“I know.” He sighed in resignation. “It just feels… uncomfortable… being so much older all of a sudden.”

  “I can imagine,” she sympathized. Not that Ryjo probably needed to worry about getting much older in either this body or his original one. Not if he carried out his mission as planned.

  “Your courage and sacrifice will not be forgotten,” Trath said. “You are a credit to your clan and to your late father in particular. Are you ready to depart for the Enterprise?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  A spike of alarm stabbed Morval. After months of anxious planning and anticipation, things were now proceeding far too fast. Was there still a chance to hit the brakes before it was too late?

  “Are we certain this is a good idea?” she asked. “I’m worried about how quickly Chekov saw through Vonnu pretending to be Ratikin.” She gave the body-swapped Voyzr an apologetic look. “No offense.”

  He bristled anyway. “I did my best. It’s not my fault our intel on Ratikin must have been incomplete.”

  “I’m not blaming you.” In fact, they still didn’t know what exactly had tipped Chekov off to the deception. “But what if the same thing happens aboard the Enterprise? Ryjo needs to fool Chekov’s friends and crewmates all the way to Voyzr. Do we truly think he can pull that off when Chekov pegged Vonnu as an imposter in no time?”

  “I can do it,” Ryjo insisted. “I’ve spent months studying every aspect of Chekov’s life: his history, his personality, his mannerisms, even his native tongue. Vonnu was working from a much thinner file since he just needed to fool Chekov long enough to lure him to this location… and perhaps extract a few updated details about his recent activities aboard the Enterprise.”

  “Quite true.” Trath licked his own nose to keep it wet. “Our Klingon allies provided us with much more comprehensive intel on Commander Chekov than on Ratikin, who was indeed nothing more than bait.” He placed a reassuring hand on Ryjo’s shoulder. “Your hard work and preparation for this mission have not gone unnoticed. I have complete faith in your ability to carry out your mission.”

  Ryjo visibly basked in his leader’s praise. “That means everything to me, sir.”

  “And as for you, Doctor.” Trath shot a warning glance at Morval. “Kindly keep any second thoughts to yourself. I will not have you undermining the confidence of my agents. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Trath.” Her spirits sagged with her shoulders. “Too well.”

  How had it come to this? She had no loyalty to the Exile’s cause. Indeed, less than year ago, she had never even heard of Voyzr, let alone known that Tykona hosted an entrenched community of Voyzr Exiles, still nursing a grudge over some long-ago civil war. She had certainly never set out to betray the Federation. Instead she had been tricked and trapped and turned, a step at a time, until she woke up one day to find herself hopelessly compromised, facing personal and professional ruin if she didn’t do as she was told, even if that meant perverting her life’s work, namely studying the incredible device discovered amidst the ruins of a dead civilization on Camus II more than two decades ago.

  Ever since the Kirk/Lester incident of 2269, which remained strictly classified by Starfleet, select scientists and researchers had been quietly analyzing the long-lost technology responsible, the almost-metaphysical underpinnings of which continued to resist full explanation despite the best efforts of many of the Federation’s finest minds. Morval and her predecessors and colleagues had made great strides in understanding the applications and effects of the technology, even to the extent of being to reverse-engineer similar devices, but determining precisely why it worked remained elusive, yielding only a flurry of contradictory theories and explanations, none of which could be conclusively proven.

  That was the puzzle she’d been determined to crack, no matter what, and the ambition that ultimately led to her downfall.

  It had started innocently enough, with a seemingly harmless request. She received through back channels a communication from someone who purported to be a Tellarite scientist engaged in equally classified research along similar lines, specifically instances of psychic possession and transference involving long-extinct alien civilizations such as the Arretians and Zetarians. Frustrated by the wearisome layers of security impeding open communication between their respective endeavors, he’d offered to share some of his findings with her, under the table as it were, in exchange for the same courtesy from her.

