DEATH COUNT
By L. A. Graf
Synopsis
Another novel with the original star trek crew.
POCKET BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either products of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
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Copyright 1992 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.
.";' * STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.
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ISBN 0-671-79322-5
First Pocket Books printing November 1992
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Printed in the U.S.A.
Chapter One
AN UNEXPECTED BLAST of neutron radiation clawed across Sulu's helm
display, obscuring his fix on the binary Beta Herculani star system for
a crucial moment. The distress beacon from the crippled shuttlecraft
he'd been tracking faded into static, overwhelmed by the fierce gamma
ray emission of the neutron star coming up close on their starboard
side.
"Chekov!" Sulu's fingers raced across the board in a desperate attempt
to restore their heading. He felt an ominous lurch as the ship slid
into the binary's gravitational pull. "Get me a fix on the major star."
"That's what I'm trying to do." The blood-red glow of ionized hydrogen
filled the navigation screen, casting shadows onto Chekov's face as he
bent over his panel. "I can't find it."
"What do you mean, you can't find it?" Sulu spared just enough time from
piloting to give his companion an incredulous glance. "It's a red
giant! How can you miss a star that big?"
"By having something go wrong with the ship's sensors, that's how!"
Chekov sounded as irritated as the upward-slanting light made him look.
"Our last fix was two eleven mark six. Try that." Sulu tapped the
heading into his computer, then groaned when he saw the arc of their
trajectory begin to build on the display. "Bad guess, Pavel." He swung
his chair around to aim a punch at his navigator's shoulder. The fist
rebounded from such tightly clenched muscle that he wondered if the
Russian even felt it. "We're going down the gravity well."
"Maybe we can slingshot ourselves back out." Chekov glanced up,
scowling, as radiation alarms began to howl around them. "It would help
if you'd pay attention to your screen."
"No, it wouldn't. We're dead." Sulu leaned back in his cushioned chair,
watching the main screen fill with the searing blue-white fire of pulsar
emissions. "As long as we're doing a swan dive into a neutron star, I
at least want to see what it looks like."
"Sulu, that's not funny--" Without warning, the lights on all of their
display screens went dark. Air hissed into the chamber, and the door of
the space simulator popped and swung open. "Haven't you two managed to
rescue that lost shuttle yet?" Uhura asked from outside. Her dark face
gleamed in the mercury-orange glow of the space station lights, looking
both amused and resigned. "You've been in here for half an hour."
"We've rescued it five times." Sulu saw her baffled look and smiled.
"Chekov keeps bumping us up to the next level of difficulty. If you ask
me, I think he just misses working navigations."
The security chief swung his chair around to glare at Sulu, a trace of
red just visible on his neck above his dark shirt collar. "You're the
one who noticed that the Exeter broke our old scoring record on its last
shore leave here. Do you want to set a new one or not?" Sulu opened his
mouth to reply, but the bone-deep roar of an arriving ship interrupted
him. "Announcing arrival ofATS Shras at Space Station Sigma One," said
the crisp, metallic voice of the traffic control computer. "Passenger
transport Shras, of Andorian registry, is now docking at berth 416C."
"This is our last day of shore leave on Sigma One," Uhura reminded them
after the docking noise had faded. "You're not going to spend all of it
in the simulator, are you?"
"Why not?" Chekov looked surprised. Sulu snorted. "Because it's also
our first day of shore leave on Sigma One, thanks to the Federation
Auditor General and his on-site efficiency audit!" He spun his console
around to watch their score click up on the control panel behind them.
The number steadied in the low hundred thousands, and he heard Chekov
grunt with disappointment. "Hey, what do you expect?" Sulu continued,
"I've spent the last three days running so many efficiency drills for
the Federation auditors, I've forgotten how to actually pilot a ship."
"I hope you regain your memory before we leave port," the Russian
retorted. "Otherwise, I'm staying here."
"With the auditors?" Uhura asked mischievously. "Hmmm." An answering
smile tugged at Chekov's face. "Maybe I'll take my chances with Sulu,
after all."
"I'm flattered." Sulu unhooked his safety harness,
stretching the tightness from his shoulder muscles.
"So--is it my turn to pick where we go next?"
