The Way Home, by Jane Seaton.

Part 1 of 4

Uhura caught hold of the door frame and used it to halt her headlong, undisciplined rush into the rec room. She took a breath. "Yeoman Landon..."

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Martha Landon looked up from a precisely half eaten lunch: half a tomato, half a slice of spinach, carrot and celeriac terrine, half a portion of Russian salad...

"We just made contact with the Tien. They're alive and they're going to hand them over today." For a moment, Uhura wondered just why she'd taken her break forty minutes early and raced down here to deliver the good news in person. Then the mask melted.

"Thank God. Oh, thank God."

"Today..?"

"Are they okay, Lieutenant?"

"That's the best news..."

"Oh, God, thank heavens for that..."

The Communications Officer was nearly bowled over by the wave of delight that engulfed her, as if she'd somehow been responsible for McCoy and Chekov's survival and release herself. Martha was just sitting there, smiling and smiling, her knife and fork still poised for the next mouthful, until a friend took them out of her hands and laid them down on her plate.

Someone had hit the food dispensers and was passing out cups of something bubbly and innocuous as fast as the machines could produce them.

"Shouldn't we wait until they're here?" Uhura objected.

A laughing engineer pushed one of the paper containers into her hand.

"You think either of them would want us to wait?"

%%%

A few hours later, Kirk materialised inside the Tien Space Station. A mature woman, clad in functional gray, was already approaching him. Her demeanour was efficient and humourless, straight out of the mould of low ranking bureaucrats anywhere. It struck him that as far as the Tien were concerned, the abduction, and now the return of his officers was a mere administrative hiccup.

"Captain Kirk?"

"Yes. And you are?"

"The Elder Samjisdat."

He awarded himself negative points. This woman was the highest official the Tien possessed, as far as anyone understood their governmental processes. Perhaps, despite their insistence that they didn't want to talk, there was diplomatic content to this encounter after all.

"I am honoured..." he began, but she was already turning away and gesturing to one of the varied beings who stood like a border of exotic garden plants around the chamber. The hominid disappeared through a shadowed doorway.

"And I am concerned, Captain, that you may misinterpret some of the experiences of your officers while in our custody."

Kirk's skin prickled with apprehension. Was this a gentle lead in to telling him that McCoy and Chekov were not safe after all?

"The position at this point is that the Tien Confederation wishes to coexist peacefully with the United Federation of Planets. We have had a history of violent confrontation with our neighbours, and of mutually beneficial cooperation with those neighbours once they were brought within the Confederation. The initial reaction of our military subgroups was that this pattern would be repeated with the UFP. We now recognise that that is unrealistic."

"We're too big to conquer, so you're going to ignore us and hope we ignore you?" Kirk interpreted coldly.

"We will continue our expansion in other directions. The boundary with what you claim as your territory is only five percent of our frontier."

Kirk often felt that life would be easier if people were only frank with one another about their intentions. In this case he could not help wondering if the woman was being a little too straightforward.

He was distracted from pursuing the thought by the appearance of Chekov, wearing anonymous gray also and looking less than delighted to see his captain. He stopped at arms' length from Kirk and looked up at him, then away almost immediately. He had lost flesh from his face and the pale shadows of bruises lingered around his eyes. Kirk entertained fleeting murderous thoughts about the 'military subgroups'.

"It's good to see you, Mister Chekov." Kirk made no comment about how the ensign looked. Chekov nodded absently and continued to study something beyond Kirk's right shoulder.

"Is Doctor McCoy okay?" Kirk prompted.

The Tien leader answered for him. "The doctor was transferred to civilian custody. He has had to be brought here from a different location. I believe... Ah, here he is now."

McCoy had managed to retain his uniform. He even summoned a rather forced smile of greeting for his Captain. Nonetheless, Kirk couldn't help feeling that the officers the Tien were returning to him were not quite the two he had lost three weeks earlier. It occurred to him that the pair had always had a somewhat uneasy relationship. They might simply have fallen out under the pressure of capture and confinement together. If that was the case, he was disappointed, more in McCoy than Chekov, but he imagined that they would sort out any friction eventually.

