The Love Song of
Lt. Reginald Barclay
(c) Kar Davis, 2018
The moon, yes, that shall be my
home, my paradise, I shall find there all the souls that I love: Socrates,
Galileo – and when they arrive, they will question my worthiness. What the
devil is he doing here among us? Philosopher, scientists, poet, musician,
duelist…*
Let
us go then, you and I,
When
the stars are spread against space and sky
The
empty vast vacuum of space;
Let
us go, through certain asteroid belts and clusters,
The
planetoid dusters
And
restless nights, spent watching Guinan
Tend
bar, watching others drink synth-ale and wine and
Nights
that seem to have quantum-level isolation
Or
EM radiation
That
press on the ache…
Oh,
do not ask, “What’s wrong?”
Let
us forget and move along.
In
Ten Forward the women past me sway
Talking
of dark-matter nebulae.
The
plasma that runs along the conduits,
The
isolinear chips and the nosal conduits,
Prodded
their way into the corners of my days,
I
linger by the atomic tools, stored in small sub-units,
Having
fallen from some young ensign’s hand,
Who,
having found a companion or two,
And
seeing it is dusk in the arboretum,
Goes
out for a stroll and a nightcap too.
And
indeed there will be time
For
the yellow gridlines of the holodeck,
Stretched
out and waiting in expectant squares;
There
will be time, even anti-time
To
program a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There
will be time for matter in the matter stream
And
time for interphasic pulses and scans
To
give answers for the engineering team;
Time
for you and time for me,
And
time yet for a hundred hesitations,
And
a hundred sweatings and mumblings,
Before
a recommendation for the captain to see.
In
Ten Forward the women past me sway
Talking
of dark-matter nebulae.
And
I know there will be time
To
wonder, “Is it safe?” and “Is it safe for me?”
Time
to leave Transporter Room Three,
With
a cracking voice and trembling knee—
(They
will say: “You look a little pale”)
My
body converted into millions of particles,
Zipping
thru space, no margin for error!—
(They
will say: “But his skin is clammy, cold and pale”)
Do
I dare
To
boldly go?
In
a nanosecond there is time
To
phase and rephase and phase again.
For
I know known them already, known them all—
Dehydration
and hallucination,
Sleeplessness
and paranoid delusions**;
I
have propped myself against the reactor wall,
Plexing***
from midnight till noon.
So how then should I presume?
And
would I didn’t know the procedure—
“Transporting
is the safest way to travel”?
The
idea of being deconstructed, bit by bit
“Being
taken apart, molecule by molecule”!
Why
to Starfleet did I commit?
And
how can I tell Troi I simply unravel?
And what should I say?
And
I have known the whole crew, known them all—
That
treat me here with irritated sympathy
(But
holodeck’d, how with admiring empathy!)
Is
it perfume from Troi’s dress
That
puts me in such distress?
Voice
that tells me to relax? Breathe deep?
And how then to resume?
And how to confess?
Shall
I say I have perceived the Universe
As
a single equation, and conceived infinity possibilities
Of
great deeds and highly evolved intelligence?
I
should have stayed a lowly functionary
And
found a rock moon hermitage.
And
the days and nights go on, so continuously!
Smoothes
by inertial dampers,
Enterprise
happy campers,
They
bustle past me in the corridor, bumping me.
And
should I, after warm mile, or Earl Grey, hot,
Have
the strength to speak, to say even one jot?
But
though I have plexed and paced, plexed and breathed,
Though
I have heard them (even Jean-Luc) call me Broccoli,
I
am no commander – a Starfleet anomaly;
I
have seen my holodeck friends fade and flicker,
And
I have heard Wesley and Geordi snicker
In
short, I am “just shy.”
And would it have been worth it,
after all,
After
the sub-space, dilithium and quantum electrodes,
Among
the distortion and parameters and tricorder diodes,
Would
it have been worth while,
To
look at Troi and force a smile,
To
reduce the whole quadrant into a ball
To
roll it towards you, or any of the crew,
To
say, “I am Kayless, come back from beyond!
Come
back to sing Klingon opera and tell you all.”—
If
she, eating chocolate, should discreetly yawn
And say: “That is not what I like,
Not Klingon opera, at all.”
And
would it have been worth it, after all,
Would
it have been worth while,
After
the anti-grav and the invidium and warp-core breach,
After
the “standby” and the “engage” and the humming ODN conduits—
After
this, and all the bits?—
It
is impossible to say just what I mean!
But
if you could call it up—say, “Computer! Barclay, onscreen.”
Would
it have been worth while
If
one, who with Riker and Worf will sup,
Should
turn to me, the counselee,
And say: “I’m sorry, Reg
But time’s up.”
No!
I am not Picard, nor was meant to be;
An
assistant engineer will do
To
run a level-one diagnostic or two,
Advise
Geordi or Picard, on what to do,
Deferential,
glad to be of service,
Hesitant,
cautious, and meticulous;
Full
of hollow fronts but a bit ridiculous—
Always,
ever askew.
I’m
so shy….I’m so shy….
I
shall transfer to the Pegasus or Odyssey.
Shall
I try to woo the Doctor? Do I dare tower o’er Riker?
I
shall draw my sword the swiftest, and be the better fighter.
I
have seen the officers fencing, each with each.
I
do not think that I shall win this time.
I
have seen them, tossing back fine capes and hats
Meeting
me in swordplay or a rowdy brawl
While
the Goddess of Empathy calls out her call.
I
have lingered in holo chambers of Deck Three
With
kind women dressed in floaty green and brown
Till
summons over com badge finds me, and I drown.
*Lines from Cyrano de Bergerac as
performed by Barclay in “The Nth Degree”
**Symptoms of transporter psychosis
***Plexing is a Betazoid
relaxation technique; by tapping the nerve clusters on the carotid artery
behind the ears, endorphins are released
(c) Kar Davis, 2018
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