Captain's Privilege
By
Patricia Wright
"Captain, sensors are reading a freighter coming up on our lee bow. We’ve identified her as The Sparrow, under command of Jack
Henry."
The Captain's eyes narrowed as he listened, a glint coming into their dark depths. Shifting the food in his mouth, he nodded as if that
movement could actually be effective through an intercom.
"Thank-you, Mr. Hamilton," he added to the nod. "Notify Captain Henry to lay alongside. Follow standard procedures and I'll meet you in
the transporter room to lead the boarding party."
"Aye-aye, Sir."
Swallowing the now mush-like substance in his mouth, he was startled by the sudden, improbably horrendous shriek that split the air in
his dining room. He shot his eyes around the group of people seated at the table with him and leveled a deadly glare of recrimination at
the dark eyed child. Granted, he had no proof--but he KNEW. The suspected perpetrator of the outlandish noise began giggling in
response. The Captain was always quite confounded by the total anarchy with which his authority was met in his own cabin.
"Do you have a problem?" he questioned intently, irritated that the cook’s meatloaf was cooling further on his plate.
"No," the child retorted, a cocky grin sweeping over his face. "I just can't wait until you get our chocolate from Captain Henry. Do you
think he's got other candy for us this time?"
The Captain buried his face in his napkin to restrain his smile, but his brilliant dark eyes gave him away. He lowered the napkin, cleared
his throat, and shook his head. "You, Andrie Pavolich, have a lopsided view of the way the universe works. Freighter's are in the
business of transporting cargo for profit, not to amuse Starfleet children and their suppliers are unpredictable at best. Besides," he
shrugged nonchalantly and lobbed a nearby roll at Andrie's head, "If he does have some I may just decide to go on a binge before I get
back."
A unison of horrified protest erupted and a volley of rolls began flying through the air from every direction. He returned them as fast as
they came at him, although it wasn't fair by any means. Andrie and Katya were predictable. It was Nikolai he had to watch for--at eight
he'd recently decided he was above this type of tomfoolery, so his deadly aimed missiles were lofted when it looked most like he was
absorbed with his meal.
Then he decided to just accept it for a moment: be a target so he could sit and absorb the wild laughter from the children. It was
Sergie's shrieks of abandoned joy that particularly captivated him. He was too young to have become involved in the roll fight: but he
clearly understood what a going on. As the Captain watched, the toddler dove forward and plunged his fists into his plate of food. He
promptly hurled the mess directly into the Captain's face.
Dead silence dropped on the room for an instant, but the man roared with laughter and threw the food back at the child. In an instant,
the air was alive with colors and textures as the fight dissolved into a free for all. Heck, it was all cold now anyway, he thought.
Grabbing a handful of meatloaf, he froze in mid-loft as a clear, sweet voice cut the air.
"Enough! All of you, you're obviously finished eating now: go get cleaned up. And you," the woman's dazzling blue eyes flashed out at
the errant Captain as the children scattered. "Must you encourage it for heaven's sake!"
He bit into the meat in his hand, as though it was his intention all along, but a smirk betrayed any sense of dignity he tried to muster.
She tried to glare at him again, but the blue eyes were dancing with laughter and she had to glance away quickly to prevent its eruption.
He smiled broadly at her behavior.
"He started it."
The pronouncement came from the lanky young man whose blue eyes were regarding the Captain with an intensity that was frightening.
The flash of an image of him lunging at the boy and strangling him was strangely satisfying. He chewed and swallowed the meatloaf
before replying.
"Nikolai, are you sure you don't want to live with your grandfather?" he intoned.
The boy raised an eyebrow in what was an even more frightening gesture. "Sir?" He didn't give the Captain a chance to respond. "Why
is it that you always detain and inspect The Sparrow? I don't understand."
He took a moment to start brushing the edible adornments out of his hair. The man that taught the boy that eyebrow trick was going to
pay, someday, he determined. "As a Starfleet patrol vessel, part of our mission is to make sure the shipping lanes remain safe and
legal, Kolya. That requires me to inspect ships now and then."
He could tell by the child's continued stare that he was not satisfied. Nikolai's mind processed things so fervently it was sometimes hard
for him to allow others to treat him like the child he was. Worse, at eight he already sometimes he took advantage of the fact that they
would.
"So," Nikolai continued steadily. "How do you decide which ones to detain?"
"Captain's privilege," he replied softly, using his napkin to brush his uniform jacket off.
"I don't understand. I would like to know why you always detain The Sparrow, while others you never detain."
A choked sound came from his wife who was clearing the other end of the table.
He dropped his napkin on the table and stood, a stream of food reigning down onto the floor. "Nikolai Pavolich, thank-you for giving me
something to consider. After all, it's been my experience in life that if you have something important enough to communicate, than
actually saying it works best.
