This is just for fun. Any resemblance to people who work at the space center is intentional, although these characters aren't really them. Any resemblance to an actual mission is your imagination.
Aleta Clegg.
Personal Log: Adrian Stevens, Quartermaster - Entry 2
I swiped a rag across the metal counter, leaving a greasy trail. Why had I agreed to this? Two days into the flight the food replicators had failed. Completely and utterly. We needed parts to fix them, parts that were two days travel behind us at Starbase 74. My two assistants and I were stuck cooking with real pots and pans in a galley much too small. Exhaustion didn’t even come close to describing what we felt.
Leuitenant Bradley stuck his head in the door. “Quartermaster Stevens? Captain Herring wants his dinner delivered to the officer’s mess in exactly twenty three minutes.”
I told him exactly what Captain Herring could do with his dinner.
Bradley’s lips pinched, like a fish sucking lemons. “He expects you to be in dress whites for serving.”
“Then tell the captain I need functional food replicators. He’ll get his food when it gets cooked. We’ve been slaving over those pots for the last eighteen hours straight. He will just have to wait his turn.”
Bradley stepped into the kitchen, looming over me. His attempt to threaten me wasn’t going to work.
“I don’t own any dress whites. I will deliver his food when it is ready. It would help if he gave me more staff, but there isn’t room for more than three people in this galley. This ship is not designed for old style cooking, not for the full crew. You tell Captain Herring the crew will have to go on shifts for meals. And I want at least two extra staff for the other rotations.”
“You are in no position to make demands!”
“Go hungry.” I turned my back and swabbed my rag across the counter.
“You have been given a direct order by a superior officer.”
“And I’m telling you, Officer Bradley, I can’t do it. It’s physically impossible.”
Bradley tapped his comm badge. “Security, report to the galley immediately. Take Quartermaster Stevens into custody on charges of mutiny.”
Turner and Quan’Li, my assistants, both thumped their spoons down.
“You arrest her and you have to arrest both of us,” Turner said. “The two of us quit. Cook your own food.”
“You’ll regret this,” Bradley warned.
“Not before you do,” I answered.
Security arrived, uniforms a bit rumpled. Security detail was usually pretty boring, except for the few minutes when it was extremely exciting. I suspected they’d been playing cards.
I held out my wrists. “Arrest me. Throw me in the brig. At least I’ll get some sleep.”
Turner and Quan’Li were right behind me.
“What about our food?” the bigger security guard questioned Bradley.
“Mutiny is a serious charge. These three disobeyed a direct order. Take them into custody.”
The guards hesitated. “We put them in the brig, we won’t get food.”
“Another team will be assigned.” Bradley frowned. “Do you want to join them on charges of mutiny? I gave you an order!”
“Not a good way to make friends, Bradley.” I couldn’t help the sarcasm. It was my nature.
Bradley’s face burned red. I wondered if I could actually make steam come from his ears.
“Throw them in the brig!”
“Yes, sir.” Security didn’t look too happy, but they marched the three of us away.
“Have fun cooking,” I called over my shoulder. “And watch that pot of sauce. It will burn if you don’t stir it.”
“You shouldn’t make him mad,” the security guard whispered as he marched me through the halls. “He’s got the captain’s ear.”
“And I’ve got his food. Who do you think Captain Herring is going to listen to?”
“You’re going to be put on report.”
I shrugged. “And I might get a nap.”
The lights flickered, changing to red. Alarms blared through the halls.
“All hands, battle stations!”
Security ran away.
Quan’Li sighed heavily. “I suppose we need to lock down the galley.”
“Let Bradley do it. We’re still under arrest.”
“Adrian, you can’t just desert your post.”
“I was officially relieved of duty. You heard Leutinant Bradley. I’m going to report to the brig, like a good mutineer. My feet are killing me.”
“What about the Captain’s dinner?”
“Under red alert? He isn’t getting it now.”
“Incoming!” the speakers blared.
The ship rocked crazily. Lights flickered madly. Smoke poured from the air vents.
Turner grabbed for support. “We’re under attack!”
“They said it would be dangerous. I’m hiding in the brig. Are you coming with me? The walls are thicker in there.”
Turner and Quan’Li were on my heels all the way to the brig. We checked ourselves in and made ourselves comfortable while the explosions continued.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Day 3 in Camp. The EdVenture Continues.
