Lt JG Quentin Beck - A Pebble in a Maraca
Quentin Beck
((Shuttlecraft Carl Sagan, near Deep Space 33))
Beck: I'm reading a handful of fighters coming our way - three Alliance and two of ours. Looks like they're trying to cover us, but they're having some trouble.
O'Connor: Darn, wasn’t looking for them to have to babysit us. Seems like they have their own problems. Maybe we can help them out. If I swing up and try to loop inform the side, do you think you can target the pursuers.
Grimacing a little, his nose wrinkled. The last thing he'd expected to have to do was man the weapons, but he had told Ian to focus just on flying.
Beck: I'll do what I can, but no promises - I only scored slightly better firing ship's weapons than using hand phasers and I don't know if you know this but I have lost pretty much every fight I've been forced to engage in since being posted here.
O'Connor: Well you’re overdue for a win then. ::gesturing out the forward window:: And judging by what things look like out there I’d say surviving is a win.
Chuckling and narrowing his eyes at the sensor grid, he hovered his hand over the firing stud, tongue pressing to the corner of his mouth again. The fighters were moving damned fast, fast enough he wasn't sure he could hit one anyway… but he trusted his gut.
Beck: Swallow this.
The Sagan banked hard and accelerated at one of the Alliance fighters as his fingers descended.
The shuttle's primary phaser emitter whirred to life, a crimson lance spearing out through the blackness and boring through the shields of the closest fighter, followed immediately by a small cluster of microtorpedos he'd launched simultaneously. One of their fighters happened to fire their phasers at the exact same moment, and that was enough to overload the Alliance fighter's shields. It exploded a moment later, scattering debris, though the other two fighters managed to avoid being damaged in the explosion.
Quentin whooped and jumped out of his chair, cackling like a madman. It didn't take long for him to get hold of himself, especially when he saw the way Ian was smiling.
O'Connor: To quote one of my favorite philosophers. “Great shot kid! Don’t get cocky”
He smirked, quite familiar with that particular philosopher's body of work, and slid back into the secondary seat again, shaking his head.
Beck: Sorry, I just – this never happens to me. Most of my good luck is less active and more dumb.
O’Connor: Hold on. I’ll try and line you up another shot.
The phasers had already finished recharging and all it took was a single stroke of his finger to load another round of microtorpedos into the launchers.
Beck: Here's hoping that wasn't catching lightning in a bottle…
One of the remaining fighters opened fire and it was only thanks to Ian's masterful sense of timing that the projectile they'd launched didn't split the Sagan in two. Not only did the helm officer manage to avoid the attack, but he'd brought them back in line at just the right angle so the fighter fell into the firing arc of the shuttle's aft phaser banks.
Beck: Let's go for lucky shot number two.
He pressed the firing stud again and another phase beam lanced from the bank, though the pilot seemed to have some preternatural warning because they banked hard enough the beam missed them completely.
Quentin slammed his fist against the edge of the console, growling.
Beck: Poodoo!
O’Connor: Don’t sweat it. Those ships are faster than us and that pilot is better than I thought. Let’s try something else.
He knew he shouldn't have let himself get so frustrated with missing that second shot, but Quentin couldn't help it; when he finally succeeded at something he'd been struggling with for a long time, it was difficult to take a step back to breathe when suffering any kind of failure following it. In his mind, once he'd had an accomplishment, that meant he should be able to draw on that skill any damn time he pleased.
In any case, he appreciated Ian's reassurance. He sighed as Ian opened a channel.
O’Connor: =/\= Sagan to Singh and Gra'vel. I’m gonna do maneuver possum beta. =/\=
His brow arched at the codename for the maneuver, and for a second Quentin wondered if he'd heard O'Connor correctly.
Gra'vel/Singh: =/\= Response =/\=
O'Connor: =/\= What do you mean no torpedoes? Crap. Well, just please be precise with phasers then.=/\=
Gra'vel/Singh: =/\= Response =/\=
He kept his mouth shut for the whole conversation, not wanting to interrupt the flow - they knew what they were doing, that much was obvious.
O’Connor: Hold on Doc. We’re gonna take a hit.
The codename suddenly made a lot more sense. Quentin did his best not to gulp, but the bobbing of his Adam's apple betrayed him a little.
Beck: Oh boy, just what I always wanted.
His fingers curled against the edge of the console and he grunted as the shuttle rocked, the Alliance fighter's attack making contact this time around; their shields still deflected most of the damage, but Ian's quick hand movement shut off the ship's primary power systems and they definitely appeared to be dead in the water.
The stars outside the main viewer lurched to the left as the Sagan went into a slow spin.
O’Connor: Now, we wait...and hope we don't get blown to paste.
Quentin let out a snort.
Beck: Considering the torpedo they fired us earlier, I think the appropriate term would be 'pulverized', not 'blown'.
