firsttour

FIRST TOUR

by

Patricia Wright

He was not actually breaking any Starfleet regulations. He reassured himself of that as he smoothed the cloth of the Starfleet fatigues
he had chosen to wear specifically because of their annomymity. He mentally reviewed every regulation he knew (and he knew them
all), searching desperately for the one loophole that he had overlooked and that would hang him if he were caught.

The loophole didn't exist and he inhaled deeply, quieting his nerves before he plunged head long through the door. An explosion of
noise smashed him in the face and knocked him momentarily off-balance. He stood there at the door breathless, uncertain for a few
minutes as his eyes surveyed the mayhem before him.

The rec deck was the largest of all the decks on a Starship by far: larger even than the hanger deck. Located in the bowels of the
ship and encased entirely by the crews quarters, it was their private sanctuary and they gathered here away from the rigors of their
everyday ship's existence and the eyes of watchful officers.

He began to move inward, stepping over the crewmen sprawled unceremoniously in each others arms, passing by drinks that were
offered up to him--indeed, tossed up to him more than once, and jerking out of the way of more than one suddenly materialized group of
impromptu dancers. With a strategist’s eyes he surveyed the mass of people swarming about the room with a total lack of concern for
any type of decorum.

Pausing momentarily at one of the holographic game tables, he joined a group of observers that were gathering around the vigorous
contest. The games were unknown to him from childhood, but he had become familiar with most of them during his stay at the
Academy. A gleeful smile spreading over his face, his dark eyes sparkled with the thought that the one he now watched somehow
would not have met with the Academy's idea of suitable entertainment for its cadets. He moved away as the group burst into screams of
victory, unwilling to confirm his suspicions that the winner’s dubious prize was somehow connected to the object of the game.

Going to the safest haven he could find, he leaned against the bar nestled into it's own corner of the room: a type of sanctuary from
the room's noisiest groups.

"A beer," he replied to the bartender's questioning glance, his own clear tenor voice sounding strange to him. The man didn't react as
though it were, his grey eyes merely bored as he handed the young man the synthetic brew.

"I’ll need your I.D. card." The bartender smiled slightly. "Just this once: I keep the numbers on file to let you spend your credit so fast
you'll be stuck on this ship until doomsday."

Cold horror suddenly gripped him as he palmed his I.D. card in the pocket of his fatigues. It was altogether possible the grey-eyed
bartender would simply push it into the computer and charge the drink against the advance that Starfleet should have deposited into his
account that morning when he had the good sense to report to the ship. What was more likely was that the bartender would take a few
seconds to read what was being printed on the screen: would find out the identity of this new crewmen. He obviously knew everyone
else by sight.

"Let me," a gravely voice from beside him rasped. The thick set man smiled as the younger one turned to thank him. The smile bore
its way into the wrinkles of a well-lined face.

"No sense you spending your first week's salary even before you begin earning it. With that kind of start, you'll be in space trying to
pay off your debts as long as I've been."

Sky-blue eyes studied him and Chekov tried to slouch off the slight arrogance in his stance that he'd picked up in the Academy despite
his best efforts. If he noticed it, the man made no mention of it.

"I'm Delmer Cousins. Your first trip?"

“In deep space," he confirmed in the alien tenor that irritated his ears as much as it hurt his mouth. "I have made a few short ones
from Earth." In Academy training exercises, he added mentally, but purposefully failed to mention.

The man nodded. "I'll reckon it'll not be your last: you've doomed yourself to a strange circle of life, boy. A long, hard voyage into the
uncharted blackness of space, a trip to the rec room and ashore to empty your filled account and then back to the voyage and harsh
master to start all over again in hopes of getting enough credit to go back home."

"Where you'll spend it all and then go back into space."

A burst of laughter accompanied the comment from the other side of him. He allowed a charming smirk to brighten his face as his eyes
swept over the varied assortment of crewmen that had gathered about their conversation. "Yes," he laughed, "but it's not that bad a life
if you choose who you spend it on wisely, now is it?"

That brought an approving round of enthusiastic laughter from the entire group, with the notable exception of a few of the females.
One of them stared at him with alien dark eyes out of a snow white face.

