Capt. Shayne: This Sucks
Randal Shayne
((Deck 1, Bridge, USS Khitomer))
Shayne: What do they need from us?
Campbell: ::clicking to accept the message:: On screen, Captain.
For one, brief, glorious moment, Shayne felt delight- if the Ronin was able to send a signal strong enough to punch through the Alliance fleet’s subspace radiation glow, then it stood to reason that the rest of their composite, cascading problems might be dealt with in short order. But the screen’s activation brought only a clumsy morass of static and overlapping chaos. Campbell couldn’t have known, given his recent arrival on the bridge, and Jones, seemingly able to see what was coming a mile and a minute away, swiftly turned to older, kludgier means of communication.
Jones: Captain, we've got a problem.
Shayne didn’t even bother replying; the mere notion that they were under the effects of “a” problem was a distant, laughable memory of minor inconveniences and stubbed toes. This was just… a mess.
Jones: The Ronin is proposing a...web.
There was a battle going on, in space, on the station between engineers and their stubborn mechanical interfaces. There was a background of tension, of worry, manifesting as deep pits in stomachs or pounding hearts. The fate of the sector, the parsec beyond it, even the quadrant that swaddled them all was at stake, and Shayne still found time to swivel in his seat and look at Jones like she’d just announced her fourth liver was having a bachelor party.
Shayne: A web.
Dewitt: Response?
His shoulders wilted slightly as the word connected to meaning after a long slog through his thick, battle-weary head. Webs. He hated webs. He disliked spiders, but like telepaths and people who felt good about themselves, he’d learned to tolerate their contributions to the universe at large. With how often he seemed to lead his ship into webs of other parties’ design, it was only logical that he should resent them after a time.
Jones: Apparently that thing...is its own web. I'm getting preliminary scans, but the Ronin reports that they've seen plans for it previously and it is essentially a giant s-wave cannon.
Leave it to a race of beings who’d insisted on a five hundred thousand word long treaty to establish a policy of mutual existence (and their allies) to have backups for their backups for their secondary emergency backup superweapons.
Shayne: So what do we do?
His voice held a degree of desperation and defeat that only those who knew him well would recognize. In truth, he was too obstinate to do anything but cause maximum inconvenience to his enemies at the moment, and he hoped they knew it.
Dewitt/Zerva: Response
Jones: The plan is to form our own web and fire our counter wave in the hopes they cancel each other out.
So much for the Khitomer’s warranty. Then again, any plan was a good plan when there were no plans to counter it.
Dewitt/Zerva: Responses
Campbell: Sorry to interrupt, sirs. But, environmental control is becoming increasingly unstable, two decks are reporting the loss of breathable air. Compensating as we speak.
Shayne wasted no time.
Shayne: Commander, evacuate the affected decks and standby emergency containment bulkheads.
Dewitt: Response
Campbell: I am trying to contain the system fallout. ::panicking, scrambling:: It wasn’t shielded, sir. It wasn’t!
Campbell, it seemed, was struggling. Shayne couldn’t blame him. Walking into abject crisis from what (Shayne hoped) had been a pleasant leave of absence was like… well, he wouldn’t know on account of him not taking a leave of absence in over six years. But as much as Shayne sympathized with the man’s distress, there could be absolutely no patience for quibblings.
Shayne: I believe you, Mr. Campbell. Commander Dewitt?
Dewitt: Response
But it wasn’t enough; Campbell’s console just wouldn’t leave him be.
Campbell: ::alerts blaring from his console, checks data:: Sirs! Main oxygen levels dropping to 80 percent, I can’t control it. It won’t stop! ::checks data:: Environmental controls are not synchronized, the temporal distortion. It’s happening. The ECS is based on real-time data and different parts of the ship are reporting different times, the systems can’t compensate. It is confused, sirs.
Shayne: Alright, that’s a new one. Mr. Campbell, Mr. Dewitt, work on this environmental issue. Captain Jones, Mr. Brenner and I will coordinate with the Ronin.
Dewitt/Campbell: Response
Shayne stood to be closer to the helm, and wished that the tactical station was closer to the front of the bridge.
Brenner/Jones: Response
Shayne: Mr. Brenner, bring us alongside the Ronin and standby.
A chirping sound of incoming information sounded.
Jones: Response
Shayne sighed happily- at least something was going smoothly.
Shayne: Good- synchronize our deflector with the Ronin and follow their count.
