Star Trek_ Typhon Pact_ Rough Beasts of Empire.

by David R. George III.

To Marco Palmieri, Who came into my life as an editor, Plying his craft with artistry and optimism, But who turned out to be something even more important: A good man and a good friend

Inevitable as the dusk must fall, The shadows gather beneath birds of prey; The nightmare drops again, ensnaring all Within the dark veil of ego and sway.

Covering the land in surrounding gloom, Forces alight in the murky city, And staring and waiting, they promise doom, Seek weakness and vantage, offer no pity.

Their hour come around, slouching toward the throne, They clamber over fellows, reaching ever higher, Seizing all wealth and power for their own, Battling each other, these rough beasts of empire.

-RABAN G GEDROE, notes accompanying her painting Affairs of State Affairs of State

I.

The Fell of Dark I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.

What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!

And more must, in yet longer light's delay.

-GERARD M MANLEY H HOPKINS

1.

The blade tore through his flesh with cruel ease.

Agony erupted in Spock's midsection, a red-hot ember blazing at the center of an instantly expanding inferno. He grabbed for the knife protruding from his abdomen, for the hand that wielded it, but as he staggered backward a step under the a.s.sault, he reflexively threw his arms wide in an attempt to retain his balance. He knew he had to prevent himself from falling, vulnerable, before his unknown, half-seen attacker. Loosed from his grip, Spock's handheld beacon clattered to the rocky ground, its narrow beam sending long shadows careering about the subterranean remnants of the ancient Romulan settlement. In silhouette, visage concealed by darkness, his a.s.sailant loomed above him, broad-shouldered and a head taller.

Spock struggled to concentrate, understanding on the heels of the ambush that he likely would have little time to defend himself. Seeking to rule the pain screaming through his body, he focused on the other details of sensation. He felt the cool metal of the knife against his now-exposed right side, even as his blood rushed warmly from the newly opened wound. He smelled the musty scent of age and abandonment that swathed the underground ruins, commingled with the fetid odor of the modern city's sewer system, which ran nearby. The electric tang of copper filled his mouth.

Spock had tasted death before, and recognized it. Intense memories surged in a flash through his mind. Piloting the faltering Piloting the faltering Galileo Galileo above Taurus II, the heat in the smoky main cabin climbing as the shuttlecraft and its crew began plummeting back into the atmosphere above Taurus II, the heat in the smoky main cabin climbing as the shuttlecraft and its crew began plummeting back into the atmosphere. On the planet Neural, hearing the report and then feeling the strike of the lead projectile as it penetrated his back, mangling his viscera On the planet Neural, hearing the report and then feeling the strike of the lead projectile as it penetrated his back, mangling his viscera. In the Mutara Nebula, repairing In the Mutara Nebula, repairing Enterprise Enterprise's warp drive, and suffering the lethal effects of extreme radiation as he did so.

But then the images slipped, melting away in a flat wash of color. The past faded from Spock's mind as quickly as it had arisen, and thoughts of the future suddenly seemed unreachable. Only the excruciating present remained, and only at a remove. Loss of consciousness beckoned, and beyond it-with no ready receptacle for his katra katra-so too did nonexistence.

The would-be a.s.sa.s.sin closed the small distance, the single pace, that Spock had put between them. The attacker seized the handle of the knife and twisted the blade within the ragged wound, doubtless searching for vital organs. With the pain intensifying, Spock reversed course and reached with his mind for his physical distress, embraced it, clung to it as a means of preventing himself from pa.s.sing out. He summoned his strength to fight back, only to discover that he had already taken hold of the hand clutching the weapon. As a Vulcan, even at his advanced age-a year short of his sesquicentenary-he possessed corporal might exceeding that of the individuals of many humanoid species. He could not fend off his a.s.sailant, though, perhaps owing to his compromised condition-or more likely, he thought, because his adversary enjoyed commensurate bodily prowess.

