The Achilles Factor

 Episode Name:  The Achilles Factor

   Written By:  Fortunae

         Cast:  Brin, Caeli, Fortunae, Ghorev, Gwen Poole, Javits, 
                Medes, Nilee and Valentine.

  Produced By:  Starfleet

  Directed By:  Fortunae

     Aired On:  Wed Jun 09 02:59:34 2004

     Stardate:  54153.4

Time: Tue Jun 08 20:12:39 2004

Stardate: 54152.7

Ghorev says, "Captain's Log, Stardate 54152.7, We are about to drop out of warp for the rendezvous with the rest of Task Force Hector for a second sortie against the Eater of Worlds. Unless Admiral Graves has had a change of heart, a sudden burst of inspiration, a fit of madness, or some endearing epiphany suspended between the three, we shall once again lead the flanking wing of the Task Force, where the smaller and more nimble ships from Starfleet and the ADF are assigned, while the larger Starfleet ships, the Klingon Birds of Prey, and the Romulan frigates take the lead in a direct, forward assault. Fifty-four ships, at my count -- 14 of them under my own leadership -- against a God." A pause. "No, not quite a god. But something the Gods have wrought, a warrior-creature imbued with their might, but not quite their .... skill in the use of it. Neither their omnipotence nor their omniscience, just their force and rage. And herein lies our only chance, our potential salvation." A pause. "The priests of Emasha Yul teach of such warriors, given such gifts by the Gods that they might learn humility from their blind flailings instead of reveling in the might they desired, or bring misery upon the rest of mortalkind for begging for such heroes. I am told that on Earth, on Vulcan, on Tellar, such legends are commonplace as well ... and the Klingons, of course, are said to have killed their gods outright." A pause. "We shall likely never know why the Eater of Worlds was considered a necessary undertaking by the Iconians, but today is the day we find out how ancient and universal this concept truly is. Fifty-four ships with a clever plan against a juggernaut named for the extent of its power. Let us hope more than half of us come home." He taps the the console to terminate the recording. "All stations," he says, to the bridge at large, "report status."

. o O Caeli thinks "Warrior, Commander, Poet."

. o O Medes thinks "And people wonder why the man is my personal idol."

On the view screen of the Thomas Paine, specks float against the backdrop of the Sandstorm -- still mammoth and humbling despite weeks of shrinkage attributed to the hunger of the Eater of Worlds. On magnification the specks become vessels, arranged in anticipation for the conflict to come.

Under the smooth helm control of Medes, the Thomas Paine slips into the ranks of the gathered vessels and in short order command and control is established with the fast attack wing that has been placed under Commander Ghorev's direct command.

Javits manages a brief glance back as he taps away, speaking with clipped bursts in a firm tone, "Sir, comm modifications are in place and should hold through the engagement. I've notified the task force of our creative alterations to transponders as well." He pauses a moment, watching his displays, then reports, "Sir, task force acknowledges. Admiral Graves sends his regards. Power distribution currently at cruise mode, all systems nominal. Standing by."

. o O Javits thinks "Ready as we'll ever be."

Caeli doesn't look away from his console, bringing up status monitors left dormant for most of the trip. "Everything running green at tactical. The weapon is on ready standby at present, we are running weapons hot, and shields are at full strength. "

Poole is much the same as days ago with her head bowed, seated at Ghorev's right hand side. Her interest is focussed intently on the smallish console in her chair. Her eyes narrow all at once and she looks next to her at Commander Ghorev, "Sir. We are being heavily scanned and the Eater is too far out to be the culprit.... I've narrowed it down to one of the Romulan vessels. And there is a point of concern to be noted, as Sub-Lieutenant Palra indicated its command staff to be loyal to Kassius."

. o O Javits thinks "As if we didn't have enough to worry about already."

"All vessels have reoriented to their designated positions, Boss," Medes notes from her position at the helm. She taps at her console a few times before looking up to Ghorev as if she's just realised something. "Task Force /Hector,/" the tiny Engineer notes, rubbing a thumb under one of her hazel eyes absently. An eyebrow rises, and she touches her ear again, that same small salute. Okay, she gets it now. "Aim for the heel, then, shall we?" And it's back to looking at her console. "Considering that our shield configuration reads like we're pretty much a small Greek fishing boat at the moment, Commander Poole, hopefully we'll only give them misinformation."

Nilee sits down at Science.

Medes sits down at Conn.

Galen is at the science station. A station that's becoming increasingly framiliar on this particular vessel. As Ghorev finishes his report and asks for reports, the Trill officer speaks up, "Sensors are indicating significant turbulance in the periphery of the Sandstorm, indicating that the Eater of Worlds is exiting as was earlier projected. We should be able to bring it onto visual shortly, Commander."

Valentine's fingers run over her controls, swift and smooth, blue eyes skimming across lit screens full of graphs. "All systems at optimal, sir, full power available." That said, she glances toward the viewscreen; such a gathering of ships is worth a glimpse. Her mouth twitches in painfully humorous appreciation of Medes' heel comment, as the Ensign gets the pun too.

. o O Javits thinks "Hah! I knew that name sounded familiar. May our aim be true and our arrows strike roughly."

Brin looks up fromnhis console. "Sir, Medical reportts that radiation and gravity treatments are proceeding, as a precaution to the anti-mater charges we're using."

On the viewscreen, as promised by, a speck becomes visible emerging from the Sandstorm. The gargantuan Iconian relic is dwarfed by the expanse of flashing plasma and nebulous dust it exits from, but this brings little comfort. As swift as eye-blinks and breaths it grows larger and larger...

Ghorev says, "Hail the rest of the flanking wing," to Javits. "At that speed, we have less than 10 minutes to make final formation and move in." Then, more at large: "Anything that can pull warbirds off course is going to want to reach out and touch us as soon as possible, people, so let's go to a yellow alert, and look alive."

