The Sound of Stardust
by
Patricia Wright
James Kirk had long since accepted that the universe was full of wonders, and he expected it to be so. Nonetheless, the universe
managed to surprise him on occasion anyway.
Beside him in the turbo lift stood a man he thought he had known for four years. As a Captain--as a friend--he had won Pavel Chekov’s
trust and come to believe he knew him: but he was wrong. Despite his friendly nature, the Security Chief was a profoundly private
individual and Kirk now found himself reminded of this.
“Chekov,” McCoy demanded irately. “When in damnation did you go off and get married?”
The Security Chief stood stiffly, his face ashen as he stared off at some distant point far outside the lift they were on. “My freshman
year at the Academy,” he answered tonelessly without shifting his gaze.
The Captain’s insides chilled less at the unexpected answer and more at the emotionless delivery. The man’s wife had been on a star
cruiser that had crash-landed on the planetoid they now approached. Unable to obtain casualty lists, Kirk had expected the wildly
emotional Chekov to be nearly berserk with the enforced ignorance. He was, instead, uncharacteristically cold and uncommunicative.
The Doctor pressed on with undisguised outrage. “Chekov, are you telling me that you’ve been married the whole time we’ve known
you?”
“Yes, I was married when I posted to the Enterprise,” Chekov responded evenly.
Kirk watched the young man’s face as McCoy grilled him. Young? No, he supposed this was not the same twenty-one year old that the
Captain had hand-picked from his graduating class at the Academy all those years ago.
Second in his class and already a brillant navigator, Kirk had impatiently waited for the new Ensign to take his post on the bridge.
Starfleet required that new command officers serve in every department to familiarize themselves with the ship before taking their final
posting. An affable, charming young man with a quick wit, Chekov made friends quickly and was well-liked by the time he settled into the
bridge. The new Navigator seamlessly became a member of the family that was the Enterprise’s primary bridge team.
Despite all this, the friendly Chekov actually trusted very few people as his friends. He never spoke of his background, offering only the
pale information that his parents were cultural anthropologists that worked for the government; and that he’d traveled with them
extensively as a child. While he lauded Russia in general and spoke with a Slavic accent, no one actually knew where he was born.
Uhura pointed out that his various mispronounced English words were attributable to several different regions: something unlikely at
best. In fact, one time when she had sat with the semi-conscious Navigator in sickbay, she made the startling revelation that he actually
spoke Russian with an accent as well.
Only Sulu–whom he had known from the Academy–did Chekov consider a friend immediately. The Navigator’s professional trust of his
colleagues came quickly. His personal trust for them, however, was harder won and Kirk had felt a certain amount of satisfaction as he
had edged his way into Chekov’s personal space. He had thought they’d become friends.
It was obvious now that it was not so.
“This woman who you’re married to, who is she? She’s a dancer?” McCoy was demanding irritably.
Kirk understood the man’s tone and couldn’t deny he agreed with it. The Captain felt betrayed that after all this time his Security Chief
had failed to mention such a charming little detail as the fact that he was married. Had always been married. Freshman year, he
thought irritably. Eight years ago.
Chekov had never acted married and Kirk admitted to feeling self-righteous on behalf of the man’s varied girlfriends. The younger man
had truthfully always been the one to end the relationships and the Captain now wondered if any of them knew why. Of course, even
marriages came in all different forms and he was in no position to judge the nature of another person’s relationships, but there had
never even been a mention of her on Chekov’s part. Hell, had he just left the woman back on Earth and forgotten about her?
The stiff, emotional detachment in the young man’s form didn’t waver as he answered the Doctor’s question. “Tatiana Demidova is
currently the principal female dancer with the Maryinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia, Sir.”
Kirk shifted his jaw, casting a wry smirk at his friend. It was so like Chekov, who exaggerated lies, to diminish the truth. “The Prima
Ballerina in the finest ballet company on Earth,” he translated. “They were on a cultural exchange tour when their transport crashed.”