"Come on now, you've stalled long enough: you'll have to share the shower with me. Go get started."
The woman burst into laughter when Nikolai finally left, her clear sweet giggles filling the cabin in abandon. "Really, love," she choked
out. "Why don't you just explain to him why you always detain The Sparrow?"
Scowling, he pulled open his belt and removed his jacket. "Nikolai knows: Jack is a well-known and convicted smuggler, that’s why."
"Oh, yes," she intoned, bravely choking down her laughter. "I'd forgotten." The giggles erupted again as she moved away and dissolved
into laughter.
"He is," the Captain scowled at her.
"Yes," she agreed. "That's what you count on. You don't actually expect your Yeoman to clean up this mess, do you?"
"I'll tell him not to," he said as he headed for the shower. "But he won't listen," he muttered.
In fact, when he returned looking less like a buffet, the room was nearly clean already. Tightening his belt, the Captain leaned over and
kissed his wife gently. "I owe you. I’ll be back."
"I'll add it to the list." Her surprisingly powerful, yet delicate, fingers tightened on his arm, preventing him from leaving. "Be careful."
"Of Jack?" he laughed.
`You can never tell," she murmured gently. Pulling him down to her, she kissed him more thoroughly. "Remember."
"Always," he quipped, a gleaming smile sweeping over his features as he strode out the door.
The image of her sparkling eyes made the smile linger and presented a rather cryptic guise to his assembled crewmen: a fact that was
evident by their immediate exchanged glances. He pulled the smile off his face by clenching his teeth, although he knew that made it
worse in their eyes. Now he had a stern and somber face and a shining gleam in his dark eyes, which their imaginations would be at no
loss to explain.
"Captain," his First Officer began, stepping up to him. Captain Henry's Masters License is current and all the records in the manifest
check out. Everything appears to be in order." The tall and well-built red head handed him printed copies of the documents in question.
The Captain grit his teeth harder, choking back the sudden image of the command team that presented itself to his mind.
"Sir?" The First Officer asked, quizzically studying his superior officer
Gordon knew him too well to suspect he had anything to do with the Captain's strange behavior.
He coughed uncomfortably. "Nothing really, Doug. I was just wondering if you'd ever seen an old Earth comedy team by the name of
Abbott and Costello."
The mop of red hair bounced as he shook his head. "Can't say that I have, Sir."
"Mmm," he murmured. "They were filmed in black and white and I was just thinking that I'm sure one of them was a red head."
A blush exploded into the man's face and he smiled. "Everything does appear to be in order, Sir."
"Everything readily accessible to a Starship's sensors, Mr. Gordon," the Captain drawled, balancing the papers in his hand. He stepped
up onto the transporter platform, reassured by his First Officer's predictability. "Good verbal fencing, Doug."
"Yes, Sir. I learned it from a little old lady in Leningrad."
The laughter echoed through the thin hull of the freighter, reverberating uncomfortably off the walls as they materialized.
"Really, Captain Chekov," a baritone exploded. "It's bad enough to be violated each and every time we wander across your sector of
space, but do you have to come aboard laughing every time?"
His smile gleamed in his warm brown eyes. "You enjoy it, Jack." Chekov's eyes raked over the extremely plump, middle-aged man. "This
is your entire manifest of cargo, Comrade Jack: except of course what you consumed?"
"Of course, Comrade Pavel," the freighter Master sent the barb back. "Would I hide anything from you?"
"Nary a hair: which are becoming easier and easier to count, I notice."
"Yes, well, I think you've been confiscating them for your face," the man growled, pointedly eyeing Chekov’s newly grown beard.
There was a snicker and the Captain glared at the offending Lieutenant: the man choked.
"You know your jobs." Chekov motioned a dismissal and one of the officers grabbed the packet in the Captain's hand as he passed.
Henry shuddered as they scattered away and throughout his ship. "Christ, it's like an invasion of ants all scurrying about, picking off
little pieces off my ship."
"A freighter hardly classifies as a ship, Jack," Chekov observed with thought, beginning to stroll down the corridor, his eyes sweeping
his surroundings with mild interest. He shook his head at the scarred, dismal walls and the shaky gangway at which he paused.
"Especially this one. Tell me, are they going to find anything not listed on your manifest?"
The man smiled broadly, creases layering his face into rolls of fat. "Now I suppose that would depend on how good they are."
"Let me put it this way, Jack," he gestured broadly as he tested his weight on the gangway. "Let's hope they find at least one box of
genuine chocolate bars."
Laughter followed him down the gangway and into the unlighted lower deck.
"I'd not disappoint your brood without fearing for my life! I've got some special treats," he added as he followed the Captain, "Including
some toys they'll not have seen before."
