Identity Theft, page 24
No, he corrected himself. An assassin. A martyr for my people.
Either way, it would all be over soon.
A quick sonic shower helped to wash away some, if not all, lingering unease from that horrific nightmare. He changed into Chekov’s dress uniform, then unlocked a private storage compartment and extracted what appeared to be an ordinary, standard-issue Starfleet hypospray, which had gone completely unnoticed when he’d brought it aboard the Enterprise upon his “return” from Tykona. The camouflaged weapon, expressly designed to avoid attracting undue attention, had been waiting patiently to fulfill its ultimate purpose—and seal his fate forever.
We’re almost there.
A turbolift brought to him to the transporter room, where Kirk and Sulu were already waiting, with Scott standing by to beam them down to the gala opening of the embassy. After departing Wexx, the Enterprise had pressed its engines to reach Voyzr at practically the last minute. Like Ryjo, Kirk and Sulu were also decked out in their dress uniforms, befitting their status as guests of honor on account of their “historic” actions on Voyzr twenty years ago. As neither Spock nor McCoy was present when Kirk supposedly brought “peace” to the planet, they were remaining aboard the ship, with Spock commanding the bridge in the captain’s absence and McCoy presiding over sickbay.
Thankfully, Tovar was not slated for this diplomatic call since she hadn’t even been a member of the crew when the original Enterprise first visited Voyzr before. Days had passed since he had deliberately rejected her in the garden and, for better or for worse, they’d had little contact since. On the rare occasions they encountered each other in the corridors, she walked briskly past him without a word, while somehow still conveying a frosty attitude.
Just as well, he thought. Maybe this will make it easier for her after “Chekov” comes to a bad end, turning assassin.
Sulu looked up as he entered. He had tried to talk to Ryjo a few times about that scene with Tovar, but Ryjo had managed to fend off his well-intentioned inquiries without being too brusque about it, at least long enough to arrive at this moment, which, luckily, was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion.
“Looking sharp,” Sulu said. “Who knew you cleaned up so well?”
“Likewise.” Ryjo’s amiable grin belied his nerves. “Reporting for duty, Captain.”
“Very good, Mister Chekov.” Kirk turned to Scott. “Please inform the embassy that we are ready to beam down.”
“Aye, sir.”
“I assume all proper security protocols are being observed.” Ryjo shrugged apologetically at Scott. “Just doing my job.”
Security was airtight around the event. Entry to Voyzr space was being closely monitored and restricted, while the embassy itself was heavily guarded by shields and Voyzr security forces, with multiple levels of encryption, passcodes, and clearances required at every juncture. In deference to Voyzr’s sovereignty and the regnant’s attendance, the landing party was leaving their own phasers behind.
Hence, the doctored hypospray.
“No offense taken,” Scott replied. “Every precaution that can be taken has been taken. We’re just waiting on you to transmit the final passcode before they lower the shields around the embassy.”
“Happy to oblige.”
Ryjo strode over to control console. In his capacity as security chief, he had been heavily involved in setting up these procedures and kept apprised of the latest codes. After confirming that they were indeed on the prescribed secure channel, he keyed in the final code and sent it down to the planet.
“Thank you, Enterprise,” a voice replied from the comm unit on the control console. “You are cleared to beam down. We look forward to greeting you.”
The three men took their places on the transporter pad. Sulu grinned at Ryjo. “Beats taking a shuttlecraft into a volcano zone. If nothing else, this excursion should be a lot more pleasant than our last one.”
I wouldn’t count on it, Ryjo thought.
The hypospray weighed heavily in the pocket of his maroon jacket.
* * *
“Hailing Enterprise! This is an emergency! Please respond!”
Chekov risked trying to contact the ship again as he approached the Voyzr system, reluctantly slowing to sublight velocity. After his close call with that bird-of-prey, he’d refrained from transmitting any signals that might draw the Klingons down on him again. Moreover, Xoline’s crippled long-range transceiver array had proved beyond repair, limiting his ability to communicate across great distances in a timely manner. Was he now close enough to the Enterprise to get through to them at last—or did he still need to get even closer to them?
