The Mystery of the Bretagne - Part I

Posted on Thu 4th Oct, 2012 @ 2:24pm by Colonel Horatio Drake & Commander Paul Graves PsyD

1,182 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: http://sb109.sim-station.net/index.php/sim/missions/id/2
Location: USS Bretagne: Main Bridge
Timeline: Boarding + 15.5 Hours

ON:

REMAINING AIR: 9.5 Hours + 8 EVA Suits

Graves had only been half an hour away when Drake made the disturbing discovery on the Main Bridge.

For that thirty minutes Drake had barely managed to peel himself from the bulkhead - he was never the bravest of sorts, but equally would hardly call himself a coward. However this was not a question of bravery... this was something different. Logic dictated that what had happened was impossible - with only two of them on the ship, who the hell had moved the Captain's body and, more to the point, why had they done so? Despite the situation, he could feel himself reacting differently to how he normally would. Even if somebody else was on the ship, it was clear that at that moment he was the only one on the Bridge - along that line of logic it was reasonable to presume that, at that precise moment in time, he was in no danger. Regardless of this fact, he felt scared.

At that moment Graves clambered up out of the turbolift shaft. "I'm here, sir. What's going on?"

"Look." Drake cut him off and pointed to the CO's chair with his rifle.

Frowning slightly, Graves peered over to the chair and gradually back at Drake. "Yes, sir?"

"Well don't you see? The body's gone!" Drake retorted, almost in anger.

Graves paused, looking a question at Drake. "What body?" he asked.

Drake swung his head round with contempt. "What are you talking about!? When we first came onto the Bridge, the XO was where he is now, lying on the floor in front of the Captain's chair, and the Captain was in that bloody chair. Where is she now?"

Still in a state of utter confusion, Graves peered round to behind the Tactical console and pointed. "She's next to that console sir, where she's always been? Do you not remember us talking about the fact she was probably trying to set the self-destruct sequence manually?"

Drake started shaking his head. "No, no no... something is very wrong here." He suddenly had the urge to draw his hand-phaser... a rifle certainly wouldn't be practical for such close-quarters. He shook his head again, this time to himself, abolishing such thoughts - this was getting absurd, his obsession with weapons was becoming almost instinctual, like his mind was telling him that he would definitely need them at some point.

Paul rubbed at his eyes to clear grit from them. Had he only been dreaming that he'd speculated with Drake about the Bretagne's CO planning to set the ship to self-destruct? He didn't think so. Destroying the ship would be the most logical thing for the Bretagne's captain to do; he was surprised Drake hadn't voiced the idea already, regarding the two of them. Whatever had befallen the Bretagne absolutely merited quarantine. The idea of Fin or Brian--much less the rest of SB-65's population and visitors--coming down with this insanity-causing illness filled him with horror. He would rather die than let that happen. It would be a small price to pay.

"To be honest, Colonel, I can't even remember what day it is, at the moment," Paul admitted. "I don't see how I could possibly mistake a Captain sitting in the command chair for some woman lying on the deck, but there's an easy enough way to test it." He walked over to the fallen Bridge officer's body and closed his eyes. The eyes could be deceived; it was less likely that his hands could be. "If she was moved, how could that have been accomplished? You and I have been in Sickbay, and there is no one else on board this ship--that I'm aware of," Paul said.

"I don't know, Lieutenant! If I knew that, I'd..." He stopped mid-sentence. Why was he snapping at him?

Paul drifted his hands up the dead woman's uniform and slid them over the pips on her collar. "Four pips," he reported.

"So either corpses are swapping uniforms, her body's been moved or she was never in her chair... I don't like any of those choices". Drake replied.

He quickly made his way to the Tactical console, his eyes stuck on the partially decomposed body of the Captain a little too long. "I'm conducting a full internal sensor sweep. To hell with the power that it uses."

A few moments passed in predictable silence... being on a Starship in these conditions was bad enough but being on one where the utter silence was deafening was worse. Usually there would be the hum of the warp core, consoles bleeping every few seconds, the hustle and bustle of crew going about their activities... even ships in dock had that... now, there was nothing. Just the thumping of the deadly silence on their ears.

The sweep took only a few seconds, whilst there was still power flowing to these consoles, their activities were unrestricted.

"Apparently we're the only living people on board..." In his tone of voice it was evident he was unconvinced. He rubbed his eyes ferociously, as if trying to focus. "Paul, I am telling you that body was in the chair... I...". He whipped out his Tricorder and conducted a scan on the late Captain. "Nope, she's definitely been dead for quite a while." He was now pulling at straws and Graves' face said as much.

He tapped on the console again. "Their distress beacon obviously got pulled into the expanse. I know this is going to drain a lot of power, but logically it could be our best hope."

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Ashton Drake on the USS Bretagne. This is a priority one distress call for any ships in the area. We have only seventeen hours of air remaining. We require immediate assistance. I repeat, this is a priority one distress call."

"No, don't bring people here! We need to be quarantined," Paul exclaimed. "We can't let this thing spread!"

"... We believe that we've been infected with a contagion... quarantine procedures are advised". Drake added onto the end... Graves was right, even if it might scare people away.

He quickly attached the co-ordinates to the message and sent it. Slowly he raised his head to Graves. A morose mood set in - he almost stumbled back, hitting the bulkhead and slid down it.

"Since the Bretagne slipped back into the Expanse, Protector no longer knows where we are. That doesn't even matter because they wouldn't even think of launching a rescue mission until twenty-four hours have passed." In instances like this, with an Away Team going on an incommunicado mission with very little risk of danger - standard procedure was a check-in every twenty-four hours.

Paul closed his eyes. "I am relieved to hear that. Not that I wouldn't like to be rescued, but...their CMO didn't know how to treat this. I don't want Nyx to be strung up, too." He shuddered. "I don't think I will ever get Dr. Tyler's image out of my mind."

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