Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: I've recently read that there will be a few Star Trek reboot books coming out. Can't wait but I hope there'll be some interesting differences to reflect the character changes and not just the run of the mill recycled stories featuring the 'nu crew'. They're all a lot younger and a lot greener so should be some fun there - thinking Kirk and his hands lol, or Sulu and the parking brake - along with the usual ST story lines.

OoOoO

Hikaru Sulu was a pilot. It was in his blood, however many generations removed. Cruisers, shuttles, starships, size really didn't matter. He loved nothing more than the intense concentration that came with piloting, the narrow focus where the margin for error was whittled away by sheer skill and instinct combined. He didn't believe in fate, but he'd always known he'd been born to fly.

And he was disciplined. People knew him as a cool in a crisis kinda guy, a Starfleet lieutenant who would carry out orders with nothing but proficiency and the innate expertise he wielded when it came to piloting.

And now here he was, with the red alert lights flashing, with shields up, with every weapon locked and loaded, with Spock staring at him with a single raised eyebrow and an expression that didn't need a Vulcan's logic to say 'you'd better have a good reason for this Mr Sulu'. Even Uhura was looking at him, most of the Bridge crew were he realised, though the navigator next to him was studiously not looking at him. Probably didn't want to get caught in any cross-fire that might impinge on his own record.

Sulu'd never have pulled anything like this before Kirk had come aboard.

But if Chekov could refuse to back down in the face of older crew members judging him not on his abilities but on his young age, so certain of his calculations and theories, how could Sulu be anything but true to his own instincts.

Spock was waiting on an answer.

"Sir, they're waiting for this, waiting for us to emerge from the gravity well. They're counting on it."

"On what do you base your premise, Lieutenant?"

Good, the Commander was listening. He hadn't thrown Sulu off the Bridge for illogical human behaviour just yet, even if Sulu himself wasn't so sure he could explain what his instincts were telling him.

"They know exactly where we are but they didn't finish the attack. Why?"

"That is the question we are all asking."

If Sulu hadn't known better, he'd have thought the dry tone in Spock's voice was thinly disguised sarcasm. Well, he wasn't going to get any more encouragement than that.

"You said it yourself Commander," he said and Spock frowned, clearly thinking back to the earlier tactical discussion. Sulu clarified, "We can't use the transporter, the beaming technology can't cope with the gravitational distortions here in orbit. Out there..."

"The transporters would be fully functional," Spock pointed out.

"Ours and theirs, Sir. They took out our shields once to prevent us warping out of here, they could do it again before our weapons could get a lock on them. If they wanted to destroy us they would have done it already. This way they can beam on-board the Enterprise and try to capture her without any risk to their ship."

Sulu fell silent as Spock paused, his intense demeanour suggesting he was running the parameters through his mind.

"We cannot remain indefinitely in orbit," the Commander concluded. "At some point they may choose to attempt to force us out and logic dictates they will re-engage before warp repairs are complete."

"Yes Sir, if I may?" Sulu said, feeling pinned beneath the sudden Vulcan gaze. He hoped to hell he had this right. "Instead of moving out of the gravity well, we move closer to the moon. Take the ship into a low orbit. That way, if they want us...they'll be forced to follow us. With the gravitational distortions, if we're blind...then so are they Commander."

Spock eyes lit with mutual understanding. "If we cannot be sure of a superior tactical advantage, we equalise it."

"Short ranged sensors are still functional," Uhura chimed in. "If they do follow us in, telemetry may be able to get readings on that ship."

Sulu threw her a grateful glance, glad she was backing him on this.

"Very well." Spock steepled his fingers, considering. A moment later he nodded to Sulu, "Chart a course Lieutenant. Take us in closer."

Sulu swung back to his console, blowing out a silent breath along with all the tension he'd been holding onto. He just out-logicked Spock in a burst of critical thinking, there went his cool guy image. And somehow, with all the training at the Academy, all the grooming and encouragement, there was an unspoken agreement that being the pilot meant flying the ship. Never questioning, taking orders and following them to the best of his ability. Before Kirk had come aboard, that's exactly what he would have continued to do under Pike. Now, there was something different about the Enterprise as a Starfleet ship, as if all the rules and protocols had been tossed out the airlock.

Now, with Kirk as Captain, opinions of individual crew members were heard, valued. Even unproven theories and crazy-ass ideas...like piloting a constitution class Starfleet flagship closer to an erupting moon.

OoOoO

Jim Kirk heard a groan, pained and drawn out and as the world tilted back into focus he realised where the noise was coming from. Himself. His back hurt, his arms and legs felt beyond bruised. Staring up through the bubble-like glint of the shields above, he tried to engage his body to move, too winded by the impact of his fall to catch his breath.

"Keptin Kirk, Keptin Kirk." Chekov's worried face, hood pushed back, filled his vision and the kid was urgently patting him on the arm. Kirk resisted the urge to swat him away. He was in pain dammit.

"I'm fine Chekov," he tried to reassure the worried Russian, ending up in a coughing fit that sucked in more frigid atmosphere than he'd have like. It took a moment to regain his Captain's dignity. "You?"

"I am uninjured Sir."

"Then go check on Dr McCoy," he ordered, and the youth quickly disappeared.

Flopping over onto his front, biting back more groans of pain, he realised he'd rolled down a small incline away from the ship. Gazing at the frozen ground below him, he felt real fear creep down his spine. The ice had taken on a translucent sheen, an eerie yellow glow rising from far beneath the surface, plumes of steam beginning to rise in more and more places as the thick sheet was consumed. The air itself was a whole lot warmer and smelled a whole lot worse too. Sulphur from the core, he realised.