"Now you're spoiling them," Chekov commented. Dropping the last few feet, he coughed convulsively as a cloud of dust surrounded
him. "Don't you ever dust? It's like Stalin's tomb down here!"
"No need to," the freighter's Master shrugged as he stepped off the last rung of the gangway. "We don't use this deck."
Chekov screwed up his face, shooting an incongruous look at the other man. He shook his head after a moment and glanced briefly up
at the rotting gangway. "Some day you're going to rig that thing and I'm going to die in the stinking pit of this cesspool."
"Here, now, that’s my cesspool you're talking about and I'm damn proud of it. Besides," he added, following the Captain's glance with
amusement. "It is rigged."
"I'm sure," Chekov muttered, searching the dimly lit, filthy surroundings. After a moment, he turned and kicked a wall.
"Oh, Great Bird!" Henry exclaimed. "Can't you use your hand for once?!"
"And infect my whole ship with God-knows-what?" Chekov shook his head as he ducked into the opening that appeared in the wall.
"Next time make it easy on both of us and have it open and waiting."
"And rob you of the challenge?" Henry scoffed. "I'm not that heartless."'
Chekov stood, waiting for his eyes adjust to the light as the portly man heaved his way into the hold behind him. "Romulan ale," he
observed. "Jack," he added, glowering at the man. "You do realize this is against the law?"
Henry shrugged helplessly. "What can I tell you? I don't know how it got here, I swear."
"I'm sure." The Captain motioned to the Ensign who poked his head into the hatchway. "Remove a few of these cases to The Enterprise
for examination: lets make sure Romulan ale is all that's in them."
Pushing at two cases with the toe of his boot, Henry gestured to the younger officer. "Take these."
"Yes, do," Chekov agreed, his eyes glinting in the dim light. He knew that would never satisfy McCoy, however. "And take those three
over there, as well."
He saw the blood drain out of Henry's face out of the corner of his eye. Blinking repeatedly, the ship's Master swallowed hard and
shifted his weight several times.
"Start with these two," the Captain instructed the Ensign, and he could hear the hallowness in his voice echo against the ship's hull. He
always enjoyed his encounters with Henry and he felt genuine irritation at the iciness that he felt creeping through him.
"Yes, Sir."
He helped them heave them apart from the others and waited until the transporter fizzle had died before turning to the freighter's
Master. Pacing forward, he thrust his face into Henry's face. "Jack," he said darkly, "If I get myself killed my wife is going to be really
pissed at me. What have you gotten yourself into?" he snarled.
"I don't know, Pavel," the man said hollowly. "I swear, I don't know."
Chekov stared at his white face, the ice taking a firm grip in every cell of his body. He knew the freighter's Master and he believed him
to be telling the truth, but there was a type of subdued fear in his eyes that Chekov's instincts responded to with anger.
"I'm the Captain of the finest Constitution Class Starship that ever existed," he bit out evenly, his voice dropping two full decibels. "Our
relationship hasn't made that fact slip your mind has it? We wouldn't me to have to remind you of that, would we? You'll go down so fast
and hard you won't even know what hit you: and you know it."
"Of course I know it," Henry spat out, a note of desperation reverberating in his tone. "I know it and wouldn't forget any of it." He paused
then, straightening and purposefully fixing his eyes on the Captain's.
"Why do you think I came looking for you?" the man demanded in a whisper. "It's a matter of business that the people I deal with aren't
always..." He stopped. "Pavel, I add to my profits with small, harmless items of interest. You know that or I'd currently be decorating a
penal colony. I didn't ask for this and I don't know what the hell to do about it.
"They told me to make absolutely sure that those two cases did not fall into Starfleet hands. They even put different labels on them and
said I should dump the whole load if Starfleet got near them. I wasn't about to argue with them but, hell, Pavel," he added, "This is not
what I bargained for. For God's sake, I am appealing to the finest Captain in Starfleet. Captain Pavel A. Chekov of the starship
Enterprise, you have to help me!"
Chekov withheld a wry grin, wide eyes sparkling. "Not sure Captain Sulu of The Intrepid would agree," he muttered under his breath. He
studied the balding man, his eyes gauging the face as gray as his hair. "What's your explanation of The Enterprise going to be?"
"Fine ship: just came up on us too fast to do anything about it," Henry shrugged.
"They've ever done anything else like this before?" he asked tersely.
"Never," the man insisted, a sigh coming out of him as he realized the Starship Captain had taken on the task he brought to him. "They
didn't give me a choice this time, and I'll quit before I get trapped again."
The Captain's warm brown eyes widened in horror. "Good Lord, no!" he exploded. "Where the hell would I get chocolate?!"
Henry burst out laughing despite himself and Chekov grinned. The man had been working himself into a useless frenzy. "Two cases?"
Chekov inquired.
