A Hidden Russian
By
Cheryl Morris
The strange taste of cloth in his mouth roused Pavel Chekov from unconsciousness. Gradually he became aware of the ropes
bound tightly around his wrists, looped securely about his chest and the back of his chair, preventing him from sagging forward onto the
table in front of him. Less than an hour ago, he had sat as a guest at this table, welcomed out of the chill of a sudden rain shower,
plied with nourishing hot food and good drink.
His host knelt on the floor behind him, fingering the knots that immobilized Pavel’s hands; even the Starfleet Commander’s feet had
been lashed together at the ankles and tied to the legs of the chair.
“I’ll leave you on your own now,” the other said, getting stiffly to his feet at Pavel’s side, “to consider what we discussed awhile ago.
But don’t think about making a row. I’ll just be in the next room, and I won’t be asleep.”
The words were spoken softly. But as Pavel turned his head to face his captor, the ache at the base of his skull reminded him of the
force used to put him in this position.
This was supposed to be so simple, thought Pavel miserably, when he was alone. Now his communicator was quite out of reach. And
his shipmates had no idea where he was.
* * *
On the space dock orbiting Earth, there weren’t many bookshops, and within an hour, Pavel Chekov had investigated every one of
them. “No one reads books anymore, Commander,” a clerk at his last stop told him. “Everything’s on disk now. If you want Dickens,
check in the back there. Under Ancient Literature.” Pavel left empty-handed.
Now, as he strolled slowly across one of the recreation rooms, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, he debated
returning. But somehow, he thought, a Dickens novel on computer disk just isn’t the same as that beautiful book Mr. Spock gave the
Captain for his last birthday; even if it does have nice graphics.
“Chekov, hello!” a voice called out behind him. Startled out of his musing, Pavel turned and watched Dr. Gillian Taylor approach him
at a swift walk, a wide smile of greeting lighting her face, her hand extended.
“Hello, Dr. Taylor!” His hand was warm in hers. “Good to see you again! You’re looking very well. Not everyone takes to space
travel right away.”
Gillian laughed. “Well, it took me a few weeks to get used to it.” A touch of sadness came into her eyes.
Maybe a bit of homesickness, too, Chekov decided.
But in a moment, Gillian shrugged it off, saying, “I got Dr. McCoy’s message. Of course, I’ll come. I might be a little late, though. We’
re taking the Vessyl Kit out again.”
“But you’ve just finished a three-month science mission, haven’t you?”
Gillian nodded, then lowering her voice, said, “This is no ordinary mission.”
“Oh? Secret orders from Starfleet?”
“Not exactly . . .” She seemed torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Our reference librarian requested it,” Gillian finally
continued. “Back in my apartment – that is, my old apartment – I have several biology textbooks and journals. They’re all out-of-date
by now, of course, but when I told him about them, he got very excited. Said they were just the volumes he needs to complete the rare
books collection we keep on board. Well, one thing led to another, and I agreed to beam down and collect them.”
“Let me help you,” Pavel volunteered.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.”
“Wait a minute; hear me out. I’ve been trying to get one or two books written by Charles Dickens as a present for the Captain. Now in
your time period, books were plentiful, weren’t they?”
“Yes, but – ”
“So after we’ve packed your technical journals, you can take me to a bookshop.”
“You would need money, you know.”
“I’ll be able to get it . . . I’m off-duty all day today. We would be back before anyone knows we’ve been gone.” At Gillian’s still-
skeptical expression, Chekov added, “If you’re with me, what could possibly go wrong?”
* * *
Clay Street in San Francisco was their destination – the day Gillian Taylor left her present for the future with two whales aboard a
Klingon vessel. The return was calculated and executed more smoothly, Pavel noted, than his last journey through time. Once the
Vessyl Kit achieved standard orbit around Earth, a cloaking device shielding her from detection, the ship’s Captain indicated that Gillian
and Pavel should proceed to the transporter room.
“It will be less noticeable if we go down one at a time,” said Gillian.
Chekov nodded, touching the wad of American currency in his trouser pocket. Twenty-three dollars. He hoped it would be enough.
In order to get it, he’d had to take Uhura into his confidence. Fortunately, she had kept the money as a souvenir of their last
adventure. Even more fortunate was that Captain Kirk had given it to her in the first place; had he given it to Chekov, it would have
been left behind with his clothes at Mercy Hospital.
