Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (30 page)

“Sybok was my brother,” Spock said, ignoring the shocked reactions of all those on the bridge. “He sacrificed himself so that we might escape. Are you so willing to see his death become meaningless?”

“Klaa will not—” Korrd began.

Spock had just seen his brother killed; he would not allow the same to happen to James Kirk. “Damn you, sir,” he said, his tone deliberate and even, “you will try.”

The bridge became oppressively silent as Korrd considered Spock’s words....

And then the old Klingon left his friends and moved over to where Spock sat at the command console.

He glowered at the Klingon captain on the viewscreen. “Klaa! This is General Korrd.”

The younger Klingon’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. “General . . .” He saluted cursorily, but it was clear he considered himself Korrd’s equal, rank or no rank.

Korrd narrowed his eyes and glanced briefly at Talbot and Dar, then at Spock, then back at Klaa.

Spock began to wonder if he had made a fatal error in trusting Korrd.

“Klaa!” the general bellowed, switching from Standard to Klingon.
“Jo-ii-chu!”

All on the bridge stared in shocked disbelief as Korrd’s bulky form dissolved into the twinkling shimmer of a transporter beam . . . and vanished.

Simultaneously, Klaa’s image disappeared from the screen.

“My God!” McCoy cried. “The bastard’s saved himself so the Klingons can destroy us!”

“No,” Talbot murmured behind them. “No, I refuse to believe it.”

Spock remained silent. Words were, after all, quite useless. They were in Korrd’s hands now, and there was nothing the Vulcan could do but sit and stare dully at the darkened screen . . . and wait.

Korrd materialized in the transporter room of the Bird of Prey and was immediately greeted by an armed escort who led him to the bridge. After the spacious, well-lighted Federation ship, the Bird seemed cramped and dim.

Inside the bridge, the first officer—a most attractive female, Korrd noted with a certain amount of lechery—turned from her station to call out excitedly. “Captain, we have located a human life-form on the planet surface below.”

“Kirk!” Klaa exclaimed. “I have him at last!” He slapped his hands together and laughed, a sound of pure victory.

Korrd strode over to the command console. The young captain’s chair was outfitted with a gunner’s rig—a
rather obvious display of Klaa’s vanity, Korrd noted, a trait he resolved to use to his advantage. Klaa settled into the rig, eager for the hunt.

The first officer smiled dazzlingly at her captain, in a way that convinced Korrd she was more to Klaa than second-in-command. “Success, my lord!”

The atmosphere was charged with excitement. Klaa was a charismatic, persuasive leader, much as Korrd had been in earlier times. The memory evoked a nearly forgotten sensation: the feel of power. Korrd breathed in its scent, basked in it, felt himself grow stronger.

“Fire ph—” Klaa began.

“Captain!” Korrd barked.

All on the bridge turned to look at him; Korrd relished the attention, and the fear in their eyes.

Klaa rose and saluted. “General. . . welcome. You are about to see
Enterprise
destroyed and the criminal James Kirk executed.” He grinned arrogantly. “After which I may soon have the pleasure of addressing you as an equal.”

Korrd eyed the young upstart coldly. It was impossible to dislike him entirely, for he reminded Korrd too much of himself in his younger days.

“Not so fast, Klaa,” he growled. “By virtue of my superior rank, I am commandeering this vessel.”

Murder flashed in Klaa’s eyes; furious, he gestured toward the guard who had escorted Korrd from the transporter room.

Before the captain could utter a word, Korrd reached for him and lifted him off his feet by his throat. Klaa’s face darkened to a deep shade of purple; he made a strangled noise of pure rage.

No one dared come to the captain’s aid.

Korrd smiled, giddy with rediscovered power. If he wished, he could take command of
Okrona
and destroy the
Enterprise
and James Kirk himself—and redeem his name totally.

On the screen before him,
Enterprise
hovered, vulnerable and waiting. It was a most tempting prospect.

Korrd eased his grip on Klaa’s neck and allowed the captain to collapse into his chair. Klaa wheezed and gulped air noisily while Korrd spoke.

“I have a plan,” he told the young captain. “One that will bring much glory and honor. You may claim the victory, Klaa, but for now,
I
have the power.”

