We were about six hours into a slow alpha shift, on the third day of what we all knew would be two very long weeks of making star charts. Mr. Spock was busy at the science station, and Chekov was nominally supervising the sensors, but most of us were doing less than nothing. Suddenly, the turbo lift opened and our chief engineer came barreling out, tool kit slung over his shoulder and a big scowl on his face. Our captain, who has never done bored well, popped up grinning like a kid and called, "Scotty!"

"Captain Kirk," Mr. Scott replied stiffly, looking past him to stare at our station.

I couldn't imagine why. There was nothing remotely interesting going on at the helm. We were essentially parked in space. However, it's never a good idea to comment on one's superior officers' moods, so I said nothing. The captain, who, of course, outranks Mr. Scott, had no such qualms. He'd spent the shift lolling in his chair, sighing, and drumming his fingers on the armrests, and was eager for a distraction. "What's up?" he asked. "Anything interesting?"

"Interesting, no," Mr. Scott said in that same, flat, angry voice. "I've spent the whole morning up to my elbow in food synthesizers."

"Well," laughed the captain, "that sounds dull. Why don't you assign that job to your minions? I bet one of them would love a challenge."

"Yes, it is a challenge, alright, sir, and I've about decided it may require a navigator," Mr. Scott said.

I glanced at our navigator, busy being so scrupulously attentive to the sensors he didn't appear to have heard. Eyes narrowing, Mr. Scott repeated more loudly, "Yes, I'm positive of it, a navigator." I elbowed Pav and nodded in Scott's direction. Pavel looked up, smiled politely, and returned his attention to chart making. Mr. Scott responded with a snort, then stomped over to the engineering station. He opened the access panel and prodded at the screen, stopping periodically to mutter angrily under his breath and glower our direction. It was uncomfortable, and it made no sense.

Mr. Scott is chief of engineering. Chiefs own tool kits, but they don't use them much. They organize, supervise and delegate. They certainly don't wander around starships performing maintenance. And, short of an emergency, there is no reason for anyone from engineering to use the bridge access for repairs anyway. There isn't anything up here that isn't bigger and easier to get to in the division. I glanced over at Pav, hoping he might have some insights. He spends every off-duty waking minute in engineering and knows Scott well. But he didn't notice.

After about ten minutes, Mr. Scott threw his kit to the ground, kicked the console base, and swore. I am not sure of the language, but it was definitely swearing. I looked over at Pav, expecting him to be hanging out of his seat trying for a better view of a senior officer having a temper tantrum on the bridge, and was surprised to see him still engrossed in the sensors.

Mr. Scott gave his pack one last kick, then marched up to the helm. He stood in front of us, red-faced, arms crossed, and glared at Pav. All around the bridge, people pretended not to be watching. Everyone was interested, except Mr. Spock, who is difficult to distract, and, strangely, Pavel, who isn't. Dr. McCoy once said, 'That boy is a hound dog, and every goddamn thing is a squirrel.' I was positive Pav was faking disinterest but couldn't imagine why. I glanced at the captain, who shrugged and settled back in his chair to watch.

Attention on his console, Pavel reached out and gently adjusted a dial. "Chekov," Scott hissed. "A word, if you please."

Pav looked up and blinked as if he was surprised to see someone there. "Yes, sir?"

"Do you know what I did this morning?" asked Mr. Scott.

He'd been sitting right next to me and had obviously heard about Mr. Scott's morning, but Pav wrinkled up his forehead like it was a tough one, then shook his head. "No, sir."

"There's a problem with the food synthesizers," Scott said.

"Oh?" asked Pav, meeting Mr. Scott's glare with this eyes-wide thing he sometimes does; it makes him look like an interested schoolboy.

"No, that's not strictly true," Scott continued. "The replicators work fine for most people. Most people place their orders, get ID'd, and walk to a table holding exactly what they asked for. On the whole ship, there are only five people who can't do that." He leaned a little closer. "It doesn't matter what they order; not once in three days have they gotten it."

Pav dropped his chin so that they could continue to look eye to eye. I was surprised; Pavel is not noted for his ability to tolerate the scrutiny of superior officers. "That must be frustrating for them," he said.

"Undoubtedly. But, I'm more concerned about how frustrating it is for me. I spent the whole bloody morning looking for the problem. And would you like to hazard a guess as to what I found?"

"I don't think I could, sir."

"Then, I will tell you. I found nothing. As far as the machines are concerned, there is no problem. It's as if the replicators left the factory preprogrammed to wait until breakfast two days ago to pick five lieutenants from security at random and stop serving them."

