A/N: Wow, I'm certainly impressed by the reception this has received! I remember now why I never finish a story before posting it – because everyone's reviews give me so many ideas! So, if I steal any of your ideas, please forgive me, since it was done in the best of faith!
To my reviewers...
sclittle: Thanks. A Captain Archer fan, then? Don't worry, he will feature... but not just yet!
Sita Z: Oh, great idea about Trip's quarters! I hope chapter two lives up to expectations!
Begoogled: I'm getting the impression that the six characters I created as 'background' are becoming quite popular! I had originally intended to focus on Henny but, well, let's just say that the plot-bunnies have been nibbling... thanks for your review! (And is that a Les Mis fan I spy?)
volley: Look! It's less than a week! And yes, Henson has... issues. I'm looking forward to untying them!
Verity Kindle: Thanks loads! I really hope you enjoy the following.
LadyRainbow: Well, I didn't want to seem like I enjoyed harming Malcolm too much... cough... thanks for your review!
Jedi Takeru: Wow... thanks! I hope I live up to it!
Now... on with chapter two!
Disclaimer: All kudos to Gene Rodenberry, and all monies to Paramount.
Chapter Two
An Unusual Assignment
Some days after reaching what the workers in the Quartermaster's store dubbed his 'anniversary', Lieutenant Malcolm Reed made a quite unprecedented appearance in that very bay of the ship. He looked awkward – then again, as Quartermaster Heron had once reflected, albeit somewhat unfairly, the only time he didn't look awkward was when he was handling weaponry, preferably of the explosive kind.
"Ah – good morning." The four looked up at the unfamiliar voice, and three of the four turned a little red. There was very little that hadn't been discussed in the last five years between the four of them, after all. And on a starship, as far as the 'little people' were concerned, the officers were practically celebrities – and often the juiciest source of gossip. Many hours had been spent trying to unravel the well-known enigma that was Lieutenant Reed, though Annan Henson had quite pointedly kept silent throughout such hours.
"Good morning, Lieutenant. What can we do for you?" Even Miranda Heron's best professional nod could not quite hide what her three colleagues knew was burning curiosity. Heron was many things – a gossip, a taskmaster, and a frequent producer of inaccurate and exaggerated announcements – but subtle was not one of them. Lieutenant Reed seemed to be aware of this, too (for the first time the four crewmen wondered if they ever gossiped about them), for he held out a metal case with a somewhat chagrined smile.
"I don't suppose you lot have got any spare charge packs, have you? We're down to our last thirty."
Miranda – along with her 'second-in-command', Henny – rolled her eyes. "You lot" and "thirty" were the main sources of amusement in Reed's request, though the abashed tone with which he uttered it was also cause for a slight giggle. Afterwards.
"Thirty, Lieutenant?" Charge packs, phase coils, power cells – call them what you will, they powered phase pistols and were, in most circumstances, practically indestructible and with a working life of ten years. Enterprise had started her first mission with two hundred. Once again, the armoury officer gave a lopsided grin, though he still stood in the doorway, as though unsure of his place inside.
"Sooner safe than sorry." His tone was quite serious, and Henny, with a wordless glance at Miranda, rose and took the case. She opened it, and frowned at the four blackened packs within.
"You didn't expect us to have spares." She stated, tapping her finger against one of the packs. Whilst it was blackened, there was no actual scarring to the outer surface of the pack, which boded well. Only drained, then. She would have to re-wire the circuits, then hook them up to the –
"Crewman?" At the curt, if not entirely unkind remonstration, Henny looked up, well aware that her cheeks were reddening slightly. She realised she had never seen the Lieutenant close up before. She had seen the Captain, and Commander Tucker, of course (the man never wasted an opportunity to flash a grin at the three women in the store, though the smile had become more strained of late), but it was common knowledge that Reed had enough trouble easing up around his superiors, let alone his inferiors. No-one would ever make the mistake of labelling him the social butterfly of the ship.
"Sorry," Henny said at last, casting her gaze back down to the charge packs. "I'll have to do some fiddling. I can have them back to you by tomorrow morning, if you like." She didn't add that she would have to work late into the night to do so. It was not, after all, her place to complain at extra work – everyone on Enterprise took on more work than they needed to, which was precisely why they were on her. Better to be a humble crewman on the flagship than the commanding officer of a two-deck shuttle.
"Fiddling?" Reed repeated, looking somewhat alarmed, and Henny's lips quirked.
"Would adjustments be a better term, Lieutenant?" She asked, and watched with interest as Reed paused and, as though realising his own foolishness, shook his head with a brief smile.