"They've stopped scanning," Poole says and nods once Medes way, "That may be why they scanned us in the first place. Still. It's unsettling..." She quiets as Ghorev hands out more orders and focusses on her console again.

"The ADF Grinthanor has moved between us ant the S'rentha Morvant," notes Medes, tapping at her console as she names the latter, a Romulan vessel. "Standing by, sir. Ready for maneuvers on your mark."

Javits speaks as he monitors the operations console, glancing up occasionally at the viewscreen as he taps away, "Sir, I'm picking up communications between the ADF vessel Grinthanor and the Romulan vessel S'rentha Morvan." He nods in response to Ghorev's order, "Aye, sir. Hailing the wing as ordered." He then pauses, watching his displays, a faint frown coming to his features, "Sir, fleet group has gone to full red alert."

In response to the blinky light that starts flashing on his console, Caeli pipes up, "Active, heavy scanning coming over the task group now. Source confirmed as the Eater of Worlds."

. o O Medes thinks "Regardless, it looks like the ADF has our backs. I like Andorians. They're a neat people. Except for that whole naked thing. Not that it's a bad thing, it's just not my thing. My thing has ridges, yes he doe... er. Right. Red Alert!"

. o O Javits thinks "Wait, wasn't Hector killed by Achilles and dragged around Troy behind his chariot? Ah, just as well, Task Force Paris doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

Nilee quietly examines the readouts on his screen as the other officers continue to report in updates. When there's a brief lull, the Trill speaks up, "I'm reading continued interference on sensors, Commander. By the looks of it, the Eather of Worlds is dragging a shroud of Sandstrom material behind it. It's probably a secondary extended shield holding in the material for a 'terrarium' sort of effect."

Valentine leans forward, unconsciously more intent, toward her station. No more time for admiring the fleet now. A glance is slanted briefly toward Galen Nilee before her gaze returns to her own screens.

Brin sits in his station, not much else for him to do right now. He looks at his display, watching the radiation and gravity levels as they aproach the Eater of Worlds. He focuses on his duty instead of the objective before him.

Ghorev says, "Well, then what's good for the rest of the fleet .... Red Alert, shields up. Bring us into formation, and signal the formation to follow." A pause. "If it scans us, I want to know if there's a difference in the strength or duration of the sensor pulse. I'll wager a jug of homebrewed Endilev that it's not intelligent enough to fake if it recognizes us."

Poole analyzes her console, rather than take in the large eyesore that is the Iconian Eater of Worlds.

Javits glances from his console displays to the viewscreen as he taps away as a rapid pace, "Aye, sir. Red alert mode engaged. Shields up, weapons at standby."

. o O Javits thinks "And so the battle begins."

Caeli opens his mouth to confirm Ghorev's order, but is beaten to the punch, blinks a few times in surprise, and closes his mouth. He goes back to his monitors, and monitors them.

Nilee purses his lips tightly as he begins quickly running several subroutines through his station, he mumbles quietly to himself and then bangs his fist against the side of the science station, "No luck on getting through the interference on the Eater, Commander. I tried riding the carrier waves back from their active scans, but our sensors washed out before I could get back to the Eater of Worlds."

Valentine's mouth tightens, ever so slightly. Trying to keep a grim tone out of her otherwise more or less neutral expression, she buries herself in her readings, lips moving in silent comment to the *Paine*. A slight wince at the banging is swiftly controlled, her mouth twitching over a suppressed comment.

On the forward screen, the ballet of vessels continues as the Red Alert status shifts through the fleet and vessels come to bear on the actual heading of the Eater of Worlds. The Iconian expression of destruction continues to grown on magnification, and now the faintly visible "cloud" mentioned by Nilee is becoming visible as well; like the machine wrapped itself in a shroud of Sandstorm to dress up for it's rendezvous with the task group.

Ghorev eyes the panel built into his armrest, and says, very clearly, "You're listening to us, aren't you? Alright, listen all you like." Then he looks up. "Mister Javits, you and Mister Nilee need to work out the super-sets of a communications relay grid. Break the ships of our wing into that grid such that no ship sends or receives an appreciable amount of communications signals more than the others. This will last until we close to strike distance. It'll slow the orders we give until then as the traffic filters, but it's better than painting a target on our saucer section."

"I advise strongly against entering that cloud, sir," Poole states as she does look up and catches the view of the Imperial Eater and its new clothes. "It could be merely defensive, but it could very well be offensive... we would do well to find a way to disrupt it." A pause and then she adds, "I also advise we pick a different method of attack than last time... that combination of tactics will be recognizable. They'll know we're coming. Sir. It'll adapt... and this thing is stronger than the Borg."

"Sir," notes Medes quietly, wrinkling up her brow. "The Ghrinthanor has reconfigured its shields. Their forward shields have been minimalized, while the shields between the S'rentha Morvant and us have been reinforced. They seem to be... protecting us from the Romulans?" A few more taps at her panel, and then Thea's hands falter, and her face briefly pales. A brief rub at one of her biceps, and she's staring at her console, the paleness replaced by a reddening of her ears.

. o O Medes thinks "Stupid girl."

. o O Medes is briefly terrified and then deeply embarassed.

Javits continues to tap away, but not without an apologetic glance in Caeli's direction, then it's back to business, with a nod in Nilee's direction, "Aye, sir. Sir, I still have comm traffic between the ADF vessel Grinthanor and the Romulan vessel S'rentha Morvan." A pause, more tapping, more monitoring, "Sir, Romulan vessel is attempting to hail us."

Caeli furrows his brow, and looks up to the viewscreen and back to his console a few times. "All five of the ADF vessels have started tracking weapons on the S'rentha Morvan."

<PROVE> Nilee has the merit of Scientific Genius at 3.

