"Dockin' complete, Cap'n."
It was ridiculous. He'd faced down Xindi reptilians and Klingon mercenaries and felt less nervous. Captain Archer resisted the urge to look down to check that his uniform was on straight and all the zips were done up.
"Bring them on board, Commander."
The airlock door hissed open.
There were a couple of burly security types, that was a given. The other four people waiting to be admitted were the band: three attractive young ladies, all wearing clothing that he guessed was appropriate for the 1980s, plus – at last – the mysterious Ian Westbury, finally reappearing into the light of day.
He was smaller than the captain had somehow expected, but his swagger as he came on board was pronounced. His hair was a long dark mane, flyaway with electricity, that almost hid the large diamond studs in his ears. His eyes were an odd shade of greenish-blue, their darkness emphasized by the heavy eyeliner, whilst the color of his mouth more than suggested he was wearing lipstick.
It was impossible for the captain not to notice a similarity between their exalted visitor and the ship's tactical officer; they were much of a height and build, and had the same high cheekbones, but there the resemblance ended. Wherever this guy had hidden himself, it was somewhere that had given him a glowing tan, against which the diamond studs, several brash gold rings and a number of heavy gold necklaces stood out. In the environment of the ship, his clothing was positively bizarre. He was wearing a lemon leather jacket, currently open to display a black vest bearing the word 'Legend!' in gold. The outfit was completed by a pair of skin-tight leopard-print trousers and Cuban-heeled boots.
Trip was the only other person present. The dark eyes skipped from him to the captain, and made a judgment.
"Captain Archer, I do believe." The accent was quite unlike Malcolm's precise, upper-class pronunciation. Attuned to that, for half a second the captain almost failed to recognize his own title, rendered in a lazy drawl as something like 'Captin Awwcha'. The hand extended to him was wearing nail varnish, and the handshake was lax.
It was probably just as well that the ship's security officer had departed a couple of hours earlier to supervise some issue with a new consignment of torpedoes, reflected Jon. The effort of maintaining the appropriate civility towards a visitor like this would probably have given him a cardiac infarction.
Ian introduced him to the girls, his manner careless. They hardly seemed to notice and certainly didn't object. As each was named, she nodded informally.
"And this is my Chief Engineer, Charles Tucker," added the captain, feeling that it was hardly polite to ignore the third in command of his ship.
"Aw, I know 'oo 'e is!" cried Westbury. "'Is nickname's Trip, innit? I read all about it, about wot you all done in that Expanse place. Pleastermeecha, Trip!"
It seemed that Trip was finding the exotic accent at least as hard to translate. There was a slight but perceptible pause before he responded somewhat uncertainly that it was a pleasure.
Jon interpreted the look of mingled excitement and bafflement without difficulty, and hid a grin.
"Anyroad, Captin, I fink we'd better be gettin' along to wherever we're doin' the gig, eh? 'S bin a while, an' you know what them roadies are like, the 'alf of 'em don't know an amp from an 'airdryer!"
"Aww, Ian!" The blonde drummer poked him languidly in the ribs.
"Only kiddin', Deb. You know I'm only kiddin'." He winked at the captain. "'Er bruvver. 'E's in charge of the kit. 'E ain't bad, really. Knows 'is stuff." Having delivered that tribute, he leaned in confidentially, on a wave of pungent aftershave. "I did ask, y'know, they said it'd be all right, well, we don't want people peepin', right? Not till the gig starts, right? I always reckon it spoils fings. So I 'ope they mentioned that."
"Something about it," admitted Jon. He'd issued an order that the cargo bay area was to be considered off limits till after the 'gig', and let it be known more obliquely that lingering in the corridors in the hope of snatching a sneak peek was also a no-no. Considering the singer's effusive manner now, it was hard to reconcile that with the way he'd disappeared on the crest of the band's success and become a total recluse, but no doubt he'd had his reasons. It was plain that the offer to do this one-off performance for the benefit of Enterprise's crew was a gesture of extraordinary munificence, and the captain was determined that nothing should occur that might make their celebrity visitor regret his generosity.
"Aw, thass good then. They said you'd be okay wiv it." They were walking down the corridor by this time, and Westbury gazed around him with open curiosity. "'S a bit dull, innit? I mean, issall grey. Maybe you could put a lick o' paint on it, summat a bit lively. Brighten the place up a bit, like."
A slightly waspish retort along the lines of 'Well, I wouldn't let you choose the wallpaper' sprang into Jon's mind, given the man's apparent sense of style, but hospitality forbade him to utter it. More than ever he was thankful that their visitor's compatriot was safely off the ship. What Malcolm would have found to say about the ship's superstructure being found in need of 'brightening up a bit' defied the imagination.
Trip, fortunately for general diplomacy, had a more active sense of humor. There was a faint choking sound from his direction.
"This is where you'll be doing your 'gig'." They arrived at Cargo Bay 5. The captain pronounced the unfamiliar word carefully. "I hope you'll find everything in order, but if you find you need anything just let us know."
"I appreciate that, cap'. I really appreciate it." And with a breezy clap on his host's shoulder, Westbury strolled into the cargo area with his satellites, and the door shut on the mysteries within.
Trip and the captain were left in the corridor, looking blankly at each other.
"Well, you gotta say it's different," said Trip with a grin.
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