Brenner/Jones: Response
On the screen, the skittery-but-still-somewhat-readable screen began to whiten with crackling, shattering energy. If they didn’t fire soon-
And then Ronin’s deflector jetted out pure amplified fury, and the Khitomer’s joined it, almost identical but the Khitomer’s was just a smidgen brighter, or maybe that was her captain’s favoritism…
And then space rent itself apart.
Columns of energy from the top and bottom of the primary Sheliak craft carved a path through the nothingness, their blazing force uncontained by the staticky viewscreen. Shayne covered his eyes for an instant, but by the time the phosphenes in his gaze died away, flames and shattered, spiraling debris were all that remained of the weapon.
Oh, save for the vast wall of shock now barreling towards both starships.
Shayne: Helm, hard to-
That was as far as he got. Positioned just under and slightly behind the Ronin, the Akira class took it on the chin first; as if uppercut, she wheeled backwards, her RCS thrusters flailing wildly to keep her in check. But before Shayne could see whether or not their comrades’ ship recovered…
The Khitomer fell out from underneath them.
Where Ronin had taken it on the chin, the Khitomer had been pummeled along her dorsal saucer’s edge. For seconds that stretched into an eternity, Shayne couldn’t think, couldn’t react, couldn’t master himself. There was noise and darkness and a horrible spiraling. Metal scraping on metal filled his ears, cries of the hurt were muffled, the stench of acrid, smoking computer banks wafted and suffocated…
…and then there was some manner of peace.
Shayne didn’t want to stand, didn’t want to face the truth of what their condition was. Every second he was breathing, he knew, was a gift, one that was not guaranteed. But all he could think to do was to take it one step at a time- assess himself, assess the crew, assess the ship.
He got himself onto all fours, and looked about.
No one he could see was standing yet. A terrible thrill of dread soaked through his bolstered, braced heart; would any of them stand again?
A hand, bloody and unsteady, but under its own power, emerged from the wreckage to the right of him. He wasn’t even sure where he was on the bridge anymore; the deck was laced with smoldering rubble, and the occasional flickering alert lights were joined only with the indefinite tendrils of flame that danced and cast shadows over the whole decrepit scene.
Shayne: Report…
His word was ragged and choked with smoke- where were the fire control systems? Then he remembered Campbell’s panic- the confusion in the environmental systems. He sucked down a big, tainted lungful of air, and tried to stand.
The lights, red and bloody, turned a sickening icy blue. A new alarm, one separate from the dozens of others that pulsated and warbled, screeched like a banshee into each of their ears.
Computer: =/\= Evacuate Bridge. Deck 1 life support failure imminent. =/\=
Shayne: Ahh…!
More than anything, it was a sound of supreme annoyance, frustration. Exiting the bridge wasn’t an option- no matter its condition, the efforts of the crew would be necessarily coordinated from the command center. There was no telling what engineering was like after a blast like that. Aux control was out of the question for the moment.
If they survived this, Shayne was insisting that they install a battle bridge. Just in case.
The question now was determining if they would die faster on the bridge than off it. Was this a matter of wonky systems that were designed with mechanical and ancient safeguards to prevent cybernetic tomfoolery? Or was it something more…?
And then he saw it.
A single hair, from someone’s head, he presumed- it was no use seeing whose- lazily swirled around, and then, as if pulled in a gust of wind, swung left at speed. Shayne followed it, until he lost it in the twisting morass of spiraling air, but by then he knew what was causing it.
Positioned about two feet off the deck, a flickering blue light crackled and popped. Except it wasn’t a light, it was a forcefield.
And it wasn’t just crackling and popping. It was failing.
They had seconds.
Brenner/Jones/Dewitt/Campbell: Response
Shayne: Hull breach! Patch kit under the tactical station!
Shayne scrabbled towards the breach, his hair ruffling with the void’s unfriendly beckoning. Sharp debris and shards of transparent aluminum stabbed his hands and knees and anything else he shuffled forward with, but he didn’t dare stop. He slammed his full body against the breach, fighting every instinct in his heart to get away, to flee, to make distance between himself and the threat. But he wouldn’t know if it worked until the forcefield failed completely-
Dewitt/Jones/Brenner/Campbell: Response
Tag/TBC…
Captain Randal Shayne
Commanding Officer
USS Khitomer
NCC 62400G239202RS0