Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Rough Beasts of Empire - By David R. George III Page 0,3

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 assault, 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 assistance. 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 prone, 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, 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, who had suffered through such difficult circumstances 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, 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, 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 circumference 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-class 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