Identity theft, p.8
Identity Theft, page 8
He gazed at the screen, finally putting a name to his new face.
Ryjo.
He struggled to reconcile the portrait painted by Ryjo’s police record with the Voyzr’s hijacking of Chekov’s body. How did he go from petty crimes and misdemeanors to taking part in an ambitious conspiracy to infiltrate the Enterprise, via classified alien technology no less? Had he perhaps been radicalized by embittered Voyzr exiles? Chekov knew from his prep work for the peace celebration that not every Voyzr had put the civil war behind them, both at home and abroad. Old grudges lingered, even after twenty years.
“I know what it looks like,” he said. “Nonetheless, I am Pavel Chekov, as I have tried to explain. If you can just contact the Enterprise to verify—”
“Let me stop you right there. You may be interested to know that, according to our very meticulous records, the U.S.S. Enterprise departed Tykona last evening with all hands aboard, including one Commander Pavel Chekov.”
He grimaced. “I was afraid of that. All the more reason to alert Captain Kirk at once.”
Chekov was sure he could expose the imposter if given half a chance. If nothing else, Spock could always determine the truth via a mind-meld, as he had when Kirk’s body was stolen by Janice Lester.
“This is a municipal police station,” Cesss said. “We are not in the business of sending subspace messages across the cosmos to foreign vessels far beyond our jurisdiction, and certainly not on the basis of a tall tale from a known delinquent.”
“But what if I am telling the truth?”
“About a—let me see if I have this right—‘life-entity transference’ that allegedly switched your body with Ryjo’s?”
“Precisely! Well, more like it swapped our minds, but close enough.” He tried to head off any objections in advance. “This is not unheard-of, I assure you, and entirely possible. I speak from personal experience.”
“Oh, really? Do tell.”
He faltered. “Er, that’s classified.”
“Of course it is. Listen here, Ryjo—”
“Chekov.”
“Ryjo,” she persisted. “The way I see it, you’re pulling my leg, for some juvenile reason I can’t begin to fathom, or you’re mentally ill and belong in a psych ward. You tell me: Which way is this going to go?”
He swallowed hard, rapidly reassessing his options. It was becoming all too clear that there was little hope of convincing Cesss, let alone persuading her to bump his plea up the ladder to some higher authority who was actually in a position to communicate with the Enterprise or Starfleet, assuming they were even motivated to do so. Tykona was not part of the Federation after all; the security of the Enterprise and its mission was hardly their concern. There wasn’t even a Federation embassy on the planet to appeal to.
I’m on my own, he realized, that hard truth sinking in. I need to find my own way off Tykona and back to the ship, by any means possible.
And he couldn’t do that if he was locked up in a padded cell.
Time to change tactics.
“You got me.” He smiled sheepishly, throwing up his disturbingly six-fingered hands. “It was… a prank.”
“A prank?” She leaned back from the table, looking both vindicated and thoroughly unamused. “You wasted my time, and that of my officers, for a laugh?”
“Ha-ha?” he said weakly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand. Things just sort of… escalated.”
“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” She consulted her slate again. “A sobriety scan found lingering traces of a mild sedative in your system, but not enough to account for such egregious behavior, so don’t even try to claim you were under the influence.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
At this point, his best shot was to plead for mercy in hopes of avoiding further confinement.
“It was stupid, I see that now. For what it’s worth, I’ve been going through some rough times lately and what happened last night… well, I wasn’t myself.”
To put it mildly.
“I would hope not.” She continued to peruse his file. “I see that your father, Kletz mur Zimble, passed away some weeks ago.”
A foreign memory flashed behind his eyes:
A geriatric Voyzr on his deathbed, gazing forlornly at his wayward son.
Chekov’s throat tightened, caught off guard by a sudden, intense stab of guilt. Ryjo’s guilt? His eyes watered, hot tears stinging them.
“Yes.” Choking up for real, he seized on the tragic biographical detail, as well as the powerful emotional echoes it provoked, to help his case. He dabbed at his wet eyes with the back of a fuzzy red hand. “I’m still not over it.”
Exploiting Ryjo’s grief to win Cesss’s sympathy troubled Chekov’s conscience, making him feel badly in need of a sonic shower. Then again, Ryjo had stolen Chekov’s body and was even now up to no good on the Enterprise. He needed to stay focused on the bigger picture and his duty to the ship. This was no time for an excess of scruples.
“My condolences.” Cesss’s tone softened somewhat. “In fact, it looks as though you made a genuine effort to clean up your act after your father’s unfortunate demise. You’ve stayed out of trouble, and off our sensors, ever since his passing… until last night.”
“What can I say? I have been trying to be a better person, to honor my father’s memory, but I… slipped.”
“Explain it to me.”
He racked his sleep-deprived brain to come up with something plausible but not too incriminating, that wouldn’t torpedo whatever possible leniency Cesss might be contemplating.
“This is your chance,” she prodded him. “Make me understand.”
He looked abjectly at the floor.
