Chapter 8
Chekov and Briony spent the next half hour discussing potential strategies for snaring the culprit, none of which involved going through security and none of which were solidified. It wasn't long before she had to get back to work and he decided to return to his quarters to continue generating ideas.
Though the headache was a constant background annoyance, it was now manageable and Chekov was more than ready to be back on the bridge where he belonged. All of this sitting around was making him antsy.
One more day, he thought, leaning into the wall of the humming lift with his eyes closed and his laptop tucked under one arm. One more day…
"Or, we could always, you know, go to the bridge right now."
"GAAAH!" Chekov launched into the center of the lift, dropping the laptop and whipping around. "You?!"
"Me," replied a very ornery-looking Matharus. "And you are in deep trouble, kid. Deep, deep trouble."
"I got rid of you! You're not supposed to be able to—"
"And you're not supposed to be able to 'think' me away like that, small human. I said I was here to help you, but nooo, you had to go and make a big deal out of it. You had to make me look like an incompetent idiot in front of the entire Supreme Council. Out of any humiliation I've ever endured over the past millennia, that was the worst!"
"Good!" Chekov spat. "Let's make it double!"
Matharus's eyes flashed and the lift jolted to a stop, throwing the youth to the floor.
"Oh, no. Oh-ho-hooo, no, we are not going through this again." The man glowered, aiming a finger at the thoroughly dazed Chekov. "You have one job and that is to take us home, so that's what you're gonna do! Got it?"
Chekov returned the glare and immediately regretted what came out of his mouth next.
"Make me."
"If you say so."
A fierce, white light and its accompanying shot of pain nearly blinded him, and when Chekov could stand to crack open his eyes, he was alone again. Matharus was gone…?
Not so fast, Young One, came the familiar voice, only this time from inside his head. We're just getting started, here. Cooperate and it'll all be over soon enough.
"And if I don't?"
Matharus sighed. Well, if you insist on making things difficult…
Chekov shouted as his limbs began to move of their own accord, yanking him upright into a wobbly, zombie-like stance.
"Ay, not fair!"
No, what's unfair is living in a tiny sphere for an eon or two, then being denied the one and only chance of escape when it finally comes along. You touched the sphere, now finish what you started.
Matharus lurched the protesting Chekov's legs forward one after the other until he was on the other side of the lift by the control panel.
"I didn't start anything! You are ze one zat zapped my brain!"
Come on, hit the button. I don't have all day.
"No!"
Ugh, fine, I'll get it.
Chekov's right arm shot out, missing the panel entirely and hitting the solid wall instead.
"Ow!"
Oops, my bad. It's been a while since I've had a physical form to work with and I'm kind of rusty. Sheesh, how do you people drive these things, anyway? Let's see, left, right, forward, backward…aha!
"STOP! LET ME GO!"
Chekov strained, but the consciousness, determined not to let the teen get the better of it this time, was too powerful. There was nothing he could do as Matharus took complete control.
Alright, Matharus said as the lift came to a stop and the doors opened, which way is the bridge again?
"Why…should I…tell you?" grunted Chekov.
Oh, that's right, you don't have to tell me anything because, ta-daaa, I live in your head. Okay, hang on…
Matharus brought him to a stop mid-corridor in front of a couple passing crewmembers, who also paused, unsure about what to make of the lopsided officer standing in their path.
Don't be a stranger, young human. We need to look as normal as possible for the moment, so go on, say "hi".
Chekov's arm flung itself outward, flailing in the air a few times before dropping back to his side. "Heeyy."
After sharing a confused glance, the two waved hesitantly in return and hurried by.
That was pathetic. And I'm talking about you, not them.
Chekov's left eyelid twitched as something inside his brain tingled.
Aha! Found the directions. Right next to the stash of transporter calculations the whole time. Wow, you've got a lot of stuff in here. Do you actually use it all?
"Rrrgh-YES!"
Sorry, sorry, stupid question.
…
"I assure you, Grand Minister," Captain Kirk chose his words carefully, "whatever you were told concerning the trade agreement is false, a misunderstanding. The Federation would never allow it to be changed or rescinded in any way without involving you and your people."
The tension on the bridge was thick enough to cut with a knife. The bulbous, purplish-green alien taking up most of the view screen considered Kirk's statement, stroking his feathery, thin mustache with two fingers…or whatever those nubs sticking out of his hands were.
At long last, seeming satisfied, the Grand Minister opened his cavernous mouth to reply, however, at the same time, the lift doors on the right side of the bridge swooshed apart, admitting a newcomer.
"Chekov!" Uhura blurted, standing.
