Chapter 16
On the floor, Chekov struggled to stay afloat in a storm of pain and disorientation as the pilot quickly ascended the ladder. Though dazed, he was aware that he had a few seconds between now and departure, a tiny window of opportunity in which to make one last move and he intended to use it. But what could he do? Find a wrench and disable the craft in record time? Hack into an unfamiliar system to signal for help? He was probably capable of both, however, in this state it was difficult just to stay conscious.
Come on, Chekov, think! You're in a huge mess and everything hurts, but you can get out of it. You have to…
"…is the USS Enterprise, please identify…" came the distant crackle of a ship-to-ship transmission from the cockpit above them.
Chekov froze, as did Araxis. The two exchanged an intense glance, then catapulted into action at exactly the same time. One launched for the ladder while the other came barreling in from the side. Chekov unexpectedly ducked and slid past his assailant in the nick of time, tripping him up while he crashed into the ladder.
"I'm here!" he screamed, clinging to the railing with both arms. "Enterprise, I'm here!"
Araxis righted himself, then caught the teen around the middle and commenced a zealous campaign to wrench him from his newfound stronghold.
"They can't hear you," Araxis growled. "I thought you were supposed to be a genius!"
"Then why are you trying to stop me?!" Despite the fresh agony, Chekov tried with varying degrees of success to kick backwards with one leg. "Let go!"
"Ow! No, you let go of the stupid ladder—"
"NNNYET!"
"Unidentified vessel, this is the USS Enterprise, please respond…"
"I'm right here, Enterprise! HELP!"
"Shut up! Shut up and let go—"
With a shift in position and a substantial yank, Chekov was jarred loose and they both went sprawling to the ground with the boy landing on top of a winded Araxis. Chekov rolled aside in an attempt to make another break for the ladder. It was short-lived, however, and all too soon, he was once again in the less than gentle grip of the angry man. Hollering anything he could think of in a mess of Russian and Standard and throwing elbows left and right, Chekov thrashed, hoping to upset Araxis's balance on their way back to their feet. He had no idea what exactly had gone down on the bridge several hours earlier, but if he could give Captain Kirk a black eye while in a trance, maybe he could throw this guy off.
"Stop that! Quit scream—hold still!" Araxis snarled as the battle stumbled toward a far wall.
"Let me go!"
"You are the biggest nuisance I've ever had to deal with! It amazes me they even let you on that ship in the first—AAGH! OW—you bit me!"
Once he'd gotten a firm grip on one of the villain's hands, Chekov chomped down hard on the fleshiest part he could find. Araxis may have been a being of higher power and intelligence, but as he'd so blatantly disclosed earlier, he was occupying a human body with plenty of useful weaknesses to exploit.
"Pain receptors!" Araxis shrieked. "Why does this thing have so many pain recept—AAGH!"
Encouraged, Chekov abandoned the current site and hastily found another a little farther up the arm.
"Uugh, you're leaving teeth marks, that is so disgusting! Get off, you vile little savage!"
In a surprise move, Araxis twisted, slamming the ensign against a large pipe running from floor to ceiling. Skull met metal with a dull clang and the cargo hold swirled out of focus. Araxis relinquished his grip and let the stunned and bleeding Chekov slide limply to the ground where he slumped against the pipe.
"I swear, if this gets infected…" Shaking out his hand, Araxis dropped into a crouch next to the reeling teen, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. "Congratulations. You've earned yourself the 'Most Uncooperative and Infuriating Abductee, Junior Category' award."
Chekov's only reply was a dazed groan, which Araxis answered by taking his chin in a hand.
"No, no, I believe this is the part where you say 'thank you, o mighty Araxis'," he squeezed the boy's cheeks, making his mouth move in time with the words and mimicking an accent in a high-pitched voice, "'Lord of Chaos and Doom and Other Such Epic And Delightful Things! I'm wery, wery, wery sorry I followed my lower instincts and tried to eat you, but I promise I will never do aaaanything like zat again. Thank you for sparing my feeble life!'"
Cringing, Chekov tried to pull his head away, but was instantly bombarded by a wave of dizziness and nausea.
"What? I think the accent was pretty spot-on."
