| Renegotiations By Patricia Wright The ship shuddered under him, straining as the waves of the storm slammed into her again and again. The Captain could do no more than sit stoically in his chair with an air of confidence, relying on the men and women around him to get them all through alive. They were trained experts and reacted instantly and intuitively to what the instruments before them told them. Occasionally, Kirk was fed information that he needed to quickly direct to the appropriate team in his ship. The Captain’s eyes remained fixed on the viewscreen before him. The storm had sprung up without any warning and, like most storms in space, there was nothing visibly out of the ordinary but he could feel his ship’s struggle against its forces. He had the view at 0% magnification so he could see the asteroid field that streaked across the right side of the screen and could keep track of their drift toward it. There was none. More than any department in the ship, the Enterprise’s helm team was responsible for keeping them in one piece at the moment. All of his officer’s were experts, but he was glad it was the Alpha Helm Team on duty at the moment. Kirk considered Sulu and Chekov the best Helmsman and Navigator in the fleet and their friendship made their reaction time to each other both instinctive and eerie. As the final shudder streaked up his spine and jammed into the base of his skull, the Captain had to resist the urge to pat the command chair in reassurance. He heard the lift doors open but didn’t turn. “Uhura,” he charged. “Department reports.” “Yes, Sir: coming in.” “Dozens of injuries, but all minor, Jim,” McCoy said as he stepped up beside the Captain. “Lots of burns: we’ve got wide spread circuitry damage.” “That’s confirmed, Sir,” Uhura informed him. “All minor: nothing which should affect the functioning of the ship beyond reducing her efficiency. Department Chiefs all report damage teams setting to work as we speak.” “Good. Thank you, Lieutenant.” “Also, Captain,” she continued with an ominous tone. “Mr. Scott and Mr. Hamilton are requesting to meet with you.” Kirk grimaced. His ears already ached from the berating he was due from his Chief Engineer and Environmental Chief, as though the battering ‘their’ ship had taken was entirely his idea. “Fine,” he replied, glancing back at her. “Tell them I’ll meet with them in an hour in the Chief Engineer’s office.” “Yes, Sir.” “Sulu, Chekov,” he continued, turning back around. “Excellent work. On behalf of the whole crew, I thank you. It’ll be noted.” “Thank you, Sir,” they replied in unison, glancing back at the Captain. “Any damage I should know about?” “Nothing to speak of,” Sulu replied, turning back to his console. “It’ll be repaired post-haste.” Chekov shot his helm partner a sullen look of disapproval, but it didn’t concern the Captain. Kirk knew Chekov considered anything but perfection in his systems unacceptable. The Helmsman’s estimation would always be the more reasonable one. The two had been at their posts when Kirk had arrived, before Alpha Shift was on duty. They obviously raced to the bridge when they heard the storm warning to relieve the Helm Team winding down the previous shift and at the tail end of their efficiency. James Kirk was never given reason to second-guess either the efficiency or skills of any member of his command team. He would remind all of the Senior Officers later to note any such extraordinary efforts. As a commander he believed recognition the basis of growth. While his crew had grown to expect this of him, they even more so expected themselves to be held to the highest of standards. “Mr. Chekov,” he continued, motioning the Navigator with two fingers as that thought lingered with him. Chekov was admittedly both young and inexperienced to be Chief of a department already. Even James Kirk had been a Lieutenant before he’d earned that privilege. The man had earned it, the Captain believed fiercely, but he was vigilant that he didn’t allow his confidence in Chekov’s obvious skills to overshadow the signs of his youth. One of an officer’s main job functions was to ensure the proper development of those who served under him. As Kirk stared at the viewscreen at any given moment, the Helm Team were always occupying his peripheral vision. Anything out the norm with them would necessarily nag at him. Kirk studied the young man resolutely as he stood and faced his Captain. “Yes, Sir?” “What happened to your face?” He saw the man resist the urge to touch it, as though he didn’t already know what Kirk was referring to. “I cut it, Sir.” “I see that.” It was a