This is Gallifrey

The other day, my roommate tried to start a Time War.

No, not this kind of Time War:

This kind of Time War:

"I am the busiest person in this house."

Cue my rage machine!

I've always hated comparisons of busyness. In the busyness battle, there never is an actual winner — just lots and lots of ticked off people and self-pitying bemoaning.

I used to be the worst at Time War-ing. I'm not better now, but I'm trying.

As a junior in high school, I remember coming to drill team practice at 6 a.m. and hearing one of the senior captains say, "I'm sorry I couldn't get thus-and-so done. I was just SO busy. I'm SO busy all the time!"

Then, a few sentences later, she said, "I watched three hours of Fresh Prince of Bel Air yesterday."

And I went, "WAIT A SECOND! YOU'RE NOT BUSY!"

Then my judging kicked in.

I used to get so annoyed by people who complained about being busy, because I was totally convinced that nobody (NOBODY!) was as busy as I was.

"I was busy last night."

"Oh yeah?! Well, are you taking ballet lessons and doing drill team and taking ballroom lessons and fulfilling church callings and running the school newspaper and writing a weekly newspaper column and blah, blah, blah…"

I had a note on my door (stolen from my friend Angeline) that had a picture of a girl with her head on her desk. It said, "Think you're stressed? Call me. You can have some of mine."

Remembering that picture totally makes me blush now. My parents — running a business, raising six kids, and working multiple jobs — must've rightly thought I was an idiot.

At some point in high school, though, I realized something:

It's not that any of us are NOT busy — it's that our definitions of the word vary.

One of my friend's older brothers taught me this, without even knowing it. He would always (ALWAYS!) talk about how busy he was. He wasn't whining (which would've ticked me off); he was just saying, "I am busy." To me, though, he didn't look busy. It was then that I realized we're all working under different definitions of the same word.

We are all born with and develop busyness or stress thresholds, and what seems busy to one of us definitely might not seem busy to someone else.

I don't reach my definition of "busy" very often. Right now I'm working 40 hours a week and taking 9 credits in grad school. That's not busy.

My last semester of college in 2010, I was working 30 hours a week for the school, 10-20 hours of week doing freelance design, taking 18 credits, trying to finish the capstone classes for 3 different majors, and preparing to speak at graduation. That was busy.

I was busy last week. One midterm, six+ school assignments, 40+ hours of work, visits with my darling Kenna and my delightful Hobie, a date, trying to finish two sculptures in time for an art show, and planning a class for a Cub Scout leader pow-wow.

Got 'em both done, by the way. Bam.

I was busy in mid-December, when I was finishing 15 credits worth of classes for my first semester of grad school, working 40-60 hours a week, and trying to get presents ready for Christmas.

But guess what?

Other people were, are, and always will be busier.

I whined about being busy to a med student in my ward and he shut me down with "I work 80 hours a week." (Saving lives, I might add. That trumps any of my busyness.)

I whined to my Mom about being busy and she (could've but didn't, bless her) said, "Yes, well, I'm working 40 hours a week, being a mom, and planning the ENTIRE Cub Scout pow-wow.

I whine about working more than 40 hours a week to my boss, and then remember that he gets here about the same time I do, leaves 2-3 hours later, and is on-call all the time.

Maybe my roommate is the busiest person in the house. Maybe she's not.

I think she's not busy because she goes to get her hair done, goes out to eat, goes clubbing, and goes to the gym.

She probably thinks I'm not busy because I play with clay and I'm making a bunch of puppets for the Festival of Trees in November.

We both work and we both go to school.

Are we both busy?

Probably.

It's subjective.

Whenever someone tries to start a Time War (or whenever I mentally try to start one myself) I have to tell myself to (A) calm down, and (B) step back. I don't always succeed, but I do try.

Once you start a Time War, there's probably no stopping it.

And even if (miraculously) it does stop, is there ever really a Time War winner?

I'm thinking no.

P.S. If you don't know where the title comes from, you should probably listen to this. You're welcome:

The pre-career career change

I've been hesitant to write this because a certain creepy professor is likely still stalking this blog (just like he is/was on Twitter, despite being blocked… twice…) but whatever. A grad school professor requested the essay, and grad school professor > creepy not-grad-school professor.

A week before I was due to graduate from college, I realized I was on the wrong career path. It wasn't so much a realization as a personal admission, but it was bad timing either way.

What spurred the moment of truth?