EdVenture Camp 2
We are on day 3 of our second EdVenture Camp. The natives were quiet during the night except for two small disturbances. I was woken by a young man walking through the Briefing Room. He walked by my camp (a pad, my two pillows, my blanket, flashlight, alarm clock and whistle) and straight into the hallway.
RULE VIOLATION: No one is allowed to leave their sleeping areas without permission. He didn’t stop to ask me to use the school’s restrooms. I waited to review the rules when he returned. He came back several minutes later.
“Stop,” I said. “Come here.” He stumbled to my camp like a drunk after one too many.
“Remember to tell me if you need to use the restroom during the night. You’re not allowed to wander through the halls of the school.” With that said I dismissed him to return to bed.
“My mission, I’m worried about my mission,” he replied in an odd tone. The statement alone was harmless. I hear it all the time. He can’t sleep because he is in the middle of a tough mission and its weighing on his mind. The odd thing about what he said was in its delivery. Most boys will look at me when they talk. They also appear alert. This boy’s head was darting back and forth like a caged animal. He was agitated and couldn’t stay still.
“Go back to bed,” I said. He moved toward the Voyager's door. A moment later I heard a yelp. I jumped up and found him at hopping on one foot near the Voyager’s Control Room door.
“Did you fall?” I asked.
“I stepped on something but I don’t know....... but I stepped on something and I......... I don’t know what it was.” He was stammering. His odd behavior could be diagnosed as a stroke or sleep walking. I ruled out a stroke. The kid was 11. He had to be sleeping walking. I helped him to a bench and looked at his foot. He stepped on something but I couldn’t find what it was with a flashlight search.
“Are you awake or asleep?” I asked him. I know it was a stupid question but I was tired. I was also curious what a sleepwalker would say when asked.
“I’m not sure because my mission is Ghost Ship and I don’t know what to do because we are in trouble and .....” The stammering continued.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
He hobbled. That was good enough. “Go to bed.” I said again. This time I followed him with the flashlight. He walked onto the Bridge, found his area collapsed onto the pad, covered himself and was out.
I returned to my camp.
All was quiet again. Everyone, including the chaperons, were asleep except for me. “The calm before the storm,” I thought to myself. The silence was broken by coughing from the Odyssey's bunks. There was also the constant sound of the forced air conditioning over head.
A moment later I heard feet shuffling across the carpet. Someone was approaching. I sat up. At the foot of my pad I saw one of the 14 year old campers. He look foreboding in the faint light from the green EXIT sign over my head . For a moment I thought it was Ye Old Grim Reaper come to carry my soul away. The thought passed when I recognized the unruly hair. It was one of the campers.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I filled the Happy Bucket,” he replied. The Happy Bucket is a gray cleaning bucket given to children when they shows signs of imminent explosion (vomiting). They carry the bucket with them until the eruption subsides or the feeling passes.
“Bring me the bucket,” I said. He went to fetch it. “I got back up and waited. He returned a moment later. I took the bucket. It sloshed. He had indeed made a good deposit. I wanted to say “Good Boy." He deserved recognition for getting it all in the bucket and not on the carpet, floor, shoes, sleeping bags etc. (all of which has happened in the past). I let the moment pass and told him to wait while I cleaned it out.
I’m good with body fluids. They don’t bother me. I can even deal with blood - but not my own. Cleaning and sanitizing the bucket took a few minutes. In no time he was back to bed and all was well. I returned to my camp. It was nearing 2:00 A.M. I dozed off, waking up several times during the night to the various sounds of an old school. Mixed in were the melodies of children dreaming of starship adventures in places far away.
Wednesday Morning.
The kids are up and fed. Mrs. Houston and Mrs. Powell have them in the last two hours of their class session. It’s 9:05 A.M. One of our younger sixth grade volunteers just emerged from the Phoenix. He slept there last night. The staff go on duty at 11:00 A.M. Wednesday then is a happy day for them. They get to sleep in.
It’s spitting with rain. I’m not sure the campers will be able to launch their rockets. I could worry about that but won’t. It is the responsibility of Sheila and Lorraine and I really like that. I’ve enough on my plate. Its good to share the load with a great staff that are more than capable of dealing with hiccups in the schedule.
OK, now I’ve got to get back to work. There is a growing list of things to do and they won’t disappear without my attention. I’m good with that. I call it job security. I’ll update the Blog throughout the week to give you readers the taste and feel of summer life at the Space Center.
