclaimer: Paramount own the characters, The Who own the lyrics, Suz
owns the series, I own... er...
The Mad Mods' Musical Mayhem
Tom Paris was overdue for payback, and just this once Chakotay had an
idea of how to do it. Besides, he had a Captain's sensibilities to
protect, and there was no telling what sort of outlandish ideas the
helmsman might have in store for her birthday concert.
"So tell me, Tom," he asked as they walked towards sickbay, "What sort
of thing did you think would go across well?"
"Something with a bit more excitement, Commander. We all know the
Captain doesn't get much action."
Chakotay winced. Paris was going to pay double for that.
"I think maybe you ought to give some kind of demonstration. Give the
rest of us some inspiration. How about tomorrow?"
Tom stopped dead. "You know I'm down for a double shift at the conn
tomorrow, Chakotay."
Chakotay pretended to study the padd in his hand. "I don't think so,
Mr. Paris. The duty rosters have you down for a double shift in
sickbay."
"Sickbay? Let me see that." Tom reached for the padd, but Chakotay
held it up to his chest.
"And the day after, it looks like you're pulling... another double
shift in sickbay. And the day after that..."
"Holodeck Two, nineteen hundred."
Chakotay smiled. "I knew you'd see it my way eventually."
As he entered the turbolift, he heard Paris muttering, "I need to call
in some favours. B'Elanna's gonna kill me."
"Any time you're ready, Mr. Paris," announced the First Officer to the
empty, darkened holodeck holodeck.
"Thanks, Commander," came a voice from the darkness. "We're going to
perform a song from the mid to late Twentieth Century, from the period
of extensive commercialisation of folk-based music."
Chakotay relaxed a little. Folk music, with its gentle vocal harmonies
and traditional acoustic instruments, was very much to his tastes.
Maybe he might enjoy this after all.
There was the clunk of a mighty amplifier switching on, the loud click
of high power electrical switches, and the holodeck was lit up with
multicoloured spotlights. Chakotay's first impression was surprise
that Tom's hair had got to be that long; the flared denims and the
open shirt certainly weren't Starfleet issue either. He also hadn't
realised Tuvok and Torres could play electric guitars. As for what was
sat behind them... it didn't bear thinking about.
And then they started playing.
After a few seconds, he realised that there wasn't an alien attack in
progress; photon torpedo strikes tended to be slightly more melodic.
Whatever favours B'Elanna owed Tom were clearly not enough - he could
tell she wasn't happy from the way she flung her arm in the air and
brought it down on her guitar strings with the power and aggression of
a bat'leth strike.
"People try to put us down,"
And when did Tom's voice get that high? Maybe she'd already lost her
temper with him beforehand.
"Talkin' 'bout my generation"
It seemed that she and Tuvok could both sing after a fashion, though,
as they chimed in with the refrain after every line.
"Just because we get around.
Things they do look awful cold,
Hope I die before I get old."
Now there, in the circumstances, was a sentiment Chakotay could concur
with.
"This is my generation,
This is my generation, baby."
As they began the second verse, whether through nerves or deliberate
intent, Paris appeared to acquire something of a stutter.
"Why don't you all, f-f-f-f-"
Chakotay felt his throat go dry for an instant. *He's not going to say
that, is he?*
"fade away,"
*No, he isn't.* Chakotay quietly thanked the spirits of his ancestors.
"And don't try and dig what we all s-s-s-s-say,
I'm not trying to cause a big sensation,"
Chakotay laughed out loud at that line - for all the difference it
made. He couldn't hear himself think, even, and surely the holodeck
soundproofing had its limits.
"I'm just talkin' 'bout my generation"
There was no escape. Chakotay simply had to look at the spectacle
behind Paris. Grinning insanely, sweat showering from his crest in all
directions, a deranged Neelix crouched on a stool battering all kinds
of hell out of an otherwise inoffensive set of drums. There was
something primal, uncivilised and deeply disturbing about the total
lack of inhibition he showed, and occasionally a glimpse of discoloured
teeth completed the vision of horror.
Opposite Torres on the stage, Tuvok commenced the bass guitar solo.
His fingers flew across the strings and along the neck in patterns
of frightening complexity and speed. Given the physical requirements
of this procedure, it was not logical that he should complicate matters
further by additional movements; so he stood rigidly, stock still, just
turning his head occasionally to check that no flying debris was headed
in his direction. As Tom swung the microphone on its lead in huge
circles, threatening to smash into the stage at any moment, it seemed a
valid concern.
As the repeated second verse approached its end, along with Chakotay's
aural endurance, Torres' temper appeared finally to slip out of her
control. Her right arm whirled in a vertical circle in an attempt to
batter the guitar to death; then, dissatisfied with mere flagellation,
she slipped the strap off her shoulder, reversed her grip and swung
the guitar violently against a stack of amplifiers. After a few blows,
the guitar neck and body parted company, and as the body whiplashed
around on the three surviving strings, it finally delivered enough
momentum to send the whole stack crashing down. Meanwhile Neelix,
getting carried away with the excitement, started to fling drums and
cymbals in all directions. The music shuddered to a chaotic halt as a
flying tom-tom knocked Tuvok, still playing, to the floor, and one of
the hi-hat cymbals caused minor lacerations to B'Elanna's forehead
ridges. Seeing, and hearing, that it was over, Tom stopped leaping up
and down, raised the microphone to his lips, and announced in a
deafening whisper, ignoring the angry glare of a bleeding half-Klingon,
"I guess it needs a little more rehearsal, Commander."
Fighting to hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears, Chakotay
called back, "I'm afraid not, Tom. We can't spare the replicator
rations for a new set of instruments." Thank the spirits, he thought;
any excuse would do if he never had to go through this again. And then
it hit him like a blow to the gut; Tom Paris had got the better of him
again.
"Computer, re-initialise holodeck program Paris Who One."
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