Please note, STAR TREK: LOMA PRIETA will be taking a mid-episode hiatus starting today. We will return with Act 5 of Episode 1 on Tuesday, October 8th.
[Story by Shawn Alpay, Character Art by Thomas Marrone]
Previously on Star Trek: Loma Prieta…
Episode 1: Shifts – Prologue
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 1
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 2
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 3
ACT 4
“Rothschild here. What’s the latest, Commander Sung?”
“He’s been read his charges and directed to the brig, Admiral, per your direction.”
“Very good.” With his bulky build and greying beard, Admiral Rothschild cut an imposing figure in his chair as displayed on Commander Sung’s console, though he clearly exuded the air of a man past his physical prime. “That’s very good. Starfleet won’t stand for such incursion against its vessels, and Perkins will taste justice soon enough.”
Sung’s brow furrowed. “Admiral… if I may?” Rothschild gestured towards the screen, silently motioning for Sung to proceed. “Sir, it’s clear to me that Perkins has committed a crime of some sort here — but how are you so sure of his motives? He hasn’t even yet had a chance to offer his side of the story. I feel as though we’ve proceeded without full due process.”
Rothschild looked at him a moment, then exhaled and folded his arms. “Okay. Commander Sung, what I’m about to tell you is top secret.” He paused, and Sung offered his compliance with a curt nod. “It’s been determined that Captain Cody Glenn was a turncoat, actively attempting to inflict and maximize direct harm to Starfleet holdings and personnel. A couple of months ago, he and his crew accessed an array of sensitive files classified by Starfleet Command. Among other things, he absconded with an advanced prototype designed to more efficiently upgrade and format the databanks on Starfleet vessels. His last communication with HQ came just after he left Starbase 415 a few weeks ago, wherein which he levied a direct threat to alter and deploy said prototype onto as many ships as possible if we did not agree to his demands.”
“Which were?”
“The unsealing of various classified documents that would, naturally, compromise the security interests of the Federation.” Rothschild unfolded his arms, placing his hands on the arms of his chair. “I’m not at liberty to explain this further.”
Sung pondered this a moment. “I see.”
“With Glenn’s demands roundly rejected, he then proceeded onboard the Navras to the Phordon sector, where he was intercepted by a fleet dispatched to track his movements. A firefight ensued, and his ship was quickly disabled. At that time, he initiated a self-destruct sequence by mixing his ship’s stores of matter and antimatter, killing himself and everyone onboard.”
“So it wasn’t a warp core malfunction as the logs state.”
Rothschild smiled wryly. “One could reasonably call it that, if one had a sufficiently dark sense of humor.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Anyhow, we initially assumed that to be the end of the story. However, it’s become clear that he attempted to disseminate his virus to other ships of the line through a slate of his fellow commanding officers. He avoided initial detection by doing this the old-fashioned way: distributing it physically.”
“Thus the entry vector originating from the captain’s console,” Sung concluded.
“Indeed. At best, Perkins was an unwitting accomplice to Glenn’s scheme. At worst…” Rothschild unsteepled his fingers and gestured outward with open palms. “He’s just another terrorist.”
Sung offered a darkened expression in reply, and Rothschild continued. “Anyhow, what you’ve currently got on your hands is an advanced stage of targeted database degradation that we’ve termed the Glenn Virus. I’m ordering a full quarantine of all compromised data sectors onboard your ship until you dock. Any access of that information could result, either accidentally or purposefully, in the distribution of this pathogen to more Starfleet ships — not to mention that it could be chock full of terrorist propaganda that could sway your folks to Glenn’s cause. So any access will be harshly penalized. This is for your protection, Commander, and the protection of your crew.”
“Understood.”
Rothschild leaned back, tilting his chair back and gesturing outward. “Thankfully, we’ve got what you might call a vaccine. We’ve dispatched a team of specialists to rendezvous with you at Starbase 415, along with a security detail that will escort Perkins back to earth. Everything’ll be right as rain before you know it.”
“Good to hear, Admiral.” Sung swallowed. “And what of the captain’s replacement? Will we be picking up his successor as well?”
Rothschild chuckled. “Ah, Commander, you are ever the modest one.” He looked down at his console and typed in a few commands, then cleared his throat, speaking formally. “Effective immediately, Jon Sung, you are hereby provisionally promoted to Captain, with all benefits and responsibilities befitting the rank.” Rothschild smiled, looking up at the screen. “I wish I could be there to personally pin that fourth pip on you. The Loma Prieta is now yours, Sung; take care of it.”
