Invasion! First Strike Page 6

  Giotto swung his wide shoulders, scanned the rocks, then yelled, "Security detail!"

  Seven men around him, three short of a full detail, broke from what they were doing and managed to follow as Giotto charged toward Spock's outcropping.

  Kirk's heart pounded. They weren't going to make it. Pebbles chipped from the ledge under Spock's feet and rained onto the unforgiving talus below. One of the Klingons had made it all the way up and was sparring with Spock, enjoying the Vulcan's situation, and the only thing saving Spock for the moment was the next Klingon down, who wanted the glory for himself and was holding on to the top Klingon's ankle and keeping him back.

  Desperate, Kirk ignored the Klingons encroaching on him, took his sword by the blade, wheeled it back over his shoulder, and launched it like a throwing knife.

  It wheeled through the air just beautifully, and struck the top Klingon, but not with the blade. The hilt came about and knocked the Klingon in the back of the neck. He stumbled, and the second Klingon pitched him off balance. The top one gasped audibly and skidded off the ledge to land on a shoulder below.

  Kirk winced as he heard the Klingon's clavicle snap in two even under the protective vest.

  Spock wasn't wearing anything like that.

  Where were Giotto and the Security detail? There—they'd gone behind a clutch of overgrowth to find a way to climb the rocks. Too slow, too slow.

  It's my fault. They've been fighting all morning. They're tired. They won't get to him in time.

  He'd thrown his sword and now had nothing to fight with, so he kicked downward at the Klingons trying to get to him. They could shoot him off, but he saw in their hungry eyes the desire to defeat the enemy leader with their own hands. Only the fact that they were competing instead of helping each other was saving him for the moment. If his luck held out—

  The crack of rock sounded clearly across the open terrain, and Kirk looked up at the exact horrible instant that Spock's last inch of footing gave way.

  Kirk reached out. He saw his empty hand against the sky, Spock's form a hundred yards too far from his outstretched fingers, arms flung outward as the Vulcan toppled backward and disappeared.

  "Damn it!" Kirk choked.

  He stared at the empty air where Spock had been a moment ago, then shifted his rage downward at the Klingons trying to get to him.

  They saw the change in his face. Though he was weaponless and at the disadvantage, at least three of them started to back down.

  He put all his anger into a downward plunge. After all, there were nice soft Klingon noses to land on.

  He felt a dozen impacts on his body—thighs, ribs, elbows, knees—as he body-slammed his way straight down through the Klingons and drove himself and all of them into a tangle, scraping and scratching down the slanted shelf. By the time he struck the bottom, he had scraped off at least two of the Klingons and landed on the rest of them.

  His body screamed for attention. He ignored it and tried to get to his feet, but fell twice and shuffled outward on one foot, a knee, and the heel of a hand. His left arm was numb from the elbow down.

  Slowly he made his way past the stunned Klingons. He had to get to Spock. If his first officer somehow survived the fall, the other Klingons would rush in and slaughter him where he lay. Inhaling dust, Kirk willed himself forward.

  "Stop!"

  He looked up. Who was that? No voice he recognized … one of the Capellans?

  Out into the middle of the battling armies, striding as deliberately as if on parade, came a thick-bodied Klingon officer.

  No, not just an officer … a general!

  But there was no Klingon general in this sector. . . .

  The wide newcomer strode into the middle of the action and held out both his short meaty arms, hands upright in a halting gesture.

  "Stop the fighting! Stop! Stop this!"

  The general now turned to the upper rocks and shouted—roared—at his own kind.

  "I said stop!"

  Chapter Five

  LEFT ARM NUMB, his chest constricted from the dust, Kirk scraped between the stunned combatants as they stood heaving and staring, and managed to keep from going down on his knees again.

  "Spock!" he called.

  No answer. He didn't really expect one.

  The Klingon general lowered his arms and watched as the captain crossed the battleground. The general seemed to understand and stood like Henry VIII on a jousting field, watching as Kirk came around the gravelly talus skirt.