fairly deep, ragged cut that streaked across his left cheekbone. “On what?” It was a rhetorical question. He didn’t want the inevitable quip that he’d hit it on some non-existent doorknob. They both knew the hot- tempered, impulsive man had got into another scuffle. “Mr. Chekov, whether this ship made it through that storm may have depended on whether its Chief Navigator was on duty or in sickbay with blood poisoning from some infected cut. Is that understood?” “Yes, Sir,” came the insistent reply. “An officer is responsible for maintaining himself at peak efficiency.” “Yes, Sir.” Of course the man knew that. The Academy drilled that basic fact it into them until they could stand it no more: both in courses with disguised names and interlaced in curriculums it had no place in. Every cadet handpicked, the Academy invested too much in each of them to lose one to stupidity. Fixing his wide eyes on some distant point, Chekov clasped his hands deferentially behind him. He swallowed before he replied. “I was in sickbay this morning, Captain. When the medical team was put on red alert, I thought it better to leave them open for emergencies and return later to be treated for such a simple injury. It was poor judgment, Sir.” “Poor judgment was obtaining the cut in the first place. It won’t be tolerated on this ship.” “I understand, Sir.” “Good. I expect to see that comprehension in action in the future.” Chekov would never haul off and hit a fellow shipmate, but the Captain knew his temper still got him into childish tussles occasionally. Absolutely unacceptable. Especially for an officer. What Kirk knew more firmly was Chekov would never offer excuses for his behavior: nor would he lie. So why the Captain see the shadow of discomfort pass over McCoy’s face? Even if it were in the Navigator to lie—which it wasn’t—McCoy, medical logs and security tapes would have immediately exposed such a lie on Chekov’s part. Stranger still, the Captain saw none of the deep self-recrimination he had come to expect on the Chief Navigator’s part in any situation like this. Chekov could be counted on to be his own worst disciplinarian. Kirk had to wonder what this particular disagreement was about that Chekov obviously felt no real remorse over it. After all, the young man was of such high moral standards that he could always be counted on to defend the honor of any of his shipmates: especially his Captain. Kirk stood. “Mr. Spock, have a substitute helm team report for duty.” Alarm did flash through the Navigator’s dark eyes at this, but he made no movement to betray it and Kirk didn’t address it. There had only been a yellow alert, so only Kirk and Spock had arrived on the bridge early. Everyone else had reported on duty as scheduled— except the Helm Team. “When they arrive,” he continued. “Mr. Sulu and Mr. Chekov: take time to get some breakfast. Afterward,” he said, glancing pointedly at the Navigator. “You have your face seen to, Ensign.” “Yes, Sir.” “Bones, will you join me for breakfast?” Blue eyes uneasy, the Doctor hesitated. “I should probably see to Chekov first.” “You have an entire sickbay of Doctors. I’m sure the best Navigator in the fleet can locate one of them. Come along. “Uhura, you have the con.” * * * Leonard McCoy felt a menacing presence step up behind his chair in the dark room. Instinctively, his hand darted out toward the computer screen that gave off the only eerie light into the room. A hand grabbed his fiercely. “Don’t,” the man warned. The Doctor’s mouth twitched. He stared at the words he’d written into the report: it had lingered there so long their letters were burned into his retina. “As a Senior Officer on this ship, as Chief Medical Officer, as a Doctor—as a man: I have to.” He reached out with his other hand then, but the man knocked it away and used his own hand to send the report into oblivion somewhere. “I’ll just have to rewrite it now, “ McCoy maintained with determination. “You won’t. I’ll block it.” The Doctor sat silently in the dark then. He had not doubt the man would continue to find ways to thwart any such report from the ship’s Chief of Surgery. He pushed his wrist against the resistance then, to no avail. The fingers only bit tighter into his arm. McCoy sighed heavily and stared ahead into the darkness, seeing nothing. The warmth from the fingers still wrapped around his wrist was the only sensation he was aware of and it ate away at him. Despite the threatening nature of the grasp, there was an unnerving gentleness there as well. Suddenly, he yanked at the ring he always wore on his trapped left hand furiously. The hand was