Legacies #2

by David Mack

“Which means it was either an inside job,” Uhura said, “or the thief was a professional, the kind with access to high-tech equipment.”

  “So much for the easy way. Let’s patch in the Enterprise’s computer.”

  “Just a moment.” Uhura made more adjustments to create a data link that wouldn’t be detected by the locals. “All right, we’re up. Now what?”

  “Download all security vids from the entire campus, with time stamps from midnight to now. Have the computer cross-reference them for men coming to the hospital before two-fifteen, and leaving the hospital after two-twenty.”

  “Dumping the vids to the Enterprise’s databanks.” More lightning-fast keystrokes. “Starting analysis.” A dizzying kaleidoscope of high-resolution images blurred past on the screen for several seconds, then there were only three vids, each a compilation of footage from different cameras, tracking three separate persons who fit Chekov’s parameters. “Three suspects.”

  “Not for long.” Chekov reached past Uhura to jog through the compiled vid files. “This man must be at least sixty years old.” He applied a facial-recognition algorithm to a clear image of the man entering a faculty residential tower on the campus. “Professor Gustav Wanaki, chair of the Philosophy Department. I do not think he is our man.”

  Uhura scrubbed through the next video. “Our parameters may have been a bit wide. This young man came into the trauma center with a broken arm over two hours before the attack—and he didn’t leave until an hour after.” She pulled a supplemental vid from the hospital’s trauma center, whose cameras had not gone offline. Prominently visible on a biobed in the trauma center, waiting patiently between brief visits by nurses, doctors, and technicians, was the young man with his fractured ulna. “I’d say we can rule him out. Which leaves—”

  Chekov sped through the last video. “He wears a hood and stays in the shadows. And he works hard not to show his face to the cameras—as if he knows where each one is, on every part of the campus.” A grim nod. “Just like a thief.” Then Chekov paused the image and augmented a small portion: a reflection off the window of a parked hovercar. It was only a blurry image, nowhere near enough to confirm someone’s identity, but there was something distinctive about the shape. Chekov squinted at it. “I think that is an ear.”

  “Not just any ear,” Uhura realized. “That’s a Tiburonian ear.”

  “Good to know.” He sent the vid flying forward again. It froze on an ominous report: SUBJECT LOST. “These vids track him only on campus. Can we pull up vids of him from the city’s security grid?”

  “I can try.” Accessing the police databases posed a slightly greater challenge for Uhura; this time it took her almost ninety seconds to obtain full access to their citywide network of automated surveillance systems. “I’m triggering a trace function that should be able to follow our Tiburonian friend by matching his movements from one camera zone to the next.”

  The lone figure zipped down city streets, which were otherwise empty in the overnight hours. Then the suspect slipped inside what appeared to be a multiunit residential building.

  Chekov looked at Uhura. “Any vids from inside?”

  She shook her head. “Private property. No surveillance.”

  He frowned, then an idea put the shine back in his smile. “Is he still inside?”

  Uhura sped through a few hours of vid data from the blocks surrounding the building. “Unless there’s a secret way out through the basement, I’d say there’s a good chance he is.”

  “Then we’ve got him.” He pulled out his communicator and flipped open its gold grille with a flick of his wrist. “Chekov to Enterprise.”

  He was answered by the overnight watch officer, Lieutenant Dickinson. “Enterprise here. Go ahead, Ensign.”

  “Lieutenant Uhura is about to send you coordinates for a residential building in the city of New Athens.” He fixed her with an expectant look, so she followed his lead and transmitted the building’s coordinates to the Enterprise with her tricorder.

  Over the communicator, Dickinson said, “Coordinates received.”

  “I need you to run a sensor sweep of that building,” Chekov said. “Tell me if you read any Tiburonian life-forms inside.”

  “Scanning now. Stand by.” Several seconds passed before Dickinson returned to the channel. “Ensign, we read one Tiburonian life-form at that location.”

  “Can you transport him to the New Athens police lockup?”