The ominous cracks and snaps coming from the ice sheet beneath was definitely not a good sign either.

A metallic clang made his head jerk up and through the low visibility of the rising steam he made out two figures, black coats and hoods, armed with a rifle apiece, emerge from a hatch. Kirk dropped his head to the ice. Why did the universe hate him so much? Didn't the saying go that she favoured the bold?

The mercenaries strode forward, confident their prey was down and vulnerable.

Or maybe it was the incredibly nuts.

Kirk jammed his boots into the ice as hard as he could and launched himself forward with a furious yell. Catching the first man around the middle, he ploughed into both his surprised attackers with enough force to bring all three of them skidding down onto the ice.

One rifle skittered away and he grabbed for the second, twisting it from the stunned man's grip and slamming the butt down hard, hearing something crack, feeling the mercenary go limp beneath him. One down...

Before Kirk could bring the weapon to bear, a hard punch sent him sprawling backwards, his senses reeling under the blunt trauma attack. He tasted blood as a heavy body slammed on top his own, his attacker pinning him down, grabbing his throat and lining his face up for a succession of fast, furious punches, one that blackened his left eye in a single, brutal strike.

Stunned beneath the sheer viciousness of the assault, Kirk numbly felt the weight of the rifle still gripped in one gloved hand. With a low cry he swung it inwards, clipping his assailant across the head. The mercenary was thrown sideways off Kirk, momentarily dazed and Kirk leapt on the chance, bringing the rifle around, finger stretching for the trigger...

The other man grabbed the barrel and twisted it upwards, the shot blasting harmlessly above. And suddenly they were grappling for the weapon. Up close Kirk could see the dark, determined features of the other man, knew that look would be echoed on his own face - the fight for survival. It was ugly desperation. Kirk knew if he lost control of the weapon he was a dead man.

The mercenary was strong, trained beyond anything a Starfleet officer would be taught. He released the rifle with one hand to jab vulnerable spots on Kirk's throat and solar plexus with deadly accuracy, the parka absorbing some of the force but not enough. Kirk couldn't hold back his grunts at each impact, clinging onto the rifle with nothing but sheer stubborn determination. Damage and acute pain was starting to weaken his muscles and a sharp, savage strike to his chest blew all the air from his lungs.

Sensing he was faltering, the mercenary grabbed the rifle, began forcing the barrel towards Kirk, grunting in effort, veins pulsing as he used superior strength to turn the deadly weapon on the Captain. A few inches more and Kirk would take a plasma blast full in the face. Not even his dental records would be able to identify him after that...

But there was one thing the mercenary hadn't reckoned on.

Long before Kirk had become the youngest Starfleet Captain in its history, long before he'd entered the Academy for three years of training, long before he'd defeated time-hopping Romulans...he'd been a bar brawler, a bum, someone who loved nothing more than getting into fights and fighting hard and dirty at that.

The mercenary's eyes were wide and triumphant, sensing his imminent victory. Kirk released the rifle, then swept his arm upwards to deflect its aim, mirroring the move the other man had made earlier. A plasma blast scorched his cheek, singeing his hair, but his gloved fingers jabbed unerringly forwards, striking the mercenary's face.

His assailant roared, falling backwards and clutching at his damaged right eye, as Kirk ripped the rifle from his hands. Neither man had so much regained their feet during their close quarter fight, and the mercenary kicked out, half blind, as Kirk tried to stagger upright. His boot caught the inside of Kirk's knee, sending the young Captain back down.

A flash of a blade, refracting light, and Kirk reacted without thinking, twisting the rifle to bear and pulling the trigger without a microsecond's hesitation.

The mercenary went down instantly, flattened beneath the blast, the smell of charcoaled flesh instantly rising from the body. A knife clattered harmlessly onto the ice from the dead man's limp fingers.

Kirk hunched over the rifle, gripping it hard in an effort to steady his badly shaking hands, taking shuddering lungfuls of putrid atmosphere. Adrenaline was masking most of the agony, he knew. Pay-up would be a bitch in a few hours without the effects of copious amounts of alcohol to deaden the pain. Being a responsible Starfleet Captain had its drawbacks.

"Keptin!"

Still on his knees, Kirk glanced over his shoulder, squinting against the glare with his unblackened eye. Chekov trotted closer but now he stopped, hesitant and shocked, his eyes lingering over the bodies in front of his Captain. The fight had felt like it had lasted minutes, but Kirk knew the reality was it had taken far less than that to take both mercenaries down. The kid had probably come running the second he heard the first plasma shot.

"What is it Chekov?" Kirk croaked, wincing and reaching for his throat. Ow.

The kid didn't answer, seemingly absorbed by the scene before him. Kirk realised he'd probably never seen the bloody aftermath of a hand to hand battle up close before. Kirk had seen worse, had participated in worse. He was almost getting used to having the snot kicked out of him on a regular basis.

"Chekov!" His injuries were making him as irritable as McCoy.

Chekov pivoted, his attention swivelled to Kirk, training snapping him out of his shock. "S-sorry Sir. Dr McCoy is fine Keptin but..."

An almighty crack made Kirk's eyes widen and he glanced about as the ground began to tremble. Chekov staggered, fought to remain upright.

"Hold on!" he yelled in warning over the rumble, digging his hands into the ice to steady himself, wondering if this was it, if they were too late.

But the tremor subsided, bottomed out, and Kirk released a breath. They didn't have much time, they...

And suddenly there was another crack, ice shifting and falling away.

One moment Chekov was standing there, the next he was gone.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR