Full Circle

by Westel

He had slept like a dead man until the first explosion rocked the deck, flinging him from his bunk and slamming him hard against the bulkhead. Gravity fields fluctuated and the new first officer of the U.S.S. Reliant found himself confined to his hands and knees, groping for the cabin door in pitch darkness.

Chekov reached the door and inched his body upright, working himself up hand over hand as the rapidly changing gravity pushed him about like a heavy sea. The air around him seemed thick, hot—there was a bitter taste on his tongue as he breathed in.

Fire!

Dimly, through the closed door, the Russian could hear alarms vibrating along the corridors, along with yells and the clatter of running feet.

Gripping the door frame with one hand and moving in a strange choreography to keep his footing in the shifting G's, he sought the manual control. Breathing was becoming more difficult, the smoke growing stronger. Tears ran from his burning eyes as he sought the elusive switch.

Pavel felt his heart hammering in his chest. He was gasping now, the poisoned air searing his lungs with every breath. Where's the damned switch? Suddenly he remembered: this was not the Enterprise, but a passenger ship, the Lorelei, an aging luxury star-liner. And this was supposed to be an enjoyable trip!

Switching his grip, maneuvering in what was the equivalent of swimming in borscht, he reached for the other side of the door frame and his hand closed on the control just as another explosion shook the ship. The force of it threw him backwards across the small room as the door opened, along with a 20kg circuit panel torn loose from the corridor bulkhead. It impacted against the mirror above him, scattering shards of glass, and hovered in the wavering gravity before it fell upon the commander. The heavy panel flattened him to the deck for a moment, though he pushed it off easily enough as gravity dropped to 0.5G. But he couldn't seem to stand up. Pavel's knees felt like rubber and his head was killing him. Gingerly, he touched the base of his skull; his fingers came away sticky with blood.

There was a faint glow from the corridor, whether from emergency lights or fire he couldn't tell. He ought to be helping with the passengers; there were bound to be injured—but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to get up off the floor. If he could just rest for a moment…

Fire detectors and heat sensors set off flame inhibitors, as they were designed to do, effectively dousing the encroaching fire which had inched its way two deck levels along the corridors and access tubes from engineering. Parameds and crewmen implemented emergency procedures in proper fashion, maintaining a semblance of order on a ship careening off-course, sub-light, with the nearest starbase three days away at maximum warp. But no one thought about that right now; no one knew about the dead captain and engineer who lay mangled in the twisted, molten wreckage of a blown impulse engine; and certainly no one thought of an unknown Starfleet officer lying unconscious in his room, his body sprinkled with glittering bits of mirror like frost on a fall morning.

OoOoO

"You really intend to leave the Enterprise?"

Chekov looked over his shoulder at his fellow helmsman of many years, their eyes locking for a long moment before he turned back to his packing.

"Hikaru, we have been over this before. Why must you bring it up again?"

Sulu slouched in the chair. "I guess I couldn't really accept your appointment until now—until I see you leave with my own eyes." Hikaru knew he was not making it any easier for the Russian and made a concerted effort not to indulge in self-pity. "What's the name of your captain again?"

"Terrell, of the Reliant. We will be conducting scientific data-collecting missions for various Federation projects – we should be logging even more deep space time than your training missions."

"Yeah, well," said the helmsman, wryly, "I'm not too sure I'm going to renew my tour after this one. Working with cadets and Starfleet Command simulators is bad enough, but actually taking untested people into deep space worries me."

"But, Hikaru," laughed Pavel, "Someone took us once! If it weren't for training personnel, we would still be at Starbase I looking at tacticals! Besides," he added, closing his case and turning to face his friend, "where is your sense of adventure?"

Going out the door, Sulu wanted to say, but bit his tongue. He stood, not sure how to say goodbye. Self-consciously, he took a step nearer the former navigator. "Well…"

"Well…" began the Russian, "I guess I'll…oh, hell."

He dropped his satchel and threw his arms around Sulu in a bear hug. Hikaru hugged him back, his heart constricting.

As they stood apart Sulu still gripped his friend's shoulders, shaking him gently.