As they entered the transporter room, the dark-haired Ensign on duty greeted them with an enthusiastic “Good afternoon, Dr.
Taylor!” and a broad grin.
Gillian frowned. “Ensign Ryan. You have the coordinates for Clay Street?” She took her place on the platform, as Pavel stood by.
“Yes, Doctor.” Ryan was paying more attention to Gillian than the controls he was manipulating.
Chekov recognized that dreamy-eyed expression; he’d been guilty of it himself many times as a young officer. “Ensign, keep your
mind on your work,” he said sternly, as Gillian’s form shimmered and dissolved in the transporter beam. For a moment, it seemed Ryan
had not heard him.
“She’s down now, sir,” the Ensign said. Pavel moved to the platform. Ryan adjusted the controls. Around Chekov, the transporter
room blurred. Seconds later, unfamiliar buildings and objects came into focus.
The street was empty, and Chekov was alone.
“Dr. Taylor?” he said tentatively. The sound of his own voice startled him.
He was standing on the corner of a street lined with tall narrow buildings that seemed to be homes, rather than businesses. Carved
peaks above the windows along the very top floor added height, and at each house, a few steps ascended to a small landing and a
high-arched doorway in an otherwise plain stone front. Pavel recognized the style of architecture; he and Uhura had seen it often on
their trek through San Francisco. He began to walk slowly up the street, looking at the house numbers. Gillian was supposed to wait
for him, but maybe she had decided to go on to her apartment.
“This is Clay Street, alright,” Pavel mumbled, studying a large sign attached to the low iron fence that separated each house from the
pavement. He didn’t remember street signs being on fences, though. “Royal Borough of Mary—Maryl . . .” he tried to read. Under the
words “Clay Street” on the sign were the figures “W1”. Chekov didn’t know their significance, but a cold chill came over him.
He couldn’t possibly be in San Francisco.
Probably some malfunction in the transporter room, Pavel decided. He would contact the ship, then report Ensign Ryan and his
incompetence to his superior. Removing his communicator from his jacket pocket, he snapped it open.
He was just about to speak into it when a voice at his shoulder said, “You look lost, mate. Can I help you?”
He nearly dropped the communicator. Shoving it hastily into his pocket, he turned and faced another man, a little shorter than Pavel
by an inch or two. A pair of huge, dark-brown eyes surveyed him curiously.
“No . . . I’m . . not lost. I . . . was looking . . . for a bookshop.” I’ll just ask directions, Pavel thought, and when he’s gone, I’ll beam up.
The heavy-lidded eyes swept him up and down again, and Chekov wondered if he should have researched what would be
appropriate clothing for this time period; perhaps denim trousers like his informant was wearing –
“Foyle’s is good. In Charring Cross Road. Not too far from here on the tube.” His accent was unusual. On certain words, Pavel
could hear a touch of Mr. Kyle’s British inflection, but on others, there was something of . . . home.
“Balshoye spasiba,” Chekov replied. At the other’s frown, he quickly amended that to “Thank you very much.”
An uncomfortable silence fell, and Pavel glanced away – and froze. From one of the houses across the street, a large figure
emerged, staring malevolently, beefy arms folded across a barrel chest. He looked as if he could pick Chekov up by the neck with one
huge hand – and had every intention of doing so.
A friendly smack on the arm made Chekov start violently. His companion was smiling broadly at him, exposing an even row of teeth,
very white against his dark, neatly-trimmed beard and moustache. “Why don’t I go along with you, mate? And show you the way.”
“I don’t want to trouble you,” Pavel said slowly. The giant was moving toward the steps down to the pavement. Another few minutes
and he would be close enough for Pavel to count the muscles bulging under his shirt.
“I’ve got nothing on. Besides, it can be hard to find your way about without your London A to Zed.”
“I . . . uh . . .” Reluctant to leave, yet even more unwilling to try to beam up right before these 20th Century eyes, Chekov finally said,
“Yes, that would be very kind . . .”
“Come along, then, mate,” his companion muttered urgently and, taking Chekov by the upper arm, led him to the corner of Clay
Street and turned left. When they were well on their way, he let out a relieved sigh. “A bit dicey, wasn’t it? There’s so much crime in
London these days, neighbors look out for one another. They get suspicious of anyone hangin’ about.” He paused a moment and
held out his hand. “Milo Pierre.”
