[Story by Shawn Alpay, Character Art by Thomas Marrone]
Previously on Star Trek: Loma Prieta…
Episode 1: Shifts – Prologue
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 1
ACT 2
The science lab was teeming with a mix of yellow and blue uniforms as Bukowski entered. She didn’t recognize some of their faces, and she assumed most of them to be recent transfers or Academy grads, judging by their bright eyes and lone pips on each of their collars. LCARS consoles were strewn about the room in various state of disassembly, each accompanied by a pair of harried but determined crewmen, tinkering with the consoles’ insides or taking notes on PADDs. Complicated combinations of math equations and chemistry shorthand littered the screens activated nearby. She made a mental note to review the most recent crew logs, and to pay closer attention during Lieutenant Roodman’s lessons, as she walked around the corner in search of the chief science officer.
She approached an exasperated-looking Lieutenant Amy MacKinnon (née Sloan), who stood at the end of a long table, which was covered with various console innards. Chief Hesser stood at her side, his arms folded, looking over her shoulder at the PADD she held.
“Tom, you don’t understand — if this was a flesh and blood kind of situation, there’s no way it could have crossed the physical barrier of the drive emitters you’ve got here and here,” she said, her words harried and terse, pointing to two areas of the PADD. “It’s more like a neuron. But maybe you’re not cross-compartmentalizing it properly. Try polarizing the beta scanners—”
“That was the very first thing I did,” Hesser said as neutrally as possible.
“If you try polarizing the beta scanners,” MacKinnon continued, “it might reveal how it jumped from the zero sector. Pathogens are tricky things, you know.”
“So I’ve come to realize,” Hesser replied, looking up at Bukowski, who offered him a thin-lipped smile. “What’s going on, Tiffany?”
“Oh, you know. Just wanted to see how things are going. I have no clue what you’re doing,” she said with a sheepish smile, gesturing vaguely to the host of equipment strewn about the lab, “but I’m kind of pot-committed to this thing now. What’s the latest?”
“Well, with Amy’s help, I’ve figured out that this thing spreads in a particular pattern, not unlike an organic virus. The ordinal directions it follows are theoretically predictable, but it likes to keep switching patterns; every time I think I have it contained, it switches its vector and method of ingress. If we knew where it started, I could probably extrapolate its mutation algorithm and figure out what system it’s going to strike next.”
“Indeed,” MacKinnon said, setting down the PADD she held and looking from Hesser to Bukowski. “Interestingly, the dark art it’s casting seems to be slowing down in some of the sections. The rearrangement you mentioned in your initial report will probably finish up in those areas by morning.”
Bukowski tilted her head slightly. “Hmm. I’ll look through it later and let you know what I find.”
Hesser took a few steps over to a nearby console, tapping in some commands and speaking back to Bukowski. “If you wanna stick around, we’re about to flood the quarantined sections of the ship’s computer with a reverse-encoded piece of the virus Amy’s team hopes will take the teeth out of its payload, so any future spreading would be benign.” He gestured to Ensign Erin O’Connor, who stood across the lab; her background in xenopathology offered the team a decent shot at developing counter-measures.
MacKinnon smiled proudly, her chin slightly raised. “A vaccine, if you will.”
Bukowski looked at the two of them. “Sounds… fun, but I’m headed down to the food contest. Either of you coming?”
“No, as much as I’d like to,” MacKinnon said, frowning, with a look at Hesser. “Seriously, walking into this right after your honeymoon can be just a tiny bit jarring.”
“I get it, Amy,” Hesser replied, his usually unflappable demeanor showing signs of cracks along the edges. “I promise you I will listen to pretty much all of your stories as soon as we’ve got this figured out.”
“Let me know if I can help,” Bukowski said, then turned and made her way through the sea of crewmen and walked out into the hall. She sighed, bringing her PADD to life and tapping on it while she moved to the turbolift. As MacKinnon had said, the corruption seemed to have become less active in some of the original files she had accessed. She closed her eyes and deactivated the PADD as she stepped into the turbolift.
