THE DREAMER’S PRICE
by
Patricia Wright
“Running in ship's...corridors...is...against...Starfleet...regulations, ...Sir.”
The words, gasped out in rhythm to the soft padding of footsteps on the deck, brought a slight smile to the face of the ship's Captain.
"I'm well aware of Starfleet regulations, Comrade Nikolai Grigorivich."
"Yes, Comrade Captain."
The smile deepened at his companion's inability to do anything more than return the Captain's baited jest. He had learned to save his
use of the historic communist jargon for times like these, when his First Officer was physically incapable of little more than fuming. The
old-style buzz words inadvertently set the self-styled historian off on a raving tangent about the evils of Soviet leaders and their
mistakes. Indeed, the Captain had learned to appreciate the subtle pleasure Spock found in torturing McCoy.
The two men jogged on in silence, traveling a route so familiar by now they could have done it blindfolded. The Captain patiently
gauged when his companion would let the proverbial second shoe drop. He was in error by fifteen feet.
"I have...become convinced...the disregard...for Starfleet regulations...is...your...only reason...for doing this,...Sir."
Pausing as Nikolai collapsed against a wall and slid downward, the Captain screwed up his face in the manner of a man who had
discovered a serious transgression. "Indeed, Comrade Commander. After hearing this argument every day for eleven years you have
convinced me that you are correct. I only run because it is against Starfleet regulations. I understand, of course, that it is your duty to
report such a transgression."
Silent laughter shook the crumpled form and, lifting his head off his knees, the blue-eyed Adonis eyed his Commanding Officer. "We
are not in Starfleet, Comrade. But," he continued, forestalling the smile he saw erupting in the Captain's deep brown eyes. "I will be
sure to suggest such a regulation to headquarters."
The wide eyes darkened, narrowing dangerously a split second before a gleaming smile swept over the Captain's face in
acknowledgment that his fellow officer had trumped his attempt to end their age-old debate. "Tell me, Kolya, how long have you been
ready with that answer?"
"Four years," the man sighed in satisfaction. "I knew someday you would tell me I was right, Pavel Andrieivich. The new Russian man
has patience, Comrade Captain."
Pavel Chekov laughed and eyed the crumpled form at his feet. "It is a shame he hasn't got endurance. Eleven years, Kolya, and you
still can't make it to the end of the run. Although, you did make it thirty feet farther than you did yesterday."
"Has it ever occurred to you that I'm getting older?"
"I'm certain that condition is affecting everyone involved in this run."
"Not you," Nikolai retorted, clamoring painfully to his feet. "It is the consensus of the crew that you appeared sometime during your mid-
twenties and you have remained in stasis there. We’re sure that mustache is just an elaborate ruse to disguise the fact you’re not
aging.”
The Captain's eyes gleamed in amusement as a smile flashed over his face. "I'm afraid it's quite the opposite, Kolya.”
"Bridge to Captain."
Bemusement lingering on his face, the Captain pushed the intercom on. "Chekov, here. What is it, Alex?"
"Captain, we have a contact. There’s a ship on long-range sensors, bearing two-three-zero in quadrant 4. Data would indicate a
Federation Starship, Sir."
The First Officer glanced at him sharply, echoing a lance through his Commander's gut, but the Captain merely smiled knowingly.
"And who interpreted this data, Lieutenant?"
"Ensign Ivanovich, Sir."
The Captain's smile deepened, picturing the torture of his other bridge officer's while they waited for the Ensign newly transferred to
the bridge to struggle to that conclusion. "My compliments to Ilya on his first I.D., and to his teacher, Alex. What is their present
course?"
"Zero-zero-four mark eight, Sir. Traveling WARP 8."
"Intercept," the tall blond First Officer echoed his thoughts out loud.
"Shall we use long-range scans, Sir?"
"No," Chekov replied quickly. "That will just tell them we're here: we don't need any more information than we already have. Cloaking
device status?"
“At 100% power, Sir."
"Good," Chekov responded. "They can't read through the cloak and they have no way of knowing we're here. Let's keep it that way.
Proceed on schedule, but let's run a rabbit course. It will be good practice. Captain out."
Nikolai eyed him, blue eyes clouding in concern. "What is it, Pavel?"
Pursing his lips, Chekov shrugged. "Old habit, Kolya: curiosity. They're no threat to us, but even with their new ships, WARP 8 is a
little fast for a cruise. They're after something."
"Not us," the First Officer commented.
"No," Chekov reiterated. "And they're incapable of finding us if they wanted to," he added as he set off down the corridor again. "See
you at 0900."
0900--the ship's morning departmental meeting. The thought of the meeting sent ship's business filtering into his mind and he began
to run harder, pounding his feet into the ship's decking. The rhythm of the pummeling footsteps resounded off the bulkheads of his
ship and he delighted in his morning reunion with his ship and her quaint, recessed bowels. Free of ship’s business, of fellow officers,
he ran harder: forcing his muscles to strain under the gleaming sweat until the burning pain was almost too much to bear.
He strode, jumped and smashed his hand against the hanging metal warning sign in sheer jubilation. The delighted giggles of children
followed him down the corridor and he winked as he vanished into the pool solarium. He broke stride long enough to kick off his
running shoes and strip off his socks. With a final burst of energy, he ran and did a text-book cannonball (if there was such a thing)
into the pool.
He surfaced to hordes of screaming children and he sliced his arm across the water:
sending walls of water after their fleeing forms. Brushing the wet hair out of his eyes, he dove and chased the children not quick
enough to vanish immediately with shark attacks. Tormenting toes still egged him on from the sides of the pool until he finally ignored
his laughing, screaming audience and set about his task.
He sliced the water with a powerful free-stroke, repeating lap after lap until his arms and shoulders began to ache just as his legs had.
Even then, he completed two more laps before finally pausing at the end of the pool and hoisting himself out.
The water became alive again with children as the Captain began to towel himself off. Although it had never been requested by him,
the class automatically vacated the pool every morning and gave their Captain sole access to the water.
"You were late today, Sir."
"Really?" Chekov muttered, emerging from beneath the towel to meet a pair of exasperated hazel eyes. "Oh, yes: I paused for a
moment to speak to Commander Grigorivich."
"Please, Sir. It is difficult enough..," Dark hair flounced as the small young woman turned to indicate her horde of charges. "They
automatically lose all control five minutes before you arrive, as though they have biological clocks set to your movements. When you're
late..."
"Yes, I understand, Lt. Sergeievna," the Captain agreed quietly as he eyed the playing
children.
"You really must be on time from now on, Sir," she demanded self-righteously, hazel eyes hard on her errant Commander.
Chekov drew a hand along the bottom of his mustache, concealing the amusement he was sure she would not understand.. "Yes, I'll
see to it, Olga Sergeievna." He stood there considering the four foot nine package of tenacity and wondered if there might be more
suitable work for her on the ship than as the children's swimming coach. The thought frightened him.
“SIR?"
The sharp word actually startled him into taking a step backwards. Captain Kirk had spent years insisting that his impetuous humor
and amusement at just about everything in life was not quite suited to a command officer. Kirk had dutifully spent much of his time
helping Pavel Chekov learn to conceal that amusement behind a seemingly impassive face. The result Kirk had fondly dubbed "Captain
Tyrant from Hell" and had gotten Spock to verify that it would frighten even a Vulcan.
"Somewhere in-between throes of laughter and this psychotic Captain would be nice, Mr. Chekov." But, alas, his amusement held in
check to the point of facial pain was the best he could ever achieve. It failed to daunt anyone who knew him to any degree, and
although Lt. Sergeievna was not one of those people, it was obvious she was not disconcerted.
When it became apparent to her that her Captain had been staring at her for no actual reason, she began to lecture him again of his
obligation to her morning group of children.
"Almost all of them look forward to this morning ritual, Sir."
She made no indication as to which of them held less than eager anticipation of his arrival, but his eyes automatically located the pre-
adolescent child standing pool side. His arms knotted tightly about his chest, the child stared back at the Captain with eyes even
darker than his own.
Chekov should have ignored his father's wishes. Andrie Chekov had flatly, adamantly refused to have the child named after him and
instead, they had chose to name him after the Captain's grandfather. Even at his birth, it had been obvious to both Pavel Chekov and
his wife that their original choice was, in fact, correct. It became increasingly more obvious with each passing day.
Moving to the child's side, Chekov eyed the dark, knotted wiry hair on the boy's head.
"You didn't brush your hair today, Nikolai?"
"It apparently did not wish to be brushed today, Sir."
Nodding sympathetically, the father offered no contrite platitudes: they both knew too well that to this very day Andrie Chekov could do
absolutely nothing with his own hair.
"How is your class doing?"
"They are progressing much quicker than expected, Captain," the young man answered stiffly."We expect that we should be at the top
of our classification at the completion of finals, Sir."
"That is admirable," The Captain responded, “I’m proud of you.”
“I do not act one way or another in order to boost YOUR pride,”the child retorted. "I should like to teach older students, Sir." The dark
eyes held the Captain's, demanding an answer in a way which bordered on downright insubordination.
"Perhaps Lt. Sergeievna feels you are too young..."
"I have passed all the required swimming courses."
"Yes, Nikolai," he continued patiently. "But at twelve, you may be physically too small to...”
"I passed Senior Lifesaving, that is all that is required, Captain."
Shifting his weight, Chekov wondered, not for the first time, how to make a this deeply thoughtful child understand how the world
worked. “I think," he began, "that Lt. Sergeievna is concerned that older students might resent being taught by someone so much
younger than themselves."
"Swimming is easy," the young man protested hotly.
Chekov brushed his mustache to hide a smile, recognizing the sentiment too clearly from his own childhood.
"Not to everyone, Nikolai, not to everyone."
The child stood in silent defiance, the disapproval of the Captain's behavior shining in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," the Captain continued after a moment, toweling his hair again. "It seems to be part of a parent's mission to routinely and
soundly embarrass and disappoint their children."
"If you say so, Sir."
Chekov eyed the boy's braid momentarily, a twinge of regret in his dark eyes. The hair was just beginning to brush along the tops of
his shoulders. Two months it had been growing as a clear and obvious statement of rebellion. It had been two months since Nikolai had
called him Papa, or made any reference to his being his father. It had merely been 'Sir' and 'Captain' since the braid had begun.