  At first, his proposal had seemed reasonable enough. They were all on the same side after all, pursuing related goals, so why should an excess of bureaucratic red tape involving security clearances and restrictions get in the way of solving mysteries that had stymied determined scientists for decades? It wasn’t as though they were trading dangerous military secrets; the Tellarite was simply offering a few tidbits of esoteric data that might provide fresh insights into certain problems that were defeating her.

  Where was the harm?

  It all seemed so innocuous in the beginning, with exchanges of obscure, rarefied test results, readings, and translations posing no possible threat to the safety of the Federation, which slowly, meticulously led to larger and more generous file swaps as she grew more at ease with their informal arrangement. That was how she’d thought of it then, as simply an “informal” exchange of ideas and information, not anything resembling espionage. And she was finding some provocative new data in the material she received from her obliging new Tellarite collaborator.

  It was only after several such exchanges, in which she heedlessly shared ever-greater quantities of classified scientific data without authorization, that the “Tellarite” revealed himself to have been a disguised Klingon spy all along.

  At that point, she was trapped. She could not come clean to her superiors without revealing that she had been covertly supplying the Klingons with top-secret intel for months. She would be facing disgrace, criminal prosecution, probably even imprisonment in a rehabilitation colony, not to mention the total demolition of her career, her reputation, her personal and professional relationships, everything. Friends, family, lovers, mentors… everyone would know that she had been duped into collaborating with the Klingons.

  She couldn’t live with that, and her Klingon handler knew it. She was a suborned Klingon asset now, whether she liked it or not.

  In hindsight, she should have called it quits right away, confessed her misdeeds, and faced the music, but instead she had let the Klingon blackmail her into obtaining yet more classified scientific secrets, of a far more serious nature, which only gave him even more leverage over her. It was like being trapped aboard a runaway bullet train; it was already accelerating too fast to jump off without risking catastrophe, but the longer she delayed, the more impossible it became. All she could do was hang on for dear life, postponing the inevitable crash, until she ended up… here.

  “Perhaps I should go check on my patient,” she said, more defeated than ever. “See how he’s coping.”

  Trath frowned.

  “You worry too much about the prisoner. His welfare is not our concern.” He licked his nose. “A shame we can’t simply dispose of him.”

  Ryjo flinched at the prospect of his original Voyzr body being harmed, even though he was never expected to return to it. He kept quiet, however.

  “That’s not possible!” Morval snapped, despair expressing itself as impatience. “You know that.”

  Decades of research and experimentation had demonstrated that a Camusian life-entity transfer produced a profound connection between the two subjects, a kind of psychic entanglement that operated across even interstellar distances. Contrary to what Doctors Lester and Coleman had believed back in the day, killing one subject would not make the transference permanent; instead, it would kill both subjects simultaneously. Indeed, even keeping Chekov heavily sedated for the entire duration of Ryjo’s mission risked impairing Ryjo’s ability to think and function effectively over an extended period of time. Chekov needed to be kept in sound mind and body for the mission’s sake.

  “What about my body?” Vonnu scratched irritably at Ratikin’s bushy blond beard. “Can I get it back now that I’ve played my part? I’d like to shed this aging human carcass sooner rather than later.”

  Morval shook her head. “Best to let the transference reverse itself naturally in due time, under careful observation. That’s safer and less challenging than trying to undo it via another, unnecessary procedure.” She turned toward Trath. “Any transplant, no matter how routine, risks complications, and this procedure is anything but routine.”

  For once, Trath did not question her, possibly because he preferred to keep the false Ratikin in reserve should something go wrong and Starfleet start taking a closer look at Chekov’s visit to Tykona. Not that Trath would ever entertain such a possibility in front of his subordinates. The mission would succeed, period. Doubts were off-limits and bad for morale.