"Y-you…hurt my friends…"
"Ding! Correct. Ten points for you."
"You hef ze sphere, what…what else do you want from me?"
"Well, I can't not have the matching set, can I?" The villain grinned. "Besides, I thought it was obvious. That sphere is much more than just a vessel for lost souls and you're connected to it, which means you…" he poked the ensign in the chest for emphasis, "are the only one who can open it. There's a nice, shiny surprise worth more to me than anything in this universe waiting inside, and you…" another poke, "are the key."
Eyes flashing with deranged glee, Araxis stood. In that moment of towering triumph, Chekov gained a complete understanding of the humiliating puniness a sparrow must experience in the presence of an eagle.
"So, what now?" The man began to pace, tapping his chin, then stopped abruptly to jab a finger in the air. "Oh, I know! Let's play another game, hm? Don't look so horrified, it's nothing complicated. In fact, it could all be over in a few relatively painless seconds—which would be so much nicer for both of us—if you behave yourself like a good little ensign and play by the rules."
Chekov made no response.
"It's called 'Araxis Says'. Are you ready? No? Too bad, you get to play anyway. Araxis says 'sit on the floor'—wait, wait, my bad, you're already there." He snickered. "Ooh, this is too much fun! Araxis says 'make it stupidly easy to lure you beyond reach of help so I can snatch you away from your ship full of responsible adults'." He gasped, clapping his hands to the side of his face in mock surprise. "Oh, my! You're really good at this! I think we'll try something different this time…something a little more useful, maybe?"
The amber eyes narrowed, and Araxis held the sphere in front of him on an open palm. It produced a discordant hum, as if calling out in desperation to its designated protector.
"Araxis says…'open the sphere'."
Clinging to the pipe for support, Chekov glared up at his captor.
"Nyet."
One of the man's eyebrows twitched, dampening his otherwise delighted expression.
"Sorry, didn't quite catch that over that obnoxious stubborn streak—"
"It means NO—"
The words had barely left his tongue when a bolt of energy exploded from Araxis's other hand, hitting Chekov in the chest and coiling around him to drag him upright. The boy released a strangled cry and felt a deadly spark ignite somewhere deep within him. The flame it caused grew rapidly, climbing up his spine, spreading through his nerves, and bursting into his lungs, finally forcing out a full-on scream.
"Whoopsie," chided Araxis, "wrong answer. Let's try that again, and make it quick, will you? I've got an irritated smuggler to deal with after this."
The tendrils of raging energy contorted, squeezing until Chekov could hardly breathe. Having already claimed most of him, the searing heat had nowhere else to go but up. Up…into his head. If Araxis reached his mind, it was game over.
"Open it!"
Ice.
Fighting debilitating dizziness and terror, Chekov closed his eyes and fumbled through layers of thought and scattered concentration, grasping for any lasting memories of a familiar prickling chill.
Feel. Anchor.
"You can't fight forever, kiddo. Might as well face it. You have no idea what you're doing. Also, you look pathetic."
Understand. Connect.
He was right. Chekov didn't have any idea what he was doing, but he was certain that if he did nothing at all, Araxis would crush him. Thus would end his valiant but ultimately pointless struggle and the existence of a whole civilization.
Ice…find the ice.
"Open it!"
Stinging heat crept up his neck to sizzle at the base of his skull.
Shards in an arctic river…under a dark sky…flowing…
The air around Chekov dropped a slight but noticeable degree.
Araxis faltered. "Wait, what're you…"
Stars. Look for the stars.
"Stop! Stop resisting and open the sphere!"
A thin layer of frost danced across Chekov's skin, bringing with it a hint of cool relief. The coils loosened and Chekov opened his eyes to see a bluish glow channeling through his veins to his fingertips where it leaked in a weak trickle of starlight.
Was he…was he actually…
"That's…that's impossible! You can't—stop!"
Encouraged by Araxis's mounting unease, Chekov turned his attention to the now levitating and violently humming orb at the center of a swirling storm of energy. He reached, causing stars to snarl spectacularly with sparks.
Hold on. You have to hold…
"NO!" Araxis shrieked, and the ribbons of fire crackled with his fury.
