Literature
Kirk's battlefield
It is Kirk, but not as we know him
Daggers all around me, yet no clear battlefields ahead. On the crimson and dimly lit bridge of one of the Empire’s first upgraded D7’s, captain Kuroth, son of Burgath, pondered his precarious situation. His arms remained on the rests of his brown chair, that looked like it had been crudely milled from a single rusty, steel bar. His gaze was stern, his back straight. But it was all posturing indeed. In space for three weeks, they had yet to find a worthy enemy. One whose slaughter will be worthy of songs, Kuroth thought. Not like those pathetic Nausicaans, who happily threw themselves onto my blade.
Close behind his chair on the elevated platform in the centre of the bridge, he could almost smell the musty iron from the blood clots in his first officer’s unwashed hair. ‘The only thing that reminds me of battle around here’, J’vok had grunted just this morning, when one of the few remaining Nausicaan prisoners had complained about it. On its own, it
