Identity theft, p.7
Identity Theft, page 7
Could he trust her, or was she just playing him? Unable to perform a mind-meld like a certain Vulcan first officer, he had no recourse but to trust his gut yet again—and hope he wasn’t making a dreadful mistake.
“All right.” He lowered the disruptor and let her slip back into the corridor. “Don’t make me regret this.”
He hung back in the stairwell, taking cover, as he heard her running up to the approaching bootsteps.
“That way!” she called out. “He headed that way! He must be after Ratikin!”
So much for saving Grigori, he thought, Morval having made that choice for him. I’ll be back for you, my friend. You have my word on it.
For now, however, he had to find the transporter room while he still could. Exiting the stairwell, he hurried in the opposite direction of the retreating Voyzr but almost immediately found himself confronted with another intersection, uncertain which way to go.
Left, he knew somehow. Then right, then straight ahead, then right again.
His new brain and body seemed to know the way, even if he didn’t, so he didn’t argue with them. Lights switched on throughout the villa as shouts and commotion awoke the formerly sleeping residence. Decades of Starfleet experience and training, now coupled to a limber young body, kept Chekov on his toes as he slipped like an antlered forest spirit through the villa, deftly ducking and evading roving teams of Voyzr until, sure enough, he arrived at the entrance to the transporter room—where an armed doe was already standing guard.
Sneaking past her into the transporter room was impossible, so Chekov opted for a frontal assault before the lone sentry could be joined by reinforcements. She spotted Chekov only a moment after he saw her, but that instant made all the difference. She only had time to shout, “Here! He’s over here!” before a turquoise disruptor beam dropped her to the floor. Chekov bounded over her stunned form to charge into the transporter room, pistol first, just in case more Voyzr were waiting inside.
To his relief, the compact chamber was unoccupied. He had no idea how many agents Trath had on-site, but possibly it was just a small band of conspirators or maybe only a single discrete terrorist cell. He quickly sealed the only entrance, then welded it shut with a high-temperature beam from the stolen disruptor, much as Kirk had done in that Indee generator room nearly twenty years ago.
Talk about history repeating itself.
Chekov shook his head. He was getting heartily weary of déjà vu, even if this time the flashbacks were surfacing from his own memory and not somebody else’s. That was something, he supposed.
The transporter controls had been customized to Voyzr standards. Fortunately, he had some experience with such panels, and now he even had the right number of fingers to operate it efficiently.
“Silver linings,” he muttered.
He activated the built-in communications panel and keyed in the Enterprise’s emergency frequency, accompanied by his own priority security code.
“Chekov to Enterprise, can you read me? Repeat, this is Commander Pavel Chekov, hailing Enterprise!”
He received no answer. A display screen reported that the transmission had failed: Hail incomplete. No response.
Chekov froze momentarily. Had the Enterprise already departed Tykona, leaving him behind? If so, they were well beyond the range of the transporter or its communicator by now.
“Chekov to Enterprise?” he tried again, hoping against hope that the earlier failure was just a glitch. “Uhura?”
“Open up!” Trath bellowed from the other side of the door. Fists and bodies pounded against the barrier. “Surrender and you won’t be harmed!”
And end up strapped to a biobed again, being fed a dispiriting diet of twigs and leaves? Not if he could help it.
“Stand away from the door if you value your life.” Trath paused only a heartbeat before ordering his people, “Open fire!”
Disruptor bursts slammed into the door, triggering yet more flashbacks to that besieged generator room decades ago, but no reinforced blast shielding stood between Chekov and his pursuers this time, only an ordinary polyalloy door that was already buckling and melting under the onslaught. It wasn’t going to hold back Trath and his agents for long.
“All right,” Chekov said. “Time for Plan B.”
He still had access to a transporter, if only for a few more moments. Abandoning his futile efforts to contact the Enterprise, he called up the transporter’s history on the console and found preset coordinates for the nearest large urban center, a city called Jhopash.
Any port in an ion storm. Guilt stabbed at him at the prospect of leaving Grigori behind. Forgive me, old friend, but duty requires I warn the Enterprise of the imposter as quickly as possible.
