He was known to be a man of passion, whose smoldering dark eyes never betrayed the sudden onset of fits of temper or joy that could possess him. Sulu had commonly laughed at the assertion, replying that they had never glimpsed the true depth of emotion that was Pavel Chekov's soul. What they knew, the Helmsman maintained, were only the wild extremes of the man's Russian Motherland that were an intricate part of his personality. Their shipmates could not begin to imagine the true passion within the man.
Chekov supposed they knew this to be true now. Finally, they had seen the results of an all-consuming rage guided by the brilliance of the mind he had at his disposal. The wild coldness in his dark eyes had dredged up ancestral memories of Stalin's henchmen and Tsarist marauding Cossacks, and none of them would be hard pressed now to believe him capable of serial murder.
He had known this would happen at some point in his career: that he and the people around him would have to adjust to their knowledge of what he was capable of, given the right circumstances. He had entertained the notion that it would be much later on.
There were choices one made in life, however, and truths one based these choices on. A Starfleet career had been his life's goal: his focus now, earning a ship of his own. Even at his young age, however, he had the wisdom to know this was only a focus: it could not be life itself.
Chekov knew--with a depth he felt only a Russian could understand--that the universe was moved by truths which poets had grappled with for time immortal. These truths bound creation's living beings to each other and to history, and made the specifics of one actual life seemingly meaningless in the end. It was the understanding of these truths, he felt, on which one based life choices.
In this, he felt, there had been no choice: even if he'd had to reveal a part of himself that he'd rather have held in reserve. There was simply no reason that Sulu could not be here in his own bed, surrounded by his own things.
"Ouch!"
The Nurse stationed in the outer room peered around the corner suspiciously for an instant. It was Chekov's only concession to the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer.
Chekov winced in apology, shifting the finger's of his hands to kneed new areas of Sulu's right foot. He unobtrusively brushed off the flakes of dead skin from beneath his fingertips.
"You always said my plants would be the death of me," Sulu rasped good naturedly, making it known he had seen the action.
Chekov raised his dark eyes to Sulu's. He tried not to notice the greying pallor in the sunken cheeks.
"I meant the number of hours you were spending with them off duty." Not, Chekov thought, from a virus picked up by handling new specimens before they were beamed up through the transporter's bio-filters. The newly-named Caulis Virus was already too imbedded in Sulu's cells for the transporter to do more than alert the medics of its presence.
Chekov pushed the blankets upward and began massaging Sulu's shrunken calf. The Helmsman sighed in pleasure and buried his back further into his pillow. "You were just jealous of the plants, my friend.
"In all the years we've known each other," the older man continued, "I've never understood why you don't advertise this talent of yours. If you did," Sulu grinned, "your bedroom would be inundated with women."
"When women are in my bedroom, I am interested in other activities," Chekov observed.
Sulu laughed weakly. "Pavel," he said softly after a moment. "Pavel..."
The hesitation in the Navigator's fingers merely reflected the hesitation in his friend's voice. Chekov switched to the left leg. He knew what the man wanted to say, but couldn't. It was only in extraordinary situations that the Helmsman would even go that far in expressing his feelings. A self-proclaimed 'uptight Japanese-American', he had always been edgily tolerant of his Russian friend's effuse emotions.
"I know," Chekov responded.
"It's just...you're like a brother to me. More than Hosato."
"I know," the Navigator repeated.
"Bring me home," the older man urged. "Bring me home, Pavel Andrieivich."
Chekov stopped his methodical massaging, his eyes locked on Sulu's. Kirk intended a course to the nearest Federation installation when their mission was complete. That Sulu would survive the virus claiming more and more territory in his body until then, or that Chekov could change Kirk's decision, was doubtful. They both knew that.
"When I die," the Helmsman clarified, adjusting the thick, handmade quilt on his lap.
Chekov studied him. They were far beyond the need for posturing, for denying. There was too little time left now. The jazz music playing softly in the background filtered through his mind.
"To your Aunt's?" Her family were Sulu's only relatives left on Earth. His parents remained on the Space Station he grew up on: his brother and sister had lives among the stars as well. The younger man knew he was wrong even as he said it. Chekov's fingers tightened with emotion on Sulu's leg as he saw the man's face flush.
"To Papa," Sulu said, his dark eyes glassy and intense. "I want to go home to Papa. He won't mind?" he asked with sudden uncertainty.
