THE TWO KINDS OF VODKA
He felt like an intruder. An odd feeling for the Captain of the ship to be experiencing, Kirk granted, but it was also the reason he never conducted surprise inspections. He moved into the security labs and paused as the door swished closed behind him. The workstations hummed with abandoned life, their soft tones and subtle lights toying with the idea of an owner's return.
The labs and the Security Chief's office had been enlarged and moved here when they had been redesigned for the Enterprise's refit. The layout of the workstations, interrogation rooms and brigs seemed more functional and orderly, although he couldn't vouch for it. Wall space was scattered with various equipment. Among them, orange-handled side arms that were secured in cases and fastened with warnings that they could only be used with express permission from the Security Chief. Light tag guns, Kirk noted, a smile tugging at his features. Implemented for practice drills, Chekov had found the security team using them to ambush each other constantly. From what he'd heard the signs had done no good.
Turning, the Captain moved left and into the Chief of Security's office. An onrush of stars hurled themselves at him through the viewscreen that consumed the full expanse of wall which faced him. In front of it sat a desk with a computer station on either side, allowing the Chief to both work and monitor other's work simultaneously. The Captain touched his foot to what appeared to be a spartan couch fit into an alcove in the wall across from the desk. It was, in fact, two sickbay stretchers tucked beneath a one-way window looking out into the lab.
To the left of the desk a marine aquarium with strikingly beautiful fish and corals was sunk into the wall and surrounded by antique navigational instruments. The Chief's saber adorned the wall on the right amidst a myriad of bookshelves containing books, a stuffed Mickey Mouse and a brass samovar.
Kirk stepped through the door in the right wall and found himself in what appeared to be a grandiose sized bathroom. He noted the luxurious size shower and bathroom fixtures amidst walls lined with sunken cabinets. The floor space between fixtures seemed obscene for a space-going vessel, but it's initial appearance was deceptive. The room actually served as the finest state-of-the art first-aid station in the fleet; Chekov and McCoy had seen to that.
Light flooded the office and spilled through his limbs into the bathroom. He turned as Chekov folded his form into the desk chair and activated one of the computers. The man regarded Kirk dimly as he adjusted the alarm system.
"You didn't think a strange presence in the Security Chief's office--of all places--would go unnoticed?"
Kirk shrugged and took a step into the office. "I hadn't a chance to see the renovations you made to the security labs when they refitted the ship. I thought it was about time."
Dark eyes regarded hazel ones dubiously. They had known each other too long for an excuse so thinly veiled to pass. "At seven a.m.?"
"You do calisthenics at six," Kirk observed dryly. "It certainly looks like a bathroom."
Chekov grinned sheepishly. "I spent too many years on a sailing ship to waste space on a single purpose room. He stood and moved over to the samovar on the shelf to brew tea while he continued. "I made the poor engineers pull the stretchers that make up that couch a dozen times over to make sure we couldn't reduce floor space."
Kirk raised his eyes to the ceiling of the alcove. "I'm still impressed that this becomes a gangway to the auxiliary bridge."
"Did you think I accepted this position and fought to move the labs here because I wanted a window office? Coffee?" he asked, pausing for Kirk's confirmation before he went out into the labs.
The Captain followed him as he made his way to an indentation in the wall against his office. "If I remember correctly, at the time you said something about not wanting to die," Kirk drawled.
A smile tugged at the Russian's features as he brewed coffee and created anassortment of danish. He remembered being a newly promoted Lieutenant observing the Security Team's drills as part of the ship's cross-training. He had never realized how close to death he had been all those years. Their ratings, of course, had achieved an acceptable level, but the work was shoddy and the teamwork non-existent-- in his opinion. "The Security Team's efficiency increased 98," was all he said.
"Yes," Kirk agreed. "And the injury rate is down 95. I don't suppose there's an extra danish?" he asked as he accepted the coffee.
