by Jane Seaton

Part 2/4

Sulu finished setting up the simulation on the auxiliary bridge. "So where is this guy? Did Mister Spock tell you anything about him?"

Lieutenant Farrell shrugged. "Only that if he was any use, I'd be hauling my kit over to the Endeavour. I don't know why he can't go if they want someone so badly. Apparently he's Russian."

Sulu turned, his face registering his surprise. "Russian? A Russian pilot?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, or more likely a navigator." Kirk ushered the young man in through the door. "Is the scenario ready to run?"

The helmsman nodded and sat down in his own place. "All ready, Captain." He watched the newcomer step down to the lower level. The Russian looked very unsure of himself, rather cowed, as if coming here hadn't been his idea. He ignored the two lieutenants as he glanced nervously round the cramped little compartment .

"Have you flown a constitution class ship before?" Sulu asked him as the Russian slid carefully into the other seat at the helm. He was answered with a silent shake of the man's head.

"No, stupid question, really. Well, let's see how badly you do..."

Chekov's fingers froze on the controls. He sat back in the chair, withdrawing his hands into his lap.

Kirk leaned over his shoulder and continued the initialising routine Chekov had started. "Go on. Just do what you can."

"Someone has remapped control layout," Chekov said quietly. "I am not familiar with this. It is... not standard."

"Nothing on this ship is standard," Farrell interposed.

Sulu glanced back at Kirk. "Is he qualified?"

"Yes. He has a civilian license for warp flight, up to fourteen tonnes. Apparently he piloted Admiral Fleetwood's gig."

Sulu frowned. "He's just memorised a few basic routines, I expect. You can't expect him to know how to do this. I bet the Victoria has the most advanced autopiloting you can get from a civilian yard."

"Can you restore a standard configuration, Lieutenant?" Kirk asked, turning to Farrell. "Look, Mike, I don't want to lose you to Captain Noakes, but I can't be selfish about this. For now, you have to go where the fleet needs you most. I want to know what Pavel here can do. Run through some straightforward stuff to let him settle in, get the feel of it, Sulu. Then take a break in... say an hour, and I'll come by to see how you're getting on after that."

Chekov slipped out of his seat to let Farrell access the controls. He stared at the viewscreen while the lieutenant worked and Kirk departed.

"Six credits fifty," Sulu said suddenly.

"What?" Farrell looked up from the readout. "What's that?"

"I heard, that's what each and every Russian owes each and every citizen of Earth. At least, that was the figure a couple months ago. They're not even managing to repay the interest on the capital, so it's going up all the time."

"Is that right?" Farrell straightened and waved Chekov back into his seat. "That's ridiculous. Why don't they just wipe the slate?"

"Think about it. This one Russian is in debt to the tune of nearly twenty billion credits."

Chekov had restarted the initialisation. His pale face had coloured slightly but otherwise he wasn't reacting.

"I am ready to start," he said. His voice wavered a little.

Sulu threw a long-suffering look at Farrell. "That's a hell of a lot of money."

"Makes my overdraft look respectable," Farrell agreed. "Well, boys, I'm going to leave you to it. I have to pack, just in case he really can fly this bird."

"Don't hold your breath," Sulu suggested. "Okay... what was your name? Pavel? Here you are then, Pavel. We're in sector triple-zero, on a straight run from Vulcan to Earth. Let's see you plot us a course. The little bright lights here on the display are stars, and the green triangles are planets. You don't want to hit any of those."

Farrell turned back from the door. The Russian didn't seem to have understood Sulu's remarks, or he was pretending he hadn't. He'd called up a navicomp display on the main viewscreen and was running through the standard moves for plotting a warp trajectory in a region of space more than adequately served by navigation beacons.

"What's eating you, Hikaru? Maybe he can do it. If I had a yacht like the Victoria, I wouldn't let just anyone helm her."

"Kobe, 1998," Sulu said.

"What?"

"The destruction of Kobe, and three million Japanese civilians, when a terrorist gang detonated a nuclear device they'd bought from a Russian army surplus sale."

