by Greg Cox
Chekov scratched his head. “Perhaps if we create a distraction . . . ?”
“Please tell me you’re not thinking about another fan dance,” Uhura said, rolling her eyes at the memory. “I’m all for being a team player, but once was enough.”
“That won’t be necessary, Commander,” Kirk assured her. Another plan was coming together in his mind as he contemplated the occupied arena on the screen. He turned toward Lenore. “How much can you tell me about that amphitheater?”
She looked back at him, her gaze steady.
“What do you need to know?”
Nineteen
The shuttlecraft descended through the cloudy night sky.
“This is the Copernicus, coming in for a landing,” Sulu said, piloting the shuttle. “We are delivering the prisoner, Lenore Karidian.”
“We read you, Starfleet,” a sullen voice replied from the planet below. “Proceed.”
Chekov listened attentively to the exchange as the shuttle touched down on a muddy field within walking distance of the occupied amphitheater. The landing site had been selected in advance as part of the arrangements to exchange Lenore for the hostages. Chekov turned to his companion, who was seated beside him in the passenger cabin, which they had entirely to themselves. In order to save room for the hostages, no other personnel had accompanied them on this mission. He glimpsed an armed mob waiting outside. Triumphant shouts and angry jeers greeted the shuttle’s arrival.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked her.
She tucked a loose blond hair into place and smoothed out the wrinkles in her practical civilian attire. For this role, she had donned a conservative tan suit and slacks. Despite a flicker of trepidation, determination showed in her hazel eyes. She rose from her seat like an actress preparing to make her entrance.
“It’s too late to turn back now,” she said. “Let’s go meet my adoring public.”
“Very well.” Chekov braced himself for what was to come. A lot was riding on Captain Kirk’s plan. It was crucial that they all played their parts to perfection. He headed for the exit. “I’ll go first, as planned.”
“Break a leg,” she said.
Chekov did not find that expression particularly reassuring. He signaled Sulu and the starboard hatch slid open, letting in a gust of warm night air and another furious chorus of shouts and jeers. Dozens of irate Oyolu surrounded the shuttle, armed with everything from disruptor rifles to wooden planks studded with nails. Floodlights lit up the improvised landing site, practically blinding Chekov. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
“That’s my cue.” Chekov nodded at Sulu. “Keep the motor running.”
“Absolutely,” Sulu promised. “Good luck.”
We’re going to need it, Chekov thought as he cautiously emerged from the shuttle, holding up empty hands to show that he came in peace. Per the agreements worked out earlier, he was completely unarmed, which did not make facing a hostile mob any easier on the nerves. Chekov swallowed hard. Despite his training and faith in the captain, he knew only too well the risks that such missions entailed; over the years, he had been on the receiving end of everything from plasma bolts to serious cranial fractures. Doctor McCoy sometimes kidded him about being an injury magnet, and job security for a ship’s surgeon, but Chekov was in no hurry to end up in sickbay again—or worse.
Speaking of which, I wonder how the captain and the doctor are doing?
The door slid shut behind him. Bolstering his courage, Chekov strode forward to meet the mob. The thick mud squelched beneath his boots. He squinted into the glare of the floodlights.
W’Osoro waited at the forefront of the crowd. He eyed Chekov suspiciously, as though anticipating a trick. A disruptor was tucked into his belt, while a few dozen armed supporters backed him up. Chekov felt more than a little outnumbered.
“Name yourself, Starfleet.”
“Commander Pavel Chekov of the U.S.S. Enterprise.” He kept his empty palms raised. “I have custody of the prisoner.”
“Where is she?” W’Osoro demanded. “Give her to us.”
Not so fast, Chekov thought. The captain’s plan required him to drag this out. “Where are the hostages?” Looking past W’Osoro, he saw only an excess of angry Oyolu. “Let me see them, as a show of good faith, and we can proceed with the exchange.”
“Good faith?” W’Osoro spit upon the ground. “Was Starfleet acting in good faith when it allowed the great A’Barra to be murdered aboard the Enterprise? And by your captain’s maleficent lover?”
