Chapter One: The Useless Command

March 19, 2386

Tellar

Commander Alexander Pressley could feel the fear of everyone on the bridge as the Borg Cube loomed ever closer. Even on the viewscreen at minimum magnification it still seemed as if the massive ship still cast a shadow over the entire star system. Its mission, Pressley knew, was one of total and complete annihilation and Tellar was the latest stop. The only thing that stood in the way of the Borg destroying the Tellarite homeworld was this ship and this crew. He looked around the bridge of the U.S.S. Formidable to see that his feeling was right, and that everyone was afraid. It was understandable as far as Pressley was concerned. Three hours ago the Starfleet task force had been forty-strong and now just the Formidable was still in fighting shape. The fleet had stopped the first and second wave of Borg ships but a third wave was inbound, this lone cube was to be the forerunner of annihilation.

'Stop that!' Pressley chastised himself. 'You are in command of these people and you're on the verge of losing your mind with fear! Control yourself!'

Alexander Pressley took a deep breath and realised that his inner voice was right. He afforded himself a quick glance towards the Captain's Chair that he refused to sit in. He hadn't the right to sit down in that chair, even though he knew he would eventually have to once the shooting started. He felt panic swirling up inside his chest as his mind played the briefest of flashbacks; to the Captain sitting in that chair. No-one on the bridge, not Pressley or anyone else, had see the drone coming until it was too late, until it already had its hands on her and its assimilation tubules buried in her neck. It was the only time Pressley had ever wished death on another sentient being.

He mentally shook himself. He needed to focus on the task at hand. That Borg Cube was not allowed to get past the Formidable. No matter the cost. It was only then that the Ensign called out the warning from the tactical station, barely shielding the panic she felt. The warning that Pressley had been dreading for what felt like hours, but had only been seconds in the harshness of reality.

"Borg cube entering weapons range!"

And over the communication system, in a voice so loud that it couldn't be ignored, the Collective spoke.

"We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."

February 24, 2389 [0745]

U.S.S. Archer, Captain's Ready Room

It was the smashing of glass that had drawn Alexander Pressley back into the waking world. He had awoken from the nightmare with a start and, in doing so, had knocked his customary glass of lukewarm water from the bedside table into the nearby wall. His eyes darted around, trying to take in as much of their surroundings as possible so he could be sure that he wasn't back on the bridge of the Formidable. But he already knew where he was. He was in his ready room aboard a completely different ship, the one room except the bridge of his starship where he lived most of his days. He also knew that this ship was nowhere near Tellar. In the almost three years since the now famous 'Battle of Tellar' he had been plagued by nightmares as his subconscious replayed the same events over and over in his sleeping mind.

"Computer." He said into thin air and waited the half-second for the automated beep to tell him that the computer was ready for his inputs. "Music, playlist Pressley-five."

It was his counsellor, Lieutenant Pentar Kaymen, who came up with the idea that he played soothing music upon awakening from a Borg-related nightmare. Pressley had already informed the Lieutenant that the music did absolutely nothing to soothe him, but Kaymen had insisted. And so the Captain was sitting up in his bunk and listening to Johann Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. Naturally Kaymen had chosen the playlist himself, which the Captain had objected to, given that his preference for music was wildly different to the music that was being played. He didn't disagree that Pachelbel was a "soothing" choice of music, but for a child who grew up amongst Centaurans, it certainly didn't fit in with his tastes.

As Pressley began to let his mind recover from the trauma it had once again inflicted upon itself he slowly climbed out of his bunk and made his way to the bathroom. As a therapeutic way of calming himself he found a real-water shower a lot more comforting than a dose of archaic Earth music. As he stripped off he made a quick note of the time by passing the desk on his computer console; 0747. At any moment Pressley knew his Yeoman would be contacting him to remind him of the daily department head's briefing in thirteen minutes.

"Best make this a quick shower then." He said aloud.

As he entered the bathroom and activated the shower, waiting a few seconds to allow the water to heat up, Pressley found himself staring into his reflection in the mirror. He wondered, not for the first time in the last year, when he had become so old. When he was a cadet he was often referred to as "baby face" by most of his friends and colleagues. Understandable given that when he was seventeen he looked fourteen. Now he was thirty-nine years old and he looked closer to fifty than forty. His eyes seemed tired, his hairline was beginning to recede and he was fairly certain he could see hints of grey forming in both his hair and stubble. Then there were the blemishes on his face; the long, thin scar along his right cheek he had received during the Dominion War, the scarring on his forehead he had received while he served as a young Lieutenant (junior grade) aboard the Enterprise-E and the scars he had received on his neck from when...

He physically shook his head as he forcefully stopped his train of thought from going in a direction that he really didn't want his mind to go in. It was probably better that some memories were left well enough alone.

U.S.S. Archer, Conference Lounge [0829]

Captain Alexander Pressley sat at the head of the conference table listening intently to everything that each of his command staff were discussing. There were eight members of his crew here in total, including himself. At the moment it was the turn of his Executive Officer and friend of more than twenty-years to speak; Commander Harvey Nasar.

Pressley always felt a very slight twang of resentment towards his XO whenever he saw him. It was nothing serious; it was simply an automatic function of his brain. While both men were the same age, and the same species, Nasar had managed to age gracefully both physically and emotionally. The Commander still had a full head of dark blonde hair and his brilliant blue eyes still had a spark behind them.

"The mission time totalled around three hours." Nasar said to the room. "And I think the station was happy to receive their equipment. They'd been waiting for it for long enough."

Nasar was referring to the Archer's last mission, a routine re-supply drop to the Federation research station Hawking-8. According to the station's commander they had ordered some research critical spare parts four months earlier and it was only now that they had been delivered.

"We are currently on our way to Starbase 91 to pick up some medical supplies that are bound for Caitia." Nasar continued. "At our current speed we should arrive in seven days."

With that came the end of Nasar's portion of the briefing. Pressley leaned forwards. "Is there anything else?"

A collective shake of heads from his assembled staff effectively called an end to the meeting.

"Dismissed." Pressley said. With that the seven people all stood and began to file out of the conference lounge. There was a part of the captain that wanted to stop Nasar, to talk to him. But the XO already had enough on his mind without his captain dumping a load of personal problems on him.

The U.S.S. Archer was a one-of-a-kind starship. After the 'Battle of Tellar' the Corps of Engineering had salvaged an Akira-class ship from the graveyard of starships that littered the orbit of the Federation planet. They had been given one objective; to create a starship that could fight the Borg. They had finished construction and Starfleet Command had decided to give Alexander Pressley the Archer. But, just as the ship had been launched, the war was over and the Borg had been completely wiped from existence. Now the ship had been running errands for the better part of the year since. It was enough for Pressley to make him feel like an obsolete part of a machine that was no longer required.

Captain Pressley stood up from the conference table and decided that now would be an excellent time to catch up on paperwork. As he made his way for the door he wondered, not for the first time, when Starfleet was going to decide what to do with him and his ship.