Death Count (Star Trek: The Original Series Book 62) by L.A. Graf

Author:L.A. Graf [Graf, L.A.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Pocket Books/Star Trek
Published: 2000-09-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

CHEKOV?” SULU’s VOICE echoed down the narrow ladderway as though from an intercom, filtered and tinny. “Don’t let him get past you!”

Relief surged through Chekov with such startling strength that the security chief nearly sank to the floor in exhaustion. “He’s not going anywhere.” He raised his rifle to prod the bulky shimmer of reflected heat above him. “All right, you—climb down. Slowly.”

The prisoner hesitated only a moment before awkwardly disentangling himself from the ladder and shuffling out into the hall. Chekov knew without asking that this wasn’t his saboteur—the heat reading wasn’t nearly high enough, even taking the environmental suit into account. The only strong primary heat sources were the suit’s power packs and a bright square of brilliance at the top of his helmet. Chekov realized this must be the helmet lamp when Sulu came down to meet him and the same bright white spot swept across the visor’s spectrum.

“What are you doing down here?” Chekov asked, lowering the rifle so he could lean the muzzle on the floor.

“I caught this guy breaking into my quarters!” Sulu gestured sharply at the suited figure between them. The joints of his suit creaked with the sudden movement. “I was trying to stop him when he went down this access ladder.” Apparently seeing something on Chekov’s face, he asked, “Why? What’s the matter?”

“I was chasing the saboteur.”

Sulu’s outline pulled sharply upright with surprise, helmet light rebounding off the opposite wall. “You saw him?”

“I shot him.” Chekov waved his rifle toward the tracked-up blood on the floor, wondering if they’d be able to clean all this up before the first shift crew came on duty. All he knew now was that his socks were wet, and the sleeve of his tunic was starting to feel clammy as the blood in the fabric cooled. “He must have used the same access ladder before you voided the atmosphere. Damn—the vacuum will have boiled the blood away and ruined the trail.” He flexed his hand again; the fingers moved stiffly, coldly. “I can tell you one thing, though—whoever he is, he isn’t human.”

The prisoner’s bark of surprise sounded more like a squeak over the helmet communicator. Stumbling back from Sulu in the doorway, the stranger tried to turn and lumber away, his helmet light vanishing from Chekov’s sight as soon as his suit was turned. Chekov passed the rifle to his right hand again, and in two long steps caught the storage hook on the back of the suit and jerked the fugitive off his feet. Pain seared across his back and shoulders with the effort, and he was swaying on the edge of gray when he jammed the rifle under the environmental suit’s breastplate so the occupant could feel the muzzle. “Don’t even try it.” He tried to keep his voice from sounding thick and muzzy, but he didn’t think he succeeded too well. “Who is this guy?” he asked Sulu, blinking the helmsman into focus.

Sulu lifted his hands to shoulder height, the only way to shrug inside an environmental suit, and came a few steps closer.

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