Identity theft, p.4
Identity Theft, page 4
“Even to your oldest, boon companion?” Grigori refilled their glasses again. “Perhaps this potent libation will loosen your tongue. Nothing like good Russian vodka to liven up a get-together.”
“I don’t know,” Chekov said. “I recall some alleged ‘Romulan ale,’ of questionable provenance, that had you dancing on the table and singing at the top of your lungs at that dive in St. Petersburg back in ’62.” His brow furrowed. “What was that place called again?”
“No idea. That whole night is a blur. I couldn’t recall the name if my life depended on it.”
“But you must remember the truly prodigious hangover you had the next day?”
“Oh yes!” Grigori clutched his head with both hands. “Would that I could forget!”
“Likewise!”
Chekov forced himself to keep smiling even as his blood ran colder than the vodka. Grigori had failed the test Chekov had reluctantly thrown at him; the boisterous incident he’d cited was a total fabrication, invented on the spot. Added to the accumulating irregularities in evidence, not least his gut feelings, there was no longer any room for doubt. This Grigori was not the man Chekov once knew, if he was even Grigori at all.
Dire possibilities raced through Chekov’s brain. A clone? An android duplicate? A shape-shifter or telepathic illusionist? The real Grigori under some manner of mind control? Or maybe even an alternate Grigori from a parallel universe? For better or for worse, Chekov’s long career in Starfleet had taught him that almost anything was possible, no matter how fantastic. He could be certain of only one thing.
He was in trouble.
He rose from the chair, being careful not to betray his alarm. He suddenly wished he had not left his phaser back on the Enterprise. But who took a weapon to meet with an old friend?
“Excuse me,” he said as blithely as possible, “but before we imbibe too heavily, I need to check in with the Enterprise regarding a few minor matters. I’ll be just a minute.”
He started to reach for his communicator as he stepped away from the table, but, far less casually, Grigori drew a compact disruptor from a pocket of his smock. He aimed it straight at Chekov.
“Sorry, Commander, I can’t let you do that.” His Russian accent evaporated as he switched to Federation Standard. “Keep your hands away from that communicator.”
Not Grigori at all then, despite appearances.
“Who are you?” Chekov demanded, no longer obliged to hide his anger at the deception. “What have you done with the real Grigori?”
“Not to worry, Mister Chekov.” A humanoid woman, wearing a long off-white lab coat, entered the room, accompanied by a half-dozen Voyzr bearing disruptor pistols. They converged from various entrances, spreading out to surround Chekov. “Your friend is unharmed, just temporarily indisposed.”
He blinked in surprise, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation. Who was this woman, who appeared to be of East Asian descent, and what were hostile Voyzr doing on Tykona, many systems away from their homeworld? That the Enterprise was headed for Voyzr soon could not be a coincidence; this had to be about the embassy opening and the peace celebration, but how? Why had they gone to such lengths to lure him to the villa, using a false Grigori as bait?
“So much for this charade.” An older Voyzr came forward, his bearing suggesting he was in charge. Streaks of white infiltrated his russet fur, while ruby bands adorned his antlers, signifying his status. His pate was sheared of wool, Indee-style, the better to display the clan markings shaved into his scalp. Large brown eyes turned toward the bogus Grigori. “A shame you couldn’t get more out of him before he caught on.”
“I did my best, sir,” the imposter insisted. “Based on the intel our foreign allies supplied.”
“No matter,” the senior Voyzr said. “Acquiring Commander Chekov was our main objective. Any additional personal data you might extract would be just a bonus. We already have all we need to carry out the operation.”
“What operation?” Chekov asked. It was clear that the imposter had indeed been attempting to pump Chekov for information, and that their supposedly private conversation had been closely monitored the whole time. “What is this all about?”
The ruby-tined leader ignored Chekov’s indignant queries. “Take his communicator,” he ordered the imposter.
