by Alan Gratz
It’s all in fun until someone gets hurt—or killed.
The rules are simple: draw a target. Track him down and “kill” him with a spork. Take your victim’s target for your own. Oh, and make sure the player with your name doesn’t get to you first. The game ends when only one player remains.
James T. Kirk is playing for fun. Leonard “Bones” McCoy is playing to get close to a girl. But when a series of explosions rocks the usually placid Starfleet Academy campus, it becomes clear that somebody is playing the Assassination Game for real.
Is it one of the visiting Varkolak, a ferocious species with whom the Federation has a shaky relationship? Or could it be a member of the Graviton Society, a supersecret group at the Academy that works to eliminate threats to the Federation?
As Uhura, Sulu, and Commander Spock infiltrate the society, Kirk and Bones attempt to uncover who’s behind the explosions. But just as in the Assassination Game, they can never be sure who they can trust—and who’s out to get them.
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© 2012 Paramount Pictures Corporation.
® & © 2012 CBS Studios, Inc. STAR TREK and
related marks are trademarks of CBS Studios Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
Ages 12 up
Simon & Schuster
by Alan Gratz
SIMON SPOTLIGHT
New York
cover illustrated by Craig M. Staggs
cover design by Nicholas Sciacca
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON SPOTLIGHT An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com © 2012 Paramount Pictures Corporation. ® & © 2012 CBS Studios, Inc. STAR TREK and related marks are trademarks of CBS Studios Inc.
All Rights Reserved. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in ant form. SIMON SPOTLIGHT and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
0612 FFG First Edition
ISBN 978-1-4424-2059-5 (hc) •
ISBN 978-1-4424-2058-8 (pbk) •
ISBN 978-1-4424-2060-1 (eBook) •
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012934033
For my friends and colleagues on the USS Potemkin
Contents
CH.01.30 TAG
CH.02.30 How to Speak Varkolak
CH.03.30 The Invitation
CH.04.30 A Walk in the Park
CH.05.30 Special Relationships
CH.06.30 Public Indecency
CH.07.30 Opening Ceremonies
CH.08.30 Course Changes
CH.09.30 Human Courtship Behavior
CH.10.30 House Calls
CH.11.30 Sparring Partners
CH.12.30 Circumstantial Evidence
CH.13.30 Date Night
CH.14.30 Dog Fight
CH.15.30 Cloak and Dagger
CH.16.30 A Game of Chase
CH.17.30 Usual and Unusual Suspects
CH.18.30 Suitable for Framing
CH.19.30 The Fate of the Galaxy and All That
CH.20.30 Dragons, Dog-men, and Ninjas
CH.21.30 The Rules of Engagement
CH.22.30 Sucker Punch
CH.23.30 Secrets Within Secrets
CH.24.30 Red Alert
CH.25.30 Charmed Lives
CH.26.30 Any Landing You Can Walk Away From
CH.27.30 The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Starfleet
CH.28.30 The Dogs of War
CH.29.30 Depressurization
CH.30.30 Mating Season
CH.01.30
TAG
“Ladies, gentlemen, hermaphrodites, cogenitors, and asexual life-forms,” Nadja Luther said, her eyes sweeping the Starfleet Academy cadets gathered around her, “welcome to the Assassination Game.”
Leonard McCoy rolled his eyes as Jim Kirk grinned and nudged him.
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this nonsense,” McCoy groused.
“You know exactly why, Bones, and if you don’t be quiet, she’s going to think you’re not interested.”
Jim was right. The only reason he’d come along for this damn fool business was because of the senior cadet leaning against a desk at the front of the classroom. Nadja Luther. She was lean, tall, and as cool as a mint julep in July. Her auburn hair reminded McCoy of a Mississippi sunset, and her blue eyes reminded him of Romulan ale. Perhaps most importantly, nothing about her reminded him of his ex-wife.
“The Assassination Game is simple,” Nadja told them. “Each of you will be given the name of another player. Track down and assassinate that player. When you score a kill, you inherit your victim’s target. If you are killed, you’re out. The game ends when only one player remains.”
The cadets around the room broke into quiet but animated discussions.
Kirk clapped his hands and wrung them like a supervillain in an old holo-novel. “This is going to be great.”
“There are only two rules,” Nadja went on, her easy voice bringing them all back to order. “One: You can only score a kill when you are alone with your victim. If there are any witnesses, whether they’re players or not, there is no kill.”
“Great, just great,” McCoy said as the cadets in the room talked excitedly among themselves again. “Just what we all need—a little more paranoia in our lives.”
Kirk smiled. “Just think, Bones—this is the perfect opportunity for you to get Cadet Luther alone.”
“Yeah. If I can catch her.”
“Rule two: The only weapon that counts for a kill is this,” Nadja said, and she held up one standard-issue titanium Starfleet Academy cafeteria spork.
Those cadets whose species had a sense of humor laughed, and Nadja placed a tray of sporks onto the desk beside her.
“Do I have a volunteer to help me pass them out?” she asked sweetly.