Mind? Chekov considered. His father cherished this adoptive brother that Pavel had dragged home. The Navigator had warned Sulu that Russian families with traditional values absorbed their friends into them. He had warned the Helmsman that real Russians were simply more intense than most non-Russians were prepared for. The fact that the Sulu called Chekov's father 'Papa' was a testament to how well it had suited him in the end.
"Papa won't mind?" Sulu repeated.
"Don't be ridiculous," Chekov snarled, dropping his eyes and returning to his massage duties. "Burying a rotting corpse is just the type of maudlin occasion Russians live for. We'll recite Pushkin and get drunk for you."
"You'd better," the Helmsmen insisted. "Don't forget the balalyka music."
"Papa will play it himself."
They both smiled simultaneously, a soft expression of affection mirrored in their eyes, despite the fact that their gazes didn't meet. Their primitive understanding of each other had caused the occasional scattered rumor which used to bother Sulu, but none of that mattered now. It gave them what Kirk called 'the most uncanny reaction time in a helm/navigation team ever known to the fleet.' His observation had effectively quelled the rumors.
"You know, I thought I was going to kill you that first month at the Academy."
"I know."
Chekov's smile deepened as he began to work on Sulu's knee. As an incoming freshman, Chekov had been assigned junior Sulu as his 'big brother'. The random choice of a mentor by the computer had made them forced roommates for two years. Honestly, Chekov had purposely tormented the older man. Sulu had just made it too easy.
"Now where did you learn to give a massage like that?"
Chekov turned, eyes falling on McCoy standing at the room divider.
"My mother was a dancer," he confessed, turning back to pull the quilt back down over the Helmsman's legs and feet. Massage and romance were indelibly, permanently separated in the Navigator's mind. "I suppose this means it's time to go?"
McCoy nodded as he moved to the foot of the bed. "The Captain is be expecting us in the transporter room." The Doctor studied Sulu a moment before continuing.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" He had long since stopped asking how the man was. How could he be, after all, Chekov had pointed out. The virus had already laid waste to Sulu's body. Even if they found a cure now it was beyond modern medicine's ability to reclaim it: Sulu was dying.
Sulu shimmied downward in the bed. "No, I'm probably the best cared for hospice patient in existence. Rescuing me from Chekov will give me a chance to sleep. Read me some Russian fairy tales when you get back, Pavel?" he continued to his friend.
Chekov shot him an icy glare, understanding the unspoken, and long-standing, jibe at the Russian's lingering habit of falling asleep to tapes of his father's recitation of the tales. Sulu smiled brilliantly in response to Chekov's expected reaction: triumph in his eyes.
Sulu had done it again, the younger man thought sullenly. The Helmsman was able to use Chekov's wild emotions to trap him on a routine basis. When the Navigator had sufficiently recovered from his pout to meet the older man's eyes, however, he realized it had been an admonishment to stay safe.
Chekov already missed his best friend.
"No problem," he shrugged."We were invited, remember?"
Sulu made a sound of derision as he flattened himself on the bed.
"Invited as a subspecies," McCoy clarified as they got out into the corridor.
Chekov nodded. After the planet was identified as a technologically advanced world, Kirk had contacted them only to be brushed off by the main government as being too insignificant to deal with. Instead, they had been referred to some minor official that, they were told, regarded Earth as one of his hobbies.
Slavic Earth, to be exact, which is why Chekov was specifically chosen for this landing party. There were other Russians aboard, but none so thoroughly versed in their homeland's history and culture.
"This has made me reassess our attitude toward some of the cultures we approach," Chekov observed, the individual guilt he felt apparent in his quiet tone. "What is it you Americans say? The shoe is on the other foot now."
McCoy growled a murmur of uncomfortable agreement.
As they entered the transporter room, Kirk turned and nodded a greeting. "Thank-you for joining us, Mr. Chekov." No matter how much you want to stay...
The Navigator merely nodded in response and took his place on the rear of the platform. He had actually avoided the Captain after his on-going series of tirades. He knew that Kirk liked him personally. He knew as well that the Captain was pleased with his work and showed a certain amount of pride in the promise the Navigator showed as an officer. What Chekov knew more than that, however, was how important it was to him that the Captain he so respected felt that way. The Navigator had been too cowardly to face the disappointment with his behavior that he knew would fill the hazel eyes when they next met.