A YouTube video.

This YouTube video, to be precise:

Yeah. Seriously.

I entered college to become a journalist. That desire was inspired by a fantastic high school teacher, three years of writing for my high school paper, and two years of running the paper as editor-in-chief. I accidentally enrolled myself in the newspaper class as a sophomore, but I developed a love for it.

Once I got in college, I rammed my way through the prerequisite classes for the journalism major. I intended to get my college degree in two years — tops — and jump feet-first into the profession.

One communications major, one history major, one political science minor, and one editing minor later…

There's a logical explanation for why I got sidetracked from my brilliant two-year plan. You see, I've been genetically programmed so that when someone tells me I am going to do something, I immediately do the opposite.

My friend Rachel: "You are going to love this Josh Groban song!"

Me: "It was just okay. I didn't love it."

(How long did it take me to admit that I love that song? Forever. But I totally love that song. And I was totally in that crowd when this was recorded. Whatever. Judgers.)

Like all college freshmen, I was told that I would change my major an average of 5 to 7 times. Therefore, I refused to change my major. I just added them instead.

Other people go to college and develop new and wonderful hobbies — ballroom dance, comedy clubs, intramurals . . . My second major became my hobby. For someone who has spent her life addicted to studying one period of history or another (Jamestown, Czarist Russia, World War II, the American Revolution, the settling of the West . . . you get the picture) having a history major as a college hobby was a simple extension of a natural nerdiness.

I never had any intention of using the history major for anything other than personal joy . . . until I saw that YouTube video.

There I was — seven years of official and unofficial reporting, three years of newspaper design, and a journalism internship in Washington, D.C., under my belt; just a week away from extolling the virtues of my communications degree as a speaker at graduation — and I knew I was on the wrong path.

That's a big fat oops.

I didn't make the wrong decision in pursuing journalism in college. My degree took me to Boston and Washington, and into the new and exciting world of the Adobe Suite, as well as into city government, politics, and the halls of Congress. In the end, though, all of those wonderful experiences turned out to be the college hobby, and the history degree turned out to be my real path. I knew, as soon as I finished that video, that I was meant to be a teacher.

The path to teaching would've been infinitely easier if I had admitted this to myself before my last week of college, but c'est la vie.

Now I'm in grad school, taking classes with people who have been teaching for years, and pretending to know what I'm talking about. I'm a grad school/teaching fraud, but it's working out well so far (very well, indeed, in fact) and my GPA hopes it continues.

I want to be a teacher for two reasons:

1. The world needs good teachers. Not teachers like some in my grad school classes who laugh about swearing at their students. Not teachers who aren't passionate about their subjects or start the first day of class by saying, "I hate teaching English." Not teachers who think it's a-OK and totally professional to act like a douche, threaten, and stalk former students.

(True stories, all)

2. History is the best subject in the world. Unfortunately, I always had awful or vaguely mediocre history teachers. I think I was a junior before I encountered my first good one in a concurrent enrollment class. The professor's comment on my essay planted the seed ("Have you ever thought about becoming a historian?") and fantastic college history professors cultivated it.

I'll always love journalism, and I love working in the field, but the siren call of history and the chance to help educate high school punks is stronger.

Besides, after seeing the Founding Fathers murder a OneRepublic song for the sake of early American history, who wouldn't be tempted to do something drastic?

New Year's Eve: Where dreams go to die

I've mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: New Year's Eve is the worst holiday ever.

I was talking about New Year's Eve with a coworker today, and I mentioned that all of my girlish childhood fantasies died on a New Year's Eve. Another coworker — apparently listening to the conversation — went, "awwwww," and I realized how melodramatic my words sounded.

"New Year's Eve — where my girlish childhood fantasies died! OoOoOoOoH!"

The story isn't actually melodramatic at all, but it ties in with a bigger problem I've been thinking about over the past few months: The Cinderella Syndrome.

In every film version of the Cinderella story, there comes a moment when Cinderella enters the ballroom, and the crowd — or more importantly, the prince — turns and stares in awe. I'll show you what I mean:

(Skip to 2:08)

(7:59)

(6:27)

(7:30)

(1:11)

I'd find more examples, but I'm bored with looking at YouTube.

For me, at least, all of those years growing up with Cinderella movies and romantic notions led to my catching a strong case of The Cinderella Syndrome. Maybe other people have had the same disease, or maybe I'm one of the few. (I definitely know one other person right now who has it. I was like, 14, at the time, and she's like, 22, but whatever…).

