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

by Greg Cox

  He used the tricorder to scan for the viridium patches worn by Chekov and Banks. According to the readout, the courageous officers were directly above them, possibly with the rest of the hostages. Sensor readings, along with echoing footsteps, also indicated the presence of several other humanoids one level up. Those were presumably the armed protesters holding the hostages captive. With any luck, they weren’t expecting what Kirk had in mind.

  “Over here, Bones,” Kirk whispered as he turned the control panel over to McCoy. “You up to playing stage manager?”

  “I’m a doctor, not a . . . oh, why do I bother?” McCoy got into position. “You can count on me, Jim.”

  Kirk figured that if McCoy could perform complicated surgical procedures on a wide variety of sentient species, he could operate the computerized control panel, especially after Lenore had briefed them on how it worked. Kirk signaled the alert security officers to get into position.

  “Take your marks, people. It’s showtime.”

  • • •

  “You wanted to see the hostages?” W’Osoro asked, sneering at Chekov. “Join them!”

  Dragged roughly onto the stage by their captors, Chekov and Banks were thrown in with the other prisoners, who reacted with surprise to the new arrivals. Armed guards patrolled the elevated bleachers circling the stage, which was also occupied by a large number of protesters who were not at all happy that A’Barra’s alleged assassin remained beyond their grasp. Verbal attacks had yet to turn physical, but it struck Chekov as only a matter of time.

  “What’s this all about?” Doctor Tamris asked, leaping to her feet. Recognizing her from their surveillance of the hostages, Chekov was glad to see that she appeared more disheveled than abused. She stared in confusion at the new prisoners. Her antennae twitched. “What’s happening?”

  “Lies and chicanery!” W’Osoro snarled. “It seems Starfleet would rather play games than bargain fairly for your safety.” He glowered at Chekov and Banks. “Is that not so, Starfleet?”

  Chekov shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Despite his casual retort, the security chief realized that their situation was perilous in the extreme. He and Banks were surrounded by an angry mob who had just been cheated of its prize and the people in the mob looked as though they wanted to take out their frustration on the nearest convenient target, which, in this case, would be the two defenseless Starfleet officers. The possibility of violence hung in the air like a swarm of voracious Denevan parasites. It wouldn’t take much, Chekov guessed, to bring the wrath of the crowd down on top of them.

  Maybe I am unlucky, he thought.

  “This is no laughing matter, Starfleet.” W’Osoro’s hand rested on the grip of his holstered disruptor. “Understand me, these unfortunates,” he said, gesturing at the other hostages, “are owed some mercy for their generous aid to my people. Their only crime, as far as we know, is unknowingly harboring a viper in their midst. But you and your captain are deliberately shielding A’Barra’s killer . . . and may have even conspired to have him assassinated aboard your ship!”

  “That’s not true!” Chekov protested. “We are doing our best to find out who is responsible for the deaths of Minister A’Barra and General Tem.”

  “Tem?” W’Osoro spat at Chekov’s feet. “What do we care who executed the Scourge of Azoza, aside from wanting to commend them on a job well done? A’Barra’s death is all that concerns us. How is it that he came to be murdered upon your vessel? Did the Pavakians put you up to it?”

  “Commander Chekov is telling you the truth,” Banks blurted. “I wish we could give you the answers you want, but we’re still trying to solve the mystery ourselves.”

  “There is no mystery! The whole system knows who killed A’Barra, just as she and her father killed so many others. Lenore Karidian, the notorious assassin you brazenly pretended to be.” He wheeled about angrily to confront Banks. “And who are you, imposter, since you are obviously not as valuable to Captain Kirk as his precious Karidian?”

  “Lieutenant Debra Banks of the U.S.S. Enterprise,” she answered. “I wish I could say that I was pleased to make your acquaintance, but that would be a violation of my Starfleet honor code.”

  Chekov admired her spirit, if not her tact or instinct for self-preservation. Her flippant response went over about as well as could be expected, which was to say not at all. W’Osoro drew his weapon from its holster and jammed its muzzle up beneath her chin.