"Nikolai Pavolivich," he intoned gently, "I have never broken my word to you. I have no intention of doing so now. You just need to give
me time." An impish smile twisted the Captain's face. "Comrade Nikolai Grigorivich says the new Russian man must have patience..."
The child shot a dark glare at him, but did not voice any of the retorts that raced through his mind.
Smiling, Chekov brushed his hand along the top of the boys head and kissed him. He was not actually rebellious or impudent. He was
just a child who was impatient to see his dreams come true. Even an adult could not fault him for that.
"Captain.” The boy’s voice paused him as he went to retrieve his shoes. "Comrade Nikolai Grigorivich also says he is my true father
and that is why I bear his name."
There was a gleam in the boy's dark eyes that reflected the bravery of his insolence and Chekov smirked, chuckling as he left the
room. He had heard the joke, of course, but no one had ever dared to mention it in front of him. The idea that the blond haired, blue
eyed First Officer and the Captain's amber haired, sapphire eyed wife had together produced the dark, swarthy child who was his first
born was preposterous enough to make the assertion funny to even the most dim-witted among the crew.
* * * *
The thought of the Federation Starship traveling at WARP 8 lingered on the Captain's mind while he showered and dressed. If they
intercepted his ship, Nelzya, and went beyond, they would be out of Federation territory. There was nothing out there that would
concern the Federation: no colonies, no settlements, not even native planet populations that might be calling for help. At least not any
colonies who the Federation would receive any messages from, anyway. Of course, the Federation didn't know any of that, and
likewise they didn't know of any mineral deposits or natural elements that they might need out there.
Chekov knew all of that, of course. He and Nelzya had personally explored and charted that vast area. It was possible that the
Federation had decided to explore it, but they would not be heading there at WARP 8 on such a mission.
If the Starship were planning to change course at a point before they reached the Federation boundary, they would head directly into
the Organian Neutral Zone. As far as he knew, that was still very illegal.
He draped his coat over a chair and sighed. Time would tell. The sound of his wife's soft singing distracted him a moment. He eyed
her slender form flitting about their bedroom momentarily before sidling past the door and into the other bedrooms. His entrance was
met with a scream of delight and he shushed the child conspiratorially as he picked her up and tossed her into the air. He caught her
admist another shower of giggles and cuddled her against him.
"I'm glad at one of you munchkins finally bore some resemblance to your mother," he chatted as he stared at her startling blue eyes
and waves of fine, honey colored hair. "I would hate to be surrounded entirely by a passel of Chekovs!"
She giggled delightedly, scrunching up her eyes and nose as she did so. Pavel Chekov might have thought for a moment she actually
understood him if she did not, at that precise instant, latch onto his mustache and tug with all her might.
"Let go of that!" he chided. "Let go or I'll eat that hand!
"What do you say, Duchess?”, he continued. “Shall we be a Georgian peasant today? I think we should do that, don't you?" He
continued chatting amiably as he collected the necessary garments and dressed the constantly churning toddler. She rocketed away
the instant her feet touched the floor, exploding in throes of ecstasy at her sudden freedom.
Smiling broadly, he bent himself into a seated position on the floor and allowed her to pounce on top of him again and again. She
tired of that eventually and began to run wildly through the room. She collected toys from every point on the compass and piled them
delightedly on his lap, apparently in preparation for whatever it was they were going to play.
"Okay, Katya, time to get dressed..." His wife's voice trailed off as she paused in the doorway, her bright blue eyes widening.
He shrugged in exaggerated innocence as the child pounced on top of him again.
"Will you look at you!"
"Papa!" the child beamed, pointing at her father to make it clear on whom the responsibility for everything rested. "Papa!"
The woman scowled, crossing her arms over her chest as she shook her head at her beaming husband. "Pavel Andrieivich...
The child buried her face in his neck and he stood, raining a stream of toys out of his lap. "I had some time..."
The woman's face softened slightly and she eyed her errant spouse. "Either the ship we had contact with was a Federation Starship
or you talked to Kolya."
She stood there, arms folded across her chest and a knowing glint in her eye. Despite her scolding scowl, she still shone with a
radiance and he could not help but smile.
"That predictable, am I?" he chuckled. "Both, actually. He hates being called Kolya, you know that."
"I'm his mother, I can call him anything I choose."
He smiled slightly, cuddling the child in his arms as he swung gently from side to side. "Tiana," he asked quietly after a moment. "Do
you ever regret..." He stopped then, pulling the child tighter to himself and unable to continue the query.
She sighed softly and moved over toward her husband. "What is there to regret? I have everything I wanted."
He shrugged. "You could be on Earth...in the Motherland...with a husband and children."
She kissed his temple gently. "Not these children, and not this husband."
"You could still be dancing..."
Shaking her head, she bent to pick up the toys off the floor. "Pavel, you know that decision was made long before we even discussed
marrying."
"Five minutes."
She bit back a smirk. “Well perhaps, but it was a long time in coming. You know that for two years I was finding excuses to not
perform so that the younger girls had a chance.”
"The 'pink flu'," he quipped.
"Honestly, Pavel..." she berated him, but color washed up through her cheeks and she failed her struggle to withhold a giggle. She
hesitated momentarily, staring at a toy in her hand. "I had no intention of dancing at forty-five with arthritic feet and shins so splintered
they had to be held together wrapped by surgical wire. People come to see those ballerinas just because of who they were. I wanted to
leave before I hated what I became."
She stood momentarily, her eyes studying her husband's lean, straight form. That he should bring up discussions long ago settled
and dead troubled her. "You miss the Fleet, don't you?"
A gleam sparkled in his dark; eyes and he smiled quickly. "Their uniforms were prettier."
"Pavel Andrieivich!”
Shrugging impishly, he shifted his daughter to his other hip. "I miss the diversity of people: and the prestige,” he added honestly.
"They made it clear I could not have everything I wanted, so I chose what I wanted most."
He moved over to her and kissed her gently. "I have not regretted it for an instant."
She smiled and met his lips warmly, tenderly, and he drew her closer with his free hand.
"Mischa's here," she commented after a moment.
"Good," he said, transferring the child in his arms to her. "I have some things I want to add to my schedule. Speaking of
which, you are going to see the Doctor today, right?"
"I suppose," she sighed. "It's not as though I don't..."
"You will be there."
"Yes, Captain, Sir," she intoned, mocking his command tone divinely. "If you are," she added.
"I will be," he assured her. Sparkling laughter lit up her eyes, a testament to the doubt she held toward the accuracy of his
statement.
He shook his head as he walked through the dining area and into the outer living room. Pausing long enough to pick up his jacket, he
marveled at how little trust this omniscient Captain inspired in his own family.
"Good Morning, Mischa," he said brightly to the Yeoman waiting there. He noted instantly the color in the man's cheeks and smiled
slightly. "My son's new cache of jokes? I'm not sure where he's getting them, but Andrie doesn't seem to quite understand..."
"Yes, Sir," the dark-haired man said uncomfortably. "Maybe you should..."
"I don't know," Chekov laughed, pulling his coat on. "Information in that boy's hands is like nitroglycerin. There's no telling what he'd
do with more."
Laughter lit up the man's green eyes. "I see what you mean, Sir. I'll just make sure everyone knows about these latest escapades of
the little tyrant..." His voice trailed off suddenly, but his words were met by a sparkle in the Captain's deep brown eyes.
"Please do."
"Yes, Sir. Although it won't be easy, as I'm already dealing with a whole set of rumors...
"Rumors usually have some measure in truth, Mischa," the Captain noted cryptically as he set about fastening the buttons on his coat.
The statement brought the young man's form to life and the Captain eyed him suspiciously. "There are high costs involved in being a
double agent."
"Captain, I would never....!" His voice died abruptly in embarrassment as his Commander began laughing at how quickly he took the
bait.
"You wouldn't have this position a second longer the moment I found things leaking out I didn't want known."
"Of course not, Sir. Uh..speaking of which," the doting Yeoman eyed the growth of hair quickly taking over his Captain's face. "The
crew has been wondering...they've been asking me to find out...".
Smiling, Chekov turned in search of his belt. "Tell them I lost my razor."
"They'll never buy it, Sir," the young man stated assuredly.
"No?" he observed, threading the belt through his jacket. "Then tell them Tiana threatened to boot me out if I did it, so I am making a
statement."
"It has possibilities," he observed with narrow eyes. "But I'm not sure..."
The Captain shrugged sheepishly. "The truth is, I don't know. I didn't have time one day and it's just kind of formed there since then."
"I'll go with you pissing off your wife, Sir," the man said decisively. "It has intrigue to it."
He paused in buckling his belt long enough to rub his hand over the forming beard. "What do you think, Yeoman?"
The man who was the Captain's link to the crew shifted uncomfortably. "Well, Sir...” He hesitated, green eyes narrow as he studied his
commander's face. "I'd like to reserve judgement for now, Sir."
Chekov’s dark eyes studied the young man as he smoothed out his uniform. He was reassured once again by the honesty in his
words. After five years as his Yeoman, the Captain had found him nothing short of a forthright, diplomatic genius. The CO's
reputation as a god rested solely on this man, and he preserved it to a fault. There was no birthday, no anniversary, no difficult quarrel
that went unnoticed by the Captain. His crew were convinced that their Captain's omnipotent knowledge of all that happened in his ship
was something akin to God's power over his universe.
"I came to discuss your schedule, Sir," the young man stated, apparently oblivious to the Captain's dubious appraisal of him. "Aside
from your departmental meeting..."
"My wife's got a Doctor's appointment at 11 hundred hours: make sure I'm there."
"On pain of death, Sir."
Had it been anyone else, Chekov would have taken it as a joke, but the man took his job far too seriously. "And I want to see my
Zampolit as soon as possible," he said. The Yeoman's eyes narrowed at the summons of the ship's Political Officer, but he continued
writing the Captain's instructions with a passive face. "We've got a Federation Starship that's about to head into Siberia and I want to
know what they want me to do about it."
"Bridge to the Captain."
"Pavel here, what is it Kolya?"
"I think you should come up and see this, Sir. As soon as possible."