"I'd gather you have to waste little money on that pleasure, baby-face. In fact, you'd do better to try to earn a living that way: your life
will be longer."

He gulped down the beer, its acidic taste and his grit teeth helping to fight back the blush that threatened to violently erupt over his
face.

“With Kirk on board, he'd have little opportunity for that profession--Kirk gets every one that's even worth laying an eye on."

He passed over the comment that caused another ripple of laughter, but mentally noted it with interest. "I mean to extend my life by
choosing the right ships and masters to spend it with. You have to admit," he insisted with drama, "what ship you're on has a lot to do
with how long you live."

There was a murmur of agreement from around him, but his original companion laughed. "Too bad you chose the wrong ship to start
with."

He blinked, eyes widening in surprise that was entirely genuine. "The officer's on this ship are good men, aren't they?"

Another ripple of laughter swept around him at his expense, but it was, after all, his purpose in coming here and he accepted it good-
naturedly.

"Aye, they're decent sorts, the officer's aboard: if you know how to handle them." It was his original companion that spoke again. He
was a strong man with a strong voice and Chekov began to suspect that he was the popularly accepted leader of the rabble that
surrounded him. Suspected that he had, in fact, been sent to disect the new man in their midst.

"Now Spock, he's the First Officer and would have signed you aboard this morning."

Chekov nodded confirmation and the man continued. "I hope you noticed he's Vulcan: you needn’t worry about duty rosters getting
the preferential treatment, everything's dictated according to logic with him."

"So don't try worming your way out of anything..."

"But he's half-human," a woman from behind him chipped in. "So don't even think of cracking a joke around him. He pretends he
doesn't understand them and ends up getting the best of you. You know that he knows damn well what you're talking about.”

“He's a bastard to work for: it's illogical to make a mistake."

Hearty laughter rippled through the group and a Tellerite smiled at Chekov's terror-stricken eyes tolerantly. "You'll understand the first
time you try to explain to him that you're 'only human'."

Chekov nodded mechanically, allowing the sick terror to remain frozen on his face as his dark brown eyes moved over the group
around him slowly. The glee-filled laughter continued as they proceeded to describe in intimate detail each officer they claimed as their
lords, and what those lords made their life like. There was a comaraderie in their laughter, in their descriptions meant to terrify their
newest member. His horrified expression brought a shine into their eyes and fueled the descriptions to become more detailed and
much worse.

Chekov listened to the descriptions with a practiced ear, knowing there was more truth than fiction in their tales, despite their
attitudes. Crews of deep-space ships obtained by inheritance the inability to lie as a whole. Being confined with each other for longer
than should have been humanly possible, they silently developed a moral code higher than any religion could have expected and
enforced it with the most devastating of powers: each other. The anticipation that you would have to live with the entire crew who knew
of your offense reformed even the hardest degenerate. The news of a theft never made it to the officers, the theif in their midst was
taken care of quietly, quickly and without the possibility of a repeat offense.

The crew's descriptions of their officers were, indeed, quite melodramatic: but they were not false. There was a Cheif Medical Officer
who delighted in running them ragged during examinations, believing physical endurance told more than a computer ever could; and a
Chief Environmentalist who likened himself to God, throwing them into zero gravity suddenly to 'keep them alert' as often as he awoke
them to the smell of spring flowers and the breath of sudden snow squalls. The Cheif Helmsman grew plants that not only moved but
attacked on command. (Chekov smiled secretively at the most accurate description he'd ever heard of his Academy friend.)

"Do you know where you're assigned yet?"

"Probably Engineering," he replied truthfully. All command officers were expected to work their way through every department, starting
with the bottom, before they assumed their permanent assignments.

That brought a roar of laughter from even the normally sedate Cousins and the horror-ridden interest in Chekov's face was finally
genuine.

"What is the matter with the Chief Engineer?" he demanded.

"Not a thing," was Cousins quiet reply, right before he burst into laughter again. "Not a thing, if you're used to working in a hospital
nursery.”

“The man's a maniac," an Andorian from beside him explained. "He treats the engines like they’re his personal children. Don't even
think of looking at the most innocuous of gauges on the smallest of panels without him staring at you like you're the Klingon's newest
answer to technical sabotage."

