Assassination Game (10 page)

Sulu tried to sit up, but his whole body was sore, and his chest and arms and face were tight, like he had a sunburn.
The beeping behind him became more insistent, and a Tellarite doctor emerged from between the sheets of plastic. He wore an Academy medical uniform, which meant he was a proper doctor, but in rank, still a cadet, like Sulu.

“Mr. Sulu. You’re awake. Good. I’m Dr. Daagen. I’m your attending physician. You took a real shot from the explosion.”

“What happened? Do they know?”

“No official word yet. But the words on everyone’s lips are ‘Varkolak terrorist attack.’”

“How bad is it?” Sulu asked.

“No fatalities. Most are like you. You received multiple lacerations to your face, arms, and chest; bruising along your upper sternum; and a broken clavicle. We’ve patched, treated, and regenerated your respective injuries. You’ll make a full recovery. Your face, of course, will look like mine for the rest of your life,” said the wrinkled, pug-nosed Tellarite.

Sulu’s eyes went wide.

“That’s a joke, Cadet.”

Sulu closed his eyes, and sighed. “Nice.”

“I assure you, on Tellar Prime this face is considered quite handsome.”

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Sulu joked.

The Tellarite snorted in amusement.

“In all seriousness, you’re going to be fine. I’m afraid it’s going to put a crimp in your piloting reaction times for a little while. And your fencing.”

Sulu moaned. His fencing was the one thing he did that wasn’t a part of his grand plan to work hard, study hard, and graduate with a top posting. He competed for the Academy fencing team so he could have sparring partners, but he was really fencing just for himself. To disappear behind that mask and parry, lunge, redouble, riposte. To anticipate, to defend, to advance, to attack. Fencing was the one thing Sulu had in which he could lose himself entirely and put away, if only briefly, his single-minded determination to succeed in Starfleet. It was his own private retreat from the world, and even losing that escape for a short time was enough to shake him.

“Wait,” Sulu said. “How did you know I was a fencer?”

“We make it our business to know everything we can about our recruits before we invite them to join,” the doctor said quietly. He pulled up his sleeve and showed Sulu a tattoo of a graviton particle. The Graviton Society. This doctor was a member. “After today’s attack on the Federation, on
you
, are you more inclined to accept our offer, Cadet?”

Sulu leaned back onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling. The strange summons on his PADD had been an invitation to join a secret society that claimed to protect the
Federation when it couldn’t—or wouldn’t—protect itself. Sulu had been surprised by the offer and somewhat flattered. He’d heard rumors about the Graviton Society. That they were the real movers and shakers in Starfleet. A cadet with a plan to end up at the helm of one of Starfleet’s flagships would do well to become a member. As long as it didn’t distract him from his studies.

Sulu had started to call it The Plan—capital
T
, capital
P
. The Plan was to keep his head down, work hard, and graduate with top honors, which would get him any posting he wanted. That’s why he didn’t fool around with things like the Assassination Game. In helmsman’s terms, Sulu’s plan was the course he’d laid years ago, and he’d been traveling at maximum warp toward his destination ever since. He’d made course corrections along the way, to stay on target, certainly. But the Assassination Game, fencing—maybe this Graviton Society—were all detours. Course changes. Temporary layovers. And temporary layovers were never profitable. They diverted you from your mission. Made you late. Sometimes kept you from arriving at all.

But there was also duty to consider. Why Sulu had chosen this course in the first place. He couldn’t forget that or The Plan became just a long, difficult journey to an empty planet in space.

“I accept,” Sulu finally said. “I’m ready to join.”

“Good,” said Daagen. “I thought you might. I will be your contact from now on, and I already have a mission for you, Mr. Sulu. There is a mole inside the society, and we’re going to dig it out.”

It was late in the afternoon by the time Kirk finally saw the sun again. Where had the day gone? Well, there had been the business of escorting Lartal to the opening ceremonies overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge … and then the explosion. And the brief period of unconsciousness—that had to account for some of the time, of course. And then the hovering doctors who wouldn’t let him leave the hospital because of a few scratches and bruises, and the waiting security team who wouldn’t let him leave before asking him a few questions. Five times over. His stomach growled and his feet changed course toward the dining hall without him even thinking about it.

Starfleet Security had wanted to know everything he heard and saw before, during, and after the explosion, and Kirk had told them everything he could remember. What
did Lartal do at the overlook when they visited yesterday? Mostly sniff around and mark park benches. Had he done anything suspicious in San Francisco? Just howl on street corners. Had Lartal acted suspicious the morning before the explosion? No more than usual. Did Kirk hear any sound at all from Lartal’s “sniffer” before the explosion? No. Did Lartal detonate the bomb?

That was the million-credit question, wasn’t it? They wanted Kirk to be able to answer the question definitively, but he couldn’t. Yes, there was circumstantial evidence, and yes, they’d shown him the images of Lartal jumping out of the way before the explosion happened, but Kirk had neither seen nor heard anything that made him think Lartal had set off the explosion himself. And, he had to confess, Lartal’s leap had caught up Kirk and dragged him out of the way of the blast. Had Lartal tried to save him from the explosion, or had he just bumped him by accident? And what about Kirk’s growing suspicion—and Starfleet’s too, now—that Lartal wasn’t a doctor at all?

Kirk was so lost in his own thoughts, he nearly ran into the cadet who appeared in his way on the sidewalk. Metal flashed as the cadet’s hand swiped at him. Kirk’s instincts kicked in, and he leaped back out of the way just in time.

Finnegan
.