Mr. Williamson
We are on day 3 of our second EdVenture Camp. The natives were quiet during the night except for two small disturbances. I was woken by a young man walking through the Briefing Room. He walked by my camp (a pad, my two pillows, my blanket, flashlight, alarm clock and whistle) and straight into the hallway.
RULE VIOLATION: No one is allowed to leave their sleeping areas without permission. He didn’t stop to ask me to use the school’s restrooms. I waited to review the rules when he returned. He came back several minutes later.
“Stop,” I said. “Come here.” He stumbled to my camp like a drunk after one too many.
“Remember to tell me if you need to use the restroom during the night. You’re not allowed to wander through the halls of the school.” With that said I dismissed him to return to bed.
“My mission, I’m worried about my mission,” he replied in an odd tone. The statement alone was harmless. I hear it all the time. He can’t sleep because he is in the middle of a tough mission and its weighing on his mind. The odd thing about what he said was in its delivery. Most boys will look at me when they talk. They also appear alert. This boy’s head was darting back and forth like a caged animal. He was agitated and couldn’t stay still.
“Go back to bed,” I said. He moved toward the Voyager's door. A moment later I heard a yelp. I jumped up and found him at hopping on one foot near the Voyager’s Control Room door.
“Did you fall?” I asked.
“I stepped on something but I don’t know....... but I stepped on something and I......... I don’t know what it was.” He was stammering. His odd behavior could be diagnosed as a stroke or sleep walking. I ruled out a stroke. The kid was 11. He had to be sleeping walking. I helped him to a bench and looked at his foot. He stepped on something but I couldn’t find what it was with a flashlight search.
“Are you awake or asleep?” I asked him. I know it was a stupid question but I was tired. I was also curious what a sleepwalker would say when asked.
“I’m not sure because my mission is Ghost Ship and I don’t know what to do because we are in trouble and .....” The stammering continued.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
He hobbled. That was good enough. “Go to bed.” I said again. This time I followed him with the flashlight. He walked onto the Bridge, found his area collapsed onto the pad, covered himself and was out.
I returned to my camp.
All was quiet again. Everyone, including the chaperons, were asleep except for me. “The calm before the storm,” I thought to myself. The silence was broken by coughing from the Odyssey's bunks. There was also the constant sound of the forced air conditioning over head.
A moment later I heard feet shuffling across the carpet. Someone was approaching. I sat up. At the foot of my pad I saw one of the 14 year old campers. He look foreboding in the faint light from the green EXIT sign over my head . For a moment I thought it was Ye Old Grim Reaper come to carry my soul away. The thought passed when I recognized the unruly hair. It was one of the campers.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I filled the Happy Bucket,” he replied. The Happy Bucket is a gray cleaning bucket given to children when they shows signs of imminent explosion (vomiting). They carry the bucket with them until the eruption subsides or the feeling passes.
“Bring me the bucket,” I said. He went to fetch it. “I got back up and waited. He returned a moment later. I took the bucket. It sloshed. He had indeed made a good deposit. I wanted to say “Good Boy." He deserved recognition for getting it all in the bucket and not on the carpet, floor, shoes, sleeping bags etc. (all of which has happened in the past). I let the moment pass and told him to wait while I cleaned it out.
I’m good with body fluids. They don’t bother me. I can even deal with blood - but not my own. Cleaning and sanitizing the bucket took a few minutes. In no time he was back to bed and all was well. I returned to my camp. It was nearing 2:00 A.M. I dozed off, waking up several times during the night to the various sounds of an old school. Mixed in were the melodies of children dreaming of starship adventures in places far away.
Wednesday Morning.
The kids are up and fed. Mrs. Houston and Mrs. Powell have them in the last two hours of their class session. It’s 9:05 A.M. One of our younger sixth grade volunteers just emerged from the Phoenix. He slept there last night. The staff go on duty at 11:00 A.M. Wednesday then is a happy day for them. They get to sleep in.
It’s spitting with rain. I’m not sure the campers will be able to launch their rockets. I could worry about that but won’t. It is the responsibility of Sheila and Lorraine and I really like that. I’ve enough on my plate. Its good to share the load with a great staff that are more than capable of dealing with hiccups in the schedule.
OK, now I’ve got to get back to work. There is a growing list of things to do and they won’t disappear without my attention. I’m good with that. I call it job security. I’ll update the Blog throughout the week to give you readers the taste and feel of summer life at the Space Center.