“Pavel Chekov.”
“On holiday, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” Chekov answered truthfully. A day off-duty could be considered a holiday. Milo nodded without comment.
They were now walking north through a busy area of shops and small restaurants. Pedestrians and rapidly-moving vehicles filled the
sidewalks and street. Pavel recalled the presence of “ground cars” in San Francisco, but these were different – smaller, with the
steering device on the left side.
Joining a cluster of people at an intersection, they crossed over on a series of diagonal lines painted on the street like a path
eastward through the traffic. Vehicles halted before them. Chekov trailed behind. Maybe now he could get away – The angry blast of
a horn accompanied a flash of black as a bulky vehicle, larger than the others, whipped past Pavel, narrowly missing him. Heart
pounding, he heard Milo observe wryly, “You take your life in your hands when you step off the kerb. They’re supposed to stop once
we’re in the zebra crossing, but . . .”
Still shaking, Pavel gained the safety of the opposite side. “Cabbies,” said Milo; “think they’re king of the road.” He studied Pavel’s
chalky face. “Are you all right? You look a bit queer.” The Russian Commander nodded weakly and resolved to stick by Pierre a while
longer.
They continued on with Pierre’s arm looped casually through Chekov’s. As his pulse rate returned to normal, Pavel considered he
had not walked so companionably with anyone since he and his grandfather joined some friends on a mushroom hunt in the woods
near Smolensk, many years ago. The other boys had run on ahead, but young Pavel and Dedushka stayed behind, strolling . . .
Funny how this stranger could conjure up such thoughts of another time – before Starfleet Academy and the Enterprise.
“This is the tube station,” Milo said, as they entered a low building marked by a colorful sign with a blue crossbar cutting a bright red
circle. “The fare will be 50 pee, mate.”
“All I have is this.” Pavel pulled some of the bills from his trouser pocket, wondering if now would be the time to part company with his
too-helpful “mate”.
But Milo misunderstood. “There’s bound to be a bureau de change near Foyle’s. For now, I’ll take care of the tickets.”
Before Chekov could protest, Milo drew him into a crowded room where people waited in line to a small caged booth at a barrier, and
others stood at rows of squat machines that spat out bits of paper when given a coin. On a wall nearby hung a grid criss-crossed with a
welter of multi-colored lines, circles, symbols, and names. Milo gave it no more than a quick look. “We’ll take the Jubilee line south,” he
said, “then switch over to the Northern line at Charring Cross and go up to Leicester Square.” He pulled Chekov into the line to the
barrier.
When it was their turn, Milo slid a thick coin into the metal-lined trough under the bars of the booth. “Two for Leicester Square,
please.” The uniformed man inside pushed back two slips of stiff paper with “Baker Street” stamped on them, and Milo ushered Chekov
past the barrier and onto a narrow escalator. Hemmed in by Milo on the step behind him and a necking couple in front, Chekov was
carried steeply downward to the next level. As he reached the bottom, he felt Milo grip his upper arm and whisper, “A chap could get
lost in here,” before steering him apace through a bewildering maze of tunnels and staircases. From somewhere in the structure came
a metallic rumbling and screeching.
Chekov thought of shaking himself free and escaping, but Milo did not slow down until they came into a long room with benches at
regular intervals along the tiled wall. In reminded Chekov of the Bay Area Rapid Transit station where he and Uhura had waited for
transport to Alameda. A glimpse of silver metal just behind the throng milling on the platform confirmed it. Milo saw the train, too. His
hold on Chekov’s arm, relaxed for a second, now tightened again, and he dragged Pavel forward through the train’s open door and into
a compartment so packed, they were forced to stand. The automatic door slid to behind them. As the train got underway with a slight
lurch, Chekov thought resignedly, Seems I’m on my way to Foyle’s after all.
* * *
The late afternoon sun threw long shadows across Charring Cross Road. Clutching a plastic bag containing hard-bound copies of
Oliver Twist and David Copperfield, Pavel shook Milo’s hand. “Thank you very much for helping me.”
“It was no trouble at all. Will you be able to get back to Clay Street?”
“Yes,” Pavel lied; he had no intention of toiling all that way. With a final good-bye, he headed in the direction of the Leicester Square
underground, then turned down a quiet street. A brief glance around assured Pavel he was alone. He started to reach for his
communicator.
