Identity theft, p.3
Identity Theft, page 3
“In that case, can I possibly call dibs on a few of those hours, for dinner maybe or a walk in the botanical gardens?” He summoned whatever rakish charm he could muster. “Just to give me a chance to learn more about your personal history, since you’re already well-acquainted with mine. Fair’s fair after all.”
She chuckled. “I think I’d like that.”
Da! Chekov’s spirits surged, as though he had just successfully made first contact with a particularly appealing new life-form. He silently thanked McCoy for requiring crew members to get freshly vaccinated before vacationing on Tykona.
Before he could fashion a suitably suave reply, the door to the examination room whooshed opened and Sulu strolled into the chamber.
“Reporting for my booster shot,” he declared cheerfully. “Oh, hi, Pavel. You getting vaxxed today, too?”
“Doctor’s orders,” Chekov said, not too bothered by the interruption. This visit to sickbay had already gone much better than he could have anticipated. Best not to press his luck after this promising beginning. There would be time enough to discover what intriguing possibilities might lie ahead.
She stepped away from the biobed. “Looks like my next customer is here.”
“I’ll leave you to your work then.” He hopped off the bed and started for the door.
“Thank you, Commander Chekov. Do be careful down on Tykona.” She grinned impishly. “I don’t want to see you back in sickbay too soon, because of another ‘colorful’ mishap.”
He grinned back at her. “I appreciate your concern, Nurse Tovar.”
“Please, call me Simone.”
Sulu raised an eyebrow. He shot Chekov a look that made it clear that he expected a full briefing later.
Not that Chekov had anything conclusive to report just yet. This personal voyage into the unknown had barely left spacedock. Nevertheless, he looked forward to exploring just how far he and Tovar—Simone—might end up traveling together. Beaming, he exited sickbay with a bounce in his step. The artificial gravity felt lighter somehow, and any temporary light-headedness had nothing to do with a vaccine.
* * *
“Please, call me Simone.”
Alone in his quarters, reviewing the layout of the new Federation embassy on Voyzr, Chekov took a moment to bask in the memory of Nurse Tovar’s parting words. Something about Simone made him feel like a giddy young ensign right out of the Academy rather than a seasoned commander. The Enterprise had only just entered into orbit above Tykona, but he was already looking past his imminent shore leave on the planet to renewing his acquaintance with Tovar once the ship was on its way to to Voyzr.
A leisurely stroll through the botanical gardens, past the artificial waterfall, was just the ticket for their first date. Followed by drinks and dinner at the adjacent canteen? He was going to be increasingly tied up with security matters the closer they got to Voyzr, but he was sure he could squeeze in a dinner for two, with hopefully more such engagements to follow.
An electronic chime intruded on his hopeful imaginings. He answered the page via the computer terminal on his desk. “Chekov here.”
Uhura’s visage appeared on the screen, supplanting the architectural diagrams of the new embassy. “Sorry to disturb you, but we just received a personal transmission from the planet, hailing you.”
“Personal?” He was puzzled. As far as he knew, he wasn’t acquainted with anyone on Tykona.
“Yes, from a Grigori Ratikin.”
The name caught him by surprise. He and Grigori had been boyhood friends in Moscow long ago and had stayed in touch over the years, even after Chekov had headed off to Starfleet Academy. They didn’t see each other nearly as much as they used to, but he was still one of Chekov’s oldest friends from his pre-Starfleet days.
“I take it you know this individual.”
“Very much so.”
But what was he doing on Tykona? Over the last few decades, Grigori had made a name for himself as a sought-after architect and interior designer, known for his distinctively eclectic approach, which blended disparate cultural styles in creative ways, often employing traditional, nonfabricated materials and antique furnishings. Working pre-warp Regulan glyphs into erotic Deltan mosaics, for example, complete with hardwood tiles from Tiburon and polished dragon scales from Berengaria VII. Last Chekov had heard, Grigori had been running a boutique home-design studio out of Cawdor Prime.
