Kirk watched the information scroll by on the computer screen again with a sense of satisfaction. Perhaps the glorious stories of a
starship captain’s exploits in deep space brought crowds to their feet in rousing cheers, but he doubted anyone understood the feeling
of complete victory a commander felt when he freed himself of the mundane drudgery that also made up his life.
Switching off the computer, he stood and took a moment to knock the feeling back into his feet.
“Come,” he said absently as the door chimed. The sense of satisfaction sank away when the Admiral, not one of his own officers, came
through the door.
“Admiral Leonov,” he acknowledged, straightening.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” the man smiled pleasantly. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
Kirk didn’t suspect for a moment that he cared one way or the other. “No,” he answered honestly. “I was just finishing up, Sir.”
“I was hoping to kill two birds with one stone,” the Admiral said. “I thought I should meet the young man who was kind enough to
volunteer to spend time with my grandson, and I haven’t had an opportunity to tour navigation yet.”
“That can be easily arranged,” the Captain replied, but Leonov cut off anything further he intended to say.
“Did you say your Chief Navigator was an Ensign? Haven’t you any Lieutenants in Navigation? How old is he?”
“Twenty-two,” Kirk said stiffly, straightening his back as he saw the Admiral blink several times in surprise. The issue had been debated
with people that actually mattered and the Captain was in no mood to rehash it now with Leonov. “He earned it,” was his only clarification
to the man.
It was one day in his career Kirk would have happily lost the memory of. Chekov had stayed with the former Chief Navigator: talking and
praying with the former atheist as he lay dying, comforting the man who had spent his days trying to make the young Russian’s life a
living hell, holding onto a body that made seasoned medical personnel wretch when they finally arrived. While he had knelt with the
Chief, the young man had used the star charts etched into his brain to navigate the ship through the storm and into safety—a necessity
since the ship’s entire navigation system had gone dead from damage.
“He’s skilled: and he has character,” Kirk added to the senior officer.
“Well,” the man replied easily, “ Then I look forward to meeting him. I realize he’s not in navigation currently since he's working with my
grandson. Will it be difficult to find him, do you think?”
A wry smile tugged at the Captain’s lips, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Oh, I imagine not,” he said. Just then a peal of laughter from a child
drifted into the Captain’s office.
The Admiral’s forehead creased with confused lines.
Kirk indicated the door to the man’s left. “The Chief Navigator’s office is next to the Captain's. I believe they’ve been in there for some
time now. I needed to talk to Chekov anyway,” he continued as he moved out from behind his desk. “Perhaps you can touch base with
your grandson while I meet briefly with the Ensign.”
He ignored how taken aback the man looked at the proposal, and merely prompted him through the door. The Admiral hesitated once
through and Kirk smiled knowingly. “Chart room,” he explained, not having felt the need to detail the ship's blueprints entirely. He
indicated a door directly across from the one they had just come through and Leonov continued on through the second door as directed.
Kirk froze as he entered Chekov’s office, his heart stopping. Ice cold, hard hazel eyes glared at the Ensign as he quickly slipped a bottle
off his desk and into his lap behind the child who sat there.
“Admiral,” the Captain bit out without any attempt to control the anger in his voice. “This will be dealt with, I assure you.”
The Senior Officer had paled to the shade of new paper—whiter than any ghost, whiter than Kirk thought any human being could be. He
stood mouthing words without success, and then finally glanced back and forth from the Captain to the Ensign. “What?” he asked,
pointing to Chekov. “The beer? Don’t do anything about that, Captain. Dimitri’s been drinking vodka since he could hold his own baby
bottle. He could probably drink everyone on the ship under the table.”
As could Chekov, thought Kirk ruefully. But that didn't make it right.
“You can’t have pizza without beer,” the child quipped helpfully.
True, thought the Captain, but despite the evidence that was what they had been eating, he was still was none too happy to have seen
the beer in the child's hands.
Chekov at this point was obviously facing his own dilemma. With two senior officers having just entered the room, he was expected to
stand: only he had a cold bottle of beer crushed between his legs and a child weighing them down. He decided to replace the poorly
concealed bottle on the desk and stood quickly, slipping his hand around Dimitri's waist so the boy hung suspended in mid-air, his back
crushed against the Navigator’s chest.
The boy giggled at his dangling position.
“Is this your Chief Navigator?” the Admiral asked hoarsely.
“Yes,” Kirk began replying, but a glance told him that Leonov was still white. Eyes riveted to Chekov, the Fleet Admiral was also still
mouthing many words that never found sound.
“Dimitri,” he growled suddenly in a burst of sound. “Get over here!”
Leonov shot a glance over at Kirk. “Captain, this man…this man…” He stopped, taking a forceful breath. His color started coming back.
“Dimitri,” he asked. “What’s your family name? What’s your name, Dimitri?!”
Kirk straightened, his mouth opening slightly in curiosity. “Admiral,” he asked. “You don’t know your grandson’s name?”
The man shook his head repeatedly. “We don’t use surnames all the time in Russia: and in the Historic Districts...almost never. Dimitri,
come over here!”
While Chekov had lowered the boy to the floor, his hands lingered protectively on the child’s chest. Dimitri made no effort to either move
or respond to his grandfather.
“Dimitri!”
“I don’t want to!” the boy suddenly spat back.
Kirk’s head snapped around, staring at the boy even as he saw the Admiral’s mouth drop open. In Chekov’s time on the ship the
Captain had learned that traditional Russian children were simply never disrespectful or disobedient—and no traditional Russian was
ever rude. Dimitri Ivanovich had just damned himself to hell: both on Earth and in the afterlife.
The Admiral closed his mouth carefully and shifted his eyes to Kirk. “Captain,” he intoned apologetically. “Dimitri’s family name is
obviously Chekov. This man looks exactly like his father.”
“No, I don’t,” Chekov blurted out, more disrespectful than Kirk had ever heard him: but he looked embarrassed by his outburst
immediately.
“Not now,” the Admiral growled. “The only reason he grew the beard was to look older. You look like he did without the beard. He must
be an uncle,” the man said to the Captain.
Leonov turned his attention back to the child then. “Dimitri, come over here now. I’m responsible for you and you know your parents don’
t associate with the Chekovs: they’ll skin me alive if they find out I put you in their hands.”
“My parents don’t associate with the Leonovs either,” the child said darkly. “And yet, I’m here with you.”
The Admiral straightened at that and simply stared at the boy, nonplused.
“I am not Dimitri’s uncle,” Chekov said then, pulling the child tighter against his legs. “Viktor Chekov is thirty four.
“Captain,” he continued, shifting wide, soulful eyes to his commander. Kirk recognized lingering shame in their dark depths. “I told you I
had something important to tell you.”
Jim Kirk stumbled forward then, scrambling to regain his footing in the most undignified fashion after having been ploughed into by his
Chief Surgeon’s explosive entrance from the chart room. At least he didn’t fall face-first into the Admiral. He glowered at McCoy anyway.
“Good,” the Doctor declared, his steel blue eyes indignant. “You’re both here. You’re all here.” Striding toward Chekov, he waved a
computer tape at him across the desk: thrusting it both at the boy and the Navigator.
