Identity theft, p.17
Identity Theft, page 17
“You tell me. You were tossing and turning and groaning in your sleep. And muttering in Voyzr no less.”
“Ah, sorry about that.” He rolled over to face her. “Just a bad dream… and not even my own dream at that.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean by that?”
He hesitated, uncertain whether she wanted or needed to hear this, but decided they’d already come too far together to hold out on her now.
“I think I was dreaming about something from Ryjo’s past. His last encounter with his father.” Chekov’s throat tightened. “A sick, elderly Voyzr dying in a room above a barbershop.”
Dise inhaled sharply.
“You mean when his dad begged Ryjo, tears running down his face, to forgive him for losing Voyzr back in the day.” Bitterness sharpened her voice. “Yeah, that really messed Ryjo up. It’s when everything started going wrong, for him and us. I tried to help him through it, but it was no use. He was determined to make his dead dad proud of him, even though the poor old guy was well past caring. He let his dad’s Exile buddies get into his head and spin him all around, convince him that he owed it to his dad’s memory to take up their cause.” She rolled her eyes. “And here we are, rushing across space to stop him from committing some sort of rutting insanity in his father’s name.”
Whatever it might be, Chekov thought. Unfortunately, Dise was not in the loop when it came to what exactly the Exiles were plotting. She could only confirm that they were endlessly bitter over losing Voyzr—and obsessed with getting revenge on the global regime that had “stolen” their homeworld from them. Perhaps by sabotaging the embassy opening, which the regnant herself was expected to attend? Maybe staging an attack on the regnant, Captain Kirk, or the peace celebration itself?
“We all failed you, years ago. Cost you your homeworld, your rightful place and destiny…”
Chekov felt a pang of sympathy for Ryjo after experiencing that wrenching scene through the other man’s eyes. He wasn’t ready to forgive Ryjo for stealing his body and his identity, not in the slightest, but he understood Ryjo better now and what was driving the grieving buck to carry out such an extremist agenda. Certainly, Ryjo wouldn’t be the first troubled, rootless young person to be radicalized by a tragic loss and a future that seemed to offer few prospects.
Like Irina, he thought, and Doctor Sevrin’s other followers.
“But I don’t understand,” Dise said. “How can you be dreaming about Ryjo’s past? I thought his mind was in your body and vice versa?”
“It’s not that simple. I’m no expert on ‘life-entity transferences,’ but my understanding is that there’s a degree of, I don’t know, psychic entanglement involved. We’re connected somehow, subconsciously, telepathically, maybe even metaphysically, with some part of Ryjo’s psyche still imprinted on his brain and neural pathways. Back when Doctor Lester switched bodies with Captain Kirk”—an incident he had told Dise about when he’d first tried to convince her that he wasn’t really Ryjo—“their minds began to shift back and forth as the transference started to reverse itself. That hasn’t happened to me yet, I haven’t suddenly found myself back in my own body for a moment, but I do sometimes get flashes of Ryjo in my head. Memories, images, feelings.”
“About me?” she asked.
“Occasionally,” he admitted. “For what it’s worth, you made a big impression on Ryjo. His feelings for you run deep.”
In his brain, in his body.
“Oh, I see.”
An awkward pause ensued. Chekov found himself acutely aware that he was alone in the night, and sharing confidences, with the lovely doe—Ryjo’s former lover no less. How much of his growing attraction to her came from Ryjo and how much of it was perfectly natural on his part? Certainly, Dise was smart and sexy and vibrant enough to pique any man’s interest, especially under the circumstances. What was Ryjo thinking, choosing the Exiles over this woman?
But what about Simone Tovar?
He felt a twinge of guilt for thinking this way about Dise instead, although it wasn’t as though there was actually anything serious between him and Tovar just yet; that romantic connection was mostly hypothetical at this point, so he was hardly betraying Simone by also being attracted to Dise, for extenuating reasons. As a celebrated Russian lyricist once said, when you’re not with the one you want, want the one you’re with.
And all the more so when you’re not even you, lying in bed wearing nothing but a pair of synthetic trunks and another man’s pelt?
