[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
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 4
ACT 5
Sung didn’t say anything for a moment. “Explain, Ensign,” he finally commanded.
“I’m not sure, sir. I…” Marrone turned back to the console, looking it over a moment before shrugging somewhat and holding his open palms upward. “I’m just reading what it says.”
Sung frowned, then narrowed his questioning. “How many warp signatures in total?”
“Twenty-seven, sir. All Federation, all apparently destroyed via core detonation.” Marrone swallowed. “All at the same time.”
“Any other vessels there? Perhaps they were attacked.”
“If there were other ships here, sir, then their signatures were completely masked by the concurrent explosions. No way to be sure.”
Sung’s mind raced. “Feed that list of ships over to Smith,” he said, gesturing to Communications Officer Andy Smith. “Ensign, contact the nearest Federation outpost and request the most recent whereabouts of each vessel on the list.” Sung paused briefly. “Secure channels only,” he clarified.
“Long-range comm systems have been to turn troublesome, sir, but I’ll do what I can,” Smith chimed, turning to the comm console and starting his work.
He looked back to the science station, which was manned by Ensign Melissa Crystal. “Have we ever been to this sector of space?” he said in her direction. He was fairly certain that the answer was no, but he always preferred facts over anecdotes.
“Negative, sir,” she promptly replied, her having already called up the flight logs, newly restored after the ravages of the virus, her eyes scanning over the logs. “Not even close.”
He turned back to Marrone and gestured to him, taking a few steps in no direction in particular, absentmindedly expending his nervous energy. “Yet you’re telling me that the Loma Prieta — the very ship we’re standing on — was destroyed six months ago?”
“…Yes, sir,” was Marrone’s sheepish reply. Ridiculous though it sounded, he retained confidence enough in the thoroughness of his work and the quality of the gathered evidence to believe it anyhow.
Ensign Smith spoke up. “Captain, Outpost Gamma 2 states that the 27 ships on Marrone’s list are currently scattered throughout Federation space — but all of them are safe and accounted for.” He cleared his throat. “Except the Navras.”
Silence settled over the bridge as each crewmember attempted to make sense of this information.
“Captain. If there’s now two sets of entries in the ship’s databanks,” Bukowski said, stepping forward, “and one of them corroborates what we’re seeing…” She looked at him expectantly.
“Two sets?” Hesser said, his arms folded. “How do you mean?” He had been in close collaboration with Bukowski through the research of the virus, but this was news to him.
Sung interrupted. “Yeoman, that analysis was strictly forbidden, and I don’t think that you should—”
“No sir,” Bukowski barked with a stern expression, stepping further forward. “It’s too late for that. What I’ve discovered wasn’t allowed to be found — but it’s RIGHT. And the proof is right there.” She rigidly pointed up at the main viewscreen, flooded as it was with the odd swirl of microdebris left behind by such a catastrophe, her focus still on Sung. Judging by her focused, almost burning countenance, no one on the bridge crew would have quickly guessed that she hadn’t slept in the better part of three days. “If the new logs line up with this, then we have to consider their accuracy. Sir.”
When Sung said nothing in reply, she slowly turned her gaze to Hesser, proceeding to answer his question. “Tom, I think the Glenn Virus wasn’t deployed to destroy our ship. Rather, it’s meant to uncover a lie.”
Lieutenant MacKinnon turned in his seat at the helm, his brow furrowed. “What lie?”
Bukowski glanced to him, her expression softening. “The lie that we belong here.”
—
Ensign Kelly Jensen walked down the hall, a PADD under the crook of her arm. The hall was darkly lit, as several transformers across the ship had recently failed, owing to the ongoing effects of the virus, and the engineering staff had routed internal lighting to secondary systems. Around a corner, Captain Sung appeared, moving much slower than his normal brisk pace, his arms folded, his expression blank. Though Jensen was moving faster than him, she slowed his meet his pace and walk alongside.
“Hello, sir!” she said to him with a smile. “Fancy meeting you down here.”
“Ensign,” Sung nodded his awareness of her presence, continuing to stare straight ahead.
