Episode Four: Sweeps
Wiping the small crumbs of toast from her mouth, Chief Petty Officer Lomi Price stood up, took a last gulp of the watered-down orange juice and made her way out of Abukuma’s forward mess deck. Getting in to the cramped dining area had been far easier, she noted, as she tried to cut through the crewmembers entering for breakfast. Drawn by the scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee, most of them were still groggy, waking up before their watch-keeping shifts began.
Which, she observed with a overwhelming sense of relief as she finally navigated her way through the octagonal hatchway, means that mine is officially ending soon. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a small twang of pain shot up the small of her back. She grimaced and massaged the offending muscles as she made the short trek from the now-crowded mess deck back to her mid-watch duty station as Senior Operator in the sensor control center. Arriving there, she stopped outside the hatch, which unlike most other hatches aboard the light cruiser was secured by a retinal scanner. A small sigh escaped her lips as steeled herself at the hatch and straightened her uniform.
“Fifteen hours down,” she muttered as she leaned forward, allowing the scanner to shine a low-power laser into her eyes. The sensor’s display illuminated with a scan of her retina before flashing the words “Access Granted” over the image. “One more to go,” she sighed, taking the cold steel handle in her hand and swinging the heavy hatch aside.
Normally, watches aboard Abukuma, and the rest of the fleet were six hours long, with each day subdivided into four watches. But, cuts to the fleet’s budget had resulted in fewer crewmembers aboard each ship, and cutting the number of qualified Senior Operators from four to three. Regulations stated that a Senior Operator had to be on duty at all times aboard any ship underway, and so the three remaining operators aboard Abukuma divided the day into thirds. The plan worked, until McMillen came down with appendicitis last week. Now they were down to two, and alternating sixteen hour days. Today was Price’s turn, and thank god it was almost over, she thought with a slight grin as she stepped into the
control room and was bathed in faint bluish lights.
Blinking to try and adjust to the dimly lit control room, Price made her way toward her console. The room was set up like an auditorium, with a large display at the front displaying readouts from various sensors from throughout the ship. Beyond the display sat tiered rows of computer consoles, each manned by a crew member at all times. Price’s Senior Operator position was on the top row, next to the Watch Officer, currently Ensign Devereaux. She oversaw the smooth running of the sensor team, and reported to the Sensor Officer up on the cruiser’s bridge. Of course, Price thought as she sat down and adjust her headset, usually the officer’s job was get out of the damn way and try not to push any of the shiny buttons.
“Ok, boys and girls,” Price said into her headset as she scrolled though steams of sensor readouts. “I’m back. Oh, and in case you are curious, breakfast today is coffee or orange juice, some rather stale toast, powdered eggs, and bacon-like substance. I recommend skipping the chow and just getting rack time after your shift is up.” A chorus of groans filled the chamber at the news of what awaited them in the chow lines. “Now, does anyone have something for me to look at? Or, are we just cataloging debris and gaseous anomalies?”
“…If we are recording gaseous anomalies,” one of the sensor technicians queried from below, “we better add Kendricks?” Laughter rang out, filling the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Price even saw Ensign Devereaux double over with laughter. The room was in good spirits, she noted.
That was a good thing for the crew. All of them had been wound tightly as the convoy crossed into this new sector. In the last six months, ten ships had been attacked on this same run to these outer colonies, and everyone aboard the cruiser knew it. Price knew all too well that tension was a corrosive thing to the crew. It made them sloppy, wore them out, and ultimately could mean the difference between life and death. Humor, in moderation, could keep them relaxed and possibly alive. The crackle of someone coming on to the headset channel brought Price’s attention back to her the readouts on her screen.
“Senior,” the young, unconfident male voice of Seaman Brandt said. “I’ve got something weird over here.” Price perked up and input a series of commands into her computer. The reports were replaced by a twin image of what Brandt’s computer was showing several rows ahead. To Price’s left, Ensign Devereaux strode over to peer over the Chief Petty Officer’s shoulder.
“Alright,” Price said into the headset. “What am I looking at here?” Down below, she saw Brandt’s young face turn to face her. He blushed slightly as he became aware of the twenty-nine other faces staring at him.
“The neutrino readings,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “I was checking the particle sensors, you know, for sub-atomic particles and indications of gaseous anomalies when I saw it…” Price rolled her eyes, and ran a hand through her graying hair. Get to the point, she thought.
“I don’t like playing games, sailor.” She said exasperated. “Saw what?”
“It’s a spike. A really weird spike in neutrino density, like there are more particles than there should be.”