Romulan, Spock thought, though in the inconsistent lighting, he could not be certain. But the conclusion followed, considering the aversion of the Romulan government-of both both Romulan governments-to his efforts to reunify their people with their Vulcan cousins. It also made sense given his current location, deep beneath Ki Baratan, the capital city of Romulus, and the very heart of the Romulan Star Empire. Few natives, let alone outworlders, knew of even the existence of the old dug-out structures, much less how to access them. Buried by both history and the foundations of the present-day metropolis, much of the belowground, stone-lined tunnel system had been converted long ago into sewage conduits. Romulan governments-to his efforts to reunify their people with their Vulcan cousins. It also made sense given his current location, deep beneath Ki Baratan, the capital city of Romulus, and the very heart of the Romulan Star Empire. Few natives, let alone outworlders, knew of even the existence of the old dug-out structures, much less how to access them. Buried by both history and the foundations of the present-day metropolis, much of the belowground, stone-lined tunnel system had been converted long ago into sewage conduits.

A patina of perspiration coated Spock's face as he strained to push his attacker's hand away, to drive out the knife from where it had breached his body. He could do no more than keep his a.s.sailant at bay, but he felt his own vigor continuing to wane and knew that he would soon fold. A haze once more drifted across his awareness. He didn't know how much longer he could remain conscious.

On the threshold of desperation, Spock peered past his attacker and gauged their distance from the far wall, ascertaining their position within the pa.s.sage. Then with all the force he could bring to bear, he swiftly raised one hand and brought the side of it down against his a.s.sailant's wrist. The blade jumped within Spock, causing a fresh wave of pain to slice through the lower part of his torso. At the same time, his attacker cried out, his yelp echoing through the tunnel, his hold on the haft of the knife slackening. Spock quickly retreated one long stride, then another, and a third and fourth. Stopping where he judged necessary, he steeled himself and yanked the weapon from his body. More blood issued from the wound, the warm, green plasma saturating his clothing.

Spock reseated the knife in his grasp, its point outward, arming himself. His attacker faced him but made no immediate move other than to reach up and wrap his other hand around his injured wrist. For a moment, stillness settled over the tableau. Spock could hear his own tattered breathing, could feel the rapid throb of his heart.

He knew he would have to act. Though the confrontation had reached a standstill now that he held a weapon, he could not in his condition maintain that impa.s.se for long; soon enough, he would falter. For the same reason, retreat seemed as unlikely a solution.

Spock tightened his grip about the knife, preparing to engage the enemy. But then a tendril of irritation reached him, a fragment of emotion carried into his mind by an empathic projection-a strong strong empathic projection. At once, Spock realized that he had not been a.s.saulted by a Romulan. He also saw how the truth underlying that fact could aid him with the rudimentary plan he had formed. empathic projection. At once, Spock realized that he had not been a.s.saulted by a Romulan. He also saw how the truth underlying that fact could aid him with the rudimentary plan he had formed.

He lifted his arm and whipped it downward in a single, rapid motion, hurling the knife at his foe. Light glinted along the blade as the weapon pa.s.sed through slivers of illumination. Spock's attacker nimbly jumped aside, turning to watch the flight of the knife as it shot past and disappeared into shadows untouched by Spock's lost beacon. For an instant, the face of Spock's a.s.sailant became visible in a patch of reflected light: a bald skull, mottled flesh, large pointed ears curling outward from his head, raised brow and cheekbones surrounding sunken eyes, a jagged line of teeth.

The Reman did not chase after the knife, but spun back around, his features receding once more into the gloom. He reached for no other weapon that he might be carrying, but he bent his knees and tensed his body, obviously about to spring toward his prey. Spock knew that the Reman would require nothing but his hands to complete the slaying he'd begun.

