by Diane Carey
Kirk placated him with a nod. "And Starfleet to send reinforcements."
He didn't estimate how much time that might take.
"What if they get past the ship?" the third ensign asked. "They could lay waste to half the planet from up there."
Kirk landed a fierce glance on him. "They won't."
Fulciero blinked into the sun. "Why not?"
"Because they won't. We don't have time for lessons, gentlemen. You have your orders. Disperse."
Being on the move with a message to deliver would be good for them. Better than sitting here, anticipating disaster and asking questions that would take time to answer.
Tense, he and Spock and McCoy watched the ensigns fan out, trying to reach companies of Starfleet forces before anybody else used a phaser. His skin crawled in expectation of the thready whine that could come any second, from any quarter. Twice he thought he heard it, and glanced at the sky, waiting for the bright pounding response, but he was wrong both times. His unit commanders were better than he remembered. He had become too custodial. Forgotten that they could see the sky too, knew a plasma burst when they saw it, and were good at their jobs. They weren't using phasers. In several places he saw his crew bolstering their hand weapons and taking up the crude weapons of the planet—rocks, sticks, Capellan swords and klegats.
For a moment he wanted to tell his men not to try using the klegats. The bladed disks were used efficiently by the strong Capellans, but they took training. They were deliberately not very sharp. Injury came from raw force and bone breakage. It was a crushing weapon as much as a slicing one.
"Captain," Spock snapped, "here they come."
He pointed to the upper ground, now swelling with living enemy soldiers who were met by advanced Starfleet guards, swinging and hacking.
"Typical," McCoy threw in. "They know they've knocked out our phasers, so they're advancing." Frustration showed in his eyes as the doctor gripped the ledge and watched their own men fall wounded, and clearly he wished he could sneak out and begin treating them. "Why aren't they using their disruptors?"
"Terrain," Kirk said. "Too many obstructions."
"I believe there is more." Spock pressed a hand to the rock and straightened to look over. "Klingons prefer hand-to-hand fighting. They consider it more honorable to kill at close quarters than with a long-range weapon. If they can arrange for that, they will do so."
"So we'll give it to them," Kirk said. "We can—"
At his hip, his communicator suddenly whistled.
He snatched at it, missed, and had to grab again. "Kirk to Enterprise—status report!"
"Scott here, sir. We punched through the communications blanket."
"What's going on up there?"
"Battle, sir. Three cruisers. We're holding our own now. But we've got a new development. More Klingons coming in, and I don't know what to make of it."
Kirk glanced at Spock. "More Klingons. Lovely. Why don't you know what to make of it, Scotty? What're they doing?"
"Unidentified bird coming in at warp six, with wings up, weapons systems off broadcasting interstellar distress call."
"A distress call while at warp six?" Kirk let the communicator drop a little and looked at Spock again. "Not ship distress, then."
"Unless they are under hot pursuit," Spock suggested.
"Not likely." Kirk brought the communicator up again. "Let the situation play out, Scotty. Don't fire on them until you figure out their intent. If you don't like it when you find it out, blow them out of the sky."
"Aye, sir."
"And there's a satellite or some kind of hovering mechanism over our locality that's keyed to our hand phasers. Can you knock it out?"
"We've picked up on it and we're targeting it. If we overshoot, we could hit you there on the surface."
"Understood. Hurry up."
"Aye, sir. Scotty out."
"It's good to hear his voice." Kirk pressed the back of his hand to his bleeding mouth. "Gentlemen, I think I've finally reached my limit."
They both looked at him, and Spock asked, "Sir?"
"I'm sick of Klingons."
He pushed away from the rocks.
"On your toes. This is it." He stood up and started out into the open.
"Jim!" McCoy snatched him by the arm. "They'll see you!"
"I want them to see me. Come on, Spock."
Enemy forces were plowing over the ridge, nearly two hundred of them at a quick sweeping estimate. Their silver tunics and black sleeves were crisp in the unforgiving sunlight, their howl of charge more chilling than the whine of their disruptors. Screams of injured and dying men looped up like sirens. The survivors on both sides scrambled for new cover.
