In the Nether Realms of Sanity
By
Patricia Wright
Kirk surveyed the clipboard that Spock handed him with more care than usual. The name he searched for was missing.
“Entering standard orbit.”
“Thank-you, Lieutenant,” the Captain replied. After a moment, he raised his eyes to the Ensign that sat at the Navigation Station.
“Mr. Chekov, you’re not taking advantage of the shore-leave opportunity?”
The man turned his dark, wide and painfully hollow eyes to meet his Captain’s. “No, Sir,” he answered without emotion, and turned back
to the panel before him. “I’ve seen Space Stations before.”
Kirk grimaced slightly as he felt the recriminating stare of the Doctor who stood beside the command chair. Without glancing at him, he
pushed the clipboard back to his First Officer. “You have the con, Spock.”
McCoy was waiting in the lift by the time the Captain got there. His arms folded across his chest, the man's steely glare had only
hardened.
“You could order him on leave,” the ship’s Chief Medical Officer growled.
“Deck 12. So could you,” Kirk noted, glancing at him. “But we both know that it wouldn’t do any good to force him to leave the ship.” He
sighed. “Chekov would just sit in a room on the Space Station for the duration of his leave."
“You know he’s been picking up extra duty shifts at night?” the Doctor asked in an accusing tone.
Kirk nodded and glanced at his friend again. “It’s the one thing I find somewhat heartening, Bones. The boy has always embraced his
work with zeal: he likes to keep busy.”
“Yes,” McCoy rasped, scowling. “As always, he pulls his Alpha Bridge duty--currently mornings, helps Spock with his pet projects
afterward, and NOW, he’s pulling night duty, too. Can you perhaps enlighten me as to when he might be sleeping?”
The ship’s commanding officer reflected on his Navigator’s unusually quiet demeanor and his now ever-hollow eyes.
“He’s eating,” was the only comment he could offer.
“Yeah, like he’s obese. Chekov’s got a high metabolism and inhales vast amounts of food: of which he doesn’t seem to have any
dislikes. Lately, however, he’s been eating so little he’s lost ten pounds in the last month.”
Kirk turned his full attention to McCoy then. “You’ve had him in sickbay?”
The Doctor blinked, startled. “In his mood? Hell, no. I can just tell by looking at him: and he doesn’t have the weight to lose, Jim.”
The Captain shifted uncomfortably and decided to switch to the direct tack. “Do you think he’ll make it, Bones?” he asked with quiet
concern.
McCoy scowled. “Of course he’ll make it. I don’t know that anyone’s ever died from self-loathing. Whether he’ll ever come anywhere
close to being a truly usable officer again, or even close to the person he was, is what’s in doubt.”
“No one on this ship is responsible for what that sick alien from Beta XII-A made them do under its influence,” Kirk muttered in a fierce
snarl, the taste of his alien-inspired hatred for the Klingons still fresh in his mouth.
The Doctor shook his head slowly. “Jim, we’re talking about the human psyche. I’ve found that everyone affected generally believes the
alien dug up and used something it found buried deep within them. They all feel they've found out some dark secret about themselves.
Captain, I won't lie: I'm finding they’re right. Sickbay has had their hands full for the last month dealing with the psychological effects of
people learning the truths they didn't necessarily want to know.”
Kirk scowled this time. “I have trouble believing that it applies to Chekov’s case. Are you trying to tell me that probably most
conservative male on this ship is secretly a rapist a heart?"
His reply was a smirk. "Aren't we all?" McCoy asked.
Kirk blinked, startled. "Bones, are you saying all human males are rapists?"
The Doctor's smirk only broadened. "Yes, in a manner of speaking. Jim, human beings still carry with them the instincts that ensure the
survival of the species--including propagation."
The Captain's jaw shifted, a wicked sparkle in his hazel eyes. "Why, Doctor, am I to understand that your theory is that we're all secretly
cavemen still wanting to drag a mate off by her hair?"
"There's nothing so secret about it." McCoy rolled his eyes, letting out a great huff. "What do you think accounts for our supposedly
civilized species’ rougher...escapades?"
Chuckling out loud, Kirk grinned at his friend. "Have you explained this to Chekov? Have you let him know the alien was acting on him
being a human male and not on some sick perversion?" No one who knew the pleasant young man would ever believe him normally
capable of such a violent exertion of power over a woman.
