Captain Lavrenti Amisov hated inspections.
It was bad enough keeping the ship in operating fashion on a regular basis. After a recent steering error, USS Endeavour had been forced to return to McKinley Station for repairs. Now ready to return to its patrol route along the Neutral Zone, Endeavour simply needed the white-glove from Admiral Norah Satie. This, she was giving to his ship, and he followed her now as she made her way through the torpedo launcher array. It was almost over, he told himself. But the tedium of it was enough to drive him mad.
"Very nice," she said, now for the twelfth time. "The prospect of a Starfleet ship facing combat these days is minimal, now that the days of Tzenkethi and Cardassian wars have been concluded peacefully. It is important, do you think, to maintain weapons on a starship?"
"I believe that defense is any captain's prerogative as part of the responsibilities of command, ma'am." Amisov was guarded in his response-- he knew how the Admiral felt about the use of starships for any reason other than to spy on lesser-developed civilizations and grant them peaceful access to replicators and phasers when they proved themselves ready. He scorned the notion himself-- true to his Russian heritage, he held Starfleet's true purpose to be the defense of Earth in equal measure with the complement of Federation activities such as first contact and diplomacy. "We must be prepared to use any level of force should we find our peaceful ends requiring defensive means."
"Interesting," she replied, a look of wry supremacy on her face. She had him where she wanted him. He cursed Ensign Langley in his head yet again. The fool had made a maneuvering turn with the impulse engines active, and in so doing, had convinced the Bain cruiser with whom they were conducting Federation membership negotiations of warlike intent. The Bain, suspicious of sudden movements, opened fire with a full complement of lasers and some lesser type of torpedo than the photon sort standing on the racks behind them. Normally, the shields would have seen such weapons flicker off their protective shielding, but of course, diplomacy required lowered shields and the navigational array could not be re-tuned in time to halt their impact. Twenty-six crew members had been injured when the impact rippled along the warp nacelle of the Nebula-class Endeavour, causing a cascade explosion that had forced the ship to be towed home by USS Firebrand, docked alongside.
"Of course, it is the captain's first responsibility to not let such situations arise, in the name of good relations, ma'am." He straightened up perceptibly.
"Indeed," his first officer, Commander Darla Brixton, continued, "we have a better understanding of that now. It is a lesson the recent Bain encounter has taught us well." She quickly added, "ma'am."
"I should hope so, Commander, for all our sakes. This bridge officer who is responsible for the unauthorized maneuver... I trust he has been confined to quarters."
"Ensign Langley is currently in the brig, ma'am, pending a court-martial."
"And I trust that you will convene that forthwith."
"Prior to our leaving spacedock, ma'am, in correspondence with the regulations."
"Good. Pending that inquiry, I see nothing here barring Endeavour from returning to active service. You may begin your test flights of the repaired engine."
Amisov sighed perceptibly, with relief. "Thank you, ma'am."
"You take no pleasure in these proceedings, Captain Amisov."
"It's not that, ma'am."
"Well, then, what is it?"
"Request permission to speak freely, ma'am."
"Already granted."
"I don't like to linger around Earth any longer than I have to, ma'am. I'd rather be out there, on the edge of known space."
"And which of us wouldn't, Captain? But you must remember-- there are many things, both dark and bright, upon that edge. We must be careful, and vigilant" --the Admiral placed special emphasis upon this word-- "not to let ourselves slip."
"Yes, ma'am." Amisov felt himself deflate slightly. He knew his career would suffer because of this. Already the Federation press had taken to referring to the Bain incident as a tragedy, and he was quickly becoming their scapegoat of choice.
The Admiral stepped away, followed by her host of liaison officers. Darla stepped forward. "Well, that wasn't so bad."
"For you, maybe-- I suppose I took the brunt of that."
"If I may, sir."
"Of course."
"She's as interested in restoring her confidence in this ship and its captain as you are. I know it's killing you, being at the centre of the storm, but I'd like to remind the Captain that we're all behind him, one hundred percent."
"Thank you, Commander. But I don't know what to make of all this. You'd think the Admiral would have better things to do, now that the fleet is on standing yellow alert."
"I'm sure Admiral Hanson has something up his bonnet, sir. This-- what are they called, anyway?"
"Borg, Commander. A cubical starship, they say."
"Yes, sir. These Borg, if they are belligerent, don't stand a chance against the Enterprise. No disrespect intended to the Captain, sir, but every officer's dream would be to serve under Jean-Luc Picard. He's one of the best captains in the fleet-- right alongside the late Walker Keel and my commanding officer."
Amisov chuckled. "Never flatter a Russian, my dear. They take it as reason to check their backs for a knife."
"No, sir, not my intent at all."
"I know-- just saying, that's all. I suppose they'll order us back out to patrol the Neutral Zone, in case the Romulans take advantage of this Borg situation." He turned and made his way back towards the turbolift.
"Personally, sir, I hope the Borg come straight at us. I know you've been itching for combat for as long as I have."
"Indeed, Commander, but don't be too zealous for death, as my father used to tell me. It just might find you." Indeed, Amisov --when he was first officer aboard the Ambassador-class Lloyd George-- had found this to be all too true. In the Cardassian War, he had personally overseen as staff officer the deployment, casualty redress, and replacement rate involved with ship-to-ship and ground fighting. His fondness for his Starfleet marines was well-known, but like any good captain, his fondness for the ship he commanded was insuperable, as his recently divorced wife had taught him. Ivana, back in Novgorod right now, continuing her work with... what was it she did again? It mattered not.
She was on Earth, and the closer he was to Earth, the more he wanted to engage his warp engines and find himself clear across the universe. At least the ship had a set of diagnostics. He knew that Endeavour would be more kind before she destroyed all he had worked for. There would be diagnostics and warning sirens and other signs he would be able to respond to imminently and directly. Starships were simply easier than marriage since they were at hand. It had become fashionable for families to be allowed on starships --indeed, of the six hundred fifty-six souls under his command, at least a hundred of them were civilians, more than half their number children. But Ivana had resisted, and he had given her full discretion. This Bain incident had made him even more sullen, withdrawn, and introspective than before. He could not tell any more which had played a role in which-- whether the divorce had caused the incident, or whether his command had caused the divorce. He had barely even sent her a letter in the month before the notice of separation arrived by subspace. There had not been enough left in him to attempt reconciliation. He doubted their love would be found to be much more substantial.