“Did you run it through the SPS,” Devereaux asked. The Sensor Processing System was a relatively new addition to the Abukuma. Designed to reduce the manpower requirements to operate a starship’s sensor systems, the program scanned the data, ran it through a series of advanced algorithms and provided a “best guess” estimate of the input, based on statistical evidence. The new generation of starship crews, like Ensign Marie Devereaux, possessed far greater faith in the latest and greatest technological marvels like SPS. However, a veteran sensor operator like Price did not trust any new system that removed the human gut intuition from the equation.
“Yes ma’am,” Brant replied. “SPS says it’s just an abnormal discharge from Abukuma.”
“Then that’s all it is,” Devereaux snipped. “Nothing to worry about.”
Brandt shook his head in disagreement. “I thought so, but since Chief Price says to double-check the SPS, I kept looking into it and ran the data through a time comparison.” Brandt punched a command on his console, and transferred his data to the main display. A waterfall display, the image showed the density of neutrino particles over a five-minute segment of time. To the far left, at plus-zero seconds, the display was solid green, and steadily faded to black at the other end of the time scale. “This is our baseline, from when we took over the watch this morning at 0400,” Bryant explained. “Note that the particles per million fades out over time -- a result of our impulse engines getting further away from this point in space.”
The screen dissolved to a new waterfall display. “This is from five minutes ago,” Brandt explained. Like the previous display, the image was solid green at the far left, fading to black as it shifted to the right. But, unlike the previous sensor record, two-thirds of the way across the time line, it again showed a solid green mass. “See, the density spikes way outside normal parameters, and it’s not dissipating. Even if SPS was right, even if it is some discharge from our engines, it should still dissipate over time,” Brandt pointed out. “Except, whatever that is, is not dissipating at the same rate as the rest of the particles.”
Devereaux’s face twisted in confusion. “I’ve never heard of any phenomena that can just increase neutrino emissions,” she said to Price. “I thought they were solely a man-made occurrence, right?” The ensign’s query went unanswered, causing her to shoot an annoyed glance at the Chief Petty Officer. Price never saw the look, and even had she noticed, she would not have cared, not while her fingers flew across her keyboard. Her hand stabbed out at another control panel. Pulling the boom microphone of her headset closer to her mouth, Price’s grandmotherly voice was suddenly cold and commanding.
“Bridge, Sensor,” she said in a tone that demanded attention. “New contact -- bearing one-eight-zero degrees, mark-plus-one-five. --Range, 1500 -- Designate contact Sierra-One-Nine.”
Wiping the small crumbs of toast from her mouth, Chief Petty Officer Lomi Price stood up, took a last gulp of the watered-down orange juice and made her way out of Abukuma’s forward mess deck. Getting in to the cramped dining area had been far easier, she noted, as she tried to cut through the crewmembers entering for breakfast. Drawn by the scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee, most of them were still groggy, waking up before their watch-keeping shifts began.
Which, she observed with a overwhelming sense of relief as she finally navigated her way through the octagonal hatchway, means that mine is officially ending soon. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a small twang of pain shot up the small of her back. She grimaced and massaged the offending muscles as she made the short trek from the now-crowded mess deck back to her mid-watch duty station as Senior Operator in the sensor control center. Arriving there, she stopped outside the hatch, which unlike most other hatches aboard the light cruiser was secured by a retinal scanner. A small sigh escaped her lips as steeled herself at the hatch and straightened her uniform.
“Fifteen hours down,” she muttered as she leaned forward, allowing the scanner to shine a low-power laser into her eyes. The sensor’s display illuminated with a scan of her retina before flashing the words “Access Granted” over the image. “One more to go,” she sighed, taking the cold steel handle in her hand and swinging the heavy hatch aside.
Normally, watches aboard Abukuma, and the rest of the fleet were six hours long, with each day subdivided into four watches. But, cuts to the fleet’s budget had resulted in fewer crewmembers aboard each ship, and cutting the number of qualified Senior Operators from four to three. Regulations stated that a Senior Operator had to be on duty at all times aboard any ship underway, and so the three remaining operators aboard Abukuma divided the day into thirds. The plan worked, until McMillen came down with appendicitis last week. Now they were down to two, and alternating sixteen hour days. Today was Price’s turn, and thank god it was almost over, she thought with a slight grin as she stepped into the
control room and was bathed in faint bluish lights.
Blinking to try and adjust to the dimly lit control room, Price made her way toward her console. The room was set up like an auditorium, with a large display at the front displaying readouts from various sensors from throughout the ship. Beyond the display sat tiered rows of computer consoles, each manned by a crew member at all times. Price’s Senior Operator position was on the top row, next to the Watch Officer, currently Ensign Devereaux. She oversaw the smooth running of the sensor team, and reported to the Sensor Officer up on the cruiser’s bridge. Of course, Price thought as she sat down and adjust her headset, usually the officer’s job was get out of the damn way and try not to push any of the shiny buttons.