“Ensign,” he demanded. “Did you know about this?”
“Of course I knew,” Chekov answered stiffly. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Did you think the medical computers wouldn’t pick it up?”
“As a matter of fact, that consideration had not occurred to me,” he replied, sounding more like Spock than was comfortable.
“Look,” Dimitri said suddenly, flashing a brilliant smile and thrusting up his hands--fingers splayed--toward Kirk. “Look, Captain, the
Doctor fixed my hands. They weren’t even this soft when I was born!”
Eyes narrowing slightly, Kirk took a tentative step toward the child. Was it all rural Russians, or just all Chekovs, he wondered? The boy
had just clearly and deliberately tried to break the tension and divert their attention away from what had caused it. Chekov’s bad jokes
were more effective, the Captain decided.
“Dr. McCoy is quite skilled,” he agreed, refusing to acknowledge what the boy had attempted. He saw in Dimitri’s brown eyes however
that the boy knew the Captain wasn’t ignorant of his ineffective ploy.
Spock’s entrance into the office from the main corridor shouldn't have surprised him at this point, but it did nonetheless. Kirk's eyes
swept over the number of inhabitants in the small room. "We'll adjourn to the briefing room down the corridor, gentlemen."
Sweeping out of the room first, the Captain held back in the corridor while the Chief Navigator's office emptied of it's other inhabitants.
He rubbed the back of his neck thoroughly. He didn't know what all these various people wanted with him, but intuition told him his life
was about to become seriously more complicated.
“Bones,” he said when the Doctor took up a place settled into a place beside him. “I’ve got a headache: a massive headache.”
“Just wait,” his friend commented dryly. "It only promises to get worse."
Chekov came out of the office last, his hand resting gently on the boy’s back as he led him along. The Navigator immediately summoned
a passing Yeoman. “Yeoman,” he instructed. “Please escort Dimitri, here, to my cabin. Locate Lieutenant Sulu and ask him to stay with
the boy until I get back: wait until he arrives.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Since the Ensign had so far shown a knack for handling the child, Kirk gave no thought to protesting. Not so the child.
“But I want…”
A glance from the Navigator silenced Dimitri and caused him to lower his eyes.
“Go take a nap: you’ve got decks to clean later.”
“Come along,” the Yeoman was coaxing cheerfully. “I was at lunch today when you were performing. You’re a very talented young man.”
“Thank-you,” the child replied happily. Kirk watched as he turned melted chocolate brown eyes up at the woman and smiled charmingly.
“What an adorable little sailor suit,” she continued as she led him down the corridor. “You’re just cute as a button: I could hug the
stuffing out of you.”
“Thank-you,” he responded cheerfully again. As they approached the end of the corridor, however, the Captain saw as Dimitri twisted
his head around to look back at Chekov. His eyes were not warm, they were not brown. The Ensign was fixed with a dark, demonic and
menacing glare that was clearly a threat as the child disappeared around the corner.
It startled Kirk with its intensity.
“That boy is dangerous,” the Captain intoned with an assurance he felt down to the soles of his feet.
McCoy eyed him. “It’s probably just your headache.”
“An eight year old with that much charm and charisma who's already an expert at using them? Bones, I guarantee you: Dimitri is another
Hitler in the making.”
“I don’t know,” a subdued McCoy observed, eyeing Chekov as they followed him and the others down the corridor. “I wouldn’t go about
designating Dimitri as Hitler‘s heir just yet, Jim.” He gestured thoughtfully as he continued. “The boy’s eight: did it ever occur to you that
he’s just been raised to be polite, respectful and well-mannered?”
“I’ve seen that boy’s eyes,” the Captain argued in low growl as they approached the briefing room. “That’s not respect hidden under the
friendly little child we‘re seeing. That’s a demon,” he pronounced.
“Maybe respect is the wrong word,” the Doctor agreed a little too quickly. “All humans have to learn to use discretion in revealing their
thoughts and feelings to others. When children show discretion, we call it respect: when adults use the skill, it’s called diplomacy.
Captain, can you honestly tell me you haven‘t hidden any of your thoughts or feelings from Admiral Leonov since he arrived? We do it
all the time, Jim,” he said in gentle reminder. “I don’t see how you can rightly blame Dimitri just for being proficient in the art early.”
Kirk froze in his tracks and turned cold, hard hazel eyes on his friend at the briefing room’s closed door. It was indecent for any man to
be right so often. “Bones,” he finally bit out, “When I want your opinion...I’ll ask for it.”
The Captain strode into the briefing room then and took his seat at the head of the table. McCoy settled next to Spock, who already
waited to Kirk's right. Directly opposite the Enterprise officers sat Admiral Leonov.
As Kirk came to rest in his chair, his eyes fell on Chekov seated rigidly at the opposite end of the table. The Ensign’s hands rested on
the table, his eyes frozen on the interlaced fingers. His lowered gaze and his position far removed from the group of senior officers
conveyed the impression that his presence was an intrusion amongst them.
Kirk thought his Chief Navigator looked much younger than he actually was--and even younger than his wholesome good looks could
make him appear when he wanted them to. THAT was it, the Captain realized with sudden clarity: that was what unnerved him about
Dimitri. There were times that Kirk had glimpsed in the child’s dark eyes a maturity and wisdom that reached far beyond his years. In
Chekov’s eyes, caught when the Captain accidentally startled upon their usually hidden depths, James Kirk had also seen that very
same too expansive wisdom and maturity. Both of these Russians seemed to be hiding that they were somehow secretly older than they
allowed others to know about. Was that a product of their shared peasant upbringing? he wondered.
“Captain,” the Admiral began immediately. “I most certainly don’t want to give the impression that I have anything against this young
officer. Given the family difficulties, however, you must understand that I can’t let him baby-sit my grandson any longer. Frankly, I don’t
care, but his parents would have my hide.”
Kirk saw Chekov glance up sharply at the Admiral, then forcefully pull his eyes back down to his hands almost immediately. The Captain
folded his own hands on the table and leaned forward.
“Mr. Chekov,” he intoned curiously without responding to the Admiral. “We seem to have a number of issues to bring to the table here.”
Continuing with a gesture at those gathered, he nodded to the Ensign. “You came to me first with an issue you wished to discuss, so
why don’t we start with you first?”
Wide brown eyes rose to his Captain and he blinked only one, significant, time.
In the young man’s gaze shone the understanding that Kirk had not began with Chekov for the logical reason he expressed, but to
establish clearly from the outset the Ensign’s equal place among the more senior officers at the meeting. The Captain withheld a smirk
at how thin his ruse had been, but he knew his hazel eyes sparkled by the way the Navigator glanced away. Had it taken Dimitri to make
him realize just how much obvious information he had been missing in Chekov’s soulful gaze?
“Captain,” the young man replied. “When I met Dimitri, I contacted you to tell you…” Stopping, he cleared his throat and pulled his hands
into his lap. “I felt it was important that you have certain information…” Chekov hesitated again and swallowed hard. He glanced away,
then down at his hands while trying to gather his words.
Kirk eyed him studiously. The young Navigator may still be impulsive, but no one would allow that his self-assured cockiness ever found
the articulate man wanting for words in speaking even to a superior officer.