"You take care of yourself, Pavel." The shaking grew harder. "I mean it, Commander." He shook him even harder. "Commander."

"Commander…wake up!"

He blinked, trying to focus on the person bending over him and shaking him none too gently.

"What is it? Who…" He tried to sit up but the pain slicing through his head made him think better of it.

"Half a moment, luv. Let me give you a little somethin' for what ails ya." Chekov heard the hiss of the hypo and felt a cool sensation in his arm. "There you are; just be still and the owld bowler ought to feel right as rain in a mo'."

Pavel lay quietly for a few minutes, eyes closed, as the analgesic did its work. This was a strange ship, but it didn't take a genius to figure out he was in sick bay. Like all hospitals and infirmaries over the centuries, this one had its own peculiar sounds and odors.

"All right, ducks, let's try it upright, shall we?" Firm hands supported him as he sat up, dizzy, and looked around the room. It was certainly a sick bay, only much smaller than on a starship. Chekov recalled that the Lorelei held a compliment of 60 crew, including passenger service and maintenance personnel. He couldn't remember how many passengers were on board…

"The name's Maude, Commander. Maude Halman. I'm sorry I had to wake you, but what else could I do?"

Chekov turned to look at the woman who still supported him and saw one of the tallest female persons of any species he had ever had the privilege of meeting. Seven feet, five inches, 120kg of solid muscle and bone, topped off with copper hair and a broad grin. Not someone he would want to face off with on a wrestling mat.

"Uh, what else, indeed, uh—Maude. How do you do?"

Her huge hand closed over his, completely covering it.

"It's like this, luv. We need a captain for this tug, and it seems you're it!"

OoOoO

Pavel sat in the over-padded captain's chair on the small but well-appointed bridge. The last two hours had been ample time to learn the layout of the ship, and Bursar T'alzhayn filled him in on the status of crew and passengers. Fortunately, the ship was nearly empty, running with a skeleton crew and having dispatched 250 tourists on a Deltan recreation planet before making for spaceport for a general overhaul.

It must have been very overdue, he thought, having read the report of the structural damage caused by the explosion. The captain and engineer had been the only ones killed, having been in the engine room when the explosion occurred, and there were only minor injuries reported among the remaining passengers and crew. The ship, however, was another story. The Lorelei was a decommissioned science ship, 70 years old, with the old bow-to-stern cylindrical shape, its one-nacelle engine tipping off topside like a dorsal fin. Only now, it was slightly askew, the explosion having bent the struts connecting it to the ship. Once a warp four vehicle, it now fell through space via its own momentum, warp engine useless, impulse engine destroyed.

Commander Chekov found the ship on automatic navigation, course laid in and implemented by on-board computers. Only now the ship's engines couldn't respond to navigational controls. He'd had a hard time finding anyone who knew anything about manual control; in fact, he'd had a hard time finding anyone who would even talk to him.

"Doesn't anyone know anything about this derelict?" he stormed, slamming a compboard to the floor so hard it came apart, relays flying.

"Lawks!" said a voice behind him, in harmony with the sound of the lift doors. "Maybe they're afraid to get too close to you, dear. Headache back?"

"Oh, hello, Maude," said Pavel, embarrassed at his little tirade. "I'm afraid I'm expecting too much from non-Starfleet personnel." He sat down heavily in the chair, his headache hot probes behind his eyes and down his neck.

"Poor lad," the Hylbestian/Terran officer murmured as she leaned over the Russian's hunched form. "We gotcha up a might too soon, but what else could we do?"

"What else…" he began, but stopped himself. "Maude, this ship is automated. No one ran it; it ran itself. T'alzhayn tells me the captain was playing poker with the chief engineer when the explosion occurred—if someone had been watching his monitors, this accident would never have happened! I don't understand," he groaned, leaning forward, his head in his hands, "didn't he care about the crew, the passengers?"

Maude saw the tightness in the man's neck, the knotted shoulder muscles, and clamped her giant hands upon him in a vice-grip. Chekov jumped with surprise and very real pain but submitted to her merciless assault upon his aching muscles. Slowly the pain she inflicted metamorphosed into tolerable soreness as the muscles relaxed, and the throbbing in his skull eased somewhat. He sat up straighter and she stopped the massage.