With virtually no time and no other opportunity left to him, Spock willfully surrendered his mental discipline. His own fears, both intellectual and emotional, soared within him. Though Spock had long ago accepted the reality-indeed, the necessity-of the feelings his mind generated, and though he regularly allowed himself to experience what he imprecisely regarded as his "human half," he still sustained considerable control over his internal life. As he faced his own mortality directly and without restraint, though, a surfeit of powerful emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

Instead of battling his fear, Spock latched onto it. He searched for and found the anger accompanying it: anger at the violence perpetrated against him, anger that his death would forestall his attempts at reunification, anger that he would be forcibly and permanently removed from the lives of those about whom he cared. Then he deliberately dropped his mental guard, pulling down the defenses he maintained about his mind that protected him from external forces.

He immediately felt the full, robust empathic presence of the Reman. Spock allowed it to sweep over and through him, to buffet and suffuse him with impatience, frustration, and a determination to kill. Rather than battling against it, Spock added to it, layering it with his own anger. As the redoubled emotions grew into a rage, he redirected it to his attacker.

The Reman flinched, c.o.c.king his head to one side for a second. Then he launched himself forward, his body uncoiling as though released from great pressure. He came at Spock fast, lifting his hands before him as he closed the gap.

Spock remained motionless, calculating that he would have but one chance to save himself. He judged the speed at which the Reman moved, the man's long gait devouring the distance between then, and still Spock waited. He watched the long, bony fingers his a.s.sailant clearly meant to wrap around his neck.

Finally, with the tips of the Reman's curved fingernails nearly upon him, Spock moved. He threw himself backward onto the ground, simultaneously pulling his knees in toward his body. The pain emanating from his midsection swelled to almost unimaginable proportions, and his vision began to cloud at the margins. Still, he willed himself not to stop.

Unable to halt his momentum, the Reman overbalanced, but as he fell forward, his fingers found their target and encircled Spock's throat. Spock felt the touch of his a.s.sailant's cold, clammy hands on his neck, along with the weight of the Reman's body descending atop him. Their gazes met at close range, their faces mere centimeters apart.

Spock thrust his legs upward. His feet connected with the Reman's hips, causing a ma.s.sive jolt of agony to rip like lightning through the center of Spock's body. But the action continued his attacker's momentum, and the Reman hurtled over and past him.

Spock felt his a.s.sailant's hands jerk free from around his throat, then heard a meaty crunch as the Reman's head struck the near side of the tunnel. Under normal circ.u.mstances, Spock would have found the sound repugnant, but in this case, it proved satisfying, and a cause for hope. The Reman slumped to the ground, his right boot coming down hard on Spock's face. Spock felt the cartilage of his nose splinter and blood spurt from his nostrils.

He waited, not to learn whether or not he had incapacitated his attacker, but because he could do nothing else. He felt enclosed within his pain, unable to escape its un-relenting clutches. If the Reman recovered and resumed his a.s.sault, there would be no struggle.

For minutes, both combatants remained still. Gradually, Spock focused on the frayed whispers of his own breathing. As best he could in his depleted condition, he raised his mental defenses and reestablished control of his emotions. He sought to rein in his pain, but met with only limited success.

When at last he felt capable, Spock pushed himself up from the tunnel floor. Dirt clung to the blood on his hands and clothing. Beside him, the Reman did not move.

Once he'd stood up fully, Spock applied pressure to his wound. It still bled, and would until he either received medical treatment, or perished. He possessed no means of sending for a.s.sistance. Not long ago, the praetor had sent capital security forces into the tunnels beneath the city in search of the Reunification Movement. Several of Spock's comrades had been lost, tracked down via their own communicators. As a result, those in the Ki Baratan cell had agreed in the short term to cease carrying the devices.

Spock regarded the man who had attacked him. Half-covered by shadows, the Reman lay p.r.o.ne, one arm bent awkwardly beneath him. A dark pool had formed by his head. Though the movements of his chest seemed shallow, he continued to breathe.

