by L. A. Graf
“Starship Enterprise, this is Police Commander Shandaken.” Like the Orion aboard the Umyfymu, the commander spoke stiff but flawless English. “You will permit us to immediately board and search your ship.”
“Request denied.” Kirk’s mouth hardened as he frowned. “Neutral police forces have no authority over Starfleet vessels.”
“But you are carrying Orion criminals.” The commander lifted a stubby, accusing finger. “There, right on your bridge!”
“What?” Kirk swung around to meet Chekov’s astonished look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Shandaken. This man is one of my line officers.”
“He’s also an Orion criminal.” Shandaken folded his arms across his burly chest, chin jutting with disdain. “He attacked and injured one of my police officers on Sigma One—”
“That’s not true!” The sudden depth of Chekov’s accent conveyed his outrage more clearly than the words themselves. “All I did was disarm him!”
“That’s enough, Mr. Chekov,” Kirk said quietly.
“—and then he stole an Orion weapon,” continued the commander implacably. “And smuggled it aboard your ship—”
“He did not!” Sulu swung around, stung by that injustice. “Chekov handed the Orion’s phaser over to Sigma One security, Captain. I saw him do it.”
Kirk shook his head at him, warningly. “Mr. Sulu, I said that’s enough.”
“—not to mention interfering in legal Orion search procedures.” Shandaken’s face darkened with a scowl. “For all these offenses, we demand the right—”
“Captain, that was not a legal search procedure!” This time it was Uhura who broke into the accusation, her vivid face ablaze with indignation. “That Orion was destroying Federation property with no provocation—”
Kirk frowned. “Commander Shandaken, excuse me for a moment while I confer with my crew.” The Orion grunted as his image faded back into the starfield outside. The captain promptly swung around to pin Chekov with a keen hazel gaze. “All right, Lieutenant. Remember the explanation I asked you to put in your report about Sigma One? I think you’d better give it to me now.”
“Yes, Captain.” The security officer sat rigidly at attention in front of his bridge station. Even from the helm console, Sulu could see the way the Russian’s knuckles had whitened around his controls. “We came across an Orion policeman physically assaulting one of the merchants on Sigma One. All I did was take his phaser. He must have reported me to station security; I turned his phaser over to them when they arrested me.” A trace of red tracked up his cheekbones. “You know the rest.”
“Hmm.” Kirk didn’t bother to glance at Uhura or Sulu for confirmation; he obviously knew his security chief. “That doesn’t seem like a very good reason to come chasing after you, Mr. Chekov.”
“I know, sir.” Chekov threw a baffled look at the ships glittering on the viewscreen. “I don’t understand it.”
“Orions are known for holding grudges,” Sulu offered. “Maybe they thought they could make an interstellar incident out of this, and embarrass the Federation.”
“Maybe.” Kirk motioned to Uhura. “Get the Orion police commander back on line.”
“Yes, Captain.” The screen rippled back to the bridge of the Mecufi. Shandaken looked up from a handheld communicator, blinking in surprise.
“Your conference is over already, Captain?” he demanded.
“Yes, and I have one question for you.” Kirk’s voice was bland. “Since the altercation with your policeman occurred on a Starfleet space station, I presume you’re aware that any prosecution of Lieutenant Chekov would fall under the jurisdiction of the Federation?”
The Orion’s bushy eyebrows yanked together. “That is not acceptable—”
“It is, however, the only legal recourse available to you,” Spock pointed out calmly.
Shandaken brought a fist down on his command chair. “We refuse to—”
The screen rippled without warning, and the reduniformed Orion was replaced by one in bronze and black—obviously from another ship. His broad face wore an even more severely plaited beard than the police commander’s, with a captain’s medallion dangling from one beefy, dark green ear. A busy military bridge gleamed behind him, stark contrast to the ancient cargo holds visible through narrow windows.
“Starship Enterprise, you are on direct course for Orion space.” The dark growling voice was the one that had spoken previously from the Umyfymu. “This is a violation of Orion neutrality.”