<CONTEST> Nilee (claiming advantage) contests his Physical Sciences (Mathematics) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

<CONTEST> Javits contests his Administration (Starship) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

Nilee nods his head as he hears the order from Ghorev, it takes him a few short moments and then he answers, "I've got the algorythms plotted, Commander." The Trill reports, turning back to his station. He quickly speaks up again, "Commander, I'm getting a transmission from the Alacritous Turnover, a Ferengi Marauder in the fleet. They're picking up an energy build up forward of the Eater of Worlds they can't identify. I'm not reading it, but it's possible they're scanning different frequencies."

Brin swallows hard as the Eater looms larger in the viewscreen. He keeps himself calm, though and goes back to monitoring the radiation and gravity readouts.

Now the wreathed engine of destruction is large enough to make details, but none are forth coming as lines of static scroll the viewscreen sporadically as the "clouds" roil around the Eater of Worlds. Plowing in silence, steady and making no attempt to avoid contact with the ralleyed forces, it grows larger and larger still somehow inspiring even at this distance the feeling that came when young of a certainty that there was a "monster" under the bed to grab one's ankle, or pounce out of a closet or drag one under the briny deep...

Ghorev says, "Tell the Ferengi to stand by, Mister Nilee." Then: "Ops, tell the Romulans we're listening, but to make it quick, and worth our while."

Poole is busy at work on her mini-console, ears perked for what the Romulans have to say.

GAME: Gwen Poole spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Gwen Poole (claiming advantage) contests her Starship Tactics (Naval) skill vs a difficulty of Impossible and Fails!

Javits responds with a single nod as he taps away in a rapid burst, "Aye, sir. They've been duly informed. Channel open."

Over the communications channel comes, "I am Subcommander Morval. I am requesting you inform that yapping dog of a kinsman of yours Urtlolev Phell'nun Ghorev of the Ghrinthanor to desist his harassment or I will be forced to shut him up the Romulan way. I do not have the time nor inclination to humor his paranoid blustering, I already have to deal with a Klingon as my task group commander."

GAME: Nilee spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Nilee (claiming advantage) contests his Shipboard Systems (Sensors) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

<CONTEST> Nilee (claiming advantage) contests his Physical Sciences (Physics) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!

Nilee grimaces as he begins to examine readouts, "I've isolated what the Ferengi are seeing, Commander. It's an active Psionic conflux. Similar to matrixes used by ancient vulcans... Pre-surak." He ends, clarifying. "But on a much larger scale, almost inconceivable."

Her monitors stable, Valentine swings round slightly to peer at the Eater on the viewscreen, her brow furrowing as she studies the awesome... thing. Nilee's information, however, is more than enough to earn her attention.

Brin blinks at Nilee's revalation and murmurs to himself. "Psionic? Could it be alive?"

Ghorev gives Nilee a 'just-a-sec' motion, and says to the Romulan on the communications channel. "Subcommander, stand by." He then motions for the channel to be muted. "Bring Ghrinthanor up and ask what's got them hovering like new parents."

. o O Medes thinks "Akeen -- Boss -- what are you thinking? If it's... if it's psionic. If it's going to try to make us turn in on ourselves?"

. o O Medes suppresses an internal shiver.

Javits glances back to Ghorev with a nod as he proceeds, first muting the open channel, then opening a second, "Aye, sir. Hailing the Grinthanor."

The whiskey and wind scrubbed voice of Phell'num Ghorev is heard over the coms, "This is Grinthanor. We are protecting you, Akeen Ghorev. You will save us from this horror, in the mean time, we will convince this Romulan to keep to his duty, lest his need to avenge the death of his mate upon Commander Poole be untimely sought. My tactical officer ran an information search on our allies while we waited... we discovered that Subcommander Morval's wife died during "accidental" strike upon the Oro'Taras last year. Were I he, I might find this battle a convenient place to settle old scores. I have been telling him time enough for that later, if he fires on Thomas Paine I will send him after his dead wife with a breath and no further hesitation. Do not worry, Akeen Ghorev, your keth covers you. Lead us to victory."

Ghorev responds. "Understood. Thank you, Grinthanor," he says, in his native tongue. He motions to mute both connections now, then switches to Federation Standard. "Prepare to bring our wing into approach formation early, and separate from the Klingon-Romulan wing. Advise on open hail that we will be doing so, and that we expect each wing to keep proper formation. Advise further that any ship that breaks formation for any reason will be considered to be disobeying a direct order from a superior officer during a hostile fleet action and this de facto mutiny will be dealt with immediately. Mister Medes, bring us around accordingly."

"Let him know if he wants to settle a debt with me, he can come find me and not put the quadrant, nor a shipful of innocent people in danger, to do so, sir. I would not withhold from him absolution, even if he is in error as to its truthfulness. Forgive my forthrightness," Poole says with a short glance to Ghorev. "But, I'll not hide from him," she states, then going into business mode says, "I have a tactical scheme for our taskgroup that will disguise our approach, sir."

Medes taps a few times at her console. "Bringing us around, Commander," she notes to Ghorev, glancing aside at Poole for a split second before her attention goes completely back to her console.

. o O Gwen Poole thinks "Bloody Romulans and their Honor."

Javits nods as he taps at his console, muting both open channels and opening a third for the task force wide message, which is sent out as a data burst, "Aye, sir. Advising the fleet." There is the usual pause, then the proper response, "Wing leaders acknowledge, fleet proper acknowledges."

Nilee falls silent as he waits for Ghorev to ask for his advice again, in the meantime, the Trill quietly reexamines the data he's reading from the Eater of Worlds, a worried look appearing in his eyes.

Now there's a revelation. For Valentine, at least. She sends Poole a startled look, then gets back to business, turning toward Nilee. "Can I get a look at that conflux readout, Lieutenant?" A brief glance toward the screen full of Starfleet, Romulan, Klingon, and other ships. "One big happy family."

