STAR TREK - TOS - 62 - Death Count

DEATH COUNT

By L. A. Graf

Synopsis

Another novel with the original star trek crew.

POCKET BOOKS

London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

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

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

.";' * STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster

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reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof

in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230

Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-79322-5

First Pocket Books printing November 1992

10987654321

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

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 his 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

dark, Scottish frown at the doorway. "We might be speaking just a wee

bit too soon, I'm afraid..; ."

"Kirk?" Heavy footsteps thundered up behind him, followed by a sharp rap

on the shoulder. "I need to talk with you, Captain. As usual, your

people are causing me problems."

Dropping his head, Kirk rubbed his eyes with one hand instead of turning

to growl at John Taylor. "Mr.

Taylor, I am on shore leave. Mr. Spock is on the ship if you have

questions--"

"Damn right I have questions!" Taylor stepped into Kirk's peripheral

vision, Obviously waiting for the captain to look up at him. He'd be

waiting a long time, Kirk decided. "Your Commander Spock says we've

been barred from reboarding the Enterprise. Is that true?"

"Vulcans don't lie, Mr. Taylor." Kirk finally swung his chair to face

the man, and couldn't help lifting eyebrows in surprise to find all four

auditors fidgeting impatiently behind him. He focused on the taller of

the two men, knowing from three days' hard experience that Taylor was

both mouthpiece and motor for this unit. A more offensive and prickly

mouthpiece, Kirk couldn't have easily imagined.

"You've been barred from the Enterprise," Kirk said, "because your

business there is finished. I was told to assist in your inspection

while we were in port. You said last night you were done with that

inspection, so, as of this morning, you have no further authority or

need to inspect either my ship or my crew. I'll thank you to leave us

our remaining shore-leave time in peace." He nodded to the other three

auditors, and moved to turn his back on them in the hopes they'd all

take the hint and drag their boss away.

"Not so fast, Captain." Taylor stopped him with a hand on his chair and

a hard copy film of Federation letterhead under his nose.

Kirk took the film in both hands, refusing to recognize the boarding

permit or the official-as-hell signature beneath it. "What's this?"

"My orders." Taylor crossed his arms, lips curled in a sneer of

satisfaction. "I found a number of discrepancies while compiling my

people's reports on your

crew. The Federation Auditor General thought it a good idea to observe

your ship in the course of a normal mission. That way, we can decide

who's at fault before my final report is filed."

Kirk clenched his fist until the permit crumpled to near-unreadability.

"At fault?" McCoy's blue eyes snapped with a disapproval Kirk had

learned to recognize well over the years. "You turn people's jobs and

experience into sets of little numbers, then you think somebody has to

be at fault when those numbers don't match up to some desk jockey's idea

of efficiency? Good God! How are we supposed to be efficient with you

people sticking your noses into everything all the time?"

"Lingering hostility," Kirk reminded the doctor. McCoy only made a face

and fell silent.

"You can't come with us." Kirk turned his chair to face Taylor again,

suppressing a guilty swell of satisfaction when the auditor danced back

a few steps to avoid colliding with the captain. "No matter what the

Auditor Genefal thinks, you're still civilian personnel. The Enterprise

is scheduled to conduct three separate planetary explorations in the

Canopis sector on our next assignment. As captain, I have the right to

declare any of those explorations too dangerous for civilians." He

spread his hands and smiled his most painfully charming smile. "I am

hereby declaring them so."

Scott leaned across the table to shrug apologetically. "You can't very

well study a crew's efficiency when you aren't even able to be with the

crew, now, can you?" He sounded as reasonable and contrite as any man

ever could. "Maybe next time."

Taylor narrowed dark eyes to peer back and forth from one to another of

the three officers. Kirk honest lO

ly couldn't remember if Taylor's every expression and gesture had

irritated him from the beginning, or if the rare degree of enmity they

shared had developed along the way. It probably didn't matter anymore.

"What if you weren't going to Canopis?"

"But we are," Kirk said. "Even you can't change that."

Taylor snapped a finger against the flimsy in Kirk's hand. "I don't

have to. Commodore Petersen already did."

That clock-spring of tension came back with annoying facility. Kirk

flipped the printout in his hand, frowning down the long chains of

legalese until words like "Orion" and "surveillance" popped out of the

morass. "They can't do this." He shot a glare up at Taylor, and wanted

suddenly to slap the hauteur from the auditor's face. "Why wasn't I

told?"

Taylor shrugged, snatching back the flimsy. "I'm sure there's a message

waiting back on board for you. Maybe you don't check your mail prompts

often enougll." And maybe this was all some stupid misunderstanding, and

the Au ditor General wasn't really trying to push some starship captain

into murdering a team of his investigators. Standing, Kirk pulled the

flimsy from Taylor's hand much more politely than the auditor had taken

it from him.

"Where are you going?" Taylor asked when Kirk stepped past him.

"To talk to Commodore Petersen. There has to be some mistake." Kirk

stopped in the doorway to glance behind him. "Bones, Scotty--I'm afraid

I'll have to take a rain check on that lunch."

They were already out of their chairs and headed after him. "Are you

kidding?" McCoy grumbled while

auditors parted before him like a flock of flustered pigeons. Taylor

turned an irate circle, mouth agape even though he didn't try to stop

the doctor. "If I have to eat anything called bubble-and-squeak," McCoy

declared, "the last thing I need is somebody criticizing the efficiency

of my digestion." He bumped Scott with one elbow, favoring the auditors

with a withering glare. "Come on, Scotty--let's go find someplace

that's a little more discriminating about who it lets inside."

Chapter Two

"THOSE WER the rudest policemen I've ever met."

Uhura's voice still smoldered with indignation. "Look at them--they're

shoving everyone around!"

Sulu nodded, frowning as he watched the dark red figures weave through

the crowd. Their spacing seemed too carefully measured to be the random

result of shore leave. "I think they're looking for someone. Or

something."

"Well, I hope they don't find it." Uhura took a bite of the pastry she

held, then looked at it in surprise. "Pavel, did you give me your

cloud-apple pie?"

The security chief looked over his shoulder at her,

' his frown fading down to one worried line between his eyes. "No, my

pie was the one that dropped," he assured her. "That one's yours."

Uhura gave him a dubious look. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Sulu grinned. Knowing how much Chekov disliked trying any new food made

it even more fun to watch him wriggle out of it. "Coward," Sulu said,

licking the last pastry flakes Off his fingers. He glanced around,

looking for a directional marker. "Come on. We've only got an hour of

shore leave left, and the store I want to visit is at the other end of

the Galleria."

"It would be." Despite his sigh, Chekov followed Sulu readily enough

down the gallery's curving tunnel, merely pausing to let Uhura fall into

step in front of him. Sulu noticed that the Russian kept a wary gaze on

the red-suited figures moving through the crowd. "So, what hobby is it

this week?"

Sulu blinked, startled by the accuracy of the question. "How did you

know--I mean, what makes you think I've got a new hobby?" He glanced

back over his shoulder, hearing Uhura's soft ripple of amusement join

Chekov's deeper laugh. "What's so funny?"

"Sulu, there are some things we always do when we're on shore leave

together," said Uhura with a smile. "Chekov always cajoles you into

playing simulator games--"

"Uhura always finds some strange food for us to eat," added Chekov

wryly.

STAR TREK - TOS - 62 - Death Count

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