[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
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 5
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 6
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 7
Episode 1: Shifts – Act 8
—
EPILOGUE
Captain’s Log, Supplemental.
It’s been two weeks since the incident in the Daynor sector that conveyed the crew of the Loma Prieta through the Anchor into this mirror universe. Our universe, depending on one’s perspective. Unfortunately, our trusty ship could not follow suit, having been too heavily damaged by the advanced weaponry employed by the Federation of that other reality. My senior staff engaged the auto-destruct, presumably destroying the Anchor in the process, as the anomaly hasn’t appeared in this reality since that time.
Thankfully, Starfleet — our Starfleet — had just completed construction of a new Ambassador-class vessel. It already had a crew roster assigned and was going to get underway within the month — but someone in Starfleet Command pulled some strings in light of our arrival. And so, starting this afternoon, I am the captain of a new ship: the NCC-26848-A. The USS Loma Prieta.
Thirty-three of my crew were lost that day. I think of each of them often. In their stead, we have taken on a collection of new transfers, excited to get underway on a ship with a name that is now somewhat well-known. I look forward to getting to know each of them.
Happily, my senior staff has remained intact. Most surprising was Commander Sung’s voluntarily acceptance to stay on as my executive officer and assume his previous rank of Commander. Starfleet was willing to uphold his brevet promotion to Captain and assign him his own ship, particularly because leadership here is in short supply. Our universe lost no fewer than ten Federation ships to Rothschild’s meddling. Words can’t describe my anger.
Given the nature of the incident, each member of the crew has been offered two months’ shore leave to take stock of their feelings, spend time with their families, and so on. To date, not a single crewman has taken me up on the deal.
And I can’t say I blame them. As I walk around the ship’s halls, I can’t shake the odd feeling of deja vu. I’m on a ship — a new ship, as I keep telling myself — but it can’t help but feel somehow the same. And I’m chomping at the bit to make it all feel right, to eliminate the dissonance this entire episode has caused in us all. I’ve attempted to play down the change in my official communiques, make things feel as normal as possible. No sense in dwelling on the past… It’s time to move on.
Interestingly, the largest current conflict amongst the crew is what to name Mess Hall 1. Half the ship wants it given its old name, The Cup and Saucer… and the other half demands it be called something new, something else. I could bring the hammer down and call it “Lieutenant Chef Scott Spencer’s Captain’s Mess and House of Names That Are Too Long”, but I’m gonna let them sort it out. Gives them something lighter to think about.
My own reinstatement as captain has weighed on me more heavily than I had expected. Something shook loose in me when I was stuck on that research ring… unable to change my fate, ready to die.
Sometimes you hope that you can somehow just make everything work out. And sometimes, other people have to guide you. But I guess the thing I keep thinking about is that, most often, you need everyone else, and they need you. Ensign or admiral.
I couldn’t possibly be serving with a finer crew. I could fill ten logs with the heroism, pluck, and resolve I observed while we made our escape from that old world. Notes of commendation have been filed, and I look forward to the day when—
The door to the ready room chimed. Perkins looked up from his console, then paused the recording.
“Come.”
Yeoman Bukowski entered, all smiles, her seemingly ever-present companion PADD tucked underneath the crook of her arm. There had been much to do onboard in the intervening days, so Perkins hadn’t seen much of her recently — and thus Bukowski’s healthy, positive demeanor lay in sharp contrast against his vivid memory of her in the throes of the Daynor incident: exhausted, wounded, defeated.
Still, he only afforded her a quick glance before turning his attention back to his console. “Good afternoon, Yeoman. You aren’t on bridge shift for awhile yet. What’s up?”
“I just… wanted to see how you’re doing. It’s 1400, after all.”
“Just another couple of hours until beta shift, Yeoman,” he replied, still focused on his console, editing his logs.
“Is that all…? Because I’m pretty sure that we’re just about to undock and get underway for the very first time.”
“And I’m certain Mr. Sung has the situation well in hand, Yeoman.”
Bukowski rolled her eyes. “Alllllright. Well, I didn’t just come in here to check on your health, Captain. Your presence has been requested on the bridge.”
Perkins quirked a brow, looking up at her. Bukowski’s disposition appeared far too sunny to avoid incurring his suspicion; something was afoot. “What’s going on, Tiffany?” he said with narrowed eyes.
Bukowski looked up to one corner of the ceiling, only half-heartedly attempted to push away her grin. “Nothing, Captain, just… Lieutenant Owens had a question for you about the… duty logs.”
Perkins knew a total lie when he heard it — and yet he stood to his feet with a sigh, closing his console and walking around his desk towards the door. “I was just in the middle of a great speech, Yeoman, and interrupting it had better be worth it.”
“Captain on the bridge,” Bukowski called out ahead of him, her hand cupped around a smiling mouth.