“Jim,” the Doctor interrupted, rescuing the Ensign by turning attention away from him. “Dimitri stopped by sickbay earlier for some simple
first aid. I took some calluses off his hands while he was there as well.”
"I know," Kirk smirked wryly. "He told me."
“Well, as you know,” McCoy continued in a more pleasant, professional tone to the Captain. “A starship has to be self-contained.
Whenever anyone is treated in sickbay the equipment automatically takes a wide assortment of readings, stores the data and makes
comparisons. That way if anyone ever needs stored biological samples, stored synthetics or even donations: we instantly know what’s
available--and from who.”
The Captain glanced quickly from the Admiral to McCoy. “Bones, are you saying Dimitri is sick?”
“No!” he blurted in alarm. “The boy is in perfect health.”
Kirk studied him a moment before asking the next obvious question. “He’s a donor match for someone else who is ill?”
“No,” the Doctor shook his head tersely in irritation. “Jim…” he stopped then, straightening and turning to look at Chekov. Their gaze
remained locked for a long moment. When he turned his attention back to the Captain, there was a subtle glimmer in his blue eyes. He
tapped the fingers of his right hand in rhythm on the table as he answered Kirk.
“Yes, Jim, I suppose Dimitri would be a donor if Chekov here needed one. According to my instruments, Dimitri Ivanovich and Pavel
Chekov have the exact same DNA.”
Kirk’s eyes shot open wide. “You’re his father?!”
“Captain!” Chekov gasped in indignant horror. “I would have been twelve!”
The Captain couldn’t help but grin. “I would never underestimate the prowess of any of my officers, Mr. Chekov.”
The Navigator squirmed uncomfortably with a decidedly pink flush to his cheeks.
“Captain,” Spock interrupted. “Human DNA is a double helix model--one strand coming from each parent. Were our Chief Navigator
Dimitri’s father, at best only half his DNA would match Mr. Chekov’s.”
“Yes, I knew that,” Kirk commented in thought, although admittedly it had not occurred to him at the moment. “In human beings the only
way there would be an exact match of DNA would be…” he stilled, bringing hazel eyes to study the Doctor. “Bones," he asked. "Dimitri is
a clone of Chekov?”
“He is not!!” the Admiral roared.
Fine, the Captain thought. When he decides to speak up, it's completely inappropriate and a hindrance to the topic.
“I don’t know what is going on here with you people, but I won't allow…”
“Jim,” the Doctor answered without waiting for someone to acknowledge that the Admiral had spoken. “When an entire organism is
cloned, there is an eventual deterioration of the genetic code which scientists have still been unable to resolve. That’s why it continues
to be illegal to clone a sentient being.
“The genetic deterioration would have resulted in differences in the DNA by the time Dimitri was eight. Actually,” he corrected himself
soberly after a moment, his voice dropping. “He wouldn’t be eight: clones die younger than that.”
“Indeed,” Spock agreed. “No clone known has ever lived longer than five years: and they spend most of their lives ill.”
Kirk shook his head vaguely: it didn't make sense. "If they're not cloned, how is it possible for two individuals to have the same DNA? An
identical twin: one embryo frozen...fourteen years?” he asked after quickly doing the math.
The ship’s First Officer slowly raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. “This presents a logical explanation for the
irregularities recently discovered in Admiral Leonov’s ship.”
“Something’s wrong with my ship?” Leonov asked quickly, green eyes intense.
“No,” Spock answered with maddening simplicity. “There are no malfunctions in your ship that we can find, and there, ultimately, lies the
problem.” He shifted his gaze to Kirk before continuing. “Captain, the chronometer on the Admiral’s ship is fourteen years--exactly--in
error. It reads as though it is fourteen years ago. That was the puzzling find which I came to inform you of. ”
Lines furrowing slowly through his forehead as he studied the Vulcan, Kirk mulled over the various bits of information before him. He
stood, slowly rising like magma ascending from a deep, dormant pit and struggling over craggy outcroppings until it found release in the
atmosphere. He balanced his fingertips on the table before him. “Do you mean to tell me,” he asked in measured tones to no one in
particular, but with wild hazel eyes holding his Chief Navigator's gaze fast, “that this monstrous child, ...that Dimitri Ivanovich is…”
Chekov pulled his shoulders up over his ears and gave the Captain a sheepish smile. “Me.”
Kirk clamped his mouth shut before it actually dropped opened.
“That’s ridiculous!” Leonov burst out angrily, lurching to his feet as well. “I will not…”
“Admiral,” Spock cut him off cleanly and decisively. “Taking into account all information currently available, the logical conclusion is that
your ship--with you and your grandson--has, in fact, been displaced fourteen years into the future.”
"Mr. Scott mentioned your cruiser appears almost new, yet they stopped constructing that particular model fifteen years ago," Kirk
pointed out to him as more and more recent irregularities began making sense to him. "Your grandson said he toured the Excalibur--
while under construction?" he mused, trying to remember Dimitri's exact words. "Excalibur’s maiden voyage was just nine years after
Enterprise, Sir. How long have the Russian Navy and the Historic Districts been established?" the Captain asked in a sudden rush. The
man's seemingly--well, idiotic--negative attitude towards them might almost make since if they were a new idea: not the well-grounded
institutions Kirk knew.
The man scoffed, waving the words away with a grand gesture of his hand. “Time travel isn’t possible except in theory.”
“Believe me, it is,” McCoy said with a drawl. “We’ve done it more than once: and we didn’t always do it on purpose, either.”
“That is not my grandson!” the Admiral roared, throwing an arm out in Chekov’s direction as his face filled with a flash of crimson. “I don’t
know what you people are up to, but I’m not a man to be fucked with!”
Hazel eyes remained steady on the enraged man. From what Kirk had heard, it had never occurred to him to underestimate the power
this Admiral would be quick to brandish. That a top Fleet official of Leonov’s stature would stoop so quickly to such impotent vulgarity
and shake so visibly from his powerlessness in the situation alarmed the Captain at a basic level, however.
“Admiral,” is what Kirk said. “I assure you that this situation will be fully investigated and resolved.” He reseated himself and folded his
hands on the tabletop again. There was nothing subtle about his indication for the Admiral to regain control of himself before he
humiliated his rank as well as himself.
“My medical equipment is accurate, Admiral Leonov,” McCoy insisted with a note of professional pride. “I can assure you that Chekov
here and Dimitri are one in the same person. How that’s possible, I leave to others more qualified.”
“I will not subscribe to your outlandish theories.”
“Dedushka, where are my shoes?”
Kirk leaned toward the still standing man. “We’ve found outlandish is a rule of thumb here in deep space.”
“To suggest that time travel…”
“My shoes,” Chekov interrupted again. “Where are my shoes, Dedushka?”
“What the hell is your problem?” the Admiral spat out suddenly, spinning on the Navigator. “How many times do I have to tell you to keep
track of your own things? I am not going to waste my time searching for your shoes!!! I’m busy here…”
He froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. Leonov stared at Chekov in silence and he visibly tried to gain control of his uncontrolled
breathing.
The Navigator rose in a gesture of respect as the man studied him. After a moment, he brought a hand up to touch two fingers to his
temple and then dropped the same fingers to touch his chest.