jerked away from him. The Doctor growled low as the man sank to his knees beside him. Fingers drifted gently and moved into McCoy’s hand instead. A thumb brushed over the ring reverently. “Don’t take it off. It was too hard earned.” “It doesn’t even fit anymore,” he muttered in return, a note of metaphor in his words. “First do no harm,” the Chief Surgeon said heavily into the dark then. “First do no harm.” The fingers tightened around the Doctor’s. “A definition of harm seems to be required.” McCoy turned and met Chekov’s soulful eyes, their depths gleaming in the dark. His steel blue eyes drifted slowly over the man’s wholesome, perfect face. “Who did that?” “Dr. M’Benga.” “It’s good work. There’s nothing left of the cut.” “Yes, well, I can’t imagine you have any bad Doctors in your sickbay.” McCoy’s eyes widened. “There’s something I never thought I’d hear you say. I thought we had an agreement: I’m the only Doctor you see unless it’s an emergency. That’s our contract.” “A Captain’s orders elevate required treatment to the emergency level,” Chekov observed. “I suppose they do,” McCoy agreed blandly. Chekov was remarkably immune to viruses and infection, but the universe had retaliated with its perverse sense of irony. Life had ravaged the young man’s body with overwhelming injuries instead—right when he was on the verge of living. He had stubbornly fought his way through them and refused to acknowledge their importance. That he had endured to pass Starfleet Academy’s strict physical requirements was a testament to his sheer will power—and a miracle. Chekov carried that fighting nature forward into all medical facilities he encountered. He was a fiercely uncooperative, combative patient that inherently distrusted the entire medical profession. What McCoy saw in the young man quickly, however, was that the bravado was a defense mechanism nurtured to fend off well- developed fear. Chekov’s fierce determination had created and maintained his athletic, well-toned physique more than any medical treatment he had ever received. The concept of allowing anyone else control over a body he had literally fought with to get where he wanted in life terrified him. The Enterprise’s Chief Medical Officer immediately saw why in the man’s medical records. The man hadn’t released his entire file to McCoy but the Doctor recognized both hopelessness in the medical notes passed onto him and the perverse curiosity that it sometime prompted in the members of his profession. This young man had been subjected to a mind-numbing, exhaustive number of procedures and tests after his injuries that Chekov rightly suspected had very little to do with treatment and more to do with the medical profession’s stupefied minds. Pavel Chekov’s file had settled on Leonard McCoy like a rock. It had made him determined to never again—if he ever had—treat anyone that ever came to him like a medical experiment. The Chief Navigator always knew what McCoy was doing and why: and approved it. The young man didn’t fail to put up a fuss over it anyway. It was his way of reminding the Doctor he was in control still—even if the older man fought back as fiercely to keep Chekov manageable. McCoy didn’t restrain from employing techniques found useful by his former Doctor either. This had become part of their well-negotiated and firmly understood contract. “I believe I need to rethink my bedside technique: especially when it comes to you and Spock,” he observed quietly. “I think Mr. Spock relies on you to routinely challenge his human nature.” “What have you two been doing in the Science labs after duty?” McCoy demanded irritably. Chekov looked indignant. “I have been assisting him with his personal research projects.” “I know.” “You’re the one who suggested it.” “You get bored easily. How did you know that? “Mr. Spock told me.” “Mouthy fellow, isn’t he?” McCoy growled. “I don’t think Spock has any inherent need to have his human nature challenged regularly.” “Than he has the only human mother in existence that didn’t do it for him. You get trained by both parents, I know.” “I seem to remember hearing something about that in medical school,” he rasped under his breath. McCoy cocked his head and eyed the young man’s features in the dim room. He knew Spock had a human mother, of course. That she would act like every other human mother had actually never occurred to him. With Chekov’s innate ability to judge people’s nature and his extraordinary powers of observation, the Doctor had often thought he’d make an exceptional Security officer. He supposed the young man had trained himself in subconscious competition