“Of course I've explained it to him," the Doctor sighed. "He thanked me politely, then asked me to leave.
"You know Chekov, Jim. He holds himself up to impossibly high standards, higher than any sane man could expect to meet. I expect
you, of all people, can understand that. It doesn't make matters any better the way he looks up to you. Perhaps you should talk to him."
The Captain glanced at him impudently as the lift door opened. "I have. He doesn't seem to hear anything."
Stepping out of the lift, Kirk strode a few steps before he drew his lips into a fine line. "Chekov's one of the finest young officers I've
ever encountered and he won't be lost to the Fleet on my watch. Talk to him again, Bones. Find a specialist in Sickbay if you have to."
"Jim!" he protested, scrambling to catch up to the Captain's strides. "Chekov may be one of the friendliest people I've ever
encountered, but you know as well as I he's also probably the most private. Pavel Chekov does not share his personal information with
anyone but his closest friends. He's refused hypnosis in the past, as well as one of Spock's mind-melds. He's never going to agree to
psychotherapy."
"Not even to save his career?"
McCoy walked in silence for a few moments. "Captain, your files on your personnel contain only the information necessary for you to
run this ship. My files only contain medical information pertinent to ship’s business. Only permission from the individual can flesh out
those details.
"Tell me," he continued. "That your files on Chekov are not as sparse as mine."
Kirk pursed his lips and sighed again, but the intercom interrupted his thoughts.
“Communications to Captain Kirk.”
He punched the nearest intercom button. It wasn’t Uhura, so the Alpha Bridge Team’s shift had ended. “Kirk here. What is it Lieutenant
Burton?”
“Captain, we’re receiving a communiqué from the Space Station. There’s a civilian requesting permission to come aboard.”
“A civilian?!” McCoy scowled. “What on earth for?”
Kirk eyed his friend with amusement, realizing he actually felt the stirring of hope somewhere within: despite the improbability of his
thoughts. Was it possible that Chekov’s family was as close as Sulu had led them to believe. Or was it just some petty trader or
diplomat trying to worm their way onto his ship? “Bones, Fleet regulations allow off-duty officers to receive visitors aboard the ship, with
the Captain’s permission,” he said aloud.
“I knew that,” the Doctor grumbled, folding his arms across his chest again.
The Captain smiled outright then, as it was obvious that the man had not known it. “Who is it, and what’s the purpose of their visit?”
“Captain, they give the man’s name as Andrie Nick…” the Lieutenant hesitated then and Kirk interrupted before he massacred the
name.
“Andrie Nikolaievich,” he said knowingly, the smile becoming downright cocky with triumph. Hell, Sulu wasn’t exaggerating after all.
Bright hazel eyes met the Doctor’s gaze with reassurance as he spoke into the intercom again. “He’s here to see Ensign Chekov?”
“Why, yes, Sir.” There was mild surprise in the man’s voice.
“Permission to come aboard. Notify Chekov so he can meet him in the transporter room, as per regulations.”
Kirk punched off the intercom. “Andrie Chekov,” he explained to the confused Doctor. “Chekov’s father.”
“Chekov’s father?” McCoy repeated as Kirk turned and began striding back to the lift. The Doctor strode to catch up to the Captain as
he hesitated briefly, waiting for the lift to arrive. “He said the man’s name was…”
“Andrie Nikolaievich,” Kirk repeated. “Russians don’t customarily use their family names: except when they adapt to our conventions.
Andrie Chekov isn’t a man who adapts,” he explained as he entered the lift.
"I thought Chekov’s father was some kind of peasant that doesn't like space travel," McCoy said as he followed him back into the lift.
"What's he doing all the way out here?"
The immediate thought that occurred to Kirk was that Andrie had somehow realized there was something wrong with Chekov. Somehow,
across the galaxy, he knew. What he said was: “Andrie’s here to see his son. If Chekov’s off duty, it’s allowed. Transporter Room.”
"I thought we were going to get something to eat," McCoy muttered scowled as the lift began moving.
"With Andrie Chekov coming aboard? I'm not going to miss the opportunity to welcome him. The food will still be there in a half hour,
Bones.”
