A Mirror, Smudgy

Captain’s Log – Stardate 111718

All is fine here on planet Florida. Nothing at all wrong. The crew is amazing. There’s no reason to suspect them of anything. Even if they have access to Discovery’s systems and, through some combination of sheer accident and coincidence, compromise this transmission to Starfleet and begin reading this very log entry which, of course, reports nothing out of the ordinary…

Personal Log – Stardate 111718

I’ve spent the last two weeks combing the Federation archives, trying to find an explanation. Nearly every case has one thing in common: there is always an external force at play. In other words, Starfleet ships don’t mutiny.

Captains get body swapped. The crew falls under the influence of some kind of alien symbiote  or mind-altering substance. Or they have legitimate reason to mutiny on grounds of some violation of one directive or another.

More often, Starfleet records show encounters with other mutinous factions. Just not on their ship.

Then there are the rumors of a mirror universe parallel to our own. One in which our polar opposites exist. This is different from the antimatter forms, which are my prime suspect, but I can’t trust anything right now.

“Want some coffee?”

My First Officer, stands in ten forward with a pot of freshly brewed Italian roast in her hand. She seems…normal. But I didn’t see her make that batch. Science Officer Alfie watches me with interest. Is he curious how I’ll react? Or is he just wondering if I’ll eat all the bacon on my plate.

“No thanks. I’m trying to quit.”

“Since when?” she says, her eyebrows raised.

“Ummm…recently. I read an article on the subspace channels.”

She makes one of those “whatever” faces. Has she always made those? The knowing, tight-lipped head tilt…that could be interpreted as mutinous. Right?

Science Officer Alfie barks. I slide my plate of bacon toward him. I watch him devour it. Or more like inhale it. Nothing different there.

“I’m going back to the beach today, want to come?”

Could be a harmless invitation or it could be a trap. How can I be certain until I’ve ascertained where I am? A smaller class ship, we have only one transporter and if those patchy reports from Kirk are to be believed, it was a transporter incident during an ion storm which shunted them into the mirror world. I’ll need time to check it for any signs of damage.

“No thanks. I’m going to stay here on the bridge. In case we get a lock on that distress signal again.”

“Suit yourself.”

As soon as she’s gone, I head for the transporter room. Science Officer Alfie gives me a quizzical look then wanders off to his observation post. Good. No distractions. Some say Woofians are incapable of mutiny, but I can’t be completely sure about his loyalties either. In a mirror universe, he’d be the first one to sink his teeth in my back.

Our transporter looks to be in working condition. With our rough ride, we’ve encountered plenty of storms. I don’t recall any one incident but surely I’ve used it during just such an occasion. There has to be an easier way to determine where I am.

I return to the bridge computer and review the historical logs. In the Enterprise mirror universe encounter, they were given orders from Starfleet which would’ve made a Klingon think twice. That’s it. What are our orders?

“Reconnaissance of damaged areas, lending aid to rescue and relief efforts.” There are coordinates given and an ominous directive which reads: Feed the Gulf.

That empty vastness out there from which all manner of curiosities spawn. The same void which conjured the storm that brought us here in the first place. This could be the evidence I need. In some darkened reflection of my own universe, that Gulf would be hungry, voracious. Feeding it would surely be the antithesis of Starfleet’s peaceful goals of exploration.

Mirror world or not, I head to the shuttle. I’ve got to put a stop to this.

 

 

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