"You will wish to leave, Captain." It was an order rather than an opinion.

"Since you don't wish to have any further discussions on relations between the Tien Confederation..."

"We do not. There will be no relations beyond an understanding to regard the border as inviolable." The woman frowned at Kirk. "I understand that you are a curious people. Both your officers have had some opportunity to observe us. They will have come to their own conclusions. That will have to suffice." There was a trace of ambivalence, of regret in her voice, or had Kirk imagined it? He turned to his men to see how they reacted to her comment. Neither looked at him, nor at each other. He took out his communicator and ordered their beam up and immediate departure from the system.

%%%

As they exited the transporter room, Kirk paused in the doorway, bringing the two men behind him to an abrupt halt. "I want you both to go straight to sick bay, and I mean as patients. Understood, Bones?"

The doctor nodded.

"Captain, I need to speak..." they began simultaneously. Both paused and looked at Kirk. McCoy shrugged for Chekov to continue. "I need to speak to you now, Captain Kirk. It is important."

McCoy took a deep breath but said nothing. Kirk wasn't sure if he was objecting to Chekov's delaying tactics. Somehow, he thought that the doctor would be more vocal if that were the only problem. "I'll see you shortly in sickbay, Doctor," he said briskly. McCoy nodded and turned away towards his familiar territory with an unusually heavy tread. Kirk felt a profound unease settling around his diaphragm. Something was badly wrong here. "Okay, Mister Chekov?" He led the way into the small briefing room adjacent to the transporter facility and sat down at the table. Chekov remained standing. Kirk was about to say something to help him relax, when the ensign started speaking with the level intonation of someone delivering a report they'd learned off pat.

"After the Tien picked us up, they separated us. I was taken to a military base. They interrogated me. They were interested in our warp capabilities, weapon specifications, number of vessels and locations, Starfleet command structures and funding, shipbuilding facilities, trained manpower, active and reserve forces, merchant tonnage, draft regulations, emergency powers for defence of all types..."

"They wanted to know if they could win a short, sharp war or wear us down with a long drawn out campaign. Well, whatever you told them, they seem to have decided they'd lose either way. They could have saved themselves the bother. Most of that information is available in any public library in the Federation."

"I didn't only tell them...I told them everything I knew." Chekov started out looking Kirk in the face. After a moment his eyes turned down towards the floor.

Kirk fought off his immediate reaction to this admission. "I think Starfleet does its officers a disservice by letting them believe that they can resist a really determined interrogator," he said, as calmly as he could. "What did they do to you?"

"What they had to. Enough." Clearly Chekov had no desire to parade his excuses. Why he'd broken was a peripheral issue. No wonder he hadn't seemed pleased to be home. Presumably McCoy was aware of what had happened. Even so, Kirk was surprised at the doctor's coldness towards the young officer. He would have expected McCoy's response to be more forgiving.

He searched for something reassuring to say, something that would have supported him in the same circumstances, but at the same time he knew that he would never be in this position. He would be dead, perhaps, but he would never come back to his Commanding Officer and admit to betrayal.

Realising that he had to say something, and lacking comfort, Kirk fell back on procedure. "I'll have to ask you to make a full report on this. You can do it now, unless you need medical attention." Chekov shook his head dismally. Clearly he just wanted to get it over. Kirk understood that.

"Who do you want to do this with?" Regulations called for a formal debriefing, an objective investigation of the damage to Starfleet. Kirk imagined that Chekov would ask for a comparative stranger, someone from the administrative recesses of the Enterprise.

"Mister Spock, if that's convenient?"

It was not, but Kirk would have chosen the same; no judgements, no sympathy and the greatest efficiency.

"Of course." He knew that he was being curt, but he couldn't help himself. He got up and used the intercom to summon Spock from the bridge. "Is there anything else?"

"No, sir."

"We'll get this over with, and we'll talk tomorrow. You're to go to sickbay immediately Mister Spock has finished. Have you eaten recently?"

Chekov shook his head. Kirk wondered if the negative referred to hours or days. "I'll have something sent in for you."