“Dimitri?” the Admiral blurted incredulously as the Navigator’s hand dropped back to his side. He moved up to the younger man and
green eyes raked violently over him. “You look just like your father,” he pronounced.
“Yes, Dedushka,” Chekov responded in an automated tone, eyes fixed somewhere on the table in front of the Captain. He clearly
disagreed.
“Why are you in Starfleet?” the Admiral suddenly demanded, face flushing crimson again. His jaw trembled with crippling defeat. “What
the hell are you doing in Starfleet?! You are the image of your father,” he snarled venomously. “You lazy, cowardly...you’ve crawled into
the bowels of Starfleet to hide and let all your talent and gifts shrivel and die!
“Dimitri, you have killed your soul and are a traitor to Mother Russia!” Leonov ended in a rage, swinging his arm with massive force at
the Navigator’s head.
Chekov’s hand shot up, instantly catching the man’s wrist and blocking the blow.
Spock was on his feet immediately. “Admiral,” he began, but then paused. How quickly he stood and the words that clearly flashed
through the Science Officer’s steady eyes bore tribute to the Chief Navigator. Spock’s unvoiced thought shone, as well, in the eyes of
Chekov’s shipmates present.
Chekov’s exceptional skills, intelligence and unwavering professionalism promised a remarkable career in the Fleet. His striking attention
to duty, in fact, caused concern among all of the ship’s senior staff. With boundless motivation, the young man’s habit of giving two
hundred percent to every task, and his addiction to perfection in himself were known by Spock better than anyone else. Chekov often
worked side by side with the Science Officer in the Science Labs after duty. Even Spock he did not disagree openly with Admiral Leonov’
s assessment of the Ensign at the moment, however: that would have been unacceptable.
“Admiral, it is against regulations for one officer to strike another,” is all he said.
Leonov chortled. “Is that what you’re doing, Dimitri? Are you saving me from a court-martial?”
“No," Chekov retorted evenly, a deathly chill in his voice. “If you touch me my father will kill you.” The Navigator's low, breathless voice
shuddered in the room. He slowly raised his eyelids and met the Admiral's pale green gaze for the first time with dark, shimmering eyes.
“And that would destroy his soul. I won’t ever let you hurt him.” He shoved the man’s arm away forcefully.
Leonov stepped backward, intense green eyes riiveted on Chekov.
Kirk’s gaze was on the Navigator’s eyes.
They were Dimitri’s demonic eyes.
“I don’t understand,” McCoy’s voice of reason cut in. “You’re name isn’t Dimitri, Chekov.”
“It most certainly is,” the Admiral retorted. Jaw hard, he glanced at the Doctor as he dropped defiantly back into his seat across from
McCoy. “Russia endured centuries of invaders until Dimitri Ivanovich drove them all out.”
Leonov gestured at the ship’s Navigator. “His father chose to name him in tribute to this hero even before he was born. When the time
came, Andrie entrusted the registration of his birth to his godfather. The man,” the man growled, leaning in toward the Enterprise
officers intently, “tore the paperwork up and forged his own set.”
Kirk glanced, startled at Chekov. “Your godfather changed your name on your birth certificate?”
The young man, who had reseated himself and taken to staring at his folded hands on the table again, said nothing for a moment. He
shrugged slightly then. “I was raised in a traditional culture: Dimitri Ivanovich does not meet the requirements for a traditional name.”
“It’s what your father named you. I won’t disrespect that, even if he isn’t man enough to have done anything about it.”
Chekov glanced sharply at the Admiral several times during the conversation, but each time he quickly averted his eyes and returned
his gaze back to his hands. Kirk watched him and wondered how many briefings he had conducted without noticing the young man’s
crystal clear signals.
“Captain,” the Navigator suddenly said, raising soulful brown eyes to Kirk when the Admiral finished. “I don’t want people to know. I don’t
want the crew to know who Dimitri is, please.”
“Well, I don’t wonder,” McCoy observed with a glint in his steel-blue eyes.
Ignoring the Doctor, Kirk considered Chekov’s request a moment, and the more imminent question of time-line alterations. “Do you
remember this childhood trip aboard the Enterprise, Mr. Chekov?”
“I remember making the trip, Sir: but that is all. I don’t remember what ship it was on or any details regarding it.” He failed to mention he
also distinctly remembered it as being his last trip with his grandfather.
“I want you to continue your plans to spend your time with…with…”
“Dimitri?” Chekov asked, flashing an impish smile at his Captain's discomfort.
Kirk returned the smile and found the tension in his neck relieved by the warmth of the chocolate brown eyes radiating amusement in his
direction. The young man knew well when and how to ease a situation. He just needs to learn better jokes.
The inconsequential concern Chekov paid to calling his younger self Dimitri made things simpler and the Captain tried not to think about
the hours of psychobabble McCoy would subject him to concerning the matter. He nodded to acknowledge the Navigator’s suggestion.
“Dimitri,” he agreed. “Mr. Chekov, spending your time with him seems to be the best way to ensure that his presence here in no way
destroys any of your current life history.”
The Captain flashed a conspiratorial smile at the younger man. “You are an asset to both the Fleet and this ship: we don’t lose you, do
we?” Beside him, the Admiral flinched visibly and Kirk couldn’t deny he felt vindicated by the man’s response.
“That should not be a concern, Captain,” Chekov replied, wide eyes calm and steady on his commander. “Dimitri can’t change my life
history.”
“What makes you think that, Ensign?”
“I've been studying the work of Einstein and Goebel: it was these two who first proved that time travel was theoretically possible. Their
theories further proved that you can't change your own lifeline by such things as the Grandfather Paradox: it's impossible if only by its
illogic.”
“What’s the Grandfather Paradox?” McCoy asked.
“The Grandfather Paradox,” Spock replied coolly, “Is the idea that by traveling back in time one could, in fact, sire their own father and
therefore…”
“Become your own grandfather,” the Doctor concluded. “But what’s that got to do with this situation?”
Chekov gestured with his previously folded hands. “Simply put, Einstein and Goebel said that if something happened to me when I was
eight--even if it was the result of time travel--than it has already happened to me: it’s my life history. I'm already living with it.
“They said history in general can be changed, but your own life is already what it is,” he concluded emphatically.
Silence met the youngest officer’s statements. Kirk, specifically, wondered if this trip with Leonov had ironically pushed the determined
Navigator into the career the Admiral so obviously disproved of.
"Well now, I wish someone had mentioned this before in our travels," the Doctor drawled. "Of course," he continued dramatically, "They
could be wrong. Or hasn't that occurred to you?"
"I haven't finished studying the available materials," the Navigator said thoughtfully. "I'm not sure the theories can be applied to devices
such as the Guardian of Forever. Still..." Chekov stopped and seemed to consider it a moment. He folded his hands and leaned forward
again. “Einstein theorized that the atomic bomb, nuclear power and time travel were possible.” He scowled melodramatically and
pronounced: “I am willing to take the chance that he was right, Doctor.”
“Even so,” Kirk cut in, taking control of the briefing again. “I think it best to limit Dimitri’s exposure to the ship and it’s crew.” He wished he
could convince the Admiral of the same thing about himself.