  Kirk first saw Spock as a swatch of blue and black quilted against the stones, surrounded by Giotto and his men, who ringed the fallen body and stood off several Klingons who wanted to deal the death blow if it hadn't been dealt already.

  He thought the Vulcan moved, but there was so much dust. . . .

  Everything had stopped, just stopped. Klingons, Starfleet crew, Capellans, all standing still—those who were still standing—looking at the Klingon general who waited like a lone monolith at their center, and at Kirk as he moved between the bodies of the fallen.

  Maybe this was some kind of demand for surrender. A full general?

  He glanced at the Klingon general in something like contempt or dare—even he wasn't sure—but kept to his purpose. One thing at a time.

  Giotto's men parted for him, but kept their weapons up and didn't slack their stance against the Klingon soldiers.

  It felt good to kneel finally. The ground had been pulling at him—it felt good to give in.

  Spock was looking up, blinking, dazed but conscious, at least. His lips were pressed in frustration and effort, pickle-green blood showing in scratches on his forehead and the point of his right ear.

  As the gravel cut into his knee, Kirk pressed his good hand to Spock's tattered sleeve.

  "You all right?" he asked.

  "Stunned," Spock said with effort, and with pain that he was trying to hide. His voice was as gravelly as the stuff he was lying on. Cautiously he raised his head, brows drawn, then in something like amusement added, "And, I believe, grazed here and there. . . ."

  "Where?" Kirk persisted.

  Suddenly aggravated at not being able to self-diagnose, Spock glanced up at him and belittled himself with a bob of his angular brows. "I am not certain."

  Glancing up at the needle of rock above them, Kirk realized it was about two decks higher than he'd estimated from way over there. "How did you survive that?"

  "Starfleet training," Spock said lightly. "I rolled."

  Kirk pressed out a sympathetic grin. "Think you can get up? We've got a new development."

  Faced with that, Spock pressed his palms to the stones and tried to lift his shoulders. His voice cracked as he grunted, "Shall certainly attempt it."

  "Mr. Giotto, give us a hand."

  In the back of his mind he could hear the protests of common sense as he and Giotto pulled the injured first officer to his feet, but it was important to Kirk that the enemies see the Starfleet officers upright and thinking. Once they got him up it became clear that Spock couldn't stand on his own and Kirk accepted that he might be making a mistake.

  He waved in a yeoman to help Giotto, then said, "Bring him over here. I want him to hear whatever goes on."

  At the center of what was quickly becoming a scraggly ring of mixed combatants, the Klingon general turned in place. "Who is in command here?" he bellowed, but he was looking from Klingon to Klingon, not at the Starfleet team.

  Behind the Security detail, Kirk straightened and watched. Was this some kind of crank?

  "I am!" A Klingon commander came up over the incline and hurried down, clearly infuriated. "Why have you stopped our victory?"

  The general's big body turned and he raised his arms in contempt. "I see no victory here. What's the matter with you? Why are you squabbling over this bit of dirt? Wasting men and munitions, and for what? A few shipments of toparine? You're a fool."

  The commander waved his hand at Kirk. "They killed my representative!"

  One o
f the big Capellans stepped forward and contradicted, "I killed your representative. After he betrayed us."

  The blunt honesty silenced the Klingon commander, and Kirk took that as a cue to move in. He didn't care about their inner quarrels. He forced himself not to limp as he put his back to the commander as a kind of insult and raised his chin to the general.

  "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

  The high-ranker squared off before him. "I am General Kellen."

  Behind Kirk, the other Klingons collectively gasped and relaxed their postures in respect.

  "Kellen?" Kirk repeated. "Of the Muscari Incident?"

  "Yes."

  The general waited until his identity sank in all around. Even if they didn't know what he had done in the past, they had heard his name and they knew his reputation. So did Kirk. General Kellen … the only calm Klingon Kirk knew of.

  That kind of thing gets around.

  The general didn't seem particularly impressed with himself, but he was clearly counting on Kirk's being impressed with him.

  And it was close.

  They stood together on the printless stone flat, face-to-face, sizing each other up.

  After he'd ticked off a measured pause, the general asked, "Your ship is the Enterprise?"