On the planet surface, Jim scrambled amid the smoldering ruins of the stone amphitheater, searching for a place to hide. At first the energy-creature had appeared as a disheveled, wild-eyed Sistine Chapel God, his long white hair and beard singed and smoking, a ghastly mixture of blood and light streaming from his eyes. Now the creature had reverted to its true form: a pulsating field of energy that glowed a deep, dull bronze. It did not seem as powerful, now that it was separated from the energy shaft that had contained it, but, Jim reflected grimly as he glanced at the battered remains of
Copernicus
in the distance, it was still powerful enough to kill him.

Even in its weakened state, it moved with alarming speed; Jim ran full tilt, then squeezed between two fallen stone columns that lay at the base of one of the mountains.

Apparently unable to squeeze into the space, the
creature reached in after Kirk. Jim pressed his back flat against the mountain; the creature swiped at him, missing him by no more than a centimeter.

There was no place to go except up.

Jim turned to face the mountain and tilted his head back. The view was daunting; the pinnacle’s ascent was incredibly steep, at least a seventy-five degree angle.

“Not as bad as El Cap,” Jim murmured. He dug his fingers in and began to climb.

There was no time to concentrate, no time to choose the best crevices to support his weight. Jim pulled himself up, grasping with mindless desperation at the rock.

Behind him, the creature roared. It was followed by the sound of stone being smashed to pieces; it was crushing the columns to powder, forcing them out of itsway.

Jim climbed. Amazingly, he did not fall. He slipped twice, scraping his hands until they were bloody, and scattering pebbles onto the creature below, who had cleared its way to the mountain and was starting its ascent.

Gasping, Jim made it to the top and looked below. The creature was making its way, slowly, deliberately, up the pinnacle. It paused to regard Kirk, and spoke in a voice that no longer sounded human.

“GIVE . . . ME . . . THE . . . SHIP.”

“You’re out of luck,” Jim said.
And so, for that matter, am I.
“My friends have taken the ship and gone.” As he said it, he was gripped by dread; maybe the words were true. The
Enterprise’s
sudden silence disturbed him.

Maybe
Enterprise
had been forced to flee to avoid destruction . . . or, far worse, had already been destroyed.

Maybe, for the first time in his life, he was utterly alone.

The creature shrieked; the sound was chilling.

Jim looked around, desperately studying his options as the creature neared. The other face of the pinnacle was a sheer, concave drop to the bottom. The only possible way down was blocked by the creature, now less than a meter away.

Jim’s mind reacted with absurd, curious thoughts. He wondered how his life would have changed had he married Carol Marcus; he wondered how Carol would react to news of his death. He found himself trying to picture her expression . . . all the while watching the creature inch closer.

A sound overhead: a ship, slicing through the atmosphere. Kirk glanced up, gladdened, fully expecting to see
Galileo,
miraculously repaired, come to his rescue.

Instead, he saw a Klingon Bird of Prey. It dropped out of the racing storm clouds and strafed the creature with a phaser barrage, forcing it back down the mountain.

As the creature clung, smoking, motionless, the Bird of Prey descended, then hovered over Jim.

In a horrible flash of understanding, Jim knew that Spock and those aboard the
Enterprise
would not have allowed a Klingon ship to come this far, unless . . .

Unless they and the ship had been destroyed. It explained the static on his communicator all too well.
Spock and the crew had remained to save him and had been killed for their efforts.

Kirk cried out, defiant with grief. “So it’s me you want, you Klingon bastards! Come and get me!”

The sky wavered, then disappeared in the uncertain sparkle of the transporter beam.

K
IRK FOUND HIMSELF IN
unpleasantly familiar surroundings: the transporter room of a Klingon vessel. Even more unpleasantly, two oversized Klingon guards seized him, one to an arm, and propelled him out into the dim, faintly noxious-smelling corridor.

The Klingon Bird of Prey was designed strictly for battle; the size of its crew and its interior was roughly one-fortieth that of the starship, which was designed for exploration. Therefore, it was only a matter of several steps before the guards arrived with their prize at the doors to the bridge.

