Star Trek - TOS - 79 - Invasion 1 - First Strike Page 7

  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

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  FIRST STRIKE

  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 fighti ng all morning, the message in his manner that

  he would not only fight with them, but 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.

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  Diane Carey

  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 hair on Kirk's arms

  as the shots whistled past him.

  Where was Spock? He couldn't see his tint 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.

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  FIRST STRIKE

  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 o"

  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.

  57

  Diane Carey The disruptor buzzed in his hand and spat a clean

  string of energy into the chest o
f 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

  58 FIRST STRIKE

  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--t hey'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!"

  FIRST STRIKE

  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!"

  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

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  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