“This isn’t the way to the tube station, mate,” a familiar voice said behind him.
“Chekov groaned inwardly. “I’m waiting for friends.” He could not disguise his annoyance.
“I’ll wait with you,” Milo stated. “It’s getting late, and this neighborhood isn’t the best.”
Chekov ignored him, hoping Pierre would get tired of this and leave. Then it started to rain.
It began as a light shower, to which Milo quipped, “A bit of our usual London weather,” and pulled up the collar of his jacket. Pavel
wished his own jacket had a collar. Even a soft cap like the one Milo was wearing would have been welcome, for he was becoming
soaked. He could see it now – he would be confined to his quarters with pneumonia and miss the surprise birthday party Dr. McCoy
was planning for Captain Kirk.
As the rain fell steadily harder, Pavel thought, I won’t wait any longer – audience or not.
He reached into his pocket. And his hand hit the lining.
“It’s bucketing down now,” he heard Milo remark. But Pavel’s sudden drop in temperature wasn’t caused by the rain. His hand
groped around his other pocket and came up empty.
Keep calm, he told himself. It must be here somewhere. I put it in my jacket when I first met Pierre, and I didn’t take it out again.
It must have fallen out somehow. But where? Along the street? In the underground? All he could do was retrace his footsteps.
Without his communicator, he was lost.
“Your friends must have missed you,” said Pierre. “Why don’t you come along with me to my flat. You can telephone them from
there.”
Telephone? Chekov remembered something about that. Telephones were communication devices in houses and on the streets.
Gillian probably had one in her apartment. If she were still there, he could contact her using Milo’s telephone; his coordinates could
then be determined.
“Is it very far?” Pavel asked. Suddenly he was grateful Milo had stayed with him.
Milo smiled. “No . . . not on the tube.”
To Chekov, the journey seemed interminable. On their return to the Leicester Square station, he had searched anxiously for his
communicator, only reluctantly giving up when Pierre directed him towards a different route in the underground system. Now, rescue
lay in the chance Gillian was waiting in her apartment – a chance growing slimmer every minute. By the time they emerged from the
underground, the sky was dark, and lamps along the still street cast reflections in the puddles on the wide sidewalks. Milo strolled for
several blocks through an area of rows and rows of identical buildings, Pavel fretting at his side, before turning into a street of narrow
homes distinguished by stately columns. At one of the last houses, Milo went up some steps and unlocked the front door.
Beside a small dim foyer inside, an L-shaped staircase led upwards. “My roommate Jamie is out of town,” said Milo, as they climbed.
“Our flat is on the top two floors.” A couple minutes brought them to a landing lit only by a streetlamp shining through the window. Milo
unlocked another door and pressed a switch on the wall. It was a small room, simply furnished with pieces Chekov recognized – a
couch, tables, lamps – and there on another table, a small instrument with a handset and rotary dial –
“Let me take your jacket,” said Milo, helping Chekov off with it. He hung it on a hanger inside a closet and shook the rain off his cap.
“My friends – ”
“You can ring them later.”
“No! Now.”
“But you’re shivering. You’ll catch your death if you don’t get out of those wet
clothes . . . What’s the hurry?” Chekov had no answer – at least not one likely to satisfy Pierre. “Come along. I’ll show you the
geography of the house.” Down a short hall they went to a tiny room at the end enclosing a staircase. Upstairs, the bathroom opened
off another hall. “There are clean towels in the cupboard there,” said Milo. “And my bedroom is right across the hall, if you want to
borrow some clothes; we’re about the same size. While you’re having a wash, I’ll make us something to eat.”
I hope a few more minutes won’t matter, thought Pavel, peeling off his tunic as fast as he could. Although a hot bath in the room’s
huge tub would have been a treat – his cabin had only a shower stall – it was a luxury he couldn’t afford right now. He settled for drying
off.
Afterwards, dressed in a checked shirt and snug denim trousers he found in Pierre’s closet, he hurried downstairs to the telephone,
hoping he would be able to work it. As he lifted the handset, a strange buzzing greeting his ears, then dead silence. He rotated the dial
a couple times. Nothing happened. His hands started sweating.
