Atherton Wordsworth was on the sliding walkway
headed toward SNS HQ (Starfleet News Service Head Quarters,) A
young lady with a cameraman behind her ran up to Atherton.
"Lieutenant, can you tell our viewers what it was like on the
Aboainthian Home Planet?" The young woman asked.
"Sorry Breana, FNS isn't getting this story...Fleet gets it
first," Atherton said, sidestepping the young woman, walking
between her and her cameraman.
"Is it true they have six arms and fly?" She asked with all to
feigned enthusiasm.
"Look Bree, you'll just have to wait for the eighteen-hundred
news like the rest of the Federation." With that, he entered the
building flashing his press pass and wasn't disturbed by the
young woman again.
The security guard at the front desk looked up from a monitor,
saying, "Commodore Race wants to see you."
"Does he now?" Atherton asked. "Tell him I'm on my way."
Moments later, Atherton was walking into the Commodore's office.
The Commodore began, "Atherton MY-BOY," which was always a
precursor to something that would get Atherton: dead, arrested,
or worse. "I've got one for you."
"Commodore, I just got back from six weeks with the Aboainthian.
Don't you want the promo setup?" Atherton asked.
"You don't have time to worry about that now," the Commodore began.
"You mean?" Atherton couldn't believe he was finally going to get somewhere in the business. Maybe it was a promotion to LCR, or maybe he was finally being thought of as a real writer, and his book about the mating habits of the Aboainthian guinnea sollets was going to be published and he'd finally get the Pulitzer.
"That's right my boy, no more front-line almost-getting-yourself-killed stories for you. You're being posted to a Starbase." The Commodore said, with a bit of a gleam in his eye. It could only mean trouble for Wordsworth.
Three hours later, FOTO had been transfered to disk, to be replicated later ... While Atherton himself had been loaded into a Photon Torpedo, with lifesupport and a few amenities. Then he was sent speeding along the space lines at Warp 8, headed toward Vulcan to rendesvous with the USS Velkym.
The vessel Atherton traveled in allowed only superficial amenities ... Namely about five inches of space around his torso and legs. There was a constant breeze of conditioned air coming from somewhere around his feet. The only amenity actually afforded to him was a communications display and audio system.
"Computer?" Atherton began
"Working," the computer said.
"Can you produce a video feed from the Starfleet News Service, on screen?" Atherton asked.
"Working, Yes," the computer answered.
"Good, please do so," Atherton retorted.
Within moments Atherton was looking at himself ... It had to be a commercial. But the time reference said six-hundred hours.
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