Pav shook his head, looking so respectfully astonished at the wonders one can experience in space that the captain laughed. Mr. Scott scowled at both of them before continuing, "They called me from the mess. A little bold, them being only lieutenants, but hunger makes people do strange things, and I was very understanding. I explained that replicator complaints belong to maintenance and assumed that would be the end of it. Wouldn't you have assumed that would be the end of it, Chekov?"

Pav furrowed his brow thoughtfully, but rather than wait for a reply, Mr. Scott said, "It wasn't the end. No, not at all. I'd no more start a task than my communicator would go off, and someone would want to discuss the replicators. Eventually, the chief of maintenance called and took a very long time to say she'd rebooted every machine in the mess to no effect and needed some help. We're lucky it's so slow just now; yesterday, half my staff worked on this. But we're into the third day of this nonsense, and I don't have enough people to assign every disgruntled security lieutenant a food manager. I decided to take care of it myself. I ran a diagnostic, and it showed everything to be in order. In fact, it all looked so good I began to think I'd been the victim of an elaborate prank. Fortunately, before I demoted anyone, I called security and had Giotto send up the five victims. I watched them put in their orders. Do you know what happened then, Mr. Chekov?"

"No, sir," Pav said, more wide-eyed than ever.

"To a man," said Mr. Scott, "they received bread and water."

"Really? That is not what I would choose. I could understand if we were in Russia," Pav said earnestly, "the bread there is excellent."

Several people choked back giggles, but Mr. Scott was not amused. He smacked our console, "It's not what they wanted; bread and water are not what anyone wants, ever. That's why traditionally, it's a punishment on ships. I'd say that's the point. Would you agree, Mr. Chekov?"

"If there are five of them, it is more likely a pattern," Pav suggested.

Mr. Scott's eyes bugged out a little. "We are not talking about patterns. We are talking about five lieutenants denied the right to choose their meals, and we are talking about you."

"Me, Mr. Scott? I have no trouble with the replicators," Pavel sounded shocked.

"Oh, I am quite certain you had no trouble with those replicators at all." Scott leaned even closer; he was hanging over the console, with his face inches from Pav. "You've had your fun," he said in a quiet, deadly voice, "now it's done. Put it back."

Pav surprised me by not flinching. "Put what back, sir?" he said.

Scotty began to get red in the face. "You know perfectly well. I want the programming restored on the replicators. Today. Now, in fact."

"Mr. Scott, if you are asking me to help you repair the food synthesizers, I would be happy to do so after my shift. But, sir, I don't know why you would think I could do what you have been unable to accomplish."

Pav sounded very respectful, and everything that he said seemed perfectly reasonable, but it made Mr. Scott go nuts. His face got redder; he slammed both fists onto our console and yelled, "You're the wee hen that never layed away!"

"Huh?" asked the captain, apparently so engrossed in the conversation he forgot he wasn't part of it.

"I am sorry, sir," Pav said. "I don't understand."

"It sure as hell wasn't me, Chekov," Mr. Scott bellowed. "Who does that leave? Do you honestly expect me to believe Mr. Spock decided to deny five, great, lazy dandies from security their breakfast?"

The captain called, "It wasn't me, either." Under other circumstances, I might have laughed at the look Mr. Scott gave him. Captain Kirk tends to have a pretty high estimation of his own capabilities, but there aren't many people on board who could change the programming on a replicator. Messing with the meals would be the easiest way to disable an entire crew, so food synthesizers are exceptionally well protected.

Commander Scott returned his attention to Pav. "I am sick to death of hearing about it, Chekov, and I want it fixed. Today."

Pav smiled angelically, "I will be happy, Mr. Scott, to help you search for the programming error; if that is what it is. I finish my shift in two hours.".

Mr. Scott narrowed his eyes and said, "Did you just say, 'If that's what it is?' You know very well what it is. And let me tell you something. You better be able to fix it because if you can't, there's nothing for it, but I start pulling replicators. I'll have to wipe each one and completely reprogram it. It will not be easy or fast, and it will mean lines in the mess. You may not be aware of this, laddie, but on a military vessel, you eat according to rank; that means the senior officers will get to walk right to the front of the queue while the working people wait."

Pavel scowled. "That is not right," he said quietly. His first honest response, I was sure, since the conversation began.

I could tell by the softening of Mr. Scott's voice that he agreed. "I can promise you it won't bother the vast majority of officers at all. Of course, the enlisted people won't like it. They'll forget all about the great pleasure they've had these last few days, watching five full lieutenants unable to feed themselves."

Pav shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sensing victory, Mr. Scott walked around the console and set his hand on Pav's shoulder. He switched to the kindly, paternal voice that usually renders Pavel an eager-to-obey puddle of awe. "Now, I don't think when you decided to torment the red lieutenants, you had any intention of inconveniencing your friends. Fix this, and we will say no more about it."