“Yes, sir.” The fake Grigori came forward, brandishing his firearm. “Thanks for the vodka, ‘old friend.’ Not a bad concoction… for humans, that is.”
Chekov registered the significance of that disdainful qualifier. Was the imposter not actually as human as he appeared? He glared at his deceiver but, surrounded by armed hostiles, had no choice but to let the man pluck the communicator from his belt. That the scoundrel wore Grigori’s face only made his treachery more galling.
“Cossack swine. If I weren’t outnumbered…”
“Spare us your arrogant Starfleet attitude,” the leader said. “And don’t even think of trying to make a break for it.” He indicated the sweeping vista beyond the picture window. “There’s nowhere to run and no help to be found, for as far as the eye can see.”
“You won’t get away with this.” Chekov refused to be cowed despite the odds against him. “Captain Kirk will be coming for me. My captain and my crew will put paid to your schemes, whatever they are.”
The leader snorted. “They won’t even know you’re gone—until it’s too late.”
Despite his bravado, Chekov didn’t like the sound of that. This was obviously about more than just his personal safety. The ship, or at least its vital mission to Voyzr, was surely in jeopardy.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What do you want with me?”
“No more questions,” the leader said. “We are on a tight schedule. Take him away.”
“Take me where? I want to see Grigori.”
“What you want is of no concern.”
A trio of scowling young bucks advanced on Chekov. He noted belatedly that none of the Voyzr present wore military uniforms such as those he recalled from his long-ago visit to their planet, but they looked more than willing to use force regardless. Six-fingered fists clenched at their sides. Antlers lowered ominously.
“Please go quietly, Mister Chekov,” the woman urged, a guilty expression on her face. He got the impression that she was uncomfortable with the tense confrontation and implied threats of violence. She rung her hands anxiously. “No injury need befall you if you simply cooperate.”
“Listen to the doctor.” A sneering buck took hold of Chekov’s arms. His antlers were less impressive than his leader’s, in both size and adornment, but were pointy enough to watch out for in a fight. “Don’t give us any trouble.”
Like hell I won’t, Chekov thought.
With a sudden movement, he yanked his arm free from the buck’s grasp, then pivoted to the side and drove his elbow into the other man’s gut. The Voyzr doubled over, gasping, and Chekov grabbed at his disrupter pistol. If he could just get his communicator back long enough to trigger a distress signal, then maybe the Enterprise could beam him out of—
A blinding turquoise beam, fired by another Voyzr, lit up his world and his nervous system, a heartbeat before everything went black.
Five
“How is your patient, Doctor?”
“All indications are that the procedure was a success. He should be coming to shortly. We’ll know better then.”
The voices—one male, one female—penetrated Chekov’s foggy consciousness as he slowly emerged from uneasy dreams. Despite the fuzziness, he instinctively recalled that he was in dire straits, so he kept his eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness, while he covertly took stock of his situation. From what he could tell, he was lying atop a bed of some sort, with electronic equipment beeping and humming in the background. Last he remembered, he had been ambushed by hostile Voyzr and stunned when he fought back. Oddly, however, he didn’t seem to be experiencing any of the usual unpleasant aftereffects of a disruptor blast.
“Why should there be a problem? The transference worked perfectly with the other human and my volunteer, not to mention your earlier test subjects.”
“True, but there’s still a lot we don’t know about this ancient, forgotten technology, even after all these years. And when you’re dealing with two distinctly different humanoid species… well, you have even more variables to contend with. A procedure of this nature is no simple matter, Trath. It only makes sense to proceed with care.”
“It had better work, Doctor, for all our sakes. The entire operation depends on it.”
“Believe me, Trath, I know that all too well.”
Transference? Procedure? Trying not to stir, his eyes still closed, Chekov identified the voices as belonging to the human woman and the Voyzr leader, respectively, but what were they talking about? Ancient technology? An unspecified “operation”? He tried to make sense of it, but he was in the dark, literally and figuratively. He kept quiet, hoping to learn more.