Nodding, the freighter’s Master strolled over to the offending cases. Scowling, Chekov leaned over to study them. The other man's
heavy breathing stilled the dim air in the packed room as he waited.
"You're going to take it aboard and check it out, right?" There was an edge of hope in the voice.
"No," Chekov responded, standing and folding his arms easily across his chest. He rubbed a hand over his trim beard. "Too dangerous:
it could be anything, Jack."
"Starbase 32 is in the Romulan Neutral Zone. I thought maybe a spy..." he suggested desperately.
The Captain shook his head, eyes still riveted to the case. "Too obvious, I think: although it is possible. It could also be an
assassination attempt. It could be poisoned or rigged in any number of ways." He dropped his arms and clasped his hands behind his
back. " It could be rigged to explode when it's moved again. Do you have any debts, Jack? Owe anyone?"
The man started at that, aging before his eyes. "No one I can think of. Well, except for you, of course."
"Yes, how about me, Jack?" he asked carefully. "Does anyone else know that I don't waste my time with victimless crimes?"
"No! Are you kidding?" the man exploded, the rolls of fat on his face becoming edged with red. "I'm not stupid enough to unchain the
guard dog. Besides, why ruin my reputation? Everyone thinks I'm incredibly clever getting my goods by the Fleet."
Chekov nodded and moved to climb back into the hall. "Perhaps," he said quietly as he patted the dust off his uniform, "It's nothing. Just
a set-up."
"Do you think someone knows some of my goods are getting lost in transit?" Jack asked carefully.
Leaning against the wall of the corridor, Chekov nodded sedately as he stared at the freighter's Captain. "The question is, who are they
setting up: you, or me?"'
Henry's eyes went lifeless then. "You could lose your commission."
Nodding, Chekov pushed his hand into his uniform jacket pocket. "Yes, then what would you do with your chocolate and toys?" he
mused.
"Pavel! Do you have to make a joke about absolutely everything?"
"Yes," the Captain mused again. "I do. You're right," he continued in answer to the man's original observation. "Technically I could lose
my commission: although it's not likely. I'm not accepting bribes and I'm not technically breaking any regulations."
"You're just failing to notice what is under your nose," Henry observed with a note of despair. "Pavel, if you lose your commission, they'll
take your ship. They'll take The Enterprise."
The Captain laughed then, a gleaming smile sweeping over his face as he pulled a well-worn pipe out of the pocket he had been
rummaging in. "They'll have to pry her out of my cold, dead hands. I don't need a uniform to command The Enterprise-C."
The freighter’s Master's eyes shot open, startled. "Are you saying you would just take her?" he rasped.
Chekov rubbed his thumbs over the pipe habitually. "I don't give up what I want," he intoned evenly. A wry smile swept over his face.
Eyeing Henry with distant, sparkling eyes. "I had a good teacher."
"Well, just how am I supposed to stay in business with you on the lam?"
"Really, Jack, you're much too melodramatic. You had a thriving business before me and I'm sure you'll have one long after I'm dead."
"There wasn't a peace treaty with the Klingons before you!" the man spat. "There were no Federation ships patrolling both Federation
and Klingon territory before you."
The smile deepened and Chekov pushed the pipe back into his pocket. "Even The Enterprise has other duties than simple border
patrols, Jack. And in case you're not aware of it, this post is the dung heap of the galaxy. Starfleet doesn't want the post to exist and no
one wants to man it. I'm sure any Captain who gets stuck in this post will have old equipment and do nothing more than check the
manifests and scan the ship."
Chekov glanced at the returning Ensign and shook his head. "No," he said to him. "Have the Security Team check out those cases
completely before their touched." He began strolling leisurely in the direction opposite from the Ensign scrambling away, making his way
up to the main deck.
Jack Henry remained rooted to the spot where he was standing. "You want this post," he insisted darkly. "They’ll take your ship."
"They’ll take your ship..." the words echoed hollowly in Chekov, a stab of pain piercing him unbearably. Take the Enterprise B away
from him, take The Enterprise. Kirk's image wandered back to him then, as it did far too often. What would Captain Kirk say if Chekov
lost the man's ship?
The first Starship to breech the Klingon boundary after the treaty was established, The Enterprise B was responsible for far more than
the enforcement of rules and regulations. His ship's duties went beyond the cold paper's recitation of establishing first contact with
Klingon colonies, exploring Klingon territory and maintaining the fledgling union between the Federation and the Empire. His ship was
the fulcrum that ensured the balance that maintained peace: a tentative peace not entirely accepted by individuals on either side. He
was more aware of that than he wished to be at most times.