"I'm on my way."
He shrugged an apology to his wife's blazing eyes as he dove back for the hat and sash that completed his uniform. "Invite Mischa to
eat my breakfast. No sense wasting the food and I'm sure he'll enjoy it."
"I always do," the young man quipped easily as the Captain dove for the door.
* * * *
"Captain on the Bridge."
A cup of the dark mud that passed for his version of coffee was placed in his hand simultaneously as the announcement was made.
"At ease," he intoned, dark eyes surveying the bridge for both signs of chaos and his First Officer. There was no command chair on
his bridge, he thought them senseless, and he found the sandy-haired Muscovite hovering over the Sensor Officer.
"Pavel Andrieivich," he intoned, motioning him down to the central section of the bridge. "Lt. Mikhailovich, display our course over the
past two hours on the main view screen, please."
Chekov stood, surveying the five consoles that filled the lower, central portion of the bridge while the Helmsmen completed his task.
The Helm, the Navigation console, the Science Console, the Sensor Console and the Communications Console were spread before him
and every one of them showed signs of more activity than was usual.
"Our course, Sir," Nikolai Grigorivich explained needlessly as the information came up on the screen.
A cursory glance acknowledged it was the standard rabbit-course he had ordered: a chaotic, zig-zag pattern that took advantage of
every distraction available and followed as little logic as possible in order to confuse anyone who might be, on the off-chance, trying to
track them. His officer's had learned the skill until it was second nature to them.
"Our contact's course, Captain," and the Commander leaned over the Sensor Officer's shoulder to recall the data himself.
A coldness settled into his stomach as he heard the bridge still. He stared at the rigid, black line that impartially stated that once the
Federation Starship had come within short-range sensor range they had methodically shadowed Nelzya's course.
"Cloaking device?" he heard himself ask, glancing at the indicators even as the officer confirmed that they were at 100% power as he
had ordered.
"There's no malfunction, Sir. We've checked."
Chekov crushed the empty coffee cup in his hand.
"They've broken the cloaking web."
His words echoed in the human silence of the bridge, their confirmation of the obvious sounding like death knell. Only his Helmsmen
balked at the truth of their reality.
"Starfleet doesn't have the technology to read through the cloaking device!"
"Neither do we," corrected the First Officer. "We can detect it's use and it's location, but we can't read through it."
"Do we have a signature on that ship?"
The new Sensor Officer squirmed outwardly. "Yes, Sir: it's a Starfleet Constitution class Starship."
A smile played over the Captain's features at the new bridge officer’s offended tone. "Yes, Ilya," he responded patiently. "Each class
of ship has a standard deviation of output readings by which we can identify them. However, each ship within that class will usually
have a pretty standard pattern of residue they trail behind them. A good sensor officer can usually identify each individual ship at least
by previous contacts with them. Do we have the readings?"
The man hesitated a moment, the enormity of his new position suddenly becoming real to him. An off-handed rub on his shoulder by
the Captain's hand recalled him to his task and he sent the readings to the view screen.
"We haven't contacted this ship before."
The words echoed in the Captain's mind as he stared at the readings, each variation of residue etched somewhere in his memory as
clearly as his own name.
"Why don't we name her..."
"Enterprise."
The Captain's words halted the standard debate for a nickname and he felt Nikolai move beside him.
"Pavel, are you sure?"
He knew by the tone of his voice that his First Officer felt the question was needless. "Mr. Scott has made some unique modifications
to the engines: he never did agree with all of Starfleet's decisions. That is the Enterprise."
"Even if it is the Enterprise, they still can't have broken the cloaking web. Starfleet doesn't even have the cloaking web and they
certainly don't have the technology to detect it."
"Mr. Mikhailovich," Chekov said evenly, "the Enterprise and Captain Kirk are the ones who obtained the cloaking web from the
Romulans almost twenty years ago."
The assertion brought a snort of disgust from the Helmsmen. "I don't see why they went to the bother of stealing it if they didn't do
anything with it. They just sat on it."
"Starfleet and the Federation may be slow and methodical, but their not in a state of stasis. They dissect and debate every step
forward, but they do eventually get there. Twenty years seems to be plenty of time to install a cloaking web on their ships."
"They're not using it."
Chekov nodded at the Sensor Officer's observation. "They don't need to, they're not hiding from anyone." The insinuation of his
words, the obvious reminder that their existence was a glossed over fact and their missions were unknown violations of accepted
decorum were understood by everyone on the bridge.
"What do you think they're looking for?" Nikolai Grigorivich glanced from the readings to the Captain.
"Us," Chekov responded quietly, brushing one hand along the bottom of his mustache. "But why?"
"It doesn't matter," the Helmsmen straightened, his brusque manner shrugging off the Federation Starship. "It's only Starfleet. They
don't have our technology, our training and they don't know anything about our ship. They're such a bumbling bunch of fools we could
loose them in an asteroid field."
Chekov stood silently, regarding the Russian who sat at his helm. He could feel the eyes of his other bridge officers on him as he
moved to stand in front of the man.
“Mr. Ivanovich,” he phrased carefully. "I suggest you do more research on your present circumstances before you become
judgmental. Your Captain and 75% of your officer's were trained by Starfleet and I'd dare say you'd be a better officer if you had
completed the Academy, at least.
"As for this ship," he continued, a heaviness settling into his stomach as the realization settled there. "Are you aware of who designed
it?"
"You did, Sir!"
He fought the smile that twitched at his lips in response to the man's righteous assertion, and at the memory it brought. Indeed, he
had begun the notion with daydreams in Academy classes and doodles on laboratory data sheets...It had grown into a passion, a
quirkish hobby that ate away at his free time and colored the way he watched Spock's experiments.
Then, somehow, it had become real. A hypothetical question on engine spec's and the passion had become not only his, but Spock's
and Scotty's. The ship had taken form, become real in computer images and had took hold of his life. A life that suddenly had to be
controlled by others...or himself.
"I suggest you consult your books, again, Mr. Mikhailovich," he intoned. "Mr. Scott and Mr. Spock of the Enterprise know as much
about this ship as I do."
He dropped both the crushed cup and the sash still clenched in his hands into the Helmsmen's lap. The blasphemous treatment of
the sash swept a look of horrified indignation over the man's face and the Captain paused long enough to exchange a glance with the
First Officer. Nikolai's own sash hung, quite unaccounted, shoved through his belt. The assured gleam of triumph in his eyes noted
clearly another piece of evidence to prove his assertion that their Helmsmen was one of Stalin's great grandsons.
Chekov readjusted the hat backward on his head and paced methodically onto the upper level of the circular bridge.
"There have been modifications over the years..."
"Not enough, Alex," he cut short the Science Officer. "What do they want?"
"To prove they can find us?"
"Perhaps," the Captain murmured, pacing slowly past all the duty stations on the bridge.
"They won't know it's us unless they can read through the cloaking web."
"Kirk already knows it's us," Chekov stated morosely. The rabbit-course he had ordered had assured Kirk that knowledge. No other
ship equipped with a cloaking device would, as a matter of policy, try to throw off any contact they made. Romulans's especially were
too belligerent to believe anyone could possibly find them.
If the Enterprise was trying to discover and document their missions and their course patterns., wouldn't Kirk himself have tried to avoid
detection? Spock knew their sensors were far superior to the Enterprise's. Or were they?
"Full sensor scan of contact, Alex: and I want to know if they’re hiding anything."
"But they'll know..."
"They already know we're here, Mr. Ivanovich."
He continued his tour of the bridge, debating whether to lead Kirk directly into their primary quadrant of patrol. It was outside
Federation territory, closer to the Klingon’s sphere of influence, but there were no direct laws forbidding such movement for Federation
Starships. Chekov was more than aware of all the ways to get around unwritten laws by now.
Pausing at the lift as his Political Officer stepped onto the bridge, they both stood and waited as his Science Officer delivered the
report on the sensor scan. Same old Enterprise, he thought, not without a hint of affection. They were hiding a jury-rigged cloaking
device: she'd not been designed to accommodate one, and there were a few updates. Mostly, she was the same old Enterprise.
"Thank-you, Alex. Comrade Vasilevich," he continued, turning to the rough looking peasant next to him. "I have a Federation
Starship heading into Siberia. Has Moscow figured out if it's legal for a single country to claim a section of space based on primary
exploration of it?"
"They're still trying to figure out if it's legal for a single country to have their own Starfleet!" he burst out.
Laughter filled the bridge and Chekov turned a smile on his First Officer. Nikolai had balked at having a Communist in the position of
being responsible for informing the Captain of current political climates and making sure the crew were kept informed of news outside
their ship. Frankly, Chekov didn't care if he was a cannibal, but the complete absurdity with which the older man approached his job
made it perfectly clear he gave little stock to the importance of anything or anyone.
"Misha did tell me what you wanted to see me about," Vasilevich continued when the laughter died away. "I've checked and the old
exploration laws from Earth that were projected out to space when we went out are still on the books. Legally, any area can be claimed
by whoever maps and explores it first: nothing in the Federation by-laws circumvents that in anyway."
"That's the rationale that got our ship out here," Chekov observed with irony. "What’s the whether been like?"
“Calm at last reports. There was that storm last year when Starfleet got all hot and bothered when they remembered our existence,
but that died away months ago."
Chekov's eyes narrowed. It usually took some time to convince military men at Starfleet Command to drop an issue, or something else
to divert their attention.
"Extremely quiet?"
The Commander folded his arms across his broad chest and laughed. "Well, yes, but I wouldn't count on getting any company from
home."
Smiling easily, Chekov nodded. Although the Russian Federation insisted it was within their rights to build their own Star Ships and
fleet, as nothing in any United Terran document or Federation document forbade it, the creation and existence of this one ship had
rocked the waters enough over the course of the years to make them satisfied with just one for the time being.
"Any sense of Moscow's judgement on the Siberian issue?"
"No," the man shrugged directly. "We're too far to get an answer fast enough, if they had one, and I haven't got any previous direct
answers to the territory issue. It is my informed opinion they want you to field this one, Sir."
The Captain nodded slowly, having expected the response he got but somehow hoping for something more. "Thank-you, Boris. Let
me know if you hear any other news."