“Who the hell is Andrie Chekov that you’re so determined to meet him?” He scrambled to keep up with his commanding officer’s long
strides as he left the lift.
Kirk glanced at his friend, but it took him a minute to decide what to say. McCoy had been right earlier: Chekov didn't share much of his
private life with people and the Captain was not going to violate any amount of trust the man had placed in him. “Andrie's the one man
Chekov will talk to, Bones,” is what he said. "Besides, I want to meet the man who was able to put up with our impetuous, hot-headed
Chief Navigator for seventeen years and stay sane.”
“You’re a horrible liar,” McCoy commented as they entered the Transporter Room. They had made it there before Chekov, and it was
Scotty who was at the control panel. Being on the Alpha Bridge Team, he, too, was off-duty: there were no secrets within the confines
of a space ship.
“Shall I beam him up, Captain?”
“No,” Kirk replied, raising his eyebrows. “You know regulations require the Officer responsible for the visitor to greet them as they come
aboard.”
“Aye,” the man sighed and leaned easily against the control podium.
Chekov entered then, Sulu close on his heels. They hesitated at the sight of the senior officers, but Kirk just nodded to the Chief
Engineer.
“Proceed, Mr. Scott.”
The man who materialized was the Navigator’s exact build and height, and wore rough black boots, faded brown trousers and an off-
white homespun peasant shirt trimmed with delicate red embroidery. His thick, wavy coal-black hair was twisted into a short braid at the
back of his neck: secured with a black velvet ribbon. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache framed his deeply tanned face.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain Kirk?”
The ship’s commander blinked, realizing too late that he’d been staring. The man’s large, dark eyes regarded him with nothing but
tolerance, however.
“Permission granted, Si…Mr. Chekov.”
“Andrie, please, Sir,” the man corrected as he moved gracefully down off the transporter platform.
“And I insist you call me Jim," Kirk replied taking the man's hand. No, the Captain thought in response to what he'd heard. Andrie
Chekov did not actually look like a Romanov tsar. His hair was too thick and dark, he was too short and his hands were thick-skinned
from work.
The old-style neatly trimmed Russian beard and upswept mustache gave the casual observer the royal impression, decided Kirk. A
quiet air of absolute authority also rested easily about the man and each of his subtle movements had a regal grace to them. Of course
they did, he chuckled to himself: part of the man's job was to teach dance.
"I know this is not an official visit," the Captain continued as he released the man's hand. "But if you have time to fit in an official tour, I’d
be honored.”
The man nodded, his expressive eyes warm. "Thank-you for the offer, Jim: I hope to have time to take advantage of the opportunity.”
“It doesn't appear that you need introductions,” Chekov commented, but turned to the other senior officers. “This is our Chief Medical
Officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chekov,” he responded with a firm handshake.
“Andrie,” he corrected again, and inclined his head toward his son. "He's Mr. Chekov. Dr. McCoy," he continued, "Any Doctor that has
succeeded in earning my son's respect I hold in the highest regard."
"Yes, well, we've agreed to not annoy each other," McCoy replied as he released the man's hand.
The visitor's dark eyes sparkled as he turned to Scotty.
“Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott,” Chekov said.
“Andrie,” the Engineer said as he pumped the man’s hand. At least he had gotten the point, Kirk noted.
“It’s an honor to meet such a legendary innovator," Andrie professed. "Frankly, I wouldn't have trusted anyone else’s transporter.” The
man's deep, somber eyes and tenor voice delivered the clear message that he meant it.
This brought a chuckle of pride from the ship’s Engineer. "You're a wise man, Sir."
Andrie’s gaze turned and rested on Sulu then. When the Helmsman hesitated, shifting uncomfortably, the visitor’s dark eyes sparkled.
He glanced briefly to Kirk, then back again. “He knows we’re Russian, Hikaru.”
Sulu shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I'm not Russian."
The dark eyes stayed patiently on the younger man a moment. "Not entirely," he commented. "Not yet."
A smile gushed over the Helmsman's face and his dark eyes gleamed wickedly. "You're diabolical, Papashka," Sulu insisted as he let
the older man gather him into a fierce bear hug. They exchanged three kisses on their cheeks in the Russian fashion of devotion. As
Andrie pulled back slightly, he spoke quietly into the younger man’s ear. Sulu nodded and received a final squeeze before he
completely pulled away.