Montgomery Scott, Chekov identified his teacher at the Academy from the description and felt somewhat relieved. He understood what
the man expected and knew he could work with him.

"He's solely responsible each and every minute of every day for everyone's safety. Lieutenant Commander Scott grasps that task with
the gravity such a responsibility warrants. You do your work, prove yourself to him and you'll earn the trust and respect of a man who
will never forget it."

Chekov allowed his mouthful of beer to sink slowly down his throat, his eyes riveted to the woman with dark eyes and a snow-white
face who had earlier suggested he become a prostitute. He knew with a sense of sickness that he was doomed to spend the next
month as one of her bosses.

"You are an engineering tech," he stated without question.
Nodding in response, she smiled enigmatically. "You shuttled aboard with the new officers: what are we in for?"

A cold chill gripped him and he clutched the beer, remaining silent long enough to reassure himself and try to formulate any kind of
reasonable answer.

"I've got at friend on the Lexington who warned me about Riley," a woman in the group informed them. "They couldn't wait to get rid of
him: the guy's a lunatic."

There was a unanimous groan and Chekov nodded confirmation. "Skinny Irish red-head Lieutenant that transferred from the
Lexington: didn't shut up once the entire trip here from the base."

"It's Chekov I want to know about," the white faced woman persisted.

"Chekov?" he asked, insides stilling as he felt the color draining out of his face. He raised his eyebrows slowly. "Why?"

"Why?" someone echoed, ironic laughter rippling through the group. "Because we know all about him and we want to know what we're
going to have to put up with."

The idea that the Fleet gossip mill had preceded him here hadn't occurred to him and it was such a forgone conclusion he felt
moronic. Sitting there, he listened to them disect his file with a growing sense of foreboding at what he had chosen to do. They already
didn’t like him....

"Chekov was valedictorian of his class, the only undefeated First Sword in the history of the Academy, and he already taught his
mandatory one course before he even graduated: officer’s came back to take it. He also got plenty of commendations."

Chekov shrugged sheepishly, taking a drink before he had to come up with some response.

"I saw him," an anonymous voice said.

He gagged, choking and sputtering on the liquid half-way down his throat. "You saw him?" he gasped, barely remembering to keep the
accent out of his voice.

"Yes," an auburn-haired woman confirmed, making her way to the center of the group with Cousins and Chekov. She folded her arms
across her chest and smiled self-assuredly. "The three new officers and the new crew beamed aboard at four p.m. At five past four I
was strolling past the Captain's cabin and guess who was there reporting already?"

"New officers have twenty-four hours to report to the Commanding Officer," Chekov protested.

"Give me a break," the woman drawled, "we're talking about super Ensign here. I'm telling you--" she continued. "Six feet two inches
tall, sandy brown hair, blue eyes, ramrod straight back and the muscles and form of Adonis. And his face was set in stone, extremely
serious and business oriented. You tell me who that sounds like to you."

Johnston, Chekov identified from her description as the group exchanged grunts of disgust. He had barely known the man from the
Academy: he had kept to himself and had not even spoken a word on their trip to the ship. The woman's description more than
accurately depicted him and Chekov puzzled over his action of reporting so quickly.

There was an uneasy restlessness among the group surrounding him now and he suddenly ploughed ahead with his purpose in
coming, knowing his fragile and last contact with the crew as a comrade was about to end.

"What about the Captain?" he asked, eyeing the men and women around him intensly. "I heard this Kirk is a soft commander."

Silence dropped on the group around him, a mass of dark eyes turning to stare at him piercingly. A low grumble started deep within
their midst, but Cousins stopped it by holding up a hand.

"Aye," he responded, eyes guaging the new crewman amongst them. "If by soft you mean just and fair, then he's a soft man. He
listens to people and can be persuaded--even by us lowly crew. He knows we're the bloodlines of his ship and he treats us accordingly:
which is more than can be said of most Captains. Not an ounce of that fresh fruit and vegetables we picked up today will make it to the
officers: we'll get it all."

The faces of the people around him mirrored an intensity as they listened, somber approval of his words echoing in their eyes.

