Death Count

by L. A. Graf

  The burly man shook his head stubbornly. “I insist.” He tugged at Sulu’s shoulder, and the helmsman allowed himself to be led into the cluttered storeroom, noticing that Chekov paused in the door to keep one wary eye on the front of the store. The burly shopkeeper reached into one corner, pulling a dust-sheet off a bulky object there. Black marble glittered in the refracted light. “There—what do you think?”

  “Uh—” Sulu blinked at the curving oval pond, a smaller cousin to the one out in the shop. “You want to give that to me?”

  The store owner nodded. “A little thank-you present for saving my shop.”

  Sulu glanced over his shoulder at Chekov, silhouetted in the doorway. “But I’m not the one who saved it.”

  “No, but you’re the one who brought your friends here.” The burly man’s smile was surprisingly warm. “If I’m not mistaken, son, this is the third time you came in today to look at those water chameleons. I figure you must want some, and you’re going to need something to keep them in.”

  “I was just going to put them in an old fish tank I have.” Despite himself, Sulu stepped forward to run a hand over the marble pond’s sleek surface. Metallic flakes glittered inside the jet-black surface, giving it a shimmer like fine mica. He stepped back with a wistful sigh. “It’s beautiful—but I’m afraid Starfleet regulations won’t let us accept gifts this expensive.”

  The store owner grunted and began to pull the container out of its corner. “Don’t worry, this thing’s not worth a Tellurian nickel. I make these ponds myself, out of marble-epoxy, and this one’s a dud.” He tipped the container back to show Sulu its supporting column. “See that streak across the base? Too much silver flake leaked into the mold there, and ruined the whole thing.”

  “Are you sure?” The small imperfection didn’t seem like much of a flaw to Sulu.

  “Why do you think I have it back here, instead of out in the shop?” The shopkeeper tossed an honest grin at Sulu. “And I’m only giving you the pond. I figured I’d let you buy the lizards and the lilies.”

  Sulu chuckled appreciatively. “Well, in that case—” He helped the storekeeper carry the pond back into the main room, finding it less heavy than it looked. Chekov stepped back to let them past, eyes narrowed dubiously.

  “Are you sure you have enough room in your jungle for a swimming pool?” he demanded, following them back out to the larger lily pond.

  “I’ll make room.” Sulu raised an eyebrow as Uhura pushed through the curtain of lianas to join them. “What took you so long?”

  “Station security kept putting me on hold.” Her lips tightened. “I finally pulled rank on the communications officer and made him put me through. The security chief said she’d be down as soon as possible. I get the impression she’s gotten a lot of calls about Orions recently.” The communications officer glanced over at the small marble container. “What a nice pond!”

  “Thanks. Chekov got it for me.” Sulu grinned when the Russian scowled at him, then turned to watch the shopkeeper lift a potted lily out of the water with a long-handled scoop. A dozen invisible chameleons came with it, chirping anxiously, and the man expertly shook them into two small plastic bags.

  “I’m still not sure this is a good idea.” Chekov came to stand beside them, frowning. “What happens if your lizards get loose? The last thing we need is a bunch of invisible reptiles running around on the Enterprise.”

  The burly man grunted, knotting the bags so a bulge of air remained in each. Muffled chirps came through the plastic as the chameleons tried and failed to blend with the transparent walls. “Don’t worry, son, Halkan chameleons never go very far from their home ponds. And they don’t need anything special to eat, just standard fish food. That’ll be twenty credits.”

  Chekov grunted. “That’s a lot to spend for one plant and a bunch of singing lizards who’ll keep you up all night.”

  “Oh, Chekov, stop being so grumpy.” Uhura took the bags the shopkeeper handed her, cradling them against her robe as Sulu paid the bill. The chameleons promptly turned a dozen sunset colors. “I think this is the best hobby Sulu’s ever had.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” observed the Russian dourly. “You’re not the one who’s going to have to carry this swimming pool back to the ship.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who lifts weights, not me.” Sulu picked up the water lily, careful not to touch the pollen-dusted petals, then thanked the burly man with a nod. The shopkeeper nodded back at them, smiling as he watched them go.