"What's this?" The alien puffed with annoyance. "Why have you allowed one of your younglings—"
"Sh-shut up, frog-man," Chekov stuttered through gritted teeth, causing no small gasp to travel the ranks. As if that weren't enough, he staggered to one of the transparent vertical panels just behind the captain's chair, snatching a stylus from a science officer before shoving him aside. "Move, human! I need to use this!"
"How…dare you!" fumed the Grand Minister.
Chekov was now too occupied with scribbling madly all over the panel to heed his anger, so the alien redirected it to Kirk.
"Never have I been so insulted in all my cycles! The Federation will hear about this, Captain Kirk, mark my words!"
"Wait, no," Kirk said, lunging forward. "There's been some kind of mistake. This crewman is injured and shouldn't be here. Please, just give us a moment to—"
The view screen went blank and a vein throbbed in the captain's temple, betraying the temper bubbling dangerously near the surface. When he spoke next, his words were calm, but cold, sending shivers down the spines of all present.
"Ensign Chekov." He swiveled to face the individual in question, jaw set and eyes hard. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall you being on the schedule or having bridge clearance for this shift."
Dropping the stylus, the teen twitched violently. Eyes squeezed shut and gasping, Chekov appeared to be grappling with some inner force. His limbs were stiff, fists clenched and white-knuckled, and the tendons in his neck popped out with extreme exertion. It was a disturbing sight, almost as if he were resisting an urge to move against his will.
"Chekov…?" Kirk repeated, moving toward him in rising concern.
"Captain, I would advise you to approach with caution," Spock warned. "He appears to be under the influence of something other than himself and may be dangerous."
"Thank you, Spock, I'll be fine," he said, wariness seeping into his voice. "Pavel, are you…are you all right—"
Chekov's eyes snapped open. "NO!" he exclaimed. "You can't…make me...d-do this!"
"Chekov, what's going on?" Sulu was on his feet as well. "Nobody's making you do any—"
"Stop! Please!"
"Stop what?"
"Not you!"
"Then who?"
"Lieutenant," Kirk addressed a horror-stricken Uhura without taking his eyes off Chekov, "We may have a serious problem here. Alert medical."
"Y-yes, Captain."
"Keep drawing—I can't just—pick up ze stylus!—no!—are g-g-going whether you like it or not!"
"Going?" asked Kirk warily, coming up beside him. "Going where?"
"HOME. MUST…GET…HOME."
"Home?" Scotty chimed in. "Hate to break it to yeh, laddie, but we're a bit far from Russia—"
"Not Russia, you stredlosh!"
Scotty seemed thoroughly confused rather than insulted. "Eh? What did yeh just call me, wee man?"
"Stredlosh," snapped Chekov. "It means, loosely translated in your inferior language, zat you are an 'idiot'!"
"That...doesn't sound like Russian..." Sulu commented, brow furrowed.
Chekov whirled to face him. "Zat is because it's not! You and all ze other ginshesh on this bridge are stredlosh!"
"That's enough, Chekov. Stand down—" Kirk never finished the command.
After releasing an odd growl, Chekov sent an elbow flying into the unexpecting captain's face before he barreled forward, plowing over everyone in his path.
"OW!" Kirk bellowed, eyes watering as he stumbled into the captain's chair, "WHAT THE—CHEKOV, STOP!"
"Wha-hey!"
With a yank, the current ensign serving as navigator was removed from the station's seat, which Chekov assumed immediately, fingers tapping frantically at the screen.
"No! I'm going home and none of you can stop me!"
"Not today!" Backed by Spock and Scotty, Captain Kirk lunged.
With a disturbing, not-quite-human laugh, Chekov ducked nimbly and reappeared at the pilot controls several feet away, pushing buttons and flipping switches as fast as he could.
"NO—!" cried Sulu, but too late.
The Enterprise lurched, groaning and shuddering violently and knocking everyone to the ground. Alarms shrieked and lights flashed as personnel clamored to get back to their stations for damage control.
"WHAT'VE YEH DONE TO ME SHIP?!" First to recover, Scotty caught Chekov under the arms as soon as he was upright, hauling him backwards into a tight hold. "Yeh can insult me all yeh want, but yeh cannae mess aboot with the Enterprise and no' expect me to do somethin'—"
"Careful, Scotty!" Kirk shouted, afraid that the enraged engineer might actually snap the boy in half. Scrambling to his knees, he pressed the comm link on the arm of the captain's chair. "Bones, wherever you are, GET UP HERE, NOW!"
"LET GO!" Chekov put up an incredible struggle, kicking and punching in every direction. "You don't know who you are dealing with!"
"Ah, I don't do I? We'll just see aboot tha'!"
"I hef lots of friends! Thousands! I belong to a highly adwanced species and I can crush you all with my mind! Zek niccu stebrac gerch!"
