Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (18 page)

The
Enterprise
disappeared. One moment she was there; the next, gone. Klaa’s wasted shot dispersed in the void of space.

“Track her course!” Klaa roared. He could not let Kirk go; he had been humiliated in front of his crew. If he failed now to destroy both Kirk and the
Enterprise,
stories of his failure would circulate throughout the Empire. Klaa the Invincible, vanquished by a human criminal, James Kirk. Not so invincible, after all.

No matter where the
Enterprise
went, Klaa would follow, even if he had to pursue Kirk all the way to Earth itself. Sourly, he detached himself from his gunner’s rig and climbed back into his chair. The crew, of course, knew better than to speak to the captain after his ego had suffered such an outrage . . . but after a time, Klaa shook his head and muttered
under his breath. He was thinking about James Kirk, and admitting to a certain degree of grudging admiration.

“He is good.”

Galileo 5
groaned to a halt.

Kirk waited, dazed, for the annihilating blast that would surely follow. It didn’t.

In the briefest of seconds, a sense of gratitude stole over him. The hangar’s cargo net must have been activated, preventing the shuttlecraft from slamming against the retaining wall. And the fact that they were still alive meant only one thing: the ship’s shields were up, and had responded with split-second timing. She had performed beautifully . . . No, more than that. She had saved their lives. Jim uttered a soundless apology to the
Enterprise.

Galileo
lay smoldering on the deck. Jim struggled free of his restraints, aware that his every movement further crushed McCoy, who lay pinned beneath him. At first he could not see Spock; the Vulcan had been thrown clear of his restraints. A brief scan of the shuttle’s interior revealed Spock, tangled in a heap with Korrd and the Romulan woman. Spock was unconscious, but Jim could see no injuries.

Beneath Jim, McCoy moaned.

“Bones? You okay?” Jim managed to get to his feet. The floor tilted slightly to one side.

The doctor made a low growl to indicate that he was alive but not necessarily okay. “I take it back,” McCoy muttered. “What I said before about the new ship . . . I take it all back.”

Jim judged Bones dazed but unhurt and decided to
check on Spock. There was no time. Nearby, Sybok struggled to his feet. Jim looked around for the nearest weapon and dashed for it. A phaser lay on the deck, only a few feet away—

He didn’t make it. When he was halfway there, Sybok rose and aimed one of the primitive pistols at his chest.

“We must change course at once,” Sybok demanded.

Jim thought fast. “To do that, we’ll have to go to the bridge. I can take you there.”

“Very well.” The Vulcan gestured at the hatch with the pistol.

Jim pressed the hatch control; luckily, it was still functional The hatch doors opened easily. Sybok gestured for him to go first. Jim crawled out of the wounded craft and waited for Sybok.

Trying to run for safety was foolish; the huge landing bay was too open, too exposed. Sybok would be able to pick him off handily. Better to wait, and stop the Vulcan before they made it to the bridge.

Sybok followed and gingerly stepped out, steadying himself with one hand. At the point where his balance was most precarious, Jim reached out a hand as if to offer help . . .

And grabbed the pistol.

Sybok pulled it back. Both lost their footing and tumbled to the hangar floor. Amazingly, Sybok kept his grip on the weapon, but could not regain his balance to take aim. Kirk flailed at him. With his free hand, Sybok struggled to hold Kirk at bay.

The Vulcan’s strength was incredible, even greater than Spock’s; with one hand, he caught hold of Jim’s
wrist and began to squeeze it. Jim yelped in pain; the Vulcan, if he continued, would crush the bone to powder. Desperately, Kirk continued to try with his other hand to free the weapon from Sybok’s grasp, even though he saw little hope of succeeding.

And then, over Sybok’s shoulder, Jim caught sight of Spock. Sybok was distracted by the sound of someone crawling out of the shuttle. He turned to see who it was.

Jim let go of the pistol and kicked at it with his entire strength.

The weapon clattered to the floor. Before Sybok could recover, Kirk kicked the pistol again until it skittered over to
Galileo,
and came to rest at Spock’s feet.

Spock stared blankly at the weapon in front of him.

Infuriated, Sybok increased the pressure on Jim’s wrist. Kirk groaned as Sybok forced him to his knees, then gathered his strength to cry out.