  “You mock me? Mock our desire for justice?” He was practically shaking with rage. “Perhaps your captain will take our demands more seriously if we send you back to him minus your head.”

  “Wait!” Chekov shouted, eager to reclaim W’Osoro’s attention. “I am the commanding officer here. I take full responsibility for the deception . . . and our failure so far to bring A’Barra’s murderer to justice.”

  “Very well then, Starfleet commander.” W’Osoro turned his weapon on Chekov instead. His patience exhausted, he seemed on the verge of exploding like an overloading disruptor. “Perhaps it is you we should make an example of.”

  “W’Osoro, hold!” A female Oyolu burst from the crowd. Her horns were smaller and less elaborate than the males’. They sprouted like thorns from her brow, giving her a devilish appearance. “Think before you act. This is not what we agreed. We want Karidian, not more senseless killing!”

  Chekov was relieved to hear a voice of reason among the protesters. The unnamed woman sounded genuinely concerned that W’Osoro’s temper might lead him to do something rash.

  You and me both, Chekov thought.

  “Stay out of this, Enune!” W’Osoro snapped at her. “We gave them a chance to settle this without bloodshed, but they chose trickery instead. Perhaps, like the Pavakians, Starfleet responds only to demonstrations of force!”

  “But is that what A’Barra would have wanted? Executing hostages in his name?” She took hold of W’Osoro’s gun arm, attempting to restrain him. “Calm yourself. We need to think about this.”

  He yanked his arm free of her grip. “The time for calm has passed. Justice for A’Barra can be delayed and denied no longer. We must show the galaxy that our demands cannot be taken lightly, nor can we be treated as fools. If Starfleet blood must be spilled to avenge the Defender, so be it!”

  “No!” Enune got between W’Osoro and the hostage. “You’re not thinking straight. I can’t let you do this!”

  “Out of my way, Enune!” He waved his weapon in her direction. “This is for A’Barra!”

  “Are you sure about that? Or is this about your own ego and bitterness?”

  Chekov considered joining the debate, but he decided it might be better to keep his mouth shut and hope that the cooler head prevailed. He signaled Banks to keep quiet as well. More Oyolu joined the argument, shouting loudly over one another as they debated what to do with their new prisoners. Enune’s more measured approach seemed to be in the minority, but Chekov was glad to discover that the crowd was not entirely unanimous in its desires for his immediate demise—and that the chain of command among the protesters was somewhat less than ironclad. Everyone seemed to have an opinion.

  “Kill them both,” someone argued. “And a hostage every hour until Kirk gives in!”

  “Are you mad?” another Oyolu argued. “Then the Enterprise will launch a full-scale attack . . . and we’ll never get the Karidian woman!”

  “Coward! Someone has to pay for A’Barra’s murder. Why not these two?”

  The consensus seemed to be turning against them. Chekov wondered where Kirk and the rescue team were. If the strike force was waiting for a distraction, they couldn’t ask for a better one.

  Now would be good, Captain.

  The tempest struck without warning. Artificial thunder and lightning shook the stage, catching both captors and captives by surprise. Shifting lights created the illusion
of storm-tossed seas, adding to the chaos. Startled gasps and exclamations interrupted the heated debate, competing with the roar of crashing waves. Disoriented, the guards in the bleachers looked about in confusion, unsure what had triggered the storm. Only Chekov and Banks knew what the illusory storm heralded. A grin broke out across Chekov’s face.

  The cavalry was here.

  “Duck!” he shouted to Banks. “Keep your head down!”

  All at once, Kirk and crew shot up from below, propelled onto the stage by trapdoors previously used to launch airy spirits into view. Taking advantage of the confusion, the strike force fired stun-beams at the startled Oyolu, who were still trying to grasp what exactly was happening. The four-person team made every shot count, taking out the nearest threats immediately. Stunned bodies crashed to the floor of the stage, the thudding impact drowned out by the amplified roar of the tempest. The snipers in the bleachers hesitated, reluctant to fire into the chaotic scene, where blinding thunderbolts and rippling lightning effects made targeting the intruders a challenge.

  Kirk lobbed a spare phaser to Chekov, who eagerly plucked it out of the air. “Hope we didn’t keep you waiting, Commander.”

