Performance Issues

Posted on Tue Jun 2nd, 2026 @ 12:43pm by Captain Wilkan Targaryen & Lieutenant Sherlock Grimes

2,136 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Homecoming
Location: Computer Core, U.S.S. Sulaco
Timeline: 3190-11-01, 10:00

The transition of the transporter was a jagged, discordant hum, lacking the silken grace of the Transporter pads Wilkan remembered from his youth. As the shimmering veil of blue particles dissolved, he materialized on the cold deckplates of the Sulaco’s Computer Core Control Room. The air here was thin and frigid, smelling of ozone and the sterile, recycled chill of the stardrive section.

Towering before him were the twin massive, cylindrical processing towers, glowing with a faint, rhythmic pulse that seemed out of sync with the ship’s primary heartbeat. The complex spanned two levels, connected by narrow catwalks and ladders that clung to the bulkheads like industrial webbing. Warning lights flickered across the diagnostic consoles, casting long, nervous shadows against the beige walls. The eerie silence of the room was punctuated only by the frantic clicking of relays struggling to compensate for the system-wide lag. Wilkan stepped forward, his boots ringing hollowly against the metal floor. He looked up at the tiered galleries, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkened workstations. There was no ghost in the ice here, only the mechanical groan of a titan being slowly lobotomized by a silent, invisible enemy.

An Osnullus Crewman was passing by from panel to panel. Wilkan looked toward her, "Crewman."

The alien woman stopped cold, turning with an internal stress that Wilkan wondered was from the tragedy befalling the Sulaco, or having to deal with your Captain standing before you for the very first time. He remembered the feeling of the first time that doomsday befell his ship. It was probably a mix of both.

"Yes Captain?"

"I'm looking for the Coordinator," the hybrid explained.

She pointed, "Back that way, Sir."

Wilkan nodded, graciously, in appreciation of the direction. Turning toward the aft section of the room, the Captain noted that there were few people working within the Core. It was scary to see the difference in eras, but the rise of automation gave no qualms for the future. He found his target, the Sulaco's one hope.

"Lieutenant, got a minute?"

Sherlock was crouched down with his head and torso half inside of an open panel. An engineering kit open next to him at his feet. Various tools and parts laying across the deck as well. There was a slight curse for a moment, oblivious to the Captain standing there.

Wilkan watched for a moment, the sound of the muffled curse echoing slightly in the hollow, metallic cavern of the Computer Core. It was a grounded, organic sound - a stark contrast to the sterile, clinical suppression currently strangling the Sulaco’s systems. The Captain didn't clear his throat or pull rank to startle the man; he simply waited at the edge of the tool-strewn perimeter. He recognized that particular brand of engineering focus, the kind where the rest of the ship ceased to exist and the only reality was the stubborn relay or the frayed optical lead in front of you. In an era where automation handled almost everything, seeing a Lieutenant with his hands physically inside the ship’s guts felt strangely familiar.

"I assume that panel is giving you as much trouble as the Bridge is giving me," Wilkan said, his voice low and steady, purposefully avoiding the sharp, demanding register he’d used on the Bridge. He stepped closer, his gaze drifting to the twin processing towers that continued their rhythmic, lagging pulse. "That panel's just one of dozens of others. The systems aren't just slowing down; they're behaving... erratically," Wilkan continued, his eyes narrowing as he watched a flickering relay. "One minute the helm's down, then it's the environmental scrubbers, then back to the internal comms buffer. It’s like it’s anticipating our diagnostics." He looked down at the back of the Lieutenant's head.

There was part of a conduit thrown over his shoulder, only Sherlock knew what that was for at the moment. Another piece of, God know what that was thrown to the side. Three dead bio-neural gel packs, which in this case were set gently aside. Some part he didn't exactly know what it was because of the new 32nd Century integrations. He assumed the Chief Engineering Officer wanted some original parts left, or they hadn't had time to replace them.

After long enough, Sherlock finally scooted back, a complete look of frustration on his face. Wiping the brow that had the Borg implant on it. Curling his left hand into a fist and unclenching it, which also had implants along it. The left hand also still had the assimilation and interface tubuals intact which he was about to mention. Standing up to face Targaryen. "Captain." He wasn't going to apologize about the cursing. "I have a pretty good idea about that, more than one. It's all the mixed integrations that weren't finished. Also, I've got a suspicion that we may have a virus working through the systems. Bouncing around looking for something. Unless it's these new 32nd Century crap seeing our older systems as an intrusion and trying to fix them. This would be so much easier if I could just interface directly."

He gave a huff, "You know, I'm not the Chief Engineer, right?" There wasn't much of a point in being polite or tip toe around just because it was the Captain. "So... why am I the one doing this."

Wilkan watched the Lieutenant with a steady, unblinking gaze, absorbing the sight of the cybernetic implants and the raw frustration etched onto the man’s face. The sight of the Borg tubules and the mention of a direct interface triggered a sudden, cold snap of memory that Wilkan hadn't expected. For a heartbeat, the sterile chill of the Sulaco’s COmputer Core was replaced by the suffocating heat and screaming metal of Wolf 359. He could almost smell the burning deckplates of the Kumari and hear the collective’s voice echoing through the chaos. It was a ghost he usually kept buried, but seeing those implants - that horrifying blend of man and machine - brought the nightmare back to the surface with bruising clarity.

He blinked, the ancient weight of that loss settling behind his eyes before he forced himself back to the present.

