by Peter David
The response was slow in coming, and when it did, he could hear a lot of shouting and pounding in the background. “Burgoyne here.” It was the assistant chief engineer. “Warp engines are offline. Impulse engines are down to fifty percent. Main power is fluctuating, but we’re on it. And, sir, Commander Argyle is dead.”
For Korsmo, the sounds of the battle converged into a dull roar, and the moment seemed to stretch out in all directions. Argyle had been a fine officer, and a good friend. This was the second time he’d lost a chief engineer to the Borg. For just an instant, his mind flashed back to his last encounter, nearly four years ago. That time, it had been a small Borg scout ship, a fraction of the size of this one. But size didn’t matter much when a Borg cutting beam was involved….
“Warp and impulse engines are offline. Main power is offline. We’ve lost both shields and weapons,” Shelby told him. Her face was covered with blood from a gash on her cheek. “Damage reports coming in from all over the ship. Twenty-two dead. So far. And three…missing.”
They both looked at the viewscreen, where the Borg ship was moving away, with a large chunk of engineering in its tractor beam. The fate of the three crewmen inside was unknown.
“Sir, we’re being hailed,” his tactical officer, Lieutenant Lowe, reported.
“If it’s the Borg, ignore them,” Korsmo snapped. He was sure no one was in the mood for the “resistance is futile” speech.
“It’s not the Borg. It’s…it’s coming from engineering, sir,” Lowe said, and his voice wavered as he realized the significance of the source. “Deck eighteen, section twenty-nine. Audio only.”
Shelby gasped, and they both looked in horror at the pillaged portion of their ship still being carried by the retreating cube. “Dear God,” she whispered, “someone’s still alive over there.”
“Can we lock on with the emergency transporters?” he asked Shelby, quietly.
She glanced quickly down at the helm console. “No, we’re out of range,” she said, her voice filled with frustration and regret.
“Call down to what’s left of engineering,” he told her. “Find out if there’s anything…anything we can do at all.”
She nodded as he turned to Lowe and gestured for him to open the channel.
“Korsmo, here,” he said. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Lieutenant Marika, here, Captain,” a woman’s voice responded. “Crewmen Ramirez and Howard are with me. The Borg have erected some kind of forcefield around this section. I guess they must want…” She stopped briefly to regain her composure, before finishing, courageously. “They must want us alive.”
Marika Wilkarah, a Bajoran engineer. He knew of her. She and her husband were both officers onboard. “Marika, we’re doing everything we can to retrieve you,” he told her, not bothering to add that there wasn’t a hell of a lot they could do. Even if, by some miracle, they could get within transporter range, the chances of them being able to lock on through the tractor and a forcefield were not good.
“Captain,” Lowe interrupted. “The Borg are creating a transwarp conduit.”
And they were running out of time. He turned to Shelby, and she shook her head, confirming what he already knew. They had no options at all.
“We appreciate your efforts, sir,” Marika said. “Can you tell me what my husband’s status is? I wasn’t able to raise his station.”
He didn’t even need to look at Shelby. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hurry over to ops.
“We’re trying to find out for you,” he told Marika, wishing with all of his heart that he had something else to offer her.
“The conduit is open,” Lowe reported. “The Borg cube is accelerating toward it.”
“Captain,” Marika said, her voice shaking, “it’s been an honor serving with…”
The line went to static as a bright white flare filled the viewscreen. The warp conduit had closed behind the cube, and the slice of his ship that it still held in its tractor beam, like a damned trophy. He sat down heavily in his command chair.
Biting her lip and fighting back tears, Shelby stepped up to his side. “Marika Errid has been taken to sickbay. He’s injured and unconscious, but expected to survive,” she told him, softly.