  “No, Captain!” Chekov opened fire on the Oyolu, even as Banks claimed a weapon as well. “Excellent timing, sir!”

  Twenty-One

  Momentum was on their side. Kirk wanted to keep it that way.

  Turbulence, both real and simulated, consumed the stage. Energy beams, flashing alongside the mock lightning, took any number of Oyolu hostiles out of the picture. Phaser firing, Kirk was pleased to see Chekov and Banks joining the fracas, adding to the strike force’s numbers. Locating the hostages, Kirk made his way across the stage toward Tamris and her fellow prisoners.

  But W’Osoro got there first. Drawing a disruptor from his belt, he came up behind Tamris and placed the muzzle of the weapon against the back of her head. “Stay back!” he shouted at Kirk. “Drop your weapons or I will vaporize her skull!”

  His attention was fixed on Kirk, which proved a mistake. All but ignored by her captor, Tamris raised her arms as though to surrender, but then spun around and knocked W’Osoro’s gun arm aside with one arm while delivering a substantial chop to his throat with the other. The weapon went off, but the lethal beam shot harmlessly into the air, even as Tamris deftly hooked her leg behind his knee and, executing a flawless takedown, swept him off his feet. W’Osoro toppled backward, smacking his head against the stage, and the Andorian made sure he stayed down with a series of rapid-fire strikes to his head. He moaned weakly, barely conscious, as she claimed his disruptor.

  Kirk was impressed and surprised by the way the Andorian handled herself. “Not your first free-for-all, Doctor?”

  “I used to be a mercenary,” she explained, “before I saw the error of my ways.”

  Watching her open fire on the Oyolu, Kirk could believe it. Looks like Lenore’s not the only relief worker atoning for her past.

  Not that he was complaining; they could use all the help they could get. Inspired by Tamris’s example, the Horta surged forward like a living wall of red-hot lava. Alarmed Oyolu fired wildly at Jorgaht, but the beams barely scratched his dense silicon-based hide. Steam rose as he left a trail of charred flooring behind him. Acid sizzled in his wake.

  “A wicked dew drop on you all!” a gravelly voice issued from Horta’s universal translator, threatening his former captors in the words of Caliban. “ ‘A south-west blow on ye and blister you all o’er!’ ”

  Nearby Oyolu fled in panic from the oncoming alien. Although ordinarily a peaceful people, a Horta could incinerate flesh and bone as easily as it bored through solid rock. Kirk had no idea if Jorgaht was bluffing or not, but he couldn’t blame the terrified Oyolu for choosing the better part of valor when faced with an angry Horta protecting his friends and colleagues.

  Hell hath no fury, Kirk thought, like a devil in the dark.

  A trapdoor opened in the floor, revealing a stairway leading down beneath the stage. Kirk recognized it as the same passage Prospero and Miranda had used to make their entrances and exits a few nights ago. McCoy’s head popped up in the entrance to the “cave” below.

  “Over here!” Bones called out. “Get a move on, will you. We haven’t got all night!”

  “You heard the doctor!” Kirk ordered. “Everybody down below, pronto!”

  Taking the initiative, Chekov hustled Tamris and her fellow hostages down the stairs, while Kirk, Banks, and the rest of the strike force provided cover for their retreat. Rallying, the remaining Oyolu began to fire back, but Kirk ducked behind Jorgaht, using the Horta’s lumpy impervious form as a shield. Sizzling energy beams crisscrossed the stage, sometimes bouncing off Jorgaht, even as the theatrical tempest raged all around them. Frantic guards fired from the bleachers, only to be dropped by expert shots from Banks and the other trained security officers. Kirk was impressed by Banks’s marksmanship.

  “Nice shooting, Lieutenant,” Kirk congratulated her.

  “Thanks, sir.” She stunned another sniper with a well-placed phaser beam. “These folks are more angry than expert. Makes ’em easy pickings!”

  Kirk waited until the last of the humanoid hostages had vanished down the stairs, before signaling Banks and the others to follow. Crouching low, they scrambled for the entrance, with Jorgaht right behind them. Eschewing the stairs, the Horta burned straight through the stage to drop like a meteorite onto the floor one level below. The impact rattled the rafters.