The silence greeting his hails strongly suggested the latter.
He had pushed the hijacked yacht past its limits to get to Voyzr as fast as possible, but time was running out. By his calculations, the ceremony at the embassy should be getting underway anytime now; whatever Ryjo had planned was about to go down—with disastrous consequences for the regnant, Voyzr, the Federation, and even Ryjo himself. He needed to warn Captain Kirk and the others before it was too late.
“Warning: inertial dampers overheating,” a computerized voice announced as yet another alert icon started flashing on the cockpit control panel. “Immediate maintenance advised—”
Chekov muted the warning, as he had all the previous ones. He already knew that the headlong flight from Oasis Station was taking a toll on Xoline. The control panel was lit up like the Scarlet Nebula, with one system after another edging into the red zone. He suspected he was killing Xoline, driving it too hard like a lathered steed ridden until it drops, and he felt a twinge of guilt with regard to the yacht’s actual owner, but he couldn’t worry about that now. All that mattered was stopping Ryjo while there was a still a chance. Xoline just had to make it to the final stretch.
“Hailing Enterprise! Repeat: Hailing Enterprise…”
Someone else responded instead:
“Attention, unidentified vessel. This is Voyzr border security. You are approaching restricted space. Identify yourself and your purpose.”
A proximity sensor detected an object moving to intercept Xoline. Increasing the magnification and scan resolution revealed that the object was an automated space buoy, about half the size of the yacht, marking and patrolling the perimeter of Voyzr space. One of several drone buoys, Chekov recalled from his study of Voyzr’s planetary defenses, with the drones just the first layer of planetary security. The order itself was being relayed by the buoy from a monitoring station elsewhere.
“Repeat: State your identity and purpose.”
There was no good answer to that query. What was he supposed to tell them, that he was a fugitive Voyzr piloting a stolen vessel? That was not going to get him close enough to the planet in time to do any good, and especially not while the embassy opening was underway. At best, he’d be turned away, if not detained indefinitely.
Still, he had to say something.
“Er, this is the S.S. Grigori, requiring an emergency stopover at Voyzr. Request permission to achieve orbit around planet.”
A false name and registry number wasn’t going to hold up to close examination, but might make it a little harder to identify Xoline as a hijacked spacecraft, while the yacht’s sorry condition and myriad systems overloads could lend credence to his “emergency” cover story if and when Xoline was subjected to any security scans. He just needed to get close enough to Voyzr to contact the Enterprise, which was presumably already in orbit around the planet.
“Negative, Grigori. Our orbital space is currently a no-fly zone. Remain where you are until assistance can be dispatched.”
“No time for that, I’m afraid. My situation is urgent. Please allow me to proceed with all due speed.”
Sensors indicated two more drones converging on his location.
“Negative, Grigori. Sit tight and await inspection.”
Chekov muttered under his breath. He had been afraid of this, being well acquainted with the heightened security measures surrounding the anniversary celebration, some of which he had personally proposed before having his body stolen. The irony was neither lost on him nor appreciated.
Xoline did not slow down.
“Attention, Grigori … or whoever you are. Turn back immediately.”
“Sorry. This is not possible.”
He muted the transmission, seeing no further point in dissembling. On the viewscreen before him, the first of the automated buoys came into view, blocking his path. No surprise, the drone was shaped like an intimidating rack of antlers, at least three times the size of those of a terrestrial moose, all polished steel plating and incandescent lights and sensors. Xoline banked to starboard to evade it, but, as anticipated, the drone corrected its own course to match him, as it would surely do again and again, with yet more drones rushing to join the blockade.
He didn’t have time for this.
Xoline’s defensive phasers targeted the buoy. Cobalt beams sliced through the vacuum and the drone as well, bisecting it. Sparks flared in the dark of space before quickly extinguishing. The yacht veered to avoid the floating wreckage, then resumed its original course in open defiance of Voyzr’s express instructions. Chekov set his jaw in determination.
All right, he thought. We are crashing this party—with extreme prejudice.
Firing on the buoy was only going to make his approach all the more alarming and suspicious, of course, and with good reason. He wouldn’t let a rogue, trigger-happy vessel anywhere near Voyzr or the Enterprise either, if he was in charge, and certainly not during a major diplomatic event. Any hope of talking his way past Voyzr’s defenses had just gone out the waste disposal unit.
And more drones were on the way.
Sensors indicated two buoys on his tail and a third on track to intercept him any moment now. Chekov made a beeline for Voyzr anyway; there was no time to find a sneakier, more circuitous route to the planet. He recharged the phaser batteries, so he was armed and ready when the next drone darted into view, dead ahead. Without waiting for another warning, he opened fire at once, only to see the beams break against the buoy’s now-raised shields, producing brilliant blue flashes of Cherenkov radiation, named after the great Russian physicist Pavel Cherenkov no less. This proud bit of scientific history brought little comfort to Chekov, who realized that the drones were not going to be taken unawares by another sneak attack. Having learned from their predecessor’s demise, the other buoys had taken appropriate countermeasures—and would likely respond in kind.
The tips of the metallic antlers lit up.
“Red alert!” he blurted out of habit, hastily dialing up his own shields, just as the drone opened fire with a barrage of phaser beams targeting his engines and propulsion units. Chekov admired its restraint while simultaneously being shaken by the impact of the beams colliding against Xoline’s shields. More blinding blue flashes, now right outside the yacht, paid tribute to Russian science and nomenclature, while battering the pleasure craft’s somewhat less than Starfleet-quality deflectors. Within moments, Xoline’s already compromised shield strength had been diminished by another seventeen percent. Gauges and status displays on the control panel flashed even brighter, or else gave up the ghost entirely, pointedly reminding him that, already overtaxed, the yacht was in no condition to sustain heavy fire.
“Gavno!” he swore.
Reluctantly, he took evasive action, zigzagging through space in all three directions, even though every abrupt change of direction delayed his progress toward the Enterprise. The drone stuck with him, its phasers still glancing off Xoline’s shields. Chekov cast a pained look at the empty copilot seat beside him; he could really use Sulu at the helm right now, instead of having to singlehandedly evade the drones and attend to the system failures and malfunctions being reported all over the board. Precious energy needed to be diverted from propulsion to the deflectors, further slowing their flight. Automatic fire-suppression systems activated in both a luxury stateroom and the galley; he had to trust that Xoline could put out the blazes on her own, even in her exhausted state. Was that smoke he smelled wafting into the cockpit? Or simply burning circuitry in the control panel?
Changing course, the second buoy charged straight at him. Chekov had no intention of playing chicken with a lifeless mechanism that had no actual flesh and blood in the game, so he dived below the oncoming drone, barely avoiding a head-on collision and taking another blast to blast to the yacht’s topside. He banked sharply to port, then veered back toward Voyzr. He may be no Sulu, he reminded himself, but he had logged more than his fair share of hours piloting everything from workbees to shuttlecrafts to two different Enterprises, while also spelling Sulu on a captured Klingon bird-of-prey as well. He wasn’t about to be outflown by a pack of glorified boundary markers.
Granted, I could really use a cloaking device right now, he thought, briefly pining for the late HMS Bounty.
But perhaps he could still pull another ace from his sleeve?
Executing a loop, he turned the yacht’s stern toward the lead drone, then ejected all of Xoline’s remaining escape pods at once. Three emergency lifeboats, each capable of sustaining up to four standard humanoids, filled the empty space between the yacht and the drone like so much chaff, drawing the drone’s fire and briefly shielding Xoline long enough for Chekov to remotely trigger the self-destruct mechanisms he’d jury-rigged in the pods on the way here, while the yacht was flying on automatic pilot across deep space. Just in case he ran into more Klingons or other hostile parties.