"Much better – sorry." He turned on his heel, smartly, and Henny wondered how it was that five years onboard hadn't quite managed to take the shine off his professional glossing. "Tomorrow morning. Excuse me."
The members of the quartermaster's team waited until his footsteps died away before bursting into a fit of giggles. Even Annan deigned to give a slim smile.
"He's an odd one." Heron said, repeating sentiments she had, at one point or another, expressed about each and every member of the bridge crew. In Reed's case, however, it was probably true.
888
Billy Cortan had the rather dubious honour of sharing a bunk with Crewman Annan Henson, notorious both for the pallor of his skin and the dearth of his conversation. That night, Billy was lying on the top bunk writing a letter home to his parents whilst Annan sat in front of the portal and gazed at the stars flickering past, when the latter broke his own norms and started a conversation.
"Henny and Lieutenant Reed would make a good couple."
Billy looked up in astonishment, all thoughts of asking for his mother's apple crumble recipe vanishing from his mind as he considered the idea of the straight-laced Reed in a relationship with any woman onboard, let alone Henrietta Mackie.
"You're daft, Annan." He gave a shaky laugh. "What makes you say that?"
Annan twisted his neck upwards so that they were looking eye to eye.
"She's the right height for him." His expression was quite sombre but then Billy saw what he prided himself on being the only person capable of seeing, and that was the tiniest quirk at the edge of Annan's thin lips. Billy burst out laughing.
"You're a prat, Annan." He said lightly, leaning back on his pillows. A moment later Annan's voice (it seemed he was in a particularly loquacious mood tonight) floated up to the top bunk once more.
"And you, Billy? When are you going to reveal your romantic intentions? It's someone in our team, I know. The wide-eyed and innocent Miss Manning?"
Billy gripped his PADD hard.
"Try sorting out your own 'romantic intentions' first, Annan, before you try advising me." He said shortly, and heard only silence in reply. A few minutes later, Annan rose from his chair and subsided into his bunk.
The only word Billy heard from him until the next morning was "lights".
888
They were entering a solar system that promised to be inhabited, and as far as most of the crew was concerned it was not a moment too soon. For one Lieutenant Reed, however, all he could think upon hearing the news was here comes number fifty-one.
It was ridiculous, really, that a blithe comment of a crewman he had only seen two or three times and spoken to but once (when he had gone to recover a... certain shirt) should give him such food for thought. His actual responding to her comment, too... either he was loosening up in a good way, as Trip would tell him, or he was becoming unforgivably unprofessional. Either way, at this exact moment in time, with the possible threat of alien spaceships looming (as far as Malcolm was concerned, any other spaceship, regardless of size or class, should be considered a threat until – well, until it was out of weapons' range), he had more important things to consider. Such as ensuring that the damn phase cannons and torpedo launchers were correctly aligned. Which they seemed to delight in not being.
"Uh – Lieutenant?" At the unexpected voice (his reputation as a workaholic was not an unfounded one – he was in at 0400 hours) he spun, his hands coming up unconsciously. The nervous-looking crewman (Mackel? Damn it, he had more to remember than a crewman's name) stepped back, and he felt a ruddy glow creep up his cheeks.
"Sorry," he inclined his head. "I wasn't expecting you this early." He was also, he knew well, wound up and on edge from too little sleep. Then he looked closer at the crewman, and saw from the black smudges under her eyes that she probably was, too. He frowned. "Did you work through the night, Crewman?"
Tired as he was, he didn't miss her hesitation, but then she seemed to realise the folly of trying to lie (after all, his eyes were sharp enough to catch the glint of a weapon at forty paces, let alone a paltry lie), and nodded with a smile.
"I know how much you... I mean, it's common knowledge that you like to have everything ready well before going on an away mission to a new planet." She shrugged. "And anyway... I think we all worry about..." she trailed off, then passed a hand over her eyes. "Sorry, Lieutenant. I'm not..."
Not thinking straight. Tiredness did that to you, which was why it was bad in his line of work. Then again, he had pulled enough late nights, early mornings, and double shifts without sleep to know where his limits lay, and he hadn't hit them yet this time. The crewman in front of him, however...
"Get some sleep, Crewman. Take the morning off." He said firmly, taking the box from her unresisting hands. "That's an order." He saw that her eyes were bleary with lack of sleep, and hoped that her work, however early it had been completed, hadn't suffered because of it.
"Yes sir."
He watched her leave, his lips pursed, before turning to a work surface and opening the small metal box. He needn't, it seemed, to have worried. The work, though rudimentary – style was a luxury on a starship, anyway – was neat, and entirely correct. Perhaps he ought to try and learn her name.
888
A/N: Well, you know the drill. Please review!