"Well, the Red Sox did win the World Series."
A cheer went up from two of his bridge officers and Chekov laughed. "Thank-you, Comrade Vasilevich."
"Oh, and Sir," he hesitated as he entered the lift. "If you do decide to claim quadrant 45-X-15 for the Russian Federation, I suggest
you come up with a better name for it than Siberia."
"I'll consider it.
"Change course to 033 mark ," he intoned louder, turning to his bridge officers.
"That's going the wrong way," his Navigator informed him.
"I'm aware of that, Mr. Yuriovich. We're still going into Klingon territory."
“Contact has mirrored our course change,” the Sensor Officer announced after a moment. "They're trying to catch us."
"Good for them," the Captain stated inanely. "Disengage cloaking device. Increase speed to WARP 18. When we reach the Iberian
Pass drop 4000 meters and change course to 760 mark 12.
"Alex, pull all exploration and mapping data on Siberia. Make sure the exact boundaries of our area are well defined."
"That's a large area."
"Eleven years is a long time."
"Pavel."
His First Officer's low tone paused him in his tracks and he turned to meet the man's intense blue eyes.
"If we prevent a Federation Starship from entering Siberia it's going to be a galactic incident."
"The Klingons made the offer to the Federation first," Chekov said, his voice dropping and his eyes flaring. "They didn't trust them,
they wanted to be sure. We cannot be faulted for accepting an offer they didn't want. We've built a relationship founded on trust with
the Klingons and a dozen other races for eleven years and I'm not about to jeopardize that because they're hungry for more space."
The man shrugged slightly, his eyes wavering at his CO's intensity. "It doesn't really matter. They don't know where we're going and
they can't go anywhere near as fast as we can, so they can't catch us."
"Let us hope not," the Captain replied. "Kirk taught me everything I know about tactics, so either I do what he expects or what he
wouldn't expect. Then I hope he assumes I'm doing the opposite. Let us hope he cannot find us, Nikolai Grigorivich."
The self-satisfied looks on the faces of his bridge crew when he returned to the bridge two hours later did nothing to reassure the
Captain.
"No contact for one hour forty-five minutes, Captain," Nikolai informed him as soon as he exited the lift. "We're about to exit the
Alderon Pass." The blue eyes were guarded and Chekov was pleased to see once again that he'd chosen his First Officer
well.
"We left him in the dust when we took off at WARP 18, Sir. We'll not see him again."
Chekov considered the self-assured Helmsmen a moment before glancing at Nikolai. "Kolya," he murmured, "Stalin's methods
are beginning to appeal to me."
The First Officer choked loudly on a laugh, but the Captain sedately stepped down to retrieve his sash, which was still on the
Helmsmen's lap.
"Exiting the Alderon Pass," Mikhailovich announced as the Captain slipped his head and left arm through the sash.
He straightened it methodically, prolonging his check of both the view screen and the sensors as long as possible.
"Captain..."
"Son of a Bitch!"
The Commanding Officer raised his eyes sedately to the view screen to gaze at what he had suspected would be there: the gleaming,
white vision of the Enterprise.
"Cloak, 100%," he stated, clasping his hands behind his back. "Helm, plus 10 meters, change course to 035 mark 9. Reduce speed to
WARP 9."
"That's backwards again, Sir."
"I'm well aware of the operation of the Helm, Lt. Follow your orders."
"Yes, Sir." He changed his course before continuing on in a irritating tirade. "I don't see how they could have got here first, we were
going twice their speed..."
"The shortest distance between two points, Mr. Mikhailovich," Chekov commented dryly. "Attend your post, Mister: there will be many
changes coming."
Indeed, his orders to change course and speed came often. He walked the bridge sedately, his words sending his ship spiraling
through the galaxy in an attempt to shake their quarry. Still, the Enterprise found them and followed. She followed through lunch,
followed while the bridge officer's changed around him. His First Officer and Science Officer remained, but the Second and Third
Officers joined them at their post. The Helmsmen, too, requested to stay but a pleading look from both his senior officers decided him
to overrule the request. The best Helmsmen on the ship would do him no good should a fellow bridge officer strangle him.
"Why don't we just go straight as fast as we can? They can't follow, Sir."
Chekov smiled thinly as the Navigator nursed sore fingers around the substitute dinner that had been delivered to the bridge. "They
can't catch us," he corrected. "But they can follow. If we're to accomplish our mission, that line would have to lead them directly into
Siberia. I'm in no mood for war."
Turning slightly, he accepted a half of sandwich and bit through half of it before he even realized who'd given it to him.
"Ten hours."
He turned, smiling benignly through his mouthful of food at his wife. "Excuse me dear, I hadn't realized I was irritating you by this
nonsense. I'll clear it up immediately."
Her eyelashes fluttered over shining blue eyes, her instinctive defense against a giggle, and she smiled softly.
"Some of the spouses are starting to get edgy, and the children sense something."
"Just a Federation Starship teasing us with a game of cat and mouse. It should be over soon, and if it's not..." he shrugged, signifying
the unimportance of the whole affair.
She smiled slightly and nodded, but her eyes betrayed that she knew from the lines in his face that he was not telling the whole truth.
"I'll signal General Quarters. Let Mischa know..."
"We'll take care of it," she agreed, and kissed him lightly.
"Nikolai," he instructed, turning as she disappeared in the lift. "Signal General Quarters for all civilians, please."
The First Officer relayed the order, but eyed the Captain with concern.
"Natives are beginning to get restless," Chekov intoned quietly. "Putting them all together for the time being will give them something
else to think about and do."
Nodding, he eyed the view screen. "The Enterprise is back again, Captain."
"You expected less? Helmsmen, come about to 12 mark 8. Navigator plot a course to Karvarnis 3, hard to port and drop 3000
kilometers."
"The Navigator turned dark eyes onto his Captain. "Into the Kalvarin Nebula, Sir?"
"Directly into it, Ensign."
"Yes, Sir," the man acknowledged, turning to his duties.
Chekov retrieved another sandwich from a Yeoman, requested a steaming mug of coffee to accompany it, and set about
waiting for the completion of his orders.
"If they follow us into Enterprise the Nebula it will be an outright act of war."
The Captain nodded at his First Officer. "I don't think the Federation is ready to declare war on the Russian Federation, if that’s even
possible. Besides, Kirk knows we don't have any shields: he would have fired on us already."
"Kirk also knows if we go into the nebula, we have to come out," Nikolai observed solemnly.
"Let's try to see that he doesn't find us where he expects."
When the time came, the, in fact, didn't follow them into the nebula. She paused at the edge of it: lingering there as long as their
sensors functioned.
"Sensors no longer functional, Sir."
"Can their sensors read through the nebula, Sir?"
"Ours couldn't," Chekov responded to the Science Officer. "And they're far superior to the Enterprise’s.
"Continue on this course another five minutes. And then...," He hesitated a moment, having had three hours to debate the decision
and still sure that Kirk could second guess whatever it was. "Hard to port and dive, WARP 10," he concluded, shaking
his head.
"That’ll be a little rough..."
"Inform the ship’s complement," Chekov agreed with his First Officer. "I'd like to go faster, but we don't have that many seat
belts," he intoned dramatically.
The comment brought a smile to his companions face, but it only served to accentuate the weariness written there.
"Soon," the CO murmured. "Soon, Kolya."
The man nodded and moved over to brace himself on the rail that the Captain was already leaning on.
"Dive in 5--4--3--2--1--NOW," the Helmsmen recited, and the nose of the ship lurched forward, careening downward and out of the
nebula. They broke free with a explosion of silence as the gases of the nebula ceased to screech against the hull.
"Activate Cloaking Device, 100%. Resume course 028 mark 7, WARP 8," Chekov said carefully. "Sensor scans?"
"Long and short range clear, Sir," came the reply after a moment.
"Surround the nebula with them," he instructed. "The Enterprise is somewhere: I want to know where."
The man in the Sensor Console chair sat back after a moment and turned toward his Captain. "They're still there, Sir: where we left
them. They haven't budged."
"Continue monitoring their position," he stated, a frown burrowing through his forehead.
"They are just sitting there?"
"Still are," the officer replied to the First Officer's query.
"That doesn't sound like Kirk," he mused, glancing at his Captain curiously.
"No," agreed Chekov, running his hand along his mustache again. "He's got to be planning something."
After an hour of travel, however, the Captain secured from General Quarters: sent the civilians and crew back on their normal way of
life. "Continue on to keep our mission: let's get rid of those supplies, folks," he concluded. "Keep me posted."
The Captain pushed the First Officer into the lift before him to ensure compliance with his orders and sighed as the doors closed them
in.
"Some real dinner?" he offered, but his companion shook his head wearily.
"Some real sleep, I'm afraid."
Chekov nodded acquiescence and stood silently as they traveled until the doors opened again. "Some chess?" he asked
suddenly.
Pushing back his blond hair, Nikolai smiled thinly. "I think I've had enough chess for one day, Pavel. Tomorrow maybe," he
commented as he stepped out. "Good-night."
The man halted the closing doors however, and turned blue eyes back on his Captain quietly. "Are you alright, Pavel Andrieivich?"
Chekov pursed his lips, ready to lie, but knew his friend would see right through it.
"Nothing a good night’s sleep won't knock out of me, I'm sure," he assured him after a moment. "See you in running shoes tomorrow."
A groan preceded the closing of the door and brought a smile to the Captain's face. Nothing a good night's sleep...
But sleep eluded him and he sat, sprawled, staring out at the stars: a vodka bottle in his lap slowly draining.
"You didn't eat much tonight."
"Tired," he muttered in response to his wife's observation. She came up from behind and sank down on the couch beside him. In her
eyes was the obvious observation that, although he claimed exhaustion, he still was sitting wide awake in the dark. She refrained from
noting it aloud.
"Long day," he observed.
"Very," she noted quietly. "The Doctor didn’t even bother to wait."
He groaned, letting his head fall backwards. "God, your appointment...I'm sorry. You didn't go, did you?" he questioned, eyeing her
as he picked up his head.
"We agreed last night that I needed to," she murmured, fidgeting with the seam on the couch fabric.