“Are you done yet?” Chekov growled impatiently, his own dark eyes betraying the truth of his amusement. It was the first time Kirk had
seen any emotion in them for longer than he cared to think about.
Andrie exchanged a dramatic look with Sulu. "Yes," he attested, "I do believe so."
With a smirk, Chekov exchanged the same greeting with him that Sulu had. It said something to Kirk about the Navigator's character
that he had waited to greet the man last. "Welcome aboard, Papa."
“You don’t look anything alike,” McCoy blurted out, glancing from one to the other when they separated.
The two Chekov men exchanged a glance before the visitor’s brown eyes met the Doctor’s steel blue ones. He flashed the man a
brilliant smile whose charm was all too familiar.
“Ahh…” McCoy drawled, his face flushing slightly as everyone else in the room chuckled.
“Enjoy your visit," the Captain interjected pleasantly. "Mr. Chekov knows how to contact…well, any one of us, should you find yourself
needing anything.”
“Thank-you, Jim,” Andrie replied as the majority of the group moved to leave the room. He stopped the Doctor with a gentle hand on his
shoulder. “Also, his mother has green eyes,” he remarked quietly. “And she’s not quite as hairy as we.”
McCoy was still laughing when door slid shut with only the Chekov men still in the Transporter Room.
“He’s a right friendly sort,” Scotty commented, smiling as they moved to follow the Captain toward the food he’d promised McCoy.
“Well, our Chief Navigator is a friendly sort,” the Doctor said in defense of the younger man.
Kirk waited against the back wall of the lift until the rest of the group entered. “Andrie Nikolaievich has a way of putting people at ease.”
“Yeah,” Sulu agreed as the doors slid shut. He folded his hands behind his back and pursed his lips. “Just don’t piss him off.”
* * *
“How did you get here?” Chekov asked when the others had left the room.
Andrie shrugged insignificantly. “Government cruiser, Mr. Scott’s transporter.”
Amazement filled his son’s eyes. “You get space sick.”
Nodding, the older man straightened his belt. “Extraordinary how well those twenty-third century sedatives work.”
The Navigator grinned. “I didn’t expect you to be wearing peasant clothes."
His father glanced down at himself. “Well, I am on vacation from…my ‘government job’,” he observed, meeting his son’s dark eyes with
his own, a knowing glint in them. Although they’d never discussed it, he knew the Navigator didn't divulge what his father did for a living.
“You’re a cultural anthropologist,” Pavel drawled in response to the man’s unspoked thought. “And your salary does come from the
government."
“So I’ve heard,” Chekov’s father said, unconsciously straightening his short braid.
The Navigator’s eyes drifted to the action, and then lingered on the man, narrowing. “You’re not wearing your earring.”
The man grinned: the crooked grin the Starfleet Officer saw daily in his own mirror. “Didn’t want to look like a pirate, Malyenki.”
“Thanks,” the younger man expressed. He knew his father had done so, like the clothes he’d chosen to wear, to be less conspicuous
on board the ship where his son had to live.
“Captain Kirk knows what I do,” Andried commented.”
“What makes you think...” Chekov stopped at the steady gaze of the man. Of course: he had seen the knowledge in Kirk's eyes. No one
ever hid anything from Andrie Chekov.
“Well, are you going to show me the compartment of this sardine can that you live in?” his father asked pleasantly.
“Yes,” he answered hurriedly, and led the man out into the ship’s corridor. “But why are you here?”
“You haven’t written lately,” was Andrie's comment
“Papa, you traveled half way across the galaxy because I haven’t written?”
The dark eyes sparkled and glanced at his son. “This seems uncharacteristic to you?”
“No, it’s exactly something you would do. But it’s only been a few weeks.”
“How long was Hikaru on Earth your last shore leave before I went and dragged him home?”
“Thirty-six hours.”
“Exactly. Thirty-six hours and he hadn’t bothered to come home.” There was no question in anyone’s mind where exactly they
considered Sulu’s home on Earth to be.
“He had to go to his Cousin’s wedding, Papa. His Aunt’s is his only family left on the planet.”
The man stopped instantly and fixed dark, cold eyes on his son.
“Biological family,” Chekov clarified.
