Captain's Glory

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Sometimes it was Harry Mudd, and sometimes it was Kodos. But this time, when the turbolift doors parted, it was the Gorn who charged him.

Kirk stumbled backward as ivory claws slashed the air.

He lost his footing, fell to the deck in the corridor of his ship, scrabbling back to avoid the inevitable.

The Gorn advanced, one heavy, deliberate step after another. Its obsidian blade flashed with each strobe of the red-alert warning lights, gleamed with the deep, rich color of blood.

“I weary of the chase.”

Each word was guttural, hissed.

“Wait for me… I shall be merciful and ssswift.”

Kirk froze, no longer able to move, even to save himself. The Gorn towered over him, arm raised for the killing stroke, its muscles bunched beneath its scales. Its breath enveloped him with the stench of rotting meat, of death, defeat.

But defeat was nothing Kirk could accept, and in his primal rejection of death, he regained control of his body, kicked at the creature’s knees.

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