The pods exploded, spewing smoke, shrapnel, and blazing plasma in all directions. As hoped, the expanding clouds of gas and wreckage confused the drone’s sensors and provided cover for Xoline to dart past the drone and get out ahead of it, zipping past the outer moons and planets of the system toward Voyzr itself—and the Enterprise.
Not that he’d escaped the buoys for good. He was under no illusion that his improvised “smoke screen” would lose them completely. Aft sensors quickly verified this grim assessment; as the clouds dispersed, the three drones regrouped and accelerated after him, gaining rapidly.
How long could he stay out in front of them?
“Attention, hostile vessel!” A stern voice overrode his mute command, either by force from their end or perhaps simply because some algorithm in the yacht’s computerized brain decided Chekov really needed to hear this. “An armed patrol ship is headed your way and will not permit you to advance any farther toward Voyzr. Do you understand me?”
Only too well, as it happened. Chekov was fully aware that such patrol ships constituted a second ring of defense for Voyzr, on top of the hostile drones now closing in on him. A quick glance at a flickering display panel confirmed the ship speeding toward him; within minutes he would be caught between the drones behind and the manned patrol ship ahead, with the latter between him and the Enterprise. A classic pincer move.
“Power down your weapons and surrender. Be aware that we will not hesitate to use lethal force.”
Chekov could not say the same. Blasting a drone was one thing, but he couldn’t risk firing on a piloted vessel for fear of harming innocent Voyzr security personnel who were just doing their job. That would be unconscionable, as well as a diplomatic catastrophe in its own right.
A drone blast from the rear jolted Xoline, chipping away at her shields, which were down to twenty-nine percent, and herding the yacht toward the oncoming patrol ship. Sparks erupted from the control panel, causing him to recoil in alarm, but tiny burns stung his hands and face regardless as he hastily rerouted key systems to auxiliary circuits, then hopped over to the copilot’s seat instead. The artificial gravity wobbled, resulting in a momentary wave of nausea. Blood rushed from head to his feet and back again.
Alone in the cockpit, Chekov was again glad he’d left Dise safely behind on Oasis. He was going to get to the Enterprise or die trying, and he’d just as soon not get anyone else killed in the process.
Thirty-One
“Captain Spock,” Uhura said, “we have a situation.”
“Elaborate, Commander.”
Occupying the captain’s seat on the bridge, Spock had anticipated no urgent developments while the Enterprise orbited Voyzr, awaiting the landing party’s return from the ceremonies at the embassy. Prior to Uhura’s announcement, he had made use of the time by observing the efficiency and performance of every crew member stationed on the bridge, while simultaneously studying the latest Starfleet briefings on the covert power struggles within the Klingon High Council, particularly with regard to the rise of a certain Councilor Gorkon, who appeared to have the chancellorship in his sights, and contemplating certain subtle refinements to the ship’s multiphasic sensor array. Had he been human, he might have been annoyed by the unexpected interruption.
Had he been human.
“A small vessel, of uncertain origin, is making an unauthorized approach to Voyzr, ignoring demands from the planetary defense forces to turn back,” Uhura reported. “I’ve been monitoring their communications, and the mystery ship has already opened fire on an automated border buoy and a patrol ship has been dispatched to intercept it.”
“I see.” Spock dismissed all irrelevant matters from his mind. A rogue ship charging toward Voyzr at this particular juncture was indeed cause for concern. He turned toward the science station, where Ensign Morag Fraser, a recent Academy graduate with a strong backing in science, was currently posted. “Do we have this vessel on our scanners?”
She nodded. “Coming into range now, sir.”
“Onscreen,” Spock said.
An image appeared on the main viewer, displacing an orbital view of Voyzr. Blurry at first, the image sharpened to reveal a sleek, copper-hued yacht that, to his Vulcan eye, appeared more ostentatious than strictly necessary. At first impression, the civilian craft did not present a particularly menacing aspect, but appearances were often deceiving. The cetacean probe that had recently posed a mortal threat to Earth had not bristled with weapons and armor either.