Andrie nodded acquiesce to that point and continued striding down the corridor. “American weddings don’t take thirty-six hours. Hikaru’
s biological family…” he thought better of what he was going to say and stopped.
“I heard that,” Pavel chuckled as they entered the lift. “Seems you told him to find reasons to respect his family.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I don’t need to.” The man was silent until the lift doors opened again. Their eyes met. “His father is missing the
companionship of a fine young man.”
“His father is an asshole,” Chekov snorted. He shifted uncomfortably under his father’s glare. “It's okay: you’re worth sharing, Papa. C’
mon.”
When they entered the cabin, the older man’s eyes slowly took in the contents as he moved through the rooms. A function of his
photographic memory, even the smallest detail would be remembered, Chekov knew: even if it was meaningless.
“Surprised?”
“At what? You described it in vivid detail a thousand different times. So did Hikaru,” he added.
To a thousand different people at home, Pavel thought. “Backdoor,” the Navigator explained as the man noted it. “Bathroom.”
“Hikaru’s cabin is on the other side?”
Nodding, Pavel sat down on the edge of his bed. “Better than the Academy where we had to share a room. We still share the
bathroom--and he’s still a slob.”
His father stepped back from where he was peering into the bathroom and turned his eyes to his son. “You’ve chosen a good friend,
Malyenki.”
Chekov stared at the floor and nodded, then looked up after a moment to meet the man’s gaze. “He wrote to you.”
Andrie shrugged dismissively and sank onto the bed next to him. “He always writes me.”
Pavel jerked to his feet and strode away unable, unwilling, to be near the man he was closest to in the universe. “Did he tell you I tried
to rape a Klingon?”
A raised eyebrow of curiosity was his response. “Was it a woman?” Amusement was playing across his father's face when Chekov
turned back to him.
“Funny.”
He shrugged again. “Must have been a strong woman. Takes a lot to deter you when you’ve made your mind up.”
“Kirk punched me.” The Navigator tried to remain sober, dismal, but he could see his father’s sly grin out of the corner of his eye. The
color flushed into his cheeks and he grinned despite himself. He was never allowed to take himself too seriously around his family:
especially his father.
“Everybody around here seems to think the whole incident with Mara is what’s put you into your latest funk.”
Pavel snorted in response, but thought: Good God, he even knows her name. “You obviously don’t think so,” is what he said heavily as
he allowed himself to drop back on the bed.
The older man leaned back, balancing his hands on the bed, and took a moment to absently read the names of the hardbound books
on the shelf he faced.
“You told them the Klingons killed your brother Piotir.” He turned his eyes and watched as the color drained out of his son’s face. It was
another moment before he spoke again. “There’s a name I haven’t heard you speak since you were eight.”
“I wish they had,” he snarled instantly, the hatred that had been growing and festering inside spewing forth in a vehement outburst like
a volcano that had finally exploded in release. “I wish they had tortured him to death…slowly.” The sheer loathing consumed him. It was
not anything he could have shared with anyone else, not even Sulu, but his father was his dearest friend and more, he knew Pavel
Andrievich down to his atom’s parts. “I wish…why did that BEAST have to find his name?”
His father studied him and, even without looking, Pavel could feel the affection in his eyes. He didn’t feel worthy of it at the moment, didn’
t feel he earned it. That was the fundamental thing about love though; it didn’t need to be deserved to be given.
“I had come to believe that you would never remember him.”
“I don’t,” he stated. Tucking his right foot beneath his left thigh, he turned to face his father. “I don’t remember him. I don’t know what he
looked like. I can’t remember anything about him, really. I just know now that he existed.”
“Malyenki, is that what’s bothering you?” The older man sat up again, turned to face his son, and tucked both legs beneath him.
The men that worked for his father traveled with the family on their business trips and bunked with them in the winter. It was
understandable, therefore, that until he was five Pavel Chekov had actually thought they were his older brothers. He had never
stopped relating to them as brothers and that he would have completely forgotten one of them was mind-boggling.
"No," he spat out in return. "I want to know why...why?” Chekov asked, a clear note of anger in is voice. “Why doesn’t anyone ever talk
about him? All these years and there's been not one mention of his name even. No pictures of him in any of the photos. WHY? Aren’t
there even pictures of him?”
