Numbers. The numbers helped. Those were relaxing. Courfeyrac could listen to those for hours; they made sense. Anomalies didn't. Flying through anomalies were only barely passable, because flying. Flying was good. Talking about anomalies didn't; it wasn't fun.
Talking about anomalies in terms of numbers, though.
There was something he could do.
Over 88.6 terajoules... With the output of the cannons already at a maximum of 40.0 terajoules each, pushing them to the extra tenth of an output might not be so bad; there was only a slim chance that the whole thing would overload. If Bahorel thought he would be able to compensate for that, it should be all right; they wouldn't need them immediately back online afterward, assuming that they didn't somehow blast themselves directly into enemy territory, anyway.
Well, Bahorel would be able to compensate for that; he trusted him that much. He didn't want to think about Romulan or Klingon or Borg ships lying in wait on the other side of that anomaly. That just. No. No, thank you.
But it wasn't the cannons Courfeyrac was worried about. It was whether or not his baby would be able to turn in time -- if at all. The trajectory of the cannons would require them to make a 22.3 degree turn starboard to ensure that they propelled properly back through the anomaly. Their angle of entry had been all wrong, and it was a wonder they hadn't been scraped to pieces at the edges, let alone torn-- oops, wait, not thinking about that again, numbers, okay. Yes. 22.3 degrees starboard. Right.
It was such a risky move. Hull pressure was ranging from 23 to 187 kilotons (if those sensors were even reading correctly anymore) and any sort of movement not directly forward or directly back might tear them apart before they even had time to charge up the first blast, let alone release debris from the energy core.
Though... Perhaps from their current angle of entry, he would have to compensate with the cannon fire directed all of 36.1 degrees to their aft and hope that the gravitational pull of Corinth's shape would be able to handle the rest of the work. The trajectory of--
"de Courfeyrac! I'm good with numbers, but, Christ, you're going to need to slow the fuck down!" Bahorel was giving him an exasperated look, as though he had been standing there at the secondary console tapping through as quickly as he could. He muttered under his breath something along the lines of, "First Pointy-Ears gets all high and mighty -- like he can hit a 10 m diameter target 800 km away without the use of a lock, that smug bastard --, and then I have the Human Graphing Calculator sitting here about to spout physics formulas out at me."
"A-ah, right, sorry about that, lieutenant," he finally managed, tapping at his console again to complete the final touches.
"Cannons at 100% charge," Bahorel called out. "We're taking it to 110% now."
"Acknowledged," Enjolras replied, and they watched with bated breath as the numbers rose steadily.
"103.0%. 103.4%; temperatures exceeding safety maximums at 2125 Kelvin; adjusting fluid capacity in cooling tanks to counteract overheating."
Wait. No.
"104.2%; temperatures holding at 2132 Kelvin..."
There was something missing.
"108.7%; temperatures reaching critical temperatures at 2311 Kelvin; I can't get it down any lower! I'm going to take the shot...!"
He'd calculated it wrong.
"It's not--" Courfeyrac started, just as Bahorel began to push him out of the way.
"Brace yourselves!" Enjolras bellowed.
There was a white-hot sensation against his forehead and shoulder, the smell of something burning, and a heavy weight pressing against his chest.
Then nothing as the back of his head hit the floor hard.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-11-07 11:36 am (UTC)Talking about anomalies in terms of numbers, though.
There was something he could do.
Over 88.6 terajoules... With the output of the cannons already at a maximum of 40.0 terajoules each, pushing them to the extra tenth of an output might not be so bad; there was only a slim chance that the whole thing would overload. If Bahorel thought he would be able to compensate for that, it should be all right; they wouldn't need them immediately back online afterward, assuming that they didn't somehow blast themselves directly into enemy territory, anyway.
Well, Bahorel would be able to compensate for that; he trusted him that much. He didn't want to think about Romulan or Klingon or Borg ships lying in wait on the other side of that anomaly. That just. No. No, thank you.
But it wasn't the cannons Courfeyrac was worried about. It was whether or not his baby would be able to turn in time -- if at all. The trajectory of the cannons would require them to make a 22.3 degree turn starboard to ensure that they propelled properly back through the anomaly. Their angle of entry had been all wrong, and it was a wonder they hadn't been scraped to pieces at the edges, let alone torn-- oops, wait, not thinking about that again, numbers, okay. Yes. 22.3 degrees starboard. Right.
It was such a risky move. Hull pressure was ranging from 23 to 187 kilotons (if those sensors were even reading correctly anymore) and any sort of movement not directly forward or directly back might tear them apart before they even had time to charge up the first blast, let alone release debris from the energy core.
Though... Perhaps from their current angle of entry, he would have to compensate with the cannon fire directed all of 36.1 degrees to their aft and hope that the gravitational pull of Corinth's shape would be able to handle the rest of the work. The trajectory of--
"de Courfeyrac! I'm good with numbers, but, Christ, you're going to need to slow the fuck down!" Bahorel was giving him an exasperated look, as though he had been standing there at the secondary console tapping through as quickly as he could. He muttered under his breath something along the lines of, "First Pointy-Ears gets all high and mighty -- like he can hit a 10 m diameter target 800 km away without the use of a lock, that smug bastard --, and then I have the Human Graphing Calculator sitting here about to spout physics formulas out at me."
"A-ah, right, sorry about that, lieutenant," he finally managed, tapping at his console again to complete the final touches.
"Cannons at 100% charge," Bahorel called out. "We're taking it to 110% now."
"Acknowledged," Enjolras replied, and they watched with bated breath as the numbers rose steadily.
"103.0%. 103.4%; temperatures exceeding safety maximums at 2125 Kelvin; adjusting fluid capacity in cooling tanks to counteract overheating."
Wait. No.
"104.2%; temperatures holding at 2132 Kelvin..."
There was something missing.
"108.7%; temperatures reaching critical temperatures at 2311 Kelvin; I can't get it down any lower! I'm going to take the shot...!"
He'd calculated it wrong.
"It's not--" Courfeyrac started, just as Bahorel began to push him out of the way.
"Brace yourselves!" Enjolras bellowed.
There was a white-hot sensation against his forehead and shoulder, the smell of something burning, and a heavy weight pressing against his chest.
Then nothing as the back of his head hit the floor hard.