Sussex

[Cptn Corizon 0]

On the bridge of the Nebula-class USS Sussex, anxiety filled the air. It was so thick; the commander of the Sussex could have sliced it with his claws. Before him approached the fiercest enemy the Federation had ever encountered. After six years, the Borg had returned.

 

A thousand thoughts filled Commander Ah-Windu Corizon’s head. A silent prayer streamed through his lips. Bracing himself, emotionally and physically, he glanced at the viewscreen, then to the tactical officer.

 

Corizon had command of the Sussex thrust upon him. In the rush to mass a fleet to counter the Borg threat, Vice-Admiral Hayes had grabbed every officer he could find in a two-sector area and tossed them on any ship space worthy.

 

The Sussex had been no exception. When Corizon was introduced to her for the first time, she was setting aloft in Spacedock, minus a crew. She was in the queue for a major overhaul of her sensor network that was expected to take five to six months, and most of her crew had been reassigned to other vessels.

 

He’d been given a ragtag skeleton crew of mostly fourth year cadets and handful of seasoned security officers to man the Sussex with, and hopefully to survive the battle.

 

When he first stepped onto the vessel, he found corridors strewn with ODN Conduit, deck plates missing, and only about thirty photon torpedoes—none of which he found acceptable. They had less than seventeen hours to get the Sussex out of Spacedock and into position in the Typhon-sector. How exactly he was supposed to that eluded him at first.

 

Several communications to officers at Utopia Planetia, McKinley Station, Spacedock, Starfleet Command…and anyone else who owed him favors later and few well placed growls, and he had a full compliment of torpedoes loaded aboard. Though the messy corridors were something he’d have to accept, he supposed.

 

Six hours after Corizon took command of the Sussex, the squat, compact explorer exited Spacedock, headed for a mission far from exploration…though Corizon noted discovery was on the horizon. The makeshift crew was about to find out exactly what they were made off.

 

We are the Borg. Lower your shields and surrender your ships. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Your culture will adapt to service us. Resistance is futile.

 

The eerie monotone voice that had come to haunt billions of people across billions of worlds echoed across the bridge of the Sussex. His claws reflexively grasped at the arms of his command chair. A low, dark growl seethed between his clinched jaw, “Over my dead body.”

 

The young helmsman before him smiled. “Awaiting you orders, sir.”

 

Corizon nodded. The Sussex had been positioned in the middle of the fleet. The object was simple, destroy the Borg cube at all costs; nothing else mattered but destroying the cube. All other concerns were secondary. The crew needed no reminder of that.

 

The Tactical officer looked over at Corizon. “Sir,” his voice tinged with angst. “Admiral Hayes has ordered all vessels to engage the Borg.”

 

Corizon nodded. “All Hands,” Corizon’s own voice firm and unyielding. “We ride!”

 

The opening moments of the battle zoomed by, but quickly the undermanned Federation fleet found itself scrambling falling back towards Earth. The Sussex managed to escape heavy damage in the initial encounter, with Corizon skillfully having the squat vessel make quick strafing runs at high speeds. The downside being that the Sussex could not unleash large volleys of torpedoes at any one time.

 

Once the Borg Cube entered the system, and finally slowed, and the battle heated. The Federation forces became more desperate. Later Corizon would admit it was the only time in his life, which he found himself running out of tactical maneuvers.

 

“Bring us about!” Corizon shouted loudly, his bridge filled with smoke. “Helm, full speed ahead. Pattern….Delta Nine-Four Titan!”

 

“Tactical,” barking, “Bring weapons to bear on my mark. Give’em everything we got.”

 

“Sir,” the tactical officer, the third officer to fill that station since the beginning of the battle, by Corizon’s reckoning, cried. “Phasers are offline, Torpedo tubes 3-5 offline…”

 

Corizon growled loudly, but found himself flat against the floor as a Borg torpedo slammed against the saucer section. As he pushed himself off the deck, another voice…number four…called out. “Sir, there’s another ship incoming!”

 

“On screen…”

 

Before him was the most beautiful starship he’d ever laid eyes upon. The Sovereign-class USS Enterprise was pounding the Borg Cube. “I’ll be damned…”

 

The rest of the officers watched on with pride as the Enterprise began turning the tide of the battle. “Incoming transmission,” an officer called. “It’s Captain Picard…”

 

Corizon had met the man only once, but roundly acknowledged him to be not only one of the finest Captain’s he’d ever met, but also one of the best tacticians. “Go ahead…”

 

“He’s assuming Command of the Fleet, Admiral Hayes’ ship has been disabled.”

 

Corizon nodded, finally returning to his charred command seat. “Status report.”

 

“Shields are offline, impulse engines down to 25%, phasers are offline, torpedo tubes 3-5 and 7 are offline.”

 

Again nodding, Corizon looked over to the tactical officer, then to the helm officer. “Bring us around.”

 

“Captain Picard is ordering all vessels to target coordinates on the Cube…”

 

“Bring us about; put us on the flank of the Enterprise.”