“My apologies for waking you,” he said finally.
“Not to worry. I wasn’t getting much sleep anyway.”
He couldn’t miss the melancholy in her voice. “Want to talk about it?”
“Maybe,” she said. “It’s stupid, though. I mean, Ryjo and I aren’t even together anymore. His doing, not mine. And now he’s up to his antlers in all this Exile craziness, mixed up with Trath and his fanatics, who are serious bad news. I ought to be glad to be rid of him. Wash my hands and walk away.”
“But?”
Her eyes grew moist. “I worry about him, you know. We go way back, have been through a lot together, good and bad.” She wiped her eyes with her hand. “And I just rutting miss him.”
Chekov tried to comfort her. “He misses you too, very much.”
“You can feel that, really?”
“Yes.”
Painfully so, at this very moment.
“I’m sorry he’s not here to tell you that himself.” He attempted to lighten the tone. “Not that I object to enjoying your company in his place, mind you. Thank goodness his subconscious led me to you; I don’t know what I would have done without your brilliant assistance. Ryjo did me a big favor by being unable to forget you.”
“That’s something I guess.” She smiled wanly. “As faux Ryjos go, you’re not so bad yourself, Pavel Chekov. For a mentally displaced human, that is.”
“High praise indeed.”
“You bet it is.” A thoughtful look came over her face and she nodded to herself, as though making a decision. “In fact…”
Grasping the handholds to one side of the bunks, she climbed into bed with him. “Scoot over.”
“Er, what are we doing here?”
“Like I said, I can’t sleep.” She snuggled up next to him. “And I miss those arms around me… among other things.”
He knew just what she meant, in a way. He couldn’t help feeling the heat and promise of her lying next to him, warm and inviting. He was only human, or Voyzr, or some combination thereof. But should they be doing this?
“I’m not him,” he reminded her.
“I know.” She nuzzled his neck, provoking feelings both new and strangely familiar. Velvety limbs entangled him. “Just let me pretend…”
Twenty-One
Oasis Station was an independent deep-space station, jointly operated and subsidized by a consortium of regional systems and commercial interests, that served as a hub for interstellar travel throughout the sector. Chekov and Dise watched from Oasis’s observation deck as a private yacht approached the station’s docking ring a few levels below. The yacht was a streamlined, copper-colored ellipsoid maybe twice as a large as a standard Starfleet shuttlecraft.
But not remotely Starfleet, alas.
“No good?” Dise asked.
“I doubt it.”
A mounted display panel listed all the vessels docked, expected, or departing Oasis at present. According to the display, the yacht, named Xoline, was registered out of Wuvoga III, a notorious haven for smugglers, pirates, fugitives, and dissolute expatriates fleeing scandal and/or prosecution. Hardly the sort who might be inclined to help him alert Starfleet or the Enterprise to an imminent threat.
“So much for that idea.” She leaned against him, reflecting their newfound intimacy, and nibbled on a bar of moss-flavored taffy she’d picked up aboard the cruiser. “Worth a shot, I suppose.”
The Quintessential was temporarily docked at Oasis to take on or unload passengers transferring from one ship to another; the cruiser was also taking advantage of the station’s facilities to restock, refuel, and perform any necessary maintenance. Meanwhile, passengers like Chekov and Dise, who were continuing on to Voyzr, could disembark and sample Oasis’s varied amenities during the layover.
He’d hoped a Starfleet vessel, or at least a Starfleet-adjacent ship, might be docked at Oasis, so he could try to send a priority subspace communique to Starfleet, or perhaps even catch a ride to chase after the Enterprise. Unfortunately, they were well beyond the Federation’s jurisdiction, and Starfleet had no real presence in this neck of the galactic woods. The odds of finding a Starfleet ship at Oasis had always been a long shot.
“Time to try another tack,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
She squeezed his hand. “Go get ’em, stag.”
The station’s security office was one level up from the observation deck. He felt a flicker of apprehension as they approached it, recalling his frustrating encounters with the police on Tykona, but he was determined to get the message across this time, even if that meant fudging the truth a bit. Dise, who had her own reasons to be leery of law enforcement, stayed outside, playing lookout just in case the Exiles’ reach extended to Oasis.
“Can I help you?” a gray-skinned humanoid asked from behind a counter. A scarlet sash distinguished Oasis’s security forces from the station’s other personnel, who also sported crisp tan uniforms. A name badge identified him as Sergeant Zagulla.
“I hope so. I need to report a criminal conspiracy posing an immediate threat to an upcoming diplomatic function on Voyzr.”
“You don’t say.” The sergeant raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s something I don’t hear every day. What kind of conspiracy?”
“I don’t know all the details,” Chekov said honestly, “but I have good reason to believe that radical Voyzr terrorists have placed an undercover agent on the Starship Enterprise as part of a plot to disrupt the opening of a Federation embassy on Voyzr.”
“I see.” The sergeant looked Chekov over, his expression professionally neutral. His gaze lighted briefly on Chekov’s antlers while he tapped away at a control panel behind the counter. “And you know this how?”
Careful, Chekov thought. Nothing about life-entity transferences this time. You’re just a concerned citizen tipping off the authorities to a dangerous extremist plot.
“I have friends and associates who run in the same circles as some of the conspirators. One of them let slip what was up, thinking I shared their political sympathies.” He strove to look conflicted. “Which I do, more or less, but I draw the line at terrorism. I don’t want to inform on anyone, but I can’t in good conscience keep this information to myself. I needed to report it to someone, quietly if possible.”
The sergeant maintained his poker face. “This isn’t a Federation starbase, or a Voyzr one for that matter. What exactly do you expect us to do with this information?”
“Contact Starfleet, or the Enterprise, or the relevant authorities on Voyzr. Just pass the warning along so they can take action as needed. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Hmm.” The sergeant peered at a terminal below the counter, situated so the display was not visible to Chekov. “Speaking of Starfleet, I see that they sent out an alert last week, about someone impersonating a Starfleet officer.”
“Really?” Chekov’s heart leapt. Had Ryjo already been exposed? He should have known that Captain Kirk and the others would see through the deception. “That’s just what I’m saying. There’s an imposter aboard the Enterprise, posing as Commander Pavel Chekov.”
The sergeant shook his head. “Uh-uh, that’s not what the alert says. Just that there was some shady young troublemaker running around Tykona, claiming to be this Chekov person.” He eyed Chekov suspiciously, his expression sliding from neutral to hostile. “What is your name, sir? And where exactly do you hail from?”
“Is that necessary? I would prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Your name, please,” the sergeant said, more sternly.
“Er, Sevoon mur Norder. From Voyzr, obviously.”
The sergeant squinted at him, as though trying to penetrate his disguise. Chekov feared Ryjo’s mug shot was gracing the sergeant’s computer terminal as they spoke, and that Zagulla would soon discover that “Sevoon” had just arrived from Tykona, if the sergeant hadn’t called up that information already.
“Are you certain of that, sir?”
Chekov didn’t like how this was going. With that Starfleet alert poisoning the waters, he wasn’t sure how he was going to convince Zagulla—or anyone else—that he was the real Pavel Chekov without invoking the body-swap, which was a proven nonstarter.
“Yes, of course. How could I not know my own name?” Don’t answer that, he thought. “May I ask if you intend to pass my report on to the proper authorities, as you see fit?”
“Tell you what, why don’t we take this into the back,” the sergeant said, not answering Chekov’s question. Two more guards emerged from the rear of the security office, no doubt summoned electronically. “Where we can ask you a few more questions about what precisely you think you’re up to here.”
Chekov did not see anything positive coming from that interview.
“Never mind.” He backed up toward the exit. “I’ve done my part. You can take it from here.”
“Hold on!” The sergeant beckoned to the other guards, who started toward Chekov. “We’re not done here.”