"Yes," he noted, irritation creeping into his voice. "And I know you need me there, but you have to go, Tiana. I'm sorry, but..." he
sighed. "I'm just not feeling very sensitive right now and we discussed this all last night..."
She stopped him by taking his hand. "I know," she said quietly. He was not only not feeling sensitive, but there was something else
churning within that was waiting for something...waiting for some reason to surface and explode. She saw it begin to flare and
subverted it: for the moment.
"Pavel Andrieivich, just listen for a minute," she pleaded softly, stroking the back of his hand gently. "You remember what we talked
about last night?"
He nodded and let his head sink back again, listening to her soothing, melodic voice as she recounted their tension filled conversation
like it was a chat between the good friends that they were.
When they had gotten married, they had gleefully agreed that they wanted a horde of children. It was not until the birth of their forth
when they realized they should perhaps assign a realistic number to that definition. Five, they had decided, was the minimum number
required for a horde. So they had proceeded as always...
This time it was different, however. They both knew it very early on, and yet they ignored it: denied it until the imagining of the very
number of possibilities was enough to create life long ulcer's.
"Tatiana Semyonova," he interrupted evenly, picking his head up to study her porcelain, delicate features. "We both know it is better
to face anything than to worry about what could be."
She nodded definitively. "Yes, and that is why I went anyway."
He stilled, staring at her. "You went?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes.”
"The baby?"
"Is fine."
"And you?"
"Fine as well."
He sat staring as she chewed on her lip, her eyes shining as her emotions fought with something within. For the first time in their long
years of marriage, and their friendship before, he was unable to read her. "So, we were wrong?"
She shrugged shyly. "Well, You know how the Russian Orthodox Priests say that the Lord will have his way no matter what we
decide?"
"Tiana!" he protested.
She choked on a giggle, but ploughed onward. "Well, apparently He disagreed with our decision to have five children. Even though
we are allowing only five pregnancies, He is insisting on six children."
The Captain of the ship blinked: baffled and lost somewhere out in the void by his wife's line of reasoning. He stared at her,
dumbfounded by his stupidity until he exploded aloud.
"TWINS?!"
She laughed merrily, tears of delight spilling onto her face as he, pulled her tiny frame against his in a bear hug.
"Twins!" he echoed delightedly, pulling back from her. "You see, and we were worried about nothing..." Pausing suddenly, a look of
horror crossed his face.
"Two Nikolai's," he echoed hoarsely. "Two Andrie's..."
"Two Katya's," she scolded.
A grin swept over his face. "Girls?"
"Well, one of each," she condescended.
"Beat one, cuddle the other," he drawled elaborately. "I can handle that," and he ducked as his wife slapped at him.
He smiled devilishly, his dark eyes admiring his wife. He drew a finger down the side of her cheek. "I would have chosen you and them
even without a ship. I have no regrets, Tatiana Chekov."
She smiled and slid into his arms, swaying as he rocked her gently.
"It bothers you that you have beaten Kirk," she stated softly after a moment.
Pain lanced through him suddenly and he wondered if she could have possibly detected the truth. Captain James T. Kirk was still his
hero and he knew it. The hours of attempting to elude him had been a race against a ghost that pursued him for years.
"He's getting older, Pavel..."
"I didn't beat him!" he retorted suddenly, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. "I didn't win...he gave up Tiana.
"He gave up,” he retorted again, the frustrated anger filling his voice as he realized what was troubling him.
"It is not like him to give up," he finally stated, his whole being churning with the knowledge. "James Kirk wouldn't give up.
There's something else..." He lapsed into troubled silence and wondered if Kirk was simply trying to let Chekov know he could find him
if he wanted: that Pavel and his ship were not invincible.
"Did he make it difficult for you?" she asked after a moment. "You've never spoken of your good-byes."
"No," he stated demurely. "He was not pleased," Pavel observed. "But more with the situation than with me. He understood. The
Russian Federation offered me my dream which the Federation laughed at."
He glanced over at her and sighed. "He even said to me that no matter what 'master' I served under he knew that should he ever need
me, all he would have to do is call and I would come."
A smile traced over her features. "He will always be your Captain, Pavel Andrieivich."
He nodded silently, nuzzling his face against her hair as he mulled over the years that had drifted past since then. His own repetition
of Kirk's words wandered through his brain and he stiffened suddenly.
"All he would have to do is call and I would come..."
He lunged forward suddenly, upsetting his wife's precarious balance in his arms and he smashed his hand against the intercom.
"Captain to Bridge."
"Bridge here."
"Plot and lay in a course to our entrance point to the Kalvarin Nebula immediately. Proceed WARP 20."
There was a long pause before his orders were acknowledged. "Sir, at that speed even our hull will hit critical stress in..."
"Let me know when it's imminent, Alex. Captain out."
He got up and leaned his face against the window, staring out at the stars as the horror brewed within him.
"You think Jim's asking you for help?" she asked quietly.
"What else?" he echoed. "Good God, he always said I was dense!"
Tiana's delighted laughter filled the room. "That was because you convinced him we were only best friends."
He turned a scowl on her, his dark eyes dramatic. "We are," he pouted, even though he knew full well what she meant.
"Yes, but for twelve years that's all we were."
His pout grew more vivid and he scratched at the wall with his nail. "I wasn't the only dense one involved."
"Yes, but I wasn't dense nearly as long as you were: I'm afraid you set a galactic record, Malyenki."
A cockeyed grin screwed up his face. "I wasn't dense. After five years you realized you were in love with me and waiting around for
me to wake up. Well, I wasn't dense: I was smart. For seven more years I got to date hundreds of women knowing that when I got
bored with the whole thing there was someone to go back to and marry..."
He dove out of the lounge, ducking the objects that came hurtling after him.
On his morning run the next day, and as he made his way to the bridge, his respect for his Yeoman's skills were renewed.
"Have you seen the grins, Kolya? My God," he mused, shaking his head. "I think everyone on the ship knew before I did!"
A wickedness gleaming in his green eyes, the First Officer shook his head. "Six children... you bastard!"
The Captain froze as he raised his head to comment, staring out at the faces of the
bridge crew from inside the lift.
"If they didn't know before..." he murmured.
The First Officer shrugged weakly in apology. "Didn't realize the doors opened yet,
Pavel."
"Twins!" The grey-haired Environmental Chief lunged on top of him with a bear hug as he stepped out of the lift. The recent
encounter with his memories of Starfleet made him appreciate even more this moment, when the cultural oneness of his crew exploded
around him in applause and cheers. The Captain of' the ship's face was dyed a deep burgundy blush by the time he extracted himself
the last person's hug and he swung his arms about dramatically.
"There's nothing to get so worked up about," he announced loudly. "After all, we're shooting for our own baseball team, so we have a
ways to go yet!"
He grinned sheepishly at the explosion of laughter. Kolya eyed him wistfully, folding his arms across his chest.
"I sometimes wish we could have another."
"I feel for you, Comrade," Chekov drawled. "So I will make a sacrifice and give you Andrie."
"Oh no, Comrade!" The First Officer exploded through the continued laughter. "Your father told me Andrie is God’s revenge on you
for your own childhood--you can keep him!"
Chekov giggled very unprofessionally, but touched the First Officer's sash that again hung at his side, shoved through his belt. "Put it
on, please, Comrade Grigorivich," he asked, although he was beginning to believe the First Officer had found a much more attractive
way of wearing the damn thing.
The Captain moved around the bridge, listening to the morning reports and eyeing his crew with a critical eye. He physically calmed his
nerves, reminding himself his own approval was all he needed and wondered if the crew thought he had lost his mind for going back to
find the ship they had spent the day before trying to lose.
"We have a contact, Sir."
Chekov paused, turning and clasping his hands behind his back in the pause that ensued.
"It's the Enterprise, Sir: she's in the same position that we left her. Just came into long-range sensor, so we're not visible to her yet,"
he added.
"Cloaking web?" the First Officer asked, and a frown burrowed through his forehead as the Captain shook his head.,
"Maintain present status. Ensign Ivanovich, give me a slow thorough scan on the main view screen. ETA?"
"Fifteen minutes," the Helmsman replied.
He stood solemnly, watching the scan information scroll by on the screen: his eyes absorbing every detail as if they were air his body
needed. The First Officer knew when he found it: saw the subtle changes in his Captain he knew so well. A glance
told Chekov that his First Officer had not detected the same thing in the readings.
"Have Doctor Zhivago provide me with a full inventory of all medical supplies: including cargo and I want the shipping manifests,
Commander Grigorivich."
"Yes, Sir."
"Ensign, concentrate scan on deck 5." He waited as the First Officer turned back to eye the sensor readings. "Life signs," he pointed
out after a moment.
"Crews quarters?" the man asked, azure eyes clouding. "A concert perhaps?" he suggested at the Captain's negative indication.
"Sickbay."
"My God," the man balked.
"Captain, halting at one kilometer, as ordered."
Chekov's heart raced as the readings evaporated and shimmered into the glowing image of the Enterprise suspended before him.
"All frequencies are clear, Sir."
"Of course they are," he responded to the Communication’s Officer. "They can't hail us: it's a court-martial offense."
The Zampolit nodded acknowledgment from his casual post leaning against the bulkhead. "Any Federation ship found to be seeking
out contact..." he quoted morosely, reminding them all of their outcast status.
"We're supposed to avoid contact as well," he reminded his Commanding Officer needlessly.
"Avoid is a word with a great deal of latitude," Chekov observed. "Open hailing frequencies, Lieutenant."
He stood in the vacuum of silence that followed for a long moment, realizing how long it had been since he'd spoken Terran standard
other than to teach it to his children.
"Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise, this is Captain Pavel Andrieivich of the Nelzya," he could almost see Kirk's grimace at
his patronimic, but he had not used his last name since he had gone back to his own people who rarely used surnames. "We are a
deep-space survey ship and have little contact with Terrans. We would welcome a social visit from your officers to exchange the latest
news."
"You'd see more humans if you hung around less with Klingons," McCoy's acetic comment filtered through before Kirk's image
appeared.
"Captain Chekov, we know of you and because of your identity any provision of news would be minimal," Kirk answered guardedly.
"However," he added quickly, "social amenities are always welcome between deep space ships."