He then realized his first officer had been speaking to him. "I'm sorry, Commander."
"It's nothing, sir."
"No, please, go ahead."
The turbolift arrived. "I was saying, I should head to Engineering and see if McKenna's had any luck with that plasma conduit on Deck 19."
"By all means, proceed. I'm due back on the bridge anyway."
"Sir, are you all right?"
"Oh, just... haunted by ghosts from Earth, Commander." He turned and said aloud, "bridge."
His arrival on the bridge went unherald. He checked the multi-systems display and saw, for the first time in several weeks, the flow of warp energy fully restored. Lieutenant Commander David Culp, his fourth in command and head of personnel, sat in the captain's chair, that cool air of his self-confidence almost breezing past Amisov as he stood aside. "Sir," he reported, "Admiral Hanson is calling for all spaceworthy vessels to report to Wolf 359."
"Wolf 359? What the devil does he want with us there?"
"No idea, sir, but the message was urgent."
"Then why didn't you signal me to the bridge?" Amisov's fury grew as he watched Firebrand and Clemson, one a tug and the other a supply ship, maneuvering to break Earth orbit and head towards the warp point.
"I didn't want to disrupt the inspection, sir."
"I would've given anything for you to give me an excuse to break off that inspection, Commander! And this would've been more than an excuse-- it would've been a damned fine reason!"
Culp looked stunned. "I apologize, sir. We've not cleared spacedock yet anyway. I was just about to order that."
"Sir," the Vulcan weapons officer, Lieutenant Sanrak, said aloud. "Admiral Hanson is hailing us via subspace."
"All senior officers report to the briefing room," Amisov ordered with a glare at Culp.
It took four minutes for the senior staff to assemble. To his right was Darla Brixton, beside her Sanak and Culp. To his left was ship's chief medical officer and counselor, Dr. Akira Watanabe, and beside him was third in command, ship's engineer Lieutenant Commander Tom McKenna. Across them, on the screen, was Admiral J. P. Hanson by subspace from the ready room of Roosevelt.
"Lavrenti, as you know, Jean-Luc Picard was a good friend of mine."
There was a slight fumbling of motion around the conference table. "I understand, sir. He was one of our best fleet captains."
"Indeed. I could tell you stories. Only freshman ever to win the marathon, and so forth-- they don't matter now. Picard has been taken by the Borg."
"What does this mean, sir?"
"We're not sure yet. I've been in conversation with Captain Riker aboard Enterprise, and he's going to do all he can to give us more time."
"Where is Enterprise currently, sir?"
"She's pursuing the Borg ship. They've got a few ideas up their sleeves-- Commander Shelby won't let him down. Hell, I wish she was here now. As it stands, we'll have some of the best in the fleet here at Wolf. We've projected the Borg course towards Earth-- they'll have to cross through this sector, and we're going to throw everything we've got at them, including Endeavour.
"I understand. We'll be there, though we'll need a few hours."
Amisov nodded to McKenna, who gave the admiral specifics. "We've got a starboard power coupling needs replacing, but we'll be spaceworthy and battle-ready in thirty minutes. I've put three teams on it, triple-time."
"That's good to hear. We'll need everything Starfleet's got. These Borg are intensely powerful."
"Begging the Admiral's pardon," Darla Brixton said in her typical style, "but it's only one ship. Surely we'll be able to handle them."
"I'm certain of it, Commander. In fact, I intend to stop them. In twenty-four hours, I estimate, that Borg ship will burst into this system looking to do whatever it is they do to their conquests. I don't plan to let that happen. The line must be drawn at Wolf-- no farther. We'll make them pay for what they did to Picard. You'll have to excuse me, but I'm shifting my flag to Melbourne. Much as I appreciate Rosie, I'd rather be on something with additional warp power in case we need to regroup."
"I understand, sir. Good luck."
"To us all-- Hanson out."
The screen flicked off, and the command staff turned towards Amisov. "Comments?" he solicited.
"Sir," Darla Brixton said, "I've got a bad feeling about this."
"The Admiral's concern for the safety of the fleet was illogical, to say the least," Sanak offered. "It does not follow-- even if the Borg ship is of massive proportion, the odds are six million four hundred twenty-eight thousand to one that we would be unable to stop them."
"I hate playing the odds," Culp remarked. "I say we take the fight to them. Find out where these Borg are from and send forty ships that direction at warp nine for as long as it takes."
"Preliminary intelligence from Enterprise indicates this ship may, in fact, be the same one they were reported to have encountered in Sector J25 two years ago."
"It is impossible for that to be true," Sanak remarked. "Again, the probabilities make it illogical to presume that a single ship would be capable of such a voyage. It is more likely that a forward scout is all we will face."
"Still," Dr. Watanabe offered, "I'll get sickbay ready. Best to be prepared."
"What do we know about their tactics?" McKenna offered.
The captain straightened, venturing to answer before another discussion broke out. "We've had people analyzing these Borg, based on Enterprise's initial encounter and the data collected, for the entire time. We've got weapons we think could stop them, but they're still on the drawing board. There's nothing between them and Earth but the Sol system defensive grid and our fleet. And I don't intend for this ship to be left out of the fight.
"These Borg beamed some of their drones into the engine room of Enterprise at first encounter. I want our vital systems protected by marines and security personnel at every juncture. Mister McKenna, get to your engines-- mister Culp, I want double shifts, security patrols. Co-ordinate with Sanak and check the internal defenses. Set up a defensive command post in Shuttlebay Two.
"Commander Brixton, I want you to look into ways to making our shields more durable against Borg beam weaponry-- they use tractor beams and a precise cutting beam to target critical systems. If we can keep the shields up for just a little longer, our security personnel will be left cold for action. That's how I'd prefer to see it. I don't want those Borg to have a chance against our shields. Maybe they'll adapt to our weapons. Before they do, I want to give them a fight. And if our shields fail, so do we."
"Dr. Watanabe, I would ask you leave someone else in tending to your sickbay. I want you to make sure all shuttles are moved to Shuttlebay One and readied to transport all civilians to the surface. We're not in so much of a hurry that we can't see to it that the families on board aren't put in harm's way. Grant compassionate leave to any crew member who wishes to accompany their family-- the last thing we want in a fight is a crewman who's too fearful of his family's state to do his job. We'll have to launch those shuttles after we break orbit. We're in the process of clearing moorings from McKinley station at present. We have an hour until we leave the system. Make it count. If there are no further questions, you're dismissed."