“We can’t just lock him in Chekov’s cabin: people will wonder,” McCoy insisted. “They’ll especially be looking for him after this afternoon’
s performance--he’s become a celebrity.”
At this, the Navigator averted his eyes again and barred his teeth in an outright, silent snarl of contempt.
“Is Dimitri aware of the situation?” Spock questioned.
“Yes, Sir: he knew immediately. It was not something I could hide from him.”
“Ensign,” the Captain drew out thoughtfully. “If we continue to call the boy Dimitri, I don’t see any reason anyone else should suspect his
actual identity. I’ll trust your good judgment in monitoring his activities until such time as we can correct this time aberration.”
“Yes, Sir.” The Captain saw a flutter of relief in the brown eyes which seemed more intense than called for, but he didn’t have time to
think about it.
“How long will that be?” the Admiral demanded. “His father expects Dimitri back soon--and in one piece!”
Kirk interlaced his own fingers with great care and straightened his back. “Admiral Leonov,” he intoned, “As soon as we can discover
what sent you ahead in time we’ll be able to determine a way to reverse it.”
“I am not reassured,” the man spat out.
“Admiral, the Enterprise is the finest ship in the Fleet, with the finest Captain and crew,” Chekov snarled self-righteously with a thick
accent, dark eyes snapping a glare at the man. “You could not be served better by anyone else.”
Leonov jammed his arms across his chest and returned the glare.
“Would I serve under a Captain who wasn’t the finest in the Fleet?” the Navigator demanded of him haughtily.
Kirk withheld a wry smile at the young man’s blunt impertinence, reminding himself that Chekov’s family relationship with the Admiral
could only serve to fuel the young man’s impetuous nature, despite his best efforts. The Captain only wished he had the same leeway.
“Captain,” Spock interrupted the emotional debate. “In addition to the inaccuracies in the Admiral’s ship’s chronometer, we have
pinpointed abnormalities in the ion storm both ships encountered recently.”
“Exactly how does an ion storm have abnormalities?” McCoy rasped.
“Ordinarily, one wouldn’t,” Spock replied. “However, through the data we have been able to obtain in both ship’s computers, our
research indicates that this particular ion storm was not a natural phenomenon.”
“Not…” Kirk sat forward. “Spock, someone created this storm?”
“That is what the data indicates.”
“For what possible reason?” McCoy asked incredulously.
“To create a time rift,” the Captain concluded quickly, glancing sharply at the Admiral.
“Captain, I resent your implication,” the man retorted with a fierce glare. “I’m a desk pilot,” he maintained without a hint of apology. “I’ve
never even encountered an ion storm before. It was only because of Dimitri that we got through it in one piece as it was. Only an insane
man would take such a risk.”
“There are other possible outcomes one might have created an ion storm for,” the Science Officer reflected.
In shifting his gaze, Kirk’s eyes hesitated when they touched the ship’s Chief Navigator. He had his fingers stretched out before him and
he was fiddling with them, but he was not looking at them. Chekov’s dark eyes were opaque and his intense gaze had turned inward.
“Ensign,” the Captain said, calling the man’s attention back to the room. “Have you anything?”
The young man looked up at his Captain, not so much startled as reluctantly. Kirk realized his face was several shades lighter than
normal.
“Yes, Sir,” he said with great, almost painfully soulful eyes. “My father is here, too.”
“What?” the Doctor demanded but it was lost in the sound of the Admiral’s laughter.
“Your father isn’t capable of space travel,” he asserted with contempt.
“You don’t need a pilot’s license to travel in space,” Chekov observed. Although his tone was respectful, there was disdain in his dark
eyes. It was gone when he turned back to the Captain.
“Sir,” he appears to be approximately my age. I saw him briefly in Navigation yesterday. Lieutenant Riley informed me that he is using
the name ‘Nick Paul’ and that he signed on as a crewman at our last planetfall.”
“Chekov,” McCoy puzzled, his mouth twitching slightly. “Are you saying that your father engineered all this?”
“No, Doctor, my father simply isn’t capable of such a thing.”
“In extreme circumstances, people sometimes do what you wouldn’t expect,” the Captain reminded him gently.
“I don’t mean he wouldn’t do such a thing, Sir,” Chekov maintained. “I mean he couldn’t: he doesn't have any technological skills.
Admiral Leonov will cooberate this.”
Kirk’s sour look of agreement caused the younger man to hesitate briefly.
“My father is apparently involved, somehow, however,” the Navigator concluded.
“Captain,” Spock interjected. The care with which he said his commander’s rank and the deliberate way he leaned forward to rest his
folded hands on the table quickly communicated the importance of the information he had to share. “Five new crewmen signed aboard
the Enterprise at Clarion 6. Among them were Nick Paul, subsequently assigned to Navigation, as well as his sister, Kathy Paul. She is
serving in Engineering.”
“Are you sure?” Kirk asked needlessly. It was the only way he could think to start his heart again.
Spock straightened, raising his eyebrows in a mock demonstration of human indignation. “As the Enterprise’s First Officer, its personnel
are my responsibility. I am quite sure.”
“My daughter,” the Admiral concluded immediately, straightening. Green eyes bright with pride, he tapped on the table for emphasis.
“Maria could do this: and she’s always dragging Andrie along. He’s helpless without her.”
Kirk saw the flare of light in the depths of Chekov’s eyes before he averted his gaze again, saying nothing. No amount of debate was
going to settle the question at hand. “Can we see the two people we’re talking about, Spock?” the Captain asked.
“On the computer screen, Captain.”
The three-sided screen in the center of the table lit up with images of the two new crewmen in question. The young man had a goatee
and thick, wavy, coal black hair. Trimmed short in the front, his hair hung in a tangled mass on his shoulders. Wide brilliant blue eyes
dominated his tanned face. The pretty young woman was hardly more than a girl. Her honey colored hair accentuated soulful brown
eyes which struck the Captain immediately. He felt as though he was looking into Chekov’s gaze.
“That’s not my daughter,” the Admiral declared. “And Andrie...” he hesitated and shook his head vehemently. “It looks like him, but he
has brown eyes: like Dimitri. I’ve never seen either of these people before, Captain.”
Chekov’s eyes shifted to Leonov briefly and Kirk recognized clearly in the gaze that the Admiral had not, in fact, seen the man’s parents
for a very long time. He was impressed that the young man restrained himself from making any snide comments about it. Watching as
the Navigator’s attention turned to back the images on the computer screen, the Captain saw a grey pallor to overtook his face. Chekov
stared at them, riveted as though turned to stone.
“Ensign,” Kirk asked carefully. “These aren’t your parents?”
“No, Sir. They are not my parents,” he confirmed. The young man straightened slowly as he raised his eyes to the Captain.
Kirk stilled inside, hazel eyes locking on the young man’s dark gaze. The maturity he had only glimpsed there occasionally now filled the
entirety of their depths without any attempt of Chekov to conceal it.
“They are not my parents, Sir,” he repeated. “They are my children.”
“Excuse me?” McCoy demanded, alarmed. “Are you telling me you we have your Grandfather, your child self and your children to deal
with--not to mention you?”
“It appears so, Sir.”