He selected the displayed coordinates with the disruptors whining shrilly only a few meters away. The sealed edges of the door glowed white-hot, then sublimed into vapor. Setting the time for only five seconds, Chekov rushed onto the transporter pad, just as the door came crashing down onto the floor of the chamber. Chekov fired at the breached doorway to cover his escape.
“The console!” Trath shouted. “Blast the controls before—”
Chekov dissolved into energy.
Nine
“Welcome to Jhopash, Downtown Station. Please exit the platform promptly—and enjoy our peace and prosperity.”
A recorded message greeted Chekov as he abruptly found himself on a crowded public transporter platform, minus his stolen disruptor pistol, which had apparently been confiscated by a sophisticated security filter. The platform was located within a covered pavilion at the center of a city square surrounded by broad pedestrian avenues, moving sidewalks, and towering structures of gleaming steel and crystal. Jhopash was in the same time zone as the villa, or so Chekov understood, but despite the predawn hour, the square was brightly lit and bustling with activity. Throngs of people were out and about, enjoying the warm spring weather. He joined the stream of new arrivals vacating the platform, then took a moment to survey his new surroundings.
Downtown Jhopash lived up to its reputation for lavish high living. A cosmopolitan populace, boasting a diverse assortment of sentients, humanoid and otherwise, filled the square and streets, as well as assorted elevated walkways, balconies, and terraces overlooking the scene. Founded by one of the first waves of refugees generations ago, Jhopash continued to draw displaced peoples, exiles, fugitives, and tourists from across the quadrant and beyond. This far from the Federation, familiar species like the Vulcans or Andorians were not much in evidence, and, much to Chekov’s relief, only a smattering of Voyzr seemed visible at first glance.
At least for the moment, he thought.
The grandiose architecture was equally varied. Looming towers shared the skyline with massive hourglasses, helical spirals, and inverted pyramids made possible only by extravagant use of applied antigravity. Flying vehicles soared overhead along clearly defined aerial traffic patterns, while the ground level was given over to pedestrians flowing in and out of upscale restaurants, clubs, art galleries, and shops. A virtual fashion show, advertising the latest trends and styles from across the galaxy, was drawing an affluent-looking crowd, similarly decked out.
Clearly, this was a ritzy part of town.
Scandalized gasps and shocked expressions greeted Chekov from all sides as the crowd drew back from him, gaping or else averting their eyes, antennae, or other sensory organs. Heads of myriad shapes and sizes shook in dismay, abruptly reminding Chekov that he was wearing nothing but a flimsy, backless hospital gown providing little coverage to the rear. His embarrassment was only slightly mitigated by the fact it wasn’t actually his own body being exposed.
“Er, my apologies, everyone.” He positioned his now-empty hands over his hindquarters. “I was in such a hurry I forgot to get dressed.”
Could Voyzr blush? He had no idea.
“You there!” A pair of uniformed police officers, resplendent in gleaming white pseudo-leather, shoved their way toward him, looking distinctly unhappy about the spectacle he was making. “What do you think you’re up to, antlers?”
The speaker was a craggy-faced cyclops with one deep-set red eye in the center of his face, just above scowling lips and a jutting chin. A thick blue eyebrow descended sharply at its center, forming an indignant V above his solitary eye. A thatch of spiky cobalt hair sprouted from his scalp. A shock baton was affixed to his belt. His partner was some variety of flightless avian, complete with a multicolored feathered crest and a polished black beak. Hawklike eyes looked Chekov over. Seeming younger than his partner, the avian held back, letting the senior cop take the lead. Scaly orange talons rested on the grip of his own baton.
Chekov couldn’t immediately identify either species, but that was the least of his concerns. Apparently, contacting the local authorities was going to be easier than anticipated, thanks to his semi-indecent exposure.
“Officers!” he greeted them. “Am I glad to see you. Just who I’m looking for!”