“Shall I put the transmission through to your quarters?”
“By all means, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Uhura’s practiced efficiency meant that Grigori’s familiar visage appeared on the screen at once. His ruddy complexion was as robust as ever, while his thick blond eyebrows and beard were, if anything, even bushier than before. A broad, jovial face suited his outgoing nature, and if there were a few more creases and wrinkles here and there… well, neither of them was as young as he used to be.
“Pavel!”
“Grigori! It’s been too long!”
“And then some!” He spoke to Chekov in their native tongue. His thick Muscovite accent struck nostalgic chords in Chekov’s soul, evoking memories of bygone days. “It is good to see you, my friend. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Liar,” Chekov said, grinning. “But time has been good to you as well, unless you’ve snuck a flattering enhancement filter into your transmission, that is.”
He was joking, of course. If nothing else, Uhura would have flagged anything squirrelly in the signal right away.
Grigori laughed. “Spoken like a security officer, suspicious of everything!”
“I don’t know. I still recall that prank you pulled on me when we went camping as kids, and you faked those scary footprints to convince me that there was a man-eating Siberian yeti lurking in the woods outside our tent.”
“Absolutely worth it! You should have seen the look on your face.” He guffawed in recollection. “But enough about our glorious past. I wager you weren’t expecting to hear from me tonight.”
“You’d win that bet.” He gathered it was also evening where Grigori was calling from. “How is it you’re on Tykona?”
“Work, what else? A local bigwig, with superb taste in designers, has me overseeing a full remodel of her country villa. I’ve been here a few months now, taking an expensively hands-on approach to the project.” His head and shoulders filled the screen, offering little view of his surroundings. “Imagine my surprise when I heard via the global news network that the Enterprise, of all vessels, was swinging by Tykona for a few days.”
Chekov shrugged. “It’s a small galaxy, I guess.”
“And getting smaller every day, it seems.” He peered at Chekov from the computer terminal. “Any chance you have time to visit an old friend who knew you when?”
“As it happens, I do have some shore leave coming.”
“Splendid! I was hoping that would be the case. We have much to catch up on, I’m sure, but that can wait until we can do so in person, over vodka and a fine meal. I don’t want to use up all my credits on this call. I’m just a humble civilian after all, not a high-ranking Starfleet officer.”
Chekov wondered if the villa he’d mentioned was equipped to communicate with ships in orbit, or if Grigori was using some sort of commercial communications facility.
“Humble my foot. But yes, send me your coordinates and let’s set a time for me to beam down.” He grinned in anticipation. “I am truly eager to see you again, my friend. Talk about a happy coincidence.”
He was still anxious to see Simone Tovar after his shore leave, but in the meantime, he couldn’t think of a better way to bridge the gap than by reuniting with one of his oldest comrades for the first time in ages.
“I know,” Grigori said. “Fortune has smiled on us, Pavel, so we would be ungrateful churls not to take advantage of her largesse.”
Chekov couldn’t agree more.
Four
“Welcome to Tykona,” Grigori greeted Chekov warmly upon his arrival at the villa.
Chekov stepped down from a civilian-grade transporter pad. This being an off-duty social call, he’d traded his maroon uniform for more casual attire, consisting of a lightweight brown jacket, a white tunic, brown trousers, and boots. His communicator was clipped to his belt should the Enterprise need to get hold of him, while an unopened bottle of vodka, suitably pre-chilled, was cradled against his chest.
“I come bearing gifts.” He held out the bottle. “Well, a gift at least.”
“Your mother raised you well.” Grigori came out from behind the transporter control console to accept the offering. A rumpled blue smock, with plenty of pockets, draped his stocky frame. He placed it carefully on the console before giving Chekov an enthusiastic bear hug. “I’m so glad you could make it!”
“How could I not?” Chekov said, returning the hug. “Who knows when we’ll next be within light-years of each other?”