Gra'vel/Singh: Response
Despite the way his skin was crawling, the two allied fighters made short work of the remaining Alliance enemies once they took the bait; both tried to pounce on the seemingly inert shuttle at the same time, instead of watching each other's backs as they should have.
O'Connor powered up the shuttle again and Quentin's ears started ringing at the sudden din of alarms, his eyes drawn immediately to track them all; most of them were expected, like the spike in their shields, the loss of a system or two briefly, and amusingly enough one notification telling them someone had shut off primary power, as if they could have gotten that notification at all.
O’Connor: Doc that cannon is powering up again. There’s no way Ronin or Kitty takes another whack from that. Any ideas?
While he was pretty decent at thinking on his feet, the enormity of the situation was a bit overwhelming, to say the least. While a Type-11 was pretty advanced as far as shuttles went, their phaser banks and micro torpedoes wouldn't so much as dent the shields on one of those cannons.
Beck: Sorry, Ian. I'm terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought. What have you got?
O’Connor: We could go all Decker versus Doomsday Weapon on it, but I’d prefer not to die if possible.
At least someone from the Bridge crew was on the same wavelength as him, though it was a little disconcerting that the first thing either one of them could think of was blowing themselves up.
Beck: Yeah, and I don't have a spare Constitution class in my back pocket. I'm not sure it's something sane people would try.
O’Connor: I know, not my best idea but unfortunately not my worst. We’ll file under last resort and maybe we could figure a way to beam us out somewhere before the cataclysmic explosion.
Beck: We might be able to drop a sensor pod we could use as a transport booster–
O’Connor: Wait, hold on. Huge power shifts in Ronin and Kitty. Looks like they are trying the same counter shot.
The buildup this time seemed quite a bit faster than it had when they'd both been on the Ronin's Bridge, but maybe that was because they were watching it this time around and the level of anticipation was decidedly different. The shuttle twisted and the shields flashed brightly for a moment as they grew stronger, then the tractor beam rolled through space to snag up the two fighters like a fisherman's net dropping into the ocean to capture whatever it could.
The beams met again, the point growing brighter and almost resembling a ball of superheated plasma, before exploding outward together at the cannon and raining down heavy fire.
Beck: ::whistling:: Total protonic reversal.
There looked to be some kind of feedback, though, the Ronin's deflector dish suddenly exploding and sending it listing to one side.
Beck: ::sighing and muttering:: Hold together, baby.
As the gunship exploded, the shuttle twisted again to ride the shockwave; it mostly worked, though it still shook them up like a couple of nuts in a can. He hoped the pilots in the fighters were still strapped in and didn't get their brains scrambled in the process.
O'Connor swore thrice, each expletive growing just a little bit more offensive, and Quentin had to give it to him because he'd never quite heard anyone describing what someone could do with a farm animal in quite that way. He kept his mouth shut, though, not wanting to distract Ian in a moment that could lead to them careening off into deep space or a planet or the station or–
Had the Ronin been that close just a second ago?
Quentin blanched.
O'Connor: Doc, brace yourself. If I change course we all go splat. Hopefully, we only glance her.
Beck: As one of my favorite philosophers used to say, 'I said across her nose, not up it!'
Instead of responding to his rather witty and very topical movie reference, O'Connor instead opened a comm to check on the fighters. That was some prioritization.
O’Connor: =/\= Snowball, Scuttles, sorry I didn’t have time to explain before hijacking you. I gotta cut you loose or we all go flies on a windshield. Gonna fling you behind Ronin, hopefully they’ll block most of the shock wave. =/\=
Quentin blinked when Ian looked over at him, the Doctor's eyes wide as dinner plates.
O’Connor: Doc, shift the tractor beam slightly around here :: points quickly:: and then abruptly cut it on my mark.
Instead of asking what the hell was going on, he did what any smart officer would do - he shut the hell up and listened to the specialist. He made the adjustments as instructed, tongue pressing to the corner of his mouth again, then hovered his hand over the tractor beam's power switch and spoke around his tongue.
Beck: Ready.
Ronin’s underside almost enveloped the whole forward viewport.
O’Connor: Now!
Quentin's hand slapped down against the console and the tractor beam snapped off suddenly, which allowed the two fighters to slip away and up behind the Ronin.
Beck: Hey, that was–
He didn't get to finish the thought before the Sagan scraped hard against the Ronin's hull, which slowed them in a rapid enough fashion it threw Quentin forward and his head smashed hard against the console in front of him. He was only able to sit up enough to see stars when the shockwave hit them, too, throwing him fully out of his seat.
The last thing he remembered was the Sagan twirling around him before everything went black.
O'Connor/Gra’vel/Singh: Response
[Tags/End Act 3 for Beck!]
Lieutenant JG Quentin Beck
Acting Chief Medical Officer
USS Ronin NCC-34523
A238810SA0