Star Trek: Terra Alpha

"I'll be goddamned," Lt. Michael Hilliard exclaimed, flare gun in hand. He and several of the other officers stared down at the projectile a few feet from him as it fizzled out with its four other companions.

"Mr. Hillard go fetch another case of flares," Milo ordered. "These must have gotten wet.

"Belay the order Mr. Hillard," Rebecca said meditatively. "Mr. O'Brien," she said turning to her Irish immigrant engineer, "Get the Master-At-Arms and go to the armory and bring back an M16."

O'Brien nodded, "Yes sir." Grabbing one of the makeshift torches made from rope, and broom handles soaked in diesel fuel he pushed his way through the crowd looking for the armory officer.

O'Brien returned fifteen minutes later with a bewildered looking Master-At-Arms. The black man, dark as night approached Rebecca with the M16 in his hands.

"Sir," he said in a deeply voice accented from his years growing up in West Memphis, Arkansas.

Rebecca nodded, "Fire a shot over the rail if you would Mr. Cameron."

Mr. Cameron gave her a suspicious look, but nodded , flipped the rifle to single shot mode, shouldered the weapon, and pulled the trigger.

The result was much the same as the flare gun. A soft cap-gun pop and and an anti-climactic "plink" as the bullet fell to the deck.

The sailor chambered another round, and the result was the same. He repeated the process until the magazine was empty.

"This is not an EMP or wet flares," Rebecca said unnecessarily.

"What are you saying captain?" Milo asked.

"It would seem the laws of physics have been altered in some way," she said thoughtfully. "Mr. Talon you are in charge of getting me a provisions report. Water will be our biggest problem. Without the desalination plant there is no way to replenish our stores. Cut the water ration to half-gallon a day. Looks like salt-water baths from here on out."

"Aye sir," her XO gathered up crew and disappeared into the hold.


The next day sent the crew seething out onto the deck. With nothing to do and no climate control the lower holds of the ship became sweltering.

On the bridge Rebecca stared out the windows binoculars in her hand. Her senior officers flanking around a navigational chart laid on before them.

"Based on this, and our last reported position we should be about here," Lieutenant Talon said using a forefinger to indicate the location. "The gulf stream should run us aground somewhere around here," he indicated a line of coastline not far from Salem, Massachusetts.

Rebecca still didn't move. She could see smoke lifting up from where Boston should be. But, there was nothing on the water or in the air.

Turning she set the binoculars next to the chart. "Whatever has happened. That blinding light. It's more than just us."

The others nodded in agreement. They too had seen the uncontrolled fires from Boston. The lack of contrails in the sky. "What do you suggest ma'am?"

"A ship," she said immediately.

"Captain," Milo started. "We have a ship, and it's not doing us any good."

"We're sailors Mister Talon. I don't plan on being a farmer. And there is one ship that we can use. The Constitution."

Miles spoke up, "Why the bloody thing is over two-hundred years old sir!"

"That she is Chief, but she's sea worthy. Sh sailed just last year under her own power. This is state of the art technology now."

"Aye Captain," Miles replied unconvinced.

"Mr. Talon," Rebecca announced you have command of the ship."

Milo cocked his head towards her, "Captain?" he asked in his flat western plains accent.

"I will lead a team to get Constitution, and we will sail back here to rescue the crew. We won't take any food or water and that will stretch our stores a bit longer."

"Aye captain. Hopefully, we will be able to make repairs and meet you in Boston, but those M16 rounds. Well, that's damned strange."

"It easier to break than to fix, remember that Mister Talon."

* * *

It was nearly three weeks later when the party of fifty naval officers and crew turned onto 3rd street from US Highway 1. The three masts of their destination loomed tall into the sky.

They had come ashore fifty miles southwest of Boston and the trip had not been an easy one. Bandit gangs prowed the streets. They usually didn't bother to even ask anymore. They would just ambush people, kill them and strip them of anything valuable.

The Robert Burke crew had outfitted themselves with various weapons including fire axes, baseball bats, machetes, and even a few words that they had come across in their search for supplies. Everyone had a shield of some sort made from metal trashcan lids or stop signs. A few had even fashioned some crude pieces of armor using shoelaces and cut down pieces of the rest of the garbage cans. The head was protected using the motorcycle, football, or batting helmets that they had liberated from a sporting goods store over a week ago.

