|
{Two farmers walk through cornfield.}
FARMER TED: Are you sure there's nobody around
here? I don't wanna get caught.
FARMER FRED: Positive. I own fifty acres in
every direction. No neighbors.
FARMER TED: I thought I heard something.
FARMER FRED: Just the wind rustlin' the corn.
We're all alone. I promise.
FARMER TED: Good. {turns to face FRED. TED's
skin abruptly mottles and turns green. His fingers elongate
like tentacles and wrap around FRED's neck. FRED oops, acks,
gasps, and passes out. TED drops him as a ship plummets from
the sky and slams into the cornfield. KLAANG crawls from the
wreckage and looks around.}
KLAANG: ARRRRRRR!
{TED begins to run towards KLAANG, clothes
morphing into the orange jumpsuit.}
KLAANG: qaStaH nuq? p'taQ! Hab SoSlI' Quch!
{A violent explosion rocks the cornfield.
KLAANG goes flying. TED is chunky green salsa.}
FARMER MAGGOT {clutching plasma grenade launcher}:
I told you damn hobbits to stay out of my mushrooms!
ADMIRAL LEONARD: So, I've been looking over
your past record. Quite...colorful.
ARCHER: Oh, I know, but that is so totally
in the past. Yesterday's news. Obsolete. Really. Nothing like
that is going to happen here. {skitters away}
ADMIRAL LEONARD: Damn shame. I was just going
to complement him on the writing, directing, and acting of
Quantum Leap.
{Starfleet Medical. A group of Vulcans is
standing around glaring quietly while PHLOX and his assistants
work on KLAANG in the surgical room, separated from the outer
room by glass walls. Starfleet Admirals are muttering in another
corner. ARCHER enters.}
ARCHER: So, what's the sitch?
SOVAL: The... sitch?
T'POL: A small golden ball with wings. Its capture
by a player called "the Seeker" signals the end
of the match in an aggressive aerial team sport named "Quidditch."
Each team consists of --
ARCHER: I said the sitch. The situation.
What's going on?
ADMIRAL FORREST: This alien crashed in a cornfield
in Oklahoma --
ARCHER: Is he the same guy who's been leaving
those crop circles all over Bucks County?
SOVAL: His corpse will need to be returned to
his homeworld for burial. His House is already sitting shiva.
ARCHER {furrowing his brown in concern}:
His corpse? He's not dead yet.
T'POL: No, but he will be soon. If we send him
now, he'll be just dead by the time he arrives on Qo'noS.
{ARCHER bangs on the window. PHLOX glances
up, then smiles that horrendous CGI smile. Fortunately, it's
mostly hidden by the surgical mask.}
PHLOX {slightly muffled}: Ah, Captain
Archer! You've arrived. Your shuttle made excellent time.
I'm just about finished here. I'll be with you shortly.
ARCHER: Is he dead yet?
SOVAL: Not far now.
ARCHER {glaring over his shoulder}: Morbid
much?
ADMIRAL FORREST: I think that's his point, Jon.
SOVAL {to T'POL}: What is their
fascination with our ears?
ARCHER: You prob'ly think that song is about
you, don't you?
{PHLOX exits the surgical room, stripping
off gloves and mask.}
PHLOX: The next 24 hours will be critical, but
I believe Mister Klaang will pull through.
ADMIRAL FORREST: Doctor, that's wonderful! Thank
you!
SOVAL: Damn. I mean, your work was adequate
to the task.
ARCHER: Whatever. Doc, can you tell me what's
going on?
PHLOX: Certainly. This way, please. {They
start to walk to a door opposite where ARCHER entered.}
SOVAL: Where are you going?
PHLOX: We have matters to discuss.
SOVAL: So, discuss them here! Leaving a perfectly
good room to have a conversation is illogical. Plus my ears
aren't that goo-- I mean, your species is volatile and irrational
and you are in need of our guidance.
PHLOX: You'll be apprised of all pertinent information.
SOVAL {stepping forward}: How about a
prize Vulcan?
PHLOX: Very well. Subcommander, would you join
us? {SOVAL blinks. T'POL follows PHLOX and ARCHER into
a waiting room, where TRIP, MALCOLM, HOSHI, and TRAVIS are
sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs. All four stand as
ARCHER, T'POL, and PHLOX enter.}
ARCHER: Now, you were saying?
PHLOX: You think it's coincidence, your being
here, at the moment that Klingon was captured? Klaang was
only the beginning.
ARCHER: Yeah, I think that's why they call it
"the pilot."
PHLOX: Into each generation a Captain is born,
one person in all the world, a chosen one, one born with the
strength and skill to lead the flagship, with the charisma
to get the babe of the week, the...
ARCHER {interrupting}: ...Babe of the
week, Chosen One, yeah, yeah, lead humanity to the next step
in their evolution, jewel of the network, blah blah, I know
the drill. The rest of my crew is already here to save valuable
exposition time. So you're, what, the Observer?
PHLOX: I work for the Interspecies Medical Exchange.
ARCHER: But you're not human?
PHLOX: I am a Denobulan. In our society, each
man has three wives, and each woman has three husbands. And
if that isn't enough action, they're pretty friendly with
whomever's in groping range, too.
ARCHER: Right. The Observer.
TRIP: Sorry, didn't have exact change for the
fare on the Metabus. Break that down for me?
ARCHER: Phlox is the "alien observer"
whose purpose on the show is to comment on and reflect humanity's
foibles from the outside.
T'POL: So what am I, chopped sehlat?
HOSHI: Demographic Magnet.
TRIP: Potential love interest for all --
MALCOLM: -- actual shagging for none.
ARCHER {chagrined and a little embarrassed}:
Oh, T'Pol, I'm sorry, You can observe if you want. It's just
that traditionally the "Observer" character wants
to or winds up becoming human in some way, and you're a Vulcan,
and you're all... y'know... {T'POL cocks an eyebrow}...
logicky and stuff. I didn't think you, um, played for that
team. Which is fine! I mean, it's fine with me. If you do.
Play for that team. Or the other team. Totally okay with me.
Whatever. IDIC and all that.
PHLOX {rolling eyes}: If we could get
on with it, please? {The crew fidgets and snickers but
eventually pays attention.} Now, things are getting worse.
Battles being fought for no reason. There's unrest in the
Klingon Empire. Factions are being stirred up against one
another. There's a reason you're here, there's a reason you're
assigned to Enterprise, and there's a reason it's now.
ARCHER: Oh, I know! I know! It's because my
father built the engines, right?
PHLOX: Right. -- no, no, that's wrong, that's
not it at all. It's --
T'POL: Name recognition. Nobody else in this
room besides him and my breasts has any Q score.
PHLOX: You're right. It's because your daddy
built the engines. {ARCHER makes a "yes!" gesture
and exchanges high-fives with TRIP.} Now please, it's
very important that you listen to me. Soon, in a matter of
days, something will be coming to try and take Klaang. You've
got to stop it from happening.
ARCHER: Great! Carpe diem! Let's go, gang! {The
humans pile out, talking excitedly -- except for TRAVIS, who
never speaks -- leaving T'POL and PHLOX behind.}
PHLOX: But wait -- the Temporal Cold War --
Daniels -- I have to --
T'POL: Being the Chosen One means never having
to say you're sorry.
{ARCHER and TRIP are having coffee in ARCHER's
quarters.}
TRIP: So, we're really goin' to Qo'noS, huh?
ARCHER: It won't take long. Four days each way.
TRIP: And you brought him because... {They
both turn to the corner, where PORTHOS is dozing on his cushion.}
ARCHER: Well, I'm not comfortable leaving him
alone -- since Al left me for his own series there's really
nobody I can ask to watch him --
{The doorbell sounds. Before ARCHER can respond,
T'POL enters.}
T'POL {handing ARCHER a PADD}: I have
been officially transferred to your command. Sir.
ARCHER: "Sir" is acceptable in a crunch,
but I prefer Captain. Or Sam. Or "my round-eared muffin."
T'POL: Captain, what is that disgusting smell?
TRIP {sniffing his demitasse}: You don't
like espresso?
T'POL: I prefer Chai tea, but I was referring
to the other smell.
ARCHER: What, Porthos? {PORTHOS awakens and
lifts his head at the sound of his name.} C'mere and introduce
yourself, boy.
{PORTHOS stands, stretches, yawns, and morphs
into a young man with sharp features, green eyes, and spiky
blond hair. He walks over to T'POL.}
ARCHER {cheerfully}: Shake, Porthos!
PORTHOS {raising his hand in the Vulcan salute}:
Mene sakkhet ur-seveh, Subcommander. I am called Porthos.
T'POL: How did you do that?
PORTHOS: We're out in space. Without an atmosphere,
the sunlight reflected off Terra's natural satellite isn't
filtered, so I can change at will.
TRIP: What happens when we leave orbit?
PORTHOS: I'm stuck in whichever shape I'm in
until the next planet with a moon.
ARCHER: Oh, by the way, your agent called. Something
about a show with a mix of live action and puppets.
PORTHOS: Puppets?
ARCHER: Eugene Levy's already signed.
PORTHOS: Oh, in that case, I'm in. He's hilarious.
T'POL: Excuse me, I have to call everyone I
have ever met, right now.