He watched Chekov for his expected response to the bait, but was discouraged when he didn’t get it. While it was true that the
Maryinsky had always been accepted as the finest classical training available, classical ballet was only a branch of the art. It was like
claiming Beethoven was better than Mozart, and Chekov wasn’t one to accept such simple assertions. That the Security Chief didn’t
argue with Kirk said something about his mood.
McCoy jammed his arms across his chest and growled. “When we found them, you said Tatiana was ‘a close relative of your fathers’!”
“She is,” Chekov retorted. “She’s his daughter-in-law.”
Kirk’s hand shot out to stop McCoy’s instinctive lunge, but it was the Security Chief’s further statement that stopped him in his tracks.
“Tatiana is also my sister.”
“You married your sister?”
“Yes,” he replied thickly as he stepped out of the turbo lift.
“Bones!” the Captain grasped his friend’s arm as the Security Chief moved crisply down the corridor toward the transporter room.
“Pavel Chekov is an only child,” he reminded him.
“Chekov seems to have a curious problem remembering that,” the Doctor observed irritably.
“Tatiana is–was–his parent’s ward,” Kirk informed him as he moved to quickly follow Chekov. “Not his biological sister.”
“He told you that?” the Doctor asked with surprise as he scrambled along beside him.
“No,” he replied tartly. “I’m the Captain. I checked his record when I found out he was married.”
“Damn convenient.”
“Yes,” Kirk agreed. “It can be.” That Chekov claimed he married his sister was a sobering thought to the ship’s Captain. The younger
man knew well Kirk’s values and it was as though Chekov was now purposely seeking to drive the widest wedge he could between
them. It was a reminder that Kirk had not moved beyond the wall with which the Russian kept his non-friends at bay. The Security Chief
only seemed to be fortifying the barrier now.
“The man could have mentioned that she was their ward, not his sister,” McCoy commented with ill-humor.
“Bones, “ the Captain spoke as they entered the transporter room to prevent their minds from becoming mired in the subject. “We have
a shipload of battered and traumatized people to attend to. I believe they deserve our attention without the distraction of gossip about
Chekov’s personal life.”
The point taken, McCoy’s jaw shifted and he lapsed into silence as he followed Kirk into the room. Chekov had always had a peculiar
dislike for gossip; the reasons why seemed clear now.
“Captain,” Spock said as Kirk approached him. “We have isolated the wreckage on the planetoid. The survivors appear to have set up
a rudimentary camp nearby utilizing available materials. From movement of life signs, we have determined that there are, indeed,
injured among them: some are registering as immobile. In addition,” he began, but stopped with a glance over to confirm Chekov’s
location on the platform already.
Kirk often wondered if it was his years among humans or his mother’s influence that had made Spock so sensitive to human needs. It
was a sensitivity the Vulcan would have denied with feigned ignorance had it ever been pointed out to him.
“There are several organic forms–human from their composition--without life signs,” the Science Officer concluded quietly. “They are
isolated from the others.”
“Can we beam down our party away from all human forms?”
Spock nodded. “I anticipated such a request and located a central clearing among the rock outcroppings, free from vegetation and all
life forms. Sickbay teams are prepared to beam down directly to the survivor’s camp from the emergency transporter as soon as we
establish orbit.”
“Thank-you, Spock. Your efficiency makes my job easier.”
“As it should.”
“Captain,” Transporter Chief Kyle cut in then. “The bridge reports that we’re in orbit.”
“Thank-you, Mr. Kyle. Gentlemen,” he prompted Spock and McCoy onto the transporter platform.
‘Clearing’ was a kind description of the spot the ship’s Science Officer had located. The planetoid was little more than dirt and rocks;
where they materialized the dirt just happened to spread further between the rocks than it did in other locations. Kirk, in fact, wondered
how the space object managed to hang onto a breathable atmosphere.