  Narrowing his eyes in the bright sunlight, Kirk felt his brow tighten. "Yes …"

  "Then you are Captain James B. Kirk?"

  "James T. So what?"

  "Then I am here to ask for your help on behalf of the Klingon Empire and your own Federation."

  "Help about what?"

  "We need your help, Captain. The demons have returned. The Havoc has come."

  "Does this mean you're declaring a cease-fire?"

  The question had already gotten its answer, but Kirk wanted his men and the Klingon men to hear it from the local top, which at the moment was General Kellen. He didn't want anyone ending up with a dagger in the back from the overzealous among them.

  Peering over those funny glasses, Kellen nodded hurriedly. "Yes. And I should mention that your starship is about to punch holes in my cruiser. Instruct them not to."

  Perhaps the general was fishing for an act of trust, or at least balance, or maybe he just wanted what he said he wanted. A chance to talk.

  Either way, there would be a chance to pause and regroup. Never taking his eyes off Kellen, Kirk snapped up his communicator and flipped open the antenna grid.

  "Kirk to Enterprise. Go to defensive posture … cease fire and stand by. If you don't hear from me in ten minutes, open fire." Without waiting for acknowledgment from Scott, he lowered the communicator sharply enough to make a point. "I appreciate who you are, General, but you can't have this planet."

  Kellen held out both hands in acquiescence. "I do not want this planet. I don't know why some elements do. It has always been my standing to let the Federation tend these backward herds. Then we'll take the planets when they're worth something."

  Kirk snorted. "Wanna bet?"

  "It has always been a mystery to me when the Federation will fight and why," Kellen said. "That you will fight to the last man to defend something you do not care to possess. A planet like this is not worth the loss of a ship of the line. I give you this planet without contention. Congratulations. I have already spoken to your Starfleet Command. They have agreed to let me approach you if I agreed to stop this battle. It is stopped. Now I must speak with you, Captain Kirk."

  His voice, though he was a large man, was high-pitched, Kirk noticed now, not low as one might expect a large man's to be, yet it had a certain ring of authority—probably out of sheer practice.

  "You'll have to wait your turn," Kirk said. "I'll be back in when I've taken care of my men."

  Kellen said nothing, but clasped his hands behind his wide back and struck a stance of impatience.

  With a measured glance at Spock, Kirk swung around and scanned his surprised crewmen and the disgruntled Klingons, all standing among each other, eyeing each other's weapons, none of them sure what to do.

  He turned another quarter turn and spotted McCoy, kneeling at the body of Ensign Wilson.

  Good a place as any to start.

  With a purposeful stride he hurried—but not too fast—to the doctor and kept his back to Kellen.

  "Well," he muttered, "how do you like that?"

  "Not much," the doctor muttered back, gazing at poor Wilson as he rose to his feet.

  Kirk surveying quickly the surgeon's bruised face. "Are you hurt?"

  McCoy blinked, frowned, rubbed his hands together, and said, "No, Captain, I'm not hurt."

  "Then get started with your triage."

  "Yes, sir."

  As the party broke up and others gathered around for instructions, Kirk dashed off orders to others standing around.

  "Log that I gave a field commission to Zdunic. He's now a lieutenant."

  "Acknowledged," Spock said from behind him.

  Weakness in the baritone voice registered suddenly. Kirk turned to his first officer and realized Spock had been answering him as if nothing was wrong, but the first officer was still leaning heavily on the yeoman, picking at his tricorder, valiantly trying to record the details of the aftermath and his captain's orders.

  "Mr. Spock. . . . McCoy! Over here first. Yeoman, set him down." Kirk moved in as Spock was gingerly lowered to sit on a handy boulder, and carefully pulled the tricorder strap up over Spock's head to hand it to the yeoman. "Spock … sorry."

  There was more pain in the Vulcan's face now. He was having trouble masking it. His lean frame was clenched, stomach muscles tight, shoulders and arms stiff as he pressed down on the boulder, though he didn't take his eyes from the Klingon general. Distrust pulled at him through his pain.