Chekov took offense at the fallacious attack on Captain Kirk’s honor, but he managed to control his temper.
“Slander will not get us anywhere. Release just one prisoner.”
W’Osoro’s sour expression darkened, which Chekov would not have thought possible. He stomped his hoof impatiently.
“Do not think you can dictate terms to us. Give us Karidian now.”
The crowd closed in menacingly, brandishing their weapons. Bellicose mutterings rippled through the mob, whose mood was getting uglier by the moment. Flushed yellow faces advertised the crowd’s intentions. Hammers, shovels, picks, and machetes waited to be employed to bloody ends. Assessing the situation, Chekov concluded that he had stalled as long as he could. He needed to appease W’Osoro and his supporters before matters took a serious turn to the worse.
“No need for things to get unpleasant,” he assured W’Osoro. Slowly lowering one hand, so as to avoid provoking the crowd, he took hold of his communicator and raised it to his lips. “Chekov to Copernicus. Send her out.”
“Copy that,” Sulu said. “Here she comes.”
The hatch opened again and she stepped out into the light. Like Chekov before her, she held up her hands to show that she was unarmed. The crowd erupted in angry shouts and boos at the sight of her. Furious voices accused her of everything from cold-blooded murder to conspiring with Pavak. It was unclear which charge was considered most hateful.
“All right,” she called out. “You want me? Here I am!”
The impatient mob surged forward to seize her. For a few heart-stopping moments, Chekov feared for the worse. Reports of wartime atrocities committed against both Pavakians and those accused of collaborating with them rushed through his mind. What if the crowd decided to exact vengeance for A’Barra’s murder right here on the spot? Unarmed, there was little he could do to protect the defenseless target of their hate.
“Are you in control here?” he challenged W’Osoro. “Show me!”
W’Osoro’s scowl deepened, but he raised his voice above the tumult.
“Bring the assassin forward!”
The crowd dragged its prisoner over to where Chekov and W’Osoro were standing. The Russian officer was relieved to see that the mob had not been too rough on her yet, but he wondered how much longer the aggrieved Oyolu would show such restraint. There were far too many agitated people—and too many weapons—in play for his liking. It was irrational, he knew, but he actually found the nail-studded planks and crude home weapons more disturbing than the phasers and disruptors. A nice clean energy beam struck him as preferable to blunt-force trauma. He tried to head off any such unpleasantness.
“There,” he said. “We have fulfilled our end of the bargain. Please release the hostages into my custody.”
“All in good time.” W’Osoro examined his captive. “You are Lenore Karidian, alias Lyla Kassidy?”
“I am,” she said.
“Daughter of Kodos the Executioner and foul poisoner of A’Barra?”
“Yes to the former. No to the latter.” She projected her voice across the field. “I am innocent where the death of your revered leader is concerned. I have surrendered myself only out of concern for the safety of the hostages.”
W’Osoro lifted her chin, the better to inspect her features.
“Hold a moment,” he said suspiciously. “I saw you perform on this very stage, playing the sorceress in that Terran theatrical. You look different to me now.”
She shrugged. “I am an actress. I play many parts.”
He appeared unconvinced. He plucked a handheld electronic device from his belt and called up the images of Lenore, past and present, that had recently been splashed all over the media of two worlds. His gaze shifted back and forth between the images on the device and the woman standing before him. Chekov shifted uncomfortably.
“I assure you,” Chekov said. “This is Lenore Karidian, just as you requested.”
“Prove it.” W’Osoro crossed his arms atop his chest. “Recite your lines from the play.”
She balked at the command. “Now is hardly the time for Shakespeare, and I’m not remotely in character.”
“The lines,” he demanded. “Speak the lines . . . now.”
“I’m not sure I remember them exactly.”
“After only a few days?” W’Osoro asked skeptically. “I find that hard to believe. And it is my understanding that The Tempest is regarded as a timeless classic among your people. Are you truly asserting that the part has slipped your mind entirely?”
