In the Eye of the Beholder
by Westel
Chekov stood in the transporter room, looking over the assignment flimsy given to him by Captain Kirk less than four hours ago. Funny, how in the course of half a shift he could be so far removed from his post on the bridge, recalibrating the course for this little planet they were approaching, and placed here, ready to beam down to that very same planet, alone.
Hs orders: Represent the Federation in determining whether the pleasure planet would be a good location for Starfleet personnel to take their R&R's. The hidden orders were, of course, more serious. Chekov was to try to find out anything he could about the mysterious disappearance of a few Federation citizens who either never made it to the planet or could not be traced after they had supposedly left it. The planet, though originally privately funded and colonized by Terran people, claimed no allegiance to the Federation, forming their own government, which was their right.
So Chekov had his work cut out for him – trying to get at the information Starfleet wanted without infringing upon the rights of the populace could prove to be difficult.
He hadn't asked for this assignment. To be honest, he rarely had to ask for any assignment – Kirk threw them his way so often he sometimes wondered whether he was finished with one before beginning another. Training of command personnel, he'd been told. A well-rounded ensign will someday make a competent leader. How could he argue with that? With Kirk in command, however, spreading Chekov around was sometimes spreading Chekov a little thin.
A mission on a recreation planet should be a welcome break – a time to relax, do a little computer work, even enjoy himself – certainly better than routine bridge duty while the Enterprise delivered medical supplies to an outlying colony. So why did he feel so reluctant to leave the ship?
"Are you ready for beamdown, Mr. Chekov?" The transporter chief's query interrupted Pavel's brooding.
"Aye, Mr. Kyle. Have you heard from Uhura yet?"
"Just now. She has been talking to a fellow by the name of Caspar. He's waiting for you at the beamdown coordinates. He's the government representative who'll be your escort and aide once you've arrived. Oh, and Pavel," he grinned, "try not to have too much fun down there while you're 'working'."
"Who, me?" said the Russian, drawing himself up with dignity. "I'm afraid that's not what the captain had in mind. A Russian always puts duty before pleasure." The navigator gave Mr. Kyle a long-suffering look. "Duty calls, Lieutenant. There is work to be done."
Kyle unsuccessfully stifled a snorting burst of laughter. "Have it your way, Pavel. See you in a week." The blond-haired man moved the lever and the dematerialization effect sparkled around the Russian's form. The chuckling transporter engineer could make out Chekov's stoic salute as the young man faded into nothingness.
ooOOoo
Sweet, scented breezes played in the navigator's hair as he formed on the garden planet. For an instant, in that fragmented moment of half-existence, he was reminded of a spring morning years ago at his grandmother's home. The rain had been gentle and the sun was breaking through the clouds, lighting up each raindrop like liquid gold on the leaves and petals surrounding him. He reached out a finger to touch the dewy splendor...
"Ahem!"
Pavel jerked open his eyes to see a wizened figure standing there, staring at him with mild amusement. There was no malice in those grey eyes, however, only open regard and a touch of empathy.
"It's difficult to ignore, isn't it? The smells, I mean."
Pavel smiled but was still too overcome to speak. The vision had been so real. Another minute and he would have heard his grandmother's voice calling him from within the house. The young Russian tried half-heartedly to free himself of the living images as he walked over to the old man. A playful current brought the distant sound of wind-chimes and again Pavel was reminded of something just out of reach, the breath catching in his throat. A warm, dry touch on his hand quickly brought the man back to reality; he grinned wryly at his apparent foolishness.
"Please forgive me, it's just that…I've never been…" His voice trailed off uncertainly.
"Don't apologize, Ensign. You'll get used to it in time. Meanwhile…"
The little man hoisted Pavel's case, loaded with paraphernalia, with surprising ease and started off at a brisk pace. Pavel was horrified. "No, sir, that's too heavy for you! Please let me…"
The little man stopped for a moment, sizing up the Starfleet officer, before continuing on. "I'm stronger than I look, young man. If you'll just follow me…" He hauled the heavy case away toward a group of nearby buildings, leaving Pavel with no other choice but to follow.
As they left the park-like setting, small, bent figures in nondescript robes slowly converged from nowhere, like night creatures in a darkened room. The people stood looking after Chekov and his guide for a long while, their utter silence broken only by a single, low moan. Then they disappeared as quickly as they had come, leaving only the emptiness behind them.
ooOOoo
"I hope you will find these rooms to your satisfaction," said Caspar, as he moved about the room opening doors and pulling back curtains.