with his father’s reported photographic memory. “Does M’Benga still have that scar on his arm?” “Which…” Chekov stopped and shot McCoy an irritated look, knowing the man was testing him. M’Benga had three scars the Navigator had noticed. He’d wondered why a Doctor hadn’t had them fixed. McCoy tossed out the idea of Chekov in Security: it would only give him more excuses to get injured. “Anyway, I don’t see how a mother’ s guilt trips could work on someone without feelings.” The irritation on the Navigator’s face deepened into a scowl. “You know very well Vulcans have feelings. History has demonstrated they’ re much more passionate than humans. It’s a miracle they were able to embrace Surak’s philosophy of logic and save their civilization.” “You believe in miracles, don’t you?” McCoy reflected. The young man’s dark eyes sank inward as he gazed up at the Doctor. “Belief is something you use on things you’ve never seen, Doc.” The older man held his gaze a long moment. “I’ll try to remember that.” Chekov placed his right hand over McCoy’s then, laying his fingers on top of the ones he already held. The Doctor’s left hand still resting in his, he stroked the fingers there in silent thought. “Have you ever heard me talk about my Godfather?” “I don’t recall us spending any off-duty time together.” “No,” Chekov agreed. “You remind me of him: of Sergie.” “I have hands like him?” McCoy asked, watching as the man continued to compare their fingers. “No,” the Navigator intoned absently. “You have hands like mine, like my fathers: long, expressive fingers. Like Mr. Spock’s. “Good hands for a Doctor. Sergie’s hands are thick and rough,” Chekov continued. McCoy nodded in understanding. “Men who work for a living often have a clear understanding of life’s basics,” he acknowledged. “Like you.” McCoy drew his hand away then and shifted his gaze into the dark. “You need to go: I have a report to write.” “He’s more business like than you. Dr. M’Benga, that is.” “Every Doctor has their own bedside manner that they’re constantly developing with experience.” “So you’ll be adding a back-hand to your right cross?” Chekov asked with amusement. “I’m a Doctor, not a bantamweight,” McCoy growled in return. He added quickly: “Is everything a joke to you?” How the hell did he find out about the right cross? The Navigator shrugged and then nodded. “If it’s not going to end up in a history book, why give it any worry?” “An odd point of view.” Shrugging again, Chekov smirked. “I seem to recall you telling me that I’m an odd sort of person.” “I obviously talk too much, as well.” “It sounds like you’re ready to renegotiate our contract,” the Navigator observed, sitting back on his heels. “That would mean every clause is up to scrutiny.” “Meaning what?” McCoy asked darkly, glancing back sharply at the younger man. A sly grin crept over Chekov’s features. “I can bite you if I want,” he pronounced with satisfaction. “That is NOT up for renegotiation!!” the Doctor roared, alarm flashing across his face. A croaked, wild grin split the Navigator’s face then and he laughed gleefully. “If anything is up for renegotiation, everything is, Doc.” McCoy’s mouth twitched and his face clouded. “Does Robert Chapman really still have scars?” “Dr. Bob? How would I know: I haven’t seen him in years.” McCoy knew that he did. The man, noted for being a rehabilitation miracle worker, had told the Enterprise’s Chief Surgeon he regarded them as permanent reminders that his patients were, in fact, people first of all. The best Doctors learned from those they were privileged to treat. McCoy also knew full well that Chekov still kept in contact with ‘Dr. Bob.’ “Dr. Chapman is a genius,” he commented. “Yes,” the Navigator agreed, finally climbing to his feet. “He listens—and he deals with every person the way they need to be dealt with. Like you.” He turned to leave, but McCoy’s voice stopped him at the door. “Chekov, I still have a report to write,” he observed quietly. “Don’t. I already told you that I won’t let you. If you do, I’ll have to write my own report in return,” he said, glancing back at the older man darkly. “Then the Captain will remand me to hours refreshing my hand-to-hand combat skills: probably with him, God forbid. He’s ruthless.” “Why would he do that?” the Doctor Chekov smirked, with a gesture of simplicity. “I didn’t duck. “Doctor,” he continued. “One of the most important things Sergie taught me early on was that there are certain people born into this life who just need a knock upside the head every so often. Don’t renegotiate our contract: he’s counting on you to keep me rational.” |