But none for retreat. It was good to see.
He knew better than to micromanage. His men knew he was here. They'd fight in pairs or triplets or any kind of unit they could form. Enthusiasm carried them up the incline to meet the enemy, and it dimmed their sight of the Klingons' fury until they could match it with their own.
He plunged out into the open and scooped up a raw wooden club and a stumpy sword from the body of a fallen Capellan.
"Spock!" When his first officer turned, Kirk tossed him the sword.
"The doctor is right," Spock said by way of warning. "They will target a commanding officer if they can pick you out."
He was plumbing for Kirk's plans.
All right.
"If I don't give them a target," Kirk told him, "they'll lay scattering fire and wound as many as they can hit. If I let them spot me, they'll concentrate on trying to knock me out, preferably hand-to-hand, for the glory of it. I can make them fixate on me. Goad them into letting me manipulate their battle plan."
With a nod of understanding, Spock let disapproval creep into his expression, but he couldn't fight the sense of it.
"Problem is," Kirk added, "they might target you too."
Spock passed the sword from his left hand to his right. "Acceptable, sir."
"I thought you'd say that. Let's go."
Chapter Four
AS THE KLINGONS came roaring down the incline, disruptors holstered and daggers gleaming, Kirk and Spock charged out to meet them, pushing as close to the center as possible when they finally met the enemies head-on.
Kirk had to work to draw attention to himself, convince the swarming enemy that he was the leader. Ordinary in all ways but the fire in his mind, Kirk knew he cut no particular swash among the combatants, especially the seven-foot Capellans. But if he wanted his enemies to identify him, and today he did, he'd have to be conspicuous.
As he clubbed away the first Klingon who charged him, he loudly gave orders to his men and waved his arms with the captain's slashes on the wrists. He stayed as close as he could to the center of the action, and in moments the Klingons were looking up from their own fights, spotting him and Spock.
Around him, his own men met the howling Klingons with clench-jawed purposefulness. The Starfleet team weren't spoiled brats who couldn't fight with anything but phasers. They held clubs across their bodies like battle staffs, one hand on each end, effective for blocking or ramming, and the humans were lighter and faster than either the Klingons or Capellans. His men weren't being bogged down by their own weight, as some of the others were.
He was charged by the gleam in his men's eyes. They were enjoying this, in a twisted, unfortunate way. They had to enjoy it a little in order to survive it—stretching their intelligence, daring themselves to live up to the worst, the ugliest. . . . There was something electric in forcing an enemy back. This land fighting was refreshing in the shock of reality it gave a ship's crew, so long sequestered in the isolet of their vessel, who so rarely got the chance to fight their enemy eye to eye. Driven to impose their will on their enemies, here they were unharnessed.
They knew their duty, and Kirk knew his. It was the captain's bravery that made men face the enemy again after fighting all morning, the message in his manner that he would not only fight with them, b
ut for them, that made them rather die fighting than scrambling. Safety no longer had flavor. None asked himself anymore the lurid question, What am I dying for? The question had an answer—not for this distant herd of unfriendly people nor for this speck of land on a speck in the sky. What am I dying for?
For the captain.
Why?
Because he would die for me.
Jim Kirk knew how they felt. He set himself constantly to live up to their devotion. He remembered his captains and what he expected of them. Determined to be worthy of what his men were doing out here, answering that ringing question in their minds over and over until they could summon their own inner fortifications, he willed himself visible among them.
Fighting twenty yards apart, he and Spock were an attractive target. Klingon soldiers were veering toward them, each hungering for the glory of killing the leaders.
A Klingon soldier charged down on him fast, not checking his speed at all as he flew down the incline. He struck Kirk with a full-body blow that sent them both bruising to the ground, then tumbling.
Kirk waited until they stopped rolling, then raised his free arm and drove the elbow into the Klingon's throat. The soldier gagged, rolled off, and crawled away on his hands and knees.