“We put all the pictures of Piotir away,” his father answered calmly. He glanced at a photo on another nearby shelf. It was the latest
picture of the family posed with the men that were always with them. Andrie studied the people in the picture--and the dog. The damned
dog. The only time he had flat out said no to his son, he had thought the amount of traveling the family did would be too hard on a pet
so he refused to get the boy a dog.
So, the men gave him a puppy as a gift, and Andrie could not possibly be so cruel as to send the thing back. Blasted dog, he thought
again. The 'older brothers' that made up his world spoiled Pavel Chekov to the very point of intolerance. This young man should be a
monster. But then, there was always Sergie’s influence.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why there are no group photos from before you were nine?” he asked.
Chekov glanced at the picture in question briefly. “I guess I just always thought it hadn’t occurred to Mama to do it before then.”
Andrie shook his head, his dark eyes tender. “Pavel," he explained. "The day after Piotir died, you got up and acted like nothing had
happened. You acted like Piotir had never existed. Sasha mentioned his name and you…” He stopped for a moment, then let out a
quiet breath. "We decided then to stop talking about him, to put away the pictures, to not press the memory.
“You were only eight and Piotir was the first person you lost that was close to you. We just thought you needed time.”
Pavel smiled sardonically. “A little more time than you expected, I imagine,” he muttered.
The man beside him shrugged, nodding in mute acknowledgement.
"What was Piotir like, Papa?"
Andrie met his son’s eyes with a steady gaze. “He was young--just your age now.” He stopped then, strangely enough, and stared off
into the distance beyond Pavel.
“He wasn’t happy,” he continued when he finally met the younger man’s eyes again. He was never happy, never content. Something
that happened to him made him feel unworthy of anything good. I was never able to touch him.” There was regret in his father’s tone, a
man who was skilled at knowing people, a man who valued people above all else.
“No one ever did. Piotir didn't talk much--kept people at an arms length. That’s who you learned that particular skill from, Pavel.”
He began to protest that he did no such thing, but it would have been futile. They both knew that he did. He had grown up the son of
Andrie Nikolaievich and had the disadvantage of being known already by nearly everybody he met. The trusting boy had learned early
on that rarely were people's intentions pure, rarely did they actually have any interest in Pavel himself.
“For such a charming, friendly guy,” McCoy had once commented, “You don’t seem to have that many actual friends.”
Quality, not quantity.
"It took nearly a year for you to admit Sulu was your friend," his father drawled languidly. It was unusual for the man to refer to anyone
by their last name--he thought the practice impersonal and rude.
"Six months, two weeks," Chekov corrected instantly. Assigned the now Helmsman as his 'Big Brother' in the Academy's mentoring
program, he'd had to live with the disorganized man for his first two years there. Being a good friend was imbedded in the Navigator's
nature and it had been no different with his new roommate.
When he had discovered that the man had no family ties on Earth except to an Aunt he had met only twice: had no real family ties
anywhere, Chekov had taken him home to his own family. When he had also discovered American-born, but space station-raised Sulu
had actually never seen his native country, Chekov had taken it upon himself to spend their free time dragging him to every cultural
spot in the United States he could imagine. Landmarks, monuments, National Forests, National Historic Sites, museums: the son of
cultural anthropologists, Chekov had a font of imagination on the subject.
February wandered around before Chekov realized it was not only Sulu that had a friend: he had a friend in return. The upperclassman
had insisted on taking the reigns one day and planned their activities. Chekov, who couldn’t eat seafood, agreed finally and dismally
looked forward to a day touring San Francisco’s authentic sushi bars. Only Hikaru Sulu had taken him to MGM Studios instead. The
upperclassmen had obtained open backstage passes and spent the day exploring the back lots and long forgotten sets with his
roommate. Sulu even got hold of Gene Kelly’s umbrella and hat, and arranged for it to rain. He refused to leave the set or stop the
downpour until Pavel had given his best shot at making a fool of himself like Gene Kelly.
To plan that day, Sulu had to have noticed which old American films Chekov was always watching in their room. He had to have realized
that they were nearly all musicals, found out they were mostly made by MGM and what’s more, he had to have paid attention to which
particular scenes sent Pavel into utter abandonment. Hikaru Sulu had paid attention to who Pavel Chekov was--and had made an effort
to specially tailor a day to his enjoyment. That was a friend, at its basic level, and it humbled the younger man to have earned one.