“Oh yeah? I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” The cyclops sneered at Chekov, radiating belligerence. Meaty fingers plucked a plastic capsule from his belt and cracked it open to release a lightweight, waterproof rain slicker that he thrust at Chekov. “Cover up… now!”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He hastily pulled on the slicker, which was mercifully opaque. He was anxious to explain his dire predicament to the officers. “Very much appreciated, but—”
“Look here.” The cyclops shook a finger at Chekov. “We don’t tolerate any inappropriate behavior in this district. This is a respectable neighborhood for decent people, who don’t need low-rent miscreants like you putting themselves on display. Nobody wants to see that.”
“That’s for sure.” The avian clucked at Chekov. “You got that, pal?”
“Absolutely, Officers. I quite understand.” He struggled to get a word in. Given the cops’ attitude, he was glad he was no longer brandishing a disruptor pistol. “I realize I’m not exactly making a good first impression here—”
“You think?” the cyclops said.
“But you must listen to me. I just escaped from armed criminals who were holding me against my will, and my friend is still their prisoner. What’s more, I need to get an urgent message to Starfleet right away, on a matter of vital importance!”
“Starfleet, eh?” The cyclops eyed him dubiously. “You’re a long way from the Federation, mister.”
“Don’t I know it! But I am quite serious, Officers. It’s imperative that I contact the U.S.S. Enterprise immediately.”
The avian chirped in amusement. “The Enterprise no less.” He looked down his beak at Chekov. “What business could you have with Starfleet?”
Chekov hesitated, realizing just how far-fetched a true account of the body-swap would sound, yet he also needed to get these ill-disposed cops to appreciate the seriousness of the situation. Who knew what the false “Chekov” was already up to aboard the Enterprise?
“I swear to you, gentlemen, I am most certainly a Starfleet officer, recently ambushed and taken captive by hostile parties, and I urgently need to alert my captain and crewmates of an imminent threat.”
“Come again?” the cyclops scoffed. “A Voyzr in Starfleet?”
“It’s… complicated.”
“I’ll bet.” The cops exchanged skeptical looks, perhaps wondering if he was an escapee from a psychiatric ward. “What are you on, antlers? Breez? Stim? Pheros?”
“I am quite unimpaired, Officers.” Aside from being trapped in a someone else’s body, that was. “But you have to believe me. This may well be a matter of life and death.”
Frustration gnawed at him, straining his patience. This seemingly fruitless encounter was far too protracted—and public—for his liking. He glanced back at the transporter platform, where a fresh batch of civilians was preparing to depart the square, probably according to some established transit schedule. It wouldn’t take Trath and his operatives long to deduce where Chekov had beamed to. He needed to be somewhere else before they came looking for him.
“We don’t have to do anything, antlers. Let alone fall for whatever deer dung you’re dishing out.”
“Do you believe this guy?” the avian added. “Who does he think he’s kidding?”
A shimmering glow, accompanied by the telltale whine of an active transporter, whisked the departing passengers away, replacing them with a fresh crop of new arrivals, including several stony-faced Voyzr.
Uh-oh, Chekov thought. They’ve caught up with me.
Spotting their quarry just beyond the pavilion, his pursuers started toward him, only to back off when they clocked the police officers as well. They dispersed into the crowd, joining a growing circle of curious bystanders observing Chekov’s run-in with the cops. Feeling even more exposed than before, he knew better than to expect his Voyzr foes to retreat entirely. They would be sticking close to him, waiting for an opportunity to recapture him. He could practically feel their predatory eyes upon him.
“We’re getting nowhere,” he protested to the cops. “I insist you escort me to your superiors at once. I need to speak to someone in authority.”
“Oh, you insist, do you? Now you’re telling us how to do our job?” The cyclops unhooked his shock baton, gripping it ominously. “Get lost, antlers. Take your fuzzy red butt back to your own turf and don’t let me see you on my beat again.”
“You heard him,” the avian said. “Beat it.”
Not a good idea, Chekov knew. Not with his former captors lurking nearby.
And me without a disruptor.
“Respectfully, I would prefer not to.”
“You deaf, antlers?” The cyclops’s face flushed angrily. “Don’t make me run you in.”
“Yes, please, run me in. That’s what I’m saying!”
