Perfection, 16 of 28
"PERFECTION"
by Jim Smith
Fine print: I don't own Star Trek and I'm not claiming to. I just own the story. Ask me before you do anything with it.
Chapter Sixteen.
Commodore's log, stardate 63583.8.
The 5th, 17th, and 21st fleets have taken up their positions. In total, 694 vessels have left the front line to be assigned under my command, including 204 Federation starships, 112 Romulan warbirds, and 378 Klingon cruisers.
Pursuant to Starfleet traditions regarding the scale of this assembly, I hereby assume the role of commodore, in addition to my normal duties as captain of the Excelsior. In practice, however, Starfleet officers tend to prefer titles which follow familiar use, rather than obscure protocol. I must therefore assert that all personnel under my command are excused for any potential failure to address me by the proper rank for the duration of this mission.
I will be leading the armada into Borg Spatial Grid 6123 to commence Operation: Nimrod. The name "Nimrod" in this context is an allusion to a mythological explanation for the fragmenting of human civilization. It is intended to refer to objective of our mission, which is to destroy the metanexus that regulates Borg cyberneural traffic in this region. However, the association between the story and the character of Nimrod is not supported by the earliest known texts. I have supplied Fleet Admiral Janeway with the relevant materials supporting this conclusion.
The captain emerged from his ready room and went straight to the communications officer. "Ensign, have we received any word from either Allied Command or Admiral Janeway?"
The ensign had only served aboard the Excelsior for six weeks, and hadn't even met the captain before this moment. His skin turned nearly as pale as his commanding officer. "N-no, sir. Radio blackout remains in effect."
The captain clenched his fist, his frustration evident but perfectly modulated. His head jerked to tactical. "Status of Borg forces at Metanexus 211."
Colonel Rik'tarrin, one of the Klingons' best field officers, stood watch at that post. "No change," she grumbled.
"Captain..." Sub-commander Velor, serving as first officer and Romulan liaison, stepped forward to offer his counsel. "All of our timetables indicated that Janeway's diversion would be underway by now. If something has gone wrong..."
"I am aware of the tactical situation, Sub-commander," the captain replied, before explaining it anyway. "Unless a significant portion of Borg forces withdraw from this sector, our forces will be insufficient to capture the metanexus."
"Well, we can't stay here!" Rik'tarrin argued. "Even under cloak, a fleet of this size will eventually be detected."
"We can always fall back," Velor advised. He could feel the Klingon's contempt for that suggestion from across the bridge. "As a delaying measure, nothing more. If we retreat just twenty light years, we'll be far better hidden."
The captain scrutinized a large tactical map as he considered it. "That would be inadvisable. If the Borg are diverted while we are out of position, we may lose the element of surprise. The Collective could potentially summon additional reinforcements from deeper within their space. It appears that we can neither remain here nor fall back."
"Then we must attack now!" Rik'tarrin shouted.
"That...is what I implied," the captain said, blinking. "Is it not?"
"Captain, I must strongly caution against that." Velor handed him a tablet describing projections of casualties. "If we go in expecting a Borg withdrawal that never comes, we could lose up to 86% of our forces."
He reviewed the information while inspecting the bridge. "I would revise this to 87.194%, based on our existing plan of attack."
Velor knew him too well to be stifled by his pedantry. "Are you saying there is any other plan that will do better?"
"No," he answered flatly, while nodding to each of the officers at their stations. "But I am working on it." He stopped at the communication officer who had earlier cowered in his presence.
"Sir?" the young man shivered.
"What's your name..." the captain asked, and then awkwardly added, "...son?"
"Um...Thompson, sir."
He knelt down to look the boy in the eye. "Are you worried, Ensign Thompson?"
"Well...no, sir."
"The capillaries in your skin suggest that you are. In any event, there is no need for...particular apprehension about this mission. It has been my observation that such emotions are a distraction that are best ignored during battle. To that end, you may be relieved to know that, during my service with Starfleet, I have survived 179 out of 180 separate combat operations, including engagements against the Cardassians, Tzenkethi, Romulans, Ferengi, Klingons, Remans, Talarians, Borg, Jem'Hadar, S'ona, and Breen."
Thompson looked more overwhelmed than reassured, but he didn't want to let his captain down. "Uh...sure. I'll keep that in mind, sir."
The captain seemed content with that answer, and gave Thompson an odd pat on the cheek. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. We need you, Thompson." Standing to his full height, he returned to ship's business. "Open a channel to the fleet."
"Aye, sir," Thompson replied, and was so quick to obey the order that he almost forgot one minor detail. "Excuse me, sir...if you lived through 179 out of 180...what happened at the one?"
The captain strolled to his chair in the center of the bridge, and gave his shirt a practiced tug as he sat down. "I was destroyed while sabotaging a thalaron generator to prevent the loss of my ship," he explained matter-of-factly. He considered the significance of that event, and added with a smile, "But I wouldn't concern myself with that, Ensign. The chances of that happening again are...remote."
Thompson was slack-jawed at this, until a beeping reminded him that his transmission was ready. "Uh...wait...channel open."
"To all ships in the fleet," the captain announced. "This is Commodore Data of the Excelsior. Ready engines and prepare to depart. We will engage the Borg in exactly seventeen minutes, six seconds. Let's kick some ass."