“I… will. Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll be in touch once you dock. You’ll be there in sixteen hours, yes?”
“Give or take, Admiral, assuming the engines hold together. Systems have been intermittent, but the engineering staff is on it.”
“Very good. Talk to you soon, then. Rothschild out.” The screen went blank, then displayed the Federation logo.
Sung leaned back in his chair at the far end of the table in the observation lounge, his forearms resting on the arms of the chair as he looked down at the screen. After a long moment, he typed in a few commands to his console, then tapped his commbadge.
“Sung to bridge,” he intoned.
“Roberts here.”
“Mr. Roberts, lay in a course for the following coordinates and notify me when we arrive,” Sung said, tapping away at the console. “And get Hesser up there.”
“Commander?”
“It’ll only be a couple hours out of our way. And for what it’s worth, it’s Captain now.”
Roberts was silent a moment as he considered the obvious implications. “Congratulations, sir,” came the measured reply.
“Thanks. Sung out.”
Captain Sung folded his arms, exhaling slowly.
—
Bukowski sat in her darkened quarters, her back against the wall, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, a small glass in her lap, and a mostly-empty bottle on the table nearby. The only light snuck in from the stars gliding past through the window. Her expression lay blank as her mind churned through a formless assortment of recent events. Her PADD lay next to her on the bed, upside-down.
A chime interrupted her carefully brewed silence. “Come,” she said without moving her posture or gaze, her voice almost a whisper.
The doors slid open and Ensign Philipp entered. She wore overalls and a large floppy thatched hat, backlit by the bright lights of the hall, and she stood in the doorway a moment to use that light to look about for Bukowski, finding her with a squint. “Hey! I got your message.”
“Yeah,” Bukowski replied, glancing at Philipp briefly before continuing to stare straight ahead, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a small sip.
Quickly sizing up her friend’s emotional state, Philipp stood still a moment, considering how best to approach this. She then took off her hat, crossing the room and sitting on the bed next to Bukowski as the doors closed, returning the room to near-darkness. “How are you not asleep?”
Bukowski scoffed with a smile on one side of her face. “Wouldn’t it be my luck to get insomnia after staying up for two days straight,” she said, tilting her head back and downing the rest of the glass’ contents. “So I’m taking my medicine.”
“You know there are, like, eight thousand better ways to fall asleep.”
“Yeah.” Silence.
“Oh honey,” Philipp said after a moment, putting a hand on Bukowski’s leg. “Listen. This isn’t your fault.”
“Yeah,” came the reply, in that cold and unsure way one might protest desired reassurance.
“Seriously.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Philipp frowned, unsure what to say next, and they sat quiet for a moment.
“I just don’t understand why he’d do something like this,” Bukowski finally said, her words obscured by the weight of drunkenness. She looked at Philipp intently for the first time since she had entered. “And why would he tell me to research something if it meant finding out he tried to destroy our ship?”
Philipp thought for a moment. “Maybe he didn’t do it. Or didn’t mean to do it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Or maybe he’s right: trying to find a friend, trying to find the truth,” Philipp said with a shrug. “I talked about it with Ben, and he said he could imagine it being the right thing to do, in some alternate reality.”
“Tell that to the senior staff and they’d probably throw you in the brig, too.”
Philipp offered her a smile that could only be described as polite. “Listen, Tiff,” Philipp said, lifting her hand and thumbing back towards the door, trying to change the subject. “Ben and I are headed down to the Farm. Kinda because we want to help the crew not die from starvation, but mostly because we’re hungry. You wanna come?” She already knew the answer to this, but she asked all the same.
“I’m in no condition to do anything but sit here and sulk, Jessie — but thanks.”
Philipp smiled, patting Bukowski’s leg, then stood to her feet. “Seriously, Tiff,” she said down to her with a smile. “Think about it. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to happen.” Philipp made her way back to the door, but stopped in the entrance and turned back to Bukowski, backlit once more. “Hey, I started reading those Nancy Drew books. Smart girl, her.”
“I’ll see you,” Bukowski said with a half-smile, then reached over for the bottle, emptying the balance of its murky contents into her glass.
Philipp smiled back to her as she exited. Bukowski took set aside the bottle and took a sip after a moment, looking at the closed door. Then she looked down to her PADD at her side. She stared at it a long while before fetching it up to her lap, activating it and looking it over.
—
“That was quick. What did she say?”