“I would hope so, Doctor. An opportunity like this may not—”
“Hold on, Trath. Chekov’s brain-wave activity indicates that he is fully conscious.” Her voice softened, assuming a gentler tone. “You can stop pretending, Mister Chekov. I know you’re awake.”
“So much for playing Sleeping Beauty,” he muttered. There was no point in keeping up the pretense since his captors were unlikely to let any secrets slip now that they knew he was listening. Opening his eyes, he tried to sit up, only to discover that he was strapped down to a biobed in what looked like a hospital room, being studied by the doctor and the Voyzr leader, Trath, with contrasting degrees of empathy visible upon their faces. The doctor appeared genuinely concerned about her unwilling patient, while Trath peered down at him more coldly, standing stiffly with his arms behind his back.
“Sleeping Beauty?” he asked, puzzled.
“A famous Russian fairy tale.”
Chekov looked around. Although his arms and legs were strapped down, he could still lift his head, which felt oddly heavier than usual. Blurry vision gradually came into focus as, turning his head from side to side, he spied a generous assortment of medical equipment—some familiar, some not—arrayed against the walls, along with a few cabinets and counters. A guard, armed and antlered, was posted at the only door, standing watch. A translucent privacy screen partially concealed a portion of the room to Chekov’s right; through it, he dimly glimpsed the silhouette of a patient in another biobed only a few meters away.
Grigori?
“Where am I?” he asked. His voice sounded hoarse and unrecognizable.
“Still at the villa on Tykona, not far from the room where we first met.” The doctor looked him over, occasionally glancing up at the display screen over his head. Chekov flashed back to his recent visit to sickbay when he was tended to by Simone Tovar; somehow he doubted this exam was going to be as delightful. “I regret that my associates’ subordinates were forced to subdue you, but you gave us little choice.”
“Aside from choosing to take me captive, after luring me into a trap.” He strained unsuccessfully against his bonds. “You’ll forgive me for not being more cooperative.”
She winced but soldiered on, still attempting a soothing bedside manner as though he was simply a patient under care and not a prisoner. “And now? How are you feeling?”
Honestly, he wasn’t sure. He’d been stunned before, even subjected to a Klingon agonizer and a Triskelion collar of obedience, but this felt different. The lights, the colors, the sounds, even his own voice seemed distorted somehow, as though there was something wrong with his eyes and ears. His face felt strange, too, like it was swollen or stretched out of shape. He wasn’t in discomfort, exactly, but it was disorienting.
“Wrong,” he admitted. “Not like myself.”
Trath snickered, earning a disapproving look from the doctor.
“And do you know who you are?” she asked.
Was she checking him for shock or brain damage? Next she’d be asking if he knew who the president of the Federation was.
“Commander Pavel Andreievich Chekov, Starfleet,” he said without hesitation. They obviously knew who he was well enough to bait a trap with a simulacrum of an old friend. “Serial number 656-5827B.”
A harsh laugh came from the other side of the privacy screen.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you.” The reclining figure sat up and turned toward Chekov. “Which I would know.”
Not Grigori’s voice, although it did sound far too familiar. It took Chekov a moment to recognize his own voice. His jaw dropped, his defiant attitude slipping as a sudden dread overtook him. He shuddered beneath the straps binding him.
“What is this? What is happening?”
The figure on the other bed, who was clearly not under restraint, produced a small handheld remote, which he pointed at the screen obscuring his appearance. A click turned the screen transparent, and Chekov found himself looking at…
Himself?
A mirror image smirked at him from across the room. He looked so much like his reflection that even Chekov couldn’t detect any telltale difference. The face, the voice, the physique… everything declared, impossibly, that the man on the bed, wearing Chekov’s civilian attire, was none other than Pavel Chekov.
Just as the fake Grigori had been indistinguishable from the genuine article.