As part of the disease, all of those romantic moments where the prince looks up, sees the girl of his dreams, and falls madly in love, became a real thing in my head. That led to the fateful New Year's Eve, years and years ago, where my Cinderella Syndrome met its cruel and untimely death.

I wish I could remember exactly how old I was — it had to have been around or near 8^th grade — but the stake was holding a New Year's Eve dance for youth 14 and older, and I knew my time had come. I was going to have my Cinderella moment.

When a girl prepares for a Cinderella moment, she does so carefully. I certainly did. I chose the perfect outfit with the Cinderella moment in mind, and I took my time doing my hair and applying my brand new Christmas eye shadow (it was pink) with as much care as a 14-year-old (ish? Maybe?) girl could take. After hours of preparation, I joined my friends and we headed to the stake center.

My Cinderella Syndrome convinced me that as soon as I stepped into the ballroom — er, the gym — all the boys would come flocking to my side, vying for my attention.

They didn't.

My Cinderella Syndrome convinced me that as soon as I stepped into the ballroom — er, the gym — all the boys would come begging for a dance.

They didn't.

My Cinderella Syndrome convinced me that as soon as I stepped into the ballroom — er, the gym — all the boys would fall madly in love with me.

They didn't.

To call the entire debacle a blow to my self-confidence would be an understatement. I was pretty emotionally devastated. All the romantic notions and fantasies I had built up over years of watching Disney movies came crashing down around me. That's what New Year's Eve will always remind me of. It was the end of an era.

Admittedly, even though my dreams were shattered that night, I'm still a romantic at heart and my Cinderella Syndrome still kicks in at random moments. You can always tell when it does, because those are the days that I actually do my hair and choose my outfits with the intent of snaring a man. (C'mon, Good Looking Guy! Cooperate!)

Most of the time, though, I'm more of a realist. (Also, doing hair and choosing snaring outfits is hard work, and I am lazy.) The death of my Cinderella Syndrome was painful, but it was also a good thing. That awful New Year's Eve taught me that life isn't always like the movies. In fact, I found a hilarious quote the other day which applies to this exact situation, and which I think should become my life motto. Unfortunately  I promptly lost the desktop sticky note containing the quote when my computer crashed. Natch.

But the idea behind the quote was basically this: Realize that you are an unimportant pimple, embrace it, and build from there.

That sounds depressing, but it's actually not. If we admit that we're not always going to be Cinderella at the ball — that we don't have the power to woo princes/get our way/change the world just by existing — life gets easier. All of us are small folks, building lives in our own little corners (see what I did there?), and we should embrace that. Basing our actions and self-esteem on the delusional idea that one day the world will observe, applaud, and revere, only sets us up for disappointment. I'm now okay with being small. Every day brings the challenge of building a slightly bigger space that only I can fill. It's not quite Cinderella, but I'm happier now than I was then.

New Year's Eve still stinks, though.

I'm just saying.

It totally does.

But at least I don't look like this… this year, anyway…

Tagged: The Next Big Thing (Shannen made me do it)

I was tagged by author Shannen Crane Camp to discuss my WIP. 

Note: Normally I wouldn't discuss a WIP with anybody (embarrassing), but when Shannen demands...

Wikipedia said I could use this picture, so I did.

What is the working title of your book?

The Sleeping Beauty Gift

Where did the idea come from for the book?

That's quite a long story, so here's the overview: This book is the third in a series (yeah, Shan, technically the one you've got is the fourth). That makes it bizarre to try to explain how it came about, since it's the continuation of a project I've been working on since 2008. It all started with an imagined conversation between Cinderella and her prince at a ball, which eventually turned into a book . . . and then another book . . . and then another book . . . 

What genre does your book fall under?

You can probably guess from the title, but it's young adult fiction with a heavy dose of fairy tale.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

An impossible question to answer. All of my favorites are far too old. Since I'm supposed to answer, though, I might choose Lily Collins as the main female protagonist. She's exquisite, but I don't know if she could pull off blonde. Emma Roberts? Molly Quinn? For the male protagonist, it'd have to be William Moseley from "The Chronicle of Narnia." He'd be perfect, minus the fact that he's supposed to have dark, curly Josh Groban hair. Curse you, celebrity hair gods.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A prince stuck with the unsavory nickname "Royal Loser" and minus a fairy gift turns out to be more than he appears, and only one person knows about it—a princess who's determined to tell the world.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Let's face it—everybody wants an agency. I'm no different, but self-publishing looks more tempting each time I look into it.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? May we see an intro?

