By Nathan Warner
Captain William Alverson must race to stop an old enemy from destroying a primitive society
Captain William Alverson leaned forward in his chair, trying to catch a breath as Lt. Charles Riley expertly, and a little recklessly, piloted the U.S.S. Retribution at Mach 10 just over the forest canopy of Draconis 6. Ever since earning command of the Defiant class starship, Alverson occasionally found himself thanking God for shields and deflector technology, which he was just realizing now was only when Lt. Riley was at the helm. Just then, Alverson instinctively tightened his grip on the armrests—they were getting a little too low, or the forest canopy was getting too high—but before he could say anything, the viewscreen momentarily went blank as the ship plowed through and obliterated the upper canopy of a stand of Cassokian Oak, about 3 times higher than earth oak trees.
“Riley!” he moaned.
“Sorry, Captain, but I think I’ve got the helm adjusted,” Riley said, turning to look over his shoulder.
Alverson nearly leapt from his seat, “Just pay attention to the helm, Lt!” he yelled. But it was too late as they plowed through another tree canopy.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Riley apologized. “I’ve got it under control now – the lateral thrusters were giving me some feedback.” Alverson tried to remain calm.
“Just remember that my mood is proportional to how much paperwork I have to fill out,” he said. “And you are forcing me to have to write a book each time you cause us to violate the Prime Directive!” Riley was just thankful his Captain couldn’t see him roll his eyes as he adjusted the helm again and barely managed obliterating a rock outcropping. Once again, Alverson thanked God for deflectors, which even now were extending an invisible energy field in front of the ship, shaping an aerodynamic bubble around them and blowing everything except solid earth out of their way.
Alverson tried not to think about the hundreds of indigenous tribes that were known to dwell in the forests below. It was all he could hope that the passing of the Retribution over their pre-industrial heads would be lost in the thunder and gales of the hurricane-level storm cell that was blanketing this continent. He prayed their little expedition added nothing to the local mythologies, but then by the time this would be discovered by xenopologists, he’d be long dead! He breathed a sigh of relief at the thought. It was also a comfort that they had cloaking technology. Yes, the Retribution was cloaked, and for good reason.
About 12 hours earlier, the Starfleet research vessel U.S.S. Laplace, a refitted Oberth class, had pulled into orbit to do a routine Xenopology check-up on the status of the 100 or so “Prebyte” tribal cultures when they detected some unusual energy readings from the northern hemisphere. As soon as they pulled into lower orbit to conduct more detailed scans the readings confirmed the presence below of Borg technology. Before they could speculate further, an energy buildup began at the site and deadly energy blasts burned up through the atmosphere, cutting the Laplace in two. The Science officer, Commander Everett, narrowly escaped the destruction in a shuttle and relayed a distress call with the last sensor readings of the Laplace. Starbase 91 was first to receive the transmissions, and they immediately dispatched their defense contingent—the U.S.S. Retribution and Riposte—to investigate the Borg threat. Even at maximum warp, it would take 12 hours to reach the planet, but Captain Alverson and Captain Amelia Banders of the Riposte intended to use that time wisely.
While Banders prepared her crew for a ground-attack, Alverson massaged every atom of data from the Laplace’s sensor readings with the aid of his overqualified Weapon’s Officer, Adrian Finch, and his Science Officer, Leslie Alberts.
“By the energy readings and structural footprint, it looks like there’s a Borg probe or scout vessel on the surface,” Alberts reported, pushing her blond hair out of her eyes to see the readout better. “But that doesn’t really explain what they’re doing there.” Captain Alverson stroked his stubbly chin.
“Perhaps they crashed?” he suggested. Finch nodded.
“That might make the most sense,” he reflected, “because from my experience, these energy readings are a little lower than normal for this type of vessel, however, with their regenerative abilities, I’d say they’ll be close to full functionality soon.”
“How many Borg are we talking about?” Alverson asked.
“The typical Borg scout ship has a crew compliment of about 100 drones,” Alberts frowned, “but the data suggests only a handful are functioning.” She dabbed her finger onto the screen. “See,” she said to the Captain, “you'll notice here around the crash-site these faint emerald/pink color distributions, which represent a mixed bio-mechanical signal registering—and there are only five visible at most.” Alverson nodded.
“And that’s probably why they haven’t moved to assimilate the planet yet,” he reflected.
“Yep, I’d say, we’re in the nick of time,” Finch sighed, handing the Captain a PADD with his tactical analysis. “I suggest we come into orbit cloaked and use only passive sensors,” he said. “Once we locate them, we should employ an asymmetrical approach.”
“What do you mean?” Alverson asked.
“Well,” Finch shrugged, “I think entering the atmosphere cloaked and approaching the target from over the horizon would take them completely by surprise.”
“I like it,” Alverson nodded. What he’d forgotten was that Riley was the only one competent enough to fly the vessel on the trajectory Finch had selected. Once this realization hit him, he unsuccessfully tried to calm his nerves with some Betazed chamomile tea.
About 8 hours into their mission, they received a distress call from a mining colony in the Bendragon Asteroid Cascade. They had stumbled upon a Borg scout ship landed on a 5km wide asteroid. That was enough for Captain Banders.
