Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Hope Springs... a Leak

[Carter Schimpff]

(( Faraday Room, Garden Cave – Callis I ))

The four officers gathered around the alien console with the determined focus of professionals and the practical understanding of newly-minted pioneers. Bergmen occupied the controls while the others leaned in, eyes tracking the unfamiliar symbols as though collective intimidation might translate them.

They all had degrees. Field training. Experience – in some cases, years of it. They’d survived a crash, a storm, and several other not-to-be-recommended experiences from a planet clearly intent on trying to kill them.

What they did not have was the faintest idea what any of these pictograms meant.

Still – they were trying.

Jovenan: Right. Um. Normally, we would take much more time into figuring out what the ancient text mean before pressing buttons, but in our circumstances, I guess some risks are tolerable.

Bancroft: I say we give it a shot. ::grinning:: What’s the worst that could happen?

K’Wara: Oh, so many things. Electrocution, the walls could start moving, the door could open and a Thing could jump in, static electricity could ruin my hair... There’s no end to the list, really.

Roy huffed a quiet laugh, the sound brief but genuine. He appreciated precision in humor – particularly when delivered under duress. 

Jovenan: That is possible, and we shouldn’t be taking unnecessary risks with our lives. If anyone wants to step outside, I won’t mind that. ::pause:: Otherwise, which icon do you want to try first?

Roy’s gaze shifted toward Jovenan without turning his head – blonde hair disheveled from days without proper facilities, curiosity still burning undiminished. From her, his eyes slid to the back of Bergmen’s head, then to K’Wara.

No one moved for the door.

There was a quiet understanding in that.

Risk was relative now. A mysterious console ranked somewhere far below predatory mammals and starvation.

Ollie broke the moment with a decisive tap.

Bergmen: I already pressed the blue square with the edifice icon. It’s processing.

Roy dragged his fingers slowly through his overgrown beard, smoothing it down – not out of nerves, but rather focus. He watched the screen the way he would monitor a patient: waiting for a response, any response. 

Bancroft: ::slyly to K’Wara:: Maybe it’s trying to decide which head of hair to fry first.

The console didn't answer.

The delay stretched longer than any modern LCARS interface would have tolerated. Then again, ancient alien computer systems didn’t often hurry.

Finally–

Movement flickered at the edge of his vision.

Roy’s head snapped toward the adjacent display just as it brightened.

The image stabilized into a view of another chamber.

Stone walls. Familiar angles. Equipment mounted in shadows.

A room.

But not this one.

K’Wara: What is- ::widens eyes:: Oooh. It’s another room. Empty though.

Jovenan: What room is that? Are we looking at a recording of this place?

Bergmen: I don’t think so. See that somewhere here? ::points his finger to  the instrument in the shadows of the background::

Roy stepped forward at the same moment Jovenan did and nearly clipped her shoulder. He pivoted neatly at the last second, allowing her to slip past before settling just behind her.

His eyes moved quickly, cataloguing differences – the placement of instrumentation, the shape of the far wall, the angle of the console.

Bancroft: He’s right – it’s similar, but not the same.

K’Wara: So, all of those tiles? Are they these, uhh, ::looks to Jovenan:: ‘power cage’ rooms?

Jovenan pivoted back toward the console and Roy mirrored the movement without thinking – the two of them turning in near-perfect synchrony before he caught himself. Old reflex. When your officer in command reoriented, you did too.

Jovenan: Power cage rooms… ::eyes widened:: Faraday cages, like this one. ::back towards the screen:: There are other rooms that are shielded from the Maelstrom.

The implication settled over Roy like a second atmosphere.

Shielded rooms.

Plural.

Bergmen: Yeah, now just to find where, and how far from here.

Roy's mind moved ahead of the evidence before he could rein it in.

Other rooms… could mean other occupants.

Other survivors from the Karnack.

His heart kicked once – hard enough that he felt it in his throat. His eyes searched the screen with sudden intensity, irrationally hoping for something recognizable. A flicker of command red. The sharp cut of amber eyes. The familiar fall of dark hair.

Nothing yet.

Still–

Bancroft: What about the other tiles – the gold ones? Could those be other rooms?

With people in them?

K’Wara: Faraday. Right. ::looks around:: But the gold ones- ::tries tapping:: They don’t work. So they must’ve been left open, for some reason, or maybe ruptured?

Jovenan: We’re receiving information! There’s a method of communication despite the Maelstrom! How!?

Bergmen: As Vulcans would say - the most logical answer is the simplest - shielded cables.

Roy considered that.

On paper, it was sensible. Shielded lines between reinforced chambers. Simple. Direct.

And yet nothing about Callis I had proven simple.

He wasn’t an engineer. He didn’t pretend to be. But he was a scientist of a sort, and the data in front of him contradicted what they thought they understood about the Maelstrom’s interference. Whatever mechanism was at work, it was surviving conditions that crippled modern Starfleet technology.

Which meant either the Maelstrom behaved differently than they thought–

–or this civilization had learned something Starfleet had not.

Bancroft: Shielded cables would be the clean answer. ::tilts his head slightly:: But if the storm degrades external systems the way we’ve seen, those lines would have to be exceptionally resilient. Maybe they’re transmitting through a medium that replenishes itself, like water?

His gaze moved between them – not seeking validation so much as alignment. A shared line of reasoning. A thread they could all pull together.

Because for the first time since the crash, hope didn’t feel theoretical.

It felt reachable.

K’Wara: Response

Jovenan: I doubt physical lines would remain shielded long enough, but folded-space communication through the Maelstrom’s fields would be prone to data corruption.