It's still a rough, rough, rough work in progress, which means it's unfit for human viewing. Honestly, it's almost too painful for me to read at this point. That's not an excuse, Shan—it's just a cold, hard fact.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Ella Enchanted, by Gail Carson Levine (one of my favorite books ever), The Ordinary Princess, by M.M. Kaye (THE favorite book ever), and the Dealing with Dragons series by Patricia C. Wrede.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

While I was in the process of writing my Cinderella story back in 2008, I watched a bunch of different Cinderella movies to stay in the proper fairy tale mindset. The Czech, Three Chestnuts for Cinderella, or Three Wishes for Cinderella, (depending on which country you ask), instantly became my favorite. I loved it because the prince and Cinderella interacted prior to the ball. I've always thought the Cinderella story was a little fishy in that respect. She just walks into the ballroom and he falls in love with her? No. That's just ridiculous. Once I wrote the Cinderella story, I thought it might be fun to follow the children of Cinderella and her two stepsisters, which eventually became retellings of Rapunzel and Snow White. Sleeping Beauty will complete the set, even though I should have written it before Rapunzel. Oops.

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

All of the books tie in very closely with different versions of fairy tales from around the world. It's one of the features I’m most proud of. There are myriad versions of Cinderella, Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White, and they're all fascinating and beautiful in their own way. (Or terrifying and scary . . . I'm talking about you, Russia.) I've tried to incorporate as many as possible into the names, traits, and adventures of my characters. While researching Cinderella, I kept reading different versions of the other fairy tales too, and new characters and story lines began to develop almost against my will.

Also, my Sleeping Beauty story might just have hints of The Scarlet Pimpernel in it. Sir Percival Blakeney is just too amazing to resist.

So, I'm supposed to tag five other authors in this post, but since I only know one other author and she's the one who tagged me... 

When aliens attack

(That video will make sense later...)

I'm a big believer in writing muses. It's either superstition, or a good excuse to allow myself not to feel guilty for failing to write in my free time, but...

No, seriously, I think that sometimes the muses hit, and other times they don't. When they do pay you a visit, you must obey. Normally my muses speak to me at the most obscenely inconvenient times. For instance, I never made it through a finals week in college without feeling like Odysseus trying to withstand the sirens... 

The problem is, if you don't write something down, it's like it never happened. (Tom Clancy taught me that.) Since I've learned the write-it-or-lose-it lesson through unhappy experience, when the muses hit, I'll write on anything I've got handy. I keep a pad of sticky notes by my bed (full if illegible scribbles, since I'm usually asleep). I've got pages and pages of teeny tiny notes I took during my college biology class. I've filled up all the memo space on my phone with notes, and the majority of my phone's "sounds" section is me whispering parts of stories into the microphone.

One of the greatest tools I've got, though, is this:

Picture not actually taken at 4:32 a.m....

This is my recorder, and it has been my friend through many, er, dangers? (Name that movie!) It moved to Washington, D.C., with me in 2009 and recorded many an interview/hearing/bill markup on Capitol Hill. Back in Utah, it has recorded interviews with city officials, local celebrities, and even the doltish head of a college department. (Some of you can probably guess which one...)

But most importantly, this dear little recorder provides a handy dandy way for me to channel the muses while making the arduous 2 ½-hour drive from my hometown to my current town. It's much safer to talk into a recorder than it is to balance a notepad on the steering wheel while driving.

World—you're welcome.

The other day I pulled out my recorder to interview my roommate for a class assignment and discovered that it was full. Luckily, this happened around the same time that I was due to take a trip home, so I used that boring drive to listen to clips and erase the ones I didn't need. The majority of the clips were from Washington, and consisted of lawmakers sounding roughly like the teacher from Charlie Brown: Whaaa-whaaa-whaa, whaaa-whaa whaaaa-whaaa whaa…

Some of the clips, though, were bits of my stories from as far back as 2009—bits I had forgotten recording, and was pretty excited to have found. If I learned one thing from listening to the clips, though, it's that my mind shifts into ADD mode when recording/driving/mentally writing/channeling muses.