"Thank you," he said, looking up—and up—at her.

"Right. Now, let's have a go at the manuals, what d'you say?"

"The manuals…you know about…" Pavel fairly stuttered as he looked at the woman who looked back at him so matter-of-factly. "You know this ship?"

"Like the back of me hand, ducks. I've served on this ship since the day she left dry dock, not a bloomin' asteroid mark on 'er. Gawd, she were a sight!" she said proudly, her eyes glowing with the memory.

"Since the day she was…that would mean…" Chekov could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks as he realized he was telling this woman he knew just how old she really was. His face flamed even more when Maude burst out laughing.

"Not to worry, luv, not to worry. Hylbestans live to be over 250 of your earth years, and though I'm half-human I've a few more years to go afore I keel over. But mind you," she said confidentially, leaning close as though there were a hundred bridge crew listening in, "Don't let the fact that I'm old enough to be your grandmother fool you into thinkin' I can't find you a very attractive young fella…even if you are Starfleet!"

Pavel fell back against his seat, smiling weakly. What else could he do?

OoOoO

"Commander Chekov…oh, Maude! Have you seen the Fed anywhere?" asked the amber-skinned Galesian bursar.

Maude pointed to a corner, where only Chekov's feet protruded from an opened wall-panel. "I believe he's a bit preoccupied, T'al. P'raps I can help ya."

"I don't know. It's the passengers. They're getting suspicious—one of them is getting downright ugly."

"Suspicious?" came Pavel's disembodied voice. "Suspicious of what?" He crawled out of the wall, an ion dissembler in one hand and a streak of dirt across his face.

T'al was at a distinct disadvantage in the company of these two. A rather tall member of his gentle race, the bursar stood four feet two inches and had to crane his neck to look at the Starfleet officer. He had given up looking up at Maude long ago and settled for a focal point located somewhere in the vicinity of her navel. And now he must be the bearer of bad tidings to this heavily armed Russian giant. He cleared his throat.

"They know we're more badly damaged than we let on, Commander, and now Krast is insisting on talking to you."

"Me? Why me?"

"You're the authority figger, luv. What with you bein' Starfleet 'n all." At Chekov's accusing look Maude continued: "Sorry, dear. If I'd known ya was coolin' it for awhile I woulda blabbed. Things are pretty loose on a star-liner. I'd just looked at the passenger list and you seemed a likely one to take over, you bein' a navigator. What else could I…"

"Maude, don't start that again. I'm not mad at you, and I wasn't trying to conceal my identity. I just wanted…you know."

The tall Hylbestan's green eyes crinkled in understanding. "I think I do, dear. Look, let me have a turn with the controls while you go calm down the mob. T'al, see you don't desert 'im somewhere. Give us a yell, you two, if you need reinforcements," she called after them as they left the bridge.

OoOoO

"How many are there, T'al?"

"Five of them, sir, but Krast is the one you'd better watch. He's Kretchni."

Pavel grimaced. Kretchni. Of all the species in the universe, the leader had to be Kretchni. Kretchna was a minimally populated planet, its inhabitants the most xenophobic people ever encountered by Starfleet. They were reluctant to have dealings with any humanoid species other than their own, were never known to be shy about stating their opinion about 'inferior' groups, and absolutely refused to communicate with other sentient species who lacked the preferred number of arms, legs, heads, etc. It went without saying that, except for a fringe of trade, the Kretchni wanted nothing to do with the Federation. As far as the Federation was concerned, the feeling was mutual.

"Ah, there you are, Commander," said an ornately robed man of average height, approaching them regally from the back of the lounge, not getting too close. Basically Terran in appearance, the slightly upturned eyebrows and pink-pigmented skin gave Krast the look of a man who had been caught doing something naughty. Pavel had all he could do not to raise his own eyebrows in amusement.

"Pavel Chekov at your service, sir. You are Krast, I assume?" The Russian did not offer to shake his hand.

"I am, although it would have been better if we had been properly introduced," he grumbled, giving T'al a withering look. "I want to talk to you," he continued, peremptorily, motioning toward a table.