Chekov waved for him to help himself and then disappeared into his office. He re-emerged with a glass of tea in a metal holder and took a position against the wall by the lab doors. Kirk joined him as the first of the Security Team wandered in, saying hello as they passed the officers. The rest came in energetic bursts, pouncing on the lab and its workstations like felines. Strangely, they ignored the coffee and pastries and seemed to be inspecting the lab. Chekov watched their movements with critical eyes.
"Do you always provide coffee and donuts?"
Chekov nodded absently. "They all voluntarily work out with me every morning before their duty shift: it seems the least I can do."
One crewmember had ceased the frenetic activity of the rest and was standing staring at Chekov with a maniacal look in her eyes.
Chekov continued to chat with Kirk but it was obvious he never lost sight of the woman. Finally, she made her way around the closest workstation and firmly planted her feet in front of the Security Chief.
"Put your hands on your head and spread your legs, Sir," she ordered.
Dark eyes regarded her blandly in response.
"Now hold on," a lanky young man protested as he bounded up to them. "You're just knocking about blindly, crewman."
A murmur of assent rippled through the room.
"Nordel," Chekov cautioned one of the two Ensigns assigned him. "We don't ridicule the honest efforts of one of our team members. We should give her the opportunity to explain the theory that prompts her actions."
The woman's blue eyes stared at him defiantly and she thrust her chin out. "The conditions of the exercise, Sir: one, it is in this room; two, don't start disassembling workstations, this is a daily exercise, we don't get ridiculous; three, observations of changes in the room will lead to success.
"Every morning," she continued, "Lt. Chekov makes the coffee and danish, stands here and greets us, then disappears into his office. I maintain his presence is the change in the condition of the room this morning."
"It's a valid theory," Chekov confirmed with a note of respect in his tone. He handed his glass to Nordel, resolutely locked his hands behind his head, and edged his feet apart to submit to the woman's search. She ran her hands over him quickly and yanked a long wooden stick out of his right boot. Grinning triumphantly, she held it aloft for the rest of the team to see.
"And she was right," the Security Chief pronounced as he relaxed.
"Foul!" one of the team members declared.
With a wicked smile, the Security Chief shrugged. "Met the conditions of the exercise." He retrieved both his tea and the stick and said to the woman: "I'll be at your cabin at 1600, if that's acceptable."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good." With a final nod to the woman Chekov motioned for Kirk to follow him back into his office.
"Good heavens, it's true," the Captain declared as the door slid shut behind him. "You clean the cabins of your team members!"
"It's the prize for the morning exercise. They love it." Chekov replaced the stick on the front edge of his desk and moved over to freshen his tea. "You wouldn't think they would, given what I find out about them from rifling through their things."
With a sinister glint in his hazel eyes Kirk took the chair opposite the desk. "I doubt it's occurred to them."
"Let's hope it doesn't."
Kirk chuckled and sucked the last of the sticky danish from his fingers. "It's not that I mind your unorthodox training methods," he said, "but could you give me notice of when you're planning your monthly game of hiding from them? I'd like to know when to expect the Security Team to be crawling all over the ship."
"Intruder training," Chekov identified as he sat down. "Certainly, Captain."
"What's the prize for that exercise?" Kirk wondered into his coffee cup.
The Lieutenant smirked. "A feather," he admitted, pointing out the replica of an American Indian headdress hanging in the corner. "After they realized the new Security Chief wasn't trying to kill them with all his radical ideas, they decided the 'Chief' ought to have the trappings of his position. I gave them all headbands in return." He scowled. "I don't think they heard a word of my talk about the dangers of cultural stereotyping. Every one of them would rather earn a feather than a Starfleet medal."
The Captain chuckled and leaned forward to grasp the wooden stick with the simply carved handle. He tossed it up in the air and caught it. "Mr. Chekov, please tell me that one of your 'radical ideas' doesn't include using this club on the crew."
"It's not a club, it's a belaying pin."
Hesitating, Kirk gave the younger officer a sour look. "I know. It's from a sailing ship. I've seen Errol Flynn, Lieutenant: they make a handy club."