{Bridge.}
ARCHER: Okay, places everyone! T'Pol?
T'POL: Here at the science station. Just setting
precedent for something which has already happened.
MALCOLM: That's not very logical.
T'POL: Neither is a human male wearing excessive
lipstick, but I was politely not pointing that out. {MALCOLM
finds his hanky and hastily rubs at his mouth.}
ARCHER: Hoshi?
HOSHI: Got my little silver earpiece thingy,
my XM satellite receiver, and SYSTRANsoft booted up. Ready
to roll.
ARCHER: Malcolm?
MALCOLM {stuffing hanky back in his pocket}:
Tactical is ready, sir. We're armed for bear.
T'POL: Our course does not take us through either
of those constellations.
MALCOLM {irritated}: Would you rather
see my elephant gun, pet?
T'POL: We're not going there either, Stinky.
ARCHER {pressing a button on his armrest}:
Trip?
HESS {over the comm from Engineering}:
He had to pee, sir. He'll be back in just a moment.
ARCHER: All right, never mind. {hits a different
button} Doctor Phlox?
PHLOX {over the comm from Sickbay}: These
Klingons have a fascinating culture. Did you know that when
the male wishes to mate with the female, he has to read love
poetry to her while she throws things at him?
ARCHER: Gives "poetry slam" a whole
new meaning. Thank you, Doctor. {hits button to turn comm
off} Travis? {TRAVIS waves.} All right then. Take
her out. And please don't scrape the hull along the side of
Spacedock.
MALCOLM: By Grabthar's hammer, sir, Travis knows
how to fly. He's been in space longer than any of us. Except
maybe the elf with the overactive thyroid at Science.
T'POL: I would resent that, but I think Legolas
is hot.
{The Suliban Helix temporal chamber. FUTURE
GUY is talking to SILIK through the Temporal Interference
Field.}
FUTURE GUY: Where's Klaang? You promised me
an offering.
SILIK: I had him, Master, but... there was a
Captain!
FUTURE GUY: A Captain? A new Chosen One?
SILIK: Yes, Master. Tall of stature and furrowed
of brow. Decent of rear view, too.
FUTURE GUY: Have you any proof?
SILIK: I saw him leaving the toupée shop
myself.
FUTURE GUY: This... Captain must not
be allowed to interfere in our plans.
SILIK: We had Klaang in our grasp, when one
of the stupid little Earth folk came out of the middle of
nowhere, murdered my soldier, and seized your offering.
FUTURE GUY: Life can be such a trial sometimes.
Where is the Klingon now?
SILIK: The Captain has him. They're returning
him to his homeworld.
FUTURE GUY: Recover him. And pray that when
you do... {The field crackles and shimmers.} ...I'm
in a better mood.
SILIK: You know, most people just eat chocolate
when they're having a bad day. Ben & Jerry's has this
great new ice cream flavor, "Brownie Batter." Maybe
you should pick up a pint.
FUTURE GUY: I wish I could, but you know how
the Temporal Interference Field always adds ten pounds.
SILIK: Tell me about it! And these jumpsuits?
They show every potato chip I've had in the last five years.
{TRIP and TRAVIS are crawling through a Jeffries
tube. They reach the end and clamber out into the junction.
TRIP takes a panel off and glares at the wires.}
TRIP {doing bad Jimmy Cagney impression;
sounds more like a Bugs Bunny villain}: So, you thought
you could outsmart me, eh? Thought you were a big shot, eh?
{his normal voice} Hand me that microcaliper, would you,
Trav? {TRAVIS digs through the box and hands him the instrument.}
So you're a "boomer," right? Been to all kind of
planets?{TRAVIS nods.}...That is so cool. Ah've only
been to one inhabited planet besides Earth... nothin' there
but souvenir shops sellin' little pieces of whale blubber
in lucite and a restaurant where the cow walks up and asks
you what piece'a her you want for dinner. Kinda boring. Screwdriver?
{TRAVIS waits.} Sorry, hex head. {He produces the correct
tool.} Don't you ever talk?
{Suddenly the ambient lighting goes down
and a spotlight shines on the helmsman. TRAVIS puts down the
toolbox and pulls out a black silk top hat and a cane. Music
swells out of nowhere.}
TRAVIS {high-stepping and singing}: Hello
my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal...
{TRIP stares, mouth open in astonishment. The screwdriver
falls from his hand.}
TRIP: You talk! You sing! You dance!
TRAVIS: Send me a kiss by wiiiiiiiiiiire; baby
my heart's on fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire!
TRIP: Ah gotta tell somebody! Holy catfish!
{leans down the Jeffries tube} Hess! Rostov! You gotta
come see this!
TRAVIS: If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose
me, then you'll be left aloooooooooooooooone...
HESS {yelling back}: Coming!
TRAVIS:...oh baby, telephone, and tell me I'm
your oooooooooooooooown!
{HESS and ROSTOV come out of the tube. Before
they can stand, the lights have reverted to normal.}
ROSTOV: What is it, Commander?
TRIP: Travis can talk! He was just singing!
{TRAVIS's hat and cane have mysteriously disappeared. He
looks up, questioning.}
HESS: Oh, good one, Commander.
TRIP: No really! Ah mean it! {turns to TRAVIS}
Trav, show'em! Show'em what you just did! {TRAVIS blinks.}
The song! You were just singin' a song! {mimics the
cane movements} "Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello
my..." {trails off}
HESS {rolling eyes}: Whatever.
ROSTOV: I told you it was a drill. Lieutenant
Reed's been running the Armory staff ragged all day with "battle
simulations." {They climb back out.}
TRIP: No wait! Ah'm serious! Guys!... {realizes
they've left. Turns and shoots a nasty look at TRAVIS.}
Thanks. {TRAVIS gives him a big bright smile and hands
him the screwdriver.}
{ARCHER exits Sickbay, muttering to himself.}
ARCHER: Of all the doctors in the IME, I get
the one who prefers macrobiotics to microchips. "I'll
have one of my assistants wrest some information from that
dread machine," he says. If I had a nickel for every
time --
DANIELS {finishing his sentence}: --
for every time someone insulted Ziggy, you could have retired
to Jamaica by now.
ARCHER {frowning}: Who are you?
DANIELS: Let's just say... I'm a friend.
ARCHER: You look like you could stand to make
friends with GQ. What do you call that look, early
Michelin Man?
DANIELS: I'll have you know this is haute couture
in my day.
ARCHER: I hope I never live to see the
day when's that's haute stuff.
DANIELS: That's more easily arranged than you
realize.
ARCHER: Waitaminute, I recognize you. You're
not supposed to be in the pilot.
DANIELS: I know, but I'm doing research for
my later appearances.
ARCHER: Research?
DANIELS: Nothing serious, just interning with
Chef to familiarize myself with your breakfast preferences.
ARCHER: Oh, that's all right, then.
DANIELS: Plus someone had to fill in the "Angel"
character slot, and Buffy has more people with lines
than your show does.
ARCHER {shrugs}: It's a union thing.
Wait until Buffy comes over to our network. The number
of NPC speaking parts will go way down.
DANIELS: Understood. Good luck with the rest
of your mission.
ARCHER: Thanks. Can you give me any, you know,
hints about the future?
DANIELS: Well, Jeffrey Combs is going to be
able to afford that Lexus he was looking at.
{Captain's Mess.}
ARCHER: Farfalle pesto, Trip?
TRIP: Don't mind if Ah do. {takes the bowl
and spoons some onto his plate} Subcommander, would you
like some ricotta salata?
T'POL: Yes, thank you. {She holds out her
plate. TRIP grates the cheese onto the pasta.}
ARCHER: Remind me -- what was the purpose of
this scene?
TRIP: To establish the Food Chain, and for T'Pol
and Ah to insult each other.
T'POL: Your species is impatient and illogical,
and Chef has overcooked the roast beef.
ARCHER: Oh, that was Daniels. Sorry.
TRIP: Your people are prejudiced and close-minded,
and don't expect dessert unless you clean your plate.
T'POL: What's for dessert?
ARCHER: Amaretti and gelato.
T'POL: I'm eating, I'm eating.
{Bridge. T'POL is talking to someone in Vulcan
on her cell phone while she's working at her station.}
T'POL {on phone}: ...so I walk in and
there's this smell, right? And I'm all, "What
is that stench?" And he's all "Ah took a shower
this morning; how 'bout you, Cap'n?" And I'm like "Not
you, you hairless primate, the other lower life-form."
{giggles}
HOSHI {in English}: I thought you were
supposed to speak English on this mission.
T'POL {in Vulcan}: Hang on a sec.
{to HOSHI in English} Excuse me? Do I horn in on your
private discussions? No. Why? Because you're boring. {HOSHI
looks away, embarrassed. ARCHER looks up, but he didn't catch
the exchange. T'POL returns to her conversation in Vulcan.}
So then the dog gets up off the pillow and -- get this --
he totally shapeshifts. Into a guy! {punches more buttons}
Stupid human interface. What? No, it's this primitive computer
system. It's like trying to construct a mnemonic circuit using
stone knives and bearskins.
PHLOX {over the comm}: Captain, our patient
is regaining consciousness.
ARCHER: On my way. {Stands.} Hoshi?
T'POL {in English to HOSHI as she passes}:
How do I send this report to the Vulcan High Command?