"I am very sorry," Pavel began, his accent unconsciously growing richer, "but I simply do not have the time. The ship…"

"Yes, I know about the ship, though you and your motley crew tried to conceal it from me. My associates (indicating the other passengers seated in the room with a sweep of his arm) and I are due to attend interplanetary trade talks on Agustarde in one week. We took this flea trap to make our next exchange and now we're very likely to miss our ship. We don't appreciate being lied to, Starfleet!"

"Now, wait just one minute, Krast," began Chekov, feeling his temper rise. He bit his lip hard. Kretchni were also known for their vicious physical attacks, due to a physiological adrenal surge in the presence of 'aliens', especially male aliens. It wasn't that Pavel was afraid to fight, but rather that he wanted to keep his ears and fingers where they belonged.

"Krast," he began again, counting slowly to himself and lowering his voice, "it was never intended to keep anything from our passengers. We have simply been too busy stabilizing the ship, determining the damage, and…"

"If I wanted to hear your excuses I would have asked you, human!" The way he said 'human' made it sound more like something to avoid stepping in than the name of a species.

"If you are so anxious to get to Agustarde, Krast," said the commander, a warning back in his tone, "I strongly suggest you stop wasting my time and let me get back to repairing this ship."

Without waiting for a reply, Chekov turned on his heel and strode from the room. He had heard the phrase "if looks could kill' before, only now he knew exactly what they were talking about.

OoOoO

"Try it now, Maude."

"Wait a mo'…Yeah—Yes!! She's turnin', ducks, resumin' standard computer course." Maude's wide grin turned abruptly to a frown. "Now, ya got to realize," she added, as Pavel came to stand beside her, "when you've only got maneuverin' thrusters it's going to take a bit to get home…"

"Twenty-four years, sixty-five days, seven hours, sixteen minutes, as Mr. Spock would say."

"Mr. Spock? Isn't he Starfleet, too? I've heard about him—half human, like me."

"Yes," said Pavel. "He was first officer on the ship I served on before getting my new assignment."

"What was that ship?"

"Enterprise."

"And now you're a first officer, eh? What goes 'round comes 'round. It's funny. Some things never change, and some things change so much they seem to come full circle, not seemin' to have changed atall."

Maude was getting too close to some raw feelings the commander had come on this cruise to sort out. Time to change the subject.

"Any response to our distress call, Maude?"

"Not yet, luv, though I'm sure they've heard us by now. We've nothin' to worry about. There's plenty of food, life-support systems are on-line—everything works 'cept the motor!"

The Hylbestan had draped her arm casually over Chekov's shoulders, and he, without even thinking about it, wrapped his arm around her waist. They stood there, each comfortable in the physical presence of the other, watching the navicom's blinking lights.

Suddenly the lift doors opened and T'alzhayn stumbled onto the bridge, his uniform torn and stained pale orange with his blood. He wavered for a moment as Pavel ran to him, and fell into the navigator's arms.

It was all Chekov could do not to be sick right there. He had seen injuries of every kind, including animal bites. But never had he seen devastation like this. It would take a skilled surgeon to repair the damage to T'al's face and hands. T'al was so small, his race so passive and gentle—Chekov could not help but envision the little man desperately defending himself against what could only be Krast's violent assault.

"Maude," he said to the tall woman as she gathered the Galesian into her own capable embrace, "see what you can do for him; try to make him comfortable. I've got something to do."

"Here, now," she warned, as she cradled T'al's wounded head in her lap, "don't you let your feelin's get in the way, ducks. You see what can happen." Maude smoothed T'al's hair away from his eyes.

"Maude, civilian ship or not, this is an unprovoked assault upon a Federation citizen. It is my responsibility to see that the assailant is detained. I have no intention of letting my feelings get in the way…much." Pavel grinned ferociously and made for the passengers' lounge.

OoOoO

"Krast, come with me, please."

The Kretchni citizen looked up from where he was seated to see a very determined-looking Starfleet officer standing just inside the opened door, feet slightly apart, arms locked behind his back. With a jerk of his head Krast signaled the other passengers to leave.