Unable to suppress the surge of fury that rose up inside him, he slammed the arm of the chair with his fist hard enough to make Shelby jump, and undoubtedly break some of his bones. He didn’t care. Yes, he’d managed to save his ship, and he knew that was a significant victory. It didn’t feel that way now, though. So many dead. So many injured. His ship, perhaps, damaged beyond repair. And a woman, calling out to him on her way to a fate even worse than death, and he’d been utterly powerless to help her. He hadn’t been able to do even the simplest thing for her—like tell her whether her husband was dead or alive. How could anyone, ever, hope to make any difference at all when faced with such a cold, intractable, malevolent enemy as the Borg?
A now sickeningly familiar jolt pulled Korsmo back to the present, and he realized that things had just gone from bad to worse. “The tractor beam has locked on to us again,” Martins called out from tactical.
He felt the same helpless rage now as he had then. Nothing he had done had helped. He couldn’t stop the cube, or do anything at all to save Earth. And now he was going to lose his ship and crew as well. He remembered the lists from Wolf 359, thirty-nine ships and thousands upon thousands of faceless names. He bristled at the thought of Excalibur and her crew being just another collection of names on just another damned list, if anyone was even around to compile one this time.
Well, they weren’t going down without a fight. “Target the tractor again,” he ordered. “Fire phasers!”
The Borg cutting beam beat them to the punch. The impact was closer to the bridge this time—across the saucer support strut, he estimated, from the perspective on the screen—and the force of it sent him sprawling over the ops console with Kothari. A split second later, the beam cut through a critical system, and the console exploded.
He was thrown away from ops in a shower of sparks and debris. For a moment, he was both blind and deaf, and acrid smoke seared his throat. He felt himself sliding into unconsciousness, and fought it. As his head began to clear, he discovered that he was lying on the floor of the bridge next to the now lifeless body of Kothari. He noted, grimly, that there was no need to look for a pulse. She’d borne the brunt of the explosion; the hole in her midsection testified to that. There was no time to grieve.
Looking down, he saw that he was bleeding, too, although not excessively. He felt an odd heaviness in his chest, and sensed that something was terribly wrong, but he’d have to worry about it later.
“Report!” he shouted, hoarsely.
“Hull breach—deck thirteen,” Shelby said, hurrying to his side. “Emergency forcefields are in place. Captain, you’re injured. I need to get you to sickbay.” She reached up to tap her combadge.
“No time!” he snapped, in a voice that would brook no argument. “Take over at ops.”
She hesitated for only a moment before complying, as he lurched unsteadily up to tactical. Martins had been thrown over the railing. He stopped briefly to feel for a pulse, but found none. Another bridge casualty. He looked around, but mercifully everyone else was up and about.
Only when the tractor beam caught them again did he realize they’d been briefly free of it. It was unusual for the Borg to have lost their hold, even for a moment, but he supposed the collective had a lot on its mind. Perhaps they could take advantage of that.
He hit his combadge. “Korsmo to engineering. Burgoyne, are you still with me?”
“Yes, sir,” the unflappable Hermat responded. There was a lot of bustle in the background—a good sign. “We still haven’t been able to stabilize main power, but impulse is up to sixty percent.”
“Good,” he said. “We’re going to need that. What’s the status on weapons?”
“The forward torpedo launch tubes were damaged by the c
utting beams, but we still have dorsal phasers at about eighty percent,” s/he said.
“Good,” he said, again. He couldn’t understand why his chest felt so heavy, and why he was suddenly so cold. There was some pain, but mostly he was just having a hard time getting enough air. He had to concentrate to draw in enough breath to speak. “I need more phaser power,” he said. “Make it top priority. Take it from wherever we can spare it. Coordinate with Shelby. We need to evacuate some decks—you can shunt some power from life-support.”
“Acknowledged,” Burgoyne said, closing the channel.
“Target the tractor…” he began, until he remembered that he was manning tactical and therefore giving orders to himself. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and took a slow, deliberate breath. He had to stay focused, now. His hands were clammy, and he wiped them hurriedly on his tunic. When he managed to take in enough air, he targeted the Borg tractor himself and began firing.