Lashing out with his right leg, the captain caught the crawling soldier's knees and knocked them out from under him. The Klingon sprawled, still choking, and Kirk snatched for the disruptor—this Klingon didn't have one. So Kirk went for the dagger at the soldier's belt. He looked up to see two more plunging down on him, and he'd better be upright to meet them.
Dust puffed up all around him from the scrape of hard soles and the impact of thunderbolt disruptor shots. So much for honor.
Some of the Klingons on the high ground were trying to aim between the fighters, but were mostly hitting the dirt as they tried to avoid killing their own crewmates. The sizzle of energy bolts raised the hairs on Kirk's arms as the shots whistled past him.
Where was Spock? He couldn't see his first officer anymore. Concentration was stolen by the two Klingons bulldozing at him through the combatants, with two more right behind them, all with their eyes on him. There were negatives to this manipulate-the-enemy theory.
They could charge him together, but unless they cooperated they couldn't hit him at the same time, and they wouldn't cooperate. He hoped.
Hoped hard as he made his bet and raised his right arm to take on the Klingon who was a millimeter closer.
Slashing outward with his dagger, the Klingon danced out of the way—Kirk had bet wrong—and faked to one side, leaving Kirk's unprotected midsection for the second soldier.
Kirk couldn't bring his dagger down in time. The second Klingon caught him in a brutal embrace and with sheer strength began squeezing the life from him, keeping him from breathing.
Adrenaline surged as Kirk felt the queasiness of death close at his throat. Over the shoulder of the Klingon attacking him he saw the other two roaring in, eyes blazing and teeth bared. He struggled to raise his knee—at least he could get one of them—
A shadow crossed his face. A bulky ensign—looked like Wilson—who had hands like bear paws and no neck at all, plunged in and took on the other two, knocking one flat with the sheer force of his charge.
A growl of anger boiled up beside Kirk. Now those two Klingons were furious at Wilson for having blocked their way, and the one on the ground slashed out at Wilson's legs with his dagger while the ensign was throwing punches at the other one. The ensign tried to dance away, but the Klingons used their combined power to drive him into the blade.
"Break!" Kirk shouted. "Ensign, break off!"
Wilson flashed a glance at him and tried to obey the order, but couldn't do it. His mouth burst open with shock as the blade chewed into his spine.
Whipped up by what he saw, Kirk found his hands between his own body and the chest of the Klingon grappling him, forced his elbows upward.
As the Klingon's body went stiff with pain and the grip on Kirk fell away, Kirk shoved the soldier over and yanked the disruptor from the belt. Now he had one, but it was warm in his hands, nearly drained.
The trick was not to waste it.
He swung around, jockeying for aim; he found Wilson still fighting, and blocking a clear shot.
"Down, Ensign!"
Wilson couldn't drop back, but managed to tilt to one side, and Kirk aimed, took a breath, let out half of it, and fired.
The disruptor buzzed in his hand and spat a clean string of energy into the chest of one of the Klingons. The soldier buckled and fell backward.
The other Klingon ignored the fate of his partner, but knew the disruptor was coming around to him and tried to shove the wounded ensign down in order to lash out at Kirk with a hard metal wristband. He would've made it, too, except that Wilson leaned back in and took the blow meant for his captain, a savage crash to the top of his head.
The Klingon's thumbnail caught Kirk's uniform and ripped into his shoulder. He felt fabric give way, then flesh, as if he'd been caught in a briar bush.
He raised a knee, kicked the Klingon backward into his disruptor sights, and fired.
The Klingon shouted an unintelligible word as the beam blasted him into the rocks and he fell hard.
In Kirk's hand the disruptor started beeping—drained. After a morning of firefights, he had gotten its last two shots. Furiously he pitched it at the skull of one of the downed Klingons and was gratified by the crack.