  “Negative. That’s outside our jurisdiction, Ensign. But we couldn’t do it even if we had cause—there’s too much interference. He must be carrying some kind of data ­scrambler.”

  “Like the kind that can black out surveillance cameras?”

  “Exactly. Even on stand-by, it would be enough to prevent a pattern lock.”

  “Understood, Enterprise. Beam me and Lieutenant Uhura to the street outside that building, and have a security team join us.” Noting Uhura’s cautionary glare, he added, “And please warn the local police: we are about to take a suspect into custody.”

  * * *

  Chekov set his phaser to heavy stun. Under routine conditions, protocol required the weapon stay on light stun unless otherwise ordered by a senior officer. However, in a circumstance such as this—heading into a confrontation to apprehend a suspect known to be violent and possess skills associated with professional criminals—the heavier setting was considered permissible.

  He glanced to either side and was satisfied to note that both Uhura and Lieutenant Pran, the leader of the six-strong security detail that had just beamed down from the Enterprise to join them outside the suspect’s location, had also opted to nudge their phasers up to heavy stun.

  Pran, a svelte man whose black hair had recently started to gray at the temples, confirmed his team’s readiness with a look, then he nodded to Chekov. “Good to go.”

  Uhura added, “Ready, Ensign. What’s the plan?”

  “Lieutenant Pran and I will go in the front,” Chekov said. “Lieutenant Uhura, you and Ensign Chapman cover the rear door.” He looked past Pran to the other security officers. “Waid, Downing. Stay here, watch the front in case the suspect gets past us. Resnick, Dehler. Have the Enterprise beam you to the roof in case the suspect flees that way.”

  The group fanned out. Uhura and Chapman slipped across the dark street toward a narrow alley that led behind the eight-story residential tower. By the time Chekov, Pran, Waid, and Downing climbed the steps to the front entrance, the street resounded with the gentle droning of a transporter beam moving Resnick and Dehler to the building’s rooftop. Pran tried the front door. It let out an angry buzzing noise as it rejected his effort to force it open.

  “Locked,” Pran said. “I can bypass. Shouldn’t take more than—”

  His thought was interrupted by the wailing of sirens from close by, and getting closer by the second. Chekov’s hand tightened on his phaser. “I think we are about to have company.” He pivoted to face the door. “Stand back!” Pran stepped aside just in time as Chekov fired a phaser shot through the door’s locking mechanism. It erupted in a fountain of sparks, and the door lurched open. “Inside!” Chekov snapped.

  He looked back as he waved his men past, into the building. Three police hovercars zoomed around corners at either end of the street and converged on the building the landing party was invading. Lights snapped on behind curtained windows in all the nearby buildings as the neighbors stirred to see what all the commotion was about. As Chekov hurried through the doorway, his communicator chirped. He flipped it open on the run. “Chekov here!”

  “Chekov, this is Enterprise,” Dickinson said. “Your suspect’s moving! Looks like he’s in a lift, heading for the roof!”

  “Warn Resnick and Dehler!”

  “Already done.”

  “And beam Uhura and Chapman to an adjacent, higher roof!”

  “Acknowledged. Stand by.�
�

  Chekov whistled to snag the attention of the men ahead of him. They halted and looked back. He pointed at the lifts. “Get to the roof!”

  Pran reached the control pad and called a lift car. The doors opened as Chekov caught up to the three security officers. They piled in as local police charged through the front door into the lobby a dozen meters behind them. “Let’s go,” Chekov said, pressing the roof button.

  The youngest of the security officers, Downing, asked, “What about the police?”

  Still annoyed the police had alerted the suspect into fleeing, he grumbled to Downing, “They can catch the next one.” Another chirrup from his communicator. He flipped open the grille. “Go ahead.”

  Over the comm he heard the shrill screech of disruptor fire drowning out Dehler’s voice. “We’re taking fire,” she shouted, more to be heard than out of fear. “He has us pinned down.”

  “Hang on,” Chekov said. “We’re almost there.” He adjusted the device’s transceiver settings. “Chekov to Uhura. Can you give Resnick and Dehler covering fire?”