Mr. Williamson
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Personal Log: Adrian Stevens, Quartermaster
Hello Troops,
Aleta is a teacher and curriculum specialist at the Space Center. During the summer she is kind enough to manage the kitchen. She refers to herself as the Starship's Quartermaster. She created a fictional character called Adrian (her Avatar so to speak). This is first of several updates about this character and her interactions with others aboard our fictional ship far into the future.
And now, Aleta's first chapter...............
This is just for fun. Any resemblance to people who work at the space center is intentional, although these characters aren't really them. Any resemblance to an actual mission is your imagination.
Personal Log: Adrian Stevens, Quartermaster
"Admiral?" I cautiously stuck my head in the door. I hated having to deal with command officers, but my orders were specific.
The chair slowly swiveled, revealing a slightly balding head of dark hair.
I swallowed a nervous lump as I held out my orders. Fleet Admiral Williamson, the sign on his desk read.
He took my paper, barely glancing at it before letting it drift into his disposal unit. He leaned back in his chair, bouncing slightly as he looked me over. "Quartermaster Stevens, your reputation for trouble precedes you. You do know that you're on the short list for dishonorable discharge? One more incident and you may even be doing prison time."
I nodded, keeping my mouth firmly shut. This was my last chance. Another few years and I'd be able to leave Starfleet honorably. I'd spoken too freely in the past. I'd taken a few too many liberties. Admiral Williamson was the last officer willing to even consider me for a posting.
He tapped his chin as he thought, his chair bobbing back and forth. He swung one foot, the polish on his boots catching the light.
I shuffled my scuffed boots on his dark blue carpet. The window behind him showed space dock. A gleaming white ship rested gently in the cradle, shuttles swarming around her. The USS Voyager was a beautiful ship, graceful and elegant with enough firepower to intimidate just about anyone. I could only dream of a posting on such a legendary ship.
Admiral Williamson's chair thumped forward, his boots thudding dully on the carpet. "I need volunteers for a dangerous mission. Classified, of course. I'm looking for those willing to risk everything if necessary. You have a choice, Stevens. Prison cook or Quartermaster on the Voyager."
I stared at him, my jaw dropping. "Quartermaster on the Voyager, sir?" Had I heard wrong?
"Not glamorous. You'll be on skeleton staff. You and two others will be responsible for all supplies, food, and the equipment to prepare it. I'm afraid the food replicators have been a bit off so you may be actually cooking for two hundred."
"I thought the Voyager had three hundred crew, sir."
"The support crew won't be the only ones on short staff." He smiled, benevolence with an edge. "You may not return, Stevens."
"But it's a chance to serve on the Voyager, sir. I accept. I've got no family, nothing to lose."
"Except your reputation." He stamped a paper and slid it across the desk. "Report immediately to the shuttle bay. You have less than four hours until the ship undocks."
"Sir." I snapped a salute then collected my new orders.
"Dismissed." He turned his chair away. "I suggest you hurry, Quartermaster."
I practically ran from his office, headed for the shuttle bays at a run. I couldn't help grinning. So the mission was dangerous, that didn't matter. I had a posting on the legendary Voyager!
The shuttle was crowded with officers headed for the ship. I hugged my duffle at the back, doing my best to avoid eye contact. I eyed their uniforms jealously. I wanted to be an officer but I couldn't stay out of trouble at the Academy. Quartermaster was the best I could hope for. I shifted my feed, impatient to board.
The shuttle docked, landing gracefully in the shuttle bay. The hatch opened. The officers filed out. I followed, breathing deeply of the recycled air of the Voyager. Glory tainted every molecule. I stepped off the boarding ramp.
"Papers?" The security guard glared at my blue service jumpsuit.
I handed the papers Admiral Williamson had just stamped.
"Captain on deck!"
Everyone snapped to attention. I dropped my duffle, standing rigid.
Boots thumped on the metal decking. I risked a single glance, rolling my eyes to the side. My heart sank. Maybe Captain Herring wouldn't remember me.
He stopped in front of me, breath whistling through his nose as he glared. "Adrian Stevens? You're what they sent for my Quartermaster?" His lip curled. He leaned very close.
I swallowed hard, staring at a pulsing vein in his forehead.
"Don't think I've forgotten the spaghetti incident. I'm watching you." His eyes drilled into mine.