“Spock! For God’s sake, pick it up!” His voice reverberated in the huge empty chamber.

Spock snapped to as if awakening from a dream. Obediently, he picked up the weapon with obvious distaste. Sybok freed Kirk and faced his adversary. Kirk sat on the floor, cradling his injured arm, and watched.

Spock raised the weapon. “Sybok, you must surrender.”

Sybok smiled faintly and took a step toward his fellow Vulcan. Spock gestured threateningly with the weapon; Sybok stopped. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “it’s my turn to ask
Qual se tu,
eh, Spock? Or perhaps
Et tu, Brute
would be more appropriate.” He took another step.

“Do not force me to shoot,” Spock said, his tone faintly unsteady.

Sybok shook his head; his voice saddened. “Spock, you and I both know that you can’t stun me with that weapon. And I’ve always been stronger than you. If you want to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me.”

Spock aimed the pistol at a spot just below Sybok’s right rib cage, at his heart.

Sybok continued to advance.

“Spock!” Jim cried. He could see the resolve on Spock’s face vanishing. “Shoot him!”

Spock cocked the pistol. In the silence, Jim heard the pellets advance into the chamber.

Sybok began to advance; soon he was a mere arm’s length from the weapon’s barrel.

Spock’s finger tightened on the trigger, then relaxed. The pistol began to tremble very slightly.

Sybok gave a warm smile and put a hand on the barrel. He gently pulled the weapon from Spock, who did not resist. “For a moment,” Sybok told him, “I thought you might actually do it.”

He turned as his soldiers emerged from the damaged craft with McCoy. The doctor hurried to Jim’s side.

“Jim! What the hell happened?”

“What about Sulu and Uhura?”

“They’re all right. The hostages—er, diplomats—are bringing them out. What happened to you?”

Kirk did not answer. He could only glare angrily at Spock; the Vulcan did not meet his eyes. McCoy
seemed to take note of it, but set about taking care of Jim’s wrist and asked no further questions.

Sybok addressed his followers. “Put these two”—he pointed at Kirk and McCoy—“in a holding cell. Spock will accompany me to the bridge.”

Spock stiffened and seemed to recover a shred of dignity. “I will not.”

Disappointment rippled over Sybok’s features. “I suppose you think we’re even now,” he said, then fell silent for a time as he fought for control. At last, he spoke again. “Then you must join them, Spock.”

He turned and was gone.

Montgomery Scott hurried into the landing bay observation booth. Two emotions warred within him: concern for those inside the damaged shuttlecraft, and pride at the way the
Enterprise
had performed. The warp drive had performed magnificently—
Take that, you Klingon bastards,
Scott had thought smugly, as the ship sailed out of the Bird of Prey’s firing range—and the shields were in place and working beautifully. Scott checked the booth’s control panel and saw that the emergency cargo net had been activated. He felt a renewed surge of pride; he’d overseen its repair not two days before.

Good work, lass.
He patted the control panel absently.
Keep it up, and ye’ll earn your name.

He craned his neck to get a quick glimpse through the observation window of the deck below.
Galileo
listed to starboard; the area where her pontoons had been torn away were still smoldering. The landing bay bore the scars of her entry: the metal floor had been scraped and gouged in an almost perfectly straight
trail—Sulu’s handiwork, no doubt—leading from the hangar doors. It must have been one hell of a bumpy ride home.

Scott checked the damage report. The smoke was from friction and a few overloaded circuits, but those within were in no danger from fire or smoke inhalation. The shuttle’s radio was out, too; Scott tried to raise someone and got static for a response.

Normally, medics would have been standing by, but there were no medics aboard; no one save Dr. McCoy had been assigned to the medical staff before the
Enterprise
was forced to leave spacedock. There wouldn’t have been time to pick up new personnel anyway, without the help of transporters.

Considering the odd circumstances of
Galileo’s
arrival, there should have been a security contingent present as well—but the entire department—those who had been assigned so far—were with the landing party.

A quick scan of the shuttle’s interior revealed twelve aboard, all living . . . exactly the right number. Scott sighed with pleasure and relief, and tabbed the intercom toggle. “Scott to bridge.”

Chekov answered. “Are they in one piece, Mr. Scott?”

“Aye, sir. All in one piece, though I’m not so sure about
Galileo.”