%%%

In sickbay McCoy seemed to have sunk further into depression, despite his staff's obvious joy at his safe return. He was sitting in his office when Kirk arrived and immediately looked guilty. "M'Benga says I'm physically fine. And I'm not working."

"Okay! If you feel well enough to work, I'm not going to argue. We've missed you." Kirk looked apprehensively into McCoy's face. The determined misery of his navigator, and now his Chief Medical Officer, was beginning to grate. "I presume you know what happened to Chekov."

"What did he say?"

McCoy's defensiveness took Kirk by surprise, but before he could respond the doctor continued. "Hell, nothing I didn't deserve, I'm sure."

"He said you were separated when you were captured. That was all. So now, tell me what happened to you."

McCoy moved a few items around on his desk. "On the second day after..."

"Hold on, what about the first day?"

"That doesn't matter," McCoy snapped. "Can I tell this my way?"

Kirk held his hands open in acquiescence.

"There was some sort of commotion and a couple of military looking personnel rushed in and bundled me into a shuttle, something of that type. We went a short distance to a heavily defended base and within that a prison block of some sort, a pretty brutal looking place. They hustled me into a cell. He was...well, I wouldn't have recognised him if it hadn't been for his uniform." McCoy's hands were shaking. He picked up a pen and twisted it with quick, agonised movements. "He was unconscious when I got there and they were giving him oxygen. Seemed they'd used a neural disinhibitor of some sort and he'd reacted badly. They'd let me keep my tricorder and I found that the drug had depressed the brain stem function so that he wasn't breathing. His heartbeat was erratic. They wanted me to administer a stimulant. And then they wanted me to stick around and keep him alive so that they could go on questioning him."

McCoy chucked the pen clear across the small office like a dart. "Before you say it, Jim, I know what the regs say. And I know what the law says about doctors who assist anyone in physical abuse of prisoners."

Kirk stared at him. The rules said that a doctor should not keep someone alive just so that he could undergo further torture. His own heart said what he knew McCoy's heart had decided, that it was better to be alive, with the choice of whether to talk or not. And how did that square with his feeling earlier in the briefing room? Perhaps Chekov would have preferred to be dead.

"What did you do?"

"I administered the stimulant. I couldn't let him die, not him. God! He's just Joanna's age. I tried to keep the dose where he'd remain unconscious, but he came round. I could see in his eyes, the only thing he wanted, the whole extent of his ambition, was to be dead. Then I realised that he was afraid, and I thought, I've only saved him so they can start again, but it wasn't that. It was me. There I was, walking around under medical privilege like an ambulance in a battle, expecting everyone to stop firing, and my God, if he wouldn't talk to save himself, the next thing they'd do would be to see if he'd talk to save me. They could do all this to me and as if I hadn't done him enough harm already, in five minutes I'd be begging him to break." McCoy pulled in a gasp of breath that choked off whatever emotions were threatening to overwhelm him. "I refused to cooperate any further. They started... they started again." He winced at the memory. "He wasn't going to talk. I begged them to stop. Chekov wasn't too impressed. He told me it was none of my business, that I had no right... Then someone turned up with another variety of truth drug. They gave me the formula, asked whether it would cause the same reaction. I could see it wouldn't, but I told them it would kill him. He..." McCoy's voice broke. "He told me to go to hell, that if I pulled him round this time... I promised I wouldn't do anything. They hauled me away from him and...I don't think they believed me, but I'm pretty sure he did. He was still groggy from the first batch he'd had. He thought he was going to die and he wasn't fighting it. They took me out, but I would imagine, getting it like that, he would have answered every question they asked." McCoy was silent for a moment and Kirk found himself again struggling for something to say. "I didn't see him again. I was taken back to my comfortable lodgings and treated in a thoroughly civilized manner." McCoy's tone was calm and ironic now, but his face was grim. Then his voice became fierce. "I'm still glad he's alive, but I'm not sure I have any right to be."