“Doctor,” Spock intoned, calling McCoy’s attention to a rock outcropping to their left. “Your team should be beaming down to the camp
which you can reach through those rocks. Captain, with your permission, I will explore to the east.”
“Best speed, Spock.”
“I will assist…”
“No,” Kirk spat out instantly, stopping Chekov in his tracks. “You know these people. I want you stationed at this central location to act
as the ship’s liaison if need be.”
“Yes, Sir,” the man replied formally. His stiffened jaw and averted eyes clearly betrayed his feelings about the order, however.
“You’ll excuse me if I go see to my medical staff.” McCoy’s subdued tone was an acknowledgment of the tension that was obvious
between the two command officers he left behind.
The normally chatty Lieutenant uttered not a sound as he waited alone to the side of the clearing. He didn’t even move: just stood
ramrod straight as Kirk slowly paced a few steps this way and that to keep his thoughts from settling unpleasantly. He had never seen
Chekov in this kind of mood. Although the Security Chief was not nearly so impulsive as he had once been, Kirk was used to Chekov’s
quick bursts of temper that flared up instantly and then burned out as quickly. A fire’s true danger was beyond the flames, however: in
the intensity of the raging coals that a well fueled burn left behind. That’s what the Captain now sensed in the outwardly emotionless
man he stood with and he was unnerved by the feeling that Chekov was a far more dangerous man than he’d ever expected.
Kirk hesitated as he saw Spock’s form reappear amidst the rocks. The Science Officer said nothing, but Kirk still understood the
information he imparted. The Captain moved carefully over to where Chekov stood as the Vulcan returned to tend to the bodies.
“Pavel,” he said gently then, fortified by Spock’s silent information. “I’m sure she’s alright.”
He received no response except for the tightening of the man’s already rock-hard jaw and silence fell between then again. It was the
first time they’d been alone since the Captain had told him of the crash. Kirk hadn’t felt the same about his Security Chief since. On a
moment-to-moment basis he was fighting an all-too human wash of anger, betrayal and outrage that threatened to consume any
temperate thought within him. He didn’t understand which aspect of the situation–the marriage, the man’s behavior, his deception–went
with each emotion at any given point in time, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel any sympathy for the person he’d thought of as a
friend.
“Are the two of you close?” he attempted with tight politeness.
“She’s a pain up my ass,” Chekov snarled in reply, his dark eyes still frozen in the distance.
Kirk smiled slightly. “You mean ‘a pain in the ass’.”
“If you say so, Sir,” he replied stiffly.
“Pavel!”
Both men glanced quickly toward the voice. At the rock outcropping that had earlier swallowed the Doctor stood a young woman, her
dirt-smudged face still reflecting an inner glow from the joyous smile that energized her entire being. “Malyenki!”
She flew across the clearing, her slender body gracefully soaring into the air and nearly over Chekov’s head. He thrust his arms
upward and caught her before she did.
“Tiana!” With an uproarious laugh of delight and relief, he held her up there: grinning wildly at her.
Kirk watched the two, eyes mesmerized by the woman in Chekov’s hands. Her close-fitting, charcoal-gray coveralls, soft boots and
tangled ponytail were imbedded with the planet’s red soil. Yet even the simplist of her movement were inued with such utter grace and
natural refinement that anyone who saw her would have known immediately that she was of royal breeding. A princess. A fairy princess,
the Captain allowed himself to fantasize. For she had taken flight before his eyes, slipping into the air and rising above mere soil to
alight into the Security Chief’s arms.
No, Kirk recriminated himself, reigning his fantasies in. She had not really flown in front of him. She was a professional ballet dancer
and what he’d just seen was a simple lift. Although Chekov had only taken a few years of ballet as a very young child, he had obviously
learned how to partner the move along the way.
Chekov lowered her now, letting her slide down until his lips could catch hold of hers in desperate relief.
“Chot!”
Startled, Kirk glanced over and found a middle-aged man standing near the rock outcropping. In coveralls that matched the woman’s,
the man stood frozen: his wide gray eyes riveted on the Security Chief and his wife.