“The lines must be down in the storm, Pavel,” said Milo, standing in the doorway. He patted Chekov’s shoulder. “Dinner is nearly
ready. Then we’ll try a public call box.” Worriedly, Pavel followed his host into the kitchen, wondering what to do now. A wonderful
aroma from the stove distracted him. Milo had resumed stirring the contents of a pot. “Mozhet bwiht bootilka vodkih f shkafeh.”
“You speak Russian!” Pavel blurted out in the same language, then looked puzzled. “But what is Pierre? Is it short for something?”
“It’s not my real name. My name is Nikolai Grigorevich Zallenyev. I changed it when
I . . . when I left Russia.”
“But what shall I call you: Milo Pierre or Nikolai Grigorevich?”
“Call me Kolya.”
Pavel frowned. The diminutive form was used only among close friends.
“There may be a bottle of vodka in the cupboard,” Milo repeated, ladling soup into two bowls. “I hope you like shchy. It’s the only
dish I know how to make; my wife and my grandmother did all the cooking . . . Jamie and I share the cooking chores, but when it’s my
turn, I usually get take-away. Besides, he doesn’t like Russian dishes.”
Milo set the bowls on a tray, and with the vodka Pavel found and a couple of glasses, they went to the dining room beside the
kitchen. Although Chekov had not eaten since breakfast, he had little appetite. He watched Milo arrange the bowls and pour out the
drink. He should try the telephone again. Probably he had not used it correctly –
“Za droozhba!” Milo exclaimed, lifting his glass. Pavel smiled hesitantly and acknowledged the toast to friendship. Slowly he sank
onto the chair Milo indicated, as Milo took the one opposite. He raised a spoonful of soup to his lips. The taste of the cabbage, turnips,
carrots, and onions in the thick broth flooded Pavel with many memories of home. “It’s delicious,” he said. Milo smiled.
“So, comrade, perhaps you would like to tell me who you really are and what you’re doing here.”
The room was suddenly very still. When his heart started beating again, Chekov replied as casually as he could, “I don’t know what
you mean.”
Milo put a hand in his coat pocket and withdrew a small object; he held it up. With a mixture of relief and fear, Pavel realized it was his
missing communicator. “I saw you talk into this,” said Milo, “just after you appeared out of nowhere in a cloud of twinkly lights.”
The table was too wide for Chekov to try to reach across and grab at his communicator. He watched in tense silence as Milo turned it
over in his hands, evidently trying to figure out how it worked. If he didn’t open it correctly, it would self-destruct –
In a moment, Milo put it down and took out a scrap of black leather. “I thought this was rather interesting, too. ‘Commander Pavel
Chekov, Starfleet, United Federation of Planets’,” he read. “What is Starfleet? Some military organization?” Numb, Pavel did not
answer. Milo smiled faintly. “I can keep any secrets you might have. When I left Russia, I cut all my ties with the KGB. I don’t work for
them anymore.” His voice was tinged with bitterness.
Chekov dimly recalled reading something of the KGB in his history lessons – the Russian secret police who dragged off innocent
persons to jail in the middle of the night and spied on other countries. Now there was no need for such organizations.
This is ridiculous! he thought suddenly, becoming angry. I’ve done nothing wrong. He stood. “That’s my communicator and my I.D.,
and I want them back. Now.”
But a quick movement produced a small weapon in Milo’s hand, leveled at Chekov’s heart. “Resume your seat.” The large brown
eyes had lost all their warmth. Slowly Chekov did as he was told. “A Russian with his pockets full of American quid. What’s the story,
comrade?”
Somehow, Chekov thought, a recitation of his name, rank, and service number wouldn’t do this time; and the plan to get Dickens
novels was becoming more foolish by the minute. Pierre’s finger on the trigger mechanism of that primitive weapon gave him pause.
Finally, Chekov replied, “I come from the 23rd Century. I came back in time . . . to help one of my shipmates. We were separated . . .
while beaming down from our ship.”
There was a brief silence. “Why did you think I wouldn’t believe you? It’s the only sensible explanation. Besides, today’s science
fiction is tomorrow’s science fact. You come from the future, you say? And you can return to a specific time, a specific day?”
“Yes . . . but it’s not as easy as you apparently think. And it can be dangerous.”