A small part of Kirk was being glad that Chekov hadn't mentioned any of this to him, leaving him the option of whether to do anything about it or not. The rest of him knew that was unfair. It shouldn't be down to Chekov whether McCoy faced the consequences of his actions. And it wasn't fair to Chekov himself. Kirk imagined that, like himself, a lot of people in Starfleet who had never faced the situation liked to assume that they wouldn't be the ones to break. An incident like this was going to hurt Chekov's record. The additional explanation, even if it did McCoy more damage, was due to the ensign.

"You have to report this, Captain," McCoy said lightly into the silence, in the certain tones of someone who had spent nearly three weeks getting used to the idea.

"None of this changes the man you are. It's only what I always knew you would do. Chekov was wrong to..."

"Have you really thought about what he's been through? You think, when you hear about these things, that you've visualised it, that you've conjured up the experience? He was wrong to do what? My God, don't you presume to criticise him. Where is he now?"

"With Spock. He has to make a Section - whatever - report. I thought it was best to get it over with. Once that's done we can take turns to hold his hand, or whatever he needs."

"He should be down here in sick bay. Don't you understand? They took him apart."

"He looked well enough and he said he didn't require immediate attention."

"He would, wouldn't he? You couldn't find anyone a little - gentler than Spock?"

"He asked for Spock. I would have asked for Spock, if I was in the same position."

"But you can't imagine yourself being in that position," McCoy amended accusingly.

"I'm not particularly imaginative, Bones. I know it could happen. I just can't... accept it. Do you think the Tien will use what he told them to launch an attack on this ship?"

"It sounded...that is, I was comforting myself that because they knew so much about our capabilities, maybe we'd averted a war."

Kirk chose to be frank. "I think we've swapped a war we would win now for one we might lose later. Did you pick up any idea of how big this Confederation is?"

"Not really. No. I discovered about as much as you'd find out about the Federation from a two week stay in an expensive hotel in San Francisco, not knowing the language. I suppose Chekov..."

"Spock will debrief him."

"Yes. Yes, of course. The thorough and efficient Mister Spock. I wonder what he would have done?" McCoy eased himself wearily out of his chair. "I'm going to get some rest. I don't think I want to be here when...No, I don't want to be here, period."

%%%

Kirk stayed behind in McCoy's office and thought about what it must have felt like for the doctor, living with a decision like that for three weeks, in complete isolation. Well, he'd had to come to terms with some decisions in his time, decisions that had had worse consequences for more people, and while he'd never been alone, his rank made an effective barrier around him. Spock and McCoy both bridged that barrier, but he found that he couldn't bridge it now, either for McCoy or Chekov. He leaned across the desk to the intercom. "Uhura?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Is Mister Spock still with Ensign Chekov?"

"Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, is Chekov all right? And Doctor McCoy? A lot of people are worried."

Kirk hesitated to say anything over the open channel. "Uhura, could you ask Yeoman Landon to come down to sickbay?"

"Yes, sir." Her surprise showed.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." He wandered over to the cabinet where McCoy kept his emergency brandy and looked at the bottle for a long moment, considering the next move. Subject to medical reports, there was no reason why Chekov shouldn't go straight back on duty. Perhaps some leave would be a good idea, only Chekov would interpret that as criticism: misinterpret that as criticism. How would Chekov react if they were attacked by a Tien warship with too much information about their weapons and shields? How much worse would it be if he was at home on leave when that happened?

If the Tien did start a war, every casualty was... He blocked the line of thought and poured the brandy. McCoy had said he had to report this, but surely what McCoy had done didn't amount to aiding the enemy? Where was his action different from treating a soldier so that he could go back into battle and fight again? There seemed to be no correct solution to the problem. Or perhaps Spock would say that recognising that was the only solution. Chekov should have died rather than talk but McCoy had deprived him of the choice. Chekov's duty was to die and McCoy's profession was to save him. There had to be an out. Kirk knew he would have found a way, if it had been him.

"Captain Kirk?" Landon was standing in the doorway to McCoy's office, looking apologetic. "Lieutenant Uhura said you wanted me, sir."

"I'm sorry. I was miles away. I'm not sure how long Mister Spock's going to be with Ensign Chekov and I have to make a report to Starfleet on the Tien situation. I wanted someone... friendly to be here when Chekov comes in."

