Star Trek: The Original Series - 160 - Foul Deeds Will Rise

by Greg Cox

  “As do I, Mister Scott. As do I.”

  An emphatic rap at the door heralded the arrival of Brigadier-General Pogg, who let himself into the quarters without further ado. Spock and Scott rose to greet Pogg, whom they had not seen since the weapons inspections had been curtailed abruptly. Despite their inquiries, little information regarding their status had been forthcoming from the Pavakians. Spock was, in fact, slightly unclear on whether he and Scott were currently guests or prisoners or something in between. Several armed guards and layers of security separated them from the Galileo, which remained on the landing pad within the fort. So near and yet so far, Spock reflected.

  “Gentlemen,” Pogg greeted them stiffly. “I regret leaving you waiting, but, as you can surely imagine, the murder of General Tem has provoked considerable turmoil, which has fully occupied the attention of myself and my superiors.”

  “So we gather,” Spock said, indicating the silent news broadcasts on the viewscreens. “We quite understand how busy you must be under the circumstances, but may I ask whether any decision has been made regarding the disarmament process?”

  Pogg nodded solemnly. “I am here to inform you that all such operations have been placed on hold indefinitely.” He strode over to the window and gazed out at the growing mob of demonstrators beyond the gates. “Furthermore, as the commander of this base, I suggest that you might be safer back aboard the Enterprise.”

  Scotty took mild umbrage. “Is that a threat, sir?”

  “A courtesy,” Pogg said. “If I truly believed that Starfleet had deliberately played some part in the general’s death, you would be in the brig now . . . or facing a firing squad.”

  “I appreciate you giving us the benefit of the doubt,” Spock replied, “but I am reluctant to call short our mission just yet, particularly in light of a certain irregularity that has come to my attention.”

  Pogg frowned. “Irregularity?”

  Spock gestured at the computer terminal. The data on the screen, which was highly technical in nature, was hardly self-explanatory, so Spock attempted to summarize his discovery.

  “I have been examining the data from your transporter silo, paying particular attention to the energy readings for each operation, and I have encountered some curious discrepancies with regards to one particular missile. Unit number PMTT-1000441-6XV-057, to be precise.”

  Pogg stared at the bewildering columns of figures on the computer screen. His brow furrowed. “What kind of discrepancies?”

  “Discrepancies in the quantities of energy required and produced by both the initial transportation of the missile and its eventual disintegration,” Spock explained. “Although the basic process is the same whenever a transporter energizes a solid object, and when the process is reversed, different objects require and expend varying amounts of energy. This is only logical when you think about it; different objects and materials have different masses, as well as atomic bonds of varying strength. Converting a feather to energy is hardly equivalent to doing the same with a block of solid duranium. And the resulting matter stream will vary as well, as I’m sure Mister Scott can attest.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth of it,” Scott said. “More energy in, more energy out, depending on the mass and composition of the item being transported.”

  Pogg nodded slowly. “So?”

  “You would expect that all the missiles, being identical in size and substance, would display the same energy signatures, within a reasonable margin of error, but Unit Zero-Five-Seven, if I may abbreviate its serial number, registers differently . . . perhaps because it lacked a true protomatter warhead?”

  Spock’s exceptional memory recalled nothing distinctive about that particular missile, except that it had not been subjected to one of Scott’s random physical inspections. If his theory was correct, someone had played the odds . . . and won. A dummy warhead had passed through the process without being detected, which left at least one protomatter warhead unaccounted for.

  “You must be mistaken,” Pogg insisted, instantly grasping the implications of Spock’s discovery. “There is some error in the data or your calculations.”

  “Unlikely,” Spock stated. “The same discrepancy appeared both when the missile was transported to the site and when it was subsequently disintegrated. And the variation, compared to the other missiles, is well beyond the margin of error.” He spoke deliberately to be certain he was understood. “The conclusion is unmistakable: One of your warheads is missing.”