Milo ignored this. “You can help me – you will help me if you want to get back to the 23rd century.” His grip on the small weapon
tightened. “Years ago, one of our agents here in London was about to be compromised. I was assigned to pose as a defector and
pass false information to British Intelligence that would divert suspicion from him and enable him to escape. But the British knew more
about the situation than we thought, and I was inexperienced. They knew I was lying from the start; I didn’t have a chance. Our man
was arrested, and I was sent back to Moscow.
“My best friend Vyktor was one of two KGB agents picking me up at the airport. On our way out, he killed his partner. Vyktor had
decided to defect and he was taking me with him. He was a pilot in the war; he stole a plane, and in a few minutes, we were flying
towards France. Then Vyktor told me the KGB had arrested my wife and my grandmother – ” Milo’s voice trembled, his large eyes
beginning to puddle with tears. It was a full minute before he could continue.
“The KGB killed them. My Natalia and my grandmother – the only family I had – I hardly remember the rest of the flight. Somewhere
near the German-French border, we ran short of fuel. Vyktor remembered an airbase near the border. He intended to refuel there, but
he crippled the plane as we were landing – the runway was slick with snow. We stole a truck from the base and joined a convoy
heading for the border. We had just crossed into France when the convoy stopped; forced to leave that truck behind, we stole another
one. But the owner, a farmer, shot Vyktor. As Vyktor lay dying in my arms, he begged me to go on to England with the information he
had stolen to barter for our protection. I did so. It was all I could do; the KGB were right behind us, and to stay would have meant my
own capture.”
Confused, Chekov said, “And now you want to go back to the day Vyktor died and – ”
“No! Don’t you understand?! My mistake was becoming a KGB agent.” Milo snorted angrily. “I thought I was serving my country,
protecting her from enemy agents, making her strong and secure. I was honored to be selected for the special training. I studied hard
and excelled in all my classes. If I had known then what the consequences would be, I would have failed them. There’s no shame in
that. I would have become just another government official and never left Moscow.” His voice shook, but Milo went on. “I stood by my
country, but did she stand by me when I failed my assignment? She did not. And now I have nothing.” Tears spilling down his face,
Milo added softly, “Pasha, have you never lost someone dear to you?”
Pavel Chekov had, but he could not respond.
Suddenly the communicator beeped, startling both men. Milo smacked his hand down on it; it stopped. Leaping up, Pavel tipped the
table over onto Milo. Its heavy edge caught him in the ribcage, pinning him in his chair to the floor; hot soup, silverware, vodka
skittered down on top of him. Pavel raced around the jumble of furniture, as Milo struggled to free himself, and snatched up the
communicator, relieved to find it whole. He jumped over Milo towards the door, but his leg was grabbed and he fell heavily to the floor.
The communicator flew into the hall. Rolling to one side, Pavel kicked Milo savagely in the ribs. Milo grunted but didn’t let go.
Two more blows finally dislodged him. Pavel stumbled to his feet and retrieved the communicator. He was halfway across the living
room when he was brought down again. The communicator landed in a far corner. Pavel’s arm was twisted roughly high up behind his
back. Pavel let out a sharp cry of pain.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Milo hissed. “But we’re going to do this my way – or your shipmates will beam up a dead man.”
Pavel felt Milo’s knee press into the small of his back. He lay absolutely still, fearing his arm would be broken. Through his ragged
breathing, he heard Milo’s voice again. “Perhaps you need some time to think about this.” The words caressed his ear. Then came a
heavy blow to the back of his head, and Pavel was enveloped in darkness.
When he came to, he was back in the dining room. The table and all the chairs were righted, and his was pushed up to the table.
The ropes all around him held him tightly; the gag in his mouth prevented him from screaming. He ached in a half dozen different
places.
“I’ll leave you on your own now,” said Milo, getting stiffly to his feet at Pavel’s side, “to consider what we discussed awhile ago.” His
breathing was shallow, as if every breath was painful. Pavel wondered regretfully if the heavy table had broken some ribs. He had only
meant to buy himself some time to contact the ship. “Don’t think about making a row. I’ll just be in the next room and I won’t be
asleep.” Milo limped to the dining room door and shut it behind him.
Pasha, have you never lost someone dear to you?
Few people go through life without facing disappointment and sorrow. As Chekov recalled his many loves, he realized the departure
of one always made way for another, special and wonderful in her own way. He would not turn back time to prevent any loss – even if
he could.