When the moment had inevitably come, however, it had not been disappointment he faced. Chekov had been startled by the respect he met in Kirk's eyes: the cold, unemotional respect one man earns from another. No longer was he the tolerated junior officer that had more talent and energy than both Kirk and Spock could harness. His willingness to brave the cost of loyalty to a friend had made him an equal bridge officer in the Captain's eyes. It was more than he could have ever hoped for.
As Chekov took his place on the transporter, he heard Kirk's mumbled words to the Doctor. "How is he, Bones?"
"Better than the rest of us. They've accepted it and are taking the time to say good-bye."
The Captain nodded and took his place on the transporter pad in front of Chekov. The Ensign kept his gaze fixed forward. He hadn't been meant to hear the exchange, but the room was impossibly small.
Transporters were an unsettling experience in the best of situations. Even when prepared, the effect of suddenly appearing in a different environment--every sense assaulted with new data--disturbed even the steadiest of human minds. Repeated journeys for the unsteadier ones could lead to a nearly permanent form of disassociative madness. Sometimes the possibility was downright obvious.
"Mr. Chekov!"
He started physically, realizing by the tone of the Captain's voice that it was not the first summons he'd issued.
"Yes, Sir," he acknowledged quickly, but he remained frozen in time and space, gripping the tricorder at his side the way the world about him gripped his very soul.
"Analysis, Ensign?" the Captain prompted further.
Chekov had served under Kirk long enough to know the need for him to ask had earned the Ensign no points with the Captain. The Navigator forced his eyes to sweep over the lush vegetation and dwellings. He recognized immediately the pattern of gardens, orchards and wooden buildings immediately in front of them. The complex was surrounded by scattered outlying roofs he could see in the distance. It was so alive and vibrant here...
"It's a seventeenth to nineteenth century Russian village, Captain," he said finally. His wording was not imprecise. His very cells were trembling with recognition. Somehow, he knew, this was not a reproduction: it was a Russian village. The technology evident in their scans of the planet was not here. "It even smells like Russia," he insisted.
"It's the fruit trees," Kirk reasoned.
"Yes," Chekov agreed, but knew his Captain was wrong. The cherry trees in Washington D.C. certainly made him homesick, but this was not homesickness. Somehow this was Russia. He felt it in his very cells.
"That's the manor house," he continued, straightening and trying to recall himself to his duty.
Kirk and McCoy turned to the large, two story wooden building Chekov indicated. The shutters adorning its glassless windows were splashes of elaborate color in Russian Baroque paintings.
"That's where the Tsar and his family lives. I assume he's our contact."
When Kirk and McCoy turned to him in surprise, he raised his eyebrows in a manner that would have made Spock proud if he were capable of such emotion. Sometimes Chekov was simply stunned at other's ignorance of Earth history.
"Every village had a Little Tsar who owned everything--the land and people," he asserted. "He governed the area. The Little Tsars, in turn, answered to the Tsar of all the Russia's. I don't know this man's position in the planetary government, but judging by the surroundings, that's his position in this village."
McCoy scowled at him and Chekov shrugged. "I'm not always wrong."
With a smile, the Captain gestured. "Gentlemen, we best go find our host."
Chekov hesitated as the others moved ahead, turning to stare into the greenery to his left. He had felt, rather than seen, the movement: a fluttering actually, if he had to describe it.
Staring with his body frozen, his eyes finally discerned the splash of brilliant color between the dense green leaves. His soul knew the impossible immediately.
He had stopped breathing. If asked, he would have swore his heart had stopped as well. As if sensing his absolute immobility, the creature silently shifted enough so that they could openly stare at each other.
He could not believe what he saw. Chekov recognized the wispy, delicate female immediately and resoundingly. Red hair--so fiery brilliant that it was blinding when it caught the sun--was the first indication that she was not human. The billowy long hair flowed downward and was absorbed seamlessly by her bright red caftan.
Large almond eyes, with iris's completely black in color, were the next indication she was not human. They dominated an oval face with a slender nose and enticing mouth. Her skin had a shimmering opulence to it: almost a metallic sheen that was betrayed when the light caught it.
Chekov could not have made anyone understand with words, but he knew she was the most captivatingly beautiful creature that ever existed. Every fiber of his being knew it. And he knew there was not a man in Russia who would have disagreed.
"Mr. Chekov?"
She started in fear at the sound of the Captain's voice. Her frightened eyes remained on Chekov, anchored on the one thing that she recognized as belonging there. It was more than a little unnerving. Her face wavered strangely and then was gone.