Of course, Chekov knew that Sulu had gotten the passes through Andrie’s clout: but the fact that he’d even approached the man with
whom he still had just a tenuous bond said much to Pavel, his father, and the people at home. By the time they visited Russia next, their
travels had become a folk story told around the village fires with gusto: culminating in the vivid image of Pavel Andrievich dancing in the
rain. It was then that Sulu found himself utterly and completely adopted as one of their own. It was the villagers who had first referred to
the man as Pavel’s brother. Neither Starfleet cadet had found reason to object to the classification.
As for Sulu, that day had confirmed what he had suspected since he had first met Andrie. Pavel’s father was prone to burst into joyful
dances whenever the mood seized him. Folk dances, tap, ballroom: he did them all equally well. Chekov admitted knowing the folk
dances his father taught, but the trip to MGM proved to Sulu that the young man could once tap as well as his father did.
Hell, Chekov thought. You have to find something to do in the Russian spring when the outside world is buried a foot deep in mud.
“Did Piotir love me?” he suddenly asked.
“Love you?" Andrie repeated, startled. "Pavel, you’re the only thing in life that Piotir ever found joy in. We used to set you to the same
tasks so he could spend his time with you.”
“I know he used to tend the chickens," Chekov observed. "I don’t remember him doing it: I just know he did.”
His father nodded. “You used to help him.”
Silence swelled in the cabin then, its presence hanging in the air like a third occupant. “The only thing I actually remember now is how
he died,” Chekov finally said quietly. "Piotir was sitting next to me. I can’t see his face, but I can se him sitting next to me.” He paused
and took in a deep breath, looking off past his father. “ ‘Pavel Andrievich’, he said, ‘You’re gong to make a difference in this universe.’”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father’s tan face lose all color. He knew full well that's why he wasn't looking directly at the
man. This is why he hadn't written to him, what he didn't want the man to know. In protecting his father, however, he was running the
risk of destroying himself, and they both knew it.
Pavel Chekov needed his father to know. Andrie Chekov had the right to know.
“He spoke to you?” The subtle question came from somewhere off in the distance.
Pavel still didn’t look at his father, he just nodded. “His last words were ‘Pavel Andrievich, you’re going to make a difference in this
universe.’”
The silence took over the small room again. “You knew, didn’t you?” Chekov finally asked, making himself turn to search his father’s
eyes. “You knew all these years it wasn’t an accident: didn’t you? You knew he didn't fall." He hesitated again, his voice catching in his
throat as the guilt took over the depths of his wide eyes.
“I had no proof,” the man answered quietly. “But yes, I knew.”
“How could he do that to me if he loved me?” Chekov demanded.
Andrie gave him a tolerant look. “You believe that Piotir set out to purposely hurt you?”
Chekov cast his eyes down. It wasn’t Andrie’s way to come right out and call you an egotistical moron, but he managed to get his point
across anyway.
“Of course not. He wasn’t thinking of me at all.”
"Perhaps he was," the older man mused out loud. "Humans think anyone who commits suicide is selfishly only thinking about
themselves. Humans are never that simple, however.
“When a person has come believe that suicide is a good solution, their mind has stopped working properly. They often think they're
solving the problems of the people they love, too: relieving their burdens by 'going away.'
“You did make a difference in his life, Pavel Andrievich. He loved you so much you were the only person he made sure he said
goodbye to," Andrie pointed out quietly. That a child had been given the burden of such knowledge was incomprehensible. No wonder
the Navigator's mind had locked it away all these years.
Chekov cast his wide eyes down and chewed on his bottom lip, forcing the tears back, willing them not to spill onto his cheeks. Russian
men didn't suppress their tears but it was guilt these tears betrayed. The guilt and shame choked him, catching his words in his throat
until he couldn't breathe.
"You know what happened to all the chickens that night too." The breathless words were a statement, not a question. He sensed
Andrie's nod rather than saw it. "You must think I'm a monster,” he snarled suddenly, shaking visibly. “I don't know why you didn't send
me away to some hospital for criminals.”
Chekov felt Andrie's fingers on his chin, gently raising it and turning him until he faced he older man. The Navigator still didn't raise his
eyes, but his father was a patient man. He waited.