“T’Shanik,” he called over to the helm. “If we get free of the tractor, we’re going to need to get out of range in a hurry. Go to the port side of the cube. There’s more going on over there—we won’t be as tempting a target. Bearing and mark, your discretion. Stand by.”
“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged, glancing quickly his way. It was unusual for him to give orders in advance, but he was afraid he might lose consciousness and he wanted to make his intentions clear.
The phasers were, as yet, ineffective, but he could see the power indicator steadily rising. Whatever Burgoyne was doing was working. Argyle had told him repeatedly what an innovative engineer s/he was. S/he was certainly coming through for them now.
He randomized the phaser resonance settings to a different set of fluctuating patterns, then fired. For an instant, he felt a slight change in his ship—a subtle interruption in the vibrations of the deck plating. Although it wasn’t obvious that their resistance was having an effect, he was sure it was. The phasers were up to ninety-five percent, and he fired again.
“Come on, you bastards, let go!” he muttered.
The cutting beam lashed out once more. It made contact, but shut off again quickly. The lights went down, and the bridge glowed red as the emergency lighting kicked in.
“We’re losing main power,” Shelby said. “We’ve lost life-support on two more decks. I’m evacuating them. And sir, the flagship has been destroyed.”
He couldn’t even acknowledge her, or spare a thought for Hayes and the men and women who’d served on that ship. He needed every bit of his will and energy to remain upright, and to keep his hands from shaking. He’d begun to shiver almost uncontrollably.
“Captain,” she said, “the phaser banks are nearly drained, and there’s been no change in the tractor readings.”
That might well be, but he knew—he knew—this was working. He could feel it. Doggedly, he reset the phasers again, and fired.
The tractor beam flickered, then shut down. This was it, their only chance.
“Now, conn!” he rasped. T’Shanik responded immediately, sweeping off to the left. The tractor beam reached for them again, but she evaded it. The cutting beam shot out, and grazed the port nacelle, but Excalibur swung around the edge of the cube, out of range.
Another small explosion rocked the bridge—systems were overloading all over the badly damaged ship. But Korsmo knew the worst was behind them.
“Main power is offline,” Shelby reported. “Impulse engines are down.”
That wasn’t the problem it would have been thirty seconds ago. Their momentum was carrying them out and away from the battle zone. On the screen, he could see the Defiant, absorbing brutal torpedo blows. Korsmo wished they could help, but at least the smaller ship seemed to be holding its own.
He tried to brace himself against the tactical console, but sheer force of will was no longer enough to keep him upright. He felt himself slide slowly down to the floor. It was increasingly painful and difficult to draw in breath now, and he knew he’d sustained serious internal injuries, which he’d probably exacerbated by moving around so much. He wasn’t going to make it this time. He’d tempted fate once too often. Excalibur was out of danger, though, and that was the main thing.
“There’s another ship coming in,” Shelby said, excitedly, from ops. “It’s the Enterprise!”
Korsmo looked at the viewscreen through half-closed eyes just in time to see the sleek Sovereign-class ship shoot by, phasers firing. If he could have found the energy or the breath, he’d have laughed out loud. Starfleet’s golden boy—or golden old bald guy, he thought, wryly—racing to the rescue again. He’d once told Shelby that the one constant in the universe was that Jean-Luc Picard would always be around to save the day. It was nice to know it still held true, even now. He was at peace with his old friend and rival at last, and genuinely pleased to see him. The Borg might not know it yet, but the momentum of the battle had just turned Starfleet’s way.
Picard’s voice came over the tactical channel. “This is Picard of the Enterprise. I’m taking command of the fleet. Target all of your weapons onto the following coordinates.”
Korsmo was now shaking violently, and his voice came out as a thin, quavering rasp. “Can we assist?” he asked Shelby.
“Not a chance, sir,” she said, turning around. When she saw him, a look of genuine alarm flashed across her face, and she was up and running toward him, calling out orders on her way. “Lock down all nonessential systems, and try to keep us out of the fleet’s way with the thrusters.”