HOSHI: 'Deliver.'
T'POL: Deliver? Where's that? {searches the
keyboard} Oh! Thanks.... hey, wait a minute, the whole
thing just disappeared!
{Sickbay. KLAANG is strapped to a biobed
and ranting in Klingon. ARCHER, HOSHI, PHLOX, and a REDSHIRT
with a proto-BetsyBoomstick are gathered around him.}
KLAANG: nuqDaq 'oH puchpa''e'? nuqDaq 'oH
puchpa''e'??
ARCHER: What's he saying?
HOSHI: Something like "Right in my EV suit?"
KLAANG: Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam!
ARCHER: Tell him we're taking him home.
HOSHI: maH jaH Dung ngem juH.
KLAANG {groaning}: ghuy'cha'!
HOSHI: I think it's a proper name... "Jerry
Shiban"?
ARCHER: Tell him his ship was destroyed, but
the insurance company promised the check will be here in three,
four weeks tops.
PHLOX: I don't believe that was the adjuster's
estimate.
ARCHER {waving}: Hello? Who's the Captain
here? Tactics, Doctor. You have think strategically.
PHLOX: Oh, right, right, Klingons have a great
love of boasting and exaggeration. You're correct. Pardon
my intrusion.
HOSHI: jIH Ho' yuch chor. jIH naj vut quHvaj.
KLAANG: jIH qoy' Hegh'bat! mev be'joy'!
HOSHI: Um.
ARCHER: What?
HOSHI: Sir, I think he just made a pass at you.
ARCHER {looking pleased}: Really? Boy,
the Vulcans, the Klingons... they weren't kidding about this
"Chosen One gets all the babes" stuff.
KLAANG: mevyap!
{The ship lurches violently. Everyone jolts
in different directions, regardless of inertia. The lights
flicker and go out. Reaction shots of various crew members
as consoles shut down, including T'POL and MALCOLM looking
alarmed on the Bridge, TRIP running about frantically in Engineering,
HESS and ROSTOV playing cards with PORTHOS, and TRAVIS in
a muscle shirt lifting 50-pound dumbbells in the gym.}
ARCHER {slapping his chest}: Bridge,
report. {Nothing happens. HOSHI and PHLOX stare at the
Captain for a long moment.} Oh, right, damn, we can't
do that yet. {runs to wall comm and punches button}
Bridge, report.
T'POL: Captain, we've dropped out of warp. Main
power is -- {the comm goes out}
ARCHER: T'Pol? T'Pol? {punches button repeatedly}
T'Pol? {bangs fist on wall} We were supposed to have
service all the way to Qo'noS! That's why we switched to Verizon!
{turns to HOSHI} Get me Customer Service! I'm having
this taken off our bill!
{Bridge.}
MALCOLM: What was that?
T'POL: What was what?
MALCOLM: I thought I saw something -- only for
a moment, then the moment was gone.
T'POL: Must've been your entire life flashing
before your eyes.
{Sickbay. The main cast has little flashlights.
KLAANG continues to bitch in Klingon.}
ARCHER: Can someone get him to shut up, please?
HOSHI: bIjatlh 'e' yImev! {KLAANG falls silent.}
PHLOX {impressed}: You picked Klingonaase
up rather quickly, Ensign.
HOSHI {holding up PADD}: I bookmarked
kli.org before the power went down.
ARCHER: I'm going to the Bridge. {bumps into
REDSHIRT} Oh, sorry.
REDSHIRT: That's all right... Captain. {morphs
into Suliban and cracks ARCHER upside the head with the rifle}
ARCHER: Ooof! {ARCHER'S beacon goes flying.
HOSHI screams like a twelve-year-old.}
KLAANG: Vampires! -- I mean, Suliban! -- I mean,
mevyap!
{PHLOX and HOSHI desperately try to light
up the fighters so ARCHER can see what he's hitting. Two more
Suliban are intermittently visible in the jumpy beams.}
ARCHER: You shifting types are all alike.
{punches Suliban in the face; he goes down and stays there}
You always stall when you floor it.
HOSHI: Look out! Behind you! {Another Suliban
leaps from the shadows and lands on ARCHER's back. He flips
the Suliban over, then piledrivers into his stomach.}
ARCHER: Can you smell what the Chosen One is
cooking?
PHLOX: I should never have agreed to switching
networks. These cross-promotions are so lame.
{ARCHER dives across the room, grabs the
rifle, sits up, and blasts the Suliban leaping on him. Everything
is very quiet for a moment as everyone blinks, trying to adjust
their eyes after the huge burst of light.}
HOSHI: Ow.
{The lights come up and systems come back
online. The dead Suliban is sprawled over the Pyrithian bat's
cage. She's inside whimpering "ew! ew! ew!"}
PHLOX {blinking}: Is everyone all right?
ARCHER: That all depends on what the meaning
of "is" is. {All turn to see the biobed is empty,
and the remaining Suliban are gone.}
{Bridge. ARCHER is ranting. In English.}
ARCHER:...and while you two were having a FaceFinityOff,
the Kelly Chameleons broke into Sickbay and kidnapped Klaang!
MALCOLM {discreetly wiping spittle off his
face}: I did detect something, sir, but...faint.
TRIP: We have a couch for that.
ARCHER: Trip, get me an analysis of Mister Reed's
"faint" problem.
TRIP: Dammit, Jon, Ah'm an engineer, not a doctor.
ARCHER: What's our weapons status?
MALCOLM: We kick arse.
ARCHER: Good. Hoshi, I want you to -- wait,
we do?
MALCOLM: Of course we do. Did you think I was
going to wait until Tuesday to have our targeting scanners
tuned? We can blast the snot out of anything in fifty parsecs.
ARCHER: Wow, we're shattering continuity like
a diva with a wine glass. Go help Trip, then. {TRIP and
MALCOLM exit.} Okay, Hoshi, get back online and find out
what Klaang was yelling about.
HOSHI: I already posted on the KLI BBS, sir.
I should have an answer shortly.
ARCHER: Good. Keep me advised. {T'POL is
waiting to speak.} Was there something else, Subcommander?
T'POL: For the record, sir, I use EsT'ée
Lauder and Mister Reed prefers Revlon. To object to a Max
Factor product is illogical.
ARCHER: Those department store brands are really
expensive, T'Pol. You should try Maybelline.
T'POL: I will consider it. In the meantime,
you've lost the Klingon --
ARCHER: "Misplaced."
T'POL: -- so there is no reason for Enterprise
to be out here any longer. We should return to San Francisco.
ARCHER: Why, did you leave your heart there?
{Everyone on the Bridge stops and stares at ARCHER. The
background music clatters to a halt. Crickets can be heard.
ARCHER looks around, uncomfortable.} What? Just because
it's an old joke... {After a long beat, the music starts
again, and everyone slowly resumes their positions.}
T'POL {edging towards the turbolift}:
I think I'll go ask Commander Tucker what brand he recommends.
{Engineering. TRIP and T'POL are looking
over sensor data.}
TRIP: Well, yeah, Maybelline's not bad. You
can find it most places. Ah use Cover Girl m'self.
T'POL: What about Prescriptives? They have that
skin-tone color palette which actually applies to me.
TRIP {shaking his head}: Still department-store
stuff. You don't have to pay that much.
HESS {stage whisper}: Commander! You're
on!
TRIP: Oh! Sorry. {starts pressing buttons
on the console} Um, yeah, plasma degradation rate something.
Ah so forgot to study the script last night.
T'POL: Plasma decay rate. Your coal-burning
sensors can't track it. Vulcan children play with video games
more sophisticated than these piddling radar detectors.
TRIP: Shame we don't have some Vulcan children
around to help us, isn't it?
T'POL: You should blow your lines more often.
Your ad-libbing makes more sense than the script.
{ARCHER enters.}
ARCHER: Got anything?
T'POL: A much-lowered level of respect for the
current lords of the franchise.
ARCHER: Which for our purposes translates into...
TRIP: Bupkus.
{HOSHI enters.}
ARCHER: Got anything?
HOSHI: Well, if you must know, when I was in
the Amazon I picked up this really nasty itch on my --
ARCHER: Were you able to figure out any of what
Klaang said?
HOSHI {handing ARCHER a PADD}: Most of
it was pretty innocuous, sir. He wanted to go home, he had
to do laundry, he was meeting with someone about classified
information which would head off a civil war, he missed his
dog, he needed to pee --
TRIP: Ah can sympathize.
ARCHER {reading}: "All your base
are belong to us."
HOSHI: Oh, sorry. Wrong page. Klaang's stuff
is on the next one.
ARCHER: "Someone go feed my targ! I called
my wife from Rigel after I met with Sarin, but she started
telling me about the plumber and I got distracted! Where's
my date book? I need to give the House of K'nekknek's invasion
schedule to the Tholian captain! Dammit, I ordered a raktajino
an hour ago!"
TRIP: Oh, what a tangled web we weave...
ARCHER {to T'POL}: Rigel? Sarin? Tholians?
Any of these sound familiar?
TRIP:...when first we practice, hint hint.
T'POL: Rigel is a human word, Arabic, I believe,
for the brightest star in the constellation you call Orion.
Which you should know since you're the captain of a starship,
you mouth-breather.
ARCHER:...right. Just... testing you. Yeah.