“You try reciting Shakespeare when you’re surrounded by an angry mob,” she shot back, “not to mention falsely accused of murder. My mind is not exactly on literature at the moment!”
“I do not have to prove my identity,” W’Osoro said. “You do.”
She looked to Chekov, who had little help to offer her. “This cross-examination is uncalled for,” he protested. “I insist that you release the hostages without further delay.”
“Silence!” W’Osoro drew his phaser pistol and aimed it directly at Chekov’s face. “No more stalling. If you are indeed Karidian, let us have an encore at once . . . or your Starfleet escort will pay for your silence.”
“All right, all right,” she said. “Let’s not do anything hasty.” She took a deep breath and furrowed her brow in concentration, as though racking her mind for some immortal passage or soliloquy. “Um, to be or not to be . . .”
Chekov groaned inside. W’Osoro’s eyes bulged and his face curdled in rage.
“Oh, hell,” Lieutenant Banks said, letting her native accent out of hiding. She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m no Shakespeare buff. Always more of a Tennessee Williams fan, actually.”
“Imposter!” W’Osoro grabbed onto her blond locks and yanked the wig from her head. He hurled the offending hairpiece into the mud at his feet. “What manner of trickery is this?”
“Unsuccessful?” Chekov ventured.
He had hoped that the two women would look roughly the same to the Oyolu, but apparently a wig, contact lenses, and an assumed accent had not been enough to pass Debra Banks off as Lenore Karidian for long. Just our luck that W’Osoro has a good eye for faces.
“Sorry, Commander,” Banks apologized. “I thought I could pull it off.”
“Nothing to apologize for, Lieutenant. Truth to tell, I don’t know The Tempest by heart either. Now Pushkin, on the other hand . . .”
“Still your lying tongues,” W’Osoro barked. “Seize them both!”
Oyolu protesters took hold of Chekov, confiscating his communicator. Rough hands searched them both for hidden weapons and found the communicator in Banks’s boot. Chekov could only imagine what Sulu had to be thinking as he watched this scene unfold from the relative safety of the shuttle. It had to be killing Sulu not to rush to their rescue, despite the odds against him.
Well, we wanted a distraction, Chekov thought. Here’s hoping this does the trick.
At least he wasn’t sneezing anymore.
• • •
Several minutes earlier.
“Ten thousand meters and counting, Captain,” Sulu reported from the helm as the Copernicus descended through the planet’s atmosphere toward the continent below. Kirk estimated that they were only minutes away from the bombed-out city where the hostages were being held. In theory, W’Osoro and his protesters were waiting for them outside the captured amphitheater.
“Thank you, Mister Sulu.”
Kirk was seated in the passenger cabin with the rest of the rescue team, which consisted of three armed security officers and one uneasy ship’s surgeon. Every member of the team, including Kirk, wore heavy-duty field uniforms comprised of a sturdy sweater, matching pants, and boots. Kirk’s gear was a dark matte green, while the other personnel wore brown. A pair of safety goggles hung around his neck. Lemon-yellow face paint and prosthetic horns disguised their non-Oyolu origins in order to help them avoid detection if spotted. The horns itched where they were glued to Kirk’s brow, but that was the least of his worries.
“Get ready, everyone,” he said. “We’re approaching our insertion point.”
The team was small by design. This mission was about speed and stealth, not strength of numbers. And, should everything go as planned, they would need room in the shuttlecraft to transport the rescued hostages. As is, it was going to be a tight squeeze.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” McCoy said, shaking his head. “I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.”
“It’s not too late to back out, Bones.” Kirk nodded at one of the security officers. “Lieutenant Del Gaizo is fully trained in field medicine.”
“Forget it. If you’re going to insist on these daredevil stunts, you’d better have a real doctor along. No offense, Del Gaizo.” McCoy double-checked to make sure his medkit was securely strapped over his shoulder. “And those hostages may require medical attention as well.”
“It’s good you’re coming along then,” Kirk said. “And, for the record, I’m not getting any younger myself, but don’t think that’s going to stop me from freeing those hostages.”