He waited a moment, and then rose. As he did, the officer corps pushed back from their chairs and made their way from the room. Darla Brixton was on her way with the others, before she turned back to see the Captain looking out the window at the vast Asian landmass below. "Sir," she began.
Amisov turned. "Yes, Commander?"
"Begging the Captain's pardon, but if we don't make it back from this Borg experience, I can't help but feel it'd be awful tragic if we didn't also allow the crew time to transmit one last message."
"Not all our crew is from Earth-- besides which, we don't have that kind of time."
"Request permission to speak freely, sir?"
Amisov sighed. "Very well."
"I think you're using her as a crutch, sir. I also think that you need to put her behind you if you're to fulfill your duty."
Amisov turned, only realizing now that his eyes were fixed on the Russian portion of Asia. "I suppose I just wonder what I could have done differently. It's part of the command prerogative to constantly re-evaluate and question yourself."
"Not to let it consume you, though, sir. Your enemy is out there, in space, and they're coming fast. We owe it to everyone on Earth, not just your wife, to give the enemy our focus."
Amisov nodded. "And you know of this personally, yes?"
"Left a husband and two kids back in my quarters, sir-- they're three of the ones you're letting off on the shuttles. I suppose I also wanted to thank you for not bringing them into combat. If a lot of people are going to die, I feel better knowing it's just the member of the family who chose the Starfleet life, not the ones who got dragged into it."
"It only makes sense. We need to prepare for the worst, and since we have the time."
"I agree. And like I said, I appreciate it."
"Thank you, Commander."
She nodded, and left the Captain to his thoughts.
It had been a good two hours before Endeavour broke orbit. Captain Amisov had decided to let all the shuttlecraft depart instead of his original plan. Most of the civilians had decided to make the best of their chance and depart, but a handful had chosen to stay aboard in spite of Commander Brixton's repeated warnings and the sound of the red alert klaxon announcing general quarters. He looked around the bridge. The multi-systems display stood immediately behind him, and he could hear an ensign on either side of him --one at Science, the other at Engineering-- tapping away at their consoles. To his right were the tactical and pilot's stations, in staggered rows with, respectively, the internal sensor display and the operations station. At tactical was Lieutenant Culp; at internal, Lieutenant Sanak. His conn officer he recognized as Ensign Hawk, a recent Academy graduate. A brief moment of insecurity ranged over him at the memory of the last recent graduate to take the helm of Endeavour, and he scorned it into passing.
"Ensign Hawk."
"Yes, sir?"
"This is your first mission aboard a starship as an ensign, is it not?"
"Yes, sir-- I was scheduled to be transferred aboard the Shenandoah, but she cleared port yesterday."
"Well, we are in need of a new navigator. You are, of course, fully qualified."
"Yes, sir-- the Lieutenant Commander cleared me for active duty this morning."
Amisov gave a glance over to Culp, who shifted with palpable discomfort. "Like you said, sir, we needed a new navigator."
Amisov's eyes descended to Hawk again. "I will say this only once, mister Hawk. No sudden moves, unless I order them, until we leave the system."
"Yes, sir-- maneuvering thrusters only. Shall I commence course towards the warp-jump point, sir?"
Amisov felt himself lighten somewhat at the responsive, attentive and respectful tone of this new ensign. He loved overachievers. He himself had been one, a long time ago, and it had put him in this chair. "Full impulse power once you've lined her up on course, Ensign."
"Aye, sir."
At ops, Commander Brixton sat at the station seat's very edge. "Commander, give me shipwide," he ordered.
"Aye, sir." Brixton tapped a few controls on the ops station, and nodded to the Captain.
"This is Captain Amisov. In less than an hour, we will engage our warp engines and, barring any mishap, will arrive at Wolf 359. Our specific reason for this voyage is not, as many of you have realized, a test flight as scheduled. While I have every confidence in Chief Engineer McKenna and his work on our warp propulsion system, I also have every confidence in the crew we have aboard, and that in the coming events, we shall emerge victorious.
"As many of you know, though I have only informed the senior officers to this point, we are leaving orbit in order to engage the Borg at Wolf 359. I realize how fanciful it sounds, that we are rising from our slumber in spacedock in order to engage a robotic enemy-- it sounds like something out of the logs of Captain Kirk and his legendary adventures. Yet we will be joining a fleet mobilized in haste to stop the Borg from invading our Federation any further. As I have already said, I have every confidence in this ship and its crew, and I expect my confidence to be acquitted by the conduct of its every member in the coming fight.
"Many of you know my pride in my Russian ancestry, and I turn to it now for my inspiration. Few history books these days record the exploits of Russia's most famous cruiser, her name Aurora. She is a museum ship in Petrograd these days, preserved the way we preserve ships called Enterprise if they survive. She was one of three ships of her kind, the only one of her kind to survive a short and disastrous war against a determined invading enemy. She fled for a neutral port, and returned home at the end of that war to herald a revolution at the end of the next.
"While I doubt that any great revolutions will ever befall the Federation, I know in my heart that no matter how determined our foe, no matter how desperate the odds, that this ship will come through, and prevail. These Borg are pure evil, and from all I know of them, while we of Starfleet are not angels by any means, that which we are, we are. We will endure, and we will prevail.
"I entrust the keeping of your respective stations to you all. May whatever deity or universal force you rely upon for your faith preserve, bless and keep you safe in the coming battle. Amisov out."
"Sir," Brixton commented, "we're receiving an incoming transmission from a Captain Tyrrell of the starship Hawking, requesting permission to join the fleet."
"Hawking? What type?"
"Oberth-class, sir."
"They won't stand a chance," Culp commented.
"Instruct the captain that he's free to warp to Wolf 359 as he pleases, but that any negotiations about his joining the fleet are best directed to Admiral Hanson, commanding."
"Aye, sir."
"Approaching warp point, sir."
"Warp six. Let's not give mister McKenna anything he can't handle."
"Course and speed laid in, sir."
"Onward."
The fleet was coming together nicely, after eleven hours. Captain Amisov had sent the entire senior staff off-duty, and was now flanked by ensigns and lieutenants he barely recognized. They were holding station alongside the Ambassador-class Gorkon, the Miranda-class Austerlitz and Vicksburg, in a rough circle.