Jim was bitterly disconsolate. The static on his communicator when he awaited Scott’s transporter beam and the subsequent failure of the
Enterprise
to rescue him from the Bird of Prey’s talons could only
mean one thing: that the ship and all those aboard her had been destroyed.

Jim indulged in an agony of self-recrimination, remembering the instant he had said to Sybok, “What makes you think I won’t turn her around?”

He should have done exactly that—should not have permitted himself to slip into the same self-delusion that had gripped his crew. If he had listened to his head instead of his instincts, the ship he had mistrusted at first but that had served him so well would still be whole. Sybok would not have died in the depths of the tunnel. Spock, McCoy, his crew . . . all of them would still be alive.

He had lost everything now—more than David and Carol. He had lost the
Enterprise
again, his crew, and the two closest friends he had in the universe. His grief was overwhelmed by anger—at himself, at the Klingons who had murdered his son and now had killed his friends.

As the bridge doors opened, Jim’s rational mind fled. If he was going to die, he would, as the Klingons said, die well. Flanked by the two guards, he walked onto the tiny bridge, intending to lunge forward and throttle the vessel’s commander at the first opportunity. At least that way, death would come more swiftly and be more gratifying.

The back of the captain’s chair faced him, so that its occupant was not immediately visible. Jim’s eye was caught by a surprisingly familiar face off to one side: General Korrd, who stood straight and proud, for the first time in recent days, with his hands clasped behind his back.

Korrd looked Jim in the eye and beamed with pleasure; his expression was entirely devoid of both scorn and ill will. Yet Korrd’s presence could only mean one thing: that the Klingons had somehow effected his rescue shortly before destroying the
Enterprise.

And then Jim saw something even more puzzling: the disgruntled young Klingon standing beside Korrd wore the insignia of a Bird of Prey captain.

Then who the hell was sitting in the command chair?

Kirk stepped toward it; curiously, the guards did not attempt to restrain him. As he neared, the chair swiveled slowly, revealing its occupant.

Jim gasped. “Spock!”

The Vulcan unstrapped himself from what appeared to be a custom-designed gunner’s rig and rose with consummate dignity. “Welcome aboard, Captain.” Beneath Spock’s total restraint, Jim perceived the faintest glint of smugness.

Korrd spoke in booming, guttural Klingon to the guards; they exited the bridge.

“Spock,” Jim said, still not quite able to grasp what had happened. “I thought
Enterprise
was destroyed. I thought you were dead, and I was sure
I
was going to die.”

The Vulcan’s reply was soft. “Not possible, Captain. You were never alone.”

Jim was overwhelmed by a rush of affection, gratitude, and relief. Unashamed, he stepped forward and clasped his friend in a hug.

Spock stiffened. “Captain, please. Not in front of the Klingons.”

Jim only hugged harder, and laughed until the tears came.

Damned inappropriate,
McCoy thought as he stood on the forward deck and gazed through the window at the planet where Sybok had met his death. A reception was in full swing on the observation deck, and McCoy didn’t quite understand it.

The Klingon captain, Klaa, and his first officer had come aboard, as polite as you please—never mind the fact that they had just tried to blow the
Enterprise
to kingdom come. Now they were being feted like a couple of VIPs. From what McCoy understood of Jim’s sketchy explanation, the reception had been Korrd and Dar and Talbot’s idea—something about promoting intergalactic peace—and they’d been able to pull it off largely because Korrd had a brother-in-law named Krell.

It just didn’t seem fair. People were drinking, talking, having a good time; McCoy frowned at the sound of clinking glasses and laughter, then glanced worriedly at Spock, who stood at his elbow.

The Vulcan, too, gazed out at the planet. His manner was distant, his expression as coldly controlled as McCoy ever remembered seeing it.

Damned inappropriate. Spock’s brother was dead, and here they all were having a party.

Ought to have been a wake,
McCoy thought, and took a sip from his glass. He was drinking Thirelian mineral water, out of consideration for Spock. The last thing the Vulcan needed now was to be surrounded by a bunch of drunks.

The doctor had spotted Spock over by the window
and had come over to tell him how he felt—how sorry he was about Sybok, how angry he was that Spock had been forced to attend such a festive occasion, and that there had been no formal memorial service.