“Deck 4,” she said hoarsely, her throat caught up in weariness. It had been her longest day of work since the Academy, and she could hardly see straight, much less speak clearly to an automaton. She closed her eyes and prepared to catch the briefest of standing naps en route, but the turbolift didn’t move. She cleared her throat and spoke more clearly. “Deck 4.” The turbolift jumped to life, and she smiled wryly, dearly desiring sleep.
—
Lieutenant Scott Spencer and Ensign Ian Sayre had nearly completed food and drink preparations in Mess Hall 2, a room more colloquially known as The Cup and Saucer. No one onboard was quite sure of the nickname’s origin, as the moniker seemed to have arisen concurrently with the ship’s commissioning; the crew had taken to the circulation of countless apocryphal origin stories, most having been authored by Helmsman (and self-declared Ship’s Historian) MacKinnon.
Spencer and Sayre had developed a cloudy partnership during their initial tenure aboard the Loma Prieta. Sayre had purview over the ship’s replicators, which he proudly touted as amongst the most efficient and reliable as could be found on any ship in Starfleet. But the captain had long ago developed a distaste for synthetically-created food and drink, and thus Spencer and Lieutenant Nicole Lippman had respectively been assigned to organic brands of cultivation for his personal consumption. Word of this work had quickly spread amongst the crew, as the novelty and refreshment of hand-grown edibles aboard a starship formed a compelling argument. One of the cargo bays had been almost completely converted into a hydroponic farm and distillery, with crew members volunteering for shifts. Sayre’s sterling clutch of replicators had thus increasingly been relegated to the construction of more mundane resources: spare parts, medical salves, and of course, Laundry Chief Brian Johnson’s uniform stock.
Still, Spencer and Sayre had recently agreed to pursue the discovery of more common ground, and they found themselves partnering on a weekly gathering at The Cup and Saucer, at which they would both prepare a host of culinary delights centered around a theme for the given week. Spencer would sling recipes of his own creation, and Sayre would scour subspace broadcasts set up between Federation replicator experts to find the best, most relevant dishes. The crew would then sample their fare, and votes would then be cast. In the 17 gatherings that had been held, Sayre held the edge with 11 victories — though this was most usually due to Spencer’s relative unfamiliarity with whatever theme had been provided. Last week’s focus on Vulcan cuisine had yielded Spencer’s attempt at plomeek broth that, as the Loma Prieta’s sole Vulcan crewman V’lok had mentioned, was notable for being perhaps the blandest version of the traditional soup ever attempted. This week’s theme had fallen much more squarely into Spencer’s wheelhouse, however, and he had approached “Delicacies of the African Confederation” with particular gusto.
Although Lippman had developed quite a varied library of mixed drinks during her time onboard, libations at these weekly gatherings were ever the same: a shot of whiskey (Aldebaran preferred), chased gingerly with an equal serving of artisanal pickle juice brewed at the hydroponic farm. Indeed, it was one of Captain Perkins’ many direct executive orders that barred any so-called picklebacks to be fashioned through the replicator, which contributed only further to Mr. Sayre’s chagrin.
By 2130, most of the senior staff had assembled at The Cup and Saucer, along with a constellation of junior officers and crewmen. In the corner, of the room, per the captain’s direction, Ensigns Paul Vassilakos-Long and Michael O’Donnell had constructed a set of directional holoemitters, allowing for all manner of live entertainment to be shown; in this case, they had elected to project a band playing in the revival afro-beat style of the 2150’s.
“Oh honey, you look super tired,” Ensign Jessie Philipp said to Bukowski, who had taken the liberty of changing into casual attire. Some in the crowd had also elected to do so, though Philipp remained in uniform, as she had recently been assigned the night shift and would have to head to the bridge directly after the gathering. Philipp put her hand on Bukowski’s cheek. “Are Ben’s lectures basically the worst? You can tell me.”
“Nah, it’s not him.” Bukowski smiled, tilting her head and leaning her cheek into Philipp’s hand. It’s true, she seemed rather exhausted; dark circles hung under her eyes, and her hair was somewhat frizzy and unkempt. “I actually bailed on his lesson to research some stuff for the captain, staring at a screen pretty much all day. Looking for patterns in the data, and I’ve hit a wall.”