Instinctively, Chekov threw up his hands to shield himself, sending an unintentional ripple through the threads of his own feeble manifestation. The effect was immediate. After a mind-shattering millisecond of deafening silence where time all but ceased, fire and ice collided, and the dueling rivals were blasted apart in opposite directions.
Chekov slammed into the wall behind him and slid to the ground, crippled by total, astounding agony. Drained of all hope and strength, he could only watch as the sphere hit the ground and split in two.
This was it, then.
This was how the story would end.
…
Chekov gradually became aware that he was standing in a dim nothingness. Confused and alarmed by the expanse of the void in every direction, he turned slowly.
"Hello?" he called, and his voice was soon lost. With rising anxiety, he cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Yes."
Chekov spun to find the owner of the deep voice, already knowing exactly who it was, but grateful to see him nonetheless.
"Matharus…" he said. "What's going on? Where am I?"
"I was kind of hoping you could enlighten me on that. One minute I'm talking to a Vulcan—a very interesting person, I might add—and the next…"
"No, I mean, where am I right now?"
"Ah, in your mind. It's safer to talk in here than it is out there for the time being. Besides, you're unconscious, which complicates things. Humans tend not to physically communicate very well while—"
"Matharus, something has gone terribly wrong! I—we've been abducted!"
Matharus blinked, rubbing his fuzzy chin. "That…does pose a significant problem—"
"That's not all. Araxis has the sphere."
The man froze, eyes widening.
"He…what?"
"I'm s-sorry," Chekov blurted, tripping over the words. "He took it from me. He made me open it and now he has the map, too. I'm so sorry! I tried to hold him off. I t-tried to use my powers, but he was too… I was too weak—I couldn't…"
"No." Matharus held up a hand. "You're not weak. Just…inexperienced. And apparently badly injured, which doesn't help. However, I have no doubt you gave it your best. That's more than any of us expected."
"Wow, um…thanks. But I don't think basically handing him everything he wanted qualifies as my best."
"You're still alive, aren't you?
"Uh…I am? I mean, it's kind of hard to tell right now."
"Yes, you are, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation…or maybe we would only it would be a lot more awkward. Anyway, I hate to say it, but you're alive both because of your efforts and because he still needs you. The sphere may be in his possession, but it's worthless without you to interpret the map. Unfortunately, you are also in his possession and he's going to get every bit of information he can out of you one way or another. This is why we must strike first."
"Are you people ever going to figure out that you've chosen the wrong person?" Chekov asked, suddenly very aggravated. "I can't do it, okay? I'm not strong enough to go through that again. I can't defeat Araxis!"
"No, you can't."
"What?"
"Well, not with that attitude, that's for sure."
"Ugh." Chekov rolled his eyes, not exactly in the mood for a lesson on optimism.
"Really, though, no human being can withstand Araxis. Not alone, anyway. Only someone with your abilities—paired with some appropriate help—can fight and eventually destroy him."
"Well, then, why did you not warn me about him?"
"We did. Or rather, we tried. The dream, remember? 'The time has come, for Araxis approaches', woooooo, very spoooooky. All of that?"
"Yes, I remember the dream," Chekov snapped, "but couldn't you have at least told me who he is?"
"Not 'who'," corrected Matharus, "'what'."
"Fine, 'what' is he, then?"
Matharus took in a preparatory breath. "That is not an easy answer to give, Ensign Or Chekov. Also one I was hoping to have more time to prepare for. Araxis is…well, he's what a human might call a sentient embodiment of mischief, chaos, and destruction, possessing a sort of 'omnipotence', able to move about the universe much more freely than most and easily bend it to his will."
"Oh, so he's basically a god. Wonderful."
"No. Well…yes, basically…in a sense. Not even we know where these beings originate and how they're able to do what they do. Though very rare and mysterious, beings of his kind have been encountered throughout the galaxy. Your own species has had multiple brushes with them, even worshipped them as deities back in the day, as you undoubtedly already know."
"But…but if they are like him…like Araxis, shouldn't they have obliterated us all eons ago?"
