Lost Era 05_ Deny thy Father - Jeff Mariotte [2]
Kyle rolled to the side and tucked his feet underneath himself, preparing to spring. “I know,” he told the computer through clenched teeth.
The yeoman turned stiffly toward him, phaser still at the ready. Kyle jumped toward the young man, slamming into him with all the strength he could muster. They both went down, crashing onto a low table, and then the table tipped over and they rolled to the floor. Kyle caught the man’s wrist and twisted, aiming the phaser anywhere but at himself.
As he did-panting from the exertion, blinking back sweat-he noticed that the yeoman’s blank expression still had not changed. He could have been waiting for a transport, or watching a singularly unexciting game of chess. Kyle pounded the man’s wrist against the edge of the overturned table, once, twice, again; and finally the phaser went flying from his hand. The man gave a soft grunt of pain, but that was the first sound he had made since they had come into the apartment.
“I am alerting the authorities,” the computer said.
“Fine,” Kyle barked back. He made the mistake of turning away from his opponent for a brief moment, and the man took advantage of the opportunity to reach out with his other hand, locking it around Kyle’s throat. Kyle released the now-empty phaser hand and brought both his arms up, hard and fast, knocking the choking hand away. Regaining his feet, he waited for the yeoman to try to rise. When the man did so, his face still empty, Kyle shot out with a right jab to his chin, then a left hook, and another right that cut the flesh above his eye. The man took the blows, air puffing out of him, but showing no evidence of pain or fear.
Then, without warning, he blinked three times in rapid succession. His eyes seemed to focus suddenly, and he looked around, turning his head from left to right quickly. “What…?” he started to ask, and then he stopped, blinked once more, and pitched forward. Kyle stepped back as the man landed in a heap at his feet.
He didn’t move. Kyle hesitated a moment, in case it was a trick, then knelt and touched his fingers to the guy’s neck. He could find no pulse.
“You alerted the authorities?” Kyle asked the computer.
“They are on the way,” was the response.
“Cancel them. Get Starfleet Security, not civilian authorities.”
The computer didn’t answer, but he knew it was already complying with his demand.
Carefully avoiding the dead man, Kyle sat down on his couch and waited.
His wait was not especially long. Starfleet sent four officers to his apartment, arriving less than fifteen minutes after the yeoman had fallen. They checked the body and confirmed what Kyle already knew. The young man was dead. One of the security officers, a seasoned human lieutenant with hair almost as silver as Kyle’s own and heavy, hooded eyes, sat down on the couch next to Kyle while another called for a removal team to come for the body. He had introduced himself as Lieutenant Dugan.
“There’ll be a hearing, I expect,” he said. “But it looks as if the case for self-defense is pretty strong. Guy was in your house, discharged his phaser. I should arrest you, but given who you are, sir, I feel confident that you’ll surrender yourself if I ask you to.”
“Of course.” It had gradually dawned on Kyle that this was probably coming. He was innocent, of course, of any misdeed. But until a thorough investigation proved that, he would be under some degree of suspicion, even though his story made sense. As they spoke, the other security officers were busying themselves around the apartment, checking the central computer, inspecting the wall that had been damaged, trying to recreate, as best they could, the sequence of events as Kyle had described it. While they worked, a coroner’s team arrived to take the body, closing it into a kind of sled that then hovered waist-high so they could guide