The Captain strode over to him and offered his hand. “Privyet,” he said hello in Russian. “I’m Captain James T. Kirk of the starship
Enterprise.
“Hello?” he ventured again when he received no reply.
The man started, glancing at Kirk. He seemed surprised that he wasn’t alone. Smiling with some measure of embarassment, he took the
Captain’s hand. “I’m sorry, Captain: Anatolya Ivanovich, current Director of the Mariinsky Theatre.”
He glanced distractedly at Chekov again before continuing, brushing tangled, wiry brown hair off his forehead. “I must say that we’re
privileged to be rescued by the finest ship in the galaxy. Your reputation far precedes you.”
“We’re just doing our job,” Kirk smiled easily. His eyes curiously followed the Director’s gaze as he glanced furtively, yet again, at the
Security Chief.
Chekov’s mouth held fast to the woman’s, hungrily losing himself completely in the unexpected, delicious taste of her soft lips. I could do
this forever, he thought. I want to do this forever...
He let his mouth open slightly and tenuously caressed her lips with his tongue. An explosion of heat roared, consuming all reality within
him and deafening him. He jerked his mouth away in sudden alarm but held her up at eye level still, entranced by her face and tumbling
into the well of her eyes. He was startled by the torrent of raw emotions that crashed up from somewhere deep inside him. Startled,
stunned and exhilarated.
“You’ve lost weight,” he said breathlessly to avoid the subject: as though she wouldn’t know what he was thinking anyway. Chekov’s
smouldering brown eyes stared at her as if he’d never seen this woman before: saw features for the first time that he’d thought were
already wll-memorized.
Despite the dirt and bruises, he drank in the river of her thick, shining hair, the color of new clover honey; possessed the image of her
perfect, delicate features and petal-soft skin; and reeled in the completeness he felt as her crystalline blue eyes met his. Chekov
flushed: feeling horribly, embarrassingly exposed. He forced himself to set her down on her own feet, but left his hands resting on her
arms. “You’ve lost at least two pounds.”
Wide eyes stared up at him through long, curved lashes; but something primal in them went unvoiced. She scowled at him instead. “I
was just in a space crash, Pavel Andrieivich. I like these new uniforms,” she commented, shifting the subject swiftly. Her delicate hands
smoothed over his burgundy uniform jacket and sent another rush of warmth exploding through his chest. “These have a much more
military bearing. Those grey things were horrible.”
“I’ll be sure to let the Fleet know you approve,” Chekov assured her with a wry smirk, still reluctant to let go of her arms. “You can’t
afford to lose two pounds,” he insisted thickly then, returning adroitly to the subject she’d tried to avoid. “What’s Anatolya doing about
this? Is he even aware of it?
“Anatolya.” Chekov beckoned the man standing with Kirk, a dark timbre in its tone. Showing no respect for military decorum, the Ballet’s
Director instantly excused himself from the Captain and hastened over to where the Security Chief had paused after moving away from
the woman.
The Captain watched them only momentarily before letting his shift to the woman who stood, deserted--as in life, he thought ruefully--by
Chekov. He strolled over to her and smiled charmingly. “Tiana, I can’t begin to express what a pleasure it is to finally meet you.” He
couldn’t bring himself to call her Mrs. Chekov.
Several inches shorter than Chekov and barely one hundred pounds, Kirk could see she was a true Russian beauty even through the
crashes effect on her appearance. The young woman tilted her head and cast up sparkling eyes to touch his hazel ones with a devilish
glint. The delicate curve of her lips shifted imperceptibly. “I’m sure the wait was intermimible, Captain.” The color of her eyes would have
rivaled even the finest sapphire.
Kirk pressed his lips together, but then grinned. It was clear from her toying look that she knew full well he hadn’t known about her.
“Yes,” he insisted broadly. “The last two days have been torture.”