So much for wishful thinking. Which would be more dangerous? The mission or the captain? Only time would tell.
Aleta is a teacher and curriculum specialist at the Space Center. During the summer she is kind enough to manage the kitchen. She refers to herself as the Starship's Quartermaster. She created a fictional character called Adrian (her Avatar so to speak). This is first of several updates about this character and her interactions with others aboard our fictional ship far into the future.
And now, Aleta's first chapter...............
This is just for fun. Any resemblance to people who work at the space center is intentional, although these characters aren't really them. Any resemblance to an actual mission is your imagination.
Personal Log: Adrian Stevens, Quartermaster
"Admiral?" I cautiously stuck my head in the door. I hated having to deal with command officers, but my orders were specific.
The chair slowly swiveled, revealing a slightly balding head of dark hair.
I swallowed a nervous lump as I held out my orders. Fleet Admiral Williamson, the sign on his desk read.
He took my paper, barely glancing at it before letting it drift into his disposal unit. He leaned back in his chair, bouncing slightly as he looked me over. "Quartermaster Stevens, your reputation for trouble precedes you. You do know that you're on the short list for dishonorable discharge? One more incident and you may even be doing prison time."
I nodded, keeping my mouth firmly shut. This was my last chance. Another few years and I'd be able to leave Starfleet honorably. I'd spoken too freely in the past. I'd taken a few too many liberties. Admiral Williamson was the last officer willing to even consider me for a posting.
He tapped his chin as he thought, his chair bobbing back and forth. He swung one foot, the polish on his boots catching the light.
I shuffled my scuffed boots on his dark blue carpet. The window behind him showed space dock. A gleaming white ship rested gently in the cradle, shuttles swarming around her. The USS Voyager was a beautiful ship, graceful and elegant with enough firepower to intimidate just about anyone. I could only dream of a posting on such a legendary ship.
Admiral Williamson's chair thumped forward, his boots thudding dully on the carpet. "I need volunteers for a dangerous mission. Classified, of course. I'm looking for those willing to risk everything if necessary. You have a choice, Stevens. Prison cook or Quartermaster on the Voyager."
I stared at him, my jaw dropping. "Quartermaster on the Voyager, sir?" Had I heard wrong?
"Not glamorous. You'll be on skeleton staff. You and two others will be responsible for all supplies, food, and the equipment to prepare it. I'm afraid the food replicators have been a bit off so you may be actually cooking for two hundred."
"I thought the Voyager had three hundred crew, sir."
"The support crew won't be the only ones on short staff." He smiled, benevolence with an edge. "You may not return, Stevens."
"But it's a chance to serve on the Voyager, sir. I accept. I've got no family, nothing to lose."
"Except your reputation." He stamped a paper and slid it across the desk. "Report immediately to the shuttle bay. You have less than four hours until the ship undocks."
"Sir." I snapped a salute then collected my new orders.
"Dismissed." He turned his chair away. "I suggest you hurry, Quartermaster."
I practically ran from his office, headed for the shuttle bays at a run. I couldn't help grinning. So the mission was dangerous, that didn't matter. I had a posting on the legendary Voyager!
The shuttle was crowded with officers headed for the ship. I hugged my duffle at the back, doing my best to avoid eye contact. I eyed their uniforms jealously. I wanted to be an officer but I couldn't stay out of trouble at the Academy. Quartermaster was the best I could hope for. I shifted my feed, impatient to board.
The shuttle docked, landing gracefully in the shuttle bay. The hatch opened. The officers filed out. I followed, breathing deeply of the recycled air of the Voyager. Glory tainted every molecule. I stepped off the boarding ramp.
"Papers?" The security guard glared at my blue service jumpsuit.
I handed the papers Admiral Williamson had just stamped.
"Captain on deck!"
Everyone snapped to attention. I dropped my duffle, standing rigid.
Boots thumped on the metal decking. I risked a single glance, rolling my eyes to the side. My heart sank. Maybe Captain Herring wouldn't remember me.
He stopped in front of me, breath whistling through his nose as he glared. "Adrian Stevens? You're what they sent for my Quartermaster?" His lip curled. He leaned very close.
I swallowed hard, staring at a pulsing vein in his forehead.
"Don't think I've forgotten the spaghetti incident. I'm watching you." His eyes drilled into mine.
So much for wishful thinking. Which would be more dangerous? The mission or the captain? Only time would tell.
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