Pavel Chekov, ensign and navigator on the Starship Enterprise had been whittling for days, locked in his cabin.
He hadn't shaved or washed or eaten or drunk, he had just whittled. He had taken the time to call in sick claiming he caught some kind of stomach bug after shore leave on Stenliphome 5, but he was nearly at the end of his five days he was allowed to take without a Doctors note and pretty soon he would have McKoy knocking on his door, but for now, he whittled.
He had picked something up from Stenliphome 5. He had found it on the afternoon of his last day. Returning from a full day at the Raging Half Races he had seen it lying on the floor. A medium sized chunk of black wood. Heavy, dense, smooth, he had the sudden urge to pick it up and hold it close to his cheek. He enjoyed the touch and feel of wood, and it brought him back to his days of youth, in the cabin, in the woods.
As he cradled the wood against his cheek, he was struck with a thought. He would whittle it. He had whittled often in his days of youth, in the cabin, in the woods. Many hours spent carving found pieces wood into animals or people.
Yes, he would whittle this wood when he returned to the ship. He placed the wood into his pocket and thought of nothing else for the rest of his day other than whittling.
He knew Kirk would not give him time off for whittling, so he feigned sickness, thinking it would give a week to whittle. And he was right.
The last few days had passed in a blur. The wood was strange but giving, and seemed to welcome each cut of his small whittling knife. He had no plan, no idea and it was as if, as if the wood was telling him what to carve. Intricate curving patterns appeared, strange faces, shapes, delicate details all revealed themselves to him as he whittled. He was unaware of time passing, and soon, he had finished.
It was if he had woken from a dream.
He looked around at the mass of black shavings scattered around him, and the general debris of his cabin. He felt hungry, thirsty and exhausted and finally he turned his head to look at the small sculpture he had created.
He shut his eyes, repulsed, It was disgusting, an obscene thing. What had seemed like whimsical shapes revealed themselves to be hideous twisting patterns, lumpen and scarred. He had carved a disease and threw if from him.
The thing bounced off the cabin wall and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Chekov felt ashamed of himself. Had he really spent the last few days doing that? Had he lied to his Captain?
He would shower and shave and throw that repulsive object down garbage shoot and be rid of it and get back on Deck as soon as possible.
As he turned to remove his top, out of the corner of his, he noticed the sculpture move.
The tangled tendrils seemed to twist, and knot and shift. Growing larger and pulsing.
He took a step back and rubbed his eyes, it was lack of sleep that was all. Better he rest first before going back on duty in this state.
But the whittled thing was still moving and growing, it was three times it's original size and getting big. From within, he seemed to see a white glow, like a beacon, shining out.
No, this was madness, he must still be asleep. He pinched himself and felt it.
The thing now was man-sized and a gap among the twisting columns and turning shapes seemed to be forming. Like a doorway, he thought.
It had gone too far now, he had to warn the ship, or Kirk, or Spock.
He edged past the Thing to try to reach the communicator on the wall, and as he did, the object swivelled round with him, the shining doorway turning to face him.
He felt sick to his stomach and his hand shook as he switched the button.
"Kiptin" he uttered but got no further.
A beam of searing white light shot from the opening and enveloped Chekov in a burning glow, and filled the cabin. It only lasted a moment but when it faded. Chekov was gone and the Thing had reverted back to the original, unwhittled block of wood Chekov had found days before.
"Are you alright Ensign?" came Kirks voice over the Communicator. "Chekov? Can you hear me?"