Chekov straightened, trying to steady himself. He didn't need any recitation of Starfleet regulations. He knew his obligations and duty to this team, to the Federation, to Starfleet: to his Captain. There was simply no doubt in his mind of what his required responsibility was at this point in time to the service to which he had pledged his life.
It wasn't the only responsibility that bound him, however. There were those truths that ruled the universe. There were the forces of which a human was merely particle: forces which made human insignificance startlingly apparent in moments like this. There were his obligations to the universe itself.
He did not think it strange that he rejoined the team silently, without a word of report or a qualm of remorse at his failure to his duty and his Captain. There were other obligations binding him here.
The man that greeted them inside the home's main hall was a tall, heavyset humanoid who was smiling effusely. He had a ruddy, freckled face and curiously pale yellow eyes that sparkled at them from beneath double-ridged eyebrows.
"Welcome, Captain Kirk!" He spoke an older version of Terran Standard, which implied a lapse in time since his last visit to their home world. "I'm Tiimeron, Territorial Governor," he said in what Chekov suspected was a pale translation of his actual political position.
"I insist you join us for dinner: we can talk then. It's our way. I won't take no for an answer," he concluded vehemently.
"That's very Russian of you," Chekov commented in an aside the man wasn't supposed to hear. His stiff glance back at the Navigator said he had. The young officer was becoming unnerved by the continuing thrum of recognition in his body. He had, as well, a growing sense of irritation at the sensation of being so far displaced and yet, of being home, in his Motherland...
The group moved forward between tables spread the length of the room and already filled with occupants. Some of the diners were clearly of the man's race, but many of them looked decidedly Terran and all were wearing old style Russian clothing. When they took their places at the head table, McCoy confirmed it.
"Jim, many of these people are from Earth," he said as he stared at his medical tricorder. "Or, at least their ancestors were."
That would explain, too, the group of cats and dogs lounging in the warmth of the room's great fireplace. Borzoi's, Chekov noted with irritation: the ugly dog illegal for anyone but a Tsar to own. As if anyone else would want one of the hideous things...
"You've created a Russian peasant village complete with Russian peasants," Chekov said aloud, using terminology foreign to him but which he knew his shipmates would better understand. "Why would they have left Russia and come with you?" Why would anyone permanently leave Russia? he pondered painfully. The tragic course of Russian history filtered through his mind as he tried to place the people around him at a spot concurrent with an emigration flood from his native land. Had all these people come at the same time, or had they all adapted to the time period offered to them?
"Yes," Tiimeron responded brightly as human servants passed plates of food among them. "I spent many years researching the villages to create one here. I took great care in making it authentic in every detail."
He also took pains not to answer Chekov's most burning question, the Ensign noted. Was this a case of alien abduction on a grand scale? Were these people even aware they didn't belong here after all these generations? The alternative was worse: were they still arriving? None of them seemed surprised that there were new humans in their midst.
"Captain," Chekov informed him as his eyes surveyed the room. "From their appearance, these people represent a period of Russian history before the reign of Peter the First. Peter forcefully changed the clothing styles in the Russian Empire from traditional to European almost overnight. Beards were so highly taxed, no one could afford to wear one anymore. Peter carried scissors to cut them off himself." There was no denying that these people's manner of dress showed no evidence of those changes.
"Piotir!" a man stopped behind Chekov and spit on the floor.
Turning, Chekov eyed him a moment before looking back at Kirk with a wry grin. "I think, perhaps, they left during the reign of Peter. His reforms were not met with enthusiasm by everyone." Was it possible these were the same people who had originally been brought here? he wondered incredulously.
"Peter the First–do you mean Peter the Great?" McCoy asked, his eyes narrowing in thought as he tried to clarify Russian history for himself.
A low growl emerged from Chekov's throat before he could stop it. He reigned his voice in professionally before answering. "Thunderous is the accurate translation of the Russian phrase: not Great. Like thunder, Piotir was loud but his affect on the land was not necessarily all good."
"Didn't he build St. Petersburg?" McCoy demanded, knowing the Ensign loved the city.
"He designed it," the Navigator answered dryly. "The construction was done by the millions of peasants he forcefully relocated to erect the new capital in the swamp it lies on."
Hazel eyes regarded the young man warmly. "Boston, New York City, Washington D.C.–they were all built on swamps, Ensign."