“With what certainty do you entertain this theory, Ensign?”
Chekov glanced at the screen again for only an instant before meeting the Science Officer’s eyes. “One hundred percent, Mr. Spock.
These are definitely my children.
“Dedushka,” he continued. “Do you remember what name I use whenever we go to the Smithsonian?”
“Of course,” the man replied, straightening and turning an amused smile on the Captain. “Dimitri likes the Museum of American History:
has a thing for the ruby slippers,” he revealed needlessly, and embarrassingly. “The translation of his legal name is Paul, son of
Andrew. On trips to America he's been known to tell people his name is Paul Andrews. He is clever,” he observed with a subtle note of
admiration.
“Nick Paul and Kathy Paul,” Chekov reminded them, indicating the images on the screen.
“Nikolai Pavolich and Katya Pavlova,” Spock concluded.
The Navigator nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he resumed studying the faces of grown children he didn’t have yet.
“The logical conclusion is that since neither the Admiral nor the Enterprise caused the ion storm and temporal breach, than the Chekov
children must have. Our investigation should turn to them. We need to discern how and why this storm and the time breach occurred.”
“Do we absolutely know the Enterprise had nothing to do with it?” McCoy asked. “Have I to remind you of the times we--and other space
travelers--have mistakenly caused such ridiculous events?”
“No,” Spock replied, folding his arms across his chest. “You do not. Although not probable, that the Enterprise inadvertently precipitated
these events requires further investigation to eliminate it entirely as a possibility.
Chekov’s eyes shifted and held on the viewscreen on the wall, where the small panorama teased his gaze. The senior officer’s debate at
the other end of the table drifted off and fell away from him as he stared at the stars. He rose slowly and moved over to the viewscreen.
“Computer: viewscreen starboard secondary hull,” Chekov instructed quietly.
The view of the stars glazed and cleared, a different pattern presenting itself. Wrong, the Chief Navigator thought instantly, seized with
the notion so violently again he couldn’t breathe. There is something wrong with the pattern of stars.
“Mr. Chekov, rejoin us, please,” Kirk’s voice cut into his thoughts. The reproof in the commander’s tone was evident, but the young
officer didn’t move to obey. He glanced at the Captain, then back at the viewscreen, which he tapped.
“They’re not alone, Sir,” he said.
Kirk joined him quickly. “What do you mean, Ensign?”
“The stars,” the Navigator explained, tapping the screen again. “They’re wrong. I knew it, but I couldn’t understand why. There’s a
cloaked ship attached to our secondary hull on the starboard side, Captain.”
“Spock…”
The Vulcan was already standing behind the Captain by the time he finished summoning him.
“Sensors would have picked up the standard deviations if we had a cloaked ship traveling beside us,” Kirk pointed out, his eyes raking
the starfield. They still couldn't read through a cloaking device, but they had learned to notice the changes in the view the sensors
picked up.
“Yes,” Chekov agreed. “But if the ship was attached by tractor beams or other such devices, there wouldn‘t be any obvious variations in
the deviations for the sensors to pick up.”
“Likewise, such a ship would only have engines running on low power, if at all, so the resonance would be below our sensors abilities to
distinguish from our own engines,” Spock observed.
The Navigator shook his head, as if in silent wonder and drew his fingers over the starfield. “Marvelous. Cloaking devices not only have
to erase the image of the thing, but project the images of the things they block out to make it appear nothing's changed,” Chekov
explained. “Only, they are not perfect. It looks like the starfield, but it’s…askew.”
“It looks right to me,” the Admiral blustered from behind the small group. Kirk was want to admit he agreed.
“No,” Chekov said. “Look here--one degree to the northwest. This one, half-degree south. This one…they’ll all…they’re not right,” he
concluded, waving his hands fitfully in the air in distress as he dismissed the view.
Kirk eyed him, taking a moment to marvel at how personally involved his officers got in their departments. He had no false modesty
about having chosen the most skilled people available for his ship’s compliment.
“A ship could not maintain itself like that unmanned, however,” the Navigator added. “It has to be manned, Captain.”
“I concur,” the Science Officer stated.
"Good work, Mr. Chekov."
"Thank-you, Sir."
The Captain paced away from the viewscreen, his eyes meeting his Chief Surgeon’s steely blue ones as did so. He didn’t need to talk to
his friend; he knew what the man was thinking better than he wanted to. He also knew he was going to hear it anyway: it was the Doctor’
s way of ensuring Kirk hadn’t somehow tuned out his conscience.
“To start with, we need Mr. Scott here,” he said out loud. “We need all the Chekov’s here and we need to identify and get aboard that
cloaked ship. Spock, do you think you can get accurate readings on our visiting ship within an hour?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Good. We’ll recess and reconvene in one hour. Mr. Spock, order the helm to return to the area of the ion storm: best speed. Arrange
for both Scotty and the Chekov's to be here and I'll expect the information on our phantom ship at that time.”
“Dimitri?”
Kirk paused, straightening. “No,” he said without hesitation. “We need to keep him out of this.” To startle Chekov with children his own
age contained it’s own entanglements, but to subject a child with them struck the Captain as downright abusive. “Dismissed.
“Mr. Chekov,” he added in amendment. “Take a seat.”
The Captain paced around the briefing room table slowly as everyone else filed out into the corridor. Chekov had already retaken his
seat and was sitting dutifully silent with his hands folded in his lap. Hazel eyes glanced at him, but moved on quickly as the very sight of
him was painful to Kirk.
They had discussed before what having a Russian Soul entailed. The ever-present, overpowering knowledge that one had done
something wrong, deserved punishment, and deserved to suffer reached beyond the comprehension of most non-Russians. Perhaps,
Kirk thought, because most never came to believe the age-old adage that no Terrans knew how to suffer like Russians.
The Captain could not imagine what it would be like to be living in the same timeframe as his boyhood self. He, too, had been
precocious, but young Dimitri seemed always an energetic step ahead of the world. Chekov had accepted responsibility for him without
hesitation. Despite his boundless charm and friendliness, the Navigator was fiercely private and very few people knew anything of
substance about him. The boy’s presence on board must have been fraught with torture for the man and Kirk paled at the memory of
Dimitri’s lunchtime performance--in an adorable little sailor uniform, no less.
The Captain considered that the Navigator had tried to deal with the child’s presence as best he could for two days--studying Einstein
and Goebel, and struggling with the consequences of the time glitch mentally on his own. Chekov was also faced with his grandfather’s
visit, a relationship Kirk saw as exceptionally stressful for good reason. Now at least two--possibly three--children confronted him as well:
children he recognized somehow without hesitation. The young man was clearly suffering in ways incomprehensible to someone not
enduring the situation themselves.
Kirk sat down on the edge of the table, pulling his thigh up to rest his forearm on it as he leaned toward the Navigator. He grinned, hazel
eyes sparkling charmingly. "Chekov, did your Godfather really change your name to Pavel?” Although they were friendly toward each
other, they were not friends per se. The Captain sensed that a tenuous, hazy line seemed to have been crossed and felt comfortable
edging more into the young man's personal space. It clearly spoke to how Dimitri's visit had already affected the Navigator's life.