  Pogg’s sable countenance kept him from visibly flushing or going pale, but the Pavakian officer was clearly troubled by the revelation. He froze in place. “I don’t believe it. It can’t be possible.”

  Spock extracted a microtape disk from the computer and handed it to Pogg.

  “Here is the relevant data, which I urge you to verify for yourself. In the interim, I believe it best that Mister Scott and I remain on hand until this matter is resolved. I am not comfortable returning to the Enterprise while even one protomatter warhead remains at large, particularly when there is a disturbing indication of deception on the part of whoever substituted the counterfeit warhead for the real one. This concerns me greatly, Brigadier-General, as it should concern you.”

  “I—I must look into this immediately,” Pogg stammered. He tucked the disk into his breast pocket and hurried for the door. “If you will excuse me.”

  He paused in the doorway and looked back at Spock and Scott.

  “A word of advice, gentlemen. Please remain within your quarters . . . for your own safety’s sake.”

  “We are not going anywhere,” Spock assured him. “For better or for worse.”

  Thirteen

  “Do you think the Oyolu are responsible, Commander?”

  Lieutenant Debra Banks was assisting Chekov in his investigation of the assassination. A lanky, energetic redhead with a buzz cut and freckles, she had been Chekov’s assistant in Security for some time now. A thick accent betrayed her roots in America’s Deep South; Chekov found the accent somewhat comical, but he had come to rely on her keen instincts and enthusiasm.

  “That is what it is imperative that we determine,” he said. “As soon as humanly possible.”

  Chekov knew that Captain Kirk was counting on him to help identify the assassin before the entire peace process collapsed. Acutely aware of the responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders, the Enterprise’s chief of security was determined to unravel the mystery, just like the famous Russian detective Porfiry Petrovich.

  At the moment, he and Banks were conducting a thorough sweep of the crime scene. The general’s arm had been carted away to sickbay for examination, but otherwise the luxurious stateroom remained just as it had been when he and Captain Kirk had arrived on the scene last night. The VIP suite, which was distinctly larger and more impressive than Chekov’s own quarters on E Deck, consisted of roughly three compartments. Tem’s remains had been found in the largest area, which included a work desk, computer terminal, personal communications station, and dining module, along with various storage cabinets and closets. A retractable partition divided the living area from the adjacent foyer and bedroom. Bathroom facilities, including a sonic shower, were in a separate compartment on the opposite side of the foyer.

  Despite their diligent efforts, little in the way of evidence had been found so far. Tricorder scans had detected traces of Pavakian, human, and even Oyolu DNA, but given the confusion last night, that was to be expected. In the chaos, A’Barra and Ifusi had made their way into the stateroom to find out what was happening, which offered a plausible explanation for the Oyolu DNA found in and around the foyer. Chekov regretted that he had not maintained tighter control of the crime scene, but, at the time, there had been other matters to attend to, such as that overloading disruptor and the possibility of an all-out brawl breaking out among the surviving delegates.

  No use crying ove
r spilled DNA, he thought. Live and learn.

  Not for the first time, he wished that the captain had not been forced to disintegrate the murder weapon, but at least Kirk’s quick thinking had preserved the rest of the crime scene.

  And kept the rest of us from being blown to atoms as well.

  “Nothing too interesting here, sir,” Banks reported after personally inspecting another cabinet. “Any idea what exactly it is we’re looking for?”

  “Besides a signed confession from the assassin?” he asked. “Anything that will help us reconstruct the events leading up to the disruptor being fired.”

  The entrance to the stateroom had shown no evidence of being forced, which suggested that Tem had willingly admitted his attacker or perhaps done so at gunpoint. Chekov contemplated the circular dining table in the northeast corner. A single glass of ice water and a half-eaten biscuit hinted at the general’s ascetic ways while giving no indication that he was entertaining company prior to his death. Chekov glanced around the stateroom, seeing no sign of a struggle either. The assassin appeared to have struck quickly and with little warning.