"Yes, but the Americans didn't use their slave workman's bodies as landfill, Sir. St. Petersburg has..." he searched momentarily for a suitable word in their imprecise language. "Soul: because it is a graveyard."
"Not everyone here arrived at the same time," Tiimeron said pleasantly, seemingly oblivious to the debate that had started in his midst. Even so, his statement seemed to hide more than it revealed.
He continued without a breath: "Captain, based on the information you provided us, the Planetary Council has given you level three clearance. Tomorrow, you and your officers may have free access to my computers to upload any and all the information you choose within that parameter."
Kirk's hazel eyes held frozen on the man a long moment before he replied. "We frequently encounter less advanced cultures, so I understand your government's requirements he said carefully. I'm grateful for the accommodations made to us: I'll be eager to make use of them. I would like to request, as well, that Mr. Chekov here is allowed make a survey of the area himself: if that's alright with you."
"Oh, yes: feel free." The man threw out his arms to encompass the village in an imaginary circle. "My home is yours: wander at will, Mr. Chekov. It's only the computer's that contain things you may not be ready to know."
"Thank-you," the youngest officer responded quietly.
"Chekov?" Tiimeron continued, eyeing the Navigator studiously. "Your name is Slavic in origin. Would you have a Saint's name and Patronymic?"
"Yes, Sir: Pavel Andrieivich."
"And yet you're called Chekov?" he asked with mild surprise.
"Not in Russia."
"Ah, so you have adapted to another's culture."
"We seem to have something in common," the Navigator observed pointedly.
"We do," the man answered firmly, pale yellow eyes bright. "Which makes me wonder how a person in your position could possibly consider it worth the cost you've paid."
Soulful eyes darkening, the Navigator stared at their host in silence. "Whatever clothes you wear, I will still find no Tartar no matter how hard I claw," he finally stated. Scratch a Russian, find a Tartar, the proverb went. Chekov used it to clearly indicate that, despite his adaptations, Tiimeron could never really be Russian.
Tiimeron grinned swiftly and shot a glance at Kirk. "Feisty, isn't he?"
Chekov glowered, but said nothing.
"Will we have access to medical information?" McCoy interjected impatiently.
Startled out of his sulk, the Navigator glanced at the Doctor. More advanced technology...was there a chance?
"Yes, of course: there won't be any security restrictions for any of our medical data. Would you like to meet with members of our medical staff as well?"
"Yes," the Doctor insisted. "It would be very helpful to be able to talk to some of your Doctors."
"I'll arrange that as well, then. Captain," Tiimeron continued with a smile, "I knew you Terrans would be dropping in any time now. Visits to your world became banned because you were becoming too technologically advanced. I am eager to catch up on modern Terran history."
"Alexsander the Second freed the serfs in Russia," Chekov muttered.
"I saw," their host replied with an oblivious smile. "And he convinced Abraham Lincoln to do the same two years later in the United States. They weren't popular acts in either country."
"We have always valued and fostered the expression of differing opinions," the Captain interjected quickly to maintain a diplomatic tone to their conversation.
Pale eyes shifted to Kirk, a calculating look in them as Tiimeron noted: "Yes. If I recall, both leaders were assassinated for their opinions.
"But we should continue this at a later time," he added immediately with a dramatic gesture. "Please: eat!"
McCoy leaned over to Chekov with a sidelong glance. "Alexander told Lincoln to free the slaves?" he rasped sourly before shoving a seasoned potato wedge in his mouth.
"Yes," the young Russian insisted, dark eyes fixed on Tiimeron soberly. In his homeland, such a philosophical debate over a meal would have been downright required for true hospitality. In truth, the young Navigator missed the roaring debates into early morning hours which Russian friends expected of each other. The touch of wistfulness caused him to instinctively bait the Enterprise's Doctor. "Russia did win the American Civil War, after all," he quipped.
Both Enterprise officers craned their necks around to peer at him incredulously.
"I had no idea," McCoy finally snarled. "Tell me: have they moved Russia to the northern or southern part of the United States?"
"Captain Kirk is a student of Abraham Lincoln," Chekov insisted indignantly. "HE certainly knows Alexsander the Second sent the entire Russian Navy to President Lincoln's assistance."
Sitting back, Kirk swallowed his food and muttered to his friend: "He did, Bones. Don't get Chekov started."
"You're the one who brought him!"