Kirk had aged, as had they all...but the glint of deception shining in the hazel eyes was all too familiar: as was the obvious disapproval
of Chekov's newly grown beard. The Enterprise Captain glanced at both McCoy and Spock before shifting his weight in his seat
casually and continuing. "Unfortunately," Kirk drawled, "there's a possibility that my officers have been exposed to Karl-li-krieg." He
paused, waiting as he heard the subtle gasps of horror from Chekov's bridge crew before continuing. "Obviously, this might limit the
possibility of contact: I'm sure you understand."
Chekov stood silently, motionless as he dealt with his own emotional recoil from the memory of the slowly degenerative malady.
Pursing his lips, he shook his head. "Karl-li-krieg is of no concern to my crew or I, Captain. If you and your officers would be prepared
to beam aboard at 11 hundred hours, my officers and I would be honored to treat you to a traditional Russian luncheon. Until then,
Nelzya out."
Chekov turned away from the image of the weary Starfleet Officers, the thought of the rotting bodies of their crew creeping along the
back of his neck. "Kolya, have the Doctor prepare a package for them."
"Crew of four hundred thirty?"
"It was before the illness," he intoned morosely. "Commander Grigorivich," he continued, pausing outside the lift. "Inform the
appropriate members of the crew I'll be bartering for Rhodina." The word caught in his throat and he dove into the lift as grief washed
over him. Good God, only four hours, he thought.
* * *
His ship and its crew had never looked so good, he knew. There had been no word from their Captain that morning but a surge of
electricity had swept through their midst and everything seemed cleaner, fresher. It was not just loyalty to their Captain that had
accomplished it. They had lived too long in the underground world of non-existence, he thought. This ship and her crew never
emerged from the shadows into the light and although they all knew this visit would have never happened, they also knew that people
would hear anyway.
James T. Kirk had always looked like a recruiting poster in his dress uniform, and time had not changed that. The hazel eyes shone
beneath the greying hair, and the sparkle of charm and wit that was uniquely his had become etched softly in lines around his eyes. A
weariness weighed about him and his senior officers, but that Chekov had seen on the view screen and expected.
Chekov had changed: he knew it and could not help but wonder what Kirk thought of it. It was not just the beard, not just the uniform
that Kirk had never actually seen him wearing.
Kirk stood staring at him and his line of senior officers in their own dress uniforms. All five of them bore meticulously the sash he so
hated wearing: it was a symbol that they had each earned the Russian Federation's highest honor and it was a tribute to him that every
one of his senior officers wore it. Had they been Americans it would have been the Congressional Medal of Honor: the type of award
that would have been given to Thomas Jefferson for the Declaration of Independence, to Betsy Ross for the Flag.
Chekov himself also wore a heavy medal hung tightly about his collar and Kirk, at least, understood what they both meant. Pride
shone in the all-too familiar hazel eyes.
"Permission to come aboard, Captain?"
"Granted. Welcome aboard the Nelzya, Captain Kirk." He hesitated as Kirk stepped off the transporter platform and, shifting slightly,
his face darkened.
"Captain, when I was in Starfleet Academy I learned that it was important to adapt myself to the customs of others. For the last eleven
years I have been Commander of a ship full of Russian citizens, most of them from the old Russian culture. I hope you are prepared for
what that means," he warned.
"'Now, what the hell do you mean by that?" McCoy demanded.
Kirk understood, however. His eyes shining, a gleaming smile swept over his face and he stepped forward, stretching out his arms to
receive Chekov's obligatory bear hug.
"God, it's good to see you, Jim," he said as he pulled away.
Kirk's smile hiked up wryly. "Your mustache...spread," he commented.
"Too lazy to shave, I'm afraid,” Chekov shrugged impishly, brushing his hand along the edge of his newly formed beard. "Captain
Kirk," he continued more formally, the subtlest of accents lacing his voice. "Chief Engineer Scott, First Officer Spook and Chief Medical
Officer McCoy: if I may present my officers?" He indicated them in turn. "First Officer Commander Nikolai Grigorivich: Chief Engineer,
Commander Elena Borevena; Science Officer. Lt. Commander Alex Timofeyevich; and Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Yuri Zhivago."
The dark-eyed Georgian glanced up briefly from the tricorder in his hands. "Permission to giggle if necessary."
Hazel eyes sparkled as Kirk cracked a wry grin. "I never have actually met a Doctor Yuri Zhivago before."
"Yes, well, my sense of irony as a child compelled me to choose the profession." He glanced over at his own Captain and said
something briefly in Russian.
Chekov nodded and dismissed his officers, hiking his hat backwards on his head. "They'll rejoin us at lunch," he explained to Kirk. "I
assume your officers would like to begin with a tour of the ship."
"Can 'ye do that?" the Engineer balked.
"Mr. Scott!" The voice had the thick Slavic accent and hot indignation of his youth. "I gave the plans to the Federation long before I
gave them to the Russian Federation. As far as I know, they still have them.
"It's our activities which are classified, not our ship. If you'll follow me..."
He watched the faces of the military men as he led them through his ship's simple, airy lines. There was a wanderlust there: a
dreamer's vague triumph as the spacemen saw old computer images become reality before their eyes.
There was an underlying tension as well, however: an unease that was born of more than their reason for being there. The silences
between amenities seemed to punctuate that tension, so Chekov spoke his way through the ship tour--even philosophizing when all
else failed.
"This ship is the premier of the Frigate class ships, and is proof the theories behind it are valid.
"More compact than the Constitution class, she has the same engine and a reinforced hull and so is capable of much greater speeds.
With improved sensor capabilities and an integrated cloaking device, we limited weapons and, discarded shields entirely..."
"This ship has no shields?" McCoy demanded, blue eyes bright with indignant disbelief.
The ship's Captain smiled poignantly. "The Enterprise and her sister ships were built to fight and protect. The frigate serves an
entirely different purpose. We maneuver, outwit---and run, if necessary."
"Hardly a valiant premise," the Doctor observed acidly.
"Bones,"' Kirk explained easily in response to Chekov's laughter. "In the days of the sailing ship, frigates were built smaller, faster and
more maneuverable than the Constitution class ships... They darted among them and to base camps providing supplies,
communication...the ships of the line were built to fight and protect, but the frigates were a virtual life line for them."
"This ship is capable of doing the same thing,"' Chekov continued for him. "As well as much more. Her versatility is practically
limitless."
"And for that you gave up your Starfleet career," McCoy rasped suddenly, his face twitching.
Horror and regret burst into Kirk's hazel eyes as the tension snapped in on them like a straightjacket, and the whole group paused.
Chekov shook his head however, his smile gleaming within his beard and warmth shining in his eyes as he turned to the Doctor.
McCoy had always been their conscience, with a cut-throat honesty that clearly stated the Emperor wore no clothes. In that, the Doctor
bore a striking resemblance to his own father and had always claimed a unique piece of his affections because of it. He brought up
questions now--with a demand for honest answers--that his father had forced him to face years ago.
"This ship is the most concrete benefit my decision brought," he answered quietly. "But hardly the most important."
"Why?"
He smiled slowly. "The tortoise and the hare."
Confusion shot through McCoy's eyes, but Kirk's hazel eyes rested on him in age-old understanding.
“The tortoise plods along at a slow, steady pace--taking one step after another. The hare sees him pass and races to get ahead, then
stops. The tortoise keeps plodding and when he again passes, the hare races ahead--and stops."
"Aesop," Spock observed curiously.
"History," Chekov corrected, a slight smile pulling at his features. "The Russians created a rocket, put animals and men into orbit and
the United States raced ahead to put a man on the moon--and stopped. We built Space Stations and colonized them and you raced to
put a shuttle into orbit--and stopped. We kept building shuttles and stations and you raced to land on Mars. We colonized Mars..." his
voice trailed off and he smiled slightly at McCoy. "I suppose I found I was more Russian than I had originally believed," he said as if that
were a possibility.
"The Federation and Starfleet will eventually race ahead," McCoy concluded.
Nodding, Chekov agreed easily. "Oh, I'm quite sure they will. The human animal has only a limited life span, however, Doctor."
"You gave up your Starfleet career," he repeated in a deathly whisper.
Chekov nodded slowly. "Every choice we make bears a price, Doctor McCoy," he responded quietly.
The price? he mused, standing in silence among his old shipmates. A uniform, the easy comradeship of his youth with these men, a
way of life he perhaps could no longer remember...In truth, McCoy still did not understand but Kirk's hazel eyes shone with more than
the acceptance of eleven years ago. Gone was the vague rationalization and in its place there was an understanding between the two
Commanders of how much he had actually gained: of the cost Kirk had paid for the uniform he continued to wear.
"Captain," his First Officer interrupted as he joined them. "The Cook's compliments: he asked me to tell you lunch is on the tables."
The light exploded into Chekov's eyes, and a gleaming smile swept over his face. He could envision the conversation that Nikolai had
just condensed into that sentence. "Captain Kirk," he drawled melodramatically in the thick Slavic accent of his youth, "What Kolya is
trying to tell me is our Cook has threatened to put me on bread and water for a week if I don't get you there immediately. Shall we go?"
The bustle and joyous sounds of family life burst in on them as they entered the main dining room. Chekov paused as the Enterprise
officers hesitated, their faces mirroring blatant astonishment.
Warmth flooded through him then, the poignance of the moment spreading a broad, gleaming smile crossed his face. He had seen
their reactions of dazed wanderlust as responses to the structure around them until now...but he had forgotten. The Captain had
forgotten in those eleven years how grey and uniformly dull Starfleet ships were. He had forgotten how lifeless the standard Terran
culture had made them. There were no curtains, no rugs, no broad splashes of color and textures spread about the walls and
countless knickknack shelves Those countless things that made a home were gone from Starfleet ships and they carried none of the
vital life infused from children and family groups.
"My God," McCoy' said. "I haven't seen tablecloths since Thanksgiving dinners at my grandmother’s."
"Eleven years of family decorating projects makes quite a difference," Chekov smiled.
"Green plants do assist in air filtration," Speck observed.
"They also look lovely on the tables."
"Tatiana!"
Kirk disappeared in a flurry of baby blue silk and taffeta. Smiling, Chekov bent to retrieve his daughter while his former Captain
manhandled his wife.