A brilliant smile swept over her face, lighting up her entire countenance. “From what I know of Pavel Andrievich, I imagine they were.”
Kirk’s grin only deepened. Beautiful and quick-witted, the Captain decided he understood why Chekov had married her.
“Captain…”
“Jim.”
She smiled gently. “Jim,” she acknowledged. “My name isn’t Tiana.”
“I’m sorry,” he instantly apologized. “I thought I heard Mr. Chekov call you that.”
“Oh, you did,“ she answered amiably. “Pavel calls me that to annoy me: he always has. It isn’t even remotely Russian. I’ve always
ignored it to irritate him back.” Her smile sparkled in the depths of her eyes. “We both seem to have a bit of a stubborn streak.”
“Really?” Kirk asked broadly, hazel eyes sparkling wickedly. “Now, I hadn’t noticed that about Mr. Chekov.” The name clearly had
become an endearment between the two.
She laughed, a merry sound like musical notes skipping away on the air. “Jim, both Tanya and Tatenka are nicknames for Tatiana.”
“Tatiana is too beautiful a name to shorten.” He smiled charmingly, took her delicate hand and lifted it to his lips: touching it with a kiss.
With utmost poise, her long, graceful neck drew up and her shoulders eased back in the most enchanting recognition of his gesture
that he could have hoped for. Kirk released the woman’s hand, but then hesitated as his attention was caught by the strident note he
heard in his Security Chief’s distant voice. He glanced across the clearing to where the younger man stood with the Ballet’s Director.
What drew his attention was the volume of Chekov’s voice. It was not raised: in fact, it was lowered to a thunderously quiet level.
“Do you think this is some kind of joke?” the Security Chief was demanding, his tone flat and accent faded. “What are you doing
dragging the Motherland’s finest dancers into outerspace anyway? Space travel isn’t safe! You risked our cultural treasures for the
sake of your own personal ego.”
“We’re on a cultural exchange tour,” the Director replied hurriedly with a strange note of panic in his voice. “It was arranged by the
Ministry of Culture. You knew about it!”
“You should never have been traveling in outer space.”
“What were we supposed to do, let them all come to us?”
“Yes!” Chekov retorted, his voice strident again. “If they wish to see the magnificent culture the Motherland has to offer, they can come
to Russia!”
The Captain forced back a smile with difficulty, catching Tatiana’s expression as she rolled her eyes outlandishly. Chekov was being
ridiculous. Kirk moved to address the issue, but felt the gentle brush of her fingertips on the back of his arm. He was charmed by the
wink she didn’t give him but he clearly saw.
She turned to her husband without sign of having overheard the conversation he was having with the Director. “Lt. Chekov.”
He glanced at her sharply. The Security Chief squared his shoulders, a shadow of embarrassment glancing over his features so quickly
that it was almost as invisible as the wink. There wasn’t any recrimination in her tone: she didn’t need it. Chekov knew expected
appropriate behavior for a Starfleet Officer.
“Captain Kirk needs your advice.”
The man’s face turned sullen; something the Captain recognized even from where he stood. It was hidden by the time the man
approached them.
“Yes, Sir?”
“We were discussing the company’s need for practice space,” she explained before Kirk could say anything. “Since you are the only
one familiar with both the company’s needs and the ship’s composition and operation, the Captain was seeking your recommendation.”
Eyeing her with charmed interest, Kirk clasped his hands behind his back sedately. As a Starship captain, he rarely allowed himself to
be manipulated into such a position. He was instantly entranced at how diplomacy was such a nimble plaything in her delicate fingers. If
first impressions were an important thing, than she had made an indelible one already, considered the Captain. Such a diminutive
thing, she still exuded a presence of elegant, impermibile grace that no sane person would contend with. Hell, he thought. I don’t think
Chekov ever had a chance.
“We’ll need a barre. The mirrors are luxuries,” the Director was saying as he joined them. “But we can’t practice without a barre.”