Bergmen: Back in times when I was an enlisted LCARS programmer, I would say you - we need at least project documentation before we can do anything about that idea of yours, Commander.

Roy pressed his lips together, his overgrown mustache swallowing the gesture whole.

Documentation would be ideal.

Preferably something less interpretive than petroglyphs and blinking triangles.

Given their luck so far, any ‘manual’ they found would consist of a stick figure pointing at lightning with a warning expression.

Bancroft: I suspect we’re going to have to make our own documentation – which means experimentation. ::nudging K’Wara:: Place your bets – when we tap the next button, do we get catastrophic decompression… or something theatrical? I’m leaning toward a spring-loaded countermeasure designed by someone with a sense of humor, personally.

K’Wara: Response

Commander Jovenan, either unimpressed or deliberately choosing not to encourage them, answered with steady practicality.

Jovenan: Right. ::pause:: What was the other icon? Maybe we’ll find more answers with more information.

Obligingly, Ollie pressed something – and the main display immediately began to flicker. The console emitted a rapid series of mechanical clicks, deeper and louder than it had before, as though internal mechanical relays were engaging in sequence.

Then the main screen went completely dark – though the clicking continued.

Bergmen: Ehm… ::grins sheepishly:: Did we break it?

Bancroft: Don’t think so… it’s still making noise. Maybe the console’s screen burned out?

K’Wara/Jovenan: Response

The clicking continued, steady and deliberate – then every display in the chamber flared back to life at once.

The side monitor resolved first, static crawling across the image before slowly stabilizing into a dim, grain-laced view of a Faraday Room.

A Faraday Room with people in it.

The camera angle was elevated, the image in grayscale, the resolution poor… but the figures were unmistakably humanoid.

Four of them.

Roy's pulse spiked.

He strained to make out details through the distortion. One of the figures turned slightly, and a pale sweep of hair caught the weak light.

White – no, blonde.

Commander Munro?

Hope didn’t rise gradually – it struck with the weight of a hammer.

Roy moved without thinking, stepping forward fast enough that he nearly collided with someone – but as he did, he caught movement on the screen.

Movement that mirrored his own.

Understanding clicked into place a fraction of a second before his stomach dropped.

It wasn’t another room, and it wasn’t Commander Munro with three of their comrades.

It was their room. It was them.

Bergmen: Is it what I think it is?

Roy didn’t know if Ollie was reacting to the same image or something on his own console’s display – and for a moment, it didn’t matter to him.

The surge of hope ebbed as quickly as it had come.

Bancroft: ::squinting at the screen:: It appears to be… us. ::flatly:: A live feed from this room.

K’Wara/Jovenan: Response

Roy drew in a slow breath through his nose and held it there for a count before releasing it just as carefully.

He knew better than to let hope outrun evidence.

Callis I had already corrected him on that lesson more than once.

And still – for half a heartbeat – he’d let himself believe.

The console continued its relentless clicking.

Roy turned away from the side display and back toward the main screen, looking for something – anything – that might justify the spike of adrenaline still echoing faintly in his chest.

Instead, he found lines of symbols cascading across the display in ordered succession.

They weren’t just pictograms this time. They were structured strings. Identifiers.

Each line ended with a short divider and a symbol that flashed through a rapid sequence before settling into place.

Ollie tapped at the screen, prodded it – attempted to interrupt the process.

The console ignored him.

Roy wet his lips, only then realizing how dry they’d become. The air in the chamber suddenly felt thinner, the silence between clicks louder.

Finally, the scrolling slowed – then stopped entirely.

Ollie pointed at the last line.

Bergmen: I think I can quite surely read this as “that’s us”, and that ::points to the upward crossed-out triangle:: as pictogram for “alive”.

Roy leaned closer.

There it was – a single entry marked differently than the rest.

Bancroft: ::low, dry:: Well. That’s reassuring. According to the ancient alien computer… we’re still among the living. ::beat:: Nice to have it confirmed.

The edge in his voice lingered half a second longer than he’d intended.

It wasn’t directed at anyone in particular – but it hadn’t been fair, either.

He let the moment pass without comment, drawing in a steadying breath and forcing the spike of misplaced hope back down where it belonged.

There would be time later to smooth any ruffled feathers.

For now, he focused on re-centering – slowing his pulse, clearing the noise from his thoughts, returning to the evidence in front of him.

K’Wara/Jovenan: Response

Reflexively, Roy’s gaze swept the chamber.

Shadows pooled along the ceiling and beneath ledges, broken only by the pale wash of console light and the restless flicker of their torches. Stone. Old equipment. Nothing that looked like surveillance equipment to him.

Which, he knew, meant very little on an alien planet.

Bancroft: If those symbols really do mean ‘that’s us’ and ‘alive,’ there must be some sort of rudimentary sensor suite built into this room. And if there are sensors in here…

He let the implication hang in the air rather than finishing it. 

K’Wara/Jovenan/Bergmen: Response

Roy’s attention shifted back to Bergmen’s console, his gaze slower now – more methodical. The upward triangle. The columns of downward ones. The untouched tiles still waiting.

Bancroft: Is there some way we can leverage this? Use it to find out if there are… others?

The briefest hitch crept into the final word before he smoothed it away. 

K’Wara/Jovenan/Bergmen: Response

Roy drew in through his nose, folded his arms across his chest, and tilted his head slightly as he studied the console.

Bancroft: I suppose randomly pushing buttons was only ever going to get us so far. I’d trade a month’s worth of brown mush for a translation matrix right now…

K’Wara/Jovenan/Bergmen: Response

TAG/TBC!

===

Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft

Medical Officer

USS Artemis-A

A240205RB1