"But if by soft you mean timid," Cousins continued, his voice growing dark. "Then you've signed on the wrong ship: and we'll have the
soul of any man who says so. Kirk can outwit any being away from battle and defeat anyone stupid enough to engage him. I've been
on the Enterprise as long as he has and given the opportunity to sign off three times, I've stayed.

"Timid is not a word that describes Kirk. We may be a ship of the line," Cousins echoed, his eyes briefly sweeping the group around
him, "but our mission is an exploratory one: which Kirk marks as lord of us all. If no one's ever gone there or no one knows it, Kirk will
die going there or die finding it out. That's why this is the last ship you should be on if you intend to die old. But rest assured, if it was a
choice between you and he, Kirk would go first. He'd lay down his life for any one of us, and you best remember that."

"And he's the best damn poker player in the galaxy," someone echoed from in the group.

Chekov smiled easily at the ripple of laughter and continued with his questions. "Company spies?"

There was a unanimous chuckle that echoed around him and Cousins smiled at Chekov tolerantly. "Not a one," he answered. "Kirk
doesn't need them, he has eyes in the back of his head. We sneeze and he knows it."

"Any idea of where we are heading?"

The chuckling intensified. "Do we look like we carry commissions?" the white-haired youth behind Chekov laughed. "They don't tell us
any more than 'we're going': if we're lucky they tell us 'we're here', and that's enough. It's our job and you’d better adapt to it quickly if
you’re gong to make it."

"And if you're going to make it on Kirk's ship," Cousins advised. "I suggest you learn to do yours quickly and correctly. You'll have an
easier life that way."

Chimes began sounding rhythmatically and people in the group around them and throughout the room began scrambling toward the
door.

"Watch 4," Cousins explained. "Time to go to work. With any luck I'll have to help rearrange the cargo holds and I'll be able to figure
out what goodies we're getting for breakfast tomorrow. Keep the faith."

The room submerged in a flow of pandemonium as streams of crewmen reporting to duty passed those just being relieved. Chekov
took the opportunity to weave his way around the people who remained the constant in the room's population and out of the door. He
moved unobtrusively through the silent back corridors and up to the observation lounge above the rec deck.

He stood in the darkness a few minutes, assuring himself he was alone before moving to the window and leaning against the railing
there. He allowed his eyes to sweep over the crew on the deck below him as some type of order began descending on the room again,
satisfied at having accomplished his goal without detection.

He had found out what he wanted to know. The people milling beneath the window comprised a crew that would travel to the edge of
the galaxy with Kirk and never question why. They possessed a degree of loyalty and blind faith which said more about the Captain he
was about to serve than any Fleet records or officer's gossip possibly could.

"Spying on the crew?"

Startled, he turned only his head to confirm that he was, in fact, not alone after all. Back in the corner, out of the reach of the reflected
light from the rec deck below, stood another man.

"No," Chekov admitted, turning back to studying the crew below. "Actually, I am spying on the Captain." The thick accent apparent in
his voice was more of a relief to his ears than to his mouth.

"And you expect to find him here--on the rec deck amongst the crew?" the man asked, amusement sparkling in his hazel eyes.

"Yes," Chekov replied shortly. "It is an old Russian saying that ‘if a Captain is not carried in the hearts and the souls of the crew, than
he is not aboard’."

"Prophetic, aren't we?"

The voice echoed with humor and Chekov straightened at the window slightly. "There is no life better suited to prophecy than the life
of a sailor, whether on the sea or in the stars," he intoned easily, wondering if his companion could possibly understand. He studied the
crew another moment before turning to face his companion. "I wanted to find out what kind of Captain we have."

The hazel eyes narrowed, a spark of interest reflected in the somber voice. "How many kinds are there?"

"Two kinds...Sir," Chekov added, knowing instinctively by his tone of voice and his stance, however easy it might be, that the man was
an officer. Being aboard only four hours, it was a fair bet the man was his superior.

"A Captain is God."

"Oh, really?" the voice crackled with intense amusement as the man shifted his position, the scattered light from the rec deck outlining
the creases of a wry smile.