Certain individuals in Starfleet Command secretively resented the notion of their personnel rubbing elbows routinely with the members
of the Klingon Empire and thought it was a waste of money, personnel and equipment. The newly promoted Chekov had ended mind-
numbing debates by volunteering for the post and requesting command of The Enterprise B. No one else wanted the post, and Kirk
finally accepted retirement knowing that his ship would be safe from decommissioning. Honestly, it had been set to be scuttled the
minute he gave it up because it had become an anachronism--but no one would take the ship from the Fleet's finest Captain. The Fleet
was all too willing give the old ship to Chekov to spare themselves from using what they thought more valuable equipment for this
assignment. Now the plans for the new Enterprise would continue to sit idly as long as the current ship still under Chekov's command.
It had brought upon him an endless stream of taunting, especially from Sulu who now commanded the bright and shining flagship of the
fleet. He continued the brilliant exploration missions of the old Enterprise with his ship and crew, while Chekov was as much an
ambassador as much as he was a Captain. The taunting from Sulu and his old friends was affectionate, however. They had a deep
respect--and pride--in what he was doing and that he was willing to do it. They and Starfleet were more than aware that it took a set of
extraordinary abilities to deal with his most unique of positions. He was the first of a new breed of Captain that they Fleet would need:
these Captain's would need to be more of everything that Captain's always were.
Kirk could not have done it. The best, the brightest Captain that ever commanded in the Fleet--in any Fleet--Chekov’s Captain could
not have been the Captain he had trained his navigator to become. That gave Chekov a satisfaction that was complete. Kirk had not
only trained him, but there was both pride and approval in the hazel eyes every time the man grilled him about 'his' ship.
"You actually take her into Klingon territory, do you?"
"Sir, they're our allies now."
"You actually put her into orbit around their planets and outposts in the Klingon Empire? Do you have any memory left at all of our
encounters with the Klingons, Ensign? Seems to me you, especially, should have an exquisite recall of both their disruptors and
agonizers."
"I won't allow any harm to come to The Enterprise."
"What exactly are you telling these 'allies' about her first Captain, Ensign? What are you telling her crew about the old battle axe Kirk?"
Chekov never answered that question, never responded to the man's always-pointed referral to him as an Ensign and a smirk crept
over his face as the memory of the grilling faded. The secretive smirk that befuddled his crew exploded into a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Kirk always maintained now that his status as a bonifide legend, whose feats ranged far beyond the scope of human ability, was due in
total to the rather large mouth of a young Russian he once knew. His rather mysterious activities since retirement were growing in tale
as well, and he still blamed that nameless Russian.
Chekov never responded to the pointed accusations because he couldn't deny his part in them and, after all, watching the Captain
struggle with the effects of the exaggerated stories was vastly amusing.
What would that stalwart Captain Kirk, defender of right, have done in Chekov’s present situation? What action would he have taken
with a rather cowardly smuggler that provided the crew with some rare luxuries and determined his manifest by the Captain's demands?
Pausing, Chekov leaned against a bulkhead and draped his arms across his chest. Kirk, he pondered: the man who had stranded
Cyrano Jones with more than a million tribbles, Harry Mudd with almost as many wives, and who routinely instructed his junior officers
with the fastest routes to the off-limits shore leave spots? What would Kirk have done?
"All my actions may not entirely be honorable," Chekov agreed. "But as the legendary Captain Kirk once said, a man can be too noble
and pure."
Jack Henry scowled at the dubious assertion, apparently not entirely sure of it's authenticity. "Kirk said that?"
"Indeed," Chekov nodded, eyeing the man critically. "Kirk is a legend for more reasons than you'd believe. Tell me," he continued, dark
eyes clouding over in thought. "Should I have trusted you about those cases? After all, you seem to have ceased to trust me."
"What?" Henry spluttered explosively. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Trust," Chekov repeated, turning his dark eyes to the man. "There's been someone following us, Jack."
Henry spun rage filling his face as a young man stepped out from behind a bulkhead apprehensively. There was no point in trying to
remain hidden.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" demanded Henry.
Not only apprehension, but also the coiled anticipation of action filled the youth's careful movements, and his green eyes met Chekov’s
squarely. There was no fear in the lad. The youth's muscles rippled as he straightened. "I heard the Captain was aboard and I..." he
paused, swallowing steadily as he stared into Chekov `s unwavering eyes. "I wanted to see him." Chekov tightened his facial muscles
and felt the spark light up his eyes even though he prevented the laughter.
"You fool! Do you realize what you risked? This man is not an exhibit: you could have ruined our entire relationship with the Fleet."
"Not from what I've heard about the Captain."
Chekov's eyes widened in interest, their chocolate brown depths sparkling demonically. He sent a piercing glare through Henry's errant
crewmen. The young man, who the Captain gauged to be about twenty, only straightened to meet the offense.
"I'm sorry, Pavel," Henry interjected. "He's a brand new crewmen, just a pup..."
"Your first deep-space trip?" the Captain asked.