"Chekov, what are you talking—Agh!" Sulu attempted to catch a leg and caught a powerful smack to the jaw instead.
Chekov's next move was to sink his teeth into the arm of the chief engineer, causing the man to release both him and a harsh Scottish phrase that didn't belong in civil conversation, let alone the bridge.
"He bit me! HE BIT ME! The lad's gone mental!"
The navigator-turned-renegade wasn't finished yet. Dodging capture at every turn and somehow procuring a crewmember's sidearm along the way, he vaulted over the helm.
"NOBODY MOVE!"
All except the alarms fell into stunned silence. Panting, out of uniform, wild-eyed and with feet planted firmly apart, their once mild-mannered and good-natured navigator stood before them brandishing a weapon and looking desperate.
It was a flustered McCoy rushing onto the scene who voiced aloud what everyone else was thinking.
"What in the Samhill—?!"
"Chekov," though breathing heavily, Kirk's voice was low with warning, "put…the phaser…down."
"Not heppening! I hef waited far too long for this and...and...you wouldn't understand, anyway."
"Try me."
"I—you—Keptin—" He was interrupted by an intense spasm, after which he appeared suddenly terrified. "H-HELP! I d-d-don't want to do this! HELP...ME!"
The shaking phaser was now aimed directly between Kirk's unblinking eyes.
"We're trying, Pavel, but you've left us no choice. You're not going to like what's about to happen. I'm sorry."
Like a wraith, a hand emerged from the shadows behind Chekov. The fingers aligned themselves with the weakest points of a certain vulnerable nerve running from neck to shoulder…
"What do you mean I am not going to-hrghk—!" Chekov gurgled and went rigid as the digits pressed quickly and deeply into the nerve. Back arching as if he had taken a severe shock right down the spine, he collapsed.
…
Briony was not convinced in the slightest that Chekov had been completely truthful with her. There was something more than exhaustion going on beneath the young man's haggard appearance, something serious that weighed heavily on his mind to the point of fear. It hadn't been difficult to decipher that much through his unusual mood and actions alone. Now, the obvious question was what could her friend possibly be hiding that would cause him so much distress?
She was fine with the fact that he may not want to tell her specifically. He did, after all, have other friends aboard the Enterprise, many of which were closer and therefore better able to understand and help him. And it wasn't that she doubted their mutual trust (as much trust as two people can share having only been acquainted a couple of days), it was more along the lines of worrying over why he was acting so strangely.
Pavel had been close to telling her back at the mess hall, what else was she supposed to do besides wonder what he might have said, what she might have been able to offer help with or advice on? She could only hope that he would either successfully solve the issue on his own or that he would eventually clue her in. Luckily, Briony was naturally gifted with patience. She could wait for when he was ready, and when that time came—if ever—she was willing and prepared to assist in any way she could, just like he had done so selflessly for her.
In the meantime, her main concern became the mandala Chekov had drawn on the napkin. The mandala itself wasn't that strange—she must have come across dozens over years of research and digs, all much more impressive and intricate than this one. No, it was more about how he'd reacted to it, how surprised he'd been to see what he'd drawn, how reluctant he'd been to give it to her. If she could remember where she'd seen it before, maybe she could find an answer or two.
"Dr. Sylar," she said upon arriving at the lab with the napkin in hand.
He looked up from his work, smiling when he saw who it was. "Ah, hello, Briony. And how was your break with Ensign Chekov?"
"Fine," she replied, still frowning at the drawing.
"I see you brought us back a…uh, souvenir…" Dr. Sylar sounded bemused. "Odd choice of memento to keep from a lunch break. It must have been memorable."
"It was." Briony held it out for him to see. "And it's not a memento. Have you seen this mandala before?"
Eyebrows furrowing, Dr. Sylar came over to take the napkin from her, studying it carefully.
"Did you draw this?"
"No, Chekov did."
The man's eyes widened slightly. "Did he, now? How interesting…"
"Yeah, it was...weird. We were talking and then he randomly picked up my pen and started drawing, almost subconsciously."
"May I inquire as to the topic of conversation at the time?"
"Well, we were just…talking about…" Briony shuffled a bit, "he was telling me about what it's like to work on the bridge as a navigator. Constellations, stellar cartography, those kinds of things."
Dr. Sylar seemed doubtful, however, he didn't question her further. "I see," he said, brushing past her for the exit. "Come with me."
Curious, Briony trailed behind her senior, quickly recognizing their route as the one to the vault. The vault was more or less a large storage area housing everything from artifacts too large to be stored anywhere else to unused or extra equipment. At the very back was a secure space sectioned off from the rest of the room with tall glass panels. This was the Restricted Zone, where the department's more dangerous discoveries were kept.