“Who—?” Chekov’s own voice, which he still couldn’t recognize, faltered. It was hard not to be unsettled by such a convincing doppelganger. “You have no right to do this, copying my face!”
“Please, Mister Chekov, try to stay calm.” The doctor looked intently at the display screen, where his pulse and stress levels were surely spiking—with good reason. “Don’t make me sedate you.”
“Congratulations, Doctor.” Trath smiled, heedless of Chekov’s distress. “It seems the transference was a success after all.”
“Transference?” A ghastly possibility hit Chekov like a photon torpedo. Tearing his horrified gaze away from the other “Chekov,” he stared down at his shaking hands, which he raised as far as the restraints would allow.
Velvety red fur carpeted the backs of hands, which boasted six fingers each.
“Bozhe moi!”
He tried to reach for his face, momentarily forgetting his bonds in his panicky need to confirm his worst fears. Turning his frantic eyes downward, he belatedly glimpsed, at the lower periphery of his distorted, disorienting vision, the upper contours of… a snout?
“You devils! What have you done to me?”
“Please, Chekov,” the doctor pleaded. “Don’t upset yourself.”
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”
She recoiled, guilt contorting her own face.
“Don’t coddle him,” Trath ordered. “Show him.”
She hesitated. “Please, I’ve done what you asked. There’s no need to be cruel. He’s received a dreadful shock.”
“For his own peace of mind then, if that eases your conscience. Show him.”
Her shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Very well.” She retrieved a hand mirror from a nearby cabinet and approached Chekov with obvious reluctance. “Please brace yourself.”
He didn’t need the warning, already trembling in anticipation, but there was no way to truly prepare himself for the face that looked back at him from the mirror.
A Voyzr face.
Six
“You devils! What have you done to me?”
The naked fear and fury in her new patient’s voice echoed mercilessly in Doctor Jacqueline Morval’s mind as she conferred with her blackmailers in the villa’s spacious living area. Adding to her guilt was the sense that she ought to be with Chekov now, helping him through his trauma instead of leaving him alone and under guard, but she hadn’t been able to bear his accusing gaze any longer. She’d check on him later, she promised herself. She’d just needed to step away for a short spell to steady herself. Physician, heal thyself.
Fat chance, she thought.
An open bottle of vodka still rested on the coffee table, forgotten since Chekov’s seeming reunion with Grigory Ratikin had come to an abrupt and upsetting end. Morval claimed an unfinished glass and gulped it down. No longer chilled, it had warmed to room temperature. She swallowed it anyway.
It didn’t make her feel any better.
“Don’t look so glum, Doctor,” Trath chided her. “Your role in these proceedings is almost over. Less than two weeks to go.” Following her lead, he poured himself a glass and sipped it experimentally. His cervine face twisted in disgust and he spit the mouthful back into the glass. “Vile! How do you humans tolerate it?”
Differently evolved taste buds? the scientist in her speculated reflexively. Or just varying cultural backgrounds and traditions?
Not that it truly mattered at the moment.
She and Trath shared the living space with two of his agents, neither of them in their original bodies, thanks to her. A dedicated Exile named Vonnu still occupied the form of Ratikin, while another young buck, Ryjo, was about to return to the Enterprise as Chekov.
It’s all happening, just as planned, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Part of her had hoped that, against all odds, the life-entity transference would fail somehow, forcing the operation to be scuttled, regardless of the consequences for her, but no such luck. For better or for worse, she’d devoted much of her adult life to studying the ancient, arcane technology involved, so she knew what she was doing when it came to temporarily swapping consciousnesses between two sentient beings. Ryjo was indeed “Chekov” now, with no debilitating aftereffects that she could determine, damn it.
“How are you feeling?” she couldn’t resist asking him.
“Older,” he admitted. “Are all human bodies so tired and achy? I feel like I’ve aged thirty years.”
“More like twenty-five,” she said. “Chekov is actually in fine condition for a man his age, but you don’t have an eighteen-year-old body anymore.”