"Yes, Sir," he responded, his eyes obviously raking Chekov's form thoroughly.
As for the Captain, he studied the self-assured young man with the interest of a predator. "What is it exactly that you've heard about
me?"
There was a moment of thought, of gauging his words, during which no emotions crept onto the lad's face and betrayed those thoughts.
He finally paced closer to the Enterprise's Captain and answered with a question.
"What race is your wife?"
Chekov coughed. "Why?" he managed, his voice barely audible, and eyes intent while the youth answered.
"I've heard things about her...I think I may just want to investigate members of her race myself."
"Things?" Chekov managed barely again. He reminded himself forcefully of Kirk's warnings, of Terrill’s warnings, that his stern attempts
to conceal his natural, impetuous sense of humor led to guises on his face that could 'make a Klingon drop from fright.' It wasn't his fault
Captain's weren't supposed to appreciate that life was as amusing as it was.
"I’ve heard that she's a tiny, elegant little thing: beautiful with flowing amber tresses. It's said that she walks as though on the air itself,
that she moves with such enchantment that she entrances the men around her." He hesitated, but only briefly. "I've heard rumors that
she is, in fact, a true fairy."
The Captain stared frozen at the man as his jaw ground hard against itself. He didn't need to listen, for he had clearly heard the exact
words before. Knowing full well where he'd heard the description, he swore vehemently under his breath. "Old star travelers have mush
for brains," he snarled aloud. "They are not to be believed."
The youth's eyes narrowed as he continued to openly study the Captain. "Than you don't have your family aboard because you told
Starfleet you'd quit if they didn't allow officer's families on board?"
"It was a natural progression," Chekov snapped, glaring at him. "If you'd check history it is a well documented step in naval history."
Blinking, the young man straightened. "I'll have to research that, Sir. Pardon me," he pressed on. "But is your wife, in fact, a fairy?"
The Captain smiled easily, a brilliant grin that lit up his eyes. "No, she's not. I don't know that fairies have even been proven as more
than myth."
"So what is she?"
Chekov stood silently, studying the young man carefully. He leaned in closer before answering. "She's a lady. I'd like to suggest you
pursue your original thought: find yourself a lady."
"I'm sorry,"' Henry interjected then, pulling the crewman away. "He really is an excellent crewmen...his first voyage. He's still got a LOT to
learn," he concluded in a growl aimed at the crewman.
"Yes," Chekov drawled, his eyes intent on the young man. He alternated between deciding what revenge to wreck on Kirk and toying
with the plan that had been forming in his mind. Kirk would require much more detailed and premeditated thought.
"Your first trip," he mused aloud with interest, his brow furrowing in thought. "Now that brings back memories. How many trips are you
planning to make?"
Physically startled, Henry pulled at the boy's arm hurriedly. "No need to be bothering the Captain any more, lad," he said urgently. His
eyes were wild and glassy, alternating between glaring at Chekov and pleading with the crewmen in sudden understanding of the
Captain's intentions.
The young man pulled his arm away from him, the tugging having no effect.
"I've just signed on for one trip for now," he intoned amiably, green eyes seeking out Chekov’s warm brown ones again. "It's three
months out and back. I figured I'd see what it was like, explore a little, have some adventure, return home with some money and decide
what to do next."
Chekov nodded in understanding. "Seems sensible," he observed. "Got someone waiting back at home?"
The young man smiled sheepishly in response.
"I see. Jack Henry did explain to you this ship is incapable of WARP drive, didn't he?" Chekov's dark eyes turned on the freighter's
Master in clear triumph. The man wilted in instant, undeniable defeat.
"Of course I explained the capabilities of this ship," he muttered in a miserable whisper.
"And everything that entails?" Chekov demanded.
"This ship comes very close to the speed of light," the youth said proudly.
"For Christ's sake, Pavel, he's one of my best finds in years!" Henry suddenly spluttered.
Chekov delighted in throwing the man a thoroughly demonic grin. "One you obviously failed to mention the theory of relativity to, Jack."
"I know the theory of relativity," the youth retorted indignantly, glancing from one commander to the other. The sudden awareness of
being some type of pawn glowed in his eyes and he strutted to try and reestablish some type of independent dignity.
"Than, young man, you know that time is relative to the speed at which you are traveling," Chekov drawled patiently. "Without WARP
drive to suspend that effect, every month you travel at the speed of light will account for approximately ten years on your home planet.
When you get back after three months," his eyes glinted at the dumbfounded listener, "Your girlfriend's going to be around 50 years
old."
"WHAT?!"
"Why don't you ask Jack Henry, here, what year he was born?" the Starfleet Captain suggested evilly. "Have you any idea how old he
actually is? Or the rest of The Sparrow's crew?"