{shakes the PADD in her face} But he couldn't very well
land on the star, now could he? Huh? So where
did he land, Miss T'My Astrometrics Sensors Are Bigger
Than Seven Of Nine's?
HOSHI: Bigger than whose?
ARCHER: Sorry. Something Chef's new intern told
me.
T'POL: Klaang landed on the tenth planet.
TRIP: Well now, aren't you a fount of information!
ARCHER: Yeah, and if I find you stop being founty,
you're going to be wearing something a lot less comfortable
than those four-inch stiletto heels.
HOSHI: Until she threatens to take her star
charts and go home.
TRIP: That'd be mutiny on the founty, wouldn't
it? {ARCHER ignores them and hits a button on the comm
panel.}
ARCHER: Archer to Helm. {No response.}
HOSHI: Uh, sir?
ARCHER {sighing}: Trip, can't you fix
that?
TRIP: You wouldn't believe me if Ah told you.
ARCHER: Archer to Bridge.
MALCOLM {over comm}: Bridge, Reed here.
ARCHER: Tell Travis to -- waitaminute, what
are you doing on the Bridge? I told you to go help Trip analyze
the sensor readings.
MALCOLM {over comm, snippily}: Three's
a crowd, sir. {TRIP and T'POL look at each other and fidget.}
And after Hoshi left the Bridge, the only senior officer remaining
--
ARCHER: Understood. Tell Travis to set a course
for the tenth planet in a system called "Rigel."
That's R-I-G-E-L. It's in --
MALCOLM {over comm}: Oh, Rigel 10 again?
I thought we were out here to "boldly go where no man
has gone before." {sighs deeply} I suppose we'll
be having dinner at the same old haunts too. God forbid we
go three blocks out of our way to find a new pub.
ARCHER {punches comm button to end transmission}:
Don't all jump on the Archer's an Airhead Wagon at once, now.
TRIP: Ah understand Doctor Phlox is going to
wait until your next trip to Sickbay.
ARCHER: Oh good. That should be a while.
{Helix. SILIK and KLAANG are sitting across
from each other at a small table. SILIK is filing KLAANG's
nails. KLAANG is on his third tankard.}
SILIK: My stars! You Klingons are such interesting
creatures! I was just saying to my girlfriend, just the other
day, "Klingons are such interesting people! Why, I'll
bet they lead such interesting lives!" The things you
must see and the things you must do! My stars!
KLAANG: Well, you know, it's not all bloodwine
and fresh gagh. It's very hard work being a warrior.
SILIK: Of course it is, dear!
KLAANG: And me! {waves one hand dramatically
as SILIK works on the other} I don't even get to fight
like my brothers in arms! I'm reduced to a mere courier!
SILIK: You don't say. What a shame. A big strapping
strong man like you, running messages around?
KLAANG: There's no justice. {takes a swig
from his flagon} I should be leading the defense of our
glorious Empire, not dancing attendance on some Suliban floozy.
SILIK: You don't say.
KLAANG {gestures wildly with mug, which slops
around and spills}: And the qoH didn't even give me anything!
Just scratched me with her nail and wouldn't start a mating
ritual. {leans forward drunkenly} Is it true what they
say about your people, that you can... change your shape?
Into anything? {leers toothily}
SILIK {picks up KLAANG's hand and examines
the nails critically}: Oh my, my! This will never do!
{places a finger bowl on the table} Now let's stick our
paddies in the water!
{Shuttle bay. The main cast less PHLOX are
assembled.}
ARCHER: We're heading down to Rigel 10 to find
out what Klaang was after. That might help us locate him.
T'POL: Don't drink the water, don't feed the
animals, don't snog the locals, and beware of pickpockets.
HOSHI: Well, this is going to be a dull
mission.
ARCHER: Don't worry; those protocols won't apply
to any future Away Teams.
TRIP {to MALCOLM}: By the way, you look
good in that duster. Black leather suits you.
MALCOLM: Thank you. I refused to go the peroxide
route, though. Burns your scalp something awful.
TRIP: And completely turns your hair to straw
if you use it for too long.
MALCOLM: Cigarette? {TRIP makes a disgusted
face.} Oh, come off it, Mr. Wonderful. They're just props.
You don't think I actually smoke, do you?
TRIP {relieved}: Oh. Well, in that case,
sure. Domo arigato.
{Rigel 10. Snow is falling and turning to
icky brown slush on the filthy pavement. The crew is in an
industrial-park setting -- warehouses with corrugated metal
walls and oversized double doors, fences blocking off alleys,
trashbins, abandoned and stripped shuttlecraft, drunks sleeping
in doorways, the Giant Inflatable Union Protest Rat outside
a shuttered office.
The crew enters one of the buildings. It's
a club. The lights are low and the atmosphere is hazy. Two
fat Nausicaans in day-glo tie-dyed skin-tight catsuits gyrate
listlessly on either side of a stage, where a band is playing.
Occasionally one of them pulls a small, cackling, rat-like
creature out of a cage beside her and eats it. There's a dance
floor in front of the stage, a few pool tables, a bar, tables
and chairs, and doors leading to the back of the building.
The club's upper level is primarily made of balconies overlooking
the stage, and holds more two-person tables.
T'POL moves confidently through the throng.
MALCOLM follows, coolly assessing everyone in range. TRIP,
HOSHI, and ARCHER are trying not to stare at the madding crowd.
And failing. Aliens of every species, shape, color, stripe,
and gender are talking, drinking, dancing, arguing, laughing,
groping, and listening to the music.}
SINGER: Growing in numbers/Growing in speed/Can't
fight the future/Can't fight what I see/People they come together/People
they fall apart/No one can stop us now/'Cos we are all made
of stars
T'POL: We should split up. One redshirt per
pair. Dibs on Trip.
MALCOLM: Right. Travis, you're with me.
HOSHI: Um...
ARCHER {soothingly}: It's all right.
The writers are just throwing random characters together to
check for potential sparks.
HOSHI: Oh, a chemistry test?
ARCHER: Exactly. {They start to walk towards
the bar.}
HOSHI: Wow, they didn't get one pairing right,
did they?
ARCHER: That's why it's the pilot.
SINGER: Slow so slow (come come)/Someone come
(come come)/Even love is a goin' 'round/Bad noise goin' round/Slowly
rebuilding/I feel it in me/Growing in numbers/Growing in peace
TRIP: What did you say this place was called?
T'POL: The Bronze. It's the only club worth
going to around here. They let anybody in, but it's still
the scene. It's in the bad part of town.
TRIP: This place has a good part of town?
T'POL: That's where they actually take the time
to leave you in a bathtub full of ice after stealing your
kidneys.
SINGER: People they come together/People they
fall apart/No one can stop us now/'Cos we are all made of
stars/People they come together/People they fall apart/No
one can stop us now/'Cos we are all made of stars
MALCOLM {to floozy alien}: Subterranean
gardens? Seems like an unlikely place for a Klingon to go.
DEE'AHN {draping herself over MALCOLM}:
Klingons love mushrooms.
LATIA {taking TRAVIS's arm}: It's just
downstairs and over a bit. We'll show you.
SINGER: We are all made of stars/(People they
come together)/We are all made of stars/(People they fall
apart)/We are all made of stars/(No one can stop us now)/We
are all made of stars/(We are all made of stars)
{ARCHER tries to strike up a conversation
with the bartender.}
ARCHER: I'm looking for a friend of mine --
he came through here a few days ago. You'd remember him --
two and a half meters tall, hairy, dark skin, sharp teeth?
He's a Klingon. Named Klaang.
QUARK {polishing a glass}: I might.
ARCHER: You might what?
QUARK: Remember him.
ARCHER {getting it}: If I... cough up
a bribe.
QUARK: Please! "Bribe" is such an
ugly word. I prefer to call it... greasing the wheels of memory.
{ARCHER nods slowly, then leans over the
bar and grabs QUARK by the lapels.}
ARCHER: You're going to be the memory of a grease
spot if you don't tell me where the Klingon went.
ROM: He went to see a Suliban woman named Sarin.
I can take you there.
ARCHER: Thank you. {releases QUARK, who looks
disgusted}
ROM {shrugging}: Sorry, brother.
QUARK {straightening his jacket with a great
show of injured dignity}: That's quite all right. This
gentleman obviously didn't want to do business anyway.
ARCHER {into communicator}: T'Pol, meet
us by the back door. I think we have a lead.
T'POL {over communicator}: Acknowledged.
The band is on break anyway.
{ROM leaves with ARCHER and HOSHI. QUARK
looks down the bar and nods meaningfully. MORN nods back and
slips off his stool, following them.}
{Bar basement. It's dank, dusty, and cobwebbed,
with clanking pipes and bare bulbs. Random boxes and barrels
huddle next to uninviting doorways. Wine racks intermittently
line the walls. Sounds can be heard from some of the rooms
-- not sounds to investigate.
MALCOLM and TRAVIS are already unconscious
and sprawled on the floor by some filing cabinets. T'POL and
TRIP come down the stairs.}
TRIP: Malcolm! {runs over and crouches next
to MALCOLM} Mal, buddy, wake up. Malcolm, are you all
right?
T'POL: What happened?
TRIP: My guess is, either they were watching
a documentary on ancient Babylonian actuaries, or they were
knocked out.