Jensen quirked a brow, but disregarded his seeming discontent. “Sir, Dr. Koperski and I were just about to head in and take his statement.” She held up her PADD with one hand and gestured down the hall with the other. As the ship’s dilettante, she served various functions across the medical and science divisions; in this case, she would serve as an interview scribe.
“That… won’t be necessary, Miss Jensen,” he said, glancing at her. “Though I appreciate your preparedness.”
“Sir?”
“If there’s any help Dr. Koperski may need today, it’ll be in the sickbay. I suggest you meet her there.”
“I… see.” Jensen stopped walking — the sickbay would take her in the opposite direction, back to the Jefferies tube — and Sung continued on. “Very good, sir,” she offered meekly, as Sung disappeared around a curved corner.
—
Perkins sat in the brig, his forearms on his thighs, his hands folded, his posture hunched forward, his gaze boring into the bulkhead across from him. His rank pips no longer hung on his collar, instead sitting on the spartan bench beside him, forming a neat square. Starfleet regulation dictated no such stripping of rank until a court-martial had been conducted, but he had elected to remove the pips himself. A PADD sat on his opposite side; with it, he had spent a long time reviewing the charges levied against him. Once the reality of the situation it detailed had weighed sufficiently on him, he had moved to lighter fare: science fiction short stories. That too had eventually lost its appeal, and for the last several hours, he had assumed the stance and activity he presently held: staring at the wall, attempting to think about as little as possible. Such an attempt to clear his mind, however, was fruitless.
The brig doors slid open and shut, but Perkins didn’t look up to see who it was. His only attendants since being directed to his cell had thus far been low-level security staff, so he assumed it to be yet another dutiful ensign coming on or off shift.
A formal but familiar voice spoke. “Zach.”
Perkins looked up and saw Sung looking down at him, his hands behind his back, standing a few meters on the other side of the force field behind which Perkins sat. The brig attendant had been excused. Perkins turned his gaze back to the wall, which offered a blander but much safer view. “Hey.”
Silence. “I trust you understand why this had to happen,” Sung offered after a long moment.
Perkins looked up to him, angrily. “Of course I do, Jon. You’re just doing your job,” he said, more than a hint of contempt in his voice. Contempt for himself, contempt for the situation — contempt for everything.
“What job is that, sir?” Sung asked.
Perkins was quickly annoyed by the abstract nature of Sung’s question. “Protection of the ship. Your ship, as I’ve been told by the security detail.”
“Protection takes many avenues, sir,” Sung said, shifting slightly in his stance. “Sometimes, there’s no right answer.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“And yet,” Sung continued, slowly, “sometimes there is.” Perkins said nothing. “It’s been determined that Captain Glenn may have been right.”
The look of anger washed slowly away from Perkins’ face. “What do you mean?”
“The virus has left the computer with a sliver of contentious information that has been… validated. The data implies that whatever danger threatened the Navras similarly threatens us. Armed with said information, I have consulted with the senior staff. After a spirited discussion, we have determined that there is a chance, however unlikely, that Glenn alone was aware of dealings we do not understand, and that further consultation with him and his crew, if possible, would be… optimal. The staff’s recommendations having been duly considered, I have decided to follow the Navras to its last known location: the Daynor sector, as you had previously requested.”
Perkins considered this. “But… you’ve most likely been commanded to proceed immediately to a starbase to turn me over for court-martial. Deviation from that directive will almost certainly trigger all sorts of brass alarms.” Perkins stood to his feet and approached the force field, trying to make sense of his normally by-the-book executive officer.
“Protection takes many avenues, sir,” Sung said again. “In this case, I have determined that the risk of discovering the truth about the Navras — and about us — is outweighed by the risk of following orders.” The slightest of smiles appeared on Sung’s face. “I would notify Starfleet of our detour, but our long-range communications have failed. In any case, the die has already been cast, sir. We’ll be arriving in ten minutes.”
Perkins folded his arms. “Mr. Sung, let the record show that I am damn impressed.”
