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, 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.
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!"
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!"