Across the fleet, tactical officers are counting down toward maximum range before the oncoming Iconian avatar of conflagaration and despair. The smaller craft begin accelerating to meet the titanic creation, as planned... hordes of fighters launch from the USS Gladius racing to their positions to facilitate the runs plotted to end this threat once and for all... stately capital ships adjust facing and begin their by comparison slow approaches to the killer of uncounted sentients... there is a bit of a shudder and then...

Ghorev doesn't respond to Poole's comment, but mostly because something on his armrest catches his eye. For a moment. He clears whatever it is, and makes a low noise, like something more than a growl, but less than a snarl, then looks up. "I meant what I said. Any ship in either wing that breaks formation will be dealt with. The last thing I need is a cousin with an agenda doing something foolhardy that will get half of us killed. Conn, let's lead in our wing on the flank as planned. Mister Nilee, whatever you were going to finish telling me, make it *very* fast."

Staring at the viewscreen intently, Poole's got her resolute face on. That thing is going down if she has to ride the weapon down into it herself. But then her expression changes to one of confusion. Those ginger brown orbs of emotion that are her eyes focus on a spot between the viewscreen and herself. Glancing to the either side of her at Brin and Ghorev for confirmation, she starts to get up from her seat. A look of utter shock after a realization hits her features and her jaw starts to drop, tears coming to her eyes. "Naya?..." A smile then. "Naya what are you doing here?...What are yo-..." Her voice catches then, eyes widening maddeningly before she starts to scream.

. o O Ghorev thinks "Mister President, I regret to inform you that the instant one of them lays one finger on Her, our deal is done. You were a fool to think they'd bide their time, and I was a fool for trusting. And if I have to take this all the way to the council chambers, and make the ice run purple with blood, your own honor flashing wet and bright in my hands, they will die, and they will die, and they will die."

Thea's hands are sure on the controls, at least for a moment. "We've been brushed, I'm going to try to compensate," she notes, the tiny Lieutenant bringing the ship around in response to a collision that never took place. "Seven four alpha," she confirms, glancing over her shoulder with a worried expression on her face a few seconds later, responding, again, to an order never given. Thea Medes's face goes entirely white, and she tears her gaze away from staring at Ghorev's chair as if some complete and total horror resided there. Snapping her head back around with a resolute sort of expression, stoic in the extreme, she shrieks, bringing both arms up to shield her face as she rolls from her chair and onto the deck, a reflexive self-defensive action well-learned by many incidents leading on a perpetual path back to biobed three.

. o O Medes thinks "BOSS, NO!"

. o O Medes's mind is filled with terror, horror, and utter anguish. Not the Boss, no, this can't be happening, she'd die to save him, she'd die for him, she's certain of this, and then a scream in her mind, Poole's voice, "LOOK OUT," an antimatter charge, and darkness.

Javits diligently attends to his duties as the ship moves into position. Freezing in place without warning, he looks up at the viewscreen, his eyes bulging and his jaw going slack as he does his best to dig his fingers the sides of his chair. As a matter of last resort, he brings his arms up across each other to shield himself, his eyes squinting and his jaw set firmly, his head turns slightly to one side. Pitching forward, he lands across the ops console and rolls onto the deck with a heavy thump, his arms still locked in place, the grim expression frozen on his face.

. o O Javits thinks "We can't stop now! Wait, no, the ship... Do they have room in Suto'vo'qor?"

Caeli's fingers slide over the console with practiced and casual grace; one eye is constantly kept on the whereabouts of the Romulan threat, while most of his focus is on the weapon itself. "That cloud is messing with the algorithms I worked out before we launched, Commander... going to try and compensate with the routines from our last expedition into the Sandstorm." Poole's outburst draws an immediate glance, and steals a few moments of the Bolian's concentration, but then he's back to business, accounting for the presence of the Sandstorm gases and correcting the planned trajectories of the probes. They do their job with mechanical precision, and the briefest of smiles alights on Caeli's exuberant features before Hell arrives in its gilded handbasket. All at once the shields fail, green turning to red all across Zipok's board. "Shields collapsing... damage reports coming in from all decks..." that much he gets out before he is forced to pull his hands away from the Tactical station, which has taken on the unfortunate property of being searingly hot. What is one to do when one's console is hot? Pull away, of course, and this Caeli does, only to be chased by an arc of glowing plasma that ruins the impeccable uniform with a series of burns and tatters. When he speaks again, it is at a volume that suggests no monitor of his words, and with little coherence. Not having a seat to fall from, he simply collapses to the deck, the tactical console still insistently attempting to warn the unconscious blue officer about the ship's less-than-fab predicament.

Nilee glances up as he hears orders from Ghorev, and nods, he starts to answer, "I managed to isolate what the Ferengi's were talking about. They were right... it was an energy charge. A psionic conflux to be exact." He repeats what he said earlier, "It could be getting ready to do just about anything theoretically... it could..." he stumbles on his words, "it could be..." he tries to get the words out but they just dont come. His eyes close tightly, and a hand goes up to his head, heel resting on his temple. His face scrunches, and then his other hand reaches and grabs the front of his uniform around his belly. Finally his eyes open again, and his features relax, hands lowering as he comes back from whatever it was, "it could be..." he starts again as though nothing happened but stops as several people on the bridge start screaming all at once. People start diving onto the floor, reacting to things Galen just can't see. His head spins around quickly, frantically, his analytical brain trying to figure out what is going on. "Commander?" He shouts, trying to get above the noise, "Commander! Are you alright?!" He shouts again, trying to spot the Andorian through the rest of the crew who are screaming and running around in fear.

Valentine blinks again, and slews an extremely startled look toward Poole. "Gwen...?" And then her eyes widen in near-disbelief as most of the rest of the bridge crew seems to go nuts. She half-rises from her seat, looking round quickly toward the viewscreen. And she pales, watching the ships of the combined fleet turn on each other and themselves. "Uh oh."