"Yes," Chekov retorted quickly, his head and eyes turning back to the crew below them. "He is God to that crew down there: he is in
complete control of their lives. Whether they are miserable or happy, what they eat, when they sleep, who they spend their time with,
what work they do... He controls every aspect of their lives, whether it is by order or just by his being.

"Whether their reality is harsh or comforting: whether their God is a protector to be trusted and followed with blind loyalty because of
the faith he instills, or a punitive creature to be wary of and placated depending on mood and circumstance is the legacy of the
Captain." Chekov hesitated, frustration welling up in him as he searched the mass of people below him for some easy way to explain a
concept which he'd been instinctively taught since childhood.

"A Captain determines just by his existence whether they are treated like men or like pieces of the machinery," he sighed finally,
turning to face his companion again. Deep brown eyes sought out the hazel ones in the shadows.

“There are two kinds of Captains, Sir. The kind that knows he's God recognizes the enormity of that responsibility and treats it with the
gravity that kind of obligation deserves."

"And the other kind?"

"To the other kind, a Starship is a business. He is the manager and the crew are his employees. It is the Captain described by
Starfleet regulations."

"You don't sound like you approve," his companion observed, a fatherly interest in his solemn tone.

"A forced family of four hundred which is the Captain's sole, tenuous, link to the being with which they daily confront the laws of the
universe doesn't sound like a business to me."
The man shifted position again, folding his arms across his chest and standing silently for a long moment. The reflected light didn't
etch itself on any lines on his face, but only betrayed a peculiar tilt to his head. "And this Captain?" he finally asked in measured tones.

"He knows he is God. That crew down there would go to hell for him," He responded easily, an smile sweeping over his face. "In fact,
some say they already have."

Laughter echoed in the small room suddenly, the man's brilliant hazel eyes shining in the darkness. The enjoyable, heartfelt laughter
ebbed after a moment, the man drawing his hand across his chin.

"And that is why you're a command officer," he asked, the intensity of the sparkling eyes somehow not at odds with the drawled
question. "You want to be God?"

"No," he responded. "I want to be a Captain. Being a God, I am afraid, is one of the disadvantages to the job." He went back to
looking at the crew but turned suddenly, startled.

"How did you know I was a command officer?"

"You're the new command Ensign," his companion intoned quietly. "Chekov, isn't it? You've got quite a record."

Sighing, Chekov nodded slowly and leaned back against the railing on the window. "A position that has more disadvantages than
merits, I'm afraid."

"In what way?" The solemn tone echoed an intensity in the hazel eyes which Chekov realized said more than any of the man's words.

"How would you like to be the Captain of a Starship that had never been defeated and the entire galaxy knew it?"

A frown creased his companion’s brow, the point understood. "At least being a target, you never have to worry about being placed in
a position where you'll need to take the offensive."

"With an assumption like that," Chekov retorted self-righteously, "You are going to be dead when you encounter your first intelligent
enemy."

The man started quickly, surprise in his eyes fading to a calculating intensity as he stood staring at the new Ensign. "Do you know
where you're going to be assigned yet?"

"Ultimately, navigation, I suppose," Chekov shrugged. "It is my specialty, but I assume I will start in Engineering. Command officers
have to spend time in rotation through all the departments so they are familiar with them. They usually start you at the bottom and the
guts of the ship."

"You're not sure: you haven't seen the Captain yet." Oddly, there was no question in the tone of the inquiry.

"No: the Captain has office hours every morning. I thought I would report then. We are given twenty-four hours, although I hear," he
smirked slightly, "that my fellow recent graduate did not even give the man a chance to eat his dinner in peace."

"Yes," his companion nodded almost absently. "I imagine with a record like yours you’ll be advanceing rapidly."

"Really?" Chekov demanded, anger suddenly exploding in his voice and his eyes. "Explain that to my crew the first time I am in
command and I lose the battle because I do not understand how the engines work. Or perhaps they will understand as they die a slow
death after the engine room blows up with the Engineer and the Captain can not save them because he does not know anything about
the engine room."

"I'm sorry," the man said, without hint of apology in his tone.

Chekov nodded slowly, gripping the rail behind him with both hands as he forced his anger to subside. It was nowhere near
appropriate in the presence of a senior officer.