"You 're ravishing."
She was, Chekov considered as Kirk held her at an arm’s length. She had always been radiantly beautiful but the native Russian
caftan and amber jewelry set off all of her best features.
"And this must be your youngest, Katya, is it?" Kirk beamed, tweaking the child's nose as she was passed back to her mother's arms.
"The food," Chekov entreated, and they joined the table of his officers and their families. The Starfleet men looked oddly incongruous
amongst the family groups.
The Enterprise officers stood uncomfortably as the ship's Priest blessed their food, and their unease continued as they sat, the
hesitation mirrored in Kirk's hazel eyes. "Pavel," he commented quietly, eyes surveying the scattered row of serving dishes spread
before them. "This food is real."
Chekov nodded, warmth alighting his dark eyes and spreading over his features. "Don't worry, Jim, we're not draining our supplies to
impress you. Because of the nature of our activities, our sources of real food are abundant. The cook rarely serves anything
synthetic. Anything with a gold serving spoon is a vegetarian dish, Mr. Spock."
"Most considerate," the Vulcan observed.
"I thought your activities were classified," McCoy observed dryly as the plates began to fill.
Hazel eyes shot a piercing warning at the Doctor, but Chekov shook his head easily.
"Specifically, perhaps, but their general nature is not. After all, the entire galaxy knows this ship was built to accept the Klingon’s offer."
"When the Klingons offered the Federation a peace treaty with trade and exploration agreements, they didn't think they'd shown they
were trustworthy enough. The Federation wanted to be sure," McCoy maintained acidly, a fire in his eyes.
"The Russian Federation didn't agree," the Russian Captain responded demurely, his dark eyes quiet. "Have you ever tried Blini? I
practically live on them."
"For God's sake, man, think about it!" McCoy exploded, blue eyes fiery as the emotions twitched across his face. "The Federation
would be responsible for blindly sending a ship full of men and women into God-knows-what, facing death or worse for the purpose of
securing benefits that couldn't even be discussed vaguely."
"Much the same risks faced by, say--a ship on a five year exploratory mission," his First Officer shrugged.
"Except we know what the Klingons are capable of already!" the Doctor exploded.
The thickening beard on his face disguised the subtle lines of humor that wove themselves outward from the Captain's mouth, but not
the humor that shone in his eyes. Eleven years of debate and outrage had tempered his officers in conviction and the same span of
silent triumphs had created a pride in them that could not be swayed by the fiercest moralist. The only response McCoy received was a
table-wide smile of maddening condescension.
"How come Doctor McCoy is a bigot, Papa?"
Silence dropped on the table and Chekov slowly turned his eyes to the child that had appeared between he and his wife. There could
be no doubt of the monster's parentage: even someone who had not known him when he was younger could see that this boy was a
physical clone of the ship's Captain.
"Andrie," his wife scolded, pushing the child's hand away from her plate. "If you wish to eat, sit down.
"You know perfectly well the history of the propaganda between the Federation and Klingon Empire," she chatted on easily, seating
the child to her right and displacing her daughter into her lap. "These men used to fight the Klingons and have more reason than most
to distrust them. Someday, things will change...use your napkin, Andrie Pavolich."
"The boy needs a muzzle," Chekov growled, eyes flaring darkly.
"You hush," she slapped at him. "Tend to your guests before they realize you're the same boor you've always been.”
Chekov smiled lightheartedly, his eyes shining, and thankful not for the first time for the only woman in the galaxy who could so
routinely keep him sensible.
"Diplomacy takes on a whole new meaning with children around," he observed, meeting Kirk's hazel eyes.
The Enterprise’s Captain returned the smile warmly. "So I see."
"What benefits have you really gotten out of this exchange with the Klingons?" McCoy questioned, more reason in his voice than
before the child's observation.
Chekov hesitated, pushing the food on his plate absently with a fork. He eyed his own Doctor as he came in. "This ship isn't infested
with Karl-li-krieg," he observed, the hiss of an air hypo punctuating his remark.
Kirk started, dropping the thin, rolled pancake he'd been trying to grasp. He rubbed his arm as air-hypos went off simultaneously into
both Spock and McCoy's arms.
"I'm sorry gentlemen," the Russian Doctor explained, discarding an empty cartridge and re-loading. "But I'm not about to let people
who have been exposed to Karl-li-krieg wander around my ship uninoculated.”
Kirk stilled and, as the Enterprise Officers met each other’s gaze, Chekov could see a measure of weariness drain out of their faces.
This was what had inspired the legendary Captain Kirk to take the risk he had. The Federation Starship was a plague ship and if
anyone in the galaxy had encountered a possible solution to the malady that was gradually creeping out from the Klingon empire, it was
Chekov and his ship. Kirk had gambled his career and what was left of his crew's lives on that possibility.
"You have an inoculation for Karl-li-Krieg?" McCoy asked quietly.
"It' would be rather stupid to go sailing around other people without knowing how to protect yourself from their diseases, now wouldn't
it?" Zhivago asked lightly.
"What about Mr. Scott?"' Kirk asked, as both the Doctor's and his Nurse's failure to innoculate the Engineer was obvious.
The dark-haired Slav shook his head, pursing his lips as his fingers ran deftly over the medical tricorder in his hands. "Inoculating
someone who already has the disease accelerates it beyond the scope of human belief."
A glass smashed on the table, shattering bits of crystal over the Engineer's plate and lap. The Scottman's suddenly pale, lifeless face
turned to McCoy for some kind of reprieve.
“Mr. Scott hasn't shown any of the symptoms," the Enterprise Doctor responded abruptly.
"Phase 1 confirmed," the Nurse announced, closing her own tricorder.
The Doctor nodded and indicated for her to proceed. "The Federation apparently has been unable to identify the early phases of the
disease: when it's easiest to treat," he responded to McCoy. "This shot should reverse the progression of the illness and Mr. Scott will
be cured before he knows he was sick. With Karl-li-krieg it's especially important to isolate the phase the illness is in as each has a
different treatment and mistakes are oftentimes deadly."
Kirk's hazel eyes watched as Scotty's mess was removed and replaced by a clean plate. The hazel depths were shielded and he folded
his hands together, drawing them up in front of his face. Although he claimed to have no diplomatic skills, a lifetime of playing poker
had honed his strategist's skills to a fine perfection.
Chekov took a long drought of the kvass before him before turning his eyes to the Federation Captain. "We do have at the moment a
surplus of the drugs involved. On such a small ship, I'm sure you can understand that space is at a premium."
"Jim," McCoy rasped desperately. "Even with the drugs I don't dare risk using them on anyone on the ship, given the medical
information I’ve just been provided."
Kirk nodded slowly, but hesitated in speaking as the Russian Doctor leaned over McCoy's shoulder to place a case full of tapes on the
table before him.
"That's all the information you could possibly need: including the formulas to reproduce the drugs.”
Shaking his head, McCoy fingered the tapes. "This will take weeks..."
"The information could be entered into the computer for the purpose of..."
"And let a machine make the final diagnosis, Spook?" McCoy blurted. "These are people's lives we're talking about."
Chekov pondered the notion of looking a gift horse in the mouth as he drank slowly out of his cup. He knew, though, by McCoy's
lukewarm reaction how desperate Kirk's search for the Nelzya had made his medical situation.
"I have a first-class, StarFleet Academy trained, Helmsmen who was a med-tech before he decided to change careers. He has helped
Yuri here on numerous occasions and could provide McCoy with the same assistance: provided you could find him a place at the Helm
when the crisis was over."
Chekov could see the obvious in Kirk's eyes: but any reason he would need to place a spy amongst the Enterprise crew was, at best, a
long shot. The Enterprise had already lost more officer's and crew than she could afford and the replacement would be of obvious
assistance to Kirk.
"Agreed," the elder Captain said after a moment.
"YES!"
Chekov's eyes fluttered closed in sheer embarrassment at his First Officer's outburst and it took a moment before he could open them
to meet Kirk's cool gaze.
"Lt. Mikhailovich will benefit from the refinement of continued Starfleet training, Jim."
A wry grin hiked up Kirk's mouth. "I see." The words however were tenuous, as was the consideration in his eyes. Whether because
he could read the Russian from having served with him so long or because Kirk had heard rumors of the type of operation Nelzya ran,
the Enterprise Captain knew that there was more involved in the offer than what had been said.
"And what in return?" he asked guardedly.
Chekov regarded the rim of his kvass glass while his wife refilled it. "As I said before, most of .the people aboard this ship are old style
Russians, Jim. Although their loyalty to this ship is unqualified, their ties to Rhodina are even stronger. Their commitment to this ship
was not meant to be life-long and I do now have eight families who wish to return to Earth."
Kirk accepted more kvass in his own glass and nodded understanding. "They wish to go back to their Motherland."
"Motherland is bland and inaccurate translation of the word Rhodina," Chekov retorted quickly, his dark eyes flaming suddenly.
Kirk eyed him and Chekov suspected that indignant, spur of the moment, Russian lessons were not something the Captain missed.
Kirk understood Rhodina meant something much deeper than ‘Motherland’ to a true Russian.
"It is the common translation," Chekov acknowledged, also mentally acknowledging that most of the language of his volatile, emotional
people was untranslatable into English.
"All I'm asking is transportation of these people to the nearest Space Station or Starbase, where the government of the Russian
Federation can arrange further transportation back to Earth. We don't get to Federation Space Stations often," he quipped needlessly,
humor in his eyes.
The humor was reflected in Kirk's gaze. "Yes: I know. I don't see why not, although," he continued, glancing around the room. "It will
seem strange to have children aboard the ship for any length of time."
"Speaking of which, you have that whole set of data and documents to give him to deliver to Starfleet Command, Malyenki."
Chekov shot a dark glance at his wife, but she merely scowled at him. "Oh, for heaven's sake! It's not my fault if I made one little slip.
It's difficult to adjust after so long, Malyenki."
In truth, it was. The tension from remolding his speech to adapt to his guests was imposing a headache on him as well. It was not their
language, not even the addition of the prepositions and pronouns Russians felt needless, but more so it was the purposeful dropping
of the pet names which Russians constantly used.
