I never really expected the communicator to work—after all, I had gotten it off eBay and it was made of plastic with the words "Made in China" stenciled on the back—but obviously I had to try anyway. I was in Social Studies class, fourth period, bored as always. Mr. McSweeney was droning on about some constitutional amendment or other, or maybe it was before the constitution was written. I was supposed to be taking notes, but, needless to say, I had declined. My combadge was pinned on the front of my t-shirt. "Enterprise," I whispered, so nobody would hear me and think I was even crazier than they already thought, "One to beam up."

You can guess what happened next. One minute I was staring at my blank notepaper (except for a doodle in the margin of a Cardassian that hadn't come out right at all), and the next I was standing in the transporter room of the starship USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D, looking bewilderedly at a young Miles O'Brien. (Younger than on Deep Space Nine, at any rate. But I wasn't stupid enough to say anything about that.) I hadn't felt anything at all during transport; it was like it hadn't even happened.

"Um…" I said, rather stupidly, now that I think of it. Something was wrong with my mouth. My braces had disappeared. The transporter must have screened them out. Well, that was just an added bonus.

O'Brien was looking at me expectantly, so I stepped uncertainly off the transporter pad and wandered toward the door. "What time is it?" I asked no one in particular.

The computer made that incredibly annoying mechanical beeping noise. "It is 1329 hours."

"Whatever that means," I muttered, not loud enough for O'Brien to hear me. The doors slid open automatically, and I stepped out into the corridor. "Um," I said again. "Computer, show me the way to my quarters." Beeping noise again, and then the wall lit up, showing me the way. Good thing they had this nifty navigation feature. I'm completely hopeless with directions, and all the corridors on the Enterprise looked the same. I followed the lights.

"Lost again, Ensign?" said a voice. I looked up to see Riker grinning at me. Ew. Of all the possible people, it had to be him.

Hey, wait a minute. I was an ensign?

I looked down at myself and saw that I was wearing a red Starfleet uniform, with one rank pip. Red meant command. Also, I had a real combadge pinned to my chest. How old was I? Obviously, old enough to have gone through the academy. I couldn't be that old, though. Probably in my twenties.

"Yeah," I said, smiling apologetically. "It's a big ship."

"See you on the bridge," said Riker. "1500 hours."

Well, at least that was settled. If I'd missed the start of my shift, I would've had some serious explaining to do. "See you."

"Hey, how about coming down to ten-forward with me?"

Omigod. Now I was seriously freaked out. "How about not," I blurted, and walked as fast as I could down the corridor.

Okay, I admit, I could have handled that better. But Riker?

I found the turbolift and got in. "Deck six," I said, glad I knew that much at least, like where the crew quarters were.

I found my quarters and palmed in. I was really hungry, so I went over to the replicator. I could not wait to try this out. I love the twenty-fourth century. What should I try?

"Computer, raktajino," I said. Now I could finally see what all the fuss was about that Klingon stuff that Kira and Odo always drank. A strangely-shaped mug appeared. Hesitantly I reached for it, still not quite believing it was real despite all the evidence. The handle was solid in my hand. I took a sip.

And spat. Ew! This was coffee? How could anyone drink this? Except Klingons, of course. Klingons like torturing themselves. But Kira? Ouch. Hastily I put the mug back and pressed the button to make it disappear. So much better than dishwashers. Honestly. What should I try next? "Vulcan mocha," I decided. Sounded better than stupid Klingon anyway.

You'd think, from the word "mocha"—plus the fact that people actually drank this stuff—that it would be sweet. But this stuff was bitter, definition of. I don't even like normal Earth coffee unless it's got about 14 packets of sugar in it. "Computer," I gasped, gagging. "Water, room temperature." Better. But that taste would be in my mouth for hours.

"Tarkelean tea," I said, getting a little desperate. I took a sip. Hmm. Not bad, but interesting. Tasted a little like warm lemonade, which is not as bad as it sounds. Still, not my drink of choice. I put it back in the replicator and pushed the button again. I love doing that!

"Synthehol." Well, what was wrong with that? I was an ensign now. Besides, it wasn't like I could get drunk. That was the whole point.

"Synthehol is not available from crew quarters," said the computer, which sounded strangely like Lwaxana Troi. Oh well. Maybe I'd have to take Riker up on his offer after all. Ha! As if.