Observe:

Bring all these characters together and have him talk to them all, and it will be a good time. One hour. It's going to be like, 9:30 before I get home. Blegh. Anyway, so he's there trying to avoid all these dumb people and…"

"So they journey along and… I think this is a cop……………………… Yep, it was! Hope he doesn't mind that I'm going 5 over. Whoops. Anyway…"

"She's unhappy and—the lake is pretty! It's dark blue in the middle and light blue on the edges with pink from the clouds and the sunset! *GASP* It's pretty! Anyway. I just had to make a note of that. Okay. So, she doesn't trust this newcomer, and…"

"Now, he's annoyed by her because she's not right. DUDE! A PELICAN! That's cool!"

So there I was, listening to myself blather on about cops and pelicans when I switched over to a new file, only to hear Brother No. 5. (Read it with a puffed-up newscaster voice to get the full experience:)

"Hello?

"Hi.

"This is (Brother No. 5) reporting from the crash site of the alien spaceship. And we've been seeing strange flashes of light…

"Oh no! The doors are opening up! Oh man! There's an alien crawling out!

"The president's now here trying to make peace and contact with them.

"The alien's just standing looking around… Wait… It has something. It looks like it's going to move up to shake the president's hand...

"HE SHOOTS THE PRESIDENT! OH MAN! THIS IS SCARY!

"The Secret Service is going up—OH! THEY BURST INTO FLAMES! OH, THIS IS SCARY! THIS IS JUST TERRIBLE!

"OH, I'M GOING TO… UHHHH…. AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

And just like that, Brother No. 5, in his 2009 squeaky little 12-year-old voice, managed to surpass anything else that will probably ever exist on my recorder. Ever.

Dang him.

Living in the middle

Back in July, my home teachers and President Dieter F. Uchtdorf's message in the Ensign prompted me to say something almost deep and profound. Since that doesn't happen very often ("deep and profound" is not my modus operandi, to say the least…) I still remember exactly what I said:

"Humans were made to live in the middle."

In his Ensign message, President Uchtdorf tells about redoing the headstone on his parents' grave, saying, "When I looked at the birth dates and death dates on the headstone connected by the usual insignificant little dash, this small symbol of a lifespan suddenly filled my mind and heart with an abundance of rich memories. Each of these treasured memories reflects a moment in the middle of my parents' lives and in the middle of my life. Whatever our age, whatever our location, when things occur in our lives, we are always in the middle. What's more, we will forever be in the middle."

I graduated from college back in April 2010. I walked straight into a job, and I've been working ever since. But it didn't take long (maybe a day or two) to realize that being single, not dating, and only working for 8 hours per day is draining. I had reached the end of my goals and I was out of the middle.

I didn't like it.

If you think about it, you spend your whole life building up to certain events. You go through kindergarten to get to 1^st grade. You go through elementary and junior high to get to high school. You get through high school to go to college, and you get through college to get a job. Every day between those events is filled with certain actions—homework, extracurricular activities, etc.—designed to help you reach your end goal.

That transition from college student to college graduate threw me off a little because I wasn't really ready for it. I hadn't thought about reaching the end of a goal because I was too busy living in the middle. I like the middle. I'm comfortable in the middle. Frankly, that's where I feel like we all belong.

I have a friend who makes fun of me for constantly being in the middle of projects. He's right. I recently finished making spoon puppets for my mom's Scout camp, and within three days of delivering the puppets, I came up with a fabulous idea for next year's Festival of Trees. That means Mom and I will have something to work on from here until next November. Done with projects? Never!!!

"We're knights of the round table. We dance when e're we're able..." 

I don't jump into projects because I'm an overachiever or because I feel like I need to compensate for something. I do it because it puts me back in the middle. Right now I'm in the middle of figuring out Shannen's birthday present (this famous published author Shannen), editing a book, inching toward getting a book published, and sewing another Tardis blanket and a set of Doctor/Rose dolls. These are small middles—little projects that help fill my time—but they're not the big middles I spent 23 years living in.

Luckily, though, I ran back into the middle—the BIG middle; a REAL middle—a few weeks ago by starting grad school. So far this new middle has consisted of a teacher asking if I'm a right-winger, another teacher telling me I HAD to talk in class even if I had nothing useful to say, and every single one of my teachers distributing outrageously confusing syllabi. That's okay. At least I'm back in the middle.

