Jorden's Day on the Voyager's Bridge.

Jorden's Request for a new uniform to the replace
the Blue Supervisor's Shirt.

Hello Troops,
Remember that mental picture I conjured up during the post camp meeting yesterday after discovering Jorden received 0 votes for his work on the bridge. Well, this is my theory as to what really happened.
Mr. W.


Jorden stood near the spiral stairs on the Voyager's Bridge. It was the furthest place possible from the campers. His bottom lip quivered with nerves. His eyes darted from one child to the next. His nose tested the air for scents indicative of uncleanliness. The Communications Officer looked at him. Jorden notice and turned away. Jorden's survival code required minimal eye contact. Eye contact could lead to conversation and conversation might lead to proximity, proximity would lead to the sharing of air molecules, and Jorden knew that sharing air with other humans could lead to disease - sickness - and possible death.

The young boy raised his hand. Jorden was practicing selective observing and therefore pretended not to notice. The boy became impatient. "Mister," he shouted. Jorden was compelled to answer. Jon might notice and he desperately needed his Voyager Bridge Pass.

"Can I help you?" He tried to sound sincere. Sincerity was foreign to his nature. He'd been practicing sincerity at home in front of his bathroom mirror and thought after several months he could pull off a believable performance. The boy, not wanting to shout, rose from his seat and starting walking toward Jorden. "Stay where you are, don't come closer." Jorden backed further into the wall and pointed to the boy's empty chair, "Back to your seat." The boy stopped cold, confused at the Bridge Supervisor's reaction. Jorden had noticed something shiny draining from his nose.

"I need a tissue." The boy inhaled through his congested nose to stop the drainage. He sounded like a walrus snoring.

"God Help Me!" Jorden's eyes watered as he sought divine assistance. Jordan unzipped his fanny pac, removed a moist towelette and disinfected his hands, arms and face. Once sterilized, he regained his composure and answered the boy's question. "Tissues are kept by the Security Station. Hurry; you're dripping on the carpet!".

The boy walked to Security, took a tissue and wiped his nose. Jorden turned away to take an unwelcomed question from the First Officer.

"Where's the trash can?" Jorden recognized the boy with the snotty nose's voice. He stood and turned. There the boy stood, well inside Jorden's comfort zone, presenting the moist tissue cradling his nose drippings.

"Get it away!" Jorden tripped over the Captain's platform as he tried to get away. "What's wrong with you. That's disgusting?"

"Where do I put this?" the boy asked. He was surprise at Jorden's strong aversion to a simple tissue. The only other time he'd seen such a reaction was when he held a spider close to his sister's head.

"The trash can is over there." Jorden pointed to the trash can under the printer. Sweat formed on his upper lip. Was the room too warm or was the sweat the first sign his immune system had been compromised and exposed to a potentially new and deadly virus. Another towelette was removed from his side mounted fanny pack and rubbed liberally over his face and hands. He wondered if he should use his inhaler but decided against it. His doctor told him in no uncertain terms to stop using the inhaler as a lung disinfectant.

Another hand went up as the mission started. The girl at the Tactical Station was clueless about loading and firing the ship's phasers.

"What is it?" Jorden questioned from a distance of ten feet.

"I don't get this?" the girl answered. "Can you help me?"

"Did you listen to your training?"

"Yes, but I don't get it."

Jorden took three steps before encountering the smell of human perspiration mixed with your average run of the mill Utah dirt. The boy sitting between him and the Tactical Officer was definitely in need of a good scrub down. His unwashed hair triggered Jordan's gagging reflex. He took several steps back, unzipped his Fanny Pack and removed a heavily perfumed, monogrammed handkerchief. Holding the handkerchief closely to his nose, Jorden walked around the boy, giving him the widest berth possible to reach the Tactical Station.

"You need to click there to charge the phasers?" Jorden instructed after surveying the screen.

"How?" the girl questioned.

"Click on that button." Jorden pointed, but did not touch the screen. She might have touched it during training.

"What button?" she asked.

"That button?" he responded with his finger hovering one inch over the icon on the screen.

"I don't' get it." The girl was at her frustration level and stubbornly refused to continue unless he actually pointed to the button she was suppose to click.

Jorden removed another towelette, thoroughly cleaned the mouse and her keyboard and rezipped his Fanny Pack.

"This button." Jorden took the mouse and demonstrated the correct procedure to charge the phasers.

"I get it." She reached out and took the mouse. Their fingers briefly touched.

"God Help Me!" Jorden cried as if he'd accidentally broken open a laboratory vile containing smallpox. "Get back, everyone get back!" he shouted. The panic in his voice frightened the campers, causing them to jump over the desks and each other to get to the lowest level of the Voyager. Jorden pulled a bottle of alcohol from his Fanny Pack, poured half its contents over his contaminated hand and struck a match. The alcohol ignited into flame. Jordan wildly waved his burning hand back and forth to put out the fire. Applause erupted from the Voyager crew.

"This is the bestest mission ever," one of the campers exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder at the human torch before him.

The flame quickly burned itself out.
"Back to your seats everyone," Jorden urged as he rubbed his stinging hand.

The mission resumed. Jorden stood in his corner. His right hand held the perfumed handkerchief near his nose, warding off the smell of children in an enclosed room with poor air conditioning. His left hand rested on his fanny pack, always ready when needed. It was going to be a long mission.