“That’s the spirit, Captain,” Chekov said from the front of the cabin, where he was seated with Lieutenant Banks, who had been hastily done up to resemble Lenore. Kirk took a moment to reexamine the woman’s disguise, which he hoped would fool the protesters below, at least for a while. Lenore had personally applied the woman’s makeup, covering up Banks’s natural freckles and doing what she could to heighten the resemblance. A wig and contact lenses added to the illusion. Kirk, who knew Lenore’s face better than most, wasn’t deceived, but maybe the disguise was good enough to buy them some precious time?
That was the plan at least.
“Thank you for volunteering for this mission, Lieutenant,” he told Banks. “Your courage is to be commended.”
“Hey, I always liked playing dress-up as a kid,” she said breezily. “Whatever it takes to help the hostages.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” Kirk was proud of Chekov and Banks, who were about to walk unarmed into the lion’s den. Duty or not, he considered that above and beyond. “Good luck, both of you. Be careful. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” McCoy muttered.
“Belay that, Doctor. I’m trying to deliver a pep talk here.”
“Good luck to you as well,” Chekov said. “See you soon . . . I hope.”
If all goes well, Kirk thought.
“Insertion point in approximately one minute,” Sulu called back to them.
The team gathered at the rear of the shuttle before the aft hatchway, while Chekov and Banks remained strapped in their seats. Kirk positioned his goggles over his eyes. At his signal, the hatch dropped open and a roaring wind invaded the pressurized atmosphere of the shuttle. The wind buffeted Kirk as he shouted above it.
“This is where we get off!”
He took the lead, throwing himself out of the shuttle into the night sky. Despite the seriousness of their mission, Kirk found the high-altitude jump exhilarating. Gravity seized him and the wind whipped past his face as he free-fell for several moments, plunging tow
ard the surface of the planet, before, somewhat reluctantly, activating his levitation boots.
The boosters ignited, halting his precipitous descent. Computerized gyros responded to even subtle bodily movements, allowing him to control his flight. He hovered in the air, more than a thousand meters above the planet, to get his bearings.
High overhead, the Copernicus veered off toward the prearranged site for prisoner exchange. With any luck, this mid-air insertion would go undetected by anyone tracking the shuttlecraft. He silently wished Chekov and the others a smooth flight and success carrying out their end of the mission.
This is going to take good timing and teamwork on all our parts.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the rest of the team falling into formation behind him. McCoy needed a few moments to get the hang of navigating in the boots, darting about erratically like a malfunctioning anti-grav lifter, but he eventually stabilized his flight, more or less. Kirk took comfort from the knowledge that the viridium patches sewn into their field uniforms would allow them to track one another, or even be located by the shuttlecraft’s sensors, should they get separated.
Here we go, he thought.
Kirk leaned forward and the boots responded to the motion, propelling him through the sky at high speed, with McCoy and the others right behind him. Night-vision lenses in his goggles allowed him to scope out the war-torn landscape hundreds of meters below. Bomb craters, collapsed structures, and charred rubble testified to the brutal toll decades of war had taken on this region. Navigational programs compared the view to Uhura’s aerial surveillance to ensure they were flying in the right direction. Kirk deliberately skirted populated areas, sticking to less habitable wastelands, in order to avoid detection. They jetted low above the ground, zipping over and sometimes through shattered skyscrapers and towering heaps of debris until they arrived at their destination.
The abandoned cemetery lay on the outskirts of the ruined city. Fallen gates and demolished monuments confirmed that the graveyard had been forgotten and fallen into ruin and neglect. No lights illuminated the untended grounds, which had been taken over by weeds and creeping vines. No tributes, floral or otherwise, graced the toppled stone markers. If there had ever been a night watchman to guard the cemetery, those days were long gone . . . just as Lenore had promised. She had suggested that the decaying cemetery would be free of inconvenient onlookers, especially after dark, and Uhura’s eyes in the sky had verified her description of the site.