"Not all are the same, which means not all are malevolent. Incomprehensibly powerful, yes, but, as with any species, they have their differences. There are some who actually care for and protect various realities and the creatures who inhabit them. There are others who want nothing to do with anything 'lesser' than themselves. But not Araxis. To him, the universe is his playground and we are objects to be tossed around and tormented. We mean nothing to him and he will do anything just to see what kind of mess he can stir up with whatever happens to be available, be it people, worlds, dimensions—anything. He doesn't fall within the category of 'good' or 'evil', he is a phenomenon, a personified force that exists simply to destroy. Sadly, my people became aware of this too late…"
He trailed into silence as Chekov's heart sank.
"He…he's the one who…"
"Yes." Matharus swallowed, then nodded.
"I'm sorry," Chekov said quietly after a long pause.
"We thought we could control him. We wanted to study him. But we, an advanced race with knowledge and abilities beyond much of the known universe, could not withstand his wrath. So much has been lost to us because of our own arrogance. What little we have left is preserved within the Sphere and only accessible by you. It's not a fate I would wish even on the evilest of creatures. However, we are a learning people, and some of us escaped the encounter not only with our consciousness intact, but with valuable information. In a last effort to save ourselves before we fled, using our combined strength, we were able to bind him to a physical form, therefore containing a portion of his power. He has wandered the galaxy in search of revenge, in search of us, ever since. He'll find a way to break out of his prison soon. It can't hold forever."
"Ayy, perfect. So what happens when he does? And how does any of this help me get rid of him? I'm just a human! An eighteen-year-old human who looks at star charts all day."
"Ah, but we know that he does in fact have limits. He has weaknesses. And as I keep telling you, you won't face this alone. We'll be with you until the end."
The end… The words sent a shiver through Chekov's spine.
"All of us. Your friends—both within and without—will be, and our unity will make us strong. Araxis only has himself. We have each other, we have hope, we have sources of strength he never will. Now, I think it's time for you to wake up. It appears we have company."
…
Someone was shaking him. A low, raspy, and unfamiliar female voice drenched with worry begged him over and over to please, please, please not be dead.
Chekov's eye snapped open and he flung himself upright, gasping like he'd cleared the surface after staying too long underwater. Then, in the next second, when the shock and pain caught up with him, he screamed.
A pair of hands caught him as he flopped back again, easing him into a softer landing on the cold metal floor.
"Eyy, thank the Great Alpha, you're alive. A dead human kid in my hold was everything I didn't need right now."
A blinking pair of lights—no, they were…eyes—hovered just above him in the dark. Strikingly green, reflective eyes with slits for pupils and a certain fierceness about them. Fierceness, he noted, but not malice.
"Try not to move," urged their owner. "I'll be right back."
The prospect of slipping out of consciousness again was a welcome one. It taunted him, promising temporary relief from reality, but the comfort of sleep wandered farther out of his reach until there was no getting it back. With that out of the picture, he couldn't do much more than lie there with his thoughts, and they did not make for pleasant company.
He couldn't see much, which made it the slightest bit easier to pretend he wasn't there at all, but he could still feel everything; the solid floor under his back, the thrum of the ship's engines, the chilliness of the cargo hold flowing over him while the pain flowed freely within. The blood on his face had dried and the miniscule dose of industrial-grade painkillers he had been lucky enough to receive during his most recent visit to medbay must have worn off ages ago. The headache flared, as did the deep, radiating burning of the phaser wound in his leg.
How much more of this could he survive? And if, by some miracle, he did make it through another day, how in the world was he supposed to defeat a god disguised as a human if he couldn't even stand up? None of it made any sense. Three days ago, he was Pavel Andreivich Chekov, just an ensign on a starship doing his job. Now…
Now…what?
Who was he?
The emptiness of the questions and the profound lack of answers required to fill it were frightening. He'd been blown off-course, landed in unfamiliar territory, and was now compelled to travel a much different road than the one he'd plotted so carefully for himself. A road that had already pushed him far beyond his breaking points, and was forcing him to navigate with his heart rather than his head. Actual lives depended on how he handled these unforeseen changes to travel plans, and so far, he had failed them.
The sphere was broken.
He was broken.
Araxis now had full access to the map and, perhaps with a few more rounds of interrogation, its secrets. Matharus and his people were doomed to a massacre of biblical proportions, and while he held some belief in an afterlife, Chekov couldn't bear the thought of spending an eternity in the presence of the thousands of innocent souls he'd dragged there along with him—
The eyes were back.