Kirk’s lips tightened. “Our course is set for the Federation border, Commander, and our orders are to stay on our side of it.”
The Orion military commander snorted. “Federation double talk! Why patrol the border unless you want something on the other side of it? I warn you—if you do not alter course immediately, we will be forced to open fire.”
“Chekov.” Kirk never took his eyes from the other commander. “What’s the maximum speed an Orion T-class destroyer can make?”
“Warp four, Captain.”
“And the police cruiser?”
Chekov shook his head after a moment’s scrutiny of his monitor. “According to our records, no better than warp three.” He glanced up with suspicion dark in his eyes. “If the Umyfymu hadn’t stopped us with that fake distress call, the Mecufi would never have caught up to us.”
“I was beginning to suspect that, Lieutenant.” Kirk dropped a hand on Sulu’s shoulder. “Mr. Sulu, engage warp engines. Take us out to the Orion border.” He cast a mischievous smile at the screen. “At warp six.”
The corridor outside was blessedly devoid of people when Kirk finally left sickbay some five and a half hours later. He took a moment to stretch his shoulders, and calculated their distance from the Orion border without really meaning to. Another day, perhaps, of travel before they had to face the tensions boiling along that troubled lane. God, it was awful to think this was all just leading up to the real action.
He doglegged down an adjacent corridor, aiming for a turbolift at random and flexing his fingers into his palms in rhythm with his thinking. Experience had taught Kirk that missions badly begun frequently ended badly, as well; the fact that none of their current problems related to Orion-Andorian hostilities didn’t set his mind at ease. All that mattered to him right now was that his ship had suffered radiation damage, a member of his crew had already died, and his chief surgeon was up to his eyeballs in work thanks to both disturbing events. McCoy hadn’t even supervised Kirk’s radiation screening; he’d been too busy ministering to a guilt-racked transporter technician who’d sunk beyond anyone’s ability to reassure. If Kirk could fix only one thing about this horrible day, it would be that.
“Mr. Taylor,” a woman’s voice echoed from down the hall, “I’m afraid I can’t let you leave this area.”
And then there were the auditors.
Kirk paused a dozen meters outside the security corridor, just beyond the junction that would take him to the turbolift and away. He listened to voices from deeper within security as they swelled in his direction, repressing a scowl of annoyance just as John Taylor popped into view at the mouth of the department doorway. Somehow, Kirk thought, it seemed only appropriate that one of the auditors would show up to ruin even something so simple as a trip back to his quarters for the night.
“Don’t try to intimidate me,” Taylor instructed the young Korean woman who followed him out of security. “I’ve been threatened by bigger fish than you, Ensign Paek, and none of them ever forced me to obey orders, either.” He stood in profile to Kirk, mouth twisted into a sour line.
“I don’t mean to intimidate,” Paek began, but Taylor talked right over her.
“If your lieutenant should happen to miraculously appear sometime this evening, tell him I’m not impressed by his strong-arm tactics. Either he releases Aaron Kelly with all charges dropped, or the Auditor General gets an earful about misuse of Starfleet authority. Understood?”
Kirk wondered if auditors c
ould be reported for misuse of authority, too.
“Mr. Taylor,” Paek insisted, stepping sternly behind the auditor when Taylor turned to stalk down the hall toward Kirk, “attempting to drop a brigforce screen constitutes a jailbreak, sir. If you attempt to leave this area, I may be forced to shoot you.” She raised frantic eyes to Kirk, her phaser still untouched on her hip.
Kirk nodded, not interested in finding out how Taylor would cast this incident if Paek did as expected and carried out her duty. “Hold your fire, Ensign.” She relaxed her shoulders in silent relief, and Kirk ambled over to block Taylor’s path when the auditor made to hurry by him. “You seem to have this effect on everyone,” the captain commented pleasantly. “Is it a talent, Mr. Taylor, or an acquired skill?”
Taylor stopped before he could bump into Kirk, and sighed down at the captain. “I’m not interested in your sarcasm, Kirk.” He jerked a nod over his shoulder. “Are you aware that your chief of security has incarcerated one of my auditors?”