Uhura nodded, and Chekov threw him a hopeful
look. "We could keep playing," he suggested.
"Not a chance." Sulu scrambled out of the simulator chamber
before Chekov could prompt it to start
again. He never failed to be amazed by how persistent
the Russian could be in pursuit of a goal. "I'm not
going to spend my entire shore leave piloting a star ship. I
can do that when I'm on duty."
"I can't," Chekov pointed out.
"Tough." Smiling at his friend's frustrated look,
Sulu swung through the narrow hatch and straightened, brushing
wrinkles out of his sleek gray jumpsuit.
"Come on. There's one more place I want to go before
we head back to the Enterprise."
Chekov groaned and hauled himself out in turn.
"We're not going to eat again, are we?" Around them,
a crowd of mixed commercial spacers and off-duty
Starfleet personnel surged through the station gallery,
ducking in and out of storefronts. A few bulky forms
in dark red police armor circulated among them,
looking out of place amid the sparkling lights and
signs. "I'm tired of trying to find restaurants you two
haven't visited-yet."
to."
"Don't
worry, you won't have Uhura brought
her hands out from behind her back and waved a steaming pastry under
Sulu's nose. The spicy smell of baked fruit wafted through the
overfiltered station air. "I found a new bakery while you were playing
with neutron stars. Here, I bought a pie for each of you."
Sulu took the fruit pastry from her, smiling. "Uhura, this is why I like
to go on shore leave with you. Mmmm, this is great?
Chekov lifted the pastry to eye-level, inspecting it suspiciously.
"What's the yellow stuff inside?"
"I'm not sure." Uhura reached in her bag for a third pastry. Her robe
swirled when she moved, its dappled African colors almost as vivid as
her fine-boned face. "I couldn't quite make out what the baker called
it. I think he said Elysian cloud-apple--hey, watch where you're
going!"
A red-suited policeman shoved his way between them, paying no attention
to Uhura's protest. The small communications officer was forced to skip
sideways to avoid being trampled, losing her pastry in the process.
"Hey!" she said again, more angrily, as bright. yellow filling
splattered across the pavement. "Didn't you hear me?"
"Apparently not." Sulu reached out to steady her with one hand as the
armored officer swept past them. He used the other to hang on to Chekov.
"This isn't the Enterprise," he reminded the security chief. "You're not
in charge here; they are."
"No, they're not." Handing Uhura his pastry, Chekov turned to watch the
policeman disappear into the crowd. Sulu could tell from the set of his
back that he wanted to follow. "Sigma One security guards wear black,
not red. And they don't walk around dressed as if they're expecting a
riot. I don't know who those people are, but they're not station
security."
"If you'd checked the station newsboards before you jumped into that
simulator, you'd know who they are," Uhura informed him, swiping at the
fruit stain on her robe. "They're Orions."
"Orions?" Chekov swung around with a scowl. "What are Orions doing on a
Federation space station?"
"What are Orions doing in uniform?" Sulu turned to stare in surprise
after the suited figure. Up until now, the only Orions he'd seen were
the scruffy pirate variety, the ones Starfleet kept chasing out of the
far corners of Federated space. These riot-suited aliens with their
phaser riries and grimly visored helmets were a different breed
entirely. "Did Starfleet let an Orion military ship dock here?"
Uhura shook her head, making her earrings jangle. "It's an eden police
cruiser, on some kind of seamh-and-seizure mission. The newsboards said
Sigma One had granted it a temporary writ of authority, but I think the
Orions just had the station outgunned."
"Then they came in before the Enterprise did," Chekov said flatly. "How
long have they been on board Sigma One?"
"I'm not sure." Uhura glanced around as another outburst of indignant
shouts marked the policemen's path through the crowded gallery. "I
gather it's been long enough for them to be annoying. Of course, with
Orions, that's not saying much."
Quietly enjoying the tavern's collage of well-mannered patrons, his feet
stretched beneath the table to re st on the chair across from him, James
T. Kirk took note of the moment the wicked clock-spring of tension
inside him uncoiled and melted away. He dosed his eyes and sighed
deeply of the place's anchronistic smells--wet wool, warm oil-wood, the
distinctive sting of the brandy he held cupped, untouched, between his
hands. This wasn't the sort of place he'd have enjoyed on shore leave
twenty years ago, but for an administration-badgered starship captain of
just over forty, it more than fit the bill.