Forrest Gump and I have a disagreement about life—he thinks it's all about chocolate, but I'm more inclined to believe life is more like a staircase in an optical illusion. We move from one goal to the next, but most of our time is spent in the middle. Once we reach our goal, be it graduation, a new job, or marriage, I think we're instinctively wired to start looking for our next middle. You know that old saying, "Idle hands are the Devil's workshop"? I'm just going to assume that whoever first said that totally agrees with me. Life gets complicated when we're not living in the middle, usually because we're bored or unhappy.

So my life's mission is to stick to the middle—to keep inventing new goals and climbing toward them. Once those goals are achieved (three or four semesters to go, *sigh*) it's time to start finding new ones. (I'd sure like that PhD one day…)

All that living in the middle may sound depressing at times ("WHAT?! You mean I NEVER get to finish climbing?!) but it's not. Living in the middle is a happy thing.

As President Uchtdorf said, "Being in the middle means that the game is never over, hope is never lost, defeat is never final. For no matter where we are or what our circumstances, an eternity of beginnings and an eternity of endings stretch out before us. We are always in the middle."

If I were bold enough to add just a little to that statement, I'd say this:

"Or if you're not… you should be." 

An almost (mostly not) true story: Space camp's grand conclusion

When we last left our adventurous heroes, they had just angered the slavehunter Grooll by refusing to hand over the rescued slave Rooll. Shields were up, and threats were being made...

(Fair warning repetition: Just in case you're a Trekkie/Star Wars nerd who's going to get all upset about my terminology and garbage — I really don't care. Therefore, don't bother… Space camp was a campy mix of Star Trek episodes, storylines, and vernacular, and therefore, the terms are those used in the experience and it is what it is.)

"Sir, he is preparing to fire," the sensors officer said. 

Almost before he could get the words out, the weapons on Grooll's ship lit up, whipping through the space between the two ships and pounding the Voyager. The ship rocked violently back and forth with the impact as crewmembers struggled to stay in their seats. Damage reports began to come in almost immediately and the bridge, which had previously been silent, roared to life.

"Shields at sixty percent!" the left wing tactical officer called. The left and right damage control officers scurried from console to console, while the right wing flight officer went through a litany of red lights, trying to trace the problems the attack had created. Warning alarms squealed and voices clamored in the rush of activity.

"Quiet on the deck!" the first officer shouted. It was a losing effort.

"Do you surrender?" came Grooll's voice again.

"We do not," the ambassador said in reply.

An answering wave of photon torpedoes shot from Grooll's ship and the warnings and alarms on the Voyager grew in volume.

"Transfer all power to the forward shields," the captain ordered.

"Shields at 45 percent," the left wing tactical officer said. "Sir, the ship can't take much more of this."

"Sir, the USS Ranger is hailing us," the telephone officer exclaimed. "Commander Adams said he is bringing the ship to assist us."

"The Ranger is a scientific vessel," the captain said. "She won't be any use here. Tell her to—"

The abrupt entrance of the smaller ship broke off the captain's words. The Voyager crew watched from the viewport as Grooll's larger ship turned its weapons upon its new foe. Explosions rocked the Ranger and Captain Willis ordered medical to prepare to receive survivors. As the horror-filled crew of the Voyager watched, scenes from onboard the Ranger were piped onto the viewscreen. Ranger crewmembers ran along the halls in a frantic evacuation of the ship, heading for the shuttlecraft. Moments later, as the Ranger disintegrated under the power of Grooll's weapons, the engineer gave the grim total.

"Three hundred Ranger crewmembers have been rescued," he said. "Captain Adams was killed during the evacuation."

A deep silence filled the ship as the Voyager crew took a moment to let the news sink in.

"If you give me my slave, I will not fire on your ship again," Grooll said.

"We will not!" the captain barked, bypassing the ambassador.

"As representatives of the Federation, we cannot be a part of slavery!" the ambassador exclaimed, propping himself up against a desk as the ship rocked with another attack. Then, quite suddenly, the shooting stopped.

"Ambassador, show me your cheek," Grooll said quietly.

"My cheek?" he repeated in confusion.

"Amongst the Pennou, slavery is acceptable because the Pennae are inferior forms of life," Grooll explains, his rage still evident in his controlled voice. "We are separated by marks of nobility on our faces, evidenced on each cheek. Now, SHOW ME YOUR CHEEK."

Hesitantly, the ambassador turned his head from side to side, showing each of his cheeks to the viewscreen. The explosion of rage met with this action was palpable.

"You are inferior!" Grooll roared. "AMBASSADOR! YOU MUST DIE!"