Spock considered ending the Reman's life-via talshaya talshaya, or by taking a rock to his head, or simply by smothering him. Beyond having to answer the moral questions raised by such a choice, Spock didn't believe he currently possessed the strength to do so. Instead, he followed the lone beam of light in the tunnel to its source and retrieved his handheld beacon. Then he resumed his trek to the present location of his Reunification cell.

Spock had walked nearly half a kilometer before he collapsed, unconscious, to the ground.

2.

Benjamin Sisko raced to the tactical console and studied the readouts there. On the long-range sensor board, he quickly spied the telltale indicators of ships approaching the planetary system at high velocity. "How many?" he wanted to know.

Lieutenant Cavanagh operated her controls, obviously working to distinguish individual warp signatures. When she looked up, the grave expression on her young face presaged her answer. "Six, Captain."

Six, Sisko echoed to himself, though he said nothing aloud, making sure that he in no way betrayed his concerns. He knew that the crew of New York New York, who had suffered through such difficult circ.u.mstances recently, would look to him not only to provide their orders but to set a tone. They barely knew Sisko-he had replaced their fallen captain just three weeks ago-but especially during the current crisis, they would have to rely on his leadership.

"Time to engagement?" he asked, his mind speeding through the possible strategies and tactics that his small defense detail could employ. Six ships Six ships, he thought again, sensing around him the rising anxiety of the crew. No number of Borg vessels would have brought calm to the bridge of New York New York, but for Starfleet forces to be outgunned two to one would severely compromise their chances not only to succeed in defending Alonis but even to survive the coming battle.

"Depending on how close they get before pulling out of warp," Cavanagh said, consulting her panel again, "estimating between seven and twelve minutes."

Sisko nodded, certain that if the Borg could make it to Alonis within seven minutes, they would. "Take us to battle stations," Sisko ordered. "Red alert." As acknowledgment, Cavanagh's fingers marched across her console, initiating the call to general quarters. The shipwide klaxon blared at regular intervals, in concert with the flashing of the red lights ringing the circ.u.mference of the bridge. The overheads dimmed and shifted, bathing the command center in a dull crimson hue.

To Cavanagh, Sisko said, "What's their formation?"

This time, the lieutenant didn't need to check the tactical displays. "Two cubes in front, two in the middle, two in the rear."

Sisko nodded again, calculating that the Borg would not attack in such a configuration. "Maintain sensor contact, Lieutenant," he said. "I want to know when they break formation and how. I also want to know the instant they drop to impulse speed."

"Aye, sir."

Sisko strode to the center of the Nebula Nebula-cla.s.s starship's compact bridge, to where the command chair perched at the front of the raised, upper section. Before him, past the crew seated at the conn and ops stations, a great purple-and-white arc filled the bottom of the screen, the world of Alonis, crowned by a panoply of stars. Off to port, sunlight gleamed off one of the two starships that had accompanied New York New York on its mission. on its mission.

Reaching down to the right arm of the command chair, Sisko tapped a control surface, silencing the klaxon. "Sisko to engineering," he said, voice slightly raised. Not for the first time, he couldn't call to mind the name of the ship's chief engineer. He had no trouble recalling his appearance, though: a roughly cylindrical body nearly two meters tall, tapering slightly in the middle almost like an hourgla.s.s, colored a rich green, with a row of fingerlike tentacles a third of the way up, and a second row of longer, wider tentacles a third of the way down. Prior to Sisko's a.s.signment to New York New York, he hadn't known that any Otevrel had joined Starfleet.

"Engineering," responded a tinny, mechanical voice, clearly the result of filtering through a portable translator. responded a tinny, mechanical voice, clearly the result of filtering through a portable translator. "Relkdahz here. Go ahead, Captain." "Relkdahz here. Go ahead, Captain."

"Commander Relkdahz," Sisko said, intentionally addressing the chief by name in an attempt to impress it upon his memory. "How many photon torpedoes have you upgraded?" In the hours since the Borg had launched their invasion and had begun to overrun Federation s.p.a.ce, Starfleet's commander in chief had disseminated plans for the modification of weapons and defensive systems. Though perhaps a case of too little, too late, the changes-at least in initial, limited use-had proven effective for other ships as they fought the relentless enemy.