“We’re going to have to fall back and check this out,” she said over the viewscreen to Alverson. “We can’t have random Borg incursions into Federation territories.”
“Understood,” Alverson nodded. “We’ll swap stories back at Starbase 91...Good hunting to you.”
“They won’t know what hit them,” Amelia smiled. With a twinge of regret, Alverson watched the U.S.S. Riposte break formation and warp away to Starboard.
And so, 4 hrs later, the Retribution finally pulled into orbit of Draconis 6 under cloak. Alverson’s first sight of the planet was grim as his gaze rested on the wreckage of the Laplace, slowly forming an artificial ring around the planet.
“Life-signs?” Alverson asked hesitantly.
“None,” Alberts replied weakly. Alverson set his jaw to the news.
“Very well,” he said, turning to face his officers, “let’s teach the Borg the meaning of ‘retribution’ shall we.” Albert’s console lit up.
“Captain, I’m detecting unusual energy readings at 41Lat/12Lon.”
“On screen,” Alverson commanded. The viewscreen blipped to reveal a massive storm cell covering the northern hemisphere.
“Entering the target coordinates,” Alberts reported as she finished tapping commands into the console. Suddenly a reticule appeared, hovering over a thick limb of the hurricane. “Switching to passive radiation—full spectrum,” Alberts commented. The screen flashed and now, the clouds vanished to reveal a high definition map of the planet.
“Magnify,” Alverson said. Instantly, the target enlarged to a resolution of a 20th century acre. At first, the Captain struggled to resolve what he was seeing. Finally, it jumped out at him—the radiation determined, coffin-shaped architecture of the Borg probe. The resolution limitations made it appear a bit like a rock outcropping. “False color processing?” He suggested. Alberts was already working on it, and before he was done speaking, the image morphed into discernable tones. Now, Alverson could see the ship clearly nestled into the forest canopy. He could even detect movement—probably repair drones.
“Got ya!” Finch muttered, fingers fluttering over his weapon controls. He turned to the Captain. “We are locked and loaded, “ he reported, “coordinates are entered into targeting computer.” With a deep breath and a sigh, Alverson turned to his Helmsman.
“Lt. Riley, take us down on Finch’s flight-plan,” he said.
The Defiant class starship pulsed down into the atmosphere a good 1,000 miles west of the target. Punching through the storm proved little challenge for the 24th century space vessel, and they leveled out on “the deck” just above the tree canopy. Alverson remembered reading at the Academy about 20th century pilots “hedge-hopping” on very low altitude flights. He couldn’t imagine it without deflectors—and shields!
“ETA?” he asked, a little unnerved by the visual of forests, mountains, and valleys blowing by like stars at warp.
“Two minutes,” Riley replied, almost too quickly. After more than a few near death experiences, they quickly approached the target zone. “Going to thrusters in 3, 2, 1…now!” Riley reported. The ship shuddered to a stop, hovering over the canopy in a shroud of invisibility. While they couldn’t be seen, they could certainly be heard! The roar of the thrusters outside must have been thunderous.
Leaning forward, Alverson strained to see the target ahead through the viewscreen, but all he could see was the targeting overlay—that would have to do.
“Decloak!” he commanded. “And fire!” As the cloak dropped, Finch lit the target zone with high-energy, pulsed phaser blasts, not wanting to risk widespread ecological disaster with photon or quantum torpedoes. The first hits scored hard, but the enemy vessel rallied and green energy beams tore wildly through the air.
“Must have hit their targeting sensors,” Finch remarked smugly. Riley was busy banking the Retribution to port, avoiding the nearer bursts of enemy energy as Finch continued to lay down fire. Captain Avlerson winced at the light show they were putting on for the natives, and he just hoped the memory of the Borg was fresh enough for the Brass at Starfleet Command to understand the imperative to violation the Prime Directive. He could feel the rumbling of the phaser canons through his seat as the Retribution continued banking a perimeter around the Borg vessel, salting it with directed energy blasts. Finally, a large explosion tore the forest canopy apart as they hit the scout ship’s main reactor. Trees the size of 20th century water towers rained down into the forest below, crushing the undergrowth – narrowly missing the starship thanks to Riley’s quick command of the thrusters.
“Re-cloak!” Alverson barked. “And get us out of here!” The ship vanished from any eyes that might be watching as it roared up into the storm cover, headed for orbit. “Any Borg life-signs?” Alverson turned to ask Alberts.
She shook her head, and smiled, “No, Sir – I think we got them!” Alverson breathed a long sigh of relief and ran his hand through his balding hair.
“Well,” he said, “we’ll keep watch in orbit, guarding our fallen comrades until reinforcements arrive. In the meantime,” He stood up and reluctantly reached for his PADD, “I’m required to get started on that blasted report to Starfleet Command!” Riley smirked getting up from the helm,
“As for me, I am getting a Raktajino to calm my nerves,” he said.
“Calm your nerves?” Finch asked in disbelief.
“You heard me,” Riley smiled, “compared to that flight-plan of yours, a couple cups of Klingon coffee is going to knock me out.”
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