McCoy felt a hand push him off the computer console upon which he sat, and he stumbled forward. He turned to glare at Kirk, but his friend was, at present, innocently examining his fingernails. McCoy cleared his throat, tugged at the bottom of his tunic, and tried to regain what little cool he previously possessed. Nadja smiled and put the tray of sporks in his hands.
“It’s … Bones, isn’t it?” she asked him.
“Leonard,” he told her. “Leonard McCoy. But you can, um … you can call me Bones if you want to. My friends call me that. If you wanted to be my friend, I mean.”
Nadja raised an eyebrow and grinned at him, and McCoy turned away, cursing himself. Smooth, Leonard. Very smooth. He shot a look at Kirk. Jim had his eyes closed and was shaking his head.
McCoy soldiered on, handing out sporks. There were at least two dozen cadets playing the game, including Humans, Saurians, Deltans, Tellarites, Efrosians, Andorians, one enormous Orion, and a catlike Caitian who purred as he took a spork. McCoy had just begun to calculate the odds that he would make it out of the room alive when there was a stir over by the windows.
“The Varkolak!” someone said, and within moments every cadet had warped to the other side of the room. McCoy hurried over himself, unable to resist curiosity. It was hard to see well from this high up in the math and sciences building, but he could just glimpse a mob of leather and metal and fur—lots of fur—in between the battalion of Starfleet Security personnel who esc
orted the visitors to the empty barracks building where they would be staying. It was the first time McCoy had ever seen a Varkolak outside of holo-vids and medical journals, most of which were acknowledged to be inaccurate at best and wholly misleading at worst. He and the rest of Starfleet Medical hoped the upcoming Interspecies Medical Summit the Varkolak were there to attend would clear up some of the confusion.
“I’ve heard they bite the heads off live animals and drink their blood,” whispered a cadet.
“My uncle says Varkolak howl at the moon,” said another.
“You know how you get a promotion on a Varkolak ship? You kill the officer ahead of you.”
“Professor Entarra says they’re really here because they want Theta Cygni,” bellowed Braxim, the big Xannon cadet who had become McCoy and Kirk’s friend.
“Yeah, well, the Federation wants the Gavaria Sector, and I don’t think the Varkolak are going to be giving that up soon,” said another cadet.
“We have met the enemy, and it is them,” Kirk said quietly.
“I don’t think that’s exactly how the expression goes,” McCoy told him. Down below, the Varkolak contingency and their escorts disappeared into the barracks. “Show’s over,” McCoy announced.
“Yeah,” Kirk said. “And can we wrap this up? I’m actually supposed to be down there on Added Security Detail at 1300 hours.”
McCoy finished handing out the sporks, and Nadja jangled a black felt bag that focused them all on her again.
“Each of you has given me a spare Academy badge with your name and serial number on it. Those badges are here in this bag. When I come around, you’ll each draw one. The name you draw is your first target. If you draw your own name, drop the badge back into the bag and draw again.”
McCoy tried not to stare at Nadja Luther as she started around the room, holding the bag out to each player as he, she, or it drew a name. Why her? McCoy asked himself. Why had Nadja suddenly become the object of his affections? She was mature, yes. As a senior she was at least close to his relatively advanced age, a result of his having attended eight years of medical school before joining the Academy. She had a take-charge, no-nonsense attitude he loved too. She was one of those people—like Jim Kirk—who you knew was going to be a captain someday. Someday soon. And then, of course, there was her smile, which lit up her face and sent shivers running down McCoy’s spine.
Nadja stepped in front of him, and he blushed like she could read his mind. It was his strong suspicion, based on years of experience but no hard scientific evidence, that women were, secretly, telepathic. At least the girls he’d dated had been. He tried to smile as Nadja offered him the bag, but he suspected it came out more like a grimace.
McCoy cleared his throat, pulled a badge from the bag, and barely glanced at it long enough to see that it wasn’t his. McCoy hardly cared about the game, the Varkolak, his upcoming xenobiology exam, or anything, for that matter, that was not named Nadja Luther. Nadja smiled at him and moved on to Kirk, leaving the scent of lavender and apple blossoms in her wake.
Probably just her damn shampoo, McCoy groused to himself. Forget a cure for the common cold. What we really need is a vaccine for falling in love.
Beside him, Kirk pulled out a badge, read the name, flipped it into the air, and caught it confidently. Nadja moved on, and soon she was back in front of the room, where she put her own hand inside the bag and drew the last of the badges. She looked at the name, smiled, and slid it into her pocket. McCoy found himself hoping she’d pulled his name from the bag, and realized probably half the cadets in the room were thinking the same thing.
“That’s it,” Nadja told the cadets. “You have your targets. There are no safety zones and no time-outs. The Assassination Game begins now.”
The cadets in the room eyed one another warily and began to leave in groups of three and four. McCoy was about to suggest that he and Kirk leave with Braxim when his friend’s eyes told him something else was up. He turned to find Nadja coming their way.
“I was thinking, Leonard McCoy,” she said, “that I would like to be able to call you Bones. But as I understand it, that name is reserved for friends.”
She was smiling coyly, but McCoy still went red at the reminder of his earlier flub.
“I was wondering,” she went on, “what a girl has to do to become … your friend?”