“I looked up corbomite, Kirk.” The big cadet advanced on him. Kirk glanced around for someone who could see
them and keep Finnegan from being able to tag him with his spork, but they were alone.

“Oh, yeah?” Kirk said, stalling for time as he calculated his next move. “Who taught you how to use a computer?”

Finnegan lunged at him, and Kirk danced out of the way.

“There’s no such thing as corbomite,” Finnegan said.

“No kidding,” Kirk said. “Then I am
definitely
going to have a talk with my exochemistry teacher. I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Keep joking, Jimmy boy,” Finnegan told him. “I’m just gonna pound you harder.”

“All right. You want to do this now?” Kirk said. He crouched in a karate ready position. “Let’s do this.”

Finnegan grinned and took a step closer.

Kirk turned and ran.

“Come back here, you coward!” Finnegan called, giving chase.

“It’s called a tactical retreat!” Kirk yelled back at him. All he had to do was find someone,
anyone
, to latch on to and Finnegan couldn’t knock him out of the Assassination Game. Finnegan was big and heavy, but he was all muscle, and he kept up with Kirk well enough for Kirk to keep running. But where the hell
was
everyone? There were thousands of cadets on campus, and hundreds more instructors, not to mention all the doctors here for the conference. They couldn’t
all
be at dinner!

“When I catch you, Kirk, I’m gonna stick this spork where the sun don’t shine!” Finnegan bellowed.

Kirk ducked into the student center. There were always people there studying, eating, playing dom-jot. He slid to a stop among the dozen or so tables in the lobby. The
empty
lobby.

“The assassination attempt!” Kirk said, finally realizing what was going on. “The whole campus must be on lock-down!”

Finnegan burst in through the front doors, and Kirk dashed out the side exit. There was a bar just off campus, the Warp Core, where cadets went when they wanted to spend a little downtime out of uniform. There had to be someone there—the bartender, Bom, if no one else. Finnegan came at his flank, doubling back on him, and Kirk barely ducked his spork in time. He sprinted with what energy he had left down past Hawking Hall and into the little street where a flickering neon sign announced,
THE WARP CORE: HOME OF THE WARP CORE BREACH.
Kirk threw himself against the door and came to an ungraceful stop against an empty table.

“Well. I knew Academy life is rough, but I’ve never seen anybody need a drink that bad,” said the Bolian bartender.

“Blue man! I have never been so glad to see you in all my life,” Kirk said. There were a few other patrons there, at tables and up at the bar, and Kirk gave a deep sigh of
relief. He’d been beginning to wonder if the assassination attempt had the whole city on high alert.

Finnegan came pounding down the sidewalk and through the front doorway of the Warp Core, breathing heavily.

“You really ought to cut down on the potatoes there, Finnegan. How are you ever going to get a girlfriend if you can’t run her down?”

Finnegan squeezed his spork so tight, Kirk thought he might snap it in half.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Kirk said. He nodded toward the bar. “We’ve got company. I’m safe.”

Finnegan smiled. “That’s right, Jimmy boy. For now. But I’m gonna sit right here,” he said, pulling out a chair at the table by the door. “And if you try to leave, out the front
or
the back, I’ll be on you like fleas on a Varkolak. Garçon! Beer me!”

Kirk hadn’t thought about that. Like a kid hugging home in a game of tag in the backyard, he was safe as long as he didn’t leave, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He looked around the pub, trying to think of an answer, and saw an attractive blonde one sitting at the bar. He put on his most charming smile and pulled up a stool next to her.

“Know what you want?” Bom asked as he came back from delivering Finnegan’s beer.

“Yeah. Whaddya got that’s already made? I’m starving.”

“We’ve got chili on the stove. You want yellow alert or red alert?”

“Red alert. And two beers—one for me and one for this beautiful lady.”

The girl next to him rolled her eyes at him.

“Name’s Jim. Jim Kirk,” he told her.

“Valerie,” she said. Even though she had scoffed at his come on, she accepted the beer with a nod of thanks.

Bom put a steaming bowl of chili and a plate of crackers in front of Kirk. “Hang on, I’ll get you a spoon.”

Kirk pulled his spork out of his pocket and held it up. “No need. I’ve got my own.”

Valerie laughed. “You carry a spoon around with you all the time?”

“Actually, it’s a spork,” Kirk said. He scooped a bite of chili into his mouth, then gasped and hyperventilated, trying to cool off his tongue. “Red alert,” he squeaked, and he chased the chili with a sip of beer.

“So, you carry a
spork
around with you all the time?” Valerie asked.

“Only lately,” Kirk said. Between tentative bites of his red-alert chili, Kirk told the girl all about the Assassination Game and Finnegan, pointing him out over by the door. Finnegan raised his own glass of beer and grinned at Kirk.

“All I need now, see, is for you to leave the bar with
me and take me back to your place, and I’ll be safe,” Kirk finished.

“I gotta tell you, I’ve heard a lot of them in my time, but that is the
lamest
pick-up line I have ever heard,” the girl told him. “Still, you’re kind of cute.”

Kirk smiled, tossed some credits on the bar, offered Valerie his arm, and strolled out the front door, waving good-bye to Finnegan as he left.

Later that evening, Spock stood in the Academy observation tower, watching Sol set over the Pacific Ocean. The vista was not dissimilar to watching 40 Eridani A set over the Voroth Sea on Vulcan, but for the oddly discordant blue sky of Earth and not the more aesthetically pleasing orange sky of his home planet. Spock had lived on Earth for years now, was half-human himself, and still there was much about this world that remained foreign and mysterious to him.