Favorite Son

** (2 stars out of 5)

Near a trinary star system, Nesari Captain Alben of the Nerada greets Voyager warmly and Harry makes a warm greeting of his own. With phasers. Take that, complete stranger!

In the ensuing battle, Torres is nearly killed for Harry's hunch. (Better than being killed for a siren's lunch! But we're getting to that.)

Racked with guilt about his strange actions and relived of duty, Harry gets a red, Trill-like rash. Is it a recurrence of the Mendakan Pox he had at age nine? Early onset liver spots? Alien Genetic Douchebaggery?

Harry was right about the devious Nesari- they were about to shoot first (Greedo-style) until Voyager bravely shot them under the table like heroic Han Solo.

Mr. Kim recognizes the planet Taresia. They recognize him, too, and welcome him home. They claim he was conceived on Taresia and implanted in his Earth mother's womb. (The second and, I hope, last time we hear about Harry's mother's womb.) He was genetically predisposed to find his way back here.

These cuckoos have a population that is 90% female. Yet they send their males out on these dangerous, outlandish implantation missions as far afield as Earth? Sounds fishy to me...

Well you should ask: it was all a lie anyway. They reproduce rather like the Tarchannens: by viral infection. Men can catch Taresian like a cold. The only true thing those foxy minxes said was how rare males are. They need outsider DNA and conception takes the life of the father. Flattered, perfumed, and drugged into a stupor, alien men are soon sucked... and sucked... and sucked. No, it's not a good thing!

Harry does battle with the sirens, who ring a Betazoid dinner gong and send B5 commercial telepath Lyta Alexander against him with a stick. Whuh-oh!

"Favorite Son" lets Harry have an all-too-brief shot at being the sexy action hero. But as the story points out, punctuality, politeness, and math skills aren't so bad. 'The Lorelei Signal' isn't looking so bad anymore, either. Struggling to find original ideas, are we Voyager? (Thankfully, back then you don't have to try very hard to stay on the air for another four years. At least as long as you start adding leggy blondes in skin-tight tin foil suits. But I've said too much.)