"Is there anything I should know?" the yeoman prompted.

Kirk hesitated. "Get Chekov to tell you himself and if Doctor M'Benga discharges him, stay with him." He smiled at her slightly embarrassed expression. "If I'm not out of line here..."

"Not at all, sir," she said, willingly enough. "I'll look after him."

She perched on the edge of McCoy's desk. "You left your brandy."

"I didn't really want it. Thank you, Martha."

%%%

She watched him leave. Sick bay was silent and shadowy. M'Benga's desk was lit but it was evening shift and the staff were off-duty, barring sudden emergencies. Martha could hear Christine Chapel in her office, and M'Benga had apparently been working on some report or other, but the two of them were clearly waiting on Chekov before calling it a day. She ventured out of McCoy's office. "Is Ensign Chekov all right, Doctor?"

"I presume Pavel is in good health, or he'd be down here. He should be down here." The doctor shrugged off the implied criticism of his captain. "Well, we'll see."

As he answered her the door to sickbay slid open. Chekov took a step inside hesitantly. "Has everyone gone home?"

"We were considering it," Chapel answered cheerfully, "but we thought we'd better check you out first."

Despite the captain's orders, Chekov had detoured to his cabin and found a uniform before reporting to sickbay. He returned Martha's welcoming smile and perched on the edge of a diagnostic bed. "What are you in for?" he asked her, as if they were lined up waiting for innoculations.

Chapel turned up the lights. In their glare Martha noted the shadows around Chekov's eyes, untouched by his smile.

"I just came off duty," she said, as if that explained her presence in sick bay.

"Okay, let's get that shirt off," M'Benga prompted. The ensign wriggled obediently out of the gold velour and lay back, looking unconcerned, as if he was unaware of the bright white scars that tracked randomly over his torso and shoulders.

Landon couldn't tear her eyes away from the marks, even though she could hardly see them through the blurring of tears.

"Martha?" Chapel prompted calmly. The nurse had seen this sort of thing before, all too often.

The shirt slid onto the floor. Landon picked it up and turned to Chapel, holding it like a talisman. "C...can I stay here?" she asked.

Chapel glanced across at the patient and back to M'Benga. "I think we should let them get on with it in peace..."

"She might as well know," Chekov said. Landon felt the cold lump that had kept her company for the last three weeks settle under her ribs again at his disinterested tone.

"So, what happened to you?" M'Benga asked, almost in passing, as he set up the sensors.

"I got a little shaken when the shuttle crashed and maybe a few bruises after that."

"Uh-huh." The doctor ran a feinberger over Chekov and homed in on something. "You're sure, just a few bruises?" The ensign nodded firmly and M'Benga passed on to the next stage in the exam. "Well, you seem to have healed up okay. No particular aches and pains? I need some blood samples and then I want you to hop on the scales." He hit the button that raised the bed to help his patient sit up. Chekov watched uncomplainingly as M'Benga drew off a few cc's of blood, helpfully applied a thumb to the puncture site, then stepped onto the medical scales and paused just long enough to let his weight register, but not long enough to read the result. He looked around for his shirt. "Is that all?"

"Not quite. Are you in a hurry for something?"

Martha handed over the garment. Chekov stared at her for a moment as if he had forgotten she was there. She watched him, concern as sharply outlined in her face as the ribs that stretched the skin of his torso.

M'Benga was juggling with a medical analyser but he spared a glance at the readout on the scales. "They didn't feed you too well." The analyser was returned to its proper place beside the bed. "There are some traces of drugs, very minute, in your blood. Do you know how they got there?"

Chekov stopped dead, his head clear of the velour shirt, but one arm still caught in its folds.

"They interrogated me. They used drugs."

M'Benga repressed his annoyance at Chekov's less than forthcoming attitude and continued to tip-toe around the problem. "How long ago was this?"

The ensign pulled his shirt down sharply into place and stared at the floor as if consulting a diary printed there. "Twenty days, I think. I'm not sure if those were Standard days. They felt longer."