. o O Caeli is happily programming the probes when he sees the console in front of him light up with Kriss-Muss red, feels the ship shake with an impact, and starts trying to give a damage report. That's when the console arcs out, frying the circuitry of his implants and depriving him of his hearing. From there he starts to get somewhat panicky, and tries to cry out a warning before unconsciousness overtakes him.

Brin looks at his console and then up at Ghorev questioningly. A cold sweat starts to form on his brow as he asks. "Excuse me? Wha...What did you say, sir?" He looks stunned, like someone close to him has died, or something worse. He stammers. "I...I..." and shakes his head a bit. He closes his eyes, trying to shut something out. There is a looks of abject rejection on his face, soon replaced by terror as he looks around in a panic. "Computer!..." He braces himself against his chair, hands gripping the arms, then falls froward with a scream.

. o O Brin thinks "Ghorev looks down on Brin with a scowl on his face. "I am dismissing you from duty, Mr. Brin." As Brin looks stunned, the scowl turns into a roar. "Get off my bridge!" Shaken, Brin stands up and goes to the turbolift. The car begins to move, but the ship hits something and Brin is shaken. He braces himself in the cab, but the cab starts to plummit down the shaft."

On the viewscreen, which showed a whirling and wheeling pattern of stars as Medes flew a battle only she saw, now that she's no longer dodging fire and collisions other vessels can be seen spinning, banking, firing, twisting, being struck, colliding, exploding. Fighter craft bank and explode as bright fire against the ventral portion of a Nebula Saucer... Klingons accelerate and ram a Romulan Starbird... and growing every closer... the Eater of Worlds draws night to sup on the carnage it has inspired...

Ghorev shouts, "I'm right *here*," to Nilee, it coming across like the roar of a caged animal. "Take the helm!" Or at least a furious one. And with that heart of furious fancies, he continues to shout orders, grabbing at Poole's arm. "You, sit down!p spider=You could just, you know, declare RDA to be future-Edwards, of course. I had always considered Liam Neeson for that, but RDA works."

Ghorev shouts, "I'm right *here*," to Nilee, it coming across like the roar of a caged animal. "Take the helm!" Or at least a furious one. And with that heart of furious fancies, he continues to shout orders, grabbing at Poole's arm. "You, sit down!" He stabs, oh, yes, in a high dudgeon, on the armrest console. "Attention all ships in Flanking Wing Alpha, this is Commander Ghorev of Thomas Paine. I repeat, more strongly, for those of you determined to engage in your own personal vendettas: Any ship that deviates from formation or brings weapons to bear on anything other than the Eater of Worlds will be presumed to be engaged in an act of mutiny, and will be destroyed." While those on the other ships will hear it accordingly, it is worth noting here on the bridge of USS Thomas Paine-C that Ghorev's announcement, everything after ordering Poole to sit down, was in his native Graalek, the spoken tongue of Andoria. Why he would speak in Graalek to a Romulan, of course, is a mystery. Unless he's not talking to the Romulans.

The scream is cut short as Poole clamps her mouth shut and starts to look around, tears glistening as they trail down her face. And though whatever she saw made her react as such, the chaos now playing across the bridge causes her eyes to widen again in disbelief. Is this real? What /is/ real? Her breaths start to come in ragged gasps, chips of strength flaking away off her strong will. She shifts her gaze slowly then, as if in a haze, towards the viewscreen. Real? How is she to know? Real or not is makes her stagger back, backpedaling back towards the command well when Ghorev snags her arm. She eyes him disbelievingly, "Don't you see?... Didn't you see her?"

. o O Gwen Poole thinks "Is he blind? Didn't he see her?... What is going on?!?"

Medes remains curled under her station, both arms over her head, frozen and still as death.

Javits lies curled up in a partial fetal position to one side of the ops console, arms crossed tightly now across his chest, head down and eyes and mouth tightly shut, as if he's trying to hold his breath. Aside from a slight shake or shiver, he doesn't budge at all.

Caeli's hands are clawing at his ears, but other than that, he's fairly immobile beneath the tactical console.

. o O Javits thinks "Come on, someone extend shields or start transporting people out."

. o O Medes's mind is as still as the grave.

Nilee quickly jogs from his console across the small bridge to the Conn. Taking a seat at the empty chair and splaying his legs as not to step on Medes the Trill tries to regain control of the Thomas Paine and keep it in one piece from crashing and randomly moving ships, "Commander!" The Trill says as he starts trying to get the ship back into a decent, and safe, position, "The conflux on the Eater of Worlds... that's obviously what's causing this... we don't have the expertise or the technology to setup a dampening field. But we should have some suitable drugs in the medical database... I could have the computer replicate some and feed it through the ventilation system to the crew in a mist..."

Valentine frantically leaps toward Tactical, without even the time to give Nilee an appreciative look. "Commander! Our allies are firing on each other..." She nods at Nilee's assessment.

GAME: Ghorev spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Ghorev contests his Computer (Research) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

<CONTEST> Ghorev (claiming advantage) contests his Shipboard Systems (Medical) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

<CONTEST> Ghorev contests his Systems Engineering (Environmental) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Fails!

Brin cries out franticly. "Computer! Emergency Brakes!...COMPUTER! EMERGENCY BRAKES!!!!!" His body arches suddenly and he lies there still, arms and legs spayed out.

On the Viewscreen... an oddity... the Ferengi vessels, in cohesive formation, fire the first salvo directly at the Eater of Worlds...

GAME: Brin spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Brin (claiming advantage) contests his Presence (Willpower) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Fails!

Ghorev continues to bark out commands in the kind of reflexive anger most folks haven't seen in Ghorev in a *very* long time. Like the last few years haven't happened at all, like he's still the hacked-off, dancing on a monofilament, hey-look-I-can-break-you-if-you-cross-me bear he was three or four years ago. "Just keep us steady, Lieutenant," he shouts. "I'll handle that." And within a few moments, it looks like he's about to succeed, but the distractions are too much to do it all quickly. His hands shake as he bangs at his armrest consoles, Poole's questions ignored, his body moving on willpower alone, like ... a man who hasn't slept well in years. "Come on ... COME ON...."