Chekov finally found the strength to meet his father's warm gaze, brimming with depthless affection.
“The immediate human response to death is anger,” Andrie explained gently. "What I thought then, and think now, was that you were
an angry child lashing out at Piotir by killing the chickens you knew he loved. Not an inappropriate response, I think, for someone who
watched the man kill himself and had not the capacity to begin to understand it."
“I shouldn't have killed the chickens,” Chekov muttered soberly.
Andrie dropped his hand back in his lap and shrugged. “Piotir had taught you how. You can sulk in self-loathing for years to come, I
suppose, but we had some damn fine poultry dishes that week.”
An explosive snicker burst out of the Navigator despite himself. Dark eyes sparkling, Andrie stretched out his legs in front of him and
casually nursed the concept. “Fried chicken, baked chicken, broiled chicken," he recited. "Stuffed chicken, chicken stew, chicken
parmesan, chicken cacciatore, chicken marcela, chicken stroganoff....That,” he hesitated, frowning dramatically in thought, “was not so
good.”
Chekov set his shoulders straight. “We had a whole lot of damn chickens,” he remarked.
Explosive laughter burst out of them at the same time and the younger man grinned, wondering not for the first time how his father
always managed to effortlessly manipulate the moods in the human's around him. Especially in his only son.“I'm just glad,” the older
man was saying, eyeing him with warmth, “That you got my charm as well as your mother's temper.”
The Navigator laughed harder in return. “Unfortunately, I got my strong will from both of you.”
Andrie's laugh turned wild. “Pavel, you never had a chance. You're not only stubborn, you're spoiled: and I'm impatient to spoil an
entire horde of grandchildren now.” There was no question that Pavel’s children would live with his extended family: even if he was still
somewhere in deep space.
“I wouldn't count on me getting married anytime soon, Papa,” Chekov commented, still smiling.
“Married?” his father declared explosively. “You don't have to be married to give me grandchildren, Pavel Andrievich! Do we need to
have a talk?” he asked with concern.
The younger man fell into a spasm of child-like giggles.
“Who said anything about a daughter-in-law?” Andrie continued in an ill-humored mutter. “That's all I need in my life: another woman.”
Chekov continued grinning even though he knew his father was being less than honest. Like most traditional Russians, a large family
was important to Andrie and it was an unspoken family sadness that Pavel couldn't have any real siblings. The man definitely wanted a
daughter-in-law. “I'll start sending home half-Andorian and half-Tellerite babies,” he promised.
“It's the half-Klingon's I'm looking forward to,” the older man professed, then asked: “Are you going to let Kirk give me his 'official tour'?”
“Sure,” Chekov shrugged. “Afterward, I’ll show you the bowling alley.”
His father's eyes widened in curiosity. “Bowling alley? You bowl now? I heard you’re a pool shark.”
Chekov smirked. “Sulu is still fuming that Uhura taught me that game: navigation and billiards are both entirely geometry. In bowling I
hold the distinction of being the galaxy's worst player. It's a very loud game, though, and I did notice that the acoustics in the room
amplify the sounds unbelievably.”
“You think introducing me to this game is vital to my cultural knowledge?”
“Hell, no,” Chekov replied and leaned over to the man conspiratorially. “But late at night no one’s there. The alleys are long strips of
real wood polished to a high gloss.”
His father understood immediately. “And the acoustics…”
“Are astounding.”
The man smiled in childish glee, but then stared at his outstretched feet in dismay. “I only have these boots with me.”
“We wear the same size,” Pavel reminded him. “I have shoes here.”
“Don't the metal taps chip the wood alleys?” the older man asked. “I understood bowling alleys had to be pristine for proper play.”
The Navigator squirmed, his face flushing as the sheepish look flooded his eyes entirely. "Of course they do, but the Environmental
Chief has the last alley shut down for repair ... well ... permanently."
Andrie scowled good-humouredly in understanding. "Spoiled!"
"Officer," Chekov corrected him self-righteously.
“But if I wear your shoes…” Andrie drew out in careful thought.
Chekov understood the implication and laughed. “Papa, I have more than one pair of tap shoes here.”
His father’s smile came back. “I do miss my favorite male partner.” Other men cold dance, but no one else had the utter passion for life
both the Chekov’s did.
“So do I, Papa. So do I.”