"Hide!" the nearest crewmember shouted.

Security officers dashed past as alerts informed them that enemy combatants had just transported aboard the ship. In the confusion, the ambassador crouched next to a station, looking up at the crewmember sitting there.

"Is this real?" he asked, breaking character for the tiniest fraction of a second.

"No," she said, breaking into laughter at the ambassador's panic. "It's not real."

"Get us out of here!" the captain ordered, directing his command at the left wing tactical officer.

The Voyager began to pull away from Grooll's ship as the ambassador hid next to the first officer and Grooll opened fire once more. The first officer told the ambassador to go away ("I don't want to get shot!") while the captain ordered the shield's power transferred to the rear of the ship. The Voyager limped away as fast as the stricken ship could go, but Grooll, caught off-guard by the sudden movement, wasted no time in following.

"Sir, he's gaining on us," the left wing tactical officer said.

"Our engines are losing power," the engineer spoke up. "We were badly damaged in that last attack."

"Sir! We're nearing a star!" the science officer suddenly shouted. His words instantly captured the attention of every crewmember on board, causing silence to descend once more in the face of this newest danger. The only sound the followed was the ongoing clamor of warnings and alarms.

"Stop the ship!" the captain ordered.

The wounded Voyager shuddered to a halt and the bridge echoed with the groans of strained metal.

"We're caught in the gravitational pull," the left wing tactical officer said after a long, painful moment. "And the enemy is closing in."

The star loomed nearer as the ship stayed in place, yet crept closer to the burning mass of the giant star.

"Redirect the power to the engines and get us away from here," the captain instructed calmly. The left wing tactical officer did so, and reported back seconds later.

"I'm afraid we're still being pulled in."

"The shields are weakened from the attacks and we will be incinerated in sixty seconds at our current pace of movement."

"I've been on a ship where we died once!" the academy instructor interjected gleefully. "The lights turned red and we all had to lay down on the floor!"

The captain paused to consider the perilous threat for just seconds, while officers ran around the bridge and shouted instructions and reports to each other.

"Quiet on the bridge!" the first officer shouted. She couldn't be heard over the clamor.

"Use the gravitational force of the star and slingshot around," the captain exclaimed. His voice carried, and the left wing tactical officer hurried to comply while the rest of the crewmembers held their breath. The captain's knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of his chairs and waited for a final report.

"Come on, come on, come on."

The whispered pleas seemed to float through the air and hang overhead as the orange glow of the star loomed larger and larger in the ship's viewscreen. Seconds later, alarms clanging, the Voyager turned laboriously. The straining ship pulled away from the star, escaping from the clutches of its gravity and pushing toward safety. The crew released a collective sigh of relief, but the relief was short-lived. Grooll, still on the chase, spoke once more.

"You cannot run again," Grooll said. "You will not release my slave and therefore you must die. I will give you one final chance. Give him to me now."

"No," the ambassador said.

"This is your final chance. Your ship is crippled and my weapons are trained on you. You cannot escape. Return him to me."

"No," the ambassador repeated. The captain nodded his approval at the answer, and the rest of the crewmembers set their jaws in stubbornness.

"Give him to me," Grooll demanded again. "Or I will fire in five seconds."

"No."

"Five…" Grooll said. The bridge was silent.

"Four…" the countdown continued.

"Three…"

"Two…"

The crewmembers held their breath and waited. At least they would know they had died defending what was right. They waited for a long second—a second that seemed to last for an eternity. The final "one," however, never came.

"I've . . .  never seen such courage," Grooll said. His voice was filled with astonishment; soft and reverent. "You refuse to run or give up what you believe in, even though it will cost you your lives. My people have not exhibited this bravery, nor such determination to defend their values. I cannot . . . fault you for standing up for what you believe in. I will return to my home planet. We can learn from you."

"Wait . . . really?" the captain murmured in shock. That shock turned into jubilation as the news sunk in, and the crew broke into a round of hearty cheering and backslapping.

It was an escape that could only be classified as the type to come by the skin of ones' teeth, but it had come. The Voyager returned to Earth soon after, with the effects of the mission weighing heavily on their mind and with a new appreciation for the values they had been taught—values that had ultimately saved their lives, and perhaps, if Grooll was true to his words, the lives of hundreds of thousands of Rooll's kind.

"It was a good mission," the captain observed with satisfaction as the yellow troop carrier returned them to the Academy. "It was a very good mission."