"You told me could sign on for only one trip!" the young man protested hotly to the rotund Master.
"You can," Chekov observed. "He was counting on you having no living relatives you know when you got back, though, so you'd sign
back on. He wants you for life, I’m afraid." Chekov winked at the Master with satisfaction bordering on sinful glee.
"Three years," he responded before the youth could even get a sound out of his open mouth. "Our crewmen sign on for a three year
stint. Hard work, but good pay and benefits...you haven't blown your age totally out of proportion...yet."
"How would I do that?"
"Commander Barlow," the Captain replied. "She's a tall human blond that's aboard here somewhere. She's my Second Officer and can
fill you in on all the details of what the work involves, the training available. She'll bring you over to sign on with my First Officer, if you
decide that's what you want."
The young man reached out and pumped his hand enthusiastically. "Thank-you, Sir!"
"Damn you, Chekov!" Henry exploded as the youth darted off. "Don't even try telling me you intend to let that boy go after three years!"
The smile swept over Chekov's features with sheer delight. "Don't be ridiculous: of course I don't. That boy is officer material or I'm a
little old lady from Leningrad."
"And you'll get him a commission before his three years is up!" Henry snarled. "Damn it, don't you ever leave any of them for the rest of
us?"
"Not intentionally."
Henry glowered at the Federation Captain and Chekov laughed out loud, more at the spectacle the glower presented than at the man's
irritation.
"Your engines looked pretty shaky when we walked by them earlier," the Captain observed. "Do you have something for me?"
After a final look of intense hatred, the man produced a rumpled piece of paper from within the folds of his clothes.
Chekov shook his head as he stared down at the list. "I speak several languages and I'm never sure which one your scribbles are
supposed to represent."
"I'm a ship's Master, not a calligrapher," the man declared. "Can you provide the parts or not?"
Chekov nodded. "You do have some chocolate and fresh fruit?"
"Citrus, chocolate, various other sweets and toys, like I said before. I can throw in some salmon roe, too: not caviar, but it has it's uses."
"And apples," the Captain added, raising his eyes to the man. "Where the hell did you get fresh chicken eggs? They're on your
manifest: throw some in and you have a deal."
"How many?" Henry demanded.
"Same as always, two for each person on my ship."
"Christ! Doesn't the Fleet feed you?"
Chekov silently held the list back out to Henry, who scoffed.
"Alright, but I'm beginning to wonder which one of us is smuggling."
Smiling, Chekov pocketed the list and eyed Henry as he coughed and shifted uncomfortably.
"We could use some medical supplies, too and maybe some synthetic coffee." Henry shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know what we'd
trade..."
"Nothing," Chekov responded, a gleam in his eyes. "Legality make you uncomfortable, Jack? That's part of what Starship are for...we're
supposed to provide medical supplies and services to any Federation citizens in need. Would you like physicals as well?"
"And depress myself? God no!" the Captain replied, but there was relief evident in his eyes.
"Just let Barlow know what you need, she'll arrange it."
"Thank-you, Pavel. Anything else?"
Chekov nodded. "Yes. I hear there's a good supply of refined klon-tock coming out of the Empire: do you have any? What about some
chin-ta-re, maybe?"
Henry rearranged his clothes for a moment, resettling his shoulders in the fabric. "Now, you know I concentrate on more liquid assets,
Captain: plenty of profit for me, good market. Why be greedy?" He hesitated dramatically, but then continued. "If you're really interested
I've heard Macmillan can meet your needs--although I've only heard. Anderon supposedly knows where to locate what you're looking for
too."
Chekov murmured in assent. The information Henry had so subtly provided could lead to the end of at least a dozen smugglers. As part
of their silent, and never agreed upon arrangement, Henry routinely provided him all the information he needed to thwart the flow of
dangerous substances through the border. It only served to remind him of the icy feeling that had been churning in the pit of his
stomach, clinging to edge of his cells. He had kept it at the base of his consciousness, but now there wasn't anything left to distract him.
The earmarked cases of Romulan ale loomed in the Captain's mind. If it were a Starfleet sting, of course, he could be make them
understand, but at what cost? He had not fought to hold onto the Captaincy as long as he had simply to lose Kirk's ship now.
If it were not Starfleet? Who else could have deduced the intricacies of what was involved? How and where would they have gotten the
information? His officers were more than efficient--they were his friends, and he trusted his crew at times more than he trusted himself. It
would have taken a person with a brilliantly devious mind to follow a nearly non-existent trail. Most importantly, Chekov mused, what
payment would such a mind be looking to extract?
Staring down the corridor, his eyes were fixed on the approach of his Second Officer with an intensity that would have turned anyone
who didn't know him into mere vapor. He could tell by the familiar look on her face that she had his answer. She carried with her the fate
of both his and Henry's careers, and the possibility of long-running trouble. Strangely, for some reason he was unable to decipher
exactly what the answer was by her countenance.