"Oh. Yeah." Farrell stood for a moment, watching the fine blue line of the Russian's projected course come up on the screen. "Well, that was a long time ago."

"Some things," Sulu said coldly, "are never a long time ago."

The rec room was busy with men and officers eating first shift lunch when Kirk came down from the bridge. McCoy wandered over to him, a cup of coffee in one hand and a danish in the other. The surgeon had shadows like smudgy thumb prints under his eyes. He grinned half-heartedly at Kirk's concerned expression. "At least the life and death stuff is finished. Where's that Russian of yours?"

Kirk pointed to where Chekov was helping himself to a hot drink of some description from a dispenser. McCoy scowled. "You've given him access to the servitors? I hope you've put restrictions on that. If he works out he can get vodka whenever he wants, you'll never see him sober again."

"He's an alcoholic?" Kirk demanded.

"No. He's a Russian. Same thing, of course, but Woodie seems to have managed to keep him out of the cocktail cabinet. His liver's healthy enough."

"I'll get Spock to limit his access, if you think it's necessary..."

"Just a sensible precaution, Captain. How did he make out in the simulations this morning?"

Kirk shrugged. "I'm about to find out. Lieutenant!"

"Captain?"

Sulu turned round. The colleagues he'd been talking to melted away, leaving the three officers with an empty table. Kirk gestured to the others to sit down with him.

"So how did Pavel make out?" he asked.

"Okay. He can do the standard stuff. I guess it's not too surprising he got a civilian license. After all, you just have to plug in to the control frequency and state your destination."

"But he can't do any more than that?"

The helmsman shook his head. "I doubt it."

"Did you let him try?"

"I suggested we run some more advanced stuff, but he wouldn't. He knows his limitations, I'll give him that."

Kirk scowled annoyance. "Lieutenant, I want to know what he can do, not what you think he can't do. If we can't find enough people, we're effectively putting a starship on ice. Using him here will free up the Endeavour, even if he just minds the computer on the dead watch."

"If that's all he's going to do, sir, you might as well let the computer mind itself."

"He wouldn't have got a pilot's license if he was that lame," Kirk said firmly, not letting his own doubt show in his voice. "Did you tell him he could come in here and get a drink?"

"What? Oh, yes, sir. I didn't think. I..."

"No. That's okay." Kirk glanced across to see what the Russian was doing now. He wasn't really doing anything, just standing in the middle of the rec room, a styrofoam cup in one hand, the other dug deep into the pocket of the nondescript grey pants that didn't quite match his nondescript grey shirt, as if his appearance wasn't something that could possibly matter. He was garnering quite a few curious stares from around the room, but no one made eye contact.

Suddenly Chekov looked straight back at the captain, clenched the fist in the pocket, and began to walk across the room towards the senior officers. Kirk felt an odd cramp in his stomach at the youngster's deliberate, determined appearance. Of course, Pavel had to learn how to behave, how to adapt to his circumstances, there was no question of that, but...

Chekov laid something on the table with a metallic clink. He looked up at Sulu, not at Kirk, and withdrew his hand. A heap of dull, metal discs lay on the plastic table top. Kirk noticed that the Russian's other hand had crumpled the empty styrofoam cup, as if some unmanageably strong emotion was escaping through that impotent gesture.

"What?" Sulu reached out and spread the four coins. An ancient, tarnished five credit piece and three smaller, slightly shinier, fifty cent tokens. Kirk hadn't seen Federation coinage since he'd been old enough to run a magnetic card through a shop terminal.

"Where d'you get these?" McCoy asked.

"They were gift, from Admiral Fleetwood," Chekov said. "I cannot have bank account, or bankcard, like you."

"I meant... I only meant I haven't seen coins like this since my grandpappy used to send me out to buy ice cream..." McCoy stopped, as if he'd suddenly realised how demeaning the comparison might be.

"They are good money, legal. They were a gift. They are mine, to do what I want."

"Then what do you want? You don't have to pay for food in here," Kirk explained impatiently. "I have to feed you. And it doesn't matter if you eat here or in your own cabin. I'm quite happy for you to eat in here."