“Practice?!” McCoy demanded from the side of the clearing, his steel blue eyes wild with outrage. “Are you insane? Jim, you can’t be
seriously considering their request,” he roared as he quickly strode over to the group. “These people need rest and time to heal. I’d
recommend a month at least!”
“They’re ballet dancers,” Chekov replied levelly. “Not circus performers.”
The Doctor threw a hand up in his face. “I don’t care if they’re Starfleet Special Ops Forces, Chekov! They’ve just crash landed!”
“Doctor McCoy,” the Security Chief snarled under his breath. “A five minute ballet is more physically taxing than six rounds of boxing.
Even one day without practice requires weeks to get a dancer’s body back into proper condition to perform. Practice is not an option. It’
s a requirement. There’s no telling how much of a setback the crash has already been.”
“Jim,” McCoy insisted angrily again. “It’s against my medical advice to even consider letting any of these people work out. I won’t allow it
on my ship.”
Chekov’s jaw tightened and he stiffened his shoulders in response. “Doctor, you and your medical staff aren’t qualified to make such a
decision. The Company’s Doctor will determine if there are any dancers who require medical leave.”
“Mister Chekov,” the Doctor rasped back. “As a Starfleet Officer, you are well aware the medical condition of everyone aboard the
Enterprise is my jurisdiction and my determination overrules even the Captain’s authority.”
“The Company Doctor knows...”
“Dr. Grigorivich is dead.”
Chekov turned slowly to fix the Director with cold, dark eyes. “What?”
The man swallowed hard and shifted before he answered. “I’m afraid the Company Doctor died in the crash, Pavel.”
Silently, the Security Chief’s brown eyes held the older man frozen a long moment. “How could you allow such a thing to happen?” he
asked tonelessly.
The man reacted violently then, throwing his hands into the air. “I’m not God!” he burst out in exasperation. “Pavel, how can I possibly
be held responsible for who died in the crash?!”
Chekov glared at him, eyes growing even darker. “Do you want to keep your job?” His words were almost too quiet to hear.
“Gentlemen,” Kirk cut in sharply. “Obviously, our guests do have special needs which should be addressed. Mr. Chekov, until further
notice you are to consider your only duty to be a liaison to them.”
“Sir, I am fully able to attend to my other duties as well as...”
“You have your orders, Lieutenant,” the Captain continued abruptly, glancing at him sharply. “I expect you to carry them out utilizing
your full understanding of the ship’s normal operations.” Including, thought Kirk fiercely, how McCoy has to operate his sickbay.
“Understood, Sir,” Chekov replied, subdued.
“Good. Now, see to the planet-side medical staff,” he instructed.
“Yes, Sir.”
Strangely, what struck the Captain as he watched Chekov leave was how attractive the younger man was. Any children he had with
Tatiana would be stunning, and no doubt brilliant. He didn’t understand how, after marrying this enchanting and beautiful young
woman, the Security Chief could have left alone her back their home world. He felt somewhat self-satisfied that his orders would force
the man to spend time with his wife.
The orders also meant Kirk would not be spending as much time in close proximity to the man as would be usual. He would have more
space: more time to find a way to completely readjust his image of a man he’d thought was his friend.
“You’ll have to give him a bit of levity,” the Captain explained to the Ballet’s Director apologetically when Chekov was out of earshot.
“Understandably, he’s also had a lot to deal with himself lately.”
“He’s tense,” McCoy commented lightly. “Don’t worry about it: it’s not like he can really threaten your job, after all.”
The Director scowled, looking at the Doctor strangely. “Who do you think got the last Director fired?”
The Enterprise officers exchanged a surprised look as Tatiana nodded sublimely.
“Had him sent to a penal colony, too,” she added.
“Gentlemen,” the Director insisted fiercely. “I don’t know anything about the situation with this ‘Lieutenant Chekov’ on your ship, but I
can assure you of one thing:
“In Russia, Pavel Andrieivich is not a man to cross.”