Besides, if he was wrong Chekov was skilled at avoiding such unwanted questions.
The younger man glanced down at his hands and smiled a secretive, conspiratorial cock-eyed grin. “Sergie didn’t do anything they hadn’
t agreed on," he answered without hesitation, without indication he minded the question. “It’s bad luck to name a baby before birth, my
mother thought the name was pretentious anyway, and when I was born…well, Pavel it was.”
Somehow, Kirk considered, the man always seemed to leave something out of his stories--truth or fiction. “The Admiral doesn’t still insist
on calling you Dimitri?”
The Navigator chortled, raising warm brown eyes to his Captain. “Oh, yes, he does, but it was never out of respect for my father. It's the
opposite. Andrieivich means son of Andrie and Pavel means 'little one': when I was born they decided I was just like my father." Chekov
shrugged. "You see, either name acknowledges my father."
Kirk began, but stopped himself from inquiring further. Still, he felt himself gripped by the human need for gossip anyway. Chekov
rewarded him with an easy smile and a warm laugh.
“It's control, Sir,” he answered the Captain's unasked question. “My mother fought him about her life until she finally agreed to marry a
fine Starfleet Officer he had chosen for her.” He shrugged, a sly smile tugging at his lips as his dark eyes gleamed brilliantly. “It wasn’t
my father.
“Admiral Leonov cannot handle not being in control, Sir. He gets stubborn, and he gets ugly.”
The Captain grinned. "I take it your mother's first marriage didn't last long?" he asked.
Chekov coughed, ducking his head to stare at the table. He coughed again. Kirk twisted his head curiously to peer at the young man
and found that his wild, cock-eyed grin had completely overtaken his face. His body was trembling with laughter.
When he raised up his wide brown eyes to gaze at the Captain through his long, curled lashes, the older man realized Chekov had be
trying to decide how much to share with him. "About two hours," was the Navigator's giggled response after he made that decision. "My
father kidnapped her from the reception.
"The Admiral has not spoken to her since. In fact," the young man grinned, winking at Kirk. "I'm not sure my parents ever actually got
married. I think she may still be legally married to Commodore..." he stopped suddenly at that, dropping into uncomfortable silence as he
straightened stiffly.
The Captain straightened himself, chuckling with a smirk at Chekov's wickedly amused thought. One of the few things well known about
the Navigator was that his parents had been contentedly married for eons. Unusual enough, the idea that they may have been simply
having a torrid affair instead was ridiculously whimsical. Kirk decided that his Navigator probably was just like his father: after all, he
could certainly picture Chekov kidnapping a bride from her own wedding.
“The Admiral is the only one that calls you Dimitri, I take it?”
The young man shrugged, smiling sheepishly as color flushed into his face. “No,” he admitted. “I'm afraid not. Back home they call me
Dimitri when they think I'm getting a little too full of myself. Russian peasants are good at making sure no one gets uppity.”
Kirk smiled, making note of the practice for future reference. “Can I ask you something?" he continued thoughtfully. "I don't think I've
ever met anyone who enjoys music as much as you. You’re at every sing-along, every performance, every practice with Uhura as she
stages the variety shows: you are certainly the only person in existence that enjoys Kevin Riley’s singing.”
Chekov grinned cheerfully with abandon. “He sings with such enthusiasm, Sir.”
“Yes, off-key,” Kirk professed with a grin as well. “Uhura marveled that Dimitri has perfect pitch and we all saw he's quite the talented
performer. And yet, given all that--you never join in: not even in the sing-alongs in the rec rooms. Why not?”
The Navigator pulled his hands onto the table and studied the nails a long minute, brushing his thumbs along the top of them and
poking at their lengths. “Puberty,” he finally muttered.
Kirk shoulders dropped slightly in sympathy. “Yes, I’ve heard that some of the finest male sopranos went flat when their voices changed.”
“Choirs used to emasculate boys to preserve their voices in the 17th and 18th centuries."
Kirk winced involuntarily, but the younger man continued without seeming to notice.
"I was never a soprano anyway,” Chekov muttered again. "I was an alto as a child."
Silently, the Captain watched as the Navigator continued to examine his hands. He had moved from inspecting his nails and was now
scrutinizing his fingers and the rest of his hands. It occurred to Kirk that this was something the young man did when bored at the
Navigation Console.
A Captain of a constitution class ship came to know the work habits of his helm team perhaps better than any other of his crew: they
were in his full view whenever he was in the command chair. Chekov’s ability to become quickly bored had only inspired his creativity.
Kirk once thought him to be the fastest navigator in existence and had instead humorously found the man spent great deals of time pre-
plotting possible courses. The way to Planet Disney could always be found readily available on Chekov’s shifts.
Spock gave him minor projects to work on between navigation duties. Not so strange to the Captain now, Chekov had been caught by
the Science Officer silently playing the piano on the console as well. He also spent time inspecting his hands leisurely, as Kirk watched
him do now.
Pressured by something inside to stay busy, to always be doing something, McCoy was always concerned about the amount of sleep
the young man managed to get. He had a high metabolism and the Russian Navy had trained him not to sleep more than four hours at a
time. James Kirk could not imagine trying to keep track of an even higher-energy eight year old of this description.
Despite purposefully having spent little time with Dimitri, the Captain realized he had come to know Chekov better because of him.
“Sulu’s right,” Kirk commented. “You’re a horrible liar.”
Chekov glanced up sharply at his commanding officer, swallowing hard as he straightened. Guilt traced over his face.
“Mr. Chekov, look me in the eye and say ‘I don’t sing any longer because my voice went flat when it changed.’”
The Navigator glanced away, his face coloring. “I knew Dimitri would destroy my life,” he muttered.
“So why don’t you sing?”
“I just don’t sing in public,” Chekov answered, turning back to meet Kirk’s gaze. “I like seeing other people enjoy themselves. Besides, I
have a lot of enthusiasm.”
“Ah,” the Captain smiled. “The 'Hell’s afraid I’ll take over’ syndrome.” At the Navigator’s frown, he chuckled. “It means you’re a ham.”
The sparkle in the young man’s eyes told Kirk he knew what had been meant all along. Chekov had a feigned ignorance at times that
boggled the mind.
“I have to give Sulu a place to get away from my singing in the shower,” he quipped. "Besides," he added quietly. "I never liked
performing."
Kirk’s soft chuckle was more of a sigh this time and he scratched absently at his knee. His lips were pursed when he raised hazel eyes
back to meet Chekov’s wide brown ones. Contacting new races, fighting old enemies, facing space anomalies: Starfleet Academy spent
mind-numbing hours training its command candidates to deal with these eventualities. They certainly taught their cadets the rigors of
documentation, as well, the Captain thought grimly.
The most intricate of diplomatic skills were only skimmed over however, Kirk considered. Oh, yes, they taught them personnel courses
and supervision courses and a myriad of psychology theories that seemed oppressive and useless at the time. Nothing in actuality could
prepare a commander for the skills needed to tread the fine line between Captain and fellow human being with each unique individual
he was responsible for. It was different for each of them.
“Pavel,” he intoned evenly, “You well know that you’re a very promising young officer, but you have to remember the ability to command
relies on many factors. You are facing a great deal of stress and adversity with everything bearing down on you at the moment. Your
relationship with your Grandfather alone..."