  “That’s what you always say when we have to carry something heavy.” Despite his protest, Chekov lifted the marble pool easily enough, balancing it against his shoulder. Sulu exchanged smiles with Uhura as they followed him out the door. “Remind me never to take shore leave—”

  The Russian’s voice broke off when he stepped out into the station gallery, but with the glare of the mercury lights in his eyes, Sulu didn’t see the reason why until he and Uhura had emerged in turn. A stark black wall of Sigma One security guards ringed the shop door, phasers aimed straight at them.

  “Don’t anyone move,” said a clipped female voice. “This is station security—” She leveled a damning finger at Chekov. “—and you, sir, are under arrest.”

  Kirk couldn’t help thinking that Maxwell Petersen didn’t look—or sound—particularly sympathetic to his situation.

  “I’m sorry, Jim,” the commodore sighed, tossing his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. “There isn’t anything I can do.” He waved Kirk into the chair across from his own. “You know I would, if I were able.”

  Kirk glanced at the offered chair from habit, then found he couldn’t quite make himself give up on his pacing and sit down. “You can keep them on the station,” he suggested. Then, anticipating Petersen’s objection, “You’re the officer in charge of this sector, Max—you can do anything you want, and we both know it. That includes detaining four Federation auditors long enough to let me get out of port.”

  Petersen laughed. “Jim, for Starfleet’s brightest captain, you can be awfully dense at times.”

  Kirk stopped at the edge of the commodore’s desk, but swallowed the first unkind thing he thought to say. Being sarcastic with a commodore—even one he’d helped promote to that position—wouldn’t do much toward saving his crew from six weeks of annoyance. “I’m glad you think this is funny.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny; I think you’re overreacting.” Petersen leaned forward in his chair, reaching out to poke at the perpetual motion sculpture on the table in front of him. The new infusion of energy hurried the sculpture’s movements, flashing little splinters of reflected light all around the commodore’s office. “It’s politics, Jim. Somebody in the Auditor General’s office is up for reelection—yours is just the ship lucky enough to be in port when it happened.” He grinned up at Kirk and folded his hands. “Recognize that it’s bigger than both of us,” he half-teased, dark eyes still a bit serious for his words. “Accept it. Move on.”

  Kirk drummed his fingers on Petersen’s desk. Two-bit philosophy rarely did much for his moods. “Does the Auditor General know his people are going into the Andorian sector?”

  Petersen shrugged. “I assume so.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  When the commodore only rolled his eyes, Kirk strode forward to confront him. “That’s about as close to leaving Federation space as you can get without actually doing it, Max! On top of that, political relations there aren’t exactly friendly right now. I’m not sure we should send a starship into that kind of powder keg to begin with, much less a starship full of civilians.” He threw himself into the chair after all, glaring at Petersen across the dancing sculpture. “You know the Andorians are almost ready to declare war over this Muav Haslev thing?”

  “Which the Orions,” Petersen countered, “swear they had nothing to do with.”

  Kirk snorted. “And why would the Orions lie?”

  “Look, Jim—” Peter
sen pushed the sculpture to one side, leaning his elbows on his knees to peer across at Kirk as though they were discussing a deep and common goal. The captain stayed seated just as he was, loath to lie with his body language any more than he would with his words. “The Andorians are exactly why we’re sending you in there,” the commodore explained. “The Orions on Rigel VIII may be neutral, but Andor isn’t. We can’t have the Andorians running around threatening wars that could involve the entire Federation. We’re hoping a little Starfleet presence will remind everyone not to start anything we’ll all regret.”

  Kirk knew halfway through the commodore’s speech that what to do with four Federation auditors was too far outside Petersen’s present concerns to get much of a hearing. “If the Andorians are close enough to war that you need a starship to dissuade them,” he tried anyway, “I think that’s all the more reason not to send civilians into the area.”

  “Starfleet is confident the Enterprise’s presence is exactly what will keep things safe for civilian traffic.”