<CONTEST> Medes (claiming advantage) contests her Presence (Willpower) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

<PROVE> Medes has the flaw of Stubborn at -1.

Poole's eyes go out of focus as she stares past Ghorev at something behind his chair. Her lips twitch and more tears start to fall down her cheeks. "Those romulans are mad because they think I killed their families, baby... and... " Confusion clouds her features and she murmurs to someone who can't be seen, "Auntie Mekara... I.... I /hate/ her."

<CONTEST> Gwen Poole contests her Presence (Willpower) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!

GAME: Javits spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Javits contests his Presence (Willpower) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

. o O Medes thinks "This isn't right. If I'm dead, I'd be with the Prophets. I'm not with the Prophets. I'm not with my father. This isn't right. It's not going to end like this. I can't let it end like this. It DIDN'T END LIKE THIS. IT DIDN'T END LIKE THIS. IT DIDN'T END LIKE THIS. GET UP, THEA, GET UP, YOU HAVE A JOB TO DO, YOU CAN HEAR HIS VOICE, GET UP, THEA."

"I believe I can retake my station, Lieutenant," Medes informs Nilee in a voice that's far, far too calm.

Medes's eyes open, and her body uncurls; she starts to stand up slowly, lifting herself off the floor and muttering to herself. Medes whispers to herself, "I can hear his voice, he's not dead, it didn't end like this, it's not going to end like this. Get up, Thea, you have a job to do. Make me useful. I can hear his voice, he's not dead, I have a job to do, make me useful." Here, /here/ is sheer willpower, sheer hollow-eyed determination and bald stubbornness.

<CONTEST> Fortunae contests Caeli's Presence (Willpower) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

"I believe I can retake my station, Lieutenant," Medes informs Nilee in a voice that's far, far too calm.

Zipok ponders -- if his brain is cooking, why can he still feel it? If the ship is breaking apart -- where is the firey death? This isn't right, something isn't right, what is all this noise if he's dead. On the floor he fights to open his eyes and transition between two conflicting realities, one where he's half cooked and brain dead on a ship about to explode, and one where he's sprawled on the floor with an ensign straddling him manning his tactical station.

<CONTEST> Nilee contests his Shipboard Systems (Flight Control) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Fails!

Javits slowly takes a deep breath, then another as he opens his eyes and lifts his head up to peer across the bridge at the boots of Ghorev and Poole. Slowly he uncurls from his position on the floor, blinking as he pulls himself up and back into his seat. After a very brief check of himself and his console, along with a startled look at the viewscreen, he glances back towards Ghorev, speaking in a hesitant tone, "Sir, I have a status report." His voice regains its confidence as he continues, despite his next statement, "Multiple system alarms, phaser banks are drained and the recharge cycle is suspended, superfluous auxiliary systems are active, and... sir, I have multiple reports of escape pod ejections."

. o O Javits thinks "What the smegging hell was that? I'm alive, the ship is... well, the bridge is intact."

. o O Medes's mind is a repetitive litany: make me useful. Make me useful...

The entire Thomas Paine shudders from stem to stern as Nilee looks up from the helm controls toward Medes she declares her fitness for duty. The mission operations station explodes in bright light and fragments that send fragments about the bridge. Overhead structure collapses then catches, leaving a heavy load of potential death swaying above Ghorev and Poole and Brin. Valentine is tossed sidesways and only the firm grip she had upon the console kept her from flying across the bridge... less lucky Caeli whom she not only tromples on, but how rolls several feet away and into the bannister rail support hard. In the forward viewport, what is left of a Klingon B'rel spins in the black void, sputtering fire from a shattered nacelle and starboard superstructure before it explodes brightly.

Nilee looks up at Medes and is about to give up his seat when the B'rel comes out of... nowhere? Yes. Nowhere. He didn't see it. Couldn't have, or he would have dodged it. Regardless, he manages to hold steady at his station when the ship shudders violently from the collision. As he looks up to see the Klingon ship spin away, Galen looks up at Medes, and steps away from the Conn. "It's uhm, all yours." The Trill then looks back to Ghorev as he sidesteps through the rubble quickly to his station, hoping that it's still operational.

Brin lays perfectly motionless, unaware of the impending doom swinging inches above him.

Perhaps the jostle of the collision initiated the sequence that Ghorev was working on sooner than he had planned, or he was just double checking his input before initializing, but either way, from the wall and remaining ceiling vents, a light blue colored mist pours out, obscuring vision slightly just a moment, but having an immediate effect as potent psi-inhibiters begin to course through the systems of the bridge crew and the crew elsewhere on the beleagured Thomas Paine...

Ghorev's hands are still trembling, but as he seems to be getting somewhere. He says in Andorian, "Better three heartbeats past due than one past done" , which is perhaps the Andorian equivalent of 'better late than never'. Not as fast as he would have liked, by any means. He says in Andorian, "Breathe deeply, now. Breathe deeply. They. Will. Not. Win." He looks up, and perhaps doesn't seem to realize he hasn't yet switched back to Federation Standard as the mist washes over him. He says in Andorian, "Signal our tactics to the other ships, and bring us in. I want damage reports, and I want our Dekyon-Shielded Ordinance online and ready to go. Now."

"Blasphemy," Poole squeezes out between gritted teeth, staggering when the ship shudders, but keeping her feet. One look at the viewscreen and she says, "Someone get the weapon's systems online and recharging... those Ferengi vessels are by themselves. Verify our ability to arm, target lock and fire the specialized weapons. Once you've done so,..."she trails off and looks to Ghorev. "Sir. We have to take them out before the entire fleet destroys itself. Your orders? Where do you want me?" She bends then and tries to move Brin away from the ceiling damage, even as the mist starts to take rapid effect.