I expected Pav to nod and say, 'Yes, sir.' Instead, he looked up at the screen and said again, "I will be happy to help you, Mr. Scott, as soon as my shift ends."

Mouths dropped at every station on the bridge. Mr. Scott looked astounded. Nyota turned in her chair to stare, and even Mr. Spock glanced up briefly from his station. In the time we'd served together, I doubt any of them had ever heard Pavel not immediately agree to anything any of them asked. I, of course, know him better.

Captain Kirk rubbed his mouth, ineffectually hiding a smile. It took a few seconds, but he got his command face on, sat up straighter in his chair, and ordered, "Mr. Chekov, go assist Mr. Scott with the replicators."

Pav sighed, said, "Aye, sir," and stood up.

Mr. Spock cocked an eyebrow at the captain, who explained, "We're not going anywhere, Spock. Sulu can take the pictures for now, and I'll call him back if we need him."

"That's right, sir, no time like the present." Having the captain's support improved Mr. Scott's mood immediately. "Come along, laddie. I'm sure this will take no time at all."

As Pav followed him to the turbo-lift, Mr. Scott asked, "Where's your PADD?"

"In my quarters."

"We'll stop on the way. You're going to need it."

"I can work from the mainframe."

"We'll get yours. It'll save time; I am guessing it's already on speaking terms with the replicators, so to speak."

"It is just a PADD, sir."

"It was just a PADD once. Then you got your hands on it. You could probably open the gates of hell with it by now."

"I use it to keep a schedule and write my grandmother," Pav said sulkily.

Before the lift doors closed, I heard Mr. Scott said, "Isn't that nice? You're a sweet lad. Tell me, is your gran an evil genius too, or are you the only one in the family?"

The captain barely waited for the lift doors to close before he asked, "Did he did it, Sulu? What do you think?" The whole bridge turned to look at me, very eager to hear my thoughts.

I considered it more a question of why than did he; there had to be a reason, but I couldn't imagine what it could be. That's not something I'd say that to a crowd of our coworkers, so I gave a non-committal, "Hmmm," and hoped that would do.

It wasn't good enough for Nyota, who turned around in her chair and declared, "He wouldn't do something like this."

"Why would he? Different division and rank, I doubt he even knows these guys," Riley agreed from tactical.

Rand, who had come up with coffee for the captain and stayed for the drama, asked, "Why would anyone decide to assign five random strangers bread and water? It's so arbitrary."

Over at weapons, Hendorff snorted contemptuously. "He knows 'em," he said. "Everyone knows them. They're from my division, and I'm not going to say more, but everybody knows them."

"If he knows them, then he likes them. He likes everybody," Nyota insisted,

"No," Riley, Hendorff, and Rand said at the same time. Rand added, "And not everyone likes him."

Nyota turned back to her station, saying dismissively, "He wouldn't do something so silly."

Rand, who is enlisted, had to content herself with an obviously insincere, "Yes, ma'am," but the captain had no such restraints. He snorted and asked, "Have you met him?" When Nyota didn't reply, he added, "I don't think he did it either. Chekov's no coward. If he did it, he'd admit it."

"Mr. Chekov did not deny changing the programming in the replicators," said Mr. Spock. We all looked at him with surprise, even Nyota. It isn't like him to join in our little on bridge discussions. He thinks they waste time.

"What's that, Mr. Spock?" asked Nyota.

"Huh?" said the captain at the same time.

"Mr. Chekov asked for clarification of the problem. He restated several times a willingness to assist Mr. Scott. He reflected on the importance of finishing his shift and the cuisine of Russia. He mentioned corresponding with his family. He did not, at any time, deny responsibility for the programming changes."

After a few seconds, Captain Kirk said, "You know what? I think Spock might be right." He sounded impressed. Whether with Mr. Spock or Pav, I am not sure.

"Of course he's right," snapped Nyota.

I kept my head down, hoping to stay out of it, but the captain said, "You never told us what you think, Sulu."

Truthfully, I thought that even up here on the bridge, where we work together every day, people underestimate how smart Pav is. I fiddled with the sensor controls hoping the captain would move on, but he sat back in his chair like it was a throne, watching me with his I'm-on-to-you grin, and I knew he was not going to be distracted. I cleared my throat and said, "The last thing we need is for him to figure out how much he could do that we wouldn't even see."

That stopped conversation. The captain nodded slowly, considering, and Mr. Spock raised a thoughtful eyebrow. The rest of us went back to our work, pretending to be busy and waiting for the next distraction.