Breaking their embrace, he took a moment to survey his new surroundings. The modestly sized transporter room suffered by comparison to the Enterprise’s but appeared serviceable, the pad large enough to accommodate at least four average-sized humanoids at a time. Tykona was a Class-M planet, so there was no perceptible difference in the gravity. A comfortable temperature suggested that the villa’s interior was suitably climate-controlled.
“A personal transporter room?” he observed. “Very ritzy.”
Grigori shrugged. “My current client has deep pockets and a pronounced taste for privacy. As you’ll soon see, we’re a considerable distance from the nearest neighbor, town, city, or transit system. Having one’s own private transporter makes it easier to beam to and fro when desired.”
“Just in case you get stir-crazy?”
“Something like that.”
Chekov suspected Doctor McCoy would have something acerbic to say on the subject of household transporters. “Will your client be joining us?”
“Nyet. She’s a busy woman, with her exquisitely manicured fingers in lots of different pies. We mostly communicate virtually, and any on-site work is on hold until we receive some crucial materials from Denobula… and the client signs off on my latest revised designs.” Grigori reclaimed the frosted bottle and ushered Chekov out of the chamber. “In short, we have the whole place to ourselves, with no bothersome client or contractors to get in the way of our reunion.”
“All the better,” Chekov said. “If anything, everything is falling into place so conveniently that I find myself instinctively waiting for the other gravity boot to drop, just to balance things out.”
“Same old Pavel.” Grigori clucked at him. “Always the glass is half-empty with you.”
“Mea culpa. Let us simply enjoy our good fortune.”
“That’s more like it!”
Grigori led him into a large, airy living area, attractively furnished. A wall-sized picture window let in plenty of sunlight while offering a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Rolling hills and valleys, boasting lush blue and silver foliage, were broken up by sparkling creeks and ponds. It was springtime in this part of Tykona, Chekov knew, and only a few wispy green clouds dotted a bright tangerine sky. Notably absent were any visible roads, maglev tracks, or neighboring homes or farms.
“You weren’t exaggerating when you said your client liked her privacy. I’ve seen more populated asteroids.”
“A tranquil getaway from the bustle of big urban centers and space stations,” Grigori said. “For what it’s worth, there’s a landing pad for fliers and shuttles out back, discreetly out of sight.” He gestured expansively at the spacious living room. “Make yourself at home.”
Grigori retrieved a pair of glasses from a visibly well-stocked bar and they settled into a pair of plush chairs, facing each other across an ebony coffee table. He opened the vodka bottle and poured them each a glass.
“Za vstrechu!” he toasted Chekov.
“To our meeting!” Chekov echoed.
The high-quality vodka, which he had been saving for just such a special occasion, went down smoothly. A taste of Mother Russia, straight from their old stomping grounds, many sectors away.
“No ice?” Chekov asked after they’d emptied their glasses. “You always preferred your vodka on the rocks.”
“A man can’t expand his horizons?” He grinned at Chekov as he poured them another round. “Fine talk from the great space explorer.”
“Point taken.” Chekov raised his glass. “Na zdorovye!”
“To good health!”
The drink soon had the desired effect. Feeling quite relaxed, Chekov contemplated the sprawling hills and fields outside. “You don’t mind being stuck here in the middle of nowhere?”
A people person, Grigori had always thrived on crowds and cities and cosmopolitan living. It was odd to find him in such a remote locale, transporter or no transporter.
“Only for the duration. Besides, it’s not always just me here. There’s often no shortage of local artisans underfoot.”
“And yet…” Chekov glanced around. “Forgive me, but I expected to see more of a work in progress. Unfinished walls. Exposed girders and circuitry. Construction materials piled high on antigrav lifters. Yet the more I look around, I’m not seeing any evidence of a major remodel underway. Nor any trace of your trademark style for that matter.”
“Well, we’re in the early days yet. The work at present is mostly conceptual.”