“It was a dare, that’s all. An idiotic dare: to beam downtown wearing nothing but that skimpy hospital gown.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I didn’t expect it to be quite so busy at that hour.”
“And the business with Commander Chekov and the ‘life-entity transference’?”
Chekov thought fast. “I saw a news report about the Enterprise visiting Tykona, to provide medical relief, and glanced at a profile of the ship and its senior officers.” He studied Cesss’s face to see if she was buying this. “As you saw from my work history, I often deal with tourists from other worlds. It pays to keep up with interplanetary news. Makes for bigger tips sometimes.”
“Why Chekov?”
“The name just stuck in my head, I guess. Has a nicely exotic ring to it, don’t you think?”
“If you say so,” she said, unimpressed. He tried not to take it personally. “And the mind-swapping nonsense?”
“Popped into my brain when those officers confronted me in the square. It seemed funny at the time.”
“And now?”
“Not so much.” He attempted to act as contrite as possible, without laying it on too thick. “I’m very sorry, ma’am.”
“You should be. You think your father would be proud of your antics last night?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all.”
Whether Ryjo’s late father would approve of his son impersonating a Starfleet officer was another question. Chekov didn’t know enough about the father’s politics, or Ryjo’s family issues, to hazard a guess.
“So what possessed you, after doing your best to turn over a new leaf?”
It seemed peer pressure alone was not enough of an explanation for Cesss. He groped for a deeper motive that might satisfy her. What, hypothetically, might drive a grieving youth to do something so ridiculously irresponsible?
“If you must know, I was trying to impress a girl.”
She nodded. “This girl?”
A tap on her slate, and a new police file appeared on the viewscreen. Ryjo’s mug shot was replaced by an image of an attractive young Voyzr woman with striking, forest-green doe eyes, velvety russet fur, and an impudent expression. Standing woolen pigtails, sprinkled with glitter, mimicked antlers. She smirked at Chekov from the screen, shamelessly unrepentant despite whatever offense had gotten her in hot water with the law.
Chekov started, his new heart beating faster. He knew this face, even though he’d never seen it before. The mug shot triggered a powerful surge of emotions: love, loss, regret. Whoever this woman was, she was obviously very important to Ryjo, so much so that his feelings for her were still imprinted on his brain and body, even if his actual mind and personality were elsewhere. Her name suddenly landed on his tongue.
“Dise.”
“Listed here as a known associate,” Cesss confirmed. “She the doe you were trying to impress?”
Why not? Chekov thought, going with it. He remained oddly captivated by the portrait on the screen. “Yes. Things have been rocky between us since, you know, my father died. She complained that I had changed, that I wasn’t fun or daring anymore. I was afraid of losing her, so… I behaved foolishly.”
Cesss rolled her serpentine eyes, hissing beneath her breath. “Mammals.”
“Can I say again how truly sorry I am?”
He put himself in her place, using his own experience in security to calculate what tack to take next. Perhaps if he offered her a chance to avoid any additional hassles and paperwork?
“You’re a busy person, obviously, who surely has better, more important things to deal with than my temporary bout of brainlessness. I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.” She sighed and put down the slate. “Very well. I’ll let you off with a warning this time. Do yourself a favor, though, and stay out of this district for the time being. I don’t want to see you back at my station anytime soon.”
“Understood, ma’am. Loud and clear. Thank you for being so very understanding. I sincerely appreciate it.” He refrained from grinning in order to maintain a properly chastened and repentant appearance. “Er, just one more thing?”
She regarded him warily. “Yes?”
“Can I keep these clothes?”
“Please do.”
Ten
“Hit the road.”
“That is my intention, Officer.”
Chekov exited the police station, having been briskly escorted off the premises, into a warm, sunny afternoon. Despite his newly acquired clothing, courtesy of the Jhopash city police, and the return of his confiscated universal translator, he felt naked without a phaser, communicator, or even a tricorder. A full Starfleet landing party, complete with a complement of security officers, would have also been nice.
If wishes were horses…
He glanced around warily, concerned that Trath’s agents might be lying in wait, having trailed him to the station, but didn’t spy any ominously lurking antlers. Perhaps luck was with him for once and they had lost track of him and didn’t know when or where he might be released? With no idea where to go next, he paused on the pavement to look around, finding himself in what appeared to be more of an administrative sector than the posh commercial district he had first beamed into. Scrolling signage, in a generous variety of major languages, including Federation Standard, identified a town hall, courthouse, and office buildings housing an assortment of governmental departments and services, along with miscellaneous small shops and eateries to accommodate both municipal employees and citizens with business before them. The buildings, which were far less extravagant in design than those overlooking that downtown transporter pad, surrounded a small urban park radiating out from an obelisk-shaped monument to something or another. Park benches seated random Tykons enjoying an outdoor snack beneath a clear tangerine sky. Other locals milled about on the sidewalks and in the plaza, seeming in no particular hurry.
Lunch hour, perhaps?