Kirk made a show of following Taylor’s indicated gesture, eyebrows lifted. “I’m aware that one of your auditors violated Starfleet regulations, and that Lieutenant Chekov reacted accordingly.” He cocked his head. “I thought you were the one with such a high regard for regulations.”
“For regulations, Captain,” Taylor returned with a scowl. “Not for using them as an excuse to harass Federation officials. It’s not as though Aaron murdered someone, or sold Starfleet secrets to the Klingons.”
“By setting off a false alarm,” Kirk pointed out, “Mr. Kelly endangered the safety of everyone on this ship.”
“Endangered?” Taylor laughed, but it was malice that sparkled in his dark eyes. “Come on, Kirk—your man broke my man’s nose, remember.”
Kirk laced his hands behind his back before his right fist clenched. “He’s lucky Chekov didn’t break his neck.”
Almost immediately, the captain could have kicked himself for his quick tongue. Taylor’s mouth stretched thin on a predatory smile, and the auditor asked in grim innocence, “May I quote you on that?”
Kirk wished it had been Taylor inspecting that transporter instead of Gendron. “You can do whatever you please,” he said, “just so long as you do it from your quarters.”
Taylor pulled his head back, blinking. “Excuse me?”
If Taylor was intent on deluging the Auditor General with complaints, Kirk figured he might just as well make the bad report a clean sweep. He wouldn’t let his people go down without him, either way.
“You’re confined to quarters, Mr. Taylor,” Kirk said, mimicking Taylor’s expression of innocence. He felt some satisfaction, at least, in the frustration that flashed across the auditor’s face. “Security’s been investigating three deaths, not to mention all their usual starship duties. Lieutenant Chekov doesn’t need you down here interfering with his people’s efficiency, and I certainly don’t need you coming to me every time something doesn’t go to your liking. So—” He lifted a hand to wave Paek forward without taking his gaze off Taylor. “Ensign Paek, why don’t you escort Mr. Taylor to his quarters? And see that Auditor Chaiken is in her room, as well. I don’t think we’ll need to assign a door guard, but I’m sure that can be arranged if Mr. Taylor would prefer it.”
Taylor jerked his elbow away from Paek’s light touch. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he grumbled, glaring at the guard.
Kirk smiled tightly and nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Will we be allowed out of our quarters again once your people have finished their investigation?”
Kirk shrugged. “We’ll talk about that when the time comes.” He nodded Paek toward the turbolift, and she hastened to obey, one hand firm on Taylor’s elbow despite his squirming. “I’ll warn you, though,” Kirk said as they passed, “investigations don’t often go the way you want them to. And Lieutenant Chekov has a lot of other things to do.”
By 2300, Chekov almost wished Kirk had kept them around to fight it out with the Orions. It would have saved Chekov from joining his crew at the transporter room cleanup site, at least, and might have given him something to worry about besides a multiple murder, Scott’s newly discovered petty thefts in engineering, and Taylor’s plans for dismantling his department. Leaning back against the wall of the turbolift, the three infrared visors he carried clacking quietly against each other, Chekov listened to the lift slow for Deck Seven and hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep in the absurdly long time it seemed to take the doors to open.
Chekov hadn’t seen Taylor since their fight this afternoon. Granted, the lieutenant had been in engineering since shortly after the Orions faded from view, following Scott’s people around and compiling a list of the cutters, capacitors, and meters that suddenly no one in engineering could find. The junior engineers were convinced someone had made away with the equipment; Chekov was convinced nerves had everyone scenting foul play in the aftermath of the transporter accident. “Why would anyone need all these things?” he’d asked more than one of them. They’d only shrugged, returned the visors he’d sent down days before for repairs, and gone back to their work; they weren’t willing to speculate.