T'POL: I thought it was my job to state
the blindingly obvious.
TRIP: Actually, that position rotates.
ROM: ...right through here. {ROM comes through
one of the creaky doors, leading HOSHI and ARCHER.}
T'POL: Captain!
ARCHER: T'Pol? Malcolm! {MORN appears from
the shadows and grabs ARCHER. ROM restrains HOSHI, who screams
like a twelve-year-old.} Hey! Let me go!
{ARCHER head-butts MORN. They stumble through
a doorway into a room lavishly appointed in mirrors, red velvet,
and leather. They fall to the ground, fighting. ARCHER kicks
MORN in the stomach. MORN sprays latinum over ARCHER's uniform,
then tackles ARCHER and slams him into a table. The vase of
flowers falls off and lands on MORN's head.}
ARCHER: Aren't you flower children supposed
to be all peace-and-friendshippy? {MORN tries to bite him
and misses.}
INTENDENT: Enough! {ARCHER looks up. MORN
socks him in the jaw one more time for good measure, and then
gets up and limps out.}
ARCHER {getting to his feet and wiping the
blood from his mouth}: Who are you? And what's with the
Domme's Secret outfit?
INTENDENT {slinking towards ARCHER, trailing
a whip on the ground behind her}: You're looking for Klaang...
why?
ARCHER: He owes me money.
INTENDENT {running her fingers along ARCHER's
torso as she walks a slow circle around him}: Tell me
about the people who took Klaang from your ship.
ARCHER: Why should I tell you anything?
INTENDENT: You're right. {big shark smile
up into his face} It's a lot more fun if I force it out
of you. {raises whip} Shall we play a game?
ARCHER: Um, maybe we can work something out?
{The INTENDENT grabs ARCHER's head and kisses
him ferociously. Serious tonsil hockey. When they come up
for air, she's morphed into SARIN, a Suliban woman. ARCHER
tries not to look too grossed out.}
ARCHER: I can't believe I kissed you.
SARIN: It must have been the biggest thrill
of your life.
ARCHER: You're obviously not familiar with my
previous work.
SARIN: Let's get down to cases, shall we? Some
members of my species are part of a group called the Cabal.
They take orders from a group in the 29th century of a demon
dimension in exchange for genetic enhancements. These future
demons are using the Cabal to foment a civil war in the Klingon
Empire. If a war erupts, all the bloodshed will allow the
demons to enter our time and dimension through a portal on
the Hellmouth planet and take over the universe. I gave Klaang
the proof of this plan to take back to the Chancellor. The
Cabal stole him from your ship to prevent him from getting
there. I can help you find Klaang if you take me with you.
ARCHER: I feel like I'm listening to a recap
of today's "All My Children."
SARIN: Look, this is a more complex plot than
you're going to get in the next dozen episodes. Don't knock
it.
ARCHER: Complex, sure. And talky and political
and and murky and with absolutely no connection to the greater
story which happens later on. Throw in a queen with a three-meter
kabuki wig and some CGI and we're talking Phantom Menace.
SARIN: I thought you sci-fi geeks liked big
complicated stories.
ARCHER {shrugging}: It's not me personally.
The crew's been ordered to appeal to a demographic with room-temperature
IQ. We're slated for gratuitous flesh exposure, swearing,
poop jokes, and fisticuffs.
SARIN: Oh, it's so action you want?
ARCHER: Depends on what kind of action. Are
you going to change back into the leather?
SARIN: Would that fall under "gratuitous
flesh exposure"?
{An explosion sounds in the corridor. The
door blows open. Two Suliban come charging in, firing weapons.
ARCHER and SARIN dive in opposite directions.}
SARIN {from behind a couch}: Is this
more what you had in mind?
ARCHER {from behind a chair, firing back}:
It is more predictable. If you kissed me again, I wasn't
sure what you were going to turn into next.
SULIBAN THUG: Captain! Don't panic. There is
no cause for alarm. Actually, there is cause for alarm.
It just won't do any good.
{ARCHER shoots him. The other Suliban thug
runs back out. ARCHER and SARIN follow him. In the hallway,
TRIP, HOSHI, and T'POL are trapped behind a force field. The
Suliban is gone, but there's weapons fire just out of sight.}
ARCHER: Are you guys all right? Where are Malcolm
and Travis?
TRIP: T'Pol twisted the little guy's big ears
and he ran off cryin', so we sent Mal and Travis to start
the shuttlepod. Then the Leprosychauns showed up and turned
on the electric fence.
T'POL: We are undamaged. Who's the tramp with
the acne problem?
ARCHER: She said she can help us find Klaang.
SARIN: Hey!
ARCHER {rolling eyes}: ...and a whole
bunch of other boring stuff. I'll tell you later.
SARIN: HEY!
{Suliban fire at each other. One of them
starts firing at the force field. ARCHER yanks a random girder
off the wall and hurls it at the Suliban. It spears through
his chest, and he puddles into silvery goo.}
ARCHER {to SARIN}: He's not going to
reconstitute as Robert Patrick, is he?
SARIN: Completely the wrong franchise.
{SARIN turns off the force field. TRIP, T'POL,
and HOSHI follow her to the weapons locker, where she gives
TRIP a phase pistol and metal stakes to T'POL and HOSHI.}
T'POL: Why are you arming us with spikes?
SARIN: Some of the Cabal are genetically enhanced
to resist energy weapons.
HOSHI {hefting the stake}: But a little
cold steel and Freddie Mercury just melts, huh?
SARIN: It's a specialized alloy. It unravels
the bonds between their molecules -- essentially unzipping
their DNA.
HOSHI {queasily, lowering the stake}:
That sounds like a real nightmare. I wouldn't want that to
happen to me.
SARIN {to ARCHER}: Where's your ship?
ARCHER: Lot B, I think.
TRIP: Cap'n, we'd better get outta here. The
little guy with the big ears brought back a lotta freckled
friends. {All turn to see Suliban creeping along the walls,
crawling on the ceiling, and stalking towards them, firing
phasers.}
SARIN: This way! {She leads them in the other
direction. They run through dim corridors, ducking and returning
phaser fire, until they reach an elevator. SARIN presses the
button. They wait.} Dammit, they always hold it on the
second floor. {More shots. The door finally bings and opens
to reveal three entangled aliens in various states of undress.}
T'POL: Save it for the train like everybody
else. {Grabs the nearest alien by the nearest body part
and hauls all three of them out into the corridor.}
SARIN: Quickly, get in! {ARCHER, T'POL, HOSHI,
and TRIP enter the elevator, but SARIN is shot in the back.}
ARCHER: Sarin! {crouches beside her. TRIP
provides cover fire.}
SARIN {weakly}: Captain...
ARCHER: Yes? {The door bings and starts to
close on him. He shoves it back.}
SARIN:...Rose...bud... {dies}
ARCHER: What? Rosebud? What does that have to
do with Klaang? {The door bings. ARCHER's jaw clenches.
He looks up to see SILIK silhouetted in the doorway.}
TRIP: Cap'n! {The door bings again. SILIK
raises his phaser.}
ARCHER: Dammit! Now I'll never know who Rosebud
was, 'cause, like, she's dead! {They dive into the elevator
as it slides shut. Shots burst onto the closed doors.}
{Outside the club. The elevator bings and
the door opens. The four crewmembers pile out into the snow.
Another shot is fired. They duck in all directions.}
ARCHER: Which way is Lot B?
TRIP: This way! {points left}
T'POL: That's Lot A. Lot B is closer to the
club. It's this way. {runs off into the snow. ARCHER follows.
TRIP grumbles and drags HOSHI along. They trade potshots with
unseen assailants.}
ARCHER {into communicator}: Malcolm!
We're on our way!
MALCOLM {over communicator, through a lot
of static}: No sir, Lot B! We're in Lot B! Not A!
T'POL: The shuttle is right over... here.
{They come up to the DELTA FLYER.}
HOSHI: That's not our shuttle, Sherlock.
TRIP: Yeah, but wow, can't we just take it for
a spin? {gently runs his hands over the curves}
ARCHER: This baby was built by a pilot -- she's
like greased lightspeed.
T'POL: Would you three like to be alone?
{Heavy firing commences. They duck behind
the FLYER.}
TRIP: Ah told you Lot B was the other way.
ARCHER: Never mind -- let's just get out of
here.
{They run back across the landing area, exchanging
fire with Suliban. They come to the shuttlepod. MALCOLM appears
at the open door, laying down covering fire.}
ARCHER: Everybody in! {HOSHI and TRIP scramble
in. ARCHER is right behind them.}
T'POL: Wait! My iPod! Where's my iPod?
ARCHER: Maybe you left it in the shuttle?
T'POL {frantically going through pockets}:
No, I had it with me in the club. It must have fallen out
when we were running. {turns and looks behind her}
There it is! {She sprints back across the open asphalt
to grab it. A Suliban shot catches her and knocks her flat
with a loud pop.}
ARCHER: T'Pol! Are you all right?
T'POL: Yesh, but I fink you'd better pull out
the shpares.
HOSHI: Breasts?
T'POL: Lipsh.
MALCOLM: I'm so glad I insisted we get
travelers' insurance.
HOSHI: That's covered?