"Mr. Scott," h sighed aloud to his chief engineer, "this is the best
idea you've had in ages."
"Aye, sir." He could practically hear the smile in'he engineer's thick
brogue. "I thought it might be."
A good-natured snort from beside Kirk made the captain crack one eye. "I
could stand it if they served some real food," Leonard McCoy complained
as he scowled over a printed menu card. "What the hell is
'bubble-and-squeak'?"
"Something my father used to threaten us with when we were children."
Scott scooted his chair around next to McCoy's and tipped the card so he
could read it. The red-and-black splash of wool tartan over one
shoulder stood out brightly against his white cardigan. "Not all
Scottish food is something to be proud of, I'm afraid," he cautioned the
doctor, looking worried. "We gave the world haggis, too, you know."
"Oh, good Lord ...."
Kirk laughed, pushing up the sleeves on his summer-weight blazer. He
was already regretting having left the ship in something so light--he'd
forgotten how chilly space stations could be with only one ship's worth
of crew wandering around on board. "Be daring, Bones. Bubble-and-squeak
is just a name."
"Sounds like boiled mice." McCoy flipped the card to the wood table with
a sigh. "Next time, I'm going on shore leave with Uhura. At least, she
knows where all the good restaurants are."
Kirk grinned and closed his eyes again. "Man does not live by bread
alone."
"Man doesn't live by bubble-and-squeak, either," the doctor retorted.
The captain laughed, but didn't answer. Personally,
he hadn't thought about eating for a while--and wasn't surprised to find
the thought still didn't interest him much. After spending the last
three days chewing up his stomach in frustration over four nosy
Federation efficiency auditors poking through his ship, he didn't think
he'd want to put food down again until the Enterprise was well away from
Sigma One. He intended to start that departure just as soon as the last
shore leave personnel returned to the ship this evening--himself
included.
"Jim, are you going to drink that brandy or just stare at it?"
"You're the one that keeps telling me that staring at it is healthier,
Bones."
McCoy swatted the bottom of Kirk's foot with one hand, and Kirk had to
jerk fully upright to keep from sloshing brandy all over the lap of his
trousers. "Don't get smart with me, Captain. You're supposed to be
here to relax."
Pursing his lips around a half-hearted scowl, Kirk brought both feet to
the floor and set his brandy on the table. "I am relaxing." He sniffed
the brandy again, decided he still didn't want it, and pushed it toward
McCoy. "What's the matter? Aren't I relaxing efficiently enough?"
Scott chortled appreciatively, and McCoy's leathery face opened into a
sly smile. "Aha! Do my trained medical senses detect some lingering
hostility here?"
"What lingering?" Kirk folded his arms, decided that seemed too
defensive and settled for leaning his elbows on the table instead. "I
haven't even expressed enough hostility to be down to just 'lingering.""
"That's all right, sir." Scott raised his glass in ironic salute. "I
think my lads have expressed enough hostility for the lot of us."
Kirk acknowledged h
is engineer's sentiment with a tip of his head. "What
is it with these people, anyway? The Enterprise needed an efficiency
inspection like Spock needs a psychologist." He thumped back in his
chair, arms folded after all. "I've got the best, most efficient crew
in the Fleet, and the Auditor General knows it as well as anyone. Eating
up our leave time with interviews and inspections was a waste of
everybody's shore leave."
"They had auditors down in sickbay, too." McCoy sounded dangerously
close to placating, and Kirk slid him a warning look to stave off the
worst of it. The doctor acquiesced by throwing his hands up between
them. "I'm just saying the irritation was mutual, Jim. But orders are
orders--it's not like you could have done anything to keep them from
coming on board."
Kirk thought that he could have told Chekov to position guards at every
transporter station and use phasers on anyone carrying a clipboard and
inspection manual. That probably wasn't what McCoy had in mind, though.
"At least it's over," Kirk sighed, willing his muscles to relax and his
irritation to bleed away. "We won't have to worry about it again in my
lifetime."
Scott ruined the moment by glancing over his captain's head and aiming a