Chekov hadn't looked away from Sulu throughout.

The helmsman picked up the coins and pocketed them. "Okay. Debt paid." He held out his hand to the Russian. "Shake on it?"

Chekov didn't seem to know what Sulu meant, but he let the lieutenant clasp his hand firmly for a couple of seconds, then release it.

The intercom whistled, sparing Kirk the need to comment on something he didn't understand. He turned away to the nearest comm unit, took the message and came straight back to group. "Lieutenant..."

"Yes, sir?"

"That was Admiral Hardiman. Apparently the Endeavour is heading out in two hours, with Farrell and Riley, whether I agree or not. He can either send us back to Starbase 3, as planned, where we can hang around for weeks waiting for replacement helm officers, or we can accept an emergency medical shipment for Alpha Tyr that's ready first thing tomorrow and needs to get there yesterday. I can only do the latter if I know at least that Chekov's pilot's license wasn't just a favour to Admiral Fleetwood from the local authorities. Pavel..." The Russian looked up at him blankly. "Come down to the auxiliary bridge with me. We'll have a look at how you made out. Sulu, pass the news to Farrell and Riley and rework the shift rota, using every qualified officer we have. Make sure Mister Scott and I get enough simulator time and co-pilot hours to requalify as soon as possible, but remember Engineering is short staffed. Bring me the results as soon as you have them. Okay?"

Sulu's 'yes, sir' went unregistered as Kirk took Chekov by the arm and hurried him out of the rec room. McCoy frowned.

"What's wrong, Doctor? I know we're going to be trying to pilot in our sleep, but..."

"Why the hell did you take his money, Lieutenant? He said it was a present. It was probably all the money he has. Did you make some stupid bet with him or something?"

Sulu coloured a little. "I... I didn't want to take it, Doctor. It wasn't a bet. I was shooting my mouth off, about how much the Russians still owe CredStat. I guess he took it personally. And just now... I thought he'd be more insulted if I refused it, or took it and just handed it back to him, than if I accepted it." Sulu picked up Chekov's abandoned, crumpled cup. "Look, if you can work out a tactful way for me to return it, I'd really appreciate hearing about it."

The lighting in the auxiliary bridge seemed to have become simultaneously harsher and dimmer as the morning passed.

"Please, I am tired," Chekov said, staring blankly at the simulated starfield on the viewscreen. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can!" Kirk wasn't sure if it was truth or an illusion fuelled by his own exhaustion, but a dozen times, the instant Sulu had racked the difficulty of the simulations up from routine to anything more challenging, he was sure he'd seen Chekov reach for the right move, only to cut it off with another stubborn, "I don't know how to do this."

Hell, just the accuracy with which the Russian distinguished the different levels of simulation every time, gave him away.

"All right then. Go to the rec room. Can you find your way back there?" He half expected Chekov to deny that too, but the Russian nodded dully. "Get yourself something to eat, whatever you like. Ask for help if you can't..." He stopped. Chekov had hacked the main computer. He wasn't going to be defeated by a rec room servitor. "We'll join you in a few minutes. And Pavel..."

The youngster had already risen from his seat. He stopped, but didn't turn.

"You've worked hard today. Thank you." Kirk waited for a response, maybe some pleasure at the compliment. He was disappointed, but went on anyway. "You're very good at this. Even if you don't know how to do the more difficult stuff, if no one's shown you, there's no reason you couldn't learn."

The moment they were alone together, Kirk turned to Sulu, who looked nearly as red-eyed as the tyro navigator. "Spock thinks he broke into the navigation simulations through the computer in my cabin. Could he be recognising these scenarios, just replaying tutorials he's learned pat?"

Sulu shook his head. "No. I've been feeding manual variations and none of them have thrown him. He's much too good for that. But he's also perfectly consistent, isn't he? He can spot a non-standard problem coming almost before I can."