McCoy observed almost intuitively that he was exhibiting symptoms of dyspnea and tachycardia, which he diagnosed as shortness of breath and an increased heart rate due to exposure to an actual potential date. He swallowed and tried to take a deep breath.
“Well, a friendly drink together at the Warp Core around 2100 hours would be a good start,” he told her.
“The Warp Core at 2100 hours then … Leonard,” Nadja said, and she left with the last group of cadets.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Kirk said, clapping him on the shoulder. “She’s interested in you, Bones.”
“Either that or she’s just trying to get me alone to kill me.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that,” Kirk told him.
“Why not?”
McCoy felt something poke him in the ribs, and he looked down to see Kirk sticking him with the business end of a standard-issue titanium Starfleet Academy cafeteria spork. In his other hand, Kirk waggled a golden Starfleet Academy badge with McCoy’s name and serial number engraved on the back.
Kirk grinned apologetically. “Tag.”
“Jim,” McCoy told him, “sometimes you’re a real bastard.”
CH.02.30
How to Speak Varkolak
Kirk barreled down the corridor and turned the corner so fast, he had to slam on the brakes so as not to run right into the Starfleet Security officer addressing a group of Academy cadets. A group of Academy cadets Kirk was supposed to be a part of.
“Oh, nice of you to join us, Mr.”—The officer consulted his PADD—“Kirk, is it?”
Kirk nodded, too out of breath to say more. “I was—I was—”
I was really stupid not to have thought up a good excuse while I was sprinting over here.
“I, uh, I heard Cadet Kirk called away to deliver a message to Admiral Barnett just a few minutes ago,” another cadet piped up. It was a man named Leslie, whom Kirk recognized from his Elementary Temporal Mechanics class. Kirk nodded his thanks and made a note to buy Leslie a drink sometime.
The officer got in Leslie’s face. “Funny how you failed to mention that when I called role, Mr. Leslie.”
“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir,” Kirk said.
The officer turned on him with fire in his eyes, and Kirk knew immediately he’d made a mistake. Behind the officer, Leslie winced.
“‘Sir’? ‘Sir’? Do you see any stripes on my sleeve, Cadet?”
Kirk kicked himself. There weren’t any stripes on the man’s sleeve, which, of course, meant he was either Starfleet’s oldest living ensign or he was a noncommissioned officer, a regular enlistee who never went through the Academy. Only commissioned officers got the “sir” treatment, and noncoms hated it when you screwed up and called them “sir.” Once Kirk and the rest of the cadets made ensign, they would technically rank higher than any noncom, no matter how long the noncom had served, but you still showed proper respect for enlisted officers if you knew what was good for you.
“No, Chief,” Kirk said.
“That’s right, Cadet. Because I work for a living. Now fall in.”
Kirk hurriedly took a place at the back, sharing a quick glance of thanks and commiseration with Leslie.
“All right. As I was saying, Cadets,” the chief continued, a scowl still on his face. “You are hereby assigned to a special Added Security Detail under my command for as long as the Varkolak are with us. Individually, you will be assigned shifts and posts throughout the barracks and public spaces our foul-smelling visitors are permitted to go. Now, you may not have noticed, Cadets, but Starfleet happens to already have quite a few security officers. Well-tr
ained, experienced security officers. We do not need a special Added Security Detail. But Admiral Barnett thinks it’s a good idea for some of his cadets to get up close and personal with these animals, seeing as you’re supposed to be the future of Starfleet.” The disdain in the chief’s voice told them just what he thought about Starfleet’s prospects if the cadets in front of him were its future. “But understand, Cadets: You are not to talk to the Varkolak. You are not to make eye contact with the Varkolak. You are not so much as to breathe in a Varkolak’s general direction. If a real security situation arises, real Starfleet Security will take care of it. Your one and only job is to be furniture.”
Kirk rolled his eyes for Leslie’s benefit. This chief was a real piece of work.
“Do I make myself clear?” the chief barked.
“Yes, Chief!” the cadets said as one.
The chief read out their posts, and Kirk and Leslie hurried off to their first assignment: the conference room. The room was windowless and spartan but for a large oval table surrounded by ten chairs. With a sinking feeling, Kirk realized there was no guarantee the room would be used at all during their three-hour shift.
“So,” Kirk said, “which corner do you like? The empty one with no window view or the empty one with no window view?”
Leslie laughed and took a corner opposite Kirk.
“Thanks for having my back back there,” Kirk told him. “I owe you.”
“No problem,” Leslie told him. “You can return the favor by bringing me on as a crewman when you get your command.”
Kirk laughed. “What makes you think they’re going to give me a ship?”
“They’d be crazy not to.”
Kirk smiled. He liked the reputation he was getting at the Academy.
“You think we should just sit down at the table? Put our feet up?” he asked Leslie. “I have a feeling we’re going to be staring at each other for three hours.”
“We’d better play it straight,” Leslie told him. “You never know when Chief Hard Ass is going to come checking on us.”
“All right. The chief said our one and only job was to be furniture, so I’m just going to stand here and pretend I’m a three-dimensional chess set.”
