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."