"And so we sit," he said aloud. "And so we wait."
"Sir," the lieutenant at operations signaled him, "Melbourne is transmitting a breakdown of the attack plan."
"Attack plan?" Amisov smiled to himself, contented with the Russian style of operations-- first trading space for time, then meeting an exhausted enemy in strength. "I like the sounds of this. I'll look at it in my ready room." He stepped across and into his office. On the far wall was a picture of Moscow at night, and upon his desk, a bust of Sakharov.
He tapped the console on his desk and it revealed a two-dimensional display of the attack. The Borg cube entered at right, and from left four wings of five starships each opened fire, then broke in opposite directions, the topmost formation heading upwards, the bottom formations downward. Behind them came another twenty starships, ranged in two lines of ten --a quick tap on the console revealed them to be stacked in three rows, three starships top and bottom, a middle line of four-- opening fire. These would then also break away as the wings closed in once more to fire the coup de grace into the Borg ship. At this point, according to the projection, the cube would have sustained such heavy damage that it would have to come to a complete stop. The order "General Attack Protocol" then flashed in the top corner of the screen. So they were to stop these Borg in their tracks, then finish them off with everything they had left. Amisov considered this plan for a moment. Forty ships-- had there ever been so many starships used against a single objective before? He was just running his mind through the sheer number of personnel committed and looking for a historical comparison when the door chime sounded. "Enter," he said.
Commander Brixton entered. "Sir, I've been able to compute that we might be able to channel additional energy from the warp engines into both our shields and phasers."
"Haven't you been to bed?"
"No, sir."
"I ordered you to get some rest."
"Begging the Captain's pardon, but I couldn't sleep in that bed alone. And the only man I want to share it with is back on Earth."
Amisov smiled. "What would it take?"
"If we cycle the warp engines through the shields, we'll improve their energy output by twenty-five, thirty percent. It may not be much but it'll give us another level of shield nutation."
"Shield what?"
"Nutation, sir. Enterprise reports that they've had some success keeping the Borg tractor beams at bay using modulating shield nutation."
"I've never heard the term before, that's all. Nutrition, I know, and mutation, but... I suppose it's a little of both?"
"Yes, sir." Brixton looked confused. "When was the last time you've slept, sir?"
"Several days ago-- first the inspection, now this, it's hard for a man in command to get much sleep, you understand."
"I follow you, sir. Begging the Captain's pardon, but even if the Borg hurry up, they won't be here for at least another fifteen hours."
"And in the meantime, what am I supposed to do?"
Brixton's face betrayed her impatience. "Sleep."
"I suppose that's probably a good idea. You can handle anything that comes up in the meantime?"
"Yes, sir."
"Suppose they're all going to sleep, all over Russia, right about now." He got out of his chair and pointed to his screen. "That's the attack plan, Admiral Hanson just transmitted it. Know it. If anything happens to me, you'll be in command."
"Aye aye, sir."
He walked away, and as he passed Brixton for a moment, he added, "I don't suppose there's any way to convince these Borg to just take a nap, is there?"
"Not as far as I can tell, no, sir, unless you mean a vacuum nap."
Amisov was confused. "Vacuum nap, sir?"
"Oh-- forgive me, sir. You know, someone dies on a planet, they're said to be taking a dirt nap, well-- my husband, he's a writer, and he came up with the term. He's writing a novel, sir."
"Novel?" Amisov inquired. "Sounds a little antiquated. What's it about?"
"Captain Kirk, sir. Orion space pirates take over Enterprise and use a mind-control device to turn Captain Spock against him."
"All right, all right, I'm sorry I asked." Amisov turned, his face a bemused expression of contempt. "If you wanted me to go to bed that badly, fine, but don't start putting me to sleep with your fancy tales."
Brixton's grin was the last thing he saw as the doors to his ready room closed.
The beeping noise on his desk meant nothing to Amisov for a good long moment. He was just waking from a pleasant dream about Ukraine girls and a little dacha in the bushes. He rose quickly when he realized he was far from the Black Sea, and rushed over to his desk. "Yes."
"Captain," Brixton's voice was clear. "Admiral Hanson is holding on the priority one channel for you, sir."
"Put him through." The screen flickered, and the Starfleet logo on his desk's viewscreen ushered in the Admiral's face. "Admiral."
"Lavrenti, did I catch you at a bad time?"
Amisov blinked hard. "Is it a court-martial offense to be caught napping?"
"Better now than later."
"Indeed." He straightened up and stifled a yawn. "What news, sir?"
"I just got off subspace with Riker on Enterprise. They managed to slow the Borg, they gave 'em everything they had. If you can believe it, they channeled warp energy through the main deflector dish into a single burst. And it didn't work. Everything Picard knew, the Borg know."
"Should we revise our tactics, then?"
"I'm not sure. Shelby sure seemed convinced. Part of me wants to vindicate those tactics, and show them a hard lesson in messing with Starfleet."
"I think we all feel that way, sir. But I don't understand. How did they learn all they did from Picard?"
"They've assimilated him. According to reports from Enterprise, they've taken him into their collective by implanting some sorts of damned devices into his skull. He's as wide open as a book to them, and so are all our strengths --and weaknesses. If we're going to make them count, in my estimation, we're going to have to do it in one solid punch."
"What is your plan, Admiral?"
"Rather than the two attack wings from before... I'm starting to reconsider whether we should have those tugs and supply ships here at all."
"I can't blame you. They're not equipped for this fight, though I do appreciate their presence."
"As it stands, we've got some of the newer system-defense starships, New Orleans- and Cheyenne-class, seven of them. The New Orleans-class ships are designed to work in patrol teams, and we've got four of them, Honshu, Kyushu, Shikoku, and Hokkaido. The three Cheyenne-class ships, Ahwahnee, Iroquois, and Navajo, will hold the points of the line. And we'll have to use the Springfield-class and Challenger-class ships to anchor the centre."
"What about the Princeton and Clemson, sir?"
"No idea. I'm just thinking out loud here, remember. I'll transmit exact battle plans later, but... your ship will most likely be in among Austerlitz, Hammarskjold, Monmouth and Ranger. You're the senior command officer among your wing, and if the Patrick Henry makes it in time, you'll be one of two Nebula-class ships in your formation."
"And how long until we engage, sir?"