The ensign stood dumbfounded in the middle of the large room, staring out through the unveiled windows into a small garden overlooking a crystal bay, its blue waters softening to grey as evening approached. Quiet waves touched the white shore as distant sounds of seabirds caressed the deepening twilight.
"Mr. Chekov, is something the matter?"
Pavel reddened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Caspar. I must be a little tired. This place…"
"Oh, I daresay you've been to many beautiful planets in your travels, Mr. Chekov. Ours is simply one among many." Caspar's words were diplomatic, but there was a tinge of pride in his sparkling eyes.
"Don't underestimate this place, sir. I-I've never felt such peace before, as if I could rest here, undisturbed, unmolested, for as long as I wanted." Chekov wished he could convey what he was feeling to the old man, but the words failed him. He smiled at his host. "I don't usually have this much trouble expressing myself."
"Of course not, young man, of course not. Now I'll just leave you to unpack and get your bearings. If you care to eat, look in the preservation cabinets in the next room." At the Russian's curious look, he continued: "No food synthesizers here, son; there's no need for them. Here we grow our own – a type of therapy proven effective down through the ages."
The old man went to the door; his bearing, though stooped, was dignified and purposeful. With a formal bow, he bid the navigator good night.
ooOOoo
Ensign Pavel A. Chekov sat hunched over a cluttered desk, ignoring with only partial success the call of the night wind. Jim Kirk had given him specific orders to go over these materials before passing his first night there, but the assignments was proving more difficult than he had imagined. Investigating, under the pretense of routine inspection, unofficla reports alleging that occasionally people who visited this planet were never seen again, was not his first choice of assignments. They had simply disappeared, supposedly, without a trace. There had been no real documentation, however, and this tedious job was now given to him to complete.
"Don't worry, Chekov," Kirk had encouraged him at the briefing, "I have to do this sort of thing all the time – it goes with the job. And it's Starfleet's job to mollify the Federation. You might as well get some firsthand experience."
I'd rather be doing it on a starship, Pavel thought. At least I wouldn't have all this to distract me. The young man looked out the window at the brilliant stars lacing the sky with their delicate light reflecting off the water below. After a moment, he passed a hand over his eyes and returned to his compboard, sighing deeply. It was going to be a long night.
ooOOoo
Chekov spent the next day with his guide, walking through the gardens, admiring the simple architecture, taking in the exquisite peace that pervaded the very air. It seemed ludicrous that anything sinister could be connected with this place. Despite the need to continue his investigation, Pavel found himself telling the old man about himself.
"And that's when I joined Starfleet. I've never regretted my decision, only sometimes I have dreams about my home…" He frowned, his dark yes awash with concern. "I worry about them, you see." He shrugged resignedly. "But they worry about me, too."
"You must come from a very loving family, Mr. Chekov," said Caspar, admiringly. "I envy you."
They had left the park area and wandered into a small but ancient wood, their steps softened by centuries of fallen leaves and tender green mosses. Caspar glanced at his serious young companion, wondering at his youth and inexperience of life. His own advanced age seemed a millennia compared to the navigator's short sojourn in the universe. Unaware that he had drifted deep into his own thoughts, Caspar was startled out of his reverie by the Russian's voice.
"Mr. Caspar, you haven't told me why we have seen no people my age today."
The old man, dwarfed by the young ensign, maintained a semblance of calm as he continued down the wooded path, sun dappling his robes in shades of gold and green.
"This is a retreat planet, my son, as I have told you. The older clientele seeks us out. Some even decide to retire here, permanently. I'm afraid we're too quiet for the youthful."
Chekov frowned. This was not the first rational, but shaded answer he had received from his guide. Maybe it had nothing to do with the disappearances, but he couldn't help but think Caspar knew far more than he was telling him. He tried again: "But surely some younger clientele would like the quiet, too. I certainly do."
"I find this wood particularly helpful when I am too heavily burdened with responsibility, Mr. Chekov. It's peaceful here, and isolated. Just the kind of place to collect your thoughts, wouldn't you say?"
Chekov stopped the old guide, his hand gentle on the thin arm. He bent and looked directly into Caspar's face, making the man look at him. "Why are there no young people?" he quietly asked again.