"I’m well aware of your standing, Lieutenant," Wilkan replied, his voice maintaining a calm, grounded weight that betrayed none of the internal static he’d just felt. He didn't offer a smile, but the edge of his previous command authority had been replaced by a grim, professional recognition. "And I know Vaelira is buried in the Spore Drive’s guts right now. I'm here because the Bridge is fighting a ghost, and the Chief Engineer is fighting a power sink. I need someone who understands why the 'old' systems are the only ones still screaming." He gestured toward the towering cores, their lagging pulses reflecting in the dark polish of his boots. "You mentioned a virus. Bouncing around, looking for something." Wilkan stepped over a discarded tool, closing the distance until he was standing at the edge of the open panel. "If this 32nd Century 'crap' is treating our original architecture like an infection, it's doing a damn good job of lobotomizing us, but if it’s an actual intruder - something intelligent enough to anticipate a diagnostic - then it isn’t just fixing a conflict. It’s hunting."

Wilkan’s eyes locked onto Sherlock’s, his hybrid heritage lending him a gaze that felt both ancient and predatory. "I don't need a Chief Engineer right now, I need a skeptic who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. If you think you can find where this thing is hiding by plugging yourself in, then consider it an order. Find out if we’re being suppressed by our own upgrades or if someone just invited themselves into our head."

"Alright then." Sherlock nodded and held his hand up to the interface behind the panel. Two long tubes snaking out and striking quickly. "This is going to take at least 3 minutes."

"Not to rush things, but the Bridge is flying blind and tactical is failing, so you have two," Wilkan countered, his voice flat, cutting through the hum of the core with a cold, absolute authority. He didn't look away from the tubules as they locked into the interface, forcing down the phantom taste of ash and copper that still lingered at the back of his throat. He stepped back just enough to give Sherlock room as he crossed his arms over his chest, the posture rigid and defensive.

The former president looked toward the towering, flickering processing cylinders of the Sulaco and watched them like a predator preparing to strike. He let the Lieutenant work but began a diatribe with his voice dropping into that dangerous, clinical register that left no room for debate. "This isn't an accidental system conflict, and it isn't some localized anomaly. The way this infection is migrating - bouncing from the helm to the scrubbers, anticipating our diagnostics - it’s too specific. It’s too deliberate. Whoever designed this script knew our architecture down to the bulkhead. They didn't plant this tether five minutes ago when we dropped out of the mycelial plane, and if they're following the playbook I think they are this was buried deep in our core long before we ever left dock. It’s been sitting in the dark, waiting for us to hit the Oort boundary to flip the switch. I need to know exactly how long we've been carrying this saboteur in our guts."

"It's taking a little longer, nevermind, lock cleared." Sherlock's eyes were fixed at the moment while he worked through the files. Particular key words and dates, cross referencing. "About a week and a half."

"Bridge to Captain Targaryen," Karys sharp voice interrupted, "We have a situation up here. Our sensors just miraculously snapped back online, which means the enemy is actively feeding power into our arrays to ensure we can see them coming. The UEDF warship is closing fast on a ten o'clock heading."

"I copy, Commander," Wilkan replied, his voice flat, clinical, and completely devoid of panic. The Captain stood like a statue over Sherlock’s rigid form, his hand resting near the physical manual-override release. The static-laced burst from his communicator echoed off the stark metal bulkheads. "Don't let the timing fool you. They aren't giving us our eyes back out of generosity. They're trying to force us into a panic reaction. What's our tactical status?"

"Zim is engaging on local manual control, and I've ordered Elara to flood their approach vector with tachyons to blind their telemetry," Karys reported, her breath coming fast but controlled. "But you need to move faster, Captain."

Wilkan’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at Sherlock, whose cybernetic implants were whining under the strain of the direct interface. The Captain’s jaw set into a hard, rigid line. "Tell the crew to hold the line," Wilkan ordered, his tone shifting into a colder, absolute register, "The Lieutenant is already plugged into the matrix. He’s peeling back the layers right now. We know it’s a targeted strike, and we know exactly what’s at stake. Keep that warship off our hull and do not let them broadcast a kill-switch code. Targaryen out."

"Lieutenant?"

"I...Am...Working..on it." Sherlock huffed a little bit. Directing the nanites in the correct directions and level systems. There were still recall functions if there was an issue, or just when the job was finished also, just in case.

"Lieutenant, the clock just ran out," Captain Targaryen said, his hand dropping to the manual-override release lever. His knuckles were white against the cold iron. Above them, the processing towers flared an angry, recursive gold, signaling that the UEDF ship was actively hammering their handshakes. His predatory gaze locked onto the violently pulsing data stream. The ancient weight of a dozen betrayed cold wars settled behind his eyes.

"A week and a half," Wilkan repeated, his voice dropping into that dangerous, clinical register. "A ghost from our own recent refit. They've been sitting in our guts since we cleared the yard, waiting for this exact boundary to flip the switch. Isolate the core handshake and feed Zim the telemetry parameters before they can broadcast that kill-switch."

He paused a moment, considering the options carefully. This was a Tactical advantage at the end of the day, and one that he planned to take advantage of, "No, I have a better idea. Get that virus purged, but I want you to let me know if they try to use it. Report to the Bridge as soon as you're done. You're my new Ops Officer."

Captain Targaryen double tapped the home button on his Tricom, returning to the Bridge.

 

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