"Estimates put them ninety minutes out. I'm confident that we'll be able to stop the Borg here."
"As are we all, sir."
"I'm going to ask you to bring your senior staff together, Lavrenti. It's too bad Melbourne doesn't have a command staff of her own yet-- it would've been the captain's discretion, if Riker had taken the job. Of course, for now, his place is on Enterprise, and ours is here."
"How is Enterprise, sir?"
"Effecting repairs as we speak, she'll be warping here as soon as possible."
"That's good to hear."
"One ship or another at this point won't make that much of a difference, even if she is Galaxy-class. We're up to forty-four ships, but that's conditional. San Francisco and Kursk are still holed up in stardock-- they may not get here for several more hours. And Nelson suffered a warp drive failure trying to scramble from Starbase 113 to get here. One way or another, you can presume that what you see collected around you is the entirety of the fleet. Forty ships should be more than enough to do the job."
"Yes, sir. I look forward to meeting you after the victory."
"Likewise, Captain-- it's good to have a man of your experience fighting alongside us. I understand you've defended the Federation in three separate wars."
"Yes, sir-- the Tzenkethi conflict, the Cardassian War, and now this Borg invasion."
"I've read your record. Impressive work, up until recently."
"Yes, sir-- I'm sure you're familiar with what happened."
"You made it through court-martial-- a court-martial by Norah Satie, no less. The lady's a tiger."
Amisov grinned. "You don't have to tell me, sir."
"If you can stand up to her and walk away, this Borg business will look easy."
"Yes, sir. I hope to live up to your expectations, sir."
"Hanson out." The screen went black save the Starfleet logo.
Amisov was on the bridge a minute later. "How long was I down for?"
"Six hours," Darla Brixton informed him. "Sleep well?"
"So well I forgot the nightmare. Take the ops station."
Brixton relieved the officer at the station and took her seat.
"Have we received final confirmation of the attack plan yet?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Until we do, I'll be in my..."
"Sir? --receiving a transmission. It's the attack plan."
Amisov swore to himself. He could have used another few hours' rest. "Let's see it."
The basic idea was just as before, but now the different ships --each a Starfleet emblem its own-- were made plain before him with their own marker and Starfleet registry number. "Show me Endeavour." Brixton tapped a control and one emblem shone more brightly. "Magnify." The screen isolated one section. "Ensign Hawk-- follow the maneuvers as proscribed and program them as attack headings, in a similar pattern to evasive maneuvers."
"Aye, sir."
"Commander-- hail the four ships we're to lead. Princeton, Gorkon, Warspite, and --what's that last one?"
"Monmouth, sir."
"Yes. Classes?"
"Princeton is Niagara-class, Gorkon is Ambassador-class, and Warspite and Monmouth are both Excelsior-class."
"Show me all the Nebula-class ships." She tapped a console and five ships, each in a separate task force, displayed before her. "I'd feel more comfortable with less explorers and more cruisers in our battle formation-- look at Bellerophon-- three Miranda-class ships and Clemson, a Niagara-class ship."
"I can signal the Admiral if you like, sir."
"No, no, just venting. Melbourne's taking the Tolstoy, the Robert Fox, the Iroquois and the Navajo. Then Bellerophon's got Vicksburg, Saratoga --look, again, two Miranda-class and we have none-- and the Yamaguchi. Crusader has Marlowe, Ibsen --two Springfield-class ships-- and Clemenceau and Ranger."
"No, sir. That's the Roosevelt."
"Oh, I see what he's doing. The Excelsior-heavy wings out on the far ends-- because he's got Villeneuve anchoring the centre with Quiberon, Shenandoah --your ship, mister Hawk-- Cortina and Austerlitz. And then the Ahwahnee --look at that, all four New Orleans-class ships down the centre, with two Freedom-class ships, two Challenger-class ships... and two science vessels. What's Bonestell doing out here?"
"She and Hawking are both holding station as part of the attack force, sir."
Culp snickered. "Sure, they are."
Amisov continued. "And that leaves the rest holding a wedge-shaped network right down the centre."
"Think it'll work, sir?"
Amisov leaned over and looked at Culp. "I know it will, mister Culp."
"The probability of a single ship penetrating this defensive formation are approximately..."
"Don't approximate, mister Sanak."
"Would you like the exact odds, then, sir?"
Amisov looked over at his humourless Vulcan weapons officer. "No odds. Period. We're going to win this battle on heart and soul, not random chance."
"Very well." If Amisov didn't know Sanak better, he would've mistaken the tone in his voice for a snub.
"I have all four ships, sir."
"Good. Put them through."
The attack plans had taken surprisingly little time to communicate. Each ship understood that they were to follow Endeavour's lead, and now the ships stood at the ready, each in diamond-shaped formations. Princeton was directly astern of Endeavour, and directly above was Gorkon. To her left was Monmouth, with Warspite to her left. Long range sensors had detected a vessel at high warp, in a cubic configuration, coming into range.
"All right," Captain Amisov said aloud, "whatever happens, we give it all we have. This is Earth on the line here. The heart of our Federation has a blade pointed right at it, and we are the only thing between sinew and steel."
"You missed your calling, sir," Commander Brixton said aloud. "I wish Mark were here to see this. He'd give you a poetic go-around."
"I'd welcome the opportunity." He smiled. "Ensign, on the Admiral's signal, accelerate us to attack speed."
"Sir! I-- I don't understand." Culp's face communicated complete surprise. "The Borg ship's come to a complete stop, six hundred kilometers ahead of us."
"Bastards," Brixton muttered. "He's waiting for us to go at him."
"Wait for the Admiral's signal. Not even so much as a searchlight without instruction."
"Aye, sir."
The comms channel crackled to life, with a voice-- a unified voice, fused together from thousands, millions of souls. "We are the Borg. Lower your shields and prepare to be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
Sanak placidly stated, "the fleet is powering up its weapons systems."
"Ready ours."
An eyebrow on the Vulcan's forehead rose. "I am detecting warp activity."
"What are they going to do, plow right through?" Culp reasoned.
"A second ship is coming out of warp."
"A second Borg ship?" Brixton asked aloud. "Impossible."
Amisov stood bolt upright. "Full impulse power!"
"Sir?"
"DO IT!" Endeavour lurched forward, accelerating, and the attack wing followed. Moments later, the Borg ship appeared --the same ship again, right in front of them. "Evasive maneuvers, pattern delta--- open fire!"