She reached his side, and slapped her combadge. “Medical emergency,” she said. “Transport the captain directly to sickbay.”
“Transporters are down, and so are the turbolifts,” sickbay responded. “We’ve sent a medical team up to the bridge, but they have to use the Jefferies tubes.”
Shelby swore softly.
“Too late,” he told her, in a whisper. “It’s all right,” he managed to get out, hoping to comfort her. The viewscreen lit up as dozens of starships fired at the coordinates Picard had specified. The cube’s hull began to break apart, showing pockets of glowing green within. Then it exploded, in a gratifying burst of light and gray metal. He had to close his eyes against the brightness. He could hear the bridge crew cheering.
He could rest now. The cube was gone, his friends and loved ones on Earth were all safe, and his ship was out of danger. He mourned the people he’d lost—Kothari, Martins, Argyle, and undoubtedly many others. But when he thought about the survivors, he felt a deep satisfaction. T’Shanik was the best natural pilot he’d ever seen, and Burgoyne in engineering had a brilliant career ahead of hir. And, of course, there was Shelby. In the years that he’d known her, she’d grown in experience and wisdom. She was going to make Starfleet a hell of a captain. These were good people, and he was proud to have had a hand in making them who they were, and preserving their lives this day. Sometimes, he now understood, you just had to make a difference wherever you could. And it might well be that, in some small way, he had helped to distract the Borg long enough for someone to find a way to destroy them. Perhaps a little bit of insufferable arrogance on the part of many small Starfleet captains was necessary when facing the mighty Borg.
He opened his eyes slowly, and Shelby was kneeling down beside him, looking uncharacteristically emotional. Were those tears in her eye? His vision was going gray around the edges. He could see that she was holding his hand, but he couldn’t feel her touch.
One more duty to perform. “Commander,” he said, his voice no more than a wheeze, “you have the conn.” There. He’d left his ship in the hands of the most capable first officer in the fleet. Everything was all right, now. With effort, he drew in one more uneven breath. “See to the safety…” he began, but then everything went black and silent.
He didn’t see Commander Shelby blink hard, then reach down gently to close her captain’s eyes. He didn’t hear her voice break a little as she completed his final order.
“…of all hands. Yes, sir.”
Performance Appraisal
Allyn Gibson
Before joining Captain Shelby on the U.S.S. Trident as her first officer, Commander Katerina Mueller was the “nightside” commander on the Excalibur, a post she also held on the U.S.S. Grissom, under the command of Captain Kenyon. “Performance Appraisal” takes place during Mueller’s tenure on the Grissom, before Commander Mackenzie Calhoun was assigned as that vessel’s first officer.
Allyn Gibson
Allyn Gibson lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, where he works as a store manager for one of the leading video game retailers, ironic given that he rarely plays video games. The publication of “Performance Appraisal” and the upcoming Star Trek: S.C.E. eBook Ring Around the Sky fulfills one of his long-standing ambitions: to be a published author by the age of thirty. When not working, writing, or trying to coax sociability out of his anti-social cat, Allyn can usually be found watching Doctor Who videos. You can find out more than you ever wanted to know about Allyn at http://www.allyngibson.net/.
“Lieutenant Mueller, please report to the bridge.” Hearing the voice of Cray, the Grissom’s Andorian chief of security, calling her name startled Katerina Mueller, and she dropped her hydrospanner.
Rachel McLauren gave Mueller a wide smile as Mueller picked the hydrospanner up off the engineering deck. “You’ve gone and done it now, kiddo.” Mueller looked McLauren squarely in the eyes from her squatting position. McLauren stood not more than a meter tall and was powerfully built, the native of a high-gravity Earth colony. It wasn’t only her height that distinguished her, though; she kept her head shaved, leaving only her bushy red eyebrows as a sign of her natural coloring.
A look of concern crossed Mueller’s face, flashing white the scar that ran across her left cheek. “I haven’t done anything, Rachel.”