A shadow fell over Chekov. Peering upward, he saw a levitating public transport picking up passengers from a balcony-like “dock” or “bus stop” several stories overhead, accessible from an upper floor of a looming skyscraper, as well as by a convenient outdoor lift. Another double-decker transport cruised by on the opposite side of the park, its top deck open to the pleasant spring weather. Perhaps he should try to catch the next one—but to where?
The nearest available spaceport? In hopes of catching up with the Enterprise somehow? Or at least coming within subspace communications range, should the opportunity and resources arise? The ship already had a sizable head start on him, which was growing larger by the moment. The Enterprise was traveling at warp speed, while he was stranded on in a strange city on a foreign planet in an alien body. It was a wonder he hadn’t lost his mind as well.
The Kobayashi Maru scenario seemed a piece of cake by comparison.
He took a deep breath. The odds were against him, but he refused to lose heart. He was still a Starfleet officer, even cut off from his ship, his crew, and his own identity. He had to forge ahead, undaunted, and find a way to prevail, as Captain Kirk always did.
I can do this, he resolved. Now that I’m no longer being held against my will.
Then he saw the antlers among the crowd.
A Voyzr glowered at Chekov from across the plaza, mingling among the myriad pedestrians populating the park and sidewalks. The buck wasn’t alone either; suddenly alert to the danger, Chekov clocked at least five Voyzr converging on him from different directions, silently making their way through unsuspecting cops and civilians. Unfriendly expressions betrayed their hostile intentions, at least if you were their target; Chekov was pretty sure he recognized some of them from both the villa and the city square where he’d eluded them before. Their persistence was commendable, if also personally inconvenient.
So much for him catching a lucky break. Had they been staking out the police station since his arrest or had someone tipped them off that he was being released? Did they perhaps have a mole on the police force, or had they been automatically pinged when Ryjo’s file was accessed at the station? Had Cesss deliberately released him so that these Voyzr could recapture him? Just how highly placed were the conspirators anyway?
Something to worry about later. Right now, job one was not getting taken prisoner again.
On the bright side, he was in public, in front of a police station, surrounded by witnesses, and in broad daylight no less. Indeed, he was far from the only person being discharged from police custody at present; random locals emerged from the station to be met by friends, relations, or accomplices, receiving a wide range of receptions, from tearful embraces to angry recriminations. A disappointed elder picked up a sullen younger relation, while, only a few meters away, an abashed buck apologized profusely to an unhappy doe. Uniformed officers maintained a visible presence, keeping any tense reunions from getting out of hand. Chekov suspected that the entire plaza was under remote surveillance as well, given the concentration of government offices and facilities. His former captors were going to have to be discreet in pursuing him if they wanted to avoid undue attention. They couldn’t just roughly snatch him off the street in full view of everyone.
Too bad he had to keep a low profile, too. Appealing to the police for assistance would just put him back where he was before, trying to unsuccessfully explain why the other Voyzr were after him—with predictable results. Ending up in custody again, and possibly a psychiatric ward, was not going to alert the Enterprise to the imposter in their midst.
So, evasive maneuvers then.
He started down the sidewalk, away from the nearest Voyzr, only to see another stony-faced buck heading toward him from the opposite direction. Chekov veered off into the park, picking up his pace while scanning for an escape route that didn’t lead straight back into the enemy’s clutches. Sticking to busy, public spaces hindered his pursuers, but he couldn’t rely on that indefinitely. They were bound to corner him soon enough. And what if he took a wrong turn and ended up in a less-populated setting? He was a stranger to Jhopash. His hunters surely knew the city’s nooks and crannies better than he did. He was out of his element as well as his body.
And Trath’s agents were already closing in on him.
Seeking refuge, he spotted locals coming and going from what looked to be a neighborhood watering hole, located on the ground floor of a looming cylindrical tower on the other side of the plaza. Zigzagging through the crowd to keep one step ahead of his foes, he darted into the tavern, if only to buy time to come up with a viable plan for shaking the Voyzr tailing him.
They can’t nab me inside a busy tavern, can they?
Befitting the cylindrical shape of the tower, the interior of the tavern was laid out like a wheel, with a circular bar counter at the center and booths lining the outer circumference of the room. A bartender occupied the rotating hub of the wheel; at first glance, Chekov couldn’t immediately tell if the waxy-skinned humanoid was literally a cyborg or was simply piloting an elaborate exoskeleton sporting several gleaming chrome tentacles with various prosthetic attachments at their ends. Federation policies regarding extreme humanoid augmentation did not apply to Tykona, so either possibility was possible. Mounted viewscreens hyped the planet’s myriad tourist attractions—beaches, powdered lava slopes, vibrant night lives—on a continuous loop. Glancing around, Chekov was glad to see plenty of locals patronizing the tavern this afternoon, just as he’d hoped.
Thank goodness!
He rushed to claim an empty stool at the bar, between two other customers, right before two Voyzr followed him into the tavern. Seeing him flanked by two unwitting patrons, they took a booth across from Chekov, who recognized one of them as the guard he had tricked back at the villa. The one with the bandaged antler. A baleful expression made it clear he was not inclined to let bygones be bygones.