"Yes," Kirk observed as though reading his thoughts. "I thought your culture threw a lot of little diminutives into every sentence."
"Not usually with members of other cultures," Nikolai observed.. "We find it's not well received, pet."
Hazel eyes narrowed, but then lightened in embarrassment as Kirk realized he had been made an example of.
"I see what you mean," McCoy muttered.
"Anyway," Tatiana cut in forcefully. "The Federation has asked us to provide them with a whole set of data and information on the
functioning of a ship with civilians aboard," she informed Kirk, her blue eyes bright with undisguised humor.
Kirk smiled at her, more sheepishly than was characteristic for him. It was confirmation to Chekov that the man still had a crush on his
wife. "Yes, I've heard about that project," he drawled. "In the days of sailing ships officers were allowed to take their families on board
for long missions. It improved morale and encouraged recruitment of better officers. Starfleet has decided the idea might be worth a try
in our modern Fleet."
"This argument sounds familiar," Chekov noted, the sparkle in his own dark eyes betraying the placid face he maintained.
The grin on Kirk's face deepened. "There are very few officers who are willing to start a series of major arguments with Fleet
command during their captain's boards."
"You always said that I had unique gifts."
A shine of nostalgia filled Kirk's eyes as he laughed aloud. "I suppose I was right."
"There have been some alterations made from the original design for the ship," Spock observed. "I assume that was to accommodate
the families?"
"For that and to accommodate our culture. The changes were all cosmetic," Chekov elaborated. "The original design was meant for
the same standard Terran culture all Starfleet ships are designed for. Russians, by nature, are a communal people: they were long
before the Communists decided to destroy the concept with bureaucracy. There is no word in Russian for privacy," he commented
lightly. "Since the government of the Russian Federation built this ship, we were able to make changes with that in mind."
"The bairns, though, they're all over the ship," Scotty protested. "Don't 'ye have a place to keep them?"
"You mean like a pen?" Chekov asked. He paused when a small head appeared at his elbow and another child clamored up into his
lap. "We have school programs and plenty of recreational and activity programs, but no special place the children have to be if their
school obligation is satisfied. It's not the Russian way."
"You mean any of them not in school at any given moment just run loose?" The outrage in McCoy's voice caused his facial muscles to
twitch convulsively.
The clear, delighted laughter of the Captain's wife echoed over the table and her eyes sparkled as she fed her daughter a piece of
fruit. "Believe me," she intoned merrily. "I know how it sounds. I'm a city girl myself: it was only in later life I decided to take on the old
ways. To Russians, children are life itself. We are all here to teach and nurture them and the entire world is their school. Think of it
like the whole ship is an enormous day care center."
"If there's a problem with that," Nikolai added quickly, "we signal General Quarters and all the families gather in communal activity
rooms until the crisis is passed."
"It's a very good support system," Tiana elaborated. "We sing folk songs, do activities: pray for the health and guidance of our family
members who are protecting us."
Chekov laughed deeply aloud as Kirk's physical balk was so dramatic he destroyed any dignity he was trying to maintain with the thin-
rolled up pancake in his hands.
"There are no atheists in ion storms, Jim," he explained as he positioned a fresh blini in Kirk's hands. "Because it is our ship we are
free to acknowledge the role we feel God plays in our lives."
Rearranging the now sleeping child in his lap, he indicated the boy to Kirk as the man finally got his first taste of the Russian delicacy.
"My youngest son, Sergei." He hesitated as his Science Officer appeared at the doorway, his eyes bright.
"This just came in, Sir. They're awaiting our reply."
The Captain's eyes swept over the message quickly. Someone relieved him of the child even before he began to stand. "How bad?"
"Pretty complete, Sir. They did say they're managing to hold it together."
"Kolya," he asked in Russian. "How close..." he paused, eyes resting on the Enterprise's First Officer. "Have any of you managed to
learn Klingoni, yet?"
"I'm afraid not," Kirk responded.
"Good," Chekov answered, knowing full well that Spook was fluent in Russian. "Nikolai," he summoned, motioning Alex to spread the
paper star charts he'd brought on the table behind them. "Comrade, the Ferangi have raided the Sheekaron colony."
"Good Lord," Nikolai gasped. "They're completely defenseless."
“Something the Ferangi were obviously aware of. Where are the nearest Klingon patrols?"
"Here," the First Officer said, indicating the positions. "If they're on station."
The Captain swore under his breath. "Too far." Not that they would have been easy help to secure. The Klingons considered the
Ferangi like common houseflies: to be swatted at when bothersome and ignored otherwise. "Alex, how long to the colony?"
“Eight hours, best speed."
Chekov drew his hand over the map. "If the Ferangi followed their typical pattern we could intersect them here in..."
"Two hours."
"Three, if we leave in...an hour," Chekov mused. There were some people who were
possesed with ridding their homes of insects.
"If we approached from under this asteroid belt, they'd never suspect us coming," his First Officer observed. "They're so stupid I can't
believe they actually invented space travel."'
"Bought it, more like it. They’re not stupid, just one dimensional. Don't complain, it makes them predictable. Alex,"' the Captain
continued. "Contact the colony and ask them if they can hold on: I want to get those bastards first."
"Already discussed, Sir. The Governor says they'll wait a month if it means we'll cause the same insanity to the Ferangi that they did
for the colony."
The smile gleamed in the dark mass of his beard. "Tell him not only that, but we'll get him every single item out of that hold whether it's
the colony's or not. Notify Korang that our delivery will be delayed probably two days and get everyone ready for a prolonged General
Quarters. Nikolai, have all the transfers and the Doctor's shipment prepared for immediate departure."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
He turned as his officers scattered and his gaze fell on Kirk. As a traditional Russian, he had been taught from birth to communicate
more with his eyes than with words and he could see from Kirk that his regret was clearly written there now. He had not dwelt on his
former Commander's visit and now he realized he had hoped there'd be time...
He reseated his hat squarely on his head. "I'm sorry, Captain," he said in Terran Standard again. "I'm afraid we have unexpected
business of some immediacy to attend to."
"Of course," Kirk responded, standing. "We understand." The same curiosity Chekov had felt when they'd contacted the Enterprise
the day before was churning subtly within Kirk. He wouldn't pry, but he was still wondering.
"I'll leave you to my officer's for now and will see you off in the transporter room. At the moment, my wife and I have other business to
attend to. Tatiana..."' he entreated.
* * * *
They arrived in the transporter room with the last group to be beamed over to the Starship. The joy in living that usually radiated
from his wife was all but gone. Although her eyes still shone, her face was drawn and blotchy, her eyes swollen. Kirk noticed at once
and he eyed the way she clutched her husband’s arm with concern.
"The others left with the first shipment of medical supplies," was all he said, however.
Captain Chekov nodded slowly. "I understand. Mr. Yasov has instructions to contact the Russian Government when you determine
when and where you'll be able to drop my crewmen."
"Of course we'll assist in every way possible." Kirk grinned wryly, eyeing the last group awaiting transportation. "I'm sure it will be an
interesting trip..." he hesitated, hazel eyes narrowing as he glanced sharply back at the Russian Captain. "Isn't that your eldest son?"
Chekov nodded again, his insides wrenching as his wife's nails dug deeper into his arm. "Nikolai is going to live with his grandparents
on Earth," he said quietly.
Kirk paled and glanced from the dark-haired child to his former navigator. "Pavel..." he entreated in horror.
Pavel Andrieivich shook his head and smiled warmly at his former Captain, dark eyes shining. "Jim, one of the most important things
for parents to know is that their children's dreams do not always mirror their own. I was fortunate enough to have a father that
understood that and I have prayed for years for the strength to do the same. Nikolai shares his grandfather's dream, not mine, and I
promised him that when he was twelve he could go live with him."
The child launched himself at his father then and Chekov gathered the no longer small form in his arms fiercely. It was indeed ironic
how his father's dreams had called the man to leap back in time to the sea and sails: to found a fleet of traditional sailing ships that held
onto Earth's maritime heritage. Pavel's dreams had called him to leap forward, to a time beyond the current fleet's heritage: and now
the grandson was called back again...
"I love you, Papa," he said desperately.
"I love you, Nikolai Pavolich. Tell your grandfather you are my gift of gratitude for my dreams."
The boy pulled away from him and dark eyes scowled indignantly. The maturity, the wisdom beyond his years that were uniquely this
child's, glared at him. "He didn't do it with the expectation of gratitude, Papa."
"No," Chekov replied, a sad smile playing on his features again. "But sometimes we forget that others pay a cost for our dreams as
well: he'll understand." He stood and took his wife's hand as the boy took his place again on the transporter. "Energize."
He turned to Kirk as his crewmen and son dissolved before his eyes. The Enterprise Captain stood staring at the empty platform a
long moment before turning to meet his former crewmen's gaze.
"Was it worth the price, Pavel?"
Kirk spoke of more than a child: he spoke of life. Chekov considered his missions, his ship...he squeezed his wife's slender hand in
silence after a moment. "You're nearly sixty, Jim, and the only soul-mate you've ever made a commitment to is Enterprise. Too high a
price?"
Kirk straightened slightly, hazel eyes acknowledging the lack of answers that either could provide.
"Captain," Chekov said after a moment. "The Federation nearly lost its best commander and ship...you might want to suggest that the
price they're beginning to pay for their choice in the treaty matter is getting too high."
"I'll take it under consideration."
'"Spasheeba, Jim," he stated quietly.
The hazel eyes lit up and a smile played on the older man's face. "It is used as thank-you, but that is not the correct translation."
The Russian Captain returned the smile. "No, it's not."
"God save," Kirk translated correctly. "God save, Pavel Andrieivich."
He exchanged a hug with his former Commander before the man stepped up on the transporter platform. Kirk studied him
quietly for a moment before speaking again.
"Nelzya: it's the same name your father gave his first ship. It doesn't mean 'taboo', does it?"
"It isn't done," he translated after a moment. "It isn't done."
Hazel eyes shone with an understanding of the difference.
"Energize," the Captain said, and watched as the disappearing form sent his world back into the realm of non-existence.
"Cloak 100%, engage WARP drive and signal General Quarters."
He gathered his wife's form under his arm and walked out into the corridors of his ship.