"So why's he doing this?" Kirk asked, propping himself on the back of Chekov's vacated seat. "He told me he could fly the Victoria very vehemently, very... proudly, I suppose. And the next moment, he was saying he was useless, which is what he's been telling us ever since. You know, the more I think about it, the less I can imagine Admiral Fleetwood letting him pilot any vessel without being qualified to deal with whatever might come up. He wouldn't have let Chekov just scrape through a commercial test."

"Then why won't he admit he can do it?" Sulu demanded, irritation with the navigator creeping into his voice. "After all, it's a medical emergency we're asking him to help out with, and the Endeavour is dealing with piracy. He can't approve of thousands of people dying of plague, or being terrorised by Orions, whatever his own problems."

"Maybe that's it," Kirk agreed. "Maybe he just doesn't identify with the Federation, and with Starfleet."

"Well, that's typical of the Russians," Sulu said heatedly, "not being able to look beyond their own petty interests. I suppose he knew he was well off working for Admiral Fleetwood, so he behaved himself. Now he's realised we're not going to cut him any slack..."

"Maybe we should."

"Sir?"

"As you say, we're talking about saving thousands of lives, if we can get those vaccines to Alpha Tyr a couple of days earlier than another ship. If we can't appeal to a sense of duty, or discipline, or common humanity, maybe we have to appeal to something more basic."

Sulu frowned. "You can't pay him. Or at least, he can't keep it if you do..."

"We could fudge that, I imagine." Kirk thought ahead. The moment Chekov got back to Earth, there'd be nothing for him to spend any money on. "I can hardly bribe him with vodka. The whole point is he has to be functional."

"A better cabin?" Sulu suggested hopelessly. "Sex?"

Kirk frowned. "I'll pretend you didn't say that. Although... if we had more time, maybe making friends among the crew would do the trick. Esprit de corps. All that."

"But he's not part of the 'corps' is he? How did marine navies keep their conscripts in order?"

"They flogged them, and I think they just killed most of them," Kirk said shortly. "Look, we're wasting time here for now. He can go on playing dumb indefinitely. We either have to find out why he's doing it, or just change his mind about wanting to do it. Sulu, you haven't eaten since this morning either. Go have lunch with him. Make friends with him. He's not that much younger than you, and he is a good pilot, even if he won't admit it. You must have something in common. Maybe he'd like to use the gym this afternoon."

Sulu found Chekov eating alone. He asked if he could join the Russian and was ignored, so sat down anyway. He asked about what Chekov was eating and was ignored. He ate his own meal, alternating mouthfuls of fried chicken with comments on other diners, past exploits of the Enterprise and her crew and what he imagined to be the merits of the Victoria. Chekov rearranged a cheese salad on one plate, then moved on and dismantled an apple pie on another. He drank some water.

When Sulu finally finished, Chekov stood up too. "Are we going back to bridge now?"

"No. We... we got the message that you don't want to do it."

"Good."

"But we don't understand why."

"I will go back to my cabin."

"Do you understand why we need a navigator so badly?"

Chekov stopped in his tracks. "So badly you ask me? Yes. Many officers were killed at Starbase 4. I saw casualty list. Admiral Fleetwood too."

Sulu swallowed. "Well, yes, I can see... Well, when things are going okay, you can just go on without questioning things. When you're in trouble, you look at all the solutions, and sometimes you see some you didn't expect."

Chekov started walking again and Sulu followed.

"Okay, what do you want, then? What can we offer you to make it worth your while?"

A passing engineer grinned at Sulu and patted the Russian on the head. "You don't have to pay, Sulu. That's the beauty of it."

"Get lost, Craigie." Sulu turned back to Chekov, who had gone ominously pale.

"Go screw yourself!" the Russian yelled unexpectedly, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "And when you finish..."

Craigie turned round, still grinning. He was a good six inches taller than the navigator, and maybe fifty pounds heavier, all bone and muscle. "Is he giving you trouble, Mister Sulu?" The engineer flexed his large hands as he walked back towards them.

"Craigie, just..."

Chekov landed an ill-judged punch on Craigie's washboard stomach. Sulu could tell the impact almost crippled the Russian but Chekov stood his ground, waiting for a reaction.