"I've never understood why the ship didn't fall apart around them in those movies," Chekov rasped with irritation. "That pin was used to tie off one of the lines that held up the yard I worked on when I was in the Russian Navy."
The Captain hesitated and glanced sharply at the Security Chief. "What's holding it now?"
Chekov's eyes widened. "I don't know," he pronounced melodramatically after a minute.
Kirk stared at him but the man was unflappable. It was the Captain that smirked finally. "You didn't steal this when you left the Navy, did you Chekov?"
"No. No," the Lieutenant assured him with a wave. "The Captain gave it to me as a gift when I entered Starfleet Academy." He frowned as he took a long draught of tea and muttered to himself: "I should have stole it: it's traditional to steal a piece of the ship you leave."
"I'll be sure to take an inventory when you transfer off the Enterprise, Mr. Chekov."
Chekov laughed out loud. "When you leave the service," he clarified with a cock-eyed grin. "It's an old sailing superstition. Once a sailor crosses the line-- equator-- their soul is owned by the sea and they can never leave it. They can try, but it will always pull them back.
"The only hope they have to escape it is to stay at least 90 miles from shore. They're supposed to carry a piece of the last ship they served on with them because as long as no one knows what it is, they're safe."
Kirk balanced the belaying pin in the air between them. "You're not safe here: I knew what it was."
Chekov actually looked troubled by the thought. "Yes, well, you're another sailor, so you don't count," he finally said.
Leaning forward, the Captain handed the pin to the younger man and observed: "I don't believe my sail boats qualify me in the same class as actual seaman on traditional ships. They were small, modern ships with metal cleats: not wooden belaying pins."
Chekov pressed his lips together tightly. "You don't count," he maintained.
Kirk sat back in his chair and took a moment to consider the dregs in his coffee cup. The current Russian Navy was no more than a living history museum. It had only recently been refounded to teach the maritime skills necessary to preserve and sail the traditional ships left before they were lost forever.
The Captain knew that Chekov had spent much of his teenage years on one of those sailing ships learning the skills. They had spoken of it, but the intensely private Lieutenant hadn't shared many of the details even with Kirk–for who those ships held a fascination. The older man didn't know if the ships were merely history classrooms or if a new generation of sailors were embracing the old ways. "Superstition was a big part of a sailor's life," he observed after a moment, casting his eyes up to watch Chekov's reaction. "Do you believe all those old superstitions?"
There was a stillness in the dark eyes and he wrung the belaying pin in his hands. "I haven't found it hurts to follow them," Chekov answered cryptically.
Kirk's eyes widened. "Aren't you supposed to have gold in your ear to prevent you from drowning?"
"I'm not in the water," came the toneless reply.
"I see." In fact, Kirk did see. He now understood Chekov's habit of swimming at all kinds of ungodly hours in the night and wondered if anyone had ever caught him wearing an earring. Chekov may have been evasive about being superstitious, but as Kirk watched the man unconciously wringing the belaying pin in his hands, the Captain knew how unnerved the conversation was making him. "Have you ever had a problem reconciling your life in the navy with your career in Starfleet?"
Chekov's hands stopped, gripping the wooden pin as his dark eyes considered the older man a long moment. "I don't understand."
It didn't surprise the Captain. The Lieutenant had spent all of the reasoning years of his life conspired to the restrictions of a military career. His natural adolescent rebellion had blossomed in a structured world which would have strangled most human spirits. Chekov's unorthodox training and supervision methods, and his expert manipulations of the Fleet to get the Security Labs moved and re-built to his specifications were just the first visible results of the superb strategist mind his unique past had created. He'd been getting the world to work on his own terms his entire life.
Kirk set the empty coffee cup down on the desk. "Mr. Chekov," the Captain said. "I have an assignment especially suited for you."
---------------
He'd served under them both, signed his life away a dozen times over, and survived. It was a sobering thought, even after all these years: and one that spoke of his resilience as an officer. Memories had a way of creeping up like that. Especially now—especially today.