Chekov didn’t understand. “But you said you been at it for a few months already?”
“Did I?” He gazed into his glass, almost as though avoiding Chekov’s gaze. “If you must know, I’m having trouble getting the client to ‘yes.’ She keeps asking for changes and alternatives every time I present her with a new design.” He let out a weary sigh before pouring them another round. “But enough about me. What are you up these days, my friend?”
Chekov repressed a frown. Was it just his imagination or was there something “off” about Grigori? If he didn’t know better, he’d swear his friend was being evasive, which wasn’t like him at all. The Gregori he’d known all his life had always been on open book, sometimes to a fault. And “Enough about me”? Since when did Grigori not want to talk about himself and his work? That was often his favorite topic.
“The usual,” Chekov replied. “Still serving aboard the Enterprise, obviously.”
The diplomatic mission to Voyzr was far from classified, having already been publicized in advance, but he didn’t want to waste his short leave going over it again. Not unlike, perhaps, Gregori being reluctant to talk about work while taking a break with his old friend?
Maybe that’s all there is to it, Chekov thought. And he doesn’t actually have anything to be evasive about.
“And your family?” Grigori asked. “They are well?”
“Happily, yes, although I’m woefully overdue to visit them. And yours?”
“Very well, thank you.”
Chekov smirked. “Even your daughter?”
“Daughter?” A puzzled expression came over Grigori’s face. “I don’t recall having a daughter, unless you know something I don’t.”
What the devil? Chekov was startled by his response. Grigori’s “daughter” was a long-running private joke between them, dating back to their youth when Grigori’s youngest sister, some fifteen years his junior, delighted in embarrassing her big brother by posing as his daughter in public, purporting to be the product of some juvenile indiscretion. Chekov had never let Grigori hear the end of it, now or then.
So how come the joke had flown over his head, as though he had no clue what Chekov was referring to?
“Your sister, I mean. You know, the one who was young enough to be your daughter… if you were very precocious.”
“Da, da, of course. Little Katya.” He laughed off the confusion. “For a moment there, I was afraid you’d mixed me up with another old comrade, which was quite a blow to my ego.”
If you say so, Chekov thought, unconvinced. Perhaps, as Grigori had suggested just last night, serving as security chief, along with a lifetime spent encountering peril throughout the galaxy, had rendered him chronically suspicious, automatically scanning for potential threats, and yet… it did feel as though Grigori was awkwardly covering for his inexplicable lapse. Chekov scrutinized the very familiar figure sitting across from him, who certainly looked and sounded like the Grigori he’d known forever. Despite this, sensor alerts started chiming at the back of his mind.
Something wasn’t right.
“So, talk to me. What’s new with you?” Grigori pressed, changing the subject, perhaps a little too quickly. “Are you seeing anyone these days?”
“Not at present, although there might be somebody on the horizon. Too early to say.”
He found himself reluctant to volunteer too much information until he figured out what was going on with Grigori, if indeed there was any actual cause for concern. If he can be evasive, so can I.
“Interesting!” Grigori leaned forward. “Tell me more.”
“Nothing to tell. It’s all purely hypothetical at this point.” Chekov gestured at their surroundings, which did not look at all like it was being remodeled. “Not unlike your current project, it seems.”
“Very funny, but don’t think you’re getting off that easily. Come on, Pavel, don’t hold out on me. What’s her name? What is she like? Is she also serving aboard the Enterprise now?”
What’s with the third degree? Chekov thought as the klaxons in his head grew louder by the moment. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but Grigori seemed almost too inquisitive, as though he was bound and determined to pump Chekov for personal details. Chekov didn’t want to suspect his oldest friend of ulterior motives, but he also knew better than to ignore his own hard-won instincts. His gut was telling him to watch out.
For Grigori?
He smiled to conceal his growing unease. “What can I say? I don’t want to kiss and tell before there’s been a single kiss.”