. o O Gwen Poole thinks "You ... you kidnap my friends... brainwash them.... let us think they're dead... You /DARE/ wear my daughter's face? Blasphemy! Corruption! I'll not stand for it. I'm going to rip you into tiny pieces and spit on your grave. And then I'm going to find your creators and do the same to them, you dirty sodding flying sack of shite."

<CONTEST> Javits (claiming advantage) contests his Shipboard Systems (Mission Operations) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

The Littlest helmsman slips into the chair that Nilee vacates and almost doesn't give him a reproachful look for almost sending her tumbling into what would be yet another annecdote about why she should wear the helmet her hero made for her ... almost, because she finds time even as she assess the board and steers hard to avoid another crash. "The Collision cost us some manueverability, captain. We've lost the manuevering thrusters on the starboard side, it's going to make evasion a bit trickier. But not impossible. Manuevering for attack run start position aye."

. o O Medes thinks "The Prophets are with us. I will be useful. I will be a vessel of their will."

Javits instinctively ducks forward, leaning over his console and gripping it tightly as the damage is dealt. The B'rel is given little more than a glance as he turns his attention back to the task at hand, taping away furiously on his console as he watches his displays, "Aye, sir! Powering down auxiliary systems. Rerouting power to weapons. Sending notification to the fleet."

. o O Javits thinks "That was too close! Have to get everything back to proper red alert mode, especially those weapons. We're here to do a job, now let's do it."

Zippok leverages himself to his feet, the pain to his body more real than the burning of his brain. "I'll take over here Tara, go back to your station." As Valentine moves away, he puts his board back in order, grimacing as he realizes how much ordnance he wasted. "Dekyon-Shielded Ordinance online and in position, require your command authorization to arm, Sir." Caeli holds his finger at the ready, the confirmation to arm will commence the moment Commander Ghorev authorizes the release of the anti-matter weapons.

The shock of just about ramming the Paine into another ship accidently seems to wear off quickly as Nilee quickly brakes into a jog back to his station and takes up the science station, "Sensors are still operational for the most part. We've lost most of the dorsal starboard sensors, however. So we've got a bit of a blindspot." The Trill shrugs, looking towards the command chair and momentarily eyeing the hanging debris as he adds, "The Eater of Worlds wouldn't fit in that blindspot though, I wouldn't think."

Brin blinks and groans as the gas starts to affect him. "Wha..." he starts to sit up as the alarms and sizzling EPS conduits bring him to his senses. He stagers to his chair to look at the casualty reports, radiation levels...anything to actually feel usefull...

Ghorev taps a few keys. "Mister Nilee, that thing *is* a blind spot. The blind spot of a culture immune to reason, drunk on power, and happily long dead." Tap tap tap. "Ordinance armed. You will fire on Commander Poole's go-ahead, Lieutenant. Conn, right our course and bring us the long way around. Ops, advise the Ferengi we're on our way and advise all other elements that are taking our advice on the cure that we're getting one pass and they need to fall in line. It's time to bring that monstrosity down."

"Goliath, here comes David," Poole mutters as she plunks down into her seat and doing some quick math in her head. "We've got less than ten minutes, sir... or those Ferengi and us will be the only ships who can possibly make it home." Just in case they all needed another reason to end this *now*.

Medes says cooly, professionally, "Course laid in and engaging. Long curve around the outside."

GAME: Brin spends a courage point.

. o O Gwen Poole thinks "That's right you miserable piece of rubbish... Mine is the voice that's going to signal your doom. Naya's name will be pure again... So I can bring..."

<CONTEST> Brin (claiming advantage) contests his Shipboard Systems (Sensors) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

<CONTEST> Brin (claiming advantage) contests his Administration (Starship) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Fails!

Javits glances back to Ghorev with a relieved expression, "Aye, sir, notifying the Ferengi." He's turned back for only a moment before his looks to Ghorev once more, "Sir, I have responses from eight ships in our wing." He looks back to his console, then immediately begins speaking, almost shouting, "Incoming message from Admiral Graves. The Little Big Horn is implementing our tactics. Admiral Graves orders that we are to attack now in the hopes that the resulting damage will weaken the projective assault and allow other ships to recover."

. o O Javits thinks "This is it!"

Caeli mutters slightly, "What did he think we *were* doing by the great bird, taking a sight seeing pass?" Raising his voice he says, "Weapons online, fire on XO's mark, aye sir."

Javits adds as he taps away furiously, "Sir, operational vessels within our wing have responded affirmative."

Nilee falls silent after Ghorev's words, examining the readouts in front of him, "Sciences standing by." Is all he says aloud.

Tara speaks up, "Just an advisory sir, after that collision our structural integrity is not optimal. I mean, well, if we are not far enough away when the Iconian reclic goes up, we may not get any farther either."

. o O Javits thinks "That's what damage control teams are for."

Brin blinks and shakes his head as he works his LCARS display. Maybe he's still groggy from the halucinations, maybe not, but it takes a while for him to give a report. "Ummmm....sir. The fleet has suffered...40 casualties....about...half of those are dead. It's....it's chaotic...all the reports...." He mutters under his breath in Centauran. "I can do this...Remember the classes..."

On the View screen the Eater of Worlds gets even larger as the Ferengi continue to engage, one erupting savagely as the Eater of Worlds fires back it's first energy weapon salvo. The Thomas Paine increases to a higher and higher factor of impulse driven fractions of C; until it reaches maximum combat speed just as the swing around has concluded -- allowing for a fly by as fast as Commander Ghorev wishes to commit them too. Mindful of the damage though, Medes brings the Thomas Paine so the Port side will face the Eater of Worlds as they bo by.