"Five, sir," Relkdahz said. Relkdahz said.

"Just five?" The words escaped Sisko's lips before he could suppress them. He at once regretted the question, which would hardly rouse confidence in the bridge crew.

"The transphasic modifications are complex, Captain, and we're understaffed down here," Relkdahz explained. Relkdahz explained.

Understaffed and and inexperienced inexperienced, Sisko thought. The terrible incident that had claimed the life of New York New York's captain six weeks ago had also killed seven others and seriously injured nearly half the engineering staff. Their replacements had been both fewer in number and culled primarily from the ranks of Starfleet personnel only recently graduated from the Academy. "Understood," Sisko said. "Good work," he added, trying to mitigate the disappointment he'd voiced.

"We did did complete the upgrades to the shields," complete the upgrades to the shields," Relkdahz said. Relkdahz said.

Sisko felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. "Excellent," he said, genuinely pleased. Anything that enhanced the New York New York crew's ability to sustain combat against the Borg could make a difference. "Sisko out." He descended the two steps to the front half of the bridge, where he stood between the personnel at conn and ops. "Commander Plante," he told the operations officer, "raise the crew's ability to sustain combat against the Borg could make a difference. "Sisko out." He descended the two steps to the front half of the bridge, where he stood between the personnel at conn and ops. "Commander Plante," he told the operations officer, "raise the Kirk Kirk and the and the Cutla.s.s. Cutla.s.s." Intership communications normally would have fallen under the purview of tactical, but Sisko wanted Cavanagh's attention fully on the Borg.

"Yes, sir." Sisko watched as Plante called up a comm interface onto her panel, then worked it to complete his order. He peered up at the main viewer and waited. There, the world of Alonis hung in s.p.a.ce, a beclouded indigo jewel in the night. Beneath its violet waters, Sisko knew, teemed a civilization of billions. The Alonis had joined the Federation four and a half decades ago.

And I've been sent here to save them, he thought. As though helping for years to protect and preserve Bajor and its people hasn't been enough for one career, one lifetime As though helping for years to protect and preserve Bajor and its people hasn't been enough for one career, one lifetime.

Sisko recoiled from the bitterness he suddenly felt, uncertain to whom it had even been directed. After a moment, a split-screen view of the commanding officers of U.S.S. James T. U.S.S. James T. Kirk Kirk and and U.S.S. Cutla.s.s U.S.S. Cutla.s.s appeared on the screen, the image of the planet vanishing. Sisko could only hope that when the Borg finally arrived, the actual world of Alonis didn't disappear as readily. appeared on the screen, the image of the planet vanishing. Sisko could only hope that when the Borg finally arrived, the actual world of Alonis didn't disappear as readily.

Captain Elias Vaughn sat in the command chair aboard U.S.S. James T. U.S.S. James T. Kirk Kirk and acknowledged his orders from Captain Sisko, the officer in charge of the defense force. Vaughn had ordered the klaxon off and the lighting returned to normal, but red alert panels continued to pulse on and off around the bridge. On the main viewer, Sisko stared back at him from the left half of the screen, Captain Rokas from the right. and acknowledged his orders from Captain Sisko, the officer in charge of the defense force. Vaughn had ordered the klaxon off and the lighting returned to normal, but red alert panels continued to pulse on and off around the bridge. On the main viewer, Sisko stared back at him from the left half of the screen, Captain Rokas from the right.

Vaughn detected a distinct difference in the aspects of the two starship commanders. While both projected a seriousness of purpose, Rokas exuded a quiet self-a.s.surance that, if not entirely justified in light of the imminent Borg attack, at least seemed a healthy conceit. The slight flush of her blue skin, the almost imperceptible tension in the bifurcated ridge that ran down the center of her face, bespoke an adrenal rush as she antic.i.p.ated leading the Cutla.s.s Cutla.s.s crew into battle. crew into battle.