"It does not serve my purpose to do so, Starfleet," he replied, smugly, as the others filed out of the room.

"It would serve my purpose to put your Cossack hide in the brig. Stand up, Krast, and come here."

Krast's face grew pinker, and his fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically. Chekov could smell a faint musk odor and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He tensed, waiting for Krast to make his move.

Abruptly, with speed the alert Russian could not have anticipated, Krast leaped from his chair, teeth bared, growling audibly, reaching with his long fingernails for Pavel's eyes…

And Chekov countered with a clean swipe of an engineer's wrench across Krast's temple. The blow would have crumpled a Mugato, but Krast only fell to his knees. Before Pavel could raise the wrench for another blow, Krast wrapped his arms around Chekov's legs and threw him to the floor. As they made physical contact for the first time, Pavel found out there was another characteristic about this species he had not known before—they were psionic. Wave upon wave of mental assault ripped through his mind as he tried to free himself of Krast's iron grip. His head was filled with images of death, failure, uselessness. The synapses in his brain altered, inhibiting adrenaline production. He felt his body weaken as the mental assault continued.

Krast shifted his hold on the helpless commander and leaned over him with an animal grin before biting into Chekov's shoulder.

Pavel didn't have the strength to cry out, but his mind was echoing with a primeval scream. He realized, dimly, that this was the victory cry of a hunter species. And he was the prey…

It didn't hurt so much now. The room was spinning and things were turning grey—but something inside him wouldn't stop, couldn't give up…

"Lawks, what's the bleedin' creep done to ya?"

He opened his eyes and saw Krast slumped in the corner, and T'al, shaky but determined, standing over him with a hand phaser. Pavel was lying on the floor, head in Maude's lap, while she looked at the wound in his shoulder. It wasn't too unpleasant just lying there as she doctored him.

"Maude," he murmured, "I'm beginning to believe you can do anything—you know this ship inside and out, you can pilot her, you're the ship's doctor…" Suddenly he recalled what she had said earlier: I've served on this ship since the day she left dry dock…

"The Loreleil, he began, watching Krast as he stirred, "was once a Federation science ship."

"Seventy years ago, when she left port, and for 30 years after that, she was the Questar, NCC-064; Captain Gazar in command; science officer—Lt. Cdr. Maude Halman."

Pavel, bandaged and beginning to hurt, sat up and groped to a chair, one eye still on Krast, now awake and glaring.

"Excuse me, Commander, but what shall I do with him?"

"T'al, it's Pavel, not Commander. Put him in the brig, if you're up to it."

T'al grinned through his bandages. "I'm up to it, sir—uh, Pavel. Get up, you," he said as menacingly as he could, glanced over his shoulder at Maude and winked. "Move yer bloomin' arse." Subdued, Krast was ushered out of the room by a slightly taller Galesian.

Left alone, Chekov stared at Maude, making her look at him. She pulled up a chair, sat in it backwards and examined his shoulder once more before folding her arms over the back and resting her chin on her arms.

"An incident," she began, without the accent, "not worth the time to discuss, caused the accidental death of Capt. Gazar and the discharge of one science officer—namely me. I couldn't show my face at Starfleet and had no one on Hylbesta, so I signed up with Siren Cruises, an over-the-hill tourist fleet. I'd served with them ten years when I heard the Questar'd been decommissioned and bought by the company. Call it sentimentality, but I wanted back on board, even if they had given her that awful name."

"So you…" He bit his lip, his shoulder paining him, and shifted position. "You stayed on the ship rather than leave space. Is that it?"

"Something like," she smiled, her face gentle. She didn't seem so indomitable leaning close to him like that. "Call it destiny. If it hadn't been this ship, I'd have found another. But somehow, I always knew I'd come back to her."

She lay her hand against Pavel's cheek. "I've received a message, dearie, from Starfleet. Seems they're looking for their missing officer. We'll get a tow in twenty hours. So, I'll get this heap to port, and you…" She stopped, tears in her eyes.

"And I," he said, grabbing her copper hair with his good hand and gently pulling her close, "will go after my destiny. I only hope I do it as well as you."

And with that, he kissed her.

What else could he do?

Enc