Too bad Taylor can’t get into engineering, Chekov thought, heading down the evening-dimmed corridor toward his office. Any chance that Taylor might be a suspect in the robberies could have been excuse enough to bunk him in the brig alongside Kelly. Except that would probably guarantee the destruction of Chekov’s department, so the thought really wasn’t so attractive, after all. Chekov shifted the visors uneasily from one hand to the other, wondering if Taylor could actually see some structural problem that he and Kirk were missing, or if all of this was nothing more than personal bias on the auditor’s part. He fervently hoped it was the latter.
Passing by the doorway to the duty desk, Chekov heard the murmur of discussion without being able to distinguish the actual words. He identified the guards on duty by the shape of their voices, by the characteristic rise and fall of their intonations and the length of their sentences: Recchi and Paek. The careless pattern of their conversation said nothing was wrong, so Chekov didn’t bother interrupting them. He was supposed to be off duty anyway; he could read their reports in the morning.
He tossed the visors to his desktop amongst a scatter of waiting tapes and records, and knew he was tired when the disarray didn’t even bother him. Much. He was just about to turn his back on the clutter to key open the cabinet behind his desk when his eye caught on a note beside his computer, scribbled in his own hand: Sweeney.
He hung his head, one hand on the infrared visors preparatory to putting them away. Oh, God—Sweeney. He still had to clear Sweeney’s gear out of the squad room and get it down to cargo for transport back to Earth. Sliding the visors off the desk, he turned back to the cabinet, waited through the retina scan, identified himself for the voice ID, unlocked the doors with his key, and tried not to sling the visors into the rear of the cabinet as he thought about distilling a young man’s career down to only as many one-by-one-by-one-meter boxes as could be stacked in the corner of a small civilian shuttle.
It was at times like this that he hated his job.
No one had been in the squad room for hours. Chekov turned up the lights as he came through the door, watching the darkness draw away from tables and lockers, listening to the late-night hush that was so different from the room’s normal daytime chatter. At first, he didn’t see the white storage carton he’d left for loading, earlier that day. Then he caught sight of the crate already stacked with three others, filling the top of a table that had been pushed against one wall. Guilt and relief mixed uncomfortably inside him. Someone else—probably Sweeney’s bunkmate, Coffey—had already packed Sweeney’s belongings and marked them for transport. One less job to do, Chekov thought, as he threaded his way between tables and chairs to look at the markings on the pile. Still, it was a job he’d have preferred no one have to do in the first place.
On top of the first box, a hand-scrawled note cover
ed a small pile of loose items.
Chief,
Please send with.
Chekov picked through the accompanying pieces, feeling a little like an unwelcome intruder at some other family’s funeral. A disk of who-knew-what—photo images, music, text. He put it with the note and set it aside. A small spray of preserved flowers, handwritten sympathies from at least three different people, a bright, jumbled collection of pictures from a field hockey game the guards had played at their last rec stop. Chekov rearranged the photos in the order he’d found them, then placed them gently beneath the original note to hide Sweeney’s smiling face from view.
“You have an alarm in your cabin,” Sulu’s voice croaked from behind him, “that goes off whenever someone tries to get into your office. I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but does the word ‘anal’ mean anything to you?”
Chekov jerked around, startled, and knew the flash of irritation he felt was just a surface substitute for the embarrassment churning inside him. Embarrassment over what, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he wiped at his eyes with the back of one hand as though expecting to find something there. “What are you doing here?”
Sulu leaned heavily on the squad room doorjamb, his uniform jacket unfastened and rumpled, one hand shielding his eyes against the overhead lights as he squinted across at his friend. “I think I hate you. You’re dressed, you’re clean, you don’t even need a shave.” He tipped his head slightly to peek at the squad room clock, and groaned sleepily. “God, Pavel, do you know what time it is?”
Chekov half-glanced at the clock, even though he was perfectly aware of the time. “Sulu, what are you doing here? You work first shift in the morning.”
“I don’t work anywhere if I can’t get into my room for a bath and clean clothes.” He slid into one of the chairs, yawning. Stop that! Chekov thought at him angrily. I don’t have time to get sleepy! But the damage was already done, and he caught himself echoing the helmsman’s yawn. “I guess I fell asleep on your couch. Where the hell have you been?”