"Ach," Henry moaned softly. "I think I should just end it all now. I'm not cut out for knowing someone's trying to blow up my ship!"
Chuckling softly, Chekov sought to ease the man's distress. Well, at least partly. "Jack, I've got two cases of Georgian wine for you," he
said.
The man's eyes widened, startled. "Georgian? As in from the country of Georgia? Oh, now, I couldn't even begin to pay..."
The Captain's smile turned wickedly impish and he laughed delightedly, his eyes shining. "You already have," he insisted. "You already
have." He pointed down the corridor at the young man following Commander Barlow, his hands straining under the weight of his
personal belongings. Chekov laughed harder at Henry's scowl.
"Highway robber," he muttered. "At least I can drown myself in my own misery."
"Captain, boarding party reports all in order. The ship appears to be on legitimate business."
Eyes sparkling at the Commander's wry tone, Chekov nodded. "Thank-you, Mr. Barlow. New crewmen?"
"Yes. Sir. He said he spoke to you earlier. I'll bring him aboard to sign on now, with your permission."
"Proceed,” he agreed. "Here's a list of supplies I'd like you to see beamed over."
"Right away, Sir. The freighter’s purser mentioned some pressing medical needs, as well. I took the liberty of collecting a list and telling
them we'd see to it."
"As per Starfleet policy," Chekov intoned needlessly to his ridiculously efficient officer.
"Yes, Sir," she responded, sedately folding her arms behind her back. Her blue eyes regarded her Captain sedately for a long moment
in silence.
His eyes narrowed under her scrutiny. "Commander, do you have anything to report on the Security Team's assignment yet?"
"Oh...yes," she started, seemingly mildly surprised at her apparent lapse of memory. "Their findings were mostly negative, Sir. There
was really nothing unusual about the cargo: the cases in question have already been transferred to The Enterprise."
"What do you mean mostly negative?"
She cleared her throat. "Well, Sir, one of the labels did have a letter hand written on the back of it."
The Captain held out his hand. "I want to see it."
Straightening, she set her shoulders. "No. No, Sir: you don't."
"Excuse me?"
Barlow exchanged a glance with the Security Chief who had stepped up behind her. "You don't want to see it," he agreed with a shrug.
"Give me the letter!" Chekov bellowed.
Sighing heavily, she pulled her hand out from behind her back and pushed the paper in it at the Captain.
He growled under his breath and glared at them as he unfolded the piece of paper. Color flushing deeply through his cheeks the instant
his eyes fell on the paper, he coughed reflexively.
"Pavel...Pavel, what is it?" Henry asked breathlessly. "Is it a threat?"
"Oh, yes," Chekov drew out evenly. "It's a threat."
Snickers escaped in a burst from both the Second Officer and the Security Chief and the Captain shot the poor souls a deadly glare.
"You're dismissed. I'll beam back shortly."
Dumbfounded, the freighter's Master watched the transporter dissolve before he moved up to Chekov. "Captain, what the hell does it
say? What's the threat? They're gone: you can tell me now."
Chekov stared at the paper again, jaw tight and face dark. He growled low in his throat before he decided to let Henry read it.
"Good Lord," the man breathed immediately. "It's addressed to you...I mean, isn't it?"
"Yes," the Captain growled.
"Well, it's just that it says 'Ensign'. Is it an old letter?"
"No," he growled again.
"Ensign Pavel A. Chekov," the freighter Master began reading aloud. "McCoy would like an increase in his monthly provisions, but feels
it's impolite to ask. I expect that I'll find it stimulating to sample the wide variety of supplies your creativity obtains--Captain's Privilege. Or
I'll see to it your provisions take a different route. The legendary Captain James T. Kirk."
Chekov tore it out of the man's hands and fiercely crumpled the note into a ball in his fist.
Snickering, Henry wiped his chubby fist across his face to prevent himself from bursting into full-throated laughter. "Speaking of Kirk,
why is it that you've never invited me over for dinner? I think I want to meet this wife of yours. Why on Earth have you been hiding her?"
The Captain scowled, relieved at least to feel his cheeks cool. "She used to be a professional ballet dancer, that's all. Kirk likes
reminding me she has me completely and utterly under her control. Of course you're welcome: we'll do a tour, dinner, some recreation...
the whole nine yards."
Henry smiled. "Next time. I have to prepare myself for all those kids."
"You're their hero," Chekov grinned. "Chekov to Enterprise," he continued. "Beam me over."
"Captain," the freighter Master said tentatively. "I think you should know..."
"What?"
Henry cleared his throat. "Well, it was Kirk that suggested that I take that crewman on to begin with."
"Shit!"
The word echoed through two ships.