  “Why did the killer leave the arm?” Banks asked out loud, gazing at the spot on the carpet where the grisly remains had been found. “Why not just vaporize all of him?”

  Good question, Chekov thought. “To disarm the general, no pun intended, before he could defend himself? Or perhaps to leave us conclusive proof of his assassination?” An autopsy conducted by Doctor McCoy had confirmed that the arm had been severed by an energy beam while the general was still alive. “I suspect the killer meant to send a message of some sort.”

  “They couldn’t use subspace like everyone else?” Banks quipped.

  “That would be too easy,” Chekov said, wandering over to the computer terminal. Judging from the neatly stacked piles of data tapes, Tem had been working at some point after the reception. The fact that his arm had still been in the sleeve of his uniform also suggested that he had not been abed when the assassin arrived. Chekov wanted to collect the disks for review, and search the terminal’s memory as well, but, according to Ambassador Riley, there were certain political obstacles to consider. The general’s personal files and communications were protected under diplomatic seal. Indeed, as Chekov understood it, even searching Tem’s quarters in this manner tested protocol, although there was no way around it if they wanted to conduct any sort of proper investigation. Nevertheless, Chekov felt as though he had one hand tied behind his back so that he only had one arm to work with.

  Not unlike the general before he was disintegrated . . .

  And to make matters worse, Chekov’s nose and eyes were acting up again. Sniffling, he plucked a handkerchief from the pocket of his maroon jacket. His eyes watered and an irritating itch tickled the back of his throat. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he was suffering from Aldebaran hay fever, although he hadn’t set foot in the Enterprise’s botanical gardens in weeks, and it was hardly the right season anyway. He dabbed at his runny nose while attempting to stifle a sneeze.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Banks asked, as observant as ever.

  “Just a little stuffy, Lieutenant.” He stepped into the foyer to avoid contaminating the crime scene. “It comes and goes . . . and always when most inconvenient.”

  “Perhaps you should visit sickbay,” she suggested.

  Doctor McCoy had advised the same, but Chekov was reluctant to take time out from the investigation to deal with a mild, if annoyingly intermittent, case of the sniffles. There were far more urgent matters to attend to, like catching a killer and preserving the peace.

  “Maybe later, after we have the assassin in the brig.”

  She joined him in the foyer. “With all due respect, sir, you won’t be doing anyone any good if you come down with a bad case of the Triskelion flu or whatever.” She gestured at the remainder of the stateroom. “I can finish up here, not that, honestly, I expect we’re going to find a smoking gun . . . or disruptor. The killer has done too good a job of covering their tracks.”

  Chekov was inclined to agree. The stateroom had yet to yield any incriminating evidence.

  “Then perhaps we need to expand our search,” he said, “and treat the Enterprise itself as the crime scene.”

  “The entire ship, sir?” Banks sounded understandably daunted. The Enterprise was more than three hundred meters long and had over twenty decks. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “At zero-five last night. We know precisely when and where the murder occurred. What we do not know is what transpired immediately before and after the killing. A forensic review of what was transpiring aboard the ship during that interval might offer a clue as to the assassin’s movements and identity. That is where we should concentrate our efforts next.”

  “A very logical plan of attack, sir. Mister Spock would be proud, if you don’t mind me saying so.” She snapped to attention. “I’ll get right on it, as soon as I finish scouring this stateroom, that is. In the meantime, you head straight to sickbay and get that stuffy nose checked out. A sick detective is a distracted detective.”

  Chekov surrendered to the inevitable. He wondered if he was ever this pushy when he was an up-and-coming young officer.

  No, he decided. I was probably worse.

  • • •

  Eager to get McCoy’s evaluation of Lenore’s mental state, Kirk swung by sickbay after conferring with Spock. The situation on Pavak sounded worrisome and the matter of the missing warhead even more so. Entering from the corridor, he found McCoy temporarily occupied with Chekov, who was sitting atop an examination table one room over while McCoy surveyed him with a handheld med scanner. The Russian’s legs dangled over the edge of the table.