“Finally,” Sung said, tapping a couple of commands into the panel next to the force field, deactivating it, “it appears that the virus has laid claim to internal security systems. Physical monitoring of any high-profile prisoners in such situations must be conducted by a ranking officer, of course — but as my entire senior staff will be presently required on the bridge, I have no choice but to personally escort you there for observation. I shall brief you further on the way.”
Perkins and Sung stood there in the half-light for a moment, regarding each other silently. Then Perkins stepped forward out of his cell and put his arms around Sung, letting him go almost as quickly as he had embraced him. Then he crossed Sung and began to proceed briskly towards the exit.
“Let’s go find the fucking Navras.”
—
Perkins climbed up the turbolift shaft and pulled himself onto the dimly lit bridge, followed closely by Sung. Though there was an adjacent Jefferies tube available, the frustration of conducting heavy bridge traffic through its relatively tight space had compelled the bridge crew to have the engineering staff remove the turbolift completely and replace it with two ladders.
Perkins looked around, getting the sense that the bridge was somewhat overpopulated. In addition to the regular beta shift crew members, all of the senior staff had assembled at the bridge’s periphery, excepting Koperski and Hesser, busy in the sickbay and engineering respectively. Most of the staff smiled to him in greeting. Bukowski, who had changed into uniform and stood studying her PADD, produced the most excited reaction to Perkins’ presence, crossing the bridge with a delighted expression and immediately throwing her arms around him, closing her eyes and squeezing him tightly. He returned her embrace, less enthusiastically though still genuine, and neither of them said anything.
“Captain on the bridge,” Lieutenant Owens declared, who stood up from the command chair and walked around the railing to the ops console next to tactical, looking — glaring? — at Perkins as he walked.
“Two of them, even,” Helmsman MacKinnon said. “Good timing, sirs — we’ll be arriving in twenty seconds.”
“Very good,” Sung offered, then tapped his commbadge. “Bridge to Engineering. Commander Hesser, what’s the status of the deflector dish?”
“It’s been modified to suit our purposes, sir, though I’m low on working power conduits at the moment, so I don’t think I can power shields or warp at the same time,” the chief engineer replied. “Anyhow, the heavy barium shouldn’t pose a problem, but there’s not much I’ll be able to do about the gravitational pull of that star cluster.”
“Understood. Mr. MacKinnon, make sure to bring us out of warp in scanner range, but keep us as far off as possible.”
“Of course, sir,” MacKinnon replied, almost insulted. “Which will happen in three, two, one…” The Loma Prieta dropped out of warp.
“Onscreen,” Perkins and Sung said in unison. They glanced at each other, then to the viewscreen.
The trinary star cluster that anchored their destination filled the display. A swirling mass of grey light stood before them, accented by three smaller points that lay within, all tinged with different hues: light purple, yellow, and dark green. The cluster was outputting a large brown and green nebulous cloud that floated off for tens of thousands of kilometers in every direction.
“The Daynor sector, Captains,” MacKinnon said. “Specifically, Daynor I, II, and III. The supposed final location of the USS Navras.”
“What’ve you got, Mr. Owens?” Sung said, still looking at the viewscreen, his arms folded.
“Well, just about everything you’d expect: light gravitational pull at this distance, heavy barium is off the charts. Deflector dish is holding up just fine. Having a tough time reading anything in that gas cloud, though.”
“Ensign Smith, hail the Navras, all channels.”
The comm officer tapped away on his console. “…Nothing, sir.”
Sung frowned. “Can you get us closer, helm? Slowly?”
“But of course, Captain.” With that, MacKinnon deftly keyed in a few navigational headings, and the ship edged towards the star cluster at eighth-impulse.
“Readings?”
“Strange.” Owens looked over his console, puzzled. “Captain, heavy barium readings are rising as expected, but gravitational pull isn’t increasing exponentially as we approach.” He looked up to Sung. “It’s static.”
“An effect of the virus on your systems?”