M'Benga raised his eyebrows at Chapel, as if to say, Ah, he felt something. Now we're making progress. "And can you tell me what effect these drugs had on you?"

"The first batch knocked me out. When I came round..."

"Yes?" M'Benga probed gently. Chapel moved to stand protectively behind Chekov's shoulder.

"They gave me a different sort and I just told them everything they wanted to know and probably some things they hadn't thought of asking. It was all somewhat indiscriminate. I remember telling them at great length about the bridge rotas and how the turbo lifts are programmed. Among other things." Chekov raised his head and looked defiantly at M'Benga.

"I see. Well, I dare say we can pin down exactly what it was they used. In the meantime I don't think you should go back on duty just yet. Those sorts of drugs can have lingering effects on your coordination and so on. And there's some other - damage. We'll wait till we can give you an all clear. And I think you need a good night's sleep tonight. Nurse Chapel, could you give Mister Chekov 20 units of Catanil." He pointed into the treatment room as he spoke and the nurse took Chekov by the arm. Once the door whispered shut behind them, Landon started to cry in earnest.

"Oh, God. How could they have done that to him?"

M'Benga took her hand. "He's going to be all right, Yeoman. You can see for yourself it was worse than he's saying. If he really thinks he just got a few bruises... well, I can only assume he doesn't remember most of what happened to him. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to remember. I would say the Tien have some capable doctors, and some efficient interrogators. They've done a good job of getting him back together in time to send him home. What I'm more worried about than his present physical condition is the fact that he won't talk about it. If you..."

"Sometimes he just doesn't want to talk about things. He shuts me out, sometimes, and I can tell he's going to do it now. He wanted me to be here when he told you what happened so he wouldn't have to..."

"So he wouldn't have to go through it more than once. And face your reaction in private. He's afraid you'll be as disappointed in him as he is in himself."

%%%

He broke off as Chapel and Chekov reappeared from the treatment room. Chapel was smiling as if at a shared joke, and Chekov's face reflected her expression but snapped back to seriousness the moment he turned away.

"I'd like to keep an eye on you tonight..." M'Benga began.

"No!" Chekov looked shocked at his own vehemence. "No," he repeated, apologetically. "I want to sleep in my own cabin, not in a... not here."

M'Benga stared at him for a moment, then retracted. "Whatever you want, if you'll let me put a monitor on you, just for basic signs, pulse, temperature and so forth. As I said, I'm not sure what all these drugs are."

Chekov held out his arm while M'Benga peeled the backing strip off the tiny device and carefully chose a patch of hairless skin to stick it to.

"How long is he going to stay awake?" Martha asked brightly. M'Benga replied in kind. "If you hurry, you won't have to carry him to his cabin. And Chekov..."

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I'll come and see you first thing in the morning. Stay put until I do, please."

"Yes, sir."

%%%

Martha slipped her arm through Chekov's and accompanied him out into the corridor. Once the door was shut, she stopped. He halted too but didn't look at her. "Pavel, are you all right, really?"

"Why do you care?"

"Pavel?"

"You heard what happened, what I did. You don't have to be nice to me. You don't have to play nurse to the invalid. I really am perfectly fit. They made sure of that."

"Well, of course I don't have to be nice to you. I never did have to be nice to you. I do it because I want to."

"I understand perfectly if you prefer to forget all about us."

"Did they pour insulation foam in your ears as well?" The rather cold perfection of her face became animated with indignation, an effect that he usually provoked by being deliberately outrageous. Somehow, she didn't think that was what he was doing this time. "I've missed you, badly. I've been worried about you. I'm... you can't believe how pleased I am to see you. If you don't need nursing, I'm glad. If you did, I'd do it. Do you really want to stand and argue here in the corridor?" He didn't respond. "Or shall we go to your cabin?"

He started moving again. "I'd rather be alone tonight."

"Why? I'm not going to... I'm not expecting anything." She laughed nervously. "Unless you want to, I mean. But..."

"I haven't been able to sleep with the lights out, without someone watching me, for three weeks." Chekov gestured to the monitor under his tunic sleeve. "I'm not going to be able to now, but I'd like to pretend. Just for tonight, I'd like to pretend everything's back to normal."