"Chocolate sundae," I said, reverting to an Earth food I knew and loved. Then I added quickly, "Troi's recipe."

Now, Deanna Troi is not my favorite person. But she makes an awesome sundae. I finished it off with a hot cocoa, also Troi's recipe (hey, you can never have too much chocolate). Then I sat back in a handy chair and said, "Computer, play something by Shania Twain."

"Unknown," responded the computer.

"What!" I sprang up. "This is an outrage! You're telling me with that unimaginable amount of memory you don't have a single song by Shania Twain! Fine. Play something of the genre country."

"Genre unknown."

Now I was really mad. "What kind of a stupid century is this!" I shouted. "You have that stupid Vulcan music but not—Computer, contact Starfleet command, priority one channel!"

"Please state access code." Dammit. And I was planning to totally flame those idiots.

I checked the time again. 1356. I had an hour before my shift. I knew exactly what I was going to do with it. Holodeck. Best thing the twenty-fourth century ever invented. Brilliant. I stepped into the turbolift and pronounced, "Holodeck 3," so much easier without my braces. I don't know why three, it's just the one they always use on the show. Maybe it's lucky or something.

I was dying to try Worf's calisthenics program, but somehow I didn't think I was quite in its league, and I might end up extending my tour of the ship to sickbay. So I scanned the program list to see what else was available. Sherlock Holmes? Too predictable. Or else too unpredictable. I wonder if they've found Moriarty yet? Dixon Hill? No, that was Picard's domain.

Just then, someone stepped out of the turbolift. It was Wesley Crusher. "Oh. Hi," he said, and blushed. "I didn't know someone was using—"

"S'okay," I said. "What are you doing on the holodeck? Schoolwork or what?"

He shrugged. "Kind of. I'm interested in the twenty-first century lately. I was planning to try out—" He broke off. "But if you're using it, I can—"

"No, go ahead," I said. "I was just wondering which program to choose. When in the twenty-first century?"

"Around 2006 or so," he said. "You wanna come?"

"Sure!"

He entered the program. The computer said, "Enter when ready."

The doors opened—

--and I walked into my social studies classroom.

This was just too much. "Not this again!" I muttered. I didn't mean for Wesley to hear me, but I guess he did anyway.

"You want to try something else?" he said anxiously.

"Yeah," I said fervently. "How about something a little more—" I gestured, trying to find the right word. "More—I mean, did it have to be a school?"

Wesley shrugged, seemingly unperturbed, and said, "Computer, revert to program Crusher-1-alpha."

The classroom changed into my kitchen. Why was this happening to me? "Um…wow," I said. "Look at all these primitive kitchen appliances!"

"How'd you know this was a kitchen?" he asked curiously. "Are you into this time period too?"

"Oh yeah!" I said. "Definitely. In fact, you might say I know more about that century than I do about this one!" I gave a high, nervous laugh that definitely sounded fake. But Wesley didn't seem to notice.

"Really?" he said. "Me too!"

I opened my fridge, half expecting my brother to come stomping into the kitchen. This was seriously weird. There was pretty much the usual inside, a couple of half-eaten bagels, some ketchup, whatever. I wondered what would happen if I turned on the TV and Star Trek was on. Better not risk it. Yeah right. As if.

Wesley touched the microwave. "It's out of order," I blurted, before I could stop myself."

Wesley stared at me. "How do you know?"

I thought fast. "Because—um—it's unplugged. See that outlet there? Usually you put this thing"—I pointed to the cord—"in those holes, but if it's out of order, you, um, unplug it."

"Oh," said Wesley. He touched the cord. "Neat. Plugs. Amazing how much humans have evolved in the last 300 years."

"Amazing," I echoed.

"I mean, they didn't even have the most primitive possible spaceships. They'd never even been to their own moon!"

"They hadn't?"

"Well, the Apollo thing was a hoax, right? Which they found out in 2012—and then nothing else happened until Zefram Cochrane."

"Right."

"That guy was amazing. Just coming up with that idea out of nowhere—"

The clock caught my eye. "Oh man. What time is it?"

"It is 1449 hours."

"Darn. I'm on duty in ten minutes."

"Oh. Well, bye."

"Seeya." I turned, looking for the door, and then remembered to say, "Computer, exit."

There was another ensign in the lift, a Vulcan girl in a med uniform. "Main bridge," I said into the air.

4