MALCOLM: Under "body parts." You'd
be amazed what's in the fine print.
ARCHER: Stay here. I'll be right back. Cover
me. {MALCOLM gleefully recommences shooting. ARCHER runs
out, grabs T'POL, and helps her back to the shuttle. Another
Suliban shot hits ARCHER in the leg. He collapses into the
pod. MALCOLM slams the door shut as TRAVIS lifts off. SILIK
and two of his cronies run out, shooting; a few blasts rock
the shuttlepod but they escape.}
SULIBAN THUG {to SILIK}: You just know
we're gonna get grounded for this.
SILIK: Shut up while I think of a decent excuse.
SULIBAN THUG: ...Sunrise?
SILIK {rolling eyes}: It's in about nine
hours, moron!
{Shuttlepod. ARCHER is lying on the floor
of the pod bleeding, his head in HOSHI's lap.}
ARCHER {to T'POL}: You're not going to
make me suffer through that pointless flashback, are you?
T'POL {examining spare lip implant in pocket
mirror}: Of course not. Why should I put myself through
a standing-on-the-beach scene wearing more and looking worse
than Jeri Ryan?
ARCHER: Thank you. {passes out}
{Decon. Blue lights. Goo. TRIP and T'POL
in their tighty-bluesies. Greasy sax music. Perky genitalia.}
TRIP: Blah blah no precedent for you takin'
command.
T'POL: Something about tattling to Soval.
TRIP: Suliban blah Klaang yadda yadda Cap'n's
just like his dad.
T'POL: Captain Archer did this to himself something
something.
TRIP: Vulcans blah blah still jerks.
T'POL: Does it bother you that we barely rehearsed
for this scene?
TRIP: Not really. Do you think there's one sighted
person tuned in who'll be able to remember a single line of
our dialogue?
T'POL: Good point.
TRIP: Speaking of which -- {sweeps gel up
the tips of her ears}
{Sickbay. PHLOX is scolding ARCHER.}
PHLOX:...and another thing: you're a pilot!
You should know every star system from Terra to Vulcan! There's
absolutely no excuse for you not to have recognized "Rigel"!
ARCHER: Can I have the eel back? I think if
he stretches, I can stuff him in both ears at the same time.
{T'POL and TRIP enter.}
TRIP: How ya feelin', Cap'n?
ARCHER: You know those dreams you get sometimes
where you're sitting in a lecture hall naked and you realize
you didn't study for the test you're about to take?
T'POL: I told you they were watching
us on DeconCam.
PHLOX: No, the Chosen One has prophetic dreams
sometimes. They're mostly symbolic.
ARCHER: So if the other night I dreamed that
T'Pol was a cellular peptide sheet cake with mint frosting...?
PHLOX: Absolutely no meaning whatsoever.
ARCHER: Or that we were making out on the desk
in front of an empty lecture hall?
PHLOX: For that, you might need therapy.
TRIP: Cap'n, bite your tongue! Don't give the
scriptwriters ideas!
PHLOX: Too late, I think.
T'POL: We're tracking a Suliban ship which left
Rigel shortly after you were injured.
ARCHER: I figured you'd be slinging us back
to Earth like a warp-powered boomerang.
T'POL: One of Silik's toadies took my iPod's
headphones. I want them back.
ARCHER: Those irritating little bud things?
You like them?
T'POL: No, I had a really nice Vulcan set. They
fit really comfortably on my... {trails off. TRIP raises
an eyebrow. She backpedals.} ...head. They fit my head.
Yeah. Well. Shouldn't we be getting back to the Bridge, Commander?
TRIP: You go on ahead, Subcommander. Ah'll catch
up. {to ARCHER as T'POL leaves} You need anything?
ARCHER {obviously an old joke}: A tall
ship and a star to steer her by.
PHLOX: Which star, Captain? How are you
going to steer by the stars if you can't remember their names?
{ARCHER winces as PHLOX picks up where he left off. TRIP
grins and leaves with a little wave.} It's not as if you
can't see it with the naked eye from your own planet...
TRIP {chuckling}: He deserves that. {He
reaches the turbolift and presses the button. When it arrives
and opens, TRAVIS is already inside.} Hey, Trav. Just
gettin' off lunch? {TRAVIS nods.} Ah was thinkin' of
grabbin' a bite to eat m'self. {TRIP leans on the turbolift
wall, arms crossed, and regards TRAVIS with amused suspicion.}
Ah don't suppose you'd be willin' to tell me what Chef's
makin' this afternoon?
{The lights go down, music swells, the spotlight
appears, and TRAVIS whips out the top hat and cane. TRIP 's
eyes widen as he realizes what's about to happen.}
TRAVIS {singing}: Hello my baby, hello
my honey, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal...
TRIP: He's doin' it again! And this time we're
headin' right for the Bridge!
TRAVIS: Send me a kiss by wiiiiiiiiiiire; baby
my heart's on fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire!
TRIP: Maybe now they'll believe me! What's takin'
this lift so damn long?
TRAVIS: If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose
me, then you'll be left aloooooooooooooooone...
{The lift slows and makes a scraping sound
as it approaches the Bridge.}
TRIP: Remind me Ah gotta fix that.
TRAVIS:...oh baby, telephone, and tell me I'm
your oooooooooooooooown!
{The lights come back up and the music finishes
as the lift doors softly swish open. TRAVIS beams at TRIP
before exiting. TRIP stares after him. T'POL glances up.}
T'POL: Commander.
TRIP: Did you hear that?
T'POL: Hear what?
HOSHI: Hey Trav. Did you have a good lunch?
{TRAVIS nods.}
TRIP: C'mon, Vulcans are supposed to have great
hearing! You didn't hear him singin' in the turbolift?
HOSHI: Travis doesn't sing, Commander.
TRIP: But -- the music -- and -- he was --
T'POL: Don't you have an elsewhere to be?
TRIP: You know, Ah changed my mind. Ah think
Ah'm going to Engineering. {The lift doors close on his
nonplussed face.}
T'POL: Whatever. {under her breath in Vulcan}
Freak.
{ARCHER's quarters. ARCHER is lying on his
bed, leg bandaged, watching a water polo game. PORTHOS, in
beagle form, has torn open the corner of a Velveeta box and
is about a third of the way through the loaf.}
ARCHER {cheering a play}: Yeaaaaaaah!
All right!
T'POL {over comm}: T'Pol to Captain Archer.
{ARCHER grabs the remote and pauses the game.
He hunkers down in bed and clears his throat before hitting
the button to answer, in a weak voice.}
ARCHER: Archer here.
T'POL: If you're feeling well enough to come
to the Bridge, Captain, now would be a good time.
ARCHER: Well... I'm still a little woozy...
MALCOLM {over comm in background}: Bollocks.
He's watching water polo again.
ARCHER {sitting up}: Well, actually,
I'm starting to feel better. I'll be there shortly. Archer
out.
{Bridge.}
MALCOLM: I told you. {makes a "gimme
gimme" gesture}
T'POL: Can I give it to you Thursday when we
get paid?
MALCOLM: Plus ten percent interest.
HOSHI: And don't welsh on him either.
MALCOLM: Actually, my family's all from the
Midlands.
HOSHI: Subcommander, I'm getting a subspace
message.
T'POL: From whom?
HOSHI: A Lieutenant Paris. Something about damages
to his shuttle from the Suliban. He wants us to pay his insurance
deductible.
T'POL: Send him an apology and ask if he'll
accept PayPal.
{ARCHER enters, limping slightly.}
ARCHER: Got anything?
MALCOLM: The sinking feeling that your love
of water polo is going to be your lone character trait for
a long while.
ARCHER: Then be grateful I didn't pick dwarf-tossing.
HOSHI {in a gruff voice}: "Don't
tell the elf." {All laugh.}
T'POL: It appears we've located the Suliban
ship.
{On the viewscreen is an orange planet with
a swirling black spot -- sort of an alternate Jupiter. Small
buoys with repeating runway lights create a path from orbit
through the atmosphere leading directly to the dark blotch.
From a small probe, a large hand with a white cartoon glove
extends, holding up a blinking neon sign with an arrow reading
"THEY WENT THATAWAY.")
ARCHER: Boy, you could cut the suspense with
a knife.
MALCOLM: And spread it on a scone.
ARCHER {taking the Big Chair, tugging on
his uniform top, and crossing his legs}: Red alert. Shields
up, Mister Reed. Helm, take us in at one-quarter impulse.
HOSHI: Sir, you did it again.
ARCHER {slamming his fist on the armrest}:
Dammit! I knew I overprepared for this role. Can I have a
do-over?
T'POL: Of course. {All nod agreement.}
{ARCHER gets up and jogs a few steps back
towards the turbolift. He faces the viewscreen.}
ARCHER {puffing up his chest and over-reciting}:
I believe we've found what we're looking for: Planet Hellmouth.
Malcolm, polarize the hull plating. Travis, lay in a sixty-degree
vector. We're going in. And Hoshi, send Trip a memo to remind
him to fix that scraping thing in the turbolift.
{Helix temporal chamber. FUTURE GUY is talking
to SILIK through the Temporal Interference Field.}
FUTURE GUY: They escaped? They walked free when
I should be quaffing Klingon blood right now? Careless...
SILIK: Master, we had them trapped!