For the first time, Caspar looked troubled. He glanced away, wrapping his arms around his body as if to warm himself. So there it was. He had no doubts as to why the young officer had been sent here, despite the official reason. Whether or not to answer was no longer a question – it would all be found out sooner or later, anyway.
Pavel stood silently, sensing the man's struggle. A few moments later his host dropped his arms and turned to face his questioner.
"There are no young people here because they cannot remain young and live."
"What?"
"It's a paradox, having to age to remain alive, I know. But you must understand the nature of this place. I suppose your captain had this planet scanned before you transported down."
"Standard procedure. This is not, after all, a Federation colony, though the original inhabitants are on record as being Federation citizens at one time. Very little is known about you, except for the travel holos in the spaceports."
"I don't suppose your captain mentioned the Hemera radiation emitting from our double-sun.
"Hemera radiation? I'm not familiar with such…"
"I didn't expect you would be, Mr. Chekov. How can your sensors accurately detect the significance of something in such small quantities? No doubt your science officer has recorded it as a matter of small interest, something to occupy another nano-byte in your vast computers."
Pavel sincerely hoped not, as previous experience with radiation had taught him well.
"These rays," continued Caspar, "found on several planets in this system, have been found to be harmless. But here, something unknown is apparently reacting with them, causing a very strange phenomenon to occur: rapid aging." At Chekov's look of horror he continued: "It is not so terrible. Although I aged considerably when I first came here, it leveled off after two or three months. I have been at this 'stage' for about 40 years." He smiled wryly. "I've actually caught up with myself!"
"You don't, that is to say, you haven't…" The ensign took a deep breath. "Forgive me, sir, but why haven't you died?" He was remembering a recent experience on another planet that left many of them dying of old age in a matter of days until McCoy had found a cure. Only he had been spared the disease, due to his lack of experience and the effects of what Spock termed "undue emotion".
"Those of us who are truly old, 130 or so, do die. But that's only because we're ready. Who in his right mind wants to live forever?"
"I suppose no one, but to think of growing old overnight is difficult. How could I just accept something like that?"
How could he accept growing stooped, grey, and feeble while still in his twenties? He had watched helpless as Kirk became arthritic, senile. Spock, too, had been quickly affected. But even in their affliction, they had battled the encroaching illness and, inevitably, an untimely death. How could he do any less now?
"No, I couldn't accept it," he said, shaking his head emphatically. "I would have to fight it."
"Then you would surely die. The nature of the disease, or 'process', as we prefer to call it, is to dwell in the human host, increasing metabolism by enormous proportions, until it reaches a plateau of sots. The host then experiences permanent remission and prolonged life until natural death takes him, living in the meantime perfectly healthy and active, free of the typical aches and pains of old age. That's what happened to most of us here. However…" He hesitated, frowning, and sat down on a petrified stump.
Pavel shifted his weight restlessly, anxious for his guide to continue. Caspar looked at him with open pity, which did nothing to alleviate the navigator's worry. "Son, this is the hardest part for me to tell you. If you fight it, if you refuse to accept what is, you tear yourself up inside. The very hormones and antibodies your body generates to combat the effect serve only to excite the process. Oh, it appears you are winning for a time, since your outward appearance changes little, but the damage internally is insurmountable. You begin to feel old: stiff joints, organ dysfunction, heart problems, mental degeneration – any of the symptoms of old age before modern geriatric medicine came along. It is always the youngest who fight it the most – because they feel they have the most to lose – and it is because they fight it so that it is only a short time before they die."
Since coming to the pleasure planet Pavel had felt like an actor in a play, his lines memorized and the stage directions set. He hadn't wanted to come here, as illogical as it seemed, but here he was. He had escaped the fatal illness suffered by Kirk and the others, only to find himself facing the same prospect now. He had been guided by this old gentleman, his time wasted, with no satisfactory answers. And now his future seemed to be written on an invisible page before him: Exit stage right…curtain.
Well, enough was enough. The Russian's mobile features hardened with determination, his dark eyes sparkling with new motivation.
"Look, Mr. Caspar, you're talking as though I should like the idea of aging fifty years in as many days! Maybe it was acceptable for you, but not for me. Even if I were as healthy as you, I couldn't perform the duties required of me on a starship; my chances of obtaining my own command would be ruined. I have no intention of allowing that to happen; I have no choice but to fight it!"
Caspar rose slowly, his face lined with a new sadness. In a voice cracking with emotion he replied, "Then you have certainly signed your own death warrant."