Craigie shook his head. "I think there's a mosquito in here, Lieutenant. Shall I swat it, or call environmental to take care of it?"

"Craigie, you'd better get the hell out of here," Sulu said heavily.

The engineer looked a little taken aback. He didn't argue though, just moved off.

"Why?" Chekov asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you send him away? You call me whore, then he calls me whore. No difference."

"I didn't..."

"Look, I understand. There is a medical emergency and this ship is not ready to respond, yes? I understand correct?"

"That's right. And after that, we're not ready to respond if the Klingons launch an attack, or the Romulans invade again, but I suppose you don't care about any of that either No, I mean, I could understand if you didn't feel very involved, if you didn't identify with the wider interests of the Federation. You're not even a Federation citizen, after all, so..."

"No. So not eligible to join Starfleet. Admiral Fleetwood said it would not be allowed. How can I be navigator?"

"That's just sour grapes."

"What is what are sour grapes?"

"I mean, I presume you wanted to join, then you found you couldn't, and now you're not going to admit you ever wanted to."

"I wanted to."

"Then... then why not do this? Even if at the end of it some stuffed shirt admiral says you still can't join, at least you've had something."

"I did not say I not I don't want to. I can not. Not I will not. I... am... not... competent. It will be dangerous. I will make mistakes. It is safer for a different ship to take the medical supplies. They will arrive safely. Not with me. I can not."

Officers were entering and leaving the rec room, skirting past Sulu and Chekov, eyebrows raised at the yelling match. Sulu swallowed his anger and lowered his voice.

"Why won't you let us be the judge of that? You're not going to kill anyone running a simulation."

"It is wasting of time. I heard captain say he has too few hours flying. He should run simulation, not watch me."

"That's a formality, just like you not being in Starfleet is a formality in a situation like this."

"Just like Russian nationality is formality?"

Sulu breathed in sharply through his teeth. "As far as I'm concerned, that is irrelevant. I thought we..."

"To me, Lieutenant, it is not irrelevant. I am Russian. I am proud Russian. And you cannot admit how ashamed it is to be Japanese."

Chekov started away down the corridor.

"Why the hell should I be ashamed to be Japanese?" Sulu called after him.

"Kobe, 1998. AUM sect were Japanese, yes?"

"Yeah, well, they were crazy or something..."

"Geneva, 1997. Japanese delegation refused to co-operate in rescheduling of Russian debt, leading to collapse of rouble and end to grain imports..."

"Well, we"

"...Wanted that we give you our islands. Japan thought perhaps when we are hungry enough we will give up. We will never be hungry enough, or tired enough, or shameful enough. You think I will let people die to get money? Or what? Or women, or vodka? I can not pilot this ship. Understand?"

A small crowd had accumulated behind Chekov, unwilling to continue down the corridor to the rec room through the verbal battlefield. Sulu could sense a similar crowd at his back.

"Yes, I... I understand."

"Good. Go screw yourself."

Kirk sat in his chair, aware of the minutes ticking away. Hardiman had been very restrained about chasing him over the decision to accept the medical mission, but the pressure remained.

"I have accessed the Victoria's flight records, Captain," Spock reported from his station. "But since it is a civilian vessel, conforming to Terran requirements, they are less helpful than I had anticipated."

"You must be able to get some idea of how he handled her," Kirk protested.

Spock shook his head slightly. "When Chekov is recorded as solo pilot, the ship uses conventional pre-registered flight paths. He sometimes docks manually. When he does so, his reactions and coordination are of a high standard."

"It's not natural," Kirk complained. "If I'd been allowed to take the Victoria out when I was his age, I'd have been..." He realised his bridge crew were listening. "I'd have been tempted to show off a little. Didn't he ever try to see what she was capable of?"

"Manual flight and more ostentatious manoeuvres are recorded when both Chekov and Admiral Fleetwood were logged as pilots, but they were not conscientious in recording who had primary control. They appear to have taken each other's stations without following strict logging-in procedures."