  Luring the real Ratikin to Tykona had been easily accomplished, employing the same cover story later fed to Chekov. Ratikin had been drawn by the promise of an ambitious remodeling project, only to be waylaid when he arrived to inspect the location in person. Now he was being detained in a separate room, away from Chekov, as a precaution against the two humans conspiring together.

  “Patience,” Trath instructed Vonnu. “You’ll be restored to your proper form soon enough.”

  At which point, it would be possible to eliminate the real Ratikin without harming Vonnu. Morval was under no illusions that Trath would let Ratikin go once Ryjo completed his mission; the innocent Russian would then be an incriminating loose end to be disposed of as expeditiously as possible. She didn’t like to think about that, let alone her own possibly expendable status, despite her value as a Klingon asset and an expert in Camusian tech; still, she derived some small measure of comfort from the knowledge that at least one of her “patients” would survive this nightmare, even if Vonnu was a willing participant in the plot.

  Chekov’s prospects, on the other hand, were considerably less rosy.

  She resorted to another glass of vodka and forced herself to focus on her work instead, seeking solace in the science that had always been her chief passion.

  “Speaking of the reversal,” she said to Vonnu, “are you experiencing any mental backwash yet?”

  Past trials, conducted over the years on voluntary test subjects, had determined that the intimate psychic link between the subjects flowed both ways, with the division between the two consciousnesses becoming ever more permeable over time; the longer the link was in place, the more memories and impressions tended to filter back to their original brains, at first in the form of brief, fragmentary images and sensations lasting only a heartbeat or so. This psychic cross contamination, or “backwash,” would eventually accelerate and amplify until the transposed life-entities began switching back to their original bodies, momentarily at first, but then for longer intervals and, ultimately, for good.

  Vonnu hesitated before replying to her, looking uneasy.

  “Speak up,” Trath ordered. “Answer the doctor.”

  “It’s probably nothing, but… I’ve been having these dreams that, well, seem to mix up my memories with people and places I don’t know, but that maybe Ratikin does? Where I’m human, then Voyzr, then human again, in cities and landscapes I don’t recognize, but which feel strangely familiar. If that makes any sense?”

  Morval nodded, making a mental note to give Vonnu a full examination in the near future and perhaps ask him to keep a dream diary to better document his experience. “Anything else? While you’re awake perhaps?”

  “Maybe,” he hedged. “Not anything serious. Just flashes every so often. Faces, voices, snatches of memories that don’t belong to me.” He shrugged unconvincingly, presenting a confident pose. “Nothing I can’t handle for a little while longer.”

  She could tell he was more disturbed by his symptoms than he wanted to let on. Small wonder he’d been so anxious to get back into his own body. Ratikin’s memories were already seeping back where they belonged.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “What you’re experiencing is entirely to be expected, and absolutely temporary. Once the transference fully reverses itself, you will experience no lingering aftereffects.”

  She said this with confidence, based on years of meticulous research. Certainly, James T. Kirk had never reported any lasting effects from that first documented transference. The psychic entanglement had terminated once both parties were back in their original bodies. Subsequent trials had verified this outcome over and over.

  “Nevertheless,” Trath said, eyeing Vonnu warily, “we had best place you under guard for the present. We can’t have Ratikin reclaiming his body at an inconvenient moment, not with so much at stake.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Good man.” Trath turned his attention to Ryjo, who appeared to be following the discussion of Vonnu’s unsettling symptoms more intently than the Voyzr leader might have preferred. “And Ryjo has no reason to fear any sort of reversal before his mission is complete, isn’t that so, Doctor?”

  She knew what he wanted to her to say, and, unfortunately, she did not need to dissemble. She was confident that she had figured out how to prolong the transference so that it would last long enough for Ryjo to carry out his assignment before it began to reverse itself, returning Chekov’s consciousness to his own body. In theory.

  “Yes,” she said. “You will have enough time to… do what you intend.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to spell it out any more than that.