“Do I need to give Zach a talking to? You know I will.” She retracted her hand and folded her arms, faking a stern expression that maybe wasn’t fake.
Bukowski’s smile broadened, and she chuckled. “You’re the best, Jessie.”
“Why are you even here? Go to your quarters and get some sleep!”
“Nah. I’m gonna keep working after this, but I needed a break. Just call me Nancy Drew.”
“Nancy who?”
“Alright, crew, gather ‘round,” Captain Perkins bellowed from one side of the room. The attendees clustered around him, fetching up two shotglasses each from a table nearby. This weekly gathering had also become a chance for Perkins to informally address the crew, and as he raised one of his glasses to proceed with his latest installment, Vassilakos-Long busied himself with a few commands on his tricorder, lowering the volume of the holo-band.
“Well, it’s good to see everyone. Even you, Mr. Owens. I promise you that, in our next session of Strategema, I will carry the day.”
Chief Operations Officer Michael Owens chuckled, restraining a blush. “At least it wasn’t golf, sir,” was his best attempt at an impromptu retort, and the crowd chuckled politely.
“Anyhow,” Perkins continued. “I assume that most of you by now have heard that the USS Voyager was lost with all hands today. This drink will be in their honor. Some of you have been putting in some long hours to ensure that our fine ship stays firmly entrenched in safety’s hands, and for that, I thank you — and Starfleet thanks you.”
He raised his glass, cuing the others to raise theirs. “Remember crew: when looking to the stars, keep both eyes open.” Everyone slung back the contents of both shotglasses in quick succession.
Perkins exhaled sharply. “Now where’s the spread? Spencer, I’m rooting for you. I really don’t want to start eating replicated food, Sayre, but dammit, I will.” He put an arm around Sayre’s shoulders as the band came back up to normal volume, and the attendees resumed the consumption of Sayre and Spencer’s wares.
“And I’m not gonna go easy on you, either, sir,” Owens said with a smile as he approached Perkins and Sayre.
The captain scoffed. “Well then, why are you so pale? You look kinda scared of my prowess.”
“Ugh, I dunno.” He put a hand on his stomach, then looked to Sayre. “Anything weird in what you made, Ian? My stomach is not doing so hot right now.”
Sayre quirked a brow, folding his arms. “No, not that I know. Just keyed in a bunch of replicator recipes like normal. If anything, I’d blame Scott,” he said with a chuckle.
“Haven’t tried his stuff yet.” The color further drained from Owens’ face, and he winced in pain. “Okay, not good.”
Perkins’ look turned to concern, and he glanced about. “Where’s Koperski?” He spotted Chief Medical Officer Kristin Koperski across the room, but she was already attending to a female crewmember who seemed to be suffering from a similar malady. He then surveyed the room, and several other attendees had taken to going pale and clutching their stomachs.
Koperski touched her commbadge as she walked over to Perkins, her hand on the back of her afflicted ward to guide her. “Koperski to sickbay. I need two of you to prepare biobeds, and three more of you down to C&S on the double. Bring hyposprays and a mobile unit.”
“Aye, sir,” duly came the reply.
“I’ll be in sickbay if you need me, Captain. I think Spencer wins,” Koperski said with a look to Sayre as she led the pained crewmember towards sickbay.
Philipp overheard all this, and she folded her arms, watching Koperski leave. “Sure glad I didn’t try anything yet. Did you, Tiff?” She glanced over at Bukowski, who had activated her PADD, quickly typing and swiping, a look of intent having sliced through her tired demeanor. “Gonna do some light reading while the crew gets sick, kid?” Philipp said, trying to make light of a serious situation as best she could.
Bukowski looked up, offering the briefest of smiles. “I gotta go,” she said curtly, touching Philipp’s shoulder in farewell and crossing the room to exit.
—
TO BE CONTINUED… STAY TUNED FOR ACT 3, NEXT TUESDAY.