In spite of his bitter words, however, Milo Pierre seemed to have adapted well to his new country: his ability to navigate that
complicated underground system, his knowledge of London, even his accent and the strange words he used. To say he had nothing
was not true, either, Pavel thought. This apartment seemed quite comfortable, and he did not even live alone. Pavel wondered what
had brought such passion to the surface. Perhaps being in the company of a fellow Russian.
Pavel found himself idly considering how infrequently he himself ran into other Russians in Starfleet. In fact, the pride he showed in
his country’s accomplishments and history was often met with indifference by his shipmates – sometimes even ridicule and criticism.
If I’d wanted a Russian history lesson, I would’ve brought along Mr. Chekov.
Pavel winced at the memory. Sulu had laughed as he told of Kirk’s words. But Pavel didn’t join in. His Captain’s remark had
wounded him. Over the years, he had mentioned such things less and less. He was beginning to understand Milo’s situation.
Somewhere in the apartment came a rhythmic chiming. Pavel counted each individual note: eight. With a start, he realized how
many hours had passed since he last saw Gillian. How much longer could the ship remain in undetected orbit around Earth? He
strained against the ropes, sweat breaking out on his forehead at the thought of being stranded.
The dining room door swung open. Milo leaned wearily against the frame, his gun in one hand, the other clasped to his side.
Although he had taken off his coat, he had not changed his clothes; they clung damply to him. Some sort of leather pouch hung below
his left arm, held in place by a strap round each shoulder. “Have you decided?” he asked.
Pavel nodded. Milo slid the gun into the pouch before removing the gag and undoing the ropes. Shakily, Pavel stood, saying, “I’ll
need the communicator to contact the ship. They will beam us up. Then the date you want to go back to will be calculated and
implemented.” Milo covered him with the gun again, nodded, and motioned toward the living room.
The communicator was lying on a table. Pavel started to reach for it, then suddenly brought his hand down on Milo’s wrist. The gun
thudded to the floor. As Milo clutched his wrist, Pavel swung his fist under, intending to strike Milo’s injured ribcage. But Milo
anticipated that move. Stepping aside, he gripped the front of Pavel’s shirt and threw a punch into his stomach. The blow doubled
Pavel over. Another to his jaw knocked him to the floor. But as Milo bent forward to haul him to his feet again, Pavel kicked him
squarely in the ribs.
Milo crumpled to the floor, his face contorted in agony. Before he could move again, Pavel grasped an arm and twisted it behind Milo’
s back. Milo jerked, shut his eyes, but did not make a sound. Pavel twisted higher.
The gun was lying nearby. Carefully Pavel picked it up. He had never handled a weapon like it before.
“Go on. Pull the trigger,” said Milo tightly. “You’d be doing me a favour.”
Pavel glanced down. Milo’s eyes were open, staring up at him.
“I’m not a killer,” Chekov told him and let go of Pierre’s arm. He watched Milo drag the limb in front of him, pushing himself to his feet.
Pavel lay the gun down on the couch.
To Chekov’s surprise, Milo said, “I was wondering what you would do. Whether you would help me or try to escape. I changed my
mind. You see, it was after my training as a KGB agent that I met my wife. We all had leave at the Oktyabr Recreation Home in
Kyslovodsk, and my Natalia was there. If I had not completed my training, I would never have met her.” The large dark eyes grew misty
again. “Natalia gave me the four best years of my life . . . I could not give that up.”
Gently Pavel squeezed Milo’s forearm. “Perhaps someone else.”
But Milo shook his head. “There can only be one love in my life.” Abruptly, he said, “My roommate Jamie was one of the British
agents I became associated with during my defection. At the moment, he’s on an assignment, but sometimes I’m able to help him. . . .
There’s a saying in the Secret Service. If a man can be turned once, he can be turned again. I spend a lot of time trying to convince
Jamie I truly defected and that I don’t intend to go back to the KGB. The denial of my culture, my history – it’s a very high price to pay .
. .” He stopped a moment and offered his hand. “It was good to be with you,” he whispered. “Shchastilvava pooti.”
Wordlessly, Pavel gripped him in a tight bearhug. When they pulled apart, he opened the communicator. “Vessyl Kit, come in,
please.”
Gillian’s voice crackled over the device. “Chekov! We’ve been damned worried about you! Where the hell have you been?”