"Sir! We've lost-- my God-- what the hell?"
"Report!"
Culp shook his head, at a complete loss. "We've lost contact with our group! Sir! I--- my God! They're all over us!"
"Come around to..." Amisov pounded his command-chair console. "Bearing one-nine-four, mark zero-one-two-- now!"
Endeavour spun around, narrowly missing the Ibsen, now freely spiraling out of control, one nacelle gone. "Shields at sixty-five percent-- tractor beam is almost on us!"
"Evasive maneuvers, pattern gamma!"
"Commencing!"
The cutting beam lashed out again, and again, on the viewscreen, its fiery tongue consuming a nacelle on the Gorkon, then striking the engineering section of the Clemenceau, a tractor beam holding the Cortina in place to slice through its armoured surface and into its warp core. One ship after another detonated in a spectacle on the screen. "What just happened?" Brixton said, stunned.
"The Picard Maneuver. They usedhis own damnedmaneuver." Amisov sat, temporarily stunned. "Give pursuit."
"Sir-- hull breach, decks six through twelve!"
"Damn it-- engineering."
Engineer McKenna's voice came through clearly. "We got a problem down here, sir!"
"Report!"
"That Borg beam went right through the forward shield. Everything's crisis level down here! We're dead in space!"
"Reconfigure shields to compensate! Status!"
"Thirty-nine percent all around, and falling-- but the Borg are heading away from us."
"Straight towards the support vessels," Culp noted.
"They don't stand a chance-- Captain, we have to do something."
"I'm aware of that, Commander." He spun to the multi-systems display. There was a great gash along the hull of the ship. The Borg cutting beam had punctured a hole straight through their saucer section on the starboard side, slicing one of the computer cores in half, before hitting the stardrive section, cutting four decks down towards the warp core. Fifty metres to the right would have sliced through the reaction chamber's assembly, causing a core breach. Fifty metres to the left would have severed the starboard warp nacelle's forward section. As it was, the starboard saucer section --including its impulse engine-- was almost entirely without power. The lights briefly flickered, and several of the computer consoles flickered and died for a moment. "Mister McKenna, I need you to give me warp power. We need to distract them."
"I'll do what I can, sir. I'll need a few minutes."
"We don't have a few minutes. All power to the weapons systems. Bridge out." He pressed a button on his console to cut the link. "Mister Sanak. Full spread of phaser at the Borg ship, draw their attention."
"Sir? We run the risk of hitting our own ships."
"At this rate, there may not be any left if we sit here and argue-- do it."
"Yes, sir. Targeting." There was a noise as Sanak pushed the button. "Phaser fire pattern nine, commencing." After a moment, he added, "no effect."
"Impulse power restored," Ensign Hawk reported.
"Good, mister Hawk-- pursuit course."
"Aye, sir."
"Sir, the Borg aren't even seeing us here."
Indeed, on the screen, that was evident. On all sides, the Borg left in their wake one broken starship after another. Resigned, Amisov watched the Borg ship slipping away. "Lower our shields," the captain commanded. "Full stop."
"Registering full stop, aye."
"Begging the Captain's pardon, but is that really such a good idea? That Borg ship turns around and we're right in their sights."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take, Commander." He pressed a button on his console again. "Mister McKenna, I need you to re-route warp power."
"Aye, sir. Shields?"
"Transporters, mister McKenna. I need the emergency transporters online now."
"Are we evacuating?"
"No-- we need to get as many of those survivors as we can."
"Aye, sir."
"Sir, we're-- we're just giving up?" Culp looked incensed.
"We have an obligation to those lifeboats and shuttlecraft out there."
"We have an obligation to Earth, sir."
"I agree," Darla Brixton said, speaking up. "Mister Hawk, collision course with the Borg ship-- maximum impulse."
"Belay that order, ensign. We're too far off to do any good. Our weapons are useless-- we have to save who we can."
"And what about Earth, sir? Begging the Captain's pardon, but..."
"But what, Commander? Just say it."
"But I figure if we don't stop them here, no one will."
"No one will. Isn't that plainly obvious?"
She stood now, as the death throes of the Bellerophon and Kuznetsov played themselves out on the screen. "I will not simply give up on Earth as readily as you will, sir. Even if I have to assume command by force, I will continue the attack."
"To what end? We'll be as dead as they are."
"What the hell are you thinking, sir?" Brixton had tears in her eyes. "We can't stop now. We need to go at them full on. They get past us, and what's left?"
Amisov hesitated a moment, in which the Saratoga detonated. "Signal the Admiral."
"Sir, the Melbourne has been destroyed." On the screen, another ship-- the Firebrand --went up in an explosion, spinning wildly as its lone nacelle detonated.
"Very well-- we resume the offensive. Full impulse power, mister Hawk."
"Aye, sir."
"Raise shields. Mister McKenna, funnel all warp power to the shields."
"Back and forth," McKenna noted.
"Just do it."
"Aye, sir."
"Full spread of phaser fire-- maximum yield on the torpedoes-- mister Hawk, accelerate us to full impulse-- ramming speed. All hands, brace for impact."
"Sir!" But it was too late. The phaser fire flickered out into the black. What looked to be impacts were soon revealed to be hitting little more than residual light. The Borg ship had gone into warp.
"Negative impacts on all torpedoes," Sanak noted calmly.
The blank darkness of open space --and Earth beyond, invisible-- struck Amisov with all the brutality of a Klingon pain-stick. "Lower our shields. Resume previous course to retrieve lifeboats and shuttlepods. Scan all wreckage for signs of life, and transport all survivors aboard." A heavy, ominous presence fell in the room, as the tragedy of what had just been witnessed --and what lay ahead-- sank into the minds of all on the bridge.
"Sir," Ensign Hawk said after a long moment passed, "are we it?"
"Mister Sanak?"
"Scanning for active ships. I register no active transponders, no warp signatures. Life signs are intermittent. No ship has gone undamaged."
"Sir, the Warspite," Brixton said, as they watched the Excelsior-class ship go up in its own warp core breach. "God."
"And so it was all for nothing," Culp spoke aloud, though his voice was reserved entirely for himself.
Amisov sat a moment, staring through the wreckage, to what seemed to be the end of the universe. "Transporter rooms-- have we any survivors?"