Owens shook his head, looking up to Sung. “We haven’t had any problems with scanners yet, so I doubt it. Whatever gravity that thing’s generating, it’s… not normal. At this range, we should already be getting pulled towards it.”
“Yeoman,” Sung said, looking to Bukowski. “Have you yet been able to find a duplicate entry for the Daynor sector?”
Bukowski, standing next to Perkins, glanced down only cursorily at her PADD. “It’s weird, sir. Yes, but… it’s a blank file. There’s nothing in it. No pictures, no models, no text… just, nothing.”
Sung pursed his lips. “You mean it doesn’t exist?”
Bukowski looked down to her PADD again, knowing her reply would sound ridiculous. “…Yes.”
Perkins took a few steps forward, his eyes full of wonder, still looking up to the cloud. “Jesse… take us in.”
The navigator turned in his seat and looked to Sung, unsure from whom to take orders. “Sir?”
Sung turned to Owens. “To what danger might that subject us?”
“Gravity being what it is — I think we’ve taken all necessary precautions, sir.”
All eyes were on Sung. He looked to a stoic Perkins, then to an oddly smiling Bukowski, before regarding MacKinnon and gesturing forward. “When looking to the stars, Mr. MacKinnon… keep both eyes open.”
MacKinnon raised a brow, then turned back in his chair and keyed in the commands. “Very good, sir. Proceeding into the cloud at quarter-impulse.”
The bridge crew stood silent during the thirty seconds the Loma Prieta took to approach the gas cloud. As the ship slipped into the nebulous veil, the main viewscreen immediately filled with static.
“Some sort of scrambler just went active, sir,” Owens said, reviewing his display. “I’m working on it.”
“Engineering to bridge. I’m reading spiked activity in the warp core. What’s going on up there?”
Sung tapped his commbadge. “Standby, Mr. Hesser,” he replied. “Actually — can you reverse the magneton polarity? We’re having scanner issues up here.”
“Will do, sir,” Hesser replied.
“Great — scanners are coming back online now, sir,” Owens said. Static slowly began to recede from the viewscreen, and Bukowski gasped at what she saw, bringing a hand to cover her mouth.
The hazy soup they had expected to enter was nowhere to be seen; rather, the view was crystal clear. If the gas cloud were to be instead imagined as an oddly-shaped balloon, then the Loma Prieta now found itself on its open inside. No trace of the Daynor trinary star cluster could be found; instead, a single, rippling entity glowing dark blue swirled at the cloud’s center. Extensive artificial installations hung in riveted concentric rings around this pulsing mass. The rings were roughly octagonal in shape, with large cylinders radiating beams of yellowish light out in every direction to the edges of the cloud.
“Mr. Owens…” Perkins said, incredulous, placing both hands on the railing, leaning forward, gazing up at the screen. “What am I looking at?”
“Those ring-looking things look pretty new, but I can’t discern their function or origin. Those beams look like holoemitters, but I’ve never seen that kind of system at this scale. As for that blue thing in the middle… I couldn’t say.”
“I can,” Chief Science Officer MacKinnon offered. “It’s kind of like a wormhole, like the Bajoran, or Barzan. Though it doesn’t match the exact profile. It’s more like a black hole, but the gravitational pull went nonexistent as soon as we entered the cloud.”
Roberts spoke up from the tactical console. “There’s seven nodes on each of the three rings, sir, that I would guess are weapon installations.” He tapped at his console. “And they’re powering up.”
“Red alert,” Perkins bellowed, and dark red lights powered on, casting the bridge in a maroon hue. “Shields!”
“Not gonna happen, sir,” Roberts replied. “Not while the deflector dish is mitigating the heavy barium.”
“Turn it off and we’d die within minutes,” Owens explained.
Ensign Smith piped up. “Captain… we’re being hailed.”
Sung turned around and looked at his communications officer, then back to the viewscreen. “Is it the Navras?”
“No sir… though I can’t tell who, what, or where. It’s being broadcast on all frequencies.”
Sung swallowed. “Open a channel.”
—
TO BE CONTINUED… STAY TUNED FOR ACT 6 NEXT TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15th.