The armor was cumbersome, uncomfortable, and had dubious benefit, but Rebecca figured it was better than nothing, though she surmised that their numbers probably had a bigger impact.

Everyone was pushing shopping carts filled to the brim with rice, beans, and various other sundries. It wouldn't last more than a few days, but Rebecca thought she remembered that there was a food distribution center not far from the ship, and she would send a party to clean it out by any means possible.

As they approached a pair of seamen stood at the edge of the gangway to Constitution looking both tired and scared. They raised their M16 rifles at Rebecca who was obviously the leader.

"Stop right there!" A boatswain's mate shouted. "This is United States Navy property, and we will shoot to defend."

Rebecca removed the football helmet she was wearing, "Sailor, we are the navy. Commander Sandoval, captain of the U.S.S. Robert Burke."

The sailor let out a long sigh, "Thank god, you are the first friendly faces we have seen in three days. After the electricity and water mains stopped the Mayor and the Governor evacuated the city into a refugee camp outside Springfield. The National Guard has been running the camps. Ensign Samuels ordered us to guard the ship."

"Where's Commander Melhuish?"

"I don't know sir. He hasn't been seen since... well, since the event. Three airliners crashed as they were coming in for a landing over on the side of he and the XO were living. Most of the officers were living over there."

"I know the area. I probably lived over there when I was stationed on this ship. Very well sailor, let's prepare to make way."

"Make way sir? You can't mean you plan to take her out do you?"

"That's exactly what I mean. We can't stay here. That would be disastrous for our health, and I have my crew to rescue stranded off Nantucket." She turned to an ensign at her elbow, "Mr. Hiller, take thirty men to that grocery wearhouse we passed earlier. I want that place picked clean of anything useful. If it's still edible bring it. We'll be glad of it. Chief Reynolds take the rest and we need to hit up hardware stores, and pharmacies. We need tools for farming, and building as we as any and all medications you can find. Mr. O'Brien, you are with me. Move out!"

March 25, 1998
USS Constitution
Boston, Massachusetts

Rebecca stood at the helm overseeing the final loading of the ship. The final palet of fresh drinking water was lowered into the hold using the museum's manual crane, and the deck hatches were slammed shut and latched.

The crew had grown from its original 50 sailors to 74. Most were the Constitution's crew as they drifted in, but there were several civilians who had sailing experience, and one doctor. On a ship like this there was never enough strong backs.

"Mr. O'Brien, warp out if you please," she said the Irish immigrant.

"Aye captain," the Irishman replied. He saluted and turned and walked down the deck shouting orders. Crew started throwing off the mooring lines. Several took rigging axes to cut through the hemp rope when it had become impossible to remove.

Another group of the crew had lowered a whale boat into the harbor while others lowered the ship's anchor down into the small auxiliary carft. At O'Brien's shouts the whale boat was rowed out into the bay until the anchor had come to the end of its chain and with ten strong backs they threw the heavy chunk of iron overboard with a splash. With grunts the strongest men of the crew put their backs into the capstan, and slowly started to wind the anchor back onto the ship. As a result Constitution slowly slipped away from the dock.

This process was repeated three times, row out, toss the anchor overboard, and wind in. Once in the center of the harbor while the whale boat was being retrieved, crew scrambled over the rigging and started unfurling the sails.

"We have a good wind today," She said to Lt Hiller, who acting XO. Rebecca she stared out to sea searching for the Robert Burke with her binoculars. She knew they were too far away to see, but it didn't stop her. Their fate had left her stomach knotted since they had left. Without looking away from her search she spoke again, "You look like a fool. That uniform."

Hiller grinned widely to hide his embarrassment. He was wearing the ceremonial uniform that Constitution officers wore, complete with buff breeks, dark blue jacket, red waistcoat, and black top hat of a 18th century Naval lieutenant. He wasn't the only one several of the other crew were wearing the old fashioned uniforms. The enlisted sticking out like sore thumbs in their white. "When in Rome captain."

"When in Rome indeed," she replied with a scoff. "Though, if it helps morale theb I guess it's invaluable."