Dr. Sylar entered a code into the touchpad and stepped inside the transparent fence, hustling her in after him. Briony had become familiar with the vault over the past few weeks, but until now she'd never had an excuse to venture into the Restricted Zone.
The Restricted Zone…
A brief playback of the talk she and Chekov had just had ran through her mind, pausing at the part where he showed her the schematics. Somewhere just outside of this room, a pair of unfriendly eyes could be watching her from a slit in the wall, following her movements, plotting her demise.
"Here, put these on."
A shiver traveled through her as she was handed a white coverall suit, safety goggles and thick gloves.
"Nothing to be afraid of, my dear," the doctor reassured, stepping into his own suit, "simply precautionary protocol."
"Precautionary? Against what?"
He didn't reply, which did nothing to curb Briony's uneasiness, and waited patiently for her to suit up. When she finished, he motioned and she followed him wordlessly to the room's entrance at the far end of the fence. After entering another code, the heavy door hissed and clicked, swinging open. She trailed behind him down one of several walkways lined from top to bottom with heavy-duty crates, all of which contained who-knew-what kind of deadly objects awaiting study. It was only fitting, she guessed, for the artifact that had nearly killed her friend to end up in here.
Yes, Briony knew the sphere was what they were looking for. She'd had a hunch beforehand, and as soon as Dr. Sylar had gone in the direction of the vaults, she was certain.
"Here we are," he breathed, removing a container from its nest on a shelf.
Briony watched him pop it open, cringing when he reached inside and lifted out the small, metallic sphere. She relaxed a little at the stunning lack of electricity in any form and moved in closer as Dr. Sylar held the inked mandala next to it to compare.
Although she now remembered catching glimpses of the thing here and there since transferring to the Enterprise, she hadn't been able to get a good look at it before it was whisked away on the night of the near-fatal incident. Atop the sphere was a raised, interlocking pattern. Broken into several shifting pieces like a puzzle waiting to be solved, it occurred to Briony just how enticing it must have appeared to someone with a mind like Chekov's. It was no wonder he couldn't resist touching it.
"Interesting," Dr. Sylar muttered.
"What? What's interesting?"
He shifted to allow her a better view. "As far as I can recall, the individual pieces of the lock weren't in this formation when we first encountered the artifact a few months ago."
"You mean…they've moved?"
"Precisely. Now, tell me, Briony," he raised the sphere toward the cool light, "what do you think this lock would look like if someone were to complete the puzzle?"
"No way," she breathed taking the napkin from the man's fingers. "But then that must mean—"
At that moment, the ship jerked violently, knocking the two archaeologists and the sphere to the floor. The crash of equipment, crates and other loose gear in the vault outside was followed by a blackout. Dazed, Briony could do nothing but lie flat on her back for several moments, listening to the clamoring alarms and the shouts of those rushing to heed them.
"Briony?" came Dr. Sylar's voice from her right. "Briony, are you all right?"
"Ah...ow...y-yeah, I think so." Wincing, she pushed herself up and accepted his hand. "What was that? Did something hit us?"
"Probably too early for anyone not on the bridge to know, but I'm sure we'll find out soon."
Scooping up the sphere, Dr. Sylar quickly made his way out of the restricted zone and Briony was only too happy to follow. The place gave her the creeps something awful and the effect was ten times as potent in the dark. The tight knot of anxiety in her chest loosened a bit as they reemerged in the main vault. The lighting was dim and flickering at best, but it was a far cry from pitch darkness—
A pained moan rose like a ghost from nearby the row of lockers along one wall. After exchanging a brief apprehensive look, Briony and Sylar both rushed to help whoever had been caught in the path of the dislodged jumble of heavy odds and ends.
"Schvaneveldt!" Briony gasped, kneeling beside her fallen colleague and removing some of the debris. The man beneath was bleeding and barely conscious, but alive.
Dr. Sylar turned and dashed for the nearest comms panel. "I'll call medical!"
It was happening again. For the second time this week, she felt the nausea, the welling tears, her rising pulse…
"Wh-what do I—how do I—"
"Stay there! Talk to him!"
"B-But I—"
"Just do it!"
"Okay, okay," she panted, taking her coworker's face in her hands. "S-Swannie, can you hear me?"
The nickname usually triggered a sharp reaction, but all she got in reply this time was another groan.
"Oh—oh, no, hang on, you're gonna be okay!" Briony forced the waver out of her voice as she cleared away more rubble. "C'mon, stay with me, you're…"
She ground to a halt.
Scattered among the clutter on the floor were what appeared to be the remains of several artifacts. Familiar artifacts that should have been stored safely in their collections in the archives. What were they doing out here?
Looking to the left, she found the answer. On the floor was a broken crate and spilling out of it were about a dozen more priceless relics.
