"The Great Voice Swap Disaster on Voyager"

Captain Moncrief adjusted his belt, already mentally composing his report to Star Fleet as the tranquil sounds of alien birds chirped around them. Doctor Pox was scanning the giant mushrooms with his tricorder, and Navigator Lana was tapping her foot impatiently.

“I still don’t understand why my scans indicate this mushroom is singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’” Pox muttered.

“Leave the Queen out of it and let's just go back,” complained Lana. “There’s nothing here but weird fungi and my patience is running on empty.”

“Alright, team,” Moncrief said, tapping his communicator. “Moncrief to Voyager. Three to beam up.”

A hum filled the air as the familiar tingly feeling of teleportation enveloped them. But as the world reconstituted around them, Captain Moncrief let out a startled, high-pitched scream.

“What in the galaxy? Whose voice is this?” Moncrief’s voice echoed, though it was unmistakably Lana's sultry tone.

“Why do I sound so... business-like?” Lana muttered in Moncrief’s authoritative baritone, her mesmerizing features twisted in confusion. “Oh stars, I have your voice!”

Pox, scratching his head, looked up, blinking more slowly than usual. “Hey guys, I think something went wrong. My smart brain doesn't feel as... what's the word... smart anymore?”

“What?” Moncrief and Lana shouted in unison, their swapped voices creating quite the auditory dissonance.

Pox grinned sheepishly. “Y’know, Doc stuff. Medicine in one hand, encyclopedia in the other.”

“Great galaxies, this is a disaster!” Moncrief—now with Lana’s voice—cried. “Navigator Lana, my body feels... light! What's happening?”

Lana looked down, visibly panicking. “Oh my star charts, my... my... my chest!” she cried in Moncrief’s deep voice. “My D-cups! They’re gone! No one will recognize my heroic bosom!”

Moncrief gave her a sympathetic look, which, with Lana’s voice, came across as surprisingly mournful. “Let's not panic. There’s got to be a way to fix this. Think, Moncrief, think!”

Pox wiped his brow, pulling out his tricorder. “Um, what was that beamer thingy again? Maybe we should poke it with a stick?”

Moncrief groaned. “Great, my head hurts. And of all the times to lose Pox’s genius too.”

A spark of an idea twisted through Lana’s—Moncrief’s—brain. “Okay, Doc. You sure you didn’t mess up the transporter configuration on the galaxy wave frequencies?”

Pox squinted. “I can science stuff... uh, I mean, I think I scienced the science fine. Let's try switching some wires, or maybe... turning it off and on again?”

Moncrief—still with Lana's voice—facepalmed. “I swear by the moons of Jupiter, if this doesn’t work, I might leave you both stranded on the next desolate rock we find.”

“So much for bedside manner,” Lana grumbled in Moncrief’s voice, smirking.

Pox tweaked the transporter console, studying each wire as though it insulted his intelligence—which, with a less intelligent Pox, wasn’t saying much. “Okay, this should do the trick. Thumbs crossed!”

Lana muttered, “Fingers, Doc. Fingers crossed.”

The console buzzed to life and the familiar tingly sensation enveloped them once more. As they reappeared, they nervously glanced around.

Moncrief cleared his throat, relieved to hear the baritone of his voice return. “Am I... me?”

Pox checked his diagnostic tool, eyes lighting up. “Captain, I'm smart again! E=mc², Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, and why you can't put pineapple on pizza—it’s all back!”

Lana patted her chest, a relieved smile spreading across her face. “Never thought I'd be so happy to see my twins again! D-cups are back in action!”

Moncrief smirked. “Good to have you all back—brains, bust, and all. Now let's leave the teleporting to the professionals next time.”

Lana chuckled, her voice warm and rightfully hers again. “Agreed, Captain. Pox, leave Queen Freddie Mercury alone in the future.”

Pox raised an eyebrow. “But Captain, what about Mozart?”

Moncrief rolled his eyes, leading the way out of the transporter room. “Let’s just stick to planets and leave the composers out of it, shall we?”

As their laughter filled the ship, Moncrief couldn’t help but feel a twinge of gratitude. Even in the oddest of galaxies, the Voyager crew always managed to beam back together—madness and all.

This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

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