One For The Road
На посошок!
(One for the road! [na pa-sa-shok!])
Leonard McCoy stared at the coffin in front of him.
Most of the crew had left over an hour ago, Jim the last one to hang on. The service had been brief but heartfelt. Kirk's words echoed throughout the cavernous shuttle bay, the only place on the ship big enough to hold the entire crew, save a few that needed to stay on to man the essential stations.
"Chekov wouldn't want us to cry. He'd want us to carry on our mission on the ship he loved more than anything. He'd want us to find something incredible, meet new species, jet off into the galaxy in search of whatever was just beyond that next nebula—and that's exactly what we're going to do. We all mourn his loss today, but also remember the good times we all shared. We can find comfort in the fact that whenever we stumble across a new civilization, or a strange planet, or some interstellar who-knows-what—he'll be watching from wherever he is. And I'd like to think that he'd be smiling. He was so much more than a navigator and interim chief engineer. He was a good friend. Let's remember him as such."
In one final, touching moment, Jim had laid a hand on the jet black container, adorned with a Starfleet flag, and held it there for a long moment, before standing back and saluting. The crew mirrored his actions as Scotty started his bagpipes. Foregoing the traditional Scottish funerary tune, the Chief had instead learned the music to one of the young man's favorite drinking songs, Porovot. "A turn", literally translated, and very fitting. The song talked about what's around that next bend in the road, what life was sure to bring us. As the young navigator sped on to the beyond, who knew what was in store for him.
The crew listened intently, some shedding tears, others swaying with interlocked arms as the upbeat tune wafted through the bay. As Scotty finished, they erupted into a subdued cheer, feeling the power of the music. It was as if, in that instant, they knew they could move on. Their friend would have wanted it that way.
And now, the bay was empty, save for the lone figure standing beside a flag-draped coffin. After a day or so of lying in state, it would be put into the deep freeze to be buried when they finally returned to Earth. The young ensign's wishes were in his dossier, and the Captain intended to make good on his word to return him to his parents.
The Doctor only knew one phrase in Russian, a toast that his young deceased friend had taught him when the Enterprise had left spacedock. McCoy didn't know if it was appropriate or not, but he felt as if he needed to say something. Otherwise, it would just be day drinking. Taking a small flask out of his pocket, he unscrewed the cap and held it out in a toast.
"One for the road, kid. Na pa-sa-shok." His southern twang stumbled over the Russian vocabulary. Raising the flask to his lips, he downed the burning vodka, a gift from Chekov a few years back, and fought back tears. Wincing at the fire running down his throat, McCoy groaned audibly as the pain subsided. "That's some strong shit. No wonder you Russians never get cold during those damn unrelenting winters."
McCoy pocketed the silver flask once more and sighed. He tapped the casket. "Be seein' ya, Pavel. You were a good man—and a good friend."
xxxxx
In memory of Anton Yelchin.
xxxxx
Yes, I left my fanfic writing career behind early this year to work on an original fantasy novel, but the untimely and tragic death of Anton Yelchin yesterday moved me to write a small tribute piece to honor his memory. I hope in reading, that this oneshot can help the fandom begin to heal in some way.