Chekov begged to differ. He darted out of the office into the busy corridor outside, where Dise leaned against a wall, still chewing on the taffy. Visitors and station personnel streamed past them in both directions. Antigrav lifters conveyed luggage, cargo, and supplies across Oasis. Hover-scooters assisted those who preferred riding to walking, due to age, infirmity, a proclivity for lower-gravity environments, or simply a desire to rest their legs.
“What is it?” Dise sprang from the wall, instantly picking up on his hasty exit. “Didn’t go well?”
“Move!”
He grabbed her by the hand and they dashed down the teeming corridor, even as the red-sashed guards burst from the office, looking about for him. Heavy foot and lifter traffic provided a welcome degree of concealment as they wove through the crowd, exploiting whatever cover was available. They hurried as quickly as they could without obviously fleeing, while apologizing for cutting in front and between people.
“Sorry. Excuse us. Coming through.”
With luck, people would assume they were just rushing to make a scheduled departure, or so Chekov hoped. Were the red-sashes actually pursuing them? He had no idea and was in no hurry to find out. It occurred to him that the one good thing about being far outside the Federation’s borders was that Oasis’s security forces might not be too motivated to apprehend him on the UFP’s behalf. A delinquent Voyzr passing himself off as some random Starfleet crew member was not their problem; at most, he was only guilty of wasting their time with a bogus story, which, Chekov feared, was almost certainly not going to be communicated to the Enterprise.
Mission unaccomplished.
Packed ramps and escalators brought them down to the docking ring, where they sought refuge in a public meditation lounge offering a serene escape from the hubbub of the station. Low lighting, tinted partitions, and white noise generators created a peaceful sanctuary for weary travelers, fortuitously cut off from the circular corridor outside. Chekov and Dise nestled into a secluded nook at the rear of the lounge, as far out of sight as possible.
“Let me guess,” she said in a low voice. “They didn’t give you a medal for doing your civic duty?”
“Far from it.” He glanced around to make certain no one was eavesdropping before filling her in on his less than productive visit to the security office. “I have to give the Exiles credit; they’ve done a good job of discrediting me in advance. We can write off anybody outside the Enterprise taking me seriously.”
“And on the Enterprise?”
“I like to think I can make my case, given a chance. Like I did with you.”
She nodded. “Because they know the real you that well.”
“Exactly.” He shrugged. “And, if that doesn’t work, a Vulcan mind-meld can always settle matters.”
“Can’t say I like the idea of somebody poking around in my brain.” She shuddered at the thought. “But I suppose that’s old hat for you.”
He thought of Khan, Gorgan, the Zetarians, the Beta XII-A entity, and his present situation. “You have no idea.”
“So now what?” she asked.
“Let’s get back to the cruiser. I’m not sure how hard they’re looking for me, but the sooner we’re back in our cabin the better.”
And then hope against hope that the Quintessential made it to Voyzr in time…
Warily, they exited the lounge and made their way back toward the boarding area for the cruiser, ducking out of sight whenever they glimpsed a red sash. Chekov noted with some relief that no alarms or alerts were sounding, which led him to hope that Oasis did not consider him a major security issue. It was entirely possible, in fact, that they might prefer to let him slip away on the next ship leaving the station, making him no longer their problem. Ryjo was just a petty criminal after all, not the sector’s most wanted.
Shops, eateries, arcades, and other attractions lined the inner circumference of the ring, across from the entry and departure gates. Dise cast a longing eye at some of the shops and snack bars as they hurried past them.
“Too bad we can’t afford a change of clothing, or a stiff drink, but our credits are running low as is.”
He was all too aware of that. Springing for express boarding back on Tykona had put a substantial dent in their budget. That had been a necessity, though, not a splurge. “Let’s hope you don’t have to put up bail to get me out of a detention cell.”
They soon arrived at the correct gate, which led to a long radial arm jutting out from the docking ring in order to accommodate vessels too large to dock directly onto the ring as that luxury yacht had earlier. Uniformed attendants, representing both the station and the cruise line, occupied a desk at the entrance to the gate, keeping track of who was coming and going from the Quintessential. Chekov wasn’t concerned about the gatekeepers; their hacked ID chips had already passed muster a few times already.