Looking about, he spied the gullible Voyzr guard he’d kayoed back at the villa, who glared murderously at Chekov from the ring of spectators taking in the show. A bandaged antler testified to the damage he’d sustained from Chekov earlier; the Voyzr massaged his sore jaw while subtly pointing his remaining tines at Chekov, as though he couldn’t wait to lock horns with him. Literally.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” the cyclops growled, “but I’ve had enough. Get a move on.” He didn’t switch on his baton but prodded Chekov with its business end. “The slicker is on me. You’re welcome.”
Chekov glanced down at the concealing rain gear. A desperate ploy occurred to him.
“I’m sorry, Officers, but you forced my hand.”
He stripped off the slicker—and the hospital gown as well.
* * *
“Hello? I need to talk to somebody!”
In Chekov’s experience, interrogation rooms were the same all over, regardless of which Class-M world you found yourself on. He paced back and forth across the stark, boxlike compartment, where a bluntly utilitarian metal table and chairs sat unused, waiting for someone to join him. The walls were similarly gray and unadorned, aside from a glossy black viewscreen that doubtless served as a one-way monitor. He assumed he was under surveillance, unless somebody had forgotten he was there. With no chronometer in sight, he had no way of knowing exactly how long he’d been left to stew, but he figured the sun must have risen by now. (How long was Tykona’s daily rotation again?) Fatigue lurked at the fringes of his endurance, kept at bay by adrenaline and sheer frustration. Every minute that passed was another minute the imposter was free to commit who knew what heinous acts in Chekov’s body.
I need to let the captain know that’s not me on the bridge!
At least his jailers had provided him with some rudimentary attire, if only for propriety’s sake. A plain white tunic, black trousers, and slippers provided a degree of dignity the hospital gown had lacked. The clothes were basic enough but struck him as resembling simple civilian garb, not obviously prison togs. He chose to take that as a good sign.
“Hello! Is anybody listening? I know you can hear me!”
“No need to shout, citizen.”
The sealed doorway slid open, admitting an older, reptilian woman in crisp professional attire, accompanied by a uniformed officer who looked as though he had some Klingon in his family tree. He silently posted himself by the door, which automatically closed behind him, and crossed his beefy arms across his chest. A surly expression warned Chekov not to provoke him.
Not if I can help it, he thought.
“Please sit down.” The woman gestured at the table, a data slate tucked beneath her other arm. Coppery, iridescent scales gleamed beneath the harsh white light of the cell. Slitted yellow eyes scrutinized Chekov, her serpentine features betraying nothing. A forked tongue flicked briefly between her thin lips. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chekov took a seat at the table. Perhaps this was somebody he could finally get to listen to him? He resolved to keep his cool and avoid sounding like a lunatic. As a security head himself, he had occasionally been on the opposite side of such interviews. He liked to think he knew how to appear calm, cooperative, and, with any luck, credible.
“I am Station Chief Cesss.” She sat down across from him. “And I understand you claim to be…?”
“Commander Pavel Chekov, Starfleet, of the U.S.S. Enterprise.”
He braced himself for the inevitable skepticism. Unfortunately, he saw no way to explain the emergency to the local authorities, and convince them to take immediate action, without addressing the matter of his stolen identity.
Here’s hoping this Cesss person has an open mind.
“So you keep saying, but you know who I see?”
She tapped her slate and an image appeared on the viewscreen to Chekov’s right: a mug shot of a smirking young Voyzr, alongside blocks of text in Tykonese. His personal translator had been confiscated, but the station itself was clearly equipped with a passive translation system. He recognized a police file when he saw one.
“Ryjo mur Zimble,” she read off the slate. “Age: nineteen solar years. Born on Voyzr, emigrated to Tykona as an infant, after a failed coup on your homeworld, which your clan was inconveniently on the losing side of. Occupation: assorted menial jobs, mostly in the service and tourism industries. Prior arrests for various minor offenses, including loitering, shoplifting, vandalism, disturbing the peace, public intoxication, and now, it appears, indecent exposure.” She fixed cool, appraising eyes on him. “Starfleet seems to have lowered its standards considerably.”