  “We’re trying,” Uhura said. “We can’t get a clear shot.”

  Pran tapped Chekov’s shoulder. “Five seconds.”

  “Stay low, fan out.” A muted ding announced the door was about to open onto the rooftop level. Chekov swallowed hard and tensed to make a run for cover. The doors opened.

  In came a flurry of disruptor shots.

  His instinct told him to duck into a corner or hit the deck, but he raced forward instead. Behind him, a disruptor blast slammed into Downing, throwing her against the back wall of the lift as if she’d been hit by a charging bull. Pran and Waid evaded the barrage and split up as they fled the lift. In seconds, they and Chekov found cover behind low machinery clusters on the roof, all of them peeking around and over their shelters to pinpoint their foe’s position.

  A shot screamed past Chekov’s head. He ducked and rolled, then looked again. “He’s moving east!” Chekov returned fire. His phaser’s blue beams crisscrossed the red streaks leaping from the Tiburonian’s disruptor and traced smoldering paths across a stairwell housing and a stand of ventilation pipes. Then they both were back behind cover, plotting their next moves.

  Chekov looked around and found Pran and Waid. Downing was still lying in the lift, her feet preventing the doors from closing, which meant the police would be unable to come up that way to provide reinforcements. A stolen peek over another machinery box revealed Dehler and Resnick both were down. He glanced over his shoulder at the tallest adjacent building; crouched at its edge were Uhura and Chapman, both with clear lines of sight to Chekov and Pran.

  Simple hand signals made it clear that Uhura and Chapman had no shot. Chekov directed Pran and Waid to flank the suspect while he proceeded directly toward the man. Everyone acknowledged with a thumbs-up and moved out as Chekov broke from cover.

  Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he jogged across the roof. He was completely exposed, the bait in the trap. All he could do was hope that when the suspect popped up enough to shoot him, either Pran or Waid would take him down first.

  Then came the cross fire.

  Blue phaser blasts came from either side; crimson surges from the Tiburonian’s disruptor shrieked back in response. Ricochets and stray blasts forced Chekov into a crouch, but he refused to stop, not when he was so close. Then a lucky shot took down Waid—

  A retaliation by Pran seared through the suspect’s shoulder—

  The Tiburonian unleashed a wild spray of energy pulses, then ran toward the ledge.

  Chekov shouted to Pran—“Hold your fire!”—as the suspect sprang off the roof.

  Too late. Pran’s phaser blast hit the Tiburonian square in his back.

  Stunned, the suspect dropped his weapon as he tumbled, flailing, across the void between buildings, then dropped like a stone toward the adjacent, lower rooftop.

  The Tiburonian struck the other rooftop’s edge with a sickening crack of breaking ribs. Even so, he clawed at the raised lip that ringed the rooftop and fought for purchase as he slipped backward, toward the long drop into the alley­way below.

  Chekov didn’t break stride as he neared his roof’s edge. He vaulted from it and leaped across the divide, soaring like gravity’s angel, arms windmilling as he dropped, then he crouched and tumble-rolled as he crashed down on the other side. He let his phaser fall away as he skidded to a stop, then he scrambled back to the Tiburonian.

  The suspect was dangling by one hand as Chekov reached him—then that hand slipped. Chekov caught the Tiburonian’s sleeve as the man fell, and the weight of him nearly pulled Chekov over the edge as well. He wedged his knee against the low raised edge and spread his body out against it to distribute the burden of the hanging man’s weight.

  “I’ve got you,” Chekov said to the Tiburonian. “Just hang on! We—”

  The man’s sleeve ripped, its cheap fabric reduced in a blink to tatters.

  And then he was gone, falling into the shadows. Seconds later, Chekov winced at the wet slap of a body meeting pavement with fatal velocity.

  His communicator beeped. He pulled it free and snapped it open. “Chekov.”

  It was Dickinson. “Ensign, we have a lock on your Tiburonian.”

  “Beam him up,” Chekov said. “And me with him.”

  “Are you sure? Sensors say your suspect’s dead.”