“Oh, she’s her typical cheery drunk self,” Philipp said to Roodman, who was similarly dressed in bucolic garb, standing in the hall outside Bukowski’s quarters. Philipp sighed as she began to walk down the hall, and Roodman followed alongside. “I don’t know what to do with her.”
“Mm,” Ben offered in reply as they approached the turbolift. The access door to the adjacent Jefferies tube lay open, and Roodman gestured for Philipp to proceed first. She got on her hands and knees and crawled in, holding onto her hat as its brim bent against the top of the hatch and threatened to fall off. Then she grasped onto the ladder inside and began to make her way down.
“I told her what you said,” she called back to him as he entered the tube.
“Well, it’s true, I think. Everyone’s started talking about this! They’d be ridiculous to assume we wouldn’t be.” Hand over hand, they both worked their way down the ladder.
“Well, yeah. I’ve heard so much arguing today!” She stepped onto the landing of the hatch leading to the deck below, then began to shimmy her way through.
“Think about how many times the captain’s saved this ship’s ass in the last couple years,” Roodman posited. “The La Raza flyby. The Prometheus incident.” He found his way to the landing, then pushed off the ladder and slid through, standing up next to her and gesturing. “The Orb of Knowledge. These are not the acts of a man who wants to see his ship destroyed.”
“I don’t know about all that,” said a voice. They turned and saw a uniformed Lieutenant Owens standing a few meters down the hall. His brow was drenched in sweat, and a large hose measuring perhaps half a meter wide was draped over his shoulder, running behind him down the hall and around a far-off corner. “Mind giving me a hand?” he said, supporting the hose with one hand and wiping his forehead with the back of the sleeve of his hand opposite.
“That’s why we’re here, sir!” Philipp offered cheerily, and she and Roodman each hefted a length of the hose behind Owens.
“Ready?” Owens said, looking back to them. They nodded their approval, and they slowly made their way down the hall.
“Captain’s been great and all,” Owens offered with a grunt, “But we wouldn’t be in this mess if he hadn’t tried to sabotage the ship. Among other things, the utility transfers failed about an hour ago — so we’re rerouting with this,” he said, patting the side of the hose.
“So you’re in the ‘what have you done for me lately?’ camp, eh?” Philipp asked as they approached the entrance of Cargo Bay 2, better known more recently amongst the crew as the Farm, especially now that the replicators had failed, and the Farm currently offered the only means of sustenance. Crewmembers were scattered across the expanse of the room, directed as necessary by Lieutenant Spencer: some planting, some harvesting, other adjusting the positioning of large overhead floodlights that were noticeably switched off.
Owens and his conscripts dragged their burden about five meters inside the room and dropped it to the ground. The operations chief then turned to face Philipp, a stern look on his face. “Yes, Ensign, yes I am. It’s my job to make sure this ship functions. And it’s not functioning. And as my direct report, I’m surprised you don’t feel the same.” Roodman and Philipp were silent as a few operations staff approached the end of the hose with a length of their own, connecting and locking the two together, causing the floodlights to slowly flicker to life. “Not to mention that, thanks to him, I spent a very lovely evening cradled in the care of our fine medical staff.”
“Yes, sir,” was all Philipp could manage. Then she swallowed. “But don’t you wonder why he did it?”
“Does it really matter, if it results in everyone dying? Space isn’t a safe place, Ensign,” Owens declared. He gestured up and around to the cargo bay with two open palms, looking around. “A ship like this is always half a decision away from being ground into so much space kibble.” He looked at Philipp, dropping his arms to his sides. “Entropy’s a hell of a thing, Jessie.” With that, and a brief glance to her companion, Owens trudged off.
Roodman and Philipp looked at each other, then proceeded to take up whatever hydroponic task needed tending.
—
“Come.”
A spirited Bukowski entered the observation lounge, crossing the room to approach Sung. Although Sung had every right to occupy the ready room, especially in light of his brevet promotion, he had chosen for the time being to plant his command flag in the lounge, as it was the only other room adjacent to the bridge, should his presence be required at a moment’s notice. Bukowski stood rigidly before him, a PADD in her hand, regarding him. Whether Sung’s hesitance to proceed with the removal of Perkins’ personal affects from the ready room stemmed either from a reluctance to accept their former captain’s treason or an interest in striking a different tone with his crew, she couldn’t say. “Sir, I’ve spent the afternoon analyzing the files altered by the Glenn Virus,” she said.
Sung frowned. “Yeoman, I distributed a direct order to forego any further access of those sectors.”
“Yes sir,” Bukowski replied, looking up to a corner of the room. “I… didn’t check my COMM orders until after I had concluded my analysis.”