FUTURE GUY: Oh, are you going to make excuses?
Something about...{sneers} sunrise? {SILIK doesn't
answer.} You're weak. It's been too long since you faced
a Captain. But no matter. They won't stop me.
SILIK: Master, I can bring them here, to you,
so you may dispose of them as you please.
FUTURE GUY: How?
SILIK: I have something they want. {holds
up a pair of pointy headphones} They'll come here, and
we'll destroy them. Sarin's message will never reach the Chancellor.
FUTURE GUY: And I'll have a pair of really cool
headphones. Good deal. {The Temporal Interference Field
turns off. SILIK is alone.}
SILIK: Yes, I'll bring him here... but you may
find your vessel has a leak.
{Bridge.}
T'POL: The planet has a layered atmosphere.
Each layer has a different density.
ARCHER: Oooh, like tri-colors? I love those.
T'POL: More like Dante.
ARCHER: I don't love that so much.
T'POL: It's going to be a rough ride.
HOSHI: And Starfleet abolished seatbelts why?
ARCHER {frowns, leans over and stage-whispers}:
Turn on the mag-locks in your boots.
HOSHI: Oh! {leans down and flips a switch
on either side} I didn't realize those were our stabilizers.
ARCHER {sitting back up straight}: How
else is the captain supposed to pace in a crisis?
T'POL: That actually explains a lot about your
posture and gait.
{The ship lurches hither and yon. The crew
jolts but stays seated.}
T'POL: Almost through.
{The ship bursts into to a blue level.}
HOSHI: This must be the Smurf Layer.
ARCHER: Or the Picassosphere.
{More shaking and jolting and one thirty-second
interval of teeth-rattling shivers. They burst through to
a layer of white pockmarked with black circles.}
ARCHER: What the hell...?
{A yellow submarine swoops out of one hole
and putters by. The four moptops and one elderly gentleman
inside wave gaily.}
MALCOLM {singing under his breath}: And
we live a life of ease, ev'ry one of us has all we need, Andorians
blue, and Vulcans green, in our yellow, submarine...
{The submarine disappears into another hole.
The ship continues downward and emerges in a clear although
liquid atmosphere.}
T'POL: Probability factor of one to one. We
have normality, I repeat, we have normality. Anything you
still can't cope with is therefore your own problem. Please
relax.
MALCOLM: Two ships on sensors. Small and fast.
HOSHI: Something else on sensors, large and
not moving.
ARCHER: A bird in the hand, yadda yadda. Can
you zoom in?
{HOSHI increases the magnification on the
Helix. Cell ships come and go like bees.}
ARCHER {rubbing his hands together}:
Now, where's my boy?
T'POL: Isn't it a little early for that?
ARCHER {rolling his eyes and glaring at T'POL}:
I meant Klaang.
MALCOLM: It's definitely too early for
that.
ARCHER {holding hands out to HOSHI desperately}:
Hoshi?
HOSHI: Hey, whatever blows your skirt up, Captain.
I'm not here to judge. It's all good.
ARCHER {pinching the bridge of his nose}:
Travis, for the love of god, can you use the sensors to find
Klaang in that thing? {TRAVIS hits a few buttons, then
turns and shakes his head.}
MALCOLM: Incoming! {The ship jolts.}
No damage. Incoming! {The ship jolts again.}
HOSHI: Can't we arrange for some "outgoing"?
TRIP {over comm}: Cap'n! Ma wee bairns
cannae take much more!
ARCHER: Keep your kilt on, Commander.
T'POL: I suggest we return to the Neverland
layer.
MALCOLM: That's "Pepperland," Subcommander.
"Neverland" is inhabited by pale pedophiliac freaks
with fake noses, tattooed eyeliner, and abnormally high-pitched
voices. Incoming! {The ship jolts.}
T'POL: Ew! So very not. You're right, I meant
Pepperland.
ARCHER: Travis, take us up.
{The ship moves upward into the polka-dotted
layer. While strange oversized cartoon figures pop in and
out of the holes, and the yellow submarine putters by at least
once, Enterprise is left alone. ARCHER stands and clumps
awkwardly to T'POL's station.}
ARCHER: Got anything?
T'POL: An intense desire for you to come up
with a new catchphrase.
HOSHI: Boy, that's not where I thought that
sentence was going.
ARCHER: You and the rest of the Target Demographic.
T'POL {examining scans of Helix}: It
appears to be an aggregate structure... comprised of hundreds
of vessels. They're held in place by an interlocking system
of magnetic seals.
ARCHER: Magnetic seals... oh! {leans down
and switches off the mag-locks on his boots} Oh, that's
so much better.
HOSHI: I think I've located Klaang.
ARCHER {punching comm button}: Transporter
room two, lock onto the Klingon's coordinates and beam him
directly to Sickbay.
O'BRIEN {over comm}: I'd be happy to,
sir, if I had the vaguest idea what you were talking about.
HOSHI: Do-over!
ARCHER {pounds console}: Dammit! Never
mind. {punches button to turn off comm} Malcolm, is
our grappler online?
MALCOLM: Let me check. {punches comm button}
Crewman Zorn? What's your status?
CREWMAN ZORN {over comm}: Ready when
you are, sir.
MALCOLM: Very good. Reed out. {punches button
to turn off comm}
ARCHER: Travis, follow that rabbit.
{Enterprise follows a large white
rabbit down one of the holes into the clear layer of atmosphere.
Three cell ships are patrolling. Enterprise shoots
and misses, but nails a fourth ship a kilometer down.}
MALCOLM: Incoming! {The ship jolts. MALCOLM
mutters as he works his console} Join Starfleet, the recruiter
said. Lots of chances to blow things up, he said. {louder}
Incoming! {The ship jolts.}
T'POL: These scanners were not designed for
a liquid atmosphere.
ARCHER: We don'need no steenken scanners. {waves}
The ship's right in front of us.
HOSHI: That's the aft view, sir.
MALCOLM {still muttering}: No oceans
in space, he said. Aquaphobia doesn't make a difference in
space, he said. {louder} Incoming! {The ship jolts.}
T'POL: You have got to work on a better
alert system.
MALCOLM: I'll add it to my "honey-do"
list. In the meantime, the lead ship is within one thousand
meters. Incoming! {The ship jolts.}
ARCHER: Fire the Wave Motion gun!
MALCOLM: Fire the wot?!
ARCHER: Sorry, wrong franchise. In fact, wrong
medium altogether. Fire the grapplers!
{Two large grappling hooks on massive tethers
streak out from Enterprise and grab the cell ship.
The Suliban pilot, played by a small doll with no articulated
joints, is ejected and falls through the atmosphere towards
the planet. Enterprise reels the cell ship in.}
ARCHER {punches comm button}: Did we
get it?
TRIP {over comm}: Ah'm sorry, Cap'n,
but it's below the legal size limit. You'll have to throw
it back.
ARCHER: Wiseass. Let's see you tell fish jokes
with only one arm.
TRIP {over comm}: Sir?
ARCHER: Um... never mind. I have to stop talking
to Chef's intern. Did you fix that scraping thing in the turbolift
yet?
TRIP {over comm}: Yeah. Funny thing --
it was a bloodied wrist with a hook attached. Kinda creepy.
{Cell ship. TRIP and TRAVIS are examining
the console. TRAVIS is pointing to various controls, and TRIP
is trying to identify them.}
TRIP: Pitch control. {TRAVIS shakes his head
and points to another button.} That's pitch control.
{TRAVIS nods. He points to a display.} Cloak. {TRAVIS
shakes his head and points to another button.} Ah dunno,
it's the stereo. Play some Dixie Chicks. {TRAVIS grins.}
Look, Ah know you ain't mute, just tell me what these
damn things are!
{The lights go down, music swells, the spotlight
appears, and TRAVIS whips out the top hat and cane. TRIP rolls
his eyes and goes back to the buttons.}
TRAVIS {singing}: Hello my baby, hello
my honey, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal...
TRIP: Shut up, wouldja? Ah'm not impressed anymore.
{The music fades, and the lights come back
up. TRAVIS slowly lowers the hat and cane, looking very disappointed.
TRIP continues to ignore him. TRAVIS thinks for a long moment.
Suddenly he gets an idea and smiles broadly. The lights go
down about halfway this time, with no spotlight. Guitar music
begins with TRAVIS's voice.}
TRAVIS {singing}: It's been a long road,
gettin' from there to here...
{TRIP's head snaps up, his eyes wide in horror.}
TRAVIS {singing, getting into it}: It's
been a long time, but my time is finally near...
{TRIP looks around frantically. He spots
the tool box behind him and lunges for it.}
TRAVIS {singing, gesticulating, not watching
TRIP}: And I will see my dream come alive at last -- I
will touch the sky...
{TRIP finds a tremendous monkey wrench.}
TRAVIS {singing}: And they're not gonna
hold me down no more, no they're not gonna change my mind,
'cause I've got -- {TRIP clocks TRAVIS with the wrench.
TRAVIS goes down like a sack of wet cement.}
ARCHER {over the comm}: How's it going,
Trip?
{TRIP is breathing hard, but he stumbles
back to his seat and punches the button to answer.}
TRIP: Jes' fine, Cap'n. Gettin' on jes' fine.