“Ok, boys and girls,” Price said into her headset as she scrolled though steams of sensor readouts. “I’m back. Oh, and in case you are curious, breakfast today is coffee or orange juice, some rather stale toast, powdered eggs, and bacon-like substance. I recommend skipping the chow and just getting rack time after your shift is up.” A chorus of groans filled the chamber at the news of what awaited them in the chow lines. “Now, does anyone have something for me to look at? Or, are we just cataloging debris and gaseous anomalies?”
“…If we are recording gaseous anomalies,” one of the sensor technicians queried from below, “we better add Kendricks?” Laughter rang out, filling the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Price even saw Ensign Devereaux double over with laughter. The room was in good spirits, she noted.
That was a good thing for the crew. All of them had been wound tightly as the convoy crossed into this new sector. In the last six months, ten ships had been attacked on this same run to these outer colonies, and everyone aboard the cruiser knew it. Price knew all too well that tension was a corrosive thing to the crew. It made them sloppy, wore them out, and ultimately could mean the difference between life and death. Humor, in moderation, could keep them relaxed and possibly alive. The crackle of someone coming on to the headset channel brought Price’s attention back to her the readouts on her screen.
“Senior,” the young, unconfident male voice of Seaman Brandt said. “I’ve got something weird over here.” Price perked up and input a series of commands into her computer. The reports were replaced by a twin image of what Brandt’s computer was showing several rows ahead. To Price’s left, Ensign Devereaux strode over to peer over the Chief Petty Officer’s shoulder.
“Alright,” Price said into the headset. “What am I looking at here?” Down below, she saw Brandt’s young face turn to face her. He blushed slightly as he became aware of the twenty-nine other faces staring at him.
“The neutrino readings,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “I was checking the particle sensors, you know, for sub-atomic particles and indications of gaseous anomalies when I saw it…” Price rolled her eyes, and ran a hand through her graying hair. Get to the point, she thought.
“I don’t like playing games, sailor.” She said exasperated. “Saw what?”
“It’s a spike. A really weird spike in neutrino density, like there are more particles than there should be.”
“Did you run it through the SPS,” Devereaux asked. The Sensor Processing System was a relatively new addition to the Abukuma. Designed to reduce the manpower requirements to operate a starship’s sensor systems, the program scanned the data, ran it through a series of advanced algorithms and provided a “best guess” estimate of the input, based on statistical evidence. The new generation of starship crews, like Ensign Marie Devereaux, possessed far greater faith in the latest and greatest technological marvels like SPS. However, a veteran sensor operator like Price did not trust any new system that removed the human gut intuition from the equation.
“Yes ma’am,” Brant replied. “SPS says it’s just an abnormal discharge from Abukuma.”
“Then that’s all it is,” Devereaux snipped. “Nothing to worry about.”
Brandt shook his head in disagreement. “I thought so, but since Chief Price says to double-check the SPS, I kept looking into it and ran the data through a time comparison.” Brandt punched a command on his console, and transferred his data to the main display. A waterfall display, the image showed the density of neutrino particles over a five-minute segment of time. To the far left, at plus-zero seconds, the display was solid green, and steadily faded to black at the other end of the time scale. “This is our baseline, from when we took over the watch this morning at 0400,” Bryant explained. “Note that the particles per million fades out over time -- a result of our impulse engines getting further away from this point in space.”
The screen dissolved to a new waterfall display. “This is from five minutes ago,” Brandt explained. Like the previous display, the image was solid green at the far left, fading to black as it shifted to the right. But, unlike the previous sensor record, two-thirds of the way across the time line, it again showed a solid green mass. “See, the density spikes way outside normal parameters, and it’s not dissipating. Even if SPS was right, even if it is some discharge from our engines, it should still dissipate over time,” Brandt pointed out. “Except, whatever that is, is not dissipating at the same rate as the rest of the particles.”
Devereaux’s face twisted in confusion. “I’ve never heard of any phenomena that can just increase neutrino emissions,” she said to Price. “I thought they were solely a man-made occurrence, right?” The ensign’s query went unanswered, causing her to shoot an annoyed glance at the Chief Petty Officer. Price never saw the look, and even had she noticed, she would not have cared, not while her fingers flew across her keyboard. Her hand stabbed out at another control panel. Pulling the boom microphone of her headset closer to her mouth, Price’s grandmotherly voice was suddenly cold and commanding.
“Bridge, Sensor,” she said in a tone that demanded attention. “New contact -- bearing one-eight-zero degrees, mark-plus-one-five. --Range, 1500 -- Designate contact Sierra-One-Nine.”
Indeed the spoken lines also dovetail to your story. 