Sung looked up at her with flared nostrils, a fresh expression of disapproval spreading over his face. “Are you drunk?”
“I was much drunker earlier, sir.”
Sung breathed sharply through his nose. He didn’t like her disregard of his directives, not to mention that she was under the influence and obviously lacking sleep and out of uniform — but he also was a sucker for cold, hard facts, even (or especially) if the ends didn’t justify the means. “What’ve you got?” he said, folding his arms.
She scanned over her PADD. “Commander—” she said, then stopped, looking up at him, slightly embarrassed. “Uh, Captain.” She looked back down to the device. “It appears that the virus isn’t destructive… rather, it’s constructive.”
“How do you mean?”
“Once the virus finished making its way through the ship’s computer, I expected the whole file structure to be an absolute mess. But everything’s organized like it was before — except that, for some database entries, there’s now two files instead of one.”
“…Alright. How many of the entries are duplicated?”
“I don’t know — maybe five or ten percent. I just spot checked some of the more interesting subjects.”
“Such as…? Let me guess: the Navras.” To say the least, Sung was skeptical of these analytical proceedings, and he struggled in such situations to disguise his disbelief.
“Funny you should mention that. Yes sir, and the two entries are fairly different.” She typed on her PADD, and the screen on the wall came to life, displaying a host of information and pictures related to the USS Navras. “Here’s the original entry. It has everything you’d expect. Constructed at Utopia Planitia, launched three years ago, blah blah blah. Destroyed by warp core malfunction in the Phordon sector, Stardate 48278.4: three weeks ago.”
“And the duplicate?”
“Mostly the same — except this.” She keyed in a few commands on her PADD, and the screen on the wall changed to display the other entry. “Missing in action, Stardate 47808.2.” She looked at him. “Six months ago.”
Sung was silent a moment, considering the notion that, sometimes, truth was stranger than fiction. “What other entries have duplicates?”
Bukowski was already typing on her PADD, pleased with herself to have already predicted Sung’s line of questioning. “The USS Cheiron. Duplicate entry states missing in action, 47808.2,” as a Centaur-class vessel appeared on the screen. “The USS Ganymede. Missing in action, 47808.2.” Another vessel was displayed. “The USS Ontario, 47808.2.” Yet another. Bukowski paused a moment, swallowing hard and looking up from her PADD at Sung to read his expression before keying in the next. “The USS L—”
A few beeps sounded. “Bridge to Captain Sung.”
Sung eyed Bukowski warily as he tapped his commbadge. “Sung here.”
“Sir, per your direction, we’ve now entered the Phordon sector.”
“Excellent,” Sung declared, standing to his feet. “Hold that thought, Yeoman, however eccentric,” he said, holding up a finger to her as he crossed the observation lounge and walked briskly onto the bridge. He nodded to Roberts, then regarded Hesser, who stood with one hand planted on the back of a chair occupied by Ensign Thomas Marrone, looking over his shoulder. “What’ve you got?” Sung asked.
“Debris field is wide, spread over three light years, as expected,” Hesser replied, gesturing to Marrone, his fingers flying over the Ops console. “We’re running an antimatter scan now.”
“Warp signature is fairly dilapidated, and spread in a pattern consistent with a warp core explosion,” Marrone said. “But I should still be able to get a positive ID.” Marrone worked away on the console for a moment. “Okay, yeah — the Navras was definitely here, and definitely destroyed via core detonation.” He frowned, trying to comprehend the data. “But so were a bunch of other ships…”
Sung winced. “When?”
“Based on the rate of degradation and manner of destruction, it’s been several months. I can pinpoint it, hold on.” There was silence on the bridge as he worked. “Okay. I can say with maybe… 98% confidence that they were all destroyed on… let’s see… Stardate 47808… um… point two.”
Sung glanced sidelong at Bukowski, who had entered the bridge and stood next to the dedication plaque just next to the observation lounge entrance, her PADD held down and in front of her with both hands, her posture demure, her expression blank, her eyes knowing.
“And the ‘other ships’?” Sung said back to Marrone, his heart sinking.
“All Starfleet origin… running them against the database now. …Okay, got ‘em,” he said, the information streaming onto his screen. “The USS Ganymede. The Ontario. The Cheiron. The…” Marrone looked up from the console, swinging around in his chair, his face paling.
“The Loma Prieta.”
—
TO BE CONTINUED… STAY TUNED FOR ACT 5 WHEN WE RETURN ON TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8th.