  “Dammit, Max—”

  “We’re short a ship, Jim.” Something in the commodore’s voice silenced Kirk, something grim and rough, like the tearing of overstressed metal. “The Kongo suffered a containment field breach,” Petersen said into the tight silence between them. “Two days ago, a half-day from here at warp four. She lost nearly one hundred crew in her secondary hull, has at least another fifty who might follow due to radiation exposure.”

  A sharp, burning image suddenly slashed across Kirk’s mind—a combination of memories, knowledge, and fears. It was easy to paint in mental details of the accident, only this time it was Kirk’s ship with her engines blown wide, Kirk’s people reduced to radiation shadows on the corridor walls. “My God—”

  “This Andor expedition was the Kongo’s assignment. Now, her captain isn’t even sure he can get her into port without assistance. I’ve sent a brace of tugs to locate her, but we can’t say if she’ll ever be spaceworthy again.” Petersen sighed, and the honesty of it prickled Kirk with guilt for having badgered the man.

  “Is there anything the Enterprise can do to help?”

  “Yes.” Petersen looked at him, no longer smiling. “You can take this Andor run and try to prevent a local war between the Andorians and Rigel VIII. You can quit griping about four efficiency auditors as if they were the worst thing that could happen to a starship crew. Understand me?”

  Surprisingly enough, Kirk found his earlier irritation more than willing to resurface. “Yes, sir. I understand.” He understood he’d be stuck with four number-conscious pencil-pushers for six agonizing weeks, and it wouldn’t do either the Kongo or the Enterprise any good.

  Damn.

  The intercom on Petersen’s desk shrilled, and a strident female voice cut across their conversation. “Station Security to Commodore Petersen.”

  Petersen leaned far to his left to punch the answer button, still watching Kirk as though not trusting the captain to just sit there and behave. “Petersen here.”

  “Chief Brahmson here, sir. We’ve had an altercation in the Galleria on Deck Five, something about weapons being stolen from Orion PD. As near as we can tell, no shots were fired, but the Orions are insisting we prosecute.”

  “Oh, hell.” Petersen surged to his feet. “Five’ll get you ten the Andorians are involved. Tell the Orions I’m on my way. We’ll work something out.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Petersen snatched up his jacket from the back of his chair, glaring at Kirk when the captain stood as well. “Andorians and Orions, Captain,” he sighed. “It’s like mixing antimatter with matter.” He shook his head and started into the hall. “Let’s hope this is as bad as it gets.”

  Chapter Three

  THE PRIVACY WINDOW in the door to Chekov’s cell shuttered open, and an unfamiliar face bobbed into view. “You’ve still got one call you can make,” the Sigma One guard offered, “if you want.”

  Chekov looked up without lifting his chin out of his hands. “Can I call my captain on the Enterprise?”

  “No. You can only call someplace on station.”

  Shrugging, he turned his attention back to the opposite wall. Their answer hadn’t changed since the first time they’d asked him this question, so neither had his. Chekov assumed that sooner or later they’d catch on and quit asking him.

  After a moment, the privacy window flickered dark again, and Chekov was left alone.

  Whoever had designed the Sigma One holding cells obviously hadn’t intended them to be occupied for very long. Chekov assumed they housed drunks and vagrants, mostly—the occasional rowdy spacer on leave, just to fill out the bill. There was a toilet, an all-purpose bench-bed wall arrangement, and four distressingly similar corners on which to pass your time. There wasn’t even enough room to pace, really, since the bed took up a quarter of the cell in one direction, and pacing too close to the door in the other invariably brought guards running to make sure he wasn’t trying to escape. Since his only other option seemed to be spinning in random circles, Chekov simply waited on the edge of his bed, alternately drumming his feet and drumming his fingers for lack of anything better to do.

  When they’d first brought him into Sigma One’s security station, the guards had been ethical enough, if rude.

  “Look at this, John! Another civilian superhero, taking guns away from Orions.”

  “Why don’t you try and take my gun, son? If you can get it, you can go.”