“Captain,” the man said pleasantly. “You’re basing your information on my relationship with him fourteen years ago.”
“Yes, well," Kirk nodded. "He is here now, however, and this...incarnation of him...disagrees openly and loudly with your opinion of your
father,” the Captain maintained earnestly. “I know how you feel about your father and it’s clearly going to be difficult for you to control
yourself. I don’t know how you did it throughout the briefing.” In fact, he was impressed by the Ensign's composure during the briefing.
Despite guarding his privacy, nearly everyone knew that Chekov’s father held hero status to him. A notion common among human boys,
the Navigator had somehow made it through the war of adolescence that created men with that opinion still intact.
"The Chekov temper," Kirk reminded him.
"Leonov temper," the young man corrected quickly. "My father doesn't have a temper."
The Captain had obviously assumed otherwise. Having met Mikhail Leonov, however, he could now see that Chekov's hot temper may
well come from his mother's side of the family.
“I assure you, Sir, that you need not worry about my behavior, Captain. I will continue to conduct myself with the discipline and decorum
expected of a Starfleet officer," he maintained. "My father is an utterly peaceful man and to defend his honor with any type of violence
would violate who he is,” the Navigator explained patiently. "He would be mortified."
Still, the Captain could hear in the tone of his voice that part of the Navigator's words were somewhat to convince himself. “You’ve said
your father works for the government," he commented after a moment, intrigued. "The Admiral said…”
“He’s addled?” the Navigator asked with a knowing smile. “He doesn’t grasp the vision that's my father’s work.”
Chuckling, the Captain winced with embarrassment. “He said your father rewrites fairy tales,” the older man confessed.
Chekov nodded with a slight shrug. "Not quite. He’s a cultural anthropologist--a historian."
Why does that come as a surprise? Kirk wondered.
"He's actually a folklorist by specialty," the Ensign was continuing. "Among other things he collects, preserves and teaches folk culture.
That includes folk songs, folk dances and..."
"Fairy tales," Kirk concluded in understanding. "I can see how a career officer might not understand how such work could be valuable to
someone in deep space."
Something sparked in the depths of the Ensign’s dark eyes and he smirked cryptically. “You’d be surprised, Sir.”
“I explore deep space, Ensign: nothing surprises me.” The Captain slapped his thigh lightly and said knowingly: “I am gaining a deeper
respect for your ability to refocus people,” he said when he realized how far off topic they had wandered.
Chekov raised his deep brown eyes to meet the hazel ones regarding him without much charity. The Navigator outright squirmed to take
a more upright position in the chair.
“I was saying that successful commander has to have a great many different skills,” the Captain repeated. “You are undergoing an
enormous amount of stress and it only promises to get worse.
“You won’t make it anywhere near to a command unless you make an active effort now to change the way you conduct your daily life,”
Kirk said.
Chekov didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He just stared up at his Captain with his wide, unblinking brown eyes in unnerving rapt attention.
Kirk smiled slightly, trying to ease the building tension. He wished he were as apt at the skill as his Navigator was. “You’ve made close
friends with Sulu since you arrived, and have other friends of varying levels, which I’m glad to see. You keep yourself exceptionally busy,
but you haven’t seemed to develop even one activity that I can see which is a relief valve for your stress. Command is fraught with
stress and you have to develop inherent ways to channel it--to let go of the pent up energy that stress inflicts on the human body.
"You won’t survive a career in Starfleet pushing yourself the way you do. Not all your activities have to be meaningful or competitive,
Pavel. Go to the gym for a good workout, join in our poker game: something. Anything.”
"Am I failing to meet Starfleet physical requirements, Sir?" the Navigator asked with genuine concern.
"No, no," Kirk replied instantly. The last thing he wanted was for the man to be worried of non-existent failures. It was true that Chekov
didn't work out, but he did swim and the few times Kirk had run across him at the pool he had been surprised to see that the young
man's uniform concealed a body that was both firm and well-defined. The Captain didn't know how he accomplished it, but the Navigator
definitely had a trained athlete's body. As with all written Starfleet regulations, Chekov apparently saw to it that he was well qualified for
the physical requirements.
"But you are ordering me to begin working out, Sir?” Chekov asked stiffly.
Heavens, no, the Captain thought. The enthusiasm the young man would surely embrace his task with would make him eligible for body-
sculpting competitions. Kirk sighed. “I’m not ordering anything, I’m just giving advice. The gym is one of my solutions, you’ll have to find
your own. You are going to have to find ways to deal with stress," he repeated earnestly. "Or you’re going to burn out: and no one here
wants to see that happen.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said stiffly again. “Thank you, Sir.”
Kirk stood up, trying not to let the flare of anger he suddenly felt actually register. Chekov’s brown eyes remained impassive and
respectful and his expected silence never wavered. Dimitri had changed the man’s life, because the Captain now wondered what exactly
the ever-polite Navigator was actually thinking. It was something that never would have occurred to him before the Admiral’s visit.
He clasped his hands behind his back. Military decorum never failing him, Chekov stood as soon as his Captain did and fixed his gaze at
a distant point as expected.
“On a final note, Mr. Chekov,” Kirk said tightly when he found his rational voice. "No commander can personally keep track of all aspects
of his ship, no matter how skilled they are. That's why the officers that serve under them are so important: they are the commander's
eyes and ears."
"Yes, Sir," Chekov commented flatly when the Captain paused. The expected and pat response only irritated Kirk, however.
He intentionally pushed the irritation aside before he spoke again. "I brushed you aside when you came to me with your concerns. I was
wrong," Kirk stated bluntly. "And I apologize. A commander should always make time for his officers."
The Navigator stood frozen, mute: his glassy brown eyes locked on some vague point in the distance. The Captain nearly smiled,
knowing the young man's silence meant that he agreed with Kirk's assessment. To say so aloud would reflect poorly on his Captain,
however, and that was not something that was in Chekov's nature.
Kirk himself had been trying to understand the action so uncharacteristic of the person he knew he was. Did he thrust Chekov away
because he couldn't do the same to the Russian Admiral? Worse--could it have been because the Navigator was the most junior of the
command team: would Kirk have done the same to Spock or Scotty at that point in time?
Internal guilt at this unacceptable possibility had delayed the Captain's effort to remedy his actions, and he knew it. His Chief Navigator's
youth may have made him impulsive, but his intense mind and commitment to duty was well focused.
"A person who attains a command brings to that position all their failings as well as all their gifts. Do you understand that?" Kirk asked,
leaning in so he could catch Chekov's gaze.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good," the Captain acknowledged. "Than you understand they may get tired, sick, or just distracted. An officer doesn't have the
privilege of noticing their commander’s mood when it comes to ship's business."
He took a deliberate step forward then, physically standing so close to the young man that he could feel the young man's breath on his
neck. Russian personal space hovered at only six inches, but as an American, Kirk's zone of comfort settled at nearly a meter and it was
a significance he saw was not lost on Chekov.
"Ensign, if you ever let information that may be important to this ship escape my notice again--for whatever reason," the Captain said
tightly, "I'll court-martial you."