His heightened fight-or-flight response sent him scrambling for the nearest wall.
"Whoa! I had no idea humans could move that—uh, it's okay, it's just me."
But who exactly was "me"?
Out of the deepest shadow, a crouched figure crept. It had the body and limbs of a human, but traversed the ground easily like a cat. It was the pilot…or at least he assumed it was. He didn't have a chance to get a decent look at her before Araxis dropped him earlier, however he'd been able to distinguish a few telltale feline features.
Inching closer, she tilted her head, revealing the triangle ears on top of it. On a wild guess, he thought she could be a native of Filos, a planet which was home to a race of tribal, cat-like humanoids Chekov had only studied and never encountered.
A light bloomed in her hand, and although it was relatively pale, Chekov shrank from the stinging visual intrusion. Uttering an odd, almost concerned chirp, the newcomer squinted at him a moment before lowering the light and placing it on the ground. Chekov stiffened in a bout of fear-fueled paralysis as she prowled toward him once again, extending a hand—or was it a paw? Either way, it had claws, and whatever she was going to do to him couldn't be good. Choking on a yelp, he flinched…
His overtaxed imagination expected a volley of raking slashes. Instead, he felt two of the cat woman's warm fingers come to rest on his lips.
"Shhh, kitling!" she hissed, glancing over a shoulder.
Now overwhelmed by the painful repercussions of his recent movements, Chekov stifled a groan, curling in on himself.
"I know, I know, but I can't help if you don't sit still and stay quiet."
Crouching before him, she deposited a medical kit on the floor, then reached slowly for something strapped to her back, detaching a couple rods of smooth black wood. After placing them alongside the kit, she produced two long and wicked-looking knives from sheaths on each hip, removed a phaser from a thigh holster and plucked two small boomerangs from each boot. Then, the pilot looked him directly in the eyes and raised her hands to show they were empty.
"There. That better?"
Even unarmed, the alien cut an intimidating figure. Tall, lithe, and built for swiftness, her body was covered in a coat of short purple fur with curious bright blue markings circling her face. Dozens of black braids adorned with colorful beads and threads sprouted around the ears and fell dangling just above her shoulders. Her choice in attire was practical. All black. A pocket-peppered jacket. Several belts sporting pouches of all sizes and shapes. Close-fitting pants tucked into well-worn boots. The crowning feature of the odd ensemble, however, was the tail. Wrapped in decorative bits of leather, it flicked back and forth behind her, emphasizing her every move as if it functioned on a mind of its own.
He gave a nod.
"All right, let me get a look at you."
She took his chin gently in one hand, turning his head side to side in slow, quiet observation, expression growing more severe with each passing moment.
"What does that dirty h'aptethlet want with such a young human? Why would he do this to you?"
She sat back on her heels, waiting for the answer Chekov simply didn't have the strength to give. With a small huff, the pilot turned to the medical kit and opened it, taking out the contents and spreading them in an orderly row on the floor.
"I'm Zyrete. Professional smuggler, in case you haven't figured that out already. Got a name for me?"
Chekov remained silent while she gauged the severity of each injury. Finally settling on the phaser wound, Zyrete gathered the required treatment supplies into a pile.
"And nothing," she sighed. "I guess I should've expected as much. Don't worry, I get it. The more someone knows about you, the more trouble they can cause."
Working swiftly, she began to cut away the material around the burned flesh.
"Listen, you don't have to trust me." She snorted. "Heh, honestly, I wouldn't trust me either, but I swear on the Great Alpha's grave I was only expecting a serving of valuable artifacts with a nice chunk of pay on the side, not an injured human child. And, uh, speaking of injuries," she held up a bottle of yellowish goop, sloshing it around a bit, "this is gonna hurt. Sorry in advance."
Before Chekov could say anything, a glob of the stuff came oozing out and landed right in the middle of the burn where it began to fizzle. Horrified by the spectacle, he was totally unprepared for the white-hot searing sensation that followed. The cargo bay tipped sideways, and then everything in it, including him, was sucked into blackness.