The wind tore through his hair, wrenching and yanking its fine brown lengths into twisted, knotted configurations. The whipping gusts roared through him, tearing away his reason with their bloated, brackish deluge. The inrush wrested from within the very core of his cells an ancient memory no sanity could hope to comprehend. It filled his reality, screeching through the very fiber of his being.
"Sir? Lieutenant Chekov?"
He fought his way back from the consuming jubilation, back to the reality of his uniform and his world. The group of men and women gathered were staring at him as though he were some oracle about to spew forth some profound wisdom. His brow furrowed over darkening eyes. "You have your assignments," he said out a bit too sharply. "Are you waiting for a personal invitation?"
They scattered before him like an army of ants, darting over the wooden planking of the wharf to go about their business. He watched them as they went, noting the uniform colors that indicated what role they played in this latest assignment Starfleet had volunteered them for. Sciences, Engineering, Health and Biological Services: a strange group for the Chief of Security to be in command of, but as a Command Officer, however, there was no telling the situations one might find oneself in.
Chekov's role in this had come before--in choosing these people and their tasks, and would come after--in making their sense of their data. He did take a moment now to again survey the safety of the wharf which the acidic air was blasting over. Although old and abandoned for some time, the deep jetties and surrounding walks had been built well and showed few signs of rot. The whole waterfront area showed the wear of age and the sorrow of neglect, but the ghosts of past life loomed everywhere just out of sight and beyond the range of human hearing. Old wooden signs and stone buildings strained against the fury of the gusts, clinging to the last remnants of their life end moorings. All life around them had heeded the call to leave, to go from this place…
The wind whipped upward and wrenched the memories to life again. They swept over him in torrents as the gusts of wind pulled and tore at his clothes and his body. He trembled under the sudden onrush; shuddered from the physical and mental response to a union which was beyond the scope off all sanity. The legends of lifelong commitment, of unbreakable contracts with mythical powers, were just that: legends with no basis in reality. Chekov tried to convince himself of that but his body knew better.
A resounding, primal recognition ached in the very fiber of his cells. The stuff of the sea coursed through his veins and had control of his body at its most basic level. A cellular bond carried in his very atoms, the nearness of the sea made it surge with life and set his soul on fire.
Chekov turned directly into the wind then to meet the onslaught head-on. The two ships looming before him filled his vision, seeming to be an after-thought in this place where they lay trapped against the piers. The air about the ships was edged with death, but he could feel the souls still alive within them.
They sighed and moaned as they shifted restlessly in their water berths, dully protesting the wind's insolent assault. The creaking of wood gnawed at his body; made his cells weep in understanding of a language he knew all too well but could give no voice to. The lines still grasping the ships made a sickly, dull sound of uselessness, but his mind heard the shrill shrieking of lines stretched taught: heard the sharp snap of canvas and rope as they grabbed onto the wind in victory.
The heart of his cells screeched in the fury of protest as the demands of ancient commitments mounted and grew. All reason let go as he succumbed to it finally: allowing himself to be swallowed completely by a union as ancient as the universe itself.
"Well, this is going to be easier than we thought."
The swirling, brackish vastness evaporated and he blinked, staring remotely at the officer in front of him. "Nordel?"
"Yes, Sir," the only other Security representative responded amiably. "I was just commenting on how easy it's going to be to establish a spaceport here."
He glanced at the man suddenly, sharply, as the roar within exploded upward and flamed in his dark eyes. Something wept inside when his mind acknowledged the impending fate of both the ships and the entire waterfront area. "Ensign," he interrupted. "If history is not built on, you haven't a foundation."
The younger man looked startled and the Chief of Security purposely softened the color of his eyes with an easy smile. He swept his gaze eyes over the wharf, the expanse of volatile salt water beyond, and the ship's massive hulks looming upward before them. "I think it's time you demonstrated that rock climbing skill of yours to me."
Nordel physically balked in understanding. "To climb one of those?"
"Absolutely," Chekov grinned wickedly, a brilliant mania glassing over his dark eyes. "Call Mr. Scott for some rope and equipment and we'll take a tour."