Perkins stopped just outside the entrance to his ready room, a look of shock spreading onto his face. He had never seen so many people crammed onto an Ambassador-class bridge before; nearly all of his officers were assembled, along with a sizable portion of the enlisted crew. Most of them held a glass in each hand, and Lieutenant Lippman was just finishing the distribution of two different beverages into each one. Spencer and Philipp assisted with this work, and as Philipp served a new crew member, an Andorian, she pursed her lips, fighting a frown. She didn’t care for Andorians.
Lieutenant Dolgoff, the captain’s fiance, approached him with a smile and slipped his arm over her shoulder, putting her arms around his waist. Perkins locked eyes with her, then let his gaze float over the crowd for a moment, taking it all in.
“This is… highly unusual,” he finally said, an awkward smile playing on his face.
“Not to mention completely against Starfleet regulations,” one man said, mocking a firm demeanor as he stepped forward out of the crowd, holding a rectangular object of some weight. “But I think we can make an exception.”
“Admiral Glenn! What are you doing here?”
Glenn chuckled. “Did you really think we were going to let you get out of here without a ceremony?”
Perkins frowned somewhat. “It’s not that I didn’t want one, sir, it’s just that—”
Glenn put up a hand. “I know, I understand. This is a new place, a new time… a new ship. You want to make things feel normal. No one gets that more than me. And yet, at this moment,” he said with a growing smile, gesturing around him to a beaming array of Loma Prieta staff, “It appears your crew wants to celebrate. And besides… someone had to deliver this to you before you left.” Glenn proceeded towards Perkins, turning over the burden he carried, revealing a dedication plaque, the ship’s name emblazoned at the top in large letters. Perkins took it in his hands and looked down at it a moment before reading it aloud.
“USS Loma Prieta. Starfleet registry NCC-26848-A. Named for the residents of the San Francisco Bay Area, past and present. Launched Stardate 48331.2,” Perkins read, then looked up to say, “today,” then continuing, “…as a charter member of the… 1701st Fleet.” Perkins looked over to Glenn. “So you used the name?”
“I thought you’d like that,” Glenn said. “Though there’s some ongoing discussion regarding how to best pronounce it.”
Perkins smiled, then looked back to the plaque. “Utopia Planitia shipyards. Sol Sector, United Federation of Planets.” His eyes skipped over the long list of senior officers who had had a hand in the construction of the vessel, moving down to the ship’s quote. “When looking to—”
“Ah ah ah,” Glenn said, hefting one of the two glasses he now held. “I’m told by your staff that you’re not permitted to say that aloud without an accompanying toast.”
Perkins grinned. “Well… a rule’s a rule,” he admitted, setting the dedication plaque onto the chair of the Ops console. Lippman pressed a glass into each of his hands almost immediately, and he raised the one containing whiskey, surveying his audience with the proudest posture possible.
“When looking to the stars, crew… keep both eyes open.”
SIlence overcame the crew as they tilted their heads back, downing the contents, then quickly chasing the alcohol with a serving of artisinal pickle juice.
“Captain, it’s time to head out,” Sung said as the servers began to collect the empty glasses.
“You have the bridge, Mr. Sung,” Perkins replied to his first officer, who stood with his hands behind his back. “I believe you are more than capable of…” But he stopped himself, now finally aware of the meaning of the moment. He had attempted to maintain what he had thought would be normalcy by letting his alternate alpha shift conduct the ship away from its moorings at Utopia Planitia — but the crew needed pomp. They wanted commemoration. And he would not be one to stand in its way.
“Alright, Mr. Sung — let’s do this.”
Glenn smiled. “I’m needed onboard the Navras, so I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, Zach.” Glenn shook hands with Perkins as the crew erupted into applause. As the clapping died down, the admiral tapped his combadge. “Glenn to Navras. One to beam over.” With an upheld hand of farewell, Glenn disappeared in a cerulean swirl.
“Mr. MacKinnon,” Perkins intoned, walking forward and gesturing to his helmsman, one hand behind his back. “Have all proper safety checks been performed?”
“Aye sir, doubly so.”
“And would you declare the utmost confidence in the health of our vessel’s systems?”
MacKinnon raised an eyebrow. “Without hesitation, Captain.”
“Very good, helmsman. Take us out.”
MacKinnon keyed in his navigational commands, and the Loma Prieta disengaged from its dock. Moving backwards a moment, it then gracefully turned in a slow arc before moving ahead at quarter-impulse.
“Have you entered our destination heading?” the captain inquired.
“Absolutely, sir. Alpha Centauri is ready to receive us on the first leg of our shakedown cruise.”
“Excellent.” Perkins took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, looking around at the assembly once more, his heart full. “The Loma Prieta is dead, crew… Long live the Loma Prieta.” He turned to face the viewscreen. “Engage.”
With the command given and entered, the newly-minted Starfleet ship slowed to a stop, its nacelles building power. In a flash, it then leapt to warp, disappearing off into the salt of stars beyond.
End