"Quite a few, sir, and the tractor beam is helping us get them all aboard."
"Sir," Lieutenant Sanak said, "recommend we leave a distress beacon for Enterprise. If she comes along and finds no survivors, she could presume the worst."
Culp spoke up. "What about this could be left to the imagination, Lieutenant?"
"I only meant to infer that a factual report of the battle, coupled with an appropriate tally of the survivors, might help."
"There's more than enough distress here-- we don't need a beacon to add to it."
"No," Amisov said, with finality. "We take the survivors as soon as we have them all aboard and we make for Starbase 113. If at all possible, we should hail them and tell them to send all available rescue and salvage craft."
"Aye, sir." Brixton turned around with an apologetic look on her face. "Just can't believe we lost that quickly, sir."
"Be thankful we survived," the captain replied, "and pray for Earth."
The damage to Endeavour had been more extreme than initially imagined. Not one, but two Borg cutting beams had penetrated the hull. One, which had severed a power coupling and taken fifteen lives, had plunged through the saucer and into the drive. The other, however, had glanced the pylon holding the port nacelle to the ship. Controlling hull breaches, plasma fires, and rerouting power had taken the better part of the trip. However, somehow, their warp drive was not even scratched, despite the damage to the ship. Amisov considered one of many miracles that day.
Certainly, the last minute intervention by Enterprise first to save Picard, then to use him against the cube somewhere between Earth and the moon, had been miraculous in nature, but it was to be expected from the finest ship in the fleet. Each face that Amisov passed as he toured the decks, while the ship made its way to Starbase 113, refugees from one ship or another, an ensign here, a civilian there, a commander with his son over that way, was in its own way a miracle. Here were the survivors of that terrible battlefield behind them, few in number and shattered in spirit, but alive and free nonetheless.
The starbase was crawling with civilian ships making their way as far from Earth as warp speed and Federation credits could take them. The arrival of Endeavour caused what seemed like a halt in all outbound activity, her scorched hull bloodied with the scars of the Borg attack. Some ships seemed to come closer, unable to overcome the creature instinct to approach the grotesque.
"Steady as she goes," Amisov warned the helmsman. He had been unwilling to leave the bridge. Nothing more than the security of knowing his ship was safely docked would be satisfactory now. He had sent the senior staff to the lower decks in order to facilitate the quartering of the survivors.
"Sir, the starbase is hailing us."
"On screen." He stood. "This is Captain Lavrenti Amisov of the starship Endeavour."
"Admiral Robert Hayes. Your ship came from Wolf?"
"It did."
"We lost subspace contact with the action there some hours ago. Where are the rest of the fleet?"
Amisov looked down, then turned to spot at least one ensign with tears in his eyes. "Admiral, I have the duty and the dishonour of reporting that our fleet at Wolf 359 has been obliterated, and that we are the sole surviving vessel."
"Impossible."
"I fear that I am correct, sir, having seen it all with my own eyes."
"No, I mean-- surely there must be some survivors."
"Indeed there are, sir. They are all housed aboard this vessel."
"There were no other warp signatures?"
"None recently made, sir, save our own and that of the Borg vessel."
"And you mean to tell me that you're all that's left?"
"We have survivors from all forty starships accounted for, Admiral. As I said, the fleet has been obliterated."
"Now you listen to me. We sent forty starships against that Borg menace. And you mean to tell me--"
"Begging the Admiral's pardon," Amisov said, with a touch more irritability than Brixton ever offered, "but if you would care to join me aboard, I am quite certain that the survivors speak for themselves."
The full scale of the issue finally reached Admiral Hayes, and Amisov recognized the hollow, vapid glare well. He had seen it on deck after deck of the survivors. "How many survived?"
"We were able to retrieve approximately one thousand, five hundred personnel, sir."
"Fifteen hundred-- there were over thirteen thousand people assigned to those ships!"
"As I have already explained, Admiral, we are all that which survives."
"My God in Heaven-- I-- stand by." A lieutenant came into the frame, holding a report of Enterprise's last reported contact with the Borg vessel, one which had seen its destruction. "This report indicates that Enterprise was able to stop the Borg ship. Earth is saved."
"I am happy to hear that," Amisov stated automatically, though the devastated look on his face communicated quite another message than the one the Admiral read lovingly, repeatedly, annoyingly. "I presume that we have the Admiral's good leave to dock and offload the survivors?"
"Yes, yes, of course-- I'll come down and meet you myself."
"The Admiral is... gracious." Amisov's eye flickered slightly.
"I will, of course, expect a full de-brief."
"Detailed reports will no doubt follow. It would be ungracious of the Admiral to ask the survivors to speak of so tender a trauma while the wounds are still fresh."
"Yes, I agree. I'll send every ship I can to attempt to mount further rescue."
"We retrieved everyone we could. There are no further rescues to make. Anyone we couldn't get is dead already."
"I see. Well, at any rate, report for docking and we'll see to all aboard, and to your ship as well."
"Appreciated, Admiral-- Amisov out."
Three days passed. Amisov had spent much of it in his quarters. On occasion --his mother might have said, for penance-- he went down to the engine room, or to the gaping hole between decks, or any place where fire, explosion or damage had occurred, seeking to help. Many of the survivors were more than willing to assist. Endeavour took on a sort of special meaning to them-- it had not been their ship, but nothing short of death or reassignment was going to keep them from taking a hand in patching her back together again.
He had not talked to Brixton for that entire time. She had been co-ordinating the transfer and return of personnel to active service. They finally met on the second afternoon since they had arrived, on the ship's bridge. "Captain," she had said upon seeing him, "I would ask to speak to you."
"Go ahead."
"In private, please."
He looked up. "My ready room."
They stepped inside, and Amisov noticed that the temperature seemed slightly less than he remembered. "Go ahead."
"I wanted to apologize for my insubordination during the battle. I put my emotions ahead of my commitment to the principles of command, and I am sorry."
"The matter will not make its way into my official report."
"Sir?"
"I don't intend to hold it against you. Earth means different things to different people-- but in the heat of battle, there was nothing to be done. They had Picard, they used him against us like a weapon. What Riker and Enterprise did to the Borg, using him the same way, was turnabout. We couldn't have helped it."
"I just keep thinking. All those people, and we never even had a chance. Admiral Hanson was so confident. He expected Klingon support, which never came."