"Yes, sir," Rokas said, also acknowledging her orders. Rokas said, also acknowledging her orders. "We'll stop them," "We'll stop them," she added, underscoring her obvious confidence that the trio of Starfleet crews would find a way for their vessels to protect Alonis and its people. Ben Sisko, on the other hand, appeared- she added, underscoring her obvious confidence that the trio of Starfleet crews would find a way for their vessels to protect Alonis and its people. Ben Sisko, on the other hand, appeared- Lost, Vaughn thought, unable to come up with another way to describe the faraway expression deep in his friend's eyes. He doubted anybody else could see past Sisko's commanding presence and sober manner, but Vaughn could, and what he saw troubled him. He hadn't spoken to Sisko on a consistent basis over the past two years, since transferring out of the Bajoran system, from Deep s.p.a.ce 9 to Kirk. Kirk. They'd occasionally exchanged subs.p.a.ce messages in that time, and they'd seen each other once, about a year ago, during that bad business on Bajor's first moon. Back then, Vaughn had noted an undercurrent of anxiety in his friend, but he'd ascribed that at the time to the necessity for Sisko to function during the incident as the Emissary of the Prophets. They'd occasionally exchanged subs.p.a.ce messages in that time, and they'd seen each other once, about a year ago, during that bad business on Bajor's first moon. Back then, Vaughn had noted an undercurrent of anxiety in his friend, but he'd ascribed that at the time to the necessity for Sisko to function during the incident as the Emissary of the Prophets.

On the main viewer, Sisko said, "Stick to the plan as best you can, for as long as you can. We'll only get one chance at this." "Stick to the plan as best you can, for as long as you can. We'll only get one chance at this."

Vaughn knew that almost a decade and a half ago, at the Battle of Wolf 359, Sisko's first wife-not to mention his captain and many of his shipmates aboard Saratoga Saratoga-had perished at the hands of the Borg. Vaughn understood that pain all too well, having lost Ruriko, the mother of his daughter, to the Collective. Given the present situation, it seemed reasonable that those terrible memories, that anguish, could explain the distance he perceived in Sisko, but he didn't think so. Nor did he believe that his friend simply missed and worried about his family. Vaughn might not have known Sisko for that long or spent that much time with him, but they'd shared some intensely personal experiences. Consequently, they'd grown close, coming to know each other quite well. Something else troubled Sisko-something more, even, than the looming Borg onslaught.

And if we survive this, Vaughn thought wryly, I'll be sure to ask Ben about it. I'll be sure to ask Ben about it.

"Good luck," Sisko concluded before signing off. The main screen reverted to a view of Alonis, with Sisko concluded before signing off. The main screen reverted to a view of Alonis, with New York New York and and Cutla.s.s Cutla.s.s suspended silently in s.p.a.ce above it. Vaughn also discerned one of the half-dozen defense platforms...o...b..ting Alonis. All around the Federation, such planetary protections had failed utterly to repel the Borg, quickly reduced to slag by the advancing cubes. suspended silently in s.p.a.ce above it. Vaughn also discerned one of the half-dozen defense platforms...o...b..ting Alonis. All around the Federation, such planetary protections had failed utterly to repel the Borg, quickly reduced to slag by the advancing cubes.

In the distance, sunlight glimmered off other metal surfaces that Vaughn couldn't differentiate but that he knew belonged to a flotilla of Alonis civilian craft, hanging back as a last line of defense should the Starfleet crews fail in their mission. Those small ships, with minimal defenses and little or no armaments, would be wholly unable to slow the Borg even for a moment. Still, Vaughn understood the need for those Alonis crews to make their stands. In the right circ.u.mstances, everybody tilted at windmills.