  Chekov almost took him up on that one, fairly certain that if anyone ended up shot in that exchange, it wouldn’t be him. He’d already sent Sulu and Uhura to contact Commodore Petersen’s office, though, and it probably wouldn’t encourage the commodore to look kindly on this whole incident if Chekov ended up holding his entire security division at gunpoint. So he’d just kept his mouth shut while they paraded him in front of various screens of paperwork and confiscated the Orion phaser.

  Then they’d run the retina scan and obtained a positive ID.

  “Oh, my God,” the tow-headed desk sergeant had gasped, his cheeks flushing very red. “You’re in Starfleet!”

  Chekov wondered what the ID net said about him. “That’s what I told you.”

  A half-dozen guards crowded around the sergeant’s shoulders, and he pointed out one or two items on the screen. “Starship security,” one of them muttered, as if he’d just found out their prisoner was going to explode. “Holy cow—”

  After that, they’d taken Chekov’s jacket, his belt, and every piece of identification he had. They probably would have taken his boots, as well, but there was apparently some disagreement about how safely they could come within kicking distance. They took everything they could reach over the counter, though, then escorted him back here, where he obviously wouldn’t be a danger to anyone but himself.

  It occurred to Chekov that maybe Starfleet should do something about security’s reputation among civilian personnel.

  A loud rumbling from the front of his cell caught Chekov’s attention from the ever-enthralling wall, and he looked up just in time to see the door slide away to reveal a glimpse of nearby freedom. The guard in the hall stepped deferentially aside, replaced by a more massive figure in familiar, welcome Starfleet burgundy and gold.

  “Lieutenant Chekov?”

  Chekov jumped to his feet, delighted to see anyone not dressed in Sigma One black. “Lieutenant,” he said, recognizing the other man’s rank as he came forward to shake his hand.

  “Lieutenant Lindsey Purviance, from Commodore Petersen’s office.” Although nearly twenty centimeters taller than Chekov and broad enough to fill the doorway from shoulder to shoulder, Purviance’s handshake was nervous-hot, and remarkably gentle and shy. “I’ve talked with station security about what happened,” he said in a voice that matched his tentative demeanor. “They understand your captain’s waiting on you to leave port, so they’re releasing you to my custody. If you promise you’ll come back to go before their local judicator as soon as this mis
sion’s over, they’ll let me take you back to the Enterprise.”

  Chekov leaned around Purviance’s imposing bulk to nod at the young guard behind him. “I promise.”

  “All right, then.” Purviance handed him his jacket, the pockets already heavy with sundry items. “I’ve got a shuttle waiting, and your friends are in the lobby. Are you ready?”

  Chekov nodded, digging quickly through his pockets while he followed the other lieutenant into the hall, just to make sure everything was there. As they passed into the outer office, he glanced by reflex at the wall chronometer, and his heart sank into his stomach. “Oh, my God! Is that the right time?”

  Purviance frowned, looking around until he found where Chekov was looking. “Well—yes. Is there some problem?”

  “The Enterprise was supposed to leave port twenty-eight minutes ago.” Chekov groaned and buried his face in his jacket. “I just made an entire starship late for departure.”

  “The captain’s going to kill us,” Sulu pronounced for what Chekov thought must be the hundredth time since their shuttle left the lock at Sigma One.

  “We’re only forty minutes late,” Chekov said, pacing the narrow aisle while their taxi set down in the midst of the Enterprise’s hangar bay. “No one forced you to wait for me. You weren’t under arrest, you know.”

  Sulu sighed and nodded. “I know.” They’d been through this a hundred times, too.

  “Besides, if it hadn’t been for those Orions, we’d have been back on board in time to leave dock on schedule.” Chekov wished he could make himself sit down, but almost two hours in that tiny Sigma security cell made even a passenger shuttle feel big enough to be worth prowling. “Surely, the captain knows this wasn’t our fault.”

  Uhura made a little sound of disbelief, then turned to look behind her when the outside door sighed open as the signal they could leave. “But, Chekov, it is our fault.” She stood, both arms wrapped around the pot of Sulu’s wilted water lily. “If you hadn’t taken that policeman’s weapon—”