Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Please note that the actual five hundred word challenge is imbedded in this story. It'll be fairly obvious where it is, although there are clues in the story as to who the mystery author is.
Many thanks to Honeybee for wielding the red pen!
"What?"
"Commander, I believe that Ensign Sato was clear in her instructions. Did you fail to understand them?" said T'Pol coolly, gazing across the table impassively.
"No, I understood them; I just fail to understand why the captain would allow her to torture us this way." Commander Tucker replied ruefully.
"Because Star Fleet mandated this and we're going to give them what they want. That's why," said the captain giving Trip a slight frown. He stood up and met the eyes of each of his senior staff in turn. "I expect this to be done to the best of your abilities with a minimum of moaning and groaning and on my desk by 0800 tomorrow so Hoshi can get these sent off to Star Fleet. Understood?" He waited for a response, not expecting any. "Good. Dismissed," he said as he left the room.
When the door whooshed closed Trip turned on Hoshi. "Why'd Star Fleet have to do this to us? I barely have time enough to get my reports in to the captain on time. Now this?"
Hoshi smiled sweetly, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "But sir, you're so full of hot air that this assignment should be a breeze for you." She snickered at the mock pain on his face as she walked out the door.
"Malcolm, you agree with me, right?" Trip turned to Lt. Reed, his face imploring.
Malcolm stood up and gathered his PADD. He turned his steely blue eyes at Trip, doing a fine job of imitating Commander T'Pol's trademark look. "How do you Americans put it? Ah yes, suck it up." A slight smirk touched his lips as he delivered that verbal blow and then he and Travis walked out the door.
The door whooshed closed behind them and only then did Travis allow himself a quiet laugh. "Boy, he was pretty steamed about the writing assignment."
"I'm not too happy about it myself to be quite honest," said Malcolm.
"Hey, it's only five hundred words. We're supposed to relate a story, in our own words, something that happened to us while out here. Something to make us that much more real to the folks back home," Travis replied.
"Mmm…" Malcolm made a derisive noise. "Personally, I don't think that this is going to be all that easy. I'm more of a man of action rather than words."
They continued down the corridor and pushed the button for the lift.
"You know, Gannet told me that when she had writer's block she would try writing in the style of a famous writer. The exercise would help her focus on her assignment and get the creative juices flowing again," Travis said helpfully as he stepped onto the lift.
"A famous writer, huh," mused Malcolm as he followed Travis in and pushed the button for the bridge.
"That shouldn't be too hard for you, being British and all. I am sure you read some great stuff when you were in school. All those great British writers, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Austen, Shakespeare..." Travis trailed off his eyes sparkling at the thought of all the rich literature that the British Isles had produced.
Malcolm was lost in thought for a moment and then cleared his throat as the lift came to a halt.
"To fire or not to fire? That is the question," intoned Malcolm as he stepped out on the bridge. "You know, that wasn't a bad suggestion. I'll have to give it a go tonight. Do you have any idea what you're going to write about?" he asked Travis as the both settled into their respective positions.
"No, but I have a great opening line. Listen to this. 'These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise…' but I'm not sure where to go from there," he replied.
Malcolm nodded his head in appreciation. "Not bad," he said, "It has potential."
Much later Malcolm sat at his desk, his fingers poised, a cursor blinking at him from his blank monitor. He would attack this methodically like any other problem he was faced with on a daily basis. He cleared his mind and thought back to school, thinking of his favorite author and his many books. Fortunately, his favorite author was verbose; he had been paid by the word to write serials for the papers of his time. Malcolm only had to have five hundred words. If he channeled the spirit of this man, he'd be done in plenty of time to see if he could catch dinner down in the mess hall. That right there was incentive enough. He wriggled his fingers above the keyboard, inhaled deeply, and started to write.
An Account of the Near Death Experiences of the Chief Security Officer and Chief Engineer
Shuttlepod One was a snug craft, perfectly designed for the comfort of the short range space traveler, or the protection of the slightly longer range traveler whilst losing a bit in the way of comfort, or the complete discomfort of the longest range occupant especially when partially disabled and losing its precious cargo of oxygen being so vital to said occupants. On this occasion, the comfort level of the occupants, a Lieutenant Reed and a Commander Tucker, was as dire as were the circumstances of their occupancy of the normally sturdy little craft. The starship Enterprise had left them to carry out their mission and had proceeded on to other climes when the fair Shuttlepod One had wandered through a storm of dust of small, but mighty, proportions. Said dust, infiltrating the armor of the pod, not only allowed the oxygen to start to dissipate in a most alarming fashion, as was stated earlier, but also rendered the usually capable engines and other systems into a state of disrepair. Both Misters Reed and Tucker attempted to not only repair the shuttle but to contact their mother ship, Enterprise, in a seemingly futile attempt to extend their rather shortening lives. The repairs were almost ineffectual, although they were able to contain what was left of their oxygen and, if not raising their rates of respiration, they would be able to live off of what was remaining of the gaseous material they so desperately needed to sustain their lives. Unless they froze to death first, for one of the damaged systems was the heating, and as we all know, space is a cool mistress at best. The other vital system damaged was that of propulsion, so that they could not move faster than a slow glide. Limping forward however slowly they were able to make what they perceived to be the rendezvous with the aforementioned Enterprise only to find that gallant starship was not only not present, but had been destroyed by an unknown assailant. Losing all hope of ever returning home to Earth or of being rescued by any civilized being within hailing distance the valiant pair of explorers set upon a desperate course in an attempt to attract the attention of any passers-by in that part of the galaxy, they jettisoned their craft's warp core and blew it to smithereens, causing quite a nice bit of fireworks in the vain hope of sending it out into the dark as a signal flare. Our duo huddled together to conserve what remaining warmth they had between them, which in reality would not have been able to keep even a space rat warm, not that any ship that these two fine men inhabited would have been allowed to get into the state of having vermin aboard her, slowly losing their battle with frostbite and consciousness. However, our story has a happy ending, for not only was their signal seen, but it was seen by none other than the Enterprise, who had not been destroyed in a terrible space battle but who had merely jettisoned a damage door panel with their name emblazoned upon it sending it floating with other flotsam and jetsam and causing such angst in the hearts of our two heroes. Enterprise was able to then swoop in and save not only the day, but the shuttlepod, and the lives of two of her most valued officers.
Malcolm straightened up, checked his word count, and discovered he had come in eighty-one words over his required number. He proof read his work because he was always thorough, and then sent it off to the captain's desk.
"There! Let Star Fleet try and use that for their bit of feel-good propaganda," he thought.
Checking the time he smiled. He still had time for dinner and hopefully he could get a seat with Hoshi and Travis, maybe even the commander. Despite the danger they were all in on a daily basis Malcolm had never been happier in his life. He truly had a family here on board Enterprise. These truly were the best of times.