  "Curious, Captain," he said, watching the Klingon general, "that he would concern himself with a skirmish."

  "He's got me curious," Kirk acknowledged.

  "What happened?" McCoy asked as he hurried to them. If he had seen Spock a moment ago in the background, he hadn't noticed that the Vulcan was being held up by the yeoman beside him.

  "He fell," Kirk said. "From up there. I can't believe you didn't see it happen."

  "I was busy." McCoy ran his medical tricorder from Spock's shoulder to his pelvis. "Jim, my God—you shouldn't have moved him! He's got spinal injuries."

  Priorities screwed on backward. Kirk knew he'd made a mistake. Always thinking of Spock as not just half-human, but superhuman.

  Spock was pale as sea wake. Deep-rooted pain etched his face. He still watched Kellen.

  "Take him back to the ship, emergency priority," Kirk said, letting himself feel guilty.

  Spock looked up. "Captain, I would like to stay."

  There was something behind his eyes. Havoc … whatever that was. Spock knew something and he wanted to hear what Kellen had to say.

  And I need him here, if he knows something.

  Under his swatch of dusty brown hair, McCoy was glaring at Kirk. Pretty clear message there, too.

  "A few minutes," Kirk decided. "McCoy, you take care of him here for now. Contact your staff and beam down a full medical team to take over triage."

  "Captain," the doctor began, protesting with his tone.

  "I said a few minutes. Until we find out what's going on."

  Fuming, his blue eyes boiling on Kirk, the doctor cracked open his communicator. "McCoy to Enterprise. Patch me through to sickbay."

  Plagued not by the glare but by the reason for it, Kirk was suddenly motivated to pierce the mystery fast and get Spock to the ship.

  He swung around and stepped back to Kellen. "All right, General, I've taken care of my men. Now let's talk about you."

  Kellen nodded. "The Havoc has come and we have to deal with it."

  Kirk eyed him. "I don't like the sound of that 'we.' What's 'havoc'?"

  Spock tipped his head to one side. "In Klingon lore, 'Havoc' is essentially an apocalypse. The releasing of all captive souls to wreak revenge on those who imprisoned
them."

  "Yes," Kellen confirmed, wagging a finger at the Vulcan. "Yes, yes."

  "How do you know it's coming?" Kirk asked.

  "My squadron encountered the beginning of it. The coming of the Havoc ship."

  "The apocalypse comes in a ship?" Cynicism blistered the air between them. "General, I'm not in a good mood."

  "And I am not here to put you in one." Kellen's weathered face didn't change. He utterly believed that he was here for the right reasons. He looked like a latter-day Ben Franklin waiting to see whether he'd be the father of a nation or on the business end of a noose.

  Kirk drilled him with a meaningful glare. "What happened to you? Start from the beginning."

  "There was a mass falloff," the general began. "At first we thought our instruments were failing, but then the sun of a nearby solar system began to expand and the planets to disintegrated. This continued until all things went to zero—"

  "Nothing could exist in a zero-mass environment," Spock countered, as McCoy worked on him. "Everything that moved would accelerate to the speed of light."

  "We came within seconds of that," the Klingon confirmed, nodding at Spock as if anxious to be understood. "We watched as the nearest solar system broke to hyperlight and was vaporized. We managed to hold our ships to positive mass by diverting all our power to the shields. We were down to one one-hundredth percent of our mass when the effect stopped. We …" He paused, measured the impact of what he was saying, then decided to admit, "We did lose one ship."

  Everyone everywhere was utterly still. Even McCoy stopped in the middle of applying a field splint to Spock's back.

  As they all stared at Kellen, the whine of transporters cut into the tension.

  To Kirk's right, six pillars of garbled energy buzzed into place, then quickly and noisily materialized into the forms of McCoy's emergency medical staff of interns and nurses.

  McCoy waved at them without saying a word, and they dispersed to triage the wounded.

  "I have recordings of this," Kellen offered, pulling Kirk's attention back. He spoke with control, as if completely convinced they would want these. He raised his arm, and pulled from his belt a Klingon tricorder. "The device has a translator."