  “That everyone?” McCoy shouted from the control panel.

  “Yes,” Tamris replied, keeping tracking of her people. “Thank you so much, Captain!”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  Kirk nodded at McCoy, who closed the trapdoor shut behind them. A blast from Kirk’s phaser disintegrated the stairs for good measure, just to discourage pursuit. He doubted that such measures would delay the Oyolu for long. According to Lenore, there were any number of ways on and off the stage. Speed was of the essence if they wanted to make a clean getaway.

  “This way,” he said. “Follow me.”

  Encountering no resistance—yet—they hurried down through the theater’s sub-basements and into the fetid tunnels beyond. None of the hostages objected to the stomach-turning stench; after several hours in captivity, they didn’t smell too fresh themselves. For a few moments, Kirk allowed himself to hope that they might be able to retrace their steps all the way back to the abandoned cemetery, but then he started to round a corner and a sizzling red energy beam shot past his head, blasting the tip off one of his prosthetic horns. He ducked back behind the corner.

  “Watch out!” he warned. “We have company.”

  Furious voices and footsteps could be heard rushing toward them through the tunnels ahead, even as Kirk heard more Oyolu charging after them from behind. Somebody had obviously figured out what the rescue team was up to and had called in reinforcements. From the sound of things, the fugitives were only moments away from being up to their ears in furious Oyolu, and the way ahead was no longer a viable escape route.

  “They’re after us coming and going,” McCoy muttered. “Any bright ideas on how we’re going to get out of this?”

  “Yes, actually.” Kirk beckoned to Jorgaht, who scuttled up beside him. An acidic odor emanated from the Horta. “We need another way out of here. Think you can oblige us?”

  The Horta’s laugh sounded like an avalanche. “Can a human move through air?”

  Kirk backed away, giving Jorgaht space, as the Horta rotated at a right angle and burrowed straight into a solid stone wall, carving a new tunnel to the surface. Kirk gave the steaming edges of the tunnel a few moments to cool before herding everyone else into the newly formed passage. He plucked his communicator from his belt.

  “Kirk to Copernicus. We have the hostages. We’re going to need that extraction.”

  “Copy th
at,” Sulu responded. “On my way.”

  Once again, they were relying on the viridium patches in their uniforms, which Sulu could use to zero in on their location. The patches, which were based on a highly classified new Starfleet technology, emitted a long-range signal that was all but undetectable unless you knew what you were looking for. Not even the Klingons or Romulans were onto the trick yet, so Kirk doubted that the Oyolu were.

  Jorgaht burned through masonry and bedrock faster than an industrial borer, heading upward at a forty-five-degree angle. Kirk and the others had to scramble to keep up with him. Periodic phaser bursts caused the tunnel to cave in behind them, cutting off their pursuers. Kirk heard them blasting away at the fallen debris in a furious effort to keep after the fugitives. They showed no sign of giving up anytime soon.

  They get points for persistence, Kirk thought. Lucky us.

  Within minutes, Jorgaht broke through to the surface. Emerging from the tunnel after the others, Kirk found himself in what appeared to be a ruined plaza surrounded by the charred husks of broken and burnt-out skyscrapers. A cracked and empty fountain contained only a muddy puddle of rainwater. Weeds sprouted between the paving tiles. A toppled stone statue was missing its head. Feral mammals snarled and glared at the intruders from adjacent alleyways, keeping their distance for the moment. No lights shone within the wreckage or upon the plaza. A hot summer breeze blew powdered stone and ash past Kirk’s boots. More evidence of the vicious conflict that had trashed so much of the planet.

  “Good God,” McCoy said, moved by the devastation. “People used to live here.”

  “And they may again,” Kirk reminded him, “provided the peace talks continue.” He searched the sky impatiently, looking for the Copernicus. The desolate plaza was hardly the most attractive of landing sites, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Come on, Sulu. Where are you?

  “Captain?” Tamris held on to her captured phaser rifle. “What now?”

  “Wait for it,” Kirk said, as confidently as he could.