  “Beam us up, Enterprise. And have Doctor McCoy meet us in the transporter room.”

  “Stand by.”

  Knowing he had a few seconds to spare, he stood and walked back to retrieve his phaser. No sooner had he tucked it into its loop on his belt than he felt the reassuring embrace of the transporter’s annular confinement beam. Next came the familiar rush of mellifluous noise, followed by pale golden light—which intensified to an almost blinding white before fading to reveal Chekov’s new surroundings, transporter room one aboard the Enterprise.

  Next to him on the platform was the bloody, broken corpse of the Tiburonian suspect he and the others had been chasing. True to its species’ reputation for rapid decomposition after death, the corpse had already begun to reek.

  The transporter operator stared in horror at the mangled body. “What happened?”

  “Deceleration trauma,” Chekov said.

  The door to the corridor swished open. Doctor McCoy hurried in, followed by Captain Kirk. Both men recoiled from the stench of the splattered body spilling blood across the transporter platform. Kirk glared at Chekov. “Explain this, mister.”

  “Sorry, Captain. I tried to save him, but his sleeve ripped.”

  “Why didn’t you leave him where he landed?”

  “If I had left him in the alley, the local police would have blocked our investigation again. At least now we can identify him.”

  “That wasn’t your call to make, Ensign. This planet has laws, and as long as we’re here, they apply to us, whether we like it or not.” The captain frowned at the corpse, then shot another withering look at Chekov. “The next time you track a suspect, I want them alive. Understood?”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  McCoy stood between Kirk and Chekov. “Jim, go easy.”

  “I’ll ease up when I get some answers, Bones.” He glowered at the pulverized body. “But dead men tell no tales.”

  The doctor turned a sly glance at the corpse. “They say more than you think.” He looked back at Kirk. “Give me an hour.”

  Kirk relented. “One hour, in the briefing room.” Without another word, he turned away, walked out the door, and was gone.

  McCoy frowned, then shook his head at the mangled corpse next to Chekov. “Just out of curiosity, Ensign . . . what did this man do?”

  Chekov saw no reason to hide the truth any longer.

  “He assaulted your daughter.”

  “He what?” The surgeon
did a surprised double take. “Is she—?”

  “She wanted to tell you herself. But she is fine.” He glanced at the dead Tiburonian. “Which is more than I can say for him.”

  McCoy sighed with relief, then regarded Chekov with a new degree of respect. “Remind me to buy you a drink next shore leave, Ensign.”

  Fourteen

  Each passing hour made the Velibor’s damage list grow rather than diminish. Despite the engineers’ best efforts, cascade effects continued to multiply, all thanks to the alien device the Tal Shiar martinet Sadira had patched into the bird-of-prey’s main power relay. Creelok found it hard at times such as this not to succumb to bitterness.

  My ship is made of eggshells and Sadira wants to fix everything with a hammer.

  Most of the ship’s interior was dimmed, and the majority of its onboard systems were in standby mode, as part of a silent-running protocol. Instead of using turbolifts, the crew was moving about the vessel by means of its emergency ladderways. Even the life-support systems were operating at a bare-minimum level, making the air on the command deck hot and stale.

  Subcommander Bedisa conferred at the weapons station with Kurat, a tactical specialist, then she moved to join Creelok at the central command console. “Passive sensors detect no change in their orbital patterns, and no signal traffic to suggest our presence is known.”

  “Good.” Creelok reached out to call up a tactical chart for the system, then stopped himself as he remembered command systems were still offline—temporary casualties of his chief engineer’s need to divert all possible reserve power to the cloaking device. “Any word from Ranimir on how much longer we’ll be working in the dark?”

  “Ask him yourself.” Bedisa lifted her chin toward the aft hatchway. “Here he comes.”

  Creelok turned to greet the bedraggled, sweat-soaked, and grime-covered engineer. “I presume you haven’t come all the way up here to deliver good news.”

  “Afraid not, Commander. We’re still half a day away from being fully operational. But I did come bearing a proposed solution.”