"Knowing the Klingons, they showed up, watched the whole thing while cloaked, and left us to our own devices. It'll be a matter for a blood feud someday. For now, though, we all need to heal. We'll need to devote more time than we traditionally have to the preparations we make for war. The Borg will always keep coming until either they or we stand triumphant. Either we join them or they will destroy us. They said it themselves. The only third option is vigilance, and a renewed commitment to a very un-Starfleet concept: that of a war footing at any event."
"I just wanted you to know, sir, that I meant no offense."
"No, I understand. But sometimes the responsibility of command includes the importance of not engaging in combat, Commander. A whole generation of battle survivors would have perished if we had pursued the Borg. It ended well. Even if they had taken Earth, we never would have allowed them to keep it for long --presuming we would have had the strength to oppose them. We need to ask ourselves some hard questions about Starfleet, the nature of the Federation, and what the Borg are after. Do they value our technology? Why did they target Earth so specifically? Would they send the same forces to sectors 020 or 121 as they did to 001-- and if they did, would we be ready to defend them as vigourously? Are we ready to prosecute a war to the finish against the Borg? We need to take major steps, Commander-- major steps towards a re-framing of the Federation. And if we don't, we're as lost as a thousand other species who stood up to the Borg."
The fallout of the Wolf 359 disaster was considerable. Captain Amisov remained in command of Endeavour for another ten years, still on patrol and limited exploration duties in and around the Neutral Zone. Endeavour had been called home to Earth again frequently in that time, several times for upgrades and retrofits, once for a nacelle replacement, and twice to defend the homeworld. Another Borg cube had penetrated the defenses of the Federation some seven years after Wolf. A task force, headed by the same Admiral Hayes who had met the Endeavour at Starbase 113, his flagship the Lexington, met the cube and fought it all the way from the Typhon Sector to Sector 001, where they had been able to destroy it only at the expense of the Admiral's ship and many lives. Critical in that battle had been one of the many weapons designed with the Borg in mind, the starship Defiant, had been worked on by many survivors of Wolf 359, most notably Benjamin Sisko. The Breen suicide attack on San Francisco near the close of the Dominion War had brought Endeavour back from the Neutral Zone again, though far too late to help, and marines from Endeavour had fought in the liberation of Betazed.
It was some years later, after Endeavour had been part of a task force along the Neutral Zone formed to deal with the contention of the Reman Scimitar against the Federation, that Captain Amisov found himself at last face to face with the man who had been a weapon in the cybernetic clutches of the Borg. He had requested permission to beam over shortly after the task force returned to Federation space, at Starbase 281. Such an opportunity would be rare, indeed.
The Sovereign-class Enterprise-E was a spacious, grand warship of a design, even in the ruinous condition that the Scimitar had left it. Everything about it felt an improvement. The new Starfleet uniforms were less form-fitting and more with engineering work in mind, much to Amisov's approval. His natural girth had been ill-suited to the old style red uniform. A red collar and a black belly was much more to his liking.
He found himself passing a bearded fellow in the hall. He turned and let out an exclamation. The man turned. "Can I help you?"
"Captain William Riker."
"Yeah, that's me. Can I help you?"
"Captain Lavrenti Amisov, of the Endeavour-- how do you do."
"Captain Amisov. I'm pleased to meet you." Riker flashed a grin. "I've read your reports of Wolf 359. They were... illuminating, to say the least."
"Thank you. It took a lot to write out everything."
"I can imagine. It wasn't easy on any of us, believe me. By the time we arrived on the scene, withthelastEnterprise, we were far too late."
"Indeed, I remember it well. My lieutenant at the time said we should have left a beacon detailing our heading. I've often wondered what you'd have thought of that."
"Honestly? In a field of debris that size, I doubt we would've found it. We were pretty single-minded on stopping the Borg and getting to the Captain. Which I imagine is what I'm keeping you from doing."
"No, I've always told myself, if I ever have the chance to shake your hand, I'll be more than happy to retire." He extended his hand, and Riker took it in a firm embrace.
"Well, then," he said. "I hope you enjoy your retirement."
"And I-- you've just accepted command of Titan, have you not?"
Riker nodded. "I'm just on my way back to my quarters to check and see if my wife's ready to go. We're going to back to Earth on-- come to think of it, it wasEndeavour."
"Well! We must dine at my quarters, your wife and I. If you're willing, of course."
"I wouldn't miss it," Riker acknowledged, with a grin. "I'll leave you to it, then."
"Thank you." Amisov turned and headed to the captain's ready room, looking past the devastated bridge. He found a small, frail man within, sipping a cup of tea. "Captain Picard."
"Ah, yes, Captain Amisov. Welcome. It is not often that I am graced with the company of two brother captains in one day. I just saw off my first officer."
"Yes, sir, I just encountered him. Formidable officer."
"Indeed. I've been pushing him for some time to take command. I think that's... four commands he's declined until now."
"Including Melbourne, if I remember."
"Ah, yes. That's where the name is familiar from. I must confess, I am quite humiliated to have forgotten."
"You'll forgive me if I haven't been able to."
"No, I should imagine not." Picard placed his cup of tea aside. "I have made it a point not to let my experience with the Borg dominate me, something I have recently learned to accept with a far more complete fullness than ever before."
Amisov felt a great reckoning touch his heart. "I can see why that would be important to you."
"Yes, well, it was necessary. I required much counseling, and much surgery, to be ready to return to service. It was not an easy road back, but retrospectively, there was no better road to have taken." He paused a moment. "I am given to understand that my former first officer will be returning to Earth aboard your vessel."
"Indeed, he will."
"I consider him fortunate to be graced with your presence for as long as he shall be."
"Well, my first officer, Sanak, will be more than happy to run the ship without me. Vulcan first officers-- I don't know how Captain Kirk did it."
Picard smiled. "Indeed. You are, of course, welcome to remain aboard my ship as long as you'd like. I apologize for the state of repair, but the hospitality remains." He stepped aside and returned, with a bottle of wine. "It's 2350. A very good year in Navarre, you know." He uncorked the bottle, a smile upon his face, and poured a glass for himself, and for Amisov. He raised his glass, and Amisov did likewise. "How shall I put this..." He found himself quite at a loss for words.
"May I?"
"Oh, go right ahead."
"To old wounds-- may they remain untouched by new pain."
"Sante," Picard replied, and they drank.