  “Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?” Chekov asked. “Am I going to live?”

  “As long as you stay away from angry Klingons and overloading disruptors, absolutely.” McCoy consulted the results of his scan, which were displayed upon a wall-mounted medical monitor. “Nothing to worry about. As nearly as I can tell, you’re just suffering from a minor allergic reaction.”

  “Allergic?” Chekov echoed. “To what?”

  “That’s going to take a little longer to determine. You been exposed to anything unusual lately?”

  “Aside from cold-blooded murder?” Chekov shook his head. “I had some sushi and caviar at the reception last night, but that’s never bothered me before.”

  McCoy collected more data with the scanner.

  “I’ll run some tests and simulations to try to isolate the specific allergen,” McCoy promised, “but in the meantime, here’s a general antihistamine.” He handed Chekov a vial of pills. “Use this to treat any symptoms as needed, and let me know if your condition worsens.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Chekov accepted the medication. “My apologies for bothering you over such a trivial matter, especially at a time like this.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” McCoy assured him. “To tell the truth, it makes a pleasant change from the usual phaser burns, exotic viruses, and alien parasites.”

  Kirk entered the examination room from the doorway. “Not to mention the odd murdered delegate and severed arm, I imagine.”

  “Captain!” Chekov hopped off the table onto his feet. He appeared slightly embarrassed to be caught in sickbay while the investigation into the murder was still under way. “I did not hear you come in.”

  “At ease, Commander,” Kirk said. “Glad to hear you’re not seriously under the weather.” Chekov had taken plenty of lumps in recent years, from Ceti eels to a serious fall from a twentieth-century aircraft carrier; Kirk was sincerely pleased to know that Chekov was only suffering from allergies this time around. “How goes your investigation into the assassination?”

  “It is in progress, Captain, which means, honestly, that I have little to report yet.”

  Kirk
appreciated his candor. “Keep at it, and let me know the minute you turn up anything.”

  “Aye, sir,” Chekov said. “I am pursuing a new line of investigation and hope that it will yield results soon.” He turned to McCoy. “If I may be excused, Doctor?”

  “Get back to work, Chekov.” McCoy crossed the room to place the blood sample on a counter. “I’ll be in touch when I’ve identified the allergen.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” He nodded at Kirk. “Captain?”

  “You’re dismissed, Commander. I need to talk to Doctor McCoy anyway.”

  Chekov hurried off to resume his investigation. Kirk thought again about summoning Spock back to assist in solving the mystery, but he decided to give Chekov a little more time to track down some leads. Chekov had been something of a protégé of Spock’s back in the old days, when the intrepid Russian was just a green young ensign with a knack for science, but Pavel had come into his own through the years. Kirk had faith that Chekov would get the job done.

  “Let me guess,” McCoy said. “You’re here to get my assessment of Lenore?”

  Kirk was glad to get to the point. “And . . . ?”

  “Give me just a moment.” McCoy crossed sickbay to reach the lab section and transferred the readings from the scan into the medical computer. “Conduct full diagnostic analysis to determine primary allergen,” he instructed the computer. “With emphasis on biomes visited by Enterprise within the past seventy-two hours and working backwards from there.”

  “Acknowledged,” the computer replied. “Commencing analysis.”

  Confident that the procedure was under way, McCoy stepped away from the lab.

  “All right. Let’s get to it.”

  They relocated to McCoy’s office, which was just off the lab area. McCoy sealed the office door behind them so they could speak freely. There were no patients currently recuperating in sickbay, but it was always possible that a stray nurse or orderly might walk by. It occurred to Kirk that McCoy had learned his lesson from that time he had accidentally mentioned Anton Karidian’s true identity where a young Lieutenant Riley could overhear. Out for vengeance, Riley had nearly taken the law into his own hands.