“Excellent work, Mr. Scott. We’ll wait for you up here.”

Scott beamed at the compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Chekov. Scott out.”

He closed the channel. A sudden flash of movement caught his eye and made him look away from the
board. He went over by the observation window to watch the drama unfolding on the deck below.

At that very instant, Captain Kirk was struggling with the terrorist leader. The Vulcan held Kirk in a grip that brought the captain to his knees. Scott gasped aloud. Kirk was no match for the Vulcan’s strength, of course, but he fought with all he had, and succeeded in kicking the weapon from the Vulcan’s hand. It slid across the floor and landed directly at the feet of Mr. Spock, who had just climbed from the wounded shuttlecraft

Scott made an indignant sound and reached absently for his phaser. It wasn’t there, of course—he hadn’t thought to bring it. Vainly he looked about for anything he could use as a weapon. But in the starkly furnished interior of the booth, there was nothing suitable. Scott swore in frustration at his helplessness. By the time he found a phaser, the captain and the others might be dead or injured. His second instinct, to call Security, made him swear again.

But it appeared that Spock was about to save the day. Slowly Spock bent down and retrieved the pistol. The army’s leader let go of the captain and faced Spock.

Spock took careful aim, but did not fire. The renegade moved closer, closer ...

Shoot him, Mr. Spock!
Scott urged silently.

. . . And lifted the weapon right out of Spock’s hand. Spock bowed his head.

Scott gasped. Why had Spock not fired when he had the chance?

Scott shrank back into the shadows to watch unseen.

Others appeared: McCoy and a handful of ragtag soldiers, some of them armed with crude hand-made weapons, others with phasers obviously stolen from their prisoners. The landing party had been captured down on Nimbus, which explained their failure to respond to Chekov’s signals.

The soldiers led Kirk, Spock, and McCoy away just as Uhura and Sulu appeared with the three diplomats who had been taken hostage. Shockingly, the hostages themselves were armed and seemed to be guarding Sulu and Uhura. When the leader stepped up to them, Scott crouched down and backed over to the control panel. He located the intercom control and pressed it.

“Chekov!” he whispered hoarsely.

“Speak up, Mr. Scott. What is it?”

“They’re getting out of the shuttlecraft. There’s something verra funny about these hostages.”

“Something funny? Did the landing party manage to recover them? Exactly what do you mean?”

Scott froze. Below on the hangar deck, one of the soldiers spotted him and gave a shout.

Scott wasted no time in making his escape.

“Mr. Scott? Scott?”

No reply.

“Chort!”
Chekov swore over the intercom. “What the devil is going on?”

S
ULU WOKE
to the sensation of an inhumanly warm hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see the underside of the shuttle’s pilot console, and recalled vaguely that he had been slammed against it during the rough landing.

“We’re aboard
Enterprise,”
he croaked, and turned his head to see the Romulan consul, Dar, crouched beside him.

“Are you all right?” Dar asked. In his dazed state, Sulu was taken aback by her loveliness: sculpted cheekbones and a sharp chin gave her an angular, almost feline beauty. Her eyes were lighter than those of any Romulan he’d ever seen, golden brown flecked with green. He began to smile, then tensed at the sight of the pistol she held loosely at her side as he remembered he was her prisoner. Behind her, the
Klingon ambassador watched, one hand resting on his huge belly, the other holding a pistol trained on Sulu’s head. The helmsman sat up cautiously, refusing her offer of help, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uhura?”

Her voice came from only a few meters away. “I’m all right, Sulu. You?”

Dar moved aside to let him see. Uhura was struggling to her feet with the solicitous aid of Talbot, who managed somehow to keep his weapon pointed at her the entire time and still appear gracious.

“Okay. I think.” Sulu rose stiffly. He turned to Dar, his tone icy. “What have you done with the captain?”

“He is uninjured,” Dar replied. “Sybok is seeing to him. No harm will come to him, if he cooperates.”

Sulu raised a skeptical brow at that but said nothing. Dar motioned for the prisoners to make their way toward the hatch. Sulu and Uhura helped each other crawl out of the craft and step down onto the landing deck.

By the time Sulu made it down, he could see the captain, Spock, and Dr. McCoy being led away by the guards. The Vulcan, Sybok, watched the three leave, unaware of the arrival of more prisoners until General Korrd spoke.