"I thought me sharing your bunk was normal." She watched his face. "Cramped, but normal."

"Don't do this to me," he said slowly.

"What? What do you think I'm doing?"

"Pretending it isn't over."

"We're not over."

"I don't mean us. I mean everything." Chekov punched the code into his door with a series of vicious jabs. "I couldn't help what happened, Martha. I don't think I could have done anything to stop it but that isn't the point."

"What do you mean?"

The lights came up and she followed him into the cabin. Unlike her, Chekov had his own quarters, a very small, plain room, personalised with a family holo and his framed graduation diploma.

He looked at her. "The Captain is never going to trust me again. Why should he? Either he'll suggest I ask for a transfer, or he'll find an excuse to move me. What else can he do?"

"But you said it wasn't your fault. It isn't your fault. Is it?"

"It's not about fault. It's as if he'd just discovered I couldn't tell my right from my left. I can't do my job, that's all. I can't... I didn't do what I should have done." He ducked into the shower facility. After a couple of minutes he reappeared in a brief robe, switched on the lamp beside his bunk and slid under the cover. "Please turn the light out when you go."

"I'm not going, Pavel."

He smiled. "Surprise, surprise."

"What does that mean?" She came over to the side of the bed and sat down. "Well?"

"Someone told you to stay, didn't they? The captain, maybe?"

She pulled his hand out from under the cover and held it to her cheek. "He asked me to stay with you, but he didn't have to. It's what I want to do."

He moved his hand caressingly over her face, then tangled his fingers in her heavy yellow hair. "For three weeks, I have been asking people to help me, or to stop hurting me, or just to leave me alone, and the answer has been no, every time. Even Doctor... Even people I thought were on my side."

"Pavel, I will do anything else you ask, but, please, for me, let me stay."

His eyes were closing in spite of himself. "Go away..."

"I can't." She tucked his hand back under the cover again, then leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Good night, Pavel."

%%%

About an hour later Martha woke up and realised that she had curled up on the end of the narrow bed and had cramp in her knees. She stretched, then stopped dead as Chekov said, very quietly and desperately, "No. Not again. Please."

She patted her way along the bed and found his hand. It was feverishly hot. "It's okay, Pavel. You're back on board the Enterprise. No one's going to hurt you now." His fingers went rigid. Without letting go, she reached out her other hand and turned on the light. His hair was damp and the thin cover was twisted into a rope. "It's okay," she repeated. "It's me, Martha. You'll be all right now. You're home and you're safe." She kept reiterating the reassurances but he started to shiver, pulling his hand away from her grasp as if she had hurt him. She pulled him up in a tight hug but he fought against her until she released him and turned to the intercom. Doctor M'Benga, she was informed, was dealing with an accident in engineering.

"Is it a medical emergency?" the night orderly asked.

"No, no, I don't think so. Just tell him Ensign Chekov needs him as soon as he's free." When she turned back to Chekov, he lashed out at her. Clearly she needed help, just to make sure he didn't injure himself. She decided to find someone, anyone, to assist her. She stumbled over to the door and on emerging into the corridor, found herself face to face with Doctor McCoy. "Thank heavens, Doctor..."

"Hold on," McCoy objected, "I'm off duty. Just because I can't sleep, it doesn't mean I want to work. What's the matter?"

"It's Ensign Chekov..."

McCoy's kindly face shut down like a vice. "I don't think..."

"He's having some dreadful nightmare. Doctor M'Benga said he still has all sorts of drugs in his system. I can't calm him down - or wake him up."

"Why can't Doctor M'Benga..."

She stared at him in disbelief. "Because he's dealing with an accident, Doctor, and you're right here. Why can't you?"

McCoy took a deep breath. "Okay." He walked in through the open door and over to Chekov. The ensign had quieted but still sat where Martha had left him, his face in his hands, breathing fast and shallow.

"Pavel?" Martha said softly.

"I thought you'd gone," he answered, in a tone that left some doubt over whether he was pleased or disappointed that she hadn't. Then he looked up and saw McCoy.