Kirk sighed. "And you just have the black box recordings? No visuals?"

"There are some visuals. That is how I discovered the recurrent discrepancy between the recorded pilot and the identity of the person physically at the controls. Do you wish to see an example?"

Kirk gestured at the viewscreen. "Go ahead." If it didn't confirm Chekov's ability to pilot, at least seeing how Admiral Fleetwood managed the Russian might help Kirk to make a better fist of being a slave owner... There, he'd admitted it, he realised.

The Victoria's cockpit was fairly cramped. As the recorded image steadied, Kirk watched Fleetwood taking the left hand seat.

"Okay, Pasha."

The co-pilot turned with a smile that was unmistakably genuine. "Yes, sir. Base Control has cleared our flight plan. Pre-flight is complete. Fuel at eighty seven percent, impulse engines on standby, warp readiness two minutes and thirteen seconds."

"Take us out then."

The admiral struck Kirk as older, more tired than he'd expected. He'd only met Fleetwood a few times, the most recent more than three years ago. The man had aged significantly since.

As the yacht turned, the Starbase came into view. The sight of it reminded Kirk just how little of the gleaming silver structure had survived the explosion. All those people, safe inside one moment and the next...

"ETA?"

"Thirty five minutes, sir, at warp two."

"Oh, we can afford to take longer than that." Fleetwood suddenly leaned across the helm and hit switches. The pale green navigation display etched onto the front screen of the Victoria vanished.

"Fly her by eye, Pasha. There are comets, just above the plane..."

"Daedalus and Icarus, yes."

"Can you find them for me?"

"I think so, sir."

Half an hour later, Spock stopped the replay. "The admiral must have had a high degree of confidence in Mister Chekov's abilities. The recording ceases there. I imagine it was archived because it included such unusual views from within the comet's tail. However I am not sure whether the recording justifies the risk of such a close approach."

At the height of the display, a halo of frozen vapour had glowed around the Victoria, filling her cockpit with ghostly reflected light. Fleetwood had sat back in his seat throughout, never touching the controls, never bringing the navigational screens and proximity alarms back on line. Neither man had said much. There was nothing to be said, Kirk imagined. They were like father and son, or even two old friends, sharing the wonder of being there, right there, at the heart of it.

Kirk sat for a moment, still looking at the blank screen. Finally, he turned to Spock. "And Woodie taught him to fly like that. I think you were right, Spock. He'd just discovered the admiral was dead. He must be... devastated."

"Nonetheless, the Enterprise is required to take medical supplies to Alpha Tyr. If their roles were reversed, I am sure that the admiral would be continuing to perform his duties."

"But it's not Chekov's duty, not in the same way. Look, there must be some way round this. Can't Starfleet... buy him out, or something?"

"It would be judged a political act. The High Court so ruled on Stardate 1533."

Kirk looked surprised. "Starfleet tried to buy someone else out?"

"Admiral Fleetwood attempted to arrange for Chekov to be admitted to the Academy, and thereafter, presumably, to Starfleet. He argued that paying the necessary capital sum to the CredStat agency would be equivalent to paying transportation costs for colonial applicants, or special support for disadvantaged students, but the specific terms of the 2005 Agreement made that case untenable."

Kirk was aware that he wasn't the only one to find all this unsettling. The skeleton bridge crew were exchanging glances and muttered comments. "I don't understand," he objected, ignoring them. "Fleetwood wasn't short of funds, not if the Victoria is anything to go by, and his mansion in San Francisco. He had family money. Why didn't he buy Chekov out himself?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "There is much in this situation that I find incomprehensible, Captain. Perhaps he realised that their somewhat unequal relationship was to his liking."

Kirk laughed uneasily. "Just what are you suggesting, Mister Spock?"

"That the admiral's relationship with Chekov appeared, from that brief recording, to be intense and paternal. An indentured servant could be, effectively, a son who would never leave home and never make choices of which his surrogate father disapproved. To a certain type of individual, that might be attractive."

"I had no idea you were such an expert on human psychology."

"I would not claim to be," Spock answered impassively.