"I hear you also not only taught while you were still in the Academy, but you taught 'Principles of Early Navigation'--the mandatory
course that is the scourge of every cadet that ever set foot on Academy grounds. You had the highest voluntary enrollment in the
history of the Academy."

Chekov smiled wanly, looking down at his feet before answering. "If you had done further research you would have also learned I had
the highest first day drop-out rate in the history of the Academy. There was a mad scramble of withdrawals after they found out I was
not going to give them A's simply because they were my fellow cadets."

"Yes," the man insisted, "but in the computer graded, Academy written tests, your class had the highest average in the history of the
Academy."

"I simply made it relevant," Chekov replied quietly. "The course is the scourge of the Academy because it is impossible to teach the
principles of the sextant and astrolabe to cadets who can think of nothing more than getting their hands into the state of the art
navigation systems on a Starship."

"So you taught them to navigate a Starship with a sextant," the man echoed with unconcealed awe.

"The navigation computer is merely a complicated three-D sextant," Chekov replied, forcing toleration into his voice. "I simply
demonstrated the relevance of early navigation systems. I assumed that is what the Academy had in mind when they created the
course. It is blind of the Academy fathers to require a seemingly irrelevant course without making the relevance clear."

"But you developed a way to navigate a Starship with a sextant." There was an insistence still present in the man's voice and Chekov
wondered why it was so important to the man that he take credit for something he had little control over.
He refused to take the credit, but instead explained why. "The way was always there," he shrugged. "I am no more responsible for
most of my record than I am that I was taught to navigate as a child. My record says I am a good officer: I need to be on a ship with a
Captain who knows what a good officer really is."

"Who knows he's God?"

"Yes," Chekov answered with force, his brown eyes shining fiercely. "I want to be a good commander and for that, I have still got a lot
to learn."

"Like what?"

Chekov hesitated, suddenly aware of how candid he was being with this perfect stranger who was now so interested in his
weaknesses. He smiled sheepishly, falling back on his standard defense mechanism of humor.

"Poker," he drawled, his accent thicker as he gestured elaborately. "I am still not a very good poker player. From what I understand,
good Captains need to know how to play poker well."

"I'm sure the Captain will be happy to teach you," the man chuckled. "After all, good Captains are also good teachers: teachers who
realize their students may have a lot of their own to teach. And besides," he continued, melodramatically stepping out into the light the
rec room cast. "I want to learn how to navigate a Starship with a sextant."

"My God!" Chekov gasped as he saw the face that was already familiar from pictures.

"Actually," the Captain drawled. "Considering our conversation, I would have say yes, I suppose."

"Captain...I," he stumbled into the abyss of thoughtlessness, every mental capacity suddenly vacuumed into space. "I didn't expect to
see you here."

"I wander down here almost every night," Kirk responded, amusement twinkling in the hazel eyes. "How else would I keep up my
reputation for having eyes behind my head? Although," he continued, "I don't usually wander among the crew pretending I'm one of
them."

"It is not against any..." Chekov began protesting, not looking quite so self assured as he had felt originally.

"Oh, no," Kirk responded, a wry smile twisting his features. "It's not a violation of any regulations and the idea has astounding merits...
Not that I could take advantage of it...I think I'd be recognized.

"I'm not sure if it was worth it, though, Ensign,” he continued. "It's indisputable that when the crew finds out you're an officer, they're
going to make clear their opinion of what you did. I'm sure they'll take care of it better than any regulation ever could. After all, you're
going to be their boss and they're merciless."
Kirk's eyes tormented Chekov a moment as he paled, but then he smiled with the tenderness of a father at the younger officer.

"Ensign, I'm looking forward to continuing our conversation in the morning over some fine spirits. You do like Georgian wine, don't
you?"

"Well, yes..." Chekov began, startled.

"Good," Kirk smiled, striding past Chekov toward the door. "Despite our advance into the galaxy, we have yet to find a society that
make wine that equals the country of Georgia. Clearly the finest--although almost impossible to obtain."

The Captain paused briefly at the door as it slid open. "Feel free to pick out the vintage from the case you brought aboard, Ensign. I
trust your judgement." He tipped an invisible hat as the door slid shut again.