As Ensign Wilson staggered, Kirk snatched the unfortunate crewman from behind, desperate that the boy's last seconds not be his loneliest. Blood from his wounds drained across Kirk's uniform and trousers. He felt the thick body shudder in his arms, wobble, and go limp. Suddenly he slipped out of Kirk's hands. Dead or alive, there was no way to tell.
Rage boiled up behind Kirk's eyes. His disruptor was junk, he'd lost his knife, so he grabbed Wilson's club, tucked it at his side in both hands like a lance. Lips drawn back, face chalky with sweat-plastered dust, uniform torn at the shoulder, he charged into the tangle of fighting men.
He plowed through the formless battle, assisting his men and allies with his club, landing almost every blow to good effect, each time freeing another of his men to move forward. Only when he tripped and went down on a knee was his momentum interrupted—and that was when he twisted around to get back on his feet and ended up looking back the way he had come.
Against the rattan landscape a blue dot caught his eye. At first he thought he'd found Spock, but he was wrong.
"McCoy!"
The doctor had been rooted out of his hiding place somehow and was up against the rocks, defending himself against, luckily, only one Klingon. In hand-to-hand fighting, McCoy could hold his own for a minute or two, but soon he would falter. Surprise him and he would fight, but after a few moments he'd catch the eyes of someone fighting him, notice a muscle in a taut neck, and the living condition of his opponents would get to him. His inner compass would steer him away from self-preservation, and the doctor would pause.
One of these days the pause would get him killed. Kirk had learned to watch for it.
McCoy was waving a sword he'd found, but he was doing it only in defense. So he'd already crossed that line. He was backing up, tighter and tighter against the unforgiving rocks.
Any second he'll hesitate. Kirk looked around frantically, snatched the arm of a crewman rushing past him and shouted at another one. "Brown, Mellendez! About face! Help McCoy!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Aye, sir!"
They took off at barreling run.
He swung back to the shouts and clacks of men and blades and throttled his way into the fray with the club. Then he threw the club down and scooped up one of the short Capellan swords and hacked his way through to the higher ground. Disruptor fire crackled past him—a jolt of hope hit as he realized some of those shots were coming from his own men, those who had managed to lay their hands upon Klingon disruptors and were turning them on their owners. Still,
the high-powered weapons could only be of so much use in tight quarters, no more use to the Starfleeters than to the Klingons themselves.
Still, the odds were beginning to balance.
Hot shale sprayed up and stung his cheeks, then went on to rattle across the rocks. As he scrambled upward, a half-dozen Klingons broke from their struggles and followed. Their ambition was getting the better of them.
It's working. They're disorganized.
Taunting them with a few swipes of the sword, he got several to follow as he climbed the rocks, then kicked two of them off balance. They tumbled and crashed to the jagged talus below, and when he saw what happened to them, he realized how high he'd climbed and that he'd better not slip.
When he glanced up to make sure he wasn't boxing himself into a trap, he caught a blue flash in his periphery. McCoy? Up there?
He looked down, across the battle area, and saw the doctor standing good ground with Brown, Mellendez, and two other Enterprise crewmen.
He swung around to the other swatch of blue. Spock.
The Vulcan was trapped on high ground, being funneled to the point of a slanted arm of rock by at least eight Klingons. Kirk's plan had worked to the worst—they'd targeted his first officer.
Holding his own against the Klingons but not against the shrinking footing, Spock was markedly stronger, but not faster or meaner than an angry human crew up against a Klingon force. He would try to fight logically, and that might not work against Klingons.
As Kirk frantically searched for a way to get over there, fly maybe, Spock fought with grim deliberation using the sword Kirk had given him, but he was losing. He was just plain outnumbered.
Kicking at the Klingons trying to reach him, Kirk divided his attention and picked out one of his most experienced field officers.
"Giotto!"
The lieutenant commander of Security didn't hear him, so he shouted again, and again until Giotto's squared face and silver hair turned up to him. Giotto assessed his captain's situation and shouted, "Coming, sir!"
"Belay that!" Kirk shouted. "Assist Mr. Spock!"