  “Good to know,” Ryjo said, looking reassured. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  She felt a twinge of sympathy for the young volunteer. She didn’t know much about his background, but she understood that he had grown up in the Exile community here on Tykona, no doubt raised on patriotic tales of the grievous historical injustice that had banished his clan from their native planet in the wake of a civil war and failed coup d’etat. He was clearly eager to avenge that long-ago wrong and prove himself loyal to the Exile cause, even if it meant sacrificing his own body and future.

  “Go then,” Trath exhorted. “Infiltrate Kirk’s crew, beneath his very nose, and bring honor to your clan, your people, and the sacred memory of your mother and father. Make us proud.”

  Ryjo straightened Chekov’s shoulders.

  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Seven

  Here we go, Ryjo thought.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the turbolift onto the bridge of Enterprise-A. Chekov’s maroon uniform fit snugly on his stolen form; Ryjo resisted an urge to tug on the turtleneck collar. Excitement warred with apprehension as he confronted one of the first big tests before him.

  I can do this. I have to do this.

  He scanned the bridge, trying hard not to gawk. It had taken some time to adjust to seeing through human eyes, but he was getting used to it. To his relief, the bridge looked identical to the VR simulator he had logged into so many hours on, allowing for the slight discrepancies between human and Voyzr vision. Just to play it safe, he had run through the simulation one last time after the transference so any changes in lighting or coloration didn’t throw him off.

  “Welcome back, Mister Chekov. I trust you enjoyed your shore leave.”

  The captain’s chair rotated toward him, and Ryjo found himself face-to-face with Captain James T. Kirk.

  “Yes, Captain. Very much so.”

  Prepared for this moment, Ryjo schooled his new face to betray no trace of the powerful feelings coursing through him as he looked straight into the eyes of the infamous human who had cost his family and his people so much. In the Exile community he’d grown up in, Kirk’s name was reviled. He was a devil: the arrogant Starfleet meddler responsible for the shameful “peace” that had dishonored the valor and sacrifice of all who had fought and died for the Indee cause, including Ryjo’s own mother, all her siblings, and numerous other kin on both sides of his family tree. It was Kirk who’d set in motion the events that led to the Exiles seeking refuge on Tykona decades ago, their rightful fortunes and status unjustly diminished. Back on Voyzr, Ryjo’s father had been a man of power and influence: a statesman and an aristocrat, presiding over a vast estate, heir to a long and distinguished line of clan leaders, generals, judges, industrialists, and scholars. On Tykona, he had been reduced to eking out a living as a barber, forever blaming Kirk and Starfleet for both the loss of his heritage and his son’s truncated prospects. All Ryjo’s life, for long as he could remember, he had been told of the glorious future he might have had if not for Kirk sticking his short, stubby human nose where it didn’t belong. Looking at Kirk now, it was all he could do not to spit in his face.

  He smiled broadly instead. “Still, it’s good to be back, sir.”

  Not wanting to prolong the encounter, lest his true feelings slip past his amiable façade, he casually took his place at Chekov’s accustomed post at the forward control console, replacing the hairless Deltan ensign keeping it warm. Settling into the seat, his back to Kirk, he was grateful that the Enterprise was still in orbit around Tykona, allowing him to get his bearings before he would be called upon to serve as either navigator or security chief to any significant degree. It was the latter role, of course, that had made the real Chekov the target of the operation. Being in charge of security en route to Voyzr put Ryjo in the ideal position to carry out his mission when the time came.

  “So how was your reunion with your old comrade?”

  Ryjo turned toward Commander Hikaru Sulu, whom he knew to be Chekov’s longtime friend and crewmate, dating back to Kirk’s original five-year mission. Sulu had also been involved in Kirk’s unwelcome interference with the war two decades ago, but that was not what caused Ryjo to tense up inside. If anyone aboard the ship was going see through his disguise, it would be Sulu. He would have to be very careful around this man while, paradoxically, acting completely at ease with him, as though they were indeed the best of friends.

 

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