{hefts the wrench, panting, and looks over at TRAVIS's
inert form}
{Ready Room. Why does Archer have a Ready
Room in 2151 when Kirk doesn't have one in the late 2200s?
ARCHER has a crossbow slung on his back and is giving last-minute
instructions to T'POL.}
ARCHER:...and whatever you do, don't
let him have any gorgonzola.
T'POL {tapping her Palm Pilot}: Understood.
ARCHER: Are the Suliban still trying to locate
us by Braille?
T'POL: Apparently. Fortunately for us, they're
as blind as bats.{The ship jolts.}
ARCHER: The bats on Vulcan must not eat very
well.
T'POL: Vulcan only has vampire bats. They navigate
by smell.
ARCHER: Wow, an intra-planet, cross-species
ability reference! That's subtle and complex even for Deep
Space Nine.
T'POL: Joss is God.
ARCHER: Have the Helm lay in a course for Qo'noS.
What's the relief's name?
T'POL: Crewman Sulu.
ARCHER: Sulu, right. Poor Travis, coming down
with such a horrible migraine right before the biggest, most
important journey we've ever made. Something like this could
really put a pilot on the fast track to an amazing career.
Give him a reputation his descendants could inherit.
T'POL: It might be something more serious than
a mere migraine.
ARCHER: Doctor Phlox assures me it's not a tumor.
{furrows his brow in concern} I hope Travis wakes up
before we get to the Klingon homeworld, though. {The doorbell
sounds. Before ARCHER can respond, MALCOLM enters carrying
two silver equipment cases.} You know, one of these days
you people are going to regret barging in on me.
MALCOLM {setting the cases down}: Don't
be ridiculous. You're the Captain. You have no privacy and
no personal life, and the only intimate contact you're allowed
is a string of one-night stands or dead spouses. {flips
open the first case} Now, here's the anti-magnet magnet
you requested. Press this button and you've got five seconds
to be on the piece which isn't floating off into space.
ARCHER: Five seconds. Got it.
MALCOLM {flips open the second case}:
Here are the new hand weapons. They're called phase-pistols.
They have two settings: stun and kill. It would be best not
to confuse them.
T'POL: That joke is straight from the script.
MALCOLM: It's one of the funniest lines B&B
have written. I'll be reminiscing about it in interviews for
years to come. {cocks his head suddenly, then grabs onto
the wall.} Incoming! {The ship jolts.}
ARCHER: Subcommander, the ship is yours. {grabs
a quiver of crossbow bolts}
T'POL: Break a leg.
ARCHER: Wow, you really are jockeying for the
Observer role, aren't you?
HOSHI {over comm}: Bridge to Captain
Archer.
ARCHER {punching button}: Go ahead.
HOSHI {over comm}: Admiral Forrest is
on Line Two, sir.
ARCHER: Put it through to my Ready Room. Archer
out. {to MALCOLM} Would you mind taking those cases
to the cell ship, please?
MALCOLM: My pleasure, sir.
{T'POL and MALCOLM nod curtly and leave with
the cases. ARCHER puts down the crossbow and bolts and sits
at his desk, then turns on the terminal.}
ARCHER: Admiral.
ADMIRAL FORREST: You're going out?
ARCHER: I have to.
ADMIRAL FORREST: You haven't filed a log in
days.
ARCHER: It's been really quiet.
ADMIRAL FORREST: It's happening again, isn't
it? I got a call from Soval. Said you made a detour to Rigel
and Subcommander T'Pol was injured?
ARCHER: I was running an errand.
ADMIRAL FORREST: Enterprise still has
that new-ship smell, and I'm getting calls from the Vulcan
ambassador.
ARCHER: Admiral, I promise, it is not
gonna be like before. But I have to go.
ADMIRAL FORREST: No.
ARCHER: What?
ADMIRAL FORREST: The tapes all say I should
get used to saying it. No.
ARCHER: This is really, really important.
You have no idea.
ADMIRAL FORREST: I know. If you don't go out
it'll be the end of the universe. Everything is life or death
when you're a Captain. {sighs fondly} I remember my
first command -- 438 souls reporting to me, every decision
could mean discovery or destruction.... That kind of power
can really make your head swell.
ARCHER: Look, I don't have time to talk about
this...
ADMIRAL FORREST: Captain, you've got all the
time in the world. You're not going anywhere. Now, if you
want to sit in your quarters and watch water polo and sulk,
I won't hold it against you. But if you're willing to get
back with the program, I'll be here to get your logs. {closes
channel}
ARCHER: This is why superheroes are freelancers,
renegades, and orphans. {picks up crossbow and bolts and
leaves}
{Cell ship. ARCHER and TRIP are squeezed
together on the single seat in front of the controls. A light
on a side panel begins to blink, and an alarm is heard.}
ARCHER: What's that?
TRIP: Means the microwave is done. {He punches
a button to turn off the alarm, opens a small door, and takes
out a packet. Reads off the wrapper} Ham and Swiss with
a little no-fat mayo on Wonder Bread -- that one's yours.
{hands it to ARCHER and takes out the second for himself}
ARCHER: Thanks. {unwraps sandwich} Whadja
get? {takes a bite}
TRIP: Smoked turkey and brie with honey mustard
on a fresh wheat baguette. {unwraps the end and takes a
bite}
ARCHER: I'm beginning to think Chef likes you
better.
TRIP: Ah don't keep badgerin' his intern with
stupid questions.
ARCHER: Remind me why you're flying this ship
when I'm the pilot?
TRIP: "Rigel."
ARCHER: Never mind.
TRIP: Napkin?
{Bridge.}
MALCOLM: Incoming! {The ship jolts.}
HOSHI: I think you just like saying that.
MALCOLM: Would you rather I made "You sunk
my bat-tle-ship!" jokes?
HOSHI: Point taken.
T'POL: You know, Tuvok never had to put up with
this kind of blatant species-ism.
MALCOLM: These are much less PC times, Subcommander.
HOSHI: Which is why you're never ever coming
out, right?
MALCOLM: Unfortunately. {to T'POL} You
know, if we moved over just a tetch, the Suliban would have
to start looking for us all over again.
T'POL: If we move even half a tetch, the Captain
will never find us.
MALCOLM: Mister Tucker is piloting, not the
Captain.
T'POL: Oh. In that case: Helm, move us two tetches
to starboard.
CREWMAN SULU: Two tetches to starboard, aye.
{Cell ship.}
TRIP {as he punches buttons}: Welcome
to the Helix. Please stow your luggage, close your trays,
and return your seatbacks to their upright position. Thank
you for flying Really Close Quarters Airlines.
ARCHER: Aren't you glad you use Dial?
TRIP: Don't you wish everybody else did?
ARCHER: The future of television: no commercial
interruptions, just constant internal product placement.
{The ship thunks hard against the side of the Helix. ARCHER
looks artfully queasy.} Where's my Dramamine?
{Whirring mechanical sounds and hissing as
atmospheric pressure equalizes. The hatch door opens onto
a dark corridor. ARCHER and TRIP clamber out of the cell ship,
each with a phase pistol, TRIP carrying the silver case and
hand scanner, ARCHER with his crossbow and bolts.
They come around a corner and surprise a
Suliban. TRIP fires his phase pistol, to no effect. The Suliban
shoots and misses. ARCHER fires his crossbow, catching the
Suliban in the heart. He puddles.}
ARCHER: Gotta have a Plan B.
TRIP: Mal is gonna be so disappointed.
{Bridge.}
HOSHI: Please please please can't I do it just
once?
MALCOLM: All right. Just this once. Mind you
don't muck it up.
HOSHI: Oh goody! Thanks. {She puts the little
silver earpiece thingy into her ear and listens intently for
a long beat. Suddenly she yanks it out.} Ow! Incoming!
{There are two loud BOOMs, and the ship jolts hard, twice.}
MALCOLM: Nicely done, Ensign.
HOSHI: Thank you. Now I have a headache this
big {gestures} and it's got Excedrin written all over
it.
T'POL: Helm, move us a few tetches farther to
starboard.
CREWMAN SULU: A few tetches farther to starboard,
aye. Do you think it's going to help us avoid the Suliban,
Subcommander?
T'POL: No, but the interference on my Blackberry
reception might clear up.
{Helix. ARCHER kicks open a door. He and
TRIP point their pistols every which way, trying to cover
all directions at once. TRIP cautiously flips on the light.
The room is empty except for KLAANG, sprawled unconscious
at a table, both hands in small bowls.}
ARCHER: Dibs on the door. Get Klaang.
TRIP {surprised}: Don't you wanna do
the whole big hero rescue thing?
ARCHER: Nah, I believe in sharing the wealth.
It's supposed to be an ensemble show, remember?
TRIP: Ah will, but the writers won't.
ARCHER: You're one of the Big Four; don't bitch.
TRIP {holstering his pistol}: Four? Ah
thought it was gonna be the Big Three.
ARCHER: It's the accent. Malcolm's is real.
TRIP: Hey!
ARCHER {motioning with the phase pistol}:
Klaang?
{TRIP makes an annoyed face, but hurries
over to KLAANG, taking his hands out of the bowls. KLAANG's
fingers are crushed in giant mousetraps.}
TRIP: Man, that's gotta sting. {He pries
them off one by one. As he gets the last trap off, KLAANG
wakes u | 