Beside Vaughn, Commander Rogeiro stood from the first officer's chair. "Adjust screen," he said. "Let's see the Borg approach." His words came cradled in his light but distinctive Portuguese accent.

At the tactical station situated on the rear, elevated arc of the bridge, Lieutenant Magrone tapped at his controls. On the viewer, an empty starfield replaced the planet, platform, and ships. "Two minutes, ten seconds from their probable arrival," Magrone noted. "Transphasic torpedoes prepped and loaded for launch. Shields up, transphasic shields at the ready." While the New York New York crew had cobbled together five upgraded torpedoes, and the smaller complement of crew had cobbled together five upgraded torpedoes, and the smaller complement of Cutla.s.s Cutla.s.s had managed just four, the had managed just four, the Kirk Kirk engineering team had churned out an even ten. engineering team had churned out an even ten.

Vaughn knew that many captains claimed their crews were the best in the fleet, and he a.s.sumed that a majority of those probably even believed it. Vaughn never made such statements about the personnel aboard James T. James T. Kirk Kirk, but then he didn't have to: the Akira Akira-cla.s.s vessel carried with it a reputation worthy of the heroic and wildly successful twenty-third-century starship captain whose name it bore. For years, even before Vaughn had taken command, the crew had recorded one achievement after another, from exploratory missions, to diplomatic a.s.signments, to military engagements. With Kirk Kirk as part of the task force, Starfleet might just save the Alonis. as part of the task force, Starfleet might just save the Alonis.

Vaughn glanced to his left, to where Counselor Glev sat. The gaze of the Tellarite's deep-set eyes met his own. "The crew are ready, Captain," he said, without Vaughn having to inquire.

During the two years of Vaughn's command of Kirk Kirk, the crew had continually adjusted to him, and he to them, so much so that they often foresaw his orders before he issued them, surmised his questions before he asked them. Indeed, he'd even recently taken to facetiously accusing his executive officer of possessing hidden telepathic talents. In a Starfleet career that had spanned more than eight decades and comprised hundreds of a.s.signments, Vaughn's time aboard Kirk Kirk had ended up the most satisfying of all. had ended up the most satisfying of all.

"Short-range sensors now picking up the Borg," Magrone announced. "They're decelerating. Estimating fifty seconds to contact."

"Formation?" Vaughn asked.

"Unchanged," Magrone said. "They are-wait. They're altering course . . . stretching out into a single line . . . the cubes are spreading farther and farther apart."

Of course, thought Vaughn. That way, the three Starfleet ships wouldn't be able to attack the cubes en ma.s.se. Where the Borg had once sought to a.s.similate Federation vessels and crews-to a.s.similate the whole of the UFP, really-they now apparently intended only to destroy it. The Collective had always maintained the futility of resistance to it; in its contacts with the Federation, it evidently had reached a threshold beyond which it had replaced its imperative of a.s.similation with that of extermination. The cubes arriving at Alonis would doubtless confront Kirk, New York Kirk, New York, and Cutla.s.s Cutla.s.s as necessary, but they had come bent on the destruction of the civilization on the planet. as necessary, but they had come bent on the destruction of the civilization on the planet.

"Attack plan delta," Vaughn ordered. When the Borg ships had initially appeared on long-range sensors, exposing their numbers, the captains of the three Starfleet vessels had coordinated their tactics, formulating several plans, the choice of which to use dependent upon how the cubes deployed.

"Plan delta, aye, sir," replied Lieutenant Commander T'Larik from the conn, even as she worked her controls to bring the ship about. Kirk Kirk sprang to life as the thrum of the impulse drive spread through the deck. sprang to life as the thrum of the impulse drive spread through the deck.

Vaughn stood up beside Rogeiro. "The timing's got to be perfect," he told his exec. "The transphasic torpedoes may only work the first time."

The commander nodded, then turned and strode up the starboard ramp toward the tactical station. "Are you tracking each cube's course and velocity?" he asked. "How far apart will they be when we meet them?"