Ghorev says, "Understood, Mister Valentine. Route what power you can to the SIF. Conn, be advised we may have to make a very hasty warp jump." He turns to Brin at the man's outburst. "Steady on, Doctor. Steady on. Our success is their only chance at survival." He looks around the damaged bridge. "You heard the Admiral, people. It's now or never, and the smart money is on the now. Mister Medes, bring us in, hard and fast. XO, on your mark for the firing solution." He presses the console to call up the ship's intercom. "All hands, brace yourselves. I repeat, brace for possible shockwave impact."

Cutscene -- Federation Space. Stars twinkle and in the distance the glowing ribbon that is the sandstorm presents a breath-taking view. Something approaches -- a streak, several of them -- dozens of them -- starships! And behind their approaching shapes a sudden flash, like a match ignited springs to life - and then grows, expanding more incandescent, washing out the starlight, blocking the view of the Sandstorm. Nova-like.

And fast. The ever expanding shell grows larger and larger as it floods after the ships streaking at warp, the slowest are unable to stay ahead of it and when struck tumble and buckle as if tin soldiers struck by a Titan.

But for most... the race is enough to keep them ahead of the light that outshines starts until it falls back in on itself to visual appearances, shrinking as it fades until it is gone and the stars shine again and the Sandstorm resumes it's rightful place as the dominant local phenomenon...

And on the bridge of the U.S.S. Thomas Paine, while Commander Ghorev ruminates on the wording to his log for this mission in the privacy of the ready room, the bridge crew have time to reflect on what they have achieved...

The Big Chair has a new occupant at present. One shaken, but not stirred Gwendolyn Anne Poole. Any sign of crying or otherwise has long since been obscured and she looks much the same as she did, ten months ago when things were so much clearer for her. Aside from giving the occassional soft, but firm order to certain duty stations, she doesn't speak, looking all at once both pensive and content. She's home where she belongs. In battle. She has enemies, people who want her dead. But the most current threat to Earth and the Federation is extinguished. And waiting at home? Nevaren.

. o O Gwen Poole thinks "She isn't a crutch for me to use... a reason that I can break down and fail those that I care about. She's the reason I get up again. Nothing can change that, not even death. No, not even death. Mommy loves you, darling. But I have more to do before I can be with you."

Javits sits back with a quiet relaxed sigh, but only for a moment. With a glance up at the viewscreen, he turns his attention back to his duties, "Sir, I have incoming status reports from a total of eleven ships, including the Little Big Horn. Most should be able to make Dulcais under their own power. Those that cannot are being towed." With a look around the bridge, he pauses briefly on each officer in turn, then focuses his attention back on the ops console, tapping a series of keys.

. o O Javits thinks "Have to start proper repairs once we're back home. I could certainly use a nice mug of postum and a quiet conversation as well, and I have just the person in mind."

Galen Nilee's eyes quietly survey the bridge from his place at the science station, a scene he's seen replicated numerous times on far too many missions. The young Trill with five lifetimes of experience simply stares out towards the viewscreen, although his eyes shift occasionally to one of the other crew members he worked with. Nilee purses his lips finally and shakes his head, eyes finally falling down to the sensor readouts. Sensor readouts, all that remain of the Eater of Worlds, besides a large field of debris that is. A weapon with such diabolical characteristics, one wonders how any sane sentient being could have created it. Then again, who claimed it's creators were sane?

Brin sits back in his chair in relief at the accomplished mission. But he closes his eyes as he looks over at the LCARS display on his seat. He shakes his head, paritally in disgust, not at the casualty list, but at his own personal failing. For the rest of the voyage back to 419, he's moody and pensive, not his usual cheerful self. He knows that some poeple had to step up to the plate, to vouch for his capabilities, for him to be assigned to such an important mission. They showed their faith in him. And he couldn't deliver. Maybe the others don't see it as such, but he knows he wasn't the right person for this task today. Because Brin had always thought there'd be more time to learn the other things that go along with being a doctor in Starfleet. And time just ran out.

And within the modest Ready Room of the Thomas Paine...

Ghorev slowly exhales, in the emergency lighting, the red flashes of the not-yet-stood-down alert in the small closet of a room washing even his blue skin ruddy. "Ship's log, continued. We are all of us, Andorian and Human and Vulcan and Klingon and Ferengi and on and on and on, creatures of two souls, divided. We are capable of soaring like /altirith/, and of crawling like the spiders out of creeping nightmares. We can fly high in the sunniest spaces, and then become invisible and sinister in the dark and evil places. Where these impulses join, where our souls give way from strength to weakness, from virtue to vileness, that is the chink in our armor, and that is where the Eater of Worlds chose to fire its final salvos, just as we found its weakness, exposed its hubris. Some would say that in doing this, we *expose* our warlike natures, our dark sides, because our first impulse was to destroy what we could not tame, and we obeyed that impulse without question. But even now, some good comes from this, beyond the destruction of the Eater of Worlds itself, as long range sensors report our Dekyon-Shielded Ordinance caused the very Sandstorm to part, lessening its interference -- our *weapon* can be reforged, into a tool that will help us delve the Sandstorm like never before, then." A pause. "But even this is a knife in the off-hand, for the Romulans and the Klingons have just as surely noticed this, and now they will likely hunt within the Sandstorm for the Rhana, to settle grudges they cannot let go." He shakes his head. "And so even in defeat, even in extinction, the Iconians bring division and derision and collision in their wake. We have beaten them, we have faced down their nightmare, riding as it was on our *own* nightmares, and we have won." He rises from his chair. "But I cannot help but wonder about the light side of the Iconian soul, about what good they *must* have wrought somewhere along the line, and I long for the day when we will discover it, when we will find that our faith is not misplaced, that no culture has ever existed, *can* ever exist, that is truly, irredeemably, a race of evil, amoral gods..." He shakes his head one last time, to clear it. "Enough of this. We have beaten them for now. Computer, end log."